by Don Schecter
Mark communed with himself for a full minute. “Maybe so. We have a friend. We’ll ask him. If he agrees, it might be all right. But, he may not want to take on someone new.”
“Take on?” Conny was perplexed. “What am I missing here? Why does it seem so simple to me and such a big deal to you?”
“There’s nothing more I can say. I’m sorry to frustrate you, but you just don’t have the background to understand. You’ll have to be patient.”
“I’ll keep my fingers crossed. It seems I don’t have any choice.”
Mark swatted Conny on the ass. “Perhaps you could catch on after all.”
Alec called Conny at his office three days later.
“Our friend is willing to try. We’ve all talked it over. Can you be at our house at 8:30 on Saturday night?”
“Yes, great.” Conny was enthusiastic. “Tell me about him.”
“Not wise. If I tell you he’s tall, dark, and handsome, you’ll imagine him more handsome and be disappointed when you see him. If I tell you he’s a gnome, you’ll lose interest and wish you could be initiated by someone who looks your idea of the part.”
“Well, tell me something, anything,” Conny pleaded.
“Don’t be so pushy. It’s enough for you to know that he’s very experienced, and that we trust him; and if you trust us, then you can be sure of him. That’s important for you to know.”
“How old?”
“Uh-uh.”
“His name. A label! So I can attach a name to the fantasy. Please.”
“Kurt Stone, with a K.”
3
It was cold on Saturday night. Conny arrived at the brownstone bundled against the chill. He could see Alec though the door pane as he let him in. Alec put Conny’s coat and scarf on a hook by the door alongside their jackets and indicated a chair by the roaring fire.
“We lit fires for you; we thought we’d make it cozy,” he said. “Would you like a drink?”
“Scotch, thank you. Straight up….When is Kurt arriving?”
“After we’re gone,” Mark answered.
“You’re leaving?” A wing of panic opened. “Won’t you stay and watch, or help…er, partake?”
Mark laughed. “You really are off base about what S&M is; I don’t think you have a clue. Just sit back and try to relax. Just let it happen.”
“Remember,” Alec said, handing Conny his drink, “you’re in good hands. We wouldn’t leave you if we weren’t sure.” They put on their scarves and leather jackets.
“He’ll be here at 9:15 precisely.”
“What do I do? How shall I be dressed? Act?” Conny took a big gulp of the stinging liquor. It did something warm and wonderful inside him as it descended to his stomach.
“Just answer the door. Kurt will take it from there.”
“Relax,” Mark said. “You’re going to have a great time. Perhaps the best of your life.”
Without another word, they left Conny alone in their two-story house with a dungeon in the basement.
At 9:15, give or take a minute to allow for differences in timepieces, the doorbell rang. Like a startled jackrabbit, Conny bounded off the sofa where he was trying to warm his hands by the fire. He was immediately disappointed as he saw through the glass the back of a head of thinning white hair. The fellow isn’t even looking forward to meeting me. He opened the door and stepped back to let his caller in. In a single instant their eyes met. Conny stuck out his hand and announced his name.
“Hello,” said the small man wearing a short leather jacket. He had a brown paper bag under his left arm. “Kurt Stone.” Instead of shaking Conny’s proffered hand, he pressed the bag into it. “Put that in the kitchen for me like a good boy, will you?”
“Sure,” said Conny, taken off guard. He turned and walked to the rear of the house without looking back. Odd, but different. This guy looks like he fell off Santa’s sleigh. He set the bottle of scotch on the counter, noting the fellow had taste—it was a good single malt—and returned to the fire. Kurt was seated and warming his hands. He intercepted Conny’s flow of motion and indicated the floor in front of the sofa. “Here, you’ll be more comfortable sitting at my feet.” Doubtfully, Conny acquiesced. The floor was cold; he scooted next to Kurt’s legs for warmth, and craned his neck to see him. Well, the die is cast. Here I am, forty-six years old, entrepreneur with fourteen employees, divorced father of two sons in college, sitting in humble obeisance at the feet of an elf.
