by Jay Lygon
Hector flipped the D-ring at the front of my slave collar. “And you do a good job of it, but while we’re here, I want you to focus on your career.”
“I can do both.”
“Don’t be stubborn, Sam.”
“I’m not!”
“Talking back?” He shook his head. “I thought you’d finally learned your lesson about that. Are we going to have a discipline problem?”
My eyes wide, I shook my head. He smirked when he saw that my hands move down to cover my butt, as if that would stop him. He’d been right -- there was one punishment I’d never forgotten, and never wanted repeated again.
Hector parted the front of the towel around his waist and gripped the base of his cock. “So we have an understanding? While we’re here, you concentrate on your work, and I’ll take care of myself.”
“Yes, Sir.”
From the way he gripped his cock, I was afraid for a moment that meant he’d take care of that, too, but he stepped closer and rubbed the head across my lips. Grateful, I took his entire cock into my mouth. He sighed and caressed my hair as I worked my tongue gently around his foreskin. If I could have used my hands, I would have had him moaning, but the rules were that they had to stay clasped behind my back. Before long, every inch of that fat cock was slick with spit and gliding past my lips. I was working a little suction around the head when Hector pulled out of my mouth.
“Breakfast is getting cold.”
Hector sat at the table. I crawled over to him and tried to nuzzle under his towel. He forced me to look up into his eyes. My stern poppa gazed down at me. “Why are there only two eggs on this plate?”
“I’m not hungry.”
“Sam, you didn’t eat dinner last night.”
“Neither did you, Sir.”
“After you fell asleep, I phased home and heated up a can of ravioli.”
That explained the mess in the sink. “Of all the things you could have heated up, you ate canned pasta? The Italians would have your head on a plate if--” And then, finally, I got why he’d laughed at me the night before when I mentioned phasing back home to Long Beach to pick up a pizza for us. I burst out laughing.
Hector patted my head. “I’ll make you a deal. You don’t tell the Italians what I had for dinner last night, and I won’t tell them that you tried to send out to America for a pizza.”
Imagining their horrified expressions, I nodded. “It’ll be our dirty little secret.”
The French Provincial chair creaked as Hector leaned back in it. “Breakfast is the most important meal of the day, Baby, so open your mouth.”
“That’s your breakfast, Sir.”
Hector’s eyebrow hitched up. Sometimes I thought he was itching for an excuse to give me another enema. Well, I wasn’t going to give him one. I opened my mouth. He put a forkful of eggs on my tongue. After I swallowed it, he offered a slice of toast to me. Even though my stomach clenched at the smell of food, I bit into the bread. Plum jam smeared across my mouth. Hector bent down to lick it off. Grasping the back of my head with his hand, he shoved his tongue into my mouth.
He broke away from the kiss. “Clean the plate, and I’ll give you something better than coffee to wash it down with.” His free hand stroked his cock under the table. Oh yeah, he knew exactly how to keep me in line.
Hardly tasting the eggs and toast, I obediently chewed and swallowed. All I wanted was to earn my chance to finish the blow job I’d started. My eyes focused on Hector’s cock, I opened my mouth and waited for the next bite of food.
Hector chuckled. “That was the last of it. Even your coffee cup is empty, Baby.”
I would have been embarrassed, but he already knew what a slut I was.
“Still worried about today?” Hector asked.
Hector said that I had a bad habit of ignoring the eight hundred pound gorilla in the room until it flattened me. Maybe that was true. Everyone from Angelena to my therapist told me that I had to stop saying I was fine when I wasn’t. That was a hard habit to break, but I was working on it. “I’m all jittery,” I admitted as I tried to figure out if I was allowed to suck his cock yet or not. “I’ve checked my paperwork about a thousand times, but I have this horrible feeling that they’re going to turn me away or have me arrested as an imposter.”
Any other person would have laughed at me for saying that, but not Hector. He knew about my nightmares. “Do you want me to be nearby when you check in, just in case?”
That was so tempting, but I said, “No. I can do this.”
“I know you can.” He’d stopped stroking his cock. “Get on the bed in inspection position.”
Scrambling to obey, I climbed on the narrow bed. My chest pressed to the mattress, I spread my knees wide apart and reached between my legs to grasp my ankles. A twinge went through the small of my back as I lifted my butt high.
Maybe I was in a hurry, but Hector wasn’t. He knew how uncomfortable that position was for me, which was probably why he finished reading his newspaper before ambling over to the bed.
The ritual of inspection drove me crazy. It was always the same. He stood back and eyed my position. If my back wasn’t arched enough, he slapped my butt. When he wanted my knees spread further, he smacked the insides of my thighs. After he had me posed the way he liked, the slow, caressing torture began.
Hector’s warm hands leisurely stroked my back, shoulders, and thighs. As much as I tried to keep quiet, low moans pushed out of my chest. When he stroked my cock, my balls pulled tight.
“Turn over.”
Hector leaned down to kiss me. I stretched my arms over my head and pretended they were bound. My chin tipped up so that he could have my throat, but since he’d put the slave collar on me, it was hard for him to bite me.
