Mistress and Slave Slip Under the Radar

"Let's act like we're having an affair, Slave...."

That's our theme this weekend.

Cloak and dagger.

Surreptitious.

We've decided to slip out of town and remove our cyber-feetprints for a few days.

Well, expect for our kids, and you.... our mystery friends in sex blog land.

On the work front, Mistress has a rather insane boss who, no matter how well she performs, always wants more. A later than usual lunch hour this week produced a "where are you" text message.

"She stalks me on facebook and linked-in, Slave...."

Mistress does not like being tracked down.

For me its the extended family. After months of my nagging, my reluctant sister decided this was the week to deposit my cranky Mother in an "independent living" facility. I made it clear that my schedule for this weekend was set. I spent the morning at her place yesterday assisting the packers, and disposing of trash that should have been tossed years ago, learning that my mother never threw away a twist tie or jar top in 20 years.  Did you know that pantyhose once sold for $1.99. She has unopened packs to prove it.

That plus the upcoming theatrics involving a daughter's wedding next weekend.... well, we needed to escape, without the groans of disapproval and eyerolls that more facebook posts from the happy couple at the beach or in some funky restaurant would generate.

So while my sister is now seeking cyber back pats on facebook by posting about the joys of spending the weekend with my mother in her new digs, Slave has absconded with my Mistress to a secret hideaway, where no one but you, dear readers, realize that we are avoiding all responsibilities and wallowing in libidinous fun.

We slid out of Mistress's parking lot a little after 1:15 pm. I was planning on doing some rearranging, plugging in phones, etc. in front of her office, but no.

"Let's get out of her fast, Slave. I don't want anyone to see that I'm leaving."

"Yes, Mistress."

By 6:30 we were here. heading out on a short but lovely bikeride along the bluffs overlooking the beach.

By 7:30 we were in bed, Slave feasting on those clean shaven folds, and indulging in a long session of fucking Mistress to our hearts' (and other body parts) content.

At dinner, a little roadhouse around the corner from our Inn, I was tempted to take one of those pictures of my fetching Mistress, toasting with her Scotch on the rocks, that would be suitable for facebook.

"No Slave.... remember..... let's just pretend we're having an affair this weekend.... it's our secret."

But at least not from you folks.

Seeking Privacy

Here at the UCTMW World HQ we've had some problems getting the privacy to which we've become accustomed. And even though the boyfriend and the visitor from across the pond are now gone, there is still the cute Co-Ed around, just down the hall, watching netflix in the evenings, with or without her ear buds on.

Add that to the fact that we have a big family wedding coming up next weekend and the masses that will assemble in conjunction with that .... well, it seems like a good time for Slave and Mistress to flee for a little R&R for a few days before the unwashed and intrusive masses descend. We've reserved some chambers at a favorite Inn  just off the big lake to our northwest, and I've loaded our bikes on the car for a quick mid-day escape.

Of course, the theme of privacy - or the lack of it - has been all over the news this week. A 29 year old computer geek without a high school degree has fled his $200,000/ yr. job as a consultant for the NSA to the freedom loving environs of the People's Republic of China, from whence, over hotel room service, he's disclosed that his former masters  have been accumulating Multiple Zetas of data that might allow the government to figure out who we have ever called and when, ever  since the advent of the I-Phone.

And then there's that whole internet thing: tracking the emails and web traffic of "foreigners" to see if we can discover what those pesky terrorists are up to, and where they might strike next.

It made me realize that as a world renowned sex blogger with a vast media conglomerate and an international following (of sorts), the NSA likely has somewhere in the bowels of its dingy data mine a detailed history of Molly, Mick and all of the commenters who have graced these pages.

Could it be that some of the comments have been coded messages from one "bad guy" to another?

Does the comment "nice ass, Molly", really mean, pick up the plastique at 3 am in the dumpster behind  the bar on Penelope Ave. in Fresno?

Do references to "vats of lube" really mean drums of depleted enriched uranium for a dirty bomb?

Could NSA "analysts" employed as independent contractors by some international consulting company like Booz Allen be spending vast quantities of  billable hours admiring Molly's ass?

Maybe we should all be paranoid about this  vast expansion of government data collection in the name of the war on terrorism.

But you know what?

I don't really care.

We already know that by setting foot in and laying tracks on the cyber-world we've opened ourselves to the prying eyes of corporate giants like Google, Verizon and Facebook, and to the cyber stalkers and lurkers who might like to exploit our freedom of expression.  It's no secret that Google's systems track our emails and pitch us ads based on their content. Facebook does the same. So do the pages of websites like the New York Times and the Washington Post that we frequent.

So the notion that our cyber-conduct is being monitored by "Big Brother" should hardly be a surprise to anyone.

Is it different that Big Government in addition to Big Corporate is doing the data collecting on us?

Potentially.

