by Eden Myles
I was a little bit flattered, admittedly. Christian Chase wasn’t at all hard on the eyes. A tall, powerfully-built, quiet man, his sharp, determined features, wavy red hair, perpetual 5 o’clock shadow, and broody green eyes always made me think of heroes on pirate romance covers or actors in Robin Hood movies. At forty-five, he was considered the youngest man to ever own and control a TV station in New York.
From what I understood, he’d started out in the mailroom when he was sixteen years old and had steadily worked his way up the ranks, helped very little by formal education. Then, in 2001, he was one of the first reporters on the scene of the 911 attacks. He fearlessly reported all through the burning of the World Trade Center, gaining a reputation as “The Wolf,” the man who could sniff a story anywhere in the city. From there, he’d shot up the ranks of news casting, eventually becoming VP of WGR. Even today, they said he had an impeccable nose for a good story.
When you put all that together, it was hard not to feel a little inadequate. Having grown up a poor farm boy in Iowa, I’d come from similar circumstances, but even aided by an excellent education that my parents had spent half their lives scraping for, I was nowhere I wanted to be in my life. I’d come to the big city with dreams of developing video games. Instead, I was repairing video equipment at WGR.
The station had a ton of competitors, and in today’s field of internet sabotage, a few cyberattacks were all that was needed to bring a huge media empire to its knees. When Mr. Chase discovered I had a knack for cleaning out viruses as well as electronic repair, he promoted me to head of what he called “Tech Security” on his team. The work was important and the pay excellent. Mr. Christian was like a dream to work for.
Well, had been, anyway.
I took the drink he offered. He looked me up and down and I could almost hear his silent disapproval of my outward appearance. For his head of Tech Security, I was a bit of a mess these days.
Since I had a tendency to work on electronic repairs in the oddest of places—under desks, in murky basement corners, and computer rooms crammed with stinking cleaning chemicals—I usually stuck to a uniform of jeans worn shiny from crawling along floors, old washworn T-shirts with fast food stains on them, threadbare pullovers and hoodies, and running shoes patched with duct tape. It wasn’t that I couldn’t afford better; I just didn’t see the point. I was the first one here in the morning and usually the last to leave the building at night, sometimes working up to midnight on repairs that couldn’t wait. When I got back to my loft apartment, I was often so exhausted I just crashed, got up in the morning wearing the same clothes I’d slept in, and ran off to work without a shower, shave or washing my hair.
I was something of a slob. Sue me. But who was looking at me? I was the tech guy, the guy no one ever wanted to see unless their computer crashed or their Blackberry went on the fritz. There was a time before my twenty-fifth birthday when I could still make a man or woman’s head turn, but I knew damned well that those days were behind me. My last partner had left me, citing the fact that he could no longer live with my slovenly, workaholic self. My ship had long sailed. Mr. Chase’s offer made no sense to me.
“I think I mis-heard you…” I began.
“No, Ash, you didn’t.” Again he looked me over, but his look was different this time, more intense, and I squirmed under it. He settled on the arm of the settee and gave me his sharp little wolf eyes. This close, I could smell his spicy cologne—which just made me want to squirm more. I’d always been a sucker for a guy who smelled really good. “There’s no easy way of explaining this, so I’ll just be blunt and go ahead. I’m part of a private society of gentlemen who keep sexual companions. Courtesans and courtiers, depending on their gender. I’ve been part of this society for many years. In fact, I’ve kept a courtesan for more than five years now.”
I drank down a gulp of bourbon as I digested that. “So you have a…courtesan…sexual companion, whatever. What do you need me for?”
Mr. Chase’s mouth quirked up in a brief smile. “The Society has recently opened its doors to same-sex couples in a very big way. Up until now, taking a same-sex companion was discouraged, but the people I know have evolved gracefully into the new century and they want to give those of us who are bisexual or gay more play space, so to speak.”
I almost choked. Mr. Chase had never, ever, struck me as anything but straight up all-natural, boring vanilla. “I don’t know what to say,” I admitted. “Isn’t soliciting sex from someone a crime?”
