Into Temptation

Into Temptation 

Katy hadn’t let another person touch her hair with scissors since she’d had a traumatic run-in with a barber in the summer before ninth grade. Her dad had taken her to his barber shop, she imagined because he was too cheap to spring for an actual salon, and just gave the old man instructions to give her something “short and sensible.” Her hair then had been down to the small of her back, dark and thick and healthy, and she didn’t want anything in the realm of “short” at all, but she froze completely and was unable to speak up as the two men talked around her as if her opinion on her own hair was completely irrelevant.

She’d wonder in the years that followed, why didn’t she say something? Why did she just quietly walk to her doom in the big leather chair in that old school barber shop, fold her hands in her lap, and let the barber cape her up without clarifying that she just wanted a trim, actually. A few inches gone at most. Why hadn’t she spoken up when the man pulled her pride and joy back in his fist, a little too roughly, and plunged the scissors into her hair right at the nape of her neck? Tears pooled in her eyes when she felt the overwhelming sawing of shears through thick silk and heard the metal slicing, over and over again. One tear fell down her cheek when she saw him carelessly drop her severed hair to the floor, her long locks covering the cold tile like a chestnut carpet. Why hadn’t she screamed, tried to fight it when he sectioned what remained of her hair with clips and then brought the whirring clippers to life, a machine she never thought would be used on her?

Why did she feel heat low in her belly when those clippers plunged into the hair at the nape of her neck, the sound of the buzzing changing as it hungrily met her thick dark locks? Why didn’t she say “That’s enough!” when he mused aloud, “I think she needs a skin fade at the neck, these baby hairs curl so untidily” and her dad just grumbled an affirmative response from his vantage point on a nearby chair, where he only periodically looked up from his newspaper. When the hot towel was applied to her neck. When the barber said “Now hold very still, dear, I don’t want to scalp you,” and took his time scraping the edges of her back hairline down to the skin with a straight razor. Why didn’t she say, “Please at least leave some length on top” when he unclipped the top section of her hair and began roughly chopping it, throwing huge handfuls of what remained of her hair down the front of her cape in a manner that felt intentionally cruel. He then took what felt like forever just cutting, cutting, cutting. So many moments for her to speak up as the clumps of what remained of her hair came falling down around her body, but she just stayed still and silent, watching her identity being stripped from her in the mirror.

Why had the feeling of the big fluffy brush dusting away loose hairs on her freshly shorn scalp send such a jolt through her? Why hadn’t she said something when he applied a heavy coat of gel to what remained of her once treasured locks but was now just a very short cut, like a man’s. The old barber had combed the top of her hair into place and said “Hope that’s short and sensible enough for you, sir,” to her dad as he removed her cape. Her father really looked up for the first time from his paper and some shock registered on his face at the sight of her severe transformation.

Her dad had folded his paper under his arm to walk over to the chair and said “Well, I’ve always wanted a son,” and the two men laughed together, heartily in a way that felt touched with casual meanness. Why hadn’t she said, “Hey fuck you both!” and slapped them or “That was wrong, what you did,” and gestured widely at the huge pile of her hair that lay lifeless on the ground for all the men in the barber shop to see? It felt so public. So humiliating. She couldn’t imagine starting high school with THIS haircut. What would her friends say? The boy she’d been talking to who loved her long hair? But instead she just kept her eyes cast downward to avoid the stares from the other men in the shop as her dad paid the barber and they walked back into the parking lot, the late summer breeze dancing against her newly exposed scalp and neck.

She glanced back to see the barber sweeping up her hair to throw away, like it was nothing. THAT had bothered her. It didn’t seem fair that she couldn’t even have kept her hair so she could look back at it and remember when it was long. Didn’t she at least deserve that souvenir? But she just got into the passenger seat of her dad’s truck, and looked out the window on the drive home, surreptitiously running her hand along her smooth nape, shocked at the sensation but keeping her facial expression placid.

Why had it all felt kind of…good?

