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God, what rules? I mean, I remember I wrote a list here a few months ago, right? Talking proudly about our rules? And hey, no surprises here – they’ve fallen by the wayside. Rules, I’m discovering, are less about “here is how it will be”, and more about “here is what I expect of you”. He changes what he wants, and I adjust. We may negotiate (sometimes of the “I love you and respect you and let’s work this through together” variety, and sometimes more like “Really? Strip. Present. Shut up.” and rough sex ensues), but the real essence of rules is that they are him dictating to me what to do. No more, no less.

Rules may exist for a night, a play, a week, or until he decides otherwise. My cunt is shaved or very closely trimmed all the time, because that’s a no-brainer. Why would I change that. Why would he let me? But I wear what I want around the house. Until he directs me to take it off, put on a g-string, and stand in the corner with my legs spread as punishment for covering my cunt.

Rules aren’t about structure, I’ve learnt. They’re about demanding obedience. They’re his instructions, which I must follow. End of story.