Petulant Sex

It’s Saturday morning, and I could just cut to the chase: Yes, we had sex three times yesterday: morning, après-work, and before bed time. Yes, Mistress had a few stray orgasms in between. And it seems that M got off too. ‘Nuff said?

But I suspect you want more of the sordid details.

That morning sex has faded into the background by now.

Mistress read the blog. I worshipped. And then I was more than happy to take my pleasure from her after my St. Pat’s Day Equinox celebration pulled me up short the evening before. 24 hours is a long time to go in the Collins Household.

As our Friday workday ended, I waited for Mistress to walk over to my building for our drive home. As she strode into my lobby, all hot and provocative in that black mid-thigh dress, she had her cell phone to her ear. That big, flirtatious smile (yes, that seems to happen even when her lover/master is so many miles away) was the “tell” that Mistress was on the phone with M.

Once they had signed off, Mistress shared a little detail of her day:

“M and I talked this morning for a while, Slave. And he was home alone so …. You know….”

“You got to talk him through getting off, Mistress?”

“Yeah….”

“How does that work …. You’re in your office ….”

“Right….”

But Mistress’s office has glass windows facing out, so no personal hanky panky there.

“Didn’t you want to touch yourself, Mistress?”

“I suppose so….”

“And could you at least squeeze those thighs … cross the legs?”

“I guess I did, Slave.”

“It turns you on when he comes, doesn’t it Mistress?”

“Of course, Slave.”

I imagined B’s moans of ecstasy as he deploys that high priced lube to full advantage, listening to Mistress’s admonitions, and expressions of…..whatever.

“So what do you tell him to drive him crazy at those moments, Mistress …. You must have some magic words that help him achieve his goal.”

“Hmmmm…..that’s kind of private, Slave.”

I understood. And did not feel right to pry further. They are entitled to that little private zone to allow their relationship to flourish.

On the rest of the ride we got distracted by re-hashing some unpleasant developments during the day. They aren’t worth elaborating on, but they had the unfortunate effect of unearthing some bad karma, and the latent insecurity that pops up from time to time for Mistress.

Of course, me being her Slave, signing the Contract, yadda, yadda, all is supposed to make her feel more secure in our relationship. I have turned over the short leash to her for a purpose. But sometimes, even that’s not enough.

So when we got home, things were a little …..tense.

Mistress even had to remind me that I should offer to worship her before our long bike ride.

Bad Slave.

But soon I was on my knees and gave Mistress the orgasm she probably had been waiting for ever since she had to “suffer” through M’s mighty blast that morning without her own relief.

After our bike ride, the plan was to have sex, then a little picnic while watching some mind numbing movie on netflix.

I opted for a shower, and when I got out, all clean and nakey, Mistress was lying on bed, laptop open, still fully dressed in those damp riding shorts and shirt.

Hmmmm. Still pissed at me?

Now there were two ways this could go. I could get my back up, and we could descend into a grumpy evening.

Or I could suck it up and show my devotion.

Thankfully, I opted for the later (or, as I am sure you guessed, the box score above would read quite differently).

My approach was not subtle.

Mistress lay there, stoic, doing her best to ignore me. I lay next to her, naked. My hand slipped under the waistband of her tight, sweaty riding shorts. My fingers did what they are trained to do.

It took a while to break Mistress’s mental reservations, but soon, inevitably Mistress was squirming, shaking, coming for me.

“Would you like to take your cloths off now, Mistress?”

She muttered consent, and slid out of her shorts, top and sports bra. Then she lay back on the bed.

Ahhh. I saw where this was going. Mistress was not going to lower herself to any cock touching on this occasion. If Slave wanted to fuck her, he would have to get “up” on his own. And there is the “no touching” rule to consider.

So I cuddled, slid my hands between her now naked legs, and conjured the images that made my cock hard on its own. Mind over Petulance.

Then, after my fingers got her off again, I fucked her. Hard. Long. With great satisfaction.

This seemed to melt the ice a bit, and we dressed and had that picnic.

The movie we selected was “40 Days and 40 Nights” which sought to cast some self-absorbed Gen-Y-er as a sort of contemporary Jesus, simply because he chose to give up sex in San Francisco for Lent. The Horror. But we were just getting to the “good” part, (the temptations ), when Mistress’s phone buzzed.