Mr. Chase looked unperturbed. “The Society predates such laws. And I am not soliciting sex from you, Ash, although sex would be involved. I’m offering to make you my companion in the Society. Being my companion—my courtier—is much more involved than just soliciting your services as a stud.”
I couldn’t believe I was actually considering this, but I asked, “What exactly is involved? The sex part I get, but…what else is there, really?” I flinched when I realized how hard and cynical I sounded.
Mr. Chase tilted his head as he answered. “Gatherings, functions, balls, intimate dinners. All the things that companions share.”
“Like…dating?”
“We can include that, yes, if you want.”
I thought about dating Mr. Chase, which I found, admittedly, pretty exciting. But something about what he’d said about me being a courtier stopped me from saying yes just yet. “It’s not…I mean, you’re not talking about an even partnership, are you?” A thought occurred to me. “Are you a dom or something? I mean, are you into kink?”
“I’m a gentleman,” he said only, then rose to fetch a manila folder from his top desk drawer. He offered it to me. It was thick and I realized then that he was really serious about this stuff. “Everything you need to know to make your decision is here. If you decide to take me up on my offer, stay after work and meet me downstairs in the underground parking garage by my limousine. If I see you there after dark, I’ll know you’re serious about being my companion.” He took my hand brought my knuckles to his lips, kissing me like a suitor in some Jane Austen novel. “I do hope you’ll make it,” he said before dismissing me for the day.
***
I read the contents of the manila folder three times in the course of the day. Each time I did, I thought maybe Mr. Chase was playing a practical joke on me. There was a treatise on the Society, its aims, rules and regulations, its do’s and don’t’s. Then came lists of what Mr. Chase expected of me, what I was permitted to do and not to, say and not say. He had covered everything from how I was to speak to him to how I was to dress, groom, and conduct myself in both public and private. After that were lists of books I was to read, music I was to familiarize myself with, and films and plays I was to see and ponder. I realized then that he expected a full makeover from me, as well as complete and unquestionable obedience to him as my gentleman. If it was a joke, it was a damned elaborate joke.
I didn’t think it was a joke.
By the time evening rolled around, I had convinced myself that I would leave the way I usually did—I’d take the subway to my little studio apartment down in Brooklyn. I’d feed my cat before dumping a can of soup into the sauce pot on the stove, then crash in front of the TV and watch Law & Order or play Call of Duty until I fell asleep.
Maybe that was the reason I found myself taking the elevator to the underground parking garage—the pathetic much? state of my life. Or maybe it was that strange, old-world gesture—the way Mr. Chase had kissed my hand, the jumpy stomach reaction I’d had to it. I’d worked for the man for five years thinking he was straight, which pissed me off. That was a lot of years wasted not fantasizing about him.
I had only just arrived—hardly enough time to convince myself this was a bad idea—before Mr. Chase’s driver pulled up in his meticulously restored Bentley. I touched its sleek, dark curves, feeling like I was in an old James Bond movie—albeit with a bisexual Bond. The passenger side door opened and Mr. Chase extended his hand and said, “I’m pleased you came,
Ash.”
I thought about running away, telling him this was a mistake, but my anger at my own cowardice got the better of me. Instead, what came out of my mouth was, “Yeah. Me too.”
Now I had to back up what I was saying, take his hand. It was the hardest thing I’d ever had to do. But I knew in my heart that if I didn’t do it, I’d spend the rest of my life wondering if I should have. I reached out and found his grip was incredibly powerful. He easily pulled me down into the dimness of the limo, pulled the door closed, and then we were alone, cut off from the rest of the world.
“Nervous?” he asked, sliding one arm along the back of my seat and setting his other hand on my knee. He clutched my leg hard, like something that belonged entirely to him.
The limo was warm and smelled like him. We were sitting so close I could smell the peppermint on his breath. “Yeah,” I admitted. “I’ve never done anything like this before.”
“I promise you will never be forced to do anything you don’t approve of.” He looked me over so intently, with such a hunger, I blushed and was grateful the car was dark enough he probably couldn’t see. “Did you examine the material I gave you?”
“Yeah. It’s…pretty extensive. A lot of rules.”
