It Takes A Village

Here in our high desert hideaway, Mistress and slave have been slowly bouncing back from our 3 am phone call earlier in the week, and the low level anxiety burn about our daughter in Brussels. She's back in the city now, trying to get back to her normal routine, and telling us not to watch the alarmist reports on US television news.

Good advice, no doubt.

Mistress and slave are trying to get back into our normal routine too, with our traditional wake up sex, some work on the phone or at our computers, then some skiing, then an afternoon nap followed by some worship to tide over Mistress's sexual requirements. Last night's evening activities involved Mistress participating in a local public radio "radiothon" to support the local county animal shelter. Being a "cat person" Mistress was more than happy to lend her deep and sensuous voice to the cause.

The "radio station" was actually an airstream trailer out on the Mesa - a flat expanse of sage brush and prairie dog villages that stretches out from the mountain range behind our house to the deep river gorge 15 miles to the south. And the airstream is parked in the backyard of a funky brewery and performance space that some locals have constructed in the wide open spaces.   It may be the micro-brewery with the vest view in America (though I've not been to Bend, OR).

The crowd last night at the brewery looked like a casting call for a movie set in the '60's about the Haight Asbury scene in SF. Apparently this is where all the hippies moved when the rents got too high in the bay area.

But today's headline is not about micro-brews and hippies, but was triggered by something that Terri over at A Married Sissy said yesterday.   His wife Diane got home late from work and bluntly informed Terri that he should mark down an orgasm for her on his daily "Chastity Report". (This slave would be embarrassed to do a chastity report because there would be so few entries reflecting my denial, but to each their own!)

Terri knew his place, so did not ask the "who, what, when and where"  concerning Diane's particular cum O' the day. But he speculated that her lover Paul had provided some oral pleasure at the end of the day in the privacy of Diane's office.

And this seemed to raise some jealous impulses. Apparently Terri believes that he should have a monopoly when it comes to providing oral sexual pleasure to his wife. As opposed to more traditional sexual intercourse, which he may consider to be the proper role of a cuckolder / lover like Paul.

Now it may not be unusual (and in concept it has a certain hot factor) for a cuckolder and / or wife to limit the cuckolded hubby to non-penetrative sexual services, I've never heard of any corollary, i.e., that the cuckolder should NOT be allowed to provide oral sexual pleasure to the wife. After all, don't some alpha guys enjoy the occasional opportunity to reduce a woman to a quivering mass by the simple use of lips and tongues? If the shoe was on the other foot, I certainly would!

Nor do I have that particular jealousy gene.

Mistress's own occasional lovers have always seemed to enjoy that privilege, and Mistress has reported her enthusiastic enjoyment of  their oral attentions when and if provided. She has an apparently bottomless sexual appetite, and sometimes it's a team effort to satisfy it. ANd those clean shaven folds are mighty tasty and tongue tempting.

I like to think of myself as a team player. And like any NBA "role player" coming off the bench  to spell a star player in foul trouble, who am I to object when said star gets to score from a variety of places on the floor while I am on the bench?

To pervert a phrase made famous by a certain Presidential candidate, it does take a village.

Night On the Mountain

Mistress and slave had a stressful day yesterday, commencing with  a 3 am phone call from a daughter "studying" in Brussels. In a shaky voice she reported to her half asleep father that  1) bad shit was going on; and 2) she was safe and secure. We admire her tenacity and "it's not about me" attitude. But it was a sleepless, scary night, which will no doubt lead to several more months of nagging fears about an off-spring far away in a dangerous part of the world. Luckily, she is safe, and now out of town for a few days as the dust settles.

So yesterday was a rather "fun-free" day for Mick and Molly (believe it or not, we didn't get around to sex until late afternoon). But we hate to let our readers down,  so let me roll back the clock to our Monday night here.

We had skipped skiing for the day, to take care of some annoying client service matters. But we made plans for dinner and music up on the mountain with some friends. Of course, our dinner companions know nothing about our kinkier proclivities, which allow for the occasional tease.

Example: The lady of the couple notices a bruise on Mistress's wrist.  Mistress explained that sometimes the silver native american bracelets she wears will cause these sorts of tell tale bruises.  But slave interjected:

"Are you sure those aren't handcuff marks?"

Sadly,  my snarky comment went over the heads of our dinner companions.

Later we adjourned to the rathskeller of a charming mountain lodge, where one of our favorite musicians was playing.  It was his last weekly gig there this winter, with the ski season winding down. The crowd was varied and festive - locals and ski-weekers from out of town. 

For some of the guys there, Mistress was compelling bait.  But because I was not sitting next to Mistress but next to our male dinner companion, I apparently missed all of the attention Mistress was attracting.

I did notice the guy who sat next to Mistress, chatting her up as the music played. Later, Mistress informed me that he was an electrician who spends winters here, with a wife back in Chicago. he was a handsome guy, maybe in his late 40's.

"B ( a female friend who knew this guy) said he wanted to know who I was. I think he was disappointed when I finally introduced you as my husband, slave...."

"No doubt, Mistress."

As the hour approached 11, we knew it was probably about time to leave. We stood by the door, listening to one final Bruce Springsteen cover. I guess I was more focused on the music and the whirling dancers to notice Mistress's next come on. She reported it to me as we walked down the hill, back to our car, the trail lit by the full moon.

"Did you notice the big guy in the flannel shirt, slave? The guy standing by the door".

"No Mistress, did I miss something..."

