It was mirrored. Clive's private workstation, that is. I'm talking paneled, and roofed. It was most definitely a room to get the hell out of if there was an earth tremor. It was a self-conscious person's nightmare, and a narcissist's wet dream.

He led me by my hair (and believe me, the significance of this did not escape me) to the back of the shop, and through a heavy, dark door. That and the floor were the only parts of the room structure that did not reflect. Well, I lie. The floor did reflect, but darkly, because it was glossy black tile.

"Have a seat, Precious. We need to have a little chat before anything gets started." He indicated the chair in front of the counter. I perched. God, that was a comfortable chair! I would have liked to have one of those for my house. It was a stylist's chair, but obviously custom made.

To start with it was extra wide, wider than most armchairs. I actually had space between my legs and the chair sides. You don't know how nice that is after years of trying to squeeze an Anna Nicole Smith body into Kate Moss sized chairs at the beauty shop. It was comfortably padded, upholstered in black leather well, duh. The footrest was another solid, padded section. In fact, it looked kind of like a hinged massage table. That gave me a clue.

Clive stood before me, tapping one foot, arms crossed. "First, let me explain that I don't have to do this. My business is quite successful, I don't have to cut any more, but I choose to."

"So this is sort of a hobby?"

"Oh, much more than that. It's an obsession. I'm not ashamed to admit it. I'm not exactly a vanilla sort of person, as perhaps you've noticed. I have my pleasures, and this is one of them. Does that bother you?"

"No. Seems harmless enough."

His lips curled. "That part of it, anyway. Before you decide to turn yourself over to me, you have to know the rules. If they aren't acceptable, then I'll turn you over to one of my girls, go back to my office, cry, and beat off."

"Damn, and I thought I was direct."

"I'm a laser beam, sweetheart. Rule One: If I cut your hair, you come to me first for anything, anything else you need done later. I own you in that matter. Two: You do not question what I do. I'll listen to suggestions and act on them if I agree, but always remember that I know what's best for you. Three: I'm going to be sexual with you. You smell like a virgin, so nothing that would endanger that. But I will get my rocks off."

I sat back. "Is this standard procedure for all your personal clients?"

"No, dear. You see, I can usually control myself on the standard preps, but I'd rupture myself if I tried to hold back working with your mane."

"You said I didn't have any choice in this, and now you're asking me to agree?"

He shrugged. "There's always a choice. Though I might mention," his eyes narrowed. "I'd be very unhappy if you tried to cry off now. And there is a lock on that door."

Good thing I was already sitting down. I don't know, maybe it's because I'd been forewarned, being able to tell which way he slanted right off the bat, but it didn't freak me like that sudden grope by Diana had. I'd still have my maidenhead? Well... He was awful good-looking. And I wondered exactly what sex and a haircut would be like.

"Okay."

He smiled again, came closer, and kissed my cheek. "Thank you, love. I just knew you were a compassionate sort. Now, relax, and let me work my magic."

He went over to a free standing wooden cabinet, and opened it. The inside was lined with hooks. I could see a stunning variety of straps, cords, and chains dangling in profusion. He studied the selection, tapping his chin with one finger. "No, no, no. Hmm. Ah, yes." He reached in and removed something, then came back to the chair.

"Here we are." He displayed several thick, wide straps of black leather. "What do you think, pet?"

"What do I think about what?" I asked nervously.

He made a tisking noise. "Oh, that's right. I forgot Rule Four. You're going to be strapped down."

"Why?"

Again the narrow eyes, and the smile. "Because I like it that way. It will show me that you trust me implicitly. In any case, it can be quite nice for you, too. Feel." He brushed the straps against my cheek. The leather was thin and supple, very smooth. "See? Soft as butter. I use only the best. Now just relax, and let Daddy do what he wants."

As he spoke, he pressed my right wrist against the chair arm, back down, and lashed it there with one of the strips. Now would be the time to do something, but I just watched.

"That's a good girl." He rubbed my forearm in approval, fingers tickling over my inner elbow. Then he repeated the process on my left side. He stood back and studied the effect, then got two more straps and repeated the action, this time strapping my upper arms to the frame. When he was done, I tugged experimentally at the bonds. Not even a fraction of an inch of give, but they didn't pinch.

Again his fingers grazed the inside of my forearm. I shivered. "Yes, I thought I noticed that. I think we've found an erogenous zone." He bent, and began tracing his hands up and down my arms on both sides, barely touching. He leaned down and placed his mouth right in the crook of my right elbow, and began to softly lick and bite the sensitive skin.

My nipples got stiff almost immediately. I'm not kidding you. The guy hadn't even touched anything that would be covered by a bathing suit. What was this? Was I going to have to wear long sleeved shirts for the rest of my life, or risk embarrassing myself in public? He switched sides and worked on the other for a bit. I felt the urge to squirm.

