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Subject: "The Hair Cut" (M/F, spanking, angst)
From: bookbabe@asssville.com (Michele )
Date: 2 May 1999 16:52:45 -0700

The Hair Cut

copyright bookbabe@bigfoot.com

* * *

I like to think I'm a creature of impulse, full of spontaneity, often overwhelmed by the joy of living and an adventurous spirit and lust for life. All those cliches. Really, nothing could be further from the truth. I don't think I've ever committed a truly spontaneous act in my life. My most seemingly impulsive decisions are actually very deliberate, my moments of spontaneity generally a reaction to a button that's been pushed.

Sometimes I can be a "cut off my nose to spite my face" kind of woman.

That's why I got my hair cut so short.

Really, it wasn't very long to begin with. It fell in a layered bob that brushed my chin and I could almost put it in a pony-tail. Almost. I've worn my hair shorter before, but I was enjoying this new length, and even thinking of trying to grow it longer, so that it reached my shoulders.

Until last week, when you told me how much you preferred long hair on women.

So, what's a self-respecting, autonomous, makes- decisions-to-please-herself-and-not-her-lover feminist to do? It seemed so obvious to me that there was a not- so subtle message in your off-hand comment; obviously you thought that I would look better with long hair. In fact, hours of thought on the topic revealed a further, deeply coded message: if you preferred me with long hair, you must be unhappy with my appearance.

Further introspection revealed the solution to this problem: I would get my hair cut.

So yesterday I had my hair cut very, very short. Mia Farrow in "Rosemary's Baby" short. Demi Moore two days after she met the electric razor in "G.I. Jane" short. Well, not quite that short, but you get the idea. "That'll show him," I thought smugly to myself, though in all honesty I stared at my new 'do with a little sadness. Months of growing out those layers lay in an untidy heap on the salon floor.

As I drove to your place I frequently ran my fingers through my hair, catching a glimpse of my shorn locks in the rear view mirror. I'd forgotten that my ears were so big. Oh well, I consoled myself. The short cut emphasizes my eyes, and will be very cool this summer. And it'll grow out soon enough. In, oh, a year or so.

Letting myself into your house I felt my stomach clench, wondering what your reaction to my new hair style would be. Anger? Disappointment? Indifference? I felt strangely excited by the first two possibilities, scared of the latter.

I found you in the back yard, busy at the barbeque, a glass of wine on the table beside you. Looking up you smiled, then appeared a little puzzled. I waited for the anger, but none was forthcoming. Instead, approaching me you pulled me into your arms and gave me a tight hug and a long kiss. "Hi honey," you smiled at me. Stroking my hair lightly you commented, "I like this new style. It's very flattering."

Thanking you for the compliment I nestled into your shoulder, thinking that I should be relieved that you weren't angered by my hair cut, but inwardly I felt confused and disappointed by your reaction.

We ate dinner on the patio, lingering outside as the sun began to set and the air cooled, enjoying good wine and even better conversation. Even when you're at your most demanding I find you relaxing to be around- easy to talk to, funny, open.

"So- do you really like my hair style?" I asked in puzzlment.

Smiling at me you replied, "I already told you I do, Michele."

I looked a little doubtful. "Last week you told me you don't like short hair on women, Jess." I toyed with my wine glass.

Sudden understanding flickered across your face. "Let's put aside my preferences for the moment, okay? How do you want to wear your hair?"

"Well, I've almost always worn it short." I fell silent, not sure where to go from there.

You nodded. "Didn't you tell me a couple of months ago that you wanted to grow it out?"

The wine glass became more interesting to look at. "Maybe. I forget."

The expression on your face was indecipherable. "You forget?"

I tried to keep the sulkiness out of my voice and failed. "So I changed my mind, that's all." Sipping on my wine I tried to quell the nervousness I was suddenly feeling.

You sighed for a moment and stared at the sky, silently asking the gods for patience, I'm sure. "Let's approach this another way, okay? Why did you get your hair cut so short, Michele? And think about your answer, hmmn?"

"Because I wanted to. Isn't that reason enough?" I wasn't sure where this desire to irritate and avoid was coming from, but I felt compelled to go with it.

Abruptly you stood up, and said, very evenly and quietly,"Let's go inside, Michele."

That tone of voice always does funny things to me. My stomach muscles go all tight, my throat suddenly becomes dry, and my hands will shake. At once I feel reduced to a young girl. It's a sensation I've never been able to sort out- simultaneously I resent and am excited by it. Undoubtedly I also resent my excitement. I'm a complicated woman.

"I think I'll stay out here a while longer," I countered, wondering what you'd do next. Secretly I hoped you'd grab me by the arm and drag me into the house.

Shaking your head you responded, "please yourself, Michele," and walked into the house, leaving me alone in the back yard.

What a mess. If I followed you inside I'd be compromising my independence. Wouldn't I? But how long was I supposed stay out here? What amount of time was an appropriate measure of my autonomy? All of these questions were complicated by the fact that what I wanted most to do was join you.

Of course, the longer I remained on the patio, the more difficult it became to go inside. I sipped at my wine and tried to muster my courage. Really, what was I so afraid of? What was I trying to avoid?

