Parents on the Lam

It was our last full day here on vacation. The stress of returning to work and prepping the sullen teens for the start of school looms dark and ugly before us.

We had planned a final outing to the Hot Springs, deep in the River Gorge near here. But as I was typing away on a work project, determined to Email  it off to clients and colleagues before noon – our designated departure time – Sullen teen 1 came out onto the patio :

“Dad….do we really need to go today…we’ve done this before.”

I lost my cool.

“You mean you really want to spend your last day here parked in front of the TV watching movies you’ve seen about a dozen times? “

“That’s better than going on another stupid hike”.

Changing tactics, I appealed to her “good hostess” side.

“Does P (the boyfriend) really want to be cooped up in side all day?”

“ Yes.  he got a sunburn yesterday….”

I guess it was the Arayan complexion that did him in.  Or some latent ignoramous gene that resists the application of sunscreen.

Naturally I capitulated, but with a certain belligerence.

“Fine….stay home. Get bored.”

Then the light went off in my head……FREEDOM….on our last day.  What was to resent. Huzzah!

To Molly, who was lying nearby, lounging in the sun, and listening to me being snappish to my 18 year old darling:

“Quick let’s get our asses out of here before they change their minds.”

We speedily assembled our two person picnic lunch.  In moments, we were churning gravel as we peeled out of our drive. Our last words to them were “we will be back for dinner….”

Molly was texting with M as we headed down the dirt road that rimmed the deep river gorge, a gorgeous view of our verdant mountains stretching almost 360 degrees across the horizon.

“I told him we were kid-less and heading to the nude hot springs, Slave.”

“And what did he say?”

“He says he wants the photographer to take and send him a photo of his nude cunt.”

“Happily, Mistress.”

We scrambled down   the ½ mile “hike” over a boulder strewn path that, 150 years ago, had accommodated a stage coach line connecting our little town to the “Chili Line” rails that once ran along the West side of the gorge, all the way  north toward Denver.

As we made our way to the bottom, where Dennis and Peter once cavorted with two naked lovelies in a scene from “Easy Rider”, we spotted two naked fellows, cavorting with one another in the cool river water, riding the current down stream.

On the tiny sandy beach where Mistress and Slave planned to spend their afternoon, Mistress chatted up the two guys, who’s substantial endowments were on display for her to admire, about the water temperature and depth. They were charming and charmed, but seemed far more interested in one another than us (seemingly) vanilla types.

Soon, Mistress had her bathing suit off, and was stretched across the beach, engrossed in her book. Though she took some time to pose for a few choice photos to share with M, as he required.

But when the two gentlemen dressed and began their hike back up the trail, we saw our opportunity and took it.  The hot springs were now our little private domain.

We scrambled over the rocks and slid into a pool formed by a ring of stacked rocks, about 10 feet long and 6 feet wide. Perfect for the two of us.

No surly teens. No nakey guys.  Just a Mistress and her devoted Slave.

The water seemed just two degrees below the temperature of our bodies. Warm and cooling at the same time. Perfect for wallowing while the high desert sun beat down on our little private paradise.

On our backs in the toasty pool, about 4 feet deep, we could peer up along the rocky face of the gorge, the rim a steep 500 feet above us.

We imagined Butch and Sundance taking their crazy jump, a scene filmed some where along this River all those years ago.

But we were not going to waste this brief opportunity reminiscing about old movies or pointing out fluffy clouds that looked like bunnies or sheep.

Soon my naked Mistress was floating next to me, back up, my fingers sliding between her legs in the warm, transparent waters.

As  we kissed,  deep and long, I tickled and coaxed her naughty parts to at least two shivering, shuddering  orgasms.

Then she turned her attention to me, which I accommodated by sliding my black bathing suit to my knees. (Yes dear readers, I am a wimp when it comes to public displays of my aging ass and cock).

Soon her fingers had me hard and longing. But that led to a little ethical “debate”.

