His Master's Voice #3 (The Dollhouse Society) Page 3

  I imagined his fingers, his lips—his gorgeous cock—there, teasing me just before he plunged inward, claiming that sacred space inside me that made me his boy, his plaything, his courtier. The familiar ache of desire was so real.

  Now, I wasn’t looking at him. I was leaning back against the pillows, eyes closed, as I put myself on full display for him. I wished I had a toy of some sort to better enhance my performance, but I had never really been one for those things. I always preferred my own touch—or my lover’s—over artificial stimulation. Still, I did the best I could with what I had, penetrating myself slowly with two fingers, over and over.

  “You love it, my cock fucking that sweet ass of yours,” Master said. “You are a slut for my cock, little colt.”

  Just imagining Master doing this to me was enough to make my orgasm build and build. I rocked my hips while marvelous pressure built in my spine, turning my gasps into low whimpers of anticipation.

  I imagined Master there, against me, his sharp teeth in my shoulder while he rutted like a predator in heat with me. The unbelievable pressure, the borderline pain. The way his balls spanked me as he slammed the hard, ready girth of his shaft deep inside my hole until I could no longer breathe. God, the way he filled me—the way he took me and made me his toy. It seemed we were breathing together, breathing as one. And then his low groan of absolute relief as he burst inside me, filling me with his delightful and familiar heat.

  I came, then—so hard, I nearly blacked out from it. I drenched myself in my own release. And when I opened my eyes, I saw how flushed Master looked, how darkly seething his eyes. He had his hand flat to the screen as if he could touch me across the distance, and that made me miss him even more.

  * * *

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  On Saturday, Kree called me to tell me the gig was a bust, that the dive had hired another band. “The owner’s kid has this lame band, so natch.” Kree sounded irate on the phone. “Can you fucking believe it?”

  “Yes, I can fucking believe it,” I said and then flinched. One of Master’s rules was that a good courtier does not swear and always conducts himself humbly and appropriately. My training was starting to flow over into my everyday life. “Let’s just call it a wash. I’m a little tired anyway.”

  “You want to come over? We can cook some ribs, kick back some beers.”

  “I would, but…I kind of have a date.” Not strictly true, but I wasn’t about to explain my lifestyle choices to my band mates. They were pretty liberal guys, but I knew they would totally misinterpret my relationship with Master.

  If there was any question that I was completely and hopelessly in love with Master, it was put to rest later that day, because it took all my training as a courtier not to run into his arms the moment I stepped into the townhouse. It was five o’clock, and the guests were expected to arrive in one hour. Master’s instructions had been detailed in that the moment I stepped over the threshold, I was to assume a pleasing and submissive demeanor. I was expected to be the consummate courtier tonight—to everyone.

  That meant no jumping on him, he’d added humorously during our last video chat. And then he smirked and said I could jump on him after the dinner was over. I promised him that I would, and he laughed about that. It was the first time I had ever heard him laugh. The absolute first.

  He was waiting in the parlor. “Timothy,” he said and flushed as he turned from the wet bar. Then he remembered our ritual and stopped, assuming a more Dominant posture while I undressed and folded my clothes, laying them neatly on the chair by the door. I was a little flattered that he looked like he wanted to jump on me while I assumed the heeled position and bowed my head properly. Moments later, more composed now, he stepped up to me and touched my head. “Stand and serve me and my guests tonight, my courtier,” he said.

  I gracefully climbed to my feet and stood at attention, saying nothing. One of his instructions was that I was not to speak to any of the gentlemen at the dinner tonight, unless it was to use a safeword. I could only speak to the other courtesans, if I wished. It was a little frustrating because I wanted to ask him so many questions about Europe. I wanted to know what Berlin looked and smelled like. I wanted to know if he had completed his work—if he was sleeping all right. Most of all, I just wanted to be alone with him, touch him, pleasure him, but I knew this dinner was important to him. As a result, I would make it important to me.

  He touched my cheek and I closed my eyes, hoping I was communicating the contentment I felt now that he was home. As if to read my mind, he said, “Later, we will talk and play. I’ll make you come again and again. For now, you must go to the kitchen. You will find a list of duties there and how and when to complete them.”

