On "Straying".

I thought I would take a break from the day to day sexual antics here at the UCTMW World HQ and flashback a bit, inspired by a post a few days back by Sin on the subject of men and their proclivity to “stray”.

Sin’s theory was that men crave “variety”, which may be supported by the old biological imperative to sow those dna particles wide and far.

Of course, Sin’s not the only one talking about this subject. The recent public meltdown of a certain New York Congressman got tongues wagging on the subject “what is it about these guys”.

The New York Times had an article Sunday, linked here http://www.nytimes.com/2011/06/19/fashion/scholars-discuss-weiners-behavior.html?_r=1&ref=anthonydweiner, which trots out some experts to speculate on why the male political class tend to get caught with their dicks twisting in the wind. As one “expert” opines, “Most people who get as far as he’s gotten are high testosterone people … Along with that ambition comes a high sex drive.” Another Prof claims that “men, particularly successful men, have an evolutionary history of polygamy.”

Of course, for folks like Mitt Romney, that history is only a generation or so removed.

But, Mick, you ask, isn’t this kind of boring?

Next you’re going to be talking anthropology, and we’re going to look elsewhere for our fun.

Okay, lets get a little more personal.

Let me talk from personal experience.

Back in the day – I’m talking late 60’s up until I discovered Molly  in 1988– Mick was a bit of a Wiener, so to speak. But of course that was before Twitter. I didn’t do my talking by text message. I did it the old fashioned way, one slap and tickle at a time.

When Mistress and I had our own crisis abut my fidelity, which led to my signing the contract that gives title to this blog, I found the need to consult with a psychologist here in River City.

I picked a woman I had dealt with in a professional capacity. Someone who specialized in sexual matters. But a grandmotherly type who I knew who call things straight and not tell me what she thought I wanted to hear.

One of my first “homework assignments” was to prepare a list of all the women I’d had sex with in my adult life.

I figured this would be easy, but as I started writing, I started remembering, and the list got longer. And longer.

It made for an ugly pattern.  While a few were one or two night stands, most were real relationships, extending for months or even years, and overlapping with other relationships.

I traveled more for business in those days. So there were women in Chicago. New York. DC.

You get the picture.

Am I sounding like Rif Dog?  Well there was some of that to it, but I was not nearly as swaggering-ish about it. And that was before anything like Ashley Madison which facilitated off-line hookups.

Man, I had to work to find these “opportunities”. And I worked to keep them alive.

Keep in mind that most of these encounters happened during the time I was involved with or married to my first wife. With the one exception that Molly knows about, I’ve stayed “on the wagon” during my involvement with her, since 1988.

So what explained my proclivity to “stray” in those days?

At the time, I had some bad examples for “heroes” in politics and popular culture. JFK.  James Bond. It was cool to make oneself available to the ladies, wasn’t it?

And my father had modeled some of this behavior. Think Don Draper, but in the insurance business. I’d seen some evidence of his straying when I was a teen.

Of course, I had a rather cocky attitude: If a woman came onto me, who was I to deny them the opportunity to be with the one and only Mick Collins.

I suppose my marital life was a tad dull. Certainly not like with Molly. But is that really an excuse? Couldn’t I have worked harder at bringing some adventure home?  Of course I could have.

When I went over the list with my Psychologist, she rolled her eyes a bit. The phrase “sex addict” came up. But she seemed to back away from that diagnosis. It seemed that while I had a high count, she’d seen a lot worse. And that fact that most of mine were actual relationships discounted that diagnosis.

After some session she focused on the type of relationship I had with my Mother. She was distant, self-absorbed. Not particularly affectionate.  (Think Rose Kennedy here).

Was my need  to seduce other women  fallout from my  desire to find the affection that my Mother supposedly denied me? And practice made perfect. I had become a bit of a seduction machine, apparently sending off signals that made the next conquest all the easier than the one before.

