HNT / Beware the Masturbation Police

Mick apologizes to our readers for the late posting yesterday morning.

Yes, Sin. Fiction is harder to massage into life than the normal stream of consciousness blogulating that I prepare for Mistress, and the rest of you, each morning.

But here’s a confession.

I am getting a head start Wednesday evening on the Thursday morning edition, as M and Mistress chat away upstairs, in a special spur of the moment date. Hmmm. I wonder what they are up there talking about?

And in my own way, I probably helped facilitate this spontaneous encounter.

This afternoon, on our drive home, Mistress told me that M seemed particularly in need of her company today. Which wasn’t easy for her to accommodate, because Mistress was tied up (I know what you’re thinking, but don’t take that literally, pervs!) in a long presentation to some clients.

Seems that M’s wife B has left town for a few days, leaving M feeling somewhat disconsolate.

I actually tried my best to entertain M while Molly was busy, with an email entitled “Masturbation Police”, attaching this bizarre MTV video clip featuring Tea Party darling and Delaware GOP Senate candidate Christine O’Donnell.  Apparently she has some odd and very judgmental views about Masturbation. http://tpmdc.talkingpointsmemo.com/2010/09/christine-odonnells-1996-anti-masturbation-campaign-on-mtvs-sex-in-the-90s.php

I told M that He and Mistress should be concerned if this lady and her fellow travelers ever take power. Of course, I have nothing to worry about if the Masturbation Police come calling, since the “no touching” rule in our contract has become second nature to me now.

Just remember, when Masturbation is outlawed, only outlaws will Masturbate. But then I suppose that could make it even more fun, right?

But one thing M had access to first today was the full version of yesterday’s blog “Mistress and the Cowboy”.

I had spent a little too much time on exposition Wednesday morning. My deadline without a finished product that was post worthy. But I let Mistress scroll through the introductory passages, as I deployed my well practiced tongue on her delicious, moist folds.

When she put the laptop aside, Mistress was curious about where things were heading.

“I do like Cowboys Slave…..but you didn’t really need to make him a reformed architect.”

“Good point Mistress….not sure why he’s an architect … maybe in Part III he makes a really intricate device to force orgasms from you.”

Mistress laughed, spread he legs, and pulled me to her. Apparently my preliminary efforts were to be rewarded.

At work, as I waited an interminable time for my cranky assistant to finish some typing that should have been done the afternoon before, I polished my draft and tacked on the cliffhanger ending.  Then I posted my belated blog-o-the–day.

It was good to get the feedback from all of your clever comments, and to think of the torment I might be creating for any of you on orgasm quarantine.

So  sorry.  So very sorry. Hah.

So Mistress got initial reports of the final version of the story by way of M, when they finally had a chance to talk yesterday afternoon.

“I think he was a little disappointed he was not in the story, Slave.”

“Hmmm …. Maybe it’s good for him, Mistress. But I’ll try to work in a cameo appearance before this story winds to its smutty conclusion.”

Once home, Mistress reminded me that she still had something to read. And that I had something to worship. It’s not good to have to be reminded.

So as she read through the final version of “Mistress and the Cowboy”, I was on my knees, sucking on that rosy, swollen bud poking out from between those damp and tasty folds.

After Mistress was satisfied, and told me I should continue the tale, we went for a bike ride and fed the sullen teens.

But it occurred to me that I should be more considerate of our lonely Western Correspondent.

 I sent him an email, copying Mistress, entitled “All Access Pass”.

“ I understand you have been left alone for the next few days. I have told Molly that I am telling you that you should feel free to exercise your privileges with her, whenever and however. Not that she needs my permission.”

And sure enough, Mistress and M are even now exercising those privileges.

I am hopeful that I will reap the benefits when they are done.

ADDENDUM:

Sure enough, not long after I finished this entry, Mistress came down stairs to fetch me to bed. She had that glossy eyed, well fucked look that comes with multiple Hitachi induced orgasms. And as she embraced me, letting her hands drift down to my already growing cock, she offered the promise of an immediate reward for my patience. But she had one note of caution:

“And how was it Mistress …..

Very good, Slave…..but here’s the problem …. He put me on orgasm denial, at least until tomorrow night.  So when you fuck me, don’t let me come.”

I will let you know how that went tomorrow.

Mistress and the Cowboy (I)

(a fictional tale inspired by a lost bet to the 'Nilla. Hope she is amused. or better.)

