My Dominant Hair Stylist

by Spencer

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© Copyright 2022 - Spencer - Used by permission

Storycodes: F/m; mpov; hairdresser; chairtie; chair; straps; shave; gag; mast; reluct; X

I was so late. I pushed open the salon door with a shove from my elbow and stumbled inside, out of the pouring rain. The unique aroma of strongly scented hair care products mixed with shampoos filled the air.

“Sorry I’m late,” I mumbled, trying hard to conceal my nervousness. She was dressed with a shiny loose fitting black blouse complete with ever so tight leather leggings. Dark brown shoulder length hair, with her lower face covered by a black face mask. Her overall appearance was sinister, but her eyes sparkled with mischief.

Ola was talking on the phone; she very slowly turned her head until our eyes met. I could sense that I was in her bad books.

The way she then rolled and sucked her lips in and out of her mouth told me she was in one of her playful moods. It reminded me of the first time when she had asked me to touch her inner thigh whilst I was sat in her chair as she was cutting my hair. It was completely out of the blue, even though we had known each other for many years and had only flirted very slightly from time to time. 

It was her habit to go silent, staring at the floor for a minute or two and her breathing would return to normal. Then, as if nothing unusual had happened, she would sigh, regain her composure, then resume cutting my hair.

This little ceremony became a regular thing each time she cut my hair, to the point where she would only allow me to make appointments after 5pm and not during the daytime, as would have been my normal preference. This late timing ensured absolutely that there was no one else in the salon. We never talked openly about this arrangement. It was our strange little secret.

We had discussed the problems she was having with the business and the negative effects the pandemic had caused. Trade had been very bad. She had been forced to close the salon for over six months, with a resulting loss of income. As an ‘off the cuff’ comment I suggested that she could offer other services to her customers apart from hair styling which seemed to have intrigued her. In part, I was joking, but she gave me the impression that she had taken me seriously. So, there I was again, eager to find out what she had in mind and how she was going to experiment with me before making her new services available to other like minded customers.

She carried on with her phone call as she closed and locked the door behind me. She let down all the blinds that were fitted over the large windows at the front of the salon.

The atmosphere within the salon became quiet and still with just the two of us; only the faint sounds of soul music was audible from her radio.

“Would you like to come this way?” she half joked, as she ushered me towards the line of six chairs; one of the middle ones was covered with a large black cloth. I nodded my head.

She took hold of the cloth and with a flick of her wrist, she exposed the chair. Stainless steel frame with black leather. Deep padding and a base with four castor wheels underneath. Wrist cuffs dangled from the sturdy looking arms, with matching leg cuffs attached to the base. I wasn’t entirely sure what she had in mind.

“Please take a seat.” She instructed. Concerned if I was doing the right thing, I climbed into the seat and made myself comfortable as best I could. She pressed downwards on a bar at the back of the seat with her foot repeatedly and the seat gently sank downwards. I gazed back at the reflection of myself in the full length mirror in front of me, with Ola standing menacingly immediately behind me.

Ola drew her fingers slowly through my hair, finally resting her hands on my shoulders, smiling at me in the mirror as she did so. Her gentle touch then changed as her grip tightened and her fingers probed the muscles in my neck.

She didn’t speak as she reached over and methodically fixed each of the wrists cuffs to my wrists, and then the same, with the cuffs fixed to my ankles. She then placed a wide belt around my stomach, drawing it in, tightening it, forcing me to exhale forcefully. My heart raced, excited by the reality of what was happening to me. 

“Now, what are we doing today?” She asked in a playful tone. “How about a slight trim, as usual?”

“That would be fine,” I offered. This was our usual, predictable dialogue every time I came to get my hair styled. But now it was different, discomfort with my legs forced backwards with the restraints, and being unable to move my hands.

She bent forwards and her arms slipped forwards, tight around my neck. Her hair tumbled forwards, obscuring half of her face. Her perfume filled my nostrils.

“How about something more adventurous?” She offered. “How about short back and sides? A really close cut. Or, have you ever considered going bald?”

“A slight trim would be fine,” I replied.

She loosened her arms and walked around to stand directly in front of me.

“Spencer, you’re a disappointment. There are times in life when you should grasp every opportunity, try new experiences. I’ve looked forward to this moment for a month. To shave a man bald, whilst he’s restrained has always been a long held fantasy for me.”

She paused and stared at me.

“So that’s what I’m going to do.” She said in a matter of fact, firm voice.

“No, no, no. You can’t.” I forced a faint, pathetic smile.

And with that she selected a comb and pair of scissors from her impressive collection soaking in a large jar on a nearby shelf. She started to comb my hair.

“Not sure where to start,” she mused. “At the back, the front, or on one side.”

I attempted to back away, move my head from side to side, in order to frustrate her attempts at hair cutting.

“Look Ola, I’ve changed my mind. Can we stop this, now.” I pleaded.

“Right, that’s it.” She announced. She marched off towards a door at the back of the salon and re-appeared moments later with a handful of what looked like more leather straps and buckles. Immediately she slipped a leather panel over my mouth and chin; she tightened the attached straps to the top of the chair behind me. I couldn’t open my mouth and any opportunity to move my head in any way was gone. All I could do was mumble indistinct sounds.

“How’s that Mr Fidget?” She taunted. “Enough’s enough. Let’s press on, shall we? I’d offer to wash your hair, but there’s no point if it’s all coming off.” With a firm click, she switched on her hair trimmers. 

She directed them effortlessly over the contours of my head. Tufts of my precious hair floated again and again down to the floor. I closed my eyes with the relentless hum of the hair trimmers continuing unabated. I finally summoned the courage to see what she had done and I was confronted with the stark white baldness of my head, save for a few random lines of short hair that she had missed. I was horrified with my new image.

“There, that didn’t hurt, did it? A quick shave to get those final bits, and we’ll be done.” My arm and legs muscles ached from where I fought continuously to gain my freedom. My mind tried in vain to recognise the bald person that stared back at me in the mirror. Her hands glided over my head for a final time, applying a soothing moisturiser lotion.

She picked up a hand held mirror and positioned it behind my head so I could see the back of my head in the mirror in front of me. My slightly greying manicured hair was gone, mown away, replaced by a white round nakedness.

“How’s that?” She asked, pleased with herself, knowing full well that I couldn’t reply. I shook my head from left to right, as much as I could, to record my disapproval.

Her fingers then ran repeatedly all over my head, seemingly giving her some sense of pleasure. Then she stopped, bending forwards behind me, her arms running downwards over my chest, towards, and then over the belt that secured my stomach tightly against the chair. I felt aroused, intoxicated by her closeness and the forcefulness of her erotic personality. She stopped, then moved around to the left side of my chair.

As in my previous visits she started to stimulate herself, firstly through pressing herself against the arm of the chair, and then against my hand. Shortly, she reached out and placed one arm around my neck, her fingers searching for the softness of my throat. She fiercely planted her lips on the leather panel that covered my mouth. Her failed efforts to kiss my lips seemingly aroused her still more.

Her uncontrolled actions and tightness of holding my head caused a surge of pain where her straps tore at my limbs. Her grip tightened and tightened against me, but finally faded as the sound of her moans filled the air of the salon.

She let go suddenly and collapsed into the adjacent chair. Minutes passed in silence as she surveyed me, still helpless, secured to the chair.

I hoped that she had finished with me and that she would release me so that I could return home to come to terms with my new look. But no. She hadn’t finished. I struggled to articulate ‘Let me go’ as best I could, still muzzled by her arrangement of straps across my face. 

She leaned forwards, closer to me. “That was just the start. I have more plans for you.”


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