Super Slip Sliding Away

Mistress and Slave had a rather laid back Super Sunday.  Of course, there was your traditional wake - up sex, some afternoon worship and a nice nap before we headed across the Mason Dixon line to the home of acquaintances that Mistress has met through her work. 

This was one of those ex-urban communities that is pretty unfamiliar to Mistress and slave: A huge, treeless subdivision of McMansions on proportionately too small lots. Yeah, I know I am sounding like some urbanista snob.  But it's true that we have been sheltered from this sort of lifestyle. 

Once inside we found the typical selection of Super Bowl foods - cheese, chili, fritos. Mistress found some tasty bourbon, and slave nursed some red wine. The crowd was a little different from who we might typically hang with on the annual ritual of commercial and cultural excess that is uniquely American.  

Slave is old enough to remember the first super bowl. We've come a long way from Len Dawson, the Kansas City QB, smoking a cigarette and drinking a Fresca at half time, while Al Hirt tooted some New Orleans tune at the 50 yd. line.

Slave found himself out on the back deck, with a view of a meandering stream and a sanitary sewer pumping station. I took  tips from a neighbor of our hosts on the best guns to use to snuff out my prairie dog problem at our SW hideaway. He described some special plastic tipped pellets on the market now that expand on impact and leave a fist size exit wound.

"Make yourself a blind.  Then you can just lay back there and pop off those varmints one right after another...."

"you mean sitting in my lounge chair won't cut it?"

I don;t think he got the joke, and  actually made me feel sorry for my sordid little varmints.

In any event, the game did not go quite the way I expected.

Sorry, Donna.  I hoped you put your vibrators to good use before the score was final.  Because you had a heads up by half-time, when it became apparent that Clark Kent, rather than Superman showed up. Maybe the Panthers forgot to have a phone booth handy on the sidelines?

And Mike, our erstwhile Western Correspondent, congratulations on your team's upset victory. That defense sure is fearsome. While PFM got his 200th victory, he didn't have to contribute much to pull off the victory, did he? When the Donkeys handed off the ball at 3rd and 9 with only a 6 point lead and 6 or so minutes to go in the game, you could tell they had little faith in the Ol' Sheriff's arm and a lot more confidence in their defense. And their punter.

As I understand the terms of your bet with Donna, she must now forego use of her vibrator collection for the rest of the week. And you now have license to dip back into your vat of lube for the week to come. I am sure you will put it all to good use. 

Donna, I feel your pain!  And we look forward to a report on how you cope with this sad privation over the next few days.  Somehow I think you will be the Mother of Invention.

Sucker's Bet

Here at the UCTMW World HQ slave had an unscheduled abstinence day on Monday. Mistress had one of those way-too-early meetings to attend, meaning that there was only time for some early morning worship.

Slave was able to ride his bike to work with the temps pushing into the 40's here.  When I wandered into the bedroom after my up-hill slog, Mistress was lounging in bed in her black tights and undies, having ended her work day 30 minutes or so earlier.

Fortunately, both of us had the energy for some end of the day worship. Mistress wriggled her silky
black tights down far enough to provide her slave with access, and my eager tongue was quickly on task. And although we opted for a pre-dinner nap rather than full blown fucking, I have a feeling I'm going to "get lucky" this morning.

We did spend some time last night watching caucus returns from Iowa. And although we don't feel we have a "dog in this hunt" the way we did in 2008, it's always amusing to watch the talking heads hyper-ventilate over all those farm folk huddling in school auditoriums and social halls flipping coins and counting scraps of paper.  And you had to laugh at the notion that the Donald is now a certified LOSER. And to a Canadian, no less! The biggest winner though might be Goldman Sachs: they paid the apparent winner on the D side more than $600,000 in speaking fees, and bankrolled Ted Cruz's Senate campaign to the tune of $250,000. Plus Cruz's wife is on leave from GS. They clearly got what they paid for from Iowa!

