Misdelivered Mail Male Sex Training

Allen came to the window of his Maple Street bungalow and looked out at the driveway at the unmistakable sound of the purring of an expensive sports car. He had arrived in time to see Jack unfold his elegant six-foot-four frame out of the red Porsche Carrera convertible and run his hand through a thick mane of auburn hair with frosted highlights. The man was a real hunk from his Italian loafers sans socks; up through his tight designer jeans that were extra tight over his athletic thighs and bulging crotch; up to his casual, but cashmere and obviously pricey, polo shirt, which showed off his gym-honed pectorals to perfection.

Turning from his car, Jack saw Allen standing in the window, also quite handsome in dark, Mediterranean looks, if smaller of stature and a lot less wealthy in dress than Jack was. Allen's shorts and T were run of the mill, although they showed his body off to near perfection for his size. The most expensive item he was wearing was a red silk jock strap under the white shorts that, purposely, showed through the white of the shorts.

Jack smiled and waved and lifted a wine bottle in one hand—most likely an expensive wine, which they'd have for dinner before turning to beer later. As he'd done before, Jack made an O with the fingers of the hand not holding the wine bottle and, making sure Allen could see the gesture, pumped the neck of the bottle in and out of the O he'd created. Like, no one watching could miss what that meant. He laughed and headed for the door.

Allen didn't know why Jack always did this. They both knew Jack was here to eat Allen's steak dinner, watch Allen's TV, and fuck Allen's ass—in that order of priority. This was Jack's form of slumming. The two had met in a pickup game of soccer at a gay men's sports club. Jack had been the game's attention-getting superjock—until the smaller Allen had shown him up by deftly eluding him and going for a couple of goals. In a fit of pique Jack had cornered Allen afterward in a rarely used row of lockers separated by a bench and fucked the stuffing out of Allen to show him who was boss.

Since then Jack had come to Allen's bungalow on Maple Street nearly every other Sunday afternoon, eaten the steak dinner Allen provided, watched Allen's TV, and fucked Allen to, again—perpetually—show him who the boss was. If anyone had told Jack it also was because he liked fucking Allen's ass, he would have given them a blank stare.

It was no different this Sunday.

They talked a bit through the dinner Allen served at the table in the small dining area forming an L with the kitchen off the living room, but it was mostly about sports and Jack thinking of turning his last-year sports car in for this year's model. It occurred to Allen that he'd never been told where Jack worked and why he had all of this money—and why he kept coming back to eat Allen's steaks and fuck him. They had nothing in common really. Maple Street was literally on the wrong side of the tracks in this town. Jack could be the county judge for all Allen knew. He did know that Jack was at least four years older than his own twenty-three, but that didn't bother him. It just meant that many of Jack's reference points to life weren't the same as Allen's.

Neither had Jack asked what Allen did for a living and why he could afford to live even in a small bungalow like this on the wrong side of the tracks. Allen had inherited the bungalow from an Army officer—Allen's CO in Afghanistan. Afghanistan had been a scary and turbulent place, where one constantly didn't know if there would be a tomorrow and where men lived in combat situations closely with other men. The popular saying was that there were no atheists in foxholes. The parallel saying in Allen's company in Afghanistan was that there were no straights in foxholes—that the tensions and opportunities involved led men to each other for comfort and release. That certainly worked out to be the case with Allen. He was leaning gay anyway before he went to Afghanistan, but Allen's older, combat-worn lieutenant, had initiated Allen at the age of nineteen in one of those foxholes—had fucked Allen six ways from Sunday and made Allen his slave.

To the lieutenant's credit, when both of them had been drummed out of the army, the lieutenant brought Allen back to the States, sent him to college, and then promptly died and left Allen with this bungalow—as well as with a job as a counselor at a half-way house for released prison inmates. His program was especially involved with the gay ones, and he'd been given a membership in the gay men's club where he met Jack because of his work.

Jack had been Allen's first since the lieutenant had died during Allen's second year in college. Allen had gotten some form of affection and plenty of control and direction from the lieutenant. So far that's what he got from Jack as well. He had no idea why he kept waiting to see if there was more that would come his way some day.

