To shave means to hope

A few days ago I e-mailed the boyfriend with some blog he wanted the address from, and a short question. Should I stop shaving my pubic hair or not? Although we did not have sex any more, I still felt this was something I had to ask permission for; it felt as something that was part of our D/s.

So there was some disappointment when there was no immediate reply that morning. There came no reply during the whole day. That evening we spoke about it on the phone, and he said something about that he somewhat preferred me shaved, but that it was my choice.

I don’t clearly remember how the conversation went on, but I do remember I felt sad about his response. To me this question was something important, and it did not seem that important too him. Afteer some difficult talking it came out that it was more difficult for him to see this in a D/s-context, because it concerned an area that he had nothing to do with recently; it did not fall into his “range” of our D/s at this time.  And also because I had asked it so casually, he had not noticed that I had meant it as asking for permission, instead of the asking of an opinion, which was how he had interpreted it.

It was not the first difficult talk that week, and talks like that are quite draining. Especially when it’s about  something as painful as the fact we’re not having sex, not because of not wanting, but because I just cannot, mentally. Wanting to stop shaving was some sort of giving up hope, of quitting to prepare. I do not know exactly if it was at the end of that talk, or if it was the day after, but in the end he made clear he really wanted me to shave my cunt, for aesthetics, for the hope.

And so I did.

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