Cyber Arsonist Strikes Again

We have a blogland friend who is a cyber arsonist. From our emails and postings she picks up a kink here, a hot button there, throws in some kindling and accelerant from her own devious imagination, gets some sparks flying, and within moments Mick and Molly are consumed in the flames she has fanned.

On Tuesday, her story about an imaginary Dom taking title to Molly led us to some quick and dirty sex on my office floor. Lucky for me, Mistress had given me a free pass on my cage that day. Here is the tale that got us going:
http://vanillamom.wordpress.com/2010/02/03/subbie/#comment-1257


This imaginary Dom must have had a real grip on Molly’s will power if he could command her to wear a red dress rather than her standard issue black . More

Yesterday our arsonist sent the provoctive “conclusion” of her story to us. Sadly, when it arrived in my inbox, I was locked away in my cage. As I read through to the end, my cock pressed uncomfortably against it’s steel confines. Argh. This is where giving up control of that sometimes uncontrollable part of my anatomy literally hurts.

Mistress had hoped to stop by for some worship time, but her business lunch lasted longer than she had hoped, and her next engagement called. I would have to wait. And I was anxious for her to read what our arsonist had sent to us. While the story was by now in her I-phone inbox, it was NOT something to be read at a stoplight, even if you are not driving a Toyota.

When we finally found ourselves at home together, after a long and busy workdays, I asked Mistress to lay down beside me on our bed. I was in my jeans (cage still on of course).Mistress shrugged out of her dress, laying next to me in black bra and tights.

We talked a bit about our days and an interesting proposition Mistress had received. (No, not that kind of proposition.). Then I handed Mistress the laptop, already open to the 2nd half of ‘Nilla’s story.

AS she read I slid my head into Mistress’s lap, my face pressing against her, nuzzling and caressing her through those black tights. Her hips began to squirm as she read about her tortured erotic demise (I don’t want to leak the details until it is published by our provocateur).

Once she slid the laptop onto a bedside table, I helped her squirm out of those black tights, now sodden and aromatic with her juices. She wrapped her fingers into the hair at the back of my head, pulling my face hard and deep between her thighs. It took only a few more moments of devotion from my eager lips and tongue before she was gasping and bucking against my head. Then she collapsed against the bed.

When she recovered, it was time to fix dinner for the surly teens.

My cage stayed locked on, just like in ‘Nilla’s story.

But I suspected Mistress would ultimately take her cramped tool out to play before the night was over and my Abstinence Day began.

Crazy.

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.

Crazy.

Mistress Could Make Someone a Lovely Little Slave

I am convinced that Mistress could make the right Dom a perfect little Slave someday.

What makes me think that: accumulated evidence starting from our early days together and extending through our current activities with me wearing the “Slave” hat (err, cage).

Years ago, I would tie Molly to the frame of the futon we kept in our little, illicit “love nest” (we were both “encumbered” - putting it politely - with other relationships at the time, but our attraction to one another compelled finding suitable accommodations for our frequent rendezvous).

Molly would squirm and moan oh so remarkably when I tasted her tightly restrained body, then took my liberties. She liked it. Oh yeah.

She never complained when I took a hairbrush to her bottom on occasion. Heck, she provided the hairbrush.

I can even recall taking her for a walk on the decorous streets of our nation’s capitol one evening, her hands cuffed behind her back, under a tasteful Burberry trench coat. I clutched her at the elbow as we strolled, nodding politely to the passersby. She was dripping wet and ready for me after that adventure.

But we never formalized that relationship in D/s terms: it was just play. An occasional thrilling detour from what was more typically robust if vanilla sex. Once the ropes were untied, or the cuffs unlocked we quickly reverted to our roles as peers, partners, parents.

But now that I have taken on the role of Mistress’s devoted Slave, it’s become obvious to me that my Mistress has her own Slavish compulsions, which I could never exploit to their full extent.

Sure, we do our Sunday switch ritual, when the Slave gets to take charge for an hour or so. But that only seems to whet her appetite.

Take yesterday as an example. Mistress willingly submitted as I locked leather cuffs around her wrists, then tied them to the little eye-screw affixed to the head of our bed. It was a cold night here in River City, so Mistress was still wearing her black tights from our “date”, a movie and dancing, the night before. She also was adorned with a little silky top left over from those “love nest” days of yore.

Once suitably restrained, arms extended over her head, Mistress got all fidgety as I sidled up to her in bed. And of course I stiffened as I slid against the black, soft fabric stretched across her legs. We kissed passionately as Mistress pulled against the restraints holding her in place. Her body betrayed the pleasure she took in her helplessness.

Now Mistress was ready for her “punishment”. Rolled onto her stomach, her lovely bottom was forced to absorb repeated blows from my hand through those clinging tights.

