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calmeilles

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The bottom line at the top looking for Master for 247, long term, relocatable.



My first sexual fantasies were about submission, I have been submissive and passive all my life and never succeeded in a dominant role. This has become stronger over the years and I recognise that I need to serve, be permanently submissive to a master who will find satisfaction in training and controlling me.



My one fetish is for nylon which dates from very early. I have rationalised this as being an inferior material suitable for menials so my rule is synthetics on me, natural fibre and the finer things for superiors. Im afraid that this is very fixed with me Sir. I like unis, frequent changes of uni and al clothing subverted. My usual indoor uni is nylon shirt, clip-on tie and nylon shorts remaining bare-footed and legged.



I react well, which is to say submissively, to standing orders or house rules that require me to act in a servile manner and routinely humiliate me. Also any and every means that emphasises the difference between me as a sub and others, most especially my master.



Im not a masochist so in no way enjoy being beaten. Thus it is a real punishment and very effective in training me. I dont like bending over and taking it like a man because im not, Id prefer to be tied down. Also I dont like safe-words, given one I will use it too early. Better to be entirely at the mercy of a masters judgement particularly as it is pushing my limits that is the true punishment. My limits are exceedingly variable according to circumstances so i cant quantify them, perhaps best to say low. A slap, a king, a few strokes of a crop or switch might be considered warning or encouragement. Punishment is al and does not need to immediately follow the offence. Indeed there might be no specific offence, beating a servant is always useful.



I like being collared, especially on a collar and leash. Also being chained whether as full bondage or looser such as leg irons in which I can still work.



I am entirely gay and have absolutely no interest in contact with women. Ive never served a dominant woman (although Ive encountered a few socially) and have no idea how i would react if required to.



I dont like giving fellatio and although I can be forced to Im not very good at it. Despite a very tight arse and consequent pain Id rather be buggered and wish it would happen more often and become easier. In this my preference is to be tied spread eagled, face down on a bed, loosely enough to struggle a bit but certainly not escpape. A masters weight and strength holding me down is one of the best feelings I know.



Necessarily a master might wish to train me to other things so my deion of myself is a starting point.

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12/27/2017 7:58:36 AM
The Breaking — part 2

The whipping has finally ended but the breaking hasn't. In the past at this point I'd have been let down, chained, caged and left to recover. Not today. The ropes holding my ankles apart are loosened but I can't take my weight on my legs so I hand there as the belt, collar and head-strap restraints are released and when suddenly both the ropes holding my wrists up are freed I collapse to the floor.

Footsteps. Master leaving the room. So it must be slave_a who picks up the chain leash on my collar and pulls. I can't move, too much pain and too little thought. But the pulling gets harder, sharp tugs cutting the edges of the steel collar into my neck, which becomes more insistent than the whipping pain. So I force myself onto all fours again and start crawling where the chain leads me.

Wooden floor gives way to carpet, the hall. A sharp turn away from the last room, deeper into the flat. Another turn, another room. My crawl stops when my head butts an obstruction. The chain is dropped and hands guide me to kneel up, shuffle forward and then onto the end of what is obviously a bed.

More ropes and my ankles are tied to the bottom somehow, my wrists stretched and fixed above me so I'm two thirds on the bed, lying on my stomach, butt-hole up just at the edge.

Hands spread my arse cheeks and a thumb presses on my rose-bud. Master always calls it the slave hole because, He says, only slaves have holes that can be violated at any time, and being violated is what makes us, slave_a and me, slaves.

The thumb forces its way in; my hole is tight. It presses in hard and then withdraws, fast followed by the cold sensation of lubricant being applied. Fingers work the lube into my hole. slave_a making me ready I suppose. I can tell from the thoroughness and amount of the application what Master intends. Were it just a little there'd be a plug. But it's a lot. Master likes my tight arse allowing me to resist. But also likes it lubed so well that my hole is too slippery to be able to deny Him entirely. I'm going to be raped.

