Cut My Hair

A damsel in distress finds her champion.

*

Author's Note

This is another one of my slice-of-life stories that chronicles events taking place over a twenty-four hour period. It's also a bit of a sad tale with very little sex in it, so if you're looking for wham-bam hot monkey love, you'll need to look elsewhere.

I would like to thank TrueMort for giving me permission to use the characters Alex and Zabi. They are a really fun couple and I'm happy I was able to include them. Check out TrueMort's stories for more of those two.

There are some scenes of dominant-submissive behavior in this story. In this tale it's used as an example of what not to do, so it's not really meant to be sexy. However, if this type of behavior offends you, please find something else to read.

*

Cut My Hair

I stand in front of the mirror, hating my hair. I liked it so much better when it was short, and all I had to do was run a comb through it. Now I have to brush it all the time, not to mention piling on the products every morning and spending my days worrying over split ends.

The worst part about my hair is that it's not quite long enough to tie back yet. It's still in that annoying in-between stage, and I can't seem to do a damn thing with it. If it were up to me, I'd chop it all off, go back to the way it was before. But it isn't up to me. He likes it long, so I'm growing it out.

If it were up to me, I'd be soaking in the tub right now, preparing for an early bedtime and a date with a good book. But instead, I stand here in front of the mirror primping for an evening at the club. I'm wearing the slinky red dress that he bought for me. I want to rip it to shreds.

I used to think it made me look cute, but not tonight. Tonight I feel bloated, tired, and my head hurts.

I reach into the medicine cabinet for the bottle of Tylenol. I look longingly at the Advil -- it'll do a much better job of curing what ails me -- but ultimately decide against it. Ibuprofen thins the blood and causes me to bruise too easily.

Not that he minds me with a few bruises. He just doesn't want them to come too easily.

I lift the hem of my dress a bit and look at the latest mark on my thigh, the one I got when I asked to renegotiate my contract. It's turning an ugly shade of purple with tinges of yellow and green around the edges. And it stings like fire when anything brushes against it. But that's the idea. It was put there to serve as a reminder to not ask again.

I have no way out of my contract and he knows it. I've dropped out of school, overstayed my welcome on a student visa, and I've got nowhere to turn for help. There are only two ways out of this toxic relationship for me now.

One is to get busted by Immigration and Customs Enforcement and be shipped back home. Unfortunately, that option is the only thing worse than the mess I'm in now. The other way is so far fetched, that I hesitate to pin any hope on it at all.

There is this woman at the club, a safety monitor. She is tall and strong, with beautiful blonde hair, like a Nordic warrior-goddess. She could save me, and in my dreams she often does. There's only one problem with this option -- we've never spoken, and I don't even know her name.

So for now I am stuck. Stuck with a man, a former professor of mine, who lured me into this kinky relationship. A man who made me sign a contract stating I would do certain

things

-- things I no longer wish to do.

The contract we have is not legally binding, not even in the slightest, but that does not matter. He knows it and I know it. I have no legal status in this country, not anymore. That safety net evaporated when my visa expired and I became undocumented.

So when he fastens the collar around my neck and asks me if I'm ready to go, I have only one answer to give.

"Yes, master."

*

"Go get me an iced tea, girl." He doesn't even bother with please, or call me sweetie like he did in the beginning. I'm lucky that we're at the club, because at home when it's just us, he calls me much worse.

"Yes, master." I scurry off to the kitchen.

My eyes wander to the other girls as I pass. They are dressed in skimpy clothing like me, sitting at the feet of their masters and mistresses. But they are smiling, these girls -- having their cheeks caressed, their breasts fondled, or their hair stroked -- obviously objects of tender affection.

I turn my gaze away and continue on to the kitchen to fetch my master's drink.

As I hand him the glass, he says nothing, simply points to the floor in front of the chair where he sits. I kneel. A part of me wishes I could drape my body across his lap, make him see me the way he did in the beginning -- to receive his affections, to feel his hands caress my skin, to be smiling like the other girls here tonight -- but I know those days are gone. I don't even get a pat on the head.

I'm nervous about what comes next, after he finishes his tea. I've been formulating my escape plan for a while now, but as the time grows nearer, I begin to question my ability to actually go through with it. Will this finally be the night, or will he take me home worn out and crying yet again?

