Mistress Knows the Ropes

It was Valentine’s Day. Slave thought better of subjecting his Mistress to their weekly “switch”. A red bottom would not be the sort of cuddly, romantic sex that the savvy marketers behind the whole V Day thing probably had in mind. So our morning and afternoon encounters between the sheets were satisfyingly vanilla. Very delightful, but not what our reader(s) might expect from Mick and Molly.

But I did ask Mistress for a rain check, which she generously granted, to be collected on Monday, our last full day here at our Mountain hideaway.

But it was Mistress who was feeling frisky when Monday dawned. After I prepared her coffee and she read yesterday’s rather lame (but nicely illustrated) “erotic art” entry , she asked for directions in finding our stash of ropes.

Mistress poured the contents of our little mobile bag-o-submission onto the bed, and marveled about how we keep getting it through airport security.

“No sharp edges or explosives, Mistress.”

It would be embarrassing though, to explain the purpose of the harness, dildo, cuffs, locks, collar, vibrator, etc. to a diligent crew of TSA staff members sorting through them. Would love to hear any comments on how to cope with that scenario, dear readers.

Mistress selected two lengths of rope, and instructed me to position myself in the center of the bed, face-up. She tied one hand and then the other to the little eyebolts I had installed at the corners of the head of the bed. Mistress knows her knots. When she was done, I was going nowhere.

Twitch.

She then found the riding crop on the floor next to her side of the bed.

“Roll over, Slave”.

I did the best I could with wrists restrained at opposite sides of the bed, twisting my trunk so that she had access to a good expanse of my bottom. She applied the crop vigorously, all the while demanding my oath of permanent loyalty and faithfulness. It’s a pledge I am happy to give, even without the sting of the crop. But the pain does remind me that it is a solemn obligation with very unpleasant consequences if breached.

With hand securely tied, I had little room the squirm as Mistress struck me a dozen or so times with an intensity that had me crying out. Ouch.

But Mistress actually is merciful to her Slave, and soon relented.

“Roll over Slave. Let me see that cock.”

I was happy to obey. She poked and prodded me a bit with the crop and her gentle fingers. Soon I had attained dimensions that pleased Mistress.


“That’s very inviting, Slave,” she said, sipping her coffee as one hand continued to toy with me. By now, Mistress’s fingers were driving me crazy.

“I’d like to fuck you now, Mistress.”

“Yes, I am sure you would.”

She took a little more time with her coffee though before setting her cup down at the bedside table.

Then she was sliding onto and over me, positioning herself to plunge my cock effortlessly into her very wet and warm passage. Her restraint, punishment and stimulation of me seemed to work as ample foreplay for both of us.

When she rides me like this, Mistress, gets an interesting look on her face. Focus. Eyes scrunched close. Her energy directed at finding just the right contact at the place where Mistress and Slave come together. As the pace of her sliding and pounding against me increases, her breathing becomes more ragged, until she surrenders to her desire and throws herself over the edge. With hands bound to the bed, I am just a passive, though very “happy to be here” participant.

That morning as she reached that place I arched up to meet her as best I could, as she plunged over the top. Then she slowed the pace, her hands reaching back to toy with my balls as she rode me gently, driving me just a little more crazy.

She knows it’s hard for me to come this way, but she enjoys taking me oh so close.

“You’re frustrated, aren’t you Slave,” she says with a “cruel” smile. Looking at me now, as she builds herself to another orgasm.

“Yes, Mistress.”

“Excellent.”

Then she was going for it again, gasping, then collapsing onto me, exhausted from her second in the expanse of a few minutes.

Mistress caught her breath as she settled onto me, her cheek pressed against my chest, my cock still at attention inside her.

Moving slowly, she reached out and released one of my hands, then allowing me to untie my other hand. Freed, I rolled her onto her back, and slid inside, pressing her arms over her head. She was like a rag doll by then, but those little sounds she makes suggested that she was enjoying my robust thrusts into her.

By the time I was given permission to come, my explosion was one of those multi-staged affairs that brings to mind Walter Cronkite narrating the Apollo moon launch.

When we recovered, we suited up for a sunny day on the slopes.

And, when we returned, with tanned faces and aching legs, I redeemed that rain check.

But we will save that part of the story for tomorrow’s entry.