From The Smokies.... West.

After a long travel day courtesy of our “back to the future” air travel system (you know, fewer flights, more crowded, worse connections, etc.), Mistress and I made it to our beloved mountain hideaway.

On route during the 3 hour drive from the nearest airport we passed within about 20 miles of the uncontrolled wildfires threatening the home of the atomic bomb, and a stockpile for everything from nuclear weapons to barrels of refuse contaminated with all sorts of deadly substances.

If you’ve never seen a forest fire at that range, it’s an awesome and, in ways, frightening sight. Smoke billowed from peaks and ravines and long ridge lines which must have spanned 20 or 30 miles. Considering the terrain, the heat and the wind, it will be a long time before that fire is under control. That is very tough duty for the 1200 or so souls out there in the wild, battling it.

For us, the inconvenience is a haze that has settled over the mountains here, muting the normally vibrant blue skies. Donna has warned us to acquire some masks if we plan to hike or bike ride.  And we will be on the lookout. But hopefully the winds will shift and keep the smoke minimal here, about 60 miles from the active blaze. If not, we may load up our bikes and head north to Colorado where the air is likely to be fresher.

It did make for an unusually red “lipstick” sunset last night, as the photo shows. That's the end of our drive, with the setting sun framed by a latilla fence and the chimisa bushes that clutter our "yard".

Once we arrived and packed away the groceries, the first thing Mistress did last evening was strip off the travel clothes, and we settled down out on our patio to read the local paper and enjoy the sort-of-fresh air and somewhat obscured views.

Mistress looked lovely, her breasts exposed , a lovely Indian necklace I’d  gotten her at Christmas hanging between them.

And since it had been a while for both of us in the sex category, it didn’t take long for us to head back inside, cuddle up nakers under the covers and …. Proceed.

Nothing fancy or flashy. Just good old, end of the day sex in the privacy of our special place. Mistress looked particularly fetching her legs spread, arms over her head as I proceeded to use lips and tongue to give her the worship she deserved.

“I hope it’s not too skunky down there, Slave…it’s been cooped up all day traveling. “

“No problem, Mistress… you’ve been airing all of yourself out this last hour or so….”

After she writhed to a nice preliminary come, she demanded the opportunity to feed on her cock. And who was I to stand in her way?

But soon I was begging for the privilege to fuck her. And she was mercifully indulgent.

Ahhh.

After a little snooze we woke to watch the sunset in its smoked over glory and strolled our “grounds”, which show the impact of this season’s drought.  (Mistress wore that black nightie for her tour).

Today I will be clipping away some of the branches and dry brush near the house to make sure things are safe, though we have plenty of space from the forest.

Today’s Sunday… switch day here at our UCTMW branch office. Molly already knows it’s going to be naked Sunday for her…. With the exception of our bike ride and dinner with some friends.

“That sounds good Slave…. I can work on those tan lines….”

But Slave plans to throw a few curve balls into those plans.

Have a great Sunday, all.

In Transit

As you can see from this photo, Mistress is all tech-ed up here at the Minneapolis airport, where we must change planes before heading to our mountain hideaway. Lap Top for blog reading and commenting. I-phone for text messaging with the WC, and , of course, her Kindle, with it's 36 books downloaded for a full spread of vacation reading.

As we sat here, Mistress checked in by phone with the WC. Rest assured, he had already "taken care of himself" this morning. But alas, Mick and Molly are still O-less today, having gotten up at 4:45 am for our early flight.

Not that Mistress didn't do OK yesterday.

There was some worship at my office, facilitated by her need to stop by and sign some documents needed to apply for the sullen teen's study abroad visa.

Then there was worship at home before our bike ride.

Finally, the WC and Mistress arranged for a little "date" at around 8 pm our time. Just the two and them, on the phone, with Mistress deploying her trusty Hitachi.

"How many, Mistress?", I asked when she finally wandered downstairs, her bottoms missing, to where I was reading the Times, the blogs and watching the raging Maddow on MSNBC, all at the same time.

"Just three, Slave."

Tough day.

But by the time we settle into our little mountain cabin this afternoon, I'm hoping she will be ready for a little more action.

From Our Senior Correspondent: Donna Learns a Lesson or Three

 As you read this, Molly and Mick are jetting west, into the land of forest fires. Thankfully, Donna contributed this very entertaining post. You'll hear from us Sunday morning.  Have a great weekend.

I had a situation come up the other day that I had some difficulty handling. No, silly people, it wasn’t Bill, I love handling Bill when he’s up, this was something totally different.

This was a case where an acquaintance from long ago and far away, an old friend of my mother-in-law, tracked us down through the internet. There is really no nice way of saying this so I’ll just blurt it out, one of the many joys of leaving that state where we lived was that I didn’t think I would have to deal with this person again. And then, one afternoon this week, there she was on the phone. I had been expecting a call from someone else and grabbed the phone without checking caller ID: I’ve learned my lesson.

This person said she was visiting some of her relatives who live several hours from us and out of the goodness of her heart *cough-choke-gag* wanted to check on us for my mother-in-law, who isn’t able to travel.

I could see right through that but, in an attempt to keep things on an even keel with my MIL, I ended up agreeing to meet this woman at a restaurant about two hours from our home for a late breakfast. Surely, I thought, how bad can it be to spend an hour or two visiting with this woman: I’ve learned my lesson.

The woman, who I shall refer to as Mrs. Nosy from here on out, seems to derive some perverted pleasure in seeing all of life with a negative spin and takes enjoyment in sharing that negativity with anyone standing still long enough to be assaulted by her tongue, and I don’t mean that in a good way, at all. The only change in her demeanor is when she happily slips into her self-appointed role as inquisitor, attempting to snag a juicy tidbit of information to which she might apply her negative spin and then share her kicked-up version with the rest of the world. In fact, she seems to be quite zealous in that pursuit.

