The Frustrated Mistress

It’s usually the Slave that gets frustrated in this household.

Either by denial – locked in my little cock cage – or when I am allowed to fuck Mistress to my hearts desire, but the tipping point to orgasm seems achingly out of reach.

But yesterday’s Switch day waas a different story.

Mistress was tied to the bed. Her wrists locked in our red leather cuffs, linked over head and lashed to the bed.

She was on her tummy, bottom available and exposed.

And her ankles were tied together tightly, making it harder for her to spread her luscious legs.

I began with a thorough cropping of that ripe bottom (or as one commenter has referred to it her “sweet ass.”) As I lavished it with red stripes we discussed Sin’s recent observations on her relationship with M:

“I think she was closer to the mark than you would like to admit, Mistress….”

“Oh really, Slave?”

“Yes….I think you are longing to submit to him, grovel for him the way I have groveled for you….but you are too proud to admit it.”

A new blow landed.  

“Ouch….that hurt…., Slave…but you may be right, I’m not much for groveling, am I….”

Before I was done with her bottom, and after a few hand spanks were thrown in,  it was red and she was squirming against the bed. And - big surprise - the intoxicating smell of her runny little cunt was all about our bed chambers.

I lay next to her on the bed, a hand roving over her bottom and back, feeling the little red welts I had left behind. And, of course, dipping between her ass cheeks to confirm how wet she had become. Mistress seems well programmed to anticipate a good fucking after a good cropping.

But first….the power tool.

It was resting beside the bed. I flipped it on and slid it through her legs from behind.

She squirmed as best she could with bound ankles to accommodate it.

“Oh…good Slave…., finally.”

And her wriggling began in earnest.

I had my head resting on her back, enjoying the little show she puts on, with her well defined ass and leg muscles flexing, relaxing, flexing some more, as she tried with increasing desperation to extract what her cunt demanded from the churning tool.

But her bound ankles were a confounding obstacle to her prime objective.

She could not spread those heavenly legs wide enough to get the access that her clit demanded from the churning white bulb of the Hitachi.

But that did not stop her.

Her hips began to rise and lower against the bed, all the while pumping and churning to grab tighter hold of the business end of the tool.

And I have to admit, I was not being all that helpful. Yes, my wrist had the little device engaged between those gripping thighs.

But did I do my best to slide it under her where she needed it to be?

Uhhh….not so much.

“You seem a little frustrated, Mistress. Should I turn it off for a while and let you relax a while?  Maybe go make us some coffee as you languish in your bonds?”

Her expletives have been deleted.

By now her body was glowing and damp with her perspiration. Her hips kept churning, though I could tell her muscles were beginning to strain and tire.

“Maybe you’d like me to help you roll over….?”

“No….just a little more………ohhhhhh…….yes , OK, roll me over.”

“How do you want to ask that, Mistress?

She moans in further frustration…..

“Please, Slave, roll me over….”

“Of course, Mistress.”

By now our sheets were damp….very damp. I noted with delight the dark stain where her cunt had been pumping so hard but fruitlessly  against the sheets.

On her back now, Mistress did her best to spread her legs, still bound at the ankles.

And I must say that as I pressed the tool against her, I was beyond trying to frustrate her. She throbbed and squirmed and pressed her self against it.

But still……She was just not quite there.

Her head was pitching back and forth, damp locks sticking to her face, her mouth devouring my tongue when I saw fit to share it with her.

The show was a good one, but I was feeling a little sorry for her by now.

“Maybe I should untie your legs, Mistress?”

“Oh, yes, please Slave…..”

She had the tone right, so I switched off the tool, and stepped away, untying her legs, helping her stretch and flex them.  Then sliding on top of her….

“What are you doing, Slave?”

He voice sounded a bit panicked.  She wanted that tool back. Now.

“Well my cock has been so hard for so long, I thought I might fuck you now.”

More expletives deleted.

I did for a bit, giving her a taste. Enjoying the warm embrace of that frustrated cunt. Lavishing her with kisses. But knowing she was far too gone for the sweet treatment.

Even a Slave on Switch day is not so cruel as to deny his Mistress what she really needed.

So I withdrew and the tool was re-engaged. And mistress spread those wondrous legs far and wide, allowing the device prime access to her needy and throbbing clit, which by now was probably on red alert.

And Mistress was convulsing and writhing and pumping those hips into the air to (finally) come with a deep and expansive moan of relief.

