Snow Day

When the phone rings here in the heartland at 5:30 am you know its going to be a robo call from the smarmy local school superintendent, letting us know that something is amiss. Yesterday, she let me know in her best insider’s voice that it was a snow day for the sullen teens. They could sleep in. That gave me a little extra time to finish up my faux expose on Mick and Molly’s Super Bowl adventures. Maybe next year, football fans!

I had forgotten to bring the little steel ring downstairs when I crept out of the bedroom, laptop under my arm, trying not to disturb Mistress. So when I came back p to bed to crawl in next to Mistress, her groping fingers discovered something was amiss.

“No ring, Slave?”

I gave my excuses. She snorted in disapproval at my forgetfulness.

“Lame, Slave. Very lame. I like what that ring does to my cock in the morning.”

But I was allowed to worship nonetheless, buried under the covers as she giggled over my work product – though I am not sure she got the part about our side bet on the Who’s play list.

Then Mistress indulged me by letting me take her with my hard, but un-ringed cock. Truth be told, while it makes it ever so harder to come when the tight steel ring grips my swollen balls, the extra effort is rewarded with a very devastating explosion when I cross into no man’s land and obtain Mistress’s permission.

After my shower, I put on my back-up cage, the CB3000 for those of you looking for product placements. Mistress seemed happy as always to close the little padlock, securing her cock away for the day.

Mistress’s business meeting was canceled due to the “white death” falling from the sky, so she worked from home, while her Slave slogged down the snow covered interstate. She did send me a sultry photo of her in bed, taken with her laptop camera, just to remind me of what I was missing.

When I returned home around 5 pm, she allowed me to kneel and worship her. I was happy to slide her tightly fitting exercise pants down those muscular legs, then bury my face between her legs. She lay back to enjoy my attention. And after she came with some soft little moans as I sucked her clit through my teeth, we relaxed on the bed, shuffling through the Times and Journal like a contented married couple.

But there was snow to shovel. Wet heavy snow. I suited and booted up, and took my time. This would be my exercise for the day, and it provided plenty of cardio – effort. When I came back upstairs, Mistress and I both napped a bit before throwing together a late dinner for the teens.

After adjourning to bed, we lazed about some more, watching yet another episode of Damages on our little screen. No sex but compelling characters.

When our show ended, the lights went out. Slave was a bit tired and lazy, but certainly wanted to take his pleasure from Mistress with Abstinence Day on the horizon.

We turned off the lights, and clung to one another, kissing deeply, my thigh pressed between Mistress’s leg, my hand drifting back over her ass to poke into her little brown hole, teasing her a bit in a way that made her hump against me all the harder.

I could sense her breathing tempo accelerate. A good tell that Mistress is getting hotter and hotter. To take her to that first orgasm, I slid my other hand between her legs. With fingers working her from front and back I soon had Mistress sliding over the edge, burying her head in Slave’s chest with little gasps of pleasure.

Mistress worked my cock a bit more, and then gave me permission to climb on board. It turned out to be a long, slow pleasurable session, with Slave getting more and more frustrated as I came so close, only to be held back a bit by diminished energy. I guess it’s what happens when a 59 year old has as much sex as I am allowed. And shovels snow too.

Of course, Mistress was amused. By now she had enjoyed several orgasms, while I was doing all the work.

“Frustrated, Slave?”

Yes, Mistress.”

I stopped for a moment, to take off my T-shirt.

Mistress took a brief break too, climbing from the bed.

“Keep it hard, Slave.”

I used my hand to follow her directive.

When she lay back down next to me, she cupped my balls with her soft, knowing fingers, and told me to keep going.

“Maybe I will have you come this way, Slave.”

I kept working with my hand on a desperate cock. Close.

“Or maybe I will make you watch me masturbate myself. Yes, that’s what I will do…”

Sadly, she moved her hands away from my aching balls, and to herself, laying back, working her hands between her spread legs.

The sight of Mistress pleasuring herself that way has always been a turn on for me….she knows what she’s doing and there are lessons to be learned.

She worked at herself hard, insistently, throwing her head back against the pillow, eyes scrunched tightly closed.

