The Seasoned Dominant

To this day, Ivy didn't understand as to why a seasoned Dominant like Master Ethan would choose an inexperienced submissive like her. But the very thought of being dominated by a man whose personality resembled that of a primal alpha was titillating to the core of her bones. The contract was signed and sealed, consensually - Ivy would belong to Master Ethan for a complete month.

Dutifully, her Master took down all the hard limits of her and registered in his brain. Apart from that, he owned her body unless she uses her safeword.

Ivy arrived at his house sharp at 11 am, carrying only a large handbag filled with a couple of essential things. Impliedly in 24x7 lifestyle like this, subs didn't choose their outfits and styling for that matter - it was the Master's privilege.

Ethan ushered her into one of his spare rooms upon arrival and briskly left the room after a moment with the crisp instruction, "Please strip. And kneel in the middle of the room." It took her a moment to get out of the dress and comply with the order.

When he returned, the smooth baritone of his voice filled the sunlit room. "A sub, no matter how inexperienced, knows the meaning of strip."

"I..." Ivy looked up, but nothing made past her lips.

"Stand, Ivy, and with grace. Feet should be shoulder width apart, and your hands clasped at the back of your head."

And she did, as much grace she could afford.

When she felt her Master standing behind her, she seemed convinced that a beating was coming her way, and her muscles tensed instantaneously. Instead, she only felt a coldness of metal against her hip. The sharp sound of scissors slashed the air as the knicker quickly slid down her legs.

"I apologize if it was expensive," she heard the smooth-as-warm-whiskey voice.

In less than five seconds, the bra received the same tattered fate, joining the rest of the fabric scraps on the floor.

Master Ethan stood before her, hands pulled behind his back, with an unrelenting expression. "Submission is beyond love taps on your asscheeks and sex. It is the consensual surrender of both your mind and body, domination of your Master's will. I neither tolerate nor compromise any alteration of my instructions, Ivy. Unless I hear the safeword, my rules apply as the expressed law. Is that clear?"

"Yes, Master," Ivy whispered audibly. "I am sorry, Master."

"Follow three steps behind me, and your hands will remain where they are." With that, he turned on his heel and walked out of the room. Ivy followed him, up the stairs and into another room.

"Sit here," he instructed, patting the chair in front of the dressing table with a huge mirror.

Ethan shrugged out of his suit jacket down, wearing a dark blue shirt that almost outlined the contoured muscles and charcoal grey slacks. Then he pulled back her shoulders and began to undo her elegant French Bun hairstyle. Once he unfurled the long hair of his submissive, Master Ethan picked up the wooden hairbrush and started combing her hair.

Ivy had spent a long time in the morning—carefully washing, conditioning, and drying—doing the French Bun that suited her face the most. She has the most beautiful, shining and naturally wavy chestnut bronze hair, reaching almost her waist.

The soothing act of combing almost drowned her in erotic sensation as she heard him murmuring, "You are an exquisite beauty, sub. So is your hair. You have taken good care of it so far," he observed, and then met her eyes in the mirror. "You love your hair, isn't it?"

"Yes, Master."

He nodded knowingly. "Well, it is going to be a little unfortunate for you when I will be cutting it off."

She froze in her seat—then and there. Relinquishing control was getting tougher by the second at the hand of the seasoned Dominant, but she could not deny the undefined thrill thumping her heartbeat.

"I want my submissive to look in a particular fashion that I'd choose," he supplied further while brushing her long curtain of chestnut bronze with his fingers. The importance of a submissive headspace always worked like a charm to get out of inhibitions, and nobody knew it better than Ethan.

He wound the long hair, twice, around his wrist and gave a sharp tug, exuding the right amount of his power. "Let me remind you again, Ivy, this is subjugation of my will and not forced submission. Use your safeword if you want to and walk out. I will give you five minutes to decide. But once I pick up the scissors, I won't extend the courtesy of using the safeword until I finish cutting. Take your time, sub."

He almost turned around before she managed to find her voice. "How much will you be cutting it off?" she asked and then added, "Master."

"That's entirely up to me," he answered.

However something about her raw innocence tugged at his heart, so he decided to ease her growing concern a bit. "But you won't be bald or scalped."

Her heart longed for his control, but her brain told her otherwise. The conflict had nearly exhausted her when he returned once again.

"What will it be, sub?" he asked in his smoothest professional voice.

"I will stay," she said channeling all her might. "I will receive the haircut my Master chooses for me." Even the coldest of hearts would melt at such devotion.

For an inexperienced submissive, she had a way to warm up his cold, stiff heart. "Very well, then. I won't tie you down, but I expect you to sit very still and your eyes on the mirror. I won't cape you, either. I want you to feel every severed hair against your soft skin. Tell me, you understand."

God, the man did live upto his reputation. She had heard other subs say that he was smoothly unyielding about his commands. And right, there were.

"Yes, Master. I understand."

"I want you to pull out the topmost drawer on your right and lay everything out on top of the dresser."

When Ivy pulled out the drawer, she saw a set of professional haircutting scissors, three clippers and four types of combs nestled inside it. One by one, she laid out all the tools and set them on the dresser. She had wished the ordeal would end as quickly as possible, but she knew Master Ethan better than that. Long, masculine fingers stroked her throat, in slow up and down motion.

"You're even more beautiful in submission," he praised. "Pick up a scissor and pass it to me. I will let you use your judgment."

Trembling fingers selected a medium-large sized shear and offered it to him.

"Thank you."

