Mistress Knows the Ropes

It was Valentine’s Day. Slave thought better of subjecting his Mistress to their weekly “switch”. A red bottom would not be the sort of cuddly, romantic sex that the savvy marketers behind the whole V Day thing probably had in mind. So our morning and afternoon encounters between the sheets were satisfyingly vanilla. Very delightful, but not what our reader(s) might expect from Mick and Molly.

But I did ask Mistress for a rain check, which she generously granted, to be collected on Monday, our last full day here at our Mountain hideaway.

But it was Mistress who was feeling frisky when Monday dawned. After I prepared her coffee and she read yesterday’s rather lame (but nicely illustrated) “erotic art” entry , she asked for directions in finding our stash of ropes.

Mistress poured the contents of our little mobile bag-o-submission onto the bed, and marveled about how we keep getting it through airport security.

“No sharp edges or explosives, Mistress.”

It would be embarrassing though, to explain the purpose of the harness, dildo, cuffs, locks, collar, vibrator, etc. to a diligent crew of TSA staff members sorting through them. Would love to hear any comments on how to cope with that scenario, dear readers.

Mistress selected two lengths of rope, and instructed me to position myself in the center of the bed, face-up. She tied one hand and then the other to the little eyebolts I had installed at the corners of the head of the bed. Mistress knows her knots. When she was done, I was going nowhere.

Twitch.

She then found the riding crop on the floor next to her side of the bed.

“Roll over, Slave”.

I did the best I could with wrists restrained at opposite sides of the bed, twisting my trunk so that she had access to a good expanse of my bottom. She applied the crop vigorously, all the while demanding my oath of permanent loyalty and faithfulness. It’s a pledge I am happy to give, even without the sting of the crop. But the pain does remind me that it is a solemn obligation with very unpleasant consequences if breached.

With hand securely tied, I had little room the squirm as Mistress struck me a dozen or so times with an intensity that had me crying out. Ouch.

But Mistress actually is merciful to her Slave, and soon relented.

“Roll over Slave. Let me see that cock.”

I was happy to obey. She poked and prodded me a bit with the crop and her gentle fingers. Soon I had attained dimensions that pleased Mistress.


“That’s very inviting, Slave,” she said, sipping her coffee as one hand continued to toy with me. By now, Mistress’s fingers were driving me crazy.

“I’d like to fuck you now, Mistress.”

“Yes, I am sure you would.”

She took a little more time with her coffee though before setting her cup down at the bedside table.

Then she was sliding onto and over me, positioning herself to plunge my cock effortlessly into her very wet and warm passage. Her restraint, punishment and stimulation of me seemed to work as ample foreplay for both of us.

When she rides me like this, Mistress, gets an interesting look on her face. Focus. Eyes scrunched close. Her energy directed at finding just the right contact at the place where Mistress and Slave come together. As the pace of her sliding and pounding against me increases, her breathing becomes more ragged, until she surrenders to her desire and throws herself over the edge. With hands bound to the bed, I am just a passive, though very “happy to be here” participant.

That morning as she reached that place I arched up to meet her as best I could, as she plunged over the top. Then she slowed the pace, her hands reaching back to toy with my balls as she rode me gently, driving me just a little more crazy.

She knows it’s hard for me to come this way, but she enjoys taking me oh so close.

“You’re frustrated, aren’t you Slave,” she says with a “cruel” smile. Looking at me now, as she builds herself to another orgasm.

“Yes, Mistress.”

“Excellent.”

Then she was going for it again, gasping, then collapsing onto me, exhausted from her second in the expanse of a few minutes.

Mistress caught her breath as she settled onto me, her cheek pressed against my chest, my cock still at attention inside her.

Moving slowly, she reached out and released one of my hands, then allowing me to untie my other hand. Freed, I rolled her onto her back, and slid inside, pressing her arms over her head. She was like a rag doll by then, but those little sounds she makes suggested that she was enjoying my robust thrusts into her.

By the time I was given permission to come, my explosion was one of those multi-staged affairs that brings to mind Walter Cronkite narrating the Apollo moon launch.

When we recovered, we suited up for a sunny day on the slopes.

And, when we returned, with tanned faces and aching legs, I redeemed that rain check.

But we will save that part of the story for tomorrow’s entry.

An Evening with Eros, SW style

Saturday night, Mistress and Slave had an early and romantic V Day dinner followed by a trip to what seemed might be an interesting event for locals in this quaint little Southwestern Ski Town.

