I like my bush.
I like not shaving. I like that it doesn’t take any effort – I like that I feel grown-up and independent and strong. I like that it makes me feel like I am making my own decisions about my body. I like that he would never tell me to shave it off.
But when he edges me. When he makes me edge until my mind breaks. When I touch myself for hours listening to a hypnosis recording. I suddenly want it gone. I want to be smooth. I want to be soft.
It makes me feel juvenile. It makes me feel like a little baby, a girl who’s not even got hair down there yet, a girl who’s too small to make her own decisions. It takes away my strength and my independence and makes me soft, submissive, pliable. I want to do as I’m told.
He would never tell me to shave it off, but he loves it when I do. “Good girl. I like you completely bare,” he says, and I can’t hide my wetness anymore so I drip and I ache and I suffer for him, and we both love it more than we can say.
It makes it even harder not to touch. It makes anal only even more unbearable. I don’t know why I make this worse for myself. I ache to touch my clit but instead slowly fuck my ass.
“If you want to touch your clit, just touch your nipples,” he whispers. “I know it doesn’t feel as good, but you have two to make up for it.”
I hate it. I want to touch. I don’t want to be anal only and I don’t like that he’s decided this for me.
I used to be strong and independent. I used to decide when to cum.
I don’t decide anymore. I don’t want to decide anymore. He decides when I cum. He decides when I touch. He decides when to keep me anal only.
I hate it, and I love it. I want to stop it, but I want to be a good girl. I want to touch, but I want to do as I am told. I want to be submissive. I want to be smooth. I want to be soft.
He’s made me soft.