The after shocks were still racking her soaking body when I finally turned the machine off, resting my head on her chest, an arm comforting her as tears wet her face and sobs racked her.

But she was not done. Not just yet.

“Fuck me now, Slave….I need my cock.”

“Of curse, Mistress.”

Domination, Submission and Tennis

Last night Molly and Mick went to a tennis tournament. Two women were whacking the be-jesus out of the little yellow ball. They were both Russian (though one has lived in the US since age 7, explaining her fluency in good old Amerikun expletives).

Both were impressive athletes, but with distinctive physiques: one (We’ll call her Maria), was tall (6’2”), willowy, blonde and impossibly slender, and cool as a cucumber. The Ice Queen.

The other (Anastasia) was 2 or 3 inches shorter, solidly built, brunet-ish, and seemed to sweat profusely, even during her warm-ups. In my mind she was a Soviet era hotel hall monitor in the making, less 20 years.

We were fortunate to have seats at court side, so it was easy to watch their well formed bodies contort and strain through their three set match, and to hear all the little to loud sounds they were generating.

The women’s game has progressed to the point where one assumes that these two impressive specimens could kick the asses of the stars of my younger days– Connors, Borg, McEnroe, Ashe, Laver. Or at least bring them to their knees.

But what’s with our inability not to see these athletes through the lens of our own kinky mind set.

What got to Molly and Mick were the sweet and sassy noises they made.

“Do you hear them Slave…..It’s like they’re having sex.”

Ahhh, yeah…..Very hot. M would get a kick out of this.”

Maria let out a thrilling high pitched shriek every time she served, or as she clobbered the ball for one of her powerful ground strokes. It was a derivative of the famous Jimmy Connors grunt, but with the carnal quality of a commanding woman on the verge of a climax she was taking at her whim, from whatever available cock that had come along for her ride.

She was a cool and controlling Dominatrix on the court, using her height and power to her advantage, toying with her opponent, slowly extracting the last bit of   energy from her, until she  finally had Anastasia at her complete mercy..

Her cries of ecstasy reminded me of the one Mistress makes when she rides my cock, as my hands are tied above my head to the bed, or when she takes me from behind with her strap-on. Ecstatic, triumphant, and very passionate.

On the other hand, Anastasia was the quiet one, usually hitting the ball with a silent, work-woman-like focus.She was in the match, but just barely, and only when she had complete focus. It was an uphill battle, and the hill kept getting steeper for her.

But there were occasional exceptions to her silence ……when a point got particularly challenging, when she had to race to the corner, stretch for a shot, or bend her knees particularly low for the leverage she needed to keep a ball alive….there was this little secret sound. …. A tiny, whimpering moan.

She was the Sub of this enterprise, reluctant to admit she had already surrendered to the taller, stronger, more powerful woman across the net from her.

Her sounds reminded me of the ones Mistress makes when M is on the phone, saying those secret things he says in the way he says them, and I am on my knees sucking her clit between my lips.

Anastasia was the woman who only reluctantly discloses how deeply immersed she is in the moment, until the throws of orgasm are cascading over her.

When the match ended – and you can guess who prevailed – both women headed to the locker room. It was hard for this Slave not to imagine a scene later that evening, with Anastasia on her knees before Maria, who’s legs would be spread, demanding acknowledgement of who was the Mistress and who was the servant.

Yes, folks, I do have a pervy imagination, don’t I?

And as for Mistress and me, it’s our switch day. I wonder if I can figure a way to get Mistress to make some of those Anastasia sounds for me.

She was one heck of a tennis player in her youth.

Still Seeking Our River City Rhythm

Mistress and Slave are struggling a bit to get back into the rhythm of our workaday life back here in River City.

It’s not just the two hour time shift that is disorienting. It’s getting used to the balance of work, child monitoring, and all the annoying social obligations that we can leave behind when we visit our lovely mountain cabin.

So yesterday, Slave woke with Mistress’s alarm, totally missing his “homework” time.  I Hate to let either Mistress or our devoted followers down when there is no update from the Collins’ to clog your blog roll.

That’s not to say that Mistress has been abandoned on the sexual front.

On Thursday we both had empty lunch schedules, and took advantage to have a quick and unhealthy lunch at a local Chili Parlor. (Yes, we do call them that).

But, before hand, Mistress stopped by my office. When she shut the door I knew that she was hankering for some of her Slave’s tongue and lip attention.  I quickly slid an upholstered chair against the door, and spread the juice absorbing blanket across Mistress’s throne. My highest and best use is my knees, lapping up Mistress’s delectable juices.