I sit on my hands to stop them from shaking, as I envision all the things that could possibly go wrong.

It's a busy Friday night and people continue trickling in. Others are already milling about, sipping drinks and chatting, waiting for the real fun to start. Waiting for something, someone, worth watching -- someone like me.

I usually attract an audience here -- my brown skin is exotic, and I have a tendency to scream when I orgasm. I still attract a crowd most nights, but lately I've been screaming for completely different reasons. But I need that audience -- my witnesses -- and tonight most of all.

He sets his empty glass on the side table. "Get up."

The Tylenol's not really working for me at this point, and it's only going to feel worse when I change elevation, but I do as I am told. Hopefully for the last time.

My temples throb as he leads me to the room with the benches and straps me down. It takes a great deal of willpower to stay still and let him immobilize me, but it's a necessary part of my plan to be here. This is where the people are watching.

When we first started coming to the club it was easier. He would take me to one of the benches for a bit of spanking or a light flogging, before complementing me on my lovely pink bottom and letting me up to play with some of the other girls.

Looking around now I see there are two other girls strapped down like me, and a safety monitor. I don't recognize the girls, but I have seen the safety monitor before. She's my blonde warrior-goddess and my ticket out of here. At least I hope so.

The two girls are panting and moaning, eyes glazed over as their mistresses alternate bare-handed swats and tender fondles. I remember those halcyon days, when I was so full of naïve wonder, and my master was eager to show me new heights of pleasure.

I watch him pull a fiberglass rod from his bag and I am reminded that tonight will be nothing like the idyllic past. I feel a chill run through me.

I look over at the safety monitor. She must stand a little over six feet tall; she's taller than the man I call master. And the series of stars tattooed on her muscular shoulders seem to twinkle with every shift of her stance. She is strong and beautiful, so different from me.

In my dreams she takes me away from this place, to a lush green meadow where we lie together. But in reality I have only seen her from a distance, and I've never actually observed her intervening. But I have to trust that she will. It's her job. And it's my way out.

The rod lands, and I scream.

The room begins to fill with people at the sound of my cry. Sadistic bastards. I wiggle my legs as much as I am able, in an attempt to shake out the pain. It helps, but only a little. I bite my lip and squeeze my eyes tight to deal with the rest. I force myself to take slow, measured breaths.

The rod lands a second and third time in rapid succession, and I begin gasping again as I feel the heat rising on my backside. In the beginning I was putting extra effort into my screams, but I don't really need to anymore. And I've already attracted enough witnesses.

Through tear-stained eyes, I see that the safety monitor's curiosity has been piqued and she's moved a little closer. Good. It's time.

"Red." I croak. She turns her gaze toward me. "Red!" I repeat.

The rod pauses, but still my buttocks throb, anticipating another blow. From the corner of my eye I see my master draw his hand back again, but the safety monitor is already on her way over. I do hope I have judged her correctly.

"The lady said stop." She places her body between the rod and me, looking him squarely in the eyes. He moves toward her, but she does not budge. He's not backing down either. "Why don't you go get a drink and cool off," she says.

My master's face is bright crimson. I imagine it must burn him up to be told what to do, particularly by a woman. But when she points to the door, he drops the rod on the floor and heads out of the room. He's a sadistic son of a bitch, but not stupid. He doesn't want to jeopardize his club membership.

"You OK, honey?" She brushes a stray clump of hair out of my eyes and strokes my cheek.

"Maidali," I manage as she unstraps me and helps me to my feet. "Thank you." I hug her tightly as the tears flow. She hesitates for a moment, and then I feel her strong arms surround me. I know now that I have made the right choice.

"Kjersten," she says.

My master enters the room again, only slightly less red-faced than when he left. "Let's go, girl. I will deal with you at home."

Still safely in Kjersten's embrace, I look him in the eye. I'm shaking uncontrollably, and would probably collapse if not for Kjersten's strong arms, but this is my best chance and I've got to take it. "No," I say, and begin to unfasten the collar from around my neck. "I'm done." I choke back a sob. "I break my contract with you."

