After the craziness of the first few days, things settled into a routine. Foolishly, I got careless. The pain of the punishment Ms. J prescribed was mild compared to how bad I felt for failing her. I was determined to put in extra effort to try to solve the problems I had created for her and to regain her trust.

The unusual events of the first few days were explainable. The first night was to test my obedience. The second was to overcome her issues with the pain medication. The third was to solidify her control over me. After that, it was just a matter of doing what she told me and meeting her expectations.

Saturday morning, she had no tasks when I brought her coffee, so I thought I would have the afternoon off to watch the game. I relaxed for the first time in over a week. The game was exciting and the score was tied near the end when my phone beeped.

“Get car. Meet out front. Take me to the Regent,” it said. I guessed Ms. J wanted to see the new film there.

I checked the mirror and looked presentable, delaying only long enough to brush my teeth. As I pulled up to the front of the building, she was carefully coming down the last steps with her crutches. I held the car door open for her and she suddenly turned.

“Oh shit!” she exclaimed. “How many beers have you had?”

She had detected the smell on my breath. I had had a few while watching the game. I flashed to the six-pack that had only one left.

“Five,” I admitted, although it was over a few hours.

“You can’t drive,” she said. “Get me a cab.” For anyone else, I would have protested. I hardly had a buzz. More than a few times, I had made it home from the bar in much worse shape.

I flagged down a taxi that looked new and was grateful that the interior and the driver looked clean enough when I opened the door.

“Give him your credit card,” she said, and I let him run it through the meter.

“Park your car and go to your apartment. I will text you,” her voice was calm, but my ears heard her loud and clear.

I was almost to my door when the first text arrived. “Punishment: Set phone so I can monitor. Hold penny against wall with nose. Hands behind back.”

It was a technique I recalled from childhood discipline. I felt stupid. Things had been going okay, and I had grown lax. I just hoped my failure wasn’t too critical.

I propped my phone where it could watch, plugged in the power, and started the video feed. I clicked to accept her connection. Digging a coin out of my pocket, I took a deep breath and leaned my nose against the wall, putting my hands behind my back.

Minutes ticked by. How long would she keep me like this? My legs were tightening at ten minutes. My nose was starting to feel numb.

Another text, she must have reached the theater. “Until return; forty push-ups, forty sit-ups, five minute run in place. Penny ten minutes. Repeat.”

The first few times through the routine were okay, but after an hour I was aching all over. If she was watching the movie, I didn’t know if she could check up on me, but I wasn’t going to tempt fate. I had fucked up and needed to atone. My body complained, but my mind realized it was the right thing to do.

Holding the penny against the wall gave me some relief for a few minutes. I tried to remember how long her movie was, but could only hope it was a short one.

I had been exercising for over two hours, struggling to keep going, when I got another text. “Get cleaned up. Come up.”

I wanted to stay longer in the hot shower, but I couldn’t afford to be late. She was sitting in her chair when I slipped in the door.

“You won’t be drinking anymore,” she stated the obvious. “You did your punishment as specified, so I will consider the penalty paid and the lesson learned.”

I breathed a sigh of relief.

“You don’t know what else it cost you, so I’ll tell you. Here,” she handed me the taxi receipt. The total was surprising until I noticed that she had the cab wait while she was in the theater, and then added half as a tip. I wasn’t going to have money for beer for a while anyhow.

“I was in a good mood before you ruined it,” she continued. “If our outing had gone as I expected, I was planning to allow you an orgasm.” The sunken look on my face told her I knew my real punishment: the difference between what might have been and what was.

It was hard to fall asleep that night. I was tired from all the exercise, but sore muscles made it hard to get comfortable. I was disgusted with myself, that I had ruined Ms. J’s evening, not to mention that it cost me a reward I desperately wanted.

Over the next week, I tried harder, but Ms. J seemed to grow more upset each day. I couldn’t figure out what I was doing wrong.

“Go! Get the fuck out!” she said one day as I brought her usual cappuccino.

I took a few steps backward and decided to risk her wrath. “Please, Ms. J, is there something I am not doing or doing wrong? I am trying to meet your expectations.”

If she had had heat vision, she would have burnt me to a crisp. “If it weren’t for you, I would be doing my work. Thanks to you I’m stuck here instead of at the library where I need to be. There’s nothing you can do for me,” the venom in her voice hit me like a slap in the face.

“Can I take you to the library? Can I go get some books for you?” I suggested.

“No, you idiot, this is real research. I need to be able to access non-circulating material. They don’t let just anyone rummage through the stacks,” she shook her head in frustration. “How can I do that with these?” she pointed to her crutches and walker.

