Bouffant Shave
Core is true.
Years had slipped by since Clara’s bouffant and shaved transformation in 1993, and by 2004, she and Daniel had settled into a life of quiet daring, their bond deepened by shared quirks and unspoken trust. Clara, now 44, still wore her red hair in a teased bouffant most days, the shaved nape a permanent fixture, though the style had softened with time. But her eyes had always wandered to another era—the 1930s, where women like Marlene Dietrich reigned with their thin, sharp, high-angled brows, painted on like delicate calligraphy. She’d noticed those brows as a girl, admiring their elegance in old films, and the fascination never faded. One rainy afternoon in 2004, she popped a Marlene Dietrich CD into their old stereo, and as The Blue Angel flickered on the TV, those brows—razor-thin and arched like crescent moons—captivated her anew. She wanted them.
The next morning, alone in their bathroom, Clara stood before the mirror, her natural brows—full and softly arched—staring back at her. She grabbed a pair of tweezers, the metal cool in her hand, and began to decimate them. Not completely—she wasn’t ready to erase them entirely—but she plucked with purpose, thinning them drastically. The sharp pinch of each hair pulling free sent a shiver through her, the sparse patches emerging like a rough sketch of Dietrich’s iconic look. She stepped back, tilting her head, the bouffant framing her face as she studied the uneven, half-gone brows. They weren’t perfect, but they felt like a step toward something bold.
When Daniel came home that evening, he stopped short, his eyes flicking to her face. “Well, look at you,” he said, a grin tugging at his lips. “You’ve been at it again.” Clara shrugged, feigning nonchalance. “I got inspired. Marlene Dietrich.” He stepped closer, inspecting the damage. “If you keep going, you’ll need to draw them on,” he teased, but his tone carried that familiar spark of intrigue. She smirked, filing the idea away.
Later that night, their bedroom dim with the glow of a single candle, Clara felt the pull of her new experiment. As they tangled in foreplay, her shaved sex already bare and sensitive under Daniel’s touch, she guided her face toward his. “Kiss me here,” she murmured, tilting her head to press her plucked brow to his lips. Daniel obliged, his warm mouth brushing the sparse hairs, soft at first. She pushed harder, craving more, and his tongue slid over the ridge, tracing the uneven stubble she’d left behind. The sensation—wet, electric—made her breath hitch. Emboldened, she pressed her brow beyond his lips, grazing his teeth, the hard edge a thrilling contrast to his softness.
Slowly, she rocked her head back and forth, the friction building as Daniel’s teeth caught the remaining hairs. He nibbled gently at first, then firmer, until a single strand perched between his pearly whites like a tiny trophy. With a tug—sharp, deliberate—he ripped it free, the sting blooming across her brow ridge. Clara moaned, the sound raw and unfiltered, as Daniel’s fingers worked her shaved pussy in tandem, stroking the smooth skin with practiced rhythm. The dual sensations—pain and pleasure weaving together—lit her up. “More,” she whispered, pushing her brow deeper into his mouth. He obliged, his teeth plucking hair after hair, each pull a jolt that rippled through her, her body arching as his fingers pressed harder, faster.
Then, unwilling to let the other brow miss out, Clara shifted, offering it to his teeth. “This one too,” she urged, her voice thick with need. Daniel grinned against her skin, diving in with equal fervor. His teeth tugged and ripped, the sparse hairs yielding one by one, the sharp stings blending with the heat building below. She rocked against him, her bouffant swaying, her shaved sex slick under his touch. The climax hit her like a wave—ultimate, shattering—her brows throbbing, her body trembling as she rode the peak of what she’d wanted, needed. Daniel held her through it, his breath ragged, their connection electric in the aftermath.
The next morning, Clara stood before the mirror, her bouffant still intact, her face flushed from the night before. She studied her brows—or what was left of them. The sparseness was stark, patches of bare skin where Daniel’s teeth had worked their magic, yet it wasn’t as bare as she’d hoped. Plenty of hairs remained, stubborn and patchy, a far cry from Marlene’s sleek lines. She sighed, reaching for her makeup bag. With a steady hand, she drew in the blanks, sketching her usual Clara brows—fuller, softer—over the wreckage. The pencil glided over her skin, filling the gaps, and when she stepped back, she looked like herself again, mostly. But beneath the surface, she felt the thrill of the night before, the memory of those plucked hairs and Daniel’s teeth etched into her like a secret tattoo.
