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Sitting alone as her stylist, Sue, took the call by the reception desk, Gina allowed herself to enjoy the cool feeling of silk on bare shoulders. She didn’t have the courage to take off her bra when she donned the smock. Still, her nipples were hard, had been hard, since she walked in the door. And her center had been growing ever more wet and wobbly as the morning passed.

Her feet were spread, not crossed, propped firmly on the footrest. And the vinyl chair was cool on her bottom, even if she didn’t have the courage to go without her panties, as a good sub would. But they knew her here. She couldn’t, just couldn’t. Not this time. Besides, she was just exploring, just touching a trembling finger in the pool of this submerged desire.

Some things she could still hold at arm’s length. Not exactly in denial, but safely out of reach and out of mind often enough. But now she eyed Sue’s clippers, sitting haphazardly on the shelf. They were just below the mirror so there were stereo images of them, a double tease. Just out of her grasp. But there. So close. 

She had begun to fantasize about a pair of clippers and a pair of firm hands more and more. Was she any closer to them? Metaphorically? Yes. Really? She didn’t permit herself an answer.

She did permit herself the fantasies. They were gauzy tapestries, far away from the violent reality that gave them birth. Vague, impressionistic. The truth was she’d never seen a pair of clippers work. Not in that way, at least. She chuckled and remembered his admonition to rent that otherwise forgettable Demi Moore film next week, sit naked alone and watch the pivotal scene. That scene. Cinematic reality.

No, she’d never dared tag along with a lover or peer too intently into a barbershop to watch the dance of the clippers. Couldn’t take a chance. The ruling passion conquers. And she could never give her fantasy a chance to escape into the air and push her forward, a ruler she would unleash, but could not control. After all, she’d realized that was one reason her fantasy always involved being a sub. She didn’t want to admit that it would be her choice. She wanted it to be his choice, his demand. Well, at least that’s how she could rationalize it. 

Now, though, the clippers were right there, teasing as much as any lover she’d known. Black. Polished. Calling. But coy. How many mornings and afternoons and nights had she imagined their touch, a buzzing wind peeling away her protection, stripping her private passion and making it public. The unveiling promised such sweetness, the stuff of life. But what costs!

She leaned forward self consciously, wet, cool, hair swishing her cheeks as she did. She glanced to the side furtively. No Sue. Trembling, haltingly she lifted her hand from the arm and reached for them. Her fingers curled around the hard plastic shell and she lifted them from the shelf, bringing them near. Heavier, more solid than expected. 

A flood of images and sounds. Fear. Thrall. Utter, quivering soulful nakedness.

Lost in the reverie, she did it. She pushed her thumb against the button and as it swung open with a rush she heard a startling click. And then a hypnotic, yet somehow calming hum. The soft vibration traveled from her fingertips to her lips then down her breasts to electrified nipples before lodging at her glistening center. 

All else faded away, but the sound, the touch and a flurry of one erotic image after another. Time passed.

Head bowed, staring at the clippers resting in her hand on her lap, she suddenly felt a firm hand move up her nape, burrowing under her wet hair.

She turned to look up into smiling blue eyes. His hand curled around the hair on her nape and pulled. Just hard enough.

“Hello,” he said, “I’ll take control now.”

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