Hector crawled onto the bed and straddled my face. He let me lick his balls for a while, but then got on his hands and knees and shoved his cock into my mouth. Then, oh man, he licked my hard on. A jolt ran through my body. Hector chuckled when he saw me jump. He slid his mouth oh so slowly over the head of my cock and down the shaft.
My hands gripped his hard bubble butt so that I could feel the flex of his muscles as he fucked my mouth. I slid my fingertips down to his hairy thighs and then squeezed his balls. He lifted up so that his cock pulled out of my mouth. The head, coated with my spit, banged against my face. I lifted my head up to chase that fat hard on. He slammed back into my mouth and pinned me against the mattress. For a long time, he held me there with my nose pressed against his taint. My nostrils flared to take in his scent. When I had to breathe, I tapped his thigh. He didn’t move. I squirmed and tapped again. He crushed me under his weight while he ruthlessly slammed his fist up and down my cock.
As my vision went to static at the corners of my eyes, he suddenly lifted off me. I gulped air into my burning lungs. He quickly knelt on my arms, pinning them to the mattress. Grasping a handful of my hair, he lifted my head and mercilessly fucked my mouth. Then he pulled back and jerked off. Hot jism hit my lips, my cheek, and dripped down my chin.
“Don’t lick it up.”
Hector sprawled on top of me and wrapped his arm around my head. He licked his come off my face and shoved his tongue into my mouth.
“Mmmm, thank you, Sir,” I said after I’d sucked his load out of his mouth and into mine. My hands rubbed from the small of his back up to his head. I couldn’t grasp his hair as he did mine, but I managed to pull him down for another kiss.
Hector gripped my cock. “We have unfinished business.” He clamped his teeth around one of my nipples.
Huffing, I tried to hold still. He bit harder. Whimpering, I tried to stay on top of the pain. His bottom teeth sliced my skin, and he sucked hard, drawing out my blood. The bed creaked and groaned as I bucked under him.
“Come for me.” A groan ripped out of me as I spurted over his hand.
***
Hector made me change clothes four times before he was satisfied that I was dressed properly for my first day at the fest
ival. I was tempted to complain that none of the other journalists would be wearing the latest fashion from a famous Italian design house, but from the evil smirk quirking at the edge of his lips, I knew he was waiting for me to mouth off. Not this boy.
If I had been forced to admit it, I would have confessed that nothing felt as comfortable as a well-made piece of clothing. The dove gray linen suit and pale yellow shirt felt great against my skin. When I caught my reflection in the bathroom mirror, I was surprised how the clothes transformed me from a cheap slut to an almost respectable professional. What was under the clothes was a completely different matter, though.
As Hector’s fingertips brushed against the bandage over my nipple, I winced. “Sensitive, Baby?” he asked.
“I’ll be feeling your bite all day, Sir, but I don’t mind. It’ll be like you’re there with me. At least in spirit.” A dark bruise already showed on my pale skin. His bite hadn’t bled much, so he was careful to clean the wound well before he put the bandage over it. My nipple still throbbed.
He straightened my bright yellow Hermes tie and frowned. “While you’re working, I’ll allow you to hide the slave collar.”
My hand went to the thick metal band that showed above my shirt. “I’m proud to be your slave. I don’t care who knows.”
Hector shook his head. “I know you don’t, but I don’t want it to affect your career.”
“The only job that matters to me is serving you, Sir.” The idea that he’d take the collar away worried me. “I’ve never hidden who I was, or what I was, from anyone.”
Hector sighed. “That was before. You’ve been floating along in your little bubble world where nothing touches you, but no matter how much I try to protect you, I can’t keep the real world away from you anymore. You’re going to come under a lot of scrutiny as you mingle with the international media. Like it or not, people will judge you based on that collar, and most of them won’t be able to accept it. I don’t want you to be hurt by the terrible things people can say.” He kissed my forehead. “Hiding my collar won’t change who you are. We know the truth, and haven’t we always agreed that our understanding is more important than what the rest of the world thinks?”
How many times had I told Brett the same thing when he ranted about my relationship with Hector? “I don’t think it’s fair to use my words against me,” I grumbled.
His eyes crinkled up at the corners as he grinned at me. “I’m the Master. I can say anything I want to.”
I put my hands into the pockets of my new pants. My shoulders slouched a bit, but I tilted my chin and slowly lifted my gaze to meet his as I grinned. “And I’m the slave, so I’ll obey.”
Hector hooked his finger into the ring on my slave collar and pulled me close. “Have I ever told you how hot you are when you submit?”
***
From the Grand Canal, I took a vaporetto to Lido Island, where all the film festival events were held. A group of German tourists boarded with me. The kids carried plastic buckets and shovels. They were probably headed to the beach, where they could spend the day in the warm waters of the Adriatic Sea. I envied them.
The gray-green water in the lagoon was choppy. I liked the roll of the sea, but the other tourists out on the bow shoved into the cabin to escape the occasional spray of water.
