I Have An Idea Ch. 04

At the moment, after a few weeks of teasing and not cumming, of draining without any real orgasm, Jim was not exactly in his right mind. Was this the way it would be from now on? Her manipulating him until he was desperate with need and willing to do anything, offering anything just for a smile and a kiss?

There had been new rules. No begging. No whining. No asking for sex. They were on her schedule, whatever she decided that was. No disagreements or arguments. He could state his case once and once only, and have one follow up question or remark, but it couldn't be sarcastic, angry or pouty in tone. There would be weekly discussions at the time of her choosing, but usually on Sunday. During these discussions, he could speak freely: What was working for them? What wasn't? What did he like? What did she like? What didn't they?

Only now their discussions didn't take place with her hand on his cock. They took place with them cuddled on the couch, with her legs in his lap and him giving her a foot massage. He was getting better and better at it. His internet history (another new rule: he was not to clear the cache or cookies and she could look whenever she pleased) revealed he'd been watching YouTube videos on foot massages and reading instructional sites.

During the discussions, his eyes were glued to her beautiful feet. He always commented on the color of her nail polish, always exhibited flushed cheeks, tented pants, and always found himself confessing terrifyingly deep thoughts to her, including some deep fantasies he'd always attempted to keep secret. He didn't know why it happened, but for some reason these things just seemed to spill out of him.

She wasn't allowed, she'd been told by her mentor, to get upset by his fantasies or to be turned off by them. She had to be open and accepting. She didn't have to fulfill the ones she didn't like, but she should make an effort to incorporate some of his ideas into her daily routine, her teasing of his cock, her text messages, emails and phone calls. The more she did so, her friend promised, the more Jim would fall under her spell.

He was firmly under her spell already, even though she wasn't sure that was she wanted.

Once, when getting into his car, she'd made a casual remark about the window shield being a little dirty. The next thing she knew, he was whipping into a gas station for a car wash. She hadn't meant anything by it; it was just an observation, but she noted the entire time he'd been squirming, his face flushed. After the giant foamy brushes had finished, he'd turned to her and asked, "Is that better, Ella?"

It hadn't been angry; it had been pure arousal.

She called him a good boy in jest, but he moaned in earnest, moaned like he did when she was teasing his cock.

For the rest of the day, she'd had a lump in the pit of her belly, a wound up tension, like a ball of wire wrapped tightly around something wet, slippery and hot. She was turned on. Not just turned on, but on fire. They'd spent the entire day together feeling that way.

What was next on the agenda? Her friend wouldn't say, which of course only made her more curious.

She thought about that day, when he'd been turned on by washing his car for her, when she'd been turned on by how quickly he'd jumped to obey her, even though she hadn't intended it.

She perused her memory of it, what had happened later, savoring it.

She caught him in the living room that night, only moments after having arrived home. She called his name, and he turned. She motioned him toward her with a crooked finger.

She could feel the heat between them, the electricity. It was almost too intense, almost overwhelming.

Gently, she placed her hand on his shoulder, and pressed. He acquiesced almost at once, lowering himself to his knees. She placed her hand on his head then, bringing it toward herself.

He knelt there, breathing raggedly, staring at her skirt, inhaling, hoping to catch a whiff of her natural perfume.

Her whisper was all it took, soft and commanding. "Go on."

He didn't just go down on her; he threw himself into her. He was all tongue and lips, mouth sucking at her clit, lips swimming over her swollen lips, teeth on her thighs.

He was on his knees, worshiping.

She came quickly and stumbled back weak-kneed.

He caught her, lowered her to the couch, pampered her.

They barely exchanged a word, only what was necessary.

That was the night their relationship changed. A real change. A significant change.

That was the night she told him to fetch her a blanket only to hear him reply, without humor this time, "Yes, Ma'am."

She almost missed it. It felt . . . natural.

She asked him if he wanted to cum and he replied, "No, Ma'am."

"Why not?"

"Because I'd rather get you off."

What was next? She had to know. She messaged her friend, but the next level, the next step was not forthcoming. 'Not yet.'

'When?' she'd replied.

'You'll know.'

And she did.

* * *

She thought about it and thought about it again. She fantasized about it on the way to work, at work, on the way home, whenever she had a quiet moment.

