Rising & Falling, Part 1 – Samantha, the Object of My Affection

Prologue

The coffee was lukewarm, the lecture notes blurring in front of me, but I did not really care. It was a familiar situation. I just got on with things. Then Samantha sat down opposite me at the cafeteria table.

Samantha. The name echoed in my head. Samantha, the Goth girl with her ink-black hair, the silver rings adorning her fingers, and that perpetual air of intriguing melancholy. She was a postgrad, considered a mythical creature in my undergraduate world.

Difficult to miss in her black and purple outfits, leather boots and striking makeup, I had seen her around. She was always with different guys, none of whom seemed to last. I could not understand it. If I had her, I would never let her go … whatever it took.

First Meeting

‘Mind if I join you?’ she asked, her voice a low, husky rasp that sent a shiver down my spine.

‘Not at all,’ I managed, looking up, trying to sound nonchalant despite the internal earthquake raging within.

The layers of her black silk and lace miniskirt rustled as she sat down. Her thigh length leather boots squeaked as she crossed her legs. Her long black hair trailed in her lap, as she peered at me from under her short blunt fringe that curved across her forehead.

We talked. Really talked. About books, about music, about the meaning of life, the universe, and everything. Hours melted away, and suddenly the cafeteria was empty, the chairs stacked, and the cleaners were giving us pointed looks. It was the start of something, I knew it.

And over the next few weeks, that something blossomed. We went for coffee, walked in the park, even caught a late-night showing of an obscure foreign film. Just the two of us. No one else. It was perfect.

Then came the invitation to her flat. My heart hammered in my chest as I climbed the stairs to her place. The air was thick with anticipation, with the unspoken promise of something more.

Her flat itself was exactly as I had imagined. Dimly lit, cluttered with books and strange artifacts, and smelling faintly of incense.

‘Michael, I have been looking for someone like you for so long,’ she said, turning to face me, her eyes searching mine. ‘I really do hope that you are the one.’

The words hung in the air, heavy with expectation. The world tilted on its axis. This was it. This was everything I had ever wanted.

‘Come on,’ she said, her mood quickly shifting, pulling me towards a half open door. ‘Let’s have some fun!’

Having Fun

Fun was not exactly the word I would use to describe what followed, but it was certainly an experience. A completely unexpected, utterly bewildering experience.

The room was not her bedroom as I had expected and, in truth, hoped. It was a modestly sized space that appeared to serve not only as her study but also, for want of a more appropriate term, her dressing room.

First, there was the dress. A short, floral thing, draped innocently over the back of a chair. I stared at it. The style was so at odds with her usual Goth-like attire. I turned to Samantha, a question forming on my lips.

‘Put it on, Michael,’ she ordered, her voice leaving no room for argument.

No way, I thought to myself, but kept my objections polite. ‘But … er, why, Samantha?’

‘Because I want you to,’ she said, her eyes sparkling with a strange intensity. ‘Don’t you want to make me happy?’

I did. Desperately. So, nervously, and self-consciously, I did as she asked. Stripping down to my underwear in front of her, I wriggled into the ridiculous dress, the thin cotton fabric feeling alien against my skin.

She directed me to her desk. But then I saw she had arranged it more like a dressing table, covered by a mind-numbing array of jars, tubes, and brushes. She began to apply foundation, blusher, lipstick to my features, layers of artifice transforming my face into something completely different. Something softer, more feminine. My sparse blonde facial hair, barely noticeable before, seemed to vanish beneath the layers of cosmetic secrecy. I felt ridiculous, exposed, utterly vulnerable.

‘Relax,’ Samantha said, seeing my discomfort. ‘Just let it happen and go with it.’

And I did. I let it happen because I could not bear the thought of disappointing her. I went with it because being near her, even in this bizarre situation, was better than being anywhere else.

Then she touched my hair. My precious hair. My pride and joy. I wore it long, usually tied back in a low ponytail. My mates said I looked like a rock star. It was an apt, if over-generous, description given that I occasionally played guitar in a band, but it was a tag I was happy to accept. My hair was intrinsic to that persona and so I was incredibly protective of it.

‘Let it down,’ she commanded, again leaving no space for negotiation.

‘But Samantha …’ I began, panicking inside.

‘Michael,’ she said, her voice softer now, almost pleading. ‘Please. Trust me.’

Escalating the Fun

I untied my ponytail. My hair cascaded over the thin straps of my dress that looped across my bare shoulders, and it tumbled like a waterfall down the back of the dress. Samantha ran her fingers through it, a strange look on her face.

‘I am going to do your hair,’ she announced.

That was where I almost drew the line. ‘I don’t think so,’ I said, my voice trembling slightly. ‘I don’t want it cut off.’

‘I’m not going to cut it,’ she said, a playful glint in her eye. ‘I am just going to style it.’

