Office Visit Flashback

Mistress has a chance to stop by my office yesterday. It was after lunch, around 2 pm.

I had stayed in during the lunch hour, focused on a project, while listening to our new Governor on the radio, braying in his State of the State Speech about his plans to turn our creaky if earnest old Midwestern state into a shiny mecca like Florida. You know, where, in his narrative, solely  because of low taxes, old, retired  people from our state want to move to places like Naples or Stillwater.  

I mean, if only given the right tax incentive, who wouldn’t want to spend their golden years on the frozen shores of a Great polluted Lake, dodging washed up carp, rather than searching for Sand Dollars on a Gulf  Beach.

Having spent some years down there – no offense to Florida readers – I tend to think of a place where kids go to schools in glorified trailers, there are acres of abandoned strip malls and mold infested, unsold McMansions, and the unemployment rate remains a whopping 12%.

But if you actually have a job, and don’t have kids to educate, I suppose it is nice to pay no state income taxes.

With one side of my brain focused on work, and the other sending out snotty tweets commenting on our Governor’s pompous presumptions, I probably was not in the best of moods when Mistress popped into my office to get her fair share of worship.

But there is something about seeing her breeze into my perch, high above River City that always lifts my spirits.

It’s on the cusp of Spring here, but she had not yet shed her winter costume: black tights and boots, a black jacket, and a black tie-dyeish skirt that settled a few inches above her knees.

And as I filled her in on the Governor’s pronouncements, I was simultaneously closing the door, sliding her throne into place, and spreading the blanket that would soon be absorbing her musky juices.

Her office visit brought to mind how Mistress and I finally broke the ice of our building sexual tension back in 1988, a story I was nipping at in some blogs last week.

It was about a week after our April primary here. For those of you who are political junkies, our candidate, the short former governor of Massachusetts, had eliminated most of the other “Seven Dwarfs” by then, with The Reverend Jackson still hanging on, gathering delegates for his curtain call in Atlanta.

I was undergoing a good bit of Molly withdrawal. My excuse to see her on a daily basis had gone away once the primary votes were counted. And, quite frankly, I had no idea whether she shared my attraction.

Maybe she just saw me as yet another dirty older man pining for her. After all, she was a young 24, and I was an ancient 37.

So I was a little surprised when she called me at home one evening, several days after “victory night” and asked if she could meet me in my office sometime soon.

I figured she wanted some help for her boss, a now prominent politico in his own right, or maybe advice on how to handle a work problem. We set up a time.

AS she waltzed into my office that day, a different building, but a similar view, she was the same glorious sight  as she was yesterday afternoon. Dressed up in something stylish and work appropriate, but sexily short, showing off those glorious legs. It was spring, so I recall more opaque hose, and pumps, but I could be corrected.

Long hair. Perfectly made up. Alluring perfume to which I had become addicted.

It was more than enough to make a dirty older man swoon.

But in the preceding days, I had been trying my best to stifle my lust for her. I figured it was a one-way crush that would pass if I just focused on more mundane things.

I can’t recall whether we gave each other a perfunctory hug when she walked in. Maybe we just shook hands. She might recall….she has a great memory for these things.  But I was trying to be very business like.

I offered her coffee, showed her a chair, then moved behind my desk.

“So what’s up, Molly…. “

That’s when, in a very business like fashion, she explained that she was calling my bluff…. That it was obvious that I was coming on to her these last few weeks, and that if I was ready, well, she was in….

I was stunned.

Dumbfounded.

And also scared shitless.

I was ready for rejection. In fact, I had already resigned myself to rejection.

And now…. Well. The opportunity to take this step with the lovely Molly seemed almost too good to be true.

I was like a wide receiver, alone in the end zone, a tight spiral heading for my unencumbered hands for the winning touchdown.

And what did I do?

Well, of course, I dropped the ball.

I mumbled something like not being sure, and what about our spouses, and the primary created a false sense of connection, blah, blah. Blah.

