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She entered the suite knowing only what would result from this day. But not how. And that was even scarier. This odd sensation, racing between terror and erotic thrill bounced around her stomach, almost making her lightheaded.

She had fantasized about this day so often; just a few images made her wet. But now that it was here — now that it was real — not cyber fantasy, her fear threatened to rule her.

She thought back. It started in her kitchen. He knew she was a sub. And she’d heard about his interest, though she didn’t understand it.

“So, you like to cut women’s hair?” she teased, her tongue loosened by the red wine.

She was leaning against the counter. He was sitting at the table and he slowly rose, walked to her and ran his hand through her thick, shoulder-length hair, stopping only when he’d grabbed a fistful at her crown. Then he pulled, firmly. Hard.

In that instance, she felt the charge to her core.

“Yes,” he said. “I do.”

“How would you cut mine?” she teased.

“Shorter,” he said. “Just shorter.”

Over the days that followed he sent her story after story as well as some pictures. She read them, finding herself surprised by her reaction. She’d never thought of a haircut as sensual, as sexual. And she certainly didn’t think it was an act of submission. But clearly, it was.

And the more she thought about being in that chair, being unable to control her fate, the more it turned her on. One night online he laid out a scenario for her. As he started spinning his tale in line after line on the flickering screen before her in the dark, she roused. Within minutes, she was soaked, her hairy pussy begging for a quick touch and release.

She could have lied; she could have claimed to be as frigid as Martha Stewart in a McDonald’s, but she was too far gone, too far into a fantasy so seductive she wanted it to be real.

Today, she would step across the borderline between fantasy and reality.

Of course, it took some doing. But it was worth the effort, worth the chance, for the adventure.

He locked the hotel door behind them.

A dozen white roses sat in a cut-glass vase on the end table. Next to them was a hat box, a large hat box.

As she headed for the couch to sit down, he intercepted her with a kiss on the cheek.

He pulled her hair. Hard. Then released it.

He sat down on the couch.

“Very good,” he said, eyeing her short dress.

“Now remove it.”

She stripped, dropping the dress and her bra at her feet. No panties, of course.

Her bush had been neatly trimmed.

Then he walked to the vase of roses, plucked one carefully and dipped the bud end in a pitcher of ice water. He embraced her, enveloping her. She felt him lift the thick, blonde hair on her nape and trace the icy rose from there down between her shoulders. He pulled her tighter to him, the flower, as shocking cold as any whip, followed her spine and traced the soft curve of her right cheek then slid up and over to the other side. A thorn raked the soft skin of her ass. He stopped, bent down and sucked away a drop of blood.

He pulled the rose back, iced it again and this time started on her side, following her rib cage down the angle of her hip to her thigh. Then he traced the rose up the other side, bending over to bite first one nipple then the other as he did. She knew to not move, to not even shift her weight. He ran it down to her triangle, along the thin line of hair emphasizing her lips. Then he stopped.

She realized the symbolism of the roses. How many times over the years had men impressed by her stunning looks favored her with a dozen? How many times had she relied not on her intellect, her wit, her imagination, but the genetic wheel of fortune that had given her a lusty body and head-turning hair? How shallow a gift had those roses been? How ironic they now heralded her transformation.

“Come,” he said, pulling her by the hair, almost dragging her from the room into a larger one, the center of the suite.

At one end of the expansive room, framed by flowers, was a straight-backed metal chair with floating arms. To the side of one sat a tray on legs with the equipment. In a sight line from that chair, the roses in the vase had been moved atop a dresser. On the other side was an examining table with stirrups in place.

He walked her over the chair, its metal cold to the touch. She felt a chill as she stood there and watched him walk over to the dresser and lift the big hat box she’d seen earlier to reveal a wig on a head stand, a wig exactly in her color and length. Was it there just to remind her that there were no boundaries?

He came back to her, ran a finger along her cheek and smiled. Cocky. Masterful. She’d imagined that smile even before she saw it; there was just something in his attitude.

He ran a finger from under her hairline down her spine and over her ass. Tender. Soft. Just the right pressure. She relaxed, grew aroused. Her nipples hardened. And then Master Barber stepped away.

Taking a brush, he stroked her locks, bringing them down in front of her eyes as she leaned over the chair. After several minutes, her hair was tangle-free, soft. Her arms ached.

She turned to face him and he offered a gentle kiss on the lips, guiding her over to the examining table and helping her up, then placing her ankles in the stirrups. Exposed. Vulnerable.

His hand stroked her hair, then reached down to rub her hairy mound. She arched back, leaning into the soft leather of the table, feeling it cool on her skin.

He smiled, looking down at her. Then he picked up the small gray clippers. Click. Hum. He stepped between the stirrups and held the clippers firmly against the inside of her left thigh, the vibrations coursing up her leg and to her center. Then he began a grand tease, running them over bare skin, watching to see if she’d squirm.

