Bouffant Shave
The faded sign of “Evelyn’s Hair Haven” swayed in the faint March breeze as Clara stepped inside, her stomach twisting with a cocktail of dread and exhilaration. The beauty parlor was a shrine to a bygone era—bouffant hairdos, pastel walls, and the cloying scent of hairspray hanging thick in the air. Her husband, Daniel, had sent her here with a devilish smirk and a single, cryptic instruction: Surprise me. He knew this place was the antithesis of Clara’s world—a BDSM devotee who thrived on leather, steel, and sharp edges, not rollers and perms. He’d chosen it deliberately, relishing the thought of her squirming in this frilly, old-fashioned setting, fully out of place, yet bound to obey.
Evelyn, the beautician, was a stout woman in her sixties, her teased hair a towering testament to decades past. She greeted Clara with a warm, unsuspecting smile, her cat-eye glasses glinting. “Well, hello, dear. What’s it to be today? A nice updo?”
Clara swallowed, her resolve hardening against the pastel backdrop. “I want you to shave my head. Razor smooth. Completely bald. And…” She paused, the weight of her words a lifeline to her comfort zone. “I want you to put a bar of soap in my mouth. Force it in, and I’ll bite down hard while you shave me. You’ll have to pry it out when you’re done.”
Evelyn’s eyebrows shot up, but instead of confusion, a slow, wicked grin spread across her face. “Well, now,” she drawled, leaning in. “That’s a curveball I haven’t seen in forty years of teasing hair. But I’ll let you in on something—I’ve tied a knot or two myself, back in the day. Scenes that’d make your skin tingle.” She chuckled, her eyes gleaming with recognition. “Sit down, darling. Let’s give you what you came for.”
Clara perched on the vinyl chair, the pastel cushions clashing with her dark jeans and the storm of anticipation inside her. Evelyn fetched a plain white bar of soap and a pair of clippers, her movements brisk and purposeful. “Open wide,” she commanded, her voice sharpening. Clara obeyed, and Evelyn pressed the soap against her lips, then forced it in with a firm shove. The bitter, lavender-scented bar filled her mouth, and her teeth sank into it, the acrid taste grounding her as she bit down hard. Evelyn stepped back, nodding with approval.
“Good girl,” she murmured, switching on the clippers. The buzz cut through the salon’s soft chatter as she sheared Clara’s chestnut hair, thick locks falling to the floor. The other women—regulars with rollers and perms—peered over, their prim world disrupted by this strange intruder. Evelyn finished the clipping, then lathered Clara’s scalp with warm shaving cream, spreading it thickly until her head gleamed white.
But Evelyn didn’t reach for the razor. Instead, she paused, a glint of mischief in her eye. “This is too good to rush,” she announced, raising her voice. “Ladies, come take a look! Ever seen a head-shaving with a twist like this?” She gestured to Clara, foam dripping down her neck, soap clamped tight in her mouth. The regulars shuffled closer, whispering behind manicured hands, their stares a jarring contrast to Clara’s usual scene of shadowed dungeons and knowing nods. Her chest tightened, the exposure amplifying her discomfort—and her thrill.
“Look at her,” Evelyn said, circling Clara like a ringmaster. “Not a flinch, not a peep. She’s got grit.” The delay dragged on, the foam prickling Clara’s skin, the soap’s bite intensifying. Her breathing quickened, the clash of this prim setting and her raw submission feeding the storm within her—exactly as Daniel had intended.
Finally, Evelyn grabbed the razor, her grin softening into focus. “Time to finish it.” The blade glided over Clara’s scalp, smooth and relentless, stripping away every trace of hair. The sensation was electric, sharpened by the soap and the alien stares. When the last stroke was done, Evelyn wiped Clara’s head clean, revealing a gleaming dome.
She wasn’t finished, though. Leaning in, she brushed Clara’s brow. “Hold on,” she declared. “Eyebrows are on your head, too. They’ve got to go.” Before Clara could react, Evelyn lathered her brows and shaved them off with quick, precise strokes, leaving her face stark and bare. The vulnerability hit like a whipcrack, a perfect note in Daniel’s orchestrated discord.
Satisfied, Evelyn gripped Clara’s jaw. “Time to let this go,” she said, her tone firm. With a strong tug, she pried the soap from Clara’s teeth, the bar slick with saliva and etched with bite marks. Clara gasped, the bitter taste lingering as she worked her aching jaw, relief crashing against the high of the ordeal.
