So there we were, my Master and I, around mid-day, engaged in instructive and very arousing conversation courtesy of Yahoo Messenger. I was embroidering on a scenario that was rapidly growing out of a handful of words he had tossed at me, expanding, elaborating, enriching, when my mind and my body were drawn back to compelling physical memories of the slash of his flogger on my cunt.
I spoke of that a little, of its power over me, the particular type of pain. It's real pain, and I don't crave the pain itself, but there's something about it...
I don't hunger to be caned.
I do hunger to be flogged.
And then there it was. Out of the blue.
"I may have you shave."
I had been wriggling and squirming like mad, aroused and submissive and adoring and barely able to contain myself. But at those six words, I froze.
I described my frozen state.
I begged to be allowed to trim very close instead.
I get all these irritated bumples just from shaving up at the top of my thighs.
And my hair is so light, you'd think a close trim would do it.
And I felt incredibly, exquisitely owned.
Of course, now that he's seen what a strong effect the possibility had on me, there's no way I'll get out of it.
I'm squirming as I write.
The philosopher and I used to talk about the possibility. We mulled over his taking me down to the place in Dupont Circle where, right before his inaugural visit, I had my eyebrows waxed for the first and only time. I liked it there. It felt professional and safe. And I thought they could handle his bringing me in to have my cunt stripped bare. Making it clear that he was in charge, that my pussy belonged to him. He would stand there and watch and enjoy my yelps of pain and enjoy the little puddle of arousal that would form on the sheet just below me. I wrestled with the idea - I didn't like the idea of going bare. We don't do that in my circle. And yes, I do know what the others do because when we all spend a week together at music camp there's a bathroom with 2 toilets and 3 showers for the 15 of us. So even though not everyone is as much of an exhibitionist as I am, there are glimpses...
I'm still squirming.
I worry what people will think of me. I worry what my gynecologist will think of me. I imagine her calling my psychiatrist, who referred me to her, and asking if she knows why I suddenly shaved my pretty little curls. And since I'm not really in therapy, and have scrupulously avoided discussing my submission, there will be no ready answer.
I am feeling very small.
I think of that bare area between my legs. How it will look so childlike, even with my large, floppy, aging pussy lips hanging down and inviting torture. And I think of how it will feel...
The philosopher finally accepted my explanation about irritation, and allowed me to trim very close instead of getting waxed. And even that felt incredibly naked. I'm rocking back and forth madly on the chair as I remember how I felt everything rubbing against the tender skin. Against my labia. Against my clit.
So here I am.
Feeling very small.
Feeling very submissive.
Dreading what's to come.
Yearning for what's to come.
Anticipating the humiliation of presenting myself unprotected by my little curls.
I swim in his power and willingly give myself up to the rapids that pull me towards the waterfall and the rocks below.