Mistress and the Cowboy (I)

(a fictional tale inspired by a lost bet to the 'Nilla. Hope she is amused. or better.)

Molly let the late warm fall, high desert sun wash over her face as her horse negotiated what passed for a trail, up through ragged aspen and pinon trees, into the hills that quickly became the Sangre de Christo range, stretching north from New Mexico to Colorado.

It had been years since she had ridden, but the skills she learned as a teen back in River City, on those snooty English saddles, were still there. And her horse, a magnificent rich brown appaloosa, well groomed and gentle, was mild mannered. It simply followed along behind her guide, who clearly knew what he was doing in a saddle. Western, of course.

“You Ok back there, Molly?”

“Absolutely, Wes….amazing day for a ride.”

Mistress took in her guide, tall in the saddle, broad shoulders draped in a black t-shirt, broad gray cowboy hat, and an admirably tight ass.

“What a view”, Molly called out, as Wes skillfully guided his mount up along the rock strewn trail, now crossing a ridge line that spilled views of two verdant valleys far below. And she wasn’t just referring to the colorful display of those golden brown aspen leaves.

As she admired that view, Molly thought back to how she ended up on this little adventure with the mysterious Wes.

She and Mick had been at the local roadhouse Monday evening. They danced a bit to the country swing music strummed by the house band. Drank some tequila. Eyed the crowd. Made small talk with some of the regulars.

Then, suddenly, there was this Cowboy, sidling up to their table, mid 40’s, rugged, tight but not obscenely tight jeans, the same gray cowboy hat, and one of those shirts with the shiny buttons only a real cowboy can pull off without looking like he’s trying out for the Village People. This guy was Hat WITH Cattle.

He held out his hand.

“Would the lovely lady like to dance?”

Now this is something that often happens to Molly, even when it is clear she is “taken”. Under local custom, any attractive woman is fair game when the band breaks into some boot scooting music. And some of the local gentlemen like to show off their two stepping ability almost as much as their herd.

Molly was not usually in the practice of accepting those sorts of invitations. But there was something about this particular Cowboy that called for a change in policy.

She leaned over to Mick, whispered into his ear, without breaking eye contact with the Cowboy.

“”You don’t mind, do you Slave.”

“Of course not, Mistress.”

The rest was a bit of a blur. His firm hands as they spun on the dance floor. The way he guided her through the clever turns and dips, and the way he held her a bit more tightly as the music switched from up tempo to a romantic waltz.

She knew this had Mick squirming at their table, sipping his Jamieson, with the tight steel cage gripping what was only her cock ….and, she suddenly realized, she was dripping.

Oh my.

As they danced there was the occasional small talk, and then Wes joined him at their table for a bit, describing his transition from big city architect to Northern New Mexico cowboy.

“Maybe you’d like to ride with me someday, I’ve got some pasture land up in the hills north of town.”

He was looking at Molly. It was clear that the invitation was directed at her. Solo.

She pondered. For about 3 seconds.

“Wow. I’d love that.”

They exchanged cell numbers.

When Mick and Molly got home to their little mountain hideaway, it seemed their cloths were hitting the floor almost as soon as they entered the threshold. And the sex was particularly incendiary. Of course, the prime subject as they muttered and moaned to one another was the tall, mysterious cowboy and what he might have planned for Mick’s oh so sexy Mistress.

And when Wes called later in the week, Mistress gladly agreed to the arrangements he proposed: an early morning pickup at their cabin.

After she gave Wes the brief tour, they were off in his dust caked Loredo, and heading to his ranch. Molly was all kitted out in her jeans, boots, and a cotton, western style blouse, long hair flowing in the breeze.

Big Sky. Big jitters about where this might be headed. And of course, Molly had license under her contract with Mick to let it go wherever she deemed appealing.

Back on the trail, Wes pulled his mount to a halt in a green meadow, and reached for the canteen strapped to his well worn saddle. He passed it to Molly, giving her first quaff of the cool water. The sun was warming her, and she was grateful for the break.

She eyed his saddle more carefully.

“Boy, you are a real cowboy…..rifle, lariet. Can you really use those?”

Wes gave her that winning, aw shucks smile.

“The rifle….haven’t had to use it much. But there are occasional mountain lions and rattle snakes in these hills … one has to be prepared.”

“And the lasso…..do you use it to round up stray cattle, Wes?”

She had that little sarcastic but also flirtatious tease in his voice.

Wes, just smiled, reached for the lasso, and shook it out. She noticed how stiff the rope seemed, particularly at the broad loop he now held in his hand. Why was she thinking that might abrade naked flesh.

“Down, Molly, down” she thought to herself.

“You’d be surprised how useful this can be on the trail…”

He backed his horse away from her’s swinging the rope a bit, getting it’s weight just right in his hand.

