The Mint Julep Cafe was bubbling with conversation. The table was full of slim, tan women, who all sported the same hairstyle and pastel clothing. It was the Spring Book Club Luncheon. I was on their tennis team and at that time, one of the few social activities I engaged in since we moved to the South.
My quirky ponytail, black top, capris, and little heels are subtle ways I keep true to myself. Chicken salad, crumpets, and sweet ice tea, were not for me, and I just sat picking at it. I hate chicken.
There was a pale woman with maroon colored ringlets, sitting in the corner, trying to blend into the wallpaper. She had the same bored look on her face that I did. There was an empty chair next to her, so I moved.
"Hi! My name is Nikki."
"I'm Tanya. Nice to meet you."
"Are you a new member of the tennis team? I've never seen you before."
"I don't play tennis," she laughed. "I just do hair, their hair. They've invited me to these luncheons so many times; it seemed rude to miss out on this one."
The Stepford wives took turns sharing their opinions on how the book affected their lives. It was fiction for cripes sake! Soon, we were chatting away in spite of the disapproving looks. We just didn't care.
"You didn't read the book either, right?"
"Well, it's not a book I would have picked," she deadpanned.
I snickered.
"What book would you have picked?"
"The Story of O," she said matter-of-factly.
I sensed a fellow kinkster.
"And you?"
Should I tell her?
"Can you keep a secret?"
She laughed, "I'm a hairdresser!"
"Well...I write dirty stories."
Both of us realized it would be wise to switch to a more conventional topic, like hair.
"Long hair is great in the summer. I just pull it up and clip it, but, the pressure is on to 'update' my look."
Tanya suggested I see her husband Sean.
"He's was an artist with hair. The scissors are his paintbrush," she said and handed me her card.
Was it cosmic coincidence that we would meet each other at a luncheon like this? What did I have to lose? I made the appointment.
A week later, I walked into the upscale salon and it appeared deserted. The stations flanking each side of the shop were empty. The phone rang a few times and no one answered.
"Hello? Is anybody here?"
There was no answer, but, as I turned to leave, I heard an echo of footsteps. A thin giant appeared from the back of the salon. He had a mass of hair but, his broad shoulders rather balanced out this visual paradox. Scowling, he wiped his ruddy forehead.
"Can I help you?"
His fly was open.
"I'm your ten o'clock. Nikki."
He scanned the appointment book and marked off my name.
"What are you having done?"
"Cut only," I replied.
"What happened to your hair?"
That sounded snippy!
"What do you mean?"
Blood rose to my face.
"I don't think I can do anything with it."
How dare he!
Tanya said you were an artist with hair."
He moved closer and touched it here and there.
"Let's go see what this artist can do," he laughed. "My name is Sean."
As Sean walked me to the back, I saw the reflection of a woman adjusting her underwear through her skirt, most likely, the receptionist.
I put on the plastic cape and placed my neck onto the shampoo bowl. It felt like heaven as he gently massaged my scalp, working up a nice lather, and then rinsing it with warm water. When he finished toweling my hair, he gestured toward his workstation.
Carved Dragons flanked the full sized mirror. The chair was positioned atop a mosaic of flames. It seemed as if he walked me from heaven into hell. There is a point during a visit to the hairdresser when silence can be a blessing or a curse.
"Where's Tanya today?"
The receptionist straightened like a rod was shoved up her ass.
"She should be in soon," he said roughly pulling the comb through a tangle.
"Tanya said you're trying to conceive another child."
Have you ever seen someone who looked like a deer caught in the headlights? It's not a good idea when they are cutting your hair.
"We ARE trying to have another kid, but, I have to get my vasectomy reversed."
His cell phone rang.
"I gotta take this," he apologized.
"Yeah baby. I miss you too. Coming by the shop? Yeah, she's right here in my chair. Did you tell her I was an artist with hair?" He paused, "Love you baby. See ya soon."
The phone call cheered him up and soon the conversation turned to a monologue of what HE liked. How boring. I changed the subject.
"How did you and Tanya meet?"
"We met at Chippendale's. I was a stripper there."
My eyes registered surprise.
"No! Really?"
Sean's chest puffed out like a peacock.
"Yeah. Those were great times. There were girls sticking money in my pants, trying to cop a feel of the boys."
"I thought most male strippers were gay," I said innocently.
