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Living in New England has afforded me the opportunity to become intimately familiar with some pretty outstanding weather-related phenomena. I was around for the Blizzard of ‘78 (please reference my post about the humiliating disappointment that was our last Nor’Easter), the letdown that was “Hurricane Gloria” and the sadly accurate No Name Storm, which took the lives of some of Gloucester’s finest fishermen (The Perfect Storm was the movie adaptation … I still can’t watch it without bursting into tears).  One would think, after all this time, that I wouldn’t be surprised by something the weather does around here. And yet, one would be incorrect.
I awoke yesterday morning to a dusting of snow that just looked so pretty I couldn’t resist snapping a picture of it from my office window. So typical of classic New England charm, this is what my neighborhood looks like when the tiny flakes of snow all come together to blanket our homes and gardens. Which, of course, begs the question … if tiny flakes look this good all bundled together, what about small penises? If we gather all the small penis losers together, do they come together to make one beautiful cock? Or would we just be standing around, laughing at a bunch of little dick morons? (I really hate to think of the mental image that just cropped up into my head, thinking of a bunch of lily-white men with unfortunate blessings standing around naked in a room, trying to make one good looking dick). Carrying the theme, if we put all the cuckolds together in one bundle, would they measure up to a bull’s girth or would they continue to fail to satisfy anyone with their ability and aptitude? The questions are almost too much to ponder in one evening.
So instead, I shall look out the window at the evening stars as they glisten and glimmer in the snow blanketing my neighborhood and have a cup of fresh coffee, preparing to spend the evening doing things that would make even the dirtiest of snow appear pure.
Ciao,
For an erotic phone session with Empress Ryan, call 800-601-6975
Must be 18+
Calls are $2.50 per minute,. with a 10 minute minimum
Discreetly billed to your credit card
http://ratemycall.com
 It’s a valid question, I think … and quite simple to answer if you put your mind to it. Are you the big, burly Alpha Male who rules with an iron fist or the soft spoken, sissified wimp who cowers to his Alpha Female at every opportunity? Both men have their place … and their uses in the world. Even a Mistress such as myself can find pleasure in being with an Alpha Male … the mental Olympics that 2 Alphas can put each other through is almost as good as attaining the head-space of a good scene. However, I’m sure you’re asking yourself what on earth would bring this to mind. Why would I be asking now what kind of a man you are?
Today, I went to see “The Wolfman” starring Benicio del Toro and Emily Blunt. The movie itself is ultimately forgettable, with jerky storyline jumps and under-developed characters, but it does have a few moments which reach out and scare the death out of you in pure shock value. Unfortunately, as much as it pains me to say this, I fear Sir Anthony Hopkins has passed his prime and has become much like an old, broken down shell of his former self. His screen presence does nothing for any of the scenes he’s presented in and the half-hearted delivery of his lines is awkward at best. It was his casting in the movie which caused me to ponder the types of men in the world … and to ask where you fall in the schematic. I’ve decided, after much thinking, there are 4 types of men:
- The Alpha Male – Strong, self-assured and bold, this is the kind of man who expects obedience from everyone around him. Business or personal don’t factor into how he responds or reacts to the people in his life, it’s very cut and dry. In terms of kink, men who fall into this category are sometimes sexual exhibitionists and love the idea of someone watching them stroke on cam.
- The Once Powerful Male – An aging version of the Alpha Male, he still maintains his power but has relinquished some of the status afforded a man who has “Succeeded”. His once fierce personality is tempered by the wisdom of age but he’s still got the bite of a lion when provoked.
- The Pleaser – He wants to make everyone around him happy. He’ll do whatever is necessary in order to make sure those around him are impressed by his talents and praise him for them. Cuckolds generally fall into this category, knowing their own inability to perform must be compensated for in some way.
- The Wimp – This is the lowest man on the totem pole. A true slave to those above him, his existence is validated through the approval of his Mistress. He is forgettable and is terrified to realize it, but will readily do whatever he is instructed in order to “prove” himself.
So which are you? Where do you fall in the grand layout of men and women? I’d be interested to find out where everyone considers themselves.
For an erotic phone session with Mistress Ryan, call 800-601-6975
Must be 18+
Calls are $2.50 per minute,. with a 10 minute minimum
Discreetly billed to your credit card
http://ratemycall.com
I spent a good majority of Monday at the grocery store. I wanted to pick up “a few things” for the “Huge NorEaster Headed Our Way“. I took a look over at the French Toast Alert System and saw that we were encroaching on a full “Elevated” status so decided to make a quick trip down and get the basics. I picked up 3 gallons of bottled water, a gallon of milk, 6 quarts of half & half (for my coffee), 4 loaves of bread plus some powdered milk and a few other things. I snagged a few boxes of cereal and some granola. Came home, checked on my levels of driveway salt, the toboggan I use to get down the driveway and the sprayer for distributing rock salt after a good shoveling. I was happy, settled in and enjoyed my afternoon … “prepared”, as any good New Englander should be.
