As always, Giovanni has given me much to contemplate. Part of me rebels at the idea that he’s been communicating with Valentin, but a larger part of me thinks, why not? Why wouldn’t the two of them carry on their special bond beyond the grave? And even if it’s only an illusion, Giovanni’s demons are real enough, so why shouldn’t his Master’s voice be just as real to him?
“Does he think I’m doing a good job?” I ask Giovanni. “Taking care of his… things?”
Gio stares at me, the subtle hitch of his mouth expressing sympathy. “This slave does not speak for his Master. You should ask him yourself, Sir. I promise there is nothing for you to fear.”
“I’m not afraid,” I protest.
“Of course not,” he says.
A couple dayslater we are in the bedroom. Giovanni’s head is buried in the sheets where they are rumpled at the foot of the bed. My fingers are threaded through his golden hair, and my cock is lodged deep inside him, stroking his sweet spot, and though my attention should be on the whimpers and moans of pleasure coming from my beautiful boy, my gaze is locked on Valentin’s. More than just watching, he is provoking me.
How does he feel, Silvio? Is myschiavowarm and tight around your cock? Does it excite you, to know the noises he makes now are only for you?
I shake myself out of my delirium and focus on the sleek arrow of Gio’s lower back pointing to his round pink cheeks that bounce with my every bruising thrust. My eyes catch on his collar, secure around his slender neck. I place my hand there at his nape and squeeze lightly, remembering a time when I watched Valentin pin him against the wall by only his throat and fuck him like a demon.
How does it feel to finally go first, Silvio?
“È fantastico,” I say aloud. Giovanni’s spine ripples and he shouts an enthusiastic agreement. I am just hitting my stride when a rare and terrible thing happens to me.
“Sir?” Gio says, glancing back at my stuttering movements.
I try to regain my momentum, but my erection flags, limp and lifeless. I pull out and pump the traitorous organ with my fist, but he is not responding. Bastard.
“Sir, what’s wrong?” Gio asks, kneeling in front of me now, wide eyes searching my face. “Did you come already?”
“That was a strange one,” I say and guide him back around. I settle his ass in the cradle of my hips so that I may stroke him to completion. Giovanni’s head lists to one side, and I suck a vicious bruise onto his neck while my hand works him over.
Am I only imagining it, or is that a smirk on my brother’s face?
My mental block persists,which affects my physical performance as well. Giovanni is on his knees one morning, trying his hardest to excite me, but despite his talent and dedication, my erection is wilted and sad.
“Perhaps you should go to the doctor,” Gio says, concern radiating from his features.
I’m desperate enough to remedy this troublesome condition that I make an appointment on my next trip to Napoli. The doctor says that this sort of thing is normal, especially as men age, and that so long as my diet is healthy, my fitness level is good, and my bloodwork is normal, then the problem is sure to rectify itself. If not, I can come back in a couple of months to discuss medicinal supplements.
I’m too fucking young for erectile dysfunction. I am a virile, healthy man with a surplus of seed to expend. My balls are swollen and ripe with cum that needs draining and I have a beautiful boy who is eager to do it. This is not normal or right. This is not who I am.
There is only one explanation for this. My brother is fucking with me. I mention it to Giovanni one evening over dinner, thinking he’ll laugh it off—hoping he will—but he only nods gravely.
“You think that it’s true?” I ask, dumbfounded.
“I don’t know if it’s true or not, but it sounds like something Master would do. Take away the thing you are most proud of, if only to humble you.”
This is not humbling, it is humiliating.
“But why would he do that?” I ask.
Giovanni sighs as if this is all very tedious. “He must be trying to get your attention. I’ve told you already, Sir. He misses you.”
Three weeks without a real erection,and I am starting to unravel. Sleep has never been a problem for me before, but now I lie awake in our bed with my balls tender and aching and my dick unwilling to cooperate. I rub my half-hard cock with an oiled fist, trying to resuscitate it, but the stubborn beast is in hibernation.
Giovanni lies beside me, peaceful in his slumber, so soft and beautiful that I want to reach out and gather him up in my arms, kiss him until his lips are swollen and red, then slick him up and mount him, but I don’t want to disturb him without some guarantee. What if I can no longer satisfy him sexually? What if my dick never wakes up?
This battle of wills between my brother and me is becoming a full-blown crisis.
I go to the bathroom for a piss, tugging at my dick in irritation. Back in the bedroom, I walk right up to his portrait. “Why are you doing this?” I demand and get nothing but a cryptic gaze in response. “What do you want?” I drop to my knees on the carpet as Giovanni has so many times before, prostrating myself before him. I must be delirious from lack of sleep and sexual frustration because I actually hear him respond.
You are angry at me.