Kurt was 5’6” tall, a head shorter than Conny. It was his rounded belly, wire-rim glasses that focused bright beady eyes, and snow-white mustache that gave him the elfin look. Also, he had exceedingly small hands and feet. Conny estimated he wore size six shoes, and their pointed tips made them appear positively dainty. No, that isn’t quite right. I’ve got it! Kurt was a living representation of the Monopoly man—he of the top hat and pin-striped trousers; the man who adorned “Get out of jail free” cards, and “Go directly to jail, Do not pass GO, Do not collect $200.” The man from whom all rewards and punishments flowed in the best selling game yet devised by man.
There was one difference: Kurt’s voice. Conny had always responded to resonant voices, the way he did to the thump of the drum in a parade. And in contrast to his appearance, Kurt’s voice was strong, mellow, and commanding. Some string inside Conny vibrated when Kurt spoke: the voice at least, if not the body, was well-suited to a man who bore the clearly artificial name of Kurt Stone.
“Do you recognize these objects behind you on the sofa?” Kurt asked.
Conny twisted around and saw that Kurt had neatly arranged several leather belts, such as might have held school books in the old days, and some short chains on the cushion. “Straps. Chains,” he said, adopting a guise of ignorance.
“Do you know what they’re for?”
“Specifically, no; but I can guess.”
Kurt cleared his throat. “We want to establish a relationship between us,” he said.
“Do you think you’d be comfortable addressing me as Sir?”
Conny swallowed hard . This is like play-acting. Could I really get such a word past my lips? “Yes, I could do that.”
“Do what?” Kurt prodded.
“Call you…Sir.”
“Do it, then.”
“Yes, Sir.” There, that wasn’t so hard. I could get used to it. It’s a word without meaning to me. Just a made-up word to humor an elf. “May I ask you a question?”
Kurt’s response was silence.
“May I ask you a question, Sir?”
“Certainly.”
“Are you married, Sir?”
Kurt paused a beat. “I think, to begin with, we’ll talk about you tonight. Why you’re here, and what you’re hoping will happen. There’s plenty of time later, if this works out, to find out about me.
“I’d like a drink. Why don’t you make me a scotch and water, over ice, just a splash of water? If you like scotch, pour yourself one. We’ll talk when you get back.”
Conny got to his feet with a “Certainly, Sir.” and took his empty with him. He returned with two drinks he set on the table, and resumed his position on the floor with his back to Kurt.
“Begin,” said Kurt. “Tell me why I’m here tonight.”
Conny found telling his life story to Kurt very pleasurable. He hadn’t analyzed many of the new ideas he’d been entertaining, and no one had cared enough to pay attention to what was going on in his life for as long as he could remember. He finished his monologue by telling about the company he owned. “We make small servo-mechanisms, mechanical and electrical; first for small businesses, and now for the government. It gets pretty lucrative. Our slogan is ‘Everything under control.’”
Kurt listened attentively, absently brushing Conny’s shoulder with one of the leather straps. “You’ll have to explain to me what a servo-mechanism is.”
“It’s a small device that regulates a larger one by monitoring its output and changing the input to it accordingly. For exa
mple, if a machine starts to run too fast, the servo reduces power to slow it down, and the same thing happens in reverse if the machine starts to run too slowly.”
“How large is the company?”
“I’ve got life and death control over fourteen people now.”
“Surely, you’re talking about hiring, firing and what happens during working hours, aren’t you?”
“You’d be surprised…Sir,” he added quickly when he realized he had dropped the title. “You end up being baby-sitter, wet nurse, parent, lover, and father-confessor at times. You have to deal with marital troubles, addictions, financial worries: it can be enervating. I struggle not to get too involved, but in a small company most everything depends on the owner.”
“Don’t you think that’s a little too pat an explanation?”
“For what?…How do you mean?”
“You make servos, so you want to be controlled.” Kurt couldn’t help smiling. Conny twisted around to look at him. “You’re in control all day, so you yearn for servitude.”
