THE SHAVE SLAVE (A Dialogue) – Clip Er2
THE SHAVE SLAVE:
I am in a spandex full body suit. The sheen properly highlights my body’s contours and curves in shiny black. Small slits open for erect pink nipples. Red nails lead up to wrists, wearing dark leather cuffs, studded with pointy spikes and silver rings. My neck is appropriately decorated by a thick collar. The collar is cruelly cinched tight, and studded with spikes to discourage tampering. Each ear has been pierced thrice, adorned with varying sized silver hoops. Dark maroon lips lead the eye to the silver mane that lays down my back, neatly groomed, smelling of perfume, covering a coyly arched back, a tight ass, hard slender legs. Sharp obsidian spike heels entice – not nice – fantasies……
My evening attire is proper for this night…..I feed you at fingertip as you lay among fluffed pillows. Finished with the meal, My hands firmly massage away the small tension from your hard back. You lead me out to the balcony, wine in hand. We drink together under the darkness that is only broken by pin-points of white stars. The care and attention you give warms me, providing purpose and place in this world for my ministrations. I wish to continue serving you. I tell you these thoughts.
Your smile gives me pleasure.
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Softly kissing each hardened nipple, you send me inside to contemplate….. I am at a cross-roads in my service to you. My pre-arranged servitude has expired. If I am to devote myself to you, solely, then I must do so now, or be dismissed to find another house and Master. Decided. I am kneeling now. My hair is tightly drawn atop my head, secured by a particular silver clasp. I close my eyes….. and begin to braid. Finished. I await you. Your footfalls echo through the room. I feel you standing near me. Your breathing is controlled. Silence. My braid is lifted, I feel your eyes piercing me. My braid is dropped. You move to face me. ‘One braid means servitude for life, slave. You have considered?’
‘Yes, Master. I have considered. I am for you.’
‘Very well. I will take you as mine…..for life.’ My eyes open.
THE MASTER BARBER:
I peer deeply into your eyes. I nod, an indication you are to remain still, then turn and walk out of the room. You are left to contemplate your fate, kneeling, the braid snaking through the cleavage of your body suit.
I return, my bare feet padding across the floor. I am wearing a barber’s smock, my right hand holding something glinting in the moonlight that you can’t quite discern.
Your head turns following me as I approach, slowly arching upward to stare at me with total commitment.
I stop before you and reach out with my left hand to stroke your cheek, run my finger over your right ear lobe. Then I pull hard on the braid. No, I say, it will not be this easy. I release the braid. Take it out. Spread your hair over your shoulder. Let it flow down over your back and tickle your buns. You must feel every inch, every strand of your shearing. It will not be swift and easy. It will not be the mere sawing off of a braid. No.
You stare at me, eyes burning. Then I release your braid and your hands fly up to your head.
Slowly, teasingly, you release your blonde bounty from the braid.
It unwinds strand after strand. I watch intently. Occasionally I reach down and favor you with a stroke of the hair, the cheek or even a caress of a breast, a gentle rubbing of an erect nipple. Then it is freed – a platinum cape awaiting my hand. Pulling my right hand from my pocket you see that flash again. My left hand reaches for your crown and grabs a fistful of hair from between your eyes. I pull. Hard.
“Yesssss,” I mutter. My eyes are closed. My heart is pounding. My will is surrendered to my master barber.
I cannot wait. I see the flash. And feel the harsh pull of love and desire.
My head jerks back. My eyes shoot up involuntarily to your hand. It holds a straight razor. I watch the razor move towards the fistful of hair. Hair that trails from your hand, flopping down over my eyes, tickling my nose, trailing between my breasts, heaving with each spastic breath. I feel the razor sawing. And then my head is free. I see your hand open and strands of gold slither down over my breasts, between my ever-moistening mound. I gasp. Then smile. And close my eyes, enjoying the soft tickle of my erotic sacrifice, a sacrifice I’ve been craving for weeks. “The first falls,” my barber leers. “There’s no stopping now.” I look up at you. And slowly wet my lips with my tongue.
I put aside the razor and begin brushing your hair. There is an inch-long tuft sticking up at your forehead, the razor’s remnant. I brush long, pulling the bristles all the way through your tresses again and again. The tension mounts. You squirm. I remind you to remain motionless.
“You are at my command,” I say firmly. “This is your wish. Your deep desire. You have given yourself. There can be no release. Not now.”
I order you to remove the body suit, but not the collar. Then I step away, only to return with a pair of shiny silver barber shears. Your hair tickles the small of your back. You look. I detect a little fear. But also a release.
I smooth the hair by your right ear. And step closer. The shears click and snap ominously. Once. Twice. Three times. Quickly. They grow louder in your ear. And come closer.
The steel is surprisingly cold against my temple, laying firmly. It slides in just above my ear. I take a deep breath and hold it. Afraid to move. Frozen in the thrill and the terror. I have dreamed of these shears.
I hear – and at the same time feel – a loud scrunch. A long rope of hair caresses my cheek as it slides away from my head and over my thighs, lying limply on the floor.
Your breath. Oh, I feel your breath warm against my cheek, softly blowing where once there was long, thick hair.
Now I hear those scissors click again. They slide in closer to my ear, further back on my head. Another scrunch. And more blonde falls.
It seems you will shear me strand by strand. I can barely control myself. I feel the brush smooth the hair covering my ear. And then that click and snap again. Once. Twice. Three times.
Then the cold steel over my ear, sharp against my scalp. SCRUNCH. Suddenly my ear is cool, uncovered, bare. Air rushes in. A new sensation. I feel the tingle all the way to my moist loins.
