29 – Sunrise and hunger

The light of the morning spilled through the window.

Soft. Warm.

I didn’t just wake up: my body called me to it.

I was awake.

But more than that:

ready.

Today was the day

I would return to him.

To my master.

To Giorgio.

He had baptized me.

With his voice.

His hand.

His water.

He had made me his slave.

His personal servant.

I knew I was supposed to go back to him.

He didn’t say when.

Only that he would wake up early.

Maybe he needed me already.

Maybe… as he woke up.

I wanted to be ready.

I wanted to be useful.

I dressed.

Then I paused.

Should I wash?

But…

I still smelled of him.

Of his skin.

His desire.

His claim.

I didn’t dare wash him off.

He had marked me.

And I wore that mark with pride.

I left the house.

The street was quiet.

The sun still low in the sky.

I walked around the house.

The back door was slightly open.

A sign?

I stepped closer.

Quietly.

I looked inside.

He was laying there.

Like he was sculpted in stone and fire.

The blanket over him—

but his manhood

clearly outlined.

Heavy.

Pulsing.

And below—

his legs and feet stuck out.

Large. Broad.

Still—and yet

they meant everything.

He was my master.

“Sir, are you awake?” I whispered.

His eyelids twitched.

Then opened.

He saw me.

Without surprise.

Almost… as if he had known.

He let his toes play—

just a little.

But I saw it.

And my entire body

responded.

He knew

what that did to me.

“Good morning, faggot,” he said.

The word hit me.

Deep.

And hot.

“Did I wake you, Sir?” I asked quietly.

“It’s good you’re here.

There’s plenty to do today.”

I nodded.

Silently.

Grateful.

He let his toes dance again.

And he knew

I was waiting for just one word.

But he said nothing.

Not yet.

Silence.

Tension.

Suspense.

Then:

“Go to the hens.

Get some eggs.

Make breakfast.

There’s apple juice in the pantry.

And not just that…”

He winked.

“Your breakfast is ready.

I just need to let you serve it.”

He pulled away the blanket.

And there it was—

his full morning hardness.

What a sight.

My stomach tightened.

Hunger.

“Don’t stare like that, faggot.

It’s just a hard Sicilian sausage

from a real man.

You’ll eat soon.

Now go!”

I bowed slightly.

Turned.

And left.

He stayed in the room.

How I would’ve loved

to watch him just for a little longer.

The morning smelled of hay.

Of animals.

Of heat.

I stepped into the henhouse.

The chickens clucked.

I gathered the eggs.

Carefully.

Like they were precious.

I looked down at them in my hands.

White. Round.

Heavy with meaning.

And I thought of him.

Of his.

His weight.

His warmth.

I smiled.

Just for a second.

Then I fetched the apple juice.

Just seeing the full bottles—

how thirsty it made me.

How dirty my thoughts turned.

I carried everything back into the house.

There was still so much to do—

and my main task

had just walked into the kitchen.