Master Barber

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The conversation had grown halting, the pauses and the exchanged looks more frequent.
His mouth was dry, his heart racing. He could feel a gentle flush on his cheeks. Though she smiled feigning confidence, he could tell she was nervous, too, by the way she swallowed, the occasional break in her voice.
Dinner was winding down. And they understood a scenario set in motion earlier this Friday with coded words at the office was about to begin.  Of course, only he knew the careful plan, the preparations made in the minutes between his return from the gym and her knock.
Theirs was a relationship layered in secrets. And this was another one. No one at the office knew they had been seeing each other for months. Oh, sure, they were often together, but that seemed merely a  reflection of their similar, hard-charging personalities. He was in his  late-20s, a little arrogant, but in his business, it was a job requirement. She was three years older, more polished in her confidence.  “Kick ass” was a term she used often. And it fitted her.
Later, he stuck his head into her office on a break from pacing, an afternoon ritual. “You are so shaggy. It’s time,” he said, smiling thinly, his heart racing.
Almost involuntarily, she reached back with her right hand to the nape of the neck she knew he found so obsessive. “Oh, I’m not so sure of that. It’s only been a few months. It doesn’t seem so bad.”
It was a game they played, an acting-out. This was another of their secrets. For months now they had been sharing haircuts. It was a passion for him, a turn-on. She was wary at first, but each time she enjoyed herself more and more, giving in to the touch, the sharing, the thrill, and the fear.
The first time she watched him at a local mall, later confessing how thrilled she was when the stylist took a scissors and sheared the sheet of hair covering his ear.
Then he began teasing her about her long, straight hair,  flopping indifferently over her shoulders. She had shown a willingness,  even a secret delight, in taking orders and this mixed with his fantasies like gas, air, and a spark.

Her Turn

Soon, it was her turn to try the same salon, a different stylist. As they approached he said stiffly, “Tell her this,” and handed her a note then headed for a bench on the walkway nearby to survey the cut through the window that framed her sitting in the chair.
The note said simply: “Make sure it is off the shoulders when you get  out of the chair.” She gasped, then complied. And a pattern was set. He would order the haircut. She would obey. Enjoying it more and more.
Later, he became bold enough to walk in with her, giving her the  clipping orders outside, then observing from a waiting chair nearby.  These times, they exchanged silent signals. A nod required her to  request more be cut. Once, the stylist was snipping ever so lightly at  the neck. The stylist stopped, seemingly finished with the cut. His  haircut slave looked over. He nodded. She knew what that meant: shorter.  Again.
Attempting to be casual, she reached back and stroked her neck. “I  think you could take a little more off back here,” she said. The stylist  complied. But he wasn’t settling for this wimpy trim either. The nod,  the hand to the neck and another request.
Better. But when the stylist started to set the scissors down, she  reached back there again. “Maybe a little more,” she said, almost  begging.
The stylist protested that it was quite short. “No, more,” she insisted. There had not been a nod.
From there, she started coming back from haircuts, looking in the  mirror, running her hand through the increasingly short black hair and  commenting that the stylist just hadn’t gone far enough. He was happy to  oblige, to fix the slight using both clippers and scissors. The  encounters were charged, starting in the bathroom and finishing in the  bedroom nearby. Suddenly, she found her exposed nape, her naked ears,  were sensitive to just the hint of his tongue. The shivers, the hot  flashes rolled down her body whenever he started working those areas.  She never realized.
Then the haircuts stopped. “Anticipation,” was his explanation. She  smiled, knowing enough by now to trust his incredibly fertile  imagination. He was planning something, something they would enjoy  immensely.

