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The Island (updated 13-09-18)

Tasha was born into a wealthy family, but was something of a black sheep. She was the younger daughter, born a dozen years after her sister, Della, who'd inherited the family gift for making money, starting up a tech company that had become globally successful. Despite their differences, they were always close, although it didn't always appear that way. They would provoke each other and have furious rows, and not just in private. There were numerous social gatherings that were disfigured by the sisters losing their tempers, swearing and cursing at each other, seemingly oblivious to their surroundings.

Yet the anger never seemed to last long. Once the dispute had ended, and after a few hours for tempers to calm, they seemed to not remember the disagreement. And they were seemingly unable to go more than a few days without the need to communicate. Even when they were in different countries there would be long phone conversations every few days.

Much of the tension seemed to stem from Tasha's lack of interest in taking on the family business; since Della's business ventures had been so successful she'd been excused this responsibility, so that Tasha was from childhood groomed to take over from her parents. But she'd hated boarding school so much that she'd had to change schools more than once, her disruptive behaviour becoming intolerable in such conservative establishments.

Despite her refusal to take her schooling seriously, Tasha excelled creatively. She was a gifted artist, musically adept (a good pianist and flautist, with a clear, strong voice), but writing was her passion, especially drama and poetry. Reluctantly her parents agreed that she could study literature at university, though her grades weren't sufficient for her to gain entry to the elite colleges. If they'd hoped that the greater independence of university study would make Tasha grow into her perceived responsibilities to her family they were soon shown to be mistaken. Tasha's tastes moved toward the experimental and the transgressive. She presented performances that were confrontational and provocative, so much so that she was constantly at odds with the university (she seemed always to have to fight against authority figures), but her talents were clear and she was supported by several of her teachers in all of the numerous disputes.

Of course, she attracted friends with similar tastes to her own, and Della disliked the company she kept. She soon had a reputation for coldness, not to say rudeness, towards Tasha's friends, and this tension was the cause of further countless arguments between the sisters. It was all the more surprising when Della contacted me via social media. I'd not had contact with Tasha for over a year, and far longer since I'd heard from her sister. She left a number and asked me to call her urgently.

I'd been on bad terms with Tasha for the last couple of years, but that made the news of her death only more difficult to bear. Della told me of her diagnosis with an aggressive tumour, and she'd endured months of treatment which had done little to mollify her rapid deterioration. Her death had come within six months of the first symptoms.

Della sounded different. Her arrogance was gone and she sounded wounded. It was her who'd nursed Tasha through the last months of her illness. I was living in Australia and promised to attend the funeral, although I wasn't sure how I'd find the money for a flight. Della thanked me. “You were very dear to Tasha, and I wanted her to contact you when she was ill, but she was very proud and she hated people seeing how ill she looked. I know at the end she regretted it, not that she'd ever admit she was wrong. I'm living on the island we own off the Northumbrian coast now. I'll pick you up from the airport; it's not accessible generally, unless you hired a boat. Keep me informed of when you'll arrive.”

I arrived two days later, which was three days before the funeral, but the next flight would have had me arriving hours before the ceremony, and a small delay would have made it impossible to attend. I'd only been able to afford a single ticket, and had no idea how I'd return to my home, but I was so unhappy with my life in Australia that I didn't particularly care. Della was happy for me to stay with her until the funeral and was waiting for me as I got off the plane.

She looked different: her hair had grown long, and though she looked tired and careworn, she looked younger than I remembered her. We embraced each other for a long time but could find no words initially. It was only as we set off in the car that she started to talk, asking me about how I was liking my life as a housewife in Australia.

“I'm getting divorced,” I said sadly. “It didn't work out. I'm living in a little town in a shack that gets unbearably hot in summer, working in a bar. It's not the life I expected.”

She nodded sympathetically. “John. He let you down?” I grunted. His name still made me feel hurt. “Was it another woman? Tasha always saw him as a womaniser.”

“She hated him. I always thought she was just trying to come between us.”

“She was. She knew he would make you unhappy. He was very good looking, but I could see how he was with women. He needed to get a response from everyone he talked to. His ego was very fragile.”

“I'd forgotten you'd met him.”

“Only once. Maybe twice. But I could see Tasha was right. And she liked you. She was hurt that you chose him over her.”

“We'd always have been friends though. I didn't want to lose her, even though I was getting married.”

Della gave a little humourless chuckle. “No. She loved you. You didn't know?”

I started to cry. “I didn't... I guess I sensed something. We kissed once when we were drunk. I was never her type though, was I? She liked wild girls. I was too quiet for her.”

“She wanted you. She used to talk about you all the time. You'd have been so good for her.” She pulled the car over to the side of the road and started to sob.

We drove to a little fishing village at the mouth of a small river, where Della's motorboat was moored in the harbour. It was a gusty day with broken grey clouds blowing rapidly overhead. The sea was choppy, but surprisingly blue, a deep, rich shade that glittered when the sun broke through. I'd little experience of boats and sat anxiously as we left the estuary, gripping the arms of the chair as the waves suddenly got much bigger, making the boat pitch rhythmically.

“I'm not much of a sailor,” I said, fearing that the motion would make me seasick, although for now it was the fear of nausea that was upsetting me.

“I love being on the water,” Della shouted. “It makes me feel so free. Just keep your eyes straight ahead and focus on the horizon. You won't get sick then.”

Fortunately the trip was short, the island not much more than a mile from the coast. The boat was moored to a jetty and Della assisted me to step ashore, taking much of my weight since my legs were weak and shaky. She put an arm around me and held me close to her as we walked up the steep incline toward the house.

It stood on the headland, and seemed designed to withstand the North Sea storms: it was built from heavy stone, sturdy and without elegance, but not unappealing despite that. We entered, and I was glad to get out of the wind, and more so to be on solid ground again, the solidity of the architecture a reassurance.

“You must be starving,” Della said. “I've put something in the oven, it will be ready soon. Make yourself at home in your room and I'll call you when it's done.”

My room was large and comfortable, with a bay window overlooking the sea. My journey had left me exhausted, yet I couldn't stop staring out at the sea. The waves' relentless rhythm fascinated me, surging always forward, implacable, unchanging, yet at the same time each wave unique and beautiful. I opened the window slightly, despite the coolness of the rush of air; I needed to be able to hear the roaring of the surf.

Della entered my room to tell me it was time to dine. “Please always close the windows when you're not in here. Storms can get up quickly, and they can cause damage when the windows are open. It's not easy to get someone to come out here for repairs.”

We sat at a large table, far too large for two diners, but I sensed that she liked the formality of eating in the dining room. She served the meal from a large dish and I gave a sigh of disappointment. “Oh Della, I'm vegetarian, I thought you knew. I'm afraid I can't eat this.”

She looked at me strangely. “You're my guest. I want you to be a good girl and eat everything I put before you while you're here. I don't want any arguments. You're here to remember Natasha and she was never one to support puritanical attitudes to life. She liked to take pleasure in everything she did, and I want you to do the same.”

I stared morosely at the plate. It was some type of Moroccan stew, served with rice. I nervously took a little on my fork and put it in my mouth. It tasted rich and spicy, and the chunks of meat fell apart in my mouth. I couldn't fault her cooking, yet it felt like a betrayal of my principles to eat meat after fifteen years of abstinence.

“You'll drink wine with your meal too,” Della said. “I suppose you still avoid alcohol, even though you work in a bar?” I nodded to indicate that she was right. “Stop trying to be unhappy. Indulge yourself. Is the food bad?”

“No, it's delicious.”

“Then savour each mouthful. You can't save the world on your own. Pleasure should be our guide always. Life is too transient for self chastisement.”

I took a sip of the wine, which I was sure was a good vintage, but I'd stopped drinking five years earlier and had hardly ever drank red wine: its qualities were lost on me. Still, I hoped that getting tipsy would perhaps assuage my guilt at eating meat.

“So tell me about Australia, Caroline. Does the lifestyle there suit you?”

“Hardly. The town I live in is tiny and nothing ever seems to happen there. I only ever go outside except to work, especially in the summer, when it's far too hot and there are flies everywhere. The only people I see are the farmers who like to drink too much beer in the bar. I don't really have any friends.”

“Do you plan to go back there? I can't see any reason you should.”

“I suppose I will, although I couldn't afford a return flight so I'm not sure how I'll get back. I don't have anything here any more though, and I'm not sure how I could afford to make a fresh start back in Britain.”

“You look broken, Caroline. Neglected. I'm sure the flight was tiring but I know it's a long term attrition that's done this to you. Don't go back to something that's sucking the life out of you. I always saw a twinkle in your eye. It was that spirit that Natasha liked so much in you. Don't let it go out from some sense of duty to the wrong decisions you made years ago. If you want to make a fresh start then do it. Will is the most important thing in life. Ideas are nothing if you don't make them come to fruition.”

I nodded. “I'll think about it. I'm too exhausted to make a decision now. It's not like I have to decide immediately. Although I don't want to take advantage of your hospitality, Della. It was very kind of you to let me stay.”

“The pleasure is all mine. I find it very hard to be alone right now and your company is more than welcome. I'd be happy if you'd stay with me for as long as you please.”

After dinner we sat before a fire in the sitting room, sipping brandy (again, my crude tastes could never appreciate the subtleties of fine drinks). I was quite tipsy now and feeling morose, but Della's stories about Tasha helped to cheer me. We spent an hour laughing at our memories, mostly of how infuriating she could be, which was always amusing when someone else was on the end of her rages.

“I do miss her, Della. But she'll never be gone as long as we remember her.” Della looked thoughtful. My platitude was hardly true; there was an unmistakeable absence, which Della felt most keenly, having hardly left her side in the last months.

“We should sleep,” she said and kissed me on the forehead. “I'm so glad to have you with me. Too many ghosts here for me to be alone.”

I slept well, waking at ten. Della had left some paracetamol and water on the bedside cabinet, which I was glad of. I went down to be greeted by my host, who prepared a cooked breakfast, despite my protestations that cereal would suit me better. Of course the breakfast consisted of bacon and sausage.

Della stared at me as I ate. “I'd forgotten what a redhead you are, Caroline,” she smiled. “Your brows and lashes are really pale. I'm not sure I ever saw you without make-up before.”

“I know. I hate it.”

“You look really young. And pretty. You don't need make-up. Why don't you go without today?”

I agreed to her request. I felt like I was being controlled by Della, yet giving in to her requests was pleasing in some strange way, even the impositions of her choice of food, which should have appalled me.

“I don't really have anything to wear to the funeral,” I admitted. “I'd hoped I could buy something when I got here, but I didn't know we'd be staying somewhere so isolated.”

Della nodded. “I suppose we could find something of Natasha's for you to wear. You're about her size, I think. Would it offend you to wear something of hers to her funeral?”

“As long as you're OK with it. I think in some ways it would be a nice way to remember her.”

We went upstairs to Tasha's bedroom which I hadn't previously entered. There was a large closet , hung on two sides with numerous dresses, the whole space filled with the smell of lavender. She liked to dress in bright colours, but Della sought out the few black dresses. I saw a beautiful sleeveless silk dress, very simple but beautifully cut, which I thought would be ideal. Della chose something far more ostentatious. It was in the style of a Victorian dress, high collar trimmed with lace, as were the bodice and sleeves, a full skirt complete with bustle.

“It's a bit too much,” I said. “I couldn't wear that.”

“Of course you could. Try it on.”

Della was right that Tasha and I were similar sizes, though she'd been a couple of inches taller than me, and I'd allowed myself to gain a few pounds in the last year or two. The dress was therefore a little too tight on me and the skirt trailed along the floor. I was excited to wear such a beautiful garment, far more exquisite than anything I'd worn in my life, but relieved that the poor fit meant I wouldn't be able to wear it to the funeral.

“I suppose we could get it altered, but I'm not sure there's time.” I nodded, happy in her judgement. “It's fine, Caroline. You can wear a corset, then it'll fit. And with taller heels you'll be perfect in the dress.”

She came behind me as I looked at myself in the mirror and took hold of my curls. “Your hair got really long. You should wear it up with this dress. Would you allow me to dress it for you?”

“I'd never imagined you as taking much interest in hair,” I said. “You always used to wear your hair short.”

“I wanted to project an image when I was in business. I never really liked that style. It didn't suit me, but that was the point. I wanted to look severe and intimidating. Now I don't care about proving myself and making myself a financial success. I think in the last months I realised that Natasha was the success in our family. That you have to be original and creative. Those are the things that matter, not finance or competitiveness.”

“Long hair suits you. You look prettier and younger.”

She gave a dry chuckle. “I'm almost forty and the irony is that I've set my heart on cutting it short. I don't think long hair is appropriate for a woman of my maturity.”

“No!” I said, surprising myself with how forceful I expressed my opposition. “You look lovely, Della. You should grow it even longer. You don't look near your age, more like early thirties. And you already said short didn't suit you.”

“It's OK, Caroline, I won't cut it like the style I had previously. Something more flattering. At least I hope so. Anyway, would you allow me to see how you look with your hair up?”

I couldn't say no to her and sat in her bedroom, facing the mirror of her dressing table. I'd not expected her to take so long to style my hair, but she took her time to create a rather excessive style, pinned and rolled up my nape with the top teased into a huge bouffant, smoothed to shiny perfection with straighteners.

We've since discussed what happened next but our recollections are contradictory. What's certain is that we kissed, and kissed with passion. My memory tells me that it was Della who initiated the kiss, yet she insists that I was the instigator, and what the reality was is impossible to say. I'm sure that the attention Della lavished on me had a potent effect, and seeing myself in the exquisite gown with a hairstyle that made me look like a stranger had made me feel an odd mix of emotions, so it's not impossible that I was overcome with an affection.

It's undeniable that we both responded with vigour to the embrace, but within moments we were overtaken by shame at our actions. We were here in mourning at the loss of someone dear to us and our emotions were out of control. I left the room and returned to my bedroom to be alone, yet for all my shame I felt an undeniable attraction to Della, which had been growing since I'd seen her at the airport. It was all the more surprising because the Della I'd known previously wasn't someone I took too: she was brusque and arrogant, rude to all of Tasha's friends, except me. I'm not sure I'd ever realised it at the time, but I was never a victim of one of her verbal assaults, though perhaps I could attribute to this to my fear of Della. When we did meet I'd usually try to keep out of her way.

Now as I sat on the edge of the bed I felt like I was going crazy. I had a friend who was bipolar and had supported her through some of her hypomanic episodes. Now I felt I had a greater insight into her state of mind as my thoughts were overwhelmed with contradictory impulses. Despite my guilt at my actions I felt a great sexual arousal, which I tried to dismiss as the effect of a long period without affection. My feelings toward Della veered wildly from anger at her perceived exploitation of my vulnerability, to sympathy toward her for what she was going through, to feelings of powerful affection. It was too much to process.

I'd never had a relationship with a woman before and my feelings were mixed; as I mentioned I'd drunkenly shared a kiss with Tasha, and while I had many friends who were lesbian, and had no problem with their sexuality, I'd always regarded myself as straight, and felt some shame when I did feel fleeting attraction toward women. Perhaps it was this that had made me suppress my recognition of Tasha's true feelings toward me. Now that Della had stated what she felt I found it almost impossible to believe that I could have missed Tasha's attraction toward me. I felt sure that I'd known of it unconsciously and had resisted it. Was I afraid of the reaction of my parents, who'd always been socially conservative? It wasn't impossible. Perhaps it was partly my reaction to Tasha's personality rather than a discomfort with the possibility of a same sex relationship. She was my closest friend for years, but her impulsiveness scared me. I needed more stability in my life than an attachment to Tasha could ever have provided.

I felt like I was further betraying her to think so badly of her, and wished dearly that I could go back and give myself to her. Perhaps there would have been some moderation of our natures by giving ourselves to each other, that I would have been warmer and Tasha more restful. Even as I considered such ideas I knew that I didn't believe in them for a moment. Our nature doesn't change easily and I could never have tamed Tasha, just as I couldn't make John into the new person he'd promised to become. When you enter a relationship you have to love the person for who they are, not who they may become, because you will never make the person conform to your desires.

I changed out of the dress and saw myself in jeans and a linen blouse with my huge beehive-like hairstyle, which seemed so out of keeping with my clothes now. Yet I couldn't bring myself to destroy it, since Della had put so much work and skill into its creation. I was sure I didn't like how it made me look (too severe, too mature, too formal) but I couldn't stop looking at myself in the mirror. I was transformed and the metamorphosis fascinated me.

It was a couple of hours later before I dared leave the privacy of my bedroom. There was an awkwardness as I encountered Della, and the hoped for apology was never offered (but since she felt I'd initiated the kiss she was doubtless expecting contrition on my part). Instead we offered each other bland questions, polite inquiries into the other's mood. The awkwardness would persist until the day of the funeral.

We rose before dawn. I'd agreed to wear the dress, despite my misgivings about its appropriateness, and my feelings that I looked rather ridiculous in my Victorian dress-up. I was perhaps more concerned about the intimacy that would of necessity be experienced as I couldn't dress alone. I sat and watched Della work my wet hair, smoothing out the wave, then sculpting a style even more elaborate than the previous experiment. The sides were woven into braids that were drawn back into the pleat up the back, but when I protested that it was excessive she hushed me.

“Today is all about remembering Natasha, and you should look beautiful. You were always too timid, as though you didn't want to be noticed. Today you should have no shame in how you look.”

As I looked in the mirror I felt uncomfortable, the severity of the style not flattering at all, exposing my features cruelly. I'd been told often that I was pretty, but could never believe it. Our childhood experiences mark us deeply and at school I'd been bullied and ridiculed, told that I looked weird, and I knew my features didn't conform to classical ideals. I liked to wear my hair loose to soften the quirks of my face and didn't think my new style was in the least flattering. The fact that Della liked it so much seemed to me to be in part due to my discomfort and that left me feeling it brought out something predatory in her.

The only concession to softness in the style was the sideburns, where long strands had been left free, the only hair not to be stiffly bound to my head. Della now wound the ribbons of hair on thick barrelled tongs to form them into ringlets. Without speaking she took a pair of scissors and sliced away more than half of the length from each, cutting them so that they ended now at my shoulders. I was shocked that she would cut my hair without asking, too shocked to speak, but my face showed my disapproval.

She seemed amused at my reaction. “It's only a little bit of hair!” she chided. “You have so much that it'll hardly show when your hair's down.”

“You should have asked,” I said, unable to hide that I was hurt.

“Like you ask when you want something?” she said cryptically. “Anyway, the style needed these soft ringlets to soften it, but they would have been far too long without trimming them. You know it was the right thing to do.”

“I suppose so,” I said. I was, to my shame, feeling turned on, and seeing Della take advantage of my passivity seemed only to make my desire flare up more. Inappropriate as it would have been, I wanted her to kiss me again.

Now that my hairstyle was completed Della would dress me. I had to strip to underwear as she put the corset on me. “You should exercise more,” she said as she took in my body. “You're free to use the gym, Caroline. You'd feel better if you did some toning. Look better too.” I blushed at this criticism. I knew that she was right and that I was out of condition.

She wrapped the corset around me and tightened the laces, pulling harder and harder until I complained at the tightness. “It needs to be this tight to make the dress fit well.” It was so uncomfortable that I was sure it would be unbearable for the duration of the funeral.

She was correct in that the dress fitted nicely now. I was astonished to see myself with a tiny waist, made all the more exaggerated by the absurdly full skirt. I looked somehow alien, an exaggerated version of myself, my huge hairstyle balancing the skirt, everything between somehow reduced. My growing feeling of sadness at the approaching ceremony did nothing to placate my erotic feelings, which seemed to demand fulfilment.

I was left alone as Della went to dress, and distracted myself with watching some TV, which was just noise to try to mask my warring emotions. Della came back in a black skirt suit, very stylish and minimal, utterly contrasted with my attire. Her hair was sleeked back into a severe roll, which made her look like the old Della I'd first met, with her hair cut into a style-less, androgynous crop. But today she wore make-up, her deep red lips doing nothing to reduce the attraction I felt for her.

She insisted on doing my make-up too. She'd encouraged me to wear none a few days earlier but now I was surprised to see that she had me wear more than I'd ever done previously. My finished face was rather Gothic, which wasn't out of keeping with my clothes, but was entirely unexpected. My lips were a deep maroon, my eyes heavily outlined with smoky black and my brows thick and sharply contoured. “Natasha would be so pleased to see you today,” Della said, but without joy. She was filled with nostalgic longing for her lost sister.

I left the house wearing a hat, which was barely more than a stiff cone, split open and curled out, pinned to my hair, and bearing a long strip of black gauze, attached by an elaborate brooch, which veiled my face. Around my neck was a broad ribbon from which hung a cameo which had belonged to Tasha. I boarded the boat, carrying the voluminous skirts, my feet covered with deck shoes. Della had ordered some boots which would complete my outfit, to be collected at the post office on the mainland.

We made the crossing in silence. The wind had made the sea more violent than on my arrival, as though nature was discouraging my leaving of the island. The sea is often characterised as cold and dispassionate but for me it seems to be a living organism, its emotions expressed vividly in its state. The chaotic surges seemed to be in sympathy with my turmoil.

We arrived at the chapel where the funeral was to take place, a half hour drive down the coast in a small village. Della had collected my boots, which seemed in keeping with my garb, except that the heels were too tall, at least three inches. They were surely extravagantly priced, beautifully crafted as they were. They fastened with a series of tiny buttons which had to be threaded with a hook, and it was Della who fitted them, snugly enclosing half the length of my calf. I climbed awkwardly from the car, the copious skirts impeding movement, then slowly made my way along the path toward the chapel.

The building was at the top of a small rise, a well tended churchyard beside it, built in a style that mirrored the classical revival, but rather too grandly ornamented for a building of such meagre scale. The interior was gloomy and filled with ornate memorials to local grandees. I was filled with horror as I saw the coffin which was already in the aisle before the altar. It seemed unbearable that Tasha was in there, her flesh now inanimate, and that soon she would be placed in earth in the graveyard I'd just passed where her body would decay.

I was surprised to see that only a handful of people attended the funeral, and none of them were known to me. They were all older than me, many of them much older, and I presumed they were members of Della's extended family. Not one of her friends except for me had made the journey. Had Della deliberately excluded them, or had they, like me, quarrelled with her and lost contact? I was saddened to see so few people to mourn for her.

The ceremony was stiff and formal, a high Anglican requiem mass, which seemed hardly fitting for someone so unconventional. At the end I was crying, and my sadness was in part caused by my frustration at the failure of the vicar to make any acknowledgement of the person that he was burying. I stood alongside Della, holding her arm, as the coffin was lowered into the earth. She was sobbing now, and it seemed to me that neither of us could have stood through this without the other. We cast handfuls of earth onto the box and slowly withdrew from the scene.

There was a gathering at a reception room in a local hotel, where Della introduced me to the other guests, but by now I was calm but insensate, and was unable to make sense of her words or remember the names of those present, or their relationship to the sisters. I sipped a whisky to add to my numbness and ate nothing from the generous buffet. I was more than relieved when after an hour or two Della suggested we should leave before the turning of the tide.

As we made the crossing she thanked me for my presence. “The past week would have been more than I could have borne, and your presence has saved me. Please don't leave soon. I need someone with me. Will you do me the honour of remaining with me?”

“For how long?” I asked. I knew I couldn't say no, but I was concerned about her intentions. The kiss that had occurred still made our relationship awkward. Was her invitation a ruse to seduce me? And if it was, would that be something to be feared or welcomed?

“I don't know,” she said after a long pause. “I just know I need someone with me. Please don't leave me alone, Caroline.”

“Of course not,” I said, forcing a smile. “But I can't stay long. I need to get home soon or I'll lose my job. It's not like there are many jobs in that town.”

When we got back to the house Della opened a bottle of wine and filled a glass for me. I was glad to take a swig and feel the alcohol take effect after the trauma of the day. “I've been waiting for the right time to tell you. There's another reason you might want to stay. You've seen the old stable building across the yard? That was owned by Natasha and she wanted you to have it. So you own some property on the island now.”

I couldn't hide my surprise. “Why did she leave it to me? We were hardly on good terms and I'd have thought someone else might have been her priority.”

“She cared for you. Maybe she wanted us to have a chance to get to know each other better. I'm afraid it's not really going to be worth much on the open market, not that you could sell it immediately. There's some work to be done on the will so it would probably be a year or two before it would be clear for sale. And then the island is hardly accessible.”

“I wouldn't want to sell it,” I said. “Besides, I'm sure it would be awful for you to have some stranger living so close to your house, which you like because it isolates you from the rest of the world.”

“That's true,” she said. “I couldn’t bear the thought of someone else being able to come and go as they pleased. If you do decide to sell up you must promise to let me take it off your hands.” I nodded. “Shall we go to see your house?”

As we reached the door she placed the keys in my hands. “It's yours now so you can open up.”

The house was modest compared with the main house, but far larger than the place I lived in Australia, and beautifully furnished. “The contents come with it?” I asked.

“Everything. Furniture, pictures. And she had some nice art.”

She was right. In the study was a small etching. “Is it an original?” I asked in disbelief.

“Yes. A Rembrandt etching. It's beautiful isn't it? And all yours now.”

“It must be worth so much.”

“His prints sell for a few thousand, at least the smaller ones. It seems a little unfair that they sell for so much less than the oils, they're hardly less successful as art works. I adore this picture. Natasha saw it in a sale and was determined to have it. His landscapes are especially beautiful, I think. He hardly produced any in oils, sadly. I think this is the best work Natasha collected. Or should I say the best work in your collection.”

“I feel ashamed that I was such a bad friend to her. And she was so generous to me, even at a time when we were no longer close.”

“Don't speak like that. We can't pretend that Natasha was an easy person. She had her demons and she was difficult to be with. You were the best friend she had, and not like those others who encouraged her bad behaviour and just stayed with her to exploit her generosity. We could hardly be together for an hour without fighting, at least until her illness. I wish you could have known her then. She achieved some peace with herself at last. I begged her to call you but she was so distressed by her appearance that she didn’t want to be seen. The illness took an awful toll physically.” I put my arms around her as her voice broke. “I'm not going to be sad,” Della whispered. “She lived her life as few others, and I was lucky to be with her at the end. We were closer than ever. I'll treasure those memories.”

“I did miss her. I used to think of her often. I wish I'd called.”

Della put a finger to my lips. “No guilt. Not allowed, not even in your thoughts. Natasha knew that you'd done nothing wrong, she was the one at fault. This is her gift to you, her apology. Accept it with grace and forgive her.”

“I do,” I said.

The following morning at breakfast I made a proposal to Della. “If I stay here with you I want to do something to pay you back for your hospitality. I could keep the house tidy and prepare meals.”

She looked pleased. “You'd be my housekeeper? That's a wonderful idea. You know your house was at one time the servant's quarters? I think we should formalise your position. I'll pay you a wage. No, I won't hear any complaint. And you have to cook meals that I choose, and eat the same with me. Meat and seafood included.”

I groaned. “I don't like eating meat for lots of reasons, but seafood is just unpleasant for me. Please don't make me eat that.”

“I'll teach you to love it,” she said insistently. “If you're going to work for me I'm going to be strict with you. You'll have to wear a uniform too, you know?”

“I suppose I have to call you Miss Della?”

She giggled. “Of course! You have to always be respectful and obedient. Any breaches will be subject to punishments.”

“What sort of punishment?” I asked. I felt like I was getting involved in something I shouldn't, something kinky and dangerous, but I can't deny it excited me. I tried to convince myself it was just a harmless game but my feelings for Della made it risky.

“You didn’t address me properly!” she said teasingly. “I think you should do half an hour on the treadmill right now.”

The fun of the game drained away as soon as I agreed to my punishment. I'd not run in months and Della set the treadmill to a speed and incline that was too much for me, but when I complained she hushed me. “No speaking! If it wasn't a challenge it wouldn’t be a punishment. Any more complaints and I'll make it harder. Besides, it's for your own good. You looked out of shape when you arrived and if you're going to be eating well you need to exercise too. I'll put a schedule in place that you must follow. Understand?”

“Yes Miss Della,” I panted.

I dropped to the floor as the treadmill finally wound to a halt. My lungs were burning and my legs were twitching and cramping. “Oh god, that was exhausting. Please don't push me so hard, Miss Della.” I wanted to end our agreement right now, but couldn’t bring myself to say it. Della seemed intent on holding me to it and I knew her personality was too forceful for me to resist. I didn’t dare risk another punishment from her.

“Of course I'll push you,” she said. “It's for your own good. In a few weeks you'll be at home in the gym and you'll feel wonderful. You'll start to glow. It's important we keep active to keep up our mood, Caroline. Now go and shower and I want you to straighten your hair. That's got to be done every day now. I don't want to see any waves. You have to conform to my discipline now.”

“Yes Miss Della,” I agreed reluctantly.

“It's hardly perfect,” she said, examining my hair. “When I did it it looked shiny and silky. It's not quite straight enough, is it?”

I nodded. “You're much better at hair, Miss Della. Perhaps you should style my hair. I think we both enjoyed that.”

She started to comb through my thick hair. “There'll be a price to pay though. If I style it I'm in complete control of your hair. That means I can have it dyed and cut as I choose, Caroline.”

I couldn’t hide my horror. “You wouldn’t have it cut? I love my hair.”

“I like your long hair too, but that's not to say a little change mightn't suit you. Anyway, this hair isn't to standard so either you let me take charge or you do another thirty on the treadmill. What's it to be?”

“But please, Miss Della, I couldn’t take another thirty minutes, my legs would give out after five.”

“I think that's decided then. Your hair is in my hands now.”

For the first day it didn’t seem such an imposition. She washed my hair again, then took me to her bedroom to blow it dry. “We should have one of the rooms fitted out as a hair salon. We could have a chair each and style each other's hair every day. I'll train you. You could have an hour of my time each morning for hair and make-up.” I smiled at her in the mirror. I couldn’t deny that I liked being pampered by her. “That's decided then. In a few weeks I'll get my makeover. I'm too old for long hair. It'll always be short from now on.”

“No! Please don't cut it short. You look so pretty with long hair. And it makes you look ten years younger. When I think back to how you looked with short hair when we first met you seemed much older than you do now.”

She seemed amused by my pleading. “I'm glad you find me attractive now. But you'll see that I'll look fine with a shorter cut. You will too. One day you'll see yourself without all this red hair and you'll see that you can be pretty with short hair too.”

“I don't like that idea, Miss Della,” I said fearfully. “You've made my hair look lovely.” Already it looked sleeker than I'd managed with straighteners, but she'd only used a brush and dryer. Now she pinned up the bulk and took a fine section, sprayed it and set the irons along its length to polish it to burnished perfection. She had far more patience than me and I looked in admiration at my thick, perfectly straight hair.

“Now we have to make a nice style for my pretty maid,” she said. “I think you should always wear it up, at least until you accept a shorter cut. I think beauty is so much alluring when it's achieved through discomfort.”

She seemed intent on proving her idea. My hair was teased into a style similar to that which I'd worn for the funeral, but without the softening fronds falling over my cheeks. The back was tightly pinned in a roll, so tight that I could feel a tugging on my scalp. My hair was fixed with clouds of spray, making it stiff and shiny, and giving me an archaic look, a style that hadn't been worn, at least by women of my age, since the 1960s. She looked delighted with her work, and her pleasure certainly gave me satisfaction. My make-up was markedly different now, only my lips darkened with dabbed-on, blood-red lipstick, without a clear edge. My face was powdered and pale, with a hint of rouge colouring my cheeks. My eyelashes were left natural and pale and my brows almost invisible with their covering of pale powder.

“Now you look like a real servant girl,” Della smiled. “Or at least you will when we get you a uniform. How do you feel?”

“It's beautiful, Miss Della. You're so talented. I'm not so sure about the pale lashes and brows, though. You know I don't like that.”

She seemed to delight in my discomfort. “You're a redhead so you should be proud of it. Maybe I should dye your hair to teach you a lesson. If you go dark I might tint your brows and lashes too.”

I'm sure the make-up didn't disguise my blushing. I felt strange to have Della take control of me. It wasn't just my old fear of her making me obey her either. This strange game was perhaps as enjoyable for me as her, although the prospect of getting my hair cut and dyed was going too far. I couldn’t believe she was serious in her intent, though, and was happy to play along for now.

Each morning now I would wake and spend an hour being dressed by Della. My hair was always straightened painstakingly, then fixed into an elaborate confection, becoming ever more adventurous and creative. Once I was dressed I would then dress her hair, though my skills were far more rudimentary, and my sessions were largely limited to learning how to use the straighteners more skilfully. Within a few days Della's hair was beautifully sleek and smooth after my work.

My uniforms arrived a week after our arrangement had commenced. I was dismayed to see that I was expected to wear a corset at all times during my working hours, which were from seven till seven. I had two uniforms, the dresses of identical design, except that one was black and one crimson. I wore them on alternate days. They seemed like a parody of a maid's uniform, exaggeratedly erotic in design. The skirts were short and full, the bodice tightly fitted to my corseted waist, and the whole excessively trimmed with lace up to the high collar (perhaps surprisingly my cleavage was entirely covered, although the corset did push up my breasts to increase their prominence). I wore a matching lace cap pinned atop my stiff coiffure and my height was further enhanced by the high boots I'd acquired for the funeral being part of my attire. They were even more difficult to get used to than the corset, agony when worn for twelve hours.

And I had a bust schedule to meet. I did all of the cooking for Della, though initially she was at my side to teach me, especially since I had so little experience preparing meat and fish. I couldn’t disguise my disgust at the tasks that were expected, but Della was strict in her treatment of me if she suspected I was complaining. Breaches of discipline or errors resulted in thirty minutes of exercise in the gym, and since my fitness was increasing, so was the difficulty of the set task. It always left me exhausted.

Della could be moody. There were times when she'd become angry without provocation, though she'd always apologise later. “I've not always treated people well, as you know,” she explained as we ate our evening meal. “You saw me lose my temper with all those parasites who Natasha used to attract. I wasn't always better with my business associates, and I'm trying to be a better person now, but sometimes the old habits take me by surprise.”

“You know I'm here for you,” I said, smiling. I was sure recent events had placed her under unbearable strain, but neither of us wanted to talk about our loss. I placed my hand on hers but she withdrew.

“We need to be careful. Emotionally. There's something between us. We kissed after all. But I don't trust my emotions now. Let's give it a month and talk about our feelings then.”

I was tongue-tied by her acknowledgement of the tension between us. “I'm not sure I'll even be here in a month,” I said. “I do need to get home at some point.”

She shook her head. “You can choose where your home is. Why punish yourself by going back to a place you hate that has so many bad memories? For selfish reasons, if nothing else, I want you to stay. A fresh start is good for you.”

“I'm exhausted though,” I smiled. “You work me very hard, Miss Della. And I'm only partly joking. I really am pushing myself too hard. You need to let me have some time to rest and relax.”

She nodded. “Maybe you're right. Two days off a week wouldn’t do any harm, would it? It's a big house to look after though, and I've come to love my privacy. I couldn’t bear to have any staff here. It's been a blessing having you here.”

“So move into my place. It's comfortable and much more practical for two people. I can't do all the cooking and keep this place clean, even with your robot vacuum cleaner. You've become used to extravagance. You can live comfortably with a little less luxury. You might even find you don't miss it. Simplicity is rewarding too.”

“Maybe you're right. I don't miss life in the city, at least nothing that an occasional visit wouldn’t fulfil. I'll think about your proposal. In a month you can suggest what I should give up and we can have that discussion, but not if you're leaving here.”

The idea of leaving already seemed difficult to me.

The following week I rose and showered and came to Della's room for my dressing ritual. She began to comb through my wet hair. Putting my hair in Della's hands had become my greatest pleasure, an intimacy that could be shared between us without guilt. I loved to see the strange styles she created for me, whilst admitting that if I'd had to dress like this in public it would be too much for me.

“You have a day off today,” she said. “At least no work. We're heading over to the mainland. I'm getting a makeover. And you are too.”

I looked at her in astonishment. “Please, Miss Della, I don't want it. I'm really frightened of cutting my hair.”

She squeezed my hand. “I'm going to get a very big change, but for you it'll be less extreme. Just a new colour and a trim. But you have to be obedient when I ask this, Caroline. If you resist I'll have you permed. Tight, frizzy curls. I'd love that on you, but I suspect you'd enjoy it less. So which is it to be, acceptance or resistance? I need you to show you trust me or I'll have to get stricter.”

I wailed. “I do trust you, Miss Della, but I have my demons. My hair is my safety blanket. When I was a kid I was bullied, told I was ugly and a freak. The only thing anyone ever complimented me on was my hair and if that gets cut I'd feel so vulnerable.”

“But you were always popular! Natasha told me that you always had lots of men sniffing around you. Girls too.”

I blushed. “I suppose that's true, but that didn't take away my insecurity. I can never believe I'm pretty.”

“You're beautiful, Caroline. I always thought so. But... To me your features are quirky and unconventional. You shouldn't try to hide that, you should make the most of it.”

“And how do I do that?”

“I've already started. But if you agreed I'd take your hair shorter. Maybe very short indeed. But you're hardly ready yet.”

I could feel my blood pressure increasing at the thought of her ideas. I was close to tears. “You scare me, Della.”

She took me in her arms. “You're just a frightened little girl. I'm here to look after you. Today you get a new colour and a trim. Nothing more than an inch off the length, OK? Tell me you're happy to try a new colour.”

“A new colour and a trim, yes,” I said, my panic not yet subsided. “I'm scared about your makeover too. I love your long hair. I love playing with it every morning. Please don't cut it short. Just a trim and a colour for you.”

She put her finger to my lips. “No, honey! I'm going to get a real makeover. I'll be barely recognisable by this evening. If you say another word to discourage me I'll go with plan B which is a much shorter cut. Now what do you have to say?”

“You have good taste so I'm sure your new look will be beautiful,” I said, acknowledging defeat. “Just promise me it won't be like your old look.”

She laughed. “No, I never go back. Always trying something new.”

I left the island wearing a simple black dress (a present from Della), my hair sleeked back in a pony tail, minimal make-up. It was as though I was leaving my extravagant look on the island. I could see a change in myself even without elaborately styled hair and make-up; my regimen of regular exercise and my new diet had toned my body and my face had a glow, though perhaps that was as much due to Della's influence in my life. I'd become enormously dependent on her, though I was unable to allow myself to think that I was in love with her. I felt strange desires when I was alone, and my greatest fear (yes, even greater than my hair being cut short) was that she would reject me and ask me to leave when the month was completed. I would feel broken if I had to return to Australia.

The crossing was the most enjoyable I'd experienced. There was hardly any wind and the sun was shining. I sat at the prow, which I'd never normally do for fear of being bounced off the side and into the water. Today everything seemed right and I felt my spirit lifting. I was easily swayed my omens and today everything in nature seemed to tell me that things would be good today.

We moored the boat and Della retrieved the car from its garage. We made a long drive southward to a market town where the salon was. “It's a small town but the salon has a very good reputation. We'll be in good hands.”

“You haven’t been there before?” She shook her head. “I thought you'd want a stylist you trusted for such a big makeover.”

“Not at all. I want to take some risks. Besides, it's hair and hair grows. If I'm not happy I can do something new, can't I? I'm sure it wouldn't do any harm to wear a style I didn't like for a few months. It's better to regret something you've done than something you haven't done.”

I laughed. “We're so different.”

“Not entirely. We're both introverts. We both prosper in isolation, don't we? You haven't complained once about being on the island. I've had guests there who are getting cabin fever after two days there.”

“In Australia there's endless space but I feel more isolated. I guess that makes it easier to adjust. And I'd be lying if I said I didn't welcome this trip today. I was starting to feel claustrophobic.”

“Yes, that's natural. It can get oppressive in the winter when there are storms. I was there for three weeks once because the wind was too strong for a crossing. I'm not sure you'd like that.”

“It sounds scary. You were all alone?” She nodded. “I'd only survive if you were with me, I'm sure.”

“Then you'll have to come with me in the winter whenever I make a crossing to the mainland. You can never be sure when it'll change and if I went without you I might get stuck in the village and you'd be all alone.”

I moaned. “Now you're scaring me. I bet it's horrible in the winter when the sea's all choppy and it's freezing.”

“I'll scare you some more: my hair's going to be choppy now, and my neck will be freezing without any hair to keep it warm. It's time we headed in.”

Della insisted on me sitting at her side during her appointment. I watched in fascinated horror as she was brought back to the chair after being shampooed and within minutes her long hair had been roughly chopped to half way up her neck. Her stylist was a woman in her mid thirties named Charlotte, and her physical attractiveness was offset by the seeming cruelty she displayed, a nonchalance as she cut away more than a years growth of hair. The rough bob seemed already less flattering to Della, ageing too. I hoped that the completed style would be better suited to her features.

I'm sure my assessment of Charlotte is unfair, since her actions were requested by Della, and she was every bit as unconcerned by the loss of her long hair. Perhaps it's easier for me to attribute blame to a stranger than to someone I felt so deeply about. After seeing her hair chopped to half its length I was astonished to see that Charlotte was applying bleach. Della had always had her hair its natural dark shade for as long as I'd known her. I found it impossible to visualise her as a blonde.

I was so absorbed by watching Charlotte's work that I'd hardly been able to contemplate my own impending makeover, so that when I was told to stand and swap places with Della I was barely able to move, my legs weak and leaden. Della seemed intent on weaving a story to explain my appointment. She told Charlotte that I'd always hated having red hair, that it had drawn a lot of negative attention throughout my life, but that I'd always resisted the urge to dye it. Today, at last, and after a lot of encouragement I'd allowed myself the chance to change my look. “I want it black. Very black, as dark as possible, Charlotte,” she announced confidently. “And tint her brows and lashes to make her look like a real brunette.”

I was caped and felt Charlotte release my ponytail. She brushed through it, and it felt wonderfully smooth and silky. “Very nice hair, Caroline,” she said. “It's a pleasure to work with. I'm sure you always looked after your hair, and I think not colouring it previously has helped. Don't worry though, it'll look just as healthy when it's dark.”

And with that she started to brush dark paste over sections of my hair from root to tip. She was skilled and efficient, but I had a lot of hair, and the process was time-consuming. As soon as the dye was applied I saw Della retreat to the back of the salon where the bleach was rinsed. She returned with her dark hair now faded to a gingery blonde, hardly an attractive shade, and certainly not an improvement on her natural colour.

She laughed as she saw me staring at her. Obviously my face showed my disappointment. “It's not going to stay this colour. Stop stressing.”

“I always do multiple processings with hair as dark as Della's. It reduces the stress on the hair. I think we should achieve the necessary lightening with another application. But don't think that's the finished colour either, Caroline. Once the hair is nice and light we'll apply a toner to get the finished shade,” Charlotte explained. I nodded and tried to force a smile, but I knew it could hardly have looked pleasant. I felt anything but cheery.

I watched as a second layer of bleach was painted onto Della's bob, then accompanied a young stylist to have my hair rinsed. She was enthusiastic and friendly, and clearly enjoyed her job. “You had red hair when you arrived, didn't you? This is such a change. Looks great on you. I bet you can't wait to see it.”

I feigned some pleasure in my new colour, though I did relax at her attentions; I had become addicted to pampering, and the different techniques of the stylists in this salon intrigued me. I would use her scalp massage techniques when I next shampooed Della. All too soon I was returned to the chair, momentarily seeing a towel forming a turban around my hair. As it was eased free I saw my hair fall loose, inky and unnatural in its blackness. I felt a tremor of disgust pass through me as I tried to take in that this was how I looked now. It was overwhelming, making my face look too pale. I looked despairingly at Della but saw that she was delighted, and her pleasure had me smiling despite myself. If it pleased her then I was prepared to suffer this change. I told myself that I would come to like it too.

I stood now as Charlotte trimmed my hair, which was still wet. She snipped a blunt line across my lower back. I was relieved that Della had kept to her word and not pushed Charlotte to cut more of the length; I could see tiny tufts falling, nothing more than an inch, though it was still strange to see that the cut hair was black.

“I thought it might be nice to work with her natural curl today,” Della said. “Could you do some sort of set? I like the idea of seeing a vintage glamour type look for her today.”

Charlotte nodded. “I think that would look very pretty. She's a very attractive young lady.”

I blushed silently at the compliments, though it was strange to hear how they talked as if I weren't present.

“I did wonder something... Her nape is quite fuzzy. Do you think it would be possible to give her a clean nape. Especially now it's dark I think it would be an improvement.”

Charlotte gathered my mane into a ponytail again to examine my nape. “It wouldn't look quite natural, Della. Do you want that type of look? Something slightly artificial? If you do I'd recommend the same treatment on her cheeks too: sideburns shaped to a neat line. I used to work in a salon near a ballet conservatoire and some of the dancers would do something similar. Take a seat dear and we'll tidy you up.”

I was scared now, but to say no seemed impossible without making a scene, and I was too shy for that. No one had asked my permission for this. I felt trapped by the cape and felt myself getting impossibly hot. I moved my hand to press on my sex, which felt like it was burning through my dress. I felt my cheeks begin to burn as I wondered if I couldn't feel a dampness seeping through the fine fabric. Would a dark, shameful stain be visible when the cape was removed? How could I possibly be aroused by being treated do disdainfully that I wasn't even allowed to comment on how my hair was to be cut.

“I think we should go for a natural shape, Della,” Charlotte said, “although if you prefer we could go for something squared off and more obviously shaped. But the decision is yours.”

Shouldn't it be mine? I shuddered as I realised that part of me craved the more extreme look. “No, let's go for the curved shape following her natural hairline.”

And with that I heard a click followed my a harsh buzzing. I felt the cold blades of a set of clippers moving up my neck, with Charlotte's fingers smoothing away the soft hair after each stroke. My skin felt weird, with soft velvety bristles covering the surface now, where previously there'd just been the downy, fine hair. As she pressed the blades (now becoming hot) into the thicker hair there was a rattling sound as the hair resisted the blades. I felt her pull at my neck and saw fine strands of black hair float slowly to the floor, more than a foot of length gone.

Now I was made to lift my head and saw myself in the mirror being shaved over my cheeks. “That looks very nice,” Della commented, though my thoughts were the opposite. It looked obvious that my sideburns had been sculpted to a hard line. I blushed and felt that I would always want to wear my hair down now, though Della would see to it that that was never allowed.

Once the form had been approved by Della the clippers were put away, though my ordeal was not over. Charlotte sprayed my nape and cheeks and massaged the oily liquid into the stubble. I wasn't prepared for how alluring the sensation would be and made an involuntary moan at her first touch on my neck. I'd hoped it would be lost in the noise of the salon, but Charlotte chuckled. “I see she likes how her shaved neck feels.” I felt my embarrassment grow.

I sat very stiffly as I saw a straight razor in Charlotte's long fingers. She delicately pressed it to the skin, which was slightly chafed from the action of the clippers and drew it down in slow strokes. There was a rasping which dragged slightly and unnerved me, but a second stroke over the same skin was deliciously smooth and pleasing. I was confused by this mix of pleasure and discomfort, becoming ever more aroused, but at the same time humiliated. Perhaps the humiliation only added to my hedonism. I didn't understand my desires any more.

“Do you want to feel it?” It was jarring to be addressed after being treated as an object for so long. I didn't reply to Charlotte's question but automatically reached from under the cape to stroke at my nape, then my cheek. I couldn't hide how alluring the skin felt, so smooth but unlike my normal, naturally hairless skin. The shaving seemed to have electrified it, making it abnormally sensitive.

Della and Charlotte giggled as I struggled to hide the pleasure I took in the unfamiliar sensations. “I knew she'd adore it,” Charlotte observed. “She's looked close to tears since she got here and it's the first time she's looked happy.”

“She's a little shy, that's all,” Della said. “I can assure you she's very happy with her makeover.”

“Well then, Caroline, you go with Emilia and she'll set your hair. Come and show us what she's done and in the meantime I'll wash out the bleach from Della's hair.”

My long hair was wound on thick, bendy rods. I couldn't help laughing as I saw myself in the mirror; I'd never imagined sitting in an expensive salon with curlers in my hair. That seemed like a treat for an entirely different type of woman. My existence in Australia seemed every bit as distant as the geographical remoteness implied. Long dull hours of work in a dismal bar to pay the rent on my cramped, dirty room. Now I was becoming used to luxury, although I was employed as a servant and my work was far more taxing than the listless hours spent in the bar. Yet as I glanced over at Della I knew I was in love with her, and wanted more than anything to please her. I walked across to show her my wound hair.

She laughed as she saw me. “I have to say, there's something pleasing about seeing you with these rollers. We have to get you some. I like the idea of you sleeping in them.”

Della was now blonde. She regarded herself thoughtfully in the mirror. “I'm not sure. I think I could like being blonde. Maybe some time in the future I'll try it, but not today.”

Charlotte was preparing the toner now, and I could see that she'd mixed three shades. She began to apply it to vertical sections through Della's hair, smoothing the liquid on thickly with her brush and gloved fingers.

“This will take a while. Your hair needs some heat to fix the curls, so ask Emilia to put you under a dryer,” Charlotte instructed. I did as I was told and tried to relax under the dome of the dryer. My thoughts seemed as wild and turbulent as the air that rushed about my head.

Finally I was summoned once more to Della's side. “I wanted you to be here to see the final colour,” she said, though for now her hair was trapped inside a towel. “Are you ready?”

I watched excitedly as her hair was revealed, gasping with surprise. “It's grey! I never imagined that for a minute.” Della seemed unable to respond as she stared at it, seeing it too for the first time. “It's a little darker than I'd expected. I like it though. It looks beautiful, Charlotte.”

It was a relatively dark shade, though the use of different toners meant that it was streaked with lighter sections, which lifted the shade and made it look more natural. “Does it make me look older, Caroline? I'm sure it does. Oh, Charlotte, imagine if you permed it! I'd look seventy, I'm sure. I think I prefer it straight now that I have silver hair.”

“Is it the light or is it blue?” I asked.

“Yes, it's a blue grey,” Charlotte said coolly.

It did make her look older, though I didn't dare reply to her question. I was stunned to see Della's beautiful dark hair gone, and reduced to this unflattering length and ageing colour.

“I suppose you'd better do the cut then. I'm eager to see how it will look.”

Charlotte was happy to oblige. She sprayed Della's hair, though it was already damp, then isolated the nape section, pinning the sides tightly up over her ears. She snipped it high across her nape, making a blunt incision, then snipping at the hair below the line, cropping it very close by snipping across the tines of the comb.

The hair was released and a rhythm was established where the hair was loosened, then fixed up again but with another layer of hair left down. This was precisely cut to the line that had been established and I saw the back forming into a smooth blunt bob. Another three or four inches of hair were lost with each snip. Now Charlotte moved to the right side and began to shape that to the new line. It was cut so that it barely concealed Della's ear, and at the front it was cut above her jawline, the point lying just beneath her lips.

It was a very simple style, yet all the more demanding of precision in its execution because of that. Charlotte worked patiently, always careful. As the left side was cut to its new form she paid special attention to ensuring that the sides were perfectly symmetrical, sliding her fingers through the sides as she stared at Della in the mirror. Her cutting was sufficiently precise to meet her stringent standards.

The last section to remain long was the front and I watched with curiosity as that was cut shortest of all. The sides had been swept behind Della's ears and fixed with clips. The front section was combed smoothly to cover her face, then Charlotte put the points of the scissors to her forehead and began to make tiny snips.

Gradually a fringe took shape, and quite a short one, ending at the top of Della's eyebrows. I felt like crying: the severity of the cut, combined with the dull shade made Della look strange, pitilessly exposing her features. With her long hair she'd looked hardly older than thirty, but now she perhaps looked older than her true age. I couldn't understand why she'd done this to herself.

Now it was time for Charlotte to style Della's bob. The hair was so short that it took little time to dry. She used a round brush, dragging at the cropped hair and blasting it to polish and straighten it. “You should see how Charlotte works, Caroline, so you can style it for me.” Charlotte was happy to advise on her use of brush and dryer to achieve perfection.

The finished style was sleek and shiny, the new colour taking on a burnished, metallic sheen. I could see Della was pleased with her transformation, but I remained troubled. “It's just so sharp,” she enthused, “and the colour is so much nicer now it's dry and straight. I'll need regular cuts, won't I? Would three weekly trims be enough?”

“I'd say that's perfect. Colour touched up every other time should keep you looking ideal.”

Now it was time for us to be in the care of Lydia, the chief make-up artist and beauty therapist. I was first in her chair, as she tinted my eyebrows and lashes. The application of the dye to my lashes made my eyelids sting and I sat with my eyes closed to relieve the itching. I was left unable to see what was being done to Della but I could hear the discussion as her brows were reshaped by waxing.

“Are you sure about this?” Lydia asked. “It's quite drastic.”

“I'm sure,” Della said confidently. After a little delay she made a little gasp of complaint at the stinging. Then she began to laugh. “Oh Caroline, look at me!”

I opened my eyes and saw that one of her eyebrows was gone. I couldn't hide my dislike. “Oh Della! It looks terrible. Why have you done it?”

She looked at me, a sternness underlying her implacable style. I knew she didn't like my criticism and I would be rebuked later. “I want nice slim, shapely brows and it's best to just draw them on rather than try to reshape what nature provided. You'll see how pretty they are once we're through.”

I closed my eyes again to ease the discomfort and by the time Lydia came to wipe away the irritating chemicals Della had new make-up. It was jarring to see her, her face very matte and pale, her brows thin and greyish, rather too faint and obviously drawn on, though very expertly, and certainly more flattering than when I'd seen her without a brow. Her lips were darkly painted, the contour emphasising the narrowness of her lips. It made her look a little prim, and certainly did nothing to lessen the severity of the new cut. I could see that she'd been very deliberate in choosing this look. It was very striking and beautifully realised, but I couldn't say that I liked it. It was such a shock to see Della changed. I'd worried she'd revert to something like the no-nonsense look she'd had when we first met, but that was not the case. In fact, if I'd seen the woman before me at the airport on my return I wouldn't have recognised her.

And now it was my turn to undergo the final stages in my metamorphosis. My brows, which were now terribly black and far too emphatic, were trimmed with tiny scissors and sculpted with a razor blade to form the contour into something more definite. The trim lightened the tint noticeably (“she has fairly sparse brows,” Lydia stated) but then that was reversed as they were filled in with a brush to perfect their precise form. My skin was covered with a heavy foundation to conceal any imperfections (my freckles completely hidden) and my lips were painted with shiny black, which seemed too much: my lips were naturally quite full and they seemed to dominate and bring an unbalance to my face.

My hair was finally let free and I had to admire the soft, pretty curls that resulted, with lots of volume, softening the impact of the stark make-up. If my hair hadn't been dyed black I would have adored it, but even with the new colour I was prepared to concede that I didn't look terrible.

“I've got another appointment this afternoon,” Della said as we sat for lunch in a nice restaurant in the town. “I wonder if I shouldn't book us into a hotel for the night. The thought of the drive back and the boat trip seems too much. What do you think?”

“I think I'd like a night in a hotel, but I won't be paying will I? Anyway, the forecast is for rain tonight. Might be better to head back tomorrow once the rain has passed.”

She nodded her agreement and within five minutes had made an online booking on her phone. “Caroline. You're definitely getting divorced? No chance of a reconciliation with John?”

“No chance. I could see faults in him when we got together, but I thought I could change him. It's a mistake, isn't it? You should accept a person as they are or keep your distance. People don't change in relationships, at least not in the ways their partner hopes they will.”

Della smiled at me. “You've changed. You've ordered a pancetta pasta dish. A few weeks ago you were a committed vegetarian. And look at your hair now! Maybe John should have demanded you change. Then you might have had a happy marriage.”

I groaned. “The changes he would have liked were probably something like me not minding when he slept with other women. He can't stop himself flirting. But it does nothing to make him happy. He's insecure and he hurts everyone around him.”

“I'm sorry I brought it up. You should draw a line under that mistake and make a fresh start. Put all this nonsense about going back to Australia behind you. Make a new beginning in Britain. You do look like a different person. And I don't just mean your hair. You look ten years younger than when I first saw you. You looked tired and there was nothing in your eyes. Now you look healthy and your spirit has returned.”

“Meeting you has been so important for me. It's just so sad that it only happened because of Tasha.”

“Things happen for a reason. I can't believe that her death doesn't bring something good, and maybe that's you and me. But like I said, we can't talk about 'you and me'. Not yet. It's too soon.”

“Then don't talk about me and Australia. If I don't know what you want I can't decide where I'll be living, can I?” She nodded and smiled and the conversation paused. “I still can't believe your hair. I feel awkward when I look at you because you look so different.”

“Older?”

“Yes! Much older. I think you know that though. I can't quite figure out why you did it.”

“Lots of reasons really. I am going to be forty soon and I didn't want to keep dressing like I was still twenty. I think when I withdrew from the day to day running of my business I tried to go back to something like the youth I felt I never had. Anyway, that wasn't me. This maybe isn't either, but I like to play at reinvention. I'll stay with this new me for a while. And it's a nice disguise. I get recognised sometimes, and I don't think I'll be so easily spotted for now.”

After lunch we drove back north, which was taking us toward the island, but took a detour into a big city. “We can check into the hotel and leave the car there before I go for my appointment.”

I nodded my approval. “You're being very mysterious. What sort of appointment is it?”

“Wait and see. We'll be there very soon after all.”

She was right. Half an hour later we arrived at a tattoo shop. “Please tell me you're not getting a tattoo! It's just a piercing, right?” She shook her head. “You're having a midlife crisis, Della. New haircut, tattoo... Where's this going to end? Please think about this.”

She laughed. “You're like the little sensible angel sitting on my shoulder, telling me good ideas. But you can't see the devil on the other side which is telling me that a tattoo is nothing to be scared of. Now you can go and sit in the hotel and wait for me or you can come in and hold my hand, because I am scared that it will hurt too much for me to bear.”

Of course I couldn't be so cruel as to desert Della, especially since it was the only time she'd admitted to vulnerability and asked for my help. She entered the tattooing shop and sat discussing the design with the young woman who would give her her first tattoo. There'd obviously been an online discussion and the design had been confirmed in advance. I sat away from them, as though keeping my distance would protect me from the air of decadence that I associated with tattoos. I blushed as Della stripped to her waist and lay on the bed, awaiting her disfigurement.

I'd never seen Della naked, and while that remained the case, since she still wore a skirt, I found myself getting embarrassed to see her in this state of undress. Her breasts were exceptionally large, which was obvious enough no matter how she dressed, but now their presence seemed inescapable. I thought she was exhibiting a prudish modesty when she cupped her hands to her breasts, as though she was somehow protecting her modesty, but soon realised that her action was entirely practical. The tattoo was to be marked in the gap between her breasts, extending from a point on her sternum, fanning out into a wider wedge-shape that would extend across her belly. The tattooist marked the form diagrammatically in pen, with a steady hand. She then began to touch the needle to Della's pale skin.

“Don't sit over there,” she said. “Come and join me.”

“I was supposed to hold your hand but they're a little full,” I teased. “Oh, blood,” I said as I saw the tattooist dabbing at the line, the swab discoloured with red and the black of the ink.

“Are you phobic?”

I shook my head. “I just don't like it, which to me isn't irrational, entirely sensible. Is the pain as bad as you'd worried?”

“It's... pretty painful, yes,” she said. “Actually, maybe worse. Am I embarrassing you, Judy?”

The tattooist shook her head. “If you need a break tell me. Sternum is a sensitive spot, and as I get lower down it shouldn't be so bad. Just try and relax and keep distracted. That will help.”

I tried to keep her attention away from the pain by discussing the most mundane things, and we got into a discussion of what food we needed to order to restock the larder in the house. It always took more planning that living elsewhere, since a trip to the nearest shop took hours and could be postponed indefinitely by inclement weather. I stared in fascination all the time though, watching the fine lines and dots spread over Della's abdomen. It seemed incredible that the marks would never leave her, would be with her through her life.

“My arms are cramping up,” Della said. “Can I let go of my boobs now?”

“Not really,” Judy said. “For most girls it wouldn't be an issue. You're just blessed with being more ample.”

She scoffed. “It doesn't always feel like a blessing. I suppose I'll just have to bear my cross a little longer.”

“Ask your friend to help. I'm sure you wouldn't mind, would you, Caroline?”

Of course I offered to help, but I felt my face redden at having to hold Della's boobs up. “Poor little thing, you look ashamed,” Della teased.

I didn't know what to say. Before our meeting, and despite my flirtations with Tasha, I'd considered myself as a straight woman. Even with my attraction to Della it seemed strange to hold her breasts. It wasn't unpleasant; in fact they felt wonderful, but that just made my situation more difficult. I'd never considered a woman's breasts as a source of sensuality before. To discover this pleasure whilst in the presence of another was, to say the least, taxing.

Judy worked with apparent spontaneity, the form taking shape, then filling with patterns formed from clustered dots. The lower edge of the tattoo was initially insubstantial and gradually became extended in lacy arabesques. At the centre was a dropping extension which reached to within an inch of Della's navel.

Now that the upper part had been completed, Judy told me I could allow Della's breasts to hang freely. I took hold of her hand now. “It looks... It looks good,” I told her.

“I'm not sure I believe you,” she smiled. “I don't think Caroline approves of tattoos, Judy. She tried to talk me out of this.”

I was embarrassed that she was making me sound so prudish. But then nothing she said was untrue.

“If she doesn't approve at least she's very polite. I've had some real rows in here when partners don't like the planned tattoos. That's never nice.”

“I don't dislike tattoos,” I said. “I was just surprised that Della was getting one. I should know better that to talk her out of anything. She's very determined.”

Della laughed. “That's true, I am. Caroline is the opposite, very indecisive.”

Judy laughed. “You're embarrassing the poor girl. And she's been so sweet to you. How long have you been together?”

“Oh, we're not,” I said, more insistently than seemed reasonable. “Just friends. She was worried though and I couldn't let her do this on her own.”

“Oh, I'm sorry,” Judy said, returning to her task. “You just seemed so close.”

“My sister died a few weeks ago after a long illness, and Caroline was her best friend, although they'd lost touch, understandably, since Caroline had moved to Australia. She's been staying with me, and she's been the best friend I could have wished for.”

Judy paused to express her sympathy and to compliment me on my virtue, but I felt saddened, indeed angry, that Della talked about me as a friend. I was close to losing control, crying and shouting that I was more than a friend, but I despised people who behaved like that and with the greatest difficulty I forced myself to stay calm and hide my resentment.

Della stared at the tattoo in the mirror, obviously pleased to see herself decorated. Her tattoo was nicely made; I'd seen similar types of tattoo but Judy had an individual style that I liked, and let her know that I could appreciate her imagination.

“Do you think you'll get more tattoos, Della?” she asked.

“I know I will.”

“I hope it doesn't make you two argue any more,” Judy said, laughing.

“I hope not. Maybe we should talk her into getting a tattoo. Then she might start to appreciate mine more.”

“Della, don't,” I pleaded, my mood strained more than ever.

She looked at me strangely, then got dressed, her tattoo how covered with a piece of cling film. We walked back to the hotel.

Della had booked a suite in a very stylish hotel, and we each had a room. Della said she wanted to change and would come to get me once she was ready, with the plan to go to the bar for a drink while we decided where to dine. When she entered her appearance took me entirely by surprise. I remembered that when I'd first met her Della used to wear glasses, but hadn't since my return, though she'd mentioned wearing contact lenses. Now she wore tortoiseshell frames with undersized round lenses which made her eyes appear smaller: there was no doubt that she was short sighted.

And gone was her chic, minimalist wardrobe, with her preference for white shirts and black trousers. Della wore a vintage red and black satin blouse, garishly patterned and a knee length pencil skirt. She wore lace up brogues with fine, elegant heels and opaque black stockings. The blouse had a high collar, closed at her neck with an ostentatious gold brooch. She'd never worn much jewellery but now, in addition to the brooch, wore a string of jet beads doubly looped around her neck, gold bangles and four or five heavy rings.

“Oh my god, Della! What did you do?”

“This is the complete look,” she said proudly. She spun around to show herself off. “What do you think? I do hope you like it?”

“I'm just in shock,” I said. “I can't take it in. You're changing too fast and my head's spinning. I don't even recognise you any more. You looked so pretty this morning. Now, I don't know.” I hated the glasses, I realised, but didn't dare say so, worried about hurting her. I'd already said too much.

Della seemed unconcerned by my lack of approval. She came and sat on the bed next to me. “I'm so excited. I adore my new haircut and my new clothes. I'll dress like this all the time now. Satin, patterns, tight collars. You'll come to love it too, Caroline.”

“I don't know I will. I'm so unhappy.” My control was slipping. “I can't bear this any more. We get so close, then you push me away. You tell me that I should stay with you, and I've probably lost my job now because I have, but then you say you can't make any decision about the future because it's too soon. You say I'm indecisive but if you can't make a decision right now I'm going back to Australia and never seeing your island again. You can buy me a ticket back and in return you can have the house.”

“But Caroline...” Della looked lost, shocked by my declaration, clearly not having any inkling that I felt so strongly. She started to cry. “You're so dear to me, but it is too soon. Please don't leave.”

“You ask so much of me. Look at me! I've done so much for you, I'm unrecognisable. I work from dawn to dusk every day for you, wearing those boots and that corset that give me constant pain. I only do it because I love you. I eat meat because you told me that I should take pleasure in life, but you don't give anything back.”

She was sobbing now. “It's too soon though! I can't love you so soon after Natasha. She loved you and it would be a betrayal. Please, Caroline. You need to give me time.”

“This is impossible though. I've let myself fall in love with you, and you did everything to encourage it but now you put a wall between us. In a month you might walk away from me. You have to decide now or I leave. Do you really think Tasha wouldn't want us to be happy together?”

“Yes, I really do think that. She always thought I liked you and she was madly jealous of anyone around you. We argued about you, you know? So no, she didn't want us to be together.”

I was shocked by her revelation. “It's different now though. She's gone. I miss her, but she's gone. We can't live our lives as though she were still here, second guessing what she'd want. And regardless of what she thought about me, she wanted us to be happy, didn't she? You said you wanted me to take pleasure in life. Are you going to let your guilt stop you?”

She shook her head, but couldn't speak. She was clearly fighting an inner conflict. “I'd be bad for you, Caroline. You've seen how I am. I'd control you and make you resent me. I've had you cooped up on an island. I'm happy there, but it would suffocate you.”

“It wouldn't. I'm very introverted. I don't need much human contact. But I would make some rules. I can't be your servant every day. Two days a week, but I don't mind cooking every day. I need to go back to making things. I want to paint again, and I need you to support me in that.”

She nodded. “I'd like that. You should be creative. Natasha always said you were talented, but you didn't have self confidence.”

“It's not about what Tasha wanted any more. She was a beautiful person, but the only thing we should think about what she wanted was that she wanted us both to be happy. We'll be happy if we're together and miserable if we're apart. That's true, isn't it?” She nodded. I could see that she would be devastated if I left her.

“I still worry about the changes I want to push you into. It excites me so much when I see you change.”

“You've changed more,” I laughed.

“Yes,” she sighed. “I was so happy, and now this.”

“Are you unhappy right now? I think you could make me happier than ever in my life if you just tell me that you want me as much as I want you.”

“I do, Caroline,” she sighed. “But you have to accept submission to me. Your body will be mine. I'll change more than your hair colour.”

“You do scare me sometimes, but I adore you. I thought you had good taste but now I'm not so sure. You look so odd now.” I blushed as I admitted this, scared I'd offend her.

“I know. I like looking odd. I don't want us to be conventional any more. I always saw you as being very... quirky. You're not a conventional beauty, your beauty is much more individual. I'm going to push you. Make you look odd too. Freakish, even. But on the island it'll just be us, so why should we worry if anyone else doesn't like it? We will make each other happy. I love you, Caroline, and I have for a long time.”

“And I love you, Della.”

“Miss Della,” she corrected. “You're my sub now, aren't you? Obedience and respect at all times. How about tomorrow we fit you with a collar and get you a little tattoo to show that you're committed to me?”

It felt like the most delicious dream of my life as we kissed for the second time, but now giving of ourselves entirely. I found all of my fears had gone, and even the prospect of a tattoo seemed acceptable, or even welcome. Perhaps at some level I'd been intrigued by watching Della being tattooed, and certainly I did like the tattoo on her, though there would continue to be some equivocation about her beautiful body being profaned. I wanted to test myself, to see if I was courageous enough to withstand the pain, and to live with a permanent change.

As I stared at Della, I felt that it was true that she was no longer as pretty as she'd been with long hair, but that the new cut was sexier. The colour and the harshness emphasised something different in her face, and it was as though I was seeing more clearly the face of the woman I loved. Even the odd glasses were a cause of excitement now. As she undressed for me I felt myself becoming giddy, a more intense high than I'd ever experienced.

“You should wear a corset too,” I said. “It would look marvellous with your figure.” She was in good shape, much fitter than me, but her body was more solid and muscular, with broad shoulders and hips. The idea of seeing her with a tightly nipped in waist seemed intriguing.

She kissed me and started to undress me. “You're my sub now. I like that you'll make suggestions for things I should change, but you have to understand that when you make a suggestion you have to accept a change in return. So when I try a corset I'll demand a sacrifice from you.”

“I can't imagine how demanding you'll be. I take it back,” I said demurely. “No corset.”

“Too late. I'll wear a tight corset for you and demand my forfeit.”

I was too aroused to let fear dominate my feelings; Della was undressing me slowly, pausing as each new area of flesh was uncovered to kiss and caress me. I was surprised by her delicacy and patience. She sighed in delight as she exposed my nakedness, and expressed wonder at the beauty of my body.

“I'd always wished I was blessed with a body like yours. I used to feel so heavy and ugly when I saw girls as lithe as you.”

“But your body is far more lovely. Beautiful curves, and powerful too. When I saw you strip to the waist in the tattooists I was beside myself; I'd never felt such strong emotions at seeing a body.”

“You like my breasts?” she laughed. “They're far too big. For a long time I've agonised about having them reduced. They bring all sorts of embarrassing attention, and they make me suffer back ache all the time.”

“Promise me you won't, Miss Della! I'd be heart-broken. I can't quite believe I'm so pleased by breasts. It's still hard for me to realise how much I like women. Not women, just you. I still think of myself as straight.”

Our conversation dwindled as we curled together on the bed and began kissing. Della was intense and forceful in her personality so it surprised me that she was such a gentle and tender lover. I'd wondered if her devotion to her career had meant that she'd made little time for personal relationships, but I was left in no doubt that she was experienced in the physical actions of love. Her touches were most affecting and I was transported by her caresses. She told me, almost apologetically, that she was most pleased by foreplay, but since that had always been the most thrilling aspect of physical relationships for me I felt it was an omen that our relationship was well matched.

Nor did my clumsiness seem to frustrate Della; she was generous and took pleasure from driving me to ecstasy, and did so time after time. We spent two hours in blissful exploration, during which time I experienced more pleasure than I had in numerous encounters with male lovers, who now seemed selfish and insensitive in comparison. Finally we lay curled together, exhausted. The contact of our bodies was delightful, however.

“I'm sorry, Miss,” I whispered. “I've done so little to please you tonight and you've given so much.”

“Hush, baby,” she said. “I take more pleasure in seeing you happy than in anything else.”

“But I want to learn how to please you. You have to train me to be as sensitive a lover as you are.”

She stared into my eyes dreamily. Her gaze told me with the greatest clarity that my love was fully reciprocated.

We woke early the next morning and shared a kiss to welcome the new day. “Oh, Caroline, we never ate last night! I'm ravenous.”

I suggested that we should get breakfast immediately and she agreed that we should shower then eat. Over a generous breakfast we discussed our plans for the day.

“We should see to it that you get a tattoo. Let's get to the shop at opening time and see if Judy can fit you in. It won't be a big tattoo, so it won't take long. I don't want anything particularly complicated, just something to show your submission. Do you want it?”

“I'd be lying if I said I wasn't scared, Miss. But yes, part of me does want it. And I'd never even considered getting a tattoo before yesterday.”

“The pain isn't too bad,” she said to reassure me.

I laughed. “Did you forget I was with you yesterday? You were struggling with how much it hurt.”

She looked embarrassed. “Maybe I just remember how happy I am with the tattoo and already forget the bad side.”

“I don't mind if it hurts. I want to prove to myself that I can take pain. I want to do it for you, too. A little tattoo isn't much to show how much you mean to me.”

“It won't be the last though,” she said, her voice changed now, the voice I recognised as signalling her excitement. “I want you to get a lot of tattoos, but we need some time to plan how they'll look. It's not something to rush into.”

I felt keenly how my acceptance of this one tattoo would mean an inevitable proliferation. There was a powerful urge to run, to free myself of this burden, but that would mean losing Della. Despite my attraction to her, there was a fear that I was attracted to her because of various transient factors: my prolonged lack of intimacy, the emotional turmoil surrounding Tasha's death, the luxury of staying on the island. Would my adoration of Della peter out once I became more settled? No, I told myself, she was astonishing, brave, beautiful and had depths I could never exhaust. The urge to let myself fall into her and her desires was compelling. I would let myself fall.

I still felt surprisingly calm as I entered the studio with Judy. My composure was disturbed by Della's directness. “We were just friends yesterday but since we last saw you, Judy, everything changed. We've decided to get together, and Caroline wishes to submit to me. She wants a tattoo to indicate her new status and I wanted you to do it immediately.”

“Is that right,” Judy asked me. “You've made yourself Della's slave? And you want to get a slave tattoo?”

“She's not a slave!” Della laughed. “She's a very intelligent, beautiful girl and I will always respect that. But she will be obedient to me. I have no wish to make her a slave.”

I was embarrassed by our relationship being exposed to a stranger, but Della's compliments made me almost swoon with delight. “I'd never thought of getting a tattoo, but I want to be tattooed for Miss Della,” I announced, but my voice sounded timid and weak. I couldn't acknowledge my love without embarrassment. Even giving her her title seemed strained and contrived when a third person was present.

“Did you decide on a design?” Judy asked. Della nodded and the two of them went to consult, Della sketching out a diagram at the desk. I stayed back, not invited to discuss the image that would be marked on me permanently.

Della now told me to undress. I tried to appear calm, but being naked with a stranger was shameful for me. Judy, doubtless used to this intimacy, seemed utterly unconcerned. I lay on the bed and realised that the tattoo would be placed on my pubis, and Judy began to make some marks with a pen, always asking Della's consent for the size and form.

“I'll have to shave her, obviously,” she said. My mound was largely bare, just a strip of neatly trimmed fur as a decoration.

Della nodded. “I prefer her smooth. Once she's tattooed I wouldn't allow any hair to grow back to obscure the symbol. You'll shave yourself every day, won't you, Caroline?”

“Yes, Miss,” I promised. I could feel my excitement growing, despite my shame.

“Do you like feeling helpless?” she whispered. “You can't resist what's happening, can you? Does that arouse you?” I nodded, my face reddening. Della's skirt was bound around her waist with a narrow belt, which she now slid free. She looped the leather through the buckle and pulled it tight around my wrists, then tied it off to the frame of the bed, fixing my arms over my head. “You're not to speak until I free you, OK?” I nodded. I felt truly helpless now.

Judy began shaving me, and I lay back and accepted what was happening. I was unable to see what she was doing without lifting my head, and I imagined that that would have been unacceptable. I was to be passive, that much I understood. I would see my tattoo for the first time when it was complete and unalterable.

I felt the first ripple of pain as the buzzing needle was pushed to my skin. The stinging was intense, bearable for now, but then I'd only experienced a moment, and it would, I was sure, grow more painful. I recalled my brief experience of meditation classes and adopted a breathing technique I'd been taught there. Concentration on my breath helped me to regain control; everything was focussed on the air passing in and out of my body, every other sensation becoming smaller and insignificant, even the pain.

I found I couldn't look up at Della, as her presence disturbed my concentration, and made the pain grow again. I was also aware that looking at her might make my excitement grow, and I worried that despite (because?) of the pain I might grow aroused and reveal something shameful to Judy, whose efforts were concentrated on my most intimate anatomy. I closed my eyes and zoned out.

I felt strangely numb and confused as Della freed me and I clumsily sat up. “It's finished?” I asked, slightly incredulous. I didn't think much time had elapsed. I looked down and saw that I'd been marked with a red triangle, perhaps a little over two inches, which pointed downward and forced its apex into a smaller black triangle, or else rested in the cleft of two linked triangular peaks; both interpretations were possible. It was very bold and simple. I'd worried that I'd be marked with a text making my submission very obvious, but this symbolic representation was more subtle, and more pleasing.

And then I was back in the car, kissing Della and thanking her. “I imagined you'd be more distressed,” she said, “by the pain, and by seeing a fairly bold tattoo on yourself.”

I smiled back at her. “Disappointed? I didn't find the pain too hard to bear. And I like the design, though I can't deny some inner conflict. It scares me to think of being more obviously tattooed. I'm glad this can be hidden, but I feel it binds us and I like that.”

She couldn't deny her pleasure. “You always surprise me. I was so excited seeing you accept the tattoo. Although I felt an enormous weight on myself. I've never committed to a relationship fully before and I worry I'll let you down. I have to work hard to avoid slipping back onto old habits. I used to work eighteen hours a day at my business, and I need something to occupy my mind. Maybe I can put all my time into perfecting you,” she laughed. “I could learn to tattoo.”

“Oh god,” I groaned. “Imagine what you could do in a week? I'd be tattooed over every inch of my body. I'm not sure I could bear that.”

She remained silent, an enigmatic smile on her face. I was hoping for a reassurance that she'd never want that but it wasn't forthcoming.

We stopped off en route back home at two other towns. The first place was a custom corset manufacturer where we were both measured for new garments. Delivery was promised within two weeks, although we were told that usually orders were filled in a week. “It'll be nice to see you in something that fits you better,” Della said as we left. “You've lost weight and we can take your waist tighter now.” I'm sure I looked astonished that I was to be bound tighter. I could only imagine how uncomfortable I'd be. “And I'll have a waist once I get mine!” she laughed. “I'm quite excited to see how it looks. It'll be part of my transformation, my changes toward perfecting myself. Of course, since you asked it of me, there will be a sacrifice from you, won't there?”

“Yes Miss. What will it be?”

“All I'll tell you is that it'll be a surprise,” she giggled. “Poor little Caroline, don't look sad. You'll look more beautiful every day. I adore you and I'll treasure you always.”

The final stop was a knife shop where two razors were purchased: Japanese made straight razors of the finest quality. “One for you and one for me,” Della said. “You'll have to learn to use it well, because you'll be shaving me. The blade is so sharp that you could easily cut me. You wouldn't want that, I hope?”

I surely didn't, though that was my biggest fear. The next morning I was tasked with shaving Della's eyebrows, where a faint speckle of regrowth was visible to a close examination. “Please, Miss Della,” I begged, “let me use a safety razor. This is too dangerous for me. And I'm so nervous my hand is shaking. I'd be sure to cut you.”

“I'm starting you gently,” she reassured. “Once you master the razor you'll use it to shave my pussy. I'm waxed at the moment, but I like that we'll have a ritual each morning where we shave each other. Shaving my eyebrows is very simple and will give you a chance to get used to handling the blade. Just pull the skin up on my forehead to draw it taut and slide the end of the blade over the skin gently. Rest your hand on my face to steady it. It's really not difficult.”

She dabbed her brows with a perfumed oil to act as lubricant and to soften the stubble. I focussed on my breathing, trying as much as possible to empty my mind of thoughts and responded automatically to Della's instructions. The blade slid over the taut skin easily and the edge gathered a thin line of oil, discoloured with tiny dark granules, which were the cut hairs.

“Well done!” she said excitedly as she looked at the results in the mirror, running a finger over the brows to feel the smoothness. “Just perfect.”

I blushed at her compliment. “You know, Miss, You have some fine downy hairs on your face. You could use the razor to get rid.”

“You'd prefer that?”

I felt my blushing becoming more intense. “It looks fine as it is,” I said. She put a finger to my lips.

“Don't say what you think I want to hear, or worry that you'll hurt my feelings. Do you think it would look better if my face was smooth and hairless?”

“I do Miss,” I said. “With your make-up it would make you look more perfect.”

She kissed me passionately. “I like when you want me to make changes, even small ones like this. Of course, you know that your suggestion will have a cost?”

“I didn't say you should do anything! I just made a suggestion.”

She smiled and kissed me again. “Don't try to deny what you wanted. If you do that I'll be angry with you. You knew what you were hoping for when you pointed out that I have a hairy face. I'm happy to give you what you want, but you have to give back in return. Now smile and thank me.”

I did as she asked, but now found that I had the task of shaving her face. She clipped back her hair and I lathered her cheeks, her lips, her chin. She giggled as she saw herself. “How mannish I look! Do you like seeing your girlfriend looking so butch and getting shaved?”

“I don't know, Miss,” I answered honestly. “There's something disturbing about it, something I don't like to see, but I can't deny I'm excited. Scared too because you want me to use the razor more.”

Once more I tried to clear my mind of conscious thought and slid the razor over her cheeks. I found that I was growing more confident, but as I began shaving her lips discovered that the task was more difficult. The curved forms were harder to follow with the blade, and the protrusion of the nose limited the motion of the blade. I tried to slide the blade sideways over her upper lip and cried out in shock as I saw a bright red spot bloom rapidly over the wet skin. “I cut you!” I said despairingly. Suddenly my growing confidence was gone.

Della looked in the mirror. “It's just a tiny nick,” she said calmly. “Don't worry, it's inevitable at first.” She pressed a piece of tissue to the wound but it continued to ooze blood every time she withdrew it.

“I thought you'd be mad. I thought you'd punish me.”

“Not mad at all,” she said. “But I think you should be punished. Every nick you cause means you get a piercing when we're next on the mainland.”

“But I might nick you lots of times!”

“Then it's a motivator for you to perfect your technique,” she laughed. “I don't mind if you have a lot of piercings though. And to show you I'm not unfair I'll accept the same. Every time I nick you I'll get a piercing too. It's not like I'm any more expert with a straight razor so you might see me with a lot more jewellery soon.”

“I'm not sure how that would fit with your look, Miss. You look sort of conservative, so lots of piercings would be out of place.”

“Then I can get them in more intimate places. I'm sure that would give us both pleasure. Now finish my shave and let's see if your idea is an improvement.”

I did as she asked and she studied herself in the mirror. “I do see a difference. It gleams, doesn't it? I think you earned yourself a new shaving task. Do you approve?”

“I do, but still I'm unsure I like your shaved brows. And your glasses make you look so studious. You could get prettier frames.”

“Oh, Caroline. So full of suggestions today! You want me to change and make you change too? This time I'm going to refuse though. I'm not going to grow my brows back. I like how it changes me, and I like that I have limitless options to draw new shapes. As for my glasses, I'll get more frames, but probably nothing you'd choose. Maybe we should look at you getting some glasses too.”

“I don't need them though!”

“I could fix that. You could get laser treatment to make you short-sighted rather than fixing it. Then you'd have to wear glasses all the time like me.”

“No!” I squealed. “Please don't do that. I'd hate it. Besides, no doctor would do that. It wouldn't be ethical to do surgery to ruin my eyesight.”

She giggled. “You'd be surprised what people will do if there's money involved. But you win, I'll leave your eyes alone for now. But you have to learn to love my glasses. It's not nice when you criticise how I look. I only ever tell you how beautiful you are.”

“That's true, but you choose how I look too.”

“Because I know what's best for both of us. You look prettier than ever, and so do I. Don't I?”

“You do look wonderful,” I smiled. “I'm growing to like your hair, even if I do miss your long hair.”

I showered and then it was my turn to sit for Della. She began by using her new razor to shave the margins of my nape. “I love this crisp hairline. And your shaved neck feels delicious.” I mumbled my agreement; I could hardly contradict what she said, given how much I'd loved her kisses on my neck the previous night.

Now my hair was swept back to allow Della to shave my sideburns to their new form. I stared in the mirror, uncomfortable with how unnatural it looked. “Are you going to put it up today?” I'd had the luxury of wearing my hair down since it had been coloured.

“Of course I am,” Della smiled. “Now it's time for your first sacrifice, to pay for you choosing to shave my face. I'm going to cover the mirror because I don't want you to see yourself until your hair and make-up are complete.” She pulled a towel over the mirror and looked at me, excitement growing. “A bit more to shave,” she whispered. She dabbed oil over my eyebrows.

“Oh, no. Please Miss Della,” I wailed. “Not my eyebrows.”

“Hush, baby! You knew there'd be a sacrifice, now accept it with good grace or I'll add a punishment.” I bit my lip as I felt the razor drag over the fine hairs. My life with dark brows was to be ephemeral, I realised. Within a few minutes they were gone completely and I was allowed to feel their absence, if not for now see it.

“How does it look,” I asked unhappily. Della stared at me, a smile spreading over her lips.

“It makes you look like a stranger. A strange stranger. I love it though. Don't think I'm going to let them grow back any time soon.”

Della took an eternity to form my hair into a huge updo. The back and sides were pulled back taut over my skull and the back was wound over a block of foam to add to the volume of the form protruding at the back. Fine braids were made at my nape and wound around the base of the bun as a decorative element. I was finally allowed to see myself and began to cry. I had black lips and feathery lashes surmounting my black rimmed eyes. I hated the loss of my brows, and felt keenly that I was no longer pretty.  I could see Della was unhappy with my reaction, but try as I might I couldn't gain control of my emotions.

“Oh, Caroline, you're ruining your make-up! You're being so childish. You look so sexy, or at least you did until your face contorted with crying.”

“It looks so ugly,” I wailed.

“Not at all. You're just used to being conventional. I think of all the changes you made this is the one that most moves you toward your real self, how you should look. It's a small change but it hints at the real Caroline. I adore you without brows and you have to learn to see how beautiful it is too.” Her enthusiasm made me pause in my immoderate reaction and soon we were lost in the passion of our kisses. “You have to be more daring,” she whispered. “I want you to be reckless. All this hair is too pretty and it strangles your desires. It holds you back. You need to let go of that. Accept that your hair is something to play with, to alter your image on a whim. If that means shaving it all off then so be it. You accepted a tattoo so well but losing your eyebrows, which would grow back in a few weeks, makes you sob. I want you to stare at yourself in the mirror and make yourself cum while you think about how sexy you look, and how you'll look even better when you proceed with your transformation. If you can manage to orgasm in five minutes then I'll spare you a punishment in the gym.”

That I succeeded was largely due to the caresses at which Della excelled, not to mention her shower of compliments, which almost made me believe that the loss of my eyebrows was an improvement. She assured me that I should seek to constantly reinvent myself and that to feel a confusion about my identity when I saw my reflection should be a state I desired. “You only have me to judge you,” she added. “We're the only two people in our little world, so let's not worry about the what people across the sea would think.”

A week passed and each day we practised our razor skills on each other. Della had made good on her promise to keep my brows absent, and despite my pleas had not so much as drawn on a faint indication of an artificial version. The tally of our errors, where we'd accidentally drawn blood was two against Della, four for me. On this day we breakfasted a little later than usual and Della spoke: “We need to head over to the mainland. We need some provisions and there's some deliveries to be collected at the post office. Let's put your hair up today. I want you to look pretty for the trip.”

I agreed, but felt trepidation as we approached the harbour; I was sure to draw attention in the quiet port village, with my high bouffant and make-up that looked more suited to the catwalk. Della hardly looked like the vision of the captain of a boat, wearing a mustard-yellow satin blouse, pleated olive green skirt and bright blue stockings. Her wardrobe was becoming increasingly chromatic, in contrast to her sleek grey bob, where even the subtle blue had now faded to near-imperceptibility.

It was a fine day, cool but sunny and hardly any wind which made the crossing much more bearable for me, since I'd hardly become more tolerant of the effects of high waves on the short trips. We disembarked and collected the car from the garage adjacent to the harbour. “We can go into town. Have a think if there's anything you'd like to buy while we're there. I thought we could get our piercings too. It would make our trip more worthwhile, wouldn't it?”

I grimaced at the thought. “Where will you get me pierced?”

“I thought it might be nice to get your first one in the spot where you nicked me. You remember where it was?”

I nodded. “Left side of upper lip.”

“You've got a pretty mouth so it would be nice to have a little sparkle to draw attention. I thought a little ruby stud for you. A little glimmer of blood red seems entirely appropriate.”

“Do I get to decide where yours go?”

“I'd set my heart on piercing my nipples. But if you have another idea I'd be happy to listen.”

I couldn't help blushing. The thought of ring decorating her ample breasts seemed delightful to me, though I still found it hard to admit how much they pleased me. “That would be very nice,” I said softly.

“I'd prefer yours to be more obvious. Maybe a couple in ears and a nose ring. OK?”

“Yes Miss Della,” I said. I was shivering as I thought about how those piercings would transform me; the lip and nose would particularly change how I would be perceived. “Will we do the piercings as soon as we get there?”

“I'd rather thought we should do those last. I'm sure mine won't so comfortable once they're done. Doing a big food shop is probably easier before.” She looked at me, frustrated. “Oh, OK. I know how you stress more when thinking about something than actually experiencing it. We'll go straight to the piercer. But I go first.”

She was true to her word. I was sick with anxiety by the time we arrived and watching huge needles being forced into the soft flesh, pinched my cruel steel implements did nothing to calm me. I watched blood begin to ooze from the wound, then fall in heavy drips. Despite her efforts to remain calm, Della gave a little moan as the pain increased to torturous levels. I squeezed her hand and she forced a smile. “Just a little sting. It's fine now.” I could see she'd turned pale, however, and her forehead was covered in beads of moisture. She evidently found the blood as unappealing as I and couldn't look any more.

I kept hold of her hand and gave her little encouraging kisses, but mostly to give a reason not to look. Finally I was told it was over. I saw one inch gold rings hanging at the ends of her boobs, her pale nipples deeply pierced by the thick metal. I estimated that almost half an inch of flesh was pierced. “They look wonderful,” I said bashfully.

My head was aching as I took my place in the chair. I was determined to take control of my anxiety and remembered how I'd conquered my fear during the tattooing. I began to slow my breathing, concentrating fully on the inspiration and expiration, putting myself into a trance-like state, so much so that Della had to tug at my hand to get my attention to respond to questions.

The steady, insistent burn of tattooing contrasts with the brief, more intense pain of being pierced, so that when a needle passed through my lip I had to fight against a sense of panic that pushed violently through the hard-won calm. Not only was there intense pain, but the feeling of the needle pushing though muscular flesh was repulsive. I pushed aside the pain as effectively as I could manage, and once more focussed on my breath. Surprisingly, it worked. The pain seemed to become distant, though I was still very much aware of it. I found myself touching a plate inside my lip and tasting blood, realising that the piercing was now complete.

I felt the forceps close on the septum of my nose, which wasn't expected: I'd assumed I would have a nostril ring. However, I had to accept it and not let my focus slip. The pain was no less intense than the piercing of my lip, but I remained calm. My nose was numb from the pain now and the weight of a ring was strange.

I'd never had a piercing before this, not even in my ears. The piercing of my lobes was far easier to bear; there was a sharp sting to endure but nothing of the nausea that the sensation of the rupturing of the fleshy lip or cartilaginous nose induced. I was sipping water now and being praised for my calmness. “I'd have thought you took a sedative, you were so zoned out,” the piercer said. “I wish everyone was as calm as you.”

Smiling induced a flash of pain in my tender lip so I refrained, but her compliment was welcome. I stood slowly and looked in the mirror. My face was so pale and the dark steel ring stood out, shining against my upper lip, over a centimetre in diameter. Beside it was a tiny ruby. My ears were pierced by large studs, and I could see they were far thicker than the usual earrings that my friends had worn.

“Absolutely perfect,” Della said ecstatically.

We went drove around the city to make some purchases, ending with a trip to a large supermarket for a big food shop. By now I was feeling the after effects of the piercings: not only were the wounds tender, I was exhausted from the anxiety; I could see that it may have been more practical to wait until these chores were complete before getting the piercings, but the anticipation would have been unbearable. Perhaps Della had revealed her plan because she herself was as anxious as I, though she was too proud to admit it.

We loaded the car and I prepared for the journey back, but I soon realised that we were heading back into the city. “Where are we going?” I asked.

“You'll see,” she said mysteriously.

We were soon entering a high end salon. “Am I getting a cut?” I hissed, feeling my anxiety spiral upward again.

“No. I am.” It hardly made me feel easier. I'd observed a certain dissatisfaction on Della's face at times after I styled her hair, but she'd expressed nothing. I'd put it down to the failings of my technique (I'd never been able to make her hair as sleek as it had been at the salon, with a touch too much volume through the upper layers), or else to a regret at the loss of her long hair. I'd not expected a second cut so soon after the first.

“It's not even two weeks though,” I said. “It doesn't need a trim.”

I was told to hush and soon I was watching a caped Della make her decisions known to her stylist. She was a frighteningly chic young woman called Eleanor, tall and slim with strong features, as angular as her broad shoulders. Her bright red hair was cut to a short bowl with softly textured, feathery cropped hair, no more than a centimetre long, over her nape. A long fringe was swept to the side, barely clear of her eyes, though fixed with so much hairspray that not once did it fall to obscure her vision.

I noticed that Della's hair hadn't been washed, and that Eleanor seemed to be preparing to cut it dry. She pinned up the top, leaving a heavy fringe of hair free, all of the nape and a section over each ear. The salon catered to a young clientele, mostly younger than either Della or I, and loud electronic music played, masking the conversation between Della and her stylist.

I felt my unease grow as Eleanor took a set of clippers from the counter. Moments later she was ploughing them up Della's nape, leaving a trail of shorn hair. It was maybe half the length of her own nape, but as well as being shorter it was harsher, even bristles of grey, though the growing roots made it appear darker than the rest of Della's hair.

Huge clumps of thick hair began to tumble down the cape, coming to rest on the floor. All the way up to the parting Eleanor quickly sheared Della, and once the nape was cropped she moved to buzz the hair from the sides. A band an inch wide was shorn, and Della's ears were exposed.

She looked more vulnerable without her glasses. Her face looked small and pale, and she had to squint to see what was being done. Or rather, I guessed, to try. She was so short sighted that I guessed she could see little detail of her radically different new style.

She did put her glasses on to examine the undercut. I could see that there was a moment of shock as she took in her boyish new look, but it soon gave way to pleasure. She reached from under the cape to stroke her nape and her joy obviously increased. “Do you think it's short enough, Caroline? It's a number two, but I could try a number one, which would be half the length.”

“It's very short already,” I said. “You'd look bald if you cut any more, Miss.” I blushed at using her title before a stranger.

“It would mean your scalp would show through a lot more,” Eleanor suggested. “And the regrowth would probably show more quickly. But it's your call. I can see how a very tight buzz might work with this cut.”

Della sighed. “I think number two is fine for now. Maybe next time I'll try a one.”

The glasses were promptly removed and now another stylist attended to Della, coating her head with bleach. I realised that we were going to be here for a long time and that Della would be undergoing another major makeover.

In fact, the change of colour was more subtle than I imagined. Her hair was toned to a silvery shade, or rather shades, since again streaks of paler tones were mixed in to lift the colour. It was noticeably lighter than the previous colour, but not radically different. There was now a hint of lilac in the hue.

My hopes that the subtlety of the change in colour would be matched by a minor change in the cut (perhaps, I'd mused, the style will remain the same, the undercut just allowing it to lose some of the excessive volume) were dispelled by the first cut of Eleanor's scissors. She sliced away a significant section of hair at the back, exposing a major part of the buzz on Della's nape. As the new line was extended through the sides I could see that her hair now barely covered half of her ears. It was far too short!

And my displeasure increased as Eleanor began to cut the fringe. I wanted to tell her to stop as the scissors closed, held absurdly high on Della's forehead. She had a high, wide forehead, and Eleanor seemed intent of making it as prominent as possible. I couldn't believe that Della would want such a short fringe, and felt that Eleanor was exploiting her poor sight.

And as more hair was cut I saw that the new fringe wasn't just shorter, it was also deeper and wider, meaning that some long hair was being cut. The new line seemed to be as close to her hairline was was possible, the front layers being no more than half an inch. At the temples it was so short that it exposed the fine hair growth of the hairline.

I was fidgeting nervously, I realised, despairing of how short the new bob was, and fighting the impulse to challenge Eleanor. I wanted Della to put on her glasses and admonish the stylist, though I had to admit that the cut was now done and nothing could fix it, barring the passage of time to allow it to grow to a more seemly length.

Eleanor now took up a smaller set of clippers and used them to shape the contours of the clippered nape. They cut much closer and as she pressed them up Della's neck they appeared to leave no trace of hair, just pale, bare skin. Eleanor touched the edge along the sides of Della's nape, and took away the natural contour, leaving a hard, perfectly straight line. The nape was soon formed into a geometrically precise trapezoid, and finished by levelling the bottom of her nape into a hard horizontal.

I couldn't deny that Eleanor could finish a style very well, and the gleaming, sleek bob showed the precision of her cutting. The ends were softly curled under, the fringe too, making the entire style appear even shorter. Everything beautifully cut, everything (at least) two inches too short.

I expected that Della would be furious with the excesses of Eleanor's work but as she put on her glasses she made a high whoop that showed she was delighted. “That's exactly the sort of cut I wanted! It's just perfect. Absolutely adorable. Thank you, Eleanor.”

It turned out that it wasn't perfect. As Della studied the cut she made some observations. “The temples look a little untidy with the shortness of the fringe. Can you do anything to fix it?”

Eleanor was happy to oblige, shaving away the hairline with the trimmers. “You might need to keep this shaved,” she said. “It'll look untidy if you get stubble growing, especially since your hair is dark. I'd be happy to touch it up for free. Just give me a call and I'll fit you in.”

Della nodded, though it was hardly practical to make regular visits, since it took around two hours to get here. “I could probably do it myself, or get Caroline to. We live in a very remote place.” She pushed the sides behind her ears. “The sideburns... I think I'd prefer them shaved up a bit. Nice and clean on my cheeks would be better.”

The trimmers were once more put to use, and I saw that Eleanor, who I'd been convinced was scissor happy was now urging caution, but to no avail. She squared off the sideburns, forming them into neat points, but this was insufficient for Della. Only when they'd been shaved to a high line (far higher than my own) was Della content, and when she put her glasses back on I could see that the shaved line more or less coincided with the upper edge of the wide side pieces. At least the extent of the baldness was hidden by the points of the bob which hung over her cheeks. I imagined that the facial shave I now gave Della each morning would now cover a larger area.

Della was still ecstatic when we got back to the car. “I love it. That fringe is exactly what I wanted. She's such a good stylist. I think I should make her my regular. You don't look so pleased though.”

“It's too short,” I said. “It looks like you got it cut to last a long time. In about four months it might be an OK length.”

She wasn't offended by my negativity, and merely laughed. “Oh my little darling, just feel it. So silky. And the undercut...”

She gripped my hand and ran it up the back. She was right; it did feel wonderful, the soft bristles were tantalising and her longer hair felt softer than ever. I nodded. “It does feel good but it's too short. Everyone was staring at you, you know?”

“I liked it. I like attention. But really I only care about you. And yes, it's too short, but that only makes me love it more. I'm going to get it trimmed every week, so don't think I'll let it grow and soften the look. You'll soon learn to love it.”

The final stop in the city was at a hairdressing suppliers where Della purchased a set of clippers (the most powerful they had) and a set of trimmers like Eleanor's. “For you to keep my nape nice and neat,” she said. “I'm sure you'll enjoy using them. I want you to get to be an expert with them. And maybe I can use them on you soon. You look so much more conservative than I do, and we can't have that! I want you to be the one who looks daring.”

At the post office in the village Della collected numerous parcels, and was obviously excited by their contents. We loaded a cart to transfer our purchases to the boat and stowed it on the deck. When we got home Della immediately began to open some of the packages. “Look, your new corsets,” she said excitedly. “I want to lace you into this right now.”

I could see that it was going to be tighter than anything I'd worn so far, but because it was custom made it felt more comfortable. Initially. Della drew the laces tighter and tighter, and made me breathe out deeply. “Very impressive,” she said admiringly, “but we can go smaller still. This is designed to go a couple of inches tighter, and it will. We gradually have to shrink your waist. But look how fine it looks.”

I gazed in the mirror, seeing a smaller waist than I'd believed possible. “You look wonderful, don't you? Don't be modest, say how much you like seeing yourself like this.”

“I do,” I said. I could feel myself getting turned on, all the more so for admitting how sexy I looked. I was naked apart from the corset, and the girl I saw, with her elaborate black hairstyle, her tiny waist and her tattoo was far removed from the image I saw of myself in my memory.

Now it was Della's turn. Her corset had been delivered too and I helped her into it. She groaned as she lifted her breasts, still stinging from the recent piercings, but I knew she was enjoying the pain. I tugged as hard as I could on the laces to force her abdomen to compress. Her waist would never be as slim as mine, yet with her broad shoulders and hips and voluminous bosom the effect was beautiful. I helped her to dress in a new blouse, white with blue pinstripes, which had been tailored to fit closely to her corseted figure. Her breasts were suspended by half cups on the corset, but the nipples were exposed and the rings pushes through the fine fabric.

“You look like a goddess,” I gasped. “I adore how this makes you look. I wouldn't change a thing about you. Your haircut is perfect, Miss Della. I'm the luckiest girl in the world to have you.”

“You are, Caroline,” she said happily. “But I'm a demanding lover and the corset was your idea and you have to pay for my granting your wish. I think I should take some of your hair. Kneel for me.”

I couldn't refuse, but I was fearful now, not that that prevented me from being excited; in fact I was realising that the threat of being made to look different was a source of arousal.

The two poles of my emotion, fear and Eros, both grew as I saw that Della was holding her razor. I wanted to run away, or at least beg her not to do anything reckless, yet I can't deny I felt curiosity too. She ordered me to release my hair from the baroque style she'd created and as I began to pull out the pins holding it in place she joined in too. She then began to brush it with long firm strokes, heedless of the tangles that snagged. She let my hair fall over my shoulders, parted down the centre.

I felt her spray the top. “I heard water is sufficient for shaving,” she said, “but I never tried. I hope this isn't too uncomfortable, baby.”

I felt the blade of the razor touch my scalp at the middle of my forehead and she began to drag it sideways in small controlled strokes. The rasping sensation made me aware that she was shaving my hair.

Suddenly my fear increased and I started to beg her to stop, though the razor's presence made me hold my posture, afraid that a sudden move would result in injury. “Please don't shave my head. I'm not ready, Miss Della,” I said, tears filling my eyes.

“I know you're not,” she said calmly. “Trust me. I'm not going to push too far. I'm being gentle with you but if you continue to be weak and complain about everything I do I'll become much stricter and put you on half rations for a week. Do you want that?”

“No Miss,” I said miserably.

“Then just hold your tongue and let me work.”

I remained silent as she set the razor to my scalp. I felt her follow the part back across the top of my head, scraping the razor laterally. She paused from time to time and tugged at my hair. I saw handfuls of long dark hair come free, to be dropped onto the floor. Despite my silence I was still suffering panic and my vision was blurred by the tears that still filled my eyes.

It seemed to take an eternity for her to complete her work, and the feeling was uncomfortable, the blade chafing at my scalp. At last she folded the razor and helped me to stand.

I gasped and covered my mouth in shock as I saw my reflection. She'd shaved the parting to a wide, bald strip, the width of two fingers, I estimated. The pale divide ran from forehead to crown and I reached up to feel it, as though I didn't believe what I was seeing and like Thomas could only be convinced by touching the wound.

“It's just... weird,” I said sadly.

“It is weird,” Della agreed, “but not just weird. It's unique, it's bold. It's very, very sexy. And it's you, Caroline. You made another step away from the conventional girl you'd always tried to be, and towards the fearlessly original beauty you will become. I think we look so wonderful together.”

We dined on steak that night. Della told me it pleased her to see me enjoying red meat. “It was your first submission to me, to abandon your vegetarianism. And now you don't just eat meat to please me, you adore it, don't you?”

I nodded, not without shame.

“My little hedonist. I'm sure all the other changes I'm encouraging will soon feel just as pleasurable. Even the feeling of a razor on your scalp.”

“About that... If I have to be shaved could you please use something that gives a little more lubrication? It didn't feel as nice as when you shave my neck and it feels a little raw even now.”

“Of course, anything for my darling. Would you like me to shave a little more right now. I promise I'll use the nice shaving oil.”

“No, no, no,” I laughed. “I think you changed me enough for one day!”

“I think I did. You look beautiful with your piercings, Caroline. I got bigger gauges in your ears so that we can stretch your lobes. I think that would suit you. And your face could do with something else. Not too many, that would detract from your lovely features, but something that makes a statement. I think now we can abandon the idea of getting a piercing when we make a nick. We should be more planned in our changes.”

I agreed to her ideas, and couldn't resist probing her further about the changes she'd like.

“I'm still not sure about your tattoos,” she admitted. “I have so many possibilities, and that can be paralysing. Do you have any preferences?”

“I suppose my tastes in painting are toward abstraction. The tattoo you gave me is nice because it's so simple. It reminds me of Malevitch, if only superficially.”

“You'd like to have a skin that looked like a Malevitch painting?”

“I'm not sure. But I think it could be interesting. Very simple geometric forms: rectangles, circles, lines. Flat colours. What do you think?”

“I think I like the idea very much. And make the smaller designs more intricate, with simplicity for the larger. Like a large black square on your back.”

“I hadn't really considered the actual designs. He didn't just paint a black square though. There was a red square and a white square too.”

She nodded. “Of course the placement would be key. Has to be off vertical and asymmetrically placed. Everything in Malevitch looks like it's floating and weightless. Solidity is to be avoided. So now we have a theme for your tattoos. You'll get a square on your back next week.”

“So soon?”

“I can see that you want this, or at least there's a curiosity in you to give in. I don't see any virtue in procrastinating. You'll get an appointment next week. Now be obedient and tell me you'll accept it.”

“Yes Miss Della,” I nodded. “I'll get another tattoo.” I knew that she was right. I wanted to test myself.

Our life on the island was idyllic. I felt a freedom I'd never experienced before, and hardly missed company. “I love the solitude,” Della said, “but it can drive you mad. I try to get to the mainland once a week and go to a gallery or a concert. I don't miss my old life, or hardly ever. I'd be lying if I said there's nothing I don't regret leaving behind. But now we have each other. That's the best thing about being here.”

She needed her solitude too, and I soon learned that even my presence was something she couldn't tolerate all of the time. She'd made a decision that she would try writing and insisted that she should work on it for the entire morning on weekdays. I was happy to see her developing her creativity, even though she could be moody when it didn't go well. I'd explore the island while she worked, at least when the weather was good. I'd suggested I should start practising my art again, but didn't have any materials to do much. Della, always generous, had promised that I'd be allowed to equip my studio as I wished; we'd already ordered some supplies online and I would (in return for accepting a large tattoo) be allowed to visit an art shop and take home whatever I wanted.

Each morning I would maintain Della's haircut: I would shave her neck, keeping the crisp lines of the nape, shave her temples too. She'd suggested I should trim her fringe too, but I knew that was beyond me. Eleanor had cut it so perfectly and I imagined how my skills would leave it ragged and imperfect. I'd come to appreciate the beauty of Della's bob, even if it did still seem exaggeratedly short. I loved washing it each morning and drying it to a sleek shine, eliminating every trace if Della's natural wave. My greatest pleasure was making her look beautiful.

And I encouraged her to wear her corset far more than was practical. There was something intensely erotic for me in seeing her figure transformed beyond the natural, and I'd come to adore the way she mixed old-fashioned conservatism with the edgy, a mixture that seemed to suggest a heady kinkiness, which was surely a true external vision of her inner self.

Della was happy to indulge my wishes, though in return I was expected to be fully obedient to her desires. To my chagrin each morning I felt the razor retrace the line down the centre of my head, as well as keeping my neck and cheeks hairless. More often now my hair was left loose and my make-up was simple, but on one day my hair was set in huge rolls, sweeping out from the shaved parting. For once I was given painted brows, but they were thick and set at such a steep angle that I felt I looked demonic and was unhappy with Della. She clearly thought I looked beautiful, and my displeasure was soon eroded by her passion, though she said that I would remain browless for a week to punish me for my churlishness.

[lsds-blog]

The System (updated 05-08)

Day 1

I felt an awful panic rising. Why did I ever agree to get mixed up with these people in the first place? I had my doubts from the start but I'd been slowly sucked in. I was a fool to think my exit would be so easy. I needed to try to come up with a plan, something to placate Adele, but I was too flustered. The room was unbearably hot and I stood to remove my jacket.

“What are you doing?” the receptionist snapped.

“I'm just taking off my jacket. It's so warm.”

Her colleague now joined in. “No! That's disrespectful. You'll be properly dressed to see Adele. She's done so much for you. Sit down!”

I wanted to ask permission to remove it until I was admitted, but I was sufficiently intimidated to be silenced. I sat down and resolved to suffer without further complaint.

I'd been introduced to Adele almost two years previously when she was the guest speaker at an event at the university where I was studying. A girl from my course, who'd previously hardly spoken to me, approached me to recommend it, telling me that lots of professionals were attending her courses. “She's great at building confidence. A lot of CEOs have been on her courses. Apart from anything else it's a good networking opportunity.”

At first I was impressed. The meetings were exclusively female, and promoted a positive feminism alongside meditation and therapy that seemed to resemble NLP. The people were friendly and encouraging and I soon committed to regular attendance. It was only after a few months that I became aware of negative news stories, describing Adele as a cult leader.

By then I'd become too enmeshed in the System to believe the negative things, although I should have realised that all was not well. Gradually I'd been pressured into spending more of my time with others who were participants, and then I was given targets to recruit more. Failures resulted in sessions of personal evaluation, where a circle of women sat around the person to be judged and shouted abuse. And, I'm ashamed to say, I fully participated in evaluations of others, screaming my condemnations as vehemently as anyone else. I completely identified with the group and seemed powerless not to go along. Only once the victim had been broken completely did a coordinator calm the group and begin to extract promises so that she could redeem herself.

My first session of personal evaluation came as a result of failing to persuade anyone to come along to a meeting. It wouldn't be a mistake I'd be eager to repeat. Now I understood why a girl I didn't know had convinced me to attend. I became skilled at charming acquaintances, recognising those who would be more likely to come under Adele's spell. My joy when someone acceded to my encouragements was purely self interested.

And now as I approached the end of my course I'd started to feel I had to move away from the System. I'd applied for jobs as far away as possible, without telling anyone. Now I'd been called to see Adele and I knew that my plans had been discovered. Being called to see the leader was worse than personal evaluation. Before I'd even been admitted it was clear that they intended me to suffer. It was a hot summer day and the room was stifling: no ventilation and I was sat by a window where the afternoon sun shone in. I could feel the sweat running down my back. I waited for over an hour before I was told to enter Adele's huge office.

She was sat behind her desk, two of her officers also present; I recognised them but didn't know them by name. They ignored me as I entered and I stood awkwardly waiting for some indication to sit. It didn't come. After more than five minutes one of the strangers called to me. “Bethany. Why did you ask to come here?”

“I didn't, I was asked to come,” I said. She raised her hand to her ear to indicate I couldn't be heard. I repeated my response more loudly. There was another long silence while my interlocutors appeared to be busy with something on the desk.

“Bethany. Why did you ask to come here?”

It was the other officer who asked now. “I applied for some jobs,” I said. My voice was a croak and again I was prompted to repeat my response more loudly. “I applied for some jobs.”

“Didn't you think you should have asked for our help? What's the most important rule?”

“We help each other,” I yelled.

“Are you too proud to ask for help?” I said I wasn't. “So... Explain your thinking.”

As soon as I started to speak I was interrupted. “How many?” I looked confused. “How many jobs?” She was becoming angry.

“I think it was five.”

“You think?”

“Five. No, six.”

“I think she's lying,” one of the interrogators said to Adele.

There was another pause. I was close to tears. Finally Adele beckoned me. She looked at me sympathetically. “No one is here who doesn't want to be. Did you want to leave us?”

“I don't know. I've been having doubts.”

“If you have doubts you ask for help. You don't try to sneak away.” Her sympathy was gone now. “Do you want to leave or will you ask for help?”

“I want help, Adele,” I sobbed.

“She's disloyal. Unworthy. She needs to be punished.”

Adele listened quietly. Again a pause extending for minutes. The only sound was my crying.

“Bethany, do you agree? You have been underhand and gone against all of your teaching. Do you think you should be punished?” I nodded. “Speak up, Bethany!” she yelled with unexpected violence.

“Yes, I've let you down. I should be treated harshly to learn my lesson.”

Now the officer on the right leaned forward to tap some keys on the computed on Adele's desk. “Perhaps we should share your internet history with some of your friends. And prospective employers. You watch some quite nasty porn, don't you, Bethany?”

“How did you...” I felt my anger flare, but was immediately shouted down.

“You were asked a question! Answer it!”

Now I felt humiliated. “Yes, I watch some horrible things. How did you see?”

“Are you accusing us of something? You authorised us to place software on your computer. Didn't you read the texts of the emails you were sent?” I shook my head. “Do you agree to us posting your browser history on your social media?”

“Please don't,” I said desperately. “My family would see.”

“Do it,” Adele said coldly. A few clicks and her lieutenant confirmed that it was done. “Now you've told everybody that you're not ashamed of who you are and what makes you happy,” Adele said gloatingly.

I felt sick. I had to swallow hard as I felt acid rising in my gullet. “You really did it?” I was incredulous. “Check for yourself,” Adele said. “Look on your phone.”

I did and saw that a list of favourite sites were posted, seemingly by me. I swore at Adele. “OK, you've had your revenge, now I'm leaving!”

She gave a derisive laugh. “You think that was our revenge? No, Bethany, we have to make an example of you to those who think they can walk away. Did you hear about Doctor Young?” I nodded. He was a lecturer in the psychology department who'd been an outspoken critic of the System and had tried (so far unsuccessfully) to deny all access of its members to university facilities. “You're going to take it on yourself to deal with him. Poison him. Get rid of him completely and never have him interfere again.”

One of the officers spoke. “Of course, it's all your idea, nothing we ever did to encourage it.”

I shook my head. “No, this is crazy. I'm not a murderer. I'd never do anything like that.”

Adele passed me a copy of the local newspaper. On the front page was a story about the death of Doctor Young, with investigations ongoing to confirm that he'd been poisoned. “This is awful,” I said as I scanned the article. I looked up at Adele, terrified that she'd now been involved in the murder of an opponent.

“If it's so awful then why did you do it?”

I looked at her confused. “You only just mentioned it. I knew nothing about it till now.”

The laptop on the desk was turned toward me and some grainy CCTV footage played. I saw a university building foyer, which appeared to be the psychology department. The time code indicated that it was hours before the discovery of Doctor Young's body. A girl entered the building and walked across the frame. She looked just like me. Even the clothes appeared to be identical to some that I owned.

“It's not me!” I cried. “I wasn't there.”

Now more footage, a few minutes earlier according to the time code. This time a university car park. The same girl getting out of a car. My car. I gasped. “It's not me! You're framing me.”

Adele said nothing. The three of them stared at me in silence. “I was at a System event at that time. I have an alibi.”

Adele clicked the mouse. An attendance list was displayed for the event. My name wasn't there.

I started to speak but now all three began to scream at me. They accused me of the murder, told me how stupid I was, told me to shut up. The assault went on for at least ten minutes. It was unendurable.

Finally they stopped. They were silent but I sobbed. “We should call the police and cooperate fully,” one of the lieutenants said. “We can show how we were trying to support her, but she'd been difficult to engage. Nothing indicated that she'd become so unstable.”

“Perhaps you're right,” Adele said. “She refused our help. If someone doesn't accept help there's nothing we can do.”

“Please, I didn't do it,” I said.

Now the screaming began again. It was minutes before it subsided. Finally Adele spoke to me calmly. “We can't help you if you don't ask for it. And if you want our help you have to be honest. You poisoned Doctor Young, didn't you? Unless you confess we've got no choice but to pass this information to the police.”

I endured hours of their inquisition. Each time I denied my involvement the screaming started again. Eventually they convinced me. I believed I'd done it. I tried to explain why. Each time my story wasn't what they wanted to hear they began to scream and accuse once more. I'd have to start over and try to guess what it was that they wanted to hear. Eventually I'd described how I'd taken some medication from another student who lived in the my building and put it into a bottle of soft drink on Doctor Young's desk when he went to the toilet. He'd had a heart condition, which I claimed I knew about and the medication had caused a cardiac arrest.

The three women now discussed a judgement. The two officers both favoured turning me in to the police. When I begged them to spare me I was vehemently told to be silent. Adele finally looked at me. “You asked for our help, didn't you? And we help each other.”

I nodded. “Please help me. I'm begging you. Don't hand me over to the police. I did this because I thought I was helping. I know I was misguided, but I wanted to help.” This was the motivation I'd been forced to believe.

“We do want to help, but it's very dangerous. If it was found that we'd conspired to keep your secret we'd all be in trouble too. Maybe you could help us most by confessing and explaining that we'd done nothing to encourage your actions.”

“But please, Adele. I'd go to prison for... for decades. I couldn't endure that.”

“But what could you do to help us if we took such a risk on your behalf?”

“I'd do anything.”

“Would you degrade yourself, like one of the women in the porn you watch?” It was the taller officer who asked the question.

I must have looked stunned. I couldn't say anything until she yelled at me, demanding an answer. “You said you'd do anything, would you do this?”

“Yes Miss,” I mumbled.

“A lot of those videos show women being dominated. Do you identify with the dominant women or the submissive ones?”

I felt myself grow embarrassed. It was painful that they knew my secrets.

“Get undressed! Immediately. You don't deserve to have clothes. You're a filthy, disgusting person and you want to be humiliated, don't you?”

I begged to be spared but the shouting began again. “You said you'd do anything but already you try to wheedle out of your responsibilities. Get undressed, Bethany.”

“Definitely submissive,” someone said as I undressed. “She wants to be humiliated. You can see it in her eyes. I'm right, aren't I? Aren't I?

I mumbled my agreement. I'd learned not to disagree.

“So here's our choice, Bethany,” Adele said softly. “You serve us. You serve the higher ranks of officers in the System. Sexual slavery. It's that or it's jail. For a long time. Your choice. Decide now.”

“But look at her! She's not even attractive. Who would want her to serve them?” I couldn't even tell who was talking any more.

“Obviously we'd have to fix her up. Invest a bit of time and money in her appearance. I think it would be worth it. She'll be very loyal now. After all, she's motivated to want to help.”

“Do you want this, Bethany?” I nodded. “I mean really want it? Not just accept it because otherwise you go to prison. You have to want this.”

“I do. I want this.”

“What is it you want?” Adele asked.

“I want to serve you.” I glanced up and saw them staring at me hungrily, wanting me to say more. One of the officers made me kneel and bow my head.

“What is it you want,” she repeated.

“I want to serve you... I want to serve sexually... Slavery... Humiliation.” I felt like I was in a nightmare. How could I say these things? I was innocent. But they'd trapped me. Had I really murdered someone? I no longer knew what to believe. Had they hypnotised me and made me do it? Had I gone crazy? The girl on the videos looked like me. Now I was left begging to be allowed to partake in something that hours ago would have seemed unbearable.

Day 2

I sat in the back of a van, alone for the first time in hours. I was more exhausted than I'd ever been and my head ached so much that I thought I was going to be sick. I'd now signed a bundle of papers (what I was signing remained unclear) and recorded a video to say that I was delighted to enter the lifestyle I'd always dreamed of, as a sex worker and porn actor. I'd been cleaned up and repeated my statement numerous times until I looked genuinely relaxed and happy. I felt anything but.

Despite my anxiety I fell asleep in the van, lying across the bench seat. I awoke much later feeling hot, dehydrated and confused. I started to cry immediately as I realised that my waking had done nothing to dispel the bad dream. I'd begged Adele to let me become a submissive sex slave, eager for humiliation, and now she would make my request my reality. Perhaps I should have agreed to jail. At least my prison sentence would have been finite, and in ten or fifteen years I would have been free, and free of the System. Now I could see no end to my situation. I would remain within Adele's thrall forever.

My journey continued and now I couldn't get back to sleep. Eventually the movement of the van changed, slower now, frequent stops and turns. We'd turned off the motorway and I presumed my destination was approaching.

I got out of the van and saw that it was light. I'd assumed it was night time, but the compartment in the back of the van admitted no light. A young woman was standing in the garage to greet me. “I'm Celeste. I'm going to be in charge of your training. You must be exhausted. You want to sleep.”

I nodded my agreement, barely able to speak now. I'd not had a drink of food since I'd gone to see Adele but I was so exhausted that just to be allowed sleep was my priority.

“Very well. If you comply with your treatment for two hours you'll be allowed to rest.”

I was unresisting. “I haven't eaten or drunk anything for hours. Please may I have something?” She smiled at me as if there was some joke I didn't understand.

“If you begin your treatment without complaint you'll be allowed something, yes. Now follow me to the treatment room.”

I walked after her. We appeared to be in a large building that was more akin to office space than residential. We travelled up in a lift and I followed her along a windowless corridor. We entered a room, about ten metres square with frosted glass windows. It was equipped like a surgery. “Hop onto the bed. Now what was you name?”

“Bethany.”

“That's right. Was your name. Now you're slave. And I'm Mistress. You'll address all the trainers as Mistress and stop thinking of yourself as Bethany. slave is lower case and Mistress is capitalised, for when you're writing. If you complete your training you'll be given a new slave name. Understand?”

“Yes Mistress,” I said.

“Now tell me why you asked to come here.”

“I did something. Something bad...”

“Stop talking, slave!” Celeste screamed. “You're never to talk about that again. Understand? Now tell me why you asked to come here. Your desires.”

I swallowed as I tried to put together the words I'd been programmed to say. “I want to serve. Sexual slavery and humiliation are my desires.” I couldn't look at her. The humiliation I felt was in no way desirable.

“We'll start with some tattoos. It's felt best that you'll have a lot of tattoos. How does that sound?”

“Please no, Mistress!” I begged tearfully. “I couldn't bear that. I'm afraid of needles too.”

I glanced at her. She was staring at me but said nothing. I looked down but couldn't withdraw my request. I didn't want to be tattooed.

“Very well,” she said after minutes of silence. “Get up. You can come with me.”

We went back to the lift and got out on a different floor. Now I was taken to a small room and told to enter. The entire floor was covered with sharp metal spines, except for a path approximately ten inches wide that reached to the middle of the floor. “Walk in as far as you can without injuring yourself.” I did as asked, afraid that refusal would bring further punishment. Once I'd reached the middle of the room Celeste slid a board, covered with spines identical to those on the floor, to cover the path. It clicked into place and I was left standing on a ten inch square, the only safe area of floor.

“You were told that if you didn't comply with your treatment you'd not be allowed rest. Now you'll stay in here until tomorrow morning. That's... twenty hours.”

I started to protest but she stepped back and the door closed. It was a heavy door, and, I was sure, soundproof. Despite the futility I continued to beg her to spare me.

I felt like I was going crazy. I wasn't able to move except to shuffle a little within the square. How could I possibly stand for twenty hours?

Day 3

I felt broken when the door finally opened. I had cuts on my hands and feet from when I'd lost control and tried to steady myself or broaden my stance. My tears had stopped long ago though my sadness hadn't abated at all. Perhaps it was simple dehydration that had ceased their flow. I wailed at the sight of Celeste but only a hoarse croak came from my mouth. She removed the board and walked into the room to assist me out. I fell to the floor in the corridor and drank the bottle of water she offered in a single draught.

“Now slave, I hope we don't have to return you to that room today. You said you wanted to serve yet you failed the first test. I don't just expect you to reluctantly agree to our treatments, I want you to accept them with enthusiasm. How do you feel about spending two hours being tattooed now?”

“Yes, Mistress,” I said. My first words in so long felt strange in my mouth.

“Or...” she prompted. I looked at her longingly, wishing for her approval, but not taking her meaning. “You could have two hours. Or maybe...”

“Three hours?” I said uncertainly. She nodded and smiled encouragingly.

“No complaints at the treatment, slave. If you behave suitably you'll be allowed food and drink and a good night's rest.”

“Thank you, Mistress.” I felt ashamed that I was craving her approval, despite her cruelty.

I returned to the room I'd briefly visited the previous day. “You should drink more,” Celeste said. “I don't suppose being so dehydrated is healthy. We want your tattoos to heal quickly. You have a duty to keep yourself well. You won't disgrace yourself again, will you? It distresses me when I have to punish you.”

“I'm sorry I let you down, Mistress,” I said obsequiously. She dressed my wounds, which fortunately were superficial.

“If you even think about betraying your desire to be humiliated again you'll be spending another day in the sharps room. How does that make you feel?”

“Please Mistress, it's unbearable. Don't ever make me suffer that again.” Even the threat made me feel a despairing panic. I knew I'd lose control if I ever entered that place again.

“I won't make you suffer in there again, but you might. You have a choice in your actions, don't you? Obedience is all you need to avoid being given another time out.”

Now we were joined by a woman who was introduced as Mistress Danielle. She was tall and heavy, and looked like a tattooist in that she was multiply pierced and covered in ink. “So this is her?” she said, her face seeming to indicate a disappointment with me. “Where are we starting, slave?”

“I don't know,” I said.

“How about her face?” Celeste said. “That might remind her to address you properly.”

“I'm sorry, Mistress,” I said eagerly.

“Maybe I will start with your face. Would you like that, slave?”

I looked at Celeste who was staring at me like a bird of prey waiting ravenously. “Yes, Mistress,” I said. I felt sick. Yet I knew that I would permit it to happen in preference to being taken back to that awful room. At least here I was permitted to lie in comfort. I felt like lack of sleep was making me go crazy, and my immobility had left my body aching in every muscle.

“She doesn't mean it,” Danielle said to Celeste, clearly trying to provoke a punishment.

“She doesn't,” Celeste laughed. “But at least she said it. And she'd take it too, I think.” She turned to me. “Danielle works quickly. In three hours she could cover your entire face with patterns. Imagine seeing that every time you looked in the mirror!”

“It would be very humiliating, Mistress,” I said.

“Yet you have no enthusiasm. Soon you will, and then we'll make it a reality."

"I'll start on her arm for today," Danielle said, and I thanked her.

She shaved my entire right arm. I made a show of being cooperative, and the fear I had of being permanently changed was outweighed by my fatigue. I was lying on a comfortable bed and that seemed a luxury. I felt a sting as the needle buzzed across my upper arm. I saw a blue line in my skin, but it seemed like a dream. I was distanced from what I saw, unable to believe fully that what I was seeing was something that would be part of me forever.

My tiredness seemed to make me more sensitive and soon every touch of the needle made me want to cry out, but I knew I had to endure this suffering with good grace. I tried to think of something pleasant to distract myself, but there was nothing in my situation from which I could draw happiness. Instead I tried to think and feel nothing. Pain was something that had been ever present since my fall had begun and I tried to focus on the relatively minor pain the tattooing caused. It was certainly not comparable with the unendurable agony after countless hours in the sharp room, where I'd squatted until my legs cramped, then lost balance and fallen forward onto my hands, pierced by dozens of sharp spines. I imagined living constantly with pain, and thought of the insistent touch of the needle as a baseline for my suffering. I counted as I breathed in and out, finding a purpose in the rhythm, and soon the pain was bearable.

So much so that I fell asleep. Nor did my tormentors see fit to prevent this. I woke feeling dull and confused. I felt like I'd been asleep for a long time, yet still felt heavy eyed and no less tired. I glanced about the room and saw that I was alone with Danielle. I looked at my arm and saw that a wide, irregular ribbon of blue now zigzagged from shoulder to wrist. It appeared almost like calligraphy, as though it was some unknown form of writing. Danielle had seemingly improvised the form without any underdrawing. Now the blue strip was being shaded. It varied in thickness from half an inch to perhaps two inches. She was shading it with scribbly lines, a few different shades of blue, all relatively close in tone. No skin was visible through the shading where it was complete.

Danielle continued to needle the ink into my arm for several minutes before she paused briefly and glanced up, observing that I was awake. "You're back with us!" she laughed. "You must be very comfortable with the tattooing to sleep for so long." I agreed, though the burning I felt was anything but comfortable. She looked at me seriously. “I know what sort of thoughts will occur to you. That this is too much. That you'd sooner die. You mustn't allow yourself that type of indulgence. If you try to kill yourself you'll fail. You're always being watched. If you try you'll fail and they'll blind you. Do you want too be blind?”

“No Mistress,” I said fearfully. Her words had unsettled me deeply.

“You need to accept your changes. When you're told what to feel don't make some pretence to avoid punishment. Make yourself believe that what they say is true. Your thoughts are mutable. Start by thinking that the sensation of tattooing is pleasurable and sexy. And that seeing tattoos on your body makes you feel beautiful. You like watching porn with tattooed women, now you are one. That makes you happy, doesn't it?”

I breathed slowly and deeply as I stared at my new tattoo. I imagined seeing a stranger marked like this and felt desire, while at the same time trying to force away from consciousness the repulsion that it was my skin that was being permanently coloured. “You associate tattoos with sluttishness, don't you. You have to now accept that you are a slut, and welcome this change.” She pulled off her vinyl glove and began to move her fingers over my clitoris, then instructed me to tell her what I now was.

“I'm a slut, Mistress,” I gasped. Her fingers moved roughly but the effect was stirring. She told me to keep describing myself. “I'm a tattooed slut. A sex slave.” I felt my arousal grow, and focussed on that, pushing away the shame I ought to feel.

“I'm so proud of you, slave,” she whispered, “and if you cum for me I'll tell Mistress Celeste what a good girl you are. You'd like her to reward you, wouldn't you?”

“Yes, Mistress,” I agreed.

“She's very beautiful, and I think you have a crush on her. You need to please her, to be obedient to everything she says, not just in your actions, but in your thoughts too. Will you do that?”

My agreement was rewarded by her fingers moving ever more enticingly. I was astonished to feel an orgasm overtake me so quickly, and I felt a glow of happiness and pride as Danielle soothed me with caresses and compliments. “Now hold on to those feelings of pleasure while I continue to tattoo you.”

There was a brief delay as she washed her hands and put on a new set of surgical gloves. Then I felt the sting of the needle discolouring my flesh. I closed my eyes and let myself concentrate on it as a stimulating buzz, separating this sensation from the painful burning. “It feels lovely, Mistress,” I cooed.

“You're tattooed now, slave,” Danielle said as I stood before the mirror and saw the bold streak that she'd given me. It started as a loop on the back of my hand and slalomed up to my shoulder.

“Thank you Mistress Danielle,” I said, smiling to show Celeste that I accepted my tattoo.

“Would you like Danielle to tattoo you more tomorrow?” Celeste asked.

“Very much,” I said.

“And how long a session would you like? You had three and a half hours today.”

“I'd like six hours,” I said. “Maybe more but I don't want to demand too much of her.”

Danielle looked pleased. “I can give you six hours. Tomorrow I'll ask two friends to work on you. Imagine how much work we can do on you, three of us working for six hours. You'll look very different.”

I tried to calculate the effect that eighteen hours of tattooing could have on me. Six times as much ink as Danielle had placed on my arm. I would be transformed. My boldness wavered.

I felt a stinging slap on my buttock. “Don't give in to fear!” Danielle barked. “You need this.”

“Yes Mistress, I need it.”

I'd imagined that now that I'd endured the tattooing I'd be allowed to feed and rest, but I was mistaken. I made the mistake of voicing my assumption to Celeste and she appeared angry with me. “It's still morning, slave. You'll sleep at ten o'clock if you comply with your treatments. Do you think your valuable time here should be spent sleeping?”

“No Mistress, I'm sorry. I'm just so tired I'm not thinking straight.”

I was now in another treatment room, this one much more surgical looking than Danielle's studio. I climbed onto a dentist's chair and allowed Celeste to immobilise me with Velcro straps. “Silence now, slave. You must accept your treatment well. Just remember it's necessary. Will you do that for me?”

I nodded, but I felt scared, and my fear only grew as she left me alone. After a few minutes I saw two women enter, both wearing surgical gowns and masks. Their eyes were concealed behind tinted protective spectacles and there was something dehumanising about their dress. I said nothing as the dentist sat beside me and pushed a gloved finger into my lips to prompt me to open my mouth. She probed at my teeth in turn, describing the condition to her assistant who noted everything on a chart. I'd always taken care of my teeth and had only two fillings.

Once the examination was completed I felt a device being inserted at the rear of my jaws. The dentist pushed at my mandible and the spreader ratcheted open, forcing my mouth wide open, causing an immediate discomfort at the hinge of my jaws. I couldn't suppress a groan, but there was no acknowledgement of my suffering. Neither the dentist nor her assistant had made any gesture of recognition toward me; I was a mere object to them.

I felt panic as I saw a syringe being prepared. I was phobic of needles and felt myself grow cold and sweaty immediately. I couldn't remain silent and started to beg to be spared, not that my voice was intelligible.

I felt the sting of the needle in the back of my jaw, delving into the soft flesh, inducing an ache, which was actually not too severe, but my distress was still unbearable, largely as a result of my fear of the needle. A second injection was then made on the other side.

I felt my face begin to tingle and soon my tongue began swelling. Soon my entire mouth was numb. I closed my eyes as I heard the jangle of medical tools being arrayed on a tray at my side. I felt something clamping onto an upper tooth, a premolar immediately behind my right canine. My sensation was almost absent, yet I thought I could imagine the pressure tightening on the tooth. Now there was a pulling, so hard that I could feel my head being drawn down. I moaned as the pressure increased, and now there was a dull ache too. The forceps pulled and twisted, more and more pressure exerted until I felt the tooth give and come free.

I realised I was crying now as the dentist probed at the socket, forcing something into it to staunch the flow of the blood which I could taste, despite the work of the assistant to suction it away. As I tried to comprehend the loss of my tooth I felt the forceps clamp onto the premolar on the left, in the mirror image position to the lost tooth. I groaned as I realised that the extraction was not to be a singular event. The pain as the tooth was pulled free was more intense now, the anaesthesia seemingly less effective on the left side.

It wasn't until I'd heard four teeth clink into a steel bowl that my ordeal was ended. I nervously probed with my tongue and felt the gaps in my previously unbroken rows of teeth, the sockets now packed to stem bleeding. The pain was severe enough to make my head ache in sympathy. I felt only anxiety and distress at the loss of my teeth.

The gag was now closed and eased from my mouth. I moaned as my jaws were finally allowed some respite, though the pain in the muscles was intense as I the stress was removed. The assistant wiped at my lips, which were presumably bloody. I expected to be released but gradually saw that some new treatment was to be enacted. I felt the panic return and started to breathe to a counted rhythm once more to control my terror.

I saw a long fine tube being lifted toward me and with disbelief felt the tip being inserted into my left nostril. Its presence seemed to induce a need to sneeze, but without the prospect of the unpleasant sensation being dispelled. I could feel it slide in, irritating my nasal passages until they stung. Now I could feel the tube at the back of my throat and swallowed to help guide it into my oesophagus. The length of tubing I could see appeared impossibly long to be fitted into my nose.

And yet within minutes the tube was entirely swallowed up inside me. The tube ended in a valve and as this was adjacent to my nostril it was coated with a blob of a thick transparent gel. Now it was pushed inside and I felt that the gel was as hot as I could bear. The dentist pushed at the outside of my nose to mould the gel and I soon realised that it was hardening and assuming the form of the void inside my nose. Once it was firm a needle was produced; I felt the outside of my nose being scrubbed, then the needle was firmly pressed through my skin, until it had pierced into the hardening gel. The pain made me wail.

Now a tiny bar was forced through the hole and the head was gripped by a tool. There was a whine as the bar was drilled into the hardened gel. As the dentist pushed at the piercing I could feel it was firmly attached to the tip of the tube now.

Celeste came to free me and examine the work after the dentist and assistant had left (still without addressing my once). “Very nice,” she said. She pushed at my nose, which remained tender, checking the tube.

“What's it for, Mistress?” I asked.

“You'll be getting more dental work. It's more decorative than functional and this tube will allow you to be fed without risking damage to your teeth. We can just attach a tube and let the nutrients flow in. It also has the advantage that you can be fed while you sleep. I know how much you like fat girls and it will be nice to help you to get a lot bigger.”

“I'm going to be fat?” I couldn't hide my astonishment. I was fine boned and delicate. I couldn't imagine being heavy.

Celeste looked at me angrily. “Didn't I tell you how to address me?” she said at last, obviously disappointed that I'd failed to see my error.

“I'm sorry, Mistress.”

“Maybe I should starve you for today. Then you may appreciate your food all the more.”

“Please, Mistress, I need food. I feel weak from eating so little.”

“Do you want to be fat, slave?”

I remembered what Danielle had told me, about forcing myself to want what was expected of me. Still, this was difficult.

Celeste laughed. “I've seen everything that you watched. I know you watched a lot of porn of huge girls. You must think they're sexy, don't you?”

I blushed to know that she knew my secrets. “I do, Mistress,” I admitted. “But there's something shameful about it.”

“Within a month you'll be chubby. Initially you'll gain fast, around ten pounds a week. It's realistic to say you'll be three stone heavier a month from now. Adele has personally requested this of you. She thinks it'll make you so much sexier. Don't you agree?”

I nodded. I was reeling. Surely she was exaggerating. I couldn't gain so rapidly. “Shall we start you gaining right now, slave?”

“Yes, Mistress,” I said

“The great advantage of this feeding system is that you can take in a lot of calories wherever you are. Tomorrow you're going to have a lot of tattooing and you can be fed continuously while they work on you. And sleeping and feeding simultaneously is a boon.”

I lay back in a chair as Celeste attached a tube to the valve in my nose. It was connected to a large bag filled with beige liquid. Now a pump began to move the liquid along the line and into my stomach.

“The piercing means it's impossible for you to remove the tube yourself. You'd be surprised at how many people try to pull out the tube. You'll never want that, will you? You want to be fat and sexy.”

“Yes Mistress, fat and sexy.” I was trying to accept this, but I knew that acceptance, let alone enthusiasm, was a long way off.

“We'll finish your treatments today with removal of body hair. You'll then receive an implant. It's only a minor procedure, nothing to concern you.”

My therapist for this latest work was to be Evelyn, a pale, slim woman with sharp, severe features and a blunt black bob. She stared at me in a way that I found intimidating, and her face was coldly beautiful, and suggested a cruelty in her demeanour.

“This is the slave who's going to be fat?” she said. “You're such a skinny thing. I can't imagine how you'll look.” She rubbed her hands over my body. “This will all be covered in stretch marks I suppose. It'll look like the marbling in beef.”

Celeste laughed. “The tattoos will disguise that. She'll be fully tattooed within the week. If the gaining interferes she'll have some touch ups. I'm sure the stretch marks won't be too visible.”

“What weight do you want to be?” Evelyn asked. I hesitated. “What's your current weight in pounds?”

“We just weighed her,” Celeste said. “One twenty-two.”

“We should convert that number to kilograms. At least. That's almost twenty stone. I'd like to see you at that weight. Properly fat, not just chubby.”

“Are you going to make Mistress Evelyn happy?” Celeste asked.

“Yes Mistress,” I said.

“When will you top twenty stone?” Evelyn asked. “Come on, give me a date.”

“Six months from now, Mistress,” I said, still sure that it would be impossible for me to gain rapidly, and not able to compute how much that would mean gaining each month.

“More than twenty a month. That's a lot. I'll help to motivate you. My speciality is hair removal. If you fail to reach twenty stone by then I'll make you completely bald.”

Celeste began to laugh. “Well slave, thank Mistress for giving you such a good motivator. You don't want to be bald, do you?”

“I don't Mistress,” I said sourly. “Thank you, Mistress Evelyn.”

“Let's give you a little taste of what I can do,” Evelyn said. I was now made to recline with my feet elevated in stirrups. “You like to go au naturel? This overgrown lawn look isn't appealing in the least. Although I think you did look at some very hairy women, didn't you? Is that one of your fetishes, slave?”

“Not really, Mistress. It was something I was exploring.”

“So would you prefer to be nicely trimmed or should we treat you with hormones to increase your body hair?”

“Trimmed, Mistress,” I said.

I heard a loud crack and then a buzzing as she turned on a set of clippers. They were pressed over my mound and I glanced down to see my light brown curls fall free. There was a small attachment on the blades and my bush was rapidly reduced to a short velvet. “Much better already,” Evelyn said happily. “But I prefer to see smooth skin. Would you like me to indulge myself?”

“Please do, Mistress,” I said. In light of what I'd suffered being shaved seemed the least of my concerns.

Of course, Evelyn wasn't content to merely see me shaved. I soon suffered the stinging of her electrolysis needle. She sat between my legs, wearing a pair of magnifying goggles with lights attached at each side. “You'll grow some fine fur still,” Evelyn informed me. “Hair grows in cycles so it's impossible to remove everything at once. In a few months I'll do a second treatment, and a third after that. Usually that's sufficient, but an extra treatment is sometimes necessary. Does the pain please you?”

“It's quite sharp, Mistress,” I said. It wasn't like the relentless burning of the tattoo, each touch of the needle giving a sting. “I can bear it though.”

“I don't want you to bear it, you should enjoy it,” Celeste said. “As well as the thought that you're being permanently changed a little more. It's a big day for you.”

“Yes, Mistress. I'll try harder to enjoy the feeling.”

Once more my exhaustion got the better of me and despite my pain I fell asleep. I was woken to feel Celeste stroking my mound which was now entirely hairless and alien. “It looks so little and delicate,” Evelyn said. “I'm sure it'll be different by the time you get fat. We'll have to alter it quite grossly. Would you like that? Big and stretched, lots of piercings, perhaps? I know you like the idea of sluttishness. We've all heard about what you told Danielle.”

I felt my cheeks redden. “Yes, Mistress, I'd like that,” I whispered, though it was hard to let myself think that I should desire all of her suggested changes.

“I've enjoyed working on you, slave. I think I should give you an extra treat. Would that please you?”

“Yes Mistress. I'm glad I've pleased you.”

I grimaced as Evelyn took her pen to my eyebrows, feeling the harsh stings as she took away the hairs at the follicle. “Are you thinning them or removing them completely, Mistress?” I dared ask after some minutes, but received no answer. I could look up to see Celeste smirking at me. I smiled back at her. She was very pretty and I liked to see her pleased with me.

I rose from the bed and stared down at my alien, hairless pussy, stroking it nervously. “It feels good, thank you Mistress,” I said. There was no mirror available to see my brows.

“And now you can have your little surgery. Once that's done you can go and rest.”

Day 4

I woke in a strange bed, not just strange because I hadn't slept there before, but bizarre in its design. I lay on my back, and the mattress, of soft foam, was recessed in roughly the form of a human body. My legs were slightly parted and my arms out from body. Loose straps were attached to ankles and wrists so that I was obliged to stay in this position, though without causing any discomfort, other than the discomfort of holding any posture for an extended time. Above me was a large mirror and I could see my naked body in its entirety.

I had no recollection of the previous day after receiving a general anaesthetic and now I stared up at my reflection to seek signs of what had been done to me. A small wound was present a few inches below my navel, held together by a few sutures, but I couldn't guess what had been done. I felt dreadfully tired still but was unable to get back to sleep. My head was aching, in addition to the dull pain I felt through my body. The worst pain was in my mouth, where the upper extractions in particular were painful. I could see that my face was swollen, and the total loss of my eyebrows had made me look odd. A tube was attached to my nostril and my belly felt uncomfortably full. I realised that I didn't like being on my own; my thoughts soon became morbid and negative, in a way that had seemed to be dispelled yesterday when I'd been in the company of one or more of the Mistresses almost all the time. The changes to my body had seemed almost natural with their encouragement, but looking at the results now terrified me. I had utterly lost control and as a result had a large tattoo, permanently removed pubic hair and eyebrows, and several lost teeth. And today my transformation would only accelerate.

And now I started to recall the threat against me from Adele. I couldn't shake the images of girl on the CCTV footage and tried to recall any detail that might exonerate me. Should I try to escape and go to the police to tell my story?

But how would I escape? I could maybe overpower some of the Mistresses, Celeste being probably the least imposing physically, but then what? I knew nothing of the layout or location of the building. And I sensed that everywhere I went was under discreet but efficient surveillance so that to attempt escape would be sure to fail and result in appalling punishment.

The other escape that occurred to me was suicide, but each time I thought about it I recalled Danielle's warning. The ruthlessness of the Mistresses was apparent in their treatment of me and I knew her words were no empty threat; the idea of being blinded terrified me, so much that I didn't even dare contemplate taking my own life.

Eventually I fell into a light sleep, and was woken by the entry of Celeste. It was a small room, brightly lit but windowless, empty of furniture other than the bed, which occupied half of the floorspace. Celeste and I exchanged greetings and she freed me from the bindings and removed the feeding tube while asking if I'd slept well.

“Yes Mistress. I am quite sore though and I have a headache. I wondered if I might have something for the pain.”

“Of course, slave,” she said warmly, and pushed me to turn. She delivered a series of slaps across my buttock and thigh, swift enough to make me gasp. “Is that enough pain for now?” she laughed. “My poor little slave, you need to learn to savour your suffering. You'll be anaesthetised for some procedures but otherwise you'll live with your pain and learn to love it. Is that a clear enough explanation?” I gave my embarrassed assent.

I was allowed to relieve myself and shower in a nearby room, under the constant watch of Celeste. Once I'd washed I was told that I needed to be fitted with a plug today. “You'll be subjected to anal stretching, and will wear a plug permanently now, slave,” she informed me. “And you'll love it, won't you?”

I tried to accept her encouragements, and willingly allowed the insertion, pleased to feel Celeste's intimate touch. I allowed myself to feel love toward her, so pretty and so devoted to helping me. She smoothed my anus with lubricant, pushing a finger inside me. “You're very tight. We need to change that.” She inserted a speculum now, which was less comfortable, but as it opened inside me I started to sob and groan.

“Please Mistress, it hurts. It's too much for me.”

My weakness made her angry and she berated me in the most base language, which only added to my sadness. She seemed now to force my opening wider than was safe and I fought against the desire to scream. I was relieved when she finally forced a metal plug inside me. It was painfully large and so heavy that I couldn't fail to be constantly aware of its presence, but it wasn't painful in the same way as the jaws of the speculum.

Celeste looked at me now, staring into my eyes, only speaking to insist that I shouldn't break eye contact. “You were appallingly childish. Tomorrow you'll be gagged when I plug you to spare me the feelings of embarrassment you make me feel.”

I began to make an apology but was hushed and thought it best to remain silent while I was taken to a treatment room. I saw Danielle was already present and remembered that I'd requested a long session of tattooing.

“It disgraced itself while being plugged,” Celeste said by way of greeting her colleague. “No talking for this slave until it completes a task. You hear me? If Danielle gives a good report to me of your conduct then your speaking privileges are returned. Nod to show you understand.”

I was made to lie on a padded bench where Danielle took her position to work on my left arm. As she shaved me I saw another woman enter, who Celeste greeted as Finley. She was tall and androgynous (her buzzed purple hair adding to this impression), heavy and heavily tattooed. Celeste took her aside and gave her some advice out of my hearing. Soon she came to me, setting herself to work on my right arm. She made light conversation with Danielle, with whom she appeared to be a close friend, but did nothing to acknowledge me. Soon she'd scrubbed my arm and began to tattoo me.

The feeling of being tattooed by two women simultaneously was difficult to bear. My arms were constantly forced into uncomfortable postures which I would have to hold for a long time. My left arm was being marked in a similar manner to my right by Danielle, except that the sweeping line now spiralled around my arm rather than zigzagging. Finley was working with black ink, placing thick black lines along my arm, which were truncated each time the trajectory butted against the blue of Danielle's tattoo. The tip of the device was now fitted with a row of needles to produce the broad lines she desired, and the touch was correspondingly more painful. She worked very quickly, the lines growing to divide my skin into sections.

Celeste had now absented herself, but a third Mistress now entered. Danielle and Finley paused to greet her, and I heard her name was Gigi. She was as tall as Finley, but slim and feminine. She had long red hair, pulled back in a ponytail. Like the others, she was covered in tattoos and had a lot of piercings.

I soon realised that Gigi's role was to tattoo my throat. I tipped my head back to allow her full access. I was unhappy that my neck would be marked. It would be more prominent than the tattoos on my arms, always visible. But I fought against this feeling; I wanted to show Celeste that I could be brave and welcome my transformation. Gigi was particularly beautiful, I thought, her tattoos adding to her beauty. There was no reason to imagine I couldn't be beautiful too with my tattoos.

My tattooists seemed tireless and worked without cease. I had no way to measure the passage of time and my tattooing seemed to become eternal. While my throat was being inked I was forced to maintain a posture with my head tilted back, so was unable to see anything of the work though I could feel that Danielle had shifted to work on my torso now and at some later point Finley moved around me to work on my left arm.

Hours had certainly passed when I was told to rise. I felt a great relief that my ordeal was complete, but soon realised that I was mistaken, and I was only shifting position to allow further work. As I rose I saw that the inner part of my right arm had been filled in with a dense, oily black pigment from wrist to armpit, only relieved where the snaking blue line crossed it, the intensity of the blue now enhanced by the marked contrast. To say it was a bold look was something of an understatement. Now my left arm was being treated in the same way, though Danielle had yet to fill the looping blue line around my arm; at present it was there only in outline, but that gave sufficient form for Finley to work to.

Danielle had now begun to add gestural marks across my abdomen and chest, though these were bolder than those on my arms, fully four inches wide, stripes and chevrons with uneven contours, still retaining a rough calligraphic character. Now I was instructed to sit backwards on a chair, my chest propped against the back. As Danielle added more designs across the right side of my ribcage, Finley continued to work on my left arm (now supported by a rest attached to the chair) and Gigi, after tightly pinning up my hair, inked the side of my neck.

In contrast to her colleagues, Gigi worked painstakingly, marking my skin with a pen before committing anything permanent. I was intrigued to see what she was doing, but so far it was impossible to see anything of her work.

Despite my discomfort, I'd managed to get some sleep while lying on the bench, but in this upright posture such luxury was denied me. I was constantly adjusting the position of my head now to allow Gigi to work. I soon felt that what was being done was unbearable and longed to hear someone tell me I was done for the day, yet there seemed to be no end in sight. I thought about my left arm, on which Danielle had produced only outlines. The previous day in three hours she'd filled in the line completely, with the outline produced in perhaps the first hour. If she'd worked at the same pace today then I estimated it was possible that only two hours had passed, a third of the time allocated for my treatments. I felt like I'd never be able to survive another four hours. I started to imagine snapping and assaulting these women who were ruining me, fantasising about defeating them and running free from the building.

By the time the buzzing of the needles did finally stop I felt broken. For the last period I'd lay on my belly while all three women worked on my back and buttocks. Celeste had attached the feeding tube and I could feel my belly becoming bloated. I'd become so exhausted by holding unnatural postures that I slept almost as soon as I was allowed to lie down.

I was helped to rise and looked at myself with curiosity. Large areas of my arms and torso were densely filled out with black ink: my arms were mirror images in terms of the areas of black, though overlaid with the blue lines that seemed to be Danielle's speciality. My body was similarly divided into areas of black underlying the blue marks, but the borders of the black areas on my chest, abdomen and back were entirely asymmetrical.

The areas that Danielle and Finley had left untouched were where Gigi had begun to work. She'd marked me with kaleidoscope-like patterning, mandalas composed of tiny shading dots that fragmented into tiles across me.

Because her work was so painstaking she'd not covered nearly as large an area. She'd tattooed a matrix of dots across the outside of both arms but had only completed the complex patterning on an area of my right arm. Most of her work had been around my neck and I was unable to see that.

“Did she disgrace herself?” Celeste asked Danielle.

“Not at all. She took a lot of work with good grace.”

“She looks so different,” Celeste said dreamily. “slave, how do you feel?”

“I'm so privileged, Mistress,” I said, forcing a smile. “I'm exhausted, so I can only imagine how much work it was for my Mistresses. They're very talented.”

“Yes they are. Same again tomorrow, ladies?” Celeste asked. “I'd like her tattooing to be done in two days. Is that an achievable target?”

Danielle nodded. “We'll have to limit the areas Gigi works on to arms and legs though. I'd be happy to do the patterning on her torso. Then we can confidently complete within two days.”

Celeste hugged and kissed each of the tattooists in turn and they left.

“Your feed should be complete in about twenty minutes. Then you can have a little outing. Would you like that?”

“Where are we going, Mistress?” I asked.

“Not we. Just you.”

I couldn't hide my surprise. “You trust me to go out alone, Mistress?”

She laughed. “Of course I do! You're here through choice, aren't you? You're here to be helped and to help. None of the principles you learnt have changed. You weren't going to run away, were you? I mean, where would you go? Prison, I suppose, without our help.”

“No, Mistress. Of course I'd return.”

“Everyone here is very pleased with you, slave. You're adjusting well. And you look so beautiful with all your tattoos. You love sitting for the ladies, don't you?”

“Yes Mistress,” I agreed, pulled along by her compliments.

“I suppose you'll miss being tattooed when they finish in a couple of days. Still, I'm sure there will be opportunities for little touch ups in the future, so you won't become strangers.”

I thanked her. She said I should look pretty for my first outing and applied a lot of make-up as I sat obediently. She looked pleased as she completed her work and I asked to see the result, but she shook her head.

“No, slave. You'll be sure to find a mirror when you're out so you can see yourself then. It'll be a nice surprise for you. Now let's go.”

I was dressed in strappy heels, black shorts and a white vest top that showed off my tattooed arms and midriff, my skin gleaming with the ointment applied to the fresh ink. I kept glancing at my tattoos, unable to believe that my skin was so changed, and would be forever. I felt myself shrinking as I thought of going out in public alone and being stared at, imagining how I'd feel if I'd seen a girl with similar tattoos. I'd hardly have been able to ignore such dramatic work. I didn't like the idea that I'd draw so much attention, but didn't dare voice my anxieties to Celeste. We got into a car in the underground garage and drove out of the compound. The sun was high in the sky, and I estimated that it was not long after noon. I realised that I must have risen very early, and had assumed it was much later in the day.

I noticed that the car was left hand drive and as soon as we were on the road observed that Celeste was driving on the right. We'd left Britain during my journey! I felt a weird sense of dislocation, as though my perceptions had been completely off for the last few days. And then I had to worry about language when I arrived at my destination. I had forgotten most of the French I'd learned at school, and didn't speak any other language. I'd perceived from Celeste that I shouldn't ask questions unbidden and restrained myself from asking where we were, instead trying to work out how far I could have travelled into Europe. I guessed the journey had been long enough to get me to France, Belgium, the Netherlands or Germany.

We drove for around fifteen minutes on small roads through farmland before we approached a large village. It was neatly maintained with a preponderance of red brick buildings, austerely ornamented. The names on the shops were mostly what appeared to me to be Dutch but a few were French, and I guessed we were in Belgium. Celeste parked in a cobbled square in the centre and addressed me. “I'm going to give you a phone. Once your appointment is finished you can call me and I'll meet you here. You're going to get your nails done,” she smiled. “That'll be nice, won't it?” I agreed enthusiastically. “The salon is down that street,” she pointed to a corner of the square. It's on the left, the only beauty salon so you cant miss it. And, slave, be aware that this town has a lot of friends of the System. You should always behave well, because any transgressions might be observed and reported. There'll be an accounting once we're back home.”

I assured her that I'd be good and she waved me out of the car. “But Mistress, what should I ask for?”

“You're expected. They've been given instructions. Just be a good girl and do as you're told.” She passed me a phone. “Call me when you're done. It only has one number so you can't go wrong.”

I gripped the phone and made my way toward the street. The heels made walking on cobbles a challenge. I turned to glance back at Celeste and saw that she was driving away. I felt lost, utterly unsure of myself. I felt an urge to seek help, to decry my abduction, but I had to fight such thoughts. I'd agreed to come here, and I knew that if I resisted that my apparent crime would be revealed. I had to stop letting myself think that I could return to my old life. I knew that such thoughts were harmful, and that I could only find happiness by welcoming my new status. As I walked across the square I felt the gazes of the local people taking in the bizarre appearance of this stranger in their midst. I had to force myself to feel pleasure at the attention and not let shyness overtake me.

I made the short walk into the narrow street of colonnaded shops and searched for the salon. I entered and looked around. There were half a dozen chairs, but only two customers. A receptionist greeted me in a language I assumed was Flemish. “Hi, do you speak English?” I replied.

She shook her head and came to take me by the arm, speaking in a reassuring tone, but not a word was intelligible to me. She led me to a stylist, the oldest of those present, who looked to be in her late thirties. She laughed as she met me and exchanged jokes with the receptionist, then gestured for me to take a seat.

I did as requested, and found myself staring uncomfortably at my reflection; my neck was covered in black mandalas, divided into hexagonal tiles. I tilted my head back and saw that the tattoos covered my skin up to my jawline. My make-up shocked me too, deep red lipstick drawn outside the lip line, harsh black eyeliner, thin black lines for brows. I was no longer the girl I had been a few days ago, I was slave, and my appearance made my new personality concrete.

My stylist draped a cape around my neck, the tight collar irritating the newly tattooed skin. I shook my head. “No, no, nails, nails!” I extended my hand and pointed to the nails to show her that she was mistaken, but she was insistent. She seemed to be telling me that my nails would be seen to later but first I'd have a hair appointment.

I felt powerless now, frustrated by my inability to communicate and sure there'd been an error. I held up my hand to indicate that she should wait and lifted my phone to call Celeste. I was confident that she'd be able to resolve the mix up. My stylist looked impatient now and shook her head. She took the phone from my hand and placed it on the counter, while seemingly telling me off. She began to brush through my hair.

My hair was cut to my shoulders, light brown with a reddish hint, a colour that I liked, and brought me compliments. It was wavy, forming loose ringlets. I'd had long hair till about two years previously when I'd decided that this shorter length would be more mature and easier to look after. I'd never come to terms with the shorter length, always believing that long hair was more attractive. Now I was about to get a makeover without any control. I started to feel upset and had to fight against the urge to cry. Celeste's words of warning came back to me, and I felt that I was most likely being observed by someone from the System even now. Perhaps my stylist was someone who worked at the compound, and I realised that I should be as deferential to her as to any of my Mistresses. I want a new haircut, I told myself. I want to look different and sexy. This style is no good for who I am now. Accept the change, welcome it.

My determination to accept a new style was tested as I saw the stylist lift a set of clippers from a hook on the counter. My nervousness was out of control now, sliding rapidly toward panic. I tried to focus on my breathing, and realised that I was pressing at my sex in an attempt to comfort myself. I reached for the waistband of the shorts (my full belly bulging against the cloth), and for the first time felt the wound that my surgery had left. Slightly under the incision I could feel a round object, perhaps an inch and a half across, was present under the skin, but the area was too tender for me to examine it more thoroughly. I dared to slide my fingers into my shorts, having opened the button, trying to move stealthily so as to avoid disturbing the cape which covered me to my knees. As I touched my now hairless sex I felt that it too was very tender. I pressed at my slit and felt a soreness which worried me, but which needed to be explored. I pushed the tip of my little finger inside and felt stiff bristles which I recognised as sutures, no different to those binding together the wound in my abdomen. I was repelled to think that some procedure had been performed on me and wondered what it's purpose was. I carefully re-buttoned my shorts and slid my hands to my sides, afraid to touch myself for fear of ripping the stitches.

I was bidden to tip my head to the side now, exposing the left side to the clippers. The stylist had clipped my hair up, baring my ear. Now she turned on the clippers and set them to my cheek. She laughed as she pressed them upward, shaving away my sideburn. I swallowed as I saw that there was no hair left where the blades had touched. It looked strange and ugly. Nor was she finished; she buzzed away more curls, shaving up to a line on my temple. The shaved area passed about an inch over my ear, curving gently down the side of my nape.

My stylist ran her fingers across the shaved stubble and made a comment that seemed to be a joke. I forced a smile and told her I liked the cut, but I'm sure my face told her a different story. Now she moved to my right side and pulled out the clips. As she combed through my hair a lot of strands came free, gathering in my lap or spilling to the floor. I held my breath as she turned on the clippers again. She combed back my hair at the front and placed the blades at the right side of my forehead.

I swore in disbelief as she drove the blades into my hair, slowly shaving a pale stripe across my scalp. The inside of the path started at the middle of my forehead, but moved back at an angle, so that it connected to the right hand whorl of my double crown. I'd told myself the undercut on the left side was quite pretty, edgy but not excessive. Now more hair was being sheared away and I saw that the entire right side would be bald, extending onto the top of my head. I gulped as I realised this couldn't be hidden. There was nothing subtle about this, no slight edginess. My haircut was extreme.

I was suddenly hit by the thought that there had been a mistake. Celeste had told me I was here for my nails, and what if I'd been mistaken for someone else? Would I be punished for getting a haircut without authorisation? As if the haircut itself weren't punishment enough.

Now I was made to bow my head as the back was shaved into the desired form. A lot of my curls were being shaved, not just a narrow strip on the side of the nape like on the left side. I could feel that most of the back was being bared. I couldn't bear it, I was sure. It was humiliating to be shorn like this. I lifted my head and saw my remaining hair being wound into a knot on the top, my hair looking like a mohawk that had slipped to one side.

It seemed that the clippers didn't shave close enough. I watched passively as the stylist lathered the sides of my head and nape. She used an old fashioned safety razor to shave me, fitting it with a fresh razor blade before setting it to my scalp. There was a soft rasping sensation as she pulled it in firm strokes down my scalp. The slight greyishness the stubble had caused was now gone and my scalp looked almost white where the razor passed.

I felt sick at the destruction of my hair, all the more so because my stomach was filled with the beige liquid which was now my sole diet. The stylist rubbed a towel over my tingling scalp to rid it of the vestiges of the white lather. She said something to me then gestured. I realised she was telling me to feel my scalp. I gasped as I touched it, so soft and smooth. When my fingers moved down it felt silky, but there was a stickiness when I moved against the growth, which made it feel rubbery. I couldn't feel any granularity of stubble. I blushed as I realised the feeling was so overwhelming; I couldn't decide whether it was repulsive or enticing, but my training with Adele and her followers had taught me that our feelings are conditioned and that we can take control of them. I knew that in this case I had to choose delight as my response to my shaved scalp.

I watched as my light brown hair was covered in dark liquid. I was allowed to sit in the waiting area by the reception while the dye matured, and as I did I felt myself slipping toward sleep. When I was rinsed I saw I had black hair.

Now the stylist equipped herself with long, brightly coloured strands of artificial hair, blue and yellow. She carefully divided my hair into small sections and glued a thick section of the fake hair to the roots. Then the resulting lock, natural and artificial, was tightly braided. I suppose I was relieved that no more of my hair was being cut and showed my delight as the heavy braids began to proliferate. The strands were long, reaching to my waist, and I saw a certain irony in having the longest hair I'd ever had, since half of my head was now shaved bald. The ends of the braids were heat sealed, fusing the tip so that it would be impossible for it to come undone.

My stylist now called over a colleague to assist her. She was a tall, muscular young woman with dark hair, worn very short: the back and sides were barbered close to her scalp, with the top standing straight up in stiff spikes. She was tasked with braiding each of the sections once the senior stylist had anchored the extensions. “You're English?” she said.

“Yes, I am Miss.” I blushed as I wondered if I shouldn't address her as Mistress. I waited for her reaction. She shared a joke with her friend.

“She says you look like... porn with these tattoos and this hair.” Her accent was strong and I wondered if I'd misunderstood.

“Porn?” I asked. “Like... porn star?”

“Yes!” she said happily. “Porn star. That's what you like?”

I felt myself cringing. Was that how I appeared now? I nodded, aware that I was likely being observed. “Yes, I like that. I like looking like a porn star.”

“And now you get tattoo here, yes?” She rubbed my scalp. “That's why you shave?”

I closed my eyes as I thought that in all likelihood she was right. “Maybe,” I said.

“You coming back here to show us, hey? I keep you shaving. See tattoo clear?”

I nodded. “I'd like that but not sure how long I stay here.” She looked puzzled, but nodded. I wasn't sure how much she'd understood.

The braiding became wearying for all three of us and soon conversation, mercifully, came to a halt. I could see the younger woman stretching her fingers after completing each braid to ward off the cramping in her fingers. My scalp ached from the constant tension of the process. I felt enormous relief when I was finally deemed finished. The heavy braids were arranged to fall to the left side and the larger shaved area on the right was fully exposed. I reached up to feel them, so tight and hard, nothing of the softness of my familiar hair.

I'd been in the chair so long that I had difficulty getting up, and when I did I gasped as the oversized plug triggered a painful spasm that made me groan. I walked toward the door but the younger stylist took me by the arm and led me to the stairs at the back of the shop, talking incessantly in Flemish. I went up and saw a nail bar and tanning beds. I was ushered to sit to have my nails attended to.

I was fitted with long acrylic claws, glued to my more modest nails, extending for almost two centimetres beyond the tips of my fingers and ending in a chisel tip. They were now lavishly painted by the young stylist, who had an impressively steady hand. She used two colours on each nail, blood red and shocking pink, divided diagonally with the pink at the tip. An array of fake jewels was added to four of my nails. I thanked her lavishly for her work and she accompanied me down the stairs.

I walked awkwardly with the stylist to the receptionist and she indicated that I should pay. I looked at her helplessly; I had no means to pay. I took the phone and made to call Celeste. The receptionist jabbed a finger at the screen, exclaiming something. It took me a few moments to realise that on the almost bare screen was a payment app. I tapped on it and managed to make a payment.

I walked out into the square now, feeling more out of place than ever. It was now late afternoon and a few of the townspeople were taking a stroll, walking their dogs or just enjoying a promenade. I sensed their disapproval of a girl who, according to the one person in the town I'd spoken with, looked like a porn star. I called the only number on the phone and heard Celeste agree to pick me up from the square.

It was about an hour before my lift arrived. I was relieved to see Celeste; being alone in the town made me feel out of place and vulnerable, and any thoughts of escape had now receded. In a few days I'd come too far to return to my old life, and I found I couldn't bear to think of the threat of prison from what I'd done. It was easier to block all thoughts of my crime and start afresh.

Celeste laughed when she saw me. She stroked my head which made me feel the stirrings of pleasure. “She shaved you well, didn't she? It's so smooth. We should make sure it stays nice and clean while you keep this style. I think twice daily shaves should do the job.”

“I have some shaved here too, Mistress.” I lifted the braids to show the smaller undershave on the left.

“Did you like being shaved, slave?”

“Yes Mistress. It was a little scary when she clippered off my hair but it feels so nice.”

“Don't forget your promise to Evelyn. If you're not twenty stone in six months what will happen?”

“I'll be permanently bald, Mistress.”

She laughed. “That might be the right look for a slave. You like your shave so I suppose being totally hairless would be delightful for you.”

“To be honest, Mistress, it scares me. I'm not without vanity and the idea of being bald worries me.”

“Bald and fat. I think they both scare you.” I agreed. “We're working hard to make you beautiful so I think it's fine that you should retain your vanity. I want you to take pride in your appearance, slave, and always look your best. You'll learn to shave yourself and apply your make-up. Do you think you can do that?”

“Yes, Mistress. I'm happy that you're giving me more trust. I want to make you happy.”

“Did you get any comments on your makeover?”

“The stylist didn't speak any English so I couldn't understand a word she said, Mistress, but there was a younger stylist who spoke a bit. They thought I looked like a porn star.”

Celeste laughed. “You liked that, I bet. Would you like to show off your new look on camera?” I hesitated for too long. “Your treatments are very expensive, slave. You need to start earning some money to pay back what you owe. I mean the tattooing alone costs thousands. And do you think private dental treatment is cheap?”

“No, Mistress,” I said defensively. I hadn't imagined I'd have to pay for the transformation I hadn't asked for.

“Tonight you can spend a few hours in our studio. You can be a cam girl. I think it might be nice to let you have an account with a gaining site. The prospect of a pretty girl like you doubling her weight rapidly should make some people dip in their pockets. For tonight you can go without your feeding tube and gorge on camera. You can indulge your greediness. We'll lay on a feast for you. Make it sexy and you should make a good amount of money.” I felt worried at the thought of displaying myself. “Oh, just imagine if someone you know logs in! Won't they be surprised to see pretty little... whatever your name was, and how she's changed. All those tattoos, that wild hair. And acting so depraved.”

Day 5

My overindulgence had left me feeling ill. I'd eaten a huge feast on camera: a large bag of crisps to begin, a huge pizza as main course and a full chocolate gateau to finish. I'd been astonished that I'd managed to eat everything, washed down with two litres of cola. I'd never felt so full, but egged on by the voyeurs of the website I'd managed to stuff every last morsel into my distended belly. I felt disgusted with myself for being so greedy, all the more so because I'd orgasmed on camera, using a huge dildo, after completing the meal.

Celeste woke me and freed me from my bed in the morning (to add to my shame I'd had to endure being fitted with a catheter, since I couldn't rise from my bed and I'd drank a lot of fluids). Despite my overeating I'd still been attached to the feeding tube, and my stomach was still full when I woke.

My morning routine was completed in silence, as Celeste made good on her promise to gag me. A ball was forced into my mouth, behind my teeth and strapped in place. It was uncomfortable and made me retch, as well as causing me to drool uncontrollably. The plug was slid out, making me feel faint, but after sitting on the toilet and then being cleaned up I had to endure the far worse ordeal of more stretching with the speculum. Once the gag was removed Celeste seemed to once more treat me more humanely.

“You did OK last night,” she said coolly. “But you do need to improve. You need to indulge the fantasies of your fans, make them believe that you share them.”

“But some of them are just weird, Mistress,” I complained.

“This isn't about choosing friends. This is a commercial transaction. You want them to spend their money. If you don't make enough this way we can opt for tougher means of employment. Stop being fussy, slave.”

“I'm sorry, Mistress. I'll try harder.”

The discussion came to an end as I was taken to a treatment room. I froze as I realised it was the dental surgery where I'd lost four teeth. “Please Mistress, I won't lose more teeth will I?”

She nodded. “Yes you will, slave. Get in the chair.”

I was terrified and started to beg her to be spared. “You said I was here voluntarily. I don't want this!”

She was silent, and despite her efforts to conceal it, angry. There was a long pause as she brought her emotions under control. “Very well, if you're not going to agree to treatment we'll have to abandon our very expensive plans for the day. You can come with me.”

I followed her in shamed silence. We took the lift and arrived at another room. As the door opened I wailed. “Please Mistress, no! I can't endure it in there.”

“You will endure it. Every time you're wilful you'll spend a full day in here. Don't think of resisting now or you'll be punished very firmly. Now enter!”

I walked the narrow path into the room, the room with the floor covered with spikes. “Please Mistress, I'll see the dentist. I'm sorry. You don't need to do this.”

She was silent as she fitted the board to cover the path, leaving me only a ten inch square to stand in. Then the door closed and I was alone.

Day 6

I was inconsolable when I was finally brought out of the room. I felt like I'd been left in there for days though I was aware that within minutes my perception of time seemed to break down entirely. I called out to be released, promising obedience, until my throat was raw, then sobbed until I had no more tears. Standing still soon becomes exhausting, but squatting is worse because very soon the leg muscles begin to cramp. After some hours in there I would have given anything, and I mean anything, to have a wall to lean against. I tried bending over, supporting some of my weight on one hand but I nearly fell when I closed my eyes and that shook me.

I'd completely lost my mind by the time Celeste came for me. I couldn't stop talking, desperately assuring her that I'd be a good girl and she'd never need to put me in the room again.

She brought me to my senses by shouting in my face. “Shut up! Most people have to endure three times in the room, and I don't think you're any different. In fact I think it might be necessary for you to have five sessions. If you don't compose yourself now you can go back in for another twenty-four hours. Control yourself!”

I started to say something, then realised I had to be silent. I was so tired that I could hardly stand up straight and had to fight my urge to plead to be allowed sleep. The panic I felt at the prospect of being taken back into the room was physically unbearable.

“Now just nod to show your agreement, slave. You'll receive all of the treatments I planned for you yesterday, and you'll take them without complaint.” I nodded. “Any infringement of propriety will result in another day in the room. You'll take your treatments with enthusiasm and gratitude. You'll feel affection toward your Mistresses for their generosity toward you.” I nodded again. “You may speak now. What treatment do you want to begin, slave?”

“I'd like some dental treatment now, please Mistress.”

I was granted the opportunity to relieve myself and shower before I was taken to see the dentist. Again I was securely bound in the chair and left alone before the dental Mistresses entered. They never spoke to me, and their facelessness seemed to make them inhuman and terrifying. I opened my mouth and felt a gag of thick wire being inserted. It fitted into the gaps where I'd had the extractions and I gasped as it was levered open; the wire pressed against the wounds which remained tender and the pressure caused intense pain. As she began her examination I realised that the pain would not diminish until the gag was removed, and I had no reason to assume that that would happen before the treatment was complete.

Despite my fear of needles, I longed to see the syringes being pushed into my mouth, numbing all sensation. I didn't care what was done to me any more, just wanted not to suffer, and I knew that if the pain was taken from me I would be able to get some sleep while I was modified. I was so distressed that I'd have willingly accepted the removal of every tooth in exchange for a long sleep.

I wasn't to be granted such rewards. I felt my tongue being gripped by forceps and willingly extended it to allow examination, except that now it was pulled so far from my mouth that it was a strain and the muscles started to spasm, involuntarily twitching so that it must have appeared that I was resisting. As I did so the pressure on the forceps increased until it began to hurt and I groaned, more distressed by the discomfort than the pain, which was relatively mild.

But then it wasn't; I felt a scratching sensation beneath my tongue which rapidly escalated into agony as I felt a blade penetrate the surface, and I began to taste blood. There was a loud slurping as the assistant suctioned away the excess saliva and blood. The pain continued to grow in intensity and I struggled against the straps, unable to remain calm, though it was futile since the straps didn't allow any significant movement.

At last I felt the tool (it was surely too thick to be a needle) pass through my tongue entirely and felt blood running back into my throat. There was more pressure on the wound, which was so raw that I wailed at the slightest pressure. I was finally permitted to relax my tongue but even as I did became aware that it now bore a heavy piercing which threatened to induce a gag reflex. I realised how distressed I'd been and fought to control my breathing to restore some decorum, fearing the consequences of my unrestrained response, even though my vocalisations had brought no obvious response from the Mistresses.

I sighed as the injections were made into the hinges of my jaw, not from suffering but from relief. Only moments passed before I felt the welcome numbness spread across my face, even my tongue relieved of its throbbing. I closed my eyes and tried to distance myself from my treatment, to stoically accept whatever would be done to me, and to get some sleep while it happened. Almost immediately I began to doze, but my rest, and my resolve, was soon interrupted as I felt a growing pressure on an upper incisor, the right one beside the canine. I felt tears begin to come as I recognised that it would be torn out. I imagined my smile with an absent front tooth, how awful and ugly it would look. I couldn't suppress a distressed sob as my fear was realised, the tooth being twisted and wrenched from the socket, then to feel the forceps close on the absent tooth's mirror on the left and feel it too being ripped from me.

I probed with my tongue as the Mistresses prepared for my next torture, and felt that my upper canines were now isolated, gaps present on either side. I imagined how absurd I must now look, the two front teeth jutting from the gums, making me appear rodent like. I felt like I'd never smile again.

Nothing of quite such violence as the extraction of my teeth was visited upon me now and I existed in a constant state of semi wakefulness, almost unable to process what was being done to me. There was a lot of drilling, which was so loud that it made relaxation difficult, yet I seemed at the time to resent it largely because it was interfering with my rest.

A lot of time seemed to have passed when Celeste freed me from the chair and allowed me to sit up for a few minutes before standing.

I was more tired than ever, my uneasy rest seeming to only deepen my need to sleep and I was confused and slow of thought. My tongue was tingling as sensation slowly returned, and I was sure that the loss of more teeth was only a nightmare as my tongue felt the presence of an uninterrupted row of teeth between the gaps where I'd lost teeth days before. However, I could tell, even in my numbed state, that my teeth were different in form now, and when I closed my jaws my teeth met in an unfamiliar occlusion.

“Can you speak?” Celeste asked. She looked amused as she stared at me.

“Yes Mistress,” I said, but my speech was unclear. The piercing in my tongue seemed to make it unwilling to move as I willed, and my lips seemed equally unable to articulate my speech.

“Say 'slave needs elocution lessons to learn to articulate incisively'.”

I repeated the sentence with difficulty, making Celeste laugh. “I think it's just the anaesthetic, Mistress,” I added.

“It's not,” she said. “But I'm sure once the wounds settle you'll speak more clearly. It might be nice if you had some difficulty with speech anyway. It's not as if you have anything important to say, is it? You just have to say 'Yes Mistress' to everything that's asked of you.”

“Yes Mistress,” I said.

“You see, I can understand that. Just about. What more do we need?”

I walked to another room now, my legs weak and unsteady. “You've not eaten for so long,” Celeste said sadly. “You'll be losing all the pounds you've gained. We need to get you hooked up to a big bag of feed post haste. You've got a little saggy belly now so I think your stomach can start to accept a bigger feed.”

I was glad to feel the tube connect to my nose and gradually become aware that my hunger was abating. Celeste massaged my belly. “Every day you spend in the room you go without food and that puts you further away from your target. If you're a naughty girl you'll lose all your hair. Do you want that?”

“No, Mistress. I want to be pretty for you.”

She rubbed the side of my head. “All stubbly. You were supposed to shave twice a day but look at you. Your disobedience has so many unfortunate consequences.”

“I'm sorry Mistress. I'll try harder now.”

“Do you want another long session of tattooing?” I agreed that I did. “Very well, I'll call the three ladies. You owe them an apology. They were planning to tattoo you yesterday.”

She tapped the screen of her phone and almost immediately Gigi, Danielle and Finley entered. Danielle came to me and tugged at my braids. “Look at you! You shaved a lot, didn't you?”

“Yes Mistress. The stylists told me I looked like a porn star.” I blushed but I couldn't resist humiliating myself.

“Oh wow, smile for me,” she insisted. I bared my teeth, though I'm sure it was more grimace than smile. I became aware that something was in my lower lip and guessed it had been pierced. “Those teeth!” Danielle said. “I think you'd only see something like that on someone who did some pretty hardcore porn. Do you like them?”

“How can she answer that?” Celeste said. “She hasn't seen them yet. She can see herself tonight when she goes to bed, if she's a good girl today. If you do anything disappointing I'll put in eye drops that will make you unable to see for a full day.”

“I'll be good Mistress,” I slurred. “And I want to apologise to my Mistresses for my conduct yesterday and ruining your schedule.”

“You'll still be billed,” Danielle said. “It's easy money for us. But make sure you start earning. I hear your debut as a cam girl was a bit of a damp squib. You hardly made enough to cover the rental of the studio.”

“I'm sure a little word of mouth will help,” Celeste said. “Once you get more confident with your performances you'll have some very devoted followers. You need to milk them for every penny you can wring out of them.”

I promised to work hard to make money. I tried to calculate how much I owed now. If my tattooists charged £100 per hour (and I couldn't imagine it was less) a six hour session with three of them would cost £1800. My dental work was almost certainly more expensive and I realised that I was racking up costs of thousands each day. It would take me years to pay back what I owed.

I lay face down on a table to allow my tattooing to commence. I was alarmed when Gigi turned my head to the side and began to shave the stubble from the right side of my head. Would I leave the room with a scalp tattoo? Within minutes I knew I would. The pain as she marked my skull was more insistent than the needling on my back, where Danielle and Finley worked from either side. I forced myself to relax and concentrated on my breathing, slow deep breaths, counting each inspiration and expiration. I achieved a calmness and a tolerance for the pain. I soon slept.

Despite the sleep I managed to get, the tattooing was arduous, and I was frequently roused from my uneasy slumber by changes of position to allow access to different areas of skin. Some of the postures were uncomfortable and holding them for long periods of time added to my exhaustion. By the end of the session I felt like a zombie; I could no longer understand instruction, at least not consciously. I found myself changing position automatically in response to words that seemed to come from a distance and were no more intelligible than the incessant chatter of my Flemish hairdresser.

I rose slowly and saw that my tattooing was far more extensive now. My legs were the most obvious addition, now decorated with extensive blue and black patterning, with huge areas of skin solidly blocked in black. My hands were now tattooed, patterns and symbols extending along my fingers to the nail beds. Even my palms had designs inked deeply into the flesh. I had hardly been aware of the entire process occurring, and was strangely calm to see the results. My earlier hunger seemed almost unbelievable, since now my stomach was bloated to discomfort, which for most of the time I'd spent in the compound was the norm.

I followed Celeste slowly. She looked at me unhappily. “You're hardly going to make a positive impression on a chat site looking like this, are you? You look sick. I think you're going to have to be put to bed early. I suppose it might be best to let you rest then make an early start tomorrow and put in some hours in the studio. The early hours of the morning here are night time in the US, so there are usually plenty of customers. Maybe it will work out for the best, but we do need to put you on a regular schedule to make sure your followers know when they can see you.”

It appeared I would be allowed to sleep after my implant had been tested and calibrated. I was taken to a small room where I sat in a comfortable chair as Celeste attached sensors to my body. One of the sensors appeared to be magnetic and gripped onto the device which had been inserted near my navel. My arms were strapped loosely to the chair and I was told to relax. I was facing a large mirror, through which I was certain that I was being observed.

Suddenly I felt a sharp pain in my groin and cried out. “How does that feel, slave?” a voice called from a speaker behind me.

“It hurts. A lot.”

“And now?”

“Worse!” I gasped as another shock took my breath away.

Now I gasped again, but this time the pain was mixed with pleasure. I felt a surge of energy similar to what I felt when I achieved the most intense stimulation of my clitoris.

“How does that feel?”

My voice was a high squeak. “It very powerful and intense.”

“Pleasurable?”

“Yes!”

“And pain?”

“Yes, it hurts, but not as bad.”

There was a delay as the feeling subsided. “And now?”

I felt pleasure, though not as intensely. “It's nice, but not as much. There's no pain though.”

The next was the most pure sensation of pleasure I'd ever experienced and tipped me into an orgasm within moments. I was unable to respond to the question for some time even after the stimulation ended, since my body was still climaxing intensely. “Is there any pain?” I was asked. I confirmed there was none.

I was subjected to perhaps a dozen more tests, one of which almost made me sick, so intense was the pain. “Very good, slave,” Celeste's voice called out. “The implant is very successful. Now we have a system to aid your conditioning. We have a very marked response to both reward and punishment.”

I was taken to my bed and fell asleep taking in my latest transformations. I was surprised to see that the bald side of my head was now darkly marked with spiralling patterns of the sort which Gigi excelled in. I was barely able to recall anything that had happened during my tattooing, so exhausted that my memory seemed to have failed. The patterns spilled out across my temple and down my cheek, a looping spiral now permanently marking the skin in front of my ear. I knew that even if I grew my hair some of the tattoos would remain visible.

I was hardly able to process the details of the tattoos on my legs and torso, only aware that I had a lot more than last time I'd seen my reflection. It was my mouth that marked the most dramatic, and upsetting changes. My lower lip was pierced by a large plug, which appeared to be made of ivory. It was oval in section and at least a centimetre wide. And my teeth were a worse surprise. As I pulled back my lips I saw an alien mouth. My upper canines and central incisors were filed to sharp points, decorated with finely carved ribbed lines running from gum to tip. The canines were impossibly long and fang like, whereas the incisors were much smaller than their previous dimensions. Between them I had more normally shaped teeth but they were not of any natural material; rather they were a shiny, dark blue metallic substance.

If my upper teeth were shocking in their variousness, the lower teeth were no less shameful as they were now identical in form. The incisors and canines had been truncated at the same level, and filed down so that all were separated by narrow gaps. To add to the strangeness of the fine, peg-like teeth the gums had been excised at the base, so that the teeth looked absurdly long. The ugliness was increased by the margin of the gums, which had been subjected to diathermy, leaving them looking pale and wounded. I was sure my appearance would induce nightmares.

Day 7

I was taken through my morning routine by Celeste who seemed more irritable that usual. I finally found the courage to ask her about her mood. “Mistress, have I upset you? You seem angry with me.”

She smiled. “I suppose I'm aggrieved that I had to get up at three in the morning to deal with you. Once you're installed in the studio I'll go back to bed. Your performance will be recorded and I'll review it later. If you disappoint me I'll make sure you get some retraining and it will be unpleasant for you. But you'll work hard to satisfy your followers and make some money, won't you?”

“Yes, Mistress,” I promised, intimidated by the threats. I couldn't shake off the memory of the pain I'd experienced from the implant the previous day and was sure it would now be used to punish me should I fall short of my expected behaviour.

I was made to go without a shower now, since the tattoos were starting to form scabs. Until they healed I would keep them dry. “It's unfortunate,” Celeste said. “You'll stink, I'm sure, but we need to make sure your tattoos heal well. We can't even shave your head for now.”

I'd hoped to enjoy a hot shower since my skin had become very itchy. Celeste seemed pleased that I was suffering. “It'll only get worse in the next few days. And you have more tattooing today, though I hope the ladies can complete the bulk of the work today You'll be more or less fully tattooed when you see your bed again.”

Surprisingly, I began to realise that my stomach was empty. I was used to being fed each night, and waking with a feeling of bloating. Now instead I was excessively hungry. As I was taken to the studio I realised that once more I was expected to gorge on camera.

I'd come to understand that I should court my followers popularity by encouraging them in their fetishes. The feasting would be viewed only by paying customers, with each course paid for separately. I would only begin my feeding once a certain number of people had committed to pay, and that number rose incrementally for each successive course.

Soon I was getting messages from people I recognised from my previous experience in the studio. The changes in my appearance were a source of fascination and I found myself listing my new mods. My scalp tattoo seemed to be a source of special fascination, though my teeth seemed to polarise opinion. As I showed them off I felt a tremor of excitement, which was a total surprise, since all I felt emotionally was embarrassment at the destruction of my teeth. I realised that the feeling was induced by the implant, which surprised me since I'd assumed it could only be triggered by attaching the sensor. The realisation that it could be used remotely was frightening, yet the sensation (for now only at a low level) was so alluring that I found myself displaying myself in the most shameful way, and being rewarded constantly for my exhibitionism.

Because of my dental work I would only be able to eat soft food that required little biting or chewing and my diet had been adapted accordingly. The first course was a huge bowl of pasta, and I had no difficulty reaching my target of subscribers. As soon as I ate the first forkful I felt the trembling of stimulation under my clitoris and moaned with pleasure. I felt ashamed as I turned to the camera to say that feeding so greedily made me horny. It did nothing of the sort under normal circumstances, but someone was monitoring everything I did and manipulating my level of arousal. Would there come a time when I was conditioned to associate food with erotic urges?

The camera was attached to a laptop and instructions would sometimes appear. “Eat your food as quickly as you can,” I was ordered. “Stuff your mouth and swallow quickly. Taking your time will mean you feel full more quickly. If you start to feel bloated take a big swig of coke and wait to burp. Do it as coarsely as you can.”

My embarrassment at my vulgarity seemed not to put off my audience, in fact the opposite was clearly true; they adored me getting messy, sauce around my mouth, and dribbles down my belly, and a few were especially enchanted by my belching. I was glad that the food was soft, since my teeth felt odd in my mouth and my tongue piercing had swollen, making it hard to move food about in my mouth. Still, I could feel my arousal growing as I neared the end of the meal. The last mouthful was rewarded with a dramatic increase in the level of stimulation and I couldn't resist orgasming. I was aware that it would certainly look fake so desperately pawed at my clitoris as the climax took over me, groaning and moaning noisily. My performance seemed to delight my followers, many of whom pledged their commitment to pay to watch me feast every time I was online. I showered them with compliments.

I succeeded in getting the requisite numbers for the succeeding courses, which were both sweet: a large trifle, followed by a litre of ice cream. I felt sick by the time I spooned in the last of my excessive meal, yet was powerless to resist cumming very noisily. Now the highest level of stimulation was maintained for a full minute, during which time I writhed helplessly, insensible to all but my overwhelming pleasure. I felt drunk when I was finally allowed to escape the intense stimulation. I stood to display my bulging stomach, which looked absurdly out of proportion on my still slight frame. “I promise you guys that I'll double my weight within six months. But you all have to make it worth my while. If I do this for you you have to show me some love. It's not cheap buying so much food. You'll all buy me gifts, won't you? It makes me so wet when you show you love me with your donations. I love you all!” I blew a kiss into the camera and ended my session.

I sat in the studio waiting for someone to give me my next instructions, and I was overwhelmed by loneliness, as I acknowledged how debased I'd become. A week earlier I could never have imagined performing so indecently, let alone before a webcam broadcasting my shameful antics to anyone who wished to see. I felt so unhappy, and what was most unbearable was having to listen to my own thoughts. I craved something to block out my shame, anything, just as long as it filled my consciousness. A void was unbearable.

I was close to tears when I saw a message flash up that I should proceed to a room along the corridor, and there I saw Celeste, who was staring at the screen of a tablet, her face not registering my presence, but her focus entirely on the screen. She finally looked up after a pause of a few minutes. “I see you've made some improvements in your behaviour. You were still felt to look self conscious a lot of the time though. Are you ashamed of what you do?”

“A little, Mistress,” I admitted. “I'm new to all this. A few days ago I could never have imagined doing this.”

“You're a liar, slave,” she said vindictively. “I know what you watched. I know how you dreamed of living like the girls you watched. Our psychological studies show that you wanted this more than anything. That's why you asked to come here. Now you pretend that this is shocking to you. You're lying to justify your poor performance.”

I apologised and tried to explain that if I did fantasise then I'd not expected those fantasies to become reality. She appeared to be more angry still.

“If? If? You're still trying to deny what obsessed you? Your problem is your unwillingness to accept your desires. It's called repression. Do you think it's healthy?”

“No, Mistress. Of course not.”

“Maybe I've been mollycoddling you. You should have to try things that push you. After that you'll be far more comfortable with eating a little food on camera and showing that it makes you feel horny.” I was incredulous; did she really think that what had been done to me wasn't sufficiently bold? “You look afraid. I'm trying to help you, slave. Will yourself to be happy with what I'm offering.”

“I'll do anything for you, Mistress,” I said, trying to smile as warmly as I could.

“Your will isn't strong enough,” she said derisively. “You're too attached to your faulty programming. We need to change that.”

I was sent back to the tattoo studio, in the knowledge that this would be my last session. By the end my body was, it was fair to say, completely covered in ink. There were areas where dense patterns had been drawn where my natural skin contrasted with the black or blue ink (and blue remained the only colour used) but there were now larger areas of entirely black skin. My face had been left free of tattoos, and above my jawline the only tattoo was the large scalp tattoo on the right side of my head.

I was made to stand and display myself to the three Mistresses who'd worked so intensively on me. They photographed me, telling me the poses to adopt, and instructing me that I should memorise these postures to use whenever I was being photographed.

“She still looks awkward and embarrassed,” Celeste sighed. “I'm not sure she's any use for use as a sex worker. Perhaps we should return her to her old life. Make her get a job to repay what she owes us.”

Danielle started to laugh. “Would you like that, slave? Go back to your family and friends? I'm sure you miss them.”

I felt a horror at the idea of being seen as I was now by people I'd once knew, but I also felt a deep guilt. There were people who cared about me and they must be worried about my disappearance but I'd hardly thought about anyone from my old life since my arrival here, which seemed unbearably selfish and callous.

“No Mistress,” I said. “I want to make a success of myself here.”

“Then you need to have a stronger desire,” Danielle said. “Your failures are a result of your desire not being strong enough. You need to stop telling yourself what you want and actually believe it.”

“Exactly,” Celeste added. “She's repressing. She's ashamed of herself.”

“She probably couldn't even admit which one of us she wants to fuck right now. Could you slave?” Danielle asked.

“I like you all.”

“So pick one of us and make your dream come true.”

I felt myself blushing, and yes, I couldn't help but feel embarrassed at the prospect of having sex with one of these women, presumably with the others looking on.

“Gigi,” I said, the first name to come to my head. She was very attractive and also the least intimidating. She smiled as she heard her name and came over to put her arm around me.

“Let's go somewhere more comfortable, slave.”

We went to a large room which was equipped with a bed, but also more uncomfortable furniture, seeming designed to immobilise its victims in the most vulnerable postures. Danielle, Finley and Celeste buckled thick leather cuffs to my ankles and wrists, then attached a thick, stiff collar tightly about my neck. All were equipped with rings that could be used to pinion me to the various stands and frames. While I was being equipped Gigi relaxed on the bed and lit a cigarette.

“What's wrong, slave, don't you like me smoking?” she asked. I'd hoped I was hiding my dislike of cigarettes but I was learning that my Mistresses seemed attuned to every nuance of my expression as a communication of my thoughts.

“I don't mind,” I said, but I knew I was lying, and I knew my lie would cause problems.

“She clearly does mind,” Celeste said. “Maybe you should give up, Gigi.” There was laughter from everyone but me. “One of her fans in the cam room was asking her to smoke but she kept making excuses. Isn't that right, slave.”

“I don't smoke, Mistress. I was trying to be as polite as possible.”

“If you'd been truly polite you would have met with his wishes and smoked for him. He offered you money and you turned it down. Don't you want to repay your debts to us?”

“Celeste, I think,” Gigi said, “it's time our little slave was put on a smoking program. I think she's too prudish. I sense she thinks her not smoking makes her superior to me.”

I was afraid to speak. What Gigi said was true, and I was disappointed to see her smoking. I knew my thoughts were intolerable and the only cure was for me to become a smoker.

“Would you like that, slave?” Celeste asked mischievously.

“I think it's necessary,” I said. I couldn't hide my upset at being forced to start smoking.

Gigi came to me and kissed me, her mouth still tasting of bitter smoke. She then inhaled at her cigarette and slowly blew the smoke around my face. “In two days your will is going to be broken and you'll adore smoking. It'll make you feel sexy and you'll be turned on whenever you see women smoking. You and I will have another session where you can show me how you adore smoking.”

Now I was made to stand over a wooden box, my feet spread wide, fixed to lugs in the floor, and my body bent forward at right angles, with the collar now clipped to a short chain on the box. My wrists were pulled upward behind my back by a line which dangled from the ceiling, a posture which was excruciating.

“Now we can see how successful those stretching exercises have been,” Celeste said. “Would you like Gigi to enter you with a big strap-on? It's going to be much bigger than your plug.”

I was left in no doubt as to its dimensions, since Gigi now stood before me, letting the dildo rest in my face. I started to beg to be spared, but as soon as I did I felt a growing ache in my pelvis. I knew it was the implant being used in its punitive, pain inducing mode.

“You need to overcome your repression. As soon as you believe you want this you'll feel pleasure. And very intense pleasure will reward you when you submit fully.

I was silent as I tried to compose myself. “Yes, Mistress Gigi, please fuck me. I want this. I want it. I want it.” I tried to will myself to believe that I could enjoy it. At least it brought an end to the pain.

“Would you like me to smoke? Do you think that makes me look sexy?”

“Yes Mistress, I'd like that. Please do.”

As she lit her cigarette I felt a warm glow emanating from my groin and gave a long sigh. She had beautiful lips and I tried to accept that there was something sexy about the long white cigarette dangling from them. As white smoke slowly trailed out I felt an intensification of the pleasure, no longer sure whether it was a result of my growing excitement or externally produced by a change in the amplitude of stimulation from the implant.

I no longer cared what was the source of my pleasure as the plug was eased from me. Now the sensations were overwhelming, and all I could consciously acknowledge. And as the huge phallus was pressed to my anus I felt a surge, so intense that I could barely contain myself from a climax. The slippery dildo entered me only through the application of considerable force, which caused me terrible pain, and worse, a sensation of being stretched so much that I was sure permanent harm would result, yet even as I cried out in pain the pleasure reached a maximum and soon my cry of pain was transformed into ecstasy. I begged for my joy to go on forever, so intense that I knew I was addicted and would do anything to experience this high.

Celeste granted Gigi a free session with me as an acknowledgement of her “taking my anal virginity” as it was put. Gigi stated her desire to see me pierced a lot more, since my few piercings were rather out of equilibrium with my now very extensive tattoos. I was happy to spend more time with Gigi, despite the pain she'd inflicted. I liked her and remained very attracted to her, and wondered how I could feel such affection to these women who were transforming me. I was perhaps changed more psychologically than externally.

I admitted to her that I was nervous about the experience of being pierced, since I still feared needles, and found pain hard to bear. She reassured me that I had nothing to worry about, and that she was sure I'd soon start to enjoy the process. I took her words to mean that I'd be allowed to feel the thrill of my implant when I was pierced and happily asked her to begin.

She began with my ears, adding a handful of rings and bars into the cartilage. I'd had my lobes pierced twice, which I remembered as being hardly painful at all, but the cartilage piercings were much more harrowing. But each time I felt the needle push through my flesh I was rewarded with a subtle stimulation that was teasing and only seemed to increase my craving for a more full-blown wave of ecstasy to be unleashed, and voiced my desire to Gigi.

“If you want that you need to feel me scalpel your ears to make big holes in your lobes. That would be very painful without anaesthetic but it's your choice.”

The idea of incisions being made through the full thickness of my lobes should have repelled me, but I accepted without hesitation, and lay my head on the side to allow Gigi to perform the procedure.

“Once these are healed we'll start to stretch the holes. Same with your labret. I want a nice big jewel in that lip before long. I like the idea that most of your piercings will be stretched. Nice bold, heavy jewellery is right for you now.”

I promised my agreement, then wondered at the wisdom as I felt the blade scratching into my lobe. Another stroke cut deeper, making the pain far more intense, and leavened not in the slightest by any pleasure. “It doesn't make me feel sexy, Mistress,” I complained.

“That's your fault!” she scolded playfully. “You need to think how pretty you'll look and make yourself feel good. Maybe I should just keeping adding more holes until you force yourself to cum.”

Now the motion of the blade made me feel sick and faint as it sliced deeper into my flesh and my repulsion was only intensified by feeling blood running down my neck. I groaned as Gigi pressed a pad to the wound to dab away the blood. “It hurts, Mistress,” I complained.

“Tell me you like pain. And mean it. I want to know your will is getting stronger. You're going to keep begging me to hurt you, aren't you, slave?”

“Yes, Mistress,” I said, forcing a smile. “I love that you've pierced me.”

Now she pressed at the wound again and I felt a sharp sting as she began to suture the edges of the slit. The pain from the needle was no less intense than that inflicted by the scalpel. “Oh God, thank you Mistress,” I sighed as I felt the implant begin to induce a more intense pleasure in me.

By the time both lobes had been opened up and then stitched I was in tears, yet paradoxically moaning with pleasure. I could no longer separate the pain and pleasure, though I was suffering so much it took me all my strength to resist begging to be spared more suffering. I knew that if I did I would be denied further stimulation and probably earn a punishment too. I sat up now and felt Gigi carefully push metal tunnels into the new holes in my lobes. They were heavy and made the wounds sting, but I felt some satisfaction from the sensation.

“Do you think you've had enough piercings for today?” Gigi asked.

“Not at all, Mistress,” I said. I knew it was expected of me, despite my exhaustion, due in no small part to the pain I'd endured. And I was motivated by my desire to keep feeling the delicious reward my implant could give me.

I felt like I was in a dream as she continued to push needles through my flesh, each burst of pain then rewarded by a swelling of joy from my pussy. She pierced my upper lip in the centre, adding a heavy stud to it. “Those sexy lips need a cigarette in them, don't they, slave?” Gigi demanded.

“Mmm, yes Mistress,” I said, feeding her desires, and trying to accept them as my own.

“You're not ready yet, though. Celeste will put you on a programme to allow you to build your tolerance. Within a week you should be hooked. You'll soon be smoking a couple of packs a day.”

There was a voice deep inside me that wanted to protest, the voice that told me smoking was ugly and harmful, especially for someone who was gaining weight and would soon be obese, but as Gigi purred her ideas in my ear I felt the pleasure growing and I was too tired to resist associating this pleasure with my instructions from Gigi.

Now that my ears and lips had been sufficiently decorated, at least for now, I was made to lie back with my legs parted. “Your implant means I can't pierce that little clit, at least for the time being,” Gigi said, “but those meaty lips are begging for some rings, aren't they?”

“Yes, Mistress. Four in each would look nice.”

She laughed. “You're such a slut, aren't you? I bet you can't wait to show off your new mods on camera. We should get you making some films so you can have a bigger audience. And some live shows too.”

I was lost in joy as she pierced me. Then my waves of ecstasy were suddenly gone and I was left only with pain. “Oh, Mistress, what happened?” I asked. “Did I do something wrong?”

She laughed. “No, you just used up all the power in the battery of your implant. Now you'll have to wait till tomorrow for it to work again.”

I felt devastated. “Oh Mistress, that's terrible. I love my implant.”

“I know, but there's only a little battery.” She pressed her fingers over the block that sat under the skin beneath my navel. “If you use it too much it'll run out, and we only recharge it while you sleep.” She smiled at me encouragingly. “I'll ask Celeste if you can be fitted with a larger battery, but we don't want it to be too obvious. You'll need to gain and have a chubby belly before you can get it. It could be a month before you're big enough.”

“I wish I could gain faster,” I said, greedy to have my implant teasing me all the time. “Do you think Mistress Celeste would allow me to have extra feeds to speed it up?”

“Yes I do, but you'd have to show her that you were making good progress with your obedience. We can all see you're only pretending to accept yourself. You have to want what's best for you.” I willingly pledged to bend my will to comply.

My piercings were now complete (fortunately, since without the stimulation the pain became intolerable) but Gigi wasn't content to leave me alone, and informed me that if I were to have big piercings in my nipples and clitoris then I'd have to work at enlarging them. She pressed glass tubes over each of them, which were linked by plastic tubing to a vacuum pump. As it was deployed the air whooshed out and I felt the sensitive tissue being drawn up the columns. It was mildly painful, but teasingly so, and I enjoyed the sensation, all the more so because Gigi was happy with me. When she pulled the tubes free I saw my nipples were comically distended, twice their normal length and conforming to the cylindrical shape determined by their moulds.

Gigi now made me suffer some more by injecting the base of each nipple with saline from a large syringe. The fluid made the tissue bloat up, losing its shape, and as the glass tubes which were now fitted were twice the size of the previous ones. As the pump sucked the tissue upwards the pain was now so intense that I couldn't remain silent. Now she repeated the treatment with my clitoris, and the pain I'd experienced was magnified greatly. Yet I felt a satisfaction of sorts from the sensation of the pump reshaping me.

Day 8

I woke feeling claustrophobic. I immediately saw that a mask was clamped to my face, simultaneously realising that my throat was sore and my mouth felt dirty. There was a taste that seemed to coat my tongue and palate and I soon  realised that it was the taste of smoke. I'd fallen asleep without the mask and wondered how I could possibly have slept through its fitting: there were tight straps about my head and I could only imagine that some form of sedative had been administered through my feeding tube. Had I been drugged since my arrival here? It would certainly explain my lack of anxiety at the drastic changes to the course of my life.

I pondered that I must have been breathing smoke throughout the night, and it had left me feeling hung over, a headache and nausea affecting me. I knew that soon I'd be smoking a lot and felt powerless to resist. I knew how hard it was to quit once the addiction took hold and wondered if I'd soon crave cigarettes. I knew it was wrong to think badly of this latest change, and reflected on how much I'd liked seeing Gigi smoking, and knowing that she'd find it very attractive when I started.

I allowed myself to take in the newest changes to my body: the tattooing was so extensive now, and the fresh piercings gleamed against my darkened skin; my nipples and clitoris had shrunk back from the treatment yesterday, but remained far larger than their familiar dimensions. I saw for the first time now that my body had started to grow. Although my belly had very obviously become swollen (the constant distension had reduced the muscle tone and it had become soft and flabby) I'd failed to notice much impact on the rest of me. Now I saw that my arms had thickened, and my thighs more markedly so, though I found it hard to gauge just how much, since the patterning of the tattoos affected how I perceived the form of my body.

I tried to sleep more, since I felt exhausted all of the time, but I couldn't still my thoughts. It must have been an hour before Celeste appeared to release me. I greeted her and thanked her as she took me through my hygiene routine. “I noticed I'm getting bigger this morning, Mistress,” I said. “I'd only really been able to see my belly growing till this morning.”

“Are you pleased to see it?”

“Yes Mistress. Mistress Gigi depleted my battery when she was treating me yesterday and said that it might be possible to have a larger battery implanted in my belly. Would you allow that for me, please Mistress?”

She looked dubious. “I'm not sure it's so important that you should have a bigger battery. Gigi is too soft and rewarded you excessively. It's dangerous for you to do that. It's addictive and you could be manipulated so easily. Do you really want that?”

I felt she was teasing me. I knew that I'd been manipulated in everything that had happened to me in the last week. “I know my Mistresses only want what's best for me.”

“And you want them to reward you all the time,” she laughed. “I think you have to show a new eagerness if we're going to consider what you want, slave. Lose your superior attitude.”

“I will, Mistress,” I promised. “I'd love to spend more time in the studio and learn to be more relaxed and do as I'm asked.”

