Trust Me – part 1

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It was twenty years ago this year. Kate and I met in a way I never could have expected.  I was putting together a marketing seminar in Aspen for people from 19 offices in eleven states. I’d worked for months arranging venues, lining up speakers, and coordinating time slots.  Last moment I was told to squeeze in an additional presenter from 2,100 miles away. He had even specified when he’d be available to speak.  My response was, “He expects to come in at the 11th hour and dictate when he’ll be on. What an asshole!”  My boss laughed, acknowledging that was pretty much it.

I greeted seminar guests as they arrived. But “he” didn’t show up. Instead, a stunning woman with short, tousled, dark brown hair, approached. Sparkling blue eyes with flecks of gold, glistening smile, and salacious lips stained a dark matte burgundy smiled. She haltingly said, “Hi. I’m that asshole!”

Kate was a mezmerizing blend of Italian and Polish. She combined the smouldering eyes and mouth of a Sophia Loren with the open, natural radiance of an Emily Ratajkowski. Her flawless skin was the colour of a day at the beach; her ruffled brunette hair a mix of chocolate brown and raven hues, punctuated by natural, warm, dark, Manuka honey highlights.

We talked a bit during the three days, an electric connection, eyes too often engaged, but nothing physical. Months of phone conversations let us “develop business”, discover unexpected common ground, and grow closer. Our phone conversations often became the high point of days. They frequently spilled over to nighttime chats across two time zones and 2,100 miles.

Isolated, miserable, verbally abused, and ignored, Kate and her marriage were burned out. The marriage was ending with their daughter’s high school graduation. 

“Trust Me” 

We had discussed personal interests, music, books, and films. Conversations spanned things we liked to do, things we didn’t like, mundane weekends, and even sexual appetites. We agreed that communicating well and always being honest with each other was the most important element of our and any relationship. “Trust me” became a simple code.

She said she didn’t smoke, no longer slept or had sex with her husband, never had an affair, liked oral sex and being on top. Two years ago had cut her once long hair because she wanted to, but partially to spite her husband who didn’t like short hair on women.

I listed likes, dislikes, my love of short hair on women, bondage, and that, unlike her husband, I preferred women with small, champagne glass size breasts, like hers. I sent her a copy of the movie “Basic Instinct” because, from our conversations, I thought it would appeal to her.

Mystic Moments

After several months of daily conversations, and at her suggestion, I flew east, ostensibly “to learn more about the business programs her firm offered”.  Since my calendar was open and she routinely traveled for business, making a weekend absence less noticeable, I arrived late Friday afternoon at Hartford–Brainard Airport, and she picked me up.

The car smelled faintly like cigarettes, but  I presumed someone else had smoked in the car. Kate drove us to Mystic, Connecticut – arriving Friday night after dark at the Mystic Inn – allowing plenty of time to “take care of business” before going into the office on Monday.  I‘d told her in advance of our meeting not to shave her legs because I’d read an Esquire article, “175 Things A Man Should Do Before He Dies: Shave a Woman’s Legs,” by Sharon Stone (star of “Basic Instinct”) – an act potentially arousing for both parties. I reminded her in the car. She purred an affirmative response.

We checked in to a small suite and she went to clean up. I lit a fire in the fireplace, pulled down the bedspread, and attached wrist and ankle restraints to the corners of the four-poster bed – each ending with a, wide, fake-fur lined cuff with velcro closure.  In taking her purse from the bed to set it aside on the sofa, I noticed a pack of cigarettes. So much for always being honest. I removed handcuffs from my bag and attached them to the arms of the desk chair.

She came out of the bathroom toweling off her hair and body. When I said I’d planned to come in to shave her legs she said she already had. When I mentioned our conversation about what I’d wanted to do, she ignored the prior agreement as though the discussion never took place and moved to the bed. She was right that she liked (giving) oral sex and being on top, and as good as I decided she might be at lying, her fake orgasm was just deception #3 in our first hour at the inn.

Dealing with Deception

After some time on a big quilt in front of a roaring fire, drinking wine and snacking on brie and crackers, I lead her naked body to the desk chair, instructed her to sit, and clicked the handcuffs on to each wrist. Two soft velcro straps secured her ankles to the chair legs.  “I like this,” she said. “I like it a lot. But, what’s this about?” I shushed her and went over to my bag, pulling out hair clippers which I proceeded to plug in. As I put on a #5 clipper guard she said, “My hairdresser won’t like it if someone else cuts my hair.”  I told her we could both go to him and I’d watch him do what I wanted. “But my husband goes there and…”  She stopped short. The silence, which followed, was deafening.

