A boycut for the beauty

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To Bill.

Ice Cold Nipples

I needed the extra few bucks, inflation did not help in maintaining the bills. And that jerk boyfriend of mine couldn’t handle the commitment, what had my life come to? Brands couldn’t sponsor influencers anymore, I’d have to size down at this rate. Sasha, my friend, suggested “quitting this Instagram nonsense” and “finding a decent job.”

Beggars couldn’t be choosers. I didn’t have a college degree, the options were limited, so I went to our local Starbucks, they were in desperate need of baristas. Well, this is my life now. Tomorrow was my first day, after the short interview, I quickly went out the door.

Splash.

A whole cup of ice cold coffee stained my white tank. Great, today just couldn’t get better. I don’t know who I had bumped into! Brute. That is, until I saw him. well built, tall, and handsome? “I’m so sorry, could I get you a napkin?” the strong voice called out. I was too stunned to say anything. He was so much older than me, in his late thirties? My dry desert was suddenly gushing. My nipples strained against the flimsy material of the ribbed tank.

After cleaning up, he offered to make it up to me, I couldn’t pass up on it.

 

Moving In

Well, what can I say, Sam- my coffee spiller and I hit it off. It’s been a couple of months, and he’s been so kind. I’m moving in with him today. We’ve made a deal- he’ll take care of all my finances as long as I do what he wants, moreover, he’s beyond capable of handling the inflationary pressure, and the sex, the sex is amazing.

I only have to carry my existing clothes and accessories, toiletries and electronics. What more do I need? Besides, I won’t ever need to worry about anything except the way I am, for my Sam. He doesn’t have any kids, no wife, none of that. He’s promised me a ring after his trip to London next week.

I settled into our bedroom, and there Sam was, awaiting me with open arms. “I’m so glad you’ve moved in, now we can do everything I want you to do!” He whispered, ridding me of my clothes. “I’m your barbie girl…” I sang along, as he finished undressing me. Smack, Smack. In addition, Sam loved the shape of my ass, he loved kneading and smacking it while we fucked.

He loved the way my long brown hair brushed against the dimples above my ass, but even more so, twisting and pulling my hair as I sucked him off, was a personal favourite for the both of us. We were going to dinner tonight, his favourite Asian place, but we had to stop by his barbershop for his trim before dinner.  It was almost 5pm, Our reservation was at 8. Sam hated being late anywhere, so I headed in to shower and change.

 

Trip to the Barbershop

I curled my hair into loose waves, and wore Sam’s favourite white dress, as he stood behind, watching my get dressed- he took the Barbie Girl fantasy to the next level. Plumping my lips, we headed to the car. Sam was getting a little shaggy, he loved his short business cut, with extra short tapered sides and back. Little did I know, what would await me…

 

Premonition

I had accompanied Sam to his Barber’s before, John, his barber was a stiff, old man, a little grumpy too. The two of them would often joke about shoving me into the chair for a makeover. Of course, Angela, my stylist would probably have a heart attack, as would I. But something seemed different today.

“Step into the Chair, baby” Sam whispered, as he stepped in. John was waiting for us, chair facing toward me. I looked at Sam, confused. “I want you to near me, doll” he continued. So I did. John’s shop had only 3 chairs, one at the far end, near the storage, one near the windows, and one, in the middle. You settled into the middle, and I sat near the window. I usually sat in the plasticy chairs near the waiting area.

John started his routine. An Inch off the top, and an almost skin fade in the back and sides. I’d never seen Sam get shaggy, he had to be in for a trim, in the after hours, every 3 weeks. Just enough for the fade to get covered. I never could understand why he was so obsessed with maintaining his hair. It took barely 15 minutes, and I’d begun getting up to go to the car. “Sit back down, don’t be disrespectful,” John warned, “I’m just going to get the car, baby,” I addressed Sam.

“Do what he says, doll, sit back down, don’t make me cross.” Sam seethed, impatiently. I reluctantly found my way back into the chair, while John shaped up Sam’s edges with a T trimmer. Soon, enough he flicked off the cape, and took out a fresh one. I was really confused now. With a flick from Sam’s hands, John was over to me, while Sam turned his chair towards me. What was happening?

 

Cut

I quickly attempted to get out the chair, not before grumpy John caught me, by the arm, and dumped me back into the chair. “Told you I’d have your hair soon enough, pretty girl.” he whispered, as he pulled my hair onto my hair. A quick glance at Sam, and his legs were apart, with a growing erection, lit cigarette in hand. A neckstrip was quickly put in place, with a tight cape on top.

John brushed through my loose curls, probably for the last time, for a long time. “You know what to do, turn her chair away.” you continued, a sinister smirk plastered across your face. A quick spin later, my hair was in John’s hands, with the sharp scissors snapping towards my luscious locks. All those years of good hair care was down the drain.

Scrunch. Scrunch.