Titled “An Evening with Eros”, promoters invited participants to “liberate your alter ego for an evening of sensual indulgence”. The event was said to be “adults only, no children”, and was staged at a funky contemporary furniture store peddling new age goodies on the side.

We did not know quite what to expect, and declined the option of coming in “masquarade”. 

Not surprisingly, the first thing we saw as we peered through the windows was a gaggle of kids under the age of 5. Maybe “no children” is locals’ code for “no kids over 5”.  But they seemed to be having fun, and took little note of the oddities on display.

Our eyes quickly wandered to the bevy of youngish and oddly dressed folk on a makeshift dance floor writhing to some sort of euro-trash techno beat music. (I guess I am showing my age here).

The event did draw some odd costumes, including lots of stocking tops showing, and a few guys with shirts off and black collars locked to their necks. There was a rather large woman with some leather chaps over fishnets that drew some attention. And some rather skinny fellow clad in a leather body suit whos dance stylings consisted of repeatedly contorting his foot up to his arm pit.

Mistress should have brought my collar along. I never get a chance to wear it in public.

There was some interesting art on the wall. This post contains a couple, including one cleverly titled “giving skull” which hijacks a local folks art style to a more prurient end.

Mistress and Slave were a bit on the “oldster” side of the demographics, and did not stay much longer than necessary to peruse the art and scope out the under-clad bodies. As those who follow this blog know, we tend to the private side.

A Valentine's Day Anniversary for Mistress and Slave

Mistress and her Slave celebrated Valentine’s Day a tad early with a romantic dinner last night. But that afternoon there was a special anniversary to commemorate– it was a year ago on V-Day that Mistress first deployed her Strap-On, the one she directed her Slave to order for her.

That experience began a more accelerated trip down the road to this Slave’s total surrender to my sexy and powerful wife’s control.

Our trip had started slowly, while we were still struggling with a torturous commuter marriage: Her directing my hand and controlling my orgasms during our nightly video chats; some relatively gentle croppings, or her tying me to the bed when I would arrive at our Florida home for our weekends together.

And, of course, there was the cage for my cock. I would display myself for her, all locked away, live via I-chat, before heading to work in my office, 1500 miles from her on too many weekday mornings.

We discovered that both of us felt more secure with her in charge: she was learning how to trust me again (yes, readers, I was bad, very bad); I was learning the security that comes from surrendering to the control of someone who loved me dearly and who had my best interests at heart. And of course there was a delicious erotic edge to it all.

But somehow, the ritual of her donning her strap on and taking me that way reinforced our new roles and took the experience to a new level. I can sense the power Mistress acquires when she exercises her right to fuck her Slave in the Ass. And those powerful climaxes she has as she grinds into and against me…. She is a woman who now takes her pleasure on her own terms. Very, very incendiary.

As for yesterday’s anniversary celebration…..Mistress had instructed me to pack her “equipment”. I obeyed.

Before our ski day yesterday, she had me lay on the bed, and applied the riding crop to my naked bottom for a few moments, while reminding me what was to come later in the afternoon.

“It’s an anniversary for us Slave. A year ago on Valentine’s day …the first time I used my strap-on.”

Of course, I remembered. As she rolled me over and used the crop to poke my cock to a more satisfying rigidity, the thoughts of that first experience provoked me even more than her crop.

After suitable and mutual pleasuring, we climbed into our ski costumes and headed up to the Mountain. More sun. More snow. More Texans (though not as bad as the Christmas season).

Mistress pointed out a area staffer who caught her fancy, and I relished seeing her chat him up a bit. Slave enjoys his Mistress’s wandering eye.

After our day on the slopes, we crashed in bed for a while, drifting off with a view of the holy mountain bathed in late afternoon sun. Both of us were naked, save for those fluffy ski socks.

Mistress woke from our nap first. I sensed her sliding out of bed, my head still buried in a pillow. The sun was setting out our window, turning the mountain red.

“Good, Slave. I see where you laid out my tools.”

I rolled over a bit, hearing the rustling and cinching sounds of Mistress sliding into her harness.

Twitch. (My cock follows pavlovian principles.)

Soon she was in bed beside me, and we revved both of our engines with tongues and fingers in dedicated exploration. But not for long.

“Assume your position, Slave.”

I rolled onto my stomach, sliding a pillow under my hips.

She mounted me, asking my help to position her for an auspicious invasion. And of course, I complied.

It had been about two weeks, and her tool stretched me a bit more than normal.

