Mistress Gets Tag Teamed

With Mistress on orgasm quarantine since Wednesday evening, I had to quickly re-engineer my prime directive.

After her impromptu date with M that night, Mistress was a bit dazed. Sounds like she had several earth moving comes at his command. And when she came down stairs to retrieve me, it really did seem that her knees were a tab wobbly.

And yet, generous to a fault, she insisted that I should fuck her before she collapsed in a heap.

“Go put in your device, Slave” (the little white aneros she sometimes has me where to assure a particularly rigid cock).

“Of course, Mistress …. But are you sure you want me to impose when you aren’t allowed to come….”

“Of course I do…. You were very patient down there, waiting for me while I talked to M.”

And I was certainly glad Mistress did not decide that when she is on orgasm restriction her Slave should be too.

When I came to bed, my cock was already filling out nicely …. The thought of Mistress toeing her Master’s line apparently had a certain cunning effect.

And she added to my heft with those tender fingers, working my cock and balls until I was begging for the privilege to fuck her.

Finally, she relented.

“But be careful, Slave…. We don’t want to violate M’s rules do we?”

Uh…. I guess we didn’t. So I re-jiggered my mental conditioning as best I could. Normally I am wired to assure Mistress a climax or two long before I begin to focus on drive my cock over the cliff.

But now I was focusing on a pleasurable send off for myself, without prolonging Mistress’s frustration was my cock pounded into her and my lips toyed with her tender nipples.

But it turned out the circuitry was amenable to some rewiring, and more quickly than I thought was possible, I exploded into her, moaning my delight, and relief.

“Oh my, Slave, that sounded like a good one.”

Mistress was even kind enough to let me take her that way again on Thursday morning. Patiently laying there, seemingly quite turned on as I fucked her, and yet willing her self to avoid violating her Master’s command.

Quite impressive.

We were off in different directions yesterday. And I was wondering how Mistress was handling her restrictions.

So there were some occasional texts from me, like “getting horny, Mistress?” Which earned a curt response, “no taunting, Slave.”

When we talked after lunch, Mistress told me that M was also stoking her fire.

“He says he deciding whether I get to come tonight or not.”

“I can’t imagine he’d leave you twisting in the wind for more than a day, Mistress.”

“I don’t know, Slave. I think he likes me squirmy and begging.”

“Who wouldn’t, Mistress. And isn’t that the way you like me?”

“Exactly”

At the end of the work day I was joining a group of my fellow Hibernians for an annual tradition: a picnic to celebrate the St. Patrick’s Day solstice, so to speak. Six months since the last celebration, and six months to the next.

There would be plenty of Guinness and Jamieson, and steaks to end the night.

Mistress was spending the dinner hour with the surly teens, taking them for Sushi (and a little Saki for her).

But mid way through the picnic, I got through to Mistress on her cell phone.

“Any word on M’s plans for you Mistress?”

“He’s being nice, Slave. He says I am allowed to come tonight while riding your cock.”

Ummm. Sounds good. And that cock gave off a little twitch, as if it knew it would be called to duty.

When I got home, a bit tipsy, but serviceable, Mistress was getting back from dinner with the teens. And she seemed particularly anxious to get down to business before M changed his order of the day.

“Is M calling you tonight, Mistress?”

I knew his wife B was still out of town, leaving M a little out of sorts. And he still had that “All Access Pass” to my wife.

“Maybe later, Slave….but lets do it before he calls, OK.”

“I am your servant, as always, Mistress.”

She told me to insert my little “device” again, and she was naked and ready for me. This was a woman in no need of foreplay.

But I confess, this aging Slave, after a drink or three, needed some priming to provide that cock Mistress was told to ride.

Mistress generously used fingers and mouth to get me to the proper, serviceable dimensions.

And she did it all while answering M’s persistent text messages…..he was curious about whether and when and how she would get that first curfew ending come that he had authorized.

That sort of multi-tasking has a cute Ginger Rogers / Fred Astair analogy in it, but I will leave that for another blog and try to get to the point. But soon Mistress’s patience ran out.

“I’m telling him I need to focus now, Slave….”

She put her I-phone down, pushed me onto my back and slid with fierce urgency onto the hard cock she had engineered for her own pleasure.