Evelyn inspected the soap, nodding. “You’re a natural, darling. Took it like a pro.” She tossed it aside, then ran a hand over Clara’s bald scalp and browless face, her touch possessive. “Bet your man’s going to lose his mind.”
Clara stood, her fingers tracing her smooth head, a mix of triumph and disorientation swirling within her. “He will,” she rasped, her voice steady despite the chaos. “Thank you, Evelyn. You made it… unforgettable.”
Evelyn smirked, crossing her arms. “Oh, we’re not done. I want you back here, same time next week. No excuses.” Her command hung in the air, a challenge Clara couldn’t refuse.
As she left, the cool March air kissed her bare scalp and naked brows, and she felt raw, transformed. Daniel had known she’d be a fish out of water here, surrounded by perms and propriety, and he’d revel in her recounting every awkward, exhilarating detail. But she’d turned his task into her own victory—guided by Evelyn’s unexpectedly skilled hand. Next week, she’d return, ready for whatever Evelyn had in store.
Clara returned to “Evelyn’s Hair Haven” precisely one week later, the bell’s shrill jangle swallowed by the dense, syrupy air that enveloped her—thick with the cloying sweetness of hairspray, the powdery whisper of talc, and a faint, acrid trace of scorched perm solution. The parlor’s pastel walls shimmered faintly under flickering fluorescents, their bubblegum pink and mint green jarring against the wilted floral curtains that swayed like drooping petals in the draft. Daniel had sent her back with that same wicked grin—Surprise me—knowing this saccharine, old-world den would scrape against her raw, leather-clad soul, a deliberate thrust to see her twist its softness into their jagged dance. Her bald scalp prickled as the cool March breeze slithered through the closing door, every nerve sparking like a live wire.
Evelyn loomed ahead, her teased hair a brittle, lacquered fortress gleaming like spun sugar under the lights, her cat-eye glasses flashing with a predatory glint. “Right on time, darling,” she rasped, her voice a gravelly purr laced with the sharp tang of menthol gum. “Back room. Now.” The command snapped like a whip, and Clara followed, her boots thudding against the linoleum—each step a dull echo past the main salon, where rollers rattled like dry bones and dryers whined a low, mournful drone—into the stark, clinical chamber beyond. The gynecological bench hulked in the center, its black vinyl glistening with a greasy sheen, the stirrups dangling like polished steel claws under the buzzing, antiseptic glare.
“Hop up,” Evelyn barked, her tone a steel blade cloaked in velvet. Clara climbed aboard, the vinyl sticking to her thighs with a wet, sucking grip, its icy bite seeping through her jeans to prickle her skin with gooseflesh. Evelyn’s hands—warm, rough as sandpaper, and faintly damp with sweat—guided Clara’s legs into the stirrups, the leather straps groaning as they cinched tight around her ankles, spreading her wide with a creak that reverberated in her bones. The air slithered over her exposed skin, a chilly, teasing whisper laced with the sterile tang of disinfectant, setting her pulse pounding like a drum in her ears.
“I’m shaving you bare down there,” Evelyn declared, her breath a warm gust of mint against Clara’s face, undercut by the stale musk of cigarette smoke clinging to her apron. “Every last hair.” She pivoted, her voice booming. “Gladys! Drag the gals back—they’ll want to feast their eyes on this.” Footsteps shuffled, a staccato patter on the tiles, and the room swelled with the salon’s regulars—five women in pastel housecoats, their cloying floral perfume blooming like a suffocating garden, mingling with the sharp bite of ammonia from their fresh perms. Gladys, wiry and hawk-eyed, propped herself against the wall, her smirk a razor’s edge as the others gaped, their whispers a sibilant rustle like leaves in a storm.
The clippers erupted, their guttural roar vibrating through Clara’s pelvis like a swarm of angry hornets, the metal teeth gnashing as Evelyn sheared the hair below. Strands drifted down, tickling her thighs like spider silk, followed by the slick, molten glide of shaving cream—its menthol sting searing her skin, raising a flush that burned beneath the surface. The razor’s edge was a frigid kiss, scraping with a relentless, whispering hiss, leaving her nether region raw and hypersensitive, every stray breeze a needle-prick against her flesh. Evelyn wiped her clean with a towel, its coarse, damp nap dragging across her like sandpaper, coaxing a shudder that rippled up her spine.