“Whoa up there, Sir. You’ve got the cart before the horse. It isn’t cause and effect: I make servos because I fear anarchy—it’s who I am. It’s no coincidence I’m in the servo business.”
“Then why are you anxious to give up control?”
“I want to submit to someone because it’s the ultimate personal abdication. Mindless obedience as a fantasy. I always have to be in control; I get deep satisfaction from controlling things.”
“Yes? Go on.”
“Well, I’m worn out; I want a vacation from my obsession, from all decision-making. My fantasy is to be controlled, totally; an abject slave. Not permitted to have a say about anything, including my bodily functions. In real life, I could never let that happen. It’s impractical as well as unsatisfying. But in my dreams…in my dreams…
Tarzan keeps Bruce Wayne captive in the jungle; Superman is helpless, strapped to a nugget of Kryptonite…these childhood fantasies have never varied much since pre-puberty.”
While Conny talked, Kurt circled the supple leather around Conny’s neck and buckled it closed. “I think we need another drink,” he said softly.
Conny jumped to his feet to comply with the indirect order. Once in the kitchen, he fingered the leather around his neck. It was ridiculous to be collared…but there was a strange comfort in it. As he returned with their second round, Kurt said, with a serious face, “You look good in a collar.”
“Thank you, Sir.”
Back on the floor at Kurt’s feet, Conny found himself warm and contented. The liquor was working its way through him. Kurt slipped his index finger through the D-ring on the back of the collar and subtly restricted Conny’s head movement. He alternated this with gentle neck massage. Conny felt both pressures and yielded to them. He continued to talk as he realized he was no longer anxious to find out what came next. He had placed himself with amazing speed in the hands of the elfin man on the sofa.
Kurt suggested, if Conny were warm enough, he might like to remove his sweater.
“Actually, Sir, I’m beginning to roast. The fire and the drinks have gotten to me.”
“Why not be comfortable? Take your shirt off as well.”
Kurt expanded his massage to Conny’s shoulders. Conny threw his head back on the sofa and made his chest available. As Kurt moved in bolder strokes, running his fingers through Conny’s chest hair and squeezing his nipples, Conny heard Bess’s surrender to Crown in his mind: “Yo’ hands, yo’ hands,” and he imagined he knew how she felt. The theatrical aspect of their play occurred to Kurt at the same time. He announced, “The set for the second act is Mark’s room. Refill our glasses and take them up with you.”
4
Conny was on his elbows and knees before a glowing fire in Mark’s room. He wore his collar, and padded leather cuffs which had been added to his ankles and wrists. He could see the chain hanging from clips on his nipples as it sparkled in the firelight.
Beyond the chain he watched his own sex organ, encircled by a leather strap, dangling incongruously as Kurt, kneeling beside him, gently and repeatedly ran his hands over Conny’s body. It was as if Kurt were gentling a horse. And it was working.
The phone jangled.
“Let it ring,” Kurt purred softly. “Don’t let it disturb you. It will stop soon.”
The phone continued to ring. Kurt’s hands slowed; he was obviously distracted.
Conny began counting in his head. When he got to fifteen, Kurt answered it: it seemed the only way to get rid of the persistent sound. “Damn,” whispered Kurt. “Don’t move from that position. That’s an order!” Across the large room, Conny heard Kurt pick up the receiver and reply in a mannered, even tone.
“Hello…No, I’m sorry. Mark’s not in right now…I really can’t tell you; I’m just a friend staying the night…No, Ma’am; I’m sorry. I can’t take a note. I’m very busy at the moment. I’m sorry…That’s none of your concern, madam. I must go now.” There was a long pause. Conny wondered why Kurt just didn’t slam the receiver down. Well, she might just call back again. Kurt continued to listen.
Conny felt like a dog, down on all fours with his ass high and exposed. It was an easy position to maintain. His thoughts wandered to the last time he had been in the same pose. His sons were taking turns riding on his back while he played pony, much to Vera’s amusement. Imagine how amused she’d be tonight. He had to laugh at himself. What a position to be in. He found he was missing Kurt’s attention, and very pissed at the caller who wouldn’t take no for an answer. Simultaneously, Conny admired Kurt’s composure while wondering how they could possibly resume after he had been buffaloed by an unknown woman. It’s not very fitting for a man in command. Conny guessed that Kurt was a manager in a service job: his long years of training had been triggered by the woman on the phone.