Different hands. Master's hands. My cheeks are spread again and I feel the tip of His cock on my bud which makes me tense up. But it does no good. The lube does its job and with sufficient pressure Master forces my sphincter open. Once in He thrusts hard and I whimper into the gag as the full length of His maleness seems to split me in half.

Fully inserted Master pauses for a moment and then lowers Himself onto me. His hands work themselves under my shoulder and up to be clasped behind my head, forcing my neoprene covered face into the bed covers and then He lowers his full weight onto me.

Slowly His hips move back, part withdrawing from me. Then, using the leverage available to Him from the hard grasp He has on my shoulders and head, he arches to slam His cock brutally into me.

I bite into the gag to stop myself making a noise. Master likes to make a slave cry out, but won't allow a slave to fake it. He wants to know the slave's cries are involuntary from real distress, from the pain He is causing with His fucking. Slowly back. Slam forward into my hole. Pause. Repeat. Repeat, repeat, repeat. On top of the residue of the whipping pain it doesn't take long to make me vocalise. Muffled by the gag Master still hears it and He increases His pace. Slam! Slam! Slam! Into my welted arse.

The the shudder that says Master has dumped His load into my slave hole.

Master collapses onto me and for a short while I'm smothered under His entire weight. Then He pulls out and climbs off to be immediately replaced by something probing my hole. A butt plug is forced into my raw ass making me cry out again. There's no easing in, just insistent force that pushes its widest part past my sphincter and it settles to rest filling me up.

Hands at my wrists release me from the spread eagle and instead tie my cuffs together above my head. My ankles are released and hands, I suppose slave_a's hands, push at me until I turn to lie on my back. My sack is grabbed and stretched as a chastity cage is fitted. I hear it's lock snick loudly in the silence. My cock is so shrivelled from the abuse I've undergone that I cannot tell which cage it is; only that the coldness of it tells me it's steel; not that it matters.

Next a disposable nappy is pulled under me and slave_a climbs on the bed, forcing my legs wide with his knees, to fit it, taping it tight around me. The he works a pair of plastic pants up my legs and over the diaper. My hands are released and the leather restrains on wrists and ankles unbuckled and removed. Tugs on the chain of my collar urge me off the bed and, once more crawling on hands and knees, out of the room to another place.

Wherever I am now a hand grasps the back of the steel collar on my neck and lifts so I'm forced to get up onto my feet. Again I'd guess that slave_a rather than Master is attending to the menial work as now I'm being dressed. First a shirt. It feels like one of those I was instructed to bring with me which makes sense. I feel that it's nylon and tight under the arms but surprising generous everywhere else, so yes, a boy's cut white tunic shirt. It's buttoned and the French cuff at one wrist is folded back. A snap and the weight tell me that rather than cuff-links it has been closed with a padlock. The same happens at my other wrist.

A facsimile of a Victorian imperial collar that, under instruction, I made from a sheet of plastic is worked under the steel collar still locked on my neck. It's attached to the rear stud hole of the tunic shirt with another padlock and with some effort a fourth joins the two sides of the shirt's collar band and the two sides of the collar together. The collar is tight, four inches tall at the front and five inches at the back. It digs into my chin and the back of my skull and holds my head high so I could barely nod.

Again I'm urged to the floor, this time to lie on my back while trousers are worked onto my legs. They're extremely stiff, thick canvas. Normally Master would require a suit but these have been designed for discomfort. The slightly shiny smooth outside of the fabric at odds with the rough and scratchy texture inside. They too are closed with a padlock.

Back on my feet a half corset is fitted around my belly, pulled tight with slave_a's knee in my back it can't make me wasp-waisted but it does flatten my stomach under my ribs and forces me to shallow breaths. Last is a jacket to match the trousers. Unlined, rough inside, no pockets or buttons, the front being closed with more padlocks. Even were I to attempt to gain physical freedom I'm thoroughly locked into my clothes.

I flinch slightly as I feel cold steel touch one ankle. A heavy manacle. Its mates are fitted to the other leg and wrists and locked. Then the noise of chains that I know from experience are a match to than hanging from my collar. Locks click shut on one between my legs, another between the wrists and a last between the leg irons, wrist irons and collar chain make it a full combination set.

