I Have An Idea Ch. 11

They'd fallen into a standard operating procedure. Without any real thought, Ella had developed the ability to gauge when he was most pliable and when his lack of orgasms were counterproductive. She somehow knew when to let him release a little, either through a good orgasm (which had become extremely rare) or through draining. It wasn't a regular thing. She could sense it, the tension in his body, the lines of his face, the glint in his eye. Did he hop to obey or he was just a tad reluctant? Was he happy and servile or just a bit tense and rebellious?

While she controlled him through intuition, Jim kept regular notes in his head. He had gauged that somewhere between seven to fifteen days, he should be drained. For awhile they'd had a routine, once a week on Saturday at Eight P.M. It had been so routine for awhile that he'd had found himself leaking just approaching the time. It sent his thoughts into a whirl. Conditioned. He had been conditioned. She was doing it, changing him, making his body obey her instead of him.

Then she broke the pattern, following her own sense of timing and it had disappointed him. He'd adored the routine they'd set up, absolutely loved that his cock knew the time and the place and was ready to obey. He hadn't told her this. He trusted her. He felt less and less like it was his cock. There was almost a sense of disconnection from it. It didn't feel like it belonged to him anymore. The only time it was touched by his own hand was when he was left to clean it and the cage thoroughly, and he had strict orders there was to be no pleasure. The only time it received any pleasure was from her, her hand, her mouth, her light touch. It was her toy, and she played with it when and where and how she pleased.

He asked her about the timing, out of sheer curiosity. She thought about. It amused him that she had to think about it. It was practically all he thought about, but it had barely warranted her attention. Another long, deep thrill of submission went through him. He'd never get used to it; it pushed him so completely under her control that he couldn't help wanting more.

"Well," she pondered, "it seems like if I let you go too long, then you're no good to me. The second I let you out, you're all dribbly and right at the edge. If I want sex or something, you can barely stand it, and it's too hard to keep you on the edge."

He swallowed. It all made sense, and the fact that it did left him feeling deliciously defeated. "And if the time is too short?"

The grin that appeared on her face, that lit her eyes with wicked delight made him shiver with pleasure. "Hm, that hasn't come up, has it?"

His heart was heavy; his stomach churned with ecstatic butterflies. "No, Mistress."

She sent him off to his daily punishment. He hated it. Every day, standing, sitting, holding the positions she demanded, stress positions. She barked at him, whispered sweetly, pushed his buttons, jerked the leash attached to his chastity belt, took him through obedience training with more forcefulness than before. In an hour's time, he was haggard, tired and utterly at her command, in heaven, watching her with an alertness and obedience that astonished him. Although, the astonished realization of it came later. When he was in that state, all of his conscious thoughts had somehow been pushed far away. He was only her obedient, unthinking pet.

Then the stress positions: how long did he think he could hold it? She set the timer. Agony. Eternity. Sweat and strain and trembling muscles. He hated it. The timer went off, but it wasn't the end. He learned soon enough. It meant her whispering to him again. "If you really want to stop, you can, but it would please me if you continued until I say so."

How could he refuse?

At first, she only made him hold it for a few seconds more, then a few minutes. Then she seemed to become merciless. More than once, he'd simply collapsed, his muscles as limp as noodles.

He hadn't complained. Not once. Not even during their regular "discussions" when he was to confess his thoughts and did so with an alarming openness. He did confess that he hated the positions. They were boring and painful.

In the past, her smile would've fleeted, faded into a frown. She would've apologized and kissed his face, feeling guilty. Now, she addressed his confession. "Yes, but I have noticed that it's really toning you up. Your legs and arms are looking more lean every day, and I think I see a little rippling in those abs."

He sighed and caved. She was right. The positions weren't harmful; they were actually isometric if he thought about it.

"Besides," she quipped, "you know how to make them stop."

He did. Between the punishments that went on forever and the endless teasing, morning, noon and night, she took the time to drain him, now every few days. He thought it was because of the thrill of making him do something he didn't want to do. When he'd spilled himself into her palm, she brought it to his face and waited with glittering, wicked, expectant eyes. He tried. He thought about it, struggled with it, but time after time, he resisted.