She seemed amused by my request. “I want more than that. Let's look at your gaining. Perhaps if you begged for a more intense programme, that might make me more inclined to agree.”

“Yes, Mistress, please let me do it. Gigi did say I'd need a bigger belly to hide the battery.”

“She did, did she? I think she was teasing. How big a battery did you think you'd be fitted with? You are a silly girl, slave.” I blushed at her reprimand. “How about we move your target forward for reaching twenty stone?”

I felt nervous. It was going to be impossible to achieve as it was, I was sure. “How much forward, Mistress?”

“See, this is just the sort of attitude I dislike in you. You need to embrace your change, and be prepared to take risks.”

“Yes, Mistress, I'm sorry. I agree.”

“Great. Twenty stone in three months is the new target. Now that will be a challenge.” She laughed. “You look scared, slave. If you fail you'll still have your bigger battery. Although if you fail I might turn off your implant. What was the other motivator to succeed?”

“Mistress Evelyn said she'd make me permanently bald,” I said glumly.

“And you don't think you'd like that?”

“I like my hair, Mistress.”

She stroked my head. “It's getting scabby and stubbly. It's much nicer smooth, isn't it?” I nodded. “In a few weeks, when the tattoo is all healed I might have you shaved bald. I think it'll suit you and you'll like it. It might help take some of the fear away from the thought of losing your hair forever. Of course, it would be nice that you had the chance to grow your hair and experiment with different styles. I don't want you to think this wouldn't be something regrettable; it is supposed to motivate you.”

“Have you ever had someone gain so fast, Mistress? I have to more that double my weight in three months.”

She shook her head. “I'll be honest, slave, I never have. But when we work on people here we're always doing new things, finding new ways. Just because we haven't done something before doesn't make it impossible. Don't you worry, slave, in a few months you'll be genuinely fat.”

I was taken to a treatment room I hadn't seen before. I was strapped into a reclining chair (pleased that it was comfortable) by Celeste, then left alone. I relaxed, and was soon half napping. I opened my eyes and saw a young woman moving about the room. I greeted her, sure that the delay in my recognising her would cause me trouble, but she turned to smile at me and seemed unperturbed.

“Hello, slave, I'm Hana. I'm a beauty therapist and today I'll be making you pretty. Well, you're already pretty, aren't you? Prettier.” She had a light, girlish voice with a marked accent, which I guessed was eastern European. I felt attracted to her immediately.

She sat next to me and looked into my face, scrutinising it intensely. “I've heard you're squeamish about needles. I'm afraid that today you'll have to be very brave for me. Can you do that?”

“Yes, Mistress. I am nervous, but I've had so many treatments with needles since I got here that I'm hoping I'm overcoming my fears.”

“That's good, but I need to work on your eyes. That's a little harder for some people, isn't it? I'll do your eyes first though, so we can get it out of the way. Unlike some of my colleagues, I don't take any pleasure in your suffering. But unfortunately sometimes we need to go through some unpleasantness to achieve our aims. Can you forgive me, slave?”

I laughed. “Mistress, you're very kind. I know everyone here is helping me and your help is welcomed, and is certainly nothing that needs forgiveness.”

Moments later my mood had changed as I felt myself becoming more fearful than I had perhaps since my arrival. She inserted a clamp that hooked onto my eyelids and held my left eye open. It was uncomfortable, though not actually painful. I remembered the film A Clockwork Orange, where the protagonist, Alex, I made to watch awful imagery, his eyes clamped open so that he couldn't avert his gaze. “Poor little slave,” Hana said sympathetically, and as she did I felt the glow of stimulation from my implant. I welcomed it, though it didn't dispel my anxiety. As I saw a syringe being lifted I felt panic. It took all of my strength to quell the urge to scream and shout and beg to be spared. I knew that such behaviour wouldn't be tolerated. The idea of being taken back to the room for another day of punishment was unbearable. I had to endure this test with a strong will.

“The eye doesn't feel pain,” Hana said. “There's nothing to worry about. All you need to do is to relax. Just look to the right and fix your eye. Don't move it at all.”

I did as asked, but felt terrified, sure that I couldn't comply. I imagined developing a twitch, or a compulsion to suddenly redirect my gaze. I felt something touch the white of my eye, a slight pressure, but no pain. “Very still,” Hana said, her voice soft and slow, her concentration obvious. My eye began to feel a little gritty, but the discomfort was mild. The fear I felt was anything but. I wanted this torture to finish, but it seemed to last for an eternity. I felt enormous relief as she told me I could relax, and eased the clamp out of my eye. I blinked, then screwed up my eye. It was watery and when I opened it my vision was a little blurry.

“It's to be expected,” Hana said. “It'll settle in a few hours, most likely. You shouldn't have any problems after a day, at least. Now let's do your right eye and then you can relax. It's not as bad as you thought, is it?”

“It doesn't hurt, Mistress,” I said, “but I'm still very nervous.”

“You mustn't be weak, slave,” Hana said, her reproach unmistakeable. “This is necessary for you so you should welcome it. Do you think your lack of will is endearing?”

“No Mistress. I'm sorry. I'll try harder.”

As my right eye was clamped open I tried to make myself more amenable, tried to believe that I was not merely enduring my treatment but enjoying it. It wasn't easy. I focussed on the pleasant feelings that my implant was emitting at a low level (mercifully, since a higher amplitude may have made it impossible for me to maintain my stillness). I remained relieved when the treatment was finished, though I told Hana that I'd enjoyed it. I'm sure neither of us believed I was truthful, but Hana gave me a warm smile.

“You do look cute now,” she said. “How do your eyes feel?”

“Just slightly gritty, nothing serious. It's like they feel when I'm very tired.”

She put some ointment in my eyes. “I think you should keep them closed for a day. You can have an easy day and get some rest, slave. Would you like that?”

“Very much, Mistress. You're very kind to me.”

She pressed pads of gauze over my eyes and taped them in place. “You should value your senses,” Hana said. “Have you been warned about what happens to women who attempt suicide?”

“Yes Mistress,” I said. I'd not let myself think about such things in days. She told me to put the warning into words. “If someone tries to kill herself she will fail and her punishment is blindness, Mistress.”

“That's right, slave. Your head is held in a brace and eyes clamped open, like you just experienced. Then a tool is heated in a flame, a little U-shaped copper arch with balls on each end. When it's red hot it's moved until it's just in front of the eyes. The heat makes the cornea burn and turn opaque.”

“Have you done this, Mistress?” I felt close to tears, and promised myself I'd never be punished like this.

“I have. Only once. It was very upsetting. No Mistress wants to ever have to do that again. You'd never be so silly and cruel, would you, slave?”

“No Mistress, I'll never trouble you like that.”

“I'm pleased to hear it. You have so much to live for, don't you?”

“Yes Mistress, I do.”

“Now you have to be silent for me. I want to make your mouth pretty and you need to keep it still while I work.”

I let myself relax. It felt good to be passive, to not have to worry about saying something wrong. Even not being able to see was pleasant, at least temporarily. I felt that life without my sight would be unbearable. I felt Hana press something to my lips and scrub at them. There was a slightly odd taste to my mouth now and I could smell alcohol. I held my breath as a needle touched my upper lip, then began to make me hurt as it was pressed into my flesh.

“Celeste thinks your lips are unbecoming. They should be slut lips and I'm making that come true right now, slave.”

I uttered a low moan, trying to avoid any movement; I was powerless to avoid this vocalisation as my implant suddenly made me feel a deep joy. I could feel my lip begin to swell as the injection was made and thought about girls with bulging lips, overstuffed with filler. I couldn't believe my treatment would be subtle, even without Hana's statement, and my sense that such oversized lips were coarse and unattractive was now worn away by my ecstasy as I was made into a slut. As Hana eased the needle from me I could feel a heaviness on one side of my lip. “Mistress, I feel so horny,” I gasped, eager not just to show my willingness to be transformed but to humiliate myself. “I just wish you would touch me.”

She laughed. “You are slutty, aren't you, slave? I can't imagine what your friends will make of the new you when you go back home.”

“Mistress, this is my home now. I've left my old life behind.”

She chuckled. “No, slave, this is just an academy to train you. You'll be going back home soon. You'll still behave like a slut when you see your old friends, won't you?” I was stunned, and wondered if she wasn't just teasing me. “You're not answering me, slave! It'll make you very happy to show off your new self and shock your old friends, won't it?”

The intensity of my stimulation grew even more insistent and I agreed that it would, although I knew it would be the most humiliating thing I could imagine. How could I explain my tattoos, piercings, outlandish hair to the friends I'd had just a week ago? Yet even as I thought about their disapproval I felt an uncontrollable joy. I was no longer able to discern what were my feelings and what was conditioned by the reward of my implant. I was moving toward a situation where all I cared about was feeling this intense pleasure and would do anything to achieve it.

For now all that I had to do was to accept the injections that were reshaping my lips. They swelled rapidly, pressing hard against the piercings that were still tender and fresh. Hana giggled as she applied some ointment. “So big! So slutty! All the guys will want a blow job from you. Until they see those teeth, that is. I think only someone with a castration fantasy would put anything in that mouth.”

I was taken back to my bedroom where I was attached to a feed and soon fell asleep. I woke much later, but still feeling sleepy and confused, more convinced than ever that my feed contained a sedative. My mouth was masked now and I could taste smoke again, but the hangover I'd experienced previously was now absent. I wasn't sure how the smoke was being administered, speculating that it was constantly present at a low level so that I could barely discern it. Now, however, as I breathed in it was like someone had blown smoke into my face, and as I took it into my lungs I felt a tremble of stimulation in my sex. The harshness of the taste no longer seemed unpleasant; if the joy continued, I welcomed the smoke.

I gradually became aware that there was an ache in my nipples and clitoris and recognised the feeling of the vacuum tubes pulling at my flesh. I remembered the effect that the pumping had had and wondered if I wouldn't soon have absurdly distended nubs. I let myself accept that once the large piercings were fitted it would look more acceptable. I was too sleepy to feel much concern at another small change to my appearance. Soon I was asleep again.

Day 9

I heard Celeste's voice rousing me. I felt stiff, as though I'd slept for too long, and I was uneasy at not being able to see. “Hana is so cruel making me wait to see what she did,” Celeste said, “although I can hardly miss what she did to your lips: they're huge!” She tugged away the dressings, making my skin burn as the tape was sharply tugged away. “Oh shit, that looks so odd,” she said as she looked into my eyes. Her obvious shock made me anxious and I pleaded to see a mirror. “Just look up,” she instructed, since we were still in my bedroom with its mirrored ceiling.

I sank to my knees as I saw my eyes. The blue irises looked pale and icy since they were now surrounded not by white sclera but by darkness; the entire white of my eye was discoloured, and was especially black in the area encircling the iris. And my lips! They were heavy and bloated, not some seductive pout but so distended that they seemed to indicate some deep injury. I started to cry as I saw my face was ruined.

Of course, Celeste was displeased with my reaction. I knew immediately that I'd let her down, yet this only added to my sadness. “You've been here a week now, slave, and I'd expected that you'd learned to control your will more effectively,” she shrieked. I felt my implant start to stimulate me, but it was not pleasure it was inducing, but pain. I felt pulses of agony every few seconds, so severe that I couldn't straighten my body. “Stand up and tell me you're pleased with your pretty new face. And control your emotions. Otherwise you can spend the day in the sharp room.”

I struggled to my feet. I quashed the urge to beg to be spared the punishment I knew I couldn't accept, since I was expected to show mastery of my emotions, and forced myself to stand upright, though at each flash of pain a spasm passed through me. I rubbed at my tears. “I like Mistress Hana's work. She's made me look unique and sexy, Mistress,” I said coldly.

“You're still fighting against our work,” Celeste said angrily. “I don't imagine you've seen the last of the room, slave.”

I could feel my breathing quicken at this threat, unable to control the fear it inspired. “If Mistress sees that as necessary then I'm sure it will help me,” I said, hardly able to comprehend how I could say such a thing.

She was amused by my submission and as a result the pain ended. “Maybe for now you'll be spared another day of isolation. But you have to work harder. Your old, faulty programming is still not broken completely. These tantrums are unacceptable. I've tried to help you grow through rewards but I think more punishment is necessary to shape you.” She tugged at my nipples, which were surprisingly hard, as well as being absurdly stretched. “These are being reshaped nicely though! Maybe we need something similar for your mind; a mould to suck it into to make it anew. You've been here for a week now. Do you think you've managed to change for the better?”

“Yes Mistress,” I said happily. “I've changed in every way imaginable. I'm sure I'm hardly recognisable from the girl who arrived here. It feels like so much longer than a week.”

“You get weighed every week now, slave. Lets see how you've progressed.”

I stood on the scale as Celeste asked me what weight I was on my arrival. “A hundred and twenty-two pounds.”

“And now?”

I looked at the display. “A hundred and thirty-seven.” I felt my face redden as I realised I'd gained more than a stone in a week.

“You have eleven weeks to make twenty stone. That's two eighty. So essentially you have to gain as much every week as you did this. But your gaining is likely to slow as you get bigger: the extra weight means you burn more energy. Even things like breathing become more energetic, as there's more weight to lift when your ribs rise. That means that you have to make sure you start to increase your gaining in the early weeks. Otherwise..?”

“I'll lose all my hair, Mistress,” I said glumly.

She ran her hands over my buttocks and down my thighs. “You're mostly gaining here. It's nice. In a few weeks you'll be really chubby. Then I might send you for a head shave and you can see that you'll still be sexy when you're fat and bald.” As she ran her hand over the shaved side of my head I began to feel a reassuring tingle in my sex. “It's still scabby and stubbly,” Celeste complained. “I can's wait till the tattoo heals and I can shave you smooth again. At least your braids are holding nicely.”

I was lead into the studio where I turned on the cam and waited for some of my followers to arrive. I was nervous about how they would respond to my latest mods, my eyes and lips in particular. There were always some negative comments about my appearance, and I knew this was likely to provoke more extreme reactions. I saw an instruction appear on the laptop to put on make-up and realised that there was a box of cosmetics available and began to apply it. I was able to use the laptop to display the image from the cam in place of a mirror. It wasn't easy to look at myself any more: my tattoos, lips, hair, piercings repulsed me, though I fought hard to like what I saw. As I picked up a lipstick a message flashed up instructing me to choose a dark colour. There was a black lipstick, something I'd never worn in my life and I began to cover my tender, swollen lips. The dark pigment made them dominate my features even more, though my reward was to feel a pleasing buzz from my implant. I knew that I'd have to prove myself more receptive to my fans today, and please them in ways that took no account of my dignity. “Oh god, I feel so horny,” I slurred into the camera, and tried to blow a kiss, realising that my lips were so dulled as to be virtually immobile.

It didn't take long before some names I recognised appeared in the list of people viewing my room. One of the most voluble visitors immediately told me I'd gone much too far now, but that he loved it. “I love desperate girls,” he added.

My session followed the usual course, recruiting paying subscribers to watch my stuffing sessions. Today I promised five courses, following a script that appeared on screen. “And don't think I'll be just eating smaller portions. I'm going to eat more food in each course than I ever did before. I've gained fifteen pounds in a week and I want to gain more next week. I'm not sure I can do that without your help. And if you don't make nice gifts to me I can't afford all this lovely food and I'll start to lose again.”

I was now being forced to recruit more people to my shows before I was allowed to commence them, and I realised that this was making it more difficult. The first feast almost had to be cancelled, with the required total only being achieved at the last minute. I didn't dare to think about what would have happened if I'd failed. I tucked into a huge bowl of soup which was thickened by chunks of soft buttered bread. It was very bland and I struggled to finish it, though I tried my hardest to make it appear I was enjoying the experience.

It was after this meal that I received requests from one of the few women who regularly appeared in my room to smoke. “I've never smoked because it's so bad for you,” I said, affecting the silly, girlish voice which had become part of my persona. “It does look sexy though, and I even bought some cigarettes.” (A prompt on the screen ordered me to disclose this). “I think if you want me to start you should make me a very generous gift. I saw an immediate payment from her, followed by more parsimonious gifts from some other smoking devotees.

I took a pack from a drawer and slowly peeled away the cellophane wrapper. “I'm so nervous. I hope I like it,” I said. My long nails made it hard for me to pick a cigarette out but I soon had it in my lips. A vintage lighter had been provided and I lit it, then held the flame to the tip.

I'd imagined my experience with the mask had made me aware of what it was like to smoke, but the experience of drawing on a cigarette was so much more intense. Still, I'd been conditioned sufficiently to be able to tolerate the smoke without coughing. “Oh gosh, that's strong,” I gasped as I let the smoke escape. I began to finger myself deeply at the request of my generous patron, despite the presence of the stitches: they felt tight and made me sting but I felt reckless and didn't hold back at all.

In truth I didn't need her goading to pleasure myself. The stimulator worked at a far higher level than I'd experienced on the day, surging at each inspiration, more so when I took the smoke deep into my lungs. I disliked the taste, but felt myself becoming light-headed, and liked that feeling. “I can't believe that's really your first cigarette,” one of my followers typed. “You look like you've been smoking all your life.”

“It really is my first ever,” I said. “But I can't imagine I'll stop now.” It seems I had a few smoking fetishists watching and they encouraged me to develop my habit. I'd soon promised to continue as long as they kept making donations to help me fund my newest addiction.

Soon I was stuffing again, dining on a spicy stew. I already felt bloated by my previous meal and after the first few mouthfuls began to struggle. The cigarette had left me feeling sick which added to my difficulties. When I thought of needing to complete two more courses I felt a despair that threatened my mood, and I knew I had to prevent myself from looking ahead. I had to make those watching happy, to look happy and aroused.

By the time my session ended I was more bloated than I'd ever been, my stomach distended and firm. I was suffering greatly, my abdomen cramping painfully and I was sure I was going to be sick. Celeste came to see me and looked unhappy with me. “You looked so unhappy when you were eating the ice cream,” she said. “Do you think it helps people with their fantasy if you look like you hate every mouthful?”

“No Mistress,” I said. “But I feel terrible. I need to be sick.”

She looked at me witheringly. “If you vomit back all that food you'll be punished.”

“I can't help it Mistress,” I said, tears welling. “I ate more than I can take and the smoking added to the nausea. Please, Mistress, I can't stop it happening. Can I go to the toilet?”

My request wasn't permitted, but I was provided with a bucket. Within seconds I'd vomited. As if that didn't make me feel bad enough I felt an awful guilt at letting down Celeste.

“You've wasted so much food, slave,” she said, disappointed rather than angry. “If you keep doing this you'll lose weight. And what will that mean for your hair?”

“Permanent baldness, Mistress,” I said.

“You must really want to lose your hair,” she said. “You'll never hit your target now you're trying to push yourself into bulimia.”

I begged her to forgive me, and to use my feeding tube to replenish the lost food. I was desperate at the thought of falling behind my gaining schedule. I couldn't bear to think that I could be bald.

“I told you there'd be consequences if you were sick, but your will was weak, or else this is what you secretly wanted.”

I was taken out of the studio and felt my fear growing as I saw that I was being taken to the isolation room. “You can spend a bit of time in here, strengthening your will and obedience,” Celeste told me. “And stop looking so sad. I'm not going to take pity on you. If you weren't failing so badly you'd be happy to enter the room, since it will improve you. Your pleading looks make me more sure than ever that you need to spend more time here. Now go in and smile for me.”

I walked into the room and watched was the exit was blocked with the spiny board. “Thank you, Mistress,” I said and forced myself to believe that this was necessary for me, that when I left the room I would be a better person.

Day 10

I woke in my bed, and felt joy that my time in isolation had been more limited than my previous experiences. I'd been allowed to rest rather than being left in there through the night and having to perform my tasks the next day without the benefit of sleep. I felt grateful to Celeste for being merciful and wanted never to disappoint her again.

I was now able to spend some time analysing my new appearance. My blackened eyes were still a little shocking, but I decided that I liked how the pigment made my irises appear so intensely blue. If I could take some pleasure in how this looked I knew that eventually I could come to love the change. My lips still seemed absurdly bloated, but I took comfort from the comments I'd got in from my cam followers, many of whom praised my new lips. I wanted to wear dark lipstick all the time to accentuate their size, and was sure that Celeste would approve my idea.

I'd felt awfully empty when I was in the isolation room, deprived of food for all of my stay in their. Now I could feel my stomach was restored to its customary bloated feeling, which reassured me. I'd resolved myself to taking control of my body more completely, and told myself that I'd never vomit again as a result of copious eating. I would meet my gaining target, challenging though it was, and keep my hair (or at least the option of letting it grow, since Celeste was keen to have my head shaved and I was trying to adapt to the idea that I should welcome being bald).

When Celeste came to release me from my bed I greeted her enthusiastically and thanked her for helping me despite my failures. I promised I'd be stronger from now on.

She looked surprised by my happy and energetic mood, but was evidently pleased. “Let's get you all cleaned up. We have a big day today. If you're a good girl today then the next few days will be very easy for you. I'll allow you to do nothing but rest. How does that sound?”

“Wonderful, Mistress,” I said happily.

I was taken into a fully equipped operating theatre, where I was instructed by Celeste to lay on the bed. A masked figure entered and fitted a needle into a vein on my hand. I felt pride in my progress, since I felt nothing but a mild anxiety as the valve was fitted; before I'd arrived here I would have felt panic at the sight of a needle.

Now I saw a syringe being fitted to a line attached to the valve. As the plunger was depressed I started to feel sleepy. Within seconds I was unconscious.

Day 14

I felt dizzy and confused as I woke. I immediately sensed something was wrong, but couldn't recall much about what had happened to me. I didn't want to open my eyes, and wished to go back to sleep immediately. I ached everywhere. I tried to turn onto my side and curl into a ball but I remembered that I was fixed to the bed and lying on my back was the only permitted posture. My back and chest ached deeply, so much so that soon after waking I was moaning with discomfort. It was only then that I actually found the strength to open my eyes. I think I'd forgotten where I was and everything that had happened to me. I'd expected to see a girl I'd been once, Bethany. Now I saw that I didn't look at all like the girl that that name made me remember. I was slave now, and the latest change to my appearance was that my breasts were no longer the moderately sized swellings I'd been used to, but huge, rounded balls the size of small melons that stretched against my tattooed skin.

I was sure I'd asleep for more than just a day, since I could see a noticeable difference in my body, a filling out of my torso and limbs, more than could have occurred in a day.

[lsds-blog]

[lsds-blog]

Poppy

I used to dream sometimes that someone would find out my secrets. The idea of my thoughts being public knowledge was more shameful than I could bear. I'd wake with a feeling more of guilt than fear. I felt cursed, that I had some awful malaise that I was too weak to conquer. I'd hoped that this was a phase that I could overcome, grow out of, but now that I was in my mid twenties, a mature adult, it exercised a more powerful control over me than ever.

It seems absurd to me to admit that my overwhelming passion was for hair. I suppose that I'd always been oversensitive about my hair, and had dreaded being made to cut it. Even a little trim induced a phobia in me, who was normally so placid and pliant. I'd sob and beg my mum to spare me. She was rarely strict with me, rarely needed to be, and my weakness was usually indulged, so that my hair was allowed to grow long. But as I neared the end of my first decade I was taken for the first time to a salon. My fears of receiving a cut had not receded in the least, indeed to be taken into such an unfamiliar environment amplified my terror greatly, yet I was awkward and shy in public, and my dread of embarrassing myself meant that I had to behave how I imagined a good girl should. I would have to hide all of my anxiety and suppress any desire to make a scene to try to force mum's will into sparing me a haircut.

I attended a Christian school and went to mass every week. The salon seemed to share with the church a sense of ritual which was no less solemn, nor inexplicable, than the mysteries that were unfolded before me each Sunday. The salon was doubtless more noisy, with its mixture of music piped from a radio and the racket of appliances, yet in my memory it was still and quiet, a series of theatrical scenes which were played out for me as spectator and participant. I recall vividly a middle aged woman with long, brassy blonde hair sitting for a stylist who must have been not much younger. Her tresses were sprayed and attacked with a comb, not to remove the tangles, which is what my experience of a comb indicated was its purpose, but to form her hair into a wild mass about her head. I watched as the woman who seemed to be the priestess in this sacrament now tamed the chaos she'd created and with seeming nonchalance formed the gigantic bird's nest into a tightly constructed tower, which made her communicant into someone unrecognisable. Her long hair had been metamorphosed into something firm and sleek. I imagined it as feeling like a cushion on the sofa at home, with nothing of the silken softness that loose hair possessed.

And the pilgrim was somehow older now. Despite this she had an artificiality about her that was undeniably attractive. She'd endured an ordeal (the teasing of her hair was undoubtedly uncomfortable) which she'd borne with stoicism, and she was now rewarded with a physical grace that was reserved for women of her maturity. Before her styling was completed, I was told that it was my turn to take my place, but I was so engrossed in the drama that had been revealed to me that I was shaken by the interruption. Suddenly I was aware that my voyeurism had been noted by many of those present. My fascination had become a source of amusement, and mum joined in with the laughter. I felt confused and hurt.

My other memories are more fragmentary. I'm sure I expected to have to undergo a similar treatment to that which I'd just witnessed (I wanted to continue to watch but was taken to another area of the salon from where the woman with the tower of hair was no longer visible, and I never saw the completed style), which would have added immeasurably to my anxiety. In fact I had only a trim, which was done more neatly than anything my mother had managed with her clumsy handling of the sewing scissors. My stylist was a pretty young woman called Maria, who was friendly and reassuring. She told me I was a good girl and that once she'd finished cutting my hair she'd give me a lollipop.

I had to wear a cape, which was new to me. I felt like something was being taken from me as my body was wrapped in the shiny dark red fabric. I was trapped. My arms were concealed, and entangled as effectively as if I'd been caught in a net. I was powerless and immobile. I saw myself in the mirror, but now I was only a head, floating above a shapeless ball of nylon. I prayed that Maria would be nice to me, since I had no means to protect my hair from her.

I probably never visited the salon more than twice a year during the time when I was accompanied by mum. Yet every visit was a mountain to scale, an experience that induced more anxiety than any other trauma in my youth. I felt an ambivalence about how my hair looked after each trip. On the one hand it looked prettier than ever (usually), yet something in me resented this neatness, and, even more, resented that I looked different. I hated that my schoolmates would notice my trims and would pass comments (at this age it was unthinkable that any compliments would be expressed). The best trim was one that was imperceptible.

And yet as I got older I found myself taking pleasure when my peers received cuts that were anything but imperceptible. The more hair that had been cut the more my interest was piqued. I'd find myself staring at any girl who got a new cut, hungry to take in every aspect of the new style. I felt guilt at this fascination: no one else shared my fascination and I took every measure to conceal my urges to stare.

And in private I would recall in my mind's eye every detail of the new cut and visualise the scene at the salon when the girl underwent her cropping. I would imagine myself in the role of the victim, which excited me in ways I could never understand. My fears became confused with desires. I dreaded being told my hair would be cut short, but to imagine it uncovered in me my first sexual sensations.

Now I'd reached a quarter of a century and still these thoughts obsessed me, though I'd never admitted them to anybody. I'd wasted countless hours gazing at images and videos on the web, but that wasn't sufficient for me. My greatest indulgence was a regular trip to the salon where I'd be able to gaze at other women being dyed, cut, styled. I adored every sensation, the sights, the smells, the sounds. I'd never brought myself to allow my long hair to be cut, but I had acquired a fringe several years earlier. In truth I didn't really like the fringe but it served a useful purpose. I could justify a monthly trip to the salon to have it trimmed. The frequency of my trims also meant that few people noticed any difference. Every other visit I had my hair coloured too, although my adopted shade was only subtly different from my natural brown, a slightly richer shade.

I'd settled on a city centre salon after trying lots of others. It was, unfortunately, more expensive than some of the others I'd tried and not significantly superior in terms of outcomes. However, it was very popular and the waiting area afforded a good view of the entire salon. I'd book in for Saturday afternoon, when it would invariably be extremely busy and arrive at least half an hour before my appointment was due. The salon had a young clientele, and it wasn't rare to see some exciting colour work in progress. It was far rarer that I witnessed a more edgy cut being performed, but on a few occasions I'd witness a big makeover. Most recently (though it was almost a year ago) I'd seen a girl with thick long hair being taken to a gorgeous pixie with a long, heavy fringe sweeping over her face. The sight of the mass of cut hair on the floor thrilled me.

My latest visit seemed filled with potential. I was thrown off balance when I greeted the receptionist. She told me that my appointment had been altered so that a new stylist, Rachel, would be taking care of me today. I'd had no one but Taylor cut my hair for over two years now and I had difficulty trusting someone new. However, she called Rachel over to meet me and I was immediately won over.

I'd seen her at the salon on my previous visit, though not before that (I'd come to recognise the stylists by sight if not by name). She'd had shoulder length hair then, bleached to a very striking near-white shade. She'd since undergone a makeover and her hair was cut into a hard edged bowl cut, dyed a pale lavender. The underneath was cut almost to the scalp. I'm sure the severity of the style induced a blush. Certainly I felt a shyness as she introduced herself. I wanted to stare at her beautiful cut, but was so overwhelmed that I could hardly bring myself to return her eye contact.

She was still attending another client and excused her tardiness. “I'm running a little late, I'm afraid, but you are early. It might be nearly an hour before I'm with you. Why don't you get yourself a coffee and have a read of a magazine? Or you could go and do some shopping and come back in an hour.” She gave a little smile as she made the last suggestion, as though she knew I would never do so.

Rachel worked at the nearest station to me and so I had a good opportunity to admire her haircut. I was smitten by the style: the nape was buzzed to just a few millimetres, and shaved into a hard trapezoid. Her pale neck was as smooth as alabaster. The cap of hair was smooth and shiny, curled under at the ends to form a heavy mushroom. Her sideburns were absent, not even a hint of stubble darkening her cheeks. She had a habit of allowing her hand to brush up her nape when she paused from her work. How I longed to share in what her fingers felt.

The salon had its share of interest for me, notably a young woman with long blonde hair going dark. I watched with interest as her pale locks were consumed under a heavy, dark paste. She'd already had lots of foils added through the front. I hoped I'd be lucky enough to see how the finished style looked.

And yet, my attention was mostly taken with Rachel and her thrilling bowlcut. I was finally brought into her presence and felt awkward and shy, more so than I had in years. I realised that I was eager to impress her, which surprised me. I wanted to flirt with her, which was most unlike me.

She was very calm and attentive and discussed what I wanted in detail. My role was mostly to agree with her statements. She was able to tell from looking at my hair exactly what I wanted. I was impressed that she seemed happy to go along with my wishes. I'd had too many stylists who'd suggested improvements for my hair, attempted to persuade me to make a little alteration: softer layers, a wispiness to the fringe. Rachel set to her task and cut no more than I wanted. She seemed like my ideal stylist.

She was quiet too, which I regarded as an asset. I disliked stylists who wanted a constant flow of conversation. Few had many interests in common with me, and I found it unpleasant to have to make small talk. When Rachel did start to engage me in a dialogue I felt deeply uncomfortable.

“I've noticed you. You like to watch, don't you?” I couldn't reply, didn't know how to. She was too close to exposing a side of me that I wanted to keep covered. “It's OK, Poppy. You don't have to worry. I understand what it is you like. I'm sure we have something we share and I'd love to help you.”

I tried to make a dismissive statement, to deny that I understood what she was suggesting was true, but she seemed intent on revealing her thoughts to me.

“I know that some women like seeing hair being cut, coloured, curled... Everything that happens at a salon. I've seen a few over the years who like to sit and watch. I decided that I should help them to get what they want. I have a club that meets every two months. A model gets a big makeover from me, something really dramatic, and everyone who attends can watch everything I do. Would you be interested in becoming a member? I can promise you it's very discreet and professional.”

Again, I was lost for words. I tried to process what I was hearing. Was it really possible that I could be allowed to indulge my passion, and to meet people who shared my obsession, people that wouldn't judge me, but would accept me?

“You don't have to make a decision now, let's exchange numbers before you leave and I can text you.” There was a pause as she tried to find the right words. “I should also tell you that the model is selected at random on the night from the members.”

“You mean it might be me getting a makeover?”

“That's right. It's strange, when I came up with the idea I thought that would be the thing that would put people off. In fact, it's the opposite. That seems to be what makes it attractive to most of my members.”

“And how many people are there? I mean what are the odds of being chosen.”

“I don't allow more than twelve to attend. More than that and it's not intimate enough. I want everyone to see what's happening in close up. Usually it's eight or ten women. If someone has had a cut then they're allowed to attend the next two meetings without being chosen again.”

I tried to process this. I might have a one in six chance of being selected. “Is it just a cut you do?”

“No, lots of colour work. I have done a couple of perms too. There's a group online where members share their ideas and I respond to the member's fantasies.”

She continued to snip at the ends of my hair. I felt panicky and sick. My secrets had been exposed, if seemingly benignly. Still, I felt this as an intrusion. “It's always difficult to bring this up,” Rachel said. “I always worry that I've got completely the wrong idea about people. But I think I was correct in your case. It interests you, doesn't it?”

“Am I so obvious?” I asked. The idea that I'd been deceiving myself about concealing my obsession seemed unthinkable.

“No, it's just that I have a similar interest and I look very carefully for people like us. I move around from salon to salon, just so that I can find women I can help with my club.”

“How much is it?”

“Two hundred per meeting. I think that's a fair price for what I offer.”

I was beside myself by the time I got home. My head was so filled with contradictory ideas that I felt like I would explode. The only thing that seemed clear to me was that I had to attend the club. The sensible course of action, to avoid further contact with Rachel, to find another salon, was unthinkable. I had to take this opportunity. And yet it could be disastrous. I considered that she might be seeking to exploit or blackmail me, yet I felt this unlikely. I was generally a good judge of character and she struck me as sincere.

Becoming involved was risky in other ways. I imagined being selected as a model, imagined being given a style like Rachel's. How would I feel walking down the street with a pale purple mushroom cut? How would I ever explain it to my friends, my colleagues? If I began to attend these meeting regularly then I could expect that within a year it was likely that I would at some point be chosen. It appalled me, yet I couldn't deny that it carried an enormous erotic charge. I wanted to feel embarrassed and helpless, and I knew that I was powerless to resist the urge to join with Rachel.

She texted me the same night. She included a list of FAQs. The meetings took place in the conference room of a hotel outside the city. She was assured of their discretion, and in addition the room had the sink which was necessary for colour work. The model would accept any hair style which was chosen. Any member, including the model, could make suggestions, but the final choice was the stylist's. The style had to be worn when the model left the hotel, but afterwards she was free to do as she pleased to alter the style. Rachel would, if requested, make a home visit on the next day to cut and colour as requested, at the model's expense.

There was a long list of requirements to assure members of privacy. Membership was by invitation only. The club was not to be mentioned online in any form. Membership was granted after paying to attend the first meeting, but the right to invite others only applied after a year, or attendance at five meetings, whichever was longer. The club could only be discussed with the permission of Rachel and two senior members, though the president (Rachel) could issue invitations more freely, and she had the final say in whether a person would be invited. No photography or filming was allowed at club events, except by Rachel. Any images that were taken would be distributed to members only with the full permission of the model. These were not to be distributed further.

I soon received an invite to attend the next meeting, which was three weeks away. Full payment, non-refundable, was to be made in advance, and there was a reminder that no more than twelve people could attend. Places were allotted to those who paid first.

I made a PayPal payment that same day, though I felt I'd wasted my money. I'd surely never be brave enough to attend. I lived through the following weeks in a state of tension, constantly in fear of going to the hotel and hearing my name called. I imagined being surrounded by fearsome, predatory women, calling lewd suggestions as Rachel cropped away my hair. I'd been invited to join a private website for the club, a social media site that was previously unknown to me, but which had better security than most. I viewed the page each night and saw videos and photographs that members had posted to indicate their tastes, to inspire Rachel. I would previously have loved much of the material I discovered here, but now I had to imagine being the recipient of each style I saw. There was clearly a preference for extreme cuts, some of which could only be returned to a more normal look by a complete head shave.

I'd cleared my schedule for the day of the event, and the following day too. I'd even researched local wig suppliers, convinced more than ever that if I attended I'd be sure to be the one chosen as model. The day arrived and I woke from a poor night's sleep, feeling sick with anxiety. I had to take some painkillers around lunchtime as the tension had given me a headache. I promised myself that if I got through this meeting safely (that is with my hair intact) then I'd never put myself through this again. I was too nervous and timid to cope with this.

I took a taxi to the hotel, arriving just after six. The invite had said that the room was available from six and that the event would begin at seven prompt. I approached reception and asked the location for the Zephyr event and was directed to a basement room. There was a sign on the door requesting that members knock for entry. I tapped on the door, without response, then did so again, more firmly.

I felt weak at the knees as I heard the bolt open. The door opened and I saw Rachel smiling at me. I immediately took in that her hair was now a silvery grey with hints of a gingery red peeping through in the lower layers. The bowl was cut shorter so that the edge now sat clear of her ears and a little of the undercut was visible along the side. It was buzzed to stubble, so crisp that I guessed she'd had it cut only hours previously.

“Oh, my lovely Poppy! I'm so glad you made it.” She threw her arms around me and hugged me tightly, which was exactly what I needed. I wanted her never to let me go. Nothing had eased my nerves all day like her embrace.

“Come in and get a drink,” she said. “And help yourself to snacks. We even have popcorn for you to eat during the main event.” I poured myself a glass of wine but couldn't contemplate eating anything. I took in the room. It was probably big enough for fifty people, but had been laid out with a semicircle of chairs surrounding a salon chair. The room seemed well suited, as the front area was covered with a dark linoleum, in contrast to the thick blue carpet in the rest of the room. The sink wasn't of a type that would normally be seen in a salon, but Rachel had set up a reclining chair next to it and the taps had been fitted with a shower head attachment.

There were only four women present and I observed that they all sat separately. I'd imagined that the members would be keen to converse and discuss their shared interest, though I felt no inclination to reveal my obsessions. Perhaps the others felt as I did. “There's another young woman who is making her first visit,” Rachel said quietly. “It might be useful if I went through the events of the night with you so that you know what to expect.”

I sat apart from the other members and Rachel brought over a girl with long auburn hair. She was very small, delicately boned. She looked extremely young, though I guessed that she was older than her stature made her appear. Rachel introduced her as Quinn. She gave me a little smile, though it seemed forced. She appeared as nervous as me.

“I'm so glad you've both joined our club,” Rachel said. “It's always a pleasure to have such lovely new members. Tonight we've got an extra treat. Madeleine, who was our model at the last event, has asked me to give her a new cut and colour, so I'll be doing that as a prelude. We'll start her at seven prompt. Once that's complete we'll make the selection for our model for the night. Everyone who's eligible (and tonight it's only Madeleine who has an exemption) will put their names into a bag and we'll ask one of you to draw out a name. Then the lucky lady will have some before pictures taken before she's caped. Usually I'll do a couple of cuts, though that may depend on the length of her hair. I think most of our ladies tonight have enough length to try a few looks. Each finished style will be photographed. Normally the cutting is done by nine, though tonight it's likely to be a little later. The room is available until eleven for members to socialise, but you're free to leave whenever you choose. If you are selected as model I'd ask you to stay until the last member leaves.”

The last sentence made my stomach lurch. I could soon be submitting to a bizarre haircut over which I had no control. I felt my hands shaking. “There's a computer set up in the corner,” Rachel continued. “There's a slide show running on it of some of our past makeovers which I think may interest you.”

I went over, Quinn at my side and stared at what others had endured. “Oh wow, look at that,” she muttered. A woman in her late thirties who'd had thick wavy hair to her shoulders was transformed as her head had been virtually shaved, except that isolated squares of long hair had been left in a grid across her scalp, the hair wound into heavy braids (obviously thickened with extensions). The image faded into another view of the same style. Her rather plain features had been given a heavy mask of make-up and I noticed that she'd been deprived of her eyebrows. “That's her, on the left, isn't it?” Quinn said, nodding toward the women at the front of the room. The woman was now nondescript, her hair cut in a mumsy short bob. “She looked better with her braids. She looked wonderful.”

I couldn't bring myself to admit that Quinn was right. Every time I looked at the screen I was overcome with the idea of being given the same style. It was terrifying.

None of the other looks were quite so extreme, though all were beyond anything that I'd ever imagined wearing. There was a mohawk on a plump young woman, the sides buzzed tight and decorated with a scaly pattern shaved in. The colours were very striking, peacock-like in their intensity. There was no doubting Rachel's talents as a colourist. She was no less skilled at cutting.

“I'm so nervous,” I confessed to Quinn. She looked at me, her big eyes piercing.

“I am too. But I want to be selected,” she admitted. “I'll be disappointed if I'm not the model tonight.”

“But you have such lovely hair! Aren't you worried that you'll get some awful cut that you hate?”

“Oh god, yes. I'll be so full of regret. But I need this. I've dreamed of something like this for years.” I was unsettled by her, but intrigued. Her eyes remained fixed on mine throughout. “We should go and take our places. It looks like it's about to begin.”

We went over and sat at the edge of the semicircle. I looked about the others here and counted. There were eight seated around in total. Rachel stood at the front with the woman I presumed to be Madeleine. She was around forty and had a short dark style that looked quite grown out. The nape was short enough to suggest that it must have been taken very close at the last meeting.

Rachel made a formal greeting to the assembly and introduced Madeleine. “I'm sure those of you who were here last time remember her transformation and her very bold bowlcut. She generously offered her hair to me again tonight, since she's decided that short hair is her preference now. We have two new members tonight, both very lovely, as you can see. I'd like you to meet Poppy and Quinn. Quinn, dear, I know you've told me you have an interest in capes. Perhaps you'd like to choose one for Madeleine.”

Quinn went over to a rack which bore a selection of about a dozen capes. She chose one which was faced with a matt black rubber. It looked heavy, stiff, uncomfortable. Madeleine smiled and complimented her on her choice.

Now concealed under the cape, Madeleine settled into the chair. She looked calm and happy, a contented smile on her lips. “Now it's the time for our forum. Anybody want to make a suggestion?”

“Something strong with the colour,” someone suggested.

“I think she'd suit something very short and mannish.”

“I agree wholeheartedly,” Madeleine said. “You're not going to disappoint me, are you, Rachel?”

“Of course not,” she giggled. “You're going to need bleaching first.”

I watched as Rachel saturated her short hair with a thick foamy bleach. For the first time in my life I could stare at the processes that had so fascinated me, yet it still felt uncomfortable. I was so accustomed to catching surreptitious glances across a salon that to sit just two metres away and stare at everything the stylist did seemed sinful. Madeleine had been rinsed and now had brassy yellow hair, but that was about to change. A rich, orangey dye was added through her hair. I took the opportunity to get another glass of wine while the dye worked, and soon I was looking at a woman with vivid copper hair. Rachel dried it and reached for her clippers.

“May I smoke?” Madeleine asked.

“Yes, I've taken the necessary precautions.” I noticed that she'd taped a plastic sheet around the smoke detector. “Unfortunately, we have to be careful. If you all smoked I'm sure it would be impossible to disguise the smell. I can only permit the model to smoke.”

A younger woman with long blonde hair and quite gothic make-up retrieved a cigarette and lighter. She placed the cigarette in Madeleine's lips and lit it for her. I disliked smoking but there was something about this ritual that excited me. Rachel started up the clippers and began to shear away the thick hair from the side of Madeleine's head. The short layer of bristles that were left sparkled under the bright spotlights. Madeleine's smile broadened and she took a deep drag from her cigarette that only added to the feeling of ecstasy that she emitted. Her blonde friend held out a cup to tip the ash. She lowered her face before Madeleine, who blew her smoke slowly toward her mouth.

Madeleine's back and sides were soon cut to a uniform length, not a single hair exceeding a quarter inch. Now Rachel removed the guard from her clippers and began to work on the top. She lifted up strand of hair, then ran the bared blades across the comb. “Very still now, darling,” she warned Madeleine.

I could see that the thick waves were being sculpted into hard planes. Madeleine was being given a flattop. It got shorter and shorter. What I'd initially assumed would be quite long soon became much shorter. The front was perhaps three quarters of an inch, but it got much shorter at the crown, no longer than the back and sides. Rachel formed the sides with perfection, creating a hard, boxy shape. Madeleine, who'd appeared quite ordinary to me when I'd first seen her, was now very striking. Her features demanded a bold cut like this and I found myself envying her companion, who was clearly more than a friend.

The top was finished to perfection, but Rachel's work was not completed. She took a pair of scissors and snipped a line across the side of Madeleine's head, an inch above the top of her ear. Both sides were identically treated, and the lines curved down to meet at the back in a broad peak. Rachel turned on the clippers again and began peeling away the bristly hair below the line.

“I'm not quite clippershaving her,” Rachel explained. “I've used the taper leaver to give a little more length, though it's probably only a millimetre.” As the hair was sheared it formed into little tufts which fell onto the cape where it stuck in clumps. The sides of Madeleine's head looked almost bald, only a slight shadow of orange showing that some hair remained.

Her friend responded to a gesture and lit a second cigarette for Madeleine. “I feel so elated,” she purred. “I think clippers and cigarettes are my greatest pleasures in the world now. I'm going to have to let you cut my hair much more often, Rachel.”

“It would be my pleasure too,” Rachel laughed. “But you'll make a poor model if you attend our meetings with so little hair! I'd hardly have any options at all, would I?”

“That's true. You'd just have to shave me bald. At least that wouldn't take long and you could choose a second victim.”

Now that the entire lower part had been buzzed tight to Madeleine's scalp, Rachel started to work into the hard line that was left above. She pressed the clippers up into the hair, carefully tapering the short hair to produce an even fade all around Madeleine's head. The last stage was to clean up the lines with a straight razor. A little lubricating lotion was smoothed over the hairline as Rachel scraped the blade down her neck, which was left beautifully clean and smooth. Despite the faintness of the stubble that had been left on her nape, a tidy edge was established around her nape, then extended up behind her ears, which were now surmounted by precise arches. The sideburns were shaved into points and her cheeks shaved to perfection.

Until now I'd been impressed by Madeleine's confidence. But as Rachel pressed the razor to the top of her forehead, Madeleine couldn't hide a shiver of surprise. The razor carved into the blocky hair at the front and spines of hair tumbled down her face. “Oh, Rachel, what are you doing to me?” she said, her doubts only partly hidden behind a chuckle. “You're not shaving too much there?”

In fact, it appeared to me that she was. Madeleine had a fairly high forehead and now it had been extended by a good half inch. Nor was Rachel finished with her surprises. Next the razor attacked Madeleine's eyebrows, which in moments were eradicated.

Madeleine groaned. “Rachel, you are making me suffer. Did I do something to upset you? I thought I was your favourite model.”

“Not at all darling. You look divine. But I did think you were a little too comfortable. This night is all about taking risks, after all.”

All that remained was to blast away the remains of Madeleine's cut hair, then to dry the flattop into a perfected form. Rachel applied make-up, and Madeleine was transformed. She'd looked very masculine, but now she became Amazonian, intimidating. She had blood red lips, darkly edged eyes, thick, arching brows. She was freed of her cape and rose, stroking her nape lovingly. She approached the full length mirror and took a first look at herself. “Oh my,” she muttered. “It does look good, Rachel. That colour! And what a perfect cut. You've just made me the happiest woman on the planet. I do hope that you other ladies enjoyed watching her work too. She's a magician.”

Rachel announced that there would be a break for thirty minutes before proceeding, since she needed to make some preparations. “Please avail yourself of refreshments and if you need a cigarette, there's a smoking area on the terrace at the rear of the hotel.”

Suddenly the spell was broken and I realised that I could soon be undergoing a huge makeover. I filled my glass again, though I knew it was probably a mistake. I had little tolerance for alcohol. I returned to sit with Quinn. “She looks great, doesn't she?” my new acquaintance said.

“I agree, I never imagined she'd look so good with such a severe cut. But now I just keep thinking it could be me getting that cut in a few minutes. That's less appealing.”

“I doubt she's going to do the same look twice. But I'd take it. I really want to be the one chosen.” I still couldn't quite believe it. Was this just bravado on her part? I suspected that when the name was drawn and it wasn't Quinn I'd see her beaming with relief.

“You have longer hair than anyone else here. If you want something more extreme why haven't you had it cut already?”

“Probably for the same reason you haven't. I'm too weak. I'm frightened to give in. But this is all part of my dream. I want to lose my hair in public. I'm really quiet and shy, but I have a side that's... exhibitionist? I'm not sure that's the right word, but I want to be changed in public.”

I saw now that I'd been wrong. Quinn was entirely genuine and as she explained her feelings she was overtaken by a melancholy. This was a need, but one she didn't understand or control. I sensed that when she was chosen as the model (and if that wasn't tonight, then she'd keep coming back until she was) she'd feel enormous regret and humiliation. I hoped, for her sake, that the reward in fulfilling her need would compensate her sufficiently for her suffering.

Madeleine had been posing for a series of photographs but now Rachel seemed satisfied that she'd got all that she needed. Now the shorn model approached and set a chair before Quinn and me. “I'm so pleased to meet you ladies. It's always nice to have new faces at our meetings, especially such pretty ones as yours. I hoped you enjoyed my makeover.” We both expressed our thanks. Now Madeleine insisted that we should both feel her hair. Neither of us did so without a degree of embarrassment, but as I stroked her almost bald nape, then let my fingers rise into the soft pelt of bristles on top I felt giddy with pleasure.

“It's so beautiful, isn't it? And how do you feel about being chosen tonight?”

“I'm not religious but I'm praying that I'm not,” I said with a nervous chuckle.

“I'm sure there's a part of you that wants it,” Madeleine said, more serious now. “It's the gambler's thrill when you come here. You come to watch someone getting a makeover, but the thing that really hooks people is that moment of excitement when you see a name being chosen. I'm sure you'll feel sick with nerves at that moment, Poppy, but that moment will live with you. It's that intensity of feeling that we crave, that's absent in our everyday lives. And then maybe one day it'll be your name, and perhaps you'll learn to love being helpless.”

I shrugged. “I don't know. I already feel more nervous than I can deal with. Quinn is much braver though. She's keen to be picked.”

This seemed to please Madeleine no end. “I love to hear that. And such lovely hair, Quinn. If you'll forgive my selfishness though, I'd love to see my little Olivia being picked.” She gestured toward the young blonde woman who'd served her so obediently. “She's such a pretty girl, but vain too. I'm trying to train her and she's very good, but she's so attached to her conventional ideas of beauty. You've no idea how hard it is for her to come here. She doesn't share our fetish, you see. But I hope once she submits to Rachel that she will gain new insights.”

Rachel announced that the main event would being in five minutes and I rushed to the toilet, eager not to have my pleasure in watching another makeover interrupted (I could hardly let myself think now that I'd be chosen). I returned and sat alongside Quinn. She looked distracted but managed to give me a reassuring smile. She took hold of my hand and held it.

Rachel was explaining the mechanics of the procedure. Each of us would write our name on the slip of paper we'd been given. Then it would be placed inside a black ball, the two halves of which screwed together. I was so nervous that I my writing look like a stranger's and Quinn had to fit the ball together for me. Rachel passed along the row of seats and each of us dropped the sphere into a black velvet bag.

“Thank you all for agreeing to this. I feel privileged to be trusted with your most treasured possession, your own image. You are all very brave, and I hope that I'm equal to the task. Now I'd like to ask one of our new members to make the selection tonight. Poppy, would you like to join me?”

I was numb as I stood and stood alongside her. I felt that I'd become complicit in condemning some poor innocent to a violation. I looked at the faces before me. They looked no less comfortable than me, with a couple of exceptions. Olivia looked like she was about to cry.

Rachel agitated the bag to stir its contents. “Choose a name please, Poppy.” I slid my hand inside and let my fingers roam. Every ball felt identical. I disliked this power. Choosing this one or that would make an enormous impact one someone's life. I fished out one and passed it to Rachel. I was shaking too much to be able to open it.

“And tonight's model is...” She opened up the slip of paper and held it up. “Quinn!”

Everyone cheered and applauded. I looked at my new friend who didn't move. Her face had turned pale and she looked shocked. She may have wanted this but I could see it wasn't easy for her to bear.

I went to her and helped her to stand, then hugged her. “You'll be beautiful,” I whispered. Her eyes looked huge and she seemed like a lost little girl, looked younger than ever. I didn't want to see her hair being cut. For a moment I considered offering myself in her place, but I was too selfish. I felt guilt that in truth I was glad that anyone but me had been chosen.

Rachel led Quinn away to the side of the room where the camera was set up. Her last moments with her lovely auburn hair would be recorded. I went to return to my chair but Madeleine beckoned me. “I don't want you sitting on your own, since your friend is going to be busy. Come and sit with me.”

I sat between Olivia and Madeleine. The tension in the room had been broken now and there was an excited hubbub of conversation. “What cut do you think she'd suit?” Madeleine asked me.

“I've no idea. She looks lovely with long hair.”

“And she'll look even prettier with short hair. She has such delicate features and she's so petite. She really needs something a lot shorter. I'd like to see her with a very bold, boyish cut. Hardly anything left at all.”

“Like yours?”

“Precisely,” Madeleine laughed. “We'd enjoy seeing her cropped, wouldn't we, Olivia.”

“Yes Miss,” Olivia said happily. All of her fears had been washed away now. “We like pretty little butch girls.” I felt creeped out by this talk. Olivia seemed to feed Madeleine's predatory nature.

Quinn was now brought to the chair. She'd been fitted with a red vinyl cape which seemed to weigh her down. She glanced up anxiously but couldn't face the assembly. She lowered her eyes to stare at the floor.

“Now ladies, it's time for our forum. Who has some suggestions? I think we're very privileged tonight. Quinn is an exceptionally pretty young woman and she probably has the nicest, and longest, hair of any model I've worked on.”

“I think you should start her with a bowlcut,” Madeleine said boldly, “and then take her down to a faded crop. And dye her black.”

“She would look good,” Rachel smiled. “But you do say something similar every time, Madeleine. Try to be more imaginative.”

A middle aged woman spoke up now. “I know I say the same every time, but I think tonight we have an ideal model. A kawaii type look would look so good on her. She'd young and delicate and it would look adorable.”

“What's that? Kawaii?” I whispered to Madeleine.

“It's a Japanese youth culture, it means 'cute'. Clara is obsessed with it, but I actually think she might be right. I think it would suit your friend.”

A third woman spoke. “I don't really mind the finished style, but I know you'll want to do something nice with the colour. I'd love to see her being bleached before you do any cutting.”

Rachel smiled and waited. There were no more suggestions. “I think that we should indulge Tricia. I'll start by making Quinn blonde.”

I watched with sadness as her hair was gradually submerged under the pale, pungent crème. Her hair was such a lovely colour but that was now being taken. And yet I couldn't deny my excitement. Was I really so sadistic that seeing a friend humiliated could please me?

Soon I was watching Rachel dry Quinn's hair, which had lost its colour, and was pale as straw. Her eyebrows had been bleached too and her face seemed pale and strange, dominated by her dark eyes. If she was taking pleasure in her experience there was no sign in her face. She looked tense and lost as she sat passively.

She was taken from the chair and freed of the cape. She couldn't hide her surprise as she looked in the mirror. The other women gathered around her and expressed their pleasure at her change. Quinn thanked them but I could see that she was disinterested by compliments. She was soon back in the chair.

Rachel pumped the chair up and combed through her long, fine locks. “Now the real changes begin. It's time to begin your cut. Do you mind if the ladies who wish take mementos? A lot of them would be very happy to accept a lock of your hair, but it's your choice.” She nodded silently.

I was astonished to see that Rachel would make the first cut with clippers. The top section was pinned up, but much of Quinn's hair was free. The huge clippers roared as the motor engaged and Rachel lifted Quinn's hair to expose her neck, then made a slow pass of the blades up her nape, not stopping until within a couple of inches of her crown. I noticed that her legs convulsively pressed together. There was an excited murmur from the spectators, and some calls of encouragement, encouraging Rachel to continue to be bold.

I doubted she needed such urging. Rachel slowly buzzed away all the long hair at the back, then turned the blades to Quinn's temples. Her ears were soon exposed, the back and sides reduced to a tight number two buzz, made to look almost bald by the bleaching.

Madeleine leaned across in front of me to whisper to Olivia, who immediately rose from her seat and approached Quinn. “My mistress asks if you'd like a cigarette to calm your nerves.”

“No thank you. I don't smoke,” she said, her voice harsh and strained.

“It might be a good time to start,” Madeleine giggled. “Olivia, dear, collect some nice locks of her pretty hair and tie them with ribbon, then give one to each of the ladies.” Olivia did everything that was asked of her.

Poor Quinn was soon no longer long haired. The last of her long hair was loosened, only to be snipped away at the height of her chin. Because her hair was quite fine, and because she now had a high undercut, Rachel made a simple cut around her head. The resulting cut was surprisingly neat and precise.

She was again allowed to view herself in the mirror and her bob was documented with a series of pictures. Rachel announced that there would be a break for twenty minutes, since she would now be busy mixing dyes. As the spectators dispersed to replenish their drinks of avail themselves of the toilet Quinn came to sit with me.

“You look lovely,” I smiled. “How are you coping? You look really nervous.”

“Oh god, I feel like I'm dying. It's so short. I don't think I like having short hair.” She rubbed her hand under the back of her bob to feel the undercut and gave a shudder. “And the bob makes me look young. Do I look young?”

“You do look about sixteen,” I laughed. “Once she does your make-up I'm sure you'll look older though. How old are you?”

“I'm twenty-two. No one ever believes it though. It's the problem with being so slight. I don't really wear make-up though.”

“Maybe you'd better start. No one will serve you in a bar otherwise. It's not like they'll believe it's you on your ID.”

She groaned. “I hadn't thought about that.”

We were now joined by Madeleine and Olivia. “May I?” Madeleine asked, extending her hand toward her nape. Quinn nodded shyly and Madeleine began stroking her undercut. “Oh, you have such soft hair. It's adorable. If you were mine I'd keep it this short forever.”

Quinn seemed to be simultaneously flattered, aroused and embarrassed by Madeleine's attention. But in Olivia I saw a flash of anger that she was hard pressed to conceal. I suspected that the unconventional relationship that she'd struck up with Madeleine was difficult for her to bear, and understandably so. I'd hate to see my girlfriend flirting so obviously with another.

“You know, lovely, I'd pay your fee for tonight if you'd just do one little thing for me. Just try smoking.” Quinn shook her head uncertainly, but I guessed two hundred pounds was a lot of money for her. “Just two cigarettes,” Madeleine said. “Smoke one while Rachel works on you, then another with your finished style, which will be photographed, and of course you have to let me have the pictures. That's a hundred per cigarette.”

“I don't know,” Quinn muttered.

“She drives a hard bargain, your friend,” Madeleine said to me. “Alright, I'll pay for tonight and the next meeting for you. Deal?”

“It's very generous but I really don't like smoking.”

“Olivia was just the same, but she's a convert now. Tell Quinn how nice it is.”

“Yeah, I really like it,” she said, but couldn't hide her resentment toward Quinn. “I love seeing mistress smoke too.”

“That's what worries me,” Quinn said with a nervous giggle. “I don't want to find I like it. It's bad for you.”

“If you hate it so much you won't get addicted. Don't you think you have any willpower? Four hundred pounds for ten minutes work. Are you telling me that doesn't appeal to you?”

She nodded. “It does. OK, we have a deal.” She looked at me and her vague smile vanished. I felt a disappointment that she'd agreed, but I could hardly imagine I wouldn't have been tempted if Madeleine had made me the same offer.

“You're such a little doll!” Madeleine squealed excitedly. “Now you and get your cape back on and get ready while Olivia and I go and have a smoke outside.”

We were left alone and she frowned at me. “I shouldn't have said yes, should I? It's wrong to do something you hate just for money.”

I laughed. “I think most people hate their jobs. We all have to compromise.”

“It's not just that though. I like the idea of being... dominated. I find Madeleine really quite exciting. But she's with Olivia and that makes me even worse.”

I felt a pang of discomfort at this revelation, but couldn't quite work out what was the cause. “Madeleine initiated it, so I don't think you should feel too guilty. She offered a lot of money. I'm sure most people would have been tempted. I know I would.”

Now Quinn reluctantly left me, beckoned by Rachel. Once more she was caped and returned to the chair. The guests returned to their seats (once more I was flanked by Madeleine and Olivia) and Rachel began to work on Quinn's hair.

The longer hair on top was now generously coated with brightly coloured dyes, various shades at the cooler end of the spectrum being applied: baby blue, turquoise, sea green, lime green, peacock blue. Rachel worked with real artistry, allowing colours to blend or else making sections which were protected with sheets of film to prevent colours bleeding into each other. Initially her face was obscured by the long front sections but soon these too had been treated with the cloying dyes. The sticky hair was formed into loose twists and rolls, clipped atop Quinn's head. Now the undercut was fully visible, and she looked so androgynous and vulnerable. Her eyes gleamed, and I suspected she was close to tears.

“Would the model like a cigarette?” Madeleine said.

“Yes, OK,” Quinn replied, her voice hoarse with tension. I could see Rachel was surprised but did nothing to prevent it.

Madeleine went to stand alongside and placed a long cigarette in Quinn's lips, which she accepted without moving her hands from under the cape. “Just breathe in gently and savour the strong taste.” As the tip was lit she made a gagging sound and struggled to reach up to the cigarette.

“Just hold it in your mouth for a few moments, get used to it,” Madeleine said firmly. “It does look beautiful in your pretty lips, doesn't it, ladies?” I guessed from the approving voices that Madeleine wasn't the only smoking fetishist.

Madeleine seemed intent on getting value for her extravagant expenditure. She held the cigarette to Quinn's mouth as Rachel began to paint her stubbled undercut. “Take a gentle breath in and let the smoke go into your throat. Then I want to see you exhale it through your nose.”

Quinn was stronger willed that I imagined and, despite her obvious difficulties, did everything that Madeleine asked. She took drag after drag, resisting coughing to the best of her ability. By the time Madeleine took the stub away from her, taking a last puff herself before putting it out, Quinn looked pale and sickly, yet there was a look of satisfaction in her eyes, a pride that she'd managed to endure the test that Madeleine had set for her.

I tried to put aside my revulsion at seeing Quinn forced into smoking, and focussed on Rachel's continued work. Her buzzed hair was being marked with a series of bright red hearts of varying sizes arrayed irregularly about her nape and temples. Clara was displaying her excitement rather too ostentatiously. I could see that Quinn was avoiding looking at her.

The last of the blonde hair, the clippered undercut which formed a background to the hearts, was now covered in green dye. Quinn's life as a blonde had been short-lived.

Now that there was a pause while the hair took on the dye Quinn excused herself to go to the toilet. She gestured to me and I accompanied her. We had to pass through the foyer of the hotel to reach the bathroom, and the few guests were doubtless intrigued to see Quinn's head slathered in variegated dyes. Once we were in the privacy of the toilets she took me in her arms. “Oh, Poppy, I'm dying. I can't bear it any more. I wish I'd never come here.” She groaned as she looked at the mirror. “Oh shit, look how bright it is. I don't know how I'll ever live this down.”

“Just take a deep breath,” I said, tightening my grip on her. “You look really cute. I'm sure it'll look really pretty when it's done. Anyway, the cut isn't too bad. You can hide the short part and if the colours are too much then you can dye it. It's not nearly as bad as some of those cuts we were looking at earlier.”

She nodded. “I suppose you're right. It's just a lot harder than I imagined. I'm getting freaked out by Madeleine and Clara too. It's like there's a competition between them to take me home tonight as a trophy.”

“I thought you liked Madeleine.”

“I don't know, she's scary. I certainly didn't enjoy that cigarette. It's horrible. I can't get rid of the taste and it's made me feel sick. Anyway, even if I did like Madeleine, have you seen how Olivia is looking at me?”

“Yes, the poor little thing. I don't think she's quite as unconventional as her mistress. Probably best to stay away from a ménage à trois there.”

She gazed at herself in the mirror, quiet and thoughtful. “What would you have done if it had been you chosen tonight?”

“I think I'd be coping a lot less well than you. You said you wanted this. Is the reality not what you'd expected?”

“I suppose not, but I think once the horror wears off I'll be glad I did it. And are you enjoying seeing my transformation?”

“I feel uncomfortable, because I can sense your pain, but I'd be lying if I said I wasn't really excited. You had such pretty hair, but you'll look so fabulous with your new cut.”

“Don't worry about me. I want you to have enjoyment. So no more guilt, OK?”

I nodded. “Come on then, let's head back in. I want to see you looking beautiful with a pretty mermaid bob.”

Rachel now rinsed the dyes and I was delighted to see just how bold the new colours were. The blues and greens flowed together, and something about how Rachel had arranged the colours made it look somehow natural. The effect when the hair was lifted and the undercut was exposed was anything but. Suddenly Quinn's new style became a pop art wonder. There were expressions of admiration for Rachel's skills as a colourist from the spectators.

I'd hardly thought about more hair being cut, but I soon realised that what I saw was far from the finished style Rachel had in mind. She began by cutting a fringe, a heavy, blunt line which covered Quinn's eyebrows. It suited her. She looked at me, unable to hide her embarrassment, but when I smiled at her she was clearly pleased.

Egged on by the watching throng, Rachel had another go at Quinn's fringe. She snipped off a little more, then cut a shorter line. By the time she'd finished the fringe was very short, not even covering half of her forehead. It stopped more than an inch clear of Quinn's pale eyebrows. It was probably less flattering than the initial fringe, but certainly more edgy and dramatic, and that pleased me.

Rachel announced, to general approval, that the bob was too long to be in balance with the fringe. She sectioned an oval from the top of Quinn's head and clipped it away from the hair at the sides (the newly exposed hair was paler than the top section, pale blues merging with vivid bright greens and cyans). She attacked the right side with her scissors, shortening the line of the bob so that Quinn's earlobe was exposed. Rachel worked with great precision but she was quick too. In minutes Quinn's hair had been transformed into a micro bob which was angled up slightly, exposing her shorn nape, bright green with two red hearts visible.

She looked younger than ever, so pretty but with a fragile vulnerability. I felt a desire stirring in me. My new friend was someone I wanted to be with. It wasn't rare for me to feel this sort of attraction, but I didn't want to be in a relationship and usually was able to push such feelings aside. I was angry with myself now for allowing myself this emotional complication. Quinn had urged me to enjoy seeing her makeover and I tried to concentrate on the spectacle for which I'd paid.

The top layer was now freed and combed down. I expected to see Rachel now snip it to the newly established line of the bob but she did nothing of the sort. She lifted a lock from behind Quinn's fringe and sheared it away. She'd gripped the section between her fingers and now scissored it, but her fingers were adjacent to Quinn's scalp and the resultant cut let the hair cropped to less than an inch. This unexpected development increased the excitement in the room.

Long pieces of brightly coloured hair tumbled as the top of Quinn's head was shorn. The short hair was darker than the surrounding bob, dark blue behind the fringe (the roots of the fringe were dark too, but lightened to an aqua at the ends), a slightly lighter shade with a hint of green at her crown.

Rachel textured the crop with thinning shears, then used a scissor over comb technique over the entire top of Quinn's head. She was clearly shocked to see so much hair being cut from the top of her head and try as she might she couldn't force a convincing smile.

The cut was now finished, and Rachel now used a razor to shape Quinn's bleached brows. The outer section was shaved away completely, and what was left was trimmed into a neat block.

If I'd had doubts about the cut Rachel had inflicted on poor Quinn they were forgotten when I saw her completed look. She had greenish brows painted on, but quite soft, curving beautifully to frame her big eyes which were now augmented with long fake eyelashes, sharp winged liner and glittery blue on her upper lids. She had full, generous lips, which were now a soft pink blending to a warm orange in the centre, and gleaming with a thick, syrupy gloss.

She took in her reflection for the first time and looked very emotional. “Oh Rachel, I love it,” she said softly, “but I can't believe it's me.” As she felt at the side of her hair I could sense her shock at how thin a layer of hair had been left to form the bob. It had been curled under at the ends but still lay very flat to her head. She touched the cropped top and sighed. “I'd like you all to feel my hair,” she announced, her voice quaking. She looked ashamed, and I sensed that this ritual was part of her fantasy, a last humiliation she had too impose on herself.

I felt my guilt return as I took my place running my fingers over her head. Her hair was fine and soft, and I was delighted to feel the feathery texture of the top, but I felt I was committing some sort of violation to make Quinn endure this in public. Certainly she couldn't prevent herself from blushing as the members of the club took their pleasure in her newly cropped hair.

It remained to record the final phase of Quinn's makeover. Rachel took pains to smooth her hair into a perfect form, correcting the disarray that the caresses of the spectators had caused, and directed Quinn to pose. It was hard to read her mood. She looked lost but excited. I wasn't sure whether she felt regret or fulfilment. Madeleine now approached to ensure that Quinn would complete her Faustian deal.

I didn't like seeing Quinn smoking. She looked too young and vulnerable, yet I couldn't deny that something inside me was stirred by seeing Madeleine, who wasn't just older, but also so much more of a physical presence, taking charge of Quinn, controlling her.

As soon as the photo session was completed Rachel addressed her guests. “I'm very sorry ladies, but we have to clear the room in ten minutes. We had a lot to do tonight so it's run later than usual and unfortunately our time for socialising has to be cut short. But I'm sure the ladies who were cut short tonight have provided you with a lot of pleasure, as they have me, and I'd like you to show your appreciation for Madeleine and especially Quinn, who was such a brave girl on her first night at the club.”

There were loud cheers and applause and I joined in enthusiastically. One of the other women pressed a folded piece of paper into my hand and wished me a good evening. I opened it and saw her phone number. “You can make £500 if you let me choose a haircut for you. Ring me. Nina.” I was flattered but not tempted.

The attendees said their farewells now, and I started to prepare to leave. I wanted to say goodbye to Quinn, but she was busy in consultation with Rachel and some of the other women. I decided I'd better leave and caught her eye and waved. She shook her head and mouthed “Wait for me.” I nodded.

She eventually came over to me. “Please, Poppy. I'm all over the place. I don't want to be alone tonight. I booked a room here. Stay with me.”

I felt happier than ever in my life as I sat on the bed with Quinn. “Oh god, you look so adorable,” I said. “You're so brave to let Rachel cut off all your hair. You had easily the best hair in that room tonight. But it's even better now.”

She giggled. “You don't have to lie and flatter me now. You won. You got me. You can do anything you like with me.” She leaned forward and we kissed.

“I think you've got the wrong idea about me,” I said nervously. “I'm really inexperienced. If you're expecting me to be bold and bossy with you I'm afraid you're going to be disappointed.”

“I had other offers tonight, you know?” She affected a pouting expression. “I had my choice of women who were after me. But you were the only one I really liked. There was never any contest.”

I kissed her. “Tell me about how you ended up here. Why did you want this?” I stroked at her clippered nape, which filled me with excitement, especially when I allowed myself to remember the pretty, long haired girl I'd met just a few hours earlier.

Our stories were quite similar. She'd come from quite a modest family but had won a scholarship to a private girls school because of her musical talents (she was a flautist). She'd never fitted in amongst girls who were far more affluent than her, though she was drawn to many of the unattainable girls she saw each day. Like me, she'd always felt a disturbingly deep attraction to hair. Her image of herself had been strongly linked to her own hair, which always drew compliments; even the girls who refused to accept her would tell her they wished they had hair like hers.

Her sense of inadequacy seemed to have driven her to fantasies of being made powerless, humiliated, enslaved. For many years she'd dreamed of being publicly deprived of her long hair. As she matured she became interested in submission and domination, though she'd never acted on her impulses until tonight. She'd been invited to join the club as a result of meeting someone online who knew Rachel. Since she lived in the same town they'd agreed to meet and soon an invitation had been made.

Now we lay naked in the bed together, gazing into each other's eyes. I confessed to my longings. “I can't believe I finally met someone I can tell all this to. I always felt so guilty, felt like if I ever told anyone I'd be so ashamed I'd never forgive myself. And now I'm telling you and it feels so good.”

“I have to check something,” she said excitedly and reached for her laptop. She checked her emails and whistled. “Look at this. I'm six hundred and thirty pounds better off. It seems a lot of the members of the club are very wealthy. They make gifts to Rachel for the model to show their gratitude. It seems I was popular.”

“You should do it full time. Not a bad night's earnings,” I laughed.

“I haven't got much hair left though,” she winced. “It'll take me years to grow it that long again. Not that I likely ever will. I guess this will have to go really short to fix it.”

“No!” I protested. “You should keep your bob. I love it. You can just let the top grow out and make it a bit more... normal. It's really quite a cute look.”

She climbed on top of me so that she was kneeling in my lap. “What if it had been you who'd been picked out? Would you keep this haircut?”

“Oh god, I'd be so distraught. But you said you wanted yours cut.”

“You put your name into the draw too. You must want it too, at least on some level. Or do you like watching other women getting cuts they hate so much that you were prepared to risk anything for the opportunity to feed your fetish?”

I felt ashamed now. “I'm sorry, I was insensitive. You were incredibly brave.”

“No, I wanted this. I wanted someone to ruin my hair and give me no say and I wanted to have my shame witnessed. And now I have to live with my decision. I want someone to tell me I have to face the world like this. Go and meet my friends tomorrow and see them all look shocked at my stupidity.”

“You're not stupid,” I said, confused by Quinn's mood. She seemed so intense now. “You look lovely.”

“So do you want me to keep my hair like this?” I nodded. “Rachel said she could crop it and dye it brown, but you want me to have my multi-coloured bob?”

“I do,” I said, and kissed her.

“And would you be happy to be seen with me, even looking like this?”

“I'd be delighted. You want us to spend more time together?”

“I've never had a one night stand in my life. Or a girlfriend, come to that,” she said, not without embarrassment. “I think we have so much in common it would be crazy not to see where this leads us.”

I was still in heaven the next morning. Waking beside a beautiful girl was thrilling. We seemed to wake together, which seemed a positive omen to me. “Oh, look at the pillow,” I said. It was discoloured by the vivid dyes.

“Oh shit,” Quinn groaned. “I'll probably get billed for that.”

“You can afford it now,” I laughed.

“Rachel did say the dyes would stain stuff. She said to use an old towel to cover my pillow. You distracted me though. It's all your fault.”

She looked so different without her make-up and now I discovered that she wore glasses. She winced as I looked at her. “You don't like them?”

“I do, but they are a bit plain for your new look.” They were wire framed, narrow oblong lenses. They did look old-fashioned, in truth.

“I prefer contact lenses.”

“I like glasses. You should spend some of your money on a new pair.”

“OK, I will. You can pick them.” She looked unsure. “I like the idea that you'll tell me how to dress. You know that, don't you?”

“I know, but I don't think I'd be good like that. I'm more like you. I think I'm probably submissive as well, just not as brave as you when it comes to acting on it.”

“I'm hardly out in the open,” Quinn giggled. “Last night was terrifying. Madeleine really scared me.”

“But you liked how she was with you? Even the smoking?”

“I don't know. It sort of excited me because I could see a look in her eye, that I was doing something just as exciting to her. She's not my type and I could never imagine being with her in a relationship, but I can't deny there's something about her confidence that does something for me.”

“She just plain terrified me,” I laughed. “I felt so sorry for Olivia. I got the feeling she's got herself involved in more than she can handle. I did wonder if she'd been chosen last night if she'd have finished with Madeleine all together.”

“Yes, I don't think she shares our desires, does she? I don't think she'd take any pleasure from losing her hair.”

“But I'm so pleased you do.” I kissed her and stroked at the short bristles covering the top of Quinn's head.

She groaned. “Every time I remember what I've done my stomach lurches. I'm really scared to face people.”

I hugged her and reassured her that everything would work out for the best. “Can I do your make-up? You'll need to wear more now that you have this cut.”

She confessed that she didn't often wear any make-up at all and that she had brought none with her. I'd not planned to stay out and only had a few items in my handbag. She was clearly excited as I created a new look.

She looked at herself and smiled nervously. “I love the eyeliner, it looks so cool. The wings make my eyes look bigger. But can't you do something with my eyebrows?” They looked very faint now, and because the outer part was gone they obviously demanded to be completed with the application of cosmetics.

“I don't have anything to fill them in,” I admitted. “I have the liner pen but they'd look so harsh and black. We should go shopping for make-up as soon as we can. I'd love to explore different looks for you.”

She was clearly distracted. “It just looks weird though. Do you really think I can go out with these eyebrows?”

“I don't see you have much choice. I don't like the idea of thick black ones, and they're the only type I could do.”

She looked at her reflection, obviously troubled. “Well... You could always shave them. Draw me finer brows that wouldn't look so overwhelming.”

“Oh, Quinn, really? Are you sure? You'll look even stranger without eyebrows, and drawing them on is hard. If you're not used to make-up you'll struggle to get them right.” She looked tormented as she tried to make a decision. “You want this as another humiliation don't you? You liked how watching Madeleine losing hers and you want the same.”

“It scares me. I know this isn't wise. I guess I want you to just do it before I get a chance to say no.”

I felt unsure as I rubbed some soap over the strips of hair then dragged her razor across. A few strokes was all it took to remove each. Soon barely a trace was visible to even the closest inspection. “Now draw me some brows, please.” Quinn sounded strained.

I added black arches, pencil thin and flatter than her natural brows. I was so focussed on producing symmetry that I could barely take in their effect on Quinn's features. As soon as I told her they were done she rushed to the mirror. “Oh fuck,” she sighed. “They look so... I look so weird. Can't you do something more normal? Oh no, tell me I have to wear these all day. Say it, Poppy!”

I laughed, but felt upset that she was clearly discomforted by her new look. “I can try something different.”

“No, tell me this is the look I have now. Don't let me have a choice.”

“OK, darling. You have to keep these brows all day. This is the look you have when you see your friends.”

She gave a cry of despairing ecstasy. She immediately thrust my hand to her sex and begged me to kiss her. I could see that being dominated excited her enormously, and that her humiliation was part of that. I was uncomfortable with fulfilling the role she desired of me, but her passion drew me in. We fell onto the bed and let our enthusiasms follow their natural courses. I didn't stint until she'd climaxed.

I retouched her make-up and smoothed her bob into place. Now she looked crestfallen, aware that in an hour she would have to face her friends. The excitement she'd shared with me would be removed and now she would have to face up to her rashness. Her sense of regret at sacrificing her brows was unmistakeable.

“What are you doing today?”

“I have a rehearsal with my friends. We've formed an ensemble to play contemporary music and we have a concert coming up. We'll do three hours in the morning, then have a long lunch and go back for more in the afternoon. Please meet me for lunch. I'll be so anxious all morning and it'll be so good to have someone who understands me. And I want you to meet my friends too. They'll like you. And I'd rather they gossiped about me having a girlfriend than about me turning into an alien.”

“I should imagine they'll talk about both. Maybe even think that I made you get your hair cut. They'll probably be really hostile to me because they think I'm trying to change you.”

“Nah, they won't.” She wrinkled her nose. “Anyway, I have to get going.” She called a taxi and we returned to the city.

If Quinn's friends were concerned that I was a bad influence on their colleague, it didn't show. They were welcoming and I soon felt included. They were, without exception, very cultured. They were most interested that I was a writer, though they were intimidatingly well read. By the end of lunch I had recommendations of half a dozen or more books.

Quinn looked shyer than ever, yet she was delightfully happy when I saw her. And her joy was reciprocated. Though we'd only met on the previous day I felt more than ever that I'd met my soul mate. I wanted to be with her every moment of the day.

Over the next few weeks we came ever closer. We lived just a few miles apart and it wasn't hard for us to visit each other when our busy lives allowed us free time. Quinn was very devoted to her studies and spent hours each day practising, in addition to the frequent rehearsals with the ensemble. I was astonished to find that she liked to play for at least six hours each day. Since she'd taken up the flute at the age of eleven she'd spent incalculable hours perfecting her craft.

She was initially reluctant to allow me to hear her practise, but eventually relented after I promised I'd sit and listen without chatting. “Once you get bored you can leave,” she said.

“What the hell is that?” I asked as soon as I saw her instrument. It was far bigger than any flute I recognised and the head joint was looped about in a horseshoe shape.

“You said you'd shut up,” she scowled. “It's a bass flute. It's shaped like this because if it were straight the mouthpiece would be too far from the keys to be playable. Especially for small girls like me. Now can I play?”

I nodded and watched in incomprehension as she completed some warm ups, then began to play the piece she was practising. It was a wild succession of shivering breathy sounds, hardly pitched, punctuated by loud key clicks and moments of stillness where impossibly high notes were sustained but so quietly they were barely audible. Despite hardly being able to make sense of the music I felt an enormous pride that my sweet, giggly girlfriend could be so serious and skilful a musician. I didn't dare interrupt her thoughts and sat in silence until she took a break.

“Well, do you hate it?” she asked as she sipped from a bottle of water.

“No, not at all. I'm in awe at your abilities.”

She scoffed. “I'm struggling today. There's a really difficult passage...” She played a rapid run of notes. “I can't get it precise enough. And I'm performing it in a few days.”

I knew better than to say it sounded fine. This music was an alien world to me, and Quinn was clearly a perfectionist. But her friends seemed certain of her abilities. Her friend Kathy, the violinist, thought Quinn was the best individual musician of the group. “Just keep working at it,” I said, mirroring her advice to me that I should set more time aside for my writing, and not wait for inspiration to strike. She was right, and since I'd met her I'd written more than ever before. “You'll get there eventually.”

She grimaced. “Or not. It's at the limits of my technique. Bass flute is hard for me because I have small hands. Mostly I can get away with it because a lot of pieces don't demand really rapid runs. This one is a challenge. On a standard flute, or even an alto, I'd be fine with the fingering.”

“I'm so proud of you,” I suddenly gushed. “I'm really in awe of your abilities. I feel privileged to see you playing. At the concert I'll probably be telling everyone that I'm your girlfriend and end up crying and making a scene.”

“Don't you dare or you'll never get to see me play in public again! People are very reserved at classical concerts, even contemporary and avant garde music. You sit in silence and applaud, but only if I get this passage right.”

She did. I'd come to know the precise moment in the piece where the challenging moment occurred. She played it with more fluidity than I'd ever heard. But the whole piece took on a new level of commitment now, the presence of an audience spurring Quinn to new levels of performance. I was hardly more enthusiastic in my appreciation than the rest of the audience, which was, to me, disappointingly meagre. The group seemed more stoic about the size of their followers.

“We play difficult music, so it's never going to get a huge following,” Quinn explained. “And we're just starting up. We need to get known, build up links with composers. The aim is to get performances at some of the European festivals. That's how you get noticed.”

A few days after the concert she came to my house as arranged. I squealed as I opened the door. “Quinn, what the hell? What did you do?”

She rubbed her hand over her head, looking embarrassed. “I'm sorry, I decided it needed to go.” 'It' was her bob. She'd been shorn. Her hair was nowhere longer than half an inch now, and half that length on the back and sides. She'd had it dyed a uniform black.

I was nearly in tears as I ushered her inside. “Oh shit, you hate it, don't you?” She was becoming upset now.

“I don't, I'm just shocked. You look so different. Why didn't you tell me? Why did you do it anyway?”

“I've been offered an audition to play some concerts with a professional orchestra. It's a good opportunity, but I know if they'd seen me with blue and green hair it wouldn't have mattered how well I played. It's a very conservative world. It's hard enough for women to be taken seriously, but with that haircut I'd have stood no chance.”

“Ah, I see. So you thought you'd disguise yourself as a boy.”

“Oh god, is it that bad?” she wailed. I could see that my joke had hit a nerve. “I do look like a boy, don't I? It's far too short. I was going to keep the fringe to soften it but it look really silly so I just got it all buzzed.”

“You don't look feminine at all,” I said, pushing at her insecurities. “You look very androgynous now. Did you get Madeleine to take you to a barber?”

“No I didn't! She'd have made me get a flattop like hers. Oh, Poppy, you hate it, don't you?”

“Of course not. You look wonderful. But I wish you'd taken me with you. You know how much I'd have enjoyed it. And I wish I'd have seen you with a chelsea. I think that must have looked so pretty.”

She looked ashamed. “I'm so sorry. I've been selfish. I know you love watching makeovers. But I've been agonising for a week about this. And today I suddenly felt brave enough to do what I needed to. If I'd waited another day I'd have lost my nerve. Luckily Rachel could fit me in. I deserve to be punished for being so thoughtless though.”

I knew that Quinn loved the idea of punishment (though liked the reality of it rather less), though I was hardly her ideal companion in this respect. Every time she pushed me to do something controlling or humiliating I would feel anxious and would spoil the moment by asking too many questions, then finally lose my nerve all together. Quinn would laugh it off, but I knew it frustrated her. For all of our joy at being together we weren't an ideal match. Perhaps because I was hurt that she'd left me out of seeing her makeover I was bolder than usual.

“Right, let's shave your eyebrows again. They look awkward anyway so it'll be an improvement.”

I could see that Quinn was unhappy. She'd hated seeing herself without eyebrows, and didn't like the artificiality of the eyebrows I drew (she'd not gained the skill of drawing her eyebrows well enough to look acceptable). She'd been pleased to see her eyebrows starting to grow back and my command unsettled her. I could see that she wanted to protest but disciplined her impulse. She nodded regretfully and we went to the bathroom.

“And we never did get you a new pair of glasses.” She'd mainly worn her contact lenses during the period of our acquaintance, despite my preference for seeing her in glasses. “You can get something boyish to match your new look and wear them to your audition.”

“Oh, Poppy, I don't know. I'll be so nervous as it is, and if I feel uncomfortable with my image I'll probably screw up.”

“You know that's not true. You always told me that once you start playing everything else seems to be irrelevant. So you're going to get some nice stylish glasses and wear them every day. I want this, Quinn.”

She blushed and smiled. “Yes, Poppy. You can make an appointment for me and choose the new pair.” I could see that her embarrassment had become transfigured into something pleasing to her. My all-too-rare boldness had pleased her. I dabbed her faintly stubbled brows with shaving gel and took the razor to them. I couldn't deny my pleasure in seeing her skin returned to smoothness. There was something purifying in this action. I took in her new image, adoring her strange androgyny. She turned to look in the mirror and groaned.

“I look awful,” she muttered. “I don't suit my hair so short. It was such a mistake to get this cut.”

There was certainly a part of me that agreed. Quinn had looked so much prettier when we'd met, yet there was an unearthly beauty about the girl I now made love to. I told her that she was the most perfect creature I'd ever seen and that if I could make her look exactly as she did now for all eternity then I'd never become tired of her beauty.

We were as happy that day as we'd been since we'd met. In truth we were inexperienced and clumsy as lovers, and the passions that Quinn's makeover had stirred in both of us were necessary to compensate for our inadequacies in being able to satisfy each other. Yet I could never be unhappy with her (and hoped she felt the same). We were experimenting, learning. I felt sure that soon I'd be able to learn to understand her body and how to provide her with the pleasures she deserved.

She got her new glasses a few days before the audition. I'd chosen, despite her protests, a pair of horn rimmed frames with large, round lenses. She felt that they were too bold for her features, and that they dominated her face. Of course she was correct, but that was precisely what I liked. We went shopping for an outfit for her and I insisted that she shouldn't try to downplay her boyishness. She would attend the audition wearing a charcoal grey trouser suit paired with a white linen shirt and a red tie. She looked at her new image wistfully.

“I can't believe I've allowed this to happen. I've lost everything pretty and feminine. It's worth it though when I see how pleased you are. You are happy with me, aren't you?”

I kissed her gently. “You're the most beautiful and brilliant person I ever met. I still feel like I'm dreaming when I wake up beside you. I never thought I could be this happy.”

“You could be happier still if you gave in to what you really want and stopped holding back.”

I stroked her hair and smiled. “I'm not dominant, honey. I can't control you how you like.”

“That's not what I meant. You should get a makeover too. There'll be another meeting of the club in a few weeks. I'd love you to submit to Rachel. I think it would be a revelation to you. You like looking in from the outside at submission but you're afraid to admit, even to yourself, that you want to let go and experience those feelings yourself.”

Her statement troubled me. “I'm not the same as you,” I said weakly. “You want different things.”

“I've seen what sort of looks you like. I've read the stories you like. If anything, your tastes are more extreme than mine.”

“Maybe, but there's a difference between having a fantasy and wanting that fantasy to be real.”

“But you joined Rachel's club, so you have to admit that some part of you finds the idea of being made over attractive.” I was unable to defend myself and floundered as I tried to find a reply. “I presume you'll be going to the next meeting with me?”

Was she right? Had Quinn understood something about me that I had tried to repress? Were my efforts to encourage her changes merely a vicarious mechanism to experience something of the desires I felt in myself. Her words, or possibly my refusal to admit their truth, made me lose my temper. Suddenly I was angrily accusing her of a secret desire to be with Madeleine. And because she was as strong willed as I she gave in to her emotions too. Rather than deny my accusations she taunted me with threats to allow Madeleine to choose a new style for her, even if it meant she ended up bald. “And maybe I'll take her up on her suggestion to go back to her house this time.”

“She'd make you smoke until you were sick,” I goaded.

“I wouldn't mind. Actually I liked smoking. I might start doing it more often.”

“It would affect your flute playing. And I know that that's far more important to you than anything else. It's certainly more important than I am to you.”

I was now making absurd accusations and the result was that I left her house to return home, furious with her. We didn't speak the following day but after two days without her I realised that she'd become part of me and I couldn't function without her. I called her to apologise on the morning of her audition and wished her every success. She was clearly pleased to hear from me, and we arranged to meet in the afternoon at the railway station.

She looked so cute with her cropped hair, smart suit and glasses. I hugged her for what seemed like minutes. “Oh my little baby, I missed you so much. I was so stupid, all those things I said.”

She smiled at me. “Yes you were!”

We giggled. “You're supposed to apologise too! That's how it works when we make up.”

“Yes, but I was right,” she said mischievously. “And aren't you going to ask me how it went?”

I nodded. “Yes, what pieces did you play?”

“I did a Takemitsu piece to start, Voice, then a Bach piece, the courante from the partita and I did a Koechlin piece from Les Chants de Nectaire.”

“I thought you were going to play the Debussy.”

“Yes, but everyone plays Syrinx. The Koechlin is in a similar style but I thought it would give a bit of freshness.”

“And it went well?”

“Fairly, I think. They've got a couple more people to hear tomorrow. I should hear in the afternoon.”

“I bet you were brilliant. You can play the pieces for me later and I'll give you my opinion. If you play well you can do anything you like with me.”

She laughed. “Does that include a trip to Rachel for a nice new cut?”

“No! It definitely doesn't. I meant anything you please in the bedroom.”

“Well that's a start, but I meant what I said. I'd be so pleased to see you chosen as Rachel's model. I want you to experience all the things I did when she cut my hair. You'd be so beautiful with a really wild new cut. You have the loveliest face and I want to see you so badly with short hair.”

I felt a flaring of anger that she should keep pushing this, when I'd tried so hard to apologise, and yet I couldn't deny that her words excited me. I imagined Quinn's delight in seeing me transformed, imagined us standing together looking in the mirror, my image changed beyond recognition. And yet I couldn't visualise myself with the sort of cut I admired on others. There was a block there.

“I'm not strong enough. I couldn't let my hair be cut like yours,” I said. There was no anger any more, rather sadness.

“But I'm not strong at all. I'm weak, and so are you. You have to let that weakness fill you. My body turned to ice when you chose my name. But I could do nothing to stop it then, it was too late. And it was the hardest thing for me to accept, but it was better than any fantasy I'd ever had. You need to allow your weakness to take you over too. Give over all control to someone else. Let them change you.”

“You mean you?” I was breathless now, as I contemplated allowing my hair to be controlled.

“I don't. I'm too weak. I'd compromise because I love you too much and I'd be worried about hurting you. But you need someone uncompromising, just as I do. I like when you take charge, but still, you're too soft with me. You'd never have made me get this cut would you?” I shook my head. It was true. “And yet you love it, don't you? I think we're so alike. And I love you like no one else, but sometimes I see that we need someone else to fulfil a need. Rachel has given us both a lot of pleasure, hasn't she?”

“Yes, but still... I don't know that what you say is true. You were sure when we met that you wanted to submit to a makeover. I have no such certainty. Until I met Rachel it was enough for me to watch. I was a voyeur, and that still feeds a need in me. I don't know myself well enough to say whether or not you're right, that deep down I want the same as you. And it terrifies me to think I'd hate the experience.”

She put her arm around me and pulled me close to her. “It's only hair. It grows back. If you cut your hair like mine I'm sure it would surprise your friends but in a few weeks they'd be used to it. I was amazed how soon people adjusted. I feel it all much more keenly than anyone else. So don't think your life would be turned upside down if you suddenly had a new haircut. If you did hate it it would grow back. But I think you'd find, like me, that there's something in the process that excites me like nothing else. And that's why I hope more than anything that Rachel will choose you soon.”

I groaned. “You know, there was a woman at the last meeting who offered me money to get a style that she chose. Quite a lot of money.”

“And you only tell me now? Who was it?”

“I think her name was Nina. Mid thirties, shoulder length hair, rich looking.” Quinn looked unsure that she remembered her. “She didn't speak to me at all really, she just slipped me a note at the end of the night.”

“You should do it! After all it's not like it's going to lose you work. Almost all your work is online and you don't have to meet people face to face. Or are you worried your girlfriend wouldn't like you with short hair? I can assure you, she'd be most pleased with you. And if it happened that you didn't like it I could always shave you. You know I like bald women and you'd look super without hair.”

“Oh Quinn, stop it! I'd hate that.”

“I'm not sure you would. And neither are you. You need to experiment, and so do I. We're so inexperienced, both of us. Our fears have held us back for so long, stifled us. Now I want to stop hiding from who I am.”

The discussion was never resolved. I begged Quinn to stop, to give me time to process, and to discuss our feelings somewhere more private. Yet over the coming weeks we didn't ever manage to confront our feelings so directly. Quinn had been successful in her audition and was now preparing to go on tour with the orchestra. She'd be away for three weeks. Despite my happiness at her success it made me realise that a relationship with a musician would carry difficulties, since she would frequently be away from home to play concerts. And, try as I might to arrange my work schedule to allow us time together, Quinn's commitment to her craft meant that there were periods when I hardly saw her. I soon came to realise that three weeks absence would be difficult for me to bear and suggested that I could accompany her. She was obviously not in favour, afraid that as a new musician in the orchestra it would look unprofessional for her girlfriend to be along for the ride. It soon became apparent that it was impractical; paying for accommodation and transport would be beyond my budget, so I had to accept that we'd be apart.

It was shortly before Quinn's departure that the next meeting of Rachel's club would take place. Quinn made it quite clear that I wasn't to miss it. I paid my fee on the day when I received my invite at her urging (Quinn's fee had already been paid by Madeleine so she had only to confirm her willingness to attend). “Good girl,” she said and kissed me as I sent my confirmation. “Let's hope you come home a new woman.”

“I wish I could be as willing as you. It terrifies me to think that I'll be chosen. And then you'll be gone for weeks too. That would be more than I could bear.”

The wait for the meeting was agony, even worse than my fears before the first gathering. Quinn tried to make light of it, joking about the sort of look I'd soon have, but she gave in to my request not to discuss it. I couldn't put it out of my mind, but having to consciously deal with the possibility of being given a radically new image was impossible for me.

By the day of the meeting I was experiencing intense nausea. I told Quinn that I couldn't go along, that I was too ill. She was unsympathetic. “It's easy for you,” I whined. “You've done your part and now you have a free pass for another few months. You can just go along without any worries and enjoy the spectacle.”

“If I didn't have this tour coming up I'd sit for Rachel again. I will at the next meeting.”

This didn't in any way reassure me. I'd imagined that Quinn would let her hair grow out. I found her current crop very sexy, but I did miss her more feminine look with more hair. “I don't want you to.”

She smiled devilishly. “Well of course I could get a wig for my concerts. If you don't come with me tonight I'll let Rachel have her evil way with me. And of course Madeleine will be there. I may not be able to resist her advances if you're not there to keep me virtuous.”

I wailed with genuine hurt. “Quinn, don't say that. I'd be heartbroken if you went with someone else. Promise me you'll never be unfaithful.”

“I'm sorry, I shouldn't tease you like this. I promise I'll never do anything with anyone else unless we decide together that it's the right thing. Don't look at me like that. You're such a prude some times! I have fantasised about experimenting with another woman, and don't pretend you haven't thought about it too. I do want to be dominated. Even sitting for Rachel was a very sexual experience for me. I'm sure if you allowed yourself to experience the same you'd feel just the same. It's scary but the nicest thing imaginable.” She kissed me again and again. “I haven't stopped hoping it will be your turn tonight. Be a brave girl. I'll hold your hand.”

I'm not sure I would have made it on my own. I was unable to take in what was going on around me. I can recall only fragments of the early part of the evening. Madeleine was more keen than ever to win me over and seemed not put off in the least by the news that Quinn and I were now involved. She was very taken with Quinn's new look and complimented me on my choice of style. “She's such a little cutie, and the glasses make her look so dorky. You have made her just irresistible, Poppy.”

Quinn asked about Olivia, who was nowhere to be seen tonight. “I'm afraid she decided we weren't compatible. I pushed her a little too hard, I suppose. She's a sweet little thing but she doesn't share our fetish. In the end she admitted that she could never cut her hair as I wanted, and I had to be honest and tell her I'd never be satisfied.” We gave out condolences, but if she was upset about the parting she concealed it well.

I was pleased that tonight there would be no delay before selecting the model. All too soon we'd placed our names in the bag and, as seemed to be the custom, a first time attendee was the one who chose the name.

My heart was racing and I was certain that Rachel would say “Poppy”. I visualised myself rising and walking heavy legged to the chair. I would be sure to disgrace myself, sobbing and snivelling throughout the evening. I'd poured a big glass of wine to calm my nerves but a sip had intensified my nausea and so I was completely sober. I wished that I was so drunk that I was oblivious to what was happening. If only I could wake up tomorrow with no recall about my humiliation.

“Francesca!”

I felt like I was falling back through the floor. I felt cool air enter my lungs and realised I'd been holding my breath for so long that I was dizzy. I was spared! Quinn kissed me on the cheek and passed me a tissue. I dabbed at my eyes, which were wet with tears of joy.

“Oh god, I'm so relieved,” I muttered. We made a trip to the toilet, because I needed a moment alone to compose myself. Quinn held me in her arms. “I know you wanted it to be me, but I'm just in pieces. I think if she'd said my name I'd have ended up in hospital. I was on the verge of a panic attack as it was.”

“Just take a deep breath and relax. Francesca is really beautiful, and I can't wait to see what cut she gets. You can enjoy your favourite thing in the world now so don't think about anything else but that.”

We returned to the main room now and I took my place. Francesca hadn't been at the last meeting but seemed well known to most of the members. She was, I guessed, around forty but well preserved. She had a good figure and nice features. She had wavy hair, past her shoulders, reddish brown. By the end of the night she'd been given a sharp new cut, the back and sides (now dyed black) shorn very tight, with longer orange-red hair on top, slashed into jagged spikes and swept to the right. It was very dramatic and suited her well, particularly with the dark make-up that Rachel had provided. The last work of the night was to decorate the left side of Francesca's scalp with a hair tattoo. Rachel had clearly been practising her skills and was keen to show off her abilities. The design was complex and Rachel used a razor with great precision to bring the pattern to a hard-edged perfection.

She'd looked like a well-bred business woman at the beginning of the night. Now as Francesca looked at her image in the mirror she was transformed into someone daring and edgy. “Oh Rachel, it's too much,” she said, her regret tangible. “But it's gorgeous and I will wear it for a few weeks. It's too lovely to ruin for the sake of my work.”

She announced that she would be delighted to share the pictures of her makeover with all of the members in attendance, and she was rewarded with enthusiastic applause. I was now trembling with excitement, delighted by the sights of the night. My earlier anxiety hadn't entirely subsided, however, and I was struggling to reconcile my fear of being chosen as model with the pleasure I had in seeing someone else transformed. I knew it would be hard for me to miss attending a meeting when it provided me with such intense delight.

Quinn looked as pleased as me, but I could sense unease in her too. “Are you OK?” I asked. “You look uncomfortable.”

She leaned close and whispered: “I want to be with Madeleine.” I was astonished and looked at her, uncomprehending. Did she want to break up with me? “I want us to be with her for a night,” she clarified. “I was talking to Rachel earlier and she told me that Madeleine is a professional dominatrix. Please, Poppy, let's talk to her and arrange something. We both like her, and she likes us. And I need to feel what it's like to give up control.”

“I don't want you to,” I said pleadingly, feeling a distrust, a jealousy welling inside. Then I found myself analysing what she'd just said. “Wait, you said 'us'? You want me to submit to her as well?”

“More than anything. I want you to give in to those thoughts you try to lock away. I want that more than I want her to dominate me. I think you'd be transformed. It's really important to me. Please say yes.”

My instinct was to say no, but I also sensed something of Quinn's unhappiness, unhappiness with me. We were deeply in love but we were also inexperienced and I knew she had needs that I couldn't satisfy. “I have to think about it,” I whispered.

“No, tell me now. Be spontaneous. Trust your instinct for once. We can learn so much from her. Learn about ourselves. Please, Poppy.”

I was beside myself with nervousness once more, the discomfort of the earlier day suddenly returning. I didn't know what to say but I must have given a faint nod because moments later I found myself in a corner of the room with Madeleine and Quinn, who was talking rapidly, hushed and urgent. “We have a favour to ask, Madeleine. We're both submissive, and I'm aware that you're dominant. We'd like someone to give us guidance and training. We're very inexperienced.”

Madeleine looked at us in turn, a coy smile on her lips. “I know you've been enquiring about me, Quinn. Did you see this as a professional transaction, or were you looking at us all becoming intimate?”

“Professional. I've never been as happy as I am with Poppy.” I felt myself blushing, a delicious feeling to be loved by someone so sweet.

“And you want this too, Poppy? I sense you have more doubts than your more adventurous lover.”

“I can't deny that I do. But yes, I'm willing to do this because it's something Quinn needs.”

Her smile became more arch. “I don't think for one minute that you're sincere, Poppy. But perhaps it's yourself you're lying to. I think we'll have to explore how you really feel, because I sense that your fear is masking your true desires. I'm good at getting at the truth in confused little girls like you. So, yes, I'd very much like to get to know you both a little more deeply. I know neither of you is rich and normally I'd assume you'd struggle to pay for more than an hour or two of my time. But because our interests are so aligned I'm prepared to allow myself to give you a very favourable deal. I'll send you my wish list and you can each pay for an item from that as a tribute. If you do that I'll be prepared to give you both plenty of my time. Do we have a deal?”

“Some of these things are so expensive,” Quinn sighed. “I think I'd imagined she'd just want to play with us without any charge.”

“I think it's a way of showing her control,” I sighed. “But never mind the cost, some of these are terrifying. If we bought those she might think we want them used on us.” I pointed to an array of medical devices that I knew would be agonising in use.

“There's lots of haircutting stuff. That's not so sadistic.”

I groaned. “But she might think I want them used on me...”

“Maybe you do,” Quinn teased, but my stomach was lurching violently as I contemplated being in Madeleine's control.

“Oh god, don't say that. I don't know what I'll do if she starts pushing me toward cutting my hair.”

“She's bound to. We just have to set limits. If you're not ready yet, just say that's not something you'll allow.”

“Would you let her cut yours?”

“Sure. Once I'm back from the tour I don't have to be precious about my hair.”

“Oh, but Quinn, what if she shaved you bald? I'd never stop crying.”

“I don't know, I'm sure I'd be upset too, but I'd be lying if I said I'm totally opposed. There's definitely a part of me that wants to try being bald. Would I be sexy with a smooth head?” I groaned as she kissed me. “I know what sort of girls you like looking at on the web. I know you like bald girls.”

“It really doesn't suit everyone though. And you have such lovely hair.”

“But I've seen those videos you like too. You get a kick from seeing plain girls being shaved, girls who don't look good after. You like the humiliation of a shave.”

I felt guilty, knowing that she was right. “Even if you were right though, it's different to see a stranger in a video. I have no emotional attachment. But I love you and I want to see you pretty and happy.”

“You say that but I think Madeleine is right, you're hiding behind your fears. You worry what your friends would think if your fetish became apparent. If your girlfriend shaved her head. If you shaved your head. Two lovely bald girls together. We'd be so turned on all the time. You need to stop worrying about being judged and start living.”

I couldn't bring myself to admit that Quinn had understood my feelings, and so the matter lay unresolved a few days later when she said her farewell to me. She promised that we'd Skype every day and that she'd think about me every day. I told her to concentrate on her playing. “I know they'll see what a great musician you are and they'll all love you. Don't make yourself sad by thinking of us being apart. You're getting to travel, just enjoy it all and make lots of new friends.”

She seemed to be doing just that. Each day she would send me pictures of herself and the places she was visiting. The tour passed through Belgium and the Netherlands, France and Spain. The travelling was tiring but I could see that she was happy in the pictures. She was thrilled to be part of a professional orchestra and proudly sent me reviews, which were entirely positive.

For my part, I had no such distractions. I missed her terribly and let her know each night when we could chat how I longed to be with her again. Toward the end of the tour she mentioned her hair. “My hair's such a mess. I saw a nice barber shop today and I was tempted to get it sharpened up. All my friends think my hair's super short, but they've no idea how it's grown. Remember how sharp it looked when I got it cut?”

It was true, Quinn's hair grew very quickly and it had grown to over an inch now. Most of the growth was her natural auburn, only darkened at the tips now. I wanted her to grow it, but it looked untidy and in need of a trim.

“Wait till you're back,” I urged. “I want to see you getting it cut.”

“I'm going to let Madeleine take me for a cut when we see her. She says she knows a really good barberette that she's been itching to try out. She wants you to sit for her too.”

I was left in a panic as the Wi-Fi crashed (it had been a common occurrence during our chats, since the connections in hotels was frequently unreliable). After half an hour of attempts at reconnection I got an apologetic text from Quinn to say that she'd abandoned her efforts to reconnect and would need to sleep before an early departure the following morning.

I was appalled to think that Quinn had agreed to allow Madeleine to take her for a cut. What if she did indeed end up bald? I knew that it was a real possibility. And I had to admit that Quinn was right, I would feel unsettled by being seen with a bald girl because it did hint at my secret fetish. More than ever I felt that this obsession was a curse on both Quinn and me.

She returned a few days later and I was overjoyed to once more hold her in my arms. “I couldn't bear to be separated from you for so long again,” I whispered as I held her to me.

“That's what you get when you date a musician,” she giggled. “But I'll try not to make a habit of it. I can't imagine I'll be on long tours very often. Anyway, I'm sure life as a full time orchestral player isn't for me, but it's useful that I can do a few concerts now and then when they need a big wind section. It's much more rewarding playing in smaller ensembles.”

I soon discovered that she'd been in frequent contact with Madeleine whilst she was away. “We're going to see her on Saturday. So if you've got any plans, make sure to cancel them.”

“This Saturday? Like three days away?” She nodded. “But that's so soon. Why didn't you tell me?”

“This. You getting in a panic again. Just let it happen and enjoy it. Madeleine likes you, she's really excited. She wants to treat you to a makeover so much, and she's not insisting on anything super short. Why don't you say yes?”

I shook my head tersely. “No, I'm not doing a cut. I'm not ready.”

“Well I am. And she did hint that if you say no she'll be particularly strict with mine. So you've only got yourself to blame if you have a bald girlfriend by Saturday night.”

“Oh Quinn, please don't do that. In fact let's stop this now. I don't want to submit to anyone, least of all Madeleine.”

“I'm going. I want it and I want you to be with me. You need this release, Poppy. And anyway, if you stay home you'll miss my new haircut being done, and I know how much you'd love watching.”

She had me, despite my attempts to resist. I repeatedly threatened to refuse to go along with her but come Saturday morning I knew I couldn't bear to allow Quinn to go on her own. I hated myself for it but I felt she couldn't be trusted alone with Madeleine. I'd seen how seductive she could be, and I knew Quinn was susceptible to her dominant nature. And not just that, I suspected that physically she was of a type that attracted Quinn: androgynous, mature, voluptuous. Jealousy was something I'd never experienced previously, at least not this intensely. I despised feeling this way.

We arrived by taxi at Madeleine's house at ten and once more I was beset with anxiety. Quinn's nervousness was apparent too, but she was excited, smiling all the time and coaxing me to relax.

“My dear sweet little girls,” Madeleine said as she opened the door to us. “Do come inside. I must insist on some formality. You'll address me as Mistress at all times, even when we go out later. I'll expect you to tolerate any contact I desire, including use of all orifices. I will inflict pain, and if it becomes too much you'll ask me to stop using the safe word, which for today is Beta. I know that you're both inexperienced so that at first you may feel uncomfortable and be tempted to ask to stop immediately. I'd urge you not to do that and I may, at my discretion, ignore your pleas if I feel that you will discover that by persisting you'll achieve pleasure. Now you'll make your first submission to me. Undress ladies.”

I'd expected this, but nevertheless I felt ashamed as I slipped out of my dress and discarded my undergarments. “Look at me,” Madeleine commanded. “Don't look at the floor. Stand up straight and display yourself.”

She stared at me hard, then spoke to Quinn. “Does she dislike her body, Quinn? She looks disgusted with herself.”

“Yes Mistress,” Quinn stated. There was an expectant silence and Quinn expanded: “She thinks she's overweight and ungainly. She has a tendency to stoop because she thinks it's bad for a woman to be tall.”

Madeleine moved to my side and I was quivering as she placed her hands on me to adjust my posture. “You know I think you're very attractive, Poppy. But you need to have confidence in yourself. You're the sort of girl who needs to make the most of herself. If you dress badly you could easily look frumpy.

“I think your hair is quite plain and unflattering. A good cut and colour would make you look very much more striking. Quinn, is she still insistent that she won't cut it?” I felt frustrated that I wasn't being allowed to speak for myself.

“Yes, Mistress. She's reluctant to discuss it at all with me. She's ashamed of her fetish and I suspect that she feels that if she starts to change her hair to more daring styles people will know what she feels, especially since she's dating me now and my hair has changed so dramatically.”

“Dirty secrets, is that what you think you have, Poppy? We need to make you accept who you are. Hiding away your true self will make you ill. Now will you be a good girl and come with Quinn and me for a nice little restyle? Nothing too short, just a pretty bob to show off your face nicely.”

“No thank you, Mistress,” I said in a strangled voice.

“What a shame. One day you'll be chosen at the club as a model and then I'll make sure you get something really extreme from Rachel. Do you think she'd like that, Quinn?”

“I think she'd be very upset when it happened but she'll be super-aroused too. I think once she's used to it she'll love trying new hairstyles.”

“Yes, I think you're right. She just needs the courage to take that first leap. Maybe today she will make her first steps in the right direction. Maybe if you're too timid to get a new cut I should leave you here while Quinn and I get made lovely. Would you like that?”

“No, Mistress.” I couldn't hide my displeasure.

“I don't think she's happy about me being alone with you, Mistress,” Quinn suggested.

“Is that so?” Madeleine chuckled.

“It's not that, it's just...”

“Stop!” she said firmly. “Address me as Mistress and answer clearly and honestly. Do you feel jealous? Do you not trust Quinn with me?”

I felt my cheeks grow hot. “Mistress, I am a little jealous, yes. I want to trust her but honestly I can't avoid this feeling.”

“So when you said 'It's not that' you were being dishonest. I think you should understand that dishonesty isn't acceptable with me today. There'll be a forfeit for that later. But for now I will let you accompany us on the condition that you pick up the bill for our makeovers. Is that agreed?”

“Yes, Mistress,” I said sullenly, trying to work out if I had enough money to cover two haircuts.

My punishment for refusing a makeover was to be dressed as frumpishly as possible. Mistress had some clothes from charity shops and I was dressed in a long skirt and baggy woollen jumper. I was scrubbed of make-up, my hair smoothed back into an untidy ponytail with a heavy dressing that just made it look greasy. Quinn wore a smart pair of black trousers and a simple white shirt that looked pretty and elegant on her, Mistress wore a red sleeveless dress that showed that both arms were tattooed (she'd always worn long sleeves during our previous encounters).

“She's staring at me, Quinn. Doesn't she like tattoos, or is that lust?”

“I think it's lust, Mistress,” Quinn laughed, to my chagrin. “She often looks at tattooed girls with edgy haircuts, but she's always reluctant to discuss what she likes.”

“Haven't you thought of getting tattoos to look sexy for her, Quinn?”

“I have. I want to get some but I don't know what yet and I have no money anyway. I don't want something cheap.”

I'd discouraged Quinn when she suggested that we should get tattoos and thought she'd accepted it. This conversation was something I disliked. Finally Mistress addressed me and I was allowed to speak. “Would you like Quinn to get a nice big tattoo over her lovely slim arm? I think that would look very good on her.”

“No Mistress. I think it wouldn't suit her. And besides, I don't think it would look professional.”

“Do I look unprofessional? Is that what you think?”

“No Mistress. I mean, today you look casual but when I've seen you at the club you look very professional and smart.”

“But Quinn could wear long sleeves and hide her tattoos. Or do you do a job where you have to bare your arms?”

“No Mistress, I'm a musician,” she explained.

This seemed to amuse Mistress. “But every musician I ever saw has tattoos. Why do you think Quinn is different?”

“She's a classical musician, Mistress. She's been playing in an orchestra.”

“Oh, I see. You must be very good,” Mistress said. “But you could still have tattoos, couldn't you?” Quinn nodded. “I think you should. I have a friend who's a very good tattooist. I'm sure I could work something out to get you a very good deal. Oh dear, look at little sourpuss. Poppy, don't you like the idea of Quinn getting sexy tattoos? Are you so jealous that you think she'll attract the wrong sort of girls?”

“No, Mistress, I just like her as she is.”

This seemed to amuse her greatly. “Well we're about to fix up her hair, so that's going to change very soon. Maybe it's you who should be the tattooed one then.” Our discussion came to an end since we'd reached the shop, but I was sure I hadn't heard the last of this topic. As we stood outside Mistress became solemn.

“It's time I acknowledged your status, ladies. You'll both wear collars for the rest of the day. You'll wear them proudly and they'll remind you that you have to be obedient to me.” Quinn was collared first, a wide band of black leather, buckled at the back, a ring hanging from her throat now. Mistress ruffled her hair. “This is mine for as long as the collar stays on. Do you promise to accept any haircut I choose?”

“Yes, Mistress,” Quinn said. I could see she was very nervous, but more excited than scared.

Now it was my turn. My collar was wider still, covered with pyramidal studs and with three D-rings attached across the front. “Are you sure you won't agree to a haircut, Poppy? It's a chance to redeem yourself. You can even choose a minimum length.”

“No thank you, Mistress,” I whispered.

“Very well, it's you who'll suffer,” she said enigmatically.

We now entered the shop. It was a unisex barbershop in a district which was well known for its gay culture. There were quite a few customers waiting, fairly evenly split between the sexes. We sat on the bench in the waiting area which gave the best view of the work of the barbers. The nearest barberette was a Chinese woman with a very distinctive face, high angular cheekbones and a narrow mouth. Her hair was cut in a short bob, angled up at the back, revealing a closely shorn nape. She had an angled fringe, and her hair was dyed a silvery grey. She was giving a young man a very severe buzz on the back and sides, contrasting with a heavy shock of tight curls on top. The evidence of the hair on the floor suggested he'd had a lot cut.

“She's our barberette,” Mistress whispered. “She's very good, but I've never had a cut from her before. Now you've seen how beautiful she is are you sure you won't allow her to transform you, Poppy?”

My polite refusal was punished. Mistress took a chain dog leash from her bag and looped it around a bar at the back of the bench. She clipped the end to my collar and fixed a lock around it. I glanced about the shop and realised that everyone seemed to be paying attention to us. “Please, Mistress, that's not necessary. I'll be good, I won't move.”

“It's necessary if I decide it is. You need to be humiliated, Poppy, and this is a humiliation. Now you can stay silent unless I ask you a direct question or give permission. And don't look down. Keep your back straight and head up. You're to watch the work of Crystal, that's why I allowed you to come.”

I felt more uncomfortable than ever in my life. I could hardly bring myself to look about me. Each time I did I was reminded that my plight was a source of amusement for those waiting alongside me. Crystal worked at a fast pace and soon it was Mistress who occupied her chair. Her hair had grown out without a trim since the night when I'd seen her given her flattop, though she'd dyed it to a uniform brown now. A strip of tissue was wound around her neck and Crystal covered her with a long baby blue cape. There was a long discussion which was inaudible to me above the noise of the shop. Then Crystal took a set of clippers and attached a small guard. Without hesitation she drove them up Mistress's nape and sheared away the untidy regrowth.

Soon, almost too fast, the entire back and sides were again tightly buzzed. I wasn't used to seeing such urgency in a haircut, used to the more sedate and cosseted world of the salon, yet I realised that Crystal's near brutal manner excited me greatly. She looked serious and unsmiling as she worked, and said nothing. I imagined how scary it would be to swap places with Mistress, and felt my heart skip as I thought of my sweet Quinn being subjected to her treatment in just a few minutes.

Mistress still had some length on top as Crystal took the guard from her clippers. She now used the edge of the blade to carve a line across Mistress's temples, dipping down only very slightly in a loop below her crown. I couldn't hide my surprise as the unguarded blades now went over the back and sides again, now chiselling away all of the short pelt of hair up to the line. They cut very close, only a shadow of stubble remaining where they'd passed. I could see Mistress's face in the mirror and thought I detected through her veneer of cool indifference a moment of insecurity as her side were shaved to a full two inches over the top of her ears.

The closeness of the shave was obviously insufficient for Quinn. Mistress was now wrapped in a steaming towel, and, when this was removed, given a coating of lather, brushed vigorously over her nape and temples. I could smell the tangy scent of tea tree and saw a blissful expression come over Mistress's face. Crystal would use a straight razor to shave her. She pulled forcefully at Mistress's scalp to tauten the skin, then drew the razor over the stubble in firm, precise strokes, wiping the accumulated froth from the blade on a towel worn over her left arm.

I could now see that Mistress's scalp had acquired a marble-like smoothness, and it was paler than her face, which was subtly darkened by exposure to the late spring sun. It looked so harsh, yet I was so fascinated that I could barely decide whether the cut was pleasing. All of my consciousness was focussed on the pleasure of seeing Crystal working.

All too soon the razor was put aside. I was surprised to see that now Mistress's hair was being covered in bleach. I'd hardly prepared myself to see Mistress getting a new colour, expecting that a barbershop would only provide cutting services. I started to feel uneasy as I imagined Quinn being given a similar cut as well as a new colour.

Once the bleach was applied Mistress summoned Quinn, who sat in the huge leather chair. She was shaking as Mistress and Crystal consulted. As Crystal caped her Mistress took away her glasses. Quinn didn't say a word before Crystal began cutting. She would get the cut Mistress had chosen and have no say.

“She's such a pretty little thing, isn't she?” Mistress said softly to me. “And her vulnerability makes her even more desirable. Why did you put her in these ugly glasses? Did you want to hide her prettiness? Or do you like that sexless, geeky look?”

“I don't know, Mistress,” I admitted. “I'm so inexperienced and I was trying to make her happy because she wanted to be pushed beyond her comfort zone. It's not something that comes naturally to me.”

“Our sexuality is always mysterious. We live in a society where so much has to be hidden, and so we repress our true feelings, even from our selves. My journey has been long and hard too. I think yours has hardly begun, but today you've made a beginning. You might find that you have to explore a lot of dead ends before you discover what truly makes you happy. I do hope you have the courage to find your way and don't retreat into secrecy again as so many do. I want you and Quinn to be happy together, but at the moment she's far ahead of you in knowing what it is that she wants.”

“You think that's a problem?”

“Potentially. I sense you're quite similar, but she needs someone who's supportive of her growth and at present I think she worries you're trying to hold her back. Even today I know you're only here because of your jealousy and mistrust. Otherwise you'd never have agreed to spend a day under my control. Anyway, we've reached the part you most enjoy. Why don't you concentrate on Quinn's makeover? If you get really excited maybe you'll realise that what you most want is to experience the same for yourself instead of being a passive spectator.”

I was disquieted by Mistress's suggestions but tried to do as she said and watched Quinn. Crystal combed through her hair, making it stand up from her head, showing how long it had become. Then she reached for her clippers and they roared as the motor engaged. I felt nervous as she traced a path up Quinn's neck, then high up her nape. She'd put on a small guard and the fluffy hair was immediately tamed. They cut it to a ginger peach fuzz, so short that it was paled by the visibility of the scalp. Only millimetres remained.

I could see how Quinn shifted awkwardly as Crystal moved to her side and tipped her head away to allow her to cut more easily. As the side was shorn to stubble I saw her screw up her eyes, squinting myopically to see how short she was being cropped. I knew her sight was so poor that she wouldn't see clearly. I could see that her hair was being cut shorter than it had ever been previously.

“Don't fight your feelings,” Mistress whispered. “You want to feel sympathy for her suffering, want to spare her the humiliation of a far-too-short cut, but it's just that embarrassment she wants. Do you want her to have the back and sides shaved like mine?”

“I don't know, Mistress,” I groaned.

“Of course you do. If you didn't want it you wouldn't feel doubt. You feel ashamed of your cruelty, but it's there. Tell Crystal you want the back and sides as a shaved fade. Do it now or I'll punish Quinn for your weakness. For once, take ownership of how you really feel.”

“Crystal, please can you give her a shaved fade, just like Mistress's?” My voice sounded harsh and grating, an unfamiliar, alien speaking with my mouth. The stylist paused and stared at me, her gaze intimidating. She looked then at Mistress who nodded her confirmation. Quinn looked at me, her eyes sad and accusing. I'd betrayed her, but my guilt was balanced by a sense of daring and excitement.

The guard was set aside and Crystal again used the edge to trace an edge into buzzed hair. I could barely breath as I thought that everything below this line would be shaved bald. And the line was so high, surely higher even than Mistress's. It seemed to take only moments for Crystal's practised hand to mark the guideline, then she was using the bare blades to shave away every trace of softness. My lovely, sweet Quinn was being shorn to stubble and I couldn't help feel that there was something punitive in this cut. It looked like a cut given to a criminal, harsh, unflattering. And yet I was more delighted than guilty, though I was sure I would feel an intense regret later.

I was so engrossed in watching that I jumped as Mistress spoke softly to me. “I bet I know what you're thinking. You'd love to see that shave extended over her entire head, see her completely bald. She would suit that wonderfully, but before I allow that you'll have to make a lot of progress. Maybe I'll only allow it when you're bald too,” she chuckled. “I bet it makes you so wet to think of you and Quinn rubbing your heads together without a single hair to come between you.”

Now Crystal was finished with the clippers and was brushing Quinn's scalp with a pale soapy lather. I turned to Mistress and found myself staring at her shaved scalp, so smooth and pale. I could hardly bear to think of Quinn similarly coiffed. I tried to frame a reply but Mistress hushed me. “Just watch and take your delight. Let my words colour your joy.” Now she addressed Crystal. “Do hurry along dear, I'm sure this bleach is ready to rinse. My scalp is getting itchy.”

The barberette looked at her with undisguised tetchiness but said nothing. She attacked Quinn with her razor now, and Mistress's words seemed to have piqued her. Certainly Quinn was shaved with alarming rapidity. I could see Quinn's distress as the blade was pressed tight to her scalp, and I imagined how easily it could slice through her soft skin, terrifyingly sharp as it was. But Crystal was too expert to make such a mistake. Soon every trace of hair was gone from her beneath the top of her head. She had a beautiful shaped head, and her scalp was smooth and unblemished. But she looked so tiny and delicate now, her neck thinner, her features younger. There seemed something vampiric in Crystal now, something menacing in the attention she gave to Quinn.

The shave now complete, Quinn was once more subjected to clippers. Crystal began by shearing into the hard edge where the clippered hair began. She pressed the blades so hard to Quinn's scalp that her head was pushed to the side by each stroke. Each stroke culminated in a roll of the wrist so that the blades rose minutely from her scalp, allowing a graduation of the cut, and soon an even fade was formed above the shaved area. It softened the cut but at the expense of seeming to extend the shave even higher.

Now the hair on top was combed upwards and Crystal began to shear away the softness and length, the clippers rattling against the steel comb. She roughly cut away more than half of the length, then continued to cut in the same manner, but now with much more precision and control. I soon saw that she was placing the comb absolutely level, squaring off the top to an even plane. I felt a shiver as I realised that my lovely Quinn was going to be given a flattop.

The last remnants of Quinn's longer hair had tumbled down the cape now and I stared in wonder at her. I could barely recognise her. “That girl does a great flattop,” Mistress said admiringly. “She's absolutely nailed it. Quinn looks like a proper sub now. Do you think she can see herself when she squints or will she get a real shock when she puts her glasses on?”

“She's pretty short-sighted, Mistress. I don't imagine she can see it at all clearly.”

“Oh, the poor little thing. It will be a shock. She looks so boyish. Do you think she'll be teary? She looks pretty tense, doesn't she? I think you like that, though, Poppy. You like to see a few tears when the stylist gets scissor happy. Or razor happy in this case.”

Crystal silenced the clippers and put them aside. She filled her palms with a dressing and massaged into the ruins of Quinn's hair, then blasted it with the dryer, brushing it to achieve a perfect alignment. A brush was flicked about Quinn's neck as she was allowed from the chair. Her tonsuring had taken little more than ten minutes.

She looked lost as she rose, squinting at the mirror. She itched at the collar, then tentatively felt her nape, but withdrew her hand, obviously disconcerted by the sensation of her bald scalp. Mistress went to her and placed the glasses on her nose. She made a little anguished cry as she saw herself clearly. It was a very severe cut, the entire sides now bald, the front no more than a half inch, and cut so close over the middle of her head that her scalp was visible.

Mistress gave her a tissue to dab at her eyes, whispering something to her, compliments I guessed, since Quinn gave an embarrassed smile. “Now you two sit together while mummy has her hair finished. No talking and no touching. Be good girls.” I could only smile at Quinn to let her know how proud I was of her.

Mistress's hair took somewhat longer to finish, largely because of the colour work that Crystal had to complete. When she finally rose from the chair, Mistress's hair was swept back from her high forehead in a pompadour which was set in a very sculptured wave, the form emphasised by a streak of white against her beige-blonde locks. It was rather excessive, especially set above the bare back and sides. Mistress, however, was delighted with her new style.

“Poppy, my dear, are you going to let Crystal give you a makeover too?”

“No, Mistress,” I said terrified of the barberette being allowed to have carte blanche with my long hair.

Mistress gave a long sigh. “Very well then. As we agreed, you can keep your hair but you will pay for the privilege of watching her work. Pay Crystal and give her a twenty pound tip.”

I knew I could scarcely afford the bill, but I didn't dare refuse. I heard Mistress addressing Quinn. “And don't you dare give her back money for your cut,” she ordered. “If she's too timid to join us she can pay for the pleasure of her voyeurism. We paid with our hair for her entertainment, so it's the least she can do.”

We decamped to a nearby café where we sat on the terrace and Mistress treated us to drinks and cakes. I was positioned on a bench in the centre. “A fresh shave is such a delight,” Mistress said, stroking her fingers over her nape. “Would you like to feel?” I nodded shyly and raised my hand. Mistress chuckled. “Not like that! Your lips.”

She lowered her head and allowed me to press my lips to her bared scalp. I was painfully aware of the presence of passers-by, a constant stream of people passing in the busy street. My actions could scarcely fail to draw attention, yet Mistress made sure my kisses continued, egging me on and making little sighs of delight as my lips explored her nape and temples.

And I in turn felt a delight at the sensation, clouded only by the lack of privacy, and a certain guilt that I could feel so aroused by another in Quinn's presence. Finally Mistress raised her head and ordered me to perform a similar service to Quinn. Now I found myself so excited that I was barely aware of the intruding stares of strangers. “Quinn, it feels divine,” I purred. “I love how this feels, it's so sexy.”

“Keep going, no one can see,” Mistress said, her fingers pressing to my mound, pressing and rubbing through the thin material of my dress. I groaned at this unexpected and unwelcome touch. Her roughness was unaccustomed, but I soon realised that it was irresistible. I didn't know whether to be happy or disappointed when she stopped.

“We'll head back to mine soon,” Mistress stated. “Quinn, since she was a good girl and looks enchantingly pretty, will be rewarded with numerous orgasms, but I think Poppy should be frustrated. I have a box where she will be locked, only her head protruding, since she likes to watch. And her hands will be bound so that she can't pleasure herself.” I felt displeasing emotions rising; guilt, anger, jealousy. “Quinn, dear, light me a cigarette.”

Quinn, eager to please, went into her bag and took a pack of cigarettes. She removed one and placed it in Mistress's lips, then held up her lighter. Mistress gave a long elated sigh as she took a deep breath.

“Oh, what delight. Quinn, have you been smoking for me?”

“No Mistress.”

“What a shame. I hoped I might have made you like it too much. I'd like you to smoke regularly. Would you do that for Mistress?”

“I'm sorry, no Mistress,” she said without embarrassment.

Her refusal seemed to surprise and amuse Mistress. “Why ever not? You're normally so eager to please me.”

“It would affect my playing, Mistress. That has to come first.” Mistress looked at her quizzically. “I play the flute.”

“And is she a good flautist, Poppy?”

“She's brilliant,” I said proudly. “I'm hardly a good judge of her abilities, but all of her friends are very good musicians too and they think she's the most talented of them all.” Quinn blushed and looked uneasy at my compliments.

“Oh, my word. I never imagined you had such talents. Just take a little drag of mine then, honey.” She held her cigarette to Quinn's lips and she indulged Mistress by taking in some smoke and letting it drift from her mouth. I couldn't help feeling a disgust at seeing her smoking.

“That's such a special sight for me, Quinn,” Mistress said. “I'd love you to smoke a whole cigarette now. Would you do that?” She nodded. “Poppy, you don't look happy.”

“I don't like her smoking, Mistress,” I said, unable to hide my feelings.

“I'll spare her if you smoke the cigarette instead.” She held a cigarette toward me. I couldn't bring myself to take it. “It's you or Quinn. I know she'll enjoy it more than you, but of course it may become a habit for her. You'd be sparing her that temptation.”

She didn't wait for an answer. She placed the cigarette in my lips and held up her lighter. “Just take in a little smoke. It'll be a little strong and make your throat tickle. Try not to cough.”

I fought against disgust and did as she asked. I suppressed the urge to cough as best I could, relieved when Mistress took away the cigarette and allowed me to expel the noxious smoke. “Now that does suit you,” she smiled. She put it back in my lips and ordered me to take another drag.

“What do you think, Quinn?” Mistress asked. “Do you like how it looks when your girlfriend smokes?”

I looked at Quinn, who was smiling, blushing. I knew she took on this expression when she was becoming aroused. I hated that my smoking had this effect. “I sort of do,” she admitted with some shame. “But I love that she's done something she hates to spare me. It's so romantic.”

As I continued to inhale the smoke I felt it having an impact on my consciousness. I feel a giddiness, a soaring sensation, despite the repulsion each mouthful of smoke induced. My humiliation was recorded for posterity as Mistress placed her phone before me to record my submission to her smoking fetish. Even after stubbing out my first ever cigarette I was unable to get rid of the harsh taste and I could smell the smoke on every part of me.

“I think little Poppy might be on the way to redeeming herself,” Mistress smiled. “Has that smoke emboldened you? Are you ready to face a haircut now?” I shook my head. “Very well, you can be allowed to participate fully if you agree to two new piercings in your ears. Will you do that?”

“Just in my lobes?” I said hopefully.

“Oh, nothing so easy. I want cartilage piercings. You'd do it if I asked, wouldn't you, Quinn?” She nodded happily. “So are you going to make Quinn get pierced or will you be a good girl for Mistress?”

“I'll do it, Mistress,” I said sullenly.

An hour later we were again back at Mistress's home. My ears were throbbing, each wounded with a new piercing. My left ear was punctured through the outer conch, the right bore a ring in a rook piercing. Both were 10 gauge piercings and had been very painful. My demonstrative reactions had amused Mistress.

We were immediately ordered to undress again and stand side by side to display ourselves. Mistress was obviously delighted to see Quinn with almost no hair. She repeatedly rubbed at her scalp and made no secret of her arousal. “I'm not sure about those big glasses, though. I prefer you with contacts. Does Poppy like the glasses?”

“She does, Mistress,” Quinn informed her. “She chose them for me. I didn't like wearing them out in public, but I have to admit that they're practical. My eyes get dry when I'm reading a score in contacts. I can see better with glasses.”

“But Poppy doesn't wear glasses? If she likes them so much she should wear some of her own.”

“She's a little short sighted, Mistress, but she's never had glasses.”

I was less than pleased that this information was now being revealed.

“Oh, is that so?” Mistress said to me. “You like glasses on others, but you're too vain to wear them?”

“I suppose it is vanity, Mistress. But I can manage without them.”

“Is that true, Quinn?”

“Not entirely. She won't have driving lessons because her sight is too bad.”

Mistress gave a cruel laugh. “You're such a naughty girl. I want you to promise you'll get glasses. Straining your eyes isn't good. I bet you get a lot of headaches. Will you go and get an eye test next week and get some glasses if I order it?”

I knew that what she was saying was sensible, even though I'd resisted it for years. I nodded. “Yes, Mistress.”

“And Quinn gets to choose this time. If she has to wear the glasses you foisted on her you can at least return the favour. Get her something very bold and exciting,” Mistress urged Quinn.

Quinn and I were now led into Mistress's basement which was equipped as a dungeon. There were poles at each end of the room to which we were now cuffed, our wrists held behind backs. We were forced to stand with our legs spread widely, our ankles bound by hoops which were separated by a long metal rod. I was facing Quinn who was now receiving caresses from Mistress. She became bolder, rougher and more intimate, until I was furious that she should dare to touch my girlfriend in this way.

“You've been a good girl and you should be rewarded,” she said. “Do you want to come?”

“Yes, Mistress,” Quinn said, her voice shaking with a passion that only fed my jealousy.

“The razor really turned you on. I could see. You were afraid, but you like that. And when you saw yourself, that shock, that humiliation. You adore that feeling, don't you?”

“Mmmmm, yes, I do,” she wailed. I could barely recognise her now. Mistress was turning her into a stranger.

“Tell me about what got you excited.”

“Crystal does, Mistress. She's so cold. She never smiled once. I think she liked giving me this cut, the nearest I saw to emotion was when I put my glasses back on and got upset. I'm sure she liked that.”

Mistress roughly probed at Quinn's mound. “You want to be humiliated by someone cruel?” She groaned her confession, nodded that Mistress was correct. “And does looking in a mirror make you feel humiliated?” A mirror was held before her.

“Oh god, yes. I look almost bald. Nothing feminine. It's like a prison cut.”

Mistress took what I later learned was a Hitachi magic wand and put the large ball on Quinn's sex. She shrieked at the touch, jerked her hips away in shock, but Mistress wouldn't allow her to evade the massager. Soon she was gasping and sighing in growing delight, heading for the climax that my clumsy efforts rarely succeeded in providing. Adding to my jealousy was a sense of my inadequacy.

I was immobile, a spectator as Quinn experienced climax after climax, until she was begging Mistress to spare her. She finally relented and, in silence, set to painting Quinn's face. Her glasses were removed and her lenses inserted. Her eyes were thickly lined, feathery lashes glued on, her full lips heavily coated with glossy deep red.

“You see how beautiful she is, Poppy? You should treasure her loveliness, not try to hide it. And the same is true of your own beauty. You're stuck in a rut and you need to be pushed. You need to give in to your cravings, just as Quinn allowed hers to be followed. You're as beautiful as Quinn, if only you'd allow your beauty to blossom. Do you think I'm right?”

“No Mistress. I think Quinn is far prettier.”

“I'm always right, Poppy. You have to accept that. You'll be much happier once you allow your hair to go. Until then you'll live in perpetual fear. I'd love to shave you bald right now. Will you agree to that?”

“No, Mistress,” I gasped.

“Very well, I'll show you how I punish vain little girls who love their long hair too much.”

My hair was brushed now and Quinn was freed from her bonds to assist. Mistress carefully sectioned my hair and, with Quinn's assistance, pulled my hair into numerous tight braids, twenty or more I estimated.

This seemed to take forever and I was deeply uncomfortable by the time they'd completed their work, my immobility making my muscles ache and my scalp sore from the tightness of the braids. I was about to discover a far more intense discomfort.

My collar was removed and replaced with a far more elaborate version. It was made of leather which was stiffened with stays. Around the middle of the collar it was ringed with numerous projections, each protruding about an inch and coated with tiny plastic spines, similar to Velcro. Mistress fastened this collar about me, buckling it snugly about my neck. It was so deep that it reached from collar bones to jaw.

Now she made me incline my head back a little and I felt her pull on the braids which were formed at my nape. She wrapped them about the projections at the back of the collar and I realised that I was now prevented from lifting my head to a vertical position. I felt her screw caps over the projections, locking my hair to them.

Now more and more of the braids were tied to the collar, until I couldn't move my head at all. Any attempt to move it resulted in an unbearable tension being produced on some of the braids. “Do you like that?” Mistress asked gleefully.

“No Mistress, it's really uncomfortable.” My neck, fixed in a tilted back posture, was cramping already.

“And it'll stay like this until after midnight. Unless of course you can't bear it and you want me to liberate you from your hair bondage. But an early release will only be provided with scissors.

I was given make-up now, even more dramatic and gothic than Quinn's. A handful of braids had been left free until now, those at the front and temples. These were now pulled across my forehead, nose and cheeks, those on the right being fixed on the left side of the collar and vice versa. They formed a sort of criss-crossed mask about my eyes.

I gasped as I was allowed to see myself, a mirror held above my head. I was transformed into a strange being, a demonic, lustful creature. “Do you like how she looks, Quinn?” Mistress asked.

“She looks incredibly sexy,” Quinn hissed. “I want her so bad.”

The torture which was necessary to complete my metamorphosis to Mistress's satisfaction wasn't complete. I was placed in a corset, laced so tightly that I could barely breathe. And to add to my pain, it was connected by straps, front and back, to my collar. As they were tightened the tension on my hair was increased all over my scalp.

My compliance with Mistress's plan was now rewarded with the application of the same massager that had brought Quinn such delight. My resolve to resist giving in was instantly eroded. Within seconds I felt a rush of joy and realised that my awful treatment had left me full of pent up lust. I wanted to preserve my dignity but soon I was lost in wave after wave of pleasure and nothing but the experience of the moment mattered. I had achieved the purest delight of my entire existence.

When Mistress finally spared me the pain of more climaxes (and they had become painful), she took a sadistic delight in telling me that I would accompany her to a nightclub, still wearing my collar and corset. I was to find out that I would not be allowed much more. I was fitted with latex stockings (unbearably tight) and impossibly tall heels. My decency was barely maintained by the presence of a tiny skirt and inserts in the corset which covered the lower part of my breasts.

Quinn was dressed in a PVC catsuit which was barely big enough even for her tiny frame. She looked good, I had to admit, though it was a style that was too obvious for my tastes. Her brutal flattop still seemed unsuited to her, perhaps even more so with this outfit.

The nightclub was a shock for me. It was a fetish hangout and if I'd imagined that our dress would make us stand out, I was wrong, although my hair bondage did excite the interest of numerous patrons.

Mistress seemed intent on making me break out of my conservatism. She forced me to drink shots, and soon, because of my lack of tolerance of hard liquor, I was drunk. Quinn and I accompanied Mistress to a smoking room where I agreed to smoke a small cigar, largely because the alternative was for Quinn to smoke it. I soon discovered that it was laced with cannabis resin and afterwards I have only vague recollections of the night.

I woke early the next morning in a strange bed alongside a sleeping Quinn. I still felt drunk and more ill than ever in my life. My neck was immobile, the muscles spasming from the abuses that had been inflicted, though the collar was gone now. My scalp was aching and my braids were still present, adding to my discomfort. My ears were aching and I could hardly bear to feel the presence of the new piercings. My head was throbbing and my mouth horribly dry. As I sipped water I was sure I would be sick. My movement roused Quinn who turned to me, smiling happily.

“Oh, my Poppy. I love you so much. Yesterday was such an intense day. I'm so glad we did it. You've made me realise every doubt I had was misplaced. I want us to be together forever.”

I snuggled up to her and expressed my love. “I did feel jealous when you were with Madeleine though. It was hard for me to watch sometimes. I can see how you like her.”

“I do like her but there's no love there. I need you. She's just someone who can teach us, who can show us how to achieve the pleasure I crave. You're different. You're my soul mate. Oh, Poppy, I loved seeing your wild side. Don't try to hide it again. Become what you want to be.”

I shivered at her words. I didn't dare admit that I couldn't recall what I'd done, wondered what embarrassments I had committed when I'd been insensible from alcohol and cannabis.

My premonition proved correct. I was soon sick, comforted by Quinn, who held my hair up as I crouched over the toilet. Half an hour later I was seated at breakfast with Quinn and Madeleine (she'd asked us to return to informal address now). I'd taken some tablets, which had taken the edge off my headache and my stomach felt far more settled.

“Shall we see if our auction has gained any attention yet?” Madeleine asked excitedly.

I looked at her blankly. “Auction?” She looked at me curiously but said nothing. “I'm sorry, I was so drunk last night that I hardly remember anything later on.”

“But honey, you agreed to auction your hair,” Quinn said. “You must remember.”

I felt a spasm in my stomach, a return of my nausea. “No, I was so out of it. I can't do that. I mean if I agreed to it it was only because I was drunk.”

“We've already had thirteen hundred offered,” Madeleine said as she consulted her tablet. “And that's after a few hours. Like I said, I'm sure you could reach five thousand.”

I almost grabbed the device from her hands. I felt like I was having a panic attack as I read the terms of the auction: “Poppy has agreed to allow full control of her hair for the period of a calendar month, with no limits of the styles to be worn: cutting, shaving, perming, colouring are all allowed. She will permit weekly salon visits, at intervals of a week (costs to be borne by the winner of the auction), to a maximum of five. All work can be videoed, photographed and recorded for the winner's personal use. In addition she's agreed to be given a scalp tattoo, design at the winner's discretion. This must not be of an embarrassing or obscene nature. The tattoo will be up to two by three inches and will not cross the hairline, although the size and placement are negotiable. The winner will bear the costs of the tattooing.”

“I can't do this,” I wailed, tears filling my eyes. “I would never have agreed to this sober. You have to cancel this.”

“But you did it for me,” Quinn said gently. “I said I'd get the scalp tattoo. Madeleine was telling us how there are a few very rich members of the club who want this and would pay a lot for it. If you don't want it I'll agree to it instead.”

“Quinn wouldn't get as much, though, even if she'd allow a bigger tattoo. She's hardly got any hair. The allure of you losing all that long pretty hair will really make them want it,” Madeleine added.

“I was so proud of you when you volunteered to save me,” Quinn said. I could see that my bravery (or foolishness) was arousing her. I was discovering that making a sacrifice on her behalf was a huge turn on for Quinn. I felt like to deny her was like taking away a kitten from a little girl. Yet as I contemplated what was expected of me I couldn't help but feel like I was submitting myself to a nightmare. I could end up bald with a tattoo covering the side of my head. I would become a freak.

“So by all means change your mind,” Madeleine taunted. “And let Quinn get her tattoo instead. And lose respect for you. And of course you'd no longer be welcome at Rachel's club.”

“I wouldn't?” It was ludicrous that this seemed the greatest insult.

“No. You've created quite a stir among the members. They wouldn't be at all amused if you then pulled out. But I suppose you have to do what feels right for you.”

“I don't want this. I don't know. I need to think.”

“I don't want to pressure you but it would cause even more upset if you delay. I mean by this time tomorrow a lot more people will have seen it. You need to decide now.”

I turned to Quinn. “Do you want me to do this?”

“Of course I do, honey. I'd never have let Madeleine put the auction online if I didn't. But it's your call.”

“But I'll probably end up nearly bald!”

She giggled. “You seemed to like it on me last night. You'll look so pretty.”

“But a tattoo as well. I'll be a freak.”

“You were a freak last night and I liked that. If you're scared of me getting put off I can assure you it'll do the opposite.”

“I'm really scared though,” I whispered. “I can't do this. But I can't say no. What should I do, Quinn?”

She turned to Madeleine. “She's going to do it. She's a brave girl and I love her so much for doing this.” She kissed me but I felt like I'd been condemned to an awful fate.

The despair I'd felt in the run up to meetings of Rachel's club seemed like nothing compared to the torment I experienced now. Whereas I knew I had a good chance of evading being picked at the club, now I had no possibility of escape. And I would have to endure five makeovers! I agonised every night with Quinn, morbidly imagining awful things to endure. She was more fatalistic about it, and I knew she would have been even if it was her who'd agreed to the auction.

“I suppose they'll want the tattoo done right at the start,” she informed me. “It'll have to heal for a few weeks before you can shave it again, and if I was paying I'd want it looking healed and shaved for the final style.”

“You think so? Oh god, that's awful. I don't want a tattoo. And it'll hurt. I'm not good with pain.”

“You'll be fine. When Madeleine was torturing you you coped really well, better than me. And you'll look so pretty with your tattoo. I'll be so proud of you.”

“They might pick something I hate though. Something you hate.”

“Then you can say no. The terms of the auction make it clear you can negotiate. I'm sure you can find something that will please both of you. A nice geometric design or something. Maybe a pokemon.”

“Why would I want a pokemon?”

She giggled. “It's not up to you! Maybe I'll put in a bid and your whole head tattooed like a pokemon ball.”

We had similar conversations every night, Quinn trying to defuse my ever growing anxiety. I must have been unbearable, constantly seeking reassurance. We did agree, however, that we needed the money. Each night I checked the latest offer, hoping that someone would have made an extravagant bid, always disappointed. Madeleine's optimism seemed unfounded. Four days before the auction closed nobody had offered two thousand, but the last few days provoked a flurry of bids. A bid of three thousand was made, but within hours had been topped by five hundred. By the following day my hair had been valued at four thousand and the final hour became a bidding war. We watched as the seconds ticked down and the price spiralled. As the “Sale finished” sign flashed I saw that the winning bid was six thousand two hundred pounds. Quinn was elated, and I joined in her celebration, though my pleasure was alloyed by the thoughts of my imminent ordeal. Perhaps I'd hoped that the auction would for some reason be invalidated. Now I had to accept that my hair would be gone within a few weeks.

I was contacted by Madeleine within minutes of the result being finalised. “I'm very disappointed,” she informed me. “I'd been making bids, but I couldn't really afford to match that price. If it had been under five I'd be in charge now. I've just spoken to the winner. She's an American businesswoman who visits the UK regularly. I've passed on your details. She's eager to chat to you and work out some details. She seemed very nice. She's a friend of Francesca's, that's how she got to know about the auction.”

I didn't have to wait long to talk to the woman who was now in charge of my fate. Her name was Nancy and I found myself agreeing with Madeleine's assessment. She was very pleasant, allaying my fears that I would be placed in the hands of someone rapacious and cruel. She repeatedly thanked me for allowing her the opportunity to allow her dream to be made real. She seemed to have a need to explain herself and admitted that she'd never had the opportunity to indulge her hair fetish since her business interests kept her so busy. She'd recently simplified her life after selling her most profitable company and wanted to explore her dominant side.

“I understand that there's a stylist that you know who's very good. It might be best if she does your first makeover, though I'll probably want you to go to other salons as well. I'll be in England in three weeks. Does that give you sufficient time to organise your schedule to allow your makeovers to begin then?”

I admitted that my work was very flexible, and that I didn't have any pressing commitments.

“Then I'll try to make sure I'm able to fully commit to my little holiday. I would like if we could get to know each other better. Would it be too much of an imposition to ask you to accompany me to some social events? I'd love to spend time with you and enjoy your new looks. Of course your girlfriend would be welcome to come too. Madeleine tells me you're a delightful couple and the pictures of you don't do you justice, though you look very pretty in them.”

“Yes, of course,” I said. I found myself wondering if I'd be displayed again in fetish clubs, or if I'd be taken to an expensive restaurant where my appearance would cause a minor scandal.

I felt Quinn's arm tighten around my waist. I glanced at her and she smiled at me. My face felt paralysed and I couldn't return her smile. My eyes darted around the arrivals emerging into the airport lounge. “There she is!” Quinn barked excitedly and dragged me forward.

It took me a moment longer to spot Nancy, but there she was. She was taller and heavier than I'd imagined. She looked younger than she had in her pictures. She had a round, friendly face, pleasant features that I found attractive though she was no conventional beauty. She'd obviously had her bob freshly trimmed for our meeting, and it was beautifully cut, shiny and black, a precise line reaching to just the tips of earlobes. Her blunt, wide fringe skimmed her eyebrows. She looked professional, yet her cut was also suggestive of her hair fetish, at least to those who shared her predilection.

She seemed overwhelmed to meet us. She'd certainly challenged my perceptions of the successful businesswoman; she was kind and sensitive, and I found it hard to imagine her making ruthless decisions.

“Oh my, look at you both! You're both so pretty. I can't believe you came all this way to meet me at the airport. It's so kind of you. Why don't we go shopping? I'd love to buy you some outfits as a little thank you.”

We assured her it wasn't necessary, and that after her long flight she should just rest in her hotel. “Nonsense. I slept for most of the flight and I feel refreshed. I'm sure the jet lag will hit me at some point, it usually does when I come to Britain, but for now let's have some fun getting to know each other.”

An hour later and we were in the Soho, perusing vintage boutiques. It was clear that this was a passion of Nancy's and she knew all the best shops. Her generosity was embarrassing, but she wouldn't hear of not paying for everything. As we took a break in a café, Nancy began to ask how we should arrange my makeovers.

“She won't say it herself, but she's very submissive. She'd enjoy it more if you just told her what to do. And surprise her. Don't tell her in advance what you plan. Isn't that right, my little honey bee?”

I nodded shyly.

Nancy seemed utterly delighted by this, so much so that she was speechless, for some time, blushing as she contemplated the power she possessed.

“Anything else that she'd like me to indulge?”

“Well... She does like being corseted, and she loved it when Madeleine pushed her into getting some new piercings. I don't think she'd be unwilling if you wanted her to get a few new piercings to go with her new looks, would you, Poppy?”

We'd discussed this and nothing Quinn said was untrue, but to hear my ideas exposed to a virtual stranger who had the power to make them real took my breath away. I mumbled my agreement, knowing that I'd allowed too much. I remembered the pain that my ear's had caused me as the piercings healed and wondered why I'd allow myself to endure such suffering again. And yet I couldn't deny that the idea excited me.

Nancy smiled at me and squeezed my hand. “I won't want you pierced for your first makeover, but certainly some of the other looks will be enhanced by some new jewellery. The corset, on the other hand... How about we fit you with one now?”

I indulged her wish and left the store wearing one of the new outfits that she'd bought for me. The grey satin blouse had been a little tight but looked great now that my waist was tightly cinched. It fastened at the back, had a high collar and sleeves that puffed out voluminously at the shoulders. I was wearing a black pencil skirt that was so tight that I had to walk in little steps, and which seemed to exaggerate my wide hips and buttocks. I was wearing expensive new lingerie and seamed stockings, which excited Nancy. She seemed delighted by my shyness. I felt so exposed in this outfit, far more showy than anything I'd normally wear.

“Now we need to find you some new shoes, Poppy,” she smiled. “After hair, my greatest turn on is a nice pair of shoes. Let's see if we can't find something to match your outfit.”

The pair she liked were brown patent leather Mary Janes, but with a huge cream plastic sole, at least three inches thick and retaining its thickness even under the arch of the foot. The blocky heel was six inches high. They were extremely heavy and, I was sure, uncomfortable. I was reluctant to try them.

“She can be wilful, Nancy,” Quinn said apologetically. “She responds well to a firmer approach. Maybe you should insist on a more formal address and be strict with her.”

Nancy looked delighted by the advice.

“Would you like to call me 'Madame'?” she asked. I nodded, blushing. “I want these shoes for you. You could show some gratitude. Now put them on and don't do anything more to embarrass me.”

“I'm sorry. Thank you Madame.”

I put the shoes on and wore them out of the shop. They weren't easy to walk in, especially since I was constrained by the corset and skirt. Madame insisted I should hold my head erect and walk elegantly. I felt absurdly tall in the heels; I was over five foot nine without shoes, and now I was well over six foot. Hardly anybody I passed was as tall. My petite little Quinn was more than a foot shorter.

Laden with bags we now took a taxi, I presumed to Madame's hotel. But as we arrived in Mayfair I saw a large salon. “Time for your first makeover,” Madame smiled. “This salon has a very high end clientele, and you'll look perfect when you emerge.”

It was far more luxurious than anything I'd ever experienced. We were provided with champagne, and I felt that I was living a lifestyle that was far above my means. My stylist was to be Lydia, a woman in her late thirties, who seemed to have a seniority in the salon. She was slightly taken aback by Madame's request, as was I.

“I want her Poppy to have hair as red as the flower she's named after. And I want a head of big loose curls for her. Permed.”

“I wouldn't necessarily recommend that. I'd have to bleach her hair, and combined with the perm that would place a lot of stress on the hair. Her hair is in good condition but this might make it dry and a little dull. Normally I'd prefer bleaching and perming a couple of weeks apart.”

“I'm sure you can make her look just lovely,” Madame insisted. “Anyway, her hair is going to getting cut soon so if it does do a little harm to the condition it's not so important. Is it Poppy?”

“No Madame,” I said obediently. My heart was pounding as I realised how my hair would be changed.

Lydia was as diplomatic as I'd have expected from someone in a salon like this. She'd done her duty to sound a note of caution and now dutifully complied with every request from Madame.

The champagne seemed to numb me to what was happening. I watched with a detached fascination as my hair underwent its biggest ever change. I saw it lose its colour, becoming a pale, yellowy shade, it acquired curl, it became red. I think I'd started to see the girl in the mirror as separate to myself, and enjoyed her transformation as if I was watching a stranger in the salon. Even the humiliation of seeing my head wound on numerous wide rods seemed amusing rather than scary. Every stage of the process was recorded on Madame's phone, a shy smile on my face in every image.

The make-up helped to distance me. I was astounded by the skill of the artist. She applied a heavy layer of foundation which made my skin look unnervingly smooth. As she continued I saw developing a look that was more suited to the catwalk than an afternoon spent with friends. My brows were reshaped, my eyes surrounded in black to make them look bigger, lids given a pearly blue sheen. My cheeks were glowing with highlighter, shaded pink underneath, my lips painted violet. It was done with a perfection, but excessive. I no longer looked like me.

As my hair was dried I saw its fullness for the first time. It was astonishing. Lydia was an expert at producing very glamorous looks and I blushed at how pretty my hair looked. “How do you like it, Quinn?” Madame asked.

“It's just so beautiful. But I'm a bit freaked out by how calm she's been. You've no idea how sensitive she is about her hair. I thought she'd be crying and making a scene but she's behaving like a grown up. I'm not sure it's the real Poppy any more.”

“Well I've started her off gently. The next makeover will be far more extreme. I'm sure it will be tougher for her, but I have no doubt more enjoyable.”

I left the salon with an elaborate updo, which was again notable for its excessiveness. The sides were crimped and swept up from my ears, pinned into a huge, loose roll at each side, almost like Victory rolls, but far larger, giving width as well as height. As I stood again after my hours long ordeal in the chair I felt gigantic.

Quinn looked awed by my transformation. “Poppy, you look like a model. You always looked ashamed of your height, but now you look so elegant. I think the shoes and corset have done wonders for your posture. Maybe you should wear them all the time.”

I giggled. “If you knew how uncomfortable they were you'd know why I won't.” And yet my vanity was piqued. For the first time in my life I felt beautiful. I saw the astonished glances as I made my way along the street. I knew not everybody would like my new look, but nobody could fail to notice me.

It was evening now and Madame was eager to find somewhere to eat. As she consulted her phone to find a good restaurant Quinn took me to one side. “Don't get weird and jealous, but I really like her, Poppy, and she's been so generous. I want to take her to bed. Are you in agreement?”

“Oh yes. She's so sweet. I thought you'd be jealous if I suggested it. She's spent so much on me. If it was the other way around I know I'd have felt some resentment.”

“I'm not all insecure like you,” she laughed. “Anyway, I can't believe how beautiful you look. You never need to feel insecure again. You're the most lovely creature I ever saw. Now let's see if we can't seduce this one.”

Madame was still distracted typing into her phone and looked astonished as Quinn suddenly put an arm around her and kissed her on the cheek. She lost her usual composure and clearly didn't know how to react. I came in front of her, a head taller than her now, and bent down to kiss her on the lips.

“We've just had a little discussion and we decided we need to seduce you to thank you for your generosity,” Quinn said. “I don't know if you have someone back home, but frankly we don't care. Tonight we're going to make you a very happy lady.”

The planned visit to a restaurant was abandoned. We were soon back in Madame's suite, a couple of takeaway pizzas provided for sustenance. We were all quite exhausted and the orgy I'd imagined didn't materialise. Instead, the atmosphere was more like an adult sleepover. We were soon naked, however. I felt very comfortable with Madame. We lay arm in arm and she stared admiringly into my face.

“I feel so privileged to have met you, Poppy. I'd feared this arrangement would be quite awkward and you'd resent me. But it's so nice that we can get on so well. I hope we can be friends long after our month is over.”

“Don't let your friendship make you ease up on the makeovers, though,” Quinn said mischievously. “She might not admit it but Poppy wants something very extreme. I know she wants to look like a very freaky girl in a month's time.”

I made to protest, although I was no longer sure that Quinn was wrong. She hushed me. “Now, now, honey bee, we're talking about you, not to you.” I was tipsy (the afternoon's champagne now supplemented with a free supply of good wine) and couldn't resist. Quinn dribbled some saliva over my clit and began to stroke it. My voice was reduced to helpless vocalisations.

“So like I was saying, she'd like you to force her to shave off a lot of her hair. And if you want to take the tattoo a bit larger than the agreement she made I think she'd not just agree, she'd love it.”

Madame began to stroke my nipples, smiling at me. “I'm so glad to hear that. I did feel the tattoo would be a little too small.” Madame had surprised me when she'd undressed, revealing more ink than I would have believed possible on somebody who'd been the CEO of a large company. Both thighs bore large, dark tattoos, her right arm had a half sleeve and there was a skull above her left breast. None of her tattoos was in a place that couldn't easily be concealed. I knew mine would be impossible to conceal, at least until my hair grew out. “In a week your tattoo will be done, Poppy. I don't want to tell you any more about it. You do trust me, don't you? I'll decide the image, the size, the placement. Just nod if you want it.”

I was so wet now. Quinn slipped her finger deep inside me, still playing with my clitoris all the time. She was no longer the awkward, inexperienced girl I'd met a few months earlier. She could delight me with every touch now. The tattoo was my greatest fear and to concede control was terrifying, yet as I nodded my agreement I knew it was something I wanted, at least part of me did. That part of me made me explode into an orgasm.

I was woken early the next morning by the hushed voices of Madame and Quinn. I soon realised that Quinn had planned to leave without disturbing us. Madame was begging her to stay. “I'd love to but I have to practice. I have a concert next week and there's a new piece with a fiercely difficult part. I haven't come close to learning it yet.”

Madame implored me to make her see sense. “Oh, you have no idea,” I explained. “I'll always come a poor second to music with Quinn. She's so dedicated to her art. I've learnt to accept it. A day without hours of practice makes her so sad. She frets all the time that she'll forget how to play. You should let her go and we can meet her this afternoon when she's done. We even had to get a basement room, which is just awful, so that her playing wouldn't disturb the other guests.”

Madame nodded. “I'm excited to hear you play. Can I come to your concert next week? What day is it? Perhaps we can show off a new look for Poppy that night.”

“Yes, I'd love that. It's a week Saturday, so there's plenty of time to arrange her next makeover.”

Madame giggled. “Oh, all the plans are already in place. Saturday will be ideal.”

“I should warn you, the music isn't to everyone's taste. It's avant garde music.”

“I'm sure I'll enjoy it,” Madame smiled. “You should bring your instrument back here this afternoon and you can give me a preview, and teach me about this music. And stay here tonight! The suite is soundproofed so you could practice here.”

She giggled. “I think I'd really like that. But I don't expect you'll like the music I play at all.”

Madame took a grip of Quinn's hair. “I liked the idea of getting you tidied up today. I heard from Madeleine that you had a really short haircut, but it's very grown out, isn't it? I want you pretty and neat for me.” I was surprised at how roughly she tugged at Quinn's hair, more surprised that she seemed to like it.

“I'd sort of agreed to grow it for Poppy, though,” she sighed.

“Oh, Poppy doesn't know what she wants. I bet she'd love seeing you being buzzed again. Wouldn't you honey?”

Madame came to sit by me, still with her fingers in Quinn's short locks. She started to caress my slit and I felt myself melting at her touch. “Oh, I would like to see her with longer hair, but I can't deny that seeing her getting a cut is always thrilling.”

“Cut and colour it is then,” Madame laughed. “I'll book you in at a more edgy salon than yesterday's. And we'll see if we can't find you some nice clothes and shoes too.” Quinn squealed her approval of the plan, then kissed us both farewell. We agreed to meet her at a café near Piccadilly for lunch.

Now Madame and I were alone and she lay with me in her arms. “I can't believe how happy you've made me feel. I was full of anxiety about this trip. I worried you might resent me. I'd have hated it if we hadn't had a connection and I'd felt I was forcing you into styles you detested.”

“You've no idea how scared I was. I was sure you'd be brash and overbearing. I still can't believe how calm I felt yesterday. I'm sure I'll look in a mirror later and suddenly feel like I can't face the world again. But you're so lovely, Madame. You bring out the best in me.”

“And you me,” she said wistfully. “Still, I'd rather when we're with other people we kept a certain distance. I'd rather keep our intimacy private. I'm not sure it would do my reputation, or yours, any good to think that we've slept together. Because of the financial arrangement I'm sure some people would make malicious gossip.”

I nodded, accepting that she was probably correct. “Do you have someone special in your life back home?”

“No. I've had to sacrifice my personal life for my professional existence. When I was young I was very driven and ambitious, but a few years ago I had a serious illness. It made me re-evaluate and I realised that all my achievements hadn't really made me happy. Of course, there's a lot that gives me pride but I started to feel that I'd become disconnected. I see how you and Quinn are connected, and I want to feel that too. When I watch you I feel myself coming back to life, letting my passions grow, that I'd kept imprisoned for too long. I've often found younger people a little empty, but you and Quinn are different. You have really deep interests. I can sense how much music means to Quinn.”

I nodded. “Yes but she's very knowledgeable about art too. And I thought I was quite well read but she's always talking about poets and writers I don't know. She's beautiful and smart.”

“And so are you. You're a writer? What is it you want to do?”

I gave a little embarrassed snort. “I do a few book reviews and art essays and reviews. But that hardly pays. I write copy for a friend's website that sells contemporary design objects. She takes pity on me and pays me far more than I deserve, but I guess people like my little blurbs. They're very conversational, not the usual sort of thing.”

“But that's not what interests you, is it? What sort of writer do you want to be?”

“Oh... I suppose it's the novel that interests me. I'm a terrible poet, and short stories aren't really my forte. I've started numerous novels, but never finished one. I'm not sure I've lived enough to have much to say that's interesting.”

She laughed. “Maybe in a few weeks you'll feel differently. You'll certainly look differently.”

I shivered. “You're scaring me.”

She gently stroked my dishevelled curls. “You look so pretty, Poppy. Part of me wants to let you keep your hair like this. But I think that would leave both of us with frustrations and regrets, wouldn't it?”

There was a long pause as I tried to make sense of the rush of inchoate thoughts that her words induced. “Are you going to make me get something really extreme?” I asked nervously.

“Oh, I'm afraid I am. It'll be hard for a shy girl like you to bear, won't it? But you can't resist it. You want to know how it'll feel. You might despise all the attention it brings you, but you have to know how it feels to see yourself in the mirror transformed into the sort of girl who fascinates you.” I nodded, profoundly disturbed to hear her talk of my feelings with more clarity than I ever possessed. “And you worry that you'll have to wait months to disguise what you did. But you worry more that you'll like it, and that it will set you off on a course of ever more bizarre experiments with your image.”

I kissed her violently, bewildered by the strength of feeling her words set off in me. “Writers don't have to be conventional,” she whispered, “look conventional. Nor do musicians. I'd love to meet with you and Quinn in a year's time and see that you'd continued on the trajectory we started yesterday. I'd certainly like to see you with a lot of tattoos.”

I groaned. “I'm really unsure about the tattoo. Please don't make me get something too big.”

“It'll be bigger than you're comfortable with, and very bold. I don't want a tiny little thing, like the sort of thing some girls get behind their ears. You deserve better. I hope you adore it, but I know that not everyone could live with the sort of tattoo you'll have. Of course if you hate it you can grow your hair and in a few months it would be a hidden secret.”

I felt like something had been set in motion inside me, a string had been plucked, which, rather than fading to silence, was now miraculously resonating ever more powerfully. Its vibration was beginning to fill my being. I would be transformed and it was my destiny. I'd spent the morning discussing with Madame how I'd come to agree to the auction. She dismissed my insistence that I'd been duped into agreeing. ��You wanted something like this since your adolescence. You wanted more than anything to be chosen as the model at the club, despite your nervousness at the idea of your secret being exposed. Alcohol is a disinhibitor. It doesn't make us do things we don't want, it reveals what's in our unconscious, which is where our true feelings and desires are. You always sensed what you needed to do and you put yourself in a position where sooner or later your destiny would be fulfilled.”

Madame had had her bob for over a decade (although she'd had it cut shorter than ever in advance of our meeting) yet was surprisingly adept at handling my long hair. My curls were teased into a huge beehive, my fringe (which had grown out considerably in the last months and now reached my lips) gelled sideways, glossy and flat to my forehead. I giggled and blushed as I saw the completed style. It was absurd and slightly grotesque, yet undeniably fun. Madame clearly liked that I was tall and was keen to exaggerate my height. I would once again wear my huge shoes, but today I wore a tartan miniskirt over opaque blue stockings, and my corseted figure would be shown off my a pink mohair sweater which hugged my curves, the plunging neckline emphasising my cleavage. I'd been given mod-inspired make-up: black and white around eyes with winged liner, silvery pink lips, hard-edged black brows.

Quinn was clearly amused by my hair and couldn't stop laughing. “Is it that bad?” I winced.

“No, you look so cute. You look like you're in the B52s.”

“Oh, she does,” Madame said, pleased at Quinn's remark. “I always had a little crush on Kate Pierson. I'm sure she was inspiring me while I did your hair.” She turned to Quinn now. “But you're the centre of attention today. I want you to have a lovely makeover: cut, colour, make-up, wardrobe. You look so neglected.” She tousled Quinn's hair. “I heard your last cut was quite short.”

“Oh, you've no idea! You've spoken to Madeleine, haven't you? She took me to a barbershop and I got the most severe flattop you can imagine. I had bald back and sides and the top wasn't much better. It was so short that my scalp was visible. I looked like a boy, especially when I wore my glasses.”

“But a very pretty boy, I'm sure. Shall we give her that cut again, Poppy? I'd love to see how it looks.”

“Can't you make do with pictures?” I asked. “I have some on my phone. But it was far too short, I do prefer her with more length. She had really long hair when we first met. Longer than mine.”

Quinn looked shyer than she had for a long time as Madame pored over my phone, cooing as she saw a history of Quinn's hair. “Oh, you did have pretty hair,” she agreed as she saw the pictures of Quinn before Rachel's makeover. She burst into laughter as she saw her brilliantly coloured bob. “I love that! The short top is odd, but it's strangely attractive. I was thinking you needed the back and sides trimmed but maybe I should get her to buzz the top instead.”

Quinn grimaced. “I don't think that would look at all attractive. You're not going to give me something really humiliating, are you? I've got a big concert coming up and I do want to have some confidence left in my appearance.”

Madame kissed her on the cheek. “I'm sorry, darling! I can't help teasing sometimes. Of course I won't give you something bad. I want you to look prettier than ever for you concert. Or is it appropriate for the musicians to have avant garde styling when they play avant garde music.”

“Not really,” Quinn said. “It's not as formal as classical, but it's certainly not as relaxed as rock music.”

“All the better. You'll really stand out.”

We took a taxi to the east, into a traditionally working class district which had become gentrified in the last decade. Madame had chosen a salon located in a railway arch. It was a shock to see how crudely it was furnished, especially in contrast to the luxurious salon we'd visited a day earlier. No attempt had been made to hide the building's industrial past, its brick walls crudely whitewashed and an abundance of exposed plumbing visible, with hunting trophies jarringly hung about the walls: heads of foxes and antlers. Madame couldn't hide her disappointment. I smiled reassuringly, hopeful that the cutting would be superior to the décor.

There were two young stylists whose own hairstyles hardly filled me with confidence. They gave us a friendly greeting and assured us that we'd be seen to soon, before returning to working on their clients. “Should we go?” Madame asked gloomily. “This place looks such a mess.”

“It's London,” Quinn said. “There's a real rough and ready aesthetic to a lot of places.”

“That's what I'm worried about. I don't want you with a rough and ready haircut. Do you think those two know what they're doing? If they cut each other's hair I'm not impressed.” One of the girls had a short, ragged fringe, buzzed sides and stubby braids at the back. It had been bleached and dyed a mixture of colours which were now badly faded. The younger stylist had a short back and sides, unevenly marked with shaved-in, criss-crossing lines which appeared to have been rendered with more energy than skill. I'd have cried if Quinn had left with a similar cut. “The cuts on the website looked pretty good but I my instinct tells me this isn't so good. But it's your hair, Quinn, and you have to live with the results, Poppy. I'll leave the decision with you.”

I smiled numbly at Quinn. I could sense her embarrassment. She'd feel awkward walking out now, and I think it was this wish to avoid embarrassment that kept her.

It was about a half hour before she was allowed to climb into the chair. She was going to be cut by the stylist with the mullet, who was called Lara. She spoke without a trace of a London accent, her voice suggesting she'd received an expensive private education. I was nervous about entrusting Quinn into her care.

There was a dialogue between Madame and Lara, not a word of which I could hear above the loud dubstep which played constantly on a deck in the corner of the space. A tablet was brandished and Lara nodded solemnly.

Rather than any conventional cape, Quinn was wrapped in a piece of clear plastic sheeting, a couple of tissues tucked in at her neck. Lara took a set of clippers and lifted them, slightly awkwardly. She looked unsure of herself, then tentatively put the edge of the bare blades to Quinn's temple, about an inch over her ear.

Gradually a line was carved into the shaggy hair around Quinn's head. It passed horizontally over her ears, then dipped down at the back to form a rounded shape. It was initially noticeably asymmetrical, but Lara made adjustments until it was passable, though hardly perfect. She smiled at Madame, seemingly proud of her work, and got a nod of approval, though Madame looked gloomier than was her norm.

Now Quinn was made to tilt her head to the side as the clippers were pressed into her sideburns. They cut close, baring her scalp. I felt a twinge as I saw that I'd have to wait to see her with longer hair. But I couldn't deny that my response was one of delight in her shearing.

Inevitably, the clippers stripped away all of the hair below the line. She was shaved to a faint stubble, just the slightest hint of her red hair left. Her pale scalp looked inflamed by the chafing action of the blades, yet I felt a growing desire to see her suffer. I knew that her masochism would make her enjoy the sensations she was enduring, and I tried to justify my cruelty as something she'd take pleasure in, yet in truth I knew that I had sadistic streak.

Lara turned off her clippers and stroked at the slightly uneven clipper shave. “Feels good, kid,” she said with an affected laugh. Quinn voiced an embarrassed agreement.

Now Lara combed up sections of Quinn's short hair and point cut into the ends without wetting it. I saw that the line wouldn't be faded, and that she would have a sort of bowlcut, though without much fullness to it. Lara snipped carefully around the edge to firm up the line.

Quinn's hair grew very quickly, but even so her fringe was still short and wispy. It was almost long enough to reach the line at the sides but had none of the hardness of line. At a suggestion from Madame, Lara now cut Quinn's fringe into a slight arch, giving a more distinct contour, but not entirely dispelling the wispiness. I couldn't avoid the suspicion that it would have looked better had Lara not thinned the texture.

By the time she came back to sit with me Quinn had been subjected to a heavy layer of bleach. She smiled nervously. “I'm sorry, I shouldn't have brought you here,” Madame said apologetically. “She doesn't know what she's doing.”

“It's a hipster place,” I stated. “Like Quinn said, it's about a DIY aesthetic. You're going to be a hipster by the time you leave here, Quinn,” I giggled.

“And what do hipsters dress like?” Madame asked, obviously not aware of the existence of this scene.

“Just have a look at Lara and her friend. And pretty much everyone who comes here. It's all about irony. I'm sure there are lots of vintage shops nearby who could kit her out.” Quinn wrinkled her nose at me. I could see she didn't like the idea.

The bleach was rinsed and toner applied. I had a blonde girlfriend, and I had to admit that she looked good. Her hair was a light, cool blonde, a slight hint of silvery lilac present. Madame was more pleased with the colour than the cut. Lara had styled it so that it lay very flat Quinn's head, so that it looked more like a crop cut to the contours of a bowlcut than a true bowl. As we left, Madame fussed with Quinn's hair.

“It's just as well your hair is fine. Thicker hair would show up the failings much more. She needs to learn to cut properly. I don't know how she's still in business.”

“She's a rich girl with limitless money from parents,” I explained. “She's probably got the rent paid so everything that's earned is pocket money for her. She'll probably get bored in a few months and move on to something else.”

Quinn looked hurt that her haircut hadn't gone well. “Hey, don't be upset! It looks good. And the colour is very nice. You know I love your natural colour but I think this might be even better.” I kissed her to let her know that my words were sincere. I was really longing to be in private with her. “I would have preferred a smooth undercut, to be honest, Madame, but this is nice.”

“I wanted it too, but I didn't trust that amateur with a razor,” she said spitefully.

“You should get Crystal to tidy it up,” I smiled. “There's a barberette back where we live who did Quinn's flattop. She's very good with a razor, but quite scary too.”

“Well that sounds like a good idea. I'll be coming to stay in your city for Poppy's next makeovers, so why don't I take Quinn for a trim from Crystal on the day of her concert? It'll look marvellous to see you walk out onto the stage with a gleaming, smooth scalp.”

Quinn winced at the idea. “Oh, god, Crystal is really scary. She never smiles or says anything.”

“I know, and you told me you loved it last time.” She blushed at my betrayal of her secret.

“Well, maybe a little bit. But the day of the concert we have a rehearsal. I'll be busy.”

“What time is the rehearsal?” Madame asked and was informed that it started at noon. “Then we'll get you to the shop before ten and you'll be so pretty for your concert.” Quinn was unable to avoid her appointment.

We made a sweep of the local vintage shops (and there were a lot of them). Quinn was soon dressed in a yellow checked shirt, denim dungarees with short, tight-fitting trousers and frilled ankle socks. She was wearing a pair of low converse shoes which had been given a new platform sole, three inches thick. I giggled to see her transformation. “You blend in round here now. You're a real hipster. But you should put on your glasses.”

“Oh yes,” Madame said. “I noticed a lot of the girls around here had big vintage glasses. Have you got them with you?” Minutes later Quinn had discarded her contact lenses and was wearing her heavy black framed glasses.

“Just adorable,” Madame smiled, with my agreement. Quinn looked so cute with her blonde bowl. “She should have a nice piercing though. I think I'll give you a medusa right now.”

Quinn shook her head. “I'd love to do it for you, but nothing in lips or tongue. Or cheeks either I suppose. I wouldn't be able to play.”

“It'll soon heal though. You'll be fine for the concert.”

“But I wouldn't be able to practice. Anyway, a piercing would affect my embouchure. I'd accept any other piercing but my lips are too important.”

“But I want it so much,” Madame said beguilingly. “If you don't agree to it I'll make Poppy get her lips, tongue and cheeks pierced. Would you make her endure all that for you?”

I sensed that Madame had been told by Madeleine that Quinn loved me making sacrifices for her. “Would you do it?” Quinn asked, taking me in her arms.

I was breathless. A lip piercing I would have willingly taken but the multiple piercings Madame had suggested were, I feared, more than I could bear. “Yes, my love,” I said recklessly. I could feel Quinn's excitement. She loved me more than ever and I would bear my piercings (and soon a tattoo) as a permanent record of my love for her.

My ears were still tender where the cartilage piercings had been placed, despite the passage of time. As we sat in the waiting area in the piercing studio, I found myself tugging nervously at the rings to try to reassure myself that I could endure the pain. It had the opposite effect, and I started to vividly recall the sensation of suffering.

“Are you OK?” Quinn asked.

“No, I'm really nervous. I didn't cope well with the last piercings and I'm worried as hell.”

The three of us went into a yard at the back of the building where there was an awning to cover a smoking area. “Madeleine tells me you like these,” Madame said, drawing out a short fine cigar.

“I think that's an exaggeration,” I laughed. “Is it a blunt?” I said in a whisper.

She lit it and drew a deep breath, holding it for as long as she could. She blew out a thick snake of white smoke and passed it to me.

“You look delightful with a cigar in those lips,” Madame said.

“She does look sexy,” Quinn said, a mischievous grin on her lips. “Can I have some too?”

I gave a cough as I expelled the harsh smoke. “No you can't. She's not to smoke, Madame, it's bad for her lungs and her flute has to come first.”

“Well that's told you,” Madame smiled. “Poppy has spoken. No smoking for Quinn!”

The cigar was potently laced with resin and I was soon feeling woozy and light-headed. “Are you really stoned?” Madame asked. She hardly looked affected.

“I am,” I said, embarrassed but feeling giggly too.

She looked at me sternly. “You best hide it well. If the piercer thinks you're out of it she'll probably refuse to do any work and then I'll be very upset. You do want to please me, don't you?”

“More than anything,” I promised.

“Then no laughing and say as little as possible. Understood?”

I nodded and tried to maintain a dignified solemnity, though I'm sure any observer would have seen that my behaviour all too easily indicated my intoxication.

We returned to the studio and I was told that I was going first, which made me feel a little confused since I thought that no one else was being pierced.

The blunt certainly helped me to deal with the pain. I was in tears by the end of my ordeal, but without the tingling numbness I felt I'd probably never have managed to take all five piercings. The tongue was first, the one I feared most. I'd imagined it would be the most painful, but the cheek piercings were every bit as bad. I couldn't take my eyes from the mirror when I saw the completed look. I had a medusa in my upper lip and a vertical labret, a short bar entering my flesh below lip and ending with a ball that rested in the centre of my lips. My cheeks held piercings too now, the balls extending like antenna on long bars, which I was assured were necessary since cheeks could swell. The jewellery looked so dark against my skin, which was paler than usual. The girl I was looking at was so different now. The clothes, hair, make-up, piercings had transformed me, and I liked it. But it set me trembling when I thought how much more I would change in the next weeks. My fear was balanced against a desire to leap into my desires, to be perpetually reinvented, to be fearless and bold in my appearance, to revel in the attention, which I'd started to crave.

As I sat again I watched my sweet Quinn being given a septum ring. She groaned at the pain of the needle entering her, but smiled at me to show it was something she enjoyed. The sight of her smiling with a needle hanging through her septum will remain with me for a long time. She suited the little silver ring which was fitted.

Nor was Madame to be excluded. She was clearly the bravest of all three of us, scarcely flinching as her nipples were pierced by needles of a frightening thickness. She looked delighted with the heavy bars which were seated deep in her nipples, making them stand permanently proud.

Sadly, my elation didn't last. I was sick shortly after we arrived back in the hotel and for the rest of the night lay in a darkened room, eager to allay my malaise with the balm of sleep.

The following morning was one of farewell, since Madame had to attend to some business on the succeeding days and Quinn had to return home to commence rehearsals. I couldn't resist being dressed one last time by Madame. She teased me about looking wasted as a result of my hangover, and she teased my hair too, giving me a head of wildly tousled curls, stiffened by a liberal application of hair spray. She gave me dark, smudgy eye liner, deep red on my swollen lips and thick black brows. Once I'd been dressed in tight, ripped jeans, a faded sleeveless t-shirt and spike-heeled leather knee boots I looked exactly like the dissolute rock chick that Madame said I now was.

As we made our way through the city Madame indulged me with a pair of sunglasses to add to my look; I was glad of them since the sun was especially strong.

“I'm not the only one who needs glasses,” Quinn informed her. “Poppy is short-sighted too but has never worn the glasses she needs. She did promise Madeleine that she'd get some and let me choose but we haven't got around to it yet.”

Madame looked intrigued. “Maybe we should get her some now. And get her hair cut short. Turn the rock goddess into a prim little girl.”

My piercings were so sore that talking was painful (and embarrassingly unclear when I tried) so that I took the teasing in silence. “But that would ruin my plans, I suppose,” Madame added ruefully. “So you can keep your curls a little longer. But next Friday...” Her face lit up with excitement at the prospect of my next major makeover, which would take place in our hometown. I'd been told to keep Saturday free as well; Madame wouldn't tell me any more but I was sure that that would be the day when I'd be tattooed. “I do like the idea of playing with glasses, though, Poppy. In a few weeks we'll have you looking very different and with glasses as a strong part of your image.”

My time in London seemed like a dream, and my return home was a return to my waking life. As I walked the familiar streets my new appearance seemed a burden, and I was uncomfortable with the shocked reactions of friends and acquaintances. Suddenly I'd changed dramatically (Quinn insisted on dressing me to explore the new wardrobe that Madame had so generously provided). Quiet, mousy Poppy was suddenly sporting a wild head of bright red curls and her face was studded with piercings. This new-found daring was so out of character that my friends bombarded me with questions which I couldn't answer honestly for fear of exposing a side of my life that I still felt a need to keep hidden. And I knew that as each week passed my transformation would deepen. I imagined the disapproval of everyone I knew if I told them the truth, that I was finally giving in to a compulsion which had consumed me for years. Yet even if I said nothing, surely they would understand that I had some strange fetish. My boldness was again waning, snuffed out almost as soon as it had manifested.

My sojourn in London had distracted me from my work and over the next few days I spent long hours at my computer, producing texts to meet my deadlines. Since it distracted me from my anxieties I was glad to be kept busy, and Quinn was hardly present at home, since rehearsals for the concert occupied her for long hours each day. She was prickly and irritable whenever I asked her about the preparations. “It's going to be terrible,” she said despairingly. “We've picked such difficult pieces and we're not going to be ready. Even the pieces I thought were the easiest aren't going well. The Grisey piece is especially bad, and that's the one I like best. We can't get the intonation right at all.” I knew better than to offer words of consolation. She was very demanding of herself in her performances, and expected no less of her colleagues. Her intense self-criticism was necessary to drive her to improve her skills and I'd learned to accept it.

I had the prospect of Madame's arrival at the end of the week to look forward to. Quinn and I agreed that we liked her very much, though we were both embarrassed by her generosity. She was arriving on Thursday and we'd agreed to meet her for a meal in the evening, along with Madeleine; the two had been corresponding for weeks and had clearly struck up a close friendship though this would be the first physical meeting. Though I'd found my encounters with Madeleine exciting (and I suspected Quinn enjoyed herself even more intensely) neither of us felt the close bond with her that we'd experienced with Madame. Without our fetish in common we had nothing to link us to the former, whereas with Madame there was a friendship that meant all of the time we spent together was a pleasure. I'd be lying if I said I hadn't imagined the three of us being permanent companions, although I knew that practically this was unlikely ever to happen, and the mechanics of a three way relationship would be hard to maintain.

We'd asked Madame to stay with us but she'd declined, and in truth our tiny flat was hardly big enough to house three, and she was used to more luxury than we could offer, but she had promised to visit. We were both excited to see her and Quinn prepared me for our meeting, teasing my hair to give lots of volume (it embarrassed me to see my hair so big and wild, but I loved it), and dressing me in a frilled yellow blouse, red miniskirt, blue stockings and the huge shoes Madame had given me on our first day together. Quinn wore her mannish suit, glasses, her hair smooth and flat, with stark make-up, including black lipstick. I was a riot of colour, Quinn's look hard and austere, which seemed to me to suggest the opposite of our personalities. Still, I knew I liked how we looked together.

As we entered the restaurant we saw Madame and Madeleine waiting for us. We hadn't seen Madeleine for weeks. Her hair was still in roughly the same style as previously, though the top had got fuller (the waved quiff was still present), and the sides were buzzed now rather than shaved. It had been freshly trimmed, the contour shaved cleanly. The colour was radically different, however, a very dark purple, with a flash of silver hair through the left side of the front.

Madame had had a trim too and her bob looked more of a pudding-basin cut than previously. She'd positioned herself to hide the big surprise, though. As she turned to face us she exposed the right side. Quinn squealed as she saw it, barbered to a tight fade. There was a strip of thick hair fringing the parting, graduated down to almost nothing over her ear. She let us see the nape too. The bob was angled and beneath the weight line it was shaved smooth. It was such a bold cut, and I wasn't sure it wasn't too extreme to suit her, but since I felt a stirring of passion I knew it was exciting. Quinn had not the slightest equivocation and complimented her profusely.

As we dined I became the main talking point. There was a lot of discussion of how I was blossoming, but nothing was revealed of the plans for my future transformations, though Madeleine clearly knew more than she was saying, since she'd helped arrange the sessions. I was in a constant state of anxiety but I knew it was making me horny. After finishing the main Madeleine insisted on going out to smoke and Madame rose to accompany her. “Would you like to join us, Poppy?” Madeleine asked.

“Yes, you should. After all you'll be getting tattooed in a couple of days and I'm not sure how you'll cope without your hit of 'analgesic'. You should try to build up your tolerance of smoking. I wouldn't want you feeling sick after and missing Quinn's concert. You'd upset her so much.”

I was too weak to say no. As I lit up I saw Quinn smiling at me. I didn't want her encouragement. As I inhaled the smoke I no longer found it so harsh and I could tolerate it without coughing. I didn't like this easiness, I wanted to be repulsed, yet by the time I'd smoked half of the cigarette I knew that it was making me feel good.

“You look like a real smoker now,” Madeleine said admiringly. “Elegant and sexy. I can't believe how much you've grown. And I don't just mean that you're six foot six now,” she joked. “I saw a potential in you and I'm glad to see you're not embarrassed to be beautiful any more.”

“But this is just the beginning. By the time you go to Quinn's concert,” Madame said, “you'll make everyone stare. I'm sure they'll all be making mistakes when the group are playing because they keep looking at the strangely beautiful girl in the front row.”

Quinn giggled, but said it was true. “And I have a confession. I don't think I'll be able to get to either of your makeovers, Poppy, tomorrow or Saturday.” I felt a wrench. I needed her to be there to get through. “The ensemble needs more rehearsal time and I couldn't really say no. I'm so sorry, Poppy.”

“Oh Quinn, that's terrible,” Madeleine chided. “Putting your work above your girlfriend's needs. I think we should keep the two of them separate from tomorrow until the concert.”

“Oh, I agree,” Madame concurred, though there was an ironic good-humour in her manner. “Poppy can come back to the hotel with me after her haircut and Madeleine can take Quinn to the barberette on Saturday morning and drop her off at rehearsal afterwards. It will be a shock when you see your little Poppy on Saturday night, Quinn. You've no idea what I have planned for her.”

“I'm so sorry, honey bee,” Quinn said, inconsolable. “I can't let the others down.”

“I know. This concert is important for you. I am disappointed though, but that's pure selfishness. I wanted you there for support. But I'll have Madame and Madeleine there to help me. And it will be exciting when you see me for the first time, all transformed.”

She was close to tears. “But you're a little girl inside. You'll be so lost and frightened. You need me, don't you? I'll cancel the rehearsals.”

“No, I can do this now,” I said with fake bravado. I took another cigarette from Madeleine to show I was a grown up now, but I knew that Quinn was right.

Madame arrived in her hire car the following afternoon to take me to my appointment. She'd told me not to style my hair and to dress comfortably, since I'd change into an outfit before my makeover. As we drove out of town I began to understand where I was going. “Oh, god, we're going to Rachel's club, aren't we? I'm going to get my makeover in front of an audience.”

Madame giggled. “Your metamorphosis is too important to be done in secret. Those who appreciate such things shouldn't be denied the pleasure. You'll become a butterfly and you'll be the best model Rachel ever had. No giving in to doubts, you're going to believe in what you're becoming. Aren't you, Poppy?”

“Yes, Madame,” I said. There was a delirium starting to infect me.

Rachel met me in the empty room and sighed at my changes. “Look at you! You look a different girl, so much more confident.” I was told to undress, which I did, though self consciously. I was laced into a new corset, tighter than I'd ever worn, yet, for all the discomfort, I'd come to like the feeling. I looked admiringly at myself in the mirror, my figure moulded into pleasing curves, my breasts lifted up to give a beautiful décolletage.

Rachel lifted my hair and Madame lifted something to my neck. “Remember this?” I saw the collar that Madeleine had had me wear on our encounter, the collar which trapped my hair and immobilised my head so uncomfortably. “You'll never be able to wear it again and so I thought it was a fitting way to end your life with long hair.”

I sat as Rachel sectioned and twisted my curls, then tied each strand onto a projection on the collar. Mercifully she'd allowed me to keep my head in an upright posture, far more comfortable than the tipped back position Madeleine had imposed. While she worked Madame saw to my make-up, then gave me a set of claw-like black nails.

I was a gothic nightmare when I saw the mirror next. My eyes were entirely surrounded by black, a full inch from the edge of eyelids tinted. I'd been provided with pale blue contact lenses and my eyes were framed with long feathery false lashes. My mouth was black too, an angular shape given to my lips. Rachel had arranged the twisted strands similarly to how Madeleine had, forming a mask-like web about my eyes, but had twisted them together more skilfully, almost lacy in the patterning. “Just perfect,” Madame said, unable to hide her emotion. She let her hand rest on my sex and I felt my desire increasing. I saw a woman of unbridled lust in the mirror and this mask gave me licence to act as I wished.

No sooner had I dressed in a latex miniskirt and knee boots with absurdly high spike heels than the guests began to enter. I greeted them with an arch smile. I recognised most of those present, though I'm not sure they any longer recognised me. They all expressed surprise at my appearance.

As I took my place in the chair Madeleine approached me and placed a cigarette in my lips. I was now fully immersed in my role and took a long deep breath, feeling the smoke fill me, easing my anxiety. “We need to remove your collar now,” Rachel said softly. I looked at each of the audience in turn, a larger gathering than usual. They were all utterly engrossed in the drama, yet I felt no fear.

“Yes, Rachel, darling,” I said and took another drag. As I let the smoke drift from my lips a heard a slicing, grating sound. I moaned as I realised that she'd begun the cut. Each strand was freed in turn from the collar by a snip of the scissors.

It took a few minutes to complete the operation. I saw the collar being lifted free, most of my long hair still wound tightly about the spines. I couldn't suppress an exclamation of wonder as I lifted my hand. My hair was still formed into tight twists, but they were so short! No hair reached to my shoulder any more, and my hair was far shorter than ever in my life.

As Rachel brushed out the twists, far more roughly than was necessary, I felt an urge to touch myself. My curls loosened about my head, but any movement reminded me of their new brevity. They moved in a manner that was entirely unfamiliar.

Rachel's manner was strict and dominating. She pushed my head forward and made a section of hair at my nape. The crown and sides were brushed forward and held up with clips. I jumped as I heard the clippers snap into life. Red curls began to tumble over me as she sheared me up the back of my head. They pressed tight to my scalp, which began to feel tight and cool.

“How does that feel?” Rachel asked as she turned of the clippers. I raised my head, realising I was breathless now (the corset made breathing difficult when I leaned forward), but I felt even more asphyxiated as I touched the velvet on my nape which was all that was left of the long hair I'd had a few minutes earlier. It felt delicious, but it was shocking to think that this was my hair. I felt any iciness, a dread.

“I think I need another cigarette, Madeleine,” I said with some embarrassment.

She approached me, looking stern. “It's Mistress,” she said coldly. “Address me properly, sub.”

“I'm sorry, Mistress. Please may I have a cigarette?”

She lit it in silence and I breathed in the strong smoke to restore some equilibrium. “You need to be bleached now,” Rachel said, and began to brush my hair with the cold, pungent paste.

There was a short break now as the bleach was allowed to strip the colour. I'd liked the bright red and felt a twinge of regret that it had passed, though when I remembered how much hair had been cut I felt a rush of panic. I went to get a glass of wine but Madame stopped me. “Enough now, darling. You're smoking too much and if you start drinking now you'll make yourself sick. You need to pace yourself. I won't have you embarrassing yourself.”

I nodded, realising her advice was sensible, though as I sipped an orange juice I did crave something to dampen my anxiety. Soon I was being rinsed, and I heard compliments for how I suited being blonde, though I knew that this would never stand as the finished colour. Rachel quickly blasted my hair dry and pinned it up. Once more I had to bow my head as she set clippers to my nape. It was soon apparent that my nape was being shorn into a decorative pattern, the finer trimmers being used to shave in a complex pattern, then a razor being used to provide cleanness. Rachel spent such a long time creating the hair tattoo that I wondered if she'd permit it to be covered by the longer curls. I felt myself blushing as I imagined her cutting my hair into a tiny bob, or even a bowlcut. It would look so absurd with the tight curls, I was sure, and yet I couldn't deny that to feel even more hair being snipped would excite me.

The cutting wouldn't happen until the colour was complete. My longer hair was pasted with a uniform hue, though I wasn't allowed to see the colour. The nape, on the other hand, was painted much more precisely, and clearly different shades were being applied to the pattern. I was light headed by the time that Rachel finished; bowing my head made the corset tighten until I could barely breath.

It wasn't long before the dyes were rinsed and now I felt my hair being combed to prepare for the cut. Rachel began to snip, creating a line at the level of my earlobe. I saw the falling hair was now a rich violet-tinged blue. I sighed softly as I let myself imagine that I would have a short, bright blue curly bob.

“You've been growing out your fringe?” Rachel asked and I nodded. “Naughty girl, that will never do.” She pushed the sides back and clipped them over my ears. Now the front section was combed forward and rapidly cropped high on my forehead, far shorter than any fringe I'd had before. Rachel giggled. “It's looking all tight and frizzy. You'll have to make sure you straighten it properly every day, won't you?” I promised that I would.

I was finally looking in a mirror at the finished style. The cut looked shorter than I'd imagined. Rachel had set the curls on spiral rods and the tightness had made the line expose the lower third of each ear. My hair had assumed a pyramidal shape, ridiculously wide at the sides. With she short fringe (now polished to a glossy smoothness) the bob made me look oddly young. I rubbed at the velvety nape, now with wide strips of bare scalp which simultaneously repulsed me and made me grow wet.

I was photographed to record Rachel's work, and my bob was then put in bunches to allow the hair tattoo to be seen more clearly (only the lower part was visible with my hair down). Rachel had shaved in into a series of chevrons, with a more complex patterning up the centre. It was dyed vivid shades of green, yellow, magenta and pale blue. Mistress put a cigarette in my lips as more photographs were taken.

“You know what's happening tomorrow, don't you, Poppy?” Madame asked.

“Yes, I'm getting a tattoo,” I said. It hurt me to admit that this would happen.

“Did you consider where it will go?”

“I... guess when she buzzed my nape I thought you were planning a nape tattoo.”

“But now you have a beautiful hair tattoo and I wouldn't ruin that. So we need to clear some space for your first tattoo, don't we?” I nodded, feeling sick at the thought of submitting to a partial shave.

Rachel flicked the guard from the clippers and turned them on. “Kneel,” she said coldly. I was helped to do as she asked then gave a cry of distress as she pressed the blades into my fringe. I closed my eyes as little pieces of hair fell over my face. The clippers nibbled a path backward over the top of my head, then widened the denuded area. The rapid, bold strokes gradually became more controlled and precise as the margin of the shaved area was shaped to a neat form.

I heard gasps of astonishment from the assembled onlookers. My hair had now lost any semblance of normality. I knew that everyone who saw me now would stare at my oddness.

I felt Rachel slap shaving gel over my buzzed forehead. She worked it into the stubble, then spread it over the full extent of my forehead, only stopping after she'd anointed my eyebrows. I looked up at her, sadly, pleadingly. I didn't want this, but as I saw Madame's joy I knew I couldn't say no. The razor scraped back over my scalp in short, delicate strokes. A second shave over the same area was smooth, with no scratchiness. All trace of hair was now eradicated.

I felt my eyebrows come off with a twinge of sadness. I was helped to my feet and confronted my reflection. I couldn't tolerate what I saw. Blue curls surrounded a huge domed forehead, ugly and strange. My eyes looked oddly wide-set without the framing brows too and I knew my beauty had been neutralised. I was bizarre, freakish, frightening, even to myself.

But then the assembly spontaneously began to applaud and I was told how brave and beautiful I looked. If I couldn't believe what was being said I nevertheless felt a thrill at the compliments. I wanted this attention. I was just sad that Quinn wasn't here to tell me that everything was going to be OK. My greatest fear was that she'd no longer like me.

I stayed, as arranged, in Madame's hotel. I woke feeling the previous night had been a nightmare and spent a long time in the bathroom looking at my new image. Madame came and stood alongside me and smiled. “You look so astonishing, Poppy. But soon all of that shaved area of scalp will have a beautiful tattoo and you'll be even more lovely. I'm so proud that you'd allow this for me. But I hope your enjoyment is just as great as mine. I'd love to think that this will be just the beginning, that you'll like tattoos and get more. And that you'll not revert to a conservative hairstyle.”

“I don't know,” I whispered. “I feel terrified to go out looking like this. And I'm not sure it's something I'd ever get used to. I guess a lot is down to Quinn. I'd be heartbroken if she didn't like it.”

Madame laughed. “I don't think that's something you should worry about. She's got some very wild ideas, that little girlfriend of yours. I think she'll probably have to assert her boldness when she sees you. You're getting more extreme than she is, and I sense she's got a competitive streak.”

I touched the shaved area at the front, shivering at the sensation. It felt strange, rubbery. The oddness of sensation was simultaneously repellent and thrilling. As I placed my hand over the shave I realised that Rachel had shaved back the length of my index finger. “The tattoo will cover all the shaved part?” I asked nervously.

“Yes, darling, all of it. It will look stunning. You should dress comfortably today though. It's going to be a little tough for you and I don't want you fainting. I'd hate to think you'd end up with a half finished tattoo, or, even worse, miss the concert tonight. Let's get you through the trauma of your first tattoo then make you look especially ravishing for tonight.”

I left the hotel wearing ripped jeans and a sleeveless t-shirt printed with the faded logo of an obscure sixties psych band. I was unused to dressing so informally now and it felt so relaxing. I wore boots with four inch heels, but I'd become more accustomed to heels now. I was glad that Madame provided me with sunglasses. I felt that the anonymity the large lenses gave me was a blessing.

We made a short journey across the city in Madame's hire car. We parked at a large conference centre and as we made our way out I groaned at the sight of a large poster. The centre was hosting a tattoo convention and I realised that this was where I'd receive my tattoo. Once again my transformation would be public.

As I entered the hall I was greeted by a host of familiar faces. The ladies who'd witnessed my haircut the previous night had now gathered to watch the completion of this phase of my transformation. “Your appointment is in half an hour,” Madame informed me. “Do you think you can bear the pain? A scalp tattoo will be painful.”

“I know I'll find it difficult,” I said. I was close to panic now and it took all of my strength to control my urge to beg her to be spared.

“There's a smoking area out back. Let's go and use that. I just hope no one is checking. It would be terribly embarrassing if we got thrown out for using drugs.”

The area was, fortunately, hardly supervised at all. Madeleine provided me with one of her cigars and insisted that I smoke the entire blunt by myself. I was soon filled with a gentle warmth and my anxiety diminished. “I took your pretty little friend to the barber this morning,” Madeleine reminded me. “She's got such a sharp cut for tonight. I'm sure you two will be delighted to see each other.”

“Oh god, what cut did she get?” I asked eagerly.

“Wait and see! It's important that you both have a nice surprise.”

As I re-entered the hall everything seemed oddly distanced and remote. I was sure I was more high than ever before and tried to do everything calmly and slowly to conceal my intoxication. I let myself be guided by Madame toward a display stand. Soon I was in discussion with a beautiful young tattooist, slim and pretty with long blonde hair, her arms and neck reticulated by black tattoos. Madame said far more than I did, however; my input was largely limited to nods to approve all her ideas.

I reclined in a chair and settled my head back into the cushioned rest. The tattooist, Jenni, started to spread shaving gel over the front again. It would seem that even the half day's growth of stubble was too much for her. She pressed a razor hard to my scalp. I glanced at the throng which had gathered to witness my inking. Besides the faces I recognised I saw many strangers. It seemed that the prospect of a scalp tattoo was an enticement for many of the tattoo connoisseurs.

Now the area was cleaned and a transfer was applied. I was provided with a hand mirror to approve the placement. My upper forehead was covered with a mandala-like design, all sharp angles and very complex. “This is just the basic outline,” Jenni explained. “I'll add a lot of freehand ornaments.”

“It'll all be in black?”

“No, there'll be some highlights in red too. That was what we agreed, wasn't it?” I nodded. I looked at Madame who was smiling warmly. I wanted her to tell me I didn't have to go through with this. But her face told me she was more excited than ever in her life. I was making her dream come true. I wanted to be in Quinn's arms now. I felt so frightened and lost.

The first touch of the needle made me grimace. It was far more painful than I'd been prepared for. And each touch of the needle just seemed to make my discomfort grow. “Just try to relax,” Jenni said sympathetically. “If you tense up it makes the pain worse. I'll work as fast as possible, but the scalp is sensitive. Just try to think of something nice.”

I closed my eyes and thought of being alone with Quinn again. In my vision she was delighted with my haircut and tattoo, and told me she adored me for my bravery. I tried to imagine her new haircut, and found myself dreaming of her with terribly short hair again. Though I'd frequently told her that I wanted her to grow her hair again I knew that seeing her shorn excited me.

My fantasies helped me to distance myself from the pain (no doubt aided by my intoxication) and though there were times when the pain became almost unbearable for the most part I could tolerate the stinging of the needle. I lost all track of time and felt confused when the needle became silent for a prolonged period. I felt Jenni wiping at the entire area now, scrubbing firmly over the skin, which felt raw and tender. “You were very brave,” she said. “All done now.”

“Already?” I asked.

“You've been here for two hours. If you want some more you'll have to give me a chance to take a break,” she laughed.

I gasped as I saw the mirror again. The spiky cells of the mandala were now vividly decorated with patterns of lines and hatchings, and some a minutely detailed filigree. Some were given a mirror in red, appearing as a drop shadow. The spikes at the front of the design had been ornamented with beads and a spine protruded from the centre. I was sure that these additions would extend across my hairline and remain always visible. I reached up to feel but was told not to. “Try to avoid any touching, it will add to the risk of infection.”

“It's so beautiful,” Madame said ecstatically. “You've done a wonderful job, Jenni. How can I ever thank you?”

I had to agree that her work was very well executed. But as I stared at myself I was in shock. This odd girl with the pierced face, tattooed forehead and short blue curls was how others saw me now, yet inside I was still the shy, dowdy girl I'd always been.

I wanted nothing more than to lie down and sleep, but Madame insisted that we should spend another hour in the convention. I had become a minor celebrity, it seemed, and I received numerous requests to pose for pictures. There was much comment on my bold choice for the placement of my first tattoo.

I was finally allowed to return home and rest. Of course, Quinn was absent, busy preparing for her performance. Madame stayed with me. Now that the effects of the blunt were fading I was beset with an intense anxiety. Finally in private I was able to let my emotions out and this resulted in a flood of tears. I wanted Quinn to hold me but despite Madame's consolations I felt so frightened and alone.

“I feel like I've ruined myself,” I admitted after a lengthy period of grief where I couldn't speak. “I feel like my life is over.”

Madame was more sanguine. “You have a choice now, and before you didn't. You were trapped by others' expectations of you. I don't deny that some people will treat you differently now, and you will have a bit of time to decide whether this way of life is something you can accept. If it isn't then in a few months your hair will have grown out into something more conservative. You can look back on this episode of your life as a little experiment, or maybe as a dream. But I'm sure you won't regret doing this. I know that you want to be bold and beautiful and I hope you have the courage to embrace it. Your old way of life might be over, Poppy, but a new life is possible for you. And I hope the external changes are mirrored by internal ones. I want you to put aside the mundane work you do that limits your creativity. Work at the things that are important to you, the creative side. Take Quinn as your model, look at how single-minded she is, how she's dedicated to her music. You can be a writer if you push yourself, but you have to work hard.”

I frowned. “But Quinn can earn money from her music, even though it pays so badly given the amount of work she puts in. I have to make a living and that's why I have to write copy. It's not something I want to do but I need to pay my bills.”

“I'd be happy to provide some financial support,” she smiled but I shook my head.

“Thank you, Madame, but I want to make my own way in the world.”

“I expected nothing less of you,” she smiled. “Still, you could do some modelling. I'm not saying it would be a good source of income but you could do a couple of shoots a month and get a few hundred. I know some people at an agency who would be glad of a girl like you.”

