Welcome to The Silver Bowl Café, Part 2 – Emily

This story serves as a sequel to Welcome to The Silver Bowl Café, Part 1 – Annabelle and it can be enjoyed independently without the need to read the original story.

Annabelle, a young student, had been facing financial pressures to keep her place at university. She was offered a part-time job as a waitress at The Silver Bowl café by the manageress, Ms Crisp. To secure the role, Annabelle had her long hair clippered into a bowlcut and had to wear a tight uniform to meet the café’s stringent standards…

Prologue

My studying at university had gone well. The financial pressures had abated following receipt of a regular wage and generous tips. My routine at The Silver Bowl café had become central to my new reality, and I embraced it.

Strangely, the resistance I had felt on that first day had dissolved. To my horror, the manageress, Ms Crisp, had chopped my hair into an unflattering bowlcut and pressured me into wearing unnecessarily provocative clothing. However, after less than a month, a peculiar and intoxicating sense of belonging engulfed me, a feeling that I had rarely experienced before.

The Preparation

Every second day, ten minutes before my shift was due to begin, I reported to Ms Crisp’s office, the ritual precise. Without her needing to ask, I would lower myself onto the solid oak chair in the corner. She would cover me, already clothed in my freshly laundered skirt and blouse, using a large cape to protect snippets of hair from falling on my uniform. Ms Crisp would position the silver bowl on my crown, her hands cool and steady against my scalp, and the heavy-duty hairclippers would hum to life.

At first, when my hair had been exceedingly long, the raucous sound had been a nightmare. But now, I accepted it as a lullaby. There was a strange intimacy in the act, a surrender of control that felt less like a punishment and more like an intimate bond between us. As the motor of the hairclippers whirred to life, Ms Crisp shaved the back and sides of my head down to the bare skin, and I felt a rush of stimulation coursing through my body.

I enjoyed the way Ms Crisp’s fingers would linger for a moment, checking the smoothness of my skin, her touch surprisingly tender. As she arranged the cape, I did not mind her smoothing the material against my chest. As I rose from the chair and she brushed away non-existent bristles from my blouse and my skirt, I appreciated her gentle attention.

After ten minutes of precise restoration under the caring management of Ms Crisp, I was fully prepared for serving the clientele in The Silver Bowl café.

The Clientele

From my first day of waitressing in the café, the reactions from the patrons only served to fuel my growing confidence.

The older women, the regulars who came for their tea and scones, would lean in, their eyes wide with admiration as they studied the perfect, glossy curve of my bowlcut.

‘So precise,’ one would whisper.

‘Just like a doll,’ another would comment as she explored my nape with her finger.

‘So lovely that all the waitresses look the same,’ a further one would remark. ‘So regimented.’

The women not only revelled in the precision of my hair, but they adored the uniformity we presented. Most importantly, they rewarded us with lavish tips that generously reflected their appreciation.

And as for the husbands? Well, they could not help themselves. Their glances were often furtive, darting from my long legs and tight skirt, before marvelling at the way the blouse strained against my chest.

Previously, I would have imagined the wives would scold their husbands as their tired eyes roamed over young bodies. Instead, they would present an indulgent smile, a knowing, almost conspiratorial glint in their eyes. They seemed grateful, as if my youthful, well-groomed presence had injected a spark of vitality into their mundane relationships.

I was a living reminder of youth and allure, a harmless distraction that made their husbands look alive. I began to enjoy the power of it, the way the air in the room shifted when I walked by.

But one morning, without warning, the rhythm broke. A sharp cry pierced the air, echoing from the kitchen. It was not a shout of anger, but a cry of pain.

The Accident

My heart skipped a beat. I quickly lowered the tray I was carrying and rushed toward the kitchen doors, my mind racing with worst-case scenarios. I burst through the swinging doors to find Ms Crisp standing by the prep station, clutching her left hand. A knife lay on the counter, and a thin line of blood was seeping through her fingers.

‘It’s not serious,’ she insisted through gritted teeth, her face pale, ‘but it needs prompt attention. Now!’

