by Don Schecter
“It’s nice to know I can still thrill a man,” Gary said smiling. He undid the hooks that held Conny in position and helped him out of the sling.
11
Brown’s Motel on Route 40 was the kind of place you passed in your car on your way to somewhere else. You could pass it five times a day every day of your life and never look twice. There were only one or two cars in the lot in the afternoons, and the individual bungalows had a tired look that failed to catch your eye as you drove by. How they made a living there was a question that never crossed Conny’s mind until Kurt drove into the lot at seven in the evening. Immediately he understood that Brown’s rented by the hour, no questions asked.
The room was large and square. Bare wood floors, a bed with brass head- and foot-rails. A dresser, a small table and four chairs; a cook-stove, a pint-size refrigerator; and a bathroom. Conny carried in their two soft bags and a three-foot-long peacock feather.
Why a peacock feather? but he knew better than to ask. Kurt had the scotch and a bag of groceries he brought along. He closed the curtain of the only window and switched on a lamp.
“Strip,” he ordered. “You’ll be naked until we leave tomorrow.”
Naked was not exactly the right word, but nothing Conny wore could be called clothing. Kurt took great pains to dress his slave appropriately: a collar, padded wrist and ankle cuffs for long-term comfort, and a chastity belt that effectively prevented Conny from touching himself, as well as from pissing without getting it all over himself. A butt plug completed the outfit . Kurt’s bag of toys seemed inexhaustible. In the months they had known each other, Kurt had always managed to pull a surprise from his black leather bag. This time it was a maid’s scalloped apron which he tied around Conny’s waist, ordering him to make and serve a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. Kurt sat at the table with his chair turned to the side and placed Conny between his legs as he ate.
Conny liked his position—he couldn't deny that—but it was at times like these, as he sucked on the stiff alabaster appendage of his Master, wet down his balls, and struggled enthusiastically to get between his thighs and scrotum with his tongue, that he wondered why he was doing it, why he was so accepting, and why the situation couldn't be reversed. It couldn't, he saw clearly. The dynamic between them was set: he had voluntarily given himself to Kurt to be used at Kurt’s whim, and the die was cast. Even if he overpowered his Master, tied him up, and forced him to suck his cock, Kurt wouldn't ever belong to Conny in the same way Conny belonged to him because their mindsets were wrong. Kurt needed to dominate—it turned him on. A government employee, essentially powerless in a vast bureaucracy despite achieving super-grade status, he found outlet for his dominant nature by fisting Pete and controlling Conny. Did Kurt ever want to switch positions? Conny doubted it. And it was something that couldn't be discussed without altering their relationship.
Conny, on the other hand, sensed ambivalence in his nature. He wondered more and more how it would be to have a slave at his disposal. Completely in control of his work life, he had wanted to sample total submission to another male, and, in a sense he had; but even getting that far was totally within his sphere of control. He had made it happen through perseverance and adaptation. He had consciously sought Kurt out. So, in essence, wasn’t the slave still in control of his destiny? Wasn’t the slave always in control? He smiled as it occurred to him that he was chewing on that thought while he was chewing on Kurt’s magnificent white column. He was going to miss it.
Kurt kept Conny sucking on him for well over an hour, well past the point where Conny’s jaws were aching and his neck muscles hurt from assuming awkward angles.
Kurt slid forward in the chair, his balls dangling off the seat; Conny rested his arms on the chair seat and leaned on them while he bathed Kurt’s groin with his tongue. His face was wet with saliva.
“Turn around,” Kurt commanded.
Relieved, Conny pointed his ass at Kurt and relaxed forward onto his elbows on the floor. Kurt pulled his plug, re-lubed his butt and slipped some fingers inside him. When they were removed, he thought his ass was empty, but he was wrong. The peacock feather was sticking out of him like a colorful hairy tail. Kurt hooked a leash to Conny’s collar and smartly paraded him around the room on all fours. The apron, still tied around his waist, swept the floor.
“Raise and lower your head like a trumpeting elephant,” Kurt ordered, “and bray like a jackass…hee-haw, hee-haw. Bray!” he commanded. “And don’t drop your tail. Swing that ass, slave, swing it, I say!”
Round and round in small circles, Kurt marched Conny. The pointlessness— certainly, neither man was sexually aroused—angered Conny so that he wanted to get up, blacken Kurt’s eye, and walk out. Then it dawned on him: That’s what he wants! This whole ridiculous charade was intended to push Conny over the brink, make him break character, and call an end to his humiliation. It’s make or break time. He wants to see how far he can push me. And for that very reason, Conny dug in mentally and began to prance proudly, like a trained poodle. He held his head up high and honked hee-haw through his nose. He no longer knew who had won the test of will; he no longer could tell who was in control of whom. All he was aware of were the dizzying circles he was making around Kurt’s legs, the embarrassment, the humiliation, and his total willingness to obey.