“What if you made me your research assistant,” I tried to think of a solution. “You could be in constant contact with me on my phone, telling me where to go and what to do. I could scan or show you every page.”

“What do you know about research libraries?” she challenged.

“Well, I do have a Master’s degree, so I have done some research,” I bluffed. My degree is in computer science, so most of the time I was in the library, it was to use their internet connection.

I must have gotten Ms. J thinking because her attitude seemed to change. “Okay, wait,” she said. She called the chief librarian. Without explaining why, she said she wanted to use a research assistant. There were some forms to fill out but it was possible.

When she hung up the phone, she turned to her computer and began typing. “What’s your full name?” she asked.

“Thomas P Fenner, F-E-N-N-E-R,” I replied.

“Your degree?” she asked.

“BS and MS from City University,” I said.

“Well, that’s convenient,” she said, sounding calmer as she finished typing and the printer started up.

She signed it and handed it to me. It was a letter addressed to the chief librarian of the City University library requesting that I be allowed to access their special collections area.

“If they think you’re qualified, I’ll give it a try,” she sounded skeptical. “If you fuck up and it comes back on me…” she didn’t need to finish the sentence.

I did my best to impress the chief librarian. She looked like a caricature of that profession, graying hair tied in a bun, thin judgmental lips. I wasn’t going to win her with my smile, so I just acted my nerdiest. She knew Ms. J by her pen name. Although I had seen it on the letter, I almost said “Who?” when she used it. I dodged that bullet and she approved my library card, handing me a twenty-page book of rules for using this part of the library.

“Success,” I texted Ms. J, glad to be over that hurdle.

“We’ll start tomorrow,” she replied. For some reason, seeing Ms. J use the word “we” for the first time made me very happy.

In the morning, she printed a list of things she wanted me to find. I would send her scans. Based on those, she would send me more things to look for. The basic scheme seemed to work.

I was able to do what she needed for several days, and her mood definitely improved. The library was closed on Sunday, so instead, she had me do another pedicure. With my experience and notes from the previous time, I think I did a credible job, at least it went faster. She had less pain in her left leg, so that part went better as well.

I had finished and packed things up and was waiting to be dismissed when she said, “I’m going to reward you for suggesting you could be my research assistant.” Without knowing what to expect, it still sent a thrill through me.

“Come here,” she pointed to the floor in front of her. “You remember the rules for masturbation.” It wasn’t a question. “You may lower your pants and stroke yourself. You can use your saliva for lube, but no spitting.”

I pushed down my pants and boxers. Licking my left palm, I began slowly jerking my cock. Making my mouth water, I transferred more saliva to my right hand and added it to the mix.

“That looks more fun than last time,” she reminded me of the earlier dry session. “You’re going to play a game that will give you a chance to have an orgasm,” she said.

My penis heard that and throbbed pleasantly. Not knowing how long she was going to give me, I worked myself up, taking advantage of regular, discreet trips of my hand to my mouth to keep things slippery. As before, her feet and painted toes were the only visible stimulation, but given how long I had been saving semen, it wouldn’t take much to set me off.

“I mean a true chance. I have a random number generator,” she said, holding her phone. “In two minutes, I will generate a number that will lead to one of three results: You get to stroke for another minute, after which I’ll generate another number, or you can cum immediately, or the session is over. Obviously, if you want to cum, you better be on the edge at the end of the time, or you will lose the opportunity.”

“I will give you a seventy-five percent chance to be permitted an orgasm,” she said.

That sounded like good odds to me, so I tried not to think about the other possible outcome. My hands massaged my privates as they hadn’t in many days.

“Thirty seconds,” she said, and I got myself closer.

“Ten seconds,” I heard, pumping furiously.

The timer beeped and I teetered on the edge, waiting to hear the good news.

She clicked her phone, “One more minute.”

I gasped, pulling myself back from the brink as my cock throbbed.

“Thirty seconds… ten seconds…” again, it beeped and I was ready to explode.

“One more minute,” she said and I don’t know how I kept from spurting. My interior muscles were twitching.

My brain was going crazy. Was Ms. J just tormenting me? Or was she playing fair and pure luck was deciding my fate?

Again the countdown, again the beep, again “One more minute.” I didn’t know if I could take it much longer. Should I back away from the edge and possibly miss my chance to cum or risk a climax without permission?

“Thirty seconds… ten seconds…” I don’t remember hearing the beep, but my mind may have blanked it out.

“Too bad, hands off,” Ms. J announced the final random result. “Pack up and go.”

My slick swollen dick bobbed in front of me as my nuts screamed. The crescendo of excitement that had been building was suddenly an empty silence.

