His Spooky Girlfriend

It's been a particularly low key weekend here in River City.

With a sullen teen returning from the land down under on Tuesday night, it's our last empty nest weekend for .... well, another week of so.

So why not just hang out, go to the gym, have some wake up sex, then more afternoon sex after a nice decadent nap.

Today's plans are pretty much the same. But maybe the AM sex will wait until after the gym today, to accommodate Mistress's early spinning class.

Then there may be some football to watch this afternoon and evening. I'll try to make sure Mistress's clean shaven folds don't get too lonely though.

I did take some time yesterday to visit my grumpy Mother, while Mistress had lunch with her Mom. I could tell that the story about my alma mater's linebacker and his non-existent not-dead girlfriend had gone viral when it was the first thing my mother asked me about after I poured myself some tepid coffee and passed on the post-dated milk in her refrigerator.

Of course, her perspective on the story was not quite as nuanced as some.

"What's this about with the Notre Dame guy who had the pretend girlfriend?"

She didn't know the back story. Hadn't realized that the story had been milked by the media for months as if he really had a girlfriend who died on the same day as his grandma. All she knew was that this guy thought he had a girlfriend who died, and it turned out that she was never real at all.

"How dumb can you be?"

"Well, Mom you need to consider the fact that he is a linebacker....."

That seemed to go over her head. So I had to explain that in this modern age, it's not all that unusual for folks to meet and build relationships of a sort on line, and maybe only communicate by email or text message. Maybe they talk on the phone too. I didn't get into the concept of phone sex... Nor did I explain that her beloved daughter in law had a similar arrangement with a certain Western Correspondent of her vast media empire that went on for a couple of years before we were able to verify his actual existence.

She might have thought all of us were a little dumb,  or crazy, like that ND kid.

I also explained my operating theory: that the kid had been suckered into this relationship by some people who were in it for sport, and that he had been let down by the spinners and coaches at ND who had let the story be exploited by the media even though it seemed a tad incredible from the very beginning.

Maybe a 20 year old Mormon linebacker from Hawaii can be naive and gullible. But the  press flacks at a major University and his Coaches -- they should have been experienced and clever enough to ask the right questions: like if your girlfriend is really dead, how come you're not even asking to go to the funeral, kid? 

Did they peddle and milk the story to pump up his chances to win the Heisman trophy, something that would surely help the University's own image and recruiting prospects? The same place that asked a QB when I was there to change the pronunciation of his name to rhyme with that big assed trophy?

Maybe.

Or were they just dumb, like the media that did no fact checking on this sad, tear jerking tale as they used it to build ratings for the BCS Championship game on January 7th?

But at least it provided something for my Mom and me to talk about other than who's sick and which mother of one of my brother's old girlfriends died last month.

Spooky Girlfriend

Say it Ain't So

Mistress was avoiding her office yesterday it seemed, so she spent some time camped out in mine between meetings. It was nice to have her about, and in such close proximity, particularly after her overnight business trip earlier this week.

And of course it gave me an opportunity to graze within her clean shaven folds as a little post lunch palate cleanser.  Mistress did not have on her special peek-a-boo tights, so she had to slide off one boot and leg of her conventional tights to accomodate a little mid-day worship.  The result was an interesting contrast of limbs after I pressed her "throne" up against my office door to provide a little privacy.

The result was a lovely break in the middle of a busy day for both Mistress and Slave.

But another matter crossed my computer screen yesterday: the bizarre tale of the linebacker from my alma mater and his pretend dead girlfriend.

It's still not clear to me what the hell happened: what Manti knew and when her knew it? And (more importantly to me) what the ND shills and handlers knew and when they knew?

But what was intriguing to me is the role the internet and a "cyber" relationship played in the dead fake girlfriend hoax.

Here in the sex blog world we have all developed rather "unique" relationships with friends and for some folks, lovers, that are not grounded in the conventional. In other words, we "talk" via emails or comments, but never hear each others voices or meet.

Well sometimes.... for several years, we had an e mail and telephone relationship of sorts with our Western Correspondent. Not unlike the purported relationship between Manti and the imaginary girl, who apparently "spoke" via phone with him sometimes.  But ultimately, we finally pried him into the light by scheduling a flight through his hometown one day.  Sure enough, the big guy is who he claimed to be (though there were moments we had out doubts, and Mistress did not get a chance to inspect the legendary SOC on that visit).

