Mistress was avoiding her office yesterday it seemed, so she spent some time camped out in mine between meetings. It was nice to have her about, and in such close proximity, particularly after her overnight business trip earlier this week.
And of course it gave me an opportunity to graze within her clean shaven folds as a little post lunch palate cleanser. Mistress did not have on her special peek-a-boo tights, so she had to slide off one boot and leg of her conventional tights to accomodate a little mid-day worship. The result was an interesting contrast of limbs after I pressed her "throne" up against my office door to provide a little privacy.
The result was a lovely break in the middle of a busy day for both Mistress and Slave.
But another matter crossed my computer screen yesterday: the bizarre tale of the linebacker from my alma mater and his pretend dead girlfriend.
It's still not clear to me what the hell happened: what Manti knew and when her knew it? And (more importantly to me) what the ND shills and handlers knew and when they knew?
But what was intriguing to me is the role the internet and a "cyber" relationship played in the dead fake girlfriend hoax.
Here in the sex blog world we have all developed rather "unique" relationships with friends and for some folks, lovers, that are not grounded in the conventional. In other words, we "talk" via emails or comments, but never hear each others voices or meet.
Well sometimes.... for several years, we had an e mail and telephone relationship of sorts with our Western Correspondent. Not unlike the purported relationship between Manti and the imaginary girl, who apparently "spoke" via phone with him sometimes. But ultimately, we finally pried him into the light by scheduling a flight through his hometown one day. Sure enough, the big guy is who he claimed to be (though there were moments we had out doubts, and Mistress did not get a chance to inspect the legendary SOC on that visit).
And we have met Bill and Donna.
Yesterday I was emailing with Suzanne over at All Mine about the Tale of Manti. Although we've become close with her and her sidekicks through emails and running comments, we've never met or talked.
"I suppose you might be a trucker from Montana, and I could be a stripper from Vegas,", I emailed.
Let's hope we find out someday. Trust, but verify used to be Ronald Reagan's watch cry. It's something Manti should have picked up on. And also the spinners at the ND athletic department who exploited this half baked story and contributed to his apparent humiliation and exploitation.
But in the meantime, I will always be skeptical about the gullibility and/or credibility of linebackers.
Mistress has a chance to stop by my office yesterday. It was after lunch, around 2 pm.
I had stayed in during the lunch hour, focused on a project, while listening to our new Governor on the radio, braying in his State of the State Speech about his plans to turn our creaky if earnest old Midwestern state into a shiny mecca like Florida. You know, where, in his narrative, solely because of low taxes, old, retired people from our state want to move to places like Naples or Stillwater.
I mean, if only given the right tax incentive, who wouldn’t want to spend their golden years on the frozen shores of a Great polluted Lake, dodging washed up carp, rather than searching for Sand Dollars on a Gulf Beach.
Having spent some years down there – no offense to Florida readers – I tend to think of a place where kids go to schools in glorified trailers, there are acres of abandoned strip malls and mold infested, unsold McMansions, and the unemployment rate remains a whopping 12%.
But if you actually have a job, and don’t have kids to educate, I suppose it is nice to pay no state income taxes.
With one side of my brain focused on work, and the other sending out snotty tweets commenting on our Governor’s pompous presumptions, I probably was not in the best of moods when Mistress popped into my office to get her fair share of worship.
But there is something about seeing her breeze into my perch, high above River City that always lifts my spirits.
It’s on the cusp of Spring here, but she had not yet shed her winter costume: black tights and boots, a black jacket, and a black tie-dyeish skirt that settled a few inches above her knees.
And as I filled her in on the Governor’s pronouncements, I was simultaneously closing the door, sliding her throne into place, and spreading the blanket that would soon be absorbing her musky juices.
Her office visit brought to mind how Mistress and I finally broke the ice of our building sexual tension back in 1988, a story I was nipping at in some blogs last week.
It was about a week after our April primary here. For those of you who are political junkies, our candidate, the short former governor of Massachusetts, had eliminated most of the other “Seven Dwarfs” by then, with The Reverend Jackson still hanging on, gathering delegates for his curtain call in Atlanta.
