Santa Saturday was a great day. All those leathermen and bears right in my backyard. Me just needing to leap the proverbial hedgerows to get to them. Wunderbar.

Here's the details...

Santa Saturday

I got there later than planned, and found the last remaining parking spot in the field down behind the Cartwheel. After I paid my ten dollars (ten dollars! admission at the door, I plunged in. The place was packed to the rafters. I'm told that not long after it started, they had admitted over 900 guests. And hundreds more (me included) had poured in after this.

Moving through the crowd was like a rugby scrimmage. Only better, because there's not as much ass-grabbing and exchanging of Woofs during a rugby scrimmage. And no injuries requiring casts, either. The percentage of white sneakers and such was very very very low. I'd say about 1%. And throughout the day, I'd run into guys I know. That was wonderful. Sooo wonderful. Made me feel very much 'a part of.' So I'd work my way through the crowd, wearing my Fox motorcycle leathers one-piece (I solved the problem of the absence of pockets by wearing the hoster thingy I bought at IML under it!). Woof some hot bear who and get woofed in return, and the two of us would suck face and tweak nipples and do crotch inspections before moving on. It was that great low-burn orgy atmosphere found at the Dugout during Sunday Afternoon BearBlast that I love so well.

As I was going to a dungeon party that night and my services as a Top would be required, I was totally in bottom mode during the day. I was flagging hunter green right. boy seeking Dad. Since there are no pockets in the Fox MC leathers, I had the idea of tying the green bandana around my right upper arm. Which worked great, until it didn't. I looked down to adjust half-way through the day and found that it had somehow slipped off. (Memo to File: Must replace the hunter green right bandana!)

I had a really fun scene-ette with a Master there with his boy from the poconos. He put me up against the wooden railing surrounding the bootblacking station. The rail hit my shoulders, so I put my arms over it with my back to it. I felt suitably crucified. Pocono Master worked my nips (they're still sore) and spanked my leathered ass, and he ordered his boy to get busy on my dick. The MC leathers, with the zipper running all the way down the front, provided easy access to both. I lapped it up like a kitten with a bowl of milk. Pocono Master was hot, and his boy... Man oh man! Sweet, doe-eyed skinhead boy! Breathtaking. If I were Pocono Master, I'd outfit him with a nice heavy steel collar.

It seems that the Bucks MC, the sponsors of the event, are just clueless when it comes to running a leather event. The admission price was ten dollars. The beer was cheap, just four bucks for a Yuengling Lager, which is what you would normally pay. They had a food stand out on the deck, and a homemade meatball sandwich went for three dollars. What's up with that? No price gouging? When I got my meatball sandwich and handed the guy a ten dollar bill, I was flabbergasted to get change back. And I just about hit the floor when I saw I got seven dollars back. I mean, not only was someone up for thirty-six hours straight making those meatballs, but we were pretty much a captive audience. I mean, where were we going to go? Imagine: a leather event with no price gouging. That's what makes the Bucks MC a primo outfit in my book. Kudoes, guys!

At The Raven

Around 6 pm, the crowd started to thin out, the dragshow/charity auction wound down, and folks started drifting down the highway to the Raven. I sort of heaved a sigh and bid a fond farewell, somehow expecting the Raven to be as I always find it: vanillaland.

Silly rabbit!

The party was still going strong. The Raven was packed to the rafters with hot men, still in a lather from the days events. I met up with Master Lambertville, the host of Lambasting, the dungeon party I was attending that night. He introduced me around to the other Lambasting attendees I would be playing with later.

Out on the deck, chatting with Lambasters, I had just lit a cigar when what to my wondering eyes should appear but a way-hot leatherman, we're talkin' right out of a Tom of Finland canvas, with his eyes trained like lasers right on li'l ol' me. Like white on rice, bay-bee, like white on rice. As I approached, I was a wee bit put off seeing a medalion around his neck. Uh oh. He was of the title-holder vintage. Would that mean all look and no play makes jack a dull kinkster? Maybe so, but that sure isn't the impression I got. He worked my already sore nips some more, took control right away (where do those hands belong, boy? that's right, boy, behind your back, boy). It was way cool.

