Shop 'Til You Drop (Dead)?

Over the weekend, Donna, our beloved senior correspondent, forwarded an article from the Sunday Times that I had overlooked: Sex Toys in the Attack. The gist of this cleverly written piece is that us aging baby boomers are likely to have a stash of not suitable for our kids' viewing items tucked away around the house, that probably aren't getting as much use as they used to get. What happens when, on the occasion of our untimely (or even timely) demise, they are still there to be unearthed by those consigned with the burden of sorting through and disposing of our "estates"?

I can relate to this problem big time. Over the summer I spent many hours sorting through the accumulated detritus of my aging Mother. We had relocated her to a nice assisted living apartment. In her mind her "relocation" was akin to be shipped in a cattle car to a concentration camp. Under protest she had designated the things she wanted to move there, but that left behind a Condo crammed with what one can only refer to as junk - things she had been unwilling to toss away though she'd not used them for 20 or more years.  I did come upon some things that were decidedly creepy in  her dressers and closets - though only one could be marginally considered a sex toy, an ancient,  over-sized vibrator that I would like to think had something to do with her bad back.

But what if our kids had to go through the drawers and closets of the UCTMW World HQ? Presumably there would be no reason for them to find and sort through this blog, and its 4 year plus  documentation of their parents' peculiarities and misadventures. But there is a whole lot of incriminating evidence stuffed here and there in dresser drawers, bedside tables, and little wicker hampers in our closet:  cuffs, canes, collars, crops, clamps, crystal cock.

And that only covers one letter of the kinky alphabet.

I've been on a bit of a "down sizing" tear here since having to deal with all my Mother's crap. We hope to move ourselves into a smaller place come spring and it just won't all fit. But the thought of our cute Co-Eds, or my somewhat prissy and judgmental oldest daughter  finding Mistress's strap on harness makes me a little squeamish.

I suppose I'll be dead under those circumstances.  But, as the author suggests in that article, what if our sense of shame lasts for 30 days after our body goes cold?

Some of the most embarrassing items that could be unearthed are my cock cages, stuck on my sock drawer at this very moment. Could I be any more obvious?

"Gee....wonder what Dad used this for?"

And I seem to be adding to my collection. Like shoes, one cock cage can't be used for every occasion, can it?  With Suzanne's encouragement many of you chimed in with some suggestions over the weekend. Setting aside piercings, which Mistress thankfully vetoed,  the selection seems to have expanded exponentially since the last time I was on the market.  Better yet, the discounters have gotten involved, making products available at lower price points! The miracle of free markets has done its destructive work in earnest.

Now the folks at Amazon.com, determined to dominate in every conceivable market - why don't the Iranians get their nukes there? - have wedged their jack boots into the realhm of male chastity devices of various materials and configurations. Could it be long before you can pick them up at WalMart with your flat screen TV and cat litter?

The ones that really creaped me out involved steel needle like devices crammed down the tip of your cock.

 WTF! How could that be safe, and what strange kink does that appeal to?  It would seem like a cock on a spit ready to be roasted. Maybe we should get the WC to try one of these out and give it a consumer product review for these pages. He's been pretty unproductive lately.

There are now "woodies" to make sure a good Slave doesn't get one:

Maybe these are popular in Holland, as an accessory for wooden shoes, but  would seem a little clunky, and unsanitary too. The plastic ones are hard enough to keep clean.

There were a few steel models I may try out that have hinged rings to deal with that schmushing problem on cold mornings I've encountered:

That one also looks like it might be easier to take a pee in, something that needs to be considered.


But I settled at least initially for the good old CB6000, the Ford Fiesta of the product line. Cheap. Nothing flashy. May be dead at 40,000 miles, but gets the job done for that trip to the office, the Court House, or flight to Atlanta, as long as you use the plastic locks:

While this might eliminate some of Slave's lame excuses, it doesn't solve the problem of who gets to dispose of this stuff in the event Mistress and Slave get buried under an avalanche this ski season, leaving behind a house full of incriminating evidence of Mom and Dad's "sick" side. Any suggestions on how to solve that problem?

Slave Needs Some Cage Shopping Tips

I suppose it was inevitable. Slave's has a very secure steel cage, which once on, is impregnable, tight  and very very effective. It won't come off without the key.

The trouble is it is not the easiest to get on. The hard steel ring does not open and close. It's snug as hell too. To mount it I need to schmush my balls, then my cock, through a narrow and inflexible aperture.