Under the circumstances, I excused her rudeness. Grabbing a clean cloth, I pressed it against the wound. It was not a deep cut, but it was bleeding freely. So, I fetched the first aid kit, applied disinfectant, and then wrapped her hand in a thick bandage to protect it from further knocks. It looked absurdly large against her slender, manicured fingers. However, she insisted that she was too busy to visit a hospital to seek professional care.

Ms Crisp, a woman who had never shown me a flicker of vulnerability, looked unaccountably sad and morose as she collapsed on a kitchen stool. She stared at her bandaged hand, her shoulders slumping. The usual steel in her posture was missing.

‘What is it, Ms Crisp?’ I asked, my voice filled with genuine concern. I had never seen her act that way.

Initially, she shot me a glare that said staff should not be so impudent when addressing their manageress. But her attempt at anger quickly crumbled. Her eyes welled up, and she looked down at the floor. I was increasingly worried for her well-being. ‘Tell me?’ I whispered, resisting the urge to put an arm around her shoulders.

‘I have another waitress – Emily – coming for an interview in less than an hour,’ she whispered, her voice trembling. ‘Whatever will I do?’

I suddenly realised what she meant. We were short-staffed, so the interview was crucial. The café could not afford further delay with employing additional staff.

‘It will be fine, Ms Crisp,’ I said, trying to sound reassuring. ‘You are just experiencing shock from the accident. I will make you a nice cup of tea, and you can put your feet up for half an hour. You will be fine for when Emily arrives.’

‘No, Annabelle, you don’t understand,’ she whined, clumsily waving her bandaged fingers. ‘With my hand out of action, I will not be able to cut her hair.’

The Proposal

I wanted to laugh, but instead I sighed. I was the one worried about having sufficient staff for the café, whereas Ms Crisp was more concerned about missing a haircutting opportunity. It reminded me that there might be more to her peculiar interest than appeared on the surface.

Reacting to my sigh, Ms Crisp quickly pulled out her phone, her movements jerky and uncoordinated with her bandaged hand. She ponderously flicked through a photo gallery while I glanced at the screen over her shoulder.

I was astonished when I saw pictures of me floating past. They included those that I had sent with my application, my hair still gloriously long. A small selection she had quickly taken immediately after my haircut, mumbling something about keeping her staff records up to date. Other images she had snapped around the café when I had not been aware. It felt more than a little creepy, her keeping the images readily accessible on her phone like trophies.

Before I could comment on my images, she stopped on a new photo. It featured a gorgeous young woman with hair that cascaded down her back, nearly reaching her knees. It was thick, lustrous, and magnificent.

‘See!’ Ms Crisp said, her voice rising in exasperation. ‘This is Emily. She has the most beautiful hair I have ever seen. And I will not be able to cut it.’

I knew that Emily’s hair would not be staying on her head if she had any hope of work at the café. As I had found, the standards that Ms Crisp set were non-negotiable. But looking at her despair, a thought sparked in my mind.

‘Well, perhaps,’ I suggested slowly, ‘for now, until your hand has mended, she could wear her hair in a bun? A bun like yours? I can help her put it up.’

‘Certainly not,’ Ms Crisp snapped, though her resolve was clearly wavering. ‘It may be true we are in urgent need of another waitress, but, under no circumstances, can we allow standards to drop. And a bun is not The Silver Bowl standard.’

She paced the small kitchen, clearly torn, nursing her bandaged hand that was clearly causing her discomfort. As I watched her distress, another proposal began to take root, even more audacious than before. Accompanying the thought was a sudden jolt of excitement and pleasure that surged right through me. As I formulated the words in my mind, I could hardly believe I was contemplating what I was about to voice. It would have been unthinkable only a couple of weeks earlier.

‘I could cut Emily’s hair for you, Ms Crisp,’ I said, the words tumbling out. I gulped, trying to maintain an even tone, but my voice came out higher than usual, tinged with anticipation. For reasons I did not understand, the idea of placing the silver bowl on Emily’s head, then brandishing the hairclippers, wielding the power, felt thrilling.