Soon Mistress was moaning, taking the time as she slid up and down on my shaft to build herself to a nice hearty climax.

Then she collapsed onto me.

“Was it worth the wait, Mistress.”

“Oh….yes, Slave….definitely.”

She rolled over, allowing me to take her, and I did for a while. But the St. Patrick’s celebration was beginning to take it’s toll. As it turned out, it was the Slave who would be fucking without coming on this particular evening.

“How about I finish this task up in the morning, Mistress?”

“Of course, Slave…..”

I think she was amused at my plight.

So to that extent the tables were turned from the night before. It was Mistress who got the pleasuring on this occasion, and the Slave who was to be deferred.

And not long after, as we lay in bed, reading books, Mistress’s text went off again.

“M wants to know if he can call now Slave….”

“Why of course, Mistress ….”

And as I watched a lopsided College football game downstairs, while reading the morning’s Times, I knew that upstairs, Mistress was in the good (virtual) hands of my tag team partner.

It does take a Village. Or, in this case, at least a couple of deviant Male villagers.

HNT / Beware the Masturbation Police

Mick apologizes to our readers for the late posting yesterday morning.

Yes, Sin. Fiction is harder to massage into life than the normal stream of consciousness blogulating that I prepare for Mistress, and the rest of you, each morning.

But here’s a confession.

I am getting a head start Wednesday evening on the Thursday morning edition, as M and Mistress chat away upstairs, in a special spur of the moment date. Hmmm. I wonder what they are up there talking about?

And in my own way, I probably helped facilitate this spontaneous encounter.

This afternoon, on our drive home, Mistress told me that M seemed particularly in need of her company today. Which wasn’t easy for her to accommodate, because Mistress was tied up (I know what you’re thinking, but don’t take that literally, pervs!) in a long presentation to some clients.

Seems that M’s wife B has left town for a few days, leaving M feeling somewhat disconsolate.

I actually tried my best to entertain M while Molly was busy, with an email entitled “Masturbation Police”, attaching this bizarre MTV video clip featuring Tea Party darling and Delaware GOP Senate candidate Christine O’Donnell.  Apparently she has some odd and very judgmental views about Masturbation. http://tpmdc.talkingpointsmemo.com/2010/09/christine-odonnells-1996-anti-masturbation-campaign-on-mtvs-sex-in-the-90s.php

I told M that He and Mistress should be concerned if this lady and her fellow travelers ever take power. Of course, I have nothing to worry about if the Masturbation Police come calling, since the “no touching” rule in our contract has become second nature to me now.

Just remember, when Masturbation is outlawed, only outlaws will Masturbate. But then I suppose that could make it even more fun, right?

But one thing M had access to first today was the full version of yesterday’s blog “Mistress and the Cowboy”.

I had spent a little too much time on exposition Wednesday morning. My deadline without a finished product that was post worthy. But I let Mistress scroll through the introductory passages, as I deployed my well practiced tongue on her delicious, moist folds.

When she put the laptop aside, Mistress was curious about where things were heading.

“I do like Cowboys Slave…..but you didn’t really need to make him a reformed architect.”

“Good point Mistress….not sure why he’s an architect … maybe in Part III he makes a really intricate device to force orgasms from you.”

Mistress laughed, spread he legs, and pulled me to her. Apparently my preliminary efforts were to be rewarded.

At work, as I waited an interminable time for my cranky assistant to finish some typing that should have been done the afternoon before, I polished my draft and tacked on the cliffhanger ending.  Then I posted my belated blog-o-the–day.

It was good to get the feedback from all of your clever comments, and to think of the torment I might be creating for any of you on orgasm quarantine.

So  sorry.  So very sorry. Hah.

So Mistress got initial reports of the final version of the story by way of M, when they finally had a chance to talk yesterday afternoon.

“I think he was a little disappointed he was not in the story, Slave.”

“Hmmm …. Maybe it’s good for him, Mistress. But I’ll try to work in a cameo appearance before this story winds to its smutty conclusion.”

Once home, Mistress reminded me that she still had something to read. And that I had something to worship. It’s not good to have to be reminded.