Over the months following that first electrifying night in 2004, Clara and Daniel’s tweezer foreplay with his teeth became a ritual, a deliciously strange thread woven into their intimacy. It started sporadically, but soon it was a near-weekly event, each session fueled by Clara’s eager anticipation and Daniel’s willing participation. The bedroom would dim, the air thick with candlelight and unspoken excitement, and Clara would lie back, her fiery bouffant fanning across the pillow, her shaved nape cool against the sheets. She’d tilt her head, presenting her sparse brows to Daniel’s lips like an offering, her voice a soft command: “Here, take them.”
Daniel would start slow, his warm breath grazing her brow ridge as his lips brushed the patchy hairs she’d left after her initial plucking. She’d push closer, urging him on, and his tongue would glide over the skin, teasing the stubble. Then came the teeth—those pearly whites she’d come to crave. He’d nibble at first, catching a single hair between them, his grip firm but careful. With a quick tug, he’d rip it free, the sharp sting blooming across her brow, a tiny jolt that made her gasp. Clara loved the sound—the faint snap of the hair pulling loose—and the feel of his teeth working, methodical yet hungry. She’d moan, pressing her brow harder into his mouth, and he’d oblige, plucking more, each tug stripping away another strand. His fingers, meanwhile, danced over her shaved sex, the smooth skin hypersensitive under his touch, amplifying every sensation.
Some nights, she’d shift mid-session, offering the other brow to ensure symmetry in their strange, intimate art. “Don’t leave this one out,” she’d murmur, and Daniel would grin, diving in with equal zeal. His teeth would tug and rip, hair by hair, the pain a bright thread woven into the pleasure building below. The sessions stretched longer as her brows grew sparser, Daniel hunting for the stubborn stragglers, his tongue tracing the increasingly bare ridges before his teeth claimed their prize. Each time, the climax hit Clara like a storm—raw, overwhelming—her body shuddering as the last hair was plucked, her brow throbbing, her shaved pussy pulsing under his fingers. They’d collapse together, breathless, the air humming with their shared thrill.
Every morning after, Clara would slip into the bathroom, her bouffant slightly mussed from sleep, and pull out her magnifying mirror. She’d lean close, the glass amplifying every detail of her progress. At first, the changes were subtle—patchy gaps where Daniel’s teeth had done their work—but over weeks, then months, her brows began to look alien, otherworldly. The full, soft arches she’d once known were nearly gone, replaced by a stark, bare expanse with only faint traces of hair. “Getting there!” she’d whisper to her reflection, a mix of triumph and impatience in her voice. Yet, even as she marveled at the sparseness, the magnifying mirror revealed survivors—tiny, defiant hairs, barely detectable to the naked eye, clinging to her brow ridge. She’d run her fingers over the skin, feeling the smoothness, but knowing she wasn’t fully browless yet.
Saturdays brought her to Rita’s salon, where her bouffant was refreshed—teased high, curlers set, and nape shaved clean. But these visits had taken on a new layer since Clara had let Rita in on her secret. One day, months back, as Rita combed out her hair, Clara had spilled it all—how Daniel’s teeth had become her tweezers, how each love session stripped her brows further, how the sharp sting of each pluck fueled her desire. She’d described the ritual in vivid detail: the way she’d push her brow into his mouth, the snap of each hair ripping free, the way his fingers worked her shaved sex in sync. Rita had listened, wide-eyed at first, then chuckled. “Well, that’s one way to do it,” she’d said, her tone warm with amusement. “You’re a pair, alright.”
Now, each Saturday, Rita would lean in close, inspecting Clara’s brows with a professional eye. “Look at that progressascissors,” she’d say, snipping at a stray curl. “Daniel’s pearly whites are doing a number on you, huh? You’re almost there—barely a hair left!” She’d praise Clara’s progress, her scissors idle as she examined the nearly bald ridges. “You’re channeling Marlene Dietrich for real now. Just a few stragglers holding on.” Clara would beam, sharing the latest tally—five hairs one night, three the next—her voice bright with pride. Rita, ever supportive, would nod approvingly. “Keep at it, hon. You’ll be browless before you know it.” Clara had even shown her the Marlene Dietrich CD cover once, pointing to those iconic thin arches. “That’s the goal,” she’d said, and Rita had laughed, promising to keep the bouffant bold to match.
Back home, Clara would sketch her usual brows over the sparse remains, filling the blanks with pencil to face the day. But beneath the makeup, she felt the thrill of her journey—each pluck a step closer to her vision, each morning a check on how alien, how striking, she could become.