“Remember what I said last time,” she almost sounded conciliatory, and that was another kind of reward.

“Yes,” I felt a little better. “Thank you, Ms. J.”

I took a quick shower to wash my spit off me. Under the spray, my shriveled dick and balls tingled, half in gratitude, half in disappointment. The game forced me to stay near the peak of excitement for a long time. I wondered if it had been truly random or if Ms. J had decided each time. I wasn’t sure which case I wished were true.

The next week, progress in the research slowed. As we got farther from where Ms. J was before I broke her leg, there were more dead ends. We couldn’t find exactly what she needed, or we found something but it didn’t have the right information. That is why she needed to be there, to use her experience and intuition to decide what to do next.

Something she particularly wanted to find just didn’t seem to exist. She had me rechecking volumes we had already examined and was getting frustrated.

“Stay there. I’ll text you,” she sent me, indicating she needed a break.

Despite knowing nothing about the subject matter, or even the language of some of these ancient tomes, I began to feel at home in the musty stacks. I had an advantage over Ms. J; being taller I can safely reach things even from the highest shelves without using the stepladder. Some of the volumes are centuries old and require great care in using them, but I felt privileged to be able to touch them.

Having a few spare minutes, I went back to a high shelf I had noticed earlier. Generally, related books will be near each other, and we had used several on the shelf. But some had letters I didn’t recognize and I was curious.

The rules said I couldn’t put a book back on a shelf, only a librarian was allowed to do that. The reason is that if someone were to put it in the wrong place, it might be impossible to find among the millions of volumes.

I pulled out the book and it looked like Chinese to me, but being old, it could have been anything. I was tempted to just slip it back into the space on the shelf where it had been. I looked at the call number to confirm that it was in the correct spot—and it wasn’t! It was in the 937 section, but the number on the spine was 931. Handwritten, probably long before libraries had computers, it was an easy mistake to make. Looking at the shelf, a second book next to it had the same problem.

Taking the two books, I headed to the 931 shelves. I had just stepped into the row when I heard a voice say “Stop right there!” The chief librarian just happened to be in the area. I admit I was technically violating the rules, but I was just going to look at the proper location, I wasn’t going to put them on the shelf. I intended to notify the librarian, in case the books were thought to be missing.

Taking the two volumes from me, she proceeded to do exactly what I was going to do: look at the spot where they should have been filed.

“What have we here!” she exclaimed, and I saw why. There were two 937 books on the 931 shelf where those books would have been. “Here,” she said, handing back to me the two errant volumes I found and taking the other two. “Come with me,” she said.

Tapping on the computer, she mumbled under her breath as she checked the status of the four volumes. Although the two I had noticed had not been missed, the two she found had been—and by Ms. J!

“Well, Mr. Fenner,” she finally addressed me. “As you know, you are not to enter the stacks holding books.” I was about to say something in my defense when she continued, “I will overlook it this time, in appreciation for your discovering the misshelved books.”

“And you know your employer has been looking for the other two books,” she said. It was an odd thrill to hear her use the word “employer” given our actual relationship.

“Would you like to tell her or should I?” I offered. I figured I would get credit either way so why not let her get some of it.

“Well, if you don’t mind, I’ll call her immediately,” she blushed. Her stern expression melted into a smile. After that, she treated me like a researcher instead of an intruder in her domain.

I overheard her talking to Ms. J, and she gave me credit without mentioning my technical rule violation. Even before she hung up, I received a text, saying, “Wonderful!”

Ms. J had given up hope of finding the older of the two volumes. She set me to scanning each page, zooming in on some parts. I skipped dinner and remained after the library had rung the closing bell, risking violating another rule in order to stay until I finished. I managed to get out just before they locked the security door.

The next day was Sunday, and when I delivered her cappuccino, Ms. J was smiling. I couldn’t recall ever seeing her happy before.

“I won’t need you for the rest of today,” she said. “It will take time to review the new material. What do you usually use as a lubricant when you masturbate?” she asked.

It took a moment for the question, from out of nowhere, to register. “Coconut oil,” I replied. Being honest, I added, “but other things sometimes.”

“Go get it,” her grin made me wonder what happened to the Ms. J I knew and served, but I wasn’t going to question it. I was back in a flash with a small jar.

“Hmm,” she said, feeling it melt between her fingers. “Show me how you use it.”

I slid down my pants and underwear, my penis already quite erect in anticipation. I scooped a dollop out of the jar with a finger, and it melted with the warmth of my palm. Wrapping my fingers around my shaft, it took only a few strokes to coat my cock from base to tip.

“Enjoy yourself for a few minutes,” she said, sipping her coffee and turning to the newspaper.