So as she read through the final version of “Mistress and the Cowboy”, I was on my knees, sucking on that rosy, swollen bud poking out from between those damp and tasty folds.

After Mistress was satisfied, and told me I should continue the tale, we went for a bike ride and fed the sullen teens.

But it occurred to me that I should be more considerate of our lonely Western Correspondent.

 I sent him an email, copying Mistress, entitled “All Access Pass”.

“ I understand you have been left alone for the next few days. I have told Molly that I am telling you that you should feel free to exercise your privileges with her, whenever and however. Not that she needs my permission.”

And sure enough, Mistress and M are even now exercising those privileges.

I am hopeful that I will reap the benefits when they are done.

ADDENDUM:

Sure enough, not long after I finished this entry, Mistress came down stairs to fetch me to bed. She had that glossy eyed, well fucked look that comes with multiple Hitachi induced orgasms. And as she embraced me, letting her hands drift down to my already growing cock, she offered the promise of an immediate reward for my patience. But she had one note of caution:

“And how was it Mistress …..

Very good, Slave…..but here’s the problem …. He put me on orgasm denial, at least until tomorrow night.  So when you fuck me, don’t let me come.”

I will let you know how that went tomorrow.

Mistress and the Cowboy (I)

(a fictional tale inspired by a lost bet to the 'Nilla. Hope she is amused. or better.)

Molly let the late warm fall, high desert sun wash over her face as her horse negotiated what passed for a trail, up through ragged aspen and pinon trees, into the hills that quickly became the Sangre de Christo range, stretching north from New Mexico to Colorado.

It had been years since she had ridden, but the skills she learned as a teen back in River City, on those snooty English saddles, were still there. And her horse, a magnificent rich brown appaloosa, well groomed and gentle, was mild mannered. It simply followed along behind her guide, who clearly knew what he was doing in a saddle. Western, of course.

“You Ok back there, Molly?”

“Absolutely, Wes….amazing day for a ride.”

Mistress took in her guide, tall in the saddle, broad shoulders draped in a black t-shirt, broad gray cowboy hat, and an admirably tight ass.

“What a view”, Molly called out, as Wes skillfully guided his mount up along the rock strewn trail, now crossing a ridge line that spilled views of two verdant valleys far below. And she wasn’t just referring to the colorful display of those golden brown aspen leaves.

As she admired that view, Molly thought back to how she ended up on this little adventure with the mysterious Wes.

She and Mick had been at the local roadhouse Monday evening. They danced a bit to the country swing music strummed by the house band. Drank some tequila. Eyed the crowd. Made small talk with some of the regulars.

Then, suddenly, there was this Cowboy, sidling up to their table, mid 40’s, rugged, tight but not obscenely tight jeans, the same gray cowboy hat, and one of those shirts with the shiny buttons only a real cowboy can pull off without looking like he’s trying out for the Village People. This guy was Hat WITH Cattle.

He held out his hand.

“Would the lovely lady like to dance?”

Now this is something that often happens to Molly, even when it is clear she is “taken”. Under local custom, any attractive woman is fair game when the band breaks into some boot scooting music. And some of the local gentlemen like to show off their two stepping ability almost as much as their herd.

Molly was not usually in the practice of accepting those sorts of invitations. But there was something about this particular Cowboy that called for a change in policy.

She leaned over to Mick, whispered into his ear, without breaking eye contact with the Cowboy.

“”You don’t mind, do you Slave.”

“Of course not, Mistress.”

The rest was a bit of a blur. His firm hands as they spun on the dance floor. The way he guided her through the clever turns and dips, and the way he held her a bit more tightly as the music switched from up tempo to a romantic waltz.

She knew this had Mick squirming at their table, sipping his Jamieson, with the tight steel cage gripping what was only her cock ….and, she suddenly realized, she was dripping.

Oh my.

As they danced there was the occasional small talk, and then Wes joined him at their table for a bit, describing his transition from big city architect to Northern New Mexico cowboy.

“Maybe you’d like to ride with me someday, I’ve got some pasture land up in the hills north of town.”

He was looking at Molly. It was clear that the invitation was directed at her. Solo.

She pondered. For about 3 seconds.

“Wow. I’d love that.”

They exchanged cell numbers.