I eyed her warily, but I relented. What could she do?

Samantha took out a curling wand, and before I knew it, she was wrapping sections of my hair around the hot metal. The air filled with the scent of warm hair, and I winced at the heat damage she might be doing to my precious locks.

‘What are you doing?’ I asked, my voice laced with concern.

‘Making you beautiful,’ she said, her eyes gleaming.

When she had finished, I looked in a full-length mirror hanging on the wall. I barely recognised myself. She had transformed my long straight hair into a mass of tight, bouncy curls. It resembled a perm worn by a guitarist from an eighties heavy metal band.

‘You look even prettier than me now!’ Samantha breathed, grabbing her camera phone. The bright flash signified she had captured my face for posterity, a bewildered expression frozen on my womanly made-up face.

Then came the hammer blow.

‘If you tell anyone about any of this,’ she said, her voice suddenly cold and hard, ‘I will post these photos online. Everyone will see them.’

The threat hung in the air, acting as a chilling reminder of the power Samantha now held over me. I contemplated that it might be the reason none of her past relationships had appeared to last long. Their brief attachment suggested that they had all escaped her clutches before she ensnared them.

But Samantha had me hooked. Not only hooked but also trapped.

Hooked & Trapped

Following Samantha’s threat of exposing me, her change in mood was, once again, whiplash sudden.

One moment threatening, the next she was all over me. She sat astride me in the makeup chair, kissing me, her lips insistent and demanding. She reached under the dress, running her fingers along my thighs and fondling me gently and expertly. Her touch sent jolts of pleasure through my body, despite the bizarre situation.

Samantha knew exactly what she was doing. How to manipulate me, how to stimulate me, and how to make me want her … even when I knew I should have been running as fast as possible in the opposite direction.

With a rhythmic motion, all further reasoning having left me, her gentle hands brought me to an earth-shattering pinnacle.

Pressing On

And so began a strange and unsettling routine. I returned to her flat repeatedly, and each time, she would dress me up, apply my makeup, and transform me into an idealised vision of femininity. While she continued to portray herself as my perfect Goth vision, I played up to being the hapless victim in her twisted games.

She excelled as my antagonistic boss whenever I donned my secretarial outfit, Samantha’s favourite. I donned the ridiculously short skirt and matching tight blazer, and I allowed her to pile up my hair into an outrageous beehive style.

I knew I had crossed a line, but I did not care as I would do anything to stay with her. Anything to keep her happy, and she rewarded me with her attentive sexual expertise.

During one of these sessions, she casually dropped her latest bombshell. ‘Michael, I have made you a hair appointment for today,’ she said casually. ‘At Brenda’s. It is only just around the corner.’

Panic flared within me. ‘A hair appointment? For what?’

‘You need a new style,’ she said, matter-of-factly. ‘Something that is … well, a little more you.’

I knew what that meant. More in line with her twisted desires.

‘But I do not want a haircut!’ I protested, my voice rising in desperation, sounding like petulant child.

‘Stop being silly, Michael,’ she said, her voice hardening. ‘It will be fun. And besides, I have already booked it, and Brenda is expecting you very shortly. So, pop on your red dress with the white polka dots,’ she demanded, indicating the garment already at the front of the clothes rail by the mirror, ‘and I will do your makeup and put your hair up in a nice high ponytail before we go.’

I argued, I pleaded, but it was no use. Samantha was unyielding.

Appointment with Fear

For the first time I found myself walking down the street in full feminine attire, my jaunty high ponytail swinging behind me. It was bizarre, surreal, terrifying. I could feel the eyes of passersby on me, their stares a mixture of curiosity and amusement. But there was no hostility for which I was grateful. Although I kept my head down, trying to blend in, I knew I stuck out like a sore thumb.

Top Style by Brenda was in a small parade of shops less than ten minutes’ walk from Samantha’s flat. Small and brightly lit, it resembled the sort of place my grandmother and all her friend used to regularly frequent in my hometown. Even the warm humid air and the chemical smell of hairspray and perming solution was the same as we approached the entrance. I felt like a lamb that Samantha was leading to the slaughter.

Brenda, a petite older woman with a peroxide blonde bob, bustled over as soon as we entered.

‘Nice to meet you, Michaela,’ Brenda said, with no trace of sarcasm when using a feminised version of my name. Samantha must have booked me in as Michaela, I realised, and I was unsure if that was better or worse for me. ‘Samantha has already told me what we are doing today. How exciting,’ she added cheerfully, fingering my ponytail.

Exciting? Well, I suppose it was good that someone knew what was happening, even if that person was not me! I opened my mouth to object, but Samantha immediately cut through my protest. ‘Yes, Brenda knows exactly what to do,’ she said firmly. ‘I’ve already explained it to her in considerable detail.’

