Wherefore Art Though WC?

Mistress and Slave were thrown a curve ball today.... we arrived at the Colorado Springs airport to learn that our flight to DFW was canceled. They had generously rebooked us on a flight that would leave in the morning Tuesday.

Nice.

But Slave went to work, despite some mendacity at American Airlines phone booking service, and found us an alternative flight out of Denver at 7 pm. It would get us to River City only about 15 minutes after our original scheduled arrival.

And even better, it gave us enough time to make a snap inspection of the UCTMW Mountain Zone HQ.

But when we reached out to our "head" of that office, he fell off the map. He knew we were in the area. Mistress even spoke with him on the way to Colorado Springs.  But despite our attempts to contact him and ask him to ferry us to Denver in the high priced company vehicle he's been tooling around in all these years.... Nada.  He disappeared into the internet ether.

Or did he? Could he have been surreptitiously checking his management team out all along as we waited for our flight? Check out this photo I took of a mysterious guy who seemed to be tailing us this afternoon, in a Bronco Jersey....

Sad Sunset For Our Summer

Molly and Mick are packing up for the long trek home this morning. Just a little time left for some wake-up sex before we hit the road for the airport, and return to the grind in River City for a busy fall. We're finding it very hard to let go.

Mistress is as brown as a berry (are there really brown berries?) after all that naked sunbathing this week. She gave the bears quite a show. In fact, yesterday morning woke to her perusing the internet for those "scandalous" photos of Kate Middleton caught in the south of France with her little princess boobies showing.

Of course, it's hardly a scandal for a upper crust English 20 something to be seen sunbathing topless in the south of France. Mistress and Molly took a trip there some years ago and learned that it is quite customary for proper English chicks, even moms with their children, to take the waters topless along the Mediterranean beaches, let alone when in the seeming privacy of their Provence villa. After seeing a such a vast collection of pasty Anglo-Saxon boobs of various dimensions, one began to pine for the days of more expansive bathing costumes.

Nor should Kate have been surprised that the paparazzi was lurking about, hoping to catch her with her tops down.  Isn't that their job? Maybe one way to preserve their privacy would be to schedule  a boob flashing photo op for all comers at the start of the holiday, in hopes that the "photo journalists" would have their fill, then move on to other matters, like the cat fight between President Hollande's ex and his current squeeze.

With the photos of Kate's royal breasts in mind, it was an odd coincidence then that as we hiked into the Rio Grande gorge yesterday around noontime for a final day at the "beach", we caught sight from the winding trail two nude bathers wallowing in the natural hot springs at the side of the river.

I did a bit of a double take.

'Is she giving him a blow-job, Mistress?"

We both squinted into the light reflecting off the river.

"Not sure, Slave...."

They did seem intertwined, her head dipping  towards his lap.... but at that distance, hard to tell.  Taking on the role of intrusive paparazzi, Slave whipped out his I-phone, just as she came up for air, and snapped the following shot.

But for the beard, I might have been able to pass this off to the tabloids as Prince Harry goes randy again.

Bummer.

Mick and Molly on Dining Out Etiquette

We had an excellent day here in our hideaway. Work chores had subsided, and after our "wake-up" sex we ventured out with a back-pack and some packed lunches to enjoy our environs - a hike to a local waterfall up in the mountains behind us, and then some "beach time" sunning and reading in the Rio Grande gorge. Mick even soaked his aching bones (from all the bike riding this week) in a toasty natural hot springs that you can see Dennis Hopper and Peter Fonda frolicking in with some hippie chicks if you have an old copy of Easy Rider around.

After a nap and some pre-dinner sex back in the UCTMW branch office, we headed to dinner at a new restaurant up in the hills a few miles from here, tucked into an old adobe building along a creek that a young couple had recently renovated. It's past tourist season here, so when we arrived we discovered only another table of diners in this cozy dinging room. They appeared to be an older lady (maybe in her mid-60's), her somewhat older husband, their daughter and another man, who may or may not have been the son-in-law.