Mingle that with the higher testosterone that may have come with the territory – after all I was apolitical activist, though I never pulled the trigger on running for office myself – and you have a toxic mix.

The good part about my time with the Psychologist is that I had a better idea of what led to this behavior. That more clinical understanding helped me back up and see the harm and anxiety I had caused others – particularly Molly, but my first wife too, and some of the women on that list.

And it also helped me admit what a reckless, inconsiderate asshole I had been.

No one wants to be an asshole, right?

So Sin, at least or me, it was a bit deeper than “variety”.

Past Our Bedtime / HNT

Mistress was spared having another “take daughter to work day” yesterday, which was also a break for me: no cage, and a chance to ride to and from work with her.

She even stopped by for lunch. But apparently I was not quick enough to take the hint.

When she arrived at my office, I was on a rant about something, can’t recall what now, and we talked on the subject, distracting me from what should have been the primary task at hand. As I reached for my jacket, ready to leave for lunch, I realized that something important had been neglected.

“Oh… would you like me to worship, Mistress….”

“I was wondering when you might ask, Slave….I’ve been pacing here waiting for you, a little on edge….”

Interesting. Maybe Mistress now gets a little pavlovian response when she enters my office, her cunt anticipating what should be coming up next. My distraction had been a subliminal source of frustration for her.

Love it.

I quickly acted to correct my error, shutting the door, sliding the chair into place and taking the proper position – on my knees – to lavish her with the soothing attentions of my tongue and lips.

A little work on my part took the “edge” off, and we were soon headed to lunch on our public square on what was a mild if blustery day, a little window of opportunity between thunderstorms.

At home after work, Mistress was worshipped again before we headed for a bike ride. Then Mistress stopped by her Mother’s house (just up the street) for a walk with her, as I hunkered down at home to fix a little sandwich and watch the President’s speech.

Mistress was back at about 8:30 or so, and we lingered downstairs in front of the TV, until I could take no more of the grousing from left and right about his plans to back our troops out of Afghanistan.

Not fast enough. Too fast. Accelerated timetable needed. No timetable. Argh. The Whipsawing was impressive. Maybe Rachel should run for President and solve all this for us, right? I wanted to scream, but then Howard Dean was already doing it for me.

We headed upstairs to the “Executive Suite”, hunkered down in bed, both with our lap tops out , Mistress responding to some emails – including a quite if exasperated one from Aisha – let’s hope she survived that tornado warning. We were teetering on the edge of “calling it a night” or “night cap” sex.

I won’t go into the details of what tipped us in the direction that makes my continued writing worthwhile here. Suffice it to say, the feeling was mutual.

“Slave… I know it’s a little late…. Go put in your device (the aneros)… you may need a little extra for after hours activity….”

True, that little sucker can be like a “booster” rocket, particularly when Slave is tuckered out. And being told what to do in that commanding tone adds a bit to the erotic stew.

As I slid back into bed, Mistress’s soft fingers made a beeline for my already thickening cock. We snuggled close, my hand diving between her legs, sliding through those moist clean shaven folds.

I was already getting close as her hand worked me with a slow, sensuous fervor.

“Would you like me to lick, Mistress?”

“Not now, Slave…. this is nice, don’t you think….”

The question soon became whether her fingers or mine would win the race of driving the other one over the edge first.

I was determined not to blink, or pull away…. And on this occasion, it was my fingers that prevailed, as Mistress bucked and moaned through a nice little starter cum.

“Would you like to fuck me now, Slave?”

“Uhhh, yeah… I thought you’d never ask, Mistress…”

On "Variety".

Summer has arrived here in River City. We are more than a week into “school’s out” and a bit frazzled about it.

Sullen teen # 1 is on an even keel, low maintenance, getting ready for her college experience, with some trips with friends and family thrown in. It seems she will only be making cameo appearances here at the world HQ over the next few weeks.

Sullen Teen # 2 is a whole different story.

