Master Disciplinarian – Session Two (Standalone)

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­­­­Master Disciplinarian – Session Two

This story is NOT a continuation of [Master Disciplinarian – Session One] and hence, it can be read as a standalone.

Aiden and I have been married for 5 years now and in all these years, he has been nothing but a model-husband and lover. All the more reason I felt terrible when he found out about the credit card bill for the things that I have spent for the last two months in his absence.

I have done this before, and I have been warned far too many times but I guess; old habits die hard.

I was prepared for a fight, for never hearing the end of it but Aiden took me by surprise. He gave me a choice: a session with Master Disciplinarian or sign the divorce paper.

“You can’t be serious, Aiden.”

“I am dead serious.”

I didn’t know any bizarre services like that ever existed until I found myself sitting across the desk of the ‘Master Disciplinarian’ Sean Caldwell. I didn’t know what this evening entailed, but I knew that it could make or break my marriage. Perhaps, the reparation would erase it all.

“So, how does it work? I mean…”

“You can leave the details up to me,” he spoke in his rich baritone. “Your husband, Mr. Cooper, was quite specific about the requirements of this evening. And he also insisted I record the same and send it to him for his satisfaction.”

“Of course,” I muttered. My husband was nothing but a perfectionist.

“Just do what you are told, and you will be fine.”

The next thing I know, I was led to a room with an immaculate, modern interior and enclosed with wall length mirrors. It was like a luxury fitting room with a chair placed in front of one of the mirrors. In one of the far corners, a camera was already set up; probably in anticipation of my arrival.

I wasn’t yet done taking in the surroundings when the sharp voice cut through my reverie. “Let’s start with your clothes. Undress, please.”

For a long moment, I paused. “What? Aiden can’t possibly…”

“I assure you, Mrs. Cooper. Your husband is well-aware of the events of this evening.” And then he pointed to the camera.

“No freaking way!”

I had almost turned around to leave, to hell with the reparation of my mistakes until Aiden’s text flashed before my eyes. “Do as he say, and we can start anew.” For the first time since my arrival, I could feel the pit in my stomach more deeply than ever. I had to obey a stranger, and he wanted me to undress at my husband’s behest.

I didn’t know if anything could get more frightening.

With no choice whatsoever, I started to unbutton the blouse, pulling the hem out of my jeans and revealing the soft pink lacy bra I had chosen for this evening. I unzipped my jeans, avoiding the intense stare of this man who had no qualms assessing every inch of my exposed skin while he was dressed from head to toe. The mirrors did not help either. So, I had to force myself to look down once I had slipped out of my high heels, jeans and blouse.

“Everything. And then you will take down your hair,” came the measured command as my gaze flew up to him.

An unhealthy mix of dread and exhilaration filled me. The thought of my husband watching me stripping naked for another man filled me with shame, delicately balanced by the certain dazzling knowledge of my growing arousal.

I obeyed, letting the lacy bra and matching thong join the pile of clothes at my feet. I pulled my hair out of the claw clip, letting it fall over my back. It took every ounce of boldness not to cover my breasts and between the legs as he watched me with an acute intent.

“You maintain yourself impressively, Mrs. Cooper, but then again, that’s what brought you here today. Isn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“Yes Sir.” He stressed on the last word, almost like a rebuke and lifted a brow until I relented.

“Yes, Sir,” I croaked.

“Sit on the chair.”

By now, my body was working on auto pilot at his command as I strode towards the chair and planted myself on it. The hard, polished wood felt exceptionally foreign in contact with my ass but apparently the Master Disciplinarian was a little more impatient than I thought.

My shoulders were grabbed from behind as I was pulled back into the chair. I watched him towering over me, gathering my thick hair into his fist as he assessed my reaction to the reflection with a sharp tug.

“Normally, I’d use a cape but like I said, your husband has specific requirements,” he said and gave one last tug before pulling closer a trolley, revealing hair cutting equipment.

Slowly, the lucidity of my predicament became clearer. “Please. Not my hair…”

“It’s not up to you,” he stated simply, maintaining the hold of my hair like a rein. “And you will not take your eyes off the mirror. I am afraid it would entail separate consequences of your dislike.”

My eyes were indeed glued to the mirror as I watched him casually grab a section of hair from the sides and slice it down to my neck and drop it down my lap. And before I could recover from the first hack, he moved onto the second and third one until my hair was chopped down to an uneven long bob. The severed tresses were piled up in my lap, some deliberately strewn over my breasts, eliciting sensations having grazed my nipples.

I could not help but shed a single tear in loss as Mr. Caldwell continued to finger comb the jagged ends, occasionally his firm, masculine digits grazing over my exposed neck.

“How long have you been growing your hair?” he asked.

“Five years,” I answered throatily.

He shrugged. “Almost a shame to cut down the five-year growth.”

I consoled myself that I could still live with a long bob; perhaps I would request my regular stylist to add some layers or texture to make it look stylish while I watched him trade the scissors for a comb. When his firm hand he held the back of my head in place so that I had no choice but to look ahead as he combed down the hair over my eyes and face.

“And have you ever tried bangs?” he asked.

“No, Sir.”

The cold steel was pressed against my forehead, a little higher than I dreaded and cut the bangs almost an inch or more above the forehead. He combed it down again, snipped another centimetre or so, taking it higher and snipped the sides. It looked hideous.

“And what about short hair?”

“I don’t like short hair.”

A smile ghosted on the corner of his lips as he dropped the comb and scissors on the tray. “Well, then I guess your husband knows you all too well.”

I could not see with his back facing me but when the menacing sound reached my ears, I could not help but jump in my seat, almost ready to bolt. “Please, no!”

