Mistress Demands an IME

First off, thanks for the very kind and thoughtful review over at MissBehavior yesterday. Here is the link:Miss Behavior

It’s good to get that sort of feedback from a fellow blogger who is clearly paying attention to our usually true, if fantastical, antics here at UCTMW.

We really did have a snow day here in River City yesterday. School was cancelled for the surly teens. And since Mick and Molly carpooled in our only 4WD vehicle, Molly could not linger here at home for her planned “date” with our Western Correspondent.

That did free her up from the anticipated embargo, and she indulged my cock yesterday morning, as the wet, thick snowflakes fell, after I had performed sufficient worship duties to justify such a boon.

When it snows here, the whole City seems to fall to its knees, cowering at the slippery white stuff, as if it doesn’t happen this time every year. So it seemed appropriate that our lunch engagements were cancelled, and we could reschedule lunch together.

And of course that also meant that Slave would be falling to his knees, to provide Mistress with some additional worship before we indulged our culinary cravings at a local chili parlor.

As I knelt to help Mistress remove a snow dampened boot, I asked if she had been in touch with our Western Correspondent, even though their date had been cancelled.

“Yes, Slave…..”.

“And was he frustrated about missing that date, Mistress?”

She was pealing back one leg of those smooth black tights to give me access to those luscious folds. I was planning on feeding my addiction to her sweet, musky juices. And I did not wait for her answer before digging in. This was the “palate cleanser” preceding our lunch, like a musky sorbet. Yum.

Soon Mistress was distracted too, and it was not long before her hips were rising out of her “throne”, pushed against the door, her head throne back, stifling a moan of release so as not to disturb my colleagues, passing by in the hallway beyond the door.

“Nice, Slave…..”

“My pleasure, Mistress…..”

As she reassembled her chic outfit, I asked her to finish the story about her conversation with M.

“Well we talked….. and I must have provoked him a bit, because later he said he “took care of himself”, before going back to bed.

“Ahhhh…. Still malingering after that sad frost bite plight, I see.”

But then later, I received a disturbing, if a bit incredible, email from M’s union steward, a certain Johnny “Big Fingers” Calamari, of Local 69, International Brotherhood of Teamsters. (Apparently the Newspaper Guild was a little too high falootin’ for our WC.)

The email contained the usual hyperbolic rhetoric about M’s sad and pathetic decline after his unzipped, commando sub-freezing bike ride, and the horrific calamity it had (allegedly) caused his special occasion cock.

Yadda, Yadda, Yadda.

There were threats of an OSHA investigation, and an extortionate demand for compensation in small hundred dollar bills, delivered to a truck stop that very night somewhere outside of Pueblo, Colorado.

But the exclamation point on this lowbrow attempt at extortion was the attached photo:

If Senor “Big Fingers” was to be believed, it seemed that the special occasion cock had fallen right off, with the exemplary specimen now preserved as evidence in a cocktail of formaldehyde and Cuervo.

After forwarding her this heinous email, I was quickly on the phone to our Publisher, with my General Counsel hat firmly in place.

“Mistress….. this is the problem with having a field office, with no HR staff on the ground. How do we know that this is really M’s damaged cock?”

“Don’t you lawyers have a way of investigating this sort of claim, Slave?”

“We do …. It’s called an independent medical exam (IME)…. You send some malingering Plaintiff or employee to a health care provider of your choice, and they inspect the alleged damage….”

“I don’t think it will take some expert to verify this claim, Slave…. Book me a seat on the next plane out….. and make sure M and his union rep know I am on the way to conduct this IME personally…..”

“Your wish is my command, Mistress…..”

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.)

UCTMW Management Responds to Shocking Workplace Injury

We were lying in bed here at the UCTMW World Headquarters.

Mistress had been worshipped upon my return from work, as is her right and expectation. 

The kids had been fed, all back under the roof after their three day weekend. 

We planned to watch the 1^st episode of this season’s Big Love (you know, the adventures of  the narcissistic, messianic Morman State Senator, and his three increasingly schizoid wives). Then, if Mistress was in a generous mood,  Mick would get his first opportunity to fuck her since our rather extravagant “punishment” session on Sunday morning.

All in all, it was a good plan for a quiet evening at home.

Then (sound the claxon horns),  we received a text message about some potentially critical problems at our Western field office.

As Mistress peered at her I-phone, she expressed her surprise with a guffaw.

“The Western Correspondent says he was out riding his bike for the last hour and a half, and now his cock is frozen…”

She tapped away, apparently asking for a more complete report.  His response came quickly.

“Here are more details, Slave:  23 degrees; high winds; he had jeans on, but no underwear.  And he must have forgotten to zip up his fly.”

“The winds was so strong he was sliding sideways on ice….”

Now I was the one laughing.

“Just remind him that our UCTMW Employee Handbook specifically says that we are not responsible for frozen dicks when an employee exposes himself to below freezing temperatures without wearing his underoos.”

I write one hell of an Employee Handbook, in case you need one.  The key is to anticipate of all the potential shit storms that could befall an employer, then figure a way to make all of them the employees' fault!

I was trying to pay attention to “Big Love”, disappointed that all that multi-partner sex shown in the earlier seasons had now been replaced with lots of angst and finger pointing among the wives.  Clearly this Series jumped the shark once the Prophet met his ignominious end.

But our Western Correspondent continued to provide Mistress with updates.

“Sounds like it’s not responding to treatment, Slave….. still frozen.”

I could sense an expensive workers’ comp claim on the horizon. And our defense would have to be based on the reckless behavior of our Western Correspondent, out on yet another frolic and detour.

Could he argue that this frigid bike ride was in the scope of his duties? I suppose it would be possible.

Sometimes when he calls and directs Mistress to deploy her power tool, he is out cruising around on his bike. He could characterize as her consent to such work / recreation field trips. And our health insurer has been pushing all this “Wellness” crap-olla, as an incentive to get our lofty premiums down. Certainly after hours exercise might be described as "just following orders."

One way or the other, I can see him sweet talking some dumpy  administrative hearing officer in an ill fitting pants suit that he was just following company policy as he went on that frigid, cock risking bike ride last night.

No doubt she will want to adjourn to her chambers in order to personally inspect the damaged appendage, in her effort  to confirm whether  his claim for permanent partial disability is firm or flaccid.

Our final line of defense may have to be that he was out of uniform. Our correspondents are not expected to go commando while on duty, without clear instructions from the publisher. It says so in the Handbook. Page 35, footnote 13. He can look it up.

“Slave, I’m telling him that he better not have done any permanent damage to the special occasion cock before I have the chance to try it out.”

“That would be tragic Mistress…. Do you think he has a microwave big enough to fit it…. That might work.”

At some point, M’s pleas for sympathy petered out, so to speak.

And when the show ended, Mistress, who’s mind likely had been muddled by thoughts of a frozen cock-sicle warming between her full and sensual lips, asked if I was prepared to fuck her.

“I am at your disposal, Mistress.”

Let’s just hope that our Western Correspondent has thawed and is now on the mend.