HNT / More on Presidential Kissing

Mistress and Slave were back in a more salacious groove yesterday. Of course, there was ample time for some toasty morning sex, and I didn't even have to resort to my JFK accent to get any action. (Believe me, it's worked on occasion. )

And after work, there was no big rush to make dinner, so Slave requested a worship opportunity, made all the more convenient by the access provided by Mistress's peek-a-boo tights.  Mistress even indulged her Slave's request to duck her after my lips and tongue had given her a gratifying starter cum as she laid back across our bed.

When the dust finally settled, I took a few photos of her, and am mixing in some from a week or so ago.  I must say I relish those lovely curves and shapes that her body forms as she lies across our bed in the UCTMW Executive suite.  The possibilities seem endless.

Now back to some of the comments yesterday on JFK, his young intern, Mimi Alford,  and the absence of kissing in that "relationship".  Many of you commented that the absence if kissing would be a death knell for a come on, even from the "World's Most Powerful Leader". (Presuming that power is in direct proportion to the nuclear arsenal at your disposal, I suppose).

And I would certainly agree with that take: I can't imagine a sexual liaison that does not begin with a kiss.

As one of you commented, the absence of a kiss prior to sex is more in the nature of the relationship between a hooker and her "John".  But here, it was JFK who apparently avoided the kissing -- in this analogy was he the Prostitute, and was the intern is customer?  No that was not the power dynamic.

Mistress and I talked a little more about it last night as she added details to the story from the book as she read it on her kindle.

"So at this point Slave.... JFK asks her to give his buddy Dave Powers a blow job next to the White House pool, because he'd had a stressful day...."

"And does she do it...?"

 I'm thinking no, she rebels, draws a line. Not some 19 year old prep school girl from a "good family going down on her 45 year old lover's crony. (the guy with JFK in the hat).

"She does it, Slave...."

Uggh. I'm kind of disappointed in her.  You can see the fascination with JFK.... but his Irish drinking buddy?  Then it dawned on me....

"Maybe this was a primitive D/s relationship, Mistress.... with her getting off on being humiliated by her dominant lover.... forced not only to do the sex acts that he demanded from her.... but also to service a friend in his presence for his pleasure".

Love to hear what our submissive female readers react to this theory.

What, No Kissing?

Mistress and Slave had a rather laid back Valentine's Day. No high falutin' date night like the First couple had in DC? (Did anyone see the President's public warning to America's males yesterday to look at the calendar and not forget what day it was?  Clever.)

No  four way, as  was brewing over at All Mine.  (Damn, those folks sure have fun).

No, we had some satisfying comfort sex in the morning, went to work, and hit our gym at the end of the day. Mistress spun. I did the elliptical and watched the news.  At home I whipped up some tasty stir-fry, and we caught up on the most recent episode of Californication.

(I should add that Mistress got a little extra V-Day treat once we were done worshipping and fucking before work.... there were a few minutes left before it was time to hit the shower, so she got a bonus orgasm courtesy of her favorite power tool.   It's always nice to have a powered assist at those moments when the human body needs just a little more.)

We figured we would have that fancy celebratory meal on our last night in Europe next week, when the sullen teen is back with her host family. And after all, everyday is Valentine's Day here at UCTMW, isn't it?

But when our show was over, and we adjourned to the executive suite here at the UCTMW World HQ, I did make sure that Mistress had a suitable opportunity for worship before we settled into bed with our books.  Those clean shaven folds were mighty succulent last night.

Oddly, we were both reading books about JFK, the hero of my Irish Catholic youth, who died when I in 8th grade, just having turned 13. For those of us in that generation, the Carole King line "something inside me died" is not too dramatic  to describe the events of November, 1963.

I'm reading this long Steven King novel imagining a school teacher from Maine in 2011 traveling back through some convoluted hole in time to prevent the assassination.

Mistress is reading the recently published memoir of Mimi Alford, who (credibly) claims that she had an affair with JFK while a White House intern at the age of 19, that extended to the week of his death. The book describes the loss of her virginity in Jackie's bedroom (raising the question of why Jackie had her own bedroom), and has lots of other colorful and credible details.  There have been a many articles on her book of late, including this one from Sunday's Times, where she describes the White House in those days as more like "Mad Men" than "Camelot".

So we are laying there side by side, deep into the 60's, and Mistress is sharing random, colorful details.

"She says they took baths together, Slave...."

"I saw that in an interview she did..... they had rubber duck races...."

Bizarre, right?

"And she says his favorite song back then was that one from "How to Succeed in Business...."

Somehow I knew which one, whipped out my laptop and found it on You-Tube.... here it is.

I Believe in You

I can imagine JFK looking at himself in the mirror, admiring his own "grin of impetuous youth", when deciding whether to press the red button during the Cuban Missile Crisis, all the while humming this song. Scary.... the narcissist's theme song. But maybe you need that degree of confidence to do that job.