He stood up and smiled at me. "That's a good start. Now, that glorious hair of yours." He put his hands in it again, lifting it, feeling the weight. "I will give you a little say in what I do. How much do you want taken off?" I managed to hold my thumb and forefinger about two inches apart. He frowns in disapproval. "Is that all you want cut off?"

"No. That's about what I want left."

His eyes go wide, and he shudders, hands clenching. "Oh God, I just got hard! Do you really mean it? Don't tease me."

"Yes, I mean it."

Clive leaned over and kissed my forehead. His voice was marveling. "And it isn't even Christmas or my birthday. I must have been very, very good in a previous life."

"So you can do it?"

"Oh, yes, lamb. I can most assuredly do it. Hold on to those chair arms, love. You're going to lose your back support for a bit." He worked a lever, and the seat back lowered. "Just sit tight." He went to the counter again, and returned with a pair of large, shiny barber sheers. He also brought a long cardboard box, which he balanced in my lap.

Then Clive took off his shirt, peeling it up over his head. I didn't bother not to stare. Anyway, with the mirrors, there wasn't anywhere I could have looked and not seen him. All the beer bellied Bubbas I knew back home who sneered at 'fairy hairdressers' would have swallowed their dips of Red Man. Clive wasn't big, but everything he had was taut, hard, and smooth, and my nipples weren't the only ones in the room reacting like it was a cold day with a breeze blowing. He was seriously buff. I congratulated The Powers That Be on having mercy on my sex by not making him gay. I'm of the opinion that all pretty people should be contractually obligated to be at least bi, so the most people possible can have a little hope.

Clive used another lever to lower the chair a little. He put one knee on the seat back, moving up close behind me. "Just lean on me, pet. I'll hold you up safely."

I leaned back gingerly, but Clive was quite solid and sturdy. Ooh, wait a minute... Damn, he was solid. I could watch him in the mirror as he knelt behind me, still caressing my hair. He sighed. "I don't know whether to do it in bits, to make it last, or just grab it into one big bunch and whack it off." He met my eyes in the mirror, and smiled. "Oh, don't worry, dear. I generally favor the long, slow pleasures myself."

He selected a section of hair and stroked it, smoothing it through his fingers. He opened the scissors, then slid the tress between them. I felt the cold steel of the blades kiss my scalp, then he moved them back a bit. He closed the handles slowly. There was an odd purring sound, and I could feel each strand part. Finally he was holding the severed lock in his hand. He bent around me and carefully placed the hair in the box, then started separating another hank of hair.

Again there was the slide of scissors, the tension, the rasp of the sharp edges slicing through the strands, and the feel of release as they parted. Then another handful of hair was carefully placed in the box.

Clive watched his hands as he positioned the scissors. Then, as he began to cut, he would look up and catch my eyes in our reflections as he slowly severed the hair. After the third slice, he gripped my shoulder, and pressed against me. I felt a warm firmness prod my back. I stared at him in the mirror. He didn't say anything, I didn't say anything. He humped against me slowly a few times, then wound another swatch of hair around his hand and started again.

Gradually the weight on my head lessened. The box on my lap filled. Slice. Pump. Snip. Hunch. Weird. But very, very stimulating. Clive might be on the fringe of the fringe, so to speak, but he definitely knew what he liked, and he was good at involving the other party.

Finally all that was left was about three inches of fluff. He stood down, raised the chair arm again, and took the box from my lap. He fondled the contents lovingly for a moment, bringing up a handful to sniff it. I said, "Do I want to know what's going to happen to that?"

His eyes were dreamy. "You probably can guess. But eventually I'm going to braid it into a nice length of rope, and it's going in my personal treasure chest. The one that's only opened for very special friends." He grinned. "Maybe at one of your later sessions you can experience what it's like to be tied up with your own hair."

Okay, I shivered.

He swathed me in a plastic poncho, wrapping a towel around my neck, then turned the chair, and reclined it. This time I went back with the seat, and ended up with my head over a shampoo sink. Clive ran water just the comfortable side of hot and began to shampoo my hair, working up a thick, slithery lather. I sniffed. "No scent?"

"Certainly not. We don't want any artificial odors to interfere with the scent of natural, healthy hair."

"C'mon, Clive, using the inclusive 'we'?"

"All right, I don't. The scent of someone's hair is one of the most erotic, personal things in the world. Talk about your pheromones. I don't like it when it's disguised."

