Damn his fetish. Neither of us knew how strong it was, the hold it had on him when we met. We were in our 20s. He was on his way to a very successful professional career. We dated for a long time. Too long for me but he wouldn’t commit until he felt he was ready to be a good provider. He’d been very poor.
My hair was long, brown, beautiful. Almost to my waist. He loved it. He complimented it. He played with it. Everything about the relationship was good. The intimacy, sex, we clicked every way possible.
I kept pushing to get married. He said not yet. I got angry one day and went to the salon and got all my hair cut off. It was very short. It was, unquestionably, the worst haircut of my life. It looked awful. My hair is somewhat curly. I can’t really describe how bad it was but take my word for it, it was bad.
I went to his place that night. I was angry. He looked at me with a combination of shock sadness and anger that I had never seen before. He was speechless. He could hardly say a word. I sneered at him and broke off the relationship. Gradually we got back together. Two years later he proposed. By then my hair was past my shoulders. I did not know for more than 25 years that the evening of our break up he had a diamond ring in his pocket and a plan to propose to me that night.
Later on he was able to reveal to me what he had come to understand himself. He loved long hair. He hated it short. For him short hair was anything about the bra strap. Anything above the shoulders was impossible. Yet, at the same time he had a fantasy of shaving my head. We only discussed this during intimate moments. I would sometimes acquiesce only to retract my agreement afterwards. He never made an issue. I kept my hair long.
One time in the 80’s I got an up-to-date style. Layers with bangs. I found out the hard way that he despises bangs as much as he despises layers. For him hair must be long, even, blunt cut. Straight or curly, colored, waved--never permed--we’re his parameters. It really wasn’t that big of a problem. Life is pretty good with the busy household, three children, the usual and unusual parts of life.
A few years ago we had some hard times. Economy wasn’t good. There was tension. Three kids in college. Nothing unusual in a families life. I got upset about something that at this point I can hardly remember. It’s a big mistake to go to the salon when you’re angry. I was going to go shorter. Not really short but up to my shoulders short. Saw a new stylist. Another mistake. Told her I was going shorter. Up to my shoulders. I should’ve paid better attention. My hair was washed and combed down straight. She made the first cut 2 inches above my shoulders and I went berserk. screaming, throwing things, almost picking up scissors and stabbing her. The owner came over. When I was coherent I explained what happened. There weren’t many choices. Leave as it was, totally fucked up, or cut it off evenly. I chose the latter. It was really the only choice. The owner fired the culprit on the spot. She said she could give me some shape and style but would have to take a little more off. I said absolutely not and left. What a disaster.
?From the salon I was to meet my husband and three other couples for dinner and a movie. I walked into the restaurant hoping for the best. As it turns out my husband was in the restroom. My three girlfriends ooh’s and ahh’s complimented me on my new look. My husband--who never raises his voice--walked up to the table, took one look at me and I saw the look on his face I seen once before and he screamed, very loudly, “YOU LOOK LIKE SHIT". He turned and walked out of the restaurant. One of my girlfriends said “oops". Needless to say things went downhill fast from there. I was mortified beyond belief. He did not care. I had committed an unforgivable sin. There was no reasoning with him.
Our marginal intimacy evaporated. I pondered what to do. I knew he had a file on his computer of what I called his pornography. He’d told me it was there and said I could look at it if I wanted. He said it really wasn’t pornography but fetish material. He needed some form of release. It was about hair, long hair, shaved heads, make up; the kind of lingerie he would buy me and I would never wear. One day when he was at the office I copied the file onto a thumb drive. I didn’t want to open it in his is computer and let him know that I had looked at. I opened it on my computer and begin to read and learn. Most of it was as I have described. Clearly he was more interested in the result than in the process. I read many stories from this site and looked at all of the material. Then I found it. Hidden in there was a story he’d written. His ultimate fantasy. I read it. I read it and I read it and I read it. The more I read it the more I had to read it. What follows are selected excerpts.
I don’t know how to do it. If I try to convince or force or trick her into it it wouldn’t be good. Not after everything we’ve been through. Even if she submitted it would be contrived or condescending, patronizing. It wouldn’t be fun for anyone. I guess I will never be able to accomplish it.
In my dreams she surprises me. I leave for work one morning. The usual perfunctory peck on the cheek. Have a nice day... Just another day. But it doesn’t turn out that way. After I leave she implements her plan. She’s already done some shopping. The bills haven’t come yet so there’s no way I would know this.
She follows her timetable precisely. She’s at the salon early. First she gets waxed. All over. She’s never wanted to do that. I have offered to shave and trim everything but she’s never wanted to do that. But she does it . She is smooth. From the neck down. Next, the manicure and pedicure. The hot, sexy red she’s always called slutty and never worn. I really hadn’t even noticed that she let her nails grow. They’re shaped and are about 1/4 inch past her fingertips. Several coats of bright, sexy red polish. Then, then she does it.
She’s in the chair, caped. The stylist asks, “what are we doing today?" She replies. The stylist is surprised, asks again. Same answer. “You sure?" An affirmative nod. The stlyist puts down her comb...picks up the big clippers. Intentionally she clicks them on in from of her face. She doesn’t flinch. The stylist smiles and plunges them in at the top or her
?forehead. 00000. Hair falls fast. Moments from bra strap to nearly bald. Brush the bits. Again, “are you sure?’ Another forceful nod.
The stylist walks to the back and returns with a bottle. There’s no conversation. She begins to pour and spread the cream all over her head. No razor. Just a timer. She wipes off the cream and the rest of her hair. They walk to the back and wash her smooth scalp. The stylist rubs in a lotion.
