Our Senior Correspondent on "Sympathy F***s"

(The original posting missed the end of Donna's story. hopefully I have now fixed that error).

Last week we had a little riff in the blog on “sympathy (aka mercyI) fucks”, and a few of you chimed it. When Donna mentioned she’d had some real life experiences I suggested she share, and she has. Here is the little explanation she sent to me, followed by her wonderful, and very moving description. While this isn’t the normal flip tone we keep here at UCTMW, this piece is clearly worth sharing with all of you.

I wrote up the most powerful of the mercy fucks that came to mind, but after writing it-I 'm not sure it really falls into that category.
I have had mercy fucks with a professor who just found out he lost his job because he attended a Vietnam War protest, a service man in uniform on a Greyhound bus, a female dorm friend overwhelmed by the huge university we attended, and a friend recovering from surgery due to Crone's Disease who was afraid he would never be able to use his penis to please a woman again.
I know that may seem like quite a number and there are more, but like most BDSM subs, it was a journey rather than a single event that led me to know who I am and what I need. Plus, I have a big heart. :-)

So I wrote this up and I think it may be too strong for the blog. I need you to be honest. If it isn't right for the blog I will tuck if away for now and eventually the right time or situation for using it will come along.


Mick mentioned mercy fucks in a column last week. I hadn’t thought of it in exactly those terms, but knew immediately what he meant. I imagine most of us who are in open marriages have participated in a mercy fuck.

The situation that comes to mind took place with a friend who I’ll call Sam. He was a great guy, a friend to both Bill and me. We had worked with Sam in some tough and unpleasant situations and knew him to be a hard working man with a heart of gold. His regular job was in a profession that required him to be what people living in that part of the country considered a “manly man”, showing no emotions and no tears. When placed on special assignment to work with us in two week rotations, he let down a bit, joked some and became much more relaxed and open. The three of us often had meals together and shared stories of our kids, our jobs and our lives back at home. When work assignments were completed we kept in touch by phone and email.

One night we received a phone call from Sam’s best friend telling us that Sam’s teenage son had been killed in a car accident. A drunk driver in a pick-up missed a four way stop and T-boned his son’s small car. Immediately we began making arrangements for all the teams to attend the funeral until we received another call from Sam’s friend saying that Sam’s ex-wife insisted the funeral be only family. There were no more emails from Sam and phone calls weren’t returned, so Bill and I sent cards and hand written letters over the course of months, hoping Sam would know we were thinking of him. We never heard back.

The following year we attended a training meeting and were pleased as punch to see Sam walk into the meeting facility. Pleased to see him, but immediately concerned. He had lost weight he didn’t need to lose and his face was pale and drawn. I went over to give him a hug and he hung on tightly and whispered in my ear a choked thank you for all the letters. He asked if he could talk to me when the training was over. Of course I agreed, and he gave me his room number. Then he turned around and left, not staying for the training.

At breaks and at lunch, Sam was the focus of the conversations Bill and I had. Bill’s opinion was that Sam needed to talk to me alone, that he needed someone he felt he could open his emotions to without feeling judged, that he probably needed to be held physically and that he might need sexual release, too. I was glad to know we had both been thinking the same thing.
Bill and I are always point blank honest and clear about this type of situation, so I asked whether he was giving permission for me to have sexual intercourse with Sam should things go that way, and his answer was yes. When the training sessions concluded for the day, we went back to our room, I showered, put on some nice but not sexually stimulating clothing, Bill gave me a big kiss and hug and I went to Sam’s room.

I won’t go into the level of emotional pain Sam had been experiencing except to say that it had been exacerbated by comments from well intentioned friends and relatives. In my experience we never do anyone a favor by telling them that God has a plan and good reason for taking their child; that we aren’t being a good friend to state in a simple manner that things will get better; and it isn’t a positive thing to act as though a deceased child never existed by never mentioning them again or by taking down all the pictures of that child.