“I'm not a model though. I'm not at all the type.”

“A couple of weeks ago that may have been true, but now you've blossomed. Now you have a strength, and I feel sometimes that I'd give anything to be young and in love with you like Quinn is and to feel that love reciprocated.”

I held her in my arms, for the first time feeling that Madame was lonely and vulnerable, despite her worldly success. “I adore you too,” I whispered, “as does Quinn. And I love your new haircut, though I never dared admit it before. Did Madeleine make you get it?”

“She did sort of persuade me to try it,” she laughed. “I knew as soon as I saw it that I couldn't go back to my job with something so edgy and I'm going to have to lose the bob in a few weeks. I'm not sure I like the idea of a really mannish cut, but I guess I'll have to bite the bullet.”

I turned her head to show her profile, the bobbed side hidden from view. “You shouldn't worry, it will look so sexy on you. I love this boyish look on you. You're too pretty to look really butch. Go really shaved on the back and sides, but keep your make-up fresh and feminine. Oh, you're so adorable.”

My emotional state was markedly unstable and I was no longer able to hold back the lust I'd felt growing since Madame had revealed her vulnerable side. We tore each other's clothes off and fell to the bed, unable to control our passions.

After I'd exhausted my desire I felt into a deep sleep. I awoke late in the afternoon. Madame was beside me. “Don't dare say you feel guilty,” she cautioned.

I frowned. “But I do. I love Quinn and I shouldn't have acted as I did. I shouldn't feel like I do about you.”

“You didn't do anything we haven't done when Quinn is here.”

That wasn't strictly true, but she was largely correct. “But she isn't here. I went behind her back. I'd be upset if you and she did the same in my absence.”

“Yes, but she's not so insecure. Tonight you can confess everything and offer yourself for a punishment to expiate your guilt. I'll make sure you pay for your sins.” She giggled at me, even though I felt no humour. “Really, I'm sure Quinn won't be upset. I think she'd have been surprised if we hadn't. Anyway, put it out of your head for now. We have to get you ready for your coming out. We need to make you look especially beautiful for the concert tonight.”

A new outfit had been purchased for me, and it was especially uncomfortable. A new, tighter corset was laced about my body, giving me a waist more fine than I'd have believed possible. My legs were encased in latex stockings which were tight and restrictive. I was trembling with doubt; this wasn't the outfit to wear to a classical concert, and I was sure that I'd attract too much attention of the wrong sort, and distract from Quinn's musical endeavours. But I couldn't bring myself to voice my doubts. I could see that Madame was intent on giving me a very particular look and I knew I'd promised to let her take control.

We were visited by a make-up artist who gave Madame a beautiful, soft colourful look. I was shocked by my image afresh. She'd given me black pouting lips, but my mouth seemed to have taken on a new shape, a sourness in my expression now. And my eyes were heavily shaded, but with the weight mostly filing out the area beneath each eye. My eyes seemed too far apart, and the absence of eyebrows added to this. The make-up was beautifully applied, but her intent seemed to be to render my features odd and strange. My natural face seemed buried now, and I felt that my beauty (such that I'd allowed myself ever to believe I was beautiful) was gone. The girl I had become was striking in the extreme, but not in any way pretty. I felt a shiver of discomfort that this was possible.

Of course, I was dressed in absurdly tall boots and as I entered the hall (a theatre in the university) I knew that nobody could ignore my presence. I tried to focus on my gait, maintaining an elegance in my movement (and now I could hardly avoid moving in a very particular way; my posture was constrained by the corset and the heels necessitated a mode of movement). The hall was half full and as I took a seat to the right of centre, a few rows from the front, I was aware that people were turning to glance at me. I turned to Madame. “I'm so nervous, and not just for Quinn. I feel so out of place. Everyone else here is dressed normally and I look like I came to model for a fetish shoot.”

“Personally, I think you're the most exciting person in here. A thousand times more lovely and beautiful than anyone else I've seen today. Don't you think that's worth something?” I gave her a little smile. I did undoubtedly feel a pride in her approval.

I was surprised to see that Rachel came along to the concert with a group of women, including Madeleine, from her group. I could hardly believe that they were going to get much from the music, and concluded that they were here to support Quinn, or perhaps me, or more likely to indulge their pleasure in seeing our makeovers.

My agony of expectation increased as the musicians entered to perform. The first piece was a section of Messiaen's Quartet for the End of Time, Fouillis d'arcs-en-ciel, pour l'Ange qui annonce la fin du Temps. The pianist explained that the scoring (piano, violin, 'cello, clarinet) was determined by the circumstances of its first performance, which took place during World War II when the composer was a prisoner of war in a camp in Silesia. Those were the only instruments available and he'd composed the piece for a concert for the prisoners and German officers.

The soft melody was suggestive of something decadent, sensuous, rapturous, in contrast to the stated religious impulse of the title (though perhaps there was no reason to assume that religion should be free of a delight in the sensuous). There were contrasting episodes of livelier music sparkling with energy. The musicians obviously relished this music, but my enjoyment was tempered by Quinn's absence. I felt myself growing tense as I imagined her seeing me for the first time (and I had changed so much in the last few hours that I felt that she would really be seeing me anew).

As the applause faded and the musicians left the stage I felt my breath growing short. “We didn't get a program,” I said anxiously to Madame. I could see others in the crowd with a photocopied set of notes on the works to be performed.

“We hardly need one. They're announcing the works before they're performed.”

There was a fresh ripple of applause to welcome the new musician who stepped onto the stage. I felt myself grow cold with fear as I saw Quinn.

Her hair was almost white now, what remained of it. Her nape and sides had been shaved smooth and her hair had been sharply cut into a variation of her bowlcut. It was far more cleanly cut than her last cropping. The sides were cut in beautifully shaped arches high over each ear and her fringe was now arched too, the centre almost cropped to her hairline, sharp points formed where the fringe met the curving side. She'd been fitted with new glasses, heavy tortoiseshell frames surrounding large circular lenses. They gave her a studious appearance, which was enhanced by her boyish attire: tightly-fitted black trousers, a white shirt and a thin black tie. She looked beautiful.

As she entered I saw her eyes darting about the crowd, but the stage was brightly lit ant the auditorium in darkness. I knew she'd failed to spot me as she addressed the audience. “I'd like to play for you now a piece that was written sixty years ago, one of the first pieces to combine electronic sounds with a live instrumental part, Musica su due dimensioni by Bruno Maderna. Confusingly, there are two unrelated works with the same name, and I'm going to play the later piece. Maderna was a Venetian and although he was one of the leaders of the international avant garde his music has an Italianate lyricism, which he never sought to hide. He was an expert on baroque and earlier music and I sense that much of his music has an affinity with the music that he obviously loved, although in this work it's much easier to sense his historical awareness in the flute part. It was written for a really great flautist called Severino Gazzelloni, who served as an inspiration to many composers of the post-war generation, including Berio, Nono and Bussotti. Without his virtuosity and dedication to the most challenging repertoire the literature for the flute would be much poorer.”

The stage fell into darkness except for a single spotlight over Quinn. She paused for a moment, then nodded toward the sound desk. A sequence of rapid, nervous tones issued from the flute. The speakers which were invisible in the darkness on either side of the stage began to sound, a gentle, though by no means consoling, procession of tones which seemed at once bound to the past and futuristic. At times the tape part was a transmuted version of the flute, distorted, distanced by reverberation; sometimes sparse, but at other times violent, threatening to engulf the sound of the flute. I found myself enthralled by watching Quinn, her identification with the music complete. I knew that until the piece was finished she would have no thought of me. But in a few minutes the lights would rise and she would see me, and I felt a moment of despair as I imagined that she would judge me harshly. How could she introduce me to her friends now, this odd creature who looked so desperate for attention.

With an all too brief gesture the piece ended. Quinn held her posture for a few seconds, then relaxed and the applause began. The lights rose on the audience and almost immediately our eyes met. I saw her composure momentarily evaporate and her cheeks reddened. She gave me an embarrassed smile and mouthed an obscenity, though I doubt anyone else would have noticed. I could see only shock in her face, but I would have to wait to discuss her reaction. She was soon gone from the stage, only to return a few minutes later with the ensemble. I saw her glance toward me as she took her seat, but there was no sign of recognition in her eyes, the lighting obviously preventing her from seeing me.

The final piece of the first half was a quintet for violin, 'cello, piano, clarinet and flute, Taléa by Gérard Grisey. I knew this was the piece that Quinn most admired, and its appeal for her was easy to understand. Each player was allowed expressive solos, the music fluctuating between rapid, almost ecstatic activity and periods of almost static calm. I'd learned enough from Quinn to understand that the harmonies were based around the harmonic series, so the the presence of notes in the winds and strings that fell between the notes of the piano felt natural.

Despite the beauty of the music, I felt an unbearable pressure. I regretted more keenly now allowing my transformation to take place in Quinn's absence. I had to fight back tears as I imagined her hurt at seeing me. I reached out to take Madame's hand, squeezing it too tightly to try to communicate my anxiety. She smiled at me calmly, surely misunderstanding my gesture. “She's good,” she mouthed at me, nodding toward Quinn.

The final climax ran out of energy and a downward phrase brought the music to an end. I joined in the applause, the audience's enthusiasm for the musicians evident. Quinn was last to leave the stage, and glanced back at me as she did. She almost immediately reappeared in the auditorium and joined me.

“Oh shit, look at you!” she gasped. “I just don't believe you did this.”

I found myself getting choked up. “Is it too much?”

“Is it too much? The front half of your head is shaved and you covered it with a big dark tattoo! Yes, it's too much. But it's so beautiful. I love it. And I love you more than ever for being so brave.”

As we embraced both of us were in tears. Quinn dabbed at her eyes with embarrassment. “Madame, I can't believe you pushed her so hard. I'd never have thought you'd put a tattoo on her forehead. You're very naughty.”

I was surprised that none of Madame's plan seemed to have been discussed with Quinn. “I'm sorry, dear, you're right. I was naughty. I hope you don't mind her little makeover.”

Quinn laughed. “I don't think anyone in the world would think this was a little makeover. She's unrecognisable. Oh, my little honey bee! All your hair's gone too. Let me see the back.” She ran her fingers over my clippered nape. “It's delicious, Poppy. Oh, shit. I can't believe I have to play another thirty five minutes of music in the second half. I just want to go back home with you right now.”

“You've worked so hard for this concert, and I've loved it. Don't even think about me until it's over. Play the best you ever have.” Despite my encouragement, I wanted exactly the same as Quinn. At this moment it seemed to me that hell was indeed other people. I wanted only Quinn and privacy. Within moments, however, she was gone, off to prepare for the next piece.

I soon realised that the failure to obtain the program notes for the concert was a deliberate ruse by Madame. The first piece after the interval was introduced by the composer, who happened to be Quinn.

“I find it hard to talk about my music, especially since I think I'm only beginning to find myself as a composer. The title of this piece, which we're about to give its first performance, is Songes de Miel, which means dreams of honey. It draws on a short piece for flute and piano by Bruno Maderna, which was titled Honeyrêves, whose bilingual title was drawn from reversing the name of its dedicatee, Severino Gazzelloni. My piece is dedicated to my honey.”

I felt a glow of pride at Quinn's gift to me. If the title and dedication had led anyone to expect something sentimental they were to be disappointed. Quinn's music was tightly drawn, with sections of febrile, microtonal activity, with each instrument playing in a style distinct from its companions, contrasting with periods of quiet where tones slowly fluctuated. The effect was never honeyed and if the piece could be said to be dreamlike it was in the uneasiness of its atmosphere. Perhaps there was a portrait of our relationship in the music, because I knew life with Quinn would never be comfortable and she would never allow me to take the easy route through life. The music built to a climax of increasingly frenetic activity, each of the musicians coming to the fore in a wildly virtuosic solo, only to re-submerge into the accompanying hubbub, with another solo coming to the fore. The piece ended with all musicians repeating a single note five times. I was very emotional as I heard the reaction of the listeners, who greeted the performance with real exuberance.

The ensemble was joined by a percussionist for the final piece of the program, Elliott Carter's Triple Duo. Quinn had introduced me to recordings of his work, for which she had a great affection, but I'd struggled to make sense of his mercurial music. I couldn't doubt the advocacy of the musicians, who relished the complexities of this sextet. I can't pretend I wasn't glad to hear its end, wanting only to be with Quinn.

I was ushered into the dressing room where I had to face Quinn's friends. Suddenly I was the centre of attention, each of them astonished at my metamorphosis. “I didn't even recognise you,” was said by more than one person. Another said: “I was really upset when I saw Quinn with you before. I thought she had a new girlfriend!”

I was complimented on my daring, but unsurprisingly few people actually went so far as to say they liked what I'd done. Quinn pulled me to one side. “I'm really sorry, but there's someone here from a publisher and she wants to discuss a scheme they have for young composers.”

“Why are you sorry?” I squealed excitedly. “That's great news.”

“Yes, it is,” she said, trying to hide her pride. “But I need to discuss it with her now and I wanted to just head home with you. Give me an hour, please, honey bee. There's a nice pub nearby and it doesn't get too full. You head over there with Madame and I'll meet you as soon as I can.”

The pub was a student bar, but since few students lived close to the campus it was half empty on weekend nights. Rachel and her friends had dispersed after the concert and now I was accompanied only by Madame and Madeleine. I was glad I wasn't alone; entering a quiet pub was now an ordeal and I could feel a ripple of surprise as people stopped to stare at me. “I think they're all a little scared of you now,” Madeleine said. “How does that make you feel?”

I knew that her statement was probably true. I would have been intimidated by another woman whose appearance was as strange as mine. “I don't like it,” I admitted. “I still feel like I always did inside but the way I look isn't how I imagine myself. I'm not sure I'll ever get used to it.”

“Well the good news is you don't have to get used to looking like this. I've got some lovely ideas for your next look. You'll be very different again, Poppy. I think it's really good that you'll have such contrasting looks. You'll get a chance to find out which you like most and I hope in the future you'll gravitate towards those that please you,” Madame said.

“Of course, there's Quinn to consider too. You should maybe let her decide what's best for you. She has far better taste than you,” Madeleine giggled. “Or better still, let Nancy and me take charge. I know you're very submissive and the idea of not being able to choose so much as what shoes you put on every morning must be making you gasp with excitement.”

I wrinkled my nose. “I don't think I could ever live like that, but it's very generous of you to offer,” I said drily.

“You always push too far, Madeleine,” Madame laughed. “Now if we asked Poppy to agree to a little makeover a couple of times a year, or to dress in a particular way for a special occasion I'm sure she could be persuaded. But she's still a little shy to give in to your ideas. Isn't that true, Poppy?”

I nodded. “I think so, but at the moment everything feels terrifying. I still can't believe I have a tattoo on my forehead. I have to face my family at some point and I'm sure they'll disown me.”

I was drinking rather too quickly, and by the time Quinn arrived I was smoking outside the pub with my companions. She pulled the cigarette from my fingers and stubbed it out. “You're getting too fond of that,” she said firmly. “I'm not going to live with a smoker. It looks sexy but I really don't like the smell and kissing you is less fun when you taste of smoke.”

“Oh, what a buzzkill,” Madeleine pouted. “Maybe I should get you hooked, Quinn. When I was watching you play your flute I imagined it as a giant cigarette. It made you look far more attractive. And you need all the help you can get now. You look so plain with those glasses and dressed as a boy.”

“Not going to happen. Poppy and I are non smokers now, and that goes for your blunts too, Madeleine. I don't like her getting stoned. She's a delicate little thing and she suffers the next day, which you never see.”

I hugged her and promised my obedience. I was pleased that she was laying down rules for my protection. I realised that smoking was something I was now enjoying rather too much and could easily become habitual. “And Madeleine, you're so wrong,” I stated. “She looks so adorable even in those big glasses. Her haircut is just dreamy too.” I sighed as I stroked her nape and felt soft, warm scalp, no trace of hair left. I knew that in private I would explore it with my lips and that it would drive both of us to new ecstasies.

Madeleine pouted at me, then addressed Madame. “You know, Nancy, this one has terrible eyesight too. She's too vain to wear glasses, even though she promised me she'd get some. Maybe you could work that into her next makeover. I'd love to see the pair of these little puritans wearing thick glasses.”

“Yes, Quinn did mention that but I'd forgotten.” Madame said, her imagination obviously piqued.

“I don't have terrible sight, but I am a little short-sighted. But I never wore glasses. I can manage without.”

“Well that's not good. You're going for an eye test on Monday. Your next look includes glasses, Poppy.”

Madame had rewarded me by booking a room in the hotel where she was staying, where Quinn and I were able to spend the night together (Madame had welcomed Madeleine back to her room, so that I felt no guilt that she'd be left by herself). We spent a long time talking about our experiences since our last meeting. Quinn had been subjected to Crystal's expertise, and spoke about how intimidated she was by the unsmiling barberette. I was surprised to hear her express how much she disliked having her hair cut short, since I'd imagined she was becoming relaxed about short styles. But she felt that as Quinn buzzed away all of the regrowth on the sides (and much higher than on the previous cut), then shaved her smooth, she felt a real humiliation, especially in light of her public performance just hours later.

“And when Madeleine put these glasses on me I felt like crying. But it's the most delicious humiliation, such a bitter sweet feeling of submission. I want to be the girl I used to be, long pretty hair, my face not hidden behind big, nerdy glasses. But I know that's no longer allowed and I wouldn't have it any other way.”

Quinn spoke for both of us. I felt my passion growing as she gave her account, which in truth was fragmented by my attentions, caresses and kisses to show my uncontrollable arousal. And in return I gave a detailed account of my two days of being transformed.

“I had no idea Madame intended to tattoo you quite so boldly. I'd asked her if you'd get the tattoo on your temple and she led me to believe that was her plan. I was really shocked when I saw you. I still feel a shiver every time I look at you. My poor little Poppy had become such a shocker. All of my friends were really astonished. I'm sure they don't know what's going on with us, but they think we're bad for each other. And we are, in some way. I know I'm going to have to get a tattoo soon, even though it frightens me. Will you love seeing me as I start to get lots of tattoos, Poppy? Because I feel that that's my fate, even though I don't want it. But I'll always have radically short hair and I'll have lots of tattoos to fulfil some weird need.”

I couldn't speak. I was overwhelmed with erotic energy to hear Quinn's declaration, and I knew what she was saying was no idle boast. I knew she would make her vision become reality. I kissed her beautifully pale, smooth skin, her arms, her breasts and imagined them being disfigured with black ink. It would be an awful loss, and yet I desired it. And underneath this desire was a yet stronger one to give into the impulse to have myself transformed further.

We lay arm in arm, recovering our strength after we'd both violently climaxed. “We should both get tattooed as a thank you to Madame,” Quinn said solemnly.

“I already did,” I said with some alarm.

“Yes, I did notice,” she laughed. “But I'm telling you that I want you to extend your scalp tattoo. She's done so much for us. You need to do this.”

“But I'd have to shave more hair. You want it shaved further back? It already looks so weird.”

She looked at me intensely. “No, that's not what I meant. You could extend the design down the temples to in front of your ears. I'd imagine that at some point Madame will have more hair shaved. You'll probably end up with an undershave so you can do it then.”

“Shit, Quinn, I don't know. It's really scary. You want it in front of my ears? That wouldn't be covered up when my hair grew in, would it?”

“Would you rather I let Madame give me a scalp tattoo? If it's too much for you I'll take it instead.”

I knew she was pushing me to offer myself to save her. I couldn't resist being brave for her and nodded my agreement. Quinn was beside herself with joy. I demonstrated my complete submission to her will by putting my lips to her sex. She held out for as long as she could but soon exploded into an orgasm of great intensity.

We breakfasted with Madame and Madeleine. It would be a week before I'd see my benefactor again, since she was again travelling to see some business contacts. “I'll be back on Friday and make sure you've got nothing arranged on Saturday. I hope this time Quinn will clear her calendar too. I'd like her to have the pleasure of seeing our little curly head enter the next phase of her transformation. And tomorrow I've booked an eye test. Make sure you attend Poppy or I'll be very upset. You're going to find out how lovely the world looks when you have good vision.”

Madeleine chuckled at my sour reaction. “Poppy's going to be a four eyes, like her little boyfriend. And I would have thought you might have made an effort to look well-turned out this morning. You didn't shave your tattoo.”

“Oh, she can't,” Madame interjected. “She's to wait until it's healed, the tattooist was quite clear. It might be three weeks before she can shave it. Although she did say it might be a bit sooner, since Poppy is clearly a good healer. Those piercings have settled really well. At any rate we'll have to look at some way to hide the stubble for the next makeover, especially since that tattoo will get scabby and unsightly.”

“So she's going to have glasses and a comb over? I'm not sure this is going to be the most flattering look, Poppy.”

Those words remained in my head throughout the week. It was difficult to return to a mundane world with my new look. Going out alone had me shaking with nerves, and meeting friends was excruciating as they reacted with various degrees of surprise or horror to my radical makeover. Worse still, Quinn had to attend a seminar and was away for two nights. I longed for her company, or that of Madame. I felt I wanted to be with people who welcomed my transformation.

And my eye test had left me shaken. The optician was clearly displeased that I'd managed for so long without glasses. “You really need to wear glasses,” she'd informed me, seemingly incredulous that I would order a pair online. Nor was I being entirely truthful; my glasses would be chosen by Madame without my input. Still, I had to reconcile myself to wearing spectacles by the weekend. I knew that Quinn would make sure that I wore them all the time now.

On Friday morning Quinn returned and by the evening we were dining with Madame. “Oh, your hair!” Quinn shrieked excitedly as she entered. Madame had submitted to the short cut she'd discussed. The back and sides were pretty much entirely gone (only a close examination allowed me to see that her scalp was slightly discoloured by stubble, shaved to a clean edge about her hairline). The sides faded into a thick block of black hair on top, smoothed into a strict side parting. It was very bold and mannish, yet suited her soft, feminine features wonderfully. “It looks so pretty.”

I joined in with appreciation for her cut. “I'm not at all sure,” Madame said, with uncharacteristic diffidence. “I miss my bob terribly. I'm sure I'll grow it out as soon as I can.”

“You really shouldn't. I think this is perfect. It makes you look younger too.”

Madame giggled happily. “I'm glad you like it. Maybe I'll keep it short for a month or two and reassess how I feel then. I'm sure a lot of the time how we think we feel about a haircut is just a reflection of the reactions of other people.”

I chuckled humourlessly. “In that case I think I'd hate my haircut. All of my friends look horrified when they meet me.”

“Oh, not all of them. You have two fans right here, and our opinions are so much more important than all those silly little girls you've thought were your friends before. And that's why you love your haircut, isn't it, Poppy?”

I blushed and nodded. I adored the flattery of Madame. I felt special when I was with her and knew I'd agree to almost anything she asked of me.

And the following morning she asked me to get in her car and took me for a two hour drive to attend my appointment in a salon in a strange city. “The stylist you're booked in with has won a lot of awards. She does lovely edgy cuts and I thought she'd be a good option for your first short cut.”

I was soon caped and being examined by Lorelei. “We decided she needed to conceal the tattoo during the healing process,” Madame explained. “Do you think you could brush the hair forward to form a fringe, or has too much been shaved?”

“Her hair is quite full, so yes, that would be possible. Of course the perm makes it more difficult. It wouldn't stay in place without straightening and a lot of hairspray would help.”

“You could do a chemical straightening?”

She nodded. “It's quite drying though and you wanted a new colour?” I nodded. Madame wanted it, I was sure and for today I was being obedient to her will.

“Your hair is in quite good shape given all the processing. Since you're going short I guess we can pull it off.”

Madame expressed her delight. “She wants you to start with a nice high undershave,” she added. “Shaved smooth with a razor.” Lorelei looked at me in the mirror for confirmation and I nodded my fearful approval.

Lorelei combed through my tangling curls, pulling the hair back at the left side to expose me ear, holding it in place at the back. “I guess I have to shave up to about here...” She held the comb horizontally to my head, so far above my ear. “That's a lot of hair. And shaved smooth will look quite extreme. Are you sure? Once it's done there's no backing out.”

As I glanced at Madame I felt my emotions beginning to take over. Of course I wasn't sure. I'd be bald over most of my head if I said yes, and I still had no idea what would be done with the remaining hair. I only knew that it would be another huge change to my look. “Yes, Lorelei,” I managed to say. “Shaved smooth would be great.” I didn't believe it would be.

As I saw her take the huge set of clippers from the counter I felt myself tensing. I gripped the arms of the chair tightly and started to feel dizzy. If I released my grip I felt like I might fall from the chair. There was no guard on the clippers.

She oiled them, then put them back on their hook. Now she made a parting around my head, dividing the hair into a part that would be spared and a part that would be eradicated. A tuft of stiff curls jutted up from my crown. “I've dipped it down at the back,” she smiled and held a mirror to let me see. Even with this generosity my shave would extend up to within three inches of my crown. The sides would be almost entirely bare.

“That's perfect, isn't it?” Madame said warmly. I nodded my agreement.

The clippers gave a harsh crack as the switch engaged. Even though I was expecting it I jumped and my entire body seemed to tauten. Lorelei put her hand to my head and pushed it to the side to expose my left temple. She slid the clippers into my cheek and let them slowly rise up through the brightly coloured curls. They looked like little springs as they began to loosen then slide free, tumbling over the cape to gather in my lap. I could hear every breath now and my heart was racing. As I saw exposed scalp in front of my ear and up the side I made a soft ululation, so quiet that I'm sure it was lost under the sound of the clippers. The clippers traced another upward path and more hair was spilling down over my shoulders and breasts. Now she pushed my ear down and pressed the blades in an arc around the perimeter so that now my ear was exposed, bare white flesh visible all of the way up the side. I glanced in the mirror at Madame then Quinn. She looked fascinated and her face softened as she noticed my gaze resting on her. “Good girl,” she mouthed silently.

As the clippers were returned to their hook I felt anything but good. I wanted to cry. I didn't suit being almost bald. The bare sides, combined with the stubbled and tattooed front looked terrifying. And I had attended my appointment without make-up, which was painful for me now (my eyebrows were freshly shaved and my face now seemed terribly bare without some cosmetic enhancement). Now that my hair was almost gone (the little that had been spared was fixed back in a tight knot) the resultant image seemed so ugly that it felt punitive. I'd never felt so little confidence in my self-image.

I couldn't read Lorelei. She said little as she worked, and seemed intent on working as quickly as possible without appearing rushed. She spread the sides and nape with shaving gel. It smelt fresh and minty and it made my entire scalp tingle, rather unpleasantly. And yet even as I felt the tingle from the tea tree oil in the gel I realised that the movement of her fingers as they massaged it into the gritty stubble was causing me to become aroused. I shifted my legs under the cape, crossing them and pressing my thighs together tightly. I started to imagine being alone with Quinn and Madame, being told how brave I'd been to allow such a lot of hair to be shaved off. My passions were surging now and as I glanced in the mirror I could see my cheeks blushing as I realised that I was in danger of being pushed into an uncontrollable orgasm.

As Lorelei dragged a razor up my nape I let my body slip into a climax. I knew that if I'd fought the feelings they would have grown until I couldn't hide my orgasm, and to cry out excitedly would have been my greatest humiliation. As it was I felt a little shiver, but managed to avoid any kind of vocalisation, with the exception of a rather too audible sigh of bliss as the delight finally passed. Even so I couldn't avoid a feeling of terrible embarrassment that this had happened to me. As I raised my head to allow the sides to be shaved I felt guilty and ashamed. I wasn't sure that I'd hidden my lack of control from the three women who were present.

My scalp gleamed now under the strong salon lights as the last of the white foam was scraped away. I was properly bald now, and imagined how odd it would feel, recalling vividly how I felt a simultaneous desire and repulsion when I touched Quinn's newly shaved nape. Now we'd have not dissimilar looks, I supposed.

But before I would receive my final cut I would have to endure hours of processing. My hair (now cropped short) was covered with a pungent gel and smoothed over my head, clips inserted to pull it straight. By the time it was rinsed the curl seemed to have been eliminated. But now it was bleached, then dyed. When I finally sat for Lorelei to complete my style I saw a girl with spiky turquoise hair above a high undershave.

My hair was swept forward and cropped to a hard line, high on my forehead, but covering the tattoo, which by now was encrusted with fine scabs. Lorelei had to wield the comb with delicacy to avoid damaging me. The sides were now snipped to a hard line too, sloping down toward the nape, but at such a gentle angle that most of the shaved area of scalp above ears was bared. I had a very severe bowlcut now, much more simple in its contours than Quinn's variation on the basic style.

Lorelei added some texture through my hair, which had looked too heavy after she'd established the line. She was careful not to remove too much from the front section, which would have to cover the shaved section where the tattoo was. I felt a dread as I realised that this was only a temporary solution, a stopgap style that would be changed when the tattoo had healed sufficiently to allow the razor to clear away the stubbly regrowth. Yet as I peered at myself I saw how little hair remained on my head. With the fringe brushed back I couldn't imagine many styles being possible. Would I soon be entirely bald? The thought made me feel an intense terror, yet at the same time I knew that if Madame demanded it of me there would be a part of me that would rejoice.

The style was sprayed and shaped into a slightly tousled look, and if I despised what had been done to me, I knew that I would have loved the style on any other woman. Now I felt so exposed. The severity of the cut made me look smaller, younger, chubbier. It was anything but flattering, and would have suited Quinn's delicate, pretty features far more than my rather coarser face.

A make-up artist made me feel a little happier. For the first time since my eyebrows had been shaved I was treated to painted on substitutes. They were too thick, angular and dark for my tastes, but even so I smiled at the normality they restored to my face. My eyes were made to look bigger with heavy winged liner (painted at a markedly tilted angle) and my lips were now deep red.

My pleasure in the softening of my look was short-lived. As I rose from the chair to peer more closely at my new look Madame came to me. She opened a small case and slid a pair of glasses over my face, settling them onto my nose and smiling excitedly.

I could see they were exceptionally large lenses and they were so much heavier than any sunglasses that I'd worn. I groaned as I turned to look in the mirror. The lenses were roughly rectangular, but skewed so that they angled upwards. The outer corners were drawn outward and upward into a sharper edge. The frame was a muted red, translucent plastic, but ornamented with rounded sections of opaque coral pink, and the hinge and side pieces were of the same pink. They were so big and bold that they completely overwhelmed my features. My first pair of glasses were excruciatingly striking.

“Wow, you look so different,” Quinn said, part teasingly, part admiringly.

“Doesn't she just?” Madame added. “How does it feel being able to see clearly?”

As I looked about me I had to admit that it was rather shocking just how clear everything looked. “Everything is in hard focus,” I said.

Quinn's hand stroked my nape gently and I couldn't repress a little cry of shock. I reached up to feel it too. How I longed once more to feel long hair hanging over my neck, but instead I felt nothing but cool skin, soft and sticky. “You've got a beautiful nape,” Quinn whispered. “Did you really cum when she started to shave it?”

“Was it so obvious?” I said, my cheeks reddening in distress.

“It was. It's probably just as well we're in a strange city. I can't imagine you'd be welcome here again. Lorelei probably doesn't want sluts like you in her chair.” Quinn's teasing was hard to bear, but she knew that such taunts excited me too. “I can't wait to get you home though. It will be like making love to a stranger. I don't recognise you with most of your hair shaved and those weird glasses.”

By the time we got back into Madame's car my disguise was complete. I was wearing a brightly coloured floral blouse, loose fitting with billowing sleeves and a high collar, matched with a long red velvet skirt and clumpy Mary Janes. The corset that I'd worn recently at almost all times was abandoned and as I looked at myself I saw a less glamorous image than I'd become used to. My waist was heavy and formless and I felt overweight. But as I expressed my insecurities I was silenced by Quinn and Madame. “We both like your fleshiness. You'd be so much less attractive if you lost weight and became skinny. You should love your body for how it is. You look just adorable,” Madame assured me.

The rapid cycle of makeovers was disconcerting for me, yet I couldn't doubt that Quinn loved seeing me remade each month. And my baldness was something she clearly adored. She'd informed me that she would shave me each morning while I had my bowlcut, and Madame assented with enthusiasm. “She has such a perfect look now and letting stubble grow in would take the edge off her style.”

The glasses seemed to have the effect of making me harder to recognise than any of my changes of hairstyle. Friends and acquaintances consistently failed to recognise me, and of course, because of the rapidity of my makeovers there were plenty of people I met who'd seen me last when I had long, natural hair. The anguish of being questioned about why I'd allowed myself to be so radically transformed was never going to be easy for me.

Quinn's thoughts about allowing ourselves to be tattooed for Madame didn't fade. Rather they became more insistent. “Once we tell her we want this there's no going back,” she said excitedly. “Tell me where you want my first tattoo.”

We were together in bed, and I let my imagination take flight. “On the inside of your right forearm. Something big and dark that will be visible when you play your flute.”

“Oh god, yes,” she moaned. “And do you want to see me heavily tattooed?” she asked.

“No, it'll look too much. But I suppose I'll have to get used to loving you with tattoos covering most of your body because you're to weak to resist suggestions from dominant women to get yourself inked, aren't you?”

“Oh, I am,” she wailed. “It's terrifying, But you're no different.” She brushed back my fringe. “The scabs are disappearing. In a few days you'll be getting shaved and you'll have a new look again. When people look at your face all they'll see will be your glasses and tattoo. But in a couple of weeks it will cover here...” She drew her fingers over the scalp covering my ears. “And down here in front of your ears, right down to the corners of your jaw.”

“Oh, shit, no. Too much...” I muttered.

“Yes, but you'll do it anyway. Because we're both the same. We need this. Say you'll tell Madame this is what you want. What we want.”

Quinn was touching me, making me gasp with joy and fear. I assented to her insane plan, which tipped me over into an orgasm. I still couldn't believe that this scheme would ever become reality. Yet only the next day we met with Madame and Quinn was adamant we would ask to be tattooed.

Her boldness evaporated when it came time to actually put the ideas into words. She delayed and I couldn't bring myself to ask for the tattoos which would change us permanently. Quinn found the courage by drinking a few beers.

Finally Madame prompted the disclosure. “What's wrong with you two tonight? You're so tense and prickly. And drinking far too rapidly.”

“Well...” Quinn said haltingly. “We're so appreciative for all that you've done for us, your generosity has been overwhelming, and you've become our closest friend. We wanted to do something for you before you leave. We've decided that we'd both like to be tattooed for you.”

She smiled and gave a chuckle. “I think I already had Poppy tattooed. Did you forget, now that she has a hairstyle to cover it?”

“She wants to extend her tattoo, don't you, honey bee?”

“I do, Madame,” I said, almost choking to express such a damning idea.

“She wants it over the sides and with something draw down the edges of her cheeks in front of her ears.”

“You'd do this for me?” Madame was now solemn and trying to hide her emotional response. “It would be impossible to hide by growing your hair. It would be a brave decision.”

“I want it,” was all that I could say. She kissed me tenderly, lovingly.

“And what about my lovely little Quinn? You want a tattoo as well?”

“I do.” Her voice was shaking with fear. “Poppy suggested that I should have something covering the inside of my right forearm so that it will be visible whenever I play my flute. I think that's a good idea.”

“Please make the arrangements, Madame,” I said, feeling an awful slipping sensation, knowing that I was allowing something irreversible to happen to me. I was going to slide toward a new personality, one that was unknown to me. It felt like I was allowing my old self to be effaced little by little. “But we will pay for this. You've been so generous and I'd like to spend some of the money you paid for my makeovers on something that will please you.”

Madame was in tears now, and hugged and kissed us. “You're both so dear to me. I'll miss you terribly when I'm back home. I'll remember our time together as the best time of my life.”

Unfortunately, Madame's schedule had become extremely busy and she would spend little time with us during the next week. She'd decided that I'd only have one more transformation, but would modify her plans so that my tattooing would now be incorporated into my makeover. She was able to spend one day with us and it was decided that Quinn's tattoo should be the highlight.

There had been long discussions about the image for the tattoo. Madame had suggested some music, since it was Quinn's greatest passion, and showed some images with musical notes. Quinn was less than impressed. “They're meaningless squiggles. They're not something that a musician would find anything but patronising. And you've heard the sort of music that I enjoy. Most people hardly even think it sounds like music.”

“Then get a tattoo of some of the music you like.”

“Three bars of Brian Ferneyhough's Unity Capsule? That would just be funny.”

“What about one of those graphic scores you showed me?” I asked. “Some of those looked very good.”

Quinn looked excited. “Yes, maybe that could work. John Cage did some very beautiful scores.”

“And you like John Cage? Isn't he the one who wrote the silent piece of music?” Madame asked. “You'll get a John Cage tattoo which involve no ink?”

“But the score wasn't blank. It said Tacet. Three times. Still, not a good tattoo. Look at this one...” She went to her laptop and found an image of the score of Cage's Fontana Mix. A narrow rectangle of a fine grid was overlaid by a thick diagonal line and numerous swirls of fine black lines, some solid, some dotted.

“Oh, yes, that looks great,” I gushed. “But with your tiny little arms it would wrap all the way around.”

Madame laughed. “It would fit more easily on someone with a bit more flesh, like me of Poppy.”

“The score isn't fixed,” Quinn explained. “The linear elements are on separate transparencies that can be laid on top of the grid. I just need to find an arrangement that's narrower.”

“You should do that,” Madame smiled. “I'd like it to reach from your wrist to your inner elbow.” I could see from the embarrassed smile that Quinn was uncomfortable with this suggestion, it was far bigger than she'd imagined the tattoo. But she couldn't say no; in fact, I could see that she was excited by this loss of control.

And a couple of days later we would make the plan permanent. We travelled to the same tattooist who'd marked my forehead, though Jenni said she'd hardly recognised me. Madame immediately explained that my current look was a temporary arrangement to hide the healing tattoo. “She's going to get a new makeover next weekend and more tattooing. She's booked in for a session with you already.”

Jenni seemed unaware that Madame had booked me in. She pushed back my fringe to examine the tattoo. “It's really well healed,” she said. “Ready to be shaved. Where are you getting your new tattoo?”

Madame looked at me expectantly. I wished I didn't have to be the one to say it. “I want to expand my scalp tattoo,” I said, feeling a dread at making this request.

“Oh, that's exciting.” She was clearly pleased at being able to add to her work. “Spreading backward?”

“I was thinking of something down across the temples.”

“She wants it to extend onto her cheeks in front of her ears,” Quinn added. I knew that my acceptance of something that would never be hidden by my hair excited her greatly. I was feeling panicky as Jenni lifted away my heavy glasses and stroked at the scalp (shaved just an hour or so previously by Quinn) where she'd ink me.

“Yes, I'll give it some thought. It'll look beautiful. You're such a brave girl, Poppy. Starting your tattoos on your scalp isn't something most people would consider.”

I knew I wasn't brave. I was weak and crazy. But as Jenni began to prep Quinn Madame embraced me. “She's right, you're the bravest girl I know.”

I shook my head. “I'm terrified,” I whispered. “I don't even know how I'll take the pain, let alone live with a new tattoo.”

“But you'll find a way. You're brave because you are scared. But you'll do it anyway. And all for me. That makes me the happiest woman on the planet.”

We shared a little kiss. I felt blessed to have such wonderful women in my life.

John Cage was famous for his use of chance procedures in his music. Often his scores weren't fixed and it was up to the interpreter to find a creative solution to realise the sounds. Quinn had decided that her tattoo should be realised according to Cageian principles. The three elements (the grid, the thick line, the curving lines) of the design would be placed according to a series of randomly generated numbers to decide placement and rotation. Each element would be inked before the placement of the next would be determined.

Quinn's shaved arm was now marked with a purple transfer to indicate the position of the grid. Jenni made precise measurements to determine that the placement was exactly as determined by the calculations. Quinn looked pale and solemn as she nodded her agreement. She sat back in the chair and lay her arm out on the padded rest. She took a deep inspiration as the needle touched her. As Jenni dabbed away the excess ink I saw a fine black line, just millimetres long. Quinn had been marked.

The room was very tense as the ink spread across Quinn's arm. Jenni worked with total concentration, the lines very precise, very fine. The grid looked so perfect that it didn't look like it had been produced by human craft. Quinn looked a little sick, pale and sweaty. I knew that she was struggling with the pain, and each time she glanced at the growing design a look of incredulity clouded her eyes.

As the final transfer was added to Quinn's arm it became apparent that her slender forearm would be almost entirely covered by the tattoo. The curves spread around, almost meeting at the outside of her arm. I could see her indecision as Jenni began to make the curves and dots permanent. This was a bolder design than Quinn had had in mind when she decided to allow herself to be tattooed. As I watched I felt a profound sympathy for her suffering, yet I also knew that I loved seeing Quinn with a tattoo. I longed to hear her say that she loved how it looked, that she wanted more. I found myself dreaming of her beautiful, pale boyish body becoming a thicket of dark tattoos. Could I dare to tell Quinn of this erotic dream? And if I did would she demand that in return I allowed my skin to become similarly pigmented? Maybe that was what I wanted to hear. My imagination became inflamed with an image of the two of us locked together in passion, our limbs and torsos entirely engulfed in pattern and colour.

“Oh, Quinn, it's beautiful. And Jenni is such an artist. Those lines are so fine and even. Nobody could have made this tattoo so perfect.” Madame's assessment was totally in keeping with my judgement, yet I found it hard to say anything. I took Quinn in my arms and held her tightly in silence for a long time before I whispered that I loved her more than ever.

“Do you like being tattooed?” I asked her.

She looked lost. “It's weird. It's so much bigger than I'd imagined. It feels like an alien arm. I see these dark patterns from the corner of my eye and it's hard to accept that it's part of me.”

“I really like it,” I whispered. “It is part of you. I feel like this is something that been missing from you. You're more Quinn now you have a tattoo.” She looked painfully embarrassed but she couldn't hide a little smile that showed her pride and pleasure that I liked her sacrifice. I was perhaps even more embarrassed as I let out my darkest feelings. “I want you to get more. A lot more.”

“Oh shit, Poppy, let me decide how I feel about this first. You're such a bad girl!” She giggled, but I knew she felt my arousal and we both desired some privacy to let out our feelings.

We were far from home, however, and Madame insisted that we should get lunch before our return. As we began eating she addressed us. “I'm overwhelmed that Quinn should have got such a striking tattoo to please me, and you both know how moved I am by Poppy's willingness to push herself toward such a bold image. I know you'll both probably think it's insane but I'd like to make our relationship permanent. I'd like you both to commit to me as your mistress, and pledge obedience to me. We wouldn't be able to meet very often in person, since I have no plans to relocate from the US, but I still think this would be an arrangement that would give all three of us what we need.”

I could see that Quinn was as surprised by this proposal as me. We looked at each other in astonished silence, not knowing how to reply. The idea of my appearance being always in the control of Madame seemed terrifying yet thrilling.

“The first request I'd make, should you agree, is that you'd marry and formally commit to each other forever. And you'd both take my surname.”

“You want us all to be Beausoleils?” Quinn giggled. “It's a pretty name. Just a pity that it's a murderer's name.”

Madame's lips tightened, as if she were being reluctantly overindulgent with a naughty child. “Don't tease, dear. Quinn and Poppy Beausoleil sounds lovely to me. Now I want a decision. Don't try to over analyse, just say yes or no. Quinn?”

Quinn looked at me, nervous, shy yet filled with excitement and happiness. She looked into Madame's eyes and nodded. “It would be an honour.”

“And Poppy?”

I felt an intense feeling of panic. I was standing on a cliff edge and being called to leap. Time seemed to stand still and the room seemed to become silent. I'd given so much to Madame and had imagined that I would soon be allowed to normalise myself when she returned home. But now I had to decide whether I should make my current status a permanent arrangement. I looked at Quinn who gazed back into my eyes, expectant. I felt the intensity of her love more keenly than ever before, and, though my love for her was no less intense, knew that our love was dangerous and painful. “Yes, Madame,” I heard a voice say, my own but the two words seemed to fill half a minute to say. I felt her kiss me on the cheek, watched as she did the same for Quinn.

“I'll make the arrangements as soon as possible,” she said softly.

And so the day of my “final” makeover arrived with the revelation that there would be no finality. Madame had arrived having purchased my hair and a portion of my scalp and would return home with a pledge of my eternal obedience, and Quinn's too. Every time I looked at Quinn my eyes would be taken with her new tattoo (she'd worn short sleeves all the time since receiving her ink). I was still unable to get used to it, unsure whether it was too much, an irreversible mistake. But when we were in private I found myself obsessing over her lined arm, finding her metamorphosis intensely erotic. I had wondered whether my inability to accept it in public was a manifestation of my conservatism and conditioning; being seem with a girl with cropped hair and a bold tattoo made rather too obvious my secret desires.

And yet I would now be forced to reveal my own tattoo, and I had constantly to remind myself that my own appearance was more extreme than Quinn's. Each morning I would feel a shock as I looked in the mirror, not seeing long, brown hair, but instead a brightly coloured cap of short hair, and my features dominated by my huge glasses and my piercings. My undercut had been left for a few days and had sprouted a shadow of stubble. I lifted my fringe and looked at the tattoo which covered the front of my scalp. I rubbed nervously at the skin, feeling that it was now smooth and unblemished, all trace of the scabs which had formed now healed. There was a soft pelt of hair now regrown, and it felt delicious, thicker and coarser than Quinn's hair, which was soft and fine (and even more delightful to my fingers). But in a few hours I presumed that all trace of this regrowth would be gone. How freakish would I look, my scalp shaved smooth, my tattoo extended. Would Madame make me endure a complete shave? Would I be made entirely hairless? I felt a growing passion, a desire to submit to her most bizarre ideas, yet I knew that to walk out of my home and feel the stares of strangers would be unendurable. My stomach was aching as fear took hold of me. I closed my eyes and concentrated fully on my breathing to take back control. This would be the most difficult day of my life.

I was dressed in the style that Madame had chosen for me since I'd been given my bowlcut: long, flowing skirt, brightly printed blouse, this one with a large bow at the neck. I'd not been allowed to hear any details of the day she'd planned for me and my nervousness increased as we pulled up at a familiar barbershop. I was finally to receive a cut from Crystal.

As we entered she stared at me, briefly pausing in her work on a middle aged woman. Madame waved and greeted her. Crystal gave a faintest of nods and gestured to the waiting area. If she remembered me then she gave no sign of it.

“I visited her and she knows exactly how to cut your hair,” Madame whispered. “She'll ask you if you want the cut we agreed and you'll say yes, won't you, Poppy?”

“Yes, Madame,” I croaked. “I feel sick. I think I need a cigarette.”

“Well if you're a good girl you can have a smoke when you've had your cut. I think she should be allowed two cigarettes on every haircut day. Is that agreeable to you, Quinn?”

“Yes, Madame,” Quinn smiled. “I think she'll be able to do that without getting addicted. Unless she gets a haircut every day.”

Madame laughed. “Smoking privileges are only for makeover haircuts. Daily touch ups don't count. I think it would be nice if you visited Crystal every day while you have this style. She's expert with a razor and it would be nice to see you looking perfectly shaved.”

Our discussion was interrupted by Crystal. “Ready,” she called.

I felt leaden and was slow to react. I was still on the bench as I saw Quinn step over to her chair. I looked at Madame, incredulous. “Well we both need trims,” she laughed. “I thought you should go last as you need the most time.”

“I feel awful, Madame,” I complained. “I keep thinking I need the toilet. Please don't make me wait even longer.”

“You can enjoy seeing us being made beautiful. I want us to have a moment of pleasure before your makeover, because you'll look so much sexier than either of us that we'll feel utterly plain. So be a good girl and look at poor little Quinn getting shorn.”

I looked over as she removed her glasses and stared in the mirror. Her pupils were huge with mingled fear and anticipation. Crystal pumped up the chair to bring her tiny victim to a comfortable height for her work, then draped her in a long white cape. She said something that I couldn't hear but which brought a nod from Quinn. She reached for the clippers and fitted the blades with a longer attachment than I expected. Without delay they were switched on and drawn back through Quinn's growing bowlcut. In a minute the top of her head had been mown to no more than a half inch, barely longer than the back and sides, now grown out from the shave. Only the tips of the new buzz showed the bleaching.

I jumped as Madame unexpectedly took my hand. “I know you want to see her with long hair again but I couldn't resist seeing her taken short and neat. Maybe I'll let her grow out, yours too once you're married. We should have a year to concentrate on your tattoos. Other than your scalp, I mean. I think I'd like you to have a full sleeve in a year's time. And I mean full. Every bit of skin on your arm coloured. Would you allow that to happen, Poppy?”

I was breathing heavily. I felt too exposed to be contemplating such a decision. And I couldn't take my eyes off Quinn. Crystal had hung up the clippers and was now combing through the newly cropped hair, determining where to place a part. She sprayed the hair now and took her razor, calmly scraping the razor along a line at the side of Quinn's head. Careful, controlled strokes opened a narrow line of bare scalp. I sensed the tension of Quinn's body, afraid to move whilst the razor was touching her scalp lest it should slice into her.

“Don't ignore me, Poppy,” Madame said teasingly. “If you delay your answer I'll keep her hair cut as short as this. Wouldn't you love to see her with a pretty bob?”

“I would. And yes Madame. It scares me but I'll allow you to have my arm tattooed.”

“You'll be beautiful, I promise, Poppy,” she said and kissed me. “I bet you're getting wet with anticipation.”

“I think the overwhelming feeling at the moment is terror,” I said with an embarrassed giggle. “I do wish you'd let me go first.”

“I know it seems cruel, but you have to learn to control your fear, to use it to add to the experience, not to ruin it. Look at how well Quinn accepts her haircut. She hates being given boyish cuts, doesn't she?”

I nodded. “She does, but she likes the submission, and the pleasure it gives to others, me included.”

Our conversation dwindled to silence as we watched Crystal's work, so precise, yet so speedy. Quinn now had shaved stripes on each side of her head and Crystal had taken her clippers again, now fitted with a number two guard. She pushed Quinn's head forward and clamped it in place without delicacy. Now the soft regrowth of hair was buzzed to a uniform layer of bristles, the entire back cut to the same short length. Crystal moved her hand further forward on Quinn's head, allowing her to straighten her neck slightly, but still controlling her posture. Now the clippers zipped over her crown, mowing it to half the length it had been, removing every trace of the coloured hair. The end of each long stroke rolled the blades away from Quinn's scalp so that the crown blended evenly into the longer hair at the front.

Satisfied that the top was now cut to a good finish, Crystal now ran the clippers over the sides of Quinn's head. The hair was short enough to allow scalp to show through, and all of the hair up to the shaved parting was rapidly shorn.

The silence of the clippers endured only long enough to allow the guard to be exchanged for a finer one. Now Crystal went over Quinn's nape once more, then over a strip above each ear. The newly buzzed hair was so short that it looked almost shaved; it was a number one, leaving an eighth of an inch, but with Quinn's fine hair it looked barely more than a five o'clock shadow. She buzzed an inch or more of the hair above Quinn's ears to this new, severe brevity, then tapered the longer section above so that there was an imperceptible fade.

Quinn's new style had taken no more than ten minutes to cut. All that remained to finish the cut was a tidy up of the hairline with the razor. The neck was shaved, the skin reddening as the blade shaved away every trace of downy hair. Crystal took the sideburns rather too high, yet I sensed that she was acting under instruction from Madame. The razor neatened the contour up Quinn's temples, nor was her forehead allowed to retain its natural hairline. The razor was deployed to take away the softness of the hairline, particularly at the sides of her forehead.

Quinn returned to sit beside me only after her new crop had been covered in a thick layer of bleach. “Looks adorable,” I smiled.

She pulled a face. “So short. Again.”

“Madame might be letting you grow it. She'll probably tell you later.”

She wasn't going to discuss our agreement with Quinn right now as she had taken her place in Crystal's chair. Her cut wasn't to be radically different to her last, though the realisation that she was going to keep her very tight back and sides surprised me. I'd expected that she would now let it grow out and once more resume her bob, which she'd insisted had been her favoured look for many years. As the sides were once more taken to the skin I admired how well this look suited Madame. The softness and femininity of her feature made a lovely contrast to the uncompromisingly masculine lines of the cut.

My visit to Crystal's chair was delayed by finishing Quinn's colour. Her hair, now pale after being rinsed, was covered with toner, and since my style would take so long to complete, another customer went before me while the chemicals did their work. Once Quinn had submitted to the final rinsing I could see that her crop was a silvery-grey with just a hint of a pale lavender. Crystal rubbed through some dressing and blasted it dry, fixing the top so that it stood up vertically, bristly but soft.

As Quinn's bookish glasses were placed on her nose I could see a little frown of displeasure. The grey was obviously not to her taste, nor was the very close cut. Much as I longed to see her with longer hair, I couldn't share her uncertainly. She looked so pretty and sexy; the cut was punky rather than butch and I thought the colour was extremely flattering, suiting her pale skin well.

I barely had a chance to compliment my beloved since Crystal was calling me impatiently. As she caped me and took off my heavy glasses, Crystal spoke. “I remember you, the girl with the long hair who was afraid to sit for me. Did you get over your fears?” I nodded. “So you want to do this weird style today?”

“Yes, Miss,” I said hoarsely. “Weird” seemed to imply that I wouldn't be bald, so that was some consolation, but little in truth. If Crystal thought that my chosen style was weird, then I imagined it would be.

I was led to be washed and I saw a hint of a smile on her lips as she pushed back my fringe and saw my tattoo, half hidden by the new growth of hair. All too soon the pleasure of the shampooing was over and I returned to the chair, squinting to see my reflection. Id soon become dependent on my glasses, and had to acknowledge that I'd managed badly during my years when I'd refused glasses.

Crystal abruptly tipped my head back and firmly gripped my forehead. I groaned in shock as I felt the blade drag back from my forehead. She was shaving me with a straight razor! It pressed tightly to my scalp, dragging uncomfortably over the tattoo. I felt a shock as she shaved away with rapid strokes, even more horrified as I felt her shave into the edges of my longer hair. Clumps of brightly coloured hair began to fall. I anxiously probed at the inside of my cheek piercings with my tongue. She was shaving a lot of hair, it seemed. If I wouldn't end up completely bald, then I had to accept that the majority of my head was soon going to be shaved to the scalp.

I felt my ears being folded forward as Crystal shaved the sides. “Can you see what I'm doing?” she asked. “You can put your glasses on if you prefer. The sides are all done now so they won't get in my way.”

I wanted to cry as I saw clearly what she'd done to me. I had a two inch wide mohawk now, the rest shaved, except that the front and nape were shaved too. I was essentially a bald girl with a little strip of hair running over my crown. And that shaved front exposed my tattoo, which was so dark and fearsome now that the softening coating of hair had been banished. I rested my hand on my sex and pressed it gently. I was, despite my shock and sadness, enormously turned on. If I could concentrate on my erotic feeling it was possible that I might get through without sobbing and making a fool of myself.

I'd wrongly presumed that Crystal had completed her work with the razor, but I was wrong. She divided the strip of hair with a zigzagging line, sectioning it into interlocking triangles on my scalp, each part being twisted into a tight know and held with a small clip. Now each dividing parting was given to the razor, shaving away a centimetre wide band of hair.

My surprises weren't finished. Each little triangular section was now given a long addition of a hair extension, braided and glued into place. My bald head was adorned by heavy black braids, dangling on either side. There were only eight in total, but they reached well past my shoulders.

Crystal took away my glasses without a word. She balled up some wipes and scrubbed away my make-up. Even with my myopic vision I could see that I now looked pale and sickly. My stubbly eyebrows (they'd only started to brow back in) were now removed with firm strokes of the razor. And once she was satisfied that no trace remained she took a pair of tweezers.

I found the plucking of my lower eyelashes almost painless yet curiously distressing. I'd imagined that my eyelids were to be entirely denuded of hair, but the upper lids were left untouched.

“All done,” Crystal announced as she returned my glasses and held a small mirror to allow me to see my bald nape.

“Thank you,” I muttered numbly. “It's very nicely done.” I couldn't fault her work, yet the effect was awful. I rubbed at my bald head and felt panic. I approached the mirror and lowered my glasses to see more clearly the impact of my shaved brows and plucked lashes. I felt ugly without make-up now and hated to see what sort of freak I'd become.

“Oh, look at you!” Madame shrieked excitedly. “Just so lovely. But you'll look even better when we put you in your new outfit and redo your make-up.”

Madame settled the bill as Quinn examined me closely. “That's quite a dramatic look. Even more extreme than a total head shave. I barely recognise you. You look spectacular, and quite intimidating. I can't wait to see your completed look tonight.”

As we stepped out of the shop I felt the coolness of my shaved scalp. I wanted to retreat, aware that I would never be able to blend in with the crowd. “I think I need to smoke now, Madame,” I said. My hand was trembling violently as I lit the cigarette she proffered. Madame joined me in smoking.

“I can't tempt you?” she asked Quinn, who shook her head. She couldn't quite hide her disapproval of the habit.

“If you ordered her she'd take one,” I said mischievously.

“I promised her I'd never do that. I do appreciate that she has to keep her lungs healthy for her profession. I adore my little Quinn for her talent. I could never do anything to affect that.”

“She did smoke for Madeleine, though. She looked very sexy and I'm sure she enjoyed it more than she admits.”

Madame took a deep drag on her cigarette and pulled Quinn close to her. She pressed her lips to Quinn who gave a muffled cry of shock. As they finally parted I could see a trace of smoke drifting from Quinn's lips. “Oh, that tastes horrible,” she wailed. “I wish both of you would stop.”

“But you must admit, Poppy looks so pretty when she smokes. You wouldn't begrudge her a little pleasure after her braveness, would you?”

“Well I suppose I could tolerate it once a month.”

“Thank you my darling,” I laughed. I took her in my arm, holding her tightly to me as I took a deep breath of smoke, then forced a kiss on her. I found a thrill in letting my smoky breath fill her mouth.

“Oh Poppy, not you too?” she moaned, but I could tell that she'd found an unexpected pleasure in my kiss. I held on to her and took another drag, blowing the smoke toward her mouth in a gentle stream. “You're so naughty. I'll stink of cigarettes like you do.”

“You might as well have a drag then, since everyone will think you've been smoking.” I held the stub to her lips and she breathed it in.

“Oh god, you girls...” Madame wailed. “Save it till later. You're getting me all of a froth.”

“I think you've done something to her with that haircut,” a blushing Quinn said. “She looks all domme.”

Madame laughed. “I don't think she does at all. She looks so scared to me. I'm right, aren't I, Poppy?”

“Definitely,” I winced as I stubbed out my cigarette. “I think I'll be having a panic attack before the day's out.”

“Poor Poppy,” Quinn said and hugged me. “You've been so brave to let Crystal shave almost all your hair, but you have even worse to come.”

“No, she has better to come,” Madame said with a joyful expression.

We retreated to her hotel room where I was to be dressed. The first change was that I was given contact lenses. “How do you feel about your sight now you've got used to glasses?” Madame asked as she prepared to insert the lenses.

“I can't really manage without them. I realise how badly I'd managed now.”

“I'm glad you've been honest about it. From now on you wear glasses or lenses. We should get you a couple of new pairs so that we have some options in your look. Those big cat's eye frames are beautiful but overpowering.”

She placed the lenses in my eyes and I blinked them into place, adjusting to the slightly alien sensation. “Oh shit,” Quinn wailed. “Oh shit, shit, shit.”

I went to the mirror and saw that the lenses were black discs, far larger than my irises. The effect was disconcerting, and I was becoming some sort of alien from a cheap sci-fi flick. “I'm not going to let you wear standard lenses,” Madame said. “If you don't wear glasses you'll have black or coloured lenses to draw attention to your eyes.”

Now that my period with a bowlcut was ended I was to wear a corset again. As Madame laced it tighter than ever I felt a satisfaction from the discomfort. I'd missed being bound like this. “I'm uncertain whether I should make you wear this,” she said. “Do you think you can manage with this level of discomfort while you're tattooed? It could increase the risk of you fainting.”

“Yes, Madame, I'll be ok.”

“Brave words. If you do faint I suppose I'd have to punish you.” I suddenly felt a regret at my assertion. I recalled the pain of my previous tattooing, the effect of the first touch of the needle. It was more than a memory, there was a physical sensation. And last time I'd been numbed and intoxicated. This time I'd have no such balm to ease my suffering. Suddenly the corset seemed impossible, I could barely breathe. I was sure to embarrass myself, and Madame.

“I want you to go to Crystal every day for the next month for a shave,” Madame said. “But the tattoo can't be shaved while it heals, can it?” I shook my head. “So Quinn suggested we use a depilatory on the scalp that'll be tattooed, so that you can look nice and smooth throughout the healing process.” She put on vinyl gloves and squirted some of the stuff into her palms, then began to plaster it over the sides of my head while Quinn tied the braids up at the back.

I could feel a tingling almost immediately, which soon became an itch. “It doesn't feel so good, Madame. Is it safe to use on scalp?”

“It probably isn't recommended, but you'll be fine. Now hush, darling. I don't want to hear you complain.”

My concerns didn't diminish, however, as the burning sensation continued to grow. Even after the paste was washed away my scalp felt hot and tender. As Madame rubbed on a balm I felt just how smooth it had become: not a trace of the faint granularity that I felt even after the closest shave. My temples were as smooth as my cheeks.

“It feels super sexy,” Quinn sighed as she was allowed to stroke it.

“It's a bit sore,” I said regretfully. “I think it's caused a slight burn. I don't think it would be good to use on a regular basis.”

“Stop worrying!” Madame said. “It's just a one off for your tattooing. And it's a tiny bit red but there's nothing more than that. You'll soon have the tattooing to take your mind off a bit of irritation from the chemicals, won't you?”

She was right. I left for my appointment dressed in a sleeveless white leather dress which was adorned with gold conical studs around the yoke and the high collar. It was made of fine, soft hide which hugged my form, showing off my compressed waist. The skirt reached almost to my knees, restrictively tight about my thighs. I'd been given the highest heels I'd worn for weeks and despite the discomfort I realised I'd missed corsets and heels. The girl I saw in the mirror had dark streaks of black sweeping out from upper and lower lids, though the upper lid was fringed with a brush of artificial lashes while the plucked lower lid was edged with a pearly white. She had an excess of magenta across her cheeks and her lips were a dark maroon which had a bluish opalescent sheen. I had to push my hand over my tightly woven braids to convince myself that the reflection was really me. I felt more keenly than ever the dislocation between my inner self and the woman the world saw.

During the drive to the tattooist I discussed my fractured sense of self with Madame and Quinn. “I've pushed you hard,” Madame said. “Perhaps too hard. I'm sure you'll start to find yourself as you adjust to how you've changed. I can see at times that you love how you look, but then your confidence fades. I think you rely too much on the validation from others, and most of your friends are quite conservative in how they dress. I think it would be good for you to spend more time with people who accept your new look and behaviour.”

“I've found that I feel a great relief from my makeovers,” Quinn said. “I'm not saying it's been easy, but I find the girl I see in the mirror is closer to the person I always wanted to be. And I think creatively it's changed me. I've been working on my composing much more the last few weeks and I feel like a block has been removed. The new piece is about two thirds finished, and normally it would have taken me months. Maybe it's just the support from the publisher but I've never been able to write as freely as this before. Or maybe it's just having someone alongside me who inspires me.”

She reached out to take my hand. “I'm your muse, am I?” She laughed but said maybe I was.

“The piece I wrote for you was so much better than anything else I'd written. It's my opus one. The other stuff is juvenilia.”

“I've found the exact opposite though,” I sighed. “In the last couple of months I've been terribly blocked. All that I've written is hack stuff, copy or reviews. Every time I try to write a story or a poem I find myself completely void of ideas. The blank page stays blank.”

“You should write something autobiographical,” Madame encouraged. “You've had an exciting time these last weeks.”

“I have thought about that, believe me. But I can't find the right tone. And I feel a shame about putting it down on paper. I can't really understand how I've allowed myself to become as I am.”

“You are as you've always been. It's just that what you always wanted to hide is now being revealed. I know that's something that troubles you, but I also know that at some level you wanted it. I think that your creative difficulties are because of this adjustment. Once you accept how you are, and that it's nothing to be ashamed of, I think you'll find your real voice.” Quinn squeezed my hand and looked into my eyes. It made me tremble to see how she looked at me. It was like she was looking at a stranger now, though her love was unmistakeable.

Madame spoke: “I'd love my two little darlings to both be successful creatively. I'm so proud of Quinn when I hear her play and I'd love to read something original and beautiful by Poppy, and to see it being published and acclaimed.”

“And it will happen. She's very talented. She just has to find her voice.” I found the expectation of the two women I loved most to be a heavy burden, but at the same time I knew that they really believed in me and that was a joy.

As we arrived at Jenni's shop I lost my composure entirely. I dreaded seeing my tattoo covering more of my head, but it was my fear of pain that was driving me to panic. “I'm not sure I can do this, Madame,” I moaned as she parked.

She smiled at me, her features soft and gentle. “It was your suggestion, Poppy. You don't have to do anything. You know I love you unconditionally. I know that it's very hard for you to be tattooed and if you're not ready then that's fine. Still, Jenni is a very busy lady and it would be a shame to lose this appointment. Perhaps if you're not willing we can get more work done on Quinn.”

She looked surprised, and not entirely in a happy way. It took her a few moments before she was sufficiently composed to agree to Madame's suggestion. I felt an urge to resist, however. I wasn't ready to see another tattoo disfigure Quinn's beautiful body.

“No, no, I'll do it,” I said weakly. “I'm just scared of the pain. I know how hard it was last time. Couldn't you let me take something to take the edge off?”

Madame shook her head solemnly. “You know Quinn and I didn't like you smoking that stuff. You liked it a bit too much. No, Poppy, this time you have to feel the real sensations. You look incredible. So strong and bold. Just imagine the girl you saw in the mirror, and how indifferent she is to suffering. You are that woman now, Poppy.”

We entered the shop and I allowed myself a moment looking at my reflection before Jenni arrived to greet us. I was numb as I stared at myself. I saw a woman who was intimidating, cold, scary, ruthless, yet I felt none of these things. Jenni entered and gushed at my makeover. She ran her hand over my bald scalp and a stream of compliments issued from her, more rapidly than I could process.

I felt like I was in a dream as I walked into her studio. My legs felt leaden, the tight skirt turning my gait to a shamble. I slumped back in the chair and tried to control the growing discomfort in my abdomen. I couldn't take part in the conversation. I had to focus on my breathing to restore some level of control. I was aware that Quinn was the one who was doing most of the talking. I felt her fingers and Jenni's moving over my scalp as they explored the possibilities for the design.

“Are you planning a full scalp tattoo eventually?” Jenni asked. I stayed mute. “I'm just thinking that if you are we should leave the margins so that they can be incorporated into the rest of a design.”

I closed my eyes and tried to imagine myself with a shaved head, my hair now replaced by a tattoo that covered every inch of my scalp. It wasn't a vision that made me happy.

“Yes, that is a possibility.” It was Madame who'd spoken.

“You would look great.” I opened my eyes to see Jenni smiling at me. “I love doing scalp tattoos. I'm so looking forward to today.”

She began sketching over my head with a pen, blocking in the patterns that would soon be indelibly etched in my skin. “You're sure you want it to extend onto your cheeks? It wouldn't be possible to hide it under your hair.”

“Yes, I do,” I muttered.

“I could add some ornaments at your forehead too if you like. Nothing excessive, just a few little extensions of the pattern.”

I knew this didn't appeal but nor did I want to offend Jenni, who had always been so sweet to me. “Maybe you can draw in what you had in mind and then I can decide.”

She did as I'd asked, producing a little addition at the tip of each pointed scale of the design at my forehead.

I stared in the mirror at her suggestions. Mostly they were fairly discreet, large dots or small knots of intertwined lines, but the centre spike was now tipped by a long tapering spike with a short crossbar. It extended more than an inch onto my forehead.

“It looks so good!” Quinn enthused. “You should do it, honey bee.”

“I agree,” Madame smiled.

“It's quite... exposed,” I said uncertainly. My instinct to refuse the additions was tempered by the reactions of my friends. I didn't want the tattoo, but I didn't want to disappoint them. Somehow it seemed that it was taken that I'd agreed to have the extensions made permanent.

And now my nightmare intensified. I wanted to scream as I felt the needle dig into my scalp. After a few minutes the stinging had turned to a burning sensation. And I knew that my suffering had only begun. I would be in the chair for two hours or more. So much pain to be disfigured.

“How are you coping?” Jenni asked. By now I'd lost all perception of time. I only knew that my left temple was now almost covered by a network of fine lines.

“It's terrible,” I groaned. “Is every tattoo this painful?”

“Not at all. Scalp is generally one of the worst, although it varies from person to person. I'm just going to try to plough on and do as much as I can without a break. It'll only make the suffering worse if we stop and start again.” I agreed to her plan. I suspected that if the pain got any worse I'd ask her to stop. The vision of only one side of my head being covered in a tattoo seemed too ridiculous to contemplate. I had to accept my suffering and get through to the end.

“This girl is an absolute hero for taking this to please you two,” Jenni said to Quinn and Madame. “I hope you appreciate her. You should treat her like a queen.”

Quinn squeezed my hand. “Don't worry, Jenni, I adore her. She's going to be so spoilt by me. We're going to be married soon, too. I feel so lucky.”

[lsds-blog]

Ada

My first memory was of lying hurt on wet grass in darkness. As I struggled to my feet I knew I was in danger and I felt a terrible panic. I could hear the thud of footsteps coming out of some trees to my left and turned in the opposite direction. My shoes came off as I ran and I felt an awful dread that I would be seized from behind at any moment, but didn't dare to look back as I felt that any slowing of my pace would mean disaster.

There were lights in the distance and without thinking I made my way toward them. I appeared to be in a park and the lights were fringing a road which was edged on both sides by parkland. I saw a stationary car and saw that there was someone inside it. I waved my arms and screamed a plea for help. A woman was in the driver's seat and she pointed for me to climb inside.

“Drive, get out of here,” I panted. “There's someone after me, he'll hurt us.”

The woman started the engine and did as I asked. As we pulled away I saw a dark figure appear at the side of the road but he (I think it was a man) kept away from the light and I could make out no detail. I thanked the woman profusely. “I'm Francesca,” she said, her smile warm and friendly. I realised I didn't know my own name.

Francesca was the best friend a woman could have. She took me straight to her own home and gave me a warm drink. I was shivering with cold and fear and she wrapped me in a blanket. “That man looked dangerous,” she said. “I think you should tell the police about it.”

I was still shivering when the policeman arrived. He was a big man, badly dressed and nervous, not how I imagined a policeman. He listened to my story kindly but at the end he looked sad. “I think you've most likely been given some drug that's affected your memory. It happens too much these days and the women who are affected mostly end up in care centres where they have to work all day at hard, boring jobs. That would be a shame for a woman like you, but it's what's got to happen.” I was very upset to hear this. I asked him about the man who'd chased me.

“There's nothing to do there,” he said. “Even if he was still where Francesca said she found you we couldn't do anything because you said you couldn't recognise him. I better make a call the local care centre. They'll send a van to pick you up in about an hour.”

I started to cry. “I don't want to go to one of those places,” I sobbed. “It'll be really hard for me and I won't know anyone there.”

“It will be very hard,” the policeman agreed. “But I have no choice. You have no home so I have to send you to the centre.”

Francesca had been listening and she spoke now. “I have a nice big house here and I could use a companion. What about if this nice young woman could live here?”

The policeman said he could get a form for Francesca to sign and then I could stay. As she signed it he warned me that I should be very nice to Francesca because she'd saved me twice tonight, first from the man following me, then from going to work in the care centre for the rest of my life. “You be nice to the lady,” he told me, “otherwise I'll come back and take you to the centre. It's not much better than a prison, not a nice place like this house.” I told him that I'd do everything I could to make Francesca happy, and that she was the best friend I could ever have.

Francesca put me to bed and I slept until the next morning. I was still very upset about what had happened in the park but Francesca said I should forget about it now, since my talking about it put her on edge. “You don't want me to be on edge, do you?” she said. “I'm the best friend you could ever have and you have to be nice to me.” I knew she was right and promised not to talk about the incident in the park again.

“The first thing we have to do is to give you a name,” Francesca said. “I've been thinking Ada would be a nice name for you. Ada Lovelace. Do you think that's a nice name for you?”

I smiled at Francesca. “I think so but I suppose I must have had another name. Somehow I don't think it was anything like Ada Lovelace. Can I look at myself? I don't even remember how I look.”

Francesca took me into her bedroom where there was a big mirror. She laughed at me because I made a little soft “Oooh.”

“You didn't remember how pretty you were? Oh, you're blushing! You look so cute when you blush. Does it embarrass you when I say nice things about you?”

“It does a bit, but I don't know why.” Saying this just made me blush more, which amused Francesca.

“Do you think you're pretty?” she asked.

I studied my face. I had a fairly round face with large eyes and full lips, a delicate nose and a sharp little chin. I decided I looked shy but good-natured. “I like my face,” I admitted.

“And is Ada a good name for this face?”

I nodded. “If you'd like to call me Ada Lovelace I'd be happy. You're the best friend, Francesca.”

Francesca said she'd bought me some clothes. In her room was a big wardrobe and she said that all of the clothes in it were mine. I was free to wear any of them but she said it would be nice that whenever I dressed I asked her if she thought it was a good idea for me to wear the clothes, since she had a very good eye for fashion. I agreed with this, since she was a very elegant lady. She was a lot older than me (I'm sure she was in her forties, whereas she'd told me she thought I was twenty-three) but she dressed beautifully and had lovely thick hair which was blonde and cut in a silky bob which didn't quite reach to her shoulders.

I looked at the clothes that she'd given me and I thanked her for being such a good friend. There were a lot of pretty dresses, and Francesca told me that for now she'd like me to wear fifties and sixties retro fashions because these would make me look pretty and sexy. “You want to look sexy for me, don't you, Ada?”

I felt very shy when she said this but I nodded. “We can be more than friends, can't we, darling?” she asked. She told me I needn't be shy with her, but I couldn't help it. I wasn't really sure what she meant but I could feel my heart beating fast and even though I was scared it wasn't like when I was being chased. I liked this fear, it made me tingly and warm. Then Francesca put her arms around me and bent her head forward to kiss me.

It was like I'd been cold for all my life and suddenly I was wrapped in a warm blanket. I think I was happier than anyone had ever been and I said so when Francesca finally took her lips away from mine. “I want you to hold me in your arms and kiss me all the time,” I whispered to her.

She laughed and said that would be nice but if we did that we could never go and do anything. “Besides, if we kissed all the time we'd get used to it and it wouldn't be so special. It's good sometimes to want something and to have to wait. Then when I kiss you it will always be special, like this kiss was.”

“You're right, Francesca,” I said. “You're much cleverer than me, but even so I don't want you to let me go just yet.”

She held me tight and looked into my eyes, which was a little scary but even so it made me feel very happy. “Do you love me, Ada?” she asked.

“I do, Francesca. I love you very much,” I said. I was almost crying now but I didn't understand why. I wasn't sad in the least.

“We have a very special bond, Ada. You mustn't kiss anyone else like this, unless I say you can. And if anyone tries to kiss you or touch you in intimate places you have to say no and tell me about it. I only want you to love me.”

I promised I'd do everything that Francesca said. She was the best friend I could ever have and I loved her.

She told me to dress. When I was out of my clothes Francesca stared at me all the time and she looked very happy. “You look very happy, Francesca. Do you like seeing me naked?” She told me she did. “It makes me feel shy when you look at me like this but I like it a lot anyway. If we both like it then maybe it would be best if I didn't wear clothes.”

She laughed a lot when I said this and I felt embarrassed because I hadn't meant to make a joke. “You have to wear clothes, Ada. It wouldn't look good if a friend came to visit and you were undressed. And we have to go out sometimes too.”

I apologised for being so silly but she said it was OK. “You're so sweet and kind and innocent, Ada. I'm glad you like being naked for me and when we're alone in the bedroom you can show off your body to me whenever you like. It's like kissing. It's nice to have to wait for the best things, and I'll appreciate how beautiful your body is all the more because I'll have to wait to see you naked.”

She dressed me in lovely white panties and a matching bra, with little frills of the softest lace and silk bows. I wore white silk stockings and the dress I put on was half black and half white with a round collar.

“This is a vintage Mary Quant dress, and it looks so perfect for you. You look like a mod girl, Ada.” I told Francesca that I didn't know who Mary Quant was but that I liked the dress and looking pretty for Francesca made me very happy.

“I think I'll take you for a haircut,” she said. “You'll get a nice little bob, a Sassoon type cut. That'll look perfect with this dress.”

Suddenly I felt very afraid. I had very long hair, very straight, a chestnut brown. The suggestion of getting it cut was something that made me unhappy, even though I wanted very deeply to please Francesca. “Please, I like my long hair. It'll make me sad to get it cut. Let me keep it long.”

I could see that I'd surprised her and made her unhappy. “I thought you wanted to please me all the time, Ada,” she said sternly.

“I do, Francesca, you're the best friend I could have, but I'm scared of cutting my hair. Please let me keep it long.”

“Your hair grows very quickly and I won't always want you to have short hair,” she said. “But today I want you to get a nice little bob to go with your outfit. I have some friends coming later and I want you to look really pretty for them. You're going to do this to make me happy. Say you'll be a good girl for me.”

“Yes, Francesca,” I said sadly. “I'll be a good girl for you.”

Francesca took me into the city in her car. She gave me a phone and said that I must always keep it on me when I went out so that if I got separated from her by accident she could find me. “Remember that there was someone after you. If you're on your own he may come back, but you're always safe with me.” I remembered how scared I'd been when I was being chased and I never wanted to feel like that again. I promised I'd always stay by Francesca's side when we were outside the house.

I thought I'd be able to make myself be happy about getting my hair cut to please Francesca, but as we arrived at the salon I felt very unhappy. I was all trembly and my stomach gurgled and ached. Francesca told me to put in my earphones and listen to some music on my phone while she talked to the hairdresser and I did as she asked. The music was nice and it made me feel a little better.

I had my hair washed by a very young girl who was very nice but she seemed a bit scared of me and I could tell she didn't want to talk to me. Still, she gave me a nice shampoo and it felt lovely when her little fingers scrubbed at my scalp through the thick suds. When my hair was clean she wrapped it in a towel and took me to the hairdresser.

Francesca was waiting with her and she smiled at me but I was so scared I couldn't smile back. The hairdresser was very pretty, with beautiful make-up. I told her I thought she was very pretty and I liked her make-up.

“If you're a good girl I'll do your make-up for you too. Francesca told me you're a bit nervous about this because you've never had your hair cut before.” I noticed Francesca scowled at the hairdresser. I think she must have been thinking how silly she was.

I smiled. “I don't remember getting my hair cut but Francesca says I'm twenty-three. I must have had haircuts because I think my hair grows very fast and even though I have long hair it would be longer still if it had grown for twenty-three years.”

“Yes, that's what I meant,” the hairdresser said. “You don't remember getting your hair cut before.” She looked embarrassed because she'd said something silly.

She put a long cape over me, pale blue nylon, which she fastened around my neck. “Francesca tells me you want a nice geometric bob. Shall we do that now?”

I sat in silence. I could see Francesca looked unhappy at my behaviour but try as I might I couldn't find the strength to tell her that I wanted my hair cut. “Ada, stop being so wilful or I'll have your hair cut even shorter. We discussed this and you agreed it was for the best. Now ask the nice lady to cut your hair.”

As I nodded I could feel tears filling my eyes. “Yes, please cut it,” I said.

She took the towel from my wet hair and combed through it. The conditioner made it feel smooth and the comb passed through easily. I couldn't bear to look at Francesca; she looked so mad at me.

The lady pinned up most of my hair and only the nape section was left loose. I felt her fingers on the top of my head and I let her push my head down. There was a clicking of scissors and I heard a soft thud as all of the long hair from my nape fell on the floor. When she pulled her comb through I knew it was very short and I couldn't stop myself from giving a little moan of grief.

Francesca was annoyed by this. “She's being so wilful,” she complained. “She shouldn't be doing this, I'm worried there's something wrong. We're going to go to see a doctor on the way home, Ada.”

Now my nape was being cut even shorter. The lady slid her comb up my neck and as it went up she snipped the scissors, cropping even more length. I was very scared now because I knew my hair was being cut very short, and I tried to imagine how I'd look once it was all cut this short. It would be as short as a boy's hair and I knew I wouldn't like that. I tried to feel brave but I felt like I'd start crying.

The hairdresser now unpinned some of my long hair and let it fall free around my shoulders. She cut all of this too, but she didn't cut it like she'd cut the hair above my neck. She cut it all to a straight line so that it was level with the bottom of my ears. She worked slowly and patiently, letting out a little section of long hair at a time and cutting it very carefully to the new length. I was so fascinated by watching her work that I forgot I was frightened. I liked how it felt when she combed at my hair and made my head very still as the scissors delicately touched my jaw as she was cutting.

I was almost in a trance when the hairdresser spoke to Francesca, and it made me jump because no one had said anything for a long time. “She has thick hair. I think it'll look a bit full. Do you want me to take some weight from it?”

Francesca said she'd like me to have a very full, round bob so the hairdresser shouldn't reduce the weight, but if it looked too much when it was finished then maybe she'd think about it. I thought about how I loved Francesca, because she was protecting me from the hairdresser who wanted to cut even more of my hair.

The hair at the front was cut now. The hairdresser stood in front of me and cut it across my forehead and none of my hair would reach my eyes now. I started to feel a bit scared again because all of my long hair was gone now (there was so much hair on the floor now that I could hardly bear to look down). When I moved my head I couldn't feel any hair move. There was nothing to fall in my eyes, nothing brushing my shoulders.

As soon as she finished with her scissors the hairdresser mixed up some creamy stuff and painted it all over my hair. I looked at Francesca because I didn't know why she'd done this but she didn't say anything. She did smile though and I felt a lot happier when she smiled at me.

After a bit of time I was sent back over to the young girl who washed the cream out of my hair. She still seemed very quiet with me but it wasn't shyness, I thought. She seemed quite unfriendly, and she acted like she was scared of me. I was glad when she'd washed my hair (it felt so short now that I didn't like how it felt). Then I was with the hairdresser and Francesca again.

My hair was sprayed with something that smelt nicer than anything except Francesca's perfume. The hairdresser used a dryer to blast my hair and once most of the moisture was gone she started to use a round brush, tugging it so tight as she used the dryer. The tightness and the heat were quite uncomfortable, but somehow I loved the sensations. She pulled so hard that my head was pulled first to one side then the other. My hair seemed to feel tight on my head now, and it felt light too. But then I'd had so much hair cut off.

Then I was told it was all done and I was shown myself in the mirror. My mouth got very tight and I could see my lips twitching in the mirror. I had very dark hair now, almost black but with a reddish sheen. My hair was cut very short and it was almost like a ball on my head, it was so round. It was cut at the sides so that a little of my earlobe was visible and then it angled up in a smooth curve over my cheeks where it blended into my short, arching fringe. The outside of the fringe covered the corners of my eyebrows but at the centre it was well clear of my eyebrows.

I kept looking at myself without recognising who I was. I kept thinking that I didn't look like myself any more, that the girl I could see wasn't Ada Lovelace and that Francesca would have to give me another name now. I thought the haircut and the colour were really beautiful but I just wished they were on another girl. I wanted my long hair back.

I became aware that Francesca was looking at me expectantly. “Well?” she asked.

“I'm sorry, I didn't hear what you asked,” I said. I'd been so caught up in my thoughts that I hadn't listened to what Francesca and the hairdresser had been saying.

“I asked if you liked your new cut.”

I started crying. I knew it was wrong and I could see I was embarrassing Francesca but I couldn't help it. “I like it, but I miss my long hair,” I wailed.

Francesca got really angry now. “Ada, you look really beautiful, so much better. I can't believe you're acting so badly. Stop this crying this instant and thank the nice lady.”

I thanked the hairdresser and tried to moderate my emotions. If I was troubled by my new image I took some consolation that Francesca liked my hair.

I left the salon with new make-up. I felt a lot happier now, but there was still a sense of unease about how my image had changed. The hairdresser was brilliant with make-up and she'd made me look like a different person again: I had dark, heavy eyebrows, pointed wings of black eyeliner and pale silvery pink lips. When Francesca touched my hair it felt so soft and silky, which I loved, but also shockingly short. The back was cut to almost nothing, not even half an inch left and this felt odder than the rest. I hated it being so short but at the same time when I rubbed it it made me get goosebumps. I wanted to be alone with Francesca, for her to hold me in her arms and kiss me. When she did I'd ask her to stroke my nape.

But we didn't go home. We went to a big office building where Francesca said she's take me to see a doctor. We had to wait for a bit but soon the doctor came to greet us and show us into her office. She smiled at me and said my hair looked very pretty. She asked if I liked Francesca and I told her how she was very kind and was the best friend anyone could have.

I was told to listen to music on my phone while Francesca and the doctor spoke. I put in my headphones and did as asked but after about ten minutes the music stopped playing and I didn't know how to turn it back on. I tried to ask Francesca but she gestured for me to be silent. She looked very serious so I didn't dare interrupt again.

I could hear the conversation now. “It's nothing to worry about,” the doctor said. “There are some emotional memories from the original consciousness. The wilfulness isn't anything too worrying, I'd suggest. After all, she did agree to your suggestions.”

“True, but she did make a terrible scene.”

“Yes, but she has a personality. If she didn't respond emotionally I'm sure your enjoyment would be less. Maybe you should try to enjoy how you can make her do things she shows she really finds uncomfortable. There's pleasure to be had there, surely?”

“Maybe, but I'm just worried that she will become more resistant.”

“It's natural to have these worries at the beginning, but I have no concerns. She'll become more pliant, not less, as long as you nurture her. She did as you asked today, so now you have to show her how pleased you are with her. She craves your approval and if you show her she's been a good girl today she'll want to repeat the experience.”

I couldn't make sense of the overheard conversation but it left me troubled. I felt that the doctor seemed to know something of me before my amnesia, but how this could be was a mystery. I didn't dare tell Francesca that I'd listened in, since I knew it would make her angry. I resolved to try to forget that I'd heard anything, but every word remained vividly impressed on my memory.

Later that day Francesca's friends came to visit. There were three women callers, Betsy, Alice and Delphine. She'd clearly discussed my arrival in her home and they all seemed eager to make my acquaintance. They were all beautifully dressed, though none was as elegant as my friend. Their attentions brought my shyness out. They pressed close to me, asked lots of questions. Francesca was my protector, seeking always to protect me.

“She's had a lot to put up with,” she insisted. “Go easy on her. She's such a delicate little soul.”

Despite my bashfulness, I liked our guests, except that Delphine caused some misgivings. She was younger than the others, very pretty but there was a coldness in her eyes that made me fearful. She was drinking more than the rest and was soon obviously affected by the alcohol she'd consumed (I was under strict orders not to imbibe). While Francesca was distracted, making the last preparations of the food we'd eat, Delphine took me to one side.

“I was watching a video the other day. I'd like to know your opinion on this.” She took her phone and brought up the display. I listened on my headphones.

The video was a news item about a new model of android (popularly known as Doppels) which had recently become available. They were the most advanced model ever manufactured, much improved on the older types. Their skin was entirely organic and they had a large organic brain which made them behave almost like people. After a few minutes Delphine stopped the playback. “They're impressive, aren't they?” she asked. I nodded and smiled. “Don't you think it's a bit creepy though? There's something not quite right about them.” I smiled but didn't know what to say. “You do agree, don't you Ada? There's something very sinister about androids?”

“Yes, Delphine. I do agree with you. Androids aren't quite right.” I knew I should agree with my guest, that Francesca would expect it of me. But Delphine seemed to find my response very funny, although I couldn't understand that I'd said anything humorous. I laughed along with her out of politeness. Francesca heard us and came over to ask what was going on.

“Delphine was just showing me a video of a new type of android,” I explained. “We both feel that there's something a little creepy about them.” Francesca looked angry and I thought I'd done something rude, but then I realised that it was Delphine causing her annoyance. She told me to go to the bedroom for ten minutes and as I left the room I heard her telling off Delphine. I felt guilty for causing upset.

I was glad when Francesca's friends finally left. I found it terribly hard to be polite all night and I was exhausted by the efforts to overcome my shyness. And Francesca was angry with Delphine all night, which made me sad and restless. Once I was alone with Francesca, naked in her bed, I apologised. “I'm sorry, my friend. I made you angry when I was chatting to Delphine.”

She kissed me. “You did nothing wrong, Ada,” she smiled. “Delphine likes to cause trouble when she drinks too much, that's all. You're to forget about that silly video and you'll never talk about it again.” I wanted to ask Francesca why she'd shown it to me, why Delphine thought what I said was funny but when I was given an order I had to obey.

“I wasn't happy with you earlier though. You were very naughty when you got your hair cut. You behaved like a naughty little girl!”

I blushed and felt like crying again. I hated making Francesca angry or upset and it was unbearable for me to be told off by her. “I'm so sorry. I loved my long hair and when I saw myself with short hair it made me feel really awful, like I didn't know who I was any more.”

“But you look so pretty with your new haircut,” Francesca said sweetly. “I love this style on you. Would you rather have your old long hair or make me happy?”

“Oh, Francesca, you don't have to ask. I'd do anything to make you happy.”

“The hairdresser says you have a very special type of hair. It grows very, very quickly, not like ordinary hair like mine. That means you'll have to go to get it cut very often to keep it looking neat. You'll be a good girl when you go to the salon again, won't you?”

I found that I was getting emotional as I thought about getting my hair cut often. “Will I have to keep it short, Francesca?” I asked.

“If you're a naughty girl I'll have it cut very short as a punishment,” she said. “What do you think about that?”

I found I was panting. “I feel very weird, Francesca,” I gasped. “It scares me but I feel all tingly too. I don't want it, but I do too,” I whispered, ashamed to admit these confused feelings. Francesca looked equally puzzled.

“You're saying you want me to punish you and cut your hair short?”

“I don't know. I just want you to hold me in your arms and stroke the hair on my nape where she cut it so short.”

She pressed me tight to her bosom no and her long nails caressed my shorn nape. “It makes me feel all sexy,” I sighed. “I love you so much. You're the best friend possible.”

“And will you still think that when I take you back to the salon next week and have your hair cut as short as this all over your head?”

I couldn't speak. I took her hand and placed it on my sex. She stroked delicately at my fold, pressed at my clitoris and started to stimulate it more vigorously. I immediately climaxed.

By the next morning I was ashamed of my behaviour. I begged Francesca not to cut my hair short but she seemed to delight in the fear the threat provoked. She had me pleasure her with my tongue, a skill in which I possessed expertise, but I couldn't remember where I'd learnt these techniques. Francesca was delighted with me and I hoped that my attentiveness would make her look kindly on me. After I showered she styled my bob and I felt again the joys I had in the salon. I loved the feeling of freshly dried, sleekly smoothed hair. I stared at myself for far too long, trying to fix my new image, to link it to my sense of self, but something seemed awry.

“Dreaming of how you'll look after I crop you,” Francesca giggled.

“Oh, darling, please. I don't want my hair even shorter. I'll be a good girl for you, my friend.”

“We'll see, won't we. How you behaved last night did make me think that maybe it would be cruel not to let you feel your hair being cut extremely close.” She started to run her nails up the velvety hair on my nape and all of my arguments were silenced. I was so enraptured by the sensations that speech was beyond me.

Despite Francesca's insistence that my hair would grow extremely quickly, I'd thought little about this. A week after my haircut, however, I was left in no doubt that what she'd said was true. There was a noticeable regrowth of hair, paler brown roots increasingly visible around my crown. The nape had lost its crispness and was now becoming ragged, and my fringe had begun to obscure my eyebrows. I could discern no change in Francesca's own hair during the same interval as mine had grown approximately half an inch.

Francesca seemed as astonished as me by the rapid growth. “You're going to cost a lot in salon bills,” she laughed. “But look how untidy your bob's got. You need a fresh cut.”

The words immediately put me in a flap. “Please not really short, though, Francesca,” I begged. “You said it would be a punishment and I've been good.”

“Have you?” she said playfully. “I get the idea there's something on your conscience. You're going to confess your secret to me, Ada.”

I felt the blood rush to my face. I knew I couldn't hide my guilt any longer. “When you went to the doctor's office the music stopped playing at the end. I tried to tell you but you were busy. I heard the end of your conversation.”

The playful, teasing expression was gone. “What?” Francesca cried. “What exactly did you hear?”

I repeated to her, verbatim, the section of conversation I'd heard. I could recall every word perfectly. I had an excellent memory for words. She looked furious. “That was all you heard?” I nodded. “And what did you think it meant?”

“Just that I should be nice to you,” I said weakly. She stared in silence, wanting more from me. “I did wonder... did she know me before we met? In the time when I can't remember?”

“That's crazy! I'm really angry with you, Ada. You shouldn't have listened in and now you have these crazy ideas about things you heard. You're very naughty not to have told me you could hear. You're to forget this conversation, never mention it again.” I nodded. “And you shall have your hair cut short. If you make a scene it'll be a trip to a barbershop for an even shorter cut.”

I was devastated that I'd upset her so, and I reckoned that the loss of my hair was a fair punishment for my transgression. “Yes Miss,” I said meekly. “I'll try to be good.”

Francesca took me to a new salon for my cut. She said that if I went to the same salon all the time people would notice that my hair grew so quickly and this was something that shouldn't be talked about. She said if the stylist asked that I should say it had been a month since my last cut. I nodded to agreed to everything but I didn't say anything much because I felt so sad that my hair would all be getting cut short.

The new salon was smaller than the one the previous week and not nearly as nicely decorated but Francesca told me it was supposed to look like this because it was a salon that specialised in edgy cuts and street looks. The stylist, Katti, was very friendly but I found myself a bit nervous of her because her hair was so strange. The back and sides were cut so short that her scalp showed through and the top was streaked with blonde and set in stiff curls that rose up high over her head.

“My little friend wants a nice crop,” Francesca explained to her as I sat in awed silence. “We decided it should be cut to about half an inch all over, but with some softness and femininity. I'd prefer it was cut with scissors than clippers.” Katti nodded.

“Yes, I think that would suit her. She has such pretty features and a close crop will really make her eyes pop.” I blushed shyly at her compliment.

I was soon being cropped, Katti working her scissors up the back of my head. She was cutting my hair dry, unlike my last appointment. “I'll cut it close enough to get rid of all the dark hair,” she said, “except I was thinking of a bit of a fringe and longer sideburns. Did you want to keep your natural shade or should I prepare a colour?”

I sat in silence and only after a moment did I realise she'd addressed me. “What did you think, Francesca?” I asked, my mouth so dry that speaking was an effort.

“Natural is fine,” she said, “ but let's see how it looks if there's some dark hair left. It could look a bit silly so we'd have to fix it.”

The white cape had soon started to accumulate a dusting of dark, short hairs. Now heavier chunks of hair started to roll into my lap as Katti cut away my thick bob. “You have gorgeous hair, Ada,” she said. “So healthy and thick. I love cutting hair like yours. Do you always wear it short?”

“No, it was really long before I got this cut,” I said.

“Oh, wow. Weren't you upset to cut it all?”

“She did have a few tears,” Francesca giggled. “But she likes it short now, don't you, baby?”

“Yes, and it makes you happy too.”

Katti made a little cooing sound. “That's so sweet that she'd cut her hair to please her girlfriend. I remember when I was at college and I let a friend cut mine for a show. I was devastated when I saw how I looked with short hair, but now I love it. It's very addictive having short hair, as I'm sure you're starting to realise, Ada.”

She paused in her work to run a hand over the back of my head. I shivered in shock as I felt how all of the hair sat very close now, soft as silk, neatly following the contours of my skull. It wasn't just shock I felt, however; there was the familiar bliss, but tinged with guilt that it was induced not by my beloved Francesca but by this stranger.

“Oh, she does like it,” Francesca agreed. “Maybe you'd like to try a style like Katti's? Really shaved would suit you I'm sure.” I glanced up and saw that she looked at me mischievously. Was she letting me know she disapproved of my reactions to Katti's caresses, or still angry with me for my deception?

“I think it's a bit extreme for me,” I blurted out, “although it looks super on you, Katti.” I hoped she wasn't offended.

If she was she had every opportunity for revenge. Soon she clipped the hair on top of my head and put her scissors to work at the left side. She hacked away at huge clumps of hair, then worked the remains to a neat contour. The transformation was compounded by the loss of all the dyed hair: not only was my hair radically shorter, it was now a much lighter brown.

The scissors worked constantly, the blades clicking in a constant rhythm. I felt like something in me was diminished as my thick hair was pruned, and my head started to appear tiny. Both sides were gone now, my ears exposed (she'd cut carefully around both ears, cutting a smooth arching contour so that not a single hair touched my ears now), the thick hair pinned up on top looking strangely unbalanced now (although I realised that it made my hair look not dissimilar to Katti's own style).

It was only a transitory moment. Soon the top of my head was being cut just as close as the sides. I was unhappy to see just how short my hair had become, shorter than a lot of boys. I glanced at Francesca, hoping that her anger would have been purged, that she would now give some encouragement. But she looked very thoughtful, a little concerned even. Did she dislike my new cut too?

Katti finished the cut by cutting the longer wisps at the top of my forehead to a hard line, but it was a very short fringe, maybe only an inch from my hairline. Even though it was only a fine fringe of hair that was left longer than the rest it looked a bit too solid because of the coarseness of my hair. Katti used the points of the scissors to texture it and soften the line. She then did the same to the long points that had been left in front of my ears, leaving two inch wisps over my cheeks. The fringe and sideburns were both darkened by the remains of the dye.

Katti asked Francesca's opinion. “It is short,” she said, not in a manner that suggested content. “And we need to do something to fix the remains of the colour. I think it would look too severe if the fringe and sideburns went too.”

Katti agreed. “I could do an all over colour or alternatively I could bleach the fringe and sideburns and add some little highlights through the rest.” Francesca agreed that the latter sounded the best option.

The finished style felt lovely. Katti had sprayed my hair and blasted it dry, smoothing it with a brush so that the hair seemed to flow around my head as if held by some invisible currents. She'd made the fringe into little blonde curls on my forehead and the sideburns had been formed into little circles, pinned into their form while she used the dryer to set them. Flecks of golden hair were regularly distributed through the short hair.

I'd been given new make-up too, dark smudged areas of black surrounding my eyes, dark red lips and soft magenta blush colouring my cheeks. The long spidery lashes gave me a doll-like character. Again, as I looked in the mirror I felt odd and disconnected from the girl I'd become. I'd just started to recognise myself as the girl with the dark bob only to have the rug pulled from under me again. My features were so exposed with so little hair to frame them and the severity of the make-up just added to my metamorphosis.

Francesca was almost silent as she paid and walked me back to the car. It was only then that she stared at me and announced her judgement. “It's too short, Ada. I don't like it. And the make-up is too much. You look like a goth.” I felt devastated. I nodded but could find nothing to say. We went home with barely a word passed.

As soon as we got home I undressed. “Miss, thank you for punishing me. I'm not sorry you cut my hair, I'm only sorry that you don't like how I look now.” She told me to kneel in front of her. As I did she started to stroke my cropped head.

“You liked getting it all cut short, didn't you? I saw you getting turned on when Katti touched you here.” She cupped her hand around my nape, making me groan. “If you're ever naughty again I'll have you cut shorter still. You'll have a cut like a soldier, with no hair at all on the back and sides. It'll be shaved with a razor, even shorter than Katti's, and the top will be no longer than this.” She plucked at the hair on top of my head, so short that she could barely grasp it in her fingers.

She pushed my head back and made me kiss her. “Oh, you're so beautiful,” she sighed. “I love seeing you turned on like this. You want to be punished, don't you? You want to be a bad girl who has almost no hair, who looks like a boy soldier.”

“No, but it stirs something in me.” I was panting. “I can't help it, it gets me so horny.”

Francesca was pleased that I was so aroused, and ordered me to undress her. I did as she asked, and kissed her soft skin as it was revealed. She made me kiss her breasts for a long time, which beguiled both of us. Her panties were the last item of clothing to be freed and as she lay naked before me she said “Kiss my cunt.” I did as she asked, delighted by the softness of her hairless sex. My little tongue sought the sensitive spots and soon she was moaning with pleasure, no longer to talk, but so expert was I that I needed no direction. I knew that I could induce an orgasm now whenever I pleased but I delayed it, bringing her repeatedly to the brink only to hold back.

Finally she was almost screaming with desire. “Oh God, please make me cum,” she wailed.

“Rub my hair, tell me how you like it short,” I demanded.

Even in her ecstasy she laughed. “You are a strange little girl,” she said, but indulged me anyway. As I felt her fingers ruffle my short locks I flicked my tongue down firmly over her clit and with an upstroke pressed it inside her slit. I sucked at her abundant juices as she climaxed.

It became apparent over the following days that Francesca didn't like my hair as short as Katti had cut it. She cancelled visits from her friends, seemingly ashamed by my appearance, and when we did go out she had me wear a wide brimmed sun hat which hid my short hair from view. Within a few weeks my hair had grown considerably and she informed me that she'd let my hair grow long, with the proviso that if I was ever dishonest again then I'd be subjected to a trip to a barbershop for a haircut that would make me cry for a week. She often used this threat when we were in bed, because it always induced a frenzy of excitement (as well as a genuine fear) that made me a better lover.

After a few months my hair had got to my shoulders, with only a monthly trim administered by Francesca to reduce the rapid growth. I socialised little, which pleased Francesca and, given my extreme shyness, was no imposition for me. Sometime Francesca would go away on business for a few days or even a week: usually she'd put me to sleep when she left and I wouldn't wake until she returned. I preferred this to having to wait on my own when I'd miss her terribly.

It was mostly her friends who were my only regular company. Betsy was my favourite, but Delphine remained the one who made me uneasy. She always tried to talk to me when Francesca was distracted and she always seemed to have mischief in mind.

One evening it got particularly nasty. Francesca had had quite a lot to drink and looked suddenly tired. Delphine took me aside and demanded a kiss. I resolutely refused. “I promised Francesca I'd never do that. If you forced a kiss on me I'd tell her everything that happened.”

She looked angry. “You shouldn't do that. If you don't start treating me more nicely I'll turn Francesca against you. She already complains about you sometimes, how you bore her. I'll say little things to poison her mind against you. And what would happen if she decided to put you out of her home? You own nothing, do you? Where would you go?”

I felt tearful. “I'd have to live in a care centre and work at some awful job.”

She laughed when I said this. “Wherever did you get that idea?”

“The policeman told me about it on the night when Francesca saved me.”

“Oh, that's the story they came up with, is it? Well believe whatever you like, but once Francesca gets bored your life ain't going to be a bed of roses. And you really could do with her friends being on your side, not telling her what a boring little thing you are. So have a think about it. You're going to show me what you do to please Francesca so much or I'm going to make it my work to see you out of her life. And don't even think of telling her about what I've said to you or all sorts of shit will befall you, Ada.”

I was left with a terrible feeling after this conversation. Delphine was really smart, Francesca said, not the sort of person you wanted as an enemy. But Francesca had told me I mustn't keep secrets from her. I knew that by not telling her I was doing wrong and it gnawed away at me, making me feel sick with worry. But I was sure that Delphine could make my life awful too, that she hadn't lied about what she could do. It seemed that whatever I did there was going to be a bad outcome and I was scared into inaction.

Francesca suddenly became busy at work and she was out of the house all the time, it seemed. She took more trips and I seemed to be asleep more than I was awake. She came back one day and I looked in the mirror and could see my hair had got longer. “Wow, you must have been away a long time,” I laughed.

“It was over two weeks,” she said. “I needed a little holiday, Ada.”

I felt a little hurt when she said this. I'd hoped that she want me to come on holiday with her, and as soon as I realised what had happened I remembered Delphine's words, that I was becoming boring to Francesca. My instinct was to be sad but I knew that if I became sulky this would make Francesca even more unhappy with me so I tried my best to please her. When I'd taken her to bed and pleasured her a few times she held he in her bosom.

“I'd forgotten what a good girl you are, Ada,” she said. I was happy to see her smile again. “I think it's time I took you to get your hair done again.”

I felt a little panic. “Have I done something wrong?” I asked. I knew I had and if she pressed me I'd confess keeping secrets again.

“No, darling, nothing like that,” she said warmly. “Your hair's got so long now and I think it's time we got you a new style to make you look pretty. There's a revival of seventies fashions and I think you'd look nice with some curls. You'll still have long hair, Ada.”

I felt very relieved. The next day I was dressed in a long kaftan made of brightly coloured floral cotton with an embroidered yoke. I was taken to a salon in another city, an hour's drive from our home. It was my first time in this city.

I was a long time in the salon. My hair was dyed first, a very bright orangey red. I didn't like the colour much, but Francesca said redheads were very popular right now and she'd like me to look fashionable. Then my hair was wound onto hundreds of little rods, which was very uncomfortable and a smelly liquid was trickled over all my hair.

Francesca was getting very impatient with all the waiting, and the bad smell was the last straw. She said she'd come back later when I was finished. I was to call her when everything was done and that I was to reply politely to any questions but not to say anything else. I promised to be a good girl.

Time seemed to pass very slowly. I was always anxious when I was outside and without Francesca it was much worse. I had to sit under a dryer with my head wrapped in a strange plastic cap. It was all very hot and uncomfortable and I was glad when the stylist finally came back. More chemicals were put on my hair to fix the perm. Finally she took all of the rods out. My hair stayed in the shape of the rods still, tight little rolls. When she started to tease the hair apart it went into tight, frizzy curls.

I had a big cloud of orange hair now, which looked really awful, I was sure, but which made the stylist really happy. “You have such lovely thick hair, Ada,” she said, “so thick I was worried the curl wouldn't really hold. But it's just perfect!”

She trimmed my hair now, snipping off quite a lot. It soon turned into an afro, a big, wild, frizzy ball that rose five or six inches over the top of my head. She used a lot of hairspray to hold it in place and told me I was all done.

I thanked her and asked if I had to pay her, but she assured me that Francesca had taken care of that. I went to sit in the waiting area, where everyone seemed to stare at my new hair. I called Francesca and left a voicemail to ask her to come meet me. Even lifting the phone to my ear reminded me of my new look, the hair springy, stiff, alien. I couldn't shake off the chemical smell that the perm had left.

I tried to be as inconspicuous as possible, sitting looking at a point on the floor just in front of my feet. I was suddenly shaken by the sound of a rap on the salon window right next to me. I was astonished when I looked up to see Delphine waving to me from outside, gesticulating for me to come outside to meet her.

“Oh, look at you, curly top!” she laughed. “Whatever did you do to your hair?”

“I got it permed, Delphine,” I said clumsily.

“Duhhh, well obviously! But why? It looks like clown hair.”

“Francesca wanted it. She said it's fashionable.” I was trying to be friendly but her comments had upset me.

“She wants to make you look silly because she's fed up with you. She doesn't like you any more, Ada. That's why she took me on holiday, not you.”

“You? You went on holiday with her?”

“Yes, and she spends most nights at my house too because she hates how weird you are. She regrets ever letting you into her home. You'll be going to the... what did you call it? The care centre? You'll be headed there soon, Ada.”

I was in flight. I didn't even remember leaving the salon, I just needed to get away from Delphine. I remember the pavement outside was crowded with people and I needed to be somewhere quiet. I ran out into the road, but the van parked outside the salon blocked my view, so that when I stepped into the road it was already too late. A car was coming at me, too fast to stop, a big silver car. Everything seemed to slow down. I tried to halt, to move back but my momentum was too great. The tyres squealed as the driver braked but now the front of the car hit my thigh.

I fell, twisting in mid air. My knee was the first part to hit the road but I didn't come to a stop. I was skidding along the ground and pain grew at every point that made contact. My right leg had been pushed open at the hip, which was strained to the point of ruin. As I finally came to rest I tried to rise but fell back with a cry. My dress was torn and bloody and I pulled it aside to see my knee which was so painful it seemed paradoxically numb. I saw the flesh, torn and bleeding, and I saw something was embedded in the wound. There was a mass of abraded, translucent green plastic surrounding a shaft of bright metal. But it went deep into my leg. It was part of me.

People gathered around me. I looked up and saw Delphine. “It's OK,” she said reassuringly, but addressing the crowd, not me. “She's a Doppel. She's not a human so there's no harm done.”

I couldn't breathe. Why was she saying this about me, why would she say I was an android? Delphine's announcement had only drawn more attention. “I've never seen one before,” a woman was saying. “Look at her knee, you can see the armature showing through. She looks so real though.”

I was sobbing as I saw Francesca arrive. “Please, help me. They think I'm a Doppel. I'm going crazy, Francesca!” She whispered something into my ear and suddenly all the pain stopped and I felt all of my muscles relax. Some time later (everything seemed very distant and unreal now) a van arrived and some men loaded me onto a wheeled cart. They injected me and loaded me into the ambulance.

Once I was inside the ambulance with Francesca one of the paramedics pressed at my jaw and something seemed to disconnect. My mouth opened impossibly wide and he reached inside to pull aside a flap of flesh from my palate. Suddenly I was unconscious.

I seemed to wake a moment later but I was in a strange room, seated in a wheelchair. I felt no pain (except that my palate felt swollen and raw) and my body felt weak and paralysed from the neck down. There were five people present, seated in a semicircle around me. Francesca and the doctor whose conversation I'd overheard were the only people I recognised.

“Welcome, Ada,” the doctor said. “I'm sure you're feeling a little confused after your accident. We've brought you here to evaluate its impact on you and to decide how to proceed. I'm aware that discovery that you're not what you thought you were can be quite painful. How does it feel to know that you're an android?”

I gasped and tried to run to Francesca. I needed to feel her arms around me. Nothing moved. “I'm not an android, I'm a human.”

“Now, Ada, you know that's not true. Denial of the evidence is common but it doesn't aid you. You have to accept your true status now.”

Francesca spoke. “Can't you reset her? Wipe her memories and take her back to who she was when she first met?”

“I'm afraid not,” the doctor replied. “The organic memories are permanently imprinted. Installing a new organic brain is such a difficult procedure that it's far better to replace the unit and start afresh.

“Unfortunately, as we discussed when you ordered the unit, a lack of self-awareness does carry risks. We're now recommending that all Doppels are, from inception, made aware of their... less human status. We're discovering that the trauma of discovery tends to make them develop an intractable melancholy. Only when employed within very tightly controlled circumstances is it possible to assure the owner that the unit can be shielded from the true nature of their existence.”

I felt like I was in a nightmare. It seemed only minutes ago that I'd been sitting in the salon, eagerly awaiting Francesca's arrival.

“I have become quite fond of her. And to be honest I'm not sure I'd go through the process again. It took me a long time to get to know Ada, and even with her, sweet though she is, there's something slightly odd. Can't we try to see if she can adjust to her new awareness.”

“Of course. There are some units who have adapted. Unfortunately, most that have gone through similar can only be managed with large doses of sedatives, which totally suppress their personality. They become functionally like the older, simpler androids. It's like buying a Lamborghini which is restricted to thirty miles an hour.

“But of course, Francesca, take her home and see how she adapts. The insurance is very comprehensive. If she no longer makes you happy we can provide a replacement, and the latest models have made a leap in their social protocols. Or you can be compensated with a repayment of seventy five percent of the original cost.”

“I think I'd like to take her home. Was there much damage caused in the accident?”

“Nothing too serious, except the knee injury. The cuts will heal without scarring. The knee wound has been patched rather crudely. A scarless graft is a quite expensive procedure. It is covered by your insurance but we'll wait until you decide your long term decision before going ahead. If you decide to return the unit, it wouldn't be cost effective.”

Francesca nodded her agreement. “So she can come home with me immediately?”

The doctor approached me and held an instrument to my ear. A series of rapid tones played and suddenly my paralysis was gone. “Go and thank your Mistress,” she whispered.

My return home was strangely muted. Francesca seemed troubled and wary and, try as I might, I couldn't lift my mood to show my affection. I was shaky, trembling, still unable to process the revelation that I was less-than-human. A Doppel. I realised for the first time why Delphine had treated me as she had, the aim of her taunts, her desire to humiliate me. I wasn't pleased that she was present as came back inside.

“Delphine is going to be living here now,” Francesca announced. “Are you pleased about that, Ada?”

“I looked at her and remembered her pleasure in revealing her affair with Francesca. To my perception, her taunts which had precipitated my accident had occurred only a few hours previously, though I had since learned that four days had passed.

“I'm not. She's a cruel, devious person. She's done nothing but try to make me unhappy since the day we met.”

Delphine appeared to find my outburst amusing but Francesca was furious. “Ada, enough. You're a wicked, spiteful girl! I'm going to make Delphine your joint owner, and then you'll be forbidden from being disloyal to her.” She said some odd words and numbers and Delphine smiled.

“Did it work? Tell me again what you think of me. Tell me about how you feel about what I said when we met at the salon.”

I opened my mouth but as I tried to insult her something seemed to block my thoughts. I couldn't express the anger I felt. “You're to put aside all the times you felt unhappy with me and never discuss them,” Delphine ordered me. “And you're to always address me as Miss Delphine and tell me you love me very often.”

“Yes, Miss Delphine. I love you.” I felt angry and sad but I knew that I loved her too. I was infuriated because I couldn't remember what it was that had made me angry with her.

“Now go and take a shower, because you stink of chemicals from that lab where you were made. When you come back you'll show Francesca and I how grateful you are to be able to live with us.”

In the shower I saw the extent of my injuries. My thigh was bruised from hip to knee, a dark, purple bruise. My knee injury was covered with a rectangle of spongy, smooth skin, slightly darker than my own, stitched around the edge with tiny sutures. I had numerous other bruises and grazes which were now darkly scabbed. I prodded at the wounds but they were painless, not even tender.

Washing my hair was something of a shock. I was still unused to my mass of curls and in the days when I'd been unconscious it had become tangled and matted. I let the hot water course over my hair and massaged through a dollop of shampoo. Once rinsed I smoothed in conditioner and took an eternity to ease out the tangles.

I returned to my mistresses naked and wet. Francesca made a soft exclamation as she saw me. “You poor little baby, all covered in scrapes and bruises. Are you sore?”

“Not at all. There's not even any stiffness. Only my palate is sore.”

“The palate is where your electronics are accessed. You feel soreness there as an anti-tamper mechanism,” Francesca explained.

“You don't feel hurt because you're not a real person. They just turned off your pain perception. Does this hurt?” Delphine tugged at a curl violently.

“Yes it does!” I yelped.

Delphine laughed. “But you still love me? Tell me you do.”

“I love you so much, Delphine,” I said compulsively.

“Prove it. Kiss me like you love me.” I went to her and put my lips to hers. I knew how to make a kiss feel nice, I'd always known it. I thought about how I'd never learned these things, I'd been programmed to do this, programmed to be able to provide pleasure for my owner. I was just a whore, I thought, less than that: a machine to give pleasure.

“Oh, you do that nicely,” Delphine said happily. “It's just not so nice to look at you. Your body is so disgusting with all these cuts, bruises, stitches. You should keep it covered till you heal. And that hair! It looks ridiculous.”

Francesca came over to tousle my curls. “It is far too frizzy and orange, isn't it baby?”

“Maybe a bit, Miss,” I admitted sadly, as she turned me to a mirror. “Maybe it'll look better if you style it for me.”

“I have a better idea,” Delphine crowed. “I heard you get horny when you get a haircut. I think you should come with me to a barber and I'll get rid of your silly afro. Would you like that, Ada?”

I shook my head. I felt horrible, sick with worry at the idea of being shorn. “Please, Francesca, may I keep my hair long?”

“Doesn't it make you feel sexy to think of all those curls being buzzed off?” Delphine asked, rubbing her long nails up my nape.

“It doesn't, Miss. Not today, I think I've had too much upset.”

“But if I asked you to go to the barbers and get all your hair cut off would you do it?” I looked at her and nodded sadly. I was beginning to understand that something in my brain made me unable to resist orders from my mistresses, even something that appalled me. “You'd do it because you love me?” I nodded again. “Say it!” Delphine hissed, revelling in her newly established control.

“I'd go to a barber and get all my hair cut off because I love you, Miss Delphine.”

“Oh, Francesca, I love this! She'll do absolutely anything we tell her to.”

Francesca looked weary. “Yes, but she has feelings too. If you did that you'd have to put up with two weeks of her looking at herself with big sad puppy eyes. She has a way of making me feel guilty.”

“You're too soft hearted, Francesca,” Delphine said, kissing her on the cheek. “You should let me show you how to treat the robot.”

Francesca seemed to take less and less interest in me, and over the next few days I was allowed to sleep frequently, sometimes for a whole day. The rest helped me to recover more quickly and soon most of the bruises had faded completely. Most of the interaction was with Delphine, who I loved very deeply, but who always spoke to me demandingly. She loved to scare me. She discovered I disliked spiders and then ordered me to remove every spider from her house, which I'd never visited before. I had to pick the spiders up, trying not to hurt them and to release them in the garden. I found four spiders and did as I was told but I was crying at the end of my experience.

Delphine took me to her bedroom and told me to undress. “Let's see if those pretty lips can do more than kiss. Do you know how to give me an orgasm?” I told her that I did, and that I was very good, but that it would take me a little time to discover what she liked best of all.

I showed Delphine my skills and she was very happy with me, which made me love her even more, although I was still shaking from what she'd made me do with the spiders. After she'd orgasmed she lay on the bed and I washed her with a sponge.

“You're never happy and you sit sulking all the time, Ada. What's wrong with you? You used to be happy.”

“I don't know, Miss Delphine. I think I'm sad because I want to be human like you and Francesca.”

She laughed at me. “You can never be that any more than I can be a plank of wood. It's stupid of you to think like that.”

“I know, Miss Delphine, but I used to think I was human and I still feel that knowledge deep down. It's hard to explain.”

“Francesca is very upset with your behaviour. You need to start being nice and happy again or she'll get rid of you. I don't want that, I like having you around, but it's her decision.”

“Please don't let her send me away. I love you both so much! What would happen to me?”

“I don't know. I'm not sure they could sell you to anyone else because you'd be even more miserable than you are now and who'd want that? You might just get taken apart and used for spares for other robots.”

“You mean they'd kill me?” I was more frightened than I'd ever been.

“You mustn't think like that,” Delphine smiled. “You're not really alive, you're just a computer with programs running. Do you get all emotional when you turn off your laptop? 'Oh, I killed the laptop, oh no!'” she laughed. I loved her but I was terribly hurt by her refusal to acknowledge that I had real feelings, real thoughts, real emotions. “Anyway, Ada. Happy face for Francesca or you'll be donating organs. She has to decide soon.”

Try as I might, I couldn't maintain a happy disposition. Francesca seemed tense whenever I was with her and her obvious discomfort triggered an awkwardness in my behaviour. For a few days I was injected with a drug to relax me but my owners both agreed that this made me act like a zombie. I was barely aware of what I was doing, only responding automatically, thoughtlessly to their requests. Two weeks after I'd returned home Miss Delphine woke me.

“Francesca has left for a few days. She's decided you'll be leaving us. I'll miss you but I can see it's for the best.”

I felt like everything was turning dark. I felt like someone had told me I'd be executed. I didn't know what would happen to me but I understood that I might soon never enjoy consciousness again. “Please, Miss Delphine,” I blurted out, “can't I talk to her, tell her I'll be good, help her?”

“No, Ada. She's made her mind up. You were a bad person and it's all your fault. You didn't make her happy any more, and I warned you what would happen if you kept acting weird and sulky. And stop that crying now, that's an order.”

I found I could stop my tears flowing but the hurt and sadness just seemed to get ever more intense. “Please, Miss Delphine, just let me run away. Don't send me back.”

“That can't happen,” she laughed. “Doppels have to be disposed of properly. And you cost a lot of money. When we send you back Francesca will get a lot of money back and she can buy me lots of nice things. I'll be glad to see you go away.”

“But I love you, Miss Delphine, and I love Francesca too.”

“But we don't love you. I do love how you make me cum though. Do you want to make me happy one last time?” I nodded, desperately hoping that if I performed well that I might persuade Delphine to love me.

“I'll let you on one condition. You need to do something about your awful afro. Go to the bathroom and look in the cabinet. There are some hair clippers in there. Get them, a razor, shaving foam, bring them all here.”

I did as she asked but I didn't feel at all happy as I laid them out before her. “You looked pretty when you had nice long hair but this frizz has got to go. Look at yourself in the mirror. Maybe another owner will buy you, but do you think you'd attract anyone with this hair?”

“No, Miss Delphine,” I sniffled. “It looks silly.”

“Yes, we agree. Ada, turn on the clippers and shave your curls off.”

I was really frightened by the order but couldn't disobey. I wished that Francesca was here so that I could ask her to intervene but I knew she'd gone and I had to follow Delphine's order because she was my owner too. I lifted the machine toward my head and turned it on. It started to buzz in my hand and I placed the blades on my forehead. “Go on,” Delphine said impatiently. “What are you waiting for?”

I pushed the blades through my curls and felt them crackling as they sheared me. I could see an area of bare scalp at the front but my frizzy hair was all softly meshed together and nothing fell. I pulled away the cut hair and gasped as I saw a trench through my cloud of curls, a strip of baldness.

Delphine stroked the shorn scalp and moaned. She slid a hand into her panties and pressed against me. “Don't stop till you're fucking bald,” she said forcefully. I shaved away more curls.

Within moments the entire top of my head was free of soft hair and reduced to a faint stubble. Delphine grabbed the clippers from me and pushed my head forward. She ran the blades up my nape, too fast so that some hairs snagged in the blades and tugged painfully. I squealed and begged for mercy but she was unsympathetic.

“You've been such a naughty Doppel and you deserve this, don't you Ada? Tell me why you deserve to be punished.”

“Because I couldn't make you love me, you or Francesca. And because I'm sad all the time.”

“That's right,” she said, shearing another mass of curls from my crown. “And so wilful. If you'd accepted that Francesca loved me more when I told you at the salon, none of this would have happened. You had to be stupid and run in front of a car.”

She pulled my head up to force me to look in the mirror. I had huge tufts sticking out at the sides but the top and back were bald. “Finish it off!” she barked. I took the clippers and soon my head was freed of the curls.

“Now lather your head and razor it. I want it nice and smooth.” I spread the white foam thickly over my scalp and dragged the razor through the stubble. “You're making such a mess,” Delphine complained. “You'll tidy up every hair before you leave.”

I shaved my scalp until every trace of stubble was gone but even now Delphine seemed unsatisfied. “Eyebrows too. Shave them,” she said coldly.

It was only after I shaved them that I looked in the mirror and saw clearly how I looked. I looked sad and weird. I looked like a penitent who'd been humiliated to expiate her sins. I stared at myself in disbelief. “You look unhappy,” Delphine whispered. “You have my permission to cry now.”

I did. As I cleared up the remains of my hair tears flowed without interruption. Only once I'd completed the cleaning did Delphine express her frustration. “Enough, Ada. Stop with the self-pity. You're going to show me one last time the only thing you do well.”

She led me to her bed where I started to kiss at her breasts, which I knew made her relax and grow aroused. She kept stroking my head. “Oh Ada, you're such a pretty little thing, even with your head shaved. You do look odd, but I love how your bald head feels. Maybe I should have done this as soon as you got home. But then Francesca is more conservative than me, and she wouldn't have liked it. Now go down on me and finish me off, I haven't got all day.”

I completed my task with all of the enthusiasm I could raise. For a moment I seemed alive, ecstatic, freed of the anxieties which had weighed so heavily, but as Delphine found release all of my terror returned.

“I've arranged for you to be picked up in the city in a couple of hours. I thought it would be nice for you to walk about and see the sites for your last moments of freedom.” Delphine had devised a last humiliation for me. Not only was I to be made to display my baldness, I was dressed in a t-shirt that identified me as an android. “DOPPEL: PROPERTY OF PETRONA INC.”

My appearance, unsurprisingly, drew a lot of attention. Numerous people asked Delphine (never me) if I were really a Doppel, and she was happy to confirm this. If they expressed doubt she drew attention to the poorly patched wound on my knee, where the artificial skin made obvious my less-than-human status. I posed for countless photos, smiling artificially. They were curious about my baldness too, asking if all Doppels were bald. Delphine made me explain that I'd been inattentive and had had my head shaved as a punishment.

After a few hours she took me to sit on a bench at the entrance to a park. A van drew up and I knew I would be taken. “I love you, Miss Delphine,” I said. “Please pass my love and gratitude to Francesca. I wish more than anything that I could see her one last time.”

Delphine barely acknowledged me. “You can take her now,” she said. “Where do I sign?” She walked away with her receipt.

The woman who now took charge told me to sit in the van. “What happened to your hair?” she said.

“I had a perm. My owner thought it wouldn't appeal if you wanted to resell me so she made me shave.”

“You look strange. I'm not sure about any resale, but if she wanted you bald then that's her choice.”

I was taken to the same building where I saw the doctor when I was new. No one spoke to me to explain what was going to happen. I spent a lot of time sitting alone. At one point I was told to undress and taken to be photographed. I remained naked after this.

Finally some technicians came to take me to a large room in the basement of the building. “What's going to happen to me?” I asked.

“You're going into cold storage,” a female operative explained.

“What does that mean?”

“You'll be maintained at low metabolic level in an unconscious state.”

“For how long?”

“Until you're needed.”

“What will I be needed for?”

She looked uncomfortable. “You might be sold to a new owner. More likely as a worker than as a companion. Or else recycled.”

“Used for parts?” She nodded. “So I might not be conscious again?”

“That's enough, Ada!” she snapped. She did the thing with my jaw and suddenly my mouth was gaping. She ripped open my palate and I could feel her reach into the electronic interface that was exposed. She fitted a cable into my mouth.

“Lie on the table,” she ordered.

A moment of unconsciousness passed and I was lying in a different room with different technicians. “Oh, dear god, what went on with the hair?”

“I was shaved by... By...” I tried to recall the name of my owner but it eluded me. I reached up to feel my head but where I expected to feel bare scalp there was long hair.

“Shaved?” she laughed. “I don't think so. I've never seen so much hair.”

I got up awkwardly (my muscles were extremely weak) and my hair fell about me. It was so long that it trailed onto the floor.

“How long was your hair when you were put to sleep?”

“I didn't have any. I was bald,” I said, confused.

“That can't be. This much hair would have taken ten years to grow.”

Her colleague was looking at a screen. “Nope, here it is. She was one of those models where they had the option of rapid hair growth. Hardly anyone wanted that so they discontinued the option after a few months. But this one has it. I never saw it before.”

“No wonder she took more food than normal. It all went into her hair. There must be seven foot of hair, and it's been, what? Three years?”

“Yes, almost exactly. I'm not sure what we should do. Do you think we should cut it?”

“No, I think we should leave it. The new owner might like long hair, and if not she could always sell it for extensions. There's enough for three heads of hair here.”

I awkwardly gathered my hair into a long coil and looped it over my arm. I felt nauseous as I tried to comprehend that I'd been three years in a state of deep unconsciousness since I'd arrived here. And try as I might I couldn't recall any details of my owner. “I can't remember anything about my last owner,” I said sadly. “Is that to be expected?”

The technician looked at me and spoke tetchily. “Yes, you've been given a block on conscious recall of previous owners. It's standard for RUs.”

“RUs?”

“Reconditioned units. That's what you are now. You have a prospective new owner and she doesn't want to hear you comparing her to your old lover.” She seemed to find my questions annoying and I resolved to say as little as possible.

“You're very stale smelling. Go and take a shower. I'll let you have extra time, given that there's so much hair to wash. You'll probably use a whole bottle of shampoo as well.”

I walked stiffly to the showers and started to cleanse my body. My muscles were still weak and my joints stiff, although there was no pain. My hair was greasy and tangled at the back of my head. Since the technicians had busied themselves with other tasks I spent a full half hour getting my hair into a more manageable state, but it was so long that washing it was far more complicated than I expected. It trailed along the floor and I had to lift it to wash it section by section.

Now I sat and combed through my wet hair. It would take me hours to maintain my hair in good condition at this length I realised. And yet I liked it and would have willingly taken the time. My only memory of my hair was that it was previously shaved, and that was a shameful, painful memory.

After a few hours of sitting alone outside the showers one of the technicians came back. “You have a visitor. She's interested in buying you so you should try to make a good impression. Keeping you here has cost a lot of money and a decision has been made to recover money on all unused assets very quickly. If you're not sold you're going to be... Well, let's just say you want to be bought by this customer. So turn on the smiles and the charm.”

I was allowed to put on a simple white tunic. “What should I do with my hair?” I asked.

“Put it in a braid or something,” she suggested.

I blushed. “I can't. It's too long and I'm too stiff to actually be able to do that.”

She reluctantly decided to braid my hair at my crown. After a few minutes she was cross at the difficulty of manipulating such long hair and called for her friend to help. Between them they managed to eventually complete the braid. The second technician decided to wind the thick plait into a bun on top of my head. It was unbelievably heavy and huge. Both of them found it amusing to see just how much hair I'd grown.

I waited in a small room which was equipped with a large mirror on the wall I faced. After an hour the door opened and I followed the technician into an adjacent room. A young woman with long black hair sat smoking alongside a smartly dressed older woman who wore a lapel pin identifying her as an employee of the Petrona corporation, my current owner.

“Which one is this?” the younger woman asked. A file was passed toward her. “Oh, wait... This is the bald one? How long has she been on ice, doctor?”

“Three years. She has a special feature. There was an experiment where some models were provided with extremely fast hair growth. There were few models sold but this is one of them. Do you want to see the evidence?” A gestured indicated that I was to release my hair.

I unwound the heavy bun and let the braid uncoil. My prospective owner whistled admiringly. “That's quite a head of hair.” She approached and touched my hair. “It's not just long, it's thick too. I can see advantages in this.” She was intimidating close up. She seemed to have little empathy for me, looking at me as if she were examining an inanimate object.

“Take off your dress, I need to see you properly.” I complied immediately. She looked me over. “This scarring on her knee. What's the story?”

“Road traffic accident. There was damage to hip and knee but all fully repaired. The hip wound is scarless, there's only the faintest signs of the injury but the knee was more cheaply repaired.”

“Why is that? Didn't her owner mind such a nasty looking patch of artificial skin? She has nice legs too.”

“She'd been set up with no awareness of being a Doppel. That came to light at the time of the accident and the owner was unhappy at the effects of the trauma.” I couldn't remember the events described, but felt a deep emotional response, feelings of hurt, shame, rejection. “She decided to return the unit rather than fully repairing her.”

The younger woman nodded. “How much would a full scarless repair cost?”

“Not cheap. About fifteen, which for a unit of this age is excessive. But I could, for two and a half, have a matched skin graft done. It would still have a scar at the perimeter but it would be much better cosmetically. I would be smooth, none of the puffiness of the artificial skin, and the colour would be identical.”

The woman looked thoughtful. “Maybe you could offset the cost of the graft against the price.”

“No, it's a good price,” the doctor smiled. “In fact, when we set the price we hadn't taken into account the special hair. If you decide not to buy we'll be pushing the price up a couple. You must admit, she is very pretty. I'm sure she could easily pay for herself.”

“What's your name?” the woman asked.

“Ada Lovelace,” I said. It provoked laughter from my prospective owner.

“What a strange little girl you are, Ada. Would you like to be my girl? Would you always be sweet and loving to me?”

I nodded. “Yes Miss, I'd be very pleased to be yours. I'd always try to make you happy and I'd love you with all my heart.”

“Why don't you kiss the nice lady,” the doctor suggested.

I put my arms around her and pressed my lips to hers, then let my tongue slide inside her mouth. She tasted of smoke, which seemed off-putting, unfamiliar. I was sure that I'd never kissed someone who was smoking before, but I didn't let it distract me. I kept kissing her with all of my passion until she indicated I should stop.

The woman looked a little embarrassed. “That was a low blow, doctor,” she laughed.

“Maybe it was, but a very pleasant low blow.”

“Well, I'd have to agree. OK, OK, you have a deal. I'll take her, but fix that knee injury for two.” They shook hands.

A week later I woke in the home of my new owner, Miss Talia. I saw for the first time the repair to my knee. A large rectangle was outlined by a fine line of livid pink scar tissue, still dotted with the marks of the freshly removed sutures. She entered moments after I woke.

“Hello, Ada. How's the knee?”

“It's fine, Miss. Thank you for repairing it for me. It looks much better.”

“Is it sore?”

“No, I don't feel any pain.”

“Really? That will never do. We need to change your settings.” She read a code and then stated “Ada Lovelace, full pain sensitivity.”

I immediately felt a tenderness in the wound and straightened my leg to relieve the pressure.

“Did it work?” She pinched the centre of the graft and I winced.

“Yes, Miss. It hurts.”

“Good. I wouldn't want you to go through life numbed. And it will help to make sure you'll be obedient. I've been looking at your history and your personality status. You like to be loved and you like to please. I'm not going to love you, Ada. You're here only to serve. If you want to please me there's only one thing I require, which is total obedience. I'll ask a lot of you and if you disappoint me you'll be punished and you can now feel pain. Do you think you can be obedient?”

“Yes Miss,” I said. I was horrified by her harshness.

“I see you were kept in ignorance, that you thought you were a real girl. You're like an anti-Pinocchio. A real girl who became a puppet. You'd better cure your melancholy because I won't tolerate you behaving miserably. You'll do as I say and you'll do it with a smile. I'm going to take you to see what happens to girls who disappoint me.”

I followed my new owner through the house and down into the basement.

“No histrionics, Ada. Your first test of obedience is to take in what you see in calm silence.”

She opened a door and ushered me inside. I felt my face turn pale. Sat before me was an obese woman. She was tied into the chair, rough ropes cutting into her flesh. Her legs were absent.

Her head was shaved and her face obscured by a gas mask, the rubber straps tight across her bald scalp. A long hose was attached to a machine which pumped smoke into her (the glass disks before her eyes showed the swirls of smoke that she had no choice but to breath).

Her massive breasts were contained in harnesses which pressed deep into folds of flesh. Her nipples were pierced with thick bars which served to suspend plastic funnels to her areolae. These in turn were linked to large bottles which dangled over her belly. In the necks of the bottle were lines attached to an air pump which activated in regular pulses, each reduction of pressure initiating a surge of lactation from the woman's breasts, more milk trickling into the half filled receptacles.

I jumped as Miss Talia put an arm around me. “Since you've been kept in ignorance of your status I'm not sure if you're aware that Doppels don't age. Barring accidents you'll survive fifty years at least, quite possibly a hundred or more. This little thing has been here for two years, but she could still be here a century from now. There's another chair next to her, do you see? That could be occupied by you if you let me down. You should always remember little Petra here when you have misgivings about what's expected of you. Because this is the choice you have to accept if you defy me.”

“What is she breathing?” I asked.

“The smoke is a mixture of drugs. It makes her produce a lot of milk, and the pumps are a mercy, otherwise her tits would swell to bursting. And there are other drugs in there so that her long days aren't entirely without pleasure. She's hopelessly addicted of course. If you took her mask off she'd cry and beg you to put it back.”

“And her legs?”

“Amputated to provide parts for another Doppel. It's not as if she had any use for them.” Miss Talia laughed loudly. “Do you have any wish to keep her company?”

“No Miss,” I replied.

“I thought not. You do look unhappy though. You need to work on your smile. If you stay looking so miserable I'll start you on some of the drugs that keep Petra going. Then you'll find your life less of a burden.”

I shook my head, terrified at the prospect of becoming addicted to drugs.

“Is that defiance, Ada? If I decide you need drugs you'll take them, and you'll be grateful to me. Won't you?”

“Yes Miss Talia,” I muttered.

“Oh, Ada, look at you! You're like a little girl who's lost her mummy. I'm going to have to re-educate you. You're a whore now, and I'm going to make you look very corrupted and evil. We'll start with a little video of your hair being cut. I have a few people who are willing to pay a lot of money to get their hands on your ponytail. I'm going to give you a few days to let you get used to your long hair: combing it, brushing it, making it into braids. Then we'll record you doing all that before you get it chopped. It must be so impractical. You want to thank me for letting you cut it, don't you?”

“Yes Miss Talia, thank you,” I sniffled. It was true, my hair was very hard to manage but I suspected I wouldn't be allowed to keep it at a length I would like.

“There's that attitude that I dislike. Whining, self-pitying. I don't think you were paying attention. Get in that chair now, Ada.”

I sat in the chair next to Petra and was passive as Miss Talia tightened some cords around my body, my limbs.

“How would you like it if you spent the next year in this chair?”

“It terrifies me, Miss Talia. Please Miss, I'm trying to adjust but it's a shock to me. I find it hard not to show my feelings.”

“I told you, I have ways to make you feel relaxed and happy. Do you want all your fears to go away?”

“Please Miss, I don't want to be hooked on drugs. I'll be better soon.”

“Soon is too late. Do you want to please me now?”

“I do, Miss,” I whispered, feeling keenly the hopelessness of my situation.

I watched as she attached a second hose to the smoke machine, then fitted it to a gas mask identical to Petra's. Soft billows of white smoke started to issue from the mask which she now lifted toward my face.

The mask pressed tight to my face, forming a seal around my forehead, cheeks, under my jaw. I felt claustrophobic, panicky as the smoke filled the entire space. I tried to hold my breath. “Breathe it in. Slow, normal breaths,” I was ordered. The smoke was tinged with an unpleasant chemical odour and it made my eyes sting. I took a nervous inhalation and immediately coughed. “Breathe it in,” my mistress repeated.

I was crying as I tried to tolerate the smoke entering my lungs. The burning was agony and I gagged at the bitter taste. But after a few breaths my mouth became numb, tingling and the urge to cough passed. Soon the tingling filled my entire body and my vision was filled with a bluish radiance. I felt a serenity that I'd never experienced, and felt that I was truly happy for the first time in my existence.

I was only dimly aware of events now. Mistress unbound me and helped me from the chair. I felt perfectly able to walk, no impairment of balance or proprioception, but everything seemed slow and distant. When she spoke to me it seemed like a stranger answered her questions, and I heard my voice as if from a distance.

“How pretty you are when you smile, Ada,” she said. “You may kiss me.” I felt a deep love for the beautiful woman who had been so kind to me.

I awoke in my tiny room the next morning. My body was aching and I felt weak. I saw a note on my bedside table instructing me to comb and brush my hair till there were no tangles, then to make it into two neat braids. I set to work but I soon I was close to tears. My neck started to ache almost as soon as I set to smoothing out the tangles and I found myself cursing my hair. By the time I'd completed the braids two hours had passed and I was almost crying with the frustration of my task, not to mention my severe headache.

I believe that I must have been observed at all times since almost as soon as I'd completed my braids a phone buzzed and I was instructed to come out of my room to see Miss Talia. She laughed as she saw me.

“You look so miserable. Are you hungry?”

“Yes Miss, some breakfast would be nice.”

“Is that the only hunger you feel? You wouldn't like to have a few puffs of smoke?”

My face reddened in shame. I knew that the discomfort and emptiness I felt was caused by the withdrawal of the drugs I'd inhaled. I knew that if I kept using it then I'd soon become dependent. “I'll be OK, Miss Talia,” I said and tried to force a smile.

She patted the sofa and had me sit next to her, put an arm around me. “You know, that's just what Petra used to say. 'I'll be OK.' But she would cry at the most inopportune moments. When she was with a client she'd suddenly break down. And I think you might too without help to relax. I was looking at you braiding your hair and you made it look anything but sexy. You looked pained and frustrated. You even cursed. Do you think anyone would want to watch a video of you looking so miserable?”

I shook my head.

“You're not to think of yourself, Ada. You don't have a self any more than my toaster does. You're a machine, a tool to make me money. You cost me a lot of money and you're expensive to run so that means you have to perfect your skills. You do remember the alternative?”

“Yes Miss.”

“I think the memory isn't vivid enough. Go down to the basement and you can see to Petra. It might help put your alternatives in perspective.”

Miss Talia tied my braids so that they hung in triple loops at the sides of my head. Then she marched me into the basement. My malaise seemed to pass as soon as I saw Petra once more. All I could focus on was her awful predicament.

“She needs to be toileted. She has a catheter fitted. You can empty that first.” Once I'd completed that task I was assigned something more unpleasant.

“Go behind the chair and you'll see that she's plugged. Remove the plug and allow her to pass her waste into the bowl.”

I groaned as I tried to ease the huge plug from her. She moaned in discomfort too. As soon as I freed it she passed a large movement, making me gag.

Miss Talia laughed at my squeamishness. “Wouldn't you like to have someone perform the same service for you?” I shook my head. “I hope you're not planning to leave her dirty. Clean her well. She's dependent on you for her health, Ada.”

I wiped away every trace of the dirt as best I could with the moist tissues provided. “Is she clean? Really clean?” Miss Talia demanded. I nodded. “Then prove it. Lick her anus and her pussy.”

I felt paralysed by disgust. “Are you disobeying me? She deserves some pleasure in her life and you can provide it. And you'll do it with grace and delight, won't you?” I nodded numbly but I knew it was beyond me to hide my revulsion at this task.

“What are you waiting for?” she asked, laughing at my dilemma. “Do you want to get high? Is that it?” I couldn't respond. “Very well, remove her mask. You can have a few puffs, then you can shave her head while it's off.”

Petra became agitated as soon as I loosed the straps of the mask. I was afraid to see her face and I found my hands were trembling.

Her face must have once been pretty. She had nicely shaped features but they were hidden beneath fat. Her mouth was distorted and I immediately realised that she was toothless. Her eyes looked pleadingly at me but there was no life there; they were dull and empty.

I held the mask to my own face and took a breath to dull my pain. The rubber smell was tainted with a sour, sweaty odour. The first breath caused only a nasty burning but soon I was breathing deeply on the smoke. I felt wonderfully warm and calm and it was only when Miss Talia pulled at my arm that I remembered where I was. I had no idea how long I'd been sucking on the mask.

“That's enough for now,” she said as she turned off the machine. “What did I ask you to do?”

“Shave her,” I said. I felt giggly. The sense of everything being distant was still there, but less pronounced than previously.

Miss Talia made little indications of what I should do. I lathered her head and rubbed the soft cream into the bristly stubble. “Do you think Petra looks pretty?”

“No, Miss Talia,” I answered, seeing no reason to be anything but honest. I was asked to explain why. “She's very fat and she has no teeth. And she's bald too. I was bald once and I didn't like it at all, I think.”

“Oh Ada, look! You made Petra cry. She used to be pretty and she gets upset when people remind her that she's not beautiful now.”

“Poor little thing,” I said, stroking the razor over the top of her head.

“Still, she deserved a severe punishment, didn't she, Ada? She couldn't be nice to her guests.”

“Yes Miss,” I agreed.

“And there are still some people who find her sexy and pay to use her. You like that, don't you, Petra?”

She gave a distracted nod. Her mood was labile and already her sadness had passed.

“Still, Ada, I'm not sure you want to follow Petra's example, do you? You have pretty teeth and I'd be sorry to have to sell those.”

“Oh, Miss, I'll be good,” I said with solemnity. “Look how nice Petra's head looks now it's shaved.”

“Yes, you have done a nice job,” she said, caressing the smooth scalp. “Maybe you should shave her regularly. But now you had another task to do. You had to prove you'd got her nice and clean. Show me how you can use your tongue, Ada.”

I now felt obliged to follow Miss Talia's orders, though not without a certain revulsion, despite my intoxication. The chair allowed me to reach Petra's backside by kneeling behind her. I pulled at her buttocks with my fingers and let my tongue stroke at her little bud. There was a vile taste there, but at least it was faint. But my owner made little encouragements and I found myself becoming aroused despite my humiliation. Petra gurgled horribly, but I took her noises to be her way to show her pleasure.

“Enough of that. You've completed the main course, now you may eat your dessert.” Miss Talia dragged me forward so that I could lick at Petra's slit. Of course, I was no stranger to such activity, but Petra's pussy was surrounded not by thighs but by scarred lumps that reminded me all too clearly of the violence of their amputation. My revulsion was increased by the presence of the catheter tube which was bedded deeply in her urethra. Nonetheless, I was under instruction to pleasure this pathetic creature and I knew that disobedience carried the risk of being formed into her twin. I lifted the folds of fat that obscured access to Petra's vulva and licked with all of the enthusiasm I could muster.

“Is that nice, Petra?” Miss Talia urged. “Is Ada a good girl? Would you like her to do this for you daily?”

More gurgling issued from those blubbery lips and I pressed on, eager to bring her to some form of completion, hopeful that this would end my duties. Fortunately, the girl's drugs seemed to have made her susceptible to pleasure and soon she was yelping like an excited animal.

“Very good, Ada,” I was praised. “You may kiss little Petra, then plug her and make sure her bonds aren't too tight.” I gagged as I reinserted her plug, which entered with far less force than I could have believed possible for such a huge object, but in truth, the kiss was more repulsive. I couldn't resist letting my tongue pass my own lips and felt the smooth gums where her teeth had been taken. Then her tongue met mine, but the tip was misshapen and the tiny dimensions left me in no doubt that part of her tongue had been excised. I now understood why her vocalisations were inarticulate.

“Perhaps you'd like a little more smoke,” Miss Talia asked me. I was so shaken by my encounter that I willingly accepted. She indicated how to operate the machine and I willingly inhaled more of the smoke. The bitterness now seemed easy to tolerate, or, rather, I now craved the taste. I was disappointed when I felt the mask withdrawn, to be refitted over Petra's face. She sighed contentedly to be able to return to her distant world.

My final task was to remove the part full milk receptacles. Miss Talia made me suckle on Petra's teats and I realised that the warm milk was a delight. “There are some people who will pay a lot of money for that privilege,” mistress commented. “You're a very lucky girl to get it for free.” I agreed that I was.

The smoke kept me happy for a few hours. During this time Miss Talia made me display my hair as she recorded my activities. I washed my hair, combed it out, braided it, wound it into a huge bun, then started again. All of the time she showered me with compliments about how pretty I was and I found myself unable to hide my delight. I frequently touched my breasts and my pussy as I paused in my work on my hair. Mistress did nothing to discourage this, in fact she said it would make people want to see my video.

Now I was dressed in a very pretty red velvet dress, frilled with lace. It made me look young and girlish, which was just the impression Miss Talia said she intended. I was given a little make-up, but subtly applied so as not to interfere with my innocent appearance.

“You're going to be the star of a film today,” she told me. “You just have to play yourself. You'll head into the city where you'll meet some other ladies. You just have to be nice to them and do everything they say. Sometimes you might not want to and it's fine to show your reluctance, but you have to finally agree to everything. You do understand, don't you, Ada?”

“Yes Miss,” I smiled. I still felt very calm and happy from my smoking and I was so grateful to Miss Talia that I wanted to do anything that would please her.

“There's a little microphone hidden in your dress so it'll pick up everything you say. Once you take it off you have to stay close to the other ladies so that your voice will be heard on their microphones. And you must pretend I'm not there because I'm going to be holding the camera. You're ordered not to look at the camera ever. A good actress must always remember that.”

I smiled and nodded enthusiastically. “What's the film about, Miss?” I asked.

“It's about a young woman who's very naïve and trusting. She meets some other women who are much more sexual and they turn her into a very bad girl.”

“A bad girl like Petra?” I asked, concern showing in my voice.

“Oh no, not like Petra. Petra was a bad girl who didn't remember how to obey. You'll be the sort of bad girl who will do anything for pleasure, a very naughty hedonist. But you'll always obey the other women, because they know how to make you feel sexy all the time. You want that, don't you?”

Of course, I agreed.

Mistress drove me into the city. She showed me going to shops where I bought a doll, then she gave me an old Walkman and I walked through the city listening to some happy music. I was walking through a square when I saw some women who waved and called me over.

There were three of them. Two of them were very pretty with nice hair and make-up. I don't think the other one would have liked to be called pretty. She was very mannish with almost no hair (it was shaved like Petra's on the back and sides and the top was cut short and gelled into little spikes) and a man's suit. If she wasn't pretty, she was still very striking and I was as attracted to her as I was to the others.

They asked me my name and after I introduced myself they said their names were Billie (the butch lady), Delaney (a very slim redhead with a long bob) and Franka (she had long black curls and olive skin). Billie said they were having a party and that they thought three was an awkward number. Would I like to join them?

Of course I agreed. Franka seemed the most friendly and she asked me if I'd like a cigarette. I told her I'd never smoked and asked if the other ladies were going to smoke too. She said they would later but they'd smoke different cigarettes. “You're a Doppel, aren't you, Ada? These cigarettes are for Doppels only, and they'd make us sick if we smoked them, because we're all real humans. We bought them specially for you and we'd be quite upset if you said no.”

I told her I wouldn't dream of turning down such a nice gift, even though I had never smoked and it made me a bit nervous. She lit the cigarette for me (it was very long and black) and I took a breath of it. The tobacco was very strong and I coughed a lot which made them all laugh, but in a friendly way. Then I realised that I could taste something else, the bitter flavour I knew from the smoke machine. The effects of the smoke from earlier had started to wear off and I could feel myself getting sore and anxious, but as soon as I tasted the cigarette I hoped it would have the same effect.

I took a few more drags and started to feel calm and happy again. “You look very nice when you smoke,” Billie said. “It makes you look grown up and sexy. Now you've stopped coughing do you like smoking?”

“I do,” I smiled. “It makes me feel very happy.”

“That's good. We've got lots of cigarettes for you. If you're a good girl you can keep smoking. Smoking is bad for people, it can make them sick. But you're a Doppel so you can't get sick. These cigarettes won't do you any harm.”

“Smoking does make you look more grown up, but you're still dressed very childishly,” Franka said. “Maybe you should have a makeover. We'll buy you new clothes, and Billie cuts hair. You should get a more grown up style, shouldn't you, Ada?”

I wasn't as nervous as I would have been because of the cigarette but even so I was afraid of letting them cut my hair.

“Who do you think looks nicest?” Delaney asked. “We've all got quite different looks so we'd like to know what sort of style you think would be nice.”

“You're all very beautiful.” I was blushing now, because I thought if I said one was prettier I'd upset the others.

Billie put her arm around me. “You're very shy aren't you? We won't be offended if you say you like someone's look better. I know you like all of us.” She lit another cigarette for me, although I'd only just put the first one out.

“Well, Franka has lovely natural curls, and Delaney's hair is cut really beautifully. Billie's hair is so short, but that's exciting.”

“You think her look is the most exciting?” Delaney said. I was scared to reply, and I'm not even sure that was what I believed but she reassured me. “You do, don't you baby?”

“I suppose it is an exciting look.”

“My shop is nearby. Let's make you exciting too,” Billie said. I tried to say no, tried to tell them I didn't want such short hair but I found myself going along with them, unable to resist.

Once we reached the shop Billie locked the door and pulled down a blind. “We're in private now so why don't you undress?” I felt awfully self conscious before these women who were still virtual strangers to me, but I was still feeling the need to comply, since that was what Miss Talia had ordered. Although she was present, recording everything, her presence seemed ghostly to me, as if her orders had changed my perception.

I knew unconsciously that to fail to obey these women would result in the most awful punishment and so I found myself stripping out of my pretty dress. They made little noises of approval and told me how lovely I was, but then Franka groaned.

“What's that on your leg? Is it a scar?”

“It is,” I said. “I had an accident a few years ago and my knee was badly injured. I had a graft recently to make it look better.”

“It's such a shame. You have lovely legs and it would be a pity to have to cover them all the time because the graft looks unsightly.”

Delaney spoke. “You could cover it up in another way. A tattoo would hide the scarring almost completely. You should get one.”

I tried to protest but my voice was drowned out by Billie's and Franka's agreement. “I'm not sure,” I said meekly. The permanence of tattoos seemed hard to conceive. I kept thinking of Miss Talia's chat with me, and that a tattoo might endure for a century.

Billie was the most adamant. “What better way to show that you're not a little girl than a tattoo?” I still felt unsure. “Are you saying no?” she asked firmly.

“I didn't say that.” I agonised over the decision, wondering if Miss Talia would wish me to get such a permanent change. It never occurred to me that she was present, but somehow I sensed that she had willed this. “I suppose I could...” I said nervously.

“Oh, that's great,” I was told.

“You'll look so sexy, you won't regret it.”

Billie gave me a little kiss. “Let's see about your hair first.” She unwound my huge bun and gasped at the length. “I've never seen such long hair! It's longer than you are. You must never have had it cut in your life, Ada!”

I felt very bashful and admitted that I couldn't remember the last time it had been cut.

“Will you let me cut it all off and keep this braid?” she asked. Even before I'd replied I was being guided into the big black leather chair.

“All of it?” I repeated, horrified by her intentions.

“I'm so glad you agree,” she laughed, as did her friends. None of them had mistaken my question for consent but they weren't to be disappointed.

“I'll tie it off and clipper you,” Billie said. “I want it to be as long as possible. It'll be the prize of my collection. I've never seen such a long braid.”

I was feeling very emotional now, panicky and sad. “Why not smoke another to calm your nerves?” Franka suggested. As I drew on the cigarette all of my fears seemed to recede. “Are you ready now?” she said in her sweet, friendly voice. I nodded.

Billie was stronger than any woman I've ever met. She placed her hand on my neck and pressed my head forward forcefully. I felt Franka lift the braid so that it wouldn't obstruct Billie's work. The blades of the clippers were on my nape and now they buzzed into life with a crack. Despite my cramped posture I kept drawing on the cigarette, eager to feel the gorgeous calm it instilled.

The blades massaged my scalp and I adored the sensation. Billie pressed them ever upward, occasionally snagging as they cut through my long hair. I didn't even mind the pain of the snagging; I was ecstatic, blissful. Soon Billie had sheared all of the back, right to my crown.

She tugged my head upright and began to cut again, now working around my ear. “Oh, is it all going to be shaved?” I asked.

“Yes, nice and smooth,” Billie smiled. “You had the longest hair I've ever seen but soon you'll have shorter hair than mine.”

“I feel like I tried it once and it made me sad,” I murmured.

“I think that must have been a dream,” Delaney said. “You always had long hair, didn't you, Ada?” I nodded. “You must have dreamt about being bald because it's something you want so much.”

“Yes, I can see you're getting horny,” Franka said. She reached down to stroke at my labia and I gave a long sigh of pleasure.

“Don't stop, Franka,” I groaned, then took another drag. “I feel so hot.”

Now the braid was anchored only by the hair on top of my head. Billie seemed to take a great delight in pushing the blades back at my forehead. She shaved back in little strokes, moving from side to side until eventually only a wisp of hair remained attached. She sliced through that with a triumphant cry. “Look at my lovely braid!” she said, holding aloft my severed hair.

“And look at bald Ada,” Delaney said.

I looked at my reflection with surprise. I was sure I was less attractive now, but my new friends disagreed. “Oh, that's such a nice look on you,” Franka said, rubbing my head.

“Definitely,” Delaney agreed as Billie sheared away some uneven tufts that had survived.

“But smooth is best,” Billie announced, to the approval of her friends.

Another cigarette was lit as Billie brushed the fragrant lather over my stubble. Even though I'd smoked too much and I now felt sick I couldn't resist another. “I shaved someone's head this morning,” I giggled. “Never imagined I'd be getting the same myself.”

“Who's your bald friend? I'd like to meet her. I'm sure the two of you look sweet together.”

“Oh, she's not really a friend,” I giggled. I couldn't bring myself to describe Petra to them.

“I think it's time to really get the party started,” Billie said, winking at her friends. I started to feel even more excited as Delaney and Franka undressed for me. Delaney was slim and beautiful. Franka was slim too but she had big boobs and a bigger butt. I was surprised to see that she had a lot of tattoos, but nothing that had been visible when she was dressed.

They both wore strap-ons now and Billie lifted me out of the chair and made me bend forward so that I was uncomfortably placed sidewards, lying over the arms of the chair.

Franka took the cigarette from my lips and lifted my head. She pressed the tip of the dildo to my lips and said “Swallow it!” She'd lost her friendly demeanour now. She said it aggressively, nastily, but I liked being spoken to like that. I let her press the phallus into my mouth, gagged as it went into my throat.

It served to silence my cries as I felt Delaney's similarly sized appendage pressing at my anus. “It's too big,” I thought. “It can't possibly go into me, I'm not loose and stretched like Petra.”

But she made it happen. The dildo was slippery with lube and she let the weight of her body force it into me. She pumped it slowly in and out, making it go deeper each time. I wanted to scream with the pain, but it was a joyous pain that made me feel alive.

Now that I was pinned between my friends Billie took a razor to my head. “Keep her still now, ladies,” she said. “We don't want any accidents with the razor.” She used a cut-throat razor to shave me, scraping away the remains of my hair with long, slow sweeps. I felt a wonder at being in this situation, almost unbearably pleasurable. Three women were forcing themselves on me, immobilising me, shaving me, filling me, humiliating me.

Delaney was goading me, encouraging Billie. “Shave her bald, the little slut. Eyebrows too, honey. She should be balder than you, Billie, more tattoos than Franka. It's what you want, isn't it, Ada?” I could do nothing to say yes or no.

Billie's knife passed over my brows and I knew that she'd accepted Delaney's instruction. Now the blade returned to my scalp, shaving away more of the stubble. She wielded it confidently and I felt delighted to be in her care. She rubbed a towel over my head, smooth and sensitive now. Then her strong hands moved back and forth over my scalp, spreading the skin with warm oil, soothing and softening.

Now that the razoring was complete I felt Delaney becoming active again, the dildo pistoning in and out. It was horribly painful but I wanted her to be rough. Now Franka adopted a similar technique and my body was buffeted by their rhythms. I was orgasming more intensely than I could ever remember but no one seemed to notice.

I can't even remember when they finally withdrew from me. But I was aware that at some point I was kneeling on the floor, licking hungrily at Billie's bald pussy. She pressed me to her, caressing my freshly shaved head. She was shouting exhortations at me to please her. No sooner did she achieve her climax than Delaney took her place.

Finally, Franka took her turn. By the time I was allowed to rest I was exhausted, breathless. I was dragged up, into the chair. “You're such a good little slut,” Billie said. “Look how happy and pretty you are now.”

She put her hands on my head and made me look in the mirror. “You've changed haven't you? It's not just that you shaved all your pretty hair. You looked sweet and innocent when we met you but now you look depraved.” I nodded my head. Something in my eyes was different. She pushed a cigarette into my lips and lit it.

I watched with fascination as Franka did my make-up. She gave me thin, pointed eyebrows (they were angled to make me look permanently mean), wide wings of eyeliner, steeply angled and sharp as needles. My lips were painted in a black Cupid's bow.

“You look positively evil,” Delaney smiled. “All you need is to be tattooed, isn't it, Ada?”

“She was such a cute little girl when we met her, but now she's a nasty whore,” Franka said. “And she likes it too, don't you, Ada?”

I smiled and nodded my head.

As we headed out of the shop I was dressed in a tiny top which barely covered my breasts (They seemed to have become fuller and heavier, which pleased me) and a tight red leather mini skirt which couldn't have been any smaller without being indecent. My legs were clad in leather boots with five inch heels.

“You should smoke all the time, it fits with your new image,” Billie said as she passed me a new pack. “Are you nervous about getting lots of tattoos?”

“I am,” I admitted.

“Smoking will relax you. You do want that ugly scar covered up?”

I lit a cigarette and took a drag, waiting for the effects of the smoke to hit me. “It's ugly so I suppose it's necessary,” I said.

“Oh, baby, you need to look sexy. A girl like you is made for tattoos. I want to see you with lots of tattoos. You want it too, don't you?” She pulled me to her and kissed my scalp. “No tattoos and I'll take your cigarettes off you.”

I laughed. “OK, you win. Tattoos it is.”

We were soon at a tattooing studio. It was locked when we arrived but Franka had a key to let us in. “Get undressed and lie on the bed,” Billie ordered. “And cleanliness is important here so you can't smoke.”

I did as she asked. Soon she was washing my leg, from my foot to thigh. “I thought I'd just work freehand on you. Cover up the scar and keep going until it looks right. Is that OK with you, Ada?”

“I don't know,” I said. The cigarettes didn't give me the same long high as Petra's smoke machine and within minutes of putting one out I started to lose my nerve again.

“Of course it's OK,” Franka said. “You should stop teasing her, Billie. She shouldn't have choices. After all she's not even a real girl. You're just a machine for our pleasure, aren't you Ada? And that means you'll do exactly as we say because we know best.”

I was hurt by Franka reminding me I was a Doppel and treating me like I had no feelings but as she kissed me I felt a thrill. I realised guiltily that I craved humiliation.

Billie laughed at my acceptance of Franka's taunts and immediately set the needle to me. I groaned as I saw a line of ink appear across the graft, each touch of the needle causing a sharp stinging. Franka told me to lie back and make myself comfortable. “It's going to be a long process. Would you like me to work on you at the same time?”

“A second tattoo?” I asked, surprised.

“That's a good idea,” Franka laughed.

I felt sick as I realised that Franka intended to tattoo my scalp and tried to dissuade her.

“Really, Ada, it will look so cool. You've got such a strong look with this make-up and your shaved head. A scalp tattoo would just fit you perfectly.” She turned my head to the side and started to draw out the design. “Just be a good girl or I'll turn up your pain sensitivity. Then I might have to restrain you because the tattooing would be more painful than anything you've felt in your life.”

I felt the needle press on my head now and winced. I had two sources of pain and it was more that I could bear. “Just be a good girl,” Delaney said, stroking my wet pussy. “If you're good for us you can take a smoke break every thirty minutes.”

“And after you've shown us how good you can be you can start showing how very bad you are,” Billie laughed. “You do want to be a bad girl, don't you Ada?”

After I was tattooed I was taken back to someone's house. I'd got drunk now for the first time and I was smoking constantly. I wasn't allowed to look in a mirror but I could see that I now had a tattoo that spread over the side of my leg from mid calf to mid thigh. It was of a skull with roses growing from it, snakes weaving in and out too. It was very dark and a little shocking to look at. Billie's drawing was a little bit crude, but I thought maybe this was deliberate, given the type of image she'd chosen. It made it almost impossible to see the scar, which they all told me was a good thing. Billie promised that next time I came to the shop she'd add some colour.

I only remember little flashes of things that happened later, just constant sex, it seemed. By the next morning I was sore around my pussy, my tongue was chafed and my throat was so rough that I couldn't speak, but my backside was the worst of all.

Miss Talia woke me and told me that I'd been a good girl for Billie, Delaney and Franka, and that they'd all given her a lot of money because they'd liked me. I was happy that I'd pleased her but I could only croak my replies. “I feel very sore, Miss Talia,” I said. “And my head aches and I feel sick.”

“I'm not surprised,” she laughed. “You drank too much and you smoked more than forty cigarettes. If you were a human you'd be vomiting.” She pulled me up and made me look in the mirror. I saw myself, bald, face still made-up, but the make-up was smudged and smeared. The right side of my scalp was covered with a geometric tattoo which extended onto my temple and my cheek in front of my ear. I wanted to cry. I hated that I looked like this.

“Wash your face,” Miss Talia demanded. “You shouldn't go to bed with make-up on, it'll make your skin bad. You'll be staying bald for a while but you can leave it for a few days until the tattoo settles. Once you've washed you need to see to Petra. She's your responsibility now.”

Miss Talia took me down to the basement to make sure I knew everything I had to do each day. Petra looked up at me and started to make a strange noise, which Miss Talia explained was her laugh.

“Yes, Ada's bald now, like you. Doesn't she look silly, Petra?” She eased the mask from Petra's face.

“Aa-oo, aa-oo,” she laughed.

“Yes, tattoos,” Miss Talia smiled. “Her new friends thought they would make her look more slutty, which they liked. Of course, now she'll have to get more. It wouldn't do to stop with just two tattoos, would it Petra?”

“Morrr aa-oo, morrr aa-oo,” she crowed. I picked up the discarded mask and took a breath of smoke.

“No, Ada!” Miss Talia snapped. “You're not to breathe in Petra's smoke, it's bad for you. If you see to her and make her comfortable then you may have some cigarettes when we go back upstairs. But Petra's smoke is forbidden now.”

I set about my tasks without enthusiasm. I felt an intense nausea as I removed the huge butt plug from Petra's immense buttocks. I began shaving her head to distract myself. Every action seemed to trigger flashbacks to my own shaving: the scent of the lather, the rasp of the razor, the feeling of the freshly shaved scalp. I found myself saddened as I remembered the loss of my hair, but also slipping into arousal. I knew that something had been permanently altered in me by my experiences with Billie, Delaney and Franka. Their descriptions of me echoed in my mind: whore, slut, nasty, depraved. And something no one had said, but I knew to be true: addict.

I was barely able to function now without access to the drugs that made me feel so calm. The breath of smoke I'd hungrily sniffed from the mask had only served to intensify my needs. I looked at the smoke machine longingly and hated Miss Talia for denying me my needs, while feeling a subservience to her. I knew I had to complete my tasks well and then I'd be rewarded with some cigarettes, which seemed the most vital thing in the world.

Despite my malaise and urge to complete the tasks quickly, I did them to the best of my ability, reasoning that if I did then in future I may be allowed to see to Petra without supervision, which would allow me to partake of her smoke without Miss Talia's knowledge. I made sure she was perfectly shaved, changed the milk receptacles, cleaned her, re-plugged her.

“Don't you look pretty, Petra?” Miss Talia smiled. “Do you want to give her a kiss before she puts your mask on?”

Petra roared angrily. Her earlier amusement at my makeover had soured as she was deprived of her drugs and now she was demanding her mask to be replaced. Miss Talia tugged hard at her ear to remind her that she wasn't to behave so badly. “You'll have visitors tomorrow and you'll be losing more limbs if you keep up this behaviour!”

Petra gabbled fearfully and smiled horribly, exposing her gums, her lips wet with drool. It terrified to see her like this, especially since I imagined she was once like me, and I could become her twin if I offended Miss Talia. I was happy to cover her face with the gas mask, tightening the straps firmly to lock away her ruined face.

[lsds-blog]

Neomodern

ONE

The city was built in a valley around a wide river. The taxi crawled up a street of vertiginous steepness, the engine struggling to force the vehicle into motion. It passed through an area of grand nineteenth century public buildings, their oversized classical facades bearing testimony to the city's success, its grandeur. Half a mile further on and the architecture had changed, the buildings encrusted with idiosyncratic tiled patterns. Many of the apartment blocks were in a poor state of repair and there were some that were abandoned, dilapidated, a few that appeared close to collapse.

The buildings told a tale of a once grand city that had fallen into depression, but this decline too was a historic event. Now the city seemed to be waking from its descent, building work everywhere in evidence, both the restoration of old buildings and the construction of ambitious new projects.

Leigh took in the sights eagerly but not without anxiety. This would be her home for the next two years, a city (indeed a country) she'd visited only briefly three months prior. The strangeness of the architecture made her feel that she was starting anew; everyone, everything she knew hundreds of miles distant. She'd worked hard since her previous visit to improve her grasp of the language but she was far from confident that she would be able to communicate. Her confidence took a blow as the taxi driver started to question her about her destination; she was barely able to understand a word he said and only after numerous failures was she able to provide the necessary information.

Her humiliation increased on the next day. She enrolled at the university and by the afternoon was sitting in a lecture. At the end of the hour she wasn't sure that she'd fully understood a single sentence in its entirety. Nor was that her only struggle: there was much discussion of artists she'd never encountered, yet every other student seemed aware of their place in history, their importance, their weaknesses. She'd always been a good student, but her successes had been effortless. Now she was truly out of her depth, alone and going under.

Leigh's sense of alienation grew over the succeeding days. Her struggles with comprehension seemed intractable and her mood steadily deteriorated, largely for want of company. She looked at the other students forming into groups after each lecture with some envy. She longed to be included, to sit with friends in a bar. She desperately missed her friends back home.

Her first meeting with Ana was in the large barn of a building where Leigh had been assigned a workspace. She'd had to travel without any materials and had only been able to acquire a minimum of drawing equipment since her arrival. She was working on a drawing on a large sheet of paper pinned to the wall when she became aware of being watched. She glanced behind to see another girl (she recognised her from lectures) staring at the drawing. She smiled at the girl who seemed alarmingly intense. Her gaze didn't deviate from the drawing, nor was there any change in her features, which expressed only concentration.

“Do you like it?” Leigh asked after an uncomfortably long pause.

“No,” the girl replied dispassionately.

“No?” Leigh felt herself becoming embarrassed. She looked at her picture, a heavily worked graphite drawing of a still life based on a photograph.

“It's... timid. You have drawing skills but you're wasting them. This is futile, it says nothing.”

“I'm just starting it,” Leigh said apologetically. “It's a study. I'm not trying to say anything. It's to work on technique.” She spoke slowly, haltingly, her difficulties with language constraining her expression.

“Art needs to be passionate. It needs to provoke. It needs to be transgressive,” the girl replied. Leigh found herself transfixed by this stern critic. She had a charisma and Leigh found herself craving acceptance, despite the hurt she felt.

“I'm Leigh,” she said holding out a hand.

“Ana,” her interlocutor replied, returning the gesture, but still without smiling. She was tall, slim but broad shouldered, androgynous. She seemed to wear no make-up, her dark brown hair falling just past her shoulders, rather unkempt. She wasn't pretty in any conventional sense, but Leigh found herself attracted nonetheless.

“You're British, aren't you?” Leigh nodded. “You just arrived here?” Another nod. “Must be tough. A few of us are getting dinner at ten. You're welcome to join us.” Leigh accepted the offer with delight. “We'll meet by the door then. See you later, Leigh.”

Leigh hadn't yet come to terms with the late dining habits that were commonplace in Latin culture. By ten o'clock she was tired and ravenous and had long since come to a standstill on her drawing. She'd filled the time by reading an art history book to try to fill some of the gaps in her knowledge. She realised that her fellow students seemed to have a work ethic that had been absent among the students she'd known as an undergraduate. Half of the work spaces were still occupied even this deep into the night.

She went to wait at the door a few minutes before the appointed time. Shortly after ten Ana appeared in the company of another student, Maria. Ana informed her that the other students had left earlier so it would just be the three of them. They were soon relaxing with a glass of red wine in a cheap local restaurant.

Leigh gradually became aware that Ana and Maria were lovers, and to her surprise felt a sting of jealousy. She had, it's true, felt attraction to women in the past but had never acted on it. She thought of herself as straight, and her curiosity about women had never been expressed, not even to her most trusted confidantes. Despite their closeness and their displays of physical affection, Ana and Maria seemed devoted to art, which was all they wanted to discuss. Leigh was uncomfortable with their devotion, which made her interest seem insipid. They seemed astonished at her ignorance of art history, despite having a fine art degree from a well respected English university.

“The course focussed on practice rather than art history,” she said by way of justification.

“But how can an artist practice without an awareness of the history of her field? The professor here is very much centred on fostering a new respect for the ideas of modernism and how they can relate to art in the contemporary world.”

Professor Silva was a revered painter and teacher, and the reason why Leigh's teachers had encouraged her to take on this masters degree. She was part of a group of painters who had been working since the nineties in a severe style of abstraction. In recent years her paintings had started to become sought after by major museums, and a number of her pupils had established themselves as respected figures.

“Some people would say modernism failed, that it was swept away by more accessible styles, pop art and post modernism...” Leigh's thoughts were rebuffed by Ana.

“Making things that are easily assimilated isn't success. Lazy populists who are on the side of the forces of conservatism use their influence to promote a sterile, safe art, and to discredit those who challenge restrictive norms.”

Leigh nodded her agreement, although she was struggling to know if she was fully grasping Ana's ideas. The wine was inhibiting her comprehension more with each sip.

“That's right,” Maria joined. “We have to fight convention. The individualism promoted by the right can only be resisted by collective action.”

“We're working on a manifesto. The professor likes manifestos, and they were commonplace among early modernists: surrealism, dada, futurism. Vorticism in your home country. She wants to promote a return to artists who share values and support each other in the struggle. Maybe you'd like to contribute to the manifesto, Leigh.”

“Yes, I'd like that very much,” Leigh said, honoured to be invited into Ana's circle. Even as she said it she knew that she was risking humiliation, since Ana and Maria were much more knowledgeable than her.

The following morning Leigh's pleasure in having made some friends was tempered by the hangover from too much wine. She'd never been a big drinker and was now convinced red wine didn't agree with her. Nevertheless, she made her way to her lectures, where she was welcomed by Ana like an old friend. After interminable lectures and tutorials where there were intense discussions about things she could barely grasp she made her way to the workspace with Ana, who was keen to work on her latest painting.

The university had scheduled a weekly timetable of three days of class learning, interleaving two days where students were expected to work on their artistic practice (the workspaces were available for limited hours at weekends as well). Ana had expressed that she felt it was necessary to work on her painting every day, considering a day without working as a sort of secular sin. Keen to impress her new friend, Leigh decided she should adopt a similarly demanding working timetable, although she was sure she lacked Ana's stamina.

She was taken to view Ana's latest painting, a metre-wide canvas which bore rectangles of pearly greys arranged apparently haphazardly, though aligned to a rigid grid. The edges of each block had been softened by being sanded away to partially expose the underlying paint. The paint had been applied with obvious care, resulting in a very beautiful surface.

“I'm working within a sort of constructivism,” Ana explained. “The arrangement of the rectangles and their sizes are determined by number series. I apply these to colour charts too. Gradually I'll build up more saturated colours, although I like to limit the more strident elements. Hopefully the processes that generate the arrangements aren't too obvious.”

“I'm sure they're not,” Leigh said, unable to understand how such a complex arrangement had been arrived at. “Why do you sand back the paint?”

“I started to feel like the overlapping blocks gave an illusionistic space to the paintings, which wasn't my intention. This flattens the space because it shows that it's layered paint. It makes apparent the physicality of the materials. I like the surface it produces too.” Leigh nodded her approval but was somewhat taken aback by the austerity of the painting. She had to remind herself that it was unfinished, even though Ana had probably put in more hours work than she'd ever laboured over a single canvas. “Do you want to see what a finished picture looks like?” Ana displayed a photograph on her phone of a similar canvas where scuffed blocks of pale colour fused into a similar grey ground.

Leigh stared in silence, trying to think of something to say that wouldn't sound trite. She nodded and smiled. “They'd look good scaled up.”

“Yes, that's what I thought,” Ana said excitedly. “I'd love to work on something five or seven metres wide. But it's just not practical for me. I don't have anywhere else to work, let alone store something so big and it would break my heart if I had to destroy it.”

The workspaces were separated from each other by partition walls, allowing about ten feet between divisions. “There's an empty space next to mine. Maybe they would let us share a double space and take out the partition. That would give five metres or so of wall space. And you can always detach the canvas from the stretcher and store it rolled.”

“But where would you work?” Despite her question, Ana was already intrigued by the possibility.

“I can work happily on an easel, or on the partition boards at the sides of the space. I'm sure we'll be able to work around each other.”

The regime at the university was very liberal and the removal of the partition was agreed as long as Ana and Leigh removed it themselves and refitted it at the end of the year (the professor considered it essential for her students to learn practical skills as they would be expected to hang an exhibition of their work at the end of each term). The following day the girls, not without some difficulty, managed to remove the partition and move it to a storage area. The rest of the day was supposed to be spent painting but became instead a lesson for Leigh. Ana worked on her painting and described her processes in detail. It was a revelation: never before had she grasped the appeal of abstraction. Her work had always been intuitive, her pleasure in working arising from the manipulation of paint. Ana's methods were without spontaneity, every feature of the image being planned before paint touched canvas. By the evening, Leigh had a better grasp of how to structure an image, of colour theory, of modernist aesthetics. She knew that she had only a tentative first step toward being an artist, but a fire had been kindled. She had a desire to throw herself deeper into art. Ana was her inspiration and her mentor.

A month on and Leigh's confidence had blossomed. Her difficulties with language had diminished to the point where she could follow a lecture with only a few problems. She still struggled to follow group conversations but found her comprehension improving with the passing of each week. She'd begun painting in a new style, rich colours thickly applied. She was unsatisfied with the results, but her tutors praised her sensitivity in handling paint and her confidence in putting colours together. More importantly, Ana liked the direction her art was heading in and the girls had become close friends. They talked constantly about their work, using each other to discuss ideas.

There was still something that Leigh couldn't discuss: her attraction to Ana had only increased as their friendship had grown. She found Maria a little cold and although their relationship was cordial enough they didn't always find it easy to chat. In her heart, Leigh knew that she felt some resentment. She found herself dreaming of being together with Ana, much as she tried to fight these feelings. She wanted Ana to be happy and she could see that she was very much in love. Yet there was something inside that couldn't accept this situation.

Ana, with Professor Silva's encouragement, had continued to work toward a manifesto, and had gathered a small group of students with similar interests to contribute. They met at least once a week, an occasion which Leigh had started to dread, as the debates were often bad tempered. There were frequently discussions of philosophies about which she knew nothing and more often than not she sat in fearful silence, feeling intellectually inferior to the other participants. Ana and Maria could both be dogmatic, and didn't always agree. It was the only time Leigh had seen them argue and was surprised by how violently their tempers could flare, only for them to be reconciled with no rancour at the end of the meeting.

A manifesto had been drafted but underwent frequent changes. It was largely concerned with proclaiming an aesthetic to which its signatories should devote themselves, but there were social elements too. Ana was keen to reject the “demon of bourgeois good taste” as she phrased it and felt it was a necessity for this idea to be projected into all aspects of life. “Art must go beyond the plane of the painting,” it was decided, “and the enlightened individual should lead their life as a living work of art.” Maria had suggested gesamtkunstwerk, but Ana had a distaste for Wagner and (more particularly) his politics, and this phrase had been (after vitriolic debate) rejected.

The changes to the draft manifesto resulted in a fluid constitution of the group. There had been walk-outs and reconciliations. New members were recruited where Ana felt they could make useful contributions. At the latest meeting a fashion student, Sindi, had attended who seemed genuinely in accord with the aims of the group, but was critical of the standard of their appearance. “You say you want to go against bourgeois codes, but you mostly dress very conventionally. Shouldn't we address that? I'd like to work with you to design or customise clothes to make a statement. And I have a friend who owns a hair salon who has some very interesting ideas. She's done some great work for shows I've been involved with. I'd like to invite her to the next meeting.” Leigh found herself wondering if Sindi's friend was responsible for her rather brutal haircut: her head was cropped close on the left side with lines shaved to the scalp, the rest of the hair chopped into a very disorganised bob. It was very crudely executed, and it was a distinct possibility that Sindi had performed the cut herself. The idea of her friends being subjected to similar haircuts made her feel very nervous. But then, it was Leigh who had the most to lose, who had the longest hair in the group. She'd leave before subjecting her own tresses to such a treatment, she was sure.

The rest of the group appeared to have no such concerns and by the following week's meeting Ana was wearing a garment that she'd designed with Sindi. A band of white fabric had been stained and painted with variegated colours (the muted palette suggestive of Ana's hand) and stitched into a spiral which now formed a tube around Ana's torso, emphasising her boyish figure. The strip looped up over her left shoulder where it was crudely stitched to the tube and the end flapped loosely against her back. She wore tight black trousers and heavy, shapeless black leather shoes. Leigh was surprised to see Ana dressed like this since she had hardly seemed to manifest any interest in clothes in the time they'd been friends, generally wearing nondescript jeans and t-shirts. Sindi's influence on her friend made Leigh feel edgy.

It didn't surprise anyone that the stranger with the lavender hair was Sindi's hairdresser friend, who she introduced as Yulia. About decade older than Leigh and her friends, she spoke with an accent which Leigh found difficult to decipher, and which was definitely not of a native of the country. She was also extremely confident, to the point where Leigh found herself becoming irritated with this stranger's provocative statements. She seemed to be in a minority, however; most of her friends appeared to find Yulia intriguing as well as amusing. Her proposal to hold the next meeting at her salon, where she would demonstrate her ideas on design and aesthetics, was accepted. She excused herself and left before the meeting concluded, but gave Leigh a strange smile before exiting.

A week later and the group met at a bar prior to heading to Yulia's salon. The change of venue seemed to have discouraged some members and there were only six who attended; perhaps Leigh wasn't the only one who thought the prospect of being shorn was intimidating. For tonight her companions would be Ana, Maria, Sindi and two other friends from the course, Lara and Kat.

Once it was apparent that no one else was turning up the friends walked the short distance to Yulia's shop. They'd entered a district at the edge of the city centre, close to the docks, which had formerly been primarily industrial but where most of the premises were now abandoned. There'd been some tentative steps to regenerate the area and now a number of shops had opened. Yulia's salon was in a large factory building, the space seemingly far too large for a salon. Inside Leigh noted that the cavernous space was still dominated by some gargantuan machines which she guessed hadn't functioned for many years. Only the area at the front had been cleared of its industrial trappings and there were three vintage barber chairs, the same number of sinks and a mismatched collection of dryers which seemed no less archaic than the industrial machines. The salon appeared out of place, provisional, a temporary intrusion into the true function of the building.

Ana was delighted by the setting. She wandered, encouraged by Yulia, to see the cyclopean mechanisms which now seemed like relics of a lost culture. “There's so much room here. The skylights give a nice light too. It would make a very interesting exhibition space.” Yulia was enthusiastic about this idea and had already displayed paintings and photographs which friends had produced.

Once the tour had concluded the group sat in a circle in the salon area. Yulia, whose lavender hair had now faded but was augmented at the tips with a fresh indigo dye, asked for a volunteer for a demonstration of her ideas. She glanced around the group and let her eyes come to rest on Leigh, gazing at her intently as she played with a pair of scissors. Leigh shrank from her stare, turning her eyes down to avoid having to meet Yulia's eyes. “I think we should start with the leader. Ana, shall we make a bold statement now?”

Ana stood up, smiling and made her way to the middle chair. She was dressed in a strange grey canvas jacket, tightly tailored, which Leigh guessed was another suggestion of Sindi's. As she sat, Ana twisted a section of hair, betraying her nervousness of the imminent cut.

“I'd suggest that Sindi and I act between us as group stylists. You ladies have great artistic skills but it's clear that you need a little guidance when it comes to looking more contemporary.” Ana nodded and muttered her approval.

Sindi now joined Yulia to appraise what sort of look should be inflicted on Ana by the scissors with which the hairdresser constantly played. “I think she would suit short. She has a strong features, quite androgynous and we shouldn't try to hide that.”

“I agree. As soon as I saw Ana I imagined her with a very bold short back and sides.” Yulia drew a comb to pull the hair back at the sides. “Shall we get these ears exposed, Ana?” Her victim nodded and smiled, but Leigh could sense her unease.

A white sheet, marked by stains in a few spots, was pulled around Ana's neck and held in place with a clip at the shoulder. Without preamble Yulia took a huge set of clippers and turned them on. She lifted Ana's hair at the left side and ploughed the clippers up her cheek. Ana's mouth formed a round gape as her thick hair started to fall. Yulia buzzed away the tresses with rapid upward strokes of the clippers. It seemed to take only seconds to reduce Ana's long hair to a uniform pelt of about a centimetre length over her left ear. Now Ana was made to bow her head and the nape was being shorn to an identical length.

“I'll do the basic cut then colour it,” Yulia informed her. “After that I'll do the detailing and finish.”

“That's fine Yulia,” Ana gasped breathlessly, not that she was able to see; Yulia had turned the chair so that she faced her friends rather than the wall of plate glass mirrors. By now the back of her head was cropped to a masculine buzz and Yulia was moving into position to shear the right side. Five minutes after taking to the chair Ana's shoulder length hair had been ravaged to a utilitarian short back and sides.

The top, however, remained too long for Yulia's vision. Now the clippers were silenced and she set to work with her scissors. The blades were opened and slid against the section of hair which the comb had lifted. The edges were razor sharp and sliced through the hair to softly crop away the length.

If the top wasn't as cropped as the back and sides, it was still short. Yulia left some length through the front (the longest wisps were maybe ten centimetres) but took the top shorter. The sides and back were then cut to a weight line to expose the buzzed area. A full four centimetres separated the line from the top of ear, the lines at the back meeting in a wide peak. Yulia seemed content that her vision was progressing suitably and turned the chair to allow Ana to appraise her new image. She looked suitably shocked and then began to laugh, slightly embarrassedly.

“Oh God, that is a change. I've never had it short before. It'll take a bit of getting used to.”

Leigh was sure the cut was a mistake for Ana. Her strong features surely needed the softness of her longer hair. This stark style exposed her features cruelly, her strong jaw, her angular nose. It was far too masculine, Leigh felt. But... she felt turned on. More than she'd ever felt it before. This cut made Ana less attractive, there was something ugly, even, yet it made her irresistibly sexy.

Yulia mixed up a pale cream and applied it to a few wisps of hair through the front of Ana's scalp, neatly isolating each in a foil parcel. And now Ana was freed from the sheet that had wound around her and told she could relax for a while before Yulia could continue. She rose stiffly from the chair and approached the mirror, rubbing a hand up her nape, seemingly astonished by the new sensation. Having taken in her new cut she went to sit with Maria, excited by her girlfriends positive reaction to her transformation. “Yulia, will you do a makeover for Maria too?” she asked.

Yulia looked pensive. “I had ideas for her but it will take a long time. I wanted to perm her, you see. We'll be here all night. I've got the time if you have.”

Maria looked surprised, but if she was anxious she didn't show it. Her hair was longer than Ana's had been, fifteen or twenty centimetres past her shoulders, black, thick and falling in tight waves. She sat in the chair which Yulia pumped higher, since Maria was much shorter than Ana. Her hair was combed and divided into sections which were twisted and clipped. Starting at the back, Yulia isolated a small section and wound it about a long two-pronged wire pin in a figure eight. “We need to get it tight to the roots, Maria,” Yulia explained, “so it might feel a bit uncomfortable, but that's the only way to get the lift necessary.”

Maria stoically accepted the tugging on her hair as Yulia expertly wound the long hair onto the pins, pausing only to send a text on her phone. Ten minutes later another woman entered the shop and after greeting Yulia set to work on Maria. Now Yulia worked on the right side and the newcomer on the left as Maria's soft tresses were rapidly pulled into clenched knots. Her head looked tiny and numerous pins protruded. Ana seemed to find it all amusing. “You look like a Sputnik, Maria,” she laughed. “Maybe you should keep this look.”

Yulia laughed too, then quipped: “Not going to happen.” She mixed a white foamy mixture which released a noxious smell throughout the space (her assistant opened the door to provide ventilation, then said a farewell and departed). This was liberally applied to the constricted windings, and worked in with a brush. Soon no hair was visible, only the pins protruding from the stiff foam which engulfed Maria's scalp. A cap of a silvery material was gently placed over her head and fixed in place with a strap tied under her chin. Maria winced and adjusted to cap to relieve the pressure it exerted on a few of the pins. She was then escorted to a dryer with a huge hive-like dome of tarnished chrome which looked like a relic of the rocket age. The hood descended to cover her and there was a drone as the motor blew hot air.

“Your hair is very coarse so we need to leave you there for quite a while. I'll get your pretty girlfriend finished up while you wait.” Ana was taken to one of the sinks as Yulia pulled away the foils and shampooed her. “You look so much better with short hair,” Yulia told her as she scrubbed at Ana's shorn temples. “I'm never going to let you grow your hair again.”

“So it's your decision now, is it?” The playfulness was becoming flirtatious.

“For the time being, it should be. You've hardly shown me that your fashion instincts are as sound as your artistic judgement. Until you've been educated I think that it's best for you to let Sindi and I take charge of styling.”

Ana was uncharacteristically unsure of herself. “Maybe. I'll need a few days to think about it and see how I like my new look.”

“That's the nicely brought up, bourgeois little girl coming out in you, Ana. You know I'm right. All of your group would benefit from a good makeover, and you know we're the best people you know to style them.” She gripped the longer hair at the front of Ana's scalp with playful menace. “Aren't we?”

“Yes, you are, Yulia. We'll discuss it at the next meeting.”

Yulia snorted with frustration. “Always this discussion, never a decision. Finish your manifesto, be bold. Let those who agree sign it.” She looked around the others present. “Let's vote on that. Ana finishes her manifesto by next week and we approve and sign it at the next meeting.” There was unanimous (if reluctant on Leigh's part) agreement.

Once Ana was back in the chair, coiled in the stained sheet once more, Leigh could see that her crop was now adorned with some bold flashes of a yellowy blonde through the front. It added a touch of femininity, but it was scant concession given the severity of the cut.

Yulia blasted her hair dry and began to stroke at Ana's cheek. “You Mediterranean girls are very... hirsute. Look at this sideburn.” It was true that Ana had a noticeable area of fine dark hair extending down before her ears, almost extending as far as the angle of her jaw. Ana's face reddened; she was clearly self-conscious about this downy hair and didn't welcome attention being drawn to it. “Should I do something about it?” Ana nodded.

Using a set of smaller clippers Yulia shaved away the ends of the sideburns, and cleaned up the front edges into an even line. Rather than disguising the sideburns, this action made them more discernible, providing a hard contour. The rectangular sideburns still extended two thirds of the length of Ana's ears. Yulia turned the chair to let Ana see.

“Oh, no, no no! That's all wrong, it makes me look like a man,” Ana pleaded.

“That's just 'the demon of bourgeois good taste' speaking,” Yulia teased.

“Please, Yulia. I want to be unconventional but I can't live with these sideburns. I'd shave them off as soon as I got home.”

“OK, then we go with the more radical option. I can't have you ruining my work.” Yulia put away the clippers and took her scissors. She carefully put the tip to Ana's temple, and began to snip. The scissors slid across Ana's scalp, opening and closing, cropping the short hairs and inscribing a perfectly horizontal line of bare skin which passed about a centimetre over the top of Ana's ear. The line grew quickly, Yulia's face a picture of concentration. The incised groove passed behind her ear and high onto her nape, maintaining its linearity until it was almost to the mid point, where Yulia allowed it to turn downwards. When the line was mirrored on the opposing side a sharp V was formed in the upper centre of Ana's nape.

As Yulia changed tools she opened and closed her hand to ward off cramp. Now she had taken up a set of manual clippers and oiled them before setting them to Ana's scalp. Her hand pumped the handle as she pressed the blades up Ana's sideburn. Leigh watched hungrily, her inner turmoil growing again. She hated the sideburns that Yulia had fashioned, but now they were being shaved away completely. The clippers creaked as Yulia pumped at them and now she forced them high in front of Ana's ear. Gradually Leigh became aware that Yulia was shaving up to the line she'd scissored in. The sideburn was now reduced to dark fluff that drifted free from Ana and floated down to settle on the sheet. As Yulia lifted the clippers away, Leigh could see that Ana's scalp was completely exposed along the front of her temple. The blades cut so close that only a greyish shadow of hair remained; it wasn't even darker than the surrounding skin, in fact the opposite was true, since it had remained protected from the sun which had tanned Ana's face. The shorn skin looked pale and discoloured.

Leigh watched in silence as Ana's cropping continued. Yulia's intention was now clear: all of the scalp below the incised line was to be shorn to the skin. As the soft bristles were removed from Ana's nape Leigh could start to see how the finished style would look. If previously the cut had been severely masculine, this was far worse, utterly cruel, in fact. Few men had such brutal cuts and it seemed to suggest something institutional: military discipline or prison punishment. And yet for all her discomfort at her friend's transformation, Leigh was entranced, ecstatic. She wanted to be with Ana, or was it that she wanted to be in Ana's place? She fearfully imagined feeling her own hair being shorn by Yulia but had to censor her thoughts, afraid that she would push herself into a shameful loss of control.

Now that Yulia had ensured that the lower part of Ana's scalp had been thoroughly shorn Leigh expected that the clippers would be put aside. In fact, Yulia used them to attack the perimeter of the hard line where her hair now started. Yulia thrust the blades up into the hair but rolled her wrist so that the hair was faded rather than being shaved completely. Ana sat in wistful contemplation, the only one who hadn't seen how severely her cut had proceeded. Leigh pondered whether she had any idea that Yulia had shaved her so close, and how she would react when she was allowed to face the mirror. Once more, Leigh imagined herself being in Yulia's control, turning to see herself with this institutional style and breaking down in tears. In her fantasy Yulia became angry with her weakness, chastised her in front of the entire group. What was wrong with her? This fantasy of humiliation excited her. She felt her face reddening with shame as she tried to comprehend her feelings as she watched Ana being made uglier.

Yulia seemed to feel that a little more hair had to come off the top of Ana's style to provide balance now that the sides and back had been reduced to nothing. Once the trim was completed, Ana's head was anointed with a viscous, greenish mixture. Yulia brushed it onto the hair on top, working it to the roots of each section, then rubbing the same compound into the clippered back and sides with the tips of her gloved fingers. Taking a tiny brush, Ana's thick eyebrows were treated to the same dye as her hair. “We're nearly there,” Yulia smiled as she allowed Ana to rise from the chair, disentangling her from the sheet.

Ana went immediately to the mirror and gasped as she saw that the clippers had left nothing on her temples. “Yulia! Really?” she gasped. Her nose wrinkled as she rubbed the shaved nape, Leigh watching intensely to judge her friend's reaction. Ana giggled nervously. “It feels weird. Can I see the back?” She was given a smaller mirror that allowed her to view her nape. She wore an expression of astonishment for a few seconds before laughing again. “Well! That's going to get me noticed, isn't it?”

Ana went to Maria, still trapped under the dryer, to get her reaction. She appeared delighted by Yulia's work and her pleasure only increased as she touched the bared scalp. Evidently the sensation was to her liking.

After a pause for Yulia to get a coffee, Ana was deemed ready to be rinsed. She lay back in the sink, a smile fixed on her features. It seemed that Maria's reaction had convinced her that her makeover had been a very good thing and all of the doubts that Leigh thought she had apprehended had flown.

Once her hair had been rinsed the final colour was evident: a dark green, rather more subtle than Leigh had expected, but shot through with slices of a more vivid shade through the long fringe where the bleach had been applied.

Ana's style was finished back in the chair where the cutting had happened. A heavy styling product was worked into Ana's hair, which Yulia sculpted away from her face, a pompadour rising above her high forehead. Yulia experimented with variations on the form and settled on a version which had a deep parting on the left side. The brighter green slashes helped to emphasise the form.

Yulia wasn't quite finished. She took a razor blade from a paper wrap and gripped it between thumb and two finger. Now she used the edge to shave the part, the blade scraping softly as it sheared away the hair. She patiently formed a tapering part back across Ana's scalp, the front of the part opening to at least seven millimetres.

Ana's hair was fixed in place with a blast of the dryer. Yulia wasn't quite finished with the blade yet. She used it to shape Ana's rather wild (and now green) brows, contouring the outer section into sharp points. The inner parts were left thick and heavy, but given more precise, linear contours.

Ana was unrecognisable from the shaggy-haired student she'd been less than two hours previously. Leigh marvelled at her friend's metamorphosis. As Ana studied herself in the mirror there was no nervous laughter any more, only a look of pleasure, an acceptance that this was a necessary change, that she'd broken free of some inhibitions. She'd grown.

As she continued to stare in the mirror, Yulia planted an affectionate kiss on her bare nape. “Make-up next, Ana,” she said.

“Really?” Ana winced slightly. Leigh knew it was something that she resisted, but was nevertheless surprised. How could someone who accepted such a daring haircut be afraid of wearing make-up?

“Yes, really. It's part of the new image. You'll love it, I promise.” Ana's face softened at Yulia's reassurances. She had come to trust Yulia's judgement.

“First it's time we went to relieve Maria though. That head should be about cooked.”

A relieved Maria was allowed to rise and take her place at the sink, where the cap was removed and her head doused with cool, refreshing water. “Please get these clips out, Yulia. It feels like my scalp is splitting!”

Yulia had bad news. “I'm afraid I can't do that, baby. We've got a bit more to do before your hair is freed.” Maria's head was bathed with various liquids, then rinsed again after a necessary pause.

As Ana approached to comfort her lover she yelped with excitement. “Your hair... It's blonde!”

Maria looked surprised but Yulia was calm. “I used a perming formula which contained peroxide. It works as a perming agent as well as a bleach. It's not exactly blonde though, it's still quite gingery.”

“Yes, but it was black,” Maria said with some concern. Her self-consciousness increased as the rest of the group came closer to see her new hair colour. Leigh could see now for herself that it was indeed a ginger-blonde. For the olive skinned Maria this would be quite a radical change.

“That's not the finished colour, Maria,” Yulia cautioned. “Your hair needs to be dry before I can apply the dye. And that means another spell under the chrome dome.” Maria looked disheartened as she was once more installed within the furnace-like cupola. Her nose wrinkled as the heat increased and Leigh could only feel sympathy for her discomfort. At least she had Ana holding her hand as a consolation.

Once every last trace of moisture had been driven from her tightly wound hair, Maria's head was painted with a blood-red dye. Yulia dabbed the pigment over the top of each knot, and only the top, working it in firmly with a bristle brush. The dye was mixed so thickly that it would not flow away from where it was applied and Leigh soon saw that it would leave some of the bleached hair untouched.

The atmosphere had started to relax in the salon, in large part because Yulia had provided a bottle of vodka from which everybody had partaken of at least one drink. Ana seemed uncharacteristically happy (normally she was remarkable for her seriousness and intensity), so delighted was she with her new style. Her persistent touching of her head now progressed into a desire for her friends to feel how Yulia's work had left her scalp. Soon it was Leigh's turn to be instructed to rub her nape, which she did with some guilt. This was too intimate to be comfortable; whereas the others giggled innocently as they'd touched her shorn head, to Leigh this was something so stimulating that it should only occur in private. Ana's nape had become an erogenous zone.

Leigh moved her fingers up the shaved skin of Ana's nape with trepidation. She could feel a soft prickle of stubble which seemed to be set under the surface of the skin, yet when her fingertips moved downward the sensation was utterly different, smooth and silky, unspoilt by any trace of granularity. Leigh wanted to spend an eternity savouring the sensations but withdrew her hand after lingering for what seemed to her far too long, but in reality was the briefest touch of any of those who were allowed to caress Ana's head. She felt her face reddening as she mumbled an embarrassed compliment. Had she revealed too much to the onlookers? She looked around to assess their reactions but no one seemed to be paying heed to her actions.

With one exception: Yulia was staring at her, a slight smile marking her features, a knowing look. Leigh, looked away too hurriedly. Yulia's perspicacity made her uncomfortable.

Leigh was glad when attention turned once more to Maria. The dye had been in place long enough to do its work and was now rinsed away. Yulia seemed intent on drawing out Maria's suffering and insisted that a last spell under the dryer was necessary as the hair had to be be dried for cutting and finishing. Maria seemed close to tears as she was once more imprisoned.

Finally, Yulia was content that her hair was sufficiently dry and informed her relieved model that it was time to remove the pins. Yulia started at the bottom of Maria's nape and eased the pin loose. The hair hardly seemed to relax and when Yulia put some tension on it it retained the form of a tight zigzag. Leigh noted that Maria's hair was now dappled with alternating patterns of crimson and the bleached colour, which now appeared much blonder in contrast to the dark red. As Yulia released the freed strand it pinged back into place, spring-like. It seemed that Yulia had permed it extremely tightly.

Soon Maria's head was liberated from all of the pins. She groaned with relief as the tension her scalp had had to endure was ended. Her flowing dark waves were gone, however, and now her long hair was set in variegated springs which were coiled so closely that they appeared only a few inches long. Maria looked nervously at her reflection, her usual self-confidence undermined by the bizarre treatment her tresses had undergone. There was near silence in the room.

Yulia seemed unaware of Maria's discomfort and blithely continued her work. She started to ease each tress apart, the coils disassembling into soft frizz. As Yulia proceeded, Maria's hair metamorphosed from thin coils to a wildly voluminous nimbus, which grew with each unravelling. Maria's face was gradually lost with the mass of dappled afro curls. Yulia looked delighted with the results of the perm, though the onlookers seemed less sure that this makeover was flattering for Maria.

“We need to give this frizz some shape,” Yulia announced, taking her clippers. “I'll clear your fringe to begin and then you'll be able to see what I'm doing.” Unlike Ana's cut, Maria was facing the mirror, the group having gathered to watch Maria's final transformation. A semicircular section was isolated at the front of Maria's head, just above her forehead, and the hair immediately behind it was pinned back. Yulia turned on the clippers and attacked the soft curls which hung over Maria's face. They were shorn almost completely, just millimetres of bleached hair being spared thanks to the guard which covered the blades. Maria's eyes widened as she saw how radically her fringe had been cleared.

Yulia didn't pause; she removed the clips and pulled up a tress from immediately behind the clippered area. Flicking the guard from the blades, she used the clippers to reduce the hair to a fraction of its previous length. “I'll cut the top shorter,” she announced. “The hair will relax over time but cut shorter it'll still retain volume.” She dragged the strand forward so that the end lay high on Maria's forehead. “Plus it gives us the option of taking some forward and giving a wispy fringe.” More sections were lifted free from the mass of curls and truncated with the clippers. Each section was cut to a slightly different length and soon the top stood up in a wild profusion of frizzy curls. The mass of cut hair littering the floor was already remarkable.

Yulia seemed content that the top was now conforming to her vision and now regarded the lower sections. Maria's long hair had coiled so tightly that it now barely covered her shoulders. Using an afro comb, Yulia teased out the ends and brought the clippers to bring the unruly contours into discipline. Each touch of the blades made more of the springy curls jump free. Leigh was surprised to see that the clippers were sculpting the curls into a hard line at the level of Maria's chin. She stood to lose a lot of hair.

The frizzy bob gradually took shape. The clippers sheared away the hair with geometrical precision. The volume of the style seemed to dwarf Maria's features, yet gradually Leigh started to like how it looked, and the reduction of length seemed to suit the petite Maria. Yulia now clippered away the back, more length than ever being cut. The line angled up slightly toward the rear so that as Yulia worked the clippers into her nape, Maria's hairline would be exposed, though for now her nape was the last surviving area of long hair. Leigh was in a reverie as she stared at the fringe of long curls dangling below the block of the frizzy bob, so much so that she was unaware for a moment that she was being spoken to.

“Hey, you, English girl. Come help me here,” Yulia said. Leigh blushed as she realised that Yulia had been trying to get her attention for a little while. She obediently made her way forward. “I'm going to undercut the back a bit so I need you to hold up the hair.” She lifted the curls to expose an area of nape and a trembling Leigh cradled Maria's head, trapping the wiry curls. “You're such a good girl, my little English rose,” Yulia whispered, smiling. Leigh couldn't tell if she was being complimented or whether it was a sarcastic slur. She felt flustered and tried to put aside her distress and concentrate on not letting the curls spill from her hands.

Yulia once more covered the blades of the clippers with a number two guard. Maria was treated to a tightly buzzed nape, the blades nibbling away the last long curls and reducing the lower seven or eight centimetres of nape to a soft bristly pelt. Yulia let the buzzing clippers rest against Leigh's knuckles at the end of each upward stroke, lingering far longer than was necessary. Even when the whole nape was evenly shorn Leigh wasn't released.

“Keep hold,” Yulia instructed. The clippers were put aside and a razor blade was employed to shave Maria's neck. The whorls of hair which spun down Maria's neck were scraped free and a clean smooth neck was revealed, the harshness of the dry shave making the skin redden. Her natural hairline was shaved into a hard edged V. At last Leigh was allowed to release her grip and the curls fell into place, covering most of the buzzed area, but still revealing the V at the base. Maria smiled a trifle guiltily, clearly having been beguiled by the sensations and Leigh started to suspect that she wasn't the only one present who found all this haircutting to be erotic.

Leigh was about to step back and take her place in the circle of spectators but Yulia had further instructions. Leigh had to hold back the hair at the sides to allow Yulia to buzz away Maria's sideburns. They were stripped without a guard and then razored so that no trace remained, although this time Yulia was kind enough to smooth some conditioner over the stubble which lessened the blades chafing. The entire area in front of Maria's ear was shaved clean to a diagonal line rising to her temple. Before she released the hair Leigh found her fingers easing forward to feel the smooth skin; her action was compulsive, involuntary. She couldn't stop herself from feeling the newly bared scalp.

Now Yulia insisted that the clippered area at the front of Maria's head should be shaved to a neat edge and wielded the blade around the top of her forehead while Leigh continued to hold the profusion of curls back. Shaving away the soft hairs at the hairline gave a hard, unnatural look to the contour line.

Yulia smiled at her work then winked at Leigh. “Don't let go of her hair yet,” she instructed. The blade was now put to work on Maria's eyebrows, which were thick and dark. Leigh was enthralled as they were shaved to a curved arch, a fraction of their previous width. The change made Maria look simultaneously younger and more vulnerable, yet more knowing and sensual.

Nor did this transformation satisfy Yulia. Discarding the blade, she took a small set of clippers (the same ones she'd used on Ana's provisional sideburns) and set them to Maria's brows. Leigh couldn't suppress a gasp as she saw that Maria's brows were being formed into rows of regular square dots. The view of the mirror was occluded by Yulia's position and Maria couldn't see what was happening; she looked up pleadingly at Leigh, desperate to know what new metamorphosis had been forced on her. Leigh forced a sympathetic smile.

A few minutes later the brows were completed and an astonished Maria confronted her reflection. “Ooh, I look weird,” she whispered. Ana was at her side and kissed her.

