Remembering My Time At St. Mary’s

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My husband and I met on Tinder. On our third date, we were cuddled up under a blanket at his house and discussing our high school experience. They were wildly different.

Once I heard his very normal high school stories, I said, “Yeah, I was a bad kid. I stole a car once. My parents, thankfully, realized that I needed help and sent me to St. Mary’s to get my act together. It was rough at first. Especially since they had all these strict rules. Including mandatory buzzcuts for their students.”

“OMG,” he said, “do you have pictures?”

Oh, I thought, looking at the sudden bulge in his jeans, is this his thing? Interesting. Because, at the time, I have big bleached blonde hair down to my tits. I showed him a picture on my phone of me in the barber chair for the first time, looking distraught and teary as a stern matronly nun sheared off the last brown ponytail (my natural color).

“Wait? Why did they keep the ponytails?” he asked.

His bulge was still visible. Very curious, I touched it, which made him stir. At this point, we only kissed. Then I told them that St. Mary’s had a strict “no vanity” policy for its’ students. Hence the buzzcuts. They donated the hair from new students.

Still massaging his bulge through the jean, I told him, “The nun told me that some other more deserving girl would be receiving my hair as she shaved my head.”

“Oh, that’s so hot,” he said, gasping with arousal,”there’s a wig out there made from your hair.”

I slid off my jeans. “Yeah, they wouldn’t accept my hair now. They don’t accept colored treated hair.”

He slid off his. “You should shave your head again. Regrow your hair au natural. That way you can donate it again.”

Then he stuck his hand down my panties to play with my wet cunt. At that time, I had never considered buzzing my head again. I mean, I had actually enjoyed the look as a teenager once I got over the initial shock, but I wasn’t a teenager anymore. In the heat of the moment, I made a decision. I told him to go get scissors. Looking EXCITED, he grabbed a pair from his kitchen.

Cutting off my panties, a bold but delightful decision on his part, he said, “Thank you for letting me do this. This has my fantasy since I saw Demi Moore in GI Jane.”

There was a big smile on his face. Smiling back, I told him to loan me the scissors for a minute. With them, I cut off his boxers, exposing a rock hard dick of respectable size.

Handing back the scissors with a kiss, I told him that I wanted him inside me as he cut off my hair. He immediately complied. As I sat on the couch, with him inside me, he cut my hair, thrusting with every lock that he took. When we finished, my scalp a ragged, uneven mess, he carried me to his bathroom. Very gently, he put me on the floor.

“Kneel,” he said.

Oh, I thought, getting in position for him, this is bringing out his dominant side. Good. Looking up, in the afterglow of an amazing fuck, I watched him get out his clippers. No guard. He held my neck as he started to use them. With practiced ease, he stripped me of the last of my hair.

Once he finally finished, he rubbed my head, which was covered in fine brown stubble. In his eyes, I could see a little bit of disappointment. Oh, I thought, was this a mistake? Do I look hideous? I began to tear up.

“Oh, baby,” he said, noticing me start to cry, “You look beautiful. I just thought that your head would feel, you know, smoother.”

That made me laugh. “You have to shave it with a razor, dummy.”

Laughing too, he sat me on the toliet. Then he lathered up my head. Very carefully, he used his BIC to shave me smooth. He made two passes. Rubbing his hand over my scalp, he pronunced me perfect.

It’s been five years since that night. (We’ve been married for three of them.) My hair, untouched by bleach, is down to my waist thanks to his pampering. A perfect chestnut curtain made from a vitamin rich diet, bare minimum trims, and regular conditioning. I will finally be donating it tomorrow. In front of a school’s gym of people, it will be harvested, right down to my scalp. The full baldie works. The organizer has texted me multiple times, worried that my husband (a known obsessive about my hair) will make me back out. I keep telling her not to worry. She doesn’t need to know that, once we get home, he plans on conditioning my scalp with his cum.

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