Down again to all fours. The collar chain now put to another use a stick is employed to make me crawl forward and direct me with strikes on my flank to one side or another, the heavy chains making my progress even slower than before and far, far louder. I'm stopped and the muzzle and gag removed then forced on again into the cage. I can feel the bottom bars through the thin, vinyl covered foam pad that will form my bed but if there were any doubt the clang of the gate closing behind me would make it clear.

I've been stripped, shaved, whipped to near mindlessness, buggered, plugged, cock caged, nappied, dressed, corseted, chained, caged and left to sleep if I can. Somehow despite or because of all this I am content.


12/24/2017 12:21:34 PM

This was intended to happen and planned in great detail.

In the event it never did. So this is a fantasy, at least in the sense that I'm filling in the details of the narrative between the agreed actions from imagination.

I so really wish that it had

The Breaking

 

End of the holiday year and I was obliged to take three weeks off — a take them or lose them ultimatum. An opportunity, my Master decided, to finally break me. Make me a real slave. Master owned slave_a which He maintained in a flat. I was the new boy, slave_b, owned but not yet quite what He required. This was His opportunity to change that.

Friday afternoon I took a shower at work and left an hour early. I'd driven in so I could go direct to my rendezvous and the penalty for being late was to be discarded so I hurried and arrived at a quarter to six. I'd been sent a key in the post which I used to open a garage behind slave_a's flat and drove the car in. I got my bag out of the boot, locked the car and then closed and locked the garage, dropping both car and garage keys into the bag. I waited then climbed the stairs to knock at the door at precisely six o'clock.

slave_a opened the door and gestured me in. There was a rule: no speaking. He put an arm out to stop me only far enough in that he could close the door behind me. Then he took a loose, black nylon hood from his pocket and put it over my head, drawing the string around my neck.

I stood still for a time. It was here that I began to lose track; it might have been five minutes or fifteen. There was no noise. Then a hand grasped my upper arm and drew me forward, manoeuvred me into a room where I stood again for a while.

There was a click. Unmistakably a camera shutter. I was being photographed. More clicks, moving around me, recording me. Hands from behind drew my jacket off and the camera worked again. Slowly those hands, or maybe other hands, removed each piece of my clothing. A pause between every item for the camera to work. A tap on the leg to indicate that I should lift a foot. Shoes, socks, trousers, tie, shirt. eventually it all came off and I was naked apart from the hood. The photographer might have taken a hundred images of the process.

Hands on my skin. Feeling, examining, parting my arse cheeks, pulling my penis and scrotum. Every inch and the camera recording everything.

"Down!"

The first word spoken since I had entered. Hard, peremptory, accompanied by hands pressing down on my shoulders I went down on my knees and, as the pressure continued, to all fours.

A rattle of chain. I feel a collar being buckled around my neck, the chain is its leash. A tug on the leash and I crawl, guided by the pressure of the leash on the collar I move over carpet, around corners, I scrape the jamb of a door with my flank and then I'm crawling on cold tile. A jerk on the leash brings me to a halt.

Running water. A hand under my armpit brings me to my feet. Wet cloth on my arm. A smear of soap and a razor is applied. I'm being shaved. No speech. Hands move me around. Arms first, then lifted for armpits. The little on my chest. Down on my back on the floor for my pubic hair to be removed. It must be slave_a shaving me; Master would never have got down on the tiles to do it. Legs and finally urged to roll over for my arse-hole to meet the razor. slave_a is slow, but thorough. Doubtless he'd been told that a single hair missed would earn him a beating.

He re-positions me kneeling on the floor and removes the hood. I squint against the light. slave_a takes clippers to my head and then soaps my scalp to shave off the last remnants. Finally he takes my eyebrows and wipes me down. Apart from eye-lashes I'm totally hairless.

