Drone Fail

Here in the Land of Enchantment, Mistress and Slave have our "two - a - day" rhythm going, made easier by the fact that we skedaddled down from the mountain after only a few runs yesterday due to  subzero, windy, foggy conditions. Thankfully, the fire and other "pursuits" not requiring hand and foot warmers kept us more than engaged.

Then, in early evening, we headed down to our little "downtown" where the galleries and museums were lit by bon fires and farrolitos kicking off the holiday season. A light snow was falling, carolers were singing, and the scene created one of those idyllic  Christmas Eve panorama that makes you think of old Bing Crosby movies (at least if you are an old fart like me).

We didn't stay out too late. The snow was coming down in earnest by the time we pulled into our drive, and it is still falling. Should  be a good day on the slopes before we head home tomorrow.

I understand from Suzanne's blog that she and Tammy are headed to the Patriots game today, and she mentioned that Tammy will be wearing his CB for the occasion. Ouch. I hope he steers clear of the beer. My big concern about a cock cage at a sporting event is waiting in line to take a pee. He is certainly a better trained Slave than the old pampered one behind this keyboard.

And the WC? Sounds like his daughter declined the generous offer of tickets to today's Donkey Game in mile high city. So he's off to freeze his body parts off. Their was hope that Donna would get him one of those custom made "cock cozies" to prevent dickbite. Such a festive look too:

But alas, the delivery drone she had borrowed from Jeff Bezos and Amazon had an unanticipated problem:

Here's the thing about the drone, WC. 

While I worked out the weather situation, air speed, filed a flight plan, and arranged for careful packaging for your cock warmer, I neglected to consider the mental instability of the people living in this area. 

The drone hadn't even make it out of the county, when some local yokel blasted it out of the sky with his bazooka that he brought home from WWII. It fell from the sky leaving a flaming trail and caught a local evangelical church's Christmas tree lot on fire. The old gents minding the tree lot may have been imbibing a bit while trying to keep warm while standing outside waiting for people to stop and buy a tree. Their interpretation of events is that the Christmas star reappeared in the sky then fell in a blaze of glory to the grounds of their First Self-Righteous Church, marking their church the only true church on the planet. 

The yokel who shot the thing down isn't going to come forward because he's been warned before about shooting that bazooka, and I'm not saying anything since drones get bad press around here. I understand word of the wonder has spread, and the church is expecting record numbers of worshipers on Sunday morning for the blessing of the special "cloth arrow that points to the heavens" that was found in a silver (aluminum foil) container where the star blazed out. Did I forget to mention that I had placed a dildo in the cock warmer to help set it's shape...which might be described as rather arrow-like.

Sad to say, I can't knit another one fast enough to get it to you before the game. You'll just have to wrap things up and avoid drafts. 

With apologies,
Donna

Bummer WC. Hope you, the special occasion cock, and PFM all survive today's titanic struggle. 

Crisis Management

Mistress is an expert at “crisis management”, and by last night she seemed to have tamped down the threat to UCTMW’s balance sheet caused by the accidental cock freeze that had befallen our Western Correspondent.

The hamhanded instinct of this the General Counsel and Executive Editor was to hunker down, point fingers, and hire a private investigator, who would shadow M and take grainy, low resolution photos with a high power lense, through his office or bedroom window, to prove that his claim of partial disability was bogus. I figured it would not be long before he took matters into his own hands, so the speak.

I imagined surprising him at a hearing during cross-examination with the embarrassing “full mast” money shot, after his pitiful testimony about how his life was now in dick-less tatters.

But Mistress (and, I might add, several of our correspondents) were more inclined to slather the poor injured, suspected sandbagger with their own form of honey.

Ultimately, Mistress took the matter into her own sensuous and well manicured hands. I got a taste of her approach as I lounged in bed next to her last night, perusing the Times, as she responded to M’s request that she give him a call.

“So how are you feeling now, you poor boy….it must have been just awful. I was having nightmares thinking of that beautiful cock all frozen and lifeless.”

She was really laying it on. (Or is that lying, SFP?)

“Ohhh….. that’s nice…. Epic sex with B this morning. I guess things are feeling better then….”


Her sweet and solicitous tone of voice would make a hard nosed HR Manager puke, but it already seemed to have evoked a critical admission. Good job, Mistress!

“Slave, he says he still may need some ongoing physical therapy to make sure all the nerve endings are restored to full function….”

By now, I was with her program.

“Maybe we should fly you out there tonight, Mistress, so you can personally supervise his recovery… I mean he seemed so close to having lost that critical function…. We should spare no expense….”

I think she could tell I was being a tad bit sarcastic. I got an elbow in the ribs.

They talked about Donna’s generous offer to knit M and our other male staffers a warming “cock cozy”, to prevent further injury. After all once a body part has suffered frost bite it is all the more susceptible in the future. But of course, measurements would be required.

“He wants us to buy him a plane ticket for the fitting, Slave….”

“That only seems fair, Mistress.”

But Mistress was a little concerned that so many of our female readers seemed to take a little too much compassionate interest in the sad plight of his special occasion cock.

“Now M, I don’t want to hear that you are sending photos of your injured parts out to others we have come to know and love on the internet.”

Yes, it would be sad if one our competitors got the scoop when it comes to any public (or private) unveiling of his legendary instrument.

At this point, I had my fill of all the commentary on the sudden, unanticipated end of the Patriots’ season, and the emergence of the suddenly potent Jets. And those little wriggles that Mistress can’t suppress when she’s on the phone with M got the better of me.

We had already done worship, and some nice healthy fucking before dinner, but I figured a little pre-sleep stress relief for mistress couldn’t hurt.

So I made my move, sliding under the covers, feeling a bit like Matthew Brady, under the hood of that ancient camera he used to document the Civil War.

“M, he’s at it again. without even asking, the Slave is between my legs, just licking away.”

It seemed that M had gotten beyond his wheedling for a generous worker’s comp settlement, and was in the moment with us.

“Yes Master M…..”

“I understand, M…..”

It was clear that he was spinning one of his smutty scenarios for her, as I was plying my skills on her molten parts, which were suddenly quite needy and responsive.

Within moments, Mistress was gasping, her hips rising to meet me, through a series of spasms that seemed to go on for quite some time. Finally, she came down, satisfied, it seemed.

“That’s enough Slave…..”

I kept at it for a few seconds more though. I am a bit of an addict. Until, she usd her hand to push me away.

“He’s like a little suction cup down there, M.”

By now Mistress was tired, and signing off. And Slave was sleepy too. We snuggled up, lights out.

It seemed that Mistress had resolved our tempest in a frozen teapot, though they plan to confer again on Thursday morning to make sure that all of our Western Correspondent’s functions are GO.

Hmmm. I wonder if he plans to impose an embargo on our Publisher?

I better get one under the wire this morning, just in case.
(Illustrations courtesy of google images, category "frozen penis". Really.)