Mick and Molly's Super Sunday

Mick is a football fan. And that means suffering through the hype of the Super Bowl year after year. I am old enough to have watched at least a chunk of all of them, going back to the days of Bart Starr, Len Dawson and Joe Namath.

Of course, the venue and the company have changed over the years. College dorm rooms; Friends’ homes;  A Hotel room in the Big Apple one year, when the Redskins were still a politically correct and competitive team; our living rooms on four or five different houses.

 Molly is no football fan. I have pictures of her at my alma mater’s stadium  (a college football icon fallen on hard times) reading a book. At NFL games she has nodded off on my shoulder, making it hard for old Mick to follow the action when the drunks in front refuse to sit down on 3^rd down.

But here’s a story about a special Stupor bowl, Mick and Molly’s first after we signed our contract.

“Can’t believe we are home alone on a Sunday evening.  Wasn’t it nice for  grandma to have the girls over for dinner and to watch the game…just think if the trouble we can make in an empty house, Slave.”

“Uhhh, yes Mistress. But we are going to watch the game, right?”

“Is that your priority, Slave.”

Mistress was obviously disappointed. Slave was not sufficiently focused on pleasing her.

After some lengthy negotiations (yes, I know fellow Slaves, attempting to negotiate with your Mistress is a violation of a prime directive of D/s), we settled on some rules for watching the big game:

1)If Slave wanted to watch the game, he would be naked, locked in his cage throughout.

2)Slave would prepare dinner, assure Mistress’s comfort at all times, and sit at her feet when not fetching her food or beverages.

3)Mistress would pick her “team”. (In this case she picked the Saints, for all the obvious reasons, including the fact that Mick and Molly have had some very hot sex in the French Quarter over the years, and sex is hardly on Nap-town’s calling card).

4)When her team scored, Slave would take all steps necessary to give Mistress a suitable orgasm. 

5)When the other team scored, Mistress would use her wooden shoe horn to punish Slave, with the number of strokes matching the accumulated score for the opposing team.

There were some obscure side bets on the Who’s play-list. As an example of they played a chunk of “Love, Reign O’er Me” from Quadrophenia,  the cage would come off, the TV would be shut down, and Mistress and Molly would revert to role playing involving a high, semi-naked Co-Ed who stumbles into her boyfriend’s roommates bed by mistake. (This apparently was based on an unfulfilled fantasy from the early 70’s, when Mick was a draft card burner and Molly was in 6^th grade).

Kids out the door, we settled in for the kick-off.

I assured that Mistress’s wine glass was full.

She had on a cozy nighty and some smokey black stockings. No undies blocked access for what she hoped would be her frequent reward as the Saints lit up the scoreboard.

Sadly, the first two scores were by the Colts.

When their opening drive sputtered, I was grateful that my bottom would only suffer three strokes as a result of a Naptown field goal. Mistress had me lean over a side table and laid into me, adding a fourth stroke to compensate for her building frustration. After all, it had not been since morning, when Mistress had to “suffer” through a session with our Magic Wand.

“I thought the Saints had some type of high flying offense, Slave.”

We settled down again, but after A Saints receiver spoiled a drive by letting a 3^rd down pass slip through his buttered fingers, the Colts were on the move again.

This time a touchdown. Ouch. 10 times ouch.

By now sitting at Mistress’s feet was getting a little dicey, as Slave squirmed his sore bottom on the carpet.

Fortunately for Slave’s welted bottom, the tide began to turn.

The Saints came back with a field goal.

Mistress settled back into the couch and I buried my head between her legs. She was already wet and ready for me. Was it those dorky “Go Daddy” ads, or the building anticipation that sooner or later Drew Brees would have his way with the crafty Colts cornerbacks? Mistress took her time to allow my face and tongue to build her to a proper explosion. It was well worth missing a few Budweiser commercials and the faltering Colt offense’s next drive.

After the Saints’ kicker made another long field goal before the half ended, I was back on my knees, and Mistress was feeling much better about her concession to her Slave’s desire to watch the game.

At half time I served up some of my copyrighted Green Chili Stew, and we enjoyed the Who’s truncated set. Pete and Roger looked  more like aging history professors who could no longer persuade their female students to meet after class for a pint, than rock stars. But it was nice to be reminded not to be fooled again. I keep forgetting.

I was hoping for a Colts shutout in the 2^nd half. When the Saints came up with that on-side kick as the half began, I knew my butt had dodged a bullet. You don’t want to set Peyton Manning up at the 50 yard line.

When the Saints took the ball to the end zone on that first drive, Mistress elected my tongue for desert.

Sadly, the Colts were not done yet. Another Manning TD pass to that guy from Haiti. Mistress made me lean over our kitchen counter and take 17 hard strokes. Double ouch.