After a few moments, Mistress had one of those shattering explosions that bring sobs from her chest, tears streaming down her face.

I wanted to hold and comfort her. To kiss those tears away.

But I wanted to fuck her even more.

She gave me permission. My energy restored, my imagination inspired, I was soon begging for permission to come.

Now it’s morning, another snow day according to my private robo – caller. I did remember my ring this morning. Mistress will be pleased.

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).

Mick and Molly Fan Fiction?

Our friend M from out west recently composed this little story. He gave us permission to share it with our vast array of disciples. (Other comments and contributions are always encouraged. Sometimes this "journalist" gets a little lazy).


Molly was having lunch with her new associate, D. They had appropriated a conference room of their mutual client, enjoying some carry out sushi.

D was tall, about her age. Fit. Athletic. Clever. The type with whom Molly could imagine a little adventure. She had already told Mick of his potential as a lover on the side. (She did revel in taunting Mick now that her contract gave her certain rights her Slave did not enjoy).

One of her clients had asked Molly and D to travel together to collaborate on some development work . Over lunch, they were planning their trip. D’s phone rang and he answered, listening to a female voice. His face darkened. He excused himself, stepping outside the conference room into a quiet hallway.


Molly was curious. Pretending to stretch her legs, she walked closer to the doorway, listening as best she could.

“I specifically told you not to do that …I will be home right after lunch. I want to find you naked in the corner, on your knees, with the hairbrush out. I'm going to blister your bare bottom. “

D snapped his phone shut and turned on his heel. Molly had to quickly scurry back to her place at the conference room table

“Problems?”

“Nothing I can’t handle”.

Molly had a curious look on her face.

“You heard that conversation didn't you”.

“Yes”, she admitted, blushing.

“That’s OK, I have what you could call an unconventional relationship with my wife. I don't hide it.”

“What kind of relationship?”

“ She is my submissive. I am her Master.”

“ Really?”, Molly said, acting a bit more naïve about the concept of D/s than she, in fact, was. Interesting.

“Yes, and I have found the strict corporal punishment and other …methods…, help keep her in line.”

“Hmmm, what other methods?”

“When we were in Germany I bought her a custom fitted chastity belt.”

“And Why did you do that?”

“To make her more submissive. More under my thumb. But also because she was a chronic masturbator. “
She was spending far too much time pressing a powerful vibrator to her clit, having the most lurid fantasies she would describe to me after her little sessions. Very self indulgent.”

Molly blushed thinking of the Mornings after Mick left for when, when she had done just the same.

“Well that is quite unconventional”

“Yes, but it works well for us”.

Will you lock her in that …. belt when we travel together?”

“Yes, of course. She can’t be trusted otherwise.”

“Oh my,....”.

Molly hesitated, blushed, then decided to take the plunge:

“Is it my imagination or have you been flirting with me these last few weeks, D.?

“Probably. Can’t help it. I find you very attractive”, he said.

“But I'm a married woman”.

“Yes I know. But my wife and I have an agreement. It’s called cuckholding. I can sleep with anyone I like while she is locked in her chastity device. It drives her crazy when I give her the ‘blow by bow’ later on. But Molly, I know you are happily married. I'm just flirting with you. Pay me no mind.”

Molly sat back stunned. She decided to take another plunge.

“You know I have a rather uncoventional relationship with Mick as well. It is all an unbelievable coincidence”.

After she shared some of the lurid details, it was D’s turn to sit back, stunned.

Wow”. he said, “this trip is going to be a lot more fun than I thought. … But, you know, Molly, I am not submissive….”

“Yes I can certainly see that Molly” smiling, eyebrow raised.

Mistress Utilizes Japanese Management Techniques

Mick and Molly spent Saturday evening at a dinner party hosted by one of River City’s iconic political dudes and his wife. He’s a former 60’s impresario of rock and roll and publican, who moved onto a broader community portfolio later in life. His career path is similar to the current Mayor of Denver, who’s family came from these parts. His guests last night were an eclectic bunch, including an  car company manager who grew up hereabouts and his younger Japanese wife.

