HNT / Stripes

After Mistress had her birthday spanks her bottom had a lovely, rosy glow. And the sun filtered through the blinds added a few stripes, enhancing the look .

She lay their quietly, hips slowly writhing against the carpet, her warm skin still tingling from the tracks my palm had left behind.

But soon, after I had revved up our power tool, she was consumed with a different sort of stimulus.


On the drive home, her devoted Slave could tell Mistress was in a bit of a funk.

The claws had been out at her female dominated work place.

No, not FemDom. Just a concentration of female “peers” who find themselves in management roles, and who seem compelled to point fingers at one another when the going gets tough.

Call me sexist, but my observation is that women “colleagues” can be particularly cruel and catty to one another.

And Mistress, with all of her many qualities, has trouble letting that sort of cattiness roll off her well toned shoulders.

The other babes at work had clearly gotten her testy. Annoyed. Out of sorts.

I knew it was Slave’s duty to help salve Mistress’s wounds.

Worship helped.

Mistress stretched across our bed, naked, arms above her head, fingers intertwined. Legs spread. My tongue and lips spreading moist lips, teasing out her little bud, then, when she was getting close, a finger probing and poking for the right little button to push to get her over the top.

I could feel a bit of the tension starting to fade….but we still had work to do.

Then ….

A Bike ride in our hot, humid, pungent River valley air.

40 minutes of lap swimming for her in our community pool.

Dinner of grilled chicken, reheated mushroom risotto. Stir fryed green beans coated with some garlic and fresh lemon juice.

A glass or two of some oaky California Chardonnay.

A hot shower to wash away the salty residue of perspiration and chlorine.

The latest episode of Hung, watched as I laved her tasty (and now clean) toes with my tongue, and massaged her feet with my right hand, while my left hand teased at her twin tight orifices.

(Complicated to imagine: Her head is at the foot of the bed; mine is at the head, where I have a lovely view of her firm and ripe bottom.)

By the time the episode was over, Mistress was purring like the kitten she can be, the thoughts of the sharp elbowed bitches at work finally in the proper perspective.

“Why don’t you go put in your device Slave. I want that cock very hard.”

“Of course, Mistress.”

Missed Photo Ops.

Last night Mistress and Slave went to an outdoor concert along our City’s wide and meandering River.

But before we headed off, Mistress stopped by my office for some worship. My colleagues, for the most part, had headed home. So our session was a bit more relaxed.

She took her throne, the chair pressed against the door, a blanket laid down to protect her soft skin from the scratchy upholstery; And to protect the scratchy upholstery from her flowing juices.


This sort of therapy seems good for both of us.

It takes the edge of Mistress’s day. She can relax and let me use my mouth and tongue to draw a squirming shuddering orgasm or two from her.

And, after my own day of wheedling, cajoling, threatening (nicely) and scheming, it reminds me that my highest, best and most rewarding use is to pleasure my Mistress.

Then we were off to our show.

The performer was an aging rocker (as it turns out, just about my age) performing old familiar songs with some exotic orchestrations. The crowd was a comfortable one: lots of aging boomers like me. Mistress was at the good end of the age curve for this one, and her Slave was right around the mean.

She was in that short, patterned black and white dress I fancy, with some tasteful heals. And of course, there was no one there who looked nearly as glamorous.

A highlight of the show came when the singer took us on a musical tour through the haunted streets of New Orleans, a full moon on the video above him, as lightening flashed and thunder crashed along our River.

Marveling at the army of performers on the stage, I kicked myself for not bringing my camera. The little one on my blackberry just was not cutting it, and we had seats that would have provided amazing shots of this graying hero.

Which got me thinking about other types of photos.

The Times had a story earlier this week about folks who spend their days screening and scrubbing “offensive” images from the internet. Mostly for social media sites like Facebook. It sounds like a tedious and sometimes disturbing job.

I was wondering about the photos we post here from time to time, and whether the folks at Google have some scrubbers out there pondering whether our HNT posts are H enough for their standards.

There does seem to be a correlation between an increased number of “hits’ and particularly appealing shots of Mistress. Monday’s photo of Mistress with hands tied, and her “bottom cleavage” showing drew more than 200 views, at the upper end of what we typically experience.

But, believe me, there is some self-censorship going on here.

Mistress has the right to screen all of our photos. And she exercises that right when she believes the angle or content casts her in a less than alluring light. Or if the shot is just too revealing. There is both a blush and a vanity test that the photos must pass.

But both of us also have some odd voyeuristic desire to share these images of a body that remains lush and desirable in both a subjective and objective way.