I knew that Sam had been divorced for many years and enjoyed playing the field, but one of the things he shared as we talked was that he had not been with anyone since his son’s death. We talked for hours, ordered room service for dinner and, at Sam’s suggestion, called to ask Bill to join us. Bill declined and told me to feel free to stay for as long as I felt Sam needed me.

Sam and I eventually ended up reclining on the crisp white sheets of the king sized bed of that hotel room. We kissed and touched, he cried and I held him. Eventually he fell asleep and I curled up in his arms and slept, too. He woke me in the wee hours of the morning and I knew we would soon be making love, love that comes from being spiritually connected to another human being.

Not having been with Sam before, and Sam never having been with a woman disabled as I am, during foreplay there were those moments of exploring and learning that led to adjustments and sweet laughter. Seeing a spark of life in his eyes and feeling his filled penis against me, I asked whether he had any condoms. I dressed his penis in the all-weather gear and proceeded to twist around and suck him off.

We laid back and talked some more, this time about sex, politics, life, the universe and everything while our hands wandered across each others bodies. Within 30 minutes Sam was reaching for another condom. While he held himself up on his arms, I slowing massaged his balls with one hand and rubbed and pressed the head of his penis rapidly over my clit. He leaned onto his side and took over rubbing my clit with his thumb while I gave him a good solid hand job. I came first and he came soon after with a great release of ejaculate and emotion.

We cleaned up a bit, then I called and woke Bill to tell him that Sam and I were headed toward our room and to please order some coffee and rolls. The three of us talked and later, as I headed in to take a shower to get ready for the day, they each gave me a kiss and Sam gave me a wink and a smile. When I came out, Sam was gone and Bill was reading the paper. We discussed what had happened, Bill made sure I was okay and we headed for our training. Sam was there, looking much better than the day before. He had lunch with us, no mention was made of the night before, and he went out dancing with friends that evening.

We were on assignment with Sam several more times over the years and while I wouldn’t have been opposed to it, we never made our friendship into a three-way or ever made love again.

As human beings, we are sexual creatures and it isn’t at all unusual for there to be a sexual component to the grieving process.

So was this a mercy fuck? It might be called that, but I think I would prefer to think of it in the sense that a friend needed something Bill and I could provide, we cared about him, so we did.

Donna

A Switchy Father's Day

Here at the World HQ, Slave woke with those red marks on my ass all faded. Mistress and our remaining sullen teen (the other one was still up North with the boyfriend and his family), had plans to take me out to brunch at a local restaurant.

But Mistress had a little “payback” in store.

After we read the morning paper for a while, and she perused our blog with my tongue and lips nipping at her delicious folds, it was time to get down to business.

The red cuffs went on those slim and sexy wrists. Don’t you like the way the cuffs match her scarlet nail polish?

And once her arms were secured overhead on our bed, her lush body all exposed and nakers, I tied her ankles off with those long soft strips that are the remains of a cotton beach towel. Soft but secure.

Of course, with her lashed down, spread eagle style on our bed, I wouldn’t be able to match those red marks she had left on my bottom, as Sin and Donna speculated I might.

But there were other tools and torments available.

After some teasing, and kissing, and probing between her legs with my hungry “work-a-day” cock, I reached into the drawer next to the bed….

“Oh…. Not those clothespins, Slave….”

“Why not, Mistress… you gave me a good thwacking yesterday…”

“But you deserved it…”

“True, Mistress…. But still, you wouldn’t want me to go too easy on you….”

“But they hurt so much….”

“Somehow you managed over in Europe, masturbating away with them on, when you lost the coin toss with M….”

(She still owes us a narrative on that, doesn’t she, audience?)

“Yes…. But…. I could adjust that… they were looser….”

So somehow, when she put them on herself, it seemed more “manageable” than when she is helpless, and knows they come off only when I decide. Interesting. Any thoughts on that Sub-sisters?

In any event, I really hadn’t planned on the clothespins.

No, I was reaching for those black “nipple vices”, which can be adjusted as you play to tighten or loosen.