“First enema,” Evelyn announced, hefting a bag that sloshed with hot, soapy water—its steam curling upward in lazy tendrils, thick with the acrid bite of cheap detergent and a faint whiff of lemon. She shaved around Clara’s rear with swift, deft strokes—each scrape a jolt that buzzed through her tailbone—then slid the nozzle in, its slick, rubbery surface cold and unyielding against her heat. The flood began—scalding, frothy waves that roared into her, churning with a wet, gurgling growl, bloating her belly with a heavy, restless fire that pulsed against her ribs. Clara gripped the bench, her knuckles popping under the strain, her gasps ragged and unmuted, the air thick with the steamy tang as the pressure swelled, a molten weight she couldn’t escape.
When it drained, Evelyn slapped her thigh, the damp smack echoing like a gunshot. “Second one’s next.” She shifted to the front, rigging a bag of clear, cool water—its plastic crinkling like brittle ice, the liquid shimmering with a crystalline sheen under the harsh light. Before starting, she snatched a bar of soap from the tray—its lavender scent sharp and waxy, cutting through the room like a blade—and snapped, “Open.” Clara’s jaw parted, and Evelyn jammed the bar in, its edges grinding against her teeth with a chalky screech, the bitter flood exploding across her tongue, thick and cloying as her saliva turned to paste. With the soap clamped tight, Evelyn buzzed the clippers over Clara’s scalp and brows, their vibrations rattling her skull like a jackhammer, flecks of stubble raining down to sting her cheeks. Shaving cream followed, its creamy weight slathering her face, dripping in cold rivulets that burned her eyes with menthol fumes, and the razor scraped anew—each stroke a crisp, slicing whisper that left her head and brows glassy-smooth, slick as wet stone.
Midway, Evelyn triggered the second enema—a frigid, crystalline rush that poured in from the front, a retention flow that stretched her insides with a piercing, unrelenting chill. The icy bite clashed with the soap’s rancid heat and the razor’s relentless scrape, her body quaking under the sensory storm—muscles twitching, breath hissing through her nose in sharp, desperate bursts. The women watched, their murmurs a low, buzzing hum, their housecoats rustling as some shifted uncomfortably, others frozen, their eyes glinting with a mix of horror and fascination.
When the shaving ceased, Evelyn pried the soap free, her fingers slick and warm against Clara’s lips, the bar thudding into a bin with a dull clunk. “Two down,” she growled, her voice a low rumble. “Now, the third.” She swung to the back, hefting a bag of warm oil—its rich, musky scent unfurling like a dark bloom, heavy with almond and a trace of earth, the liquid glinting amber in the light. The nozzle returned, its tip now warm from her body, and the oil flowed in—thick, languid rivers that coated her insides with a slippery, velvet heat, soothing the raw ache with a deep, pulsing glow. As it settled, Evelyn produced a butt plug—smooth, black rubber, cool and firm as polished stone—and eased it in, its girth stretching her with a slow, delicious burn until it locked into place, sealing the oil with a quiet, throbbing weight that hummed through her core.
Evelyn unfolded a crinkling adult diaper, its plastic crackling like dry leaves, the faint scent of baby powder wafting up as she slid it under Clara, fastening it with sticky tabs that snapped shut with a sharp, adhesive rip. Over it went rubber panties, their glossy surface slithering up her hips with a wet, squeaking glide, the elastic snapping into her skin with a stinging bite. The layers trapped the plug and oil, a humid, shifting cocoon—every move a slick, muffled rustle, the fullness pressing against her with a dull, insistent ache. The women stared, their silence a thick, suffocating veil, their breaths shallow as Clara lay there, remade in this bizarre, sensory crucible.
Evelyn stepped back, hands on hips, a smirk curling her lips like a crescent moon. “You’re a wonder, darling. Built of iron.” She helped Clara sit up, the diaper crackling like a thunderstorm, the plug shifting with a deep, resonant thud in her pelvis. The spectators melted away, their footsteps a fading patter, leaving Clara’s ears ringing with the echo of their presence.
Evelyn’s gaze sharpened, her tone dropping to a commanding growl. “Next week, have Daniel come in with you. I want him to see my modification work being done on you.” She paused, tilting her head. “You’re a submissive BDSM gal—you should have a thick metal locking collar.”
“I do,” Clara rasped, her voice rough over the lingering taste of soap, her throat tight with the admission.
“Good,” Evelyn said, her smirk widening. “Make sure Daniel locks it on you and brings you in on a leash. Have him hand you over to me by that leash. See you next week, Clara—don’t you dare keep me waiting.”
Clara nodded, her voice a hoarse whisper. “I won’t.” She stood, the rubber panties creaking with a high-pitched whine, the oil and plug a constant, slick weight beneath the layers, her shaved body hyper-aware—scalp tingling, nether region prickling, every breath a reminder of her transformation. The cool air kissed her bare skin as she shuffled out, a sensory tempest born of Daniel’s mischief and Evelyn’s unrelenting hand. Next week loomed—a dark beacon where Daniel would witness her surrender, leash in hand, pulling her deeper into this pastel abyss.