The Contemplation

‘You?’ Ms Crisp said dismissively, her eyes narrowing, after I had suggested cutting the interviewee’s hair on her behalf. Her doubtful tone was reminiscent of Lady Bracknell contemplating a handbag.

I was unsurprised that my manageress was so fiercely protective of her role and keen to maintain her authority. But I also recognised the dilemma she faced. She wished to be the one to cut Emily’s magnificent hair but would need to postpone that exercise until her hand had mended. That desire needed balancing against the practical need to have sufficient staff working in the café to keep the customers satisfied.

I took a deep breath, adjusting my words to match the sudden shift in my thoughts. ‘I will be your apprentice. Naturally, you will oversee my work, with you guiding the line while I simply do the cutting,’ I explained, giving her the illusion that she remained fully in charge.

I was not surprised that Ms Crisp was preparing to snap back and refuse my offer. Her mouth opened and closed as she searched for an appropriate rebuttal or alternative. But then, a slow smile spread across her face.

‘Apprentice?’ she murmured, rolling the word around her tongue for size. ‘Annabelle, my bowlcut apprentice…’

I nodded, unsure of where I stood.

However, she brightened instantly, the sadness vanishing. ‘That is an excellent proposal.’

‘Thank you, Ms Crisp,’ I acknowledged respectfully.

She looked at me, her eyes gleaming with a mix of pride and curiosity. ‘But won’t it upset you to cut off another woman’s long hair?’

I smiled as I remembered I had expressed similar thoughts when trying to dissuade her from cutting my hair. ‘Actually, Ms Crisp,’ I said, a giggle bubbling up in my throat, ‘I think I might quite like it. I might even love it.’

Ms Crisp chuckled, our conspiratorial laughter echoing around the kitchen. Just then, the door swung open. Another waitress stood there with a young woman beside her. The attractive newcomer had a magnificent, thick ponytail that swayed with her every move.

‘Ms Crisp,’ my colleague announced, ‘this is Emily, who is here to interview for the vacant post.’

The Interview

Ms Crisp and I surveyed Emily’s hair with professional intent, then we looked at each other and smiled. A slight frown clouded the pretty features of the new arrival as she wondered what passed between us.

‘Come in, Emily,’ Ms Crisp invited eagerly, her voice regaining its command.

I beckoned Emily inside the office. Closing the door, my hands trembled slightly, accompanied by my heart that pounded with a strange mix of nerves and exhilaration.

Ms Crisp settled into a comfortable armchair in the corner of the office, her bandaged hand resting on her knee. She looked as though she were impatiently waiting for a performance to begin, and I did not wish to be the one to disappoint her.

Emily strolled over to the middle of the office with surprising confidence, her designer red and white polka dot dress billowing elegantly above her knees. Her neatly trimmed and expensively highlighted auburn ponytail swayed with each step, a glossy chestnut rope that mocked the standards of The Silver Bowl café. My initial impression of Emily was that she came from a wealthy background, so why she was applying to work at the café was a mystery.

I felt a strange, electric current running through me to my very core. Under Ms Crisp’s watchful gaze from the armchair, I was feeling extremely nervous. I remained aware of the immense responsibility, but my overriding emotion was one of thrilling excitement. Glancing over, I took her subtle nod as an indication to proceed.

The Explanation

‘As Ms Crisp will have explained,’ I began, trying to mimic Ms Crisp’s authoritative tone, although my voice cracked slightly, ‘you will be suitable to fill the vacancy once we get you into uniform and do something about that hair.’

Emily looked at me with a playful, almost challenging glint in her eye. She held out the hem of her dress, displaying it disarmingly. ‘Oh, are you saying this dress is a bit too much for working here?’ she asked, her voice light. ‘It is just that this look complements my hair. But I do have plenty more outfits from my favourite designer in my wardrobe at home.’

‘Yes, it is far too much, Emily,’ I scoffed, the words coming out sharper than I intended. Her dress looked stunning, but I knew that I would never be able to afford such a garment. Her offhand manner confirmed my initial impression that she came from a wealthy and entitled background. ‘Your uniform while working here will be much plainer. You will wear a simple black skirt and a crisp white blouse… just like mine.’

