Sarah’s Shearing

Story Categories:

Story Tags:

Views: 3,758 | Likes: +80

You can feel the bones of my slender wrist in your firm grasp as you pull me through the door into the traditional mens’ barbershop you’ve picked, specially for today. I look at you pleadingly with wide, innocent eyes, no protests left to verbalise after our conversations of the day so far, still hoping against hope that you’ll relent. As you wordlessly shake your head with a stern warning expression that brooks no further defiance, my stomach twists like I’ve been punched in the gut. Breaking eye contact submissively, I apprehensively glance about the alien environment you’ve walked me into.

Two huge red leather chairs take pride of place in the centre of the black and white tiled floor, each facing a tall mirror with a counter-top beneath, upon which scissors, clippers, combs, guards and all manner of other tools for butchering hair lay arranged neatly.

As you firmly close the door behind, a slender barberette rises from the chair nearest us, the only other person in the barber shop. She’s in her early thirties, wearing a crisp white barber’s jacket, snapped at the shoulder and neck, over a pair of black leggings, with a tool-belt slung about her waist containing her most commonly used tools of the trade.

She moves lithely and confidently towards us, her boots clacking against the tiles as she approaches. Her dyed blonde ponytail swings in time with her footfalls. She regards me coolly before fixing you with her piercing blue eyes, winged with eyeliner, almost smirking as she immediately recognises the power dynamic between us.

The barberette addresses you directly. “Here for a haircut?” she asks sweetly. Whether it’s just a trick of my adrenaline-fuelled imagination, or the barberette knowing more than she is letting on, she seems to linger on the word ‘haircut’, letting it hang in the air, with all of the sensual power it entails.

You smile warmly as you shake your head. After all, it’s only natural that there would be some confusion here. “I’m not, no. Sarah here however. . .” You firmly tug on my captive wrist again, indicating that I am indeed who you are referring to, “Well, Sarah definitely does need a haircut.”

The barberette’s face lights up as you confirm her suspicions, her false smile now genuinely spreading to her eyes as she fixates on me like a predator stalking its prey. Drawing closer, without asking, she begins to examine my wavy, brown locks, drawing a manicured hand through them as I have no choice but to stand there and comply, mounting apprehension mingling with shameful arousal as I’m inspected.

The barberette addresses you again, already understanding that I’m not to be consulted. That my opinion doesn’t matter. “Her hair is rather damaged, we’ll have to take her quite short . . . but then I assume you knew that already, given that this is a barbershop?” she practically purrs as she awaits your response.

You beam back at her. “Most certainly. That won’t be a problem at all. Although ‘quite short’ wasn’t really what I had in mind, I prefer the idea of extremely short. I hope you’re amenable to that?”

The barberette draws a lock of my hair away from my shoulder slowly, stretching it taut as if to demonstrate the length I have currently, the length I stand to lose, before dismissively letting it drift away from her fingers as she sweeps back to the closest barber chair. With a flourish she spins it to face us, smiling wickedly. “More than amenable.” she nods, patting the back of the chair firmly as you release my wrist.

“Well, Sarah, it looks like you’re next. Come and have a seat and we can discuss exactly what we’re going to be doing to sort out that wavy mop of yours.”
As she finally speaks to me directly for the first time I can feel the colour rising in my cheeks. While I want nothing more than to wake from this like it’s a dream and enjoy this pulsing arousal of fantasy as I would usually, the unexpected pressure of your hand on the small of my back pushing me towards my fate rouses me from my reverie, and I feel my eyes start to prickle with nervous tears. Legs feeling like lead, stomach churning, I understand that I have no choice, that this is what’s best for me, and reluctantly begin to take shaky steps towards the waiting barber chair.

The barberette waits patiently, presiding over the seat in front of her, but whether her hungry gaze lingers on me or just my hair, I can’t really tell. Despite moving forwards, the pressure you’re exerting never leaves the small of my back, firmly guiding me onwards, indicating that there’s no chance of escape, everything proceeding as you told me to expect that it would, and so far you haven’t been wrong.

I finally reach the chair, looking down at the slightly worn red leather of the cushions, the harsh lighting of the barbershop glinting from the chrome work, and the manicured hands of the barberette clasping the back of the chair.

