Good boy: All the Gory Details...

Yowza. That was sublime.

What a great weekend.

Friday night was all about takin' care of bidness: getting out of work, cashing my (meager) paycheck, getting home, making dinner for my father, bundling Faithful Companion into the car, driving up to Quakertown to drop off Faithful Companion at the dog bording place, and finally finally finally heading south to Philadelphia.

Had trouble locating Sir's hotel, on the riverfront. I could see it, I just couldn't figure out how to get there. After a couple of tries, I got it right. I checked my car, and lugged my luggage up to Sir's room. There was a piece of paper in the door so the latch wouldn't close, I let myself in.

Inside, the room was dark except for a few candles. I smelled Sir's pipe smoke. The radio was tuned to an easy listening station that was tragically playing Christmas music. I dropped my bags, stripped, put my boots back on, and got on my knees, head down, hands behind my back, just inside the door. Presently, Sir came over and silently inspected his property. My dick was throbbing inside it's clear plastic cage. Sir must have approved, as I felt a wide leather collar placed around my neck and padlocked into place. Then, my hands were cuffed. (How long has it been since I was handcuffed? Years? Decades? Too long.) Sir went back to his chair by the window and told me to approach, on my knees.

Then we talked for a while. As in, "Tell me about yourself, boy." I did my best, letting Sir interupt me with questions. Sir gave me a choice of going out for dinner, or staying in and getting into the bootsuit. We had a lot of time, and hadn't eaten since lunch, so when after some more conversation Sir didn't indicate that he had a preference one way or the other, I said, "Sir, I think I've picked out a good restaurant for us." (Sir had requested that I chose a restaurant with bistro style food and a good wine list.) Sir said that we should get ourselves ready. I asked how Sir wanted me dressed. He wanted my BDU pants, and a tshirt he had brought me, featuring a pair of booted feat and the exclamation 'Oi!'. Dressed as Sir wanted, and still wearing the wide leather collar padlocked in place, we headed out into the night. I did pretty good (I think) with the protocol, although I walked ahead of Sir a couple of times. Since I knew the way and Sir didn't, "we'll want to turn right at this corner, Sir" was the formula that worked best, I found.

The destination was Judy's at 3rd and Bainbridge, a mainstay of gay dining in Philadelphia for decades. Sir liked the menu and the wine list. He ordered a nice bottle of red for us.

After dinner, Sir was tired, and so was I, so we headed back to the hotel. I stripped, and wearing the collar and the CB2000, got into bed next to Sir.

Lemme tell ya, that felt great. Sir was happy, so I was happy.

* * * * *

The next morning, Sir and I were up early. Sir got busy, wanting some satisfaction for his dick. Now, as a rule, it takes me a while to get going in the mornings. I'm generally not up for sex. Not before tea and getting my data fix. But it wasn't up to me. Sir worked my ass for a while, then settled on me sucking his cock. Sir has a beautiful dick. A great dick. I love Sir's dick.

Despite that damned sensitive gag reflex of mine, I think I did a good job. I sure did my best, devoting myself to Sir's dick.

Then it was time for the Boot Suit. What--you may well ask--is the Boot Suit? Well, a million years ago, there was a story in Bound and Gagged that coincidentally (Kismet!) Sir and I had both read and enjoyed. In it, a man wrote about how he had made for himself a boot suit, that included a hood made from a right boot. In the story, the man spoke of his longing for the day when he would find a left boot. It was beautiful. And illustrated.

After he read the story, Sir went about having a boot suit made. He got hold of a size 16 wide Wesco boot, and from this a leatherworker in Detroit made a hood. Sir got me into the Boot Suit, working patiently. I was put in crotch-high Wescos, my arms were fitted with lace up sleeves that went from my wrists to my pits. There was a vest that laced up the front with Wesco laces. Over my hands went a pair of jump boots that were outfitted with wrist restraints. And, of course, that amazing hood. Sir strung me up against the entertainment unit in the room. Pictures will definitely follow of me in the Bootsuit, restrained with arms akimbo.