Then some time with the beautician. Several different looks. She pays very close attention. She changes her eyebrows. She leaves with her new makeup. She pulls a hat from her purse...puts it on. Not embarrassed. Doesn’t want anybody to see her and call me. Not yet. She has one more stop to make.
... The usual call. On my way home. Need anything at the market. No. Everything is fine. I park in the driveway. I go inside. Hardwood floors. I drop my briefcase, pull off my jacket. I hear the click, clack of high heels on the floor. I turn. I freeze. I can’t breathe. My heart is pounding. She walks slowly across the room. Click, clack. Click, clack. Her hips sway the way only the way they do with a beautiful woman in high heels. I see thie suspender belt and sheer shimmering nylons. I note the smooth, bald pussy. Her breasts jiggle wonderfully. I see all this but I’m not looking at it. Her face, her head. She is bald. Smooth. Bald! Her makeup is dramatic, beautiful. Did she read my story? She is bald. Her lips glisten... the creamy red lipstick I dream about. She is bald. Red talons the same color. She is bald. Gold hoop earrings, 4 or 5 inches. Later I learn they are soldered closed permanently. She is bald. She smiles, holds a finger to her lips, “shh". Welcome home darling. She licks her lips...opens her mouth...there is gold stud in her tongue. Permanent, too. She is bald.
She walks right up and into me. Her breasts push against my chest. Her pelvis meets mine. I have a raging erection. She smiles. I still can’t move. She reaches up and puts her arms around my neck and pulls me into her. We’ve never kissed like this before. Her lips are creamy, soft, warm. The taste is unbelievable. She thrusts her tongue into my mouth. I close my teeth softly on her tongue, trapping it by the stud. She purrs. She is bald. My arms begin to work. I run my hands up her smooth buttocks, up her narrow waist to her magnificent breasts. She is bald. I cup her breasts, my thumbs circle her areolae, then her nipples and she moans. We kiss. My right hand creeps slowly up her back, to her bare nape. I rub it. She has an orgasm in my arms. She is bald. Finally I each her scalp. Smooth, incredible, mine.
Pick her up, carry her to the bedroom, still kissing her lips, her face, her scalp! Set her on the end of the bed and kneel. Her breasts deserve attention. They get it. Hard nubs in my mouth, between my teeth. She asks, no she demands to be fucked. I lower my face and pull her legs over my shoulders and give her newly denuded lips the attentions they’ve missed for too long. For an hour, maybe more. She’s always been multi- orgasmic. She can’t speak now, just moan and sigh and cry out, her thighs repeatedly squeezing my head. She is bald.
?Finally we fuck. Like never before. She is bald. No need to talk. We fuck and pleasure each other. We’re fine now...
Three weeks later. She is bald. She is beautiful. We have replaced her entire wardrobe. No pants. No shorts. Not even any panties. She is sitting on my lap. In a leather miniskirt. Beautiful. Great legs. High heels. She is naked from the waist up. Her sheer silk blouse and shelf bra are on a chair to the side. My left arm circles her waist and holds her hands. My right hand touches her face. I whisper in her ear. Look at your breasts. This is the last time you will ever see them this way. She looks down. Then she raises her head and looks at me. Gently, but firmly I hold her head to the side and kiss her. As I do she jerks once. I swallow her cry in my mouth. She jerks once more. Another cry. She bites my lip and it bleeds. She wants to look. I hold her head and kiss her deeply. I keep the tongue stud between my teeth. She wiggles twice more. Then she is still. My thumb massages her bare nape. Her head rests on my shoulder. Look now, I tell her. She looks down. The gold rings, sealed permanently in each nipple. Large enough so that I can get a fingertip in whenever I want. I release her hands. She reaches up and slowly touches her breasts and nipples and gasps. She turns sideways, to the left. She puts her hands on my neck. She says thank you, darling and kisses me. She says, I love it. I belong to you.
Six months have passed. She is bald. Things are fine. The last ring has healed. It goes through her clitoral hood and passes under her clitoris. When engorged it passes through the ring and she gets contact both from the top and the bottom. She loves it. She calls it her love button. I can bring her to climax in less than 30 seconds at anytime, anyplace, anywhere. We’ve proven that over and over. She is bald. We are both very happy.
I read it, I read it, and I read it. I know it by heart but I still have to read it. He called a moment ago. He always calls. Do I need anything. No, I just need him. I need to stop now so I will tell you what I will do.
I rise and walk to the bedroom. I already have on my high heels. I do not wear them all day, but I wear them every evening. They click, clack as I walk across the floors. I look in the full length mirror. I pass my hand over my smooth scalp. Even though nothing will ever grow there again I must make sure it is perfectly smooth. I also run my other hand over my mons and lips. Smooth. I pause to touch my love button. It makes me feel good. Only he works his magic with it. I lean in and scrutinize my make up very carefully. It’s fine. I pay close attention to my eyebrows and eyelashes. After all, a woman wants her hair to be perfect when her man comes home. I touch up my mascara. Then, I add two more layers of hot, red lipstick. The kind that smears. He loves it. He loves it on his face and neck and everywhere else. I go through a lot of lipstick. The slave hoops in my ears dangle forward. Finally satisfied with my appearance I cup my breasts. I spin the rings back and forth through my nipples. They harden. I love you. I am bald. Forever. I walk towards the front door. I always wait at least 20 feet away. That way I can approach him. My heels click. He watches me.
?Sometimes I wear bits of lingerie, or a new outfit. But mostly I am naked. I am always ready and eager for him. I hear the key in the lock. I am bald