Molly let the late warm fall, high desert sun wash over her face as her horse negotiated what passed for a trail, up through ragged aspen and pinon trees, into the hills that quickly became the Sangre de Christo range, stretching north from New Mexico to Colorado.

It had been years since she had ridden, but the skills she learned as a teen back in River City, on those snooty English saddles, were still there. And her horse, a magnificent rich brown appaloosa, well groomed and gentle, was mild mannered. It simply followed along behind her guide, who clearly knew what he was doing in a saddle. Western, of course.

“You Ok back there, Molly?”

“Absolutely, Wes….amazing day for a ride.”

Mistress took in her guide, tall in the saddle, broad shoulders draped in a black t-shirt, broad gray cowboy hat, and an admirably tight ass.

“What a view”, Molly called out, as Wes skillfully guided his mount up along the rock strewn trail, now crossing a ridge line that spilled views of two verdant valleys far below. And she wasn’t just referring to the colorful display of those golden brown aspen leaves.

As she admired that view, Molly thought back to how she ended up on this little adventure with the mysterious Wes.

She and Mick had been at the local roadhouse Monday evening. They danced a bit to the country swing music strummed by the house band. Drank some tequila. Eyed the crowd. Made small talk with some of the regulars.

Then, suddenly, there was this Cowboy, sidling up to their table, mid 40’s, rugged, tight but not obscenely tight jeans, the same gray cowboy hat, and one of those shirts with the shiny buttons only a real cowboy can pull off without looking like he’s trying out for the Village People. This guy was Hat WITH Cattle.

He held out his hand.

“Would the lovely lady like to dance?”

Now this is something that often happens to Molly, even when it is clear she is “taken”. Under local custom, any attractive woman is fair game when the band breaks into some boot scooting music. And some of the local gentlemen like to show off their two stepping ability almost as much as their herd.

Molly was not usually in the practice of accepting those sorts of invitations. But there was something about this particular Cowboy that called for a change in policy.

She leaned over to Mick, whispered into his ear, without breaking eye contact with the Cowboy.

“”You don’t mind, do you Slave.”

“Of course not, Mistress.”

The rest was a bit of a blur. His firm hands as they spun on the dance floor. The way he guided her through the clever turns and dips, and the way he held her a bit more tightly as the music switched from up tempo to a romantic waltz.

She knew this had Mick squirming at their table, sipping his Jamieson, with the tight steel cage gripping what was only her cock ….and, she suddenly realized, she was dripping.

Oh my.

As they danced there was the occasional small talk, and then Wes joined him at their table for a bit, describing his transition from big city architect to Northern New Mexico cowboy.

“Maybe you’d like to ride with me someday, I’ve got some pasture land up in the hills north of town.”

He was looking at Molly. It was clear that the invitation was directed at her. Solo.

She pondered. For about 3 seconds.

“Wow. I’d love that.”

They exchanged cell numbers.

When Mick and Molly got home to their little mountain hideaway, it seemed their cloths were hitting the floor almost as soon as they entered the threshold. And the sex was particularly incendiary. Of course, the prime subject as they muttered and moaned to one another was the tall, mysterious cowboy and what he might have planned for Mick’s oh so sexy Mistress.

And when Wes called later in the week, Mistress gladly agreed to the arrangements he proposed: an early morning pickup at their cabin.

After she gave Wes the brief tour, they were off in his dust caked Loredo, and heading to his ranch. Molly was all kitted out in her jeans, boots, and a cotton, western style blouse, long hair flowing in the breeze.

Big Sky. Big jitters about where this might be headed. And of course, Molly had license under her contract with Mick to let it go wherever she deemed appealing.

Back on the trail, Wes pulled his mount to a halt in a green meadow, and reached for the canteen strapped to his well worn saddle. He passed it to Molly, giving her first quaff of the cool water. The sun was warming her, and she was grateful for the break.

She eyed his saddle more carefully.

“Boy, you are a real cowboy…..rifle, lariet. Can you really use those?”

Wes gave her that winning, aw shucks smile.

“The rifle….haven’t had to use it much. But there are occasional mountain lions and rattle snakes in these hills … one has to be prepared.”

“And the lasso…..do you use it to round up stray cattle, Wes?”

She had that little sarcastic but also flirtatious tease in his voice.

Wes, just smiled, reached for the lasso, and shook it out. She noticed how stiff the rope seemed, particularly at the broad loop he now held in his hand. Why was she thinking that might abrade naked flesh.

