Beautiful bald woman waiting release, it’s noon. You brush out your thick and heavy burden of beauty. You toss that drawn-out burden forward over your face and brush exuberantly. You toss your head slightly and hair lifts and dances in sunshine down your back and caresses your bottom. Your scrimpy sundress frames full your slender form and figure.
Moments later, you haunt the sidewalk in front of the barbershop. With envy, you glimpse young men submitting to old-fashioned military cuts. It is just past noon as you walk to lunch-just past the barbershop. Just past noon, you feel that tinge of mysterious longing to become someone else. Alternatively, do you mean to become yourself?
Your millstone of loveliness, your sensual entreaty of hair, endows you with power over the desires of male and female. Hairdressers, like architects with grand designs or generals with a grand strategy, waster your daylight hours with snippings and trims, shampoos and recommendations. Repeatedly, they propose that you let them cut more of your hair than you ever let them cut. You want a lover to cut your hair – against your will, of course. You indulge hairdressers, but you need more.
Your interior image of you helpless before a rough lover dampens your panty, hardens your nipples, and stiffens your clitoris. “A woman always has her revenge ready,” says Molière. You do. You keep the newest Wahl Rapid Clippers in the chiffonnier with your enema equipage and your well-used vibrator. You keep a wall of your bedroom covered with a wall-to-wall, ceiling-to-floor mirror. You need to witness every detail of your humiliation.
Beautiful bald woman waiting to be, you bring him to your room. It is night. Silence diffuses the bright, large room. You whiff the pungency of the ocean, unusually quiet. You share the dusky fantasy with him. Your voice even takes on a dusky tone as you succumb to the fantasy.
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How do you know he will force you? How do you know that he already knows what you need? Why do you know to have rope, gags, tape, and handcuffs ready in the drawer below the other drawer? Who knows? You know. You cannot turn back. He controls you and your wicked desire rules you.
The long linen dress, virginally off-white and full of texture, covers you from foot to neck. Bits of Scandinavian embroidery and primary hues of blue, yellow, and red highlight the dress. Beneath it, you wait stripped with breasts roped into conical exaggerations of femininity. Plays of ropes chaff your flinty clitoris, your distended labia, and your delicate anus.
He tells you that he is transforming you from object of desire to appalling bald slut, which is his highest tribute. Against your relentless protest, he picks up the clippers without any guard and places it just in front of your ear and just above your cheek. He quickly clips over the front of your head to the other temple. Did you really intend this?
He takes you to the bathroom. He heats your skin with hot towels. He tenderly covers your depilated forehead with hot lather and painstakingly shaves away any faint light of your once ravishing forelocks. He forces you to pose for too many photographs all shot under three-point lighting. Your smile teeters between untrue and true. You protest that enough is enough. Your want to stop the play. He warns you to whisper your protest.
However, your clitoris rejoins to your unexpectedly furious stroking. You almost rub yourself raw before you move to the edges and to your labia for a writhing organism. Breathless, you plea that you have had enough. He laughs.
Abruptly, he gags you. Cutting away in several bold shearing a tremendous swath of hair running from your shoulders to your butt, he puts away his gorgeous trophy for charity. Little bald girls need your gift, but you cry. Salvia trickles down the your chin from the edges of your mouth.
He takes away the gag and gives you a glass of water to drink; he puts Vaseline on your dry lips. He gently touches your face and kisses you from time to time. His lips touch the rather stunning high brow of your face and head. A last time, he languidly caresses your long flowing locks with a wild boar bristle brush. Oils gleam. Pheromones pledge themselves to his reckless, feverish appetite. How can any humane male will to take away a pretty woman’s hair?
Still, slowly over hours, he reduces your elegant hair in relentless parings of an inch or less at a time to nearly nothing. From time to time, he raises the dress to adjust the bonds that cut your skin. He plays with your body as if he owned you.
Your delightful conventional cut of shoulder length hair turns from snip to snip to something else. With each snip, you become someone else, someone free and bold. Inch by inch, your hair falls from side and back, from back and side, from front to crown, from crown to nape, from nape to eventual nothing. The shears finally touch your raw scalp.
You feel raw. He brings you tepid water. He treats your dry lips with balm. Without comment, he runs your roaring clippers fleetly back and forth over your head in almost haphazard gestures. Your tender, virgin skin suffers barbaric aggression.
Minute remnants of hair from the close cuttings hang on your sweating face and on the linen dress. Shaving begins at the margins. The razor drags slowly in contrast to the rapid move of clippers. Your fingers play with you. Orgasm after orgasm disturbs your body.
Your beauty as a bald woman emerges – to your utter consternation. You like yourself. You admire your hairless head and your intrepid, sovereign face. You are repulsive and not repulsive! You sweat like a woman giving birth and you look sublime in the same moment.
Regardless, you see in the mirror a patrician, shaved, goddess, but you feel like an out-of-control slut. You expose yourself as utterly depraved. You want him. You want any man who will take you. How glorious you feel! Your sense of your body slowly affirms the soundness, strength, and sublimity of female baldness.
Dropping the sweaty linen dress, you stand bald and naked as he finishes cutting away all the hair that remains – over your pubis and over your eyes. Without eyelashes or brows, you stand fitted to enjoy his affection and devotion. He has taken you by force-by force of his lunatic craving and your demented longing. He pushes you to the hardwood oak floor, covered with your hair, with your immense beauty, now ruined or else liberated.
The interplay of antagonistic emotions will haunt you. You know that you had to be forced, but you needed to be forced to experience what you desired and still desire.
The cropped boys in the barbershop will scrutinize you when you report every day for your shave. You will embellish your power over the boys (even those who are wry old men). You celebrate your freedom. You celebrate your lust by submitting to it in grand style. Bless you, beautiful bald goddess. You are yourself and more.