Mistress Asks Permission

We woke here a little early Sunday morning, debating whether to load our bikes onto the car and travel north twenty miles for one of our more epic bike trails. But inertia prevailed…. We decided to keep our ride closer to home, and spend the time that would have been spent in the car on more typical Sunday morning  pursuits….

“So we can do switch day now Slave, rather than later….”

 Mistress immediately began to wonder whether her gung ho reminder of my contractual rights  was a good idea, as I reached for our little bag of tricks and pulled out the leather wrist cuffs and their tiny locks.

"Ohhh.  I guess that was stupid of me, Slave...."

Now it was a little chilly outside  here on the cusp of the mountains Sunday morning.  Our high altitude and a front from the north that cleared away the clouds probably had the temperature in the 40s when this conversation was going on, so I decided to spare Mistress an early morning bound “perp walk” out to a convenient outdoors pillar or post.

Instead, I locked her cute little red cuffs on, and tied them off to the corners of our bed, with Mistress on her stomach.

She had worn some semi-transparent undies to bed, and they looked so cute I paused to take a photo….

 I reached for  the riding crop, conveniently placed near the bed, and gave her a few light smacks over her undies before sliding them off and over her lovely feet…. Still in the black socks she had worn to bed for a little extra warmth after our night on the dance floor.

With her bottom suitably exposed, it was time to pick up the crop again. But since she’s been a very good Mistress on this trip, I laid down next to her, rather than stand at the side of the bed, sliding  one hand under her hips to fondle and delight, while the other applied the crop intermittently.  It didn’t take long before Mistress’s ass was rising and falling nicely, switching from side to side, and taking on a nice rosy glow.

Of course, the Hitachi magic wand was also at the ready, and it seemed like a good time to put it to use, switching it on and sliding it between those strong and supple thighs.

“Don’t forget to ask permission, Mistress.”

She worked herself into a lovely frenzy, humping her favorite power tool, while pulling at the ropes that restrained her arms.

:May, I Slave….”

“May you what, Mistress?”

(I can be a tease, can’t I?)

“Come, Slave…. may I please Come?”

(Love that hint of desperation in her voice.)

“Yes, Mistress…. You can come now….”

Given the green flag, she let it rip, building herself to one of those mega-cums that had he sobbing, tears welling in her eyes. 

I felt the pride of a job well done.

But of course by now, the work-a-day cock was more than anxious to joint the fun. I let Mistress recover a bit, then mounted her from behind, sliding into her moist folds gently at first, then with more gusto, until I had Mistress moaning into her pillow for another couple of orgasms.

By the time I released her wrists and turned her over she seemed to have had a full dose of switch day satisfaction, if I do say so myself.

Your Boyfriend's In Your / Our Bedroom

Molly and Mick had yet another “productive” day here in the High Desert, which is beginning to feel all the more like home. Left to our own devices, we’d move here at the drop of a hat. But there are still two lonely cats at home, and daughters to get through college, so at some point we will gas up the UCTMW mobile unit and head back to River City.

But in the meantime…. Our day began with some early morning wake up sex, then a trip to the local farmers market and grocery store to stock up on provisions for a dinner we are hosting tonight for some local friends, as well as a couple from River City driving through this neck of the woods.

After re-stocking the larder, we took our daily bike ride, in weather that is a little damper and cooler than typical this time of year. Bracing was the best way to describe it. So it made sense of us to take a warm shower afterwards. In the shower one thing led to another (actually it was the tight grip Mistress had on my cock that led us back to bed).

I worshipped her with my usual devotion, and she returned the favor by a long and frustrating tease of my cock with those well manicured fingers. Fortunately, she ultimately succumbed to my begging for permission to fuck her.

After all, she is a very kind Mistress.

After a little post-orgasmic snooze, we were back to an afternoon (and later an evening) at the final day of the Big Barn Dance.  As a nearly full moon rose over the Mountains, the  chairs were cleared off what amounted to an old high school basketball floor, laid down under a big damn tent, and the locals and visitors were all twirling and whirling on one big counter clockwise promonade to the waltzes and western swing music performed by an all-star cast of pickers, fiddlers and crooners.

It was a sight to behold. Although Molly and Mick got a little dizzy trying to keep up with the more accomplished dancers. With us on the floor it amounted to an elaborate game of bumper cars, set to a C&W soundtrack.

Which gets me back to the title of today’s “essay”. One of the artists we saw was Chick Cannon, a singer / songwriter from Nashville. He has a voice that channels Leon Russell, and a collection of clever songs that border on gospel.

