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.

Game Day

Mistress indulged her Slave today…letting me drag her to a college football game at my alma mater.  

(Of course, we did get in a long bike ride before breakfast. Don't you admire Mistress's bottom in her padded riding shorts?) 

She’s not much of a football fan, which is fine by me. Mistress has more complex, and certainly more feminine tastes. And football is a bit of a snore for her. Crammed into the bench seating she was reading the new Jonathon Franzen book by the 3^rd quarter. That’s a feet of concentration that marveled the rabid fans surrounding us.

But it’s her company that I find so enjoyable, even of she can’t appreciate the nuances of a quarterback sack.

And of course, she entertains me in  more intriguing and erotic ways than a bunch of pumped up jocks ever could.

As we drove the 40 minute  ride to the leafy campus, Mistress napped a bit, but woke when the chime to her I-phone went off.

It was M, two hours behind us, but curious about how his little Slave was doing.

It’s nice that he’s so attentive. I know Molly appreciates it.

“We talked about you at breakfast, M - Me and the Slave. We figure that while we may have sex more often than you do, you and B have those long marathons. You do all that exotic stuff that puts us to shame.”

The one thing that’s remarkable about their relationship is how much detail they share. They are one another’s sex counselors, as well as cyber lovers.

As we strolled around the crowded campus, Mistress took some photos of famous landmarks, and shared them with M.

“One of the fun things about this texting is having this ongoing dialog with someone in a completely different place, so far away”, she admitted to me.

Yes, it is cool. And Slave feels like he’s a welcome part of it.

And later, at the game, as the team took the field for the 2^nd half, Mistress was looking at the screen of her I-phone.

“Slave, he’s sending me cock pictures….”

She giggled that little girlish laugh that comes when she is in M’s spell.

“Does that turn you on Mistress?”

“Uh….well …. I suppose  it does. Which is a little disturbing when you think about it.”

“I wouldn’t think too hard about it Mistress.”

But of course just as Mistress indulged me today, she is free to indulge her own pleasures.

And that’s what she’s up to now.

I am out on the porch of our little apartment here on the Lake Michigan shore, the sound of crashing waves, and the neighboring kids toasting marshmallows in the background.

(“Mommy, why is that man outside on his computer?”)

Mistress is inside, her Hitachi in hand, talking to M.

He’s free tonight, B off visiting her parents. And it only made sense for them to have one of their dates with such a good opportunity at hand.

Before their “chat”, Mistress and I had a little post game picnic – cheese, wine, bread, some fresh local peaches and tomatoes, sitting on the bed of our cozy room here.

But when her Master texted that he would soon be available,  her planning began.

“Slave, make sure you have my supplies available.”

So I pulled the Hitachi out of my bag, and plugged it in for her. I made sure it stretched to where she would be comfy.

“You deserve this you know.”

“Of course I do…. But you deserve it too, Mistress.”

She does. It makes her very happy. And I always seem to get a very nice reward.

“Tell me why you deserve it Slave.”

“Plenty of reasons, Mistress…. It would be too tiresome for me to recite the list. But today, I did drag you to a football game.”

She laughed.

“You are a good Slave….aren’t you?”

“I try my best.”

As we finished out picnic, sitting on the double bed, I couldn’t help slide my hand between Mistress’s legs. She  had on some tight, silky black undies, and a matching, lacy  black top. All very fetching.

She was dressed for a date, even if M couldn’t see her.

And I caressed her a moment  there, my fingers coming away with the musky scent of her arousal.

I pressed that damp finger to my nose, and then to hers.

“I think you  get turned on simply by his text messages, Mistress.”

“You may be onto something, Slave.”

Now keep in mind that Mistress offered to have sex with me when we got back from our day on campus. 

It was my idea to delay until after their session together.

“Actually why don’t we wait until afterwards, Mistress….I know you like my “everyday cock” after all that smutty talk with your “friend”, Mistress.”

Someone, explain to me why it seems hotter for me to take her when she is all wet and molten after an orgasm, or two or three with M.

The thought of her inside even now - writhing on the bed, listening to his dark fantasies of domination, begging for release – all of it has a certain effect on me as well.

I think I will close up the laptop for now. They should be done soon, and Mistress will be calling for her cock.

(BTW – the good guys won today. Otherwise I might not be in such a good mood).

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).