Out of the Box

by Don Schecter

  Their host admitted them, and Conny could see over the man’s shoulder that this was a cocktail party. Twenty casually dressed men stood in the living room with drinks in their hands.

  The host, an older man, kissed Kurt on the cheek. “May I take your coats?”

  Kurt slipped his off but Conny stood frozen. Kurt helped him out of his jacket, and there was a moment of stark terror as he realized he was the only man not wearing a shirt.

  Kurt introduced him to the host who responded without commenting on how Conny was dressed. In the room, Kurt hugged and kissed various men, introducing Conny as they went along, and no one seemed to notice his costume. At last, Kurt told Conny where the bar was and what to get for both of them.

  As Conny filled two glasses, a handsome older fellow with straight white hair and brilliant blue eyes stood beside him and spoke with real warmth. “You’re new here?”

  “Yes, this is my first gay party.”

  “Well, you’re making quite a hit. Here’s my card. Call me if you have a night free; I’ll show you a good time.”

  “Thanks,” Conny said to the man’s back because, business finished, contact made, he had walked away. A glass in each hand, Conny turned from the bar when a bearded fellow with a craggy face came up to him and took his left nipple between thumb and forefinger. Conny looked down and watched the man roll his nipple as though it belonged to him. Below that he could see a bulge growing in his jeans as the cock ring tightened around his swelling shaft.

  “You have me at a disadvantage,” he said, waving the two glasses in the air.

  “Just the way I want you,” the man said. “Take my card and call me. You’re too pretty for Kurt to have to himself.”

  Again Conny moved the glasses to indicate his helplessness. “Right,” said craggy face as he pressed up against Conny and slipped the card into his rear pocket. “You and I can have some real fun.” He left Conny as abruptly as the first fellow had.

  Kurt accepted the drink from his slave and they chatted sotto voce, while smiling and looking around the room.

  “How’re you doing?”

  “It’s a little weird being on display like this.”

  “It’s showmanship. You’re the new kid on the block, younger and better looking than anyone in this room. Enjoy it while you can, until you get replaced by a newer kid.”

  “I’m forty-six, Sir.”

  “You’re fresh meat to these guys.”

  By the time they left the party, Conny had made lots of new friends, was comfortable that he was being admired, not laughed at; and had collected five cards.

  Early on, Kurt had said he couldn't see Conny on weekends—not ever. Conny asked him why. Kurt answered he preferred not to explain just yet, perhaps later. Conny said that sounded way too mysterious. “Not so mysterious,” replied Kurt; “perhaps esoteric. You just don’t have enough background yet to understand. Understand?”

  Conny laughed. “Yes Sir. I’ve learned my place now. I understand.”

  In actuality, Conny didn’t understand a thing except that he was going to be alone that weekend, and there were five cards burning a hole in his pocket. Mr. Craggy Face, whose name was Gil, was available. When Conny phoned him, Gil was delighted. He said they were in luck: his lover, with whom he shared the house he was remodeling, was away visiting his parents. “How about Saturday night? Prepare to stay over, but don’t bother to bring a change of clothes. You won’t need any.”

  Conny was impressed with the house. Gil was doing most of the work himself. He remodeled houses for a living and figured it was time he paid attention to his own home.

  The custom house was built like the prow of a ship set into a hillside. The health room included a sauna, a shower with multiple heads, and a hot tub built into the floor in front of a floor-to-ceiling window that opened onto the valley below. The illusion was astonishing. Seated in the tub with drinks on the floor beside them, Conny could imagine that he and Gil were flying over the pine and oak forest below. Clearly, Gil knew what effect he wanted and how to get it.

  He was, however, far less sure of himself in other areas. As a master, Gil was a dud; he was far too nice a guy. After getting them both naked, he ran out of steam. He lacked attitude, and Conny’s presence intimidated him. S&M appealed to him only because he wished he had more control over his temperamental Irish lover and their domestic affairs.

  If he was the boss, he only knew how to be a friendly one.