Kurt let Conny collapse on the floor for a few moments and then ordered him to stretch out on the bed. He cuffed Conny’s hands above his head around a bar of the headrail and snapped his ankle cuffs together. He removed the chastity belt. At first Conny was relieved, but when he realized Kurt was quietly reading in a chair, totally ignoring him, he experienced a deep sense of loneliness. Perhaps the worst punishment you can give a slave is to totally ignore him. Bored and unhappy, he fell asleep.
When Conny awoke, the lights were out, and Kurt’s warm body was stretched out beside him, softly snoring. He lay there listening to traffic rush by on the busy highway outside. People were headed for movies, to shop for groceries—mundane activities— while he lay chained beside his sleeping Master. He waited, much like the animal he was reduced to, for his Master to awaken and give some meaning to his existence. He was very hurt; he had expected Kurt to play with him all night, their last night together; and instead, it turned into a lonely, boring vigil, waiting for morning and release. He adjusted himself as comfortably as he could, ached to pull his arms down but couldn’t, and attempted to locate the part of his mind that was pleased, and possibly aroused, by the helplessness of his position.
Several times he woke, stretched as best he could, and fell back to sleep. He was keenly aware of his penis lying dormant against his legs, flopping as he shifted his weight from side to side, with no one there to touch it. Finally he awoke to see rays of sun slipping past the sides of the curtain.
Kurt mumbled and roused. He looked like he was not entirely sure where he was.
Without moving more than his hand, he began to idly toy with Conny’s body. Then, without warning, he leapt to his knees, threw Conny’s legs up in the air, feet against the headrail, and rammed his stiff cock into the exposed ass. It took only a second, done without words, and he was brutally pumping away. Conny was grateful and shocked, surprised and happy. He simply had no say in what was going on. He was taken in a furious manner, and he experienced once again what it was like to be another man’s sex toy, with no negotiation allowed. He was a thing, an orifice for Kurt’s load, and, as Kurt exploded into him, emitting loud guttural roars, Conny had to admire him for the long build-up and explosive climax. Their relationship did indeed end with fireworks.
12
Conny parked his car behind the red convertible. He entered the building, walked up one flight, and raised his hand at the door until his watch was on the hour. Then he knocked.
No one asked who was there. A man’s baritone said, “Come in.”
Conny pushed open the door and viewed a sparkling clean, expensively furnished interior in dark shining woods and white lea
ther, adorned with modern art and stone sculpture. On his knees on the polished wood floor knelt a naked man, head down, facing away from the door. He was darkly tanned, almost blending with the walnut flooring, except that his ass was white in stark contrast.
Conny closed the door softly, locked it behind him, and advanced into the living room. He bent behind the kneeling man and gently caressed his buttocks. He moved his hand over the waiting asshole and circled lightly around the rim. Deliberately, he tapped the darkened closure until it voluntarily relaxed. He slipped a finger inside and was pleased that his orders had been obeyed: the path was lubed and ready. So was Conny. He removed his trousers and knelt behind the man on the floor. He pressed the head of his rigid erection against the shirred circle of flesh and, letting himself sink into the moist warmth, he possessed his slave.
Nate Travers sighed. He hadn’t been so excited in ages. This new Master knew just what turned him on. He always waited in this abject position, ready to be taken as soon as his Master arrived. After the first load filled him, he would turn and suck his Master clean. Then his Master would grasp his huge nuts in one hand and apply pressure while he interrogated him. Under extreme duress, Nate would beg to eat his Master’s ass, plead to be fucked—promise him anything to relieve the agony of his Master’s tight grip on his balls. It hadn’t taken Nate long to teach Conny this wrinkle.
Nate would obtain permission to strip his Master, follow him into the bedroom, and tongue his entire body. His Master would bind Nate’s testicles tightly, squeeze them some more, play with his hard dick, but not let him come; then strap him face down on the four-poster, pinning his raging cock against the mattress. His muscular buttocks would be slapped and spanked until they were cherry-red and he could feel the heat in them. Then his Master would mount him, place his whole weight on Nate’s body, and fuck him with increasing violence. A second load would join the first.
His Master would cuff his hands behind his back, flip him over on the bed, and milk him until he exploded. After that, he would get to lie in his Master’s arms, head against his hairy chest, while his Master caressed and soothed him, running fingers through the dense forest covering his hard pecs, and further torturing the huge nipples his Master maintained in a perpetually aggravated condition.
Submission, to Nate, was the most glorious state of being to which a man could aspire. Conny agreed with him. Submission, indeed, was a wonderful thing; so long as someone else was doing the submitting.