“What are you waiting for? Hop on up,” she orders patronisingly as I come to a brief stop, with the same tone she might use for instructing a disobedient child. I feel another push on my back trying to overcome my resistance, but I know that the act of sitting down is a line, and I once I cross it, I won’t be able to come back from with my hair or dignity intact.

No matter how much I secretly crave what would come to pass, a swell of reluctance and rationality rises in my chest, and I turn to shoot you one last pleading look, about to beg for my hair and for an end to this terrifying, albeit arousing, ordeal.

The words die in my throat as I see your stony expression and your eyebrows rise, clearly displeased with my hesitation. My heart sinks as I turn back to the chair, eyes averted downwards as I finally step up onto the footrest, holding an armrest as I spin to face you. You watch me with no small degree of satisfaction as I start to lower my small frame into the huge chair. The barberette quickly grips my shoulders and forcefully draws me backwards into it, ensuring my back is straight against the rear cushion.

“Good girl” she croons, spinning me slowly to face the mirror. I come face-to-face with the pale, out-of-place looking young woman that stares back at me. I instinctively adjust my posture, gripping the armrests, feet flat against the footrest, straightening up. I notice you’ve also drawn closer, standing to one side just behind the barberette, arms crossed, watching approvingly.

The barberette draws a comb from her tool-belt, placing her free hand firmly atop my head as she starts to firmly rake it down through my wavy hair. I wince a little as it tugs on the occasional knot, but know better than to say anything, your watchful gaze and the threat of punishment for disobedience keeping me compliant.

Satisfied with this cursory comb-out, I find my hair quickly gathered into a tight ponytail which the barberette twists up atop my head, using a pair of crocodile grips to secure it up away from my neck and shoulders in one practised motion.

Drawing a neck strip from a dispenser, the barberette stretches it out between her hands, before bringing it down in front of my face. I can feel her close behind me, smelling the scent of her floral perfume for the first time. “Chin up” she clips. I’m reluctant to do so, to obey her instructions, to submit to this ritual of the barbershop, but once again I recognise I have no choice.

I raise my chin, submissively exposing my throat as the neck strip is pulled flush against it. She secures the white papery collar tightly behind my neck by pressing the adhesive strips together, running her fingers over the smooth surface, applying a little pressure. I shoot you a nervous glance, but you stand there smiling, clearly enjoying my discomfort and the barberette’s domineering demeanour.

Next, she unhooks a large maroon cape, finding the collar and flicking it out several times with a matador’s flourish before swinging it up and over my body and the chair that contains it. The material drifts down to envelop me as she draws the halves of the cape up and over the neck strip, snapping it securely closed.

Toying with the way the cape hangs over my small shoulders and the silhouette of the chair, the barberette looks at me in the mirror as I shift my head slightly, trying to make the cape feel less restrictive around my neck. “It’s not too tight is it?”

“N-no.” I shake my head quickly as I realise she’s noticed what I’m doing, not wanting to antagonise her in any way. Despite this, I can’t help but breathe a small sigh of relief as she does unsnap the cape. That feeling quickly dies in my chest as I feel her quickly refasten the collar one snap tighter, pressing the studs together before securing another few snaps for good measure.

I feel her hands once more about my throat as she folds the neckstrip down neatly over the collar of the tightened cape. “What about now?” she asks rhetorically, with a wicked smirk on her face. Where I should feel indignant defiance I instead get a twisted rush of arousal at this firm mistreatment.

“I’d say she likes it.” you pipe up from the background, still enjoying the show. As you speak the barberette removes the clips from my hair, letting my brown locks cascade down onto the soft maroon material of the cape, and she resumes idly, but firmly, re-combing it once again.

“So.” she begins, catching my gaze and keeping it via our reflection in the mirror, but clearly talking to you. “Just what did you have in mind for her hair?”

Invited by her question, you stride confidently towards the pair of us, taking particular satisfaction in the sight of your victim trapped beneath the cape. You feign thoughtfulness before replying, despite the fact that we both know how long we’ve been sharing these thoughts, and that we both know exactly what you want. What I need.

“Well, like I said, she needs a good tidy up. Something extremely short. I want it up, off her neck and those sweet little ears of hers.” I look distraught as you spell out your designs for my hair, unable to meet the reflection of your triumphant expression as you continue to instruct the barberette. “Honestly I wouldn’t mind seeing some skin on the back and sides.”

