Molly and Mick were all wiped out on their first Monday back to “reality”. The time shift and recovering from all those hours on our crammed steel and glass capsule, hurtling through the time and space across a good chunk of America had us a little off our game.
And of course there was the return to our offices, where our colleagues almost forgot who we were and what the hell we did there.
But there were some comforting rituals that helped us make it through the day.
There were the little affectionate text messages that popped up on my cell from time to time.
Or were they taunting?
In a mid-afternoon meeting, my cell beeped and I scanned the message:
“M is sending me pics of assholes, Slave.”
For a minute I was confused. Why would M send Mistress a photo of someone like Don Rumsfeld or Dick Cheney? Or was it Bret Farve?
Then I realized what she was probably referring to….
“His?”, I responded. I tried to imagine our WC positioning himself for such a shot. But then maybe he had hired a free lance photographer that would show up on some future expense report.
“No… just random ass holes. He’s trying to provoke me.”
Ahhh…. The provocative image of being taken from behind by the special occasion cock. I suspect that may well have gotten Mistress’s juices flowing, even in her exhausted state.
After my meeting, I decided that the return trip downtown to my office was a bridge too far. So I simply headed home, getting there around 5 pm. Mistress was still out, having sought refuge at her nail salon for the full appendage treatment.
“After all that skiing, my feet are a mess, Slave…. And those broken finger nails form all that cold weather…. “
“Enjoy, Mistress. Just checking emails.”
When Mistress returned home, she found me on our bed, sorting through work emails. She collapsed next to me, and together we scanned some of your blogs, before mustering the strength to whip together a suitable emal for the teens.
It was only after we read and expressed admiration for Suzanne’s kinky choreography at ALL MINE, aligning cocks and tongues so dramatically with her stable of men, that I realized I had ignored an important ritual.
“Would you like me to worship, Mistress?”
This was something we had fallen off the wagon on during our ski trip. Slave had not spent nearly enough time on his knees. And it probably showed in my slovenly and disrespectful attitude.
Mistress had already shed her work outfit, so all I had to do was remove her lacy green undies.. But even then I had to be corrected, since my initial approach was to part her legs on our bed and slide between them/
“Is that the proper position, Slave….”
“Oops.”
I tossed a pillow on the floor, knelt and she embraced my head with those delicious thighs.
It seems her luscious nectar always tastes better when I am down on my knees, focused solely on her pleasure.
I parted her clean shaven lips with my tongue, tasting the first flow of her juices, then proceeded to devour her, suctioning her little bud between my lips until she was writhing, then bucking against me. When she approached her peek, she squeezed my head hard with her thighs, then collapsed back on the bed, spent.
I slid up next to her then, embracing her, as she came down.
“Slave, I know you’re exhausted too. so no sex for you tonight. Save your energy for the morning. And since we can’t drive together in the morning, you need to wear your cage.”
“Of course, Mistress.”
So here I am, sufficiently rested, the steel ring that seats my cage already in place, snugging my cock and balls in its tight embrace.
Let’s hope Mistress is indulgent when I wake her up. Otherwise it could be a very long day.