______

It had been the pivotal moment of her adolescence, that haircut. A rare day in her life would pass after in which she didn’t think about it, and her reaction (or rather, non-reaction) to it. She’d think of the way the people around her took the sight of her transformation: her best friend’s tears as she brought her into her arms and said “Don’t worry, Katy, we can get you a cool hat or something.” The boy she’d been dating’s look of shock, like he was visibly queasy at the sight of her without all her hair. He’d stopped talking to her very shortly after that and started a rumor at school that she was gay. She was bi, but that distinction didn’t matter to their private Catholic high school in the mid-2000’s. The stark contrast between her traditional uniform of a green plaid skirt, school blazer, and tie with high socks with this haircut seemed so incongruous. It made her stand out.

Her parents were divorced and her mom was livid when she saw what her ex husband had done to her daughter during his custody weekend. She wondered sometimes if her haircut hadn’t just been a bigger power play in her parents’ toxic dynamic, but the fact was that even though she hadn’t wanted the haircut, she couldn’t stop thinking about what it had felt like. As her shaved nape grew back in, she’d rub it in bed and think about how if she were back in that barber shop, she still wouldn’t stop what was about to happen. It scared her, really, that she knew she would be helpless to say no if anyone tried to cut her hair again. A part of her somewhere deep inside wanted it, even when every logical part of her brain protested the thought.

As she grew up and into adulthood, she realized the combination of fear and excitement around the incident had developed into a deep arousal. Even as she grew her hair back, longer and longer, she was too afraid to step foot into a barbershop or salon. She wouldn’t even let her mom or friends or partners come close to her with scissors, because she didn’t trust herself to not give into the power play of being at the mercy of someone else’s cutting. Her desires felt sinful, depraved, and unusual, but any time she tried to shove her feelings down, they seemed to root deeper inside her.

The fear paralyzed her from making any major decision with her hair and as a result it passively grew longer and longer. Every few months, she’d stand in her bathroom and trim off the barest ends of her hair, the sound of scissors slicing tempting her to move the blades up and up. But she resisted, and by the time she was in her thirties, her hair had grown thick and healthy and so long that if she was standing in a pair of jeans, it would cover her back pockets like a thick curtain.

______

One Sunday morning she was in church, the same Catholic church she’d attended since high school, and realized that her hair had gotten so long that she could completely sit on it on the hard wooden pews. She liked the way the pressure of that pulled her head back briefly, but adjusted herself for propriety’s sake. She was just moving her hair to rest over her shoulders to pool into her lap when the sound of the organ rang through the ornate gray stone cathedral and everyone rose to their feet to witness the processional.  First an altar server swinging a golden thurible emitting plumes of incense, then one bearing a large wooden cross, then the Lector holding the Gospel aloft, and then finally, bathed in colorful light from a stained glass window, she saw him.

The new priest. She’d heard whispers that he was going to start today as their old priest who’d served the parish for years had fallen suddenly ill and died only a few weeks prior, but nothing prepared her for the sight of him.

First of all, he was young for a priest, he couldn’t be more than forty. That was surprising enough. Secondly, he was hot in a way she’d only seen priests be in TV shows and in porn. Truly a striking man—tall, with broad shoulders, and his own salt and pepper hair cut into a clean modern fade with very short sides and a textured top. Just the sight of his cleanly buzzed sides and his large, square hands brought together in prayer as he walked past her pew gave her a visceral punch to the stomach, imagining those hands in her own hair.

The rest of mass was a blur. Katy pressed her thighs together in an attempt to dull the sudden throbbing ache she felt at the apex between her legs. She did her best to follow along with the motions. Stand up, sit down, kneel, sing hymns in her quietly meek soprano, chant all the prayers she knew by heart. But there was something beyond the physical with this man that drew her in, it was a magnetism that he had. A confidence in the way he held himself, the way he spoke. She sat alone in the pew but couldn’t bring herself to look around to see if anyone else was reacting to it too. Surely they could see it, right? But in a way it felt like he was delivering mass to her personally. She swore when he approached the lectern to deliver his homily, he looked directly at her.

When mass was over, she left the church from the side door to avoid having to interact with him directly as he shook hands and chatted with parishioners directly in the vestibule. Like with her constant daydreaming about her hair being forcibly cut, she didn’t trust herself. She figured the best thing to do with temptation was to avoid it completely. Shove it down, keep her eyes down. She imagined shaking hands with him would be like touching a hot stove. She knew better.

When Katy arrived home to her small apartment, she stripped off her sedate cardigan and long skirt and touched herself imagining the priest shearing all her hair off as she sat, frozen and unable to tell him to stop.