“Down, Molly, down” she thought to herself.

“You’d be surprised how useful this can be on the trail…”

He backed his horse away from her’s swinging the rope a bit, getting it’s weight just right in his hand.

Then, suddenly, it spun through the air, over Wes’s head. Just like in some old time Western movie.

“My trusty lariat can be particularly useful when you run into a little cock tease on the trail, and need to bring her to heel,” he growled, a wry smile on his sun bronzed face.

Molly was frozen for a moment--- did she really hear him say what she thought he said – then, suddenly, the lasso was twisting over her head, around her torso. A quick yank by Wes, and her arms were pinned to her side.

He was smiling. She was grousing.

“Cute. Very cute.”

He pulled on the rope, spooling it hand over hand, pulling Molly and her horse ever closer to him, while tightening the rope’s tight grip around her.

Mistress’s heart was fluttering now. Was this a joke? Or had Wes come to some very correct conclusions about her kinky predelictations?

As the distance closed between them, Molly could see the amused but predatory look in Wes’s eyes. And then he reached over her head, and spun two more quick loops around her torso, pressing her arms tighter against her side, and pinching at her heaving breasts.

“Hey….”

“What…. Are you going to say….release me, you fiend….”

“Uhhhh.”

Mistress was watching him as he moved in what seemed like slow motion, closer, closer, one hand tightly gripping the lasso binding her. The other was reaching for the nape of her neck, then gathering up her long flowing brown hair into his fist.

Suddenly, her head was jerked back, and he leaned into her.

“Of course, at least for now, you can say ‘No’, Molly….”

She did not say a word.

But there was a low moan as his mouth found hers, tongue plundering her open lips for a long endless moment.

When he finally released her from that tight grip, she was flushed, liquid, squirming on her saddle.

And Wes was reaching into a saddle bag, pulling out some old, silver plated handcuffs.

“Antiques, I am told. Maybe Billy the Kid wore these once? Anyway they still work. And I think these will be much less cumbersome than this old stiff rope for the rest of this ride.”

“You wouldn’t….”

“Watch me….”

He slipped one cuff around her right wrist, jerked it behind her back, under the clinging lasso, reached for the left. Molly had no real flexibility (or will) to resist as the other cuff closed around her left wrist.

But she was still breathing hard, twisting her wrists now cuffed closely together, perched in the saddle, as Wes patiently unwound the lasso, spooled it back into a coil, and attached it back to his saddle.

He reached for her again, pulling her into one more greedy kiss. Then grabbed the reins of her horse.

“Just sit tight, Molly. My own little mountain hideaway is another 40 minutes or so up the trail. And then we can help you out of those tight riding cloths.”

Molly writhed in her saddle, disoriented, trying to maintain her balance.

“Here’s the two most important things you need to remember on the way, Molly….

Speak when spoken to, like a good little prisoner.”

“And no coming until I give you permission.”

“But….”

“No need to answer. Just relax and enjoy the view.”

Orgasm Amnesia and the Agony of Defeat.

Yesterday was a particularly hectic Monday for Molly and Mick.

By 8 am I had to drop Mistress of at an ancient old downtown Club where she was meeting a local captain of media industry for a power breakfast …. It’s the type of place that would not have allowed women  in it’s  high ceiled dining room a generation ago. She was nicely gussied up for the occasion, black suit of course, but I was too bleary eyed to make the most of her available naked thighs on the drive downtown.

From breakfast she was scrambling off to another meeting.

And soon I was off to my own meeting at a local Tribunal, to wheedle for the interests of my clients.

But we did have a chance to talk by phone briefly before yet more meetings for both of us over lunch.

“I did get to talk to the Western Correspondent as I was walking back form that meeting at the Museum, Slave….”

“Oh….and how is he doing.”

“He was a bit whiney about his lack of sex these last 24 hours. I told him not to feel so bad…that I hadn’t gotten any since Sunday evening either.”

“Hmmm…. What about this morning, Mistress?”

“What?”

“You know, in the shower.”

She was rinsing her hair, I was embracing her from the front, the warm water running down her lovely breasts, her nipples hard, probing my chest, my fingers sliding ever so earnestly through those wet folds until she came with a little shudder and moan, burying her head against my shoulder.

“Oh yeah…. It seems so long ago.”

“And then, afterwards, in bed, as you read the blog.”

I had come up a little after the earlier than normal alarm had gone off. So she was already up and heading to the shower. But as she was letting her hair dry, she asked for my laptop to read the blog. As I gave it to her, I picked up the morning paper.

