No Shit, Sherlock

Back from my weekend with Bus Driver and his other half, Da Coach. At no time did I ingest feces.

Sorry to disappoint (grin).

But, I did have a great time.

The drive up was long. We're talkin' real long. Way long. And I got lost. Sort of. I somehow decided I had to turn off the Northeast Extension of the Pennsylvania Turnpike and get on Route 80 going west. Since that's the route I take to drive to Inferno and Chicago for IML, I guess that segment of the Eisenhower Interstate System just has those associations for me. Anyway, I needn't have taken that sidetrip.

I arrived much later than planned, and Bus Driver and Da Coach had kept dinner for me... the perfect hosts from the git go. We talked over dinner. I heard all about ScatFest, the annual little event that these guys pull off, their own little run for scat afficionadi.

Da Coach wanted to be flogged. I had my doe skin and my braided cat, as well as all of my whips, in my bag. So, I could accommodate. The plan was, I would head up to the raunch dungeon and flog Da Coach, and Bus Driver would head up and we'd see where it went.

At this point, about 11 p.m., I was starting to feel a little woozy. I mean c'mon! I had gotten up at 4:30 am, worked from 6 a.m. until 2:30, had that conversation with Starbucks Boy, gone home, done some chores, hit the road, dropped off Faithful Companion at the boarding place, and then driven for three-and-a-half hours. During the flogging, I used only the doe-skin, and I went easy. In part because I sensed that Da Coach's experience was somewhat limited, and in part because I didn't trust my skills with fatigue setting in.

Da Coach loved it. And so did I. As we were winding down, Bus Driver showed up, resplendent in vest, leather jock, and boots. He proceeded to smoke a cigar.

I wanted to submit to Bus Driver. My dick was rock hard. But I was reluctant to do so. Where would it lead? I still had misgivings about scat, and that is how Bus Driver played. Soooo, if I got down and gave boot service, would I be hauled over to the scat chair? I wasn't ready for that.

And in the raunch dungeon where we did the flogging, I was standing on the 'scat mattress,' a matress on the floor, over a sheet of plywood, with 4x4s bearing eye-bolts bolted to the plywood so they ran down the sides. (Really nice design!) And, the mattress was totally shit-stained. That was a little hard for me to take. I was very much outside of the scene, looking in.

And, Bus Driver sensed my exhaustion, and suggested that we all turn in. In the morning, we'd work with whips. He did show me his bullwhip. He bought it in San Francisco in the Seventies. He'd never used it, just sort of draping it over himself during scenes. Kind of acccessorizing with it. It was like nothing I had ever seen before. It had a wooden handle, wide braids, and what looked like butcher's twine for a cracker. My first impression was that this was some kind of a toy.

But then I gave it a throw. The whip extended beautifully, and there was the crack.

Huh. Pretty effective.

I think that the strageness is probably due to the fact that it was made before the advent of the Australian whipmakers introducing their craft to these shores. At the time, this whip was probably state-of-the-art, but those Australians, with their sleek think plaits and intricate weaving just wiped the homegrown efforts off the map. But if this whip is any example, those homegrown efforts weren't too bad.

So we went to bed. I was inanimate almost immediately. Not chained up in the raunch dungeon (what? on that mattress?), and not in the cage. I needed a bed. I got a bed. A verrrry comfortable bed.

The next morning, over breakfast, the three of us talked some more. (In the daylight, I also had an opportunity to see the property better: it's amazing! Twenty-five wooded acres on a lake, private, terraced, beautiful. Wow.)

During conversation over the breakfast table, Bus Driver described how at the last Scat Fest, there was a guest who was known for really big dumps. Da Coach attributes this to the fact that this guy gets fisted a lot. Quite the colonic capacity! Anyway, at one point during the festivities, the guy showed Bus Driver an accomplishment: there on a dinner plate was a huge turd. An enormous turd. And the guest was grinning proudly.

Bus Driver told me that he almost lost his lunch, but managed to hold it down. But then, another guest, seeing this wonder, said, "Wow, let me at that!" Bus Driver said it was only with extreme effort, and by excusing himself, that he didn't toss his cookies.

As Roseanne Rosannadanna would say, "Hey! What gives?"

I was sort of under the impression that these folks looked at shit the way I look at Jell-O Chocolate Pudding: Yum! That somehow, that disgust reaction was absent in their case, either they had gotten over that or didn't have that gene in the first place. Apparently, this was not the case.

Bus Driver described to me what he loved about scat. (There is nothing I enjoy so much as having some kinkster get that gleam in his eyes when he tells you why he gets off on whatever, why the scene is magic for him. To my mind, this is a GMSMA Wednesday Night Program at it's best.) He sits down on his scat chair and lights a cigar. And then, not only is there the pleasure of taking a big dump (which is, y'know, a really pleasurable experience if you think about it), but there's the extra added bonus that there's a man submitting to him by swallowing that log.