Yesterday we did get a message from our Western Correspondent, who has proposed a bet with Donna over Sunday's Super Bowl. Check out his proposed terms:

Well Donna has asked me the terms of our bet

I purpose that we bet Mick and Molly.....

After all Donna

When was the last time you were paid by that skin flint Mick!

If you win Donna 

Mick must stay in his cock cage for 3 days

And Molly can cum as many times as she wants

I know I know that would be a record 

For the over pampered house slave

But still it's just a bet

But if I win

Mick must still stay in his cock cage for 3 days

And  Molly

Can't cum for 3 days

But He must tease her all the time

Pinching her nipples 

Rubbing her Clit

Keeping her on edge!

But if the Lovely Molly can set up a date with one of her Cuckolders 

Then she can cum as often as she wants during those 3 days!!!!!

As long as the side dish provides the orgasms.....

I know we are risking a lot Donna:)

But it is for a good cause!

Nice try, Mike. And Donna. But it seems a little unfair to put the burden on poor old Mick or the lovely Molly to suffer if one of your teams fails to prevail on Sunday. Aren't we suffering enough by virtue of the fact that the Pussycats haven't been to the big game since the days of Joe Montana and Jerry Rice?  Your proposed wagering contract fails for lack of consideration.

Let me suggest something else:  Mike, you go without your high end lube for an entire week if the "Sheriff" can't find a way to beat Superman! If you can figure a way to stroke one off with a dry SOC (special occasion cock) then more power to you!

And Donna, if it turns out the Dreaded Donkey Defense (DDD) turn out to be the kryptonite that can quash the TD dance steps of Mr. Newton, then you go without your trusty vibrators for a week!

How are those terms?

An Update from Our Long Lost Western Correspondent

After a little taunting over the soccer mom physique of the aging but  wily QB of the Denver Broncos, I was surprised to discover a dispatch shoved beneath our electronic transom yesterday afternoon by our long lost and given up for dead Western Correspondent.

Where have you been all these years, Mike?

It's been a long time since UCTMW had to cobble together a W-2 form for you. Or have to explain to the IRS why we were trying to deduct  barrels of high end lubricant costing $1800 a pop as a "business expense".

Molly, our publisher, also understands the challenges you've had to overcome. The repetitive motion "injury" that arose from all those hours of "chicken choking" certainly made typing impossible for so many months.  We felt your pain! It's good to see you've finally learned how to peck out a story using your left pinky.

We're  proud of your ability to overcome! Although, as shown below, you still need to replace the punctuation bar on that dilapidated keyboard of yours!

So my beloved Broncos have made a record setting 8 Super Bowls

And

Lost 5......

Still I think we have been a very lucky franchise 

We were very lucky to get John Elway

And 

PFM

And TD

And 

Shannon, Meck, Atwater, Smith, Randy

And all of the other greats over the years

So Denver fans are nervous

Our Defense is great

So far.......

We will see

The Sheriff is old and broken down

And Cam seems unstoppable  

He seems like a total freak

What a great player

So for other news from the Mile Hi City

We are still very happy about our pot laws

Wake up America

Our economy is doing great

Tax collection is up 

Although  in cash.......... 

Property values are up

You can’t smoke in public 

So only the tourists do

But you smell a lot less pot than you did before legalization 

I love taking my out of state friends to the pot shop for the first time

It blows them away

The many products surprises them

Most Coloradans' don't smoke 

Edibles are the way to go 

I know that Mick and Molly have been to a rural shop in our great state

But cum to Denver sometime U2 nuts!

Sorry about your team Diane and teri

But I love your blogs!!!

Tip of my hat to the late great Suzanne

Ane Donna 

I will give you a call 

Hope you are doing great

Don't stop blogging Mick and Molly we all love you!!!!!!!!

The rooting for the Donks

Oops…..I realized that I didn't include any sex in my post

My BAD!!!