The barberette nods along, looking equally pleased with herself, raking her fingers back through my hair, pulling it away from my face and my hairline, exposing my aforementioned ears as she gathers it in one hand.

“So a nice tight skin fade. And the top?” she asks, sinking her free hand into the collected hair on top of my head, using it to pull my head back, lifting my downcast gaze from the maroon of the cape to my own flushed reflection and that of my tormentors.

“Barber’s choice,” you reply nonchalantly, letting the words hang in the air, as I feel a rush of nausea and twisted arousal at the fate of my hair being left to chance. Hand still sunk into my hair, the barberette uses it to forcefully turn my head from side to side, saving herself from such trivialities as needing to move, as she silently decides how best to shear her prey.

“How about we leave the top just a little longer? Scissor cut it into something cute and textured, with a few options to style?” I appear to be on the verge of tears already, doing my very best to control my emotions at the prospect of losing the security blanket of my hair and the thought of the incredibly short haircut the pair of you are looking to inflict on me. Despite my visible distress and having given the barberette free reign, you don’t look totally convinced by her suggestion.

The barberette continues however, “And if you don’t like it, we can always take her shorter.”

You clap your hands together gleefully. “Perfect. She’s all yours.”

The barberette’s firm grip is finally released from the top of my head, but she keeps my hair gathered in her other hand. With a snap of elastic she ties it up into a tight ponytail, securing it close to my scalp, as I try to stop myself trembling with a mixture of anticipation and dread.

In what seems like one fluid motion, she releases the weight of my ponytail to fall down the back of the chair and I suddenly find the world spinning. The barberette turns the barber chair and its frightened occupant to face you. You come into view, legs crossed, sat imperiously on the long waiting bench that lines the opposite wall of the barbershop. Ready to enjoy the show.

No longer able to see the barberette, every sound she makes seems amplified as I desperately try to establish what she might be doing behind me. Every squeak of her boots on the tiled floor, every small swish of fabric, every dully metallic click sets me on edge. I almost can’t take my building anxiety, pouting desperately, trying to dampen my trembling beneath the cape with the anchor of the armrests.

All of my vigilance is for nought as I feel a swift tension in my ponytail, my head dragged backwards by the barberette’s firm tug as she appears along side my head. “We’ll start by getting rid of this bulk.” As she opens a wide pair of cutting shears and sinks them into the base of the ponytail I want to cry out, to leap from the chair, to beg you, her, anyone, for this to stop, but I’m bound in the chair by more than just the cape and the threat of your punishments. I’m fixated by my own forbidden desires and desperate need to please you. By the implicit understanding that this is exactly what I deserve, and the distressing revelation that it’s already far too late to save my hair.

The barberette continues to close the shears around my hair without mercy, the crunch of the blades as they effortlessly slice through my hair loud and sickening. As I start to cry, I don’t know whether they’re tears of sadness, of regret, or of release, but whichever way, they start to roll down my cheeks.

With a sudden jolt my head falls forwards weightlessly, the tension suddenly released as I realise that the shears have completed their cruel task. I don’t have to wait for any further confirmation as the barberette drops the weight of my chopped ponytail into the lap of the maroon cape, years of growth and tender care casually stolen away from me and discarded at your behest.

I stare down at at the tear-blurred mass of severed hair, recognising the powerful symbolism of this act, finally understanding that this is not a fantasy, this is now my reality, and that I have no choice but to surrender to your desires and the barberette you have entrusted to enact them upon the canvas of my remaining hair.

The severed strands of my hair tickle my face as they swing forward. While I can only guess the damage that has been wrought by the removal of my ponytail, you can see first hand the rough, choppy bob that now frames my face. No longer than my chin in front, much shorter in the back, already the shortest my hair has been since childhood. You take pleasure in my ruined vanity, in the running makeup staining my cheeks, in my silent humiliation as the barberette musses my hair with one hand, sending the shortened strands swinging about.

“Looking much better already” she pipes up, roughly combing through the remains of my crowning glory. The teeth of the comb exit the hair much more quickly with so much less length to glide through. Angling the comb and drawing a line with it horizontally across my head, she begins sectioning my hair, clipping the top away from the back and sides. While I have no visual cues aside from your ravenous expression as you watch the proceedings, I can’t help but feel a twist of dread at just how high up the sides of my head the barberette seems to have decided the “top” lies.