One if his songs is "Boyfriend” (listen with the link). The gist is “Your boyfriend’s in your bedroom”, but, alas, the lady in question is lusting after another man, and trying to come up with a way to get the boyfriend out of her bedroom. It is a sort of  gender reversed “50 ways to leave your lover.”

The other day, Suzanne over at All Mine had a thoughtful entry on when and how jealousy raises its head in a cuckold relationship, that got an interesting variety of comments. Make sure you read it if you haven't yet had the chance. 

Suzanne, Tammy and Jay seem to keep it all together ( of course ,with some help from Suzanne’s crackerjack domineering babysitting crew), but even in their idyllic polyamorous household, one senses that Tammy can get a little twinge of jealousy on occasion. Her wife seems to monitor and respond as called for to keep him comfortable, and part of the team.

After listening to all these country songs for the last few days, one realizes how “out there” we are from "red state" America when it comes to inviting another person into our bedroom. There are songs of vengeful jealousy (Ray Wylie Cyrus’s narrator deploys a switchblade on a honky-tonk dance floor in one sad “I deserve to be in prison but don’t regret what I did to get here” ditty). And there are quite a few wallow in my misery over the girl who left me tunes (“You’ve got a Lover and It’s Not Me”, by Shake Russell comes to mind).

But I can’t recall any celebratory songs along the lines of “It Turns Me on When that Cowboy Slides His Hand Up Your Thigh On the Dance Floor, Honey”.

And yet…. Old Mick can’t deny that Mistress’s adventures over the last two years haven’t thrown some fuel on our mutual fires. It's just a kink that Nashville has somehow avoided, maybe the equivalent of the third rail for the music industry.

We discussed the subject of our dabbling in the cuckold kink a tad last night as we watched the dancers twirl, skirts flaring, and boots scuffing across the floor.

“All this other stuff just reminds me how strong our relationship is, Slave….”

I agree Mistress…. It only works when there’s a whole lot of trust and security…. And we’ve got that.”

In spades.

Is it too late to start writing and pitching songs with a cuckold twist? Maybe the Dixie Chicks could record, “He’s My Clean Up Man”,  or “Better Knock First, (Before You Come to Bed, Honey)”, or something along those lines?

Snake Farm

It turned out we made our trek to the top of New Mexico just in time on Wednesday.

Over the last two days the weather has taken an unusual twist and turn, with clouds and generous rain down here at 7000 feet, after a long summer’s draught. And when we woke on Friday morning, once the cloud cover cleared, we could see the first snow of the season up on the summit where Slave had “grazed” just 36 or so hours earlier. Not sure that Mistress’s tender tush would have felt  inclined for worship if parked in a snow bank. Or that these humble hikers would have taken on that challenge in the event of snow and ice.

“Sorry, left the pitons back in River City, Mistress”, would have been my lament.

So we woke with still sore thighs in Friday, reminding us of that long slog up and back, and making us all the more grateful for a little extra time in bed, doing what is our highest and best use, particularly for our readers here at the UCTMW media empire.

We were also glad finally to hear from our Senior Correspondent, Donna, back from her investigative reporting adventure to La Domaine. We are counting on a comprehensive accounting, Donna. And feel free to do it like Aisha, teasing it out over several episodes rather than getting to the good parts post haste. After all, we  want to get our money’s worth from all that extravagant tab you ran up on the company Amex card.

But what does this have to do with snakes, you might be asking?

Well one thing that has kept Mistress and her loyal Slave up past our normal bedtime these last two nights is the “Big Barn Dance” music fest, just down the road on the grounds of our local roadhouse. It’s an annual event that the hassle of tending to high school girls has never allowed us to attend, until this year.

Out here there is an amazingly vibrant music scene. Lots of genres. But the one that gets us going is what could be described as “Western Americana”. The Barn Dance drags folks in primarily from Texas, Colorado and New Mexico, with a few folks who hale from Nashville too, but are more rootsy C&W, not the kind you hear on the radio.

The performers are the grizzled, cranky, drink and live a little too hard  types you might recall from the movie “Crazy Heart”,  filmed in these parts, but with all the scars and festering wounds of the heart that you can’t make up in a Hollywood screen play.

The audience shares some of the same characteristics, skewing older, little glamour, lots of grit. And plenty of cowboy hats and boots.