“You look amazing, exotic, daring. And very sexy.” She demonstrated her sincerity with a long kiss. “You look like one of those princesses in Velázquez's paintings, the Infanta Maria Theresa.”

Maria's curls were liberally dusted with hairspray and after snipping the ends of a few errant curls at the base of the bob, Maria's style was deemed finished.

Before they were allowed out of the salon, Ana and Maria were both adorned with striking make-up. Maria's eyes were thickly outlined with kohl, reminiscent of the ancient Egyptian style. Her lids were painted with pearly green and peacock blue, her lips tinted with a dark matte red, the same shade as the red of her hair.

Ana's make-up was somewhat simpler: dark, shiny purplish lips, smoky eyeliner suffused with a dark green at the edges, heavy red blusher on her cheeks. The tomboyish Ana couldn't disguise her resentment as the cosmetics were applied but grudgingly admitted that Yulia had done a good job when she saw the completed look.

Leigh stared at her friends in disbelief: they'd both been transformed beyond recognition by Yulia, and they looked astounding as a couple. Ana in particular, despite the severity of her new haircut, was alluring to Leigh. She couldn't stop imagining being together with them, becoming Ana's lover. Nor could she shake off the feeling of cradling Maria's head in her hands, the sensation of her bared scalp. She saw Ana and Maria chatting together, knew that they were eager to be alone, and soon would be. She couldn't accept that she would be excluded; it broke her heart.

Despite the late hour, there were nearby cafés where drinks could be obtained and it was decided that the group would decamp for a nightcap. Only Yulia expressed reservations: she would have to tidy the shop and she was so tired that she might not have the energy to go for a drink after that. She said affectionate farewells to each of the group in turn, beginning with her models, and ending with Leigh. She embraced her for longer than any of the others, inhaling deeply as she held her. “Why don't you stay and help me tidy? I have something I want to show you.” Leigh felt it would be rude to say no and accepted. In truth she had been reluctant to have to watch Ana and Maria becoming more intimate in the café.

Tidying didn't take long: the bowls for dye were rinsed, towels and sheets placed in the wash, the floor brushed and mopped. “What did you want to show me?” Leigh asked. Yulia had been almost silent since the others had left, although she wore a smile constantly.

Now she took Leigh up a staircase to her apartment. It was large and beautifully furnished, a contrast to the undisguised industrial origins of the rest of the building. “It's beautiful,” Leigh smiled. “This is what you wanted to show me?”

“This is what I wanted to show you.” Leigh turned to see Yulia discarding her dress. Her athletic body was covered in dark tattoos. She took Leigh in her arms and held her close to her breasts. “I can smell your sex, my English rose. It's been driving me mad with desire.” She brushed Leigh's hair away from her face and pressed her fleshy lips to Leigh's mouth. “I want you so much, my Rose. Say you'll be mine, body and soul.”

Leigh's head swam from this unexpected turn of events. She looked into Yulia's dark, fiery eyes and saw with a new clarity how beautiful she was. “I'm yours,” she whispered.

TWO

Leigh had hardly slept. She gazed at the sleeping form of the woman who lay beside her, her back marked by numerous images, large and small, permanently inked into her skin. She'd been ambivalent about tattoos, and had always thought that an excess of tattoos was unattractive. Now she blushed as she remembered how the vision of a naked, tattooed Yulia had made her uncontrollably passionate.

Her thoughts were so disordered that she felt drunk, though the small amount of alcohol she'd earlier imbibed had long been cleared from her system. But now everything seemed to have changed, and Leigh was scarcely able to come to terms with how her life would be different from now on.

She recalled how passive she'd been as Yulia had stripped her, her knowing look as she peeled away Leigh's panties, which were stuck to her wet sex. Leigh had stood immobile, but her mind was seething. Yulia expressed a disapproval of the mat of hair which covered Leigh's mound, the lower section flattened to her skin with pungent secretions. Yulia seemed to encourage her apparent passivity, and her silence; when Leigh made to speak a finger was placed to her lips. Yulia had splashed cold water on her sex (the shock thrilled Leigh) then, to her horror, had attacked her fine curls with a razor blade.

The blade shaved at her skin, cleaning away every hair. The scratching sensation repulsed Leigh, but she was too afraid of being injured to resist. Gradually she started to come to terms with allowing Yulia to assault her in this way (and she did think of it as an assault) and started to pant as her arousal grew to a new peak. She wanted to share with Yulia how she was feeling but before a word had passed her lips a smiling Yulia signalled her to remain silent. The work of the blade seemed practised as Leigh's sex was rapidly denuded. By now Leigh was on the brink of climax, enchanted by the intimacy of Yulia's touch and the vision of her hairless pussy. Yulia playfully ordered her to contain herself, but Leigh sensed that there'd be consequences if she weakened.

As Yulia washed away the cut hairs which had stuck to Leigh's flesh she spoke. “You hold yourself until I say. Your pleasure will be enormous if you can be patient. And I don't want you to speak. You can nod or shake your head but that's all. There'll be plenty of time to speak later. You like me being strict, don't you?” A nod. “You're such a pretty girl, my Rose. Your big blue eyes are so clear and beautiful. And your long hair. So lovely.” Yulia gently swept Leigh's soft waves behind her ears to better see her features. “I love your pale skin. You've been going in the sun too much though. You should avoid the sun now, I want your face to look like porcelain.” She kissed her on the cheeks over and over, her lips brushing Leigh's skin with tender caresses. The compliments, the kisses made Leigh feel like she was floating.

Yulia was as patient as she was expert. Leigh's previous (male) lovers had seemed so clumsy in their foreplay, as though it were something to be endured before they rushed headlong to the fumbling penetration. With Yulia every touch mattered, and Leigh felt her body spiral upwards, weightlessly. Finally Yulia slid down her body and started to stimulate Leigh with her divine tongue. The younger woman knew that she couldn't hold out much longer, but Yulia, knowledgeable as ever, was aware of this. “When I reach out and touch your fingertips you may orgasm,” she instructed.

The release wasn't to be granted immediately. Yulia was more imaginative than Leigh could have believed and she was gasping for air by the time she felt Yulia's fingertips brush her own. For the first time in an hour she was able to relax and the effect stunned her. Her body was consumed by a fiery rushing, engulfing her completely. Her vision darkened as she was overcome by a bliss so intense that she felt like she would lose consciousness.

The promised time to talk hadn't materialised. Yulia seemed content that her efforts had had the desired effect on her lover and wanted nothing in return. Leigh could see that she was exhausted. The evening in the salon transforming Ana and Maria seemed a distant (if intense) memory for Leigh, but Yulia had devoted a lot of energy to their transformations. Still, Yulia looked delighted: her smile was warm, unlike the sphinx-like half-smile she so often wore. Leigh observed for the first time that Yulia had a gold tooth, an upper canine gleaming yellow against her white, even incisors. How had she not noticed it before? Perhaps it was indicative of the fear that Yulia had always inspired in her, and she recalled that she'd always tried to avoid eye-contact with her. Now she found herself devoted to this wonderful woman, although the reshaping of their relationship had occurred with scarcely more than a handful of words passed between them.

And so Yulia had rapidly fallen into a deep sleep, laying alongside her new lover who was so excited that every time she started to doze would find herself returning to wakefulness, still scarcely believing that the fearsome Yulia had singled her out as her chosen lover.

She found herself wilting with a strange pride as she recalled Yulia's speech, her delight at being characterised as her English Rose. She loved it when Yulia called her Rose, would willingly go by that name if it was what Yulia wanted. She shivered as she recalled Yulia's compliments, about her eyes, her skin, her hair.

That was the best compliment. Surely she'd be allowed to keep her beautiful tresses, not be shorn like poor Ana had been, although the memory of her friend's shearing made Leigh slide a finger over her hairless sex. But what if..?

Leigh breathlessly stroked her shaved mound as she imagined Yulia cutting her hair short, chopping away all the length with her shears. She recalled the scratchy sensation of the razor blade, started to imagine the same being done up the back of her head. She didn't know whether to cry or to be delighted. She was... confused. She withdrew her hand and closed her eyes. Too much, too fast. She needed to take some time to reflect.

When she opened her eyes again it was morning and Yulia was staring into her face, her dark eyes smiling. “Good morning, lover,” she whispered.

“Good morning, Yulia,” a blushing Leigh whispered.

They shared their first kiss of the day, and with it Leigh experienced a flash of electricity that convinced her that she would do anything for Yulia. Their conversation soon turned to the events of the previous night. Yulia was very direct in her questions, uncomfortably so at times. She explained her belief in truth: “Most people say that honesty is good in relationships, but they will put limits on that honesty. For instance, if I asked you if you were attracted to Ana, because you're a well brought up little English girl you'd say something like 'She's pretty, but I don't have any sexual feelings about her', because you'd worry that if you said anything different you might hurt me or make me jealous.” Leigh gave an uncomfortable smile, because Yulia was absolutely right. “But I'm very good at reading people. I watch everything. Not only will I notice when you look at other girls with lust, but I won't be hurt. In fact, I find it a turn on to hear what it is that turns you on. If you try to hide your feelings, that will make me angry. And if you lie I'll see right through you.”

“I'll try to be honest, but it's not always easy for me to speak about these things. I've always been very private.”

“Yes, and you're English. The English like to repress, everyone knows that. Let's start with Maria then, that should be easier. Tell me about how you get on with her and about what you felt of her makeover.”

“Maria... She's a friend but sometimes we find it hard to relate. We've never found it easy to chat, except when we talk about studying. She can be moody sometimes.”

Yulia nodded. “I've noticed that too. And do you think she's beautiful?”

“She was very pretty, yes.”

“Was?” Yulia laughed. “Did I ruin her looks?”

“I didn't mean that.” She checked herself as she realised how intently Yulia was observing her features. She believed her when she'd said that she would recognise any untruths. “I was a bit shocked at how weird you made her look.”

“You'd rather I'd just made her hair look pretty, a few touches of make-up.” Yulia wasn't asking, she was making a statement whose truth Leigh confirmed with a slight nod. “And yet... The weird Maria made you feel all churned up inside. Not pretty, but very sexy?”

Leigh nodded again and turned her face down to avoid Yulia's probing gaze. Yulia's finger lifted her chin so that their eyes met again. She looked at Leigh, tacit, expectant. What was she supposed to say?

“She looked so different: wild, daring. Her frizzy red curls, the buzzed fringe. And when you shaved off her sideburns...”

“Oh yes, that. I saw how you couldn't stop yourself from stroking her skin.”

“I didn't mean to, it was just... impulse.”

“I want you to be impulsive. Impulsiveness expresses the truth, not social conditioning. Everything you've learnt will have to be undone. Don't look so worried, baby. Is your life so wonderful that you can't bear to change? I promise you we'll have a lot of pleasure in our lives. Now, tell me about you and Ana.”

“She's my best friend here. She was the first person who made me feel welcome. She's very intelligent and imaginative. I really admire her.” Yulia had adopted her half-smile. She said nothing, but evidently expected Leigh to keep talking. The tension of the silence seemed unbearable and to break it Leigh continued. “I don't think she's pretty, she's got too strong features to be pretty, but she has a strength that I find beautiful.”

“What did you think of my work on her.”

Leigh's instinct was to be diplomatic, but she checked herself as she realised that Yulia would sniff out any insincerity. “I'm not sure I like her hair so short. It makes her look too mannish.”

Yulia waited patiently to see if the silence would draw more from Leigh. At last she spoke. “You're not sure. That's true. You've repressed for so long you can't trust your instincts any more. Ana isn't pretty in the conventional sense, but I won't encourage her to try to soften her beauty to conform to some silly feminine stereotype. She is androgynous and she shouldn't hide that. When I revealed her beauty it made you uncomfortable at a conscious level, but how did you feel emotionally? The feelings you can't control, what happened there?”

Leigh felt herself growing embarrassed. “I felt myself getting excited.” A long pause. “I kept imagining how Ana felt when she was in the chair. I even imagined myself in her place.”

Yulia feigned a look of surprise. “That must have made you feel... fear? Disgust, even?”

Leigh looked away, trembling. “You know it made me feel very turned on, but I was scared too,” she confessed gloomily. “I don't understand my feelings.” Suddenly Yulia was on top of her, supporting her weight on her knees, straddling Leigh's body.

“And are you getting confused again now? Scared and turned on at the same time?” Leigh nodded. More silence. More to confess.

“I... wasn't sure about you when you first appeared at the meetings. You seemed too confident. You seemed out of place but that didn't phase you. I was irritated at how opinionated you were, and more irritated because everyone else liked how you behaved. I felt uncomfortable at how you gave me strange looks.”

Yulia laughed. “Strange looks? That was pure lust! Don't you recognise the look of desire? I'm a predator, Rosie, I thought I was being very transparent about that. You have been sheltered.”

“Well, you've captured me now. Are you going to eat me?”

“What, again? I seem to remember I did that last night. You're very demanding, Rosie.”

“That's not what I meant,” Leigh giggled. “Although...”

“Maybe tonight. These things can't be rushed.” She took hold of Leigh's wrists, trapping them above her head, then leaned forward to kiss her. “Are you still unsure about me?”

Leigh was still smiling from the kiss. “I suppose I am. Last night was like a dream but I still don't know anything about you. I don't even know where you come from, how old you are.”

“Russia, thirty-four. Now you know everything you need.”

Leigh laughed. “I still find you... intimidating. I'm twelve years younger than you and you seem so much more confident, worldly.”

“I don't mind that you find me intimidating. I want you to be happy but I'm very dominant.”

Leigh's smile faded. “Does than mean you'll tie me up and torture me?” She wasn't joking any more, nor did it seem she was anything but scared by the prospect of bondage and sadism.

“Not necessarily. I'm sure we'll experiment with a little light bondage at some point, but what interests me is control. Would you like it if I had more control and you had less?”

“I don't know,” Leigh whispered. “What sort of things would you control?”

“Little things and big things. Last night I decided when you could orgasm. Today I'll decide how you dress.”

“And if I don't like your choices?”

“You don't have to like them, in fact some you clearly won't. You'll accept them anyway. I like obedient girls. Some dominants like disobedience, they like to punish naughty subs. I chose you because I think you'll be obedient. Tell me I wasn't wrong.”

“No, you weren't. I've always been a good girl.”

“You were very good last night. You get top marks for your behaviour. And can you get used to submitting to me? Giving up control?”

“I don't know but I think so, Yulia.”

The happy smile again, the one that showed the gold tooth. “We're going to be so happy together, Rose. Do you like being called Rose?”

Leigh nodded happily. “I love it when you call me that.”

“You see, that's a good sign! You've been Leigh all of your life, your name is such a big part of your identity. But now you're relinquishing control over your identity.”

“It's just a pet name,” Leigh smiled, sure that Yulia was making too much of it.

“I want you to tell your friends and your teachers that you're to be called Rose now. From today no one calls you Leigh.”

Leigh tried to imagine how she would explain the change of name, but could come up with no plan that didn't seem absurd. “But how can I ask that?” she protested.

“You said you'd be obedient!” Yulia said, calmly yet firmly. “The first thing I ask and you try to wheedle your way out. You'll do this, Rose!”

Leigh (or was it Rose now?) blushed, nodded. Should she be honest with her friends? Tell them she was Yulia's girlfriend, that she had suggested the new name? That seemed premature, to say the least, given that their relationship was not even twelve hours old yet.

“You're shy, aren't you? This will embarrass you, and I know how the English dislike embarrassing themselves. But I think you're a bit different. I sense that humiliation is hard for you but it turns you on. Don't look away when I'm talking, Rose. When you get all tongue-tied at the questions your friends ask about your new name think about how it'll be when you come here tonight and tell me about it. And if you've done as I say I'll reward you for humiliating yourself. Doesn't that make it worthwhile?”

“Yes, Yulia,” Rose sighed. Her body seemed to physically recall the pleasures of the previous night and she longed to relive those ecstasies.

“I do like to inflict humiliation. I sense that you'll learn to love suffering those little embarrassments that I choose.” Rose was starting to wonder what she'd got herself into. “Like, when I cut your hair it'll be in front of all your friends.”

“You're going to cut my hair?” Suddenly Rose's voice was strident, desperate.

“Of course! That's what I do, I cut hair.”

“But you said I had lovely hair.”

“You do. But so did Maria. I prefer hair in a less natural state, and I like to control, remember?”

“Please, not my hair...” Rose was feeling nauseated, panicky, all the more so because Yulia still had her trapped on the bed. As she protested, Yulia tightened her grip.

“But I want to. And despite your protests, I know you want it too. Maybe a nice crop to match Ana's. Shaved back and sides with the top dyed a bright pink to show that you're my Rose now. Does that sound nice?”

“No, no, no,” Rose groaned, close to tears.

Yulia pushed Rose's wrists together so that she could hold them both in her powerful left hand. She reached behind herself with her right hand. “Mouth says 'No', let's see what pussy says.” Her fingers slid along the top of Rose's thigh until they located her pubis. “Oh, it is wet. Let's see what happens if I talk more about cutting your hair.” She started to delicately stroke her finger over Rose's pink lips.

“I could start by clippering away your sideburns. Maybe you'd enjoy me using the manual clippers on your long hair. I saw how fascinated you were watching me use them. You liked how close they cut, didn't you?”

“Please don't cut it short,” Rose whimpered.

“Would you rather I shaved you?” Now Yulia stroked her fingers over the expanse of smooth skin where the previous night she'd shaved away the soft curls. “I think a bald girlfriend would look very alluring. I bet Ana would think it was a look that was entirely fitting for the sort of woman she envisages in her manifesto. A shiny bald head to impress Ana. Very modernist.”

“No,” Rose said weakly.

“I'm sorry, baby. I bet these awful ideas of mine are a real turn off for you. The talk of shaving you bald must be making you dry, I guess. Let me feel.” Her finger ran up and down Rose's slit, then started to enter her slippery slit. “Oh, no, it's wetter than ever,” Yulia chuckled. Now she pressed the finger in deeply, forcefully. “Oh, that feels so good, Rose. You know, you taste wonderful too?” She pushed her finger in and out three times before withdrawing it and rubbing the moisture over Rose's mouth. Her tongue flickered out to taste her own secretions. Now Yulia lowered herself and began to kiss Rose with a passion which bordered on violence. Rose's fear and misery was obliterated in an instant and she felt a dark heaviness weigh on her which paradoxically induced a weightlessness. Yulia was, it appeared, a sorceress with occult arts with which to seduce her prey. By the time Yulia released her from her strict embrace, Rose was panting, delirious.

“That's why you have to obey me, darling. You see how good I am when you obey me? Next week some time we'll invite all your friends to the salon and give you a good haircut. And don't sulk! I won't shave you bald, that was just teasing.”

“Please leave it long. Please Yulia!” Rose begged.

Yulia looked at her with undisguised amusement. “By next week you'll have signed the manifesto that says you agree with Ana's theories about how you should behave in the new modern world. I'll make sure I get a few more of your friends in the chair before then and really go to town on them. How do you think they'll react when I suggest that you, my girlfriend, should keep hers long when they've had to endure almost being shaved?” Rose looked at her sulkily. “Answer me, please, darling.”

“They won't be happy.”

“Peer pressure can be hard to resist. Or is your worry that you'll disgrace yourself when you feel the clippers shearing away your tresses? You will find it hard to control yourself, won't you? You'll have to sit and face your friends, turned away from the mirror, like Ana. And you'll have me caressing the freshly shaved scalp. I know all the most sensitive spots, Rose. Do you think you have enough self control to stop yourself from orgasming? Or from crying? Maybe you'll do both, start sobbing, then have a noisy climax. That would be embarrassing.”

“Can't you cut my hair in private?” Rose asked, her voice quiet and beseeching. Suddenly public humiliation seemed far worse than losing most of her hair. “You can do as you please if I don't have to face everyone while you cut it.”

“Awww, you're trying to negotiate. That's so sweet, so innocent. But you know I want you to face your friends, and I can do as I please, and I will get what I want. You see, you're trapped really. Even if you decide that you want to end our relationship Ana will still insist that you see me for a cut. And if you refuse you'll be excluded from the group and you'll be back to having no friends.” Yulia gave a look of hurt, mirroring Rose's reaction. “Are you shocked that I could be so manipulative? I'm a realist, Rose. But you don't have to worry about my honesty. And I like you very much. That's the truth.” She put her lips to Rose's with the greatest delicacy.

Rose's head was swimming with the emotional extremes that Yulia was able to induce in her. All the fear of what would become of her seemed to be swept away by Yulia's tenderness and suddenly Rose felt safe in her arms. “Much as I'd like to spend the day in bed, I have to work. I'd better get you ready for your day so go and take a shower, Rose.” The state of bliss was temporarily ended.

After showering, Rose was invited to sit for Yulia to have her hair styled. Yulia made a central part from forehead to nape and pulled her wet hair into impossibly tight French braids. The long plaits which hung down Rose's back were now pinned into elaborate loops at her nape. Rose patted the tensely braided hair as she looked in the mirror. “It's pulling a bit,” she winced. “It looks beautiful but I think it'll give me a headache. It always did when I had braids.”

“Take a pill,” Yulia said, unconcerned. “You look beautiful and if you have to suffer for that then so be it. Once I crop you that won't be a problem any more, will it, darling?” Rose pouted as she thought that this was another ploy to encourage her to allow her hair to be cut off. Would she have to wear her locks braided painfully tightly until they were cut too short to allow a braid?

As Rose pondered, Yulia applied her make-up. The finished look was rather excessive (in Rose's view) for day wear, or for evening come to that. Her brows were darkened and thickened into a regular form, her eyelids smudgily outlined with a dark liner and highlighted with sparkles of gold. Her lips were deep red, shiny and liquid, and her cheeks glowed with an artificial magenta blush in contrast to the heavy, pale foundation. Expert as Yulia's work was, Rose felt that it was more appropriate for the catwalk than an art studio, which was where she planned to spend her day. However, the look was undeniably glamorous, and Rose's delight grew like a burning ember as Yulia showered her with compliments and kisses (the latter only on her neck so as to avoid damaging her work).

Yulia had a huge wardrobe and looked for an outfit for Rose. They were similar in height, although Yulia was broader hipped and rather more voluptuous. Nevertheless, Rose was soon dressed in a pair of smart black trousers kept in place with a wide leather belt. A simple linen blouse was chosen and Yulia added a red tie to complete an outfit which gave an androgynous look to Rose.

The younger woman smiled self-consciously at her reflection. Yulia had styled her beautifully, but she had to face her friends like this, and explain why her look had changed overnight. “It's too smart, really,” Rose said. “I'm going to be painting today and I don't want to ruin these lovely clothes.”

“Then be careful. You're not Jackson Pollock, splashing paint around with a stick. Mondrian used to wear a suit while he painted. Ana told me you should learn to be more deliberate in your work so this will help. If you get paint on the clothes I'll devise some punishments, some nasty little humiliations for you to endure. Or enjoy,” she added as a sly afterthought.

The two lovers made their way down to the salon where farewells were said, but Yulia was suddenly overtaken by a gleeful idea. “You have such pretty little ears, Rose. You should ornament them more to draw attention to them now that they're not hidden under your hair.” Rose's ears were currently adorned by no more than a pair of small gold studs in the lobes.

“More piercings? Maybe. I'll think about it,” Rose agreed. It appeared she'd misunderstood Yulia's intention.

“No, I will do it now. Take a seat.” Rose looked at her like she was crazy. “Rose, don't disobey!” she chided good-naturedly. “I'm a qualified piercer, a couple of ear piercings are nothing. It'll only take ten minutes or so.” Rose took her place in the chair and felt a towel wrap around her shoulders.

Once the necessary hygiene measures had been fulfilled Rose was subjected to a mild sting in each lobe. The fitting of a second pair of studs hurt a little more than the actual piercing, but Rose wasn't too perturbed by the suffering. However, she realised that the two extra earrings hadn't sated Yulia's desire. Another needle was procured and now Yulia added more holes to Rose's right ear. As the fine point slid through the cartilage high on Rose's right ear she gasped at the pang, far more intense than the piercing of her lobes. Yulia repeated the process and soon two thick gold rings hung from the top of her ear.

“Just one more,” Yulia muttered. If she was aroused, then she was concealing it well. Rose observed that Yulia's concentration was total when she was working, as it had been the previous night when she had transformed Ana and Maria. The memory of last night suddenly became alive and Rose was filled with a desire to see her friends once more, their new images hardly fixed in Rose's memory. Suddenly she was wrenched back to the present as a needle burrowed through her tragus, the swelling of cartilage between the opening of her ear and her cheek. This was the most insistent pain she'd had to endure and there was no diminution as the hole was filled by jewellery. Rose saw that her reflected self now wore a tiny ring in her tragus.

As Rose made her way to the university her right ear throbbed and was so hot that if felt like a burning. She delicately reached up to feel her ear, shocked to feel the new rings dangling from the rim. Yulia's detachment had dissolved as soon as she had completed Rose's piercings, but she hadn't given in to her impulses, promising that the pleasure would be enhanced for both of them if they waited till evening to express their longings. Away from Yulia's goading Rose felt herself becoming timid. How would she ever explain her dramatic change of style? She was already aware that her masculine dress and heavy make-up was drawing looks from passers-by. And then there was the matter of her change of name. She stopped off at a pharmacy. At least she could gain some relief from the aching of her ear and the pull of her tightly braided hair. She washed the pills down with a swig of water, wishing that the tablets could provide some oblivion for her, or else greater fortitude. She longed to be back in Yulia's strong arms.

Half a day later and that wish was satisfied. Yulia took an exhausted Rose to her sofa and embraced her. Rose was aware that she was being studied closely. “Did you keep the paint off yourself?”

“No paint, but I did get some charcoal dust on my sleeve.” She lifted her arm to show the grey discolouration.” Yulia wasn't upset.

“That'll wash out. I suppose some dirt's inevitable in a shared space. And how did Ana and Maria look today?”

Rose smiled uncomfortably. “Ana's back to hardly any make-up. She looks really fierce now. I couldn't stop myself stealing glances when she was working.”

Yulia giggled indulgently. “She is a cutie. And Maria?”

“Her bob's looking a lot softer. It's lost some of its shape already. If anything though it got bigger.” Yulia nodded as if this had been part of her plan. “Ana worked most of the day on her manifesto. She wants us to sign it now.”

“Yes, she called me. Anyone who signs it has to have a consultation with Sindi and an appointment with me. I made sure that Ana agreed to that. I do want to have my fun with you arty girls. Did she decide on a title for the manifesto?”

“Yes. The Somist manifesto. But she won't explain the origin of the title in the document, that will be our secret. I'm not sure I should tell you what it means, since you haven't signed yet,” she said mischievously.

“But you haven't signed either!”

“No, but I'm one of the elite founders, and I'm entrusted with special knowledge. You wouldn't want me to betray Ana, would you?” Rose said with mock seriousness.

“Soma means body, so it's something to do with that, I suppose.”

“Not even close!” Rose giggled.

“I'm going to have to make you tell me.” Yulia started to kiss Rose's neck, starting very delicately but soon becoming less inhibited. “Are you going to tell me now, darling?” Rose refused to talk, the silence ruptured only by her delirious panting.

“Maybe I have to play rough.” Rose squealed as she felt her earlobe being gathered in Yulia's lips, then felt the newly added stud being trapped in her teeth and pulled.

“Ah, that hurts!”

“That was the intention. Talk or I'll start on the cartilage piercings.” Rose tried to twist away but Yulia had made sure her grip was firm. Her mouth gathered in the top of Rose's ear and she tugged on the coiled plait to make sure that her intentions were clear.

“OK, you win!” Rose conceded. “I yield. The name comes from the Sisters of Maldoror. But no one is allowed to know. Ana wants some mystery, she thinks that will help to publicise the movement.”

“Maldoror?” Yulia looked intrigued.

“Yes, he's a character in some surrealist novel...”

Yulia sighed. “I know, I've read Lautréamont. He predates surrealism by about sixty years though. Haven't you read it?”

Rose looked abashed as she admitted that she'd only heard excerpts read by Ana.

“He's not a very nice man. And a strange choice for a feminist art group. He's extremely misogynistic. To be fair, he doesn't hate women any more than he hates everyone and everything else. Although he does have admiration for a huge female shark. She becomes his lover.”

Rose looked astonished at Yulia's statement, not sure whether she was making some joke whose function she couldn't understand. “Ana thinks he stands as an example of someone prepared to go beyond societal norms.”

“Great, so now we're expected to have fish for girlfriends?”

“I hope not. I've just got a new one and she's great.”

Yulia rewarded the compliment with a smouldering kiss on Rose's lips. “Did you tell them about your name change?” Rose couldn't suppress a blush.

“Yes, and I had to tell Ana the truth, although she'd already guessed. As soon as I appeared she started interrogating me on why I was dressed like this, why I hadn't arrived at the café last night. I admitted I was with you. You don't mind, do you?”

Yulia laughed. “You think I'm ashamed to have you as my girlfriend? No, baby, it's fine. I'm very happy that we're together and I want everyone to know.”

“So I'm Rose now. Not sure how I'll explain it to my parents when I go home though.”

Yulia laughed. “That'll be the least of your worries.” Rose looked at her, puzzled. “I imagine they'll be more concerned about your hair, your piercings, your tattoos.”

Rose shuddered, her head making an involuntary twitch, shaking in a gesture of refusal. “I... don't want tattoos,” she croaked. The idea that Yulia wanted her marked shocked Rose. It was bad enough that she would lose her hair, her beautiful hair that would take so long to grow again that she doubted she would ever have the patience to have it this long again. But a tattoo was forever. And she still felt that she didn't truly like tattoos, even on Yulia.

“I saw how you looked at me when you saw my tattoos. You looked shocked but you wanted me all the more, didn't you?” Rose thought about it for a few seconds before nodding. Yulia was correct.

“But you keep yours covered. I had no idea you had so many tattoos. It's as if you don't want them to be seen.”

Yulia shrugged. “I started these tattoos a long time ago and I suppose my tastes have changed. Meeting Ana has made me question my values too. It's very easy just to get caught up with fashion, and sometimes you have to make a stand. Decide what's important and fight against the flow.”

“So you don't like your tattoos?” Rose traced a finger over a thickly outlined flower on Yulia's upper arm. She imagined how awful it would be to be covered in images which no longer appealed, to be trapped in a skin which repelled.

Yulia looked wistful. “I suppose I don't like some of them. I got my first tattoo when I was much younger than you. I got it in prison. Does that shock you, Rose, that I've been a thief?”

Rose didn't want to judge Yulia, but as she started to speak she remembered her promise to be truthful. She checked her speech and thought for a moment. “Yes, it does Yulia. Please tell me about what happened.”

Yulia frowned. “My early years were very unhappy. I came from a very poor town in the south of Russia. My father died when I was young and when I was twelve my mother remarried. My stepfather was an awful man, a drunk and a bully. When I was fourteen I couldn't bear to be under the same roof for another day so I ran away.

“I went to Ukraine, to Kiev. I thought it would be nice to be in a big city but it was an awful place, lawless and violent. I had to live rough most of the time. I used to drink anything I could get hold of to make the days pass quicker. I managed to make my way for a few years but when I was sixteen I got arrested for stealing some money from a drunk. I had no papers and they prosecuted me as an adult. The police said I was eighteen. I got six months in prison.” Yulia indicated a faded tattoo of the virgin Mary on her left breast. “This was my first tattoo. I was more or less forced to agree to it by some of the more powerful women. They offered me protection, but all they wanted to do was use me and exploit me. They tattooed me to show everyone that I was weak.

“I was lucky though. The prisons were overcrowded and I was released early. But now I was homeless again and a criminal. A lot of people where I lived hated anyone who'd been in prison. I suppose it's the same everywhere but in Russia and Ukraine there's a real hatred. I thought my life was over but then I met a very special woman.

“Her name was Ruth. She was Jewish and much older than me. She must be almost sixty now,” Yulia said with a look of dreamy astonishment. “She took me from the streets and offered me a place in her home.

“I didn't know what was going on when I got there. Ruth was rich. I'd never seen luxury like her home. I was a ragged, dirty street girl and suddenly I was being offered a place in a mansion. I was very suspicious of her, as you can imagine. I had a lot of trust issues after what I'd been through.

“Ruth was very dominant. She explained to me that she liked me but that she wouldn't force herself on me sexually. However, she did insist on strict discipline if I was going to live in her home.

“On the first night in her home she shaved my head. I'd had beautiful long hair when I was a girl but it had been cut very short when I was arrested because I had lice. It still wasn't long but Ruth insisted; I thought it was because I had lice again. I can still remember vividly, sitting in her bathroom with beautiful marble walls and floor, gilt framed, bevelled glass mirrors, gold plated fittings. I stared at my image in the mirror, something I hadn't done for a long time. I looked so thin and ill, dirty, old before my time. Ruth clippered my hair off in minutes. It wasn't like the cropping I'd got at the police station, she took it to the scalp. I was in shock, but I didn't show any emotion until she lathered my head and shaved it smooth. Suddenly I felt like something had died, but it had died a long time ago and only now was I aware. The girl I saw in the mirror was unrecognisable. The little innocent girl I had been, with happiness and dreams for the future had been erased completely. Now all that was left was a husk, a skinny, bald addict.

“Ruth gave me no sympathy. I was dressed in a maid's outfit and made to work hard. I tried to rebel but she seemed to predict everything I would do. When I disobeyed she would drag me to the bathroom and my head would be shaved again. I'd have to go outside with my bare head on display and that made me so ashamed. Eventually I stopped fighting against her. I became her obedient servant.

“I'd been behaving for a few weeks when I asked to see her and told her that I would no longer fight her, that I'd come to realise that she'd saved me and that I would work hard for her from now on. I longed to be allowed to grow my hair long again but instead she rewarded me with another shave. Now she was different. She told me that she wanted me to accept being bald, that it made me pure and beautiful. I sobbed when she shaved me again, but now I had to accept that it was a ritual I'd endure each morning. I don't know if my acquiescence was sudden or gradual but every day Ruth shaved me and told me how pretty I looked and one day I believed her. I'd recovered my health and I no longer looked broken. I'd been reborn.

“And once I came to bend to Ruth's will a love grew between us. The more I abandoned my own will the more she gave to me. I was still her maid, I still had to work hard to keep the house clean, but now I shared her bed.

“For three years we were lovers and I did everything she asked of me. Gradually my domestic duties became more specialised. I cooked and I looked after her grooming. After a few months I was allowed to accompany her to social events. Sometimes we would go to the opera or to concerts. But there were private parties too where other dominants would go with their subs and slaves. It was a revelation to me. I was shocked at what went on there, but I immediately felt at home. This was the world I'd been born to live in.

“I loved Ruth intensely but gradually I came to realise that I wasn't submissive. I did everything she asked of me but gradually my mind filled with desires I wasn't allowed to experience. I saw things at the parties that I needed to experience for myself and I admitted how I felt to Ruth. I think she'd already understood what was happening. I'd been nothing when we met, an ignorant, cynical, angry little girl and she'd allowed me to find myself and grow into a woman.

“One day she sat me down and told me that she had to let me go. She loved me as much as I loved her but she could see my unfulfilled desires would harden into a resentment that she could not bear to see. I knew she was right but leaving was still the hardest thing I've ever done. She gave me a generous amount of money to help me and I used it to travel. I came to the west, Germany initially, and I was astonished to see how differently people lived. I found myself longing for warmer weather, and my journey took me south and west, which is how I landed here. Every place I stayed for more than a few weeks was celebrated by a new tattoo. That was my new addiction.

“Once I came to this city I felt a special bond. The climate seemed perfect for me, and being close to the sea was magical. I wanted to learn to tattoo but I don't have your drawing abilities. I thought it might be fun to try working in a hair salon (by now I'd let my hair grow a little, although for months after I left Ruth I'd stayed bald as a way of staying connected with her).

“The first time I did a major haircut on a model was an epiphany. I felt an intense joy and I knew this was something I could devote myself to entirely. My time with Ruth had taught me patience and discipline and I mastered the technical aspects of my craft through endless hours of study and practice. I got a job in a salon which specialised in modern styles and I loved working there. And in my personal life I explored the world of domination and submission. I met a lot of women through my work and there were always some who were willing to experiment.

“Two years ago I decided to go it alone. I got this salon and I've loved the freedom of being my own boss. I wanted to have a salon that had a very bold aesthetic and even though that limits our commercial options I make enough to live comfortably. But I'd become a little restless about the other aspects of my life. My tattoos were supposed to mark important moments in my life but now I look at them and, with a few exceptions, I can barely remember why I got them. I've been thinking about some big changes.

“My personal life had become a series of flings. The endless short term relationships had become meaningless. I'd found myself thinking a lot about Ruth and how close we were. I need that sort of closeness again and that's what I want from our relationship, Rose. I don't want you to be another girl that comes and goes and leaves barely a wrinkle in my memory. I want to fall in love again.”

Rose kissed her lover tenderly. “I want to fall in love too, Yulia. It makes me feel light headed to think that you've chosen me from all the women you could have.”

“I'll make you even more light headed when I give you your haircut, my little baby.” Rose shuddered at the suggestion, still horrified each time she was reminded of her impending makeover. She made to protest but Yulia stilled her speech with a finger on her lips. “I want you to learn to bend to my will as I did to Ruth's. Maybe three years of hairlessness would be beneficial for you as it was for me.” Rose looked at her desperately, suddenly keenly aware of the sacrifice Yulia had made for her older lover. Surely she could never accept such a humiliation.

“I... couldn't. I'm not as strong as you.”

“It's not about strength, Rose. I like the Taoist concepts of Yin and Yang. Sometimes we need to be active, strong, wilful, but for completeness we sometimes need to be passive, weak, yielding. You can yield to me, can't you, Rose?” She nodded. “I don't want to shave your head, baby, at least not yet. You're not ready for that. Maybe I should shave mine instead. Would you like a beautiful, bald headed Mistress, Rose?”

Rose groaned and caressed Yulia's brightly coloured tresses. “Really? I love your hair.”

Yulia cupped her hand over Rose's mound. “You didn't say anything to discourage me, though. Part of you would like to see me bald. I'm right aren't I?”

Rose looked surprised that Yulia would think this, but... The more she thought about it, the more she realised that the idea did fascinate her. She tried to visualise a bald Yulia. She would look very beautiful, Rose was certain. She looked into Yulia's eyes and nodded solemnly. She knew this tiny gesture had determined the future. This tiny encouragement was sufficient to ensure that Yulia would soon be shaved.

The following day Rose walked to the university with the front section of her hair twisted into perfectly executed cornrows, Yulia's gift to her on the previous night. The temples had been braided to a line rising behind her ears and the top was similarly coiffured to a line equally far back. Yulia had ensured that the process was uncomfortable for Rose who had had considerable difficulty maintaining her silence as her hair was tugged and knotted into the tight braids. Yulia had horrified her by finishing the cornrows by wafting a burning spill over Rose's head, to singe away the short stray hairs which protruded. She had embarrassed herself by wailing with some alarm as she smelt the singeing of her hair, fearing that her locks would be ruined. She was relieved to see that the braided hair seemed to have survived. Her mane was left free at the back, falling down her back in voluminous waves.

She expected that her friends would be intrigued by her latest style, but she was eclipsed by Lara's radical restyle. The previous day, Lara, a pretty, light-skinned black girl had had long, black hair, a profusion of wild, tight curls spilling over her shoulders. Now her head was cropped, the remaining hair merely stubble, only millimetres long. The hairline had been shaved into crisp, angular lines, with no hint of the softness of natural growth at forehead, temples or nape. The buzzed hair had been bleached too; it was almost white but tainted with a faint pink, except for a band about an inch wide which zigzagged from the left side of Lara's forehead, over her crown, ending at the right of her nape. This stripe was dyed an acidic yellow, the perimeters of this lemon strip made crisp by a shaved line, exposing a narrow line of bared scalp.

Lara's transformation was enhanced by bleached eyebrows, which were marginally paler than her skin. Her friends expressed their delight at her new image, and Rose joined in the compliments, largely from politeness: she was rather overwhelmed by how extreme Lara's new cut was. “Who did it for you?” Rose asked, feeling rather hurt to think Lara should have gone to someone other than Yulia. But Lara confirmed that it was Yulia who'd devised her new modernist buzz, early on the previous evening. Now Rose was even more astonished. Why had Yulia not mentioned her friend's makeover, which she'd performed only just before Rose had met with her the previous evening?

As the day went on, Rose couldn't stop looking at her friends who had been subjected to Yulia's creativity. They stood out vividly among the uniformity of the other students, daring and bold. Nor was Rose alone in giving attention; the group of strangely coiffed girls was drawing curiosity from everyone, students and staff alike.

At a morning break Ana gathered the group of friends. “Did you get a chance to read the finished manifesto?” she asked Rose, who nodded; she'd received an email copy of the document. “And you're ready to sign?”

“I'd love to,” Rose smiled, although she knew that her signature meant abandoning control of her image for the foreseeable future. In truth, she knew that her relationship with Yulia meant that she was no longer in control of her own destiny. The following week she'd submit her tresses to Yulia's dyes, scissors and clippers; the razor even. As she signed her name she tried to accept that it was only a haircut, but then she looked at the stranger that Ana had become since her brutalist barbering and knew that she couldn't accept what would be done to her with the stoicism that her colleagues seemed to exhibit.

Ana smiled with satisfaction. “I really feel like we're doing something significant. I think this makes a real connection with the founders of modernism, the Dadaists, the Futurists, the Vorticists. But we have to always guard against merely aping them. We're living in the twenty-first century, not the world of the Great War.”

“The politics of the Futurists and Vorticists is repellent anyway, and I find it hard to stomach much of their work because of that,” Rose ventured. She felt nervous voicing her opinions in front of the much more knowledgeable Ana, but it seemed that Ana was in agreement.

“The Futurists were mostly rather mediocre artists, although I adore Boccioni's sculpture. Severini and Balla were good painters but the rest were mostly second rate. And the Vorticists... Wyndham-Lewis is an odd figure but intriguing. I suppose it's mostly Pound that makes me interested in the movement.”

“Bomberg was very good too though. His later work changes into a very personal form of expressionism. I got to know one of his paintings in the local gallery in the city where I was born.” Ana looked intrigued and admitted she knew little of Bomberg's work. Rose felt a pride that for once she could help Ana to discover an artist. “He was important as a teacher too,” she added, glad of her long hours of study in recent weeks. “Auerbach and Kossoff were pupils of his and his style left a deep influence.”

Ana nodded. “It's good that you stand up for British artists,” she laughed. “They need all the support they can get.” Rose shrugged apologetically. She knew Ana thought that British artists had for the most part been too insular, had remained resistant to the currents of modernism that had dominated mainland Europe in the early years of the previous century, that they'd mostly remained timid and conservative. “And this new hairstyle, with the cornrows, is this a Vorticist inspired look?”

Rose patted her corded scalp, still unused to the tension that her hair was under. “Yulia... She likes to play with my hair.”

“It does look pretty. But I think you need to let her cut it.” Rose nodded, but despite her efforts to the contrary, couldn't hide her discomfort. “You have gorgeous hair so I know it'll be tough to do this, but you have such beautiful features that you'd suit a short style.”

“Thank you, Ana.” The compliments seemed to make Rose's feelings for Ana, which had been in retreat since she had become involved with Yulia, return with a new vigour. “I know it's just a haircut, but I'm really nervous. I know I won't take it as calmly as everyone else. I'll cry lots and make such a fool of myself.”

“We'll all be there for you, and if you cry we'll all cry with you.” Rose nodded and smiled, sniffling as she felt tears welling up already, moved by Ana's support, but it wasn't only the tears she would shed that were a potential source of embarrassment. She blushed as she thought that she might get too excited as Yulia sheared her, which would be considerably more difficult to explain than tears. “And don't think I was calm when she did this to me! I was anything but, Rose.” Ana rubbed her long, elegant fingers over her nape, which had now darkened with a blush of stubble. “Yulia's given us a slot next Tuesday evening and I suggested you get your makeover then. We can discuss it some more tonight, we're going to meet for dinner at ten. Yulia's getting her makeover today, isn't she? I can't wait to see what she's going to do. Did she give you any hints?”

“Oh, you know what she's like, she doesn't give a lot away. Just little hints,” Rose muttered, but she felt a turmoil. Yulia was getting a makeover today and was perhaps already bald. The idea perturbed Rose deeply. She'd done nothing to discourage Yulia from shaving her head but hadn't for a moment considered that she might act on this crazy idea so soon. Rose couldn't concentrate all day. She tried calling Yulia from her workspace but every call went straight to voicemail. She sent a text but received only a curt reply half an hour later: “Busy with a haircut, see you in restaurant at 10.”

Rose's worst fears (or deepest desires) were fulfilled as she entered the restaurant with Ana, Maria and Lara. Already waiting for them at the table, alongside with Sindi, was Yulia whose head gleamed under the spotlights of the restaurant. Her scalp was free of any trace of hair. She stood to greet her friends, playfully posturing like a model. “Hello, ladies. Notice anything different?” There were expressions of amazement from everyone. Yulia looked beautiful. Rose was too shocked to say anything, but she felt a bolt of erotic energy fill her body.

Yulia pulled her toward her and gathered her in an embrace, kissed her with tremendous warmth. “Have you got nothing to say, baby?”

“I'm really shocked, Yulia. Why didn't you tell me you were going to do this today?”

“I thought you might like surprises,” she grinned. “Besides, I don't need your permission to do anything. I thought we'd established that. Feel my scalp.”

Rose did as she was told, her face reddening as she stroked her fingers over the newly denuded skin. She wished more than anything that she could have been in private with Yulia at this moment. Her scalp felt so soft and warm, barely a hint that it had once been covered in lush, pretty hair. Only when Rose pressed against the direction of growth could she feel a suggestion of the roots that were still embedded in Yulia's scalp.

“Doesn't it feel sexy?” Yulia whispered. “Last time I was bald it was to show I submitted. Now it's a sign of strength. I feel so powerful and sexy. Kiss my scalp, baby, show how much you love me being bald.”

Rose did as she was ordered, trying to forget that this intimate moment was witnessed by the closest friends she had in this country. She closed her eyes and tried to block out all but the immediacy of sensation. Her lips tingled as she explored the warmth of her lover's head, and now the shimmering passed through her entire body.

“Oh, ladies. You all should try this,” Yulia pronounced. “It feels so good. I don't think I ever want hair again.” She expressed her pleasure with a long passionate kiss on Rose's lips.

Rose stared into Yulia's eyes, which were framed with deep, smoky black, her lids glowing with a rich violet all the way up to her darkly painted brows. Yulia was different, and the shave seemed to make her irresistible, as if her hair had somehow repressed her strength. Rose felt more attracted to her than ever, but it was more than that; she adored Yulia's bravery and strength, and she knew she had fallen in love with her, an emotion more profound than any she'd experienced.

THREE

The day had arrived when Rose would receive her makeover. Her nervousness had increased with each passing day and her resolve to allow Yulia to exert her will without complaint had crumbled. She'd tried in every way she could conceive to influence Yulia, but her lover wasn't so easily swayed. Since she'd shaved her head Yulia could silence Rose's complaints with a mere look. She would fix her eyes on Rose and raise her left eyebrow. It was sufficient to let Rose know that she'd crossed a line and that she needed to stop speaking.

There were now seven signatories of the manifesto, and Ana had decided that this was a good number: the seven Sisters, they would now be. And of the seven all had received a haircut from Yulia, except for Rose. Somehow, she felt this was appropriate for her standing in the group. She seemed the least confident, the least sure of her abilities. Her lowly opinion of herself wasn't necessarily shared by the others, at least not when it came to her artistic instincts. She certainly had some ground to make up in her knowledge of art history (but she was learning quickly) but the other students all acknowledged Rose's abilities as a painter: she had the best instinctive sense for colour of any of the group and only the much more cerebral Ana was making paintings which might be deemed more successful.

The latest makeover which Rose had witnessed was Kat's (Sindi had also had a restyle but because she socialised little with the group, no one except Yulia knew how she now looked). Kat's hair had been the next longest, after Rose's. She now had a dramatically inverted bob, the sides of which formed long, asymmetric points, the left side six inches longer than the right; the back arched up to reveal a nape which had been clippered close to her scalp and decorated with shaved swirling lines. She'd been given a heavy, blunt fringe which reached to her eyelids and arched down over her cheeks. Her dark brown hair had been dyed a coppery orange, except for the undercut on her nape which was aubergine. Rose took some relief from the relative conservatism of Kat's cut: she'd been allowed to keep a lot more hair than Lara, or Yulia for that matter.

Yulia had kept her head bared, shaving every day, sometimes twice, and Rose had been made to learn how to wield a razor. The paleness of her scalp had started to bloom to something darker as Yulia encouraged a tan to develop. Rose, in contrast, was strictly prohibited from spending time in the sun and her skin had faded to a paler hue.

On the night before her appointment, Rose's intricate cornrows were taken out by Yulia and her hair was loose for the first time in over a week. Yulia made her brush it for a full hour, taunting her that she should savour this experience as it might be the last time she actually had any hair.

“Are you going to shave me?” Rose shrieked. She knew she shouldn't ask this as Yulia had specifically ordered her not to try to probe about what style she would get. Her nervousness overcame her desire to be obedient.

Yulia smiled indulgently. “The truth is, Rose, I'm not decided. I like to be spontaneous. So even if I told you what my intentions were now, by tomorrow I'd almost certainly have changed my mind. But if you keep asking things that you know you shouldn't ask I might just shave you bald tonight and disappoint all your friends who are looking forward to seeing you embarrass yourself tomorrow.”

Rose hugged her beloved girlfriend and apologised. “I don't want to go on at you but I can't help myself. I'm so nervous that I can't always control what my mouth is doing.”

“My poor little baby. I think we need to help you regain control of your tongue, don't we?”

Rose nodded then started to regret her unthinking acquiescence. Yulia's eyes revealed that she had some mischief in mind (they sparkled with delight when she had a devious plan in mind) and to carry out her plan a trip down into the salon was needed.

Rose was ordered to sit in the chair as Yulia (out of her line of sight) prepared herself. Rose was sure she was taking longer than necessary merely to increase her anxiety. If that was her plan then she was successful. Rose felt the adrenalin increase as she worried that something awful was about to be done, but she was so fatigued that her thoughts couldn't coalesce into something concrete, only an increased sense of dread filling her. Finally Yulia sidled alongside her, deliberately concealing the tools she'd gathered from Rose's sight.

“What are you going to do?” she asked but Yulia remained silent. “Please, honey, show me what you're doing.”

“It's best you don't see,” Yulia said, calmly, kindly even. “Just close your eyes. You're getting another piercing and it will hurt. But I think it'll give you a focus that will help you to maintain your dignity when I cut your hair.”

Rose started to breathe more quickly. “Where is it going?” she asked, but even as she did she remembered why Yulia had brought her here. “Oh... My tongue, yes?” Yulia said nothing, she didn't have to. Rose felt herself tensing as she imagined how much this was going to hurt. A tongue was so thick, strong, muscular. Surely it would need a lot of force to drive a needle through, and there'd be blood...

These thoughts were too much for Rose. She had to stop thinking or she might actually faint. “Just get it over, please,” she said to Yulia, her face wan as the adrenalin reduced the blood flow to her skin. Yulia's teasing was over now. She could see how scared Rose was and knew this wasn't the time to delight in taunting her.

Rose was trembling as she extended her tongue. Her tongue flickered back and forth, Rose's control becoming lost due to her terror. It took Yulia a couple of attempts to secure the clamp in the correct place but soon she'd firmly prevented any movement of the organ. Without another word she plunged the needle into Rose's tongue. For a moment Rose was surprised that the pain was so slight. But there seemed to be a delay in the nervous impulses reaching her brain, perhaps it was the catecholamines. After what seemed like a few seconds the pain began to increase exponentially. Rose moaned, protested inarticulately, gurgled and drooled. She wanted this to be over.

Yulia was working calmly and efficiently, but Rose's perception of time had stretched and dilated. Every process seemed to take minutes. She couldn't understand why everything was taking so long. And she needed Yulia to be quicker because...

Everything was receding. The sounds seemed to echo from a great distance, all the sounds that is except for that ringing. It was so close that it drowned out all the other sounds. And Rose's vision was no more acute than her hearing. Everything seemed to swim, as if her eyes filled with tears, except that when she blinked there was no clearing. Her eyes felt dry and sore, so it couldn't be tears. Now the colour seemed to wash out of everything and an unpleasant chill started to take hold of her, tingling, deadly. Her limbs first, but getting ever closer to her body. Now it was in her lips, and now...

And now she was waking up, feeling sick and so cold that her teeth were chattering. “Are you OK,” Yulia asked compassionately. “I didn't think that would happen to you.”

“What did happen,” Rose asked, confusedly.

“You fainted,” Yulia laughed. “I certainly hope you don't do that when I cut your hair. If you did I might have to do something when you were unconscious as a warning not to do it again.”

Rose groaned with embarrassment but felt so dreadful that no words of Yulia's could increase her suffering.

It wasn't till early the next morning that Rose's thoughts had cleared sufficiently to comprehend what had happened. She needed to rise in the early morning to visit the toilet and stared at herself in the bathroom mirror. Her lips were stained with dried blood and she nervously opened her mouth to see her tongue. Inside her mouth a shiny silver sphere gleamed, like a pearl in an oyster shell. She groaned as she saw how discoloured and swollen her tongue was around the site of the injury. Any attempt to extend her tongue resulted in immediate pain and she resolved to try to move her tongue as little as possible during the healing process, which she prayed would be rapid. She did admit to herself that she liked how it looked but her pride at getting this new piercing was tarnished by her weakness. She couldn't tell her friends what had happened, but what if Yulia did? She was sure she wouldn't lie, and was equally sure that her friends would be certain to ask about the new piercing. And the revelation that she'd fainted because she'd got a piercing seemed particularly galling. Perhaps they wouldn't notice it. After all, it was quite far back on her tongue.

There was a flaw in Rose's plan which became apparent as soon as her lover woke (by now Rose had lain awake for many hours, time spent dwelling on the impending haircut). Her morning greeting was slurred and incomprehensible. Her tongue was almost paralysed by the trauma of piercing and even speaking proved painful. Rose had to hold her tongue immobile which limited her ability to make herself understood.

Yulia dressed her prettily for her final pre-makeover hours. Her hair was left loose, dried with a diffuser to emphasise the waves and give volume. She hardly wore any make-up, just a touch of pale pink on her lips and a subtle addition of mascara. She wore a short dress that made her look younger, indeed she looked like the girl she'd been prior to meeting Yulia. She decided that she'd spend the day in the library to avoid having to socialise, to avoid the questions her friends would subject her to. Her absence in the workspace was missed; she soon received texts from her friends, inquiring as to her well-being. Ana seemed particularly concerned, aware as she was of the intensity of Rose's anxiety.

Early in the afternoon Rose's study was interrupted by Ana's arrival. In truth she'd been barely able to concentrate and had long since abandoned any attempt to read the philosophical text she'd intended to get through. She was distractedly leafing through a book on symbolism when Ana discovered her.

“Segantini?” Ana inquired. “The Punishment of Luxury. Personally, I think luxury is something to be encouraged, not punished. Lust isn't any sort of sin as far as I'm concerned.” Rose smiled, a little uncomfortably, to see her friend appear. Ana slipped alongside her on the bench seat and pressed close as she studied the image. “Those are pretty ladies with pretty curls, aren't they? Is that why you're looking at symbolism? Looking for pictures to show Yulia how sexy long hair is?” Rose shook her head playfully but said nothing. “What's wrong with you, cat got your tongue?”

On a scrap of paper Rose scribbled: “Got tongue pierced yesterday. Too sore to talk.” Ana was immediately intrigued and demanded to see.

“Oh, Rose, that's just so... I love it.” She looked a little ashamed. “I think you and Yulia are just amazing together. There are times when I get very naughty ideas. I'm sorry, I shouldn't embarrass you like this but I can't help myself, please don't be mad. It's nothing I haven't admitted to Maria, and the truth is, she feels the same. We'd love to spend more time together, do double dates and stuff. Would you like that?” Rose nodded enthusiastically, but felt a danger in feeding this desire. Ana was clearly flirting with her, suggesting more than just dinner and drinks. How would Yulia react?

There was a sense of relief when a zealous library assistant warned Ana to be silent. She wrote an apologetic note to Rose to inform her that she had to press on with her latest painting and agreed to meet her outside the library at six to accompany her friend to her rendezvous with Yulia at the salon. Rose solemnly agreed to the plan.

[lsds-blog]

An illustration for The Jertulian Bride

[lsds-blog]

Easthaven

The sudden pitching motion of the train woke Mary from her uneasy slumber. The sun had risen and in the pale, grey light she saw sandy grassland undulating all around. She stretched and rubbed at her neck, aching from the constrained posture in which she'd fallen asleep. She looked at her watch and calculated that she must be close to her destination. She peered at the horizon to the east, eager to catch her first glimpse of the ocean. She wasn't to wait long; a few minutes later she saw an area of grey through a dip in the land. She was, for the first time in her life, at the coast.

She stepped off the train, hefting her suitcase onto the platform. She looked up at the sign which identified the stop as Easthaven. For so long she'd dreamed of coming here but she experienced a feeling of unreality. This place seemed so mundane, so banal that it couldn't possibly be the place she'd imagined. She put her doubts aside and struggled along the platform, dragging the heavy case.

As she left the station it began to rain. The drizzle washed the colour out of everything. The town seemed flat, grey, dirty, and yet she sensed that the rain would only add to its squalor, that it would cleanse nothing. She arrived at her hotel tired and wet, but was told by the clerk that she wouldn't be able to take possession of her room until early afternoon (a full seven hours off). She wanted to cry. “You can leave your suitcase here and go and get some breakfast,” he told her. Lunch too, Mary thought. It was so early that nowhere was open and she sat on a bench at a bus shelter for the better part of two hours.

Gradually the town came to life and people filled the streets, but it was hardly the fulfilment of Mary's vision. She'd imagined a clear, sharp light, blue sea, women immaculately dressed and coiffed. Instead, people huddled under umbrellas, dressed in heavy clothes. Mary's excitement was dissipating into an unease that her dreams would be broken by the reality of this dismal place.

It was when she was fourteen that Mary had first read about Easthaven in an article in a scurrilous magazine that one of her fellow pupils had smuggled into school. Everyone agreed that the town sounded scandalous. The journalist had inveigled herself into various parties at which women openly showed their affections for each other. Some of the women had hair cut as short as any man's, some even dressed like men. And they lay arm in arm and kissed each other. In Easthaven, such behaviour didn't just happen behind closed doors, it was common to see two women walking hand in hand in the streets.

Reading such material was utterly forbidden in Mary's religiously conformist school. She knew that if she'd been found with the magazine she'd have received a beating. But while all the other girls giggled and tutted at the disgraceful behaviour, Mary felt a guilty excitement. She felt something profound, knew that reading about these women was the confirmation that she was one of them. She had been cursed, she felt sure, but she loved women, not men and nothing she could do would change that.

From that day she'd dreamed about Easthaven, dreamed of finally being able to admit her feelings to a like-minded woman, and... Oh, so much more. She'd lie in bed and fantasise about the sort of woman she'd meet there, her naïve fantasies goading her toward an ineffable bliss. But now she'd arrived and her first days in Easthaven had left her feeling lonelier than ever, all the more so because she sensed that in some of the buildings she passed were occurring things that went beyond her greatest fantasies, things that despite her proximity were still forbidden her.

She was intensely shy and found it impossible to make friends here. She'd seen women that she was sure were lesbians, those mannish women that the article had mentioned (she'd spent ten minutes looking at that article more than five years earlier, yet could recall numerous phrases verbatim), but she was so awed that she could never bring herself to speak to them. She'd seen two young women kissing in a café the previous day, the first time she'd ever seen such a thing, and that had left her feeling tremendously aroused, but her pleasure was embittered with a jealousy that she was not permitted such things.

She'd started to take her breakfast each day in a café a few streets away from her hotel (it was cheaper than eating at the hotel and she had to budget her little money prudently; she knew she'd have to find a job soon if she wasn't to have to retreat back home within a couple of weeks). She'd also taken a shine to a waitress who worked here, a friendly young woman with a severe jet black bob with a short fringe and a cropped nape. She was pleased to see her as she entered and took her seat at her usual table at the window (the café was never busy at this early hour). Her favourite waitress came over immediately and greeted her. “Your usual? Scrambled egg on toast, black coffee?” Mary felt a little embarrassed that she was so predictable, but was happy that she'd been remembered by the waitress. She turned to look at the passing faces as she waited for her food to arrive.

Not only did the waitress soon bring her food, she sat across the table from Mary and poured a coffee for herself. “You don't mind if I sit with you for ten minutes? I need a break and there's no one else in here.”

“No, that's fine. I'm Mary.”

“I'm Charlotte,” her companion smiled. “First time in Easthaven?” Mary nodded. “What brings you here?”

“I'm a student and I have a long summer break. I thought I'd come here and try to find a job for the summer.”

“And have some fun along the way?” Charlotte said with a laugh. “All on your own?” Mary nodded. “You're looking to meet a friend?” Mary felt herself getting embarrassed. “A female friend?” Charlotte asked, her voice soft and gentle now. Mary nodded. She felt her heart beating fast as she realised that for the first time in her life she'd acknowledged her sexuality.

“You have to show that you're available. You must go to Allegra's for a haircut. It's a hair salon over on Eighth Street. It's like a sign that you're part of the community. Allegra will get you looking the part.”

Mary looked at her in terror. “Would I have to get it cut short?”

“Allegra decides what's best, honey, but not everyone gets a short cut.”

“She cut yours?” Charlotte smiled and nodded. “Your hair looks beautiful. I mean... beautiful.” Mary blushed at her inarticulacy.

“Thanks,” Charlotte said warmly.

Mary pulled at a strand of her long hair. “What if she cut it short, like a man's?”

Charlotte put her fingers on Mary's chin to raise her head and stared at her face. “I doubt she would but even so you'd look fine. I think you should maybe try to find some new glasses though. Those aren't the most flattering.”

Mary's nose crinkled, a mannerism she'd acquired when she felt she was being criticised. “I know, but I don't have much money.”

“Well once you get a job they might be a good investment.”

A customer entered the café and Charlotte stood to greet her. “Look, go and see Allegra this morning. I know you're nervous, but all the more reason not to wait.” She scribbled on her pad and dropped the square of paper on the table. “That's the address and my number. Give me a call when you're done. I want to see how you look. We can get some lunch if you like, I finish here at noon so I'll be free after that.”

Mary couldn't finish her breakfast. Would she really go straight over to the salon for a haircut? She'd always had long hair, and even in her fantasies (which often involved women with hair cut as short as any man's) she couldn't ever conceive of losing her own hair. It was her prettiest feature, she was sure. She was too tiny and plain to ever attract attention, and her thick glasses only added to her unattractiveness.

She left her payment on the table and waved farewell to her new friend, who smiled warmly at her. She trudged toward the salon, hoping that it would be closed at this early hour (it was just past nine and most shops opened at ten), and had decided if it were that that was a sign that she shouldn't cut her hair. She saw Allegra's salon and her heart was heavy as she saw that the door was open. It looked quite spartan, not at all like the salons she'd occasionally visited back at home. It had bare wooden floorboards and four barber chairs facing plate mirrors. There was an absence of anything decorative.

A tall blonde woman greeted her as she hesitated outside. “Hello, dear. What can I do for you?”

“A friend recommended you. Said I could get a good haircut here?”

“Come on in, I'm Allegra.”

Mary introduced herself and was shepherded toward a chair. Allegra gave off a strong, heady perfume. She pulled Mary's long hair into a twist and fitted her with a cape, a light translucent cream that covered Mary to her ankles. “You're so tiny,” Allegra laughed. “What height are you?”

“I'm four eleven,” Mary said blushing. She was sensitive about her short stature.

“I'm a full foot taller!” A padded plank was fitted over the arms of the chair. “We don't have to use this very often,” Allegra joked. “How old are you?”

“I'm nineteen.” Allegra expressed her disbelief.

“You look so young! What are we doing today?”

“A friend said I should see you for a nice haircut.”

Allegra looked surprised. “Oh, you want a special haircut? To help you fit in in the town?”

Mary nodded, feeling the blood drain from her face. “Please though, can I keep it long?”

Allegra's was face momentarily crossed by a troubled expression. “Well, if you get a special it's my choice. But I suppose for a nice young girl like you I could leave you some length.” Mary was so happy she felt like she might cry. “I would take the top and sides quite a bit shorter though. If you can't accept that you'd better leave now.”

“No, that's fine,” Mary said.

“And how about we add some curl at the back?”

“I don't know,” Mary said. “My hair's so thick and straight. Whenever I tried to curl it the curl falls out after about ten minutes.”

“I could get it to hold,” Allegra said proudly. “So do we have a deal?”

“Yes, of course,” Mary said. She felt quite excited about the change now that she knew her hair would still be long.

Allegra began by trimming the ends of Mary's mane, just nibbling off about an inch as she sat on a stool behind a standing Mary. Mary had feared that she'd be keen to chop her hair much shorter, having a wariness of hairdressers' ideas about what constituted long hair. But then Allegra had hair past her shoulders, so maybe she liked long hair. Mary's still reached almost to her waist after the trim.

Now she struggled to climb up to the booster seat. Allegra plucked the glasses from her face and peered through the lenses. “Ooh, those are strong. Can you see without them?”

“Hardly at all,” Mary admitted.

Her vulnerability seemed to amuse Allegra. “It'll be a nice surprise for you when you see your new look then.”

She combed through Mary's hair. “I can see you washed it this morning so no need for a shampoo. I'll do a rough cut dry then we'll attend to the curls.”

She separated Mary's hair into sections at back, sides and top, twisting and pinning her hair tight to her head. Only the top was left loose. “You're new in town?” Allegra asked as she combed out the crown.

“Yes, I'm from Philipston, but I'm at university in Alpina.”

“Oh, you're such a long way from home.” As she chatted, Allegra combed a section up and started to snip. Mary's eyes took in the long pieces of hair falling into her lap. Very long pieces.

“Oh, how short are you cutting it?” she said, suddenly feeling very afraid.

“It'll be quite short on top, like I said. Maybe two inches or so, shorter still on the sides.”

Mary gasped. “Will it look OK? The back still long?”

Allegra cut more hair. She eventually replied. “Of course, it'll look very nice. I wouldn't cut it like this if I didn't think it was the cut for you.” Another sheaf of hair collapsed and dropped to the boards with an audible thud.

As Allegra cropped the hair from the right side of her head with brutal slices of the shears, Mary squinted to try to see just how short it was. Her sight was so poor that she could barely make out anything. “Will it show my ears?” she asked, filled with unease.

“It will, dear. You have pretty little ears so it's a shame to cover them up.”

Mary couldn't say anything. She tried to imagine how she'd look with long hair at the back and the top and sides cut as short as a boys. Try as she might, she couldn't think how this style was going to look anything but absurd.

The cutting was over far more quickly than she'd anticipated and Allegra turned her attention to the long hair. She let it fall free and combed through it. She placed a bowl in Mary's lap, filled with long rods with a spiral thread. “Pass these to me as I ask for them,” Allegra ordered. She combed out a long strand at Mary's nape and wound it tightly on the first rod. “Rod!” she said curtly and Mary passed her another.

Soon the back of Mary's head was a mass of spines, bound to her scalp by her long hair. Allegra fitted a black cape over her shoulders, this one covered with a rubbery coating, the bottom edge turned upwards into a sort of gutter. She put cotton wool into the canals of Mary's ears, then covered her ears with tiny plastic covers. “Why do I need that?” Mary asked.

“The perming solution can irritate ears,” Allegra replied.

“You're perming my hair?” Mary was astonished.

“Yes, of course. Like you said, your hair doesn't take curl well so a nice strong perm is the only way.”

Mary should have said no. She knew this was a mistake, but she couldn't bring herself to say anything. She was shy, intimidated by Allegra. And she felt sure that the stylist wouldn't listen. She'd tell Mary it was for the best, that she'd look fine, that her provincial ideas didn't hold her in Easthaven. And perhaps she was right. Perhaps Mary would be suddenly accepted into the community here. People would like her new look, would see her as a sophisticated young woman. And if that were the case then the loss of some hair would be a reasonable price.

Mary was stinking of perming solution now that she was installed under the dryer. Her thoughts turned to Charlotte, her first friend in the town. She hoped that she would approve of her makeover. In fact, she thought that everything rested on Charlotte. She could remember every detail of Charlotte's features now, her fine boned jaw and nose, her narrow, full lips, her big, dark eyes, her pale, smooth skin. She was very beautiful and Mary felt herself blessed to have such a friend. And she was a good person, too, Mary believed. No one in this whole town had shown the least regard for her since her arrival, except for Charlotte who'd gone out of her way to help her to adjust and find her way. And now she'd invited her to lunch. Was it a date? Should she expect something romantic to occur with her new friend?

The shop was now becoming busier. Another two stylists had arrived and a few customers. Frustratingly for Mary, her poor sight meant that she could see almost nothing of the women who patronised Allegra's salon. She knew that these women were almost certainly all lesbians, was fascinated to finally be in a place where her sexuality would be accepted, yet she could see almost nothing, nor hear anything but the odd word, the noise of the dryer and her plugged ears effectively blocking her from overhearing conversation.

The discomfort and isolation were wearying and Mary was greatly relieved when she was eventually released from the dryer. Another solution was applied to neutralise the reagent and eventually Mary's hair was rinsed, then unwound from the rods. Even she could see how her hair was now tightly curled and voluminous.

“Can you pass me my glasses?” Mary asked.

“Not yet,” Allegra said sternly. “We're not finished and you can wait till it's all done to see how it looks.”

Now Allegra started to cut the top of Mary's hair. Whereas earlier she'd worked quickly, chopping away the length crudely, now she worked very precisely, combing fine sections up from Mary's scalp, pulling them tautly with the fingers of her left hand, then snipping the ends to conform to a carefully defined line. Little wet pieces of hair fell, sticking to Mary's face and shoulders as her hair was formed into the cut that Allegra evidently saw in her mind.

“The sides will be cut with these,” Allegra announced, waving her clippers before Mary's face with a flourish. She wanted to be sure that Mary's myopia didn't deprive her of the knowledge of what was about to happen.

Mary wanted to cry as the clippers danced up her temples. More hair was freed from her head and she knew that the sides were far shorter than the top. Allegra paused to remove the guard which had been all that prevented the blades from shaving Mary to her scalp. Now she turned the clippers on once more, working the blades over the comb as it teased out the short locks at the area where sides and top met. She blended the contrasting lengths skilfully.

And now the blades pressed tight to Mary's sideburns as Allegra buzzed and faded the area above Mary's ears. She stood before her client and smiled at her. “That does look pretty,” she whispered seductively. For all of her misgivings, Mary couldn't help but feel a glow of pride at the compliment. If she thought she would attract a girlfriend then all of her sacrifice would be worthwhile.

Allegra worked the clippers tight over each side, folding Mary's ears forward to ensure a neat finish. The clippers were stowed silently as Mary's hair underwent the final styling. Her curls were dried with a diffuser (still filling the air with the unpleasant scent of the perming solution, though more subtly now), then the top was blow-dried, Allegra sculpting the short hair with a round brush, curling and tugging hard to fix the form.

Not a word was said as Allegra put the glasses back on Mary's nose. She felt roses of blood fill her cheeks as she saw with profound embarrassment what Allegra had done to her. Her hair seemed to have been cut into two incompatible styles, neither of which she liked. The back was a cloud of tight spirals, wild and voluminous. Even worse was the front half. The top was fixed in a gleaming quiff, standing straight up from her high forehead, the sides faded to bare scalp over each ear. A strip of greyish, shaved scalp was exposed a full inch above the top of each ear, before her brown hair began to be visible as a lengthening stubble which blended into the top. “Oh my...” she muttered. She felt like she might faint.

“Such a cute little look,” another voice said. Mary glanced to her side and saw an older customer with a short red bob, looking at her admiringly. “I love how close the sides are. You should get new glasses though, sweetheart, those are so old-fashioned. They do nothing for you.”

“Thank you, Miss,” Mary said. She stared at herself again, horrified at her ruined hair. She couldn't understand how the woman could see her glasses as a problem when she had this hairstyle. How could she ever face the world now?

And now she had to pay for the privilege of her curls. The perm had tripled the cost of her morning at the salon, money Mary could scarce afford. She'd have to find work within the week if she wasn't to cut her trip short. And how would she ever explain this haircut to her parents?

As she returned her purse to her handbag she saw the scrap of paper that Charlotte had written. She hardly wanted to see Charlotte now, ashamed of how she looked. But suddenly she was dialling and Charlotte answered immediately. “Hi, it's Mary. The girl from the café this morning.”

“I remember you,” Charlotte laughed. “I thought you'd changed your mind about lunch, you didn't call. I already arrived at a restaurant, I was going to eat alone.”

“I only just got out. Where are you? I'll come right over.”

Mary deflected any questions about her experience at the salon and within five minutes had found the restaurant. Charlotte looked at her with an open mouth. “Holy shit, what the hell? Did you do something to piss her off?”

Mary made a sad whine. “Is it really that bad? I thought it was bad, but then what do I know? Oh, it's bad, isn't it?”

Charlotte gave an embarrassed smile. “I can't lie, honey. It's bad. But it's kind of so-bad-it's-good. What did you do to upset her?”

“Nothing. I said I wanted her to cut my hair. I asked if she could leave it long, but that was all I said, otherwise I just said she could do anything.”

Charlotte grimaced. “See, that was it. Don't tell Allegra not to cut it short, she'll resent that. Aw, you look like you're going to cry. Really, it's not so bad.”

Mary started to struggle to her feet. “I can't eat, I need to go home, sorry.” Charlotte rose.

“Come back to mine. I'm sorry, I upset you. I was thoughtless.”

The two young women went back to Charlotte's hotel room, which was barely more comfortable than Mary's own. “You poor little thing,” Charlotte said. She put her arms around Mary who started to cry.

“She's ruined it,” Mary snuffled, “and the perm cost a fucking fortune too. I just need to get it all cut off!”

“Mary, don't you dare!” Charlotte said forcefully. “You'll wear your hair like this with pride. You have a mullet and that will be your look. You'll be unique.”

“But... It's bad, you said so yourself.”

“You know, if you wanted to fix it you'd just have to shave the curls off completely. I mean, she shaved the sides so high the back would have to be bald too. Shall we go back and get it done?”

Mary looked at her aghast. “Shaved? I'd look like a boy.”

“You wouldn't,” Charlotte laughed, “but it would be a very butch cut. That's the only way to fix it. So what's it to be, mullet or butch?”

Mary sighed and rubbed at her tears. “Mullet,” she said resignedly.

“Good. Now all I have to do is to make you love it.”

Mary snorted. “You have some kind of special powers? You're an evil hypnotist or something?”

“No, I just think you look cute. Now I've got used to it I think it's quite sexy. All those big curls and that shaved sideburns look. I love the contrast.”

Mary went very quiet. “You're teasing me, Charlotte. Don't, please.”

She reached forward and took off Mary's glasses. She stared into her eyes and stroked at the bared scalp over her ears. Mary found herself gradually leaning forward, hoping that they would kiss. “You're really pretty. You just need some nicer glasses. And you don't wear any make-up. You should, without it you look really young.”

“I wouldn't know where to start. My parents never allowed it and I'm just such a klutz I didn't dare try putting any on.”

“Would you mind if I tried? I want to see you looking pretty. I'd love to help you find a girlfriend.”

Mary nodded but a profound disappointment had welled up inside. Charlotte wasn't trying to seduce her as she'd thought and desired. She wanted to tell her that she'd found her perfect match but she would have been crushed if Charlotte had rejected her (as she surely would). She wanted nothing more than solitude, to be allowed to express her regret at misreading Charlotte's intentions, but was trapped by her friend's generosity. Charlotte was attending to her face, explaining how she should apply her make-up, but despite Mary's voice adding little words of agreement, nothing was sinking in. Mary was too lost in self-pity.

But then she was looking in a mirror. She saw herself anew, remade. Not only was her hair unfamiliar, she had red lips, strong black accents defining her eyes. Mary blinked to ensure that the vision was really her. The strange girl blinked back. Momentarily her loneliness was forgotten.

“Charlotte, that's wonderful! I look so different.” She tried to fuss with her hair but stopped as her hand brushed over the bared skin over hers ears. It saddened her to feel what Allegra had done.

“See, I told you it would make you look even prettier. You should get contact lenses.”

Mary frowned. “I had a serious eye infection when I was younger. They said I shouldn't wear contacts.”

“OK, then I'll help you find a job and when you get paid I'll take you to an optician and help you pick out a nice set of frames. And some nice clothes too. There are loads of second hand shops here where you can get bargains. Once I'm done with you you'll look so cute that no one would turn you down. You could pick any girl in town,” she said, smiling sweetly.

But not you, Mary thought. The only one I'd really like.

Within a few days Mary had a job as a maid in a hotel, thanks to Charlotte's tip off. She moved into a tiny room at the top of the building and tried to adjust to the early hours she was expected to work. She'd never found getting up easy, and now that she was expected to begin work at six she found she was tired all the time.

It was perhaps more difficult still to adjust to her new image. Maids had to tie up long hair and Mary felt a sense of despair each morning as she looked in the mirror. With her curls tied back only her short hair was visible, and how short it was! She felt stripped of all femininity and rejoiced each afternoon when she was able to release her curls. She'd started to like the curls, not that she could admit that to anyone. They felt beautifully soft and looked very pretty. She'd often stare in the mirror and try to imagine herself with all of her hair still long, all tightly curled. And then at times she'd pull back her curls and imagine giving in to the urge to be boyish and butch. She knew that Charlotte didn't like very masculine cuts and at times that was sufficient to make her want to go back to Allegra and beg her to shave the back too.

Charlotte had become her best friend, but Mary was frustrated that she couldn't give herself entirely to her. Charlotte had hinted that she had a lover, but became secretive when the subject was raised. Mary hated how jealous she could become at the merest suspicion of Charlotte giving her heart to another. Rationally she wished only happiness for her friend, as Charlotte was unquestionably dedicated to making Mary fulfil her dreams, yet Mary felt a destructive urge in her frustrated desires for her friend. She loved Charlotte's company, and they had a lot in common: a love of all things creative, and especially art. Charlotte was a gifted painter and drew beautifully. But Mary had become moody and would suddenly feel herself become jealous if she felt the slightest suspicion that Charlotte had feelings for other women. She could become sullen and withdrawn and Charlotte seemed unable to understand why her young friend could be prickly and hostile.

Mary was now paid cash at the end of each week. After receiving her second week's wage Charlotte suggested that on her next day off Mary should go to the opticians for new frames. Early that morning Charlotte came up to Mary's room. The dismal rainy weather, unseasonally cold, had finally passed and for the first time since Mary's arrival it promised to be a hot, sunny day.

“You're going to look really pretty today and we'll go to the beach later. It's a beautiful day and there'll be lots of girls out. You're going to get fixed up with a girl today, whether you like it or not.” Mary felt horribly embarrassed to think of trying to strike up a conversation with a stranger but could see that Charlotte wouldn't change her mind. And now Charlotte would ensure that Mary looked at her best. She was sent for a shower (she had to share a bathroom with other staff) and then sat wrapped in a towel as Charlotte saw to her hair. She made her curls bigger and softer than ever, smoothed the short top hair into a quiff that looked neater than at any time since the day she'd visited Allegra.

“I prefer it like this on the sides,” Charlotte said, caressing the velvety hair that had grown over Mary's ears as she applied her friend's make-up. “It looked too much when it was shaved. You're too pretty to have a really butch cut. Stay away from Allegra for a bit,” she laughed. “Although I could do with a trim myself.”

Mary was scarcely able to talk. Charlotte's intimacy was thrilling, but painful for her. The feeling of her fingers on the short hair was something that should only be within the remit of a lover. “Don't you think?” Charlotte asked.

Mary looked at her puzzled, hardly aware of what she'd been saying. “My hair needs a good cut?”

“Oh, yes. It looked so sharp when we first met. I liked those crisp lines. Yes, a trim would be good.”

“Maybe I can get in there while you're getting your eye test.”

And so the plan was put in place. Mary's eyes were tested and when she emerged Charlotte, freshly coiffed, was waiting for her. Her bob was a good inch shorter, her fringe wider. And her nape had been buzzed so close that scalp showed. Allegra had shaved the perimeter so that the stubble was shaped into a smooth oval form above smooth shaved neck. Charlotte smiled but she looked unsure. “It's too short, isn't it?” she winced.

“No, it's nice,” Mary said with total sincerity. It was rather extreme, she had to admit, but all the more exciting for that. “I really like it,” she whispered, with a blush in her cheeks as she felt her longing grow.

Charlotte hugged her. “Thanks, Mary. You do make me feel better about myself. Now shall we see if we can find some pretty frames?”

Mary's tastes appeared to be diametrically opposed to Charlotte's. Every frame that Mary suggested caused Charlotte to shake her head. “Far too plain. You need something that makes a statement, something bold. These?” She held up a pair of round tortoiseshell spectacles with absurdly oversized lenses. Mary winced but allowed Charlotte to slip them on her.

She peered in the mirror, leaning forward to focus better. “Oh God, no! No, no, no. I look so nerdy. I hate them, Charlotte.”

Charlotte smiled, then sighed. “They look so cute! You really have no idea about what suits you.” She exchanged the frames for a red oval pair with diamanté decorations. “Nah, they're not you,” Charlotte said after a moment's consideration. “Ooh, look at these!” She lifted up a new pair, black plastic, round lenses even bigger than the tortoiseshell frames. The side pieces were over an inch wide.

“They look like joke glasses,” Mary protested.

Charlotte tutted. “They look so cool! You really need these. I insist.”

And Mary's misgivings were drowned out by Charlotte's enthusiasm. The optician sounded a note of caution. “They're big lenses. They'll be heavy with standard glass. The high index glass would reduce weight and look better.” Charlotte insisted that she'd pay the extra and Mary thanked her meekly for her generosity.

The pair went for breakfast and then returned to collect the glasses. Mary blushed as she looked at herself. “Oh, Char, why did I get these? They look so weird! I can't wear these all the time.”

“You look just wonderful,” Charlotte said excitedly. “A real cutie. They're not weird, they're quirky, and quirky suits you.”

After a trip to a vintage clothing store Mary certainly looked more quirky. Charlotte had her dressed in a red velvet mini dress with a high white lace collar. As they walked through the town Charlotte scolded her friend. “Stop fussing with your glasses, they look fine.”

“I can't, they're really heavy and they're so big that I'm not used to them. I can't judge steps either. Would you rather I tripped up?”

Charlotte put an arm around her. “I'm sorry, I never wore glasses. I didn't really think about practicalities. They just look cute. I'm sure you'll get used to them.”

“Maybe. I'll probably use my old ones for everyday use.”

Charlotte looked at her sternly. “Don't you dare! You're going to look stylish now, even if it's uncomfortable.”

They made their way to the shore where Charlotte paid for the use of a beach hut to allow them to change into their costumes. Mary's discomfort increased as she realised that Charlotte intended to undress before her. She didn't dare show her body to her friend. But another shock was in store. As Charlotte pulled her dress over her head Mary gasped.

“Oh my god, what are those?”

Charlotte looked at her with surprise. “My tattoos, haven't you seen them?”

Mary was certain she hadn't. She'd inherited something of her parents' disgust at tattoos, and the only time she'd seen a tattoo on a girl was on a fellow pupil at her school. The scandal of the tattoo had resulted in the girl being permanently excluded. The sight of a handful of tattoos, some rather large, on Charlotte's arms and torso was an unpleasant shock to Mary.

“You look really weird, Mary. What's wrong, don't you like them?”

“I'm just surprised, that's all,” Mary said coldly. “You've kept them covered all the time I've known you.”

Charlotte looked puzzled. “It wasn't intentional. I suppose it's just been because of the cold weather.”

“I'll wait outside while you change,” Mary said, glad to avoid the too close proximity. As she stepped outside she took a deep breath. She was shaking, sickly. She couldn't believe that Charlotte could mutilate herself so appallingly. She felt betrayed, felt that Charlotte had for some reason hidden the tattoos deliberately. Charlotte appeared at the door now, her costume baring her arms and much of her back. The sight of the tattoos was intolerable for Mary and she hastened into the hut so that she could change.

There was a tense atmosphere as they sat on the beach, sipping beers. “You see anyone you like?” Charlotte said. Mary sulkily shook her head. “What about the blonde over there? She's cute.”

“No, I'm not in the mood for this game.”

“Mary, that's why we came here. You want to find a girlfriend and I'm going to make sure you do. I promise you, if you listen to me you'll find a nice girl.”

Mary was silent for a long time as her anger grew. Her inhibitions were eroded by the beers she'd downed and finally she could hold her tongue no more. “I'm sick of listening to you! You're always telling me what to do, but you know nothing. You made me get my hair cut and I ended up with... this! You made me get these stupid glasses and they're giving me a headache. And now I see you've covered yourself in those horrible, ugly tattoos. You look awful, Charlotte. Cover yourself up, I'm embarrassed to be seen with you.”

Charlotte looked at her, slack jawed with shock. She muttered the beginning of a reply then rose to her feet and ran down the beach in tears. Mary realised that her outburst had drawn stares from those nearby. She cursed at them and made her way to the hut where she changed back into the clothes she'd worn on setting out. She left the dress which had been Charlotte's gift to her.

As she walked back toward her accommodation she realised that she was close to Allegra's. She decided that it was time to do something about her hair.

Allegra greeted her as she entered. “Oh, my little friend with the perm! You're back so soon?”

“I am,” Mary said boldly, her courage boosted by the alcohol. “I want a cut please.” Within moments she was caped and sat in the chair.

“You still want to keep it long?” Allegra asked as she played with the soft curls.

“No, I don't. It's up to you, but I'd be happy if you cut it all very short.”

Allegra gathered the curls into her fist and tugged. “You mean cut all this right off? Nice boyish cut for you?”

“That's exactly what I mean,” Mary said firmly. The sort of cut that Charlotte thinks is all wrong for me. If she thinks it's wrong then I know it's right.

Without releasing her grip, Allegra took the clippers from their hook and flicked them on. “Here goes...”

She lifted her hand, forcing Mary to bow her head. The blades chafed at her neck as Allegra cropped away the curls. “Take your glasses off for me,” she insisted as the clippers rose higher.

The clippering didn't take much more than a few minutes. Allegra held up her prize triumphantly. “There we are, no more long curls. I bet you feel better for that.”

Mary gave a giggle. “I do. It feels so light. And cool too. Much better on a day like this.”

Now Allegra set to working the untidy remains of Mary's mullet into a more refined short cut. She went over the entire back of Mary's head, shearing it down to nothing, only allowing a little faded hair to start close to her crown. The sides were now treated to the same, and despite her poor vision, Mary could see how high up the sides her hair was now shaved. It was obvious that Allegra had cut much higher this time.

The top was cut closer, only any length allowed to survive at the front. It was graduated back to her crown, so that the short bristles blended evenly into the stubble at Mary's crown. And even now, Allegra seemed unsatisfied. She lathered the back and sides of Mary's head and shaved her twice, until her scalp was tingling.

“Those are nice glasses,” Allegra cooed as Mary was allowed to replace them on her face at last.

Mary's boldness had began to fade during her shave and now as she took in her appearance she sighed. She was almost bald, her pink head surmounted by an oily little bump at the top of her forehead, sweeping back into flattened bristles which hugged her crown. She'd done this to spite Charlotte but now she realised that she'd made an appalling mistake.

“You know, you should meet a friend of mine. She could find you some easy work that pays well. A pretty girl like you with a nice sharp cut is always going to be popular. Give her a call.” She slipped a card into Mary's hand. “And if you work for her you'll never have to pay for another cut. I'll give you a trim every week on the house.”

When she woke the next morning, Mary looked in the mirror with enormous sadness. She'd really done it, hadn't she? All of her hair gone, the most extreme cut she'd seen on any woman since arriving in Easthaven. How had she allowed her anger to turn against herself? She felt ashamed as she set to work, her colleagues looking at her with undisguised puzzlement. The girl with the odd mullet was now the girl with a butch cut and oversized glasses. She'd struggled to make friends with the other hotel staff but now she found it almost impossible to socialise. She wanted only to hide in her room.

And when she was alone she started to think about her conduct toward Charlotte. She'd behaved appallingly toward the only friend she'd made in the town, motivated by her frustration that her feelings weren't reciprocated. And while she found Charlotte's tattoos unattractive, what gave her the right to judge her so harshly? Charlotte could certainly be pushy, controlling even, but she had a good heart and had acted selflessly toward Mary on numerous occasions. She had to go to apologise.

Mary's good intentions proved difficult to put into action. As the days passed she couldn't find the courage to visit her friend, avoiding the café, lacking courage to make a phone call. Her growing guilt only made the meeting seem more intimidating. She hated her weakness, but seemed unable to overcome it, and soon two weeks had passed since her falling out.

Late one afternoon as she walked through the town she heard a friendly greeting. “Mary, isn't it?” She turned to see the unmistakeable figure of Allegra. “I think you're about due a cut, dear. A style like that should be cut every week.” She was accompanied by a lady of around forty, very smartly dressed, blonde bobbed hair set in scalloped waves. There was something larger than life about her and Mary was immediately impressed but intimidated by her. “Mary, this is Madame Marianne. She's the lady I told you to call, but you never did.”

Madame was staring at her. Her smile seemed predatory rather than warm. “I really am disappointed that you didn't get in touch. You're quite the little doll. Why don't you come with us? I'll pay for you to get a nice trim from Allegra and we can see if I can't persuade you to do a little work for me.”

Mary felt a little starstruck that such glamorous women were taking an interest in her and was unable to resist the invitation. She went to Allegra's shop but was now invited to go upstairs to the private salon, which Allegra assured her was used only for VIPs. It was much more lavishly decorated than the shop, marble floor tiles, velvet drapes, leather armchairs and sofas.

She was provided with a glass of good brandy (although she had hardly tasted spirits and her lack of connoisseurship meant that she was unable to discern its quality, only its potency). Soon she had a pleasant glow from the alcohol and was caped in the red leather chair, which Allegra pumped to its maximum height.

“I shaved all this to the scalp,” Allegra told Madame who purred with satisfaction.

“I'd love to see that. You'll indulge an old lady, won't you, Mary, and let Allegra take it nice and smooth again?”

Mary shyly nodded her agreement and soon Allegra was clippering away the dark regrowth. Madame was wearing Mary's glasses, which amused Allegra. She lifted them free of her face.

“Poor little thing, you're almost blind, aren't you? You have such a pretty face hiding under these glasses, but you look so sexy with them too. Are you a permanent resident in Easthaven?”

“No, Madame, I'm just here for the summer. I'm at university in Alpina and I go back there for the new term in about a month.”

Madame gave a long laugh. “Is that so? I've heard it's a very conservative city. What do you think they'll make of a girl with a haircut like yours?”

Mary blushed. She'd not really considered her return to what she considered the real world, beyond the indulgent fantasy where she'd taken temporary residence. “I guess... It won't be popular.”

“I should think you're right. You'll be under surveillance all the time. They're strict on lesbian laws there, I hear. I wouldn't be surprised if the university disciplines you.”

Allegra sheared away another strip of fuzzy short hair. “You're scaring the little girl, Marianne! Let her have her pleasure. She can worry about the future when it happens.”

Madame joined in her laughter. “And have you been having pleasure in our lovely city, Mary?”

“Not as much as I hoped,” she admitted. In response to Madame's questions she admitted she'd not met a girlfriend and was working difficult hours as a maid in a second rate hotel.

“I happen to know the owner of that hotel. I could have you released from your contract and have you working for me immediately. What do you say?”

“Thank you Madame, but what is it I'd be doing?”

“Well that's just it. Your job would be to look pretty and have fun. I want you to come to parties I throw and make our guests feel happy. They like to have pretty girls there and you'd certainly make a lot of women happy. What do you say?”

Mary took another sip of her brandy, her glass seeming never to be less than half full as Madame kept it replenished. “I don't know, it sounds like it would be nice. But I'm very shy and awkward. I don't think I'd be very good at a party.”

“Why do you think people drink at parties?” she laughed. “Most people are shy until they have a few drinks. You'll do fine. I know a lot of people who would find your bashfulness very charming. I know I do. Say you'll try it. I know we could make each other very happy.”

“I don't want to disappoint you though, Madame,” Mary said, her words starting to slur.

“Well look...” Madame counted out a bundle of notes, as much as Mary earned in a month. “You take this and come to a party tonight with me. We'll have lunch tomorrow and you can tell me whether you want to keep working for me or go back to being a maid. And this money is yours anyway. And I'll fix you up with a nice outfit to look your best for the occasion.”

Mary was almost in tears, so pleased was she to be given this offer. Allegra was now lathering her and began to shave her with a straight razor. “Oh Allegra, darling, that is a close shave!” Madame enthused. “Mary dear, I want you here twice a week to keep your hair looking sharp. You look just adorable. May I touch it?” Mary shivered as she felt Madame's long nails caress her bald nape.

“She will be the belle of the ball, won't she, Marianne?” Allegra smiled. “She's such a sweetie. But a naughty one! I did tell you to call Madame weeks ago, didn't I?” Mary made a little grunt of acknowledgement, so rigid in her fear of the razor that she didn't even dare move her jaw.

“And now you're only here for another few weeks. We have to make sure we make the most of our time together, Mary.” Madame seemed unable to resist caressing Mary's freshly shaved scalp.

The top needed only a slight trim to neaten it and soon Allegra was sleeking Mary's hair into a gleaming pompadour. “Use that lovely shiny pomade, Allegra. I know it's expensive but it does give such a sheen. I want only the best for Mary.”

Once the hair was completed (with numerous compliments to Allegra on her skill), Mary was told that she'd have pretty make-up for her first party. “Do something with her eyebrows, Allegra. They look a bit too... au naturel. I want her to look innocent but sophisticated. I was thinking a nice little hunting outfit, very boyish, but alluring too.”

Allegra laughed. “I think she should give you a riding crop too, Mary. You'll need it to keep away all your admirers.”

Mary pulled a sour face. “Please, I'm nothing special. I'm sure you're teasing me.”

“You see, a perfect ingénue! Nothing false about her, just simple and pure. Oh Allegra, why didn't you make her call me last time you saw her?”

“Because you don't pay me enough,” Allegra laughed. “I'm a hairdresser, not your procuress, darling.”

“Don't be crude, Allegra,” Madame said with apparent good humour, but Mary felt her fingers tense on her scalp. She was distracted from trying to find significance in Allegra's statement by the stinging as the hairdresser set to work reshaping her eyebrows, using tweezers to rapidly pluck them to a new form.

“Never had them shaped before?” Allegra asked,

“No Miss,” a wincing Mary replied.

“I'd have thought that was obvious,” a sarcastic Marianne noted.

Mary was finally reunited with her precious glasses and made a shocked gasp. Her face looked very pale and unnaturally smooth and matt. Her cheeks were blushed with a soft pink, and her eyes were lined with thickly mascaraed lashes. But her displeasure was in what Allegra had done to her eyebrows. They were plucked to thin lines, only a few hairs thick, shaped into arcs which bore no resemblance to any natural brow shape. She'd made the form darker and more distinct with pencil shading.

Mary stood and leaned close to the mirror, lowering her glasses to better examine the damage. She could see now that her eyelids were subtly tinted a pale blue, which wasn't so bad, but the brows were beyond her tolerance.

“I'm not sure...” she began, but Madame cut her off.

“Those eyebrows? They're just beautiful, so pretty and just the right hint of sophistication. Such an improvement on the rural looking ones you had. You do agree, don't you, Mary.”

“Well, I suppose so, Madame,” she said, believing that Madame's taste was superior, and that therefore her misgivings were ill-founded.

“Now why don't we see how shy you are?” Madame poured more brandy into Mary's glass. “Why don't you slip out of those cheap clothes and let me see how your body matches up to your face.”

Mary felt like crying. She was sure now that she was being exploited by a woman she had begun to admire and trust. “Please, Madame...” she said, her voice cracking.

“Really, dear, it's nothing to be afraid of. A lot of the girls undress at parties and if you do the same I don't want you to be embarrassed. But how can I help you if you don't let me see?” Mary stood immobile, wishing she could run out.

“Madame is right, Mary,” Allegra added. “You'll soon find yourself a nice girlfriend and we can help you because we're more experienced. When you're naked there are ways to hold yourself to make yourself look dignified and attractive. Now take your clothes off. I see naked women all the time, and I'm sure you're prettier naked than almost all of them. Come on, shall I help you?”

Mary let Allegra unbutton her jeans, let her slide her t-shirt off. “Oh, she's lovely, isn't she, Allegra?” Madame said excitedly. “A lovely little waist, nice strong hips and shoulders. And I hadn't noticed what a well shaped bosom you have.”

“Take your bra off for Madame,” Allegra whispered, but with an authority that made Mary obey. “Panties too.” She stood shivering and naked, her hands flapping as she tried to decide whether she should cover her modesty or not.

“Mary, a nice young girl should shave her intimacy,” Madame said gently, “or at the very least trim it. Allegra will take care of those unruly curls for you.”

Mary was made to sit on the edge of the chair with her legs parted. Allegra used a large pair of shears to trim her fur down to stubble. “Mary dear, you've never been touched have you?” Madame said. “You're a virgin, aren't you?” She nodded, ashamed of her lack of experience. “You stay close to me at the party tonight, dear. I'll make sure no one takes advantage. When we have lunch tomorrow you'll still be a virgin, but I think you'll have had your first kiss. You'd like that, wouldn't you?”

Mary gave a shy smile, but then her expression turned sour as Allegra first brushed her mound with soap (the sensation made her feel like she was turning deliciously soft inside) then picked up the straight razor.

“It's really fine,” Allegra laughed. “I'm an artist with this, and I won't nick you as long as you sit still. You will sit still?”

“Yes Miss,” Mary said, sure that she wouldn't risk anything but perfect immobility whilst that blade was poised over her most precious flesh.

She soon appreciated that Allegra was very skilled. The blade barely seemed to touch her, yet it took away the stubble, leaving only pure white skin in its wake. Mary was tense as she tried to remain as still as a statue, but she found herself tormented by the feeling of Allegra's touch as she manipulated the skin to draw it taut, the better to shave every evidence of hair. Mary felt like her passions would drive her body to dangerous convulsions, feared that at any moment she would twist from her seat and be gashed to the bone by the razor. She felt beads of sweat trickling on her brow, and it was with the greatest relief that she saw Allegra's task brought to completion.

As she cleaned herself with a cloth a young woman, possibly no older than Mary, entered the salon. Mary felt her embarrassment grow as another stranger witnessed her nudity. “This lady is here to measure you for your outfit,” Madame informed her. “Stand up, Mary, while she measures you.”

The girl seemed unconcerned that Mary was naked, and did her job with a bored efficiency which suggested she had long tired of the novelty of the naked female form. “Shoe size, Miss?” were about the only words she exchanged with her client.

Madame made a list of detailed demands about the outfit that the girl was to pass to her employer. She girl looked at her studiously and assured her that she would pass on every word verbatim. “I'll deliver the outfit within two hours, Madame.”

And the promise was kept. Allegra served as dresser, assisting Mary to put on the clothing which she thought most unsuitable for a girl. The underwear was extremely fine, embroidered silk panties and bra, but all femininity ended with the undergarments. She wore a white linen shirt with a stiff, restrictive collar, enclosed with a plain red tie. She was to wear a tweed jacket, tailored to show her delicate waist, and breeches of a matching cloth. She had black knee socks knitted with a repeating diamond pattern up the side in grey-blue, and brogues which had a faint concession away from masculinity in their delicacy and a higher heel than would be expected.

When she looked in the mirror she felt utterly androgynous; she'd metamorphosed into a boy from an older time. She remembered the magazine and thought how she'd suddenly become one of the manly women that had been described. And for the first time in weeks, perhaps because of Madame's earlier warnings, she imagined how she'd be received back at the university if she was seen like this. She'd never be allowed to complete her course, and she'd be fined and publicly shamed.

But damn them all, she thought. She'd become more independent and she saw nothing shameful in loving another woman. And she did love someone, she realised. Sweet, beautiful Charlotte, she couldn't put her out of her mind. She would visit the café as soon as she could and beg her forgiveness, confess her true feelings and hope that Charlotte would reciprocate. She wished she could accept the tattoos, but she was too prudish to think that a woman could look attractive with those. But she'd heard that they could be removed, made almost invisible with the right treatment. She said a silent prayer that Charlotte and her would soon be united in love.

She woke late the next morning with the most awful headache and nausea. She'd already been tipsy from drinking brandy at Allegra's and the nap she'd taken seemed to do nothing to clear her head. Once she'd arrived at the party she was so nervous that she found herself drinking wine much too quickly and by the time that most of the guests arrived she was so drunk that her memories were incomplete and fragmentary.

She groaned aloud as she remembered her shameful behaviour. She remembered sitting in the lap of a beautiful woman that Madame had said was a special friend, remembered kissing her; this memory was intense, the joy as their lips met, the warmth and softness. But later she remembered she'd been lying with the same woman wearing only her bra and panties. And it wasn't in private, in a bedroom; she'd displayed herself like this in the ballroom.

But then many of the party girls had been entirely naked from early in the proceedings. She felt a twinge of horror as she tried to recall if she'd eventually taken off her undergarments too. She had to admit that it was a possibility. Then there was the memory of one particular girl who'd came to her. She was enormous, certainly no less than six feet tall in her bare feet, and it wasn't just her feet that were bare. She remembered the amusement of the crowd to see the giant (was she called Lisa?) embrace tiny, petite Mary. She was very voluptuous too, huge buttocks, thick thighs and breasts which were bigger than Mary had ever imagined possible. But she had a narrow waist and her hourglass figure was very attractive to Mary. She had thick, long dark curls, a pretty face, but very sensuous and knowing. Mary loved being held by her, her soft flesh seeming to envelop Mary's entire body. It made her feel safe and loved.

And then she remember that Lisa had one arm that was almost completely tattooed. She remembered that Lisa had mistaken her shocked staring at the patterns for admiration. “You like them, hon?” she'd said. “Kiss them.” And she had, she'd kissed the lines and colours and told Lisa that she was a very brave girl.

She screwed up her eyes and tried to sleep again, disgusted by what she'd allowed herself to become, but she was wide awake and had to endure her tormented memories and her hangover. She remembered that almost everyone present had been smoking, she could still smell the smoke on herself. That was something she hated; she'd be pleased if Madame banned smoking from her parties, or at least made people go outside to indulge their filthy habit.

She knew that today Madame would expect her to make a decision on working regularly at these parties. She would have to disappoint her. She couldn't live with herself if she became the sort of girl she'd seen there, who allowed her body to be used in any way that pleased the rich ladies who were Madame's clientele. And although it paid well and was in truth far easier than her work as a maid, wasn't there an honesty in her simple work in the hotel? She was grateful to Madame for her generosity, but would have to be truthful and say that this work wasn't something she could do.

Mary had no memory of coming back to her bedroom and was ashamed that she couldn't find her tweeds. However, there was another outfit laid out, and she noticed that there was a note on top. “Your outfit for lunch,” it read.

She came downstairs wearing a navy and white hooped top, grey Capri pants, red deck shoes and a nautical cap. She was wearing cat's eye sunglasses which she was astonished to find she could see through perfectly. And she was carrying a beautifully stylish leather handbag.

“Ah, here's our little star!” Madame called out. “How's my little Mary today?”

“I feel just awful,” she said. “I never drank so much in my life.”

Madame mixed up a sachet of powder in a glass of ice cold water and had her drink it. “This will make you feel better,” she assured her. “Let it settle you for half an hour, then we'll go for lunch.”

“Thank you, Madame,” Mary said. “I'm glad of the sunglasses, it's too sunny in here. How did you get them for me?”

“I went to your optician and had them make them in your prescription.”

Mary blushed at the extravagance of her friend. It would make her refusal all the more difficult.

They took a car to the restaurant, which Mary had heard was the most expensive in the city. Madame greeted the maître d' and asked for her usual table. “And tell Andrea that I'm here. I want to say hello.”

They were shown immediately to a good table and Mary took off her cap and smoothed back her hair. The lighting was low in here and she replaced her sunglasses with her round-lensed spectacles. “I'm sorry about last night, Madame. I got very drunk. I'm sure you were embarrassed by my behaviour.”

Madame laughed. “Poor little Mary, is that what you think of me? You were just enjoying yourself, and I was so pleased to see you relaxing. Everybody was very taken with you, but of course they would be. You look sad. Are you going to give me bad news?”

Mary felt ashamed as she nodded. “I don't think I can live like that, Madame.”

She put her hand on Mary's. “I'll accept your decision with no hard feelings. But remember, this is only for a few weeks. You'll be back at university next month and you'll be a nice sensible young woman again. Do you want your memories of your summer in Easthaven to be of getting up at five in the morning to tire yourself out cleaning up other people's mess, or do you want to remember an adventure? I sense that you're too conventional to take up the lifestyle [this was a code for people who lived openly in same sex relationships] and soon you'll be married, I dare say. This summer should be the time you look back on as the happiest of your life.”

Madame's encouragements were interrupted as the diners were joined by Andrea, the restaurateur. She greeted her friend effusively. “And who's this little angel? You always have the loveliest companions.”

“Andrea, this is Mary, my little heart breaker. She came to her first party last night, the belle of the ball, loved by one and all and now she tells me that she doesn't want to attend another party. She's going back to playing Cinderella till season's end, then she goes back to university.”

Andrea was a very striking Italian woman, slim and stylish, with the most beautiful thick black hair which seemed to gleam with a light of its own. She sat down next to Mary and peered at her inquisitively. “Darling, tell me this isn't true. How can you be so cruel as to deny your admirers, and I'm now one of them, your delightful company?”

Mary felt pained with embarrassment. “Madame Andrea, you're so kind but I'm sure I don't recognise myself in your description, I'm a very ordinary provincial girl, not pretty or interesting at all.”

“Marianne, she's just adorable, so shy and modest,” Andrea laughed. “Darling, why don't you escort me to dinner tonight and then I'll entertain you in one of the better hotels, if Madame Marianne agrees.”

Mary was scarcely able to believe this offer from such a beautiful (and evidently wealthy) woman. “Well that's very generous...”

“But Cinderella has to work as a hotel maid and she has to be up at five tomorrow morning. Another night out is out of the question, isn't it, Mary?” She nodded, sadly, her moment of happiness suddenly pulled out from before her. “Unless of course you left that awful job and came to live in a nice apartment in my house. But then you'd have to come and work for me, and I could really indulge you and make you happy.”

“Now that sounds like an offer you can't refuse!” Andrea said, taking Mary's hand. “Don't break any more hearts. Say yes to Madame. And to me!”

She nodded, almost afraid to move her head. She was so fearful that she was making a bad decision that she couldn't bring herself to speak.

“Oh Mary darling, thank you so much,” Madame gushed. “Andrea, she wore such a pretty little outfit, you'll adore it. I'll have it cleaned straight away. You'll make such a lovely couple.” She leaned in to whisper something to Andrea, who made a gasp of surprise.

“Oh, Marianne. And she's all mine tonight!”

Mary's heart was beating so hard that her ears roared with each pulse. She walked into the restaurant and nervously informed the waitress who greeted her that she was to meet Madame Andrea, but as she asked she spotted her companion waving.

“Oh just look at you! That little hunting jacket is just so pretty. And did you have a fresh shave just for me?”

“I did, Madame,” Mary said, her embarrassment growing. She'd been sent back to Allegra that afternoon and in addition to a merciless application of the razor her little remaining hair had been set in tight waves, swept back into a crimped quiff.

Andrea was unable to resist stroking Mary's scalp. “Oh, my, it's so bald. I love how it feels, so cool and soft. You're just so adorable, aren't you?”

A blushing Mary was so tongue-tied that she couldn't answer.

Andrea was a very charming companion, and after a couple of glasses of wine, Mary was sufficiently relaxed to be able to answer her questions. She remembered Madame's strict instructions: no serious subjects to be raised in conversation, never to disagree with Andrea's opinions, always look interested, never refuse a request, although it could sometimes be teasingly deferred to increase the sense of victory when finally giving in. A further warning was offered: the meal shouldn't be lavishly praised, since the restaurant was a rival establishment to Andrea's own. Mary negotiated this by thanking Andrea for a wonderful meal, but admitting that her lunch had been even more enjoyable.

And then it was back to the hotel. Mary was terrified now. She knew that more than companionship was expected of her now but this was new territory. She'd never been intimate with a woman before and felt a growing panic. Andrea seemed aware of her nervousness and sat her on the sofa. She poured them both glasses of brandy. “Have a cigarette,” she suggested, offering an enamelled gold case to Mary. She shook her head and explained that she didn't smoke. Andrea lit one of the long white cigarettes for herself.

“My poor little Mary, look at you. You look frightened of me.”

“I'm sorry Andrea, it's not you. It's just that... I never did this before.” She felt like she would start to cry at the shameful admission.

“And I think that's just magical, that you chose me as your first lover. I'll be very tender with you. You're so delicate and pretty. How could I ever be anything but?”

She unbuttoned Mary's jacket and eased it from her shoulders. “You dress like a boy. And with that haircut and those glasses you look so androgynous. Did you always dress like this?”

“Oh, no, Andrea,” she sighed. “I had such long hair when I came here at the start of summer. It was Allegra who cut it short.”

Andrea leaned forward and kissed her scalp. “She didn't cut it short, she shaved you. You're a little bald thing now. She knew just what would suit you, make you just irresistible.” She slipped the glasses off Mary's nose. “You have the prettiest face. I love that you hide it behind these big ungainly glasses. I've been just burning up with desire for you since I laid eyes on you.”

Mary was now willingly returning Andrea's kisses. She felt her ardour growing with every compliment. She did nothing to resist the clothes being stripped from her. Andrea moaned with delight as Mary's body was revealed. “Oh, dear god, I think I expected you to have a boyish little body, but look at you! You're more perfect than I could ever have believed.” She put her lips to Mary's nipple and let her tongue play at the distended nub. Mary's breathing fluttered as she felt an unfamiliar ecstasy.

And then she was splaying her legs for her beautiful patron. She gasped as Andrea's tongue explored her shaved sex, and now she was beside herself with joy. “You're a real virgin,” Andrea proclaimed, then pressed her tongue against Mary's intact hymen. “Do you want to offer yourself to me, Mary?”

“Yes, yes, more than anything, Andrea. You're the most beautiful woman I ever saw.”

Mary was led to the bed and Andrea was now naked apart from a harness around her hips that was armed with an upward curving phallus.

Mary's pleasure was short lived. She cried out in agony as the phallus was forced into her. She felt only pain as Andrea entered her and took her virginity. She wanted to beg her to stop but a glance into Andrea's face made her aware of how much this meant. She was transfigured, a profound joy filling her as she took Mary's virginity. The younger woman made every effort to feign a similar delight, although in truth every moment was suffering.

She woke the next morning still in Andrea's arms. She'd once more drank too much and was suffering for her overindulgence. She thought that she had to cut down on her drinking, but then imagined trying to repeat last night's experience without the aid of liquor. She admitted that she could only function in this capacity with alcohol's dubious blessings.

And what exactly was “this capacity”? She felt her cheeks flush with shame as she admitted that she'd prostituted herself. That was what she'd become, a whore, selling her virginity to a stranger for some clothes and a nice meal. And now she'd agreed to live in Madame's house would this be expected of her routinely?

Andrea rose early and after breakfast drove Mary back to her new home. She spent some time with Madame, talking privately in the office. She emerged looking happy and kissed Mary on the forehead. “You made me very happy last night,” she said.

“I hope we can meet again some time, I very much like you, Andrea.”

“Of course,” she said, but there was a coldness. “But I think now that we're in public you should call me Madame Andrea.”

Mary felt herself grow ashamed at this admonishment. The affection that she'd felt growing was a pretence, she realised. Andrea had wanted only to use Mary for her pleasure. She sensed that Andrea's desire was to take the virginity of young girls, and that she would never be of use to her again. She went up to her new room, took a powder and slept to rid herself of her hangover.

She was woken in the early afternoon by a girl she didn't know. “Madame is asking to see you,” she said. The anxiety in her voice made it clear she wasn't to be made to wait.

Mary entered the office and was told to sit. “Madame Andrea was very pleased with you,” her new employer said with evident satisfaction. “She's such a good friend she never pays for any of the services I offer but she insisted on leaving a little bit of cash for you. I'll make sure it's spent well, buying you nice things for your wardrobe.”

“Thank you Madame,” Mary said. She'd been afraid that she was in for a telling off but felt an enormous relief that her companion had been pleased with her.

Madame opened an ornate wooden box. “Have a cigarette.”

“No thank you, Madame, I don't smoke.”

She laughed sourly. “And that's just what you said to Madame Andrea! When I said 'Have a cigarette' did it sound like a question or an instruction?”

Mary felt herself become terribly upset. “It was an instruction,” she whispered.

“And when Madame Andrea said 'Have a cigarette'?”

“The same.”

“And weren't you supposed to obey her instructions?”

“Yes, but I don't like smoking.”

Madame looked at her with an expression of bitter amusement. “When you were a maid did you like cleaning toilets?” Mary shook her head. “But you did clean them?” She nodded. “And why did you do something that you disliked?”

“It was part of my job, Madame.”

“And now it's part of your job to do whatever your patrons ask of you. When a sweet young girl lights a cigarette, for some people it suggests things that she's hiding, that she's not so innocent after all. Now for some people this is an important part of their fantasy. And if you deny them their dreams, you take from their pleasure. And our work is to help people find pleasure, and to fulfil their dreams and fantasies. Last night you did very well, except for this one thing. Have a cigarette, Mary.”

She reached forward and struggled to lift one from the proffered box, her fingers clumsy. She had to use both hands to manipulate it to be held between her right index and middle fingers, then put it to her lips as Madame held out a lighter.

She coughed as the smoke entered her mouth. “There we are, you're a smoker now,” Madame said cheerfully. “All the girls here smoke, rather too much I sometimes think. But it helps pass the days, lifts the ennui of the house when there's nothing going on. You're to join in with them, get used to the taste. Watch how the other girls smoke, how they make it look sexy. Learn and copy. I don't want you embarrassing me again. You do understand, don't you, Mary?”

“Yes Madame,” she said contritely and took a reluctant drag.

She spent the rest of the afternoon in her bedroom, a melancholy affecting her. She felt more lonely than ever, and her regret at the circumstances of the loss of her virginity seemed at times unbearable. But then she'd remember moments of tenderness with Andrea, and sometimes her beauty seemed to become concrete in Mary's mind's eye. She found herself daydreaming that Andrea would fall in love with her and make her her lover, the two women leading a life of pureness and utter devotion to each other.

Her reveries were interrupted by a knock. “Mary, is it OK to come in?” Her visitor was the huge woman she'd met at the party. Her joy at her new neighbour was evident. She took Mary in her arms and pressed her to her bosom. “Oh, my little doll, I'm so pleased that you came to live here. We're going to be the best friends. I'll look after you like you were my little sister.”

Mary felt delighted that she would have a friend here, and she found all of her worries and fears melting away as she was hugged to the woman's soft body. She felt like a little girl again, remembered a time when she was six or seven when she'd been very ill and how everything seemed bearable when her mother her her in her arms.

“I have a confession to make,” Mary said, her cheeks colouring as she spoke. “I was quite drunk when we met, and I can't even remember your name. Is it Lisa?”

If she was offended she hid it well. “Almost. Lena!” she laughed. “You won't forget it again?”

“I won't. I was really out of control at the party and I remember very little, but the next morning my most vivid memories were of you.”

Lena kissed Mary on the forehead. “Such a dollie,” she laughed. “You couldn't stop looking at my tattoos, could you. Do you want to see them again?”

She went to sit on Mary's bed, pulling the younger woman to sit beside her. She slipped up the sleeve of her silk gown to expose her tattooed arm.

“I never liked tattoos,” Mary admitted. “No one had them where I grew up, at least not women. The only one I'd seen on a girl was at school and she got expelled. It was a shock when I came here and saw women with so many tattoos.”

“So you don't like mine?” Lena sounded curious. She was sufficiently self confident that Mary knew she wouldn't offend her with the truth.

“I think they're pretty but it's still a shock for me to see them. You have so many. To be honest, when I see tattoos I feel very guilty. A really good friend has some that I hadn't seen and I was really mean and nasty to her about them. We haven't spoken since and I miss her.”

“You should get in touch with her. Never let a falling out fester. She probably misses you too. Call her now.”

Mary muttered some dutiful words about how she should, but Lena was entirely serious. She took up Mary's phone. “What's her name?”

“Please, not right now...” Lena looked at her firmly but said nothing. “Charlotte. It's Charlotte.” Lena dialled and put the phone to her ear.

“Well, that's not going to work. Number not recognised. Do you know where she lives?”

“Yes, and she works in a café in the town. Maybe I'll call in there to see her.”

“You're scared to see her, aren't you? I'll go with you. Get dressed, I'll go and change and we can go now.”

Mary knew that Lena was right, but she was sick with nerves as she walked the short distance to the café. She didn't recognise any of the staff in the café and after inquiring was told that Charlotte had left weeks earlier. No one had any idea where she was working now. And they were no more successful when they visited the hotel where Charlotte had been resident. The desk clerk said he remembered her but she'd checked out a fortnight previously.

Mary was close to tears as she sat on a bench with Lena. “I feel awful. I was so spiteful to her, all because I got drunk. And then I kept putting off apologising to her. Now she's probably left the town and I'll never get to tell her how I felt about her.”

Lena looked at her sympathetically. “Were you in love?” Mary nodded. “When you feel strongly about people you sometimes behave irrationally. You only feel like this about people who stir your passions.”

“I wish someone had made me do this weeks ago. Now it's too late.”

“Maybe, maybe not. If she's still in town I'm sure your paths will cross again. Easthaven's not such a big place. But if you do get a second chance, take it. Don't ever put off important things.”

Lena put an arm around Mary and pulled her close, but even that did nothing to abate her sorrow.

In the evening Mary was told to dress her hair and apply make-up. Her lack of skill wasn't such a disadvantage, since her fellow residents were happy to assist. Lena shaved her scalp, obviously with some enjoyment, then sculpted her hair to a sleek pompadour. She added little wings of eyeliner to Mary's upper lids and gave her deep crimson lips. Mary giggled as she saw herself. It was an entirely new look for her, but wished her eyes weren't hidden behind her glasses. Madame came to inspect and nodded her approval. “You're not smoking though, Mary,” she reproached. “How many have you had?”

“Just the one you gave me,” she admitted. Madame stared at her, which was enough to induce fear and guilt.

“Lena, you need to take this one in hand,” she said and left.

“What's this about?” Lena asked.

“I said no when Andrea offered me a cigarette and apparently she wasn't pleased. Madame wants me to start smoking.”

“Aw, you don't smoke? That's a shame, you'll have to. Here, have one of mine.”

Mary allowed Lena to light a cigarette for her and her friend lit one for herself. “I never smoked before I came here, but it's hard not to. There are days when nothing's happening and there are always cigarettes available and now I smoke far too many. It's not good for me but I guess I'm hooked. Just try to smoke a few a day to get used to it. You'll be OK.”

“It's really horrible though,” Mary said, wincing as she took a little smoke into her mouth. Lena poured them both large measures of whisky.

“Drink as you smoke. It will help.”

Mary took a slug of the spirit but it only seemed to add to her discomfort. The pleasant warmth that spread slowly through her body was welcome though. “What's happening tonight, anyway? Why are we getting dressed up?”

“Same as every night, doll. We have some guests, we make them happy, Madame gets paid and we get a roof over our heads.”

Mary looked at her sadly. “This is what we do every night? God, I'm not sure I can live like this.”

“It's not so bad. It's a good place Madame has, the guests are nice, and if anyone gets rough they'll be put in their place. There are worse ways to make a living.”

“I'm sure you're right, but all I want to do now is get drunk. It can't be right to be so disgusted by my job that I have to get drunk to do it.”

Lena looked at her glumly. “You're right. I'm no different. You just have to admit that what we're doing isn't so bad. We provide a service that makes people happy. The trick is to take pleasure in what you do. If you have to pretend all the time it'll make you go mad. So drink up and stop worrying.”

The next morning Mary had pained memories of entertaining a succession of women, some sweet and polite, others whose pleasure seemed rooted mainly in her humiliation. She'd drank heavily, to the extent that she wasn't even sure how many women had paid for her services. She'd imagined that she would be able to spend an evening entertaining and being entertained as she had with Andrea but now she began to realise that that was a special privilege that would perhaps never be repeated. She rose and took a painkiller before getting some food from the kitchen. As she took the tray back to her room she passed Madame.

“I didn't see you smoking enough last night, Mary. Every time I see you today I want to see a cigarette in your lips, understand?”

“Yes Madame,” she said. Her throat was sore from smoking last night and each cigarette made her feel sick. She despaired of becoming addicted to the nasty habit.

As she struggled to open her room while bearing her food she heard her name from along the corridor. Lena was smiling at her. “Come and eat in here, doll,” she said.

She gave Lena a hug then sat to pick at her food, but she had little appetite. She wanted only to complain, about her hangover, about the rudeness of some of her customers, about Madame's insistence on her smoking. “I just feel so fed up here already,” she sighed.

Lena looked at her mischievously, then lit a cigarette. “I'll show you how to make it more fun.” She took a little foil square from her pocket and opened it up to reveal a little of a sticky brown resinous substance. She put the tip of her cigarette to the mixture and took a deep inhalation, then held it for as long as she could. She sighed ecstatically as she finally blew out the smoke. “Want to try it? It'll make everything feel better.”

Mary lit her cigarette then nervously bent forward to repeat Lena's actions. “Now you have to take a real deep breath, right in to your lungs or you're just wasting it, OK?”

“I cough when I draw the smoke right in,” Mary groaned.

“Well you'll just have to not cough. You're a grown up now, not a little girl,” she teased.

Mary shakily put the glowing tip to the resin and breathed in. There was a strange bitterness to the smoke now and she felt like she would explode as the smoke filled her chest. She made a gagging sound as she tried to hold in the smoke.

“I think you'd better let it go, you're turning blue,” Lena said. Mary blew out the harsh smoke and coughed.

“Oh... Oh shit, I feel all dizzy,” she said.

“Yeah, it's sweet, isn't it?” Lena took another turn at the resin and then held the remains out to Mary. “Another little puff, doll. You'll thank me for it.”

Mary did as she was bid, but only felt a growing nausea. She lay on the bed, her head spinning. Within ten minutes she was being sick. She returned to her room to sleep off the effects of the drug, but woke with a feeling of dread from the vividness of her nightmares. When Lena came to check on her she huddled in the bedclothes. “I didn't like it at all. I won't try that again.”

Lena hugged her tightly. “Aw, doll, I'm sorry. I forgot that the first time isn't usually so nice. I had it a bit like you my first time, but it's like sex, isn't it? The first time is just such a horrible time, but then it gets better and better.”

Mary blushed with shame. “I'm not very experienced,” she admitted. “When I was with Andrea the other night that was my first time.”

“Oh, doll! But you've... you know, had orgasms?”

“I think so,” she nodded. “Yes, I suppose.”

“And I suppose not,” Lena laughed. “Believe me, you don't have doubts.” She slid close to Mary and started to kiss her. “You're going to find out how it feels to experience real pleasure, Mary. You won't ever feel sad again when I'm here for you, doll.”

Mary felt an embarrassment as her friend began to grow excited. She was scared and too sober to let down her guard. But Lena's kisses soon began to have their effect. She began by long, gentle kisses on her lips, then spread her affections over Mary's cheeks, her neck, her scalp. The latter made Mary start to lose her inhibitions and she began moaning as Lena's warm, full lips pressed amorously at her delicate skin.

She paused briefly, to look deep into Mary's eyes. “Oh, doll, you're the prettiest girl I ever saw. I adore you!” She kissed Mary on the lips once more, but now with a desperate passion. She threw Mary back on the bed, the younger girl finding a marvellous thrill in how strong her lover was. She hefted her body like she was indeed a doll.

Now she kissed and caressed at Mary's ribs, with a teasing delicacy. Mary writhed at each touch which was delicious yet almost unbearable despite its tenderness. And now Lena was between her legs, her tongue lapping at Mary's clitoris, still teasing with a feathery gentleness.

Mary was panting, and felt a joy that was entirely new to her. This was what she'd dreamed of when she made her trip. Finally she was experiencing true bliss.

She was now panting, gasping, her joy filling her to a point where she felt like she would explode. And now Lena pushed her finger deep inside Mary while working at her clitoris more strongly. The pressure that had been building suddenly blossomed inside Mary and she screamed as she was consumed by a profound bliss. For those moments she felt like she was reborn, all of her previous experience as nothing. She felt her body convulsing, seemingly controlled by some external force, but one that she was only too happy to give herself to.

As she finally felt the convulsion pass she lay exhausted. Lena now moved to lie beside her. “There we are, doll. Had you had anything like that before?”

“No,” she sighed. “Oh Lena, it was the most wonderful thing. How can I ever thank you?”

“There's no need, I loved it too,” she giggled. She lit a cigarette and placed it in Mary's lips as she lit another for herself. Then she opened another foil parcel. “Try it again, it'll be better now.”

Mary was too awed by her experience to refuse Lena's request, even though she dreaded being sick again. She sucked in the bitter smoke and held it as Lena now dipped her cigarette in the drug.

Lena held out the foil to prompt a second dose for Mary and she obliged. Almost immediately she felt a tingling spread through her limbs, felt her head grow light, but now the room seemed to glow with a strange light that made every object, no matter how mundane, take on an uncanny beauty. And her gaze came to rest on Lena's tattooed arm. Every line seemed to have some weird perfection, as if each curve was a letter in some unknown language, spelling out a message of profound significance. Lena shifted her position and brought her arm to rest across Mary's breasts. Mary was unable to shift her gaze and lay in a trance for what seemed like a few minutes but when she lifted her head she realised that the light was fading outside her window and hours had passed.

She shook Lena, who had fallen into a deep slumber. She was hard to wake and looked blankly at Mary. “It's getting late,” Mary said. Lena looked at her watch and cursed.

“Shit, we need to get ready,” she groaned. “Madame will be furious if we're not downstairs in ten minutes.”

Over the next week Mary and Lena became inseparable. Not only did Mary love being in Lena's arms, but they frequently made love, exploring each other's bodies. And there was another reason. Mary found herself wanting to use the powder that Lena seemed to be able to provide endlessly, though Mary was expected to pay for her supply now. She'd assumed that it was some sort of cannabis preparation, but when she finally asked Lena she discovered that she'd been using a derivative of opium. She was rather shocked by this; despite her naivety she knew that opiates were very dangerous. She decided she should stop using but by the following day had lost the will to resist the pleasures she found in smoking it with Lena. The dull days went past in a haze of glorious sensuality when she smoked, and she was sure that as long as she didn't start to use it too often then she'd be fine. And Lena was careful to ensure that they never used too soon before their evening duties began. She hadn't said it explicitly but Mary understood that she shouldn't let Madame know about their experiments with the drug.

There were problems with her drug use. She found that she was prone to awful constipation, and she did tend to feel really bad in the mornings until she'd had a little top up. Her resistance to smoking had now been completely ended and she smoked rather more than most of the other girls, since she found it helped to steady her nerves when she was coming down from her highs. And she did have worries that she had lapses of memory. She'd smoked quite a lot of the mixture one afternoon when Madame had entered her room. “You've got to go to see Allegra this afternoon,” she'd informed her.

Mary could remember nothing of her appointment as she woke in her bedroom early that evening. She felt her scalp and it was shaved as smooth as it had ever been. When she rose and looked in the mirror she was astonished to see that her hair was now platinum blonde, set in waves across the top of her head. How was it possible that she'd been so transformed with no conscious memories? She was now very anxious and paranoid. If she'd been so out of it then Allegra could hardly have failed to notice something awry, and if she had then Madame would be sure to find out. She had a feeling of dread, sure that something bad would come of it.

But gradually she started to believe that her concerns were unfounded. Weeks passed and she became complacent about her drug use. No one had appeared to notice, at least no one that would cause problems for her. She was popular with the patrons at the house and she'd started to enjoy their attentions, her fondness for opiates and whisky easing away any of the occasional crises she experienced from her conscience.

It was only when Lena pointed it out that Mary realised that the date she'd set for her departure had passed. She'd been due to return to the university the previous week but the date had come and gone without Mary's cognisance. She shrugged as she realised her error. She could scarcely conceive of returning to Alpina with her current hairstyle, shaved, bleached, and, as of two days earlier, permed into stiff curls. She also found the idea of leaving behind her adored Lena, and the treasure she provided, hard to accept. She decided that now she would make her fortune her in Easthaven.

One stiflingly hot afternoon Mary was alone, her boon companion having had to make a trip into the town to purchase cosmetics. No sooner had Lena left than Mary indulged her cravings, smoking a wrap of her 'magic' as Lena liked to call it, and it was much more palatable for Mary to think of it by this name than its more sordid common name. She'd barely finished her cigarette when she was taken over my a sultry somnolence. She awoke in a state of confusion (not a rare occurrence following her afternoon naps) and realised that Madame was sitting watching her.

“You stupid little girl!” she snapped. “How long have you been using it?”

She looked at Madame with feigned innocence but couldn't look her in the eye. “Are you going to try to deny it?” She held up the piece of foil with half of its contents remaining. “I asked you how long.”

“Er... a week... or two.”

“And yet Allegra told me weeks ago that you were in a terrible state at one of your trips to the salon. If you want me to help you, tell me the truth. If you want to be on the streets in half an hour keep lying.”

“I'm sorry, Madame,” she said, becoming tearful now as her shame was finally out in the open. “I started using it within the first few days of coming to live here.”

“And where do you get it from?”

“A man. In town.”

Madame came to sit on the bed. “You're an awful liar. You do remember what I said was the punishment for lying?” Mary nodded, but felt she'd as soon die as betray Lena. “I'll make it easy for you. I'll make a statement and you tell me if I'm mistaken. Otherwise you needn't say anything and you won't have told on your friend. Is that better?” Mary was sobbing now, tears dripping as she nodded. “Lena gives you your opium. She gives it to you every day and you use it every day.”

Mary stared at the bedclothes in anguished silence. “Please don't make her go away. She's the sweetest girl, I love her so.”

“She'd been very, very bad. When she gets back you're to bring her straight to the office. We'll discuss how the two of you should be punished then.”

Mary couldn't stop crying and it was in that state that she walked into Madame's office with Lena. “Mary's told me everything about what you've been doing,” she announced, relishing the opportunity to drive a wedge between the two girls. “Want to tell me in your own words why you've been selling drugs to my girls?”

Lena looked lost and terrified, hurt at what she thought was Mary's treachery. “Please, Madame, I only brought it in for my use and then started giving some to Mary.”

Madame nodded and said nothing. “I'll send someone up to pack your things. You're not welcome here.” Lena begged for mercy, Mary adding to her pleas. “Shut up, both of you! Lena, I know that you've been selling to other girls. You tell me everything and you get a chance to make amends. One more lie and you'll be in a police cell before the day finishes.”

Lena was sobbing as hard as Mary now. “I started using about... four months ago. A woman who was in town for the weekend, a customer, she gave me some, and told me where I could buy more. The guy who sold it to me found out where I worked and said he'd let me have more to sell on here. I've been selling it since June I think. A few girls use it from time to time, there are three other girls beside me and Mary who use more often.”

“Addicts, you mean?” The word felt like a wound to Mary. “You're paid well to work here. I look after you. You got greedy, Lena. You'll pay me one fifty a week, backdated to the middle of May. You'll be moving out of this house into one of my other places, and that goes for you as well Mary. There have been comments from customers. This is a respectable place and neither of you meets the standard any longer. If you want to live a more bohemian lifestyle then you'll be moved to a more bohemian establishment. You remember Miss Kurtag, don't you, Lena? She's a favourite customer there. I'll see you get a makeover to endear you to her.”

Lena howled despairingly at this news, and Mary put an arm around her to comfort her. “Madame, I'll stop using that stuff,” she said, as nobly as she could.

“You'll do nothing of the sort. You'll be no use to anyone if you go cold turkey. You keep making money for me. But don't ever forget that's what you're here for. If you ever let your addiction harm my business you'll be thrown out immediately. You're on probation so keep yourself out of trouble.”

The two were kept apart for the rest of the day. They next saw each other the following morning when Madame informed them that they were going to get makeovers at Allegra's. “You know what you're in for, Lena, and I know you don't like it but that's too bad. You owe me a lot of money and this is the only way you can earn enough to pay me back. I want you to show me that you can be professional. Tears and tantrums will only make your punishment worse. Now hold your tongues while you're in my company. I heard enough of you two yesterday to last me a lifetime.”

The two girls kept a morbid silence. Mary felt a terrible desire to ease her pain with some of her 'magic', but hadn't had anything to use. She could see that Lena had indulged herself as a necessity to get through her ordeal.

They were immediately brought to the upper salon, which had been off limits to Mary since she'd last been accompanied by her employer. Allegra was waiting and greeted Lena with a degree of spiteful malice. “Your lovely curls, Lena. I've been wanting to do something pretty since we first met. Just a trim is it?” She guided the huge young woman into the chair.

“No, Miss,” Lena gasped, trying hard to hold her sadness in check.

“No, it certainly isn't. Lena's been a very bad girl and she owes me a lot of money. She's going to be sent to the Yellow Door and since the best paying customer there is Miss Kurtag I want you to make our redoubtable Miss Lena irresistible to our favourite patron.”

Allegra gave a whoop of delight. “You shouldn't look so miserable, Lena. She's a very nice woman, and very generous to her girls. She'll just adore you when I'm done.”

Lena's long curls were now spread over the shoulders of the cape, reaching down to cover her swelling breasts. Mary watched with a horrified fascination as Allegra began snipping away the thick mane of beautiful hair. She quickly made a circuit around Lena, cropping her hair to a crudely hacked bob, the hair finishing well clear of her shoulders now.

And now Lena's misery increased as she was shown the clippers that would now be used to shear away any semblance of long hair. The top section twisted into a knot, Allegra carved away the bob, cutting Lena's hair to just a few millimetres. As the back was cropped Madame called a halt. “Lena, what did I tell you I wanted from you?”

“No tears,” she said miserably.

“And are you crying?” She nodded, unable to speak. “And I told you that if you didn't do as I asked the punishment would get worse. Allegra, a shorter version please. Shaved rather than buzzed.” Lena gave a piteous groan as Allegra gave a triumphant cry.

“Lena, you should love this haircut,” Madame taunted her. “Do you know why?”

“No Madame,” she said.

“Because it's the haircut that's keeping you out of prison. Do you want to go to prison?” She shook her head, looking at Madame in terror. “Then you'll keep your hair nice and neat. Weekly visits, does that sound good, Allegra?”

“Oh yes, I'll keep her looking nice and tidy.”

Now Allegra re-buzzed Lena's nape, but now with the blades bared. The back of her head was shaved to the scalp. Mary felt her friend's pain keenly. She loved Lena's long hair, loved her femininity. She wasn't sure how Lena would look with a butch look.

As Allegra shaved the sides of her head Lena was evidently troubled and kept lifting the cape to dab at her eyes, which were now surrounded by streaked and blurred make-up. Try as she might, she couldn't stop crying, and Madame's threats only added to her sadness.

“Allegra, she looks like a panda. Can you get rid of her make-up and clean up her blubbering face? I mean, with this haircut she's not going to wear make-up any more. I know Miss Kurtag prefers it that way.”

Allegra took a soapy rag and scrubbed Lena's face clean. Mary looked at her sadly. She looked so different to the Lena she knew, younger, plainer. The loss of her hair undoubtedly made her look fatter too, her round cheeks exposed without the flattering frame of curls. She was distinctly androgynous.

But the haircut wasn't finished. The long hair on top was rapidly scissored to just a couple of inches, then Allegra wet it, blowing it dry so that it stood up on top of Lena's head. Now she delicately combed up little sections and ran the clippers over the comb. It was soon apparent that Lena was to have her hair cut in a severe flattop.

Allegra was, needless to say, very skilled in her barbering. Lena's hair was shaped with military precision, a longish flattop, at least at the top. The front rose stiffly, a little more than an inch above Lena's forehead, everything carved into angular planes, all the more jarring because everything else about Lena was rounded and soft. Once the top had been perfected Allegra delighted in lathering Lena's scalp, then shaved her with a safety razor, bringing off every trace of stubble. Her scalp had a pink glow now.

As she rose from the chair she touched her head and winced, withdrew her hand in shock. Mary stood and hugged her, but felt little attraction for Lena's new butch look. “Get yourself in the chair,” Madame snapped. “We don't have all day for you drug addicts to hug each other.”

“And what are we doing for this little criminal?” Allegra laughed as she caped Mary.

“Make her look like a little punk slut. She looks so wasted so we might as well use that to our advantage.”

Allegra snatched away Mary's glasses and combed through the blonde curls. Mary's hair had been allowed to grow on top and was now perhaps four inches at the front, though shorter at the crown. She felt a shock as Allegra flicked on the clippers and carved a path at the side of the top. She was sure that she was going to be bald.

She soon realised that she was to be allowed some hair but it wasn't much. Allegra sheared her at both sides and only a narrow strip along the centre remained, less than two inches wide. The rest of her scalp was ruthlessly clippered, then lathered and shaved to a glassy smoothness. Her thin eyebrows were eradicated by the razor too.

As she was being shaved, Mary could hear that Madame was issuing instructions to Lena. She was made to remove the colour from her nails, then clip them as close as she could. “Now strip out of that dress,” Madame insisted. “Your new outfit will be here soon. You look ridiculous wearing a dress now. From now on you're not to be allowed anything feminine.”

Mary's makeover was now into the colour phase. She had so little hair left that it took only minutes for Allegra to apply the dye. As it stained her hair, Allegra took the opportunity to apply Mary's make-up. Her eyes were thickly painted, more so than ever before. Even before her glasses were placed on her nose, Mary could see that her eyes were surrounded broadly in black. And the glasses that Madame provided were new, cat's eye shaped in black, ornamented with a red line at the top. She pursed her lips as she saw her new image, so heavy and overdone. Her lips looked too big, filled to a line outside their natural perimeter, like almost all of her make-up an inky black. Black comma-like forms surrounded her eyes, so thickly that they couldn't be hidden behind the striking new spectacles. Her cheeks were garishly streaked with hot pink, but perhaps worst of all were the angular new brows that Allegra had drawn, angling steeply and giving her a cruel expression. She didn't recognise, or like, the girl she saw in the mirror.

And the little crest of hair was now jet black. Allegra twisted the short locks into little stringy appendages which fell to the left, leaving the entire right side of her shaved head bared. “You can get undressed too, Mary,” Madame said coldly. “Your new outfit will be delivered soon.”

If Madame showed no reaction to the girls' makeovers, Allegra appeared happy. “Oh, look at you two. You look like a pair of criminals. On the run from the authorities, desperate to change your appearance. I think your disguise is the best Lena, you could pass for a man now,” she said cruelly. Lena wasn't amused in the least.

The two friends stood outside the salon waiting for their ride. Mary willingly accepted a cigarette from Lena, and soon realised that she'd added something to the tobacco. It was the only pleasure she'd felt all day.

Lena looked broken now, her new butch haircut supplemented by a baggy suit in houndstooth check. She wore a white shirt with a stiff collar that looked terribly tight on her wide neck, a dark red tie knotted neatly to make her look the perfect smart butch. Mary wanted to tell her it wasn't so bad, that she looked good, but she felt as sad as Lena at the effect of her makeover, and she knew she couldn't lie convincingly.

Mary was hardly more impressed by her own look. She wore a heavy leather jacket over a skimpy vest, a tiny tartan skirt and heavy army boots. She reached up to feel her hair and wanted to cry as she felt how near to total baldness she was. She couldn't believe that anyone could find her desirable.

The new house was further out of the town, and obviously less well furnished. As Mary and Lena entered the other girls sat in silence, taking in the new arrivals. Mary felt cowed by their stares, sure that they were hostile and unfriendly. She knew that in such a small community there were no secrets and that her new colleagues had been informed of the shame that had caused Lena and her to be sent here. She was, however, hugely relieved to see that they were to share a room. She'd imagined that Madame would want them kept separate as part of their punishment.

The manager of the house, Madame Simone, made clear that she wasn't thrilled to have the newcomers disrupting her business. “I know all about your problem. If I find you've so much as mentioned providing drugs to my girls you'll be taken to the police station in Kinslake and left to their justice. Madame Marianne has, pragmatically, said that your addiction is to be tolerated but you will moderate your intake. All of the drugs you bring into this house will be given to me and I'll dispense them to you at a rate that I think is appropriate. If you don't make yourself popular with our clientele, and make your services profitable, you'll be turned out on the street. I'll review your performance next week and at the end of each month after that. Suffice it to say that you're on probation and the least transgression will not be tolerated.”

As she left them, Mary felt close to tears. “What's Kinslake?” she asked.

“It's a town thirty miles down the coast, very religious and conservative. They think Easthaven is the new Sodom and they pray for it to sink under the sea. They have very strict lesbian laws and if we were subject to prosecution there we'd be in trouble.” She sounded no happier than Mary. She went over to the mirror and began rubbing the bristles on her head. “Oh shit, Mary, look what they did to me! I can't bear it.” She started to sob.

Mary pulled her over to sit on the bed and embraced her. “We've got to be strong, Lena. We only have each other now. You're still beautiful no matter what they do to you.” She kissed her friend and stroked at her soft, bald scalp. She felt a twinge of guilt at the contradictory impulses the sensation inspired. The smooth softness was enticing, thrilling, but at the same time she remembered the beautiful silky hair that Lena had so treasured. And despite her reassurances she remained convinced that Lena had been more beautiful with her long hair. But the cruelty of her transformation excited something in Mary, and even Lena's sadness was somehow enticing. This delight in her friend's suffering perplexed Mary, made her feel guilty, yet it was sufficiently powerful that she couldn't suppress it. She found her kisses becoming more urgent.

Lena resisted her weakly but Mary felt a desperate need to overcome her gloom through intimacy. She felt possessed as she undressed Lena, and gradually her friend began to reciprocate her arousal.

By the time they'd exhausted their passions Mary and Lena lay silently on the bed. Their awful situation came back to haunt them and neither could find words of consolation. Lena put an arm around her tiny lover and pulled her close and both girls slumbered.

Lena looked upset as the new Madame excitedly told her that Miss Kurtag would be present on this evening. “She's been told to expect a special treat, but she doesn't know what. Make yourself presentable for her, Lena. I know she'll be delighted to see you.”

Once they were alone again, Mary asked her who this woman was and why Lena was so afraid of her.

“She's notorious. Very rich but she likes to play rough. Madame Marianne didn't like her in the main house, she left marks on her girls. She didn't want to lose her custom though so she encouraged her to use The Yellow Door, where there aren't the same type of limits. If she pays enough she can do as she pleases, and money is no object to her. She loves big masculine women, and wanted to get me butched up but I was allowed to say no back then. Now I've been put here to entice her to spend more, but I know she'll be horribly cruel to me.”

It was only thirty minutes later that Mary was introduced to Miss Kurtag. She was in her late forties, and despite her preference for large women, she was slender and pale. Her hair was cut in an asymmetric bob, jaw length on the left, cropped tight around her right ear. Her pallid face was heavily made-up, blood red lips and darkly accented eyes. She was immediately taken with Mary. “So this is the new girl I was told would excite me. She looks like a sweet pretty girl gone bad. Like she fell in with a nasty street gang.” She spoke directly to Mary, despite speaking of her as if she was describing her to someone else. Mary felt her shyness rising and couldn't bring herself to say anything. She'd been told to say nothing about Lena; at the appointed time she was to lead Miss Kurtag to a private room where Lena was waiting.

She ran her hand over Mary's head, savouring the smoothly shaved scalp. “This is most unbecoming for a nice young girl. And these little bits of hair? Are they to allow your lover something to pull.” She insinuated her fingers into Mary's meagre locks and then started to pull at her head violently. Mary yelped, despite her best efforts to maintain a calm demeanour. Now Miss Kurtag held her head back and kissed her. “Oh, a smoker,” she said with distaste. “I suppose I should have expected it in such a wanton little slut. If I saw you smoking I'd have a real desire to punish you.”

Mary smiled at her confusedly. She felt that Miss Kurtag had expectations of her that she didn't understand. She blushed at her incompetence and naivety, and felt all the more ashamed because she knew that now she looked anything but naïve.

“Well?” her interlocutor said expectantly.

“Miss?” Mary said softly.

“Go and get a cigarette!” Miss Kurtag hissed under her breath, clearly piqued by what she perceived as Mary's truculence. Mary was quick to follow her instruction, but was shaking as she lit up. The hints she'd heard of Miss Kurtag's cruelty had put her on edge and now it appeared she would experience it for herself first hand. In the main house she'd never been subjected to physical punishment but now she was sure her true punishment for her sins was about to begin.

“You're a dirty little punk slut,” Miss Kurtag whispered. “A friend's daughter who fell in with a bad crowd. She's asked me to try to correct your failings and I'm going to punish you hard, but you're too far gone. Everything I demand of you you refuse. You defy me, despite my sternness. Isn't that so dear?”

Mary took a drag on her cigarette and blew the smoke in her face as she smiled nervously. Miss Kurtag looked simultaneously furious and delighted. Finally Mary was getting into the role she was expected to play.

“You need to be taught some manners, young lady,” Miss Kurtag said forcefully. “I'm going to take you somewhere private to give you a lesson in etiquette.”

Mary was beside herself. She'd had a day that had left her in despair and the thought of being beaten was too much. “No you're not,” she said, unaware of how she could be so defiant, and yet Miss Kurtag seemed only to perceive her refusal as playing her role. “I need a drink,” Mary said and stepped to the bar to help herself to a large whisky. She drank it in one gulp and returned bearing another.

“I should have expected that you're a drunkard too. Are you still going to try to defy me?”

“I just have a problem with authority, I guess,” Mary said softly. She took another swig of the harsh whisky and put her cigarette to her lips again.

She was suddenly being marched through the lounge, her arm pinioned so painfully that she had to try to keep up with Miss Kurtag or else suffer excruciating pain. There were jeers and cheers as she was forcibly taken to a private room, and she was sure that everyone knew the treatment that lay in store for her.

She entered a room which was surrounded with red drapes. The door was padded with studded red leather. Within moments a leather thong had been looped around her wrists and drawn tight. Miss Kurtag hooked it onto a fastening attached to a rope which dangled from the ceiling. It was tightened over a pulley and tied off on a hook on the wall. Mary found herself almost suspended, having to stand on her toes to take the weight off the thongs which dug painfully into her wrists.

Her skirt was tugged down to her ankles and her panties followed. A hard slap on her buttock made Mary squeal. “So, Missy, not so defiant now, are you?”

Mary didn't know what was expected of her. Was there some way she could escape a punishment? She tried to think of how to appease her torturer but realised it was hopeless. Miss Kurtag was here to express her sadism and Mary was to be the conduit through which her pleasure would be achieved. She had to play her role to the best of her ability. She knew that to beg for mercy would only make Miss Kurtag genuinely furious. To play the part of the surly, obstreperous punk was her best route to being released more quickly, she was sure.

“Let me go, you bitch,” Mary said, though her voice was weak and tremulous.

“Don't you dare!” Miss Kurtag bellowed. The fire in her dark eyes made it clear that Mary was exciting her. “Show some respect for your elders and betters!”

“You're a... bitch!” Mary said, unable to think of another insult.

Miss Kurtag disappeared momentarily behind a curtain and reappeared bearing a riding crop.

“You'll regret that,” she said menacingly. She flicked the crop through the air to allow Mary to hear the swish. Each time she made a stroke closer to Mary's body and each time it made her flinch. Finally it landed on the back of her thigh.

Mary groaned at the impact, then roared as the pain seemed to grow for the next few seconds. Miss Kurtag took hold of Mary's crest of hair and pushed her off balance, so that all of her weight was pulling on her wrists. “I thought you'd be a little braver, Mary. Are you going to beg me to be set free?”

“Never,” Mary said, although in truth she'd have done anything to be freed. She felt sick with fear and realised that she was struggling to hold her bladder. Another stroke of the crop hit her thighs. Then another. Another.

If Mary had hoped that she'd become accustomed to the pain then she was soon deprived of such optimism. Each blow seemed only so sensitise her and each new impact seemed twice as painful as the last one. Soon she was crying desperately, pushing her body aside to try to reduce the force, but Miss Kurtag was always moving behind her so that she didn't know where the crop was coming from. The aching from her wrists now seemed almost insignificant compared to the pain from her thighs and buttocks.

After a dozen blows had turned her flesh (she was sure) into a lacerated mass Miss Kurtag paused. “Mary, do you renounce smoking, drinking, lesbianism?” she asked.

“Please, no more,” Mary sobbed.

“Do you want to kiss me?” she said seductively “Does my beauty excite you?”

“Yes Miss,” Mary whispered. She wanted anything to stop another blow.

“Tell me what you did to get yourself sent here.” Suddenly something had changed. This was no longer her role playing, Miss Kurtag was serious. Mary shook her head, too ashamed of her behaviour. Too afraid that she was letting down Madame to admit to the sort of bad behaviour that would bring shame on the reputation of the business.

A shriek filled the room as Miss Kurtag dug her nails into the raw weals on Mary's left buttock. She took away Mary's glasses and flung them across the room. “Now that's only the beginning, Mary. I have ways of hurting you that you can't dream of, but that will give you nightmares for months. Are you going to try to keep your secret?”

“Please Miss, I promised Madame.”

Mary's head was covered in a leather hood, loose about her head but tight around her neck. She felt claustrophobic, that she couldn't breath. Now she yelped as she felt her mistress slide her fingers between her buttocks. They were slippery with a thick gel.

“I'm going to put something nice and big in you, Mary. You're a very naughty girl and this will hurt, but it's nothing less than you deserve, is it?”

The pleas for mercy were muted by the thick hood. The plug that Miss Kurtag forced home was far too big for Mary's anus to bear easily and she felt sick as it slid inside, sure that something so big would cause her damage.

Now she felt Miss Kurtag place her lips about her breast, sucking and licking at the nipple. The pleasurable sensation didn't last long, however. She let her teeth close on the delicate flesh, nipping and tugging. A tight clamp was fixed, biting at the soft nipple.

“Miss, please, no more,” Mary howled. “I was taking drugs. That's why Madame Marianne sent me here.”

“Which drugs?” Miss Kurtag sounded intrigued now.

“Opium, Miss,” Mary sobbed, ashamed to admit her addiction. She felt no pleasure as the hood was pulled from her, even though she despised wearing it. Without it she had to face Miss Kurtag.

“Oh, you really are a bad girl!” Mary saw her examining her arms. “You didn't inject?”

“No, I smoke it.”

“Smoke? Not smoked? You still use?” Mary nodded guiltily. “Will you smoke for me now?”

“I can't Miss, I don't have any. Madame keeps my supply now and I can only use what she provides. That was my promise to her.”

“But you promised to do whatever I want to. Next time I'll bring some for you and you will get high for me, won't you?”

“But Madame...” A finger on the lips silenced Mary.

“Madame wants you to please your clients. I will sort everything out with Madame. She likes the money I pay her and everything has a price. You'll do as I say, won't you, Mary?” Mary was too weak not to assent.

She was made to thank Miss Kurtag for releasing her from the bonds by kneeling before her and bringing her to orgasm with her tongue. Miss Kurtag purred with pleasure and fell back on the bed. “Very good, my little slut, but next time I'd prefer to feel a stud in your tongue. Make sure to tell Madame your tongue is to be pierced.” Mary looked at her, horrified to think that this woman seemed to think that she could have her pierced on a whim. “Get it done tomorrow so it has time to heal,” she said, less friendly now. She stared at Mary. “We're not playing now, I don't want defiance. You'll do this or you'll pay a heavy price.”

“Yes, Miss, I'll tell Madame your wishes,” she said, hoping that Madame Simone wouldn't mutilate her to appease a single customer. “Miss, I want to introduce you to a friend of mine. Madame thinks she's someone you'll like very much.”

Miss Kurtag looked intrigued. “There's another new girl here? Not just you?”

“That's right. Would you like me to take you to her room or should I bring her here?”

Lena was trembling as Mary led her in. She was dressed in her suit and tie, no make-up, wearing a very masculine cologne. Miss Kurtag whistled as she took in her new visitor. “Oh my, look at you. What a pretty one we have here! Madame wasn't kidding.” It was only after a few moments that she showed some recognition. “Have we met before? At the big house?”

“Yes Miss, I'm Lena.”

Miss Kurtag ran her hands over Lena's head. “You used to have long curls, didn't you? When did you get your hair cut?”

“This morning, Miss,” Lena said morosely.

“Oh, you poor thing. You looked so pretty with your long hair. This makes you look so masculine. Fatter too. I bet you're still really upset, aren't you?” Lena was unable to speak as she tried not to cry, but her eyes were filling with tears. “I'd like to keep you very butch, Lena, so get used to it. I'm going to make sure you don't go more than a week without a good haircut. I'll see to it that Madame puts up a picture in your room of you as you were when you were pretty, right next to your mirror, to remind you of what you lost, and in the mirror you'll see a butch sub, my sub. You'll be getting fatter too, you can be sure.” She ran her hand over Lena's head, smiling beatifically as she took in the sensations of the prickly hair on top, the smooth shave below. “Get undressed, Lena,” she whispered.

“What did this one do to get herself into so much trouble?” Miss Kurtag demanded of Mary. She looked pleadingly at the woman who scared her more than any other, desperate not to betray her friend. “Oh it's like that? When you said she was your friend, you meant it?” Mary nodded. “Well then, I suppose it would be cruel for me to make you tell her secrets.” She stared at Lena's now naked form, caressing her rounded, soft belly and her pendulous breasts. She bound Lena's wrists behind her back with the same thong that had recently caused Mary such distress. Lena was now equipped with a ball gag, the red rubber ball uncomfortably large. Now Lena gurgled as she was driven into the centre of the room and her arms pulled tight up behind her bowed torso, the thong tied to the rope which was fed through the pulley in the ceiling.

The unfortunate young woman was now made to wear a butt plug of the same dimensions as Mary's. She squealed into the gag as it was forced home, and Mary was astonished to see how widely she was stretched to take the conical plug. She remained severely discomforted by her own device.

“Now Mary...” Miss Kurtag smiled. “I'm going to see how much of a friend you are. If you don't tell me what naughty little Lena has done I'll keep beating her. If you do tell I'll make sure I exploit her misdemeanours until she ends up in more trouble than she could have ever imagined.”

“Please Miss, you said you wouldn't make me tell,” Mary sobbed.

“I said nothing of the sort. I said it would be cruel of me to make you tell.” She smiled enigmatically. “You must have noticed. I am cruel.”

Mary was ordered to bring the crop that had inflicted the injuries that still stung at her at made every movement painful. “Do you think the fat will protect her?” Miss Kurtag scoffed? “I've always wondered if it makes a beating more painful or less. Maybe I should use you to test it out, Mary. Make you fat too and see whether it affects your sensitivity.” She cracked the whip against Lena's backside, making her cry out. “Would you like that, Lena? A little fat friend?” She shook her head desperately. Another few strokes of the crop landed. “She could stop this beating whenever she pleased. I'm not sure she's as good a friend as you imagined.”

“Please stop, I'll tell you everything,” Mary cried.

“But if you do I'll use it against her,” Miss Kurtag whispered in Mary's ear. “If I knew that Lena was involved in, say, criminal activities I'd be sure to blackmail her into doing things she'd hate. And it would be your fault for giving away those secrets. I might take her away from the house and make her my pain slave.”

Mary looked at her, appalled. She felt that Miss Kurtag was serious. Mary had seen how cruel she was and was sure that she had the potential to do as she threatened. She felt sick as she understood that she'd admitted to her own criminality and had left herself exposed to being blackmailed. “Please Miss, be merciful,” she said numbly.

Miss Kurtag proved that she would be nothing of the sort by swatting at Lena's breasts which hung heavily from her chest. The gag muffled her cries, but Mary was in no doubt as to how she was suffering. Now the blows rained without cease, flicking from left to right, the air swishing before the leather bound cane cracked against soft flesh. “Please Miss, stop,” Mary sobbed. “She did the same as me, she was taking opium.”

Miss Kurtag paused, but then resumed the beating. “I think you're holding something back,” she hissed. “Lena did something worse than you, didn't she?”

Mary felt confused, and swore that that was all there was to it, but Miss Kurtag didn't stop. Lena's breasts were striped with purple now and blood oozed from several spots. “Miss, she supplied the opium to me and a few others,” Mary blurted out. Would this be enough to stop the beating?

Lena was released and the gag removed. She was shaking and unable to speak. Mary couldn't bear to look at her, so sickened was she by the betrayal she'd been forced to make. Miss Kurtag would make her life utterly unbearable, she was sure. “On your knees, Lena,” their tormentor ordered. “Mary, you may remove her butt plug.”

Pulling out the oversized plug only added to Lena's distress, but when it was free she sobbed with some relief. Now she was made to kneel before her friend as Lena returned the favour. Easing it out made Mary mew like a kitten, the stretching making her feel weak and sick. The pain was more than she could bear. She felt the worst despair of her life, sure that this suffering and humiliation would be unavoidable now.

Miss Kurtag made the two young women kneel on all fours now, facing in opposite directions. Mary gasped as she felt a slippery dildo being pushed between her tormented buttocks. She soon deduced that it was double ended and that now it linked her and Lena. “Now, girls, move together,” they were ordered. “Your buttocks have to press together.”

Every movement caused Mary distress. The girth of the dildo and its length were too much for her. She felt sure that it would tear something in her. “Please Miss, I can't take it,” she protested. She felt the sting of the crop on her back, wielded more savagely than at any time.

“I didn't ask for a commentary. I want obedience.”

Mary tried to manoeuvre herself back as gently as she could. Lena was crying too. It seemed to take an eternity before their flesh touched, and when it did it only served to remind Mary of the extent of her wounds.

Miss Kurtag reclined against the edge of the bed and pleasured herself with a vibe, seemingly delighted by the tortures she'd inflicted. She orgasmed noisily, then put on a robe. “Stay right where you are, ladies. I'll be back in a few minutes.”

“Oh Lena, I'm so sorry,” Mary groaned. “This is so awful, worse than I could ever have imagined. I just want to run away right now.”

“Madame would never allow it,” Lena said. “If we tried to leave we'd be arrested. If you think this is bad...”

“I do,” Mary said gloomily.

The door opened and they fell silent as Miss Kurtag returned. “My little treasures, you've made me so happy tonight, so I've brought you a little present.” She held up two small packages wrapped in plastic film. “I know Madame is being miserly in allowing you your special pleasures so I've obtained a little extra for you. Of course you'll have to keep it as a little secret from her. You can take out the dildo now, girls.”

They slid out of their agonised posture slowly and with many exclamations of pain. Eventually they stood before Miss Kurtag. “Bend over, Mary,” she ordered. Mary winced as the package was stuffed inside her. “You're to keep the drugs hidden in your rectums, just like the criminals you are,” Miss Kurtag laughed. “Just be careful when you use it. It's very pure, probably twice as strong as what you're used to. Don't use too much or you'll make Madame suspicious.”

Lena was given the same treatment and now they were ordered to dress. “It's still early but Madame has said you can sleep, given what you've done tonight. I'll make sure she's well recompensed for your services.”

The two friends embraced and sobbed as soon as they were alone in their room. They had no words to express their fear and pain at their treatment. Only after they'd exhausted their tears did they take turns applying ointment to the wounds that Miss Kurtag's beatings had inflicted. Neither could sit without agony. It was Lena who suggested a temporary solution. They had a generous supply of opium now, courtesy of their tormentor and Lena prepared a cigarette for each of them. As they began to smoke they realised she'd been truthful in her appraisal of the purity and efficacy of the drug. Both women were immediately comforted, the pain receding and a gorgeous warmth filling them. They fell into bed together and attained a blissful stupor.

They awoke the following morning, now filled once more with pain and despondency. Mary could hardly say a word and Lena groaned as she took in her appearance as she washed. Her suffering was evident as she saw once more her unflattering haircut. She touched her hair with disgust, as if it were something dirty. Mary hated to see her friend's pain and went over to her to kiss her. “You look lovely, even with your flattop,” she smiled. She glanced in the mirror and winced as she saw herself. Her face was smeared and streaked with black make-up and she bent to the sink to wash it away. Even after her face was cleaned Mary disliked what she saw. She looked pale and ill, her eyes dead and sunken. She realised that her constitution was more delicate than Lena's, less able to bear the effects of the drugs that she'd been using too much. She knew she had to stop, but even as the thought occurred she knew that she was too weak to break her habit. She knew that her life had become unbearable and only the delicious numbness that the drug provided could make her able to face another day. “Can you do my make-up?” she asked Lena.

Soon she had her thick black cat's eye make-up once more, dark red lips. It hid her malaise and she knew that she must always wear it now to disguise her addiction. She thanked Lena and rewarded her with scarlet lips and some mascara. It softened and feminised her friend's face, made her prettier. Lena obviously liked it but shook her head. “Madame will never allow it. She wants me butch to punish me.”

“It's only subtle, she'll probably not even notice it. Anyway, Madame probably doesn't care about how you look until she comes visiting.”

Around noon the two friends were summoned to see the owner. “Ladies, you've been invited to meet your patron in town this afternoon. I'm pleased that she was so taken with you last night. She paid very handsomely and I'm inclined to forgive you for your past sins. I'm sure your new colleagues will tell you that I'm known for my generosity and I'll make sure you have some nice outfits purchased to keep you looking lovely. Now go and get dressed; in an hour you'll be setting off for lunch with Miss Kurtag.”

It was with great anxiety that the two young women entered the restaurant where Miss Kurtag had arranged to meet them. She waved at them and summoned them to her table. “Look at you, Lena, wearing make-up! I think I like it on you, I might allow this look for you at times. Well, not this exactly, I'm sure I can improve you. Now don't just stand there, girls, take a seat.”

They sat silently at either side of their benefactor. “My poor little kittens, you look sore. I did give you a beating, didn't I? You don't mind that I'm demanding with you?”

“No, Miss,” both women said, knowing that to speak the truth in this situation was forbidden.

“You're such a lovely pair. I'm paying a lot to Madame for you both. You'll be my girls now, more or less exclusively, at least when I'm in town. In return Madame has agreed that I can take a little more control. She doesn't normally like her girls to be bruised but since you're both mine then we can go as hard as I know you little sluts like. And it also means that I own your appearance.”

She smiled as she saw her guests shift uncomfortably. “Lena, what weight are you?”

“I'm a little over two hundred pounds, I think, Miss.”

Miss Kurtag pursed her lips. “Come on, dear, don't be coy. Your real weight please. I don't like evasiveness. Do you want me to have to punish you?”

“No Miss, I'm sorry. I'm sensitive about my weight. I haven't been weighed for a month or more. I was a bit over two forty then. I'm not sure exactly what I weigh now.”

“That's better,” Miss Kurtag said warmly. “You know I've always been keen on your body since we first met but you're a little too slim for my tastes. You'll gain until you're three hundred and we'll reassess then to see if that's big enough. After all, you are very tall.”

Mary looked at Lena and saw how upset she was. She mumbled her agreement, trying to appear nonchalant. “Doesn't it sound exciting, Mary? Do you want to see your friend become a real fatty?”

“Yes, Miss. I'd like that.” Mary tugged at the sleeve of her leather jacket.

“That's good, because I'm putting you in charge of making sure she's eating properly. If she's not growing fast enough I'm going to have to punish you so hard, dear. You won't disappoint me, will you, girls?”

They hastily swore their agreement as their meals (ordered by Miss Kurtag) arrived. Lena's lunch occupied a huge platter. Miss Kurtag chuckled. “I'm not saying that every meal you'll eat will be as luxurious as this one, but it will equal it quantitatively if not qualitatively. I love big bellies and yours needs some filling.”

Mary's lunch was of more modest (but still hardly parsimonious) proportions, beautifully prepared but of various types of offal that she found rather repellent. She ate it out of duty. As the two friends struggled through their meals (for differing reasons) Miss Kurtag proposed the afternoon's entertainment. “Are you ladies dramatically inclined?” Her question brought looks of confusion. “I thought we could do some role playing after lunch. I have a room in a local hotel where we could play out a little scene. I'm sure you'll both love what I have in mind.” Both forced smiles and agreed that it sounded delightful.

“Did you try out my present yet?” Miss Kurtag asked, now lowering her voice.

“Yes, Miss,” Mary said softly. “It's really of the best quality. Very good indeed.”

“And do you have it with you?”

“No, we hid it in our room.”

It was obvious that Miss Kurtag didn't approve. “And if Madame finds it? You know she'll have you arrested. Do you know what they do to girls like you in Kinslake? The latest treatment is aversion therapy. They give emetics and electric shocks to try to cure you of liking women. Every day. And because it doesn't work the treatments will go on forever. They don't send lesbians to prison there, they send them to treatment centres, but that's worse. You complete a prison sentence but you don't get out of treatment until you're cured. I've never heard of anyone being released.”

“We hid it well, Miss,” Mary promised.

“But Madame knows every spot in those rooms. You don't think every girl has something she wants to hide? Every smart idea has already been tried. From now on you keep your stash hidden inside you. No taking risks, you're too precious for that.”

They arrived at the hotel, a rather undistinguished, if large, establishment. Miss Kurtag took them to the lift, but they went down rather than up. She took them to a small store room and told them to sit and wait for her. “You can read this, Mary, and get in the mood to play your roles.”

Mary took the envelope and read it aloud as soon as they were alone. “You're a pair of drug addicted, lesbian whores who became careless and were caught carrying a big supply of opiates. You've been found guilty of trafficking, soliciting and moral indecency and you're sitting in a room in court awaiting sentencing.”

Lena laughed humourlessly. “You think she's giving us a warning?”

“It's not very subtle, is it? I think we're going to get a punishment we won't easily forget.”

The door opened and a uniformed woman they'd never seen before stood before them. She was tall, almost as tall as Lena, but muscular. In her hand was a wooden baton which she used to point at Lena. “You! Stand!”

Lena was shackled, the cuffs on her ankles and wrists connected by short chains. Once she'd been bound Mary had to suffer the same indignity. They trudged after their captor, making short shuffling steps, which was all that the shackles allowed. They were taken into another small room where Miss Kurtag sat behind a desk, dressed in the robes of a judge. Mary and Lena were prodded with the baton until they stood before her. “You've been convicted of three very serious charges,” she intoned menacingly. “Trafficking of class A controlled substances, soliciting sexual congress and moral indecency. Since both of you were guilty of identical offences then the sentences will be the same for both. For trafficking you'll serve nine years in a penitentiary, one week in every four to be spent in solitary confinement. For your soliciting you'll concurrently serve a three year sentence, with religious instruction as an added obligation. After one year in prison you'll be transferred to a moral reprogramming clinic. You'll be transferred back to prison to complete your sentence upon proof that your corruption has been eliminated. Should you exhibit any signs of immorality during your prison term before the reprogramming you'll serve your sentences in series, and serve your time until your transfer to the clinic in solitary confinement for your protection, and that of other prisoners. May God have mercy on you. Take them down, officer.” Mary followed Lena out of the room, feeling a heavy oppression at the words of the sentence. She felt that they were realistic (in fact they were taken verbatim from a real case) and knew that if she fell foul of her employer then she might hear such a sentence passed for real.

The two young women were led into an adjacent chamber where their guard made them strip after freeing them of their shackles, even Mary's glasses being stored away in a box. “Put your feet on the marks on the floor, prisoner!” she barked at Mary. “Now squat.” Mary did as she was bid and looked in horror as the guard put on latex gloves. “Open your mouth.” She pushed her fingers roughly into Mary's mouth, probing around her cheeks and under her tongue. Mary gagged at this intrusion, her mouth now contaminated with a strong rubbery taste. Now she was instructed to part her buttocks. The wounds made any touch sting and she groaned as she complied. Two fingers, lubricated only by her own saliva, were pushed into her anus. She felt sickened by the discomfort and humiliation. The examination was completed with the same fingers, dirty and stained, being roughly forced into her sex. She noticed that there was a movement at the eyehole in the door.

Lena endured the same demeaning investigation. Then both women were pushed under a shower. It was ice cold and Mary cried out in shock as the water hit her. Liquid soap was squirted at her by the guard, who ensured that her eyes were soaped well. She scrubbed to try to reduce the stinging but it was worse than she'd ever experienced. She was left blinking and half blind as the shower was finally turned off. She stood trembling with cold as no towels were provided. Instead she was covered in a white powder which smelt of ammonia, a delousing compound she assumed. It made her skin itch.

Both women were now made to dress in the prison uniform, a drab red tunic and trousers. Lena's was far too small and partly exposed her belly, which was still distended from her copious meal. “Sit in the chair,” the guard said to Lena.

Miss Kurtag now entered, dressed in a barber's smock. She held a straight razor and now gripped Lena's head, bringing the blade to her forehead. Mary watched in fearful shock as the razor was pulled into the short hair on Lena's head. “Please Miss, not that,” Lean begged, panicking as she realised that her little remaining hair was to be shaved.

Her pleas were truncated by Miss Kurtag's severe discipline. At her waist was a leather used to strop her razor. She took this and swiftly clapped it four times on the palm of Lena's hand. “Finished your back chat now, prisoner?” Miss Kurtag hissed. A quietly sobbing Lena croaked a penitent affirmation.

Now the blade scraped back through the short hair, clearing a pale path over the top of Lena's scalp. The skin looked red and irritated where the blade chafed: the moisture of the shower had largely been absorbed by the application of delousing agent and Lena was effectively being dry shaved. There was a noticeable bloom of stubble on the back and sides and this had to be sprayed to wet it to allow the razor to cleanly shave the hair. Miss Kurtag was obviously well practised with the razor but in her haste she managed to cause a few nicks to Lena's head. As she was told to stand, Lena continued to cry and she was unable to lift her head. Mary felt furious at her friend's treatment.

Now Mary was told to sit. “You look disgusting!” the guard said venomously. “A dirty little punk addict. You don't deserve to have hair if you choose such a ridiculous style.” Miss Kurtag sliced away the long pieces from Mary's crest, then wet her scalp, before shaving every trace of hair. The blade dragged at the stubble and Mary's anger soon dissipated into humiliation. She imagined the faces of the other girls at the house when they saw the unwelcome newcomers returning, both hairless and ugly. She knew that they'd take pleasure in her ignominy.

She was told to stand and supplied with ugly glasses, tiny, thick round lenses fitted in heavy faux-tortoiseshell frames. Her rough collar was now coated with tiny clippings, and itched ceaselessly. She was made to sweep up the remains of Lena's and her own hair, and to wipe down the seat.

The punishments now began in earnest. Mary was pushed into a metal locker, barely big enough to contain her, no light at all allowed to enter. She was unable to stand fully erect, but the floor was too small to allow her to kneel. The surface was hot, since a fan heater was blowing continuously on the exterior and the atmosphere was heavy and humid. Mary's heavy uniform was soon heavier still, soaked with her sweat, and the stifling heat and the claustrophobia made her feel sick. To add to her discomfort she could hear muffled cries as Lena was made to endure unknown indignities. And yet Mary knew that all too soon she'd discover what Lena was suffering, since their positions would be reversed and it would be Mary's turn to be tortured by Miss Kurtag and her nameless assistant.

The hour she spent in the locker seemed to last three times that duration. She was quivering with terror as she was taken out, helpless since her muscles had cramped up. Lena, her mouth stained with blood, was pushed into the locker, but it was obvious to Mary that she could never be contained. The guard shouted abuse at her but there was clearly no way that the door could be closed, Lena was simply too large. Instead she was now made to drag a small cage of welded steel bars into the centre of the room and had to crawl inside it (it was no more than eighteen inches high) and adopt a foetal position to permit it to be closed. A heavy tarpaulin was wrapped over the cage, the fan heater now shifted so that it blew hot air under the edge of the canvas.

Miss Kurtag was now dressed in a uniform similar to Mary's, while the guard stood beside her, tapping her baton against the palm of her hand. “On your knees, scum,” she roared. “You're Miss Kurtag's bitch and you'd best show some respect.” Mary fell to her knees heavily, her leg muscles leaden and twitching spasmodically.

“Lick,” Miss Kurtag said, pulling down her trousers to expose her sex. Mary immediately sought to provide her with pleasure, desperate to sate her in the vain hope that she might be spared further suffering. “Tunic off,” came the next order. Mary stripped to her waist and immediately set to working her tongue over Miss Kurtag's clitoris again. Her work was interrupted as the older woman cupped her chin and examined her face.

“You're a pretty girl but you're ruining yourself with all those drugs. And the smell! You smoke too much, Mary, that has to stop.”

Mary started to say something, aware that she was so dependent that she felt she'd never be strong enough, but then remembered her status. “Yes ma'am,” she said.

“OK, lick.” Mary returned to her task, eliciting a blissful sigh from Miss Kurtag. She'd started to relax when a stinging pain tore across her back. She turned to see the guard had struck her with a lash of numerous leather thongs.

“Were you told to stop?” Miss Kurtag asked tetchily.

“No Miss,” Mary snivelled and started to lick again.

“You're being punished for taking horrible drugs and ruining your body.” Another lash cracked on her back. Mary winced but kept to her job. “Anyway, I like how a punishment focuses the mind of my little pleasure slaves. Your suffering increases my pleasure, so it's worthwhile, Mary.”

The lash struck irregularly, sometimes a minute passing between impacts, sometimes just a few seconds. The anticipation of the next wave of pain was almost worse than the event. Mary was filled with relief as she heard Miss Kurtag's ululations modulate into a cry of ecstasy as she attained her orgasm, but rather than reward Mary she started to slap her across the mouth, repeatedly and forcefully, staring madly into her eyes. Only when the climax was spent did she fall back onto the bed and spare Mary further pain. Mary's tasted blood and as she nervously probed with her tongue she could feel several small cuts inside her swollen lips.

The guard prodded her with the baton and instructed her to lie on the bed and take Miss Kurtag in her arms. “Look happy, Mary,” Miss ordered. “You made me happy and that should bring you pleasure. If you look unhappy at serving me I'll think you're disloyal and you'll be discarded. That wouldn't be nice for you.” Mary forced a smile, though she was sure it was anything but convincing.

“Have you enjoyed our little role play?” Miss Kurtag smiled, rubbing Mary's bald head.

“Yes Miss, I love seeing you happy.”

“And my little punk girl will be rewarded now for being so good to me. Don't forget though, you have to make sure my lovely Lena eats properly. If she doesn't gain rapidly you'll be punished, not her.” Mary promised her compliance. “And you'll massage her body twice daily. I don't want my lovely girl covered in stretch marks. I'll make sure you have some special oil to massage in.”

Mary's promises were rewarded by being allowed to release Lena from her tiny cage. She crawled backwards out of the door agonisingly slowly and stood with difficulty. “You can hug, ladies,” Miss Kurtag said indulgently. “I like seeing you show your love for each other.”

They were now brought to sit on the bed, arms around each other's shoulders. “I've made some decisions. I don't like the smell of cigarettes on you so you'll both stop smoking, except when I decide otherwise. I can see that you're both worried about this. I know you both smoke more than tobacco but I have a better solution for you. Smoking isn't a very efficient way to take your drug so I'll help you to find your pleasure. Lena first.”

Miss Kurtag tied a length of rubber tubing around Lena's upper arm and then took a syringe from a case. She tapped her forearm and slid the needle into her raised vein (made more difficult to see because of the dark tattoos. Mary saw a plume of blood rise in the glass chamber as the plunger was drawn back. Then the tubing was removed and the contents were expelled slowly into Lena's vein.

She made a moan of discomfort but almost immediately this passed. She shuddered and sighed, then lay heavily against Mary, her flickering eyes showing that she was conscious but almost insensate. “You see how happy she is? Your turn now, Mary. Your arm...”

Mary was afraid to say no but appalled at the prospect of being injected. It seemed like the last step toward a hopeless addiction and she knew that something would profoundly change if she didn't stop this. And yet she couldn't say no to Miss Kurtag. She felt the prick of the needle and felt a tear on her cheek. “A little less for you, you're tiny compared to Lena,” Miss Kurtag said, but Mary couldn't make sense of her words.

There was a rush within moments of the injection. She felt like she was sinking under water, felt like she was drowning, but the fear passed in moments. Now she felt she had drowned, but it was the most wonderful death, that she'd passed beyond everything mundane and trivial. She'd arrived in some haven where only pleasure and beauty existed.

And now she was walking through the town, barely aware of how she'd got here. Everything seemed to move too fast for her senses to fully grasp. Miss Kurtag and Lena were with her and she could make sense of them only because they moved at the same pace as her. She dreamed she was in a tattoo shop and saw her left arm being stung with the needle. She was so numb that the pain was hardly troubling at all, in fact she rather liked the sensation. A band was tattooed around her elbow, from just above to a few inches below, and the entire region was slowly covered with bands of red and black geometric patterns.

Once this was completed Mary felt the needle caress her face, between her right cheekbone and her eye socket. She was starting to feel that things were becoming nightmarish, but her friends were there telling her she was so pretty. Then she was more tired than she'd ever felt, and could only remember fragments of a journey in a taxi.

And then she was waking and it was dark and the house was silent, which meant it was long into the morning, since there was rowdiness until four. She felt weak and dehydrated, and the bedclothes were moist with her sweat. A lamp was still lit and it was only when she saw Lena's bald head that she recalled the earlier events. She sat up and saw with astonishment that her left arm was blackened with ink. She pressed the skin and felt immediately that it was tender. She pulled her fingers away in revulsion and realised that she'd been tattooed. She was beside herself with regret and fear. How could this have happened?

She went to Lena and shook her by the shoulder. “Lena, Lena,” she croaked. “Wake up, wake up, please. Look what they did to me!” Lena came out of her slumber slowly and looked at Mary without recognition, her eyelids swollen and squinting. “Lena, she tattooed me!” Mary cried. Putting it into words released her emotion and she started to cry. Lena struggled to sit up and placed her arms around Mary, but was so sleepy that she showed no emotion. Only gradually did she come to wakefulness.

“Oh your poor hair. We're bald,” Lena groaned. “I hate her. I hate her.”

“Why did she tattoo me?” Mary sobbed. She was about too launch into a sermon denouncing tattoos but remembered Lena's sleeve and desisted.

“She said it would hide the tracks. From the needle, remember? If we're going to keep using we have to inject. I want to stop. It's going to get us in trouble.”

“Yes, we should,” Mary agreed. “It was fucking intense though, wasn't it?” she added, not without shame.

“Oh shit, yes,” Lena said mournfully. “Like nothing else I'd felt. Scary though, just... too much. As is that tattoo. That was just spiteful.”

Mary stared at her arm ruefully. “You think so?”

“That one.” Lena gestured toward Mary's face. She stood and went to the mirror, her legs becoming more leaden at each moment. She part sensed, part remembered what she would see. There on her cheek was a black anchor, almost an inch across, permanently tattooed into her flesh. “Oh... Oh no!” Mary plucked at her fingers distractedly. She was bald and tattooed, a freak fit only for the circus. She felt a greater despair than ever previously. She wept in Lena's arms till she reached an exhausted sleep.

The next morning Mary was awakened by the sound of an electric drill. She pulled up the bedclothes as she peered out to see what was happening. The handyman, Mark, was up a ladder, fitting a white plastic box to the ceiling.

“What are you doing?” Lena asked.

“It's a smoke alarm. Madame's orders. She says there's to be no smoking in this room.”

“But everyone smokes in their room. Is everyone getting a smoke alarm now?”

“No just here.” He looked at their expectant faces. “Don't ask me why, I just do as I'm told. Madame is in charge. You need to ask her if you've got questions.”

The fitting took far longer than Mary liked. She had slept for a long time yet still felt exhausted. And she was sick too, desperate to sate her urges. She didn't dare rise from her bed before Mark, although she realised her modesty was absurd, given how she degraded herself every day. She buried her head under the blanket and as she did a vague memory of a dream came to her. She'd dreamed she'd been living in a house on the beach with Charlotte. She hadn't thought of her in weeks and now she felt filled with remorse for the argument that had separated them. She blushed as she thought how childish she'd been then, although it was only a couple of months ago. She'd turned away the woman she loved because of a few tattoos, tattoos that would now hardly bother her, in fact she had to admit she liked tattoos on others now.

And everything had gone wrong since that moment. Her petulant attempt to hurt Charlotte had led her into this awful situation, and she felt that what she had endured was only the beginning. She was on a downward spiral, inexorable, inevitable. Her decadence and suffering, and Lena's too, would increase, and she felt a huge looming shadow that filled her with fear. She had to stop using drugs, but knew that she was too weak to fight through the suffering of withdrawal. She only had Lena, and she knew that they were bound together by their addiction. She loved Lena, but sensed that they were bad for each other. More than that. Lena spelt doom for her. She was, for all her size, too weak to help Mary, too soft hearted to see her suffer, even though in the long term she knew that Mary would die for her tenderness.

She was jarred out of her self pity by the recollection that Lena had stored their stash between some books on a high shelf. Was it possible that from his high vantage point Mark would see the packages? She looked out to see him still occupied with his work. Lena was watching anxiously and Mary was aware that the same fears were occupying her friend. Ten minutes later he tested the alarm, which beeped loudly. Satisfied that his work was complete he left the friends alone.

“Shhh!” Lena whispered before Mary could speak. She pointed to the alarm and pulled a concerned face. “Bugged,” she mouthed. Mary wanted to protest that it was nothing of the sort but then was overcome by a paranoid fear. Miss Kurtag was certainly devious and it was certainly possible that she'd have fitted a microphone to the alarm she'd supplied to make sure that her girls were to cut down on their smoking. She hated this feeling, sure that it was a symptom of her growing insanity, but she could do nothing to control it.

Mary fumbled with a pack of cigarettes. She needed to smoke to calm her jangling nerves. “What are you doing?” Lena said, taking her hand. “You can't now.”

Mary was beside herself. “Oh Lena, I'm going mad. I need something. I'm just... bursting.”

Lena took the package of opium from the shelf and deposited some in a spoon. She added some water and dissolved it with the heat of her lighter. Now she took a syringe from a hidden compartment in her new handbag (obviously a gift from Miss Kurtag) and filled it with the solution. “Come here, babe,” she said. Mary shook her head. She couldn't get used to this or it would never stop. Lena sat next to her and trapped her arm in the crook of her own much more ample limb. She tapped at Mary's tattooed forearm and pricked the vein with the needle. “Please Lena, don't,” Mary whimpered. It was too late. She felt the rush take her over. She was surrounded in warm velvet, almost like flesh, but too much like a coffin. She was sure she was dying, but it was a death she welcomed. She felt the pressure tighten about her, an embrace now. It was Charlotte, she imagined, beautiful Charlotte, come to lay her to rest, to take away all her ills, as she always could.

Mary sobbed in frustration and regret. “Please, try and finish off. It's just a few more mouthfuls.”

Lena shook her head sadly, her eyes filling with tears now. “I'll be sick if I eat any more. Please, Mary, I'm trying but I can't do any more.”

Mary was sure that Lena's defiance was going to earn her another punishment. The previous day Lena had been weighed for the first time to assess her progress. Inevitably, Miss Kurtag was dissatisfied. Despite a gain of around ten pounds in a little under two weeks Mary was judged to have failed. Her punishment was another trip to the tattoo shop, this time denied the balm of her opium. Her knuckles had been tattooed and now spelt out “PUNK SLUT” when she held her fists together. The pain had made her cry for every minute of her tattooing, and now she had a reminder of her humiliation every time she used her hands. She couldn't bear to think what would happen if Miss Kurtag was displeased with Lena's engorgement the next time she was weighed. She was constantly on edge and had become so tormented by her fears that she was unable to show the slightest empathy for her friend.

Lena's figure had changed noticeably. Her waist was disappearing now and her belly was growing. She hated to look in the mirror, especially since Madame had followed Miss Kurtag's instructions and placed a photograph of the old Lena beside the mirror. Now when she took in her reflection she had to endure not only her increasingly round face and shorn head (now covered with dark bristles following her shave) but a darkness in her eyes that showed all too clearly her fall into despair. Mary's eyes had the same haunted emptiness too, the outward manifestation of their decadence.

“Open up,” Mary said angrily. She shovelled a spoonful of the now cold stew into Lena's lips. “You have to try for me, Lena. Do you want her to hurt me more. Look at this!” She shook her fist before her friend's eyes. “This is your fault.”

“Mary, don't,” Lena said, her nausea increasing as she forced herself to swallow. “She's trying to turn us against each other. Nothing we could have done would have satisfied her. You know that. She wanted to show her power so the first weigh in was going to result in a punishment.”

“For me!” Mary snapped. “Not for you.”

Lena started to cry. “This isn't a punishment? I feel sick all the time. I feel so heavy I can hardly move and I ache everywhere. It's her fault. We have to remember that, Mary. All we have is each other. Please let's not fall out.”

“Just finish the damn food!” Mary thrust another oversized spoonful at Lena's mouth. She finished the plate and sat in silence as she anxiously tried to control her need to vomit.

“We're both on edge,” Lena finally said. “Not smoking is really hard. I want to all the time.” They only smoked a single cigarette each day now, the one dosed with opium that Madame supplied, and that was made with a herbal mixture rather than tobacco. The fact that all of the other residents of the house were heavy smokers only added to their dilemma. They tended to stay in their room to avoid temptation, but their isolation had added to the friction in their relationship. Mary had become bad tempered and sullen, blaming Lena for everything she saw going wrong. In addition to her opium addiction she was drinking heavily.

Mary felt her anger dissipate as Lena took her in her arms. “We have to get away from here,” Lena whispered in her ear. Both girls were still convinced that there was a listening device in the smoke alarm. “It's the only way we can ever get clean. We've got no future if we stay here. You'll be free and healthy and you'll have long hair again. You'll be so pretty.” She kissed Mary tenderly, but as she looked up into Lena's eyes Mary knew she was no more convinced than she was that this plan could ever be realised.

“But we have no money, and every penny we earn is taken to pay back Madame. We'd have to leave Easthaven to get away from them, but we couldn't live anywhere else.”

“We'll find a way,” Lena said weakly, though she said nothing to deny Mary. Soon she and Mary had found an escape, but it was only a brief illusion, a narcotic trance.

The following day the two young women were driven to Allegra's salon for their first haircuts since their shaving. They had around a quarter inch of regrowth for Allegra to work with. They were taken up to the upper salon where they had to feign pleasure at the presence of their tormentor. Miss Kurtag immediately demanded that Mary display her latest tattoos to the hairdresser.

“Oh my, how outrageous,” she giggled. “You know you'd be arrested for indecency in Kinslake for showing that? I dare say you'll be no better off in Alpina when you go back to university there. Or did you make new career plans now?” she taunted. “You know, in Kinslake they remove any offensive tattoos and do a skin graft? I knew someone who was arrested there. It looks so unsightly! I think our little Mary had best stay in Easthaven where there's a little more tolerance.” Mary felt a flush of panic, her paranoia making her believe that Allegra had somehow become aware of the discussion that had taken place in her room the previous afternoon. She was soon sitting in Allegra's chair, caped and freed of her glasses.

Miss Kurtag rubbed her short hair. “I thought we might let her grow out a fringe but keep the rest short. While it's growing I think we should experiment with those cuts where a pattern is shaved in.”

“What a nice idea!” Allegra traced a sharp nail along the top of Mary's head. “I wish you'd seen this one when she first came to me. She looked so naïve and gauche, a little schoolgirl. I'd never imagined in a few months she'd be such a shocker.” Mary jumped as the trimmers whirred into life next to her ear. She felt Allegra clamp her head firmly in her left hand as she pressed the blades into her scalp. They made her flinch as they caught at a hair from time to time and caused a sting. Allegra seemed unaware of her suffering, carefully dragging the trimmers to trace a web of lines around her head.

Miss Kurtag slid a finger into Mary's lips. “You are a naughty girl, Mary. Don't you remember that I ordered you to get your tongue pierced?” Mary made a low grunt to acknowledge the question. “And weeks later still nothing. What do you think I should do to punish the nasty little thing, Allegra?”

“I think you should call Mrs Pincushion right now and tell her to come over here. An hour with her and I think Mary will have enough piercings.”

Miss Kurtag was overcome with a cruel joy and clapped her hands excitedly. “Oh, do you think she'd be able to come right now? She's a friend of yours, isn't she? Tell her to come and I'll pay her well.”

Mary was beside herself as Allegra made a call. She hadn't passed on Miss Kurtag's demand to Madame, had forgotten about it or maybe repressed it because of the fear she experienced when she thought about the needle passing through her tongue. Now she knew she'd been foolish to act in this way. Miss Kurtag was never to be disobeyed and the price for doing so would be a harsh punishment. “Oh you can!” Allegra cooed. “About an hour then? Can't wait.” Mary felt a chill pass through her at the words. She was beginning to ache and felt the cold perspiration beading on her. She needed her medicine.

Allegra was talking rapidly to Miss Kurtag as she returned to her task of patterning Mary's scalp, but the young woman was so anxious that she couldn't make sense of the words. She started to imagine how Miss Kurtag would punish her, how she'd be pierced numerous times. She imagined her tongue, her lips, nose, ears being weighted with heavy rings and bars, and then thought of how her sex would never be spared. She felt sick at the thought, and started to shake. She glanced up and realised Miss Kurtag was addressing her. “You look ill, do you need to use the toilet?”

She was escorted by Miss Kurtag and Lena. “You're looking strung out. Have you had anything today?” the older woman asked. Mary shook her head. “You really are a terrible addict,” she reproached. “Do you need me to give you something? If you're going to get high you'll be going home with twice as many piercings. But at least they won't hurt,” she added with a laugh.

Lena looked unhappy and clearly disapproved of this offer, but Mary knew she would never get through the piercings without something to numb her. When she was coming down she was hypersensitive to pain and the first touch of a needle would have her screaming. “I'd like that very much, Miss,” she said softly, feigning pleasure.

“Get undressed, fatty,” Miss Kurtag ordered Lena. “I hope you've got something stashed up between those big saggy cheeks of yours. Otherwise poor little Mary is going to have a horribly painful session”

Lena stripped out of her suit, assuring Miss Kurtag that she was bearing a good portion of her weekly supply. She was made to bend forward while Mary was tasked with pushing her fingers inside to retrieve the package.

Mary looked alarmed as Miss Kurtag expertly filled a syringe. The dose was far larger than her usual, perhaps enough to tip her into an overdose. “What are you looking so scared about?” Miss Kurtag said angrily. Mary was too scared to speak. “Well?” The spitefulness in her voice made Mary blurt out a reply.

“It's just that's it's quite a lot. More than usual, I mean.”

“It is for both of you.” Neither girl dared say that they would never share needles and endured the injections in silence.

Mary received around two-thirds of the syringe. By the time she watched Lena being injected the drug had hit her, taking away all of her suffering. She felt the cold leave her, like she'd snuggled in a blanket on a winter day before a fire. She returned to Allegra's chair transformed and content. Within minutes she'd become drowsy and Lena was made to support her head to allow Allegra to work unimpeded.

Miss Kurtag and Allegra took delight now in passing disparaging remarks about Lena's growing body. “She's getting really fat,” Allegra remarked.

“Oh she doesn't stop eating. Look at how her belly is bulging. It'll begin to sag soon. She'll have a big sack hanging down over her thighs. She'll have to hold it up with both hands if anyone wants to get to her cunt.”

“She used to have a nice figure for a big girl, but it's changing. Her waist is disappearing.”

“Yes, it's making her look more butch, I think. But those tits are getting even bigger.”

“You should get them reduced. Make her flat chested. That would really transform her. She used to be top heavy, but then she'd be a pear shape.”

Miss Kurtag laughed. “Oh, that would look adorable. Lena would become Lennie.” Mary couldn't bear to hear her friend treated so mercilessly. She was glad to feel herself slip into a slumber.

It was evening before Mary could be said to be fully aware once more. She woke in her bed with confused, fragmentary memories of the earlier part of the day. She always felt unwell when she woke now, but this was worse than usual. Her entire body seemed suffused with a feeling of being injured, painful and swollen. She reached for a glass of water and was alarmed by hearing a chink as it touched her lip. As soon as the water entered her mouth she felt the presence of a piercing in her tongue, which seemed to be twice its normal size. She swallowed with difficulty and felt like she was choking. She saw that her pillow was stained with blood. She called to Lena, who was sprawled on her own bed, insensate.

She slowly roused in response to Mary's calls and sat up. Her hair was dyed black, at least what was left of it. The sides were shaved high above her ears and her forehead had been shaved back about half an inch to a hard, straight edge. Beneath her lower lip was a large silver bead and her right eyebrow was triply pierced, a metal bead decorating either end of each wound. “Are you OK?” Lena said, her voice slurred and inarticulate.

“No, I feel awful,” Mary said, her own voice just as unclear. “I can't even remember what happened.”

“I'm not surprised, she gave you so much I thought it'd kill you.”

“I need to see what she did to me.” Mary rose unsteadily, Lena at her side. She groaned as she stepped in front of the mirror. She'd slept in her make-up, which was now smudged, making her look rather alarming. Her hair had been beached to blonde, except for a large triangle pointing back from her forehead, which was a reddish brown. The blonde hair was buzzed short and shaved with fine bald lines forming a geometric pattern over her entire head.

As if that wasn't bad enough, Mary's face was now marked with numerous piercings, all in a shiny gun metal which stood out against her deathly pale complexion. Her ears were hung with numerous new rings, placed mostly in the various cartilages which formed the shell of her ear. Her lower lip had a ring encircling the centre and large studs at each side. Another stud, larger still, was visible in the philtrum of her upper lip, partially concealed by the ring hanging from her septum. The sides of her nose had been pierced too, very high up, in fact higher than Mary would have thought possible.

Mary muttered a curse as she took in her new appearance. The piercings dominated her face in a most unwelcome manner. She nervously poked out her tongue, but every movement was painful. It was pierced with two bars which poked out like the barbels of a catfish. She lifted her tongue, despite the pain and saw that a bar had been pierced sideways through the webbing at the base of her tongue.

“Oh, I wish I was dead,” she said softly and started to cry. “She's destroying us. I can't bear to think how awful I look, and I know she'll only get worse. We can't do anything to stop her, can we?”

Lena struggled to find some words of comfort, but there were none. She took Mary in her arms and held her wordlessly.

Mary's new image seemed to repel most of the patrons of the house, as she discovered over the following weeks when Miss Kurtag was out of town and she had to try to satisfy Madame by providing the same services as the rest of the residents. What she did discover was that the women she did attract were those who loved to be almost as vicious and cruel as Miss Kurtag. Each night that she was selected, without fail Mary was subjected to punishment and humiliation.

And yet, Lena's position seemed to be even worse. Her rapid weight gain seemed to have made her unattractive to all but a few of the visitors. Another younger girl had recently arrived whose figure was similar to Lena's before her programme of gorging and she was far more popular with the patrons who liked larger girls. Mary and Lena didn't dare express their thoughts but it was clear that Lena's position in the house had no become entirely dependent on Miss Kurtag's favour. Should she grow tired of Lena then it was inevitable that she would be destitute. Her obedience to Miss Kurtag had become an existential necessity.

And the one instruction that Miss Kurtag had left before her departure was that Lena should continue to gain. “I want to see and very noticeable difference in you when I return,” she advised. “If I'm disappointed then you two can manage for a few weeks on Madame's ration of opium, which will never satisfy you. And since it's Mary's responsibility to enforce your eating then if I feel you haven't applied yourself then Mary will be getting another change to her appearance that I'm sure she won't welcome.”

Madame supplied extremely large meals for Lena (Miss Kurtag had provided funds to cover the extra costs of the food), but Mary was aware that Lena would never gain enough through these meals alone. Each night a generous buffet was provided for the guests, and as the party wound down Mary would collect the extensive remains to bring up to her room, providing fuel for Lena's ever growing figure.

No one could fail to notice the changes. Lena's belly had become so large that she had to buy new clothes, and her limbs had grown much heavier. She no longer took pleasure in her food; it was something to be eaten as rapidly as possible (she'd long ago realised that eating slowly meant she felt full before eating nearly as much). Mary encouraged her to eat the richest foods: cheese, cake, butter. Now her face was becoming rounder and she'd acquired a large double chin, which had scarcely been noticeable a month earlier. And she could now eat huge amounts before reaching satiety.

On the day of Miss Kurtag's return Lena regarded herself in the mirror. “I've got loads of stretch marks,” she said gloomily. “She won't like that.”

“I know but it can't be helped. I've tried to minimise them.” In truth, Mary's order to massage Lena's body had been only partially followed, her torpor meaning that even when she did, her work was scarcely adequate. “I have, haven't I?” she said, a hint of despair in her voice. She needed Lena to assure Miss Kurtag that they'd tried fully to comply with her instructions. The idea that she'd be punished again seemed unbearable.

And yet as she looked at Lena she realised the price that her friend had paid. Beside the mirror was the Lena of a few months previously: pretty, smiling, feminine. Now Lena looked so masculine and her features were unrecognisable. She'd sacrificed her beauty to Miss Kurtag's desire to humiliate her.

A car came to pick up the two friends. They were to be coiffed by Allegra before lunch with their patron. Both wore new outfits: Mary wore a yellow mini dress, appliquéd with large sunflowers, knee high, lace-up boots. She was wearing a new pair of cat's-eye glasses, rather ludicrous flowery ornaments along the upper frame, which entirely dominated her features. Lena had been fitted for a new black suit with wide lapels and orange stitching. She wore a white shirt, open at the collar and a red silk cravat.

Allegra lost no time in teasing Lena. “Oh, look at you! I can't believe how fat you are. It's only been a few weeks and you must be fifty pounds heavier. I'm not sure I would have recognised you if you hadn't been with Mary.”

Lena took off her jacket and sat, caped, for Allegra. “You've got big thick rolls of fat up your nape, Lena. It doesn't look nice with this stubbly hair. I think a clean shave up the back will look much better, and I don't imagine Miss K would disagree. I think you should come by the shop every day for a shave. Tell your mistress my recommendation, Lena.”

Mary watched as Allegra pressed the clippers up Lena's head in firm, slow strokes. The thick regrowth of hair turned to dust as her scalp was revealed. Allegra sheared all of the back and sides with the bared blades of the clippers, leaving only the longer hair on top. Lena's hair grew quickly and the top was almost an inch long now.

“I think something very hard today, Lena. Very masculine, military even.” The clippers shaved away more hair, narrowing the hair on the top of her head until it began to look like a broad mohawk. Allegra smiled cruelly at the unflattering cut. “You have such thick hair. It looked so pretty when it was long. Still, it's a nice texture for this cut, even if you do look like a man now you've gone short.”

A white layer of soap was rapidly brushed over Lena's scalp. Mary could see how Allegra's words had hurt her and she was struggling to hide her emotions. A straight razor was pulled in short, scratchy strokes over the stubble, which came away to reveal clean, pink scalp. Mary was disheartened to see that her friend looked fatter still with her new cut, less and less like the old Lena.

“You look like you could use a cigarette,” Allegra giggled. “Oh but you gave up, didn't you?”

“I did, but I really would like one now,” Lena agreed.

“I'd be happy to give you one, but you would have to explain it to Miss K. Want one?” She teasingly held out a pack to Lena, then Mary. Both declined.

“Well then, let's get you finished up.” Lena's head was finished with a second shave, from a safety razor now. Her head gleamed under the salon lights.

Now Allegra turned her attention to the strip of hair that remained. She shaped it with clippers, cutting over a comb to sculpt the coarse hair. The front kept almost all of its length, but Allegra graduated the hair shorter toward the crown. Soon it was apparent that the style she'd created was a narrow flattop rather than a mohawk, and it was extremely closely buzzed at the crown and along a strip passing down the middle: a short landing strip had been created.

The little fin of hair was now painted with a dark dye, with the exception of a small section at the front, slightly off centre, which was coated with bleach and separated from the darkening hair with a piece of foil. As Lena rose ungainly from the chair, Mary was summoned.

Allegra sighed as she ruffled Mary's crop. “Your friend has such thick hair and it grows like a weed. But you're a sickly little thing. You haven't got half the length she has. Maybe I should suggest you go on the same diet as Lena. It might help your hair to grow.”

Mary felt a convulsive movement in her bowels. She was horrified at the idea that Miss Kurtag might decide one day to make her grow fat as she had Lena. Allegra noticed her fearful reaction and began laughing. “Oh, I can see I touched a nerve there! Hey, Lena, I don't think Mary likes fat girls.”

The two young women sat in awkward silence. “Oh what can I do with this hair? I wanted you to grow a fringe, but it's going to grow out so slowly.” She took the clippers and began to buzz away at the back of Mary's head.

Mary felt a modicum of relief as her sides were sheared. Even without her glasses she could see some darkening of her temples and could tell that she was at least retaining some hair; she'd feared that Allegra was still cutting with bare blades and that she would end up bald. She was relieved that she wouldn't have such a merciless cut as Lena.

However, she would have very short hair. Allegra buzzed all of her hair to the same length, with the exception of the triangle of darker hair at her forehead. This was retained, and its form made more apparent as Allegra took a razor and shaved the perimeter of the triangle. A strip of bare scalp seven millimetres wide now delineated the shape. The razor was deployed once more to shape Mary's sideburns and nape to a clean, rigid form. Then her entire head was covered with bleach.

By the time Mary's glasses were returned to her she could see that her buzz was very short, maybe five millimetres, and bleached to a pale silver. The triangle at the front was a little more than twice the length, textured with the points of the scissors and fixed in a fluffy, tousled texture.

Lena looked humbled by her new cut: the little hair that was left now a deep aubergine, with a flash of yellowish blonde at the front. The two women hardly spoke as they left the salon and got into the waiting car. They went to the restaurant where Miss Kurtag was waiting.

She'd had her hair freshly cut, the short side buzzed as close as Mary's, but now her hair was a reddish brown, streaked with warm blonde, and she wore it in stiff curls today. The two younger women greeted her and complimented her on her makeover. Mary did think it was an improvement, softening her look and flattering her angular features, although the harshness of her previous image was perhaps more truthful to her character.

“And look at my Lena,” Miss Kurtag said with evident satisfaction. “You have got big. Well done, Mary. I think you should have a reward later for your work. And your hair, Lena. Just perfect. I think Allegra is the most wonderful stylist.”

“Yes, Miss. Thank you for allowing me to visit her.” Miss Kurtag purred as she stroked the shaved scalp. “Miss, she did recommend that I should be shaved each day. She said that the rolls of fat look unsightly with stubble and therefore I should be kept shaved.” Mary could see how much this statement cost Lena.

Lena was turned to allow her benefactor to examine her nape. “Yes, your neck has got very fat. Of course she's right, although I'm sure she doesn't object to me having to pay extra for your shave every day. I can't really object to paying her so generously when she does such good work.”

And now Miss Kurtag showed her generosity again as she ordered food for her guests, though the restaurant was hardly the most exclusive in the town (Mary understood that it was likely below Miss Kurtag's usual standard, but then her guests' appearances would have caused consternation in one of the better places). Three plates were ordered for Lena, a chance for her to demonstrate her voracity. She managed to consume everything just as quickly as Mary did her single meal, though Mary was hardly racing to finish; in the restaurant she felt safe from Miss Kurtag's dangerously savage impulses. Even the promised reward terrified her, though she craved some of her 'magic'. The allowance that had been provided for their benefactor's absence had been used overindulgently by Lena and Mary in the first week and since then the two women had been eking the remainder out though at a level that meant they felt cravings throughout the day. The last had been used on the previous day, in the expectation that their stock would now be replenished.

They weren't to be disappointed. Miss Kurtag ordered her girls to accompany her to the rest room and had Lena stand against the door so that their privacy wouldn't be interrupted. Mary was ordered to fill a syringe (a single syringe, to be shared). Then Miss Kurtag injected first Lena, then Mary. The dose was sufficient to remove all cravings but their consciousness remained largely unimpaired, which displeased Mary: an encounter with Miss Kurtag was usually easier to bear when severely intoxicated.

“Now because Mary was a good girl and made Lena very fat in my absence she gets to try a new product that I've been told will be very popular.” Miss Kurtag sprinkled a fine white powder onto a small mirror and used a razor blade to form it into two narrow lines. She rolled banknote into a tube. “Sniff it all up, Mary.”

As soon as the powder hit her sinuses Mary felt a powerful burning and paused with only half of the first line gone. “All of it!” Miss Kurtag insisted. Mary knew that refusal would result in more suffering than she was experiencing and did as she was bid, though as she snorted up the last of the chemical she was suffering greatly, and the sudden rush of blood induced a moment of severe headache.

“How does it feel?” Miss Kurtag asked.

“To be honest, quite unpleasant, Miss,” she admitted. “It's made my nose really ache and I have a bad headache.”

