Lana’s Transformation (Part 1)

It was the silence she loved most, because silence demanded nothing from her. Within the safety of her small apartment, surrounded by the anonymous walls of an insignificant apartment block, there were no voices that could demand anything of her. No questions from pushy strangers on the street trying to recruit her for surveys or pressure her into subscriptions. No charities asking her to sign up for memberships, no matter how worthy their causes might be. No advances from men trying to force a reaction from her with a dull, “Hey, how are you?”—a reaction she could suppress only with the greatest effort.

Here, among the familiar, comforting furniture, she was safe from the problem that had ruled her life for years: her inability to set boundaries. Safe from the looming danger of an involuntary Yes. Yet even at home, there were enough obstacles. The intrusive advertising emails, for example, that practically screamed to be opened whenever she started her computer. Or the ringing smartphone she could barely ignore, with some enthusiastic salesperson at the other end trying to sell her something. Fortunately, there was the mute button. At least she had finally learned to use that.

But leading a normal life was a daily, endlessly exhausting struggle for her. Whenever other people casually let a simple, clear no pass their lips, she felt everything inside her tighten. The No was there. She knew exactly when she wanted to say it. But the moment she actually had to speak it, something inside her seemed to block. The endless therapy sessions had already cost her large sums of money, yet so far not one of them had truly helped. This inability cost her not only money, but with every unwanted Yes, another piece of her dignity. The only way she could function as a person was by hiding.

As an orphan, she had no one to protect her anyway. But loneliness was not a prison to her; it was the only refuge that gave her a sense of security and protected her from a Yes.

The occasional writing jobs she could do from home for a law firm brought in just enough money for her to get by reasonably well. Working from home was, in any case, the only way she could manage to have a job at all. It did not exactly fill her days—but she did not need it to.

Because there was her long hair. The one thing she could hold on to whenever everything else slipped beyond her control.

When she stood in front of the mirror and let the straight, pale-blonde strands glide through her fingers, she felt something that had otherwise become almost unfamiliar to her: control. Her hair was her sanctuary, her shield against the outside world. She could spend hours standing in the pale bathroom light, carefully running it through her fingers, examining every single strand and reassuring herself that everything was perfect. She cared for it exclusively with expensive high-end products and invested every hard-earned cent in oils and treatments to preserve its shine.

It was an almost religious ritual, in which every drop of the precious oil had to be measured precisely. Perhaps she had been caring for it too intensely lately, because over the past few weeks the ends had begun to feel slightly brittle and dry whenever she rubbed them between her fingertips. That tiny sensation of roughness made something flare up inside her every time—as though cracks were beginning to form in her protective wall.

But this hair meant everything to her. It was a long, warm curtain behind which she could hide her delicate face and narrow shoulders. As long as she could wrap herself in that pale blonde, she felt less vulnerable.

That afternoon, after completing an important report for the law firm, she had to take it to the post office and mail it. Email would not do this time. Which meant she had to leave the safety of her apartment.

She hesitated for a moment, then pulled the door shut behind her. But it was not the oppressive late-summer air, still hanging heavily between the rows of buildings as though summer stubbornly refused to leave, that troubled her. It was the path ahead of her—the challenge of avoiding every Yes.

To protect herself from the outside world, she always wore her hair loose and pulled slightly across her face. Music thundered through the AirPods in her ears, designed to smother any danger of being spoken to before it could even begin. On foot, it was only about ten minutes from her apartment to the post office. The walk there passed without incident, and even at the counter her letter was accepted without any additional questions.

She breathed a sigh of relief. Now quickly home, back to the protection of her apartment and the soothing comfort of being alone.

It was shortly before three when she left the post office. At that exact moment, the music died with a dull, two-tone sigh—a faint electronic farewell. Suddenly, the noise of the street overwhelmed her. From one second to the next, her protective isolation had given way to an invasion of sounds and distractions.

She had to get home quickly, back to the safety of solitude, before someone approached her—beggars asking for spare change, or guys looking for nothing more than an excuse to start a conversation.

Trying to make herself invisible, she reached with frantic fingers for the hood of her short-sleeved hoodie and pulled the light fabric far forward until it shadowed her face and her long blonde hair only peeked out accidentally beneath it. Her heart beat in a rapid, shallow rhythm against her ribs as she quickened her pace.

