Jungle Girl In the Bush

Slave went on a little field trip yesterday, hauling my bike down to "Atomic City" to ride some nifty bike trails and tour the museums and some of the few left over historic sites from the days of the Manhattan Project.  It was a good way to disconnect from the anchor of the remote computer connection. It's helpful when you want to work remotely, but also an annoying reminder that you're not really on "vacation".

I was back in time for a refreshing late afternoon thunderstorm, which cooled things down considerably. Good weather for a pre-dinner nap. But it's not nearly as much fun to take a nap without Mistress to cuddle (and fiddle) with.

Later in the evening, I was surprised to see a text pop up from "Jungle Girl" who is out "in the bush" with the Dowager Domme and her sister, walking about with a guy with a large gun to view the beasts and vistas in Kenya. She forwarded some photos of giraffes, elephants, and posing with a cute baby Rhino.

I didn't ask where Mommy Rhino was, which would have been some concern, I would think.

The text conversation quickly turned to "what's new", then to Brexit, Donald Trump gloating about Brexit, and the fact that some guy from the Financial Times was there explaining it all to them.

When you have this whole cuckold thing fueling your fantasy life, Slave's thoughts immediately went there - conjuring up some Brit-twit with a snooty Downton Abby accent explaining to Mistress how disconnecting from the EU would naturally allow the restoration of Her Majesty's Empire. Rule Britania!

Sadly, this fantasy immediately fell flat. It's hard (at least for me) to be sexually intimidated by some guy who would rather grovel at the feet of a Mary Crawley type, or jerk off to the memory of being paddled by his prep school  Head Master,  than reduce my wife to a quivering, wanton slut begging for the right to suck his upper-crust cock.

So when it came time to follow Mistress instructions last night - and send her a photo of her slave's eager organ - I abandoned Mr. FT and resorted to mental images of Mistress being sexually enslaved in a more traditional "Jungle Girl" sort of  way, whether being involuntarily transported down river :

Or languishing in chains:

For those of you with tentacle fantasies, I suppose there is this option.

All of those were more suitably fuel for my imagination than Mistress falling under the spell of some "Brexpert"thinking that  boring her with his "Brexpertise"on the benefits of leaving the common market and the devaluation of the pound.

I did ask Mistress if there were opportunities for any flirting out in the bush. She was a little vague. "Some flirting slave.... but it's hard with our sleeping arrangements".   She sent me a photo of a rather luxe looking tent, on a platform, that she was sharing with her party.

"We heard lions last night outside the tent, but there are guys with guns patrolling the grounds."

Hopefully Mistress comes back before being devoured.

Oops.

Mistress (aka Jungle Girl) phoned me yesterday from Nairobi. 

Seriously.  

Those of you who've seen the movie "Eye in the Sky", understand my trepidation, what with all those nasty terrorists chilling in the Somalian refugee camps in that town. 

"Watch out for drones, Mistress."

She seemed unconcerned, describing her visit to the home of Karen Blixen, (the heroine in Out of Africa) near the hotel she was staying at in what sounded like a less scary neighborhood about 17 miles from the city centre.

From there she was heading out to some sort of rustic camp for several safari days.

"They say no internet connection there, slave....so I will be off the grid for maybe three days."

It certainly will be strange to be that out of touch with her. 

Left to my own lonely devices, I could at least cling to the daily regime she requires of me (fueled by some of the helpful suggestions of cuckold fiction by you devoted readers). After  some work via computer and conference call, some "field slave" duties on our roof and in the yard, and after "taking care of business", I headed out to a local watering hole for some music and a few beverages.

But first I wriggled my "junk" into my cock cage, and snapped a photo transmitted to Mistress via "snap chat".  Of course, the reason why snap chat has become the social media tool of choice for "sexting" is that (in theory) the photos disappear after a few seconds, and can't be used to ruin a "sexters" professional career, marriage, or reputation. 

But that assumes that the person viewing the photo checks it out in privacy, doesn't it?

As I was sitting at the bar last night, sipping an IPA and listening to a local troubadour, I got a text message from Mistress, who was waking up in Nairobi and preparing to leave for her safari "camp":

May Day

Received latest cock cage

Opened

Then realized mom was over my shoulder!

Heading out soon.

Great to hear your voice slave.

Love and miss you.

I'm certainly hoping that the Dowager Domme did not get a close and comprehending view of my locked up equipment. If so, what do you think her reaction might be?

Mistress In the Mist

Not long after I posted my sad appeal for whack-off fuel yesterday, I heard from Mistress via viber.
"Sorry I didn't call yesterday evening slave, but it was a harrowing day, and we were all just exhausted."

She described a 17 mile trek through the jungle, with porters hacking a path through the vines with their machetes, and having to carry the Dowager Domme and the Princess part of the way along a steep, muddy path to their destination: a community of highland gorillas. The picture on the left is one that Mistress took with her I-phone and texted me yesterday. Mistress described a scene where her small party of tourists sat amidst a frolicing collection of mothers and children, including one mom who approached close enough to touch and smell Mistress's hair.