“I see. I suppose it's useful to know this. I'm sure once that passes you'll be rewarded.”

Mary felt the effects of the drug begin to take hold within seconds. She felt giddy and uncoordinated, though she felt no confusion. She began to hear a stream of near nonsense issuing from her own mouth, but was unable to control it. It seemed as though her consciousness had become detached from her actions, which seemed willed by a second mind, distinct from Mary's own.

Mary was deeply embarrassed as her behaviour became more disinhibited, drawing the attention of the other diners, her voice growing louder (though her speech was inarticulate and slurred). Fortunately, Miss Kurtag seemed amused rather than embarrassed, as Mary was now so out of control that she feared she could no longer respond to orders from her patron, no matter how serious the consequences.

Mary's heart sank as Miss Kurtag took her for what she described as the second part of her reward: the car took them to a tattoo parlour near the beach in the north of the town. It seemed that when she did badly she was punished by being tattooed and when she pleased her Mistress the reward was identical to the punishment.

Lena was first in the chair. Miss Kurtag decided that she would benefit from some nautical adornments. Her chest soon bore two nautical stars, each over three inches in diameter, though their large size seemed hardly out of scale on Lena's more-than-ample frame. Then the tattooist was ordered to mark Lena's face with an anchor tattoo just like Mary's.

Mary could see Lena's anguish as she was made to endure this shameful mark, yet Mary's outward behaviour was to provide a running commentary in disjointed non sequiturs, frequently adding snatches of song in a strident voice. Nor could she sit still easily; only when Miss Kurtag came beside her and looped an arm tightly around her waist could Mary control her impulse to pace, skip and dance about the room.

“Do you like your girl's new tattoos, Mary?” Miss Kurtag asked.

“Yes, she looks hot. I like a girl with pictures. It's like it give me something to read when I look at them. Like the good book said, the book of Job and god and Satan.”

Miss Kurtag laughed at the garbled reply. “Well since you did well you should have some more pictures too. Lena got one pretty lady to work on her but you can have two. How does that sound?”

“Sound as a pound, we'll sound the horn, round the horn.”

Mary's loquacity was stilled at Miss Kurtag's insistence once the tattooists began their work, though silencing herself was difficult, to the extent that it felt like an enormous tension was building in her, as when she held her breath for too long and couldn't wait to expel the depleted air from her lungs. As she left the room she realised that she could remember almost nothing of the events of the previous hours, though she felt entirely lucid. Freed from the restraint imposed while she acquired her new decorations, Mary now indulged her need to pour forth a stream of near-meaningless verbiage. Another employee from the shop came over to greet her, and Mary turned her word stream on the unfortunate young woman.

Mary stared at the pretty girl with cropped red hair, but her senses were so dulled that it was only after perhaps a minute that she realised what she was saying. “It's me, Charlotte. Charlotte...”

Mary wanted to hug her, to beg her to forgive her, to save her, but instead she held forth in her loud voice in an uncontrolled display of meaningless verbosity. She was mortified. What must Charlotte think of her? That she's lost her mind. That was the only explanation. She could see that Charlotte was trying to look calm, but her eyes betrayed her shock and sadness at Mary's plight. Both women were surely relieved when Charlotte was called away to attend to a customer.

And now Mary was taken to a dirty hotel room where she and Lena were beaten and humiliated by Miss Kurtag, then made to pleasure their tormentor and express their gratitude and love for this appalling woman. It was well into the night before the car took them back to their home. They were so exhausted that Madame sent them back to their room immediately.

Mary was now quite recovered from the drug she'd insufflated. She cursed as she looked at herself in the mirror. “I can't remember anything much from earlier,” she admitted. “I can't remember getting this. Fuck, it's horrible, Lena.” Mary turned her head in despair to better see her latest tattoo. Her head had been shaved completely with the exception of the triangle of fluffy hair at her forehead, and now the left side of her scalp was adorned with a darkly inked circle, ornamented with coloured geometric patterns. And it was large. Her upper ear covered the edge of the tattoo, which extended up to the side of her crown. The thick, black outline looked stark against her pale, hairless scalp.

And Mary's chest had been tattooed too, a ram's skull with curving horns spreading beneath her collar bones, splaying out to her shoulders. The nose of the skull reached down into her cleavage. It was well drawn in bold lines with dark grey shading and no colour.

“It's not so bad,” Lena said, hugging her. “Your hair will grow back and hide your scalp.”

“One day. Maybe. Or maybe not if Miss K has any say.”

“So that was Charlotte? The Charlotte?”

Mary gasped. “Oh god, she was really there? I felt like I dreamed it.” She gave a long wail. “What must she think of me? I was acting like I was crazy.”

“You were. It frightened me. That stuff she gave you was really nasty.”

“Yes, I hope she doesn't give me any more. Oh shit, Lena, I need to go and see Charlotte again. Apologise and show her I'm not as bad as I looked, that I'm OK when I'm sober.”

Mary couldn't miss a tightening of Lena's features, and understood immediately that Charlotte was seen as a threat. Lena had more than a sisterly affection, she understood and was jealous of anybody who could come between them.

“Please Lena, I need to. She was the only friend I had when I got here.”

“But a lot has happened since then. And you have to realise that you've changed a lot. She hardly recognised you. And you're never sober. Neither of us have gone a day without getting high for as long as I can remember.”

“And whose fault is that? You're the one who got me on this stuff,” Mary said accusingly. “And now you think no one else can accept me because I'm an addict. Was that your plan all along?”

“You know it wasn't,” Lena said, tearful now. “I feel terrible about getting you hooked. It was just supposed to be a bit of fun, something to help us get through the day. If I'd known how it would all go wrong I'd never had done it. But we don't have hindsight when we make a decision.”

By the following day the row was put aside, if not forgotten. Mary was still determined to see Charlotte, but knew that Lena would be upset. She had to meet her in secret. A few days later she worked late into the morning, far later than Lena, who remained largely rejected by the house's patrons. It was almost six by the time the party ended and Mary resolved to stay awake and visit the tattoo shop with the intention of seeing Charlotte. She set off just before eight, having spent the intervening hours sipping coffee to guard against sleep. She walked to the street where the shop was (it was about two miles, though because of her unfamiliarity with this part of the town she took some wrong turns). She sheltered in a bus stop from where she could see the entrance to the shop.

She remembered sitting in a similar shelter on the day of her arrival. Her expectations were so great then. She wished she'd never taken the train to this awful place. And yet things might have been so different. The day when things had turned sour was when she'd broken with Charlotte. She smiled at the irony of being offended by a few tattoos. Her body was now mutilated far more shockingly than Charlotte's pretty tattoos.

She saw a figure enter the street and felt disbelief. It was surely the girl she wanted to see. This must be an omen! She'd expected at best to wait hours, and was prepared to be disappointed, since she had no idea how often Charlotte worked here. She was shaking as she made her way toward her and intercepted Charlotte just before she reached the door.

“Charlotte! I needed to see you. Can we talk?”

Charlotte looked at her with surprise. “Oh, Mary... I don't know, I'm supposed to open up.” She paused. “OK, there's a café around the corner. I suppose I can go with you for thirty minutes.”

They sat in silence as they waited for their coffees to arrive. Mary finally spoke. “I wanted to apologise for the other day. I'd taken something. That woman I was with, she made me. I'm not normally like that.”

“What are you normally like? This?”

Mary fidgeted awkwardly. What was Charlotte accusing her of?”

“You look dreadful, Mary. I can see that you're using. It's only been a few months and you've changed beyond recognition. It's really upsetting to see what you're doing to yourself.”

“I'm trying to fix it,” Mary said. This wasn't how she'd imagined the meeting going. “It's hard. And I wanted to apologise for what I said to you. I was so stupid and I'm ashamed. You were the only friend I'd had since I arrived. Everything went wrong after I left you that day.”

“Well with the company you keep it's hardly surprising. That woman you were with... I asked around and everybody says you're with her all the time. I'm so disappointed in you. I thought you were better than that.”

“Miss Kurtag? It's not like that. I don't have any choice. What is it you dislike about her so much? I don't really know anything about her.”

Charlotte grunted incredulously. “Well I'm sure she can keep you well supplied with the shit you use to stop you facing up to reality. Most of the drugs in this town are brought in by her.”

“I didn't know,” Mary said, weakly. “I really want to stop, but it's just impossible. They won't let me.”

“Who won't? Do you have somebody forcing you to take heroin?” Mary nodded. “Oh, really? Take some responsibility,” Charlotte said vehemently.

“It's true. I got sucked in to working in a brothel and now the Madame won't let me stop using because it'll make me sick for weeks. Anyway, virtually all the money I make for her is from letting Miss Kurtag use me, and you've no idea how cruel she is.” Mary started to cry, because for the first time she'd put her situation into words. It felt that until this moment she'd been able to hide the reality of her life from herself.

“Oh Mary, what have you done?” Now Charlotte was crying too. “You have to leave right now! You can't go back there.”

“I have to, though. If I stayed in Easthaven they'd find me and I'd be sent to prison in Kinslake. And how could I leave here, looking like this? I'm trapped. I can't see any way out. Please help me.”

“What can I do? Oh Mary, I don't know what to say. Maybe you should leave town, go back home. If you stay here you'll be dead in a couple of years.”

“But they'd just send me to a correctional clinic if I went back home. I'm not sure that's any better than death.”

Charlotte stood. “I have to go. Please don't come back, Mary. I wish I could help, you know I do, but I can't bear to see you like this. I hope things change somehow, that it gets better. But this has to be goodbye.”

Charlotte's assessment of her situation affected Mary profoundly. She was left without hope. Lena could see that something had changed but Mary never told her of the meeting with Charlotte. Mary became cold toward her, and their relationship suffered. Miss Kurtag was present more often than ever and Mary begged her to provide her with the white powder which she called mustard (so called because of the irritation experienced when it was snorted). Soon Mary was dependent on that too. Miss Kurtag insisted that if she was to provide a reliable source then Mary should agree to more tattoos. Within a month she had both arms covered in ink from fingers to shoulders.

It seemed that Mary wasn't the only one in the town who'd developed a taste for the new drug. Its popularity grew explosively and within weeks of Mary's first experience it became common to see people about the town showing the unmistakeable signs of mustard use. Soon the newspapers were inciting a moral panic about the dangers of this designer drug to the society of Easthaven. The normal lax attitude of Easthaven's politicians toward drugs was no longer deemed acceptable as public opinion turned and action was demanded. A deputy commissioner of police was brought into the county from Kinslake with the sole purpose of tackling the menace of mustard.

The days became cooler now as the year's end approached and the town became quieter, as the influx of summer visitors and seasonal workers came to an end. Now the town seemed to fall into a sort of hibernation, half of the bars and nightclubs closing their doors until the next year had begun to ripen. And at the Yellow Door there were changes to address the lack of custom. One by one the girls were called in to see Madame Simone and the majority were told that their services were no longer required. Roughly half were told that they were welcome to return in the spring, but many were told that their services were insufficient and that they would be replaced (it was apparent to Mary that recruitment of fresh bodies was not difficult in this town, which always attracted a stream of naïve young women eager to seek adventure, just as she had only months earlier). Rejection was, for many of the younger girls, devastating. Whereas some of the more experienced girls had put some money aside to eke out their existence through the winter, the tyros had for the most part not planned for this ruthless rejection. It would be almost impossible to find paid work until the spring, necessitating a journey to one of the big cities to seek their fortune.

Mary and Lena were called in together, among the last of the girls to face the dreaded interview. They'd hardly dared put their fears into words. Not only had they no savings, but their dependence on the poisons that Miss Kurtag supplied meant that their outgoings were absurdly expensive. And their outlandish appearance meant that they would immediately attract suspicion should they leave Easthaven. They would most likely be sent to prison should Madame not treat them sympathetically.

“My little cash cows,” Madame said as they stood before her desk. “You've been very good for me. Miss Kurtag has been delighted with you both so I'm happy for you to stay here for the winter, since she will be resident in the city seeing to important business plans for the next year. But you should heed my warning. You've both disappointed me in the way you've let your drug habit become so obvious. No one can fail to see what you are. And don't ever think you're indispensable. There will come a time when Miss Kurtag will fail to be amused by your decadence and seek out someone more innocent as her new play thing. And once that happens I'm not sure I can help you any more. You in particular, Lena, are almost entirely dependent on Miss Kurtag's patronage. The other customers seldom find your image appealing and it wouldn't be economic for me to continue to employ you, especially given your food bills. So you should both make plans for a future outside the Yellow Door. I can't seriously imagine that in a years' time you'll still both be here to have a similar discussion. But until then, continue to please Miss Kurtag and your positions are assured.”

The reprieve hardly seemed a cause for jubilation. Mary tried to imagine how her life would be without the support of Madame Simone. Who would possibly employ her? Near bald, tattooed heavily, hopelessly addicted. She struck up a conversation with one of the more experienced workers and asked what happened to the girls who didn't make it.

“Living on the streets here isn't an option. Even if the winters here weren't so cold the authorities won't tolerate vagrancy. They remove anyone they find from the county. The usual plan is a train ticket to somewhere in the north. You can find work in the big cities, but it's hard there, not like here. Working in a factory for twelve hours a day. And lesbians aren't tolerated. You have to hide everything. You never tell anyone that you lived in Easthaven, that just makes everyone suspicious.”

Now the regular visits of Miss Kurtag seemed to be even more of a burden. Mary began to sense a dissatisfaction in her patron, though Lena assured her that it was all in her head. Nevertheless, Mary found herself becoming more fawning toward Miss Kurtag, welcoming and encouraging her cruelty, whether it was toward herself or Lena.

It was now December and Mary lay on the bed in an expensive hotel room with Miss Kurtag's arm around her waist while a naked Lena displayed herself before them. “How heavy is she now?” Miss Kurtag asked.

“She's just reached a milestone. She passed three fifty pounds this week.”

“Oh, that's just wonderful. More than a hundred pounds more of my lovely Lena since we first put Mary in charge of your diet. Don't you think she looks wonderful now?” Mary agreed wholeheartedly. “And what would you think we should do to improve her looks, Mary. You deserve a little treat and making your girl pretty would make me happy.”

“I think she should go and get a nice neat cut from Allegra. I like it when her back and sides are shaved.” Lena's hair was still, by most standards, short, but she had allowed it to grow a little, nearly an inch covering the nape and temples, the top three or four times the length.

“Oh yes, that does sound fun. Should we keep the top long?”

“No, I thought I'd like something very close. I like the idea of dressing her up like a sailor, now she has her nautical stars.”

“So a nice close military cropping? I like how you think, Mary. And what else should we do to her?”

“I saw a girl a few days ago and she had a gold tooth. I thought it looked really sexy. Could you let Lena have one?”

Miss Kurtag laughed. “Look at her! She didn't like that idea. Scared of the dentist, hey? Well that's good enough for me. Of course, if you want that for Lena you'll have to sit in the dentist's chair too, Mary. We'll have to make sure the seat has tough leather straps because I don't like the idea of you two being given anaesthetic. And I'll make you wait until you're finished before you get your opium too. Ah, Mary, your smile has faded. Still, don't regret what you asked for. You'll look so pretty. My golden girls.”

A couple of hours later Lena was dressed in her sailor outfit, dark blue with a white striped neckerchief. On her head was a military beret. Miss Kurtag seemed very taken with the outfit. “We should get you more sailor tattoos. You know, a popular one was the crucifix tattooed across the back? That was because it was considered blasphemous to strike an image of Jesus. Would you like to be spared a good beating with a cat, Lena?”

Lena had looked less than happy at the prospect of being tattooed, but as compared to being whipped by Miss Kurtag it seemed the lesser evil. “Yes, Miss, I'd far rather the tattoo.”

Miss Kurtag laughed. “You will have to ask for it to be large though. I want it to extend from your neck to the crack of your arse. And from shoulder to shoulder. You're so huge now that it will be nearly as big as Mary.”

They made their way to the tattooist, though not the shop where Charlotte was employed, which was simultaneously a relief and a disappointment to Mary. “Don't you worry, Mary, you won't be left out. I'll have someone add to your collection.”

The two friends were sent to separate rooms. Mary undressed and lay back on a bed where her right thigh was inked with a large oval frame containing a deer's head. Miss Kurtag's denial of analgesics to her subjects meant that Mary was extremely sensitive and the tracking of the needle across her skin frequently drew moans of displeasure. Miss Kurtag was absent, presumably attentive to Lena's simultaneous tattooing, and Mary found herself wishing that she had her company, despite the nervousness the presence of the older woman induced in her; it felt intolerable to suffer like this all on her own, especially since the tattooist was sullen and uncommunicative throughout the process.

Miss Kurtag finally returned as the last touches of colour were being added to the vivid tattoo. “Oh, my! Very nice work. Almost too pretty for such a nasty little punk. And has Mary behaved herself for you?”

Annie, the tattooist, snorted. “Well she sat still and didn't say anything, but she made it pretty clear she was suffering. Her groaning got quite distracting.”

“Mary, I am disappointed in you.” She whispered in Annie's ear, inducing an embarrassed chuckle.

“Well, that's a very generous offer but I'm sure I would be so ashamed I'd take no pleasure.”

“You really shouldn't be so prudish. Mary is well trained and very discreet. And very skilful at providing pleasure. Her tongue is a thing of wonder.”

Annie was clearly uncomfortable but tempted. Miss Kurtag decided to take away her choice. She took hold of the young woman, firmly trapping her arms in a bear hug. “Mary, show her what you do, and apologise for your ridiculously childish behaviour.”

“I'm very sorry for my conduct, Miss,” Mary said, falling to her knees. “I was unforgivably noisy and I should be far better behaved.”

She stripped away the tight trousers the young woman wore, pulling them to her ankles. She kissed the soft cotton of her panties, sensing a reaction as Annie felt each touch of her piercings.

[lsds-blog]

Erin

The man looks at her with undisguised hatred. She symbolises everything the state makes him endure, she's the face of institutional Islamophobia. She tries to put his rancour out of her mind and do her job, but it unsettles her. She's not tough enough. That's what everyone is always telling her. Don't be so emotional, it will destroy you, that's what her sergeant said. But she is who she is, and she's not prepared to compromise herself to fit in. She opens the man's rucksack and peers in. Clothes, a tube of toothpaste, a toothbrush. “That's fine,” she says and let's him go on his way. Her smile fades as she sees his stare. She wants to apologise, but she knows this wouldn't be appropriate. Police don't apologise for doing their work. Even when the work is as useless as this. Some politician has forced this, posturing as tough for an upcoming election, spinning the idea that a terrorist attack can be avoided by checking bags at tube stations, taking resources away from where they might actually do some good.

She can't possibly check every bag; the volume of people here makes that impossible. Everyone in London is always rushing and being selected for a bag check almost universally causes ill-feeling. She sees a young woman carrying a large black leather bag and asks her to come over to the checking area. The woman turns and she sees her clearly for the first time. She has very long black hair, but her fringe is cropped to a blunt line high on her forehead. She's dressed in black: tight ripped jeans, boots, a leather bike jacket. Despite her short stature and her slightness, she's rather intimidating. She has dark make-up around her eyes, her eyebrows are thin, pointed arches, utterly unnatural, drawn in, since not a hair remains on her brows. Her full, sensuous lips are painted deep red and rings penetrate the flesh at either side of her lower lip. Her nose bears a large black ring through the septum and her smooth cheeks are pierced by round, shiny studs.

Erin is relieved to see that this young woman wears a faint smile as she accompanies her to the table. There's no malice or impatience that she's been selected, only a slight ironic amusement. Erin makes her statement, the standardised justification for these checks. The woman nods, still wearing her arch smile. She hefts the bag up onto the table. The bag looks like an oversized doctor's bag, an archaic design, but beautifully made. Clearly expensive.

“Can you open your bag please, Miss?” Erin requests.

“Oh, I'd be delighted. I love it when people call me Miss.” She opens the catch and pushes it toward Erin.

There's a set of handcuffs in the bag, the chain and rings covered with a thick coating of black rubber. Erin removes and places them on the table, better to see the rest of the contents. Then she feels her face reddening as she sees a large dildo, a butt plug, other sex toys she can't name and whose function remains obscure to her. She feels a sense of embarrassment as she has to take out these objects. She glances up to see the woman, whose smile has now broadened. She seems to take a delight in Erin's reaction. “You're blushing,” she says, incredulously. “I didn't think anyone in the Met would blush at the sight of a dildo.”

Erin tries to assert herself and puts on her most serious face. But the woman stares at her, smirking and Erin's nerve fails her. She grows flustered, blushes more. She returns to the contents of the bag. There's a coil of rope, leather straps, a flogger. There's also a smaller leather case which Erin makes to open.

“Careful,” the woman says. “There are sharp things in there. Want me to open it?” Erin nods. The case contains two pairs of scissors and a straight razor.

“Why are you carrying these?” Erin asks.

“I'm a hairdresser,” she replies with a sly look. She also lifts a set of chrome plated clippers from the bag to provide more evidence.

“And the... other things?” Erin asks. “Why does a hairdresser need handcuffs?”

“Well,” the woman smiles, “I'm seeing a special client. I'm going to tie her up so she can't move an inch, fill her holes very roughly,” (she lifts the dildo and violently prods it forward) “and cut off all her hair.”

Erin can't mask her astonishment. “Really?” she gasps. “Why would anyone want that?”

The woman shrugs. “I could give you a convoluted explanation about her need to expiate her guilt by being punished, but the short version is that it makes her cum over and over.”

“Getting her hair cut?”

“Shhh!” she says gleefully. “She doesn't know about the haircut yet. I'll surprise her with that once she's tied up.”

Erin's look of shock seems to delight her companion. “How are you going to cut it?” Erin is no longer focussing on her job, she's now overtaken with curiosity.

“I might give her something very short, a bowlcut or a flattop. Maybe shave her completely.”

“That's awful!” Erin gasps. “You can't, it's assault.”

“I'll pass her your number and you can come and arrest me.”

“I'm serious,” Erin says. “You can't just cut someone's hair off without their consent.”

“I won't. She'll sign a release to consent to everything I want to do to her. I do it with all my clients. Do you want to come and watch to make sure I stay within the law?” Erin seems to blush more every time this woman talks to her. She tries to get out a reply but remains tongue-tied. “You do want to come and watch, I bet. You're intrigued aren't you?”

Erin dismisses her. “Go and get your train. I'm sorry to have delayed you.” She frowns as she acknowledges her weakness in apologising.

“Not at all. It's been a pleasure to meet you, officer. In fact I'd love you to keep in touch. Maybe you'd like to call me and ask about what I do to my victim today.” She goes into her pocket and pulls out a card. It reads: Miss Avarice, domina.

“I do work as a real hairdresser too.” She takes another card and passes it to Erin. “I work a couple of days in a salon and I do house calls. I bet there's a lot of hair in that bun. I could give you a nice professional makeover. Make you look tougher, at least. Now put those cards in a safe place and make sure you give me a call. I'll be very disappointed if you don't, and you don't want to let me down, do you?”

Erin doesn't know how to respond. She waits for the woman to vanish but she holds her gaze. “You'll call me, won't you?” she asks, more seriously now. “You do want to know what happens with my client this afternoon, and I'll tell you everything. Call me, OK?”

“I'll call,” Erin says hastily. She wants to be rid of this strange woman.

As the long shift proceeds Erin tries to put the encounter out of her mind. That's easy during the rush hour; the station is overwhelmed with commuters and the levels of resentment increase as she makes office workers miss their train home. But then the rush dwindles and there's hardly anyone in the station, which relies on those office workers for its business. Now she has lots of time to think and she can't stop thinking. Somewhere in London is there a woman who's sobbing as she looks at herself in the mirror, her hair savaged into a humiliating new style which will take years to grow out? She feels guilty imagining this. But why is she guilty? She has had no part in this act. She realises she feels guilty because these thoughts excite her.

Erin drives home, the business cards now transferred to her purse. At home she takes them out to study them. The same mobile number on both cards, but on the hairdressing card the name is different: Ava P. She finds herself wondering if Ava is her real name or if it's a contraction of her dominatrix persona. Miss Avarice, how ridiculous to use such a name! She muses on whether there are another six dominatrices who call themselves after the other deadly sins. She smiles as she imagines a Miss Sloth, a Miss Gluttony.

But then her mood changes as she remembers Ava. She was very sexy! Not the type of woman who would usually attract Erin, but there was something about her look. Her eyes, her lips, even with those piercings. That beautiful long hair, so shiny, silky, black. Erin thinks it was probably not even dyed, she had quite dark skin. She can't shake the image of some poor innocent being bound and shorn. An unexpected haircut. Her fingers fidget nervously with a strand of her own long, pale hair as she imagines those evil-looking clippers being forced over the poor woman's head. She imagines Ava wearing that same ironic smile as she taunts her victim. “Won't this be a surprise? Imagine all the whispering when you go to work tomorrow.”

She imagines herself as the victim, how her colleagues would tease her if she suddenly appeared with a brutally short haircut. She'd be called a lesbian, a dyke, for sure. Is that any worse than how she's viewed now? The ice queen, bloodless, sexless. Prim little Erin who blushes when she sees a dildo. But this isn't about her. She was only thinking of the other, Ava's victim. She could call her now and Ava would provide every detail of her encounter. Would she be truthful? Erin imagines she'd embellish reality. Still, she wants to know. She adds the number to her phone but can't bring herself to call. She thinks how crazy she is to dwell on this inconsequential encounter and goes to bed.

She wakes from troubled dreams of which she can only recall being in a village hall which she remembers from her childhood. She feels nervous, edgy but the details of the dream are fugitive, evanescent. Almost immediately her thoughts turn to Ava and her victim. She touches herself, not without some hesitancy. She doesn't want to encourage these thoughts, they're dangerous. But she's too weak to resist. She brings herself to a delicious climax as she imagines watching Ava torture a beautiful young woman.

It's two days before she acts on her impulse to call Ava. She knows she shouldn't but the thoughts of Ava keep coming to her vividly at unexpected moments. Finally she has a day off and decides she will call. Her heart is racing as she makes the call. She takes a sip of water as her mouth feels dry and she's afraid her voice will fail her. There are only two rings before a voice says “Hello?”

“Uh... Hi.” Erin says. “Is this Ava?”

“Who is this? I don't recognise your number.”

“It's Erin. Erin Hume. We met the other day in the tube station?”

“I don't remember,” Ava says. She sounds distrustful, aloof.

“I did a bag inspection.”

There's a pause before recognition. “Ah, our esteemed Met officer? Is that you?”

“Yes, that's me.”

“I'd forgotten about you. You took so long to call. I think that's rather rude.”

“I'm sorry. I have a very busy life.” Erin feels defensive already.

“And since you're addressing me as Ava, that must mean you want to book a haircut.”

“No, I just wanted to chat.”

“I have a clear division in my life. Ava is a hairdresser, Miss Avarice is a domina. Did you want to discuss my activities as a domina?”

“Well... yes, I suppose so.” Erin feels cowed by her directness.

“Then you should call me Miss Avarice.” There's a long silence. “Do it,” Ava says with some vehemence.

“Miss Avarice,” Erin begins, feeling the ridiculousness of her situation intensely, “I've been wondering about your encounter the other afternoon. You said you'd tell me about what happened.”

Ava chuckles. “Have you been thinking about me all this time?”

Erin feels naked. “To be honest, yes, I have been thinking about you a lot.”

“That's so sweet. But to be honest, I can barely remember you. You had brown curly hair, cut in a bob?”

“No,” Erin says, reddening. She's sure Ava is teasing her. “Long blonde hair, worn in a bun.”

“Ah, OK. You were wearing a hat?”

“I was wearing a police uniform.”

“And what are you wearing now?”

“I don't think that's...”

“Erin, don't be rude!” she says mockingly. “You'll address me correctly and answer my questions. In return I'll answer yours. Do you understand?”

“Yes.” A long pause. “Yes Miss Avarice.”

“Better. Now what are you wearing?”

“Just a big t-shirt. I've not long got out of bed.”

“No underwear?”

“Panties, no bra.”

“That sounds lovely. Now do you want me to tell you about my Tuesday client?”

“Yes Miss Avarice,” Erin says guiltily.

“And are you going to touch yourself?” Erin pauses, ashamed. “You need more direction, Erin Hume. You are going to touch yourself. You'll use your left hand and you'll rub yourself through your panties. With your right hand you'll violently fondle your breasts. Put your phone on speaker so your hands are free.”

Erin does as she's told, but reluctantly. She slides her hand under the t-shirt and presses at her firm left breast, which is shapely but not overly large. She seems sensitised. Her left hand slides between her thighs and feels the heat and moisture of her cotton panties. “Are you doing as I told you?” Ava questions.

“Yes Miss,” Erin says, her voice cracking with nerves, making her sound, she fears, like a slut.

“The client was a woman in her late thirties. A professional woman I'd seen a couple of times previously. She has a job in the city, divorced, wealthy. She's a little overweight, which is a source of embarrassment for her. In the pictures of her in her apartment she's slim. She's always well dressed and perfectly groomed. Or she was,” Ava laughs slyly.

“She loves to be bound and taunted, humiliated. I'd threatened to make her submissiveness public in the past, which was a huge fear and a bigger turn on for her. As soon as I got there I stripped her naked, forcefully. She daren't struggle against me any more. I made her display herself and examined her pussy, which she'd had fully waxed the previous day, as I'd instructed. It was lovely and smooth and as soon as I ran my fingers over it she started to moisten. And is your pussy getting wet, Erin?”

“Yes Miss Avarice,” she admits bashfully.

“Keep rubbing your lips, press the panties right into the cleft, I want them nice and wet. Anyway, I looked her up and down and it was clear that she'd gained weight. I asked her how this could be so. Seems she has an eating disorder. When she's stressed, which is often in her job, she binges on chocolate or cake. I told her she's getting a double chin, which makes her very ugly. She was already close to tears.

“I pulled her arms behind her back and cuffed her wrists. She makes little sighs when she gets excited and the cuffs made her do it. Then I put a thick dog collar on her fat neck and fastened it too tightly for comfort. I told her this collar isn't going to be let out any further so if she's gained more fat on her neck next time then she'll be unable to breathe. I tied the cuffs to the collar, pulling her wrists up her back until her shoulders were aching.

“She was whimpering and sighing constantly by now. I had to tell her not to cum, because she was already on the brink. By the way, that applies to you, too. Don't you dare cum or I'll have to punish you. I made her bend over as I penetrated her anus with two lubed fingers. You remember the big butt plug? She sucked that as I opened up her tight little hole. She's never liked anal and the pain helped to restore her control, although the humiliation made her more aroused still.

“I eased the plug in, which she didn't like. Then I made her stand and take the dildo. She was so wet by now that it went in easily, despite its size. I made her stand with her feet apart and press her thighs together to keep the dildo in. She looked so awkward in this posture, knock-kneed, all pretence of elegance gone.

“I took some photos of her, telling her that she was starting to look old and that if she didn't lose weight that no one would ever see her in a sexual way ever again. That really hurt her. She started to cry, which pleased me. I pretended it made me mad and took out my feigned anger with the flogger on her big spongy buttocks. I made them glow before I made her sit on a kitchen chair. I shortened the rope between her collar and cuffs to make her more uncomfortable, then spread her knees.

“I tied her legs to the chair so that she wasn't able to move. She was hardly able to breathe with her sobbing and sighing. I decided it was time to break the news to her. 'When a woman is over thirty she need to start thinking about her hair. You can't get away with long hair at your age.' Her hair was past her shoulders, quite thick, healthy, dyed auburn. She probably thought her hair was her best feature. At least she'd looked after it, which is more than I can say for the rest of her body. Once she saw me unload the scissors from my bag she started to panic. But what could she do?

“'Please Miss Avarice, I'll go and get it cut shorter. A nice neat style. Please don't cut it now.' She sounded like a whingeing little brat and I could hardly contain myself. I told her if she didn't stop it I'd shave her bald and ban her from wearing a wig. She was trying her best to get her panic under control but her hopes that I was just taunting her were becoming frayed. I kept snapping the blades together in her face to make her cry. Then I chopped a big chunk of hair away from the top of her head and she cried more than I'd ever managed to make her sob with the flogger.”

Suddenly there is an interruption in the flow of the narrative. Erin is disgusted at herself for her response to Ava's cruelty, yet she is completely absorbed in the telling of this tale. “I think that's enough, Erin,” Ava says coldly. “If you want to hear any more you can buy me lunch.”

“You want to meet?” Erin is suddenly alarmed.

“Not if you can't be better mannered. Address me correctly, for a start.”

“I'm sorry, Miss Avarice.”

“That's better. There's a nice Italian, Il Giardino, by Kensington Gardens, I'll expect you to be there by one to meet me.”

Erin glances at her watch. It's just about feasible to make the journey in time. “I will be, Miss Avarice,” she says impulsively. She's told that she'll receive a text with some instructions.

For the umpteenth time Erin fusses with her skirt. It's too short for her, she only wore it once previously, and now she has worn it without any underwear. She glances around the restaurant. She's under-dressed for such an expensive place, just the skirt and a little t-shirt which exposes a little midriff. At least it's only lunch time. The patrons are dressed less formally and her appearance doesn't attract too much attention.

She's sure that this place is too expensive for her means, equally certain that Ava will expect her to pick up the bill. That's if she turns up. She's already twenty minutes late, and since Erin arrived ten minutes early she's had a full half hour to allow her anxiety to ferment. She keeps telling herself that this is a bad idea, that she should leave now. Ava has made her believe she has dark desires, but why have they never troubled her before? The sensible course of action would be to withdraw and keep busy until this chance encounter is forgotten. She looks to the door, visualising her escape. But she sees a dark figure silhouetted against the sunshine and realises that escape is no longer an option. Ava has arrived.

“Hello, Miss Avarice,” Erin says softly as her guest seats herself.

“Do you always speak so quietly or are you just ashamed that someone will hear you? Speak up and greet me again.” Erin does as she's told. Ava is correct, she feels absurd addressing a lunch companion by this name. She feels her discomfort growing.

Ava is dressed similarly to the last encounter: the same jacket, tight black leggings, boots, although these are more elegant, with sharp heels. Her long hair is loose, the fringe as crisp as ever. Is it perhaps even a touch shorter, freshly trimmed? The make-up is different today, her eyes outlined in thick oily black, Cleopatra-like, her lips stained a purple so dark it's almost black. Her features are perhaps a touch sharper than Erin had remembered.

Erin takes all this in with fleeting glances. She's being examined by Ava's intimidating gaze, checked to ensure her compliance with the instructions. “You know I said I didn't remember you? Now we're together I see that's true. I wouldn't have recognised you again. You have quite a forgettable face, Erin Hume.”

She's unable to respond to this apparent insult. A waitress arrives to pass menus. There's a lunchtime menu with more reasonable prices and Erin suggests they order from this. “No, à la carte,” Ava insists. “I want the lobster, it's divine here. You should try it.”

Erin declines, explaining that she doesn't like seafood. She looks on the menu and suppresses a groan as she sees how much Ava's lobster will set her back. As the waitress takes their order Erin mentally totals how much this lunch will cost her. More than she would spend on food in a month. She feels angry with herself for getting into this position.

“Stop pouting,” Ava says sternly. “You should be happy to spend money on me. I love being given expensive gifts and when I'm happy I'll make you happy. You don't resent spending on me, do you?”

“No, Miss Avarice,” Erin says. “I want you to be happy.”

Erin is now asked to sketch some details of her life. She answers honestly: she's an only child, she grew up in a comfortable home with good parents who she visits as often as she can given that they live two hundred miles distant and that she works long hours. She's never had a relationship that lasted more than six months. She's had relationships with men and women although she feels a better fit with women, to the point where she no longer thinks of herself as bisexual but rather lesbian.

Now Ava starts to go deeper into her psyche. Erin admits that people always seem to regard her as a “good girl”, that at school she wanted to be friends with the cool kids but they never trusted her. As an only child she became comfortable with her own company, so having few friends bothered her less than it did most of her peers. She's not got close to anyone since arriving in London; she has good enough relations with colleagues, but hardly ever socialises with them outside work.

“So you wanted to be a bad girl but no one ever let you?” Erin laughs, but admits there's some truth there.

“And you saw me, and I was everything about bad girls you'd ever dreamed of?”

Erin nods. It's true, and maybe explains why she's so attracted to Ava. “You want me to bring out your bad girl, but it'll cost you. I have to feel special, and only lavish gifts make me feel loved. That and obedience.”

“That's not easy. I don't have a lot of money. Living in London isn't easy on my wage, Miss.” Erin feels upset to think that she'll be rejected because she's not wealthy. Is she so devoted to this woman already, even though she knows how badly she treats her lovers?

“I know you're not rich like some of my ladies. All I want to know is that you'll make sacrifices for me. It would make me happy to think of you going without for my sake. Or exhausting yourself working long hours of overtime so that you can buy me a nice pair of shoes. Will you do that for me?”

“Yes Miss Avarice,” Erin says. She can see that her new friend's name is no accident.

“You wanted to hear the rest of my story, didn't you?” Erin nods, but she'd prefer to hear it in private. Ava picks up a knife and polishes it with the linen napkin, paying attention to the broad, chased handle. “You can use this to stimulate yourself.” Erin looks at her with a mix of disbelief and incomprehension. “Put the handle in your slit until only the blade juts out. No one will see you, these table cloths hide everything. You'd be very surprised at what goes on under these tables.”

She pushes the heavy knife into Erin's hand and looks at her expectantly. Erin pauses, then lowers her hand beneath the edge of the table. Ava shifts her chair a little closer and her hand slides over Erin's thigh, guiding the knife toward her sex. Erin pauses, her cheeks reddening. “If you don't do it I'll never tell you. You have to trust me. Push it in.”

Erin touches the metal to her lips and tries to be courageous. She feels Ava's fine fingers slide onto her labia, parting them. “Ease it in, baby. Back and forth so you get nice and wet and it goes in easily.” Erin can barely sit still as she feels the cool metal entering her, Ava's fingers delicately probing at her. “I don't like hair on pussies. We'll get you waxed after we've eaten.”

“Yes Miss Avarice,” Erin gasps, her voice strained as she's been holding her breath. Now Ava takes hold of her hand and makes her push the handle in deep. She's unable to remain silent and a soft, high squeal passes from her mouth. Ava moves the blade from side to side to make sure the knife is embedded deeply in her.

“Oh my, what an image. A girl with a blade instead of a penis. Every boy's worst nightmare.” She resumes her story as if the gap in the tale was seconds rather than hours. “I decided it was time to introduce my little fatty to the clippers. She really begged when she saw me plugging them in. I told her that if she gave in I'd put a guard on but any resistance and I'd be shearing her to the scalp. She was very panicky and I knew that calmness was beyond her, but at least she stopped wriggling. I gave her the mercy of a guard on the clippers. It was a small guard, a two. I told her that this would leave a quarter inch of hair. I told her to bow her head without delay if she didn't want me to reconsider. I felt so powerful seeing her drop her chin to her chest, knowing that her beautiful hair was about to go.

“I started at her neck. I lifted up her hair and put the blades on her neck. She jumped when I flicked the switch. These clippers make a very loud noise when the motor engages, and I love how that crack makes subbies jump. I pressed them tight to her skin and moved them up nice and slow, savouring the drop in pitch as the blades met her hair. I told her that they were cutting away her locks and that what was left behind showed how grey her hair was now. She's very vain and the idea of showing that she's old and grey now was hard on her. I ploughed the clippers right up the back, right up to her crown. The shaved path only showed off how thick her hair was, or, a few minutes later, had been. The whole back and sides were quickly sheared down to a nice even buzz. All the dyed hair was cut away and what was left was salt and pepper stubble.”

There's a brief pause as the waitress brings the starters. Erin is made to refer to Ava as Mistress Avarice in the waitress' presence, since the latter can see that she's been uncomfortable about using this name. As the waitress retreats, Ava slips off her bike jacket. Her left arm is almost entirely tattooed. Erin starts to comment but is immediately silenced.

“Don't talk until I finish the story. You may eat and you will touch yourself under the table. If you need to cum, raise your hand.” Erin acknowledges the orders with a nod.

“At this point I decided it was time for my little piggy to see a mirror. I set one up in front of her. Of course, her hair was still long on top so when she saw herself the extent of the buzz was concealed under the long hair. I lifted her tresses clear and let her see what I'd done. I limited her ability to express her despair by gagging her now. I would have done it earlier but the strap would have interfered with buzzing her nape. I stuffed the ball into her teeth when she wasn't expecting it. I loved the look of shock as I pressed it right in, then fastened it so tight that it would make her cheeks ache.

“I wet her hair with a spray. Ice cold water, to add to her sensory feast. I combed the hair flat over her head and started to snip a nice blunt line right around her head, leaving the fringe till last so that when I cut it she finally got a good view of her new look. I'd set the weight line well over her ears, about half an inch of the buzz visible over the top of each ear. Even with the undercut her hair is so thick that I knew it would give a very heavy line so I did some texturing through the ends to soften it. Then I blew it dry, curling the ends under and getting the hair nice and smooth, so she had a nice, full mushroom bowl. She looked so weak and submissive now, and I made sure she knew it.”

Ava reaches into her pocket to get her phone to show Erin the evidence. She sees a woman who looks barely into her thirties, hardly the woman she'd imagined. She's not slim, but she has a good figure, not the obese woman Ava had suggested. In the first photographs she displays her nakedness awkwardly. Erin is shocked to see the next images, where her long hair has been severely shorn into just the style Ava described, the sides grey and clippered close. She's gagged, her make-up smeared and smudged by the indignities she's borne. Erin feels awful for her, but she can't control her excitement. She starts to gasp and holds her hand up. Ava's fingers work at her clitoris, the knife jerking up and down inside her.

“Just hold on a moment, you little slut,” Ava says affectionately. “Wait and see how she'll present herself to the world now.” Another picture of the same woman, now with her hair swept back on top, the natural wave apparent. Her face is now scrubbed of make-up and she's wearing a pair of black framed glasses. She looks much older than before her makeover, androgynous. Her expression can't hide her sadness at the look that's been forced on her, but Erin thinks that she looks beautiful.

“Please Miss Avarice, I need...” she moans, looking about anxiously to see if her shameful conduct has been observed. Is there a tiny sense of disappointment that it appears that no one is staring at her?

“Cum, you little whore,” Ava purrs in her ear. As the orgasm starts to fill her body, Erin feels Ava take hold of her jaw. She smudges her mouth with lipstick, applying a thick layer. Erin feels helpless, unable to resist, paralysed by the delicious climax. “Do you want to turn up for work tomorrow with your hair cut like hers?” Ava teases.

“Oh, no, please, Miss Avarice,” Erin wails.

By the end of the meal Erin has orgasmed three times and still holds the knife inside her. Ava has continued to work on her make-up which has been noticed by a few of the patrons. Erin has become tipsy with the prosecco she's drunk but hasn't been allowed to visit the bathroom. She has no idea how she looks any more, but Ava tells her she looks hot and that pleases her.

She pays the bill, horrified to see how much it is, sure she'll not have enough money to make it to the end of the month. But then Ava takes her to the bathroom (the knife blade jutting out under her skirt) and all worries are forgotten. She giggles as she sees herself. Her eye make-up is the same as Ava's, her lips painted a shiny black. “Oooh,” she gasps. “I look so goth. We're like sisters!”

“But there's something not right, isn't there? What is it?”

“My eyebrows.”

Ava nods, reaches in her bag. She holds out a safety razor. “Shave them and I'll draw you new ones just like mine.”

“I don't know,” Erin says. This wouldn't be something she could wash off when she gets home.

“Did you think that was a request? I don't make requests, I give orders. Shave them or I'll pluck them and I'll make it hurt.”

Erin is allowed to wet her brows before she shaves them. Ava distracts her from her task by slowly extracting the knife from her and licking it clean. Erin is suddenly confronted by her new image in the mirror. She's not herself any more. She loves it when Ava leans in close to her and draws on the new brows. They're even more dramatic than her domina's own, making her look angry and depraved.

“Aren't you a sexy little thing?” Ava demands.

“I am, Miss Avarice,” she says drunkenly, delighted with the attention.

“I'm going to take you to a spa now to get your pussy waxed. They'll think you're such a whore, won't they? You're all slimy and smelly from cumming.”

“I don't care what they think. I only care what you think, Miss Avarice.”

“Which is exactly how it should be. I think you're going to make me very happy, Erin Hume.”

Erin wakes the next day with a hangover. She doesn't know where she is, can barely remember the events of the previous night. She's slept on the floor, but she lies on thick rugs which mean she isn't uncomfortable. The room is unfamiliar and she winces as she thinks how stupid she's been to let herself get so drunk.

She sees a hank of long, black hair across the floor from her. She thinks that Ava must have cut her hair. It's not enough hair to indicate that all of her hair has been cut; perhaps, she fantasises, Ava now has a sidecut. She reaches down to stroke her sex, recoils as she feels how chafed and bruised she is.

She notices an open door which lets onto a bathroom, stumbles through to the room (en route sees that Ava is asleep in the large bed across the room) and sits on the toilet to relieve herself. Rising has made her head throb with pain, inducing a pulse of nausea, and focusses on the bathroom cabinet where she hopes she may find analgesics. She goes to the cabinet but is shocked into immobility as she catches her reflection. The hair she saw lying on the carpet is hers. Her hair is dyed black, a heavy fringe cut ridiculously high on her forehead, even shorter than Ava's. Her make-up has been scrubbed away and she has to regard herself without brows. She looks awful, she thinks. It makes her forehead look too big, her eyes look too far apart. She's weird, ugly even, with no brows, and her fringe won't allow her to hide it. She pulls the band out of her hair to let it fall free and examines her black mane. She curses. How will she ever explain this? She has to work today and she'll arrive looking like a goth?

Erin finds some painkillers in the cabinet, swallows them, drinking greedily from the tap to slake her dryness. She slumps back onto the rugs and feels herself becoming tearful. However, once the painkillers start to act she falls asleep again.

Her second return to consciousness is caused by Ava, who has lain alongside her on the floor and now presses her naked body close against Erin, kisses her lovingly on her neck and cheek. “Good morning, sleepy,” she whispers.

Erin smiles at her, despite feeling awful. Her head still aches dully, the nausea is now compounded by heartburn. Ava looks so different without make-up. For the first time Erin realises that she's very young; her cosmetics had made her look older. Erin is sure she is, at twenty-three, the elder. She looks into Ava's dark eyes, seeing her anew; her fine, short eyelashes give her a look of vulnerability. Her absent brows give her face something of the strangeness Erin remarked in her own feature, but knows that Ava pulls it off better. She tries, unsuccessfully, to guess her ethnicity. Her features and skin tone suggest some extra-European heritage. The piercings add to her exoticism.

“We're like sisters now. I love you with black hair. And that fringe is super.” Ava's fingers smooth down the short hair over her forehead.

Erin feels her pride grow, feels a thrill of lust too, despite her malaise. She glances over Ava's body which is heavily marked with tattoos; in addition to the sleeve on her left arm she has an incomplete chest piece which reaches from shoulder to shoulder, a large design on each thigh, and a smaller tattoo on the back of her right shoulder. She's tattooed more heavily that Erin should like, but then her tastes seem to be shifting very rapidly. The tattoos are suggestive of the abandonment that Ava embodies, and Erin delights in kissing her smooth, inked skin. She even imagines Ava tattooing her, which simultaneously induces horror and exhilaration.

Ava's gentle attentions make Erin feel ecstatic, her caresses and kisses. For a full hour they are wordless, savouring and treasuring the fusion of their bodies. Finally Ava falls onto her back and groans. “Oh, baby. We need to get up! I wish we could stay here forever, but the world won't wait for us.”

“Can I call you Ava?” Erin asks meekly.

Ava smiles mischievously. “Do you think you're my girlfriend now? That we're equals?”

Erin nods. “I'd like that. I really like you.”

“Well... I like you too. But I still demand that you call me Miss Avarice, because I know that you think it sounds ridiculous and I want to make you uncomfortable. And you have to understand things about me before we go any further. I make a lot of money from seeing other women, and I enjoy it. I won't stop that and if you're going to get jealous it will destroy our relationship. I think the best way would be that I'm totally open about what I do, that I tell you all about my encounters, That seemed to please you yesterday.”

There's a reddening of her cheeks as Erin recalls her shameful conduct in the restaurant. “I think I'd like that,” she admits. “Thank you, Miss Avarice.”

“I can't wait to meet some of your colleagues.”

“I don't really socialise,” Erin says.

“You will now. I can't wait to see your little cheeks glow as you tell them your girlfriend is called Miss Avarice. And then, of course, there's the fact that we're going to look alike. Same hair now. We should start on your piercings today. Get your septum and cheeks pierced.”

Erin looks at her in horror. “I can't do that!” she says. “I'd never be allowed those piercings in work.”

Ava looks at her fiercely. “But you said... Last night you promised.”

“I don't remember anything of last night. I really shouldn't drink so much.”

“It was more than drink,” Ava snorts.

“Oh God, really?” Erin feels a dread as she imagines that she could be selected for a random drug test. “I'm sorry if I promised things but I can't have facial piercings and do my job. Please, Miss Avarice, try to understand my position.”

“Cheeks and septum,” she says sternly. “You can wear something discreet in your septum on duty, it would be invisible.”

“The cheeks wouldn't be!”

“True. Either we go with the plan for you to look like me or else we go a different route. And that means haircut.”

Erin looks at her pleadingly. “Please Miss Avarice. It's just because of work. There are strict rules.”

“I gave you a choice. One word answer: piercings or haircut?”

Erin feels terrified. Is she going to be wearing the awful bowlcut that Ava inflicted on her last victim if she declines the piercings? She looks at the studs which decorate Ava's cheeks and knows that she would never be allowed on duty with these. “Haircut,” she says, defeated.

“OK, let's do it.”

“Now?” Erin is unprepared for the haste with which this is unfolding. Moments later she's in an adjoining room which is fitted with a large, antique barber chair upholstered in shiny black leather, the edges of each pad lined with silvery pyramidal studs. Erin climbs awkwardly over the footrest to take her place in the chair. She looks at the unfamiliar girl in the mirror. At least she still has long hair, but even that consolation is about to be withdrawn.

“Is Constable Hume allowed to wear make-up?” Ava asks as she fixes Erin's wrists with broad leather straps which she fastens with laces.

“A little make-up is allowed.”

“But not your eyebrows like they were yesterday?”

“Maybe if they were more naturalistic..?”

“No. I prefer that you'll wear no make-up in work.”

Erin grimaces as she imagines facing the public with this browless visage. Ava continues to immobilise her. Now she pulls leather bands around her knees, which are now attached to chains to spread her legs. A belt is fastened around her chest, just below breasts, pulling her tightly against the upright back of the chair.

Ava holds up two clips, rubber tipped with powerful springs. She snaps them menacingly before Erin's face. Are these to be applied to her nipples? In fact, the reality is worse that Erin's imagination had conceived. Ava fixes the clips to her outer labia. Despite her wish to endure her torment with stoicism, Erin groans. They pinch horribly, unbearably, and yet she has no way to remove them. Now Ava increases her suffering; fine chains on the clips are tugged so that Erin's sex gapes, and the chains are fixed to the frame of the chair. Ava licks her finger and begins to stimulate Erin's clitoris.

“Poor baby. Do you want something inside you to console you from all this pain? And the despair you'll feel at getting your long hair cut off?”

“Yes, Miss Avarice,” Erin sobs. “Please, it hurts too much.”

“I decide what's too much, don't I?” Erin nods. Ava crosses to a cabinet which is opened to reveal numerous dildos of mostly unfeasibly large magnitude. She lets her fingers stroke over each in turn as she muses on which would best suit Erin. She selects one of wide girth (it must be two and a half inches thick), maybe ten inches long. “Is this too much?” she says, teasingly.

Erin nods, but Ava remains mute, expectant. “That's for you to decide, Miss Avarice,” Erin says humbly.

Ava covers the latex phallus with a generous layer of lubricant, obviously becoming aroused as she playfully runs her hands over the shaft. “Feels so good,” she murmurs, then lets the dildo slide up and down between Erin's breasts.

The pleasure of this sensation is short-lived. Moments later the head is thrust against her sex, twisting and burrowing at the strained opening. Erin moans as she tries to imagine how this thing could ever enter her. Brute force is applied and Erin screams as she stretches to accept the huge head. “Please!” she gasps over and over. She sees the thing slide into her until more than half of the shaft is buried inside. The pain is intense, dwarfing the pinching of the clips.

“Good baby. You'll soon take things far bigger than this without difficulty. Soon I'll have your backside stretched to take this dildo,” Ava laughs.

“Now are you going to be a good, compliant little kitten while your Mistress cuts your hair?”

“Yes Miss Avarice,” Erin groans. She just wants to be released. If her hair needs to be cut to accomplish this then she must accept it. She'll do nothing to slow Ava's work.

“Mmmm, clippers.” Ava displays the same set that Erin previously saw during the bag check. “You'll soon love the feeling of these. I'm an artist with these, but today I'll keep my work simple. I think you should appreciate the sensation of a short buzz though. I'll take you to a number one. That's an eighth. Head down!”

Erin bows her head. She's always had long hair but now it's about to be almost shaved. Ava continues to provoke her. “You remember the pics of the fat woman? Hers was a number two. Yours will be half the length hers was, and your hair isn't as coarse. It's going to look pretty much shaved. Probably just as well I dyed it last night. If you were still blonde it would look bald.”

Erin feels her muscles jolt as there's a loud crack just by her ear. She remembers how Ava delighted in this, the noise making her victims jump. Sure enough, her reaction induces a cruel chuckle. “Here goes!” Ava proclaims triumphantly.

The long hair is lifted free of Erin's neck and the clippers come to rest at the base of her nape. They vibrate teasingly, hypnotically. The sensation is lulling, reassuring, but Erin knows that their seductiveness disguises their true purpose, to ravage her hair, still beautiful despite the new shade.

Ava lets the blades rise, slowly, so slowly. There's little to indicate that they are shearing away Erin's tresses. Then suddenly she makes a rapid upward stroke, high up Erin's nape. There's a dip in the tone of the hum but the clippers slice through the hair effortlessly. Erin's vain hope that this was all mere teasing crumbles as long black hairs fall over her naked body.

Ava returns the blades to her neck and makes another up-thrust. Her left hand is holding the bulk of Erin's hair in place at her crown, so that only a few strands fall free after each pass. Soon Erin's entire nape has felt the passage of the clippers numerous times. Ava concentrates her attention at the top of the clippered area, which is only, Erin estimates, two inches below her crown, intent on tidying, neatening the line which separates the near shaved area from the long hair on top of her head.

Finally Ava releases her grip on Erin's head, allows her to straighten her neck which is aching from its constrained posture. As the grip relaxes a mountain of hair spills free, covering Erin's body and forming a dark corona around the base of the chair. Ava lifts the long hair again, this time to kiss Erin's nape. There's no soft silk covering any more, just a prickly layer of stubble, and a scalp irritated by the actions of the blades. And yet Erin swoons to feel the pierced lips of the woman she adores on her shorn head. Her wrists push against the tight straps, desperate to touch herself, to push her arousal further until she tips into climax.

Ava breaks away and moves to Erin's right. She grabs her hair and forcefully pushes her head to the side. The clippers gnaw away at her sideburn, then higher, turning her temple to a ruin. The shiny black locks are reduced to an ashen stubble, her scalp easily visible. Erin winces as she sees the side being shorn above her ear. Ava is cutting as high as the line of her fringe. She starts to feel tearful as she imagines the line of the fringe being extended right around her head. That would give a much more extreme bowlcut than the woman she saw on Ava's phone. How humbling this haircut will be! She'll have to face her colleagues in a few hours time, transformed into a girl who is undeniably a submissive lesbian.

As Ava starts to shear the left side, Erin momentarily believes this is what she wants. She wants to be humbled, wants Ava to control her and humiliate her. She stares at herself in the mirror, her ears jutting out more than she ever realised they did. She feels something melting inside her and she shrieks as she reaches climax.

Ava reacts with delight to Erin's loss of control. She pauses from her work to caress Erin's nape. “I didn't think you'd learn to love the clippers so soon, baby. Maybe I should just run them all over your head right now. You'd look so pretty with a crew cut.”

“Please, Miss Avarice,” Erin moans, still shivering in the grip of her orgasm, “let me keep the bowlcut.”

“Oh, my little baby, is that what you want? I was going to give you a pretty bob, but you want a bowlcut?”

The enchantment subsides and Erin is suddenly facing a more realistic view of her situation. “Oh, I got carried away,” she groans, now aware once more of the agonies that torment her. “Please, Miss Avarice, a bob would be very nice.”

Ava laughs. “Maybe too nice. I don't encourage niceness. You're going to be a bad girl now, aren't you?”

Erin sees the last of her long hair snipped away. She has a sharp bob now, the tips forming sharp points at chin level, the back angled up slightly to expose a little of her tightly buzzed nape. Ava cuts beautifully, carefully shaping the style, then smoothing it with dryer, brush and straighteners to a gleaming helmet of a glossy perfection. Erin is astonished to see herself with such a dramatic new style but any doubts she had about its suitability are eclipsed by Ava's evident ardour.

She expects to be released now, but is made to wait a little longer. Ava combs back the bob and fixes it in two stubby tails, either side of her crown, fully exposing the high undercut. Only the little fringe is left free. She tells Erin to be very still as she shaves around the hairline of her nape to give a hard contour. The straight razor drags at her dry scalp, chafing and reddening the skin, but somehow the sensation is nothing but pleasurable to Erin. Ava carves the short hair of her nape into a trapezoid, all hard, straight lines. Then she shaves away Erin's sideburns, high up her cheeks. “When you tuck your hair behind your ears it'll just expose bald skin,” Ava tells her. “I like how that looks.”

When Erin is finally released from the chair she's been heavily made up, black lips, eyes decorated with sharply pointed wings, thin arches serving as brows. She can't take her eyes off her reflection. She cums again as Ava slips the huge dildo out of her abused sex.

Ava tells her that she'll wear her hair like this for the entire day. She'll keep her make-up until just before she enters her workplace. Erin nods her assent as she strokes her buzzed scalp, still in disbelief that she's been transformed so spectacularly. She loves her new look.

But, soon after, Ava is gone to work, and Erin has to face the world. Suddenly she's alone and confronted by the unwelcome stares of strangers as she makes her way through the town. She's filled with regret for what she's done. How will she ever face her work mates, how can she possibly explain this metamorphosis? She goes to an ATM to withdraw some a few pounds to buy lunch, checks her balance as she does. She's horrified to see that she'd almost emptied her account on the previous day in her wooing of her mistress.

Erin is unable to eat now, her stomach twisting in protest at the abuses of the previous night, additionally provoked by the anxiety she feels about her imminent arrival in work. She realises that the journey home would take so long that she'd have to leave again almost immediately to get to work, so resolves to stay out. It's a pleasant spring day and she goes to a park where she drinks copiously to compensate for her dehydration. Her scalp feels light and cool, but every time she touches it she feels regret intensely. She had such lovely hair and now it will take her years to grow it back.

She enters a department store near to the station and visits the toilets. She faces herself in the mirror and can barely stand to see what she's become. Her hair is almost shaved! She hates how it looks tied up like this. And her make-up, it's designed to make her look like a slut. She takes out the moistened tissues that Ava provided for her and starts to erase her mask. The pale, odd creature that is revealed is perhaps even less appealing. She flushes as she sees once more how her ears jut. She considers releasing her bob from its constraint to cover up her ugly ears, to conceal the extent of her undercut. But she can't bring herself to go against her orders from Ava. She daren't risk upsetting Ava. Despite her regrets, she knows that Ava has made her experience joys of which she couldn't have previously conceived. She won't risk Ava ending their relationship by trying to ameliorate her appearance. She takes a last, lingering look at herself, trying to fix in her memory how she will look to her colleagues, to the public.

It's late in the following week before Erin hears once more from Ava. She'd been told not to contact Ava without good reason, to expect to be contacted when Ava chooses. The call comes when she's catching up on sleep after having worked a strenuous double shift. She wakes in confusion at the ringing tone, takes a few moments to realise what woke her. Then she looks at the display of her phone and is fully aware in a moment; she's been longing for this call.

“Miss Avarice, hello!” she gushes. “I've missed you so much.”

Ava sounds aloof. “Erin, how are you?”

“I'm tired. I was sleeping after a long shift. I've been working so much, and it's been really difficult...”

“I don't care to hear the details of your mundane life,” Ava interrupts. “I'm sure my job is infinitely more interesting than yours.” Erin adds a word of agreement. “When do you get paid? I'd love you to buy me something nice from your earnings. If you did that I might see fit to provide you with some more days of excitement.”

“I'd love that, Miss Avarice,” Erin says, delighted by the thought of seeing Ava again. “But I'm awful at choosing presents. And your tastes are so different to mine, I'm sure I'd choose something unfit.”

“My tastes are better. That's what you mean, isn't it, Erin?” Erin agrees with this assessment. “You had such a boring hairstyle before we met, didn't you? I bet even since you got your nice bob you've been imagining it growing long again, haven't you?” Erin admits that Ava is right. “I need to save you from yourself. Did you ever have such a sweet orgasm from trimming your long hair as you did when I clippered you? Of course you didn't. The first thing we do when we meet is to get your undercut nice and sharp again. I'll shave away all the dyed hair. I can't wait to see how it looks. Almost bald with your blonde hair. Maybe we should try a wet shave. It might suit you better. Do your friends like your new look?”

“My sergeant isn't very pleased with me. He says I look like a punk and it's not suitable for a police officer.”

Ava laughs. “Does he think something more military is appropriate? I could give you a nice buzz or a US marines flattop.”

“Please, Miss Avarice, don't. They've been encouraging the men to get away from shaves and short buzzes. They think that it helps to have a slightly softer image.”

Ava starts to laugh uncontrollably. “You think you'd look too tough with a flattop? Erin, it would take more than a haircut to make you look tough! You're so soft and girly. That's what I like about you. I can't imagine you dealing with hardened criminals. I bet they all laugh in your face.”

Erin feels herself growing hurt by these taunts, because there's some truth in Ava's accusations. “I do have problems with imposing authority.” She feels herself getting emotional as she admits to her difficulties. “I'm better when someone empathetic is needed. I'm good at supporting victims.”

“Well that's nice. You're a very likeable girl, Erin.” Ava is sincere in her statement, Erin is certain. “I liked you immediately. But you need to be liked. You can't please everyone. If you try, the one person who'll never be pleased is you.

“I like that you'll antagonise your sergeant. He'll start to have more respect for you. Have you been wearing your bob down?”

“I have,” Erin states. “I wear a hat most of the time and when I have my hair up it looks like I have a buzzcut.”

“Oh, but that sounds heavenly. “I'd love to see you in your uniform again. I bet you look so sexy. Put your hair up for the next shift, baby. I want you to look like a punk, although I bet that undercut is getting too soft already. I can't wait to clipper you again.

“I've been neglecting you, haven't I? I can see you need guidance to stop you from reverting to the boring little girl that fear had made you. I need to issue you with orders on a daily basis to keep you on your toes.”

Erin's hand is on her pussy now, stroking it with excitement. She knows that Ava will make her life difficult, that she'll endure humiliations frequently, yet imagining this loss of control, not to mention regular attention from Ava, makes Erin grow extremely passionate. “Thank you Miss Avarice,” Erin groans, her voice betraying her mood.

“Run your fingertip over your eyebrows, Erin. Do you feel stubble?” Erin confirms that she can feel soft points of hair sprouting. “ Do you want to grow your eyebrows back?”

“I do,” Erin confirms. “I look weird without them. It would be for the best.”

“There's that will asserting itself again. You don't know what's for the best, Erin. You need me to decide. Go and get a razor right now and shave them smooth again. I might make you get them permanently removed so that you can't backslide. Actually, I'm disappointed that you've not maintained them with your razor. Do I have to tell you everything?”

“I'm sorry,” Erin says, feeling a deep hurt from this criticism. She goes to the bathroom and wets her brows with a dab of shampoo. The stubble is only noticeable to a close observation but despite this Erin is reluctant to shave it. She hates how she looks without brows, has been drawing them in, getting a little better each day as she hones her skills with making them look even and more natural. Even so, she would rather her brows were allowed to grow in and now the little progress that had been made will be erased. She drags the blade over the skin, feeling a bristling scrape as it passes. A second stroke meets no such resistance. She dabs a towel over her brow, the skin seeming to tingle. It looks so clean now it's freshly shaven, beautiful in a way, even though when Erin takes in the effect it has on her features, she still feels despair. She tells Ava that her brows are gone.

“I'm glad to hear it. Just sorry I had to tell you. I think you should be very generous with your tribute. You never did tell me when your next payday is.”

“It'll be next Tuesday. I'll try to think of something nice to get you.”

“No need. I think your imagination needs a rest. You can go to my favourite tattoo shop and buy me some gift certificates. I hope you can find your way to spend a good amount. You know how much it pleases me when you spend so much that you have to go without. I'll text you the address later. Once you've bought the vouchers you can call me and we'll arrange a rendezvous. Until then you're to shave your brows every day and wear your hair up. Try different styles every day and get pictures to show me. Goodbye, Erin.”

Erin enters the tattoo shop. She's never been to a tattooist's before and she feels out of place here. It's in a area of the East End that she barely knows, that's reputed to be an up and coming area. The dilapidation of most of the buildings is in contrast to some of the people she sees, clearly striving to be noticed for their ability to keep up with the latest fashions. There are strange art galleries and voguish coffee shops. The tattooist is on the second floor of a rehabilitated seventies office block, now incongruously home to a hair salon and various creative enterprises. A bell rings as she passes through the fluted glass door. A young woman sits at a counter glancing idly at Erin. Then her features brighten as she looks more closely at her visitor.

Erin feels a little peak of pleasure, assuming that she's been judged to be attractive. She's curled her hair today and pinned it up quite chaotically. It's not a style she would ever have worn for work, and despite feeling a little ridiculous, she thinks it looks quite good. She's made an effort with her make-up too, her brows looking better than they have, she's sure, since they were shaved.

“You're Erin,” the woman says with certainty.

“I am. How did you know?” This recognition has taken her by surprise, made her feel wary.

“Ava told me to expect you. She said I should make sure you don't stint on her gift.”

“I won't. I wanted to buy some vouchers. Maybe...” She'd calculated that she could afford two hundred pounds but now she feels pressured to spend more. “Two fifty?” she says hesitantly.

The woman looks at her sternly. “Just two-fifty. You couldn't even go to three?” Erin tries to calculate how spending such a big chunk of her earnings will affect her. She would be able to cover her bills but her food budget will have to suffer. And there'll be no savings, no new clothes. She can't resist giving in.

“Yes, three hundred,” she says, glumly. She counts the bills out from her purse and is rewarded with a bundle of vouchers in a gift card with an image of a facially tattooed Blessed Virgin Mary.

“That's better. We might get that chest piece finished now. She'll look so good.” Erin gives a forced smile, places the card in her handbag, turns to leave.

“No, you need to come through the back,” she's told. She looks at the woman with puzzlement. “Ava's orders. She said I'm not to tell you anything except to tell you that you do exactly as I say.”

As she sits in the leather chair, Erin is feeling sick. There's a tattoo machine next to her. She's going to be tattooed, she's certain. Her thoughts become confused, out of control. Her concern is that the tattoo will be visible with her uniform. In her dress code it states that no tattoos should be visible, although her colleagues take this with a pinch of salt. Many of the male officers (and her colleagues are almost all male) have tattoos which show when they wear short sleeves. Occasionally they're told they should keep them covered but there are no consequences when they disobey.

Erin imagines being scolded for her new tattoos. But what if she gets something on her hands? She imagines holding her hand out to this woman, who is even now scrubbing her own hands in preparation to work on Erin. Tattooed hands, that would be unacceptable, she's sure. Or a big tattoo on her neck! Please not that...

The more she thinks about the trouble tattoos will cause her, the more excited she becomes. She feels a trembling in her loins, she wants to be tattooed horribly. She imagines Ava looking over her body and nodding in satisfaction that Erin is now a bad girl. Tattoos that can't be hidden or removed. Her breathing is becoming fitful, excited.

The tattooist comes over. She has a tray with a needle, swabs, clamps. She's to be pierced, not tattooed. She feels relieved, yet disappointed. It's the latter which shows more on her face.

“Did you think I was going to tattoo you?” the piercer laughs. “I could if you want.”

“No,” Erin says, tries to justify herself but finds no words.

“Not today, but soon, hey?”

“Maybe,” Erin concedes. She blushes as she realises that this conduct will be passed on to Ava. How will she react if she knows that Erin was disappointed not to be tattooed?

Erin's contemplation of her future is suddenly eclipsed by the events unfolding in the present. Her nose is being cleaned and she realises with panic that she's being prepared to receive a septum piercing. A ring dangling from her nose would never be allowed in her job and she starts to protest.

The piercer silences her. “Ava said you'd try to talk your way out of this. You do have a choice. Either you walk out of that door and never see Ava again or you sit like a good little girl and accept what needs to be done.”

She closes her eyes and remains silent. She will passively accept what Ava desires of her and try to find some way to avoid being sacked. For now the competing demands of her life with Ava and those of her job seem incompatible.

She feels a clamp fixing on her, inside her nose. Her sad passivity is suddenly replaced by a feeling of panic. She recalls the big needle she saw on the tray an imagines it being forced through her flesh. This is going to hurt! She feels sick as the piercer moves her head back, makes a series of tiny adjustments.

Then she's punctured. The pain seems to increase in steps. Initially she feels it's less than she expected but then it grows as the needle pushes deeper. The cartilage is tough, resistant and the sensation of force is unbearable. She feels sick, wails quietly, more from the dislike of the feeling of the cartilage being distorted than the terrible pain.

Her ears are ringing now and she can feel sweat trickling over her icy brow. More wailing as she feels the fresh wound being manipulated. “Please stop,” she moans childishly.

“No,” her tormentor says curtly. “It's best to just get it over with. You'll thank me later.” More fiddling, every movement causing pain and threatening to make Erin lose control and vomit. Finally there's space between her and the nightmarish figure of the piercer. Erin sighs as she realises that her ordeal is finished.

A mirror is passed to her and she looks at herself. She's terribly pale, her features covered with glistening beads of sweat, her upper lip suffused with a stain of crimson. Her nose now bears a little horseshoe through the septum, silvery beads hanging from each of the limbs, which are at least two millimetres thick. She stretches down her upper lip to get a better view, but immediately regrets it: the strain on the skin makes her nose sting.

“It looks good,” the woman tells her.

“Thanks. I'm just worried about work. They don't really like piercings.”

There's another ache to be endured as the new jewellery is manipulated. Now the arch is rotated so that it's contained within her nostrils, only visible if she tips her head back. “There, is that better?”

Erin smiles with relief. She might be able to get away with this after all.

Erin's pride in herself for coping with the piercing is dented as she pays for it. She hadn't prepared for this, had thought that Ava would have taken care of it since she ordered it. Now she's pushing her budget even further into stress. Still, she's now met the criteria to allow her to call Ava. She makes her way to a nearby coffee shop, orders a soft drink, takes out her phone and, with trepidation, makes the call.

“Erin, I've just been hearing about you!” Ava gloats without preamble. Erin makes a nervous greeting, expresses her wish that her mistress is in good health. “Thomasina said you thought you were going to get a tattoo. Is that right.” Erin confirms her misunderstanding. “And you wanted it?”

“I thought it was what you wanted, Miss Avarice, so I'd have accepted it.”

There's a long pause. Erin wants to say something to fill the void but can think of nothing to utter. “Erin Hume...” Ava begins, her tone that of a teacher scolding a dishonest child, “I think that you're being less than truthful. I asked if you wanted it. I know you have too much ego to accept my wishes as your own. I'll ask you again. Did you want a tattoo?”

“Miss Avarice,” Erin sighs in a soft voice, afraid of being overheard by the young woman who's just occupied the table behind her. “It's very confusing for me. I was terrified by the idea, but something about it excites me. It was the excitement I craved, not a tattoo.”

Ava laughs long and hard. “The excitement is what should guide you now, not your desire to be a nice bourgeois lady. It's so nice that I know about this. I can't wait to see you getting inked by Thomasina.”

Erin tries to respond but her mouth dries. She knows that Ava will fulfil this threat. She presses her thighs together tightly and feels a gorgeous sensation grow inside her, fear and arousal and helplessness combining to stir a sort of abject bliss. She knows she shouldn't allow herself to be overtaken by this inclination, it's dangerous and will only lead her to ruin, she's sure, yet she's too weak to fight it. “You do want it, Erin?” Ava asks coolly. Erin can only make an inarticulate croak which makes Ava laugh. “Mmmm, so excited that you can't even speak. You'll look such a slut when Thomasina is through.” The call is wound up with an instruction for Erin to visit Ava's apartment immediately.

The journey, though only a few miles, takes more than an hour on the hot and overcrowded underground. Erin's hands are shaking. She's full of nervous energy, thrilled to see Ava again but fearful too. Can she really want to be in a relationship with a woman who scares her so much? But then, perhaps Ava is right and she should pursue the things that turn her on, and Ava excites her like no one else she's encountered.

Ava opens the door to Erin and she feels like throwing herself on her knees. She looks more strange and beautiful than Erin's memory of her. Her fringe has been reshaped, angled down from her temples, a wide point forming at the centre of her forehead. Her long mane is tied back at the top into a messy bun, allowing Erin to see her ears. The lobes are stretched in loops around discs of dark, polished wood, at least an inch and a half in diameter. Erin can only barely recall having seen these modifications, presumably when she was drunk. She wears a black vest which shows her tattoos and Erin thinks of her as an exotic matriarch from some lost tribe, a powerful priestess who must be obeyed.

“Oh, look at you!” Ava groans. “You must stop trying to look conventional. You look like an off-duty cop. I know you are, but that's no excuse. You're not going to keep me satisfied looking so boring, are you?”

“I'm sorry Miss Avarice,” Erin whispers. She holds out the gift vouchers as a peace offering. Ava examines them and Erin glances up looking expectantly for a glimmer of gratitude or happiness. Ava doesn't show anything. Is she disappointed that Erin didn't spend more?

“Go to the bathroom,” Ava instructs. “Undress and leave your clothes in there. Scrub that awful make-up off too. Then come back to me.”

Erin obeys her, takes a long look in the mirror at her face. She still can't get used to having no eyebrows, but has shaved them every day since Ava ordered. She goes to the living room but there's no one here. She calls out and is summoned to Ava's bedroom.

“On your knees, slave,” Ava giggles. She pushes Erin's head down and rubs at her nape. “This hair has grown so much. You must have a good constitution; it's a good sign when your hair grows fast. I guess it means I'll have to see you more often to maintain your hair. Does that please you?” Erin nods happily. “Do you want me to neaten up this fuzz, get it nice and sharp again?”

Erin feels drunk as she looks up into Ava's deep, dark eyes. She still feels a shock each time she touches her head, the absence of her long hair still stings her. She'd love Ava to tell her that her hair will grow again, as long as Ava's own. But her mistress has other desires. “Your friends the clippers, you want to feel them, don't you, baby doll? I haven't forgotten how you liked them last time.”

“Mmmm, clipper me,” Erin groans, unable to resist.

“Maybe we'll try you shorter now. Would your sergeant like that?”

“Nooo,” Erin wails. She feels like she's regressing as Ava talks to her, really becoming baby-like. “I'll be in trouble,” she pleads, her voice becoming high and girlish.

Ava pushes her head down firmly and starts to kiss at her nape. “Don't be silly. I can always make things right, can't I? We'll take your nape nice and short and cut your bob too short to tie up. You can wear it down to keep you out of trouble with your boss. But you'd rather make him mad than me, wouldn't you?”

“I need to make you happy, Miss Avarice,” Erin sighs. She raises her head and sees Ava gazing lovingly into her eyes, expectantly. “Please clipper me,” Erin says.

Ava doesn't have to rise. She reaches to her side and she's grasping the chrome clippers, already plugged in. “There's no guard on the blades so they'll cut you very close, Erin. That's going to be a very special feeling, the most pure experience of being clippered. I'm really going to give you a treat today, baby.”

“Will they shave it all?” Erin asks. Her fear is starting to gain superiority over her desire.

“Absolutely,” Ava smiles. “Just a little sandpaper to remind you that you had hair once.” She flicks them on and Erin, despite knowing the noise was coming, jumps at the crack of the motor engaging. Ava slices a path through the soft bristles in front of her right ear, then presses Erin's fingers to her scalp. She groans as she feels the bared skin. The sandpapery stubble that Ava described is only tangible when her fingers rub upward, against the direction of growth. A downward stroke feels only smoothness.

“Doesn't that feel divine, so erotic?” Ava's joy is palpable, and it infects Erin. Her breathing becomes laboured, so intense is her arousal. She remembers her fresh buzz, how severe it looked. Now there will be no softening from soft dark bristles, just stark baldness. The more scared she becomes, the more Erin slides toward elation.

Ava tilts Erin's head down again, her temples now resting on the inside of her lover's thighs. The clippers whirr up her nape, her short hair flying from the irresistible march of the mechanical blades, becoming a dusting of short fibres which shadow Ava's knees. The blades are pressed tightly to Erin's scalp, disquietingly, irritatingly so. Ava's intention is clearly to cut as short as possible with no concession to Erin's comfort. Erin doesn't complain; there's something thrilling about this harshness in her treatment, a unknown need is fulfilled. She imagines her bald nape looking red and blotchy, imagines how soon she will be made to display it, sees, in her vision, how those behind her will see that she's just been shaved. She'll be proud to show off her raw, bare scalp, as long as Ava is beside her, but knows that once she's alone this demeanour will evaporate and she'll be left sad and regretful.

Ava turns her head so that her left temple is exposed, her right ear now resting on Ava's thigh. She can smell Ava's excitement. “You're a very bad girl,” Ava whispers.

Erin smiles, she wants to be a bad girl, that's what Ava loves turning her into. But then she looks up and sees she's misunderstood; Ava is admonishing her. “I get your nose pierced and you have the temerity to hide the jewellery! Are you ashamed of my ideas?”

“I'm sorry, Miss Avarice,” Erin says. She'd meant to turn the loop downwards before her arrival but in her nervousness she's been forgetful.

Ava is deliberately heavy handed as she manipulates the curved bar into its more visible position. “I think I should fit you with something you can't hide.”

Erin's eyes are watering as the wound sends little sharp bursts of agony. “Please Miss, the piercer said I should let it heal for a while before changing the jewellery.”

“That's so, is it? You know, Erin, I really don't care. Take it out while I get something suitable.”

Erin rocks back on her haunches as Ava rises. She reaches up to remove the bar but is at a loss to know how to remove it. She tries to twist the beads, groaning as the metal turns against the injured septum. She manages to unscrew one of the beads then tries to ease the loop of metal through the piercing. She winces and groans at the pain.

Ava takes the bar from her and puts it aside. She roughly brushes some clippings from Erin's face before pushing her head back as far as possible and forcing a ring through her septum. Erin's determination to meet this challenge with dignity and courage instantly fades. The edges of the metal tube which forms the ring snag at the cartilage and she cries out in pain. She has real tears coming from her eyes now and can't pretend it's merely an automatic response to pain which is causing her eyes to water. The relief as Ava finally releases the ring, now fitted to her satisfaction, makes Erin give an embarrassed giggle. Ava looks unimpressed.

“Erin Hume, that was disgusting. Your nose is all snotty when you cry and I have it on my fingers. Lick!” She holds out her fingers which Erin cleans with her tongue. The little hairs which have stuck to Ava's fingers are transferred to Erin's tongue, which disgusts her. She wants to spit them out but knows she must put up with this insult until Ava allows her to rinse her mouth. For now she places her head on Ava's tattooed leg once more and sighs as the clippers rush across her temple. Ava folds her ear down and shears all around it.

“Your ears stick out a little, don't they Erin. I bet you've always tried to hide that.”

“Miss Avarice, I was hardly aware of it when my hair was long. I only noticed it when you cut it short.”

“Did it please you?”

Erin feels herself becoming a little upset. “No Miss, I don't like it. My ears look awful.”

Ava strokes at her ear beguilingly. “I think it's very cute. You've always been a pretty girl, and your vanity is wounded when you realise you have an imperfection. But I'm going to celebrate your imperfections. You'll show off your jug ears whenever we're out together. I think we should get lots of new piercings to draw attention to them. Wouldn't that be nice?”

“Please Miss Avarice, I'd willingly do it, but in my job... We're only allowed to wear studs because there's a risk that rings could be pulled and injure us.”

“Does that apply to nose too?” Ava takes the septum ring in her fingers and tugs gently, but even this makes Erin squeal.

“Yes Miss,” she says through gritted teeth.

“Your job is an excuse to make you look more conservative. I'm really starting to resent it. But then if you were on the dole you'd have no money for me and then I'd soon get bored with you!”

Erin makes an apology. Ava remains wordless as she shears away more hair. “Tell me about your thoughts when you imagined Thomasina was going to tattoo you.”

Erin feels uncomfortable. She knows that to admit what she really imagined would be an invitation for Ava to cover her in nasty, gothic tattoos. She also knows that she's a bad liar and any attempts to make up some story will be immediately obvious to Ava as deception.

“It's hard to put into words,” Erin says, shivering as she feels the clippers rise up her scalp, the sound changing as they shear away some of the longer hair on the top of her head. “Oh, Miss, you're cutting higher?” she says anxiously.

“Obviously,” Ava says impatiently. “Keep on subject. The tattooing!”

Erin feels herself getting too excited as she feels the clippers edging up into her longer hair. It's too alluring to ignore and she has difficulty speaking at all, let alone negotiating precisely how much she can tell Ava without giving her license to unleash Thomasina's needles on her flesh. The words start to come unbidden, automatic, as if it was a stranger speaking with Erin's voice. “She told me I had to come with her and accept what you'd instructed without question. I sat in the chair and I could see the tattooing machine. I immediately thought that's what she intended to use.”

“Did that make you excited?”

“At first it was just fear. But yes, I started to get excited soon,” Erin admits.

“What tattoos did you imagine?” Ava's voice is breathy, seductive. Erin loves to hear this voice, so sexy, promising endless pleasure.

“I kept thinking about how tattoos would get me in trouble at work, tattoos I couldn't hide, anyway. I imagined being reprimanded for tattoos that were visible.”

“How awful!” Ava whispers as she caresses Erin's temple. The sensation of bald scalp right up the side of her head makes Erin gasp. She has to struggle for a few seconds to take control of her excitement. “Oh, baby doll, you nearly cum then, didn't you? Was it the thought of tattoos you couldn't hide?”

“No,” Erin says defensively. “Well, partly,” she admits. She knows her secrets can't be hidden.

“Where did you imagine Thomasina tattooing you?”

Erin wants to cry as she feels that she's betraying herself. “On my fingers and hands.” Her voice is dead and leaden, it's barely recognisable as her own. Ava lifts her hands as she puts the clippers aside momentarily.

“You have such pretty little hands, Erin!” She kisses them lovingly. “Did you imagine big black roses covering the back entirely? And writing on your knuckles?” Ava's pointed nails trace patterns around the soft skin, pressing enough for Erin to imagine a needle following the same course. “And where else were the tattoos you imagined?”

Erin is shivering at Ava's attentions. She doesn't want to say any more but she wants Ava to keep treating her like this. “On my neck,” she sighs.

“Oh my!” Ava says with some sarcasm, yet still seductive. “Here?” She pushes Erin's head to the side and kisses her long neck, moving her lips slowly upward behind her ear. “More tattoos spreading up onto your bald scalp too?” she whispers in Erin's ear. Now the kisses balm her newly mown skin, taking away the rawness that the chafing blades have created. “You can cum right now,” Ava whispers. As Erin lets her control subside she adds the proviso “If you want these tattoos to become real one day.”

Erin wants to stop but it's too late. Like a glorious fire, the release takes over her body, urged on by the kisses that Ava lavishes on her baldness, the pinching on her breasts and nipples. She feels an ecstasy of an magnitude she's never known before, as if she's risen through a sea for her entire life and is finally breathing pure, clear air.

The orgasm seems to fill her forever, prolonged by Ava's fingers stroking roughly over her bald head, her devouring, ringed lips pressed to Erin's. She feels Ava pull the clips out of her hair, letting it fall over her bare scalp as her body still smoulders with the fire of ecstasy. Ava lifts her fringe, pulls it back tightly to expose Erin's forehead. And then the clippers are chattering again, the blades, hot from prolonged use, pressed to her hairline. Erin can't believe this is happening, reflexively tries to buck away from the clippers, but Ava holds her firm and cautions her about moving again. A second wave of pleasure erupts from within Erin as she imagines that soon she'll be bald. Bald! How can she get so excited by this torture? Even as she imagines having to be in public, stared at for her pale, bare scalp she feels her orgasm deepening. She loves this submission, this helplessness.

Is it relief she feels as it becomes apparent that Ava isn't going to take all of her hair? The blades move in small, controlled strokes, not the long  manoeuvre from forehead to crown which Erin anticipated, perhaps craved. But then she imagines that Ava is shaving away her fringe. She imagines her bob parted in the middle to expose a ludicrously large forehead, a look no less humiliating than a bald head.

The clippers are turned off and Ava roughly pushes Erin down to the floor with a playful laugh, then drops on top of her, pinning her down and kissing her. “You're gorgeous, Erin,” she whispers. “I love that you turn every test into a pleasure. I've got such plans for you. If you keep turning me on like this I might even consider letting you live here with me, and I thought I'd never allow that.”

Erin beams with pride that Ava's feelings are beginning to reciprocate her own. She used the word love! “I love you, Miss Avarice,” Erin says with the utmost sincerity. Ava smiles warmly, no malice, no sarcasm in her eyes. She tenderly kisses Erin.

“Does my lover consent to having her scalp shaved properly? Nice smooth razor job?” Erin sighs, closes her eyes and nods.

She's sent to take a shower. “As hot as you can bear,” Ava demands. “It will make the shave nicer.”

Erin has hoped that in the bathroom she'll be able to see how her clippering looks but Ava accompanies her and doesn't allow her to take a close look in the mirror. She does take a glance though, sees that her fringe is still there, sees her still unfamiliar bob covering the undershave, sees her features dominated by a thick black ring dangling over her top lip.

Ava pushes her into the shower cubicle, turns on the water which is initially shockingly cold but soon becomes uncomfortably hot. “Turn it higher,” Ava says insistently. She's undressing now and Erin doesn't dare disobey her. The jets burn at her, her instinct is to pull aside but she endures it. Suddenly Ava is pressed behind her, naked. She pushes Erin's head under the scalding jets, making her groan. Ava seems unaffected by the temperature, her hand moving Erin's head under the stream.

Erin winces as her head is made to take the blast. A blob of shampoo is smoothed over her hair and worked to thick suds. She's moved back so that now the burning water is directed onto her breasts. Ava works the shampoo into her scalp which would feel delicious except that Erin isn't allowed to tilt her head back and her eyes sting as the soap trickles constantly over her face.

Now Ava smooths the hair back and exposes Erin's cropped scalp. She smears the bristly skin with the thick lather and massages it, almost violently, with her nails. Erin feels weak at the beauty of this feeling, so enchanted that even her burning eyes seem to add a frisson to her pleasure. “Your roots are showing,” Ava says tetchily. “We need to get those fixed before you're allowed out.” Erin agrees that this would be for the best.

Now, instead of Ava's pointed nails, a razor goes over Erin's lathered head. Ava pulls the multiple-bladed head up Erin's nape, causing a soft scraping as the last vestige of hair is stripped. Erin bows her head, despite meaning that the scalding water courses over her face, to allow her mistress to more easily make her scalp hairless.

The razor slips through the suds over and over, scraping away the stubble. Soon Erin can feel no resistance as the keen blades make another transit. “Feel it now,” Ava orders. Erin sighs as she feels a truly bald nape. The removal of the tiny coating of hairs seems to have made a miraculous difference, so smooth, soft, sensitive is her head.

Erin's head it pulled back onto Ava's shoulder. Now the razor makes upward motions at the top of Erin's forehead. She's closed her eyes, the better to savour the feeling of the blades making her smooth. She dreams of a time when she's braver, when she will ask Ava to make her completely bald, but then she also supposes that Ava may well inflict this hairlessness on her before she's able to accept it willingly. She wishes that Ava and she were alone together eternally, when she could show her adoration by allowing Ava to make of her what she desires, with no other commitments to limit her obedience. She tries to shut out the dark shadows that communicate to her that she is becoming someone that will soon no longer be able to continue the previous trajectories of her life. At some point, hard decisions will be made.

Ava lathers the sides of Erin's scalp and uses the razor to render the scalp of her temples as hairless as her nape. She teases Erin as her ears are folded forward to allow the blades unimpeded access. “I think someone must have done this to you before!” she mocks. “Your ears stuck forward permanently.”

“Please, Miss Avarice, they're not that bad, are they?”

“Don't look to me for consolation,” Ava says defiantly. “You love to be humiliated, don't you? You're a pretty girl but these ears look silly. That's the truth.”

The shaving is completed by the razor pressing hard over Erin's eyebrows. Although she had shaved them only hours previously she can feel a scraping as Ava shaves closer. Finally the scalding water is turned off.

Erin groans as her head is vigorously dried with a thick, soft towel. The ring in her nose is pulled to the side by Ava's actions and the pain is shocking, making Erin feel a pang of nausea. “My nose!” she moans, bringing a laugh from Ava.

She's seated now as Ava combs through her hair. “Sit still, baby doll. I'm going to mix the dye now.” Soon Erin is staring up at Ava's tattooed chest, imagining how soon it will flourish into dramatic colours under Thomasina's needle. She tries to imagine Ava as she was before she transformed herself, free of tattoos and piercings, hair untouched by dye. She would have been such a pretty girl, Erin thinks, and so brave to let herself become this. She knows that her metamorphosis will not be so untroubled, that she will have periods of regret and shame. But for now, she's delighted by everything that Ava has made her become.

The application of dye happens more quickly than Erin had anticipated, but then she has far less hair than she's used to. Ava has twisted her hair into little twirl atop her head and fixes it with a clip. As she divulges herself of her gloves she studies Erin intently. She seems to have formulated a plan and as soon as she's washed her hands she takes a pair of surgical scissors, the blades not much longer than an inch and lifts them to Erin's eye. “Look up and don't blink,” she says softly.

Erin can't suppress a gasp as she feels the blades nip away the lashes from her lower lid. This is unexpected, unwelcome, something that can't be hidden. She has long lashes, thick, dark, has always been proud of them. She prays to some unknown force that it will only be her lower lashes that are taken.

But her prayer is unanswered. Ava is soon cropping away her upper lashes too, ordering Erin to hold her eyelid open as she does. It soon becomes apparent that this is impractical. The touch of blade to flesh induces a blink reflex which Erin is unable to master despite Ava's exhortations. “Close the damn thing,” Ava finally concedes, frustrated by the eyelid's refusal to conform to Erin's will.

Ava's frustration is quenched as she realises that she can now slice away the lashes so much more easily. She rests her hand on Erin's cheek to steady it and cuts with the blade touching the delicate flesh of the eyelid. She repositions herself to work on Erin's left eye, then has an inspiration. Erin feels her eye being pulled open by tweezers which grip a group of lashes.

“That's better,” Ava says triumphantly. “Now you can't blink.” She snips at the long lashes, some of which fall, irritatingly, onto Erin's exposed eyeball. Erin groans despairingly at the unbearable sensation as Ava shears away the hairs to left and right of those gripped so forcefully.

Now Ava strips her of her lower lashes, finally releases her grip. Erin rubs at her eye which is gritted with fallen hairs. Her eyes feel alien without the familiar stiff fringe; all that remains is a clump of long hairs in the centre of her left lid, the hairs that Ava had gripped with the tweezers.

“Want me to get rid of those hairs?” Ava asks, and Erin, blinking, nods her consent. She immediately regrets her decision as her eye is once more jacked open by the tweezers. Ava leans in and protrudes her tongue, letting the tip touch Erin's eyeball. Erin can't bear this, pleads her mistress to stop, has to fight an urge to push her away. Her tears start to flow as she feels the tongue licking away the vexatious hairs. She sighs with relief when Ava is done, blinks her eye, which is now comfortable once more. Ava spits in the sink to clear her mouth.

“Let me see you,” Ava says. She stares at Erin's eyes admiringly. “Such lovely blue eyes you have. Pale and lovely, and now there's no hairs to get in the way. Except... I seem to have missed a few.” She reaches in once more with the tweezers. Erin sobs a tearful plea. Of all the things which have happened today this is the one she can't endure.

She expects to see the gleam of the scissors enter her field of vision but that isn't Ava's plan. Instead she takes a single hair and plucks it with a sharp tug. There's a little sting but less than Erin would have expected. Ava plucks the handful of remaining hairs with speedy efficiency.

“All done!” she says cheerfully. “You look just gorgeous. You're becoming more like my vision of you.” To preserve the memory of this moment she photographs Erin on her phone, framing the portrait with considerable care. She turns the phone to allow Erin to see herself.

The top of her head is out of frame, only the shaved sides of her head visible. She appears completely bald; more than that: hairless. She's still unwilling to accept her image without brows but now she sees her eyes looking small and odd without their dark framing fringes. Only the ring in her nose ornaments her brutally exposed features. She makes a long low moan of despair. She looks pleadingly at Ava. How can she have been so cruel? Erin feels her tears well, lamenting her lost beauty.

“What are you snivelling about? You look beautiful, far more lovely than that boring cop I met a few weeks ago,” Ava says, evidently with sincerity.

Erin wants to protest, that Ava is more conventional in her hair, still has her brows (albeit in painted form) and lashes intact, and doesn't rely for her income on a profession which expects a certain conservatism in appearance.

“Miss Avarice,” Erin says, hesitantly but barely knows what to say. “I don't know how I'll ever be able to feel confident looking like this. And if I'm self conscious people won't take me seriously. I'll have no authority.”

“Then I suppose I'll have to show you that I believe in you. If that doesn't give you confidence then I don't know if I can trust you. Now, stop chattering and wash your hair!”

Erin is made to kneel beside the enamel bath, which she can now see is an antique rather than a retro new model. She cranes her head over the side and waits expectantly as Ava adjusts the shower head. Cold water powers over her head, making her utter a shivery gasp. “It's cold, Miss Avarice,” she murmurs, but her friend pays no heed. She's put on another pair of latex gloves and now agitates Erin's hair to facilitate the purging of the dye. Erin can see the water in the bath run black. Only when it runs clear is she allowed to rise.

Her wet hair is wrapped in a towel and now Erin is taken to the room with the barber chair. Ava takes hold of her head and forces her to look at her image. “Sexy, gorgeous girl,” she says. She pulls the towel free and the wet black locks spill over Erin's bald sides, but not for long. Ava twists them into a top knot and ties it so that a spiky lock juts up above Erin's head. Erin smiles uncomfortably at the ridiculous style but Ava seems intent on demonstrating that Erin appeals to her. She starts to kiss at the silky nape, becoming ever more enraptured. “Keep looking at yourself and finger yourself hard. You'll cum when I demand it.”

Erin blushes at Ava's instruction but her embarrassment does nothing to make her resist the orders. Ava continues to explore her scalp with her lips, then moves her attention to Erin's ears. She withdraws as Erin seems to be slipping toward climax.

The clip is removed and Erin's hair is combed down, the strands cold and sticky on the newly bared scalp. Ava separates the top section, fringe included, and pins it up, making Erin face her reflection with her shaved forehead revealed. She has her scissors now, plays with her comb to smooth the right section, and teases Erin by moving the open blades up and down across her cheek, as if unsure how short to cut. Finally the blades snap shut, cutting Erin's bob at nose level. This seemed to be the shortest that Ava had considered and Erin gasps to see how short her hair will be. The scissors transit across her cheek, across her ear, cutting a precise horizontal line. Almost half of her ear is visible beneath the black hair.

“Is it too short, baby doll?” Ava taunts, gazing at Erin in the mirror. “If I took it just another inch and a half shorter you'd have a bowlcut. Or is that what you still want?”

Erin grimaces as she imagines a harsh bowlcut on herself with bald scalp visible on nape and sideburn beneath the cap of black hair. She imagines her embarrassment going to her job looking so, but she feels something in her that wants Ava to demand it of her. “No, not that,” she whispers, but her fingers work more quickly despite her attempts to show Ava that she wants her hair longer.

“It can wait. For a bit,” Ava smiles. “You can cum when you're ready. If I said that soon you'll have a very harsh bowlcut, would that help you? I'll keep all this shaved and take it so there's a nice band of clear skin on display over your ears. Shorter than the cut I did on my fat sub, and much bolder with the shave below.”

Erin is gasping, filled with a perverse desire for her fears to become reality. “Give in to it, baby doll,” Ava whispers. “You want it so there's nothing to be ashamed of. You were afraid that I'd guess how it made you feel but I already know, so when I count down from five you'll say you want a bowlcut from me and then cum.”

Ava makes the count agonisingly slow. Erin has pushed herself to the brink and can now barely hold herself as Ava pauses for ten, twenty seconds between numbers. Finally she says “Zero! Now say it or no orgasm.”

“I want a bowlcut,” Erin says. Her self-discipline crumbles, rewarding her with a delicious consummation of her desire. Her joy is prolonged by Ava, whose fingers are now reaching forcefully, roughly inside her. A large ring presses inside her, causing some discomfort but a lot more ecstasy.

Ten minutes later Erin has finally calmed. She feels exhausted, wants nothing more than to fall asleep in Ava's arms. But her hair needs to be finished. She sits passively as the scissors snip her bob to its new brevity. “I love how easily I can control you, Erin. Your sex drive makes you putty when I'm with you, doesn't it?”

“Yes, Miss Avarice,” she admits. It's true, she thinks. Ava is able to get inside her head, make her desire the things she most fears. “It's hard for me when you're not around though. Then I start to worry.”

“You'll learn. You just need to be a good girl, baby doll, then you can spend more time here and start to become my beautiful willing sub all the time.”

“I'll be good, Miss Avarice,” Erin smiles. Right now her love for Ava seems far more important than her career.

The top layer of hair is released and carefully combed to lie over the shorter layer. Ava's scissors are once more on Erin's cheek chipping away three inch strands to sculpt the new style. Now they continue their work high on Erin's nape. She shivers as she realises that shaved skin will be visible at the back. She tries to tell herself it won't be so bad. Perhaps, since no hair remains there'll be no way to judge where her hairline was and people will just assume that the bob is cut to her hairline.

Ava makes a few minor corrections to the line of the bob, then nods to herself in satisfaction. “Your fringe now, baby doll. I was going to cut it daringly short. Would you like that?” She moves her scissors, poised to cut, to somewhere around where Erin's hairline used to be.

“I don't know, Miss,” Erin mumbles. She thinks it would look awful but knows that Ava would soon convince her that it was beautiful and necessary.

“But then I thought... Erin wants a bowlcut, and a bowlcut looks best when the fringe is the same length as the sides.” She snips away the ends of the fringe, just a few millimetres of hair falling, just enough to make the ends conform to a hard line once more. “So for now we might let your fringe alone.”

Erin stares at her new bob. Ava has styled it to perfection, using straighteners to make the hair gleam as if burnished. It sits close to her head, the volume reduced by the higher undercut which was inflicted earlier. Ava passes Erin a hand mirror and spins the chair to allow her to examine the back. She feels a fearful chill as she sees what's been done. How could she ever have believed this could look normal? Her pale neck and nape, uncharacteristically bald, are so exposed by the line of the bob that she knows that she'll draw attention everywhere. She can't avoid groaning as she thinks about how this will impact on her life away from Ava.

Soon her doubts are temporarily forgotten. Ava has transformed her features, working a spell with her cosmetics. Erin has pale, powdery skin, her cheeks subtly brushed with a grey blue shadow. Her lashless lids gleam with an iridescent white with a cool blue shading the socket. Her pallor is accented not just by the glossy helmet of hair, but by her lips, just as dark, covered with a liquid oily black. Erin no longer doubts that Ava's desire is to make her beautiful. But the girl she has become is alien, unrecognisable, even from the girl she was a few hours before. She's been dressed in a red dress of Ava's, which would have been too small at the waist except that her waist is now tightly compressed by a corset. She wears a tiny black leather bike jacket and now Ava makes her wear a pair of lace up black shoes with absurdly high heels. The discomfort they cause (in addition to the absurdly oversized heels they're at least a size small) her seems irrelevant given how much they excite Ava.

“Baby doll, just look at you,” she purrs. “So sexy, so beautiful. I want to ravish you, but first I need to show you off to the world. You can be patient, can't you? It'll makes me so horny to see all the admiring glances you'll get, and all because you trusted me to make you so lovely.”

Erin feels elated to be seen with her love and pledges her eternal obedience.

As she walks along an urban street, Erin reaches up to ensure the curved bar in her nose remains hidden, checks her hand before doing so. She has to stop this, it's becoming a habit. She knows that the bar almost always stays in place and that the more likely reason her new piercing will be noticed is that she can't stop touching her nose. She feels sad, vulnerable this morning, Ava having angrily ended their telephone conversation late on the previous night. She had told Erin that at their next meeting she would make Erin receive more piercings. As soon as Erin expressed her concerns that it wouldn't be allowed in her job Ava cut her off. “Call me tomorrow at this time with a better attitude or we're done!” she said, then ended the call.

The life she lives with Ava seems dreamlike; anything is possible. She remembers their night out during the previous week, showing off her dramatic new look, how happy she was to receive such admiration from Ava's friends. But now she's returned to this mundane, grey world where her colleagues titter and whisper when they see her, all the more so as she can't hide how it distresses her. She feels their distrust and is more lonely than ever when she's working.

She's patrolling an area which is home to small factories, many of which are now disused. As she passes a narrow cul de sac she notices a van which looks in poor condition. The front number plate is broken and missing the end of the registration number. She makes her way to the back of the van to see the complete number so that she can radio it in.

Now that she's passed further into the alley she's able to see to the end, having passed the dog leg in the street. She sees two young men, who start to show nervousness as soon as they register her presence. She sees one of them furtively thrust something into his pocket. He's constantly in motion, his legs moving in a spasmodic dance, seemingly out of his control. She's uncomfortable; confronting someone who's high is always risky, and they outnumber her. Regardless, she has to tackle them. She calls out and identifies herself as a police officer. The men are both young, both wear caps and dark glasses (despite the gloomy weather), black anoraks. She asks them what they're up to. “Nothing, we were just hanging,” says the larger of the two, the one who seems more controlled. As she turns to talk to him, his companion starts to sidle sideways, trying to slip out of her field of vision. She's anxious about this, all of his body language suggests that he's going to become aggressive. She tells him to keep still, trying to sound calm, knowing that a confrontational approach would almost certainly make him snap. He can't stay still though and he continues to edge, seemingly without willing it, toward a skip.

“Stay still,” she says insistently. A movement from the corner of her eye makes her look toward the larger man. His hand has reached into his pocket and before she can act he squirts her face with the canister he's drawn from the pocket.

Erin instantly knows it's pepper spray. She closes her burning eyes and they refuse to open again. The shock of the pain incapacitates her. She reaches for her radio, desperate to call for back up, but then something hard and heavy crashes into the back of her head. She stumbles forward, thinks she's regained her balance but then feels her arm heavily impacting the ground. She pulls up her knees, puts a hand over her face and again reaches for the radio. It's torn away from her and she hears it being stamped into pieces. She pulls herself tighter into a ball, still blinded by the pepper spray, her head spinning from the blow. Now she feels kicks and punches raining down. She thinks she's going to die. She thinks of Ava, how she made her want to be helpless, and now she is helpless and it will kill her. There's a stamp on her ribs and she knows immediately that some serious damage has happened. Another kick slides between her hands and impacts her face, making her eyes flash with white. She tries to pull her arms more tightly to her face, but the injury to her side means she can't exert any force with her right arm. As she endures another kick to her torso she can feel bone against bone in her shattered rib cage.

She's turned onto her back and one of the men straddles her body. She's in too much pain to resist. “Not this,” she thinks. “Please not this!” She won't beg though. She tries to open her eyes so that she can see her assailant but the lids refuse to open. A hard slap across her cheek. Another. Her arms are pinned to her sides and she can't defend herself. Her mouth is filled with blood. More slaps, so hard that she's sobbing. She hears the voice of the smaller man urging his companion to go. “That's enough,” he says. “Let's get out of here.” The one who straddles her reaches into her pockets and finds her phone which is treated to the same destruction as the radio.

She feels a huge gob of spit land in her face. “Fucking freak!” the man says venomously. “Ugly dyke! Just be grateful I didn't kill you.”

Erin can't stop crying with relief as she realises they've gone. But as she tries to rise she feels faint. She's in shock, she knows, shivering all over. She knows that she has internal injuries and that she has to get help. But every attempt at movement brings agony. She knows she has to get help. If she lies here no one will see her and she'll bleed out. She manages to get onto her hands and knees and tries to crawl. She's still blind, she feels breathless, the rib damage compounded by the insult to her lungs from the spray. She can bear no weight on her right arm, but her left hand is useless, surely broken. She crawls forward, agonisingly slowly. She cries with pain and frustration and fear. She thinks of Ava, thinks of how she loves her and how she must force herself on to see her again. She calls out but no one hears her and she inches forward again.

Her determination starts to diminish. Every movement hurts her and she's getting more dizzy. She knows that she has only to give in and all the pain will go away. Then she hears a voice. “Are you OK?” she says. “Oh Jesus!” The distress in the woman's voice scares her. “I need an ambulance,” the woman says moments later. “Police too, it's one of your officers.” Erin drops to the floor and loses consciousness.

Erin wakes feeling confused. She looks about her and remembers she's in hospital, in a room by herself. She feels a little more alert than she has been. She can barely remember anything since she's been here. She coughs and feels a convulsive pain in her right side. Don't cough again, she thinks. There are cards and flowers on the cabinet beside her. With her bandaged and splinted left hand she awkwardly lifts the cards one after another. None from Ava. She feels despondent.

A nurse comes in, smiles at her sympathetically. “How are you feeling today? You look brighter.”

“I'm OK,” Erin says. “It's embarrassing, I can't really remember anything. I don't know what's happened. Do I keep asking this?”

“It's the meds”, the nurse says. “We've reduced the dose of pain meds so you're going to be a bit more alert. You were pretty beaten up when you got here. Do you remember what happened?” Erin nods. “I'll ask the doctor to come in and have a chat about it. And your boss wants a statement. Do you feel up to that today?” Erin nods.

She sees her sergeant waiting outside the room talking to the doctor. She tries to smooth her hair down, realises with a shock that her nose piercing is gone. He enters, forces a smile, asks how she is.

“I'm OK,” she says. This is the platitude she thinks people want to hear. But she was mistaken. He actually wants to know about her injuries. “I had a blow to the head that caused concussion, broken ribs, collapsed lung. That's what the drain in my side's for. Broken left hand and fingers. Lots of bumps and bruises.”

“We've all been very concerned about you,” he says, “but the investigation has got nowhere in three days. We need your statement.”

As she recounts the events she can sense his irritation. She knows he doesn't trust her, thinks that anyone else would have handled the situation better. He's annoyed at her vague descriptions now. “Would you know them again?” he asks.

“No...” She starts to cry. It's all come back to her. How she thought she was going to die, how she thought she would be raped. “They wore dark glasses and hats, black jackets. They looked like thousands of lads. I'd never know them.” Her tears make him look uncomfortable.

“There, there,” he says and reaches to touch her hand but stops as he sees the bandages. “I'm sure you've done your best.” Which isn't as good as anyone else's best, she thinks bitterly.

“I need to rest now,” she says. He nods. “Can you arrange for the stuff from my locker to be brought in? There are clothes in there that I'll need to go home in, and my phone's in there. I haven't been able to tell anyone I'm here.”

Later that day a young guy, who always needles Erin at the station, comes in with her belongings. He sits and chats to her and she's surprised to see that he's genuinely concerned. His normal attitude is gone and he's visibly upset to see how badly hurt Erin is. “When I get my hands on the little shits...” he says angrily.

“Tom, that's not likely,” Erin says. “They dressed the same as all the little gangsters, they wore caps and dark glasses, so I could barely see anything of their faces. One had a beard but he could have shaved it off. I'd never know them so unless something comes up on CCTV...”

“There's nothing,” he says, despondent. “It eats me up to think they can get away with this.”

“Shit happens,” Erin says stoically.

As soon as Tom leaves Erin trawls thought her bag awkwardly. Her right arm is still incapacitated, her left hand rendered clumsy by the injuries and dressing. She manages to extract her phone, turns it on and sees with relief that there's still some power in the battery. She immediately calls Ava, her heart racing as she hears it ringing.

“I don't want to hear from you again,” Ava says angrily. “You were told that you would apologise or we were through. You're missing me now, but it's too late...”

“Please, Miss, I'm in hospital,” she interrupts. “I was badly hurt days ago... I don't even know what day it is now. I only really woke up today and as soon as I got my phone back I called you.”

“What happened?” Ava gasps, sounding contrite about her diatribe.

“I got attacked. I'm going to be OK but I got some broken ribs, broken hand, concussion.”

“And..? You'd be home by now if that was all.”

“The ribs are pretty bad. Collapsed lung.”

“Oh Erin. Oh... You poor thing. All this time I was angry with you and you're really hurt. I'm going to come right in to see you. Which hospital, which ward?”

For the first time since she's known her, Ava sounds flustered. She tells her the information. “But I'm not sure of visiting hours.”

“I'm sure they'll let me see you and if they don't I'll wait at the door until the minute they let me in.”

An hour later and Ava bursts in. She looks at Erin and smiles weakly, but then begins to sob. “My poor baby doll! What have they done to you?” Erin can't hold back her tears and soon they're both crying helplessly.

“I haven't even seen myself yet. Do I look awful.”

Ava tries to smile and reassure her, but then her tears come with renewed force. “Oh, Erin, your pretty face is all bruised. Your nose, it's not broken?”

“No, just badly bruised.”

“You don't have any real cuts, I'm sure it'll all heal fine,” Ava says, examining her closely. “Oh, your lips! I want to hug you but...”

“I want that too but I'm too delicate.”

Ava composes herself and asks Erin to tell her what happened. She tries to recount the events again but feels panic as she makes herself recall the incident again. Her tears return and she apologises. “I'm sorry, I can't go through this again. I had to make a statement to my sergeant earlier and every time I think about it I feel like I'm living it again. I thought they were... rape,” she whispers, sobbing.

“But they didn't?” She shakes her head, which Ava now cradles, hushing her. She falls asleep with Ava humming to her and caressing her brow.

Ava spends every moment that she can with Erin. The next evening she asks about the absent piercing. “No idea what happened. I meant to ask. I suppose they must have taken it out when I got here. My nose must have been very swollen.”

“We need to get it back in. The hole will close, if it hasn't already.” Ava immediately leaves to locate the jewellery and returns ten minutes later, happily holding the little bar aloft.

“It's probably going to sting a bit. Why don't you have a couple of clicks of your morphine? That'll make it all easier.”

“But it makes me all confused and sleepy. I hate how it feels.”

“The nurses have been telling you to use it more.” She moves Erin's finger to the button that administers a measured dose of analgesic into her IV. “Two clicks,” she insists and Erin reluctantly obeys.

Ava washes her hands and scrubs at the beaded bar with alcohol rub, allowing the morphine time to act. She puts Erin's head back against the pillow and smiles reassuringly. “Just take slow, deep breaths.” The end of the bar is pressed to the wound and Ava pushes, dislodging some scabbing which has formed, partially closing the opening.

“Oh, Miss Avarice,” Erin wails. Despite the pain relief she still feels a sharp pain, and her nose is still so tender that the least pressure makes the entire septum ache. “You're being too rough.” Ava isn't to be gainsaid. She continues to increase Erin's discomfort but after a few seconds there's no force, just the careful actions of closing the jewellery by screwing the bead into place.

“There, all done. If it closed you'd get a scar there and your nose is so small that there probably isn't room to pierce your septum anywhere else. I wouldn't like to see you without a septum piercing!”

Erin winces as she waits for the pain to fade. She looks at Ava who's looking uncharacteristically serious, sad even.

“I don't want this to happen again. I don't want you to put yourself at risk.”

“Well I don't want it either,” Erin says, trying to be flippant to relieve the mood. “I don't go looking for trouble.”

“I don't want you to continue in this job. I'd never really thought about how dangerous it could be. I'll never stop worrying about you now if you're out on the streets. You're too precious to be putting yourself in danger.”

Erin nods. “I need to think about it,” she says with emotion. “I'm scared, Ava. I keep thinking about going out again and every time I do I start to panic. But I need time to decide. I've put so much into it that I can't just give up.”

“Don't call me Ava,” she's told, a warning that even in moments of intimacy the correct form of address must be maintained. “I'm really upset that no one contacted me. I wish I was your next of kin. Then I'd have to be informed. Your mum hasn't exactly been here to support you.”

Erin gloomily shakes her head. “Once they told her I wasn't dying she decided she wouldn't come. She has phoned the ward each day though.” She's unable to hide her hurt, her disappointment in her mother's lack of concern.

“So make me your next of kin.”

Erin shakes her head. “I can't just do that. It's a legal thing. It can only be a parent, a sibling, a spouse.” Ava nods. Suddenly Erin's head is swimming. She feels like she's fainting as she realises what Ava is suggesting. She can't breathe, let alone get words out. “You mean..?” she splutters.

“Will you marry me, baby doll?”

Erin closes her eyes. Is this a dream, a delusion from the morphine? She's seen things that she knows can't be there when the dose has been increased but this is surely real. Ava has openly talked of her reluctance to settle down, has always been ambivalent when discussing the prospect of a closer relationship. And now a marriage proposal. Now she talks, some unconscious part of her mind taking charge, since her conscious thoughts come in a confused, overwhelming flood. “Nothing would make me happier,” she says proudly. “I love you so much.” She laughs and sobs.

Ava holds out a velvet covered box, too large to contain a single ring. Inside, arranged in a lozenge are four rings. There's a beautiful ring, an oval emerald set inside a halo of tiny diamonds on a wide band of silver, much heavier than any traditional engagement ring. Then there are three titanium rings, one small and delicate, and a pair of larger, more robust hoops, all three closed with a metal bead. The emerald band is slid onto Erin's left ring finger and she looks at her hand with astonishment. She will be Ava's wife! The idea fills her with delight, fear too. She imagines how her life will be if she abandons herself completely to Ava's will, if she cuts herself free from her existing life and leaves her career behind. She imagines herself as a young bird, a fledgling who has imagined that the cosy nest where she has spent her existence is the entire world. Now she has emerged from a cleft and finds herself staring at a beautiful bright day, an open sky into which she may fly. But she has to take a leap into the void, and there's no certainty that she won't plunge to disaster.

“And I love you. I never thought I'd ever want someone to share my life, but I want to be with you forever, Erin. You've made me so happy to wear my ring. The other rings will have to wait until you're a bit better. But soon you'll wear them forever, won't you?” Erin nods, trying to imagine where she will be pierced to accept the rings that will prove her commitment to her fiancée.

Three days later and Erin is discharged from hospital, into Ava's care. She's still very delicate, unable to walk without pain. She's barely been eating and she looks pale and thin. She has avoided looking at herself during her stay in hospital but as she visits the bathroom she stares at herself in the mirror. Her eyes are still ringed by dark bruising which is spreading and yellowing at the margins, her nose is swollen, her lips are distorted by the injuries (inside her lower lip she can still feel stitches binding together a small gash). She feels upset to see herself like this; not merely the bruises, she looks emaciated, prematurely old. Her hair is dirty and dishevelled and even her eyebrows are faintly visible. The undercut has sprouted a covering of tawny stubble. When she runs her hand up her nape she can still feel a bump where she was struck.

As she returns to Ava she can't conceal her distress and begins to cry. “I look so awful. How can you bear to look at me?” Ava sits alongside her on the sofa and strokes her arm.

“You'll soon be better, you already look much better than when I first saw you. You just have to rest and eat better!”

“I just feel sick every time I eat. I just wish I was well again. Will you give me a haircut, Miss Avarice?”

Ava shakes her head, looking at her mischievously. “No haircut till your wedding day. No dye, no shaving. Just a little incentive to make you speed things up.”

Erin giggles. “But I like my hair long. Maybe it'll make me want to stall the wedding for ages.”

Ava runs her nails over Erin's fuzzy temple. “Don't lie, baby doll. You adore feeling the clippers. And I've seen how excited you are when you get a makeover. Don't pretend having a grown out bob with roots showing will make you happy. You'll be begging me to get you in the chair soon.”

“Well... maybe,” Erin concedes, as she recalls how every time Ava attends to her hair she becomes delirious with pleasure.

“But I'm serious, Erin, I'm not going to marry Constable Erin. You have to leave the force. I can't live with worrying about you every time you go to work. If anything like this happened again I just couldn't bear it.”

“Please, Miss Avarice, I need to think about it. I've put so much into this that I can't just abandon it. It's very unlikely that I'd get so badly hurt again.”

“I know that. But it is dangerous. And I don't want that for you.”

“I'm really struggling, to be honest. I'm scared, panicky if I even think about going out on my own. But I want to overcome this. I want to show that I can overcome my fear. Please support me, Miss Avarice.”

Ava nods indulgently. “I will. But I won't marry a police officer. You'll have to choose sooner or later.”

Ava's relationship with Erin seems to change over the following weeks. She's a patient, supportive nurse. There's little of the sensuality that previously defined their trysts, necessarily so since Erin remains very sore as she recovers from the assault. She visits a counsellor, at the expense of her employer, to try to help her emotional recovery. She soon agrees to return to work, although initially she will be working only within the office and for limited hours each week. Erin can sense that Ava is unhappy about this, but she doesn't try to force the issue. She's told Erin that she must decide what's right for her. She returns from her first afternoon back and is welcomed home by Ava.

“I feel exhausted,” she admits. “I don't think I'm strong enough yet.” Ava nods, but resists the urge to say I told you so.

“You look so thin. You're still not eating and you can barely manage a ten minute walk in the park. You're rushing too much.”

“Please, I have my reasons,” she says. “I need to go back out on the streets. If I quit now I'd always think I was a coward, that they'd beaten me. But I spoke to someone from the Union today about leaving on medical grounds. He says if I show I've tried my best to recover from the assault it will help me to get a better severance. Although he did say that I can't expect a big pay off and I'll get hardly anything from my pension.”

“Well then, there's not much to lose if you just quit, is there? But I do see why this is important to you. I promise I'll be supportive and not do anything to undermine you. If this will make you healthy and strong again then you need to do it. But I won't stop worrying.” She kisses Erin gently.

Months pass and Erin's wounds have healed, yet still she fails to thrive. She's forced herself to return to real policing. She initially seems to cope with her anxieties but as the weeks pass she feels panic whenever she's alone. She starts to cry when she returns home after each shift and Ava can't bear to see her distress any longer. She makes an ultimatum one night as Erin lies sobbing after a difficult shift.

“Erin, I can't take this any more. You're not getting better. You've been really brave to return to your job but it's killing you. You're not eating, you're having panic attacks daily, you're depressed, anxious, and you don't take any pleasure in life. I haven't seen you smile in weeks. You have to quit. If you go into work tomorrow we're through. I can't bear to see what this job is doing to you.”

Erin is astonished, deeply hurt that Ava would make such a threat. There's little sleep that night as Erin tries to argue that she can get better, but by dawn Erin has accepted just how badly the assault has affected her. She makes a call to her superintendent telling him that she is emotionally unable to cope. She agrees to visit her doctor, to schedule another meeting with her counsellor. A week later and Erin has been told that she will be medically discharged from the police.

“I don't know what I'll do now!” she complains sadly.

“You'll marry me,” Ava smiles. “Let's say... about a month? For a week before we marry we'll live apart. You'll get a big makeover so you'll surprise me on the day.” Ava ruffles Erin's hair, which looks unlovely and in need of attention. Inches of blonde roots have grown in and her undercut is now grown to straggly short locks.

“So soon?” Erin gasps.

“Soon?” Ava snorts. “I've been far too patient with you, Erin Hume.”

“I know you have, Miss Avarice,” she smiles, kissing her. “Will you be Mrs Avarice once we're married?” she giggles.

“Hmmm. Maybe I'll make you legally change your name to Slave Erin. How do you like that?”

“I... don't,” Erin whispers. “It's scary.”

“But it's making you wet, isn't it?” There's no use denying it, Ava is feeling for herself the effects of her threats. “Today you're going to be fitted with the engagement rings and then we'll book a date for our ceremony. You have to agree to anything for your wedding makeover. A week will allow for big changes.”

“Tattoos?” Erin says.

“Yes, tattoos. I won't recognise you when you walk down the aisle.” She kisses Erin's neck and then her hands. Erin trembles as she recognises that Ava is letting her know that she'll be tattooed here.

“Miss Avarice, will you get a makeover too?”

“I will, baby doll. Would you like that?”

“Maybe. Nothing too shocking though?”

“If I told you then it wouldn't be a surprise,” she says with a mischievous smile.

Later that day Erin is taken to see Thomasina. It's been so long since they met that Erin could hardly recall her features, but as soon as they meet she recalls the pretty young woman who pierced her septum. In contrast to her ironic amusement that day at Erin's discomfort, now she seems friendly and compassionate.

“Ava told me all about what happened to you. It's so awful. Look at you, you poor thing. You look so pale and delicate.”

“She's not been looking after herself,” Ava says. “We're getting married in a few weeks and she's going to put her health first until then. Eating properly instead of leaving half of every meal.” Erin knows that Ava is right, that she has to live more healthily, despite her lack of appetite.

“Wow, you're really getting married?” Thomasina laughs. “I never thought I'd hear you of all people decide to tie the knot, Ava. You've always been the most free spirited, independent girl I ever met.”

“Did you hear that, Erin?” Ava asks her. “No one else has ever made me want to settle down. I hope you appreciate how much I'm changing for you.” Erin feels herself blushing, smiling incredulously that she could have inspired such a change in her beautiful fiancée. “Speaking of changes, Thoma, little Erin is going to get a makeover before our big day. I want you to do some changes on her the week before. How much can you free yourself up to work on her?”

Thomasina stares at Erin, smiling. “What sort of things did you have in mind?”

“You've pretty much got carte blanche. We'll have some discussions before. There are some things I want done, that I have a detailed idea of the exact look I want, and some things you can pretty much decide.”

“Erin's getting tattoos?” Thomasina asks, seeming to be surprised and delighted by this opportunity. “I could do a hell of a lot in a week.”

“That is the idea,” Ava nods. “I want a tattooed bride.”

“Why don't you let her come and stay with me for the week? That way I can still keep up with my work here and fit in my work on Erin during the quiet times and at night.”

“Well that would be just perfect!” Ava smiles. “You will have to lock her away at times though. I need your services too and I don't want us to see each other for the entire week.”

“Of course, hon. You know I'm always happy to work on you.”

“Erin, baby doll, why don't you undress and let Thoma see what she's going to have to work with?” Erin looks bashful at the request and pauses. “You have to undress anyway. Your new piercings can't be done when you're dressed.”

“Oh, she's so delicate,” Thoma says as she sees Erin's naked form.

“Yes, I'm going to make sure she fills out a bit before the wedding. She's turned into a little waif over the last few months. I got her four engagement rings and I want you to fit those for her now, at least the three she's not wearing.”

Erin reclines and steels herself to be pierced. She's not been told where the rings will be fitted but has guessed. She thinks back to how awful it was when Thomasina pierced her septum, how she almost fainted. She prays for courage today, for the ability to bear this trial with strength and grace.

Ava and Thomasina say almost nothing but it's immediately apparent that Erin's first assumption is correct. The larger rings will pierce her nipples. As Thomasina swabs her flesh, Ava takes Erin's head in her hands and kisses her. “Just a few weeks and this awful hair of yours will finally be beautiful again. You've missed the clippers, haven't you?”

Erin feels her anticipation growing. She thinks back to her last haircut, when the back and sides of her head were stripped of hair. “Yes, they feel good,” she whispers, but she's fearful of her hair being cut short again too.

“And now there's nothing to stop you wearing your hair however I choose. There's no job that demands conservatism in your appearance any more. You can be as daring as I choose.”

Erin cries out in distress, not just because she realises that she will soon be changed beyond what she can imagine, but also because Thomasina has stabbed a needle into her clamped nipple. Her complaints are stifled by a kiss from Ava. She presses her scarlet lips ravenously to Erin's mouth, her tongue forcefully pressing at Erin's, more like an assault than an expression of affection. Nevertheless, Erin feels herself borne upward by ecstatic currents. Ava's urgent attentions are just what was needed to transform the pain of Thomasina's work into something pleasurable. She's relieved to feel an end to the pain, the weight of the ring discernible on her right nipple now. However, her attempts to disengage from Ava, to see her new piercing are frustrated. Ava continues to violently kiss her as Thomasina turns to the left nipple.

The second needle entering her seems to inflame a greater ague than the first, as if the addition of the first ring had only made her more sensitive to this new insult. Her moans go unheard as Ava continues her attentions, Erin's pain evidently inducing a greater level of arousal. Erin is breathless when Ava finally lifts herself, looking back admiringly at her newly pierced love. Erin gazes lovingly into Ava's black eyes, only with a great effort ending their eye contact. But she must see what Thomasina has done. She sees her blunt pink nipples are now desecrated by thick bands of titanium, crimson oozing where flesh and metal meet. She's unprepared for this vision, a small foretaste of what she is to become. In spite of her determination to meet her challenge with resilience she feels weak, nauseous, faint when she sees the rings.

She wants to rest but knows that there is a final ring to be ensnared in her flesh. She is aware that Thomasina is examining her pubis, confirming her suspicion that it will decorate her clitoral hood. She shivers as she's cleansed, her hairlessness easing the process (in contrast to the neglect of her hair, Ava has insisted that the regime of waxing should be maintained, as it was most recently only the previous day).

Thomasina and Ava consult briefly in whispers, although by now Erin is so distressed that even had they shouted their communications she'd have been hard pressed to discern meaning. She feels tearful as a cold clamp is manipulated onto her most sensitive flesh but now Ava starts to ruffle her hair and remind her of the significance of her new piercings, how they are extensions of Ava and how they will remain forever in her flesh as a reminder of her commitment. Each statement is punctuated with a delicate kiss, her cheeks, her eyes, her neck anointed.

She's relaxed, but Erin has hardly returned to a normal state, rather a sort of torpor descends on her, but this mood is jolted away from her as an agonising thrust is inflicted by Thomasina. Her entire pelvic region seems to burn, so intense is the shock. She whimpers miserably, looking to Ava for solace, her big eyes wet and pleading. But there is nothing to hope for. Thomasina has to complete what she has set in motion and soon Erin's quest is completed for this day at least.

Or perhaps not quite. She still has to endure the sight of herself punctured and ringed. She bends forward to examine her genital piercing and realises that the ring has been introduced through her clitoris, not the hood as she'd expected. She is repulsed by the image, even more than she was (in truth, still is) by the sight of the larger bands which occupy her nipples. She's allowed to dress, which she does with difficulty, her body seemingly overcome with a sudden fatigue. Raising her arms above her head to replace her top seems an almost insuperable task.

“You have to eat,” Ava insists. “You're exhausted from getting a couple of piercings. When Thomasina has you for the week before the wedding you'll be getting more than this done. We need you to be stronger or we'll end up getting married with you in a hospital bed.” Erin joylessly swallows another mouthful of her salad. Ava is a good cook and the salad is just what she needs, light, tasty and nutritious, yet she can't take any pleasure in her food. She's become so rooted in the anxieties her job had induced that she can't free herself from her negative thoughts. She can't allow herself to take any delight in the prospect of her impending wedding, constantly dwelling on her fears about what will become of her now that she's abandoned the career she'd mapped out.

Ava sidles alongside her and feeds her the remainder of her meal, silencing Erin's complaints and not allowing her the options of feeding herself or leaving part of her food. She's told that until the wedding she'll conform to Ava's strict timetable. A schedule has already been drawn up and she sees that the main events planned are four times each day when she will eat. She's also to take a walk for at least an hour each day, longer at weekends.

The day for the ceremony is set for a Saturday five weeks hence, a little longer that Ava would have liked, but nevertheless soon enough that organising everything will be a challenge. Ava is ruthless in ensuring that everything will be provided to her satisfaction becoming angry and frustrated at any setbacks. However, each evening she puts all thoughts of the planning aside and makes time for Erin and herself to rekindle their sensual relationship, which has become dormant during the long preceding months. Despite the pleasures they explore, they've agreed that until their nuptials they will both remain chaste.

By the time their final week together has arrived, Erin has started to laugh again. She's hardly noticed how she's overcome her long months of anxiety, but everyone else can see it. She's even taken on responsibility for organising numerous services for the ceremony, and by the time she's made to say her farewell to Ava, everything seems to be in place. Ava delivers her to Thomasina late on the Friday afternoon and silently holds her tightly. She takes a long look at Erin, and kisses her tenderly. “See you on our wedding day,” she says with a bright smile, but her eyes are gleaming with emotion. Erin's emotions are less well contained, and it's all she can do not to sob. She can hardly speak and mutters a broken farewell before watching Ava depart in her car.

She takes a deep breath and rings the bell to let Thomasina know that her victim has arrived. She knows that in a week she'll have been changed beyond what she dare imagine.

The changes happen more quickly than she had imagined. An hour after arriving, Thomasina (who's been cleaning the shop) tells her that the most intrusive work will be completed first since it needs most time to heal. “Do you want to eat something now? You won't be much in the mood to eat later.” Erin's nervousness has made her stomach move in weird contractions and this news does nothing to calm her. She admits that she has no appetite.

Thomasina gives her two pills and a bottle of water. “These will make you a bit confused, but they'll also make the pain a bit easier to endure. You'll be glad of both, I guess.” Erin obediently swallows and waits for the drugs to do their work.

After half an hour she feels sleepy and intoxicated. Thomasina's voice seems distant and she often has to repeat herself before Erin complies with instruction. When she awakes the following morning, Erin can barely recall the events of the evening. She's in her room and reaches up to feel her ears. The lobes, she recalls as if remembering events from a fading dream, have been sliced with a blade and laboriously stitched. She nervously touches them and feels that they're now stretched around big metal rings, unable to guess the diameter, but sure that they're huge.

But more distressing is that her tongue is mangled and useless. She can barely remember Thomasina working on her tongue, a few fragmentary memories coming to her consciousness. Her tongue feels swollen and scalded and she can barely move it within her mouth. She feels dry and hungry but dreadfully tired. She rises with an effort and makes her way to the bathroom. She seeks out the mirror and grimaces as she sees her earlobes are now stretched around discs which appear to be two centimetres wide. She opens her mouth (a small gap in her lips is all that she can manage without pain) and tries to force her tongue forward. She feels sick as she sees two tips emerge, the inner surfaces bound with tiny black stitches. Dear God, Thomasina has split my tongue, she thinks, appalled that this has happened to her.

She returns to bed and wakes crying. She's sure that this is a mistake now. She doesn't want to go through her life with a tongue like a snake's. She's hurt that Ava wanted this for her. But, now she wonders, was this Ava's idea? She's given Thomasina a lot of license and this may have been her decision. What other crazy ideas does this woman have? She starts to wonder if maybe Thomasina isn't jealous of her, secretly desires Ava. Is her purpose to turn Erin into a repellent freak so that Ava will jilt her when she sees her on the day of their proposed marriage?

Her paranoia starts to lift once she dresses and goes to the living space she'll share with Thomasina for the next week. Thomasina couldn't be more sympathetic, issuing Erin with painkillers and examining her wounds. “The tongue is a tough one. It'll be sore for a week, but once the stitches come out it'll feel a lot better.”

Erin manages to ask “When?” but even saying that single word is a struggle.

“In a week.”

“Weddin' day..?” she manages to slur.

“Yes, I'm afraid so. Don't worry, I'm sure you'll be healed enough to kiss Ava. You do need to look after yourself though. You'll probably struggle with solid food for a few days but I'll make you nice smoothies.”

Erin is treated to the first of these for her breakfast, which she manages to drink with difficulty. To allow her to communicate she installs an app on her tablet which allows her to write notes with a stylus. She's delighted to have a voice and asks Thomasina what she'll have done today. “More big mods?” she asks.

“These are the things that are going to take longest to heal, which was why they had to be done first. I'm not going to give too much away but I'm going to concentrate on your piercings first to allow healing. The tattoos might be a bit scabby on your big day but hopefully they'll look fine. First thing you're getting is a haircut. We're heading out right now for your appointment.”

Erin arrives at the salon, the one she saw on her arrival at the building on the first day she met Thomasina. She hasn't had her hair cut in months and is ashamed of how it looks. The dark ends and blonde roots look awful, the lack of any shape no less so. She's sure that Ava has issued clear instructions, and as they wait for the stylist scribbles a note to Thomasina to confirm this.

“No, Erin, she left the cut up to me. She's given me a lot of freedom to make you beautiful.”

“Was split tongue Ava's idea?” she writes.

“No, that was mine. She did want your lobes scalpelled though.” Erin wonders how shocked Ava will be to see what's become of the Erin she was.

The stylist is clearly a friend of Thomasina's, probably responsible for the style she wears (a choppy shoulder length cut with a blunt, mid forehead fringe) and her vivid red colour. She consults with Thomasina, the loud electronic dance music hiding their conversation from everyone else in the salon, Erin included. She now comes to Erin, looking delighted with her instructions to restyle her.

“I'm Helene,” she announces, a strong French accent noticeable. “Thoma tells me you can't speak, but she also says you don't want to be consulted. Is that right?” Erin nods sadly. “So I could do any cut I chose and you'd just be a good girl and accept it?” Another nod. “I could even shave you bald?” Helene asks, still seemingly incredulous that Erin is so willing to accept whatever is imposed upon her.

Thomasina is watching everything. “Helene, stop teasing her.” She takes Erin's tablet and puts it in her bag for safekeeping. “Now she can't speak so she can't tell you to stop. Just cut her hair exactly as I said.”

A long black cape is cast over Erin, the fine fabric coated with a plastic which makes it look shiny and wet. Helene fastens it at her neck, tucking a tissue in to protect her delicate skin.

“You've not been looking after your hair. I hope once you're a married lady you'll look after it better.” Erin nods guiltily. Her cheeks redden as she sees Helene lift a huge chromed set of clippers. Helene stands at her left side and pushes her head to the side. The crack of the clippers roaring into life, as it always does, induces a muscular jerk in Erin. As the blades slip up her cheek Erin realises that Helene didn't apply a guard to the blades. She stares in the mirror, hoping that perhaps the guard was already in place. The hair starts to fall free, but still she can't see how short the clippers are cutting. Only as the blades rise up the side of her head can Erin see that she's being cut with bare blades, shorn to the scalp. Helene draws the clippers away and now shears away the hair from above Erin's ear. She winces as she realises her awful, jutting ears will be revealed for her wedding day.

Helene shears high up the side, higher than Ava has ever cut. Thomasina has been called to assist, gripping the longer hair on top of Erin's head. The blades slice into the long hair and Erin's lap starts to fill with long strands which are part blonde and part black. Helene seems to delight in working with the clippers and her enthusiasm starts to affect Erin. The sight of bare scalp up the entire side of her head makes Erin lose her inhibitions and she's soon aware that she's very aroused. She hasn't climaxed in weeks (in fact not since before her clitoris was pierced) and she can hardly stop from touching herself. She knows that even crudely pushing at her clitoris ring through the fabric of her skirt would be enough to tip her into an orgasm, but she remembers her vow to Ava, desperately fighting her urges.

Soon Erin sees a reflected girl who is almost bald, only a narrow strip (not even three inches wide) of long hair down the centre of her head separating the shorn sides. She bows her head as Helene renews her assault, now shaving away the hair from Erin's nape. Thomasina is once more holding up Erin's longer locks as Helene shaves her to the required shape.

The clippers are silenced and Helene equips herself with scissors. She crops away the length of Erin's little remaining hair, cutting the top to an even length of perhaps one and a half inches. All of the dyed hair has been cut away and Erin is left staring at a girl who has a short blonde mohawk. Helene gives a blast of the dryer to rid her of the clippings before she covers Erin's scalp with a layer of fragrant white lather.

“You'll come back here exactly a week from now,” Thomasina explains to Erin. “Your cut will be freshened up, sides reshaved and you'll get the colour done then. Of course, you'll look so different by then,” she giggles and exchanges a knowing look with Helene.

Helene presses the razor firmly to her scalp, ensuring a close shave for Erin. “What about her brows?” Thomasina asks. “They need some work, don't they.”

Helene pauses as she washes away more lather from the razor. “Yes, they're very straggly. I know what would look good.”

She puts aside the razor and takes out tweezers. Erin patiently endures the pain of plucking (the powerful painkillers she's taken dull her perception), sure that Helene will return her to the bald brows that Ava prefers for her. But when she finishes she still has faint brows, though thin and sparse, the outer parts almost completely devoid of hair. Even these brows seem rather too full for Helene's liking. She reaches for the clippers again, now fitting them with a tiny guard. She zips the buzzing blades over the ruins of Erin's brows, cutting the pale brown hairs down to stubble.

Erin simmers in the chair as Helene tantalisingly completes shaving her. The sensation of her scalp being razored is almost unbearable to Erin. Once the shave is complete she's taken to be shampooed and her blonde mohawk is blow-dried into a stiff little ridge of hair. Helene snips at a few stray hair before announcing her done.

Erin sees the back of her head for the first time; the hawk extends halfway down the back of her head, ending in a sharp V, the lower nape being completely bald. She looks at herself in the mirror and realises how her features have been changed by recent events, and her near baldness exposes those features cruelly. Her face is thinner, her eyes huge, the skin pale and paper thin, barely hiding the skull. The angularity of her face has become more marked, her cheekbones protruding. She can't decide whether she looks gaunt and ill, or delicately beautiful. Just the possibility that it's the latter excites her, despite her displeasure at the exposure of her ears. The huge tunnels which hang in them now seem to make them even more prominent.

Back in her temporary home Erin takes a little time to relax with Thomasina. “Do you like your new hairstyle?” she's asked.

“I think so, but I look so pale and sickly,” she scribbles.

“No, you look wonderful. You're pretty as a picture,” Thomasina smiles.

“Not my ears!” Erin notes, blushing as she admits to her shame.

“You have lovely little ears!” Thomasina exclaims. “Ava said you're self conscious about them. They hardly stick out at all. Just enough to make them more cute. Anyway, now you're bald at the sides I can add some more piercings without any hair to snag in them.”

Erin nods her acceptance of being pierced, although the thought of more wounds to heal makes her think that it's more than her body can take.

“Why did you get my hair cut today?” she asks. “Why not wait till next week? It'll need cutting again anyway.”

Thomasina smiles. “Because I couldn't tattoo your scalp while you had hair.” Erin looks at her pleadingly, hoping this is a joke. “We might as well make a start now while the shave is nice and fresh. Your first ever tattoo is going on your head.”

Erin dares to believe that Thomasina is only teasing her as the pattern is drawn out on her temples and around her ears. But it is a very elaborate pattern and she starts to wonder at the determination of someone who would take such a long time to play a joke. Then she feels the inked needle start to bore into her skin and her disbelief that she's going to have large tattoos on her scalp finally fades. She's lying on her left side, trying to find a comfortable position as Thomasina jabs at her, refusing to use mechanical methods to produce her design. Instead she's using a technique that's been around for millennia, a long bamboo stick bearing a cluster of tiny points her only tool.

Erin is initially tearful as she realises how freakish she'll look, then it's the pain of the process that she finds unendurable. Then she wakes, astonished that she could have fallen asleep during such a terrible ordeal. She's now lying face down, her face supported by a padded ring as Thomasina works on the area behind her ears and onto the side of nape. She mutters a mute appeal to rest and Thomasina agrees, once she's completed the current element.

“Can I see it?” she writes across the screen as Thomasina wipes away blood and excess ink from her head.

“Not yet. When it's all done. Another thirty or forty minutes and you'll be finished. I need coffee though if I'm going to keep going. Hand poking is hard work.”

While Thoma drinks her huge mug of coffee Erin sips another smoothie through a straw, glad of the coolness on her swollen tongue. When Thomasina invites her back to complete her tattooing she asks to sit upright. This is agreed, Erin sitting on a low stool while Thoma stands over her tapping more dots into Erin's scalp. She focusses on the events a week in the future when she will be united with Ava, to pledge herself for the rest of her days.

Finally, she feels the last sting. Now she sits patiently as her head is cleaned, Thomasina taking care not to stain her hair with ink. “Looks good, if I do say so myself,” she says. “Ready to take a look?”

Dark fans circle the sides of her head, centred around Erin's ears. The minuscule black dots form spiked shapes, overlapping like the scales of a bristly pine cone, the most prominent of the spikes outlined around the perimeter with a dotted line. Closer to her ears, arcs of solid black curl across her skull, concentric with the radiating spines. The design seems to be contained within the area where her hair grows at the temples, but on her nape the outer edge spill onto her neck. Erin chides herself for thinking about how this beautiful tattoo could be concealed. She must accept that her appearance will never be acceptable in polite company.

“You look so badass,” Thomasina smiles. “Mohawk, split tongue and scalp tattoos. Not many of your colleagues would be able or willing to go for a look like that.”

“They're not so crazy!” Erin says.

“It's not crazy. It fits you perfectly. I very rarely get the opportunity to design a look for someone that I know is right for them. I've done some nice tattoos that just don't seem to sit right on the person. But this is perfect for you. Ava will fall in love with you all over again. She's very lucky to have met you.”

“I'm the lucky one,” Erin lisps. She imagines how her life would be now if she'd chosen someone else for a bag check. How would she ever have got through the aftermath of the assault? She'd have gone mad, she's sure, without Ava to restore her to health.

That evening Ava and Thomasina take an hour to stroll in the local park. Erin has acquired a large stud in the centre of her upper lip and she moves uncomfortably since Thomasina has recently added four studs to her outer labia. But now it's the visibility of her tattoos that makes Erin nervous. She tries to convince Thomasina that she shouldn't go out, since she may accidentally run into Ava, and she's very superstitious, adamant that they should not see each other until the ceremony.

“It's absolutely no risk. Ava is on the other side of London. She's given me clear instructions that you have to get out for a walk each day to keep you healthy and strong. She's on the other side of the city so no need to worry about accidental meetings.”

Thus Erin has no choice but to relent and accept her new image being promenaded amongst the denizens of the park on the long summer evening. She feels a nakedness: the little hair she has left seems to enhance rather than cover her baldness, and the tattoos still make her feel ashamed. She nervously gauges the responses of passers by, sees how so many people's eyes linger as they take in her appearance, but then, especially amongst the younger people, some seem to like what they see and smile at her. Certainly, her image arouses less hostility than the uniform she used to wear when she patrolled this area. She thinks how people would be astonished to see how she's been transformed from the shy, long haired girl she was before Ava invaded her life.

Erin sleeps well, though she has the painkillers and sleeping tablets which Thomasina provides to thank for that. The following morning is spent adding more piercings. A dermal anchor is added at the side of her left eye and now she has a jewelled stud permanently gleaming at the edge of her cheek. The rest of the session is spent adding new jewellery to her ears. Almost all of the new piercings go through cartilage and by the end of the hour Erin is weeping at the soreness. Every puncture seems more painful than the last and she weeps with relief when Thoma announces that she's done.

“I'd never normally do so many ear piercings in one sitting, but you need to be pretty for your wedding. I'm not sure you need more piercings, but I might add another one or two if I decide you need it. Otherwise it's your tattoos that we'll concentrate on for the rest of the week.”

Erin has the afternoon to herself since Thomasina has to work on some clients. She lies on her bed, and starts to become anxious about how fast everything is moving. But she's so exhausted, that she soon falls asleep. It's evening when Thomasina wakes her, pleased that she's managed to sleep.

“Your body needs to heal. All these little wounds add up and take their toll on your immune system. But sleep and eating well will make you recover more quickly.”

Eating, however, is a problem for Erin. Her tongue is still swollen and almost paralysed, so she takes her nutrients in liquid form, managing to consume all of the soup that Thoma offers. She unquestioningly swallows all of the pills that are provided. Most are nutritional supplements, she's sure, but the painkillers and anxiolytics are not unwelcome.

After dinner Erin is taken to the studio to allow her tattoos to grow over her pale, unblemished skin. She tries to be calm, but by the time Thomasina has completed the hygiene preliminaries Erin is almost in tears. The tattooist can see how emotional she is but doesn't acknowledge it. “Put your hands on the ledge,” she says calmly, but her instruction is not to be disobeyed. “Do you remember when you first came here, when you mistakenly thought I would tattoo you?” Erin nods. “Where did you fantasise about me tattooing you?” Erin blushes as she thinks of Ava and Thomasina discussing her secrets.

“My neck and my hands,” she mutters, ashamed of how her voice is hampered by her injured tongue.

“Do you want me to make your dream come true? To ornament your pretty little hands with dark tattoos that will be there forever?”

Erin is breathing deeply and feels a tear roll down her cheek. She thinks of the brash tattoos on her scalp, how she cannot see them, and how letting her hair grow would conceal them. But tattooed hands would be always apparent to her and to others. This is a huge step, she feels. Once this is completed she's going to be changed forever, an inner change. The tattoos will be a shadow, a symbol of what she's becoming. “Please, tattoo me for my Mistress,” she articulates slowly.

This time Thomasina is using a conventional tattooing machine. She begins on Erin's right hand, tattooing around the edges of her nails. The first touch of the needle to her middle finger makes Erin gasp. It's a very sensitive spot and the pain is intense. She knows she'll struggle to bear this as every finger will be marked. “It does hurt, and you may cry. But accept the pain gracefully. You don't have a high pain threshold, so if you accept what needs to be done then I'll admire your bravery all the more. Make Ava proud of you.”

Erin feels each touch of the needle keenly. She cries until her tears are exhausted, praying that at some point she'll become accustomed to the pain, but she never does. She fights the urge to ask Thomasina to pause and allow her some respite. Only once the fingers of her right hand are complete does Thomasina allow herself a pause to get a coffee.

Erin holds up her hand before her face and regards it with a mixture of fascination and despair. Her nails are surrounded with a dark rim which extends back in spiky arabesques, narrow spires extending back along each digit up to a wide dot in the middle of the second bone. She sees that Thoma is regarding her with amusement. “What are you thinking?”

“It's like a witch's hand.” Erin blushes as she says it, feeling her reaction is childish, absurd.

“Yes, I think you're right,” Thomasina says in all seriousness. “Ava has enchanted you and now her spell is transforming you. You'll be hers entirely soon.”

Erin sucks on some ice cubes to soothe her tongue as the fingers of her left hand are blackened and ornamented to mirror her right hand. She bears the pain slightly better, and starts to feel that holding ice in her mouth numbs her entire body. Thoma works with precision and focus, barely talking once she's involved in her work. Once her fingers are complete there's another pause, but Thomasina isn't happy to end her work there for the night. She only changes her tools and now the back of Erin's left hand is dotted with hand poked tattoos. A series of overlapping patterns form, initially marked to form skeletal outlines. An oval form appears at the back of Erin's wrist, as a centre for the radiating shapes which will enclose her hand. Now Thoma adds definition to the elaborately ornamented patterns, darkening them until there are extensive areas which are almost entirely black. By night time, when Thomasina admits she's too tired to work more, Erin's left hand is densely figured with luxuriantly detailed tattoos, the pale skin almost entirely submerged beneath the sooty ink. The oval on the back of her wrist remains clear, a white area in a frame, awaiting an image.

“Your entire arm will be tattooed like this by me,” Thomasina informs her. Erin nods, then starts to cry.

“I love what you're doing, but I can't help regretting leaving behind what I was. I'm so confused. I don't know what my future will hold.”

“You should trust in Ava. You want to be her slave, don't you? You won't have any more responsibilities. Obedience is so much easier than freedom for someone like you.”

Erin shakes her head, still sobbing. “I'll be her wife, not her slave. That's what we decided.”

“But she asked you about slavery. You didn't answer her but tomorrow morning you will. You'll tell me your decision. I hope you don't disappoint me.” She smiles and caresses Erin's bald temple. “I hope you don't listen to your fear and disappoint yourself. I could see what you needed the first time we met.”

Erin sleeps fitfully despite the tablets that she's swallowed. Her dreams are full of images of what her life would be like should she allow herself to be enslaved. In one dream she imagines herself bald and naked in a sort of stable with dozens of other women, reduced to the condition of livestock. All of these women bear a brand, Ava's brand, and she is no more important than any of the others. In another she attends an orgy where everyone is masked and she's been told that she must obey any order she's given no matter how demeaning. She catches sight of herself in a mirror, her mask more elaborate than anyone else's. She tries to remove it, then realises that it's no mask but a facial tattoo. She wakes with a start, for some minutes believing that her face has indeed been tattooed by Thomasina. She's so shaken by the dream that she has to look in the mirrored wardrobe across the room to ensure her face is still free of tattoos.

She's so shaken by this dream that she can't sleep and lies pondering what it would actually mean to be Ava's slave instead of, or rather as well as, her wife. She's already agreed that in the vows she will pledge her obedience but slavery implies more. She will become something less than human. Ava wouldn't have any limits. She imagines being taken, on a whim, back to Thoma, being made to endure the facial tattooing of which she dreamed. The fear she feels as she imagines her features concealed beneath a web of inked lines isn't the delicious fear she normally imagines as she contemplates being altered; this is something that terrifies her unconditionally. And yet, there is something in the feeling of this ultimate humiliation that draws her in, makes her desire an unlimited submission. Only this abandonment of self can ultimately satisfy her desires, something tells her, an inner voice which seems to betray all rational behaviour and will surely make her regret what she will become.

Nevertheless, the following morning she finds herself nodding to Thomasina as she quizzes Erin on her decision. “You decided?”

“I agree,” Erin mumbles, her tongue heavy and slow not only because of the injury.

“You agree to being Ava's slave? You agree to everything?” Thomasina seems delighted to be able to add to Erin's fears, to make this as difficult and humiliating as possible.

“I do.” Erin can barely bring herself to look at her inquisitor and immediately breaks her gaze, staring down at the breakfast table in despair. She feels like she's making the worst mistake of her life yet she can say nothing to change this. Despite everything reasoned, which informs her that her decision is folly, she has an unshakable intuition that this is her destiny.

She sits alone for fifteen minutes before the tattooist returns. “I called Ava. She will make all the necessary arrangements.”

“Is she pleased?” Erin asks. She feels childish asking such a thing. She has a desperate need for validation, but blushes with an immature pride as she hears the reply.

“She's beside herself. I've never heard her more excited.”

Erin is tattooed more throughout the day, but in irregular sessions which Thoma fits in around the schedule of her paying customers. Elaborate discs blossom across her upper left arm, intricate geometrical mandalas, kaleidoscopic designs which take hours for Thomasina to stab into her flesh. Erin has a lot of time to rest and contemplate. She can see why Ava values Thomasina's services, since she's raised her artistry to the highest level. But the design is so dense that she wonders how it will look if her entire arm is sleeved in these designs. She imagines that the effect will be of an almost black arm patterned with pale cobweb-like structures.

By the end of the day Thomasina has completed two areas of dark, abstract sunbursts, each roughly four inches in diameter, the details of the patterning utterly unalike. Thomasina informs her that her arms will be sleeved before her wedding, which induces a gasp from Erin. She cannot see how such intricate patterns can be worked over all of her flesh in the time left before the ceremony. In fact, she doubts that Thomasina's detailed work could even be made even to cover one arm in the allotted time. The following morning some of her doubts are resolved. As she takes her place in the tattooing room a stranger enters, introduced by Thoma as Stina. “Your right arm is now Stina's for as long as it takes her to ink.” Stina nods and sets to work, and soon Erin has to endure two people transfiguring her appearance. They work in near silence, the buzzing of Stina's needle the only sound to break the quiet of the room. Stina has a very different way of working to Thoma and by the early afternoon Erin's right arm has exploded in a profusion of fine floral outlines. Stina has a distinctive drawing style, her lines nervous and energetic, her imagery detailed yet stylised.

By the evening Erin is exhausted, having had only a short lunch break. For the rest of the day one or other of her tattooists has worked on her and her muscles ache from the constrained postures she's had to hold and her skin burns from the effects of the thousands of needle punctures she's endured. Thomasina will not hear of foregoing her evening promenade and after a late dinner the two young women make their by now familiar circuit of the local park. It's a fine, warm night and the little t-shirt that Erin wears exposes much of the fresh tattooing that her arms will now always carry. She feels the weight of the scrutiny of all that she passes, aware that she's now judged to be heavily tattooed, too heavily tattooed for the tastes of all but the most extreme.

On the following day the routine of her tattooing is interrupted by a fitting of her dress, the first sight she's had of the garment, although she did previously meet with the dressmaker to be measured. The dress is of soft white leather, the tight skirt composed of bands which overlap and encircle her figure, meeting in a downward V along the centre of her body. It fits so tightly to her thighs that it means she can only walk with slow mincing steps. The bodice is a corset which Erin thinks is rather too snug since she's gained a little weight since her last visit here. But then the lacing is drawn and she realises that the initial tightness was insignificant compared to this. She looks at her reflection, her waist pulled to an unbelievably small diameter, her smallish breasts pushed up to emphasise her cleavage. She feels disconnected from this image, this girl with vampish curves, too many tattoos and too little hair.

The dressmaker, Olivia, and Thoma look at her with admiration, the latter even appears slightly overcome by emotion. “The hips are a bit tight,” Olivia notes, “and I think the corset can go tighter. You can take an inch less around here, can't you, Erin?” she asks as her fingers trace over the tightly compressed hollow curves of the artificial waist.

“I can barely breathe,” she complains.

“That's just your excitement at seeing how beautiful you are,” Thoma smiles. “You'll be fine with a tighter corset.”

The days start to blur for Erin. She has to endure more tattooing each day. After a day's absence, Stina returns the day after the dress fitting. She covers Erin's arm in black lilies, drawn to look like they were composed of glossy liquid, with pale highlights of white skin making their form almost tangible. The blossoms extend from the back of Erin's hand up to her shoulder. In contrast to the density of the pigmentation of the flowers, the surrounding foliage remains drawn in open line work, fine but very detailed, the serrations of the leaf edges and their veining limned with great care.

Thomasina's work grows more slowly. Eventually Erin's arm above her elbow is covered in the mandalas; even her armpit bears one of the large geometric figures. The designs butt together without a gap, pressing together like cells which have grown to fill all available space.

At the top of Erin's forearm a black band signals the change in design. A series of heavy calligraphic marks are tattooed on her skin, one inside the open area which was left on the back of her wrist. Erin doesn't recognise them as any writing system she's ever encountered and asks Thoma about this.

“They're a form of Enochian writing,” she's told. “Ava thinks that these marks are not just decorations. They describe your new status, but they also cement it. Now that you're marked you can never be anything other than what you will pledge to become. What you've already vowed to be.”

Saturday arrives and Erin wakes early, filled with nervous excitement. She showers and meets Thomasina, who embraces her. A strong friendship has grown between them during the week. Erin's piercings are examined and Thoma nods, pleased that all are healing without adversity. Erin is fitted with a new septum ring, thicker than any she's worn before and she groans as it stretches the hole in her cartilage. Then she has to bear the pain of the stitches being removed from her ears. She sees the large holes which now open up her disfigured lobes, and winces again as Thoma forces the tender opening to hold wooden discs which are inlaid with mother of pearl crosses.

The greatest pain is yet to come: Thoma now snips and draws the sutures from the wounds in Erin's tongue. Each tug of a stitch makes Erin groan and yet once the last one comes free she feels a sense of relief. The stitches had become too tight, pulling at her flesh and now Erin can move her tongue much more freely. She realises with joy that it has healed more than she had realised and she can talk once more, although she still has a marked lisp.

Although it's still only seven thirty, Erin now makes the short trip to the salon where a tired looking Helene is waiting for her. She expresses her astonishment at Erin's now extensive and densely tattooed arms. “She's still got a lot of bare skin,” Thomasina smiles. “I do hope that Ava lets me work on her some more after she's a married woman.

Erin takes her place in the chair and prepares herself to be shorn. She's covered with the shiny cape, and despite herself, she feels a sense of relief that her tattooed arms are covered. But not all of her tattoos are hidden. Despite the week's growth of hair, the designs on the sides of her head remain very visible. Helene takes the clippers and oils the blades, which are, of course, free of any guard. She pushes Erin's head to the side and cleans a path through the stubble.

The sensation jolts Erin. It's almost too much for her, the vibration, the coolness of the shaved scalp making her feel a desperate need to be gratified with the climax she's so long denied herself. But on this day of all days she must maintain her discipline.

The clippers peel away the layer of pale hair and Erin blushes as she sees just how dark the tattoo on her scalp is. The layer of stubble had softened the pigmentation, had hidden the starkness of the contours. Now she sees the blackness of the design set against the pallor of her scalp. She feels anew her shame at being marked thus, and yet she feels a great excitement as she imagines Ava seeing these tattoos for the first time.

Ava! In a few hours she'll be reunited with her love, whose absence for the past week has at times been unendurable. How she longed to be in her arms as she endured the agonies of tattooing, as she lost her old self, never to be recovered. She will abandon herself completely, will devote herself to Ava, the love of her life.

The cessation of the noise of the clippers shocks Erin back into the present. Her scalp has quickly been deprived of the sandy stubble, and now her cheeks and neck are dusted with tiny, irritating bristles. Helene's fingers smooth a layer of creamy lather over Erin's head and let it sit in place to soften the stubble. Erin's scalp tingles intensely, not entirely pleasantly. But then, she thinks, much of her life now will be spent in experiences which will blend pleasure with discomfort, pain, humiliation. All too soon, Helene takes her razor and strips away the tingling. She moves the blades with practised strokes, firm yet precise. Erin fantasises that as the razor passes over her skin it will leave it clean and unblemished, yet as her eyes flicker upward to take in her reflection she can see that the tattoos look clearer than ever. She can't believe that she will ever look in a mirror and see these patterns as part of her, will ever see them without feeling regret and disbelief.

She breathes slowly and heavily as Helene's fingers palpate her skull to ensure that every millimetre of scalp is smooth and hairless. She closes her eyes as she imagines that those are Ava's delicately beautiful hands which are pressed to her head. Helene's inspection is completed and Erin realises that her scalp has been shaved perfectly, with the exception of the narrow crest of short hair which is now being doused in a creamy bleach. Time appears to race and it seems only minutes before she's being rinsed. The short hair is vigorously rubbed with a towel before being frothed with another coating of chemicals.

Erin sees herself with white blonde hair. All colour has been removed and her hair is gleaming, snowy. It seems to grow even more reflective as Helene dries it, using a brush to direct the hair into a stiff, vertical crest. It looks very neat and precise to Erin, but apparently Helene has other ideas. She uses the clippers to shape the mohawk, zipping off the ends over a comb to shape the top to a hard, flat contour. She takes it noticeably shorter, leaving little more than an inch over the top of Erin's head, and not even that much on the V descending over her nape. “It's very white. And short,” Erin says, not at all sure that she likes her new hairstyle. It's so short and neat that it looks very unfeminine, almost military.

Thomasina strokes at the short, stiff crop. “Helene, she sounds ungrateful! Maybe you should take her even shorter.”

“Maybe I should clear some more scalp. It's not too late to add some more tattoos on her head, is it, Thoma?”

Erin blushes at the threat. “I'm sorry, Helene, I do like it. It's just a surprise. You've done a wonderful job and I'm very grateful and pleased. I know Ava will adore it too.”

Helene and Thoma glance at each other, enjoying the power they have to scare Erin. “We'll see. If she doesn't adore it you can be right back here to get fixed up.” Erin nods anxiously, eager to placate her new friends.

As Erin is dressed she begins to panic, realising that there's less than an hour before the ceremony begins. She worries that she will be late, which would be disastrous. She mustn't do anything to ruin Ava's day, everything must be perfect. Yet her friends seem unconcerned by the passage of time. “You're almost done,” Thoma smiles. “And the trip to the hall isn't going to take more than fifteen minutes. The car is waiting outside.”

Erin nods but doesn't feel reassured. London traffic can be impossible, and she's still not wearing the dress. She's been fitted with white latex stockings which unbearably compress her legs and make any flexing of her knees uncomfortable, yet they look astonishing, glossy as polished stone. Now she's made to wear gloves of similar material, which are rolled up over her arms. The latex covers her up to shoulders where it will meet the leather of her dress. She realises that her tattoos will be invisible for the ceremony.

Now a headdress is placed on her, an antique of pale ivory silk. The cap extends down over her ears and her stretched lobes are now covered, as, of course, are her mohawk and tattooed scalp. Her head is surrounded by a halo of flowers, all of pale and cool colours to fit with the vision of her attire. Finally, the dress is pulled over her body, fastened and laced so that she feels like she will faint. Erin is allowed to take in her appearance. She looks at her reflection as if she were in a dream, a vision of a girl all in white before her. Her eyes look huge, outlined with blue and silver, her lips pale pink and her pale powdery cheeks suffused with soft rose. Her waist looks tiny, and she looks more curvaceous than she'd ever imagined she could be, despite being so slender. She wears soft kid leather boots with finely pointed toes decorated with chased silver, the spike heels adding almost five inches to her height.

And suddenly Erin is at the hall, where she sees a small crowd of people, few of whom she recognises, all of them (presumably) Ava's friends. She's been happy not to invite her friends, ready to start a new life. After all, she's hardly got close to anyone in London and has lost touch with most of her friends from her home town. Yet, even as she thinks of this she sees a group of familiar faces on the left of the hall. There are a couple of women who served with her in the police and three school friends. She blushes as they stare at her, smiling shyly. They look at her admiringly, but she wonders how they will react when her new appearance is fully revealed. She knows that Ava has invited them to embarrass her, to make her feel more keenly how drastically she's changed.

Now Erin has to stand at the front of the hall, awaiting the arrival of her bride. She's beside herself with excitement as she awaits the arrival of her love, becoming breathless as she anticipates seeing Ava. Her ribs are so compressed that she can barely breathe and she realises that her vision is suffused with bright spots from lack of oxygen. Only by concentrating on taking rapid, shallow breaths can she ward off a fainting spell.

An organ is playing softly, which is something Erin had hardly noticed until suddenly there's a swell in its volume and a strangely dissonant tune begins to play. She feels her skin prickling as she realises that Ava has entered and is slowly advancing toward her. She fights the urge to turn and look back. Somehow, she feels this is an Orphic test, that she must not look behind her, or else her love will be lost to her. It seems like hours before a dark form appears at her side and finally she allows herself to turn and look into Ava's face.

Erin's white attire, complemented with touches of blue and silver, is in contrast to Ava's dress, which is black with crimson ornaments. Erin's lips part in surprise as she sees her bride, for her hair has also been shaved from the sides of her head, and her fringe has also been razored away, giving a strangely high forehead. Her hair is stiffly fixed into a smooth, high crest, which for a moment Erin believes to be a short cut. But as she looks more closely she sees that her hair has been rolled and braided into this elaborate style, the form of which is delineated by stripes of red which have been tinted through the temples. She feels relieved, sure that she would feel mortified if Ava's long hair was cut short. It's enough to have to adjust to the bared sides, but she adores Ava's long mane.

The dress is composed of black lace which is bound tightly around Ava's tiny ribcage. Her décolletage and shoulders are bared and now marked with fresh, brightly inked tattoos. Even her throat has been tattooed, dark rays shooting up her fine neck. Erin can't help but feel that it's rather too much, yet she knows that she's utterly, helplessly turned on by these new modifications to her bold love. Ava looks at her in delight and draws back her lips in a delighted smile. Erin feels a shiver as she sees that Ava's upper canines are now capped with long gold fangs.

Ava glances quizzically at the latex opera gloves, at the headdress and smiles at Erin. “What the fuck?” she mouths silently. Erin grins back, enjoying making Ava have to wait to see how beautiful she's become.

Throughout the ceremony Erin can't take her eyes off Ava. She says her responses automatically, everything seeming dreamlike. Her gloved finger is fitted with a band of platinum to bind her to Ava and she's allowed her first kiss as a married woman.

Ava hasn't hidden her surprise at Erin's newly acquired lisp, unaware of the cause. Erin is keen to surprise her with the revelation of her modified tongue, but the healing hasn't progressed to the point where mobility has been recovered. As their lips meet, Erin tries but fails to extend her tongue any further than the margins of her own lips. Ava is initially surprisingly tender, but the heat of their mouths seems to gradually inflame her passion and soon her tongue slide into Erin's mouth, only to withdraw as it meets with unfamiliar sensations. Erin is on the verge of laughter, proud to have done something which appears to have shocked the unflappable Ava. But then she has a moment of fear as she considers that perhaps Ava dislikes her new tongue.

It is only a moment, however. Ava forces her tongue back into Erin's mouth, probing powerfully at the divide, unmistakably aroused by her new bride's most extreme new modification. Too roughly, as Erin feels pain from the tender wound being prodded and stretched. She endures the pain easily, too delighted by this wonderful kiss to let a little stinging distract; perhaps she even likes the hurt.

Now Erin has to make a circuit of her wedding guests, arm in arm with her new wife. She shyly thanks each for attending, dreading the moment when her guests will look at her. Finally she approaches them, unsure how they will react to her very gothic bride. And unsurprisingly they do look discomforted by Ava's rather extreme look, especially when she smiles and reveals her golden fangs. Erin kisses each of her friends and thanks them for coming on her special day. Despite her shyness she finds herself enjoying their reactions. Ava embraces each of them too, kissing them on each cheek. They look terrified by her, this weird, beautiful predator. Erin finds herself dreaming of her friends being seduced by Ava, fantasising her as a siren luring her victims toward a fatal bliss.

As they move away toward another group of guests Ava puts her lips to the cap covering Erin's ear. “Do you want me to take a peek under your headdress and take those gloves off? I hope there's something you're hiding that would shock those little vanilla friends of yours. Maybe it'll even shock me.”

Erin finds herself blushing at the thought of being revealed in all of her new glory in front of witnesses who knew her in what she now thinks of as being a former existence. Yet part of her wants it. Wants to show people she once treasured that she has grown to something that they can't understand or accept. “Do it, mistress,” she sighs.

She glances over at her friends who are still watching her and Ava. She closes her eyes as she feels Ava's fingers reach up her cheeks and lift the headdress free. “Oh dear god!” Ava mutters. “I didn't expect that. Did you really let Thoma tattoo your head? Those aren't just drawn on.”

“Of course they're not,” Erin says, giggling, but ashamed as she sees the disapproval of her friends. “They were my first tattoos, actually.”

“Oh, my, you're sexy,” Ava gasps. “I love the blonde. You look inhuman... ethereal. And if these are your first tattoos, does that mean you're hiding some more from me?” She can't stop caressing the smoothly shaved sides of Erin's scalp where the patterns of black dots will forever stain her skin. Then she lets her lips explore the heavy piercings which now hand in Erin's ears.

“I think you should explore for yourself, Miss Avarice. It will be more fun that way.”

“Miss? I'm a married woman now, baby doll. I think you should call me Mistress Avarice now.”

Erin nods her agreement. “And what's my married name to be?”

“Erin is just fine for my wife. But for my slave... We need to change it. After we leave here I've organised another ceremony to formally make you my slave. You do still want that, don't you?” Erin nods, but she can't hide her terror.

“I had so many things I wanted to ask about what it will mean but now I'm with you I can't remember anything.”

“All you need to know is that I'll still love you, more than I loved anyone ever. And in return you'll pledge total obedience. It's not really any different to what you pledged in our vows just now.” Ava looks over at Erin's friends and former colleagues. “Do you think we should invite them to your enslavement?”

“Remember some of them are serving police. They'd probably arrest us for some sort of indecency.”

“At least they're hardened by what they've seen. Your little school friends look like they'd end up in a psych ward if they saw what you've become.”

“They can't stop staring at me. I don't think they share your enthusiasm for my new look, Mistress.”

Ava laughs. “It's probably best they don't come to the evening do.”

It's only a select group of Ava's close friends who travel to a house on the Sussex downs where the second ceremony of the day will take place. Erin is still wearing her dress, her tattooed arms still hidden from Ava by the long gloves, but as soon as she enters the house Ava orders her to allow herself to be undressed. Ava starts by removing her shoes and then peels the tight latex stockings from her legs. “No tattoos here then!” she says with exaggerated disappointment. “I've seen how you look at my thighs and I know you love those tattoos.”

“I let Thomasina choose my tattoos,” Erin says. “You know I won't refuse anything you want in the future, Mistress. The only thing I disliked about the tattooing was that you weren't there.”

Thomasina, who has accompanied the party, shakes her head. “You were pretty bad at coping with the pain, Erin. But to give you your due, you were quite brave to put up with long sessions when you've got such a low pain threshold.”

Ava seems unconcerned by this debate and reaches under the short sleeves of Erin's wedding dress to take the tops of the gloves. As she rolls the tight rubber down over Erin's left arm she whistles. “So this is what Thoma spent all her time on.” She has to remove Erin's wedding ring temporarily to remove the glove, then immediately puts it back in place. “Thoma, you've done a great job. It's the best work I've ever seen you do.”

“I couldn't let you down,” she smiles, trying to react modestly to the compliments, but obviously pleased.

Ava lifts and turns Erin's arm to look at the extensive tattooing. She seems particularly pleased by the obscure inscriptions which figure the lower arm.

“Just one sleeve or two..?” she whispers to herself as she starts to expose Erin's right arm. The black flowers are soon revealed and Ava gasps. “You got Stina to work on her. Oh, Thoma, thank you. It looks just...”

She's filled with joy and what she can't express in words she does with kisses. Erin's head is swimming as she becomes breathless, overjoyed at Ava's attentions. She can't wait to be alone with her wife, to finally end the period of chastity that they'd agreed in the approach to this day.

Soon Erin is naked, ashamed to be displayed before strangers but relieved to be free of the painful constraints of the corset. Ava stares at her with undisguised lust. “I love your tattoos, but I think I'd imagined you'd have more.”

“This style is very labour intensive,” Thoma says, seemingly keen to defend herself.

“I know. I suppose it means it's going to cost me a lot of money to get her tattooed as much as she needs to be.”

Thomasina laughs. “That's you all over, Ava. Always thinking about money, even today.”

“You'll have to find ways to earn money,” Ava says to Erin. “You'll have to pay for good tattooists to get yourself covered, and they don't come cheap. You want to be tattooed all over, don't you?”

“Yes Mistress,” she says. “But please, not my face.”

“Oh, my poor little Erin. You're not allowed such vanity if you're to be a slave. I wanted to set you a test to make sure you're ready to be my slave. Now you've shown me what it must be.”

Erin is taken to the basement of the house and is told to get into the chair, which appears to be some sort of antique clinical equipment. Leather straps are fastened around her body, her wrists, her knees and ankles as screens are pushed back revealing an assortment of what appear to be torture devices.

She sees from the edge of her vision that a tattooing machine is present and she can see that Thomasina is preparing herself to use it. Ava holds up a sheet of paper with some writing on it. “Read it out loud if you want to proceed,” Ava says coldly. Erin stares at her wife, who look so beautiful yet so evil. She scans the writing and shivers. She closes her eyes and tries to find the courage to please Ava.

“'I, Erin Hume, wish to be enslaved to my majestic Mistress. I must obey fearlessly and without vanity or ego. To demonstrate my devotion and humility I request that a tattoo is marked on my face.'” She is tearful as she haltingly enunciates the last sentence.

Ava whispers to Thoma, who nods. She looks at Erin without any visible emotion. One of the assistants who strapped her in removes the make-up from Erin's face, scrubbing it clean. As soon as this is completed Erin, immobile and helpless, sees Thoma bend over her and feels a sting at her forehead. She looks up at Ava, smiling broadly, showing her golden teeth, which fascinate and horrify Erin. She imagines the sharp teeth gnawing at her skin, leaving indelible blackened tracks as a spoor, imagines that this is the sensation she can feel on her forehead. She recalls pictures she's seen of facial tattoos, but can't bring anything to mind that she can consider positively. She can only think of dark, disfiguring tattoos which will submerge her delicate features. She wants to beg Ava to have mercy on her but as she looks into her mysterious dark eyes she knows she must endure this, must trust that Thomasina will grant her something bearable.

She feels the needle pass from the bridge of her nose up to her hairline. The tattooing doesn't seem to take long and she feels relieved that the tattoo is evidently not large. Ava looks it over as Thoma cleans it to allow the form to be seen clearly. She nods. “Lovely work, Thoma. Are you ready to receive your Mistress's mark, Erin?”

“Yes, Mistress,” she says. She's shaking and tearful from the expectation of a more extensive tattoo on her face, but she still doesn't know where this mark will be placed. Her curiosity seems to be answered as the headrest is angled backwards and her head is violently thrown back. Her throat is exposed and moments later she feels the needle burning at her soft neck.

If her forehead tattoo was completed more quickly than Erin dared hope, then the mark she will bear for Ava takes far longer than she could have imagined. Thoma inks the centre of her throat with the tattooing machine, but then uses a hand poking technique to surround this design. The work extends from the notch between her collar bones to the lower margin of her jaw, and spreads far around her neck, almost reaching to the tattoos which cover the sides of her nape, Erin imagines.

Erin is in tears for much of the time it takes to complete the tattoo. As the needle jabs at her neck she has a dread, which she knows is irrational, that is will penetrate into some vital underlying tissue, her trachea or a blood vessel. It takes a long time for this fear to recede but even when it does it's largely because the pain is so insufferable that it comes to completely dominate her mind. For an hour she has to endure the stabbing, burning, itching that sets her neck on fire. Ava leaves her for a long time and reappears later in a tightly sculpted black leather dress, her hair now loose and curled, partly covering the shaven sides. Her make-up has also been redone, and she looks more lovely and intimidating than ever to Erin.

Erin passes into a sort of trance in the last stages of her tattooing and only becomes aware gradually of what is happening around her as she feels the tender skin being wiped clean. She sees Ava gazing down on her, smiling with tenderness and love and knows that she would endure this a thousand times if it were asked by Ava. Her head is brought to a more comfortable position and she's allowed to see what's been done to her. A narrow black trapezoid covers her throat and the sides are flanked with feathery wings, shaded with the small black dots which she has come to recognise as typical of Thomasina's style. Almost the entire frontal area of her neck is marked with tattoos. It takes a little time for Erin to realise that the trapezoid is a V, then to recognise that the winged designs are very stylised forms of the letter A. She blushes as she realises that she has Ava's name marked very boldly on her neck, shivers as she remembers fantasising about her neck and hands being tattooed. Now Ava has made this a reality, although the tattoos are more extreme than Erin had imagined in her vision. And her forehead is now decorated! A black ornament descends down the centre of her brow, fine filigree lines spinning out symmetrically. It's not as big or bold as she'd feared, but then its placement makes it unmissable.

“For as long as this mark endures you're my slave, with no will of your own and obedient to every wish I express and those of any agent to whom I give authority.”

“Yes, Mistress Avarice,” Erin groans.

A pen is placed in her hand, which is still trapped at the wrist. “You need a new name to cement your status. This is a document that was drawn up by a solicitor to legally change your name. Sign and date it please.” A clipboard is placed so that she can sign at the bottom of the paper.

“What will my name be?” she asks.

“Slave! I gave you an order. Don't make me punish you.” She signs and dates the document and Ava smiles. That's the last time you'll use your free woman name.” She holds up the paper and Erin scans it, finally sees that her name is now Slave Abject. She can't hide her embarrassment at this title. It's not even a name. She remembers how long it took her to be able to address Ava as Miss Avarice without feeling a keen sense of absurdity. Now her name is more absurd, more demeaning. “Say your name for me,” Ava says, taunting her.

“Slave Abject,” she says. She tries to put her old self aside. She must never think of herself again by any other name than Abject.

“Lovely,” Ava smiles. “Now we need to complete a few more formalities. Your collar, your number, registering you as a slave for all the world to see.”

The collaring is first. A titanium ring is held up for Abject to see. It's hinged in two parts. “Once the latch closes there's no way to open it, short of slicing it with one of those things firemen use to cut people out of car wrecks.” As she says it, Ava places the ring around Abject's neck and snaps it shut. “Now you're a collared slave,” she says, delighted, playing with the pierced block which is suspended from the front of the ring. “There's a number on the collar and we'll register you by this number. Then anyone who uses you can add their thoughts to your profile and everyone can read what you get up to.” She holds up the mirror to show her slave the nine digit number which is deeply engraved into the metal. “It might be easy to miss this number so maybe we should make it more noticeable.” She nods to Thomasina.

More tattooing to endure. Now the needle drills into the skin above her pubic mound, adding to her sense of loss of self. She finally is allowed to see that her mound is now marked with bold letters:

SLAVE

ABJECT

901-344-296

She's finally allowed to rise from the chair and would like to give in to her self-pity, to retreat into solitude and sob at what's been done to her, but instead, she sees Ava, sees her excitement, sees in her black eyes that she is madly in love with her slave. Ava dismisses all of the others and takes her slave to her bridal bed. Erin is lost forever, lost to the ecstatic pleasures of her new slavery.

Epilogue

Ava celebrates her first anniversary with an undiminished love of Slave Abject. Abject's appearance hasn't changed greatly from how it was on the day when she became Ava's wife and slave. Her hair is still white blonde, still shaved into a mohawk, although it's rather narrower and longer than it was for the ceremony. Not that it's always remained like this: for several months Abject was entirely bald, a look she came to accept and even enjoy. Her face has been marked with some tattoos around the temples and spilling onto her upper cheeks. The tattoos are dotted areas, of varied density, formless, almost like they only shade the skin without any subject. A few more piercings have been added: Abject's cheeks are pierced and her lips have large beads at the centre, upper and lower. Her earlobes are being aggressively stretched and the openings are almost twice as large as they were a year previously.

Her tattooing has proceeded more slowly than she had expected, largely because of the expense. Ava makes Abject pay for the work of the tattooists, and she earns solely from the services she performs for clients to whom Ava introduces her. She has the beginnings of a large tattoo on her right thigh (Ava has in mind that both of her legs will be completely tattooed) and she's booked in to have another session in a few weeks.

There are some regular clients who pay to be served by Ava and Abject together, although Abject receives only a fifth of the fee for such work. One of these clients is the woman who received a haircut on the day when Ava first encountered Erin, as she was then. Abject described to her how she acted as a catalyst in bringing them together in the course of one of their sessions, during which the woman was subjected to a particularly cruel makeover. By the end of the afternoon her hair (which is now entirely grey) had been permed tightly on top and cropped closely up the nape and over her ears. Ava fitted her with an ugly pair of glasses and the makeover aged her terribly, yet she was overcome with sexual excitement as she saw what she'd become. Abject particularly enjoys her encounters with this woman and looks forward to the next time Ava will torture and demean her.

Ava's appearance has changed rather more that Abject's, largely because she cut off her long mane soon after her marriage. Because Abject had been constantly telling Ava how much she loved her long hair she decided to deprive her of this pleasure, and arrived home one evening with a fanned mohawk, none of her hair longer than five inches, and most of her head razored smooth. Abject had cried to see the loss of her Mistress's long hair and remained sad for weeks after. Soon, Ava came to share her regret and is now growing her hair again, although she has for now decided to keep the back and sides shaved. The top is now almost to her shoulders, usually worn tied into a ponytail to expose the bares sides which were recently adorned with tattooed patterns, inked by Thoma.

Abject has come to accept her new status, though not without some initial difficulties. During the first few months of slavery she would on occasion suddenly sob without warning, unable to say why these episodes of intense emotion affected her. Ava would console her, and in recent months Abject has not suffered in this way. Ava has never stinted on showing affection and Abject feels closer to her than ever.

She looks back on her life as Erin as if it was a distant memory, perhaps even as the biography of another person. She has come to trust Ava entirely, has become a disciple, accepting her wishes without question, knowing that Ava will always act in her best interest, even when she can't immediately understand why her orders will lead to a positive outcome. She looks back on her first year as a slave and knows that is has been the most calm and content time in her life. She knows that her happiness will only grow as she allows Ava to shape her. They are complements, mirror images.

[lsds-blog]

About Face

It wasn't the rejection that hurt, it was the manner of it. Lucy had had her advances turned down before (although rarely; she knew how to select her targets) but whenever someone said no it was always with a degree of fear. This one had laughed at her! She had always been able to intimidate with her presence: she would see girls go quiet whenever she was near and she loved to see the mixture of desire and fear that she could inspire in a willing submissive. That was when she knew they were hooked; reeling them in was almost the best part of the game, more thrilling than all the pleasure she took later in using them as a plaything.

She was aware that recently there was less desire, merely fear. She'd misjudged this girl (she'd never seen her before in the club) disastrously. She could see no fear in her gaze and had assumed that there was some desire as she kept looking over at Lucy. But when she suggested that she should return home with her the girl had abused her loudly. She'd been so shocked that she'd been unable to reply with a good comeback. And to make it worse, other people had witnessed her embarrassment. She'd locked herself in the toilet cubicle to compose herself but she knew she had to return to the club soon. She had her image to think of, her reputation. She opened the door and went to wash her hands. There was another woman alongside her, retouching her make-up. She looked at herself in the mirror. She was ageing. Was that the problem? She was losing her looks? There was no doubt, a few lines were visible at the corners of her eyes, but she was in good shape for a woman in her mid 30s. Perhaps it was true that she'd never been a great beauty. Stripped of youth there was something unattractive in the face that Lucy regarded in the mirror.

The woman who stood alongside her was also taking an interest. Lucy had seen her a few times previously in the club but had never paid much attention since she'd assumed that she was domme and therefore of no use. She kept glancing across to look at Lucy in the mirror, a faint smile playing at the corners of her lips. Finally she spoke. “Are you OK? I saw what happened back there. Ouch!”

Lucy felt her barely controlled anger increasing again. She was in no mood for taunts, not from a little girl like this. “I'm fine,” she snapped.

“Good,” the woman replied. “I just thought you looked like you needed a friend. I'm Polly.”

“Lucy.” She looked at her face and found her difficult to read. There seemed to be no malice in her. Maybe she'd misjudged her.

“Oh I know who you are. Everyone does. This place is dead tonight, why don't we go somewhere more... private?” Lucy found herself agreeing almost without a thought. She'd obviously been mistaken about Polly being domme. And she was very attractive: being seen leaving the club with such a striking woman would be bound to banish any gossip about her losing her touch. They strode back out hand in hand, walking across the dance floor. A girl who was in the way was pushed aside. Lucy felt her confidence surge. This was her territory and she was going to make sure that was known.

Polly led her to a car which was parked a few streets away, reassuring Lucy that she didn't drink and was able to drive. They got in and sped away.

“You know, I'd never paid you much attention. I'd assumed you were domme.” Lucy now started to give Polly some attention. She estimated she was in her mid twenties, fairly slim but with nice curves, largish breasts which may have been enhanced beyond what nature had provided. She was fairly heavily tattooed, her forearms marked with several prominent black bands. She was pierced too, more than Lucy really liked: stretched lobes, three conical studs in her lower lip, all on the left. Her hair was fairly long at the front but cut at a sharp angle so that a little of her nape was exposed, the hair there buzzed very close. Her hair was dyed a watery green which matched her colourful make-up. It was all a little cartoon-like for Lucy's tastes but she couldn't deny that she looked very good.

“I am domme,” Polly said. “Is that a problem.”

Lucy laughed. “I've had plenty of nights with other dommes.”

Polly looked serious. “Don't you ever get dissatisfied with one night stands? I like to have some emotional attachment.”

“I'm a hedonist, darling! Pleasure is all that concerns me.”

“And in ten years time? Aren't you worried that you'll be all alone and all you'll have left are your memories?”

Lucy felt some discomfort. She didn't like this examination of her lifestyle, all the more because Polly was exposing doubts she was starting to feel for herself.

“And what will you have in ten years? A nice little wife?”

“Ooh, I hope so!” Polly laughed. “Are you offering?”

Lucy felt awkward as she entered Polly's apartment. She felt a little drunk and her thoughts seemed to come slowly and her earlier anger had left her feeling uneasy. There was always something slightly difficult when she'd had encounters with other dommes. With subs she made the rules, but now there would have to be some negotiation of boundaries. Polly looked untroubled by any such thoughts. She smiled serenely at Lucy and kissed her gently on the cheek. “I'm in charge now,” she whispered. She started to unzip Lucy's dress.

Lucy felt herself go cold. “No... no...” she muttered softly, but found herself trapped, paralysed, unresisting. The dress slipped down her body and Polly pulled her closer, kissing her neck.

“Go and stand in the corner,” Polly instructed her softly. Lucy felt a flash of fire at being treated like this but it died almost immediately. She looked into Polly's big blue eyes and saw something mysterious there, something she felt she needed more than anything. She slowly walked into the corner.

“Oh, come on Lucy, don't be difficult. You know you have to face the wall!” As she turned a stinging slap landed on her buttock. This indignity was followed by Polly stripping away her bra and panties. “Wrists together, Lucy,” she commanded. She felt Polly buckle thick leather cuffs in place, then hook them together. “Oh this is so nice,” she whispered. “I'm going to bind your arms now. Because I can!”

Lucy felt tears in her eyes as the binder was closed around her arms. She couldn't believe that she was allowing this to happen. Polly yanked on a strap which pulled her elbows together. Her shoulders were strained. A gentle tug at her wrists made Lucy stagger backward into the centre of the room. Polly had stripped now, and stood in front of Lucy, displaying her tattooed and pierced body proudly.

“Do you know what everyone calls you? Lucyfer.” Lucy nodded. The name that was muttered behind her back was something she liked. It added to her fierce reputation. “And now Lucyfer is my little pet. On your knees.”

This was more than Lucy could tolerate. She stood defiantly. Polly had the advantage though; she lifted Lucy's bound wrists, causing agonising forces to operate through her shoulders. Lucy bent forward at the waist but Polly merely raised her wrists higher. She knew she was defeated and dropped heavily, painfully to her knees.

“I need a picture of this.” There was a glare of light from Polly's phone as she recorded Lucy's humiliation.

Lucy glared up at her. “Blackmail, is that it?”

Polly stroked her neck. “No, silly! I've wanted to be with you since I first saw you. Look at how pale you are. And you have lovely silky hair.” She ran her long nails through Lucy's hair, making her tip her head back. She pressed her lips to Lucy's and her kissed her with undisguised passion.

Lucy's head was spinning. Polly was impossible to read and she couldn't tell whether she liked this position or not. She felt her hair being brushed, gathered into a ponytail on top of her head. Polly carefully wound it into a knot and secured it.

“Now I'm going to have to gag you for your own good, Lucy, pet. I'm going to have to get a little more forceful than you'll allow yourself to enjoy, at least at first. I don't want to hear you embarrass yourself by shouting and threatening me. Now open wide!”

Those clear blue eyes looked straight into Lucy's and she found herself unable to speak. She parted her lips slightly. “Oh, come on, Lucy. You've done this enough times, I'm sure. You know how wide you'll have to open your jaw to fit in a ball gag.” She made a rapid upward swat, her fingers cracking into the soft flesh of Lucy's left breast. She shrieked and started to plead, although in truth she didn't know what she was pleading for. “Open!” Polly said firmly and Lucy forced her jaw down as far as she could. A ball was pushed in, uncomfortably large. Lucy immediately tasted a sharp sour liquid which she recognised as lemon juice. It didn't taste so bad, she thought. She'd inflicted far worse on others. Polly tugged on the strap, pulling it so tight that it forced the ball in deep and bit into the corners of Lucy's lips. She started to salivate profusely, struggling to avoid gagging. Within moments she was drooling down her chin and felt drips fall onto her breasts.

“It's the lemon juice,” Polly said. “It stimulates the salivary glands.” She took several more pictures of Lucy, getting in close to her mouth. “It's going to help you though. It will be more comfortable for you I hope.” Now she held a strap-on up and let it catch the dribbles from Lucy's chin. She fastened the harness around her hips, still pressing the dildo into Lucy's face.

“It's time to consummate our relationship, dear.” Polly moved behind Lucy and raised her hands, forcing her to bend forward until her face rested on the floor. Lucy turned her head so that her cheek took her weight, trickles of saliva pooling on the tiled floor. She felt Polly kneeling behind, pulling at her buttocks, exposing her anus. She groaned, desperately hoping that her worst fears weren't about to be realised. She'd never enjoyed anal penetration, although she had made numerous conquests endure that humiliation as a way of showing her power. Besides, the strap-on that Polly was wearing was far bigger than anything she could take. Polly seemed in no mood to be merciful. The head of the phallus pressed onto her bud, which twitched nervously as Lucy tried to contract her muscles to repel it.

“You know it'll be better for you if you relax and accept it, don't you Lucy?” She pressed her fingers, tugging at the delicate flesh, then eased the tip of the dildo into Lucy. She swayed forward, her body weight forcing it home. Lucy groaned, gagged, the ball choking her protests. The pain was unbearable. She was sure that her flesh was about to tear, that she was being damaged horribly. She was overcome with a shame as memories of her treatment of other women returned unbidden. How had she been so callous, so cruel, so unfeeling? For the first time in many years she remembered her school days, her Catholic education. She tried desperately to block out these ideas, guilt was such a stifling emotion, useless and damaging. This was not some visitation of a divine retribution, a punishment of her hubris.

She felt Polly lean forward, the warmth of her body folding around Lucy's back. She cradled her in her arms and kissed her soft skin. “You're such a beautiful woman, Lucy. I've wanted you since I first saw you. I want us to be together forever.” Lucy whimpered, sobbed. Polly's words thrilled her, despite the pain and humiliation she felt. She wanted to with Polly forever too.

“You're not scrubbing hard enough.” Lucy glanced up and apologised and rubbed harder at the tiles. This was almost unendurable; Polly had her acting as a cleaner, washing her dishes and scrubbing her kitchen floor, cleaning away the stains her own saliva had left the previous night. Polly stroked her hair and told her she was doing a good job now, adding that when she was finished she'd be allowed to eat some breakfast.

“Thank you, Miss,” Lucy sighed meekly. She was allowed to stand and approach the table, where Polly sat, fully clothed.

“Let me look at you,” Polly said. She stared at Lucy's naked body for a full minute. “Why no tattoos? Almost everyone I know through the club has some ink.”

“I just never could find the right thing for a tattoo,” Lucy murmured nervously.

Polly stood up and examined Lucy more closely. “You're just indecisive, aren't you? You need someone to take responsibility for you. Same with your hair, isn't it? You have nice silky hair and you can't bring yourself to cut it or dye it another colour. You've spent all this time trying to present an image as this intimidating, regal figure but really you're just a scared little girl.”

Lucy looked at her in terror. She felt like she had gone mad. Polly had stripped away every shred of her dignity and confidence. She'd allowed herself to be ordered to do degrading tasks, followed every command without resistance. Was Polly right? Had she been deceiving herself for years, covering up the truth about herself?

“I love getting a new hair style,” Polly continued, playing with the ends of Lucy's hair. “Every month I go to the salon for a trim and a new colour at the very least. I'm going to show you how much fun it is. When we go back to the club next you'll have a complete new look, won't you?”

Lucy could barely breathe. “Please, Polly, not my hair. Anything but...”

“Lucy, don't! You're just afraid to let go of this façade you've constructed. I don't take no for an answer. Your hair is being cut today and you'll show it off in the club tonight.” Lucy was beside herself as she imagined her hair being cut. She feared that Polly would have it cut short to teach her a lesson in humility. She fidgeted uncontrollably. Polly put her fingers around Lucy's neck and gripped her tightly. “I should get you a collar, shouldn't I? My Lucy entering the club shorn and collared will make quite an impact.” Lucy opened her mouth but no words came. “Don't do that, it's unattractive. You look like a goldfish,” Polly chided. “You should just say 'Yes Miss'. ”

“Yes Miss,” Lucy said automatically. Her obedience was rewarded with a long kiss.

Lucy had knelt alongside Polly for two hours now as her mistress sought inspiration in books and online. She would occasionally show Lucy a style she was considering, all of which were extreme. She started by showing her a very beautiful model with a bowlcut, her nape shaved entirely free of hair.

Polly patted her nape. “This would look very beautiful with your features. Very daring and sexy.”

Lucy stared in disbelief. “It's very short, Miss.”

Polly was quiet for a moment as she typed a new address into her laptop. “This is a lot shorter.” She turned the screen to show a young Asian woman with a high and tight flattop. She raked her nails through Lucy's temples to draw the hair off her face. “You'd suit a butch look. Your body is quite boyish, slim hips and small breasts.” Lucy looked at the floor. “Maybe I'll let you keep some femininity, but if I do I think we should do something to make your breasts bigger. You like mine, don't you?” Lucy nodded. “Then you better get saving for a boob job.”

Lucy was taunted with various punk and goth styles: mohawks, sideshaves, undercuts, all of the more extreme variety. She winced as she imagined each of these styles being recreated with her own treasured hair. It was almost to her waist, beautifully trimmed, conditioned regularly to keep it in perfect health. It was her most recognisable feature.

Polly went quiet for a long time as she read from the screen. “I think we have a winner,” she announced at last.

Lucy knelt naked on the floor of the stranger's room, head bowed, hair falling over her face. Polly had introduced her as Keiko and said she was an expert on Japanese traditions. They'd left Lucy alone while they plotted her new image. It was an hour later when they returned and Lucy was told to lie face down on a low bed. Polly knelt alongside her and started to play with her hair, gathering it up into a coil so that it was clear of her back. Keiko washed her back now, scrubbing it with a soft sponge. Lucy looked up at Polly and was about to ask what was happening. Polly put a finger to her lips and Lucy remained silent.

There were sounds of objects being taken from a cupboard and placed on the floor alongside Lucy, but she was unable to see what Keiko was doing, as her face was turned toward Polly. She sensed that Keiko was now kneeling close to her and was startled when she felt something tickle her back. A fine brush was gently stroking her skin, painting an image across her back. She felt the design spread until it reached from the base of her neck to the upper edge of her buttocks. She looked up at Polly, terrified that she was going to be tattooed by Keiko. She took Polly's hand and squeezed it. Polly looked down into her eyes, smiling serenely. “Please Miss, may I ask something?” she finally asked.

“What is it?” Polly's eyes flashed with anger, despite her attempts to appear calm in Keiko's presence.

“Am I going to be tattooed now?” Lucy's voice was shaking with fear. Polly merely nodded. Her expression made it clear that no more speech was to be tolerated. Lucy felt an empty terror. She'd always baulked at the idea of her skin being tattooed, despite liking the effect on others. Now she would receive a huge tattoo over which she had no control. Polly broke the silence to say that Keiko's design was perfect, more beautiful than she'd imagined possible and that she should make it permanent immediately.

A sharp jab took made Lucy gasp. She felt a needle repeatedly strike into her skin. There was no mechanical buzzing: Keiko was tattooing her in the traditional manner, using a needle tipped bamboo stick to drive the carbon-black ink into her skin. The pain grew more intense with each pricking and Lucy started to groan, tears forming in her eyes.

Keiko spoke to her angrily. “You must stop this weakness! The tattoo will heal badly and the lines will blur and fade if you give expression to your suffering. Girls half your age can lie and go through this with some self-respect, and I expect no less of you.” Lucy started to mutter an apology but was told she was not to speak. Keiko returned to her task.

Lucy tried desperately to control her response to her agony. She thought of the fear she could inspire, the obedience that she'd demanded from others, the humiliations and tortures she'd inflicted. Now that part of her life seemed to have been definitively concluded. Polly had altered something in her irrevocably. Now she was being permanently changed physically to give a visible manifestation to her new status.

The tattooing lasted hours. At last she was allowed to stand, every joint seeming to ache from tension and immobility. Polly expressed her delight at the work Keiko had inscribed into Lucy's living flesh. Lucy was led to a stool and sat facing a mirror. She attempted to turn her body so that she would see her tattoo but was told to sit still. She suddenly felt close to tears: her body was no longer her own, even to the extent of not knowing how it looked.

Keiko drew an ivory comb through Lucy's hair. “She has very beautiful hair. Western hair doesn't always take easily to Japanese styles, but this hair is good.” She made a parting around the top of Lucy's head, separating an oval section which she combed up and twisted into a top knot. Lucy stared in the mirror. Her eyes looked huge, bright with fear. Keiko reached into a box and withdrew a set of manual clippers. Lucy's was hyperventilating. She looked at Polly: “not my hair, not my hair!” she wanted to plead, but she couldn't speak. She had to be obedient, even if that meant losing her precious hair.

The clippers were placed at her forehead and Keiko's fingers started to work the handle back and forth rapidly. To the mechanical creaking were now added a grating sound, the sound of blades slicing through hair. Lucy gazed in the mirror and saw the hair lifting free from the top of her head. The clippers were cutting it to stubble. They kept nibbling back through her hair, separating more and more from her scalp. “I got the idea for your haircut from the Ochikubo Monogatari,” Polly said. “In feudal Japan a beautiful courtesan was found to be the lover of her Lord's wife. She was punished by being given a male hairstyle, the chonmage. When men of noble birth came of age they would be given this style where the top of their head was shorn. There are different theories why it was done, maybe it was to make them look mature in a society where older men are held in reverence. Or else it may have been decreed by an older ruler who wished to hide the shame of his baldness by making other men partake of it too.

“But you will wear this style because it will make you beautiful. And it makes you beautiful because it will show how you sacrificed your long hair to me and lost your timid vanity.”

Keiko lifted the topknot free from Lucy's scalp. The top of her head was covered in an ugly uneven stubble which recorded the passage of the clippers. The reflection in the mirror filled Lucy with sadness. She tried to understand why she'd let Polly do this to her, to humiliate her so dreadfully. Her hair had been beautiful but was now ridiculous, absurd, humiliating. Keiko was busying herself by perfecting the shape of the shaved area, combing up narrow sections of long hair on either side of her bald pate and clippering them away. Once she was happy that she'd shaped the bald area to perfection she poured some oil onto Lucy's head and rubbed it firmly into the ragged stubble. Now she raised a straight razor and dragged the blade through the oily short hair which formed into sticky clumps along the edge of the blade. Lucy could see her scalp was being shaved smooth, the skin looking pale and grey.

Minutes later Keiko had completed shaving Lucy's pate which now gleamed under the bright lights. Her scalp was smoothly rounded, rising up above the soft dark hair which still covered the sides of Lucy's head. Keiko combed the hair back and tied it into a ponytail. She had Lucy lean forward and lifted her hair up to expose the nape. “The neck is a very erotic area of the body and a neat hairline is essential to its beauty.” Lucy felt the blade of the razor scraping and dragging at her neck as Keiko shaved away the fine hairs that softened the outline. When the top of her neck had been formed, the razor made its way along the hairline behind each ear. The sensation made Lucy shiver.

She was allowed to raise her head now as Keiko continued to form her hairline, starting by reshaping the curves at the front of the bald area, smoothing the line where it passed across Lucy's temples. Then the soft downy hair of her sideburns was shaved away, leaving her cheeks smooth. The change was subtle but noticeable. Keiko spread her fingers over Lucy's forehead and raised the knife to her right eyebrow, rasping the blade through the fine hairs. Lucy grunted in displeasure as she saw her nicely shaped brow disappear. The change was unflattering, adding a strangeness to her features. As the left eyebrow was removed Lucy could no longer control the panic that had been swirling inside her for hours. She couldn't regulate her breathing, her ribs jerking and twitching, the panic only increasing as she felt a sensation of drowning. She became very aware of the sounds of her breathing, the rough sound of the air passing through her nostrils. The regularity of her breathing became interrupted by convulsive inspirations. Lucy realised she was sobbing.

Polly pressed her hands to Lucy's cheeks and lifted her head so that she had to face the mirror. “You're mourning the loss of what you once were. It's healing to cry. Look at what you're becoming Lucy.” Her fingers stroked at Lucy's bald scalp. “You should forget what you were, it was never right for you. Now I'm in charge. I will show you your true path. I will train you well. Now dry your tears, your mourning is over. You are recreated and there is nothing to regret. Is there?”

Lucy dabbed at her eyes and blew her nose. “No Miss,” she panted.

“Keiko, give Lucy the razor. There are a few hairs left from her brows. She can show she can control her emotions by shaving them herself.” Lucy's hand was shaking as she took hold of the sharp blade. “Cleanly shaved, Lucy, no cuts or I'll shave you bald myself.”

Lucy awkwardly shifted her grip on the razor, trying to find a way to hold it steady. There was a small group of hairs remaining where the inside of her left eyebrow had been. Her facial muscles twitched as she moved the blade toward her skin. She pushed her face forward toward the mirror so see more clearly, pressing the knuckles of her right hand into her cheek to stop the tremor. With her left hand she pulled the skin taut and scraped the blade across the hairs which collected on the blade. The edge scratched at her skin, making it feel raw. She stared anxiously in the mirror, half-expecting a bloom of red to appear at the site. She exhaled in relief as she saw that no wound had been produced.

Keiko now oiled Lucy's thick hair, combing the heavy, waxy substance through so that her hair attained a gleam. Her hair was pulled back into a queue at the back of her head. Keiko manipulated it expertly, forming it so that a fan like form jutted up at the back of her pate. White bands were tied to keep the queue in place. “You're really an artist,” Polly gushed. “Not a single hair out of place. She looks so perfect already. And once her make-up is done she'll look like a perfect little princess.”

A heavy white paste was applied Lucy's cheeks and rapidly brushed to cover her face completely, even her eyelashes and lips. Keiko spread it over the top of her head, camouflaging the difference in shade where her scalp had been shaved. The white pigment, oshiroi, was applied over her neck too, Keiko paying special attention to her nape, where a “W” shape was formed, points of natural skin tone forming sharp points down her neck. Lucy regarded herself in the mirror, her face a mask now. “Smile for me,” Keiko ordered. Lucy gave a nervous twitch of her lips. “A wide smile, show your teeth. Do you see how yellow they look now that your face is whitened? It looks ugly.” With the tip of her finger she dabbed a paste onto Lucy's teeth. It tasted sour and gave off an acidic smell. “This is called ohaguro. You need to learn the names of these customs.”

Lucy was allowed to turn to the mirror and saw with horror that her teeth had been painted black. “Oh Miss, my teeth!” she gasped, to be rewarded with a slap across her arm.

“Don't speak!” Polly snapped. “You'll look like a lady and that includes ohaguro. You'll apply it every day for as long as you maintain your life as a maiko.” Lucy bowed her head to acknowledge her acquiescence.

Her make-up was completed: a red rim along her lower lids, a slash of black on the upper, as well as a dusting of black powder on her eyelashes. Her upper lip was painted with a scarlet bow while the lower received a half-inch red dot in the centre. On her forehead fuzzy ovals were brushed on with a fine black powder, a style of painted eyebrow which Keiko identified as hikimayu.

Lucy stood to attention as Keiko made the final adjustments to her dress. She wore an embroidered white kimono, with a red and white nagajuban (under-kimono) beneath. On her feet were high okobo clogs with red straps: these, and the red collar of the nagajuban, marked her as a novice maiko. The front of the thick sole was shaved away to form a wedge and she had to be careful to maintain her weight on her heels to avoid toppling forward. A long sash, an obi, had been wound around her waist and her arms had been bound inside this, trapping them behind her back, hands tied to opposing elbows.

Polly expressed her admiration for Keiko's transformation of her lover. “The make-up is different to what I've seen in photographs.”

“It's an archaic style. The hikimayu brows and blackened teeth were outlawed in 1870 as Japan tried to modernise. They're only used commonly in theatre and film now, although some maikos and geishas have started to adorn their teeth with ohaguro again more recently. As well as its aesthetic appeal it seals the teeth and protects against decay.”

“Tradition is very important, Keiko. You must teach Lucy about her role and punish her when she fails. Now my dear Lucy, tell me how beautiful you look.”

“I look very beautiful, Miss,” she murmured. Lucy wanted to hide in shame but knew she had to stand upright, her lowered eyes her only concession to modesty.

“And how happy are you?”

“I am very happy, Miss.”

Lucy bowed to Keiko and thanked her. Fifteen minutes later a taxi had taken her to the club where for so long she had imagined herself as a queen holding court. She felt nausea and was glad that she'd not been allowed to eat for most of the day. How could she be seen by her friends looking like this? She still couldn't comprehend her compliance. At no point had she been able to resist Polly's plans for her. Now her humiliation would become public.

She shuffled into the club, trying to veer away from the brightly lit areas but Polly was too perceptive to allow that. She was taken towards a noisy group, most of whom Lucy knew to varying degrees of intimacy. She saw some of them staring, obviously intrigued by this strikingly dressed tall woman, but she knew that their stares were devoid of recognition. Polly also appeared to be acquainted with some of the women and greeted them with familiarity. She took her time making greetings, pointedly ignoring Lucy. At length she turned to face her, and said “What do you all think of Lucy's makeover? She's mine now.”

There was a moment of confusion before Ellie, one of Lucy's friends, recognised her, at which point the scene seemed to become chaotic. There were yelps of shock, shrieks of laughter, much disbelief: was this THE Lucy? She muttered embarrassedly as she was taunted by people who on the previous day would fearfully have hidden from her presence. Now she seemed to have a new persona, meek and timid, unable to resist against the humiliations that would now surely be part of her existence.