Now oddly enough I had gotten an email I perused from Zagat.com earlier in the day setting out some obvious rules on "dining etiquette" when out at a "fine dining" restaurant. Here is a link.

One of the "rules" had something to do with table talk:

"With restaurants packing people together like sardines, it's inevitable that diners are going to overhear snippets of conversations from neighboring tables, so when you're rubbing elbows with the table next to you, keep it clean!" The advice was to avoid subjects like medical procedures and potty training....

So maybe my antenna were a little too highly tuned.  But it was a small room, and maybe voices carried against the hard adobe walls and rock floors. Or maybe Mistress and Slave are just too nosy, but....

We ordered and were digging into the tasty smoked trout appetizer when we overheard the older lady launch into a story from her husband's days as a high school basketball coach:

"There was this one player.... well he was really 'well endowed' if you get me, and one day, during a game all that equipment just .... popped out..... you should have seen all the jaws drop."

At about that point, both of our jaws dropped.

But the subject did not then change to who won the big game. No, the focus remained on what grammy kept describing as this player's "enormous dong."

She repeatedly came back to the underutilized resource angle here: what a waste it was that this man, as he grew older, lived with his mother.

"I mean why keep that thing to yourself....."

At that point Mistress whispered to me: "Well, at least the WC did not withhold his special occasion cock from the world like this sap. "

One of the men, using a softer tone, must have said something about not really paying attention to  such things, but she would have none of it.

"Oh, I've heard  you guys say there's some sort of 'code' where you don't look at each others cocks in the locker room, or when you take a pee, but I don't believe it, don't you want to know what the competition has going for it?"

Apparently to prove this point, she launched into a story about a girl in her high school class who, compared to her "dinky" breasts, had some ginormous "tits". There was a description of a shower sequence where our raconteur could not take her eyes of those "glistening boobs."

Dinner was lovely, and Mistress and Slave attempted to have a quiet and less provocative conversation, but it was hard not to listen in to the randy older lady next to us. At some point Mistress's ears picked up when she went on to describe the perils of a botched circumcision to a young man's love life.

"Ohhh.... do you think she's Jewish, Slave....."

"Not necessarily, Mistress."

As dinner concluded over some lovely home made blueberry ice cream, the conversation switched to politics, something Slave feels a bit more comfortable talking about in public. After I paid the check and Mistress slid off to the Loo, I stood to stretch my legs, and stepped over to share an opinion, affirming a bit of what I had heard as they laid into Mitt and his frat boy running mate.

The lady seemed a little concerned at first.

"Oh, good.... I was afraid you were going to give us some abuse and call us a bunch of crazy socialists."

"No.... "I said, as Mistress and I stepped away, " but we did find all those penis stories pretty amusing...."

But she was unrepentant.

"Oh dear.... did we spend too much time on dongs?"

Who are we to judge. Maybe I need a "Mick Collins / UCTMW" business card to share on such occasions.

Tackling Some Field Slave Duties

In between some office related tasks, our two a day sex regimen, and a bracing bike ride in a chilly wind that whipped up from the north, Slave took on some yard work yesterday.

Our "grounds" are a little wild here. Clumps of alfalfa popping up that the horse next door likes to poach. A smattering of prairie dog compounds that I have made a little less hospitable this week, and a big stand of red willow that seems to spread a little closer to our house every year. Despite the dry climate, trees and shrubs just keep growing. So every now and then Slave needs to get out my saw and pruners and wack them back. (No, please don't confuse me with Dubya. It's not exactly "clearing brush".)

I think Mistress thought I was a chewing some loco weed when I took my saw to a tree limb abutting our patio. She let me know yesterday that one of my more annoying habits is that I can get a little carried away with the task at hand and be oblivious to it's potential impact on others. And she seemed a little startled when the sucker finally came crashing down.

But in my defense, I want to point out that unlike the lumberjack wannabes over at All Mine, I did not have to make an emergency room run after this task was completed. I made sure that I was in the right location when it came time to yell "timberrrrrr".

Further, I had enough good sense to eyeball this tree's length and know that it would not even come close to disturbing Mistress in repose: