by Don Schecter
“Yes Sir. Quite comfortable.” And he found he was. He discovered that hooding the head, like a blanket over a horse’s eyes, shut out the world, and he was left to consider the smallest space he had ever occupied—not a room, but the confines of his own mind.
“You are never to call me anything except Sir or Master: do you understand?”
“Yes Sir.”
“Therefore, if at any time you need relief from your situation, to distinguish true anguish from your enjoyment of pain, use my name. Then and only then. Do you understand me clearly?”
Conny nodded.
“Speak up! This is one thing we can’t leave to chance.”
“YES SIR.”
“That’s good.” And with that, Kurt began to flog Conny across the chest and legs, first lightly and then harder. Conny didn’t like it at all. He gasped with each stroke. But the cleverness of the game was upon him. He grasped immediately that he, like all slaves, was in control; his challenger was not his master, but himself. He could quit at any time; that was totally within his power. Should it be now? Or now? After that stroke, that strike, which? Was he really being hurt? Was this really pain? And, while he considered all these thoughts behind his mask, he realized that he was actually accepting rather heavy blows from the whip. He imagined pleasure on Kurt’s face because Conny was enjoying himself. His logical mind could hardly accept the thought, but the feeling of pleasure was unmistakable.
Bored by lack of the expected whining response, Kurt switched to a tiny whip designed to aggravate erections— ouch! that stung—but soon Conny adapted to the new sensation and then it occurred to him that he had better put on a better show. He began to cry aloud at each slap of the thin leather cords; then he found he could whimper to great effect. Now he was able to respond like a proper slave should, and give his master his rightful reward. This is a very weird night.
Kurt let Conny rest. He gave him some water through the mouthpiece, all the while assuring him what a good boy he had been. Then he unhooked him from the cross and removed the eyepieces. He backed him up to the sling, which Conny had thought resembled a cradle, and helped him into it. It was as awkward as getting into a hammock.
Once in, his legs and arms were fastened above him, one to each supporting chain attached to the rafters, so that he was in the dead-cat position, lying on his back with all four limbs straight up. Kurt let him rest there, casually stroking him, while he explained how masters and slaves behaved toward each other, what qualities defined each role, and how important it was for a master to have started as a slave so that he could fathom what was going on in his slave’s head. Conny was now entirely won over by his elfin Master.
He accepted his touch as a compliment, and missed him when he left the dungeon to refill his glass. He found himself totally relaxed and anxious to proceed.
The next course of instruction involved dildos. Kurt slowly but forcibly expanded the entrance to Conny’s body without ever hurting him. He paused frequently, backed up, pressed forward, re-lubricated, encouraged, and patiently kept up a running patter about how well Conny was taking it. Finally he plugged in a medium-sized conical rubber shaft and left it for ten minutes so that Conny could become used to the heft of the intrusion.
Slowly the full meaning of the slave being in control dawned on Conny. He was in thrall to his own desires. If he got too firm in his complaints, the game would end, so he automatically became a willing assistant to his own distress. He had finally managed to get himself where he imagined he wanted to be and his path was clear. He had to submit willingly, and obey instructions to relax his muscles, or cause himself pain. He found it easy to obey, but the price was a firm attachment to Kurt: for the moment, feelings of affection washed over him. He had read about prisoners becoming intimate with their tormentors, and he understood that Kurt was teaching him the mechanism.
Kurt encouraged Conny to relax as he removed the plug. Conny found the resources within himself to comply and thanked Kurt profusely. He felt gratitude toward Kurt and identified him as his rescuer, not his tormentor. Kurt massaged Conny’s legs and arms to restore circulation and assisted him out of the sling. He ordered him back to the doggy position on the floor and, balancing on the balls of his feet, squatted in front of Conny.
In the next ten minutes Conny got a refresher in oral sex. Basically he had to learn to keep his lips O-shaped. Kurt did the rest; he rocked on the balls of his feet, moving his shaft back and forth at various paces, insisting only that Conny hang on tight with his lips and tongue, not his teeth. Conny was amazed at the length of time Kurt could maintain the squat position: his legs seemed tireless.