I was undergoing a good bit of Molly withdrawal. My excuse to see her on a daily basis had gone away once the primary votes were counted. And, quite frankly, I had no idea whether she shared my attraction.
Maybe she just saw me as yet another dirty older man pining for her. After all, she was a young 24, and I was an ancient 37.
So I was a little surprised when she called me at home one evening, several days after “victory night” and asked if she could meet me in my office sometime soon.
I figured she wanted some help for her boss, a now prominent politico in his own right, or maybe advice on how to handle a work problem. We set up a time.
AS she waltzed into my office that day, a different building, but a similar view, she was the same glorious sight as she was yesterday afternoon. Dressed up in something stylish and work appropriate, but sexily short, showing off those glorious legs. It was spring, so I recall more opaque hose, and pumps, but I could be corrected.
Long hair. Perfectly made up. Alluring perfume to which I had become addicted.
It was more than enough to make a dirty older man swoon.
But in the preceding days, I had been trying my best to stifle my lust for her. I figured it was a one-way crush that would pass if I just focused on more mundane things.
I can’t recall whether we gave each other a perfunctory hug when she walked in. Maybe we just shook hands. She might recall….she has a great memory for these things. But I was trying to be very business like.
I offered her coffee, showed her a chair, then moved behind my desk.
“So what’s up, Molly…. “
That’s when, in a very business like fashion, she explained that she was calling my bluff…. That it was obvious that I was coming on to her these last few weeks, and that if I was ready, well, she was in….
I was stunned.
Dumbfounded.
And also scared shitless.
I was ready for rejection. In fact, I had already resigned myself to rejection.
And now…. Well. The opportunity to take this step with the lovely Molly seemed almost too good to be true.
I was like a wide receiver, alone in the end zone, a tight spiral heading for my unencumbered hands for the winning touchdown.
And what did I do?
Well, of course, I dropped the ball.
I mumbled something like not being sure, and what about our spouses, and the primary created a false sense of connection, blah, blah. Blah.
And as I listened to myself, there was another voice screaming at me…. Are you crazy Mick, just stand up, go over there and kiss her!!!!! Isn’t that what you’ve been waiting for?
(Was it Bogie from “Play it Again Sam”?. Could be.)
Well, it’s probably time for me to wake Mistress…. All this typing about our early days has awoken certain appetites. And now that I’ve gotten started, I’m looking forward to hearing her memory on this subject, presumably while my mouth and tongue are suitably distracted.
Let us know if you want more details in this “Secret Origins of Molly and Mick” stuff.
And yes, I made sure Molly got off… twice in fact… during her visit yesterday afternoon.
Now that Mistress and I drive to work together most days, it’s natural that my hands wander. I really just can’t help myself.
You might recall that on Tuesday, when Molly and Mick were heading back from our mountain hideaway, and Molly was chatting with M where the AT&T signals would allow, she mentioned that when those conversations are ongoing, I can’t seem to keep my hands off of her.
True.
But as these photos show , taken on yesterday’s commute to work, I can’t seem to keep my hands off of her, even when there is no smutty talk with her Master for me to overhear.
The also show why I am hooked on Mistress’s smooth, tan and shapely legs.
And why both of us show up at work more than a little horny.
In fact, yesterday I was surprised when Mistress strolled into my office at around 10 am.
She said it was to collect the cartons of yogurt that she had mistakenly left in the car. But she was more than a little interested in some worship time.
So once I retrieved her yogurt, the door was closed, and Mistress’s throne was pressed up against it. Mistress took her place, hiking up her dress and letting her black panties drop to the floor, clinging to a single ankle. And I fell to my knees.
It was nice to have the redolent taste of Mistress’s damp and needy cunt on my lips so early in the day.
The one advantage of my vestigial beard (other than facilitating Mistress’s fantasies that her similarly Master is going down on her): those juices seem to cling to my face all the more through the day.
As Mistress and Slave lay on my office floor yesterday afternoon, pants, tights, boots strewn around us, catching our breaths, my colleagues chatting on the other side of my unlocked door, I tried to reconstruct how this craziness had happened. In retrospect, it was a confluence of events that led to Mistress and Slave fucking like demons possessed in the staid confines of my corner office.