That task requires optimal physiological and meteorological conditions: if it's too cold, my ball sack contracts as my testes seek their natural shelter, so as to keep my sperm warm toasty and ready to fertilize a female egg at the drop of a pantie.

In addition, after I've had sex, there seems to be a natural contraction of the ball sack too. Is this part of the "recharge" process? I guess I need to look that one up.

So what happened this morning to bring all of this to a head?

Mistress has evening plans tonight. Two overlapping work events where a spouse would neither be necessary or appropriate. But she forgot to remind me last night about her anticipated desire for her Slave to be caged "to make sure you don't get into trouble while I am out."

She realized her mistake in the midst of me taking her from above, following suitable worship, during our daily "wake-Up Sex" routine.

"Slave don't forget your cage today...."

"But....."

"Here go the excuses again...."

I was hoping that a warm shower might loosen things up down there, but alas.

"Here Slave.... check this out.... no way I can get that ring on now."

Her warm hands handled my sac as I stood at the side of the bed.

"I see what you mean, Slave....."

That's when she indicated that I had an assignment today.

"You need a new cage, one that you can put on without such advance notice Slave.... and come to think of it, I'm tired of this metal detector excuse you always roll out."

So I need some help here dear cuck and caged readers: what brands do you recommend? Are there any "cock encumbrance solutions" out there that are cutting edge? (Well I don't want any cuts or sharp edges, come to think of it.... ). My last CB brand product was always pinching and yanking pubic hair. And the rings kept breaking. Isn't there a open and close non-metal product out there that will work better?

I need your advice on this fellow cucks and enforced chastity afficianados. Pronto.

One More Election Night

Mistress and Slave spent another evening in the midst of the political classes at our local board of elections, monitoring the vote count for some friends with hats in the ring. That always reminds me that our first blog entry here...now four years ago, documented another local Election Day. Reading that entry makes me realize how the "voice" here has evolved, and the pleasant waters that have gone over the damn since wading into the blog-o-verse, and getting to know some of the characters that have haunted this page: The WC, Donna and Bill, and of course our friendly competitors over at All Mine. You too Sin.... though I am still waiting for illustrations!

And of course back in 2009, Mistress had yet to wade into the world of cuckoldry. While things on that front have been a little slow .... she's been a little preoccupied with her re-launch of her own practice.... she does have a "date" this weekend. It seems that her former fuck-buddy Jay, who has transitioned into a "biking pal", has invited to spend Sunday night at his place to celebrate his birthday.

"Not sure where this is headed, Slave...."

Has Jay's acquired aversion to involvement with someone who "belongs" to another given way to baser instincts? 

We shall see. 

The Election Night proceedings here were not as fraught with drama as they were back in 2009. There was no one about for Mistress to get paranoid about. Instead, the usual suspects were there, sharing stories about the good old days, and mourning a grizzled local political operative - someone I'd known since the days of George McGovern - who, naturally, picked an election day to check out on us.

Impeccable timing, Mike.

Mistress was as lovely as always, flirting with the reporters and local elected officials, while Slave chased the latest returns, called a despondent campaign manager who's candidate was out of the running with the first absentee reports. She had on a black dress and boots, black tights and leather jacket... very Dommish, come to think of it. But most of the guys there were too focused on themselves to pick up the signals, I suspect.

And when the tea leaves became clear, we headed home to our empty nest.... a little too tuckered to do much other than nod off.

'You don't mind if I sleep in the tights, do you Slave...."

"Ummmm..... of course not Mistress....you know how I love to snuggle up to your ass when you have them on...."

And I'm particularly interested in peeling them off this morning.....

"Love Nest" RIP

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Mistress and Slave had one of those rare days Sunday when we had nothing of consequence to do but entertain one another: I had covered the trip to my cranky Mother’s house in Saturday; My daughter and her grandsons cancelled on their visit for Sunday dinner; Mistress’s mother was off on another exotic excursion; and even the NFL schedule co-operated. The Pussycats had lost in “that only happens to the Pussycats” style on Thursday night (A safety in OT! WTF!) , giving fans their on bye Sunday.

Rest assured we put our free day to good use: Wake-up sex; a bike ride; Mistress whipped up breakfast; some yard work for me; then an entertaining Indie movie downloaded on I-Tunes, snuggled together on the couch. 

At some point, after the ride, Mistress appeared in some foxy nighties – just panties and a matching top – and asked if I minded her wearing such skimpy attire for the rest of the day.

“What Slave would object to that, Mistress?”

By the end of out first movie,  it was only 3:30 pm or so.

“How about sex and a nap, Mistress?”