Thursday night we saw Mentor Williams, a local, way past his prime as a performer, who is still cashing royalty checks from his big hit “Drift Away”. He did a song he wrote for Alabama called “When We Make Love”, which had the corn-pony sentimental feel of Barry White with a cowboy hat, chewing tobacco.

One artist in particular hit our fancy last night, an old Texas refugee of the New Riders of the Purple Sage, named Ray Wylie Hubbard. He made no excuses for the upbringing that produced his quirky, hard scrabble story songs.

“A few years back I figured it out. I came from what we now call a "dysfunctional family". But in those days people just said the Hubbards always were fussing and drinking a lot.”

One line from his song “Drunken Poet's Dream”, nailed someone close to home:

“I gotta' woman who’s wild as Rome. She likes being naked and gazed upon.”

“He’s got you down, Mistress.”

She did not disagree.

Then there was that Snake Farm song. About a girl he "dated" who worked on a snake farm. It turns out the folks sitting beside us knew old Wylie Ray from down in Texas. Nice folks, though by River City standards their teeth could use a little work.

“Yeah…. Pretty funny…. His wife really did work on a snake farm for a spell. Now SHE had some funny stories.”

You have to listen. “Snake Farm. Sounds kind of nasty. Snake Farm. It pretty much is.”  And it rang a peculiar note of déjà vu for me.

Now call me crazy, but I had just told Mistress about a strange dream I had the night before. All this New Mexico rain had caused the flora to go a little crazy. Vines were popping up all over that were about an inch thick and had eyes and mouths like snakes. You hacked them back, but they just kept growing back, multiplying, thicker and nastier. By the time I woke up, our house was surrounded by the damn things, and we were thinking about making a break for the car. Until we saw that these “vines” had somehow wrapped themselves around our Volvo tires.

Dang.

Now where does this stuff come from. I’m thinking Nilla' and all her stories about tentacle sex. There was one just this week.  Never been much of a turn on for me (sorry ‘Nilla), but you can’t cover everybody’s kink everyday, can you?

Maybe you can write a Snake Farm story for us?

Meanwhile.... Back at the Ranch

I suppose I left you hanging yesterday, Mistress’s legs spread at 13,000 feet, her Slave on his knees, dodging rocks as I devoted myself to the addictive taste of her fragrant juices.

Well, after we both had out fill came the long trek down…. Something that is harder on the legs than the long climb up. After 7 hours on our feet, we finally made it to our car, a tad soaked from the thunderstorm that popped up just after we finished sharing our lunch with some scavenging chipmunks.

When we woke Thursday morning, we had some pretty achy leg muscles. (Which of course did not prevent Slave from gingerly fucking Mistress after she read the blog….)

“I’m not so sure I like that photo of my thighs, Slave….”

“That’s what strong and powerful thighs look like after climbing a 13,000 foot peak, Mistress…. I suspect your fans will be pleased.”

With those sore legs, we decided to pass on our morning bike ride. But Mistress had some plans for me in the afternoon.

“After you go to the grocery, I’m fucking you in the ass Slave….”

That gave me something to contemplate as I picked up some provisions. And, sure enough, once lunch was over and I checked some work emails, I was told to report to our bed, and “get me my supplies, Slave…”

I had made sure to pack her strap-on, knowing that a failure to “be prepared” might cause me to forfeit a merit badge and earn some stripes on my ass.

Once she had secured the harness and inserted her trusty dildo, she slid into bed next to me for some “priming”, then instructed me to assume the preferred position, on my belly, ass conveniently available for her.

She found her mark without much help from me.

“How’s that, Slave”, she said with her first ginger thrust.

Yeah…. She found it alright.

“Ummmm…. Fine Mistress.”

With that reassurance, Mistress went to work. She built her self to a nice impaling frenzy, and within a minute or so came with a burst of energy and a moan of delight.

I was more than happy to accommodate her.

But she didn’t stop there, just slowing a bit to catch her breath, then building to another frenzied climax.

“It’s so nice to fuck you, Slave…. did you like that?”

This as she was withdrawing from me, stepping away from the bed, and leaving her harness and it’s tool for me to clean and restore later.

“Of course, Mistress…. And would you like me to insert my device now….”

(The aneros, that I also knew I was supposed to pack.)

“Absolutely, Slave…. then get back here in bed and fuck me….”

I shook my head to refocus a bit, then climbed out of bed, and proceeded to lube up the little tool and slide it in slowly but surely.

I do know how to follow orders.

orders.