His Master's Voice #2 (The Dollhouse Society) Page 4

  I moaned a little.

  “As I thought. You would like to leave it to Master, then?”

  I shook my head and just drooled.

  He raised his eyebrows at that. ”Are you challenging me, pet?”

  I shook my head frantically—No, Master.

  “Excellent.” He thought a moment before choosing a rather sinister-looking, whippy thing. “You mentioned pony play. I think we should go with a crop. Powerful and able to deliver an alarming sting.” He snapped it expertly against his thigh, suggesting he knew his way around these things. The sight of it made me moan.

  “I’m glad you agree. Come.”

  In the next aisle, Master perused a large collection of manacles and handcuffs before settling on a pair with thick cuffs but no chain. They looked incredibly uncomfortable, and I was right in my assumption when he used them to seal my wrists tightly together in the small of my back. They were metal, not the furry things you see in novelty shops, and the moment my hands were bound, and I was entirely at his mercy, I felt another tremendous shift in my perspective—I was his, and I wanted him to have me. Protect me. Bend me to his will.

  I glanced at him shyly over one shoulder, hoping my eyes were communicating the proper message. His face actually piqued, and I saw the lust darkening his eyes. “You look lovely, bound and gagged.” He ran his fingers up and down my strained arms. “Are you enjoying this, Timothy?”

  I narrowed my eyes in answer. Take me, I thought. Now. Like this. Here.

  “Byron!”

  We turned and saw another couple strolling toward us down the aisle. The man was tall and older than Master, maybe early forties, with streaks of grey in his dark hair, and his companion a pretty, petite brunette close to my age, very poised, her hand resting in the crook of his arm. She wore no collar, but the graceful way she moved—less like she was walking and more like she was floating in her long dress—and her downturned eyes, suggested she was the man’s sub.

  “Henry, how the hell are you?” Master said and clasped the man’s arm in greeting.

  “Good days and bad. You know.”

  Master grunted in response, turned to me, and said, “This is Henry Eisenberg, a longtime gentleman of the Society, and his courtesan and wife, Sasha. We’ll be seeing quite a lot of them once we begin attending Society meetings.”

  I knew about the meetings from the literature Master had sent me, along with his medical records and grooming and etiquette requirements. The Society met twice a month, and during the meetings, gentlemen were encouraged to show off the grace and beauty of their trained subs by putting them through their paces for the enjoyment of their peers. It was like a BDSM party, just with gowns and tuxedos. The idea frightened and excited me at the same time.

  I made a small noise behind my bit, unhappy that I was drooling in front of this elegant gentleman and his courtesan.

  Master smiled at his friend. “I’m afraid my pet is indisposed at the moment.”

  I made a mumbly noise, and Sasha smiled despite the drool dripping down the sides of my mouth. She didn’t treat it like anything odd at all.

  “This is he? Your lovely new pet, Byron?” Henry asked. He detached himself from his wife and turned me to face him fully. He was a gentleman, a Dom, so I did the best I could not to look him directly in the eye while he cupped my face and tilted it up. “He’s rather amazingly beautiful. Wherever did you find him?”

  “He found me,” Master explained. “A stray. Not yet housebroken—but we are working on it.”

  Henry chuckled at that and examined me thoroughly like I was valuable stock. I didn’t feel any lust emanating from him—more a keen interest, like he was assessing me for other purposes. “I love his eyes. He has such innocent eyes.” He looked over at Master. “How is he?”

  “A sweetly submissive little colt, but with just enough fiery defiance to make breaking him a delight.”

  “Ah,” Henry said approvingly. “If he proves to be a treasure, I wouldn’t mine your pretty stud covering my Sasha.”

  My face flamed red at the implications, but I couldn’t hide a certain excitement at the idea of being used that way, pleasing Master, and perhaps even this man. Sasha didn’t treat any of this as unusual. She simply linked her arm back through Henry’s when he returned to her. Henry took up her hand and kissed it, and Sasha smiled serenely. “Perhaps we have found the answers to our prayers, my dear.”