Yesterday, I woke so late that our morning sexual routine went out the window. But in the shower….Mistress clung to my neck, her head back to rinse away her aromatic conditioner, as my fingers slid through her damp and well scrubbed cunt, delivering a morning quickie.

Mistress is also trying to get on some firmer footing with M this week.

Our vacation and their busy schedules upon our return here seems to have them in a confusing and confounding place.

Here’s my take:

Mistress misses M.  She feels deeply connected to him in a number of ways. He is both a compelling Master and a comfortable and comforting confidant to her.

But at the same time, she is a strong, assertive and independent woman.. She hates to admit to herself that she has grown to depend on some daily communications with him. Or that she misses his sexy and directive voice bringing her to one of those ferocious and consuming orgasms, whether at home, in the car (while I am driving of course) or at the office.

What is a Mistress/slave to do?

Last night on the ride home (the photo shows Mistress in our car last night, her silver jewelry complementing her firm and tanned thighs), Mistress shared a bit of this angst with her slave.

“So I talked to M a bit today, Slave.”

“And?”

“I told him maybe we should back off a bit.”

“And what did he say, Mistress?”

She laughed.

“That I need a good spanking for considering suck a thing…..and I told him that’s the sort of thing he says that that  makes it hard to back off….”

“And did that turn you on, Mistress?”

“Of course it did, Slave.”

We talked about her concerns. They reminded me of some recent blogs by Sin and Aisha concerning how and why they are compelled to seek submission in their relationships.

When I questioned her more she said “Well, it’s not like we are in a real relationship, or anything.”

“But it is a real relationship, Mistress. You talk and share. It’s intimate, not just in the sex department. You like to hear from him regularly, and miss him when you don’t . And I suspect he feels the same. Maybe you don’t physically see one another…,maybe you never will. But it’s still a relationship that brings you pleasure.”

And sure enough, M was texting her even as we were driving home. And those little texts seemed to light Mistress up a tad more than her normal luminosity.

We arrived home. It was still in the 90’s and the air had the quality of a plate of melting jello that had been dumped on a oil splotched driveway.

But we still were determined to ride our  bikes to the local pool, with a chance for mistress to swim some laps.

So after Mistress had a chance to read my “cuckold” blog, while I lapped away at her molten cunt, kneeling at bed side, we saddled up, and headed out.

Later that night, as surly teen 2 camped out downstairs with friends, we finally were in bed, and Mistress’s attention turned to my cock.

“Why don’t you put in your device, Slave. I want a very hard cock tonight.”

And I was happy to deliver. But I thought maybe Mistress could use something special too.

“How would you like me to get out the Power tool, Mistress?”

“Hmmm…..that might be a good idea, Slave.”

It had been awhile. I plugged our WMO (weapon of massive orgasm) on and had it handy at bed side, as I used tongue and fingers to warm Mistress to the task. When I finally flicked it on, she was more than ready, on her back. Legs spread very wide.

I first approached her rosy little clit directly, and she moaned her delight, but then I pulled it away, using the soft white vibrating bulb to caress her inner thighs.

“Are you trying to frustrate me, Slave?”

“Of course, the better the pay-off in the end, don’t you think?”

She did not disagree.

And soon I was back at the place she finds most compelling. By now, her hips were lunging at the tool, her thighs clinging to it for dear life, even as our mouths were locked in the kiss of death.

When Mistress finally came with a deep guttural moan that must have traumatized our cats, her legs seemed to assert a life of their own, knees bent springing from side to side, long seconds after I pulled the tool away and switched it off.

And Mistress was sobbing, tears flowing as I mounted her, filling her with the hard cock that she had ordered up some minutes earlier.

“That was intense, Slave.”

An understatement.

“Yes, Mistress….I like those… Makes me feel that I have served my purpose in your life.”

And if a part of Mistress brain was thinking of words that M has whispered in her ear during orgasms past, that was fine with me.

It was a potent and powerful recipe.

Fem Dom Off Broadway

This blog does not usually go out of its way to tout popular entertainment (with the occasional exception of Man Men), but I had to share this review and accompanying photo of the play "Trust" now playing Off Broadway in the Big Apple. The guy from scrubs. The girl from Shrek. Taking one of our kinds mainstream.

http://theater.nytimes.com/2010/08/13/theater/reviews/13trust.html?scp=1&sq=Sutton%20Foster&st=cse
And Mistress sure would look lovely in that get up!