You Call This Air?

As our tiny plane  made it's approach to the ever-shrinking River City aerodrome yesterday afternoon we were confronted by a hazy, soupy 103 degree mix of car exhaust and naturally fermented methane with a slight CO2 chaser.

What a terrible change from the clear, cool, dry high dessert air we had enjoyed at our mountain hideaway. Mistress was already conspiring to go to her Doctor for a medical excuse to work from our cabin for the duration of the summer. I had to advise her that might not set her up for a "disability" defense should her employer insist that one of the requirements of her job is actually showing up.

I know, you're expecting a political rant on "global warming". All I can say is that this must be part of God's plan for us, right? Otherwise why would he have created coal, oil, jet skis, power boats and Oil Company PACs?

We did successfully collect our sullen teen after her year abroad before heading out into the blast furnace. She seems smarter, funnier, more tolerant of her parents' BS, skinnier, and considerate. I wonder if any of that will last the week?

And once we went through the mail, briefly celebrated her return, and confirmed the death of our lawn and plants after a week of 100 degree plus sun, we were behind closed doors in our executive suite.

It had been a long travel day. and a return to the stress of life here in "reality" was a little daunting. Mistress did talk to J, who also was dealing with some "shit" as they say. I heard her suggest to him that
you need to get laid" as an antidote. And I think I have a good idea who was more than happy to accommodate that "need".  Let's hope they can arrange that soon, despite the presence of our two teens.

Once her call with J was done, it was tempting for the two of us to call it a night.

 But the aromas wafting from Mistress's now naked clean shaven folds were sending quite a different message.

Yes, we were tired. But what better way to shake off the heavy atmospheric, back to the grind stone metals we were enduring than some carnal diversion.

Mistress seemed to get the same vibe at about the same time.

"So are we going to have sex, Slave?"

"I must say those scents are distracting, Mistress."

"Well I hope so.... go put in your device, Slave..... I want it particularly hard tonight."

Of course, she was referring to the aneros, which I lubed up and slid home for her.

Then I dived right in, feasting on her. No she hadn't showered on ou travel day, but sometimes that day old brew is just what the doctor ordered. After she had her starter cum, courtesy of her Slave's avid tongue and lips, she wondered out loud, "how's my cock, Slave?"

Actually, it was more than ready for her.

Back to a Re-Loaded River City Nest

Mistress and Slave are up early here in the SW. I did have a chance to feast on her clean shaven folds in a rather spartan near the airport motel this morning, but no time for a full on wake-up sexcapade. 

Guess Slave will have to wait until we return to River City!

We did enjoy an evening in Santa Fe last night, with a lovely dinner under the stars, polished off by a combination of some caramel-soy-duck fat and chocolate-tequila ice cream that, as arranged on the plate looked down right obscene.

Once we wind our way through our forward to the past air travel system and wind up in River City, we will be waiting there a little longer at the "Airport" to await the arrival of our long traveling sullen teen, who has been studying in Europe for the year. It will be good to see her, at last, though we wonder how well she will adapt to a return to her native habitat after all those months on her own on the "continent".

One thing we know for sure: Mistress and Slave will have to pull in their horns a bit over the next six weeks on the sexual front with four prying eyes and inquisitive ears parsing our every action and sound.  Maybe we need to post this sign to remind us?

Day at the Beach

Yesterday morning, after some gratifying wake-up sex, Mistress suggested that we skip our morning bike ride and go to "the beach. "

It's the spot we've talked about before, at the end of a dusty dirt road that takes us to the rim of the Rio Grande gorge, then about a 20 minute hike down what had been a primitive road for stage coaches traversing the river back in the 1880's or so across a long washed out toll bridge.

The hot springs at the bottom of the trail have been used by everyone from ancient native American tribes to Dennis Hopper and Peter Fonda in a scene in Easy Rider.

The nice part is the lovely quiet down there, particularly in the morning, before the families, hippies and dogs find there way down the trial. The sound of the slow moving river, particularly low in light of the lack of rain in the Rockies, is a wonderful tanquilizer.

It's so much nicer than listening to redneck yahoos on their Jet-skis and power boats as they are known to do on some New England lakes over the 4th of July.