Dinner was timed to end before the start of the Eagles and Redskins pro football game coverage on the TV. And the start of the game found Jack out on the sofa in front of the big-screen TV on the living room wall, while, behind him, Allen moved dishes, silverware, glasses, and serving plates from the dining room out to the kitchen. Jack had drunk most of the wine he had brought himself at dinner. Allen pulled a bottle of cold beer out of the refrigerator and approached the back of the sofa with it.

Jack was engrossed in the TV. Allen waited for the end of the kickoff and reached over and slid the cold bottle down Jack's chest. Jack had taken off his jeans, shirt, and loafers and folded and stacked them neatly on the seat of Allen's recliner. This left him wearing only a pair of FU e=fu8 Pleasure Pouch briefs. Allen only knew that because Jack had told him at dinner what designer underwear he was wearing this time and pushed in trouser waistband down to show Allen the logo on his undies, which was Jack's form of foreplay. The play had heated up momentarily when, in turn, Allen told him he was wearing a red silk jock strap of unknown brand that he'd gotten in an adult sex shop.

"It may be strawberry flavored," Allen said.

Jack had made him strip his shorts off so he could feel Allen's jewels through the pouch, but that done, after an exploratory sniff for the scent of strawberry, he'd moved off on another topic.

"Thanks, babe," Jack said, taking the beer. He pulled Allen's hand down to his crotch with the other hand, which also brought Allen's mouth down to his. They kissed, with Allen noticing that Jack's eyes were targeted beyond his head to the TV set, where a commercial was winding down.

"Feel me hard, babe? This is all for you. Half time. I can't wait." He released Allen's hand as the TV coverage returned to the game.

Going back to the kitchen to clean up the dishes, Allen couldn't help but think, If he's so hot for me and can't wait, why are we waiting for half time? Allen wouldn't have minded Jack fucking him on the couch while the game was going. The lieutenant had done that many times. And, what the hell, Philadelphia and Washington weren't even local teams.

After cleaning up in the kitchen, Allen stripped down to his jock strap and came back into the living room with two more cold beers in hand. He handed one to Jack, who pulled him down onto the sofa without taking his eyes from the TV set.

They embraced and kissed and did some fondling, but it was perfunctory, with Jack giving the priority of his attention to the football game and Allen doing most of the fondling. Jack was more of a wham-bang-thanks-a-bunch guy than a fondler.

Jack showed more attention when Allen had gotten his fu briefs off him and had bent over and deep-throated Jack's cock, which was hard to do. Along with all of the other perfections of Jack, he was horse hung. And this was why Allen was here, bent over him, and sucking his cock. Jack was the only man Allen had had since the lieutenant died, and he was a hunk. Allen wasn't proud about where he got it and what he had to do to get it.

During halftime Jack delivered in his own way. As the teams were leaving the field, he showed that he'd brought a DVD to fuck by and popped a scene in of a big guy fucking a little guy, the big guy in Roman soldier costume, and the little guy dressed as a servant slave.

When he came back to the sofa, Jack pulled the smaller Allen up, turned him sideways to the sofa, set his chest on the arm of the sofa, with his head and arms reaching for the floor, slapped Allen's thighs apart and brought him up to his knees on the sofa cushion. He then went to town sucking Allen's cock and balls and eating out his ass while Allen moaned, remembering why he had Jack over every other Saturday. Jack spent more time finger fucking the hole than licking it.

Six minutes of this and then Jack snapped on a Trojan Magnum and mounted, penetrated, and fucked Allen hard and deep, with Allen squirming under him and luxuriated in the pain-pleasure of being taken by a hung man. Jack didn't even bother to strip Allen of his jock strap. He just moved aside whatever was in his way for what he wanted to get at, just as he'd done when he was eating out Allen's ass.

Once in position, Jack drove his cock in, causing Allen to yelp and his eyes to go real big and his mouth to form a big O. Jack held for twenty seconds to give Allen a chance to adjust to the cock. Grabbing a handful of Allen's hair, Jack arched Allen's torso back to him and bit Allen on the side of his neck. It always started in anger like this—as it had that first time, in the locker room, when Allen had scored two embarrassing goals on Jack.

Regardless of Jack's motivations for fucking him, Allen had loved the position, forced onto his chest on the bench, with Jack grabbing his ankles and forcing his legs spread and bent back over Allen's head, as Jack pushed himself between Allen's legs in reverse and fucked brutally down into him.

