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K R I S T E N' S C O L L E C T I O N
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WARNING!
This text file contains sexually explicit
material. If you do not wish to read this
type of literature, or you are under age,
PLEASE DELETE THIS FILE NOW!!!!
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This work is copyrighted to the author © 2009. Please
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Bad, Bad, Boy
By S.MegansC1994 (address withheld)
***
A girl gets a haircut. (FF, hair-fetish)
***
The cat cruised across the lawn, a lion's stroll as it
surveyed it's domain, but then froze as a shadowed form
passed across the glitter of the kitchen window.
Alisha turned the mail on the kitchen counter-top over
and spread it under her idle fingers. She never
actually read the mail - yet another of the chores she
usually left to her 'Significant Other', like replacing
light bulbs or the empty toilet rolls. She stopped her
casual disarray of the mail and fingered a pink
envelope that was actually addressed by hand... and
carried real stamps.
With a tinge of guilt she slid the envelope out from
the untidy stack, and looked for a return address.
None, but she saw, it was already opened. So she took
it out and began to read it, with pure guilt now
flushing her cheeks. Hastily she pushed the folded
sheet back into the envelope, her face as pink as the
paper. What was she doing --reading her lover's mail.
She paused, then slid the sheet out again, and again
began to read the strange letter.
Jealousy -- unfounded by the letter's contents, but
real for all that -- now battled with her guilty
curiosity. It was obviously a woman's hand, simply
signed with formal regards. The paper still held a
perfume, alien and yet tantalizing Alisha with a
further surge of jealous anger. But the contents were
innocuous, if very strange.
"CREWCUT: Flat at the front top, possible as far back
as the center of the ears, the rest (sides and back)
clipped to follow the contours of the head.
FLATTOP: The entire top cut flat, the sides and back
cut close, and maybe also flat to create a "boxy" look
on at the top.
BUZZCUT or BUTCH: Hair is buzzed to the same length all
over, 1/2" or less.
BRUSHCUT: So short the hair stands on end, (clipped
with the 1" attachment), but still very fluffy, enough
hair left to run your fingers through although just
barely.
HIGH & TIGHT: Short clippered hair (either flat or
"butch" but less than 1/2" for sure), with the sides
and back clipped to bare stubble up to about 2" above
the tops of the ears, where the flat sides of the skull
begin to curve into the rounded top..."
There was more, along the same lines but then her heart
thumped as she read..
"...several of my readers have asked for the same
guidance on getting a loved one to crop off their hair.
All I can say is that love works best explain your
needs to 'your sweet Alisha' as you call her - you
obviously have a solid relationship as your tender
feelings and caring for HER reaction show. Ask her to
give you her hair - let her offer you the sacrifice in
a 'giving' moment. Most of these 'boyish' styles
look..."
Alisha heart thumped, the only motion in her stiffened
body until she gasped for air and sat down. Her
trembling fingers slid the paper back into the pink
envelope, and she sat stunned and reached out for an
understanding. Her attempt was defeated, but she grew
calmer. She took up the letter and read it through
again.
What did it mean?
A dawning realization nagged at her, as she thought
about the many comments of her lover -- always on the
subject of shorter hair styles -- whenever Alisha
returned from the Beauty Salon. The causal -- but now
suddenly and deeply significant -- compliments on the
short cuts sported by other women they sometimes saw.
These never failed to generate the little sparks of
jealousy and resentment in Alisha, who experienced them
anew as she sought to understand what she had read.
Alisha took up the letter yet again, turned and crossed
to the living room and, tucking her legs under her in
an enchanting poise that always pleased her mate, read
the words again. And again.
She looked up from the pink page and stared at the
wall, her fingers tangling her dark, thick and shiny
straight hair, in her typical pose of deep thought. She
grew conscious of her hand twirling the side piece of
her hair into an untidy ringlet and pulled her hand to
her lap suddenly, as though her tresses were scalding.
She crossed her hands in her lap, and wriggled in
discomfort. The letter, she had concluded, was a reply
to questions asked of the writer about HER... and,
puzzling, about short haircuts for men. And how to
persuade her to crop her own locks off to one of the
described, brutally short styles.
