It was hot (I know, I know you’ve heard enough of it…but you need to recall it as it is integral to my little story.)
Hot enough that beachgoers were told that their children could not go out on the sand (sand temp? 120ºF) due to danger of being burned.
Hot enough that any movement engendered gallons of sweat…as much as any whipping, beating, caning has ever done to me…
Hot enough that I felt beat down enough to text the Master and whine.
pissed and moaned told Him how uncomfortable I was.
I know it’s very hot.
Well, that didn’t solicit the
attention sympathy that I wanted.
“This is one of those times when I hate having long hair, Master.”
Nevermind that I’ve been wetting it down and letting it dry against my skin, or knotting it up and clipping it with one of those mega-clips. I was attention-seeking—and damned if He didn’t grok that one.
Smart fucking Bastard.
Well then shave your frigging pussyhair and shut the fuck up.
Of course I convulsed in laughter.
I have been a bit lax in that department. He only requires that my pussy be shaved when we get together…otherwise He could care less, so why bother?
But He won’t EVER consider letting me chop my hair (it has finally regrown about 2/3 of what I got grudging approval for last year, about 6 of the 9 inches.) and I knew it…I was just–you know–
goading attention seeking.
Yeah, hard to picture, right?
He put me in my place, AND moved me from a negative mind-set to a more humorous one. Hard to be all whiney when one is laughing at oneself.
Hairy pussy and all.