Mrs Gunter, the Barber for Awkward People, Coerces Claudia

Prologue

Claudia Thorne was a name synonymous with ruthless efficiency and unshakeable control in the corporate world. Only thirty-two years old, I had been one of the country’s top businesspeople for the past five years, cultivating an image of impenetrable professionalism. Yet, beneath the perfectly tailored suits and designer dresses, always exuding a demeanour of cool authority, lay a guilty secret that had festered since childhood. It had begun as a profound phobia of hairdressers, but it had slowly twisted into something far more complex.

My parents, bless their tolerant hearts, had simply let my hair grow to avoid the inevitable tantrums in the salon. For years, my mother constrained my thigh-length mane in two long plaits, for neatness and control. A ponytail or a single braid took over as I grew older. Then, as I entered my twenties and embraced my professional life, I coiled it into variations of an elegant bun. Neatly out of the way, it shielded me from considering any drastic change of style and the inner turmoil that would bring.

However, all the while, I battled an increasingly unsettling realisation. My fear was not just a phobia but a strange, burgeoning fetish. I watched videos of women having their long hair dramatically chopped off, observing their look of shock or surrender. They stirred something deep and unsettling within me, a morbid flicker of arousal.

I mused, in the quiet corners of my mind, that I might want someone to coerce me into having my glorious long locks cut short. The irony was almost laughable. With my self-assured, dominant nature in business, no one ever forced me to do anything. I was the one doing the persuading, the leading, the dominating.

Naturally, this strange quirk, this private perversion, was a secret I guarded with the ferocity of a dragon. And no one could ever know.

Jason

Life, however, has a funny way of challenging our most rigid defences. Occasionally, my work required me to stay away from home, sometimes alone, sometimes with colleagues. It was during one such occasion, after a valued client raised an urgent computer issue. Benefiting from my personal intervention, I found myself paired with Jason Heron, my company’s top IT geek.

Jason was a quiet and pleasant man who was knowledgeable, competent, and dependable but nondescript. His appearance was smart but dreary, often looking creased around the edges. And the dull and unstylish ties worn with garish checked shirts always looked as if they were strangling him. What truly irritated me, though, was his hair. Prematurely thinning, it was longish and plastered to his head using a kind of greasy product. He was still relatively young, but the desperate, ageing combover did him no favours at all. I often fought the urge to simply say, ‘For God’s sake, man, chop the whole lot off and be done with it!’

So, when we met in the opulent bar of a five-star hotel the night before the crucial client meeting, I was genuinely astonished. I had not seen him for a while, and his transformation was so profound it was almost laughable. He stood there, radiating an unexpected confidence, dressed in a stylish, well-fitted suit, a crisp pastel shirt, and a gleaming, perfectly bald head. It shone, polished and smooth, as if no hair had ever dared to grace his scalp. A similar age to me, he looked years younger – vibrant and modern – certainly younger than me with my hair in its classic, immovable bun.

‘Jason,’ I exclaimed, a genuine smile breaking through my professional mask as we sat down for our pre-dinner drinks. ‘You’ve shaved your head,’ I said needlessly, ‘and it really suits you!’ I gushed.

He flushed a deep crimson, thanking me, bashful as ever. ‘Yes, Ma’am. I… I finally got around to it.’

He had piqued my curiosity, a rare sensation for me with my junior staff. I wanted to know why he did it and, more importantly, how he had plucked up the courage after battling the comb-over for so long. He attempted to deflect my questions with embarrassed shrugs and mumbled excuses. But, as his boss, he was unable to easily put me off.

While the dinner itself was excellent and we chatted about work-related matters and other subjects, the sight of his bare scalp was a constant distraction.

After the meal, I made a calculated decision. ‘Jason,’ I said, rising from the table, ‘why don’t you join me in my suite upstairs? There are matters I would like to go over with you before tomorrow’s meeting.’

He looked unsure, even a little unnerved, but he could not very well deny his boss. Once in my suite, I poured us each a generous nightcap, a fine Scotch, to relax him and loosen his tongue.

While I allowed the rich, amber liquid to work its magic on him, I excused myself for a moment. Stepping into the adjoining dressing area, I dismantled my immaculate bun. Pin by pin, the coiled weight gave way, and my knee-length hair tumbled down my back, a dark, lustrous curtain. No staff member, no colleague, had ever seen my hair loose. It was an intimate unveiling, a calculated move to elicit a reaction.

