No.

Heretofore, it has been my policy not to post accounts of scenes and sexual encounters that go awry. Tonight, I'm violating that policy. I'm doing so because I'm not sure--but you better believe I'll be puzzling over it and trying to figure out--whether it didn't work because of me, because of him, or a combination of the two.

First off, we're talkin' 'bout Marlboro Sir. We had planned 24 hours of me being in his custody, but those plans went south when the snow storm came north. So we decided on a shorter amount of time for today. I would leave at noon, getting to his place around 1:30, and be there until 8 pm.

Last night we had a negotiation phone call. It was late. I was tired. I wanted to go to bed. (I guess I should have state that, huh?) Here's the first thing he did that didn't work for me. We were discussing what I would wear. I was fine with everything, and then he asked about boots. I ran down my list: Wesco's, Dehners, Frye boots, Wellingtons, generic work boots. And oh yeah... Harley-Davidson riding boots. Well Sir wanted the riding boots.

Now... Uh... No.

I would never want a bottom to wear riding boots. They're high gloss. They look good with uniform pants, but not with only a jock strap. In fact, with a jock strap (or less) they look ludicrous. But he insisted. And, he wanted me to wear a jock strap. I hate wearing underwear of any kind, and jockstraps in particular are itchy.

And when push came to shove this morning, I would much rather have spent the day here with my father, maybe going to the gym. Maybe stopping afterwards at Starbucks. Come home and make a nice chicken soup from the carcass of the bird I roasted (superbly) for dinner last night.

But commitments are commitments, and I piled into the car, dressed as instructed (although I wore my pants over the riding boots, tucking in jeans would have looked way way way ludicrous) and headed south.

When I got there, I was pleasantly reassured. Sir was as commanding and as far out in his predilections in person as he was on the phone. But the house... It was just Bad. Way Bad. In that fussy way. A rococo extravaganza that put the Guy's house I wrote about on Friday to shame. But I could overlook that. If he had such a nice house, investing a lot of money into it, that must mean there's a really great dungeon downstairs, no?

No.

I was ordered to strip, and show Sir the contents of my toybag. All was going okay so far. Then, we went into the... uh... dungeon.

Now let's be clear. It has potential. The place was built with this windowless, concrete walled room in the basement, just off a finished family room kinda place. Sadly, all of that potential was unrealized. There from the wooden rafters (and the ceilings were eight feet high at least! Plenty of room to swing a flogger! I'd kill for space like that!) was a sling, but that was about it. Beyond that, there was just shelves holding disused tchochka.

But hey! I'm game!

I was ordered into the sling, and my (!) wrist restraints were fastened to the chain with clips. Clips that I could have unfastened without much trouble at all. Sir put in a butt plug (cool), and worked my dick, and lit up a cigar for me to smoke while he did so. (All cool.) Then, Sir decided I needed tit clamps. Apparently, Sir's experience in working the tits on a man with piercings is as limited as the time he's spent on his dungeon. See that steel post? That takes up space, and so, when you attach tit clamps, your grinding my tender flesh a lot more than you would be on unpierced tits. It was way way way too painful.

And in the wake of that unpleasant experience, I had a realization: it was really cold in the dungeon. In between sips of the cigar, my teeth were chattering. Sir (who was... y'know... fully clothed) didn't seem to catch on to my severe discomfort.

A new limit has been added to the list: I will not be subjected to temperatures less than 65 degrees Fahrenheit when naked. I bet the temperature in the room was about 55. But it felt like 38. I was fucking freezing.

Sir had a space heater going, but I think you could have laid a candle down on that space heater and it wouldn't have lost its shape much. I could barely feel it.

And here's the bad news: I was going to be spending time in the cage.

Now, the cage was of the wire variety that one observes for sale at the pet store. And, in fact, the occupant was Sir's dog, a basset hound.

When Sir inquired as to how I was feeling about the cage, I said that I was nervous about it being so cold. Sir moved the feckless space heater closer to the cage (and had to run upstairs to get an extension cord to do so), and put a blanket (with a sort of Victorian floral design featuring cabbage roses) over the other side of the cage. My wrist restraints were attached to the sides of the cage. I was provided with a pack of Camels and told that I was in there until I had smoked them all.

That smoking fetish of mine? I think it's gone. Sir is apparently unfamiliar with the principles of aversion therapy. There I sat, naked and shivering, doing my best to reposition myself so that the part of my body that was courting frostbite would be closest to that useless space heater, lighting one cigaret after another.

Sir wanted me to take his piss. I was in no mood. All I could think of was that some of it might dribble onto me, and that even though it came out warm, it would cool down pretty quickly, and then I'd be cold and wet.

When I was eight cigarets into the pack, Sir paid a visit and presented me with a cigar. And a choice: either, he would make me something bland and we would eat in, or, wearing the CB2000 and the collar (and that would be my collar that I brought) and with my butt plugged, we would go out to eat. All I could think of was the fact that the chances were good that a restaurant would be better heated than Sir's house, so I opted to go out for dinner. Oh. And Sir had neglected to clip the end off the cigar, so I didn't have any draw. If I had had to finish the cigar before I got out of the cage, I'd still be there tomorrow this time.

Luckily, I had beaten the clock. I got out of the cage, and was ordered to give Sir a handjob. Sir gave me lots of good verbal while I did so.

I was then ordered to dress (Yes! Thank God! Oh! Thank! God! Warmth again!).

So there I was: cold, tired, hungry. That qualifies me for Dickensian waif, doesn't it?

The restaurant was a great place, and I liked the food.

Sir dropped protocol so we could discuss the scene. And I was a bad bottom.

"It was fine. Except for the cold. Other than that, it was fine."

No.

No, it wasn't fine. What's it like bottoming in a six hour scene, and not finding your bottom space once the entire time? It's seriously unpleasant, that's what.

And, as negotiated, before we went to dinner, my cock was encased in the CB2000. And I'm still wearing it.

But guess what? When I was wearing the CB2000 of the Sir from Orlando a few weeks ago, I realized at one point that I could slip my dick out of it without too much trouble. I didn't exercise this option. Orlando Sir had my admiration, respect, and, if I think about it, my love. Marlboro Sir doesn't. So first thing I did when I got home was slip out my dick.

But, this does mean that next weekend, I'll have to drag my sorry ass out to Sir's (a quarter of a tank of gas each way!) so I can get it removed.

So.

What should I do? Or more to the point, what should I say? What should I say when Sir asks how my week was? My inclination is, "It was great, Sir. Hope we can get together again after the holidays." Again, Bad Bottom.

Or is it?

I can't help thinking that Sir just doesn't have the knack of being a Top. In fact, Sir is a bottom. And he totally admits that. I think the things that Sir was doing to me were the things that Sir would like done to him. (Except for the refrigeration part of the scene.) And a few times, Sir asked me if I was planning on turning the tables on him. I think he would have loved that.

But anyway, if Sir doesn't have the knack for topping, would there be a point in giving him some pointers? Or would that just serve to hurt his feelings?

I guess it comes down to this: are Tops born or made?

I mean, he was fumbling around a while trying to get the padlock onto the cage. I would have figured that out during my pre-scene dress rehearsal. (I just make it look effortless.)

Idaknow. I'm sore confused. Gotta think about this. Any thoughts y'all have, I'd love to hear. Drop me an email.

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