And as I listened to myself, there was another voice screaming at me…. Are you crazy Mick, just stand up, go over there and kiss her!!!!! Isn’t that what you’ve been waiting for?

(Was it Bogie from “Play it Again Sam”?. Could be.)

Well, it’s probably time for me to wake Mistress…. All this typing about our early days has awoken certain appetites.  And now that I’ve gotten started, I’m looking forward to hearing  her memory on this subject, presumably while my mouth and tongue are suitably distracted.

Let us know if you want more details in this “Secret Origins of Molly and Mick” stuff.

And yes, I made sure Molly got off… twice in fact… during her visit yesterday afternoon.

Clone-a-Willey

The order of things were reversed a bit this morning at the UCTMW World HQ. I was sliding out of bed at around 6 am, off for some blogging as our CEO continued her beauty rest. But then I heard her commanding voice.

“Where are you going, Slave?”

“Just up for a while, Mistress. Why don’t you go back to sleep…”

“No…. I think I want your cock now, Slave . Blogging can wait….”

Well, she didn’t have to ask twice.

I had woken a bit on the hard side, from some dream where Mistress was in bed in a hotel room waiting for some NBA stud. I think the twist was that it was a different stud than she anticipated. Was it Kareem vs. Bill Walton? Or was it Magic as opposed to Larry Bird?

The details escape me. I just recall seeing a large dark complexioned man walking through the door in his traveling suit and tie, with a duffel bag in hand. Mistress was lounging in bed, reading a book in some very sexy lingerie. Whoever he was , I suspect they were going to have an excellent time, but that’s about when I woke up.

Any way, where were we….

“Of course, Mistress. I am at your disposal.”

I may not be able to dunk, but I do have other skills – away from the ball – that Mistress exploited for the next twenty minutes or so.

Now she’s out on a chilly bike ride, the un-risen sun barely lighting the sky. And I’m hear at the keyboard keeping the rest of you up to date with developments here at UCTMW.

You may have noticed a little alteration in our masthead since Sunday. Mistress had been on the phone with our Western Correspondent who was in full wheedling mode.

“He says he can’t understand why he’s at the bottom of the pecking order, Slave…. He mentioned something about seniority.”

Well, as we all know seniority is way out of style these days. Management wants the opportunity to unload older higher paid workers, no matter how savvy and skillful, and replace them with young, energetic if un-experienced newbies who will grovel for half the pay of the old farts they are replacing.

Now your Executive Editor here at UCTMW is not quite that insensitive. I have a natural soft spot for old seasoned types who know how to handle and exploit whatever meager tools they may have been granted in life. “It ain't the meat, it's the motion" is my theme song.

No, when I laid out our original management masthead, I was thinking about productivity – what each of the players had brought to the table in recent weeks.

But the CEO, of course, is in charge.

“I think his feelings are hurt, Slave…. Why don’t you give him a promotion.”

So I reconsidered. Yes, his medical emergency had effected his contributions of late. It would be wrong for me to discriminate against him based on a string of bad luck – whether because of that negligently acquired frozen cock, or the other developments that landed him in hospital a few weeks back.

So I thought, how can I justify moving M up above the devoted hard working husband and wife team from North Carolina. M’s “corresponding” had fallen off the cliff of late, but then maybe he’d feel comfortable wearing an additional hat.

That’s when it dawned on me. With M’s past experience as a world class athlete, both in and out of the bedroom, he could contribute to UCTMW as our CEO’s personal trainer.

Not that she’s not already in exquisite shape. But, I’m sure, between the two of them, they might be able to have some fun in those roles.

So WC, you’ve got a new title, that bumps you up the masthead! I was hoping he could fit into his new role in his usual cracker jack style.

But apparently that was not quite enough to satisfy the former WC, now WC/PT.

If you can spare some time, check out the comments he left following our Sunday entry (Re: Rob Lowe). M is off on some other planet, demanding that our CEO sign a multi-year contract with the Teamsters Union, which would seem to place him in control here at UCTMW, and send old Mick back to the mailroom.