When I re-entered the room, the effect on Jason was palpable. His eyes widened, his jaw slackened, and he stammered, ‘Ma’am… your hair… it is magnificent. So incredibly long, and… wonderfully lustrous.’

‘Thank you, Jason,’ I purred, an unfamiliar gentle tone conveyed by my voice. ‘Would you like to touch it?’

It was an invitation I had never extended to anyone. He hesitated. Then, with a slow, almost reverent movement, he reached out. His fingers, initially tentative, then grew bolder, caressing my silken strands. It hung, heavy and luxuriant, cascading over his hand. A pleasurable shiver traced its way down my spine.

Taking advantage of his entrancement and proximity, I reached out myself, my fingers finding his newly shorn scalp. It was unexpectedly smooth, like glass, cool to the touch, and surprisingly firm. A sharp contrast to the wild abundance of my own hair.

He flinched at my gentle touch, pulling back abruptly, and in his haste, one of his cufflinks caught in a tangle of my hair. With him restrained awkwardly, I continued to explore his scalp, feeling the impossible smoothness, marvelling at the curve of his skull. In that moment, a peculiar and unexpected intimacy blossomed in the luxurious hotel room.

‘So, Jason,’ I pressed gently, my voice a soft murmur, ‘why the radical change? What convinced you to shave it all off?’

He finally yielded. ‘Not “what” but “who”,’ he stated enigmatically. ‘I had hated the constant battle with my thinning hair and the pitiful looks I got, especially from women… even you,’ he spat, but, given his accuracy, I let his outburst pass. ‘I had wanted to do something about it for years, but I never had the confidence to seek advice from a regular hairdresser. They always just combed it carefully into place and trimmed it as best they could, never suggesting anything else. They were useless.’

Given my, admittedly limited, experience with hairdressers, I could sympathise. Nodding, I urged, ‘Go on.’

He took a deep breath. ‘I learnt of this woman… a home hairdresser, known as Mrs Gunter. She is renowned for solving people’s awkward hair issues. Mrs Gunter offers a consultation… well, therapy, I suppose you could call it… to discover the underlying cause of the issues. She analyses her findings and discusses the person’s desired outcome before performing what is necessary with the hair.’

I found his words and phrasing peculiar, almost unnerving, as if he were echoing the thoughts of someone else. Was she a hairdresser, a therapist, or something else entirely?

However, overriding those concerns, a dangerous, thrilling thought began to crystallise in my mind. Could Mrs Gunter be what I needed? Obviously not to shave my head or anything too drastic. But a way to finally overcome my phobia of salons and hairdressers and get a shorter, more fashionable style. Something to help me break free from the bun.

‘Jason,’ I said, my voice suddenly steely, ‘I need her contact details.’ I was not asking. I was commanding.

He looked horrified, taking a large gulp of single malt from his glass that I had generously just topped up. ‘Ma’am, no! Your hair is far too lovely to cut! It is… well, it is breathtaking.’

The second drink was clearly doing its work, emboldening him. He leaned closer, a little too close for a junior member of staff. And his eyes, usually so diffident, were suddenly intense. ‘I would love to just… envelope myself in your glorious hair. Lose myself in its glossy length…’

It was an intriguing, even intoxicating, notion. But alarm bells rang. This was an employee, and he was crossing a line, even if I had been the one to blur the edges. However, I admitted to myself that while he found enjoyment with my long hair, I would have relished a night fondling his smooth dome.

I pulled back slightly, and, fortunately, he understood my subtle hint and jumped to his feet. ‘Sorry, Ma’am, I need to go. Check the server status, bandwidth, redundancy… and all that. Ahead of tomorrow’s meeting. You understand, I am sure?’

I did not understand him one bit, but I let it pass. He simply nodded as, clearly flustered, he marched briskly to the exit of my suite.

Before opening the door, he turned, looking worried. ‘Please, Ma’am, avoid Mrs Gunter,’ he beseeched me, a desperate glint in his eyes. ‘She is, er… she is very, er, forceful… unnecessarily so…’

As he hurried from my suite, I scoffed at the thought of obeying an employee’s dull pleading. Or accepting his concern that I would not be able to communicate with a sensible-sounding hairdresser who may be the answer to my lifelong phobia.