“So much for communication and honesty,” I said from behind her. “First cigarettes for someone who doesn’t smoke, then shaving your legs when we agreed you wouldn’t, a fake orgasm, and now deep concern for your husband and hairdresser”. As I clicked on the clippers I noticed her startled jump. “I have been honest.  I like your hair short and think it will look great shorter.  You’ve cut it before and you can explain it to them when you get back. Oh, and one more thing, trust me?!?”  It seemed the air was gone out of her balloon. There was no resistance. I pushed her head down, chin on chest, and pushed the clippers hard up the back of her head – a strip directly in the middle from nape to occipital, an inch of hair fluttering down her back, causing an almost imperceptible shudder.

My hand firmly on her crown, head pushed down, I repeated the movement nape to occipital, again and again until the hair across the back of her head was ⅝” long.  I silently admired the cut, brushed it back and forth with my fingers, then grabbed her by the hair on the top of her head, pushed her chin down with more force and plowed the clippers in and up again – pushing harder. With the #5 guard still in place little more could be removed, but she didn’t know that and it reinforced who was in charge.

I moved to her right side and placed the humming clippers near her temple. “But you’re…” was all she said before I grabbed her by the longer mid-scalp hair, pulled her head back and clicked off the clippers. “But, I’m what?  Honest with you?  And I have no idea where or if your honesty begins. You said you like your hair short. I like it short. I’m just taking it shorter. You don’t have to ask any questions. I am not shaving your head or giving you some hideous punishment haircut for being dishonest or disingenuous.  You are beautiful. You will look beautiful when I’m done. For now, the only words I’d like to hear from you are either ‘Please’ or ‘Thank You’.  Yes?“

I waited and within a couple of seconds Kate said, “Thank you.” I switched on the clippers and heard a meek voice ask, “Please?”  I pushed the hair on top out of the way, started in front of her ear and watched as hair rained down on her shoulder and across her petite breasts.  After several passes the right side was shorn to the same ⅝” as the back. I moved to the other side. “Thank you,” she said.  As I made the first pass on the left side I heard a soft, “Thank you” again.  Several passes later I shut off the clippers, an undercut, complete. What Kate didn’t know was that she had only experienced the beginning of what was to come.

Turned on, but still upset about how long “trust me” had lasted, I set down the clippers and placed a sleeping mask over Kate’s eyes – an issue of maintaining control and not allowing her see her hair.

I asked if she was ready to proceed and she said, “Please.”  Snapping a leather collar around her neck, strictly for affect, I  came around front and stroked the inside of her right thigh as I undid the right ankle restraint. “Thank you.” I ran my hand along the inside of her left thigh and waited. “Please?!”  I released the left ankle restraint. “Thank you.” Then, I went into the bathroom, plugged the tub, and turned on a flow of steaming water.

Returning, I ran my hand up her newly shorn nape, un-cuffed her from the chair, placed my hand on her long, thin neck, inserted a finger under her collar and lifted her from the chair. She stood still then asked, “please,” and I walked her to the tub.

I removed her blindfold, helped her into the tub, and left her to soak, returning to rearrange the other room – sliding the chair back under the desk and re-plugging the clippers into the outlet closest to the bed. I hung my clothes in the closet, put my socks in my shoes, and returned to the bathroom. The water on the tile floor beneath my bare feet told me that Kate had been out of the tub to examine her new haircut. I knelt down and rubbed my hand up the back of her head where now damp hair told me she had inspected it with a wet hand. “And?” I queried.

“And, thank you,” she replied. “I’m sorry I haven’t been totally honest. I wanted you to like me, to see me as the one you’d want. From this moment on, I will be completely honest.” As we kissed I tasted the sweetness of mint toothpaste, realizing that somewhere between the tub and inspection she managed to brush her teeth. The feel of her plush mouth created a state of sensual intoxication, remembering her ravenousness, as she virtually consumed me earlier, and I kissed her deeper.

I took her hand and she stepped from the tub, dripping on the mat. I visually inhaled her, head to toe, then slipped the sleeping mask back over her head, took a thick towel and sensually and delicately dried her, one small area at a time.

“Ready?”

“Please.”

Led her to the bed, I sat her on the edge, directed her to center herself on the pillow, took one arm, wrapped the fur cuff around her wrist and pressed the velcro closure. I did the same with the other wrist and both ankles – in restraints, but not yet restrained.

Raising her head, I slid in a second pillow, stuck my finger into one of the small jars I’d placed on the bedside table, and put my knuckle at the top of her upper lip. “Open.” I inserted my finger into her mouth and rolled the thick, dark, chocolate sauce across her tongue. Once finished I again placed my knuckle at the top of her upper lip and instructed, “Do not open your mouth.” I used my index finger to apply a thick layer of strawberry jam to her voluptuous lips and then, sucked and licked it off. “Open!” I used my finger to wipe a teaspoon sized glob of the jam on her tongue. When she appeared to be done savoring the sweetness, I parted her lips with my finger and slowly inserted a piece of dark chocolate covered marzipan between them.

