Mistress and Slave's DC Adventures (cont'd)

Yesterday I ended the blog on a sidewalk in our nation’s capitol, with two 20 something’s wondering what made two folks (or at least one of us) old enough to be their parents so hot for one another on a sultry Friday night.

I did not want to leave too much to your imagination.

We finished our long walk back to our hotel from dinner, a bit tipsy and with a sheen of perspiration from the warm humid air. We slid off our cloths and into bed.


“Do you want me, Slave?”

“Absolutely, Mistress.”

Soon I was between Mistress’s legs, dug in for a long siege.

I know there are some guys who say this is not their favorite sex act. Our Western Correspondent is one of them. And I have heard of (but never met) women who find it less than compelling. (Thinking of you SFP).

But for me, there is nothing like the Zen like experience of focusing all of my energy and attention on bringing my Mistress to a slow and intense orgasm with my mouth and tongue.

On a night like our Friday evening , when there are no other demands, or the need to wake up early or otherwise, “get on with it”, I like to use my mouth to tease and torment a bit, and draw it out of her slowly. And when Mistress is a little tipsy, it’s all the more fun. Whatever inhibitions she might have (and there are not many) are thrown to the wind and surrendered to her pleasure centers.

So with the glow of the National Cathedral shining through our hotel room window in the distance, I began my worship. This would be a high mass.

It involved a slow and languorous sucking of her rosy clit between my lips, teased on occasion by the very tip of my tongue. I knew I was getting to her as her hips began to rise each time I created a little vacuum to suck her sensitive bud even deeper into my mouth.

AS she got closer to the edge I would slow the rhythm a bit, then speed it up again to keep her tilted but not quite ready to plunge over the precipice. And somewhere along the way, my thumb found it’s way into her sopping canal, where it poked and probed to find that spot that makes her crazy.

After 10 or 15 minutes of this, Mistress was thrashing about a bit, getting a tad desperate. Finally, I showed some mercy, and pressed her over the edge with some additional attention with my tongue.

Her vocalization was well worth the effort, as she came in one enthusiastic spasm against my clinging mouth, and then went through a series of mini-crashes before settling down onto the bed. I had the satisfaction of a job well done, when I heard her raspy demand “Come and fuck me now, Slave”.

It’s always nice when I am not required to beg for that privilege.

As it turned out I was more than ready, and mounted her without hesitation.

And we fucked for quite a few minutes that way, me on top of her, varying the speed, mauling her tits, pressing my face into her neck to enjoy her lovely aroma, that mingled her musky perfume, the salt of the day’s sunbathing, and the tang of the sexual juices that had spread just about everywhere by now.

But this was not exactly what Mistress needed.

“I want to be on top, Slave.”

“Of course, Mistress.”


On that night, her needs were only going to be quenched by riding my cock. And she rode it with a vengeance.

I had a sense that in her mind she was imprisoned in M’s mountain cabin. Collared. Chained to the bed. At his disposal.

And he had required her to ride him this way, maybe with her hands tied behind her back, so that she could take her pleasure only by grinding and sliding against him, building and building until she was mad with desire, but coming only after she begged him for the privilege.

And my attitude was the following (and I have expressed it to her this way): If Mistress gets this hot with thoughts of fucking another guy, and I am the beneficiary of her naughty sexual fantasies, then fantasize on, my love.

At some point she drove herself to yet another devastating climax, collapsing onto me, seemingly exhausted, but knowing that she owed me one.

So we rolled over again. And I quickly found my mark.

By now, Mistress was making some noises that were new to me. Sobbing was the best way I could describe it to her over breakfast the next day. But not the sobbing that comes with tears. That happens sometimes for her, after a particularly intense climax. This was something all together different. I interpreted it as “Slave, I have had more orgasms than a Mistress can handle, but I am still going crazy with you fucking me.”

In any event, I did go on, until I was begging for permission, and she was granting, then I was exploding into her in a series of spasms that seemed to go on forever.

After that, well …..

We woke the next morning, wondering what exactly happened.

We found ourselves on the wrong side of the bed. (old married couples like us have their “sides”. Exactly how we acquired them is now shrouded by the fog of time).

As best we could reconstruct, we both sort of passed out simultaneously. Maybe our mutually generated sexual energy had sucked us into an odd time warp or another dimension. But we came back in good order, no limbs rearranged. Our nation’s history not altered, at least as far as we could tell. The oil was still leaking. The media still demanding that Barack “do something” and “act more pissed.”

And, before heading out for a walk through Georgetown, we made sure that our sexual organs were still working. Thank goodness, they were.

Now we are back in River City, our brief getaway over.

We have a lovely photo of Molly on the steps of JFK’s Georgetown home to show for our trip. Mistress’s tan lines are a bit more pronounced. And I am considering what exactly to do to her on Switch Day. We will keep you updated.


BTW, check out ‘Nilla’s blog (Vanilla Mom’s Blog) today for a fictionalized account of the adventures of Molly, Mick and our Western Correspondent. We no doubt will all be inspired by this today. Hopefully Molly and M will have a phone date today to go over the plot line in some detail. It’s probably fortunate that the Hitachi has had a few days off to rest its circuitry.


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