Harry came in my mouth about thirty seconds after I started sucking him. So I pulled off, spat, and gave him that 'gentle disappointment' look that makes me look like my mom and makes him shudder like he's fallen in <I>ice water</i>.

"Did I tell you you could come?" I asked him softly.

He shook his head, eyes desperate above the gag.

I hadn't actually expected him to be able to hold back. I mean, I <I>had</i> spent about an hour, teasing him with nothing but my hands and a single enchanted rope, before I let him have the blowjob, and I hadn't tied him off, either. And his control's still shit anyway, even at an age when most wizards are starting to settle in to their mature power.

But, you know, sometimes that's the <i>point</i>. Make him fail so he knows he can live with what comes after.

Or just punish him and let him enjoy it, and let me enjoy doing it to him. Either one.

I said the power word that untied the gag and dropped it off, and he gasped at me. I left the ropes tying him to the chair, though. "Molly - please-"

Yeah, he still calls me Molly when I'm domming him.

Sometimes I call him "Master," though. When I really want to twist the knife. Figurative or literal.

"Please what?" I asked him. "Do you really think you're in a position to get anything you ask for right now?"

"Please -- I'm sorry, Molly," he said. "Please don't."

We're working on getting him to be more communicative about his desires, too.

"Don't? Harry, <i>you're</i> the one who doesn't seem to know the meaning of the word <i>don't</i>," I said, standing smoothly up and slipping behind, out of his field of vision - he would still know I was there, but it's part of the whole building authority thing. "Did I or didn't I tell you not to come without permission?"

He nodded frantically. I rewarded him by draping myself over him, long blue-blonde hair around his shoulders, and whispering in his ear, "If you really want me to stop, Harry, all you have to do is say the word."

We set up a safeword when we started discussing the possibility of this, years and years ago. Actually, we set up two. He'd never heard of them before. I'm not sure he truly understood that 'no' was an option for him in the first place. I dunno, he's fucked up, whatever, join the club. Wizards, man. I explained it to him, and when it finally started to sink in, he looked down at me sheepishly and said, "Um. I think I've been using <i>pyrofuego</i> for that."

We're trying to train him out of that, too. We've managed to get him to revert to just <i>forzare</i> as his back-up safeword. He's used that one a few times when I hit something in the deep places that I wasn't expecting. He's never used the ordinary one - the one that doesn't pull on his magic, that only takes its power from trust.

When I can get him to do <i>that</i>, I'll check it off as the first step to making him functional.

It makes me have to think a lot more about what I'm doing, though. Getting thrown across the room onto my ass isn't healthy for either of us. <i>Not</i> getting thrown across the room when I should be is probably worse.

"I don't think you know how to stop, Harry," I murmured at him then. "I don't think you know how to stop me. And I don't think you know how to stop yourself, either. Your control issues are ridiculous, you know?" I came back around and poked at his limp dick. "You're how old - almost a hundred? And you can't even keep yourself from coming on a hair-trigger? That's embarassing, Harry. That's embarassing for <I>me</i>. I think you don't <i>want</i> to control yourself. Maybe I'll have to do it for you."

"Yes," Harry said, straining forward to reach me. "Yes, please."

"Please what?" I cupped his tackle, and squeezed thoughtfully. "Please take control of your dick so you can't humiliate us both with it?"

"Yes. Please. That."

"I have had some new ideas along those lines lately..."

I watched it dawn on him that I might have been thinking about something more elaborate than a cock ring. And I watched them go darker, too. Arousal? Submission? Did he know the difference at this point?

His dick did. It was twitching a little, trying to get hard again. I raised my eyebrows. "No control at all. Oh well, I guess there's always the classics," I said, and pulled his cock and balls right off. And with my other hand, dropped them into a large glass jar.

That I just happened to have sitting right there.

Harry's mouth dropped open, and he just stared down, so I reached into the jar and tickled them, and he jerked like he'd been touched by a live wire.

"Molly... what... did you do?"

That had yanked him out of whatever headspace he was in. Which I'd expected. Men. So protective of the silliest little things. 

"Safeword and I'll undo everything," I said, not sure whether I wanted him to safeword or not. On the one hand, yay Harry! Being sane! Setting limits! Stopping me the way he was supposed to!

