by Jay Ellison
Table of Contents
HIS MASTER’S VOICE #1
By Jay Ellison
About the Author
How to Order
HIS MASTER’S VOICE
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
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CONTENTS
HIS MASTER’S VOICE #1 By Jay Ellison
About the Author
How to Order
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HIS MASTER’S VOICE #1
By Jay Ellison
CHAPTER ONE
“Snowball, what are you doing?” I cried as Mrs. French’s giant poodle took off at a full gallop toward the distinguished looking gentleman standing on the path of the dog park where I probably spent three-quarters of my life these days. Normally, I had no trouble controlling my clients, but sometimes they got overexcited, and Snowball, though normally a smart cookie for a dog, was no exception.
It wasn’t that he was dangerous, because he wasn’t. Snowball wouldn’t know how to hurt a fly. But he was big—huge—and he labored under the idea that he was this little lapdog, regularly jumping up into unsuspecting people’s laps—a trait I was desperately trying to train out of him. As Snowball made a beeline toward the man in the expensive Armani suit, the one talking on a cell phone with the young companion walking beside him, I realized I would never get to them in time and just stopped dead in my tracks on the gravel path and squeezed my eyes shut. I knew it was all over.
Snowball was going to bowl him over, Mrs. French was going to be sued or worse, and everyone would be irate with me probably forever.
“Now, now, puppy,” I heard a remarkably soothing, sexy voice say, and when I dared open my eyes, I realized that disaster had, in fact, not struck.
The man was still standing there in front of Snowball—upright!—and holding his leash while he spoke softly to the dog, which was usually so high-strung even I could barely handle him, and I was a dog trainer, for god’s sake! But instead of being all over him—Snowball loved putting his big paws on your shoulders—he was sitting quietly, wagging his tail, being all obedient-like, which totally surprised me
The man—tall and wiry and gorgeous and, frankly, sexy as hell—looked over at me. He was wearing sunglasses so I couldn’t see his eyes, which was a shame. I wondered if they were as beautiful as the rest of him, and said, “Is he yours?”
I trotted to join the two men. “Nope…well, yeah…I mean…kind of.”
The main raised his dark eyebrows at my response. He was almost half a foot taller than I was, and that was saying something since I was six-foot-even, and the dark navy suit clung to his slender but formidable physique in a way that just screamed money and power. His dark hair was trimmed and gelled back carefully, and he had the kind of scruff that made me think of Wall Street men on private jets flying down to the Riviera to party on yachts and stuff. You know, things I would never, ever experience in this lifetime.
I didn’t usually get so tongue-tied, but in that moment, I found it hard to speak to him. I felt like I was in the presence of royalty. It took me a moment to review his question before answering it. “Sorry about that, sir,” I said more formally. “He is my dog…for the moment. I’m his trainer, see. He’s just a very bad student.” I laughed to cover my embarrassment.
I could feel the man analyzing me up and down in a way that put shivers down my spine. I shifted my weight nervously from foot to foot while I waited for him to relinquish Snowball’s leash. “I don’t believe there is any such thing as a bad student,” he said, his voice soft and strangely coaxing. He had a slight accent I couldn’t place it, but he rolled his Rs. I wished he would speak more so I could figure it out.
He wasn’t that old. Maybe early thirties? But the man—boy, really—standing beside him was my age, twenty-two or twenty-three, I estimated. Blond, blue-eyed. Very Abercrombie like he belonged on that yacht in the Riviera that the man probably owned. He was dressed smartly in a grey suit and pressed shirt with a popped collar. Really well groomed—even down to his manicured nails—and that was something that usually got my attention in guys, but when I looked at him, I realized he was angry and annoyed by the interruption. His reaction became even more obvious when the tall man scooted down to speak softly to Snowball, telling him in that sexy but loving voice what a good boy he was.
“Can we go, Sir?” the boy asked, glancing around the park. “There are too many dogs here today.”
People who didn’t like dogs bugged me. I usually found them untrustworthy. “Well, it is a dog park,” I pointed out.
The boy gifted me with a look of pure derision. “Whatever, man,” he said dismissively. “What don’t you run off and play with your dog somewhere else?” He grabbed the tall man by the arm in some kind of territorial gesture.
It hit me then that they were together. That they were boyfriends, or maybe even married. That depressed me. The kid looked like a snot. Who would want to be married to something like that?
“Sir…Sir,” the kid said, pulling on his boyfriend’s arm and reminding me of some spoiled kid out shopping who had lost all patience with his parent.
“In a moment, Michael,” the man said. His voice wasn’t angry, but it was cold and commanding and the boy immediately released his arm. The man stood up and handed me back Snowball’s leash. Our hands touched briefly, and I felt a subdued jolt of electricity in the man’s touch.
Snowball immediately transferred himself to my side and sat down, extremely subdued. That was a miracle, I thought. I put my hand on his floofy head.
The man smiled down at that. “You’re very good with him.”
“Yeah, well, I think maybe you’re better,” I said, amazed by Snowball’s transformation.