Unexpected Trim

As she began chewing I went post-to-post around the bed tightening the four straps until the tension held wrists and ankles taut. As the clippers clicked on her body involuntarily twitched and she said, “Wait. Sometimes my husband wants sex and if you…” I clicked the clippers off. After a momentary silence, she said, “I’m sorry. Please… Thank you.”

Clippers on, the widest, densest, chocolate coloured bush I ever encountered was soon reduced to a ¾” landing strip, the ½” height on a #4 clipper guide, with the surrounding region now clipped to the ⅛” height of a No. 1 guard I used to protect her skin from getting nicked by the clipper blades. I applied a steaming washcloth to moisten and saturate the area in preparation for the next part of her “haircut,” then spread a layer of Aveda rosemary mint conditioner to her mons Veneris and lips. What Aveda describes as “…an invigorating aroma…proven to energize, awaken, and improve focus,” creates a sharp wakeup call when soap, cold water, or air hits the freshly shaved skin.

Once shaved smooth I blew slowly on the area, then applied a cold washcloth. “Oh my God. Oh f#!k. What have you done?”. Kate pulled against the restraints to no avail.  She could not see, move, or touch the area. I briefly ran my tongue along her now denuded lips. “Oh f#!&k.”  She would find out that the “sensory wakeup call” of mint, freshly shaved, open pores, and cold air, or soap could become a desired addiction.  I pulled up the covers to warm her body, and went to put things away.

I eventually released Kate from her bonds, kept the fire stoked, and the night went late, Kate reveling in her new haircuts, talking about things we’d discussed for weeks, confessing prior misstatements, moving from the quilt in front of the fireplace to the bed several times.  Saturday morning arrived early. Kate played with her disconnected undercut, then we headed out to have breakfast and walk around the town.

After breakfast we passed a barber shop. Kate hesitated and gazed in – a man and woman both being shorn. “Wow, I like that cut on her,” said Kate. She moved her hand to her recently shorn neck and smiled. “Now I’d like to return to the inn… please.”

Final Plunge

As I opened the door she walked in, she wordlessly undressed, and pulled out the desk chair. She tossed her clothes on the bed, sat in the chair, secured both ankles and handcuffed one wrist to the chair arm. I was pleasantly surprised.

“There’s more you want to do, isn’t there?” she asked.  “There’s more I want you to do, but you already sensed that. Yes?” I nodded, clicked the other handcuff in place, plugged in the clippers and attached a #4 guard.

She closed her eyes and I stepped in front, making a first pass, down the center, slowly, from hairline to crown. I stopped to gauge the new reduction and kissed her lightly on the lips.  “Thank you,” she whispered and closed her eyes again. “Please?” Several more slow passes reduced the remainder of the top to a uniform ½”.

I turned off the clippers and changed to a #2 guard. We exchanged wordless looks. She straightened in the chair, then non-submissively asked, “Please!?”  I started on her left going bottom to top until the sides were reduced to ¼”, then the back to just above the occipital bone. Removing the guard, inverted the clippers blades facing in, and looked at Kate who nodded. I cut in at the temple on the horizontal, a line ½” above the top of her ear, scraping down, then curving around her head – the left and right sides converging in a “V” at the mid-point of her nape.

Kate seemed to squirm in her chair as though excited but holding back words. I opened the taper arm of the clippers and went up, blending the newly denuded lower section with the ¼” hair above.  I closed the taper arm and took the hairline area to the skin. The buzz cut and low fade complete, I was done.

“Un-cuff me! Now! Un-cuff me!” Kate pleaded emphatically. As I knelt down in front to undo the ankle restraints, my nostrils were filled by a combination of pungent scents and aromas. I noticed Kate was wet, but also that the chair was sopping, and I wasn’t sure exactly what had happened or if she was done.

“Un-cuff me! Please!!” she shouted. Her cuffs undone, her hands went to her head, feeling top, sides, and back of her buzz cut, then, eyes shut, fingers lingering at the back, going up and down, bare nape to the soft, short hair above, over and over. Her eyes sparkled as, momentarily frozen in place, she exclaimed. “F#&k!  I don’t F-ing believe what you did! My God!” Her mixed signals created a momentary confusion.

She bounded the 10′ to the bathroom, quickly showered, her skin damp from  the morning humidity, washing away the fine hairs that had stuck to it, shampooed what was left of her once tousled mane, stopped in front of the mirror and screamed, “Oh f#!&k!  What have you done?!?  F#*k!!  I love it!” and came back in.

Kate’s eyes sparkled as she grinned a huge smile, her fingers going back and forth, with and against her hair’s growth pattern, clearly relishing the feel of the short, soft bristles.

It was early morning, a new day, and things were just beginning.

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