On the other hand - him sitting there, with his crotch bare - bare and <i>empty</i>, smooth as a doll's, with dark hair  framing nothing but a tiny slit to piss by - was turning me on like crazy. Just the thought of him walking down the corridor at Headquarters, and the two of us knowing that under his robes, he was the Amazing Dickless Wonder, made me have to resist the temptation to shove a hand between my legs. And he was getting hard too. Or, well, the dick in the jar was, and it was still responding to <i>his</i> nervous system.

He didn't safeword. He said, "You know, altering someone else's body by magic is against the Second Law."

"Mmmm. Yes. You could report me," I said. "You going to?"

"What did you <i>do</i>?" he asked again.

"I don't think asking questions is your role here," I said. "You want me to untie you?" Untying him was our customary signal that the scene was ending, and we weren't going to play dominant and submissive any more. Of course, in this case it also meant he was agreeing to stay as I'd left him even once the scene was over...

"Yes <i>please</i>," he said, so I did. The first thing he did once his hands were free was grab for his crotch, of course. Men are so predictable. I watched as he flailed his hands around, touching everywhere <i>except</i> where his dick should have been - and of course finding nothing, and not noticing what he was doing.

My veils have only been getting subtler as I get older, after all.

He finally gave up, slumped back, and said, "You would still be the scariest fucking warlock in history if you ever really put your mind to it, Molls."

"I know," I said. "Good thing I have a teacher who knows to tell me when I've gone too far."

He paused, at that, and then said, "Um. You can put it back, right?"

"Of course I can, Harry!" I said, then grinned wickedly at him. I picked up the jar and screwed the lid on, safe and sound in my arms. "Probably. Tell you what. If you can be good without it for a week, you can have it back. I'll even reattach it for you if you remember to ask nicely."

So I have... chastity issues.

And I almost mistyped that as 'Charity' issues. Which probably tells you half of what you need to know, right there. My mother - may she rest in whatever peace she can handle - could give a complex to an Archangel. And she had a thing about sacrifice, and specifically about giving up parts of <I>yourself</i>. I mean, I didn't even find out until a couple of months before she died that she'd had a magical talent, too, and quietly gave it up after she met Dad; because she thought she didn't deserve it, or because she thought wifing and mothering was a higher calling, or because she gets off on martyrdom, something like that. I don't think she really knew, her explanation of <I>why</i> didn't make that much sense, but then her motivations almost never did, to me; at least it sort of explains why she was so weird about my magic. And the important part to her wasn't why, it was just that she'd chosen to give it up, and she was glad she had.

Of course, Dad would say that anyone who chooses to be a parent <i>has</i> to get off on martyrdom. And she was a good mother, she was, to all of us. Just - they fuck you up, your mom and dad. Plus we were Catholic. Still am, I guess. 'nuff said.

Harry thinks it's his fault that I'm as psychosexually dysfunctional as he is, but then Harry thinks a lot of things that aren't his fault. The guilt is part of the reason he can let me put him under when he won't go that far with most other people. And, I mean, he wasn't perfect. The "no solo exploration" thing? I'm still holding that over him.

Obviously.

But when I became his apprentice, I was a run-away teenager who'd been crashing with her drug-addict boyfriend for months and collecting piercings like I was preparing for an imminent metal shortage, and I was still a virgin. And propositioned him clumsily about five minutes after he brought me home. I wasn't exactly un-fucked-up even then.

So yeah, Harry? Not blameless. But really, he was the least of it, and it was ... really obvious he had no idea what he was doing with me half the time, and that helped. (And the Doom of Damocles wasn't his fault, no matter what he says.)

I'm kind of the least of his guilts, too. Not the least complicated, I guess, but maybe the safest.

After all, the worst I'm gonna do to him is pull off his dick and keep it in a jar for a week.

I put the jar on the shelf over my work-table with the jars of ingredients and potions-in-progress. It stayed erect, on-and-off, for most of the first day, which was almost impressive. I wondered if Harry was always this turned on at random times, which would explain a lot about why he liked playing chastity games so much, or if it was special, just 'cause of me.

Which was kind of distracting. Plus it kept <i>moving</i>, or sort of moving, just when I'd taken my eyes off of it, like it had some kind of sentience of its own.

