No modifications necessary

I have a really great hairdresser. He does phenomenal things with my long, still naturally red mane. What I really admire is how he listens to my hair. He reads it. He doesn't impose a style on my locks and then cut them into submission. He frees them, encouraging them to be what they really are and bringing out their true, natural beauty.

When I was in second grade, my mom took me to her hairdresser. He cut my hair short, and suddenly - no more curls. They never really came back. I never forgave him, and hairdressers have made me nervous ever since. Now, though, I suddenly have curls again! Even with my hair so long, which should drag out the bounce, I have curls. I watch in fascination as my hair slowly dries after I've washed it. The ends awake into curls that hold their shape throughout the day, and which return after brushing if I wet them down again. No product, no curling iron, nothing. My very own little girl curls.

I have a really great Master. He does phenomenal things with me. One of the many things I admire is that he pursued me for what he saw I truly was. He saw inside me. He saw me as something of value, and he wanted me as his own treasure.

He did not say - oh, here is a marble statue which I will treat as a piece of rough stone to be hacked and chiseled until it becomes the piece of art I have in mind.

He said - ah... here is a beautiful work of art who needs some polishing and minor bits of carving here and there to refine the shape and bring out the beauty inherent in the stone.

And he also said - ah... here is an artist who doesn't know her talent. Here is a girl who doesn't know her beauty. This is a crime. I will take her for my own, and use her for my own pleasure. But in order to get the most out of her, she must come to accept and appreciate her own value.

As I mentioned recently, I'm on a diet. It's a serious health thing. I need to lose weight, limit carbs and especially sugar, exercise more... all the things my doctors have been saying for years. But now I'm getting serious about it. I really do need to be serious about it.

And my Master is helping me.

I ran off to the bookstore today to pick up a particular diet book. I e-mailed the sadist from the car as I prepared to leave the parking structure, saying I was on my way home and would then address a particular assignment he had given me. He replied:

I heard no mention today of exercise. When you get home send me your plan.

Oops. I'd forgotten again. He had brought it up that morning, how he wanted me to do my exercises to accentuate the ravine down my back, aka the champagne channel, which must be made deeper by the time we have our night together. Which gives me 3 weeks. Plus he wanted me to add some exercises to develop the shape of my delicious butt. I had really forgotten about that part! I wrote back:

[she sighs and wrinkles her nose]

I both love and it and hate it when you remind me of things I have forgotten, my Lord. Things that I'm obviously not running to do.

Which is true. I feel a bit petulant, and have the urge to be defensive and make excuses. But I know there are no excuses. I have lost focus, yet again. I've been distracted, been involved with other things, and must - must - do what is required of me.

Which I did do.
And reported back.
And he was pleased.
Yea, verily.

Later, I wrote:

You know what's so great, my Lord, about what you're doing with me and the diet and exercise thing?

You're not making me feel bad about how I look. Of course, all along you've been pushing me to accept that I'm beautiful. But this, specifically, you're not saying I'm fat. You're not saying I'm a lazy slug. You're saying I need to be healthy, to serve you better and because you own me and want - need - your slave to be healthy. Plus there's these little preferences of body form to increase your enjoyment. It's not, my Master, as if you're saying I'm worthless if I don't weigh 110 pounds. And you're not sending me off to get my tits augmented, or any such thing. It all not only makes me feel better, because I'll be healthier, but will also make me feel better about myself in a healthy way.

It's all very positive, my Master.

I am so lucky to belong to you!

He replied:

I never said you weren't a lazy slug.

But quickly followed that with a new message:

Seriously, my goal for you is to maintain both your sexy body and your general health, so there will be fewer occasions when your service is unavailable to me for health reasons. No modifications necessary, except maybe a deeper champagne canal.

Which is the truth. He makes me feel good about myself. He makes me feel wanted. He did not take charge of my eating and such merely to demonstrate his control, but did get involved when there was reason to be concerned and, before that, on a very small scale for the well-defined goal of increasing his pleasure from the use of my body in a very particular way. (He already eats pitted Kalamata olives and tiny grape tomatoes from the trough running down my back, but a deeper channel would certainly be preferable as a vessel for champagne.)

This is but a very concrete and current example of a larger point which I have referred to before. I get very nervous when I hear about a Dom/Master who seems to be pushing submissive/slave into some external mold which just doesn't fit. We all struggle in our relationships - in any relationship, all the way from vanilla ice cream to jalapeño sorbet. We all struggle, some more, some less, whichever side of the power exchange we occupy. No one is perfect. No one. Get that? Even my Master has occasionally apologized, or at least admitted to faulty judgment and taken steps to prevent a recurrence.