Brenda smiled knowingly and led me to the wash basin. The water was hot and soothing, and for a moment, I allowed myself to relax. But then, after returning me to the styling chair, she began combing my damp hair neatly back from my forehead, and the panic returned.

After a short pause, I heard a disconcerting sound that I likened to the noise made by scissors chopping through thick healthy hair. Brenda confirmed my sickening judgement when she gleefully held up a long blonde ponytail. ‘Always best to get the worst over with quickly,’ she chuckled, by way of explanation, releasing her grip my former locks and allowing them to fall to the floor. The damp hair hit the tiles with a resounding damp plop.

My heart lurched. ‘Wait! What? I did not agree to this!’ I yelled.

Brenda chuckled, ignoring me. I looked desperately at Samantha, pleading silently with my eyes. She just smiled back at me, a satisfied, almost predatory look on her face.

Brenda started chopping. Snippets of my precious hair fell to the floor in clumps, each cut a tiny stab of pain. I closed my eyes, trying to block out the sound, the sight, the feeling of Brenda stripping my identity away. Repeatedly, she lifted, measured, and trimmed. I felt her exposing my ears and uncovering my neck. Wishing to remain oblivious to the damage as long as possible, I kept my eyes closed.

The sound of hairclippers jolted me back to my grim reality. Through half open eyes, I spied a grinning Brenda excitedly attacking the hair at my nape, before transferring her attention to each of my ears in turn.

Suddenly there was silence. After a short interval when Brenda made final adjustments to her work, she sighed with pleasure and held up a mirror for me so I could survey the remnants of my hair from every angle.

‘There,’ Brenda said, ‘A neat wedge hairstyle as Samantha requested. Short layers swept back through the front and top, with the back and sides shaved?’

‘Shaved?’ I squeaked, but the evidence of the small hand mirror bore out the fact my scalp was visible in places once protected by ample quantities of hair. The words failed me. The shock and horror were unbearable.

Brenda ignored me and went on. ‘You can also comb it flat and wear your hair in a bowlcut-like style,’ she stated proudly, although I took absolutely no consolation from that. ‘Two in one,’ she pressed, but fortunately did not demonstrate.

I did not recognise the person staring back at me in the mirror. My long hair was gone, replaced by a short, severe style that made my eyes look huge and accentuated my sharp cheekbones. It was a disaster, and I did not know how I was going to cope going forward.

‘There,’ Brenda said brightly, stepping back to admire her work. ‘Isn’t that just adorable?’

Samantha beamed, nodding enthusiastically. ‘Michaela looks perfect, Brenda,’ she confirmed breathlessly, her eyes gleaming with approval. ‘Absolutely perfect.’

I wanted to scream, to cry, to run away. But I could not. Samantha had entrapped me.

Easing the Pain

When we returned to Samantha’s flat, she immediately dragged me to her bedroom. For the first time since we had been together, she invited me into her bed. And she was insatiable, her touch frantic and demanding. Even the way she raked her long fingernails through my short hair and softly touched my shaved nape, left me quivering with pleasure. Revelling in her attention, I did not mind too much that she had forced me to have my hair cut. I responded to her desire in kind, my body craving the release she offered.

She permitted me, even encouraged me, to run my fingers through her immaculate black silky locks, something she had always been reluctant for me to do in the past. Her Goth hair, including the blunt fringe, had been one of the things that had attracted me originally. She had never clarified why she was so protective, but I always tried to respect her viewpoint. On this unique occasion, indulging my passion by losing myself in her ample tresses, served to heighten the whole wonderful experience.

During a pause in our night of lovemaking, as we drew breath and refreshed ourselves with a glass of wine, Samantha spoke quietly, bashfully. ‘Thank you so much for today, Michael … for, you know, everything … it has meant so much to me.’

‘My pleasure,’ I replied huskily, fingering a strand of Samantha’s ebony hair as we looked into each other’s eyes. ‘As long as you do not intend to get your hair cut too,’ I chuckled lightly, flicking her delightful short fringe.

She stared into my eyes, her expression unreadable. The silence seemed longer than necessary. ‘We will see …’ she murmured, smiling enigmatically, before giggling as I squirmed hungrily with the touch of her fingers on my nape.

A shiver ran up and down my spine. I felt uneasy, although I knew Samantha was only joking. Briefly, a niggle kept resurfacing. I wondered if she had been using the laughter to disguise her intentions. However, she launched herself into a full heavy metal head-banging routine, poised deliciously over my body. When her long hair began whipping my face, my chest, and other sensitive parts of my body, all my concerns miraculously disappeared.

Prior to that glorious night, our earlier sensual explorations had been enlightening and enjoyable. But making unbridled love with Samantha was intense, a strange mixture of pain and pleasure, of control and surrender.

Samantha had managed to hook me more firmly than I had ever thought possible.

To be continued