His strong fingers worked my scalp firmly, massaging as well as cleansing. Another bit of information: getting a shampoo can be a very erotic experience. I wondered why I hadn't realized it before, then decided that perhaps Fantastic Sam's and Supercuts were not suited to intimacy. Rinse, condition, rinse. He wrapped my head in a towel and tousled it vigorously, wiping away excess water to leave my hair damp.

I was astonished when the fine toothed comb glided smoothly through my shortened locks, with never a catch or a snarl. Clive lifted a few fast drying strands, and said, "You have a good color, dear. It's not that dead brown. It's dark, but I see some red highlights in here. They should be more pronounced at this length. Now." The shears this time were smaller, lighter, sharper. "We get down to the artistry." He twirled them around his finger, like an old west sharpshooter.

He worked with the comb and scissors. Snip, snap. Measure. Snip again. He explained that he was cutting the back and sides very short, leaving me a little fullness on top. His hands were all over my head, turning it this way and that, tilting or lifting. I obeyed every touch. I never would have thought that a hair styling could be turned into a Dominant/submissive scene, but the complete control he was using...

He used a pair of clippers to clean up and even my neckline. When he put away the clippers, he spent several minutes stroking the back of my neck, feeling the contrast of the smooth skin at the nape, and the tiny prickles of bristles higher up, at the hairline.

Clive knelt in the chair, facing me, straddling my legs, and worked on the front of my hair. He leaned against me, letting me feel his weight. I was getting flushed in the face by now. Tiny, delicate snips, tweezing off fluffs of hair hardly bigger than snowflakes. Why did the term 'tease' come to mind?

I could feel the tension in him, and he was breathing heavily, too. I managed to glance down without moving my head. The leather of his pants was thin, soft, and stretched tight over a massive erection. Damn, that had to be almost painful, constricted like that.

He'd finished snipping, and laid aside the comb and shears. I glanced up at him. "Are we through?"

"Not quite." He put his palms on either side of my head and pulled my face against his belly.

"Uh, Clive. I don't think I'm ready for what you want," I mumbled. I mean, I was turned on, but oral sex for the first time tied to a chair surrounded by all those mirrors? No pressure.

"Of course you aren't," he soothed. "You're not ready to dive in, pardon the expression, head first. That can come later. Right now, I need you to bite me."

"Bite?" I said stupidly.

One hand held the back of my head. The other reached down and found the bulge of his hard-on beneath the leather and began to squeeze and stroke. "Bite. Lick. Kiss. Nibble. Just do it for me, sweetheart."

This I could do. I looked at his ridged abdomen, the shallow cup of his navel, the trickle of light, shiny hair that ran down under his waistband, trying to decide where to start.

My hair might be a lot shorter, but he still managed to get a grip in it. His voice was as soft as that flesh a little south of my chin was hard. "Scribe, precious. Now."

If you don't remember the motto that used to run under the old RCA Victor logo of the dog sitting in front of the Victrola with it's head cocked, look it up. Or maybe I'll have mercy on you and tell you later. Anyway, paraphrase it. I licked Clive's belly right where one of the 'cans' in the six pack started. He shivered, and his hand started to move faster.

Experimentation time. I started doing everything I could imagine with my lips, tongue, and teeth, just staying above the belt. He seemed to really like it when I dipped my tongue into his belly button. I tried to bite, like he's requested, but I was afraid of actually hurting someone like Clive. But I managed to catch him hard enough to leave a bruise just above his hip, and I decided that the shouted, "Oh, goddam!" was approval rather than anger.

He was undulating now, thrusting into his own caresses. I could see in the mirror that a pink flush had risen in his pale cheeks, had in fact spread down his throat. His head was back, eyes closed, and he was gritting his teeth, moaning. "Close, so close. Just a little more..."

Suddenly both hands were in my hair, and I found myself shoved down as he pushed up to meet me. My face ended up pressed against his straining, bulging fly. The hot smell of sex and leather almost made me pass out. "Bite!" When I hesitated, he snarled. "That isn't a request, you cock tease. Bite!"

I bit. I got a mouthful of hot, hard filled leather. Immediately he lunged against me, and I could feel a pulse vibrate through my mouthful. He made a sound like nothing I'd ever heard before. But I could make out the words, "DON'T LET GO! DON'T YOU FUCKING DARE LET GO! Wait, Wait. Wait....."

He bent over me, embracing me, swallowing me in his arms while he heaved and shuddered. At last he went still, just holding me. I dared to spit out what I had clenched in my teeth, and he groaned.

Ohmigawd, why do I go out without my brain? I'm tied down, he has big, sharp scissors at arms reach, and I just bit his cock. I wonder if I'll make the headlines?

Clive sighed. His voice was thick. "It's time's like this that I wish I smoked, because it really does seem to call for a cigarette."

Note: For those too young to remember, the old RCA motto was 'His master’s voice.'