Culling the Herd

The last two evenings were nice, stay at homers in our empty nest. Last night we even squeezed in a bike ride. But as Slave preped dinner and watched our local baseball squad fritter a way two chances to move on in the play-offs, Mistress was wrapped up in the amusing game of culling down the babbling herd of Ashley Madison callers.

It certainly brought to mind the comparably high skill set of the long lost Riff Dog, and his blog about how to master the very Darwinian world of on-line match making for the married set.

My guess is that when that fetching photo of Mistress's legs popped up again on AM Sunday morning, alarms went off in the baser confines of male AM addicts throughout our River Valley.  By Monday AM, Mistress's inbox was full of a variety of messages, winks, "you have an admirer" notices, and keys to "private showcases" (i.e. photos, usually lame, too often taken in a bathroom mirror so you can see the camera in their hand).

Rest assured that Mistress can be rather ruthless in quickly discarding most of these pretenders, to build a much shorter list of potential contenders.

 She sticks to her height restriction ("at least 6' Slave, because tat means they are really 5'10"".)  Plus " I hate to be superficial, but some photos ... well, I know it when I see it.")

And there are certain communication standards that can get you sent to the "trash".

Like typing "chow" as a sign off, rather than the proper Italian spelling.

Or maybe pointing out that you don't love your wife, which somehow explains why you're coming on to mine.

Mistress has been a little more elastic when it comes to age though. Tuesday night, as my team booted away the game in the 10th, she was flirtatiously chatting via Ymail with a lawyer from south of here who was only 42.

"Would that make me a cougar, Slave...."

"I'd think so, Mistress.... but who's to complain? You could certainly hold your own with a 30 year old, though I'm not sure most 30 year olds would know what to do with you. It takes some experience and know  how."

And there seems to be a few who might make the cut who live out of town, but travel here regularly for business.

"That might be interesting, Slave.... with hotel rooms I wouldn't have to worry about whether someone ever cleans their bathrooms. "

It's obvious that some of these folks are clearly looking for "daytime nooky", that doesn't fit with Mistress's busy work schedule. One potential contender got cut last night when it became clear he only was available during business hours.

"He needs a bored housewife, Slave. Not me."

Last night, as I was grilling some flank steak, we made up a spread sheet to keep the current list of contenders straight, featuring columns for name, location, age, size and "amusing characteristics", such as profession, ethnicity, etc.  There's the "Italian", from out of town; the "Swimmer" (who apparently was one of 70 or so swimmers that accompanied Molly a few weeks ago on her Rover swim); The "artist"; and the "Lawyer/musician".

Mistress's dance card could be pretty full by the time we return late next week from a trip we are taking to California on Friday.

Our Senior Correspondent In Search of an Ark

Read your post yesterday, Mick.
Not feeling so bad for you!
No sex here! No kink here! Nada. Nada. None.

If I may, a few moments to explain, please.

A week ago, just at the midnight hour, Bill and I heard a loud and terrifying sound of a great rushing of water. Within just a few minutes we figured out that a water pipe had burst between the first floor and ground floor of our cabin. In the few minutes it took Bill to get to the shut-off valve, the water covered the entire lower level, five inches deep! Bill and I live on the first floor; the lower level is divided between our daughter's apartment and Bill's library.

Needless to say, we required the immediate assistance of one of those disaster reclamation companies. It took six days to get the water out, the carpeting, vinyl and wallboard cut away, the raised bathroom floor torn up and giant fans in place to get the cement floor on the road to drying out. And now we await Phase II, the repair part of the program.

For those of you who have visited us or seen photos, you know our cabin is not large, and you may be wondering where our daughter is staying during this process. That brings me back around to the No Sex, No Kink issue. Our daughter and her six cats, yes, I said six cats, are living on the first floor, with us. Oh, and did I mention that the six cats are all indoor cats? That means litter boxes, many litter boxes.

Our daughter is a remarkable, very intelligent, autistic adult. She has always loved cats and became involved in Manx cat rescue many years ago. She has a sun-room attached to her apartment that is totally dedicated to her cats, with five huge cat trees and seven or eight litter boxes. The cats are not thrilled to be away from their kitty paradise, and while Bill and I enjoy the cats, we aren't so thrilled with the idea of multiple litter boxes inside our small space. To ameliorate both situations, Bill and Daughter attempted to create an enclosed pen for the cats and their litter boxes on our deck, accessible by a doggie door wedged into a living room window. They were somewhat successful, although it clearly adds a certain Clampet-esque look to the cabin.

Daughter has known for many years that Bill and I are kinksters. She actually thinks it's humorous that her not so young parents are part of that world. Even so, none of us would be comfortable with the idea she might overhear the flogger smacking my flesh, or my contented sighs and occasional screams. Nope, not a good thing.

But then there was a moment of hope. Monday afternoon Bill and I realized that Daughter was in the living room, completely engaged for some period of time in yet another DVD on World War II. We planted the idea that we hadn't slept well and needed to rest for a bit.  Heading for the bedroom, we gathered up the cats sleeping on and under our bed and convinced another to come out from under the dresser. We put them all out in the hallway and quickly closed the door.  We kissed and hugged one another, and managed to get undressed. We began rubbing together and getting our grove going, but every doggone time we started down the road toward ecstasy land,  yowling started up - and it wasn't me!

The cats don't seem to mind us sleeping or resting, it's when we begin to have sex that they howl and yowl like minions from hell! I'm not sure, but I suspect they harbor some animosity and resentment over the fact we had them all spayed and neutered. Since Daughter doesn't drive, Bill and I are the ones who transport them to and from the vet's office for their check-ups and shots, and I think that may be a contributing factor, too.