They tore through my locks, mercilessly. The smile on Sam’s face grew wider, I now understood why he was obsessed with hair. Eventually, my hair gave up, falling to a short, disheveled bob. He didn’t even spare any length, made his cut right at the nape. “Much better already, remember, doll, this is what it’s going to be like.” Sam taunted, watching as the barber tied my cut length into chopped ponytail to Sam, who held it and caressed it, mocking me.

My cheek is tickled when the hair fragments swing forward. Sam could see firsthand the harsh, choppy bob that now surrounds my face, while I can only speculate as to the harm caused by getting rid of my ponytail. My hair has never been shorter than my chin in the front or substantially shorter in the back than it is now. He takes joy in my shattered pride, the smudged cheek makeup, and my humiliation as the barber tangles my hair with one hand, sending the cropped strands flying.

My hair was separated from the top, and held together with a spare rubberband.

 

Barbered

“Put your head down.” John commanded, I had now accepted my fate as a short haired girl, wondering how much shorter I would have to go, to please you. I couldn’t help but feel aroused at your dominant stance, the severed ponytail adding fuel to the fire.

I only provide a token amount of resistance, which only helps to increase my scared arousal as I’m compelled to fully submit. My lips are trembling in desperation as my chin is lowered to the cape’s cloth. My chopped ponytail, in your hands, which serves as a reminder of what has already been taken, compels me to look down while I sit.

The shuffling at the back was making anxious, and the pop of a buzzing tool, confirmed my suspicions. “I don’t think I ever told you,” you said, “You’ll be accompanying me to John every 3 weeks.”

This commenced the massacre. After the initial pass, the clippers are again forced up my nape and beyond without pausing, causing additional hair to fall over my shoulders. Even if I can’t see the harm they’re doing, my other senses more than make up for it. My neck’s base is now clearly visible, and the back of my head already feels lighter and cooler.

These feelings completely overwhelm me, and I discover that they appear as an uncomfortable wetness between my legs, a throbbing in my sex, and tears that flow as I sob into the cape. Clipper happy John was more than happy to rob me of my locks, sending the clippers above, till everything, the sides and the back were clippered to his liking.

“Getting the ears out sure was a great idea, Sir.” John chuckled, directing the comment at my newly exposed ears, and your cunning plan. “I know, now, give her the little boys cut I’ve always wanted.” you added, “No more hair pulling for you, doll.” you sneered.

“Let’s get the rest of this short too? Shall we?” John poked me.

And he did, get the rest off, I could only imagine what I’d look like. You needn’t imagine it, though, as soon as I take a glimpse up, catch your vengeful, smug gaze as it records every second of my enforced transformation.

When our eyes meet, I experience a rush of submission, realising that I am here for your pleasure alone, regardless of whether I can find any of my own, and that I am submitting to you. We already have a common understanding about that, though, and the hungry, pounding pain between my thighs is more than enough to represent it physically.

John feels my skull, while his other hand seems to toggle with another tool. Pop. I thought I’d be left with a bob, at least, but here come the clippers. The buzzing feels much closer to my skin, sending jitters down to my core. I suspect it to be a fade, similar to yours. The arousal, submission and clippers were not a good combination.

My submissive trance helped pass the time, my humiliation and arousal growing stronger by the minute. The T clippers shaped my edges too, John folded my ears and shaped whatever little was left. A shiver passes through me, I almost catch myself moaning in the roughness of this enforced scenario.

“She likes it, John, get the scissors out, now.” you pipe up. The schnik of the scissors, sets my fate for the top of my hair, the little ponytail comes off, the rest being brutally thrown to the floor, like it was meant for the trash. I finally understand this power dynamic.

This time, I don’t even consider an alternative to getting my hair chopped to your specifications, any thoughts of negotiating or reaching a compromise being swept aside by my desire to win your favour. The barber combs out a long strand of hair from the front of my head and holds it out into my line of view as I remain passive and submissive, the tears starting to dry on my cheeks now.

The scissors snap closed, sending a new set of 1 or 2 inch clipping onto the cape, where all the hair collects itself. My eyes stay fixed and unfocused, not moving as my hair falls in front of my face to join the rest of the cascade.

As he snips, snaps and crops away, the barber’s fingers begin to brush against my head as he struggles to get them in between my scalp and the scissors. The intended style is finally beginning to take shape; the fade is cropped close against the sides of my head, exposing my ears as you requested, and the top is chopped short, ridding the little messy femininity from this cut that doesn’t look out of place on a boy.

The little boy’s cut, per your request. You pipe up, “Much better, John. We’re done now, doll.” John slicks my hair with a little pomade. With no surprise, the chair is turned around, I see your eyes in the mirror, that’s all the approval I need. Your hand grips my chin and forces me to look at myself, cropped, chopped and shorn to a little boycut.

 

Collared

John dusts off the clippings on my neck, and sends the clipping, and the cape, flying to the floor. The neck strip comes off next. Before I can adjust my wobbly legs to get up. You place your hands on my clavicle, adding a small choker to my neck. A collar. “Now, you’re my Barbie Girl.” you say, “Let’s go, doll.”

So I follow, your collared submissive. With a boycut for the beauty.

 

 

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