  “If it pleases you, Sir,” Sasha said, squeezing his arm. I could feel the profound connection between them. It seemed to go even beyond husband and wife.

  “It’s an arrangement we should discuss in more detail in the future,” Master agreed.

  “We should. In the meantime, I hope he proves himself out,” Henry said, his eyes lingering on me. “I certainly can’t wait to see your performance at the Dollhouse. Will it be soon, Byron?”

  Master smiled self-indulgently. “We still have much training. Timothy himself would agree, if he could.”

  “Then I shall leave you to it,” Henry said. He nodded a bow to his friend before walking his courtesan down the aisle and turning the bend.

  “Henry has Gaucher Disease,” Master explained while we moved to the next aisle. “The ‘bane of the Ashkenazi Jew,’ as he calls it.” He examined a few more items. “But he and Sasha are looking to conceive, so he’s seeking out a surrogate stud for Sasha.”

  I grunted.

  Master looked at me askance. “I agree. You would make a lovely stud, my pet.”

  I harrumphed at that.

  “Don’t be a brat,” he warned and tapped my nose with a finger before turning to choose a frightening new item I immediately recognized from my online research into the BDSM lifestyle: a butt plug with a long, flowing horse’s tail. “You’re already a lovely stud, pet, and lovely studs should have a tail. Don’t you agree?”

  Before I could make a sound of protest, he turned me around and pinned my upper body to the racks of merchandise. I was acutely aware of all the other people in the store, many of them watching us with interest. I fought him, twisting to get free, but not hard. I wanted him to earn this.

  “Easy, my pretty colt,” he said in my ear, his voice low and whispery. He pressed his pelvis against my ass, effectively pinning me in place until I stopped fighting him. His powerful, fragrant, male presence permeated and subdued me. He was close enough that I could have tapped against him, if I wanted to. And a part of me did, rather than endure this further humiliation…but it was only a small part. I wanted to please him more.

  He waited until I was completely still. Until he had broken me. Then his lips brushed my ear and he purred, “Excellent, my lovely stud.” His arms moved around my waist and he deftly undid my jeans, pulling them down my hips. Thank god he was pressed against me, shielding me from view. I was equally thankful I had thought to apply some of those oils before we left the house, because he wasted no time sliding his knee between my legs, forcing them apart, and inserting the plug with frightening precision.

  I grunted around the bit in my teeth. At first, my body fought against the invasion, but, as with our encounter the night before, the moment I felt the plug stretching me to accommodate it, everything in me started to melt. My body welcomed the intense pressure, and soon I was moaning as he forced it deeper and deeper, making my whole lower half shiver with the sensation.

  “There,” he whispered hoarsely, stroking a few strands of my hair behind my ear. His hardness pressed against my lower back, an insistent reminder of how much he was enjoying this. “Now—shake that tail for me, my pretty stud.”

  I didn’t care that others were watching now. I wriggled my ass a little, and the long, silky tail shushed against the front of Master’s body. He moaned in response and turned me around. There was blatant lust in his eyes, but also something else—something deeper and more unexpected. The moment we were face to face, he pushed me against the racks, my cuffs rattling against the metal shelving, and ran his long, skillful fingers down the sides of
my neck. His touch sent trills of anticipation down my back.

  “You have no idea how delicious you look, all trussed up, Timothy,” he whispered. He fisted a hand in my hair and forced my head to one side so he could nuzzle and nip my neck just below the ear. His teeth went into me briefly, just breaking the skin, and he held me fast while his fingers trilled up and down my sides. My entire body responded like I was on wires, heaving upward against him so my ever-present (it seemed) hard-on was pressed hard against his lower belly. He responded by pinning me against the shelves and rubbing his own, greatly engorged, erection against the front of my body. I gasped, feeling like I might hyperventilate.

  We had a captive audience—yet I had forgotten all about them. No one had ever touched me like he had—with barely controlled, animal-like desire.

  He chuckled in my ear. “Hard again, are we? I think there is a remedy here somewhere…yes, here we are.”

