The Therapy Session

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My therapist was clearly frustrated with me. I’ve been seeing him for a year without being, as he put it, vulnerable. I had yet to make any breakthroughs. I just wasn’t that type of woman. Over the years, I built up a shell to protect my emotions. He was determined to crack it, even if he needed to use “unconventional methods”.

One day, during our usual appointment, which was at night, to accommodate my busy work schedule, he abruptly asked about my sexual fantasies. We had never talked about anything like that before. Red-faced, I told him that I didn’t really have any. A lie.

“I find that tough women like yourself often fantasize about being dominated,” he said, smiling, “Ever do that?”

I looked away.

He pressed on. “What about being exposed and humiliated? You have lovely hair that you hide behind. Ever fantasize about having it shaved off? Leaving yourself bare and ugly?”

Still not looking at him, I admitted that, yes, I’ve had fantasies like that. Fantasies of being humiliated by having my head shaved, my ass spanked, and my body used. But I never trusted anyone enough to make them come true or even tell them.

He forced me to look at him. Then he asked if I trusted him. Tears in my eyes, I said that I did.

He took out a black bag. From it, he pulled out a pair of scissors. He motioned for me to kneel by his feet. Still crying, I obeyed, allowing him to position my thick black hair that reached down my back by his trash can. Lock by lock, he cropped it close to my head, letting it fall in the trash.

“A shame,” he said, rubbing my roughly shorn head, “You had such lovely hair. Now it’s garbage.”

Then he put the scissors back in the bag and pulled out a sinister pair of clippers. When I tried to move, he held me still, gripping me by the neck.

“Remember you wanted this,” he said, making the first swipe of the clippers.

I decided to relax as he buzzed off my ragged crop. Because I did want this. When he finished, he showed me my reflection. I didn’t look terrible, except for my big ears, which he pulled on and teased me about.

“Alright, Dumbo, let’s finish shaving you. Why are you still crying about this? This is what you wanted. You’re going get a shiny bald head, two red asscheeks, and my cock in at least one of your holes tonight.”

My breathe ragged and my cunt wet, anticipating all that he promised, I allowed him to lather up my scalp and shave it smooth with a safety razor. Then he spit on my head and rubbed it in. By then, I even stopped crying a little.

“Come on, my ugly little chromedome, with the big fucking ears,” he said, patting his lap, “Get up here.”

Feeling giddy, I climbed into his lap and allowed him to expose my ass. He gave each cheek a firm whack 10 times with his large hands. Then he bent me over his couch for a vigorous fucking. He, thankfully, brought lube with him. Because
I had never done anal before that night. We were at time when we climaxed.

Zipping up his pants, he told me, “I expect you to keep that head bald and uncovered until our appointment next week. I don’t want to see a single centimeter of growth on that cueball. If anyone asks why you shaved your head, then tell them the truth – you asked for it. You wanted to be this ugly.”

Rubbing my head, I agreed to follow his orders and thanked him for finally having a breakthrough session.

He motioned for me to come over to him. Then he wrote something across my forehead with a Sharpie. I didn’t see it until I got to my car. Much to my surprise, it only said “Check your email.” Nothing filthy. So, I did when I got home. He had sent me a tape of our entire session and a direction to track how often I masturbated to it.

I got a single yellow Post-it from my desk and made the first tick mark.

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