His Master's Voice [2] Read online

  HIS MASTER’S VOICE #2

  By

  Jay Ellison

  Copyright © 2017 Jay Ellison

  Published by Courtesan Press

  http://courtesanpress.wordpress.com

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be distributed, shared, resold, posted online, or reproduced in any electronic or hard copy form.

  This book is a work of fiction. Any similarities between actual persons or events is entirely coincidental. This book contains adult content and is intended for a mature readership. All sexual scenarios depicted in this book occur between consenting adults over 18 years of age.

  Cover art design by Courtesan Press

  * * *

  CONTENTS

  HIS MASTER’S VOICE #2 by Jay Ellison

  About the Author

  How to Order

  * * *

  HIS MASTER’S VOICE #2

  By Jay Ellison

  CHAPTER ONE

  Friday Afternoon

  “But I need the weekend off!” I said, standing in the Assistant Manager’s office of Pet World and glaring desperately at my boss.

  Rebecca looked at me suspiciously. “Are you playing a gig? Because I gave you last weekend to play that club you said you needed to be at, and…”

  “I was only off Saturday, and that’s my day off anyway!”

  I hated the pleading quality of my voice, but I didn’t know how to get through to my boss. It wasn’t fair. I had worked at Pet World for six fucking years without complaint, taking all kinds of crap shifts. Was it too much to ask for one little weekend off?

  It was stupid of you to promise Master something you couldn’t deliver on.

  I had to agree with myself there, but I had been caught up in the moment. The night had been so sweet, and Master so sexy and strong as he held me against the bricks of that restaurant and kissed and nipped his way across my lips and down my throat. I had melted for him on the spot. Later, as he drove me home, he explained that he required this weekend to train me as his courtier. I still had so much to learn. So I made a ridiculous promise that the following weekend, I would be all his. I would belong to him for. Now I couldn’t deliver on my promise.

  “Come on, Rebecca! Don’t I cover for everyone else when they’re sick or stoned or drunk?”

  Rebecca—usually such a laid-back, easygoing boss—set her pen down and put her hands on the scheduling book like it was the end-all and be-all in the universe. “I don’t think I like your tone, Timothy. Six weeks advance notice for days off. That’s the rule!”

  “Can’t you make an exception just this once?”

  “If I make an exception for you, I have to make an exception for everyone else.”

  I felt a surge of anger. I thought about just calling in sick with flu, but now that I’d asked politely for the days off, Rebecca would be suspicious. I was screwed.

  Reaching into the book, she pulled a Request Form out and handed it to me. “Fill it out. You can have the weekend two weeks from now.”

  “Two weeks?” My heart sank.

  “And don’t ask for next weekend, because we’re doing inventory,” she reminded me.

  I took the sheet in utter defeat and stepped outside her office. I looked all around Pet World, the retail hell that was my life, and felt lost. Even the dog training as a career path seemed endlessly far off. I was going to disappoint Master. I was going to disappoint myself.

  Over lunch, I forced myself to make the terrible phone call. I was thankful when Master’s voicemail picked up instead of the man himself. I just couldn’t bear to speak to my gentleman directly. “I won’t be able to make this weekend,” I said low into the phone so my busybody coworkers couldn’t hear. “I have to work. I tried. I’m so sorry. I…” I didn’t know what else to say about my failure, so I just hung up and went to stock the dog toy isle with the huge boxes of squeaky toys that had just come off the truck that morning.

  My life was crap, and the one good thing in it, the one thing I wanted almost more than anything—a weekend to train with my new Master—was beyond my grasp. It didn’t seem fair.

  Later that day, I was both surprised and a little frightened when I saw Rebecca step out of her office while I was punching out. I wondered what fresh hell awaited me. “Timothy,” she said, making her way toward me, the scheduling book pressed against her ample chest like a shield. “That request of yours? Don’t worry about it. It’s all taken care of.”

  I thought maybe I hadn’t heard right. I turned to her while tugging on my battered leather jacket. “I can have the weekend?”

  “Sure,” she said, sounding bright and happy and totally fake. “Take this weekend. Next weekend, too, if you like. You’ve earned it.” She darted away before I could ask any further questions.

  I watched her go, and I felt a flutter in the pit of my belly. I could have the weekend, and I totally knew who had made that happen. Master. And the fact that he could do that sort of frightened me.

  * * *

  CHAPTER TWO

  Saturday Afternoon

  The brownstone, made of pink New York stone, had beautifully restored bow windows and ornate cornices and a chiseled white marble stairwell that just screamed Old World charm. The townhouse was at least two hundred years old and reminded me of pictures I had seen of Depression-era New York City. It was definitely not what I had expected.

  I figured a man as affluent as Byron Erbach-Schönberg would live in upper Manhattan in one of the flashier white glove condos, or maybe the penthouse suite. Not here in Brooklyn. A simple Google had revealed that he worked as a business and PR consultant specializing in “fixing” companies that had their wheels coming off due to either financial neglect or bad public relations. He had clients like Exxon Mobil, Target, and PepsiCo, and he was good at what he did. His firm was already a Fortune 500 company. I thought he must be worth billions, at least, and he was only twenty-eight years old!