When Kurt was ready, he didn’t stand to relieve his leg muscles; rather, he ordered Conny to turn around. He entered the stretched opening at that end with ease, and resumed rocking. Whereas oral sex had interfered with Conny’s train of thought, he used this time to get in touch with the sensations he was feeling. Physically, there were very few; it was a mental affair for him. He was submitting to physical use and abuse, and he was loving every minute of it. This was what had been missing from his childhood fantasies. He had never before known what to do with his helpless heroes. In a few minutes, Kurt climaxed and leaned hard into Conny, who felt an emotional bonding to him he had never experienced before with anyone. He chuckled to himself as he punned, I feel an attachment.
Click, snap, clack. Kurt unbuckled, unshackled, and freed Conny from the various leather accoutrements he was wearing. The mood entirely shifted. Kurt was no longer a master but an older friend. He showed him how to clean the implements with Clorox, wipe sweat off the leather, and oil the metal joints. To Conny’s satisfaction, Kurt meticulously replaced every item he had used on the walls where each had its own location.
They went up to the living room and Kurt asked Conny for one more drink. When Conny returned, Kurt was fully clothed, including his scarf and jacket, and ready to leave.
“Let me put my clothes on,” Conny said.
“No, keep them off. I like you nude.” Kurt raised his glass. “Here’s to a game slave.
I hope you got what you were looking for.”
“I did, but when will we do it again? I don’t have your number…”
“I’ll call you,” Kurt interrupted. He tossed off his drink. “Give my regards to the boys.” He turned on a dainty foot and left Conny standing naked in the living room while he let himself out the door.
Conny was still sipping his drink, fully clothed now that the fire had died, when Mark and Alec came back. They got themselves beers from the kitchen and sat down for an after-game confab. “Well, how’d it go?” asked Alec.
“Great. It was all I could have hoped for. I’m very much in your debt. But I don’t know what Kurt thought of it. He doesn’t say much.”
“If he calls, you’ll know.”
Conny slept like a baby that night, exhausted, happy, a little sore in places, but “good sore” as opposed to hurting. Kurt had explained the difference to him. When Conny reacted to a sharp twinge, as when nipple clamps were removed, Kurt had said, “It hurts good.” That was a new concept, that something could hurt in a good way. He woke refreshed, with one thought in mind. Will Kurt call?
5
He got more than he bargained for on his next date with Kurt. While he was waiting for him to arrive, Vera phoned from the corner, said she was passing by, and asked if she could come up. He figured he would finish with her well before Kurt showed, but Vera was feeling social and was still comfortably draped on the sofa when Kurt rang the bell.
A younger man might have panicked, but Conny recognized this meeting between his Master and his ex-wife as something inevitable, considering how things worked out in life, and he chose to shrug it off and let the two of them duke it out. He was keenly aware that the embarrassment he felt for his new life when it came in contact with his old one was inappropriate, and needed overcoming.
Kurt instantly grasped the situation and adjusted his manner accordin
gly. He strode across the living room and took Vera’s hand as though to say she was the very person he was there to meet that night.
“What a pleasant surprise, madam. I had hoped to make your acquaintance, but hardly expected the pleasure so soon. I understand that your excellent taste is reflected in this beautiful home.”
Vera was charmed out of her pants. They immediately began to discuss art and statuary, relegating Conny to serving boy. He felt weird, but understood what Kurt was doing. His role as slave was totally cloaked from Vera; it was a masterstroke. He took a seat on the floor on the other side of the coffee table and made almost no attempt to enter the conversation other than to politely request if they were ready for a refill.
Vera noticed the unusual arrangement. “Conny, what on earth are you doing on the floor?’
“I’m comfortable here, darling. Please continue with what you were saying.” And they did. For almost two hours. It was apparent that Kurt and Vera had a great deal more in common than either ever had with Conny. For the first time that he could remember, Conny found himself listening to what Vera was saying. He used Kurt’s responses to measure the validity of her remarks. He was impressed. No wonder her antique boutique does so well. Vera knows her stuff.