And there was the constant temptation to take it out of the jar and fuck myself with it, which had me wet and crossing my legs most of the day, but would have been too unfair to Harry. I mean, I had asked him to try to be good. And I had no idea what he was doing.

I mean - he could be in an important meeting, or trying to prepare for a minor ritual, or standing to fight something in the NeverNever with a lot of teeth, trying to ignore the fact that his boxers were empty and there was nothing dangling between his legs, but he was aroused anyway, because he couldn't stop thinking about it - couldn't stop thinking about how he couldn't touch himself, couldn't do anything, because his dick was <i>mine</i> and I was the only one who got to say - and I could just reach into the jar, and pull it out, and it would only take a couple of strokes to make it harder and shove it under my skirt like the simple toy it was, because I'd fucked myself on that dick before, and I knew just how good it could feel, but never without him dangling off the other end, never without having to <i>worry</i> about what he was going to do next - and wherever he was, whatever he was doing, he'd <I>feel</i> it, he'd know what I was doing, and he wouldn't be able to do anything about it; he'd have to run off somewhere private - I know Harry, plus we've played with remote-control toys before; he can't hide it when he's in that state - and I'd just sit on my lab stool and fuck myself to orgasm, not caring about what he was doing, not having any idea - and then pull it out right when I felt it start to tense up--

That wouldn't have been fair to Harry. I mean, there's teasing, and then there's being a little shit just 'cause I can't keep it out of my pants.

So to keep myself away from temptation, I took the jar and put it out of sight. 

I put it in the icebox. In the drawer, right down in the frigid meltwater.

Well, I <I>said</i> I hadn't gotten over the no-solo-exploration thing.

I was in-and-out of White Council headquarters fairly often around then; I was taking a therapy shift on some of the psych trauma patients, and I was also working with some of the wardens from my generation - the war generation - on ways to use my sort of subtle magics more effectively in combat. Harry was around fairly often too, for obvious reasons, so it wasn't unusual that I'd run into him there, even if we didn't have a date or anything set up.

It wasn't Harry I ran into, though.

It was Captain Luccio.

And I didn't so much 'run into' her as get swept off my feet and slammed up against a wall.

"You.. little... warlock," she spat at me.

"Cap'n," I said cheerfully.

There's a couple things I should probably explain at this juncture. First: My thing with Harry wasn't exclusive. I guess it kinda was, okay, in that he didn't let anybody else tie him up and play discipline games with him, and I didn't do that sort of thing to anyone else, but we were both old enough that swearing monogamy for anything short of <i>real</i> marriage seemed like a waste. Apparently a lot of wizards go that way when they're about to hit the century mark. So, I'm pretty sure he was fucking Captain Luccio sometimes. Again.

Second: Captain Luccio and I didn't like each other. We didn't <I>hate</i> each other, but, well, we just... there was friction, okay. And not the fun kind. (Not at that point, anyway.) And on the other hand, it was useful in a middle-school sort of way for both of us to have somebody around that we could let off steam with and didn't give a damn about accidentally hurting. Plus I think she was jealous of my relationship with Harry: not in the simple sexual jealousy way, but, well. I had a lot of long talks with Donald Morgan the week before he died: we'll leave it at that.

So, Captain Luccio had me slammed up against a wall and I was taunting her. "Did you think I wouldn't <I>notice</i> you'd broken the laws of magic with him?"

And... hmm. The spells on Harry were meant to look, to any casual analysis, like a basic medical intervention - the sort that's harmless but occasionally kind of embarassing, and nobody would look twice at. It's possible they had some new security checks in the Halls of Pretension that would've noticed the difference, or even the thread of power leading back to the jar in my kitchen, but in that case Luccio would have known--

"How is dear Harry, anyway? Are you upset because you were hoping for a quickie? No, I'm sure he would've offered to use his mouth. He <I>loves</i> using his mouth-- Did you go for a grope and catch air? Are you mad at me because you felt him up and you were <i>turned on</i> 'cause he's got nothing there?"

"I know they took the Doom off you - <i>against</i> my advice - but you're still on very thin ice, girl."

"I haven't broken a single law of Magic, Stacey dear," I told her. "As Harry would know, if he wasn't very good at selective ignorance. As you should definitely have figured out."

I watched her thinking it through, and then - "Breyman's bluff."

