from Out of the Box – Submission, Part 1, Chapter 3

An in-charge man seeks control by an S & M master.

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?”
“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 example, 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.”…

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Vol. 2, Stories for Older Men & Younger Lovers