Surf's Up

Mistress and Slave were stunned by the weather here in this little beach town, just north of San Francisco. We were expecting fog and chill. Instead we got a lovely sunny day, great for laying on the beach, after a long beach walk this morning.

we are staying at a rather funky B & B, a small room off a little courtyard, in a place with a rather laid back management. So laid back that we had to find our own room last night when we "checked in". Fortunately, we must have found the right one!

Of course, still being on eastern time, we went to bed early last night (10 pm west coast time), and woke in what seemed like the middle of the night. Slave's pent up sexual demand seemed to coincide with some hunger for my work-a-day cock on Mistress's part. So there was some worship and fucking at around 4 am here, and then, again at around 8 am, before we headed out for that beach walk.

The internet service is a little spotty, but Slave found a way to get his alma mater on the I-phone, allowing me to sit on this gorgeous beach with Mistress, while hearing the lads beat the brainiacs from "The Farm" in overtime. Quite frankly, it ws better to listen too the dramatics on the radio, rather than suffer through it on TV.

In the meantime, Mistress was soaking up the sun, reading from her kindle, and exchanging text messages with one of her new AM "suitors", so I don;t think she minded her Slave's focus on the events transpiring back in Indiana.

Later, we drove down to Bolinas, a quintessential surfer / hippy town where we stumbled onto a combination harvest festival and rage, where we sipped some local wine and bought some picnic provisions for tomorrow. 

Summer is still happening out here, friends. So explain why we head back to River City on Wednesday? 

Heading West

Mick and Molly are winging westward for a few days along the northern California coast. We've left our offices behind. It will be a great to break away for the next few days. But because we were up late last night with friends, watching and then breaking down the great VP debate I was a little too lazy to post this morning.

I also need to catch you up on developments over the last few days.

Thursday, Slave was on punishment cage duty, despite the cold weather. I had engaged in some socializing which Mistress deemed, upon further review, beyond my proper role as her Slave.

It started our Wednesday morning. I got a text message from a woman who is a "facebook" friend to both of us. She shows up every now and then commenting on my cute little postings of family pictures or political commentary. But I don't really know her.

Mistress, on the other hand, has seen her bounce around at the periphery of her life over the years. She was friends with Mistress's former husband.

And, oddly, she apparently had an affair with my late brother back when they worked together. I suspect I may have met her in those days, but quite frankly have no specific recall.

Oh, and she had dated J before he "hooked up" with Mistress.

Yeah, it is a small town.

So this lady emails me. Says she works in our building and has a political question to ask me.

Could we meet at 4 pm for coffee at the shop on our lobby.

Sure, I say. A bit surprised.

I go down to the lobby. There she is, greeting me (though she's not someone I recognized).  A woman in her 40's. But the coffee shop is closed at 4 pm.

"Let's have a beer instead," she says.

I had some work to polish off, but why not?

We find a little sidewalk bar across the street, where the Playoff game is just starting. Order beers.

She talks in this rapid staccato. Never really stopping. Reminds me of my mother, who I swear is always afraid to stop talking for fear her son will say goodbye.

After about 30 minutes, my beer done, the Local lads already losing 1-0 in a game they will end up on the wrong side of, I make my farewell and head back to the office.

And before I picked Mistress up, I texted her saying "funny run-in with your friend Sara D."

Mistress's curiosity was peaked.  When she settled into the car, she had twenty questions for me on the what, when, where and why.

"I don't trust her Slave. She's very predatory.  There's no good reason for her to call you out of the blue."

It seemed pretty bland to me. At most she was pumping me for contacts for her business: sales in a construction trade.  Certainly not a come on.

But Mistress had her doubts.

"You're wearing your cage tomorrow, Slave.... and I want you to report any more contacts from that woman."

Of course, Mistress is always right.

And as it turned out, I got tickets for the last game of a once glorious season for the River City team.  With the cage on, Slave's pissing options were definitely limited. and the cold weather had me squirming all through nine desultory if drama packed innings.

Rest assured,  I avoided beers at the stadium to limit those trips to the crowded mens' rooms.

And the local team. Well they left their bats in San Francisco.

When I made it home after the game, Mistress mercifully unlocked me. And I returned the favor by devoting myself to her pleasure.

The only down side to our late night last night, and an early wake-up this morning, is that Slave has been on Abstinence since Thursday morning.

You can bet I'm looking forward to getting tucked into that Bed and Breakfast on Hwy 1 later tonight.

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