We were sitting so close I could feel every part of him touching me. His grip loosened on my knee, but only so he could move his touch up my leg, closer to my groin. I felt myself stir and I saw that he saw what that was doing to me. In the dark he blinked and narrowed his eyes with approval. “Do you agree to those rules?”
I opened my mouth and nothing came out. I realized I was still undecided, even now.
Mr. Chase slid the hand still on the backrest to the back of my head and pulled away the Yankees ballcap I normally used to keep my uncut, shaggy blond hair in check. It reminded me that I was probably a mess, dirty and sweaty from the day, and that I probably didn’t even smell very good. God knew what he saw in me. Even I was getting a little sick of living with me.
But he inclined his head and his mouth teased my lips apart. God, he tasted good, peppermint or licorice or some liquor he’d been drinking. He kissed me, his tongue stealing inward. His other hand moved to the front of my jeans and he fondled my cock and balls gently through the worn denim material as his tongue warred with mine and finally subdued it. I gasped against him as I felt my arousal build to throbbing, almost painful, heights from just that simple touch alone, it had been so long. I wanted more, so much more, but he pulled away.
“If you go with me now, you agree to everything, Ash. Every part of your body belongs to me, is mine to play with.” He smiled wickedly, nothing at all like the soft-spoken, quietly aloof boss I knew at work. “Now do you agree?” In the dark, his eyes sparked with lust like hard green emeralds.
“Christ, yes.”
***
Mr. Chase didn’t keep a huge palatial home on the outskirts of New York City like so many corporate types. He explained that during his years as a reporter he’d done so much globetrotting that having anything more than a simple flat was pointless. When he’d taken on the mantel as VP of WGR, he’d upgraded to a penthouse suite on Central Park West, but only because he enjoyed spoiling his courtesan, who lived with him.
We reached the old, white-glove apartment building and Mr. Chase put a hand into the small of my back and guided me inside, past the doorman and security, and up fourteen floors in the new, all-glass elevator to the penthouse apartment. A woman met us as we stepped into his wintry white, sparsely but tastefully decorated suite.
“Ash, this is my courtesan, Jasmine de la Rosa—I call her Jazzy Rose,” Mr. Chase said and looped his arm familiarly around her waist, pulling her close for a hungry kiss. She moaned against his lips and he slid his other hand down her back to cup her small, pert ass.
Jazzy Rose wasn’t what I had been expecting in a courtesan. I’d thought that Mr. Chase would go for someone tall, stick-thin and uber-elegant, a young, svelte version of Ivanka Trump. But Jazzy Rose was a plump, short, pretty girl of Asian descent. She wore a silk cheongsam dress in a bright red flowery pattern and she purred against her gentleman’s lips as he swept his hands intimately over her body, finding the long slit in the dress and sliding his hand beneath the hem.
Jazzy Rose cooed and wiggled when he pushed the hem up, revealing she wore no underwear beneath. He smiled in that very male and hungry way I was only just becoming acquainted with and his hands squeezed and kneaded the firm round globes. Jazzy Rose scooted down in a kind of sexy shimmy to hug her gentleman’s hips and legs before working her way back up his body. She paused to kiss the growing bulge in his trouser before standing up and tilting her head back for a wet, ravenous kiss on the lips. I’d never really been turned on by opposite-sex kissing before, but then I’d met Mr. Chase and Jazzy Rose and realized I’d been missing out on something spectacular.
Finally, he turned his attention on me. “It’s Friday night, Ash, and your makeover begins tonight. Let’s all go to dinner, shall we?” He took Jazzy Rose’s hand and tucked it into the crook his arm. Then he did the same for me.
I swallowed a little nervously at the mention of this “makeover,” but let him escort us to dinner in his banquet hall, which was outfitted with fine white linens, a dining table long enough to hold a medieval feast on, and three huge glass chandeliers. Mr. Chase seated us to the right and left of the head of the table, then took the head and rang a small bell to signify the first course.
Jazzy Rose reached across the linens and took my hands. I smelled her heady, expensive perfume—jasmine, of course—and for the first time in my life, a woman managed to give me a sizable bit of wood. “Sorry to have ignored you this long, Ash. I wasn’t trying to be rude, but you know the rules of conduct.”