“It’s M, Slave. He wants to know if we can talk. But I kind of feel bad interrupting our evening….”

My thought was this: I had helped put Mistress in a funk. It would only be right for me to step aside for a while and let M help her get out of it. Plus I knew that Mistress was probably in the mood to vent a bit, and M could provide some helpful therapy, with or without the Hitachi.

“It’s OK, Mistress. He does have that All Access Pass this weekend, what with B out of town. Go for it.”

Mistress clearly thought I had made the right decision (not that it was my decision to make), quickly excusing herself to our Bed Chambers.

I caught up on Stephen Colbert, read the paper, and was starting to drift off, when Mistress came down, that glazed but satisfied look in her eye.

“Why don’t we got to Bed, Slave.”

I guess we would save Jesus’s temptations by all those modern day Mary Magdellon’s in search of a straight guy in SF for later.

As we got ready for bed, I asked Mistress how things had gone.

“How many, Mistress?”

“Two, Slave….just two.”

“Not bad….Mistress.”

“But we did spend some time talking about you. M says I need to exercise a firmer hand when you get testy with me. He says you will respond better if I keep that leash very short.”

I was non-committal. Maybe I was a little petulant myself. It had been a long day.

“That’s always your option, Mistress.”

“He also says I need to use that cage more….so tomorrow, when you go out, you are wearing the cage….”

“Of course, Mistress.”



We slipped into bed. I assumed I had had my quota for the day, and quite frankly, was pretty sleepy. So as Mistress read a bit, I slid up against her (naked of course), closing my eyes.

But something was eating at both of us.

I tried to nod off. So did Mistress, shutting out the light.

But somehow, a few minutes later, she was rolling over on top of me, her pelvis doing that little un-subtle grind against my thigh.

And despite my fatigue, I could feel a response. The tell-tale twitch that starts at the base of my balls. I knew where this was headed, but was unsure exactly how we would get there.

“Are you trying to have sex with me Mistress?”

“It seems that way….. but I am thinking you need to be spanked first.”

Twitch.


Damn.

I said nothing.

“Do you want me to spank you, Slave?”

“Up to you Mistress….”

That seemed to close the deal.

“Well you deserve a spanking, just for that passive aggressive answer, Slave.”

And so Mistress was up, in search of the riding crop, then laying into me. Reminding me that I needed to govern my uppitiness and be sensitive to her latent insecurity. I got some rather painful blows during that lecture. She had me squirming and whining into my pillow.

Ouch.

But then it was over.

“Roll over, Slave.”

I did, exposing a rock hard cock in the process.

“Hmmm…..what have we here.”

She poked it with the tip of the crop, having a bit of fun at my expense. And then it was her hands and soft hot mouth on it, making me beg.

“Wouldn’t you like to ride it Mistress.”

“At some point, Slave….”

More begging ensured, until her own desires seemed to take over.

Soon Mistress was mounting me. I squeezed those full, firm nipples as she ground against me, sliding up and down with surprising vigor after a long day and all those orgasms. Soon that slow deep moan built up inside her and carried her over the edge. Then she rolled off to let me finish the job on top. She generously gave her consent when I begged, “Mistress may I come.”

Afterwards, I asked the obvious question:

“So what started that Mistress?”

“I guess after those sessions with M, I always need my cock.”

I was glad to fill that need.

Mistress Gets Tag Teamed

With Mistress on orgasm quarantine since Wednesday evening, I had to quickly re-engineer my prime directive.

After her impromptu date with M that night, Mistress was a bit dazed. Sounds like she had several earth moving comes at his command. And when she came down stairs to retrieve me, it really did seem that her knees were a tab wobbly.

And yet, generous to a fault, she insisted that I should fuck her before she collapsed in a heap.

“Go put in your device, Slave” (the little white aneros she sometimes has me where to assure a particularly rigid cock).

“Of course, Mistress …. But are you sure you want me to impose when you aren’t allowed to come….”

“Of course I do…. You were very patient down there, waiting for me while I talked to M.”

And I was certainly glad Mistress did not decide that when she is on orgasm restriction her Slave should be too.

When I came to bed, my cock was already filling out nicely …. The thought of Mistress toeing her Master’s line apparently had a certain cunning effect.

And she added to my heft with those tender fingers, working my cock and balls until I was begging for the privilege to fuck her.

