An Unanticpated Injury

Here in River City, its been getting a little cooler. Mistress is not quite ready to make the shift to the tights that can drive her Slave wild. But she was wearing these rather foxy boots when I cam home Monday.  I thought her fans out there would enjoy them.

And though she’s been working from home over the last few weeks, She was downtown at lunch time yesterday, so stopped by for a little in office attention from her Slave.  It was a nice break for me from a rather tedious day behind the desk to close my door, pull up the chair and let her recline in her throne while I did what a Slave does best.  And one upside was having her juices coating my face to remind me of her for the rest of the day.

She actually got home later than me yesterday, and when she returned I suggested we go out for dinner at a new local restaurant to celebrate our 20^th Anniversary of cohabitation, and also a new client acquisition for her.

She mentioned that Francois has plans to stop by for a visit in the morning, which led to some smutty talk about what he might have in mind for her.  And we called Donna to confirm the arrival time for her and Bill for tomorrow’s big staff meeting here at the UCTMW World HQ.

AS we were sipping wine and preparing our final agenda (and menu) for that big meeting, Mistress got a little text message.

“It’s Francois…. He said his foreskin has a tare….”

Yow!. This was new territory for those of us more familiar with Cocks Americaine.

Of course, this led to some speculation at his expense. At first, I wondered if he was doing what some old college football coaches do…. Diminishing expectations before the big game.  Lou Holtz had a million of those poor mouthing lines at his disposal, though I don’t recall him ever complaining about a foreskin injury that could hobble  his offensive line.

Donna was still on the line. When we reported this sudden injury to her she wondered whether “He’s just saying that so Molly will kiss it to make it better.”  Molly punctured that balloon.

“He knows I’d be happy to kiss it with or without an injury.”

Mistress sent a text message back to Francois… “How did that happen”, but we never got a clear answer. This sent us down a list of possible suspects:

-       errant zipper?

-       Caught in electric razor as he was having his pubes trimmed?

-       Mistakenly slid into kitchen garbage disposal?

-       Mixer goes rogue while he’s making chocolate confections in the nude?

-       Vacuum cleaner accident?

-       Babaette has sharp teeth?

-       Snagged on ring on his right hand?

Of course, the potential  explanations are endless. If any of you have some suggestions, please chime in.

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An Anniversary at UCTMW

Mistress reminded me over the weekend.

“It will be 20 years on October 4^th, Slave.”

And of course, junky that I am, I related it to a little political history.

“Damn…. That’s right, just around the time Bill Clinton started his campaign for President.”

Dumb, huh.

For us, the more important event this week in 1991 was our mutual decision to, “go public”,  move in together and make a go of it as a couple.

We’d been seeing one another since the preceding election cycle, brought together, by our mutual efforts for that short Greek guy in the tank.

There was that steamy week in Atlanta, July 1988.  We still have this dorky little souvenir on our kitchen counter.

We must have sweated about 20 gallons in those long humid nights together, so thoroughly entwined it was hard to tell where one of us began and the other one ended.

Plus I got to shake JFK Jr.’s hand, and Mistress got hit on by Claiborne Pell.

That fall, the Greek lost to Mr. “Points of Light”.

Years  passed. We furnished a little downtown “love nest” with a Pier One futon bed and cast off furniture, meeting for lunch, or on Sunday mornings. Mistress was the one in the ropes in those days.

We had our ups and downs. She probably dumped me half a dozen times. It was hard, married to other people as we were.

But somehow, that magnetic attraction, and an inextinguishable love prevailed, and overcame.

By the summer of 1991, Mistress found herself with child.  We knew it was time to put up or shut up.

So we developed a scheme (as they’d call it in London) that required  coordinated disclosures, and escape from our respective domestic arrangements.

And of course it was hard.

Very hard.

Both of our spouses claimed they had no clue. (Hard to believe, even now.) Mine took it harder than Molly’s. And there were my two daughters to tell, and reassure that I would still be in their lives.

Very hard stuff.

My late brother became a co-conspirator, at least to the extent of offering us shelter that first night on the lam from our first marriages.  And I can still recall the sublime pleasure of coming together with Molly that night in his guest room, 20 years ago today, after the news finally had been broken.

Our lives had profoundly changed. There was joy, relief, and guilt, and a good helping of fear about how things would resolve themselves.

But sliding into bed together, finally public after years of furtive couplings, was a joy that is hard to express, even now, 20 years on.