I feel the comb dragged through the still-loose hair one final time before the preparation stops and an anticipatory silence seems to fall across the barbershop. You shift slightly in the waiting chair, clearly preoccupied by something happening behind me, my only indication of what it could be being the slight rustle of the barberette’s uniform and a single plastic “click”.

I try to steady my heavy breathing, imagining the worst thing that could be about to happen to me, recognising that it’s likely exactly the thing that is about to come to pass.
“Head down.”

The barberette punctuates those most powerful of words with her firm hand tilting my head forwards. I put up the smallest amount of resistance, a token gesture that only serves to heighten my fearful arousal as I’m forced to submit fully. My chin is bowed to the material of the cape, a half-moan half-whine escaping my desperate lips. I sit forced to stare down at my severed ponytail, a reminder of what has already been taken.

With an electric crack the clippers hum into dreadful life and though I jump a little at their hungry roar, the barberette keeps my head pressed forwards. Trapped between her hand the cape there’s nowhere I can escape to, and it is with utter disbelief and horror that I feel the teeth of the short guard slide up and under my hairline. The barberette quickly pushes them up the back of my head in a rising arc towards my occipital bone, the roar joined by an angry buzzing as their tone changes on meeting my hair for the first time. I feel just how high she pushes them, the thrumming blades vibrating against my scalp such an alien sensation, and with a flick of her wrist she sends long severed lengths of my hair sliding down the cape to join the ponytail in my lap.

With no pause after the first pass, the clippers are driven once again up my nape and beyond, sending more hair tumbling down over my shoulders. While I can’t see the damage they’re wreaking, my other senses more than compensate. Already the back of my head feels lighter, cooler, the base of my neck now clearly exposed. Utterly overwhelmed by these sensations, I find them manifesting in the uncomfortable wetness between my legs, the throbbing of my sex, and the tears that fall as I sob into the cape.

Whether unaware or unconcerned by my distress the barberette continues either way, working efficiently to shear me as quickly as she would any other customer. My head is wordlessly tilted to the side, chin still unable to leave the cape as the clippers ascend the side of my head, their relentless droning growing louder as they approach my left ear. I feel a strong shiver arc down my spine as the barberette adjusts her grip, her warm fingers folding down the ear to accommodate the vibrating blades that now pass up and over the erogenous zones surrounding it.

As more and more hair falls, my tears continue to do the same. As I stare at you through bleary, defeated eyes I want to hate you. I want to hate this. But all that is quickly overridden by the primal desire to submit to you, to accept this humiliating fate because you have willed it upon me, to sit here, almost writhing with arousal beneath the cape as you have my hair clipped far shorter than your own.

The barberette rounds the chair, finally releasing my head for a moment. I realise just how much I must’ve been straining against her as my chin leaves the cape, but my freedom is short lived as she seizes it once again with her free hand. Sliding the clippers under the remaining hair hanging down level with my sideburn, she presses them to my cheek and pushes them upwards. They ascend, past my eye, rising up my temple. I can almost see the hair falling away from the blades as she flicks the clippers away having reached the sectioned line.

My eyes follow the barberette warily as she moves in front of me, grip never leaving my chin as she repeats the process and begins to buzz the right side of my head from the front. Moving back through what little hair remains freed from the clipped up mass atop my head, she leaves my head upright, affording you a better look at the contrast between the two sides.

“I knew getting those pretty little ears out would be a good idea.” I notice your attention drawn away from my sullen eyes, knowing you’re staring at my left ear – now wholly on show, exposed completely. My other ear soon joins it in freedom from hair as the barberette finishes clippering my back and sides to a uniform buzz you can see is no more than a quarter of an inch in length.

Despite the apparent absence of uncut hair, below the section at least, the barberette continues to rub the clippers over the already buzzed hair, making sure she doesn’t miss a single strand. Finally, after what seems like an eternity, silence falls across the barbershop as the clippers are switched off. Now the only sound is my distressed, aroused panting as I try to process my ordeal so far.