B and I met this couple a wile a go at the Scarlett Ranch

A swingers club here in Denver that I have written about here  before

They have a Tumblr account called Cuckold Pleasure

Check it out they host Cuckold parties 4 time per year

Rock on Mick and Molly!!!!!!

WC

Super Showdown

Slave actually had an unusual abstinence day yesterday.  Mistress had an early morning meeting which precluded our usual wake-up sex. Although I gave her some oral attention when I woke her at around 6:30 am, as she had requested, there was no time for slave to have his fun.

So it goes.

Then, when I got home last night after a long work day, Mistress was pretty tuckered out from her own very busy day of meetings and other efforts on behalf of her clients.

"I think you're just going to have to wait until the morning slave.....:

"I suppose an unscheduled abstinence day can't hurt me Mistress."

"No I don't think so, slave....in fact it might be good for you."

I did persuade Mistress to let me worship her after dinner, and before bed time.

Yum.

But the real topic of today's blog is the upcoming battle next Sunday between the Panthers and the Donkeys.  It turns out that this puts in conflict the rooting interests of Donna, our Senior Correspondent Emeritus (we haven't heard much from you lately, Donna), who is a Carolina fan, and our Western Correspondent Mike, who is from Donkey land.

After watching the Panthers demolish former Pussycat Carson Palmer last Sunday, I would have to say that the Panthers have the upper-hand in this contest. Their QB seems aptly labeled as "Superman",
combining impressive pinpoint downfield passing skills with a  punishing running style that had him air-born into the end-zone last Sunday. He seems able to defeat most teams with or without pads and helmet.  Word has it that he could show up in more exotic attire for Sunday's big game and still kick Donkey ass. And a little feminine flare might make him a fan favorite with a lot of fans in the City by the Bay.



On the other hand, the aging Donkey QB has little in the way of arm strength left. If he can reach a receiver more than 15 yards downfield it's only with the rocky mountain winds at his back. He makes jaws drop when he wanders out of the pocket and figures a way to stumbles forward for a first down at a stunning 17 mph.  Unlike Cam Newton, he seems to have the physique of a soccer mom, relying instead on his wily experience and numbing the minds of defensive linemen by yelling "Omaha" repeatedly before the ball is snapped.

So this sets up a potential bet betwixt Donna and Mike over the outcome of the big game a week hence in San Francisco. Can't wait to hear what stakes they propose as this titanic struggle approaches!

Tough Night for the Pretty Boy

I suspect our Western Correspondent was enjoying the thrill of victory last night, basking in the reflected glow of his Donkeys and their aging QB, who are heading for one more trip to the Super Bowl. The wily old veteran may have lost a step and a few dozen yards on his "long ball", but he seemed to have enough in the tank yesterday to eek out a victory.



But for every victor, there is someone coming to grips with ignominious defeat, isn't there?

 And paying the price for it with his erstwhile supporters.

And so let's all show just a little sympathy for the guy who had to go home last night and explain to his super model wife Giselle what exactly went wrong. I'm betting it wasn't pretty. At least he has until spring drills to let those welts heal.

Domme Wife / Sub Hub Get the Showtime Treatment

Mistress and slave had the sort of weekend that comes up this time of year when your local NFL team has been ignominiously eliminated from the play-offs. In other words, it was too cold outside to do anything productive, and there was little to focus our attention on other than sharing mutual warmth under the covers of our bed.

Well, that, and watch otherwise inconsequential football games.

Of course, we did do some boringly responsible things: visiting aging mothers, hanging with my grandkids. etc. But we had polished those items off the "to do" list on Saturday, leaving Sunday to our own pursuits.  Than involved sleeping in and making sure Mistress got to spend some time with her favorite power tool before she emerged to go to her spinning session.

