I begged for mercy, my voice breaking as the scissors kissed my scalp. Each heavy strand sliding down onto the floor made my cheeks burn hotter, because with every humiliating fall I felt the ache between my legs grow sharper. I wanted to hide it, deny it, but the shame only pulsed deeper, louder. In my head I whispered, I don’t know when you’ll be done with me, and the thought alone made me tremble with need. You leaned in, close enough for me to feel your smile against my skin.
‘That’s the point,’ you murmured, and in that instant the worst humiliation wasn’t losing my hair — it was how much I wanted you to keep going.