So then I popped the question. Where do you hale from, Sir? I steeled myself for the disappointment that I usually get in such situations at MAL or IML or Folsom Street East, waiting to hear, LA or San Francisco or Vancouver or Palm Springs or New Orleans or Atlanta or somewhere else requiring plane fare for follow up.

He's from Allentown, Pennsylvania. As in, that city thirty miles up the river from me.

In the event that Master Allentown already has a boy collared, I am going to set out to hunt down that boy, abduct him, and ship him off to the slave training camp in Belize. Master Allentown doesn't need that boy. Master Allentown needs me. Get ready, Master Allentown. I'm gonna rock your world.

Alright. That's a little strong. (Give me a button and I'll sew a vest on it.) But I sure do want to hook up with this man and see where it goes.

When Master Allentown was finished with me, giving me his World Leathermen id, I returned to chatting with the Lambasters. But not for long.

"Excuse me," I said to my interlocutors, "but there's a hot bear giving me the eye and I want to follow up on that." They smiled indulgently and encouragingly. And I was off.

He was from Howell (Howl!), New Jersey. Oh Man! We're talkin six foot three inches and two hundred fifty pounds of Prime Choice American Beef. More sweet abuse for my nips. The Man from Howl wants me to come on across the river and spend some time in his sling, so he can dump a load of piss up my boy ass.

Like. Okay.

My poor father. He's hardly gonna see me for the next several weekends.

Lambasting

And it was time to make our way to Lambertville for Lambasting. Dinner was at eight, and no one wanted to be late for dinner.

And how about that? A dungeon party that begins with a sit down dinner? Do we know how to do things right here in the hinterlands, or what?

Dinner was fried chicken, three-bean-salad, cole slaw, and more. And it was delicious. And I was starving. Famished. And the desert table was pretty lush.

But I started out the evening a little low-energy. Perhaps because I was having trouble switching out of bottom mode. Perhaps because I had had a lot of hot action over the course of the day already. Perhaps because of the crash after eating the lucious chocolate cake for desert (shoulda had the pumpkin pie).

But a guy from New York sat next to me and we started talking. He asked how I played, and I ran down my list: singletails, flogging, chain bondage, piss. (I might have left out chain bondage. Master Lambertville lives on a hill, and I was parked down the hill. The prospect of lugging 150 lbs. of chain up that hill was a little daunting.) He perked up at singletails. He told me he had been flogged before, but not whipped, and he was interested in that intensity.

As we talked, I was struck by something. This guy was me. There he was, conceptualizing. Trying to articulate What It All Means. And as he had an ecclesial background, that What It All Means was informed by theology.

I wanted to teach this man a lesson. The same lesson that I've learned. Shut that down. S/M is beyond our paltry human abilities to articulate. It's deeper than that. Concepts and intellectual constructs fail.

My interest was piqued. I was up for whipping this man.

After dinner, I had a cup of coffee and then headed down to the dungeon to set the scene. Master Lambertville's dungeon is nothing if not well-appointed. It was all there. He had a great St. Andrew's Cross that I claimed for us. Unfortunately (for everyone else), I was taking up the entire room. And it was the room that held the standing cage and The Box (a steel stand-up coffin of sorts, and an amazing piece of dungeon furniture). Ah well. My fellow Lambasters would have to content themselves with the other play rooms.

I laid out my floggers and whips with care, and unbraided my ropes. Then we went upstairs to negotiate. Concepts concepts concepts.