She just finished her junior year, but will be overseas for her senior year, studying abroad. And since she seems to have forsaken all the “boring” and “loser” friends she had accumulated in high school,   she is in our face (more typically Mistress’s face) just about 24/7.

Combine that with some prep she must do to be able to graduate on time (two on-line courses), scrambling to visit some colleges she may lower herself to apply to, and arranging for a visa and medical clearance for a year abroad, well…. she has become a full time  job for poor Molly, and to a much lesser extent for me.

This can throw a monkey wrench into the more indulgent lifestyle that Molly and Mick have become accustomed to here in River City.

With Teen #2 deciding she is best working on her on-line studies at Molly’s office, and constantly poking her head in to her mother’s work space, well that has certainly cut down on chances for Mistress to engage in those occasional smutty conversations with the WC.

And it also means we’ve been driving separately to work over the past week, depriving us of that morning and afternoon decompression time.

And, let’s not forget the infernal cage that Mick is required to wear when we drive separately.  Ouch.

The teen’s trips to Mom’s office have also put a damper on Mistress’s visits to my office for our little mid-day worship sessions. (“Where are you going?... and why can’t I come? Can we stop for ice cream on the way?)

But there was a brief respite yesterday. At mid-morning, the teen discovered she needed to go to the MD’s office for one of those TB tests so he could sign off on her visa paperwork. That meant she borrowed my car from my downtown garage, and gave Molly a few hours of relative solitude to do her “real” job, and also visit me without her little “shadow”. I was more than happy to turn over the keys.

Mistress arrived at my office shortly after lunch, dressed for business in an elegant cotton dress, her legs bare. As we talked about our mutual exasperation with the teen, I was already positioning the chair against my door, draping the maroon blanket, and otherwise preparing her “throne”.

As I gently kissed her lips, the taste and aroma was just a little bit different, exotic maybe….I filed it away to mull over.  But the difference got me thinking about the post Sin had made the other day about men who “stray”. Her theory was it’s about “variety”, that somehow men get a little bored or stale with the same old, same old. (or  same young, for that matter).

I don’t  exactly agree. Maybe it’s something I need to write about later, in the context of my own “wild oats’ days during my first marriage.

But suffice it to say that since it had been a while since Mistress had stopped by my office, and this odd new taste and scent, it all seemed a little different, new and … exciting to me.

But of course there was the cage.

 As I knelt to worship, inhaling the musky scent that mingled with the new aroma I had detected, my cock stirred, strained and banged up against it’s restraining steel.

Double Ouch.

And although I knew it was Mistress here doing what we had done many times before, it was hard not to imagine doing this for the first time, the risk of it, the submissiveness of being on my knees, focusing only on her pleasure. I even imagined  that Mistress had dispatched someone else, a friend maybe, a business colleague, or maybe a “babysitter”, like Tammy over at All Mine has for the weeks when Suzanne is overseas this summer.

That musing didn’t help the cage situation at all. I should have been thinking about who would be starting on the mound for the home team that night.

Fortunately, my highly trained and experienced lips and tongue, were already busily engaged, and soon Mistress was more than satisfied, her hips rising off the chair, her head gently clunking against my door, little muted gasps coming from those full, lush lips.

We drove home, and on the way home chatted with Donna about the reactions to her wonderful posting here yesterday. They commiserated a bit about some human resource issues here at UCTMW World Enterprises.

By the time we got home, I made sure to offer to worship Mistress again before our evening bike ride. But first, as  my mouth lingered at Mistress neck as I unzipped her dress, I asked about that new taste / scent.

“Oh…. I didn’t think you’d notice…. It’s something I wore in college… “White Shoulders.”  I used it when we were in Europe, then put it on this morning because I figured I wouldn’t see you today until we got home…”

It’s funny isn’t it, how a little change can make an intriguing difference?

It wasn’t until after Mistress was worshiped again, lying across our bed, me kneeling on the floor, that she remembered the cage, and reached for the little key.

“Poor slave….”

Actually, I have it pretty good.

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