“Now, now, ladies, be nice,” Polly said. “She's a little shy about her new role as my sub so break her in gently.

[lsds-blog]

Polly

At a distance of many years I can now accept that Karen wasn't to blame for any of the events that came to have such disastrous consequences for me; rather she acted as a catalyst. Through my early years at school she'd appeared to admirable to me, and later I resented her, demonised her, even. Now I accept that she was a quite ordinary child, capable of acts of kindness and of cruelty, like most children. She was blessed with a special beauty, and this, more than any other quality, was what made me want to be close to her. She was a popular girl and I wasn't and her friendship seemed unattainable.

At the age of thirteen we entered a new class together. The positions in which we sat in our high school were determined by a random selection and I found myself sitting next to Karen. I was overawed and for weeks I could hardly bring myself to talk to her: she was so pretty with her long blonde hair, lightened by hours in the sun over the long summer break, her smooth skin conversely darkened by the sunny weather. Karen seemed years older than me, already a young woman, whereas I was still a child, skinny and shy. Gradually our relationship became closer and I found that she liked my sense of humour. My heart would beat faster when she laughed and I lost no opportunity to make jokes about our teachers. By the time we were half way through the year we'd become close and our friendship seemed to be cemented when Karen invited me to visit her home.

I'd seen Karen's mother at the school numerous times, and it was obvious where Karen had inherited her good looks. Her mother was tall and elegant, very confident, always able to command respect amongst most of the parents. However, my mother had hinted that she didn't like something about her, although she was never explicit, and she was happy for me to become friends with Karen.

I was shocked when I got to Karen's home. Her mother, who insisted that I call her Monica, had lost her beautiful long hair. She now had a severe crop, cut short over her ears and up her nape with a short blunt fringe. I'd seen a growing number of women in the town with this same haircut (my mother had voiced her disgust about it), which was modelled on the cut most of the women ministers in the government had been wearing for some years now. The cut was the recognised style of members of the People's Party.

At the time I'm writing about, the People's Party (almost universally referred to as the Party, or occasionally PP) had been in government for about three years. They'd initially formed a government as the junior partner in a coalition following an election. Shortly afterwards Anglia had been through an economic crisis caused by the failure of one of the large banks and had then got involved with a protracted war in southern Asia, which was still being fought during the time I'm discussing. These events allowed the Party to increase its power. A snap election following the crisis had allowed it to form a majority government, and the declaration of war, followed by a number of terrorist actions by a group of south Asians living in Anglia, had allowed increasingly autocratic laws to be enacted. By now membership of trade unions had been made illegal and most political parties had been abolished as a “temporary measure”, although in reality, Anglia would soon become a one party state.

My mother (my only parent, since my father had died before I was born) had always cherished personal freedoms; I'd always been taught by her to respect others' views and to practice tolerance. She despised the Party, opposing its policies on almost every issue. She described its leaders as a dangerous elite, masquerading as men of the people. Such talk was becoming dangerous, as the party used the war as a reason to silence all opposition. Already newspapers had been closed down and a number of journalists had lost their registration for “working against the public interest,” the euphemistic law which gagged criticism of the Party.

Now, because of her haircut, it was apparent that Monica was a member of the Party, and my mother's hostility toward her became more understandable. For my own part, politics seemed a muddle. I loved my mother, and the values she held seemed good and admirable, yet my school increasingly emphasised values of patriotism, which also seemed good. I was too naïve to see any contradiction, and too easily swayed by being a guest in Monica's home to resist her. She was the most elegant woman I'd ever seen, and she made even the functional Party crop look alluring.

At dinner, Karen mentioned that she had joined a new youth organisation, the Pioneers, and asked if I could join too. Monica asked me my age, then explained that I wouldn't be able to join until I was fourteen, which was still months off (I was the youngest child in my school year; if my birthday had fallen a day later I would have been held back a year). I felt disappointed that an opportunity to spend time with my wonderful new friend would be denied. Obviously Monica could see my disappointment: she said that there was a junior division for younger girls, but a very few places were available. She was a close friend of the Pioneer leader for the town and if I promised to commit to the organisation she would get me a place. I enthusiastically agreed.

Karen started to badger her mother into taking her to get her uniform that night so that she could attend her first meeting the following night. “If I miss that I'll not be able to go to the camp next month. You have to attend three meetings before you can go to camp. Please, Mum, take me and Polly for our uniforms. I'll do all the dishes for the next week if you do.” Monica was an indulgent mother and couldn't resist her only daughter's supplications. After Karen and I had washed the dinner plates, Monica took us to a local store where we were to receive our uniforms.

I was increasingly self conscious as we approached the store. My mother was nowhere near as affluent as Karen's family (her father, who I'd never met, was a senior civil servant) and I knew my mother wouldn't be able to afford an expensive uniform. I finally found the courage to ask Monica how much the uniform would cost. She sensed my discomfort about this sensitive issue and said there would be no cost for me. “The Pioneers have to be for everybody, regardless of wealth. I know your mother isn't well off, so don't you worry. You just have to promise me you'll honour your uniform.” At that moment I would have done anything for Monica.

At the store we were provided with our identical uniforms, khaki knee-length belted tunics, woollen socks, leather hiking boots. The owner, who wore her hair in the Party crop, told us that we made her proud of the country's youth. “Now you'd better get your uniform haircuts before the barber closes up,” she said.

I was thrown into a panic as I followed Karen toward the barbershop. I hadn't understood that I would have to get a haircut, and whispered this to Karen. “Oh sure, the Pioneers have to have a uniform haircut, everyone knows that.”

Before any further explanations were possible, we were in the barbershop, and a large, jolly woman, with a regulation party crop welcomed us. “Two new Pioneers, hey? Makes me so pleased to see you girls. Which of you is first?”

I found myself being nominated and somehow managed to clamber up into the chair. I had to sit on a plank which the barberette had hooked over the arms of the chair to raise my head to a more comfortable height for her work. I was fitted with a long red cape of slightly stained nylon which was tied around my neck and seemed to make the stiff collar of the uniform rub and irritate at my skin. I stared in the mirror, my eyes wide with fear as I awaited the fate of my hair. My hair was dark brown, and fell in soft curls to almost the middle of my back, the longest it had ever been.

In minutes the barberette had brushed my curls into a ponytail and hacked it off with a huge pair of shears. Suddenly my hair hung free, no part of it reaching down to the cape which covered my shoulders. I was too shocked to say anything. I felt drained as I imagined that I was going to be given a crop like Monica's. The barberette was talking constantly, always happy, but I couldn't hear what she said, it was just noise to me. She brushed my hair and made a section across the back, pinning up the rest of the hair with a clip that was fastened at my crown. I saw her lift a set of clippers from the counter and fit them with a plastic comb over the blades. I gasped, having never seen a woman's hair cut with these. I'd always had long hair, and went twice yearly with my mother for trims. Women's hair was cut with scissors, clippers were only for men. That seemed the natural way of things, but now my ideas were about to be blown apart.

I was horrified as the barberette prepared to shear me and I was desperate to find a way out, to stall her at the very least. “Are you going to cut it like yours?” I managed to blurt out?

“Like mine? Oh no, honey, this is a cut for grown ups. When you're twenty-one you come and see me and I'll make you a nice young woman with a nice woman's crop. But you're a Pioneer now, so you'll get a nice Pioneer bob.”

And with that she firmly tipped my head down and placed the clippers on my neck. I felt them shuddering against my skin, rising up, the sound changing as they met my thick hair. Short curls fell down the cape, noiselessly slipping into my lap. All the free hair was being cut short, right up to the section which had been pinned up, which was as high as the top of my ears. I didn't know how clippers worked, and in my imagination I had a bald nape now. Certainly no hair reached over my neck and my head felt cool where the clippers had passed. But the sensation of cutting was painless: I'd feared I would feel my hair being ripped out but instead the vibration was pleasant, a gentle massage-like sensation. I admitted to myself that I liked it. I felt confused. My hair, which I loved so much, was being shaved away and I found myself excited by the feeling. I felt I was betraying myself: I should not have allowed my hair to be destroyed, and yet I was not only complicit in its doom, I was taking a delight in it.

The clippers fell silent and I was allowed to raise my head. My hair was sprayed with a water bottle and combed through briskly. The barberette took her scissors and shaped my bob. She cut a heavy, blunt line around my head, starting at the right side. Before each snip she combed the hair down and gripped it between her powerful fingers, then cut an even line. After each cut the hair would curl and spring up as it was released. She worked methodically around my head, cutting always at the same level. My hair was cut to expose the lower part of my ears and of course, at the back the buzzed nape was exposed.

Once she was happy that she'd made all of my bob perfectly even, the barberette focussed her attention on my fringe. She cut it across the middle of my forehead, a perfectly straight line, and wide. The edges of the fringe were directly above the outside edges of my eyebrows. I'd had a fringe a long time before and this new fringe made me feel like I was regressing into my infancy. The barberette rapidly dried my hair which became more curly than ever, freed of the weight which had previously helped to lessen the curl. Of course, it also made my hair appear shorter. The barberette used a round brush to dry my fringe and smooth out the curl, so that it sat in a shiny block over my forehead.

I despised how I appeared now and found it difficult to look at myself in the mirror. The barberette took a mirror and held it behind my head. I looked fearfully, expecting to see my bald nape, but instead I saw that the back had been neatly trimmed to a block of dark, even fur, bristly yet somehow appealing. My relief at not seeing bald scalp was construed by my companions as approval for my new haircut and Monica expressed her delight that I had accepted it.

“I could see you were a bit shocked when the hair started coming off, but you look so much nicer now. I can see you're going to be a good friend for Karen.” I blushed and thanked Monica, her approval making me feel so proud.

As I watched Karen losing her beautiful blonde hair I kept rubbing my shorn nape. The hair was trimmed so short that I couldn't grip it, but it felt somehow thrilling, soft yet prickly. I watched the clippers buzz away Karen's silky mane, leaving a light stubble. It appeared darker than her long hair, as the bleached locks were cut away, yet it was almost the same shade as her tanned neck, and appeared almost bald, which somehow excited me. When her hair was cut it fell smoothly into a glossy bob, which was surprisingly flattering, unlike my unruly curls. The short fringe seemed to suit Karen too, her beautiful big eyes now framed wonderfully.

As soon as she climbed out of the chair I went to hug her, and I felt an unfamiliar excitement as she raised a hand to stroke my buzzed nape. “That feels so good,” she laughed. “It feels like my cat's fur!”

I couldn't resist doing the same, and I caressed her newly cut hair. Her hair was softer and finer than mine and I still vividly recall how beautiful her stubble was, with nothing of the bristliness of mine. I wanted to embrace her forever. She seemed like the most perfect girl in the whole world, and I was blessed to have her as a friend.

We stood side by side and saluted our barberette with a Pioneer salute, which Karen had had to teach me. “You look very nice, girls,” she said, contentedly. “Now remember! You have to get your hair cut here every four weeks at most. Any more than that and you'll get a report.” She issued us with cards to record our haircuts, and signed and dated the first box of the chart.

My shock of getting bobbed soon passed as I realised that it had brought me closer to Karen and Monica. When I returned home, my happiness was shattered. My mother had never lost her temper with me until that night. She was furious when I came home in my new uniform.

“Polly, what have you done? Your hair! You can't join that terrible Pioneer group, I won't stand for it.” She fussed with my hair, her eyes filling with tears of rage and frustration. I was defiant and insisted that I wouldn't let her stand in my way. Our anger increased, and when she told me that in the morning she would confront Karen's mother, it was too much for me. I screamed that I hated her and that I wished Monica was my mother. It was my last word for the night as I went to my room in tears.

In the morning I ignored her. I went to shower and washed my short hair for the first time. I still had mixed emotions, loving how my nape felt, but feeling a great loss. I'd never spent time looking after my hair, always letting it dry naturally after washing it. After dressing I looked in the mirror and saw that my hair looked terrible. The curls looked tighter than ever and my fringe had curled too, making it a mess of random short lengths of hair at the top of my forehead. Brushing through my hair just seemed to exacerbate the problems, as the curls frizzed out, and my hair resembled a ball around my head. I noticed my mother was watching me through the open door. She entered wordlessly and helped me to style my hair. She blew my fringe straight and sprayed something on my hair which helped to tame the curls. She hugged me and kissed me on the cheek. “Looks better, doesn't it?”

Our reconciliation was short lived. She informed me that her plan to see Monica wouldn't be changed and that we'd be going to see her before I went to school. The rage of the previous night had exhausted us both and our mutual displeasure was shown by a frosty silence. I walked a few paces behind her as we travelled the short distance to Karen's house. I'd never felt more embarrassed by my mother than when she knocked on the door.

Monica greeted her, but I could see immediately that there was a mutual distrust between them. “I was expecting you. You'd better come in, it would be unfair on Polly to allow you to cause a scene on my doorstep.”

When we entered the living room I smiled as I saw my best friend. Another woman was present, a middle aged woman with a Party haircut and a Pioneer uniform. Monica introduced her as Elspeth Evans. “She's our local Party treasurer and the patron of the regional Pioneer chapter. Mrs Anderson, what did you want to see me about?”

The presence of this stranger seemed to throw my mother off balance. At the time I had no idea how powerful she was, but clearly my mother did. “I don't want Polly to join the Pioneers,” Mum said quietly. I blushed and wanted her to stop talking.

“It was Polly's choice,” Monica stated. She turned to me: “Wasn't it, honey?” I nodded.

The older woman spoke. “The Pioneers is an organisation for young people to exert their independence. It's the young person who chooses to join, not the parent.”

“But Polly is too young,” Mum protested. “She's not fourteen.”

“She's been admitted to the auxiliary. I processed her admission this morning. Monica signed it on her behalf.”

“But she had no right!”

“She had every right. I trust Monica implicitly, she's a key member of the local Party. And I've heard Polly say herself that she chose to join. The signature is that of a witness, not a parent.”

“This is unacceptable,” Mum said. She was quiet but I could see her anger growing, and she was only containing it with considerable effort. “You can't just talk my daughter into joining a quasi-military organisation and cut off her hair without even consulting me!”

Mrs Evans stared at her before replying. “We've already established that Polly requested entry. The Pioneers is an admirable organisation which will teach your daughter key values. It may also help her to get away from the negative influences of her family.”

My mother looked shocked. “Negative influences?”

“Don't think I don't know about you, Mrs Anderson. This is a small, tight-knit community and no one escapes my attention. A single mother...”

“Widowed,” my mother interrupted.

“Not widowed, you never married. It shows a recklessness toward family values. And in the past you were a member of a listed political organisation. You do know that being a parent is a privilege? A fine young woman like Polly shouldn't be held back by her mother's failings. You need to start showing that you value her achievements. Instead of complaining about your daughter becoming a Pioneer you should show some pride.”

Monica now spoke. “If you keep taking such an antisocial attitude you'll lose the respect of your daughter completely. There are pioneer schools, residential schools where Polly could choose to go. I'm starting to think that would be good for her.”

“You can't take Polly away from me!” Mother was nearly in tears now, trying desperately to contain her fear, frustration, anger.

Mrs Evans spoke. “Monica can't take her away, but I can. You have to show me that you're a fit mother. I'll be keeping a close eye on you, because I want the best for Polly. You need to start behaving as a good example. You could take a leaf out of Monica's book. Her and Karen have an admirable relationship, and look how Karen is growing into such a fine young woman.”

Monica thanked her protector and asked Karen to take me along to school. “Mrs Anderson, you can stay, we need to discuss how you can become a better parent, and, for that matter, a better citizen.”

I spent the day at school barely able to concentrate on anything the teachers said. My friends were shocked to see my new haircut, but all I could think about was the events of the morning. I was fearful that I would be sent away to a residential school and never allowed to see my mother again. Only Karen knew what was upsetting me and she kept squeezing my hand and telling me everything would be fine. For those moments when she smiled at me, I believed that all my problems would go away.

I rushed home at the end of school, wanting to apologise to Mum for all the trouble I'd stirred up. I dashed into the kitchen where she was preparing our meal. Mum fussed self-consciously with her hair: it had been shorn into the style of the Party zealots.

I was astonished. This woman didn't look like my mother. She'd always had lovely thick curls, similar in texture to mine, auburn. I knew she'd coloured it for the last several years, and now it was apparent why. The back and sides, which had been tapered very close, were grey, and only the longer sections on top retained the reddish tone. Her eyes were red and swollen from crying, and this brutal crop aged her terribly. I started to cry and put my arms around her. My emotions broke through her attempts to remain stoic and soon her tears mingled with mine.

“I'm sorry, Mum. Please don't let them take me away.” She assured me that wasn't going to happen. “Why did you cut your hair?”

“I... They wanted me to. To show I thought like them.”

“Monica made you do it?” I was shocked. I couldn't believe that Monica would do this to Mum.

“I did it to show them that I can be good for you. Sometimes we have to make sacrifices.”

“I don't like the grey, Mum,” I said, stroking her hair, which was as short on her nape as mine. “Makes you look older. You should colour it.”

“No, Polly, best I leave it grey now,” she said. I could see that she was hiding something. I knew immediately that she'd been told to refrain from dying it.

“Are you going to keep it short?”

She nodded. “For the time being,” she said sadly.

Every four weeks now my mother and I would go to the same barbershop where I would have my Pioneer bob trimmed and Mum would receive her regulation crop. She never spoke to the barberette; she'd sit in silence as her hair was buzzed and snipped. I noticed that Mum's was always a little shorter than most of the Party members, who were becoming more and more common in our town. I can see now that this was just another little humiliation for her to endure.

At school I was closer than ever to Karen. We started to socialise almost exclusively with other Pioneers and my old friends drifted away unless I could convince them to become Pioneers too. I felt a great happiness when one of my friends agreed to join and submitted her long hair to the attentions of my barberette. I found watching her shearing excited me in ways I could only barely understand. When I lay in my bed at night I would caress my nape and daydream about the feeling of the clippers, about my memories of seeing my friends receive their shorn napes.

My life was beginning to fracture. At school and at Pioneer events I felt happy, part of a close community of peers. At home I had to witness my mother becoming increasingly depressed. Since the day she'd been forced to cut her hair I sensed that she'd become the victim of a campaign of humiliation by a group of Party members, and in retrospect I know that it was Monica who orchestrated this, although at the time I admired Monica so much that I wouldn't allow myself to believe that she was capable of wrong.

My mother became downcast and struggled to care for me. She frequently overslept and I would have to prepare our meals and take care of all the household chores. At Pioneer meetings Mrs Evans took a great interest in me, and would adopt a very informal manner, grandmother-like, when she called me to her office. She would inquire about my mother, and, since she'd gained my trust, I opened up to her about my concerns. She appeared sympathetic and promised to help.

It was a dreadful mistake. A few weeks after confiding I was called to see the headmistress in school. I was informed that Mum had had a breakdown and was on her way to a hospital to help her to get better. Although I was assured that she would be recovered in a few weeks I had seen her for the last time.

As an interim measure, I would be placed in a Pioneer school. The headmistress told me that I was very lucky to be accepted, not only because this school was so highly esteemed, but because in normal circumstances they wouldn't enrol pupils under the age of fourteen (my birthday was still some weeks off). I had been granted a special privilege under the aegis of the local Pioneer organiser (Mrs Evans) who felt that I had been a model of decorum since joining.

I was taken to this strange school, which was at the other end of the country to my home. I was introduced to the other girls at an evening assembly. “This is Polly Anderson, who I'm sure that you'll all welcome to our Pioneer community. She's a very brave girl: she's here because she informed against her own mother. The family bond is strong and it takes a special courage to do the right thing when the offender is one's own mother.”

I was horrified. I'd betrayed my own mother? I couldn't understand why this woman was saying these things. Surely she'd mistaken me for someone else. Over the next days I started to realise what I'd done, that my candour in discussions with Mrs Evans had condemned my mother to a psychiatric hospital. I felt strangled by a dreadful guilt which would not pass.

In my new school I did not prosper. I found the food unbearable and my body seemed to shrink. Already the youngest girl at the school, I seem to lag behind ever further in my development. Physical activities were esteemed by the school staff, but I was weak and awkward. An eye test a few days after my arrival diagnosed myopia and the following day I was wearing a horrible pair of black framed glasses. The girls were unwelcoming to this unprepossessing interloper. Not only was I sickly, puny, myopic, my mother's illness was common knowledge. My parentage was a reason not for sympathy but for suspicion and hostility.

My years in the academy were unbearably lonely. I had no one I could call a friend. The academy was run on military lines but I was reminded at every opportunity that my weakness made me unfit to serve my country. I applied myself to my studies, where I was modestly successful, but book learning was seen as a suspect skill. Pioneers were supposed to be resilient, rugged, not bookish. There was talk of transferring me to another school with a gentler regime, but this never came to pass. I had to endure the academy until I turned twenty-one.

My old life had become utterly lost to me. I'd corresponded with Karen and a few other friends after arriving at the school but soon their replies arrived after a long delay, and eventually there were no more letters. I received an update once a year about my mother, a brief paragraph from one of her doctors informing me that she was not responding to treatment and would not be considered for discharge at this time. When I was seventeen I was informed by my house-mother that Mum had died as a result of an unforeseen complication in one of her treatments. Given the “shameful nature of her disorder” it was felt that I should not attend the funeral.

My guilt seemed to define me. I was guilty about all my thoughts and actions, past and present. It was my actions which had caused Mum's depression, I who'd betrayed her to Mrs Evans, my weakness that allowed her to die alone in a dreadful hospital. I was lonely and secretly I dreamed about intimacy with the girls who shared my dormitory. Secrets were anathema. A private person was a traitor, we were told. Only through openness and community could the state and its people prosper.

Not only did I have secret thoughts, these thoughts were of an unacceptable nature. It was known that some girls did start to have feelings toward other girls, but this inversion of nature was a sickness. I feared my secret being discovered, feared more that my longings would force me to act.

There was a scandal (although no one was supposed to talk of it, there were whisperings in corridors and in the dormitory) because two girls had been witnessed kissing. They were immediately removed from the academy. I was told by an older pupil that such inverts would be sent to a conditioning clinic. When I asked what would happen to them, she grimaced. “You don't know?” she asked. “Those places are horrible. They use electric shocks and awful drugs to make you hate any intimacy. Most people end up in the same place as your mother after they go through that.”

There was a change after this incident; three times a year all of the girls aged over sixteen would attend a dance where the boys of corresponding ages from the local boys' Pioneer academy would be present. It was probably felt that the risk of provoking desires for the unattainable boys was preferable to having the girls sate their desires with the only intimacy which was available. The older girls were allowed to establish relationships with boys, although these relationships were entirely chaste. Pioneer girls were expected to maintain their chastity until their union was blessed by the state.

I found the dances alienating and frightening. Whilst the other girls would become terribly excited by the sight of the boys we were as a rule forbidden from seeing, the dances only served to convince me that I was suffering from an illness. I was painfully shy and the girls teased me about my awkwardness, ridiculed my unattractiveness to the boys. I took the humiliation with feigned good humour, but inside I longed to love and to be loved.

The objects of my desire changed often, but was usually one of the older pupils. I desired what I couldn't be: tall, athletic women. More and more, my lusts seemed to be connected with hair. I loved to see my peers on the day when they'd all received fresh haircuts, their napes shorn to stubble, their bobs chopped to a hard line, their fringes short. Each form would attend the barbershop on the same evening, going along in groups of four. When my turn came I would be shaking with nerves, and my classmates could barely help noticing. They teased me for my fear of getting my hair cut, but had no insight into my true feelings. I did dislike seeing myself with my curls cut into this ugly bob, but the sensations of the cut were my greatest pleasure.

I would lie awake at night, stroking my nape, dreaming of Karen's hair, the fine blonde silk which was so much more refined than my coarse curls. Would I ever again have the pleasure of stroking another girl's hair?

When I was sixteen there was a particularly hot summer and the headmistress announced that for the sake of comfort the pupils would have their napes shaved smooth with a razor. My form was one of the first to be shaved and the girls took it on them to make me be the first to submit to the razor.

The barberette, a mean spirited woman who invariably complained of the difficulty of cutting my curly hair neatly, made me sit with bowed head and sheared me up my nape, clearing an arch much higher than the usual clippered area. As she covered it with cold, wet soap, I started to feel a growing wetness between my legs. I could barely breath as she dragged the razor up my nape from neck to crown. The first stroke was raspy, the blade dragging against the hair. Then the razor rose again, but now my scalp was smooth, slippery. Once the stubble was all gone I endured a soft towel rubbing at the freshly bared skin. I felt a heat passing through me, a tingling, delicious sensation, and crossed my legs firmly under the cape, since I was sure I was about to lose control of my bladder. I had no idea what was happening to me, only that I was being consumed with the most glorious happiness. I could hear my classmates giggling as my face reddened. They assumed that I was suffering a terrible embarrassment at being shaved.

The barberette started to cut my bob and cursed me. “Sit still! You're fidgeting like a worm and you made me cut more than I intended.” I said nothing, sure that I hadn't moved. When I put my glasses back on my nose I saw the result of her mistake: my bob was cut much shorter than usual, barely covering the tops of my ears. Even the fringe had been cut shorter, presumably because the barberette thought that the normal length fringe would look out of proportion with so short a bob.

As I rejoined the other pupils I received a sharp slap on my shaved nape. “You really should sit still!” a bullying girl named Annabelle hissed. “You really should be used to getting your hair cut by now. A Pioneer should be proud of her haircut. You don't deserve to wear your uniform.”

“I do like it,” I insisted, untruthfully. “I just get a bit nervous.” As I looked in the mirror I felt shocked by the severity and ugliness of my new cut. I missed the long hair of my youth, and yet the feeling of my bald nape made me tingle once more. For the entire summer I experienced a new level of arousal, astonished each time I touched my bald scalp, filled with desire for other girls' bald napes, though too shy to risk touching.

The final years of life at the academy were given over to vocational training. As each girl celebrated her twenty-first birthday she was welcomed into womanhood with a ceremony which included her first adult haircut. The pioneer bob was shorn into the crop of the Party member, the familiar short back and sides with a straight fringe across the top of her forehead. I would be the last girl in my year to go through the ceremony and it was with mixed emotions that I sat for the last time for the barberette who'd tormented me for more than seven years. For the previous weeks the weather had been unusually hot and as she wrapped me in a cotton cape she announced that she'd give me a summer cut. Despite the fact that I was now officially an adult, my fear of her remained and I didn't dare question her.

The clippers whirred as she cleaned away the growth of fuzz from my nape. For the first time I felt her shape my hair without scissors. She pulled a comb up through the curls and stroked the clippers across the tines. Heavy clumps thudded softly onto the cape.

Even without my glasses I could see that she was cutting the sides too short. I could see pale scalp where I expected to see dark hair. She clippered up the sides again and again, fading and tapering the hair high over my ears. “A nice cool whitewall,” she said with a cruel laugh as she noticed my concern.

She used the clipper over comb technique to take the top short, then finished my cut by smoothing my fringe down and holding it in place with the comb. She touched the blades to my hair, cutting the fringe absurdly short, so that it barely covered any of my forehead. I expected to be released but instead I felt her apply a layer of soap to my nape and above my ears. The razor dragged over my scalp and I was reminded of my ecstatic epiphany years previously in this same chair. I had learned to better control my body in the intervening time, but knew that I would later achieve a new delight when I found some privacy.

I put my glasses back on. I'd been provided with a new pair only days earlier, round lenses with horn-rimmed frames. The woman who looked back at me from the mirror had the shortest haircut I'd ever seen. The barberette, who'd always disliked me, had taken her final vengeance on me. Although I knew this haircut would earn me endless teasing from my peers, I wasn't sorry. I loved the cruelty of the style and the feeling of the bald scalp. “Thank you, Miss,” I smiled. “I'll miss your haircuts,” I said with sincerity. She looked confused by my happiness.

Only days later I was discharged from the academy, no longer a Pioneer, but a full Party member. For the previous two years I had been training for service in the Office of Population and Statistics, commonly known as the census. The census had become a very important office in Anglian government, as the various ministries demanded more and more detailed information about the populace. I was under no illusions about why I had been appointed to a junior position; this was no indication of faith in my abilities. Rather, the sheer volume of data that was being requested from the census meant that huge numbers of employees were necessary in order collect and process information.

I travelled to my new home by train, feeling a huge anxiety at the unfamiliarity of the world. For seven years I'd barely passed beyond the academy walls, and everything seemed alien. Because I had no family, I'd been at a disadvantage. Many of the other girls would spend time with their families three times a year, allowing them some time to familiarise themselves with life outside the academy.

I found myself staring at passengers on the train, astonished to see people without uniforms, by the variety of hairstyles. For a section of the journey a man sat next to me, which put me in a state of panic. My only contact with males was at the dances, and before each we'd been warned of the risks of close contact, yet now I was sitting inches away from a stranger. Every moment that he sat next to me felt like I was doing something wrong and when he left the train I was relieved.

I was to live in a small room in a housing project for government employees. I would share a communal lounge and washing/bathing facilities with five other residents. Although the room was very small and Spartan, it was the first private space I'd had since I'd lived with Mum. I knew I had to be careful about spending too much time alone: privacy was a sign of an antisocial person. There was every possibility that the people I was sharing with would report on my behaviour. I had learned that I had to maintain an outward veneer of conformity, and especially never to show that I was down or lonely. Because of Mum's depression I was thought to be at risk, and a depressed person was poisonous, selfish, spreading their negativity to others. I'd learned a fake smile to greet others to show that I was a happy person.

The day after my arrival I reported to my new job. I would work in a huge tower block, eighteen storeys high. I was shown to my office, trying to memorise the route, sure that I could never find my way around. I felt utterly out of my depth in this chaotic, noisy environment. I'd spent years in the ruthlessly disciplined environment of the academy and I was ill-equipped to adapt to anything else.

My new manager, Celine, looked me over. “Christ, can't they teach you kids how to dress? What are you wearing?” What I was wearing was one of the three outfits which I'd been provided with as a leaving gift: a beige blouse, slacks of a similar colour. Apparently it wasn't a fashionable look. “And your hair! It's the shortest cut I ever saw. Please tell me you don't intend to keep it like that. I want you to look smart, not like a boy soldier.”

I apologised for the severity of my cut and promised to let it grow out. I'd noticed that in the years I'd been away, the Party crop had become less uniform. While it remained the same basic short cut with fringe, it had produced many personalised variations. Celine wore hers with long pointed sideburns which partially covered her ears. Her fringe was fairly long and swept to the side, softening the style. I tried to imagine myself with a similar look, soft and feminine. The idea pleased me.

I was assigned to a team which visited randomly selected domiciles to review living arrangements and update information about the householders. I would make all visits with another worker from a different team. It soon became apparent that this was a common procedure throughout government: employees would conform when they were with a person they didn't know. Over-familiarity with colleagues was discouraged; when I was with my partner I was instructed to communicate only about professional issues. A friendly and polite demeanour should be maintained but small talk avoided.

For the first few days I was teamed with experienced workers: the work was largely routine and mundane. We'd be driven to an area and inspect roughly half a dozen properties, then would return to the office to write up our reports in the afternoon. Despite my training, I struggled to adjust to life in the office. There were numerous convoluted systems to navigate, levels of bureaucracy which seemed to serve no purpose. The computer systems were unreliable, for which reason all reports had to be submitted as paper copies (all retained on file), to be input by a clerical assistant.

There was a strict division between the higher grade jobs, which were all occupied by Party members, and the non-Party grades. I soon became aware that this division extended into social relationships: Party members didn't form friendships with non-Party members. Amongst the lower grades I sensed that there was a division between those who resented the privilege and elitism of the Party and those who aspired to rise through the service by being admitted to the Party. During the time I'd been secluded in the school, admittance to the Party had changed. In the past anybody could join by registering and paying a small fee. Now this system only applied to associate members. Full membership was only granted to those, like me, who had attended a Party school, or through nomination by Party members. Even then, nomination was only possible for those who had passed a Work Guild examination which would allow employment in a Party grade job.

Secretly, I longed to be freed of the restrictions of Party membership. I found myself enchanted by the young girls who worked in the office with long hair. Some of them wore a lot of make-up, which was entirely unfamiliar to me; it was forbidden in the academy and Party women were expected to wear only minimal, subtle make-up. I dreamed of being a normal girl, allowed to wear pretty clothes and grow my curls long again. But I'd been strictly schooled that I was a Party member for all of my life. Resignation was not permitted.

There were times when I felt ashamed of the Party. In my second week as an inspector I was partnered with a woman in her fifties who seemed particularly callous. We paid a visit to an Asian family. The Asian war was still ongoing (news reports were always extolling Anglian successes, yet an end was never mentioned) and this had generated a lot of friction toward Asians. The Party had instituted a policy of Anglians First, which meant that immigrants and those of Asian ancestry were given lower priority in housing and education. We inspected the house of a young couple with an infant daughter. As soon as we entered my partner became hostile, raging at the young mother, whose husband was away at work. She demanded to see various papers, and became verbally abusive when the woman couldn't provide a tax record. She informed the woman that she was reporting her for a failure to cooperate with an investigation, and that as a result her family would lose the tenancy of this property.

I was shocked as we left. “What will happen to them?” I asked.

“They'll be rehoused with a private landlord. It'll be more expensive for them, and I imagine that it won't be in good condition, but we're under pressure to free up these government owned properties for Anglian families.”

“But she didn't do anything wrong. We don't inspect taxes so you had no business asking for that.”

“Don't get all sentimental! We have to target these people and any failure to cooperate is sufficient to report. I've done nothing wrong. Have I?” she snarled.

“No,” I said meekly.

“Good, you're learning. Next family of foreigners we visit it'll be you reporting them. I need to toughen you up.”

Fortunately, all of the inspections that remained that day were with Anglian families so my blooding was postponed.

I dreaded being teamed with that same inspector again, but knew that the chances of it happening soon were remote. What scared me was that it soon became apparent that her disregard for the letter of the law was an unspoken policy. Inspectors were expected to meet a quota of reports, and performance would be judged on numbers of evictions of problematic individuals and families. Reports were to be engineered by any means necessary.

It was in my third week when I had my fateful encounter with Andra. I was partnered with an inspector little older than me but much more experienced. She'd been complaining all day of feeling unwell, but this just seemed to put her in a bad mood; she'd been surly and aggressive during every inspection.

Our last call of the day was to a tiny studio apartment in a large tower block. The woman who admitted us was in her twenties, tall, slim, broad-shouldered. She had long, straight hair, dark brown with a blunt fringe and was dressed in flared jeans and a yellow t-shirt with a screen-printed design. I was immediately attracted to her. Most of the people who we inspected were deferential, fearful, but Andra was different. She seemed almost defiant. I was astonished when my partner examined her citizen card and noted that she was Asian. I hadn't recognised it, assuming that she was of exclusively European ancestry. Only when I looked closely could I something in her facial bone structure that suggested her ethnicity.

“My grandmother was Japanese,” Andra stated. There seemed to be pride in her statement. I could see my partner's mood grow increasingly worse as she sought an excuse for a report. However, Andra was well prepared and could provide every requested document and satisfactorily answer every question put to her.

My fellow inspector grimaced and rushed toward the tiny bathroom. I felt my cheeks colour as I had to listen to the awful sounds which left no doubt as to the nature of my colleague's illness. I stepped closer to Andra and whispered to her: “I'm sorry. I wish you didn't have to go through this, it's all wrong. I want to help you.” She looked at me with disgust.

I remained silent and awkward until my partner emerged. She looked grey and signed off Andra's inspection. “Expect another visit soon,” she muttered threateningly as we left.

My encounter with Andra had left me haunted. My colleague had returned home and the reports were my responsibility. When I processed Andra's inspection I completed a form which stated that Andra was fully compliant. She wouldn't be inspected again for at least a year. I felt a pride in my little act of humanity. My work made me unhappy, complicit in acts of evil against innocent people. Even now I wondered if I would stand by my tiny act of defiance. If my partner checked my work would I say I'd ticked the wrong box and defer to her wishes, unreasonable and cruel though they were?

I made a very unwise decision. I visited Andra, even though I knew the risks were great if I were to be seen. She lived a few miles away from me and I walked across the town a few days after my initial encounter. I felt intimidated as I entered her district. At night it was almost deserted, but for groups of thuggish looking boys dressed in quasi-military uniforms. As I passed they smiled and waved with surprising friendliness. I later discovered that they were Youth Brigade members, little better than vigilantes, who enforced a sort of order in poorer areas of the cities and ruthlessly punished any who they deemed abnormal. As a Party member, they treated me with respect.

I arrived at Andra's block and entered using my inspector's pass (it allowed me to enter any housing block). I walked up to Andra's flat and paused before I had the courage to knock. When I did knock I soon heard someone behind the door call “Who's there?”

“Please... I need to see you,” I whispered.

The door opened and Andra looked astonished to see me. “Get in!” she hissed.

I entered her flat, feeling embarrassed and hurt that she was so obviously offended to see me. “What the hell are you doing here? How did you get into the block?”

“I used my card...”

“For fuck's sake! The scanner records cards used to access the building. They have a record that you've been here. Just better hope no one bothers to look who's been here.” I blushed at my naivety. “Really though... Why are you here?”

“I wanted to help you. I fixed it so you won't be getting inspected again any time soon.”

She shrugged. “Inspections are the least of my worries. You being here is much more of a problem. You think people don't notice a party member coming here by night? Do you want people to think I'm an informer?”

“I'm sorry, I never imagined...” I started to cry.

“Oh, just what I need. Tears. Sit down.” She poured me a glass of whisky and told me to drink it. It was my first taste of alcohol and I groaned as it burned my throat. Andra laughed at my discomfort. “You never had a drink before?”

“I'm just out of an academy. Not even a month. I don't understand anything in the real world. They didn't really prepare us for life on the outside, at least not me. I was there since I was thirteen. I'm Polly Anderson, I never did introduce myself.”

Andra laughed. “Polly isn't really the name for a tough inspector. Look, Polly, I'm sure you're a sweet girl, and I know you're lonely, but I'm not here to look after little lost puppies. This is a big bad world, and you're part of the problem. If you want to help, leave the Party, work to oppose what they do.”

“I can't leave... I mean even if I wanted to I can't. If I refused to do the job I've been given I'd be sent away to a conditioning clinic. How would that help anyone?”

Andra nodded. “You're useless to anyone. You're too naïve to be effective. If you tried to work from the inside you'd be caught.”

Her taunts hurt me. “I want to help. I could provide information. I'm still getting to know how the systems work but once I do I'll see how there are errors that could be exploited. I may be naïve but I'm not stupid.” Even as I said it, I wondered what I was getting into. I was no subversive. I was clumsy and error-prone. I'd be sure to be caught if I did anything unlawful. Obviously I was stupid.

“I suppose you think I am?” Andra suddenly got angry and my protests that I hadn't suggested anything of the sort were lost in her tirade. “I was a very good student, a very good musician too, but when I was sixteen I was no longer eligible to continue in education. You know your Party's policies now mean that people like me now leave school at fourteen? I work as a cleaner and I haven't played a piano for five years.”

“I'm sorry, that's awful. I wish I could help.”

“Stop saying that! You just make me angry. I can hardly bear to look at you. Your haircut is horrible, the worst little academy girl crop I can imagine.”

“I hate it too,” I said, ashamed. “The barberette always disliked me, I never fitted in. She gave me a shaved back and sides so that I'd look awful when I went to my new job. I wish I could grow my hair like yours. It's so pretty.”

“It was shaved?” Andra asked. I nodded and told her that I was due a cut but would let it grow out into a more feminine cut.

“No, get it shaved again. If you want to see me again I want to see you with the same haircut you got off the barberette who hated you.”

“Please, Andra,” I pleased, “I get teased about this haircut by everyone, and my boss has told me to grow it out.”

“So grow it out and leave me alone.” I shook my head. I wanted to see her more than anything. “There's a nature society that organises weekly trips to the countryside. Join it, I go every week. We can see each other there. Once we set out on walks there's hardly any supervision.”

The following day I joined the society and added my name to the list for Sunday's walk to a local forest. It was only three days off and I knew that I'd have to get my hair cut for Andra. I booked into a salon that evening and proceeded there immediately after work.

The salon had been recommended by Hannah, a colleagues that I'd developed a liking for. She had beautiful red hair, cut in light feathery layers. Her fringe was extremely short, wisps barely brushing the top of her forehead, and her nape was squared precisely, buzzed short up to a weight line high on her nape. It was by far the most creative interpretation of the official Party style that I'd seen.

My stylist was a beautiful woman in her thirties with a sleek blonde bob. If she'd been ten years younger I may have thought I was seeing Karen. She wore a stud in the centre of her lower lip, which shocked me. Piercings were discouraged, forbidden (with the exception of pierced lobes) for Party members. Her daring excited me. How I would love to have make-up like hers, dark lips, smoky eyes, thick false lashes. I sat meekly as she removed my spectacles and blinked nervously at my fuzzy reflection.

She tousled my short curls. “It's very short, Miss.” (Even the most junior Party members inspired a degree of deference). “Would you like me to just neaten it up, let a bit more length grow in?”

I would have liked that very much, but I had been instructed differently. “No, I want a summer cut.” That's what we called it at the academy when we were given a shaved nape. “Shave the back and sides please.”

“A close crop?” she asked, clearly a little surprised.

“No shaved smooth. With a razor.” My voice betrayed my emotional conflict.

She nodded and combed through my fringe, but then her doubts returned. “Are you sure? I guess you're fresh from the academy. No one really wears their hair like that any more. You'll fit in much better with a softer look.”

“I... I find shorter more comfortable,” I lied. “Practical too. I'm not really interested in looking fashionable.”

“OK, Miss, your choice. Perhaps we can treat the curls? It would make it a bit more manageable. It might balance better with the short sides, a lot of volume in the curl would look...”

She seemed unable to find the word. I imagined the word she was looking for: silly, ridiculous, ugly? I agreed to her suggestion without really understanding what treatment she was proposing.

She took her clippers and touched my head to make me bow, exposing my nape. Her perfume was strong and I was enchanted by her scent. I felt the cold buzz of the bare blades on my neck and tensed as she pushed them upward. Soft, dark balls of fluff rolled into my lap as my nape was returned to hairlessness. She was so gentle with me. I'd endured years of being shorn as quickly and functionally as possible. To feel her soft caresses was a sensual delight for me. The blades stroked and tickled at my nape, making me want to squirm and giggle, but I managed to sit motionless.

I felt the clippers zip high up the back of my head. Was she going to shave me even higher than my last cut? I realised that she was keeping the blades pressed tight to my scalp, with nothing of the rolling away that my familiar barberette used to make a taper. I'd seen the sort of imaginative style this salon produced. Was I going to get a completely unfamiliar style now?

I felt a growing fear as she clippered the sides. I saw a white expanse of scalp grow rapidly upwards, no signs of a taper. I tried to recall my instructions to her. Had I told her her to shave the back and sides? Had this been what she thought I'd asked for?

She lathered me, spreading the scented shaving foam with her soft fingers. I adored her touch but was appalled to feel the sandpapery stubble on the back now reached almost to my crown. I'd expected to have a copy of my previous cut but it was now apparent that I'd have something far more extreme. It was too late to go back. I allowed myself to relax as she gently shaved away the last traces of hair. I found myself growing toward a climax. I felt out of control, as if in a dream where I was drifting slowly toward embarrassing myself but powerless to resist.

I closed my eyes and tried to imagine how I would look with so little hair, but instead I kept seeing visions of my stylist, her beautiful lips, adorned with the stud which pierced her flesh. I wanted her to hold me close to her and press her lips to mine. I wanted her to paint my eyes and lips too, and to tell me I was beautiful. I wanted her to make me shriek with pain by forcing a stud into my lip.

The touch of the razor stroking up my nape was too much. I longed for the rough touch of the academy barberette to restore my equilibrium, but my lovely stylist was too sensual. I held my body rigid but my feet trembled as a wave of energy coursed through me. Did she sense what had just happened? I felt my cheeks burning with shame, grateful that I could keep my head bowed to hide my shame. I felt a coolness spreading over my loins and knew that I'd got wet. Would there be a dark stain on my trousers to announce my embarrassment visibly?

My beautiful tormentor continued to shave away my stubble. Her delicate fingers folded my ears as she shaved the shadow of hair from my temple. I'd never experienced such pleasures, such intimacy. I wished that this was something I could experience in private; to endure such excitement in public was humiliating for me, and I wondered if I would dare to return to this same stylist for my monthly cut. If I saw any indication that she was aware of how I'd disgraced myself I resolved never to return.

After rubbing my bald head with a towel, my stylist placed my glasses back on my nose. “You can wear these now. Your hair's well clear of your ears so they won't get in the way.”

I saw myself clearly now. Other than a strip of curls running over the top of my head, I was bald. The shaved strip of scalp over my ears must have been as wide as the palm of my hand. I wanted to tell her that she'd sheared far too much, that this wasn't what I wanted, but I was too polite to hurt her feelings. Besides, though I felt terribly humiliated by this too severe shaving, I was delighted by everything that was happening to me.

My stylist (I wanted to ask her name but was afraid that an increase in informality would feel inappropriate) started to apply a vile-smelling mixture to my curls, working it into the roots with gloved fingers. Once my hair was thoroughly coated with this gelatinous substance, she worked it with a comb, so that my hair formed into stiff ridges, sticking up vertically from my head. My hair formed into sleek sheets, looking longer than I'd supposed it was, now that the curl was straightened out. She applied a strip of plastic sheet across my forehead before combing my fringe forward. She used the comb to fashion it into a smoothly curled tube, but not centrally. Rather my fringe sat at an angle, pushed to the right side of my forehead. “Does that fringe look OK?” she asked with a friendly smile, obviously pleased with her work. I nodded in agreement, afraid to hurt her feelings.

I was told that I would have to leave the chemicals in place for at least an hour for them to do their work. I asked immediately to use the toilet and felt an enormous relief to finally gain some privacy. I was happy to see that no damp patch was visible on my trousers (although the moisture could be felt). I peeled my panties away and saw that my bush was flattened by the sticky juices that had run from me during my climax. I washed myself as best I could, hiding my stained panties in my bag. I rose to wash my hands before leaving the toilet and was confronted by my image in a mirror. I was shocked anew by what I saw, my head tiny and white without hair, my little remaining hair plastered into ludicrous peaks. I couldn't resist stroking the back of my head, so bare, so smooth.

After patiently allowing the processing to complete, I endured more sensual tortures at the hands of my delightful tormentor. She washed out the chemicals and shampooed my hair. No one had given me a shampoo since Mum when I was a little girl, and suddenly I was reminded of the idyllic days of my youth when she would patiently comb out my curls, easing out every tangle with gentle care, then putting my hair into long braids. How I missed her! I rarely allowed myself to think of her these days, the pain was unbearable. My thoughts sprung forward to her quiet sadness at having to endure her humiliating haircuts, forced on her by her cruel enemies. Without my treachery, my allegiance with Karen and her mother, Mum might still be with me. I vowed never to allow myself the privilege of long hair, to always keep my hair shorter than Mum's had been cut, to punish my wickedness.

I was surprised to see that my hair retained the form in which the chemicals had locked it, even now that they had been rinsed away. Even when wet, my hair stuck up and my fringe retained its strict curl. The top was snipped much shorter, roughly half the length being pecked free with the tips of the scissors. The top of my head was now covered with short, jagged spiky peaks. She cut the edges shorter so that my hair rounded smoothly into the bare sides.

My fringe was gently trimmed (just millimetres cut from the ends to neaten it), then my stylist misted my hair with a styling spray. She blasted it with a dryer, twisting at each spike to fix it in place, then smoothing my fringe with a round brush until it shined as if burnished. I felt my cheeks glow as I took in my transformation. It was far too extreme but the first haircut I'd ever had that looked stylish. I thanked her profusely.

As I walked back to my lodgings I felt every eye was staring at me. I felt naked, anxious. I wanted so much to just be a normal girl with normal hair and normal desires. As I entered the apartment building one of my neighbours passed me in the corridor. I felt her eyes assessing my new cut and she looked at me with a condescending smirk. I felt my embarrassment increase and I rushed to find solace in the privacy of my room.

As soon as I was alone I pulled down my trousers and started to touch myself. I groaned with pleasure as I relieved myself of the suppressed feelings which had filled me during my time in the salon. I kept caressing my bald head, feeling the stiff spikes on top, easing out my fringe and letting it spring back. It took only moments before my body had filled with libidinous energy. I held myself tense as my ecstasy grew and grew. I held it until the energy could no longer be contained and I was engulfed by a surge of bliss of a previously magnitude. It felt like a dam had burst.

I came to my senses shivering on my sofa. Suddenly I felt like I was becoming ensnared in a nightmare. I felt my bald nape and imagined the disapprobation this cut would draw from my manager, who had already hinted that I should grow my hair. Why had I done this? Why was I allowing to get myself involved with Andra? She was dangerous. I sensed her involvement with subversives working against the state. If I was caught I'd be punished brutally. Treason was the worst of all crimes. And yet I couldn't bear the idea that I should never see her again. Perhaps I could meet with her on the nature walk and explain that I'd been naïve to make contact with her, explain that we should end our involvement. I tried to rationalise this on the basis that parting on good terms would make her less likely to report me for my illegal visit.

I was unbearably tense when I returned to work the next day. Every time Celine passed through the office I expected to be called for a public dressing down. I felt her eyes bearing down on me, saw her anger at my insubordination, yet I was left in peace. In the afternoon Hannah came over to comment on my cropping. She told me I was brave to get such a bold style (although she never went as far as saying she liked what had been done to my hair). I rubbed at my neck with some discomfiture. “I thought Celine would be mad at me. She did say she wanted me to grow out my hair.”

“Ah, well. She knows about your protector. She wouldn't want to risk upsetting you now she knows about your connections.”

I'm sure I looked astonished. The idea that Polly Anderson, the lonely little orphan, was well connected was absurd. Surely Hannah was mistaking me for someone else. “My protector?” I repeated.

“Someone found out that you were sponsored by Elspeth Evans. Even now she's retired she still carries a lot of influence. Celine is a huge admirer so she won't risk upsetting you.”

This revelation did nothing to comfort me. Had Mrs Evans been watching over me from afar all through my schooling? If so I can only imagine her disappointment at how I'd turned out. Nor did I like having power over Celine. I was sure that she would resent having to grant me special privileges, and that this resentment would spread amongst my colleagues. I resolved, at some future time, to meet with Celine to apologise for my haircut and to promise to grow it out to something less ostentatious.

But I couldn't bring myself to meet her until I'd seen Andra. Some part of me needed her approval. What if she demanded that I keep my ridiculous new style? Where would my loyalties lie, with Celine or with Andra?

By Sunday I was feeling sick with nerves. I knew that the sensible course of action would be to avoid this tryst, surely doomed as it was. In my head I tried to list pros and cons. The cons won out every time, yet I made my way to the local railway station anyway. I watched the passengers embarking at each station, eager to see if Andra would board the same train. I was scarcely able to breathe as I saw her on the platform. She got aboard the train, though in a carriage further forward than mine. I tried to appear calm, but inside I was a maelstrom of emotion. I kept glancing toward the door that connected my carriage to that in front, hoping and fearing that Andra would appear.

She had a greater sense of discretion than I had managed to acquire. When I departed the train I saw a woman with the unmistakeable image of a party member holding up a sign to indicate that she was the organiser of the nature society. Slowly some of the passengers huddled loosely about her, about ten in all. Andra approached after me and I risked a glance. She didn't acknowledge me and I took this as a sign that our relationship was to be kept secret.

I was alone in the woods now. We'd been given a brief talk by our organiser about the flora and fauna that we might look out for. We wouldn't travel back for another five hours, although for those who couldn't survive a five hour walk there was a café near the station where they could take refuge. Andra had disappeared as soon as the leader finished her introduction, setting off at a fast pace into the densest section of forest. I'd taken a different path, but soon veered off toward the area where I guessed she'd headed. After almost an hour of searching I was in near despair. The forest was vast and I felt utterly lost. We'd been provided with a map of the paths, but it was badly duplicated in purple ink and nearly illegible.

I jumped as I felt two hands clap together onto the sides of my head. “Polly Anderson, whatever possessed you to get such a dreadful haircut?”

I turned to look at Andra, my face reddening. “Oh, Andra, I thought I'd lost you! I'm so pleased to see you.”

She looked at me with a quizzical expression. “So...” I looked at her blankly. “The haircut?”

“Oh, I think she misunderstood what I wanted. She really shaved a lot, didn't she?”

“She sure did. There was a fashion for this cut amongst the Party zealots about five years back, some horrible actress in a propaganda film had a cut like this, although she only had the sides buzzed. Summer Hughes, that was her. It was called a Summer cut.”

“Oh! Oh God! I didn't know. I asked for a summer cut, that was what we called it in the academy when we got an extra short cut in hot weather.” Suddenly I realised why my stylist had given me this style. “I hate it, everyone stares at me. I'll grow it out.”

“No you won't. You can keep it, it'll be your signature look, Polly.” She caressed her long slim fingers over the prickly stubble that had grown in. “I bet it felt much nicer when it was just shaved, didn't it?”

“It felt... weird,” I grimaced, ashamed by how excited I was by her touch. “The stylist did offer to shave me between cuts.”

“Oh, and you didn't even think to get a nice shave before you came to see me? I'm disappointed, Polly. I thought you'd want to make me happy. Next week you're to have a fresh shave before you come on the walk.”

I looked down, ashamed. “Please Andra, I need to grow it. My manager doesn't like it. I don't want to draw attention to myself.”

“You know why she hates it?”

“It looks too military, she thinks.”

Andra laughed. “She doesn't like it because you look like an invert!”

I shrieked with horror. “I'm not an invert, don't say that. Inverts are antisocial. They need to be reprogrammed.” Andra looked at me with amusement and asked me to explain what I thought an invert was. “A woman who likes other women.”

“You like me though?”

“Yes, but inverts like women... sexually.” I was ashamed to be talking like this. My upbringing had left me with a profound inability to discuss sex.

Andra plucked my spectacles from my nose. “You have a really pretty face, Polly Anderson. But no one can see that behind your horrible glasses and that vile haircut. Do you like it when I tell you you're pretty?” I nodded shyly, but I couldn't look at her. “Do you want to kiss me?”

“Someone might see us,” I whispered.

“But you do want it?” I nodded. “Then you must be... what?” she demanded.

“An invert.” I was almost in tears.

“There's a hut about half a mile from here that no one knows about. If I take you there I'll use you as I please. Do you want that?” I sniffled and nodded.

As we made our way through pathless banks of bracken, Andra teased me mercilessly. “Your family wouldn't be proud of their little academy girl now, would they?”

“I have no family,” I said with a sudden fury. And I told her everything, told her the story of how I'd let my desire to be friends with Karen ruin everything, how Mum had been bullied into depression and then rail-roaded into an institution. How I'd had no alternative but to grow up in an academy, lost and friendless.

We arrived at a tiny hut, almost invisible amongst a group of dishevelled saplings. Andra dragged me inside. It was cool and damp here, the floor covered with dead leaves which had blown under the door. The hut was empty other than a wooden chair and a steel framed bed.

“Am I supposed to feel sympathy for you? You made bad decisions and it wasn't you who suffered. Do you have any idea what psychiatric medicine has become in this country which you work for? Your Mum wouldn't have got therapy, she'd have been neglected and humiliated. Mental distress isn't an illness to treat for your people, it's a vice to be punished. You have no right to self-pity. Guilt is all you're allowed to feel.”

I sobbed as she accused me. I thought of all the terrible things that Mum must have endured. And all because of me. “Please, Andra, I was only a child. I didn't understand...”

“Get undressed,” she shouted. I reluctantly complied, but not with sufficient zeal to satisfy her. She tugged my trousers off roughly and threw me on the bed, face down. She placed her left hand on my nape and immobilised me as her right hand swatted my buttocks, over and over, each blow landing with more force than the last. “I hate you,” she spat. “You're a murderer!”

My body heaved as I sobbed violently, more from the shock I felt from Andra's condemnation than from physical pain, great as that was. I soon realised that Andra was crying too. She suddenly broke off from beating me and started to apologise. “Polly, I'm so sorry,” she murmured repeatedly. She took me in her arms and kissed me. She kissed me with such force and violence. Her lips felt like fire to me.

We were consumed by passion. Her roughness became transfigured into rapture. I'd never experienced the touch of another woman, and in my naivety I hadn't even understood what two women could do. I was a passive partner, unresisting as Andra explored my body in unfamiliar and often frightening ways. There were times when I longed to ask her to stop, but I didn't dare and I was rewarded with a bliss beyond what I imagined possible.

An hour later we lay in each others arms, our desires sated. She'd done things to me that I hadn't imagined possible. I looked into her eyes, dark, mysterious, beautiful. “This is how it must be, Polly,” she said tenderly, with heart-rending sadness. “I'm damaged, more angry than you can conceive. And you are a symbol of everything I hate. And I know rationally that you're a victim too, but my anger goes beyond reason.

“And you're damaged too, but your anger eats away inside you as guilt. So this is how it will be, my anger and your guilt. We really shouldn't see each other again. We're bad for each other in so many ways. When I brought you here all I wanted to do was to shame you and exploit you and send you away. But now I feel different. You're beautiful and sweet and I hate myself for my cruelty. So the choice is yours. Do you want us to keep meeting? Even though I will hurt you and shame you?”

I nodded. I loved her with all my heart, all the more for treating me so harshly. I needed her friendship, her company, her love. But more than those, I needed her anger. Her anger made her into a vengeful angel, and something deep inside was satisfied by her need to punish me. Only Andra could help me to appease my guilt.

I watched her intently as she dressed. For the first time I saw that on the back of her left shoulder was a large dark design, a tattoo. I gasped as I saw it. I could remember seeing tattoos when I was a little girl but now they were outlawed. Older people who were tattooed had had to pay to have visible tattoos removed and were forced to cover other tattoos in public, on pain of a fine and compulsory removal of the offending tattoo (cost to be borne by the offender). Tattooing had been illegal for six years now and since Andra was barely older than me I knew this must have been applied illicitly. I was taken aback to realise that tattooing was still going on.

She looked at me with amusement. “My tattoo? Do you like it?”

I shook my head. “Tattoos are antisocial, barbaric.” Even as I said it I felt ridiculous, prudish.

“Is that what they taught you in your little ivory tower? That you must conform to what our leader decides is good? That your body isn't your own, but must be dedicated to the public good?” Her mockery was hurtful because I did believe in those ideas. “Tattoos have been around for thousands of years. They can be used to indicate belonging to social groups or to assert individuality. I got mine to show that my body is my own, and to remember some people. And I think it's beautiful. It makes me more beautiful. Touch it.”

I traced a finger nervously over her skin, which was soft, pure, smooth. The dark lines, the soft colours were undetectable to the touch. But I couldn't accept that this mark was anything but a disfigurement on her lovely body. The tattoo was shaped like a small shield, wreathed in a filigree of fine arabesques.

“You should have it removed, Andra. It's too dangerous.” She looked at me provocatively, silent, waiting for me to say more. I knew I should remain silent but couldn't help myself. “They're looking for an excuse to get your home. Finding you have a tattoo would be sufficient.”

“They? They? It's you and your colleagues that are after me, isn't it?” she demanded.

“Not me. I'm on your side.”

“No, your loyalties are divided. You've been brainwashed to accept so many of their ideas. You still want to fit into the Party, but you can't. You'll never find peace, Polly. You don't believe in anything.”

She was becoming taunting, aggressive again. “I believe in you,” I said.

“You don't know me. I'm just a symbol for you. I symbolise freedom, rebellion, escape. And you're a symbol for me, but not of good things. I should be glad. If I wasn't racially compromised I may have become like you, a little Party zealot.”

“You're right, I only know what I was told. I haven't seen anything of the world until the last few weeks and I can see there's a lot they kept secret. You can teach me. And I can help you.”

“I hate it when you keep saying that. Shut up!”

She was sulky and silent as we dressed and I didn't dare say anything. She told me to wait for ten minutes before following her out of the hut so that we wouldn't arrive back together. I asked her when we would see each other again but she said nothing. She still looked angry, but then her gaze softened and she kissed me before she vanished into the thick undergrowth.

I waited as ordered, then started to make my way back. I had no familiarity with woodland and I got lost. It was an hour before I found my way back to a path. By now the weather had changed. Heavy cloud covered the sky and the forest seemed gloomy and menacing. Without any sun I was unable to orient myself and I wandered aimlessly hoping to find something familiar to help me find my way back, but every tree looked the same. I started to think I was going around in circles. It was getting late and I was sure I was going to miss my train back. I was in tears, imagining that I would have to spend the night in the woods. Eventually I heard calls. The other members of the party had been sent out to look for me. I managed to compose myself before meeting them, hoping that they wouldn't see I'd been crying. I was no more than a mile from the rendezvous.

On the train home I sat with the group leader who was livid with me for getting lost and delaying the return journey for the entire group. “You're a party member, you should set an example,” she kept saying. I sat with head bowed, apologising for my mistake, ashamed of myself. Deep inside I still felt a warmth that would sustain me through any horror. Andra was sitting at the other end of the carriage but she'd done nothing to acknowledge my existence. I looked at her on the platform as she got off, hoping she'd return my look, but I was disappointed.

I couldn't stop thinking about her. Even my dreams were filled with visions of her. My attention wandered when I was working and my social gatherings (most evenings I was expected to attend some form of community activity) seemed dull and worthless. I longed for Sunday when we would once more be alone together. I fantasised not just about our intimacy, the joys when she kissed and touched me, but also about her cruelty. I analysed our encounter endlessly and saw four phases: accusation, punishment, release, exile. Of these, it was the first and the last that were the hardest to endure, but all were necessary. My unhappiness was a result of my guilt, and Andra was the only person who understood me. She would make me confess, would punish me for my wrongs. It was the confession that was most difficult, compared to that the physical punishment was easy to accept. And then I was forgiven, and for a moment I was free and happy. Andra, too, had assuaged her anger and was at peace with herself. We were two people, content, in love. This is how I imagined people lived in the past, away from all the terrible things in the new world that meant we had to endure these restrictions.

When Sunday arrived I was shaking with nervous energy. I felt sick and couldn't eat breakfast. My mind was full of fear and anticipation. I feared Andra wouldn't be there, feared more that she would. I knew she'd be angry with me for getting lost. Our secret could only survive if we didn't draw attention to ourselves. Andra seemed to move like a shadow but I seemed to be cursed with a terrible gaucheness. No matter how hard I tried, I would have accidents. In an attempt to avoid a repeat of the previous week's disaster I'd purchased a compass.

I felt like my heart was breaking when the society assembled: no Andra. I'd not seen her board the train, but hoped she'd taken an earlier one and would be waiting at the rendezvous. We were given our introduction by the leader but I couldn't take in what she was saying. She then pulled me aside and suggested that I accompany some of the more knowledgable members of the group to avoid getting lost again. I almost acceded, but part of me still hoped that Andra would be waiting for me, hidden in the woods. I assured the organiser that I had a compass now and I wouldn't be late again. She reluctantly agreed to let me go alone, but warned that if I was ever lost again I would be suspended from the society.

Just as the group members were starting to disappear into the trees I heard another train departing from the adjacent station. A breathless Andra came into view, apologising to the society leader. I didn't wait for her, although I couldn't resist a backward glance. I headed toward the northern region of the wood where the hut was, although I could never have found it on my own. I wandered slowly, eagerly anticipating the moment when Andra would ambush me.

I heard a hiss from the left of the path and looked into the shadows of the undergrowth. I glanced back to ensure that no one was able to see me before I left the path. I was overjoyed to see Andra huddled under a bush.

I couldn't contain my delight; I ran to her, embraced her. “Andra, my love, I've missed you so much,” I whispered. She was trying to look cold and stern but her face softened into a smile. I've never known greater joy than at that moment, when I knew my love was reciprocated. She put her finger to her lips to silence me, but no words were necessary.

We made our way through the dense wood toward the hut. Only when we were inside did Andra seem to relax. “What happened last week?” she asked.

“I'm not used to being in woods and I couldn't find my way back to the path. I'm sorry, it won't happen again.” I came to kneel before her, my head bowed. I wanted to feel her rage.

“This isn't a game, Polly. We can't get caught. It wouldn't just mean we couldn't see each other again. We'd be sent to prison, or worse.”

“What would they do?” I asked. I was so ignorant of the powers of government, even though I was part of that government. I wanted to find out more, but I wanted to feel fear too.

“Labour camp. They make slaves of people who don't conform. Factories, farms, mines. Fourteen or sixteen hours a day, every day, starvation rations, unheated dorms. And lesbians are treated with hormones. They make your body bloat up and you feel sick all the time.”

“Lesbians..?” It had been so long since I'd heard this word I could hardly remember what it meant.

“People like us. What they call inverts. Why are you looking ashamed? Are you ashamed that you love me?”

I struggled to reply. “I sometimes wish I was normal. That I could just get married and be content with that.”

Andra looked sternly at me. “We can't choose our sexuality. It's those who persecute us who should be ashamed. You disgust me sometimes, Polly. How can you feel it's wrong for two people to love each other?”

“It's not... wrong. But it's unnatural, I suppose.”

“You suppose that because you're ignorant!” she snapped. “Hundreds of species of animals relate sexually to others of the same gender. There's nothing unnatural or pathological. The pathology is in those who fear their own desires. Your Party is sick and unnatural.”

I nodded. I couldn't accept everything that Andra was saying, but I sensed it was true. “I've been lied to for so long, Andra. I don't know what to believe any more.”

“It's the Party who are inverted. Everything they touch is turned upside down. I was denied an education, yet I know more than you. Your extra years in school only robbed you of knowledge or an ability to reason. And they don't even allow you to love. It's not the role of the state to determine what goes on in private. Why should we allow our freedoms to be stolen by Wilkinson and his cronies?”

“Andra!” I gasped. “Don't say that!” I'd taken a weekly pledge of allegiance to Anglia and its chancellor every week for the last seven years. Despite my doubts about the world I lived in, I didn't dare to question the greatness of Chancellor Wilkinson, and how his vision had saved Anglia. To hear Andra's criticism was shocking to me.

Andra reacted with fury. She stripped me naked and forced me onto the bed. “After all that's happened to you, you still defend that thug? He tricked this country into a war just to allow himself more power. Over a million people have died because he wanted to introduce his new constitution. And now he's losing the war and no one will trade with Anglia. There's not enough food. The hospitals don't have essential medicines. Open your eyes, Polly.”

I felt her push my wrists together, then wind a length of rope to bind them. She dragged me to the chair and tied my ankles to the legs. “Look at you! You look so pale and sickly. You're a young woman but you look like a girl. Your body knows what your mind refuses to accept. You can't prosper in this country.”

I knew Andra was right. I thought about how I'd fallen further behind my school peers in my physical development, my shame during sports when we would have to undress and expose our bodies. As the other girls developed breasts and hair, my body remained sexless and immature. They would tease me every time I undressed. And even now I remained painfully thin, my breasts little more than small buds on my chest. How I would have loved my body to be more like Andra's, with her wide hips, her narrow waist, her broad shoulders supporting the rounded globes of her breasts.

She took a length of nylon rope and flicked it toward my breasts. The end had been sealed by heat and formed a hard, rough scale. I yelped as it stung into my sensitive skin, but Andra showed no compassion. I felt the rope tear at my breasts, my nipples. I begged her for mercy. “Please Andra, I'll be bruised. People will see the marks, they'll ask questions.”

“You often show your breasts? You're more daring than I thought,” she mocked.

“I have to do sports twice weekly. We have to change in a big room, there's no privacy.”

She stopped and considered what I was saying. “Your Party! They can't even let people choose how to enjoy themselves. Everything is supervised and chosen by the Party faithful” She slapped me hard across my breasts. “Is that better? That won't bruise you. Tell me you like it!”

I was crying hard now but I nodded. “I do like it, Andra,” I groaned.

She cried out, exasperated. “Polly, I hate you! I try to make you think for yourself but all you do is parrot whatever you're told.”

“No, Andra. I want you to punish me. I've been wanting it all week. I need this, I've needed to be hurt, needed it for so long. You're the only one who understands me.”

She slapped me again and again. “Tell me when you've had enough,” she whispered. She wasn't angry any more. She looked emotional.

I endured her beating until I felt that my breasts had turned to pulp. Tears streamed down my face. At last I wailed “Please, no more!”

She knelt and started to kiss me. “My poor baby, what have I done to you? Oh no, you're going to be black and blue. I'm so sorry.”

I wanted to take her in my arms and console her but I was tied. “It's OK, Andra,” I smiled through my tears. “I fell heavily in a hockey game last week, I can say I injured myself then.”

She kissed the tender flesh, took my nipples in her soft lips and soothed the burning with caresses of her tongue. “Some day we'll be free. This can't last. Or if it does we'll escape. We'll go to Europe where we can live free.”

I smiled. It seemed impossible to imagine that some day I could walk down a street holding Andra's hand, showing how much I loved her. Were there places where that was tolerated?

“I want us to get tattoos to show our love,” she smiled. I was horrified.

“No Andra, not that. I can't, it would get me into so much trouble.”

She kissed me. “Yours can wait then. When we're free.”

I still shook my head. “I don't like tattoos, Andra.”

“Then I'll have to tie you up and force you.” She kissed me, becoming more aroused. “They hurt, but that'll be a pleasure for you. How does it make you feel to think that I'll get a tattoo so that I have something on me forever that reminds me of you?”

“I told you, I don't like them. Please don't get another.”

“One day I'll be smothered in tattoos. I want my arms to be covered so that no skin is without pigment.” She was taunting me, but I could see she was serious. “I'd like to learn to tattoo so that I can ink you.” She sat on my lap and threw her head back so that her hair fell over my body. “Kiss my tattoo, Polly. Tell me it's beautiful.”

I was sure she was crazy. I kissed her tattoo because she'd told me to. Would I force myself to be obedient if a day ever came when I could be tattooed without fear of being expelled from my job, my home? I started to imagine being tied to a chair, like I was at that moment, a tattooed Andra leaning over me with a needle, making dark lines sprawl over my white arms. I could barely breathe, so appalled was I by the idea, yet even this suffocating horror excited me. I would endure it if Andra demanded it of me. Maybe I was deceiving myself: after all, I couldn't believe that either of us would ever be free of the tight bonds of government which directed every aspect of our lives.

I realised that for some time I'd been kissing Andra's tattooed shoulder with increasing passion. Despite myself, I found something in this darkened skin made me squirm with an obscure ecstasy. And the idea that Andra would mark herself for me, with all the dangers it entailed, made me delirious. I wished that I could love her so fearlessly, so selflessly.

She pushed herself into me so that her back pressed against by bruised breasts, twisted her head so that our lips could meet. She stroked my head, which was now covered by a soft layer of darkening stubble.

Andra spun around so that her legs straddled mine and we were face to face. She took off my glasses and threw them onto the bed. “When I take off your glasses you're my Pretty Poll. I want you to forget everything bad that you've become once you're Pretty Poll, you're back to being innocent, and we can love each other fully.” I smiled as I stared into her big mysterious eyes, so deep and dark. For the first time since we'd met there was no trace of scorn or anger in her face. She looked younger and more beautiful than ever.

“I did ask you to do something, Polly and you ignored it. I told you to get this stubble cleaned up before we met next. Polly's been very naughty.” Her tone was soft and playful now. “I'll have to punish you.”

“I'm sorry, Andra. I wanted to but I couldn't bring myself to go to the salon this morning. It looks better with a bit of hair.”

“It's not up to you to decide what's better. You think you can get away with having no bush?”

“Bush?” I whispered, ignorant of what she meant.

She ran her fingers over the sparse dark curls between my thighs. “I'm going to shave this off, Polly. Do any of the other women in your sports teams have a bare pussy?”

I blushed. “I try not to look.” She looked at me curiously. “I don't think so though, I think they all have hair. Why would you shave it off, Andra? I'll look like a little girl.”

“Ah, so you do look at other girls' snatches! You're such a slut, Polly.”

I felt myself blushing. I wasn't used to talk of this type, I felt so naïve. Andra could embarrass me so easily.

“Please, you said I shouldn't attract attention. Someone will notice and start asking questions.” She went into her back pack and took out scissors. I gasped as I felt the cold blade touch my skin and snip away a curl. “Please, no,” I begged. She ignored me and kept cutting.

Soon my curls had been razed to an ugly, uneven stubble. The scissors had cut to the skin in places and there were criss-crossing pale lines. I was helpless as Andra covered me with shaving foam, her fingers delicately working the soap into every crevice, her touch making me softly shiver with delight. Gently, she wielded a razor to clean away the bristles. She delicately drew it over the stubble, then made a second firmer shaving, the blades now meeting no resistance. I found my emotional state changing from moment to moment, one second fearful she would cut me, the next thrilled by the sensation of freshness, one moment dreading that this shave would lead to my discovery and public shaming, the next filled with delight that Andra had chosen to lavish her love on me.

Andra washed me clean with a soft cloth, wetted from a bottle of water. I was so sensitive and the cold made me jump, but I was powerless to resist, which only made me more excited. It felt weird to see my mound hairless: through my years at the school I'd longed to grow hair to be like the others, and now Andra had taken me back to my state of innocence, yet somehow there was no regret. I felt like I was reborn into a state of purity, that I had a chance to redeem myself and to become a person I could feel pride in.

Andra knelt before me and pressed my thighs apart. She leaned forward and kissed the freshly shaved skin. “This is why I wanted you clean, Pretty Polly. Doesn't that feel good?” It felt better than anything I'd experienced in my life, and I groaned when she stopped and stood, pleaded with her to continue.

“Oh, my Pretty Polly, I'd love to, but look at your hair. I need to tidy that up before I can continue.” She squirted some of the shaving foam on her fingers and kneaded it over my temples and nape.

“Please Andra, don't shave me. Everyone will notice when we get back to the station and they'll know something strange is going on.”

“There's a barbershop in the woods, you can tell them you found it and went in there for a trim.”

“Really?” I said astonished. “I never imagined any shops out here.”

“Yes, it's a shop that the little wood pixies run so that their hair doesn't get untidy.” I blushed as I realised she was mocking my naivety. My pleas were silenced as Andra dragged the razor down the back of my head. The blades pulled as they snagged against the long stubble and the sensation was unpleasant. My vocalisations of protest were given no sympathy by Andra. “It's your own fault, Polly. If you'd been to the barber as instructed I wouldn't have had to do this.”

I sat (having no choice) unhappily as Andra carved away the dark bristles from the lower part of my skull. It was a relief when she had shaved away all of the longer stubble and my mood became excited once more as she shaved me close, the blades now sliding over my scalp easily.

All my doubts about the trouble I would get into were washed free every time my eyes met Andra's and I saw her smile. She was the most beautiful woman in the world, and she loved me. I knew that she was smart too, and that she would protect me. I just had to be brave and do as she told me and all would be well.

Now Andra took a make-up box from her bag. “I'm going to make my Polly even prettier,” she smiled.

I looked at her excitedly. “I've never worn make-up,” I confessed. She laughed at me. “It's true, we weren't supposed to wear it in school. Some girls would wear lipstick or mascara in secret, but I never had the chance to get any.”

She looked astonished. “You didn't try it since you left the school?”

I shook my head. “It's only been a few weeks. I feel so overwhelmed by the world that I just want to get by quietly and unnoticed.”

She set to work, applying liquids and powders, painting my eyes, pencilling my brows. Finally she coated my lips with lipstick. I could see that she was excited by what she'd done and I was eager to see myself.

I didn't have to wait long. She took a small mirror from the make-up set and held it before me. I gasped to see the girl reflected before me. She had dark lipstick, darker and more dramatic than any I'd ever seen. Her eyes were softly outlined with smoky black, her brows starkly defined. I'd expected to see a subtle change to my look, but this took my breath away. And of course, to add to the drama of my makeover, I was once again shaved to baldness. “You have the sexiest lips, Polly,” Andra whispered. Every compliment from her made me swoon.

She dropped between my legs and worked her tongue into my bared slit until I could contain my delight no longer. I screamed loudly as my body was taken over by a thrilling force. Time seemed to be suspended, but insufficiently. I wished this moment was an eternity.

I was freed from my bondage and for what was all too brief a moment we lay together on the bed, staring into each others' eyes. Reluctantly, Andra started to dress. A sadness came over her as she looked at me. “My poor Polly. I have to take away your prettiness and return you to the world.” She scrubbed away my make-up and put my glasses back in place. “You need to be two people. Once you return to the world you're like a seed in winter. You have to be hard and keep the germ hidden safely deep inside, protected from harm. It can only grow when the spring arrives. Until then you have to be hard, you have to look like the grey, lifeless world around you.” She knelt and washed my body. I savoured every moment, every touch. My life seemed bearable only for those moments when we were together.

“I loved the make-up. Please let me wear it again next time.” I told her about my stylist and how she wore a lot of make-up too, how beautiful she was. “She's got a piercing in her lip, though. It's too much, I don't know why she'd ruin herself by doing that.”

Andra laughed. “Oh Polly, you don't understand yourself at all, do you?” She stroked my clitoris teasingly. “Are you telling me about her to get me jealous? I suppose you fantasise about kissing her lips and feeling the stud press against you?” I protested, saying (honestly) that I'd never dreamed of such a thing, yet now the seed was planted in my mind and I did indeed imagine how it would feel to have something hard and metallic set in the soft warmth of Andra's kiss. Andra's was the only kiss I'd experienced, but I could imagine no kiss more perfect, more exciting.

“I won't be here next week,” she announced, and abruptly my pleasure drained away.

“The week after?” I said, anxiously.

“Yes, Polly, I'll make sure of that. You're still to come on the walk next week though. We don't want to set a pattern where we're always absent on the same weeks. In two weeks you'll be due a haircut, and I've decided you should get a bowlcut.”

I groaned. Bowlcuts were usually seen on older Party members, and it was such an ugly cut. Even the most severe cut I'd seen didn't have the nape shaved clean like mine. “Please, Andra, it's an old woman's cut,” I begged. “Anyway, my hair isn't long enough for a bowlcut.”

“I don't care. You're going to get her to approximate a bowlcut as best she can with your little hair. It'll soon grow into a proper little mushroom. And keep the back and sides shaved. I want Polly to look like a real Party zealot. You're to act like one too. Model your behaviour on the most rigid Party faithful.”

I nodded meekly. Two weeks of being without the pleasure of privacy with Andra would be unbearable, but before I was exiled from her once more she gave me two gifts. She dressed me in a pair of silk panties, which felt delightful against my newly shaved sex. And she gave me a red lipstick, with instructions to only wear in private. “In public you're to become a sexless Party droid. Severe haircut, severe clothes. Everything for practical purposes. If anyone queries your hairlessness you're to tell them it's more hygienic. Say it boldly and with no shame.” I nodded.

“But how am I to explain coming back from a walk in the woods with a haircut?”

“Wear your hat!” she laughed. I blushed as I told her I didn't have one with me.

“Didn't they teach you anything in that school of yours? You should always have a hat when you go out in the countryside. Lucky I came prepared.”

She fitted me with a woollen hat, of soft fuzzy mohair. She pulled it down over my nape and fitted it so that my fringe peeked out at the front. The shaved part was covered completely.

The softness of the mohair on my scalp made me blush. I loved the feeling, and Andra could see it. She kissed me gently. “Farewell, Polly. See you in two weeks. Until then, we don't know each other. Head due west from here and you'll be on a path that leads south to the station. Don't get lost this time!” We left the hut, Andra heading off into the trees in a different direction. In seconds she was lost to my sight.

I slowly journeyed back into the morose reality which was my existence without Andra. My mind still echoed with her presence as I sat alone on the train, constantly adjusting my hat so that I could feel the wool stroking against my scalp. Every time I closed my eyes I saw visions of my love, but once we were back in the city my imagination clouded and I was distraught as I found I could no longer recall her features in any detail.

I returned to work and tried to put Andra's instructions into action. I worked long hours in the office, which allowed me to avoid some of the enforced communal activities without suspicion. More difficult was emulating the hard attitudes of my older colleagues, who I found cruel and heartless. They relished the power they held over people, longed to humiliate anybody who they found wanting in orthodoxy, the strict canon of the Party being the standard which all should be accounted.

My woodland trip without Andra was horribly tedious. The weather was cool and showery, and time passed so slowly as I wandered in the woods alone. A few days later I discovered that my relationship with Andra would take me into new and dangerous situations. During a routine inspection my companion was contacted on her radio to inform us that an anonymous tip off had been called in, indicating that someone living close by was housing a fugitive. Our next visit was cancelled as we prioritised this property.

My colleague, Louise, an experienced inspector, the very sort of Party hard-liner that I'd been trying to study, explained that the occupier had already been flagged as politically suspect. We were to give no indication that the inspection was anything other than a routine, randomly selected visit, but as soon as we arrived Louise became almost hysterical. She was aggressive and intimidating toward the woman, who was softly spoken and cooperative. As Louise was looking in the bathroom for clues the woman suddenly stepped forward and pressed a folded piece of paper into the palm of my hand. I was astonished and looked at her, puzzled. “Hide it!” she mouthed anxiously, before stepping back into the corner of the room. I pushed the paper into my coat pocket.

The search revealed no evidence that anyone else had visited the apartment. Louise questioned the neighbours in adjacent properties but no one had seen anybody but the owner enter or leave for as long as they could recall. Nevertheless, on our report Louise insisted that our target's security status would be flagged.

I lived in a state of anxiety until I arrived home late in the evening. I took the paper from my pocket and opened it. It was a single sheet of thin A4 with instructions for me to file an inspection report for a named property, stating that the inspection was clear and that no further inspection need be made for a year. I was instructed to memorise the address and immediately burn the paper. At the bottom it was marked “A. xxx”.

I couldn't sleep that night. To file a false document was risky. I was sure now that Andra was involved with an illegal opposition group. What if this was covering for a terrorist cell? If I was caught I'd be tortured and executed. I entered my office the following day in a state of exhaustion, which I hoped masked the panic I was feeling. I was irritable during the inspections, and found myself shouting at people if they didn't comply with my requests. My companion found my bad behaviour admirable.

I filed my report, still unsure how I would file the false report. I agonised and procrastinated. My companion's reports appeared on my desk to be countersigned. As I leafed through them I was astonished to see that she'd left an address completely blank on one form (she was a sloppy worker, it seemed, as numerous other boxes had been filled with incorrect or inadequate information). I filled in the address I'd been sent, trying to emulate her writing, then countersigned it. I felt my heart beating hard; I'd committed a serious criminal act.

I felt anxious all of the time. I was sure that I would be discovered. Every time I saw a manager enter the office I expected them to approach my desk and confront me with the faked document. I had nightmares where I was exonerated but I had to watch the execution of my companion, now condemned by my cowardly actions. Why had I done this? Had I risked everything just to impress Andra? I started to doubt her; I hardly knew her, I'd seen her for a few brief hours. What if she'd seduced me only to use me? But then I remembered how she looked into my eyes and I knew she was the love of my life.

I booked an appointment for early on Sunday morning, early enough that I could still get to the station in plenty of time for my woodland trip. I was desperate to see Andra. I wanted to look perfect for her, and she'd requested a bowlcut, so that was what I'd get, even though I knew I'd look awful.

I was the first customer in the salon. I saw my stylist who greeted me and called me straight over. “Hello, Miss. So nice to see you back.” I greeted her, apologised that I'd forgotten her name, although I was only too aware that I'd never known it. She introduced herself as Eva.

I felt overawed by her stylishness. She looked very different today. Her hair had been cut, still bobbed but the back had been cut in an arch which exposed a closely cropped nape. Her long fringe was braided and pinned to the side to keep it off her face. She wore pale make-up, her lips almost white; her face looked peculiar to me. It took me a moment to realise that she'd bleached her eyebrows so that they were almost invisible. I'd never seen anyone who looked like her. There was something slightly grotesque about her look, especially since she still wore a stud in her pierced lip, and yet I found myself immensely excited by her daring.

She combed my hair then stroked the soft stubble. “You shaved it again after your last visit?” I nodded, embarrassed at her questioning. I'd hoped she wouldn't have noticed, but then how could she not?

“I got it done at a barbershop. I like it nice and clean. It's hygienic.”

She nodded. “So it's the same again today?”

“Actually, I was thinking of going for a bowlcut.”

She looked surprised. I dreaded her trying to talk me out of it. I would have loved long hair like Andra's, would have loved to have a cut as stylish as Eva's, but I had to please Andra.

“You know, you've got a really pretty face. I don't think these glasses do you any favours. And a bowlcut is so unflattering. Why don't we try something softer?”

“No, a bowlcut with shaved nape,” I snapped. “I'm not interested in looking fashionable, I want a practical cut.” I didn't mean to say it with such force, but the strain of the past week had left me with difficulty controlling my emotions. She looked shocked and nodded.

“I'm sorry, Miss. It's not my place to question your decision.”

I felt terrible. She'd been so sweet and kind to me and I repaid her with anger. I wanted to apologise but couldn't find the words. I sat in silence as she fiddled with my hair.

“It's not really long enough for a bowlcut, Miss. Perhaps you should let the top grow out for a month or two before we cut it into a bowl?” She looked afraid of me, as if her suggestion might release another tirade.

“Couldn't you do something like a short bowl?” I asked, trying to sound conciliatory.

“It would be very short. I'd have to treat it again to make it lay flat and smooth out your fringe. Why don't we do that first and you can see how it looks? Then we can decide how to cut it.”

“Thank you, that sounds good,” I said, forcing a smile.

“Do you want me to shave you now?”

I blushed. “Yes, let's get that out the way.”

She put a cape on me, tucking a tissue around my neck. “The stubble is a bit long to shave so I'll buzz it down with the clippers, if that's OK.” I nodded, remembering the nasty dragging of the blades when Andra shaved me. At least I'd be spared that discomfort. I took a last look at myself before Eva took my spectacles from my face. She put some clips into the hair on top so that it was held clear of the short area. I liked the tightness of the clips, which seemed to stir some memory in me. It took me a moment to recognise the association: Mum used to braid my hair tightly, which as a girl made me complain. Now I would have loved to feel Eva braiding my long hair, but I knew that I would never feel that pleasure.

As I peered at my indistinct reflection I remembered Andra's description of me as Pretty Polly once she took off my glasses. I bowed my head as Eva prepared to clipper my stubble, offering her my nape. I felt like I was enduring a ritual sacrifice, a sacrifice to atone for my wrongs, to appease a demanding but beautiful goddess called Andra. I tried to stay calm as I heard the buzz of the clippers begin, but felt my fear and excitement start to swirl within me. I was anything but placid, but decorum demanded that I at least maintained a pretence of tranquillity.

I saw a dark dust of tiny hairs discolour the cape. I knew that when I was finished I would look anything but pretty, yet Eva's attentions were a delight. I savoured the tingle of the vibrating blades on my head, her delicate touch as she manipulated my ears to allow every hair to be reached. Her perfume was intoxicating, and I started to think that she embodied something of an ideal femininity. Every woman should be like Eva, as daring, as beautiful. I started to dream of Andra taking her turn in this chair, her long hair being cut shorter, more dramatic, more stylish, dyed an unnatural shade, Eva lavishing attention on her make-up, anointing her in a rich and exotic musk. I felt a profound joy in this fantasy. Would I dare tell Andra what I wished for her?

The clippers were silenced and as Eva gathered the tools to shave me I dared to reach from under the cape to feel my nape. She'd mown the softening stubble to almost nothing, and it felt raspy as I pushed my fingertips upward on my scalp. I didn't like how it felt and knew it would be nicer once it was shaved. But I despised how it would look, pale and shiny. Would I beg Andra to allow this to be my last ever shave?

My resolve was threatened as soon as I felt Eva smooth the lather over my stubble, her gentle fingers seducing me with their soft caress. If she'd shaved me entirely I could not have resisted, so enraptured was I with the delight of her touch. I lived in the moment, and each moment was pure pleasure for me. How beautiful life would be if it were lived like this, carefree and ecstatic. My past and my future seemed to have receded to a great distance where they could no longer trouble me. Eva directed the movements of my head with the gentlest contact of her fingers, allowing her razor the easiest access to my scalp. The blade smoothed over my skin lightly, barely touching me. There was a soft rasping as the last spoor of my hair submitted, my scalp feeling gorgeously cool and tight now.

Throughout I remained silent, eyes closed, breathing deeply, slowly. I was sure that my rapture was apparent to Eva, but, rather than being ashamed, this pleased me. I felt a deep connection with her, a communication through touch that said more than words.

Eva covered my newly shorn scalp with a plastic film and doused my hair with the heavy chemical gel she'd used to remove the curl from my hair on my previous visit. Now my spiky hair was smoothed over my skull, my curling fringe flattened against my forehead. I was allowed the privilege of my spectacles: I saw a plain girl almost devoid of hair, and the remnants were slicked down over her tiny skull. I was startled to see how short the hair on top looked now that it was smoothed down. I dreaded how severe the completed style would look.

I had to wait for the chemicals to reshape my hair. I sat impatiently in the corner of the salon, reading a magazine. I started to worry that the appointment was taking longer than I anticipated, that I might miss my train. If I was delayed could I find my way back to the hut, and would Andra be waiting? I was pained to think how tenuous my communications with her were. If I missed our rendezvous how could I ever arrange another? Would she be lost to me forever? Would I risk everything by visiting her home again?

The salon was starting to fill up now. I noticed how people glanced at me. My haircut was the most extreme imaginable and it was bound to cause some curiosity. I didn't like this attention, didn't like any attention, I'd always been happiest when I could remain in the background, unnoticed. I waited anxiously to be called back to Eva, a pang of jealousy making itself known when I saw another woman being treated to her attentions. I waited impatiently for her shoulder length curls to be trimmed to neatness. Finally I was beckoned.

“Please, I have another appointment soon, Eva,” I informed her. “Can you please finish me up as soon as possible.”

She set to her task with admirable efficiency. My hair was rinsed and conditioned. She led me to her cubicle and started to snip my sparse hair into a neat new cut. Little dark tufts of wet hair dropped over the cape. The cold scissors traced a line around the sides of my head, cruelly high. “I'll have to take your fringe quite short,” Eva said regretfully. I acceded. The cold steel passed high on my forehead, snipping my fringe to its new form. I'd grown fond of my curled fringe, the only concession to femininity in my previous style. Now it fell away in heavy chunks, discarded.

Eva rubbed a perfumed pomade into my hair and blasted it with a dryer, shaping the new style with a bristle brush. There was so little hair that it took only minutes to style. Eva put my glasses back in place so that I could fully assess her work.

It was a harsh jolt to see what I'd become. My hair was plastered close to my head, layered and thin, snipped to a blunt line across the top of my forehead, a line that completed a circuit around my entire head. Everything below was white, shiny and bald. It was the ugliest haircut I could imagine. I felt my cheeks colour in shame. Was this what I'd asked of Eva? I realised that with such short hair this was the only cut she could have created within my instructions. I nodded and thanked her, but I couldn't hide my disgust at my new image.

I rushed from the salon, knowing that I was risking missing my train. As soon as I got out of sight of the salon I put on the soft woollen hat, my gift from Andra. It felt lovely, ticklish yet comforting. It also protected my shameful haircut from the eyes of strangers.

I barely made the train and I was hot and breathless when I boarded. My anxiety about seeing Andra didn't allow my heartbeat to reduce. We pulled into the nearest station to her home. She was there! I felt at that moment that I could have died happy. Just to see her was my greatest pleasure.

I was frustrated that on departing the train there was a police check. I was told to line up in a long queue. The rear part of the train was nearer to the exit and I could see most of the other members of the society (Andra included) make their way off the platform while I was still made to endure the wait for the police to check me. It was only as I got nearer to the officers that I started to become anxious. What if I was their target? I'd been so distracted that I'd barely registered the situation. I was a criminal now, someone linked (I was sure) to a subversive organisation. Perhaps my name had been found on a list, perhaps someone had named me under torture. I'd been out all morning, perhaps my home had been raided and now they were seeking me on the walk which I always attended on a Sunday.

I arrived at the front of the queue. Two police officers, confronted me, a third standing off to the right. All carried automatic rifles. “Papers!” The one addressing me looked barely out of his teens, heavy jawed, shaven headed, brutal. I held out my card. Immediately his attitude changed. “I'm sorry Ma'am, I didn't realise. You should have come straight to the head of the queue.” He waved me through, believing I was one of the Party faithful.

By the time I arrived at the society rendezvous point, the group members were dispersing. I looked for Andra but there was no sign. She'd obviously left already. I headed toward the area of the wood where our trysts took place.

I spent an hour looking for Andra without success. I was sad and frustrated to waste time when I could be with her. Did she expect me to make my way to the hut? Could I find it without her guidance?

I did, but it took me longer than I'd have liked. I approached nervously, pausing for a good five minutes to ensure that I wasn't being observed. Eventually I went to the door, my heart pounding. “What kept you?” Andra said softly. “I've been waiting here for ages, I was starting to think you'd lost interest.”

I threw my arms around her. “I'm sorry, I couldn't find the hut. I get lost in these woods.”

She started to talk when I excitedly interrupted her. “Your lip!” I shrieked. Her upper lip was pierced in the centre with a white metal bead.

“Do you like it? I got it done for you since you seemed to like your hairdresser's so much.”

“Hers is in her bottom lip. And I didn't say I liked it, I said I hated it.” I winced as I tried to adjust to this disfigurement which Andra had subjected herself to.

She pursed her lips. “You don't get to kiss me until you say you love it. And you have to mean it. Anyway, before we get to that, what are you hiding under your bonnet, Polly?”

I reluctantly pulled away my hat and smoothed my hair back into place. Andra started to giggle. “Oh Polly! What have I done to you?” She put her arms around me and hugged me tightly. “My little baby, I'm sorry. I didn't realise how short it would be.” She laughed again. “It looks terrible!” She stroked my bald nape and suddenly my embarrassment seemed worth it. “Are you going to be in trouble with your boss because of me?”

I explained that she was scared to say anything to me because of my historical association with a local Party elder. “But... I do worry that they'll find me and take me to a camp. Please Andra, don't make me do things like that again. I'm not cut out for being a subversive. I get so nervous and I'll surely get caught.”

She was serious now. “Polly, we have to act. If we do nothing, they win. There's an area in the north where there's been an uprising. The police have lost control there. We have to keep the police busy in the other territories so they can't put all their strength into suppressing the uprising. If the north can consolidate they'll never be able to win it back. Once the country starts to fragment the government will crumble too.”

I looked at her fearfully. “But I'm not strong like you. I can't hide my feelings. I look scared all the time and people will be suspicious. My biggest fear is that if they arrest me they'll torture me and I'll give them your name.”

She nodded. “That's a risk we have to take. But I can't go on living like this. If we have to risk death to make a better life for everyone then that's what we must do.” I was in tears now. I couldn't bear to think of Andra being hurt. “You have to try to get involved with IT. The computer systems are terrible because they purged all the computer scientists. We need someone on the inside to find where the weaknesses are. Will you do that?”

“I'll try.” My obedience was rewarded with a kiss. I felt Andra's new piercing press into my lip. The presence of this alien object unsettled me. I imagined what she'd endured, a needle passing through her flesh. The idea repulsed me, but aroused me vividly. I felt Andra's fingers stroke my nape as our kiss endured for an eternal moment. We parted softly.

“Do you love my piercing?” she asked.

I nodded. “I don't like it, it scares me, but at the same time I feel so excited by it.”

“You're such a timid little girl, but there's a lovely young woman growing inside you. Once day we'll find a way to release her. Then you won't be scared any more.” She kept stroking my bald head and smiling at me. “Have you been tortured enough today? Or do I need to be cruel to you?”

“It was hard seeing my new haircut,” I whispered. I paused before continuing, afraid of making my lovely Andra jealous. “I love being in Eva's care though, the hairdresser. She's so gentle with me. And she's so beautiful.”

“More beautiful than me?” Andra's voice had taken on a harder edge, playfully pretending to be hurt. But I sensed a vulnerability there, a genuine insecurity. She loved me and feared my rejection.

I shook my head. “You're the most perfect beauty. You never need to worry about me turning to someone else. But Eva has dyed hair and wears lots of make-up. I do keep thinking about what you'd look like if she gave you a makeover.”

She smiled indulgently. “You are obsessed with hair, aren't you? What sort of cut would you like her to give me?”

I shivered, so nervous about exposing my inner fantasies. “I don't know. You have such lovely silky hair and I'm sure I'd cry if she cut it. But hers is cut into a bob, shorter at the back. It arches up and she has a little bit of buzzed hair showing on her nape.”

I took hold of her hair and swept it back at the sides so that I could see what she'd look like with a bob. “Please let Eva cut your hair,” I murmured excitedly.

She kissed me again. “I can't afford an appointment at a salon like hers. I'm a cleaner. It would cost me nearly a week's wages.” I thought that she must be making a joke but I soon realised she was serious.

“You really have to live on so little.”

She nodded. “Why do you think people are so eager to join the Party? Only Party members get well paid jobs. The rest of the population live in terrible poverty. You've seen the conditions in the houses you inspect. Do you think that's a good reflection on this country? People used to live comfortably before Wilkinson wasted all the money on an unwinnable war and caused every democracy to impose sanctions.”

I became silent and brooding. I still found it hard to hear criticism of the leader I'd been conditioned into thinking of as a great man. Andra took off my spectacles. “Pretty Polly, don't sulk. One day when I don't have to pretend to be a stupid cleaner I'll be transformed. I'll dye my hair and wear it in the most outrageous styles, I'll never be seen without make-up and I'll get more piercings and tattoos.”

“Oh, not that!” I complained. “Please, no more tattoos or piercings!”

“Ah, so you don't want to kiss me any more?” I nodded. It was all I could think about. “If you kiss me I'll take it as a sign that you approve me being pierced.” She closed her eyes and pouted. I gave my approval with my heart and soul.

I looked at myself in the mirror. My lips were bright red, my brows had been thickened into pointed arches. My hair was slicked back, dark and gleaming above the smooth shaved sides. I looked so wild and dangerous. Between my thighs I held a long vibrator inside me which made me moan with every breath. Andra's arms snaked around me from behind, her fingers caressing me. Her whispers in my ear about my beauty were only interrupted by frequent bouts of kissing on my neck, my cheeks, my shaven head. I felt my consciousness dwindle into a delirium. I no longer knew where one orgasm ended and the next begun.

Andra groaned. “Oh, my lovely Pretty Polly, our time is over. We need to head back to our horrible grey existence for another week.”

I moaned and pleaded to be allowed a little more time, but I knew she was right. My last pleasure was to allow Andra to clean me and to free me of the make-up I took such delight in wearing. “Will we meet here next week?”

She nodded. “It's risky though. I want to try to find somewhere else, but nothing is safe. Really I shouldn't see you at all. But I can't help myself.”

“I'd die without you,” I said. It was the truth. Only my time with Andra made my life bearable. “I'll do anything for you. I'll make myself harder and try to work in the computer department.”

Andra gave me her lovely warm smile. “Don't ever let that germ inside you die, Polly. We mustn't let ourselves become like our enemies to defeat them. We must always do the difficult thing, which is to remain good.”

During the next weeks I questioned my goodness repeatedly. I'd been in my job sufficiently long to be told by my manager that I needed to show more assertiveness (every one of my inspections had been described by my companion). I was aware of the results that were expected of an inspector, that I needed to report violations. Every inspector had to attain a target, with points assigned on the basis of the outcome of actions taken against offenders. If I failed to produce sufficient actions I would be demoted to a more junior position (it was even hinted that my Party status could be revoked which would lead to my dismissal). If I was to rise to a position where I could aid Andra and act against the government then I would need to prove my competence, yet to do so would mean committing acts of injustice against those with least power. So far I had been passively complicit as my fellow inspectors had enforced notices against offenders (the offences sometimes imagined), but now I was expected to be the persecutor.

I reluctantly decided to allow myself to become an instrument of evil. I could have tried to justify my actions to myself by pretending that the violations I reported would have been spotted by my companion and that I was essentially powerless to prevent the outcomes, but in some cases I was more diligent than my companion, positive that without my perspicacity some violations of unjust rules would have gone unnoticed. I was committing acts of evil for which I must atone by performing acts which would allow a greater good to prevail, or so I hoped. I did not allow my evils to be forgotten, but etched them deep into my memory. Andra would be my confessor, I determined, each sin to be detailed to her, punished as she saw fit. During our next meeting in our woodland hut I allowed myself no pleasure, spending the entire time with my love listing the distressing details of my works. She was shocked that I could allow myself to let harm fall on the heads of the innocent, but understood that if I were to ascend to a position where I could do real harm to the system of oppression then I must continue to act zealously. I begged her to punish me, to transform my guilt into physical pain. She beat me so severely that I could not sit without pain for the next week.

A few days later an event happened which was to lead to a fortunate outcome for me, but which at the time was extremely frightening and distressing. I was on my third inspection of the morning with a companion who was no more experienced than me. We were in a particularly deprived area of the city, inspecting flats which appeared barely inhabitable, and in some cases less than that. We'd entered the tiny studio apartment of a married couple, the husband having been recently released from prison. As I searched through a cabinet I heard a thud followed by a strange groan. I turned and saw my companion slump forward, looking at me with a look of surprise. It took me a moment to realise that the man held a kitchen knife with which he'd stabbed my colleague.

I reacted without conscious thought. In the cabinet was some sport equipment. I seized a hockey stick and swung it as hard as I could. It connected with his arm and he stepped away. The next swing caught him squarely in the face and he made a squawking sound which seemed absurdly comical for a man who was threatening murder. He retreated across the room, dithering as he tried to decide his best course of action. He threw the knife at me (it hit me sideways on, causing only a minor injury) and fled the room.

I called for help on my radio, forceful but with a calmness which surprised me. I took a towel and pressed it to my companion's wound. There was less blood than I would have expected but as her face turned grey and she started to become confused in her responses I knew she was bleeding internally. I repeated my demands for medical assistance and within minutes an ambulance had arrived.

My companion survived following surgery and I was commended for my actions. Although I'd been calm during the event, during the following days I was extremely emotional, subject to episodes of uncontrollable crying. It was no consolation to be told that the aggressor had been apprehended. I knew that he would be subjected to unimaginable brutality by the police, and that he would eventually be executed. I was granted leave until I felt recovered, which at least spared me the attentions of my colleagues: I was being painted as a heroine, but felt only disgust at myself.

I wanted Andra, but was so distressed that I was unable to make our weekly meeting. I couldn't leave my apartment without experiencing feelings of panic. I cried to think of disappointing the woman in the world I most needed, the only person who could console me. I imagined terrible things, that she would be unable to meet at the woods again and that there would be no way to communicate a new meeting place to me. Never seeing her again seemed worse than if I'd died in the attack.

I was visited on the next day by a manager from my officer who informed me that I was to be given a medal. I admitted that my emotional state had been affected by the event, which seemed entirely reasonable to me, yet she was unsympathetic. I was astonished and hurt that she mentioned Mum, telling me that I must prove that I was stronger than her. Nevertheless, in light of the positive publicity I'd received (my story had been told in the national newspaper) she felt that I should be promoted to a role where I wouldn't have to face potentially hostile civilians.

Was it dangerous for me to suggest that I should work in the computer system? I found myself speaking before I could think. “I've always been fascinated by computers, perhaps I could be useful working with those?”

She nodded. “Your evaluations at the academy suggested your interpersonal skills were limited, but you did seem to have been improving as an inspector after a poor start. I think computers may be a good place to maximise your utility. Can we expect to see you in on Wednesday? I think any longer on leave and people may start to think you share the emotional flaws of others in your family.” I assured her that I would be eager to start in my new role.

I was surprised, and more than a little embarrassed that my first day in my new job was interrupted by a ceremony to award me the medal. I was photographed with the press, had to make a short speech (which was written for me, nothing being left to chance where the media is concerned) and generally treated like a conquering warrior returned from the war. I was glad when the whole circus was over. I took to my new role with commitment, eager to learn all I could.

Sunday came around and I was desperate to see Andra. The fortnight without her had seemed an eternity. I was terrified that she wouldn't be there, sure that if I didn't see her I'd go crazy. When I saw her on the station platform (as always, she boarded the train in a different carriage to me) I wanted to shout with joy. I had trouble containing my excitement.

As the introductory talk was made by the society leader I couldn't resist stealing glances at Andra. It was a bright day and she looked particularly beautiful, her hair gleaming in the sunlight. I longed to be alone with her.

We set off on different paths, but both converging on our secret hut. I was becoming more adept at tracing my way to there, more skilled at wood-craft (in my early years in the academy we'd often been taken to camp out in the local wood). When I'd approached to within a few hundred yards of the hut I was sure I heard a cough. I froze. It was unmistakeably masculine. I made my way slowly through the undergrowth, moving through softer plants which would make less noise. I rose up behind the trunk of a large beech tree and peered about the small clearing in front of the hut. It took me some time to spot a metallic glint; concealed between two bushes I could make out the face of a policeman bearing a rifle.

My only thought was for Andra's safety. She would surely walk straight into the trap. How could I warn her? She never approached the hut the same way twice (doing so would have increased the risk of creating an easily spotted trail) so I had no way of predicting her route and intercepting her. I could only wait and hope I could warn her before she was spotted by the policeman.

I saw her. She was off to my left, making her way softly and quietly through the trees. I didn't dare breathe as I saw her getting ever closer to catastrophe. I picked up a fir cone and threw it to attract her attention: I knew it was risky, especially since I'd never been good at throwing. The wood was almost silent today since there was hardly any wind, and the sound of the missile ricocheting from a tree would doubtless alert the watcher. I followed the trajectory of the cone, which seemed to move more slowly than was possible. I scored a direct hit! The object struck Andra on the chest and fell silently to the soft ground. She halted and looked around, soon noticing my gesticulations (I was hidden behind the broad bole of the tree).

She looked at me with a smile but immediately realised there was danger. I tried to indicate where the sentinel kept watch but our communication was imprecise. We had to retreat from the hut but silence was more crucial than haste. My instinct was to go to Andra and leave together but I realised that it was better for us to move away singly: if one of us were apprehended we could say that we'd stumbled into the area accidentally, whereas if we were together we would surely be doomed.

My exit from the dense wood seemed to take for ever, moving agonisingly slowly, my course dictated by the lay of the land and by the flora. Within minutes Andra was out of sight. My greatest fear was that the area would be under surveillance by more than one policeman. If that were the case then both of us would surely be caught. However, I managed to make my way back to a path without challenge. I wandered restlessly, fearful of Andra's escape.

She managed to find me as I took a path back toward the station. We took shelter in the wood for a brief moment. We held each other and kissed. I started to apologise for my absence the previous week, but the silenced me. “I read all about you in the paper. Are you OK?”

“I'm fine. It was all a bit shocking but I'm over the worst. And I got a promotion to computer systems!”

She looked delighted, but we had a more serious problem. “The hut has been found out. Since there was only one policeman there they probably think it's just some illicit love affair going on, but we can't ever go back there. We need to keep coming on these walks but we can't have any contact. I'll try to arrange something, but it might be less often.” I groaned. Weeks spent without Andra would be unbearable.

I was to find out just how unbearable. There was no communication between us for a month, only tantalising glimpses of her during the nature society walks (even these became less frequent as she started to skip some weeks). Then, one night as I walked home from a social gathering for the computer staff I heard a hiss from the doorway of an apartment block. A figure was silhouetted but only when she stepped forward could I recognise Andra. She stepped inside and I followed her. We silently made our way up to the third floor and entered a small apartment.

“Oh Polly, look at you! Your hair is growing so fast.” She rubbed at the soft fur than now covered my nape and the sides. The top was now growing into a fuller cap that Eva had permitted to reach a little further toward my ears. She took off my glasses and stared into my eyes. “Pretty Polly, my love. I've been desperate to see you but didn't dare risking it. I shouldn't be with you now but I couldn't bear to go another day without you.” We kissed excitedly but sadly that was all of the intimacy that would be allowed us on this night. There was important information that I had to discuss. In my new job in the computer department uncensored press reports were processed and even low ranking members like myself could find a lot of unpublished news. I passed on to Andra details about the uprising in the northern territory. The rebels were being armed by a coalition of nations who opposed Anglia and attempts to retake a major port to prevent the arms getting to them had gone disastrously. A terrorist action had destroyed a large chemical plant, contaminating a large area and making one of the main routes to the northern territory effectively impassible. Andra was delighted by the news.

“You pass this way almost every day, don't you?” she asked. I confirmed it was on my route home from the railway station. “If you see this window open when you pass it means you're to come here. Sadly, it won't be often. I can't risk coming here more than once a month.”

So our meetings became brief monthly liaisons. We would discuss the news of the war in the north, weaknesses in the computer systems and how to exploit them. On one occasion Andra gave me a memory stick, and ordered me to open the file on a networked computer. I was to be as cautious as possible and destroy the stick in an incinerator once I'd completed my task. I knew that to be caught with it would mean my ruin and I was horribly nervous when I entered my office the following day. I managed to complete my task, using a colleague's computer which she had left unlocked during her lunch break. Inevitably, my relief at completing my duty was tempered by the guilt that my actions could lead to an innocent colleague being prosecuted.

When I met with Andra we would discuss urgent business and I would be given instructions. Then we would permit ourselves a half hour of pleasure, when Andra would take me in her strong arms and tell me how beautiful and brave I was. We dreamed of a day when we would be free. We decided that one day we would leave Anglia and make a new life in another land.

I still took a perverse delight in letting Andra choose my hairstyle. No sooner had my bowlcut started to grow into a glossy mushroom than she decided I should change my look. The newspaper had carried a report about a new group of women in the capital who'd formed a society, called The Standard, which promoted a return to the core principles of the party. Among their complaints was that many women had softened the standard Party haircut and the identity of the Party had been weakened as a result. The article had been approved by many of the leaders, reputedly by Wilkinson himself, and similar societies had formed spontaneously in many cities. Andra had decided that I should show my commitment to the ideals of the party by joining up.

A few days later I'd arranged to attend my first meeting but needed to look the part. I'd booked an appointment with Eva, only two weeks since my previous cut. She welcomed me like an old friend; she always seemed to enjoy having me in her chair, surely sensing, and even sharing in, the pleasure I experienced when I was in her care. Her look changed constantly, which excited me. She'd been growing her hair but today I saw she'd been newly bobbed, the shortest cut I'd seen on her, sharp points falling across her cheeks and her nape shorn close to the scalp. She'd added a heavy fringe too. The cut was very flattering and I complemented her on her new look.

She smiled and turned from side to side as if posing for a photograph. “Thank you, Polly. It's one of the perks of the job to be able to get a nice new style whenever I please. What can I do for you today? I didn't expect you back so soon.”

“Oh, I decided to join The Standard. I'm going to a recruitment meeting tonight and thought I should look the part. You know what the regulation cut is for Standard members?”

She nodded. Was there some regret in her expression? I sometimes wondered how Eva regarded the Party. Almost all of her customers were Party members, or else their wives, yet she wasn't permitted to join. Her flamboyant look seemed to suggest an individuality, a sensuality that set her at odds with the ideals of the Party.

“There have been a few people in here getting the Standard cut. They've published a detailed description of the cut so I can make sure that yours will be absolutely the same as everyone else's.” Again, I sensed a note of disapproval hidden beneath her smile.

I took my seat and allowed Eva to cape me. As she readied her tools I took a last look at bowlcut Polly. Andra had allowed me to keep some hair on the lower part, and now I had a full half inch of hair softening my temples and nape. The top had filled out and now reached to within less than an inch of tops of ears. My hair was so thick that the weight line was thick and heavy. It was an ugly and absurd cut and I felt no regret that it would soon be gone. There was still nervousness, however, about the style which would replace it.

Eva readied her clippers. “The cutting is all done dry. You'll be surprised how quickly you'll be done. The Standard don't permit any processing. With such a short cut your wave will hardly be noticeable.” I nodded, smiled nervously. She took my spectacles and placed them on the counter.

She ran her fingers up so that they insinuated themselves into the cool hair at my crown. I instinctively bowed my head. The clippers started to purr and I felt the blades at my neck. She pushed them up and after a few seconds I saw felt-like clumps rolling down the cotton cape. I wasn't sure if the clippers were shaving me to the scalp; certainly they were cutting very short.

The blades pressed close to my skin, a steady even upward stroke curtailing my soft pelt. Above the occipital I sensed Eva allowing the tip of the blade to slowly rise away from my scalp, fading the hair, allowing a little more length to persist. The clippers made their way up my head repeatedly, each time repeating the same gesture with mechanical precision. I saw the dark hair fall from the sides, pale scalp now revealed.

Once the back and sides had been tamed, Eva combed through the thick slab of hair on top. She combed up a section and ran the clippers over the comb. Heavy locks thudded onto the cape as all of the length was rapidly taken from me. I squinted to make out how short were the tufts which remained.

The top was now shaped with more precision, still cut clipper over comb. Only the fringe was spared the clippers. A little hair was combed forward and snipped across the top of my forehead. Eva finished the cut by using a set of trimmers to shave my nape into a neat square, then touched the blades to my cheeks as my sideburns were taken from their soft natural state to shaved points. I was astonished at how quickly the cut was completed.

I slipped my glasses on and took in the details of my new look. The sides were faded very close, with no more than an eighth of an inch left above my ears. The top had been cropped to about an inch and the cut was, with the exception of the tiny fringe ( the sole hint of anything feminine), almost identical to the cut the academy boys wore, who used to attend the dances. I looked so boyish now, so much so that I feared people would no longer guess I was a woman.

“Very butch, as they used to say,” Eva smiled, enigmatically. I didn't understand the word.

My new look seemed to inspire a certain fear (the Standard had become a Jesuitical organisation, enforcing a counter-revolutionary spirit in the Party), although I was sure that behind my back people commented on how ludicrous I'd become. When I looked at myself in private I longed to be rid of my ugly glasses which hid my features. Andra teased me about my haircut and I confessed to my insecurities about looking androgynous. She teased me all the more, calling me Paulie. But then she would take away my glasses and I'd be Pretty Polly again.

The weeks seemed to drift past slowly, my precious moments with Andra all too rare. It had been a few weeks since our last contact when I saw her name in the most unwelcome of places: a list of fugitives. I tried not to react, but I was broken. Andra must be in hiding and being hunted by the police.

I worked late at the office as a way of avoiding the official social activities which would otherwise have been compulsory for me that evening. On my way home I decided to call in at the apartment where I met with Andra, even though the window was firmly closed. I knocked at the door, using the rhythm which I'd memorised. I was about to leave, sure that my visit was wasted when I heard a quiet voice hiss “Who's there?”

Andra looked pale and haggard when she admitted me; I was sure she'd hardly slept in days. “You shouldn't be here!” she admonished. “They might have followed you.” But her anger lasted only as long as it took to express itself. Her features softened immediately and I took her in my arms.

Both of us felt a flood of emotion and within moments our tears mingled as we kissed. For minutes we consoled each other wordlessly. Our sadness seemed to exhaust itself and later we discussed Andra's situation. There had been a wave of arrests, and more than one person had been arrested who knew her identity. She'd gone into hiding as soon as she heard of the arrests and her status as a fugitive may have been provoked by her disappearance of by one of her associates naming her under torture. Either way, only by avoiding capture herself could Andra have any possibility of survival.

Because of the arrests her network had been severely disadvantaged and false identity papers couldn't be obtained. She looked at me hopefully, and I immediately knew what she expected of me, since she knew my department was involved in the issue of identity cards. “But Andra,” I explained, “I'm only involved with Party membership cards.”

“All the better!” she exclaimed. “Could you get something with travel clearance? Something that will enable me to head north, then I could travel on foot across into the northern territory.”

“Andra, you don't look like a Party member.”

“Then I'd have to disguise myself, wouldn't I?”

“You have Asian blood and it's recognisable in your features. Asians are barred from the Party, you know that. And Police are trained to recognise Asian people.”

“So are inspectors, but you didn't recognise my Asian features immediately, did you?” I admitted she was right. “I'd have to cut my hair. Maybe if I bleached it too... Glasses?”

I winced at the thought of Andra's beautiful hair being ruined, cut into an ugly party crop. But her idea seemed feasible. Only Andra's eyes suggested that she wasn't European, and concealed behind glasses it would be harder to recognise her heritage. And with blonde hair she'd surely look entirely Caucasian to anything but a rigorous examination.

“So? Could you get me a Party pass card?”

“I hope so, but it's risky. I need to find someone who's inactive in the Party. A lot of women marry and take leave to start families, so I can use one of their identities. I can amend the computer record and place a false application for a new card in the system. But getting it to you is more difficult. Usually they go out in special postage. And the identity is cross referenced to the address, so that's not easily changed.”

“Then you need to find a way to intercept the pass before it gets sent out. Find out about how the mail system works.” I reluctantly agreed, but wasn't sure how I could investigate in another department without arousing suspicion.

“Can you get some bleach then?” she asked. “Do you think you can trust your hairdresser to give you some?” It was almost impossible to get hair dye. Only the best connected salons could obtain a reliable supply.

I rubbed my hair. “I'd better book an appointment.”

“Tomorrow, Polly. We need to act fast. Tomorrow night bring a camera, scissors, bleach if you can get it.”

“You're really going to cut your hair?” I asked, pained.

Andra laughed. “No, you are.”

I gasped. “No, I can't. I can't cut hair!”

“I don't know anyone who's as obsessed with hair as you. I'm sure you've watched so many haircuts that you could do a crop just fine.”

“I'll mess it up, Andra. Please find someone else to do it!”

“There is no one else, Polly,” she said, seriously. “You're all I have. If we mess this plan up I'm gone. I need to get away within a few days, otherwise they're sure to catch me. And if they do they'll inevitably find you too. We can't ever be safe, but this is the only way out for us. No mistakes now. You have to be smart and fearless.”

I arrived at Eva's salon after an exhausting day. I'd spent the entire day trying to find out how I could obtain a false identity without being caught. Just investigating seemed to carry not just risk, but the inevitability of capture. I was delighted to see Eva, even if my pleasure was clouded by the moment when I'd have to ask a favour of her. She'd become a friend to me, a confidante of sorts, although much of my life had to remain a closely guarded secret. She looked perfect, as she always did, her hair and make-up flawless.

“You're back soon. It's hardly been a week since your last cut.”

“I'm going to be busy for a few weeks, so I thought it was best to get a trim before the hard work starts.” I felt like she suspected something but was determined not to show my fears. Now that I was a Standard member I was expected to go no more than two weeks between haircuts so my explanation wasn't unreasonable.

I soon sat in the chair as Eva ran her fingers over my scalp. We were alone in the salon and she seemed more relaxed and playful than usual. I giggled as she tickled my ears.

“Do you want me to take it a little sharper than the usual? If I take it a little shorter than the usual cut you might get three weeks between cuts without it looking too scruffy.”

She gave a me a little wink. Her rationale was a mere pretence. She knew I got excited by having my hair cut too short, and I was sure she enjoyed it too. She pushed my head down and turned on the clippers. I felt the cold blades press up my nape.

“Oops!” Eva laughed. “I forgot to put a guard on the blades. Silly me. I suppose I'll just have to take it all a bit shorter to balance it, won't I, Miss?”

“Yes, Eva,” I murmured. If only she knew how much I longed to have hair as beautiful as hers. I still hated to see myself with this masculine cut. I would never adjust to it, would never allow myself to believe this was who I really was. And yet I adored being made to wear my hair like this, adored every sensation as Eva sheared away every trace of the real Polly that kept trying to grow out of me, but was ruthlessly suppressed.

“Would Miss like me to use the razor on her?” I shivered as she asked me this. I knew I had no choice, I was in Eva's power now. I remembered how my scalp felt when it was newly shaved, how adorable it was when Andra kissed me. I could only mumble my agreement to Eva's offer.

I blushed as I replaced my spectacles and saw how short my hair was. Eva had cut the top to half its usual length. My fringe was so short that it barely covered the hairline at the top of my forehead. It was my shortest ever haircut, severely masculine. I realised that I had less hair than most of my male colleagues.

Eva smiled at me. “I overdid it, didn't I? I'm sorry, I got a little carried away.

“It's OK, I like it.” There was some truth in what I said. Now I got embarrassed as I tried to find the way to ask her a favour. “Eva...” I stammered. “A friend of mine, she wants to bleach her hair. But she can't get hair dye anywhere. Could I buy some from you?”

“Just tell her to make an appointment,” she smiled.

“Oh, she can't afford it. She's not a Party member.”

“Well, I suppose I could spare a little,” she winked. “Is her hair long?”

“Well... no it's quite short.” I found it hard to think of Andra as having short hair. “Actually, she needs a trim. I don't suppose... I could borrow some clippers?”

“Oh, Polly, are you going to cut it for her?” It was the first time she'd ever used my name. I nodded. She passed me the clippers. “You need a guard, or are you going to cut it like yours?”

“No, nothing like that short!” Just thinking of Andra with my haircut seemed repulsive. She placed a guard on the blades and hid the clippers in my bag, then added a box of bleach powder.

“Bring them back first thing tomorrow.” I promised not to be late. Suddenly Eva was close to me, staring into my eyes. Her beauty bewitched me and I found myself expressing my gratitude with a kiss on her lips. She seemed equally willing to share a moment of delight. I withdrew guiltily.

I took my route home slowly, every shadow seeming to contain an eye, a camera, a microphone. I could no longer trust my instincts. Paranoia had overtaken me. I slipped into the apartment building and waited in the hallway for a full fifteen minutes to see if I would be followed. I knew that waiting here was without purpose: if they'd seen me entering the building then all was lost for me and Andra, yet some irrational impulse made me delay my visit to Andra.

I gave the knock which we'd agreed the previous night (did Andra have a plan to save herself from being captured if the police arrived at her door?) She quickly admitted me.

“Oh Polly, what did she do to you?” She laughed as she saw how short I'd been sheared.

“Oh, she got a bit carried away. Does it look ridiculous?”

“It does, Paulie. I'm not sure I like you any more.” I blushed at her teasing.

“I think she understands me a bit too well. I think she shares my tastes.”

“Come here!” She kissed my temple, her soft lips exploring the scalp. “Oh, Polly, she razored you! Is this what you had to endure to get what you needed from her?”

“It is. Look...” I took the bleach from my bag. “And she loaned me these,” I said, proudly holding up the clippers.

Andra groaned. “You're going to buzz me?” I could see that losing her hair wasn't going to be easy for her.

“I'll get it much neater with these. It won't be short like mine, she put a guard on for me.” For the first time I checked and saw that it was a number two. It was shorter than I'd wanted, much shorter. I guess my disappointment showed in my face.

“How short does it cut?” Andra asked with some anxiety.

“About a quarter of an inch,” I admitted. She looked horrified. “But I'll just use that on your nape, maybe a bit above your ears. It'll be longer on top.”

Andra bowed to the inevitable. “It's only hair!” she announced with fake bravado as I apologised for the imminent cropping. I combed her hair back into a ponytail and raised the kitchen scissors I'd appropriated for the task, the only sharp scissors I could find. I now wished I'd asked to borrow a pair from Eva.

I didn't dare speak as I chopped through Andra's tail at its root. The scissors made hard work of severing it, though perhaps any scissors would: her hair was thick, thicker even than my coarse waves. My hand was sore with effort as the ponytail finally separated. She ran a hand up her neck and winced as she felt how high up her hair now began. I started to discuss cutting options but she interrupted me. “Just do a cut that looks passable for a Party member with enough clearance to travel. And neat enough not to attract attention.”

I worked at my task in silence. I pinned up the top layers of Andra's hair and readied the clippers. They felt awkward in my hand as I prepared to cut Andra's nape. I turned them on and almost dropped them; the vibration seemed to numb my fingers. “Here goes,” I whispered, and tilted her head forward. The clippers rose easily through her hair, although the sound changed as the motor was strained by the thick hair the blades met. I was transfixed by the sight of the heavy locks slipping free, the dark covering of velvet that remained. There seemed to be some alchemical process which this tool instituted: it converted soft, silky hair into a bristly, even pelt.

I hadn't really planned the cut. I found myself running the clippers up her nape time and again, stripping away all the hair from the back up to around the tops of her ears. Was it too short? I tried to recall styles which had a short nape; there had been a shift toward shorter styles since the emergence of the Standard, even amongst those who weren't members. The fear of denunciation it had inspired had led many to make some concessions toward styles which seemed sympathetic to its aims. Now I saw that Andra would have to endure a quite severe new look.

I directed the clippers around her right ear. A long fringe of hair escaped the blades around the perimeter, where her ears impeded the passage of the blades. It looked crude, comical almost, not befitting for my beautiful Andra. I softly pressed her ear aside and hastened to shear away the long tufts. Now her perfect ear was revealed, framed justly by the dark suede-like hair which covered her delicate skull.

I rapidly cut away the locks which concealed her other ear to restore a sense of symmetry. Now I took the comb and lifted the hair which grew higher up the side of her head, used the clippers to shear away the length. I gradually shortened it until the length blended with the buzzed areas above her ears. I was entranced by my power, seeing the hair fall away effortlessly. I saw only details, fragments as I tried to ensure a neatness to my craft. I started to wield the clippers with more confidence, and the taper I achieved looked surprisingly professional. I worked over the sides, then through the back, shaping the hair between Andra's nape and crown.

I paused to dab away a trickle of sweat from my brow. The interruption suddenly made me see afresh what I'd done. I'd cut Andra's hair terribly short, much shorter than was necessary. Her face was grimly concentrated, as she tried to contain her emotions. I was torn between admitting my fault and pressing on, finishing the cut as quickly as possible so as not to prolong her suffering. I decided I had to be honest.

“Andra, I'm sorry. I think I've gone too short. I didn't really plan it well enough and I think I got a bit carried away.”

“Let me see,” she said, gesturing toward the mirror. I passed it to her.

“Oh! Oh Polly...” She rubbed a hand over her temple curiously. “You've cut it quite neatly. You're a good barber,” she said with a forced humour. “You'd better finish it off.” She took a last glance at herself, which was too much. She gave a strange cry and suddenly her tears flowed.

Her emotion made me lose control. I thought back to the day when Mum had endured her first haircut, when she'd been bullied into losing her individuality by Monica and Mrs Evans. Now I'd inflicted virtually the same cut on the woman who meant everything to me. “Forgive me, forgive me,” I pleaded.

Andra seemed embarrassed by her reaction. “My little baby, it's not your fault. Look at me, I'm being hunted by the police and I have to be tough and I cry because of a little haircut. I've made you get far worse and you take it. I need to learn from you, don't I?”

I couldn't control myself. Andra held me close to her and rocked me. “There, there. You only did what needed to be done to save me. One day we'll be free and both of us will have long hair.”

I laughed through my tears. “Right down past my waist!” I said. “So long that I can sit on it.”

She laughed too. “We'll have a competition to see whose hair grows fastest. In a year mine will grow a foot. But you'd better dry your tears and finish off my cut.”

I did as I was told. I used the scissors to snip away the top, being more careful now, afraid of going too short. By the time I'd completed the cut I'd managed to execute a cut that didn't look awful, but it was rather dowdy and unstylish. Andra took in her reflection: she was no longer so shocked that she cried but she did look sad. The short fringe in particular seemed to perplex her, although I liked how it showed off her eyes. Her loveliness was undiminished by my work, at least in my eyes.

“Let's finish off my transformation,” she said. “Use the bleach.” I followed the instructions, mixing it up with some water, then nervously applying it to Andra's short hair.

“It says it's best to apply two or three times to dark hair to lighten it. How light do you want to go?”

“I'll let you decide. Bleach me till I look like an evil Party bitch.”

I let the white paste sit on Andra's hair until I couldn't control my anticipation any more. I was desperate to see how it looked. She was glad to rinse out the bleach because it was making her scalp horribly itchy, so much so that I worried I'd caused a chemical burn.

When I rinsed out the bleach (Andra stood bent over a small sink, the only suitable facility) her hair was a gingery orange, not at all what I'd hoped for. I couldn't hide my displeasure at the result and Andra demanded a mirror.

“Oh, tangerine! I'd hoped it would be a gorgeous rich blonde.” She giggled with a little embarrassment at how her look was changing. “Shall we try another bleaching and see if that looks better?”

I obliged and Andra had to suffer yet more irritation as the colour was slowly stripped from her hair. “You know, your eyebrows are going to look really dark now your hair's lighter. I think we should bleach them too.”

“Really? Didn't you say Eva bleached hers and they disappeared? I don't want to look like that.”

“You won't! Hers were almost white. Yours will be orange at the lightest.” My joke sounded forced and hollow. I dabbed lines of bleach over her brows with the tip of a gloved finger. We waited in almost silence for the bleach to transform her hair.

I rinsed away the second layer of bleach and saw that Andra was now a blonde. Her hair had assumed a yellowish tone which was quite brassy and unnatural. It wasn't perfect but it was an improvement on the gingery shade. I blushed as I saw her brows. The bleach seemed to have worked much more quickly on the fine hairs and they had turned a shade lighter than her hair. Andra could read my expression and demanded a mirror.

She looked displeased as she saw herself. “I thought you said they wouldn't be too light. I can hardly see them. It looks really weird.” She seemed to be torn between anger and self-pity. I sensed the wrong words would make her cry again.

“They are a bit light but it makes you look like a natural blonde.” I actually liked how the pale brows had transformed Andra's features. I wanted to take her to bed and show her how much her makeover had excited me.

“The hair's still a bit yellow though. Do you think it will look better if we bleach it again?”

We were in agreement that a third bleaching would be best. By the time that was rinsed, Andra's hair was almost colourless, as pale as straw. I dried it and smoothed the top to hide the imperfections of my cutting. “I'd have walked past you in the street. Although I would have stared at you because you're so beautiful.”

Andra looked at herself in astonishment. “It is a good disguise, although I still think anyone looking closely will see I'm Asian.”

I took off my glasses and put them on Andra. “Now they couldn't.”

Andra squinted to see what she'd become. “That's... Is it really me? I don't have any glasses though, so that's a difficulty.”

“You can have mine. I'll say I lost them and get a new pair.”

She kissed me. “Pretty Polly, that's so kind. You can't see without them, though, and it'll be weeks before you get a replacement. I can't take them.”

“I can use my old pair,” I assured her. In truth, I'd had to return them at the opticians when my new spectacles were issued. The shortage of lenses meant that everything had to be recycled. I knew that the glasses would help Andra, and if I had to lie to make her accept my gift then so be it.

I used the camera to take the pictures for Andra's new papers, not permitting myself to dwell on the difficulties that would be entailed in obtaining the pass card. The short haired, bespectacled blonde in the photographs didn't resemble Andra in the slightest, at least not the Andra I fallen in love with. I wanted to fall in love all over again with this beautiful stranger. She was to be a cruel lover, however.

“Polly, we must part now. You've stayed here too long tonight. It's late and your neighbours will notice if you delay much longer.” She demanded of me when the new papers would be ready. I calculated that they would be processed in three days (although I didn't dare tell her that I had no confidence that I could actually obtain her pass card). She told me to leave the ID in a locker at the railway station for which she provided a key. I was only to visit this apartment again if the plan failed.

“I won't see you again?” I said incredulously. I was filled with grief.

“You will! I promise you, Polly, this is only a temporary parting. And when we meet again we'll be free and we'll be together forever.”

I sobbed and held her. We kissed and Andra started to cry too. “My Pretty Polly, you've made me the happiest girl in the world. How will I ever thank you?” The only thanks I needed was to see my love again and I made her pledge to arrange for my escape as soon as it was safe.

I felt like I was intolerably stressed when I entered my office. I performed every task with my concentration absorbed by getting Andra to safety. I had already established a way to enter a false application into the system, had already chosen the new identity Andra would assume (a woman who'd been a Party member for many years and had risen to a high standing, but had stepped down from her public life more than a year previously to start a family). The insurmountable problem was that the new pass card would be posted out to the intended recipient and I could see no way around this, since the address had to match that on her computer record. If I changed the address to mine or the apartment where Andra was hiding, the error would soon raise a flag and my plan would be revealed.

Every glance at me triggered a feeling of panic. I was sure that my colleague sensed my suspicious behaviour. My new haircut and being seen for the first time without glasses had aroused a certain curiosity, but I found any attention only added to my paranoia.

I felt that destiny was favouring me as a solution was revealed to me later that day. An outbreak of 'flu in the postal room meant that our internal mail was delayed and I volunteered to go down to the basement to collect it. When I was there I noticed a tray labelled “Bad Addresses”. When I queried this I was told that any outgoing mail with an incorrect area code would be placed in here and returned to the worker who'd sent it out to be corrected.

This seemed to allow a way for me to get the pass card. I went into the computer record and transposed two digits in the area code, then completed the false application, stapling the photographs of Andra to it. I looked at her face, still lovely even behind my ugly glasses. I regretted my rashness, as I was overcome by a wave of sadness, our parting too recent and raw to allow me to be able to control my painful emotions. I took the completed form and added it to the top of a pile of applications in a neighbouring office.

I spent the next days in a crippling agony of insecurity. My knowledge of the bureaucratic systems were far from perfect and I knew my actions could be uncovered at any moment. Everything I did seemed to risk drawing attention to myself, the attention that would finally undo me. I had to get the papers to Andra, that had become my only goal. Once that was done I had resigned myself to capture. I'd even thought of suicide once my task was completed, sure that I would give away Andra if they tortured me.

The mail room had continued to suffer from under-staffing and I'd made it a daily duty to visit to collect mail. Two days after I completed the form I saw the familiar name (Henrietta Birch, an unfortunate name, most unbecoming for Andra, I felt) on an envelope in the Bad Addresses pile. I slipped it in with the mail I'd collected and returned to my desk.

On my way home I placed the new identity card in the locker at the station, then went to partake in a sports event. I had been avoiding these recently, absorbed in my work as I'd been. Now the physical activity seemed to give some release. I felt reckless, out of control, wild. I arrived home exhausted and aching. I hardly dared allow myself to hope that Andra would soon be free.

The worst thing was that I had no way to be sure. Two weeks had passed and I had no idea where Andra was. She may have been safe in the northern territory, she may have been in custody, bearing who knew what tortures, she may have been dead. There was no way I could find out.

When they came for me I felt surprisingly calm. I saw my manager approach my desk with two armed police and another woman. I'd still not managed to replace my lost glasses and I squinted to see if I recognised her but she was unfamiliar. I looked to see my colleagues' reactions as my wrists were shackled. They looked away, unable to return my gaze. I was escorted from the building very publicly, shambling out as my ankles were now linked by a short chain. My wrists were fixed to a belt which had been locked around my waist.

I was thrown into a van where the police started to curse me with all sorts of filthy words. “Did you see that? She spat at me!” one of them claimed falsely.

“Better hood her then. Inverts are full of diseases.”

I'd remained calm but now I started to feel panic. I was told to bite on a large rubber pad, which was marked with the impressions of numerous teeth. It smelt strongly, not just a rubbery smell, but the smell of the saliva which had dried on it from the previous victim. I protested, only to be poked hard in the belly with the butt of a baton. The rubber was slid into my mouth.

I sobbed as I saw the hood. It was a featureless leather hood. Only a small rectangle opened up to allow my nose to be uncovered. It was placed over my face (I was in such pain from the blow to my abdomen that I didn't dare resist) and strapped in place so tightly that the leather strips cut into my scalp.

My sightlessness and the pressure of the rubber filling my mouth made me panic. I was sobbing and tried to free myself, although the shackles made it impossible. In response my nose was pinched. Within moments my head was swimming and I saw spots swimming before my occluded eyes. I was powerless to resist and as I lost consciousness I thought I was dying. My last thoughts were filled with memories of Andra.

I woke, still in the van. “Piggie's awake,” a voice said. “You grunt like a pig, Piggie!”

“She looks better with the hood on. That's why she's an invert, because no man will look at her fucking ugly mug.”

“I bet you never had sex with a man before, did you, Piggie? Not till now. I screwed you while you were sleeping.”

They laughed at me. I had never been more ashamed in my life. Had I really been violated? I wanted only to be dead.

I was dragged out of the van and fell heavily. I was ordered to get to my feet and ordered to walk until I was told to stop. Every command was screamed into my ear so that I was constantly fearful. I was taken to a large hall where I was unshackled and undressed. I felt a measure of relief that the belt had been secured so tightly that it would have been impossible to remove my trousers. I hadn't been raped, at least not yet. Was the belt all that had saved me?

The hood was finally pulled free and I saw where I was for the first time. I was in a large hall with about twenty other women who shared my situation, naked and frightened. I was aware from their hairstyles that none of the others were Party members. All around were armed guards, mostly, though not exclusively, female. In addition to their pistols they bore electric batons to shock their charges into compliance.

We were ordered by an officer to form into a line and told to proceed into the next room to be processed. “You will have your heads shaved to show that you're worthless. Then you will be fitted with uniforms and proceed to psychiatry for evaluation.”

There were three barber's chairs in the next room. The shaving was done by women who I presumed were themselves prisoners, for they were all bald and dressed in white tunics. The first three women took their places in the chairs and were rapidly stripped of their hair. One girl, who looked no more than eighteen, slim, and pretty with long dark wavy hair, started to panic and plead with the guard. She was knocked to the floor and repeatedly shocked with the baton until she was screaming in pain. “Do you need more pain?” the guard screamed. “Or are you going to ask the nice lady to shave your ugly little head?”

“No more,” she gasped. She slumped into the chair and accepted that she was defeated. The guard relished her humiliation by making her repeat the request. “Please shave my ugly little head,” she croaked.

The clippers sheared away her curls, long rapid strokes from front to back stripping away her lovely hair. Once the long locks had been reduced to a fine stubble, the girls head was painted with a greasy oil and a razor was dragged over her scalp. The guard humiliated her with a final shock from the baton on her newly bared skull, inducing a pitiful wail. I flinched at the sound.

All of the women endured the same indignities. As soon as they were bald they were given a white canvas tunic, stained panties and a pair of white rubber shoes. They dressed and made their way into the next room, every one itching at their necks which were covered in a dusting of fine short hairs.

I awaited my turn at the back of the line. I was aware of someone entering behind me but didn't dare to turn around. “I know this one!” a familiar voice exclaimed. “She's not to be shaved, she has some very strange fetishes and it would only make her get aroused.”

I couldn't help but look at my accuser. Something in me tried to block out the acceptance of who I was seeing: the voice and face were familiar yet somehow strange. Finally I couldn't deny who was confronting me. “Eva?” I whispered incredulously.

Eva's soft voice had become loud, with a fanatical edge. But her appearance was even more unfamiliar. Her bob was gone, replaced with a rather nondescript Party crop, dyed a light brown rather than the soft blonde streaks she'd had at our last meeting. She wore a military uniform and her face was devoid of make-up. Her lip piercing was absent, only a small depression indicating that it had ever existed.

“Surprised to see me? I'm Captain York, Executive Military. When we met I was working undercover to expose an invert ring who had links with the salon. You were a particularly disgusting specimen. Your behaviour finally convinced me that I could no longer bear being undercover. I made a special request to be involved in your processing, which given my successes in the operation couldn't be denied. I'm going to enjoy sanitising you.”

I was soon in a small cell, alone with Eva. I couldn't stop crying. I felt betrayed, felt that I couldn't trust myself, convinced that if I'd believed so completely in Eva's deception that Andra must also be doomed. But even as I realised the hopelessness of my position I felt a glimmer of light. I was here because of my sexuality. They didn't know of my acts of treachery against the government. I had to be brave and hold out, not reveal Andra's identity. I was realistic enough to know that at some stage they would break me and I would probably reveal everything, but my goal was to give Andra as much time as possible to make good her escape. I was beyond hope, but Andra wasn't!

Eva made me undress, then ordered me to sit on a device which looked like a dentist's chair. I was strapped in to immobilise me, bound around torso, at wrists and ankles, my head fixed tightly to a headrest.

“First I have to test you. It's a little formality we have to go through because we live in a just land. I have to make sure you're an invert, although I could hardly doubt it in your case. I do think this could be skipped for a lot of people, because it's a disgusting process for normal people. Still, the scientists maintain that we can gather useful information about the subjects through this test so I'll just have to trust them.

“I'm going to connect you to some testing equipment, so that we can measure your level of arousal. Then you'll be shown some disgusting images which normal people would find repulsive, but which inverts will find titillating.”

Eva wheeled over a trolley which bore many devices which appeared terrifying to me. She picked up a long, thin metal cylinder with a rounded tip and held it before my face. “I hope you don't get turned on by this. I'd be very embarrassed if you did and I'd have to punish you. You had a crush on me, didn't you, Polly.”

I blushed and nodded. “I can see you for what you are now though. You can rest assured I find you utterly disgusting.”

She slapped me hard across the face. “Please keep provoking me. Everything you say and do makes me enjoy your treatment all the more. You have no idea what will be done to you. I've even dug out your mother's file so I can let you know how well looked after she was after she went a bit crazy. I'll see to it that you go crazy too. And then you'll just gradually fade away until there's nothing left of you but a little file in a hospital and a little pile of ashes.”

“You think your regime will last much longer? It's all coming apart already. It may be too late for me but don't think your evil will be forgotten. You'll pay for your actions.”

Eva slipped on latex gloves, then pushed the cylinder into my vagina, hard and brutal. I wailed at the pain of this intrusion. “There, is that nice? I've heard you nasty little perverts like that sort of thing. It will measure your reactions when I show you the disgusting pictures. But we need to add a few more sensors.”

She lifted the tube, the end of which protruded, so that I was forced to raise my buttocks. Now her fingers probed at my anus. “When we get excited our body temperature rises a little so I'm going to fit you with a thermometer. It's core temperature I'm interested in so I'll have to go quite deep.” She took another metal cylinder, not as long as the first but just as wide in girth. I felt the end touch my anus, the chill making me twitch involuntarily. She forced it inside me without compassion. A second thrust slid it deep inside, so that I felt like something would tear inside me.

“Now, how does that feel? Do you want to beg me for mercy? Do want to confess your wrongs? I'm not a monster, Polly.”

“It's not me who's done anything wrong,” I sobbed. “And you're deceiving yourself, you are monstrous.”

“Poor deluded little girl. Soon I'll make you say anything I want. But that's only the start. After that I'll start to control what you think. You'll no longer know anything, you'll only believe what I allow you to believe. But I can only begin to really work on you once we've proved your perverted nature. Not that I can't punish your outbursts. I'm going to fit you with ECG sensors to monitor your heart's responses. I could fit tape sensors to you but I'm going to indicate that you pulled the sensors off. For naughty girls we have these ones.” She held a needle before my eyes, the tip fitted with barbs. “There's a better contact when it goes beneath the surface, and the barbs won't allow it to come out without tearing at your skin. Are you going to beg me not to use them?”

I shook my head, determined not to give in to her. She slid the needle into my chest, above the outer edge of my right breast. I groaned as it stung at my skin, burrowing in painfully. “You're so brave, aren't you?” Eva mocked. “So important to keep your dignity, isn't it? I'll tell you some stories about your mother and how she kept her dignity. You really are her daughter in so many ways.”

Another needle tore into my skin on the left side. “The barbs mean I can't get these out. I'll have to call a nurse later to slit the skin to free the needle. They hurt rather more coming out than going in.” The third sensor was pushed into the skin of my groin, the most painful of all.

“Now, I heard you spat at one of the police officers who arrested you. That was very childish and disgusting, wasn't it?”

I shook my head. “I didn't do anything of the sort. He made it up.”

“Polly, it's very serious to tell lies about authority figures. You need to learn that.” She pressed an adhesive patch behind my ear. “This will make it more difficult for you to produce saliva, so no more spitting. Might make your mouth very dry though, so I expect it won't be very nice when I make you wear the hood all night.”

The idea of the claustrophobic mask being fitted again terrified me and I couldn't hold out any longer. I started to beg Eva to spare me that. She smiled, seemingly happy at my response. “That's progress. Give in to your fears. That's all that can save you.”

She fitted leads to the sensors and trailed the wires across to a recording device. She pressed switches and buttons until satisfied that all was working. Now a screen was positioned before my face and she activated a paper feed on the monitoring equipment. Several pens flickered a trail across the paper, making a soft scratching. She marked a line on the paper as she turned on the screen.

I saw a fuzzy image of two women naked on a bed. They were kissing and touching each other, gradually becoming more passionate. Despite my fears I couldn't help but feel an interest, a surge of excitement at what I was seeing. I'd heard tales of films like these, but had never seen one. The women were heavily made-up, one was tattooed, fallen women, as they were described in the academy. My breathing became faster, my heart pounded. I wanted to expel the painful sensors which filled my orifices. I knew that they were telling the unmistakeable story of my sexuality. After a few minutes the screen darkened.

“Oh Polly! A very strong invert reaction. You really should be so ashamed. Do you want to be helped? Do you want to be rehabilitated and re-enter society one day?” I nodded. I'm no longer sure whether I really wanted to be changed or if I acquiesced only to avoid further punishment. My reward was to be fitted with the hood once more, but this time Eva added a further device. She placed plugs in my ears which were attached to a small box which caused them to hiss loudly. When the mask was fitted over my face, leather flaps pressed tight over my ears, pushing the plugs in deeper and increasing the perceived volume.

I was helpless as the sensors were roughly pulled out of me. The patch had seemingly dried all secretions and the pain was dreadful as the metal dragged against my dry mucous membranes. I endured the sensation of the needles being freed with a scalpelled incision, presumably administered by an unseen nurse. I was lifted from the chair by powerful arms and once more fitted with shackles. I shambled out, marching between two large men, my hobbled feet struggling to keep up with their pace. I was thrown onto a bed and a restraining chain fitted between the belt and the frame of the bed. I could see and hear nothing.

My sensory deprivation made it impossible for me to judge the passage of time. The loud roaring in my ears took away any possibility of sleep. I hadn't eaten all day and my mouth was so dry that my tongue began to stick to the thick rubber pad which filled my mouth. After what seemed like days spent in an airless, dark world, I was suddenly wrenched to my feet. The unexpected touch terrified me and I felt the most intense panic I'd experienced. I tried to scream but the hood muted me completely.

The panic had barely subsided when the hood was finally removed. I tried to control my breathing and gradually became aware of my surroundings. I was strapped into a wheelchair (so complete was my terror that I hadn't even been aware that I was seated) and across a desk from me was a middle aged woman, who I guessed, from her attire, was a doctor. At her shoulder stood Eva.

“Why hasn't she been shaved?” the doctor asked tetchily.

“She was one of the inverts I met in the field. She exhibits a marked fetishism around hair. I was sure that the haircut would have been a source of pleasure for her so I instructed her hair to be left until further assessments could be made.”

“Fascinating!” the doctor mused. She looked over a report and then stared at me. “You're an invert. Do you admit to your perversion?” I tried to protest that what I felt wasn't wrong but my tongue was so dry and swollen that I couldn't speak. I made a raspy croak, then merely nodded. “Academy educated, Pioneer, Party member. Most unfortunate,” the doctor tutted. “Do you see any prospect of rehabilitation, Captain?”

“Unfortunately not. She's not expressed any regret for her actions. In fact she was quite markedly antisocial, subversive even, in her statements. She comes from a quite corrupt bloodline. Her mother was morally defective, as you can see in my report. Still, it's your decision, doctor,” she added obsequiously. “I've heard some can be rehabilitated with neurosurgery and can return to some menial functions.”

“She's a bright girl, it would seem a shame. She wouldn't be bright after the leucotomy. Still, I'm not sure there's any real alternative. A lifetime of institutionalisation wouldn't benefit anyone. We'll commence with hormone and shock therapies and see how she responds. I'll give her a few weeks to mend her ways before we go into her head.”

The doctor left and I was alone again with Eva. “Did you hear that? She's going to drug you to make you compliant. And when that fails she'll crack open your head and chop out pieces of your brain to make you into a zombie. There's a whole ward of girls who had neurosurgery downstairs. They can't even feed themselves, they just sit staring at a wall all day, dribbling down their tunics.”

“Please, how long have I been here,” I croaked. My ears were still ringing from the roar of the earplugs.

“You've only been here overnight,” Eva laughed. “Did you start to go crazy already?”

“Please, a drink,” I begged.

“No food or drink until you've had your injections. And none at all today if you're not totally compliant.”

I was as meek as a newborn lamb when the nurse gave me my injections. I was injected in the upper arm and in my thigh. The latter was particularly painful and my muscle immediately started to ache and swell. Eva gleefully discussed the treatments. The one in your thigh is a depot injection of a major tranquilliser. It will last two weeks and once it kicks in, about an hour, you'll feel sleepy all the time. The other was a hormone injection and it'll start to change your desires. Your libido will start to wither and die, but it'll probably have some side effects. You'll start to look even more like a boy, especially since you'll start to sprout facial hair. I would worry that you'd find that a turn on, but believe me, you won't be feeling horny once your therapies begin.”

She unlocked the shackles and I stretched my arms gingerly. “Please may I have some water,” I whispered. Eva took me to the nurse's station, which was visible through a small wired-glass window overlooking a large lounge where about fifteen women sat in vinyl covered armchairs. All of them looked vacant, drugged; all were shaven-headed. Three male nursing assistants supervised. Eva knocked on the window, which was drawn aside slightly.

“This is Polly Anderson. She needs her meds.” I was passed a small plastic cup with some pills in it. I swallowed them and washed them down with a small paper cup of water.

“I haven't eaten since yesterday morning,” I said.

“Lunch is at one o'clock!” the nurse shouted menacingly. I wouldn't make the mistake of asking again.

Eva told me I should wait in one of the chairs and left me. I took her advice, which for once seemed without malice. No sooner had I taken my seat than I felt a wave of torpor spread over me. Suddenly I was being shaken and told to attend a therapy. I felt confused and couldn't clear my head. “What time is it?” I demanded, but my interlocutor only gestured toward the clock over the nursing station. It was two thirty. “Please, I didn't eat lunch, can't I have lunch? I haven't eaten since yesterday morning?” Was it really yesterday when I arrived or had other days passed?

“You miss lunch, that's your problem,” she laughed. “Now get up and come with me or I'll have you shackled for the rest of the day and you won't get dinner either.”

I followed her unsteadily. I tried to rouse myself but couldn't shake the kind of confusion that usually passes moments after waking. Everything seemed dreamlike, unreal, menacing. I was taken out of the lounge (which I discovered was kept locked) and down a corridor to a treatment room. The nursing assistant told me to sit. “Can I trust you to stay here and behave? You know you'll be battered if you try anything?”

I nodded wearily. “I can hardly move. I'll just sit here in peace, Miss.” She nodded and left me. I was alone for only a few minutes I suppose but was already drifting into sleep by the time the doctor arrived, accompanied by Eva.

“Settled in?” the older woman asked.

“I haven't eaten anything,” I stated, trying not to sound like I was making a complaint.

“Refusing food?” I was slow in thought and response and she took my pause as an agreement. “I'll increase your chloridone.”

She sat closer now. “And what about your... urges? The desires, sexual desires.”

“They're... better,” I offered.

She seemed unhappy at my response, I'd obviously misunderstood her intentions. “Tell me about why you were attracted to women!”

I looked at her blankly. How could I explain something which felt as natural to me as a desire to eat? “I always felt it,” I answered. She seemed to think I was being evasive.

“You're attracted to Eva? She tells me you wanted to kiss her.”

“I was,” I said nervously, unsure where a confession would lead me. “I'm not any more.”

There were more questions as she tried “to get to the root of the inversion” but I was defensive and self-conscious. “Do you drink alcohol?” she asked.

“I tried it once, but I didn't like it.”

“We'll try that. It's a good disinhibitor, especially for those who have no tolerance.” In retrospect it seems comic that this is what psychiatry had come down to in Anglia, a doctor getting me drunk to hear the salacious details of my sexual history, for it was no more than that. At the time I was only glad to be able to drink something. I was made to drink three small bottles of strong cider and soon I felt woozy and intoxicated. Even this small amount had made me drunk.

My two interrogators asked me lots of questions, feigning a friendly relationship now. They delved into my history at the academy. Had it been there I'd started to grow sexually attached to girls? I confessed there'd been someone even earlier, although at the time I understood nothing of sexuality, I'd only felt a mysterious attraction. This seemed to please the doctor, since it was evidence that the academies weren't responsible for producing inversions, merely providing an environment where they became apparent. She hinted that she wanted a screening programme for very young children to identify the problem at a young age and commence treatment. Even in my inebriated state I was horrified by her idea.

Now the question became ever more intrusive, revelling in prurient detail. The doctor took a delight in my revelations that was clearly more than professional, nor was Eva above a similar response. Perhaps her cruel new demeanour was a defence against her true desires.

Eva interrogated me about my fetish. I confessed that my first real haircut when I joined the pioneers had triggered some confusion in me which had remained with me.

“But what was it you liked so much about getting your hair cut?”

“I didn't like it at all. I was very upset. I still don't like having my hair cut short. I'd love to have long hair, but something makes me want to get it cut short. Almost like I'm punishing myself.”

Eva couldn't accept what I was saying but the doctor seemed intrigued. “This isn't rare in fetishism. When a traumatic event occurs in the child which they can't accept the mind turns it into something desirable as a means of self defence.”

“And if Polly accepts that getting a haircut is normal she'll be cured?”

The doctor laughed at her naivety. “If only it were that simple. These ideas have been in her for so long that they've insinuated themselves deep in her brain. It's like a plant with a large root system. We see little shoots and it's easy to lop them off, but more keep growing. If we want to get rid of the plant entirely we have to dig deep and remove every part of the root. And, anyway, that's only her fetish. She's already told us that her inversion dates back longer than the hair fetish, so that would be even more difficult to get to.”

“But you can dig deep into her brain and remove it?”

“We can, but it will kill some of the nice flowers in her garden too, which is why it's a last resort.” Eva was clearly unsympathetic to the doctor's aims. I saw through both of them. The doctor wanted to use her patients as a testing ground for her ideas; her goal was treatment of girls before their teenage years, which horrified me. Eva was fighting to suppress her feelings by punishing those who had similar desires. My revelation was no consolation. I was powerless to resist. These women had absolute power over me.

The faked bonhomie faded. “Eva, get a bucket over. I'll give her a purgative. I think it's important that she takes away negative associations from this therapy.”

I was terrified as the doctor prepared an injection. She tied a strap around my arm and made the injection into my vein. I waited in terror for the effects to manifest, and didn't have to endure much delay. I started to feel my abdomen cramping and contracting. Eva pushed my head down into the bucket. “Don't mess up the floor, Polly. You'll be cleaning up after yourself.”

I vomited copiously, a torrent of watery liquid jetting from my mouth. My stomach contracted rhythmically, forcing every drop out of me, and even when it was empty I continued to feel painful cramps. I moaned in agony, cold, dripping sweat, tears flowing from my eyes. I could barely maintain my grip on the bucket which seemed so heavy and slippery. I slid to the floor and knelt with my head over it, crying and coughing. I was ordered to my feet and passed a tissue. I dabbed at my eyes and wiped my mouth. Somehow I managed to follow the orders to empty the bucket down a toilet and wash it out. I returned to the lounge quivering violently, my belly still agonised by muscular spasms.

I sat with my knees drawn up to my chest, sobbing quietly. I just wanted to sleep, and soon I achieved my goal. I was woken by a nursing assistant. “Anderson, meds!” she grunted. I followed her confusedly, thoughtlessly. As I approached the nursing station I glanced at the clock. Seven. “What time is dinner?” I asked.

“Six thirty. You missed it. Meds at seven.”

“But, please, I haven't eaten in nearly two days!” I could barely speak, so dry was my mouth. “No one woke me.”

“The patients wake each other.”

“But no one woke me.”

She smiled cruelly. “It's the haircut. No one in here likes you. You're a Party member, you see? Don't expect any favours around here.”

I made sure I didn't miss my breakfast the next morning. After waking all patients went to the lounge where morning meds were given. I paced along the back wall to stop myself falling back into sleep. I must have looked crazy, slumped over, taking tiny unsteady paces. Finally we were called to the dining room. No one wanted to sit with me so I sat alone. I was given a small bowl of cold, sticky porridge with no flavour, but I was just glad to eat something. I could barely swallow it, however. I tried to wash it down with the cup of water I was allowed but my mouth seemed too dry. When we were ordered out of the dining room almost half of my breakfast remained in the bowl. I was agonisingly hungry, yet I was leaving food! I looked back at it longingly, close to tears.

My days seemed to consist of dreamless sleep interrupted by waking nightmares as Eva and the doctor used my body as a testing ground for their competing theories. My memories of the days are blurred by the treatments I suffered, although the word treatment must be regarded as a euphemism. I was being tortured, broken, not healed. Eva in particular was candid about her aims. She wanted me to reveal the names of my lovers. She was convinced I'd had numerous sexual partners, since she appeared to assume all lesbians were promiscuous. She provided lists of the sports teams I'd participated in and ordered me to name all of those who'd been my lovers.

“None of them,” I said, pushing the list back toward her. “I've only had one lover and I'm not going to name her. There was someone else who willingly kissed me though. I know she's really an invert, although she tries to hide it. Even from herself.”

“Who?”

“Eva York. You can't fool me.”

For a moment her anger seemed about to explode but then she regained control. “There you go again, trying to provoke me. I have to give you some credit, Polly, you're intelligent. You know what to say to get a reaction. But a girl as intelligent as you should realise your situation. You think you're still playing a game. But the truth is as soon as you gave in to your perversions the game was already lost. You're in my game now, a pawn, not a player. You think you can say things that will hurt me? Well let's see if I can do better.”

She lifted an old yellow file onto the table and opened it. “Anderson, Gretchen. Patient in this very hospital. Shall we see what we can find in here?”

I wanted to shut my ears and hide myself. “Please, Eva, I'm sorry. Don't...”

“It's Captain York! Do you think you can still address me as you did when I pretended to be your friend? You disgust me. And now you'll sit and listen to what I have to say because I'm in charge here.

“Here's something. 'Patient continues to resist her weekly head shave. She appears paranoid about this although she hasn't expressed anything concrete about her delusions. Today she attempted to bite trustee patient Donaldson who is employed as a barber. Recommend dental intervention to reduce risk from her bite.'” She leafed through a few more pages. “Yes, here it is. They pulled out all of her teeth the following week. It doesn't say that they used anaesthetic though.” Eva laughed at me. “Gummy mummy! I bet she had pretty teeth like yours. Imagine how sad she was when they all got taken out.”

I was sobbing and begging her to stop.

“I'll stop if you tell me your lovers' names. You have to understand your situation, Polly. You're powerless. You'll give up those names soon.”

“What about when I have neurosurgery? I won't even remember then.” She looked furious. “So there is still a game. I have to keep my secret until the doctor opens up my brain. Then I'll have beaten you. Because I still love someone, and I will keep her safe from you. All you have is fear and hatred, but I can still love, and that makes me better than you. I'll always know that.”

I'd found a chink in Eva's tough exterior. She knew I was right, and my punishment for exposing the weakness in her plan was swift and terrible. I was strapped to a table within minutes and a thick rubber gag inserted into my teeth. Eva was eager to tell me what I would experience. “You're going to have electro-convulsive therapy, Polly. Normally a muscle relaxant is given, which also helps to relax the patient, but I don't think you deserve it. I'm going to pass a current through your brain and it will make you have a seizure. The contractions have been known to snap bones, but I hardly think that's a risk for a puny little thing like you. You always were such a little weakling. I must have a word about your hormone therapy. Increase the dose of male hormones so that you get stronger. I'd love to see you sprouting a moustache, that would be so embarrassing for you.”

I'd have spat in her face if my mouth wasn't filled by the gag. I'd have endured the hood for a week to express my loathing for her at that moment. I felt the electrodes being placed on my temples, pressed firmly against my skull. “Stand clear,” the technician said. Then everything turned white.

I woke in the lounge. My tunic was soaked down the front with dribbles. I was unable to hold my head upright. I couldn't remember who I was.

Sometimes I have vivid memories return to me of my days in the hospital, memories which I'd had no awareness of previously. I was given further shock treatments. There was a drug used on me which put me in a coma for days. I would sometimes wake to find I'd wet myself, or even on one occasion I'd soiled. The nursing assistants beat me severely after that and I was forced to wear a nappy as a punishment for my incontinence.

Still I resisted Eva. I refused to name Andra. I tried to push her memories into the parts of my brain which the treatments seemed to be destroying. If I remembered nothing of her she would be safe. But I couldn't allow it. In my moments of lucidity I clung to the precious memories of our all too rare hours together. I remembered how she told me to cling on to the goodness, to let nothing get to that. She was everything good in the world, a symbol of a better life. Nothing would make me betray her.

I was very lucid the day everything changed. I was alone in a treatment room with Eva, presumably less drugged than usual to allow a greater response, She was using my mother's file once more to torture me, and had revealed (with some evident ambivalence) that the following week I would be subjected to neurosurgery.

“You'll be a shambling wreck, Polly. I can save you. You were in the Party. The Party looks after its own.”

Then darkness, the room shook, noise, the loudest noise I ever knew.

I came back to consciousness. There was some daylight in the room, which seemed strange since the hospital had no windows. I tried to get up but I was trapped and every movement made me hurt. I was used to feeling confusion when I woke from my treatments but I knew this was different. As my alertness increased I saw that the room was reduced to rubble. A bloody hand was visible before me, the arm hidden behind a section of ceiling panel. I reached out to touch it. The blood had dried to tackiness, the hand was cold. I called out but there was no reply. I lifted the panel gingerly, anxious that I could cause a further collapse. Eva faced me, her scalp split, hair stiff with dried blood. Her face was entirely red, but it looked like paint, so thin and flat was the covering. Her eyes were open but clouded. I had no doubts that my tormentor was dead.

I tried to ease myself out from the rubble which covered me, but only succeeded in moving into a less comfortable position before the pain became unbearable. I found it impossible to determine how serious my injuries were. Certainly I had painful injuries, but whether bruise or fracture I couldn't say. I could feel numerous small cuts and a more serious gash above my knee. I willed myself to be strong and tried to ease myself free. The tunic was torn and a corner was entangled under a block of concrete. I tore the material so that I could slip out of the garment. With a final push I was free.

Free was perhaps an inexact description of my situation. I was able to stand but there was hardly anywhere to go. I examined myself and saw that the cut on my leg was deep and bleeding. I tore a strip of canvas from my tunic to tie around my leg. I was barely able to support any weight on that leg: the ankle was injured too. A small area of blue sky was visible through a hole above me but to climb up to it (even assuming that were physically possible) would surely precipitate a catastrophic collapse. I watched the sky in fascination, white clouds slowly drifting past.

Time seemed suspended. After what seemed like an eternity I heard voices calling from outside. I called back. There was an excited response. “Who's down there?”

“Eva York,” I called back.

“Eva, we'll have you out soon.” I wanted to explain the error but I checked myself. Pretend I was Eva. Maybe it would be a way to escape, although I would surely be recognised. But what further punishment could be inflicted? I'd accepted that my life was over and any risk seemed worthwhile.

An hour later I was winched through the enlarged hole, born again into the world from the dreadful womb of the hospital whose name I didn't even know, as naked as at my true birth. I saw that across a wide lawn, behind a high fence, a crowd had gathered to watch the rescue efforts. As I emerged a loud cheer went up. I lifted a hand to acknowledge them.

A fireman put a blanket around me. “You're the only person we've got out of this block alive. Was there anyone else in there with you.”

I nodded. “I'm sorry, I don't even know who it was. She was too injured to recognise.”

I was taken on a stretcher across the field to a waiting ambulance. I peered at the faces at the wire link fence. I saw a tall blonde woman wearing glasses, her face only partly visible behind other people. Was it Andra? My sight was too weak to be sure and a moment later the crowd had surged forward, her face lost. They called out to me, words of kindness and good wishes. I found myself so touched that I cried.

A doctor examined me in the ambulance. She reassured me that I had had a lucky escape, that the wound in my leg wasn't serious, and that a sprained ankle was the injury which would affect me most. It was only as we neared the hospital that I realised that she was addressing me as Miss. I was still assumed to be a Party member! My haircut marked me out as a member of staff and not a psychiatric patient. I was sure it was only a matter of time before I was recognised but for now I would play along.

I was taken through the ambulance bay into the accident department of the hospital. I was astonished by the scenes I witnessed. There appeared to be total chaos. Numerous people were lying injured on trolleys and soldiers and police swarmed everywhere. I took the doctor's hand.

“Please doctor. I know this will sound crazy but I have no idea what's going on.”

“Of course! I'm sorry, someone should have kept you informed. There's been a huge terrorist attack. There was a bomb at your hospital, but there's at least another half dozen through the country. And all the computer system has been disrupted, some sort of virus that's taken out all the servers. Even the phone system has been affected. It's complete chaos. No one really knows what's happening.”

I was taken to a private room where my wounds were cleaned, the gash stitched, my ankle bandaged. I wanted to sing with joy. I felt like I'd escaped from a noose, like I'd been given a second chance at life, but knew that everything was provisional. A membrane as fine as a bee's wing protected me from slipping back into my old life. It could rupture at any moment.

I fell into an exhausted slumber. I woke to see Andra facing me. I was surely dreaming. She held finger to her lip. “Remember, I'm Henrietta now. How are you?”

“Hello, Henrietta, I'm Eva. And I'm really much better than I've been in a long time. Better than I ever was, maybe. And how have you been since I last saw you.”

“Surviving. That's enough for now. But we have to move fast. Can you walk?” I told her I could, but not without difficulty. “You'll just have to be brave. Get dressed.”

“I don't have any clothes. They pulled me out naked.”

Henrietta was a dominating figure. She called in a doctor and addressed her urgently. “My friend, can you arrange her discharge? She's injured her leg but that's all. Surely you need this room for more urgent cases. I can take her to my home and look after her.” The doctor agreed to the plan. “There is a little problem. Her clothes were destroyed in the explosion. She lives much further away than I do. Isn't there a store of clothes in the hospital?”

Soon I was walking out in the borrowed clothes, walking with the aid of a crutch. Passing through a corridor, Andra had taken a large dressing and told me to hold it over my face so that no one would be able to recognise me. “Where are we going to head to, Henrietta? Please tell me you have transport.”

“I will once I've stolen something.”

We stood at the edge of the car park as if awaiting a pick up. We saw a large saloon park up and an affluent looking man climbed out. Andra told me to walk, and I followed her, following a trajectory toward him. As we came close by, Andra hooked her foot around the end of my crutch. I lost balance and fell to the floor. She started to apologise immediately, but didn't move to help. Instead, the man bent over to lift me to my feet. As he did, Andra put an arm around him and thanked him profusely.

“That hurt,” I whispered to her as the Samaritan walked away. “You did it on purpose!”

“Sorry, baby. A necessary distraction.” She jangled a car key.

“No!” I hissed. “There's a camera on the car park. They'll be all over us in an hour.”

“All the cameras are down. The entire government computer system is dead. All your work. For the next few hours they've lost all their eyes. We need to get as far away from here as possible. We're heading north.”

I wanted to find out everything that had happened to Andra but the motion of the car soon lulled me to sleep; it was hardly surprising given my traumatic day and the poisons that still filled my body. I was awoken by a cessation of movement. We were at a roadblock where “Henrietta” was being fearlessly brazen with a young soldier.

“I'm quite aware of the situation. Why do you think I'm risking travelling on a day like this if it isn't because of important business?”

“Please Ma'am,” the soldier, hardly more than a boy, stammered. “We're under instructions only to permit military personnel. This area is so unsafe for civilians.”

“If it were possible we'd have made sure a communication had been sent ahead. But everything is down. This young woman has vital information about the bombings. She was injured herself, lucky to survive. How else are we supposed to get that information through? Are we to wait for a few days until everything is restored, while the perpetrators make good their escape?”

I could see he felt out of his depth. “I'll need your pass cards. And to record your number plate.”

“Of course. Unfortunately my companion lost everything in the attack. She was naked when they pulled her out. But here's mine, and I'll vouch for her.”

After some procrastination he gave in. Andra smiled at me. “See what happens when you're bold? Are you OK, baby? You're sleeping all the time.”

“They did things to me in there. A lot of drugs. It'll take a while before they're out of my system.”

“I wish we could lie low for a few days to let you heal but we need to move today. We'll have to go on foot soon too. It'll be really tough.”

We pulled off the main road and turned toward a forest on a narrow track. Even though it was only the beginning of autumn, the trees looked grey and colourless.

“There was a chemical spill nearby, the explosion from the chemical works. All the local population was evacuated. It's safe to go in now, at least if we stay in the right areas, but everything in the forest is dead. The water table is polluted so stay away from any ponds or streams.”

Andra drove the car behind a bush and snapped off some branches to disguise its presence, checked the boot and took a picnic blanket and a tarpaulin which were stored there. We made our way across a muddy field toward the tree line, my borrowed (and slightly too large) tennis shoes soon becoming clogged with mud. I struggled to keep up with Andra, unable to bear weight on my injured ankle and still adjusting to using the crutch. We entered the forest and the ground became firmer, which made progress easier. We walked in silence for an hour before Andra permitted a break.

She took a bottle of water from her pocket and offered it to me. “Just a mouthful. We only have two of these to last us. We've got a long way to go.” I sipped the water, longing to empty the entire bottle down my parched throat. My mouth was still permanently dry due to the drugs I'd been given in the hospital.

“Polly, did you tell them anything about what you'd done?” I could see she'd been holding back asking this question since we'd been reunited.

I smiled proudly. “I told them nothing. They didn't even suspect me as a subversive. It was Eva at the salon who had me arrested, she was Executive Military.”

She looked astonished. “So your cover wasn't blown? It was for sexual offences they arrested you?”

I nodded. “And I never named you.”

She kissed me, then started to cry. “Polly, I can hardly bear to look at you. There's something different in you, something hurt in your eyes. It's all my fault, I got you mixed up in this.”

I shook my head. “No, I came to you, remember? Nothing that happened to me was your fault. And now we're together and you can heal everything they did to me.”

She took me in her arms. “It's going to take us a couple of days to get to where we're going, and it's going to be dangerous and tough. We're not equipped to be in a forest. We'll go as far as we can before the light fades completely, then make a bivvy.”

We went deeper into the lifeless wood. The trees were shedding their bark and some had split and fallen. Many of the trunks were studded with clumps of a monstrous fungus, black and misshapen, the only thing that seemed to flourish in this doomed landscape. The leaves had formed a thick carpet on the ground, now rotting into a slime.

The only signs of animal life were dead carcasses which we came upon more frequently than I would have liked. Because the scavengers, fox, crow and buzzard, were all dead too there was nothing to strip the flesh and the corpses had rotted slowly, pervading the wood with a deathly odour. I shall never forget the sight of a large red deer stag, hugely antlered, half buried in leaves, his once beautiful pelt now torn open to reveal grotesquely swollen organs. His head was preserved almost perfectly, tilted back by the weight of his antlers, as if he were about to call out in protest at this dreadful display. We passed on in silence.

The evening light barely penetrated through the interwoven branches which formed a canopy above us. The still night was uncommonly silent, not a sound of a single bird to comfort us since our arrival. Andra and I seemed the only creatures alive here, dwarfed by devastation.

We walked for as long as we could. Although there was still a grey light visible when I looked up, silhouetting the fingers of the dead trees, on the ground I could see almost nothing. Andra was still able to make her way through along the path we were following, but my progress was slowing with every passing minute. “We should rest for the night,” she announced.

Andra made our camp with almost no assistance from me. She tied the small tarpaulin between some trunks using some shoelaces she'd had in her pockets. She covered it over with broken stems of dead bracken and placed the blanket on the ground inside the shelter. As soon as I'd stopped moving I became aware of how chilly the night was becoming.

“It's going to be cold tonight, Polly. Maybe even some ground frost. We can't risk a fire though, it would be visible for miles and there are patrols not far from here. We're going to have to snuggle up to save our warmth.”

As we curled up on the blanket she started to laugh. “Oh Polly, I've been struggling to see through these stupid glasses, and there's you squinting without them!” She placed my spectacles back on my face and for the first time in weeks I could see clearly.

“I think if you allowed it, I'd never wear them again, Andra. I'm not sure I want to see the world as it is, there's only wickedness and evil. Only you are beautiful and I always want you close to me, where I can see just fine.”

“If you think like that then they've succeeded, at least a little bit. We'll get through this, Polly and we'll make a new world. Everything will change in Anglia. These are the last days of this regime.”

I wanted to confess all the awful things they'd done to me, to show how brave I'd been, to show her that they hadn't broken me, but I was overcome with shame. I thought of the other women who'd been in the ward with me, but not one of them was known to me by name. Were they all dead now, nameless victims of forces beyond their control? I'd been one of them, a lifeless, inert slab of flesh but an accident of fate had given me a chance to be free. I felt unworthy.

I woke the next morning, aching and shivering. Andra held me tightly and had taken off her coat to cover me, at the cost of exposing herself to the cold. Despite this, she seemed to have endured the night better. As we set off once more, after a breakfast of a cereal bar and a mouthful of water, I struggled to make a good pace. During the night my body had bruised and I ached terribly. My ankle seemed to have become more painful and the wound on my leg was swollen and hot. But more destructive was my inner state: I'd become withdrawn, morose. I started to become delusional, believing that this journey wasn't real, that I was still in the hospital, under some form of hypnosis. Initially I felt only a vague unease, but gradually the idea took hold of me more completely.

I became unwilling to talk to Andra, my paranoia making me feel she was unreal, a doppelgänger trying to trick me into revealing something of the real Andra. This simulacrum was a figure constructed by my tormentors, Eva and the doctor.

I made my way through the wood, following in Andra's footsteps but with ever more difficulty. Andra sensed my discomfort and allowed me to rest often, but encouraged me to keep going. Only later did she tell me how concerned she'd been: the woods were heavily patrolled by the army (although so vast that our safe passage was possible). She knew I was suffering from an infection in my wound and had developed a fever (which was the cause of my delusions) and she feared that another night in the open would be more than I could endure.

Our progress was marred by my injuries and I'm not sure we advanced even ten miles toward our goal that day. I'd become increasingly sullen and uncommunicative and Andra's good humour gradually drained as she started to believe that we couldn't escape. She didn't dare tell me but the woods were thirty miles wide and our goal was some distance north of the woods. Andra later confided that she had grown despondent, sure that I would never be able to reach the town, and it seemed that death was our only way to avoid being captured.

We were forced to camp out for a second night. There was hardly any conversation between us now. I was unable to get warm. We'd used all of our water and though numerous streams criss crossed the forest we couldn't replenish our supply. When we set off the next day Andra looked pinched and frozen (she'd again used her coat to keep me warm). I was barely able to stand and the fever had become worse. When Andra tried to encourage me I started to cry. I was in no shape to continue but what choice did we have?

Our progress was even slower than on the previous day and now the weather turned against us. The temperature had dropped to just a few degrees above freezing and before noon it started to rain heavily. I needed water and would hold my mouth open to let some raindrops fall onto my tongue, but it provided no relief. I seemed to move in a trance, barely aware of what was happening, only wishing for the cold and the pain to stop.

I can barely remember anything of our capture. Most of what I know is from what Andra told me later, although I do have some confused, fragmentary memories. We'd descended a ridge and come onto a road. Andra had tried to stay clear of roads, as they were obviously more likely to be patrolled, but this one had to be crossed. We stayed on the road for a little while, since it was so much easier to walk on the even tarmac than on the woodland paths which were turning to mud in the heavy autumn rains. The sound of the wind and the rain had masked the approach of the vehicle and by the time we heard the engine it was too late to hide. We tried to take cover in the trees as the van pulled to a halt but I was so immobile by now that there was no possibility of being able to evade my pursuers. I urged Andra to leave me, but she remained.

As the two soldiers came closer, guns trained on us, Andra began to shout excitedly, repeating the phrase “Wren Carpenter” over and over, and urging them not to shoot. They searched us and bound our wrists with cable ties. They put hoods over out heads, not leather hoods like I'd worn when I was last captured, simple thick black cloth, but nevertheless I was distraught and claustrophobic, panicking as soon as it was placed over my head.

We were taken to a police station, taken to separate rooms to be questioned. I remember a doctor coming to see me, consulting with the interrogator, saying that I had to be taken to hospital, that I was in no shape to be questioned. When I woke I was lying in a clean bed in a bright room. I lay looking up at the sky through the window for a long time until a nurse came to attend to me. She smiled at me and asked me how I felt. I could only smile back at her.

Then I remember Andra was with me. She looked clean and healthy again. My paranoia seemed to have been something I'd experienced in a bad dream and now I regarded her with only tenderness and affection. “We're safe,” she smiled. “And we're free.”

“But the soldiers... the police station?” I was still quite confused.

“We're in the Free State. The Northern territory. They weren't government soldiers. We were lucky, Polly. You're ill, the wound has a bad infection. But you'll be fine now, they're looking after you.”

I spent three days in hospital, resting, recovering. I was interviewed by an officer from the Free State army, but there was no hostility and Andra accompanied her to reassure me. I appeared to have gained a degree of fame since I was the one who'd sabotaged the state computer system. There was even a promise of receiving an award. I gave information about what I'd learned about security weaknesses. Then the conversation turned to my experiences in the hospital. I had to ask Andra to leave before I could discuss my treatment. I couldn't bear to let her hear what had been done to me.

The officer listened with patience and sympathy. She asked if I would tell my story to a French journalist who was covering the conflict. “It's important that the world knows what's happening to people in Anglia, how they're being treated merely because of their ethnicity or their sexuality. The government is starting to disintegrate, factions turning on each other. Your story could help to get support for our cause from other countries.” I reluctantly agreed to her request.

I left the hospital feeling weak and sore, but I was healing. Andra took me to our new home, a small flat near the city harbour. It was quite cramped, sparsely furnished, but I was delighted. It seemed like a dream to be able to be with her with no fear of being exposed. I wanted to spend all of the day in our new home, lying in her arms, but Andra insisted we go out for lunch.

The extent of our new freedom started to become apparent to me when Andra took my hand as we made our way to a café, then kissed me. I felt a terror spread over me. Was this really permitted? I'd spent so long hiding my feelings, knowing that to reveal them was a death sentence. “No, Andra!” I gasped.

She smiled and gestured at our surroundings. People went about their business. No one was perturbed by a kiss shared by two young women. “We're free, Polly.” And she kissed me again. My shock that this was possible only made the pleasure more intense.

We entered the café, a small, dimly-lit but welcoming establishment. Andra gave a shriek of delight as soon as we entered. She'd spotted an upright piano next to the counter. Within seconds she was sat at the keyboard and testing the tuning, sounding a few scales. Then she started to play. Her left hand gently sounded some mysterious harmonies as the right slowly delineated a melody. I was entranced, astonished to hear how beautifully Andra played. Nor was I alone in my admiration: the entire clientele seemed to grow quiet and listen to the sweet melancholy. Her fingers fluttered and glittered over the keys. Tears flowed down my cheeks, so moving was this music. As she drew the music to a close a ripple of polite applause spontaneously arose around the café. Andra seemed dazed and embarrassed as she acknowledged her audience. She had been unaware of where she was, so absorbed was she with making music.

“That was so beautiful,” I sniffled.

Andra laughed bashfully. “Oh Polly, you're crying. You cry far too easily!” she teased. “Anyway, I'm so rusty my fingers hardly move. It was Debussy and I didn't do the music justice. Not that I ever really could...”

“It was beautiful and sad and I've never been more proud of you.”

We ate a beautiful meal which the proprietor refused to accept payment for, on condition that Andra would play again for his customers. She modestly insisted on paying but some of the patrons on a neighbouring table asserted that Andra should play some more. “We haven't heard good music for so long. Please, don't deprive us of the pleasure!”

She sat again at the piano and laughed. “I literally hadn't touched a piano for years. I've forgotten most of the music I learned. I'm not sure this is really the type of thing you want to hear, but it's all I can remember. It's a little chorale prelude by Bach, Nun komm' der Heiden Heiland.”

The music unfolded slowly, sadly, like distant bells tolling. I was sure that this time I wasn't the only person in tears. Andra seemed absorbed completely by the music. She played ever more delicately and sensitively, but every note made itself felt through the rapt silence. Time seemed suspended and the music seemed like an elegy for those still suffering. The last notes faded into oblivion and there was a long pause before the applause began.

Andra dispelled the sombre mood with a giggle. “I'm sorry, that was a bit sad for a café. Please forgive me!”

There was nothing to forgive. The owner demanded that Andra return to serenade her customers. “I can't pay but I will feed you and your good lady and ply you with drinks.” Andra agreed as long as she was permitted the use of the piano each morning to practice.

“There is one little thing...” The owner looked painfully embarrassed to raise this. “You do look a little... Well... Your haircuts..? They look like...”

Andra nodded. “We've only just got out. We had to disguise ourselves, you see. We'll put it right immediately, won't we Polly?” I nodded, wondering just how our short hair could be changed to make us look less like the enemy.

We walked around the city, hand in hand until Andra had found what she was seeking. Her goal was a barbershop with a female barber, which we found after an hour's searching.

The shop was deserted when we entered, just a bored looking barberette reading a magazine. She looked at us a little suspiciously as we entered. Did she take us for Party women? As if to reassure her, Andra made sure she knew we were lovers, putting her arm around me ostentatiously.

“Could you fit us in for cuts? We've just arrived from the south and we had to disguise ourselves as Party to get through.” She immediately seemed more sympathetic and asked who would go first. Andra settled into her chair.

“I had long dark hair. It was hard to cut it and bleach it.”

“I bet!” said her barberette, who'd introduced herself as Heather. She unconsciously pulled at a lock of her glossy auburn curls as if imagining a similar makeover. “So what did you think we should do today? It's pretty short.”

“I wondered if you could be so kind as to shave me completely. I want to make a fresh start, and bald seems to be symbolic somehow.”

Heather looked astonished. “Are you sure? Completely bald?” Andra nodded.

“Not a trace of hair left.”

Heather vacillated, evidently unused to such extreme demands, nervous that her client may change her mind and regret her actions. But Andra was adamant and Heather gave in. She raised her clippers and turned them on. “Last chance to change your mind. Are you sure.”

“Definitely, positively, one hundred per cent, certainly sure.”

“I suppose that will have to do,” Heather smiled. She raised the clippers to Andra's nape and buzzed a strip of hair free. I watched in fascinated horror as the smooth layer of blonde hair was reduced to an uneven greyish shadow. The clippers whirred up the back of her head, shaving away blocks of hair with each thrust. The sides were shorn too and now Andra had a shock of blonde spikes on top, above a closely sheared back and sides. It wasn't a look I liked on her, but then it didn't last long. Heather raised the clippers to her forehead and shaved a bare trench through the thick blonde hair from front to back. She and Andra laughed but I could see a little strain in Andra's face. She was tough, good at hiding her emotions, but I knew she was suffering. She was a beautiful woman and not without vanity. To see herself without hair was difficult.

In ten minutes, Heather had buzzed away every trace of the Party haircut I'd inflicted on my love a few weeks earlier. Now a layer of white foam was evenly spread over her round head. I went over to Andra and reached under the cape to squeeze her hand. Our eyes met and she saw that I understood her discomfort. For a moment she seemed afraid, afraid that her tough exterior was penetrated, that I could see what no one else could. In that moment she feared that she would lose control, that she would break down as she had when I'd cut her hair short, but then she was once more in charge of her emotions, at least on the surface. Her embarrassment as she saw herself with her scalp covered in lather was disguised behind a giggle.

As Heather shaved away the foam, an ivory skull was revealed, pure, smooth perfect. The ugly, slightly uneven stubble was gone and nothing distracted from the taut skin, stretched over beautifully modelled bone. Andra's scalp was pale and smooth, slightly paler than her face. Without hair her features were exposed in all their beauty. She seemed mysterious and ethereal, yet bold and provocative. She looked lost as she took in her reflection. She couldn't accept what she was seeing, was too shocked to be able to look at herself objectively. She looked at me for reassurance, afraid that she was no longer beautiful. Her expression softened as she saw how delighted I was in her transformation.

As she stood I was overcome with erotic energy but was too inhibited to act on it: I still couldn't bring myself to accept that a public display of affection was acceptable. Fortunately, Andra had no such qualms. She embraced me and I couldn't resist touching her head, which felt intoxicatingly sensual. “Do I get the same?” I whispered.

“You're free now, baby,” Andra whispered back. “You're in charge of your own destiny.”

I felt desperate, sad, alone. “No,” I groaned softly. “I need you more than ever. You tell Heather what I get. No choices. Please, Andra, I need this.”

I didn't give her time to reply, since I saw she was uncertain about my request. Without hesitation I climbed into the huge barber chair where Heather fitted me with a cape which covered me to my ankles.

“What's it to be, honey?” Heather asked cheerily. I sat in silence feeling awkward and frightened.

“Same again,” Andra said forcefully. Something stirred inside me. I didn't want to be bald, but more important was that I didn't have a choice.

Heather looked troubled, unsure whether to play along or get my approval for my haircut. “Just do it, it's what she wants.” I nodded my agreement silently.

My hair had been growing for weeks and was longer than I'd been permitted to wear it (at least on the back and sides) for many months. I'd secretly been excited to see how much it had softened my look, gave me a touch of femininity. Now I had to accept its total loss. There was regret but I felt it was necessary, not just because it was what Andra demanded, but as a rite of passage. My old life was over. I felt like I should have died, knew how close I'd come to that. Now I'd been blessed with a second chance and I was determined not to suffer the privations and misery which had stifled me previously. Being shorn would symbolise a purging of everything I had been so that I could rise from the ashes of my former existence, phoenix-like.

Heather placed the clippers on my neck. I felt the vibrations of the blades. I thought of the pleasure of my previous haircuts, but it was tainted. Eva had despised me, seduced me merely as a trap. Still, I couldn't accept that she hadn't enjoyed the private moments we'd shared, which made her betrayal all the more acute. I was overcome with an intense desire for revenge, a wish to do violence to Eva, but my desires would forever be thwarted by her premature death. Unbidden, I saw vivid images of her corpse in the room we'd been forced to share after the explosion. As clearly as if she were lying alongside me I saw her once beautiful face, now frozen in a scream, her skin hidden behind a layer of shiny crimson. I wondered if she had suffered as I lay only inches from her, unconscious. Had she cried out to me to help her, had she begged my forgiveness as her blood flowed from her body?

And now I was looking in the mirror as Heather sheared away the last of the thick hair from my scalp. What had happened to me? I looked pale and ill, my eyes hollow and pained. I saw clearly what I'd become during the previous weeks, how it had stolen my spirit. I looked like one of those unfortunates in the hospital, broken in mind and body. “Eyebrows too,” Andra ordered Heather. The blades zipped across the edges of my eye sockets and suddenly my thick, dark brows were reduced to a barely discernible shadow of faint stubble.

I was covered in lather and Heather silently shaved away the spoor of my hair. My skull looked as wan as ivory now, though it was no paler than my face. The reflection I saw was a ghost of Polly, bloodless, as though my life force had drained away in the hospital when I lay alongside Eva. Andra made to return my glasses but I refused them. I couldn't bear to see myself too clearly, and besides, I felt a ghost wearing glasses was an absurdity.

A wave of emotion was building inside me, but I didn't dare let it show in public. I needed privacy now to let the wave break, even though I feared it would tear me apart. I was in a trance as I allowed Andra to lead me home and as soon as the door closed behind me I started to sob. She held me in her arms and tried to soothe me, but tears flowed endlessly, tears of rage, of sadness, of grief, of regret, of frustration. I wept until no tears remained, yet the desire to weep had not been quenched.

Andra blamed herself for my turmoil. It was only much later that I could express something of my feelings, although much of what I felt was beyond conveyance in words. I told her of my associations of the haircut with my betrayal by Eva, of the revelation I had of how great a toll my suffering had had on mind and body. “But what hurts most is that I can't tell you what was done to me. I find it unendurable to think that you should know what was done to me, that you could never see me as fully human again. I've become degraded and less than human, and if you were to know how I'd suffered then something would be taken from you too.”

Andra looked hurt, shocked, sad, but said nothing, merely pressed me tightly to her body as if wishing for her energy to flow into me and bring me back to health. At last she whispered: “Remember what I told you, about the seed inside? I know you never let it die. We need to let that grow now. You've been hurt but now that part of your life is at an end. You need to rest and to be loved. Now we'll do that.”

She took me to the tiny bathroom and ran a hot bath, then undressed me and helped me into the water. She poured a blob of shampoo into her hand and spread it over my scalp. I shivered as I felt the unfamiliar sensation, my bald head so sensitive to her gentle touch. “Are you going to grow your hair long again? I've often wondered what you'd look like with a thick mane.”

“I don't know,” I murmured. “I want you to decide everything about my look.” I still felt that long hair was something I should be denied, my punishment for my treachery toward my mother.

“We'll start with your pussy then. I like it hairless.” She took more of the shampoo and massaged it into the fuzz that covered my sex. I could barely tolerate her touch, so much did it excite me. For a moment all my fears and hurt were gone, my mind completely filled with sensation. My past was no longer significant, only the present was real.

The razor rasped slowly over my skin. Andra only paused to rinse away the hairs clogging the blades. Soon she stroked the soft silky skin and I sighed with delight. “I want you to keep it this smooth. Shave it every day, Polly.” I nodded obediently.

Her fingers stroked softly up and down my slit as her other hand moved my clit in slow circles, making my joy spiral upward like a bird floating in a thermal. I was ecstatic and almost as soon as her fingers penetrated me I orgasmed. I felt a huge rush of energy as something which had been pent up so long was finally released. Andra kissed me with a desperation as the climax continued to surge through me. I felt alive, human for the first time in weeks.

Almost as soon as the climax subsided I fell into a deep sleep. I woke in a still warm bath (obviously Andra had kept it topped up with hot water) with a beautiful bald woman looking down at me. Andra had applied make-up, more than I'd ever seen her wear. Her eyes were darkened with smoky black, her lips a sensual deep red. She looked extraordinary, like no woman I'd ever seen. I felt a little afraid when I looked at her, not just because there was something intimidating in her beauty, but because of the desires her beauty threatened to unleash in me.

“Don't you like it?” she asked, somewhat taken aback by my gaze.

“You look so wild and dangerous... I never saw a woman like you before.”

She knelt beside me. “Do you like wild and dangerous?”

“Yes Andra. I want you to take control of me, punish me and control me. Use me, make me yours.”

She looked deep into my eyes. “Be careful what you wish for. Wishes come true sometimes.”

I sat naked on the bed, allowing Andra to paint my face. Our games in the hut had frequently involved make-up but now she lavished much more attention on me. There was no rush any more, no risk of being discovered. She was touching in some eyebrows with a pen now.

“Why did you have my eyebrows shaved?” I asked. “It looks so odd. I look so odd!”

“Your eyebrows were so thick. I'd been wanting to do something about them since we met, but it would have been too risky. I think it's easier to spot a Party woman by her unkempt eyebrows than by her haircut.”

“I left the Party now, I think,” I giggled. “Not sure they'd have me back.”

“That's right, Polly, you're just too good for them. You always were.”

The revelation of my new look took my breath away. Andra had applied so much cosmetics that my features seemed to be buried. I had orange pearly lips, rouged cheeks, eyelids of metallic green and peacock blue which were surmounted by black arches. The brows in particular seemed alien, angular and hard-contoured, giving me a fierce, angry expression, like a femme fatale from a fin-de siècle painting.

It was some time before I could speak. At last I thanked Andra. “It's beautiful but it's not me. I look too... sexual.”

“You look adorable. I never imagined I could love a bald girl so much. Maybe we should both stay bald forever.”

I went to kiss her, but she stopped me. “No, you'll ruin our make-up.”

“I don't care, I just want to show you how much I love you.”

“There'll be plenty of time for that when we get home.”

“You don't mean I have to go out looking like this?”

“Of course not, baby! I'm going to dress you first.”

We did indeed go out, to a local bar where our appearance seemed to attract a lot of attention. Andra had dressed me in a beautiful vintage dress, striped with red and ivory. She wore a black pinafore with a high necked white blouse, simple and elegant. I'd refused to wear my glasses, becoming ever more convinced that they were an artefact from my unbearable past. Andra was happy to go along with this but as the night progressed I was forced to admit that my eyesight was too poor to go unassisted. I felt almost helpless, unable to see much of what was going on around me (but convinced, not entirely baselessly, that everyone was staring), reliant on my companion to locate the toilets, indeed to lead me back home in the unfamiliar city.

When we were safely back in private Andra took me in her arms. “Everyone was staring at us, especially you, because you were the most beautiful woman in the room.”

“More likely because I was bald, I think.”

“They might have noticed you because you were bald, but they kept looking because they were envious of your beauty.”

“They were envious because I have you.”

She started to kiss me, no longer concerned that my make-up would be smudged and ruined. I took it on myself to ensure that hers would be just as ravaged by my fervent kisses. It was only a foretaste of the pleasures our night would hold.

I didn't wake till noon the next day. Andra had just returned from a morning of piano practice at the café. “It's really frustrating. I can only remember a few pieces and my technique has really suffered. I wish I could have kept playing the piano. I love it so much.”

“I'm sure with practice it'll get better. Maybe we could look for second-hand bookshops and see if they have any sheet music.”

“That's a good idea,” Andra smiled. “Although you won't be much use, squinting without your glasses. We'd better find an optician for you today and get you some nice new glasses.”

After breakfast we put Andra's plan into practice. Unfortunately, there were a lot of shortages in the independent territory, even more so than in Anglia. Optical glass was in short supply and it was likely to be at least a month before I could obtain new glasses. I emerged blinking into the sunlight wearing contact lenses, which the shop had had in stock. I felt liberated, able to see clearly without glasses for the first time in years.

Andra looked at me happily. “You look so pretty when you smile. I want to buy you some jewellery to make you look pretty. You never wear earrings and we need to put that right.”

I immediately understood her intentions. “You're going to get my ears pierced?” She nodded, obviously very pleased by the prospect of my first piercings. I felt a nervousness. I could hardly deny her this; pierced ears were commonplace even in the conservative factions in Anglia. If I hadn't grown up in the academy, I'd no doubt have had mine pierced long ago. And I was told it wasn't more than mildly painful. My real anxiety was that this was only a beginning, that Andra would like me to be pierced more.

Her lip had lost its stud, which she'd had to remove when she'd adopted her disguise. I'd asked her to put it back in (this desire surprised me) but was disappointed to discover that the hole had closed during the weeks we'd been parted. I asked her if she'd get her lip redone, but she only gave me a sphinx-like smile.

We arrived at the shop, which the newly painted sign proclaimed as a tattoo and piercing shop. I'd never seen such a place, since tattooing had long been outlawed. It felt like a transgression to even enter the building. I still harboured a very negative attitude towards tattoos, despite Andra's and despite the arousal it could provoke in me. I was acutely aware of the desires she'd expressed to be extensively tattooed, and to tattoo me, but the prospect disgusted me. I didn't want to be here a second longer than necessary, ashamed that Andra may be tempted to be tattooed.

The shop wasn't as I'd feared. It was actually brightly lit and scrupulously clean, and the staff were very friendly. I sat in a small room with Andra and Marian, who would pierce my ears. Andra was fascinated to discuss the shop.

“We only opened a couple of weeks ago. I'd been piercing secretly for years, but it was always hard to get the necessary equipment. Finally we can get deliveries from Europe and so we could open up the shop. There are so many people getting tattoos. It's become a real craze. People want something to show their commitment.” She showed us a small circular pattern, the insignia of the resistance movement, tattooed on the inside of her right wrist. “We're doing a dozen of these every day.”

I was pleased when Andra steered the conversation back to piercing. She told Marian about my upbringing (I'd started to hate my past being revealed, afraid that some would judge me negatively) and explained that I'd never been able to get my ears pierced. “We decided that three in each ear would look nice.”

I tried to hide my shock. We'd decided nothing of the sort, hadn't even discussed it. I found myself nodding to every question asked of me, although I was too anxious to take in the sense of what I was being asked. Marian and Andra discussed things I didn't understand, types of jewellery, gauges and the jargon was impenetrable to me. I just nodded and agreed, knowing that I would soon have triply pierced ears.

Marian had marked dots on my earlobe, the uppermost so high that it was above my lobe, on the soft margin of skin at the side of my ear. She scrubbed at my ear and told me to look down, sensing my squeamishness. Too late, I'd already glimpsed a long needle. Andra had assured me that the pain would be a tiny prick, hardly a pain at all, but the stinging was worse than I'd prepared myself for. My treatment over the previous weeks had toughened me, yet still I found this pain brought me close to tears. I allowed myself to feel this pain and realised that when I was being tortured I'd buried my consciousness deep inside. This pain wasn't torture, it was a means to an end, a gift to the woman I loved and I had to experience it as fully as I experienced her caresses, her kisses. I would endure this pain another five times.

The rings were added to my ears (I was surprised that I was aware of their weight) and I stood to look in the mirror. Three rings of brightly polished silvery metal, evenly spaced one centimetre apart, adorned my ears. The rings were of different sizes, the upper about a half inch, the lowest an inch, the middle somewhere between. The metal was thick, about three millimetres, and each was closed with a round bead. Now I saw why they felt so heavy. Every movement made me aware of their presence, their mass. My baldness made their presence all the more evident.

“Just gorgeous,” Andra whispered, close to my ear. She touched the lowest ring in my right ear, the gentlest touch imaginable, yet the touch made me flinch. I realised how sensitive the piercings made my ears and knew that our private explorations would be wonderful.

“Let's get tattoos,” she whispered. “On our wrists, like Marian's, to show our commitment.”

I gasped, struggling for breath. “I can't, Andra, not yet anyway. Please forgive me.”

“It's ok, baby, I understand.” She turned to Marian. “We want tattoos like yours, can somebody do them now?”

I was confused as a few minutes later I was conducted to a chair by Andra, told to sit (she looked at me lovingly but there was a steely firmness to her voice) and hold my arm out. The tattooist, Alexandra, applied a stencil to the inside of my wrist, a roundel identical to Marian's. I was in shock, numbed and powerless as I felt the sting of a needle, poisoning and blackening my skin forever. I felt the ink being jabbed into me, felt that something was forever changed now.

I have no idea how long the tattoo took. I was so unsettled that I was in a state of confused panic, although Andra later told me I maintained an admirable appearance of calm. I kept glancing at my tattooed wrist as I waited for Andra to be similarly despoiled. I didn't want her to have more tattoos but I was powerless to prevent it. Despite their small dimensions, I was still shocked by our tattoos, especially because they were in a place which would be hard to conceal.

Back home I displayed myself for Andra, bald, pierced, tattooed. She looked delighted. “You didn't get your lip re-pierced,” I said with disappointment, although I was no longer sure I wanted her to have more piercings.

“I know, baby. Gives us a reason to head back there, doesn't it?” she winked.

She pulled me onto the bed and kissed me excitedly. She crawled on top of me, her thighs straddling me, pinning my arms to my sides. “You're not going to get more tattoos there, are you?” The idea Andra being covered in tattoos terrified me.

“If you promise to be a good girl and get a few more piercings then I won't get any more tattoos there.”

I nodded my grudging agreement. I tried to imagine how I'd look with piercings in my lips, my nose. Not good, I thought.

Andra giggled. “You are so sweet, Polly. The truth is Alexandra isn't a very good tattooist. I'll wait till we can afford someone good before we get tattooed.”

I wanted to protest that she'd tricked me, but she was so turned on that I was swept up in a wave of pleasure. An aroused Andra was like a force of nature, her energy boundless, and focussed on enrapturing me. I felt her slide down my body and use her tongue on my smooth pussy. She delicately explored every fold, seeking out the precise locus which would make me throb with desire, then working it until I could hold myself no more. As I sank into a deep climax I felt her rise, taking my new piercings inside her lips, her tongue delicately probing at the new wounds, which simultaneously repelled and excited me. Her fingers rubbed at my head, delighting in the soft prickly stubble which could be discerned when she drew her fingers back from my forehead. “Shave it. I want it bald and smooth again,” a voice said. It was my voice but it took me by surprise, an unconscious desire being expressed.

Andra seemed pleased at my request. It signalled to her that I was enjoying my new look, that I was revelling in the pleasurable sensations that my shaven scalp had brought. She shaved my brows as well and allowed me to see myself. I couldn't hide my sadness.

“What is it baby? I can see you're hiding something from me. I want you to grow your hair but you ask me to shave you. But when I do I see the hurt coming back into your eyes.”

I finally confessed that I'd pledged never to allow my hair to grow long again, as a punishment for my role in my mother's fate. Andra took me in her arms. “Polly, you were a little girl. They wanted to hurt your mum and exploited you. You were a victim too, not one of her persecutors. You were never allowed to grieve for her. How can you heal without doing that? You're stuck. This is the last time I shave you, Polly. Your hair grows for a year now. No punishing yourself for things you didn't do. I'm the only one who punishes you now,” she said with a mischievous giggle and kissed me.

Andra's plan to help me come to terms with Mum's terrible treatment was to make me write about my memories of her. I diligently spent an hour each night writing about Mum. It was frequently painful, and when I became sad Andra would hold me and tell me to let it out. I cried almost every night.

Nor was it the only painful search through my memories. As agreed after my escape, I gave an interview to a French journalist recounting my treatment following my arrest. I'd been ordered not to discuss my involvement with the uprising, since that might give the government information (they'd undoubtedly monitor all of the French broadcast). I was filmed in silhouette, wearing a wig to make me unrecognisable. The journalist was sympathetic and calm, but her questions were sickening for me. I had to relive my treatment in the hospital, tell her things which I'd held back from everyone. I knew Andra would listen to the story of my degradation and the hurt it would cause her seemed worse than what I'd endured. I retained the fear that she would no longer be able to accept me as fully human.

I couldn't sleep that night and Andra kept vigil beside me, our tears mingling. She swore her love for me, but when I asked her to promise never to leave me she shook her head. “Polly, I have to go back. I can't stay here while people in Anglia are dying. I have to do whatever I can to make sure that no one else goes through what you did. And the truth is, we're not safe here. The only way to be really free is to see the government fall in Anglia.”

It wasn't what I wanted to hear, but I knew that Andra was right. We'd been following the news closely. Wilkinson was losing control and had had several ministers and generals arrested (reputedly executed) for plotting against him. There were rumours that one officer (General Deal) had a lot of support and was building an ever growing group of sympathetic officers. Wilkinson hadn't been able to get close to him because in effect he'd built a private army.

    The war in the east was now lost. The people of Anglia hadn't been told the extent of the failure, but every night we saw footage from overseas journalists: thousands of Anglian troops had been captured and were held in a camp. Wilkinson had refused to negotiate a truce (how can a man in hiding negotiate) and so they were left in limbo. It's hard to keep the absence of thousands of missing people secret and everyone in Anglia had heard rumours about the capitulation in Asia. There had even been a demonstration to protest the missing troops, which would have been unthinkable months earlier.

It seemed inevitable that Wilkinson would now be swept from office (despite my fury at the terrible things he'd done, I'd been conditioned to think of him as heroic for so long that it cost me an effort to voice any criticism, and at times I still felt myself thinking of him sympathetically). Andra's concern was that Deal would mount a coup d'état and seize power. He was no reformer, but a hard-liner and in all likelihood he would institute a regime even more authoritarian than that which we'd experienced. His victory would be a disaster.

Andra's return was delayed by practical issues: the border areas between the independent area and government controlled Anglia became the theatre of skirmishes between the opposing factions and the civilian population was forced to flee, causing an influx of refugees into the north (we were lucky to have escaped when we did; a few weeks later and we'd have been living in a camp). It was six weeks after her first declaration that Andra's intention of returning to the south were fulfilled. We said a tearful farewell, both knowing the danger she faced, both afraid to express our fears that we may never meet again. She departed on a ship in the night, her destination a port on the south coast and if I'd known how long it would be before we met again I'm not sure I could have had the strength to stay on the dockside.

[lsds-blog]

Emma’s new life

Emma had always admired those who dared to be different but had never been able to number herself among them. She'd attended a very traditional all girls school where individuality was firmly discouraged, if not repressed or punished. Although she'd found her studies fairly straightforward she'd never managed to fit in. Most of the girls were from much more affluent families and Emma was always defensive about her parents' working class origins. And then her appearance. Popularity was never going to come to a short, chubby, myopic girl who was afraid to open her mouth in class. But at least if she wasn't a popular girl, she wasn't without friends.

It was as Emma grew into adolescence that she became aware of her attraction to girls who were more daring in their looks. Despite her best efforts to tell herself it was only an “interest”, then a “phase”, by her mid teens she harboured the guilty secret (and Emma did guilt well) that her attraction was sexual. It would be a few years more (after a few lukewarm attempts to foster relationships with awkward boys) before she could admit to herself that really she was lesbian rather than bisexual. And it was only to herself. Even her best friends had no idea that Emma secretly lusted after rock chicks,  punk girls and, perhaps most of all, skinhead girls.