Sir checked in pretty regularly to ask about my circulation in my hands. When it became a problem, I was relocated to the bed. Then, the CB2000 came off, and Sir lubed up my dick and got to work rewarding his boy. My mind thought about being Sir's boot. How Sir had made me into his boot. His tough boot that could take all the wear-and-tear Sir delivered. Sitting there on the shelf with all of Sir's other boots, waiting patiently for Sir to fill it up.

Being Sir's boot.

Fuck yeah.

I shot buckets. Sir was really impressed. I just exploded. It felt like gallons. I was joyous. Exhuberant.

Taking Sir's orders, I got dressed again. Then we headed out for a day on the town. First stop was some lunch at the Down Home Diner in Reading Terminal Market. I had the pulled pork, and Sir had a hamburger. I checked with Sir in advance to see if he'd mind a wait for a table, and Sir said that was fine. Cool. I like a Sir who knows that good things come to he who waits.

I held our place in line while Sir checked out the foodstuffs for sale in the market. Lunch was good, and then we headed to our next stop, I. Goldberg's. On the walk over, I told Sir about my being in their commercial. Sir was pretty favorably impressed with I. Goldberg's. He bought a flight jacket he had been hunting for. Sir looked great in it. I got a thermal shirt for work, a flight suit I couldn't turn my back on, and a nice lined corduroy Woolrich workshirt.

Then off to the next stop, La Colombe. If you're ever in Philadelphia, don't miss La Colombe. It's a wee little coffee place on 18th Street between Walnut and Sansom, just off Rittenhouse Square. They sell the best cup of coffee you'll find anywhere. No joke. And from a tea drinker, that's pretty high praise. Sir liked the coffee, and bought a pound for his sister.

Next stop was Black Cat Cigars on Sansom Street. Totally the best cigar store I've been in any where. I asked for a recommendation from the proprietor, telling him that I smoked Grenadiers and liked them a lot. He gave me three to sample. (I've smoked one so far, and it was a winner.) Sir found a cigar he was happy with, too.

Back to the hotel for a nap. I fell asleep on the bed, and presently was joined by Sir.

Oh. Huge Mistake I Made: I let Sir carry his I. Goldberg bag the whole day!. I only realized this when we got back to the hotel. Dang! Sorry, Sir.

After nap time, we were off for dinner again. For tonight, I picked Vaninni, a restaurant on Spruce Street. Sir liked the food here even better than the food at Judy's. He complemented me on my selection of restaurants. I was a good boy. We talked a lot over dinner, dropping protocol and getting casual.

* * * * *

Off to the Bike Stop after dinner. Mike the Hot Bear was at the door, a sparkle in his eye when he saw me.

So there I was, wearing a padlocked chain around my neck. There at the Bike Stop with my Sir. Was it weird? No. Not a bit. It was great. Sir and I headed down to the Pit Stop, got beers, and lit our cigars. Then, Sir ordered me to take off my shirt. As we sat there, he moved his cigar in to my pierced tit.

I froze.

Whoa.

I wasn't expecting that.

I started vocalizing immediately, to give Sir an indication that I'd need some help with that. When the heat from Sir's cigar became painful, I flinched. Sir kept at it.

I had a bad reaction. I got angry. Fuck this. You blew it, Buddy, I thought. I was not having a good time. My words became terse. C'mon, I thought, pick up on this. I'm not enjoying this.

Sir didn't relent. He put his arm around me, and went in again, saying, "C'mon boy. You can take this. Don't you think a good boy should let his Dad get rid of his cigar ash on his boy. You can take it."

I leaned into Sir. Ow! I didn't know if I could take it.

"Sir," I explained, "all the years I worked in restaurants has given me a big fear and aversion to getting burnt. I hate to get burnt, Sir. I don't know if I can take it. Also, since my tits are pierced, the post heats up, and I get an extra dose of the heat."

Sir continued to smoke his cigar. He moved the glowing tip towards my nipple again. I won't say it was okay this time, or that I wanted it, but the anger was gone. I had given Sir some information. He made a decision about what he wanted from his boy. I took it as best I could.