"Sooner or later," she told him, amused.

Spankings got added on. Corner time. He got tied up and put away like a vacuum in the closet. Out of sight, out of mind. She hummed and sang while he anguished.

The teasing was driving him out of his mind. She tapped his cage, whispered things that made him break out in a hot blush, things she would do to him, things she wanted him to do to her. She texted him at work. When he arrived home in the evenings, she released him from the cage and idly played with her toy while she watched TV, light fingers, warm unmoving palm, taking the time to stroke him during commercial breaks until he was hyperventilating, whimpering. Then she'd bark an order. She wanted her tea freshened with hot water. No. Crawl like a good boy.

It could all stop so easily. She was really putting the screws to him. He should hate it. He should hate her. She was hurting him, safely, without damage, but hurting all the same. It was a punishment, after all. What did he expect? She was right. If only he would break and do what she wanted him to do. It was a silly thing, harmless, but he couldn't make himself do it.

He didn't hate her. He fell more in love with her. Terrifyingly deep. It was what he claimed he wanted, wasn't it? As she took more control, he fell. He began to worry. He had feelings of guilt. Was this the way he was supposed to be?

It was turnabout at its finest. All this time he'd been lobbying her to move past her guilt, to enslave him utterly, and now she was. He worried it was an addiction. He worried she wouldn't love him anymore, couldn't love him. He worried she would reduce him to something that was less than a man, then get bored with him. She would go looking for someone else, a real man, to fulfil her. He worried, and it helplessly spilled out of him at their next discussion.

He felt like a stupid child.

When he finally peered up at her after the longest silence, he saw tears in her eyes. She tried to smile as she wiped them away. She sighed and took his face in her hands and pressed her forehead to his.

Her scent--her perfume, her shampoo, her skin lotion, her lipstick--was a seduction in itself. It made him dizzy.

"Jim," she whispered, "I've never felt so alive in all my life. I've never felt so close to someone, anyone. God . . . I love you so much." Tears dribbled down her cheeks; she sniffled miserably. "I'm more worried that I'll break you or hurt you and then you won't love me because I fucked it all up. I love the feelings I get when I control you, when you just go so totally . . . so totally deep for me, but I still feel guilty. I can't help it. What if you need someone harsher than me? Like a real Femdom? What if I push you too hard? What if I break us?"

They cuddled for a long time on the couch, his hand on her breast, nose buried into her neck. She squirmed her soft bottom against his cock cage, enjoying how trapped he still was. Hers. Under her control, even now. She wanted him, and there was no doubt he wanted her. She'd put him into a state of constant wanting. They spoke in the hushed tones of happy lovers.

"Jim, if it's something you really want to do--"

"It's not that."

She twisted her neck to catch his eyes. "Are you sure?"

He nodded. "I want to and I don't. I mean, I don't want to do it. It's kind of disgusting to me. But I get a thrill just thinking about you making me do it. Like you said, it's really harmless. Every time I'm sure this will be the time I break. I'm sure you'll make me cave and that drives me crazy, because then who knows what you could make do, and that drives me even crazier."

He laughed and kissed her shoulder. "I want you to make me do it, but I don't know if I can."

She blushed and pressed her bottom against his trapped cock again. "Why can't you?"

He shook his head. "I don't know. I just get . . . blocked or something. I get up to it and then I just can't."

She turned and relaxed in his arms. "Hmm."

After a moment, with just a hint of panic in his voice, he said, "Please don't give up on me." It was very close to a whine, too close.

It took her while to decide. Yes. It was whiney enough, and they had rules. No begging. No whining. She pointed to the floor lazily. "Number four."

His heart soared, but his shoulders sagged. He smiled but sighed heavily, feeling both happy and defeated. He hated stress position four, but she'd answered him, hadn't she? It was a sit up that never ended, but she would keep at it until he broke. He'd never enjoyed his conflicted feelings more.

He extracted himself from the couch, and parked himself on his naked butt in between her and the TV, his arms, legs and torso raised.

She picked up the remote and flipped through channels, smiling helplessly now and then when he grunted and moaned.

