The games we play

Author : dejahcd

I first noticed something odd about three years ago, but for you to understand why it was odd, I’m going to have to start my story a bit before that.

After college, I found a job working as a tutor and advisor at a good-sized state university. It was a nice job–I liked helping the kids (who were of course only 5-6 years younger than I was) navigate the college experience and seeing their excitement and naivety. While I did some actual tutoring–freshmen chemistry usually–my real role was as a councilor, house mother and general life coach. It was actually surprising how much they needed this–just some one to tell them to keep a calendar, to get up for class, and to keep the alcoholism below the onset of early liver disease.

Outside of work, my life was a trifle routine. I had a good set of friends but going out in a college town is always a bit awkward, as you’re certain to run into at least one undergraduate that you’d prefer to have avoided. Dating, assuming you aren’t mad enough to date undergraduates, is similarly limited. For the first couple of years, I tried various weedy doctoral students with beards and ill-fitting tweed, usually studying some useful field like philosophy or medieval history. But I eventually decided that neither the emotional work of diagnosing their various psychoses nor their tendency to disappear pre or post-graduation, was worth the effort.

My undergraduates, on the whole, were easier to deal with, because their problems and their psych profiles were simpler.

Tyler was a fairly typical case. He was tall and fit, with a pleasant, but rather vacant face. He was no genius, but could muddle through he classes when he put in the effort. I’d known him for two years or so, and he usually found a reason to come and talk to me about twice a semester.

Unlike many of his peers, partying and romantic difficulties didn’t cause him too many problems. His main difficulty was, in fact, computer gaming.

I had never found much appeal in gaming, as gender stereotyped as that sounds. Tyler usually tried to get me interested in whatever game he was deep into at that moment, but by and large I would steer the conversation back to statistics, or physics or whatever exam he wasn’t studying for that semester.

The particular meeting that started it all began badly. It was the end of the day on a Friday, and frankly my emotional patience for young adult problems had worn a bit thin. I had a slight cold and really wanted just to go home and lie in bed with a bad rom-com and some tea.

Tyler was droning on about some new game: “Triumph of the Gods” or some-such ridiculous name. I had been tuning him out while trying to redirect the conversion toward organic chemistry homework, but without much success. Finally, for whatever reason, I snapped and said in an exasperated voice:

“For heaven’s sake Tyler: just go back to your room and learn your acid-base reactions and stop wasting time staring at your computer screen!!”

The effect was almost extraordinary. He stopped talking, looked straight at me, and without a word of complaint or even an offended look, stood up and said,

“Oh–of course you are right, Ms. Kepler. I should really try to get that done.”

And he gave me an odd half-smile and left.

I wouldn’t have thought any more about it, except that Monday morning I received an email.

Ms. Kepler, Thank you for your guidance on Friday. I have studied all of the reactions and given myself the self-test in the textbook. I know it is a lot to ask, but could you give me some more instructions for the week so that I don’t waste my time on other things? Tyler.

This message was by far the most organized and formal email he had ever sent me–usually “Could we meet up 2morrow?” was about his limit.

I actually pulled up his schedule and gave him a few study projects for his genetics class as well as another organic chemistry assignment.

Wednesday morning I got the reply:
Ms. Kepler,
Thank you so much for troubling yourself with my problems.
I have completed all of the back work for my classes. Do
you think I should also have a schedule for exercise and meals?
Do you have tools to help with these?
Respectfully,
Tyler.

I actually found myself setting up calendar tasks for a 20 year old and checking up on him every few days. Whatever was going on, it didn’t seem to be temporary–Tyler finished the semester with his highest grades ever. The exercise regime was also paying off, but I kept reminding myself that I should be very careful admiring his increasingly toned form.

The whole affair was odd enough that I actually did some subtle testing of a few other Tyler-like students. With the young women, it was uniformly unsuccessful, and I got more than one odd look. Most of the males was similarly unaffected (though usually they were not emotionally tuned in enough to even notice my tone). But Charlie, who was also a junior, had a remarkably similar reaction to that of Tyler. By the end of the semester, I was setting calendar tasks for both, with very consistent results.