The moment the door closed, I pulled out my phone and sent a secure message to Mrs Gunter, using the contact details Jason had, under duress, provided.

Her reply was swift, almost immediate. ‘I have a variety of suitable methods of conditioning,’ she claimed, her words confusing, ‘guaranteeing to achieve whatever is necessary to rectify any situation.’

Her assertion was chillingly vague but also deeply alluring.

She emphasised that her services did not come cheaply. ‘Money is not a problem, Mrs Gunter,’ I typed back, without hesitation. ‘I look forward to meeting you at my penthouse apartment when I return from my current business trip.’

My curiosity, now laced with a potent mix of anticipation, had led to a thrilling sense of danger taking hold of my emotions.

Mrs Gunter

Two days later, Mrs Gunter arrived at my home, carrying a surprisingly large, leather suitcase. A smiling, pleasant older woman, she wore a long black coat, her dark hair gently framing her face in a side-parted shoulder-length bob. I was unsure what I had expected, but her relaxed and mild appearance immediately put me at my ease.

However, my feeling of calm quickly evaporated after I had invited her inside, as, standing sheepishly behind her, was Jason Heron. Naturally, my eyes rested on his bald head, gleaming under the hallway lights as if it had been freshly polished.

‘Jason?’ I murmured, confused. ‘What on earth are you doing here?’ I demanded, my imperious tone returning. I even raised an arm, index finger outstretched, signalling him to leave.

Mrs Gunter’s smile widened, her eyes crinkling at the corners, as she bustled past me. ‘Ah, Miss Thorne. For their wellbeing, I always expect my past clients to assist me when conditioning new patrons.’

‘Conditioning?’ I questioned, wondering if the sum of her services was a treatment to maintain the shine of my hair. Such a strange choice of words, and I stiffened when Mrs Gunter completely ignored my need for clarification.

‘Yes, indeed. When I was conditioning Jason, he very much enjoyed Sophie, a delightful bald young lady, assisting me,’ she smirked. She delivered the name like a perfectly aimed dart. ‘Didn’t you, Jason?’

Jason’s face went bright red, a vivid splash of crimson on his pale face, threatening to rise higher and colour his pale scalp. ‘Yes, Mrs Gunter,’ he mumbled, the memory of Sophie attending to him clearly leaving him mortified.

Mrs Gunter swept into my apartment as if she owned it. She placed her heavy case on my expensive polished oak dining table with a thud that echoed ominously, hopefully causing no damage.

‘Jason, make tea for two, for Miss Thorne and me,’ Mrs Gunter calmly ordered. Obediently, he sloped off and did so while she went on to elaborate on her methods but managed not to disclose any detail. She also listened to my unsettling experiences and deep-seated concerns from the previous thirty-two years that had culminated with her sharing tea in my apartment.

Taking a sip from her cup, Mrs Gunter concluded her analysis. ‘With “younger people”,’ she said, ‘conversation was often sufficient to achieve a mutually agreeable way forward. ‘But with older people, such as yourself,’ she added, dismissing my age with a wave of her hand, ‘ideas often become stubbornly ingrained,’ she tutted, causing a chill to go right through me. ‘With you, we will need to use stronger methods,’ she declared proudly, draining her teacup and remaining frustratingly vague about the specifics.

Although it was a thorough consultation, she divulged nothing concrete about her actual techniques. Jason, silent throughout, was sitting awkwardly on the edge of a chair, looking unnervingly worried.

However, I was in too deep, too intrigued, too powerfully drawn by the promise of finally conquering my deep-seated phobia and indulging my secret desire. So, when she presented an elaborate consent form full of legal jargon, I signed it without a second thought.

‘Excellent, Miss Thorne,’ she said glibly, sliding the form back into her case. ‘Then we may begin.’

‘Mrs Gunter, I am still not entirely comfortable with my employee’s presence,’ I stressed, trying to assert a semblance of control over the proceedings.

She gave me a pointed, chilling look. ‘Miss Thorne,’ she said, her voice dropping to a low, firm register, ‘your comfort is of no significance here.’ The words hit me like a physical blow, stripping away my impregnable corporate armour. My heart began to pound, a frantic drum against my ribs, but strangely, a thrill shot through me. This was it. This was the push.