At some point the Dowager Domme stopped by to pick up our daughter for brunch. Knowing I owed our readers a blog, I had my camera ready, but her shoes were pretty tame for a change: just some brown suede boots.  Not kinky enough to risk a surreptitious papparazi moment.

Left alone, there was that rather dull Carolina / Seattle game to entertain us. It was so (seemingly) dull that at half time we returned to our bed for a mid-afternoon nap, and another opportunity for slave to worship Mistress once she had finished her beauty rest.

That left the 2nd game of the day. Slave was happy to see the Donkeys finally eliminate the hated Stillers. Congratulations Mike! Peyton Fucking Manning lives to fight a final death match with Tom Brady. But remember, Mike, it was the Pussycats who softened them up for the kill! Every Matador needs a good Picador to poke holes and start the bleeding!

Monday was a sort of holiday in town. And while both of us went to work, it was easy for slave to slip out early, leaving time for some sundown sex in the UCTMW Executive Suite. A good way to start the work week if there is any good way.

After recovering, slave whipped up some dinner and we settled into watch the new Showtime series Billions, which stars Damien Lewis as a charmingly sleazy hedge fund billionaire, and Paul Giamatti as his Prosecutorial nemesis. It all sounded fairly predictable, until the very first scene popped up:

That's right: It's the son of the late baseball commissioner trussed up  and gagged in his boxers. And it's no kidnapping. Soon a mysterious lady in black highheeled boots looms over him, and proceeds to put her cigarette out on his left nipple.  Ouch.

So from the start you can tell this is not just your ordinary white collar procedural.

But who is the mystery lady? A Pro Domme that this over-caffeinated zealot goes to for therapy? His Secretary, earning some easy overtime hours?

Later you see scenes with the US Attorney, his dark haired wife (played by Maggie Siff) and their cute little kids at home. All pretty domestic and vanilla. And the wife turns out to be a Psychiatrist who, naturally, works for the hedge fund billionaire, setting  up a conflict of interest that will be a source of drama in episodes to come.

It's not until the final frames of Episode I that the show reveals the true nature of the Prosecutor's marriage. Home from a busy day at the office sending crooks to jail,  Giamatti  discovers that the cute little kids are already in bed and Mom is ready to take on her proper role:

Now those are boots worthy of Mistress, or the Dowager Domme.

It's good to see that the female led relationship has broken into the mainstream.

Or at least Pay cable.

Internationally Famous Domme and Sports Wagerer Goes Convenieintly Missing?

This weekend brings the penultimate encounters of the seemingly endless NFL season. And the marquee affair is one of a long and storied series of match-ups between Peyton Manning, now of the Denver Broncos and Tom Brady, who has stuck with the New England Patriots through his career.

Manning, in the twilight of his career, has once again given his team a record setting regular season. He's one of those good-old-boy types from a deep red state, but now  presents himself more like a stock broker panhandling for high net worth clients, than some cracker from Mississippi. He's very button down in those  post game press conferences, like he's rehearsing for a career as Governor of Nebraska. Was this the same guy who appeared as a cut up on Saturday Night Live early in his career? The trouble is that in the post-season, he has tended to flinch, under-performing when the games count the most.

On the other hand, Tom Brady, who came to the Pats by way of Michigan as a late round draft choice, has cultivated the glamor boy look, particularly after he hooked up with that super model, who seems to keep him on a very short leash. The way he stands tall in the pocket makes you think she sometimes forgets to remove the butt plug or cock cage before game time. Tom is more often seen in a tux, with that spikey hair coif than in his sweats at practice.But he does seem to peak at the right time, taking his team farther and deeper in the pay-offs on a consistent basis than any of his contemporaries.

Yeah, I know, they are just jocks. Why write about them in some sex blog, Mick?

Well my point is that two of the "friends of UCTMW", Suzanne over at All Mine, and our underproductive Western Correspondent, have some skin in this game. The WC is a die hard "Donkeys" fan, convinced that "PFM" is the 2nd coming of John Elway and will return his team to the promised land. While Suzanne has a soft spot for her Patriots, and probably would like sloppy seconds with Mr. Glamour Boy when Giselle is done with her pre-game ass fucking.

