Chapter 17
Chapter seventeen
Carlo
“Massage time!” Ginni announces suddenly, bouncing up from where he’s been curled against my side like a contented cat.
I blink at him, still muzzy from the post-coital haze that’s been keeping me floating in a state of satisfied exhaustion for who knows how long.
“What now?”
I’m not sure I can keep up. I’m getting whiplash from my changing emotions. After the stunt with the livestream, I was ready to kill him. But then came his unique style of apology, and I was utterly swayed.
I’m really not sure I can cope with anything else today.
“You need a full body massage,” he declares with the authority of someone who’s just made a medical diagnosis. “All this lying in bed is going to cause muscle atrophy if we’re not careful. Plus, you’re getting tense again in your shoulders.”
He’s not wrong about the tension. Despite the relatively comfortable bed and Ginni’s devoted care, spending days chained in the same position is starting to take its toll.
My back aches, my shoulders are stiff, and there’s a persistent knot between my shoulder blades that’s been bothering me since yesterday.
“I’m fine,” I grumble, though even as I say it I can feel the tightness in my neck when I turn my head.
“No, you’re not,” Ginni says firmly, already moving to rearrange the pillows. “You’re carrying tension in your trapezius muscles, your deltoids are knotted, and I can see the stress lines around your eyes. Roll over onto your stomach.”
I stare at him. “You want me to do what?”
“Roll over. On your stomach. So I can give you a proper massage.” He says this like it’s the most reasonable request in the world, not like he’s asking a grown man to put himself in an even more vulnerable position than he’s already in.
“Ginni, I’m chained to your bed. I’m not rolling over for anything.”
“The chains have plenty of slack,” he points out, which is annoyingly true. “I made sure of that when I adjusted them this morning. You can lie comfortably on your stomach without any strain on your wrists.”
“That’s not the point.”
“What is the point then?” He tilts his head, genuinely curious, and the gesture is so innocent it makes my chest tight. “Are you worried I’m going to hurt you?”
The question catches me off guard. Am I worried about that? The boy who’s spent days feeding me by hand, bathing me with reverent care, shaving me with a cutthroat razor without so much as nicking my skin?
“No,” I admit reluctantly. “I’m not worried about that.”
“Then what’s the problem?” Ginni asks, settling cross-legged beside me on the bed. “I’ve been watching YouTube tutorials on therapeutic massage. Deep tissue work, sports massage techniques, pressure point therapy. I want to take care of you properly.”
Of course he has. Is there anything this boy hasn’t researched in obsessive detail?
“I don’t need a massage,” I say, but the protest sounds weak even to my own ears.
“Yes, you do,” Ginni replies with patient certainty.
“Your body is your most important tool in your line of work. You need to maintain proper muscle tone and flexibility, especially when your mobility is restricted. Especially at your age. Besides,” he adds with a sly smile, “I think you’ll enjoy it. ”
The way he says it, with that hint of promise in his voice, makes heat pool low in my belly despite my exhaustion.
“Is this another sex thing?” I ask, and somehow my voice sounds far more excited than wary.
“Not everything is about sex, Carlo,” Ginni replies, laughing softly. “Though I won’t lie and say I don’t enjoy touching you. But this is about your health and comfort. Let me take care of you.”
There’s something in his voice, a note of genuine concern mixed with that devoted affection I’m becoming accustomed to, that makes my resistance crumble. I think I can cope with this.
“Fine,” I mutter, already starting to shift position. “But if you try anything...”
“I’ll be the perfect gentleman,” Ginni promises, though the mischievous glint in his eyes suggests his definition of gentlemanly behavior might differ from mine.
Rolling over while chained is more awkward than I expected, but Ginni helps guide me, adjusting the chains and pillows until I’m lying comfortably face-down on the mattress.
The position does feel vulnerable in ways I’m trying not to think about, but there’s also something oddly relaxing about it.
Like surrendering control, letting someone else take charge of my comfort.
“There,” Ginni says with satisfaction, running his hands along my shoulders with professional assessment. “I can already see the problem areas. You’re carrying so much tension here.”