The hood goes back over my head and i'm pressed back down onto all fours, lead by tugs on the leash through the flat, presumably to the room where I was stripped. The camera is working again. Up and positioned, more clicks. My hairless state is thoroughly recorded. Hands feel me, checking for missed hair. I hope for slave_a's sake that there is none to be found.

Back on all fours I'm positioned and moved forward slightly. The collar is unbuckled and the hood removed again. I'm kneeling in front of my Master, head down I only see His shoes and the lower portion of His trousers but there's no possibility of being mistaken here.

A gentle scraping of metal on wood and He reaches down, holding a hinged, steel collar below my eyes. Slowly he opens it and edges it forward, under my neck, and just as slowly closes it around my neck. A tiny squeak and the locking bolt closes home. The snap of a padlock fixing it in place.

slave_a comes forward and kneels to fix a chain, much heavier than the previous leash, to the front of the collar. He tugs it and draws me crawling across the room, out into the corridor and into a room with a wooden floor, metal rings set around the skirting board matched by a set near the ceiling and empty of furniture except for a single chest of draws.

slave_a drops the chain, allowing to crash loudly on the floor. I hear a drawer being opened and a few seconds later a neoprene blindfold is put on me. It's large, covering the whole upper half of my face, and three sets of straps buckle at the back of my head to hold it on tight. Something presses at my lips and I open my mouth for a wedge gag to be forced in. It's also neoprene and attached to the inside of a muzzle which fits the lower part of my face and under my chin. Three more straps are buckled tight to keep muzzle and gag in place.

Again the sound of a draw opening and thick cuffs are buckled first to my wrists and then to my ankles. Next is a wide kidney belt, buckled tight. I feel slave_a's hands doing something with the cuffs, like attaching ropes.

Footsteps on the wooden floor. Master must have entered the room.

One wrist is pulled forward and I crawl to follow it. That pressure stops and the other is moved in the same manner. Slowly I'm pulled forward to the wall and as the ropes continue to pull I'm drawn up the wall until I'm standing. Then the same with my ankles, pulling my legs apart. Tighter and tighter until I'm at full, painful stretch. The wrist ropes start again, pulling me tight against the wall. Last something fixes the belt, the collar and the straps around my head to the wall, although pulled in as I am it hardly makes any difference.

Almost at once I hear a swishing in the air. Master is practising with some implement. The the first stroke lands. It's the dog whip. Four feet of stiff, tapered braided leather with two six inch thin leather tails. It's light and its length means that with little effort a small motion of the wrist can deliver a significant blow. The two thin whipping tails make it a vicious instrument. They're easily replaceable... because they wear out.

The first stroke landed horizontal in the small of my back. The second, the return swing, just above it. In fast succession small stripes of pain rise up my back. This is no play, no languid eroticism. Master's only purpose is to deliver as much pain as possible, as quickly as possible for the least effort on his part.

The vile instrument reaches my shoulders and changes from horizontal to vertical. Necessarily slower but harder, left, right, left, right. The onto my arms, fast again, up, down, up, down, little flicks that the four foot length make astonishingly painful.

Back to the horizontal it again traverses my back, downwards this time. Past the wide belt Master keeps it going for some time on the cheeks of my arse. Then down the right leg and back up the left. Repeat.

As always when I'm whipped I'm stoic at first. But I can't keep that up for long. Before the whip reached my shoulders I was gasping with each blow, I'd have flinch were I not pulled so hard against the wall I couldn't move enough. Before Master started on my arse I was moaning into my gag. I know that Master dislikes noise but I can't help myself. Anyway, the gag is very effective at muffling my vocalisations.

It stops. But barely seconds after a heavy strap hits my abused arse. The strap demands a slower rhythm but its weight and the force with which it is slammed into my flesh make it agonising. Every blow stuns me into a second's silence before I can scream into the gag.

The strap leaves my arse to hit my back then a thigh, then the back again. Master randomises His aim so I cannot tell where the next pain will arrive.

Between cries I'm panting now.

The strap stops but there's barely a pause before a new pain. I'm not thinking well by this point so I'm not sure but heavier than the dog whip, faster than the strap it could be a riding crop or maybe the bull's pizzle whip.

