“Whatever Sir wants, Sir gets,” I tell him with satisfaction.
And without any further discussion, I’m spreading his cheeks and pushing inside him. Giovanni’s head is thrown back in his effort to accommodate me. His rim is still soft, supple, and well-lubricated, his body warm and pliant in my arms. He would never leave my bed if I demanded it. He’d live out his days on his hands and knees if that were my command. It’s too much power for one man to hold, a realization that is both terrifying and thrilling. When I slow my invasion of his insides, he says snottily, “Fuck me like you mean it, Sir,” and though I know I shouldn’t let him provoke me, the desire to consume him is strong. But instead of quickening my pace, I halt it, frustrating him further.
“Did Valentin ever wash your mouth out with soap?” I ask.
“No, he fit me with a ring gag and fucked my face.”
I recall that day on the beach, when Valentin dressed Gio in a dog leash and harness, fucked his throat brutally to teach me a lesson, then told me he was dying of a terminal illness. My brother was a bit dramatic.
“I don’t think my cock would fit inside that gag,” I tell him.
Gio smirks. “Probably not.”
“Perhaps I will make you shower me with praise instead. Punishment for you and a reward for me.”
“Your head is quite enlarged already, Sir.”
“Just like my dick. And how’s your tender little hole faring, Giovanni?”
“You tell me.”
“Perfection.”
That is the end of our conversation. We fuck in Santino’s courtyard like animals, grinding our bodies against each other in the fountain Gio admired only the day before, while some of my closest friends and acquaintances look on, strangers too. We are both lost in each other, tossed about in a storm of passion. Giovanni bites his lower lip, trying to stifle his cries as his fingernails dig into my back.
“Don’t hold back. I want to hear your sounds of pleasure.”
He unleashes a torrent of moans. “Fuck… oh yes… Sir… please… Silvio.” He sings for me like a songbird trilling to its mate. The back of his head is cradled by my palm so that he doesn’t bang his head against the stone, the other is wrapped around his waist. When my arms tire and my lungs burn from exertion, I drag him backward with me to the ledge of the sculpture and tell him to ride me until we both come. His endurance is remarkable, bouncing ecstatically on my dick while furiously stroking himself to get off. He is wild, uninhibited, and he isall mine.
I grab his hips and fuck into him with a sort of mad fever he inspires, and when Gio comes with a delirious howl, I am not far behind. The muses above us bear witness, hiding their expressions behind delicately folded hands. Streaks of Gio’s cum smear his gold marker, and my clothes are similarly dusted by a golden shimmer.
“You will finish out the night with your seed staining your skin and my own dripping down your thigh,” I command, tugging on his hair as I growl into his ear. “As a reminder of all the ways in which I’ve claimed you.”
“My body is yours, Sir, to pleasure and defile as you see fit. This boy’s only wish is to serve.”
He has given over his body to my command, but what about his heart?
11
On our return to the island after a wonderful trip to Milano, I institute a new rule. One day a week, Giovanni must pick our activity.Subdayhe calls it in English. Today he’s teaching me how to make focaccia from one of Ma’s recipes, and since I’m the one who dresses him every morning, he’s wearing a skimpy muslin apron and nothing else—my slutty little housewife. I spend more time fondling him than mixing the dough, and while we wait for it to rise, I crowd him from behind, pressing him against the countertop and kissing along the juncture of his neck and shoulder while groping underneath the apron. I’m thinking about bending him over and breeding him when I get a call from my office in Napoli.
“Ignore it,” I say, more to myself than to him and make a grab for the oil.
“Might be important,” Gio says, elbows on the counter, ass in the air.
“Nothing is more important than you, baby boy.”
I’ve got my trousers undone and two thick fingers inside him when they call again. “Cazzo,” I mutter. They seldom contact me on my off-hours and never twice in a row. “Stay right there,” I order and watch to make sure he doesn’t move. He remains perfectly still, eyes tracking my movement as I pull up my pants and wash my hands in the sink. I rearrange his apron so that his entire ass is bare, giving me something sweet to look at while I make the call.
“This is Silvio,” I say in a tone that I hope conveys to them to make it quick. The call is in regard to a recent shipment of olive oil from one of our mills in Greece, and it is not good.
“It’s too acidic,” says Daniela, my quality control manager. “We can’t label it ‘extra virgin’ and we may not be able to label it ‘virgin’ either.”
“What if we dilute it with a better batch?”
“I’m worried it will taint whatever it touches.”
“Merde.This is the second time they’ve done this in the past six months.” Daniela knows this already. Everyone at the plant does. “I’ll call Vasilis, see if he’ll exchange it.”