Mistress laughed.

“If I’m not going to get regular access to the special occasion cock as consideration for this deal, he could at least send me that “cock clone”.”

“Huh?”

“We were talking about it Thursday, Slave – there’s some kit where you can make a cast of a specific penis, that has a vibrator inside.”

Well, we were both on the internet last night, checking this out, and here it is, the official “clone-a-willy”. There’s even a helpful you-tube video showing how to whip one up to your personal specifications.  You need to check it out!How to use Clone-a-Willey video

M, feel free to use the UCTMW expense account to buy your kit.

When the clone of your special occasion cock arrives, suitable for training of our CEO, I am sure she will give your draft Teamsters contract some very serious consideration.

The Tables Turn Fast

Wow. Slave slept in a bit longer than normal today…. So let’s catch up fast.

Sunday, of course, is our switch day. And Mistress played her normal, coy, “you don’t plan to tie me up and torture me with too many orgasms routine” when it was time to put down the morning paper and submit to my plans.

“But Slave, it’s so cold and I feel so warm and cozy under these blankets….”

Yeah. We’ve heard this line before, so it was a bit of  a struggle to cuff her wrists with those comfy leather binders, lock them together, then fix them overhead to the eye-screw in our bed. 

Then her ankles were bound with a leather gizmo made for just that purpose.  Soon she was on her belly, and I took a few moments to shoot this picture for you to admire. 

Tight ass, huh?

In any event, since the surly teen was already stalking the hallways, coughing up a storm with the remnant of her unending flu, we had to be somewhat low key.  Rest assured Mistress got a nice firm, butt reddening spanking before I deployed the power tool from behind, between those lovely thighs.

She built herself up to what was going to be a nice rockin’ cum, then asked permission like a nice little subbie, but I decided to throw a curve ball….

Suddenly the power tool was off….

“Hey…. Slave….. why’d you do that…. I was almost there…..”

“Hmmm …. Maybe there was a power failure?”

“Then why is the music still on…. Asshole….”

“Oops…..”

“Why don’t you roll over Mistress….”

She struggled, but made it over onto back, her face was a bit red from the exertion, all that muscle flexing against the bed, trying the make a little more room for the churning device.

I actually felt bad for the little desperate thing, so I thumbed the Hitachi back on, and began to gently rub it where she likes, then pressed it home with a bit more force as her hips began rising up to meet it.

Soon she was coming with a nice heaving moan of contentment, her legs, still bound at the ankles, heaving and squirming as if to embrace the little but very effective tool.

Her head was back, her voice desperate, “why don’t you fuck me now, Slave….”

 Was happy to oblige, and required no further encouragement (or assistance), so once her ankles were released, and I slid off the sexy black thing, rather sticky and fragrant I might add, I was happy to exercise my privilege….

Of course, I made sure that Mistress had at least one more memorable orgasm before I asked for my own permission, which she seemed happy to grant.

Now, flash forward a few hours. We lolled in bed a bit longer, then went for a long bike ride, up and down the hills of our quaint little village.  The air was a bit chilly, but at least the rain had stopped. 

I had a few minutes to shower, then take the surly teen to an SAT prep session, and visit my aging and cranky Mom.

There was just time for a quick lunch.

In the kitchen, I noticed Mistress preparing her own breakfast / lunch.

A nice big bowl of my leftover apple crisp, crowned with a  big scoop of mocha chip ice cream.

This is when a prudent man, particularly of the slavish sort, keeps his mouth shut.

But maybe I was a bit too heady after our morning switch-ercise.

“Hmmm…. That looks like a healthy breakfast, Mistress.”

It was as if I insulted her first born.

She gave me a very stern look. 

“SLAVE… (she pronounced that word in it’s most demeaning and authoritative way)… I think you need to be in your cage as you go about your afternoon duties…. Go put it on right now….”