‘Go to your room, Missy,’ she commanded, employing an unsettling diminutive, loaded with intent. Her voice suddenly devoid of its earlier pleasantness, she made an unambiguous demand. ‘And completely remove all your clothes.’

Missy

My breath hitched. My mind reeled. Why did she want me naked?

The professional businessperson inside me wanted to scream out in protest. But another part of me, the part that had watched those videos, felt a jolt of electrifying anticipation. A blush, unfamiliar and unwelcome, crept up my neck.

I recalled the women in those videos succumbing to the will of others, secretly craving the same. But had I genuinely wanted stripping bare, not just in my mind, but literally?

I briefly hesitated, but Mrs Gunter’s command was absolute. Without a word, I turned and obeyed, retiring to my bedroom.

When I returned, clad only in my skin, a profound transformation had occurred in the living room. Mrs Gunter’s long black coat was gone. In its place, she wore a laced leather corset that cinched her waist impossibly tight, pressing her cone-like breasts upwards and leaving her shoulders bare. An extremely short leather skirt and thigh-length leather boots completed her outfit. Her hair, previously in a soft shoulder-length style, she had scraped back from her face and secured in a short ponytail. Her expression was no longer pleasantly firm but utterly intimidating, radiating an aura of absolute dominance.

Jason, too, had changed. He wore impossibly tight black leather shorts, paired with a sleek black silk shirt, his bald scalp gleaming starkly in contrast to the dark fabric. He looked less like my mild-mannered IT geek and more like a tough and formidable club bouncer.

Jason, standing in the centre of the room with a grim resignation, held open a large paper bag that Mrs Gunter had taken from her case. ‘Change into those, Missy,’ she demanded. ‘Jason will assist you if you wish,’ she smirked.

I took out a tartan skirt that comprised so little material that I needed no help at all. Once I had squeezed into it, I could see it was ridiculously short and made of a cheap, scratchy material. I stuffed myself into a thin white blouse but struggled to fasten the buttons, sensing it must have been at least one size too tight.

‘Breathe in,’ Mrs Gunter demanded. Motioning towards Jason, he immediately stepped forward to button me up.

‘Sorry, Ma’am,’ he apologised quietly each time his clumsy fingers awkwardly slipped. He looked mortified, as was I, when the thin material strained across my breasts and he accidentally brushed one of my erect nipples. ‘Oh,’ he whined, unable to look me in the eyes, quickly moving away.

‘This outfit makes me feel like a child,’ I protested, the words coming out as a breathless whisper.

‘Precisely, Missy,’ Mrs Gunter stated, her voice sharp and uncompromising. ‘It is part of the therapy. Regressing you back in time so we can identify and eliminate your phobia. It is a necessity.’

Necessity. A word she had, and would, repeat frequently, stamping its authority on every subsequent action. My body, though, was already starting to respond to the humiliation, the forced vulnerability. A strange heat began to coil in my belly.

‘Jason,’ Mrs Gunter ordered, her voice like a whip. ‘Take her hair from its bun and create two long plaits.’

My heart hammered. He approached me once again, his eyes avoiding mine. With surprisingly gentle hands, he slowly unpinned my hair. The familiar weight tumbled down, then he painstakingly divided it, sectioning it, and began to braid. Each pull, each sweep of his fingers through my hair, felt intensely personal and intimate.

The act of him, my employee, touching my most personal and private feature, felt like he was stripping away another layer of my control. As the two thick braids formed, hanging heavy and unfamiliar over my shoulders, I felt exposed and vulnerable, yet a strange, tingling sensation began to prickle on my scalp.

‘You are now ready for your conditioning, Missy,’ Mrs Gunter announced, her voice ominously low. ‘From now on, you will only speak if I ask you a question. Or you will face the consequences.’

It sounded so melodramatic that I allowed a nervous laugh to escape my lips. ‘I agree,’ I chirped, before I could stop myself. I should have just nodded.

Mrs Gunter’s eyes narrowed. ‘As you have spoken without permission,’ she said, her voice devoid of emotion, ‘you will receive your first lesson in obedience.’ She motioned to a heavy oak dining chair that Jason had moved to the middle of the room. ‘Stand behind it,’ she directed, gesturing to Jason that he should join me.

I moved into the position she dictated. Jason firmly placed his palm on my back and eased my upper body downwards. Pivoting at my waist, I found myself leaning right over the sturdy back of the chair.