Yikes.

By the time we talked, Mistress was back from a 2nd jaunt, less rigorous, to visit with another extended family of gorillas, and was lounging about the rustic "lodge" where they were staying. with a little relaxation time, I had to ask if there was any flirting going on.

"Sort of slave.... there is this cardiologist from Montana, a little younger than you, who was on the trail with us.  You could say there was some flirting going on.... but not much time or space to take it beyond some flirtatious banter...."

I texted with one of out daughter's later in the morning. She was wondering if I had heard from "Jungle Girl". "Hope she doesn't get carried away by some gorilla", she snarked. Of course, that got slave's imagination going. There was this scenario to consider:



Or this one:



But I suspect even a 600 lb. silverback would respond to Mistress's more Domme-ish personality, resulting in the following scenario:

In Need of Hot Cuckold Fiction.

There's been no word from Mistress since she departed from Kigali at around 3 am on Monday morning. She was headed by jeep for a rendezvous in the bush with a gang of high mountain gorillas.  I am assuming there is no viable  internet connection at the "lodge" they are at for two nights. Someone would get in touch with me if there was a real problem, right?

When we last talked, she described coming down to breakfast on Sunday without her entourage, and the male tourists giving her the once over as the hot and (apparently) solo babe at hotel.  But none had a chance to chat her up once the Dowager Domme arrived to spoil the potential fun.

Speaking of fun, Slave's been combining some remote work, bike rides,  and a punch list of chores here in the high desert, where it's been unusually hot for the first week of summer.  I even took a field trip to the local land fill, dropping off some old mattresses. Nothing like a dusty landfill on a hot high desert day.

It's still pre-dawn here now, but the full summer solstice moon is lighting the landscape in a continuous twilight.

And, of course, I've followed instructions to the tee. What would you expect from a devoted slave? Last night I went out to here some local artists channeling the Allman Brothers. As required, I wriggled into my cage, and made sure to take a snap chat photo to clog Mistress's inbox when she finally gets back on the grid. When I got home, a little bleary eyed I suppose, I had a brief panic when the key did not seem to fit the lock.  Could Mistress have played a trick on me?   Had I packed the wrong key?  That would have made for a very long hiatus from Mistress.  Fortunately, I had simply screwed up when trying the insert the key, and all popped out safe and sound.

I also followed Mistress's directive and made sure to discharge my pent up masculine juices. Her thinking appears to be that slave does not misbehave when he has regular "relief" through a regular "purge". While some may disagree (I'm thinking about you Diane), Mistress is always right. Right?

Of course, when left to my own devices, sometimes it's necessary to have something to stimulate my imagination. When it comes to pump priming, I respond better to words than images. (Now that must me a big surprise to our regular readers.

Of course, the internet has plenty of story sites to pick from.  And with a kindle handy, the potential for downloaded books and stories is also there.  On the ride west, I resorted to listening to  podcasts to keep my brain alive across the prairie, shadowing the Santa Fe trail. An old favorite is something called the Kiss Me Quick POdcast, a series narrated by the smart and funny Rose Caraway, assisted by her producer husband. Some of the stories are sexy, some are funny, some I just don't get, but all are read with wit and verve. As Rose says, this is hand's free fuel for your sexual imagination. Well, at least one hand free. The podcast is worth a listen if only for Rose's sexy, insouciant 'tude.

Rose also promotes written and "audible" anthologies of stories by her and her coterie of smutty (mostly) lady erotica authors available at Amazon. When listening to her podcast patter Saturday night, I was amused to here her promoting a new collection exploring the cuckold "fantasy" which she described as "very hot and trendy right now " in the world of erotica.  Curious, I downloaded her collection Tonight She's Yours, figuring it would be helpful fuel for my imagination when I was confronted with the unenviable task of meeting Mistress's rigorous masturbatory demands.

Yesterday afternoon I ran through some of the tales of cuckolding - they seem to follow what have become cliches of the genre,  written by conventional lady erotica authors who seem not to get the underlying psychological elements that fuel the cuckolding life that some of us enjoy and write about in sexblogland.

The usual cuckolding suspects are rounded up: insatiable wives drooling over the large , thick and throbbing cocks of the burly "bulls" (several of them black, of course), who want to fill their slutty holes. The pathetic hubby watches as he is tied to a hotel room chair, denied the chance to choke his scrawny chicken. There are no cock cages, let alone husbands consigned to wife's undies.

One writer tosses in a little historic verisimilitude, creating a European refugee couple in post WWII Europe who trade sexual favors for food from a young American GI on an overnight train.  But despite the intriguing historic context, the whole arrangement seemed more pathetic and transactional than hot.

Overall, slave was underwhelmed, and still in need of intellectual stimulus to get get the pump primed to follow Mistress's orders. These stories were more rote than intriguing. I suppose you can't expect writers who don't "get" the fantasy to write about it in an engaging way. It made me think that I should take a shot at a little fiction of my own. Or, being essentially lazy, ask my readers for some recommendations:

Have any suggestions of web sites or books that will help old Mick fulfill Mistress's orders this week?