She was still not “thrilled”. At least as far as I could tell as I primed her little red buds with my lips and teeth, until they were plump and firm, ready for me to literally “turn the screws” on them.

Don’t they look charming?

Mistress whined a bit, but they didn’t seem too painful.

And of course by now I was distracting her with her favorite toy: the Hitachi magic wand, which I pulled from under our bed, and slid between those outstretched legs.

Her inner thighs and belly got a little attention, but soon enough the churning bulb of the power tool was pressed firmly against those lovely clean shaven parts, and mistress hips were rising up to meet it.

I kissed her a bit, but things quickly got out of control. Mistress’s hips were bucking, and that tell tale convulsion and moan told me that a primary rule of switch day had been violated.

“Uhhh…. Did you forget something, Mistress?”

“Ooops…. Sorry, Slave…. I forgot to ask permission….”

I contemplated the consequences…. instinctively tightening the screws on those little breast pincers as she winced and moaned a bit, the Hitachi still gently resting at the juncture of her thighs.

“Well, Mistress, I was going to take these off when you came, but since you violated our protocol, we will have to start all over again….”

I’d make a really tough “master” wouldn’t I?

I went back to work with the power tool. Mistress went back to work, squirming and moaning and acting all helplessly wanton.

Soon she was asking for permission…. And with only a little theatrical hesitation, I rolled over and said what she wanted to ehar.

“Yes, Mistress…. You may come….”

And she did, writhing, moaning, thrashing about as best as her restraints would accommodate.

And damned if I didn’t keep that tool in the “on” position after that, forcing yet another cum from her, until little beads of perspiration were popping up on her lovely forehead, and she was now begging me -

“Oh, God… enough…Slave,,, please fuck me now.”

“If you insist, Mistress.”

As you can see…. I am quite the pushover, particularly on Father’s Day.

Hope all you Fathers out there had a great one too!

Mick Gets What Was Coming to Him

Saturday night....

Mistress is off at her big high school re-union tonight.

Now I’m sure several of you are asking yourselves: Mick, what sort of husband / slave doesn’t accompany his Wife / Mistress to her high school reunion?

Well, first, I did, once, about 10 years ago. And I suspect that Mistress spent more time that night making sure I was not bored than actually interacting with those long lost male and female friends.

So I offered to let her go solo this time. She had friends, a  female and a male, offering to be her “date”, and she seemed content to let me spend the evening with surly teen #2. (I happily rejected the offer of her friends’ spouses for an evening drinking elsewhere with them).

The teen and I  went to see the Green Lantern movie (my childhood fave when it comes to super heroes), while Mistress cavorts with her old high school chums.

And of course she had license to flirt and do whatever she wants should any of those guys, who no doubt had the hots for her back in the day, decide to take one last shot at the lovely Molly.

It’s in our contract.

But don’t worry, I’m not going to give you a review of Green Lantern… let’s just say the studio did not get it’s money’s worth. But the chick from Gossip Girl (that’s why the sullen teen picked it over “X-Men” or “Super 8”) is relatively hot, though not much of an actress.

So lets skip over “Mick and his daughter go to the movies…”

In fact there was plenty of sex at the UCTMW World HQ to report on since my last full dispatch.

I’ll skip over the action here Friday night, after our bike ride, when Mistress rode my cock to a rather stunning cum.  Non-reverse cowgirl.

I’ll also breeze past Saturday morning, when Slave was allowed to fuck Mistress before I headed to a political meeting.

No, let’s pick up the action later in the day, around 4 pm, after a nap and bike ride, before Mistress started primping for her reunion.

Previously, while we were riding, Mistress said we would probably not have much time for afternoon “action”. But, as it turned out, some time opened up on her schedule.

We were barely out of the shower.

“Slave, go get my supplies… I think you need some attitude adjustment.”

“Uhh… OK….”

I scrambled to assemble her strap on equipment – dildo, harness, lube.

“You’ve been a little too full of yourself lately, Slave…cocky, arrogant, … too much swagger….”

“I won’t disagree with you Mistress….”

“Of course you won’t….”

