We're a high maintenance bunch, we submissives. We require constant training to keep us in the habit of obedience. And our physical parts need to be cleansed and combed and toned and trimmed so we are ready for use the moment our masters and/or mistresses require our service.
As previously discussed here, the philosopher has recognized the need to exercise my cunt on a regular basis to keep it supple and juicy until he feels ready to briefly throw off the chains of the Damn Dissertation and avail himself of the benefits of ownership. Simultaneously, he gets to play with my overly malleable mind, increasing my objectification while solidifying my submission by ordering me to turn what was once an act of personal pleasure and release into an exercise performed purely for his benefit.
This is nothing new to us, this transformation of ordinary life events. But now he is taking possession of one part of my life after another and perverting their meanings until eventually my cunt will twitch throughout the entire day as every breath is taken at his command.
When I moved to the DC area, my hair started retreating up my neck, until it was transformed into what I called my dyke haircut. Being the period leading up to my long-overdue coming out as bi, it was not a surprising development, although I was of two minds about it. I loved the quick showers and the minimal use of my hairdryer. I loved that I could sort of look like a lesbian, even if my lack of success with women was discouraging to say the least. But deep down, I missed my hair. Still naturally red, it has always been my best and most defining feature, and keeping it suppressed made me feel as if I were guilty of infidelity.
Slowly, as long hair came back in fashion, I started fantasizing about growing it out again. I finally found a good hairdresser who seemed to be cutting MY hair, not just imposing some predetermined style, and who in fact wasn't happy at chopping off each month's new growth. So I was already inclined to let it grow out when the philosopher stepped in and removed the element of choice.
Because what's the point of having a sex slave if you can't show who's boss by twining your domly fingers in her hair, yanking her head towards your impatient crotch, and forcing her well-trained mouth over your bloated cock? Not to mention that my master had been amusing himself in the months before our first meeting by developing his bondage skills, and he became fixated on performing a Basic Hair Tie, as illustrated in this Twisted Monk video. (I'm a little worried at the fascination with which my girl cat just watched the video. As the resident domme of the house, she just may be planning on applying the demonstrated techniques to the exceedingly long tail of her brother. weeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee4rrrre she says; both cats have become quite adept on the keyboard.)
[Nothing like receiving a visit from a pair of frighteningly cheerful fresh-faced bike-helmeted Mormon girls to interrupt a sex-blogger's train of thought.]
The order was given: no more haircuts. I begged and pleaded and tried to explain that hair grows better when you trim it along the way. The philosopher, being a teacher of logic, was duly skeptical, but he finally relented. This required considerable trust on his part, as his hair husbandry technique involves getting his own beautiful red locks cut very short once or twice a year and then leaving his hair in the hands of nature.
So off I went to my hairdresser last summer, explaining that my boyfriend wanted me to grow it long and had given very strict instructions that this was to be ONLY A TRIM! It was the most exciting haircut I'd ever had, sitting in the chair, feeling owned, having relinquished not only my guise as a lesbian (albeit a failed one) but control over this very important part of my identity. Among other things.
There have been a few haircuts since then. Very few. And each time, permission had to be requested. This afternoon was to have been another one, again preceded by the statement that my "boyfriend" had grudgingly given his permission for ONLY A TRIM. The philosopher and I discussed it this morning during the wake-up call with which I am again tasked. He has been feeling increasingly domly these last few days, and was getting more and more aroused as he described me sitting in the chair, surrounded by "normal" women while I was my master's property and nothing more. My hair, like my cunt, was receiving its regularly required maintenance.
He could hear from my voice that the discussion was sending me down into subspace, and decided to impose a new requirement to make me feel even more owned. Perhaps I should wear the dog collar? I envisioned the lovely new pink collar I'd bought as a Valentine's Day gift of further submission, but which he hasn't yet seen, and protested that it wouldn't do during a haircut. "What about around your ankle?" Finally he explained that he meant the other dog collar. The chain. The choke chain, doubled up and clasped so it fit.
"Get the collar, kitten."
It was heavy around my ankle. Heavy and clanking. I saw myself sitting in the chair while my hair was being groomed, the incongruous symbol of my status peeking out from beneath the hem of my jeans.
I couldn't wait.
Soon after, the call ended, leaving me with a subspace-clouded mind and a cunt-juice stained sheet.
While we had been talking, another call had come in on my cellphone. I assumed it to be a wrong number, and figured the message to be spam, since I'm rarely called on my cellphone except by the philosopher. But when I listened to the message, my mood plummeted. It was Tom, my rather strange but very talented hairdresser. He had to cancel. He had a doctor's appointment. He really had to go. He was really sorry.
I felt utterly lost, and have continued to feel at loose ends throughout the day. These little tasks, these manipulative mindfucks, are so important to a long distance relationship such as ours. I was looking forward to being under my owner's omnipotent watchful eye thoughout the day, as I anticipated the event, as I submitted to the haircut, as I glanced at passing mirrors and remembered that the haircut had been transformed from something I had requested into an act of service and obedience.
Luckily, my creative owner had inserted himself into my morning activity as well. Who knew that allergy shots could be coopted into an opportunity for perversion? I had previously used my masochism to deal with the occasional painful injection, giving myself to the pain rather than fighting it, which made it easier to take. This time, however, my master was in the mood to hurt me. He decided to make the allergy nurse his agent of pain. Rather than embracing any discomfort, I was to suffer it. He ordered me to count down as she prepared to stick the needle into my arm: 3-2-1, the way I do during a caning, and then to receive the injection as a punishment inflicted by my owner. Not for any misbehaviour on my part but purely because he wanted to hurt me. Because it is his right to hurt me.
I did as he ordered. I counted down to myself and prepared to receive a needle in each arm as an act of sadistic torture.
They don't usually hurt. But this time they did. And the pain continued as I returned to my seat for the obligatory 30 minute vigil in case of severe reaction.
I'm aroused again as I write this. And once again feeling very very owned.
I guess the day wasn't a complete loss after all.
Thank you, master.
And I'll try to reschedule the haircut for next week.