______

Weeks passed, and then months. Mass after mass with this new priest, and instead of her desire waning it was only getting worse. She’d started to sit closer and closer to the front of the church, hoping that he would notice her. She’d make sure she always looked pretty, but appropriate for the setting. But maybe she’d decided to wear her clothes a little tighter to show off her curves, maybe she paid extra attention to ensure her hair gleamed under the church’s candlelight. And he did notice her, or at least it seemed so. Little glances grew as she became bolder with her own eye contact. For a man of God there seemed to be a certain knowing devilishness in his smile when he locked eyes with her. Or was she imagining it?

She let herself have those moments during mass, but she never let herself talk to him directly. It was her way to keep distance, to keep up the Herculean effort she’d always exerted at not giving into her darker, baser instincts.

One day in Spring, however, her plan was interrupted, when instead of being able to make her usual exit through the side door, her old teacher, Sister Therese, called her over to the entrance of the parish where the new priest stood, shaking hands with his adoring congregation (all of the old women were charmed by him, and their husbands were just proud to have a cool priest for once).

Sister Therese wanted to check in with her and see if she would be interested in joining the church’s women’s group. Said they needed some young blood in the group to help out with charitable causes and events. Katy thought of how she could politely decline the invitation just as the priest was saying goodbye to the last of the parishioners who were milling out to the front steps. Her heart raced as she considered bolting, but her limbic system was activated into her most familiar stress response: freeze.

Up close she noticed that his green robes brought out a hint of hazel in his piercing brown eyes. She could smell his cologne, feel the electricity of his touch just from their brief handshake.

She felt underwater throughout the entire conversation and could only remember fragments later. The priest saying that he’d seen her at mass but hadn’t had the pleasure of meeting her yet. He’d repeated her name back. Katy, he’d said, and the name she’d always found common sounded holy from his mouth. Like a prayer. He said he’d been checking in with all his parishioners about returning to confession, which he said he held on Saturday afternoons. Sister Therese reminded her that going to confession at least once a year was required to uphold her requirements to the sacrament. Katy agreed, said something about how it had been some time since she did it.

The priest then told her he’d see her on Saturday, then. It wasn’t a request, it was a demand. And she must have agreed, but her exact words escaped her as she hurried out the door back into a crisp morning. Maybe she’d said nothing at all.

______

Katy spent the week telling herself that she just wouldn’t go. That’s it. If he brought it up again, she’d just kick it down the road forever. What did she even have to confess, anyway? She didn’t do anything sinful at all, really. She lived a good, morally upright life. She was a good citizen. Anything she did feel shame about, it’s not like she would tell this man anyway.

So it was settled, she thought, even as late as Saturday morning. She just wouldn’t go.

Why then did she find herself taking a long shower, washing her long chestnut hair so lovingly and then styling it to fall in soft waves around her? Why did she put on her cutest sundress? Why did she get into the car and make the short drive over to the church?

It was toward the end of the scheduled time for confession that she walked up the steps and through the doors of her familiar old church that suddenly felt new, and a little dangerous. As she entered the cathedral, she watched as an older man exited the ornately carved wooden door of the confessional. He tipped his head to her on his exit and as soon as he was gone, the rest of the church was empty.

She looked at the open door of the confessional and once more considered leaving, but she heard a deep, low voice from the other side of the screen.

“Enter.” It was firm, and definitive.

Her leaden feet somehow carried her into the wooden box, her heart racing as she settled into the hard seat and closed the door, sealing her fate as the afternoon light descended into the dim nighttime of the booth.

She waited for a beat to see if he would say anything, but there was only silence. She coughed, and her voice somehow managed, “Forgive me Father, for I have sinned. It has been several years since my last confession.”

“May God, who has enlightened every heart, help you to know your sins and trust in his mercy. Proceed.” Again, that velvet and whiskey voice.

She snuck a glance at the screen separating them, which was not a fine mesh screen, but instead an intricately carved series of interlocking flowers. She could see his silhouette through the holes, strong jaw with stubble and erect posture. “I…I never really know what to say during this,” she admitted.

“This is your chance to cleanse yourself, my penitent. Tell me of your sins.”

“But, I don’t really DO anything sinful, Father. I follow the rules, I keep my head down.”

