Jenny Gets it Shaved
Jenny Gets it Shaved – Spike
It didn’t really bother Jen that she spent a lot of her time desperately wanting to shave her head, totally and completely. The desire had been a part of her life for so long she couldn’t say when it was first aroused. At what must have been seven or eight, she could clearly remember asking long lost childhood friends.
‘What would you do if I shaved all my hair off?’
‘Laugh!’ said Amy, simply and without malice.
‘Why would you want to do that?’ came the wary reply from Frances, a look of total bewilderment and deep concern on her face. Then all three giggled madly to break the spell and play resumed.
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She wasn’t even upset that during puberty it had taken on a distinctly sexual dimension. The innocent interest of her childhood turned gradually into a full-blown, if repressed, fetish by the time she was twenty. Her boyfriends were selected on one most important criterion, the length of their hair. Anything much over half an inch and she wasn’t interested. It had led to some pretty disastrous relationships she had to admit.
No, the thing that really bothered Jen about wanting to shave her head was quite simple. That she had never, ever done it. In school she’d been the queen of the Alice band, at university, an avid attendant at every charity headshaving, but only as a spectator. The shortest her hair had ever been was a daring chin-length bob during the first term. Mostly, as now, it was much longer, falling in pale gold to the middle of her back.
‘Why?’ That was the question she so frequently asked herself.
‘Why don’t I just do it? I’m thirty-bloody-four and I’ve wanted to do it all my life. I’m married. I have a kid. I have some of my best orgasms just fantasising about it. So why have I never done it?’ As usual, there was no satisfactory answer.
Sure, her hair was lovely, her best asset, some said. A natural blonde should make the most of what she had. Perhaps it was fear of the two instinctive reactions demonstrated by Amy and Frances all those years ago, the ridicule and incomprehension of the world. Perhaps it was exactly because she was thirty-four, married and a mother. People like that didn’t suddenly turn up, shaven-headed, at the school gates smiling and carefree as though in a new summer dress.
It wasn’t as if she didn’t keep trying. The urge waxed and waned, but every few months it would surge almost out of control. She’d book an appointment and lie sleepless for nights planning to ask for a drastic crop. Or she’d take her son, James, to the local barbershop promising to demand the clippers be run over her own head after they’d finished on his. Once, she even bought an expensive set of cordless clippers, mail order, intent on doing the job herself.
It always ended the same way. With the salon, it was a missed appointment or cowardly trim. At the barbers, she’d sit sweating and aroused, determined to go through with it, answers to all objections ready on her tongue. Then a distraction, another customer entering the shop, a chance comment by the affable old barber and her resolve crumbled. At the end a robustly cheerful, crop-headed boy was led home by his emotionally drained and frustrated mother. The mail order clippers did get used, but only on James when he finally pestered his way to a number one. At least that kept her out of the barber’s.
Keeping her hair long had its advantages. One of her favourite fantasy games was to take a long bath, oil her hair and twist it up to a viciously tight bun, then pose before a steamy mirror with half-lidded eyes, trying to think her hair out of existence. At each fleeting moment when the trick worked, an electric thrill passed up and down her spine, drawing her fingers between her legs and into her damp and greedy cunt.
It was in this situation that Mark surprised her one morning after James had been packed off to school. Straddled in front of the mirror, one arm across the sink, the other intimately caressing herself, she gradually became aware of her husband, obviously not away at work, standing a little outside the bathroom door watching her with bright and twinkling eyes. She started, then moistened below as she relished the shame of being caught. Without speaking, Mark’s eyes asked a question, an inviting roll of her buttocks the only answer.
He was behind her then, one hand on her back, gently keeping her bent over, the other exploring her taut nipples, her neck and ears. His trousers and belt buckle bumped her arse, the cloth coarse and metal cold against her long-soaked skin, sending bright filaments of pleasure up her spine. She fumbled with the belt, the hardness of his prick hampering her efforts to release it. His fingers left her nipples for a long missed second to help. Then it was free and between her legs, she, guiding its welcome length to the slick wet lips of her cunt, checking it briefly and then gladly letting it plunge inside.
As he fucked her, Jen was acutely aware of his half-day beard scratching the naked nape of her neck, his lips and tongue on the back of her exposed ears. She was shouting, unaware of her words or his replies, only of the feeling his voice made, his movements inside her and the presence and motion of his body above and behind hers. The moment built and came, built and came, till she felt at last the full wet frantic rush of his climax within her and she relaxed into the deep and satisfying knowledge that she’d been thoroughly had.
‘Nice hair,’ he panted, what seemed like aeons later, as their conjoinment became an interesting anomaly, something about which a decision should soon be made. ‘Why don’t you let me cut it?’ Electric words!