Wow.

After breakfast, I took a shower. And thought about all of this.

And I think I get it.

The most devote scat bottom is not without the revulsion that we all have. There's fear, there's disgust, there's every fiber of his being screaming "No! No! Noooo!" And he opens up his mouth, let's the shit flow in, and swallows it down.

Cuz it's about submission.

Da Coach shed more light. He explained that when you're bottoming in a scat scene, you go into this intense, mindless, animal mode. It's pure and wonderful. It's submission. It's total, blind submission. That's the magic of the scene.

Huh.

I think I've learned something. When you submit, you're not just submitting to the bondage Top or the whipping Top or the punchpig Top or the boot Top or the hot wax Top, first and foremost, you're submitting to yourself. Or, more accurately stated, you're submitting to your Shadow. To that demonic part of you that says, "You know what you want. You want that hot man over there to sit down on your face and dump right down your throat. You think you've got it all together. You think you're Mr. Swell Guy. You think you're pretty hot stuff. But you know what you are? Your shit-eating slave meat. That's what you are."

You might spend your entire life trying to suppress that voice and exorcise those demons. But the only way you'll ever find peace is to submit to them. To become the shit-eating slave meat you know you are.

Because then, you find out that you are a god. That nothing can hurt you. That demon is your guardian angel. That message is not anihilation, but salvation. You are pure light. You are fire. You are the cosmos. You are everything. And everything is good.

That's what Bus Driver does, he turns men into gods.

And that's what I do, too.

After I was showered and dressed, we headed outside. I demonstrated some basic throws, and tried to give Bus Driver some instruction. Bus Driver said that he'd like to see a bit of what a whipping scene looks like. He offered me Da Coach. Da Coach was down with that program, so he took off his shirt and spread his arms on the St. Andrew's Cross.

Now, it was about 45 degrees outside. And there had been no warm up. Again, not ideal conditions. I spent some time teasing Da Coach, just lightly playing my whip over his back, cracking just over the surface. Only a couple of times did I connect with some light throws. Da Coach was shivering. We called it quits and headed inside.

Bus Driver and I fired up his internet connection, and ordered him a whip from David Morgan, a nice four-foot signal whip. With practice, I think he'll be whipping with the best of 'em in no time.

Da Coach wanted another flogging. I was ready for him this time. Again we climbed the stairs to the raunch dungeon. Again I put the wrist restraints on him. I assembled the arsenal. I had a much better sense of what he could take, and I had had a good night's sleep.

First the doe-skin, building to a crescendo. Then I used the house flogger, slappy oil-tanned, a worthy tool. And then, I ratcheted up to my braided cat. Da Coach loved the braided cat. At this point, his back was bright red and raised. Beautiful. Absolutely beautiful. I was juiced. There was only one place to go. I went and got my Joe Wheeler whip. Da Coach saw me and moaned softly and approvingly.

Because the raunch dungeon was in the attic, I didn't quite have enough room to throw with the slanted roof. But I worked out a position that was okay. However, I wasn't sure of my aim at this odd angle. More teasing, more cracking above his back, and then some connecting. And then, some serious connecting. Da Coach's vocalizing was low, a baritone of ecstasy. He had some welts now.

And so I stopped. The night before, when we negotiated the flogging, he said that he didn't want his skin broken. If I had gone on whipping him, it would have broken his skin. I explained why we were stopping, and Da Coach wanted to go on.

Nope. You don't renegotiate a scene while the bottom is flying on endorphins. "Sorry, boy," I said, "I'm just gonna leave you wanting more."

I undid his restraints, and then dropped my drawers. Before we played, Da Coach had said he wanted some of me inside him, whether it be my piss, my shit, or my cum. My piss is notoriously unreliable. Lord knows I have no control over my bowel movements. So it was gonna have to be my cum.

"Okay boy. I'm gonna make myself comfortable in that sling, and I want you to make my dick feel good."

And did he ever. Sucking my cock, working my asshole, and giving my nips the attention they want.

Blammo! I shot my load. Da Coach slurped eagerly. Very hot.

Bus Driver entered. "What are you doing in the sling?" he asked me.

"He's getting his dick sucked," answered Da Coach.

I lit a cigar.

"You're all Top," said Bus Driver, "and I hate topping Tops. Some men are all about submission. It's how they're wired. Those are the men I like to feed."

Gotcha. I know just what you mean.

Da Coach was glowing. Bus Driver admired his back. Da Coach said he was looking forward to his next whipping, which would be his second. "And then," he added, "I want you to draw blood."

Da Coach can take it. He worked through his fear and his revulsion, he submitted to his Shadow. And now, he's a god.

I did that.

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