Mistress let the pillow absorb her pitiful little moans. But the squirming of her hips against the bed, even when I paused in my spanking, told me how turned on she was by our little ritual.

I was sort of “relentless”, to the extent a Slave can be with his Mistress. I tried to mimic a cruel Master endeavoring to “break” his Slave.

But actually, I am way too easy in these moments. Too much the Slave, worried that I might impose any real pain on my Goddess. So I paused for a moment, letting my hand gently caress Mistress’s tenderized bottom.

“You like to be spanked, don’t you Mistress”.

“Yes, Slave”.



“How would it be to submit to a Master who pushed your limits Mistress. Who reduced you to tears, had you begging, breaking for him with a cruel spanking.”

“I’d like that, Slave”, she conceded with a little moan of delight at the very thought of it.

I reached for the Hitachi Magic Wand I had plugged in and ready next to the bed. She heard it come to life, and gave off a little sigh of anticipation. Her bottom was still facing up, and I slid the tool between her legs, teasing her. She responded like a little slut would, bucking, squirming, seeking more intense contact with the churning head of the vibrator right where it counted.

As I used the wand on her, my other hand administered a few more “cruel” blows on her bottom, resulting in more gyrations and moans from my increasingly desperate “slave”.

But I did not make her beg. It’s not in me, I guess. Instead, I was merciful, pressing the wand under her just a little more, giving it access to the “good parts”.

Soon this intimate contact tilted Mistress over the top, and she slid down into the depths of a moaning explosion that kept her breathing hard, head buried in her pillow, quivering with aftershocks for some time. It took her a while to request her release, long after I had my lustful way with her.

Some Dom, some day, will have his hands full with this one.

MIstress Presses Several of Her Slave's Buttons.

Mistress put me on notice early on Saturday morning:

“Are you ready for my strap on this afternoon, Slave?”

Gulp. Yes. I was ready. But somehow the advance notice always sends a shiver down my spine that settles at the base of my balls.

After a trip to the gym, some auto maintenance and other light Saturday duties, Mistress suggested we adjourn to the bedroom, announcing to the surly teens that their parents would be taking a “nap”.

Mistress must have decided to press several of her Slave’s buttons. First she slid into those silky nude toned pantyhose with the special access passage carved into the crotch. She knows their texture can drive this Slave to distraction.

Next she donned her strap-on (the photo is from a few weeks back, but you get the picture). Menacing with promise.

She likes her Slave naked, and I obliged. Soon we were both under the sheets, me sidling against her sensuously sheathed legs, she grasping my cock with obvious purpose. Within a few minutes I was begging to fuck her ….but, of course, she laughed me off.

“Slave, you know who will be doing the fucking ….”

I was fully prepared to submit.

But just as were preparing  for the main event, the text on Mistress’s cell chimed. Mine too. It was surly teen number 2, demanding an immediate ride to a friend’s house. Argh. (Why does a teen text her parents from down the hall, rather than walk a few short steps and knock on the door? Maybe under those circumstances one can’t complain.)

Being a pushover, I obliged. Though it was literally painful to pry Mistress’s warm fingers from my swollen appendage. I slid into a pair of jeans, and was soon off into the cold Midwestern air for driving duty.

15 minutes later I returned.  Fortunately, Mistress had not found an alternative “victim”, and was still there, under the warm covers, tending to internet duties on her laptop. I was glad not to have been replaced.

It did not take long for Mistress’s skilled attentions, and my own roving mouth and fingers, to put us back in the same crazed state we had created for one another before that damn text chime.

Mistress directed me to assume the proper position.

With my Ass plumped up for her, she found her target and plunged in, filling me with her hard plastic tool. My firm, desperate cock throbbed against the pillow beneath me as Mistress exercised her powers, reducing her Slave to a panting, whimpering receptacle.

Maybe I was distracted in my own little sub space, but it seemed that Mistress’s quivering explosion crept up on her quickly, as she suddenly bucked against me, losing the rhythm of her penetrating strokes, her nails digging into my shoulders as she moaned in her pleasure.

“That’s enough for now Slave.”

She rose, leaving her apparatus on the bathroom floor for Slave to attend to later. I remained spread out on the bed, breathing hard, in the strange state of semi-shock I find after these sessions.

She commanded me to insert my little probe, so I struggled up from the sheets sticking to my body, and complied. My ass was open and ready.

Returning to the bed, my cock full and ready for her, Mistress lay back, and helped me find the little opening in her panty hose so that I could fuck her properly.

She was still in need, but now it was my time to do the work. And I was happy to clock in. In these tough economic times, it’s crazy to pass up a little overtime on a Saturday afternoon.