Ultimate Sacrifice

I made the ultimate sacrifice to my Masters.

It has been a long time coming. And Master Tyrone has requested I make this change for several years.

Yes, Doms often form their desire for us subs to make changes as requests. Master Tyrone requested often but didn’t insist.

Master Tyrone and I negotiated, and I conceded to a portion being modified. In the last few months, I became increasingly dissatisfied with that modification, and on my own, I moved toward changing back to the way I originally looked.

I was more frustrated than pleased that I regained part of me. I didn’t like the way I looked. Master Tyrone’s comments were not derogatory. He was pleased, and I looked like he wanted, but I’ve balked at the term.

It wasn’t until after his long time friend, and my long time client and impact play partner became my Master that they both sat me down and insisted I make this sacrifice.

They explained their goals for me. I wasn’t surprised, and I’m on board with the majority of them.

Master Michael sat me in a chair, facing the hotel window. Sun shone bright, giving him the best light. He handed me a piece of paper with “Haircut for Master Tyrone, 2024” scribbled across it.

He took a few pictures, moving around my body, making sure to get all angles. He took the sign out of my hands and set it and the camera on the desk.

With his back to me, he picked something off the table, and turning he came toward me with a pair of scissors in his hand. My breath hitched. This was actually happening.

And I had agreed to it.

His fingers running over my scalp relaxed me. The few passes reminded me of the night before when I kneeled between his thighs, his hard shaft in my mouth while threaded his fingers through my hair, gathering it in his hand, squeezing and pulling. For a while I wondered if was going to miss this part of me.

The reprieve ended too soon. He gathered hair between two fingers, and with a snip a few strands fell on my chest. He continued snipping and dropping my hair on the garbage bag covering me until he was satisfied.

Moving to the desk, he set the scissors down and picked up the camera. He snapped one picture after the other. As he moved on to the next stage, I glanced down my body and the floor. Strands ranging from light, medium, and dark blonde to dark brown were a contrast to the black bags they lay on.

I didn’t want to look as he moved toward me, but I couldn’t help it. He held my hair trimmer in his hand. I bit my lip. Not only was I complicit in my own undoing, but after being so unhappy with my hair for the last four months, I welcomed this change.

The object in his hand hummed to life. With slow methodical strokes, he removed the rest of my hair. The camera came out and more pictures were taken.

A huge part of me was happy to have that mess off my head. When Master Tyrone and I compromised, several years ago I got an undercut. I shaved the left side of my head down to the scalp, from the hairline at my face to beyond just above my ear, and less than an inch past it up to where I part my hair.

Originally, the right side had a regular cut. My hair ending just past my right ear. Soon, Master Tyrone insisted on an undercut on the right side. I asked my hairdresser to shave a two-inch wide swath at the hairline around, above, and behind my ear. The layered strands ended just above my ear hiding that undercut. My bangs reached to the halfway point of my ear.

By the first of the year, I stopped trimming the undercut and in February I had my stylist shorten the right side, shape up the left side, letting it grow out. The top and right side grew faster than the undercut sides, and I wasn’t happy at all.

By April, my Masters had finished requesting, and said whoever came to see me first for me to be ready become bald.

Looking out the window, I waited. I knew not to get out of the chair until Master Michael allowed me to. He walked to the sink in our hotel room and returned. He wiped my head with wet towel, then he applied shaving cream.

Neither man had planned to let me keep even the shortest of stubble.

The stroke of the razor on my head reminded me of fingernails on a chalkboard. Well, not that bad, but I was so nervous it seemed that way. I sat as still as possible. That’s a feat in and of itself since I’m always moving.

Master Michael made several swipes, then move toward the sink to clean the razor. Once again he was meticulous. He shaved a section, adding cream when needed, and strode back to the sink to wash off the hair.

A half hour later, ninety minutes after he’d begun removing my hair from my head, he was done.

I had my first fit of panic and refused to look him in the eye, refused to look into the camera lens. I was humiliated. He couldn’t possibly like the way I looked. I shook my head, and turned away from him several times.

It was’t until he led me to the mirror, with him standing behind me, hands on my shoulders, and saw the way he looked at me that I felt sexy in his eyes.