The following week, Clara stepped into “Evelyn’s Hair Haven” tethered to Daniel, the thick metal collar locked tight around her throat, its cold, unyielding weight digging into her skin with every shallow inhale. The leash—a sturdy chain that clinked like loose change—swung from Daniel’s hand, its links catching the parlor’s flickering fluorescents in sharp glints. The air hung heavy with the syrupy tang of hairspray, the powdery whisper of talc, and a faint, scorched whiff of perm rods, the pastel walls and floral curtains a saccharine trap that still gnawed at her leather-bound core. Daniel had orchestrated this, savoring her discomfort, and as they crossed the threshold, he handed her leash to Evelyn with a grin that split his face like a crescent moon.
“Evelyn,” Daniel said, his voice warm with a dark undercurrent, “I can’t tell you how much I adore what you’re doing with Clara. She’s never been more stunning—your handling’s a masterpiece.” Evelyn took the leash, her fingers brushing the chain with a metallic scrape, her teased hair a lacquered fortress gleaming under the lights, her cat-eye glasses flashing with a knowing glint.
“Glad you think so, Daniel,” Evelyn replied, her gravelly purr laced with menthol and mischief. “Come on, all of you—let’s give Daniel and the gals a full show-and-tell.” She yanked Clara forward, the leash jangling sharply, leading her past the main salon—where the regulars in their curlers clacked and hummed under dryers—into the stark back room. The gals followed, five women in pastel housecoats, their floral perfume a suffocating bloom, their rollers rattling like loose stones as they shuffled in, Gladys trailing with a smirk sharp as a razor.
The gynecological bench loomed, its black vinyl slick with a greasy sheen, the stirrups dangling like steel claws under the buzzing, antiseptic glare. Evelyn gestured with a flourish. “Up you go, Clara.” Clara climbed aboard, the vinyl sticking to her thighs with a wet, sucking grip, its icy bite seeping through her jeans as Evelyn strapped her legs into the stirrups, the leather creaking like snapping twigs. The air slithered over her bare scalp, a chilly tease laced with disinfectant, her pulse pounding in her ears like a war drum.
“I’m shaving your pubic hair bare,” Evelyn declared, her breath a warm gust of mint against Clara’s face, undercut by the stale musk of cigarette smoke clinging to her apron. She turned, her voice booming. “Gladys! Bring the gals closer—they’ll want to see this up close.” The women edged in, their whispers a sibilant rustle, their eyes wide with a mix of shock and fascination.
The clippers roared to life, their guttural buzz vibrating through Clara’s pelvis like a swarm of angry hornets, the metal teeth gnashing as Evelyn sheared the hair below. Strands drifted down, tickling her thighs like feather-light threads, followed by the slick, molten glide of shaving cream—its menthol sting searing her skin, raising a flush that prickled beneath the surface. The razor’s edge was a frigid kiss, scraping with a relentless, whispering hiss, leaving her nether region raw and hypersensitive, every stray draft a needle-prick against her flesh. Evelyn wiped her clean with a towel, its coarse, damp nap dragging across her like sandpaper, coaxing a shudder that rippled up her spine.
“First enema,” Evelyn announced, hefting a bag sloshing with hot, soapy water—its steam curling upward in lazy tendrils, thick with the acrid bite of cheap detergent and a faint whiff of lemon. She shaved around Clara’s rear with swift, deft strokes—each scrape a jolt that buzzed through her tailbone—then slid the nozzle in, its slick, rubbery surface cold and unyielding against her heat. The flood began—scalding, frothy waves that roared into her, churning with a wet, gurgling growl, bloating her belly with a heavy, restless fire that pulsed against her ribs. Clara gripped the bench, her knuckles popping under the strain, her gasps ragged and unmuted, the air thick with the steamy tang as the pressure swelled, a molten weight she couldn’t escape.
When it drained, Evelyn wheeled over a metal steam tray, its surface fogged with heat, hissing faintly as she lifted the lid to reveal a stack of steamed towels—white, sodden, and radiating a moist, herbal warmth that carried the sharp, medicinal sting of eucalyptus and lavender. “Now for your head,” she said, plucking one with tongs, the towel unfurling with a soft, wet slap. She draped it over Clara’s scalp and browless face, the heat sinking in like a scalding shroud, prickling her skin with a thousand tiny needles, steam curling into her nostrils and stinging her sinuses as it softened her flesh. The gals murmured, Daniel nodding with approval.