His Turn

A week earlier, she thought it was finally her turn to sit, bow her head and feel those clippers. They were walking downtown when suddenly he grasped her hand, turned the corner and walked up the stairs into a  barbershop. A chair, lady barber waiting, was open and he sat right down. She fixed the cape and asked, part-wondering, “Short?”
“Yes,” he said with conviction, looking straight ahead into the mirror. His hair, too, had grown and tumbled in thick, unruly waves past his ears and over his collar.
His barber plucked her clippers off a hook and started shearing that off, efficiently, as she watched mesmerized. As the clipping continued  around the back and to the other ear, she only hoped that when his cut  was finished he would beckon her to the chair. No. When he was neat and  trim she couldn’t wait to run her hands through the short hair. She was  moist, willing, but he just smiled and said, “Let’s go home.”
There, they made love furiously, her tongue exploring the once-again exposed nape behind his ear. But there were no scissors, no clippers for her that night. Just anticipation. Now there was this night. And the promise of the anticipation would finally become experience, the waiting would become pure pleasure. He had been planning this for a couple of months. Both with his head and his loins. It would take them to another level when it came to indulging their deepening passion, their fascination with this aspect of their play.


She would submit to what he wanted. And get what she desired. An interesting exchange. He would clearly be the maestro of the movement.  Or would he?
He got up from the table and walked behind her across the room,  tapping the stop button on the tape deck and replacing the tape with one cued up specially. She had made this tape for him a couple of weeks ago,  never realizing it included the perfect introductory song to this evening’s scenario. Punching play he moved behind her massaging her shoulders as the driving reggae rhythm bounded out of the speakers.
“I’m like a walking razor don’t you watch my side ’cause I’m  dangerous, dangerous,” Peter Tosh sang. She turned to look up at him,  smiling.
“Get up,” he commanded less forcefully than he intended.
“Let’s go.” She knew where, but let him guide her out of the room,  down the small white hallway, and into the bedroom where he flicked on the light. In a corner sat a big, newly-made bed, the shades around it drawn.
Off the left corner of the bed was an old barber chair, a jewel of a  prop he scored from a country antique store. White porcelain arms beckoning, a black leather seat cool on bare buns, and an elaborate metal footrest. Nearby was a small table covered with a white towel.
The sight of the chair caused her an involuntary gasp. She knew the clippers would be here. But the chair took their play to another level.  She paused. He pushed her forward. She turned to face him and started with the button on her shirt and worked slowly, smiling, enjoying his stare. She was shorter than he, trim thanks to regular workouts. When she finished, he disrobed, ending with slowly, carefully sliding off his underwear.
He guided her towards the chair with a cheerful, “it’s time to have a  seat” one of the slang phrases they’d adopted for haircuts. She sat,  breathing a little hard, her head on its long neck held proudly, even defiantly, upright.
He fetched a couple of old ties from a drawer and quickly lashed her wrists to the porcelain arms of the chair.
She smiled, and swallowed hard for what seemed like the 30th time.
Taking the comb, he began working the tangles out of her glorious hair, now scraping her shoulders. Oh, how she had waited for this. She closed her eyes and enjoyed his touch. He played the moment,  letting the electricity hang as he worked around her head, his free hand smoothing her hair, stroking her with each pass of the comb.
The more he combed, the hotter she got.
Then he stopped and picked up the scissors. A leer crossed his face as he began clicking them in front of her. Her hands clenched on the arms of the chair. One last comb through the hair by her right ear. Then she saw the scissors slide into her hair about chin level. A rasp and dry snakes of black slithered down her front, over her bare breasts, and  settled on her thighs. He worked deliberately now, combing and then scissoring, working a straight line around her head, leaving her with a  blunt, bouncy bob.
Dropping the comb and shears on the table, he gently massaged her shoulders, bending down to begin planting wet kisses on her nape beneath the bob. She squirmed, sensitive to his probing, enthusiastic tongue.

