Over the weekend, our Western Correspondent rose from the bed where he has been (ma)lingering these last few days to share some comments on the end of cage week here at UCTMW.
Of course I was not a direct party to the conversation. I was lying next to Mistress in our bed, reading the paper, when the two of them connected. But I was able to pick up the trail of their conversation.
It seems that M has been known to wear a cage from time to time, when his wife B gets a little feisty.
“So she’s threatened to put you in a vage again, M… well that would certainly mess things up for us….”
True…. Those occasional conference calls could be a little one sided if Mistress had all access, and poor M was on full containment mode.
Then the subject turned to the style of cage M has been required to wear.
Turns out it was the “Curve” one of those plastic devices, from the same folks who made my earlier model the CB-2000.
Mistress laughed at the next part of the story.
“He says they kept breaking on him, Slave….”
It’s hard to imagine mere plastic containing the special occasion cock when it hankers to take a walk on the wild side. And I can recall a few times when those little plastic rings popped even for my more moderate sized work-a-day wonder.
That’s why we upgraded to the stainless steel variety, with the unhinged anchor ring made to my personal measurements. It’s a little harder to get on, but once on, it ain’t going no where, to paraphrase Bob Dylan.
No more “cage failures” for me. Mistress knows that once I am on lock-down, nothing will come loose until she turns the key. Although it can create a problem at airport security or in federal courthouses.
But I was wondering where M was able to get a cage suitable for his particular appendage.
“Ask him if he had to buy it at an agricultural supply store, Mistress?”
I am not sure either one of them appreciated my humor.
Yesterday, Mistress did stop by for worship after lunch. And when I had finished with my devotions, I took a picture of her: legs spread, tights pealed off, one boot thrown aside, a very smug and satisfied look on her face.
I texted it off to M with the little note “get well soon.” But as a bad sign of his continued malaise, we heard nothing back. It seems he spent the day in bed again yesterday, on the cruel, confusing edge of consciousness.Sort of like his hero, Dr. Thompson, after a long night in Vegas, but without the preceding fun.
“He does seem pretty sickly, Slave… I’m worried about him.”
So keep those good wishes and remedies coming. UCTMW does not want to incur the expense of a MediVac unit.
Mistress did have one problem yesterday She has an ugly allergy to shell fish. And when she came by my office after lunch she mentioned some mix-up with her meal.
“I think they served me lobster bisque, when I ordered the squash soup.”
I expressed some disbelief. To me, it would be obvious: the taste of lobster bisque would be quite different than squash. The alarms would have gone off immediately.
Mistress was not amused at my impertinence, which she reminded me of on our bike ride at the end of the day, with an explanation.
“Slave…. My sense of taste and smell are somewhat compromised….if it looked like squash, and it did, well its quite likely I would not notice.”
It’s something she had never mentioned before: A taste and smell disability of sorts.
But it got my nasty mind going, as we pumped up a rather long hill.
“So in a dark room, if someone fed you a cock, you could not tell if it was mine or someone else’s based on taste or odor?”
“Maybe not Slave…. One cock might be just as tasty as another ….”
Hmmm. If variety is the spice of life, what happens if your taste buds can’t discern the spices. I guess you accept what you are offered and do your best.
“It’s sort of like that episode of Californication, when David Duchovney went down on one woman, thinking it was his wife, but, it turned out otherwise.”
“I recall she enjoyed it though….”
And I suspect Mistress would too.
Later last evening, as I was savoring the tastes of Mistress from my proper position between her legs, I tried to focus her the tastes and smells. I suspect that I could tell the difference if offered an alternative morsel.
And I wondered if she would notice if it was another man (or woman) who was feasting on her. (Under those circumstances the quirks of an individual’s techniques and skills should make a difference. At least I like to think so.
But, once again, I suppose that’s why I am the Slave and she is the Mistress.