AUTHOR’S NOTE:
The following is the shortest story in the collection, and the only one that is not same-sex. If that’s not your cup of tea, pass it by; but at less than 1,000 words, I invite you to try it. It’s one of my favorites.
And All the Trimmings
He made a normal opening…pawn to K4. “What do you think about bondage?”
She thought a moment and responded in the standard way…pawn to Q3. “I think I’d like it; I’ve fantasized about it.”
He moved into the development phase. “What kind of rope would you use?”
“Oh, no rope…too unimaginative. Let’s stay away from chains and leather as well. I’ve no desire to be a dominatrix.”
“Then what…?”
“I dunno. I’ll stop by the fabric store and pick up some trimmings.” She moved her bishop to K3.
She loved the smell of fresh bolts of cloth. It was intoxicating to her like freshly ground coffee was to him. As she moved along the rows of counters she became aware that the selection was never-ending once you considered the products from a different point of view. She selected various widths of material in muted and complementary tones; after all, she didn’t want him looking like a Christmas tree planted in the middle of their bed. She examined fasteners and imagined new uses for them. She bought alternative items in case some didn’t work out for unforeseen reasons. She wanted to be fully prepared.
Ultimately, she bound his hands behind him with soft pink-coral drapery tie-backs.
She blindfolded him with a mauve bandanna rolled around the diagonal. She placed a dusty rose velvet collar loosely around his neck and, when he cooperatively flipped over for her, she tied his wrists to his collar with an elastic cord in misty teal—not tightly— just to let him know she was covering the bases, not allowing him the option to escape by bringing his hands forward under his legs.
She tied his ankles loosely with green Velcro strapping; he could never get his feet out of the loop without using his hands but, on the other hand, his ankles wouldn’t rub together. As she restrained him, she became aware of myriad possibilities to fix him into different positions which she filed away for later use. She wrapped his knees together with a matching woven ribbon—very strong—and asked him to flip onto his back for her.
She enjoyed the flexing of his muscles in the ensuing struggle, and then tied a pink handkerchief around his open mouth, not uncomfortably—he could grunt pleasure or disapproval—but as a reminder that he wasn’t supposed to talk. She tied large bows on mauve taffeta ribbons around the biceps’ he was so proud of—just for decoration, because she could, and because he had no say in the matter. Lastly; she tied a rawhide thong around the base of his sex and covered it with a piece of fur trim that matched his hair color. She laughed about his having only one dimension of freedom left and that he was taking full advantage of it.
He shifted his weight and waited for her next move.
She mounted him. As soon as he felt her envelop him he began to buck like a wild bronco, searching for pleasure with blind eyes. Holding her breasts with her hands to keep them from flopping about wildly, she rode him until he wore himself out. When he was exhausted and panting, she used her muscles to place him where she wanted him and then moved to her own rhythms to maximize her pleasure.
A light switched on in his head. He immediately saw he wasn’t the great lover he supposed; he simply had found a range of motions and speeds she could adapt to over time. Now the tables were turned. If he was to enjoy this, he needed to match her needs.
He found the concept exhilarating. Gone was the need to consider her, to please her, to make sure his weight didn’t press too hard, to wait for her: he was free to concentrate on himself. In the darkness of the blindfold, he focused on his own pleasure and found the experience liberating.
She looked down at him and saw a new playing field. She imagined his shoulders rounded, reaching up from the mattress, his hands extended to her breasts, caressing them. Not this time: he lay flat, his ridged belly slightly raised as he rested on his bound hands. His broad chest excited her; she played with his nipples and listened to the approving groan. She recalled how easily he could raise up in this position and embrace her while she rode him. She felt so close to him then; did she miss his arms around her?
Perhaps, but this was also a satisfying experience. The freedom she felt was like fresh air.
She had several orgasms to his one and, collapsing onto him, lay on his chest feeling a warmth she had never known. She was keenly aware of the gift he had given her.
He poured her a cup of coffee and set it on the kitchen table in front of her. “Well, what did you think,” he asked.
“I liked it. I think I’ll go to the hardware store.”
“What do they have there?”
“Tape,” she said.
He looked sideways at her as he poured a cup for himself, but he didn’t reply until he was seated opposite her. He realized that he trusted her completely, and that he was very much in love. “Don’t you ever want to go back to the conventional ways?”
“Oh sure,” she said as she took a sip, “…sometime.”
Contact information:
Out of the Box is Volume II of Stories for Older Men & Younger Lovers. Don’t miss Volume I, Heights of Passion, and Volume III, Discovery of Fire. Both are available, in softcover through www.donschecter.com , and in all ebook formats from www.smashwords.com .
he Box