“Ummm, Mistress…would it be weird for me to discharge my fluids into this warm, natural tub…. I mean, what if some naked, fertile  woman climbed in later today….is there a chance that 20 years from now I get a call from some 19 year old girl, named Hortensa, asking if I spent some time in a hot springs in August 2010, and  looking for some financial support to attend Harvard?”

But as I was calculating the remote odds, Mistress was ahead of me. This was an opportunity not to be missed. (Or blogged about.)

Somehow, despite the odd physical dynamics created by the warm water, she had wriggled her cunt onto my hard cock and was riding it with an enthusiasm that was contagious.

And despite the odd posture I needed to maintain to keep myself parked inside of her, a combination of balancing and floating to keep our bodies tightly engaged despite our natural buoyancy, I was close.

 Oh so close.

Oh so very close.

Damn. Was that some old fart on the trail above us, wearing a floral shirt that seemed to match the one on his wife, who  following about 5 yards behind.

Not wanting to scandalize, Mistress promptly detached herself from my pole, and scrambled back to the beach, with her Slave in hot pursuit.

With this new company, Mistress modestly slid on her bottoms. But this was a nude beach after all. So her breasts remained on display. I even smeared on some additional sunscreen.

And so we spent the rest of our afternoon, enjoying our books, the sound of the flowing water, the cool breeze it generated, the warming sun, and one another’s company. With no one nagging “Can’t we go home now.”

It was a perfect “last day of vacation” day.

But as the sun began to hide behind the western rim, we realized it was probably time to head back to our (by now) hungry little family unit, if only for fear that they would be calling “Mountain Rescue”, and calculating how long their Mastercards would work if we were not around to mail in the monthly checks.

When we returned, their bodies seemed not to have moved from the couch in front of the DVD player. Though the dirty dishes piled in the sink provided some evidence to the contrary.

“God….how could you stay down there so long?”, one of them asked at dinner.

“Oh, We kept ourselves busy….”

“That sounds really boring.”

Back in (Semi) Cilvilization

There may be no garbage pick-up here at our undisclosed location, but the sullen teens are happy again: they are back to their laptops, cell signals and DVD players after out “let’s rough it” venture into Southern Colorado.

And Mick and Molly are happy to have a little more privacy.

Not that we didn’t have fun.

There was our chance to “ooh” and “ah” at the great sand dunes national park, about a three hour drive away. The hike to the top of the highest dune, at about 9500 ft. above River City level, is taxing on aging ankles and lungs. But the view is gorgeous and the swells and curves of the wind blown landscape are downright voluptuous.

Of course, in the spirit of one of those bad Chevy Chase vacation movies, we were just a few minutes late to cop the last camp site in the national park.

That had us (momentarily) all tented up with nowhere to pitch. And of course the teens were quickly on their I-phones in search of the nearest Ritz Carlton.

But Molly was too quick for them. We ended up at the “Dunes Recreation Pool”, campground, in nearby Hooper (Pop. 23), a novel enterprise parked in a sea of sagebrush with a full size pool and assorted soaking tubs filled from a toasty geothermal spring. At a big hydroponic green house next door, they claimed to grow tomatoes, and sure enough there were some fresh ones on sale. But I did wonder what else was on the vines inside those massive structures.

So after the tents were assembled, and burgers were grilled, and the evening cooled, we were able to plop into a 100 degree pool, and watch the local teen cowboys and cowgirls cavort.

Thankfully, there were no prissy lifeguards enforcing prohibitions on PDA’s like at our own neighborhood pool back in River City. In fact, there were no damn lifeguards at all. Not the cowboy way!

What about Sex, you might ask? (Well you wouldn’t be here for pedestrian travel blogging would you?)

Things were a little lean in that department.

By the time we slipped into our sleeping bags on Friday night, both Mistress and Slave were a tad tuckered. And the kids were still chatting in the next tent. I offered my tongue in comfort, but Mistress demurred.

“I’m good, Slave.”

