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Note:  A Femdomme / male sub haircutting story

We had a couple of days off and decided to head to the country for the break.  There we were, in this pretty, little rural town having lunch and chatting about this, that and the other when out of the blue, my wife piped up with, `I think you need a change of appearance’.  There was that inevitable hint of mischief in her eyes, the one I knew so well.  `Here we go.she’s got something serious in mind for me’, I thought a little nervously.  

`Take a look across the road, next to the bookshop’.  I turned around and there it was, a barbershop.  The barber was a woman, standing over a male customer and running a set of clippers up his neck.  

I turned back and said, `But Robby, it’s only been four weeks.  It’s just at that length now where we both like the look.  You’ve said it yourself, you think.’  

`Shush Little One, you know I can’t resist some fun.  And some uncomfortableness on your behalf.’  She chuckled.  I sighed.  It was `that’ time again.  I leaned in towards her so no one else could hear me and answered softly, `Yes Mistress’.  

`That’s better.  Hurray up with your coffee so we can get up close and personal with that lady’s set of clippers’.  

This is the sort of stuff you get, when you get what you wished for, when you reach your very own Nirvana.  That place where a clever, cluey Domme succors your submissiveness.  So when the time arrives, you do as your told.  `But it’s what you’ve always wanted, isn’t it?’ as she was apt to respond if I ever questioned her Domme intentions.  Having taken all my kinks, all my fetishes, and made them her own, they were now hers to play with, at her leisure and pleasure.  

Very early in our relationship, I’d handed her the thing I have about haircuts at the hands of women.  So here we were, about to tumble once more into one of my fetishes, for `mutual’ pleasure.  Except in the case of haircuts, my `pleasure’ is always laced with awkward, uncomfortable feelings.  I really do hate having my haircut.but I love having my haircut..but I hate it.but I love it..on and on, contradictions flowing, my childhood responses still bearing fruit thirty or so years later.

We finished our coffees and made our way across the road, each step placing me more and more into sub mode.  Because that’s what’s expected in these circumstances.  My thoughts started raced away, `God, I hope it’s not a head shave, I hate that look.’.  She must have been reading my mind.  `Will it be that all-over clean look, or will I just ask for a No.1?  Or maybe we’ll go the hup-hup-hup marine-boy look this time?’  She burst out laughing.  Mischievous Mistress Mode I call it.  When she’s fuelled and high-flying, there’s simply no stepping back from it.  We reached the door of the shop and I opened it for her to go through first.  `Shit, here we go’, my thoughts a tumble of emotions.

`Hi’ said Mistress as we made our way into the shop.  The barber, a tall, lithe middle- aged woman with black hair cut in a long bob, had just undone the cape of the man in the chair and was lathering his neck in preparation for her razor blade.  She wore well-cut black trousers and a ribbed purple turtleneck.  `Hello, I’m a little busy but I should be with you in about half an hour’.  `That’s fine, there’s no hurry, we’re on holidays, we’ve got plenty of time’, said Mistress with a smile.  `Great.  Well have a seat’.   I may as well have not been there, for all the talk directed my way.  

We sat down along the red vinyl bench seat, Mistress next to a mother and her two sons aged around 10 and 12, and me next to the magazine pile.  

`Isn’t this just lovely?’ whispered Mistress impishly as she reached past me to pick up a well-thumbed copy of National Geographic.  As I turned to reach for a magazine Mistress squeezed my other hand and leaned in closely.  `You just have to soak it all in this time’.  I sighed.  No reading; one of her little rules for such occasions.  So, no means of distracting myself from what was soon to follow; I was left to dwell inside my head, soaking in the love / hate ambience of this space.  In this predicament I never quite knew what to do with my gaze, whether to look at the barber plying her trade, stare out the window or peer at the floor and discover things like magical patterns in worn linoleum.  

The barber finished with the man in the chair in about five minutes and then it was the turn of the 10 year old.  She placed a small block of wood on the chair and the boy climbed into place.  As the barber put the cape around him, his mother simply said, `The usual thanks Angela”.  “Of course, Mrs. Welch”.  With that Angela picked up a set of black and chrome clippers, changed a guard on them, moved behind the boy, pushed his head forward with one hand and turned them on.  Mistress took hold of my hand, squeezed it and then held it firmly, her thumb placed strategically over my wrist; she wanted to enjoy the physicality of the racing sensations of my pulse.  

The boy was given a Number 2 all over, with a straight blunt neckline at the back.  In ten minutes it was all over and then it was the turn of the other boy.  Same cut, same drill.  I sensed that Mistress might derive a lot of pleasure by sending me forward with,  `Same as the other two thanks, Angela’.  That theme would definitely appeal to her.  It’d be humbling to be treated like that..but certainly better than being left with a head looking like a polished bowling ball.

Angela bade goodbye to the boys and their mother and turned to face us.  With that I got up and made my way towards the old-fashioned steel and leather-cushioned barbers chair.  We caught each others gaze in the mirror and as I sat down she said, `So, what’s it today?’  With that Mistress promptly said, `I love it cut very short’.  

Angela looked over at Mistress, cocked her head slightly and said with a smile, `Oh I see.  Well, how do you want it cut this time, dear?’  In the mirror I watched Mistress get up and move behind me.  `He hasn’t had his head shaved for ages.  I love a man with a shiny dome.  Are you able to shave it for me today?  Would that be okay?’  `Of course dear.’  `Oh fantastic.’ said Mistress as she squeezed my shoulders, `.isn’t that great Chris?’  My mouth was bone dry and I had to swallow a couple of times before I could respond.  `Yeah, sure dear, whatever style makes you happy’.  I cringed a little as the words came out but managed to force a half smile out for Mistress.  

A huge part of me wanted to bolt out the chair but of course I just sat there dumbly watching Angela in the mirror as she placed a blood red cape over me, then tore off a length of tissue paper and placed it around my neckline.  `I don’t get to do many headshaves.  I’ve always enjoyed doing them, but there are just never enough men, or their `better halves’.’ she said this with a smile, `.that want them out this neck of the woods’.  `Well, perhaps we should visit this pretty little place more often, it’s so beautiful, and you could shave his head to your hearts content every time’.  With that they both laughed.  I felt like sinking in to the chair – it would be just like her to arrange another holiday up this way before too long.   &nb

`I’d better get on with it, I have a customer due here on the hour’.  With that Angela moved over to the laminex counter in front of the chair and picked up her clippers.  Mistress went back to the bench and strategically placed her self in a position whereby I couldn’t avoid her gaze reflected back at me.

Angela went behind me and turned the clippers on; I grew hard instantly, without even thinking about it.  I’d already felt the wetness between my legs.  I knew Mistress would be moist too; power `games’ have a habit of doing that for her.        

Angela went to work cropping me down to a No.1, then removed the guard and ran the clippers over my scalp once more.  Once done, she lathered the shorn stubble with shaving cream and finished the job off with a razor.  The whole time I just sat there passively, observing and absorbing my fate, knowing I had no choice but to let her words or hand direct my head this way or that way.  I was weighted down, unable to escape or protest, yet my constant hardness acted as a reminder of my ambivalence to the whole experience.  And every time I looked in the mirror, there was Mistress’ knowing grin, coming back at me.  Clever Mistress, cluey Mistress.

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