And we have met Bill and Donna.

Yesterday I was emailing with Suzanne over at All Mine about the Tale of Manti. Although we've become close with her and her sidekicks through emails and running comments, we've never met or talked.

"I suppose you might be a trucker from Montana, and I could be a stripper from Vegas,", I emailed.

Let's hope we find out someday. Trust, but verify used to be Ronald Reagan's watch cry.  It's something Manti should have picked up on. And also the spinners at the ND athletic department who exploited this half baked story and contributed to his apparent humiliation and exploitation.

But in the meantime, I will always be skeptical about the gullibility and/or credibility of linebackers.

Welcome Home Mistress

It's been dark, cold, wet and gloomy this week in River City. The only thing to do is huddle up and share bodily warmth until the misery of a drab winter passes, or at least until we can flee to our Southwestern Hideaway again.

And adding insult to injury, Mistress had to spend Tuesday night on the road, off in one of our state's dreary backwaters.

"You'll be in your cage all day, Slave."

Of course I would.

Now I know Suzanne over at All Mine will not sympathize, but when cold weather meets the hard steel of that confining cage.... well, OUCH. Those tender balls want to contract and hide as the temperature falls. But their path is blocked by that hard cold ring.

The result can get rather uncomfortable as the day goes on, and unfortunately Slave had several appointments out of the warm confines of my office.

OUCH.

So when I finally got home, late after a client meeting, I was thrilled that Mistress was in an indulgent and beneficent mood.

"You can take it off, Slave.... and I won't make you wear it tomorrow.

Ahhh...

""...But no touching, Slave...."

It was a fair price to pay.

Last night, Mistress and I both arrived home by 6 pm, giving us plenty of time for some hot re-union sex in the executive suite. And after a cold and lonely night the prior evening, it was heavenly to sidle up to her warm and sumptuous body through the night.

In a damp cold January in River City, one has to embrace life's simpler pleasures.

Wake-Up Sex Interruptus

Mistress and Slave were deep into the denouement of our wake-up sex on Saturday morning when my cell phone rang.

The cell phone on the dresser across the room.

Now normally Slave and Mistress simply ignore such aural distractions, like I try to ignore the cat crawling across my back when I am grazing betwixt Mistress's shapely thighs.

But I had a feeling that this was my adult daughter, calling about arrangements for me to collect my cute grandsons later in the AM and take them swimming at our athletic club.  And since she's one of those contrarian millenials who has no cell phone and relies on a land line, I knew I had to pick up or maybe miss her all together once she left the house.

Mistress was none too happy when I ceased my plunging into those delightful clean shaven folds to take this call, though she understood once I provided an explanation. Sure enough, it was my daughter and we established our co-ordiantes quickly, with minimal small talk.

And I was extremely fortunate that Mistress welcomed me back into her arms (and folds), my cock still amply attuned to resuming its prior activity con mucho gusto.  After all, she'd already had at least two cums. She might have deferred me to later, I suppose.

Once we had resumed, I commented on the unfortuante interruption.

"Do you think it occurs to a 34 year old woman with 2 kids that when she calls her 62 year old Dad at 9 am, be might be having sex with his wife?"

"I doubt it Slave.... we probably have more sex than they do."

She's probably right. Slave is a lucky guy after all.

Speaking of luck, well the WC's Donkeys ran out of it last night. I watched that entertaining game until shortly after halftime, when the Broncos were up against the dreaded Crows 28-21, after two kick returns for TDs.

No way PFM loses at home with that type of an assist from his special teams, right?

We go to see Zero Dark Thirty (an amazing movie BTW) and get home at around 10 pm . I check ESPN. Incredibly, they tell me that the Mile High team ends up losing in double overtime. Did they all light up some of that newly legalized ganja on the sidelines after that kick-off return to start the 2nd half? Were they all humming "Rocky Mountain High" rather than listening to PFM bark audibles? I mean,  that is a collapse that only my Pussycats could pull off!

Miguel, I'm thinking the Donkeys  might have been better off keeping Tim Tebow, who got them through at least one play-off game last year, right?

Did the Good Lord intervene and punish John Elway last night for forsaking his chosen one?

Better luck next season, WC. Maybe the good Lord will have bigger equines to fry. (or would it be send to the glue factory?)