When Mick and Molly got home to their little mountain hideaway, it seemed their cloths were hitting the floor almost as soon as they entered the threshold. And the sex was particularly incendiary. Of course, the prime subject as they muttered and moaned to one another was the tall, mysterious cowboy and what he might have planned for Mick’s oh so sexy Mistress.

And when Wes called later in the week, Mistress gladly agreed to the arrangements he proposed: an early morning pickup at their cabin.

After she gave Wes the brief tour, they were off in his dust caked Loredo, and heading to his ranch. Molly was all kitted out in her jeans, boots, and a cotton, western style blouse, long hair flowing in the breeze.

Big Sky. Big jitters about where this might be headed. And of course, Molly had license under her contract with Mick to let it go wherever she deemed appealing.

Back on the trail, Wes pulled his mount to a halt in a green meadow, and reached for the canteen strapped to his well worn saddle. He passed it to Molly, giving her first quaff of the cool water. The sun was warming her, and she was grateful for the break.

She eyed his saddle more carefully.

“Boy, you are a real cowboy…..rifle, lariet. Can you really use those?”

Wes gave her that winning, aw shucks smile.

“The rifle….haven’t had to use it much. But there are occasional mountain lions and rattle snakes in these hills … one has to be prepared.”

“And the lasso…..do you use it to round up stray cattle, Wes?”

She had that little sarcastic but also flirtatious tease in his voice.

Wes, just smiled, reached for the lasso, and shook it out. She noticed how stiff the rope seemed, particularly at the broad loop he now held in his hand. Why was she thinking that might abrade naked flesh.

“Down, Molly, down” she thought to herself.

“You’d be surprised how useful this can be on the trail…”

He backed his horse away from her’s swinging the rope a bit, getting it’s weight just right in his hand.

Then, suddenly, it spun through the air, over Wes’s head. Just like in some old time Western movie.

“My trusty lariat can be particularly useful when you run into a little cock tease on the trail, and need to bring her to heel,” he growled, a wry smile on his sun bronzed face.

Molly was frozen for a moment--- did she really hear him say what she thought he said – then, suddenly, the lasso was twisting over her head, around her torso. A quick yank by Wes, and her arms were pinned to her side.

He was smiling. She was grousing.

“Cute. Very cute.”

He pulled on the rope, spooling it hand over hand, pulling Molly and her horse ever closer to him, while tightening the rope’s tight grip around her.

Mistress’s heart was fluttering now. Was this a joke? Or had Wes come to some very correct conclusions about her kinky predelictations?

As the distance closed between them, Molly could see the amused but predatory look in Wes’s eyes. And then he reached over her head, and spun two more quick loops around her torso, pressing her arms tighter against her side, and pinching at her heaving breasts.

“Hey….”

“What…. Are you going to say….release me, you fiend….”

“Uhhhh.”

Mistress was watching him as he moved in what seemed like slow motion, closer, closer, one hand tightly gripping the lasso binding her. The other was reaching for the nape of her neck, then gathering up her long flowing brown hair into his fist.

Suddenly, her head was jerked back, and he leaned into her.

“Of course, at least for now, you can say ‘No’, Molly….”

She did not say a word.

But there was a low moan as his mouth found hers, tongue plundering her open lips for a long endless moment.

When he finally released her from that tight grip, she was flushed, liquid, squirming on her saddle.

And Wes was reaching into a saddle bag, pulling out some old, silver plated handcuffs.

“Antiques, I am told. Maybe Billy the Kid wore these once? Anyway they still work. And I think these will be much less cumbersome than this old stiff rope for the rest of this ride.”

“You wouldn’t….”

“Watch me….”

He slipped one cuff around her right wrist, jerked it behind her back, under the clinging lasso, reached for the left. Molly had no real flexibility (or will) to resist as the other cuff closed around her left wrist.

But she was still breathing hard, twisting her wrists now cuffed closely together, perched in the saddle, as Wes patiently unwound the lasso, spooled it back into a coil, and attached it back to his saddle.

He reached for her again, pulling her into one more greedy kiss. Then grabbed the reins of her horse.

“Just sit tight, Molly. My own little mountain hideaway is another 40 minutes or so up the trail. And then we can help you out of those tight riding cloths.”