  I moaned deliriously when he reached between my legs and snagged the hardness of my dick and slipped on a cold and rather decorative band of metal. It was thick, like a giant wedding ring, but with some kind of Celtic writing on it, and a lock shaped like a heart attached to it. After it was on, Master tightened it around my base so I gasped at the incredible pressure. It both exacerbated and restrained my need. The lock clicked in place, and Master used a decorative silver key similar to a skeleton key to lock it in place. Finally, he placed the key on its chain around his neck, where it flashed.

  I writhed against the shelves. The plug did nothing but make me want him more, but the ring kept that in check, leaving me in near-agony. He cradled my face and his eyes glinted mischievously—lovingly. “Now, I hold the key to your heart…and other things.” He smirked that smirk that could mean almost anything and secured my trousers before turning me around and walking me proudly past our audience, most of which were murmuring praises softly between themselves. “Come.”

  Back at the checkout counter, I found myself looking everywhere but at the tattooed man, too embarrassed by my current state to meet his eyes. Master first undid the bridle and let the cashier ring it up before placing it snugly back on my face. The cuffs followed before going back on, and then he did the crop, which he slipped into a pocket of his jacket. I knew what was coming next, but I still snorted unhappily when he pushed my front half down against the counter and bent me over so he could temporarily withdraw the plug so the cashier could ring it up before re-inserting it. I jumped as it was returned to its place and moaned around the bit. The look of amusement in the cashier’s eye was more than I could bear.

  “Stand and turn,” Master said, and I reluctantly obeyed so he could reach the ring.

  “Don’t,” the cashier said, smiling with amusement. “A gift. You two gents are incredibly hot together. You have livened up an otherwise incredibly boring Sunday evening. I can’t wait to see you two perform at the Dollhouse.”

  I raised my brows in question, and the cashier pulled down on the front of his button-down shirt, revealing the collar he wore. He, too, was a courtier.

  * * *

  CHAPTER SIX

  Sunday Night

  We dined at The Royal, a popular hotspot for gentleman and their subs, according to Master. The place was even smaller than the bistro where we had first made our arrangement, and the lighting warmly romantic, with little alcoves separated by painted shoji screens.

  Master had freed me from the confines of the bit and cuffs, but he had left the rest of his torture devices intact. As a result, I squirmed uncomfortably in my seat while he ordered dinner for us. After the waiter had left, he gave me a direct look and said, “Stop fidgeting, Timothy. Don’t make me spank you. I will if I have to.”

  I believed him and endeavored to sit still, though that was almost impossible with the incredible pressure inside of me making me want to move…making me want him so much I could almost taste it.

  He watched me for several moments before speaking. “Why did you have trouble relieving yourself in front of me this morning?”

  The question was unexpected and made me want to squirm even more. “I…I don’t know.”

  “I think you do.”

  This wasn’t a conversation I wanted to have. I kept my eyes on my plate while I said, “It isn’t something I’m used to, that’s all.”

  “You aren’t used to any of this, but you still managed to be an exceptional courtier today.”

  His words warmed me and I felt a smile tugging at the corners of my mouth. I blushed at his praise until he added, “…with a few minor hiccups, of course. Timothy. Look at me.”

  I looked up, looking him in those fantastically beautiful eyes. He reached across the small table separating us and took my hand in his, bringing it to his lips, where he kissed it. It was such a sweet and old-fashioned gesture, I felt all my barriers come down. He held me rapt with that stare of his. “Tell me the truth. Why did you struggle?”

  I didn’t want to tell him. I didn’t wan to tell anyone, but, after a short hesitation, I found myself launching into the story. Senior year, high school. I had gone into the boy’s washroom to pee. Unfortunately, they were there—a collection of some of the biggest boys at school. And not just jocks. There were boys from shop, boys from science class, and even one from theater. White boys and black boys and Hispanic boys. Boys I had known for most of my life. Seven of them.