I nodded. "Plus a little sleight of hand - he taught me that, he'll kick himself when he figures it out - and a basic sympathetic link to a wooden stock, and -- *pooof* -- dick in a jar."

"I've never heard of anyone using Breyman's bluff for-- that."

Breyman's bluff is a standard part of a Warden healer's secondary repertoire, though it's been out of favor for a couple of centuries - and by "Warden healer's secondary repertoire" I mean torture spells. Well, you can also use it as a last-ditch analgesic, or for <I>really bad</i> shock, but -- the laws of magic say you can't kill, or use mind control, and serious maiming gets into iffy territory fast. But maiming the old-fashioned way, with sharp pointy things, has limitations: to start with, there's a risk of bleeding out, plus the pain can make 'em a little incoherent. And it's harder to promise you can reattach the bits, too - I mean these days even mortal hospitals can do amazing things, but at the time, being able to cut off a finger and only promise to put it back if they talked was pretty effective. And you start moving up from fingers, it gets even more effective.

The Bluff is a really specialized veil that can remove just part of a person's body from their own perceptions, and depending on how you tune it, from everybody's - blocking out even the kinesthetic sense that tells them it's part of their body. Pretend you're disintegrating, say, a leg, cast the Bluff, and the person will believe their leg is gone, until you take off the spell. And since you're only using veils, you're not breaking the laws of magic. Luccio had to know it. Heck, Luccio had probably used it in the field.

There's some illusion spells and pain spells that are often used with it, to make the bluff seem more real, but as far as I know, I was the first person to combine it with the sympathetic illusion. That's very old magic, linking one object to another, so that it looks and feels like the original, and anything done to it is felt by what it's linked to. The Fae used to use a version of it when they dumped changelings, in the old, old days.

(Hell's--bells, I had a changeling penis in my kitchen. No wonder it looked so uncanny when it moved.)

I'd made the veil a little more effective and long-lasting than the usual, too. But then, I'm damn good at veils.

"I'm a very talented and creative person," I told Captain Luccio, and she let me go and stepped back while I rolled some tension out of my shoulders, and we started walking down the hall together.

"Hah," she said. "Creative. Sometimes I almost think you two deserve what you do to each other."

<i>Believe me, you and Harry deserve each other too--</i> I didn't say. "How <i>is</i> Harry doing? For real?"

She glanced at me just out of the corner of her eyes. "You don't seriously think he's going to last out a week like that, do you?"

"Not for a minute," I told her.

When I got back to my place that night, it was already pretty late, and I took down the jar and had a good look at it. (No, I didn't actually leave it in the icebox for very long at a stretch. I'm not a <i>cruel</i> person. Not on my own time, anyway.)

It looked about the same as usual, mostly relaxed. Harry was getting better at keeping his arousal down. Either that, or he was just tired.

I glanced over at the clock. 11 PM, and we were both in the same time zone. He should be home, at least, if not in bed - and if he <i>wasn't</i>, well, he needed to learn to <i>relax</i> better anyway.

Or not relax <I>exactly</i>. I opened up the jar and pulled the dick out.

Harry doesn't masturbate. Still. I mean, the ice water thing? He uses that on himself. And <I>not</i> just when he's in danger of being enthralled by a faerie witch. Well, he used to. One of the rules we set up is that he's not allowed to punish himself anymore unless I get to watch. It works for both of us.

And I've made him jerk off while I was watching. I <i>like</i> making him jerk off while I watch. The first couple of times was like pulling teeth, for both of us, but the man can learn, even when it's learning about himself. Which is part of the reason I thought this might be fun. I think part of the reason he doesn't masturbate is that he dissociates his penis from him body, and <i>actually</i> removing it was either going to make that dissociation a lot easier, or make it impossible. Given the state of the thing, he'd gone for 'impossible'. And as long as it was safe in my jar he couldn't use any of his normal physical tricks to make his dick behave, but he couldn't jerk off, either, he couldn't even touch himself a little to make it better. Which is going to make <I>anybody</i> want to do it like crazy. There's having an itch you're resisting the temptation to scratch, and then there's an itch you couldn't scratch even if you <i>wanted</i> to.