We may worship our Masters/Mistresses, but they really are not gods. And it pisses me off when they can't manage enough humility to appreciate the treasure they do have in their submissives or slaves. It pisses me off when I hear of a Dom who is so caught up in his own fantasies of what he wants and is so drunk on his own inflated ego that he pushes his possessions to do things before they are ready while making them feel inadequate for not being able to handle what maybe they just aren't cut out to handle.

I worry.
I really do.
Because we get drunk on our submission.
We lose perspective.
And some of us end up hypnotized into wanting something we really don't want.

Submission can be glorious.
And being a little intoxicated can be a lovely thing.
Just don't get so drunk that you drive off a cliff.
And never forget that you are beautiful.

End of lecture.
Time to put my sexy body to bed.

Kaleidoscope

I made it out of the house today.
I'm so proud of myself!

SAD makes me antisocial, and now I'm noticing a seasonal tendency towards agoraphobia as well. After all, why should a hibernating bear cub need to leave the cave? (I read this morning about a traveling Russian circus on an 8-day road trip. It was a long, cold trip for the four bears traveling in a truck, so naturally they went into hibernation. Their trainer plied them with strong tea and chocolate to try to keep them awake. Maybe that's what I need.)

But bears don't usually need allergy shots. Or have appointments with the hairdresser that are as much about spending an hour with a friend as about being made beautiful. Not to mention the massaging shampoo chair... So I did have to leave the house, finishing up the trip with a stop at the Trader Joe's next door to the hair salon for hibernation provisions.

And when I finally got home?

A treat.
A much anticipated treat.
An IM visit with the sadist.

I was such a naughty girl. He was working as we exchanged messages. He was trying to work, he was trying to type things and fielding phone calls and I was sending him messages about how his special little girl would give her Daddy a lovely blow job while he was talking on the phone and he ended up getting distracted just from what I wrote. I did have to laugh at that. The idea of Daddy losing focus is ever so funny.

But we were talking about things, too.
We talked about how people know only part of who we are.
It's natural, he said.
No one talks to one's friends and one's mother the same way.
But it's more than that.
We show different faces.
I like to think I am the same person at all times, he said. But no one is.

Maybe it's like with a kaleidoscope, I said. All the pieces are always in there. But shake the tube, turn the ring, and you see something different.

All the pieces are always in there. And sometimes we don't know ourselves what is in there. Not until someone else comes along and says - I see you. I know who you are. I look straight through the glass and see all the moving pieces and I know just what to do to get all the different pictures I know are there. Come to me. You are beautiful. You are my special little girl and you are beautiful and I will show you just how beautiful you are.

Come to me.
Give yourself into my hands.
And I will show you who you are.

Sexy and submissive and yes, I'm 61

Remittance Girl started a recent post with the following excerpt from a Twitter exchange (and no, of course, this isn't RG talking!):

There comes a time when wrinkly women should cut their hair [...]

I read on for a few lines and then just couldn't take it any more.

Now, OK, I admit that I'm not as wrinkly as most women my age (61 tomorrow, February 9th, there's still time for you to buy me a present). And I'll admit that many wrinkly women have grey hair, which some snotty men might think unseemly to display in large quantities. Me, I think of my paternal grandmother with her hair down to her tukhes, still blond at the bottom and white at her scalp, with every shade of her natural aging progression in between. I never thought it was anything but beautiful, and adored combing it, reveling in its smooth oiliness and sheer profusion.

So I have nothing against long grey hair. It can be a crowning glory, no matter what the color. But it so happens that I don't have grey hair. I have red hair. Real live long natural red hair. Sexy as shit and just begging to be seized. It is a dancing halo, and a waiting handle. Wrap it around your fist and drag my head down to your cock or haul me across the room and throw me onto the futon...

Ahem. Sorry about that. Now what was I saying?

Hair.
Long hair.
Long hair on old ladies.
My long hair which is sexy as shit.

I suppose 61 used to count as old. Certainly, 61 used to look old. Even now, 61 can sometimes look old. Not me. I'm beautiful. I'm young and beautiful and sexy, not just because my Master says so and therefore I'd better believe it (which I admit is true). But because he enabled me to see it.

Thank you, my Master.

