“No, Sir, I wascorrectingthem.”
“Ah,” I concede. “My mistake.”
Over the next few days, Giovanni continues tocorrecthis philosopher friends, to the point that he requests the time be added to his daily schedule. “Or else, I’ll get obsessive about it,” he explains, “and no one wants that.” Sometimes, after a particularly distressing turn, he’ll hand me his phone and tell me to keep it until the morning before he says something he’ll regret. Inevitably though, he returns to the Socratics’ group chat, and it’s the first time I’ve ever seen him truly engage with his peers.
I congratulate myself on this new achievement.
It’s a few days later,as I’m tying him up in the dungeon that Giovanni says, “They want to see pictures.”
“Pictures?” I ask for there is no preamble with him. “Who wants to see pictures? Of what?”
“The Socratics. They want to see pictures of your ropework. Of this.” He sweeps one arm over his partially bound form like a magician.
“Ah.” I draw my hand along the twisted, knotted rope that holds him. “They want to see you all tied up?”
“Yes. I told them a little about our lifestyle. They had a lot of questions and a lot of misconceptions. It’d be easier just to show them.”
I nod, thinking perhaps part of him also wants to show off. “All right, princess, whatever you want.”
Later that evening we sit on the couch together with him in my lap, and he goes through our vast portfolio of images that are stored on my phone, carefully curating what he believes to be only the best. From about a two hundred images, he chooses three to share. The first is from our session in Santino’s studio in Milano, the one that I call The Rapture. Another is from our own dungeon, a full frontal shot of Giovanni kneeling—bound, blindfolded, and gagged by my rope. He is wearing special flesh-colored underwear with a slit in the back for fucking. Soon after this shot was taken, I bent him over on the mats and took him from behind. I get hard just thinking about it.
The third photo is from a few weeks ago, where I suspended him with loops of rope that begin at his ankles and trail up his bound legs and torso like a rib cage, knotted along his spine like a fish’s vertebrae, all the way to the top of his head. Suspended with his arms spread wide, it looks as though he’s executing a perfect swan dive.
“Your lines in this one are stunning.” I trace along his body, from the perfect arch of his feet to his raised chin.
“It’s crazy to me but I actually care what they think.” He admits this as if he’s alarmed, even dismayed by the thought.
“That’s normal. You like these people, and you want them to like you too.”
“What if they think it’s weird what we do?”
“That is not your problem. They asked to see pictures, so they must be curious. I think you look beautiful like this. My cock thinks so, too.” I press his hand against my erection.
“I’ll send them the pictures, then give you my phone, and if they say something nasty about it, don’t tell me, just delete the chat, okay?”
I nod, though I doubt they would say anything to warrant deleting them, especially if it is their own curiosity about the subject matter that spurred this on. He pushes send and presses the phone into my hand. “May I pleasure you, Sir?” he asks, and I gesture for him to proceed. He goes down to the floor, nestled right between my thighs, opens my pants, and consumes my cock, likely wanting the distraction from his anxieties.
While he sucks me off—pleasantly distracting, to say the least—I relay their responses to him. None of them are nasty, most of them are impressed.
“‘Beautiful.’ ‘Amazing.’ ‘That looks uncomfortable.’ And some emojis that look surprised. This is a good one. ‘Where can I find a sexy Dom who’s good with his hands?’ Pretty soon, there will be a line at the front door, no?”
Gio pops off my dick to snarl, “Who the fuck said that?”
“Maria Say Less.” I chuckle at how Giovanni has her listed in his phone.
“Her arguments lack textual evidence and she’s a shameless flirt. But other than that, she’s okay.”
I smile at his description of her. “Giovanni, is it possible you have made some friends?”
He rolls his eyes and resumes his task. I suppose that is his answer.
14
Spring gives way to summer. On Saturdays, if the weather is nice, we go sailing. On Sundays, we attend church and family dinner with Giovanni choosing our activity in between. And during the afternoons when I’m at home and after I’ve finished work for the day, I tie up Giovanni in the dungeon. He’s been craving it more lately, wants the rope to be tighter and the suspension to last longer. As always, he wishes to test the limits of his physical strength and mental fortitude. And I want to help him.
And then, one afternoon while he’s suspended and I’m monitoring him, I notice he’s not responding.
“Giovanni,” I say sharply and pinch his upper arm. “Giovanni?” I shout and slap his face lightly, but still nothing. Trying not to panic, I lower him to the ground and pull out the rope-cutting shears I keep with me and swiftly cut through his bindings—neck, shoulders, and chest. He’s breathing—thank God—and I can feel his pulse, but he’s still not conscious. Cradled in my lap, I shake him gently, then grab the sports bottle I keep nearby and splash its contents on his face, trying to shock him into consciousness. I’m about to call for emergency services when he finally comes around.