So how long  is the rebuilding and restoration going to take? How soon can the cats and Daughter head back to their apartment? Yesterday the contractor said it would be at least four weeks! I cried, I begged, I offered to make a batch of brownies for his crew every day, but he refused to be moved. I rolled right up to him, so close that he took a step back. I looked up into his face with my most pleading, yet intimidating, look. He swallowed loudly and said, "Ma'am, please try to understand, there's nothing I can do. These things take time." And then he dashed out the door.

I'm trying to be patient, I really am, but it's just not my forte.

Reporting from Cat Land,
Your Sexually Deprived Senior Correspondent,
Donna

Donna -- maybe you can borrow our Yurt in Wherethehelliisitstan for a few weeks until this long hideous nightmare is over!

Mick 

Cold Weather Cock Confinement

Mistress and her devoted Slave finally made it home late Sunday night. My state of randy had hardly been tempered by the 9 hour drive from Maryland. Diversions along the way included listening to my Pussycats lay an egg against the "mighty" Miami guppies, and the first inning or so of our local baseball team out on that City by the Bay.

But what kept the sexual edge on was Mistress using our mobile "hotspot" to launch some flirtations via Ashley Madison even as the paint was drying on her enjoyable but apparently over relationship with J.  She's the type of girl who believes in "getting back on the horse", and the fetching photo of her tanned legs sitting beside me in the car featured on her profile was already drawing much attention as we crossed through West Virginia and a corner of Pennsylvania.

Ah, the glories of the efficient marketplace!   Milton Friedman would be so proud!

When we pulled into the drive we discovered that our cute Co-Ed was home from college for the night. She'd traveled to a family event up in Chicago with her grandmother, and decided to return to campus in the morning.

But that did not deter Molly and Mick. After a few pleasantries were exchanged about her weekend, we announced we were heading to bed. And once our bags were unpacked, Mistress ordered her Slave to "go put in your device, Slave...."  Inserting the aneros at that point would be like shaking a bottle of Dom Perignon before opening, but WTF. Maybe Mistress was tired and figured she'd get this over quickly!

After the sort of worship that Mistress had sadly been denied all weekend, Slave was allowed to take Mistress in the traditional position. I will leave the details to your imagination. Suffice it to say that it was a great and satisfying releif to have my long 3 days of abstinence over!

By morning, Slave was more than ready for an encore, but sadly, Mistress had a very early meeting, and the alarm woke us both around 6:15 am from a dead sleep.  On her way to the shower, she reminded me that it was a cage day, since we'd be driving seperately.


I dutifully smushed my guy parts into the hard steel ring before climbing into the shower with Mistress, and once we had dried off, I fitted the "hood" over my "pampered" cock, allowing her to shut the lock.

"Thank you, Mistress", I muttered.

"It's so cute when you thank me for locking you away, Slave."

As it turned out, it was a tough day in the cage.

The first frost had settled over River City, and there's something about that steel cage and cold weather that makes my balls swell against their cruel confines. 

The drive to work was one long ouchy squirm, which did not seem to subside until after an hour or so at my desk. Luckily I also have a stand-up desk in my office, which can provide a little relief from that annoying pain as my confined balls rub against my office desk.

By the time we were home, preparing for a pre-dusk bike ride, Mistress was merciful and unlocked me. And once our riding was done I was pampered again with some rather rambunctious pre-dinner fucking after I had given Mistress's clean shaven and well exercised folds a nice tongue bath.

Mistress even rode her work-a-day cock for a while, gathering up a series of shuddering, moaning cums before Slave was allowed to harvest his own.

So while my long cold day in the cage was a tad agonizing with the arrival of the first frost, at least I was able to do some nice reaping at the end of my day!

SmutArt

Mistress and Slave are now headed back to River City, our mobile hotspot providing a link to the blog-o-sphere.  Mistress is already in her "move on" phase, and was  perusing the postings on Ashley Madison, while Slave listened to the Pussycats lose to a team they should have beaten.

And the saddest part of all is that we are still on Sexual lock-down, after two nights in a small hotel room with our sullen teen.

Unfortunately, the weather was cold and rainy on our travels today, so there was no chance for a quicky in the woods on the way home. Hopefully we will have enough pent up sexual energy by the time we hit our driveway tonight so that we need not wait until morning.

Our trip was enjoyable, though. And although there wasn't any real "action", we did see some interesting semi-erotic art at a local museum, collected by the Cone Sisters (no apparent relation to the Cone Bros.) two spinsters who hung with Gertrude Stein, Picasso and the like back in the early part of the 20th Century. No mention was made of their "orientation", but the photos with them and their ex-pat friends, taken in throughout Europe, certainly suggested that they were cutting edge for their time, likely lesbians.

In any event, this painting suggests the sort of furtive love affair that is part of the whole AM cache:

This one and the one at the top suggest the sort of fetching pose it would have been nice to see Molly in, but for our close quarters this weekend:

As for the invasive boyfriend of our daughter's roommate, well it was fortunate for him that he already had evacuated the premises by the time we dropped her back there around 1 pm today. I had been rehearsing my best stare of death and threatening insinuations.

Now with a few more hours to go, I'm just  wondering how the Pats and Broncos will come out to see whether Miguel (our Western Correspondent) or Suzanne, over at All Mine, will take it at the back door for their team.

The horny,

Mick