Only a few more streets, then the safety of her apartment.

Then a voice sounded directly beside her. Bright, melodic, carried by a self-assured, almost hypnotic intensity.

“Excuse me, sweetheart.”

At the same moment, she felt a gentle touch on her arm.

Lana froze. From one second to the next, her entire body went rigid, as though an icy electric shock had shot through her spine. Every movement suddenly seemed impossible. She did not turn her head. She simply couldn’t. Her neck felt paralysed.

Instead, she stared down. She fixed her eyes on the spot where she felt the unexpected contact and looked at the slender hand resting gently on her arm.

It was a beautiful hand. The long fingernails, elegantly filed to sharp points, were flawlessly styled. Deep black framed the edges, blending towards the centre into a glowing dark red. The tips gleamed in the pale late-summer afternoon sun like polished gemstones.

A heavy silver ring hugged one of the slender fingers, a triskele symbol engraved on its surface. Lana stared at the sweeping shapes—and suddenly they blurred before her eyes. For a brief moment, she could not tell whether it was simply her panic or whether something within the symbol had actually moved.

Lana pressed her lips together so tightly they turned white. She made no sound, but her breathing quickened into a betraying series of shallow gasps. She drew her shoulders even closer together and tried to retreat, inch by inch, into the fabric of her hood.

Away from that hand. Away from that symbol that seemed to radiate an inexplicable power.

But where could she run? Escape seemed utterly unthinkable at that moment.

The voice came again, now directly beside her ear—warm, captivating, carrying that deep, penetrating melody. It wrapped itself around Lana’s senses like heavy, dark velvet.

“I simply had to speak to you. I couldn’t help myself.”

Lana remained silent. Her throat felt constricted, dry as dust. Her heart hammered against her ribs in a wild, completely irregular rhythm, as though it were trying to burst free from the confines of her delicate chest. Damp warmth gathered in her palms as her fingertips began to tremble slightly.

The woman moved around her in a smooth, deliberately slow motion until she stood directly in front of Lana, blocking her path on the warm asphalt. She was tall and slender, towering over Lana.

She wore a jet-black minidress made of a fine, glossy fabric that clung to her curves like a second skin and accentuated every movement of her hips. Her feet rested in high, elegant platform sandals. The glossy black continued all the way down, turning her appearance into a single dark silhouette.

Her own hair was cut asymmetrically—the sides and nape shaved ultrashort, while the hair on top gleamed jet black, streaked with deep red strands that fell far across her face. With a quick toss of her head, she swept the long fringe dramatically away.

Her expressive eye makeup was applied so expertly that despite the deep-black accents, it looked flawless and not the least bit excessive. From beneath those feline eyes, she fixed Lana with a gaze that seemed both admiring and possessive.

“I’m Tara,” the woman said softly, and a narrow, knowing smile crept across her perfectly made-up lips. “I own the salon just over there.”

With an elegant, almost casual movement of her head, she gestured towards a shop window only a few metres away. Her long red fringe flew away from her face, only to fall back like a dark veil across her left eye the moment the movement subsided.

Behind the immaculately clean glass, Lana could make out a large mirror in the dim light, a gleaming washbasin and, in the centre, a single heavy black salon chair. Above the glass entrance door hung a discreet golden Art Nouveau sign:

Exclusiv – Lady Tara

Lana could not get a single word out. Every instinct inside her screamed at her to pull her arm away, turn around and simply run—back to the safety of her apartment. But she remained where she was.

The No was there. But it would not pass her lips. She simply stood there—silent, while everything inside her screamed at her to leave.

Tara’s smile widened. As though she had already seen straight through Lana’s inner struggle.

“You don’t have to speak, darling. I can see it in you. I see you.”

With a gentle movement, she reached with her free hand for the edge of Lana’s hood. Her fingertips briefly touched the heated skin of Lana’s cheek. Lana shivered involuntarily. Tara pushed the heavy fabric of the hoodie back by the tiniest fraction. Just enough to reveal a single long lock of pale-blonde hair, gleaming in the late-summer sunlight.

“This,” Tara whispered, her clear voice sinking into a reverent, almost religious murmur as her gaze remained fixed on the pale-blonde strands, “is not simply hair. This is an absolute masterpiece.”