He had a reflex to brag about and grabbed me down with his free hand before I made it off the seat. “If you move an inch, you will be tied to the chair,” he warned, coming to stand behind me with his grip still intact while the other hand brandished the clippers.

“Keep your eyes on the mirror, Mrs. Cooper.” It wasn’t a request. Besides, his unyielding hold made sure I could barely move my neck. And it took more than willpower not to close my eyes or shudder when the vibrating teeth of the clippers attacked my nape, scooping a clump of hair and deliberately dropping into my lap. By the second and third long swipe, I had resigned to my sniffles.

But the shock and arousal mingling with shame began to churn something within me as I struggled to maintain my composure. The intense urge to cross my legs, to have my thighs rub against the coarse texture of hair, to feel the gnawing need of friction against my pussy almost drove me crazy.

By now, the clipper had shaved almost the back and sides of my head and the only length remained on top. It was embarrassingly hanging down and it was too late to think of anything suitable I could do to reverse the damage.

He paused for a beat, making eye contact on the mirror before flashing a purposeful smile.

The buzzing came alive once again, this time the teeth plunging right over the top where the edge of the bangs began. Swathes of hair rained down my shoulders, over the breasts and on the floor as he denuded the top down to nothing. He would occasionally pause, rubbing the shaved spot, dusting the hairs and then run the clippers up and down until he would force the moans out of my throat.

I sucked in an agonising breath as dirty pleasure skated through me with every tight pass of the chattering metal teeth over my scalp. And he knew and purposefully ran them over and over until I was at my crest and abruptly pull back.

“We are not done yet, but I’d allow you a look,” he said, switching off the clippers.

He then manoeuvred my neck, one side then the other letting me see the ghastly sight of my profile.

Oh, my God! What…I…”

I was bald. Except for those hideous bangs and a few strands framing either of my face, I was shaved bald. Everything else was taken down to a stubble as my nimble fingers skimmed over the bare scalp. The feeling was so foreign, so intense having been stripped down to nothing in every sense of the word.

“It’s a Chelsea cut. Since you haven’t tried bangs, it will be a welcome change.”

“I look like a freak!” I almost cried.

He didn’t care as I heard him say, “Now, onto the next step.”

Warm lather was spread over the shaved scalp, tingling and pulsating as between my legs. He picked up the straight razor, taking his sweet time sharpening the steel as he made me watch and then began to scrape the foam. With the white virgin scalp coming to view, my arousal grew anew.

It was a sweet, sweet torture—having to witness my precious locks taken away, being stripped, being reduced to a hideous hairstyle at the hands of a stranger who was probably relishing every second of my discipline.

Once done, he pulled back my head a little and murmured, “I believe these are looking quite out of place.”

The razor scraped over my eyebrows, in short meticulous strokes, one side and then the other before my head was released. And he didn’t stop at that. He exchanged the razor with the scissors this time, forcing my head back as my eyelashes were snipped carefully snipped. If I thought I looked awful with the haircut, I would be unrecognisable now.

“No more pretty hair.” He brushed the hair clumps off my breasts and then tweaked the beaded nipples.

With a gasp, I erupted, almost shaking until the wave rescinded.

“You are quite a slut, aren’t you? Humiliation does turn you on.”

He probed, reaching down to scoop out the severed hairs in my lap before plunging his fingers between my legs. The tell-tale dampness coating my thighs was evident. And when I tried to close them, a sharp slap stung my skin as he pushed two fingers straight into my channel.

Like a common tramp, I came again and again with occasional slaps against my tits. Satisfied, he rescinded and dusted me off as I slowly regained the control of my breathing.

The reflection on the mirror was harrowing. I was left with the shortest, ugliest bangs and a shaved head, with no eyebrows or eyelashes. It took me sometime to realize that it was my reflection and that I have to live with this.

A small duster was thrown into my lap and a garbage bag. “I want every strand of your hair into the trash. Get down and get working,” he ordered.

Wobbling, I got down on my hands and knees on the tiled floor, gathering my once precious hairs and bagged them. I was made to pick up every single hair on the floor, however small it was. And every time I missed one, the paddle hairbrush connected against the bare bottom, eliciting half moan-half cry.

I had almost forgotten about the video recording until he went over and switched it off once I had done the job to his satisfaction. Then he squatted on his haunches and ran his fingers over the shaved head and ruffled the embarrassing bangs. I felt an appalling sense of submissiveness and surrender.

“Well, I do hope your husband is satisfied. You won’t be tempted to splurge on your looks for quite some time now.”

“Just shave me bald!” I cried.

“That’s never the idea. The bangs will be your reminder for the next six months that you need to be careful with money.”

Six months?!” I gasped.

“Six months or longer, if I deem it appropriate.” He shrugged. “And I have a feeling you want to get back on that chair again, knowing what I could do to your hair and your body.” His fingers slipped down between my legs, skating over the swollen, moist folds and smiled. “And you’re already creaming again.”

“Fuck!” I whimpered. This was wrong on every level, but I was far too deep down the rabbit hole already, being subjugated to such an erotically humiliating experience. So, I might as well enjoy the dark pleasure. “Take me,” I begged.

He did not need to be told twice.

I was pushed back on my hands and knees as he positioned himself behind me, rutting me like a bitch in heat. Every guttural sound, every grunt and every thrust were overpowering, but it was his sloppy finger plunging into my back hole did the trick.

I have never been touched there. And certainly not in this manner, but the intrusion rocketed my orgasm as I screamed.

“You will take me here next time,” he decreed.

And I knew there was nothing stopping him from taking me, just like the way he took my hair, my beauty and my pride and then made me come like I wanted it.

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