All that power. All that muscle. He was taller than her, stronger than her, broader than her. His hand could wrap around her small wrist with his finger overlapping his thumb. If he wanted to pick her up, it was easy. All that ego. All that stubbornness. At her command. Moving under her direction. His desire captured by her, awaiting her whim for its release.

It caught in her chest like a furious fluttering butterfly. She couldn't get rid of it. She could put her hand on his shoulder and he would wordlessly sink to his knees and worship her.

Her sheerest whim ("The window is a bit dirty") had him scrambling to please her.

Should she be worried abut this?

Would she take things too far? Even that question in her mind told her how far they'd come. Would "she" take things too far? Not, would "he" let things go too far?'

She wanted to bring it up in their discussion, but she didn't get the chance.

She hadn't been counting the days, but he had. He beamed with pride, couldn't wait to call her attention to it. Except for their "draining" sessions, when she brought him close enough for the cum to leak out in a frustrating warm dribble, but not close enough for him to have an orgasm (she'd gotten relatively good at that, she thought), he hadn't had an orgasm in 31 days.

He'd beaten his old record, he said.

She hadn't been aware that had been a record.

On his knees, gazing up into her eyes, with all of the solemnity of a preacher on Judgment Day, he said, "I was thinking we should, uh, move in together."

She blinked, and blinked again. "What?"

His eyes flashed with concern. "It seems like it's time, you know. We've been getting along so well, I thought."

She nodded, her eyes gazing down upon him. "We have."

He swallowed and separated himself from her, removing his hands from her legs, but not quite daring to stand. After a torturous silence, he asked, "So?"

"So . . . I'd like to think about it."

He froze, his eyes wide. "You want to think about it?"

"Yes."

He studied her face, the words dropping like lead weights from his lips. "Fine. Let me know."

It was the most unpleasant evening they'd had since their little game had begun. She tried cuddling with him on the couch, and while he didn't push her away, his body had never truly relaxed. He was cuddling out of obligation, not desire.

She got the hint.

They watched TV and went to bed, he on his side, she on hers.

It was surprising how quickly their closeness could disappear. She was more than a little heartbroken. She was angry; she felt she'd disappointed him. She argued with herself. He'd caught her off guard. It wasn't that she didn't want to move in with him; she just worried that he would regret it later. She worried that with all those orgasm chemicals in his brain, unreleased, maybe he wasn't quite in his right mind.

Her friend, as always, had words of encouragement. 'Do you love him?'

Of course she loved him. She'd been in love with him for over a year, but never more passionately than in the last few months. 'Yes, and I know he loves me.'

'Then, what's the problem?'

'The problem is he isn't exactly himself right now.'

A confused, eye rolling smiley appeared. 'How so?'

Was she serious? 'Well, because he hasn't had an orgasm for a month. He's not thinking clearly.'

'Hmm.'

Ella was a little irritated. 'What does hmmm mean?'

'It means, I think that he is in his right mind. You aren't.'

She was ready to throw her laptop at the wall. 'What do you mean?'

'I mean, that you keep suggesting that he's in some kind of trance, under your spell, and that some day he'll return to normal. What if this is normal?'

'But,' she typed slowly, her nails hammering the keys, 'it's not.'

'You're suggesting that if he doesn't have an orgasm every day, which made him and you unhappy, that he's not in his normal frame of mind.'

Ella's frustration waned slightly. 'Well, something like that.'

'Well, I'm not an anthropologist, but I'm guessing back in the days before we all had TVs and air conditioning and computers, we were busy surviving, farming, working in factories. I have a feeling men were far more stressed and exhausted back then, and I doubt they had the time or energy to sit in their comfy office chairs and touch themselves all day.'

Damn it all if she wasn't making sense. She could feel her opinion turning and wasn't she wanted it to be turned. 'Maybe.'

'It's only been the last century or so that men have had all this leisure time, all this free time to visit strip bars, to have porn at their fingertips 24/7. Not to mention the effect of all the advertising and how everything is completely sexual all the time. For all the effect that those pictures of perfect, airbrushed female bodies have on us, they have an equal effect on men.'

She thought about it, but couldn't quite commit. 'You're trying to convince me what we're doing is normal.'

