But after only 40 miles, we found ourselves in the mother of all traffic jams on the interstate. Some truck driver - probably surfing sex blogs in his lap top while high on meth - had “lost his load”. The haimat units had shut down the interstate on both directions. Nice.
Ever a resourceful Slave, I found a map at a gas station. ( I know, how 20th Century). And we proceeded to blaze a trail cross-country through some hitherto unexplored parts of the Hoosier state – through quaint burgs like Metamora, Santa Fe, Leisure, Peru, and Atlanta (not real creative in Indiana are they?)
Cell phone reception was spotty, as we worked our way through rolling hills and pastureland, but Mistress was able to keep in touch with our Western Correspondent, who did a good job of helping us pass the time.
So, as I was winding along the banks of the Great Miami River, M was riding his bike to work in the shadows of the Rockies, and Mistress was squirming in her seat, chatting him up in her best seductive voice.
Some of our blogger colleagues should have had burning ears. M reads your incendiary pieces too, and we took some time to consider several of you as I drove along, kibitzing on their conversation. (Of course, I could only hear Mistress’s part, like a kinky Bob Newhart monologue).
“I agree, that scene with Aisha and the play party was pretty hot. We don’t live too far from her ,,,, wouldn’t it be hot to meet her and her Dom and all their little playmates…”
Mistress went on to describe our own use of rope from time to time, and the need to invest in some custom rope that is not so scratchy.
“There’s nothing worse that scratchy rope on my delicate parts, M.”
“Maybe Aisha’s Dom will bring along some extra rope for you, Mistress. You’d look pretty hot in one of those rope dresses.”
Mistress shot me a look, swatted my thigh with her hand.
“Bad Slave.”
And of course we covered ‘Nilla.
“The thing with her wife. Interesting. Slave, M is wondering if she wants the wife to Domme her?”
I could only speculate.
“One never knows the twisted direction of ‘Nilla’s cravings.”
And we talked about what the stakes should be if Mick and ‘Nilla bet on the outcome of that season opening NFL game between our teams.
“How about this, Mistress: if our team loses, ‘Nilla gets to talk you through an orgasm with the Hitachi.”
“No way….can you believe that M? (She repeated my proposition). You wouldn’t allow that would you?”
Mistress listened, not happy with what she was hearing.
“You are both sickos…..”
Mistress was vetoing this idea, though M apparently was not taking her side.
And, yes, Sin. We considered you and your Master. Mistress observed that she was glad M was not into the nipple torture. (Though occasionally, on Switch day, she has been forced to endure some rather nasty clamps).
The signal faded, and Mistress napped as I navigated the back roads. When she woke, she noticed a text message from M.
“He wants me to masturbate, Slave.”
She was squirming already, the slut. His slut. And the aroma of her arousal was already beginning to permeate our steel and glass capsule.
“Does he want to give you instructions on the phone, Mistress?”
She texted that question to him. And also began preparing to fulfill his orders by wriggling out of the tight black panites under the mid-thigh tie-dye dress she was wearing. I could not resist dipping my fingers between her legs, discovering that she was already wet and ready.
My finger was at my lips, now.
“Yum, Mistress.”
“Glad you like that, Slave.”
The chime on her phone went off.
“He’s busy now, but wants me to report back when I am done.”
“Then you better hop to it, Mistress.”
Without hesitation, Mistress spread her legs onto the dash of the Collins-mobile, and spread those sodden lips with her splayed fingers. Soon her hand was spinning away, and her hips were undulating from side to side.
If the cornfields we were passing had elephant eyes, they would have had quite a view. And I was trying to watch her naughty little show while keeping one eye out for cows crossing the highway.
Mistress’s eyes were squeezed closed, her head back on the fully reclined seat. And then her thighs were squeezing tight against her hand and she was giving off that little moan of closure that signaled her climax.
Her eyes opened, she looked a little bashfully at me.
“Good job, Mistress.”
But by now it was hard for me to resist joining in the fun. I kept my left hand on the wheel, and my right hand slithered up between Mistress’s still spread legs. She was as juicy as you would expect, the inner thighs slick and damp.
And my fingers went to work on her, squeezing and kneading and spinning away, building her up and bringing hew over the edge of another shuddering explosion. This time it was my hand that was squeezed between her legs as she moaned for me.
“Why don’t you report back now, Mistress.”
“ I will, but first, a pussy pic for him, Slave.”
She hovered her I-phone camera over naked, shaved cunt. Snapping 2 or 3 shots before finding one that was sufficiently enticing. Then she typed away on her little device, before sending it off to M.
We laughed at the thought of M in a client conference, hearing the little “bing” of an incoming message, and getting an eyeful of Mistress’s glistening cunt.
Bottom line: when traveling the back roads of Indiana, you have to be uber-resourceful to pass the time. Thanks to M for helping out.