I almost forgot about these strange events over the summer, but sure enough, the first day of classes I had emails from both Tyler and Charlie asking for scheduling guidance.

The whole thing still probably would have stopped there except for something I overheard as Charlie left my office one day:

“Nate–up for a Triumph marathon this weekend?”

“Hey man–you know that AI girl is messed up–I’m switching to Dark Skies…”

For whatever reason, the name of the game clicked. I did some quick searches on my computer.

Triumph of the Gods was a multi-player game set in the Greek dark ages and involved the usual quests, relic-collecting and battles. The only slightly unusual thing about it was that each player could select a “muse” who was usually a young woman and could provide background and details about the play. The selling point of the game was that these muses were run through an adaptive, networked AI engine that supposed “learned” to adapt to each player’s skills and interests so that they could guide the game play in the right directions.

Most of the reviews were fairly dismissive of this system, saying that it worked a bit but didn’t really add to the game play. But some of the more recent reviews suggested that the AI had refined itself enough to be more useful. Since it was essentially an autonomous system running on the company’s servers but connected to all the live copies of the game, it could apparently improve itself over time using the players’ reactions to it.

With my curiosity peaked, I bought a copy and tried to get into it. I couldn’t really make myself care too much about defeating the other players–as a girl player the attention I attracted was of a different sort. My muse was very helpful and actually figured out rather quickly that I was enjoying exploring the game world more than interacting with other players and guided me on a tour of the exotic locales programmed into it.

Meanwhile, I was guiding Tyler and Charlie through senior year fairly successfully. Tyler in particular, though, was beginning to depend on me for advice I wasn’t really comfortable with–whether he should date certain women, what kind of job he should look for after college and even what clothes to buy.

The problem was that it was rather fun doing all of this. Steering him into a nice tight Boss dress shirt for a job interview (his family had money), was, well, exciting. But that wasn’t who I was–not with students at my school.

One day in November, I was trying to leave campus to go home when my car wouldn’t start. I was standing outside it about to call the towing service when Charlie walked by.

“Do you need some help, Ms. Kepler?”

“I don’t think there’s much you can do–I should have had a new battery put in in the summer, but I forgot.”

“I think I can get you home,” he said, with a surprising smile.

His car was, of course, a big pickup. He was quite expert at connecting the jumper cables and soon had my car (which was old enough that jumping it was not a new experience) running.

“Should I follow you home to make sure you are safe?”

Not the best thing, showing your home and address to the undergraduates, but I was genuinely a bit worried about the car, so I agreed.

When we arrived, I expected to have to be pretty firm about not inviting him in, which was awkward because of how kind he had been. Instead, he rolled down his window in the driveway.

“Is it a 02 or and 03?”

“Pardon?”

“Sorry, miss. Your car.”

“Oh,” I answered. “An 03–LX.”

“Let me run and grab you a new battery so you don’t have to worry about it tomorrow.”

“I really couldn’t let you do that,” I replied, even though secretly I was dying for him to do it.

“Please, Ms. Kepler? You’ve been such a help this year.”

“Ok–here’s $150–that should cover it.”

Twenty minutes later Charlie was back with the battery and 20 minutes after that it was installed.

I couldn’t not invite him in now.

I offered him ice tea, despite my strong inclination to make it a beer.

“Oh–no thank you miss. I just wanted to be sure everything was all right. Your house is so beautiful. But you should have someone fix that broken fan on the porch. I could do it this weekend if you like.”

“Charlie, that’s really sweet. But you’ve done your good deed for the semester. Just head on home and get a good nights sleep.”

“Ok miss! He smiled, waved goodbye, and left.

Oh dear. The weedy graduate students struggled to open a bottle of wine. I needed to be careful around this one.

More seriously, I was worried about them. I watched all the web forums I could find, but there didn’t seem to be any comments on this effect. Charlie told me a couple of times that he was feeling lethargic and depressed, so I fast tracked him into the campus counseling service. But irritatingly, they told him that he was just working too hard and was otherwise in perfect health.