The quiet doesn’t persist long, as a new sound starts up, similar to the clippers but more high pitched. The barberette catches my head as I draw away from the noise instinctively. “Sit very still now.” she warns, with an icy edge in her voice, “I need to get this bald line nice and straight.”

Bald. Not a word a woman ever wants to hear. A bald fade. What I’m getting. Do I really want this? Do I really, really want this? I begin bargaining with myself, considering the possibility of pleading for just an undercut, for this to end with some of my hair still intact, but these thoughts freeze up and die in my mind as I feel the barberette push the bare blades of the balding clippers horizontally into my buzz. As if to punctuate the gesture, she drags them down slightly, and I can only imagine the small shaven line that she has now branded into the back of my head.

It looks like I’m staring at you, shell shocked, but I’m not really seeing, lost in the submissive haze of my mind as the barberette begins etching a straight line into my buzz, all the way around my head. As the whining hum passes at least an inch above my ears I realise just how much of my hair is being condemned to be shaven.

“Down we go” the barberette narrates as my head is forced forwards once again,. She inverts the balding clippers in her hand and pushes the warm metal blades against the skin of my neck, just above the collar of the cape. I feel her slowly pushing them up through my buzzed hair, stopping only when she encounters the limitation of the bald line. As a clump of fine clippings tumble away, heralding the birth of a strip of brilliant white skin, only the finest of stubble remains, almost invisible to the naked eye.

The barberette takes a moment to teasingly play her manicured fingers lightly over my pale, virgin scalp.
If I was aware of the difference between my longer hair and being buzzed, these new feelings are once again like night and day. The overwhelming sensitivity of my scalp and the gentle sensation of her soft skin playing over my own sends a strong shiver through my body, travelling all the way from the back of my neck to the impotent, desperate pulsing between my legs.

She lets out a little noise of self satisfaction as she repositions the clippers to continue “Let’s get the rest of this off shall we?”

The sensual tingle of her touch still lingers on my nape as it’s joined by the warm blades of the clippers. My head bowed, the barberette continues to peel away the velvet pelt on the back and sides of my head to reveal the skin beneath. Small clumps of half-inch debris tumble down onto the maroon of the cape, joining the longer strands already clippered away, and beneath, the original mass of my severed ponytail, almost buried now. I recognise there’s no reason to distinguish between any of it. That’s it’s all intended for the trash. That I never deserved to have it in the first place. Ever since I’d met you, it had always been living on borrowed time.

I tense up, making an unintentional little squeak of surprise as the clippers clear above an ear, up, up, up to the bald line. I can only imagine how ridiculous I look, my hair stepping down, from the mass of sectioned hair, to the strip of half-inch brown hair allowed to remain atop my back and sides, to the sudden transition down to skinned. You, however, don’t have to imagine, and I risk a glance upwards, catching your vindictive, self-satisfied stare, taking in every moment of my enforced transformation.

As our eyes meet I feel a submissive rush, recognising my place in submitting to you and being sat in this chair solely for your pleasure – regardless of whether I’m able to find any of my own. However, the hungry, pulsing ache between my thighs is more than enough of a physical manifestation of the shared understanding we already possess on that matter as well.

As the clippers switch off and the pressure on my head is released, I find myself still keeping it tipped forward, fulfilling my role, symbolically submitting. My previous resistance replaced with defeated acceptance, even as I continue to sniffle slightly. A snap indicates an intermediate guard being placed onto the clipper blades, and the barberette’s hand and the teeth of the clippers both return to my scalp as she begins to expertly fade the half-inch buzz down to skin.

Closing my eyes, I focus on the clippers being rubbed against my head again and again, the sensation of the warm pressure and the vibrations, so reassuring, so humbling, like your delicate caring touch after particularly intense play. I’m roused from my submissive trance after an indeterminate period of time by the muting of the clippers and the taunting brushing of the barberette’s hand up the back of my head.

First her fingers slide across the finest stubble of my skinned nape, then up into the fade, as she pushes the tiny bristles that remain there against the grain. I let out a long moaning sigh as she does, gripping the armrests of the chair very tightly as I struggle not to climax where I sit, understanding just how short and barbered the fade must be.