My long hair I owe to the philosopher, who ordered me to grow out my dyke haircut even before we met. And he was right. Both because long hair suits my face better (which he didn't realize) and because long hair is sexy. Not to mention useful. He wanted to use it for hair bondage. He could have a fine time with it now if he ever wanted another shot at it. But that's not likely. Even a birthday e-mail is unlikely. But he left me many gifts, and this long hair is one of them.

Thank you, John...

So Tuesday I turn 61, in a city still buried in snow and expecting more. I think that's a fine way to celebrate. The clean white snow makes everything look bright and young and beautiful and new. The sun's rays bounce off the sparkling white mounds and leave everything they touch laughing.

I want to go out into my back yard and dance naked in the snow, the sun's rays bouncing off the sparkling white mounds of my sexy-as-hell breasts with their attention-demanding nipples. Beautiful hair, adorable tits, outrageous nipples, and a hot, moist, tight pussy that just begs to be used.

Not bad for a 61 year old woman who wears her hair too long for decency.

Happy birthday to me.

Working towards Pre-Raphaelite

Working towards pre-Raphaelite.
Looking rather tame here,
right after my sweet and smiling hairdresser
made my hair obey his command.
Doms use canes and floggers.
Hairdressers use blow dryers.
Either way, we capitulate.
He took the photo for me, too,
re-arranging the curls just so to properly display his work.

It's come a long way since
the philosopher ordered me to grow it out.
I still miss asking for permission
before making an appointment to have it cut.

Maybe when it gets a little longer
I'll arrange a photo shoot
recreating the pre-Raphaelite classics.

Followed by some odalisque nudes.

Any of you artsy photographers want to volunteer?

The birthday of the world

Today is the birthday of the world.
Rosh hashanah.
The beginning of the Jewish High Holy Days.

We say it is the birthday of the world.
But we also say it is the day the world was conceived.

Conception, birth, creation, it is an ongoing process, creation. We are constantly being created, born, re-born. We look around us, look back, rethink, make adjustments, and are born anew.

The universe is a great, continuous work of performance art. And our lives are part of that.

These are the Days of Awe. A time to look back. A time to look forward. A time to heal the world, on both an intimate and a grand scale.

I'm not sure how I feel about this whole God thing. I've had certain experiences that I don't like to talk about, experiences that made me doubt the doctrinaire atheism with which I was raised. Yes, there are Jewish atheists, and I was a third generation one. But I started to feel things, sense things... things that made even less rational sense than an orgasm-inducing stick of oak baseboard trim. My rabbi says I'm a pantheist. He doesn't seem to mind. Indeed, he sounds proud of me. I suspect he's a bit of a pantheist himself.

So I'm heading into 10 days of looking back and looking ahead. And looking into right now.

I can't help looking back. I have so many memories tied up with the holidays. The first time I came to my synagogue was shortly after September 11th. I came with the woman I thought I was in love with. I don't think I was really in love with her, but she broke my heart anyway. By Yom Kippur it was all over. We each kept seeing the man we were both involved with. Now THAT was an interesting story... I still see him every so often when he's back in town visiting his mother. I'm expecting another visit in about a month or so. I... um... no. Let's just say I'm looking forward to it.

I had my dyke haircut back then. I was trying very hard to be a lesbian. I failed miserably, but now I wonder if that didn't have to do with my unrealized submission. Another thing to think about.

Now my hair is thick and shoulder length and with only a few more white bits around the temples. Everyone says how gorgeous it looks. And I thank them and think how it's long and gorgeous because the philosopher ordered me to grow it. So whether or not I choose to think of him, I can't help it. My hair looks beautiful and it is his.

I sit there in services with my little notebook, jotting down good bits from our prayerbook, jotting down bits that people say, jotting down my own thoughts... and feeling every moment that I am in service to my demon muse, to the Sorcerer, who told me in no uncertain terms to get myself a notebook or 3. I think of the year past and of all the loss, and I think of the year ahead and feel both dizzy and safe. I have given myself over to his mysterious plan for me, and it feels good to have given myself over. I'm afraid of heights, I'm afraid of falling, but I close my eyes and let myself fall back, and whether he catches me or lets me crash to the ground I will accept my fate.

I don't believe in that kind of God. I'm not sure if I believe in God at all, although I seem to have a sense of something... I think I'm some sort of mystic... but I don't believe in a God who has a plan for me and everyone and that i just have to have faith that Someone has already written the script. If I do believe in God, it is one who said ok folks, see this world you find yourself in? It's your job to sort things out, to fix it, to heal it. If your dog is lost, I'm not going to pop down and find it for you. You have to take care of each other and figure it all out.