I even broke my own rule about involving myself in students’ romantic lives by trying to set each of them up with girlfriends, in hopes of snapping them out of their funk. The first dates always went well, but neither Charlie nor Tyler would pursue the girls.

“I wasn’t sure you’d approve, Ms. Kepler,” Tyler told me once.

I’d set up the date, of course.

I even went to the length of talking to one of the girls.

“Oh–he’s super sweet. And that body is hot. But he’s too agreeable–doesn’t push enough.”

In case that anyone thought that only college men had imbibed the cultural stereotypes.

Graduation rolled around, and both Tyler and Charlie ended up much higher in their class rankings than anyone would have predicted. Despite all my efforts to the contrary, both found jobs nearby, and I couldn’t really even fake grounds to complain, since the jobs were well-paid and rewarding.

Tyler texted me over the summer inviting me to a “thank-you dinner.”

Against my better judgment, I agreed.

It was a very nice evening. He was cheerful and kind, though not what some of my years would class as charming. The waitress gave me what I interpreted as a dirty look for being a cradle-robber. Small towns.

He clearly hoped I would invite him back to my house for a drink, but as tempting as that was, I resisted and sent him on his way, trying to convince myself he wasn’t my responsibility any more.

My next encounter with Charlie was more memorable.

I was weeding my garden on a very hot day when he drove by. He stopped and came to ask if he could help.

“Ummm…”

It was a bit hard to think with the heat and his smiling face and tight t-shirt.

“I guess you could have a go at the grass…”

“Sure thing, Ms. Kepler.”

We worked together in the garden for an hour or so, both getting rather sweaty. After he had stowed the mower, I invited him in for an iced tea.

“Thanks Ms. Kepler–this is just what I needed…”

“I feel terrible–I’m happy to pay for your help…”

“Oh no–I still owe you big time for getting me through college. I never would have done it without you.”

“Well, at least I hope I didn’t interrupt your weekend.”

“Oh nothing big–I was headed over to meet some of the guys for a BBQ out in the state park. Doesn’t matter when I show up.”

“But–don’t you need to go home and change? I shouldn’t have bothered you.”

I took a deep breath.

“Want to grab a shower? I can run your clothes through the machine real quick…”

“Thanks MS. Kepler–that’s real sweet of you.”

I found him a towel and told him to toss the clothes on the floor before heading in the shower.

My heart was beating so hard it felt hard to breathe. He really shouldn’t be here, I thought. I’m taking advantage–he’ll never say no.

I was so flustered I walked back into the bedroom without thinking about 15 minutes later. He was running his hands through his hair with the towel around his waist. The muscles of his shoulders and upper arms rippled. I could see each of the muscles of his abdomen in individual detail. Gosh.

“Oh sorry Ms. Kepler–I can wait in another room for the clothes…”

He turned and walked into the guest room. I locked the door and slipped under the delightfully warm, clean water in the shower. Moments later, I was clean, with a thigh-length silk robe tied about me. Time to check the clothes, wasn’t it?

I walked into the kitchen and nearly bumped into Charlie. He gazed at me, not lecherously or even in an aroused way, but calmly and seemingly pleased.

I bit my lip.

“Do you really want to thank me?” I asked, my voice husky with excitement and anxiety.

“Sure, Ms. Kepler.” He shrugged those lovely shoulders.

I beckoned him to follow me into the bedroom. I sat down on the bed, letting the robe fall open. Despite the shower, I suddenly felt dirty.

Without me saying another word, he read my mind. The towel slipped as he moved on hands and knees to be next to me at the bed. He kissed up my bare legs, slowly reaching the inner thighs, where he rested his head for a moment.

His experience was, not surprisingly, limited, but his enthusiasm was amazing. I lay back and let him continue, expecting him to stop at every moment. Slowly, my body relaxed and then waves of pleasure, each one more intense than the last, washed over me. Finally, my legs convulsed without my controlling them, trapping his head as my body went rigid with a shuddering moan. I lay back limp.