So there I sat in a Shoney’s Restaurant just off the interstate. Bill had dropped me off like a hot potato and headed for parts unknown, promising to return in no more than 75 minutes. We had synchronized our watches. Across from me sat Mrs. Nosy, slurping coffee and shoveling in eggs, bacon, grits and biscuits with sausage gravy. I was staring into my coffee cup, trying to avoid eye contact or any motion at all that might be construed as encouragement for her to continue speaking, especially with her mouth full.

 As I attempted to hold perfectly still, neither nodding, nor blinking, my mind returned to several comments Molly has made lately about vanilla friends seeming quite boring and focused on less interesting issues than her ever-expanding circle of BDSM friends.

With that thought, my mind suddenly shifted into survival mode and I realized that Molly had planted the seeds to handle this very situation. I would answer the questions from the inquisitor clearly and succinctly with a vanilla response but would keep from dying of boredom, or outright lying, by answering them with a more honest BDSM reply in my head.

(Mrs. Nosy) How’s Bill?

(My response) He’s fine.

(BDSM answer) He’s great, in fact he’s downright amazing as he makes me scream and cum at his command, thank you.

(Mrs. Nosy) What have you been doing lately to keep busy?

 (My response) Not much really, some reading.

(BDSM answer) Well, we recently came up with a lovely bedroom wall display for our whips, floggers and paddles that we’re quite pleased with.

(Mrs. Nosy) What about the fashions this year? What happened to well fitting garments?

 (My response)  I don’t know.

(BDSM answer) I haven’t noticed a problem. Just last month I bought a new leather bustier that fits quite well, lifting my naked breasts and giving me a shape that makes my man howl!

(Mrs. Nosy) I heard from your mother-in-law that you live way out in the woods. What in the world were you thinking, do you have any neighbors at all?

 (My response)  We have lovely neighbors.

(BDSM answer) We do have neighbors although we don’t see them as often since they arrived unannounced and found us both nude sharing a chair on the deck with my lips wrapped around Bill’s cock.

(Mrs. Nosy) Isn’t it difficult to get to a store to pick up household this and that’s when you live out so far away from town?

 (My response)  No.

(BDSM answer) We haven’t noticed a problem. We order our whips and floggers out of NY from some friends who have a dungeon and we get all of our lubes, anal plugs, dildos and other supplies from EdenFantasies.com or Amazon.com.

(Mrs. Nosy) This just seems like such a backward area, is there even anywhere decent to get anything good to eat around here?

 (My response)  I don’t really know.

(BDSM answer) Well, I always enjoy eating Bill.

Fortunately, it was right about then that Bill arrived to pick me. He saw the look on my face through the window and dashed back to the car. I quickly said good-bye, tossed some money onto the table, pressed a few extra dollars into the hand of the poor waitress and got out of that Shoney’s just as fast as I could. Bill was standing with both front and back passenger doors open. He quickly helped me into the front seat, tossed the crutches into the back, slammed both doors shut and ran around to the driver’s side at a pace that would put any Indy driver to shame. We peeled out of the parking lot, hopped onto the interstate and got the hell out of Dodge.

I won’t be agreeing to any more meetings.

I’ve learned my lesson.

Donna

.

42

We got some amused and confused comments about Mistress’s encounter with #42 (aka Bubba), back in the summer of 1988.

And while I know Sin and many others out there would have happily succumbed to his importuning, well, you had to be there.

First, keep in mind that this was the Bubba with out all the rough edges smoothed off. He’s the guy who had bored the crowd at the Democratic National Convention in Atlanta that summer with an endless homily to his own achievements, while supposedly nominating the Governor of Massachusetts for President. When he finally got to that last paragraph and proclaimed, “in conclusion”, the delegates erupted in spontaneous cheers.

He tried to redeem himself later that summer by appearing with Leno, and deploying his high school band saxophone skills for a national TV audience.

The man was no Clarence Clemons, god rest his soul.

So when Mistress, I and a good friend who was River City Mayor at the time encountered him here in River City at a reception for a group of other Democratic Governors, he was not exactly a celebrity in our eyes. More of a buffoon.

He was about 42 at the time. Molly was 25. I was 38.

His southern accent was far more pronounced than it was during his Presidential years, oozing unctuous ambition untempered with even a smidgen of humility.

As he deployed his folksy “charm”, a friend and I figured a way to sidle away from this boor, leaving poor Molly to appear interested as he droned on.



Later I got an earful at abandoning her to this redneck lothario.

.She described his assurance that while it was “Albert’s turn” (Gore) to be the “southern candidate” in 1988, he already was gearing up for 1992. Wouldn’t she like to be part of his vanguard of supporters here in the heartland?

That’s when he handed her that “Governor of Arkansas” card, scrawling his room number on the back with that little wink and broad smile we know so well all these years later.

Afterwards, we all got a laugh over his presumption. It was not until the Jennifer Flowers episode unfolded during the 1992 primary season that we realized that this was his typical modus operandi , and that in approaching the far more polished Molly, Bubba was clearly trying to extend his reach beyond the déclassé types that the Arkansas State Police helped deliver to hotel suites back in Little Rock.

AS Suzanne commented, I suspect Bubba went through quite a few business cards in his day. In fact, if Mistress had taken up the invitation that night, you have to wonder if there would have been a crowd control problem in the hotel hallway.

Of course, I realized then, and know all the more now, that I was the lucky one who got the girl that night.