“You really must like football, Slave.”

“This may cure me Mistress.”

“Well if they score again, you can elect to turn it off, and come to bed with me.”

Was Mistress getting tired of my tongue? Longing for the hard tool that was by now straining against the harder steel cage?

 As the clock ticked down and the Colts moved into position for a TD to tie the game, I was considering  my options.

Did I want to risk 24 more strokes? My butt was fully tenderized already.

Or should I turn off the TV, take Mistress to bed and Use my unlocked cock on her.

But my inner football fan geek could not pass up the chance to watch what might have been the first Super Bowl OT.

Luckily for my bottom, Manning tossed that devastating interception, putting the game out of reach.

“It’s over, Mistress. Your Saints are gonna win.”

I switched off the TV, calculating that the chances of a Colts’ comeback from 14 down with 3 minutes to go was very, very low. Plus why risk 24 strokes if the Saints gave up a garbage TD in the final seconds?

But Mistress was due some attention from that last TD, and took her final orgasm upstairs in our bed, the old fashioned way.

“I could become a football fan yet, Slave.”

Hmmm. That might not be a good thing. Not sure my bottom could handle a high scoring shootout.  Maybe it’s good the season is finally over.

(OK, so this was an early April Fool entry. I made it  up, but for the Green Chili Stew. We had family and friends over to watch the game. In 100 years will Super Sunday be the new Christmas? Don’t tell Jim O’Reilly I suggested that might be so).

Mick and Molly Fan Fiction?

Our friend M from out west recently composed this little story. He gave us permission to share it with our vast array of disciples. (Other comments and contributions are always encouraged. Sometimes this "journalist" gets a little lazy).


Molly was having lunch with her new associate, D. They had appropriated a conference room of their mutual client, enjoying some carry out sushi.

D was tall, about her age. Fit. Athletic. Clever. The type with whom Molly could imagine a little adventure. She had already told Mick of his potential as a lover on the side. (She did revel in taunting Mick now that her contract gave her certain rights her Slave did not enjoy).

One of her clients had asked Molly and D to travel together to collaborate on some development work . Over lunch, they were planning their trip. D’s phone rang and he answered, listening to a female voice. His face darkened. He excused himself, stepping outside the conference room into a quiet hallway.


Molly was curious. Pretending to stretch her legs, she walked closer to the doorway, listening as best she could.

“I specifically told you not to do that …I will be home right after lunch. I want to find you naked in the corner, on your knees, with the hairbrush out. I'm going to blister your bare bottom. “

D snapped his phone shut and turned on his heel. Molly had to quickly scurry back to her place at the conference room table

“Problems?”

“Nothing I can’t handle”.

Molly had a curious look on her face.

“You heard that conversation didn't you”.

“Yes”, she admitted, blushing.

“That’s OK, I have what you could call an unconventional relationship with my wife. I don't hide it.”

“What kind of relationship?”

“ She is my submissive. I am her Master.”

“ Really?”, Molly said, acting a bit more naïve about the concept of D/s than she, in fact, was. Interesting.

“Yes, and I have found the strict corporal punishment and other …methods…, help keep her in line.”

“Hmmm, what other methods?”

“When we were in Germany I bought her a custom fitted chastity belt.”

“And Why did you do that?”

“To make her more submissive. More under my thumb. But also because she was a chronic masturbator. “
She was spending far too much time pressing a powerful vibrator to her clit, having the most lurid fantasies she would describe to me after her little sessions. Very self indulgent.”

Molly blushed thinking of the Mornings after Mick left for when, when she had done just the same.

“Well that is quite unconventional”

“Yes, but it works well for us”.

Will you lock her in that …. belt when we travel together?”

“Yes, of course. She can’t be trusted otherwise.”

“Oh my,....”.

Molly hesitated, blushed, then decided to take the plunge:

“Is it my imagination or have you been flirting with me these last few weeks, D.?

“Probably. Can’t help it. I find you very attractive”, he said.

“But I'm a married woman”.

“Yes I know. But my wife and I have an agreement. It’s called cuckholding. I can sleep with anyone I like while she is locked in her chastity device. It drives her crazy when I give her the ‘blow by bow’ later on. But Molly, I know you are happily married. I'm just flirting with you. Pay me no mind.”

Molly sat back stunned. She decided to take another plunge.

“You know I have a rather uncoventional relationship with Mick as well. It is all an unbelievable coincidence”.

After she shared some of the lurid details, it was D’s turn to sit back, stunned.

Wow”. he said, “this trip is going to be a lot more fun than I thought. … But, you know, Molly, I am not submissive….”