‘Yes, that’s right, Missy. ‘Lean right over,’ Mrs Gunter said approvingly, as Jason held my shoulders in place.

I wondered what presenting my rear to Mrs Gunter had to do with my hair. I felt the scratchy tartan skirt riding high, exposing the curve of my bottom. Mrs Gunter took a large wooden hairbrush from Jason’s hand. It looked like an old-fashioned implement, thick and solid. My mind wandered, trying to understand how, in my position, with my hair in plaits, she was going to brush it through.

‘This,’ she suddenly said, her voice a low growl, ‘is a necessity.’ Then, without warning, she brought the wooden paddle down, hard, on my bare bottom.

Whack!

A sharp, searing pain exploded against my skin. I gasped, a cry catching in my throat. It was incredibly painful, a shock that jolted through my entire being. But even as the sting lingered, a confusing, almost overwhelming wave of heat, of arousal, washed over me. My cheeks flushed crimson, my breath hitched, and a desperate, unfamiliar sensation tightened in my core. It was wrong, so wrong, yet what I was experiencing felt unbearably right. My body, betraying what my mind had always considered proper, was responding.

‘Now, Missy,’ she said, her voice chillingly calm, ‘let’s continue with your conditioning.’

Preparation

I stammered, trying to regain my composure, wishing to reassert my former self. ‘I was thinking something layered, shorter so I could wear it loose, more manageable but still elegant and professional –’

Whack!

Before I could finish, the wooden brush descended again, this time with even more force, this time on my other cheek. The pain was excruciating and burning, but the pleasure that followed was an even more profound shock. My entire body trembled. A guttural sound, half gasp, half moan, escaped me. My legs felt weak, my blood roared in my ears, and the sensation between my thighs was a throbbing, insistent thrum. This was not just physical punishment but a potent, perverse key unlocking something deep within me. My head swam with a dizzying mix of humiliation and burgeoning desire.

‘You will speak only when you are asked a direct question,’ Mrs Gunter reminded me evenly, utterly unmoved by my reaction. ‘Now, sit.’

Still reeling, my bottom stinging and throbbing with a confusing blend of pain and pleasure, she ordered me into the dining chair.

‘Jason!’ She barked, pointing to something in her case.

Without speaking, he stared at Mrs Gunter, a pleading look in his eyes, as if reluctant to comply with her unvoiced demands.

‘Jason…’ she repeated, a distinct note of warning colouring her tone. ‘What I require is entirely necessary, so set to it!’ she snapped. ‘As I will be using sharp implements, if she chooses to be awkward, then I do not wish to damage myself or my costly leather outfit,’ she explained without a hint of humour.

I was confused by her statement. What did she mean?

Jason, looking guiltier than ever, moved swiftly, efficiently. He extracted a set of substantial leather and metal cuffs from Mrs Gunter’s case, fastening them tightly around my wrists and ankles, restraining me in the chair.

I struggled instinctively, but the binding was too tight, the chair too heavy. I was utterly immobile, completely at their mercy.

As Jason verified that he had locked each cuff firmly in place, he whispered, his voice barely audible. ‘Sorry, Ma’am, but I warned you,’ he reproached. ‘I pleaded with you not to contact Mrs Gunter.’

I heard a whip-like sound whooshing through the air, culminating in a sharp crack.

Whack!

Mrs Gunter had propelled the wooden hairbrush through the air with lightning speed. It had connected with Jason’s rump, through his leather shorts, swiftly and without compromise. He flinched, but he said nothing more. The message was clear that no one was exempt from her rules.

He stepped a short distance away, facing me, standing stiffly to attention, hands clasped together in front of him. His expression was submissive, but his eyes displayed a sadness as they watched me.

The sight of her punishing my employee for showing me an ounce of empathy riled me. ‘Excuse me!’ I blurted out. ‘Mrs Gunter, I –’

Mrs Gunter’s head snapped around at my outburst, and her exasperated glare held mine for a second. I was pleased I had got her attention, and I was already weighing up the words that I trusted would moderate her behaviour. But my hope was fleeting.

As I contemplated how to express my reprimand, I watched her rummage in her case and whisk something out. Then I saw a flash of red in her hand as she swiftly moved behind me. I started to speak, but I was immediately prevented from doing so when I experienced a foul-tasting round object forced into my mouth. My jaw spread wide, my tongue immobile, I felt a buckle tightening at the back of my head, completing my humiliation by leaving me unable to speak.