"He said he was disappointed I was leaving, and had wanted to get me to dance with him...."

"Bummer. Another missed opportunity."

As my friends who share the "cuckold" gene can confirm, the sort of flirtatious behavior that might annoy the crap out of some husbands just seems to fuel the imagination here at the UCTMW World HQ.

Mistress Chokes.

It was another heavenly day of ample sunshine, warm temperatures and uncrowded slopes here in the high desert. And it's even better on a Sunday when Mistress and slave don't have to slavishly monitor their I-phones while riding the ski lift ,to create the impression that they remain attentive and engaged in that alternative work universe.

And of course before we hit the slopes there was sex. Slave even unwound the extension cord and plugged in Mistress's favorite power tool to give her a nice shuddering cum before taking advantage of her weakened state of consciousness.

But back to the slopes. The blue skis. the well groomed cruiser runs that make you feel like Spider Sabbitch or Suzie Chapstick. All the stars are aligned for an epic day.

And then, Mistress's big opportunity came. As we crested a rise at the top of the mountain and prepared to slide off the chairlift, there HE was -- casually strolling in his red and white ski patrol jacket, walking two cute mountain rescue dogs.  It was Mistress's fantasy Mountain Man, the guy who holds the USA record for "bagging" Everest. He works here in winters between guiding treks to Denali, Kilimanjaro, the Antarctic, and Nepal. Mistress and MM  are "intimate" facebook friends, and on our last trip here he even gave Mistress a little hug and kiss on the cheek when she chatted him up after his world spanning slide show and lecture.

Was this karma. A chance to follow up, maybe finagle an apres ski beverage?

This is how things unfolded:

Slave: "Is that him, Mistress...."

Mistress: "Uh....ummm.... I think.... uh, yeah.... that's him...."

(Chair hits apex where it's time to unload.... Mistress and slave slide onto the snow, dodging one cute dog).

Slave whispers an aside: "Say hello, Mistress..."

Mistress:  "Wow.... I....not sure..... ...."

(Uncertain, Mistress slides past MM, gaining speed on her skis as the window of opportunity slams shut.)

Slave:  "Hey [first name of MM].... nice dogs...."

MM: "Yeah.... great aren't they....."

(Of course, MM doesn't know who the fuck slave is....he's only talked to Molly in the past)

When I caught up with Mistress I politely asked why she didn't say anything to her fantasy MM.

"I didn't want to be a stalker slave...."

"But you weren't stalking, Mistress ... he was right there... in front of you.... you had to turn to avoid running right into him...."

By now Mistress was recovering from the jittery knees and flush that no doubt started somewhere betwixt her clean shaven folds. She was apparently too embarrassed to hike a little ways back up the hill. And MM was now bringing the cute dogs into the ski patrol HQ adjacent to the lift. Heading back to say "hi " would clearly have been stalker-esque at that point.

Poor Mistress.

Another missed opportunity!

Seed Swap?

Here in our little corner of heaven, Mistress and slave have been thoroughly enjoying the weekend. At about 3 pm on Friday - when the work day ends back in River City - we breath a joint sigh of relief knowing that whatever client demands there may be we can fob them off until Monday morning.

That meant a little more stress free time for Mistress to lounge in the sun, before our late afternoon nap time. And after the nap....well the freedom from work stress triggered a second round of love making for the day, with Mistress engaging in some rather rowdy cock riding to power through an extra cum or three before the dust settled.

Friday night was our "night on the town" for the weekend.

First there was dinner at a cute local Trattoria which offers Mistress's favorite - crispy crusted gluten free pizza, dressed "St. Patrick's Day" style, with green pesto rather than red sauce.

Then we headed to an ancient, low ceilinged  cantina, to hear a local rocker we follow when in town. This hole in the all joint attracts a rather scruffy but diverse crowd, that runs the gamut from native Americans to cowboys to lesbians, and a rather bizarre assortment of costumes to match. But the big surprise was that as the band was still setting up, the TV screen over the bar was tuned to the final minutes of my alma mater battling through its first round game in the NCAA tournament.

I have become so jaded about my team's "one and done" hex (last year was an exception) that I didn't even bother to set aside time to waste  witnessing their typical first round bust.  I had checked the score at halftime over our pizza to confirm my suspicion - yes, trailing once again by double digits to a lower seeded team.

So I was stunned to see that the score was now tied, and to watch my team build a lead with some timely defense and clutch free throw shooting as the seconds tick away. The luck of the Irish lasted to the day after St. Patrick's Day! That and watching the locals bust some rather unique dance moves in their unusual regalia (the super-sized native American lady in the neon red track suit was my favorite) more than made a great way to kick off our weekend.

But what about today's headline, which no doubt attracted the attention of Terri over at a Married Sissy and any of our cuckold-centric readers?

Driving into town the other day, the local radio mentioned an up coming "seed swap".

"Wow, Mistress, are they going all kinky here in the high desert on us?"

Our imaginations ran wild at the thought of those rugged local ladies bringing their submissive male partners in to some local venue, where drinks, dinner and a silent auction awaited, followed by an opportunity to sample  whatever exotic discharges might be "on tap". Variety is the spice of life, after all. And a little preliminary fluffing couldn't hurt, right?

But alas. When I paged through the local paper the next day, this city-slicker discovered that a "seed swap" was something much less kinky, and far more agrarian.

You can imagine my disappointment.  But the kinkier version a concept worth trying out for your next non-profit fundraiser, dear readers!

But remember, always engage in safe seed swapping!