“Perhaps,” the man said with total confidence. “I’ve had practice.”
“With dogs?” I asked, wondering if he, too, was a trainer—which would be tres cool.
“Not dogs. But I’m experienced, all the same.” He slid his sunglasses to the top of his head, revealing heart-stoppingly silver-blue eyes that reminded me of fiery steel.
God, just tell me what to do, Master and I will!
“Sir…Sir!” Michael said, almost shouting now.
The man turned to his companion and said in a calm but powerful tone of voice, “Enough. Did I give you permission to speak or to touch me?”
Abercrombie Michael stared at the man in absolute reverence. It actually radiated off him in waves, and, for the first time, I wondered about their relationship. “But…I don’t want to be here,” he whispered in a much more subdued voice. I could barely hear it. “I’m hungry. And I want to go home.”
I couldn’t believe the guy, who was my age, was whining like a little pussy. It was such a beautiful day for fall in the city, and if I had a partner like that—one who liked dogs!—I would have been in seventh heaven. People really didn’t know what they had!
“That’s enough out of you,” the man said and reached into his suit pocket, producing a leather lead that he then attached to a ring of leather dog collar that Abercrombie Michael was w
earing. I hadn’t noticed it until now because of the popped collar.
After the collar was attached, the man fixed the boy’s shirt so the collar and lead were clearly visible. He then said in a soft but unmistakably angry voice, “Heel.”
It took only a moment to realize the man’s companion was really his submissive, and the man—he was likely a Dom. A Dominant. I knew enough about these types of relationships to figure that much out. Doms and subs were kind of fringe-y, just like goths were.
Abercrombie Michael gave his Dominant a sharp, angry look, but eventually he went down on his knees on the dirt path and put his hands on his knees the way someone might who was doing yoga or martial arts. I think they call it the resting position.
“You’ll stay here for the next half hour, until I come back for you,” said the man. He no longer sounded angry. He did sound like he meant business.
The sub’s face crumpled up. “There’s dog shit down here…Sir,” he complained.
“You should have thought of that before you broke my rules. Do you know what you did wrong?”
The sub stayed stoic and looked positively livid.
The Dom persisted. “Do you know what you did wrong, Michael? I won’t ask you again.” He gave the lead a short but well-practiced tug.
Finally, the sub responded. “I forgot my place. I spoke out of turn. I demanded your attention. And I put my hands upon you without invite. Sir!” He rattled it off like a laundry list.
“And why are these things unacceptable?” asked the man.
Again, the sub refused to answer, so the Dom gave the leash another, harsher pull that snapped his sub’s head up so he was looking directly at his Dom.
“I put my needs above your own, Sir,” the sub finally responded before returning his attention to the ground, but his voice was low and mumbly and kind of bored-sounding.
Standing on the path in front of them, I observed their power exchange and felt a kind of privilege in doing so. I knew you didn’t often get a chance to watch a Dom/sub relationship in action, even in a city as liberal as New York, so this was kind of interesting. Maybe not to the others in the dog park who were looking on with scowls or pure disgust, but I thought it was fascinating.
Their reactions—the reactions of the norms—didn’t bother me. I had been getting their looks forever. I liked black, shaggy hair with fire engine red streaks and torn skinny jeans with a kilt worn overtop them. Black concert tees, busted up black leather jackets, guyliner, and facial piercings, of which I had a lot. One eyebrow, a doorknocker I seldom wore (for obvious safety reasons around the dogs) six earrings in each ear, and two rings in my lower lip. I particularly loved the lip rings. I thought they made me look like of sexy in a pouty way. I mean, I don’t know…hardly any guys ever looked at me…but I liked to think so.
So it surprised me some when the Dom turned back to me with interest instead of revulsion. Usually, older guys ran for the hills, called me a cultist or Satanists or some stupid shit—I wasn’t; I was Wiccan, thanks for playing—or just tried to push me around like I was a wimp. Guys like Abercrombie Michael had made my life a living hell in high school, and maybe that was why I hated him so much. Maybe I still wasn’t over that.
“Half an hour,” the Dom said, though his eyes remained on me. He unclipped the lead and smiled a little. “Please excuse me, young man,” he said to me. “It was nice meeting you…and Snowball.” He reached down to scritch Snowball along the ear, who was slobbering all over himself.
“Yeah…you too, sir,” I said. I kind of stumbled over my words, I felt so nervous speaking to him—to be speaking to this imposing Dom.
With an approving nod, he moved to one of the park benches to sit. Within seconds, he was on his cell phone, doing business, though his eyes never left his sub—or me, for that matter.
It gave me a kind of perverse joy to see Abercrombie Michael—so posh and we put together—kneeling on the gravel in front of me. Plus, it was, in fact, full of dog droppings. He was giving me the look I expected, too—like I was something to be peeled off his fancy wingtips. “What are you looking at, Dracula?” he barked.