We stayed until around 1 pm or so, when the afternoon "monsoon" storm clouds began to gather and thunder rumbled down the gorge. That left us with a good chunk of the afternoon to do what Mistress and Slave do best: lolling in bed, Mistress laying back to allow her Slave to worship her clean shaven folds at her leisure, then generously giving me the chance to fuck her with all the energy I could muster. And muster I did.

After being badgered by one of those Texas wives to share a late afternoon cocktail, Mistress relented and headed off with her at about 4:30 pm to a local cantina. In her absence, Slave did some work out on our patio, watching the storm clouds and lightening dance around our mountain, delivering some much needed rain.

The sad part is that we need to hit the road back to River City this afternoon. Too short a time here, and we'll be returning to a very full nest- we will be meeting our long lost surly teen at the River City airport Saturday evening, after a year of studies overseas.

So for 6 weeks or so, until they both head off to college in late August, Mistress and Slave may have some serious style cramping to deal with.  Mistress is already a little antsy about how to arrange for those uplifting encounters with her lover J. It could be a little tough, because this surly teen is much more curious about what her Mom is up to than her older "cute co-ed" sister.

We can already imagine her cross examination "So how do you know this guy?"

Ah well.... time for Slave to slink back to Mistress in our rustic hideaway bed chamber for a last morning of suitable worship.

Pussy Whipped?

Last week Suzanne had a little piece over at All Mine on a phrase that has a certain 60's - 70's tawdry feel to me: Pussy Whipped. You can read here take, Here.

Of course, her perspective was from the purported "whipper",  how her female friends would use the word derisively to suggest maybe Suzanne had her boyfriend a little too tightly wrapped around her little finger. And of course, she also thought of it in the context of how she had her beaus "trained" to tend to her "pussy" with their lips and tongue firs,t before they could expect any reciprocal attention.

But what about from the guy's perspective. When your male buddies used the term, it was usually in the context of a guy who would rather spend his Friday evening, or some summer afternoon, hanging out with his girl-friend rather than with "the guys", maybe at a high school football game, or a pub crawl evening in college.

I can recall a crowded three room suite at my alma mater, when I would appropriate the room I shared with another fellow for an evening with a tall, sexually curious woman for some "everything but" sexual activity. My roommates, who were probably just jealous, would use terminology like "pussy whipped" when it became clear that I'd rather spend time in a horizontal position with this tall but hardly a beauty woman than get high and listen to Quadraphenia with them all night.

Of course, back in those days, Slave had hardly a hint of what real female dominance might involve. I just knew it was more fun to be with a women where there was at least a hint of sexual opportunity than with a bunch of dopey, clueless guys.

But what about the notion that Suzanne introduced: the sexual connotation of the term that suggests that "pussy worship" must always come first as the gateway for any lowly male satisfaction. 

While I was hardly reluctant to deploy that strategy in prior relationship, I have a very vivid memory of the first time Mistress and I "got together" about 24 years ago. 

We were both married to other people. She was in her mid-twenties. I was a "dirty old man" at 38. Our smouldering mutual attraction had finally gotten the better of us, and we arranged to meet at a bland suburban motel for some "private time".  That gorgeous, young Molly even brought snacks,  I can still taste in a strange way: strawberries and red licorice.

But the taste I can recall most vividly was the taste I savored as I lowered my head between those strong and shapely thighs. It was the way we started off that afternoon, and I can recall at least two cycles that triggered an addiction that lasts to this day.

And ever since, it seems we have almost always commenced any sexual engagement with me using my lips and tongue to give her that tasty starter cum, that hopefully leaves her wanting an "entre" involving my work-a-day cock.

Of course, over the years, this "worship" has become a tad more ritualized. Now I'm her Slave. I can get in big trouble if I forget to offer my worshipful services when the opportunity presents itself. And her dominance of our sexual life is reflected in our written contract and the cock cage I am sometimes required to wear (though not nearly enough according to some of our readers).

I suppose I was irreversibly changed the very moment I first tasted those luscious juices the afternoon we met in that bland outside River City. Sort of like Peter Parker and that nasty spider bite.

Does that make me "pussy whipped"?

You bet.