Event One: Yesterday the ring of my cock cage just did not want to stay on. I had it tightly in place shortly after I woke, but somehow the cold weather caused my two tender balls to sneak back through the hard steel ring into their refuge as I sat working on my homework. Was it because ‘Nilla had failed to post the type of story that gets my blood flowing over my cappuccino in the morning? I do rely on her for some inspiration, as an alternative to say, the Wall St. Journal. (If anything would make one’s equipment duck and cover it would be the Journal).
Event Two: I polished off my morning homework just in time to wake the teens and join Mistress in bed, where she was waking from her long night’s sleep. We followed our morning ritual: her reading while I worshipped, then she allowed me to take her to our mutual pleasure. When I explained my “ring emergency”, she must have been still on a post-orgasmic high.
“You can pass on the cage today, Slave. I may want to have access to your cock when I visit this afternoon.”
Hmmm. Of course, I gladly accepted this boon.
Event Three: Later that morning, my gmail inbox delivered a little gift from ‘Nilla: a cunning and very hot story derived from the adventures of Mick and Molly, featuring a submissive Molly in an incendiary red dress, an arrogant Dom marching her off to meet her “fate”, and a frustrated, cuckolded Mick, aching inside his cage. Yum. That story definitely raised the temperature in my office.
Event Four: Mistress arrived after a lunch engagement with a very important man, dressed as our reader(s) have come to expect: black dress down to mid-thigh, just tight enough to display her luscious curves, black tights, black boots. After we talked about her lunch meeting, I flipped open my laptop to show her ‘Nilla’s story. Her well muscled thighs squirmed a bit in my desk chair as she worked through the tale.
The stage had been set.
As Mistress read, I pushed the blue upholstered chair against my door (no, it doesn’t have a lock). When she stood, I pulled her into a tight embrace. Both of us seemed unusually needy. As we kissed my fingers found their way between her legs. Already damp. Mistress squirmed in that delightful way against my hand.
I steered Mistress toward the door, not breaking that embrace. Helping her sit, I fell to my knees, burying my face between her legs as her hands clenched the hair at the back of my head. Before pealing back her tights I took some time drawing her juices through their sheer fabric. I like the way Mistress pumps herself ever so gently against my mouth, trying to contain her need.
When it was time to slide her tights down to give me better access to those damp folds, Mistress urged me to take off her boots. I unzipped them, and slid them off, spending a few moments massaging and kissing her feet. Yeah, they were a little stinky, but very sensuous as her toes squirmed between my teeth.
Moving my mouth up her legs to the juncture of her thighs, I feasted on her, nearly pulling her out of the chair as I found that special place with my sucking lips. Mistress had to take care not to bang her head against my office door as she came for me.
Once she was satisfied, she directed me to stand.
“Aren’t you glad you don’t have your cage on today, Slave”, she said, as she unfastened my belt, unzipped me and let my pants fall to my ankles.
“Oh, yes, Mistress.”
She took me in her hands, then her mouth, her lips and tongue slowly building me to a point of no return.
Then she stopped.
“Where do you want to fuck me, Slave?”
We considered the option of bending her over my desk. But it was too messy with all those papers strewn about.
We settled on the floor, where I spread a firm logo blanket leftover from some silly promotion. Useful for office sex though.
I helped Mistress to the floor and joined her. As we could hear my colleagues pass by outside the door I slid on top and inside her. Oh… so …nice.
There is something about floor sex….no give at all. Mistress’s body so soft and receptive, but held firmly in place by the hard floor. There we were: My dress shirt and tie still on. Her dress hiked above her hips. Moving against one another with determination, knowing that this needs to be a quicky before some “helpful” assistant decides she has to talk right now about an “important” development.
“What would they think?”
Mistress asks between her little gasps of delight, referring to the chatting minions on the other side of my door.
“Well at least you are my wife. It’s not like I am harassing an employee. The worst they can say is, ‘Mick must really like that hot wife.’”
We giggle.
Not long after that, Slave explodes, collapsing next to Mistress on my office floor. We do not linger, but reluctantly reassemble our grown up costumes. Mistress was soon polished and ready for her next meeting. Slave needed a nap.