Finally, she relented.

“But be careful, Slave…. We don’t want to violate M’s rules do we?”

Uh…. I guess we didn’t. So I re-jiggered my mental conditioning as best I could. Normally I am wired to assure Mistress a climax or two long before I begin to focus on drive my cock over the cliff.

But now I was focusing on a pleasurable send off for myself, without prolonging Mistress’s frustration was my cock pounded into her and my lips toyed with her tender nipples.

But it turned out the circuitry was amenable to some rewiring, and more quickly than I thought was possible, I exploded into her, moaning my delight, and relief.

“Oh my, Slave, that sounded like a good one.”

Mistress was even kind enough to let me take her that way again on Thursday morning. Patiently laying there, seemingly quite turned on as I fucked her, and yet willing her self to avoid violating her Master’s command.

Quite impressive.

We were off in different directions yesterday. And I was wondering how Mistress was handling her restrictions.

So there were some occasional texts from me, like “getting horny, Mistress?” Which earned a curt response, “no taunting, Slave.”

When we talked after lunch, Mistress told me that M was also stoking her fire.

“He says he deciding whether I get to come tonight or not.”

“I can’t imagine he’d leave you twisting in the wind for more than a day, Mistress.”

“I don’t know, Slave. I think he likes me squirmy and begging.”

“Who wouldn’t, Mistress. And isn’t that the way you like me?”

“Exactly”

At the end of the work day I was joining a group of my fellow Hibernians for an annual tradition: a picnic to celebrate the St. Patrick’s Day solstice, so to speak. Six months since the last celebration, and six months to the next.

There would be plenty of Guinness and Jamieson, and steaks to end the night.

Mistress was spending the dinner hour with the surly teens, taking them for Sushi (and a little Saki for her).

But mid way through the picnic, I got through to Mistress on her cell phone.

“Any word on M’s plans for you Mistress?”

“He’s being nice, Slave. He says I am allowed to come tonight while riding your cock.”

Ummm. Sounds good. And that cock gave off a little twitch, as if it knew it would be called to duty.

When I got home, a bit tipsy, but serviceable, Mistress was getting back from dinner with the teens. And she seemed particularly anxious to get down to business before M changed his order of the day.

“Is M calling you tonight, Mistress?”

I knew his wife B was still out of town, leaving M a little out of sorts. And he still had that “All Access Pass” to my wife.

“Maybe later, Slave….but lets do it before he calls, OK.”

“I am your servant, as always, Mistress.”

She told me to insert my little “device” again, and she was naked and ready for me. This was a woman in no need of foreplay.

But I confess, this aging Slave, after a drink or three, needed some priming to provide that cock Mistress was told to ride.

Mistress generously used fingers and mouth to get me to the proper, serviceable dimensions.

And she did it all while answering M’s persistent text messages…..he was curious about whether and when and how she would get that first curfew ending come that he had authorized.

That sort of multi-tasking has a cute Ginger Rogers / Fred Astair analogy in it, but I will leave that for another blog and try to get to the point. But soon Mistress’s patience ran out.

“I’m telling him I need to focus now, Slave….”

She put her I-phone down, pushed me onto my back and slid with fierce urgency onto the hard cock she had engineered for her own pleasure.

Soon Mistress was moaning, taking the time as she slid up and down on my shaft to build herself to a nice hearty climax.

Then she collapsed onto me.

“Was it worth the wait, Mistress.”

“Oh….yes, Slave….definitely.”

She rolled over, allowing me to take her, and I did for a while. But the St. Patrick’s celebration was beginning to take it’s toll. As it turned out, it was the Slave who would be fucking without coming on this particular evening.

“How about I finish this task up in the morning, Mistress?”

“Of course, Slave…..”

I think she was amused at my plight.

So to that extent the tables were turned from the night before. It was Mistress who got the pleasuring on this occasion, and the Slave who was to be deferred.

And not long after, as we lay in bed, reading books, Mistress’s text went off again.

“M wants to know if he can call now Slave….”

“Why of course, Mistress ….”

And as I watched a lopsided College football game downstairs, while reading the morning’s Times, I knew that upstairs, Mistress was in the good (virtual) hands of my tag team partner.

It does take a Village. Or, in this case, at least a couple of deviant Male villagers.

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.”