After the cigar (whew!), Sir took a sip of his beer. Then, smiling at me, he took the glass, and poured a portion down my chest. It ran down my abs and into the crotch of my jeans. Then, Sir poured some more down on to my crotch. A stain grew there. Sir ordered me to stand. I stood. Grinning from ear to ear. Sir pulled my belt buckle, and emptied some more beer into my crotch. Now I had a big stain.

"You pissed your pants, boy," said Sir.

"Yes, Sir. I pissed my pants," I answered, smiling.

Sir told me to take a walk, to go visit the leather store. Y'know. Where the lighting is better. I did. I went into the store and found the guys that worked there at the counter. I picked a book off the shelf, and stood, feet apart and facing them, and browsed through the book.

I was rock hard at this point.

Then I headed back to Sir.

"Follow me, boy," he said.

And so, I did. We went upstairs. The lighting was a lot better there. Sir sort of displayed me. I stood there, shirtless, collared, the front of my jeans stained, smiling at him as he stood a few feet away, giving me room. Sir lead me into the bathroom. We passed the coatcheck guy going out as we entered. There were a few guys at the trough, so Sir stood waiting, and I waited behind him. Then it was Sir's turn. I watched him piss into the trough. Lucky trough, getting all Sir's piss.

The coatcheck guy came back into the bathroom. A buddy of his said, "You have to go again so soon?"

"Nah," he answered, "I just want to watch a hot boy watch his Dad take a piss."

Oh yeah.

After Sir had wasted piss on the trough, we went out and stood in the bar by the ice machine. Sir held me close. I noticed that there was a rubber mat in front of the ice machine.

"Sir," I said, "I think this mat would go pretty easy on my knees." (My knees are bad. I can't be on them for too long before they start to ache. A lot.)

Sir smiled at me.

"Down," he ordered.

I got down on my knees. Sir stroked me. I melted into Sir. Surreptitiously, I caught the admiring glances of other men in the bar. I think they were wishing that they were Sir. Or, they were getting a lesson in how to be a good boy.

This was what I wanted. I was in service to my Sir. I was a trophy boy. I was making my Sir proud. I was bringing honor to my Sir.

Glorious.

We headed out of the Bike Stop. Me following my Sir. Outside, I really felt the nighttime chill on my wet jeans. Luckily, the hotel wasn't far. As we walked up Twelfth Street, Sir took my hand.

We undressed, and went to bed. There I was, naked, collared, with my Sir's arms wrapped around me. Wrapped around his boy.

Yowza.

Sir had an early flight. I woke up while he was moving around the room, getting ready to head to the airport. The night before, Sir had ordered me to make the arrangements for his checkout with the hotel and get directions to the airport. I performed that duty pretty well.

Before he left, I said, "Sir, you probably don't want to forget this," and pointed to the padlocked chain around my neck.

"As much as I'd like to leave it on, it might cause you problems at work, boy."

Fuck work. I wanted Sir to leave it on. I wanted Sir to have it welded in place.

Sir took the collar off me. He kissed me and said, "Thanks for a great weekend, boy. You're a good boy."

And then he left.

* * * * *

So.

Are my Topping days behind me?

Uh uh. FYI: while we were eating at Valanni's, there was a sweet faced boy sitting next to us. I kind of thought it would be nice to restrain him to a bondage board, and take off his balls with a straight razor, looking into his terrified and pleading eyes all the while. Then give my nutless boy a good fuck.

Believe me, those fires still burn.

It's really encouraging to learn that I can be as good a boy as I am a Top. The same empathy, the same ardent desire to get it perfect, the same dedication, the same attention to details, the same effort, the same striving to be the best. "S/M is the quest for excellence in ourselves and others."

It sure is. And there are so many ways to be excellent.

Now I'm home. Back with that other good Dad. Sir is back in Orlando.

I'm feeling happy, but also a little lonely.

Funny thing that. I rarely in my life have felt lonely.

It was a great weekend.

And now, I'm off to pick up Faithful Companion, and get something to make for that other good Dad for dinner.

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