* * *

The texting between her and her mentor from the Divine Tantra site had ended. They had chatted over the internet in voice, and finally exchanged phone numbers. She had a network now of other women like her. She was a member of the club, even helping moderate the forum when she had time.

Still, out of all the women she'd met, she trusted her friend the most. She arranged an internet call. They spoke for an hour, chatted about life, work, the DT site. Her mentor had children, so there was a lot to hear. After an hour though, they both recognized Ella had something on her mind.

It spilled out of her, every detail. Jim and his challenge and his block and his desire to overcome it for her. Ella and her challenge and her true desire to manipulate him into something doing he didn't want to do. It had worked so well in the past; why didn't it work now?

Her friend had a suggestion. A woman who was a friend of a friend. A therapist.

Did they really need couples therapy?

"Not therapy for you," her friend said. "She is a therapist, but she's very kink friendly. She holds a lot of chats on the site talking about safety, physical and psychological. She's written a few books on relationships. She's wonderful!"

"I don't know," Ella replied. "I'm not sure how Jim will feel about a therapist." Before her friend could interject, she added, "I know. It's my decision, not his, but for something like this I still like to talk to him first."

Her friend laughed. "You're the Mistress. You can do whatever you want. But I'd like to give her you number. I bet she could solve it in ten seconds. Seriously. You won't be sorry. She's so full of information that I could just listen to her talk all day."

In the end Ella relented. She was uncertain. She decided not to ask Jim just yet. A thrill rushed through her as she considered not asking him at all. He had been begging to be her slave, after all. When did slaves really get choices about anything?

She received an email from Amy Owens, asking if she could call and when would be a good time. There was something Ella liked about her right away. Just the tone of her email seemed friendly. While arranging a good time to talk, they realized they were in the same time zone, then realized they were only a few hours away. She was practically a local. That made Ella even more comfortable.

On the first call, they spoke for hours like old friends. Amy didn't sound like a therapist. She sounded warm and accepting and talked freely about her own life, her husband, her sexuality. Her husband and her did not engage in kink in any major way. They did not have a FLR or WLM, though they had tried it for a year. They had also tried numerous other things. Amy had been submissive to him for a year. In the end, they decided they liked being equals, even liked the struggles that came with being equals. "But we never would've known that," Amy told her, "if we hadn't had those experiences to establish a contrast."

Amy asked if she could visit. Ella was reluctant. "I appreciate the thought, but I guess I'm a little wary of us starting couples therapy."

Amy laughed. "Ella, I don't do therapy in people's homes. I do it in my office. This is an interest of mine outside of my practice. I'm gathering research for a book and you two sound like a perfect couple. Now, before you say anything, names, descriptions all get changed so no one would know, but you two went from a pretty straight vanilla relationship to a D/s relationship. From the way you describe it, it sounds like you used kink to save you relationship. That is of great interest to me."

Ella grew even more concerned. "Let me think about it."

Amy agreed. "That's a good idea, but let me say one or two things to put your mind at ease. First, I've talked with dozens of couples, and I can honestly say no two are exactly the same. I hope you know by now that it's your choice about how your relationship progresses. Don't let yourself get caught up in the definition of what a 'Mistress' is supposed to be. You define it, no one else. Second, I really would love to come and meet you and Jim, not for therapy, not for the book, but just to meet you. I've loved talking with you and I often visit people from the DT site, just to visit. I even arrange get togethers for everyone. Third, just from our discussion, I'm reasonably certain I know what you want and I know what Jim wants, and I know exactly how to help you. I promise within a week, he'll be eating out of your hand." She giggled. "Literally."

Ella giggled in response. She was still hesitant, but her offer was too good to pass up.

* * *

Jim wore the shirt and pants that Ella ordered. By that simple act alone he was already feeling submissive. He carried out her instructions, answering the door before Amy could ring the doorbell, greeting her and offering to take her coat or purse or anything that was appropriate. He was to escort her to the living room and offer her a beverage, coffee, soda, tea. Then he was to fetch his Mistress by finding her and dropping to his knees, waiting patiently for her to acknowledge him.