The room has gone deathly quiet and collar lands on the floor with a dull thud. Everyone is looking at us, and he seems to be stuck in a moment of indecision. His face has gone a deeper shade of red now, but he does not make a move toward me. He knows the club management has a zero-tolerance policy for those who break the rules, and Kjersten has already proved that she won't be intimidated.

I've cast my lot with her now -- Kjersten, my champion -- and I'm counting on my former master's interest in retaining his club membership to win out over his desire to put me in my place. He locks gazes with Kjersten. She stands with her arms folded over her chest and does not back down. My gamble has paid off.

"You'll regret this." He picks up the collar and stomps off. I'm not really sure which one of us he was addressing, but it doesn't matter. He's gone now.

*

It's not too soon after my former master leaves that Kjersten returns to her duties. And it only takes another minute for the vultures to begin circling. Some of the single guys are already making their way over to chat me up, most of them hoping to replace the man who just left.

They promise that they know how to treat a girl right, but for me it's only so much déjà vu. I hide my face in my hands and try to block it all from my mind. The room is spinning, and I have never felt so alone.

I hadn't really planned much past getting away from him. I don't know what I was expecting, that Kjersten was some sort of noble knight, here to slay my demons and break the curse. Stupid. It's just a job for her. She's done it and now she's gone.

"Sorry boys, she's with me tonight," I hear, and allow myself a slight smile. Kjersten's come to my rescue yet again. She wraps her arm around my shoulder. "I'm sorry Maidali, I never would have left you had I known."

"You're here now." I shiver. I move my hands from my face, but I still can't look her in the eye. "Thank you. -- Thank you."

"Come on, let's get you something to drink." She glances over her shoulder. "Dave, can you take over?" The big man nods and steps forward, and I shuffle off toward the kitchen with Kjersten's arm around me.

She guides me to a table and sets a glass of juice in front of me. I take a sip, but I don't sit down.

"Oh my god, I'm sorry. I'm not very good at this." She frowns. "Let me get a first aid kit."

"I'll be fine. I've had worse." My hand shakes slightly as I take another sip of juice.

"Can I call someone? Get you a cab?"

I tell her that there is no one to call, and that's the point at which the tears begin to flow again. I confess my entire story standing there in the kitchen. As Kjersten holds me in her arms, she says nothing -- offering no advice, no admonishments -- just wipes my nose and lets me continue pouring my heart out.

"Thank you for listening," I say. "Sorry to unload on you like that."

"You're coming home with me," she says. It's not a question, just a plain fact laid out before me. I nod. I have chosen my champion well.

*

I wake to sunlight streaming through the windows of a strange bedroom, and the smell of bacon in the air. I notice I'm still wearing my red dress as I slip out of the covers. I peek through the doorway, my shoulders tight, but I feel the tension easing as I spy Kjersten standing alone.

She's wearing a blue terrycloth robe over gray sweats and a University of Chicago t-shirt. Her eyes are outlined by dark-framed glasses and her hair is looking a bit disheveled. She's holding a spatula.

"Hi," she says, a bit too cheery for the early hour. "Hungry?"

I nod, then turn to look at the rumpled sheets of the double bed I just crawled out of. "Did we?"

"No." She runs her hand through her hair, moving aside the few stray clumps of blonde that hide her face. "Are you disappointed?"

I study her face for a moment and I am struck by her natural beauty -- her bright eyes, shy smile, and the cute little freckles that bridge her nose. Even fresh out of bed she's gorgeous.

Am I disappointed?

I feel my cheeks warming, but I don't answer. I give her a smile instead.

"Don't worry, I slept on the couch." She gestures to the living area and the blanket that is still strewn over the cushions, before ducking back into the kitchen. "I hope you're not a vegetarian, I didn't really think about that."

I shake my head.

"Good, good. Have a seat." She pulls out a stool at the breakfast bar for me. "I'm not very good at this. It's usually my roommate bringing the hotties home."

I feel a grin cross my lips as I lower myself gingerly to take a seat. My butt's a little tender, but the pain is manageable.

"Not that I'm saying you're hot." Kjersten turns and hurries off to the kitchen. When she returns, she's carrying two plates, and she seems to be no less flustered as she sets them down. "I -- I mean you are, but ..." She ducks back in the kitchen. "Coffee or juice?"