But why; what did it mean?
"...So short the hair stands on end, (clipped with the
1" attachment), but still very fluffy, enough hair left
to run your fingers through although just barely.
HIGH & TIGHT: Short clippered hair (either flat or
"butch" but less than 1/2" for sure), with the sides
and back clipped to bare stubble up to..."
Such strangely clear terms. Such deep detail, almost...
obsessive, excited... almost a sexual use of words she
realized. Alisha flushed. Her lover was kinky.
She rejected the thought as unworthy and cruel. But it
came back to nibble at her consciousness, flooded up
into her thoughts as a strong answer. She turned again
to the letter, then out of her childhood came her
Mother's voice chastising her for eavesdropping, for
peeping -- for treading on another's privacy. She
untangled her long legs and stood up in one fluid
movement, to cross to the kitchen, to re-insert the
envelope among the stack of bills and circulars, hasty
and guilty.
"Nosy-peepers never find good of themselves."
She actually 'heard' her mom's voice as she stood
there, looking down in her still stunned state at the
pink corner peeping from under the junk. She felt a
protest bubble in her heart. It was not her fault, not
her wrong - the 'bad' thing she had found was not her
sin. A perversion. A tear welled in each corner of her
brown eyes. Then a hiccup of surprised amusement... who
was she to call Dan a pervert, her fantasies drove them
both. Her mind confused, whirling and spinning
exhausted her, she returned to the sofa and cuddled her
feet under her and sat. Thinking.
What did it all mean?
The letter's pulling power was almost tactile, calling
her, wanting to fly again to her fingers. She cast a
guilty look at the clock, it was only noon, hours yet
before Dan would bounce, bubbling and cheerfully
loving, through the front door. Slowly she let the pull
draw her back to the kitchen. She read again.
"Most of these 'boyish' styles look very good on a
small featured and neat head. Even if her ears were a
little prominent, they would be balanced by the
seemingly enlarged eyes and elongated neck -
particularly if "your sweet Alisha" is as pretty as you
say ! So, keep explaining your need in a loving way,
and I am sure she will understand and offer you some
gesture of love in return. Good luck!"
Boyish.
Strange choice of words. Alisha gazed out the kitchen
window, her sight, if not her attention, caught by a
red-throated blackbird at the feeding bowl on the old
oak stump. Suddenly she saw her cat behind the elephant
ear plant, back arched, and she leant forward to the
window glass to rap out a warning to both bird and
stalker. The cat sat back and began to wash his paws
and behind his ears as though this was all that he had
in mind - the blue-black wings of the bird fluttered as
it went back to water melon seeds that Dan had laid out
on the feeder that morning.
Boyish?
The black slacks had set off her slimness nicely, she
mused. That white shirt of Dan's had bulked a bit in
them, the tails being so long, but she had smoothed out
the sight-lines, as best she could and with the heavy
'Doc-Martins' the overall effect was good. She recalled
both the surprise and the delight Dan had shown when
she had finished tucking up her shoulder length dark
hair into the baseball cap and had 'strode' into the
bedroom in her outfit. Boyish.
Their love making was almost violent on that occasion
she recalled, still watching the cat in his 'Mr. Cool'
display of unconcerned grooming in the garden. Her
fingers were in her hair again. Dan thought she was
pretty and had even told the writer so. She smiled. The
silly. What was that bit about prominent ears? Alisha
turned and crossed to the bathroom, pulling her hair
back from her ears with both hands to peer uncertain
and with a tremble of butterflies into the mirror.
The cat stopped washing and slowly hunkered down in the
long grass, and began to creep forward towards the
hungry bird.
**
Alisha's eyes grew huge as she opened them as large as
she could, her eyebrows curving darkly and the tight
elastic skin on her forehead wrinkled into three sharp
lines. Her ears were prominent, she thought. Then
argued that no, perhaps not. But she was decidedly,
firm now, 'boyish'. Her soft mouth was ever slightly
open, the two slightly prominent front teeth, large and
white, and this squareness was complimented by her neat
chin. She did have a 'neat head' after all.