The word struck Lana like a blow. No one had ever called her hair that before—and yet it captured exactly what she herself felt.

It was her obsession. Her sanctuary. The one thing that belonged entirely to her. Her protection from the outside world.

The leaden afternoon heat seemed to freeze time itself on the asphalt. Beneath the fabric of her hoodie, Lana could already feel a thin, sticky dampness on her skin—an unpleasant sensation that stretched her already tense nerves almost to breaking point.

“The ends are dry, sweetheart,” Tara continued. Her gaze was mercilessly sharp as she let a heavy golden strand slide with agonising slowness between her slender fingers. Her perfectly filed nails flashed in the glaring light like tiny polished blades. “You can see it immediately. The sun has been hard on your hair. But that can be fixed. It would be a sin to let a work of art like this simply deteriorate.”

Tara leaned a little closer, so close that Lana could not possibly step back. She smelled the woman’s perfume—something dark, intoxicating and sweet, with a heavy note of cedar that mingled with the oppressive heat of the street and almost stole Lana’s breath. With an elegant, deliberate toss of her head, she swept the dark-red strands away from her face. She held Lana’s gaze without looking away for even a second.

“I’ll trim the ends for you,” Tara whispered, her dark eyes fixed on Lana’s slightly trembling mouth. “Free of charge. A personal gift from me to your extraordinary beauty. Here, now, in the soothing coolness of my salon.”

Lana wanted to shake her head. Her mind screamed in blind panic.

No, tear yourself away and run from this woman!

But the manipulative offer hung in the shimmering air like an inevitable verdict. The No was there. But the Yes! was already waiting. All she had to do was say it. Her lips opened, and she heard her own voice:

“Yes, please!”

Tara’s lips spread into a broad smile. “Very good, sweetheart!”

Tara withdrew her hand from Lana’s arm so slowly and gently that it felt more like a caress. The fine hairs on Lana’s arms stood on end. Lana shivered.

Tara walked towards her salon. Without stopping, she glanced back.

“Coming, girl?”

As she did, the long fringe fell deep across her face again.

Lana remained standing for a moment. All she had to do was turn around. Go home.

Instead, she started walking and followed Tara. The few steps towards the glass entrance door seemed endless.

The salon door opened with a short, bright chime that echoed strangely metallic in Lana’s ears. As the heavy glass structure fell shut behind her, it instantly and completely swallowed the distant sounds of the city. The lock engaged with a soft click.

Lana heard it.

Inside the salon, it was suddenly cool, almost sterile. The oppressive late-summer heat remained outside beyond the large panes of glass. The golden afternoon sunlight entered only in broad, slanting beams, painting gleaming streaks across the immaculately clean black tiled floor.

The room smelled strongly of expensive shampoos, hairspray and a subtle, slightly chemical note of salon products.

Tara led her purposefully towards the large, heavy salon chair positioned precisely in the centre of the room. It was a massive piece of craftsmanship—gleaming, cool chrome combined with deep-black, heavy leather upholstery that looked inviting and threatening at the same time.

“Wouldn’t you like to sit down, girl?”

Lana sat down without a word. The cool leather of the chair pressed through the thin fabric of her almost knee-length summer skirt against her thighs, making her shiver involuntarily.

Barely had she settled into the chair when Tara approached from behind, the hard, rhythmic clicking of her high heels announcing every step. With a single movement, Tara reached for the hood of Lana’s hoodie and slowly, deliberately pushed it all the way back. There was something ceremonial about it, almost as though Tara were unwrapping an extraordinarily precious gift.

“Please take your hoodie off completely, girl. It’ll make it easier for me to work.”

Lana awkwardly pulled the top off while Tara waited patiently, never taking her eyes off Lana for even a second. Lana handed her the garment and watched as Tara tossed it towards the coat rack with undisguised contempt.

Beneath it was a black sleeveless tank top that emphasised Lana’s slender silhouette. Her long, pale-blonde hair now fell straight and completely unprotected over her narrow shoulders, flowing down her back and ending only at the middle of her delicate waist.

For several seconds, Tara stood silently behind her. In the large old mirror in front of her, Lana watched the hairdresser gently lift the hair with both hands. Tara let the pale strands slide through her fingers and weighed them carefully, as though holding something precious that she had already claimed for herself.

