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He frightened me.

I sat across the café table from him and cringed inwardly at the long silence that stretched between us. Whatever I’d been expecting when I recklessly answered his personal ad, it hadn’t been this.

“So,” I said, striving for a normal voice. “How long have you lived here?”

His only response was a slight questioning tilt of his head. His eyes were covered by dark sunglasses and the rest of him was clothed in black – black jeans, black t-shirt, black motorcycle boots and a black belt adorned with a plain silver buckle. His entire appearance was severe, a statement completed by a bald pate that gleamed with a healthy tan.

His pretension made me consider leaving, but I was drawn to his silence and the sharply defined arms that he had casually crossed over his chest. I shifted nervously in my chair and thought how fitting his ad had been. It, like him, was the soul of brevity: “Hair play?” It read. And it was followed by a phone number.

I’d answered it partly out of curiosity, partly out of boredom, and partly because the words sent a thrill through me that I didn’t quite understand. I’d lived in this city for six months now but was still no more than a name in the phone book. The loneliness had finally outstripped my cautious nature and I’d found myself perusing the personal ads in the weekly alternative newspaper. Edition after edition, I would see the words “Hair play?” at the top of the third column of the personals. Week after the week, the urge to call the number would build.

The day I finally mustered the courage to dial, I left a message that he responded to within minutes. We’d meet at 4 p.m. on Saturday at the outdoor café by the fountain, he said. I’d lay two white roses in an X in front of me. What color was my hair?

He hadn’t responded positively or negatively when I told him it was reddish brown, he’d simply hung up. Belatedly, I realized I hadn’t asked his name. That’s why I was sitting across from him now, tongue-tied and uncertain at how to address the stranger who’d crossed to my table and taken a seat without saying a word in greeting.

“Look, this was probably a mistake,” I said, inching away from the table and starting to rise.

“Stop,” he said softly and without inflection. “Does this feel like a mistake?”

He removed his glasses and I froze as he locked his deep-set green eyes on me. I slid back into the café chair as he leaned forward and took my hand in his.

“You don’t know what I want, do you?” he asked, caressing my inner wrist with his thumb.

His touch sent a shock through me and I had trouble focusing on his question. He was right, of course. We both knew it.

“Do you want to learn?” he asked, leaning in closer, his eyes taking my measure.

“What would you teach me?” I asked, entranced by his look, his touch.

“Things that can’t be explained,” he said, leaning forward and petting a lock of hair that had fallen over my shoulder. “Things that have to be shown.”

The strong yank he gave my hair made me yelp. He chuckled, stood up and kissed me by the ear.

“You have my number,” he whispered. “Use it when you’re ready.”

“But, but I don’t even know your name!”

“Call me Teacher.” And he walked away.

The encounter haunted me for three days before I finally called back. I had tried to talk myself out of it, but his touch, his unspoken promises roused me in a new way. I was no stranger to sex, but I didn’t take it lightly. I knew that calling him back was the first step toward sleeping with a virtual stranger, something I’d never even considered before.

“Teacher?” I asked when his voice mail came on. “I think I’d like to learn.”

The following Friday night, he picked me up in his black SUV and drove me to his house, holding my hand so that I would become accustomed to his touch. My heart felt like it was beating in my ears, the strong pounding evident to him as he let his fingers play over my pulse point. At his request, I’d left my hair loose and it swung heavily over my face and across his arm.

“I made dinner for us,” he said, cutting his eyes to me briefly. “But I think we’ll save that for last.”

I hesitated slightly when he opened his front door for me. He gave a look that told me this was entirely my choice and then offered me this:

“Whatever happens, happens because you choose it,” he said. “I’m only showing you what I want.”

He held his hand out to me. When I took it, he pulled me inside and danced me in circles as he kissed me deeply and ran his hands over the silk slip dress that covered my body. He buried his hands in my hair and pulled my head back until my breasts arched into his chest and my eyes were locked on his.

“You can touch me too.”

I’d wanted to do it since we first met, but manners kept me from it. Even now, it felt like I was breaking a taboo as I lifted my hands up to caress his naked scalp. I didn’t know if he was shaved or bald, but my palms slid across his head as smoothly as a hot knife through butter. He shuddered and pulled me closer, his hands pushing my hips into his growing erection.

“That’s nice,” I smiled as he growled his approval. I gasped when he scooped me into his arms and began walking up the stairs.

“It is nice,” he said, locking eyes with me. “Wait until I teach you all the pleasures that come with it.”

He walked me into his bedroom and set me down. I didn’t protest when he pushed the straps of my dress down. I didn’t say stop when he eased it down my body. I remained silent when he peeled my bra and thong away.

“I see I have some work to do,” he said, cocking his head and smiling at me. He pushed me down on the bed and cupped me between my legs, a firm touch that sent me jolting into the headboard. He laughed and told me to stay where I was as he walked into an adjoining bathroom. When he returned, he was carrying towels, a steaming bowl of water, a can of shaving cream and what looked like an old-fashioned razor.

“What.?”

“No more questions,” he said, maneuvering a towel under me and pressing my shoulders into the bed. “Just let yourself feel.”