  Conny, not easily thwarted, slipped into high gear. Submerging his ego, he manipulated Gil into taking the lead by refusing to indicate any preferences. He responded to all Gil’s questions with a deferential “whatever pleases you, Sir.” In that way, he maneuvered Gil into deciding what they would do, when they would do it, and who would do what to whom.

  Afterward, Gil grilled and served a great steak dinner. Conny couldn't stop Gil from waiting on him. Then they had pleasant conversation, a few drinks, listened to some of Gil’s vast record collection, and Conny got a good night’s sleep. Gil lay awake most of the night, but he didn’t have the balls to disturb his slave.

  Despite the lack of chemistry, Conny enjoyed the evening very much. He was happy to see that what he had gleaned from Kurt was applicable and effective in other situations. Then he did the polite thing—as Vera would’ve done—and sent a thank-you note. It wasn’t indiscreet in any way; he just said thanks for a great time, and signed it.

  Unfortunately Gil, in a fit of foolishness, saved the note by tucking it away in his sock drawer. After all, it held the name of a hot man he might want to see again.

  When his lover “stumbled” on the note, he read Gil the riot act. He remembered that “new number” at the party the previous week, and he flew into a jealous rage. They didn’t speak for three days. After that, whenever Gil and Conny crossed paths, Gil barely nodded. In that way Conny learned, as Kurt later explained, that what works in the straight world doesn’t necessarily go in the gay world. It was best not to leave a paper trail.

  Kurt didn’t call over the weekend, but on Monday he ordered Conny to meet him the next night. They drove into the surrounding hills in a continuous downpour until Conny feared Kurt was lost. They could only get sporadic glimpses of the road in the headlights; the noise of the rain on the roof was deafening.

  “Not lost, just waiting for nightfall. Take off your clothes,” Kurt ordered.

  “Here, in the car?”

  “Take them off!”

  Conny slipped his shoes off, then pushed his jeans off his feet. There was a pause as Kurt pulled on Conny’s cock, making sure it was available to him as he drove with one hand.

  “This is insane.”

  “Strip in silence, please.”

  “Where should I…?”

  “Leave them on the floor. All of them.”

  Conny did as he was told. He had never been naked in a car before, and it excited him; but the excitement was the shrill point of a knife-edge of fear because Kurt was driving with one hand while fondling him with the other. His fear increased markedly as Kurt switched on the dome light.

  “What are you doing, Sir?” Conny wailed. “With the light on you can’t see outside at all. And people can see in.”

  “I think you can leave the driving to me, and just how many passers-by are standing in this deluge hoping to get a glimpse of you, do you think?”

  “That’s beside the point: I’m naked!”

  “I’m aware of that, and I find it very enjoyable. Relax, read a magazine.”

  Kurt picked a copy off a stack of Drummer magazines lying between them on the seat.

  “Why are these here?”

  “I drive around and pick up likely-looking young men. It’s an easy icebreaker. They see them, start thumbing through, and either get hard or act repulsed. I’ve got an 85% success rate, mostly with straight men.”

  “You are something else…Sir.” Conny couldn’t help chuckling, and began to relax.

  “Me? I’m not riding around in
a storm, naked as a jaybird, with a stiff cock. You are.”

  After twenty more minutes of riding blind, up and down hilly roads, with Kurt keeping Conny fully erect, the rain stopped. Kurt pulled along a curb in the darkness between two streetlamps and lit a cigarette.

  “If you haven’t guessed what this is all about,” Kurt said, “it’s about shaking you out of your staid and conservative straitjacket of a life. Everything I do with you seems to jolt you anew. I hope sooner or later you’ll catch onto the idea that it’s exciting to do the unusual, even sexy. Especially when there’s danger.”

  Conny was slouched in his seat with his legs spread wide, making himself open and available to his Master. “If I’m to follow blindly where you lead, I have to know more about you, Sir. I know nothing except where you work.”

  Kurt sighed; Conny still missed the point. “What do you want to know?”

  “A little history, so I can understand where you’re coming from.”