This one strikes randomly from shoulders the thighs and at various angles. I never know what the tipping point is but under such a beating it's bound to happen: my attempts to scream behind the gag change and suddenly i'm weeping, helplessly crying, body shuddering with sobs. No longer reacting to individual blows but, overloaded with pain, all I can do is a continual low wail.

As if this change were a signal the beating pauses and then changes. This time it's a cane. I'm beyond telling what kind, near mindless with the pain of it rapidly turning my arse into pulp.

There's no more strength left in me. Were I not tied I'd have collapsed. As I am, my legs no longer support me and I'm hanging, all my weight suspended from my wrists.

It's not ended. That doesn't come until the short bull whip. Master always ends with the bull whip. Brutal strokes that He's been hoarding his strength to deliver. You'd imagine that it couldn't get worse than it's already been but that's why Master saves the bull whip and His fullest force until the last. Through all the other pain this bites like nothing else, makes what has gone before almost seem trivial. I'm still weeping uncontrollably but with each of these strokes once again I scream, as full throated and abandoned as the deep gag and muzzle will allow.

The whipping has finally ended but the breaking hasn't. In the past at this point I'd have been let down, chained, caged and left to recover. Not today. The ropes holding my ankles apart are loosened but I can't take my weight on my legs so I hand there as the belt, collar and head-strap restraints are released and when suddenly both the ropes holding my wrists up are freed I collapse to the floor...


6/18/2015 7:45:31 AM
I'm feeling that i'm too unfit.  I hate gym-type routines with a passion so i wonder if a couple of hours a week pony-training might do me some good.

Harness, whips and exercise, all to the good!

6/7/2015 5:19:19 AM

I've never been fascinated by the act of castration itself. That was always seemed to me to be a one time only event. My interest is in the sexless life afterwards; how it would be not to have any of the hormonal motivation at all. Nor does additional modification have any particular interest. I'd retain my penis and scrotum (albeit that it would shrink) so that I was clearly an ex-male, a gelding.

Moreover as my nature is to be a slave rather than a sub or anything else, to have very limited volition in what happened: I'd be gelded like livestock because it better suited my Master to own a de-sexed slave than a sexed one.

That all informs how I imagine a "perfect" castration happening.

Having served breakfast to the household I am ordered to follow my Master to His office along with two of the Juniors. There he places a set of papers on the desk facing me and, orders me to sign which, obedient, I do. The signature is witnessed by the Juniors. I have, unknown to me, signed the consent to my own gelding.

At Master's order the Juniors take me to the slave quarters and proceed to shave me entirely hairless, apply a disinfectant and hose me down.

I'm shackled in heavy steel collar and combination irons, gagged and a hood put over my head.

Unable to see and severely limited in movement by the chains I'm forced into a wheeled travelling cage of very small dimensions requiring me to kneel, head down. The cage is rolled out to be loaded on the back of a pick-up, covered with a tarpaulin, strapped in place and the pick-up moves off.

When it comes to a halt my cage is unloaded and moved, I'm taken out and unhooded. I'm in a veterinary facility. Anther hosing down with disinfectant then I'm manhandled through to a surgery.

I'm put on a steel table, strapped down at forehead, chest, arms etc so that I'm completely immobilised as the chains are removed. Finally my legs are lifted high and pulled up and painfully wide into steel stirrups.

The Juniors step back and my Master is there, watching. The Vet enters the surgery dressed all in white scrubs, a long white rubber protector, gauze mask and cap. He makes a thorough manual examination of my genitals, approves the fact that I am hairless and swabs the area with alcohol. Then He uses a hypodermic to inject a local anaesthetic to each side of the scrotum and into the crotch, four jabs in all.

The Vet chats with my Master while my genitals go numb. Then he pulls over a trolley of instruments and with minimal movement makes the incision on the underside of my scrotum, pulling out each testicle to cut the spermatic cord and discard them, then sutures, dresses and applies an ice pack to the wound.