Kurt looked at his watch. “My dear, this conversation has been most stimulating, but I’m afraid Conny and I must be going or the party will be over before we get there.”
“I’ve enjoyed meeting you, Kurt. I hope you’ll drop by the shop. I can show you so many examples of what we talked about.” Conny held her coat for her. “Dear, I’ve had a really tough day. Would you mind awfully if I had another drink and just curled up here on the sofa for a quick nap? I’ll let myself out.”
He put her coat back in the closet and put on his fingertip-length storm coat with a fur collar. “Okay. What time will we be back, Kurt?”.
“I should think about one. I won’t keep him out late.”
“Oh, I’ll be gone long before you get back. Have a good time.” She busied herself at the bar.
Kurt turned sourly to Conny. “Don’t you think you’re a trifle overdressed for where we’re going? A short jacket will do. You do have a short jacket, don’t you?”
“Well yes, but it’s so cold out. I hate to be cold.”
“Better to be cold than out of place. Wear the short jacket. I think you need to be cold!”
An odd remark, totally illogical. He started to protest but thought better of it as he realized Kurt wasn’t telling him; he was giving him an order. Reluctantly, he located a lined black jacket and slipped it on. Kurt allowed him a muffler and gloves. He was happy to see Kurt wasn’t completely crazy.
Outside, Conny found he wasn’t as cold as he had feared. Well, he was cold, but his body had no trouble adapting. “Where are we going, Sir?” he ventured.
“You’ll find out when we get there.” They chatted, but Conny didn’t broach the topic again. He would know when he would know, when Kurt was ready to reveal what waited for him. And not before. He was the guy who wanted to lose control; and he certainly wasn’t in control tonight.
Kurt drove into the city and parked in a quiet row of closed shops. They walked briskly through empty streets for a short distance and then descended five steps into what looked to Conny as another closed store. To his surprise, the door gave inward and he found himself in a bar, but not like one he’d ever seen before. This one had sofas and coffee tables lining the walls. Most sofas were occupied with male couples; at some, a few chairs were drawn up and groups of four chatted over drinks. All eyes turned to the door as they entered. Kurt seemed to pause to acknowledge the attention, then went straight to the bar and ordered two drinks without asking Conny what he wanted, or if he wanted one. He took the two glasses he paid for, and started toward an empty divan.
Conny trotted a step behind as he was expected to do, his eyes taking in everything and everybody. On the balance he decided he liked the place, which for him was the same as being relieved that he could feel comfortable there. It wasn’t overcrowded— well, they were early—and it wasn’t too smoky. An hour later he changed his mind. All the while he and Kurt drank and chatted, the bar was filling at an amazing rate. He wondered where all these people came from: mostly men, singly and in pairs, a few paired women, but never a mixed couple. Kurt left and returned on two occasions with scotch and water refills. Two hours passed and the smoke hung as heavily as movies were fond of showing in pre-war Berlin nightclubs. Conny knew it was coming, and when it did, he accepted the challenge with resignation. After all, Kurt was Master; why shouldn’t he relax while his slave got the fourth round of drinks?
The bar was in disarray. There were no lines to wait in. Just denim-clad backs clumped together in anarchy. Conny hated anarchy, apocalypse, catastrophe: he didn’t think he could survive if running water were shut off; he didn’t think he wanted to. But, resigned to his duty— how can I return without two drinks? —he waded bravely forward.
Five minutes passed like ten. Young men elbowed in front of him, resorting to primitive phrases like, “Hey, bud…” and “two beers here,” but he was no closer to the bar than when he started.
He was standing in the armpit of a huge bearded biker-type who demanded service by his physical presence. The tee-shirted bartender, as though drawn by a magnet, called over heads, “What’ll you have?”
To Conny’s surprise the giant pointed down at him and commanded gruffly, “Take this guy’s order! He was here before me.”
Conny looked up astounded, which meant he skipped the beat when he should’ve been ordering. “Thanks,” he said dumbfounded.