I know my wimpers turn her on, but they are real, not bogus. The natural sound that emanates from a aging fellow who’s delicious younger wife is taking him in such a forceful way.

‘You like this don’t you Slave?”

(She enjoys making me admit it, getting me to beg for more).

“Yes…can’t you tell?”

“Why, Slave?”

(A moaning, wimpering mix of sounds, as Mistress finds a particularly effective angle of attack that drives her “cock” even more deeply).

“Hard to explain….it’s so…overpowering.”

“Good”.

At about that time, Mistress came with a violent shudder and gasp, grinding herself hard against me.

After a few more moments of sliding in and out of me ( a cool down?)., Mistress slid away.

“You’ve had enough for now, Slave”.

“Yes, Mistress. Thank you.”

And I was grateful.

As is our ritual, Mistress directed me to insert my probe, as a not so gentle reminder of where she had just been. I returned to bed, and she “tortured” me a bit more with loving mouth on a soon desperate cock. Then I was allowed to take her in my old fashioned way. And the result of all that pent up demand was a powerful, draining explosion of my own.

“Happy Anniversary, Slave.”

Ski Patrol (Part I)

(A little fiction, dedicated to and inspired by M, one of our regular readers)


Molly clicked her boots into her bindings, sliding on snow softened by the warm southwestern sun. She was enjoying her rare day of solo skiing, already looking forward to an hour or so after lunch, when she would monopolize one of those lounge chairs in front of a chalet restaurant at mid mountain.

It was a mid-week, with a small crowd day on the mountain. As she entered the lift line, Molly was planning to sit back and let the sun bronze her upturned face on the ride up, but as she arrived a the front of the lift line she heard a voice on her left:

“Mind if I join you?”

Molly gave an automatic nod, paying little attention as she positioned herself on the chair, hoping that this one would not be a “chatter”.

As Molly settled in for the ride, he pulled the restraining bar down.

“Not with your usual entourage today?”

She looked over, took him in for the first time. A semi-familiar face, part of the local scene, all kitted out in his Ski Patrol outfit, red jacket labeled with a white cross, a long loop of rope tied to a tool belt of some type. He flipped up his goggles, uncovering blue eyes and a rugged face that had not been shaved in a day or two.

“Mike”, he said, extending a gloved hand. “I’ve seen you with your family up here over the years”.

“”I’m Molly”, she said, taking his hand. “Kids are back east. Husband is working today. But I was not going to pass up a day like this.”

They chatted on a bit as the lift made it’s slow climb, made a bit slower by a few of those annoying stops as a boarder took a tumble at the top. But Molly realized that the delays were not so annoying. Was he flirting a bit? And was she flirting back? Seemed so. And since Molly had certain “rights” why not? If Mick was too busy to ski, she could certainly finding other “diversions”. And he would get all hot and bothered when she told him about it “après ski” over a glass of wine.

Molly decided to push the edge of the envelope a bit …

“So what’s all the rope for?”, she asked, nodding at the loop at his waist.

“Oh, all sorts of things. Marking off a closed trail. A rescue on steep terrain. And sometimes there is the recalcitarant ski bunny that needs to be taken in hand.”

With that comment, Mike raised his eyebrow with a bit of a smile. Molly’s snicker acknowledged the ‘joke”, but she refused to break eye contact, pushing a little farther.

“Oh…are you good with your knots, Mike?”

“Haven’t gotten any complaints, m’aam." His laugh was disarming. But his frank appraisal of her, a bit unnerving to Molly. Had she pushed a bit too far?

"Here let me show you a little trick.”

He took her ski poles in his hand, handing them to her.

“Hold them this way”.

Molly was amused, and compliant. They were only a few moments from the top of the lift. Not much harm could be done, right?

He positioned her gloved hands so they were holding the poles at mid point, in front of her. Then he extracted a relatively short length of cord from his pocket. A few twists and one knot later, Molly’s wrists were tied together, and tightly lashed to the poles she held in front of her.

“Funny”, she said, deadpan. Suppressing the flush of arousal that caught her by surprise. Hmmm….this guy was ….good. She squirmed a bit in her seat, as Mike raised the restraining bar. They were almost at the top of the lift.

Molly wiggled her wrists. “Cute. Now, aren’t you going to untie these?”

“You’re a very good skier. Don’t think I haven’t noticed that cute little ass on the mountain these last few years. You can just follow me….”

With that the chair arrived at the top. She had to get off. She had to follow.