“Yes I can certainly see that Molly” smiling, eyebrow raised.

Mistress Utilizes Japanese Management Techniques

Mick and Molly spent Saturday evening at a dinner party hosted by one of River City’s iconic political dudes and his wife. He’s a former 60’s impresario of rock and roll and publican, who moved onto a broader community portfolio later in life. His career path is similar to the current Mayor of Denver, who’s family came from these parts. His guests last night were an eclectic bunch, including an  car company manager who grew up hereabouts and his younger Japanese wife.

As we explored how this couple met in Japan a few years back, we riffed on the differences between husband and wife relationships in the “Floating Kingdom” and The U S of A. The couple told us that in Japan, men  dominate the work culture, but t at home, the wives are in charge, from controlling the purse to ruling domestic life generally.

I noted, with a little under the table squeeze of Mistress’s black tighted thigh, that we have adopted Japanese management techniques in our household. Mistress confirmed my observation, but noted that it took me about 18 years to come around to finally acknowledging that it was her destiny to rule.

Of course this generated laughs and nods all around. But if only the assembled guests knew that the older gent at the end of the table had agreed by contract to submit to his younger, devastatingly attractive wife.

They should have been flies on the wall the night before…

We were hunkered down at home as snow began to fall. The locals were in full panic at the thought of 5 inches of snow tumbling onto their hilly streets. The Groceries were reported clogged with shoppers stocking up on water and condiments as if nuclear winter was about to descend.

We settled before our big screen computer to gorge via “Crackle” on some early episodes of “Damages”. We had heard good things about the show but missed it the first time around.

Check it out. Glenn Close plays the scariest lawyer I have ever seen (and I have been exposed to more than my fair share, including my first wife.)

Oddly, this character reprises Close’s “bunny boiling” villainy from “Fatal Attraction”, by having her order the assassination of  acute little puppy  in season one. I guess pet killing is metaphor for ball busting?  But we digress…

We  cuddled up, watched a few episodes, drank some wine, ate some day old chili. Cozy fun. But by bed time, Slave was tired. We had quite robust sex twice earlier in the day, once in the morning, and again after work. Quite frankly, I would have been happy to take a pass.

But Mistress has needs.

“You seem tired Slave?”

“Yes, aren’t you?”

“Not too tired…”

“I would be happy to worship, Mistress” (this is Slave code for can I suck your cunt, then go to sleep?)

“I think I want to play with your cock, Slave”.

“Of course you can, it’s yours Mistress”

“Yes, Slave, it is.”

Mistress was wearing one of her seductive little numbers, all lacy and feminine. A texture and look that always helps a Slave focus.  She climbed up off the bed, fumbled for something in her closet, and came back with a vivid leather turquoise colored glove on her right hand.

“On your back, Slave.”

“Yes, Mistress.”

The supple leather of her  glove found my soft cock. 

“Not, too impressive, Slave.”

“No Mistress. I am a little  tipsy, tired. Sorry.”

I was concerned that despite her efforts, Mistress would not be able to make things come out the way she likes her cock. This could be …bad.

But resigned to my fate, I lay back, relaxed, prepared to “suffer” the consequences, however embarrassing or pleasurable they might be.

It turned out that surrendering  to my fate at Mistress’s clever fingers was the ticket.

Soon I was hard, moaning, ready. But Mistress was not cutting to the chase.

She positioned me to her requirements, then slid her hips over my face, her tongue gently teasing my now firm tool.

“You know what to do, Slave.”

I set about my task, my face buried in her fragrant opening, that was now pressing  hard against my open mouth. My tongue probed and explored inside, making her squirm and press even harder against me. My lips captured her oh so responsive clit, and I tugged at it, making her undulations against me all the more frantic.

Meanwhile, Mistress had taken me into her mouth, and the combination of her soft tongue and lips and the crafty, gloved fingers toying with my balls took me from “zero to hero” ( or deadbeat to dynamo) in a few delightful minutes.

Mistress ultimately succumbed to the suction that drew her tenderest parts into my greedy mouth. Squirm as she did, I would just not let go. She gave out her little cry of surrender, and collapsed onto my face that by now was showered with her delicious juices.

Then she rolled over, satisfied, a hand still gripping my hungry cock.

“May I fuck you now, Mistress.”

“But I thought you were tired, Slave. Wouldn’t want to wear you out.”

“You seem to have rejuvenated me, Mistress.”

“If you beg, I may be generous, Slave.”

More begging. Groveling. Me pumping against Mistress’s tight grip.  Argh.

But Mistress is kind, and after sufficient begging, I was finally allowed to demonstrate that I had somehow found my second wind.

A gentle reminder, fellow Slaves: Not to forget 2/14.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lYuG3jgytqY