“Ah, is that what you’ve been telling yourself? That sin is only what we do?”

“What do you mean?”

“Sin is about more than actions. No, I have been watching you these past many months in church and I know you are a sinner. We are all sinners, but there is something more behind those blue eyes of yours. Sins can be impure thoughts as well.”

She blushed, glad he couldn’t fully see her. “What are you saying? That you can read my mind?”

He didn’t answer her directly. “It’s alright, my lamb. We all have desires of the flesh.”

“It’s not…” she struggled, shifting. “It’s nothing like that. My thoughts. Not really.”

“You can tell me. This is a sacred, secret space. I can tell you need to let something out of your soul.”

She hesitated, shocked she was even considering telling him the truth. “But if I say it out loud, I can’t take that back. I have spent my whole life denying it.”

“And what has denial, shoving it down gotten you?”

“I’m a good person,” she said.

“And yet here you are, not being honest in this holy space,” he tsked. “I’m only going to explain this to you once, but this is not a request. My word is law, instilled in me by divine authority. You must tell me what is haunting your thoughts.”

She ran her hands through her hair then, wrapping her fists around the ends that rested in her lap as if to shield it from what she was about to say. “I’ve never told anyone this. The summer before high school, my dad took me to a barber shop…” and then she explained it. All of it. Described her public shearing and how it had humiliated her and exhilarated her. How she fantasized every single day about someone holding her down and cutting her hair off, and then using her as their own personal fuck toy. She told him everything, the truth exploding out of her like a fountain. She started to cry as she spoke, which surprised her. Before, when she had been silent about her crushing desires, she could pretend the years of repression didn’t affect her, but speaking it all aloud made it real and it made it seem like the tragedy it was. A woman in her late thirties who’s never really been honest about who she is, deep down. What was the point? It felt too late to change.

She wiped her tears with the heels of her palms, feeling a combination of relief and regret for sharing. “But I haven’t acted on any of this. Isn’t that something? Why should I be held accountable for a thought?”

He was quiet for a beat, and then slowly explained, “It is a disrespect to God to not experience the pleasure that is your birthright. To deny yourself your deepest desires is to deny your fate and your own sacred divinity.”

“What does that mean?”

“So when you are looking at me from your place in the pews with those molten eyes, that’s what you’re thinking about? Me taking your hair from you? Cutting it as short as I see fit?”

“I know it’s weird, but—“

“Answer me, Katy.” Abrupt, firm.

“Yes. It’s all I can think about. I don’t actually want it, I love my hair, but—“

“Listen to me. You are going to do exactly as I say. Every step is crucial for your healing, and your spiritual cleansing. First, I would like you to kneel.”

There was a bench facing the screen for her to kneel, so she dropped to her knees, feeling closer to him even as a wall separated them.

“Good girl,” he said, and a thrill ran through her at his words. “Now I want you to bow your head in prayer.”

She did as he requested, and rested her forehead on her hands that were now folded in prayer. He uttered words in Latin that were unfamiliar to her, but sounded like a sacred blessing.

“Your hair is much too long, supplicant. You know this.”

She just shook her head weakly at his words.

“You know it is. Every time I look at you in your pew I think about how what you need is a proper haircut. Do you want to know what else I think about?”

“What?” she asked breathlessly, still bowed toward him.

“I want to know what it feels like, all that hair. I wonder, is it as soft as it looks?”

“It’s extremely soft, Father. I pamper it. I love it.”

“Then let me feel it,” he’d moved closer and lowered his voice. “Feed some hair to me through the screen. A good, healthy chunk of it. I want it in my hands.”

She reached up to her mane and pulled a thick and prominent section loose, right toward the front. The ornate carvings in the screen gave her just enough space to send it all through to his side, and the feeling of his hands receiving it on the other side was the most erotic experience of her life.

He played around with the tendril, marveling at its length and health. He brought it up to his nose and inhaled, “Just like I thought. It smells like peaches.”

She was so engrossed in the sensation that she didn’t realize he was pulling her closer and closer to him, until the pressure built and her head was pulled taut against the screen. “You’re hurting me,” she said, but it wasn’t entirely true. It was a firm pressure, yes, but a controlled grasp.