  I bowed to him deeply before retreating to the kitchen, where, according to the list, I was to wait until the guests started to arrive. Then I was to begin by serving drinks in the parlor.

  I was incredibly nervous. I had sort of hoped that Master would provide a wait staff uniform of some kind, but soon realized I would be doing this as I was, on complete display to whoever wanted to watch me, touch me—and play with me. It didn’t say as much on the list, but I knew I was on the menu along with the mint lamb and flambé.

  I took a deep breath to steady my nerves as the guests began arriving. I picked up my silver serving tray and a bar towel and took my first tentative steps toward the parlor—then stopped as I heard their voices drifting to me. It took me a moment to get my breathing and heart rate under control. I had to remind myself that these were all experienced gentleman and well-heeled courtesans of the Dollhouse Society. For them, these dinners—this whole lifestyle—was commonplace. I remembered what Master had said that first evening in the restaurant, that if I treated this as normal, so would everyone else. It helped me tremendously as I stepped naked and completely vulnerable into the room.

  There were seven guests: three couples—all beautiful men in hand-tailored formalwear, accompanied by their courtesans—and one lone “bachelor.” Master said that was what they called a gentleman of the Society who did not yet have a sub to play with. He had schooled me on who the guests were in the details he had sent, so it wasn’t hard to fit the names to the faces.

  Henry Eisenberg and Sasha were here—but I already knew them. Mr. Eisenberg removed Sasha’s beautiful white fur coat, revealing that she was as naked as I underneath, though she wore delightfully beautiful pull-up silk stockings and heeled shoes. I took a moment to admire her wonderfully sculpted body before I turned my attention on the others.

  There was a tall Japanese man talking with Master—Alex Ishikawa, the Kinbaku master, and his courtesan Felix, as equally naked as Sasha where she stood close to his side. And there was another couple who had just arrived whose names were Mr. and Mrs. Reed. Besides them, there was only the bachelor, Todd Harrison, who was already getting himself a drink. Unlike the other men in tuxedos, Harrison was dressed in up and down tight, dark purple vinyl and wore ten earrings. He was a musician like me, and I knew he played bass in the industrial gothic band October Rust.

  It was exciting to be in the same room with Harrison, even if I was a bit…underdressed. It was only too bad I couldn’t talk to him about music.

  The guests split up fairly quickly, the pretty courtesans grouping together to share some private girl talk, while the gentleman complimented each other or fell into adamant conversations about politics, business and some of the newer policies at the Dollhouse.

  To their credit, the men were incredibly honorable when I crept up to them to take their drink orders—but, then, Master had mentioned that Mr. Eisenberg, Mr. Reed, and Mr. Ishikawa were extremely and unyieldingly straight. They would not be playing with me even though they were known swingers and traded subs on occasion. It was only Mr. Harrison I had to worry about pleasing. The other gentlemen gave me brief, unthreatening smiles when I fetched them their drinks. I didn’t ask Mr. Harrison, since he already had a drink, but I know he was admiring me while I went to mix the
more complicated concoctions.

  The wet bar was small, with most of the ingredients for their specialty drinks in the kitchen. That meant I had to make several trips. While putting together a couple of Old Fashioneds for the Reeds, I became aware that someone had stepped into the kitchen behind me.

  I turned and saw it was Sasha—that relieved me. Yet I was surprised by how nervous it made me to talk to her. She was like courtesan royalty or something.

  Sasha grinned at me. “So, Timothy, are you freaking out yet?”

  “Uh,” I said. “I don’t think so. Maybe?”

  She laughed and the ice was broken. “I was such a bundle of nervous the first time I did this that I dropped a whole tray of drinks on the floor!”

  I felt a sympathetic pang. “Oh, no. Was Mr. Eisenberg angry?”

  “Sir is never angry,” she told me with an adoring smile. “I’m not sure he knows how to be angry. Trying to make Sir angry is like trying to coax the sun out during the night. He thought it was sweet. He said it made me look shy. Well, I was shy!”