Then, suddenly, it spun through the air, over Wes’s head. Just like in some old time Western movie.

“My trusty lariat can be particularly useful when you run into a little cock tease on the trail, and need to bring her to heel,” he growled, a wry smile on his sun bronzed face.

Molly was frozen for a moment--- did she really hear him say what she thought he said – then, suddenly, the lasso was twisting over her head, around her torso. A quick yank by Wes, and her arms were pinned to her side.

He was smiling. She was grousing.

“Cute. Very cute.”

He pulled on the rope, spooling it hand over hand, pulling Molly and her horse ever closer to him, while tightening the rope’s tight grip around her.

Mistress’s heart was fluttering now. Was this a joke? Or had Wes come to some very correct conclusions about her kinky predelictations?

As the distance closed between them, Molly could see the amused but predatory look in Wes’s eyes. And then he reached over her head, and spun two more quick loops around her torso, pressing her arms tighter against her side, and pinching at her heaving breasts.

“Hey….”

“What…. Are you going to say….release me, you fiend….”

“Uhhhh.”

Mistress was watching him as he moved in what seemed like slow motion, closer, closer, one hand tightly gripping the lasso binding her. The other was reaching for the nape of her neck, then gathering up her long flowing brown hair into his fist.

Suddenly, her head was jerked back, and he leaned into her.

“Of course, at least for now, you can say ‘No’, Molly….”

She did not say a word.

But there was a low moan as his mouth found hers, tongue plundering her open lips for a long endless moment.

When he finally released her from that tight grip, she was flushed, liquid, squirming on her saddle.

And Wes was reaching into a saddle bag, pulling out some old, silver plated handcuffs.

“Antiques, I am told. Maybe Billy the Kid wore these once? Anyway they still work. And I think these will be much less cumbersome than this old stiff rope for the rest of this ride.”

“You wouldn’t….”

“Watch me….”

He slipped one cuff around her right wrist, jerked it behind her back, under the clinging lasso, reached for the left. Molly had no real flexibility (or will) to resist as the other cuff closed around her left wrist.

But she was still breathing hard, twisting her wrists now cuffed closely together, perched in the saddle, as Wes patiently unwound the lasso, spooled it back into a coil, and attached it back to his saddle.

He reached for her again, pulling her into one more greedy kiss. Then grabbed the reins of her horse.

“Just sit tight, Molly. My own little mountain hideaway is another 40 minutes or so up the trail. And then we can help you out of those tight riding cloths.”

Molly writhed in her saddle, disoriented, trying to maintain her balance.

“Here’s the two most important things you need to remember on the way, Molly….

Speak when spoken to, like a good little prisoner.”

“And no coming until I give you permission.”

“But….”

“No need to answer. Just relax and enjoy the view.”

Orgasm Amnesia and the Agony of Defeat.

Yesterday was a particularly hectic Monday for Molly and Mick.

By 8 am I had to drop Mistress of at an ancient old downtown Club where she was meeting a local captain of media industry for a power breakfast …. It’s the type of place that would not have allowed women  in it’s  high ceiled dining room a generation ago. She was nicely gussied up for the occasion, black suit of course, but I was too bleary eyed to make the most of her available naked thighs on the drive downtown.

From breakfast she was scrambling off to another meeting.

And soon I was off to my own meeting at a local Tribunal, to wheedle for the interests of my clients.

But we did have a chance to talk by phone briefly before yet more meetings for both of us over lunch.

“I did get to talk to the Western Correspondent as I was walking back form that meeting at the Museum, Slave….”

“Oh….and how is he doing.”

“He was a bit whiney about his lack of sex these last 24 hours. I told him not to feel so bad…that I hadn’t gotten any since Sunday evening either.”

“Hmmm…. What about this morning, Mistress?”

“What?”

“You know, in the shower.”

She was rinsing her hair, I was embracing her from the front, the warm water running down her lovely breasts, her nipples hard, probing my chest, my fingers sliding ever so earnestly through those wet folds until she came with a little shudder and moan, burying her head against my shoulder.

“Oh yeah…. It seems so long ago.”

“And then, afterwards, in bed, as you read the blog.”

I had come up a little after the earlier than normal alarm had gone off. So she was already up and heading to the shower. But as she was letting her hair dry, she asked for my laptop to read the blog. As I gave it to her, I picked up the morning paper.

I presumed that her shower orgasm was sufficient. How silly of a Slave to presume.

“Uhhhh….what about the tongue. Slave.” 

She indicated where the tongue was to be placed. I had blown off an important part of her morning  blog reading ritual.

“Oops. Sorry, Mistress.”