‘A ball gag is an excellent way of conditioning awkward people, Missy,’ Mrs Gunter explained, unable to disguise her amusement. ‘There are people for whom it is a necessity, although I had hoped we could forego that indignity with a woman of your stature. But it would seem not, so I will give you a couple of minutes to decide if you wish it to remain in place.’

I flashed a pleading look towards Jason, but he had the gall to simply turn away. Mrs Gunter, humming cheerfully to herself, was inspecting various implements in her suitcase, preparing them for immediate use.

‘So, Missy, if I decide to remove this useful contraption,’ Mrs Gunter mused, casually playing with the ball, ‘do you promise to finally remain quiet and only speak when you are spoken to?’

I could neither nod nor speak. Not even grunt. I blinked repeatedly as if semaphoring my agreement, and she eventually got the message.

‘That’s good, Missy, but any repeat will attract dire consequences,’ she warned, beckoning Jason to unbuckle the ball bag. I pushed it forward with my tongue as best I could, and he plucked it from my mouth. I gave him a withering look, and he simply shrugged in response.

Despite irritation caused by Mrs Gunter’s cruel treatment of us both, it served to intensify the thrilling, terrifying reality of my situation. My own arousal spiked, a hot flush spreading through me.

‘Right then,’ Mrs Gunter announced, her fingers already exercising the blades of a menacing pair of huge glinting scissors. ‘Let us begin.’

Implementation

Mrs Gunter approached me, her eyes gleaming with anticipation. My heart hammered, a frantic drum against my ribs. I saw the glint of the scissors. I instinctively tensed, bracing myself.

‘How ridiculous that you should allow your hair to grow so long,’ Mrs Gunter goaded, twirling my left plait around in her hand. ‘It must be cut,’ she declared, placing her scissors halfway along the braided hair. ‘Here?’ she suggested, but with a questioning intonation.

Scary, I thought to myself, but not too bad, as, once layered and styled, I would be able to wear it loose, just above my waist. I wanted to confirm my acceptance of her proposal, but I was cautious about saying or doing anything out of turn.

Then, without warning, she slid the scissor blades upwards, halving the distance again, to a point just below my shoulder blades. ‘Or perhaps here?’ she mused.

A shoulder-length bob, or a “lob” as it had become known, would look acceptable. Modern. Business-like. Youthful.

‘No!’ Mrs Gunter countered, her voice cold and deliberate, and she answered her own question. Sliding the scissors upwards again, she stopped when they were level with my chin. ‘By necessity, your lovely long hair will be cut here.’

With a swift, powerful snip, she severed the thick plait on my left side. The sound was surprisingly loud, a crisp, definitive crunch that echoed in the silence of the room. I gasped, a sharp, involuntary sound. The sudden release of weight was startling, almost disorienting. I watched in a daze as the heavy, dark rope of my hair, a part of me for so long, swung free from her left hand.

A powerful surge of adrenaline shot through me, hot and electric, a rush that was terrifying and exhilarating all at once. My entire body shuddered, a potent mix of shock and an almost unbearable thrill. Goosebumps erupted on my arms and legs, and the throbbing between my legs intensified into a delicious, insistent ache.

Mrs Gunter thrust the scissors in Jason’s direction while she inspected my severed plait. He took them with his right hand, and he lifted my other plait with his left. With a mournful, almost apologetic look, his hands trembling slightly, he chopped off my remaining hair, level with my chin. The second crunching sound was equally jarring, a final, irrevocable severance.

Jason gathered both braids together, reverently placing them in a cloth bag, before depositing the large purse in Mrs Gunter’s suitcase.

My head felt incredibly light as Mrs Gunter stepped forward and mussed up what little remained of my hair. ‘Looking so much better already, Missy,’ she chuckled.

My neck, so long protected by the heavy curtain of my hair, now felt exposed to the cool air, sending shivers down my spine. A reaction that was less about cold and more about the raw, exquisite vulnerability of it all. My eyes closed briefly, overwhelmed by the sensory input as my signature long hair was gone. And I, against all my rational objections, was experiencing an arousal so profound it was almost painful.

Mrs Gunter then began to work on the pitiful remnants of my once magnificent mane. She did not appear to cut it with any discernible style in mind. Instead, she chopped it haphazardly, gleefully even, simply to make it shorter and strengthen my degradation.