In light of these competitive interests, one would think there could be constructed a colorful cross-blog wager over the outcome of this weekend's mammoth struggle, right?  Maybe some surrogate 'back channel" take downs involving Mike or Suzanne? Or how about Suzanne's lover Jay being the "butt boy" for a change.... he has the season tix right? What if he and Tammy trade places for a week, with Jay in the cock cage doing the fluffing, should the mighty Brady strike out.

It had such great potential.

But then something mysterious happened. Suddenly Suzanne and  ALL Mine went dark this week. Right in the middle of the play-offs.

Is she on some secret mission: maybe accompanying her former Senator, John Kerry to the Middle East to give Syrian President Assad a taste of what he's missing to induce him into exile?

Or could she be on an undercover mission to Moscow, hoping to retrieve Bob Kraft's Super Bowl ring from President Putin. They say he's going a little soft, releasing Pussy Riot and all. Maybe Suzanne brought Big Blackie along to REALLY bring out Vladdy's feminine side?

On the other hand, maybe Suzanne is just dodging the bet, her confidence in the outcome and Mr. Glamor Boy fading. PFM's win over the weekend, after three consecutive play-off busts, suggests he may have overcome his post-season jitters. And the last  time Glamour Boy faced a Manning in the Super Bowl - little brother Eli - well it didn't turn out so well for the Patriots.

Are you hiding from us Suzanne?

Mick and Molly's Super Sunday

Mick is a football fan. And that means suffering through the hype of the Super Bowl year after year. I am old enough to have watched at least a chunk of all of them, going back to the days of Bart Starr, Len Dawson and Joe Namath.

Of course, the venue and the company have changed over the years. College dorm rooms; Friends’ homes;  A Hotel room in the Big Apple one year, when the Redskins were still a politically correct and competitive team; our living rooms on four or five different houses.

 Molly is no football fan. I have pictures of her at my alma mater’s stadium  (a college football icon fallen on hard times) reading a book. At NFL games she has nodded off on my shoulder, making it hard for old Mick to follow the action when the drunks in front refuse to sit down on 3^rd down.

But here’s a story about a special Stupor bowl, Mick and Molly’s first after we signed our contract.

“Can’t believe we are home alone on a Sunday evening.  Wasn’t it nice for  grandma to have the girls over for dinner and to watch the game…just think if the trouble we can make in an empty house, Slave.”

“Uhhh, yes Mistress. But we are going to watch the game, right?”

“Is that your priority, Slave.”

Mistress was obviously disappointed. Slave was not sufficiently focused on pleasing her.

After some lengthy negotiations (yes, I know fellow Slaves, attempting to negotiate with your Mistress is a violation of a prime directive of D/s), we settled on some rules for watching the big game:

1)If Slave wanted to watch the game, he would be naked, locked in his cage throughout.

2)Slave would prepare dinner, assure Mistress’s comfort at all times, and sit at her feet when not fetching her food or beverages.

3)Mistress would pick her “team”. (In this case she picked the Saints, for all the obvious reasons, including the fact that Mick and Molly have had some very hot sex in the French Quarter over the years, and sex is hardly on Nap-town’s calling card).

4)When her team scored, Slave would take all steps necessary to give Mistress a suitable orgasm. 

5)When the other team scored, Mistress would use her wooden shoe horn to punish Slave, with the number of strokes matching the accumulated score for the opposing team.

There were some obscure side bets on the Who’s play-list. As an example of they played a chunk of “Love, Reign O’er Me” from Quadrophenia,  the cage would come off, the TV would be shut down, and Mistress and Molly would revert to role playing involving a high, semi-naked Co-Ed who stumbles into her boyfriend’s roommates bed by mistake. (This apparently was based on an unfulfilled fantasy from the early 70’s, when Mick was a draft card burner and Molly was in 6^th grade).

