whynotshaveme
I let me tell you the story of how I lost my beauty, along with everything else, to the service of my humiliation fetish. Ever since I was a child, I loved the feeling of flushed cheeks and downcast eyes as I was being shamed. When I, like all children, discovered what happened when you rub sensitive flesh, I would often indulge myself after an embarrassing experience. Like when I wet myself in the fifth grade on a roller coaster. It took access to “adult literature” in my teens for me to realize that I had a humiliation fetish. Obviously, teenagers aren’t equipped for that level of sexual experimentation so I never dated in high school. Though I did have a crush on a girl named Samantha. Technically, Samantha, a tall softball player with a bleached blonde pixie cut, was my bully. Man, she hated everything about me, especially my long black hair.
“Bitch,” she would often yell, brandishing safety scissors at me, “I’m going to shave your head one day.”
At night, I would touch myself to the fantasy of her holding me down and using those horrible scissors to crop me close and then bringing me to a barbershop afterwards to be shaved smooth. In between, I’d have to walk around like a butchered doll. Mocked by all our classmates, and even the teachers, for what happened to my formerly waist-length hair. Honestly, if I wasn’t a teenager, under the roof of protective and religious parents, I would have handed her the scissors myself and then knelt down before her to receive my desired humiliation. But, at last, I could only fantasize at that age.
Well, sometimes, my friends, fantasies come true. At 22, a new graduate with a great job in the city, I came home for Christmas. Needing to escape my family, I went for a walk down Main Street. When I passed by the old barbershop, I stopped, surprised by who I saw in the window. It was Samantha. She looked amazing. Still tall. Still mean. But with her bleached blonde hair was now cut into a severe flattop. When she noticing me watching her, she waved me inside.
“I thought that was you, bitch. Look at you. Still so pretty. With that same long black hair. Have you even cut your hair since we graduated? Heard about your new job from your parents. Haughty and proud people just like you,” she snarled at me.
My nipples hardened beneath my sweater. “Yes, Ms. Samantha, haughty and proud.”
“I once promised to shave your head when we were in high school,” she said, noticing my hard nipples and starting to massage them with her thumbs, “It was a longtime fantasy of mine.”
Unable to meet her eyes, I told her, with my cheeks flushed, that I too fantasized about her shaving my head.
“Then get in the chair, bitch.”
I sat in the barber’s chair closest to the window. Samantha kissed my cheek and then caped me. That cape felt as heavy as lead. Once it was secured around my neck, I don’t think that I could have stood up again. Even if I wanted to. Samantha didn’t bother brushing my hair. No, she just picked up a pair of scissors and started hacking at it.
Sounding giddy as my hair started to fall to the ground, forming inky black pools around the chair, Samantha told me, “Oh, my God, I can’t believe that you’re just letting me do this. Look at you, you stupid bitch. You’re going to leave this chair bald as a cueball.”
Samantha only stopped cutting once the bulk of my hair was off and on the ground. Clearly aroused, she gave me a kiss, which stoked my own obvious arousal.
“After,” she said, “after.”
She gave my ragged cropped head a satisfied rub before she picked up the clippers. With one hand on the back of my neck, she ran them through the center of my head. That’s when I started to tear up. With each swipe of the clippers, she revealed more and more of my unfortunately big head and big ears. Once she finished buzzing my head, she paused for a moment. Then she swiped off my eyebrows.
“If we’re going to take off your hair,” she said, wrapping a warm towel around my head, “then we should take it all.”
After the towel sat on my head for a few minutes, softening my scalp for the coming razor, she removed it. Then she lathered me up with a fluffy white shaving cream. My scalp and where my brows were. As she shaved me with a straight razor, I watched, as still as a statute, despite the tears still running down my face. When she finally finished shaving me, she rubbed my towel with a soft white towel and then patted my scalp with a stinging aftershave.
She ran her long red nails down my bald scalp. “What an ugly thing you are without your hair.”
“Yes, Mistress Samantha,” I said, moaning at the feeling of those nails on my newly exposed scalp, with all its nerves, “I am nothing without my hair. Thank you for showing me this. Is there anything that I can do to thank you?”
“Yes, cueball.”
We’ve been married for over a decade now. Of course, when I showed up at my family’s house with a bald head and no eyebrows, they freaked out. Ignoring them, I packed my bags and went to Samantha’s place. We were married the next day at town hall. After the ceremony, I quit my job via email and arranged for my lease to be terminated and all my possessions sold. According to Samantha, I wouldn’t need anything fancy as her wife. She then took me to Walmart to buy me a new wardrobe in size 12. I was a size 6 then. When she said, firmly, I’ll grow into them, I moaned. And, after a year of being fed a fattening flavorless mush for three times a day, I did. She also kept me bald. Every day, before Samantha went to her shop, she would lather me up and shave me with a BIC. Then she’d leave me to clean her home and cook her food, which I wasn’t allowed to eat, until she came home to take her pleasure from me, her fat, bald slave wife.