Each random cut was a shock to my mind. ‘Well overdue, Missy,’ she goaded, her voice a low, taunting murmur. ‘It was far, far too long.’

Each snippet raining down around me was a jolt to my senses. ‘We are liberating you, Missy,’ she said provocatively. ‘It was such a burden, all that hair.’

Strands of dark hair caught in the thin fabric of my blouse, clinging to the bare skin of my cleavage. It was a constant, tangible reminder of what I was losing, of what she was taking from me. My breath came in shallow gasps, my entire being a taut wire of tension and an increasingly urgent, desperate pleasure.

The sense of my identity being systematically dismantled was both horrifying and intoxicating. My body felt electric, buzzing with a forbidden energy. How I longed for pleasurable release by escaping from my restraints and easing my hands downwards, between my thighs. But, with grim inevitability, Mrs Gunter had more in store for me.

‘Now, Missy, we will really get to work on that messy and unpleasant hair of yours,’ she laughed. Using smaller scissors with a comb, she cut a harsh, precise bowl-like shape high above my ears. She continued the brutal line all around my head, culminating in a stark, blunt fringe exposing the expanse of my forehead.

‘There, Missy, without all that mess obscuring your vision, you will now be able to see where you are going,’ she goaded.

Mrs Gunter was relentless. Accepting hairclippers from Jason, she attacked everything below the severe line she had carved. Jason stepped in front of me, manipulating my head forwards, clamping it in place. Then he moved it from side to side, giving Mrs Gunter unimpeded access to my scalp.

The buzzing sound of the hairclippers was incredibly loud, a high-pitched whine that vibrated mercilessly against my skull. The sensation of the cold metal teeth against my skin, scraping, pulling, and then the rush of cool air where the hair had been, sent a shockwave through me.

Under the full control of two people, the vulnerability I was experiencing was extreme. And with it, the arousal surged, a burning inferno within me. My thighs pressed together, a deep, aching throb pulsed between them.

‘Not long now, Missy,’ Mrs Gunter proclaimed, removing stray hairs from my blouse while absently brushing against my hard nipples that were pressing against the thin material. ‘Oh my,’ she tittered, sensing how turned on I was, clearly enjoying my discomfort and humiliation.

While she had been amusing herself with my body, Jason had retrieved further items from the suitcase. The devoted servant had mixed a quantity of creamy foam in a large dish. Using a stiff brush, he diligently lathered the exposed skin on my neck and around my ears. The contrast of the cool lather with the heat of my flushed skin was exquisite.

He carefully handed a razor to Mrs Gunter, and she, with surgical precision, scraped the steel against my skin. The gentle swoosh of the blade gliding over the lather removed all final traces of stubble. It was an intensely intimate and violating sensation; she had shaved my entire neck to the bone, smooth and bare, just like Jason’s scalp. My ears felt strangely prominent, uncovered, and standing out from an expanse of pristine white skin.

Every nerve ending in my scalp seemed to come alive, tingling, burning, throbbing. Having my most feminine adornment systematically removed felt like an unravelling, a destruction, of my identity. Yet, it was precisely what my secret, perverse desire had craved. My mind was a whirlwind of shame and overwhelming, blinding pleasure.

Aftermath

‘A severe bowlcut is the perfect hairstyle for a woman such as yourself,’ Mrs Gunter asserted, as Jason obediently held up a mirror for me to view my transformation from every angle.

I stared at my reflection in the mirror, a stranger staring back. A face harshly framed by a bizarrely short fringe. Ears prominently emerging from the bare skin at the side of my head. An impossibly long neck flowing, swan-like, along the back of my head. The stranger, flushed with arousal, sat with her lips parted in a breathless gasp, her body trembling. Mrs Gunter had eliminated the absolute control I had once exerted, and a new order had terrifyingly, thrillingly commenced.

‘Your hair is now very neat and will always be tidy, and it is brutally short. Its starkness projects an air of sharp professionalism, ideal in a business setting. Its unique severity will attract comments, and not all will be favourable. But you must remain strong outwardly, accepting and learning from the constant reminder of your humiliation,’ she summarised. ‘Now, Missy, you may speak.’

‘Thank you, Mrs Gunter. I accept what you say.’ I murmured in acknowledgement, my voice strained, not fully understanding all the implications of her words.