I presumed that her shower orgasm was sufficient. How silly of a Slave to presume.

“Uhhhh….what about the tongue. Slave.” 

She indicated where the tongue was to be placed. I had blown off an important part of her morning  blog reading ritual.

“Oops. Sorry, Mistress.”

I promptly dropped the paper, and deployed my tongue, lips and a few nips with my teeth. Her second, but so quickly forgotten, orgasm of the morning came with a nice little hip thrust and wiggle just as she completed reading my morning homework assignment.

“Excellent, Slave.”

I wasn’t sure whether she was referring to the blog or the come I had so efficiently delivered.

Where were we….

“Oh, that’s right Slave….how could I have forgotten?”

That faux innocent giggle of hers is always endearing, and disarming.

Maybe she was just trying to empathize with our Western Correspondent. Feeling his pain, so to speak, as Bubba would have done. Or, speaking of Bubba,  maybe it depends on how one defines “sex”.

When it comes to feeling pain, I had a rough weekend myself,  with my college and NFL teams going down to double ignominious defeats.

And there were some stakes on the line for Sunday’s contest between ‘Nilla’s home state Heros and River City’s Lame-o’s.

When the dust settled….well, by the end of the first quarter if you want me to be honest …  it was clear that my team had fully submitted to those insufferable Doms of the eastern seaboard. And  ‘Nilla was lording over me, big time.

Our bet had been that the winner would dictate the terms of some suitable fiction to be written by the loser.

So Sunday afternoon I got some pointed texts from da ‘Nilla.

“Mwahahaha, does that make me da boss of you? You’re writing anyway? Mountains. Nape. Hair. Colored leaves. Vibe. Go for it!”

Now I am not a man with the sort of free flowing imagination of ‘Nilla. While you may have seen some fiction a few times on these pages, just about every entry is based on our kinky form of reality. So I begged for a little more guidance.

“Don’t I get any more direction than that?”

“Boobs – cock – handcuffs – autumn walk . Dom . Sub. You won’t be graded on this Mick! Giggle!

And yet, I pressed for more.

“Characters?”

“Yes!”

OK, I get it.  She’s not gonna write the story for me.

So let a thousand thorned flowers bloom.  My mind has been churning with too many potential story lines. But I promise something to her (and you dear readers) before my sad team takes the field at home next weekend.

To Switch or Not to Switch?

Our colleagues in smutty blogging, SFP and Sin have been reflecting on whether a true Sub-stress can ever really Switch into a big bad Domme in their recent posts. But for this ancient Irish type, self-reflection and analysis is not a strong point.

All I can say is that in the Collins household there has been an evolution that can be traced back to our early, illicit love nest days, when wide ties and Mike Dukakis were top of mind, and Molly often found herself bound, teased and well fucked on that futon bed we picked up at Pier One. So what led us to these days when the Slave happily abides by the Contract, and Mistress gets it on virtually with her remote Master?

It’s complicated.

Let’s just say that, after some difficult years, Mistress feels more comfortable with her Slave on a very short leash. And it works quite nicely for me.

Then again, Mistress still has that sub side that M tends too quite nicely. It’s an itch that needs to be scratched on a regular basis. (Or at least wants to be).

And several weekends ago, when her quite impressive ass fucking had me in a sub trance that led me to pass up my switch privileges on a Sunday morning, Mistress got mighty pissy.

It became quite clear that she likes what I do to her on the day she turns the keys over to me. Maybe I am merely M’s handy dandy surrogate in her erotic imagination. But whatever it is, it works in a rather explosive way.

So cast Mistress Molly’s vote for the merits of switching.

And the proof, as they say, is in the pudding. And we made some nice pudding here in the Collins household SUnday morning. Which I expect is what many of you want to hear about in any event, rather than my semi-self-revelatory musings…..

I planted some seeds of doubt Saturday evening, as we cuddled in bed, Mistress still in a bit of a daze from her afternoon orgasm-fest with M, then with me.

“Maybe tomorrow’s switch day will be orgasm free for you, Mistress.”

“Huh? That’s not the way it works, Slave.”

“Oh really? …..you make me have abstinence days from time to time …. And M embargoed you a week or so ago. Why couldn’t I do that on my switch day….make you please me while you fast?”

“You wouldn’t …..”

But that look in her eye showed a little uncertainty.