In a reverse process I'm unstrapped, chained, hooded and returned to the cage. This time on my back with wrists fixed to the bars above and knees to the sides so I can't interfere with the site of the surgery, On our return I'm chained to my bed for the same reason for three days recovery then returned to work, just an item of sex-less, gelded livestock, "gentled" to better serve my Owner's purposes.


5/26/2015 7:48:20 AM

I'm not a sissy, but I'm sitting here typing this completely body shaved, with a butt-plug fitted and dressed in sheer hold-up stockings, shiny grey, silky nylon directoire knickers and matching floor length kaftan. No picture, it didn't happen? Take a look :)

Any Man, Woman or sissy looking at me now wouldn't believe me. The more so if they watched me decorously lift the font of my kaftan to kneel (hopefully with some grace) in front of them head bowed to await Their orders.

I'm not a sissy but... this morning I measured myself carefully in a dozen ways and used the resulting figures to fill out the order form for a maid's frock. And yes, I sent it off and completed the payment.

So I'm not a sissy but...

I've never looked at a satin party dress and wanted to wear it. I've never looked at a pair of ruffled lace panties and felt that I must have them. I've certainly never looked at a pair of patent leather pumps with little white socks and thought they were just me! Oh no!

So how did I get here?

I came at it from two different directions which, as far as I can make out, are a bit unusual.

First there is fetish. I only have the one. It's been with me since childhood, well before puberty. And it has been a constant, strong force throughout my life. It's for nylon.

I wear nylon shorts for underwear. Nylon shirts and anything else in nylon "manly" garb I can find such as overalls, socks, undershirts, coats etc. When there isn't a suitable nylon garment I'll make do with other synthetics; the acrylic pull-over and polyester suit. PVC raincoats and plastic shoes.

So perhaps the nylon panties were inevitable one day. What after the first panties? More of course.

The other direction was that of submission. I've accepted that it's my nature to be submissive, in fact the only satisfaction I get is that of being very sub indeed (and gay, but that only influences my preference for Doms).

Along with being sub is being inferior. Strong, superior Men and Women can enjoy the attributes of Masculinity and Femininity but such things are not for me. I happen to have been born male but I have never been a Man, nor have I ever really wanted to be. I'm an inferior and my genitals would not excuse me aping the condition of my Betters. I am to be emasculated, nullified in the game of Men and Women. They may be my Masters (and perhaps Mistresses) but I cannot be as they are. My highest aspiration is to serve Them.

Understanding this, one day a Master put me in a little black dress. Not something fine a Lady might wear but a skimpy number with the lack of modesty and ease of access that might suit the needs of a five-buck whore.

And I hated it.

I spent that day cleaning His home, much of it on my hands and knees and throughout He made it clear how much I was permitted no modesty and how open I always was to His access. At the end of the day I still hated it. But somehow it was right. Oh, and of course it was nylon.

Over the course of months came the stockings, the panties, the corset, control pants to hide my useless junk or bright satin pouches to draw attention to it. Not always with the dress. One favourite was to have me serve table in nylon dress shirt and bow tie, the corset outside in place of a cummerbund, nylon panties and chaps which of course revealed them.

I still hated it. Sort of. But I also began to appreciate it. No way to pretend to masculinity or anything but inferior status with a corset making my posture rigid, my breathing shallow and my ass displayed in sissy nylon for all His guests to see.

He didn't have any desire to feminise me. That wasn't the point at all. I was still a male but any male-power neutered by the way He dressed me. Nor could I compete with Women. No make-up, no hair-do. In fact I've recently been shaved: a bald, male submissive servant in a slut's dress, a maid's frock, a waiter's dickie-bow with panties showing...

Playing with my head.

I want to say that I hate it still. But that would be a lie.

Now I crave it. I want my Superiors to see me in my humiliating sissy attire and instantly know me for what I am; their servant, their slave, their plaything, identifiable by what I wear as easily as by the way I kneel, eyes cast down to the floor and quietly say "Thank You Master for making a sissy of me."