Recognising my body language, I hear you pipe up, and am forced to meet your gaze very sheepishly. “I take it you liked that? Be careful though Sarah, remember what we agreed? You need to be good for me.” My blotchy face deepens to a darker red as I recognise exactly what you’re implying, praying the barberette isn’t capable of reading what’s writ large between the lines.

If she does understand, she thankfully doesn’t let on, missing the opportunity to further add to my humiliation. Instead she continues to professionally, if not gleefully, go about her business, finally releasing the hair atop my head to tumble down over the fade. As the barberette rakes the comb through my unbound locks, from where you sit, it almost looks like nothing has happened to my treasured hair, although the mound of hair in my lap dispels that illusion easily.

This time I don’t even recognise a possibility other than having my hair cut to your specification, any thoughts of bargaining or compromise lost to my arousal and desire to please you. I’m passive and compliant, tears beginning to dry on my cheeks now, as the barberette combs out a long lock of hair from the front of my head, holding it out into my field of vision.

I look up to see the cutting shears opened wide to envelop the lock close to my forehead, feeling a rush of anticipation, of craving, as if I would be disappointed if my hair wasn’t now hacked away. As the shears finally do snap closed with a soft crunch and a metallic click, I almost climax again as the barberette commences the close cropping of what little hair I have left.

Comb. Grip. Snip. Comb. Grip. Snip. My eyes don’t move, remaining blank and unfocussed, as hair rains down in front of my face to join the rest. I feel the barberette’s fingers start to brush against my head as she can barely fit them between my scalp and the scissors as she snip, snip, snips away. You can finally see the intended style starting to take shape, the fade cropped closed against the sides of my head, exposing my ears just like you demanded, the top chopped short where my hair’s thickness and natural wave serve to add a little messy feminine texture to a cut that otherwise wouldn’t look out of place on a boy.

The barberette snaps the shears shut one last time with an abrupt flourish and I recognise the finality that sound represents. The end of my long hair. Not just the end my long hair has met here today in the barber shop, but the end of my hair ever being allowed to be long again. With this gesture I have conceded all control of my hair to you, and we both already understand your predilections and preferences for my appearance.

The weight of this understanding adds to my mounting submissive haze, and I barely notice as the barberette begins to chop a pair of thinning shears through the scissor-cut top. The hair that drifts away from the blades is light and wispy, but not insubstantial, and I wonder how much more hair I even have to lose. I wonder about my changed appearance, butchered and barbered, how I’m going to explain it to my friends, to my family, knowing the true explanation for this metamorphosis is far too embarrassing and shameful to ever share with another soul apart from you.

The barberette must be satisfied with the results of the thinning shears, as their crunchy snipping also stops, along with the torrent of wispy cuttings, and she slides them back into her tool belt. Her fingers fondly muss through my cropped hair, and then –

She doesn’t set any expectations, doesn’t build up any tension for a big reveal. Before I even know what’s happening, the barber chair is quickly swung around and I’m forced to come face-to-face with the girl in the mirror staring back at me.

I see her, sat, tightly caped, the maroon material littered with the ruins of her wavy brown hair. Her face, slender, pale, tear-streaked, her make-up having run down across her cheeks. Her hair is the most shocking part of the image, her tight, highly faded haircut, the short couple-inch half-bangs that remain in the front of the style the only accent of femininity, but it does undeniably suit her.

I sit for a while in stunned silence. Fixated only on this reflected short-haired woman, slowly beginning to dare accept that this separate waifish entity, breathless, flustered and trembling, is in any way connected to my own ego. But she is. I take in a deep breath and see her shoulders rise and fall, setting a rivulet of clippings tumbling down from the shoulder of the cape.

A wide grin, disbelieving, ecstatic, spreads across both our faces, even as tears too start to fall once again. This is me now.

You rise from the waiting area and stalk towards your barbered submissive, the barberette passively watching my revelation and your approach. I catch sight of you in the mirror, my smile widening further and with a shaky, cracking voice I verbalise a question “What do you think?”

“Oh Sarah, what do I think? Well . . .” A similar grin to mine spreads across your features, as you look from my barbered haircut, to the barberette, and back to meet the reflection of my sparkling eyes in the mirror.

“I think it needs to be shorter. Much shorter.”

My expression shatters.

[End of Part 1]

[email protected]

10 responses to “Sarah’s Shearing

Leave a Reply