And he stood up, kissed my hand gently.

“Thank you so much–it was wonderful to be so close to you.”

He walked out of the room in search of his clothes. I almost forgot to close the robe as I went in pursuit.

“Wouldn’t you like to stay for a bit?” I asked.

“Oh no–I really should get to my BBQ. Thank you again, Ms. Kepler–you are just the best person in my life.”

Since I couldn’t think of anything else to do, I let him leave.

I worked through my guilt in a few days–we were both adults, he was no longer a student at the university, and so I talked myself into being ok with what had happened. But I was still bothered by the larger picture. Was he really conditioned by this game? Was it something he could control?

I invited him for a evening meal to see if I could figure it out. Grilled ribeyes with asparagus and roast potatoes and a nice Cabernet with an unexpected 14.5% alcohol content. Sometimes things were easier to talk about a bit tipsy. Unbeknownst to him, my glass was filled with cranberry juice.

He was very happy to come and increasingly chatty as the wine took hold. We didn’t have that much in common and his best friend wouldn’t have called him a wit, but he had excellent manners and was terribly interested in everything I told him about myself.

I edged the conversation round to gaming.

“That game you told me about, something of the Gods? Do you still play?”

“Oh yeah–it has this cool adaptive setup so it never really ends–plus the muse is always taking you new places…”

“How does that work? Do you tell her what things you like?”

“Well, at first–but then she gets the hang of you and really guides you along. I mostly let her direct things now, actually.”

“Really. That’s cool. Does she ever, like, break character?”

“Yeah–it’s kind of weird, but sometimes she’ll tell you to save the game and go to bed or to the gym. And she knows–totally helps me not spend all my time in front of the screen…”

I let him talk a bit more without really listening. How did I ask the next question?

“So, not to change the subject, but everything going ok otherwise? Job? Any hot new girls in your life?

“The job’s great–you’re really sweet to keep sending me schedules for the week and all. Do you think I should date more? I feel really bad asking women out without checking with you first.”

“Checking with me? I know we had that one (wonderful) day, but really you should find someone more your own age. I promise I won’t be jealous or mean.”

“Oh Ms. Kepler–but the other women–they don’t understand me–they are always wanting me to make all the choices. It’s really stressful. I feel much more calm around you.”

He actually sounded frightened. I backed up.

“Oh, of course Charlie–I’m not going any where. But you aren’t lonely–don’t you need a release?”

“I think you know best there, Ms. Kepler. That time here was so amazing, but I know you don’t need a basic guy like me in your life.”

Those puppy-dog eyes and half-smile. Dammit.

I leaned in and kissed him, hard. I let my tongue trace over his lips, then thrust it between them. I ran my hands over his firm chest, pulling the t-shirt off as I did. Next came the trousers and (pink) boxers. His cock was hard and more impressive than I had expected. Still fully dressed, I led him by the cock to my bedroom. I half expected him to come just from watching me undress, but he watched avidly and without any movement.

I was turned on enough by the situation to slide right onto him, riding above him with my hands clawing down his chest. He seemed almost in a daze, but drove his hips into me to match my motion. I grabbed both nipples and pulled hard. That was too much for him and he came with a soft moan and a shudder. Boys.

But to my surprise, as I climbed off, he leaned in to kiss me. I felt his fingers caress my clit with surprising gentleness. We stayed cuddling like that for some time until he finally pushed me over the edge. My orgasm was gentle but prolonged, and I lay back at the end with a soft moan. I let him spend the night.

With this turn of events, I started looking harder than even into the game and its effects, and finally began to find something.

In some of the darker corners of the Internet there were hints, mostly from girlfriends, about changes in their men after playing “the game,” which was rarely named. Almost invariably, those that had tried to “fix” things or sought counseling had failed. But there was another group, whom you might call the “quietly ecstatic” group. They had instead leaned into the situation, following where the men seemed to be leading them. There were some pretty diverse results, including some rather extreme choices. But the odd part seemed to be that there was not only no resistance, but that the relationship improved, the men were happier, when their girlfriends or wives took more control.