Yesterday morning was crazy busy with getting everything ready to go on a day trip down to our offices in Massachusetts. Taking the Commuter Rail is so much easier than driving into the city and I know I saved time (parking is a bitch in Boston on a normal day, let alone a snow emergency). The trains ran on time and by the time I got down to the office, there was just the hint of snow in the air. All over the news, people are talking about how terrible the storm is going to be and they are interviewing people who remember the Blizzard of ‘78 (yes, it must be capitalized because it’s a Major Event …. think of the way the Father from the movie “A Christmas Story” spoke of his “Major Award”, the leg lamp … same mentality applies). Everyone is in a panic, talking about how people are going to get stuck in it … people are going to lose power, it’s going to be tossing us back to the dark ages. I admit I was slightly concerned that I wouldn’t be able to get back home in the later afternoon but thought I might stand a chance earlier in the day. So, I took care of what needed doing and headed back North.
By the time I reach South Station, it was a wet “wintery mix” falling. I was never so happy to see the car service waiting for me with a nicely warmed interior. The driver helped me into the car, handed me my coffee (he knows exactly how I like to drink it) and off we went to the house. I began noticing the roads weren’t that bad, not many people on the streets but, one never knows … that can change in a heartbeat on Boston streets. Of course, by the time we reach my house in Salem, I realize that it’s not taken us long at all and the roads aren’t really that bad. The newscasters are now saying the storm will hit during “rush hour”. OK, so I missed it … that’s perfect. Bobby helped me out of the car and walked me to the door, confirming the need for him to return on Friday and I stepped inside. I watched the snow starting to come down off and on through the night. I stopped listening to the newscasters so I could work some and take a few phone sex calls while watching the white stuff cum down. Like most women, I was waiting for the big load to hit … I kept checking to see when the “blizzard-like conditions” would begin. I waited all night and, it is now 6:55am on February 11, 2010 and I’m staring out the window at … what … SIX inches of snow? I had been promised a fuckin Nor’Easter damnit … I went shopping to prepare for a Nor’Easter … now what the hell am I supposed to do with 5 peanut butter jugs, 24 safety candles, 2 packages of D cell batteries, 2 9-volt batteries and enough AA cells to power the Citgo sign for a week.
The moral of this story is that I think I got snowed by Channel 7 Weather Team. I feel like a wife on her wedding night …. she’s looked forward to this day for her entire life and she gets into bed, rolls over to her new husband, the man she loves and adores and wants to spend the rest of her life with …. only to find that he’s hung like a gnat. She expected Ty Lattimore and got Bud Melman. I exepected a Nor’Easter and I got SIX inches of snow.
So I got snowed … once again the meteorologists tricked me and pulled a snow job on me. Perhaps next time, I’ll prepare one for them? I mean … I have all the tools for some really nice CBT … all that’s missing is the 6′ high snowmound for them to experience a true New England Fucking.
Most of you know of my unhealthy obsession enjoyment of the game of football. I love to sit back and watch a man put his ass in the air, ready to thrust forward and pounce on the man in front of him. There’s something so primal about aggressive men (as I’m sure many of my sissy fags would agree). But that is not the reason for my post today.
No, today I am here to renounce my former adoration for Peyton Manning and to squarely lay the blame for my ruined orgasm at his feet. I was excited for this Superbowl … My long-term orgasm denial boy, W had a lot riding on this. As most of you remember, W got himself into some trouble betting against my Patriots a few years ago and had his last orgasm July 4, 2008 (wow, just look at how far you’ve cum … OH! Wait … but you can’t cum, can you?) I have been torturing encouraging him ever since to become a fully encased chastity slave, but he keeps resisting. It’s very exciting for me to goad him and I get a true sexual high from imagining the wiggles and squirms he does in his chair whenever we talk about my decision to lock him up. There are several other Mistresses that keep tabs on W, keeping him honest about himself and preventing him from forgetting his promise.
Well, I admit it … I got cocky. We were joking around just before the Superbowl started and, as our conversation usually does, we started talking about football picks. He was all for “Who Dat?”, thinking that Drew Brees was going to take the Saints all the way and I just couldn’t imagine a world where Manning would lose. I love Peyton Manning and think he’s truly one of the greats in the pocket. His arm is enough to make lasers jealous in it’s accuracy and he never lets the pressure get to him. I have admired him since I started watching football … (ok, so his brother doesn’t quite have the Manning talent but he’s still relatively new to the league … cut the kid some slack). So we joked around a bit and I half-jokingly teased W and said if the Saints win that I would allow him to cum but when the Colts mopped up, that he would be forced to buy a chastity cage and begin his training with Empress Jessica and I. We laughed a little and then he went to watch the game while I worked on a few things and watched the game in the background.
My jaw dropped some 4 hours later … how in the bloody hell did THAT happen? Did someone dress Peyton Manning in a red hoodie? My letdown was immediate and I felt my heart bottom out somewhere in my knees.
There would be no sexual bliss for me … No delightful shiver of passion as I listened to W whimper and beg for me to send him the key … I was bereft of orgasm as I denied him over and over again … I had …
lost
So, my darlings, I would like to welcome you all to Denial 2010 … Much like 2008, I have decreed the Superbowl did not occur and will happily go on with my little slice of reality … and work twice as hard to make sure W gets my birthday gift right …
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This special bulletin is being brought to you, courtesy of insomnia and a mis-press of my fingers on the television remote.