Nearly a year had passed since Clara first set her sights on denuding her brows, a slow, exhilarating journey fueled by Daniel’s teeth and her own relentless vision. It was a quiet morning in late 2005 when she stepped into the bathroom, her red bouffant still tousled from sleep, and pulled out her magnifying mirror as she had every day for months. She leaned in, her breath shallow, and scanned her brow ridges. Not a single hair stared back at her—no faint stubble, no stubborn stragglers, nothing. The skin was smooth, bare, alien. “I did it!” she exclaimed, her voice echoing off the tiles. Tears welled up, hot and sudden, spilling down her cheeks—tears of joy, tears of victory. She touched the blank expanse where her brows once arched, her fingers trembling as she traced the silky void. Her reflection was otherworldly, her bouffant framing a face stripped of its familiar lines, and she laughed through the sobs, overwhelmed by the triumph of it all.
She couldn’t wait to share it. Barefoot, still in her nightgown, she rushed to the kitchen where Daniel sipped his coffee, his eyes lifting as she burst in. “Dan, look!” she cried, tilting her head to show off her naked brow ridges. He set his mug down, blinking in surprise. “Wow,” he said, standing to get a closer look. “You really do look like an alien.” He’d almost always seen her with her painted Clara brows—full and soft, sketched on each morning to mask the sparseness. Now, stripped bare, her face was raw, startling, the bouffant amplifying the strangeness. He reached out, brushing his thumb over the smooth skin, his expression a mix of awe and amusement. “It’s… wild,” he said, chuckling. “I didn’t realize how far you’d gone.”
“Not for long!” Clara shot back, her grin wide and mischievous. She darted back to the bathroom, grabbing her eyebrow drawing kit from the vanity—a well-worn pencil, a fine brush, and a pot of dark brown powder. “Today, the Clara brows disappear,” she declared to her reflection. “Here come my Dietrich brows!” She settled in, the mirror angled just right, and began the transformation. First, she wiped her face clean, the bare ridges gleaming under the light. Then, with a steady hand, she dipped the brush into the powder and traced a thin, high arc above her left eye, mimicking the sharp, angled elegance of Marlene Dietrich’s iconic look. The line was precise, delicate, climbing toward her temple before swooping down in a crisp tail. She repeated it on the right, adjusting until the symmetry was perfect—two crescent moons framing her face. She blended the powder lightly, then sharpened the edges with the pencil, the dark brown stark against her pale skin. A half hour later, she stepped back, her bouffant freshly teased, and admired the result: a face both vintage and fierce, the Dietrich brows a perfect crown to her bold red hair.
Clara emerged from the bathroom, her hands cupped over her brows, her excitement bubbling over. She strode to Daniel, who’d moved to the living room, and paused dramatically. “Ta-da!” she sang, dropping her hands to reveal the thin, high, sharp-angled brows—exact replicas of Dietrich’s. Daniel’s jaw dropped, his eyes widening as he took her in. “Wow,” he breathed, standing to circle her like he had all those years ago at the salon. “That hair, those brows—you’re like an actress, a model, and a goddess all rolled into one.” His voice was thick with admiration, his hands hovering as if afraid to touch the masterpiece she’d become. The bouffant, still shaved at the nape, soared above the sleek, ultra-feminine brows, and he pulled her close, kissing her forehead just below the painted lines. “You’re stunning, Clara.”
That Saturday, she showed off her triumph at Rita’s salon. Rita, mid-tease with the comb, stopped dead when Clara walked in. “Oh my Lord,” she gasped, setting her tools down to inspect the brows up close. “You’ve done it—completely bare, and those Dietrich lines? Stunning doesn’t even cover it.” Clara had kept Rita in the loop for months, detailing every pluck, every session with Daniel’s teeth, and now Rita’s praise felt like a coronation. “I knew you’d get there,” Rita said, her eyes gleaming. “Those rips from Dan’s pearly whites paid off. You’re a vision, hon.” She resumed teasing the bouffant, her hands reverent, as if styling a star.
Everywhere Clara went, heads turned. At the grocery store, a cashier stammered, “You look like someone famous—those brows!” On the street, a woman stopped her to ask, “How do you get them so perfect?” At the diner, Jenny, now a manager, gushed, “You’re a walking work of art, Clara.” The praise poured in, a chorus of awe that followed her like a spotlight. She’d walk with her chin high, the bouffant swaying, the Dietrich brows slicing through the air, and feel the world bend toward her.
Clara was overjoyed, her heart full. Daniel had gotten what he’d wanted all those years ago—her bouffant, bold and unshakable—and now she had what she craved: his delight, her own ultra-feminine triumph, and a face that was undeniably, gloriously hers. Together, they’d built something extraordinary, one pluck, one paint stroke at a time.q