The morning was different though. The teens were still sleeping (though later they protested that they barely got a wink).

So Mistress graciously accepted the ministrations of her Slave’s fingers, and then my cock. Though we accomplished our mission without the usual bells and whistles. The ground was hard and I did not want to hurt Mistress’s back.

After some more pool lolling, we headed up to the Crestone Music Festival, a hippie flash back extravaganza in the shadow of some impressive 14, 000 footers. The festival was long on vegan treats and short on electricity to fuel the bands’ sound systems. The generator looked like a recycled lawn mower engine. The most interesting event was the ladies’ log splitting contest. The winner surely could have kicked this Slave’s ass.

But the event had its benefits.

“There are some nice mountain men types here, Slave.”

Mistress has spent some time in the back country, and several western states over her years. And she does have an unquenchable hankering for the type of men who are short on words and long on rugged.

One from Durango chatted her up a bit, as I stood by. Though his boasting about the peaks he had bagged this summer grew a bit tedious.

By the time we moseyed on back to the Hooper Pool, and had our evening soak, storm clouds were gathering. I had a sense this storm could cramp our style once we climbed into our sack.

Sure enough, as the wind picked up, thunder rumbled and lightening flashed, sullen teen 2 was suddenly climbing into our tent, seeking parental protection. (the other one was safely in the arms of her boyfriend in an adjoining tent, apparently no longer in need of her parents’ solace)

She was lobbying for a quick exit: “The weather channel says its going to storm all night, and tomorrow too.” (Yes, the place had wifi and her I-phone was all over it).

We told her to chill, and she lay there next to us as the wind rattled the tent, and (only) a few drops penetrated to dampen, but not soak us.

By the time the storm had passed, Mistress was sleeping like a baby.

In the morning, I was hoping to at least enjoy a quickie, but the teens were skulking about and the dogs of neighboring campers were yapping, making the privacy issue come to the fore.

But as Mistress read a book, I did slide my fingers into her shorts, making her squirm a bit until she came with a little, gratifying gasp.

So make that 1.5 on the weekend sex scale.

AS we were driving home, Mistress briefly found a signal and texted M with the Weekend update.

His “LOL” response to our paltry activity level was well received.

But by early afternoon we were back to our more comfortable digs here in the shadows of another set of kinder, gentler mountains. Mistress caught up on sleep out on our patio, and added to her lovely tan. We shook the cricks out of our muscles with a late afternoon bike ride. And then it was to bed for our afternoon “nap”..

The teens just happy to be back to what teens do.

Nothing.

But back to our chambers.

The door was open, accommodating a cooling breeze off the mountains.

Mistress had stripped off her charming tie dye two piece bathing suit.

Slave was naked too, as he should be.

“What about switch Day, Slave.”

“I think we’ve missed that Mistress. Plus I may be too desperate for some long drawn out scene. I need you. Now. ASAP.”

She stood there, a hand cupping my balls, a finger straying to the underside of my quickly enlarging cock.

“That’s what I like to hear, Slave. Desperation. You may have to get used to it. Remember, Abstinence Day starts up again on Wednesday.”

Ah yes. The firmer hand she had talked about. Something M has been coaching her on during their morning phone calls. My cock lurches up one more notch at the thought of it all.

“Go put in your device, Slave.”

“Of course, Mistress.”

Dispatch from Hooper, Col.

It's was a wet but dry weekend for Mick and Molly. Wet, as in soaking in a toasty swimming pool here in Hooper Colorado, fed by some geothermal springs, or getting our tents baptized in a very vigorous 8000 ft. high in the rockies wind and thunder storm.

But dry in the sense that Mostres and Slave had very little privacy to do what they like to do most. Well....there was a chance early Saturday morning in our tent, before the kids woke up. And then again this morning, though surly teen number 2 had already woken, I used some "reading" time in our tent to give Mistress a quicky.

Hopefully I will be able to redeem the favor later this afternoon, back in our cabin, with the teens plugged into their electronica and oblivious to all that moves and breaths around them.