In many ways it seems so long ago, and still, only yesterday.

That child Molly was carrying is now a freshman Co-ed, as lovely as her Mom.  Another one came along, born only a week after I finally concluded what became a very unpleasant divorce. Now she’s discovering how to use the train system in Europe with her international friends.

I will always be grateful that my two older daughters stuck with me, and remain very close.

And here Molly and I are, still together, closer than ever, enjoying our empty nest, so much water under the bridge, but looking forward to adventures a plenty in the years to come.

I’m one lucky Slave.

Parenting Takes Precedence

Here at the UCTMW World HQ our switch day got somewhat hijacked Sunday.

Just as I was about to come upstairs and “do my worst” to Mistress she was heading down the stairs.  Our sullen teen #2, off in Europe for the school year, was on Skype. Lucky for us, She had finally found the time to talk to her Mother about the processing of her many college applications, which needs to occur over the next month or so. And so Switch Day was suspended, since every now and then the obligations of parenting rear their head, even in this empty nest.

What ensued was a long, cute rambling conversation that lasted on and off through the morning and afternoon. Subjects ranged  from where to apply, what her essays would cover, the new Amazon I-pad knock-off, and how her “girls” (the two gray cats left behind) were doing.

The technology that allows your daughter’s head to appear before you from Europe, and look all over our living room is pretty amazing. Grandma stopped by to say hello. We got a chance to talk to her temporary “mom” and “sister”, who passed through the scene. And she seemed a little disappointed not to be able to join me and her older sister as we headed off to watch the local NFL team stage an improbable last second victory.

“Could you bring a lap top to the game, set it on the seat, and let me watch too?”, she asked, probably only half in jest.

But don’t feel too sorry for Molly and old mick.  There was a break in the trans-continental chatter when our daughter paused for one of those grand European Sunday lunches with her extended family.  Of course, we had to fit in a bike ride too.

But there was also time for a brief respite in our bed. And at least to replicate switch endeavors, I reached under the bed for the trusty Hitachi Magic wand.

Mistress’s eyes lit up. Her power tool had been gathering a little dust of late.

She laid back, and I slid the churning device, set on low between those strong and smooth thighs, which she spread wide for me without even the benefit of a little rope.

Soon she was squirming, her hips rising off the bed to follow the wand when I eased it up just a bit.

She does wanton oh so well.

“Do I need to ask permission, Slave….”

That’s SOP here on switch day, but I sense that Francois is programming this notion even deeper with his on going “conditioning” of her.  I will be interested to see if he can achieve the Holy Grail, and make Mistress cum on command.

“I think that’s the protocol, Mistress.”

And yes, soon the squirming reached a crescendo, and she begged.

“Please, may I come, Slave….”

I am pretty indulgent, so I did not withhold consent…. Just a beat….

“Yes, Mistress…. Go for it….”

And within seconds, she tipped over the top, moaning and thrusting against the tool like a horny little slut.

Nice show, Mistress.

After she came down, she turned her attention to my work-a-day cock, deploying the oral skills that she has been focusing on of late to turn me into the one who was begging.

Lucky for me, she was in a generous mood.

A Tell Tale Mark

Mistress was still feeling a little under the weather yesterday morning, but after I worshiped her as she read the blog, she very generously let me partake of her delights. Yes, as Jay mentioned in a comment yesterday, I am a very lucky Slave.


Afterwords, we went for a somewhat abbreviated bike ride (it's gotten too cold too fast here in the heartland), and then were heading out for some errands - Mistress with sullen teen #1, and me with one of my very cute grandsons.

But as Mistress was sliding into some foxy panties, I noticed something that I must have overlooked earlier this week.

"Is that a bruise on your ass, Mistress?"

She was curious, but had trouble seeing what I was referring to. I moved in closer, running my fingers over the little red marks on her  firm left cheek.

"Maybe that spanking from Francois left a little more than a rosy glow, Mistress...."

"Hmmm.... could be Slave."

Did I skip this part earlier in the week. When Mistress had her little rendezvous with her new part time Dom last week, she reported rotating through a variety of positions.

"I was riding hic cock, Slave.... and he was spanking me."

"Was that a turn-on, Mistress?"

"You could say that, Slave....."

It seemed only fair to take a few photos to share this sight with our curious readers.  Here's one of Mistress leaning over the bed.

Can you see the red marks on the left?

They are a little hard to see in this light, aren't they?

So try this photo, a little more contrast, a little closer up:

Poor Mistress.