Give Yourself To Me (Part 2)

Please read Part 1 here: https://tinyurl.com/ycyhcs55

 

With every hydraulic pump of the chair, Nicola felt the mechanism jolt through her spine and into her ribs. She was lifted higher, feet leaving the floor, the black cape tight across her chest and pinning her arms. Her thick dark-blonde curls bounced with each rise, the ends brushing her bare shoulders. She tried to speak and her throat locked. She tried to twist free and the cape held. Across the room Kirsty stood with her arms folded, weight on one hip, watching with the flat interest of someone waiting for a bus. Nicola shook her head once, sharp, trying to catch her eye. Kirsty didn’t move. The clippers clicked on. The sound filled the small space, high and final.

 

Nicola woke hard in the dark, heart slamming against her ribs. The room was cold. Streetlight edged the curtains. She sat up and drove her fingers into her hair, gripping a handful of curls until the roots pulled. They were still there. Full, soft, unchanged. She stayed upright, breathing through her mouth, the dream still sharp: the steady lift of the chair, the weight of the cape, Kirsty standing useless in the corner while the clippers started.

 

Kirsty now moved through the flat with a new ease, shoulders loose, voice lighter, as if something long carried had been set down. Nicola watched her and felt the opposite. She no longer looked at Kirsty the way she used to. She had liked the control that night—the quiet work of drawing the secret out, the way Kirsty had softened under the comb, the soft involuntary sounds she made. That part had felt clean. What she couldn’t manage was the look Kirsty had given her at the end of the evening, the sharp knowing glint that had stayed behind Nicola’s eyes. It left a feeling she didn’t recognise and couldn’t steer, and the fact that it sat outside her control bothered her more than she wanted to admit.

 

She couldn’t settle at night. Her mind kept circling the same questions: what if Kirsty got her into the chair, what if she used those tools on Nicola’s hair, what if Nicola found she liked it. She had always taken care of her curls—thick, dark-blonde, carefully maintained at every appointment. They were part of how people recognised her, tied to the outgoing confidence she carried through the flat and everywhere else. The idea of anything changing them felt wrong. Yet the memory of Kirsty under the comb stayed with her. The soft, involuntary sounds. The way she had gone completely still and open. Nicola had liked that more than she expected, and the liking had not faded.

 

She got up for water and paused in the hall. From Kirsty’s room came steady, even breathing, the deep sleep of someone who had finally let something go. Nicola stood with the glass in her hand and listened, unsettled by how easily the tightness she had always sensed in Kirsty seemed to have left her.

 

The next morning Nicola sat at the kitchen table in her housecoat, still heavy from another broken night, facing a full day of working from home. Kirsty had been up since first light. She moved through the flat with an ease that felt new, collected her keys, and paused only long enough to wish Nicola a good day. Then she blew her a kiss, winked, and flicked her long, freshly washed hair back over her shoulder as she left.

 

Nicola’s reply came a beat too late. She stayed where she was after the door closed, struck again by how cleanly their usual balance had reversed.

 

Kirsty shut the front door and let the adrenaline leave her in one long breath. Being seen by Nicola had lifted a weight she hadn’t fully known she was carrying. The night before she had washed her hair with deliberate care, working conditioner through every length so it would fall the way she wanted. She had wanted Nicola to notice the difference—the wink, the blown kiss, the deliberate flick—as proof that something in her had shifted. What she wanted more than any of that was to be pulled back down. She wanted the cape again. She wanted the chair, the loss of control, the particular rush that came with being made to sit still while Nicola decided what happened next. The thought of coaxing Nicola into the cape herself sent a sharp, private thrill through her. Further than that, she let the idea surface that Nicola might pick up the scissors. By the time she reached the car the fantasies were still moving under her skin. She sat with her hands on the wheel and the engine off, staring through the windscreen at nothing, half-aware she should shake herself back into the ordinary shape of the day. She had no idea that upstairs Nicola was sitting in the same quiet kitchen, turning over almost the same want.

 

Nicola had always met problems directly. She decided this would be no different. She wanted to understand what Kirsty felt, to put herself in the same place. She went into Kirsty’s room, found the box of haircutting tools that was no longer hidden, and carried it back to her own bed. She set the box beside her, took off her housecoat so she was naked, and lay down. Long dark-blonde curls spilled loose over her shoulders and across the pillow. She switched the clippers on and left them standing upright on the bedside table, the steady buzz filling the quiet room. Then she slid a hand between her legs and began to touch herself to the sound.

