subjanus
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Joined: 8/13/2010
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(A work of fiction, for those who want to know)
Alison, my Wife and Mistress, has many ways to keep me in check and exert her control over me. She particularly enjoys humiliating me and while most of these take place behind the veil of privacy we maintain, a few are public. One humiliation which crosses both worlds and which causes me great discomfort and stress at times, revolves around my hair. More specifically, the length of my hair.
You see, I've always had a thing about having my hair cut. I hate it, hate short hair. Goes back to childhood experiences. I hated the awful short cuts I had to have as a boy, hated the complete lack of say and control during the whole experience of being caped up and clippered high.
Naturally, when you meet the woman of your dreams, she learns all about you. So, early on in our relationship some twenty years ago, I explained to Alison why I wore my hair long, telling her about my 'fear and loathing' thing for haircuts. She said she preferred more masculine haircuts on males but other than that she never made much of a comment about my hair except to sometimes remind me to keep it clean and neatly arrayed. Which I did.
But all that changed seven years ago when our marriage took a completely different direction, that of a Female-lead relationship. And in all matters, top to the very bottom, inside and out. How that came about isn't important right now – it's enough to say it was by mutual choice and we both feel satisfied in our respective roles. Which doesn't mean I don't feel mentally tortured at times. Like when it comes to my hair.
It first happened a few days after our new relationship began - and it hasn't stopped since. Alison came home from work, ordered me to strip, take a chair to the bathroom then sit on it in front of the mirror. She followed and stood behind me; through the mirror, I watched her lift a set of Wahl electric barber clippers from a bag. I'll never forget the huge grin, twinkling eyes and raucous laugh that greeted me when I said - quietly as it turned out - “Please no Mistress, please.” It made no difference of course and about an hour later - and three orgasms for Mistress Alison courtesy of my tongue - I left the bathroom completely shorn down to a Number 0.
Her comment about loving the feel of a shaved male head rubbing against her thighs should have warned me of what was to come. That and the fact she did another run of the clippers over my scalp while I was between her thighs - the orgasm she had while doing that was, for want of a better word, explosive.
And so, for the next year or so, Alison shaved me down to a Number O, sometimes twice or three times a week, usually with me between her legs. Then the nature of these haircutting humiliations changed, though certainly not in their outcome.
Alison had let my hair grow for about five or six weeks, not so it was particularly long mind you, but enough for me to start to think she was over this particular phase of her domination over me. Of course I didn't say anything for fear of drawing attention to the matter; let's just say I misread her intentions terribly.
Alison met me after work one day and walked me into a barbershop, there to be greeted by a woman with short grey hair aged about fifty who was introduced as Heather. “So this is the man, hey? Well in the chair you get.” I meekly obeyed while she went and locked the door. We were the last, and only, customers for the day.
The space inside reeked of yesterday, a barbershop of the very type I had had to endure throughout my childhood, the smells of talc, oils and lotions mixing with the cleaners and fluids used to keep the vinyl floor and chairs spotless. It was a two-chair shop, both made of the same heavy steel and shiny chrome and vinyl design, the clippers, razors, glass jars, brushes, combs, towels and sundry other accoutrements of the trade lined up along a long linoleum bench under a large wall mirror. I couldn't miss the two long razor strops dangling from hooks along the bench in front of the chair.
I looked at myself in the mirror and shifted nervously, wanting desperately to get up and run out the door. But of course I didn't. Heather and Alison simply ignored me and chatted away like old friends. And then they turned my way, both grinning. Heather, smiling and keeping her eyes on me, fixed some tissue paper around my neck then picked up a long white plastic cape and swirled it round me, buttoning it up tightly. I felt enclosed, trapped, unable to move.
Alison went and sat down on the small vinyl bench seat opposite. Seating herself to the left of my reflection, I didn't need to see her grin to know of what fun she was having...and about to have. I figured she was probably getting very moist down there....with more to come.
“All off?”
“The lot. Buzzed down and then the razored smooth.”
Heather picked up a set of large cherry red and chrome clippers and removed the guard. They came to life with a heavy click and whirr at the same time as her left hand landed firmly on my crown. “Sit up!”
