A Hairy Question

V asked me today, “What would you do/how would you react if I were to tell you to not color your hair or do anything to it? To just let it be?” He wasn’t asking me about hairstyles.

It’s a complicated question, especially right now, when our D/s is on the back burner, waiting for us to figure things out again.

Or me to figure things out again.

I’m not sure I could say it’s all the way on the back burner, though: I was over at V’s last night, and little bits of it crept in, here and there. I’m not talking about out-and-out play; we did play, but it felt oddly bereft of D/s, more like topping. Which was fine. I needed a good ass-whipping, and that was what I got.

But in many of our other interactions last night, the D/s was there, simmering under the surface, in looks and touches, in his hand in my hair and his mouth on mine. In the way he told me that for him, it was as important for me to be there, in his space, as it was for me to have him in mine, and with the current issues, I haven’t been there enough to suit him. It was in the way he said I may be feral right now, may be out of the box, but there were boxes within boxes, and whether or not I knew it I was still there, in a box that he describes for me. It’s just a little bigger, a little wider, with more room for me to move around in.

He’s patient, he says.

His words make me shiver deliciously, in spite of what my brain is saying.

I think he’s waiting for me to ask him to put me back in the box, to ask his permission to be inside of it, but I’m not sure I’m ready to be there yet. I’ve been completely free for 3 or 4 weeks now, free of the rituals and rules we had in place. I’m not sure I miss them that much. I never wanted them to fall into habit, to stop being special, and with the resentment I had at times regarding them not being enough…

Well, maybe this is better.

The thing is I thought I’d be devastated, rudderless, without structure or direction. I’m not. I feel a loss, for sure, but not as keenly as I thought I would. Not having this part of “us” doesn’t mean we aren’t us. We love each other, we talk, we play together. Those things haven’t changed. What it has done is allowed me to detach myself from much of the ways in which I had felt bound to him. As a person that craves a strong D/s relationship, the notion of losing that bond scared me at first, but as time goes by I grow more accustomed to it, and have honestly begun to question if I need it in my life.

Or at least this manifestation of “it.”

But then I am in his presence, and there is this tug, and I feel it pulling at me. The desire to submit, to be his, the desire to know that he owns me and wants me. I want him to lay down the law and the rules and take me back in hand. To put me back in the box. I want to feel bound to him.

But that way lies all of the things that brought us here, to this space, again. The dissatisfaction, the resentment about inequities, the bitterness over someone else having so much control in my relationship with him. Because if I give that bond to him, that trust, there are expectations on my side. He expects me to believe, to trust. Well I have expectations that if I do so, he – this relationship – will be worthy of that trust. And I pull back, defensive, wary.

And then he asks the question he did.

Do I want someone else to tell me not to cut or color my hair? Hell no. If I am vain, my vanity lies in my hair. But if he told me to, would I submit? I’m not sure, at this moment, given where we are right now. But does it hit a huge trigger for me? Oh god yes. To be told to. To be submissive to a man that makes such arbitrary decisions, decisions not made “for my own good,” but simply as a way to exert and express his dominance; to obtain and revel in my submission? Yeah, that gives me a bit of a twinge. It always has.

Our style of D/s has been…practical D/s. Rituals in place to remind of us our connection when we were not together. A “greeting” ritual when he came over. A morning ritual, greetings in text morning and night, my sleep collar. Some management type things meant to help me get over and through the rough places in our relationship, and that, to a large degree, helped me to learn healthy ways to manage my flare-ups when things got sticky. They are in place for good reasons, good for us both, and sometimes, I wish there were more. I thrive in his micromanagement. (I know, I say I want it, then I don’t want it.  Which is it? I’m conflicted, obviously.) But this other thing, this arbitrary rule, edict, demand…things that I have to comply with, that show his dominance and my submission in a very visceral, immediate, way…mmph. That does all kinds of emotional, mental, pussy-clenching things to me.

“Take your panties off in the restaurant bathroom and bring them back to me.”

“Spread your legs. Don’t close them the entire time we’re together tonight.”

“Wear slut red lipstick.”

“Don’t take those heels off.”

“Buy something specific for our date. Here are the parameters …”

“I will order for you.”

“Put this color on your nails; wear your hair this way.”  

“Shave your pussy (or don’t).”

“Tonight you do not sit on the furniture.” 

Seriously, the thing I found hottest about The Secretary? Was when he told her to what to eat, in exact detail.”Four peas…” I thought I was going to cream my jeans.

Speaking of hot, while the beating I got last night was good, and much-needed, what got me hot, what dipped into where my head goes in D/s, was when he shoved me forward against the cross, lodging my face into the X, and took me from behind, with my dress a puddle at my feet. I’m not sure what, exactly, about that made me feel “all the things,” but there you are. We don’t get to choose what makes our brains work.

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