  Well, I thought, he is the heir to one of the biggest diamond dynasties in the world. Further Googling had revealed that his father owned mines in Germany, Russia and Botswana, and the Erbach-Schönberg mines contained over a billion carats of recoverable diamonds. He’d had a great start to life.

  And, yet, Master’s abode seemed unbelievably humble compared to the man himself. Still, when Master answered the door, I stepped with reverence into the brightly lit foyer, looking around at the lovely wainscoted walls, the big portraiture on the walls, and the vase of black roses sitting in a crystal vase on a table that set squarely in the center of the room. They reminded me of the roses at the bistro where we had first spoken. Black, their tips painted with gold. The charm and sophistication of the place left me tongue-tied.

  “I’m pleased you were able to make it, Timothy.”

  I thought about saying Thanks to you. But I was afraid. Afraid of the man’s power. Afraid of the way I reacted to it. I recalled the look of reverence in my client Mrs. DeGeneres’s eyes that day in the dog park when Master had spoken to her. He was practically royalty. He could make anything in this city happen.

  My heart knocked at the idea that we would be training all weekend, and it continued to knock as the weight of his large, lean hands rested on my shoulders and he propelled me into a grand, old-fashioned parlor done in walnut, with high shelves of books and heavy colonial furnishings and more of those big pictures on the walls. There was even a wing chair, similar to the one I had had in my fantasy of him in the beginning, though it wasn’t centered exactly before the lighted fireplace, but more off to the side.

  And yet it was the dogs that excited me most of all. He had seven of them lounging on the very expensive furniture—all mixed breeds and obvious rescues. They ran up to me and he introduced each on
e in turn.

  “Hello, George,” I said, scratching a mixed yellow lab behind the ears. They licked my face and barked excitedly. I looked up. “Why haven’t you brought them to the dog park?”

  “They have their own park. And their own condo. In the back. I’ll let you explore later.”

  I was sad when he lead them out to what he called “the boy’s quarters,” but I knew he was eager to begin my training and didn’t want any diversions.

  “Did you receive all the documents?” he asked when he returned. Master was lean and angular in his fitted Italian business suit. His lips were soft but set in a determined line, and his ghostly grey eyes seemed to pin me in place. He was the most beautiful man I had ever laid eyes on, and even though I had, in fact, received all his emailed documents, including his extensive list of instructions in grooming and decorum for being a courtier, I found myself unable to speak for a moment.

  “Y-yes, Master.” I bowed my head so as not to meet his eyes. I wanted him to know how seriously I was taking this. I had chosen him as my Master, and I was determined to be an exceptional courtier. The best there ever was. That included following his directions to the letter when I arrived at his house.

  I was a good dog trainer. A good musician, too. I never did anything half-assed.

  His took a few steps forward and touched the side of my face, his touch so tender I wanted to close my eyes. I felt an immediate surge of desire. “Good,” he said. “Proceed.”

  Even though we were alone, and the room quite warm from the fire lie in the hearth, I hesitated to begin. He moved to one side and stood by the fireplace mantel so he could observe me. His eyes conveyed nothing, but I wasn’t fooled. I had seen him in action, and I knew Master’s temper was incredibly short with those who willfully disobeyed his commands.

  “Timothy.”

  “Yes,” I said, lifting my head.

  “Do you want to proceed?”

  I was surprised he was asking. I nodded, then checked myself and said instead, “Yes. Yes, Sir.”

  “What color are you?”

  We had decided on standard safewords: Green for go, yellow for slow down, and red for full stop. I almost said yellow, then realized I was acting rather foolishly prim. I wasn’t exactly some blushing virgin, and I did trust Master. Trusted him enough to give myself over to him for the next two days.

  I undressed slowly, trying to be graceful about it. Boots, leather jacket, concert tee, skinny jeans, kilt. I folded each piece of clothing and laid it upon the last in a neat pile on a nearby chair. When I was down to my briefs, I looked away from him. Naturally, I was worried he would find me wanting in some way—maybe not muscular enough, even though my day job was hauling fifty-pound bags of dog food all over Pet World—but his instructions were perfectly clear. While we were training, and anytime we were alone together in his home, I was to wear the dog collar, my piercings, and nothing else.

  “Disrobe. I want to see you,” he said. “It’s important that my courtier is sexually available to me at all times.” His voice rumbled out of his well-defined and muscular chest. “In future, you will do away with undergarments completely. I find them a hindrance. You wear far too many layers as it is.” He nodded at my pile of clothing and I blushed furiously but dutifully slid the briefs down my legs.

  Despite the warmth of the room, my skin shivered and I felt goosebumps break out all over. I found it difficult not to cover myself. Years of avoiding other boys in the shower room and locker room at school had really turned me into a prude.

  “Hands down and at your sides.”

  I obeyed, despite my shame.

  He looked me over carefully, his face mask-like, indecipherable. After a moment, he said, “Heel.”

  I assumed the heel position beside the wing chair in the parlor as he had instructed in his email—kneeling, with legs together, hands on my knees. His eyes lingered on my partial erection, which, in my current position, was impossible to hide.

