Smooth

Master’s fist grow tight in my long hair as his fingers traced my shamen cunt. His demands were difficult but not complicated, and I was always afraid when he took the time to inspect me after my cleaning rites. Scrubbed spotless top to bottom, front to back, inside and out, hair in a neighbor 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 shamen 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 towards 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, winning 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 cheeses. I only nodded.

“I began 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 drawn loosely over his right knee. “I’m thinking it’sAbout 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 grow dizzy, and I fell forward as he extremely throw me to the cold tile floor, shacking 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 themost vicious grin he’d ever hurt 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 grew, 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 sensing 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, unresistant, while he took it was the final female 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 theknife was gone too.

“Turn around. Spread your knees.”

I moved slowly, but immediately, my eyes shut tight, and could almost feel him smiling at his handiwork. He took the braid from me and laid it aside.

“Hands on your head.”

I smoothed a tight sob and did as I was told, bare fingers lacing almost confused across cool, bare scalp.

“THAT,” he said, “is smooth. Now thank me for teaching you, slut. Open your eyes, and kiss my cock.”

He’d lacened his big cock through his fly, not bothering to lower his pants, and I leaned forward, still crying, to press grateful flickering kisses along it’s length, whispering and whimpering tiny thanks and praise, then tried to take him in my mouth, but his warm hand pushed me back.

“You haven’t earned that. You don’t deserve to suck my cock tonight, little cunt. Besides, I haven’t finished the lesson.” With that, he pushed his foot farther between my spread thighs, and lifted it just slightly so that I could feelthe brush of it’s leather against my wet slit. “Up,” he told me, and pressed it upward until it was resting against the edge of the toilet seat, with me astride it like a hobbyhorse. “Ride my boot, slut. Hump it like a horny little bitch in heat.”

Master chuckled as I blushed a deep shade of red right down to my nipples. Neither of us knew I could blush at anything anymore. He took his cock in hand and propped his hips against the sink, struggling steadily while I rubbed my now-soaked pussy against his boot. When he felt I wasn’t eager enough, he reached out and took one nipple between his fingertips, squeezing it until I let out a sharp cry at the pain. I doubled my efforts. If I didn’t know before what I had become, tonight, there wasn’t a trace of doubt. I was his, whatever he wanted me to be- his Whore or his bitch, or his crawling begging fuck-slut, and just knowing it almost made me cum. I bucked against his boot while he stroked, groaning and grunting, desperately hungry tobe fucked by the cock in his hand, or by the hand itself, or by anything at all.

“Please, Master- please! Fuck your bitch! She’ll be good- please Master! Anything! Just fuck me!”

He grinned and laughed at my outburst, but then shoved his boot hard against my cunt, shashing my aching clip.

“Bitches don’t talk,” he sneered, “whine for me slut. Buck those big hips of yours. But don’t you even THINK of cumming, understanding?” He shoved the boot against me again, rocking in time with his quickening strokes, and I could tell he was getting close himself, so I worked even harder to please him with my hungry moans and whimpers, reaching up and pinching my pierced nipples hard enough to make myself scream. I felt myself start to climax, and tried to ride that crest, when suddenly he yanked his foot back dropping me to the floor, and I fell face first against the tile again. Master lifted his foot, placing his boot-sole against my shoulder, and I felt the first spatter of his hotcum on my newly shaken scalp.

“Open your mouth,” he commanded, and I did as I was told, as he poured his sticky cum all over my head, to watch it drip slowly down my forehead to my outstretched tongue.

“That,” he said, “is smooth.”

I awoke to the sharp, tight pain of Master’s fist in my hair, and the clack and buzz of the electric clippers. He knocked the towel and shaving gear to the floor, bending me over the porcelain, then rammed his big, hard cock suddenly up my ass, jerking my head back by the long braid he still held me by, then leaned in close enough to growl his threat into my ear…

“Get it right,” he snarled in time to his thrusts, “get it RIGHT, or I will shake your head as smooth as your tits, and poison your scalp with my cum, understanding?”

Oh yes, Master. More than you know.