Molly and Mick have a self-flagellation ritual we perform each year out here at our mountain hideaway. We rise at 6 am to climb a 13,500 ft. peak with a trailhead not far from our front porch. This is a 7 hour “jaunt” which, though amply painful, provides some reassurance that we have not grown too old for such adventures.
The trail is steep. The air is thin. You count your steps in clumps of 10 or 20. Along the way we courteously step aside for a band of bighorn sheep in search of some lush grazing above the tree line. I am told they are not carnivores, but don’t want to get too close to find out.
But when, after about 3 hours, lungs and limbs stretched to the max, you scramble onto a saddle that links two rock strewn summits, and see the 360 degree, million dollar view stretches out before you, well, suddenly, you forget the pain.
Our slow but steady climb had been shrouded by some low hanging clouds, but when we hit the summit the clouds cleared for a brilliant and warming sun. We settled in against a primitive hand built rock wind shelter at the top, ate our lunch, snapped some photos, and marveled at the view.
But it seemed we had to do something for our readers too.
Unlike on other occasions at this summit, we were all alone. Three women we had talked with at the top were already scrambling down, hoping to avoid some wet weather blowing our way.
We saw no one approaching from below.
“Would Mistress like some worship?”
She giggled at the thought.
“I suppose it would be wrong to say no, Slave.”
Mistress found a rock to perch on, then slid off her shorts and panties, letting them dangle on a single foot. I groveled a bit, finding something soft to kneel on, and went to work. Then I took the photo above to share with M and the rest of you.
Fortunately, Mistress came after only a few moments of my experienced ministrations, bucking against my mouth as her fingers wound themselves tightly into my graying hair.
As the saying goes, summiting is optional; coming down is mandatory.
So, as the wind picked up, we packed up out things, took a few final photos to evidence our accomplishment, and began the long and painful scramble down the loose rock and steep muddy ruts that passes for a trail.
Believe it or not, the down part is harder on legs and ankles, than the climb. It was a battle with gravity for the next 2 miles that had us cursing our poor judgment in doing this yet again. (We annually resolve to try the easier route next year, only to forget our resolution in our need to prove we have not lost a step in the preceding year).
At the halfway mark, the trail eases to something more routine, opening up to a lovely alpine lake. I reminded Mistress that last year I had worshipped her as she lay across a large, flat rock overlooking the lake.
I was surprised when she said, “Time for a rest, Slave….maybe we do that again right now.”
It was reassuring to hear Mistress show her interest in my tongue, despite what were certainly aching feet and legs.
So Mistress lay back on her perch, legs spread, panties dangling from an ankle. And I had some soft grass to kneel on as I worshipped her once more. In fact the position was so relaxing that I carried her off to two nifty orgasms, as her thighs embraced my head, and she lay back resting her sore body on that flat rock.
But as she finally pushed me away, I heard Mistress mutter.
“Oh, Shit. There is someone up there.”
I turned and spotted a male hiker, higher up on the trail, as it emerged from a pine forest. Hopefully his camera was snapping shots of the lake, not of the foxy hiker splayed out on the rock in between him and the lake.
Mistress quickly slid her panties and shorts back into place, and we finished the Bataan Death March portion of our hike. 2 more miles to our car on shuffling, aching tootsies.
When we finally were back at our cabin, stiff, high hiking boots parked away until next summer, Mistress found some texts from M waiting for her. Her Master was worried, and wanted to know if we had made it back.
“Do you mind if I call him, Slave.”
Of course, I had no right to object.
They chatted a while as my stiff and aching body rested next to her in our bed. Near the end of their conversation, Mistress raised a scheduling issue with me.
“Slave, M asked if we can have a date later tonight….”
“Of course, Mistress….”
We had some local friends coming over for drinks at around 7:30, so Mistress was planning something with M for after their visit. And when our guests left at around 9 (our bodies were way too sore to join them for dinner at a local sushi joint), you could see Mistress’s attention quickly shifted to her potential engagement with M.
The image I remember is her holding her I-phone in one hand, texting him her availability, while sliding off skirt and panties with the other hand, to be ready for him.
“Where’s the Hitachi, Slave?”
What a cute and horny, Mistress.
With a certain wry amusement, I showed her that her tool of choice was safely sitting at our bedside, all plugged in and ready for her.
Yes, readers, it IS lots of fun for me to see Mistress in such a concupiscent state, anxious for the incendiary words that her Master uses to fuel her desire . She’s got it bad, and in this case it’s good. And I always seem to cash in at the end.
“I will step out now, Mistress”:, I said, picking up my computer.
“You can stay Slave….or, you can leave the door open.”
I do think Mistress is concerned about not hurting my feelings about her relationship with M. She loves me deeply, as I do her. But I also think this development has been very good for her at a number of levels, not just the primo orgasms. And I believe that Molly and M need a privacy zone to maintain and nurture what they have going.
“No. that’s Ok, Mistress, you two lovebirds need your privacy.”
I think she was grateful, though she certainly had the authority to lock me away somewhere out of earshot had she chosen to use it.
I worked on a few things on my computer, including this blog. I could not hear what was going on behind our closed door, though I recall catching a bit of moaning at one point.
Then, after about 45 minutes, Mistress opened the door.
“What are you up to Slave?…..we are done with the sex part, why don’t you come back in.”
I was happy to climb into bed, after stripping away my cloths. Mistress was still chatting with M, her top and charming necklace still on. But that was all.
Unsurprisingly, and despite my body’s exhaustion, once I slid into bed next to Mistress, something quickly drew me to her. I found my mouth planted between her legs, sucking on the tender parts that were already quite damp and swollen from an orgasm or two with the assistance of the Power tool and M’s instructions.
Mistress chatted on with M, recounting our exploits on the mountain, but all the while her cunt was squirming against my lips. Finally, she shared what was going on.
“M, so you know, his face is between my legs again….”
“He says you are reclaiming me, Slave.”
I suppose that was part of it. But I knew that M would understand.
And at that point, he must have launched into another little fantasy scenario, involving how he would take her, because Mistress’s chatty voice turned into her deeper, slutty voice, with murmurs like,
“Yes…”
“Of course I would…”
“Oh, yes, I would like that, M….”
And then she was writhing against my mouth, her thighs squeezing tight, her pelvis rising up off the bed, moaning her release to both her Master and her Slave.
And after Mistress bid a loving good night to M, she found that the hard cock she needs after those sessions was ready and waiting for her.
