Bouffant Shave
It was April 1964, and Evelyn Harper lived her life as a meticulously crafted doll, every detail sculpted to her husband Roland’s exacting specifications. At thirty-two, she had surrendered all control over her appearance to him, her days revolving around his desires. Roland, a stern man with a penchant for order and a vision of feminine perfection, saw Evelyn as his masterpiece—a living embodiment of his fantasies. Her hair, her clothes, her very demeanor—all of it was his domain, and she, eager to please, complied without question.
Three times a week, on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays, Roland arranged for Evelyn to visit Madame Claire’s Salon, a chic little shop on the edge of their quiet suburban town. Each appointment lasted two hours, a ritual of transformation that left Evelyn polished and pristine. Roland would phone Claire directly, his voice clipped and authoritative, issuing instructions as if Evelyn were a mannequin rather than a woman. Claire, a wiry beautician with a sharp bob and a no-nonsense air, treated Roland as the true client, nodding into the receiver while scribbling notes.
For months, Evelyn’s hair had been a platinum blonde bouffant, teased into a towering bubble that sat atop her head like a crown. The nape of her neck was kept shaved clean, clipped high and smooth, a stark contrast to the voluminous mass above. Roland adored the look—severe, feminine, controlled. When Evelyn sat in curlers, her head half-bald from the shaved nape, the tight rows of rollers accentuated the bareness beneath, especially under the hairdryer’s hum. Last week, Roland had ordered a change to pastel pink—“something soft, something striking,” he’d said—and by Monday, Evelyn’s hair was dyed and set into a delicate, candy-floss shade, still teased into that big bouffant bubble he loved.
This Wednesday, Roland’s call came again. Evelyn sat in the styling chair, a thin leash clipped to the armrest—a symbolic tether Roland insisted on, one Claire indulged with a wry smile. She overheard snippets as Claire murmured into the phone: “Yes, Mr. Harper… completely off… thin and arched, drawn on… I’ll see to it.” Claire hung up and turned to Evelyn. “Your husband’s got a new plan, dear. Eyebrows are going. All off, kept off. He wants them drawn thin and high—real dramatic.”
Evelyn nodded, her heart quickening. She wanted to please him, to see that rare flicker of approval in his eyes. Claire set to work, rolling Evelyn’s pastel pink hair into large curlers, pinning them tightly until her head bristled with them. The shaved nape gleamed below, exposed and vulnerable, making her look half-bald as Claire prepared the next step. “And while we’re at it,” Claire added, “your usual hot soapy enema. Keeps you fresh, just how he likes.”
Evelyn blushed but didn’t protest. It had become part of the routine, another layer of Roland’s control. Claire led her to a curtained room, producing a rubber bag filled with warm, soapy water, attached to a hose with a smooth nozzle. “Relax, dear,” Claire said, lifting Evelyn’s skirt and gently inserting the nozzle, its warmth settling into place. The liquid flowed, filling her with a heavy, gurgling fullness, and Claire secured the hose. “We’ll keep it in while you’re under the dryer,” she said, wheeling Evelyn back to the chair.
Under the dryer, Evelyn sat with her head full of curlers and the enema inside, the heat roaring as the soapy liquid swelled her stomach. The curlers baked, tightening her hair into coils, while the pressure built below, a secret beneath the dryer’s hum. She gripped the armrests, cheeks flushed, feeling both vulnerable and tended to, the leash a quiet reminder of her place.
When the dryer dinged, Claire guided her back to the curtained room, removing the nozzle as Evelyn perched on a commode. The expulsion came in a rush—warm, sudsy, relieving—and Claire stayed close, chatting about hair trends to ease the moment. “Now, let’s get you fixed up,” Claire said afterward, producing a thick absorbent diaper and a pair of snug rubber panties. “No leaks for Mr. Harper’s prize.” She fastened the diaper around Evelyn’s hips, the bulk a comforting weight, then slid the rubber panties overtop, sealing everything in place.
Back at the chair, Claire razored off Evelyn’s eyebrows, leaving her brow bare, then drew on thin, steeply arched lines that curved high above her eyes, giving her a doll-like expression. She removed the curlers, teasing the pastel pink strands into a towering bouffant, spraying it stiff. Evelyn gasped at the mirror—the shaved nape, the dramatic brows, the pink bubble. She loved it, the way it made her Roland’s perfect vision.
Claire picked up the phone. “Mr. Harper? It’s done. Eyebrows off, drawn on thin and arched, hair set, enema and diapered as usual. She’s ready.” A pause, a nod. “Yes, she’s pleased. I’ll have her waiting.”
Moments later, Roland arrived, his tall frame filling the doorway. Claire unclipped the leash from the chair and handed the handle to him with a nod. “Here she is, Mr. Harper. All yours.” Roland’s eyes raked over Evelyn—her pastel pink bouffant, the shaved nape, the drawn-on brows, the faint crinkle of rubber panties beneath her dress. A slow smile spread across his face, pleased and possessive.
“Good work, Claire,” he said, tugging the leash lightly. Evelyn stood, her heart racing with anticipation. Roland’s gaze held big plans—tonight, she’d be his woman, his doll, his everything. As they left, she followed obediently, the thick diaper a secret comfort, ready to fulfill his desires.