She was in her harness now, lubed up. But there was something else to take care of first.

“ down on your stomach, Slave….”

“No cuddle and kiss first, Mistress….”

She just laughed.

“Not today, Slave…”

That’s when I heard the swish of the riding crop, firmly hitting her hand.

Oops.  Mistress wasn’t fooling around.

I assumed the position she required.

Smack.

Ouch.

I squirmed.

My ass was on fire.

“I didn’t like your tone on the phone yesterday, Slave…. when we were talking about (our sullen teen’s) checking account… you clearly had an attitude.”

Smack..

Ouch again.  Very ouch.

I’m squirming as a series of blows hit my ass in quick succession. My mouth attaches itself to a pillow to stifle any exclamations. It’s the best I can do to resist the temptation of twisting away or covering my ass with my hands. But I knew that would only earn me more punishment.

“You’re right…Mistress… I know I was being an asshole.”

“Let this be a reminder to mind your tone, slave.”

I had a feeling it would be. And fortunately, after about 10 strokes Mistress was done. 

Then she  slid onto the bed next to me, warming me with some affection strokes on the ass, and passionate kisses, before straddling me, guiding her ‘cock” into place.

Her aim was true… her strokes were slow and deliberate. I suspect I was moaning as she worked into a quicker rhythm. And soon she was coming hard, with some impassioned thrusts, gasping her release.

After a bit more of the old “in and out”, she had her fill, and slid out of me, standing to toss her harness aside for me to put away later.

“Why don’t you go put in your device now Slave (my aneros)”

So I stood too, walking the few feet to our bathroom to follow her directions.  That’s when she noticed my ass….

“Oh my, slave…. I don’t remember ever getting it quite that….  red… I need a photo of that…”

She had me stand in position. Then she texted off an image of her handy work to the WC, for his amusement. And copied me too.

“Put it on the blog Slave… our readers should know what happens when you get surly with me….”

So there you have it, my boney old ass, all red from Mistress’s crop.

Before we climbed back into bed, where Mistress allowed me to fuck her, the chime on her I-phone went off.

M says “ha ha”.

Funny.

Oh, and there was one more picture Mistress wanted me to share.

“Here’s one to send to Tammy, Slave….”

It was this photo that Mistress took at Saks the other day. No doubt M got a copy.  But since Tammy and Carol (his weekend babysitter) were going panty shopping this weekend, Mistress wanted him to get a little example of what’s out there….

 I like the yellow ones... not for me mind you. I've been spared the panty training.

BTW, tomorrow is Switch Day. You can bet Mistress will be closely interrogated about her evening out. I’ll make sure some of those clothespins are handy, in case she is reluctant to clear her conscience.

P.S. … Just as I was finishing this, Mistress arrived home. It was only around 11:45 or so. No late night partying with the class of 1981.

When I asked if there had been any flirting, her response was “not really.” We may have to get a little more to the bottom of that one this morning. And she also showed me something on her I-phone. The photo of a pink, rigid cock head.

“It came from the WC… just after I got to the re-union…”

“Can you believe it. It looks like Anthony Weiner’s at it again, and hacked into M’s account.”

A "Grooming" Dispatch from Our Senior Correspondent

Our staff here at UCTMW went a little wild with the comments yesterday. Maybe it's it's because we are into the 2nd half of the month, and they are worrying that their column inches are a tad low and that somehow the big paycheck I cut for them for June will be a tad short. Regardless, if you missed the WC's musings on his role as an expert Assotologist, you may want to go back a page.


I for one will hold the details on Friday's activities here at the World HQ, because we have this lovely dispatch from Donna on her hippie days, and beyond.


Have a great Father's Day tomorrow all, including you, Bill and WC.Both of you get the day off with the ordinary rate of pay....