“Beautiful,” Tara murmured softly in the mirror, her dark eyes narrowing to slits. “But these ends…”

She lifted the very tips, and in the bright salon light Lana could now see it herself—dry, split, brittle and dulled by the heat of the past few weeks.

“They need to go, to make room for something completely new. Shall I, my girl?”

Lana involuntarily bit down on her lower lip so hard that she tasted the saltiness of shame on her tongue. Everything inside her screamed at her to get up from the heavy salon chair now and flee the salon while she still had enough control over herself.

But the question was already hanging in the air. She knew what she wanted. She even knew what she needed to say. She simply could not say it.

Just one centimetre—it really isn’t that bad, her mind frantically tried to reassure her.

It was not the loss of the hair that distressed her so much at that moment. It was the agonising awareness that once again, she could not say No. She knew what would come instead: Yes!

Finally, a short, dull reply escaped her throat:

“Yes, please!”

Tara did not wait another second.

“I’ll cut it without a cape, my girl,” she said casually—information Lana could not have responded to anyway.

With a deliberately slow, provocative movement, she reached for her signed hairdressing scissors resting on a small gleaming chrome tray beside the mirror. The instrument was slender and delicate. Yet in Tara’s hand, it looked merciless. The thin blades gleamed coldly in the pale light of the salon lamps.

Tara stepped close behind the chair. In the mirror, Lana could see how intensely focused Tara’s dark eyes were. With her left hand, prominently displaying the mysterious ring, Tara stretched the first narrow strand of golden-blonde hair taut between her index and middle fingers. That touch alone sent a faint tremor through Lana’s scalp.

Then the blades closed.

Chrrt!

With one clean, precise cut, the first centimetre of her sanctuary fell away. The dull sound filled the cool room. Lana flinched in the chair.

It was only one centimetre. A tiny, almost invisible centimetre of hair. Yet her body reacted as though something far greater had happened. A deep, electrifying tingle spread from the freshly cut end. It travelled across her scalp, ran down her neck and spread through her spine.

Cut by cut, Tara continued. Each time Lana heard the same brief whisper of the blades. Each time another piece of her golden protection fell to the floor. Until the outermost centimetre of the curtain lay scattered beneath her.

Tara carefully placed the scissors back on the tray and left them there for a long moment. The metallic clink echoed through the silence. Then she stepped back and examined her work with the cool, appraising gaze of a sculptor.

Lana looked at herself in the mirror. The black top made her lightly made-up face look pale. Her eyes seemed large and doe-like. Her blonde hair still lay thick around her shoulders, hiding her.

“Looks better,” Tara said softly. She began to walk slowly around the heavy salon chair.

“The brittle ends are gone. But…”

She stopped. Her gaze rested on Lana’s narrow shoulders.

“You have so much hair, my girl. So much extra weight.”

Tara tilted her head.

“This curtain pulls your whole face down, do you understand? It practically overwhelms your beautiful, delicate features.”

A brief pause.

“It hides you.”

Lana swallowed. In the mirror, she met her own face—still framed by the thick flood of hair she loved so much. Tara stepped behind her again.

“What if we were a little braver?”

Her dark-red nails flashed in the mirror as she gathered the pale strands at the sides and pressed them together experimentally.

“What if we cut it to a revealing, skimpy shoulder length, my girl?”

The words hit Lana with full force.

Shoulder length.

Thirty centimetres. Maybe more.

Her mind calculated the distance almost automatically. Thirty centimetres of her hair. Thirty centimetres of what she had clung to for years. Her protective cloak would simply fall onto the tiled floor.

“I…”

Her voice failed.

No! Never! I need it!

Tara shifted her weight slightly. With a quick, sweeping toss, she flicked her own dark-red strands away from her face without taking her eyes from Lana’s lips for even a fraction of a second.

“Say yes, my girl,” she whispered close to her ear as the familiar scent of cedar settled heavily around Lana’s senses. “Say it for me.”

Lana closed her eyes for a moment.

No!

The word was there. Clear and unmistakable. But it would not pass her lips.

“Yes.”

The word was out.

Lana opened her eyes. In the mirror, she saw Tara’s slow, knowing smile.

“That’s my girl!”

Something hot surged through Lana. She did not know whether she was shivering from fear or because of the way Tara had spoken those words.