It had been that exotic position as well as the domination and the thickness and depth that Jack could reach that had Allen agreeing to see Jake again, to invite him over for dinner and to watch a game on TV, and to nail Allen's ass to the sofa—never again in as exotic a position, though.

"Be good to me, Jack," Allen whimpered.

"I'm always good for you." Jack answered, with a low laugh. Allen couldn't dispute that, there being no one else to compare with Jack's periodic visits since the lieutenant had died. And then Jack leaned back, grabbed Allen's wrists, and arched Allen's back by pulling his arms tight behind him. It was time for Allen to go to pain-pleasure heaven, whispering for Jack to give him mercy when he actually wanted exactly what Jack was doing—pounding his ass hard and deep and fast—just like the lieutenant had done.

This was Allen's time to focus his eyes to the TV screen. As Jack was preparing his ass for mounting, Allen watched the Roman soldier on the screen pick the slave up, reverse the smaller man's body on his, and eat out the slave's ass while, suspended upside down on the front of the soldier, the slave sucked him off. And while Jack was fucking him, the Roman soldier had the slave draped on the front of him right side up this time, the slave's arms immobile in a full Nelson, the slave's thighs spread on those of the solider, and the soldier fucking up into the slave's ass.

The slave was completely at the mercy of the brutal hunk of a Roman soldier. That's what Allen dreamed of as well, being held completely in thrall of a demanding hunk.

As nice as it was to have a long, thick man inside him, Allen thought, the slave on the screen was getting more exotic action than he was. Maybe six minutes of painful ecstasy—of being truly alive—and it was done.

As halftime was winding down, Jack pulled out of Allen, jerked his body up and reversed it on the sofa, and ripped his condom off. "On the face," he commanded.

And that's where he shot his load.

Allen cleaned off in the kitchen while Jack did so in the bathroom and was back on the sofa and engrossed in the TV as the second half started.

Allen had hoped that Jack would stay around and go into the bedroom with him after the game, but Jack hadn't done so before and he didn't do it now.

"Gotta see a man about an investment portfolio," he said at the door. "You were great, babe." And then he was gone.

Yeah, great, Allen thought. He went to his bedroom, stretched out on the bed, slipped off the red silk jock strap, and masturbated himself, thinking of the action in the Roman DVD and letting the lyrics of the old Peggy Lee song, "Is That All There Is?" run through his brain. Six minutes of building arousal and six, maybe seven minutes, of walking on the clouds, and that was it. The steak had not been cheap. Allen considered that he might as well have hired a rent-boy—one who gave both commands and attention. Allen fully realized he was a needy submissive.

Still, the lieutenant, much older than Jake was, didn't last for more than five minutes. That was at a time, of course. The lieutenant came back at him after a rest. And then again—and again. By the third time, the fuck was the way Allen dreamed about—him exhausted and totally malleable to whatever the lieutenant wanted to do to him. And the third time was always the lieutenant at his most cruel and demanding. That was nice.

* * * *

Allen had to ask about the back room and how you got there. The door was pretty well camouflaged. The greasy-looking-skin guy behind the counter had given him a knowing look and popped his tongue in the side of his cheek but had shown Allen where the door to the adult section of Sam's Costume Dreamland was located.

Allen had learned about the place at work, where he overheard a couple of guys making jokes about the place. What they had said about what you could get at the costume shop had worked on Allen for a couple of days. He needed some sort of pizzaz going in his life. The porn stars in the Roman soldier film Jack had running while he fucked Allen had been having more fun than Allen was having. If nothing else, Allen decided that when he took matters into his own hands, he could be in costume and watching appropriate DVDs.

He wanted to see that Roman soldier film again. He wanted to be that slave the Roman soldier was fucking—even if vicariously. He wanted to get a copy of that film.

So, here he was, in Sam's Costume Dreamland. He'd picked up some costumes—an Indian loincloth and deerskin boots, a Navy sailor's costume, a Roman slave tunic, and a colonial dandy's blousy shirt, leather boots, and tight britches with a codpiece that opened all the way back to the ass—and set them on the counter for the smirking clerk to process. Then he needed DVDs to go with them, so he found the courage to ask the clerk about the rumored back room.