But for some reason, I believe in my demon muse, this man who managed to hunt me without making me feel defensive. I'm a cautious pet, I run from people who pursue too hard. But I never realized the danger I was in until it was too late. And now he has this plan for me, and I say yes, Sir, I agree, this is not a game.

And I look at the year ahead, and all I see is me walking forward into the mist. And if he's leading me over a cliff, so be it, because I'm not looking down.

And to all of you for whom this applies, and anyone else who wants it:

L'shana tova.

A gut yontiff, a gut yor.

Best wishes for a good holiday and a good year.

(And God, if you DO get the urge to meddle down here, could you please make sure Barack Obama wins the election?)

Saturday night at home with the cats

Feeling good tonight. Feeling happy. Peaceful. Pretty. Light. Busy and focused but just mildly floaty.

I had my bangs trimmed today. That's enough right there to make me feel a bit lighter. There was just too much hair up there. Although it did feel weird to be calling up for an appointment to get my bangs trimmed without first getting permission from the philosopher. Unsettling. But I'm ok.

It was his birthday yesterday. We're in that short stretch of time when you could say he is only 21 years younger than me. Why, we're practically the same age!

Such a silly, meaningless thing to say.

We had a long post-debate phone conversation last night, divided into two parts: before and after my debate-party guests left. It was good. It felt really really good. It was all that other part of our relationship that was so wonderful when he would visit. A closeness, a comfortable closeness, an intimacy that comes from some intangible comfortable connection that has nothing necessarily to do with sex or submission. And yet, it can't be totally separate from it, as our swimming in BDSM meant revealing all our vulnerabilities and that sort of nakedness is bound to create an intense intimacy unless you are putting up steel-lined walls against it.

So we had that part. The warm friendly comfortable part. And it was good.

But I'm learning not to fool myself each time we have one of these comfortable interactions where I don't go off and cry or regret afterwards. I'm starting to accept that it is naive of me to trumpet "I am cured! I can see! I can walk!" after each one. It doesn't happen that fast. It just doesn't. But eventually I'll be ok. And I did feel good today.

So here I sit, on the couch, in the company of Marko and Hot Jazz Saturday Night, working on a volunteer project for next weekend, thinking about how I wish someone would make me independently wealthy so I didn't have to worry about work getting in the way of life and poetry and music and submission. And smiling.

I sent my first text message today, in response to one from the collector. A tedious project, sending a little text message, but I suppose I could get better at it eventually. Except that now I pay for each one, so I'm in no hurry to do a lot more - or wouldn't be if it didn't feel so wonderful. It made me feel very owned. On standby waiting for word of the needs or commands of my manipulative mentor. It's so curious how such a small thing can be so arousing with just a slight shift in context.

The feeling of being tethered made me shiver and glow. And although what my demon muse is creating with and through me is a completely separate issue from what is or is not going on with the philosopher, it does help, again and again, to know that I am a valued property and that my sadistic Svengali has enticing plans for me which I don't yet fully know or understand.

So I'm happy on the couch with Marko and my laptop, even with too much to do and not enough time to do it.

Besides, the new year begins Monday night as Jews celebrate the birth day of the world.

I am gestating. I am growing into something new and glorious. My tutor is sitting on me, Horton hatching his egg of many colors, and when I emerge he will spank me hard and I will cry and then burst into song.

And the world will look new.

a scrapbook of memories

this is our journal.

this is our memory book.

all those moments, fleeting and lingering.

dashing up to the bus station, right behind your bus.

your pleasure at seeing me with the pink dog collar around my neck - and the leash in the car. you hooked it into the O-ring and held on to your pet as i drove you home.

that first dinner i fed you, the cup of tea that pleased you, and all the dinners we planned together and the cups of tea i served you. every meal felt like a joint project, even with me doing all the work.

that first spanking. i so needed that first spanking.

dragging myself away from you on Friday morning, dragging myself away for a half day's work while you lounged among the disastrous sheets. how i would reassemble the bed, my bed, our bed, every day at least once, and how you would leave it looking like it was waiting for the chambermaid to gather up the crumbled sheets and haul them off to the laundry.

doing your laundry. washing your dishes. feeling it as a gift, an offering, a pleasure, rather than an onerous chore. (though i must admit i have doubts as to how long i would remain amused at the master's socks and underwear dropped on the bedroom floor exactly where he removed them...)