An older man remained on the bow. He wore chunky black sunglasses. A long lock of wavy, gray hair wouldn’t stay out of his face even though he tried to smooth it back. Something about him struck me as familiar. Racking my brain, I tried to remember where I’d seen him before. When he stood and I could see his profile, the answer came immediately. He was Josef Dudeka, the director of several critically acclaimed European films that I still counted among my favorites. He had a genius for bringing small, character-driven stories to the screen. He’d even won a Silver Lion from the Venice Film Festival for his skill as a director.
I was so excited to see him that before I knew it, I was standing beside him. “M-M-Mr. Dudeka?” The effort to get his name out almost made me scuttle to the back of the boat.
“You have me confused with someone else,” he said in French.
Oh. We were going to play that game. I stood near him, but not close enough to invade the protective space he seemed to draw around himself. We both looked toward the red tile roofs of the buildings on the island. I worked through my breathing exercises to calm down and get on top of my stutter. He gripped the railing with arthritic hands.
When I worked up the nerve to speak again, I kept my voice quiet so that only he could hear it. “I am such a fan of Josef Dudeka. He directed this incredible film six or seven years ago. It has always been one of my favorites. I sat through the film three times in a row, and went back the next day to see it again. I’ve always sworn that if I ever met him, I would tell him how much I enjoyed his work.”
“He wrote the screenplay, too,” he reminded me in a gravelly voice.
It was a struggle not to grin at the touch of pride that gave him away. “Of course. He always writes his own scripts. Maybe that’s why his films are so brilliant. He understands the story he wants to tell.”
He huddled down into his jacket, but I could see his grudging smile. “Perhaps one day you’ll get the chance to tell him.”
“If I could, I would tell him that he is truly a great talent. By the way, I’m Samuel Dewey, the film critic for Park Avenue Magazine. I’m here to cover the festival. If you’re here for it, too, maybe we’ll meet again.” Somehow, I managed to say all that and smoothly hand him one of my business cards without making a fool of myself. I didn’t want to keep intruding on his space, though. “It was a great pleasure speaking to you, sir.”
Even though I didn’t want to go into the sheltered part of the boat, I felt it was best to back away at that point. Every seat was taken below deck, so I had to stand. I leaned against the bulkhead and exhaled. I’d done it. I’d talked to Josef Dudeka, one of my idols, and only stuttered a little. I couldn’t wait to tell Hector. He’d be so proud of me.
Through a sea-spray encrusted window, I watched Mr. Dudeka. As we pulled into the vaporetto terminal on Lido, he tossed my card into the trash. That stung a little, but what did I expect? He was a legend. I was just a God.
***
Lido Island was nothing like Venice. The buildings looked more French than Italian to me, with formal façades and high-ceilinged galleries behind tall, narrow windows. I preferred the less intimidating look of Venice, but the trees shading the street were a welcome relief from the hot September sun. I had yet to see a tree in Venice.
The first thing that surprised me about Venice was that there were no streets. Sure, they called the walkways streets, but no car could have driven down them or crossed over the many bridges. Everywhere you went in Venice, you walked or took a boat. So I laughed a little at myself when I walked out of the vaporetto terminal on Lido and was shocked to see cars and buses. How was it that in less than twenty-four hours, cars had become strange to me?
I wondered if Venice had its own version of Angelena, the Goddess of Traffic. My powers covered the whole earth, so maybe hers did, too. When we got back home, I’d ask her. There were so many things I didn’t know about the other Gods and Goddesses, because one of the unwritten rules was that we stayed out of each other’s business, but I figured that Angelena would tell me. I bet she had some great gondola traffic jam stories.
I walked out to the Gran Viale Santa Maria Elisabetta, which seemed to be the main street running the length of Lido Island. While the tourists pushed onto buses at the vaporetto terminal, I strolled up the street. The film festival was at the north end of the island. I figured that signs would point me in the right direction if I headed that way. Lido was very narrow, so it wasn’t as if I could get too lost.
The further north I went, the more expensive the neighborhood got. The shops on either side of the street were pretty much the same as those in Beverly Hills and on Melrose Avenue. I wondered how rich a person had to be befo
re shopping at Prada was like my family going to Wal-Mart.
The grand Palladian-style hotels along the beach on the north end of the island sat in the middle of expansive gardens. Apparently, the island had been quite the resort over a hundred years ago. It was still nice, but I’d been told to stick to the private beaches at the hotels if I wanted to go into the water. The rest of the beaches were supposed to be funky, and not in a good way.
As I expected, there were signs for the film festival, but they seemed to be for the tourists. I walked around a bit more, but saw nothing about the media check-in. Even though there was no reason for me to get stressed out yet, my chest tightened and a mini panic attack swept over me. I tried to calm down and breathe normally.
“Are you looking for the media check-in, too?”
A jaw-droppingly gorgeous, Latin boy sauntered over to me. He had a camera around his neck. The long, fat lens dangled down his slim torso. The yellow and green Brazilian flag on his camera bag gave away his nationality. His straight, black hair was cut long so that his bangs swept down to his full, mocha lips. The top buttons of his shirt were open to reveal a smooth, muscled chest and one deep brown nipple. I instantly knew two things about him -- he used eye liner to accentuate his puppy-dog brown eyes, and he was a God.
