There was some robust wake-up sex in Mistress's home office away from home. She seemed to particularly enjoy the devotion of my lips and tongue to those clean shaven folds.
Then there was a day on the slopes, with some early morning cloud cover melting away on our very first chair ride to perfectly clear and azure skies.
Mistress even got in some flirtation time. WE had agreed to meet at the end of a run at a small espresso shack at the base of a lift. Mistress took the direct route, and I must have meandered, so when I was arrived, she was sitting at an out door picnic table, helmet off, and the arm of a bearded man, about my age over her shoulder.
I stepped up to the coffee shack, only a few feet away, and casually asked what her order would be.
The fellow, with a neatly trimmed beard seemed a little surprised when Mistress said, "oh that's my husband....".
Then she said to me "he asked if he could pose for a picture with me . . . you don't mind do you?"
"Of course not...."
The man added, a little defensively, "It's not like we're making out or something...."
"Well that would be OK too.... it's up to her.... she's got permission....."
The man, a handsome chap who turned out to be here from San Diego for some type of bachelor party weekend, seems a little startled, but settled for his photo.
Mistress later explained that he told her they were on some sort of "scavenger hunt", and a photo with a
"young wife" was on the list.
"I expressed doubt about that Slave....I mean, I'm not all that young...."
Maybe it was the MILF category, Mistress...."
After that we took a few more runs, and then, legs getting sore, we retreated down the mountain at around 2 pm. Slave had an errand to run.
On Saturday afternoon, on the way down the canyon, a front tire had blown out. Slave did some "field slave" duty and changed the tire on the muddy shoulder, impressing Mistress with the fact that I had at least a few useful skills.
But that left us driving on one of those wimpy little spare tires, which the rental company helpfully explained that I should use for no more than 50 miles, at no more than 50 mph. Well that's helpful!
And, BTW, when they learned how far we were from "civilization", their initial offer to bring a new car and haul this gimpy one away was unceremoniously withdrawn.
"Just take it to a local tire store... maybe customer service will reimburse you...."
I look forward to that conversation.
So that brought Slave to the nearest tire store yesterday afternoon. And it was very "local". Something that seemed the combination of auto parts and taxidermy shop, with a little seating area furnished with 40 year old couches and barca-loungers. And of course a full sized stuffed brown bear off to the side, where a flat screen might be at your local Goodyear store back in River City.
I toted my dead tire to the front desk where a rather grimy hispanic fellow took it off my hands and out the back door for a quick diagnosis. Someone on a cell phone asked if I wanted to wait or come back, since "treatment" might take half an hour. I elected to stay and soak in the atmosphere, which began to take on the dimensions of a sit-com set, sort of an Hispanic, Southwest version fo "Taxi."
But I got the bad news only a few minutes later. A sad shake of the head. "This one's dead, Senor."
I didn't spend much time in mourning, instead asking if they had a reasonable facsimile. It turned out they had something that might work, and would only put me out $120. Though Mr. cell phone warned that the rent-a-car company might argue if it wasn't an exact duplicate when I asked for my money back.
No doubt.
Of course, when they tried to mount the new tire the news got worse. They pointed to a bent rim, and the leak it produced.
"That's why it went flat in the first place...."
"Can't you just bang it back...."
"But it's aluminum.... banging might make it crack...."
They seemed impressed with my cajones when I said "but what do we got to lose....."
Sure enough, a few wacks with a mean looking chunk of metal, and the rim seemed restored to something close to it's original shape. And the tire wasn't leaking. Will it hold for the week and the ride back to Denver? Who knows.
After I settled my tab, Mr. Cell Phone had no problem with me taking a photo of their bear.
"My Dad shot it up near Eagle Lake. When it was legal. They say that bear tore up a whole lot of kitchens."
I'm glad I never had to grab my corn flakes back from that bad boy.
Back at home, Mistress was laying out in the last of the day's sun, wrapped in a blanket, taking some work calls. But soon I persuaded her to share some of her bodily warmth back under the covers. While she claimed her folds had gotten a little stubbly from neglect, I was more than happy to abandon my field slave duties for more intimate tasks.