Don’t you agree?

I made a mental list last night on our drive home through thunder, lightening then moon light, of some shots that I wish I could share, if only the camera had been on hand, or if they passed muster with Mistress’s discerning eye:

• The Slave’s eye view last night in my office, Mistress’s legs spread, her naughty parts naked and glistening, colorful panties draped around one ankle.
• Saturday night, driving home, her feet propped on the dash, ankles crossed, black panties hooked over her knees, my fingers buried in her damp cunt.
• Tied hand and foot to our lounge chair on the patio of our undisclosed mountain location, well sun screened, luxuriating in those high desert rays.
• Mistress’s head thrown back, eyes screwed shut, listening to the seductive words of our Western Correspondent as her hand guides her trusty power tool at his direction.
• Or maybe the view of her ass and thigh muscles flexing and churning while I guide the Hitachi through slightly parted legs from behind, to the sweet spot that sends her over the edge.

Well, I guess we’d need a video to capture that one. Hmmmm.

Slave's Day in His Cage

All of that contract review and self-evaluating seems to have reminded Mistress of the benefits of my steel cage.

Yesterday we were headed in different directions, so Mistress (without any prompting from me) told me to wear the cage.

I was in the shower, wiggling and prodding reluctant balls through the steel ring, as Mistress lolled in bed a but – not on the early morning schedule for a rare change – and she mistook all that wriggling and fumbling for something else.

“What were you doing in there, Slave?, she said as I was toweling off.

“Putting the ring on, Mistress ….it was touch and go for a minute there. What did you thing ….that I was breaking rule number one?”

She giggled. She seems to enjoy the mild discomfort that I must endure just to get the damned thing on.

And I always get a little shiver of some dreadful form of pleasure when I present the cage to Mistress for her to close the lock. After all, It’s always a bit of a mystery when the cage might come off.

Soon I was off to a breakfast meeting, and a day at the office, shuffling papers, writing and revising. Kind of dull stuff.

But the cage, and Mistress’s occasional calls or tet messages were occasional reminders that I was under lock and key. That and the fact that when caged, Slave can only pee while sitting down.

My midday, I was beginning to regret that I had not woken Mistress early enough for some morning sex.

We had planned to attend a local political event after work, but Mistress’s day trip had run a bit longer than she had hoped, and the drive had worn her out. So it was decided I would attend solo, make a cameo appearance and head home.

“But the cage stays on Slave. Not sure I can trust you out with all those activist types.”

Well, of course she could. But there was no point in quibbling. That would have been very un-slave like.

“Would you like me to worship first, Mistress?”

“I think that’s a good idea, Slave.”

So there I was kneeling, stripped to my udnerwar, the hard lump of the cage visible to Mistress, as she lay back, luxuriating in the ministrations of my tongue. I licked and suckled her damp and tasty parts through one orgasm, holding on for dear life as her hips bucked against my face.

Then I took it down a notch, letting her cool down before heating things back up again for yet another choice one. By the time I was done, I hoped Mistress had relaxed a bit from her long drive.

Of course, even a well trained cock would be straining against its cage by then, stimulated as I was by the assault of taste, aroma and visual stimulation from Mistress’s lush naked body.

And mine sure was.

But duty called. I threw on some jeans and a polo and headed off to the political cook out I had promised to attend, still in the cage.

“I won’t be long, Mistress.”

“I suspect you won’t Slave, as she brandished her little key.”

Well I wasn’t to long. 90 minutes at max.

When I got home, Mistress was doing her evening beautification rituals, loading up on moisturizer. She had on one of her short, satiny black nighties, that showed off her curves so well, while barely covering her firm rump.

“About time, Slave.”

I filled her in on the chast of characters she had missed, and the evening’s gossip. She took her time prepping for bed.

“Why don’t you strip Slave and wait for me on the bed.”

It seems like I waited along time. I am sure Mistress was amused to see me laying there, naked, ready for her but for the little matter of cage removal.

“I suppose I should take it off now?”

“That’s one option, Mistress. I guess it depends on whether you want a hard cock tonight, or just more worship.”

“How long has it been, Slave? How long since we fucked?”

“Since Sunday morning, Mistress”

A long time for us. 32 whole hours. Not like the Slave in ‘Nilla mom’s continuation of her “Mountain Top “Story this morning. Not sure I could handle three days. But there is only one way to find out.

“Oh, my. Guess we don’t want to push your luck any longer.”