Kids out the door, we settled in for the kick-off.

I assured that Mistress’s wine glass was full.

She had on a cozy nighty and some smokey black stockings. No undies blocked access for what she hoped would be her frequent reward as the Saints lit up the scoreboard.

Sadly, the first two scores were by the Colts.

When their opening drive sputtered, I was grateful that my bottom would only suffer three strokes as a result of a Naptown field goal. Mistress had me lean over a side table and laid into me, adding a fourth stroke to compensate for her building frustration. After all, it had not been since morning, when Mistress had to “suffer” through a session with our Magic Wand.

“I thought the Saints had some type of high flying offense, Slave.”

We settled down again, but after A Saints receiver spoiled a drive by letting a 3^rd down pass slip through his buttered fingers, the Colts were on the move again.

This time a touchdown. Ouch. 10 times ouch.

By now sitting at Mistress’s feet was getting a little dicey, as Slave squirmed his sore bottom on the carpet.

Fortunately for Slave’s welted bottom, the tide began to turn.

The Saints came back with a field goal.

Mistress settled back into the couch and I buried my head between her legs. She was already wet and ready for me. Was it those dorky “Go Daddy” ads, or the building anticipation that sooner or later Drew Brees would have his way with the crafty Colts cornerbacks? Mistress took her time to allow my face and tongue to build her to a proper explosion. It was well worth missing a few Budweiser commercials and the faltering Colt offense’s next drive.

After the Saints’ kicker made another long field goal before the half ended, I was back on my knees, and Mistress was feeling much better about her concession to her Slave’s desire to watch the game.

At half time I served up some of my copyrighted Green Chili Stew, and we enjoyed the Who’s truncated set. Pete and Roger looked  more like aging history professors who could no longer persuade their female students to meet after class for a pint, than rock stars. But it was nice to be reminded not to be fooled again. I keep forgetting.

I was hoping for a Colts shutout in the 2^nd half. When the Saints came up with that on-side kick as the half began, I knew my butt had dodged a bullet. You don’t want to set Peyton Manning up at the 50 yard line.

When the Saints took the ball to the end zone on that first drive, Mistress elected my tongue for desert.

Sadly, the Colts were not done yet. Another Manning TD pass to that guy from Haiti. Mistress made me lean over our kitchen counter and take 17 hard strokes. Double ouch.

“You really must like football, Slave.”

“This may cure me Mistress.”

“Well if they score again, you can elect to turn it off, and come to bed with me.”

Was Mistress getting tired of my tongue? Longing for the hard tool that was by now straining against the harder steel cage?

 As the clock ticked down and the Colts moved into position for a TD to tie the game, I was considering  my options.

Did I want to risk 24 more strokes? My butt was fully tenderized already.

Or should I turn off the TV, take Mistress to bed and Use my unlocked cock on her.

But my inner football fan geek could not pass up the chance to watch what might have been the first Super Bowl OT.

Luckily for my bottom, Manning tossed that devastating interception, putting the game out of reach.

“It’s over, Mistress. Your Saints are gonna win.”

I switched off the TV, calculating that the chances of a Colts’ comeback from 14 down with 3 minutes to go was very, very low. Plus why risk 24 strokes if the Saints gave up a garbage TD in the final seconds?

But Mistress was due some attention from that last TD, and took her final orgasm upstairs in our bed, the old fashioned way.

“I could become a football fan yet, Slave.”

Hmmm. That might not be a good thing. Not sure my bottom could handle a high scoring shootout.  Maybe it’s good the season is finally over.

(OK, so this was an early April Fool entry. I made it  up, but for the Green Chili Stew. We had family and friends over to watch the game. In 100 years will Super Sunday be the new Christmas? Don’t tell Jim O’Reilly I suggested that might be so).