Hair removal

This is a strange fantasy for me. I can't say I share this fetish with hair cutting, but I can definitely see the submission involved. I took my time building up to it, giving some background that is hopefully still interesting. I didn't know how I'd get to the chair, honestly, but I enjoyed getting there. I hope the requester, the inspiration, enjoys reading it as much as you do.
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The Barber's Chair

I shouldn't have made the bet. I love my hair. Long, luscious, and dark, it's been a distinguishing feature of mine for as long as I can remember. Chocolate brown, I've spent time with it braided, with it hanging loose, in a pony tail, whatever. I take care of my mane, and I love it. It's a part of me, a part of who I am.

So why did I bet it? More importantly, why did I make a bet I knew I was going to lose?

There's an old saying. If a man comes up to you with a sealed pack of cards and bets you he can make the joker jump out of the deck and spit cider in your ear, don't take the bet. All that's going to happen is that you'll lose your money, and you'll end up with cider in your ear. Okay, so it's not a great saying. But the point is still there.

From the first time I bet Tony, I knew I couldn't win. It started when I bet that I could do more pushups than he could. Tony's a Marine, and a drill Sargent to boot. I knew I'd never be able to beat him. But I was drunk, I was boasting, and I couldn't help myself. It's hard to think straight around Tony, no pun intended.

So I lost. And when I lost that one, I had my first experience with submission, licking his boots clean while he laughed at me.

The next bet lead to my first time sucking cock.

But this time, I thought, I could win. I could propose a bet I knew I'd win, and not only would Tony end up with cider in his ear, he'd also end up as my slave until he went back to the base. Two weeks from now. And all I had to do was agree to the same stipulation.

I couldn't just give him some rigged contest. It had to be something he at least thought he'd stand a chance at. He's a military man, so a drinking contest should be right up his alley. But I know that Tony doesn't drink; he's diabetic. Which means he doesn't have any real tolerance. Or so I thought.

Turns out that a little bit of extra insulin pretty much prevents you from getting drunk, no matter how much you have. I think I heard that somewhere, but I forgot. At least, I think I forgot. Whatever the case, I lost. I lost hard.

Which brings me here. Tony's dad was a barber, and Tony still has one of those old chairs. He keeps it here, in this storage unit. It's the only thing in the unit, a single chair silhouetted under a single hanging light bulb. Sitting there, waiting.

I know what's coming. Tony took great pleasure in telling me. “The first step to being a slave,” he told me, “Is to look like one. Which means I'm going to take your hair.” He then told me the chair had a surprise to it.

Now, looking at it, I see the surprise. The cushion on the seat is missing, replaced by a toilet seat. And under the hole is a little machine. A machine with a piston. And on the end of the piston is the biggest butt plug I've ever seen.

It looks like a construction cone, gradually getting wider and wider.

“Have a seat,” he says, big grin on his face.

The seat is cold on my bare skin, and I try not to touch the back of the chair. But that isn't an option. The leather strap across my chest pulls me tight, and the shackles at the wrists and ankles makes it pretty impossible to turn back.

“I still can't believe you agreed to this,” he tells me. “I mean, I know you're a closeted faggot, I know that you love my cock more than life itself, but still. I'm surprised. You've always been so insistent that it isn't true, forcing me to win these stupid bets.”

“I'm not gay,” I tell him.

“Shh,” he says. He puts a strip of duct tape over my mouth. “You can deny it all you want, but that little cock of yours says otherwise. Look.” I don't have to look to know I have an erection. Tony laughs at me. “It's so tiny,” he says. “We need to make it look bigger. You know how to do that?”

He shows me the can before filling his hand with the gel. I try not to make any noise as he rubs it over my crotch. I try not to make any noise as he rubs it onto my legs, my arms, and my chest. I try not to make any noise as he reaches under the seat and rubs it on my ass, making sure to get a fair amount in the crack. But I can't help myself. I can't stop the whimpering, especially when it begins to burn.

“We're just going to enjoy ourselves for a little while while that goes to work,” Tony says. He walks out of my line of vision for a second, then comes back with a camera and a tripod. He sets it up to point at me, taking his time. The burning spreads and intensifies. I whimper when the recording light turns on. “I want you to be able to watch this,” he says. “For the rest of your life, I want you to be able to see when I took your hair. And I want you to be able to see the look of pleasure on your face while it happens. I want you to remember my fucking machine in your ass. That way, as much as you want to deny it, you love being a cock sucking, cum guzzling slave.”

I shake my head, and he laughs. Then he looks down at his watch. “A few more minutes,” he says. “Say goodbye to your hair.”

I fight back the tears, but it's a losing battle. He's going to cut it off. I know he is. He already showed me the bag for Locks of Love, so it can be made into a wig. And with the burning all over my body, eventually I just can't take it anymore. The tears begin to run down my face, over the duct tape. I lower my head in shame, trying to hide the tears.

Then Tony slaps me across the face. “Don't you dare look away, you maggot,” he says. “Look into the camera. Keep your eyes there, slave.”

Want to see more? It's in Book One