A Woman in Control - My good organizer V

My good organizer V

Jack calls twice per day for bathroom visits. He acclimates to my authority, never knowing how long I will command him to wait.

Slowly his courage builds, if his beseeching words for permission can be so described. Finally on Thursday morning, calling again to urinate, he again broaches the subject of the straps.

“I... I... bought a bed... a spare bed.”

“And curtains?” I inquire.

“Couldn’t find anything that dark and thick. I finally bought some canvass, stuff for sailing, cut and did some sewing.”

How enlightening! A man who can cook and sew.

“Very creative.”

“So the straps,” Jack’s voice becoming a whisper.

“Saturday. I want you to cook and serve me again. Beef Wellington. Onion soup. Baby carrots, I’m sure you can whip up an appropriate glaze.” 

“And the straps?”

“Straps and locks, Jack. Be naked and wearing the cuffs. I want you to serve me naked, Jack.”

There comes silence. Did he come in his suit pants?

“I’m very shy, Miss Montrove.”

This brings a smile. Of course Jack is shy... as shy as the mouse he is.

“Wear the cuffs and old clothing. We’ll accommodate your shyness... this time.” 

So on Saturday, toting another Saks Fifth Avenue shopping bag, I once again visit Jack’s apartment. He graciously opens the door. I extend my hand and he kisses it, Posey cuffs on both wrists, I presume ankles as well. His clothing is worn but presentable, Jack’s neatness quirk I am sure mandating the disposition of anything unsightly.

I am offered Champagne, he knows not to drink, and when he extends his hand I adroitly snap in place a luggage lock, securing the narrow strap which encircles the velcro of the right Posey cuff. 

“Left.”

He wordlessly presents and I likewise lock. Then I drop two locks to the floor and Jack knows to go down to his knees, pull up his pants and replicate my efforts on the ankle cuffs right and left.

He’s mine.

“Barefoot, Jack. I want to be served barefoot. Remove your socks.”

He complies and I then visit the spare bedroom. There the newly acquired single bed rests, pushed again the right wall. There is also some other minor furniture, a straight backed chair, foot stool, a floor lamp, small dresser. The makeshift curtains are perfect. Not a hint of daylight shines.

“The room must be barren, Jack. Remove the furniture, take everything off the walls, move the bed to the center... now!”

He jumps, immediately picking up the stool and stepping out to stuff it somewhere. I find I need more Champagne and leave to pour myself another glass, savoring the fragrance of roasting beef  while Jack labors.  

Within minutes he reports the tasks completed.

Picking up the shopping bag I reenter the bedroom. The straps are very simple. Long, flat and about an inch wide, I slip one under the mattress at the end of the bed and work it to the opposite side. This will restrain the ankles. Another, I slip under the middle, right side to left to restrain the wrists. The ends of the strap will slip through sturdy buckles embedded in the cuffs, folded and doubled back, making Jack and the bed one. A woman of supervision can tighten and adjust. The bearer of the cuffs cannot, off course. There is more, but that will come in time. Jack will be immersed in bondage slowly. Suffering is best meted over long intervals.

“Dinner, Miss Montrove,” my servant announces.

I stroll to the dining area. Jack serves. He’s a natural... servant and chef. The soup is zesty, the beef medium rare, the encrusting pastry puffy and light.

“You’re shy but you have vivid fantasies... deviant I am sure but vivid, Jack. Such conflict,” I prompt as Jack stands nearby, ready to refill my wine glass, respond to the snap of my fingers.

“I’m... well physically slight.”

“That cannot be masked, Jack. You need to come to terms with it. So there has not been much interaction with women... during your developing years?”

He’s uncomfortable, contemplating an answer, pausing to pour more wine as he organizes his thoughts. Finally he speaks.

“Very little.”

“So you masturbate?”

Jack blushes, like a little girl, the answer apparent. No reply needed.

“That will stop. You’re very obedient in asking permission to urinate. So henceforth you’ll need to ask permission to masturbate as well,” assuming you can move so much as a finger, I think but do not say.   

Jack just nods.