The press of a steamy towel against my crotch made me arch my hips off the bed, and the slow massaging circle he made around my clit made me gasp. When he smoothed shaving cream over me, I threw my head to the side and dug my heels into the mattress.

“Easy, easy,” he crooned. “Keep still, no matter what you feel. I don’t want to cut you.”

I’d never been the kind of girl who went in for waxing, so the scraping of the razor began at my pubic bone and wandered over the fullness of my vaginal lips. I felt him glide his fingers in and around my mound as he pulled my flesh apart to shave the hair that grew near my clitoris. I moaned, but I didn’t move until he squeezed out a wash cloth and wiped away the last scraps of foam and hair plastered on my inner thighs.

“Just stay there,” he murmured, kneeling on the floor and pulling my hips to the edge of the mattress. I screamed as he dove into me, giving me a deliberate long lick from anus to clit. I would have twisted away on reflex if he hadn’t kept me pinned in place. He took a moment to look up, a stern look telling me stay still.

I did. And he returned to the lesson. I could see his head gleaming between my legs, but it still came as a shock when he dropped lower and rubbed his shaved head deeply against my groin. I screamed when he knocked my clit. I screamed again when he followed it with his tongue.

The rhythm he established, alternating between stroking me with his bald head and tongue, pushed me over the edge in minutes. He refused to ease his pace and forced me to climax twice before letting me come down.

He drew my naked body onto his lap, stroking my pussy affectionately.

“Did you like that, pet?” he asked.

“Oh yes,” I said, turning my face to his chest and pressing a kiss against it. I was surprised by the fact that he was still dressed.

“Oh yes, Teacher,” he corrected, giving my long
hair a hard tug with his left hand.

I yelped and smiled as I repeated his title back to him.

“Now, do you want to make me happy?” he asked, still stroking me softly.

“Yes, Teacher,” I whispered, nuzzling his chest.

“I thought you might.”

He stood up, took my hand and pulled me into the bathroom. Except it wasn’t a bathroom. The room adjoining his bedroom looked like a modern barbershop, with clean lines, stainless steel fixtures and a large black leather chair bolted to the white-tiled floor. A see-through plastic cape was thrown across the back of the chair that he was leading me too.

“Sit,” he said, pushing me into the chair and swinging the cape around me.

My insides clutched when he snapped the plastic around me neck a bit too tightly. The cape rustled as he leaned into me and massaged my breasts through the plastic. I moaned and pressed my thighs together.

“What is all this, Teacher?” I asked nervously.

“This is hair play,” he whispered. “I want what I gave you. And for that, you need a head like mine.”

I thought about screaming. I thought about leaving. I looked up at his serious face and considered never seeing it again. In that moment, I knew he offered me something that I had always wanted, a dare and promise twined together. I might end up wearing a wig for months, but the desire to please him and the compulsion to give in outweighed any consequence.

“Do it then,” I said, a slight quaver in my voice.

He dropped his lips to mine and kissed me fiercely before spinning my chair to the mirror wall above the sink. He set his chin on the crown of my head and told me this wouldn’t take long.

I watched him pick up the clippers sitting on the counter and remove the guide covering the bare blades. He flicked them on, grabbed my chin and forced my head backward. The clippers hovered briefly at my forehead before he dragged them over the top of my head and laid a two-inch strip of scalp bare.

“This is your first taste of bald,” he said, setting aside the clippers to take up razor and shaving cream. He smeared lather over my newly denuded strip of scalp and scraped it down to nothing.

“You’re going to love this,” he said, wiping my head clean. When he tilted my head back and let his tongue run over the narrow slip of naked skin, I was overwhelmed by an orgasm that eclipsed the fear and trepidation lingering in my mind.

“Teacher!” I screamed, electrified by the new experience. “Oh God!”

He kissed me hotly before picking up the clippers again. This time he was relentless, forcing the clippers in uniform strokes through the hair at the top of my head, around my temples and over my ears. When all that remained of my waist-length hair was the growth at the back of my head, he pushed my head forward, threw the locks over the top of my clippered crown and stripped it all away.

By that point, I was mewling like a cat and I could here his heavy breathing. I began touching myself and yelped when he slapped the plastic cape and ordered me to stop.

“Not until I say so, pet,” he warned. “Not until I’m finished.”

He wrapped my head in a steaming towel before lathering it and shaving it. The scrape of the razor mesmerized me and when he shaved me a second time, I came in the barber chair.

“I’m sorry, Teacher,” I whispered, dropping my head as he massaged it with a finishing oil.

“I won’t punish you this time,” he said, stepping in front of me. “Because now I want to play.”

I didn’t resist when he pulled me out of the chair — still wearing the cape — and pushed me to my knees. By the time I hit the floor, which was covered in the remnants of my hair, I’d already undone his pants and pulled them down his legs. I smiled when I saw he was as smooth around the balls as he was on his head and I wasted no time in squeezing my oiled head between his thighs. My head nuzzled his privates before I brought my mouth to his cock.

“Oh, pet,” he sighed, running his hands over my bald head. “You have so much more to learn.”

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