An interesting thought.

Meanwhile, it had been a month or so since I had heard from Tyler. Then, late one evening, I got an odd, almost desperate text from him:

“I really screwed up–I need your help. Can I come over?”

Hoping I wasn’t about to shelter a fugitive from justice, I hesitantly agreed.

He arrived dressed in such a way that it was obvious he had just come from a club.

“Ms. Kepler, I did a terrible thing.”

“Oh? what was that?” I answered coldly.

“Well, the boys and I were out at the club and had had a few shots, you know. And I was having fun. There was this girl–probably a bit younger than me–she was really cute. And she walked by me–and–and I brushed my hand over her ass…”

He looked at me, mortified.

“And? Then what did you do?”

“I couldn’t think–I ran out and texted you.”

I successfully avoided laughing.

“You boys–you need to learn that women aren’t your playthings.” My amusement died a little as I put myself in the girl’s place.

He said nothing, but looked a bit abashed.

“And what do you intend to do about this now? Why are you telling me?”

“Well…I mean…I don’t know her. And I don’t think she’d appreciate me trying to track her down. But I thought maybe you could, maybe, help me…I don’t know, come up with some kind of repentance?”

I stared at him.

“You mean that I should do the same to you?”

His face flushed, but there was an avidity in his eyes that I didn’t understand.

What the hell was I doing?

“Let’s make this count. Pull down your pants and underwear and lay across my lap.”

I was sure he would run like a fawn. He didn’t. He calming loosened the belt, slid down the designer jeans he had on, revealing anodyne cotton boxers.

“Those too…”

With pants around his ankles, his progress to my couch was comical, but he placed himself down across my thighs.

Swat!

My first slap was more playful than sadistic. He exhaled involuntarily, but said nothing. I tried again–harder.

“Ugh…”

“Count for me, my dear…we’ll start again.”

Swat!

“One”

By ten, I was beginning to enjoy myself, his bottom was rather noticeably red and his voice was a bit hoarse.

Smack!

“Fifteen.”

“Ok–you can get up. I have two things to tell you. First, this was a one off. If I hear about you disrespecting a woman again, we are through. Do you understand?

“Ye, ma’am.” he sounded both defeated and yet strangely elated.

“Second, I will expect an email tomorrow with a picture of the state of your bottom.”

Christ–what was getting into me?

“Yes–of course, ma’am.” His tone was accepting, even pleased.

“Off with you, then.”

As he left, I tried to ignore the tell-tale dampness I felt in my panties.

Charlie, meanwhile, was spending more and more time at my house. I began to play little games. One day he had cleared up some over-grown sections of the garden. When he came in, he, apparently without thinking, slipped off his sweaty t-shirt.

I paused to admire the washboard abs and broad arms.

“Humm–I like you like this. Maybe you should stay shirtless more when you visit.”

And, from then on, the first thing he did upon walking inside was to remove his shirt.

I began to teach him cooking–just so I could watch those bare arms at work chopping the salad ingredients or grilling the salmon. The addition of the apron over the bare torso–well…

One morning, after he had spent the night, he was getting ready to leave rather early.

“Off to a job?”

“No–my gym gives a discount if you agree to only come before 10am…seems worth it.”

A week later, I had a new treadmill and free weight setup in my garage.

Once Charlie was doing his daily workouts in my gym, it was natural that he wear his spandex workout shorts around the house–and just those shorts.

I had given up trying to have him date women his own age–in fact, I wasn’t keen to share him with any one anymore. And, oddly, those days he wasn’t around me, he seemed tense and unhappy too. One night he’d been at work all day and was having drinks with friends afterward. Since I was tired in any case, we’d agreed he’d sleep at his apartment so we could meet up the next day.

But around 10:30 that night, I got a text:

“Ms. Jenny. Can I swing by for a moment? Just need to chat.”

