Piekje
You know this girl from several of my previous stories. She’s the one and only I share my fantasies with. This is her point of view (and written by her) about cutting my hair. Where until now in reality she cut only a single lock once, she’s getting into the idea and practice of cutting my tresses more and more. Till now I’ve been to scared to let her do it. I will meet her again soon.
The Promise of the Scissors
I had been craving it for days. He didn’t know, but I had been fantasizing about it for a while now: cutting his hair. Not in the proper way, like in a salon chair with a cape around his shoulders, but playfully, intimately, with his hair in my hands. To me, it felt almost erotic. The power of the scissors, the control, the tension of daring—or not daring.
That afternoon, when he was lying stretched out on the bed, I decided the moment had come. His eyes were half closed, his gray locks falling carelessly across his forehead. I straddled him and slid my fingers through his hair. He let out a deep sigh, as if my touch did more than just soothe him.
“You know there’s no escape, right?” I whispered.
“Escape from what?” he asked sleepily, with a teasing grin.
“From me really cutting your hair. Not that safe little lock from last time.” I let the tips of my nails graze lightly over his scalp. He shivered noticeably.
I stood up, took a comb and a pair of scissors from my bag, and came back. His eyes widened. “You’re serious about this…”
I smiled. “More serious than you think.” I pulled him upright and sat him down on a wooden chair in the middle of the room. No salon, no mirror—just me, my hands, and those gleaming scissors. As I stood behind him, I pressed my whole body against him on purpose. My breasts against his back, my breath brushing his ear.
I began to comb slowly. Long, rhythmic strokes. It was almost like caressing him. He moaned softly. With each motion, I felt him relax more, surrender more. And just when he did, I let the scissors snip: snip. A lock slid down his neck to the floor.
He half turned his head, but I gently held him still. “Don’t move. You’re mine now.”
His hands found my thighs and slipped under my dress. I felt heat rise in me, but I kept control. Every cut was a promise. Every strand that fell made him a little more vulnerable. And that vulnerability made him irresistibly attractive.
I leaned down and kissed him deeply, the scissors still in my hand. He gasped for breath when I let my tongue glide along his ear and whispered softly: “Do you know how sexy you look while I’m changing you like this?”
He pulled me closer, his hands now roaming my body greedily. I set the scissors down for a moment, climbed onto his lap, and slowly sank onto his hard desire. His eyes burned with tension, somewhere between surrender and hunger.
“The cutting is far from over,” I whispered hoarsely as I began to move. “But this… this had to come first.”
The ending, you can imagine.