Today I have for you some cautionary hair tales. No, not pubic hair, we already talked about shaving versus waxing and screaming. Today’s blog is about some things I have learned about Bill from my hair. I know that sounds strange, but give me a chance here.
When I was in my late teens I used what was then a very popular shampoo, Green Herbal Essence. It was the shampoo of the hippies, you could tell because it had the word herbal in the name and psychedelic designs in the advertisements and on the label. All the girls in my dorm used it.
Bill loved the smell of the Herbal Essence in my long dark hair that I kept in that, oh, so fashionable long shag style all the girls had at that time. You see, in those days our attempts to prove our independence and individuality was somehow couched in all looking alike in our frayed jeans, tie-dyed shirts, and sandals along with flowers in the long hair of both males and females (yes, Bill had long hair, too) and granny glasses, can’t forget those...

But, back to the Herbal Essence story. Many years later I spotted a bottle of that product in a dollar store, probably left over from the 1970s. I was so pleased! I could only imagine how excited Bill would be to have that aroma bring back memories of our hippie days and our wild hippie sexiness. As soon as I got home I washed my hair, and then washed it again just to be certain the aroma would be wafting to my beloved when he arrived home.

When our teens got home from school and started sniffing the air and asking what that stink was in the house, I should have taken that as a hint, but no. Instead, I told them some (non-sexy) stories of our hippie days, they always hated those stories, and as their eyes glazed over I ended my little talk by sharing the story of finding the special shampoo and how I hoped this would remind their father of those happy hippy times. Whether from the aroma of the shampoo or as a result of my stories, the kids rushed to tell me they had plans for dinner and sleepovers with friends or relatives or anyplace but home. Perfect!
When Bill arrived home I cuddled up next to him with my head in a position that assured he would get a snoot full of the aroma of my hair. Well, he did get a snoot full, and then he sneezed several times. He asked what the heck was in my hair and I, in return, still hoping against hope that he would remember, asked him whether that aroma brought anything to mind. He sniffed again, a bit less enthusiastically this time, shook his head, and said those romantic words that have stayed with me all these years, “It sure does, it smells like the flea shampoo we use on Ruffy (our golden retriever). What in the world is that stuff?”
I threw out the shampoo and the incident has become a recurring joke in our house. For many years when something smelled bad, Bill or the kids would ask whether I was trying to take Bill back to his hippy days with the Herbal Essence again.
And now I continue with another tale, more cautionary than the first, that begins with these words of wisdom: Should you notice that your partner seems to be admiring blondes on the computer screen more than brunettes, and you are a brunette, do not rush out to change your hair color without speaking to your partner about the situation.
When I decided that maybe Bill would be turned on if I would go blonde, I called my sister. She is one of those women who has a way with her hair and has been coloring her hair since she was a teenager. I called to ask what I needed to buy to take my hair from its natural dark brown to blonde. She was quite insistent that I should not go blonde, saying it would look like hell. Yes, those were her exact words. Knowing me well, she figured I would do it anyway so she told me to sit tight, she was on her way to pick me up and we were going wig shopping.
We piled into her car, taking along my then teenage daughter. Our daughter is autistic and seldom sees the world from a cheery standpoint, but she is unerring in speaking the truth as she sees it. If you want an honest opinion, she’s your gal. My sister insisted that my daughter would be the judge on how I looked as a blonde because we both knew she wouldn’t pull any punches, and how right my sister was. We went to a high end wig shop where I tried on all shades of blonde wigs. My daughter’s eyes rolled back in her head, she started snapping out the words, “No, no, hell no!” What a terrific time we had, except for that part where I was laughing so hard I almost wet my pants. Even the sales lady laughed until she had to sit down. My sister had been right all along. People with my coloring do look like hell with blonde hair. So I remained a brunette.



After dinner that night I told Bill about my attempt to look more like the women he had been looking at on the computer screen. He just looked at me for a minute and raised one eyebrow. He said that he loved my dark hair and that it wasn’t the blonde hair he was examining on the screen, it was the boobs. He said that I set the standard for big boobs for him and he enjoyed looking at them on the screen and was amazed to see how many are now fake.

The moral of the story here is ask, don’t assume. Or at least that’s what Bill had me repeat as he spanked and spanked my bottom that night for almost going blonde.