“I’ll have dessert later, Jack,” vanilla ice cream with a black cherry sauce I am sure Jack spent hours preparing. “Go to the spare bedroom, lie down supine.”

Do I again detect a bulge?

He slips away, tip toeing on bare feet. I go to the kitchen and locate a large and very sharp knife, Jack the gourmet having quite the selection. I slip it behind me, tucking it out of sight under my belt. Then I follow to the spare bedroom where Jack obeisantly lies. It requires not more than minute to thread the ends of the straps through ankle cuffs right and left.   

Then I take my time to adjust.... tight... tighter... frustratingly taut. It’s a ritual in which Jack will subconsciously come to revel.

Wrist cuffs are next... tight... tighter... frustratingly taut.

“How do you feel?”

“Restrained.”

“You are... very well restrained. Physically restrained. But what are your thoughts? You no longer have control. You cannot move, except fingers, toes and head.”

“It’s... strange.”

“Strange good... or strange bad?”

“I... I... don’t know.”

“Normally there is offered a word or coded phrase, suggesting relief or release. You have not asked for that Jack.”

“Yes, I guess that would be good to have.”

“You won’t have it,” I smirk wickedly then reach behind for the knife.

It frightens. It should. Jack is helpless. The blade gleams ominously. Jack knows full well how sharp and well hardened is the tempered stainless steel. It can probably cut bone.

Jack panics. Has he placed himself at the mercy of a demented serial killer?

“No!” tugging deliciously at his bonds.

“Oh, yes Jack. The shyness will need to end.”

With that I slip the knife tip under the collar of his shirt, blade upwards, and slowly draw down to his stomach, instantly slicing through the fabric, exposing a scrawny chest.

“It’s best that you be naked for me, Jack. Shyness is not part of the exchange... the exchange of power,” my words come as I shred the right sleeve.

The left sleeve follows, the muscling of the arm sinewy but limited. The sound of tearing must terrify, I think to myself. But if Jack is truly as shy as he suggests, the terror will come when the tearing stops.

Pants at the waist, right leg then left. Underpants. I work with fervor, not pausing to examine. There will be plenty of time for that.

Though slight, tugging the shredded garments from beneath proves to be a chore. Jack cannot roll to assist, but with my regular workouts, I have the arm strength that Jack does not. Soon every square inch of covering is slipped from under and piled on the floor to be disposed of if and when Jack is freed to keep house.

The protestations continue and I of course ignore. Then after stepping away to stow the knife, I return. Time for a leisurely inspection.

“You object, but your penis seems to enjoy, Jack.”

Yes, the embarrassment and humiliation has that effect on men of Jack’s predilection. He’s aroused and he’s hardening. And he’s tiny. The root of his so termed shyness is an erection not larger than my pinky.
 
“Oh, Jack. Not much there to offer. Think it is best that you please a women otherwise... like cooking... and cleaning.”

He is crimson. There are no more words... not in protest ... not in reply.

“Yes, men like you are best serving. You’d like to be a servant wouldn’t you, Jack. Not have the pressure of trying to sexually pleasure a woman with such an inadequacy as this.”

I handle him, index finger first diddling the underside of the upturned penis tip, then the thumb joining to offer a tantalizing quick stroke. Yes it’s stiff, but useless for carnal relations.   

My hand moves to the scrotum, equally limited, equally unimpressive. Curious how nature dispenses traits and talents... the sharp analytical mind fostering an engineering degree from a prestigious college... the puny reproductive organs of a church mouse abridging all hope of ever sexually pleasing a woman.

As stated, controlling hand jobs became an amusing diversion for me in college. I suppose I should again amuse, find out if he can ejaculate. But there is plenty of time. Dessert awaits.

“You’ll need to change the light bulb, Jack. Twenty five watts, less if you can find a dimmer bulb. It will be less stressful on your eyes.”

With that, I turn off the ceiling light. Thick, heavy curtains in place, not a scintilla of setting sunlight or city street lighting radiates. When I step out and shut the door, Jack is left in total darkness... and well restrained of course.

Cherries and ice cream. Luscious! At least Jack can impress in some manner.