Well, fuck him, too. I wasn’t going to hang around and be treated like that. I mean, I really liked watching their dynamic together, and the Dom was to-die-for sexy, but I wasn’t a glutton for punishment.
“Come on, Snowball,” I said and started walking back toward the training zone on the other side of the fence. I gave the Dom one more glance, surprised he was still watching me—god, what would it feel like to be his dog?—and then started down the path, Snowball trotting happily beside me.
“Freak,” Abercrombie Michael called after me. “Go brush your hair and wash your face!”
I kept walking like it didn’t bother me. But, you know, it always does. A little bit.
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CHAPTER TWO
I was fourteen years old when my sister Taylor died.
I was a totally normal, nerdy kid, back then. She and I and my best friend Avery were fooling around in Avery’s Olympic-sized pool when it happened. Avery and I were doing swan dives off the board. My sister Taylor had been born with Down syndrome, and I was supposed to watch her while our parents were inside with Avery’s parents, having beers. I’d insisted over and over that I could watch Taylor. I’d been doing so for years, and I always got really annoyed when my parents acted like I couldn’t handle her, so they didn’t think anything about us playing in the pool together without them around.
Avery and I were having the best day that day…until it turned into the worst day of my life. “Hey, get out. I gotta show you this,” Avery said. He wanted me to see where their cat had had kittens in the woodpile.
I loved animals and was hoping we could take a kitten home, so I got out, dripping wet, and followed Avery around to the side of the house where the kittens were playing. I was gone maybe five minutes, but when we ran back to the pool, Taylor was floating facedown in the pool. The coroner said she had tried to swan dive off the diving board and had hit her head. He said she was totally unconscious when she hit the water and never knew a thing, like that was some kind of comfort.
My parents didn’t blame me. Taylor could swim, and she was generally very bright and attentive. It was a freak accident, they insisted, something no one could have anticipated, and it wasn’t my fault. I think they blamed themselves more. But I knew I was at least partially responsible. I should have been watching her. If I had been there, it wouldn’t have happened. I would have told Taylor no, she couldn’t dive off the board like us. Or, if she insisted she really, really needed to—because she always needed to do what I did—Avery and I could have watched her. We could have saved her.
I could have saved her. She was my responsibility.
Eventually, I wrote her a song. It was the first song I ever wrote, but I quickly put it away without showing it to anyone. It hurt too much to sing it.
I still have it in a drawer at home in my apartment, hidden away. Half complete.
It still hurts too much to sing it.
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CHAPTER THREE
I woke at four AM the next day—my usual—and worked on writing a song, my Les Paul—which had cost me nearly six month’s worth of paychecks—sitting in my lap, until six. I was trying to do something with a Halloween flavor, something spooky but cool, but it wasn’t working out.
So far, the band only played covers of Black Sabbath, The Cure, and Pixie songs, but I was determine to write some new material. It wasn’t that I hadn’t written songs in the past, but most of it was garbage, recycled crap that didn’t mean anything to me. As the primary songwriter in our band, The Long October, the guys were expecting me to produce some ace stuff. But it was harder than it looked.
Thankfully, my one roomie Reg worked all night as a security officer, usually stumbling in around seven in the morning, which worked out really well for me. I couldn’t disturb his sleep if he wasn’t sleeping yet. My other roomie, Jesus, was a stoner who,
I think, sold doobs to kids or something because he never seemed to work at all, and he just slept right through all my jam sessions.
Nothing was coming to me today. I finally stood up and started really banging on the Les, growling out nonsense lyrics in frustration. It was extremely cathartic, helping to clear my mind—though there was no “clearing” yesterday’s encounter, of course.
No matter how I sung or played, I couldn’t forget Abercrombie Michael’s words, his look of contempt. I thought of all the rich fuckers out there who didn’t know what it was like to share some coldwater flat with a couple of boring stoner dudes, work three jobs, and have to commute by filthy subway every day to a dull, soul-sucking day job. Jesus, I mean, I ate Ramen noodles out of microwaved foam cups because no one in the house ever bought anything except that, potato chips and Pop-Tarts.
“Darkness falls! Kill the lights!” I whispered hoarsely into the mike. My own stupid lyrics.
I wished I hadn’t met those two guys at the dog park yesterday. By the time I was done working myself up, I was sweaty, pissed, tired and feeling kind of hopeless. I went and showered and dressed in my button-down shirt and uniform trousers and tied my hair back in a pert ponytail the way my boss liked it. Rebecca, the Assistant Manager of Pet World, was pretty cool about the piercings and stuff, but she had asked nicely if I would stop with the eyeliner, and I had, my concession to the soul-sucking job I worked during the day to keep from being kicked out of this nasty, ant- and cockroach-infested dump.
Then I was off to work my eight grueling hours stocking shelves and setting up endcap displays. After that, I was facing another four hours as a personal dog trainer—though the dog training was something I actually enjoyed doing. It was my backup plan, so to speak, in the even the band didn’t take off. After almost five years of playing crap venues, Timot Cummings, Professional Dog Trainer, was staring to look more like my reality.