Mercifully, Mistress unlocked me, and she lay back on the bed, spreading her legs. Ready for some more worship. I was left to the task of wiggling the damned thing off and around my swollen and chafed balls.

Ahhhh.

It was only after I had helped her to another orgasm with my ever so grateful tongue, that she turned her attention to my cock, which had stretched out a bit since the cage was removed.

“Oh, dear, I think he likes his freedom, Slave.”

No doubt.

But that’s when the sweet but maddening torment began.

Her soft tongue and mouth slowly massaged her cock to its full, straining dimensions. Her fingers ever so slightly touching and teasing my balls until I was squirming and moaning and begging to fuck her.

When she finally relented, it was to mount me.

“I want to ride this cock for a while, Slave. So no coming…..”

Argh.

She rode. And she rode. Driving herself to one powerful, thrashing and groaning orgasms against her cock, then doing it all over again as her fingers slid across my balls.

All the while I knew I dare not ask for permission.

Until she was exhausted from her ride, and rolled over.

“Your turn, Slave.”

So I slid on board, sliding deep into her. And soon I was begging for the release I had been waiting for since she locked me away early yesterday morning.

Afterwards, Mistress made a cany observation.

“Maybe I let you come too often, Slave. I like how desperate you get for me.”

“That’s your call, Mistress.”

“Of course it is.”

Mistress Gets Her Birthday Spanks.

Here in River City, Molly and mick  are coming down  from a weekend of birthday / anniversary celebrations.

Last night we had dinner with family and some close friends, and Moick made dinner of Mistress’s choice: smoked salmon and some mushroom risotto. Yum.

The surly teens were stunningly polite and engaging. Though they passed on the opportunity to sample some “sketchy” home distilled after dinner beverage Surly #2 brought back from her visit with a family in the French Alps.

But what is a birthday without the spanks?

Mistress got hers yesterday morning,  after we paged through the local papers and she helped me piece together what actually did happen when we got home late on Saturday night.

First, her wrists were firmly tied  behind the back. I tried for the box tie, forearms parallel,  but Mistress’s swimmer’s shoulders did not want to co-operate. The goal was getting those arms clear of her lovely bottom, making it accessible for a good spanking without fingers and wrists  impeding my progress.

Someday we will get there, but I need some softer rope so as not to irritate Mistress’s soft, smooth, well preserved skin.

Any ideas on a good rope vendor out there?

AS you can see from the photo, wefinally  did get the wrists tied.

I then helped  Mistress up and out of the bed. A chair was positioned, I sat, and then she was pulled over my knee.

But her position must have seemed precarious to her.

“What if I fall Slave”, she said, wiggling a bit to find her balance.

“Don’t worry Mistress, I have you right where I want you. And I won’t let go until I am done.”

She squirmed a bit as I slid my hand over her smooth cheeks. A finger dipped down between led to an amusing discovery.

“Hmmm…..you’re already wet, Mistress.  You are  just a little slut at heart, aren’t you?”

“I suppose so, Slave….”

Then the spanking began.

The kids were about. One sleeping; one up early, still on Euro time, it seemed. So Mistress knew she would have to “stifle”. I had some music on to temper the sound of the thwacks as my hand met flesh.

But I was keeping count.  And Mistress was squirming, and I could hear that the blows were having their effect from the sharp inhales of breath when I landed a ‘good’ one.

“That was ten, Mistress….”

I took a break, for a little exploration, a finger sliding inside her squishy folds. Making her squirm in a different sort of way. Bringing her close, but we were not going to go there. Not yet.

The spanking resumed. I took her in sets of ten until we had caught up. Then a particularly hard one for “luck”.

By then her cheeks were a nice bright red.

She seemed relieved that her “ordeal” was over.

Her feet were a tad unsteady as I helped her up, then down onto the floor, a pillow under her to help raise that lovely bottom.

And I lay over her a bit, nibbling at her neck, and letting my thickening cock slide between those battered cheeks. Now she was doing a different sort of squirming.

I had plugged the Hitachi in nearby to help her get over the pain of all those spanks.

And so I pulled away my own flesh and switched on the power tool, sliding it between the thighs that seemed happy to accommodate it.

Soon she was  humping away at the little churning ball at the tip of the device, her bottom still red, its muscles flexing and relaxing as she built herself slowly but surely to a powerful cum as I nestled up against her, my right hand pressing the device home, my left hand stroking her long fragrant hair.

And when she was done, face red, quaking with the aftershocks, I let her rest there on the floor, before leading her to our bed to finish the job of celebrating her birthday.

It’s a shame they come but once a year.