I did a twirl to parody her flouncing around in her designer dress. However, she completely missed, or failed to acknowledge, the irony in my words.

‘Very plain,’ she conceded, her eyes narrowing slightly. ‘But I do so hope that mine will fit me at least as well as yours.’ There was more than a hint of sarcasm in her tone, a less-than-subtle challenge to my authority.

I sighed, knowing I was losing control of the situation. I felt the pressure of Ms Crisp’s silent scrutiny intensify. ‘Your uniform will fit, just as intended, but first, we need to review your hair situation. We –’

‘Ah, yes,’ she acknowledged, pulling the heavy auburn mane over one shoulder, running her fingers through it admiringly. ‘I am most particular about my hair. I have spent years, quite literally, growing it out to this marvellous length. My followers – on the socials – say it is the longest, thickest, and most beautiful hair on the whole internet.’

‘I dare say, but –’

‘Now, I need to inform you that I hate wearing my hair in ponytails and suchlike,’ Emily said, her tone haughty. ‘But the description stated hair “off the collar”, so I am prepared to compromise.’

Emily loosely fastened her hair in a velvet scrunchie taken from her wrist, wearing the ponytail over one shoulder. ‘But please bear in mind, I will not – repeat, not – wear mine in a bun, like that.’ She waved a hand dismissively toward Ms Crisp’s tight and severe updo.

‘Noted, Emily. No ponytails or buns,’ I said magnanimously, or so she thought.

‘Good,’ she acknowledged.

Levelling my gaze at her, I continued. ‘If you wish to work here, your hair will be cut!’ I snapped, the command surprising even myself with its force.

‘Really?’ Emily questioned, her confidence wavering for a split second. ‘Well, you should have said before I came here today. I will not be able to get an appointment for simply ages with my usual stylist who trims my hair. He may be expensive, but he is always in demand, and I would not entrust my hair to anyone else -’

‘Your hair will be cut here!’ I clarified, finally cutting through her lingering sense of entitlement that she had demonstrated since flouncing into the office. While the words felt foreign on my tongue, they carried a weight of authority that I had not expected. ‘Today!’ I added for good measure.

‘I… no… not my hair…’ she gulped. ‘Look, I did not expect that would be necessary…’ she stammered.

‘It is if you wish to work here, Emily,’ I made clear, stepping forward.

Her eyes darted to my hair and then rested there. Comprehension slowly dawned, and a look of horror began to cloud her attractive features. ‘But who will cut it?’ she asked timidly and quite reasonably.

‘I will,’ I stated with authority. I pointed to the familiar wooden chair that my bottom had regularly graced since commencing work at the café. ‘Please, Emily, take a seat.’

The Confession

Emily hesitated, but then she sat, her posture stiff. ‘It’s not that I want to work here…’

I caught Ms Crisp shuffling uncomfortably in the armchair as she listened to Emily’s offhand dismissal of the cafe. I sensed that she was about to rebuke her. So, I quickly dived in. ‘Then why are you here, Emily?’

‘I need a job,’ she confessed plaintively, her voice dropping, blunting the entitled edge for a moment. ‘I must demonstrate to Daddy that I can hold down a job and pay off my credit card. He gives me a generous allowance, but I have abused the privilege and ran up a frightful debt. So, if I do not start earning by the end of the week and chip away at the interest, Daddy will cut off my allowance completely.’

Emily stared at me with wide eyes, looking devastated, as if it were I who had cast her down the slippery slope she found herself. I felt a pang of emotion that was closer to amusement than pity. Any slight concerns I had for her welfare, I pushed to one side. After all, I did not need her to regale me with her life story of entitlement, not after what I had to do to keep my place at university.

Her distress only served to oil the wheels of what was necessary for me to do. ‘If you wish to work at The Silver Bowl, then I must cut your hair,’ I said simply, retrieving a folded haircutting cape from the glass cabinet.

‘How, er… how short?’ she asked, fearfully looking at my head, dreading the answer.

‘Just like mine.’ I smiled broadly, an intoxicating eagerness flowing through my body. ‘Identical, actually,’ I added, amused as her eyes widened even more.

