Fortunately, there was time for some lengthy wake-up sex, that featured Slave applying Mistress's favorite power tools to her clean shaven folds for a couple of bead shaking cums before I claimed my carnal reward.
There was a bike ride in our sunny morning: summer had crept back for just two days, but the last of the fall leaves were still flame red.
Then Slave went to the Pussycats game, with our daughter, her Co-Ed friend, and, of all people, Jay, Mistress's former lover, who still is hanging about in our life, but no longer in the "FWB" capacity. Mistress has moved on.
Speaking of which, she's planning to work from home today for a while before heading off to the NYC area for a business event for two nights. I've been told to make sure I am "cage ready" this AM, and already have schmushed my balls and cock into the steel ring, which should provide Mistress with an extra hard cock for her entertainment in this AM's "bon voyage" sex, before I head to work.
Mistress did let it drop yesterday that she was considering "Mr. Perfect Cock's" (K) invitation for lunch today. (He works not far from our house). He's been wheedling his way back onto her radar screen, after she dumped him via text message about 9 days ago. No doubt he's had a little trouble getting Mistress's body and sexual skills out of his naughty little mind.
Last night, as we drove home from a charity event at someone's house, she announced that he's now suggesting they "lunch" at our house. Gee, I wonder what he has in mind? Of course, Mistrss is no fool in such matters, but seemed a little ambivalent about what to do.
I suspect it may turn on just how horny she may be by around 11:00 am or so. And I'll be sitting at my desk, all caged up, wondering what's going on. Maybe we need one of those nanny cams?
But despite our busy schedule yesterday, I did have a little time to research the allegations of one of our commenters yesterday, who believes that General Petraeus had not resigned because of a sexual scandal involving a jealous "biographer", but really to continue the cover-up of the whole Benghazi affair, and protect the President's ass.
Hmmmm. Could it be? I turned immediately to the best sources for unadulterated "news" with a blame Obama spin: The (http://drudgereport.com/ ) Drudge Report to collect various conspiratorial perspectives and then add it all up (though math is so 20th Century).
There was this theory: Petraeus actually started the affair months ago in anticipation of an excuse not to tell Congress what he might know about some attack on a US Embassy to occur at some unknown date in the future. But that seemed too simple. Why would a guy reported to be thinking about running for President as a Republican throw himself and his reputation under the bus just to save a Kenyan Socialist who had wormed his way into the White House?
This "he did it so he wouldn't have to testify" theory also seems dubious when you consider that fact that Congress HAS THE POWER TO SUBPOENA a witness, whether or not he happens to run the CIA. So sooner or later, he'll ahve to testify anyway (unless he suddenly and mysteriously disappears - look out for that one!)
No, it had to be something deeper, and darker. And it all began to add up when I learned that the "other woman" in this dark tale was a State Department employee, 37 years old, who is a "military liaison" station in Tampa, Fl.
With title like "liaison", with it's pseudo French affectations, I knew there was something sinister about her from the start. No wonder Paula Broadwell was suspicious. And who did she work for? Hillary Clinton, long rumored to be a closet Lesbian. One can only imagine those long nights of sultry sapphic indulgence in that tiny private cabin on the Secretary of State's airplane as it winged its way to Jakarta or Abu Dabi on yet another apology tour.
It was all becoming clearer: where were the "deciders" in the early morning hours of September 11, 2012 as our poor diplomats in Benghazi were calling for drones strikes and back-up under withering assault from those Al Queda affiliated terrorists?
In a CIA safe house in Georgetown, that the sinister but oh-so buff Paula Broadwell had turned into a dungeon in which she could extract secrets and vital fluids from the most important men and women in Washington. General Petraeus was locked in a metal dog cage, forced to watch as his "biographer" used a variety of floggers, cains and crops to force our "President", strapped naked to a St. Andrews' cross, to reveal the nuclear trigger codes and the whereabouts of his actual birth certificate.
No wonder no one picked up that urgent 3 am phone call.