I moaned softly as my fingers massaged life into my genitals. I felt self-conscious about it, but saw Ms. J glance up and smile. She had set no specific time limit, so I didn’t rush, gauging my progress by her drinking her coffee. I was primed and ready by the time she slurped the last from the cup.

“I’m going to give you a choice,” she said. “You can have one minute to masturbate and climax or…” she paused, but I didn’t think I needed to hear the other choice.

“You can play the game,” she said. Her eyes met mine. Were they daring me to give up the certain reward and choose the longer, risky path? Was I giving up control to randomness or to Ms. J?

My hands had stopped when she spoke. I tightened my fingers around my throbbing, rigid pole. It wanted to cum. I wanted to cum. How could I possibly turn down a guaranteed orgasm at that point?

Ms. J’s dark eyes were locked on mine. Was she commanding or searching? I couldn’t tell. Was she imposing her will or unlocking mine?

“The game,” I said. My penis wept, and not just the precum that I smeared with the coconut oil. Men’s brains often argue with their gonads, but usually, the lower organs win.

Ms. J clicked on her phone. “Today, you will have an eighty percent probability of an orgasm,” she said. Better odds than last time, but still the danger of denial.

“Two minutes,” she said, starting the clock. I resumed stroking in earnest, recovering ground I lost in making the decision. “One minute… thirty seconds… ten seconds.”

I was on the edge, ready to cum, ready to kill myself if I got denied.

It beeped. “One more minute,” she reported, looking at the random number.

Mild disappointment, but greater relief let me ease back from the edge and, taking a deep breath, begin to work back toward it.

“One more minute,” she said after I once again teetered on the edge when the timer sounded. She watched me manipulate my flesh with seeming amusement.

The hormones raging through my body and brain left me no capacity to be embarrassed that I was standing with my pants around my ankles in front of a clothed woman in her apartment.

As the seconds ticked down again, I was ready to ejaculate into my hand, ready to swallow every drop of the gallons I felt boiling inside me.

“One more minute,” she said. As I struggled to tamp down my imminent eruption, I realized I knew only the probability of ecstasy versus agony. The number of minutes until the final decision was a separate matter, a value I couldn’t guess.

“One more minute,” she said, and I was becoming aware of another distinct possibility. It was more and more difficult to stop myself. Cumming without permission would earn a punishment severe enough to offset the unauthorized pleasure and much more.

“Thirty seconds,” she said, and I had stopped stroking. I was too close. I dared not move my hand as my rod pulsed beyond my control.

“Ten seconds,” she said. It beeped. “One more minute.” My legs were weakening and I was swaying. I had lost track of how many minutes had passed. My groin burned and I knew I would explode if my finger grazed the head of my cock.

“Thirty seconds,” she said. My eyes begged Ms. J although my mouth could not. I would accept denial. I would accept the punishment for an unauthorized orgasm. I just could not go on.

“Ten seconds,” she said, and my every nerve was electric.

When her phone beeped, I felt the wave of pleasure and deep contraction that told me there was no more stopping. My right hand cupped the head to contain the eruption as my left froze on the shaft, awaiting the verdict.

“You may cum,” Ms. J said. At least that was what my pleasure-flooded brain heard, and I had no time to check if it was right.

I staggered as my muscles contracted beyond my control. My hand safely caught the first spurts, but it soon became clear that there was more than it could handle. I quickly grabbed the head with my left hand while I raised my right to my mouth to slurp the hot liquid from my palm.

I had tasted my cum before; what guy hasn’t been curious enough to take at least a tentative lick? I didn’t consume my semen frequently, but when I encountered it on a woman’s lips or face or elsewhere, I was in no position to object. Like an unwanted side dish, you politely eat it and don’t make a big deal out of it.

Maybe it was because of the length of time I had been saving it up, this batch was noticeably saltier and slimier than I remembered. And it seemed like a porn star quantity, as I had to switch hands, licking a palmful from one while containing the spurts with the other.

The major flow had abated, giving me the chance to milk my shaft with one hand while the other captured the dwindling squirts. After cleaning both hands and verifying that nothing had escaped to hit the floor, one hand cradled my cockhead to catch any last drips.

I finally had the opportunity to look up to Ms. J, “Thank you, Ms. J,” I said. “Thank you for giving me an orgasm.”

“I will see you in the morning,” she said, standing up and making her way toward her computer.

I pulled up my pants and returned to my apartment. Sitting on the couch, the afterglow warmed me from head to toes. Closing my eyes, I saw Ms. J’s dark eyes focused on mine. With no way to know for sure, I chose to imagine that she had controlled the game, driving me to my limit, then giving me the rapture I so desperately wanted and needed.