By the time he did it all, he was practically floating.

Amy had a young voice as it turned out. She was in her fifties, but when Jim helped her out of her coat, he spotted her lean, trim arms. She wore a sleeveless white blouse with ruffles and medium length charcoal skirt and it was obvious she was absolutely fit. Her face showed her age if you looked close enough, but her petite figure and blonde hair were absolute distractions. She could easily past for thirty, possibly even younger.

She had a nice face, too. She was pretty without being intimidating. Her smile was big and genuine and Jim had to admit, he liked her right away. She was the type of tomboy cheerleader that was so genuinely sweet she was comfortable with any crowd. By the time they'd made it to the living room he'd confessed the entire history of his and Ella's relationship.

He nearly forgot his instructions. He was tempted to stand there and talk to Amy forever.

He hurried to find Ella and knelt, waiting until he felt her hand brushing his hair, hearing her soft "Good boy". When she shooed him away, he rushed to the kitchen to start on the tea. It was not lost on him that this was not unlike his fantasy: serving two women. Along with a deep sexual thrill, he felt a sense of pride. This was the first time he'd been submissive in front of anyone. He thought Ella might be showing him off a little, and if not, he thought he might be showing off a little.

They were already talking like old friends by the time he brought them the tray with cups and saucers. He stood nearby, uncertain as to whether he should sit or leave or what his role should be. Ella let him stand without so much as a smile. They drank their tea, skipped through topic after topic, and finally, almost without thinking Ella turned to him and said, "Have you finished the laundry?"

His heart skipped a beat. His eyes shifted between her and their guest. "Almost. I maybe have some ironing."

She waved him away. "Get to it."

With his heart in his throat, he hurried to the laundry room. While he folded and situated the ironing board, he listened to their quiet, unintelligible voices. He heard laughter from time to time as their voices rose, but mostly he wondered how much of what they were saying was about him. With women, he thought, probably less than ten percent.

He finished the folding. He finished the ironing. He finished everything and was at a loss. Should he dare pass through the living room? If he wanted to put the clothes away, the master bedroom (or should that be Mistress bedroom?) was past them. He decided not, feeling they didn't want to be disturbed. The uncertainly bothered him more than a little. He reminded himself to bring that up during their next discussion.

That made him chuckle. He wanted more instructions, more rules.

After what seemed like hours, Ella called his name and he jumped to his feet.

As he entered the living room, Ella was already on her way out of the room. She didn't look at him, not a smile, not a wink. He felt like he was balancing on a thin wire. Amy smiled and motioned him to the couch. The couch. A therapist and a couch. He wasn't thrilled at the idea. He'd wanted to shut the whole thing down, honestly, but it was Ella's decision. Right?

Did he get no say at all? He had begged to be her slave. He had to admit: it sounded a lot like what he'd asked for.

"How are you, Jim?" Amy wondered.

He settled nervously on the couch, but his nervousness didn't last long. Amy worked her usual magic, the same magic she'd worked earlier. Now, the laughing voices were his and Amy's.

His feelings of submission faded. She could tell. His demeanor changed; his posture changed. He no longer sat on the edge of the cushion uncertainly, demurely. He took command of the couch, settling back, legs apart, arms stretched and draped over the back.

After awhile, he realized he really liked Amy. She was hard not to like.

"So, Jim," Amy continued, "Ella has mentioned your latest challenge. I hope that's okay."

He blushed, but nodded. "I guess so. It's kind of a stupid thing."

"But it's important to you, isn't it?"

He nodded again. "Yeah. I'm not sure why, but it feels important."

"Well, there are lot of important things happening in your life, your upcoming wedding for one."

He laughed and slipped to the edge of the couch, leaning forward, clasping his hands. "Don't remind me."

"You sound nervous." She grinned.

His eyes caught hers. "I am, but I want to do it."

Amy eyed him curiously. "You want to do this other thing, too, but Ella said you felt blocked."

His brow furrowed; he shook his head. "I do. I don't know why."

"Well, first of all, can you tell me what it is she wants you to do?"

He laughed nervously and swallowed a dry gulp. "Uh . . . well . . . she, uh--"