Master's fist grew tight in my long hair as his fingers traced my shaven cunt. His demands were difficult but not complicated, and I was always afraid when he took the time to inspect me after my cleansing rites. Scrubbed spotless top to bottom, front to back, inside and out, hair in a neat Dutch braid down the back, and all other trace of hair erased- he didn't care how, so long as I was smooth. That's where I most often failed him, and he had beaten me for it, berated me, caned my hands and feet... More often, he'd find some tiny offending patch of stubble and simply look into my eyes with a scowl of disappointment, or even worse, a sneer of disgust.
I knew I wasn't perfectly shaven this day. I had tried for hours. Hot bath soak, chemical depilatory, razor, electric razor, then razor again, until my skin was red, and tiny points of blood showed for all my efforts, and still, my fingertips could find tiny traces of soft whispery velvet. He knew it too, and I was shocked but not surprised when he yanked me around toward him, snarling, and forced my cheek to the floor next to his boot.
"Do you know the rules, gyrl?" His voice a rumbling baritone growl, so low that I had to strain to hear his words. I nodded vigorously against the floor, wincing and whimpering at the grip he still held on my hair, and the rough floor against my cheek.
"How is a slave to present herself to me?" I took a moment to answer, and was sure he'd beat me, but he was still and rigid against me as iron. "HOW?"
"Clean, Master. Spotless. And smooth. Perfectly smooth."
"Do you know what smooth means, gyrl," he asked, his voice low once more, growing sadistically sweeter at my sweat, and the tears that had escaped onto my cheeks. I only nodded.
"I begin to think that maybe you don't," he said, smiling at his own thought and jerking me upright on my knees to face him. He was crouched casually, his free hand draped loosely over his right knee. "I'm thinking it's about time I showed you. Submission," he commanded, dropping my hair, and pointing firmly at the floor. I assumed the position, my bare ass high, arms outstretched to either side so that my big chest pressed against the floor, along with the side of my face. Master stalked off to the bathroom and made some noisy preparations I couldn't see.
When he returned, he took me again by the hair and dragged me, crawling, into the bathroom, and my heart sank at what I saw. He'd gotten out the electric clippers, scissors, shaving cream, razor, and his sharpest knife, and they were laid out on a towel on the toilet seat lid. My head grew dizzy, and I fell forward as he simultaneously threw me to the cold tile floor, smacking my head with a dull clank against the porcelain toilet's foot.
Only a second passed. When I opened my eyes, it was to Master's boot beside me, Master's fist in my hair, yanking me up hard onto my knees once more, to see the scissors poised in his right hand and the most vicious grin he'd ever worn spread wide across his beautiful, evil face. He said nothing as he pulled my long braid taught and sheered it off where it met the back of my head. I sobbed, but he didn't even give me a moment to recover.
"Hold this," he growled, placing the severed braid in my hands, "And keep it neat. I told you I'd beat you with it if it ever came off your head, and that is exactly what I plan to do. Now, sit high, chin up, and hold still."
I held the braid as best I could, but keeping still was harder. I was sobbing and shaking harder than I'd known I could as I heard the clack and the weird buzz of the electric shears coming to life. I wanted to struggle, but he'd left me unbound, to force me to submit to my punishment willingly. He and I both knew my safeword- I could have stopped him, but the power of his hands, the power of his voice- the sensation of being completely and totally owned- overwhelmed me, and he knew it. The harder he was on me, the more completely I belonged to him, and right at that moment, he knew that there was absolutely nothing I wouldn't endure if it pleased him.
My red hair fell around me in clumps, on my shoulders, my breasts, and the floor, and he almost giggled as he ran his hand across the strawberry blonde velvet that remained. I had already closed my eyes, unable to watch the last shred of my pride shorn away so easily, and without a fight. The whole act was symbolic. It was his to take if it pleased him, and forcing me to sit, unshackled, unresisting, while he took it was the final fetter locking my soul to his fist and his boot and his cock.
I heard the schoosh of the shaving cream, felt it cold against my scalp, then the razor, scraping away the stubble, pausing to rinse in the sink... By the time the blade of his knife pressed against my skull, I had stopped shaking and sobbing, my tears flowed silently from still-closed eyes. I half expected to feel the bite of his steel, but then the knife was gone too.
"Turn around. Spread your knees."