His fingers find knots I didn’t even know I had, pressing gently to assess the damage. The touch is clinical, impersonal, but I can feel my body responding to the contact anyway.
“I’ve been watching YouTube tutorials on therapeutic massage,” he continues, reaching for something from the collection of bottles he’s apparently arranged on the nightstand while I wasn’t paying attention.
“Sports massage, specifically. Deep tissue work, myofascial release, trigger point therapy. It’s fascinating how interconnected everything is in the human body. ”
The oil is warm when he drizzles it across my shoulders, and I can’t help but sigh at the sensation. It’s scented with something floral. Jasmine, maybe, with hints of sandalwood and bergamot underneath. The kind of luxury aromatherapy blend you’d find at an exclusive spa in Switzerland.
“Just relax,” he murmurs, his voice taking on that soothing, professional tone I’m beginning to associate with his caretaker mode. “Let me take care of you.”
His hands are smaller than mine, delicate-looking with their fine bones and soft skin, but there’s surprising strength in his fingers as he begins working the oil into my shoulders.
He starts with long, sweeping strokes to warm up the muscles, then gradually increases pressure as he finds the knots and tension points.
“You’re really good at this,” I admit, unable to keep the surprise out of my voice.
“I told you, I’ve been studying,” Ginni replies, his hands now working on a particularly stubborn knot near my shoulder blade.
“YouTube tutorials, online courses, even some video calls with actual licensed massage therapists. I wanted to be able to take care of you properly. All aspects of your health and wellbeing.”
The knot gives way under his persistent pressure, and I let out an involuntary groan of relief.
Years of stress and tension seem to be melting away under his skilled touch.
The constant vigilance required in my line of work, the weight of responsibility, the physical strain of always being ready for violence.
All of it dissolves as Ginni’s hands work their magic.
He moves methodically down my back, finding tension I’ve been carrying for months. Places where stress has settled into my muscles like sediment, creating painful knots that I’d learned to ignore because there was never time to deal with them properly.
“Better?” he asks softly, working along my spine with gentle, circular motions.
“Much better,” I admit, and I can hear the amazement in my own voice. “Where did you really learn to do this?”
“I told you, online courses. There’s a massage therapy school in Switzerland that offers intensive video training programs.” His hands move to my lower back, finding muscle groups I didn’t know could be sore.
“I also studied anatomy and physiology textbooks. I wanted to understand how your body works, what you need to stay healthy and strong.”
The thoroughness of his preparation should disturb me, but instead I find myself impressed by his dedication.
This is what it feels like to be pampered, I realize with something approaching wonder.
To be the focus of someone’s complete attention and devoted care.
When was the last time anyone touched me like this?
Not sexually, though there’s certainly an undercurrent of intimacy in Ginni’s hands on my skin, but simply to make me feel good.
To ease discomfort and provide comfort with no expectation of anything in return.
My mother used to rub my back when I was sick as a child, but that was decades ago. Since then, touch has mostly been functional. Medical exams, the occasional massage at upscale clubs that was more about status than actual therapy, sexual encounters that were about release rather than connection.
This is different. This is someone studying my needs with scientific precision and then meeting them with generous devotion.
“Your gluteal muscles are very tight,” Ginni observes, his hands moving to my ass with clinical professionalism. “All that sitting and driving. We’ll need to work on your hip flexors too.”
I could get used to this. The thought hits me with unexpected force, and not just the physical pleasure of the massage.
I could get used to having someone who adores me, who studies my needs and preferences with scientific dedication, who wants nothing more than to make me feel special and cared for.
Someone who notices when I’m tense before I do. Who remembers exactly how I like my coffee and what foods I prefer. Who goes to extraordinary lengths to ensure my comfort and happiness.
My mind drifts to what happened earlier, the way Ginni had surrendered himself so completely to my guidance. The trust in his eyes, the way he’d followed my lead with such beautiful submission, the grateful pleasure on his face when I took control.
He’d been so responsive, so eager to please, so ready to give me everything I asked for and more. Like he’d been waiting his entire life for someone to claim him, to show him what it meant to be desired and treasured and thoroughly possessed.
And the sounds he’d made... Cristo, the memory alone is enough to make me hard again.