Just when she was about to be exasperated by the hesitation, she felt them on her mound, then heard the quick rasp as they nibbled at her curls.

He made another pass, holding this time just above her lips. Vibrating. Buzzing. Soft electric waves teasing. As he finished the last pass, he let the clippers linger for minutes…slowly building in intensity.

Then he stepped back and pused. The next thing she felt was an icy cold rose shocking her shaven mound. Then a finger. Then the clippers. Again. Lingering. Her hips began thrusting. Finally, he pulled the clippers away.

He shoved two fingers inside her. She gushed.

Later, he would break out the lather and blade for an especially smooth finish rewarded with a slow tonguing. But that was later.

Now, she was mellow, laying there, staring at the ceiling, letting the last waves of her orgasm wash over her.

He allowed her to get a breath. Then he helped her unsteadily to her feet and into the metal chair.

With her in the chair, he ran his hands through her thick hair, massaging the back of her neck gently.

He picked up a brush from the tray and ran it through her hair, stroke after stroke, offering a moment of gentle relief in a sensory marathon.

She leaned back into the strokes of the brush, followed by his hand, closing her eyes. Her hands relaxed on the chair’s arms.

Finally, he finished and stepped in front of her, his eyes smiling.

He made sure her hands were taut to the arms of the chair. No need for ties. She knew better than to move. Then, because the arms floated, he was able to move her knees apart, positioning her feet so her toes pointed drastically outward, showing her smooth, shaven pussy to everyone.

He pointed to the tray and she realized what he meant. She reached for the small gray clippers she’d first seen months ago. He slapped her wrist, pointing to a much larger, red pair of clippers next to them.

“Attach the blade,” he whispered to her, nodding to a series of three on the tray marked “crew,” “buzz” and “shave.” She grabbed the “buzz” and fumbled with it, eventually his hands cov
ered hers and helped with the final adjustment as the blade clicked into place.

“Turn them on,” he said loudly.

She looked at him, eyes wide and pleading. They were eyes that so often got what she wanted merely by seeming vulnerable, by offering her beauty in exchange. It had always been too easy, too sure. Now, those eyes and her beauty only met his cold resolution.

“Turn them on,” he said more forcefully.

She felt her fingers move without her brain’s consent. CLICK. The buzz was much louder, the vibration in her hands went straight to her soaked pussy, awakening it again. Her nipples swelled. He kissed her ear, then her nape.

Then he held out his hand. Meekly, she proffered the buzzing clippers.

She heard them behind her ears, wavering. Another long pause.

The sound changed in pitch.

“Bow your head,” he said.

She froze.

His fist balled up her hair, her long, thick hair and pulled from behind. Hard. Her head bowed.

She felt the vibration. The warmth. The coolness. A flash of color tumbled by her right eye, curling on her breast briefly, then slithering down over her thigh.

There was another pass. And one more. Vibration. Warmth. Coolness. Hair falling, collecting on her bare thighs.

Then a pause. He reached around lifting her chin. With his right hand, he held the clippers just above eye level. Pausing.

Then the clippers bit into her hair cutting a swath down the middle, her thick blondness falling to either side, tickling her shoulders, curling around her hard nipples. He went all the way from front to back without pause.

“Shorter. Just shorter,” he said.

With the third pass of the clippers followed by his stroking hand, she came. Again. In spastic gasps, her slickness cool on the metal seat of the chair.

Spent, she smiled. She’d dared. And she’d been rewarded.

With the clippers off, the room fell silent. He stepped in front of her and swished a horsehair brush over every inch of her body, starting with her face, moving to her shoulders, then her breasts and thighs, swishing away the fluffy dry curls of hair. It was relaxing, terribly sensual. She recharged as her body was massaged, cleaned of the ticklish hairs.

After a pause, he plucked an icy rose from the vase and bent over the chair. His first kiss was behind her left ear. Then her cheek. Then her lips. Then the rose stroked the hairline of her nape, a vitally different sensation than the one just hours ago when he’d lifted her hair to make the same motion.

He stroked her, cared for her, embraced her physically and emotionally for long minutes. His tongue came back again and again to her bristled nape.

Later, he would run a hot bath and sponge her from buzzed head to toe.

Then he would give her a stunning black cocktail dress. Bareheaded, he would escort her to the best restaurant in the city, where they would toast life’s daring adventures.

Everyone would stare at her. They were stares unlike any she’d felt. Because they didn’t admire the shallow outside. No, those stares admired the daring inside, something far more seductive than mere looks.

Unbound, her passion made her ever more beautiful. And ever more eager. She squirmed all through dinner and drinks, eager to get back to the hotel and feel his hands on her head, his tongue on her napeâ?¦and beyond.


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