  Kurt paused to consider how to sum his life in a few simple sentences. “I’m married; there’s no love left. She has MS and is confined to a wheelchair. We stay together for financial reasons, health insurance. I have a son, married, in upstate New York whom we visit once a year.”

  “When did you know you were gay?”

  “I always knew, but in those days you got married. We should have divorced. When she fell ill, as a condition of staying, I said I would need my own social life, so I started going to gay bars. I had a fondness for domination, but Caspar Peevy wasn’t a very effective name for a master, so I became Kurt Stone.”

  “Who’s the third name on your secretary’s list?”

  Kurt turned his head to look directly at Conny. “Well, aren’t we doing the NSA bit! Spying, are you? It’s my long-term lover, Pete. He’s married with babies and gets away only on weekends. That’s why I can’t see you on the weekend….Cheese it, the cops. Put your clothes on—smoothly and unhurriedly.” Kurt was unperturbed.

  Conny jerked around just in time to see two headlights in the rear window slide in behind them and switch off. Except for shoes, Conny was clothed so quickly he didn’t remember dressing. A flashlight shone through Kurt’s open window revealing nothing.

  “Good evening, Officer. Is there anything wrong?”

  The cop asked for the usual ID and went back to his car to check it out on the radio.

  Conny used the time to get into his shoes.

  “Everything seems OK, Mr. Peevy,” the policeman said. “May I ask what you are doing parked with your lights out in a residential area?”

  “Certainly, Officer.” Kurt used his magnificent tenor. “My young friend is experiencing marital difficulties and we needed a quiet place to discuss his options.”

  “Well, the folks around here reported a car with two men in it, and they’re nervous about robberies, so if you don’t mind, Mr. Peevy, please move your chat to a mall parking lot.”

  “Good idea. I hadn’t considered what the neighbors might think. We’ll do that. Thank you, Officer, and goodnight.”

  “You’re welcome, Sir.”

  Conny smiled at the “Sir” as he exhaled forcefully. “Whew! Now that’s danger.”

  “And exhilarating, eh?”

  7

  “I think you’re ready for an orgy,” Kurt told Conny the next week.

  “You mean I’m going to get gang-banged? I’m not sure I like that idea.”

  “As usual, you have no choice. I’ll pick you up at eight p.m. on Friday. I’ll bring what you’re to wear.”

  “Why can you make it on a weekend?” Conny asked.

  “This party happens once a month. I always attend, but Pete never does. He demands that our relationship remains strictly private. So from now on, I’m taking you.”

  Conny sat on the floor in the middle of the “salon” with the other slaves, six of them, and kept his antennae roving, his eyes and ears absorbing everything. They were all nude, decorated with various metal and leather embellishments. Kurt had chosen only chains for him: a choker, a cock ring, and a chain connecting them that passed through Conny’s hairy chest and over his flat belly. When Kurt tugged on the chain, it caused Conny’s cock to pull away from his groin, encouraging him to move forward. Seated on the floor, arms wrapped around his knees, the chain lay slack on him. It was another new sensation on his flesh.

  Masters lounged in the upholstered chairs and on the sofa, also naked, wearing various accessories such as armbands and cock rings. There was occasional conversation between master and slave—the slaves were not allowed to talk unless spoken to—but mostly the masters chatted amongst themselves, rarely paying attention to the slaves. It was difficult to count masters as they also roamed the rooms of the house. A master would beckon to a slave and leave the room with him. Later, they returned, and the slave regained his place on the floor to await selection by another master.

  Kurt had briefed him on the main characters of the play. The owner of the house, Gary, never took part. He was fifty-five years old and had been a master all his life. He was reputed to have a ten-inch, very thick cock that no longer got hard, so he turned to administration. He ran the orgies, and kept tabs on who attended. He mediated any disputes and his word was law. His tastes in interior decoration ran to Spanish dungeon: heavy dark wood with artificial distressing. Drapes were red plush. Much imitation metal —coats of arms, spears, axes—and appurtenances of torture adorned the walls. The dungeon itself sported a leather sling, huge eyebolts screwed into doorframes, whips hanging on the walls, and a sawhorse made of 2x4’s studded with eyebolts.