On the Cuban missile crisis.... "She says he called her back from Wheaton College to be there in the White House that week.... a limo picked her up....."

"Wonder if she had a reserved spot in the bunker if things went south?"

The intern's adventures with JFK are not particularly shocking to either of us. I suspect Mistress would have done it too, at the first drop of hearing him say her name with that Boston accent.  But at 19.... right between the ages of our two daughters.   Disturbing.  But those were different times. Before "sexual harassment, and a nosey press corps.



But here's the detail we fixated on.

"She says they never really kissed."

Huh?

How do you have an extended affair ... spend the night.... stare down Nikita Kruschev together, with your rubbie duckies at your side....without kissing?

Mistress and I discussed that....

"Kissing's important Slave.... Not sure I could last with someone who isn't a good kisser."

"So how do I rank...."

"You're a good kisser, Slave...."

I thought back to our first tentative kiss.... it definitely got better from there. And for the record, Mistress was at least 25 by then. I was an "ancient" 38.

We also ran through a few other folks she's engaged these last few years....some showed promise, others were avoiders.  And the kiss avoiders did not go the distance with Mistress.

So what's your take dear readers..... why no kissing between JFK and the intern? And where does kissing rank on your deal makers or killers?

Licensed to.....

Well yesterday’s post here led to lots of interesting comments, and even Mistress weighed in at the end of our day. You may want to turn back a page to catch the “debate”, and get the WC’s more straightforward embrace of the male proclivity to stray.

On further reflection, maybe the young testosterone overloaded Mick was just exploiting a skill he nurtured in his high school days. If I had been a better bass player in that high school rock band, than I was getting  female members of the audience to “make out” with me after the show, maybe I would be an aging rocker, backing up Steely Dan now, rather than writing a sex blog for the entertainment of this “vast” audience.

When I went searching for that James Bond image, it opened up a another set of memories for me that I’ve been sorting through in the last day.

I recall seeing my first James Bond movie from the back seat of a friends car, at a Drive In movie theatre in up state NY, on the banks of the Hudson River. Apparently his parents thought "From Russia With Love was good entertainment for an 8th grader.

It was the summer of 1963. JFK was still with us.The Beatles had yet to appear on the Ed Sullivan show.

Here is the trailer – short on the special effects that came to dominate and deaden the series as it lumbered over the next few decades. Looks like there was even a bit of bondage tucked in.

Of course, I was hardly a  sexually educated dude on the cusp of 8th grade, I just knew that this guy was pretty danged cool, and seemed to have a charm that got a really nice looking blonde into bed with him. What happened next, who knew? But the concept has a certain compelling, if mysterious, appeal.

I learned later, most likely after the Assassination, that the novel the movie had been based on was one of JFK’s favorite books (was he role modeling James too?). The movie was the last one he saw before his murder in November of that year.

With that inspiration, as a teen I set aside Tom Swift and devoured the whole series of Ian Fleming’s novels, though one, Thunderball maybe,  was “seized” by a nun at my Catholic High School here in River City.

“I can’t believe that your parents allow you to read that smut, Mr. Collins.”

I suspected she and the other nuns passed that book from one to another back at the convent. Who knows what happened next in their little narrow beds.

So with role models like these, who can doubt why I responded to any sign of female attraction that crossed my bow. I mean, I was just getting read for my first assignment, once I obtained that License to Kill.

I liked the thought of the women I would encounter would someday be mumbling “Oh….Mick”, just like Tatiana and all the rest of the “Bond girls” in the series would sooner or later murmur, “Oh…. James….” at some point in the film. The Cold War would be won one seduction at a time.

Of course, that photo of Sean Connery brandishing his “special occasion firearm”, and its cheap phallic imagery, made it abundantly clear that sex mixed with violence was to be the formula for selling tickets. And sure enough, subsequent Bond marketing did not fall far from that tree. Here are just a few:

It's nice that Sean Connery sometimes only brandished a "work-a-day" firearm.

Yesterday Mistress chimed in with her own comments about the Male weakness for cheating. But what she has yet to share with us is her own motivation as a femme fatale.

You see, when she and I had our transcendent chemical reaction to one another back in the days of the short Greek from Massachusetts, she brought to the table her own little list of conquests.

Over the months she slowly disclosed her history to me, with one older guy after another falling for her devastating charms. And she was married too, but only about 26 at the time. By my calculation, she seemed to have as many extracurricular relationships / year as the older Mick. Who was her role model?

Don’t you think she owes us a little history about how and why all these men fell into her web?

I know I’d like to hear about it with the benefit of some hindsight. Wouldn’t you?

Mistress and Slave's DC Adventures (cont'd)

Yesterday I ended the blog on a sidewalk in our nation’s capitol, with two 20 something’s wondering what made two folks (or at least one of us) old enough to be their parents so hot for one another on a sultry Friday night.

I did not want to leave too much to your imagination.