Well, the chat wasn’t really anything–the friends had wanted to head to burlesque show, and he said to me that he couldn’t imagine doing something like that without asking me first. So I gave him a strip tease instead, and he thanked me with his mouth but without saying a word.

I was seeing a bit more of Tyler too–somehow he had decided that I was his weekly confession and absolution. Except, for him, repentance came with a price. I invested in a little riding crop and applied it to his bottom weekly. The smacking noise was nice, but his gasp afterward was even better. Of course, I felt some guilt at my enjoyment, but I salved my conscience with some blogs by other women who’d discovered the effects of the game and used them to, shall we say, renegotiate their relationships.

One day Charlie was washing up the dishes, and I happened (not at all by accident) to walk into the kitchen in a short silk slip. The sight of his taut form working away turned me on, and I could feel my erect nipples brush against the soft fabric.

He turned, and, as he caught sight of me, I could see his dick grow and thicken in those tight shorts. I stood and watched, frankly and unembarrassed.

“Ms. Jenny–you know it makes me uncomfortable for you to see me when I can’t control myself…”

I kissed him and led him off to bed.

Over the next week, my provocations grew more pronounced. Red lingerie, topless, and finally fully nude as he busied himself with the supper.

“Please, Ms. Jenny–I can’t let you see me like this.”

I smirked. From behind my naked form, I held out a small box.

He opened it without a word.

Inside was a steel cage for his cock.

“Thank you, Ms. Jenny. Will you put it on me?”

Well of course, he was in no state for that. My mouth caressed him and, when he was very, very close, I slid my hand up and down his erection until he shuddered as cum splashed onto my hand.

He was quite well trained, and his tongue obediently lapped the cum up as I lifted my hand to his face. The cage fit beautifully–I couldn’t wait until tomorrow morning to see his reaction to my new latex bodysuit now that he was suitably restrained.

It is difficult to explain how our relationship developed at this point. Charlie never asked to have the cage removed, padding about the house wearing only it and tending to our various needs and wants. I stopped trying to convince him to go out more, as he seemed happiest when we were cuddled up together or when he lay against my bare leg as we watched a movie together.

About twice a month, I released him, slowly teaching him to control his desire so as to give us long bouts of love-making. After climax, he would perch quietly on his knees with legs spread, waiting for me to again attach the cage.

The months past, until one day Tyler was there for a punishment. I don’t remember exactly his crime, but it merited some fairly rough work with the crop. Up until now, I had always had these sessions with Charlie at work, but, perhaps subconsciously, this time I forgot. Tyler cried out after a particularly sharp blow, and Charlie came to check that I was alright.

Everyone stood frozen for what seemed like an age. I was wearing a leather corset top and leather trousers, applying the crop to Tyler’s naked form. Charlie stood, apparently unsurprised, naked, caged and yet unembarrassed.

The only thing I could think of to break the ice was to continue.

“Tyler! Remember they don’t count if you don’t”

Smack!

“Fifteen”

Smack! Smack!

“Six, six, Sixteen, seventeen.”

Charlie watched, emotionless.

When I finished, Tyler straightened. My look told him that any comments about Charlie would not be appreciated. But then another, more mischievous, thought, occurred to me.

“Charlie, dear, Tyler has had a rather rough time. Maybe a little oral attention to his dick might improve his mood.”

I held my breath. Was this where it all fell apart? Was it even remotely ok to ask this of Charlie?

Holding me in his gaze the entire time, Charlie walked over to Tyler, knelt down, took Tyler’s cock in one hand, and slowly, sensuously, licked it up and down.

The end.

Member submitted Femdom story. Femdom or female domination sex stories, are those where a woman takes the lead. Dominant wives, girlfriends or women in positions of power, are usually the main character, with a submissive male or female, attending to their every demand. For male and female subs, femdom fiction is likely to contain story elements of both softer activities like foot worship and teasing, to more hardcore activities like light torture, pain play (nipple and genital clamps, CBT), strap-on sex (pegging), figging, smothering, suffocation, orgasm denial, fisting, anal play, spanking, toilet play and humiliation.

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