‘But… But… It has taken me years to grow my hair down to my knees,’ she pleaded, her voice trembling. ‘Just the ends snipped regularly by my stylist, expensive conditioning treatments…’

I shrugged, flicking open the folded cape with a resounding crack, making Emily flinch.

‘I mean couldn’t you just, er… maybe, layer the sides,’ she gabbled. ‘You know, to frame my face,’ she added hopefully. ‘Then you could leave it long in the back… or, perhaps –’

‘Enough!’ I exclaimed, allowing the haircutting cape to billow out and settle over her body. ‘Your hair will be upgraded to look exactly like mine,’ I stated with finality.

I reached out, unravelling Emily’s magnificent auburn ponytail. Her hair cascaded down, the ends brushing the floor in her seated position. It amused me to think that all her hair would be brushing the floor very soon, in a pile of severed chestnut-coloured locks.

She whimpered as I brushed her hair smoothly and evenly around her head. ‘Now, Emily, sit still and remain silent,’ I ordered, surprising myself with the strength of my words. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the manageress nod in approval. ‘Ms Crisp will not offer you the job if you do not conform.’

The Foundation

The threat hung in the air, heavy and suffocating, just as it had for me. I moved with a predatory grace I did not know I possessed, walking back to the glass cabinet. I pulled out the immaculate silver bowl. The metal gleamed under the office lights.

Without a word, I placed the bowl squarely on Emily’s head, the cold metal making her flinch. It settled snugly, the rim pressing firmly above her ears and eyebrows, trapping her hair beneath the metal perimeter, and forming the perfect foundation for what was to follow.

‘What… What is this?’ Emily asked, her voice shaking.

‘It’s a silver bowl, of course,’ I replied, my voice steady, remembering Ms Crisp’s concise explanation from weeks earlier.

‘Yes, but why is it on my head?’ she asked, panic rising in her throat, her question echoing my own.

‘To get the line of your bowlcut precise,’ I explained sweetly as I reached into the cabinet for the hairclippers. ‘Just like mine.’

‘But, er… hairdressers do not use a real bowl to do that, do they?’ she gasped, her eyes wide.

‘Perhaps not, but I do,’ I said plainly, my tone brooking no argument even though I had done so before. ‘Now, sit up straight and look directly ahead.’

She followed my instructions, the resigned look in her eyes indicating that her resistance was finally starting to flag.

I risked a glance at Ms Crisp. She had remained silent, but she had fixed her eyes on me. I saw a slight inclination of her head, accompanied by a hint of a smile that was enough to confirm that I was doing all right.

Returning her smile, I flipped the switch on the clippers. The machine roared to life, a deafening buzz that filled the small room. I smiled in excited anticipation, the vibration humming through my fingertips.

The Transformation

‘But surely you don’t really like cutting off other women’s long hair, do you?’ Emily asked, in a lame final attempt at altering the inevitable.

‘No, I do not like it,’ I agreed, my voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. Then I smiled broadly, the thrill of the moment overwhelming me. ‘I absolutely love it! Now, Emily, hold still.’

I pressed down on the bowl against Emily’s head, feeling the resistance of her scalp. Then, without ceremony or further preamble, I drove the blade of the hair clippers into the thick hair at her nape. The blades bit through the strands without difficulty, and long, severed tendrils began to slide down over her shoulders. While a proportion gathered in her lap, the remainder hit the floor with a satisfying final plop, the sound hypnotic and the sight mesmerising.

I worked my way around the sides, removing all the hair from around her ears, delighted to see they stuck out with even more prominence than mine. I moved in front of her, her vision hindered by the final strands of long hair that remained attached to her head. But not for long, as I forced the vibrating teeth against the rim of the bowl, halfway up her forehead. The strands separated, revealing her astonished wide eyes taking in my exultant expression just a short distance away.

‘Almost there, sweetie,’ I purred as I silenced the hairclippers, making the necessary adjustment to ensure the blade would be as efficient as possible. ‘I just need to shave the remaining bristles on the back and sides of your head.’ She moaned, a slight tremor resonating through the metal bowl. ‘Right down to the skin for absolute neatness,’ I added gaily, even if unnecessarily cruelly, causing her to whimper even more.