  I immediately sensed the fission in the air and tried to back out the door, but an eighth boy was waiting outside and shoved me back into the washroom He shoved me so hard, I wound up scraping my knees on the floor as I fell. I saw they had a makeup case with them, and one was holding a girl’s prom dress. Panic set in when I realized what they had planned for me. To humiliate me, of course. Make me a laughing stock in front of the whole school.

  But as they set upon me, something changed. They quickly abandoned their original plan and just started punching and kicking me. I wrapped myself up into a tight ball on the floor, trying to protect my face and vitals as best I could, but they were big kids, and they hated me, and it showed.

  Master’s hold on my hand had been increasing in strength the whole time I told him about that day—the second worse day of my life. Now, it almost hurt. “Did you report them?” he asked, then corrected himself by adding, “No. Of course not.” Like he knew it would do no good. Come to think of it, he had probably experienced something similar. I’m sure, though, in his case, he had fought back. I was such a loser. He thought a second before revising his former question. “What were your injuries like?”

  I didn’t want him getting angry over something that happened five years ago. “I would rather not say,” I told him honestly.

  He nodded. “I understand. But I also don’t want our play to aggravate some past injury I don’t know about.” He smiled sadly. “There really is method behind my madness, Timothy.”

  “I believe you.” I licked my lips. “A busted rib here.” I pointed to the spot. “Two teeth knocked out. A mess of bruises—they healed all right. And one of the jocks got me good with the school ring here.” I pointed to the white scar that intersected my eyebrow over my right eye.

  He squeezed my hand and then let it go. We didn’t discuss the bathroom incident again. Our food arrived, and Master instructed I eat. I did so, but I took great pains to watch him, trying to match my eating to his. It kept my mind preoccupied and off the incident I had just told him about. When he finished his dinner, I followed suit, laying my fork and knife crosswise upon my plate.

  By then, the need in me to be alone with him—for him to be inside me—was so great, he must have sensed it. He declined the dessert cart, much to my relief, and guided me back to his car.

  Despite dinner, he was ravenous when we arrived back at the townhouse.

  We were barely in the door five seconds when he threw his keys aside, turned to me, and pinned me motionless against the closed door so he could kiss my throat and suck my Adam’s apple deep into his mouth. I whimpered and grabbed at him, bu
t he said, “No. No touching.” So I dropped my hands to my sides and simply reveled in the feeling of Master sucking and kissing his way down the front of my body.

  His cock was incredibly hard again. He deftly pulled my jacket off and the tee over my head, wadding it up and throwing it aside. I groaned when he fell upon me, all teeth and lips and hunger.

  He took his time, and he liked my nipples very much. He encircled each one with his tongue and pricked at them with his teeth before sucking them one at a time deep into his mouth. The hot suction of his mouth left me writhing against the door, barely able to stand on my own.

  “Open your legs,” he demanded, working his way back up my body to my lips.

  I obediently spread my legs and he lifted me up. I gasped and wrapped my legs around his slim hips. His muscles bunched and worked to support me, but he hardly struggled. It wasn’t gym muscle, I quickly realized. He had the brutal, natural strength that comes with excellent Germanic genes.

  He licked my lips—lightly, teasingly—while he carried me with all the ease of a small child up the steep stairs to his bedroom. Once we were down on the bed, the soft, goosedown comforter fluffing around us from the impact, he stopped holding back, settling in to kiss, bite, and feed at my mouth. He trailed his lips down my throat and over my quivering body. He returned to my nipples, sucking my sore little nubs of flesh back into his mouth so he could leisurely torture me once more.

  He paused only to get us out of the rest of our clothes.

  Master more magnificent than I had ever dreamed. His body was fair and looked cut from marble, but he had a gorgeous mural of tribal tattoos that ran just below his clavicle and over both shoulders almost like an ancient armor of ink—and yet was easily hidden by a formal corporate shirt. The dark ink stood out with breathtaking, painstaking beauty against his pale skin. And then there were the nipple piercings, little barbells that I found fascinating. I licked over the ink and tickled my tongue against his piercings, making Master grunt with approval.