Love All

Over the last few days, Mistress has been spending some time entertaining clients at a tennis tournament going on this fortnight up the road from River City. And sometimes Mick gets to come along for the ride.

Last week it was the tennis babes who were in town.

Now the guys are here.

Mistress has snapped a few shots of guys who register on her “hunk” meter, and emailed them to me or to M for our amusement. A Spaniard named Lopez seemed to particularly catch her eye.

And last night, her Slave got to come a long to be charming and hold Mistress’s beverages.

Yes, I can do charming, like any good domesticated Slave may be required to do from time to time.

Mistress was particularly moved by the exotic accent of the Egyptian referee, who was a swarthy fellow, and rumbled in a peculiar Egyp-lish sound about whether a call had been challenged or there had been a “Leeaat”.

I promised to try to replicate later that evening in bed.

But during the doubles matches, things can get a little dull. We clicked onto our email account and say Weave’s charming comment about his admiration for Mistress’s ability to “Multitask”. That got me teasing Mistress, as we whispered at courtside, about our episode Sunday afternoon during which she demonstrated an uncanny ability to eat caramel corn and come at the same time. It was a fascinating engagement of two orifices, slightly different than the one ‘Nilla envisioned in her recent episode of “The Mountain.”

“Mistress, have you ever done that before…..eat and come at the same time?”

“Not that I recall, Slave.”

Hmmm. She was sounding like a well coached witness with something to hide.

I decided to ask M if this was something he had witnessed at home.

“I’m e mailing M to ask him if B can do that trick.”

She laughed but did not object. Later we got his response.

"Too funny! No she doesn't believe in eating in bed. unlike u two lunatics we don't have picnics in bed... wish we did but oh well... very impressive multi tasking though Molly! u should have been an executive.... keeping all those balls in the air would be a breeze compared to your level of concentration drive and purpose. too funny."

Yes, it was impressive.

But soon the tag team from Carmel, Indiana succumbed to an odd combination from Pakistan and India (we were concerned that there might be a nuclear confrontation of they lost), and Mistress and her Slave were heading home.

We surprised Surly teen #2 when we arrived home a tad earlier than she had planned. Ur basement was filled with some of her surly compadres, though if they were up to no good, it was hard for us to tell.

Upstairs, Mistress reminded me of the next morning’s agenda:

“I want you in your cage in the morning, Slave.”


“Of course, Mistress.”

I would not be repeating the mistake I made Monday. (Still awaiting that punishment.)

“But now, go put in your device….I want a hard cock to go with the Egyptian accent.”

“Yes, Mistress.”

Catching Up

When I write it seems always to be on a deadline.

I get up, make coffee, peruse blogs by colleagues like ‘Nilla, Aisha, Sin. This am, Remittance Girl has a long and compelling story. Watch the clock. Knowing that at a set time, my duty is to go up to Mistress, assure she is awake, give her my morning work product to review, and, of course, caress her lush parts with my tongue as she scrolls through it.

Sometimes the deadline works well. Other times my opportunity to finish my thoughts or sufficiently edit my outpouring expires.

Yesterday I got through our morning activities but was unable to add some of the afternoon and evenings details to keep you up to date with the crazy Collins.

Like how, on Sunday afternoon, after we spent some time broasting ourselves at the local, no PDA’s allowed swim club, we came home to an empty home and dug into a large bag of caramel corn I had acquired for Mistress on an outing with my cute as can be grandson.

Mistress has a weakness for caramel corn. I have a (well documented) weakness for Mistress.

So as she munched her way to the bottom of that bag, splayed naked across our bed, I munched away on her. I was wondering if my tongue and mouth could be as compelling as the caramel corn. Could I squeeze an orgasm from her even while she was crunching away at it? Or was Mistress unable to chew corn and come at the same time? (sort of a kinky version of the Gerry Ford conundrum, of you remember him).

The answer: I knew Gerry Ford, and Mistress, you’re know Gerry Ford.

Mistress can multitask with the best of them. Or at least her cunt can.

And afterwards, when the caramel corn was just a fond memory, she commanded me to insert my little device, and service her properly with my firm and steady cock.

I did not try to fuck her and eat at the same time, mind you.

Sunday evening I had plans to take surly teen #2 to a preseason football game. And Mistress had her own plans.

Knowing she would be home alone, she had made a date with our Western Correspondent.

She was looking forward to it since they had not had that opportunity in a while. Mistress did not want to admit it, but I suspect she was feeling a bit desperate for M’s attention, his explicit directions on how to deploy the Power tool on her needy parts.

But I can be a trouble maker.

“Maybe I should hide the Hitachi, Mistress.”

She looked at me in horror. Apparently our morning session, and then the afternoon, catered session, had only stoked the fire.

“That would be very bad slave….”

“Might earn me a punishment?”

I guess I literally am a glutton for it.


She grabbed her new I-phone, and tapped away.

“I’m telling M you are threatening to hide it, Slave.”

Moments later, she got her response.

She glanced at it and smiled.

“He says that’s very bad Slave behavior.”

But of course, I am not so cruel.

Later, at the game, as I daughter and I watched the NFL debut of a certain human battering ram with a collection of Heisman trophies, I knew that Mistress was back at home, battering her cunt one more time at M’s direction. Sort of taking it for the Gipper.

Yesterday morning I performed the duties described above. Then headed off to work.

Though I am in trouble. I forgot to ask Mistress if I should wear my cage, since it was not a day when we drove together.

She reminded me later of my error, in a brief phone call.

“You screwed up, Slave.”

I confessed to my error, and await my punishment.

When I got home, a little later than Mistress, she described her own afternoon.

“I had a little mini-date with M a little while ago, Slave.”

“Oh….”

“I mentioned I was home alone and he called me.”

I could tell Mistress was happy about this. She likes our mutual attention.

And of course this got Slave going too.

“ How ‘bout I worship you and you tell me about it Mistress?”

“Of course, Slave.”

Our planned bike ride could wait.

Mistress stretched across the bed. I placed a pillow on the floor for my knobby old guy knees. And as she spread her legs, I hopped to my duty.

She described how he told her to apply the tool to her horny little cunt, and spun a tale of her bent over his desk, absorbing his spanks, and then that larger than life cock of his.

And I did my best to help her relive her role.

‘After that he had to go, Slave. He said he was going to his office bathroom to take care of himself.”

I am not sure what part of this Mistress likes better. Coming so hard at his command, or imagining M working his cock to a lather with dreams of Mistress in his head.

But I do know that Mistress seems happy with M as part of her life.

And that’s good enough for me.


Opps. Time is up.

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.