“It’s music time,” I say, referring to his schedule. “The piano, I think.”
I place my palm against the small of his back and guide him into the loungewhere the piano awaits. I take up the seat on the glossy wooden bench beside him and pull out a sheet of music he probably knows by heart.
“I haven’t played this in months,” he grumbles like a hormonal teenager.
“That’s why we practice.”
“I’m going to sound awful.”
“It’s only the two of us here.”
He huffs and bangs out the first few notes, trying to sabotage my plan, but I only smile back at him. “This is stupid,” he gripes, but his playing steadily improves until his fingers are gliding over the ivory keys with their usual grace, and his mind has drifted into that faraway place where his music takes him.
“Bravo, Giovanni. That was very good. Now, we will get ready for bed. Then, you can read me a bedtime story, and I will likely fall asleep because I am exhausted.”
“And the rope stays on?” he asks.
“The rope stays on.”
“For how long?”
“As long as it takes.”
Giovanni doesn’t believeI will take care of his every need, so early the next morning, I prove it to him by leading him to the bathroom where I cradle his soft prick in my hand and instruct him to go. It’s a very intimate experience, to hold him like this and not for the purpose of sexual pleasure.
“I’ve never done this before,” he says, trying to relax long enough for his urine to flow.
“Your Master never did this for you?”
“Only after sounding or if I was injured, and I was usually too out of it to care.”
I cup his balls with my other hand and hold them securely in my palm. “Does this feel good?”
“Yeah, feels… safe. Like a cock cage, but softer.”
“I like it too.”
I hum a little tune in his ear, and he finally releases in a steady stream. I give him a little shake and pull up his underwear, tucking him away gently, then take my turn with the toilet. We wash our hands, and then return to the bedroom for yoga. Our mats are right beside each other in front of the balcony window that overlooks the water, and our routine is the same every morning. Gio hardly needs to instruct me anymore, which makes it a quiet, meditative ritual that eases us into our day. The rope is a little awkward to navigate at first, but soon enough, we find our way.
We make breakfast together with me instructing him on what to do, and then I feed him his meal while he kneels on his pillow in the dining room. He stares up at me, calmly waiting for his next bite, opening his mouth, chewing, and swallowing like a devoted pet. I nurse him with sips of water and gently wipe his mouth.
“I’m surprised you don’t chew it up for me too,” he says when we are finished.
“That can be arranged if you’d prefer it. Would you?”
“I… ” He blinks. “I don’t know.”
After breakfast, I give him his herbal tincture and wait with him in the bathroom while he eliminates his waste. I attach the nozzle to the fancy contraption Valentin installed on the back of the toilet and slowly fill his rectal cavity with a saline solution that won’t irritate his bowels. Giovanni used to do this every morning as part of his daily preparations for Valentin, but I am not so fussy. I usually leave it up to him as far as frequency and timing, but today I am taking charge of this too.
Giovanni’s knees tremble when he releases, and I rub his back.
“That’s very good,” I praise. “How do you feel?”
“Empty.”
“Too empty?”
“A little.”