We finished our long walk back to our hotel from dinner, a bit tipsy and with a sheen of perspiration from the warm humid air. We slid off our cloths and into bed.


“Do you want me, Slave?”

“Absolutely, Mistress.”

Soon I was between Mistress’s legs, dug in for a long siege.

I know there are some guys who say this is not their favorite sex act. Our Western Correspondent is one of them. And I have heard of (but never met) women who find it less than compelling. (Thinking of you SFP).

But for me, there is nothing like the Zen like experience of focusing all of my energy and attention on bringing my Mistress to a slow and intense orgasm with my mouth and tongue.

On a night like our Friday evening , when there are no other demands, or the need to wake up early or otherwise, “get on with it”, I like to use my mouth to tease and torment a bit, and draw it out of her slowly. And when Mistress is a little tipsy, it’s all the more fun. Whatever inhibitions she might have (and there are not many) are thrown to the wind and surrendered to her pleasure centers.

So with the glow of the National Cathedral shining through our hotel room window in the distance, I began my worship. This would be a high mass.

It involved a slow and languorous sucking of her rosy clit between my lips, teased on occasion by the very tip of my tongue. I knew I was getting to her as her hips began to rise each time I created a little vacuum to suck her sensitive bud even deeper into my mouth.

AS she got closer to the edge I would slow the rhythm a bit, then speed it up again to keep her tilted but not quite ready to plunge over the precipice. And somewhere along the way, my thumb found it’s way into her sopping canal, where it poked and probed to find that spot that makes her crazy.

After 10 or 15 minutes of this, Mistress was thrashing about a bit, getting a tad desperate. Finally, I showed some mercy, and pressed her over the edge with some additional attention with my tongue.

Her vocalization was well worth the effort, as she came in one enthusiastic spasm against my clinging mouth, and then went through a series of mini-crashes before settling down onto the bed. I had the satisfaction of a job well done, when I heard her raspy demand “Come and fuck me now, Slave”.

It’s always nice when I am not required to beg for that privilege.

As it turned out I was more than ready, and mounted her without hesitation.

And we fucked for quite a few minutes that way, me on top of her, varying the speed, mauling her tits, pressing my face into her neck to enjoy her lovely aroma, that mingled her musky perfume, the salt of the day’s sunbathing, and the tang of the sexual juices that had spread just about everywhere by now.

But this was not exactly what Mistress needed.

“I want to be on top, Slave.”

“Of course, Mistress.”


On that night, her needs were only going to be quenched by riding my cock. And she rode it with a vengeance.

I had a sense that in her mind she was imprisoned in M’s mountain cabin. Collared. Chained to the bed. At his disposal.

And he had required her to ride him this way, maybe with her hands tied behind her back, so that she could take her pleasure only by grinding and sliding against him, building and building until she was mad with desire, but coming only after she begged him for the privilege.

And my attitude was the following (and I have expressed it to her this way): If Mistress gets this hot with thoughts of fucking another guy, and I am the beneficiary of her naughty sexual fantasies, then fantasize on, my love.

At some point she drove herself to yet another devastating climax, collapsing onto me, seemingly exhausted, but knowing that she owed me one.

So we rolled over again. And I quickly found my mark.

By now, Mistress was making some noises that were new to me. Sobbing was the best way I could describe it to her over breakfast the next day. But not the sobbing that comes with tears. That happens sometimes for her, after a particularly intense climax. This was something all together different. I interpreted it as “Slave, I have had more orgasms than a Mistress can handle, but I am still going crazy with you fucking me.”

In any event, I did go on, until I was begging for permission, and she was granting, then I was exploding into her in a series of spasms that seemed to go on forever.

After that, well …..

We woke the next morning, wondering what exactly happened.

We found ourselves on the wrong side of the bed. (old married couples like us have their “sides”. Exactly how we acquired them is now shrouded by the fog of time).

As best we could reconstruct, we both sort of passed out simultaneously. Maybe our mutually generated sexual energy had sucked us into an odd time warp or another dimension. But we came back in good order, no limbs rearranged. Our nation’s history not altered, at least as far as we could tell. The oil was still leaking. The media still demanding that Barack “do something” and “act more pissed.”

And, before heading out for a walk through Georgetown, we made sure that our sexual organs were still working. Thank goodness, they were.

Now we are back in River City, our brief getaway over.

We have a lovely photo of Molly on the steps of JFK’s Georgetown home to show for our trip. Mistress’s tan lines are a bit more pronounced. And I am considering what exactly to do to her on Switch Day. We will keep you updated.


BTW, check out ‘Nilla’s blog (Vanilla Mom’s Blog) today for a fictionalized account of the adventures of Molly, Mick and our Western Correspondent. We no doubt will all be inspired by this today. Hopefully Molly and M will have a phone date today to go over the plot line in some detail. It’s probably fortunate that the Hitachi has had a few days off to rest its circuitry.


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