It’s not yet dawn here in River City on Super Sunday, the secular holy day that has been created in my own lifetime. I am old enough to remember the tedious match up in a semi-full stadium between these same Packers and the Kansas City Chiefs back in January 1967, when I was a Junior in High School.
Who da thunk the media hype machine could turn it into something so ludicrously important that our part of the world comes to a screeching halt to pay homage to these gods in their tight pants and helmets, doing their victory dances. Don’t you wonder what the circus will be like 100 years from now? Will it be bigger than Christmas?
And do you think the folks on Tahrir Square will make sure they have big TV screens so they can follow our gladiators as they take the field tonight? …. I’m thinking they have more important things in mind.
The most bizarre data reported this week was not about the Packers chances of winning when they can complete more than two 30 yard pass plays in a game, but that the mortality rate from heart attacks and strokes in the City that loses the Super Bowl is likely to spike this week in the range of 15-20%. And, strangely, more for women than for men.
Super Bowl Hazardous to Your Health
So for those of us who root for teams like the underachieving Patriots, the rebuilding Broncos, or the perpetually sad Bengals, there is a bright side. You and your loved ones are less likely to die this week than if we were in Green Bay or Pittsburgh.
That’s not to say we won’t be glued to the TV here at the UCTMW World HQ tonight with a motley group of our vanilla friends, feasting on Mistress’s chili and quaffing beer, wine and tequila.
Who can resist the spectacle?
But wouldn’t it be so much more fun to have a sex bloggers watch party.
In particular, we’d like to watch Suzanne squirm as the dreaded Stillers take the lead in the 4th quarter, as their battle hardened big game focus kicks in. She really does have her Ass on the line. She has tied the fate of her virgin orifice to the Packers this evening, and we have used satellite imagery to capture this photo of what seems to be her, prepping for game time.
Good luck, Suzanne! Will Tammy be wearing a cheesehead to go with his maid’s outfit? (actually milk maid wear would be particularly choice for this occasion).
You certainly look better than some of the fans of the dreaded Stillers, with the quaterback who can’t seem to keep his fly up.
And speaking of Asses, we are winding down our Ass Week festivities here today. Actually, we’ve probably hit bottom on this particular promotion.
Not that we don’t have an unlimited quantity of lovely ass shots from Mistress, the one above being another excellent example.
But there was one photo op I missed yesterday.
We had been out with our Surly teen #2, at a meeting to explore options for some overseas study for her next school year. When we returned home, it seemed like a good time for a “nap”, and Slave and Mistress headed to our chambers. But not long after we were settling into bed, Mistress’s I-phone chimed.
“It’s M, Slave… he wants me to call.”
“Of course, Mistress.”
They talked a bit as I perused the Times next to her. But then there was a page from one of the teens. They needed some help, and Slave was volunteered to provide it.
“Come back soon, Slave.”
Well, as it turns out, I came back a bit too soon.
About 15 minutes later, I opened out bedroom door, to find the “shocking” image if Mistress curled up under the covers, moaning ever so softly as she mumbled smutty endearments into the phone. And there was the tell tale hum of the Hitachi providing a little background thrum.
She was so focused on her wanton activity that she did not notice my intrusion.
I could have grabbed my camera, and photographed her, but then all that would have been seen was a body sized lump cowering under our blue comforter.
Nothing to see here, I suppose. But there was plenty to hear. And smell.
Instead, like a good Slave, I decided to give Mistress a bit more privacy and close the door quietly.
About 15 minutes later I was paged…..
“Mick…. Come back up stairs.”
She was a tad embarrassed when I explain how she had been “busted”.
“How many, Mistress?”
“Oh… maybe 3 Slave.”
With all that activity Mistress seemed sated , so it really was nap time. Happily, Slave got his opportunity after a nice snooze, before we headed to dinner with some friends.
Later, after dinner, we came home planning to cuddle up for some sleep. But first we discovered the clever interplay between our Southern and Western Correspondents over the WC’s apparent inability to engineer a proper ass shot. (They are in the comments to yesterday’s blog, so check them out).
“But he’s offered up a cock photo, Mistress, in lieu of the Ass shot?”
She was not amused.
“That’s a terrible idea, Slave.”
Mistress is very sensitive about the notion of our WC offering up his special occasion equipment for more public inspection.
AS it turned out, M was available by phone, and Mistress dialed him up.
I got to listen in on her part of the talk, which was …. Cute.
“M, I really don’t like the idea of you advertising that cock of yours….”
“Ask him what type of blog he thinks we are, Mistress…. I mean, we do have some standards! “
Mistress laughed, passed this on. M seemed to be getting the point. In the meantime, she was ordering me around a bit.
“Slave, please pull off my boots and stick them in that box in the closet. I can’t hold the phone and do that too.”
I did as directed, as Mistress lay back on the bed, dressing down our WC in a honeyed tone.
“You know, M, If our female readers get a look at it, the next thing you know you will have a whole stable competing for the chance to inspect it first hand.”
He seemed to be getting her point, and I was getting more directions.
“Slave, now unzip my pants, slide them off, and fold them nicely.”
She indicated where her black pants should be stored, as she chatted on.
Well we weren’t planning any more “activity”, but all this talk about cocks and her firm and directive matter naturally brought me to her knees, face sliding up those warm inner thighs.
“You can imagine what’s happening here now, M…. he’s down on his knees like a good Slave.”
And I was, sliding aside the panel of her lacy maroon thong. Inhaling that musky aroma that drives this Slave to distraction, and getting to work.
Soon M was doing his bit, and Mistress was moaning in that slutty way, “Yes…. M. No…. M….. I would, M.”
Her thighs squeezed my head tightly as she came with a sudden shudder, head thrown back on the bed. Suddenly her concerns about M flaunting the special occasion cock were put to bed.
And not long after, so were we.
Mistress and slave hunkered down last night to our obligatory watching of the Super Bowl. Slave outdid himself in the culinary area, by whipping up some beet risotto that had a reddish tinge that aligned with the team colors of the Falcons, the team I was pulling for if only because the Patriots' QB was a pal of our new POTUS. The risotto was definitely the highlight of our night.
Check out the video here: T-mobile Super Bowl Ad.