The huge man replied, “No problem. What’re you having?”
“Two scotches and water, just a splash.”
The biker repeated it to the bartender who went into motion with a “Comin’ up.”
Conny laid a five dollar bill on the bar with a finality that meant he didn’t want change.
The note was snatched away. “OK, big guy. What’s for you?”
“Double Jack, straight up.” With a sweep of his arm, the big man cleared a path for Conny so he could get through the mob without spilling. “I’ll look for you upstairs,” he said, gently patting Conny on the butt.
“Great.” Conny smiled dubiously. “Thanks for your help.”
“No problem, little buddy.”
“Sir,” Conny asked after the first sip, “what’s upstairs?”
“A disco. We’ll go up later, if you like.”
“Oh.” He wondered if Kurt liked to dance. He could fox-trot, do a box step in the time-honored Arthur Murray way; but shimmying his hips alone on a crowded floor was just another example of pure anarchy, and he avoided it at all costs…when he was able.
What do I do if that giant asks me to dance?
They only went up to look. The room was dark, with blue lighting, the beat insistent.
Kurt watched the floor for awhile and, not finding anyone of interest, to Conny’s relief, suggested they leave.
They drove home in relative silence. Kurt had delivered more-or-less a monologue about gay history for Conny’s benefit as they drank in the bar, and apparently there was not much more he was willing to divulge. They walked in on Vera, snoring lightly on the sofa. Conny moved to wake her but Kurt held him back.
“Make me another scotch. Then go to the bedroom, strip off your clothes, and wait for me on your hands and knees.”
“Sir. That’s my ex-wife lying there. The mother of my sons.”
“That’s an order.”
When Kurt entered the bedroom, he found Conny in exactly the state he had instructed. After a twenty-minute session in which he got himself off satisfactorily, Kurt said goodnight and let himself out, leaving Conny alone with his sleeping ex-wife. Naked in the dark, Conny stood in the living room, still holding Kurt’s sperm inside him, and listened as Vera snored softly. He thought he might try to figure out what it all meant, but nothing came to him.
Part II - In
to the Flames
6
A bright voice picked up on the first ring. “Mr. Peevy’s office, Mrs. Smith speaking.”
“Good morning. Is he in?”
“I’ll put you through, Mr. Conlan.”
Conny stopped her. “Wait a second, Mrs. Smith. We’ve never met, and I’ve only called two or three times; how can you possibly recognize my voice from the hundred calls you must answer during a day?”
“Oh, that’s easy, Mr. Conlan. Mr. Peevy gives me a list of the callers for whom I am to interrupt him no matter what he’s doing. I make it my business to recognize the voices of the names on that list.”
“Still, I only said five words. You knew instantly.”
“It’s a very short list, Mr. Conlan. Only three names. I’ll put you through now.”
Wow. I made the top three.
“Peevy.”
“Good morning, Sir. Sorry to interrupt you at work, but I have a problem with eight o’clock this evening. I need an extra hour.”
“You’ve got it. I’ll see you at nine.”
“Thank you, Sir.” The line went dead.
Who are the other two?
Precisely at nine p.m. Kurt arrived at Conny’s home carrying a gym bag. He had Conny strip, and re-dressed him in a leather harness that began with a metal ring around his genitals and ended in a chain collar around his neck. No socks, no shorts: jeans, boots, and a denim jacket over Conny’s bare shoulders completed the ensemble . In the car, as Kurt drove, Conny tried to accommodate to the new feeling of nakedness against his outer clothing. He was sure he would be erect for the rest of the night.
They parked at the foot of a hill and climbed a narrow wood stairway that snaked to the house on top. As usual, Conny was totally in the dark. He was only required to follow and attend Kurt without question. In one sense he worried about the usual W questions: what, where, and why; but in another, very real sense, he was floating free as a bird, having no responsibility for what might happen. He would succeed based only on how well he obeyed Kurt. For all else, including Conny’s personal safety, Kurt was responsible, and Conny found that very comfortable.