  I looked at her, admiring her. She was so adorable and sweet and funny that I completely forgot we were naked, which should have made our talk uncomfortable, but somehow didn’t. Instead, I felt deeply like we belonged to something, that we had a kinship. I used to think Rebecca was my friend, but the connection I had made with Sasha went much deeper than that.

  “He seems nice…your Master,” I said.

  “Yes, well,” Sasha said, and winked, “I had to train him to not be quite so nice in the bedroom. Sir could be a little too sweet and protective, at times. I hear the same is true of Lord Byron.”

  “He’s very stern,” I said, and then I thought about her words, and about all of our encounters, and the way he acted when we went out, always touching me…always putting himself physically between me and others when we went walking in the park or the city. “But, yeah, you’re right—he can be pretty overprotective.”

  “What are his disciplines like?”

  “Public humiliation, mostly.”

  “No capital punishment?”

  “Not really,” I said. Sometimes he used the crop he had bought to correct my posture or as a prop to rub against my back or ass, but he had never struck me with it. I mentioned that, surprised by how easy it was to discuss such intimate details with Sasha. “I think he’s a bit of a softie, like your Sir.”

  “With Lord Byron, it’s to be expected,” she said and reached for one of the Old Fashioneds, sipping on it.

  “What do you mean?”

  She hesitated. “I mean…it’s in his nature.” She said it a bit too fast as her eyes moved nervously around the room. “He’s a Dominant. He will always want to take care of you, Timothy, shield you. Even take your pain from you, if he can.”

  I had the feeling that wasn’t what she intended to say, that there were other things going on, but she had changed her mind. I thought about pushing her for more details, but she smiled and quickly changed the subject. “I’m extremely grateful for your offer to cover me, by the way. I want you to know that.”

  “Oh. Yeah. That.”

  “Are you having second thoughts?” Now she sounded nervous.

  “No…only…” I shrugged.

  “What is it? Go on.”

  I looked her in the eye. “Are you all right with this?”

  Sasha smiled at that. “It was my idea, silly. Well, it was technically both our idea, Sir and I. He wants desperately for me to pass on my legacy, and I want desperately to give him a child who won’t grow up crippled by his terrible disease.” She turned and did an incredibly graceful pirouette in her heels. “Prima ballerina assoluta,” she said with a wink. “I’m in early retirement in order to better fulfill my duties as Sir’s courtesan. Mind you, I love our life together and would have it no other way.”

  No wonder she was so graceful! But their arrangement still confused me. Despite her obvious submissive nature, Sasha hardly seemed a pushover. She seemed to know exactly what she wanted. “And I thought you were the sub!” I joked.

  “I am.” She gave me a wise look over the edge of her tumbler as she took another sip.”You don’t really understand our ways yet, do you, Timothy?”

  I didn’t want to admit that I wasn’t following her logic, but I felt this was too important to ignore. I clapped my hands together. “Okay. Enlighten me, Sasha. What am I missing?”

  She laughed. “It’s not a conspiracy, Timothy, I promise! But we have this saying amongst us courtesans and courtiers: ‘The power always resides in the bottom.’” She gave me a wide-eyed look. “Understand?”

  I thought about that. I was a lot of things—a loser, a freak, probably a hundred other things—but I wasn’t dumb, not by a long shot. It only took me a few seconds to catch on. “Master only has the power I give to him.”

  “No more and no less.” Sasha grinned at me and wrapped her strong ballerina arms around my neck, giving me a kiss on the cheek before dancing out of the kitchen.

  * * *

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  My conversation with Sasha put everything in a brand new light, I admit. When I stepped out of the kitchen, I felt different. More empowered.

  I thought about my present arrangement. Master could do anything he wanted to me—yet I still had the power to stop him. With a word, a tap, even the blink of an eye. In all the weeks we had been together, played together, he had never, not once, forced me to do something I felt uncomfortable about doing. He asked my color—constantly. He fretted over me, probably more than he should.

  He’s a Dominant. It’s in his nature. Maybe not the words I thought I wanted to hear at the time, but they made perfect sense to me now. Being a Dominant wasn’t strictly about power or bending others to his will. For Master, it was about being a protector, as well.