  “You have a lovely form,” he said, circling me slowly. He reached down and, from behind, cupped the sides of my head in both hands. “However, I would like to see your head held a little higher.”

  He raised my chin a couple of inches.

  “No eye contact,” he instructed, coming back around. “A good courtier is poised and proud, an extension of his gentleman, but he also knows to keep his eyes respectfully downcast.” He walked around me again, admiring my adjusted form. He took his time while he did a thorough assessment. “Poise and form are important—as is grace. There are times I will ask you to present yourself. If heeling, it means I expect you on your hands and knees, forehead to the floor and ass in the air. If standing, it means you will seek out the nearest piece of furniture as a brace and offer yourself to your Master. In both cases, it means you should expect to be sexed by your Master. Do you understand?”

  I dutifully kept my eyes averted, watching him from the corner of my eye. “Yes, Sir.”

  He moved across the room to a wet bar and poured himself a scotch, speaking while he fixed the drink. “Present yourself—but be graceful about it.”

  I dutifully stretched my front half out while elevating my ass. I struggled to move gracefully as he had instructed, angling my head downward so my forehead touched the hardwood of the floor just outside the reach of the throw rug. But I slipped halfway and wound up down on both elbows. I expected to hear laughter, or a reprimand of some kind, but Master was silent. I looked up.

  “Again,” he said, his voice soft and patient. He held his scotch gracefully in one hand.

  “You’re not mad?”

  “The term is ‘angry,’ Timothy, and no, I’m not angry. What would I be? I hardly expect you to be an expert in form our first day of training.”

  That kind of annoyed me. He might not expect me to be perfect, but I wanted to be perfect for him.

  I tried again, starting from the first, heel, position. This time, I didn’t fall, but I felt I was unnecessarily clumsy, like someone doing weird yoga for the first time.

  “I think you can do better,” he said, voicing my own opinion of myself. His voice—again—wasn’t the least bit angry. “Again.”

  I went through four more repetitions before he said, “Not perfect, but attractive. I would like you to practice at home—every day, ten minutes. Consider it homework. Now, up.”

  I stood up and we started working on my presentation against various pieces of furniture. It was easier, though he had to correct my form at one point, pushing my head farther down as I leaned against the back of the divan, but I didn’t mind because it meant I could feel him pressed tight against my back and ass. His clothes rubbed deliciously against my bare skin while he spoke. “Head down. Always be respectful to your Master. Your body is his. You are here to please him in every way.”

  He touched my shoulder, tracing the lines of my tattoo there. “Your wings are lovely,” he said, acknowledging the red angel wings I had had inked on my back several years ago. I was very proud of them. But then he added, “What are you plans regarding additional body modifications?”

  I always warmed to this subject so easily. “I was thinking of more ink,” I said, turning my head to one side to speak to him. “Maybe some skulls and roses…”

  “No more modifications,” he said, using that powerful, dulcet tone of voice that suggested he was not angry, but that this was non-negotiable. He turned, swirling his tumbler. “In future, you will ask permission for any and all alterations. Be aware: You will probably be denied.”

  That annoyed me. I had had some real sick tats picked out at the same shop where I’d gotten the wings. “But, Sir…” I stopped, reminding myself it wasn’t my place to question his judgment. He was my Master—quite literally the boss of me. My body…was his. “What about the piercings?” I loved my piercings. “They don’t even need to be permanent. I can take them out if you don’t like them…”

  He cut me off. “You may keep what you have, but, in future, I will choose your p
iercings for you.” Before I could protest that revelation, he finished the scotch and set the tumbler down on a nearby table with a thump that reminded me eerily of the sound of a gavel as it was struck by a judge to proclaim a final verdict.

  I struggled not to make a face. It was harder than I thought.

  “You are not amused?” he asked archly.

  It was a big sacrifice for me. It reminded me that my body was his to command. Master owned it. And it was obvious he had no qualms about reminding me of that fact. “I think that’s a little strict,” I admitted.

  “No body modifications. No coming without my permission. No masturbation. No touching or being touched by others without my permission,” he said, rattling off several points on the list of instructions he had emailed me. “How am I being strict?”

  I shrugged. “You just are.”

  “You are questioning my edicts?”

  “No…well, maybe. I mean…”

  “Are you being difficult?” Master asked, his voice growing softer but hoarser by the moment. “Some gentlemen are unnecessarily lenient with their courtiers. Some even allow them to have a whole other life outside their relationship with their gentleman. But I am not one of those gentlemen. As my courtier, you are mine in every way…twenty-four-seven.”

  I opened my mouth to say something about that.

  He grunted, the noise stopping me. “It’s obvious you need to learn your place.” He slid off his suit coat and started unbuttoning his cuffs and rolling up his sleeves.

  The sight filled me with a thrilling fear, and my breath started coming faster and shorter with each second that passed. I wondered if my slip-up was worthy of punishment. And, if so, what that would entail.

  The sight of Master’s sinewy, muscular forearms made me tremble as he moved into position behind me. “Until you understand your place, pet, we shall not proceed.”

  I breathed in and out, in and out. “I’m sorry. I…”

  “I don’t accept your apology.”