  A small kitchen dispensed snacks throughout the evening. The dining room was ignored. In the living room, a music system played continuously while a large-screen television showed an endless tape of logs burning in a fireplace.

  Masters came in all shapes and sizes, but Dr. John, a pediatrician, was a standout. A small handsome Sicilian built like an athlete, his olive skin was covered with pitch-black hair. Massive waves of black hair on his head and a beard and mustache made him look like he was trying to disguise himself behind a mask of fur. He was nude save for yellow jack-boots, laces open for flexibility, which he never removed because (it was said) one of his feet was deformed. He was sufficiently beautiful in his macho way that Conny was reminded of Achilles held by the heel while he was dipped in the pool of invulnerability.

  From this tangle of hair emerged an olive branch seven inches long, curving upward, and eternally rigid. No one knew how he did it, but Dr. John was hard all the time. Which meant he took slave after slave to another room, returning to pick up the next one. Each orgy he had them all.

  They watched Dr. John put on a display in the salon with a young blond on his hands and knees. Like Kurt, stooped on bent toes behind the kid, he roughly inserted his tool and pumped for ten minutes with piston regularity to climax. Then he sprang to his feet and left the room to wash. Conny was astounded by the confidence and energy of the display, but his gratitude that he hadn’t been the one fucked in public was cut short as Dr. John returned and selected him next. Luckily, the doctor’s appetite for showmanship was sated; he took Conny to a small bedroom with no furnishings other then a bed and lamp.

  Pressing Conny to his knees, he commanded him to suck. Conny complied happily as the organ was exceptionally attractive. Soon, he was not so much sucking as being fucked in the mouth. Dr. John was an aggressively physical type; also vocal. He kept up a running mantra of “ooh, baby, that’s good.” Conny gagged several times which annoyed the good doctor, so he turned him around and began to fuck him roughly. Kurt had pre-greased Conny, with Dr. John in mind, just in case someone tried to fuck him without lubrication.

  The initial shock of entry wore off rapidly beneath the onslaught. The pumping was short, rapid-fire strokes that caused enough friction to produce a pleasant sensation of heat in Conny’s rectum. All the time he rocked back and forth in his boots, Dr. John repeated in a syncopated rhythm, “Ooh baby, you’re the best.
You’re the best, baby.”

  Climax. And he was through. They got off the floor, the bed still unused, and returned to the salon. Dr. John went to the bathroom, emerged, and picked his next slave.

  Conny took a turn in the bathroom and then wandered the house. Men were sucking and fucking wherever an open space could be found. When he entered the dungeon he saw Kurt in an ultraviolet light perched on his heels behind a man on all fours. A loose group of men stood in a circle around them, stroking their own erections. Someone was feeding poppers to the kneeling man. Another held a can of Crisco, which Kurt was applying all around his forearm up to the elbow. Conny watched in fascination as Kurt’s hand began to massage the man’s anus and then enter it one finger at a time. A man beside him placed his hand on Conny’s ass and let his fingers slide between his cheeks.

  Conny hardly noticed as he watched Kurt curve his thumb into his palm and pop! his hand disappeared up to the wrist inside the rectum. There were loud, open-lung sighs and sobs from the bottom, who kept agreeing to more poppers. Kurt’s movements were dainty and precise: in and out, around and back, like the action of a clothes washer. “Oh, that’s great! Ah, I feel wonderful. Oh my God! It’s too good! More, please. Further. Stretch me wider.” Conny watched the hairs on Kurt’s arm, darkly matted with grease, appear out of the man’s ass over and over, always in a new swirling pattern. Conny couldn't believe his eyes; he thought about the dangers and how it might feel, and backed away, shaking his head in disbelief. He was hindered, however, by the man who was lightly massaging his ass while he watched. The fellow moved with him and, with two fingers firmly placed between Conny’s cheeks, guided him from the room.

  “Get us drinks,” he ordered. “I’m Ray.”

  “Conny, Sir. What would you like?”

  “Gin and tonic for me.”