“Here is your next step, Katy,” he breathed. “You’re done acting as if this isn’t something you want. You’re done hiding. Hiding inside yourself, hiding behind all this hair. I know you want me to cut it, to just take it from you. But I’m not going to do that. Not until you very nicely ask me to. It’s time for you to step into your power. You will submit to me, but not until you tell me that this is what you most desire.”

She shook her head again, and he pulled her hair even firmer. “I don’t…I can’t…”

“Say it, Katy. What is it you want? What sins do you need cleansed?”

“I want…” she couldn’t believe what was coming out of her mouth as the pressure built up. “I want you to cut my hair.”

“Ask me nicely.”

“Father, will you please shear me? Make me into what you want? I want it so much,” she moaned.

“Yes, you will be rewarded for your bravery, my child.” She heard a rustling and then a pop as he flicked open his pocket knife, and pulled the thick tendril taut. And then, a sawing and tug as he sliced through her beloved hair, she couldn’t tell where, as her head remained submissively bowed.

Before long, the slicing stopped and she was able to stand and put a hand into her hair. The hunk he’d taken was right near the front, and he’d messily chopped it so it rested at her chin. “Father, you cut it so short,” she gasped, feeling the contrast between her Rapunzel lengths and her newly shorn piece. She could see the outline of him admiring his trophy on his side of the confessional. “I wasn’t ready to…”

“I see you still haven’t learned your lesson about owning up to your own desires, Katy. Here is what we’re going to do about that. As far as I see it, you have two options. On one hand, you walk out of here and find a Great Clips or barber shop and ask them to even your hair out to a nice, neat bob. On the other, you do nothing. Walk around with your hair fucked up exactly how I left you. On display and public with your ruined hair. Still mostly so long, but not for much longer. If you choose this option, I want you to come to mass tomorrow with your hair loose. No hiding what’s been taken from you. I want you to wear it proudly. And I want you to dig out your old school uniform, and wear that as well. But I want you to wear nothing underneath it. No panties, no bra. I want to be able to see the outline of your nipples in your blouse. I want to see how hard they get when you look at me.”

“And then what? I just have to walk around like this?”

“If you choose the second option and execute my instructions perfectly, then you may visit the rectory in the evening for me to finish the job. But understand that if you choose that option, your hair is completely in my hands. It’ll be up to me what you end up looking like. Do you understand your options?”

“Yes, Father.”

“Good. I absolve you from your sins in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit.”

When she got up to leave, her knees weak and eyes straining against the afternoon light after her time in the dark booth, she swore she could see the outline of her cut hair wrapped around his hard cock as he stroked himself.

______

Her heart racing, she drove straight to the nearest Great Clips. She couldn’t walk around with her hair just partially chopped, right? It was out of the question. What would people say? And he was right, the only way to fix it and preserve as much length as possible really would be to get a simple chin length bob to even her hair out. That alone was such a major chop. She lifted the rest of her heavy hair up to mime a bob, which she hadn’t had since her sophomore year of high school during her long grow out process, and tears filled her eyes as she realized how long it would be before she had long hair again.

She parked outside of the budget salon and watched as patrons walked in and out. A woman with straight, long blonde hair was caped in the chair closest to the window while a bored looking woman sliced a good eight inches of length off to slither to the ground in golden sheets. Watching her hair being cut was exciting because watching hair being cut was always exciting to her, but there was something so unspecial and impersonal about the exchange.

No, Katy thought as she pulled the car into reverse and headed home, if she was going to lose her precious hair, it would be at the hands of someone who understood what it meant.

______

Church that morning had been one of the most intense and vulnerable experiences of her life. She felt the eyes of the whole parish on her as she arrived in her old school uniform, which she could still fit into despite it being incredibly tight on her adult curves. Her hard, rosy nipples strained against the white button-up and she had to sit, stand, and kneel very carefully lest she expose the fact that her bare pussy was on display just below her old skirt. When the priest entered and assumed his place in front of the congregation, she swore she could feel him raking his eyes

She kept her eyes toward the front or fixed into her lap where her remaining hair pooled like a beautiful chestnut ocean. It seemed so unthinkable that her hair’s fate was already sealed. How short would he take her?

These thoughts remained on her mind as she returned that evening to the rectory, a house behind the church that she had seen most of her life, but had never stepped inside. It was a blue craftsman home and each step she walked up seemed one step closer to her completely sealing her fate. When she arrived at the door, she rapped her knuckles on the door. No response. Rapped again. She waited a few minutes before testing the door handle, which was unlocked. Tentatively, she opened the door, her heart racing, and called into the living room.

