Haircut, take 2

As discussed previously, the philosopher controls my haircuts. I request one, I beg for one, I repeat the explanation that hair grows better if it is trimmed regularly. Usually, he gives in and grants permission, albeit grudgingly and with dire warnings that it had better be ONLY a trim.

I was due for one on March 7, the Friday before I was to start this new job, but my somewhat bizarre hairdresser canceled due to a doctor's appointment. The following week, I asked the philosopher if I might reschedule, but he said I'd lost my chance.

So I waited. And this morning, during our wake-up call, I asked again. He did give his permission, but followed up with the statement that this might be the last one for a very long time. Maybe even a year. I started to sputter a protest, but stopped when he tossed off the comment that my hair was now the only thing he was able to control in this relationship.

It's hard enough having any sort of long-distance relationship. But with D/s there is perhaps a greater need for reinforcement. Sure, we can keep up with each other's lives, and during the week we usually talk twice a day. But the morning calls are short now that I make them from work, and having a set hour for my bedtime calls has evaporated along with my self-discipline. I AM being good about posting every day, a schedule imposed by the philosopher. But the job demands a lot in both time and emotion, and I'm not delivering as much truly creative new work as I would like to.

All of which means I'm worried. Internally I feel VERY owned and controlled, ALL the time. It is at the core of my being, and both my heart and my cunt throb with the joy and security of the 250-mile long leash that binds me to him. But it seems that perhaps he doesn't feel how tightly he controls me, and for reinforcing both my training and his sense of power we seem to need a way to get back into the rhythm of the rituals that forged the links in the chain.

I had an idea or two - I always seem to have ideas - but it is probably at least as important to me as it is to him that I NOT take control here. So all I am doing is publicly declaring that I will do whatever it takes to give back to my sweet sadistic master confidence in the power he has over me. I think I can safely say that it would help both of us if he were here and could cane me hard and fiercely, if he could use me as his fucktoy, if he could make me scream from the pain and sob uncontrollably. i would kneel before him as he drinks the tea i made for him, my nipples calling out to be horribly abused. he would deny me food except for what he placed in my mouth with his fingers or set on the floor for me to lap from a bowl too small for my face. he would deny me the bed, decreeing that i was to sleep curled up on the floor unless he required my services as his sex slave. and with each merciless lash of his belt on my ass, with each choking invasion of my throat by his cock as he shoves my head down into his crotch, he would be saying again and again, to both me and to him:

"YOU ARE MINE! MINE! MINE!"

but there is no visit on the horizon, and the Damn Dissertation rules all. so now what? what do we do to avoid becoming another casualty of distance?

please, master... (and i'm crying now)

please...

remember the old ritual?
remember the nightly catechism?

pinch your nipples for me, kitten.
hard until it hurts.
who owns those nipples, kitten?
to twist and to pinch and to suck?
who owns them?

you own them, master.
you own these nipples.

lick your lips, kitten.
who owns that mouth, to kiss and to rape?

you own my mouth, master.

reach down and touch your cunt, kitten.
are you wet?

yes, master, very wet.
i'm always wet for you.
i'm soupy and swollen and wide open.

who owns that cunt, kitten?
who owns that cunt, my little fucktoy?

you do, master.
you own my cunt.

who owns you, kitten?
who owns you?

you own me, master.
you do.
you know you do.

or you should know.
you own every breath i take.

tell me, master.
tell me what i need to do.