He wandered around in the back room that, the rumor having been right, had an extensive collection of DVDs and sex toys. The business office was off to the side of this back room. There was a big picture window and a door between the rooms—and the manager was sitting back there. From what Allen could see the manager was a towering, thuggish, muscular ogre of a man, somewhat like Allen's lieutenant—with a bald head, bull-thick neck, and hairy forearms. He'd glance at the man in the office occasionally and find the man always watching him, moving from the desk to standing in the door, leaning on the frame with crossed arms. Allen might have found that intimidating, but, instead, he'd been aroused by it—the hint of domination and cruelty in the man.

Being a little nervous that he was being closely watched—although understanding why a patron in this section would be—Allen quickly picked out the DVDs that went with the costumes he was buying and, as an afterthought, picked out a Jack-sized plastic dildo with knobs all over it, and went back to purchase his extensive "do it yourself" kit.

The next two evenings he enjoyed jacking off to DVDs as an Indian and a sailor, with a plastic dildo up his ass. It was something, but it wasn't everything.

On the third day when he went to the mailbox out on the street to retrieve his mail, he saw that he'd mistakenly gotten a letter addressed to a Samuel Strang at a house around the corner from him on Oak Street. It looked like a normal letter, except that on the reverse side from the address, down in the corner, in a tight little script, he saw written "Roman slave," and under that was "Saturday, 8 pm."

The inscription didn't mean anything to him, although it kept running through his brain, and he was ready to take a run anyway. He ran the misdelivered envelope around the corner to the mailbox of the house on Oak, which was much the same as his bungalow, albeit the foliage around it was thicker than around his house. The area had been a subdevelopment in the forties, so there was a basic general sameness to all of the houses tempered by time with some individuality. If his house reflected tired drabness, this one was a bit mysterious and sinister.

The next day the letter was back in the mailbox. Allen flipped it over. The same "Roman slave," with "Saturday, 8 pm" written under it, both now underlined in red. On the flap of the envelope had been added "I will take care of you."

Allen didn't immediately understand what it meant. But his dick did; it was going hard.

* * * *

The guy who opened the door of the Oak Street house to him at 8:00 p.m. on Saturday was the big ogre manager from Sam's Costume Dreamland. He was dressed as a Roman soldier in a pleated skirt; sandals, with laces up to his knees; and a full-torso breast plate in a shiny gold metal that showed a muscular, cut torso sinking down to cover the lower belly. He wore thick gold-metal bands on his wrists. Allen arrived in a simple tunic going down to mid thigh over a tied loincloth and sandals, with laces up to his knees, covered with a trench coat.

Allen had taken a wild guess and had, surprisingly, been right. He even had envisioned the costume store manager in the role of the Roman soldier, he realized, now that he saw the man in costume. The whole scenario was enveloped in a dreamlike film that enabled Allen, going completely submissive, to just float along with it now.

"I'm Sam and you are Allen Brice—and you've come here for a fantasy fuck," the man said in a deep voice. "Come in and lose the coat." He already was unlacing the breastplate, with his torso, when the armor was lost, proving to be no less muscular and cut, if thicker and more mature, than the breastplate, which he tossed aside.

"On your knees, slave. Blow me," Sam commanded. Allen sank submissively on his knees before the man with a low moan. It was all a dream, of course, but the dream was one he wanted to be in. The soldier wore no loin cloth under the short skirt. He was a bull, thick, hard, and of slightly longer than average length. His bush was coarse, unruly, and a brighter red than the hair was as it rose up his chest and arms and didn't quite reach his head. He held Allen's head close in both hands and manipulated it as Allen's mouth gagged and slurped in taking him to a pulled-out-and-cream-the face shoot off.

"Follow me and slither on your belly. You're a Roman slave and I am your general and master. I have conquered your people and now I will thoroughly subjugate you to my will and pleasure."

Allen trembled with anticipation and the novelty both of how arousing this sex role playing was and how readily he'd recognized and fallen in with it as he slithered along the floor into a room where there was a Roman couch with a plaster column behind it and a small, carved-wood table supporting an earthen-ware jug, an earthen-ware wine cup, an earthen-ware plate with a bunch of red grapes on it, and a huge earthen-ware dildo. Across the room from the Roman couch was a wall TV, running the same Roman soldier porn scene, over and over, that Jack had brought to Allen's the other night.