Next came the soap—a thick, waxy bar of lavender, its scent slicing through the steam like a knife. “Open,” Evelyn snapped, and Clara’s jaw parted. Evelyn shoved it in, its edges grinding against her teeth with a chalky screech, the bitter flood exploding across her tongue, thick and rancid as saliva pooled and turned to paste. “Bite,” Evelyn commanded, and Clara clamped down hard, the soap’s surface yielding with a faint crunch. It began to shift, and Evelyn pushed it deeper, her fingers slick against Clara’s lips, forcing it far back. “Bite hard and leave it in place till I decide to remove it—this stays till we’re through.”
As the soap settled, Evelyn rigged the second enema at the front—a bag of clear, cool water, its plastic crinkling like brittle ice, the liquid shimmering as it hung poised. She triggered the flow, and the icy rush poured in, stretching her insides with a piercing chill that clashed with the soap’s rancid heat. Simultaneously, she buzzed the clippers over Clara’s scalp, their guttural roar vibrating through her skull like a swarm of bees, flecks of stubble raining down to sting her cheeks. Shaving cream followed, its menthol chill slathering her face, dripping in cold rivulets that burned her eyes, and the razor scraped with a relentless, whispering hiss—each stroke a crisp slice as the enema flowed, her body quaking under the dual assault.
Midway through shaving Clara’s head, Evelyn paused, the razor hovering, her focus narrowing. From behind the soap, Clara gurgled—a wet, choked sound—and managed to mouth, “Brows,” the word muffled but insistent, saliva bubbling at the corners of her lips. Evelyn’s eyes widened, then she chuckled, a low, gravelly sound. “Very good, Clara—almost forgot those. We’ll get those brows looking alien in two swipes.” She lathered Clara’s brows with more cream, the razor flashing twice—quick, precise cuts that stripped them bare, leaving her face stark and otherworldly, the enema’s chill still pulsing below.
The head-shaving resumed, cycling three times: steam, buzz, cream, shave—each towel hotter, scalding her scalp like molten wax, each shave deeper, the razor’s hiss a relentless whisper as her head gleamed like polished obsidian, ultra-smooth and glassy. The soap stayed, its bitter grip unyielding, her jaw throbbing as the taste seeped into her throat, her breaths sharp and desperate through her nose.
“Gladys,” Evelyn barked, “start warming the oil for her third enema.” Gladys shuffled to a burner, the oil’s musky scent—almond and earth—rising in a rich, dark bloom as it bubbled faintly, its amber glow catching the light. Finally, the third: Evelyn swung to the back with the warmed oil, its nozzle now slick with heat, and poured it in—thick, languid rivers that coated her insides with a slippery, velvet glow, soothing the raw ache with a deep, pulsing warmth. She eased in a butt plug—smooth, black rubber, cool and firm—its girth stretching her with a slow, delicious burn until it locked in place, sealing the oil with a throbbing weight. The diaper followed, its plastic crackling like dry leaves, baby powder puffing up in a faint cloud as Evelyn fastened it with sticky tabs that snapped shut. Rubber panties slithered over, their glossy surface squeaking up her hips, elastic biting with a stinging snap, trapping the plug and oil in a humid, shifting cocoon that rustled with every breath.
Evelyn stepped back, hands on hips, a smirk curling her lips. “There’s my masterpiece.” She unstrapped Clara, the leash jangling as she handed it back to Daniel, who took it with a reverent grip. “She’s all yours—shaved, soaped, enema’d, and flawless.”
Daniel’s grin widened, his voice rich with gratitude. “Evelyn, you’re a genius. I’m beyond grateful—she’ll be back every week. We love this scene—hair and bouffants all around, and our poor leashed Clara, bald for life. It’s exactly our dream.”
Clara, her voice hoarse around the lingering soap taste, rasped, “Thank you, Mistress Evelyn.” The title dropped heavy, her jaw still aching from the bar’s deep intrusion, her submission etched in every syllable.
“Any time, Clara,” Evelyn replied, her eyes glinting like sharpened flint. “See you next week.”
Clara stood, the rubber panties creaking with a high-pitched whine, the oil and plug a slick, constant weight, her shaved body hyper-aware—scalp tingling, nether region prickling, the collar’s cold bite grounding her. The cool air kissed her as Daniel led her out, leash in hand, the gals’ whispers fading into a hum. This was her eternity—Evelyn’s pastel abyss, Daniel’s delight, a weekly ritual carved in steam, soap, and surrender.