I work slowly towards the back of your neck, leaving the hair less than an inch long on the sides. For now.
One side of your head emerges while on the other remains sheathed in brilliant blond dressing. The only sound is our heavy breathing and the ever present snip, snip, snipping of the shears.
When I have finished, I step back. You look up from your kneel, wondering. I take a long strand from the floor and run it through your collar. Then I reach down and gently guide you to your feet.
Grasping the hair leash I pull firmly, bringing you to a nearby chair, wide with comfortable arms. I seat you and release the leash.
In a passing mirror I catch a glimpse of myself. I’m halfway between the old me and new me.
It is an odd composite portrait. The right side of my head is fuzzy and roughly shorn. On the left side, light still glints off the long covering veil of yellow that stretches to my waist.
I wonder why you are seating me. But I can’t wait to discover.
Then I see them in your hand. Black. Cylindrical. Silver teeth ready. You have told me, but I have never felt their bite, heard their hum, or allowed myself to escape into their insistent vibration. Suddenly you are looming over me.
I step behind you and stroke the one side of your nape where hair falls softly over the chair back. Then I bend down and kiss the shorn side, nuzzling softly, flicking my tongue.
I step back and my left hand reaches underneath your hair and grabs firmly, forcing your head down so that your chin rests upon your chest.
A hum rises in the room, spreading out from behind you.
You are particularly vulnerable. Your nape exposed. You can see nothing but your feet and the floor. You feel a soft warmth at the right side of your nape as the clippers linger. Then the vibration sends a current down your spine. Chilling.
Suddenly you can no longer wait. “Shave it,” I hear begging from your mouth.
Slowly I lift the hair on the left side of your nape. Now you feel the clippers over there. They linger on the bare skin between your shoulder blades, pressing. Then you feel them moving upward.
Rasp. Warmth. Vibration. A tickle. On your shoulder, your back. Coolness. Air rushes in, teasing the sensitive bottom of your nape. Bareness emerges as the clippers slowly plow a swath up your nape. You thought it would be a brutal Marine-like shearing. Instead it is sensual, erotic. Your nape is coming naked. Free.
The vibration is stirring. I can feel the wetness seeping between my clenched thighs. I try to control myself. Barely. I realize my breathing is deeper, faster. I can feel my chest heave against my chin. The first strands slip past my eye, a few catching on my erect nipple, the rest tickling my thighs. It’s shocking. My hands, grasped before me, shake a little. Some hair flops on them.
I want this to last forever. You, my master, seem to know. The clippers move slowly, whirring up and over my head. My neck is bare. I can feel the coolness. You step before me and pull the hair at my crown. Hard. I flinch.
Your swift power pulls me from my reverie and reminds me this is his play in as many acts as you decide. You guide me out of the chair and onto my knees again.
Your hardness, fully erect, lies just below my raised chin. I feel your hand wrap around a hank of hair. My head jerks violently to the side, then stops.
You smile, looking straight into my eyes. I stare back and open my mouth with just the trace of a grin. I feel the clippers at the back of my head, digging into the hair and then my head moves forward. I open my mouth and take you in, my submission total. I feel the clippers moving towards my forehead. You moan softly. I am thrilled. I feel you — my master — buck softly. I feel the first small waves building within me. You pull back slightly to let the clippers come down over my forehead. Hair drapes from your hardness as I kiss your tip, blowing away strands of limp blonde I have given so totally.
I click off the clippers. Our breathing, obscured by their hum for long minutes, is suddenly the only sound in the room. I set the clippers on a candle-lit table nearby and run my hands slowly over your head, exploring every centimeter. It’s Velcro now, just a soft wisp of hair over a white scalp reflected in the soft, flickering candles lining the room. My hands slowly find their way to your now-bare shoulders and gently guide you to your feet. I kiss you. Deeply. My tongue explores you for long minutes as my hand slowly massages between your legs, a finger occasionally teasing inside. Our bodies entwine. “Thank you, my dear,” I say simply, my tone belying the depth of the sentiment. “And now…Don’t worry, we’ll finish you off nice and smooth. Eventually. Not now.” I guide you to the nearby bed and lower you on your back. I slip on top, my tongue flicking along the inside if your knee, then your thigh, then inside you in slow circles. But it doesn’t linger as you begin to thrust. The tongue slips up, encircling an appreciative nipple. “Now let’s see how sensitive that nape is,” I whisper. As my tongue buries itself behind your right ear, I enter you forcefully, one quick stroke to the hilt. Your knees fly up. We move in unison, furiously.
Barely in control. I know I must ask first. “Master, master barber,” I whisper, “may I come?”
“Yes” has barely passed your lips when I shake with spasm after spasm, sensory overload overtaking my body.
EPILOGUE. There was a shave to follow. And in the weeks after, the shave slave’s hair grew. But not for long. They explored more and more inventive haircut styles — or, more accurately — inventive styles of giving haircuts. Master Barber purchased an old fashioned chair, then modified it with cuffs and other adornments. Of course, leather and steel restraints pale in comparison to the power of words. They tried different positions, different clippers, different razors. Her hairstyles changed. A crewcut one week, then back to a total shave. But those are other stories, for other nights.
THE END. (UNTIL IT GROWS OUT.)
Send comments to Cliper2@aol.com. This story originally appeared in Captain Stanley’s The Yankee Clipper, a magazine for lovers of cropped, clipped and shaved women. E-mail Capnstan@aol.com for information. Copyright 1995 by Cliper2@aol.com. All rights reserved. This story may be downloaded for individual personal use only. But distribution via mailing list, disk or any other form is prohibited without permission of the author under U.S. copyright law and America Online’s Terms of Service agreement.