"Coffee please ..." I decide to try it on for size. "Mistress?"

"Oh no," she says, carrying two steaming mugs. "I don't work at the club. I mean I do, but it's more of an internship. I -- I'm just an observer. I don't know how to describe it."

"Well, you certainly carry yourself like a domme. Thank goodness for that." I lean over and kiss her on the cheek.

Kjersten springs to her feet and practically sprints to the other room. "I'm sorry, you must be chilly." She comes back with a light blanket that she wraps around my shoulders.

"Thank you."

She starts to sit back down, but when I move my hand toward her arm, she's on her feet again. "Do you want ketchup for your eggs? Hot sauce?"

"No. Thank you." I'm finally able to rest my hand on her forearm. "I don't bite. Promise."

The muscles in her arm relax a little. "Sorry. Like I said, it's usually my roommate bringing the cute girls home."

I take another bite of eggs and lean my head against her shoulder. Surprisingly, she does not run off. I try for some conversation. "So," I say, "tell me about your internship. How did you decide to take a job at the club?"

"Oh, it's more of a research position," she says between bites of bacon. "I'm working on a doctorate in sociology and I decided to do my dissertation on kinky behavior. Everything else has already been done ten times over, but this is a chance at something new." She goes on, explaining the details as we eat our breakfast.

I nod occasionally, but mostly I just listen. I only understand about half of what she's saying, but it's fascinating to me, partly because Kjersten is so animated when she talks about it.

"So that's my project in a nutshell," she says finally. "I'm sorry, I didn't give you much of a chance to talk, did I?"

"Not much to tell beyond what I told you last night." I sigh. "I was a student here too, once upon a time. But I dropped out and now I'm undocumented. I don't want to get you in any trouble, so after breakfast I'll just go."

"Maidali," she says. "Pretty name by the way. Maidali, Chicago is a sanctuary city. Did you know that? You're not going to get me in any trouble. And you really shouldn't be leaving here dressed like you are. Let me raid my roommate's closet. She's more your size."

"Thank you." And while she's gone, I snag the last piece of bacon. Then out of guilt, I decide I should wash up the breakfast dishes.

Kjersten comes back with sweat pants and a University of Chicago t-shirt that's almost an exact match of hers, but closer to my size. "Oh, you didn't have to clean up." She frowns. "I was going to do that."

"Not a problem. It's something I'm good at." I feel a smile crossing my lips, but I'm staring at the floor. "Could I ask you a favor?"

"Um, sure."

"Would you cut my hair?"

"Um, OK," she says. "OK, but you'll need to wash it first."

*

I'm standing in Kjersten's bathroom as she rummages through the closet. She pulls forth a big white bathtowel and sets it on the sink before starting the shower. "Be careful," she says. "The plumbing is messed up, so hot and cold are reversed. Don't want you scalded."

She is smiling as she looks at me, and she's beautiful, like in my dreams.

I look into her eyes and rest my hands on her hips. She shies away a little at my bold touch. I'm no sociologist, but I'm pretty sure I've been reading all the signs right this morning. "You want to join me?"

"What makes you think I'd want to do that?" she says.

"I saw the way you acted around the guys at the club last night. You didn't take any crap off any of them. But this morning you couldn't stop tripping over yourself just making me breakfast." I slide my hands around Kjersten's waist and sneak them up under her shirt a bit.

She pulls back a little, but doesn't stop me.

"So I put two and two together and decided that you don't really care how the guys see you, because you're not interested in them. But with me it's different. It's like you want me to like you." I move my hands up a little more. Her skin is warm and inviting.

I continue my explorations of Kjersten's tummy. Her abdominals are absolutely amazing and I find myself feeling a little jealous as I trace over them with my fingertips. "I'm sure I'm not the prettiest girl you've ever brought home, but I promise I know how to make you feel good."

"Maidali ..."

I don't meet her eyes. I can't. I know exactly where this is going. I can tell by the tone of her voice, and I know what she's going to say next.

"I don't usually ..." she starts to explain. "I mean -- well -- just 'cause I made you breakfast ..."

She's letting me down easy. I don't know why I was expecting anything different. It was stupid of me to think I even stood a chance with her. Kjersten's way out of my league, but at least she's being polite about the rejection.