As we explored how this couple met in Japan a few years back, we riffed on the differences between husband and wife relationships in the “Floating Kingdom” and The U S of A. The couple told us that in Japan, men  dominate the work culture, but t at home, the wives are in charge, from controlling the purse to ruling domestic life generally.

I noted, with a little under the table squeeze of Mistress’s black tighted thigh, that we have adopted Japanese management techniques in our household. Mistress confirmed my observation, but noted that it took me about 18 years to come around to finally acknowledging that it was her destiny to rule.

Of course this generated laughs and nods all around. But if only the assembled guests knew that the older gent at the end of the table had agreed by contract to submit to his younger, devastatingly attractive wife.

They should have been flies on the wall the night before…

We were hunkered down at home as snow began to fall. The locals were in full panic at the thought of 5 inches of snow tumbling onto their hilly streets. The Groceries were reported clogged with shoppers stocking up on water and condiments as if nuclear winter was about to descend.

We settled before our big screen computer to gorge via “Crackle” on some early episodes of “Damages”. We had heard good things about the show but missed it the first time around.

Check it out. Glenn Close plays the scariest lawyer I have ever seen (and I have been exposed to more than my fair share, including my first wife.)

Oddly, this character reprises Close’s “bunny boiling” villainy from “Fatal Attraction”, by having her order the assassination of  acute little puppy  in season one. I guess pet killing is metaphor for ball busting?  But we digress…

We  cuddled up, watched a few episodes, drank some wine, ate some day old chili. Cozy fun. But by bed time, Slave was tired. We had quite robust sex twice earlier in the day, once in the morning, and again after work. Quite frankly, I would have been happy to take a pass.

But Mistress has needs.

“You seem tired Slave?”

“Yes, aren’t you?”

“Not too tired…”

“I would be happy to worship, Mistress” (this is Slave code for can I suck your cunt, then go to sleep?)

“I think I want to play with your cock, Slave”.

“Of course you can, it’s yours Mistress”

“Yes, Slave, it is.”

Mistress was wearing one of her seductive little numbers, all lacy and feminine. A texture and look that always helps a Slave focus.  She climbed up off the bed, fumbled for something in her closet, and came back with a vivid leather turquoise colored glove on her right hand.

“On your back, Slave.”

“Yes, Mistress.”

The supple leather of her  glove found my soft cock. 

“Not, too impressive, Slave.”

“No Mistress. I am a little  tipsy, tired. Sorry.”

I was concerned that despite her efforts, Mistress would not be able to make things come out the way she likes her cock. This could be …bad.

But resigned to my fate, I lay back, relaxed, prepared to “suffer” the consequences, however embarrassing or pleasurable they might be.

It turned out that surrendering  to my fate at Mistress’s clever fingers was the ticket.

Soon I was hard, moaning, ready. But Mistress was not cutting to the chase.

She positioned me to her requirements, then slid her hips over my face, her tongue gently teasing my now firm tool.

“You know what to do, Slave.”

I set about my task, my face buried in her fragrant opening, that was now pressing  hard against my open mouth. My tongue probed and explored inside, making her squirm and press even harder against me. My lips captured her oh so responsive clit, and I tugged at it, making her undulations against me all the more frantic.

Meanwhile, Mistress had taken me into her mouth, and the combination of her soft tongue and lips and the crafty, gloved fingers toying with my balls took me from “zero to hero” ( or deadbeat to dynamo) in a few delightful minutes.

Mistress ultimately succumbed to the suction that drew her tenderest parts into my greedy mouth. Squirm as she did, I would just not let go. She gave out her little cry of surrender, and collapsed onto my face that by now was showered with her delicious juices.

Then she rolled over, satisfied, a hand still gripping my hungry cock.

“May I fuck you now, Mistress.”

“But I thought you were tired, Slave. Wouldn’t want to wear you out.”

“You seem to have rejuvenated me, Mistress.”

“If you beg, I may be generous, Slave.”

More begging. Groveling. Me pumping against Mistress’s tight grip.  Argh.

But Mistress is kind, and after sufficient begging, I was finally allowed to demonstrate that I had somehow found my second wind.