Certainly the power could be abused to monitor political rivals or punish dissidents, as happens in China where the liberty loving Mr. Snowden now hangs his hat.

But we've seen no sign of that abuse here, at least so far. And who can blame a government expected to protect us from the next 9/11 to use the tools available to at least try to do that.  After the Boston Bombing the political finger pointing - "why didn't the FBI prevent those losers from doing this" -began even before all the blood was mopped up at the Marathons finish line.

Finally, we all know what to do if we don't want to be tracked by the snoops at NSA, Google, Facebook and the rest.

Unplug.

Eliminate or reduce your cyber footprint. Cut the blogging, facebooking, and tweeting.

Reintroduce yourself to your local mailman, newspaper or book store.

They sure could use the business.

And that would free up a lot more time for sex.

Waiting for the Thought Police to knock at the door,

Mick

Executive Retreat

With a house full of Co-Eds, Boyfriend, and visitor from across the pond over the last few days, Mistress and Slave spent more than a few hours holed up in her Executive Suite. It gave me a good opportunity to do what I do best - graze amongst those silky clean shaven folds. And Mistress was more than generous when it came to opportunities to fuck her.

Sunday morning, Slave deployed Mistress's favorite power tool, figuring she deserved a respite from my avid lips and tongue.  It seemed that it took her no more than about 60 seconds to "power on" and over the hill once I applied it as intended.

"It's so efficient, Slave."

So true.

And later in the day, when the neighbor's obsessive power vac-ing drove us from our deck, we retreated again, with Mistress directing me to insert "your device", that little aneros, to provide her with a particularly firm cock for her amusement before we headed off to a graduation party for the daughter of a friend with our children and the one remaining guest in tow.

Last evening after a long work day and a stop at a political event, we got home at around 7 pm, with plans to hunker down and watch "Mad Men". We walked into kitchen bedlam: the Co-Eds had decided to make dinner for themselves at home (good - better than another night at Chipotle). But the bad part was the disaster zone that was disguised as our kitchen.

"Let's just hide upstairs, Slave...."

I grabbed two glasses of wine and followed her upstairs, leaving the chaos behind.

There we were, barricaded in the executive suite one more time..... what to do?

No doubt our daughters think we are incredibly boring

Never Trust a Woman With an Assault Rifle in a Bikini

Slave made it home late Friday afternoon, and the breaking of my long streak of sexual abstinence occurred at approximately 7:30 pm Eastern time here at the UCTMW World HQ. It had actually been since Tuesday morning, in retrospect, because of some ridiculously early wake-up and get home times last week. Hopefully the coming week will be much better.

Both of out daughters have house guests this weekend. The older Co-Ed's boyfriend is here, but they've been keeping a low profile, with one night spent at a friend's house closer to the fun night life. And last night, they went out to dinner and got home after the old farts went to bed. If there was some bed sharing it happened while we were sleeping, because I noticed he was in the fold out bed solo on our ground floor this am.

Hopefully no one was too awoken by Mistress and Slave enjoying their first wake-up sex in here Saturday morning.

Mistress did "confess" that whilst I was out of town she spent some time over at her former lover Jay's house drinking some wine out on his desk while his son entertained himself inside.

"There was a little making out again Slave, when he walked me to my car.... but that was about it."

Jay seems a tad confused about how to handle Mistress.

But today's headline is not about Mistress, of course. It's about a woman who caught our eye last weekend, when news broke that some Texas man, former Army, had been arrested for sending threatening letters laced with ricin to the President and the Mayor of NYC.  At the time there was a link in the article to their respective facebook pages and we were amused to see their rather strange predilections laid out for all the world to see and "like". He was into guns and "freedom". She claimed she was an actress with roles in "The Walking Dead"and other bad TV shows. But what caught our attention was this photo of her:

This and other photos on her page had a very dommish look to them.

"Do you think she gets powder burns on her cleavage, Mistress?"

"Not sure, Slave...."

And I wonder how accurate you can fire off a few dozen rounds wearing those heels. Let's hope the recoil is not too intense.



We don't shoot much here at UCTMW, relying on Bill our Director of Security for any "wet work" of that type.

The story at the time was that Shannon Guess had gotten suspicious of her husband's activities, and contacted the FBI when she read about these nastygrams that threatened bodily harm if either the President or the Mayor stopped by to pick up his arsenal of firearms.

Now the story is that she's been arrested for framing the husband, and father of her 5 kids, even going to the trouble of planting a few extra castor beans (from which ricin is derived) in his trunk. And, even worse, it turns out that no one at "Walking Dead" ever heard of the lady. "Producers Never Heard of Ricin Suspect"

If the government really is snooping on our facebook pages as some now claim, they clearly weren't paying close enough attention to this lady. Or maybe they just got distracted.

At least I'm hoping that this photo provides a little fodder for the WC now that he's on the long road to recovery from the excesses of World Masturbation Month.