Fantasy Come to Life

With both hands on my shoulders, you walk me backwards into our bathroom. The backs of my calves hit the toilet lid and I plunk down onto my ass. Bare, like the rest of my body. Just as I fantasized. Just as I described to you last night.

I feel your fingers under my chin and tilt my head up. I peer up at you through wispy bangs. Blowjob eyes, you think.

‘Please’, I whisper.

You card your fingers through my hair, starting at my temples at always. Stroking, petting, feeling. For the last time in a while.

The petting stops. Your left hand is flat on top of my head, and your fingers grip my hair in a fist. I hear your right hand fumble with the shears on the countertop for a moment, before you get a handle on them.

‘Aren’t you going to ask if I’m sure?’ I ask, looking into your eyes through my bangs.

You’re quick to remind me: ‘It’s not up to you, remember?’

You set the blades of the shears flat against the backs of your fingers. I hear the first snip. A lengthy, drawn-out, overdramatic sshhhnnk, followed immediately by a 15-inch hank of my blonde strands floating in front of my eyes and landing on my lap.

You release my skull from your grasp and my hand flies up to touch what I expect to be short tufts at the top of my head. Quickly, I’m intercepted by your strong hand around my wrist.

‘You want to be good for me, don’t you?’ You ask. I nod. ‘Then you’ll wait until I’m finished.’

Section after section, I hear the click of the scissors as you denude me of my hair. I feel the tug of your hands and the release when the hair is separated from itself. When you prompt me to tilt my head back down, I finally see the mess you’ve made. Of the bathroom floor, of my hair, and of me. I can only imagine what I look like: half-inch tufts of dirty blonde sticking up in all directions, shoulder-blade length locks remaining on the backs and sides.

‘Let me take a photo,’ you say. ‘We’re going to want to remember this.’

You leave the room and reappear moments later with a camera. The polaroid flashes and then prints a photo, forever immortalizing my humiliation. The humiliation I asked for.

You crudely hack off the rest of the long hair, and I try to savour the moment: the sounds, the feelings of it brushing my bare neck and shoulders, your tented pants in my face as you stand in front of me. I’m snapped back into reality from my submissive dreamworld when I hear the snap and buzz of the clippers coming to life.

‘My little bald plaything,’ you murmur under your breath, taunting.

You tilt my chin back up as the cool steel is placed at my forehead and our eyes lock. The clippers drag backwards into my hairline, a wide swath right down the middle of my head, reaching my occiput. I feel tingles and tightness between my legs. I need to feel you, so I reach for the drawstring of your sweatpants and pull out your half-hard cock. Wetly, I kiss the tip, and take it into my mouth, letting it rest on my tongue. Easy access in case you want to thrust in and use my throat.

Path by path, the blonde tufts that now make up my hair are reduced to stubble. I wonder if I’ll look even more bald due to my light blonde hair. I don’t take my eyes off yours for one second until you shove my chin to my chest to access my nape. You’re being more aggressive now that we’re almost done. It excites me.

You drag the clippers over my skull in entirety once, twice, three times, ensuring not one hair is left long. The vibrations just rattle through my whole body. Finally, the clippers are turned off and replaced once more in your hands by the polaroid. The flash goes off, and I startle. As the photo begins to print, I ask if you’re finished.

‘We’re done, baby. Get into the bedroom. Kneel on the floor at the foot of the bed. You have a long night ahead of you.’

I swear, I could come just at your words.

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