Sunday morning, Mistress slept in a bit as I wrote the blog, caught up with the sub-sisters, and wallowed in world news. (When do you think Reverend Jones will get his own show on FOX?)

But around 8:30 I decided it was time to get Mistress moving.

She was still snoozing when I barged back into our bedroom, newspapers and laptop in hand. She seem a bit peeved to be woken, but time was wasting. We spent some time reading the paper before I began locking the red leather cuffs on Mistress’s wrists. And then it was time for her to read the blog as I used my tongue to moisten up those wanton, well groomed folds.

When she set the laptop aside, after suggesting I had been a little too hard on our Western Correspondent, I went to work.

By the time I was done, Mistress was nicely spread eagled out on her tummy, legs and arms spread wide and tightly secured. And her bottom was already wriggling in frustration.

She seemed surprised when I slid on top of her, my firm and hungry “every day cock” pressing into her. Not that she wasn’t already amply wet and receptive.

“What are you doing, Slave?”

“It seems I’m fucking you Mistress. From behind. Remember, we talked about you not being allowed to come today.”

She shook her head. And her ass. My sense was that she would have liked to dislodge my impertinent cock. But it was firmly planted.

“You’re not serious, are you?”

“We’ll see, Mistress.”

I took her that way for a while. And she seemed rather close to the edge as my hips moved in and out, side to side, frictioning her tender and wanton parts against the bed.

“Remember, Mistress, no coming…..”

I liked her little mew of frustration. She was coming around to the realization that I just might be serious.

But I did not press my luck much longer. Instead I rose up, and fed her my cock, letting her taste her delicious condiments smeared on my fleshy shish-ka-bob.

“Aren’t your juices tasty, Mistress?”

But her mouth seemed a little too full to give me a review.

Her next course came from the tip of our riding crop. I flexed it with my finger, letting it snap down on her bottom with a nice crisp slap.

“Ouch….. that hurts, Slave.”

She squirmed, but of course her bindings gave her little range of movement to avoid the caress of the crop, or the slaps of my open palm, that turned her bottom a nice cherry red after about 10 minutes or so.

That’s when I pulled out the Hitachi.

I slid it between her legs, just under her hips, and turned it on low.

It was amusing to watch her gyrations, striving to pull the throbbing bulb closer to the place where she wanted it, as I continued with my intermittent spanking and cropping.

But even a cruel Slave exercising his switch privileges has to feel a little mercy when he sees how desperate his Mistress is becoming.

I settled down next to her, took the Hitachi in hand, and guided it more firmly between those lovely thighs.

And her hips rose, writhed and tried to suck the churning device in and under to get maximum effect.

Soon I had Mistress begging….

“Please, can’t I come Slave? Please?”

I was moved.

“Yes, Mistress… if you can, go for it….”

But saying it doesn’t necessarily make it happen.

Bound spread eagled as she was, it was an impressive feat of dexterity for Mistress’s thighs and arms and hips to strain, flex and contort as she sought just the right angle where power tool and clit could converge in catalytic harmony.

“You’re driving me crazy, Slave.. You keep moving it. “

By now, Mistress’s body was covered with a sheen of perspiration that mingled with the sweetly pungent aroma of her lubricants. MMMMM.

“Just tell me where to put it Mistress….”

By now I was actually trying to help, her plight was …. almost …..heart rending.

But she was increasingly frantic, and frustrated. Pulling at her bonds, twisting her hips, but unable to close her thighs in the ultimate orgasmic hug of the diabolical Hitachi.

“Why don’t you just untie me and turn me over, Slave.”

I laughed.

“Well, you know that’s not going to happen…..I can always just turn it off and let you rest a while.”

“Oh, God, No…..”

Declining my offer of a little rest period, Mistress was back on task with renewed determination…. I could hear the wooden bed frame creaking from her exertions. She is a mighty one.

But finally, after more of that lovely and inspiring twisting and turning, Mistress found her promised land, moaning and locking her thighs as tightly as possible, then shuddering as wave after wave shook her.

I kept the Hitachi pressed against her, forcing another strong quake from her, until she was begging for me to stop.

“Turn it off Slave, please. I’m too sensitive now.”

“Of course, Mistress.”

By now Mistress was shaking with sobs, letting the aftershocks subside.



I cozied her, then slid on top, letting my cock gently ride into her from behind, moving slowly and steadily, as I licked the tears from her cheeks.

Yeah, I think Mistress would cast a vote for the occasional switch.

And either way, this Slave is happy to play along.