So I scratched it for him. It was weirdly meditative - I got out one of the old diaries from our line that I'd been reading through, and sat down with the penis on my lap, petting it like it was one of my sister's cats. It couldn't purr, no, but the response I was getting was almost as gratifying. And it couldn't <i>really</i> move -- it was just a rune-carved wooden rod that was enchanted to look and feel exactly like Harry's dick at any given moment, and pass physical sensations back to him, so it didn't have any <i>leverage</i> against anything but itself. I think it would have been rubbing affectionately up against my hand if it could, though.

Harry would've been rubbing affectionately up against my hand if he were here. I sort of lost track of the book I was reading thinking about what he was doing. He was probably trying to rub up against <i>anything</i> he could - <i>hopefully</i> at home, in private - unless he was still scrabbling desperately with his hands at something he couldn't touch, that every bit of his senses was telling him <I>wasn't there</i>. Rubbing off would probably work better, though. I don't think anyone's done the experiment as to how a body part under the Bluff <i>experiences</i> touch; none of it gets through to the conscious mind, but I know that under a nerve-block some men can still get aroused without knowing they're feeling anything, and in some ways a full veil would be similar -

Anyway, it didn't matter, because what he was <i>feeling</i> was what I was doing to his dick, here on my lap. And I knew I wasn't keeping any sort of rhythm that was like what he would be doing to himself, and that was probably making it <i>worse</i>. All the same-- I checked the time again. 12:30. Probably long enough for Harry to get the idea. And part of the promise of "being good for a week" was that he wouldn't get to come - I wasn't sure how the veil would respond to ejaculation anyway, and if he saw come magically appearing just beyond where his dick should've been, he'd <i>probably</i> figure it out. So I gave the sympathetic dick a few affectionate pats on the head, and put it safely back in the jar for the night.

And then I took a quick shower and got myself off before bed. Don't tell Harry, but I kind of see his point about how getting off just for the sake of getting off can be kind of disappointing compared to the real thing - but it still feels good to know that I can get off whenever I want to, just because I want to. It took me a long time to learn that.

As for Harry, he almost lasted another whole day before he turned up on my doorstep. He was leaned faux-casually against the railing, and when I opened the door, he waved a couple of fingers at me and said, "Hi, Molls."

"Hiya, Harry," I replied. "What's up? Oh, wait, I suppose I'd know that better than you. Let me duck into the kitchen and check."

He winced. "Ask me in? Please?"

I live in a tiny house in Chicago that once belonged to Karrin Murphy. I'd let the yard go - the roses were more a tangle of thorns, now, than a tidy garden - but I did have a reputation to keep up, and Murphy had assured me, when she wrote me in to her will, that her grandmother would approve of her place turning in to a witch's cottage. I'm pretty sure Murph liked the idea, too.

But it still had a strong threshold, despite the fact that neither Karrin or I had gotten around to starting a real family. So Harry wasn't going to come in unless I took pity on him.

He was using those sad-puppy eyes that had caused so much trouble for so many people, too. I narrowed my eyes and refused to show that they were working on me. "Didn't I tell you to be good for a week?"

"I have!" he said. "I've been very good! So good I thought maybe I could earn some time off?"

I sighed. It really was tempting to just give in to him, but I was working on <I>my</i> control, too, so instead I let my mouth flicker into a sudden grin, and said, "I don't know, Harry. But come on in to my parlor, and maybe we can negotiate something."

I know way too much about what buttons to push with him, probably. When I pull a Mom impression on him, he just crumples. But when I pull out my impression of his <i>godmother</i>, all sorts of interesting things can happen.

I shut the door behind him and went to the kitchen to fetch the object in question.

While I was out of the room, Harry'd sat down on the old Victorian davenport, and I noted with amusement that he sat with his knees about four feet apart, like he needed to leave space for a cruise missile between them. I gestured expressively as I enthroned myself in the armchair, jar in my lap. "Compensating for something, Harry?"

He glanced down at himself, grimaced, and crossed his legs at the ankles, then shivered all over and uncrossed them again.

I shook my head at him, snapped my fingers, and then patted my knee. "Come on, Harry," I said.

He pouted but he knew what I expected; he crossed the room and knelt down at my side, leaning against my thigh. I combed my fingers through his hair like I was petting a dog - it was softer and cleaner than usual. He must have been taking a lot of his cold showers. He whimpered a little bit.

"I hope you don't expect me to give it back just because you couldn't handle a whole week," I said, tapping the lid of the jar.