I hadn't noticed that I'd slumped, or rather, cringed down in the chair. I sat bolt upright, the order obeyed just as if Alison had given it. She pushed my head forward, keeping it there with the steady pressure of her hand.
And then the buzzing intensity of the blades touched my nape, a thousand goose-bumps rising up to greet them. I gave a little shudder.
In the space of less than two minutes I was down to the dreaded Number 0 once again. I sighed. Before I had time to gather my thoughts my buzzed head was covered in shaving cream. With the expression on my face I looked like the top of some tortured cream pie. Heather picked up a cut-throat razor - I closed my eyes as she began on me.
“Open your eyes” ordered Alison firmly, stopping my feeble attempt to escape my predicament. Heather obviously enjoyed Alison's approach for she chuckled and commented, “We know who wears the trousers in your relationship!” They both laughed.
And so I sat there passively staring at Heather's steady, confident hand for the next ten minutes, feeling every scrape of the razor while seeing my scalp lose the last vestiges of its hair. This part of the torment was finally over.
“It looks terrific! It's just so right for him.” I could certainly vouch for that. Alison's sense of what was right for me, that is.
That first public headshaving turned Alison on. The moment we got back home I was ordered on to all fours. Alison dropped her skirt to the floor, flopped onto a big chair in the lounge room, pulled her hose and panties down, called me forward and spread her legs wide. I knew what I had to do; my tongue met her moist opening. She came within a minute on a wave of pulsing thrusts of her pelvis, my head buried warmly amongst her distinct, sweet scents. Perhaps 30 seconds passed and then she took hold of my head in her hands, rubbing it backwards and forwards against her smooth thighs, gradually moving it closer and closer to her cunnie until my tongue reached her saturated lips. I licked and sucked as she clasped my head tighter and tighter; in another minute another climax arrived – I thought my head was about to be lifted right off its shoulders.
Many men these days have their heads shaved and the look itself is obviously no big deal for them or to most people. But take a little time to reflect on what both the act and look means to someone like me, who still, to this day, hates barbershops and headshavings and detests the look (I'm cursed with a prominent egg-shaped head – I always feel so awkward and uncomfortable seeing my bald reflection). But then my feelings don't come into this – it's what pleases Alison that matters.
I've had to continue visiting Heather's barbershop ever since, sometimes accompanied by Alison, and sometimes on my own (but under orders). When alone, Heather knows exactly what's expected – and she enjoys doing it, judging by her asides, comments and general demeanour (curt commands, firm grips and the like). She never oversteps the relationship boundaries though but clearly, she enjoys my awkwardness and being able to order me around.
Alison sometimes lets the hair grow a bit longer, usually as a prelude to changing her approach or the style. I've occasionally walked away from Heather's with a high bowl cut (the most embarrassing hairstyle known on the planet!) or a high-sided marines cut; twice I've left the shop looking like a medieval monk (yes, that's right, a shaved centre surrounded by longer hair).
Fortunately I run my own small business and can, when necessary, put on a cap or something when I have to meet with someone (with permission from Alison of course. Not that a cap or a hat is allowed in other contexts).
Alison also likes to buzz me down at home at times, my tongue wedged firmly where she wants it - it's always my favourite way to endure the experience (favourite being a relatively applied term here).
Alison combines the haircut humiliations with others in several ways. She'll often have me dressed and working around the house as a sissy maid but I'm never allowed to wear a wig. No way; that might let me hide my masculine self away, pretend I really was her maid . Same when I'm set some task or punishment while dressed as a sissy girl or schoolgirl. No, when dressed in any form of female attire, Alison prefers me bald – that way I can't avoid being reminded of my true, emasculated self whenever a mirror catches my reflection (and we have plenty of mirrors throughout the house).
The odd thing is, for the last few years I've found I get an erection every time I'm buzzed down or shaved bald. It happens without any warning or prompting, automatically. I know it's not a response to liking the experience or consequences; I've figured it's wrapped up in my submissiveness and Alison's pleasures in humiliating me like this, her control over me. Not that the erection goes very far; the tightness of the cock cage I wear all day, every day, ensures that. But that's another story...
< Message edited by subjanus -- 3/18/2011 9:31:09 PM >
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Years of humiliating haircuts - 
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