“Hello?”

“Lock the door behind you,” his voice called from, somewhere. His words echoed off the dark wood of the floors and lovingly preserved historical details of the home.

She couldn’t tell where he was, but she did as she was told, and walked further down the front hall, past the living room, and finally to a cracked door where warm light streamed out. “Where are you?” she whispered as she pushed the door open to look inside, and found the answer to her question. The study was lined with leather-bound books, a freestanding globe, and an imposing wooden desk. Candles were lit throughout the room and dark classical music played on the record player. The priest was there, leaning against the desk, wearing his black clerical clothes, complete with the narrow band of stiff white fabric that encircled his neck. He had no right to look so good dressed like that, but she could see the outline of his already hard cock straining against his slacks and it made her somehow even more nervous and aroused.

“Good girl. I knew you’d make the right choice.”

It was then that she noticed the small bench he’d placed in the center of the room, and how there was a table next to it with a pair of large, ceremonial shears and a shiny set of clippers. She gasped at the sight of it.

“Come here,” he crooked his finger at her and she obliged. When she arrived right in front of him, he ran his hands along the front of her blouse as if inspecting her to ensure that she’d followed his instructions. Her free nipples responded instantly, hardening under his touch. He then reached down to feel under her skirt, and cupped his hands along her ass and thighs before running his hand around to her bare pussy, pressing a finger into her as his thumb briefly circled her clit. “You’re dripping wet,” he murmured in her ear before removing his hand and spinning her around so that her back was to him. “Good.”

He then ran his hands through her long hair. “This pristine hair has been a grave source of temptation for me, my child,” he explained as he began to brush through it. His touch sent ripples through her as he took his time savoring and playing with her long mane. “You see, sometimes even priests give into their darkest desires.”

Slowly, he wound his hand around her hair and pulled it all back, firmly, and led her as if by a rope to the center of the room where he’d set up the bench. “Kneel,” he commanded, and even though a part of her was screaming to run, she did as he said, looking up at him with her big blue eyes which were lining with tears. “I bless this sacrifice that you are about to make, and do not take lightly the burden of removing temptation from both of us. We are God’s humble servants.” He made the sign of the cross over her and closed his eyes briefly in prayer before picking up the shears and towering over her.

The bulge in the black fabric of his pants was right at eye level as he placed a hand on her head, feeling for the last time the intact silk of her hair beneath his fingers. He seemed to barely suppress a moan as he felt through her hair, deciding where to start.

“Please,” Katy looked up at him with pleading eyes. Please start or please stop? It was both.

“Bow your head for me,” he said and she did. He then lifted a lock near the front of her head up high and placed the scissors about two inches from her scalp, bringing his hand together as a deafening slice rang through the room and into Katy’s ears. She gasped as out of her peripheral vision she witnessed a mass of thick dark hair tumbling to the ground. He returned, again and again, to grab different hunks of her hair and slice haphazardly, sending tendril after tendril sailing to the cold wooden floor. Her hair was so long, the pile was becoming increasingly massive. It was even more exhilarating than seeing her hair on the barber shop floor all those years before.

“Please stop,” she protested, but she knew it was too late.

“Temptation must be removed. Your temptation, and mine,” he said, continuing in his ruthless assault of her treasured locks. He made his final rough snip of her hair then, a piece at the very back of her nape, and sent it sailing to the floor to join the rest. He moaned in appreciation looking at his handiwork, and ruffled her rough chopped pixie with his hand. She already appeared completely humbled and changed, but he was far from done with her. “When I’m done with you your hair will be shorter than any of the altar boys. How does that make you feel, Katy? Knowing you will have nothing left to hide behind?”

She just cried softly then, even as the idea filled her with deep fear. “What do you mean by nothing left?”

“Enough questions,” he said, and grabbed the clippers. He then unzipped his pants and grabbed what little remained of her hair to bring her lips to his rock hard cock. She hungrily accepted him into her mouth, her eyes closing in pleasure at the taste of him. “Yes, that’s a good girl.”