He took a small section in his left hand, held the shear with the right and looked straight at her reflection. "Take a deep breath, Ivy, and eyes on the mirror. This first haircut will be hard, but I want you to accept it gracefully—for your master. The weekly trimming would be easier."

So this wasn't the end of her shearing? She was going to be shorn like a sheep at her master's will every week, too? Before she could think further, he slid the scissor into her hair—the cold steel touching the middle of her ear—and instantly snipped it off. He purposely draped it over her shoulders, letting her feel the softness of the severed strands against her naked breasts. Time and again, he kept on grabbing small sections around her head, snipped them off, until it looked something like a very short jagged wedge cut. Her naked skin, by now, was covered in gleaming chestnut bronze hair. The water was pooling in her eyes with toes curled the rug tightly beneath her feet.

Next, he sectioned her hair from ear to ear and pinned them on top. "Your hair is perfect for short haircuts," he commented casually, picking up the clippers from the dressers. Before switching it on, he clamped a hand on her hair and pushed it down to her chest. "You won't be able to see this, but you will surely feel the short hairs."

Ivy couldn't hold onto her strength anymore, and the moment the brutal clippers came in contact with her nape, a loud sob broke out of her. She would not be able to hold her position, had he not gripped her head tightly. Ethan continued to plow the machine into her hair in upwards movements until the nape was nothing but stubble. Small snippets of hair covered her neck, prickled her back and crowded her lap. The shearing felt almost ruthless, yet she sat there obediently, mutely and consensually.

The hypnotism of submission amazed her.

By the time, the buzzing sound died in the air—Ivy was a sobbing mess. Ethan put down the Clippers and pulled out a handkerchief out of his pocket. With a strange gentleness, he wiped her tears and held the cloth on her nose, and said, "Blow."

And she did.

Control and care laced his actions so deliciously; Ivy was coming apart in seams. What was about this man that compelled her to obey?

Not only he had stripped her off her clothes, but also her vanity. How deeply he wanted her submission to be?

Master Ethan resumed back to his task. This time he picked up the comb and gave another round of good brushing, except, unlike the last time, the length of the hair was merely a little more than 5-6inches. He brushed the hair straight down her face and held the comb across her forehead. "Close your eyes for a minute. I don't want hairs prickling your beautiful eyes."

Shouldn't she be grateful that she won't have to watch the cut?

Ivy closed her puffy, tear-laden eyes, and the Clippers quickly sailed across the comb—creating the blunt bangs above her eyebrows. The sharp scissors perfected the look further, softening them.

With her eyes closed, she could only inhale the intoxication freshness of her Master's cologne mixed with his masculine musk. Water sprayed over hair not only dampened the tresses but also seeped down her breasts and bareback. Much to her surprise—Ivy was aroused. Perhaps, his mastery was finally beginning to elicit the dark desires of humiliation out of her.

She felt her head tilted to a side and the cold steel traveling horizontally above her ears in an excruciatingly slow movement. The severed locks would caress the cheeks and shoulders, making her hyper-aware how swiftly and brutally she was sheared.

Ethan kept on snipping the hair all around her head, forming the circular line until he got the desired shape of the bowl cut.

"Open your eyes and watch," the command brooked no argument.

When Ivy lifted her eyelids to gaze straight at the mirror, she noticed her hair was even shorter than what she had ten minutes ago. The ears were completely exposed; when she tilted her head from side to side—the neck was exposed, too. The reality almost shuddered her before she felt his calloused fingers stroking up and down her exposed nape.

"It will take you some time to get used to the look, but you will come to like it very soon," he said in a considerate voice. He picked up a small trimmer for the final time.

"Let's get this over with quickly, and then I can reward you for being so brave and obedient."

With that, he cleaned up the nape a little above the natural hairline, around the ears until it looked like the perfect bowl cut with buzzed nape.

Ivy had a child-like face with the body of a gorgeous woman, which why he chose the bowl cut for her. The bangs made her cuter; the shorn nape looked neat, and the hair on top had the right length. The dryer and hair mist set her style in no time.

Once the whole ordeal ended, a sigh escaped her lips.

"Stand up, Ivy," he ordered, grabbing a dry towel from somewhere.

On shaky legs, she managed to rise while he carefully dusted away every last snippet of hair from her body. It was his decree to let the hairs skate down her body, and it was his generosity to clean and care for her with the gentlest touch.

A true master and caregiver combined into one.

The sensual flush ran through right down to her toes.

"Thank you, Master," she said. Her voice was half-croaked, half breathy.

The gratefulness came naturally to her. But she was thankful for what? Maybe she was finally molding into her master's will as any skilled sub. He stripped her of her vanity, brought her to the razor's edge, and swiftly pulled her back to him.

His hand closed at the back of her head, holding her in place for the kiss—slow and demanding—while the other hand slid down between her legs. The fingers explored her engorged bundle of nerves, and within seconds, the climax split her into two.

For the next several days, he mastered her so deliciously one could say she was born to be his submissive. And finally, when a complete week had gone by, Ethan issued the same command. "Strip and sit before the dresser."

This time she knew better.

By the time he strode inside the room, she was sitting on the same chair as she did a week ago. She even laid out the same set of scissors and clippers without any hesitation.

"What will it be today, my beauty?" he asked in a deep, slow voice that penetrated her core.

"Shorter, Master," she breathed dreamily.

The rare smile on his lips depicted how pleased he was.

And strangely, she never felt so liberated and sublime before in her life.