Back downstairs, I put on wrist restraints, and locked them in place so he was hugging the cross. Then, I wound ropes around his waist and down his legs, securing him the to the cross. I started in on the flogging. His back responded beautifully. He responded beautifully, sort of purring and giving out the soupcon of a 'thankyousir' each time I landed a good one. He sobbed. He moaned. He was magnificent.

After multiple floggers, I stepped up to the braided cat. This man could take a lot. This man could take whatever I dished out. Rarely have I done a whipping scene with a first timer when I felt so confident that I wasn't going to go too hard, too fast. He was up for it.

I started in with the whip, playing all over his back, letting fly with several good loud cracks. He was flying. Just flying. This man was made for whipping. His face was just glowing, as though he were enjoying the Beatific Vision. And in a way, he was.

I was planning on doing the final ten count, but I didn't. Rather, there was just this sudden awareness that I had. I've never had this before. Just this sense that the scene had reached its fullness. "In the Fullness of Time" is the phrase from the New Testament. (What's the Aramaic word for that? Kenoia? Something like that.) It is finished. It is complete. We've arrived at that place.

I spritzed his back with hydrogen peroxide and then with alcohol. I undid his restraints. And we laid down on the floor in front of the cross. Just being. No words. No concepts. Just being.

We headed upstairs to free up the room. And there was this man from DC. He and I had 'talked' over World Leathermen. He has a boot fetish. There's an amazing pic on his WLM profile: a man licking his high gloss riding boots, shined so well that you can clearly see the man's reflected face in the boot leather. And Gloss (we'll call him) was wearing those riding boots. Back at the Raven, when introduced, we had talked. And there was energy there. There was something going on.

Anyway, Gloss was on his way out. He was tired. It had been a long day. He looked forward to seeing me again, and said that if I ever got to DC I should look him up. He was headed down to say goodnight to our host when I was moved to ask, "How about some boot service for the road, Sir?"

Well, Gloss couldn't say no to that.

Now, I've (joyously) (rapturously) received boot service on several occasions. I love boot service. Having a hot man give your boots a tongue bath is just a taste of the sublime. One of the most memorable GMSMA meetings I attended was made memorable by a hot bearded boy surprising me as I sat consumed by mismanaging the books in my post as Treasurer by sneaking under the table and surprising me with the sensation of his hot mouth working my boots. I don't doubt that there were several accounting errors that went down that night.

That said, I've never actually performed boot service. For one thing, it will mean licking something. Since I was a child, my kryptonite has been something not-food getting in my mouth. I gag easily. I'm even leery of uncut dick since that dread day in Health class in high school when Miss Scanlon explained to us what smegma was. (The word alone!)

So, this simple thing would be a challenge for me. But, I wanted to submit to this man.

Gloss had me on the floor in short order. And there I was, licking that man's boots for all I was worth. Just lapping at them. Slobbering and licking.

Gloss was masterful, egging me on, making his delight evident. I licked the tops. I licked his soles. When ordered, I worked my way up the long shiny shafts. And there was my face reflected in Gloss's boots. Big pig-happy grin on my face.

Through his serge uniform, Gloss had me work his dick. Word had come to me that Gloss had a beautiful dick, and I wanted some of it. Alas, I was gagging in no time. And even though I think that Gloss got off on my gagging on his beautiful tool, he held back.

After a blissful eternity, Gloss got into position to wrap things up. I was supine on the floor, and he straddled me, my head between his wonderful boots. Gloss shot his load all over the fur of my chest. Then, Gloss worked my (already sore) tits with one hand, and my boyhole with the other, and ordered me to show Dad my load. And did I ever. It was explosive. Supernova.

This boy likes boot service.

Gloss put himself together. We had some favorable reviews offered by on-lookers (of whom I had been wholly oblivious, focusing myself solely on Gloss's boots). Gloss put himself together, hoped that I'd make the trip down to DC and pay him a visit (count on that!). I headed downstairs, packed up my toybags, bid my host adieu, and drove home along the winding backroads of Bucks County.

It's good here in the hinterlands.

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