“I thought you’d never ask, Slave.”

After adjourning to the UCTMW executive suite for a suitable respite,  Slave gathered his strength and grilled some Salmon. Mistress whipped up some of her patented acorn squash, loaded with a confection of brown sugar and walnuts that is to die for. And we watched yet another cute indie movie about a young London married couple destined to be with other lovers by the end of the reel, called “I Give It A Year.”

Cute.

Our day huddled together, the rest of the world shut away,  reminded me a bit of our “Love Nest” days, memories also dredged up by yesterday’s Maureen Dowd column in the Times: From Love Nest to Desire Surveilance

She focuses on the revived 1980's Pinter play “Betrayal” - about a love triangle in which a married woman and her husband’s friend have a secret apartment for their trysting - and ties it to revelations from the trial of Rupert Murdoch’s minions in London, who were carrying on their own secret affair while tapping the cell phones of celebrity philanderers.

The point she makes is that with our advanced communications technology, it’s almost impossible to carry on a proper (or should I say improper) clandestine affair these days.

Instead of a second address, modern philanderers are more likely to have a second phone. Love nests seem archaic, given how physical erotics have been somewhat displaced by digital erotics.

We virtually have another N.S.A., the National Sex Agency, given all the desire surveillance technology and the manic collection of preliminary information about conceivable partners.

The extension of information obsession to the field of intimacy — which is the slow revelation of one person to another — ruins the mystery, poetry and suspense. Instead of caressing, there’s posting; instead of kissing, there’s forwarding, sharing and sending.

A love nest also figures prominently in the new memoir “Johnny Carson,” by the comedian’s old lawyer and carousing buddy, Henry Bushkin. The Bombastic Bushkin, as he became known in Johnny’s monologues, first meets Carson in 1970, when he joins a stealthy team breaking into the East Side “snuggery” of the star’s second wife, Joanne.

After Carson, wearing a .38 revolver on his hip, got into the apartment, thanks to a bribe, he discovered scattered lingerie and other “evidence of his cuckoldry,” as Bushkin wrote.

“The whole living room, in fact, almost the entire pad — was furnished with discards from the couple’s UN Plaza apartment,” Bushkin recalled. “There were even some pieces Johnny hadn’t realized were gone.”

Carson confirmed the identity of the man he sneeringly called Joanne’s “Prince Charming” in the most low-tech way possible: there were six or seven framed photographs of sportscaster and former New York Giants star Frank Gifford.

I guess there’s one more reason for me to admire my boyhood Giants hero.

One dictionary defines "Love Nest" as "a place (such as an apartment) used for amorous and often illicit rendezvous". The first recorded use of the term in the United States was in 1919. I guess those dough boys picked up a few tricks "over there".

When Mistress and Slave first “hooked up” back in the age of Dukakis and “A thousand points of light”, we quickly found our own “love nest”, a cozy efficiency apartment a few blocks from my downtown office. We’d meet maybe twice a week – a long lunch hour, or a Sunday morning when we both told our spouses we were catching up on office work – for some hot and illicit sex on the futon we had found at Pier One. A bit like the "Joanne and Frank” nest that Johnny discovered, we had purloined some furnishings that would not be missed from home. A few plates and glassware, Mistress’s candles, some linens, a chair. Nothing fancy. And of course some “toys” to play a few bondage games.

(Those Pier One futon platforms have lots of handy lashing points!)

We had our own “love nest” for about three years before we pulled the plugs on our first marriages, and moved in together into a house we rented, while awaiting the arrival of  our now cute Co-Ed, who turned 21 last spring.

Looking back, there’s no way we could get away with that sort of thing with today’s devices making it so easy to track a straying spouse down. Our wife/husband would be all over us via cell phone or text message wanting to know where we were, what we were doing, and when we’d be home. And who needs to go to work on a Sunday anyway, when your "desktop" is so portable? Even worse,  the errant text or email from a “side dish” can quickly become incriminating evidence these days.

No we were from the last generation that could leave the house or office and be - as a practical matter - on our own remote island for a few hours.

Mistress mentioned that one of her Cougar Week lovers – confused about the whole “permission” thing – had asked her whether it wouldn’t be more fun to “just cheat”…. i.e. “Don’t let Mick in on it.”

“Seems like a lot of trouble when you already have a contractual right to stray, Mistress.”

“That’s what I said, Slave….”

It may be that for a while the “secret” can make an affair a tad hotter. But over the long term it’s corrosive. And, as Ed Snowden has reminded us from freedom loving Moscow, secrets just aren’t what they used to be.