Without another word, Tara turned away. Her black dress clung tightly to her curves as she walked towards the heavy dark cabinet against the wall. She opened the wooden door with a soft creak and bent low to reach into the bottom compartment.

The movement stretched the glossy, fine fabric of her minidress to its limit, provocatively accentuating her perfectly shaped curves as the hem rode dangerously high. A moment later, she straightened again, holding something that made Lana’s blood run cold—four broad, solid cuffs made of brushed stainless steel. The heavy bands gleamed coldly and mercilessly in the pale salon light, thick metal O-rings clinking on top of them with every movement.

Lana’s eyes widened involuntarily in horror at the metallic clatter. Her mouth opened instinctively in protest, her lips trembling. She wanted to scream, wanted to call for help. But to her absolute horror, not a single sound emerged from her constricted throat. She was completely silent.

“Would you like to experience this, just once?” Tara asked with a soft, almost playful undertone as she approached the chair again with the heavy cuffs in her hands. Her dark-red strands fell lightly across her eyes once more. “Would you like to know what it feels like to be tied down?”

No!

The answer came instantly. Panic rose inside her in hot, suffocating waves, a thick, stubborn lump lodged in her throat and almost stealing her breath. Yet again, she could not force the no past her lips.

All that came out was a strained, barely audible, trembling:

“Yes, please!”

“Good girl! That’s my girl,” Tara said with satisfied approval.

And Lana remained seated. She did not know why. Every fibre of her mind begged her to jump up and flee into the late-summer heat. But she did not.

Instead, she sat perfectly still as Tara bent down beside her right side.

“If you simply let your arms hang down, I can secure you here,” Tara murmured in that clear, captivating voice that wrapped itself around Lana’s senses like warm velvet. “You can just let go.”

Lana looked at the cuffs.

No!

And yet she slowly lowered her arms along the sides of the chair and offered Tara her wrists.

Tara gently took the delicate joints in her cool hands. The cold stainless-steel cuffs closed around her skin without the slightest jerk.

Click!

The first restraint locked into the heavy eyelet mounted low on the chrome frame of the chair. Then the left.

Click!

In the mirror, Lana saw her bare arms now hanging rigidly downwards, anchored low to the chair, gently but unyieldingly restrained. The pull forced her shoulders slightly forward, making her silhouette appear even narrower and more vulnerable. The heavy O-rings gleamed dully at her wrists.

Lana experimentally moved one hand. The cuff held her firmly.

Only now did she truly realise what the yes she had just spoken actually meant.

But Tara was not finished. In one fluid movement, she knelt in front of Lana. Lana felt the warmth of Tara’s body against her calves as the woman placed one cuff around each ankle and clicked them into eyelets set wide apart at the base of the chrome frame.

Click!

Then the other side.

Click!

The fixed restraints automatically pulled Lana’s slender thighs far apart. It was a completely open, defenceless position—a position she would never voluntarily have assumed in ordinary life.

“Look at yourself, my good girl. Do you see how open and receptive you are sitting here?”

Lana could no longer tear her gaze away from the large mirror, no matter how desperately she wanted to. The small, restrained figure staring back at her could not possibly be herself. Her thighs spread wide, her slender shoulders exposed. A shiver ran through her entire body. She could not tell whether it came from shame, fear or arousal.

Her helplessness was no longer an idea. She was firmly secured to the heavy chair, unable to close her legs, unable simply to stand up and run away. And she herself had said Yes to it.

If only I could say no just once!

Yet even now, she could feel that treacherous tingling in her body.

Tara did not wait another second. She combed the blonde splendour perfectly straight down, only to separate it irrevocably from Lana moments later. The comb gave way to the signed scissors, now brought dangerously close to Lana’s right shoulder. As though in slow motion, the hungry blades opened.

Chrrt!

A thick, long lock fell into Lana’s lap, golden and heavy like a dead thread. Lana stared at it in disbelief.

Cut by cut, Tara worked her way around. Every cut was clean, almost unnervingly precise, and every single one made something inside Lana rebel—a dull throbbing at the nape of her neck, a burning tingle that spread relentlessly down her spine until it reached deep into her lower abdomen. She pressed her lips together so tightly that her jaw ached and desperately tried to remain completely still. But when another heavy lock fell, a soft, unconscious sigh of arousal escaped her throat.