I resumed the buzzing with growing confidence, demonstrating an efficiency I did not know I possessed. I razored the fuzzy areas below the bowl that were annoying my need for precision, leaving pristine white skin.

Finally, I stopped. The silence that followed was heavy. I lifted the silver bowl, placing it back in the cabinet with the same reverence Ms Crisp had shown me. ‘Stand up, Emily,’ I ordered, pointing to the mirror on the wall. ‘And take in your transformed, much improved, neater self.’

I held up a hand mirror too so she could appreciate the precision that continued around the back of her head, along with a totally shaved nape.

‘You look just perfect,’ I announced, my face flushed with triumph. A satisfied murmur of agreement came from Ms Crisp in the corner, signifying that a new and darker bond had formed now I was her apprentice.

Emily stared at the reflection in disbelief, her hand flying to her exposed ears, her eyes wide with shock. She could not comprehend that she was staring at herself. I felt a strange kinship with her now, a shared secret of the cut, as I gazed upon her.

Suddenly, she spun around, her gaze directed solidly at me, but with an unreadable expression. She fingered her right ear, brushed the bare skin around it, and allowed her hand to linger around her nape. ‘Do I? she murmured breathlessly.

Does she what, I mused. I inclined my head questioningly.

‘Do I look perfect… to you?’ she asked coyly, fluttering her eyelashes and demurely dipping her chin.

Oh. My. Goodness! I did not see that coming as I unconsciously mirrored her provocative gestures with my right hand around my own bowlcut. I blushed, unable to help myself.

‘Your hair looks perfect,’ I stated, trying to sound business-like, but my voice wavered noticeably.

Emily gently smiled. ‘Gosh…’

Flustered by Emily’s unexpected attention, I had forgotten to impart an important instruction. ‘Before I forget, you will report to the office ten minutes before your shift every two days,’ I said, my voice steady despite the adrenaline coursing through my whole body. ‘The back and sides of your head will be shaved to maintain the pristine neatness, and once a week your entire bowlcut will be trimmed to correct the precise line.’

‘I see…’ Emily acknowledged. After a brief pause, she went on. ‘Will it be you who, er, corrects me?’

Given her choice of words, I blushed once more. I looked over at Ms Crisp, worried what she would make of this surprising turn of events. She had covered her face with a hand, and I surmised that she was angry with the developing situation. Then it hit me. I realised she was attempting to stifle a giggle at my predicament, although still managing to nod her agreement.

‘As Ms Crisp’s apprentice, then yes, it will be me attending to your hair,’ I replied slightly pompously but avoiding directly responding to her innuendo.

‘Oh, goody…’ Emily purred.

I cleared my throat. ‘So, now, Emily,’ I coughed again, ‘your uniform.’

The Apparel

Putting aside my confusion over Emily’s behaviour, a fresh wave of excitement surged through me as I uttered those authoritative words. It was intoxicating, the power that came from the knowledge that I would enforce the complete transformation on someone else.

I stepped back, letting my eyes rake over Emily’s delightful body that filled her made-to-measure designer dress to perfection. My gaze was clinical and assessing, designed to make her feel utterly exposed. I reached into the wardrobe and pulled out a slim-fitting white blouse and a short black skirt in a size I decided would be suitable.

‘Change into these,’ I ordered, my tone leaving no room for negotiation. ‘These garments will complete the standard appearance required of our waitresses before starting your shift. Be quick now, as your first shift is due to commence shortly.’

Emily held the garments at arm’s length, giving them a withering glance. She opened her mouth, sighed, then closed it. I wondered if she had been contemplating asking if she could take the clothes to her dressmaker and ask her to tailor them to her figure.

Emily looked around. ‘Er, where should I change?’

‘Change here,’ I snapped, my eyes narrowing. ‘I will help you adjust the fit as necessary.’