She was so absorbed in her task that she almost forgot what was happening. When she heard the sound of clippers roaring to life, she flinched and pulled back but he kept a hand clamped on the back of her head to keep her in place. He appreciated the feeling of her muffled protests as he plunged the clippers into her hair, right at her forehead, and pushed. The tone of the clippers dropped sharply as they struggled to her through the mess of what remained of her thick hair. He didn’t use a guard, so the contrast between her dark hair and pale scalp seemed so extreme as he mowed pass after pass along her scalp, roughly handling her to get where he needed to reach.

“Good girl,” he repeated, feeling the vibration of the clippers on his cock as well. “Yes, just like that. You exist to serve me.” Thick clumps of hair rained down her body as the clippers continued their assault. “In serving me, you serve Him.”

She felt with each pass a strangeness of her identity being stripped away, of her secret being revealed to the world. A certain threshold she could never uncross.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, he turned the clippers off and she immediately missed the feeling of them on her scalp. He ran his hands along her head and said, “Yes, that’s my shorn lamb. Feel what I’ve done for you. Feel what I’ve taken from you.”

She reached up with tentative fingers to assess the damage of her scalp. His cock still filling her mouth, she looked up at him and gasped as she explored the strange sensation of the barest hint of stubble. Her look of horror and desire sent him over the edge—he pulled his cock out of her mouth and then came over her bare scalp.

In shock, she looked around and her once beautiful hair was a chocolate mountain discarded on the floor.

“Let’s get you cleaned up,” was all he said as he lead her through the grand house to the bathroom, and turned on the shower.

Once the water was hot enough, he guided her under the warm spray and took his time cleansing her from head to toe, methodically and with more tenderness than she’d expected. The feeling of water and the slip of his touch on her bare scalp made her breath catch. So sensitive, like a new erogenous zone for her to explore. She recalled her shaved nape from her barbershop experience and realized that it would be like that, but all over her head. He then started to let his fingers explore her, the roughness circling her clit and then plunged two fingers inside of her, pressing firmly against the inner wall of her pussy, beckoning her forward with his touch.

She came almost immediately out of sheer relief, but he didn’t rest until she came twice, slumping into his strong arms for support as her legs were too weak to stand on their own.

“I can’t believe you took ALL of it,” she said when she looked up to him.

He ran a hand over her stubble as she nestled into his chest under the spray of the shower. “It’s not enough. It all needs to come off.”

In her orgasm haze, she didn’t process what he was saying, or what he was doing as he grabbed the shaving foam. She jumped at first when he applied the cold cream to her scalp. His hand lathering her skin felt silky and affectionate, but it wasn’t until the first drag of the razor that her eyes snapped open and she realized the truth.

“What are you—“

“Shh,” he consoled. “Be still. If you move, I will cut you.” The razor dragged up her nape, the newly uncovered skin singing at the sensation of being completely stripped bare filled her. Pass after pass, her glass smooth skin revealed itself. Even more sensitive to the touch of the water, which she didn’t believe was possible. Finally, after an eternity, he completed his task. He wiped her scalp with a warm wash cloth and brought her into his arms to place a kiss on the top of her truly bald head.

After, he guided her to look at herself in the mirror for the first time as her new self. “Look at you.”

She couldn’t bring herself to look up. “I’m scared.”

“You look more beautiful now than ever before, and I didn’t believe that was possible.” He tilted her head up.

She looked like a different person without any hair to hide behind, her eyes and pouty lips showcased without any distractions. Truly naked. The sight of a completely bald scalp where moments before her hair had swung past her hips was shocking. It made her feel completely claimed by him. He poured some sacred oil into his palms and then rubbed it into her scalp, making her head shine under the bathroom lights. The sensation of his fingertips rubbing into her bare skin was more erotic than anything she’d ever experienced.

“How am I supposed to go out like this?” she whispered.

“Don’t worry, my child. You are never to leave this house, and you may never grow this hair back. You will disappear to the world and take up permanent residence alongside me as my personal nun for worship and pleasure. You will report to me for weekly shavings and you will join my staff. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Father. I am understand. I am your humble servant to use as you see fit, in the name of His holiness.”

She’d never felt more free.

 

 

Author’s note: Thank you to a friend for helping me develop this idea. As always, I appreciate any thoughts. Curious how many fellow lapsed Catholics have developed a hair fetish? Haha. Happy Holidays, everyone.