Friday afternoon at the regional park. at the butterfly exhibit. were you wondering if it would be worth it? we gloried in it, handing the camera back and forth, snapping dozens of amazing photos. walking down the paths, among the geese, peering at labels for plants and trees, sharing benches, planning a return visit with pinhole cameras. feeling peaceful, feeling together, our ritual comments of dominance and submission woven among happy companionship that was too comfortable to be called "merely" vanilla. even without the spicy teasing flecks of other flavours, it was vanilla made from precious natural beans, its richness dissolving in our mouths and flowing through our bodies. there is, in truth, nothing necessarily boring about vanilla.

the plans, the hints, the insinuations about the punishments to come on Saturday night.

all those little times my almost-ex housemate nearly caught us at very inopportune moments. the worst being when the toys and implements of pain were all laid out in the basement family room cum dungeon and she came trotting into the house looking for a lost debit card. she was not expected back for the rest of the night. even if one is not planning some perhaps shocking activities, how explicit does one have to be in reiterating again and again that she really doesn't want to be around that night - especially when she had told us she'd be gone until the following day. (luckily, the implements had been laid out on a bandanna and were easily gathered up and obscured.)

it was all pretty funny, really. and she would have deserved the site of me draped over the ottoman, my naked ass being soundly beaten by your belt.

the delight you got in my little eruptions-on-command. your goal, of course, is orgasms on command. isn't that what every dom wants? three-two-one-CUM, KITTEN! well, not quite... but something for sure. like a little seizure, almost, and eventually you couldn't even make it past "three" before i would give this little involuntary full-body shiver, the sort i used to get only from certain kinds of music. you kept making me perform - loving to see how dependable my reaction was.

doing crossword puzzles together, my intuition supplementing your logic, after which you would figure out why my answer was correct. experiencing it as a shared activity rather than competition. (another reason for you to send those thank you flowers to ex-hubby #2...)

i learned that it definitely helps to breathe when giving a blow job.

this is becoming too long. but we had 4 nights together! i'm trying to save them, pinning them down on the page like captured butterflies when they are so much more beautiful flying around our heads.

you wish you could post the face shots that show me deep in subspace. not quite completely gone, but definitely not all there. i sink so fast now... in these four and a half months apart, you have continued to train me with threats and scenarios, till a few words about branding leave me without the ability to speak.

i wish i could post pictures of you after i cut your hair. poor you, enduring my constant little corrective snips for almost 2 days afterwards, as i attempted to make it perfect. you have beautiful hair, thick and wavy like mine, a red slightly browner than mine, cutting off the overgrown locks brings your face out, brings your good looks out, makes me worry a bit that now you are too handsome and young-looking to want someone as old as me.

i exercised today. we both have bellies. i will demolish mine.

the caning.
you stopped at 4 strokes.
they seemed to be enough.
they were.
4 strokes.
splat across my ass.
horribly painful parallel lines.
i wasn't bound, just down on my knees,
ass in air, face to the carpet,
you said i rose up under the pain as if
trying to escape it.
i couldn't escape it.
and after the fourth, you got your wish.
i sobbed. i shook.
and my face was
wet with tears.
just 4 strokes of the cane.
the worst i'd ever had.
you beat me till i cried tears.

(oddly enough, there are no horrible bruises, although it does still hurt, and yesterday we could feel the line of the welt under my skin. one bruise is forming at the site of the worst stroke. swift application of that big bag of peas that clutters up my freezer did its magic. frozen peas. perfect for sprained ankles and caned asses.)

i'll write another time about the beautiful little purple butt plug you bought me. the magic power of that little purple butt plug.

Sunday night.

the last night.

i showed you Marianne's post about what i call hormone storms. i wanted you to see that it's not just me. i wanted you to see the comment i left. you make me feel that it's safe to show you these things.

Sunday night. how gentle you were. i needed to be touched. i needed you to be my lover. you make me feel safe. you make me feel it's safe to ask for what i need. which isn't something i could do with other men. or women. which isn't something i do easily. i did it with you. i let you know what i needed. and you gave it to me.

i admit it. i was sad all morning. i didn't quite cry. you had told me not to. "don't cry, kitten..." you said as i left you at the bus station. "don't, cry..." in that inflection you always use, almost mocking yourself and me. so i didn't. and i'm ok now, sitting up naked in the bed, the sheets returned to their orderly state, tucked in at the bottom, your underwear in the dryer with my missing black shirt that had been skulking among my exercise clothes.

i won't cry, master.

i won't cry.

i think about the weekend and smile.

i remember, and smile, and pet purring marko, who has resumed his place on the bed now that you are gone.

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.

Sadistic creativity

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.

Coiffurus interruptus.

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 hurt.

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.