Clipper Time

Then, just as she was reaching that point, he abruptly stopped. His hand stroked her hair. She returned his smile. Yes. Now. Reaching around to her left, he picked up the clippers. Usually, he only used them to clean up at the end. Tonight would be different.
Purposefully, he waved the clippers across the front of her, pulling the cord over her lap, where he noticed her hands trembled slightly. She drew a breath. Standing behind her with the clippers he asked the usual. “What’ll it be?” A thick pause.
“Short,” he said. “Yes, I thought that’s what you said.” With that, she was breathing hard. Her jaw got that certain set. There was a  smiling twinkle to her blue eyes.
“Head down,” he said gently. She was compliant now; no need for the  master barber act. This was a shared submission. His left hand he grasped the hair on the back of her neck and slowly forced her chin onto her chest.
He paused. Gathering a breath. Then holding the clippers by her right ear, his hand still on her neck, he flipped the switch and the hum rose. She started, actually jumped, though she quickly tried to regain her composure.
He slid the clippers into her thick golden hair without hesitation dead center at the base of her neck and ran them quickly up past the bump on the back of her head. She had no idea how short he was clipping her. She just knew the vibration, the thrill, and then the coolness after they passed was one of the most erotic combinations she’d felt.
She heard the clippers rasping loudly as they drew the hair into the teeth. Then just the hum again as he lifted the clippers from against her head. Dramatically, he passed them towards her face, angling them  down so the hair cascaded down past her eyes and onto her thighs.  “Ohhhhh,” she moaned, watching her tresses, now freed from her head, vanishing from view. Since she faced away from the mirror, she could still see nothing.
She felt a sudden coolness on her nape that sent a shiver down her spine reaching between her legs. She was enjoying this too much. The last thing she wanted was for him to stop, though the uncertainty of the result both scared and thrilled her.
He returned to the task, buzzing up on both sides of the swath he’d created. He planned on giving her a longish crewcut, buzzed short and sharp on the sides, floppy and shaggy and soft on top.
Finishing the back, he found her breathing hard. “Let’s see what happens if I increase the intensity,” he thought.
So he placed the clippers behind her right ear and ran them forward,  sending wisps floating down on her shoulders, rolling past a breast with a taut nipple. She sighed.
The left side came next. Then he paused. Now, for the hard part. She relaxed as he set aside the clippers.
He picked up the scissors and a comb, brandishing them again in the clicking metal way he’d heard so many barbers use. She looked up from under her brows, nervous, almost begging with her eyes. He ignored her silent plea for clemency. Beginning in back, he combed the hair up, held it and sheared it off at about an inch.
There was no gasp, she seemed both thrilled and resigned, and not a  little worried about his skills. But she realized this was exactly what she wanted, what she craved.
Working slowly, he scissored the rest and  lifted up the bangs.  Using the comb, he tried to brush it up. He wanted to do this right, the way he’d seen barbers do it. With a clipper and a comb (and, he joked, a  level) shearing off a perfectly flat field of hair across the crown of  her head.
As the last of the top hair fell across her smooth, naked skin, he sized up his work. He picked up the soft brush he’d brought, gently swishing the hair from her shoulders and breasts, bending down to blow off the last few recalcitrant strands. She shuddered a little at the combination of the soft brush and his warm breath on her nipple.
A stylish crop, very short on the sides, softer on top, had taken shape, showcasing her long neck, and her confident bearing. Stunning, he thought. She’ll turn every head in every room she enters.
Eventually, he bent over, running his tongue along the naked skin behind her right ear where she had been clippered, flicking at the bristles that formed the hairline. He continued for minutes, slipping his tongue, sometimes fast, often slow around the hairline. Normally,  the taste of the shaving cream would be a turn-off, but he was so incredibly into it that it didn’t matter.
She moaned softly, rolling her head back to meet his tongue whenever he stopped for a breath. She got up from the chair and they moved to the bed.

A Happy Ending

The wait had been too much and they thrust back and forth like two teenagers with a time limit. It was just the first time this night.  There were others.
Later, awaking in the darkness he turned her on her stomach and started racing his tongue over her newly deforested neck.
“I love your buzz cut. It just feels…” he said.
“It does. I really like it,” she muttered softly, her head against the pillow.
He continued tonguing the shaved area below the hairline, reaching down to massage between her legs. Then he paused and rose up off her  back.
“I think, though, that it might still be a little too long,” he cracked.
“Aiiiigggghhhh!” she cracked.
And she hadn’t even seen it yet.

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