She turned her head to one side and saw the dark
tresses bunched at her neck and gasped at a tiny secret
thought that popped suddenly into her mirrored musings.
Her dark hair spilled down from her slack fingers to
swing in a glistening cape over her white T-shirted
shoulders again. Alisha looked at it, her hands now at
her sides.
She swung her head sharply over her left shoulder and
back again to watch the shining hair swirl, spin, and
settle. A soft perfume was creeping into her nostrils.
She spun her dark locks again and inhaled this
fragrance as the squeaky clean cape settled, gently
releasing the smell of her shampoo. Boyish. The word
stirred the tiny secret thought again and it wriggled
and crawled, and she trembled.
She crossed to their bedroom and sat, strangely
breathless as though puffed with exertion, on the satin
covered bed. Her thoughts returned to the letter and
she fought anew the conclusion she had drawn from it's
puzzle. She blushed again at her nosy intrusion into
the privacy of her loved one. But the idea that caused
this flush remained and she slowly stood and went into
the closet.
Standing on tiptoe her fingers could, just, reach under
a corner of the brown cardboard box on the top shelf.
She pushed up and scrambled until the box slid off the
wire shelf, catching it with both hands as it began to
tip. She drew it down and crossed again to the bed, her
heart thumping with excited guilt. She heard and
grinned at, her mother's re-heard voice in her head and
carefully picked at the sticky-tape that sealed Dan's
"papers" in the box. Folding back the flaps she leant
over to peer into the box, her hair swinging down in
two dark wings to cover her blushing cheeks.
Alisha 'hid' under the wings of her dark hair and
closing her eyes, grew very still. Soon she grew calm
and carefully took up the thick layer of the magazines,
tied with ribbon, and placed them on the bed. She gave
a cursory glance at the rest of the contents - they
were just 'papers'. The magazines however were
different to anything she had ever seen. The titles
were enough to cause her stomach to flip over. Razors
Edge, Close Shave, and Yankee Clipper. She untied the
ribbon and took one up in her trembling hands and
opened it.
When Alisha had taken her second, or even third look at
several particular pictures, and had read at least some
of the letters in the Reader's Mail columns again, she
quietly re-tied the magazines, re-stuck the box and
went to the kitchen for the stool. She slid the box
back in the closet's darkness and, with a determined
briskness, crossed to the bathroom, undressing in her
usual way, shedding and abandoning her items of
clothing one by one, like blazing a trail to her naked
presence.
She spent a long time brushing her still wet hair after
her shower, brushing it straight back, tight and smooth
in a shining cap across her neat head. So long in fact,
that the mirror cleared of steam and condensation and,
when she finally truly looked and actually saw again,
rather than just dreaming, she gave a start of
surprise. She quickly caught at the bunch of her hair
at her nape, with that practiced yet unconscious twist
of the skillful, and knotted it into a dark, damp bun.
She crossed into the bedroom, kicking her discarded
clothes along in front until she bundled them up into
the wicker basket. Her long slim frame, glowing with a
youthful bloom, was sprinkled with jeweled droplets in
the high sun that slid under the blinds. Alisha crossed
to Dan's dresser drawers and slid open the bottom one,
slowly as though she was scared at what her
inquisitiveness this day would reveal now.
She found the black silk 'jock' underwear and tossed
them onto the bed. She slid the top drawer open,
knowing it's contents well as she had washed, ironed,
folded and placed them there. She picked dark blue
socks, three handkerchiefs and a crisp white shirt to
join the silk thong on the bed.
Closing the drawer she turned and took up two of the
handkerchiefs, knotting the corner of one to the other.
She bent at the waist, puffing a little, and knotted
them around her slim frame. She stood in front of the
full mirror and struggled the tight band of cloth up
over the butting buds of her breasts, squashing their
soft plumpness, spreading the handkerchiefs across
them, flattening her usually taut and up-thrusting
profile. She giggled at the slim white reflection, who
returned an impish glitter from dark eyes. She stepped
into the cool sack of the briefs, wriggling them up to
comfort. Bending over the bed she rolled the remaining
handkerchief into a firm sausage of cloth.