  It was nice not feeling so incredibly nervous anymore, because when I stepped into the parlor, I saw the gentlemen were feeling much more amorous now. Some of them had claimed their courtesans. Others had switched things up a bit. But all of the couples were incredibly sexy to watch.

  Sasha was lying on Master’s divan while her Sir dribbled drops of wine down the center of her body, edging ever closer to her wet, eager pussy. Mr. Eisenberg then dipped his head and licked away all the droplets. Some rolled downward and wound up wetting the cleft between her legs further. He eagerly licked those up, as well, lapping gently and gracefully at the outer edges of her swollen labia before parting the folds to twitch his tongue over the bright, pink, rose-like center until Sasha was moaning and writhing deliriously on the divan.

  Other couples were engaged in similar acts—the girls loving on their respective gentleman’s cocks or the gentlemen feasting at their courtesans’ pert nipples, lower bellies and pink, swollen sexes. I refused to call it porn because it was too beautiful and sensual for that.

  “Lord Byron’s hot little goth boi,” I heard Mr. Harrison say from behind as he took me by the shoulder and turned me around. He was so blond and devastatingly handsome, with a delightfully sinister Australian accent. It took everything in me not to start fanboying like crazy.

  He pushed some hair behind my ear before clamping his hand around the back of my neck and pulling me to him so he could kiss me. His lips teased the corners of my mouth before his tongue parted my lips and plunged inward forcefully. He swiped it along the edges of my teeth, his tongue piercing clinking against the enamel. His other hand slid boldly down the slope of my back before cupping my bare ass and squeezing the firm flesh. The pressure made me moan deliriously. Despite being incredibly frightening—he was like underground music royalty!—he was also surprisingly gentle, as if he knew he was merely borrowing me for the night. “Come and pleasure me, kitten,” he said, leading me over to the wing chair by the fireplace.

  Mr. Harrison wasted no time undoing all the fancy ties on his vinyl trousers while I assumed a pleasing heel at his feet. Master sat on the (newly replaced) Queen Anne sofa across from us, a drink in hand, so he
could watch our play. That just made it hotter for me. I loved the idea of performing for Master’s pleasure.

  “He may have some trouble,” Master quipped.

  “No worries, mate,” Mr. Harrison said with a sinister grin. “He’ll do fine. Won’t you, my kitten?” He caught my cheek in his hand and stroked it before guiding me down upon his firm, impressive erection. He had not one, but six, Prince Albert piercings that ran the whole length of his shaft. I choked the first time he forced me down upon him. It was a little like trying to swallow a hardware store, and I nearly giggled at the visual.

  “What’s so amusing, kitten?” Mr. Harrison said when he saw my smirk, but I didn’t want to say. It would only sound disrespectful, and I wasn’t supposed to speak to the gentlemen, anyway. Instead, I yawned my mouth wide open as he forced me down upon him. I swallowed him, piercings and all, even though the metal rubbed and tickled the roof of my mouth. Within seconds, he had twisted his fingers through my hair and was sighing with contentment while he fucked my mouth with his lovely, well-adorned dick. The hardware made it an interesting experience, and I soon found myself enjoying it and sucking him deep into my throat while I covered him in a thick coating of my saliva.

  His fingers clenched and the fist he made at the back of my head increased in pressure as he guided me up and down upon him, harsher now, pleasuring himself with my mouth. “Oh, kitten…” he groaned, forcing my head down to swallow him almost to the base. I would have gagged, but I had been practicing with various toys, trying to get better at pleasuring my Master. Instead of panicking, I forced myself to calm down. I let him use me to stimulate his lovely, unusual cock. He grew rougher and wilder, even putting his other hand on my throat so he could feel his dick sliding up and down. I sucked, and he shuddered as he reached his end.

  He came hard, lunging into the back of my throat. I swallowed his heat and licked along all the piercings until he actually cried out and yanked me up by the hair so he could cup my cheek and kiss me, pulling me into his lap like I really was a kitten—his sex kitten. I rubbed my bare skin against all his vinyl, enjoying the silky feel of it while he tangled his fingers through my hair and kissed and sucked at my neck.