Argh…. But I was not going to argue.

‘Yes, Mistress…. I went to retrieve it,  struggled a bit to mush everything into its proper position, and fitted in the little lock for her to snap shut.

But when I came back down to the office, surly teen 2 was there… so there could be no official locking ceremony.  Before taking her to her class, I had to slide into a bathroom and snap the lock shut myself.

Mistress gave me a little hug goodbye, a discrete hand feeling my crotch for that telltale lump of hardened steel (no, don’t let your mind wander on that one). Confirming that all was in place, she whispered into my ear.

“Slave…. I hope this teaches you a lesson…. I want you to take a picture for me once you drop the teen off….”

So there I was, yesterday afternoon, after visiting my mother,  at my quiet office to catch up on some work, my jeans at my ankles, a snapping picture for Mistress of that caged cock.

I texted it off to her….

“Happy?”, was my short message.

A few moments later my phone beeped.  

“Very Happy , Slave…..”

In the Shadow of Rob Lowe

Mistress  enjoyed her  CEO Appreciation Day.

And your comments were very fulfilling for her. She likes being thought of as the benign and benevolent authority here at UCTMW.

But Sin, do you really think it was creepy for me to hover just a little too closely to her in those months before  she acknowledged that my unspoken but probably apparent attraction to her was mutual?

In any event, if my behavior was sordid, in my defense, I can only say it was really out of my control. I was completely smitten.

As you might expect, once Molly decided she was going to call my bluff, she was quite direct about it. And me, well, then I was the one scared semi-shitless. But that is a different story.

Suffice it to say that by the summer of 1988, we were torridly involved with one another, doing our best to cover our tracks. One prime scene of our serial crimes was at the Democratic Convention that summer in Atlanta. Mistress had a room at a romantic B and B near a leafy park off of Peachtree Ave.  Mine was in a plastic high rise hotel near the convention center.

But for most of that week – in between sessions where the theme song was that old Neil Diamond song "Coming to America"”, there was a whole lot of very sweaty coming , and coming , and coming in Molly’s sodden B and  B bed. Combine the sultry summer Georgia air, and a room with minimal AC ... well, lots of hydration and new sheets were required to keep us going.

Rob Lowe in bed with some teenager was the scandal of that Convention. (sex tape scandals).We can only be thankful that the absence of cell phones and the higher tech accoutrements of this modern era allowed Molly and Mick to keep their torrid romance below the radar screen all through the great battle royale that was the 1988 Presidential campaign.

For now, let’s just say that Mistress responded well yesterday morning to my homage to her magnetic sexual appeal to me back in 1987-88. She is a sucker for my romantic tributes, so accuse me of being manipulative all you want, but isn’t that a primary reason we started this blog?

As a form of early morning foreplay for both of us?

You would be surprised how often it works exactly that way.

When I went upstairs yesterday morning, and handed her the computer, it wasn’t long before she was digging into my prosaic flashback. And my face was buried between those musky clean shaven folds.

And when she was done – with a little sigh of appreciation – her legs spread a bit wider and her hips rose up to meet my questing tongue. Soon she was writhing as I took her over the top.

Once Mistress had her little starter O, her hands reached for my cock and brought it to full attention for the main course.

Rest assured, Mick was quite satisfied before our morning encounter was done.

It was a pretty busy day for us after that. Mistress was off to some hair and nail appointments with the elder surly teen. I spent a good chunk of the day with my cute grandson.

But Mistress was still in command of her empire later last night when we enjoyed dinner with some friends. We were standing in their large suburban kitchen, the main part of the meal done, and getting ready for desert.

While watching the grandson, I had made some of my apple crisp, something Mistress can enjoy, despite a wheat allergy. And as our hostess dished out the crisp, Mistress handed be her nearly empty wine glass.

“Get me some more wine, Slave.”

“Of course, Mistress.”

I’m still wondering if our friends heard that little exchange.