Ancient and Not So Ancient Rituals

It was a cold Saturday morning after a busy work week here in Frigid-It-Is-Stan. And there was nothing Mistress and her Slave would have preferred to do more than stay huddled under the  furs through the morning after our wake-up sex.

But Mistress had accepted a gracious invitation from one of our new neighbors to attend a "coming of age" ritual for her son at a local Temple.... So we were soon saddling up the yaks, dressed in our "go to meeting" clothes and heading to this rather exotic ceremony.

Now I'm one of those old Catholic guys. Our idea of a religious service is hushed silence (lest the nuns whack you up side the head), mumbling through a few rote prayers, and (most importantly) getting it all done in 45 minutes so  one can move on with their day and the parking lot can get cleared for the afternoon's bingo.

But there is another approach, as I learned  yesterday: a long meandering service, with folks in the congregation, or even up in the sanctuary, carrying on their own conversations (maybe about their tee times?), walking about to greet their long lost pals, or maybe stepping out into the hallway to check their email as the "priest" mumbles and chants to himself. 

Then there were the folks who kept arriving deep into the ceremony, even as the young man who was the center of attention had already begun his readings from the sacred texts. A crowd that seemed to be about 60 when the service began at 9:30 or so seemed to have swelled to 300 or more by the time the bar opened at noon for fermented yak curd cocktails and a generous spread of local delicacies prepared according to strict dietary rules.

"I think a lot of these folks just came for the lunch, Mistress."

"You may be right, Slave."
 

I must say that Mistress was impressed by the costumes that the men wore to the service, which left very little to the imagination.

I pointed out two of them to her.  "They look a little like the WC and his brother, don't you think, Mistress?"

But what had me distracted through most of the ceremony was my knowledge of what Mistress was wearing beneath her demure frock.

She had spent some time that morning looking for the peek-a-boo tights that D, the SBPP had included in our provisions. 

"Ahh.... here they are Slave..... won't it give you a thrill to know my parts are there available to you under my dress.."

Well, yes.... it did. It made me want to reach underneath at a discrete moment. and I could swear I could sense the aroma of her fragrant clean shaven folds through the ceremony. Was it just me? or were those guys in the male thongs and prayer shawls distracted too?

After lunch the well fed and liquored up crowd adjourned outside for some manly displays of prowess, presumably to show that reading from fancy scrolls is just part of the job.  But by then Slave was getting a little impatient to partake of Mistress's barely hidden fruits.  (Plus my alma mater was going to be on the satellite, hoping to regain some lost pride from their disgrace last Saturday).

So we slipped away, hoping that our hostess would not notice our early departure.

Back at our humble yurt, Mistress napped a bit as her Slave watched the football game. It was actually a perfect way to spend a Saturday afternoon.  and afterwards.... well, Slave made sure to worship Mistress with those tights in place, and was given permission to fuck her long and hard through that clever opening, the texture of the fabric doing a stimulative little number against my balls.

She does know how to press my fetishy little buttons, doesn't she?