Molly writhed in her saddle, disoriented, trying to maintain her balance.

“Here’s the two most important things you need to remember on the way, Molly….

Speak when spoken to, like a good little prisoner.”

“And no coming until I give you permission.”

“But….”

“No need to answer. Just relax and enjoy the view.”

Orgasm Amnesia and the Agony of Defeat.

Yesterday was a particularly hectic Monday for Molly and Mick.

By 8 am I had to drop Mistress of at an ancient old downtown Club where she was meeting a local captain of media industry for a power breakfast …. It’s the type of place that would not have allowed women  in it’s  high ceiled dining room a generation ago. She was nicely gussied up for the occasion, black suit of course, but I was too bleary eyed to make the most of her available naked thighs on the drive downtown.

From breakfast she was scrambling off to another meeting.

And soon I was off to my own meeting at a local Tribunal, to wheedle for the interests of my clients.

But we did have a chance to talk by phone briefly before yet more meetings for both of us over lunch.

“I did get to talk to the Western Correspondent as I was walking back form that meeting at the Museum, Slave….”

“Oh….and how is he doing.”

“He was a bit whiney about his lack of sex these last 24 hours. I told him not to feel so bad…that I hadn’t gotten any since Sunday evening either.”

“Hmmm…. What about this morning, Mistress?”

“What?”

“You know, in the shower.”

She was rinsing her hair, I was embracing her from the front, the warm water running down her lovely breasts, her nipples hard, probing my chest, my fingers sliding ever so earnestly through those wet folds until she came with a little shudder and moan, burying her head against my shoulder.

“Oh yeah…. It seems so long ago.”

“And then, afterwards, in bed, as you read the blog.”

I had come up a little after the earlier than normal alarm had gone off. So she was already up and heading to the shower. But as she was letting her hair dry, she asked for my laptop to read the blog. As I gave it to her, I picked up the morning paper.

I presumed that her shower orgasm was sufficient. How silly of a Slave to presume.

“Uhhhh….what about the tongue. Slave.” 

She indicated where the tongue was to be placed. I had blown off an important part of her morning  blog reading ritual.

“Oops. Sorry, Mistress.”

I promptly dropped the paper, and deployed my tongue, lips and a few nips with my teeth. Her second, but so quickly forgotten, orgasm of the morning came with a nice little hip thrust and wiggle just as she completed reading my morning homework assignment.

“Excellent, Slave.”

I wasn’t sure whether she was referring to the blog or the come I had so efficiently delivered.

Where were we….

“Oh, that’s right Slave….how could I have forgotten?”

That faux innocent giggle of hers is always endearing, and disarming.

Maybe she was just trying to empathize with our Western Correspondent. Feeling his pain, so to speak, as Bubba would have done. Or, speaking of Bubba,  maybe it depends on how one defines “sex”.

When it comes to feeling pain, I had a rough weekend myself,  with my college and NFL teams going down to double ignominious defeats.

And there were some stakes on the line for Sunday’s contest between ‘Nilla’s home state Heros and River City’s Lame-o’s.

When the dust settled….well, by the end of the first quarter if you want me to be honest …  it was clear that my team had fully submitted to those insufferable Doms of the eastern seaboard. And  ‘Nilla was lording over me, big time.

Our bet had been that the winner would dictate the terms of some suitable fiction to be written by the loser.

So Sunday afternoon I got some pointed texts from da ‘Nilla.

“Mwahahaha, does that make me da boss of you? You’re writing anyway? Mountains. Nape. Hair. Colored leaves. Vibe. Go for it!”

Now I am not a man with the sort of free flowing imagination of ‘Nilla. While you may have seen some fiction a few times on these pages, just about every entry is based on our kinky form of reality. So I begged for a little more guidance.

“Don’t I get any more direction than that?”

“Boobs – cock – handcuffs – autumn walk . Dom . Sub. You won’t be graded on this Mick! Giggle!

And yet, I pressed for more.

“Characters?”

“Yes!”

OK, I get it.  She’s not gonna write the story for me.

So let a thousand thorned flowers bloom.  My mind has been churning with too many potential story lines. But I promise something to her (and you dear readers) before my sad team takes the field at home next weekend.