And Mick and Molly are happy to have a little more privacy.
Not that we didn’t have fun.
There was our chance to “ooh” and “ah” at the great sand dunes national park, about a three hour drive away. The hike to the top of the highest dune, at about 9500 ft. above River City level, is taxing on aging ankles and lungs. But the view is gorgeous and the swells and curves of the wind blown landscape are downright voluptuous.
Of course, in the spirit of one of those bad Chevy Chase vacation movies, we were just a few minutes late to cop the last camp site in the national park.
That had us (momentarily) all tented up with nowhere to pitch. And of course the teens were quickly on their I-phones in search of the nearest Ritz Carlton.
But Molly was too quick for them. We ended up at the “Dunes Recreation Pool”, campground, in nearby Hooper (Pop. 23), a novel enterprise parked in a sea of sagebrush with a full size pool and assorted soaking tubs filled from a toasty geothermal spring. At a big hydroponic green house next door, they claimed to grow tomatoes, and sure enough there were some fresh ones on sale. But I did wonder what else was on the vines inside those massive structures.
So after the tents were assembled, and burgers were grilled, and the evening cooled, we were able to plop into a 100 degree pool, and watch the local teen cowboys and cowgirls cavort.
Thankfully, there were no prissy lifeguards enforcing prohibitions on PDA’s like at our own neighborhood pool back in River City. In fact, there were no damn lifeguards at all. Not the cowboy way!
What about Sex, you might ask? (Well you wouldn’t be here for pedestrian travel blogging would you?)
Things were a little lean in that department.
By the time we slipped into our sleeping bags on Friday night, both Mistress and Slave were a tad tuckered. And the kids were still chatting in the next tent. I offered my tongue in comfort, but Mistress demurred.
“I’m good, Slave.”
The morning was different though. The teens were still sleeping (though later they protested that they barely got a wink).
So Mistress graciously accepted the ministrations of her Slave’s fingers, and then my cock. Though we accomplished our mission without the usual bells and whistles. The ground was hard and I did not want to hurt Mistress’s back.
After some more pool lolling, we headed up to the Crestone Music Festival, a hippie flash back extravaganza in the shadow of some impressive 14, 000 footers. The festival was long on vegan treats and short on electricity to fuel the bands’ sound systems. The generator looked like a recycled lawn mower engine. The most interesting event was the ladies’ log splitting contest. The winner surely could have kicked this Slave’s ass.
But the event had its benefits.
“There are some nice mountain men types here, Slave.”
Mistress has spent some time in the back country, and several western states over her years. And she does have an unquenchable hankering for the type of men who are short on words and long on rugged.
One from Durango chatted her up a bit, as I stood by. Though his boasting about the peaks he had bagged this summer grew a bit tedious.
By the time we moseyed on back to the Hooper Pool, and had our evening soak, storm clouds were gathering. I had a sense this storm could cramp our style once we climbed into our sack.
Sure enough, as the wind picked up, thunder rumbled and lightening flashed, sullen teen 2 was suddenly climbing into our tent, seeking parental protection. (the other one was safely in the arms of her boyfriend in an adjoining tent, apparently no longer in need of her parents’ solace)
She was lobbying for a quick exit: “The weather channel says its going to storm all night, and tomorrow too.” (Yes, the place had wifi and her I-phone was all over it).
We told her to chill, and she lay there next to us as the wind rattled the tent, and (only) a few drops penetrated to dampen, but not soak us.
By the time the storm had passed, Mistress was sleeping like a baby.
In the morning, I was hoping to at least enjoy a quickie, but the teens were skulking about and the dogs of neighboring campers were yapping, making the privacy issue come to the fore.
But as Mistress read a book, I did slide my fingers into her shorts, making her squirm a bit until she came with a little, gratifying gasp.
So make that 1.5 on the weekend sex scale.
AS we were driving home, Mistress briefly found a signal and texted M with the Weekend update.
His “LOL” response to our paltry activity level was well received.
But by early afternoon we were back to our more comfortable digs here in the shadows of another set of kinder, gentler mountains. Mistress caught up on sleep out on our patio, and added to her lovely tan. We shook the cricks out of our muscles with a late afternoon bike ride. And then it was to bed for our afternoon “nap”..
The teens just happy to be back to what teens do.
Nothing.
But back to our chambers.
The door was open, accommodating a cooling breeze off the mountains.
Mistress had stripped off her charming tie dye two piece bathing suit.
Slave was naked too, as he should be.
“What about switch Day, Slave.”
“I think we’ve missed that Mistress. Plus I may be too desperate for some long drawn out scene. I need you. Now. ASAP.”
She stood there, a hand cupping my balls, a finger straying to the underside of my quickly enlarging cock.
“That’s what I like to hear, Slave. Desperation. You may have to get used to it. Remember, Abstinence Day starts up again on Wednesday.”
Ah yes. The firmer hand she had talked about. Something M has been coaching her on during their morning phone calls. My cock lurches up one more notch at the thought of it all.
“Go put in your device, Slave.”
“Of course, Mistress.”