 

It took her a few seconds to find the rhythm, but once she did the feeling moved through her in a steady, building wave. From outside it was impossible to tell what was driving it—whether she was picturing herself cutting Kirsty’s hair or Kirsty cutting hers. Her fingers brushed lightly over the tip of her clit, circling once, then twice, before she pushed two of them inside. Her hips lifted off the mattress. Her thighs trembled. The pressure climbed fast and she cried out, the sound sharp and unrestrained in the quiet flat. The orgasm hit in a hard, shuddering rush; her body locked, then released, wetness spreading beneath her as she came. She fell silent afterward, chest rising and falling, while the clippers kept humming steadily beside the bed.

 

She slowly returned to herself as the last of the orgasm faded. She reached over, switched the clippers off with a casual flick, and walked naked to the bathroom to clean up. Nicola was shorter than Kirsty, not by much but enough to notice. She was also more curved where Kirsty stayed slim. The sight of her moving through the flat completely naked, long dark-blonde curls hanging loose over her shoulders, the soft lines of her body on full display, was striking. And Nicola knew it. She had always been straight, had never questioned it, yet when she caught her reflection in the mirror afterward she let a small, knowing smile cross her face. There was no shame in it. She had enjoyed what she just did. Still, as she stood there in the now-quiet flat, the question remained unanswered: what exactly was it that got her there?

Nicola worked from home that day with a lightness she hadn’t felt in weeks.

 

Whatever had happened that morning—the clippers, the release, the small knowing smile in the bathroom mirror—had cut through the tight knot of confusion that had been sitting in her chest since the nightmare. She moved through her tasks on the laptop with an easy focus, pausing now and then to tuck a loose curl behind her ear, the memory of the buzz still faint at the edge of her hearing.

 

Later that morning her phone rang.

 

“Hi, Nicola? It’s reception at the office. Just calling to let you know tomorrow’s conference has been cancelled again.”

Nicola smiled, still loose from the morning.

 

“Thanks for the heads-up. Glad I got a bit of notice this time.” There was a short pause.

 

“What do you mean?”

 

“Last time I only got the email,” Nicola said. “No one called. I had to wait for it.”

 

“I did call,” the receptionist said. “The night before. I spoke to a woman. She confirmed everything.”

 

Nicola’s smile faded. “You didn’t speak to me.”

 

“I spoke to a female,” the receptionist repeated, certain. “She answered, took the details, and hung up.”

 

Nicola went quiet. A woman. She hadn’t been home. The only other person who could have answered was Kirsty. The realisation settled cold and precise in her stomach. Why hadn’t Kirsty told her? The question sat there, sharp and unanswered, while the receptionist waited on the other end of the line.

 

Nicola ended the call politely, her voice quiet, then set the phone down. She sat still at the kitchen table, the laptop screen glowing in front of her, trying to arrange what she had just heard.

 

Kirsty had known the conference was cancelled. She hadn’t told her. Kirsty had known Nicola would be coming home that night. She had wanted her to walk in. She had wanted to be caught.

The realisation opened in Nicola’s chest like a drop. Her mouth parted. She stared at nothing, the easy lightness of the morning gone. A fortnight of revelations, and this one sat heavier than the rest.

 

Nicola’s hand moved toward her phone on instinct, ready to call Kirsty and demand an explanation, then stopped halfway. She set it back down. The first flare of anger cooled as she sat with it.

Why hadn’t Kirsty just told her? They had been best friends for twenty years. They shared everything. Why had Kirsty felt she had to arrange to be caught instead of speaking? Did she not trust her? Had she been lonely, or frightened, or simply unable to find the words?

 

The questions settled heavily. Nicola’s throat tightened. She stayed at the table for a long moment, eyes on the wood grain, feeling the quiet press of it. Then, as she always did, she chose to move. She pulled a notebook and pen toward her, wrapped one of her dark-blonde curls slowly around her finger, and began to write. The words formed under her breath as she shaped them: they had shared something rare the last time the conference was cancelled. They would do it again.