She bent her head down onto her chest, doubling her
chins. Peering, sucking in her already flat tummy,
arching - she lodged the roll into the briefs, tucked
up into her groin. A further giggle at the reflection,
and a further answering of devilish glee from the
reflected eyes. The shirt was cool and crisp, the
collar biting her soft nape as she buttoned it all the
way to the top. The socks felt, somehow, 'unfinished'
ending so much shorter than her usual hose. The tight
black slacks were next, and finally, with the aid a
further pair of socks stuffed into the toes, a pair of
black lace-up brogues. Boyish.
As she left the house, the cat slid around the edge of
the feeder's base and froze as the blackbird, startled
but unknowing of what, leapt up in a flutter of shining
darkness.
**
Alisha found the shop, its location recovered from some
dark corner of her memory and was able to park almost
outside. She sat in thought, steeling and caressing her
decision. She recalled the letter's advice effortlessly
"...I am sure she will understand and offer you some
gesture of love in return..."
A warmth flooded her tummy and crept into her loins as
she felt, in her mind, the love she had for her
partner, and the little, un-important seeming gestures
they shared that made the love strong. Overwhelmingly
strong, stronger than fear, than timid reactions to the
expected scorn of others. She felt suddenly secure and
content and more than a little excited in anticipation
of the response the gift she was about to procure for
Dan would create. She got out of her car quickly, an
idea, an added perfection of detail, coursing in her
excited mind.
The answering machine picked up at the third ring, as
she knew it would, and she listened with a soft sweet
smile to Dan's message. She said who was calling,
restated their love with the usual silly words that
real couples invent as their own secret code and then
suggested she had not been loving enough in return
lately and asked that Dan "cut short" the working day
and be at home by noon. She, she explained with an
uncontrollable bubble of laughter, would be there as
soon as she in turn, could "cut something short".
Taking the letter from her purse, and wondering
fleetingly if it's absence would be noted on Dan's
arrival home, she tore across the page, stuffing the
rest back into her purse, which she locked in the glove
compartment. Locking her car, taking in a deep breath -
more from deep anticipation now, rather than nervous
fear - she started towards the shop. The stiff roll in
her briefs reminded her lengthen her stride, to hunch
her shoulders a little, to act with even more
confidence that she actually felt.
The shop was nearly empty, only one client and he
paying at the register. The owner peered at her
curiously but just nodded and waited for her to speak.
Alisha waited until the previous customer had left,
then passed over the torn letter. She then told him she
wanted her hair cut all off - just like the note.
The barber puffed up his cheeks, expelling the air in a
wheezy groan, but turned and went back to his chair,
snapped the cloth free of the sharp dark bristles his
clipper had stripped from other clients and nodded her
into the old black chair. The note fluttered to the
floor as she tucked the still itching cutting sheet at
her nape, and she peered down to read it's torn,
truncated message again as he reached for the still
damp bun at her neck... "...eate a "boxy" look on at
the top. BUZZCUT or BUTCH: Hair is buzzed to the same
length all over, 1/2" or less."
**
Still fighting the little lump of disappointment that
Alisha was not yet home, but aware of the swelling
excitement at the mysterious summons, Dan's long stride
led to the kitchen. The cat sat on the window sill,
meowing for attention. Dan's roving glance took in the
old mail, the cat - then locked on the patio, seen
through the kitchen window. Dashing outside, careful to
push the cat away with a distasteful foot, Dan stood
and looked sadly at the ground around the bird feeder.
The blackbird's dark feathers were spilled and
scattered, clumping like tufts of cropped dark hair.
Bad, bad boy! Aren't you? Mamma's bad, bad boy!
The cat was un-impressed as Daniela took a broom and
began to sweep up the dark feathers, she was musing
that their glossy softness was just like Alisha's own
dark wings of hair when she heard the front door slam.
She turned and muttered a further imprecation as she
hurried to greet her love.
Bad boy!
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Please keep this story, and all erotic stories out of
the hands of children. They should be outside playing
in the sunshine, not thinking about adult situations.
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Kristen's collection - Directory 64