Tara smiled in the mirror. “Feels good, doesn’t it, my good girl?”

Lana could not stop herself from whispering a soft, breathy “Yes,” barely louder than the sound of the air conditioning in the room. It was a confession that terrified her.

Because somehow it was true—her mind desperately tried to comprehend the situation while her body was already burning. This confusing, frightening mixture of naked shame and intense arousal flooded through her like a wave of liquid fire. Her skin tingled unbearably, and to her horror she felt everything deep inside her tighten in a wet, hot spasm.

When the hair had finally been cut all the way around to the radical shoulder length, Tara stepped back to the unmistakable clicking of her heels. She tilted her head slightly and examined her work with the cool detachment of an architect.

Lana forced herself to raise her eyes and look into the large mirror. A paralysing shock tore through her. Like the falling strands, she plunged into an inner free fall as the cool air of the room struck her bare skin mercilessly for the first time. She had never seen her own shoulders like this before. Completely unprotected and exposed before Tara’s eyes.

The waterfall of blonde hair that only moments earlier had flowed luxuriantly down her body now ended abruptly just above her collarbones—it simply stopped in the middle of nowhere. She felt robbed of her protective shield—a loss she had brought upon herself through her own helpless consent.

Without the familiar heavy curtain, her eyes looked unnaturally large, almost feverish with fear. Her delicate features appeared even narrower, more fragile and infinitely more vulnerable than they had half an hour earlier.

“Better,” Tara said with a slight, satisfied nod as she stepped close behind the chair again. “Much better, my good girl. But…”

She raised a hand and, with agonising slowness, brushed the smooth strands that still hung in Lana’s eyes away from her face. The touch was light as a breath, yet it sent a vicious wave of goosebumps across Lana’s scalp.

“You need bangs,” Tara murmured, her dark gaze fixed on Lana’s pale reflection. “Perfectly straight, crisp, flawlessly cut bangs. They would frame your beautiful face like a precious doll. You want that too, don’t you, my girl?”

No, under no circumstances do I want bangs! Please don’t touch my forehead!

The thought screamed so loudly inside Lana’s head that she believed it must be audible throughout the room.

Just say no! Say it at last!

But the no remained trapped in her throat.

Tara did not even wait for the silent answer. With soft, graceful fingers, she swept the offending hair away from Lana’s face and ran her fingertips across her eyebrows. She began stroking them with possessive tenderness, as though those features already belonged to her.

“Your brows are so beautifully even,” Tara cooed close to her ear. “It would be a shame to hide them beneath long strands. Wouldn’t you like to show them off proudly?”

“Yes, of course,” Lana blurted out in a sudden burst of pure, naked panic. The intimacy of the unexpected touch had overwhelmed her so completely that her mouth simply opened under the unbearable pressure, desperate to resolve the situation somehow. Once again, she had betrayed herself.

“You’re such a good girl!” Tara whispered close to her face.

With the fine black comb, Tara gathered the front sections of Lana’s blonde hair. Patiently and methodically, she combed the smooth pale strands straight down across Lana’s forehead and eyes until her entire face was covered.

Lana could see nothing at all.

Her overwhelming exposure in the mirror disappeared behind a dense golden curtain of pale hair. The sudden blindness intensified her sense of helplessness even further. She was immobilised, silent and trapped behind the curtain of hair, able to hear only the faint, almost imperceptible rustle of Tara’s dress.

A soft metallic clink told her that Tara had picked up the scissors from the chrome tray again. Then Lana felt the ice-cold blades directly against her forehead, just above her eyebrows. The metal felt like a sharp piece of ice against her heated skin.

Gently, ever so gently, and with agonising slowness, the blades closed.

Chrrt!

A first fine layer of blonde hair came loose and slid down her cheek into her lap. Tara positioned the scissors again.

Chrrt!

With every precise cut Tara made with unhurried calm, the falling gold revealed a little more of Lana’s reflection. It was as though Tara were uncovering a new face layer by layer.

When the final cut was complete, a beautiful, vulnerable and deeply uncertain face appeared in the mirror. Lana stared at her altered self in disbelief. Her gaze darted helplessly across the glass, searching for something familiar to hold on to, but finding only the reflection of a stranger whose eyes lay exposed beneath the razor-sharp new line of hair. Her lips trembled slightly, unable to conceal the naked confusion that had seized every fibre of her being.