'No, Sweetheart. I'm telling you that Jim jerking off every day to porn that is always available to him at any time day or night is NOT normal. I'm suggesting that if you ask him, he'll choose the life you have now over the life you had a few months ago. He's HAPPY. And so are you.'

'So,' she typed back, her nails barely making contact with the keys, 'you're saying I should move in with him?'

'I'm saying that it's your choice. If you love him and you want to move in with him, you should. If you have really good reasons not to, then you shouldn't. It has to be your decision. But you're missing a critical point.'

'What's that?'

'Punishment.'

She felt her eyes reading the word again and again. 'What do you mean?'

'I mean, he wanted something, didn't get it and turned into a pouty baby. You can't let that pass. He needs to be punished and you need to be the one to do it. It's time for him to learn how to handle this type of thing, what to do, what to say, what not to do and say. And, honestly, it's time for you to woman up and accept that you are the one in charge of him and your relationship.'

She removed the laptop from her lap and sat up. She stared at the wall, but it offered no advice. She stood and paced for a moment, her mind in a whirr. Carrying the laptop to the breakfast bar, she settled into a chair and renewed her conversation, ignoring the 'Hello?' message.

'How?' she asked, and her friend sent her a smirking smiley face and explained everything.

* * *

She set her briefcase down on the dinner table and smelled hot oil and vegetables. He was cooking for her every evening, despite never having been asked. She pondered that little puzzle; he was obviously still mad at her, but still serving her. Had it become such a habit that he didn't even think about it anymore?

He turned and gave her a fleeting smile, his eyes dropping quickly. "Hey."

"Hi," she said. "Smells good."

"It's done when you're ready."

She removed her suit coat and draped it over the back of the bar chair. "Can we talk first please?"

He stiffened, refusing to meet her gaze. "What about?"

"Not here," she ordered. "In the living room please."

She heard him ask, "What for--" but she'd already left the room.

When he turned the corner, he saw her sitting on the couch, legs crossed at the knee, hands in her lap. She had sexy legs, and she was still wearing her heels. Usually she took them off at the door.

He approached her and lowered himself to his usual "discussion" position, beside her on the couch. She snapped her fingers at him. "No, no, on the floor please."

He frowned. "You want me to sit on the floor?"

"You can kneel if you prefer, but you're taller than me, so even when you sit beside me my neck gets tired from having to look up at you."

He blinked and frowned. It wasn't that he hadn't knelt for her before; he'd spent quite a lot of time kneeling with his face buried between her thighs. It was the fact this didn't feel like a sexual situation. It felt like something entirely different.

He reluctantly lowered himself to a kneeling position and watched as she dangled her heel from her toes.

"Would you mind?" she asked with a sweet tone.

He removed her shoe and set it on the floor.

She smiled and lifted her other foot to him. His eyes flashed with concern, but he removed her other shoe and set it next to the first. He was looking uncomfortable.

"So," she whispered, "you're angry with me?"

He put his hands on his hips, trying to look casual, but it didn't work, so he sat back on the floor and leaned back. "No. I'm fine."

"But . . you're upset?"

He shrugged. "Not really."

"Because, you've been acting that way. This is because you asked me to move in with you, right?"

He shrugged again, sat up. "Hey, if you don't want to, you don't want to."

She crossed her legs and remembered the advice of her mentor. "So, last chance. Do you want to talk about this?"

He gazed up at her and sighed. "There's nothing to talk about."

"Okay," she nodded. "If you don't want to talk, then you can listen. So, no talking at all from now on. Do you understand?"

His eyes hardened. "Sure. Fine. Talk."

She placed her stockinged foot on his thigh and watched his eyes flit down to study it. "You've really hurt my feelings the last couple of days."

His head bobbed up. "I've hurt your--"

She placed her finger over her lips. "Shush. I gave you a chance, remember?"

He turned red and simmered, motioning for her to continue.

"Yes, Jim. Everything was going so well. I loved that you asked me to move in with you, and I know--" She corrected herself, remembering yet more advice from her friend from the DT website. "I suspect that you're upset with me because I didn't jump right into your arms the second you asked. But . . . that was because the first thought that hit my head was, 'Is he going to regret this?''"