As she slowly and carefully removed her expensive polka-dot dress, she stood for a moment in luxurious and impossibly delicate, gossamer lace underwear. The sight sent an undeniable thrill through me. The excitement not only came from seeing her exposed but also from witnessing the complete surrender of her autonomy.

Without any sense of embarrassment, she gave me a defiant look with both hands on her hips, as if to say that with her body she still enjoyed a degree of power over the situation. She made a strong point!

Eventually she tugged on the slip of material that comprised the impossibly short black skirt, the fabric stretching tight across her hips and moulding to her bottom.

‘Delightful! A perfect fit,’ I declared, a smirk playing on my lips as I inspected the hemline and lightly smoothed the stretched material enclosing her pert bottom. My fingers lingered a moment too long, and I snatched them away. As she turned, I could have sworn that she winked, and I felt a flush of heat rise in my cheeks.

Next came the white blouse. It clung to her body as I hoped, the fabric straining across her perky bust. She splayed the collar of the blouse, leaving two buttons unfastened at her throat. I leant in to correct.

‘The standard for the café’s uniform is for all buttons to be done up,’ I dictated, fastening them so the collar was tight around Emily’s throat.

I observed her discomfort as she tried to make more space around her neck, but I lightly tapped away her hands. Pushing back her shoulders, as if on parade, caused her breasts to thrust outwards in provocative fashion. When I smoothed the material, I was surprised to find her nipples erect. Our eyes suddenly met and Emily blushed, the heat of arousal radiating from her.

‘A perfect little soldier to go into battle in our café,’ I improvised jokingly to break the growing tension, though the words still felt charged with meaning.

‘Yes, ma’am,’ Emily answered subserviently, fluttering her eyelashes as she dipped her chin.

‘You look splendid in your uniform, Emily. The clothes fit well and enhance your figure,’ I said, meaning it. ‘You have a nice body.’

‘So do you,’ she mumbled, or at least I thought that was what she said. I gave her an interrogatory stare.

‘Nothing, ma’am,’ she whispered innocently, a smile playing on her lips as we gazed at each other.

Ms Crisp gave a polite cough as she rose from her armchair. ‘You will make an excellent impression on our discerning clientele, Emily.’

‘Thank you, Ms Crisp,’ Emily acknowledged. ‘And Daddy will be pleased that you provided me with gainful employment.’

Epilogue

‘Now, Annabelle will show you everything you need to know,’ Ms Crisp explained primly as she made a final adjustment to Emily’s blouse. But then she turned towards me and, smirking, she winked. For someone who rarely smiled, a wink was like gold dust. ‘Remember, Annabelle, show her everything.’

I looked at Emily’s delicate features, beautifully framed by her severe bowlcut, the bare skin gleaming, her short black skirt and tight white blouse highlighting her perfect body. ‘You can be assured that I intend showing her everything, Ms Crisp,’ I said, not taking my attention from the blushing Emily.

‘I look forward to it…’ Emily purred.

‘Welcome to The Silver Bowl café, Emily,’ Ms Crisp and I chorused, our voices ringing with a triumphant finality.

As we prepared to leave the office, I caught my reflection in the mirror and compared it with Emily’s form ahead of me. The same severe bowlcut, the same tight uniform, the same posture of controlled submission.

But there was something different in my eyes now. Something hungry. I had an appetite for the power that I was enjoying far more than I would care to admit. But I also possessed a deep-seated hunger for the owner of the perfectly shaved nape that was bouncing along in my eyeline.

My situation had already changed immeasurably in so many ways since I had first commenced employment at the café. As I rubbed my bare nape thoughtfully, a jolt of pleasure radiated up and down my spine while I took a moment to contemplate how my own future would blend with that of The Silver Bowl.

To be continued

 A Note from the Author

In addition to sharing my stories here, on the Hair Story Network, they are also collected on my personal archive, along with additional exclusive material, at The Hair Apparent Stories.

Traditionally, I have relied on my own imagination and that of my readers to visualise my stories. However, on my archive I have added a single image to serve as a “book cover” for each story, providing a pictorial introduction to the characters and scenes portrayed in the text that follows. Although I currently do not plan to illustrate my stories, I will remain open to what the future may bring!