As previously reported in this blog, I had made contact with a slave from Scotland who was interested in coming down for a (virtual) weekend, by which I mean Tuesday through Thursday rather than the more conventional Friday through Sunday.
I was not quite sure of how to take the Scot. his slave number ends in 990, and as I do with all the bois, he has become that. We hadn't really spoken as much as I had with others, nor as in depth, but as My leave was ending soon and spare, uncluttered time to meet was going to be in short supply, I decided to invite him down. Timing was, as ever, fraught - I had not finished the slave space beneath the stairs - the cell - yet, and so it looked like another race to get things done before the boi arrived - echoes of 729 and the rush to build the bondage chair spring to mind. The space was made ready, the door hung - and taken off to do some last-minute planing so that it would be able to yawn open invitingly - and rehung and replaned before being finally hung again (obviously this is the most well-hung cell door in the area) and left in place so that it could be leaned upon and admired.
The boi arrived the next day, which coincided with G's almost spiral into depression - so My attention was stretched in all directions while trying to prepare for 990's arrival. Fortunately I was able to arrange matters so that some housework could be done, G attended to and comforted and set on the right road, money extracted from an unwilling machine, to be at the railway station in time. I was not there long before his train hove into sight, and soon I was walking next to this really gorgeous and strikingly thoroughly nice man. he looked much better than the photograph he'd sent, and so I found Myself sneaking surreptitious glances at this slave, admiring his beauty.
As is always the case, I took him to a nearby coffee shop for both of us to appraise each other and to decide whether he was going to return to Fleetwood with Me, or to Edinburgh by the next train. he'd already indicated that he was not going back just yet, but I wanted him to have the opportunity. It was a beautiful, sunny afternoon, blue skies punctuated with fair weather cumuloform clouds, and we drank in the sunshine at the table abutting the churchyard, making conversation.
The drive to Fleetwood was complemented by more of a mobile interrogation rather than the scenic commentary that usually expands the journey. This was because we'd not really spoken, and also because I wanted to know what he thought about voluntary servitude and everything associated with it. We returned to the house, he undressed, was measured for a chain collar, knelt at My feet, was collared, and the "weekend" began.
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