 

That night settled into the shape of so many others they had shared. A simple dinner, plates cleared without ceremony, then the sofa and whatever mindless programme happened to be on. Kirsty sank against Nicola’s side the way she always did, head resting near her shoulder, while Nicola’s fingers moved slowly through the long dark lengths of her hair. For Kirsty it was pure ease, the old comfort of being close and handled without question. Nicola kept the motion steady, but the knowledge sat sharp beneath it. She still hadn’t said what she knew. The unease hadn’t left her. It was time to break the ice again.

 

Nicola kept her fingers moving through Kirsty’s hair, slow and even, then spoke into the low light of the living room.

 

“The hair thing,” she said. “How’s that been?”

 

Kirsty’s shoulders tightened under her. She gave a small, nervous nod, eyes fixed on the television. A flutter moved through her stomach at the plain way Nicola had named it, the fetish still sharp and private even now that it was known.

 

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Nicola asked. Her voice stayed level.

 

Kirsty’s reply came thin.

 

“I don’t know. I’m sorry.”

 

“Stop apologising.” Nicola’s hand paused for a moment, then resumed.

 

“We’ve been best friends for twenty years. It hurts that you couldn’t say it. I feel like I let you down. That was a big thing and I couldn’t help you with it.”

 

Kirsty was quiet for a second. When she answered, her voice was smaller still.

 

“I couldn’t tell you because you were such a good friend.”

 

The words landed strangely. Nicola’s fingers stilled in Kirsty’s hair. She looked down at the crown of her head, confused by the shape of the answer, and waited.

Nicola’s fingers stayed still in Kirsty’s hair.

 

“I’m not sure that makes sense,” she said quietly.

 

Kirsty shifted against her.

 

“It does.”

 

She drew in a long, uneven breath and swallowed. The words felt too large in her mouth. She couldn’t quite believe the version of herself that was about to say them.

 

“You’re the most important person in my life. I couldn’t bear to lose you. I didn’t want to be judged. Or rejected. It wasn’t worth the pain, so it wasn’t worth saying.”

 

Nicola listened without moving. She kept her eyes on the top of Kirsty’s head, the long dark hair soft under her hand, and held herself carefully still so the tightness in her throat wouldn’t show.

Nicola turned Kirsty’s head gently toward her until their eyes met.

 

“I would never reject you,” she said. “You’re the most important person in my life too.”

 

She held the look.

 

“One last thing.”

 

Kirsty nodded, still caught in her gaze.

 

“No more secrets,” Nicola said.

 

“We share everything. Nothing too big, nothing too small. Nothing gets between us again.”

 

Kirsty nodded once more. She reached for Nicola and pulled her into a tight embrace, both of them blinking hard against the sudden press of tears. When Kirsty drew back, the warmth of the hug still on her skin, something low and unsettled remained in the pit of her stomach.

 

Kirsty’s breath stayed shallow. She had already decided there was no turning back. She looked at Nicola, the space between them still warm from the hug.

 

“Nic” she said.

 

Nicola met her eyes. “Yeah?”

 

Kirsty’s voice came out low and unsteady.

 

“I love you, Nicola.”

 

Nicola’s smile was immediate and wide.

 

“I love you too,” she said, warm and certain.

 

Kirsty shook her head. Her voice stayed low.

 

“I love you. And I’m in love with you.”

 

They were inches apart, eyes locked. Nicola’s smile faded slowly. This was not what she had expected to hear. Neither of them looked away. The air between them turned heavy and precise.

 

Kirsty leaned in and kissed her. Nicola drew back for half a second, then gave in, pulling Kirsty closer as the kiss deepened on the sofa. Nicola shifted, pressing her mouth to Kirsty’s cheek, then lower, toward her neck. Kirsty’s face was buried in the mass of Nicola’s curls. She sank into the contact, the old pull of submission rising fast and complete.

 

Then she broke it. She pulled away, breathing uneven, and the two of them stayed where they were, looking at each other with open want. Kirsty stood, hair and clothes disordered.

 

“It’s late,” she said, voice thin. “I should go to bed. I have a busy day tomorrow.”

 

She turned and left the room quickly.

Nicola stayed on the sofa. A short, quiet laugh left her.

 

“Oh yes you do,” she murmured to the empty space, then sat staring with a wry smile.