Ella rested her head on his chest, snuggled up and cozy, feeling stretched and well used. She was in heaven. She listened to Jim's heart, heard the rumble of his voice and turned so she could gaze up into his eyes. They twinkled like stars, full of joy and love and adoration. "Hmm?"
He smiled. "Thank you. That was unexpected."
He'd had a quick orgasm to start with, an appetizer, six months in the building. After a short recovery, he'd worked himself up to two more and now he was exhausted.
She closed her eyes and squirmed even closer against him. "You've been a good boy. You earned it."
He chuckled and the rumble of it in his chest made her happy in ways she couldn't define. "Thank you, Mistress."
It was the first time he'd used the term where it wasn't laden with desperation. The need was gone, well satisfied, stripped down to its bare bones, and its bare bones was pure love.
He took a deep breath and watched her head rise and fall. He debated with himself. Was it appropriate for his Mistress to rest her head on his chest? Did it put her in a submissive position? Shouldn't it be the other way around?
Did it matter? She was still a woman, and still needed the love and strength of a good man, but more importantly, it was what she wanted. His job was to tend to her needs, and if this was where she wanted to be, then it was his job as slave to fulfill her desire.
While he carried on his silent debate, she carried on hers:
He's becoming my Slave, she thought. Not my boyfriend, my slave.
Is this what she wanted? She loved him, had loved him from the first moment he'd smiled in that easy, relaxed way of his. All she'd truly wanted was a way to keep him, a way to be happy and still have him around, doing the things he did, touching her, speaking the way he did, all manly and good. Was this the only way for them to be together? Why did it seem she was having more difficulty with it than him?
His hand gently petted her, smoothing across her hair as if she were a lazy kitten snuggled up against him.
A rolling wave of happiness cascaded through him. Even after the sex, the amazing orgasms, he realized how good it could all be. Why couldn't he have done this on his own? Before giving her control over their relationship, over him, he'd been selfish and lazy. If only he'd known how happy he could be serving her, even without the Mistress / slave set up, he would've done it ages ago. It was his ego and his pride that had stood in his way.
His ego and pride had taken a beating lately, for the better he thought. He allowed himself to be reduced to her toy whenever she chose. At least once a day, sometimes when they were getting ready for work, sometimes when they'd returned home, she snapped her fingers and he dropped to his knees. Kneeling, head bowed, arms behind him, submissive and strangely happy to be have her attention once again.
He'd missed a few of her finger snaps at the beginning. He'd been so engrossed in his duty, washing clothes, dishes, cleaning her shoes, taking care of bills, that he simply hadn't heard them. She'd punished him with corner time, stress positions and spankings. He improved quickly and drastically. He learned to always keep one ear open for her snapping fingers. It taught him to keep part of his mind focused on one of her desires, even when he was fulfilling another. The days of tuning her out while he drove or watched TV were gone. He was proud of how good he'd gotten at it, and it didn't help that she rewarded him, conditioned him as always, with a long stroke of his cock or a kiss or a warm hand on his shoulder or the back of his neck. Although, it was the warm, rewarding tone of her voice that penetrated him the most. One "Good boy" from her was like a thousand Suns going supernova in his heart.
She'd become frighteningly skilled at conditioning him. It was amazingly effective, and he'd become astonishingly receptive to it, soaking it in like a new medicine.
She reinforced his obedience with leash training. He crawled beside her on hands and knees, naked, while she whispered commands, barely audible. She did it with the leash and without. She had him obey silently by the pull of the leash alone. Heel. Sit. Beg. Up. Down. He'd learned more positions, but he didn't remember them all, and that was insidious, because his body knew them and adopted them without him thinking.
It didn't help that she occasionally turned his ass red beforehand: a harsh spanking with a paddle on his poor bottom while he remained as still and as quiet as possible per her quiet repetitive instructions. It softened him up, she said, and she was right. It zapped him, put him into an incredibly deep submissive state, and the obedience training was so much more powerful because of it.
He loved the smell of her dirty clothes. She'd conditioned that it into him as well. He was overwhelmed with arousal and joy whenever he did her laundry. He loved the smell of her feet. He now begged to give her foot massages, to shine her heels, taking long drags from the inside of her shoes, worse than a cigarette. It was an addiction. She'd created an addicted to her and he loved her for it.
She took him shopping, picked out his ties, his shirts, his suits, but there were no boxers. There were panties. Panties reminded him where he lived and with whom. Panties reminded him of his owner. He found deep shame when he slipped them up his legs. They were too tight, too soft, too silky, and she insisted on a certain variety, the girly ones, the cute ones, the sexy ones. Panties were her way of keeping her hand in his pants all day long.
She texted him at work. 'How are they feeling today?'
He texted back. 'Tight.'
' :P Are you ashamed of them?'
Under his desk, his erection grew. His secretary dropped off a file and gave him a quick smile. 'Deeply,' he texted back.
'Good boy.'
His erection found a new high. There were days where she texted him twenty times or more, teasing, humiliating messages. By the time he arrived home, he was in a molten mess, begging to please her. She did it on purpose. She was enjoying it. She arrived home smiling, blushing, expecting him on his knees. She could tell when she'd done a good job, kept him on pins and needles the entire day. She could make him shudder now with a grin.
He remembered when just one text from her made him feel nagged and suffocated.
Once, when she was drunk, she'd teased him mercilessly. Edged--brought to the edge of an orgasm time after time with no fruition. Restricted by her words her alone, by her command, by her desire. Kneeling, naked, chastity device removed, arms behind him, he was to remain as still as possible and remain soundless. No gasps, no moans, no begging. Just her and her hand and her eyes gazing deep into his.
It was the most intimate connection he'd ever experienced.
She stopped and freshened up her lipstick, which had been mussed by frequent kissing. He watched the glistening red go on her lips, watched her stretch her lips to accommodate the bright red color, watched the tube slip over her lips, slick and perfect. His cock had begun to twitch then. She wasn't touching him, hadn't touched him for several minutes, but it twitched and bobbed and a long stream spilled out.
She'd blushed, surprised by his reaction. She gave him a quick shocked expression, followed by that sly grin that made him worry. Without another thought, she grabbed his chin, forced his lips into a pucker and applied the lipstick to her mouth.
He remembered thinking, "Please, no--", but it was too late. She'd accidentally (maybe) begun conditioning him to love lipstick.