“You look so beautiful with those sweet, innocent bangs,” Tara cooed, running her long, elegantly pointed nails along the freshly cut edge. “Like a flawless porcelain doll. Don’t you think?”

“Yes! Thank you!”

As though in a trance, Lana tried to recognise herself in the mirror. But she could not. All she saw was a doll-like figure staring back at her.

At that moment, Tara stepped directly in front of Lana and into her field of vision. Balanced on her open palm was a small, dark wooden box that she must have retrieved from somewhere without Lana noticing. With her other hand, she opened it mysteriously. Inside was something concealed beneath a black silk cloth.

Tara ceremoniously drew the delicate fabric aside, revealing a collar of softly gleaming metal. Solid yet delicate at the same time. About two centimetres wide, with a large, heavy O-ring at the front.

Lana’s heart pounded in her throat as she stared at the collar in disbelief.

No! Not that!

The thought screamed inside her as the mere, unyielding presence of the metal paralysed her mind. But every protest was smothered before it could begin.

“Would you like to feel this beautiful collar around your neck? Would you like to feel how it embraces your beautiful throat?”

I have to get out of here… please…

Not a sound of protest escaped her throat. Instead came a barely audible:

“Yes, please!”

“Very good, my little doll! By the way, from now on I want you to address me as Lady Tara. Can you do that for me?”

Lana was too perplexed even to wonder why. Her answer came surprisingly quickly and clearly.

“Yes, Lady Tara!”

“You’re such a good little doll!”

Lady Tara slowly stepped behind the salon chair.

“Close your eyes, my little doll!”

Lana obeyed.

A moment later, Lady Tara’s warm breath brushed across the nape of her neck, calm but noticeably heavy. The solid, softly gleaming collar lay open in Lady Tara’s hands, ready to close around Lana’s throat.

Lana felt the sudden, intense warmth of Lady Tara’s body behind her as she leaned slightly over her.

Then the metal touched her skin.

A violent, involuntary shudder ran through Lana’s delicate body, racing like a wave of ice across her scalp and down the entire length of her spine. The solid stainless steel was freezing cold and stole her breath for a fraction of a second as the two halves of the collar closed around her slender, exceptionally beautiful neck.

With an almost inaudible, delicate click, the two halves of the collar locked together. It now completely encircled her throat, an unyielding circular fortress of cool metal.

Lana instinctively pulled against her restrained hands. The cuffs answered with a faint metallic clink.

Lady Tara wasted no time. Lana heard the tiny metallic scrape as the woman inserted the small screw. Every minute turn of the tool vibrated directly through Lana’s body. Lady Tara tightened the screw slowly but relentlessly.

The collar contracted almost imperceptibly, settling against the soft skin of her neck until it sat firmly in place.

From the outside, there was no longer any visible lock.

Lana swallowed. The metal moved with her throat but did not yield a single millimetre.

The flat hinges rested smoothly against the sides of her neck, while the knowledge that she would never be able to remove this heavy ring by herself completely paralysed Lana’s mind.

And at that exact moment—as Lana realised that the collar had been permanently and firmly secured around her neck—a wave of pleasure crashed over her with the force of an explosion.

It was no longer a gentle tingle, no longer a quiet, controllable throbbing. It was a gigantic, boiling-hot wave radiating directly from the ice-cold stainless steel around her neck. Like liquid fire, the arousal rolled through her chest, making her small breasts tremble violently, spreading across her flat stomach and surging with overwhelming intensity deep between her spread thighs.

Lana gasped loudly. A raw, unfiltered sound of total surrender escaped her lips.

“There we are, my little doll,” Lady Tara murmured, her heavy, sweet, intoxicating scent mingling with Lana’s rapid breathing. “I knew it from the very first second. You’re my good little doll.”

Lana slowly opened her eyes and stared rigidly at her own reflection. A profound sense of unfamiliarity swept over her. She saw herself sitting there—inescapably secured to the heavy chair, her face deeply flushed from the sudden, violent pleasure and completely exposed, while the softly gleaming construction lay like an iron band around her long neck. Her beloved blonde hair now fell bluntly and straight, barely reaching her shoulders, only sparsely concealing the collar.

She already looked like a completely different person.

Someone she barely recognised.