My mind flitted over the long lists that Mr. Chase had given me. “Something about giving your gentleman your full attention when he’s in a room?”
“That’s it, yes. It feels odd at first,” she said, glancing at Mr. Chase, “like you’re ignoring everyone else, but you’ll soon learn to watch carefully for cues on what to do.”
I looked at the two of them—Mr. Chase with his quiet, handsome face and regal, unreadable expression, and Jazzy Rose with her sweet, perky, catlike face, all open emotion. They didn’t look like two people with anything in common, yet here they were. “You two are really into this, aren’t you?”
“Not we two, we three,” Mr. Chase corrected me, taking both our hands in his.
“Are you all right with this?” I asked Jazzy Rose. “With him taking another lover right in front of you?”
“Not ‘him,’ Ash—you should always refer to your gentleman as Mr. Chase or ‘sir.’ And you’re not a lover, you’re more. You are a courtier.” She said it like it was a royal title. She splayed her tiny hand over mine so we were all a circle of joined hands now. “And I’m happy with whatever makes Mr. Chase happy.”
“It would make Mr. Chase very happy if you would instruct our young postulate here on proper dining etiquette, Jazzy Rose,” he said, glaring at the way I had crumpled up my napkin instead of laying it in my lap as they had.
Dinner arrived, ushered in by the servers. They announced each new course, saying things like Risotto alla Primavera, Salmon with Fennel and Pernod, and Summer-Fruit Shortcake Filled with Mascarpone. I didn’t know half of what it all meant, but each time a platter arrived, Jazzy Rose informed me if I was using the right utensil or not. Mostly, I screwed up. I couldn’t understand why you needed a different fork for every dish. At home, I was lucky if I could even find a clean fork.
While she instructed me on proper table manners, she also told me a little bit about herself. I was surprised to learn that Jazzy Rose was an accomplished artist down in SoHo, that she’d had several private exhibits of her paintings, and that she worked for a well-known graphic design studio. Somehow I’d thought she did this courtesan gig fulltime, but then I realized how silly that was. She was obviously a very confident and ambitious young woman with her own
life apart from Mr. Chase.
When I said as much to her, she bit back a smile and said, “Submission to a gentleman requires that a courtesan or courtier have enormous confidence in his or her own strength as well as a powerful sense of self. Submission has nothing to do with loss of confidence or self, and Mr. Chase would never choose a companion that he did not see as having great potential.”
“Only by become weak do we acquire strength,” Mr. Chase added, kissing Jazzy Rose’s hand.
During, and even after dinner, Mr. Chase and Jazzy Rose talked about “what they could do with me,” like I was some pet in desperate need of grooming. They referenced haircuts I didn’t know the names of and fashion designers I couldn’t pronounce. I was still marveling at all these little details when Mr. Chase collected us and led us to a huge, Grecian-inspired bathroom.
I felt a spike of nervousness when I realized how serious they were about this makeover. The bathroom was bigger than my entire bedroom at home, and a great big portion of it was made up of an enormous, raised luxury whirlpool set in one corner that required steps to ascend. It was big enough for at least four or five individuals to fit comfortably and featured three shower heads set into the walls. Hot, steaming water and froths of bubbles filled the bathtub from the gold spigot shaped like a swan.
He gathered the two us briefly against his sides and slid his big hands around our asses. “Let me just get ready. Will you show Ash the ropes, please, Jazzy Rose?”
“Yes, sir, of course.”
Mr. Chase disappeared into an adjoining dressing room and Jazzy Rose took my hand and said, “We should get ready as well.”
“How do you mean?”
“Silly man,” she said, and gave me her back. “How else? Unzip me.”
Oh god, we were actually going to do this. With shaking hands, I pulled the zipper down on her dress, and soon learned that Jazzy Rose wore no underwear at all beneath the short dress. I stared at her softly toned, olive-skinned body as she turned to me. She wasn’t skinny, there was meat on her bones, but she wore it well and it made her look even cuter. She had a cleanly shaved pussy and pert round breasts with dark, full nipples. I had never seen a naked Asian woman before and something about that fascinated me. She saw me looking and I blushed and stared at the floor instead. “Sorry,” I muttered.