‘Jason and I will return every week for the foreseeable future to ensure your bowlcut remains precise, your conditioning is maintained, and you are fully accustomed to your humiliation,’ she went on.

‘Thank you, Mrs Gunter,’ I murmured, willing them both to pack their things and leave so that I could satisfy the deep craving within me that was threatening to boil over.

‘Now, before we go,’ she said, causing me to groan inwardly, ‘we need to ensure that, in future, you will equate having your hair cut with feelings other than fear and humiliation. Pleasure, in fact,’ she smirked. ‘Jason, unfasten Missy’s wrists and kneel down immediately before her.’

I half-closed my eyes and bit my lip, keeping my emotions at bay. I felt the warmth of his breath on my thighs and reached down to cradle his impossibly smooth head. The sensation fuelled the arousal that had reached boiling point. I began caressing, massaging, and kneading his glass-like scalp as he expertly moved back and forth below me. Suddenly, I came to a shattering climax, my entire body shaking with the intensity of it, the aftershocks ebbing away slowly.

I looked up to see that Mrs Gunter had packed her case, put on her coat, and let down her shoulder-length hair into its soft wavy bob. She had been observing us from by the door, a gentle smile curling her lips. ‘Most satisfactory,’ she concluded, which, from my perspective, was the understatement of the year.

‘Thank you, Mrs Gunter,’ Jason and I chorused, despite it being an odd thing to express under the circumstances.

Noticing Mrs Gunter ready to leave, Jason, with a little awkwardness, clambered to his feet. The reason for his inelegant movement was immediately apparent to both Mrs Gunter and me, as we observed the hardness bulging tightly inside his shorts. I realised that my degradation aroused him as much as it did me.

‘Oh my,’ Mrs Gunter remarked, her hand on the handle of my front door. ‘For services rendered, Missy, I suggest you provide Jason with some timely assistance to relieve the tightness of his shorts.’

Jason, my employee, looked shocked by the suggestion. But, after everything that happened in the previous couple of hours, I was happy to help. As he continued to stand before me, I unzipped his shorts while he gently fingered my smooth nape. It was a delicious sensation that I wanted to prolong. ‘Such a shame, Ma’am,’ he said, his breathing laboured. ‘Your hair was magnificent… and now short… shaved –’

He interrupted himself with a guttural roar of pleasure. I was almost disappointed that he came within seconds of me extricating him from his tented shorts.

Outside of Mrs Gunter’s sphere of influence and finding himself with his half-naked boss at his feet, he had the good grace to blush and look away. Words seemed unnecessary as he tidied himself up, then faced me. Still wearing my new miniskirt and tight blouse, I discovered I was enjoying the freedom of the kittenish outfit, even if I no longer exhibited the power dressing of a CEO.

He looked worried, and I moved closer to him. Pecking him on each cheek, I used both of my hands to cradle his smooth scalp.

‘See you bright and early in the office tomorrow morning,’ I said breezily. ‘Following our meeting with the client, they will have a formal response to our proposal, but they have already intimated it will be favourable. So, Jason, thank you for your help, and well done.’

Momentarily he looked confused, undoubtedly wondering – as was my intention – if my last sentence offered praise for the meeting we attended together or the encounter we had shared with Mrs Gunter.

‘Right…’ he murmured, pausing as he wondered what he should say next. ‘See you in the morning then, Ma’am.’

Epilogue

After both Mrs Gunter and Jason had left, I opened a bottle of Shiraz and poured a large glass. Seeing no reason to change out of my new outfit, I lazed back on the sofa and sipped my wine.

I pondered the complex emotions swirling within me. The experience had cured me, if that was the correct terminology, although Mrs Gunter kept referring to conditioning without a full explanation. That said, I was looking forward to my next haircut in six days and twenty-one hours, so that was real progress.

However, I worried about the long-term implications. Was I now a slave to Mrs Gunter’s whims, and how would my relationship with Jason, my IT geek, change?

Like my once long hair, I cut my ruminations short. I cast my mind back to Jason’s glass-like dome and the smack of Mrs Gunter’s hairbrush as I studied my brutal and severe bowlcut in the mirror opposite me.

As I sipped my wine, with a certain inevitability, my fingers floated downwards, under my tartan miniskirt, while I floated on a cloud of pure pleasure.