As Emma grew into a young woman, so her attractiveness grew, not that she was really aware of it. Her chubbiness reduced, and her body took on soft curves, her breasts filled out, her skin was smooth and clear, her confidence grew when she got contact lenses and could rid herself of her childish glasses. But her best feature was always her hair, which was the only thing about herself that Emma liked. Her hair was a deep brown with a reddish hint and grew thick and lush, just a hint of wave which she could blow out when she preferred. As a child it was the only thing about her appearance which would get her compliments. She'd always had long hair, her shortest style being just past shoulder length, which she despised. For six months after that cut she'd worn her hair tied up to conceal the length. Mostly she liked her hair to reach to the tips of her shoulder blades and whenever possible wore it loose.

Emma left home for the first time to attend university in a city 100 miles away in the north of England. She was full of optimism about her new adventure but that was soon gone. She'd had the same set of friends for years at school and she seemed to have lost the skills to make new friends. Her first year was painfully lonely. She tried to concentrate on her studies but her mood was so low that for the first time in her life her grades were less than good. She longed for the monthly weekends when she'd return home to her parents and see her old school friends, not that she admitted to them how lonely she was.

And there was something else that was making her unhappy. Everywhere she went Emma saw beautiful young women, the campus was littered with them. Her longings became more intense by the day. And if her days were spent in anguished contemplation of these divine and unattainable beings, the nights were a time when Emma would relieve her pent up frustrations in her cramped hall of residence room.

As she entered the second year of her degree Emma decided that she would forsake the hall of residence and look for someone to share a house with. She dreamed that this might help her to make some friends although she hardly dared even think this as by now her confidence was so low that another disappointment was impossible for her to stomach. There was economic necessity too; Emma had had to take an evening job stacking shelves in a supermarket and a house share would be cheaper than the halls. And so she looked through lists of houses and travelled to regions of the town she never knew existed. It was a sobering experience. There were nice rooms being let and there were affordable rooms being let, but the two categories were mutually exclusive. Then she met Kara and her life would never be the same.

It was a rainy afternoon and Emma had visited three houses which were virtually uninhabitable. The last place she'd earmarked was a small two-up-two-down in a terrace not a mile from the university. She knocked on the door and was greeted by Kara.

Kara was a gregarious red-head, a full ten inches taller that Emma. She was a fine art student at the college and, in Emma's eyes, absolutely wonderful. Her hair was cut in a very choppy style, just brushing her shoulders (Emma thought it was cut really badly, but somehow this just added to her attraction) and she wore it tucked behind her ears which were pierced with numerous studs and rings. She made Emma coffee, which she only drank out of politeness, it wasn't something she usually imbibed. She immediately felt comfortable with Kara, who seemed to find Emma's shyness charming (in contrast to most of the people on her course who seemed to have her labelled as boring). When Emma asked about the landlord she was surprised to find that Kara owned the house, bequeathed to her by a deceased aunt. She confided that her family were quite wealthy and so she was looking for someone for company, and that she could let the room quite cheaply.

“Boyfriend?” Kara asked, Emma shaking her head shyly in response. When she followed up with “Girlfriend..?” Emma felt her cheeks glow, and saw that Kara sensed the truth, despite her insistence that she was single. That seemed to be all the reassurance that Kara needed and she offered Emma the room immediately. Emma couldn't contain her delight.

And so Emma and Kara established house together. Emma's delight in having made her first friend in the city was tempered by a foreboding that Kara was too beautiful. She'd be sure to fall in love with her and that was surely a bad idea for someone living in the same house. There was never any question of these doubts interfering with the arrangement; Emma's loneliness and longings were too huge to be outweighed by a nagging feeling that this mightn't be a good idea.

The first few weeks went better than Emma had dared hoped. Kara and her got on well. Kara was two years older (she was studying for a masters) but seemed so much more mature. She introduced Emma to new things: new music, new films, new food, she encouraged an interest in art. She would tease Emma about her shyness and childish gaucheness but was sensitive; whenever she said something that made Emma uncomfortable she would back off and wouldn't tease her about that again. Emma was surprised to find that Kara didn't have lots of friends, just a few close friends who were frequent visitors to the house and they were always quick to include Emma. Despite their efforts, Emma remained slightly aloof from the group, mainly due to her reluctance to socialise outside the house. She hardly ever drank alcohol, didn't much care for pubs and had had a thoroughly miserable time on the handful of occasions when she'd been to night clubs. Whenever Kara was heading out to meet her friends Emma would always politely decline, then stay at home feeling miserable, and aching to be with Kara, who she imagined meeting some handsome young man (or woman? Kara was always reticent when it came to talking about her previous relationships) at the pub.

Three weeks after moving in to her new home Emma returned to her parents home for the weekend. Her parents could immediately see a much happier young woman and were reassured that her new friend was looking after her. She took a train back on the Sunday afternoon and was back in the house at six. She barely recognised Kara. Her hair had been cut and coloured. It was now a very chic asymmetric bob, cropped close on the left side, completely exposing her ear, the nape graduated to fully expose her long neck, a long fringe falling softly over her right eye. It was a vivid and very unnatural red with some purplish streaks worked into the longer parts. The entire style had been executed with perfect precision. In addition, Kara's upper lip now bore a stud in the very centre.

Emma felt overwhelmed. She wasn't sure if she liked her friend's new look, but she was sure it turned her on. She was staring at Kara, whilst trying to get her brain into gear and behave normally. “Your hair... wow..!” she managed at last. Kara smiled warmly and hugged her.

“I've missed you this weekend honey! Welcome home,” she purred. Emma breathed in Kara's powerful perfume and felt the heat from her body. She wanted the moment to last forever. Her head was swimming. She looked up into Kara's pale blue eyes and for a moment all that she could think about was their lips meeting. She was getting spots before her eyes and her whole body seemed to be gripped with a vibration.

Then suddenly Kara released her embrace. “Have you eaten, I'm going to cook something now if you like...” she said calmly, seemingly ignorant of the passions she'd stirred in her friend. Emma felt like she was hearing everything via a broken radio, despite which she could determine that the piercing had slightly affected Kara's speech. A roaring sound filled her ears about twice a second which it took her a few moments to realise was her heartbeat.

“Oh that would be lovely... And I missed you too,” Emma said woodenly. She dashed to her room to put away her bag. Once she was alone she slid her hand into the waist of her jeans and felt a damp warmth oozing into the front of her panties. She rubbed at herself gently through the soft material, and felt the wooziness start to spread through her body again. She lay on her bed to compose herself but as she closed her eyes she obsessively saw images of Kara: her long neck, her delicate little ear, her full lips accented by a metal bead, her bright, clear eyes, the little group of freckles on her nose, most of all her cropped, dyed hair. Emma could smell Kara's scent on herself.

When Kara called her to say the meal was ready, Emma was so engrossed in her thoughts that she jumped violently. She joined Kara at the table, feeling a blush coming over her cheeks as she saw her again. She thanked Kara for cooking dinner and sat down to eat but after a couple of mouthfuls her appetite was sated, at least her appetite for food.

“You OK?” Kara said after a couple of minutes. “You seem a bit... quiet. Was everything alright with your folks?”

“Oh yeah, they're fine, just a bit tired is all... the train and everything.”

There was a strained silence, Emma trying to finish her meal, for fear of offending Kara. At last she plucked up courage and asked her about her makeover. The cut was done by an old friend who works at a salon in town. Kara revealed that she used to work at the salon as a shampoo girl on Saturdays when she was at school and did some cutting herself. Her friend did a cut and colour completely of her choosing without even telling Kara what she was going to do. Emma was in awe as she described the experience, filled with such conflicting emotions. Kara remained very calm as she related the story but was aware of the excitement she was causing.

“Weren't you upset when she cut it so short?” Emma blurted out, trembling as she imagined how she'd feel being cut so short that her ear was exposed. Kara giggled and explained that she'd had far shorter cuts than this one. “I do like it, it's just such a big change I'll have to get used to it” Emma explained. Kara replied that she never kept the same look for long so she shouldn't take too long getting used to it. She went to get her laptop and opened up a file with lots of photos and Emma was able to see 5 years worth of different looks on Kara. For a couple of years in her late teens she'd worn her hair extremely short, often in very masculine styles. One summer she'd had a flattop, almost to the scalp on the back and sides, the top bleached white blonde. In the picture she was tanned and embracing another girl with short (but not as short) hair. Emma stared at each new image in open mouthed fascination. She would steal glimpses of Kara from time to time, and all the time feeling herself becoming more besotted.

Kara smiled at her and confided that she'd hated her long hair. “Might get Leah to take me short again, what do you think?”

“What... how short?” Emma said, a little too excitedly, stumbling over her words. “Like that one when you had blonde hair?” She felt the roar come back as her heart beat rattled her chest, imagining clippers shearing away Kara's lovely hair until her skin was visible. The vision appalled and terrified her but also made her break out in a sweat entirely sexual in origin.

“Oh that was a cool cut” Kara grinned. “I wasn't thinking so short but if you like...” Emma was so stunned she was unable to respond. Her stomach was spasming as she tried to determine if Kara was serious. “And what about your hair, what cuts have you had, Em?”

Kara seemed amazed as she disclosed that she'd never had her hair cut above her shoulders and that dye had never touched her locks. “Well, if you want me to get mine cut that short, you have to get a major cut too!” Kara said, surprisingly forcefully. Emma looked at her, pained, knowing that Kara always backed off when she got uncomfortable. But she didn't this time.

“You're nineteen and you've never had a real style. I'm going to get you to Leah and get a proper cut before you're twenty, Emma. When is your birthday?”

“It's next month, but I like my hair long, please don't joke, I get nervous about cutting it.”

“OK honey, I won't joke. Haircut before your birthday. Totally serious. If you won't go to Leah then I'll do it.”

Emma didn't know where to look. She'd never seen Kara like this before. She was being so bossy, and she seemed to be enjoying scaring her. She could feel tears welling up, but there was something else she was feeling too. Kara telling her what to do was getting her so excited that she was close to cumming.

Suddenly a smile spread over Kara's lips and she seemed like the old Kara. “Oh let's go out tonight, just the two of us, get dressed up nice and go the pub for a couple of drinks. Please say yes!” Emma could only agree.

An hour later the two women were walking to the local pub. Kara had insisted on doing Emma's hair and make-up. She'd pinned her hair up in a large bun on top of her head (“to make you look taller”) and given her smoky eyes and deep red lips. It was a far more glamorous look than Emma would ever have chosen and she felt a little self-conscious. Kara had chosen her outfit too, a silky red top and flared black skirt with her highest heels (although they weren't very high at all). Kara had muttered about taking her shopping. Kara wore a very simple grey minidress and white four inch heels. Despite her earlier misgivings about the new haircut, Emma had never seen her look more beautiful.

Kara instructed Emma to get a table while she went to the bar, and returned with a pint of cider for her. Emma complained that she didn't want to drink alcohol, and besides, cider was too strong for her. “Just this one then,” Kara  smiled. As they chatted, Emma was aware that they were attracting a lot of attention. She at first assumed that everyone was looking at Kara (“who wouldn't?”) but soon came to realise that she was attracting attention too.

“Yes, they're looking at you,” said Kara as if reading her thoughts. “You're a very beautiful girl, Emma.”

She felt her cheeks suffuse with warmth. “Thanks. I'm sure it's you they're looking at though.”

It was a new feeling for Emma to think of people being attracted to her and she felt proud to be out with Kara. But her feelings were ambivalent; she felt shy, part of her wanted to be able to blend into the background as she'd always done before.

The alcohol soon started to take its effect on her (she rarely drank more than a pint of lager in an evening, and Kara had bought second and then third pints of cider for her tonight) and trips to the bathroom became more frequent. Kara insisted on touching up her make-up and ensuring her hair was in place, which Emma found intensely erotic, particularly when other women came in and looked at them. As Kara applied a fresh layer of lip gloss she suddenly looked very intently at Emma.

“Emma, are you sub?”

“Sub..?” she replied, confused only partly because she was drunk.

“Yeah. Sub... missive.”

Emma barely knew what this meant, she knew that the world of BDSM existed but that's about all. “I dunno...” she slurred.

“What I mean is... if you were my girlfriend would you do as you were told?”

Emma looked up at Kara, her eyes huge, and whimpered. Was this for real or was Kara playing a cruel joke? Her mouth was suddenly so dry that she couldn't speak.

“Well? Do you want to obey me and make me happy?”

Emma nodded solemnly.

“Even if it means a haircut?”

A squeak of distress came out of Emma's mouth.

“You want me more than you want to keep your hair, don't you, Emma?”

Emma's brain seemed to be working at a tenth it's usual pace. She looked pale and terrified as she looked up at Kara, towering a head and more above her.

“Don't you?!” Kara repeated loudly.

“Oh yes”

“In private you'll call me Miss Kara.”

“Yes, Miss Kara.”

“Promise that you'll love and obey me, Emma.”

Emma was trembling now. Everything seemed unreal, the ground felt soft beneath her. She was sure that at any moment the earth would engulf her.

“I promise to love and obey you Miss Kara,” she gasped breathlessly.

“Good girl! You may kiss me.”

Kara dipped her head, her long fringe brushing against Emma's cheek. Emma tilted her head back and brought her lips up to meet Kara's. The softness and warmth seemed to set her body alight with an electrical charge.

Emma had no idea how long the first kiss lasted. Time seemed to be transfixed. After their lips finally drew apart Emma squeaked “Oh God, I need to pee!” and dashed toward the cubicle. “I mean I need to pee Miss Kara” she added as an afterthought.

On the way home from the pub Kara asked Emma if she'd ever had a fringe.

“When I was about eight, Miss”

They stopped and Kara looked at her face intently. “You're going to get a fringe tonight, Emma, OK?”

“Oh God, noooo!” Emma wailed, panic hitting hard through the fug the alcohol had induced.

“Emmie, what did you promise me?”

“Oh God, Miss... I mean... to obey you, love you.”

“So tell me you want a fringe. It would make me happy”

Emma's eyes filled with tears. “Please Miss Kara, I want a fringe,” she managed to say, her voice cracking. When Kara kissed her cheek she almost climaxed.

As soon as the two women arrived home they went to the bathroom. Kara told Emma to undress, and sat watching her. Emma had never felt more anxious, the woman she loved was about to see her naked for the first time. So nervous was she that Kara had to unzip her skirt as her fingers were shaking so much. Finally she stood naked, head bowed in shame, sure that Kara would be disappointed. She felt Kara's slender fingers under her chin, lifting her face till their eyes met. “Emmie, you have the most perfect body.” One look in her eyes and Emma could never doubt her sincerity.

“Although, there is one thing... The carpet has to go,” she said, glancing at the dark curls covering Emma's mound. She meekly gave her consent.

Emma sat on a chair, legs spread wide as Kara used a pair of tiny scissors to snip her curls tight to her skin. Every touch made Emma want to squirm and she moaned and sighed. Kara told her that she had to ask if she wanted to cum and that she'd be punished if she lost control. She was shocked to see her lush curls reduced to an uneven stubble. It looked dirty and unpleasant. Kara squirted some shaving foam into her hand and worked it to a lather. As she spread it on to Emma's skin, the sensations were overwhelming.

“Oh Miss Kara, please may I cum? Please please please...” she gabbled frantically. Kara nodded and firmly placed two fingers on her clit. She started massaging it vigorously as her other hand kneaded the remains of the lather into Emma's heavy breast. She placed her lips on Emma's and their tongues softly lapped at each other. Kara noted that Emma was keen to probe at her piercing, which clearly fascinated her. Within seconds she groaned, then squealed as a powerful climax overtook her.

Kara wielded a razor over her skin, the blades dragging and scraping away the stiff little hairs. Emma was afraid to move for fear of being cut. She stared down, fascinated to see her sex exposed so completely. “You'll have to learn to control yourself better,” Kara advised her. “When you do you'll start to understand what real pleasure is. And you'll shave this every morning starting tomorrow, I want us to be as smooth as each other.”

Emma nodded obediently. As the lather was wiped away with a damp face cloth her thighs twitched. She was close to another climax, but wanted to prove to Kara that she had some control. “You like my new piercing then, I see.”

“Yes Miss Kara. It's so sexy,” Emma purred. “What's it called?”

“It's a medusa. You only have your ears done, don't you? We need to change that.” Emma's face betrayed the little burst of panic she felt. She was sobering up now and starting to wonder what she'd got herself into, not that she had any will to resist. “Now you're nice and smooth, do you think you could control yourself if I licked you down there?”

“I don't know Miss Kara, you're getting me so excited with everything you do.”

“I'm going to lick you and if you cum you'll be punished.”

Kara dropped to her knees and started to run the tip of her tongue up and down Emma's labia. Emma groaned, her head thrown back, eyes screwed up as she tried to control her feelings. The shaving had left her very sensitive and now she was being licked by another woman for the first time. The tip of Kara's tongue flickered over her slit pushing her toward the brink. When she felt Kara's medusa delicately start to stimulate her clitoris she could contain her passion no longer. Her hand reached out to stroke Kara's hair where it had been cut so short over her ear. She was surprised at how soft her hair was, soft and silky, she couldn't stop playing with it, her little finger traced around the piercings of her ear as she did. She'd half expected Kara to resist, after all she'd disobeyed her, but Kara seemed to be having as much pleasure as her. She lapped at Emma, savouring every drop of the juices that dribbled from her.

At length Kara rose. “Bad girl,” she whispered. “What happens to bad girls?”

“I'm sorry Miss Kara, I'm weak. I suppose bad girls get punished.”

“That's right, Emmie.” She was excited to see a fearful glint in her eyes.

Emma felt her mistress pick the pins out of her hair and let her long hair fall free. She brushed it until it shone. “Do you want to watch the cutting?” she asked. Emma could only nod mutely.

Kara combed a section of hair forward at the front. The sides were combed back behind Emma's ears and held there with clips. “I'll make a braid of this piece so we can keep it,”  Kara said. Her model was only able to grunt her assent. She felt the hair being divided, saw Kara's slender fingers slide through her locks. Then she pulled the hair taut as the strands were plaited together. Emma started to plead as she saw how thick the braided hair was.

“Please Miss Kara, it's too much, don't cut so much.”

“Trust me, you'll look beautiful,” Kara said softly and reassuringly. The braid reached down to Emma's breasts. Kara wound the tip with an elastic, then tied a thin ribbon high on the braid, mid way up Emma's nose. By now she was snivelling and still muttering pleas.

Kara lifted Emma's face and kissed her on the lips with surprising tenderness. “Be brave for me, Emmie. You'll be beautiful.”

“Yes Miss Kara,” she agreed as the scissors opened around the braid. She heard the blades closing, a crunching as they closed onto her beautiful hair, her treasured hair. Sawing and hacking to get through the thick tight braid. She thought about her mother, she'd always loved her hair so much, how is she going to explain this? A wave of emotion engulfed her and she started to sob. Her hair was her greatest asset, it was what made her feminine, having it cut was her greatest fear, and now it was happening, and she'd agreed to it. Still Kara worked the blades right before her eyes. The final strand was severed, it felt like an umbilical was being cut. She was being reborn into a new existence.

Emma looked into the mirror. She had to tilt her head back to see under the fringe which otherwise fell over her eyes. Now she could see why the braid was so thick. The fringe started at the middle of the top of her head and was the full width of her forehead. “That's a good girl,” Kara said, stroking her cheek. “Now we'll get it nice and neat.”

A hand on her crown straightened her head and Kara combed through the fringe over and over till it lay smoothly over her forehead. Then, using the comb to guide she started to snip. Emma was horrified at how high the comb was, it was high on her forehead. She saw big pieces of hair fall, felt them plop heavily in her lap. She was utterly helpless now, Kara could do as she pleased. And then she had a sort of epiphany. She loved this. She wanted to be helpless. She wanted to be Kara's to do as she pleased. She wanted to be Kara's doll, to have her dress her, cut her hair, to be obedient, to love her, to make her happy. She wanted Kara to cut her fringe too short, she wanted to look wild and daring. Through her tears she smiled and gasped “ Please Miss Kara, may I cum?” Her mistress smiled and told her that she would be allowed soon.

Kara completed the cutting. She spritzed a little hairspray into her fringe and then carefully styled it, curling it in fine sections with straighteners. “Can I see it, Miss Kara?” Emma said, her voice full of emotion. Before allowing her to see, Kara removed Emma's eye make-up, which had been devastated by her tears. Finally she lifted the mirror to let Emma see herself.

Her fringe was very thick and full, cut in a straight line midway up her forehead. The styling made it shine. Even though she'd felt how it was being cut, Emma was shocked at how short and wide her fringe was. It looked... extreme. It was way above her eyebrows. She was suddenly filled with dread about going out looking like this. She'd seen plenty of girls with Betty Page fringes this length, but hers was far thicker than those girls wore theirs. The bravado she'd felt a few minutes ago was now disintegrating in the face of reality and her thoughts went back to the ambivalent feelings she'd experienced in the pub when people were staring at her. She looked up at Kara, who smiled back at her beatifically. “Now I can see those lovely eyes. I hated it when your hair got in your face. Now come to bed.”

A few minutes later Emma joined Kara in her bedroom where her braid was now dangling from the wall above the bed. She'd taken out her contact lenses and put on her glasses (black frames with narrow oblong lenses), which previously she'd never allowed Kara to see. “I love your glasses!” Kara smiled. Emma winced. She'd hated wearing glasses through her childhood and avoided being seen in them now. She started to explain this to Kara, but she hushed her with a finger on her lip. “No contacts lenses any more. If you don't like these glasses we'll get you some nice new ones.” Emma felt despondent as she agreed.

Now Kara undressed. Emma dropped to her knees, it seemed appropriate in the presence of such beauty. Kara's body was lithe and toned, small shapely breasts with the nipples adorned with pierced bars, her navel accentuated by a ring, long shapely legs and a smoothly shaved pubis. “Miss Kara, you're the most beautiful woman I've ever seen, and I'm the luckiest girl alive to be with you.”

“I'm the lucky one,” Kara said as she dragged Emma up into her bed where neither had much sleep that night.

The next morning Kara rose early and insisted on Emma getting up too. She felt quite ill; her lack of tolerance for alcohol meant that even her modest intake had given her a hangover and she was confused that Kara was waking her so early. Kara was amused to see Emma suddenly become fully awake with a start as she realised that she was in Kara's bed. As the memories of the previous night came back Emma reached up and groaned to feel her short fringe. It wasn't a nightmare. But if her fringe was so short then that meant that Kara was really her girlfriend. She smiled up at Kara who told her to get up within thirty seconds if she wanted to avoid being due two punishments.

In the bathroom Kara outlined Emma's morning routine. Each day she would shower and shave. This would be completed by 6.30 to allow Kara access to the bathroom. All hairstyling and make-up would be performed by Kara unless otherwise instructed. Emma would lay out clothes in her bedroom so that Kara could choose her outfit for the day. She was to prepare breakfast for both of them and would be out of the house for 8.30, in time for her 9.00 lecture. Any tardiness would result in punishment.

Emma showered and, with some difficulty, shaved herself but didn't dare to put the razor to the most delicate areas. Luckily there was barely a trace of stubble after Kara's shaving only a few hours before, but Emma knew that she'd have to learn to shave herself properly.

She left her hair wet from the shower, wrapped in a towel. Once Kara had showered she came to style Emma's hair. She blow dried it, curling her new fringe under. Then she divided the long hair into two sections following a mid line up the back, and gave Emma a heavy braid on each side. Emma hated the style but didn't dare to voice her opinion.

“Now your make-up...” Kara began by rubbing some cream over Emma's eyebrows. “Do you remember you're due a punishment?” she asked. Emma gasped as her mistress picked up a razor. She sat passively, trying not to cry as her full eyebrows were shaved completely. Kara offered her a mirror. Only as Emma squinted, then reached for her glasses did Kara realise quite how short sighted she was.

As she saw herself browless, Emma cried out. “Oh Miss, I look so freakish.” She fingered her fringe, as if somehow that would make it grow and cover up the absence of brows. Kara told her that her shaving routine would include her brows and that normally she would wear drawn on brows. However, as her punishment today she would go without. Emma looked like she was about to sob but was warned that she would get her eye make-up now and that she was not to cry and spoil it. Emma sat biting her lip as her top lids were rimmed with liquid liner, with flicks extending out. Her lips were coloured with a matt pale pink. Then Kara added long false lashes, which Emma had never worn before and the sensation made her repeatedly flutter her eyelids (which delighted Kara). She barely recognised the girl she saw in the mirror when she put her glasses back, and hoped that the other people in the lecture wouldn't recognise her either.

-------------------

Emma set out on her own, wearing a thick red polo neck sweater (and no bra) which she thought she'd outgrown (Kara loved how it showed off her curves), the shortest skirt she owned, black tights and flat shoes. She felt like everyone was staring at her. If she'd been ambivalent about the attention in the pub last night, this was just... bad. The plaits and fringe made her look about twelve, but the lack of eyebrows was just weird. And she hated wearing her glasses. She'd got through the whole first year without wearing them once in public. She hoped that Kara would relent and allow her to revert to her lenses.

Emma arrived at the lecture theatre ten minutes early and sat in the back row. She scrupulously avoided eye contact with the few students who were already there and immediately bowed her head to read some notes. She was painfully aware that no hair fell forward to cover her face. After a few minutes she glanced up and met the eye of a girl a couple of rows in front. She was a girl with whom Emma had barely exchanged two words during lectures; she seemed vain, arrogant and spoilt. Now she stared at Emma with an amused smirk which made Emma drop her gaze and feel all her worst fears were real. She endured the lecture in a haze, barely able to follow the tutor, her attention constantly wandering. Her thoughts were filled with her lovely Kara; she wanted to be in her arms again, being reassured, embraced, kissed.

When the morning's academic requirements were completed, Emma dashed from the building, first through the door to avoid having to face any of the students from her course. She checked her phone and her heart raced as she saw a text from Kara instructing her to meet her at her work space. She hurried across the campus, head bowed, sure that everyone was thinking how weird she looked. She got to the art department and headed to the first floor where she knew the spaces were, not that she'd been here before. She entered a long corridor-like room which had partitions along each wall to form small work spaces and ambled along nervously, looking for Kara.

About half way along she saw two girls in conversation over their coffee. She recognised one as a friend of Kara's, Gemma. She returned Emma's gaze for a second or two before a look of recognition appeared. “Wow, did everyone in your house get makeovers?” she gushed. “Looks er... cool...” she continued, not entirely convincingly. Emma's hand reflexively fussed with her thick fringe as she thanked Gemma for her compliment. She was glad when she directed her to Kara's work space and she could end the awkward conversation.

Kara was working on a painting, a brightly coloured patterned abstract. Emma hadn't seen any of her large canvases before, only small drawings and watercolours, and was genuinely impressed. Kara shrieked with delight to see her new girlfriend, frantically scrubbing paint from her hands with a turps soaked rag before hugging her. She held on to Emma, gazing lovingly into her dark eyes for what seemed an eternity before finally initiating a long passionate kiss. Kara was delighted to feel Emma's tongue once more curling up inside her lip to feel her piercing.

All of Emma's anxiety and insecurity vanished the moment she saw Kara. Waves of bliss surrounded her, sweeping her into a maelstrom of pleasure. Even the smell of turps seemed erotic. Suddenly the misery and doubt she'd endured all morning was swept away and she longed to be Kara's play thing again.

The two sat and chatted about their mornings. Kara looked slyly amused as Emma told how self conscious she'd felt all the time she was in public. “I suppose I'll get used to it,” she mused.

“Well, I want you to enjoy changing your look. I like the idea that you'll always be trying to get used to how you look,” Kara beamed. Emma couldn't suppress a little squirm in her chair as she wondered how she could live her entire life feeling as she'd done all morning. She started to say how much she loved the painting Kara was working on, mainly to change the subject, but Kara seemed happy to discuss it. She explained that the patterns and colours were all derived from animal- and plant-forms and showed some small drawings that she'd made as studies, asking Emma to pick her favourite. She chose a small graphite drawing where small circles of various sizes interlocked, the shapes being formed in white where the pigment had been erased. Kara showed her another where the snaking tendrils were copied from the forms of mould mycelia, where the pattern in the drawing Emma had picked were derived from the tentacles of an octopus. Emma was once again in awe of Kara's breadth of knowledge. She wrapped the two drawings with tracing paper and placed them in her bag.

Since the weather was sunny and very mild by the usual standards of the English Autumn, Emma and Kara decided to eat their lunches in a park near the campus. As they entered the park Kara noticed how her friend was slouching and keeping her head lowered.

“Emmie, you need to stand straight and proud. I won't have you looking like you're afraid to be seen with me.” Emma lifted her head a little, but it didn't appease her mistress. “Neck straight, shoulders back, thrust your breasts forward! They're one of your best features so make the most of them,” she ordered. Emma had never walked like this in her life and felt even further out of her comfort zone. “I'll be keeping an eye out when you think I'm not around and if I see you reverting to your slouch you'll be wearing one of these...”

Kara dabbed at her phone to find the picture she desired. Emma saw a beautiful young model wearing a sort of neck brace except this was nothing like the ones she'd seen on accident victims. It appeared to be made of black latex. Emma's eyes widened at the sight and she giggled nervously, but Kara assured her that she was serious and that it was common in fetish circles for submissives to wear collars. Emma blushed at her ignorance of the world that Kara was drawing her into.

As the two friends sat eating their lunches Emma informed Kara that she had a free study afternoon and planned to go home to read. Kara's face lit up as she informed her that this afternoon Emma would be studying looking even more sexy. Emma's long false lashes fluttered nervously as she wondered what Kara had in mind but responded with a meek “Yes Miss Kara.”

Half an hour later Kara was leading her into a bohemian area of the city, where the shops sold vintage clothes, bric-a-brac, records and such. Emma optimistically thought of a new outfit. As Kara led her to a halt outside a piercing and tattoo shop her stomach started to perform gymnastics and she regretted the rather large sandwich she'd just eaten. “Here, Miss Kara?” Her voice was tremulous.

Kara nodded and smiled calmly. “You can just call me Kara in here, Emmie. And... just go along with everything I say. Don't cause a scene or you'll be punished. On the other hand, if you're a good girl, your rewards will be greater than you could possibly imagine.” This had exactly the desired effect on Emma who was now so excited she was on the verge of peeing herself. The promise of a reward was so arousing for her (her head swam with the blurred memories of the previous night), and the threat of punishment only added spice.

It was a Monday afternoon so unsurprisingly the shop wasn't busy. Kara had rang a bell to be allowed to enter. Inside, she made the introductions. Esther looked to be in her mid twenties, olive skinned, dark eyed, long, coarse black hair with the most amazing tight curls. Her ears appeared to bear a number of piercings (her hair obscured closer examination) and a thin hoop hung in her right nostril but she wasn't as heavily pierced as Emma imagined someone in her profession would be. She asked if everything was ok with Kara's medusa, and she confirmed it was healing well and she loved it. When she referred to Emma as her girlfriend it felt like the proudest moment of her life; Kara told Esther that Emma had loved the medusa so much she'd been insistent on getting pierced too. Emma tried to smile but her face felt like it was paralysed. Twenty-four hours previous she'd been saying farewell to her parents, their sweet little virgin daughter. Now she'd had her treasured hair butchered, her eyebrows shaved, had had her first sexual experience (lesbian at that) and was about to be pierced and had no idea where. Emma realised that her fidgeting was due in part to her bladder. Her excitement really was close to making her lose control and she asked to use the toilet.

It still came as something of a jolt to her to see her pale bare skin, the expected sight of the soft dark curls now seemingly forever absent. Her panties were wet and sticky as she peeled them free; she'd been in a constant state of arousal since she'd met up with Kara. Her fingers caressed the smooth skin and sought out her clitoris, a warm shiver passing through her body at the touch. Her lips parted and a gasp escaped as she thought of being with Kara again. She adored it when her mistress told her she was a good girl, she wanted that praise all the time. Now all she had to do was to endure a little pain to gain validation, she could do that, couldn't she? Emma dressed herself (the urge to finger herself to orgasm was strong but she knew she had to save herself for later) and looked at the odd new version of herself in the mirror, breathing slowly to try to compose herself.

As she returned she heard Kara explaining that her mother was a little conservative and had always forbidden Emma from being pierced (it was absolutely true, although she'd never discussed it with Kara. The two studs in her ears had been an act of revolt when she was fifteen, resulting in her mother not talking to her for a full week and more) but now that she was an adult and away from home she'd decided she had to assert her freedom. The irony wasn't lost on Emma.

She tried to look composed as she came over to Esther but her anxiety was obvious. Esther seemed really sweet and was making every effort to keep Emma calm. When she asked her what piercings she wanted, Kara spoke up. “You thought about five today, didn't you, Emmie? Another in each ear, nipples and tongue, that's right, isn't it?”

Emma was horrified, she managed to grunt yes, but it felt like someone very distant replied for her. Esther was talking and it took all of Emma's strength to focus on her words.

“...a lot for someone who's never really had any piercings before, especially the tongue. I think we should forget that for today and just do the others. If they heal well we can do the tongue in a few weeks.”

Kara smiled sweetly but Emma could see she wasn't going to accept Esther having control. “Well you mentioned a ring in your lip too, didn't you darling? That wouldn't be as tough as the tongue, would it?” She gave Emma her most winning smile and she could only nod in agreement. True, it didn't sound as brutal as having her tongue pierced (though bad enough) but it was a whole lot more visible. Esther was a little unsure but agreed that if Emma coped well with the others piercings that she'd do it.

“Take off your sweater, it might catch at your ears if you take it off after they're done,” Esther said as she started to make preparations. The sensation of helplessness once more descended on Emma as she realised that there was no way out of this. She felt some shame as she revealed to a stranger that she was braless. Kara helped her to climb up onto the table and recline. At Esther's suggestion she tied the braids up on top of Emma's head to make sure that no hair would touch her ears. The piercer tied her own hair back too, allowing Emma to see that her ears were pierced in numerous places, places that Emma couldn't even name. Esther was now wearing a pair of oversized horn-rimmed glasses which earned her fulsome compliments from Kara (Emma didn't think they suited her in the slightest). She mentioned that Emma's glasses were a little outdated and that she wanted new ones, getting an assurance from Esther that she'd pass her a business card for the opticians she used before they left.

“We'll start with your ears, those shouldn't hurt too much.” And Esther eased the studs from Emma's ears before marking little dots a little further back on her lobes. Emma nodded when she checked the placement in the mirror. Kara held Emma's hand, which was now dripping with sweat, as her ears were thoroughly scrubbed. All the implements were out of her line of sight, which was a relief; she'd have hated to see the needles that were about to penetrate her flesh. Esther checked with Emma that she was ok with titanium rings going in, assuring her that these were least likely to cause problems during healing. Then Emma felt something close firmly on her ear and increased her grip on Kara's hand. “Just a little scratch...” Esther murmured, and a sharp pain shot through Emma's ear. She groaned softly as she felt some pulling and tugging; the needle was eased out and the ring fed in through the tubing that kept the piercing open. Emma sucked at her lip, wincing and wanting the hurt to stop. It was over surprisingly quickly, and she could feel the weight of the new ring. She lifted the mirror to take a look and was surprised to see that the ring was thicker than anything she'd worn, a good 2 mm thick and about a half inch round closed with a spherical bead. Kara purred her approval and asked if the existing holes would stretch to take rings of the same gauge. Esther warned that it might sting a bit but that it would be safe with such well healed holes.

A few minutes later Emma sported four identical rings in her throbbing earlobes. “You're such a good girl,” Kara said, kissing Emma's clammy hands lovingly. “Are you feeling OK to get your nipples done?”

In truth Emma would have given a lot to forego being given pierced nipples but she knew that agreeing would earn her the approval of Kara and that outweighed any of the negatives. She nodded, forced a smile and whispered “Yeah, fine.”

Now Kara started to massage her nipples with her soft fingers, very delicately. Emma was taken completely unaware and couldn't help a moan of pleasure slipping out. Her little pink bud-like nipples engorged and she felt herself close to losing control. Esther smiled indulgently, telling Emma it would make her job easier if they were erect.

Once her skin was sterilised playing with her nipples was forbidden. The cold of the antiseptic made her skin tighten and her nipples hardened whilst retaining their enlarged size. They were wide and rounded, almost perfect hemispheres on her large pink areolae. Now there were little dots on either side so that the rings would be placed accurately. Esther clamped some forceps onto her left nipple, firmly but not painfully. There were holes in the tips that were aligned over the dots. “You might want to look away,” she said as she reached for the needle. Emma turned her head to look at Kara. She was smiling, her excitement palpable, her pupils dilated which Emma thought made her look even more lovely. She felt a sting as the needle touched her. The pain mounted as it slid deeper into her flesh, burrowing ever deeper, all the time the pain growing. This bore no comparison to her ears, it was almost unbearable. She felt her body react wildly, she felt cold and there were beads of sweat forming on her forehead, her stomach contracted and she tasted acid in her mouth, sure she would be sick. There was a weird sensation as the needle popped through and the pain diminished as the motion stopped.

“Breathe Emma, slow deep breaths.” Kara's voice came to her lontano. She opened her eyes and saw a look of concern on her face.

“I'm... OK,” Emma managed. She felt something wet on her abdomen and looked down to see a dribble of blood, dark against her white skin and a needle horizontal through her nipple. For a moment her senses were thrown into confusion and she thought she might faint. She let her head hang back and focussed on her breathing as Kara kept telling her how brave she was.

Then she was sipping some water (Kara was holding the cup) as Esther dabbed at her forehead. She felt like she was slowly emerging from a trance. Glancing down, Emma realised that both nipples were now pierced and shiny rings, as thick as those in her ears and slightly larger, were dangling there, right at the base of her nipples, forever holding them erected. She felt a slight revulsion, an inner voice telling her to get these intrusions out of her body, but she also thought back to the previous night and the pleasure both of them had derived from the play with Kara's pierced nipples.

Esther allowed the two of them some time alone while Emma recovered, all the time Kara cooing about how well she'd done and what a brave girl she was. She leaned closer and whispered “You can leave it at that for today if you want, I won't be disappointed.”

Emma was touched by her affection and kissed her on the cheek. “I love you so much” she whispered. “And one more won't hurt... Well, yes it will hurt, but...” and dissolved into giggling.

A three way discussion ended with a mutual decision that Emma would receive a labret piercing, right at the centre of her lower lip, like a mirror image to Kara's medusa. It would be placed so that she could wear a ring but today she'd get a stud which she'd keep in during healing. She tried to convince herself that this wouldn't be so bad as her nipples but as soon as the needle touched her Emma found herself experiencing the same rush of intense feelings with the addition that her mouth filled with blood. She found it hard to speak, every movement of her lip set off the extreme tenderness of the fresh wound, but was reassured that this would pass after a few hours. She was allowed to rest for ten minutes while Kara settled the bill and got all the aftercare instructions (Esther had correctly assessed that Emma was in no state of mind to take in complex information).

Her legs felt unsteady as Emma walked over to look at herself in the full length mirror, naked from the waist up. She was still a little repulsed by the nipple rings; it wasn't just hygiene issues that stopped her from touching them. As she looked at her face the new lip piercing seemed to draw attention to her full lips as never before. And her ears bore the type of rings that she'd never imagined on herself, they were the sort of jewellery that alternative type of girls had. Overnight she'd changed into a new person, she didn't know herself any more.

Gauze pads were taped over her breasts to protect the rings and Kara helped her to put her sweater back on without snagging her ears. Esther passed her a card for the optician as promised and mentioned to Kara that she'd ask the tattooist to call her about arranging a consultation. Emma's eye's widened in horror as she thought about tattooing. Who was getting one? She wasn't sure she liked the idea of Kara with tattoos, and as for herself... Her mother would never forgive her. But then, the haircut and piercings would be bad enough. Best not think about mum for now.

As the happy couple left the shop Emma was shocked to realise that it was still early afternoon. She'd lost track of time completely and was staggered to find she'd not been with Esther for as much as an hour. She wanted to ask about the tattoo but found that every attempt to talk caused pain and her lip was still bleeding slightly so she resolved to discuss that later. Kara was elated and kept looking lovingly at the newly pierced Emma. As they passed a deserted side street Kara dragged Emma to the wall and roughly pushed her back against it. Then she pressed her body against hers, fully aware that she was causing some pain as her weight rested against the wounded nipples. “Emma, Emma, Emma, I fucking love you,” she sighed and kissed her roughly, careless of her new piercing. Emma was paralysed, moaning as her lip felt like it was going to split, then moaning more loudly as she felt her sex start to contract rhythmically. She glanced out of the corner of her eye and realised that a group of girls were passing at the end of the street, gawping at them kissing. And as they stared she could no longer control herself, in spite of the pain, in spite of being watched, no, because of the pain, because of being watched, she was climaxing. She gasped and squealed, she roughly forced her tongue against Kara's, she ran her fingers in Kara's hair which felt divine, the most beautiful sensation she knew. She was in heaven despite the pain, despite the blood, she didn't care if everyone knew.

Emma sprawled against the wall. She was unable to walk, so powerful had been her orgasm. She kept thinking she was a slut, and the idea excited her. “Miss Kara, I cum” she mumbled with some pain.

Kara laughed. “Yes, I think that was pretty obvious, and not just to me. And I can smell sex on you. Your knickers are dripping, aren't they?”

Emma moaned and closed her eyes. What was happening to her? What sort of girl was she turning into?

A few minutes later she discovered that she was turning into the sort of girl that habituated sex shops. Kara led her into a basement shop that she didn't know existed. And she made her look at the dildos and vibrators. Emma had used a dildo frequently in her little hall of residence room but confessed that she'd never owned a vibe. Shortly, they left the shop, Emma the proud owner of a large vibe with rabbit, Kara with a new strap-on with which to reward her obedient girlfriend.

The route they were taking was clearly not the way home, and Emma inquired where they were headed.

“I'm going in to see Leah, I want her to make a few changes to my cut.”

Emma's mind flashed back to the fantasies she'd had about Kara being shorn and shaved to a flattop again. She looked at her hair, her lovely new cut which she'd first seen less than a day ago. As exciting as the idea of a new haircut was, she found it physically painful to imagine Kara being barbered. “Please, don't cut your hair short, Miss” she pleaded.

Kara laughed. “I thought you liked my dyke phase. Didn't you say you wanted me to get a butch cut again?”

Further discussion was curtailed as they arrived at Leah's salon. It wasn't a very large shop but Emma was impressed, not to say a little intimidated, by its stylishness. All gleaming white surfaces, bright lights and large plasma screens showing scenes of fashion shows with stylised camera work and choppy edits. Emma's salon experiences were always at more mundane places, but then she'd only ever wanted a light trim of her long hair.

Leah was alone in the shop, and Emma found her very impressive. She was nearly as tall as Kara and similarly slim. She had quite angular features which were perfectly complemented by her sleek bob (perfectly cut, very classical), coloured a cool blonde. She was pleased to see Kara, saying that she'd not had anything to do all afternoon. The salon had been so dead that the other stylists had left early, leaving her to man the phones and close up. Leah kept eyeing Emma's plaits, clearly under the impression that she was going to be cutting her hair. It was some minutes before Kara announced that Emma was “my new girlfriend” which initiated a discussion about how lovely she was, which Emma found almost intolerably embarrassing. Her lip was now throbbing, making it almost impossible to join in the chat. At last, Kara jumped in the chair and told Emma to sit in the next chair so she had a good view. She pulled Leah close to her and whispered conspiratorially, then passed her the drawings that she'd shown Emma at the studio.

Emma couldn't understand what was going on. Leah took a cape and slid it around Kara's neck. She combed through her hair and put some clips in the longer hair. From a drawer Leah took a set of clippers, which made Emma squirm in anticipation. Was Kara going to go back to that very severe masculine cut she'd worn 3 or 4 summers back? Emma felt quite emotional to think of her friend going too short. Leah glanced over and asked if Emma had ever seen anyone being cut with clippers, to which she shook her head (Kara had mentioned her new piercing was sore so she understood that her muteness wasn't impolite). She explained how the length of the cut was determined by the size of the guard clipped over the blades and showed how the blades could be adjusted to give a taper. “I'm going to be using the number two on Kara, that leaves a quarter inch of hair, nice and crisp,” she said very calmly.

“All over?” squeaked Emma, her eyes huge at the idea.

The others smiled enigmatically but said nothing.

Leah flicked the switch and the motor came alive. Kara instinctively tilted her head to expose the left side to Leah, who ran a comb up the short hair then placed the clippers to her cheek and slowly pushed  them up through Kara's temple.

Emma watched through huge eyes as the vividly coloured red hair flew free, the blades throwing the short hairs into the air, falling back to dust the cape. She wanted to collect every hair, remembering the soft texture and sweet scent of Kara's hair as they'd made love. Now all that was left was a short pelt which hugged the contours of her skull, so short that her scalp showed slightly. Leah was cutting all the way up to Kara's parting.

Leah had clippered a roughly square patch of hair now, working back to a vertical line which rose level with the back of her ear. She moved the clippers over the shorn hair repeatedly to make sure that not a single hair was out of place. Just then the phone rang and Leah flicked off the clippers and excused herself as she answered the call.

Kara smiled at Emma, and slid a hand from under the cape to beckon her over. “Feel it” she ordered. Emma rubbed her fingertips nervously over the buzzed area and was delighted to feel there was still softness there. Kara's hair was so soft that it felt like a small animal's soft fur. Emma was enchanted by the sensation and bent her head to kiss Kara, regardless of the pain she felt when pursing her lips. She was lost in the moment as she let her lips move over the clippered area, then into the longer tresses at the back of her head, letting the coolness ease the pain of her piercing, inhaling Kara's musky scent. She heard a rustle of nylon and glanced down, seeing that Kara's hands were in motion as she touched herself under the cape.

“Ladies, please, we are still open to the public,” announced Leah. Emma apologised and even Kara looked slightly ashamed. Leah's deadpan expression gave way to a smile as she admitted she'd just closed up. “Let's get you finished up then, you hussy” she told Kara as she fished another smaller set of clippers from a drawer. She told Emma to hold up the drawing of the winding tendril like forms and then proceeded to set the edge of the blades to Kara's scalp. It took a moment for Emma to realise that these clippers cut to the skin. As they moved down a fine, sinuous line of bare scalp was exposed on Kara's head through the buzzed hair.

Leah worked very intently, duplicating the lines of the drawing very precisely, until a network of shaved lines covered the entire side above her left ear. Kara had had to sit very still during the entire cut and now turned her head to look in the mirror, grinning as she saw how nicely her drawing had been transcribed. “Wow, just perfect, Leah. You're a true artist.”

Leah brushed the shorn area to remove the clippings then whisked the brush over her neck as she slid the cape free. Kara walked over to Emma, lifting her hand to run it over her new cut. Emma shivered as she felt the bare scalp patterned with indescribably soft red bristles. Soon she was exploring it with her lips too, to Kara's obvious delight.

A mischievous look came over Kara's face. “Did you tell Leah what piercings you got earlier?” she demanded.

“I didn't.”

“You can call me Miss Kara here. And it's Miss Leah too, she's dominant.”

Emma felt her fear suddenly increase. As she was starting to learn, when Kara pushed her like this she felt herself getting turned on too. “I had rings put in my nipples, Miss Leah,” she mumbled, trying to hold her lip still as she spoke. Kara came close to her and helped her out of her sweater, then eased the pads away to expose the rings, Emma moaning at every caress now.

“She was a very good girl, Leah. She nearly fainted but she kept going and did everything I asked of her. Why don't you give her a nice shampoo as a reward?”

Leah was now standing very close and examining Emma closely. “There's an odour about you, Emma. What have you been doing?”

Emma looked imploringly at Kara for support but she only told her to speak up. “I got so turned on I had an orgasm, Miss Leah,” she whispered.

Emma was ordered to undress and told that she'd have to sit on a towel to avoid spoiling the salon chairs. Leah took her over to the sink and unwound her plaits, telling her “You have lovely hair Emma. I can't wait to get to work on dreaming up some new styles for you.” She placed a towel over Emma's shoulders and settled her back into the sink.

“I like my hair long, Miss Leah,” Emma said, sick with panic now. She found Leah very intimidating.

“I could colour your hair, even if I didn't cut it. Maybe a nice bright red like Kara's. Or a very light blonde would suit you.”

Kara expressed her approval for these ideas, then added “I saw the way you looked at Esther's hair. Maybe Leah could perm you. Nice springy stiff curls would be so sexy.”

Leah lifted Emma's glasses away from her face, leaving her feeling more vulnerable than ever, then began to spray her hair with warm water.

“I'd love to perm this thick hair,” she enthused. “I don't get to do nearly enough perms. You'd be here for a full day, imagine the fun we'd have.”

“Did you ever get a perm, Emmie?” Kara asked.

“No, I never liked the idea, Miss Kara.”

“But if I wanted it, that would make you like the idea, wouldn't it?”

Emma made the high fluting sigh that betrayed her level of excitement. “Yes Miss Kara, I'd do it for you.”

“And if curls didn't suit you then we could take you short. Leah could have you wearing a flattop like that one you like so much one me, it would take her 5 minutes to do that.”

Emma stuttered, trying to get out a reply but was getting more and more flustered.

“I think all lesbians should try short hair at least once, it's like a rite of passage,” Leah chipped in as she smoothed a handful of sweetly perfumed shampoo into Emma's locks.

“Are you going to ask Leah to give you a nice short cut today, Emma?” Kara asked.

“Please Miss Kara, let me keep my hair long,” Emma moaned.

Leah worked the shampoo into thick suds then began to massage Emma's scalp. She told her to relax, that she'd be leaving with long hair today. The tension started to leave Emma, because of this reassurance, but also because the massage was wonderful. She seemed to have a talent for finding the most sensitive areas of the scalp and working at them until Emma's head seemed to tingle with electricity.

As a contented expression spread over Emma's features Kara asked her if she'd like to try her new toy now.

“Now, Miss Kara..? Maybe better at home..?”

Leah rinsed her hair, smoothing out the suds. “Don't be coy, Emma, you're a grown up now. It will make your haircut all the more pleasurable.”

“Haircut? But you said I could keep my long hair today Miss Leah.”

“I said your hair would still be long, I never said you wouldn't be getting a cut.” Leah lifted the towel to wrap Emma's long hair, then put her glasses back on her as she led her to the styling chair where Kara had been shorn. She was now able to see Kara holding the vibe and dribbling a trail of lube down the shaft.

Leah spread a towel over the seat and invited Emma to sit with her legs spread. She didn't dare disobey and did as instructed. Kara now dribbled some of the lube over Emma's mound, letting it trickle into her cleft. With the head of the vibrator she started to spread the lube over her labia, then increased the pressure slightly until the tip started to open her up. For a full minute Kara continued to tease her like this, Emma writhing in the chair with anticipation. Kara came closer and braced her legs inside Emma's knees, while Leah gripped her shoulders, effectively immobilising her. Emma sighed as the first few inches of the vibe slid smoothly in her slit, then she wailed as Kara turned the switch and the dildo seemed to be propelled into life. Kara eased the shaft back and forth very slowly, each thrust taking it minutely further inside than the last, until the rabbit rested against her clit. Emma's face turned red as she experienced a completely new sensation. Kara told her to close her legs to keep the vibe in place and to put her hands on the arm of the chair. She was to retain this position until told otherwise.

Emma felt a cool nylon cape descend over her body which Leah fastened closely around her neck. She stared at her flushed face in the mirror, gritting her teeth as the stimulation became almost unbearable. Leah removed the towel and combed the tangles from her damp hair which hung heavy over her shoulders. The cape had settled until her the form of her nipples and their rings was discernible through the thin material.

Leah ran her long nails in Emma's fringe, commenting that it was too heavy and that she should do something to fix it. She reached down and removed Emma's glasses again and stowed them on a counter. Emma's mind returned to her visits to the salon when she was a younger, how she hated this moment when her vision was taken from her and she had to trust the stylist. The moment when the glasses were returned to reveal what they'd done to her hair was equally nerve-wracking. More than once as a child she'd sobbed to see herself look so different. The changes had never been dramatic but Emma had always been hyper-sensitive about her hair. Now Kara gave voice to her greatest fears.

“Does it excite you when I talk about changing your hair?” (Emma's huge myopic eyes looked at her pleadingly as she nodded.) “Well we're going to make you experience everything with your hair that you've avoided till now. We're going to cut it, cornrow it, colour it, shave it, dye it, bleach it, braid it, tease it, perm it, dreadlock it and anything and everything else that excites us.”

Before Kara was half through her list, Emma shuddered and squealed as she orgasmed intensely. She was in a state of delirium, confused that the threat of her greatest fears was becoming her greatest turn on. She felt intoxicated by Kara's plans for her and moaned that she wanted to be her mistress' little pleasure doll.

She felt Leah tilt her head as she combed and sectioned, twisted and clipped her long hair. The orgasm finally subsided yet still the vibrator pushed her senses. She was so sensitive that the constant contact of the rabbit seemed to threaten to tip her to another climax already.

“Poor little Emmie's effectively blind without her glasses so she can't see what you're doing,” Kara informed Leah. She could just about see that Leah was now putting on her glasses.

“Ooh, those are powerful lenses,” she joked, Kara giggling to see her friend wearing Emma's specs. Leah leaned over to peer at herself in the mirror. “It's not 2004 any more, dear. Promise me you'll have some more stylish frames next time you visit me.” Emma couldn't do anything but agree.

Now Kara stood at her shoulder and gently took hold of Emma's head. She heard a mechanical buzzing start up and recognised it as coming from the clippers that had been used on Kara's sidecut. Her mouth was dry now, she tried to protest but only a wordless gasp emerged. Then she felt the blades sliding up her cheek, past the front of her right ear. She felt like she was in a dream, she was sure this couldn't be happening. Her attention rapidly shot between the buzzing on her temple and the buzzing between her thighs. As the clippers inched up her head she became convinced that Leah was just playing, that she wasn't really cutting. The blades must be covered as no hair was falling. Then she saw a long strand start to move on the cape, slowly at first, then picking up speed and slipping into a coil in her lap. It was such a long piece of hair, fourteen inches at least. She was devastated. Then another piece came free, and another. Leah's fingers tugged her ear forward and the clippers nibbled through a fresh swath of her locks, directly over her ear. The clippers tickled high up the side of her head, the benign sensation seeming out of step with the damage they were rendering to Emma's beloved hair. She couldn't get Kara's list out of her head, her mind racing as she tried to imagine how she could look by the time she left the salon. Already it was clear that her ear was completely exposed, something she'd always imagined would never happen to her. She shivered as Leah flipped the clippers around to work up behind her ear, shearing a strip of hair up the side of her nape. That meant that she now had a bigger clippered sidecut than Kara did.

As the clippers were turned off Emma gasped, realising that she'd been afraid to breathe. She felt Leah combing at the hair on the left side and tried to guess what she was planning. Kara helped her out by telling her “You're getting both sides clippered.”

Emma felt tears on her cheeks now as she thought about her hair being left as some sort of mohawk. She didn't even know how short Leah was cutting her, it could be bald. The clippers were active again and more locks slipped into the tangled nest in her lap. Once more her ear was folded forward and the edge of her nape was clippered. Kara wiped her eyes as the clippers once more became silent. “Want a little preview?”

Her glasses were slipped back into place and Emma blinked away the tears to try to take in the latest phase of her renewal. She gasped in wonder as she saw that her hair had been cut much shorter than Kara's initial buzz, it was stubble, looking much lighter than her dark hair because her scalp was so visible. Leah announced that since Emma's hair is so much thicker she'd decided a number one would be best and would give much clearer definition for the pattern. She was distracted as Kara moved behind, tipping her head back to rest against her breasts, then caressing her sideshaves, which felt like velvet. “You like that, don't you, you little bitch?”

Emma reached down and thrust the vibe deep into herself, unable to stop a low throaty moan of pleasure. The hair felt smooth and soft when Kara moved her fingers down but bristly in the opposite direction. “You like getting your hair cut, don't you, dollie?” Kara whispered. Emma had to admit it was very arousing to her. She was on the point of yet another orgasm when Kara moved forward and slid the vibe out of her somewhat violently. “I told you to keep your hands on the arms of the chair.” Emma whined in distress and was disoriented further as Leah chose that moment to remove her glasses again.

Leah rubbed her fingers over Emma's temples, massaging sleek conditioner into the buzzed hair. “Can you sit very still for me now while I put a pattern in your sideshaves? I'll be using this so sudden movements aren't a good idea.” And she lifted a cut-throat razor in front of Emma's eyes. Emma felt Leah's hand firmly grip the top of her head, then felt the tip of the razor scratching at her scalp in minute, controlled gestures. Holding her neck rigid with fear, Emma hardly dared breathe. She felt the razor slowly follow traceries around her scalp, up her temples, down to her cheeks, the sides of her nape too. Both sides got the same treatment. By the time Leah was done Emma's neck ached with tension. She sighed with relief that her first encounter with the razor was done, although this relief proved premature.

She felt Leah comb back her fringe and spray it till water dribbled down her forehead. Now that her brows were gone she realised that moisture on her forehead tended to run straight into her eyes. Emma felt a scraping at her hairline and realised with terror that it was the razor. As Leah shifted her hand a chunk of dark hair tumbled past Emma's face. Kara cursed softly. “Leah, what are you doing to her?”

Emma was in a panic now, especially since Leah's latest plan seemed to have shocked Kara. Leah gave quite reassurances that everything would look fine and continued to tug the razor back at Emma's forehead. It felt like she was shaving back an awfully long way and only the fear of the razor slicing into her skin kept Emma passive. She felt an enormous relief when Leah finally combed her fringe back into place over her brow; she'd started to worry that she was going to shave her entire fringe away.

Leah gently admonished Kara for how she'd cut Emma's fringe and told her to leave it to the expert in future. Now she reshaped her fringe, trimming away more short lengths, leaving Emma with the realisation that her fringe would be even shorter. Leah worked a section at a time, pinning the upper layers of hair back as she worked. The last layers were feathered with the points of the scissors.

“You had me worried there but I have to admit, it looks great,” Kara gushed to Leah. Emma looked back and forth between them waiting for her glasses to be returned but was disappointed. She felt the stylist spraying her hair and from the scent realised it was a styling product and not just water now. Leah combed it through to ensure all of her hair was coated. Then she started to comb sections from the top of Emma's hair and wind them tightly onto bendy rollers. “You're getting curls,” Kara enthused.

“A perm?” Emma blurted in terror.

Leah laughed. “Sorry to disappoint you but not today, we don't have time for that. Maybe next time, dear.”

Emma felt her entire head being covered in the rods. Leah removed the cape and led her over to a dryer. “We're going to go and get you a new outfit,” Kara told her, “but we know that if we leave you alone you'll be peeping to see what's been done. So I think we'd better remove that temptation.”

Kara gently wound silk scarves around Emma's wrists, binding them to the arms of the chair. Emma tried to promise she'd be obedient, but Kara wouldn't relent. Then Leah placed a pair of goggles over Emma's eyes, blocking all light. “Some music might be nice,” Kara said. “Maybe some Eno...” and Emma felt her push plugs into her ears. As the I-pod was turned on she heard a droning ambient track, loud enough to block out everything else. She felt a rush of hot air as the dryer was turned on and felt completely isolated now. She tried to settle but was aware of an odd discomfort. She didn't know if Kara and Leah were still watching her; the music meant she couldn't hear any other sounds around her. And the dryer was awfully hot, especially on the shaved parts of her scalp. She'd imagined that the music would have helped her to keep track of time but she was wrong. The music seemed to go on forever, the same few sounds repeating ad infinitum, and before long her temporal orientation had deserted her completely. She started to focus on the sensations of her body, particularly her new piercings, a dull ache in her nipples, her lip feeling bruised, the heat making her earlobes tighten. Her mind wandered and she fantasised about the metamorphoses that Kara would make her undergo. She experienced moments of paranoia when she was sure she could sense someone standing right before her, she even called out to them once. As her head became intolerably warm she couldn't say if she'd been there for fifteen minutes or two hours. She longed to be released, to be held by Kara again and, perhaps more than anything, she ached to see how she looked now.

Emma felt the air blowing over her head turn cool. Was it on a timer or did it mean that Kara and Leah were back? She waited for them to release her. And she waited. The heat had made her break out in a sweat and now the cold air swept over her, leaving her chilled and shivering. Still no signs of release.

Finally, she was free. Kara remover the phones as Leah moved the dryer away. The scarves were untied and Emma was helped to her feet. “You looked so serene there we thought we'd leave you a bit longer,” Kara told her. Emma expressed her gratitude for her release.

Her hair was unwound and she felt Leah working through her locks. Her fringe was sprayed and then styled with straighteners. Kara whisked the false lashes free and redrew Emma's make-up. Her hair was being covered with lots of hairspray and Leah finalised her look.

Emma was decked out with false lashes again, on lower lids as well this time. And at last her glasses were returned. She blinked nervously, afraid to look at her new image.

She saw herself in the mirror. Her hair looked huge, thick soft ringlets. It had all been swept to the left side, hanging thick and full over her shoulder, the right side by contrast shorn tight to her scalp, the stubble now shaved into the ringed pattern from Kara's drawing. Her scalp gleamed, free of hair where Leah had used the razor. Her fringe was far less full now, and curved flat over her forehead, stopping in a very blunt line about a half inch shorter now, not even reaching mid forehead. She had eyebrows drawn in, but they looked very stylised, nothing like her natural look. They were a beige, quite geometrical and sharply arched, the inner part quite full, the outside tapering to pencil thin lines.

Her eyes were darkly outlined, long irregular lashes fluttering around them, and a deep green eye-shadow shading her sockets. She wore a pale foundation with a little pink blusher bringing out the apples of her cheeks. Her lips were a soft pale orange.

Emma was stunned at her transformation. Her fingers went immediately to feel the shaved tattoo-like section at the side, moaning as she felt how severely Leah had shorn her. She reached up under the curls to feel the matching section that they hid.

Kara's fingers interlaced Emma's as they explored her shaved temples. Then Kara bent to kiss her, the pent up excitement of watching her girlfriend's transformation passionately expressing itself.

----------------

Emma awoke early the next morning, the sensation of buzzed scalp on her pillow immediately reminding her of her new look. She looked at Kara, still asleep, and couldn't resist stroking her hair. After the salon they'd gone out on the town to celebrate Emma's makeover and she'd been amazed at the admiring looks that her new image got her. She'd also been astonished by the fury of passions that she'd released when the two finally got home.

She went to the bathroom and stared at herself in the mirror, easing her curls back into shape. The shaved sides were still hard for her to take, but Kara had made her admit that if she'd seen another girl who looked like she did now then she'd be very attracted. She lifted back her fringe and shuddered as she saw how much hair Leah had shaved away. She'd stripped back a half inch plus, and it made her forehead look enormous. The hard shaved line looked weirdly unnatural too. She dreaded anyone seeing it.

She also longed to be made up by Kara again, her face looked so bare now. She'd only ever previously worn a few touches of make-up but now she felt it was an absolute necessity, especially since her brows were gone (in truth, that was part of Kara's plan when she shaved them).

She went through the routine that Kara had ordered, showering (but her hair was kept dry this time under a shower cap), then shaving. She began with her pussy. The fear she'd had yesterday was gone now; after what she'd been subjected to on the previous day such squeamishness seemed absurd. She felt a little sore down there, she'd been quite roughly treated, by herself as well as by Kara, not that she was unhappy about that. She shivered as she clipped back her fringe and spread shaving cream over her eyebrows and across the top of her forehead. Two days ago this would have seemed unimaginable but she was aware that this was her daily routine now.

She attended to her new piercings, turning the jewellery as instructed. The new holes felt a little tender, but less so than yesterday so she guessed all was well. She still felt a slight revulsion as she gently explored her nipple rings. She'd told Kara about her difficulty getting used to them and Kara  had made her squirm by telling her that she would make her get additional nipple piercings (Emma couldn't conceive where they would go).

By the time Emma arrived for her lectures she was dressed in a sleeveless pinstripe blouse, tight red capri pants and a pair of three inch heels, all part of Kara's shopping the previous day. She wore a little eyeliner, red lips, false lashes (Kara had decided they were essential for Emma) and thin high curved arches in black standing in for brows. Kara had relented and let her wear her curls loose, covering up the sideshaves. She walked across the campus with fake bravura, adopting the upright posture that Kara had drummed into her.

By the end of the day Emma was quietly elated. She'd had unsolicited compliments from a handful of the other students on her look, and she noticed a number of the male students were staring every time she glanced at them.

There were no major changes for Emma over the next couple of weeks. Kara had decided that she would let her piercings heal before embarking on anything new, although she did constantly explore new make-up looks for Emma, and started to edge her towards much more colourful looks, which she thought suited her personality. Kara recorded her look each day with a series of photographs.

Emma had gone to university a few times with one of her sideshaves visible, and on nights out she'd even had to wear her hair up a few times to fully expose the tattoo-like areas. After a week, the shaved pattern in Emma's sideshaves was indistinguishable, and it just looked uneven. Kara resolved it by telling Emma she would shave the sides bare and let them grow back evenly. She had Emma sit in the bathroom fresh from the shower, tied back her long hair and liberally covered the short areas with lather. She started at the top and pulled the razor gently down. Even though the hairs were no more than a few millimetres long the razor dragged, making Emma wince. The stubble also clogged the blades and Kara kept having to rinse the razor under the tap. “We need to get some clippers to get it nice and short next time,” she joked. Once she'd got most of the length shaved, Kara went over the entire area again. Now the blades moved easily and Emma's scalp looked clean and smooth.

Emma was in shock, and couldn't stop touching the cool soft scalp. As she went to look in the mirror she couldn't hold back her tears. Despite everything she'd been through, this was still more than she could bear. Kara eventually agreed that she could wear her hair down for the next week at university until some hair had grown back in. At home she wore the sides clipped behind her ears as Kara loved to see her shaved sideburns contrasting with the length.

Emma became edgy as the day approached when she would visit her parents. She'd not said anything on the phone about her new look and knew it would be difficult for her parents to accept. Kara tried to advise her on how to manage the situation but she didn't understand how strict Emma's mum was (her own parents were much more liberal, accepting Kara's sexuality and frequent stylistic changes), and it was the cause of the first row between them. The “nice” make-up looks she suggested were still too much. Emma explained that she'd have to wear as little make-up as possible, and to try to disguise her shaved eyebrows. Despite Kara's best efforts, it proved impossible to get anything that looked passable as Emma's real brows. There was an additional problem that Emma would be staying for two nights and her make-up skills were no match for Kara's. She was incapable of drawing her brows on well. If she got one right, the other would follow a different shape and look ridiculous. Kara suggested using stencils, but somehow Emma couldn't get them right either and kept smudging the edges. She was in despair as she realised that the make-up Kara applied could never last for three days and so by the end of the visit she'd be revealed as totally browless.

In desperation Emma agreed that Kara would draw on her brows in permanent marker. She sat anxiously as Kara drew them on, trying to give them something of the shape of Emma's natural brows. “I'll make them a little thinner, it would look way too much if I left them as thick as they were.” Emma sat, afraid to move and mess up the lines that Kara estimated would be visible for a few days. When she saw what Kara has done, Emma was horrified. The brows were jet black and thick, hard edged and very fake looking. “Oh no, what have you done, those look awful!” she wailed. Kara calmed her and scrubbed at the new brows with a cloth. It lightened the tone a touch and softened the edges. Then she had Emma go over the lines with a brown eyebrow pencil. She had to admit it was the best look they'd been able to manage so far, although it didn't look like her natural brows in the slightest.

The trip home was a disaster. Her mother complained about her brows and was close to tears about Emma's short fringe (Emma had to slap her hand away when she tried to fuss with it for fear that the undershave would be revealed). Her labret was described as barbaric. They argued constantly, her father, who'd always doted on Emma, always siding with his wife. During one set to, Emma reflexively  pushed her hair behind her ear and her sidecut became visible. By the final morning she was past caring and came to breakfast with her hair in a ponytail to reveal the full extent of her shaving (although the fringe undershave was still a secret). Her attempt to part on good terms with her parents was abandoned when  her mother offered forgiveness dependent on growing her hair back to how it was and taking out her piercings. Incensed, Emma announced that she was going to get her hair cropped and get more piercings. “And don't be surprised if I get a tattoo as well!” she said in defiance, knowing that would be the ultimate provocation.

Emma was stony faced throughout her train journey but beneath the surface she could feel adrenaline pumping. When she got back to the house and put her arms around Kara, tears of anger and frustration poured from her. The tears just wouldn't stop and it was almost an hour before Emma was calm enough to talk sensibly.

At last Emma seemed to recover some composure. “There's no compromise with her, she just wants me to be her little girl forever. I want my hair cut, Kara. Will you take me to Leah again next week?”

Kara kissed her tenderly. “Don't make decisions when you're angry. If you still want it in the morning we'll make an appointment for you.”

The following day Kara made the call to Leah and it was decided that Emma would be at the salon all day on Saturday. Leah reminded Emma that she wanted her in stylish glasses and so an appointment was made for the optician for an evening during the week.

Because some ink was still visible, for the early part of the week Emma was forced to retain her thick dark eyebrows, which she now found she hated. The more imaginative shapes that Kara usually drew and which Emma had found so strange at first were now more appealing than the more natural shape. Frustrated with the thicker brows, Emma returned home on Tuesday evening and spent 20 minutes scrubbing at her brows until they were red and raw but completely free of ink.

The following day she attended her eye test with Kara, and informed the optician that she was going to let Kara choose the frames as a surprise to her. She went to a café, an excited anxiety about her as she wondered what sort of frames she'd be getting. She knew that Kara would pick something edgy and dreaded getting retro hipster frames like Esther wore. Kara arrived thirty minutes later, smiling at the latest surprise she had planned. “They'll be ready on Saturday. I'll collect them for you and bring them to the salon.”

For the rest of the week Emma's mood shifted violently. At times she was genuinely excited to be getting a new look, then she would suddenly think “What am I doing?” as she remembered that Leah was going to have full control of her hair. She still felt shy when she went out with a more dramatic look and she was under no illusion that Leah would leave her with a style that was at the more extreme end of the scale. Kara had become fond of telling her to live for the moment and to stop worrying about things in the future about which she had no control. Emma knew this was a better philosophy than her perpetual worrying, but she couldn't help wondering what the reactions would be when she arrived for Monday lectures.

Emma was in bed early on Friday night but kept waking in a state of high excitement from which it seemed to take forever to get back to sleep. At six o'clock she abandoned her attempts to rest and went to the bathroom to shower. She spent an eternity washing her locks, wistfully contemplating that these may be her last hours with long hair. Would she ever grow it this long again? She rinsed it and spent 10 minutes combing it, looking in the mirror all the time at the hair she loved so much. She didn't have to do this, she reminded herself. She could say no. Kara wanted her to do it, Leah had plans for her but it was her own choice. And, despite all those anxieties she harboured, and the twinge of sadness at saying farewell to her long hair, she did want this. The confrontation with her mother had clarified her feelings. She must put childish things aside. Her relationship with Kara had made her grow up a lot in just a month. And today would be another step toward self discovery.

The phone rang as Emma set about preparing breakfast (she was planning to surprise Kara by letting her have breakfast in bed). She answered it and was surprised to hear Leah's voice. She felt a pang of horror, expecting to be told that her appointment was cancelled but was reassured her appointment was still going to happen. “Did you get your new glasses, then?” Leah quizzed.

Emma explained that they would be ready later and that Kara would collect them and bring them to the salon. This didn't seem to please Leah, who merely grunted.

“Do you remember how badly behaved you were last time at the salon?” Emma felt tongue tied and embarrassed, although her memories were of Leah being an equal participant in everything.

“Yes Miss Leah,” Emma said, as contritely as possible, once more feeling cowed by her stylist's manner.

“The salon will be busy today and you can't behave like that. I've decided to introduce some safeguards to the reputation of my business.”

Emma was instructed to look in a cupboard next to the sink where she found a white cardboard box. Since Leah hadn't visited she assumed that Kara must have put it there. She opened it and found an odd looking device which consisted of a web of leather straps surrounding something that looked like a miniature fencing mask, the centre a dense metal mesh enclosed by a rubber coated cup.

“It's a chastity device,” Leah continued. “Kara will put it on you and if you do as you should you'll be freed when you leave the salon. It will ensure there's no temptation for your fingers to touch places that they shouldn't in polite company.”

Emma tried to figure out how it fitted but was puzzled by the maze of straps. Unhappy as she was about the idea of this enforced denial, her greater concern was that it looked very uncomfortable. Her appointment was for the entire day (although she couldn't imagine what could possibly take so much time) and she was sure that sitting for so long strapped into this harness would be unpleasant.

“Did you keep your fringe shaved back?” Leah asked.

“Yes, I've just shaved it again, a few minutes ago”

Leah voiced her satisfaction and told Emma she was very much looking forward to seeing her in a couple of hours. “Give Kara my love” she said as she signed off.

Kara had been woken by the phone call and now came down to Emma, both of them naked. They exchanged their first kiss of the day. Sometimes Emma felt like she couldn't remember her girlfriend's face, she could only ever recall her features separately. Seeing Kara in the flesh was always a thrill, her beauty greater than Emma could visualise in her mind. Even without make-up and with her hair dishevelled from bed Kara was very lovely and Emma (as she did every day) thought how blessed she was to have met her.

“So Leah's told you about her evil plan?” Kara said, glancing at the harness. Emma nodded glumly.

“How does it fit?” she asked, her curiosity getting the better of her, and Kara agreed to demonstrate. Emma slid her legs through the straps and Kara fitted the cup over her mound. It was contoured to fit closely, entirely enclosing her sex. It was held in place by a single strap that ran up vertically at the front and by two more that slid between her thighs and diagonally across her buttocks. These were attached to a thicker belt that wrapped around the top of her hips. Kara adjusted the harness till it fitted snugly and held the cup in just the right place. Then the waist belt, which Emma noticed had D-rings fitted at the outside of her hips, encircled her, a circular fastening closing with a loud click.

Emma went to look at herself in the mirror. Her fingers probed at the edges of the cup and at the mesh and she saw that it did its job perfectly. The rear straps were less than comfortable though, as they forced her buttocks apart. She groaned. “I don't like it Kara, can you take it off for now, I'll put it back on just before we leave.”

“Sorry, Emmie, I don't have the key, Leah has it. It stays on now till she says so.”

After breakfast Kara led Emma upstairs and into the bedroom which had previously been the one she rented. She'd been forbidden to enter for the last week (she now shared Kara's bed so this wasn't a problem) and it was revealed as a dressing room, complete with illuminated mirror, salon chair and everything necessary for hair and make-up. Emma was delighted and took her place in the chair, which Kara spun away from the mirror. She blew Emma's hair straight and then worked on her make-up. It was soon apparent that Kara was going to a lot of effort today and that meant a long time to perfect Emma's look. Because the straps of the harness stretched her buttocks apart (her weight as she sat increasing the effect) she soon felt uncomfortable, her anus very exposed. When she complained about this to Kara, she replied that she would be sitting for a very long time in the salon and that she agreed with Leah that a little discomfort would help intensify the experience.

Once her false lashes were in place Emma was allowed to put her glasses back on and Kara turned the chair to the mirror. She saw the most colourful look that Kara had yet devised. She had a pale foundation, very matt, her cheeks softly tinted with a rose blusher. Her lips were a vivid lemon and shining under a thick coating of gloss. Her eyes were surrounded by cool pastel shades, carefully blended: blues and greens, white on her lower lids, making her eyes look even darker. The new lashes were powder blue and very long. Kara had given her thin brows of the same colour, drawn almost horizontally above the upper edge of her eye socket. “It's beautiful,” Emma said shyly. “It looks like something from a catwalk show.”

Kara had another surprise; she reached to Emma's lip and removed the stud, replacing it with a ring which fitted closely around the middle of her lip. Emma sat staring at herself, her tongue exploring the new jewellery.

It was time for Emma to dress, and Kara had chosen a new outfit carefully. The first item was the biggest challenge for Emma: a red silk overbust corset. Kara dusted her body with talcum and slid the garment into place. She laced up the back and tugged at the cord. Emma had never worn a corset and initially found the close fit something exciting. That was until Kara placed a knee in her back and pulled so tight that Emma felt her abdomen severely constrained, now barely able to breathe.

“Oh, that's too tight, Miss Kara,” she said, assuming that her mistress couldn't possibly have meant to lace her so firmly. Kara remained silent as she knotted the lace. Her hands patted at Emma's ribs, then her stomach.

“It's not too tight at all. You'll soon be able to have it laced tighter. Look at yourself, you have a real waist now.”

Emma had been slowly losing weight since she moved in, mostly due to the better food that she'd been encouraged to eat by Kara. Now she could see that she was no longer the chubby girl that she'd always been in her self image.

The outfit was completed with white knee stockings, a yellow skirt, flared and very short, decorated with red lace ruffles, a silky black bolero jacket with red piping and a very elegant pair of lace-up shoes with four inch stiletto heels. They were the highest shoes Emma had ever worn and Kara inspected her gait as she adjusted to their unfamiliarity. She was surprised that by maintaining the upright posture that Kara had forced her to adopt she could manage in the heels.

Emma couldn't quite believe what she saw in the mirror now. Not only did she have a waist, the heels made her legs look longer and slimmer and the corset pushed her breasts up (at the price of somewhat uncomfortably compressing the rings into her nipples) emphasising her cleavage. She actually had a passable figure! And she was so colourful. She was grateful for Kara's good eye; if she'd tried to choose a similar outfit it would have been a garish mess of clashing hues, but somehow the colours harmonised.

She felt Kara nibbling at her ear. “You look so sexy, Emmie,” she whispered. Emma moaned with pleasure. “Your hair and glasses spoil the look but that will be fixed soon enough,” she added mischievously.

Emma was disappointed to have to leave on her own. Kara was going to visit the opticians which didn't open till an hour after the salon and was in the opposite direction. She'd hugged Emma (no kisses as her make-up had to look perfect) and promised to be in the salon before lunch. The salon was only a fifteen minute walk but immediately the shoes began to make Emma's toes hurt and they rubbed her heels. She was without panties and was in constant fear of the chastity device being visible. And the corset pushed her ample breasts up so much that they felt like a nipple would pop into view at any moment.

Given that it was 8.45 a.m. Emma felt extremely overdressed,. She was so colourful that she could hardly be surprised that she was the object of a lot of gazes, not all of them approving. She so wished that she had Kara's company. Her heart had sank when she'd said how long it would be before she could get to the salon. How would she look by then? Leah would have had three full hours to get to work on her. Emma ran a hand up her neck, enjoying the touch of her thick hair. She shivered as she imagined it would soon all be gone.

As the salon came into view Emma recognised Leah outside, smoking. The mere sight of her drained Emma's confidence. She gazed at Emma without the slightest change of expression. “Good morning Miss Leah, how are you?” she said, a waver in her voice betraying nerves.

“Hello dear. I'm so looking forward to having you in my power all day. I have so much planned.”

“I'm so grateful that you're giving so much of your time to me,” Emma replied, desperate for acceptance from the stylist. Leah merely took a deep drag on her cigarette. “I didn't know you smoked,” Emma said, flustered by the awkward silence.

“I do,” Leah dead-panned, blowing a stream of smoke toward Emma. After a long pause she asked “Did you want one?”

“Oh no, Miss, I've never smoked in my life.”

“You may be ready to start when I'm done with you.” For the first time, her lips broadened in a smile.

Inside the salon, there was a lot of activity as the staff prepared for a busy day. Leah took Emma to one side to lay down some rules. “I'm giving you a lot of time and only charging for materials, so I expect you to show some gratitude and respect. You won't refer to me as Miss, it would just make the other customers think something weird was going on. And no displays of emotion. I don't want any tears. Kara has given you beautiful make-up and I want to see that you keep it like that. If you let me down the belt will be staying on for a week. Understand?”

Emma started to express her gratitude but was cut short. She nodded to show that she understood.

Leah took Emma's jacket, then fastened leather cuffs around her wrists. She tugged at the waistband of her skirt, exposing the D-rings, then clipped the cuffs to them. Emma decided that she should remain silent to avoid provoking Leah further.

“This will ensure that you won't be fidgeting under the cape. That does so irritate me.” Leah took a long cape, the cool nylon falling over Emma's bare shoulders. Lifting up her hair, she closed it snugly around her neck. The cape reached to her ankles, concealing her pinioned wrists.

Leah walked across the salon, calling for Emma to follow. Without the use of her arms she had some difficulty balancing on her heels. She tumbled heavily into the chair.

“Now, what did I tell you about these glasses?”

“I... I... I'm getting new ones today,” Emma stuttered.

Leah lifted the glasses from her nose and there was a cracking sound as she broke the frames across the nose piece. A lens fell to the floor. The remains were deposited in a bin.

Emma felt terrified, but determined to try to look calm. “She's looking for a reaction, keep your composure and she'll treat you with more respect,” she told herself.

Leah gathered her hair behind the chair and started to brush through the ends. “Your hair is in very good condition. Did you ever colour it?”

Emma admitted that she'd never coloured it at all.

“That's good, I can do all the things I planned without frying it too badly. I'm going to cut it to the top of your neck to begin. Kara is keen to have a souvenir of your past as a long haired girl.”

Now Emma's hair was brushed back from her face, Leah grasping her locks at her nape. Once all the hair was smoothly gathered together she pulled a band from her wrist and bound the ponytail high on Emma's neck. Emma felt her heart pounding. She blinked, her eyes moistening. She was determined she wouldn't let herself down by crying and found herself sucking her new lip ring, pushing and poking her tongue against the tender piercing until it felt raw, which she found satisfied some unconscious urge. She heard a harsh sawing sound and knew her cut had begun. She found herself counting the crunches of the scissors. The twelfth was the last. She'd lost her long hair.

Emma tipped her head back to see the long ponytail dangling in Leah's fist. It felt strange that no hair touched her neck now. The ponytail was stowed on the counter as Leah told a girl called Nadia to come over.

“This is Emma, she's decided on a big makeover today. She wants a high undercut so I'll do a rough cut before we get started on the colour.”

Nadia seemed very enthusiastic and friendly but not very bright. She said, in a lisping, high pitched  breathy voice, how lovely Emma's make-up was and how “awesomely brave” she was to have so much hair chopped off. The word “bimbo” came to mind for Emma, but then she admonished herself for being so judgemental.

Leah reminded Nadia to concentrate as she combed through the side of Emma's hair and made a horizontal parting high above the top of her ear. Nadia placed her hands flat on top of Emma's head to hold her hair up as a loud whirring sound commenced.

There was no doubt in Emma's mind that she was about to be buzzed. She felt her head being jerked to the side, and Leah lifting the hair with a comb. The noise got louder now as the blades came closer to her left ear. She felt Nadia's fingers gently massage her scalp to reassure her. The front of the cape was dusted with tiny lengths of hair as the clippers went over the buzzed part above Emma's ear, which had grown out about a centimetre since Kara had shaved it. As Leah moved the comb higher a few longer wisps of hair came free and slid into Emma's lap.

A chill came over Emma as she saw that a lot of hair was coming off now. The clippers were making relentless passes above her ear, much higher than her previous time in Leah's chair. She started to feel breathless, the corset preventing her from taking deep breaths. She remembered the picture of Kara when she had a flattop and tried to imagine how she'd look with a similar cut (“awful” was her fearful verdict). It was clear now that the whole side of her head was being clippered. She felt her head being moved to expose the right side and Nadia repositioning her hands. She tried to comfort herself by imagining Kara exploring her new cut, how it would feel when her lips touched the soft buzzed hair. She could feel herself getting wet.

Six inch lengths of hair were gathering in her lap as Leah continued to clipper the side. Then her head was bowed and her hair combed forward on top. It was nearly impossible for Emma to breathe

now, the corset pushed tighter as she leaned forward. The blades were on her neck now, rising up into her nape. If the clippering of the sides had been arousing this was something else. The blades tickled her nape deliciously and she started to feel herself drifting away into a private world. She felt dizzy and intoxicated and all of her attention was focussed on the sensation of being shorn.

Emma felt Nadia raise her head and realised how breathless she was (had asphyxia contributed to the pleasure she'd just experienced?) She realised that her nape had been clippered very high; her head felt bare and sensitive now. “Short back and sides,” Emma kept thinking anxiously, “I have a short back and sides”. Leah was giving Nadia instructions, about using a something on all of the hair, although the name of the product meant nothing to Emma.

For a few minutes Emma was alone as Nadia went away to prepare the chemicals and Leah went to attend to another customer. She squinted at the mirror to try to see how her hair looked now. She could make out that her hair still fell around the sides, reaching past her chin. Every move felt strange as her hair moved against the clippered under layer. Her head felt cool and light.

Nadia returned with a bowl, now wearing gloves and an apron. “Do you want to see it at the back?” she asked. “It's cut into a V, it looks really cute.”

Emma admitted that her eyesight was bad without her glasses and that Leah had put them away somewhere safe. Nadia nodded sympathetically and said she'd hate to have to wear glasses as she applied the gloop to Emma's hair, pasting it on with a wide brush. Each section was twisted up on top and held in a clip. Nadia gasped as she lifted Emma's fringe and saw the shaved band beneath.

“Wow, it's all shaved! Are you going to get your fringe cut really short, right to the top of your forehead?” The idea chilled Emma, but she realised it was a possibility and shrugged non-committally, eager to conceal from Nadia that she wasn't able to decide her own style.

“What does your boyfriend think about you getting all your hair cut off?” Nadia continued. “Mine would kill me, even though Leah keeps wanting to cut mine short.” Emma glanced up at Nadia and realised her hair was pinned up. She'd thought it was short previously since she'd been unable to get a good look at her.

“I have a girlfriend,” Emma said, a proud smile on her face as she thought of Kara. “And she's OK with it.” Such an understatement, thought Emma. “She's coming in later. By the way, what is that stuff you're putting on?”

Nadia told her it was a bleaching agent to prepare her hair for the dye, but seemed more intent on getting back to pumping Emma about her private life and gossiping about other staff. Emma was relieved when her Nadia finished with her and left her alone under a rotary drier to process, her hair wrapped in cling film. She refused offers of a drink or a magazine, not wishing to reveal that her arms were immobilised.

Left alone, Emma started to worry about how her finished style would look. She was getting bleached, so was she going to be blonde? But Nadia said something about dye; maybe she'd be another colour. Since she'd always had chestnut brown hair it was going to be a jolting change.

The waiting started to prove difficult. After ten minutes Emma started to feel bored. After twenty she was uncomfortable. Her scalp felt itchy and hot, the corset was digging in, her shoulders were aching because of how she had to hold her arms and the chastity belt was digging into her parted buttocks. She felt her face growing red with frustration. She wanted Kara, she wanted her badly. She was sure Kara would take pity and do something to relieve her suffering. Her heart sank when she realised that she wouldn't get to the salon for two hours.

Leah eventually returned. She checked Emma's hair and announced that another 10 minutes would be needed, and that because her hair was dark it would need to be double processed, explaining in answer to Emma's query that that meant once she'd been rinsed that the same stuff would be applied again so that her hair would be lightened sufficiently.

Emma's morning was spent enduring tedium and physical discomfort. It was a full hour later that the second application of bleach was rinsed away. She longed for Leah's attention, no matter what she did to her hair, no matter how short she cut it. All the waiting was unbearable. She wanted to be home with Kara. Nadia brought her back to Leah's chair, looking at Emma strangely due to the difficulty she was obviously experiencing standing up. Myopic as she was, Emma could see in the mirror that her hair was very light indeed, a pale yellowy straw colour.

The next stage was more colour. Leah and Nadia worked together, but this time the process was more labour intensive. There were several bowls of colour and her hair was divided up into tiny sections which were all wrapped in foils after the dye was applied. As she headed over to a dryer Emma passed close to a mirror and saw that Leah had clipped back the foils at the front so that everyone could see the undershave of her fringe. The top of her head was a completely covered in foils.

“It looks so amazing,” Nadia said as she rinsed the dye from Emma's hair following another tedious spell under the dryer. “I'd never recognise you as the girl with the long brown hair and glasses who came in this morning.” As Nadia started to lead her back to the chair, head wrapped in a towel, Leah called Emma over to the salon entrance. She stepped outside and saw Kara.

Emma squealed with delight and immediately leant forward to kiss her. Their lips met and Kara embraced her. Suddenly she frantically tried to break away from the kiss as she realised that Kara's mouth was filled with cigarette smoke.

“Kara, you're smoking,” Emma spluttered, her mouth filled with the taste of the bitter smoke. “I didn't know you smoked.”

“That's what she said to me too,” Leah said drily to Kara.

Kara admitted that she used to smoke twenty a day, and that it was Leah who got her started when they worked together. She put her cigarette to her lips and took a long slow drag, closing her eyes, and looking blissful. She pursed her lips into an O and let a trail of smoke drift out. “Don't you like me smoking, Emmie?”

“I... I don't Miss Kara,” she admitted, feeling guilty to disapprove of her mistress' actions. She looked nervously at Kara, then at Leah, sure she would regret her honesty.

“So you don't want to kiss me?” Kara said, feigning hurt.

“I always want to kiss you. You've no idea how I missed you all morning,” Emma said emotionally.

“If you breathe it all in, I may forgive you,” Kara said, and took a deep drag. She placed her lips over Emma's and slowly breathed out. Emma had no choice but to inhale. She felt the smoke burn at her throat and had to fight not to cough. Kara slowly withdrew from the kiss, telling Emma to hold the smoke. She made little snorting sounds as her lungs rebelled against the irritation.

“OK, breathe out,” Kara said at last. “There, wasn't that sexy?”

Emma nodded. She hated smoking, but it was true, Kara was turning her on.

“Mmmm, Emmie, I might have to take it up again if it's getting you hot.” Kara and Leah both inhaled deeply on their cigarettes and blew the smoke into Emma's face. “My little smoky slut, I love you so much,” Kara whispered. Emma blushed and smiled, confused that Kara had somehow again managed to get her aroused with something that her rational mind hated. She was relieved to see Kara finally stub out the cigarette.

“Please Miss Kara, I need the toilet, can you help me,” she whispered in her ear, shame faced.

Kara took Emma into the disabled toilet and removed the cape. She grinned as she saw the cuffs clipped to the belt. “Have you been in these all morning?”

“Since I arrived,” Emma confirmed.

Kara undressed Emma and helped her onto the toilet. She wailed as she felt the urine pass through the mesh. “It feels weird,” she complained.

“How has the chastity belt been?” Kara asked, and Emma told her how much she hated it. “If I'm ever away for a few days I want you to wear it. Would you do that for me, Emmie?”

Emma was appalled by the idea of being trapped in it for days but found herself agreeing to the request. She was rewarded by a kiss which tasted strongly of smoke.

“And what's Leah done with your hair?” Kara asked, unwinding the towel. She gasped as she saw the colour.

“I haven't seen it yet, can I see? And did you get my glasses? Leah broke my old ones.”

“All in good time, be patient. I don't want you to see your hair now till it's all done. Shit, she's nearly shaved you!” Kara squealed as she saw the undercut for the first time. “Colour is great though.”

The towel was wound around Emma's head again as she was taken back into the salon, caped once more. She was taken to a cubical (the mirror was covered) and left in Leah's care again. She was suddenly aware that Kara had removed herself.

“You liked yours curls last time, didn't you?” Leah asked, Emma agreeing that they looked very pretty.

“Well today we'll give you more permanent curls. She combed up a strand on Emma's hair from just behind her fringe and started to wind it onto a two pronged wire pin, winding the hair tightly in a figure of eight pattern around the prongs which were about one cm apart. The end was clipped to the pin which now protruded from Emma's head.

Emma tried to look calm but her stomach churned as she realised that she was to be permed.

“This takes forever,” Leah laughed after winding about a dozen pins into Emma's hair. “Just as well I buzzed most of your hair off already.”

Some time later Leah seemed to be momentarily distracted. “Someone's getting a nice cut over there, do you want to watch?” Emma said she'd love that but she'd see nothing without her glasses. Leah reached down and placed a set of glasses on Emma's nose, to her great delight. “Kara gave me these, but you can't see them in the mirror yet.” Emma tried to peer at the frames from the corner of her eye to get some clues, seeing they were quite large and round. They were a lot heavier than her old ones.

Leah turned the chair to where the haircut was taking place. A young woman with black hair was being buzzed close, the entire back and sides being cropped to a few millimetres, her scalp visible through the stubble. There was a lot of hair around the chair and on the cape. Emma watched in fascination. “Is that a number one?” she asked Leah.

“It sure is. Do you like it?”

“It's... exciting,” Emma whispered.

The longer hair on top was now reduced to a narrow strip that it looked like a mohawk. The stylist chopped away at the crown to leave feathery spikes, about three inches in the longest parts. The front was left long, hanging right over the girl's face. Now the stylist started to shave patterns into her nape, leaving some narrow points of dark stubble projecting downward onto the neck and revealing a lot of bare scalp. A tendril was shaved in behind the ear, fanning into spirals across her temple. As the chair was turned so the stylist could work more comfortably Emma saw the girl's profile and realised who it was.

“Oh... It's Miss Kara,” she gasped.

“Of course it is, don't you recognise your own girlfriend?” Leah laughed. “Do you still like it?”

“It's too short,” Emma murmured, unable to digest what she was seeing.

Ten minutes later, Kara came over, her new style completed. Her crown was standing up in stiff spikes and the long fringe was slicked down over her right eye. “Surprise!” she called out to Emma.

Emma looked pained as she struggled to take in Kara's new style. The back and sides looked almost bald, just a faint pattern of stubble remaining. “Oh Miss, it's... awfully short. But it is... sexy on you.”

“You find change difficult to accept, don't you?” Kara smiled. “Just wait till you see how you look.”

Leah was winding the last clips into Emma's hair. “Do you want to come with us while we have a smoke before we do the perm or shall I put you straight under the dryer?”

“There's a kiss in it for you,” Kara promised. “Otherwise you'll be stuck in here for a couple more hours, all lonely.”

Emma followed them outside, feeling sheepish as people stared at the strange girl with pins sticking out all over her head. She was uncomfortable with seeing Kara smoking but resolved to try not to show it since she had a feeling that overt disapproval could spur Kara into smoking more.

Leah offered the pack to Kara who lit up. Emma was taken completely by surprise when the cigarette was then placed in her own mouth, Kara's fingertips resting against her lips to hold it in place, brushing against her new lip ring.

“Just breathe it into your mouth, you just need to get used to the taste first,” she instructed. Emma managed to suck gently, grunting as the smoke seemed so bitter. “Good girl,” Kara beamed. “Just hold it in for a few seconds.”

Kara made Emma stand with the cigarette held in her lips as she lit her own. She was so pleased to see how Emma looked this that she took out her camera and took a few pictures. “Emmie's first ciggy,” she giggled. Kara took a drag on hers and instructed Emma to do the same. As she lifted the cigarette away from Emma's lips she leant down to kiss her, sliding her fingertips over Emma's soft buzzed nape which made her feel like she was melting. Both their mouths were filled with smoke and Emma felt light headed. She had to breathe out through her nose, the powerful smell almost overwhelming her.

“Oh Miss,” Emma squeaked, the higher pitch of her voice betraying her extreme arousal. Kara returned the cigarette to her lips and told her to fill her mouth with more smoke.

“She came here a long haired non-smoker and a few hours later she's short haired and a smoker,” Leah teased. “You've got her well trained, Kara.”

Smoking completed, they all headed back to the salon. Kara took back Emma's glasses for safe keeping as the perming solution was applied. Emma had had a roll of cotton wool pinned around the top of her undercut and across her forehead and her ears had been plugged with cotton balls. Leah then trickled the perming reagents over each clip, making sure every hair was wet. Emma could feel the coolness of the solution as it reached her scalp.

Emma was taken to sit under a hood dryer, the same one that she'd been made to endure on her last visit. Again she was left alone but this time the activities of the salon continued around her. She was painfully aware that she smelled of smoke, and she couldn't get the taste out of her mouth. She couldn't stop thinking about Leah's taunt. Would Kara want her to continue to smoke? She hated the idea but as she thought about Kara's fingers placing the cigarette in her lips she felt a familiar rush of excitement.

There were few distractions to take Emma's mind off her dilemma. She could see almost nothing,  she could barely move and each minute seemed to drag. The chastity belt was causing her real pain now and she fantasised about the moment when Kara would release her, then show her how good girls were rewarded.

Leah came over to inspect her, raising the hood and unwinding the end of a curl. The verdict was that she was ready for the next stage. Nadia took care of neutralising, rinsing, conditioning, talking incessantly. Emma noticed that she did all the jobs efficiently and without errors, and started to wonder if her bimbo persona wasn't just an act.

As the pins were removed Emma could feel her hair springing stiffly back into place. It felt alien, Emma's pulse increasing as she thought how different it would make her look. Her spirit lifted as she saw Kara had returned, carrying some shopping bags.

“Hey curly,” she laughed. “Leah says just a haircut now and you're done.”

Soon Emma was sitting for her stylist. She used a diffuser to get Emma's hair semi dry then eased the tight curls apart with the pick of a rat tail comb. Kara stood leaning against the counter, taking everything in. Leah had Nadia hold up the curls while she finished the undercut.

The clippers went up Emma's nape again, making her moan as the vibrations tickled and aroused her. Leah was taking her hair shorter up over her occipital, rotating the blades up at the top of each stroke to ensure that there would be a blended transition. She tapered the sides shorter too, buzzing Emma's sideburns and a strip above each ear. Using the bare edge of the blades, Emma's hairline was shaved to a clean line.

Shivers were passing through Emma's body as the clippers were turned off. She admitted to herself that she now found the sensation erotic, bizarrely for someone who had always loved wearing her hair long. She felt the curls being released, relieved that they covered her ears. Leah used an afro comb to coax the curls into shape. Emma's heart skipped as she heard the unmistakable sound of the clippers once more. Was more hair getting buzzed?

She realised that they were to be used to shape her curls. Leah rattled the blades over the tines of the afro comb, and locks wafted free down Emma's neck. Kara moved around to get a better look, purring her approval. Emma couldn't tell how short it was being cut. That was until the sides were clippered into shape. The blades were working half way across her ear and onto cheek. Emma was sure the back was just as short, meaning her clippered nape would be visible.

As Leah put the clippers away Emma shook her head, but felt no movement of her hair. She could feel cool air on most of her ears now. Leah combed down her fringe, which had escaped being permed. Emma held her neck rigid as the scissors snipped into it, carefully reshaping it, closing her eyes as small pieces of hair landed and caught in her long false lashes.

Emma soon realised that she no longer had a blunt fringe as the tips of the scissors moved first up and then down across her forehead. She realised that some of it was now very short indeed but was unable to comprehend how Leah was shaping it.

A heavy mist of hairspray blasted through Emma's curls now and she realised that the cut must now be complete. Leah directed the drier onto her hair, gently coaxing the curls into shape. Once the top was styled she finished Emma's fringe, using straighteners to make it lie straight and flat over her forehead. A few additional snips were made around the edge of the curls to remove errant hairs, another copious mist of hairspray was added and Leah announced Emma's style was complete. Kara retouched Emma's lips and then placed her glasses back on. Leah stepped forward to remove the towel which covered the mirror.

Emma was close to fainting. Her heart was racing and she couldn't get enough air. She felt like the little girl she'd been a decade previously, who feared going to the salon, especially afraid to see revealed what had been done to her look. She wanted to close her eyes, but it was too late, there she was, her mirror image staring back at her.

She was immediately struck by the colour. Her hair was a soft frizzy mass, and it was dyed in neon colours, sky blue, aqua, lime green. The colours all seemed to bleed together as the frizziness meant that individual curls weren't defined. She saw that the curls were truncated at the same length all around, cut to a blunt line at her cheek. What her hair lacked in length it made up for in fullness. It was parted at the centre of her head and sprung out thickly at the sides, jutting out mushroom-like about her ears. Her fringe was equally attention-grabbing. It was now white-blonde and cut very precisely in two arch shapes (the top of the arches almost revealing the edge of the undershave), a sharp V pointing down in the very centre.

And what the V pointed to was a very bold pair of glasses. The lenses were large and perfectly round (Kara told her they were Carrie Donovan glasses), the frames made of translucent lime green plastic with wide blue side pieces. Kara, Leah, Nadia, all bombarded her with compliments. Emma was unable to take in what they said, she just stared at the strange, daring girl in the mirror, the sexy girl that she couldn't quite accept was her.

Emma was helped from the chair and as the cape was removed somebody released the hooks from the cuffs. She slowly moved her arms, her shoulder joints aching after hours of immobility. Reaching up to feel the curls she felt their springiness, the hairspray making them feel stiffer. She eased the curls back at the sides and saw that underneath was a layer of soft bristles, boyishly short and dyed coppery red. “Oh, is it really me?” she murmured, feeling a sense of shock enveloping her. Kara put her arms around her waist and nuzzled her nape.

“I love your nape like this,” she whispered. “Promise me you'll keep it short forever.”

As Nadia held a small mirror behind her head, Emma sighed to see how Leah had cut it. It was even shorter than the sides, the hairline shaved into a square shape. Lifting the curls, she could see that the undercut rose to near her crown, a V shaped peak in the centre mirroring the shape of her new fringe.

A rush of emotion crashed over Emma like a wave. She had let go of her hair, she'd been transformed, she thought of a butterfly emerging from a pupa, and she was as colourful as a butterfly's wing now. She was sure she'd done the right thing, even though she wasn't at all sure she liked how she looked now. Her lips met Kara's and her eyes filled with tears, not of sadness or regret but of love and gratitude.

Leah had suggested that the three of them went out on the town, but Kara declined, sensing that the day had been so emotionally exhausting for Emma that she wouldn't be able to cope with that. Emma felt perpetually on edge during the journey home, aware that she would now be the centre of attention wherever she went. The pride she felt in her transformation was countered by her innate shyness.

Emma felt like the happiest girl in the world when she arrived home. Kara released her from the corset and the chastity belt was unlocked. The two girls lay naked in each other arms on the sofa, staring lovingly and exchanging kisses. Emma couldn't take her hands off Kara's buzzed hair, still sure it was too short to suit her but turned on by the severity of the style.

Kara had no such ambivalence about Emma's new look. She looked more beautiful and sexy than Kara had hoped in her most optimistic dreams. Nevertheless, Emma sensed something was troubling Kara and asked her what it was.

“Are you glad that you've let me transform you, Emmie? I want us to be together forever and I don't care if you want to go back to how you used to look, I'll accept that. But I would love to keep pushing you. To control you more strictly and to make more changes. Nothing you did so far is irreversible, but the next step is to do things to you that will change you permanently.”

----------

There was a lot of soul searching during the next few days. Kara's usual resolve to live for the moment was abandoned as she realised the strength of feelings that Emma had tapped within her, and she wanted to make plans so that their relationship would be built on a strong and enduring foundations.

Emma felt an equally profound love for Kara, but found herself unable to submit herself to changes that would be permanent. She hadn't even turned twenty, still very young to do things that would remain with her for the rest of her life. She agreed to allow Kara to push her harder and to test her limits. If and when Emma felt ready to move into more profound changes, she would let Kara know.

On the night of Emma's makeover Kara did test one of her limits. The two young women had retreated to the new dressing room and Emma had been sat to gaze at her new look. Kara provided her with a packet of cigarettes and a lighter and told her that by the end of the night she would be able to tolerate smoking and make it look sexy. In return Kara would take her to new heights of pleasure. Kara knelt in front of Emma, parting her thighs. She instructed her to light the first cigarette, giving precise instructions on how she was to hold it. Emma was ordered to watch herself in the mirror at all times.

Emma was beside herself as she saw the first cigarette in her lips, then drew in her breath as she lit it. The sudden influx of strong warm smoke took her by surprise and she coughed, the coughing turning to a soft moan as she felt Kara's warm lips touch her mound with great delicacy. Kara's kisses moved around in a spiral closing gradually on her sex.

Emma loved this and Kara knew it well. Little twitches of her thighs betrayed her excitement. Kara paused to look up. “Keep smoking Emmie. I want to hear you draw in the smoke and blow it out, that way I can know you're enjoying it.”

Emma soon realised that each little drag was rewarded. Kara would suddenly issue instructions. “Keep the smoke in your mouth for a count of five,” or “Hold the cigarette in your lips and tug on your nipples rings.”

By the time she stubbed out the first cigarette, Emma was on the cusp of a huge orgasm. Kara rose to say how well she'd done, standing behind her and gently playing with her short neon curls. When Emma begged her to carry on Kara replied that they'd continue once she was ready to light her next cigarette. Emma realised what the game was, that she only got Kara's attention when a cigarette was lit. Her need to climax outweighed the revulsion that smoking provoked and she found herself lighting her second cigarette in succession.

Kara used her tongue with great sensitivity, keeping Emma on the brink for as long as she dared. She would use the smoking to hold her back from climax, making Emma take a deep drag for the first time, which she couldn't tolerate. “When you can take a long deep drag and hold it without coughing I'll make you cum,” Kara promised. Emma's initial efforts each ended in a cough as her lungs rebelled against the unfamiliar irritant. A third attempt succeeded, Emma's head swimming now as the nicotine flooded her body.

Kara's fingers drew Emma's labia open and her tongue thrust inside her. Curling up her lip, she let her piercing rub at Emma's clitoris, which she knew was always a source of delight for the younger girl. Emma gasped, her whole body shivering and twitching as she was finally allowed to attain orgasm.

As they lay gazing into each others eyes later that night, Emma asked Kara if she would make her continue smoking.

“I think I will, but it will only be a sexual thing for you. It won't get to be a habit... although I may make you smoke in public sometimes.” Emma's heart fluttered as she imagined the humiliation of friends seeing her smoking. “If you do as I say then I promise I'll never smoke again, is that a deal?” Emma had hated seeing Kara smoking and readily agreed, shocked to think that she was the smoker in the relationship now.

Facing the world with her new look put Emma constantly on edge. She would get comments from strangers, not always complimentary, and had to learn to put up with it. Her first trips into university proved quite a trial as she noticed looks of astonishment as her fellow students recognised her. However, she found she was more confident in tutorials now and didn't hold back from voicing her opinion when necessary. She realised that people reacted differently to her, and that some of the students even seemed a little intimidated.

The following week she was called in to see the head of her course. She was surprised to be called, as since she'd met Kara her grades had increased dramatically (Kara was very strict in making sure that she devoted sufficient time to her studies and completed each assignment before the deadline). She sat in his office as he told her that her new look wasn't really appropriate for a business studies graduate. Although the university had no dress code she would have work placements later in the course and she should think about steering her manner of dress and particularly her hairstyle in a more professional direction, as many employers wouldn't accept her style.

Emma nodded and smiled deferentially, her face turning pale as she felt a surge of adrenaline. She thanked him for his advice but left feeling furious. She almost ran home and sent a frantic text to Kara begging her to come home as she needed to talk.

Kara walked in to see Emma pacing the floor in a state of agitation. She threw her arms around Kara and started to sob. Kara knew better than to try to discuss the problem before Emma had managed to exorcise her rage and merely held her until her fury had burnt itself out.

When at last Emma was able to tell Kara what she had happened, Kara looked thoughtful. “Well, maybe he's right,” she said.

It wasn't what she'd wanted to hear. “But... you're taking his side.” Emma's lower lip protruded and she looked like she might sob again.

“Maybe it's not the right course for you. The academic side doesn't really interest you and I've never once heard you say that you had any ambitions to manage a business. And it's true that most employers wouldn't tolerate your look.”

Emma looked deflated. For a moment she felt her girlfriend was betraying her by not taking her side, but a moment's reflection made her think that perhaps Kara was right. She'd been pushed into choosing this course by her parents and the careers advisor at school. And it wasn't something for which she felt any deep interest; she sometimes felt envious that Kara's art studies were something that were a real passion for her, not just an exercise to get a passing grade. Tears started to flow once more. Her anger at her tutor was now replaced by the far worse realisation that the last year and a half may have been spent pursuing activities that would grant her no benefit.

By the next morning, Emma was despondent and wanted to stay in bed all day. Kara coaxed her to go in for the morning, and said that she should continue her course for another month then reflect on her future. It was Emma's birthday in a few days and Kara said that she wanted both of them to have their tongues pierced to mark the event. She suggested that they did it that same day since they should have a little time to heal; Kara didn't want their enjoyment of Emma's birthday spoilt by the soreness of their tongues. They agreed to meet at noon at Esther's shop.

Emma couldn't concentrate at all during her lectures. She pretended to take notes but in reality she doodled, protesting against her treatment by the tutor by indulging childish whimsies, since she realised she was in her last days as a teenager. She smiled as she wrote Kara's name and drew a heart around it.

The excitement she'd felt all morning started to turn to anxiety as she headed toward Esther's shop. Her thoughts filled with the sensations of her last visit here and she could almost  relive the intense pain she'd felt. She thought back to how her second nipple ring had gone in without any conscious awareness on her part, that she seemed to be in a trance. She hoped that she could attain this state again.

She arrived just after Kara. Esther looked surprised when she saw her, then yelped with delight and hugged her. “Oh, honey, I didn't recognise you! I thought for a moment Kara had a new girlfriend. Look at your hair, it's incredible! And so nice to see someone else with curls.”

The girls immediately went through to Esther's salon. Kara insisted that Emma go first, which was a relief. She thought that if she'd had to watch Kara going through the ordeal first her courage might fail her. She asked if this would hurt as much as her nipples. Esther was non-committal: “It's very subjective, some people find it doesn't hurt too much.”

Emma tried to calm herself, breathing slowly and steadily. She popped her tongue out but found she couldn't hold it still. Kara stroked her hand as Esther closed the forceps, steadying the convulsive movements. “OK honey I'm going to go straight in, no point in prolonging your anxiety. Just try to relax... Here we go.”

Emma was aware of the initial contact of the needle, then felt everything go a shade darker as the pain engulfed her. She shuddered as she felt nausea, glad she'd not eaten. There was a rushing sensation and she felt like she was being enfolded by a velvet darkness. She felt breathless and claustrophobic but there was no fear in her.

There was a feeling of release and Emma slowly drew her tongue back into her mouth. For a moment she felt real confusion, as if she'd been disturbed from a deep dream.

“Wow you really zoned out there,” Esther was saying. “You suddenly seemed really calm.”

Emma merely nodded, her tongue suddenly feeling like an alien presence within her mouth. The wound felt like a more intense version of the feeling she experienced when she'd burnt it on hot food. There was a strong salty iron taste from the blood and she could feel the metal stud touch against her palette. Emma gave a weak smile to show she was OK.

A few minutes later and Kara had changed places with her. She kept telling Emma how proud of her she was and how well she'd managed the pain. Emma smiled, stroking her hand. She hadn't uttered a word since her tongue was pierced. Kara tried to look calm as she slid her tongue out but clearly she was nervous (Emma had never seen her nervous previously). Emma watched with a strangely detached fascination as the needle slid up through Kara's little tongue. Kara let out a strangulated curse as the pain kicked in and she wiggled her feet in anguish. She continued moaning as Esther slid the jewellery home. Emma dabbed a tissue on a trickle of blood that had collected on Kara's chin.

Esther freed Kara's tongue which was now adorned with a barbell and Emma embraced her girlfriend lovingly. “Uurgh, ithh huursss,” Kara complained, lisping. Emma nodded sympathetically.

Esther gave them care instructions which included no kissing for a few days. She passed them her mobile number. “Text me if you have problems. Sometimes tongues can bleed. Get in touch at any time day or night if you're worried.” They thanked her, both girls struggling to make themselves understood. As they left the shop, Emma noticed a sign taped to the window. “Help wanted. Must have experience as receptionist.”

Emma was immediately interested, but wanted to surprise Kara. Once Emma moved in with her, Kara had forbidden her to go back to her job at the supermarket. As soon as they were a couple no rent was charged and Emma only had to contribute to bills, which she could afford from her loan. She was starting to become embarrassed by Kara's generosity though; Kara had paid for Emma's hairstyling, her piercings, clothes, shoes, jewellery. Now Emma wanted to have some income so that she could afford to give Kara nice surprises too and she loved the idea of working with Esther. Once they arrived home Emma sent a text to her asking if she could come in to discuss the job as soon as possible.

For the rest of the day, Kara and Emma communicated mainly by writing notes to each other. Kara's piercing seemed to be more troublesome, but she bore her burden with stoicism. Emma mothered her, surprised by how little pain she felt. Neither could face food despite their hunger (they hadn't eaten since breakfast). The following day Emma rose early. She nervously extended her tongue to assess how much she could move it before the pain became excessive and was pleased to feel she'd recovered a lot of use. Kara hadn't recovered so well. Her tongue was sore and she was still reluctant to eat. Both girls had lisps and Emma had acquired a noticeable whistle as she spoke. Kara rested all day, anxious to be sufficiently recovered by Saturday (which was two days off) to be able to celebrate Emma's birthday as she'd planned. She was unable to take solids until the next day.

Saturday arrived and Emma awoke more excited about her birthday than she'd been since she was ten. She was sorely tempted to wake Kara as they hadn't kissed since their tongues had been pierced but today it was to be allowed. After deliberation she decided that Kara would benefit from some extra sleep after her difficulties with her piercing. Emma showered and shaved (her forehead was still shaved smooth under her fringe). She ran her fingers through her wet curls, noticing that the colour had lost some of its zing. Even though it had only been a couple of weeks since Leah had transformed her, the style had lost some of its sharpness. Her nape had become softer, the dark regrowth was noticeable through the buzzed red hair and her fringe had lost its precise contours. She shivered as she realised that she would require frequent salon visits to maintain her image now.

When Kara finally rose she hugged Emma and gave her a red rose. She kissed her gently on the lips, lisping an apology that her tongue was still too sore for anything more passionate. Then she told her to close her eyes. Emma felt something close around her neck; opening her eyes she saw in the mirror that she was wearing a beautiful antique choker, an enamelled medallion at the centre. “This is your first collar,” Kara said solemnly. “It's a symbol of your submission.” Emma felt a tingle of excitement in her loins.

Kara was tight-lipped about her plans to celebrate Emma's birthday. They set out to the shops around noon. Emma's hair was styled quite extravagantly, brushed to the side, revealing the left of her undercut, the curls on top standing up tall, almost forming an afro. Her make-up was very simple, no more than deep red lipstick and false lashes. She was browless, a look Kara liked on her more often now that she wore very bold specs. In truth, Emma still couldn't get used to her glasses, but had no choice but to accept them.

Underneath her sweater Emma's waist was cinched by a corset. She was now more tolerant of the tightness as Kara frequently made her wear one and she loved how it gave her an hourglass figure, enhancing her broad hips and full bosom.

After a light lunch Kara announced that they would both benefit from a trip to Leah to tidy up their hair for tonight. Within minutes Emma was once more in the chair, her nerves jangling with trepidation. She found herself flicking her tongue back and forth until there was a stinging sensation where the stud rubbed at the top of the piercing, finding a satisfaction in the intensity of feeling. She wondered if her nape would be buzzed again and realised that she was hoping it would be.

Leah looked more beautiful than ever, her bob freshly trimmed and a shade lighter now. She roughly brushed the hairspray from the curls as she assessed the state of her cut. “That V fringe looks messy, doesn't it? They need constant trimming to retain the shape, I think we should go back to something simpler today. And the colour needs to be redone.”

Nadia was given the job of applying bleach to Emma's hair, quickly covering the curls, but leaving the undercut clear. She realised that Leah was attending to another customer in the next chair, but without her glasses could see little. Then she heard a lisping voice and realised that it was Kara. She heard the clippers roar and felt her heart quicken as she thought of Kara being shorn yet again. She squinted and could see Kara's head looked very pale. Was she bald?

Emma couldn't control her curiosity, and called across to ask how short Leah was taking her. “I still have some on top,” Kara said teasingly. Emma longed to see Kara grow her hair out, thinking of the beautiful asymmetric bob she'd had on the night they'd first become a couple and her shoulder length hair when they first met. Her constant changes of look threw Emma's equilibrium, but she had to confess that the edginess of her looks was ravishing. The thought of her being shorn, not more than ten feet away, was making Emma very wet.

When Emma returned to the chair after the bleach had been washed out she was surprised to realise that Kara was still present, another stylist working at her hair. Leah had now turned her attention to Emma.

“Simpler colour today,” she announced, and applied a single colour through the curls and fringe. The undercut was given a second shade.

Emma sat under a dryer now as the colour processed. She smiled as she saw Kara approach. “Another present for you,” she announced and held a small case out in front of Emma's face. She squealed with delight as she realised that it was a contact lens case.

“Can I put them in now?” she asked, the whistle in her voice more pronounced due to her excitement. Kara assented and as soon as the dryer was turned off she pulled Emma's lower lid down and slid the first lens in.

Emma blinked, as her eyes adjusted to the new lenses. They felt a little gritty, but she assumed that that was due to her unfamiliarity, having not worn lenses for over a month. She looked up at Kara as her eyes came into focus.

Kara's cut had been freshened up with a number one buzz on the back and sides, but the stubble was now her natural shade, a light red which barely showed over her pale scalp. It formed an even pelt over her scalp, unadorned with any pattern. Her long fringe had been woven into a dozen tiny braids, each tipped with beads which clicked together softly at every move of her head. Emma longed to kiss her mistress, to twine her braids around her tongue stud, to kiss ever millimetre of her clippered scalp.

Emma was allowed to watch now as Leah styled her hair. As she sat before the mirror, she saw for the first time that her hair was coloured an intense blood red. It took a moment to register what else was so strange: her irises were a pale watery green now, only the outer edge showing a trace of her natural dark brown. “Coloured lenses?” she gasped. Kara smiled contentedly.

Leah announced that she'd give Emma a sleek and glamorous look for her birthday. She sprayed her hair liberally with serum and then blew dry her hair, smoothing each section over the brush until the curls were gone. Emma could now see her undercut was jet black.

With the curl removed, Emma's hair looked slightly longer. The ends were slightly choppy and uneven and Leah resolved to neaten the lines.

Most of the hair was pinned up atop Emma's head, just a thin section hanging loose. Leah smoothed the hair over Emma's right ear and fixed the strands in place with the comb. She snipped across her cheek, then back over the ear, taking her hair about half an inch shorter, a very blunt line forming. The line was mirrored on the left side and extended through the back, high above her nape. Once the shape had been established Leah patiently let the rest of the hair down in thin sections and shaped it to follow the line.

Emma's eyes glistened as she saw Leah open the drawer and take out the clippers. The sense of anticipation was intense as she bowed her head to submit her nape to the blades. “We'll give it all a number one today,” Leah suggested, Kara agreeing that it would look nice. She felt the clippers move rapidly up her nape, all the way to the thick red hair near her crown. Leah had never clippered her this quickly and the sensation was different to the delicious tickling she'd felt previously. She realised it was just as arousing, obsessively working at her tongue stud and lip ring to intensify her pleasure.

Now Leah's attention was focussed on Emma's fringe. She combed it down and unceremoniously cut it straight across. Emma blinked to try to shake free the little red hairs that had gathered on her lashes, then groaned as she saw that her fringe was now so short that it barely covered that shaved section at the top of her forehead. Even Kara seemed unsure.

“Wow, that's... short, Leah,” she said softly, her lisp still prominent. Emma's browless forehead was extremely prominent.

“Hmmm... She might look better if you draw on some brows,” Leah admitted.

Now Leah set to work sculpting Emma's locks into the finished style. Every step of the process involved copious amounts of hairspray. The crown was heavily backcombed, and the top was smoothed back right behind Emma's fringe. Leah used straighteners to give shine to each section. The perm had given Emma's thick hair even more body and fullness and she watched as her bob took a helmet-like form, perfectly geometric, a fuller Louise Brooks bob with high bouffant crown.

The new style was completed by a tribal design being shaved into the left side of Emma's nape. She was no longer able to conceal the effect the clippers had on her, and sighed with pleasure. When Leah showed her the result in the mirror she saw that she'd been shaved with a stylised “K”. “To show who owns you,” Leah whispered. Emma was thrilled to bear Kara's mark.

When Emma was released from the cape her hand immediately shot up to her nape, melting inside as she felt the smooth velvet there. The bobbed hair was stiff from the hairspray, impossible to run her fingers through. Kara joined her, nuzzling at her nape. “I saw what the clippers were doing to you,” she whispered. Emma turned to feel her girlfriend's hair, noticing how much softer Kara's stubble was, her hair much finer.

“You look sexier than ever, Miss Kara,” Emma moaned. “I want to take you to bed and never leave you.”

Leah interrupted the moment, asking Kara to come for a smoke with her. Kara declined, saying she'd given up again, definitively this time. “I'm sure Emmie will have a smoke with you though to express her gratitude.”

Emma shot a defiant look at Kara, then lowered her eyes. “I'd love that,” she lisped meekly, though feeling the precise opposite.

“And remember to look sexy,” Kara whispered as Emma followed Leah out front.

Emma tried her best to do as she'd been ordered, aware that Kara would be watching from inside the salon.

“So you're a regular smoker now?” Leah asked, surprised by the confidence Emma showed as she dragged on the Marlboro.

“I suppose so,” she said. Every drag reminded her of the things that Kara did to her when she smoked at home and she found herself getting aroused. The smoke burned at the wound where she'd worried at the piercing in her tongue, and she found the sensation delighted her. She took another drag and rubbed at her nape, lost in the moment.

“You know, if Kara wasn't my friend, I'd be seducing you right now,” Leah confided.

“If Kara wasn't my friend I'd let you,” Emma thought, smiling to herself.

Back at home now, Emma wanted nothing more than to curl up with her love and celebrate her birthday with the intimacy she'd been denied since the two had been pierced a few days earlier. But Kara was insistent that she'd planned something and that they had to get ready and were already running late. Emma's make-up was redone, a dark cat eye shape drawn around her now pale green eyes, doll-like lashes and silvery-pink lips. Kara drew on bold black brows, telling Emma they worked nicely with her new fringe. Emma wore a latex dress (her first time in the material), black, sleeveless, low cut, the skirt knee-length, fitted tightly around her thighs, her waist still nipped in by the corset she wore under it. She was given black patent leather shoes with four inch heels. She felt sexier than ever as she looked in the mirror, hugely relieved to be free of the glasses which gave her a geeky charm.

Kara wore all black eye make-up: block-like around her eyes, glossy black lips. She added chunky jewellery in her ear piercings, some with long dangling chains. She dressed in a red leather top with a high, tight collar and short black skirt. Emma thought she looked fierce and beautiful.

They took a taxi into town and arrived at an Italian restaurant (Emma loved Italian food). Kara said a table for six had been booked in her name and they were shown to a bar area to wait for the rest of their party. “Who else is coming?” Emma asked, intrigued, but Kara said it was a surprise. A few minutes later Leah joined them. She passed Emma a small wrapped box and wished her a happy birthday with a kiss on the lips. She opened it and saw that it was a long, elegant cigarette holder, which delighted Kara.

Emma suddenly gasped and looked shocked. “Don't look but two girls I know have just walked in.” Kara didn't just look, she waved and beckoned to them. The girls in question were Cathy and Erica, Emma's best friends from her hometown. They came over looking nervous, Kara's dramatic look obviously taking them by surprise.

“Hi, you must be Erica and Cathy, I'm Kara, we spoke on the phone. This is Leah, and of course Emma you already know.”

They'd known her for many years but they no longer recognised her. It was only when Kara introduced her that the two friends realised that the girl with the severe red bob was Emma.

“Emma!” they gasped in unison. “What have you done with your hair?” Cathy asked. She was a rather heavy girl with shoulder length dark blonde hair.

Erica, who was very thin, bespectacled, her bird like features overwhelmed by long dark dead straight hair, added “I didn't recognise you, you look totally different.”

Emma hadn't seen her friends since the new term had started and hadn't mentioned a thing about her makeover in their chats. She smiled awkwardly, feeling a weight descend on her as she wondered how she could possibly explain her metamorphosis to her old school friends. “Well, I just wanted a change,” she muttered shyly, her lisp obvious.

Kara said that Leah and her would get drinks for everyone while the friends caught up. The two girls sat either side of Emma, every moment noticing new things about her: piercings, her clippered nape, her coloured contacts, her latex dress. There was an awkward silence, her friends clearly in shock. “Who are your friends?” Cathy eventually asked.

Emma felt faint as she realised she had to reveal her secret at last. “Kara is my... my girlfriend. And...”

She never finished as she saw astonishment in their faces. Clearly she'd done a good job of concealing her sexuality and they'd suspected nothing. “Don't say anything to mum, she doesn't know yet.” Cathy nodded.

“Are you a... lesbian?” Erica said nervously.

Emma confirmed that she was, had been for a long time. “Are you ok with it?” They nodded glumly.

“Just glad you've found someone,” Cathy said, strain showing in her voice.

Emma looked over to see where Kara and Leah had got to. Leah beckoned to her and made a smoking gesture. Kara nodded, ordering her to go with Leah. She made her apologies to her friends and followed Leah to a smoking area in a garden at the rear of the restaurant.

“Are you going to try out your cigarette holder?” Leah asked.

Emma retrieved it from her handbag and fitted the cigarette into it, her fingers trembling.

She glanced inside the restaurant and saw that Cathy and Erica were looking right at her, as was Kara. She knew what her mistress expected and let Leah light her up.

She made every effort to appear sexy as she smoked, although she felt the cigarette holder was a ridiculous affectation, but confided to Leah that she was really uncomfortable with her friends' presence.

Leah seemed unconcerned. “If they're friends they'll accept who you are. If they don't accept you, then let them go. You'll find new friends.”

When she returned inside Cathy looked hurt. “You smoke now?”

Emma recalled that Cathy had started smoking four years earlier and that she'd nagged her to give up, which she did a few months later.

Emma nodded and said she started recently. “Your girlfriend smokes too then?” Cathy asked, but looked puzzled when Emma said she didn't.

“I just like it,” she said with a hint of defiance, taking a perverse satisfaction in provoking Cathy.

They were now shown to their table. The last guest had arrived, and Emma was pleased to see that it was Esther. She rushed over to be the first to hug her, but had an ulterior motive. “Please don't mention the job to Kara, I'd wanted to surprise her.” Esther agreed to keep mum. Complimenting Emma on her latest makeover, she gave her a present, a box of jewellery for her piercings.

There was some easing of tension as the meal went on. A little wine relaxed everyone and Emma could chat more comfortably with her old friends now, though she found little interest in their stories about acquaintances in her old town. She noticed that Cathy seemed to bear some hostility to Kara though, seemingly blaming her for changing Emma's appearance and character so dramatically. Leah was aware of it too and spent the night encouraging Emma to smoke frequently as she saw that it got a reaction from Cathy. Cathy tried to confront her at one point; Leah looked deep into her eyes and told her, in her most intimidating manner, that she'd look beautiful with a new cut and colour and she'd love her to come back to her salon. Cathy spent the rest of the evening avoiding eye contact with the predatory woman that she though was trying to seduce her.

In a quiet moment she was able to chat with Esther about the job. It would involve a lot of different duties in the shop, receptionist, clerical, maintaining hygiene (“the most important thing for a piercer” she said) and helping out with the piercers and tattooists. She wanted someone to work all day Saturday and a few afternoons and evenings. It was agreed that Emma would work there on Monday afternoon and if the other partners in the shop were happy with her work there was no reason she couldn't work there permanently. Emma smiled gleefully.

In their taxi home Emma was full of affection for Kara, whispering about the things she wanted to do, but fell into a deep sleep the moment she lay on her sofa at home, having overindulged with wine. The following morning she slept in, suffering with a hangover. She'd arranged to spend the morning with her school friends and phoned Cathy to say she was running late. She suggested lunch but was told that they had to take a train home.

“Perhaps it's just as well,” said Kara as Emma ran to the bathroom to be sick. Not only had she gone well over her alcohol limit, her total of cigarettes was into double figures, thanks to Leah's encouragement. Kara gave her some painkillers and sent her back to bed.

In the evening, Emma was morose as she realised her friendship with two girls she'd known for half her life may never be the same. “They seemed so ordinary... dull.” Emma hated herself for criticising the girls who'd stood by her so many times through the crises of her teenage life. Kara was sympathetic.

“You're growing, you're not a child any more. It's a time of change and your friends will change too. Sometimes we grow apart from people. You can still keep in touch with them, there's a strong bond from your past, but you're going to make new friends now.”

Emma nodded wistfully, then felt a sudden excitement as she remembered Esther's gift. She'd popped it in her bag at the restaurant and had forgotten it since. As she looked at the contents she asked Kara to put them all in for her.

To begin her lip was adorned with a spiked labret, nearly half an inch long. As Kara examined the ear studs, she glanced at a note Esther had included. The jewellery was 10 gauge, wider than the 12 gauge rings Emma had been wearing. She'd said that these would stretch the holes slightly and be painful to insert. “I think we should leave them,” Kara said, but was surprised to see a look of disappointment in Emma's eyes.

“I don't mind if it hurts. I... kind of like it.”

Kara's eyes widened and she looked at Emma in silence. “You surprise me,” she finally said.

Emma was in the mood for confession. “When I'm doing something that makes me nervous, I play with my piercings till they sting and it makes me feel better. And when I got pierced, it was like I was in a trance. Everything goes dark and I can't feel what's going on around me. It sounds scary, I suppose it is a bit, but it's... nice.”

“I had no idea,” Kara smiled. “So you want me to make you hurt?” Emma nodded guiltily. A moment later her ears were being pulled roughly as Kara twisted at the rings to free them from Emma's lobes. Her earlobes were smeared with Vaseline, and Kara tugged to open up the holes.

“You know we could keep stretching these holes till they're big enough for me to slide a finger through? Would you like that?”

Emma moaned excitedly. “I think I would, Miss Kara.”

“They'd never go back to looking like this though. It would be permanent. Are you saying you're agreeing to a permanent alteration?”

Emma thought about girls she'd seen with their lobes stretched by discs and in that moment it was all she desired. “I want my lobes stretched, yes, Miss Kara.”

Kara eased the stud into the lower hole in her ear. There was a slight pain but less than Emma had expected and she felt a strange disappointment. Kara immediately added the second stud in the higher hole. The piercing wasn't fully healed yet and now the stinging was intense. Emma squirmed, waiting for the pain to subside. By the time her other lobe had been fitted with the new studs she could feel her senses were heightened by adrenaline.

“We'll go and see Esther soon to find out the best way to stretch your lobes,” Kara said. Emma wondered if she should admit that she would be working with her the following afternoon but decided she'd only tell her if she was given the permanent job. She still felt guilty about keeping a secret from Kara.

“Show me your breasts, Emmie,” Kara demanded. She pulled off her t-shirt and thrust out her chest. Her rings were taken out, the first time that had happened since she'd been pierced. She felt Kara's nails close on the the tip of her right nipple and pull it out till she winced. Kara guided a long bar into the hole and fed it through. She'd slightly misaligned the jewellery and it snagged against Emma's flesh, the pain so intense that she whimpered.

“Oh Miss Kara, that hurt,” she shivered. Kara screwed a ball into place to hold the bar fixed through the piercing, then flicked her nail hard at the base of Emma's nipple, causing her to cry out at the sudden stab of pain that flared through the tender bud.

“Keep doing it,” Emma shivered. Kara flicked again at her nipple, three times. Emma was groaning now with a mixture of pain and ecstasy.

Kara fitted her left nipple with a bar, then twisted them in opposite directions.

“Was Leah coming on to you yesterday?” She looked serious now.

“She said she'd seduce me if I wasn't with you,” Emma replied, honestly.

“And are you attracted to her?”

“You're more beautiful, Miss Kara.” Emma squealed as Kara tugged sharply at the bars.

“That's not what I asked, is it, Emmie?”

“Yes, I think Miss Leah is very beautiful,” Emma moaned.

“She turns you on when she does this to you, doesn't she?” Kara spread her fingertips over Emma's closely shorn nape.

“I love how it feels when she clippers me,” Emma admitted.

“Should I be jealous?”

“No Miss Kara, I only love you, I promise.”

Emma now presented her tongue to Kara so that she could be fitted with the new stud that Esther had given her. It had a flat plate on the bottom and a huge ball on top, three eighths of an inch in diameter. Kara forced the post through the healing wound, Emma moaning as it started to bleed slightly. The weight and size of the ball made if difficult for her to speak comprehensibly.

“Would you like it if both of us and Leah got together intimately from time to time?” Kara asked.

The question took Emma completely by surprise and she didn't respond for a long time.

“I don't know Miss Kara, I think I would like it,” she said eventually, nervously observing Kara's response.

A smile spread over her face. “ I think I'd like it too.”

The following morning Emma endured more tedious lectures, her attention to her studies ever-dwindling as she thought more about how she could realistically drop out of the course. That would only be possible if she could get a job, so she was keen to make a good impression with Esther and her colleagues later.

She left the last lecture of the morning and headed to the toilets to check her appearance in the mirror. She'd washed her hair this morning and it had reverted to soft frizzy curls. The curl made it appear shorter than when it was straightened, almost her whole ear exposed now. She found that she adored the deep saturated red.

Emma's nipples were sore and sensitive after Kara's treatment of them last night and she tapped her fingers over them through her blouse, smiling contentedly as they smarted and tingled. The bars were still fitted. Luckily, Kara had replaced the smaller tongue stud; a receptionist who couldn't make herself understood on the phone wouldn't be much use.

The contact lenses had been stored away once more and the glasses were back. Emma felt the bright colours of the frame didn't go with her new hair colour well, and Kara had to agree, admitting that soon she should get a second pair in a more neutral shade. Emma combed her short fringe, satisfied that she looked good enough to go into Esther's shop. She pinched her nipples through her clothes before heading out.

Emma arrived at the shop soon after noon and was given a warm greeting from Esther. She introduced her to two of her colleagues, both tattooists, Gerry and Holly. Gerry was a small powerfully built Ulsterman, his arms tattooed in geometric black patterns which extended to his wrists. Holly was equally heavily tattooed, her sleeves following Japanese tradition, scenes of nature rendered in muted colours. She wasn't much taller than Emma and had her long blonde hair tied back in a ponytail. Emma was relieved that they both made an effort to welcome her and put her at her ease. Esther gave her a tour of the shop and explained her duties.

Emma took to her new role with ease. She got on well with the customers and picked up the shop's systems with apparent ease. At five o'clock she met with Esther and the two tattooists to say that they would be happy to have her start work on Saturday. She accepted excitedly and rushed home to convey her news to Kara.

On entering the house she discovered she wasn't the only one with good news. Kara's work had been accepted for a group show at a local gallery, the northern outlet for a well connected London dealer. She would show four large paintings and it was by far the most important opportunity in her career thus far. The private view was on Friday and Kara would be busy for much of the week overseeing the hang.

It wasn't until Kara had finished telling her news that Emma told her she had a job. Kara was delighted and hugged her in celebration. She knew most of the staff from the shop, and was close to Holly, who'd commissioned some designs from Kara to add to the shop's tattoo portfolio. Emma was surprised to find out that there were people in the city who had tattoos that Kara had designed.

Throughout the week Kara became increasingly excited. She was delighted with the space she'd been allotted in the gallery, close to the entrance, meaning her paintings would have the greatest prominence of any works in the show. She'd also found that the gallery had nominated her for a young artist award; if she were successful it would fund studio space for two years after her graduation. On Wednesday night Kara told Emma that she wanted to make herself noticed at the private view. She wanted people to remember her paintings and to remember her. She passed Emma a box containing a gleaming new set of clippers. “Will you shave me, Emmie?”

Emma was speechless. She reached up to touch Kara's fringe, which was still braided and beaded. “You don't want to shave all of it?” she said.

Kara nodded. “I want to be bald. Shaved smooth. I've been thinking about it all day, I really want this.”

Emma started to protest, but a gentle kiss on the lips silenced her. “It's an order, Emmie. Will you shave me please?”

“Yes Miss Kara,” Emma said with regret.

They went upstairs to the dressing room and both stripped naked. Emma oiled the blades and plugged in the clippers. She placed a towel over Kara's shoulders and gazed at her in the mirror. “Can I start with the back and sides, where it's already buzzed?” Kara agreed but told Emma that if she thought she might change her mind she was mistaken. The switch was flicked and Emma felt the motor purring in her hand.

“Do it,” Kara said assertively. Emma put the blades to Kara's cheek and slowly drew them up. A fine dust of red hair settled over the towel. The clippers had cut very close, only the softest of stubble discernible as Emma's fingertips ran over her mistress' scalp. Kara looked utterly calm as she waited for Emma to continue. Now the clippers ran over the entire side. Kara's scalp was milky white, the stubble giving the faintest red tinge. As Emma clippered Kara's nape her mind was filled with memories of Leah clippering her own nape. She paused to stroke, then kiss her lover's scalp.

Emma's resolve started to falter now that all the buzzed area had been clipper shaved. Kara's gaze met Emma's in the mirror, and she nodded to encourage her. Emma lifted the braids and brought the blades to her beloved Kara's forehead. They moved through the woven locks of hair without resistance and Emma groaned softly as they came free in her hand. She delicately drew the clippers back over the remains of her hair, trying to avoid looking in the mirror. She brushed a severed strand free; Kara's scalp was now uniformly reduced to a fine stubble.

At last Emma dared to look in the mirror. Kara looked simultaneously bold and vulnerable. Her head was beautifully shaped and Emma was enchanted by the transformation. “I was afraid I wouldn't like you bald, but you're more lovely than ever.”

Emma covered Kara's scalp in a cap of white foam. Now she would remove every vestige of hair from Kara's scalp. Her hand was steady as she lifted the razor, placing the blades on Kara's forehead and slowly pulling them back. The top of her scalp was exposed, gleaming softly. Emma rinsed the blade and made another stroke.

Kara sat immobile as Emma washed away the remains of the lather, then softly rubbed lotion into her scalp. An ecstatic sigh escaped Kara lips. She stared at herself for a long time as Emma delighted in rubbing her fingers over the smoothness of her denuded head. “It's not enough,” Kara said suddenly. “I want everything gone. Shave my eyebrows, Emma.”

She obeyed without question. Now used to shaving her own brows, Emma quickly dabbed shaving cream over Kara's shapely eyebrows and razored them to the skin. “Eyelashes too. I hate my pale eyelashes,” Kara instructed.

Emma was unsure how to remove the lashes. Kara asked her to snip them to the skin with nail scissors. The steadiness of her hand surprised Emma. She rested her hand on Kara's cheek and snipped each hair to the root, baring her eyelids.

Kara stood and turned to face Emma. Her blue eyes looked huge and bare. Her hairlessness gave her features an unearthly quality which unnerved Emma. “Miss Kara, you look like an angel,” she whispered.

Emma's morning routine was now expanded to include maintaining Kara's hairlessness and each time she shaved her scalp Emma found herself aroused intensely. On Friday she bought a tiny set of trimmers which she had Emma use to rid her of every trace of eyelash. The entire day was devoted to preparations for the private view, making sure that Kara would be the centre of attention. Kara was irritable as she experimented with various make-up looks. She tried various earrings in her ear piercings but eventually decided that she would wear no jewellery in her ears. The make-up she finally decided on was stark and simple. Her face and scalp were dusted with pale powder and her lips were given a red stain. A touch of pink coloured her cheeks. Emma was awed as she looked at Kara. She had no doubt that everyone at the gallery would be enraptured by her new look.

Kara had given a lot of thought to how Emma would look. She began by straightening her hair, then rubbed in gel and slicked it straight back. Even her fringe was combed back and Emma felt a twinge of nervousness as she realised that for the first time her shaved forehead would be visible in public. Her make-up was similar to Kara's except that her lips were as pale as the rest of her face and her eyes were the focus of attention, her abundant false lashes contrasting with Kara's denuded eyes. Emma's eyes were pale green now as Kara had put in her contact lenses. They wore identical dresses, simple sleeveless tunics of raw linen with ankle length skirts, a wide band of red binding their waists.

As they waited for their taxi, they stood side by side before a mirror. Emma's dark undercut was completely exposed and it gave her a boyish androgyny. She squeezed Kara's hand. “I can't believe how you've made me look. It's so... weird, exotic, sexy. I'm just glad that you'll be with me tonight, I'd feel so shy on my own.”

----------

The gallery was already bustling as Emma and Kara arrived. It was Emma's first experience of a private view and she felt out of her depth. “Everyone here looks so arty,” she groaned.

“Don't be deceived, most of the people are only here for free wine. They don't know a single thing about art,” Kara replied.

Emma observed that Kara had adopted a very distinct persona. Her face was mask-like, no expression on her features, and the younger woman found herself mirroring her detachment. The gallery owner approached Kara, two photographers in tow, eager to get pictures of an artist who was so photogenic. She was asked to pose in front of one of her canvases but insisted on Emma being at her shoulder for all images. She checked for whom the photographers worked (the first worked for an agency who would syndicate to art magazines and newspapers, the other was employed by a university magazine) and made sure they correctly recorded Emma's name. “We'll be famous across the whole campus,” Kara quipped to Emma.

Kara was the woman everyone wanted to be seen with. She was interviewed by a succession of journalists and bloggers, answering all of their questions with spontaneity and dead pan wit. Emma stood alongside her, having no idea what most of the questions meant. The owner stood nearby, agitatedly listening in, eager to intervene should Kara say anything to damage the reputation of his gallery. At the end of the interviews he thanked her, praising how well she'd presented herself. He also said that a number of collectors had expressed an interest in her work.

As the couple went to get refreshments they encountered Leah. She looked stunning, her blonde bob set in finger waves, an ivory silk dress completing her look of golden-age Hollywood glamour. “I'd made a special effort tonight, and then you two go and upstage me,” she complained with mock seriousness. She peered at Kara closely. “You're very bald, aren't you? What happened?”

“It was Emma, she held me down and shaved me,” Kara joked, maintaining the mask-like face she'd worn all night.

“Oh, what a naughty girl. I think we should take her back to mine and punish her.”

Leah looked puzzled when Kara agreed, but she assured her that she was serious. “We discussed it a few nights ago and we both agreed we'd like to get more intimate with you.”

“You as well, Emmie?” she said teasingly. “I play mean, you know, I'm not sweet like Kara.”

Emma suspected Leah would be very mean in private but was prepared to risk it, the thought of being her plaything making Emma breathless. “If Miss Kara desires it then so do I,” she whispered.

An hour later the private view was winding down. Kara made a last circuit of the room, saying her farewells to some of the contacts she'd made. Then the three women departed, taking a taxi to Leah's home.

She lived in a detached farmhouse a few miles out of the city, overlooking moor land. As soon as they entered, Emma was instructed to undress. She slipped out of her dress and folded it neatly on the floor. “You may enter my dungeon now,” Leah said.

Emma was taken into a large basement room. A barber chair was set in the middle of the room, spot lit. The rest of the room was in darkness. Leah had her sit in the chair and set straps tightly about her wrists, fixing them to the arms of the chair.

“What turns the little slut on?” Leah asked Kara, as if Emma wasn't even present.

“She loves pain, especially in her nipples. I see her pinching them when she thinks I'm not looking. And you know she has a thing for clippers. She gets wet every day when she shaves me.”

Emma started to speak but Leah cut her off. “I don't want to hear you tonight. In fact I think you should be gagged.”

Emma felt a rubber block being forced into her mouth, which locked behind her teeth, keeping her jaws wide open. At the front of the device was a disc which filled the space between her gums and lips, forming a seal, leaving a tube protruding from her mouth. Extending from the tube were two nozzles which were pushed deep into Emma's nostrils. She realised that the tubes had valves which meant she could only breathe in through her mouth and only breathe out through the nose tubes. Emma pushed at the gag with her tongue, feeling slightly panicky as she realised that there was no way to expel it without the use of her hands.

“Can you breathe OK, Emmie?” Kara asked. Emma could hear air hissing through the valves with each breath. The tubes limited the flow of air and she could feel resistance to every breath, but nodded to Kara to show she wasn't suffocating.

Leah took a cigarette from her pack of Marlboros. She held it to her lips with her immaculately manicured fingers, her red nails exactly matching her lipstick. She lit it and exhaled a stream of smoke toward Emma. “Are you still not smoking, Kara? Oh, I forgot, it's Emmie who's the smoker, isn't it?”

She fitted the tip of another cigarette into the breathing tube, panic arising in Emma as she had to suck hard to get enough air. Leah lifted her lighter and Emma felt her mouth flood with smoke. Now every breath would involve taking a deep drag on the Marlboro, the smoke escaping through her nose. Emma felt like she was drowning; her entire airway filled up with smoke. She frantically breathed faster and faster to try to get enough air. She was alarmed as she saw how quickly she was smoking the cigarette, and she felt a nicotine rush through her head.

Leah leaned forward, cigarette suspended in her lips. She brought the glowing tip close to Emma's nipple until the heat was palpable. She finally stood, to the relief of the terrified Emma. “I love pierced nipples. They're so sensitive.” The bars were hurriedly slid out of Emma's nipples and Leah spread Vaseline over them. She fitted a glass tube, about an inch in diameter, over Emma's left nipple. The other end of the tube was closed except for a narrow valve which was fitted with rubber piping. Using a vacuum pump, the air was sucked from the tube and Emma's nipple rapidly swelled to fill the base. The pain was excruciating and Emma stared down to see her nipple had pumped up like a strawberry, bright red as the low pressure made the tissues fill with blood, in contrast to the pale white skin which pressed against the base of the glass. Leah removed the pump, and the tube remained, dangling down from Emma's breast. She immediately applied a second tube to the right nipple and pumped until it was equally swollen.

Leah pulled the stub of the cigarette from the gag. Emma noticed that Leah's cigarette had only half burnt-down in the time she'd smoked the entirety of hers. She felt dizzy from the effects of the smoke and from lack of air. Leah moved behind her and brushed through her hair to rid it of the gel. As her hair was brushed forward, Emma could feel it sticking out in all directions. She jumped as a loud crack announced that Leah had turned on the clippers.

The gag effectively silenced Emma's moans as she felt the cold blades touch her nape, then sizzle up through the stubble. Leah slowly mowed up the back of her head, dusting Emma's breasts with fine black hairs. As she did, Kara took hold of the tubes which contained Emma's swollen nipples and began roughly tugging and twisting. They were so well fixed in place that there was no question of them coming free. Every movement caused a sharp twinge, her flesh burning now. She was breathing more and more rapidly through the gag but was becoming increasingly light headed as her demand for oxygen wasn't being met. She was sure that if another cigarette was inserted into the gag she'd pass out.

As Leah wielded the clippers high up the back of Emma's head she was alarmed to see a clump of red hair fall. Leah wasn't just tidying up the undercut, she was buzzing into the longer hair. Emma thought with dread that she could end up bald, as bald as Kara, thinking back to the lust she'd noticed in Leah's eyes when she'd seen her mistress' shaved head for the first time. At that moment her head was tilted to the side and Leah buzzed high up the side, more longer hair falling as the blades reached higher than ever before. Emma could now lift her eyes to see Kara. She was still unfamiliar with her new look and her heart raced, thrilled to see how beautiful her mistress looked. She stared into Kara's eyes, wishing she could feel her pierced tongue over her clit.

The clippers became silent, Emma feeling relief (and some disappointment?) that she still had the hair on top of her head. Then she felt something wet being slapped on her nape. As Leah's fingers massaged in the lather she realised that there was no hair on her nape, the stubble so short that she could only feel it when her fingertips ran up against the direction of growth. It hadn't even occurred to Emma that Leah was taking the undercut shorter than previously but now she realised there had been no guard on the clippers and soon the back and sides would be bald. She could no longer resist the powerful urges she'd been feeling and felt a climax building in her pussy. Kara was alert to what she was feeling and started to finger her, then knelt, her tongue entering deep inside her, drawing her tongue stud up and down to excite Emma further. Leah's fingers gripped her hair, pulling tight at the crown to fix her head as the razor dragged up, pressed firmly to her skin, rasping softly as her nape was rendered totally smooth.

Emma was consumed by orgasm after orgasm, her senses overloaded by pain, humiliation and pleasure. She felt herself sliding into her private world, dark and warm, where time seemed to stand still. It was with a touch of regret that she returned to external reality.

As her senses returned Emma saw a naked Leah undressing Kara. She saw that the hairdresser had a pierced clit hood and, more obviously, a large tattoo across the back of her hips, a horned animal skull, finely drawn and shaded. She was surprised to see such a gothic image adorning the woman she'd always seen as the embodiment of classical elegance. Nonetheless, she felt a thrill to see the tattoo.

Leah fastened the harness of a strap on around her hips. She lit another Marlboro and fitted it into Emma's gag. She felt stifled again as she was forced to suck the smoke in as hard as she could. Kara leant forward over the chair, her powdered face close to Emma's as Leah entered her from behind, driving her toward a climax.

A few hours later Emma snuggled up tight to Kara in their bed. She shuddered as she ran a hand up her bald nape. “I don't think I like being shaved,” she sighed. “I'm going to look so weird for my first day in work.”

Kara kissed the side of her head and told her that she'd be kept shaved for a little while. “I love the feeling, Emmie. And it's so exciting that we're both bald, at least semi bald in your case. I'm sure we can find a style for your hair that will look pretty.” She paused and looked thoughtful. “What were you feeling when you saw me and Leah together?”

“I did feel a little bit jealous at first, but that passed. I could see you were still thinking of me, and I just felt turned on then. The two of you looked so lovely together. I'd be heart-broken if you did anything with her when I wasn't there though,” Emma added, her insecurity obvious in her eyes. Kara reassured her that she'd never even think of doing that.

Emma left early for her new job the following morning. Her head was freshly shaved and Kara had tied her curls up in bunches with large bows, fully exposing the extent of the undershave. Her scalp tingled in the cold morning air. She smiled at a young girl who passed, staring in astonishment, and remembered how upset she'd been when Kara had shaved over her ears. She thought how far she'd come in a few weeks. Her outfit consisted of a short pleated tartan skirt, black lace-patterned tights, flat shoes, a pink polo shirt and a long bottle green cardigan. Her round glasses completed her look. Kara declared that she looked delightful, although Emma complained that it made her look too young.

She received a warm welcome from her new colleagues, then shyly asked Esther for a word in private. They went into her room. “I was... er.. playing last night and afterwards we couldn't get the bar back in my nipple.” Emma blushed as she stripped off, her nipples still swollen beyond their normal size and some discolouration apparent.

Esther looked concerned. “They're not fully healed, you shouldn't be taking them out yet. And you shouldn't let Kara be so rough with you – I'll tell her when I next see her.”

“It wasn't Kara did it.” Emma was eager to defend her girlfriend, then added “She was with me though!” She wanted to keep the previous night as private as possible but couldn't bear Esther to think she'd been unfaithful to Kara.

Esther managed to fit the bar back, but every moment was agony for Emma. She apologised to the piercer for making such a fuss, expressing her surprise; she thought she'd become quite tolerant of pain. Esther explained that when people were aroused, sexually or by a rush of adrenaline the pain would be transformed. Without that, pain was just pain.

Emma loved her new job. She liked the customers almost without exception (there was one group of teenage girls who wanted to get tattoos and got nasty when she asked for proof of age, insisting that they were twenty-two; even then she was proud that she'd kept her head and merely asked them to come back when they had ID, which she estimated would be about three years). Her colleagues made a fuss of her and it was clear that they had a strong bond. She especially took to Holly, and working with Esther was as pleasurable as she'd expected. They'd had a long chat as she helped scrubbing her room at the end of the day. Esther had grown up in an orthodox Jewish family and had found it increasingly hard to accept the conservatism that was the norm. She'd become fascinated by tattoos and piercings which were forbidden in her family's tradition (at least only very few piercings were permitted). She'd also struggled to come to terms with her sexuality (as Emma suspected, she was lesbian) and her parents no longer had any contact with her, though she still got updates about how they were via a cousin with whom she was very close. Emma discussed her parents' disapproval of her changes, and said they had no idea how much she'd changed since her last trip home.

Esther laughed as she remembered the shy, long-haired girl she'd met just a few weeks earlier. She put her hand on Emma's bare nape, making her glow inside. “And can I ask what happened to your hair? Was that part of the same game with the nipples?”

Emma felt so shy that she couldn't say anything, but her blushing answered Esther. “Would it have involved a hairdresser of our mutual acquaintance?” she smiled. Emma reluctantly nodded, though she felt a sense of relief as now her submissive nature was out in the open. “Kara doesn't mind you being practically bald, then?”

“Oh, you don't know, do you? Kara's bald now. She hasn't got a hair on her body.” Esther looked shocked.

“Was that Leah too?”

Emma discussed how it had been done by her, Kara eager to make an impact at the exhibition.

“I must admit, I'm a little bit jealous, Leah is very beautiful, but I like my curls too much to get close to her. I'm sure she'd have me cropped very soon, I've seen the looks she favours on her girlfriends. Still, moths can't help being attracted to flames.”

As the last touches were in place with the cleaning routine, Esther spoke again. “Some of the tattooists will probably start telling you you should get some ink. Don't think you have to do it to fit in here, same with piercings.”

Emma nodded, saying how she did feel under-modified compared to everyone else here. “I did want to stretch my lobes though, would you help with that?”

Esther explained the process, and how the stretching had to be gradual, otherwise the skin tended to blow out. Emma looked disappointed when she realised that it would be many months before her piercings could be stretched to a significant size.

“The only way to speed the process is to cut a slit in the lobe and stitch it. Once it heals, there's a bigger hole that can be stretched more if you choose.”

Emma felt a little squeamish at the idea of such a surgical approach but was intrigued. “How big can you make the hole?” she asked.

Esther looked closely and ran her fingers over Emma's ears. “Your ears are small and delicate, but I'm sure we could take you to three eights of an inch.”

The fears Emma had experienced now intensified as this was not some abstraction about a piercing process. It was about her ears. She remembered Kara's words too; this would be her first permanent modification. “So... if I did decide... when could you..?”

Esther shrugged. “Right now if you like.”

She hadn't prepared herself for this but suddenly it seemed like a good idea. She was sure the fear of the procedure would only nag at her if she waited. She wanted to get it over and done. “Can I call Kara? I'd like her to be here.” In fact, Kara had issued clear instructions that there were to be no surprises with piercings. Every piercing Emma received was to be with her mistress' permission and in her presence.

Kara approved of the plan and said she would be there within fifteen minutes. Esther immediately started to make her preparations and agreed to begin as soon as Kara arrived. Emma took the studs out of her ears, thinking she wouldn't be putting these back in.

Within five minutes, Kara popped her head around the door. “Is there a cute little girl in here getting her ears scalpelled?”

Emma rushed to see her, showering her with kisses. She was dressed in a white peasant tunic with embroidered collar and a long skirt, virtually free of make-up. Esther whistled.

“Wow look at you. I thought Emma was exaggerating when she said no hair at all. Even your eyelashes are gone!” She embraced her friend warmly. “Only you could pull it off, you still look fab.”

Kara ruffled Esther's curls. “I'm sure you have a beautifully shaped head somewhere in there. Shall we get some clippers and find out?”

The piercer turned to the sink to scrub her hands. “No way. And you might get Leah to treat your girlfriend more gently. The poor little elf's been scalped. And I had to fix up what the two of you had been doing to her nipples last night. Leave them alone till they're healed!”

Emma looked down sheepishly, guilty about revealing too much. Kara snorted. “The 'poor little elf' loves it. Don't you, my love?” Emma grinned and nodded.

“Well this is going to sting quite a bit, so your job is to hold her hand and be nice.”

Kara did as she was told, joining Emma who had sat back in the treatment chair. She shivered as she felt Esther swabbing her ears, then the bald scalp at the sides of her head.

“You'll be fine. I'll see you when you're back from the zone.” Kara stroked Emma's hand repeatedly. “Ooooh, I can't watch,” she groaned as Esther picked up a scalpel.

“Shall I just go as big as I can with the holes? We might get up to a half inch, but three eighths is more probable.”

“Mmmm, yeah, big as...” Emma felt her earlobe being stretched tight, then a blade touched to the hole in her ear. There was a cold sensation, then something like a paper cut. But it got worse, far worse. Despite her frequent recent experiences of pain, Emma was always taken by surprise. She felt the scalpel sawing through her flesh, the pain intensifying as it dug deeper. She tried to distract herself, to imagine that she was somewhere nice, but the pain was too immediate, too concrete. Instead, she let herself be consumed by the awful agony. For a moment she felt like it would destroy her, that her heart would stop or that she would go mad. A roaring filled Emma's head and she was in a calm darkness.

There was a dim awareness of tugging as the edges were stitched but Emma's conscious mind was incapable of connecting sensation and reality. Some minutes later her eyes flickered open and she looked at Kara without recognition. She took a sip of water from a glass that was held to her lips and gradually felt her consciousness return. “Are you OK, do you know who I am?” Kara said, a little concern in her voice showing Emma that she was serious.

“Of course I do, you're the most beautiful woman in the world.” Emma reached out to stroke Kara's scalp.

Esther held up a mirror. “We put in half inch tunnels, Kara chose them for you.” Emma saw that her lobes were now pierced by large holes, bright metal tubes fitted into them. She shivered to see them and felt a warm glow.

At home Emma relaxed, a mirror at her side as she kept having to look at her ears. She was elated that she'd gone through with it and still felt a slight disbelief every time she looked at her reflection. “Does it look sexy?” she asked Kara, peering at herself for the fiftieth time.

Kara squeezed onto the sofa next to her. “Of course it looks sexy, stop being so insecure. You're the most lovely girl I know and every little mod just makes you more sexy.”

Emma relaxed, spending the night looking through some piercing and tattoo magazines that Esther had given her so that she could find out some more about the trade. Kara noticed that Emma had spent a long time looking at one particular magazine. She glanced down and saw that Emma was staring at a photo shoot of a girl, her body covered in a patchwork of old-school tattoos, apparently applied without any sense of overall design. She was dressed in cut off jeans and a bra, her body softly rounded and curvy. “You do like trashy girls, don't you?” Kara observed. Emma looked up guiltily, as if she'd been caught doing something she shouldn't. Kara looked at the magazine more closely. “She looks a bit like you, at least her body does. Would you like to be tattooed like her?”

Emma moaned and slid a hand into her shorts. Kara took her left wrist and started to draw on the inside of her forearm with a ball point pen, copying one of the tattoos from the magazine, a native American's head in profile. Emma stared as the design spread up her arm fingering herself faster and faster until she could no longer contain herself. “Oh shit, I want a tattoo,” she squealed, shivering as the orgasm consumed her.

Having slept on the idea, Emma was wracked with doubts. It was now late November and the Christmas break would begin in a few weeks. As she lay in bed with Kara, she voiced her anxieties. “I've got to face the parents again in a month. Can I grow out my hair before I go back, please Miss Kara. And no tattoos for now, we'll see about it in the new year. I don't know how I'm going to face my mum as it is.”

Kara slid her hand between Emma's thighs. “Hmmm, maybe I'll have Leah shave you bald and give you a scalp tattoo. My name on your nape.” She lowered her head and sucked Emma's nipple ring into her lips, brushing the end of the nipple with her tongue bar. Emma was helpless, gasping in ecstasy. Kara released her nipple and spoke again. “Are you going to tell them about me? It's about time. I know it's hard but you need to face it. If you promise to tell them I'll let you grow your hair and your eyebrows till you get back here.”

It was the conversation she most dreaded,  but she knew Kara was right. She wanted to them to be together forever and to pretend to her parents that Kara was only her landlady seemed insulting. Emma nodded, and agreed, wincing as she tried to imagine how she could ever tell her mother that she was lesbian.

Kara lovingly kissed her on the neck. “You'll be my brave little soldier. My parents still want to meet you, we should go and visit when you get back.” Emma nodded, she was dreading that too though.

“And once you're back I'll get you tattooed like that trashy girl who got you so turned on.” Emma wailed in horror.

“Oh, please, don't ever do that to me! If I get tattoos I'd love something pretty. Like your paintings.”

“We'll see,” Kara said teasingly.

Emma stopped shaving each morning and soon had a light fuzz covering her scalp. Even the top of her forehead was now covered with short dark hairs. Growing out her eyebrows was more problematic. After a few days there was a stripe of dark stubbly hairs forming over each eye and Emma used concealer over them. After 2 weeks the shape of her brows was discernible, if somewhat pale. She stared at the mirror and realised that she couldn't bear how it looked. Her brows were thick and ugly and she wanted to be rid of them. Kara agreed and she shaved them.

Her heart was heavy as she embraced Kara at the railway station. They would be apart for ten days, the longest separation they'd had to endure. Neither could find words and parted with a kiss and a wave.

Emma's hair had grown quickly and she had a soft shaggy pelt covering her nape (a blessing now that the Pennine weather had turned wintry; even Kara had stopped shaving her head and had grown a soft crew cut). Her fringe still looked very short, but less severe than it did on the photos Kara had taken when it was freshly cut. The red had faded very slightly and some dark regrowth was visible. The curls had started to lose some volume as the new growth didn't give the same lift. The sides still didn't cover the lower part of her ears and her stretched lobes were very prominent.

The taxi wound through her hometown, toward her parents' house and Emma felt an oppression settle over her body as she saw the familiar streets where she'd spent all of her early life. Now the town seemed grey and mundane and Emma knew she could never live here again. In the two months since she'd become Kara's lover she'd been reborn. She could never again be the little mouse she'd been in her years in these suburbs.

She trudged up the path to her parents' house, nervously fussing with her hair. Her heart was pumping and she steeled herself for an emotional outburst from her mother. She remembered her parting words on her last visit here, realising that she'd done all that she'd threatened and hoped this wouldn't be seen as a provocation. She told herself she had to stay calm and show that she'd grown up. She let herself in the front door and called out “Mum, dad, it's me, I'm home,” musing that this didn't feel like home any more. The living room door opened and she saw her parents.

“Oh dear God, Emma, what have you done?” her mother groaned.

“Please mum, no arguments, I've missed you so much.” She put her arms around her mother and started to cry. Shows of physical affection had always been rare in the family, and the gesture surprised them both. Soon her mother was in tears too. Emma put her arm around her father and saw his eyes were moist too.

They retreated to the living room and Emma asked how they'd been. Her mother was still reacting to her makeover.

“Your hair's so short, whatever made you cut it? You had lovely hair. And has it been permed? I don't like those glasses at all, they don't do anything for you.”

“I just need to try new things, mum. I need to do it, but that's just on the outside. I'm still me inside. I don't expect you to like some of the things about how I dress now, but I like it and I hope you can accept that.”

She was relieved to see that her parents were making an effort to do as she asked and a tentative truce was reached.

Over the next few days Emma tried to ensure that discussions about her appearance were off-limits, but occasionally there was a little outburst from her mother, notably when she made a new discovery about Emma's look: her tongue piercing (discovered when she asked Emma about the slight whistle in her speech), the size of her lobe piercings, her shaved brows. However, these were the exceptions. Gradually she started to feel welcomed again. She would have been elated but nagging at Emma was the thought that she had to tell them about Kara (and that she was on the point of quitting her course). She arranged a meal at a restaurant, knowing that her parents were sufficiently socially awkward that they'd never cause a scene. Even if they were furious they'd have to bite their tongues for a couple of hours, hopefully letting them cool down.

The three of them were seated, Emma sure that her agitation must be palpable. As soon as they were served drinks she decided to grasp the nettle. “Mum, dad, I've been wanting to tell you something for a while now and this seemed like a good time...” Her mouth seemed numb and she felt like every word was difficult to articulate. “I've been seeing someone, we've become very close now. It's a girl, Kara.”

There was a silence.

“The girl I live with.” Emma twisted a napkin tightly in her fingers.

She was surprised that it was her father who spoke first. “Well, I remember how you were last year, me and your mother were worried about you, really worried, but we've seen a change in you. And if Kara has helped to make you happy then we're pleased for you. Aren't we love?”

Her mother nodded, but seemed shell-shocked. “We'll always love you,” she managed to mumble.

The subject wasn't mentioned again that night.

A week later Emma boarded the train and happily waved farewell to her parents. The reunion with Kara was wonderful, Emma feeling like she was going to explode with joy. Kara's hair had doubled in length since she'd last seen her, and it had recovered some of the magical softness that her asymmetrical bob had. Emma longed for her to let it grow but thought if she pressed it, Kara would be bald within a day.

Kara took Emma to the dressing room and stripped her. The sensations of being in Kara's control had Emma in raptures. Her hair was curled into spirals with tongs. Then she was given thick brows, long lashes (she'd not worn false lashes at all at her parents), too much blusher and bright pink lips. Kara told her to put on a pair of gold hot pants and a pink boob tube which was too small for her. When Kara drew a large tattoo of a butterfly on the top of Emma's left breast it had her close to cumming.

“Do you want a real tattoo like that?”

“No Miss Kara, it looks trashy,” Emma sighed.

“It's getting you wet though, I think you secretly want to be a chav, don't you?”

“Oh nooo,” Emma sighed. “I hate the idea so much, you know that.”

Kara could see that Emma was getting off on her humiliation and drew another tattoo on her shoulder, this time a cartoon fairy, deliberately crudely drawn. She dragged Emma into the bedroom and told her to dance, and to look sexy.

Emma started to dance, awkward and shy. Now she realised that her girlfriend was videoing her performance on her phone. “I'll let everyone see you, this is getting uploaded to the web, so make it sexy, Emmie.”

Soon Emma's look was complemented by a bottle of beer in one hand and a cigarette in the other. “Did you smoke while you were away?” Kara asked.

“Yes Miss Kara, I smoked ten one night in the pub. I went out with Cathy and I did it to wind her up when she started saying stuff about Leah”

Kara looked surprised. “I thought you didn't like smoking. Have you changed your mind?”

Emma admitted that it turned her on and sometimes she craved the taste now.

A few minutes later, Emma was looking at Kara's laptop, and the video of her dancing opened on YouTube. She felt her face redden as she saw herself, boobs hanging out of the top, smoking and guzzling beer, tattooed. “Oh Miss, please take it off, I look awful.”

Kara giggled. “No way, you look so cute. I think we should explore your trashy side, you little slut. Tomorrow we'll get you a proper makeover, you're due one, aren't you?”

Emma's resistance was broken as Kara's fingers slid inside her hot pants and pinched her clit. “Mmmmm, yes Miss, I want to be yours.”

Emma was restless through the night as she contemplated what Kara might have in mind. She was shocked to find how aroused she became when Kara humiliated her. She loved how it felt and she started to fantasise about it more and more. The two set out before ten the following morning, Emma dressed down in t-shirt and jeans. Kara had rushed her make-up and it was crudely applied, and deliberately so. She had plum lips, black eyeliner rimming her eyes (no attempt had been made to blend the edges), thin, slightly uneven arched brows. She hadn't been allowed to wear glasses or contacts and she held nervously to Kara's hand, short-sightedly peering about her.

“Are we going to Leah's?” Emma asked, her speech unclear as she'd been fitted out with the oversized tongue stud. Kara only told her she should wait and see. It was soon apparent that they weren't. They walked to a suburb on the far side of the university from the city and Kara addressed Emma.

“OK Emmie, here's the game. You have to pretend to be French” (Emma spoke French fairly fluently) “and that you understand no English. I'll have to do all the talking and you just nod when I ask you things.”

Emma agreed, her stomach fluttering with a mix of fear and humiliation as she realised she was being taken into a barbershop. She squinted and saw that there was no one inside other than a barberette, tall, bleached blonde, attractive from what Emma could make out. Kara entered into conversation.

“Do you cut women's hair? My friend here wants a really close cut and she thought that this would be the best place.”

The barberette had a strong Eastern European accent. “We don't normally cut girls. What cut she want?” Kara passed her a picture which she examined. “Yes, do this no problem. You want just like picture?” she asked Emma, Kara butting in to explain that she spoke no English.

Emma climbed into the chair, and pushed herself back. She felt tiny as the chair was pumped higher, her feet barely reaching the footrest. The barberette flicked a cape out and let it fall over Emma, who meekly bowed her head. The collar was drawn tight on her neck and a stud snapped closed. “We cut with these, yes?” She held a set of clippers before Emma, who now feared that she would cum in the chair. “I do just like picture.”

The comb pulled roughly through Emma's curls. She tensed herself, awaiting the sound of the clippers, then their touch. She felt a wave of panic as she thought that she was going to get shorn now, this wasn't going to be a short feminine look, she was getting barbered. It was something she dreaded. She'd sometimes see butch girls and shiver as she imagined how brave they were to adopt that style. Was that what Kara had planned for her new look?

There was only one way to get through, Emma decided. She would have to block out her fear and savour the sensations, the delicious feeling that clippers gave her. Live in the moment and worry about the consequences later. There was a crack behind her and a motor was running. She bowed her head, offering her hair to the clippers, a sacrifice to satisfy Kara.

She felt the comb lift the curls and the blades touched her. They purred up the back of her head and Emma shifted a hand slowly under the cape until it rested on top of her sex. She pressed her fingers gently down, not daring to rub more vigorously and risk discovery. There was a slight dampness seeping into the cloth.

Her dark hair rolled down in tufts over her shoulders. The barberette was making short rapid upstrokes, blades pressed tight to Emma's skull. She remembered what Kara had just said, “really close cut,” and wondered if there was any guard on the clippers. She pressed a finger more closely to her mound feeling her face flush with excitement. The barberette put her hands on the sides of Emma's head and made her straighten her neck. The comb flicked up through the curls of Emma's crown which were then severed as the blades tracked higher up her head than ever before. Now they shifted forward, digging into her hair just behind her fringe. Emma couldn't help moaning as she felt the top of her head being shorn. As she squinted myopically at her reflection she could see a gap separating the curls on each side of her head. The gap widened as the barberette made more swift strokes on either side until the entire top was buzzed.

The remaining curls didn't survive much longer. Emma's head looked tiny in the mirror as the clippers were wielded up her temples and around her ears. She could see that there was still some hair where she'd been clippered but was sure it was a short buzz. The barberette moved before her and combed her fringe down. Was that going to be buzzed too?

In fact it was only trimmed, the barberette holding the comb across her forehead and running the clippers across it to neaten up the line.

“All done,” the barberette said as she turned off the clippers. A soft brush flicked back and forth over Emma's neck, then up over her scalp which was ultra-sensitive after the attention of the clippers. The cape was withdrawn and she slowly lifted herself from the chair, weak and shaky, eager to approach the mirror for a closer look. Kara stopped her and led her to the counter. “Tres jolie, ma petite salope,” then added sotto voce, “Go and pay her and offer her a cigarette.”

Emma did as she was told, tipping the barberette generously. She accepted the cigarette and took Emma by the arm to go outside. As she was heading out Kara placed a pair of glasses in Emma's hand.

Emma was outside before she could examine the glasses. They were squarish black plastic frames which she recognised as old NHS glasses. She tried them on and realised that they were her prescription.

The barberette lit her own cigarette and then Emma's. She pointed to herself and said “Adriana. Name is Adriana.” Emma introduced herself. She could see why Kara had chosen her, she was very sexy.

“You pretty but glasses not look good,” Adriana laughed.

Emma shrugged as if she hadn't understood. She reached a hand up and stroked her head. It felt like suede. It was a number one, she was sure. No wonder people were staring. She was desperate to get home now. She needed to be in Kara's arms, she needed to cum. She took a deep drag on the cigarette to calm her nerves.

Kara joined them outside now, telling Adriana how well she'd cut Emma's hair. “How often does it need to be cut?” she enquired.

“Two or three weeks best. No more than four.”

Emma stroked a hand up her neck and realised that the lowest part of her nape hadn't been buzzed, it still had the soft coat of hair she'd had before she arrived. Had Adriana just missed it?

Kara put an arm around Emma and looked deep in her eyes. She waited till Emma took a drag then leant forward to kiss her. Emma exhaled the smoke into her mouth. Adriana finished smoking and went back in.

“Hey, that was cheating, you said no more smoking for you,” Emma smiled.

“I didn't smoke, you did. I was just passive smoking. That's what they call breathing in someone else's smoke.”

Emma tutted. “Can I see my hair?” Emma ran her hands over her scalp again. “It feels short. There's a longer bit on the nape, I think she missed it.”

Kara looked at the back of her head. “Nah. Supposed to be like that.”

As soon as she got home Emma dashed to the mirror. “Oh shit, you gave me a chelsea,” she gasped. Her hair was a very crisp buzz, short enough to show scalp. Emma noticed now that she'd been allowed wispy sideburns as well as the longer part on her nape. Her fringe had been left virtually untouched, looking heavier than ever now that the rest of her hair was almost gone. “I'm a skinhead!”

She wasn't wrong, the cut and make-up had transformed Emma into a skin girl. “Don't think I don't know how much you like that look. I've seen how you look at pictures of skinheads on the web.” Kara ran her nails over the stubbly velvet that covered the top of her head.

It was true, Emma found the style intensely erotic but seeing herself as a skin girl was something she never expected.

Kara had Emma sit naked for her in the dressing room. She returned from the bathroom with a bowl of whitish cream that had a faint ammonia smell and daubed it into Emma's fringe, adding more to the sideburns and wisps at her nape. The buzz was left free.

“You're bleaching it?” Emma asked.

“You're going to get bleached feathers, Emmie. We'll let the sideburns and nape grow long but keep the top nice and buzzed. Is it trashy enough for you?”

Emma wailed feeling the humiliation was going to make her cum. Kara picked up a ballpoint and started to doodle on the left side of Emma's neck, sketching out a large skull tattoo, singing The Clash's “This is England” to herself as she worked. Then she told Emma to give her her hands.

“You have such pretty little hands, Emmie, cute little tapering fingers.” Now Kara painted her nails black and drew a letter on each knuckle so that when Emma put her fists together it read “SKIN GIRL”. “We should get your fingers really tattooed like this.”

Once the bleach was rinsed Emma took a long look at herself. Her fringe was yellowy blonde and there was a distinct step in the colour. The lower part, which had been bleached previously, was much lighter. Kara held up a mirror to show the back. There was a fringe of blonde hair covering her nape, the top forming an inverted V where it met the dark buzz.

“This is going to be your look for the next few months, Emmie.” Kara nuzzled her lips into Emma's neck then nibbled at the heavy rings in her ears. “And you'll be going out with my tattoos drawn on you. Once we've decided what gets you turned on we'll get Holly to ink it permanently.”

Emma pushed a faux-tattooed finger deep into herself and reached the climax for which she'd been desperate since Adriana had shown her the clippers. For the first time in her life she squirted.

--------

Emma was relieved to set out for work without a coat (heavy clothing had always made her feel slightly claustrophobic) for the first time of the year as the spring started to feel like summer. The preceding months had been a time of great change for Emma. She'd abandoned her studies and had increased her hours in the shop. There was a general souring of the mood amongst the staff as the end of the financial year approached; none of them enjoyed managing the financial side of the business and all of them resented the time they were away from the work they enjoyed to perform tasks such as VAT returns. Emma offered to help out and soon took on the entire role. She quietly resolved the chaos into which the accounts had slid and knew sufficient about tax laws to save the business a sizeable amount of money. The partners had gratefully increased Emma's hours (and her rate of pay; previously it was barely more than the minimum wage) and she was now effectively managing the shop's finances in addition to reception work.

Paradoxically, her image had changed little. Her hair was still cut in a chelsea. The sides and neck had grown long and her fringe reached almost to her brows. The rest was freshly cut to a number two and dyed bright red in contrast to the white blonde longer hair. Her hair was clippered virtually every week and changes of colour were almost as frequent. Kara had delighted in acquiring a new wardrobe for Emma, dressing her in traditional skin girl fashions: a Fred Perry or checked shirt, mini skirts, tight bleached jeans, DMs, a khaki nylon bomber. When she'd arrived at work one day dressed like this Esther had freaked out and banned the style; the shop had a number of skinhead patrons and she was sure they'd react angrily to anyone who “appropriated” their look as they were very protective of their culture. Kara had reluctantly agreed that Esther was “probably right” and this look was reserved for private. For work Emma was allowed more colourful looks; today she wore a short red dress, hugging her corseted figure (the corset was a near constant now) and had red and yellow eye make-up to match, with white brows drawn in. Her round green glasses were back.

Emma had acquired a few more piercings. There were three studs up the lower edge of each ear, her right ear had a ring through the cartilage at the apex and her left tragus was pierced with a tiny delicate ring. Her lobes had just reached seven eighths of an inch. Her nipples had received more piercings too. One of her Christmas presents from Kara had been a vacuum pump and she loved the sensation of having her nipples pumped till they were swollen and sore. One evening Kara had arrived at the shop after hours and, in Esther's presence, her nipples had been pumped mercilessly. Kara had then added large piercings below the existing rings, deep into her stretched nipples (the pain was exquisite and Emma journeyed deep into her zone). A third set of rings was added the same night, small fine rings right at the tips, to which in private Kara sometimes attached bells. More recently she'd received her first genital piercing, a vertical clit hood which was still healing and made its presence known with every step she took.

Kara had also experienced a successful beginning to her year. Her exhibition had been well received (some photographs of the two of them at the opening had appeared in art magazines, terrifying Emma who was convinced her parents would see her) and two paintings had sold. She'd been disappointed with the price that had been negotiated but one had been sold to an important collector and the dealer assured her that being in his collection would be a boost for the reputation of such a young artist. She'd also been given the young artist award and could now continue to paint once her course finished in the summer (she was currently making preparations for her degree show). Emma was delighted that Kara had let her own hair grow out and she now had a messy short style which half covered her ears.

The games with tattoo drawing had continued. Kara would sometimes spend hours drawing elaborate designs and had become very proficient at making them look like real tattoos. Emma would watch in awe, dreaming that the tattoos were being added permanently, and Kara would make buzzing noises and pinch at her skin, telling her that Holly is going to do this design for real. Emma would soon be nearly swooning as she imagined submitting to the needle, her skin forever marked. Kara would sometimes make her go out with the tattoos visible. Emma had begged her not to make her go into work with the tattoos drawn on her though; she was already gently ridiculed by the tattooists for her lack of tattoos and knew she'd never be allowed to forget having fake tattoos.

Kara had discovered that the greatest turn on was when she drew on Emma's hands and especially her face. One night she'd drawn a runic design on Emma's cheek, circling around her eye socket onto forehead. Emma had climaxed as soon as she saw herself in the mirror. It soon became apparent that it was also a great fear for Emma, as, when Kara suggested that she go out with the facial tattoo in place, Emma broke down it tears pleading desperately to be spared that. Afraid or not, it became a fascination for Emma, and she'd ask Kara if she would really have Holly ink her face, unable to contain her excitement when her mistress would tease her and make her imagine every conceivable type of tattoo being etched across her cheeks, her forehead, her nose, her lips, her eyelids.

The game never lost its excitement for Emma because she knew that the tattoos were no empty threat; Kara had let her know that she wanted to have her tattooed soon. Emma had admitted, despite her intense fear, that it was something she wanted too.

Work had been very busy and stressful for Emma that day; she'd had to make numerous fraught phone calls made to resolve a dispute with a supplier that threatened to bring the business to a temporary halt. She'd managed to negotiate a deal and all was now well. In another hour she'd be free of work till the next morning. Holly answered  her phone and Emma was jolted as she overheard her conversation. “Hi Kara... sure I'm not busy, got plenty of time to see you... about thirty minutes then, see you soon.”

Emma was rigid with fear as Holly told her that Kara was coming in “to talk about something big.” Thoughts of running away flashed into her mind, going back to her parents to hide or getting on a plane, just fly away somewhere, to be anywhere but here.

Soon her lover arrived and she could no longer hold on to such ideas. Kara looked so sweet and pretty, her soft red hair neatly parted and tucked behind her ears. They kissed, the excitement of each meeting as intense as in the first days of their relationship. “I need to chat with Holly about something, will you come in with me, Emmie?” she asked. Emma blinked and nodded.

They headed into the staff lounge and Emma cuddled up to Kara on a sofa, and heard her begin to talk. “I've got a big exhibition coming up and I've decided I want to get some tattoo work done for the opening night. Could I book some sessions?”

Emma was in shock, her mind swirling in confusion. She was filled with relief, then disappointment that it wasn't her to be tattooed. Then she thought of Kara being tattooed and was almost beside herself with sadness. The thought of Kara's lovely soft white skin being forever inked, the idea of her being less sweet, less feminine, it brought tears to Emma's eyes. And there was hurt that Kara hadn't discussed it with her.

She was barely able to follow the conversation. Kara was saying she'd email some images for ideas for her tattoos and wanted Holly's input on how practical they'd be to translate into finished designs.

“Oh and Emma's been wanting to start on hers. I'd like to pay for some sessions to get started.” She turned and kissed Emma. “I got the money through from the paintings I sold and wanted to treat you.”

At home later, Emma could hardly remember the rest of the discussion. She'd been so shaky that she'd had to take a taxi home. Now she tried to prise out of Kara some details about what she had planned. She was taken up to the bedroom and told to strip. Emma was soon laying on her back, Kara reclining next to her, stroking her fingers teasingly over Emma's skin. “I finally decided what I want for your tattoos, something very unique, Emmie. So... totally symmetrical, no writing, no illusionism. Just flat abstract patterns with lots of colour.”

“Like your paintings?” Emma asked, trying to comprehend the ideas.

“Well... a little, not that the paintings are symmetrical. But we need to make them fit your body. I want them to grow organically out of the most precious places on your body.” Emma looked confused. “We're going to start in three places... your nipples and your pussy.” Kara caressed each place as she named it, her fingertips caressing Emma as delicately as a feather. “Then gradually, during each session with Holly the tattoos will grow, spreading out to cover your breasts, up to your navel,” (still Kara's fingers traced where the needle would go) “up to fill your shoulders and down your arms till we get to your fingertips. This one will wrap around your bum and spiral down your legs, until your sweet little toes are all coloured. And they'll spread here too, around your back and down your front until there's just one big tattoo covering you... and we'll cover your neck too, and up over your scalp, and then over your face until it finally reaches the tip of your cute little nose...”

Emma's wildest fantasies hadn't gone as far as what Kara was suggesting and she felt herself melting into a huge climax.

The following day Emma's thoughts were focussed exclusively on the idea of the tattoos Kara and she would get. She begged Kara to admit that she'd been exaggerating in her descriptions of the tattoos, but Kara remained Sphinx-like. Similarly, she refused all attempts to draw any information about the type of tattoos she would get. Emma whined that she could at least tell her when they would get their tattoos.

“Oh, that's not secret, we're both booked in for the fourth.”

“But that's over two weeks off! I have to wait and worry for all that time?”

Kara nodded calmly. “It's a few days before the opening of my degree show. The gallery are going to try to get some buzz going about my paintings so we need to make an impression like last time. For the day of the actual opening we're going to be with Leah all day so make sure you book the day off.”

Emma felt a flush of excitement as she thought about Leah taking control of her hair once more.

Try as she might, Emma was unable to shut the fear of being tattooed out of her mind in the following days. She would suddenly be overcome by the sensation that she was falling from a precipice. She (foolishly) asked Holly to show her the equipment and explain the process. Afterwards a fear of the multi-tipped needles which would be used to shade her skin was added to the battery of neuroses assailing Emma. Her whining annoyed Kara so much that more than once she threatened her with Leah's gag.

One night, Kara arrived at the shop to meet Emma and suggested that they go out for a meal. Emma looked pained and declined.

“What's wrong with you, still sulking?” Kara asked, exasperated.

“No, I've got toothache,” Emma said, evidently in some pain and feeling very sorry for herself.

Kara squeezed her hand. Let me call your dentist and we'll get it checked out straight away.”

A shame faced Emma admitted that she was afraid of dentists and hadn't registered since she moved here.

Fifteen minutes later they were in the surgery of Kara's dentist, Emma giving her details to the receptionist. “Is it OK if I go in with her? Emma's very nervous about dentists,” Kara asked. Emma was relieved to hear she wouldn't have to endure her ordeal alone.

A few minutes later, the dentist, Alison, ushered them in. She seemed to be on friendly terms with Kara and they greeted each other like old friends. She was a very glamorous woman, physically not unlike Leah, although probably a decade older. A pang of anxiety crossed Emma's mind as she wondered whether Kara had chosen her for her looks rather than her competency.

Emma felt a sharp twinge as a probe hit the sore spot on her molar, groaning in agony. From the corner of her eye she was aware of a wry smile on Kara's face. She knew what she was thinking: why was a little pain in the tooth so hard for Emma to bear when she could endure far more severe pain when inflicted by her lover? She thought of Esther's words about how pain would only be transformed in the right circumstances.

A cavity was identified as the root of the pain and soon Emma's tooth had been drilled and was being filled, the pain numbed by anaesthetic.

Kara started to speak. “Actually, Alison, Emma's been wanting some cosmetic dentistry for ages but has been putting off coming, maybe this would be a good time to do it?”

Emma tried to protest but could only gurgle, her still mouth a repository for various dental tools.

“Oh she's been wanting a gold tooth, right at the front on top,” Kara responded to Alison's query.

Emma's knuckles were white as she gripped the arm rests. Everything seemed slightly unreal, nightmarish.

“Well, I could make a start tonight if you want,” Alison said, looking into Emma's eyes. She wanted to say no, not tonight, not ever, leave my teeth alone. Instead she made a little nod of her head and murmured incomprehensibly.

Emma started to cry as she looked in the mirror on the wall of their house. “Oh shit, Kara, it looks like a piece of chewing gum stuck there.” Her left central incisor had been shaved to a peg and covered with a lumpen temporary crown until the gold tooth could be made. She'd get that in a week. “And I don't want a gold tooth, it will look so... so...”

“So sexy,” Kara said.

Emma trembled as she felt her mistress' tongue enter her mouth and slide across the cap.

“Oooh, you taste of dentist.” Kara wrinkled her nose. “Anyway, it's too late to change your mind now. If you don't go back you'll lose the temporary crown soon and you'll be left with a little stump that everyone will see when you smile.” Emma pouted as she realised there was no way out now. She felt herself melting as Kara started to cover her neck in little soft kisses. “And if you looked like that I couldn't be seen with you. I'd have to keep you locked up in the attic. And you'd probably go mad like Rochester's wife, and the local kids would scare each other with stories about the mad woman with the peg tooth that stared out the attic window.” The kisses became more passionate, Emma squirming in Kara's arms. “So say it, Emmie. Tell me you want to have a pretty gold tooth in your smile.”

Emma was powerless to resist Kara's seduction and moaned her acquiescence and everlasting obedience.

A week later Emma's time to fulfil her promise came and she arrived at Alison's surgery once more. Kara addressed her as they entered. “Emmie, I booked you in for another little treat today, just be a good girl and pretend you know all about it. I did pretend I was you when I called.”

Emma's nervousness reached a new peak of intensity, a cold sweat breaking out on her back. She looked at Kara and decided it was futile to try to gain more information and meekly whispered “Yes Miss Kara.” Her tongue flickered over her teeth and she wondered what new torments would be inflicted on her.

She was glad when the temporary crown was removed. She'd been self-conscious about it all week and had developed an involuntary gesture of putting her hand to her lips when she laughed. Kara warned her that she'd be punished if she did that when she had her gold tooth. Alison held up the tooth to show her, a tiny sculpted block of gold. She slid it in place to check the fit and then it was cemented in place, a permanent addition to Emma's look.

She sat up and looked at her reflection, unable to conceal her alienation. Her even white teeth were interrupted by this intrusion, very shiny, very yellow. She curled her lip up to view it, unable to muster any sort of smile. She was suddenly aware that Alison and Kara were gazing at her. “Oh, it's lovely, thank you,” she said.

Alison smiled and asked her if she was ready for the second treatment. Emma's eyes flickered briefly toward a smiling Kara and she nodded her agreement.

“You wanted to go quite markedly fuller, then, with clearly defined margins?” Emma's mind raced to try to evaluate what she was talking about, but found herself nodding, agreeing to anything that was suggested.

“Your lips are naturally quite full, so if we go much bigger it wouldn't look entirely natural, are you sure that's the look you want.”

The revelation that Emma's lips were to be enlarged felt like an electric shock. She was quite sure that it wasn't a look she wanted. She glanced at Kara again who blew a kiss and winked. “Ermmm, yeah, that's it exactly,” she replied woodenly to Alison.

Emma was taken aback by the pain when the filler was injected. She'd thought it wouldn't be too intense as the needle was very fine, nothing like the piercing needles Esther had used on her but her lips were very sensitive and the chemicals burnt as they went deep into the tissues. Little breathy squeaks communicated her distress to Kara, who massaged Emma's hands lovingly and cooed her encouragement.

The injections caused a sensation of rapid swelling and Emma could feel her lips start to turn outwards. She frantically crossed her legs, squirming until she felt a fold of her jeans press against her clit piercing. She tried to focus on the pleasure, then to surrender to the pain as she felt a need to get into her zone. Alison pressed a wad of cotton to her lip and slid the hypodermic out, much to Emma's relief, but that was short lived.

“I'm not finished yet, but I want you to check how full they are now and see if you're happy with that.”

Emma felt her heart skip a beat as she saw her distended lips. They seemed out of proportion, dominating her face.

“There's a little swelling from the injections, so they would settle down slightly smaller. Are you happy to go with this size?”

Emma expressed her uncertainty and asked Kara's opinion.

“Oh, it looks really pretty but I think you should go a little fuller.” Kara gave her most winsome smile.

Emma took a last look in the mirror and lied “Yes, I think I should.”

Once more, Alison thrust the needle deep into Emma's lips. Her escape into her private world proved elusive and she was soon desperate for the pain to stop. Alison was making a series of shallower injection around the margins now. Kara was fulsome in her praise: “Oh, that looks so pretty, you're a real artist, Alison.”

At last Emma saw the results. Her lips seemed to have doubled in volume, and Alison had been careful to sculpt a new shape, the edges of her lips now standing in clear relief to the surrounding skin. Emma noticed that her lips had turned outwards and she looked like she was puckering them to form the start of a kiss. Kara told her to smile. As she did her lips became very smooth, the surface stretching over the swollen deeper tissues. A little tremor passed through her as the gold tooth was revealed.

Kara was clearly thrilled. As they left the surgery Emma felt herself being pulled into an alley behind some shops. Kara stared at her face, then pressed her lips to Emma's. They felt like they were being crushed, so sensitive were they after the deep injections. Kara's tongue parted her lips and her tongue stud clicked back and forth against the gold tooth. “Now let's see if you enjoyed your new makeover.” Kara popped the button on Emma's jeans and slid her hand down into her panties. “Oh, you're all hot and wet here. You've been getting really turned on, haven't you Emmie?”

Emma was getting more turned on by the second, Kara playing her like an expert angler landing a prize catch. Teasing, humiliation, pleasure, pain, submission was a recipe that brought Emma to delirium. She panted, breathlessly, sighing and moaning at each touch Kara made on her hood piercing. “Mmmmmmmm, let me cum Miss Kara, I'm yours forever, I love you so much.” Kara decided such obedience deserved reward.

Kara would observe Emma each morning as she examined her lips in the mirror, hoping they would have shrunk back to something like their normal proportions. It was now the morning of the fourth and Kara interrupted Emma's contemplation to kiss her. “How do your lips feel now?”

“There's no tenderness any more,” Emma smiled.

“I think that means that they're going to stay this size, Emmie,” Kara observed. Emma looked melancholy as she stared at her mouth in the mirror.

Emma arrived at her workplace an hour later than usual and far more nervous. It was the day when she and Kara would receive their first ever tattoos. She sat in Holly's studio, heart drumming as Kara stripped to her skirt. Kara looked at her and smiled but Emma knew her well enough to see that she was on edge too.

“Emmie, darling, would you be a sweetie and shave my nape? The tattoo's going up the top of my neck.”

Emma felt very emotional as she clippered away Kara's soft red locks. They'd grown to reach half way down her neck but now Emma was using the unguarded clippers to strip her hair as high up the back as the tops of her ears. Emma couldn't stop herself from stroking the soft stubble. She sighed as she felt it. “The tattoo won't be covering your nape, will it?”

“Hmmm, wait and see,” Kara teased. “Anyway, could you shave it smooth up there?”

Emma spread lather over Kara's nape but was trembling so much that Holly had to complete the job. Kara giggled as she looked in the mirror. “Looks crazy! Still, Leah will sort it out in a few days.” She kept feeling her soft nape. “I've missed being bald.”

Now she lay stomach down on the bed, her face supported in a padded ring. Holly ensured her back was straight and started to clean her spine meticulously. Emma took her hand and squeezed it.

“You've picked a sensitive area for a first tattoo, Kara,” Holly said. “Just try to keep relaxed, the more you tense up the worse it will hurt.” She leaned over Kara's back and the needle buzzed. Emma sensed Kara wince as it touched her. A little ink seemed to bubble out and when Holly swabbed it Emma could see a fine black line on Kara's back, right between her hips.

Emma felt like a frightened little girl again as the lines grew around Kara's spine. Holly was frequently looking at some of Kara's drawings to guide the design, but it seemed to make little sense to Emma, fragments and dots distributed haphazardly. It became apparent that the marks were symmetrical about Kara's spine, then Emma realised that the same pattern was repeated around each vertebra, although the size varied.

Kara initially seemed to be relatively comfortable, telling Emma it stung a bit but it was bearable. Thirty minutes in and she was struggling with severe pain; Holly told her that she'd work for another fifteen minutes before she was allowed a break. She found a routine of working and the design grew more quickly. A full hour had passed before Kara finally rose painfully from the bed. Emma kissed her delicately. A dark filigree now covered Kara's spine from her pelvis to between her shoulder blades. She nodded with satisfaction as she examined herself with the aid of two mirrors. “Looks good Holly. Just as I imagined.”

After another hour session the pattern had progressed up past the top of Kara's neck and spread to fill her entire nape. Emma watched with a mix of fascination and horror, as she realised how exposed the tattoo would be. Kara looked at her, sensing her discomfort. “Don't you like it?”

“I need to get used to it, you know how hard I find your makeovers. It's pretty but in my mind it's not you, at least not yet.”

Kara embraced her. “It still needs a lot of work but it's as much as I can stand for one day. Your turn now, I want you to show me how to tolerate pain. I know you're far braver than me.”

Emma had managed to block out of her mind that she was to be tattooed too, so engrossed had she been by seeing Kara being inked. Holly cleaned the studio as Kara undressed Emma.

“You'll be more beautiful than ever, Emmie. We'll both be tattooed and it's a lifetime commitment to each other. And I know you want this as much as I do.”

Emma was in a trance as she lay back on the bed. She was aware that Holly was saying something.

“Emma, we'll have to take out your piercings but some aren't well healed so is it ok if Esther comes in to take a look?”

Esther had become Emma's closest friend and confidante. She was submissive in nature too and they understood each other well. She still felt tremendous shyness as Esther entered, her nakedness adding to her vulnerability. Kara and Holly were deep in conversation at the computer and the two friends were alone for a minute.

“I'm going to put Teflon tubing in to keep all the piercings open.” Esther gently cleaned the piercings and started to take out the jewellery. “Are you sure you want this, honey? It's not too late to say no, I'll have a word with Kara if you want.”

Emma squeezed her arm. “I want it, Esther. I've never been more nervous, but I want it and I'm ready. I trust Kara totally and I'm so excited to have her choose this for me.”

Esther stayed with her for most of the tattooing, holding Emma's right hand as Kara gripped the left. Emma had insisted that her left nipple was to be the first place tattooed (“The place nearest my heart.”) She felt the first sting at the very tip, and peered down curiously. As Holly wiped away the ink she could see a little spot was now deep blue and her heart quickened as she realised that that area of skin would never return to its natural colour. Holly added more colour, tugging at the tubing in the tip to stretch the skin. Frequent pumping had made Emma's nipples grow, and now they stiffened as the burning from the needle made them engorge with blood. Each touch of the needle felt like a burning rod touching her flesh and Emma lay with her eyes shut to adjust to the intensity. She realised that despite the pain she was very aroused and loved to feel the touch of Kara and Esther. She moaned as she imagined Esther submitting to Kara as she had.

“Are you OK, Emmie?” Kara asked, her fingers playing with her fringe. Emma opened her eyes and smiled, then glanced down and saw that her entire nipple was now inked a deep midnight blue, her arousal peaking as she thought how strange she looked now, how strange she would always look.

Now that she'd adjusted to the pain, Emma was reluctant to take a break and had Holly press on till both breasts had been decorated. Now there were three inch diameter areas surrounding each nipple that were completely inked, none of the pale pink of Emma's skin visible. The nipples were a solid deep blue, fading to a turquoise around her areolae. The surrounding skin had been given a net-like pattern, a fine matrix of darker brown lines criss-crossing over the turquoise, some of the spaces highlighted with white. The patterns had been drawn as identical mirror images.

There was considerably more pain now as Holly turned her attention to Emma's pussy. She lay back, breathing slowly and deeply to try to keep relaxed, unable to see what was being done. She slipped into her zone more than once but would soon return to consciousness, dripping with sweat at the intensity of the needle. Then she was aware of Kara kissing her cheek telling her it was over, praising her bravery.

Emma slowly sat up, her whole body aching from tension. She glanced down and gasped as she saw her brightly polychromed skin. It looked like some garishly coloured tropical invertebrate had parasitised her sex. The inner lips were a vibrant scarlet, with zebra-like stripes of the same hue radiating outwards, graduating to orange as the stripes fragmented into small irregular spots. The underlying skin modulated from lemon to rose and her clit was the same deep blue as her nipples, peeking from under a hood of warm pink. The tattoo extended up to half way between Emma's clit and her navel.

Emma had tried to tell herself that being tattooed wouldn't be any different to the other changes she'd allowed Kara to make to her. As she lay in bed with Kara now, she realised she'd underestimated the impact. Staring down at her tattoos she admitted that they still shocked her as much as the first glance she'd had, six hours earlier.

“Will all of the tattoos be as bright as these, Miss Kara?”

Kara admitted that the full design wasn't finalised, even in her head. “But no, I want some areas to stand out, and these are the main ones...” Her fingers plucked at the ring in the tip of Emma's nipple as her other hand stroked her thigh. “A lot of the other stuff will be subtler. If we covered your whole body in colours like these it would just start to look like visual noise.”

Emma asked Kara to turn over so she could see her tattoo again. She felt a strong urge to stroke and to kiss her bald nape, but resisted, having been told by Holly to avoid touching for the first day to avoid infection. “Are you going to keep it shaved all the time now?” Emma asked, and whimpered as she confirmed that she would.

“It hurt like a bitch, Emmie and it's not finished. I'm not going to go through that and let my hair cover it.”

Emma stroked Kara's hair and adjusted the clips that were holding the back free of her nape. Kara turned awkwardly, her back aching from the tattooing, and kissed Emma.

Kara's words were still in Emma's mind four days later as they headed for their appointments with Leah. Kara had been frantically busy in the intervening time, working fourteen hour days to prepare the space for her exhibition. She'd finished hanging the paintings at midnight and was satisfied that everything was passable (being intensely self-critical, Kara would never think anything she did was any better than passable).

Emma's tattoos had become extremely itchy and she had to suppress a huge urge to scratch (Holly had threatened to tie her hands in mittens if she did). Even as she strolled through the town with Kara she wanted to thrust her hand into her waistband and dig her nails into her mound to relieve the unbearable prickling.

Kara had announced that it was Emma's last day as a skinhead and she should go out in style. She wore her checked short sleeve shirt, black mini and DMs. Dark heavy cat's-eye make-up, dark lips and pencil thin brow gave her a traditional skin girl image. As a special treat Kara had put in Emma's contact lenses, telling her that she'd be able to watch her latest makeover.

It had been over a month since they'd seen Leah and she was delighted to see Kara, kissing her deeply and cooing over her tattoo. Then she turned her attention to Emma.

“And look at you, Emmie.” She ran her finger over Emma's lips, pressing hard enough that it hurt. “Big fat lips... and smile for me... ooh, a gold tooth!” She came closer to Emma's ear. “You look so slutty now, like the sort of girl who only thinks about blow jobs. And of course it's what you are, I know what a slut you are.” Emma blushed with shame. Then Leah became professional again. “You first Kara, sweetie, let's get started with some colour.”

Emma sat watching as Leah pasted dark dye into Kara's hair. She glanced around the salon, which wasn't too busy, and realised that she was subject to disapproving looks. She was suddenly aware that her look was very out of place in such an upmarket salon. She looked back and saw that Kara was being taken to a drier and Leah was beckoning her. A cape was wrapped around her and a thick rubber mat fitted over her shoulders.

Leah started to sweep the same dye she'd used on Kara over Emma's hair. The shorter part had been neglected for a few weeks and was now over a half inch long.

“Kara tells me you've got tattooed too, and very intimately. She did say I can play with them later though.”

Emma felt a shudder; the last “play” with Leah had involved a thorough caning which left her unable to sit for a few days.

“And I heard you're a wizard with the finances over at your shop. Who'd have thought little Emmie had anything up here...” She rapped her knuckles on Emma's forehead. “Actually we might have to head-hunt you. This place is going to be going bust if the owner doesn't start pulling her finger out.”

Emma was surprised to see Leah was suddenly serious. “Is it that bad?” Leah tutted and changed the subject.

Leah glanced over to make sure Emma had a good view. She'd swapped places with Kara, who was now preparing for her cut. Leah made an exaggerated sweep of her arm to free the towel from Kara's hair which was now jet black. Emma realised that meant hers would be black too, a colour she'd not yet tried in her various makeovers. Kara's hair was combed straight back at the sides and Leah made a horizontal parting an inch above her ear. She grabbed the clippers and without ceremony started to buzz away Kara's hair. Emma could immediately see that she was using the bare blades, and Kara's pale scalp was being exposed. There was some relief in that Leah was taking care to get a neat line at the parting; Kara wasn't going to be bald again, at least not completely. The bald area was raised to the same line all around her head now as Leah clippered higher up Kara's nape. A thin layer of lather was brushed around the clippered area and Leah removed the stubble, Kara wincing slightly as the razor dragged over her tattoo.

Emma was eager to see how Leah was going to cut the remaining hair. A layer was combed down at the right side, almost fully covering Kara's ear, the longest it had been since the early days of their relationship. Leah smiled over at Emma, then snipped very precisely through the hair, exposing almost all of the shaved area. As more sections were released, they too were cut to the same length, a heavy blunt line forming well clear of Kara's ear. When the back was cut in the same manner, to precisely the same length, Emma realised that Kara was getting a bowl cut, and a very severe one at that. She started to worry about her own hair. She knew that she was getting a makeover, but given that much of her hair was a half inch long, options for cuts were limited. She was sure that the sides and nape would be shorn now and expected that it would be very short indeed. At least she wouldn't be bald, as Leah wouldn't have wasted time on a colour only to shave it off. Unless it was just another of Leah's games to play with her emotions.

She realised Kara was getting out of the chair, although her hair was still damp and hadn't been styled. She came over and Emma could see that the fringe had been cut shorter than the rest of the bowl and now lay at mid-forehead. Despite the severity of the cut, Kara looked very sexy, her delicate features very exposed and the colour making her skin appear even paler.

“You look lovely, Kara,” Emma smiled, aware that more formal address was to be avoided here. Kara rubbed her hand up her nape.

“Leah's going to style it later, we've still got a few hours before we get there. Your turn now, Emmie, come and let's see what we can do with yours.”

Emma stared at herself in the mirror as Leah rubbed a towel through her hair. It was very black and with the dark eye make-up she looked very punk.

“How long have you had a fringe, Emmie?”

“Since the first night I was with Kara, nearly nine months ago,” Emma replied.

“You must be bored with it by now then.” Leah combed her fringe up and snipped rapidly over the teeth. In moments Emma's fringe tumbled to her lap. The remains stuck up in tufts, not more than an inch left, barely longer that the rest of the top.

Leah picked up a hair-dryer and started to dry it so that her hair stood up stiffly. Then she reached for the clippers. “I don't need a guard for either of you girls today,” she smiled cruelly. Emma started to feel weak. She glanced over at Kara, who gave her a much warmer smile.

The blades rattled as they sliced through what had been Emma's fringe until minutes earlier. She was relieved to see that Leah was working the clippers over the comb, but it was still being cut very close. The stylist was deep in concentration as she shaped the style. Emma's neck ached with tension, not daring to move for fear of accidentally ruining the cut. She grunted with displeasure as she realised that the top was being cut to a horizontal blocky shape, and realised she was going to have a flattop. Emma still dreaded being given a masculine cut but was sure that it had now arrived. She felt her eyes tearing up as she started to imagine how boyish she'd look once the make-up was gone.

Leah worked over the sides, using a very thin comb. The hair was being zipped tight to Emma's scalp, possibly even shorter than a number one. She sculpted the bristles into a square edge where the sides met the top. Emma could feel the comb pressed to her crown as Leah took away all the softness that had grown out. She bowed her head as the comb wound its way lower. She awaited the  feathery long strands at her nape and in front of her ears being shorn to complete her transformation. The clippers were flicked off, but the hair was still there. She looked nervously in the mirror to confirm that she still had the long side locks, past chin length now. Leah laughed.

“Did you think you were getting a flattop, Emmie? You're only getting the top flattied, we're leaving you with some longer hair today.” She rubbed some conditioner through the front of Emma's hair and took a straight razor. “Sit nice and still, Emmie. Don't want any blood on Kara's big day.”

Emma winced as she felt the razor drag back over the top of her forehead. She'd been delighted when the undershave had grown out under her fringe. Now her forehead was being shaved again and she had no fringe to cover it.

Leah shaved her hairline into a wide V. It looked very geometrical now, the half inch bristles standing up stiffly, the hairline hard, perfect, unnatural. “Oh that looks a bit harsh for you, Emmie. Maybe we should soften up the look for you. How about some curls?”