15 minutes passed, but my nervousness seemed to have increased exponentially. I was half-hoping that you'd come outside again, but I knew that you're far more patient than I am. You'd wait me out, no doubt about it, while I reduced myself to a gibbering, quivering mass of defiance and tears if I stayed by myself any longer.

Swallowing the last of my wine I rose and quietly entered the livingroom through the sliding doors of the patio. There you were, sitting on the sofa, reading. Seeing me approach you patted the space beside you, telling me, "come sit down, honey. We need to talk."

I felt that ominous feeling in the pit of my stomach again and clasped my hands together so you wouldn't see them shake. "Okay, Jess." The smile on my face felt very tight as I sat beside you.

Turning towards me you cupped my chin in your hand, so that my downcast face was tilted upward. "What's the problem, Michele? What's upsetting you?"

I shrugged away the question even as I nestled closer to you, hoping to distract. "I'm not upset, Jess."

Your voice was suddenly very clipped. "Michele, I'll ask you one last time. Why did you get your hair cut?"

"I don't know. I just felt like it." Even though I knew I was pushing things, I didn't feel capable of articulating the problem.

Suddenly I found myself pulled over your lap, my legs half on the floor, my head buried in cushions.

Your hand descended sharply, and I felt its sting through my cotton skirt and panties as you spanked me, hard, four smacks on each cheek.

"Why did you get your hair cut, Michele?" Each word was emphasized by another spank.

Silence.

Your hand continued to rise and fall, concentrating on the underswell of my ass. Again the refrain: "why did you get your hair cut, Michele?"

I buried my head in my arms and refused to reply.

With an amused sigh you tugged at the hem of my skirt, bunching it at my waist, then continued the interrogation.

You spanked me hard and fast, your palm flat, knowing full well that this was the quickest way to break down my defenses. My bottom was starting to burn and ache, and I clenched my buttocks and wriggled.

Concentrating on the sensitive underswell of each cheek, you placed some well-aimed swats and warned me, "relax your cheeks, Michele." With a strangled moan I complied, hissing at the pain.

For the next five minutes you spanked me steadily, your hand landing over and over in a quick, heavy rhythm. You're merciless when you concentrate on my thighs, and against my will I reached back, trying to protect myself.

"Do you want me to get the hairbrush?"

"Notonyourfuckinglife," I thought to myself. I quickly pulled my hand away, hiding it beneath my breasts so I wouldn't be tempted to protect myself again.

As my spanking progressed, your unspoken question hung in the air, waiting for my response. I knew that I would wear out before your hand did; it was only a matter of time. But still I found myself unable to talk honestly about my fears, and understanding my inhibitions you spanked me harder, trying to break down the wall of my silence.

When you spank me for our mutual pleasure I'll usually drift and bathe in the sensations evoked. It's like swimming in salt water- desire stings me, keeps me buoyant, keeps me afloat in the pain. I lose connection with a sense of time and place as my connection to you is strengthened. Often I see our longing for each other as pieces of a puzzle; we fit, tongue in groove, your need to punish and pleasure me the missing piece in the mosaic of my sexuality.

But sometimes we lose this connection, if only momentarily. Insecurity, anger, fear- any of these emotions may create a wall between us, a barrier that only a punishment spanking can break down.

And so you spanked me far harder than if my pleasure were your goal. You ignored my pleading sobs, my writhing attempts to evade my spanking, forcing me to concentrate on each blow, each new source of hurt. There were no soft words or teasing touches to blur the edges of the pain; you were resolute and uncompromising. And patient. Waiting for the edges of my silence to crumble.

Four sharp cracks to the tops of my thighs left me crying. The tears started to trickle down my face as I felt something, deep within me, soften and give way. My anger and fear surfaced as I gasped, "sometimes I get scared by how much I want to please you."

If I could have, I would have run from the room at that moment, but your hand kept me securely pinned across your lap. Instead, I buried my face in my hands, embarrassed to have revealed my insecurities. Christ, I hate appearing weak.

For a few moments you were quiet, your hand still on my back. The silence hurt; it seemed to confirm my worst fears. Maybe you don't like me the way I am- And how could you possibly like this insecure me, seemingly without confidence?

Slowly you pulled up my panties, then turned me on your lap. Embarrassed, I shakily wiped the tears from my eyes, kept my face downcast even as I nestled into your shoulder.

"So, let me get this straight. You got your hair cut because I told you I like long hair on women?"

I nodded woefully.

"Even though you said you wanted to try growing your hair longer?"

"uh huh."

"So, where's the conflict, then? I like long hair, you want to grow your hair longer. We're both happy, right?"

"But what if I grew it out and you liked it and I didn't? What would I do then? If I got it cut, maybe I'd make you unhappy. And then I'd feel bad. But if I kept it long, I'd be compromising my independence." I knew I sounded totally crazed, but there was a logic to this notion, if only I could find it.

You laughed out loud, chest heaving. "Cut it off, color it purple. Do whatever makes you happy. I like you for you, Michele. Long hair is a non-essential bonus. I just keep thinking about what I could do with a pony tail in my grip." You looked momentarily wistful and lusty.

Tousling my shorn locks you leered at me. "Did I ever tell you how hot Demi Moore looked when she shaved her head?"

"Damn, you're smart," I thought, as I wrapped my arms around your neck, lowering your head towards mine for a kiss.

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