I promptly dropped the paper, and deployed my tongue, lips and a few nips with my teeth. Her second, but so quickly forgotten, orgasm of the morning came with a nice little hip thrust and wiggle just as she completed reading my morning homework assignment.

“Excellent, Slave.”

I wasn’t sure whether she was referring to the blog or the come I had so efficiently delivered.

Where were we….

“Oh, that’s right Slave….how could I have forgotten?”

That faux innocent giggle of hers is always endearing, and disarming.

Maybe she was just trying to empathize with our Western Correspondent. Feeling his pain, so to speak, as Bubba would have done. Or, speaking of Bubba,  maybe it depends on how one defines “sex”.

When it comes to feeling pain, I had a rough weekend myself,  with my college and NFL teams going down to double ignominious defeats.

And there were some stakes on the line for Sunday’s contest between ‘Nilla’s home state Heros and River City’s Lame-o’s.

When the dust settled….well, by the end of the first quarter if you want me to be honest …  it was clear that my team had fully submitted to those insufferable Doms of the eastern seaboard. And  ‘Nilla was lording over me, big time.

Our bet had been that the winner would dictate the terms of some suitable fiction to be written by the loser.

So Sunday afternoon I got some pointed texts from da ‘Nilla.

“Mwahahaha, does that make me da boss of you? You’re writing anyway? Mountains. Nape. Hair. Colored leaves. Vibe. Go for it!”

Now I am not a man with the sort of free flowing imagination of ‘Nilla. While you may have seen some fiction a few times on these pages, just about every entry is based on our kinky form of reality. So I begged for a little more guidance.

“Don’t I get any more direction than that?”

“Boobs – cock – handcuffs – autumn walk . Dom . Sub. You won’t be graded on this Mick! Giggle!

And yet, I pressed for more.

“Characters?”

“Yes!”

OK, I get it.  She’s not gonna write the story for me.

So let a thousand thorned flowers bloom.  My mind has been churning with too many potential story lines. But I promise something to her (and you dear readers) before my sad team takes the field at home next weekend.

Fiction Friday: Mistress's Rendezvous

(A break from our usual programming. A story. It's made up stuff. The names and places are figments of imagination....aren't they?)

The cell trilled on my desk. I was across the room, pensive. Looking out across the City, from my 25^th floor perch.

Of course, I knew Mistress’s ring. But why? She had just left only 15 minutes earlier. I could still taste her on my lips and tongue.

And she was a sight. Smokey black stockings. A black suit just shorter than appropriate for a workday in River City. If she leaned over those stocking tops would catch a few wandering eyes. When I raised an eye at her outfit, she confessed she had been instructed to dress “slutty”. So she had.

 I lurched for the phone, knowing she was just across the street. Didn’t he show?  The thought of an aborted “mission” with her new “Sir” sent an agonizing mixture of relief and disappointment through me.

“Yes Mistress?”, I answered, unsuccessfully trying to draw on my Mr. Cool, professional voice.

“He wants to meet you.”

“Why?”

Avoiding an answer, she murmured, “You know where we are.  Come over. Now. Please.” I couldn’t read her voice. Not scared. Embarassed? Maybe. He must have been sitting right next to her.

“Yes, Mistress”, I mumbled, but the connection was already closed. I had my orders.

I slipped on my jacket. Pocketed the phone, hustled to the elevator bank. I nodded off greetings from the regulars behind the security desk, no time to chat, then spun through the doors and jaywalked across the street to the little boutique hotel where I knew I would find her.

I spotted them in a booth in the Bar area, relatively empty at mid day, near the back. Discrete.

He was as she had described. A bit younger than me.  Fit looking.  Heavy wool blue blazer and tie.  Costumed as you would expect a tenured faculty member at one of those small Colleges spread through the heartland. His was not far from our town.

They had stumbled upon one another over the internet. She had decided to exploit her rights under our contract – the right to take other lovers – and he was offering to scratch that itch she had to walk on the submissive side for a change.

I had asked only for the right to know what was going on. “Don’t leave me wondering”, I had asked. And in truth she knew that sharing some of the details of her budding flirtation seemed to throw fuel on our already incendiary sex life.

Mistress had shown me some of their steamy texts. Their sordid emails. Told me about some of the calls. How he persuaded her to touch herself. Then denied her “permission”,  until she had to beg.  I could tell she was hooked. And he was reeling her in slowly, diabolically.

They had met once before. An interview, she called it. He was a gentleman. She must have passed muster. But this was the day.  He expected her to submit. “Completely”, he had required. She agreed. Could not do anything else by then. She was lost.

