Act II

So this weekend, I'm gonna give Marlboro Sir a second chance.

In part, I've gotta simply understand what's happening. The explanation that I was all too ready to accept was that it didn't work because of him. But I've got to find out to what degree it didn't work because of me.

Because it sure does work in my masturbatory fantasies. Here are the things that Marlboro Sir planted in my brain... By submitting to him, he's gonna make me a bottom boy. That's why I'm in the cock cage. My cock is useless. It's all about my asshole. He's training my asshole, so that it can be used by Sir, or by any other man Sir determines. I should just forget I have a dick. Because one day, Sir will take it away from me. And when that day comes, I won't even miss it. Because the locus of pleasure in my body will no longer be my dick, but my asshole.

*whew!*

Now that's hot.

And also scary. Yeah, I've been (wildly successful in) jerking off thinking about all that. But what about Bucky? But what about the joys of sliding in to some hot man's welcoming ass myself? But what about Me, the Top?

What we're talking about here is submission, albeit in an abstruse way. And a very ultimate submission, not for a scene or for a weekend or even for a season, but for good. A transformation, under Sir's hand, according to Sir's will.

So maybe what's going on here is that something within me is rebelling against that. Something is putting on the breaks. I have to admit, that as tumescence gives way to detumescence and the intellect kicks back in, the intellect is smirking and saying, "Yeah, right. Like that's gonna happen."

Maybe the intellect has a point. But maybe not.

But, there's only one way to find out, right?

Down we go again.

(And Sir promises that he's resolved the heat situation.)

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