Our destination was up a 5 mile dirt road, on a hillside in a pine forest on the slopes of the Sangre de Christo mountains.
At the end of this road sits a former goat ranch, carved out of a pine forest. Hand cut logs were used by 19th Century settlers to build a handful of rustic cabins, and a rambling cottage that was occupied for several years by a literary lion of the early 20th Century: D.H. Lawrence.
After Lawrence’s day, Georgia O’Keefe spent time on her back under a towering tree, painting a work she titled “Lawrence’s Tree.”
We saw the memorial his wife Frieda built for Lawrence years after his death, his ashes mixed into the concrete so former or would be lovers could not spirit him away.
Romantic, no?
Molly and Mick strolled around the grounds, gaping at the giant tree O’Keefe had painted, and sitting on the front porch that Lawrence, Frieda and the artist Dorothy Brett had surely occupied in their day, on similar sunny but cool summer afternoons. And we must have been infected by the writer’s sensual temperament.
“How would you like some worship, Mistress?”
“Here, Slave…..?”, she said with mock surprise, as she sat on a little bench, built into a corner of Lawrence’s porch.
There was no one else around. We were the only visitors. If there was a staff patrolling the grounds, we had not seen them. Presumably we would hear them coming, right?
Without further discussion, Mistress slid off her tight black riding shorts, fumbling a bit to get them over and off her riding shoes. Her, by now, well tanned cunt was perched at the edge of the bench, readily available for my attention. And I fell to my knees on the hard and worn wooden floor.
Fortunately, it did not take too much attention with my lips and tongue to get Mistress to the point where her hips convulsed against my mouth, and she moaned with delight, squirming away from my probing tongue.
“That’s enough, Slave”, she said, her face a pleasant shade of red. Then she had a proposition for me.
“Would you like to fuck me here, right now, Slave?”
But that might be pressing our luck. And that bench did not seem all that comfortable for the use Mistress proposed. I did not want either one of us to acquire splinters for our bottoms.
But Mistress gave me a rain check, which I collected later that afternoon. And Mistress rewarded me by requiring me to insert that little white probe.
“I need a particularly hard cock this afternoon, Slave.”
I was able to deliver, and Mistress seemed to enjoy riding it to one of those special, heartfelt orgasms that make a Slave proud.
Maybe she had been infected by the spirit of Lady Chatterly. though I think my mistress could show her a thing or two.
Afterwards, we drifted off for a nice nap, and showered for a dinner engagement with some friends. But before we were off for the evening, Mistress received a text from her long distance Master.
“He wants to talk a bit, Slave.”
“No problem, Mistress.”
Mistress was naked, as has been her practice this week. And she settled onto a chaise on our patio, visible only to some decorative horses in the pasture out back. (They have gotten an eyeful this week).
But as I was dressing, Mistress popped back into the house.
She had sunglasses on but nothing else, her hair still damp from the shower. And a very wide grin.
“Could you fetch me the Hitachi, Slave?”
Ah, so it would be that type of chat. I dutifully arranged the extension cord and power tool for her, making sure it was operating properly. Then left Mistress and M to their fun.
I tended to some work on my computer. Mistress and M chatted away. But soon she was back in the house looking for me.
“How many, Mistress?”
“Only one today Slave….he just got home. Said he would masturbate and think of me.”
“I think you like inspiring that sort of behavior, don’t you Mistress…. You like the thought of him playing with his cock, obsessing about you….”
“It’s … nice, Slave. Very nice.” But Mistress’s wide smile said something more than “nice.”
Somehow, somewhere, I sense that D.H. Lawrence would approve.