He placed a hand on the couch. "This is silly, Ella. Can't I sit on the couch? I mean . . . it's hard to talk to you this way."

"You don't have to talk to me, Jim. In fact, we agreed you had your chance and you're supposed to be listening, and I don't see how sitting on the couch could help you listen any better. You're not doing such a great job of listening on your--"

She stopped herself, and took a breath. Friend's advice, 'Don't get mad. NEVER get mad. There are other ways.'

"Please, just listen for a few minutes. I was afraid that you were all crazy with hormones because you haven't cum for over a month, and that you were asking me to move in with you because of that, and that as soon as we took our break, you'd come to your senses and realize you'd made a mistake. So, I wanted to think about it. That's why I asked you for some time."

He rubbed his forehead. "I didn't know."

"No," she agreed, "you didn't." She rubbed his thigh with her foot and tried to give him a smile. "And you didn't exactly give me a chance to explain."

He nodded. "I guess . . . I got . . . I don't know, hurt, I guess, when you didn't seem excited by it. I'd been thinking about it for a week, and I thought you'd like it."

"Do you think I couldn't see that? If you'd only given me a chance to explain, we could've talked about this three days ago."

He nodded. "Yeah, I know. I'm an idiot again. I'm always an idiot."

She raised her foot to touch her toes to his chin. His head bobbed up again. "No, but you made a mistake, and now you have to be punished."

He blinked. "What do you mean, 'punished'?"

"I mean," she replied, and started to lower her foot only to have it caught by his hands, "for the next three days, you are not to touch me. Not a kiss, not a hug, nothing."

He blinked and swallowed. "I . . . uh . . . is this part of the game?"

She smiled and blushed. "Sort of, but I think we know our little game is becoming something more."

"So," his eyes shifted nervously in his head, "I can't touch you for three days."

"Yes, Sweetheart. For the next three days, not only can you not touch yourself, but you can't touch me. And if you do, even by accident, then we add another day to the sentence."

He rubbed her foot, pressing his thumbs under her arch where he'd learned she loved it the most. "Starting tomorrow."

He grinned.

"And it's not just for three days."

His grin faltered. "What do you mean?"

"I mean, unless you can tell me what you did wrong and what you should've done and apologize at the end of the three days, you earn another day, and another until you figure it out."

He smiled and gave her big toe a small kiss. "I'm sorry, Ella. I'm an idiot. I wasn't trying to hurt you--"

"Stop," she commanded, surprised by her own tone. "Not now. In three days, once you've had time to think about it, and I don't ever want to hear you call yourself an idiot again. Is that clear?"

She felt a little bad. Her tone, her demeanor was so mean. She felt more like a drill Sargent than a girlfriend, but her head began to swim when she noticed the expression on his face. He kissed her toe again with his eyes closed and softly whispered, "Yes, Ma'am."

* * *

Walking beside her, sleeping beside her, being around her became torturous. The little gestures that were so automatic between lovers were now forbidden and utterly conscious. He separated himself from her while grocery shopping, used the cart as a buffer. He grew concerned when she insisted on driving everywhere; driving his own car made it easier to keep his hands busy. Riding beside her, he tended to keep his arms crossed, almost as if hugging himself for comfort.

He called her after work and suggested going home, instead of coming over.

"No," she refuted, "I want you with me."

"No, seriously, Ella. I'm exhausted."

"Then you can relax here."

Her friend had warned her of such an attempt. 'Keep him as close to you as possible. He'll look for excuses to stay away from you to make his punishment easier. Don't let him get away with it.'

She found herself having to be insistent, found her tone becoming unintentionally harsh. She never purposefully used such tones, but they seemed to spill out of her more and more. It didn't help that he responded the way he did, shivering with pleasure, blushing furiously, addressing her as "Ma'am".

He brushed past her arm once at the department store and exploded with apologies, drawing the stares of the other shoppers. He didn't seem to notice. He was too busy squirming. It was his last day and being so near her, smelling her perfume, seeing her legs, her bare shoulders, her neck, her small hands was too much. He felt like he was sporting a permanent erection, and that it was always pointed at her like a magic erotic compass.

"It's okay," she grinned.

"No, seriously," he turned pale. "I'm very sorry. It was an accident. I didn't realize you were right behind me when I turned. I thought--"