So check in tomorrow and find out.

Reading Mistress's Cues

One morning this week, Mistress gave me a not so subtle hint about how she wanted me to fuck her.

After she read the blog, my face buried between her legs as she cooed about parts she liked and laughed at a one liner, she instructed me to go insert my “device”- the little while aneros that makes me particularly hard and needy.

“Yes, Mistress.”

As I came back into our bedroom, I saw that Mistress had rolled over onto her tummy. It was her sign to me that she wanted to be taken from behind, something we do on occasion, though it can sometimes make Mistress’s back a little tender. All things moderation, right?

Her arms were folded under her head, long hair flowing back over her shoulders. Her bottom was wriggling just a bit, still catching some of the left over ripples from the orgasm my tongue had slavishly provided her moments ago.

So, being a Slave well tuned to Mistress’s desires, I followed her cue and settled onto her back, first allowing my legs to straddle her smooth, athletic thigh. That gave my cock the additional pleasure of humping against her, making it all the more firm and ready.

“Can I fuck you now, Mistress….”

“Of course, Slave…”

Mistress spread her legs a bit wider, and I shifted my weight, allowing my cock to slide between those lovely globes, pressing between them, wiggling a bit, guiding with fingers until I found my mark. (Not her tight ass, of course. She is saving that one for M).

Mistress gasped a bit as I slid slowly into her, inch by inch.

My arms took a good bit of my eight, but my face was buried against her strong shoulders, inhaling the rich aroma of her thick hair, and the salty taste of her neck.

And as I pressed further into her, using a rocking motion with my hips to help her grind her cunt against the bed, Mistress’s breathing accelerated, then became more ragged.

What makes taking her this way so different is that I can’t read the cues in her face, or hear her breathing directly in my ear. In a way it’s like driving in the dark, no headlights or moon to light your path.

So, I can only tell when Mistress comes - and when it’s permissible to focus on my own crude objectives - from the raspy sounds she makes into the pillow, and the frantic motions of her hips as she grinds it out against the bed as I drive into her.

It was only then that Mistress – well satisfied –rolled over and allowed me to take my pleasure in a more conventional position.
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Yesterday evening, we let the teens go to dinner on their own, and used that as an excuse to go to our favorite local restaurant, a cross between fine dining and hippie haven, featuring locally grown organic food with Southwest spicing. It’s a place where you might see refugees from a local commune one night, and an A-list movie star with her extended family another night.

The restaurant is in an old, long abandoned Morada (a tiny, adobe Catholic Church), with its rough plastered walls and viga ceiling. The candle lit tables and simple decorations are muy romantico.

Mistress wore a black top, a colorful skirt, and some of her vivid silver and turquoise jewelry. You may be tired of hearing this, but, once again, she was the most strikingly beautiful woman in the room.

We had been talking about some of the comments we had received about yesterday’s blog, on the subject of jealousy and insecurity, and mourning the demise of the intriguing relationship between our compadras in blogging, ‘Nilla and Sin and “D2”.

Mistress had spoken with M earlier in the day on the subject of our blog, too.

“He asked me about that guy in the Bar, Slave…. Of course he has no problem with what you and I are up to, but he gets a little antsy when you mention any other guys…past or present.”

I smiled.

“The thought of a little competition is good for him, Mistress, just like his role in your life has been good for you and me.”

“I am glad you feel that way, Slave.”

That got me thinking….

“How would you feel if both of us were here tonight, wining and dining you, Mistress? You between us, both of our hands roving up your thighs under the table, or leaning over to kiss you, or taking your hand as we sipped our wine.”

“What woman would complain about that, Slave?”

(For those of you paying attention, don’t panic if you hear naught from Mick and Molly this weekend. We are taking the teens camping and leaving our laptops behind. Absent a confrontation with an angry and lethal bear, you will hear from us again come Monday morning. Hope all of you have delightful weekends.)