Now he ran a finger along her hairline behind her ears, bumping over the tightly pulled strands. ‘I like this shape.’ As he did this, she felt his prick harden slightly within her.
‘You’d have to cut it very short,’ she barely breathed, ‘for it to look like this all the time.’ She rocked herself ever so slightly backward onto his shaft as she said this.
‘Very, very, short,’ he agreed slowly, thrusting gently in time to the words. The strange but exquisite feeling of him becoming hard again triggered something inside Jen. She felt something break, releasing not just another torrent of wet, but a stream of words, a chant.
‘I want it! I want it! I want to be shaved totally. I want to be completely shaved. Shave me, please! Shave me.’
‘Come with me then,’ he said, slipping gently out even as she moaned and wriggled desperately to keep him inside, turned and kissed him full and passionately trying to climb back on and stuff his cock back in where she wanted it.
‘Wait,’ he said, ‘until afterwards,’ carrying her into the bedroom.
‘After my hair is cut?’
‘After I’m shaved?’
‘Yes! After you’re shaved. Now wait.’
‘Oh God. I’ve wanted it for so long. Thank you for giving it to me. Thank you thank…’
‘Sssh.’ A finger on her lips, as soon there as kissed and licked and sucked. Hardly checking the torrent of words.
‘The clippers are in that drawer.’
‘I will. It’s hard while you keep trying get fucked again.’
‘It has to be hard. To go back in.’ She giggled, her hand on his cock.
‘Do I have to tie you down?’
He sat her down backwards on a chair in front of the mirror, then took three silk ties from his wardrobe. He kissed and caressed each ankle before binding it tightly to the chair leg. He gently pulled each hand away from her bush and behind her back. She gave only token resistance, her eyes never left the top drawer of the dresser, as he bound her wrists. He went to the drawer, took out the clippers, then returned to stand behind her.
‘Mark,’ she said. ‘You forgot the guards.’
‘I didn’t forget them.’
‘Are you going to run the clippers over my head without a guard?’
‘Do you want it?’
‘Oh God! Yes. Shave me and keep me shaved. Please…’
He released the bun at Jen’s crown, uncoiling a thick wet rat-tail, which he held up above her head, almost at full stretch. He pushed the hair band up a little, relaxing its fierce tension then laid the pony tail down over her face. He pushed her head forward and down firmly, then turned on the clippers. As they hummed to life, Jen began to shake, her teeth chattered and a hot sweat broke out across her shoulders. Her nape seemed to anticipate the vibrating blades as they approached and gently touched.
Mark moved the clippers up to the hairline then in, just centimetres at first. The fine hairs parted close to Jens scalp, tiny remnants springing to attention behind the blades. The severed strands flicked up but did not fall, still held by the elastic at her crown and the uncut mass of the rest. He moved the thrilling blades down, then back up, a little higher this time. The afternoon sun, streaming in, now lit a myriad of tiny golden fragments. He marvelled at the little stripe of white, the pure skin that had lain forever beneath its fleece. His fingers explored it, the texture complex and impelling, smooth and slippery one way, an almost imperceptible down the other way.
Jen was ecstatic. Bound, as she was, she had no choice but to submit to this shaving, no chance to back out. It was finally happening. Mark now moved quickly, his ardour returning and his desire to fuck his wife again encouraging him to remove the rest of her hair as quickly as he could.
He made quick short movements with the clippers up her neck, then further, revealing the delicious curve of her skull and exposing the backs of her ears. As clippers balked slightly at the tightly gathered hair still fastened at Jen’s crown he moved round to one side. Pushing her head over, he ran the clippers up in front of her ear, then over and round it, releasing it, recreating it.
Jen watched in rapture as first one ear, then the other, was freed by the smooth and relentless passage of the clippers. Mark now lifted and pulled back on the ponytail, standing behind her so she could watch as he stroked the clippers into and along the top of her head. Now it was her turn to observe, fascinated, as her pale scalp emerged, was hidden briefly as the captive locks fell back, then was revealed once more at the next stroke.
Then, it was done. The rat-tail came off and Mark handed it to her. She dropped it without a thought, intent on her own reflection in the mirror, mesmerised by that shaven headed woman, her high-domed head pale and new-formed, her ears large and red limned in the sunlight.
A frantic untying of bonds. A gasping, panting fuck. Jen on her knees in front of the mirror, wanted to see herself being had, shaved and shameless. To feel her new head as she was taken hard and fast from behind. Afterwards, a slower lovemaking, a gentle caressing.
‘Will you keep me shaved?’ she asked lazily as the sun dappled their entwined bodies.
‘Always,’ was the simple and most satisfying reply.