5/25/2015 7:51:11 AM

This is a fantasy which I'd very much like to make a reality some time soon. But I do realise that it would take a lot of setting up (and is necessarily very me-centric) so I'd be happy to hear from anyone who'd be interested in just getting close or could arrange something similar. Oh, and if it could be done then having it videoed would be wonderful.

I've driven my boss to his barbers. This time he takes me in with him and tells me to stand at the back of the shop which I do, in my uniform.

I watch as my boss's hair is cut then he moves to an armchair and is served coffee while the remaining customers are dealt with. When the last has gone the barber turns the sign in the door to closed and draws down the blind, then the blind covering the big window.

"Step forward boy." the boss calls. "Middle of the room."

So I take four paces forwards while the barber walks past me into the back room. A moment later a hood slides over my head. As my boss had trained me I don't react, just stand passive as the drawstring closes the hood under my chin.

Hands start stripping me of my uniform. No words, just a touch indicating a needed movement until I'm naked. A noise of chain on tile as shackles are fitted to my legs then manacles on my wrists.

Hands grasp my upper arms and urge me forward, shuffling in the chains. Round and then back as a foot kicks my ankles as far apart as they will go then back a little more into the seat of the barber's chair. The shackle chain has gone under the footrest so i can't lift my feet onto it to gain purchase.

A wide strap around my stomach pulls me back into the chair and is fixed, tight, behind. Another goes around my chest holding me upright. Straps fix my arms to the arm-rests and more around my thighs force my legs wide and secure them.

A swish of fabric and the nylon cutting cape settles around me and is fixed at the neck with a last strap that holds my head up. The hood is pulled off and the first thing I see is that the chair has been turned away from the mirror, I'm looking at my boss so I drop my eyes.

Behind me the noise of the clippers starts and a hand grasps my head. Then the buzzing blades start roughly taking off the length of my hair.

As the barber moves around me he pushes in close, his nylon jacket hissing as it rubs against the cape. He's deliberately violating any sense of personal space I might retain. Each time he releases my head his hand drops to my shoulder or, under the pretext of brushing away the clippings, my torso or groin. Very shortly even the pretence is dropped and he's grinning as he takes advantage of my helplessness to grope me.

The clipping stops, the barber removes the guard and cleans the clippers then flicks them back on to apply the naked blades to my scalp. It should be fast but it isn't; he's enjoying what he's doing too much.

Silence again. Suddenly the chair tips back and almost immediately hot water hits my head, rinsing away the last cut hair then up a little for the shaving brush to be worked making a dense lather all over my scalp.

Back upright the barber's standing too close again. This time holding a razor. He starts to scrape my scalp smooth, ignoring where the stubble laden lather falls over my face. Slowly, meticulously, repeating where it seems no hair can remain. Unexpectedly he holds my face firmly grasping my cheeks and applies the shaving brush to my eyebrows. The the razor takes them off too. truly bald.

Satisfied he tips the chair again and I have to quickly close my eyes as he carelessly rinses off the last of the lather. The up and the hood goes back over my head. The cape is taken off and someone begins to remove the straps. Hands pull me out of the chair and onto my feet. They urge me forward and turn me. I'm against a wall. My arms are lifted and the chain of of my manacles somehow fixed above my head, perhaps to the coat hooks.

The shaving brush starts on my armpits and then the razor follows. Working downwards what little hair there is to be found is definitively expunged. Hands again grasp me to turn me face to the wall and a few strokes complete the job. When he's finished a cold wash cloth is used to roughly wipe me down and I'm unhooked. The shackles come off and then the manacles and lastly the hood and I find myself standing wet, naked and entirely hairless in front of a chair on which is folded my uniform.

"Dress" barks my boss; the first words spoken since this started. I do, slipping still damp, hairless arms into the white nylon shirt is strange. My head feels astonishingly cold. Underwear, suit and shoes. Lastly my boss puts my cap on my head, twisting it down and positioning it to his liking then feeling my shaved nape. He turns me and pushed me to the door. It's time to drive him home again.


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Kim19688
 
 Age: 20
 Shapon, Pennsylvania