But both of  us were anxious. What did he mean by “complete” submission. She had some ideas about what to expect. He was plain about his own needs. She would be in her knees. Bound. Require to Beg. There were some understandings between them. But still…

They sat opposite one another. I could tell she was uneasy.  Squirmy in her seat. As I approached, they rose. “Mick, this is Robert”, she said, avoiding eye contact. We shook hands briefly. Hard to touch him, knowing he would soon be touching her. And that she wanted that touch.

He indicated I should sit down,  next to my Mistress. My hand draped under  the table over her lap, reaching for and clutching her hand. Hard.  She seemed as wired as I was.

“So you’re Molly’s Slave?

“That’s me”. It’s not something I had publicly admitted to anyone in person before. I could feel the blood rushing to my face. The humiliation had begin.

“She’s told me about you. And of course, there’s your blog. Interesting stuff.”

“Yes. She requires it. It’s my daily homework.”

“You understand that Molly is here to submit to my control, don’t you?” The small talk was over.

“Yes, I understand that’s why she’s here.” I squeezed her hand tighter. Looking at her. She, glanced at me, blushing, then looked away.

“She’s agreed to be mine, at least when we can arrange to be together. just like you are her Slave, she is now mine. Isn’t that right, Molly.”

Molly nodded. He looked at her, a flash in his eyes.

“Yes, Sir. I will be – am - your Slave.”

“That’s better.  And Mick, you have no problem with that do you?”

“That’s her right, under our contract.”

“Of course it is”. He smiled. Smug asshole. I didn’t like him. Not that it mattered.

“Are you wearing your cage today, Mick?”

Another blush of humiliation crossed my face.

“Yes, it’s on.”

“Where’s the key, Molly?”

“At home.”

“Good. …. Well it’s good to know we all understand one another. Molly, nowcome sit next to me here.”, he said, patting the space next to him in the leather upholstered booth.

It took a moment for his order to sink in. I slowly loosened my grip on her hand. As Molly rose, I caught a glimpse of those magnificent legs and the tops of her stockings. Argh. Why had I agreed to this, to the contract?

She slid in beside him and he quickly closed the space between them. I could see his hand moving to her lap, but could not see exactly where he had placed it. There was the rustle of her stockings pressing against one another.

“Molly is a dream Mick. Quite a girl. I am lucky to have her, don’t you think?”

“Of course. I love her. She’s everything to me.”

‘Well I promise to take good care of her….and train her well. She might learn a few things to make her a better Mistress. Though probably more demanding. Stricter. She is pretty easy on you, isn’t she?”

“Yes, she is. “

“Well that may change. Slave’s need a firm hand. Don’t you agree, pet?”

By now I could sense his hands moving on Mistress’s lap, and her breathing seemed a bit more labored.

“Yes…Sir.” She gasped. Startled by something, no doubt that hand hidden from me.

“Spread your legs a bit, Molly”, he instructed.

She looked at him, embarrassed. Eyes pleading.

“No. Not hear, Not in front of him.” She seemed sad, desperate.

“Didn’t you agree to submit…. completely?”

His hand had not pulled away, but held its position.

“Yes”, she conceded. Surrendering.

I could tell Mistress was aroused, almost broken. She shifted in her seat. I knew her legs were opening. I imagined how his fingers were caressing her. Taking her down. Then I heard her stifled gasp, the sound she makes when she is oh so very close.  Her eyes were closed, head pressed against the back of the booth.

But she was holding back. For me? No, for him.

“You can’t come without my permission, Pet. You understand that don’t you?”

“Yes, Sir”. Her head was down. She wouldn’t look at either one of us. But I could tell she was desperate.

“Do you want to come now, Molly”.

“Yes….Please. Please”,  she moaned squirmed, trying to conceal her desperation from the post lunch stragglers mingling at the Bar. I swear I could smell her arousal in the air.

I was in agony for her. Wanted to help. But she was in his hands now. And it was then I noticed that my own cock was hardening, pressing against the steel cage. Crazy.

Suddenly, he pulled his hand away. She moaned, startled to have been abandoned.

“Maybe we should let Mick get back to work now.”

He reached into his jacket pocket, extracting a thin piece of cord.

“Slide off your jacket, dear”. She was startled. Shook her head.

“Don’t make me ask again…you are already due a punishment.”

Mistress gave in again. She shrugged out of her jacket, and he turned her, gathering her wrists behind her, crossing them, binding them.

“It’s what you want right?” Mistress just nodded, head down, face buried in her flowing dark hair. He slid the jacket over her shoulders.

“Keep your arms up high and no one will notice. Not that I really care if they do,” he chuckled.

They rose. He steadied her.  Took her by the elbow.

“Later, Mick”, he said over his shoulder as they stepped away from the table. She just looked at me, then turned toward him. Leaning into him.

I sat there. Watched them walk across the lobby toward the elevator bank, aching inside that cage, wondering when I would get her back; who I would get back.