He felt compassion for Kurt, which was a humorous feeling coming from a man playing a dog. But while he had the time, he indulged himself further in examining his Master. He observed Kurt’s naked form as he dickered into the telephone at his ear. His chest was dusted in white hair that gradually blackened as it descended over a firm rounded belly; a ropy appendix scar showed on the lower side marring its smoothness.
Winter-white legs were almost hairless, his flaccid penis drooped from a gray and white patch at his groin; his feet, lost in the carpet pile, appeared even smaller without shoes.
His voice was deep, mellow, and very annoyed.
With extreme control, ready to snap into full-volume anger, Kurt said, “All right, I’ll search for a pencil.” He mumbled as he fumbled through the cubbyholes of the rolltop.
“Here, I’ve got one. What shall I say?” There was another pause while he listened and wrote. Finally, he interrupted the caller: “Madam, you can explain all this when Mark calls you tomorrow. I am not a qualified secretary…You’re very welcome. Goodbye.” He crashed the receiver into its cradle. It bounced, and he had to retrieve it from the floor.
Conny held his ground like a good pet. He waited to see how this would affect their session. Surprisingly, it didn’t. Kurt resumed his place with neither apology nor comment; he simply took up where he had left off. That impressed Conny. The switch between game and real life, and back again, had been seamless, with no carryover from one to the other.
“I think we’ve been at this long enough. Are you ready to try the dungeon?”
Conny now understood Kurt’s tone to be rhetorical, but he answered anyway, responding with real puppy glee, “Yessir!”
Kurt fixed Conny’s wrists together behind him. He attached a short leash to the cock strap and led his slave down two flights of steps by his genitals. The dungeon looked like…well, a dungeon. There were very few standard basement handyman tools around.
Instead, the cinderblock room was dominated by a slightly tilted X-frame made out of very old 2x6’s. The walls were hung with manacles and rope, shiny chains of varied length and thickness, and other appliances Conny couldn’t
name. In the rear, a black leather cradle was suspended from ceiling beams by four chains.
Kurt fixed him to the cross by means of hooks that mated with the D-rings on his ankle and wrist cuffs. The room was warmer than upstairs because the oil heater stood in one corner. Unlit candles with wax over-dripping squatted on every surface, obviously useful for atmosphere if one was in a B-movie mood, but Kurt chose to ignore them. He liked the sharp shadows cast on Conny’s nude form by the bare electric bulb.
Again, he spent several minutes stroking and gentling Conny in case the change in atmosphere disturbed him. Then he removed a long black whip from a wall hook and slapped Conny’s body with it. “Do you think you would like to be beaten, son?” Kurt asked.
“No Sir, I don’t think I would like that at all, Sir. I’m sorry, Sir.”
“Do you trust me?”
Conny didn’t need time to consider that. “I trust you with my life, Sir.” And indeed he did—he already had. Pinned to the cross, he trusted that Kurt wouldn't slit his throat or cut his balls off; he trusted that Kurt was reasonable and rational and wouldn't presume that maiming him was part of the game. He even hoped that Kurt wouldn't do something as stupid as have a heart attack and leave him helpless and alone until the boys got back.
And he had to believe that they would come back. Christ! It took a lot of faith to get nailed to this cross.
“In that case, let’s stop playing around, shall we?” Kurt asked in another of his rhetorical questions. He slipped a leather hood over Conny’s head and it fair took his breath away. His nostrils were assaulted by the pungent aroma of glove leather, and he momentarily went both deaf and blind. Kurt adjusted the eye covers closed, and the nosepiece for breathing. Conny’s hearing remained muffled by the material of the hood.
He heard or felt a zipper close behind him and the mask settled in around his features.
“Are you comfortable in there? Can you speak?”