Gee, I felt so bratty. It was great.
His ruddy face turned purple and he grabbed a handful of my crowning glory, snipped it off, and dropped it on my lap. While he worked in complete silence, my hair was lifted in hanks and slashed. I watched it float down onto the floor of flames. The chair went round and round, swiveling like a potter's wheel until finally, it stopped in front of the mirror where Sean stepped away to admire his work of art.
"Voila!"
I liked the cut! It was short, spiky, and had attitude.
"Tanya's going to like this," he said with pride.
"Yes, I like it," said Tanya who was suddenly standing behind us.
As she swiveled the chair so that I faced her, my heart was beating fast.
"Call me when you are ready to talk about coloring your hair red. With those green eyes and fair skin..."
Her voice trailed off as she ran her fingers through it then looked into my eyes, straight to my soul. We hugged tightly and promised to get in touch soon.
It was a pivotal summer. I continued to write smut, but it took a decidedly darker tone. As my exposure to different permutations increased, so did the variety of characters and plots. The heroine(s) in the stories explored domination, submission, sadism, and masochism.
Then, I met an online master who schooled me with discussions, tasks, and then, training. For example, I learned why I get a rush and very wet between my legs when humiliated in certain ways. I came to embrace pain, because through it, I experienced a type of euphoria that made sexual orgasm an accidental bonus. He was handed temporary power, domination over me, in exchange for making me do things I didn't want to do. The acceptance of submission is doing those things because I need to. It really is hard to explain. This type of play became a need and the urge to pursue it, persistent.
The domme's revelation fermented ideas for stories. The female dominants that were spawned resembled the mysterious and imperious Tanya. Picturing those long legs standing over a helpless me, painting my backside with a flogger gave me the shivers. I'd drift and then find my hands in my panties instead of the keyboard.
I needed some help to process this journey and acquire more knowledge. As luck would have it, Tanya and I ran into each other at the grocery store and agreed that we were due for a reunion. While dispatching emails like peashooters, I shared with her that my writings have included elements of BDSM. Next thing I know, she called me on the phone.
"Nik, if I admit something to you, will you keep it to yourself?"
"Of course!"
"In my other life, before I became a wife and mother, I was a Domme."
I was too speechless to answer.
"Nik? Are you there?"
"I'm here."
"Did I freak you out?"
My heart whispered 'submissive.' My mind heard the whisper.
"No." I felt a grin spreading across my face. "You made my day."
We made an appointment for lunch on Tuesday. She ordered me to show up without my panties and wearing a skirt. I got a dizzy feeling. Was she serious or playing with me?
I dawdled around the house and procrastinated until the last minute. There were butterflies in my stomach. There were three outfits on the bed and I couldn't up my mind. The clock was ticking. Finally, I decided on a tank top, fitted skirt and little heels...AND, of course, no panties.
Oops, I was going to be late. Would she would be annoyed enough to spank me? I was wet at the thought of receiving discipline in one form or another as I raced to the café. Would there be a telltale spot on my skirt?
It was twenty minutes past our appointed time and she wasn't there. My cell phone was still on the charger! I felt remorse. Was she was playing mind games with me? Did I engineer my fate? God, what should I do?
If Tanya was a real domme, she had me by the short hairs already. Oh, wait. I didn't have any! My bearded clam was denuded with laser treatments last year. She'd SEE that, would she? I'm jumping to conclusions. Nevertheless, the off-chance possibility of further humiliation made my hoo-hoo throb.
As I sat in the cafe, a trembling bundle nerves, the door opened. In walked the tall, thin, wisp of a woman who approached to wrap her bony arms around me in a gentle hug. Flowing red hair and dressed all in black, she carried a heavy, black, leather purse with bullet sized silver grommets. She was a commanding presence.
"You are late, missy."
"Yes, I am. There was no gas in the car."
"You sound like a kid whose dog ate his homework," she laughed.
Tanya sat down across from me and we ordered lunch.
"What are you wearing under your skirt?"
"I...uh..." Oh, how I stammered and turned a million shades of red. "Nothing."
"Nothing, MA'AM," she said correcting me.
Ma'am smiled coldly as she ordered me to lift the hem of my skirt and spread my legs.
"Your actions were disrespectful and further instances will not be tolerated."
I nodded apologetically.