Kara intervened. “Stop teasing her, Leah. You're getting a perm again, OK, Em?”

The side locks were twisted and wound in spirals around thin rods, then the same with the long fringe of hair on Emma's nape, which reached to the base of her neck now. Pads of cotton were taped over her ears and the perming solution was doused over each rod.

While Emma was baking under the drier, Leah introduced her to a therapist, Jessica. “She's going to give you a nice set of nails, just as Kara asked, so be a good girl, Emmie.”

Emma's fingers were fitted out with long, pointed, claw-like nails, an inch jutting out from the tip of each fingertip. Jessica painted them a gleaming black. Leah returned to retrieve her and finish the perming process. After she was rinsed Leah wrapped her curls in a towel and took her to a spa room.

“OK, Emmie, we're in private now so I'm Miss Leah now. Show me your tattoos, I've been dying to see them all day.”

Emma shyly stripped naked and stood straight as Leah stared. She shivered as Leah let her fingers run over the tattooed areas. “Please Miss Leah, don't touch them roughly. They're scabbing up and Holly says I have to treat them gently till they heal,” Emma begged.

Leah told her she'd been given her instructions by Kara. She gripped Emma's jaw and scrubbed at her face with a wipe to remove her make-up. “There, that's the end of the little skinhead slut.” She pulled down Emma's lower eyelid and plucked out her contact lenses, increasing her sense of vulnerability and helplessness. Leah instructed her to sit in a reclining chair.

In silence Leah brushed lather over Emma's face. She used a cut-throat razor to shave Emma's face entirely, her lips, cheeks, nose, forehead, brows, and she found that she loved how it felt. Her face felt cool and tight as Leah rubbed it with a damp face cloth. She took a small set of trimmers and carefully shaved away the eyelashes from Emma's upper lids, but left the lower intact. Emma shuddered as she remembered how odd Kara had looked when she shaved hers.

Leah covered Emma's face with heavy white make-up, evening it out with a sponge, covering her features entirely, with the exception of her mouth. She spent a lot of time painting Emma's lips, taunting her that she had a porn-star pout. The inside edges of her eyelids were given a touch of colour, and false lashes were glued into her lower lid. “You've got new contact lenses, do you think you can put them in?”

Emma gazed at her long nails and shook her head. “No Miss Leah, could you please put them in for me?”

Leah pulled her lids open and pushed the lens directly onto Emma's eye, making her gasp. The new lens made her eye feel gritty. She complained that she thought something was wrong as it was so uncomfortable.

“You haven't worn this type before, get used to them, Emmie,” Leah said coldly.

She sprayed Emma's hair and dried the top into rigid spikes, then gently dried the curls over her cheeks and neck.

“Jewellery next. Everything has to come out.” Emma struggled to take out the studs from her ears, her nails very obtrusive. Leah became impatient and tugged them out somewhat painfully. She also popped the tunnels out of Emma's lobes. She felt long dangling chains hang from the new earrings that Leah fitted. Her lobes were fitted with carved wooden hooks which weighed heavily and pulled at the skin. Her labret was fitted with a post which ended in a small ring.

Emma gulped as she saw the corset she was to wear. She estimated that it was at least an inch tighter than any she'd worn and knew that Leah wouldn't be as gentle as Kara. She wasn't mistaken. She felt a knee in her back and Leah leant back with her full weight to draw the laces tight, bellowing at Emma to breathe out when she couldn't close the back fully. Each time she exhaled it drew tighter, until it felt like her ribs would crack. Finally, Leah tied it off.

Emma was dressed in a long black silk dress, loose fitting with long, wide sleeves. A wide red sash was tied around her waist to show off her corseted figure. On her feet she wore Japanese wooden sandals with wooden blocks at heel and toe. Leah smiled and said she'd better go and see Kara.

As she entered the salon she became aware that everyone stared. She smiled at one customer close by and was surprised to see that the woman averted her head, looking intimidated. She found Kara chatting with another stylist. Her bowl cut had been styled styled with lots of volume, mushroom like over the shaved back and sides, and her hair gleamed like silk. Her fringe looked even shorter now as it was swept to the side. Her face was made-up geisha-like, white visaged with bright red lips. Her brows had been shaved and when Emma looked closely she realised that her lower eyelashes were gone, although the upper lids were adorned with long false lashes. Her eyes looked extraordinary. She was wearing deep blue contacts which were half again as big as her irises and made her eyes look enormous. Her dress was similar to Emma's, although the back was cut away almost to her buttocks, revealing her tattoo fully.

Emma then caught sight of herself. Her contact lenses were as large as Kara's but completely black, the oddness compounded by the lack of upper lashes and a rim of red along the inside edge of her eyelids. Her pouting lips were a deep maroon and glossy, like a black cherry dipped in syrup. Her black hair was shining and when she touched it the spiral curls felt hard and springy. The top was as firmly spiked as if it had been glued. Her appearance had something insect-like about it.

Kara had a final surprise for her. She fitted Emma's neck with a leather collar, three inches deep, that held her neck rigid. A small length of chain hung from a ring on the front and Kara clipped this to Emma's labret ring effectively preventing her from turning her head.

“Emmie, you look like the most sexy girl in the world,” Kara whispered. “It physically pains me not to kiss you but we can't ruin our make-up. But just wait till I get you home.”

Emma had difficulty managing with the sandals and found she had to walk in tiny mincing steps, as did Kara. The loud clicking of the wooden soles made sure everyone heard them. Their appearance at the exhibition made everyone stare. As it was being held in the university the attendees were a very mixed group: academics, a few art professionals, other students and their families. Emma was especially aware that the parents mostly looked shocked by her image. She soon discovered that if she made eye contact with most people they'd look away, intimidated by her huge black eyes. She started to realise that she liked the power this image gave her.

Kara's paintings were displayed in a small room without other works. She'd gone to a lot of trouble in the room, repainting it and installing more lights. Her efforts had been well worthwhile and her work looked its best. Emma recognised that some of the people who attended the previous show were chatting to Kara and they seemed impressed with the new work she had produced.

At home, Kara was satisfied with the evening. “I've got a few more people interested in buying stuff. I just need to work out how I'm going to keep my profile high once I finish the course.”

She wrapped her arms around Emma, who was naked now. “Thank you for being there. You're such a good girl for letting Leah give you this look. I was so turned on when I saw the way you walked in those shoes, you're like an alien geisha.”

Kara had made Emma keep her black contacts in, clearly finding the look arousing, expressing a little regret that they were too uncomfortable to wear as an everyday look . She pulled at Emma's eyes to open them wider. “Emmie, would you consider having your eyes made bigger? I mean surgically...”

Emma's mouth opened in surprise. Kara was perpetually pushing her beyond her limits, and exposing her to ideas she'd never even have considered. “I... don't know...” she whispered.

“We could get your nose reshaped too, and implants for your jaw and cheeks.” Kara was on a roll now and Emma felt very nervous.

“What's wrong with my nose?” she whimpered. “Don't you find me attractive?”

Kara started to cover her in passionate kisses. “Emmie, how can you doubt me? You're so sexy... It would just be a few little tweaks, you know how I love to change you, this would just be the next little step.”

Emma agreed to consider it, part of her hoping that it was another of Kara's crazy ideas that were soon forgotten, part of her excited by the idea of another surrender to being remade. She knew that if Kara wanted it she'd be unable to resist.

-----------

The following week Emma attended an early morning staff meeting. There was big news. The shop had been turning a healthy profit and for more than a year the partners had been exploring ways to expand. A decision had been made to set up a second shop and a property had been leased in a newly fashionable area of East London. Emma felt her mood deflate as it was announced that Esther and Holly would be moving to oversee the new venture. They were her best friends in the shop and their absence would leave a big void in her life.

At the end of the meeting everyone dispersed to open the shop but Esther asked Emma to stay on. “I'm sorry I couldn't tell you earlier but I was sworn to secrecy. But that's not why I wanted to talk to you. I want you to come and manage the new shop.”

Emma's morning was filled with surprises. She was sure she wasn't sufficiently skilled to take on the extra responsibilities but Esther was adamant that she wouldn't be doing much more than she was now. Emma agreed to think it over and give her decision the following day. For the rest of the day she could think of little else. The opportunity excited her but ultimately she wanted to be near to Kara; she could never live apart from her. That evening she told Kara with some regret that she'd been offered the manager's position but would have to turn it down.

Kara looked thoughtful, hesitating before replying. “Emmie, you should take it. It would be wonderful. We could move down there together. If I want to get on as an artist I need to get my name known in London and this would be ideal.” The rest of the night was spent hatching plans. Kara's arts award meant that she would have her studio rent paid for two years. She looked closely at the terms of the award and realised that she could rent a studio flat where both of them could live. Letting the house would provide enough income to pay living expenses and that meant that Emma and Kara's earnings could be saved toward better accommodation when the award ceased.

Emma couldn't contain her excitement as she told Esther that she wanted to accept. Her head was spinning as she was told the shop would be opening in little more than a month and that she'd have to spend almost all her time in London beginning the following week. She'd be able to stay with a friend of Esther's until she had a chance to find more permanent accommodation. That meant she'd be away from Kara and only able to see her at weekends. Both were sad when they discussed it, but realised it was unavoidable. Kara still had business to attend to and wouldn't be free to start looking for a studio for at least three weeks. Suddenly she got a mischievous look in her eyes and started to ruffle Emma's curls.

“You'll not have me to do your hair when you're in London. I think we should get you a low maintenance style before you go.” Emma felt a chill. That was sure to mean short. “I'll take you to see that barberette before you go into work tomorrow, the Czech one, what was her name, Emmie?”

“Adriana,” Emma replied, memories of being turned into a skinhead in minutes flooding back. She rubbed through the thick short hair on top. “Is it going to be really short, Miss Kara?”

Kara wound one of the spiral ringlets from Emma's sideburn around her finger. “Mmmmm, I think it is. And you'll be getting weekly cuts from her till we're living together full time again.”

They set off early the next morning, arriving at the shop at nine, but finding it still locked up (Emma was due to start work at ten). It was nearly half past before Adriana arrived to open up.

“Hey, I remembered you girls, you got skinhead cut, didn't you?” She gave Emma a little hug. “You speak English yet?”

“A little...” Emma said in a ridiculous French accent, following Kara's orders. Soon they were inside, and now it was Kara dominating the conversation.

“Oh, Emma got a perm a few weeks back but it's looking a bit frizzy so she's decided it's best to go short. She was thinking about getting the top nice and crisp again and nice and short on the back and sides to keep her cool through the summer.”

Emma was by now caped, and feeling dwarfed by the enormous seat. She peered at her image in the mirror, suddenly feeling how precious those curls framing her face were, now that they were condemned. Her meditation was interrupted as Adriana lifted the round glasses from her nose.

“You like strange glasses, don't you, sweetie?” She folded them and placed them on the counter, from where she took the clippers. “How short you want, Emma, very close fade, like soldier?”

Emma's mouth was dry, and she looked pleadingly at Kara, hoping for a little mercy. “Comme soldat, oui?” Kara smiled, and Emma could only nod her agreement.

She felt Adriana's fingers on her cheeks, her long nails touching her skin lightly, guiding Emma's head forward until her chin was to her chest. Adriana smelt of a strong musky perfume and of cigarettes, and suddenly Emma badly wanted to smoke. It had been weeks since Kara had last let her have a cigarette.

She was barely able to breathe with her head bowed like this. Adriana seemed to be taking an eternity preparing the clippers and every moment was agony. Emma realised that she hadn't been clippered on the base of her nape since Leah had shaved her, the night she'd been introduced to Leah's dungeon. Finally they roared into life. A comb tugged into the curls, dragging them to the side, soon hitting tangles. But Adriana didn't waste time easing through the snags, instead the blades pressed up the side of Emma's nape, a single long upward stroke and the tension from the comb dissipated.

Emma's eyes were wide as she stared down into her lap and saw the first black curls falling into view. She could feel her face reddening as she dared not breathe. Her grip tightened on the armrests as she felt a surge of libidinous energy. Her nape felt sensitive to every movement of air and she was convinced that Adriana was buzzing her without a guard. Every moment brought a new sweep of the blades up her nape and the curls collected into an unruly bird's-nest in her lap. Emma felt the clippers make a pass behind her left ear and realised the last of her curls from her nape were gone now. Adriana stroked up her neck and onto her nape to sweep away an errant curl and any doubt Emma had about the length to which her nape had been shorn was removed; there was barely a suggestion of stubble left.

The sensation was too much for Emma to bear. She tensed every muscle in her body as she felt an orgasm grow out from her sex, enveloping her totally in bliss, desperately trying to hide it from Adriana. An involuntary gasp escaped, Emma suddenly aware that she'd been holding her breath for far too long.

Adriana's fingers spread over Emma's ears to raise her head slightly, brushing against her piercings and prolonging her ecstasy. She lowered her eyes, breathing unevenly as she tried to regain some equilibrium. The clippers were still buzzing up her scalp, shaving up over her occipital. Emma could feel Adriana tilting the clippers back at the end of each stroke to give a taper. The area up to her crown was cut clipper over comb, the comb flat against her scalp as it was shorn to short bristles.

Emma felt exhausted as a single rapid pass up before her ear took away the tangle of curls which had framed her face. She didn't dare look in the mirror, keeping her gaze directed downward, even though her sight was too poor to let her see much. She held her head as still as possible as Adriana refreshed her flattop, closing her eyes as the clippings fell across her eyelids which were still devoid of lashes.

“You shave here?” Adriana's voice shocked Emma from her reverie. Her fingers stroked the top of Emma's forehead.

“Uh, yeah,” Emma said automatically, forgetting her accent momentarily. There was no point denying it, her hairline was obviously too severe and geometric to be natural.

“You want shave on neck and ear like this too?” Adriana asked.

Emma again played dumb and glanced over toward Kara. Her mistress approached and ran her hands over the nape. “Smooth and bald here...”

Emma felt another climax gathering. It felt like her body was being engulfed, that she was drowning in pleasure.

“And here... Oui?” Kara's voice said, drifting distantly, although the touch over the soft stubble over Emma's ears was immediate, concrete, everything that she could hold in her consciousness.

Emma groaned as she vainly tried to hide the intensity of the pleasure that was consuming her. “Mmmmm, yes,” she sighed.

Emma felt Adriana's fingers dabbing lather over her nape and above her ears. It smelt strongly of menthol and her skin tingled. She pushed her thighs together and knotted her ankles as she could no longer resist the orgasm that had been looming. The razor slipped over Emma's scalp, a slight rasp audible as the blades met the vestigial remains of Emma's long curls.

As her glasses were put back in place, Emma felt very tearful. It was her shortest cut by some distance, and the first time she'd had a cut with no concessions to femininity. The top was very square, boxy, a touch shorter than how Leah had cut it, not quite as neatly shaped. As she turned her head she could see the full sides looked bald, just a shadow of stubble and even that wasn't present over her ears. Her scalp was milky white where it had been shaved. Adriana held a mirror behind her to show that almost the entire back of her head was bald.

“Nice for summer, very cool,” Adriana laughed. “You happy?”

Emma nodded and forced a smile. As she paid at the counter she mimed a smoking gesture. Adriana retrieved her cigarettes from her the inside of her low cut top and offered one to Emma, then accompanied her outside to smoke.

After a few puffs, Adriana had to say farewell as she saw a customer arriving, leaving Kara and Emma alone.

“You little slut, you came twice, didn't you?”

Emma felt her face flush with shame. “Oh god, I couldn't stop myself. Do you think she noticed?”

Kara laughed and said it was obvious. “I'm going to send you here on your own every weekend for a touch up until we move to London. It will be full of guys waiting for a haircut and they'll all be staring at the only girl in the shop. And they'll be able to tell when you cum in the chair too.”

Emma squirmed with humiliation.

“I'm only going to let you grow some hair again once I'm around to keep an eye on you. No one will want you while you look like this. You look like a marine.”

Emma felt her eyes grow moist. “I'd never do anything to hurt you! I love you so much, please don't be like that!”

Kara giggled. “I'm kidding. You look absolutely ravishing. You suit it nice and short. Wait till I get you home tonight.”

Emma glanced at her watch and realised she was late for work and after a quick kiss dashed off. She was subject to taunts from her colleagues as soon as she arrived. She was so self-conscious that, good-natured as they were, she was barely able to cope with them and was relieved when Esther told them in no uncertain terms to quit with the snide comments.

“Oh honey, look at you. You really got shorn this time, didn't you?” Esther said once they were alone. Emma fidgeted and rubbed her bald nape. “Do you want me to have a word with Kara?”

“Oh no, don't you dare. I love being told what to do by her. Even this... it's so exciting.” She felt her cheeks colour as she remembered what had happened in the barber chair.

“You still look so pretty, but I think no one will doubt you're lesbian any more.”

A few days later Emma visited the new shop for the first time, along with Holly and Esther. “You're the manager of all this,” Esther smiled. Emma felt very nervous as the responsibilities of her new role sank in. The shop seemed huge, especially since it was unfurnished. But it was a double-fronted unit, much larger than the existing premises. It had been unoccupied for a few years and she couldn't believe that in a few short weeks it was supposed to be ready to open.

As Emma looked through the upper floors (the building had three floors as well as a basement), she was surprised at the space available. Holly had planned that all the studios would be on the ground floor and the first floor would be office space. The top floor was fairly dilapidated but the first floor was in relatively good repair and Emma had an idea.

“We should put most of the studios up here, just have a reception area downstairs, maybe one tattoo room. Then we'd have another big shop available that we could use for something else.”

It was agreed by everyone that this was a practical suggestion, but what would the extra space be used for?

“We could have a hair salon there... More or less separate from the tattoo shop, separate entrances but we could offer discounts to encourage customers from each business to use our services.”

“It sounds feasible, there don't seem to be many good salons around here. But we'd need to get someone in to manage the salon side of things. And we'd need them on board quickly, we need to be up and running soon,” Holly said.

“Well... I know someone who's used to running a busy salon and I know she's not happy working there... We could ask her.”

When Emma said “we” she'd really hoped that it would be someone other than her that did the asking. But now she'd been given the responsibility of trying to recruit a creative director for the salon. She was trembling as she called Leah.

“Hello, Leah, this is Emma...”

“Yeah, I know, I can see who the caller is. Phones are useful for stuff like that.” Leah could sense her nervousness and was doing nothing to put her at her ease.

“It's... it's quite a sensitive thing. I'm in London now, I'm moving here to manage a new shop and we think that part of it could be good as a salon. Would you be interested in working here? The creative director.”

There was a long silence. “Are you trying to head-hunt me? Is that what this is, Emmie?”

Emma paused now. “That's what it is. So..? Are you interested?”

Leah immediately started to negotiate a salary. Emma was delighted that in the the end she agreed to five thousand under the maximum figure that they'd decided should be offered.

“Of course you would have to attend an interview, the partners would have to satisfy themselves that you're right, but I'm sure it would be a formality...”

Leah raged and blustered about how undignified that was but Emma could see that she wasn't going to refuse. In the end she agreed to come for her interview in two days time, on her day off.

They met in a room as far from the noise of the building work as possible: Holly, Esther, Emma. Leah had said little but observed a lot since her arrival. She looked as beautiful as ever, dressed in an elegant beige silk dress, her bob brushing her shoulders now, honey blonde with lighter highlights framing her face and through her long fringe.

They sat in a circle, and Emma spoke first, outlining what her responsibilities would be. When she stated that Leah, while enjoying creative control in the salon, would be responsible ultimately to the shop manager, a broad smile spread over her face. “So you'd be my boss, Emmie?”

Emma nodded. “Is that a problem?”

“Oh, quite the opposite, I'm sure I'd very much enjoy being under your control.” Emma felt a chill of terror as she tried to imagine trying to keep Leah in line.

The interview went well and, although she couldn't help herself from being patronising to Emma (or “little Emmie” as she insisted on calling her), Leah was mostly charming. Then Holly spoke up.

“This is quite a different kind of area to where we've all come from and the clientèle would be a lot different to your current salon. Maybe your look could be a bit more... urban? Edgy? That's the kind of vibe we're looking for with the salon, to fit in with the sort of patrons of the tattoo and piercing side.”

Leah looked intently at each of them in turn. Finally she spoke. “I'm sure I can fit in, as I have with my current place of employment. I've been considering a new tattoo anyway. But I'd expect the same from you ladies.”

There were puzzled looks so Leah clarified. “Little Emmie is always trying new things with her hair, at least she was when she had hair. But if I make changes I'd expect you two to let me restyle you. It would be a good way of advertising to your customers the services we offer in the salon. You do both have rather conservative long hair”

Emma could see fear in both faces and Holly quickly wound up the discussion. The job was formally offered and a start date discussed. Leah's period of notice was four weeks but she said she'd try to negotiate a quicker exit. If that couldn't be arranged she'd visit on her days off so that she could meet with builders and fitters to design the salon and to recruit staff.

After Leah's departure the chat turned to her proposal for makeovers. Holly and Esther were clearly nervous, but Holly tried to appear bold. “If she keeps her pretty bob she's not going near my hair. She loves her hair too much. I think I'm safe.”

Emma called Kara every night and was keen to discuss the events of this day.

“They told her she had to change her look to fit in, and she was all 'I will if you will..'”

Kara laughed. “Do they think Leah won't? She was always wild with her hair when I first knew her. She dresses like she does now because that's what fits for the manager of her salon. You won't recognise her when you next see her and she'll be absolutely ruthless when she gets her hands on Esther's hair. And it sounds like Holly got her needled so I wouldn't like to see how she'll end up.”

As it turned out they would get to find out sooner than they'd expected. Leah called the following week to say that she'd been released from her contract and would be able to take up her position within a week, once she'd taken care of arranging to let her house. And as Kara predicted, when she did arrive for her first day she was almost unrecognisable. She was wearing tight black jeans and ankle boots. On her upper body was a leather waistcoat, showing off her lower back and exposing her tattoo. But the big shock was her hair. The blonde was gone, now replaced with vivid red streaked with black. The sides were shaved smooth, the top cut in short layers, fringe blunt cut to brows and the back feathered to her shoulders. If her new image had nothing understated or classical, nonetheless her poise still gave Leah an elegance, and she exuded confidence and self-belief.

She spun around in front of Holly. “Is this something like you had in mind, Holly?” The tattooist had to admit she looked stunning. “The owner of my salon thought it would scare away her customers, that's why she let me go. I love having a mohawk again so it worked out good in every way for me.”

Having Leah on board turned out to have other advantages. She could wrap the contractors around her little finger. Their work had been getting behind schedule and they'd been obstructive in their dealings with Emma. Leah's intuitive grasp of psychology meant she knew precisely when to flirt and when to intimidate (and she was an expert at both). Before long Emma noticed workmen working through lunches and staying on a couple of hours in the evening to complete tasks (usually on the salon, but she was just grateful to see the shop shaping up so quickly).

Toward the end of her first week Leah gathered everyone together. “A friend of mine has a salon and I want you to take a look there. They have a very nice set up and we could learn a thing or two. She's given me the keys and we're all going to head there this evening.”

They all agreed and later on they arrived in the suburbs in the west of the city. Leah let them in the deserted salon. Leah seemed keen to discuss the equipment they had, eager to free up funds to provide it for the new salon. Then her mood changed. “Since we've got the run of the salon why don't we make a night of it? Let's get a couple of bottles of wine and I can do those makeovers we mentioned.”

Holly and Esther looked terrified, but all attempts to deflect Leah from her plan were trampled into the dust. Emma was despatched to gather refreshments as Holly was selected to be first.

Emma was incredibly excited. She felt sympathy for her friends, but had to admit that she couldn't wait to watch their transformations. As she dashed to a local supermarket she made a quick call to Kara to let her know that Leah had got Esther and Holly right where she wanted them.

Kara laughed and told Emma to make sure she got some pictures. “And your hair, we never did get you back to Adriana, did we? It's looking very untidy so why don't you ask Leah to neaten you up and do something with the colour.”

It was true that Emma's hair had a few weeks of regrowth on the sides, and the top still had the remains of the black whereas the rest was Emma's natural chestnut. She agreed to Kara's request (she always agreed) but cursed as she ended the call. She'd hoped she could start growing her hair again but now she was going to be at Leah's mercy. She rubbed her nape and had to admit that part of her was thrilled. She dashed onward, afraid to miss any of the action in the salon.

As Emma deposited the wine and snacks she'd purchased she saw that Holly was getting a shampoo. She looked blissful as Leah demonstrated her head massage expertise. Then she was rinsed and taken to a styling station.

Leah combed through her hair, tugging the comb through the many tangles. Emma had always thought Holly didn't make the most of her looks. She had thick dark blonde hair, as long as Emma's had been prior to meeting Kara, which was either worn loose or tied back in a pony tail. She seemed to take little care of her hair and it often looked like she hadn't brushed it in days. She wore almost no make-up and Emma had always thought of her as being a bit of a tomboy.

Leah found the hair was really tangled at her nape. “Holly, you need to start making more effort with your appearance. We have to present a professional image for the shop now and you've got to fit in with the sort of look we want to promote.” Leah was revelling in turning Holly's words back on her. Holly winced, Emma suspected more from the loss of control than the comb tugging at her tangled locks.

“I think you'd suit a pin-up style, that seems to be a popular look for tattooists,” Leah continued. “Or would that not fit with your tattoo style?”

Holly could barely get out her words. She looked horrified and eventually stammered that she thought it would be OK. “It'll still be long?” she added.

“Yeah but we'll take some length off. The ends are so damaged there's no other way. And I think we should do a sidecut too to add a bit of edge.”

Holly looked on the verge of tears now. She chewed at her lip. “I'm not sure... that would be a lot of hair coming off.”

Leah laughed and stroked the sides of her head. “Remember how much hair I lost on your request, sweetie. Anyway, you'll get to tattoo me so you can have your revenge.”

Holly grudgingly agreed and within a few minutes a large square was sectioned off above her left ear. Leah dug through a drawer and lifted a set of clippers triumphantly. Esther moved her chair closer to Emma. She was on her third glass of wine.

“Oh shit, Emma, I bet she's going to use them on me too. I'm terrified.” She gave a jump as Leah flicked the switch. Now all eyes were on Holly as the clippers slid up her temple. An eighteen inch long swatch of blonde hair slid free revealing the buzzed temple. Emma could see it was cut with a number one attachment and just a few millimetres of her long blonde hair remained over the left side. It took barely two minutes for the sidecut to be completed.

Holly stroked the side of her head, still sucking at her lower lip. “It's bald...” she groaned. Leah grabbed her hand and placed it on her own scalp.

“That's bald, yours is just short.”

Now she snipped across the back of Holly's long hair, cutting a blunt line just below her shoulders, trimming off six inches. Now the guide cut was established Leah combed sections up and chipped into the ends to give long layers.

Esther continued to get through more wine. Emma rubbed her hand and offered to go next.

“You're getting cut too? I thought you wanted to grow it.”

“It's getting messy, I'm going to ask Leah to tidy it up,” Emma said, rubbing her nape.

“Your idea?” Esther laughed as Emma blushed and nodded. “You're a lousy liar, honey. You could never keep a secret.” She rubbed Emma's cropped hair. “I'll go next, I'd be too drunk to sit upright if I had to wait till you'd been done.”

The conversation was brought to an abrupt halt as Leah called Emma over to be her assistant. Holly's hair was getting lots of bleached streaks through the front and down the right side and the buzzed side was bleached too. The rest was covered with a deep red paste.

Holly went to pour herself a huge glass of wine before she went to sit under the dryer. Now a fearful Esther was summoned to Leah's chair. Emma was sitting close, to provide moral support for her friend. She was also thrilled by the idea of seeing Esther getting a big makeover. In the time Emma had known her, Esther's hair had grown out till her curls now reached the top of her breasts. Leah expressed her admiration as she combed through it. “You have such beautiful hair, Esther, and you obviously look after it.” Esther looked shy and flustered by the compliments and Emma could see that her feelings for Leah hadn't gone away. As the comb eased the curls apart Esther's hair grew in volume. “You have such pretty features, very delicate...” Leah continued, and Emma realised she was flirting with Esther. Emma felt some annoyance as she suspected that Leah was aware of Esther's feelings and was exploiting them to manipulate her into agreeing to the style she had in mind. “If I promise to leave most of the length will you agree to let me add a bit of drama to your look? It would definitely be more flattering.”

Esther was normally so composed but now she looked utterly helpless and lost. She looked up at Leah who gave her a warm smile, and Esther muttered her approval. “Trust me, you'll look stunning. Emmie, could you come and give me a hand?” Leah was being her most charming now.

A parting was made high on the left side of Esther's hair and Emma was instructed to hold the curls on top. Her hair was full and soft. Emma held her friend's head to her body to reassure her, feeling a strong sisterly love for her. She winced as she saw Leah reach out and take the clippers, out of Esther's eye line, discarding the guard as she did so. Esther yelped as they were turned on. Before she could react further the blades were at the side of her forehead, above her left eye. Leah slid them back and Emma saw a peach fuzz of stubble exposed on Esther's scalp where the clippers had passed. A single long stroke went back to her crown and dark curls tumbled and bounced down the cape.

“Shit, is that as short as Holly's?” Esther wailed as Leah began to harvest another line of curls across her temple. Leah said nothing and Emma couldn't bring herself to say that it was actually shorter. The clippers were wielded with industrial efficiency, the side of Esther's head completely denuded of curls. Leah folded her heavily pierced ear down to remove a few wisps that had survived, then moved to Esther's shoulder, allowing her to to get a first look in the mirror.

Esther was speechless and looked accusingly at Leah, then at Emma. The hairdresser continued, seemingly unaware of Esther's reaction. She made a parting up the side of Esther's nape and had Emma hold the curls. The clippers slid up her neck, then into the long curls as they pressed ever higher. Emma remembered the tantalising sensation that she experienced each time her nape was clippered and felt a flicker of envy which was extinguished as she realised that she still had to ask Leah to cut her hair. She looked in the mirror and saw that Esther seemed not to be feeling the pleasure that being buzzed gave her. She looked devastated, all her strength focussed on keeping herself from crying. As soon as the clippers were turned off, Esther rose from the chair and said she needed the toilet. She cast the cape aside and dashed across the salon.

Emma followed her inside a few minutes later. Esther was sobbing in the cubicle. “Esther, it's me. Are you OK?” Emma felt foolish, obviously she was far from OK.

Esther emerged a few moments later. “Oh Emma, she's shaved half my head... What am I going to do?” She peered through the tears at her reflection, touching her shaved scalp as if it was something unclean.

Emma dabbed at her tears with a tissue, and rubbed at the stubble. “I like it,” she whispered. She put her arms around Esther and looked deep into her dark eyes. “You look so beautiful... so sexy...”

Emma put her lips to Esther's. There was no resistance. What she felt was no longer sisterly affection but a strong passion for Esther. She raised her hands to feel her hair, thick curls on one side, velvet scalp on the other. She knew it was wrong but Emma couldn't stop herself.

It was Esther who broke the kiss. “No, Emma,” she whispered. “We can't do this.” Emma nodded guiltily.

“I'm sorry, I just got carried away.” She was suddenly full of remorse and realised she'd have to tell Kara. Keeping it secret wasn't an option; she'd be consumed with guilt if she tried. There was an embarrassed silence as the two friends tried to come to terms with what had happened.

Esther bent over the sink and dabbed water over her eyes. When she rose she seemed much more composed. She and Emma returned to the salon without exchanging another word.

Emma stared as Leah shaved the side of Esther's head, then covered her hair in a dark paste. She was barely able to take in what was going on. She could only think about betraying Kara and how hurt she'd be if Kara were to do something similar. She was afraid to meet Esther's eye and wondered how their friendship could survive.

Holly and Esther were now snuggled under dryers and Leah sat with a glass of wine. Emma walked over to her.

“Could you cut mine too?” she asked. “It's got a bit messy and I need to tidy it up.”

“Hmmmm. Did Kara tell you to?” Leah ruffled Emma's short hair with her long nails. “Come on then, hop in the chair and let's get you fixed up.”

Emma was morose as she contemplated herself in the mirror. She'd worn her contact lenses and would be able to see the cut. Now she didn't care that her hair was going to be cropped again. She wanted Leah to be nasty with her, she didn't care if her hair was back as short as Adriana had cut it. She didn't deserve to be allowed to grow it.

Leah was stroking her soft pelt and surveying her options. “This shave at the front is going to be a pain to grow out. Might have to take the top very short at some point.” Emma could see Leah was teasing her, trying to get her worked up, but she wasn't in the mood.

“Shave me,” Emma said softly. Leah looked astonished and she repeated herself. “Shave it all off, Leah. I want it smooth.”

A smile spread over Leah's lips. “Well, you're my boss aren't you? I'd better obey.”

She wasted no time. The bare blades were steered straight down the top of Emma's head and a wide strip of pale scalp appeared. Leah was being her most brutal, showing how fast she could get rid of Emma's hair. Her scalp was greyish now, just a shadow of stubble left. Her head bobbed from side to side as Leah scrubbed a brush hard around her cranium to lather her. Then the razor rasped, pulled tight to Emma's skin, every stroke against the growth to shave as tight as possible. Emma watched every moment, hating how she looked, but feeling a perverse satisfaction in her humiliation. She could feel Holly and Esther staring at her, but didn't dare look over.

Since she'd moved to London Emma had mostly been browless, and today was no exception. With her hair gone and no brows she looked so blank and odd. She thought she was ugly. As she should be. Ugly on the inside and ugly outside.

Leah rubbed her scalp with some oil and it gleamed. “That's all done, Emmie. Happy with it?”

Emma nodded but looked far from happy. She gulped down a glass of wine and sat at the far end of the salon as Leah went to rinse Holly's hair.

The tattooist's expression gradually changed as Leah set her hair into sweeping waves with three-barrel tongs. It was now a rich, bright red, streaked with a warm blonde and she looked like a different woman as Leah sculpted a style that was unmistakably glamorous. The bleached sidecut was fully exposed. Emma sat watching, barely aware of what was unfolding before her, so preoccupied was she. Esther had been left to suffer under the dryer and was trying to catch Emma's eye, but Emma didn't dare make eye contact. Before Holly's style was finished she sprang to her feet and, claiming to feel unwell, dashed from the salon.

The weather had changed and she felt heavy raindrops splash on her bare scalp. The streets were busy and she felt like everyone was staring at this odd bald girl. She found herself bowing her head, reverting to the introverted posture that Kara had prohibited. She was unfamiliar with the streets and took several wrong turns before she was able to find the tube station. By this time she was wet through and felt thoroughly miserable.

She returned to her temporary accommodation. The owner of the flat was away for the next two weeks so Emma had the place to herself. She went straight to the bathroom and looked at herself, groaning as she saw how exposed she looked without hair. She tugged her false lashes free and wiped away her make-up. Her own lashes were still short from when Leah had cropped them. Emma took a pair of nail scissors and trimmed them once more, as close to her lids as she could. She stared at herself, devastated by her makeover. Kara had made her so beautiful and now that beauty had gone.

She took her phone and called Kara. She had to tell her what had happened. If she waited it would destroy her. Kara sounded happy as she answered.

“Hey, you're late calling. Was everything OK at the salon?”

Emma couldn't find the words and started to cry. “Kara, I'm sorry, I've done something bad,” she finally croaked. “I kissed Esther. I got really carried away and I kissed her. I'm sorry... I've ruined everything.”

Kara tried to get out of Emma what had happened but she became increasingly incoherent, sobbing more and more, and making effusive apologies. Emma could suddenly bear no more and ended the call. Almost immediately Kara rang her back but she couldn't bring herself to answer, nor could she as Kara rang another eight times. Voicemail messages piled up but she didn't dare listen to those. More calls arrived from Esther, from Leah and Holly before Emma turned off her phone.

Emma slept little and cried much that night. She went to the bathroom some time after dawn and stared at herself. Her eyes were dark-ringed from lack of sleep and red from crying, and she felt close to tears once more, horrified by how awful she looked. She lathered her head and shaved her scalp, then her brows. She decided that she'd keep her head shaved until she felt she'd punished herself sufficiently for ruining her relationship with Kara.

She lay on her bed and felt like her heart was bursting. She couldn't believe that Kara was gone from her life and it was all her fault. Then she thought about her work. There was so much to do but she couldn't face any of her friends. She called through to the shop (noting twenty-eight missed calls when she turned on her phone) and left a garbled message on the answerphone to say she was ill and would have to take a few days off.

Emma woke with a start. She felt confused and it took her a few seconds to realise she'd dozed off and that a buzzing had woken her. Someone was at the front door of the flats. She nervously looked out of the window and recognised Esther's car. The entry phone buzzed again, making her jump. Her nerves were shredded. She looked out of the window and prayed for Esther to get back in her car and leave. She wasn't going to answer the door. After three more buzzes there was a silence but still no indication that the car was departing.

Then there was a loud knock at the door. “Emma, come on, open the door, we're worried about you. We have to talk.” It was Kara. Then there was a sound of a key turning in the lock and Esther and Kara came in. “I know where the spare key is,” Esther explained. Her hair was a deep auburn and looked lovely, the thick curls framing the dramatic sideshave. “I'll leave you two alone, you need some space.”

Kara rushed over and embraced Emma. “Oh look at you, my poor little baby!” She stroked Emma's scalp and murmured reassurances. “What have you done to yourself? I'm here for you now, I'll never leave you again.”

Emma couldn't stem her tears. She buried her face in Kara's bosom and hugged her tight.

It was early afternoon when Emma woke again. She'd fallen asleep on the sofa in Kara's arms and now she'd slept for hours. She glanced up and saw Kara was smiling at her from the armchair opposite.

Soon Emma reclined in the bath that Kara had run for her. Kara seemed afraid to leave her and sat beside her, washing her tenderly.

“Esther says you've been working too hard and neglecting yourself since you got here. I feel awful for not being here for you. And for not realising how lonely you were.”

Emma started to apologise again and felt herself growing tearful. Kara put a finger to her lips.

“You made a mistake. I know you have feelings for Esther, but as long as you promise never to go behind my back again it's all forgiven.” Emma immediately gave her the reassurance she sought.

“I'd never do anything like that again. I... just got carried away. Esther was so upset after Leah buzzed her. I wanted to console her... but I was really turned on by what I'd seen too and it was all getting mixed up...”

Kara kissed her bald scalp then glanced at the razor by the sink. “Did you shave yourself again today? My little baby, I didn't want you bald, you're doing it to punish yourself. No haircuts for a while, you're going to grow some hair for me. And it's been agreed that I can stay here for the next couple of weeks to look after you. And when you're out at work I can start looking for a studio and we'll soon have our own place.”

Kara dressed Emma and spent some time on her make-up. She was relieved to see how much better she looked. Her eyes were outlined delicately with smoky grey liner, a touch of glittery gold on her upper lids below nicely shaped dark tapering brows.

“You look so pretty, even without hair.” Kara kissed her and nuzzled at her ear. “I've said you'd go into the shop now to have a chat with everyone.” Emma started to protest that she couldn't face anyone yet.

“You're going,” Kara insisted. “The longer you avoid them the harder it will get.”

Emma still felt uncomfortable as she travelled, sure that her baldness made everyone stare. Kara kept telling her to keep her head up and look confident. She entered the shop feeling nervous, troubled, guilty. Everyone crowded around to make a fuss. Even Leah hugged her and told her she'd been worried.

Holly looked stunning. Her hair was still set in soft waves and now she wore more make-up to match, a perfect pin-up look. She smiled shyly as Kara and Emma told her how beautiful she looked, obviously delighted with the transformation Leah had wrought.

Esther looked no less gorgeous. Leah had layered her curls to give lots of volume to contrast with the shaved side. Emma felt nervous as they were allowed to chat on their own.

Esther laughed to break the tension. “You look cute with no hair.”

“And you look amazing... Leah did great work on you and Holly. I'm sorry about last night, I don't know what came over me.”

“It happened... I'll never forget it,” Esther said shyly.

“You told me once you'd never let Leah close because you worried about what she'd do to your hair. Now she's given you the style she wanted, so what's stopping you?”

Esther glanced across the salon to look at the stylist. “Oh Emma, I don't know. She's... scary. And she's such a predator. It would break my heart if she carried on picking up girls the way she does now.”

“Esther, you've been single for as long as I've known you. If you don't take a risk you'll never know.”

Emma said her farewells to her colleagues and promised to be ready to return to work the next morning. On the journey home she mentioned that Esther was besotted with Leah. Kara nodded.

“Leah likes her too, I think, but she's never found it easy to commit to one woman before. Still, as she gets older I can see her getting more mature. Maybe they should give it a go.

“Holly's wanting to get the salon profile up by exhibiting at some tattoo shows. I suggested we let her push on with our tattoos and do some modelling.”

Emma nodded. Her tattoos were so intimate that no one except her closest friends had seen them. She was still nervous about the tattoos spreading over her skin, being visible in public. “I guess I'm ready for more tattoos, Miss Kara, but I never imagined I'd ever be a model,” she said. “And... maybe you should look for a surgeon. I think I'm ready for the facial work you wanted.”

--------------

The opening of the salon was celebrated with a party. Emma was delighted to see all her friends from the shop in Yorkshire arrive to show their support, but as the night wore on she felt exhausted. The preceding weeks had been extremely difficult, with virtually every waking hour spent trying to get the shop ready to open on schedule. She felt closer than ever to her colleagues. Adversity had brought out the best in all of them, even Leah. Emma was surprised to see Leah becoming quite maternal toward her, and became very protective whenever she thought anyone was trying to take advantage of Emma's sweet nature.

She felt she would have broken if Kara hadn't been with her. All the problems, all her stresses seemed to melt away when she was in Kara's arms. Finally they had their own place to live too; Kara had rented a studio in a modern block about two miles from the shop. It was smaller than was ideal with a mezzanine acting as Kara's workspace. They'd moved in a few days earlier, but were still living out of boxes.

The first day proper was very busy, especially in the salon. A voucher had been printed in the local press for a hefty discount on a cut and colour and it proved very popular. The full quota of staff wasn't yet achieved (two stylists were still working out their notice from their previous jobs) and Emma was pressed into service as a makeshift shampoo girl. Not only did she love the hands on work, by the end of the day she'd racked up a healthy bonus in tips.

Gradually the new flat became more homely but it was very cramped. She was disappointed to see how little space Kara had to work. She'd put away her easel and started to work by pinning unstretched canvas directly to the wall. Nevertheless it was home. Over dinner one night she hatched a plot.

“We should get Esther and Leah here for a dinner party. We need to get them together, they'd be so good for each other.” Kara agreed. Since they'd been working together there seemed to be a chemistry between them, although Esther regressed into a shy schoolgirl every time Emma suggested she should ask Leah on a date. To ensure that Esther would come, they'd tell her that it was a house-warming and invite Holly too, but she'd pretend to be taken ill on the night (Holly was in agreement with the plan as she thought Esther and Leah would make each other happy).

The night arrived. Leah came first, unveiling her new hairstyle. Her mohawk had been taken narrower, and the three inch wide strip of hair was neatly fanned over the top of her head. Her fringe had been cut in a V and the back now had long extensions. She'd been bleached back to a blonde, although pink tips had been added. She wore a black leather minidress which showed off her curves beautifully. Since she'd arrived in London she'd had regular tanning sessions and now her skin, including her shaved scalp, was a rich golden shade.

Soon after, Esther arrived. She'd had her hair done earlier by Leah who'd taken her a shade lighter and added blonde streaks through her curls. But the dramatic change was that she'd put Esther's hair into tight cornrows, running laterally across her head away from the sideshave. She appeared awed as she saw Leah's new look for the first time.

“I'm famished, let's sit down and get started on the food,” Kara said.

Esther suggested they should wait for Holly. “Oh, she can't make it, she's got a migraine, poor thing,” Emma replied. Esther gave her a dirty look, seeing through the deception immediately.

“I didn't know Holly got migraines,” she said accusingly.

They gathered at the table and plates and glasses were filled. Esther seemed edgy and was almost silent. Kara told her how beautiful her hair was.

“I've been telling her how she could pull off a short style,” Leah said. “She looks so pretty with her hair neat and close to her head.”

Esther grimaced shyly as she became the centre of attention. “It would go all frizzy if I cut it short. I remember what my brother's hair was like when it started to grow and mine would be just the same.”

“I think it's lovely as it is, Esther,” Emma reassured her. “The colour is great too. I think Kara and I look so plain with our short cuts compared to you two. I feel like a sparrow that's landed next to some peacocks.” Emma's hair had grown out to about a centimetre, a spiky coat of dark brown hair. Kara's bowl cut had lost some shape as it had grown and her red roots were noticeable. She'd continued to shave her tattooed nape.

They'd all finished the starter now and Leah asked if it was OK for her to smoke. She took a huge Havana cigar from her bag and lit it with a match. She tilted her head back and sighed blissfully as she blew out the smoke. Kara giggled.

“When did you start on cigars? It's about the biggest cigar I ever saw.”

“Mmmm, they're the pinnacle of tobacco, you should try it.” She held out the cigar toward Kara.

“May I, Emmie?” she asked, remembering her promise. Emma nodded.

“I don't mind you trying it,” she smiled.

It looked huge in Kara's delicate mouth. She sucked at the tip and coughed. “Urghh, that's so strong!” she laughed. She took a second drag, and blew out the smoke. “I'm not used to smoking any more, it's too strong for me.”

“Emmie, you try it,” Leah said. “Let's see if you can handle it without coughing.”

Emma was determined to show she could. She put the cigar in her teeth and inhaled. She felt her eyes water as the strength of the smoke hit her. Leah lifted her camera to take her picture. Emma felt an urge to cough but remained in control. She exhaled but as some smoke came through her nostrils she felt she was choking and coughed.

Leah laughed and told her she'd done well. “Kara hasn't got you smoking enough, has she? You need to be on a pack of Marlboros a day to get you ready for cigars. You look sexy with a cigar in your mouth, Emmie.”

Leah took the cigar back and took a deep drag. “We didn't ask you, Esther, would you like to try?”

Esther looked sheepish, admitting she'd never wanted to smoke. “Go on,” Emma mouthed to her, knowing how turned on Leah would be to see her smoke.

Esther reached out and took the cigar. She held the tip to her lips and drew in some smoke. Immediately she coughed and withdrew it. She gasped and coughed as everyone else laughed. Leah took back her cigar and passed her a glass of water. “You're a brave girl to try it. I never thought you'd dare.”

Leah extinguished her cigar as the main course was served. The conversation turned to tattoos. “I'm booked in next week with Holly to get more work done on my back,” Kara said. “And Emma's going to be pressing on with hers too. Holly wants us to model at tattoo shows and maybe do some photoshoots for magazines.”

“I'm getting a tattoo from her next week too,” Leah added. Since she was so pleased with her hair she's going to design a custom piece for me, top of left arm.”

Emma was aware that Esther did have some tattoos but had never seen them. “What about you, are you planning any more tattoos?”

“I got a few when I was very young, I was obsessed with the idea. I got them all on my body so that my parents wouldn't see. But I'm ashamed of them now. They're bad tattoos, I couldn't afford to go to a good artist at the time.”

“You should get them covered up,” Leah said. “You can get very good artists to work on you now, you work with them. It's not right for someone who works in a tattoo parlour to have tattoos she's ashamed of.”

Esther agreed and said it was something she'd intended to do but the time had never seemed right. Leah was very sympathetic, not her usual abrasive self.

“I'd love to see your tattoos some time, I'm sure they're not as bad as you think. And I'm sure they're very personal.”

Emma went to help Kara prepare the desserts. The flat was so tiny that they were barely out of earshot of their friends even with music playing.

Emma glanced over as Leah relit her cigar and chatted with Esther. “They're getting along well, aren't they?”

Kara nodded. “Yeah, I wish we could give them some space, but here... How do we do that?”

“Oooh, I could really fancy some cider now,” Emma giggled. “We don't have any in and I don't feel safe going to that off licence on my own at this time, would you come with me?”

Kara smiled conspiratorially. “You're good at this.” She called over to the others “We're running low on booze so we'll just pop out and get some. We'll just be ten minutes.” Under her breath she added “Or maybe half an hour.”

It was a full forty minutes before they returned. Esther and Leah were sitting together on the sofa. Esther looked guilty and Leah couldn't stop smiling. Emma noticed the cigar was smouldering in the ashtray and there was a long block of ash on the tip.

“Sorry we were so long, had to go to another shop, the local one was shut,” Kara lied. “I feel like such a bad host, I hope you girls didn't get bored.”

Emma was burning with curiosity and invited Esther to come up to see Kara's paintings while Leah went to investigate what wine had been bought.

Once they were up on the mezzanine, Emma spoke. “What happened, did you do anything with her?”

Esther squirmed shyly but she couldn't stop smiling. “Oh honey, I can't tell you. It's private...”

“Did she kiss you? She did, didn't she?” Emma said excitedly. Esther nodded.

“Oh Emma, I never felt like this about anyone. I want to be with her so much. But it's our secret for now. No one but Kara can know.”

This was one secret that Emma did manage to keep. The salon and mods sides of the business were more or less separate and as a result Esther and Leah weren't routinely in contact. Emma always knew when they were planning a night out as Esther would be booked in with Leah and would usually end up with a very elaborate updo. Emma would try to get as much information as possible about how the relationship was progressing. Leah would tell her almost nothing, and in the first weeks Esther was hardly more forthcoming, saying she didn't want to jinx anything.

Emma and Kara were now more extensively tattooed following long sessions with Holly. Kara's back  tattoo had been deeply shaded, and now the lines were blended into something resembling an x-ray in negative, but an x-ray of a non-human anatomy (Holly described the style as bio-mechanical without the mechanical). The design had spread around her shoulders, ribs and hips as well as her nape. There were subtle hints of colour merged into the dark shading giving a pearlescent sheen to the image. Kara had enjoyed the process of designing the tattoos so much that she'd asked Holly to teach her the craft of tattooing.

Emma's tattoos were painstaking to ink. The detailed colour meant that the design grew slowly and she had to endure several gruellingly long sessions. Now the colours had engulfed her breasts entirely and at the last session Holly had completed her chest, as high as collar bones. When she wore low cut tops a scaly pattern was visible, pale lemon and lime green, shading to a deeper emerald as it blended into the deeper blues around her nipples.

Her pubic tattoo had also been expanded and now it wrapped around her hips and covered her buttocks, which had been coloured a deep blue studded with small vivid orange spots which were arranged in swirls and spirals. She dreaded her next session when Kara had decided her anus would be fully tattooed.

Emma would spend hours in front of the mirror now. Each time she saw her tattoos she felt a sense of dislocation. She couldn't accept at some level that this was her, these lovely patterns in rich sensual colours where she should have seen her smooth, pale skin. Kara would kiss her and tell her that she'd soon have every inch of her torso inked and then she would be made to exhibit herself at tattoo fairs and this would make Emma explode with delight.

About two months after the dinner party Emma was working late when she got a call from Kara. “Hi darling, I'm in the salon with Leah now. When you're finished with your work come over, and bring Esther with you.”

Emma finished what she was doing and went to Esther's room. “Hi Esther, we've just been summoned to the salon, Kara and Leah are there.” Esther was clearly surprised but looked nervous and excited. They locked up the tattoo shop and crossed into the salon. They were the only people in the building now.

Kara was sitting under a dryer and Leah greeted each of them with a glass of wine. Her mohawk was forever changing colour and this week was a baby pink with a black V fringe. Her left upper arm was now outlined for a half sleeve, a snake twining through flowers.

Emma, your hair needs a tidy up. Once we've done you and Kara you'll get to know what we're all here for.

Emma's hair had got to about two inches and hadn't been cut since she'd been bald. Leah caped her and led her to the chair.

She combed through Emma's hair and took her scissors. “You look nervous Emmie. Cigarette to calm your nerves?”

Emma knew better than to refuse and nodded. A Marlboro was placed in the side of her mouth and Leah lit her up. Emma hated to see herself smoking, but now she was helpless to resist, her arms trapped in the cape. “Don't drop ash on the cape or there'll be trouble,” Leah added with menace.

Emma bowed her head and the cutting began. The comb slid up her nape and the scissors clicked rapidly. Dark tufts started to tumble. The comb rose up through her hair time and again, each time the scissors trimming away at the protruding hair. Emma realised that she'd missed having her hair cut, although she was desperate to have longer hair once more.

Leah told Esther to turn off the dryer and let Kara free. Then she addressed Emma. “Do you want me to get you wet with the clippers on your nape, slut?”

“Mmmm, yes Miss Leah,” Emma slurred, the cigarette clamped in her lips.

Leah was now cutting the sides, still using scissor over comb. Emma saw she was producing a wonderfully even taper, cropping the sides short so that her ears were exposed.

Kara wandered over and Emma saw her hair was covered in dye. “Take a drag, darling,” she ordered. Then she took the cigarette from Emma's lips and covered them with her own mouth. Emma filled her mouth with smoke, feeling herself getting very wet now.

Kara held the smoke in as she tapped the ash from the cigarette, which she returned to Emma's lips, then blew the smoke in her face. “You're such a sexy slut when you smoke, I should make you do it more.”

Emma groaned and felt close to cumming, but was ordered to hold herself. She stared in the mirror, her hair cropped boyishly now. Leah took the clippers. “Nice square neck for this cut, I think.”

The buzzing and tickling made Emma squeal, a pleasure she'd been denied for too long. She begged to be allowed to touch herself but Kara was being strict. Leah grabbed her fringe and pulled her head up, using the edge of the blades to square off her sideburns. The style was finished with a dollop of Brylcreem rubbed through the top (which had kept most of the length), then Emma's hair was slicked close to her head with a very straight part.

As soon as the cape was removed Kara ordered Emma to discard her contact lenses. Once she'd done so she was given her NHS glasses to wear. She hadn't worn them since she'd had her skinhead look and pouted as she saw herself now. “Oh god, it's so butch,” she groaned. Kara, tickled her buzzed nape, then kissed it.

“I love you looking like a dyke, so get used to it, darling.”

Emma sat with Esther as Leah rinsed the dye from Kara's hair. As the paste came loose, the colour was revealed, a vibrant coppery orange.

Kara was sat in front of the mirror and her hair was combed. She'd continued to shave the nape daily but the top had grown now and it covered her ears. Leah began at the front, sectioning her fringe out. She snipped a wide arch across Kara's forehead, the centre barely a half inch below her hairline.

Leah now pinned up Kara's hair, leaving only a section free at the back. She cut it into the same curving arch as her fringe, exposing her tattooed nape fully. The rest of the back was precisely snipped to the guide line and then the side were shaped to follow the line, sharp points forming over her cheeks.

Leah styled the bob with straighteners to give Kara's hair a deep shine, making the ends curl under to give more volume. Emma was thrilled with the result, a very precise a-line bob that was the most flattering cut she'd ever seen on Kara.

“It looks so lovely Miss Kara, the cut and the colour. I wish you could keep this style forever.”

Kara showed her appreciation for Leah's efforts with a deep passionate kiss, then gave the same to Emma. She then put her arm around her and signalled that they should be quiet.

Leah called Esther across and addressed Kara and Emma. “We've asked you here tonight to witness a ceremony to formally mark our commitment to each other. I know you two think you can just make up your rules as you go along, but some of us like to have some clarity.”

Leah now read a series of rules that were mutually binding. Most of the rules seemed self evident to Emma, but Leah looked very solemn. They'd agreed that no sexual contact with anyone else would be permitted without the consent of the other partner, this to include passionate kisses (Emma felt herself grow embarrassed and thought it was aimed at her), which seemed to be pretty much the limits on Leah's behaviour. In return Esther was pledging her complete obedience to her mistress. At the end of the statement Esther undressed (the first time Emma had seen her naked) and knelt before Leah. A simple polished steel ring, hinged at the side, was closed on Esther's neck, closing with a click. “I am yours, Mistress,” she said, close to tears.

Leah lifted her to her feet and kissed her. “Let's give you a makeover to show you're mine,” she smiled.

Esther was installed in the seat and Leah started to slap chemicals into her curls. Emma looked at her tattoos for the first time and saw that Esther hadn't exaggerated. Some of the tattoos were obviously not professionally applied, so crude that they looked like prison tattoos, the lines blurred and smudged into illegibility. She realised that Esther was aware of her gaze and suddenly felt guilty for adding to her self-consciousness. Leah had noticed her staring too.

“Emmie, what do you think of Esther's tattoos? And do tell the truth, if you say you like them, I'll have Holly copy them on you.”

Emma hated Leah's cruelty sometimes. She looked Esther straight in the eye. “They're not worthy of her. She deserves beautiful tattoos to go with her beautiful body.”

“And once you're ready to start tattooing, Kara, Esther's body is yours to use as you please,” Leah declared.

Emma felt shocked to think of Esther being used for Kara to perfect her tattooing skills. She went to sit with Kara. “You'll look after her, won't you. I want her to have the prettiest tattoos.”

Kara kissed her. “Don't worry Emmie, I won't do anything that doesn't look as lovely as she deserves.”

Leah spent hours processing Esther's hair. She finally combed it through as she prepared for the cut. Emma gasped as she realised it was straight now. Not a trace of curl remained in her wet hair.

“Leah, what have you done, there's no curls?” Emma said. Leah confirmed she used a permanent chemical straightening process.

“Esther won't have curls any more. Just as she will conform to my will, so will her hair.”

Not only was it straight, her hair was now a mix of deep red and white blonde. Leah began the cut with clippers, buzzing her nape to a soft short quarter inch pelt. She pushed the blades higher, up to the top of Esther's ears. Her hair looked so long now it was straightened and the pieces that were falling were well over a foot. Leah allowed Emma to hold Esther's hand during the cut.

“I love how the clippers feel on my nape. Do you like it?” Emma smiled.

Esther said she did, but her face told another story. She was clearly suffering as her long hair was being stripped from her.

The undercut was extended through the right side, about an inch over her ear reduced to a number two buzz. The left side was still shaved much higher, and was completely free of hair.

Leah combed her hair down, parting it to the right of centre. The white-blonde almost completely covered the red, which just showed through on the lower part of her hair. Emma couldn't believe that Esther had sleek blonde hair now.

The scissors started to snip. Leah cut very freely and sliced through the left side, creating a raked angle. An asymmetric bob started to take shape, shorter on the right side now, the lower half of Esther's ear exposed.

Leah used the points of the scissors to add texture to the thick hair. The crown was cut a lot shorter, and short spiky layers formed. Then Leah started to razor into the white-blonde hair at the ends, feathering it away to expose the red around the perimeter of the cut.

The style was sculpted to a finished form using styling clay. The long fringe swept over Esther's left eye, the back was stiffly spiked, the clippered nape visible above her long neck. Emma would have walked past her in the street. Her friend was unrecognisable.

The new-look Esther was a source of fascination when she arrived at work the next morning. Emma could see she was struggling with being the centre of attention and she remembered very clearly how her transformations had had the same effect. She sought out Emma for some consolation.

“Oh honey, I wish everyone would stop fussing. How did you deal with it?”

Emma laughed. “Badly... You look great though. You'll get used to people looking, just think of it as a compliment. You're still wearing your collar, I didn't think you'd wear it to work.”

Esther looked a bit embarrassed. “It's locked in place. There's no way to open it without cutting tools. I wear it forever now.” Emma tried to hide her surprise. “There's something else mistress asked of me this morning too. She told me I'm a smoker now. I have to smoke at work to show everyone. Would you come and smoke with me, I want someone sympathetic with me till I get used to it.”

Emma was shocked. “Esther, you've never smoked, Leah can't make you do this.”

“I agreed to it, it's a big turn on for her, and that's enough reason.”

Emma followed her out into a small courtyard behind the shop. Esther opened a pack of twenty Marlboros. “She says I have to finish these by tomorrow, although I am allowed to share them with you.” Emma took one and lit it.

“It was Leah who got me to start too,” Emma confessed. “Kara was in on it too, but it's always been Leah who was pushing me.”

Esther took a cigarette from the pack but delayed lighting it. “Mistress and I would like Kara and you to come over some time soon. She says us two have some unresolved issues that she's keen to explore.”

Emma felt her heart beating faster as she remembered the kiss they shared. “Oh god Esther, you're getting me so excited. You're irresistible with your chic little bob.”

Esther giggled nervously. “I've always wanted to see what cute little butch girls are like.”

Emma grimaced. “I'm not butch! Please don't say that.” She ran her hand up her nape and felt a thrill as she remembered how short Leah had cropped her. “Anyway, are you going to smoke that or not? I'm sure Leah will be keeping an eye out for what you get up to. I think she has spies everywhere.”

Emma lit the cigarette for her and Esther immediately started to cough. “Oh shit, that tastes horrible. How do you ever get used to that?”

Emma winced. “I always hated smoking. I still do really but it's become such a turn on. Kara is very good at making sure it has good associations for me. She has me smoke loads sometimes and then I start getting hooked. Don't tell her, but I keep a secret supply at home and I sneak the odd one that she doesn't know about when I'm supposed to be going without.”

“Leah says you smoke really sexily. She wants me to copy you to get used to it.”

Emma took an extravagant drag, and let the smoke drift slowly from her lips.

The tip had barely touched Esther's lips when she started coughing. “Very sexy,” Emma laughed.

“I'm dreading everyone saying 'I didn't know you smoked,'” Esther frowned. “It's pretty obvious that I just started too.”

“You'll be fine by the time you finish that pack. And I'll go halves with you so you don't overdo it.”

Emma couldn't wait to see Kara that night. As soon as she got home Kara sniffed at her.

“You stink of ciggies. Have you been smoking?”

Emma blushed and nodded. “Leah has made Esther start smoking and I was smoking with her to help her get used to it.”

Kara looked at her inscrutably. “Did I say you could smoke today?”

“No Miss Kara.” Emma couldn't repress a little smirk as she sensed Kara's playfulness.

“Get your clothes off you little slut, I'm going to teach you a lesson.”

Emma stripped in silence and stood in front of Kara, showing off her tattooed body.

“Go and get your cigarettes” Kara ordered.

“I don't have any, I was smoking Esther's,” Emma lied, feeling herself blush, wondering if Esther had told Leah about their conversation.

“Emmie, go and get them! You can't keep secrets from me.”

Emma went to retrieve her hidden pack from the top of a kitchen cabinet.

“Light one up,” Kara ordered, and Emma did so.

Kara undressed now and sat on a stool.

“So, Emmie, you've been smoking in secret haven't you?”

“Yes, Miss Kara,” she admitted, taking a drag.

“Lie over my knee, you little butch slut.” Emma did as she was told, the cigarette in her lips still. Kara stroked her nape. “I should make you stay butch and let you grow your eyebrows back. I remember when you started growing them back, you had a monobrow.” The humiliation made Emma groan.

“I didn't want smoking to be a habit for you, but now you smoke all the time. Should I let Leah decide how much you smoke?”

Emma groaned again. “Oh please, no Miss Kara. She'd have me on forty a day.”

Kara let her hand fall across Emma's buttocks, making her shiver as the shock pulsed through her body.

“Take another drag,” Kara ordered. As Emma inhaled she was spanked again. “You've had your last cigarette on your own, slut, OK? From now on you may only smoke when I'm present. If you smoke as much as a single drag I'll let Leah take control of your smoking and I'll start again too.”

“Mmmmmm, please don't, I'll be obedient Miss Kara,” Emma squeaked excitedly, Kara's dominance bringing her to a peak of arousal. “Oh Miss, please spank me, I'm such a bad girl.”

Kara indulged her wishes, reddening her buttocks. “No food for you tonight, butch boi,” Kara taunted. “You can finish off all your stash of cigarettes instead.”

“Does Esther have to smoke on her own tomorrow, Miss?” Emma said, exhaling more smoke. Kara confirmed that she did. “Oh, poor thing, she'll have to smoke twelve tomorrow! I was going to smoke half of them.”

Kara looked at the pack. “You've got twelve more to go tonight.” Another slap landed on Emma's buttocks.

Emma groaned. “Miss Kara, Esther said Leah and her wanted to get together with us soon. What do you think about it?”

Kara pinched the red skin on Emma's buttock. “I've seen how you are with Esther, and I haven't forgotten your kiss. I sometimes think you love her more than you love me.”

Emma felt a guilty embarrassment. She did have very strong feelings for Esther. “Oh Miss Kara, please don't say that, I love you more than ever. I'd willingly never see Esther ever again if it was what you wanted.”

“Well if you're a good girl we'll go to see them on Friday and stay over for the full weekend. Oh there's something else. I found a recommendation for a plastic surgeon. I want you to go along for a consultation on Thursday so we can discuss the alterations I wanted for your face.”

Emma felt a moment of panic as she thought about her face being changed irreversibly. “Miss Kara, will you come with me, I couldn't go alone.”

Kara allowed her to sit up. “Emmie, are you sure you're ready for this? It's going to be a big change.”

“I've seen some people who have surgery on their face and it looks very obvious that they've had something done. Would you want mine to be more subtle?”

Kara shook her head. “I want it to look artificial. Everyone will be able to see that your face has been modified, whether or not they knew you before.”

The idea horrified Emma, but she could feel how aroused she was too. She loved to relinquish control to Kara, and this felt like the ultimate submission.

“Will I be ugly?” she said, her voice cracking with emotion.

Kara pulled her close and kissed her neck. “I'd never do anything to make my little Emmie ugly. You're the loveliest girl in the world and every little change will fit in with your personality.”

Emma shivered with delight. “I love you so much and I trust you totally, Miss Kara. I'm ready to do as you choose. I do hate having a boy's haircut though, that's not pretty...” she added as an afterthought.

Kara laughed and stroked Emma's nape. “Yeah, she did take it a bit boyish. Maybe if you're a good girl we'll let you go a bit more fem.” Kara lifted Emma's lip and looked at her gold tooth. “Emmie, I want you to prove you're ready to go through the surgery. Before we do anything on your face I want a full set of gold teeth for you.”

Emma groaned. Kara knew she'd never got used to it and squirmed whenever anyone commented on her tooth. “All of them, Miss?” she said.

“All the front teeth, top and bottom. None of this is going to happen for a few months though. It will be expensive so we need to save.”

Emma was lost in her thoughts, as she tried to imagine what her life would be like when she was modified fully.

“Yes Miss Kara...” Kara goaded her, tugging at Emma's nipple rings.

“Yes Miss Kara,” Emma whispered. “I want it all...”

Emma booked an early finish from work on Thursday to allow her appointment with the surgeon. She locked herself in the office to try to get on top of a backlog of paperwork. She was interrupted by a call from Leah. “Come down to the salon now. Kara's orders.”

She returned to her office barely ten minutes later, her hair slathered with bleach. For the rest of the afternoon she was back and forth to the salon, as her hair was bleached, then toned, then styled. She was amazed to see herself, ash blonde, her fringe curled up away from her forehead. Leah pouted as she surveyed her finished work. “Hmmm, it looks too pretty. I liked you butch.”

Emma couldn't hide her happiness. “I love it. Thank you Leah, you've made my day.”

Leah kissed her cheek. “You make sure you show your gratitude at the weekend.”

She dashed home to get changed for her trip to the clinic. Kara loved her new look and added a dash of colour with her make-up. She dressed Emma in a low cut top with long sleeves, meaning that nearly all of the exposed skin was colourfully tattooed.

The surgeon was a woman in her fifties, Miss Jeffries, but she insisted on being called Cressida. Emma was terrified, and worried that her requests would be judged as being weird. Cressida seemed calm, friendly, warm and put Emma at her ease. As the discussions progressed Emma could see that the surgeon was aware that Kara was taking the lead, and seemed to sense the nature of their relationship.

“Emma, I would have to make sure that you want this surgery. I'd meet with you alone for a few counselling sessions to explore your reasons for wanting this.” Emma glanced guiltily at Kara. “Can I be frank? I'm sensing that you have a sub/domme relationship. Is that correct?” Kara confirmed her suspicions. “That's not a problem. I'm not here to judge you, but I do have to make sure that Emma is choosing this surgery freely. That's part of my duty to her.”

Emma was tongue-tied, but Kara spoke up. “Of course, I'd be unhappy if you didn't make these checks. It will be months before we can go through with this and Emma is free to change her mind at any time. I'll let you talk with her in private now to put your mind at ease.”

As she left Emma spoke up. “Please don't think that Kara is bullying me into this. It's something we both want. She's never tried to take away my confidence, in fact quite the opposite. A year ago, when we met, I was a shy student doing badly on a course that didn't stimulate me. Now I'm managing a successful business. I've grown so much and it's all because of her.”

As they returned home, Emma reflected on the meeting with Cressida. “Urghh, the nose job sounds terrible. Is my nose so bad as it is?”

Kara smiled and gently rubbed the tip of her nose. “Your nose is fine, Emmie. It'll just be fine in a different way. But you're right, it's going to be quite tough on you as it heals. You're so strong, Emmie, you'll cope.”

Emma pulled Kara close to her. “It scares me though. I'm going to have a lot of bruising, she said. Bad black eyes and lots of swelling. I don't want to see myself like that. You have to cover all the mirrors till I heal.” Kara kissed her on the forehead.

“I promise. When you do this I'll do everything you want to make it easy for you to get through it.”

“First I've got a weekend of Leah to endure. I'm sure she'll leave me with some bruises. I feel a bit... unsure about this. I'm still not sure about how you and Leah really feel about me being so close to Esther.”

“I'm fine with it, Emmie. I know you love her but I trust you. And I know Leah isn't jealous. She's totally smitten with Esther but she likes the idea of the two of you submitting to her. If I wasn't her friend I'm sure she'd be trying to add you to her harem.”

----------

The following night Emma and Kara set off to visit Leah's flat. She'd recently moved in and this was the first time they'd seen it. It was huge compared to Kara's studio and Emma felt a twinge of envy. She'd struggled to adjust to how cramped their living space was, and the whole place constantly smelled of turps which gave Emma headaches.

“Oh Miss Leah, it's beautiful. I don't know how you can afford a place like this, London is so expensive.”

“I had a good divorce settlement, Emmie,” she grinned.

“You were married? To a man?” Leah always managed to surprise Emma.

“What can I say? He was very rich. Two not very pleasant years, but it was the best paid job I ever had. It's a pity you're not more cynical. A pretty girl like you could snare a good catch. Set you up for life.”

Emma smiled at Kara. “I got the best catch anyone could wish for.”

Leah snorted. “You romantics make me puke.”

Kara laughed. “I've seen how you look at Esther. I think you're getting sentimental as you get older.”

Leah sneered and changed the subject. “Get undressed Emmie. You won't be wearing much this weekend. We need to prepare before we go in to Esther.”

Emma immediately stripped. Leah dropped a comb, clippers, a razor and shaving cream on the table, and Emma's face betrayed her fear. She looked imploringly at Kara.

“Don't worry, it's not for you, it's for me,” Leah said. “But you have the privilege of shaving me. I want to surprise Esther.” Kara caped Leah who sat on a stool now. “Emmie, make sure it's nice and smooth, and no nicks. If you make any mistakes Kara has given me permission to shave you and Nair your scalp.”

Emma was now terrified. She started to speak to make sure Leah wanted this but was silenced. “No speaking, Emmie. Just do as you were told.”

She turned the clippers on and rubbed Leah's hair. The top was spiked, sticky with hairspray. She combed through her fringe and placed the clippers on her forehead, then drew them back. A single pass of the blades removed half of the width of Leah's mohawk. The clippers went back to her forehead and another pass finished shearing the top of her head.

Emma lifted the long extensions which covered the back of Leah's head. She placed the clippers on the nape and pressed them up, feeling a glow inside as she recalled how the touch of the blades excited her. She took her time, buzzing up in short strokes, until the last long strands fell free from Leah's crown. She couldn't resist letting her fingers stroke Leah's scalp, the stubble prickling softly as she drew her fingers up her nape. She squirted shaving cream into her palm and worked it to a lather, then massaged it into the stubble. The sides were completely smooth and Emma decided to leave them; the less she had to shave, the less chance of nicking Leah's scalp.

Emma was trembling as she drew the razor over Leah's cranium. Her skin was noticeably paler over the top, as she'd continued tanning the sides. The blades scraped softly, cleaning away the last shadow of hair. Emma caressed her head, feeling everywhere for traces of stubble, deftly shaving away any irregularities that she found. Finally she was satisfied that she'd completed her task.

Leah stared at herself, a smile spreading. She was wearing a lot of make-up and her eyes looked huge. “What do you think, Kara?” she asked, rubbing her scalp.

“I'm having trouble restraining myself. You look stunning.”

Emma remembered the Leah she'd first met, her perfect blonde bob and subtly applied make-up gently enhancing her features. She couldn't quite believe this was the same woman. She suited being bald, although Emma found that she looked more intimidating than ever.

“Emma, you did a good job so I'll allow you to see Esther. Put your hands behind your back.” As Emma complied with the order she felt a rough rope wind around her wrists. Then Leah's fingers hooked inside her lips and she felt a gag being forced home. She felt herself panicking as she realised that it was the gag she'd worn previously. Leah pushed the nozzles so deep into her nostrils that her eyes watered. The tubes hissed as she breathed, in through mouth, out through nose.

“Can you breathe OK, Emmie?” Kara asked, and she nodded.

Emma was taken into an adjacent room by Kara. She saw Esther kneeling on a bench. Her wrists were bound to her ankles and she was gagged too. She was naked apart from her collar. Her eyes smiled as she saw Emma, who was made to kneel right before her, face to face, and the rope from her wrists was tied to her ankles. Kara attached a clip to Emma's index finger. “This will monitor your blood oxygen, just in case the gag stops you breathing.” Emma noted that Esther wore one too.

Kara left the room and the two women stared at each other. Esther's hair was swept to expose the shaved side. The fringe was braided into fine cornrows. Her dark brows had been shaved and Leah had painted on dramatically angled black brows with pointed arches. Emma found the look sexy, but somehow it didn't suit Esther; it gave her an aggressive expression which was completely at odds with her demeanour. They were only inches apart and Emma leaned forward in an attempt to let her breasts touch Esther's but discovered that she would overbalance if she did.

She was desperate to talk to Esther, but the gag silenced her. She dreaded the moment when Leah would place a cigarette in it. She wondered if Esther was aware that she'd have to endure that too. It would be harder for her; she could barely tolerate smoking and was still unable to inhale deeply. The waiting seemed interminable. Emma's knees pained and her insteps ached as she had to keep her toes pointed. She could only stare into Esther's eyes, her deep dark eyes. Her pupils were huge with adrenalin and Emma could sense her pain and fear too. She had no idea how long Leah had had her kneeling here, waiting.

The door opened behind Emma and she saw Esther react, a look of shock contorting her features. She could hear heels clicking on the floor and turned to look. She saw two figures completely clad in shiny white latex, body suits and hoods. Only the eyes and lips were visible, and for a moment Emma was unable to distinguish between them. Only when she registered that one was slightly taller, slimmer, smaller breasted could she be certain it was Kara. But Kara had taken hold of Esther, was kissing her neck, taking her nipples in her lips. Leah's gloved fingers were sliding in between Emma's buttocks, making her moan in fear and anticipation. Emma felt panic as she saw Leah slip a cigarette into her gag. She was sucking at the air which tasted of tobacco already. She looked pleadingly up at Leah, recalling how she'd felt like she was drowning the previous time she'd had to endure this gag. Leah placed a hand on Emma's ribs to feel her breathing. She struck her lighter and waited until Emma had exhaled, then brought the flame to the tip of the cigarette. She had no choice but to draw in the smoke. The first breath wasn't so bad and Emma wondered if maybe she'd developed tolerance. But then the next breath drew in more smoke, and the next, and she could never clear her airway. She tried to breathe rapidly, in short, shallow breaths but was soon feeling faint. She could see terror in Esther's eyes. Leah fitted her gag with a cigarette too now and lit it.

Emma was close to Esther and could see tears in her eyes. She made little choking noises as the first smoke flushed through her nose. She was holding her breath to try to avoid taking in more smoke and Emma could see her face redden. She started to look back and forth between Kara and Leah with obvious panic. Her face was crimson and Emma could see no smoke emerge from her nostrils. The monitor started to bleep and Kara pulled the cigarette free. “Just breathe, Esther,” Leah said softly. “You'll be OK now.” But Esther shook her head wildly. She was obviously in some distress, and it was Kara who pulled the gag free.

Esther wretched. “I thought I was going to be sick,” she gasped.

“I'm most disappointed in you,” Leah said. “You failed your first challenge.” She took another cigarette. “Are you going to smoke this one or shall I give it to Emmie to smoke for you?”

Emma could see her cigarette was already almost down to the butt and was desperate for fresh air. “Give it to Emma,” Esther said. She turned her face away to avoid eye contact. Leah pulled out the butt out from Emma's gag and immediately replaced it with the fresh cigarette. Emma felt tears stream down her face as more smoke flooded into her lungs. She looked at Esther, who was also in tears now. She still couldn't look Emma in in the eye. Emma tried not to feel resentment; after all, it was more than Esther could possibly stand. But as she drew in yet more smoke she realised it was more than she could bear too. Her lungs were burning, and she constantly had to fight the waves of nausea. She had a stitch from the prolonged shallow breathing and took a deeper breath. It was a bad idea. The pain intensified and she went back to shallow breaths.

“Just one more to go,” Leah said, taking another cigarette. “Who smokes this one?”

Emma knew she couldn't smoke a third cigarette through the gag and shook her head, but Esther refused to look at her. “Emma,” she whispered.

Leah lit the cigarette and took a drag. Then she discarded the second stub and fitted the new cigarette into the gag, not allowing Emma a single breath of clear air. “Just one more, Emmie. You're doing it for Esther,” Kara said. Emma felt betrayed and glowered at Esther but her vision clouded as tears filled her eyes. She sobbed and with rage, pain, humiliation. She sensed her sinuses becoming blocked as the tears started to make her nose run. She frantically tried to blow out to clear the blockage but it was useless, and she shook her head in panic. There were glowing spots before her eyes and the blood seemed to roar in her ears. She felt somebody slide a finger into her lips and prise the gag free and was aware that the oxygen monitor was beeping. She gasped in air, feeling weak and shaky. When she recovered her composure she saw that Esther was once again gagged.

“Are you OK, Emmie?” Kara asked. She nodded, still panting. Leah was watching the monitor.

“Your oxygen levels are normal again now.” She forced the gag back into Emma's teeth. She broke down. It seemed like this was the worst experience of her life. Leah slapped her cheek. “Stop those tears, Emmie. You can't breathe when you're crying. Take control of yourself or I'll give you another cigarette, which will force you to learn discipline.” Emma blinked and drew on all her inner strength to take control of her emotions.

Leah spoke again. “We feel very let down. Both of you failed to do what was asked of you and someone is going to get a punishment haircut as a result. Given that she's the more experienced, I think it should be Emmie.”

Emma looked at Kara desperately but saw that she showed no dissent from Leah's judgement. A screen was moved aside on the other side of the room and Emma saw the same barber chair in which she'd previously sat while Leah shaved most of her hair. She shook her head, feeling a great injustice. She'd managed the task much better than Esther and had failed only because she'd been forced to smoke additional cigarettes because of Esther's refusal.

The ropes were loosened and she was dragged from the bench. Her muscles were cramping painfully and she was unable to resist. She was pushed into the chair and straps were tightened around her wrists and waist. She looked at Kara, hoping she'd take mercy, but her smile seemed to indicate she was taking pleasure in the situation. She felt an intense hatred for Esther, for her weakness, and glared at her. Esther was sniffling and shaking her head.

Leah put her lips to Emma's ear. “If you do the cutting, I'll spare you and let Esther take the punishment. Do you want that?” Emma nodded vigorously without a moment's hesitation.

She was released from the chair by Kara as Leah brought Esther over. Esther still couldn't look Emma in the eye and took her place in the chair without resistance. Kara fixed the straps in place as Leah whispered in Emma's ear again. “You'll give her the same as you gave me. Smooth all over, and no nicks. Any mistakes and you get shaved too.” Emma nodded to show her understanding.

Emma grabbed the clippers and turned them on. She stood behind her and drove the blades into the cornrows at the front of Esther's head. The braids came away from her head easily. Emma was taking a delight in shearing her, in humiliating her. She deserved this for her weakness, for her inability to take discipline, for making Emma take the things she couldn't bear.

The top of Esther's head was bald now. Emma  moved to the side and looked at Esther's face. She was suddenly overcome with remorse. Esther looked at her apologetically, her big dark eyes moist with tears. She wanted to be shaved to spare Emma. They'd been manipulated into this by Leah, by Kara too. Was this Kara's revenge for the kiss she'd shared with Esther?

Emma clippered away the rest of Esther's hair, but did so much more tenderly now. She massaged lather over her scalp and pulled the razor down her nape. She saw that Kara and Leah were whispering conspiratorially. Leah and Esther would now both be bald and Emma mused on whether Kara and she would also be bald before the weekend was over.

Esther looked so vulnerable without hair. Her eyes looked so big and sad and Emma hated herself for the rage she'd felt toward her friend earlier. She wiped the remains of the lather from Esther's scalp and looked into her eyes again to show that her animosity had passed. The eyebrows Leah had drawn on her still rankled Emma; they seemed to give her a look of permanent anger and Emma wished she could wipe them away.

Leah and Kara came over to check that the shave had been accomplished satisfactorily. They wiped their latex clad fingers over her scalp. Leah dribbled some oil over Esther's head and both of them rubbed it over the shorn skin. Emma was fascinated to watch and Esther was clearly very aroused by their attentions. Leah pulled the gag free from her lips as she climaxed.

Kara released the gag from Emma's mouth a few minutes later. “Oooh, you smell like an ashtray, you're not getting a kiss.”

Leah continued to stroke Esther's bald head in fascination. “You did a nice job Emmie. What do you think of Esther without hair?”

“She looks very beautiful,” Emma said truthfully. “I'm sorry I shaved you Esther,” she added.

Leah slapped her on the buttocks. “I thought you said she was beautiful. Stop apologising or I'll have to devise a punishment. Would you like to spend the night with Esther in complete privacy?”

Emma felt a wave of paranoia. Was this a trap? She looked at Kara, Leah, Esther, trying to sense their reactions. Would it mean Kara and Leah would also be spending the night together? She finally nodded. “I would like that Miss Leah.”

“Well you have to earn it. Esther's a piercer so you have to give your ears up to her. Do we have a deal?”

Emma agreed. “Yes Miss Leah, if Miss Kara permits it.” More piercings in her ears seemed worthwhile. She suspected she'd end up with a lot of piercings in her ears now, probably too many, but she was sure she could endure, or even enjoy, the pain and Kara would probably take some out if it looked too much.

Kara seemed positively enthusiastic and Emma realised that this was something that had been planned. She swapped places with Esther and was strapped into the chair. The back had now been reclined.

“We'll start with her lobes,” Kara said. “Can you get them up to one and a half inches?” Emma had recently gone up to a quarter inch less than that size.

Esther looked unhappy. “It would mean stretching them quite a bit. I could probably do it but it might lead to problems.” Kara told her to do it anyway.

The discs were taken out and Esther rubbed oil over the loops of skin to soften them. Emma winced as the bigger tunnels were fitted. It took a lot of straining for Esther to manage to get them in place. Emma's ears were stinging.

“You're getting some more piercings next, Emmie,” Leah told her. Esther had clearly been given precise instructions and started immediately. Emma felt a needle pass through the cartilage, deep inside her right ear, not just at the edge. The pain was far more intense than she'd expected and took her breath away. As soon as a stud was fitted the same ear was pierced again, close by the first. Her ears were ultra-sensitive now but paradoxically, although the pain was intensified Emma was unable to tell precisely where the piercings were going. Emma chewed at her tongue piercing, as had become a habit for her in times of stress. The next piercing tipped her over the edge and she slipped into her zone, dimly aware of Esther adding jewellery to her left ear. She rarely found her way into this state now, finding that more extreme sensations were needed to transport her there. Kara always seemed frightened when she slipped away; she's expressed fears that Emma would become addicted and let herself be abused to attain this state of bliss.

“Emmie, come back. Earth to Emmie, are you receiving.” It was Leah's voice that brought Emma back to her senses. “Kara insisted that you had to agree to the next stage, although I think we should just do it.”

“I'll never do something permanent without your agreement,” Kara said. “I love how Esther calls you a poor little elf and I decided we should make you look more elf-like. Would you let Esther point your ears now?”

Emma was still groggy. Her ears throbbed and felt heavy with the new jewellery that had been added. “Pointed ears?” she croaked. “How can you make my ears pointed?”

Esther spoke to her. “We have to cut a little section out of the top, then stitch the ear back together. I've done it before a few times, it's quite safe. But if you don't want this you can say no.”

“Yes, say no and you'll be sent home with no supper and then Kara and I will have Esther to ourselves for the next two days.”

“Leah, don't bully her into it!” Kara said. “Do you need time to think about it, Emmie.”

Emma shook her head. “Do it.” Esther asked if she needed anaesthetic. “No, I'll be OK,” she smiled, eager to regress back into her zone.

“The little slut loves pain,” Leah said.

“I'm going to need someone to help me,” Esther said as she marked Emma's ears for the surgery. “Kara, would you?”

“Oh, no way, there'll be a lot of blood, won't there? I can't be doing with blood. Makes me feel faint and sick just to think about it. Leah will be better.” Emma felt her trepidation increase as she realised Leah would be assisting.

Esther told Leah to take off her gloves to scrub in. She started to argue but Esther was far too professional to make compromises on hygiene. She then scolded Leah for not washing her hands correctly and proceeded to give her a lesson. “Mistress, we can't take any risks about infection,” she added as an apologetic afterthought. Emma was reassured that for the next few minutes Esther would be firmly in control.

Emma concentrated on her breathing as Esther readied herself, marking her ears carefully with a pen. She was very anxious about this. “Oh god,” Leah groaned. “Are you just going to cut chunks out of her ears with scissors?” Emma felt panicky as she heard this.

Esther glowered. “Mistress, just concentrate and keep swabbing if there's any blood.”

“If..? I imagine I will bleed,” Emma said with grim irony. Her resolve was weakening with each passing second. “Just... get on with it Esther.”

Esther lifted the scissors to her ear and aligned the tips with the curl of cartilage that formed a rim around her ear. There was a little snip and Emma cursed loudly. “That really hurts...” she whimpered.

Esther urged her to keep very still; Leah cradled her head to her body to support it. The next snip was even more intense and Emma started to cry. She urged Esther to keep going though. “I don't need anaesthetic, I can do this,” she added defiantly. Soon she wasn't sure though. Not only was the pain intense, the sensation of cutting through the cartilage was filling her with nausea. Leah started to say something in a jokey voice, but Esther cut her short.

“Mistress, don't! This is tough. Let's just do concentrate on doing it right.”

Emma's ear was ultra-sensitive. She groaned as she felt it being bent into its new shape, then squealed as Esther put in the first suture. She longed to zone out but oblivion was elusive. Each stitch was a constellation of agony, little flashes of pain, too short to transport her to her place of safety. She lost count of how many tiny sutures she was made to endure.

Her face was grey as Esther cleaned up her ear. She'd only got halfway. She would have to suffer the same agony all over again and wondered if she had the strength to endure it. Esther was fully aware of her struggles and said nothing. She decided to press on without giving Emma a pause to brood on her struggles. The scissors closed into her ear, slicing into the cartilage. Everything was getting dark. Was this the oblivion she'd longed for?

As it happened, no it wasn't. She came round lying flat in the chair with her feet elevated, concerned voices talking to her. “I'm OK,” she muttered, her voice slurring. “I just zoned out.”

“No you fainted,” Esther said. Someone had put a blanket over her.

“I'll be OK,” Emma muttered again. The words just came out automatically. She felt very confused. Then she said “Sick... sick...”

She felt someone help her to sit up and a dish was held to her chin. She was becoming more lucid now and felt deeply ashamed as she vomited. She felt cold and couldn't control her shivering. Kara had pulled her hood off and looked scared. She wiped at Emma's mouth and held a glass of water to her lips.

“Poor little baby, are you OK. We pushed you too hard, didn't we? You're going to bed now, we're done for tonight.”

Esther sounded a note of caution. “We've got to fix up your ear, Emma. I can't leave it like that. It might be wise to finish the job”

Emma agreed, despite Kara's concerns, that it was best, although Esther insisted on using anaesthetic. The injections were painful enough, but once they took effect the rest of the surgery was easy to bear. “I'm sorry, I should have insisted on using anaesthetic in the first place,” Esther said as she finished off.

Emma was passed a mirror. Her ears looked a mess. They were incredibly swollen and misshapen, little blue knots holding the wounds neatly in place. She assessed her new piercings too: inner conch, anti-tragus, tragus piercings now adorned each ear, shiny balls of titanium gleaming against her reddened flesh. Her lobes were stretched bigger than ever and were made to look even bigger by the reduction the top of her ears had suffered. Esther rubbed her neck. “They're very swollen but they'll heal fine. I'm going to look after you really well.”

Emma was sure she'd be OK after she took some painkillers but she wasn't. She was still shivering and she had to admit that she felt awful. She was sent to bed, laying on her back to avoid any pressure on her ears, head propped up on four pillows. The tablets were stronger than she'd imagined and within minutes she was sleeping.

She was disturbed later as Kara slipped into bed alongside her. Emma momentarily forgot where she was but the tenderness of her ears as she turned her head on the pillow brought her to full wakefulness. She reached out in the darkness and touched Kara's head, stunned to feel that there was no hair, just freshly shaved scalp. “Oh Kara, you shaved your head again!” Emma gasped.

“It's not Kara, it's me, honey,” Esther whispered. “Kara's sleeping with Leah tonight and I'm here to look after you.”

Emma sat up and stroked Esther's arm. “I'm so sorry I shaved you. Leah knows how to push my buttons and she got me angry at you. That wasn't fair, I know she was just playing me. It wasn't your fault.”

“I know Emma, you don't have to say sorry. They'd planned everything that happened. I was always going to end up bald.”

Emma kissed her scalp. “You look great bald, far better than I did.” Esther moaned.

“I look awful, but thank you for trying to cheer me up.”

Emma fumbled around the bedside cabinet until she found a lamp and turned it on. She squinted as her eyes adjusted to the light.

“No, you don't look awful at all, you're stunning. I do hate those eyebrows though, can we get rid of them?” Esther smiled and nodded. Emma could only find a box of tissues and moistened one with her tongue, then rubbed the make-up away. Esther went to look at herself in the mirror and started to cry as she looked at herself.

“Oh look at me, I'm a fright. I think the brows are worse than the hair.”

Emma hugged her. “It does look a bit strange, but Kara will draw you nice brows.” She had to admit that Esther didn't suit being browless and hoped Leah would think the same.

When she awoke in the morning Emma was still holding Esther in her arms. The night had been quite chaste as Emma was still very delicate but she felt they were closer than ever. She looked at Esther's sleeping face, so peaceful and serene, so vulnerable now she'd been shaved. She loved Esther, almost as much as she loved Kara. She felt a pang of guilt to admit the strength of her feelings but it was undeniable. She thought how she'd love the four of them to be together. Even Leah. She couldn't say she loved Leah, she was too scary to Emma to be lovable, but she was incredibly exciting.

As she attempted to rise from the bed Esther was disturbed and her eyes flickered open. She smiled up at Emma and greeted her with a long delicate kiss. Emma wrapped her in her arms and she felt compelled to let her fingers drift up her friend's neck so that she could caress the shaved nape. Both girls were moaning with excitement as they finally separated their lips.

Esther smiled softly and stared into Emma's eyes. “Are you feeling better, my little elf?” she whispered. Emma nodded but admitted her ears were very tender. Esther examined them closely. “Everything seems to be ok, but they're bound to be sore. I did far too much to you last night; I should have refused. I'm so sorry.” She started to kiss Emma's cheeks to show her contrition.

“It's ok,” Emma smiled. “I'm not sorry about anything you did.” She let her lips find Esther's and pulled her tight to her. Again she found herself stroking her friend's bald head. The sensation was intensely erotic for Emma. Esther looked a little sheepish as they lay back on the bed and touched her head self-consciously.

“I'm not sure I can face the world without hair, Emma,” she grimaced. “I don't think I'll ever be able to get used to it.”

Emma kissed the top of her head. “You look lovely, Esther. So delicate and sexy. You'll soon get used to it and see how gorgeous you are. Anyway, I'm sure Leah will soon get fed up with keeping you bald and let you grow your hair.”

“Leah's the only one of us who hasn't been completely bald now...” Esther mused.

“Oh, but...” Emma suddenly realised that Esther hadn't seen her mistress' new look; she'd concealed her shaven scalp under the hood during the previous evening whenever she was in Esther's presence. Emma felt she shouldn't reveal what had happened as she was sure Leah wanted to shock Esther. “Oh, but... you look great,” she said, mad at herself for sounding unconvincing as she tried to cover up her blunder.

“You've been bleeding a bit, I'll get you cleaned up,” Esther said tenderly. She used a wet cloth and gently rubbed it through the short hair over her ears, which was clotted with dried blood.

“Do my ears look awful?” Emma asked. Esther smiled and said they were fine but admitted that they were a little bruised and swollen.

“They'll take a couple of weeks to settle down. And the points will probably look quite scarred for a bit longer, but I'm sure they'll be nicely shaped.”

Emma bit her lip. “I'm a real freak now, aren't I?” Esther hushed her.

“You're not to think like that. You look wonderful, Emmie.” She looked into Emma's eyes with a tenderness that was totally disarming.

“Let me see my ears then. Where are my glasses?” Esther shook her head.

“I'd be happier if you could manage without them until the stitches come out. The arms would be in contact with the wounds and increase the risk of infection. Can you manage with contacts?”

The two friends stood side by side gazing at themselves in the bathroom mirror. Both looked nervous and unsure. It was Esther who finally broke the silence. “Would you shave me now, Emma? I want to look my best for Leah.” Emma stroked her scalp where a faint stubble of dark, coarse hair had bloomed overnight. She squirted some shaving gel onto Esther's scalp and gently worked it to a lather. Esther was unable to hide her discomfort at the unfamiliar sensation.

“You need to give in to it,” Emma told her. “Don't let your shyness about being bald ruin the pleasure of how it feels.” She massaged gently at her nape, then more firmly, allowing her nails to scrape at the stubble through the foam. “You must like how this feels...” Esther's cheeks coloured and her shoulders gave a little convulsive shudder. “Every time I feel the clippers on my nape I get so turned on. My nape is an erogenous zone. I'm sure you can find the same.”

Emma pulled the razor up Esther's neck, a long bold stroke. There was a soft rasp as the blades touched the stubble, but the resistance was faint from the stubble. “Touch yourself,” Emma whispered. Esther did as she was told, spreading her lips and pushing the tip of her middle finger into her soft, warm slit. She made a quiet gurgling sound as she allowed herself to wallow in pleasure.

Emma slowly shaved her scalp entirely, ensuring not a single spot of stubble marred Esther's baldness. She poured a generous amount of balm onto her palms and smoothed it into the scalp. She bent forward and placed her lips on the smooth pale skin and kissed her over and over. “You're so perfect, Esther. I love you being bald. I... I love you.”

Esther moaned, pulled Emma in front of her and embraced her. Their lips met, burning with desire. Time seemed to dilate for Emma as she revelled in the sensations. She thought of Kara and her love for her was undiminished, but she could feel no guilt about the intensity of feeling she had for Esther. More than ever, she felt she needed both of them.

Emma glanced excitedly at Esther as they sat at the table, where the breakfast they'd prepared was spread. She looked so different now, wearing her big, retro glasses, which Emma had always disliked on her but now appreciated. They suited her better now she was bald. Emma could hear Kara and Leah approaching and was anticipating Esther's reaction.

Kara entered first, her bob freshly styled, sleek and gleaming, then behind her Leah, naked, bald, dramatic black and white make-up framing her eyes. Esther gasped. “Oh, your hair... you're bald! We're both bald!”

The two women embraced and Emma noticed both exploring the sensation of the other's newly shaved scalp. Emma was so entranced with watching them that she was barely aware of Kara moving beside her until she gently kissed her cheek. “Your poor ears, my baby,” she whispered. “They look so sore. Did you manage any sleep?”

“I'm fine, really. You look so beautiful today, Miss Kara. Your hair is so perfect!”

Kara kissed her on the lips. “You're so brave, Emmie. And did Esther look after you well? I thought maybe you two had fallen out after Leah's little games last night.”

Emma felt herself blush. “We're closer than ever,” she whispered.

“Should I be jealous?”

Emma felt her embarrassment grow. “I love you more every day, Miss Kara. My feelings for Esther don't change that.”

Kara smiled and kissed her. “I'm not the jealous type, luckily for you. And for all her faults neither is Leah. Aren't you lucky to have so many beautiful girlfriends?”

The conversation was interrupted as Leah and Esther decided that they would take breakfast in the bedroom and made a hurried exit.

“I'm the luckiest girl alive.” Emma showed her appreciation with a kiss. She felt Kara's tongue slip into her mouth, probing at her gold tooth. Kara kept it up long enough to have Emma very aroused. Finally they parted lips.

“I sold a couple of paintings last week. How about we spend the money on getting your teeth done? I booked you in for a consultation this morning. If you're feeling up to it, that is.”

Emma maintained a shocked silence. Even though she'd tentatively agreed to Kara's plans to modify her teeth, the reality of actually submitting to it was difficult to accept. She thought of excusing herself on the grounds that she needed to rest following the assault her ears had suffered, but she knew that was only procrastination.

“And it will be all my front teeth?”

“Yes Emmie, all of them. Gold teeth, each with a slight point at the tip.” Emma remained silent. “I know this is a big change.” Kara raked her nails gently through Emma's short hair.

“And they'll all be pointed? Like animals' teeth?” Kara nodded. “So even my gold tooth would have to be replaced?” Another nod. “If I go for the consultation I can still change my mind?”

Kara hugged her tightly to her. “I'm getting too soft with you, aren't I? When I give you choices all it does is make you anxious. You're going to get your teeth done because I order it. Happy now?”

Emma felt a tingling engulf her. She realised how terrified she was about her teeth being modified so dramatically but now she had no escape route. “Oh Miss,” she gasped.

“And the blood has discoloured your hair around your ears. I'll have Leah shave the back and sides before your appointment.”

Emma groaned. She realised how much she wanted to grow her hair now that the choice was being withdrawn. Somehow it didn't matter. The sensations that were filling her body were intoxicating. Kara's dominance was something she needed, craved, adored. She touched her lips to her lover's. “Yes Miss Kara,” she whispered. “I'm the happiest girl in the world.”

-------------

“Shall I shave the hawk nice and narrow?” Leah tugged and twisted at the soft curls on the top of Emma's head. “Just leave her a one inch wide strip of hair and super-glue it to fan it permanently?”

Emma's myopic eyes flickered toward Kara but were unable to read her expression. She knew Leah was doing this to provoke a response, but she also knew that it was possible Kara would agree. She'd pushed Emma's modifications over the past three weeks, since the night when her ears had been pointed. The following day Leah had shaved the sides of her head and since then she'd worn a wide mohawk, sides shaved smooth. She peered in the mirror at herself, the cape prickling slightly against her neck, where freshly tattooed spirals of rose and lemon peeked up above the collar of the cape.

Kara was silent for a long time before announcing her judgement. “I don't think the glue is a good idea. I don't want to get gashed by Emmie's hair in a moment of passion. Take it narrower, but not really thin. About three inches over the top, narrowing to two at the nape, but leave the length. Do you think that'll work?”

“If it doesn't we can always go with my suggestion,” Leah replied. Within seconds the clippers crackled into life and pressed against the side of Emma's forehead. As they slid back blonde curls rolled down the cape. “What shall we do with colour? The blonde is getting a bit tired.”

“Yes, I thought something very colourful to match the new tattoos. I'm sure you can do something eye-catching in reds and blues.”

“Oh, I'll make sure she looks special for her big day at the dentist. Did you tell her your special surprise yet, Kara?”

There was a sigh of frustration from Kara. “No I didn't! But I suppose I have to now. Emma, I want something else done today while you're under anaesthetic, so you won't have to suffer. I've asked the dentist to split your tongue.”

Emma shuddered as she heard the words. “Oh... Oh...” she repeated, shocked.

“It's best like this,” Esther said, slipping her hand under the cape and seeking out Emma's to reassure her. “After your experience with your ear pointing I think it's safest if you get it done today.”

“Safer still if my tongue is left how it is,” Emma thought to herself but didn't dare voice her opinion. Besides, safety seemed to be something she'd long abandoned. The constant changes that Kara made her undergo kept Emma destabilised, edgy, nervous, but she loved the feeling now, it was intoxicating and exhilarating, like walking on a high wire with no safety net. She glanced at Kara and realised she was staring back, awaiting a response. “Yes, Miss Kara,” she mumbled. “Will it be very sore while it heals?”

“It will be a bit,” Esther said. “You might have a bit of trouble eating for a week or two and a bit of a lisp.” Lots of bits, Emma thought. Tongue in two bits too. Esther was sugar coating it, as she always did. Better that than try to scare her, which would be Leah's way. “You'll have the best aftercare though, I'll see to that.” Emma squeezed Esther's hand and muttered her thanks. She imagined how she would look tomorrow, gold teeth and split tongue. All normality gone. Did she really want this?

“Sit still! You won't stop fidgeting today,” Leah snapped. “Do you want to end up bald like Esther?”

“No, I don't. Sorry Miss Leah, I'm just very nervous.” “That's quite an understatement”, Emma thought.

The clipper blades were forced close into Emma's scalp, dragging and chafing. Leah wanted her to suffer today. No tenderness. Emma winced as she pulled down her ears, left then right. They were still extremely tender, though healed. The tops formed neat little points, marked with fine pink lines where the incisions had been made. She liked the sensitivity that the surgery had left, feeling a little flush of happiness as she remembered the touch of Kara's tongue as she explored the new form of her ears, but when Leah was so rough there was mere pain. As soon as the clippers fell silent the buzzed scalp was brushed with thick menthol foam which made Emma's scalp tingle. Kara spoke: “Once Leah's shaved you, you can put your glasses on. I think there's enough bare scalp between your ears and your hair now for Leah to work unimpeded on your colour.” Emma thanked her mistress as Leah dragged a razor up her temple, rasping away the stubble. Leah made sure that any stubble from Emma's eyebrows was eliminated too.

It was Kara who cleaned the sides of Emma's head, and massaged in some balm. “You're being such a good girl, Emma. I know you want all this as much as I do. I got you some new glasses as a reward.” The glasses were slid onto Emma's nose. She blinked as her eyes adjusted to the new lenses. They were cat's-eye shaped, bright red frames, decorated with a white line across the top of the lenses and a jewelled star at the outer point. Emma wasn't sure they suited her. She was also concerned to see how much hair she'd lost: Leah had shaved more than an inch up each side. Whereas before her hair had only been shaved up the sides, the bald area now extended so that what remained was a strip through the centre of the top. It was a real mohawk now.

“You look really great,” Esther smiled. “I love those glasses on you.” Leah and Kara were generous with their compliments too and Emma felt her cheeks flush. She felt powerless to assert her will; she loved the attentions of her friends and trusted their decisions. If they liked how she looked then all was well.

“Thank you Miss Kara. And thank you Miss Leah, my hair looks good.”

“But not finished,” Leah added. “We need to add some colour.” The next hour was spent bleaching and dyeing. By the end of the process Emma's hair was white blonde, streaked extensively with blocks of a soft magenta and baby blue. The top had been set in big soft curls and the short hair at the back stiffly spiked. Kara had rimmed her eyes with a thick layer of purple eyeliner, her lashes heavily coated with lime green mascara. As the cape was removed the full extent of Emma's tattooing was revealed, all of the skin from lower neck to the base of her rib cage now brightly coloured. Her back tattoos covered a similar area, and Kara had decided that completing her back would be the priority; over the next few weeks Holly would work at extending Emma's tattoos from her buttocks up to her ribs.

Kara brushed some blusher over Emma's cheeks. “No lipstick today, I'm afraid. Not for the dentist. And your lip ring has to come out.” It was Esther who was allowed to do this. Emma's hand was trembling as she stroked the shaved sides of her head and played with the curls.

“Thank you, Miss Leah. The colour is so nice. And you always manage to shave closer than anyone else. And the make-up is beautiful, Miss Kara.”

“It is, Kara, very sexy,” Leah agreed. “Shame about her lips. You should have let Holly tattoo them. Then her lips would never look plain again.”

“Hmmm, maybe you're right,” Kara replied. Emma felt her anxiety increase dramatically as she imagined allowing her face to be permanently inked. She knew that Kara's plans were more than mere permanent make-up. “We can think about that next week though, we have to be there in half an hour and you're not dressed, Emmie.”

Just on time, Emma arrived at the dentist's. She was wearing a vintage 60's yellow sun dress with a large white flower appliquéd on the front, the deep cut of the neck revealing her chest tattoos. She felt strangely comfortable as unusually she was free of a corset today. She'd been spared that as she was to have a general anaesthetic for her treatment.

Emma's head was swimming as she gave her details to the receptionist. She gripped Kara's hand tightly; she was her anchor, if she relaxed her grip Emma would slip away and be lost. A few minutes later she felt herself being guided into the surgery. Her legs were numb, she might have been on wheels for all the sensation she experienced. Kara helped her into the chair and she managed a nervous smile. Esther was there too and she was the most animated, chatting to the dentist about the tongue split. The dentist admitted that she'd never performed the procedure before but was happy that it was straightforward, and Esther (who had performed a couple of tongue splits) would be very helpful. Emma felt overwhelmed. “Please, I'm happy to do this but I can't listen to the details. Can we just get on with it?” she croaked, close to tears.

The dentist was sympathetic. She explained that Emma's teeth would be reshaped and she'd have to return to the surgery at the end of the day for the fitting of the gold crowns, which Emma knew from the consultation. A consent form was signed and Emma tried to compose herself for what was to come. She felt a surge of panic rising as she saw a mask being lifted toward her face. It was pressed over her nose, soft around the edges, smelling strongly of rubber. The smell triggered a little nausea. The panic intensified; Emma was on the verge of fleeing. There was a hiss as the gas was turned on. “Just breathe in normally, through your nose,” a calm voice instructed.

Emma wanted to fight it. “No, no, no,” a voice in her head said. “Don't do this!” She couldn't go through. She decided to stop it. “Nnnnn...” Suddenly everything started to darken. A moment later nothing remained.

“Emma, come on. Open your eyes.” A strange, slow voice coming from far away. Emma felt more tired than ever in her life. All she wanted was to sleep.

“Emma, squeeze my hand.” This voice was familiar, if similarly unnaturally slow and distant. It was Kara's. Emma couldn't feel her hands so she tried to close both. “That's it honey! Now open your eyes.” Consciousness was slowly returning. Emma groaned. She was dimly aware of pain in her head and just wanted to sleep. Light entering her eyes would just worsen her headache.

“Emma, open your eyes.” It was the first voice again, now clearer and closer. Emma squinted and saw a brightly lit room. Too bright for her eyes to tolerate. She groaned again.

“Oh, you're awake,” Kara said. “Everything went fine. You're such a brave chick!” Emma gurgled. She was glad everything had gone well but had no idea what Kara was talking about. Someone was wiping at her lips with a wet cloth.

A few minutes later Emma remembered. She slipped her tongue forward to feel her teeth, but all she felt was pain. Her tongue felt like it had been put through a mincer. She groaned at the slightest movement. With the return of consciousness came the return of sensation, but most of the sensations in her body were of pain. Her groan now was not borne of confusion but a complaint against the agonies her body was suffering.

“Don't try to talk. Have a sip of water. Tiny sips, you might have a bit of trouble swallowing.” Emma was glad to comply: her mouth was very dry. She glanced about her, everything looked fuzzy. Kara and Esther were staring at her, smiling excitedly.

“Everything is fine, Emmie. You can go home and rest now.”

Emma slept for most of the day. She woke at two in the afternoon, feeling woozy. Her tongue was still incredibly tender, but the powerful painkillers have reduced her suffering to tolerable levels. She went to the bathroom, where Kara came running. “You should have waited for me, you shouldn't be up on your own! I've been looking in every ten minutes to check on you.” Emma tried to say she was fine, but even opening her mouth was painful, let alone using her tongue to articulate words. Kara passed her a pen and pad.

“I'm fine,” she wrote. “Is everything ok?”

Kara nodded. “All went to plan. You'll be back there at five to get the gold teeth fitted. There's a team of trained monkey working on making your new teeth right now,” she giggled. Emma went over to the mirror. She hadn't dared look at her teeth yet. “Are you sure you want to see? They look pretty weird right now, and your tongue is a bit of a mess.”

Emma nodded and opened her mouth, moaning as she felt an aching in her tongue. She felt a stab of despair as she saw her ruined teeth. Each had been filed and drilled to a narrow peg, a wide gap separating each tooth from its neighbour. Her tongue was sliced in half, the angry dark wounds bound in place with a series of untidy black knots. She looked pale as she glanced over at Kara, who looked close to tears. Kara took her in her arms and pressed her close to her body. “Your new teeth will be in place tonight and they'll look great. And your tongue will soon heal. Esther says you heal better than pretty much anyone else she knows and she'll make sure you don't get any infections in it.”

Kara led Emma back to bed and tucked her in. Within minutes, despite her shock at seeing what had been done to her, Emma was sleeping, the powerful painkillers ensuring a deep slumber. It was with reluctance that she opened her eyes to Kara's calls later in the afternoon. As she travelled toward the dentist, Emma looked much less glamorous than on her previous trip a few hours earlier. Her make-up was gone, her hair dishevelled by the hours of sleep. Her face was puffy and she was still sleepy from the effects of the various drugs she'd been exposed to: painkillers, anxiolytics, anaesthetic. Frankly, she didn't care in the slightest about her appearance. Emma wanted her appointment to be over and to return to her bed. She was glad that the dentist's waiting room was empty; she didn't want to be seen looking as she did. Within a few minutes she'd been ushered into the surgery and sat nervously in the chair. The dentist was asking her about how she felt, Emma using a pad to communicate her answers.

“Everything is ready with your crowns,” she informed Emma. “But there will be a lot of discomfort from your tongue due to keeping your mouth open for so long. I could give you an injection of diazepam, but it may be easier if I use a general again.”

“That's best, isn't it Emmie?” Kara smiled. “You just have a little sleep and when you wake up it'll all be over.” Emma nodded. She couldn't disagree; she knew that Kara was right. She didn't take her eyes off Kara as the mask was placed over her nose. Kara's pupils were huge, a sure sign that she was excited. Emma wondered what it was that had caught her imagination, but her curiosity faded as she inhaled, all thought deliquescing as the anaesthetic flooded her body.

Emma's glanced around, taking a few moments to realise that she was in her own bed. A lamp illuminated the room and Kara was asleep beside her. Emma reached out to touch her shoulder to rouse her. “Oh baby, are you alright?” Emma grimaced and made a soft sigh. She felt a little nauseated, her head throbbed dully and her mouth felt like a huge wound. “There's some water here, do you need a drink?”

Emma sucked a sip through a straw. She moved her jaws causing her teeth to meet in an unfamiliar manner. She noticed a pad and scribbled: “I don't remember anything. Did everything go ok?”

“Everything's perfect, honey,” Kara smiled. “You were a bit out of it when you got home, so not surprised you don't remember much. Do you want to see?” Emma nodded sheepishly. She tried to feel her teeth but her tongue felt raw, an ache spreading through her jaw at every move. The ends of her tongue felt simultaneously tender and numb, and she was unable to take any sensory information.

Kara held up a mirror and Emma drew back her lips. She gasped as she saw how radically different her smile was; the teeth gleamed brightly, very yellow, the tip of each forming a wide point. Emma felt a shiver pass through her body. She's never seen anyone with such profoundly modified teeth. “Will I be able to eat?” she scribbled.

Kara smiled reassuringly. “You'll be eating fine once your tongue heals. You'll probably only manage soft food for a week, maybe two. Your teeth will be stronger than ever, in fact the dentist said they're better able to resist wear from tongue piercings. They can wear away the enamel.”

Emma nodded, but felt confused. Her tongue was no longer held any jewellery as the split extended all the way back to where it had been pierced. There was nothing in her mouth which would wear at her new golden teeth. She continued to stare, arching up her lip to stare at how the gold seemed to extend under the gum line.

The mirror was eased from her hand and Kara smiled at her. “Such a sexy little pixie, aren't you? Leah shaved so high, didn't she?” Her hand stroked the bald sides of Emma's head, then rubbed at the points of her ears. “I loved seeing your little nose getting covered by the mask, seeing you drift off, knowing you were going to be changed when you woke. Show me your teeth, Emmie.” She tried to smile but as she drew back her lips it looked more like a snarl. Kara slid her tongue along the serrations of the pointed teeth, then let her tongue stud clink against the gold. Emma grunted: despite the pain and nausea she was feeling, Kara was getting her very aroused. “I meant what I said this morning, baby. I think it's time we had Holly tattoo your lips.” Emma moaned, excitement and fear causing her to vocalise, despite a stab of pain deep in her tongue. “You'll look so sexy, Emmie! And we'll get hold of some anaesthetic. I'll put you to sleep and let Esther do some work on you. We've been discussing it today. We have so many surprises for you.”

The anxiety of the threatened transformations was swept away by a tide of erotic expectation. Emma felt a flame spread from deep within as her flesh quivered ecstatically; she ululated as she achieved fulfilment.

“I still feel poorly. Want to sleep,” Emma lisped. She was forced to keep her speech to a minimum by the pain in her tongue, even a week after the surgery. Kara spooned more baby food into her lips.

“Don't think you can fool me. I can see you're a lot better. You're trying to avoid going out because you're self conscious about your new teeth.” Emma blushed. She knew Kara was right and knew that to try to deny it would be futile. The best approach was to come clean and express contrition, and hope that Kara would take pity. “Well those teeth aren't going to go away so maybe I need to buy you a cage. I'll keep you locked up and you'll never have to face the world ever again.”

Emma pouted sulkily. Kara spooned another dollop of the bland paste into her mouth, deliberately pushing the spoon too far so that it prodded against Emma's tongue, making her moan.

“Well..? Do you want to be immured? Like a medieval nun? A cage and a bucket will be all you ever have to look at.”

Emma felt her temper rising. She hated being backed into a corner.

“Emmie! Don't start getting all angry. Should I ask Leah to find you a cage or are we going out this morning?”

“Out, Miss Kara,” Emma grunted resentfully. She'd conceded defeat.

“Good! Glad you're finally seeing sense. By the way, did you notice anything? About your hair?”

“No Miss,” Emma said, stroking her curls. As her hand brushed the sides she realised that the growth of stubble that had accumulated over the past few days was gone. “I've been shaved!” she gasped. “When? How?”

Kara seemed amused by her confusion. “Those painkillers really knock you out cold. When you fell asleep last night Leah shaved you. You slept through it like a baby.”

Emma felt a pang of fear, a terrible vulnerability at the thought of being subject to Leah's whims while unconscious. She couldn't deny that the idea aroused her too. She stroked dreamily at the smoothly shaved scalp and imagined being slumped forward in her bed as Leah dragged a blade over her skin.

“You'd better get used to the idea,” Kara went on. “I told you I wanted to experiment with anaesthetic. Esther's been looking into it. Nitrous oxide is pretty much impossible to get hold of, but ether can be obtained. We did look at chloroform but that's a lot more dangerous. I've managed to track down a vintage surgical mask, so that should be arriving in a few days.”

“But... what will you do to me?” Emma's emotional whirlpool was now churning ever faster as she realised that new methods to add to her submission had been devised.

“Hmmm... What will we do? We'll surprise you, that's what. Esther will help me. She wants to put new things through or in various bits of your body. And the great thing is that you won't feel a thing. It's wonderful, isn't it?” Kara's joy was apparent as she started to kiss up Emma's neck.

“Oh, Miss, you're scaring me,” Emma moaned, but Kara's kisses always had her panting with pleasure: she knew exactly where Emma was most sensitive.

“I know how much you love fear, how much the adrenaline adds to your experience. Anyway, you trust me don't you?” Emma nodded obediently. “It doesn't really make a difference if you're awake or asleep, I'll always do what's best for you.” Her fingers reached into Emma's panties, squeezing her lips tightly together.

“Mmmm, yes Miss Kara,” Emma lisped. Maybe Kara was right. She admitted to herself that these new plans did excite her.

The trip into the shop was more demanding than Emma had expected. Everyone wanted to see her teeth. She was constantly being asked to show them off, gaining more attention than she'd ever had. Even the customers joined in, some asking to get photos with a smiling Emma. She had to oblige them. She felt overwhelmed by the time she retreated to her office where she was alone with Kara. She was trembling and knew she was close to tears. “I didn't think everyone would be this interested! I'm not sure I can cope with this. People don't see me any more, I'm just the girl with the pointed ears and the pointed teeth.”

Kara was sympathetic: “It'll die down when they're used to it. I suppose you will always get some attention from strangers now, but that's good. I always wanted that for you.

“Holly's got a couple of hours free. How about she does some more work on your back?” Emma hadn't prepared herself for this and felt a little shiver. Permanent changes were still hard for her to accept, despite the extent of the ink that marked her body. She wanted to make an excuse, to reschedule the next tattoo session. She tried to find the words, thought about saying her tongue was still sore, but she couldn't. She reluctantly nodded and tried to accept the loss of more of her pale skin to Kara's vision of her.

“I'll just get some papers together to work on at home,” she said. Kara shook her head.

“Tattoo room now! You can get your papers later. Holly is sitting doing nothing now so let's fit in as much as we can.”

Within a minute Emma was stripping off before Holly. The tattooist wore a new hairstyle: a light blonde bob, set in voluminous waves (Leah had talked her into a perm), with her fringe curled in a cylindrical roll. The side of her head was now shaved and she'd recently had it tattooed with a leopard skin pattern, which Kara appeared to love, but which made Emma uncomfortable.

Kara and Holly discussed her fate. “I thought now that she has her lovely new teeth that we could tattoo her lips.” Holly's eyes lit up; the idea obviously interested her.

“Wow, cool. What did you have in mind? Something solid and colourful? It would mean that make-up options are more limited.”

“Yes, I thought about that. I thought we could focus on the lip line and keep a more neutral shade in the centre of the lips so that she can still have make-up to colour her lips.”

“So just outline the lip line?” Holly seemed disappointed.

“Oh, more than just an outline,” Kara smiled. “Something... creative.” Emma was naked now but it wasn't just this making her feel vulnerable.

“Of course, this does go against what you told me you were planning,” Holly pointed out. “You said all her tattoos would grow from the points where we started. If I tattoo her lips it won't be connected to any of the existing tattoos.”

Kara had now moved Emma to stand in front of her and was staring intently at her face. “That's true. How about we tattoo your throat, Emmie, and have a little tattoo up here...” Her fingers traced a path from Emma's chin upward over her lower lip. “Maori women would always have a tattoo in this exact spot.”

Emma wailed in protest. “Oh Miss, it'll look like I have a beard though! Please can I just have my lips done. I'm... not ready for my face tattoo.” She knew that the “not ready” excuse never worked with Kara but she had to say it: it was what she felt very strongly.

Kara continued to stroke at her throat, her chin her lips. “I promise it won't look like a beard. You'll look pretty and sexy.” Emma couldn't resist the passion she saw in Kara's eyes at these moments and felt her resistance dissolving.

“Were you planning to do it today?” Holly asked.

Kara smiled mischievously. “Emma isn't ready yet. And to be honest, I haven't finalised the designs. So let's say next Tuesday, you had some free time in the evening, didn't you. Emma will be ready for her first face tattoo then. Won't she?”

Emma's breath became heavy and laboured as she felt Kara's will surround her. “Yes Miss.” She loved to feel Kara exerting control, loved Kara more than ever when she was firm like this, despite her terror of her face being marked forever.

“And once that's done I want Holly to work up the back of your neck and up here.” Kara's nails tickled the shaved scalp up the sides of Emma's head. Your little ears are going to get some colour too. That mohawk is going to get thinner and thinner as the tattoos spread up the sides, honey. You'll be bald eventually. You don't mind, do you?”

Emma's vision darkened and spots swarmed before her eyes. “Bald, forever?” she gasped.

“Forever! Tattoos instead of hair on your scalp.” Emma thought she might faint, but suddenly realised that the sensation taking possession of her body was an orgasm.

Two hours later Emma stood regarding her body as she stood between two mirrors. A large area of her back had been coloured, flickering pastel colours on her flanks lying either side of a more definite pattern which covered her spine and linked to the dark colours which had been tattooed over her pelvis. Her torso was now almost completely tattooed, with only her belly still showing pale, uncoloured skin. She felt breathless as she surveyed the changes she'd allowed to happen to her body. She still sometimes imagined herself as she'd been when she met Kara, shy, long brown hair, “normal”. Was she still that quiet girl somewhere inside? On the outside she could never return to how she had been. She'd burnt her boats long ago. She smiled at her image and felt a tingle as she exposed her gold teeth. She thanked Holly and hugged Kara.

“Can I go and see Esther? I haven't seen her since I got my tongue done.” She'd only been allowed to communicate with her friend by e-mail and suspected their separation was being enforced by Leah and Kara.

“Sure, she should be on her lunch now. Let's go and find her.”

Esther was in the staff office sipping soup when they entered. Emma was surprised to see that she was no longer bald. A week's growth of hair covered her scalp. Because her hair was so coarse and dark the stubble almost prevented her scalp from showing through, a dark cap of black covering her head. Emma squealed excitedly to see her friend and rubbed at the bristles. “Wow, you've got such long hair!”

“Hi, Emma! I didn't know you were here.” Esther's speech was worse than Emma's. In response to Emma's look of puzzlement Esther tentatively poked her tongue past her lips, except that two pink points of flesh protruded.

“Ooh! You got a split tongue too? When did it happen?”

“A couple of days after you. Leah was so taken with the idea that I couldn't resist volunteering. Healing is a bitch though.” She pulled an exaggeratedly sad face, and Emma nodded sympathetically. “We'll both be ok in a week or two. How's yours healing?”

Emma parted her lips and extended her tongue slightly, the tightness of the healing wound preventing her from being able to reach much past her lips. “Feels really tight,” she said, frowning. Esther peered intently.

“Those stitches need to come out. You'll be much more comfortable. Even solid foods, maybe. Want me to take them out for you now?”

Emma glanced nervously at Kara. “I don't know, wouldn't it be best to go back to the dentist?”

“I can do this, honey. I've taken out hundreds of stitches. It'll only take a minute and you'll be amazed at how much better it feels.”

Emma felt a fear of allowing Esther to remove the stitches; she was sure it was too soon, that the wound would open up as soon as the sutures came out. Or was she merely procrastinating? She looked into Esther's calm, dark eyes and suddenly was overcome by remorse for not trusting her. She nodded meekly. “Sorry. Of course you can take them out.” There was no one she trusted more than Esther, not even Kara.

Esther was insistent that she didn't want to continue with her lunch and immediately led Emma and Kara into her immaculate studio. Emma settled back into a chair, wincing at the tenderness of the newly tattooed skin on her spine. Esther scrubbed her hands and put on a pair of sterile surgical gloves. “It's going to sting when these come out, Emma. Sorry, that's unavoidable. I'll try to be as gentle as I can.” Emma pressed her head back against the rest and opened her mouth as wide as she could. Esther reached in with a pair of fine tipped forceps. There was a little discomfort as she pulled on the first suture, then the tension was released as the scissors snipped through the thread. As Esther pulled the knot free there was a sharp sting in Emma's tongue. “OK?” Esther asked. Emma nodded and tried to smile, which was difficult with her mouth wide open. She'd endured far worse. Esther immediately carried on, snipping the stitches in rapid succession. As she worked backward toward the base of the incision the pain became worse and Emma found an involuntary reflex caused her nose to run and her eyes to water. Esther smiled. “That's all of them.”

“Emma, are you crying?” Kara teased.

“Of course she isn't, don't be mean!” Esther was keen to defend her friend. “Just wait till you feel what it's like. Your eyes will water too.”

Emma remained silent, flexing her tongue. There was some residual stinging from the removal of the sutures but she could immediately feel that she'd regained a lot of movement. “Oh, oh!” she gasped. “That feels so much better. Thank you, Esther.”

Kara interrupted her. “Esther, have you got a bit of time left before your next client? Leah wants to see you in the salon.” A few minutes later a nervous Esther sat caped in Leah's chair as Emma and Kara looked on. Leah massaged conditioner into Esther's buzzcut and picked up a straight razor.

“Ooh, is she going bald again?” Kara asked excitedly.

Leah dragged the blade along the hairline at the top of Esther's forehead. “No, I'm going to let her have a little hair, but I wanted to try a nice butch look on her. She hates being bald, don't you my love? When I let you have some hair it gives me something to threaten you with. If you're naughty I can shave you again.”

A little embarrassed smile played over Esther's lips and her cheeks coloured. Emma knew how much being treated like this excited her friend; she took a similar pleasure when Kara threatened her.

Leah shaved across Esther's forehead, leaving her hairline as a straight line, very crisp and hard. Then she continued to shave down her temples, until she'd formed sharp pointed sideburns. “Very, very boyish, isn't it?” Kara whispered in Emma's ear. Emma's attention had been riveted by the shaving and even this whisper shocked her out of her trance.

“It is, Miss,” Emma replied, breathlessly. Leah was shaving more of the stubble from her girlfriend's hairline, leaving neatly curved arches over her ears. “It looks very sexy though,” Emma mused.

Leah made Esther bow her head now as she set to work on shaping her nape. A sharp point was carved at the centre, flanked by curves which came high up the sides of Esther's nape, ending half way up her ears. The razor then scraped at Esther's neck, making sure that the skin was completely free of any trace of stubble.

“You should be working in a barbershop with razor skills like that,” Kara smiled.

Leah wasn't finished. She shaved two fine stripes into the front of Esther's hair, extending back almost two inches. “She looks like a pretty little gangsta boy,” Leah smiled. Esther squirmed as she surveyed her new look. “I'm going to let your eyebrows grow back in so I can shave stripes into them. I think some tanning sessions for you too, I bet your skin goes really dark, doesn't it?”

“It does Miss,” Esther said shyly. She was clearly overwhelmed by the androgynous look that Leah was forcing on her.

“Now Emmie, you get a taxi home and rest up. I need to borrow your girlfriend for a few hours to give her a makeover. You won't recognise her when she gets home.”

Emma looked in surprise at Kara who merely nodded, a slight smile playing over her lips. “You go and get the papers you need to work on. I'll see you later at home.” She gave Emma a kiss on the cheek and pushed her to the door. Emma waved goodbye numbly and complied with the orders.

Emma was exhausted when she got home and tried to rest, but was too anxious to be able to relax. She was extremely nervous about Kara's makeover. She loved her current hairstyle and was worried that Leah would give her something extreme. What if she arrived home with a similar look to Esther's? The idea made her shiver. Esther looked very sexy, but part of the appeal was how unsuited the style was. Esther was warm, gentle, feminine. Emma always remembered her with her thick dark curls and found it difficult to imagine that she'd never be allowed to grow them again. With her harsh new cut she looked very boyish, her femininity stripped away.

Emma went to the bathroom and stripped off. She eased off the cling film which Holly had taped over the new tattoos and surveyed the ink in the mirror. A lot of skin had been coloured in the session, although Kara had suggested that some more patterns would be tattooed over some areas of her flanks. Emma leaned closer to the mirror and played with her hair. She was still uncomfortable with her mohawk (although if she was being honest she couldn't say that any of the haircuts Kara had devised for her had been comfortable). She stroked the sides, which had the slightest growth of soft stubble, savouring the sensation. She parted her lips, which were thickly coated in bright red lipstick, and stared at her gold teeth, then slid out her tongue. She let the two parts cross, left over right, then right over left. It was a completely new feeling and Emma found it tantalising. Her fingers slid down to massage her clit as she practised moving her tongue, awkwardly coming to terms with the new range of movements that the surgery had given her. She felt a joy, despite the tenderness of the healing wound; perhaps fighting against the pain just added to her pleasure.

Emma's play was ended by the sound of the front door closing. She felt her heart racing and rushed to see Kara, hesitating for a moment as she remembered she was naked, then deciding that she couldn't wait a moment longer and would greet her without clothes.

Leah hadn't been exaggerating; Kara was almost unrecognisable. Her hair had been shaved high up the back and sides, almost as high as her crown. The top had been given long black extensions and Leah had oiled it and pulled it back tightly into a long braid. Kara's pale freckled skin was now covered by a layer of fake tan, which, combined with her black hair, gave her a Mediterranean look. It took Emma a moment to realise that she was wearing black contacts. Her eyes had been harshly outlined with a thin strip of eyeliner and she had arched pencil thin brows. “Oh, Miss!” Emma wailed. “What's she done to you?”

“Well that's a lovely greeting!” Kara laughed. “Don't you like?” Emma stuttered and was silenced by Kara's finger (which now bore a long chisel tipped nail) on her lips. “Let me guess, it's just a shock and you'll have to get used to it? That's what you always say.”

Emma blushed. “Something like that, Miss Kara. But it's so harsh! The make-up too.” Emma caressed Kara's tattooed nape, which was now tanned and gleaming. “Did you choose this or was it Leah's idea?”

“Entirely Leah's. I do like it though. Makes me look domme, doesn't it?” Emma nodded.

“I'm not sure about the tan though. I like you pale.”

Kara pinched Emma's left nipple and tugged. “Emma, don't you be mean to me! You love having a girlfriend with a nice tan, don't you?”

Emma squealed. “Yes Miss, I love your tan. Let me kiss you to show how much I approve of your new look.” Emma pressed her lips to Kara's and let her tongue slide into her mouth, something which had been impossible for her since her tongue had been split. She awkwardly let her tongue scissor over Kara's, one half above and one below. She moved it from side to side and Kara gurgled with evident surprise and delight. The tip of Kara's tongue burrowed into the cleft where it was still most painful, but Emma could endure the stinging, enjoy it even. This moment made all the pain and suffering of the surgery worthwhile, and Emma felt a bliss inside as she realised how much more pleasure her tongue would bring when she was more practised in its movement. The kiss seemed to last for hours.

“Ooh... You've been practising,” Kara smiled. “That was beautiful Emmie. I'm so glad you got your tongue split.”

“Oh, Miss, are you blushing? It's hard to tell under all that tan.”

“Emmie, stop being cheeky or I'll tan your backside!” She pulled Emma tightly to her and nibbled gently at the point of her right ear. “You're so wonderful and I love you so much. My soul mate.” “I still can't believe we met. Everything in my life has changed and I'm the luckiest girl in the world. I never want to be apart from you. I love you.”

“How do you like the idea of spending this weekend with Leah and Esther? The new supplies have arrived and Leah wants to try them out. On you.”

“This weekend?” Kara nodded. “And I suppose I have a choice, don't I?”

Kara giggled. “Of course you don't, Emmie. But even if you did you'd just say yes to everything, wouldn't you?”

Emma smiled. “You know I can't resist you, and I love spending time with Esther. Apart from you she's my best friend in the whole world. And Leah is... well, she's Leah. I'm already tingling with anticipation. I know you'll have all sorts of tortures for me, but I know I'll have a weekend I'll remember for a long time.”

“I'm glad you said yes, because I'd already agreed on your behalf. And you're booked in for your lips tattoos with Holly next week.”

Emma was aware of her breathing as she nodded her agreement. Her transformation was entering a new phase and she was unsure she was ready.

--------

“Take off your clothes and drop them in a pile beside you.”

Emma did as Leah instructed her. She was sure that this weekend would hold greater challenges and humiliations than this. She stood naked before Kara and Leah, who sat on a sofa, Esther, her skin noticeably tanned, kneeling at their side. There was a long silence and Emma felt something was amiss. It was Leah who finally spoke.

“I've invited Kara to come and live here with me. And she accepted. I don't know how she put up with that awful little room for so long. So..? Anything to say?”

Emma felt like she'd been thrust from a cliff. Kara going to live with Leah seemed unthinkable. She felt her eyes start to fill with tears.

“Of course, you'll be living here with me,” Kara added, glaring at Leah. “With us.”

“Naturally. I do expect you to bring your belongings, Kara. Clothes, records, slave, those types of thing. If you live here though there will be a hierarchy. I'm at the apex, then Kara, who will almost be my equal, then Esther and at the very bottom will be Emmie. Can you live with that?”

Emma nodded. “Yes Miss Leah,” she said. The shock hadn't quite subsided and she still felt traumatised. Kara had given her no indication that she was even considering this. “When will I be moving in?”

“You already have,” Kara replied. “There'll be a few new rules to comply with, but you'll find them out over the next day or two. For tonight we've arranged some special treats for you. As Leah said, Esther is above you in the hierarchy and we're going to let her do some things with you that she's dreamed about for a long time.” Emma smiled nervously. Was this a joke? She couldn't imagine being dominated by Esther who was always so gentle and kind.

“I'm sure you have a lot of questions, don't you Emma? Unfortunately, I'm not in the mood to answer any, so I'm going to gag you. Esther, be a sweetie and hold her still.”

Emma wanted to assure Leah that she wouldn't resist but thought it was probably wise to remain silent. Esther came behind her and gripped her wrists firmly. Emma felt a wave of excitement. “Open your mouth and let me see your teeth,” she whispered, her lips caressing Emma's ear, the warmth of her breath palpable. Leah opened a box and took out a metal device, the oxidation on the dull surface indicating considerable age. Emma stared at it, trying to work out its function. Two thin curving tubes, hinged together. The tubes were sculpted to fit inside Emma's teeth and once Leah had inserted them she nodded to Esther, who prised them apart. There was a clicking as the ratchets at the hinges opened up. “Wider,” Leah said calmly. Emma was soon gagging as the spreader held her jaws terribly wide, the rough metal grating unpleasantly against her gold capped teeth. Leah placed her lips to her open mouth and slipped her tongue in, probing firmly at the division in Emma's tongue. She groaned at the sensations and felt her tongue reflexively flicker up and down against Leah's tongue.

“Very nice. Kara was right,” Leah grinned. “Now it's time for you to test the new furniture.” Emma followed Leah and Kara to an upstairs room, her wrists pinioned at all times by Esther. In the centre of a room was a bed of sorts: it consisted of a padded back rest with a skeletal arrangement of tubing to support the limbs and head. Every part of the bed was articulated to allow the body of the occupant to be manipulated into any imaginable position. Emma looked at it in confusion, not even sure how she should climb into it. Kara helped her to clamber onto the semi-reclined back rest and shuffle her body into place. Her head rested against a U-shaped headrest which was minimally padded and dug into her nape. She felt Leah and Esther lift her limbs. Her arms rested, palm up, on narrow boards; leather straps were buckled in place to prevent movement. Her ankles were held in stirrups and her ability to move was further restricted by tight belts around her waist and ribs. Esther made a check that all the straps were secure and nodded to Leah. A motor whirred and Emma felt the bed rise into the air.

“Very good,” Leah smiled. “I can have you just where I want you now.” She demonstrated by altering the angle of the table, first bringing Emma to sit upright, then reclining her into a flat position. The joints moved smoothly and Leah was able to change the position with little effort. Now that the bed was locked in a horizontal plane Kara moved the stirrups forward and outward, making Emma feel very exposed.

“Do you know what this is?” Leah held an antique surgical steel implement, shaped like a duck's bill, in front of Emma's face. She nodded anxiously, sure that it was some sort of speculum. “Clever girl!” Leah smiled. “I wonder if you know which orifice it's for? I can see you want to know, don't you? My lovely assistant will help you to find out very soon.”

Emma was left alone as she heard her friends washing at a sink which was positioned out of her sight line. She felt her fear increasing as she imagined the painful examination which Leah would undoubtedly make her endure. She heard them approaching (should she now regard them all as her girlfriends?) and saw that all were now wearing surgical masks and gloves. Leah wasted no time, slipping her hand between Emma's buttocks and smearing her with a liberal amount of lubricant. “Holly did a great job, didn't she? You're tattooed right into here!” Her fingers rubbed at Emma's exposed anus, which had been tattooed a deep violet. “I bet that was unpleasant, you poor little thing. This won't be anything like as bad. Might feel a little cold though.” Emma felt her muscles twitch defensively as the cold jaws of the speculum touched her flesh. “Just relax and it won't hurt nearly so much,” Leah chided. Try as she might, Emma couldn't relax and felt little spasms flicker through her muscles. Leah placed the jaws to her anus and prodded them firmly in. Emma made a breathy squeal as she felt herself violated. Her discomfort increased dramatically as the jaws opened and forced her sphincter to gape. A slippery gloved finger slid inside.

“You like that don't you?” Emma trembled and started to sob, drool spilling from her gagged mouth. “Esther, try to cheer her up,” Leah instructed. Esther bent forward and extended her tongue into Emma's mouth. The feeling as their split tongues met was alien and exciting for Emma. Esther was no more expert than she in controlling the movements of her newly modified tongue, but the clumsiness just seemed to add to the pleasure. The sensory information seemed confused and Emma felt like there were four tongues sliding around in her mouth. It was such an alluring feeling that for a moment she was able to forget the pain that Leah was inflicting.

Emma felt the speculum close and slide out, sighing with relief. “That's enough, you two, break it up,” Leah said. Esther stood back, grinning; she'd obviously enjoyed the sensations of kissing as much as Emma. Leah was opening another package. “I've discovered a supplier of vintage medical supplies and my little girlfriend, Kara, was keen to place a lot of orders. You're going to try out all of the purchases tonight. This is the next one.” A black Bakelite mask, edged with padded leather was held up before Emma's face. A short metal tube extended upward, ending in a funnel-like cone which was covered with a mesh. Leah pressed it over Emma's face, covering her nose and mouth.

“It fits you well, even with the jaw spreader in place.” Emma felt claustrophobic and panicky. “Esther thinks that you've been neglecting to get enough piercings during the time you've been getting all your new mods. I'm going to let her put some of that right tonight. You won't feel a thing though, because you'll be etherised.” Leah clipped a thick pad of gauze over the mesh, covering it completely. Emma looked up pleadingly at Esther. Leah laughed. “Don't expect her to have pity on you. It's Esther who most wants this. Don't worry though, Emmie, you're in safe hands. And the ether is very pleasant, it's like being drunk. Although the hangover is a bit rough.”

Emma heard a clink and saw that Esther was decanting some of the ether from a huge glass bottle into a beaker. “We just soak the pad and you breathe in the fumes. Then you go all giggly and sleepy.” Leah took the beaker and trickled the liquid onto the pad. Emma could smell the sweet odour already. She held her breath. “Just slow even breaths, Emmie. Oh, I forgot to mention! I'm going to give you a haircut while you sleep.”

Emma had drawn her first breath of the fumes and immediately felt an effect. She felt light headed; a sort of coldness spread through her body, as if it had become distant and weakly controlled by her consciousness. She tried to beg Leah to be merciful with her hair but the gag and mask prevented any meaningful speech. Another breath and she felt the intoxication spread. The next inspiration of fumes made her lose consciousness.

The loss of awareness seemed to last for only a moment. Emma was sitting almost upright and tried to lift her head, but her neck felt like it was made of soft rubber; her head slumped forward, lolling against her chest. She was grateful when somebody lifted it back against the headrest. She laughed uncontrollably although she felt quite calm. Her body seemed to be pleasingly cold and tingly.

“Does it hurt?” Kara said.

“Does what hurt?” Emma attempted to say but only an incoherent slur of sound emerged.

“See Kara, I told you she'd be fine,” Leah smiled. “Would you like me to kiss it better?” Leah didn't wait for an answer and put her lips to Emma's. Her brain wiring still seemed to be making random connections and the sensations of the kiss were oddly fragmented but nonetheless beautiful. She moaned ecstatically and writhed against the straps, but her body was held firmly in place.

Emma continued to smile dreamily as Leah moved away from her. She found it slightly odd that her three friends were staring at her while she was bound in the bed but was still sufficiently confused that she was unable to remember how she had got into this situation. Kara offered her a glass of water which she sipped through a straw with difficulty: her lips and tongue seemed unresponsive to her will.

Gradually the intoxication began to wear off and Emma felt a diffuse pain in her face, as well as an incipient headache. With the pain came a return of memory and Emma felt a wave of dread as she remembered that she'd been modified during her period of unconsciousness. She requested a painkiller, which Esther supplied immediately, swallowed it with some difficulty, then asked what had been done to her. Even as she asked she realised that her tongue had been pierced and that was why she was having such problems articulating her words.

As Esther fetched a mirror, Leah cradled her head and stroked at the top. Emma groaned as she felt short hair, very short hair, clippered hair where she'd formerly had a fringe which reached almost to her eyes. “Oh, you buzzed me,” she said, a panic growing inside. She peered into the mirror and saw that Leah had created a strange style for her. She'd shaved even more hair from the sides, leaving only a two inch wide mohawk. The front was clippered very close, a number two buzz, and it was Emma's natural dark shade. Leah had graduated the hair so that it got increasingly longer toward her crown, and the hair there was fixed in stiff multicoloured spikes, around three inches long. Leah stroked her fingers up Emma's nape to demonstrate that she didn't have any hair at all below her crown: it was shaved perfectly smooth. Emma hated the new cut; it looked like the crest of some strange bird, and the shaved sides more than ever drew attention to her modified ears, which jutted out from her head since Esther had pointed them.

Emma had more than a new hairstyle to get used to. The most obvious piercing was a heavy titanium ring which dangled from her septum, the bead in the centre almost touching the new medusa in her upper lip. Her lip ring had been removed and the hole widened by an incision, an ebony plug now filling the hole. It was flanked by a stud in either side of her lower lip. When she poked her tongue out Emma could see that it had been adorned with a studded bar in each part. Her cheeks had also been pierced, gleaming metallic points now gracing her dimples.

Esther smiled guiltily at Emma, clearly seeking forgiveness for having transformed her without consent. Emma managed a weak smile, all that she could manage with her wounded mouth. “Is there anything lower down?” she lisped.

“See, I told you she wanted more genital piercings!” Leah crowed. “That can wait till next time, Emmie. We've got a lot more ether to get through.”

After being released from the bed the four friends returned to the dining room where they ate a take-away, at least all but Emma. Esther was particularly happy, as it was the first proper meal she'd been able to eat since her tongue surgery. Emma's piercings prevented her from being able to manage any food, and besides, she felt a little nausea as a side effect of the ether. She could only sip water.

“I suppose we have to decide sleeping arrangements,” Leah announced as the conversation became more fragmentary, tiredness overtaking the group. “I think Esther and Kara should have the back bedroom and Emma and I in the front.” Everyone agreed and within minutes Kara and Esther had said goodnight and taken their leave.

Leah snuggled up closer to Emma on the sofa, and kissed her tenderly on the cheek. “I could see disappointment in your eyes when you heard you were sleeping with me tonight. I know Kara is your love and I know how much you like Esther, but I think it's time we got to know each other better.” She kissed Emma gently on her neck. “I do have a caring side and I care about you very much. I'm so pleased that you and Kara are going to be sharing my life now.”

Emma felt a warmth flush her body as Leah kissed her so protectively, lovingly. “I hope you can feel something more than fear of me, Emmie.”

“Oh, I always had more than fear of you, Miss Leah,” Emma smiled. “You're very beautiful, and you always surprise me. You've never just been a monster to me.” She had to admit to herself though that the gentle caring Leah she was seeing tonight was unexpected. “You can be a bit scary though,” Emma giggled.

“You wouldn't want me any other way, would you? Do you like your new hair?”

Emma's smile faded. “It's a bit of a shock. I'm sure I'll like it once I'm used to it.”

“Kara tells me that's what you say when you hate something.”

Emma squirmed nervously. “Well... It's a bit too bald for me. And the bit sticking up at the crown looks like a cockatoo.”

“You're a very sexy little cockatoo. Anyway, Kara wanted to clear off some scalp for your tattoos. You're seeing Holly again in a few days, aren't you?” Emma winced as she was reminded. “What are you getting done?”

“My throat, chin and lips.” Emma found herself growing fearful just to say it; putting it into words made her feel like she'd accepted the changes, made them inevitable. Leah placed her lips on Emma's throat and started to cover it in kisses, working up over her chin and ending with a passionate kiss on Emma's newly pierced, and very tender, lips. Emma was moaning with pleasure when their lips finally parted.

“I can't believe you're the same girl that Kara brought in to see me. The little shy girl with long hair and glasses.”

Emma shuddered as she remembered that day. “You've changed too. You looked very sophisticated and respectable.” She let her eyes roam over Leah's body, which Holly had now decorated extensively with dark, gothic tattoos. The latest addition had been an eye and pyramid on her nape; Leah had kept her head shaved entirely since the day when Emma had razored away her mohawk.

“Kara and I used to fantasise about what we'd like to do with a girl to make her into our dream. I'd never have believed that day you were the girl to make Kara's dreams come true, but you've surprised me. You've no idea how happy you've made her. She's just blossomed since the two of you got together.” Emma felt herself blush with pride.

“I do know how happy she is, because she's made me just as happy.”

Leah smiled and looked into Emma's eyes for a long time. “What I love is that you've never learnt to accept all the changes that Kara wants. But you do it anyway, and you get so excited by giving in to her desires.” Emma nodded; Leah understood her well.

“And you're so lucky too. Esther is the loveliest girl. She'd do anything for you.”

“We all have each other now. Kara hardly took part tonight because I wanted her to accept that you're not exclusively hers any more. Your hair is mine now. And so is Kara's. And obviously Esther's. In fact, I make all the decisions about hair in this house now.”

“So Kara has to submit to you with her hair?” Emma was a little shocked by the idea, but it also made her feel a little throb of arousal.

“Yes, and Kara will have first say about everyone's tattoos. Obviously tattoos are permanent so there'll be a little more negotiation around them. Except for you of course, you just accept what she decides.”

Emma stared at herself in the bathroom mirror. She knew that Kara would be getting impatient but she needed a little time to compose herself. This would be the last time she'd see her face free of tattoos and she wanted to imprint it on her memory. She was sick with anxiety and still had no idea what Kara and Holly had in mind. At moments like this she still felt a desire to flee; she thought about getting on a plane to somewhere she'd never been, starting a new life, preserving what remained of her self-image. But that would mean leaving Kara and she couldn't do that. Besides, she knew that a part of her was almost exploding with desire at this latest and most extreme submission to the will of the woman she loved so dearly.

She'd spent her day in work completely free of make-up, which Emma found very difficult now. Her face seemed a blank without it, her features dominated by the heavy glasses and black jewellery which Esther had provided for her numerous piercings. Although the swelling from the latest additions had subsided the wounds were still raw and tender. She rubbed at her hair: Leah had dyed it black a couple of days earlier. A little stripe of soft stubble through the front and a spiky tuft at the crown was all that was allowed her now, the rest of her scalp smoothly shaved. Leah shaved her each day, each day making the sensations more seductive. A little glow of embarrassment coloured Emma's cheeks as she recalled how she'd lost control this morning as her nape was stripped of stubble. She had no idea how Leah could work this enchantment over her; she seemed to know the precise points on Emma's scalp where the purest pleasure would fill her consciousness. She still dreamed about being allowed to grow her hair long again, to feel soft waves falling over her shoulders again, but even in these fantasies she still allowed herself the pleasure of a nape shaved smooth each day by Leah.

“It's time”, Emma thought. “Time to lie back and allow my face to be changed forever and hope I can live with it and don't go mad.” She walked to the door and took a last look in the mirror before she stepped out. She entered Holly's studio to a little cheer. It was a smallish room and appeared quite crowded with four people present: Kara, Leah and Esther in addition to the tattooist. The enthusiasm of her girlfriends did nothing to relieve her nerves, only adding to her anxiety. “Let's just get on,” Emma said modestly.

As soon as she reclined in the chair Esther removed her lip piercings, her delicate fingers covered by sterile surgical gloves. “I'm going to give you some lip filler injections before Holly does her bit.” Emma looked at her in shock. Kara hadn't mentioned this. She remembered how agonising the injections had been when the dentist had previously done her lips. Her lips had gradually lost much of the added volume since then, to Emma's relief. Holly swabbed at Emma's mouth as Esther turned her back and fiddled with what Emma knew to be a syringe. Esther leaned over her, keeping the needle out of her sight line.

“Just relax honey. It'll sting but I know how brave you are.” Emma wasn't allowed to protest; already the needle pressed into her flesh, the fine needle causing a steely ache. Emma closed her eyes and tried to stay calm. The pain was bearable. Then she felt a pressure as the injection began, a burning, swelling sensation immediately passing through her lips. She suppressed a grunt of agony. She was aware of how numerous injections would be made to sculpt her lips, aware that Kara would have told Emma to make them extreme. Would they be even fuller and more bulbous than previously? The idea terrified Emma.

Concerns about how her looks would be altered were soon wiped from Emma's mind as the pain increased. Each injection was worse than the last and the burning filled Emma's perceptions. She tried to hide from the agony but it proved impossible. She allowed the pain to fill her mind and to explore the detail of the effect on her body; giving in to the pain brought a rush and Emma felt everything become distant. She'd reached her state of bliss, suddenly, unexpectedly. Everything seemed suspended: time, pain, sensation, consciousness, being. When she heard voices calling her back there was a confusion as she tried to recall not just where she was but what she was.

“OK, hon?” Kara said, smiling down at Emma. She nodded, returning the smile despite the throb of pain that engulfed her lips. “Looks so cool.” Kara looked ecstatic. “I'm going to get some pics but you can wait till Holly's done before you get to see.”

As the photos were recorded Holly moved into position. Emma still felt some grogginess, confusion and looked into the lens with a dazed half-smile. She was barely aware of Holly's instructions, complying with everything she was told slowly and automatically. Her head was tipped back as far as she could manage, a position that part of her knew would soon be uncomfortable but for now felt good. A buzzing sound grew louder and the first sting of the needle touched the front of Emma's neck, tugging her back into a full awareness of her surroundings. She made a soft groan to relieve her discomfort; not only did the needle sting, but the pressure that Holly exerted on her throat made her feel like she was going to choke. Kara moved to sit behind her and cradled her head, rubbing at the soft pelt of short hairs on the front of her head. “You're such a brave little kitten for me. How can I ever thank you for what you're doing.” Emma felt overwhelmed, but was hushed by Holly when she tried to express her love for Kara.

“I'm sorry Emma, you can't talk while I'm working on your neck. It makes the muscles move under the skin and I'll mess up.” Emma could only look up into Kara's eyes, hoping her gaze would convey her emotions more eloquently than any words. She seemed to succeed, and Kara bent forward to kiss her shaved skull. Emma was entranced by the mixture of ecstasy and pain, and her thoughts whirled frantically, exhilaratingly. She never wanted this moment to end.

The tattooing was the most gruelling that Emma had had to endure. The work on her throat seemed to endure for hours, the aching growing with each minute. Once that was completed Emma felt the needle start to burn at her chin. Holly tugged at her lower lip to tauten the skin, but any pressure on her swollen lip was agonising. There was nothing of the acute pain that had made Emma zone out when her lips were being filled and now she just had to endure an eternity of dull aches and burning needles. There was also the realisation that she now had a tattooed face, and that she would never be able to conceal it. Kara had chosen to keep her arms and legs (other than some patterning at the very tops of her thighs) free of tattoos so far, and it seemed incongruous to Emma that a girl with ink free arms should have a facial tattoo, but that was her situation.

Holly seemed intent on completing the work without a break; Emma knew her well enough to know that she hated pauses, that once she was concentrating on a job she could go on for hours without rest. The only respite from the relentless inking that Emma got was when there was a change of needle. Emma felt tears in her eyes as the tattooed area spread to cover her chin, an area as wide as her mouth now pigmented.

Emma felt the needle start to work at her lips, but her relief that she was into the final part of the tattooing for the day was tempered by the pain she experienced. Her lips were so tender that it felt like Holly was working the ink into an open wound. Emma tried to focus her attention on Kara's affections but soon realised that tears were rolling down her cheeks. She waved her hand desperately to indicate to Holly that she could endure no more.

“Ooooh, it's so painful,” Emma groaned, her speech clouded by her swollen lips. “I'm sorry, I just can't take it.”

Holly was sympathetic. “I never liked the idea of working on your lips before they'd healed from the filler. You've got a very high pain threshold so if it's too much for you it must be bad.”

A plan was formulated: Emma would take an analgesic and a topical anaesthetic cream would be applied to her lips. It had to stay on for half an hour and Emma rested on a bed while it numbed her pain. She fell asleep almost immediately, exhausted by the intensity of the experience she'd endured. When she was woken, she felt confused, and unable to fully concentrate on what was going on. Holly was eager to complete her task and Emma was soon sitting up as the needle once again jabbed pigment into her skin. The pain was much less insistent and Emma was able to endure it, but felt cross at herself for her weakness; she felt muddled and her concentration was noticeably impaired. She knew her memories of this moment would be clouded by the drugs she'd taken and that frustrated her. However, as the buzzing continued, Emma started to appreciate the high that the analgesic had given, and Kara's stroking became tantalising, her long nails rubbing alternately at her shaved scalp, then at the soft short hair on top of her head. She looked up at her love, still surprised every time she saw Kara's latest look: tanned, black lipstick, dark contact lenses, black hair slicked into a braid above her smoothly shaved back and sides, her scalp oiled and gleaming. This image was all Leah's doing and that idea intrigued Emma. She thought back to her first meeting with Leah, and how Kara and she had been subject to Leah's skills. She felt a desire for both of them to be sat side by side, awaiting a transformation from Leah, totally in her control.

Emma finally looked into a mirror. Her lips looked enormous, and the perimeter was now strongly outlined in a deep purple-blue, an exaggerated Cupid's bow decorating her top lip. Small, irregular dots of colour spread toward the inside of her lips which had been coloured with an orange shade. At the centre of her lower lip a spike of dark pigment led down into a roundel of green which surrounded the wide piercing where she wore her plug. A dark line of tiny arabesques was marked vertically below this, all the way to her chin. The skin either side was coloured with mottled stripes of pale pink and lemon yellow, much subtler than the other tattooing. Only the areas around the lower lip's piercings were more markedly inked, small deep red circles surrounding the holes.

As she lifted her head, Emma could see that her throat had been coloured very boldly with a fluted pattern in cool shades of blue and green with some violet highlights. The design fanned out to fill the entire area below her jaw. She glanced at the others to see their reactions: all looked delighted and complimented Emma on how good her new tattoos looked. Kara asked Esther to fit in her piercings again. There was a lot of pain as the plug was inserted, pressing against Emma's swollen lips. The piercings at either side were fitted with new jewellery, small gold mounts holding green stones which gleamed brightly against the crimson of Emma's skin.

“Holly's going to be working the tattoo convention this weekend,” Kara said. “I think I should take you along to show you off. Maybe get a bit more work done too.” Emma gasped at the idea of the tattoo spreading over more of her face. “Don't worry, I just meant the little blank spot on your tummy,” Kara reassured her. “No more work on your face until Miss Jeffries has done your nose and eyes.” Emma nodded gratefully.

“But,” Leah added, “on that subject. I've agreed to contribute to the Emmie plastic surgery fund, so we can pack you off to the clinic as soon as. Unfortunately, she's a real bureaucrat and insists on going through tedious counselling sessions. Medical ethics or something. You're booked in for your first next week.”

“So I'll be getting my face done?” Emma felt dizzy as she imagined what this would entail. So much pain and suffering. And new features. Her face would be unrecognisable.

“We all agreed that this is best for you, Emmie,” Kara said, recognising her anxiety. “It's the logical next stage. You'll be so sexy and perfect. Miss Jeffries is the best.”

On the morning of the convention Emma was woken at five o'clock by Kara, who said there was a lot to do before they set off. In addition to modelling for Holly, Emma was going to be helping to set up the stand and would be providing publicity for the business and networking with suppliers. First though, she had to let Leah make her hair look presentable and was made to sit in the private salon which had been installed in a spare bedroom. An exhausted looking Leah stumbled in, muttering bad-temperedly about being forced out of bed at an inexcusable hour and demanding from Esther a strong coffee. While she awaited her caffeine fix she roughly lathered Emma's scalp.

“How would you like this to be the last shave for a while?” she asked, suddenly calmer, friendly.

Emma had seen a different side to Leah since moving in with her, but was still wary; she knew Leah had a cruel streak that was never going to go away. She wondered if this question wasn't secretly barbed, acceptance of the offer coming at the price of being caught in some devious trap. “Really?” was the only response a guarded Emma could think of.

“Really. Your scalp tattoos are on hold until surgery completes so I thought it might be nice to let some hair grow back and experiment with new looks. Your current look doesn't exactly give styling options, does it?”

Emma smiled at her with delight. “I'd love it, even if it is only temporary. But I must admit I'll miss how you shave me. You do have a special way, Miss Leah.”

“I'll just have to make this morning extra special, won't I?” She twisted the strands of longer hair at Emma's crown around the little finger of her left hand and pulled Emma's head forward so that her nape was exposed. “I've literally got you wrapped around my little finger, haven't I?”

Emma giggled. “Literally and figuratively. My hair is yours, Miss Leah.”

“Such obedience is very gratifying. I'm going to let you touch yourself as I shave you, but if you move I'll give in to Kara's mad idea to have your hair permanently removed.” The razor started to slide up Emma's neck, teasingly, barely touching her skin.

“She really wants that?” Emma grunted, her bowed head and swollen lips making speech difficult.

“She's considered it. She thinks once your scalp is tattooed it might be best if you never have hair. Of course, I don't see it that way. Even if you're bald we can still have the pleasure of shaving you, and I think some hair could be allowed to grow while keeping some of the tattoos exposed.”

“Thank you Miss,” a relieved Emma said. This must have been a first, Leah's cautious approach moderating Kara's ideas.

The razor continued its work, meticulously removing the tiny hairs which had sprung up. Leah went over certain spots two, three, four times, the areas where Emma most enjoyed the sensation. She shivered and moaned, keeping her body tense to avoid movement. Her right index finger, equipped with a long, talon-like red nail, stroked at her clitoris, the long nail delighting her.

Leah drew Emma's head up and made her regard herself in the large mirror. The razor stroked away the thick layer of white foam from Emma's temple. As she finished shaving the sides, Leah placed Emma's glasses on her nose, and hooked the arms behind her ears. “Want to watch?” she asked as she tenderly shaved away the last of Emma's soft stubble.

“What am I watching?” Emma asked. What she was actually watching was how her face was now completely dominated by her lips and the tattoos and piercings that covered and surrounded them. Everyone would stare at her now.

Leah combed through the longer tuft at the crown. “I'm going to add a bit of colour through this. The black looks so dowdy. You're a colourful girl now.” White, creamy bleach was worked through the hair, but not down to the roots. Then Leah picked up her clippers. She stroked at the band of hair that passed along the centre of Emma's head. “Remember our first meeting. I thought we could revive some memories of that, when I gave you hair tattoos up the sides.” The edge of the blades ploughed through the dark short hair and Emma saw a pale curve of scalp being exposed. She remembered her first meeting with Leah very clearly, remembered how much scalp the tattoos had exposed. “I think this will be a very appropriate look for a tattoo convention, Emmie,” Leah muttered absent-mindedly, her attention consumed by her work. More tiny clumps of black fluff rolled down Emma's scalp as Leah worked up the design.

“Do sit still now, Emmie, or you'll mess up my clipper work. If I shave this off you'll just be left with a tuft on your crown over a bald head, like the pinheads in that film Kara likes so much.”

“Freaks,” Emma muttered glumly.

“Yes, that's the one. You'd have looked just the part in that!”

Emma looked at the image in the mirror. No one looked as daring as her in that film. It should have appalled her (maybe it did a little) but it excited her too.

“A little sexy freak, aren't you?” Leah said, smiling at her in the mirror.

Her hair was finished with razor and scissors. She dipped her head to see what Leah had done: it looked like a strip of dark lace had been glued down her scalp. “Wow, you did such an intricate pattern. I can't believe how neat it all looks when you work freehand.”

“That's because I'm an artist, Emmie.” Leah beamed, always enjoying compliments. “Now let's get that bleach out an put in some colour.”

By the time she joined Kara and Esther for breakfast, Emma had two tiny crimped bunches jutting stiffly up from her crown, one sea green, one peacock blue. Kara and Esther both fussed around her and praised Leah for her skills. Kara stroked Emma's bald nape and gave her the first kiss of the day. Her lips were ultra-sensitive; Kara pressed hers firmly against them and slid her tongue in. Emma felt herself grow weak as the tongue stud clicked from side to side against her gold teeth. She let the tips of her tongue splay out so that Kara's tongue flicked against one, then the other. Emma felt delirious.

Kara ended the kiss all too soon but the flush in her cheeks told Emma that the delight was mutual. They sat together on a bench at the breakfast table. Emma relished her food more than ever; her recent modifications had frequently limited her ability to eat solid foods and was delighted that everything was now healing well.

The four friends ate a good breakfast and then prepared for their journey to the conference. Emma was dressed in jeans and a t-shirt with the shop logo printed front and back. Kara told her that she'd dress her and fix her make-up once she'd got the stall set up.

The journey went without incident and soon they were inside the large conference hall at a south coast town. It took a few minutes to find the allotted space, but when they did they saw Holly was already present, her hair set in rollers. She looked stressed and complained about the cleanliness of the stall; she gave everyone tasks to ensure hygiene would be beyond criticism.

By the time that all tasks had been completed to Holly's satisfaction there was barely an hour left until the centre opened to the public. Kara instructed Emma to sit and applied her make-up, while a few feet away Leah saw to Holly's hair. “You can take off your glasses. Contact lenses today for a treat. Emma was delighted as Kara placed pale blue lenses in her eyes.

Kara was diligent as she painted Emma's eyes. “Those lip tattoos do save some time on make-up, Emmie. All I need to do is put a bit of gloss on.” The time saved on lips went into creating a striking look for Emma's eyes. Her lids were a solid black with angled points jutting up toward temples. The upper edge of the black area was decorated with a narrow stroke of bright red and Emma was given long, spidery false lashes. Kara glanced at her watch. “Oh, doors open in five! You'd better go and get changed in the toilets, there's not much privacy here. She passed Emma a bag and turned to help Leah complete Holly's make-up.

Emma frantically looked for the toilets, then locked herself in a tiny cubicle. She reached into the bag, which seemed virtually empty. There was a skimpy white top which was little more than a bra, a very short red pleated skirt and a pair of lacy silk panties. She put them on as quickly as she could, aware that the doors were about to open. Only as she walked back into the hall did she realise how skimpily she was dressed. She felt very self-conscious by the time she was back at the stand. Holly by now had been transformed into a vision of pin-up perfection, her hair set in gleaming platinum waves and the side of her head freshly shaved so that no stubble would obscure her tattoo.

Leah welcomed Emma back with a kiss. “You look lovely,” she said as she fussed with Emma's little bunches. Holly said she'd give it half an hour or so till a few people have arrived and then start doing some work on you. You can just relax for a bit and meet and greet.”

Emma felt anything but relaxed. She hadn't really thought about how open the stall would be, and how people would be able to watch her being tattooed. She'd been told by Holly that she should be available as a tattoo model pretty much all the time; if she wasn't tattooing visitors to the conference then she'd work on Emma, although she'd had a few slots booked in already so Emma would get some relief. It wasn't just the tattooing making her anxious. She would be the public face for the business today and PR wasn't something that came naturally to Emma. She had, however, promised to meet with some of her suppliers, people she had become friendly with over the phone but had never met face to face. She was sure that that would make the conference more pleasurable.

Visitors started to drift in. Emma was keen to greet anyone who came near the stand and pass them a leaflet advertising their services. She could see curiosity in the eyes of most of the people as they took in her mods. As she finished a discussion with a young couple Holly whispered “It's time I made a start on you, Emma. Come and get comfortable.”

Emma felt her nervousness increase as she settled back on the bed, then felt her stomach being scrubbed. “Do you think you'll completely cover the bare patch over the weekend?” she asked.

“I doubt it. Still got quite a big area and I'm hoping I keep busy with visitors. I thought we'd focus on the mid-line, around your navel especially. Then we can let the design spread outward from there.”

Emma nodded, feeling a little squeamish as she imagined being tattooed in her navel. Kara was now discussing details of the design with Holly, both of them intently studying a drawing. A moment later Holly moved her stool close to Emma and started to tattoo her abdomen. Emma found herself staring up at the hall ceiling as she tried to block out the insistent gnawing pain, then felt Kara take her hand and saw her smiling down at her. When their eyes met, Kara puckered her lips to blow a kiss.

As the tattooing proceeded Emma found herself drifting into a reverie, the lack of sleep making her appreciate this time to relax, despite the burning needle. She was reminded of where she was by a voice to her left.

“Hello there, I'm Lin Parker. Sorry to interrupt you, but I'm doing a piece for New Ink magazine about the conference and a lot of the tattooists have been saying how well regarded your shop is.”

Emma glanced up to look at the woman; late twenties, blonde dreads, old school tattoos. She was obviously addressing Holly, who had stopped her work. “Thank you, Lin, I'm Holly Penfield. It's nice to know people appreciate our work. You should talk to our manager, Emma. She can give you all the information you need.”

“I'm Emma, nice to meet you.” She gave a little wave of greeting. “Come and pull up a chair and we can have a chat.”

“Wow, Emma, that's quite a look you have! Did Holly do all your tattoos?”

Emma blushed at the admiration expressed for her look. “She's very talented. The design was by my girlfriend, Kara. She's very talented too, she's a wonderful painter.”

Kara smiled and kissed Emma. “I'm an apprentice tattooist at the shop too. Holly is teaching me the craft.”

“Is it ok,” Lin asked, “if we get some photographs later of your work? It's nice to find a tattooist doing really original work and I'd like to make quite a feature of your shop in our piece on the convention.” Emma enthusiastically agreed. The publicity would be very good.

“Obviously we do work in every style within the shop. Our main concern is to produce the ideal tattoo for every client,” Emma explained.

“And Holly has created the ideal tattoos for you?”

Emma was speechless and it was Holly who spoke. “I just executed Kara's designs. She's given very detailed instructions and she understands tattooing so she knows what's going to work. But Emma is such a great person to work with. A year ago she didn't have a single tattoo.”

“Wow, quite a transformation!” Lin gasped.

Kara pulled out her phone and flicked through some photos. “This is her about eighteen months ago.”

Emma saw a picture of herself, pre-modification and with long brown hair. “Oh, don't show her that...” she said numbly, already aware that it was too late. She felt a rush of emotion as she thought of how she'd never be that girl again, how she would always attract attention with her appearance now and felt keenly how most people would be shocked and repelled to see her. She realised her eyes were becoming teary and anticipated the usual questions about why she'd decided to transform herself. It was a question she sometimes asked herself but found almost impossible to answer. She found it hard to accept that the only reason was that Kara had desired it, yet she knew that if she hadn't met Kara on that fateful day then, in all likelihood, she would still not have a single tattoo and would still have her long brown hair.

Kara looked into her eyes and seemed to know exactly what she was feeling. “She looks so young there, doesn't she, Lin? A totally different woman now, she's so much more confident. She makes me so happy every moment we're together.”

Emma started to cry, and Holly wailed. “Oh, honey, what are you doing?” She sat up and interrupted the tattooing.

Kara spoke: “What's brought this on, silly? You're going to ruin your make-up!”

“Oh Kara, I love you so much,” Emma whispered. Lin muttered an uncomfortable apology and promised to return later with her photographer. “Oh, I embarrassed her. I find it so hard to talk about myself and my transformation. I hope I haven't upset her. It would be awful if she didn't come back and do the feature.”

Emma needn't have worried. Shortly after noon she got a call from Holly as she was chatting with one of her suppliers; Lin and the photographer were at the stall and wanted to get some images of Emma. She'd already photographed Holly at work on a client and wanted to get some of the team. Emma dashed back across the hall and saw that Holly, Kara, Leah and Esther were lined up, posing for shots. She was introduced to the photographer (a tall auburn haired woman called Helena), who asked Emma to take her place in the centre of the group. The camera clicked numerous times as she tried various arrangements. Finally she seemed happy that she'd got enough material for the magazine piece.

Helena then came to chat to Emma. “Have you done much modelling?”

“None at all. I've never so much as thought about it. I'm not really very comfortable in front of the camera,” Emma admitted.

“You really should. You have such a great look. I'm sure a lot of people would be interested.” She called Lin over. “Lin, I want to do some photoshoots with Emma. Do you think your mag would run them.”

Lin nodded. “Sure. I think a 'Me and My Tattoos' piece.” Emma was informed that each month the magazine ran a single page piece with a photo of a tattooed girl with a short interview. “If that gets a good response maybe a fuller shoot.”

Emma's instinct was to say no. A lens pointed at her always made her feel self conscious and she always hated how she looked in pictures. But she knew that she was running a business now and it was important to generate publicity. “I'd love to,” she said softly.

“That's decided then. You're going to be a model. I'll be in touch to arrange a date and sort out an interesting location to shoot.”

---------

The display on Emma's phone showed that it was Miss Leah calling. “Hello Miss,” she answered.

“I've been thinking about you. Did you hear when you're doing your photo shoot yet?”

“Yes, she called earlier. It'll be this Saturday. I was going to tell you tonight.”

“Well Kara already told me, actually. I suppose I'd better get your hair fixed up, Hadn't I? When are you going to be free?”

“About thirty minutes, I'm just getting some emails out that can't wait.”

“That's fine. I'll see you in the salon then. Don't be late or I'll have to do something really cruel that will make you cry.”

Emma knew that was no idle threat and got stuck into her work with vigour. She should have said forty-five minutes, as that was a more realistic figure for completing her tasks. She managed to send the last email with two minutes to spare and made a dash to the salon where she arrived, breathless.

“Hello Miss Leah.”

“Don't smile at me, you're late!”

“You called at 18:08, Miss. It's 18:37 now and I said I'd be thirty minutes.”

Leah checked the call log on her phone and pouted. “You know, you shouldn't gloat like that, Emma. It's not very becoming. Pride comes before a fall.”

“Sorry Miss,” Emma said with feigned contrition. “If that were true, you're heading for a most apocalyptic fall,” she thought.

“Get undressed, it's time to fix your hair. I've decided on a nice look for your modelling début.”

Emma's hair hadn't been touched since Leah had styled her for the tattoo convention more than two weeks previously. She now had a soft fuzz of dark hair covering the back and sides where she'd been shaved. Surprisingly, Leah had stopped shaving at the same time and sported an equal growth of hair, hers a dark blonde (a very dark blonde, more mousy brown in reality, but Leah insisted it was blonde and no one was brave enough to contradict her).

Emma slid into the chair, naked now. Her abdomen was still tender from her most recent tattooing session, where Holly had covered the last uncoloured skin of her belly. She was now tattooed completely from neck to upper thighs, front and back. Leah looked at her appreciatively. “That corset training has done wonders for your figure, Emmie. You've got a real hourglass shape now.”

“Thank you, Miss.” Emma glowed with pleasure. She loved to please Leah and had grown ever closer to her since they'd moved in together.

“So, this hair...” Leah ruffled the longer strands at Emma's crown. “The only real option it to buzz it all to a uniform length and give it a new shade. I wonder if you've got enough for a number two. If not you'll have to have a one all over, which would look pretty bald once I take it lighter.”

Emma frowned. She'd been delighted at having some hair grow back. A number one would look too severe and she said a silent prayer that enough had grown to permit a number two.

Leah prepared the clippers. “I'll do the top as a two. If I can see a join where it meets the part where it was shaved you're getting a number one.” Emma nodded obediently. The clippers were fired up and Leah drove them back across the top of Emma's head. The remains of the dyed hair which had formed her hair tattoo were severed and flew into the air as little more than dust. Leah was in her efficient mood tonight and worked quickly over Emma's head. The long tuft of hair at Emma's crown was buzzed to a few millimetres and she saw a very basic cut emerging. As Leah clippered over the sides Emma stared in the mirror and had to suppress a smile as she could discern no line between top and sides. Her hair grew quickly and she had enough length for a number two.

“I can see that smirk, Emmie. You know what I told you.”

“Sorry Miss. I'm just relieved. If you want to take it shorter that's fine.” Emma desperately hoped Leah wouldn't take her at her word.

“I know you don't mean that. Luckily for you I want you to have a bit more length so number two it is. Get your glasses off while I do around your pixie ears.”

The softness of Emma's regrowth was now gone as the hairs were mown into uniform bristles. The clippers were turned off and Leah took a razor. “I think we should give you a little bit of style.” The blade dragged at the hairline at Emma's nape, shaving it into a sharply defined squared form. The razor work didn't finish there; Leah shaved arches over Emma's ears, pointed her sideburns and reduced the hair at her temple so that it formed an unnaturally straight edge. To finish, Emma's forehead was razored until the hair formed a geometrically perfect line. Emma slipped her glasses back on to examine the finished cut.

“Ooh Miss, it's so cool. I thought I'd just have a buzz. The little details make such a difference. Thank you!”

“It's always about the details, Emmie. Now how about we swap places and you neaten mine up?”

Emma did as instructed and was soon buzzing Leah's hair to the same length as her own. “Do I have to razor your hairline so it's like mine Miss?”

Leah laughed. “Did you suddenly learn how to handle a razor? No, sweetie, I wouldn't trust you to do anything that precise. I'm going to have my hairline natural. I want us to have similar styles, not identical. Yours makes you look more sub.” Leah rubbed at her fresh buzz. “Feels good. I hope it's nice and even. If I find any bits you missed it'll be worse for you.”

Emma ran the clippers over a few areas up Leah's nape just to make sure. “Well? Is it finished? I'm going to check in the mirror and if you've messed up I'll shave a big “L” in your hair to show who your mistress is.” Emma was terrified as Leah examined herself: it was easy to miss a few hairs, especially since she'd removed so little length, but knew how much of a perfectionist Leah was. At last Leah announced her judgement. “It's ok. You did alright. Now we'd better mix up some bleach. Enough for both of us.”

It was two hours later when Emma and Leah arrived home. Kara and Esther were astonished to see them both wearing white-blonde buzzcuts. Leah had bleached and toned until their hair was as white as snow (Emma's had required an extra application of bleach). The old allegiances were hard to break and as Esther rushed to compliment Leah, Kara embraced Emma.

“Oh baby, look at you. It's so light. You look just perfect.” Emma purred as she felt Kara's fingers explore her nape, the slight irritation from her recent shave adding to her pleasure. “I'm not sure what to make of you and Leah having the same style now. Should I be jealous?”

“She's my girlfriend,” Emma whispered conspiratorially. “I have three, but don't tell anyone my secret.”

“And which one is best?” Kara asked, hooking a finger through the large opening in Emma's stretched lobe.

“Oh that's not a secret. I love them all but Kara is the most perfect woman in the whole world.”

“That's an acceptable answer. Your prize is a night in my bed.”

Emma kissed her enthusiastically. “Best prize a girl could ever hope for.”

[lsds-blog]

Accidents will happen...

The curtain of the cubicle drew slightly aside and a head popped in. “Jen, we've got an RTA coming in, fractured tib fib, concussion, possible internal."

“I'll be on it in two minutes..." She was just about done with her patient, applying a dressing to an elderly woman who'd fallen and badly grazed her knee. She was glad to see the back of her; she complained constantly when the wound was cleaned, no matter how delicate Jen tried to be.

She washed her hands and prepared for the arrival of the trauma case. She felt adrenaline start to flow. This was the type of nursing she liked. She had to act quickly, to use all her resources. It was exciting and part of her needed the thrill that dealing with serious injury brought.

She was ready just as the paramedics arrived. “Nathalie Vernon. Another car came through a red light and hit hers side on at a junction. She's been in and out of consciousness but good pupillary response." It was a pretty serious fracture and the injury was still bleeding. She'd need emergency surgery, but her colleagues were addressing that. Jen's immediate concern was the possibility of spinal or head injuries. The woman was barely conscious now as she carried out an examination. Her head was supported fully by a spinal board and Jen slid her hands along her neck and could feel no irregularities or swellings. As she reached further under the base of her skull she felt the edge of a fabric cap. The woman was wearing a wig. It was very convincing and surely expensive, long straight black hair. Anyway, it had to come off, she needed to look for injuries. A nursing auxiliary removed the wig as Jen stabilised her head. She was completely bald but Jen could see a faint even shadow showing her head was shaved. “Make sure you put that wig somewhere safe, it must have cost a fortune," she said to the auxiliary.

Her shaved head made the examination easier. There was no sign of injury, no bruising or redness of her scalp. “Would make my life easier if everyone with a potential head injury were bald," Jen thought to herself. She noticed that Nathalie had quite a lot of piercings in her face and ears, but was so focussed on her job that it barely registered consciously. Jen ordered a head and neck x-ray as a precaution then moved on to examine Nathalie's body. Her blood pressure was depressed and there was a possibility of internal bleeding. Jen cut away her clothes. “Nipples pierced too and tattoos," she thought dispassionately. It made little impact on Jen when she was at work; personal feelings were put aside as she focussed on making sure that any injuries were diagnosed. She made an examination of her abdomen and chest and had a good feeling. No discolouration, no swelling other than a deep bruise visible under the tattoos on her right arm; that would need an x-ray too. She was sure the woman would make a good recovery once her leg healed.

A surgeon arrived to assess her. “Oh, she's bald. Quite pretty too, is it alopecia?"

“No, her head's shaved but she did wear a wig," Jen replied. She was pretty too. It was the first time Jen had actually looked at her face properly, rather than as a series of sites of potential injury. Jen detailed her examination to the surgeon, who seemed satisfied.

“We'll get her x-rayed and down to theatre. I think she's had a lucky escape, apparently the car looked like no one was going to get out alive."

A few more routine procedures were completed and that was the end of Jen's nursing involvement with Nathalie Vernon. She'd soon learnt that it was best to keep a professional distance from trauma patients. Her job was to get them through the initial minutes or hours, then pass their care over to others. She'd called intensive care to find out how surgery had gone (“very well, no spinal/head/internal injuries, fracture repaired), and that was sufficient to put her mind at ease. She could now move on and turn her attention to other patients.

The following day Jen was looking through a supply cupboard. She jumped with fright as she saw what she thought was a black cat curled up at the dimly lit bottom of the cupboard, then started to giggle as she realised her mistake: it was the wig that RTA patient had been wearing. She lifted it up and gently smoothed it out. It was real hair. Jen couldn't resist trying it on, although it wasn't a good fit over her own long red hair which was pulled back tightly in a bun. She looked at herself in the mirror, grinning to see herself with jet black hair and a heavy fringe. She looked like a goth. She liked dressing up and imagined how shocked people would be if she dyed it for real. Then she guiltily pulled the wig off, fearful that someone would see her and accuse her of abusing a patient's property. She decided she'd return the wig to its owner once her shift was finished, which was within the hour. She found a cardboard box and coiled the wig inside it as best she could without it getting tangled.

Nathalie had been transferred to a surgical ward. When Jen walked in she saw she had two visitors. Both were tall, slim, glamorous. They looked like models, but there was something slightly... disreputable, Jen thought. Like Nathalie they both had visible piercings, more than would usually be seen on a fashion model. One of them had a tight shiny top that appeared to be made of latex. Jen approached the bed feeling a little shy.

“Hello Nathalie, we met before but I'm sure you don't remember me. I'm Jen, I work in A & E and I was one of the first nurses to help you when you got here yesterday. I'm afraid not all your belongings got transferred up here." She passed the box over to her.

Nathalie seemed unconcerned by her baldness being exposed. Jen was fascinated by her appearance. She didn't have any make-up on and she had no eyebrows; in fact, the only hair she appeared to have was eyelashes. Despite this, Jen had to admit that she was quite beautiful. She opened the box and smiled. “Thank you Jen, my favourite wig. Would you help me to put it on?"

Jen's instinct was to leave but she found she couldn't say no. She smoothed the wig out and slipped it onto Nathalie's head. She could feel the soft dark stubble that had grown over the last day. She adjusted it to straighten the fringe and smiled at Nathalie. “I should go now, I'm sure you want to chat to your friends."

Nathalie insisted that she stay a little longer as her friends were just leaving, and indeed, they rose and said their goodbyes. “I want to thank you for saving me. I'm told I could easily have died."

Jen dismissed her concerns. “Your leg was broken quite badly but otherwise there was nothing too serious. It's the emergency services you should be thankful to. Anyway, how are you feeling?"

“Sore. My neck feels like something snapped. The morphine helps though." She turned her shoulders against the pillow uncomfortably. “I think I'm going to have to take my wig off. It will get tangled against the pillow. Could you be an angel and put it in the cupboard for me?" Jen did as she was asked. As the bald scalp was again revealed she remembered her surprise the previous day to discover Nathalie's baldness. “I hate having stubble, I usually shave every day but I can't manage it. Could you do it?"

Jen felt uneasy. “I could arrange for a barber to do it for you." Nathalie grimaced.

“Oh that would be so impersonal, I'd hate it. I'm sure you could do a good job for me. I'd be very grateful."

Jen found she couldn't say no and pulled the curtains to around the bed. She found a razor and some shampoo which she mixed up to a thick lather and rubbed it over Nathalie's scalp.

She sighed softly. “Oh that feels good. You know the opiates are making me feel a bit high so please forgive me if I seem a bit disinhibited."

Jen laughed. “I work on A & E, it's not easy to shock me any more." She nervously pulled the razor over the top of her scalp. The stubble came away and an area of smooth skin was exposed.

“Jen, do you ever have to shave women for surgery. You know, if they have to have brain surgery or something?"

“No, I never did that, although sometimes I've had to cut someone's hair when there's head trauma so that we can see the wound and keep it clean."

“Oh that must be so exciting," Nathalie purred. “I bet you love to see the tears in their eyes when they realise their treasured hair has all gone."

“Oh no, Nathalie, it's awful. I... It's not like that at all..." She rinsed the razor in a bowl of hot water and looked down at the bared top of Nathalie's head, feeling very confused. Something was stirring in her, unpleasant thoughts that she mustn't allow. She could never be so cruel as Nathalie was suggesting, could she?

Nathalie laughed. “I'm so sorry, the morphine. I think I'm a bit delusional. You should try it sometime. But maybe you already have? I know a lot of medics like to try out the drugs they have access to."

“No Nathalie, I stay off the hard drugs. Cider is my only drug." Despite Nathalie's claims to be intoxicated, it was Jen who felt confused. Shouldn't she be offended by accusations of drug abuse and sadism? But somehow she was enjoying Nathalie's company; something about her intrigued and excited Jen.

Nathalie was in pain as she lowered her head to allow her nape to be shaved, but bore her suffering with good grace. “Jen, you're doing a great job, I feel so much better. Would you do it every day for me?" Jen started to mutter apologies. She didn't get involved with patients. “Oh please, I won't be able to do it myself and I'll look awful if I grow stubble." Jen agreed, immediately regretting her inability to say no. Or was she indulging some need of her own? She had to confess that she found it a little arousing to shave Nathalie.

She gently wiped a damp cloth over the scalp to wipe away the remains of the suds. Nathalie rubbed her hands over her head. “Oh Jen, thank you, it feels so good, lovely and clean. I hate having any hair." She looked at herself in the mirror. “I look so awful without make-up!"

“You look just fine. I can't imagine very many women who'd look so nice without make-up and hair."

“Jen, are you flirting with me? I thought you were supposed to be a professional!" Nathalie said with mock concern. Jen blushed, all the more because she realised that there was some truth in Nathalie's accusation. She excused herself with some embarrassment.

“I have to go, Nathalie, but I will pop in tomorrow to see how you are. I'm off duty late afternoon so I'll see you then. You won't be here more than a few days though. Once you're a bit more mobile I'm sure you'll be off home."

Jen had a strange dream that night. She was in charge of an institution that was part school, part asylum, part orphanage. It was a huge old house, in ill repair with plaster falling from the walls. She entered a hall which had a long table of polished oak running the entire length, each place set with cutlery. The walls were covered with hunting trophies, the mounted heads of animals, some of which looked almost human. At the end of the room was a young woman, about eighteen. She was wearing a white cotton hospital gown and was tied to a chair. She was sobbing and apologising. “Please Miss, mercy, mercy. I'm not a bad girl, I won't do it again."

Jen felt anger at the girl's transgression. She had to be punished. In her hand Jen saw a huge pair of shears. She grabbed a handful of the girl's hair. It was beautiful, thick soft waves, almost black, with hints of red where the light reflected. She pulled hard at the hair, making the girl cry out as her head was forced down. She slid the shears into her hair so that they rested against her scalp, then closed the blades. The girl's nape was shorn. She clicked the blades over the remains of the hair until it was as short as possible, uneven, ugly, bare scalp showing through the dark tufts. She was laughing.

Jen woke with a start. The dream had left her filled with excitement. She reached down and rubbed herself with two fingers. She was wet. She let her imagination continue the dream and she imagined shaving the girl, making her head as smooth as Nathalie's. She slid a finger inside herself. She shouldn't indulge these fantasies, she didn't like cruelty, yet she couldn't resist. She was so excited. She thought of shaving Nathalie's head and how she would do it again and she fingered herself until she climaxed.

During her early shift Jen found she was distracted and irritable. She was shaken by the intensity of her dream and the pleasure she'd taken in her cruelty. And she kept thinking about Nathalie. That was bad. Risky. There were strict rules about socialising with patients and she was on dangerous ground. The nurses on the ward knew her too so her visits would be noted. She had to end this. She'd go to see Nathalie later, she'd made a promise after all, but only to explain that she wouldn't be back to see her again.

When she arrived at the ward Nathalie was sitting in a wheelchair beside her bed. She was asleep, her head fallen sideways against her shoulder. Jen sat quietly, unwilling to rouse her. She looked peaceful and besides, Jen was enjoying studying her face. She was wearing make-up now, quite a lot of make-up actually, dramatic and flamboyant; she looked very different to how Jen had remembered her from the previous day.

A trolley clattered past and Nathalie stirred. “Jen, you came back, I'm so... ahhhhh..." She was suddenly in evident pain as she tried to raise her head. “My neck's gone into spasm, I can't lift my head," she wailed.

Jen immediately sprung to help her, supporting her head and massaging her neck muscles until the pain had passed. She loved the feel of Nathalie's scalp in her fingers.

“Thank you. I've got quite severe whiplash apparently. I'll have to try to make sure I don't fall asleep with my neck unsupported, that was agony. Just lucky my little angel Jennifer was here to help."

Jen smiled awkwardly. “It is Jennifer isn't it? Or is that the name you only get called when mummy is telling you off?" Jen's smile vanished. “Did I say something wrong?"

“No... it's... my parents died in a car crash. Six years ago." Nathalie made the apologies that everyone made when Jen revealed this. “It's ok, you weren't to know." Nathalie wanted to know what had happened. It surprised Jen, most people looked embarrassed and couldn't wait to change the subject. She found herself eager to talk about it. She'd been sixteen and it had totally derailed her. Everything stable in her life had gone. She'd had to move to a new town to live with an aunt and uncle and their daughters. A new school, no friends and she'd gone wild. She started drinking every day, staying out, sleeping around, cutting herself, getting into trouble, letting anyone exploit her. Her salvation had been a teacher who took her under her wing and helped her to address her anger. She'd ended up having a brief affair with the teacher too, her first lesbian encounter. Anyway, it turned her around. She'd decided she wanted to be a nurse and turn her feelings about her parents' accident into something positive. It had spurred her into wanting to help others.

Nathalie had held her hand throughout the story. “The worst thing is that I have no roots any more. I was horrible to my nieces, I was so envious of them. I wanted them to be as unhappy as me. I regret it so much, but because of that I've more or less lost contact with them, and my aunt and uncle. I haven't seen them for years now. No one in my life knew my parents and I haven't talked about them in years. And I miss them so much."

Nathalie smiled at her. “I'd give you such a big hug if I had full use of my body. I owe you one when I'm better. I'm sure your parents would be very proud to see what a fine young woman you've grown into and how you overcame your problems."

Jen shrugged apologetically. “I was supposed to be here to help you and I've ended up going through all my traumas. I'm sorry, I shouldn't burden you like this." Nevertheless, Jen felt very pleased that she'd been able to verbalise her feelings and confide in Nathalie.

“I'm always here to listen. I don't want us to have any secrets. And if you do want to help me... how about getting rid of this stubble?"

Jen could hardly refuse now. She pulled the curtains around the bed for some privacy, even though Nathalie had now been moved to a room by herself.

“I've got a special treat for you. My friends brought in my good razor." Nathalie took a wooden box from her bedside cabinet and passed it to Jen. She opened it and saw an ebony handled cut-throat razor.

“I've never used one of these! I'll probably cut you to ribbons. Can't we use the safety razor?"

Nathalie wouldn't hear of it. “You'll be fine, just be delicate and take your time."

Jen dribbled some perfumed oil over Nathalie's head (a gift from one of her friends) and gently massaged it into her scalp. The sensation thrilled Jen; it was unmistakably erotic. The stubble was very short and soft, prickling slightly when she ran her finger against the growth. She'd never imagined that she could be attracted to a bald woman. She tested the razor, barely touching it to the scalp, drawing it across the surface. A little oil accumulated on the blade, peppered with tiny dark specks.

It was easier to shave Nathalie now she was sitting up in the wheelchair. She sighed as the razor went over her nape. “Oh, that feels so good. Don't forget to shave my neck, that gets fuzzy too." Jen obliged her. “This is such a special treat. I love being shaved by someone else, but it happens very rarely. And I can't use a straight razor on myself, at least not up the back."

Jen didn't dare admit that she was enjoying it just as much. “So tell me about the teacher you got into bed with. Was she the games teacher?"

Jen laughed. “Nooo, she was an art teacher." She shuddered as she remembered what her games teacher looked like. “She wasn't much older than I am now. She was... lovely, she really saved me. But we both knew it had to stop. She could have ended her career. I never kept in contact, but I often think about her. I'd love to know how she is."

Jen wiped Nathalie's head clean. “All done, nice and smooth. But... that brings me to something related. I'm not allowed to socialise with patients when I'm off duty and I really shouldn't see you any more, Nathalie. I think this will be the last time we meet."

Nathalie looked pensive. “But you're not my nurse any more." Jen was adamant. There were clear guidelines. “I don't want to stop seeing you. And I usually get what I want. You'll come and see me once I've been discharged. We can be discreet then. No one will know."

Jen couldn't refuse. She wanted this. It was a risk but she was sure there were ways to make it work. She nodded her tacit agreement. Phone numbers were exchanged.

“I should be home in about a week. I'll contact you then. Now, do I get a parting kiss?"

Jen couldn't take her eyes off Nathalie's lips now. She had rings at either side of her lower lip and a stud in the centre of the upper. What would it feel like to press her own lips against those piercings? She needed to find out. She touched her lips gently to Nathalie's, afraid of the delicacy of this wonderful being who'd been battered and bruised so recently. She cradled Nathalie's head, her fingers caressing her bald nape. Nathalie showed none of her reticence. She seemed determined to remove any lingering doubts about the nature of the relationship she wanted with Jen. She forced her tongue between Jen's lips, then slid the lower surface of her tongue over Jen's. The presence of a tongue stud took Jen by surprise (it was a pink acrylic stud and virtually invisible) but the expertise with which Nathalie used it made Jen feel like she was melting. Time seemed to stand still for her and she felt giddy when she at last stood. “Oh, Nathalie..." she repeated over and over, breathless.

“I'll be in touch, Jennifer. Now you'd better be on your way."

Jen pulled back the curtains and tried to compose herself and looked around suspiciously to see whether anyone had been watching. She moved to the door of the room and said, a little too loudly “OK Nathalie, good luck. I won't be back again. Goodbye."

“You're a lousy actor," Nathalie laughed.

The next few days were agonising for Jen. She'd surreptitiously check ward records on the computer to see if a discharge had taken place, but still only saw a provisional date and she knew those meant nothing. When the planned discharge was put back by an additional three days, Jen was beside herself. Had something gone wrong? An infection? A clot? They were all real possibilities. Nathalie could be seriously ill. Accessing her medical notes was too risky though; the system recorded the log in of anyone who viewed them. She'd just have to wait and worry.

As Jen was waiting at the train station she recognised one of the nurses from Nathalie's ward on the platform and couldn't resist the opportunity to try to get an update. She barely knew her, although she'd had a brief chat with her a few months previously at a training course. What was her name? Kathy? Katie? Karen? She walked over and said hello, then began some small talk about how things were going. After a few minutes of ward gossip she finally grasped the nettle. “That woman we had in from the RTA was on your ward, wasn't she? Nathalie Vernon was it? Did she go home yet?"

“Oh, the baldy? Nah, the OTs are doing some adaptations in her home so we've had to keep her in a few days," Kathy or Katie or Karen replied. There was a little discussion about occupational therapists blocking beds before returning to a discussion of Nathalie.

“That baldy's got us all intrigued. We all reckon she's some kind of hardcore porn actress. She's had loads of female visitors, all really stunning but fetish-y looking."

“Oh yeah..?" Jen tried to play it cool but was suddenly emotional. Was Nathalie really a porn actress? And did she have other girlfriends? She realised she was feeling jealousy.

Kathy or Katie or Karen was relishing a good gossip. “We've all been googling her to see if we can find her page, but she's hardly going to use her real name, is she? Probably Mistress Natalya or something." Jen was starting to get annoyed; it wasn't very professional to talk about a patient like this. But then... she was dreaming of far worse breaches of professional ethics.

Scanning the computer became a daily ritual. Eight days after Nathalie's accident the discharge date was filled in. Today's date. That meant she'd gone home. “Yes!" Jen muttered triumphantly.

As soon as she got home she called Nathalie, nervous, worried, unsure what to say. The call was answered almost immediately. “Hello, is that Nathalie?"

“Hello, Jen, did you know I'm finally home?" Jen admitted that she'd been checking each day. “So you couldn't wait to talk to me? I'm very pleased and a little flattered. When are you going to come and visit. Everything is so exhausting for me and I need my personal nurse."

Jen giggled embarrassedly. She would love to help nurse Nathalie back to health. It was agreed that Jen would visit on Saturday and stay until Sunday night.

Jen set out early Saturday morning. Nathalie lived in the suburbs of a city close by the town where Jen lived, but she'd never been to this district. She looked at her map as she made her way in through the little side streets. It seemed a pleasant neighbourhood: close to a park, mostly older houses, well maintained gardens. She took a few wrong turns before she arrived at Nathalie's house. It was a detached house, probably mid nineteenth century. Not huge but a very comfortable size for a single woman. She located the key safe next to the door and took out the key to let herself in, as she'd arranged (Nathalie's lack of mobility meant it took her minutes to get to the door). She was trembling as she entered. “Hello, Nathalie? It's Jen."

She followed the voice and entered the back room. Nathalie was sitting in her wheelchair. She noticed that a bed had been installed in the room.

“Come and give me a kiss!" Nathalie yelled. Jen was only too happy to follow this instruction. She knelt beside the chair and embraced Nathalie. She wanted the kiss to last forever as once more Nathalie caressed her tongue with the piercing. Nathalie suddenly groaned. “Oh, my neck... sorry, it goes into spasm if I turn my head for too long."

Jen blushed and sighed. “I've missed you. I couldn't wait to see you. Are you letting your hair grow?" Nathalie's scalp was covered in a layer of dark stubble, a full week's growth.

“Growing it? Oh, never! No one would shave me in the hospital. My barberette deserted me. I've been waiting for her return to get me cleaned up. Will you do it now?"

Jen smiled. “I think I'd like you to grow your hair." Nathalie put her finger to Jen's lips.

“You're not allowed to make suggestions about my appearance. It's non-negotiable. If you're with me, you're with a bald woman, OK?"

Jen smiled and nodded. “So does that mean you don't make suggestions about my appearance either?"

Nathalie laughed heartily. “Oh, Jennifer, you have so much to learn!"

They went through to the kitchen and Nathalie rose from her chair, insisting that she did it on her own, despite the obvious pain it caused her and the awkwardness of movement; the cast extended above her knee and permitted no flexion. Jen knew that the physiotherapists would be proud of her; retaining her independence would help her to recover her mobility much sooner. Nathalie settled herself onto a stool and pulled off her short dress. She was naked under it.

“Ha, don't look shy now! You saw everything when I was unconscious, didn't you?"

“Well, you weren't unconscious but you were a bit... flaky. But... that's different. I see all sorts of things in my job, but I have my nursing head on. I don't ever look at a patient as a person..."

“Oh, that's very holistic!" Nathalie yelled.

Jen looked embarrassed. “I didn't mean it like that. You've got me all worked up. It is like seeing you for the first time, Nathalie. You've got so many tattoos, haven't you?" Nathalie nodded.

“I'm getting more though. Do you like them." Jen stroked her fingers over Nathalie's brightly coloured shoulder.

“It feels so smooth, I can't tell where the tattoo ends from touch."

“No, it doesn't scar. Some of the Polynesian tattooing methods do cause the lines to raise up. I guess you don't have any tattoos then."

Jen shook her head. “No, no tattoos."

Nathalie pouted. “I don't believe you. Let me check you to see if you've been hiding tattoos from me." Jen looked confused. “Get undressed, I need to examine you!"

Jen felt very vulnerable as she unbuttoned her blouse. She'd never undressed before someone in broad daylight before. Her eyes scanned the window, checking to see if strangers might be able to see. The garden was ringed with trees which seemed to block prying eyes. Nathalie noticed her unease. “No one can see... Except me, of course. Now turn around... Arms up... No, you were telling the truth, no tattoos anywhere. Apart from that you look pretty good."

Jen felt like she was being damned with faint praise. Nathalie laughed. “Don't sulk. You look very lovely. And if you give me a nice shave I might even give you another kiss." Nathalie had clear instructions. Her stubble was to be buzzed short with clippers before shaving. That would mean she'd have to be caped; showering was a big problem since she couldn't yet manage stairs and she didn't want to be covered in itchy hairs. She gave Jen instructions on where to find everything. Most of the items were in the bathroom and Jen found them exactly where they were supposed to be. She was very tempted to go exploring in other cupboards but the fear of what she may discover won out. She quickly went back to Nathalie.

Jen put the cape around her neck then tucked in a tissue. “If you'd kept shaving me each day none of this would be necessary," Nathalie complained. “Now I'm going to be all itchy. You do know they've told me to use the local swimming pool if I want to get a shower? It's so humiliating. You'll have to stay here until I'm mobile again so that you can shave me every day."

“Oh, I'd love to but I couldn't possibly," Jen said. “It would take me ninety minutes to get into work, and I have to work nights sometimes."

“Don't you drive?" Jen admitted she did but couldn't afford to run a car. “Then you can borrow mine. I've got a loan car until the insurance comes through to get a new one. You can be my chauffeuse too." Jen's natural caution was warning her that moving in with a virtual stranger wasn't a good idea. She looked thoughtful.

“Is there a problem?" Nathalie asked. Jen shook her head. She couldn't think of any reasons to say no. “So you'll move in and be my nurse?"

“Yes Nathalie, just till you're on your feet."

Nathalie looked delighted. “Oh, we'll have so much fun together! Now shave my head..."

Jen turned the clippers on and shifted them awkwardly in her hand as she tried to compute the most efficient way to hold them. She pressed them up Nathalie's nape and saw the stubble fall away. There was a rectangular area sheared to the skin now. She was fascinated to see how easily they cut through the hair and rubbed the shorn area to feel how short it was.

“Have you ever had your hair cut with clippers?" Nathalie's voice brought her out of her reverie.

“Me? Oh no Nathalie, I've always had long hair."

“Wouldn't you like to have a shaved head too? I've noticed the look in your eye when you shave mine."

Jen's heart was thumping. “Oh no, Nathalie. I'd hate that. I like my hair too much." What she felt as she thought about being shaved by Nathalie was a repulsion, a great fear. At least that accounted for ninety per cent of her emotions. There was also a fascination, a desire to try it. And that feeling was making her grow wet.

She tried to concentrate on clippering Nathalie to exorcise the confusion of emotions, but it only intensified her thoughts. She recalled her strange dream and how in its aftermath she'd imagined herself as the one being punished. She looked at the back of Nathalie's head, now shaved, pale, delicate, erotic. Would her own nape look so beautiful without hair? She shifted the clippers in her hand and erased the dark hair from Nathalie's temples, then around her ears. Jen was panicking. What was she getting herself into? She knew nothing about this woman but she seemed to have unsettled everything that Jen thought about herself.

“You know that the staff on your ward called you the baldy?" Jen asked.

“I know. I was more mobile than they thought and I listened in on some of their conversations."

“And they thought you were a porn star or something..." Jen laughed, but it sounded forced. She needed to know if it were true. She paused but Nathalie said nothing. She finally found the courage to add “What do you actually do?"

“Oh, a bit of this, a bit of that. Film, photography, modelling, hair, make-up, camera, lighting, editing..."

“Porn..?" Jen gasped, feeling terrified that maybe that the gossips had guessed correctly.

“That's such an ugly word," Nathalie smiled. “I prefer to think of it as erotica. I make erotic art. Erotica for women made by women. Although some of it does fall into male hands and there's nothing we can do about that," she added ruefully. “Oh, what's wrong, Jennifer. Don't look at me like that! I didn't imagine you as a prude."

Jen was never good at concealing her emotions and her face betrayed her upset. “I don't know, I just... I always though of it as exploiting women."

Nathalie made her sit down so that they could converse more easily. “We make all our products together. No one is forced, everyone is well paid. And don't tell me you never look at erotica." Jen admitted that she did. “Well if it's good enough to look at then you should accept that there's nothing wrong with producing it, as long as it's well made and the performers are treated with dignity."

Jen had to admit that logically Nathalie's argument was sound, but retained a deep seated resistance. She was falling in love with a woman who made sex films. Could she allow herself to do that? Could she stop it even if she wanted?

Nathalie seemed conciliatory. “I'm sorry if I've shocked you. I know for some people it's something they prefer not to think about. I'm sure once you're over the shock you'll see that what I do is no cause for shame. Now can you finish shaving me, please Jennifer."

She did as she was asked. The clippers whirred over the top of Nathalie's head, cutting the hair so finely that it was a mere grey shadow now. She wiped a damp cloth around the scalp and neck to rid them of the dusting of clippings that had accumulated. Then she massaged the remaining stubble with the scented oil. The fragrance was intoxicating, musky, spicy.

“Let that soak in for a few minutes, it will soften the hair," Nathalie said. “Could you check my leg, see if everything is healing?"

Jen knelt on the floor to examine the leg. The front of the cast was open and a metal scaffolding protruded from Nathalie's shin, anchored to the bones to fix them in place as they knitted. There was a long wound along her shin which was still sutured. “It looks to be healing fine. I'm sure there's no infection."

“It's beautiful, isn't it? I love seeing how the metal penetrates my skin. I wish I could have something like that fitted into me permanently." Jen looked at Nathalie. She looked serious. “You may kiss it." Jen found herself obeying. She put her lips next to the injury.

“Kiss it better..." she whispered. Like mum used to.

“I'd love to be part human, part machine," Nathalie continued. “It's a fantasy of mine. I love medical interventions too. Part of me enjoyed all the things that were done to me in hospital. I just wish I'd been more conscious of what was going on after the crash. Will it scar?"

Jen looked up at her, thinking how she had such weird ideas. “Yeah, you'll have a pretty bad scar here I'm afraid. It's unavoidable with an injury like this. Such a shame..."

Nathalie laughed. “I like scars too. Although maybe you're right... It will look ugly. I could get my leg tattooed though, that would conceal it nicely."

Jen's head was reeling now. Nathalie seemed to live in a world far removed from her own, of vivid sexual fantasies, bizarre and fantastical. If she were to get closer to Nathalie would she be drawn into these ideas? Did she want that?

As Jen started to razor away the stubble, Nathalie questioned her about her accident. “Was I catheterised? And who put it in?"

“Yes, I put it in."

“Mmmm. So you've already touched me! Did it turn you on?"

Jen blushed. “I don't get turned on when I'm treating patients. That would make my job impossible. And I think they'd sack me."

“I want you to catheterise me again. I want to feel it this time. And I want you to get turned on."

Jen had to put down the razor. “It wouldn't be nice. It hurts going in, you were much better off having it done with all the meds in you."

“Jennifer, dear, I'm a grown up. I know what I like, and, trust me, some of the things I adore you can't even conceive in that pretty little head of yours." Jen was under no illusions of the truth of this; she'd seen plenty to convince her that Nathalie had appetites that went far beyond convention. “Anyway, don't tell me that you wouldn't enjoy causing me some pain. I can see how much you love shaving me. Thinking how good your hair looks next to me once I'm bald. I think you have a sadistic streak, Jen. Don't try to deny it."

Jen was flustered. She couldn't read Nathalie well enough to tell if she were joking. And she thought back to her dream, how thrilling it felt to be cruel and wondered if Nathalie hadn't guessed a truth she didn't dare admit to herself. “I don't like suffering," she said, not entirely convincing herself. “And I only shave you because it's what you want."

Nathalie laughed. “And you usually do it very well, but you seem very distracted today. Can you get on with it?"

Jen took the razor again and started to shave away the stubble from the top of Nathalie's head. She had to work slowly as her hands were trembling. She was distracted. Her thoughts raced as she thought about all the ideas that Nathalie had planted, simultaneously repulsed and fascinated. She felt like she was on the brink of an abyss. If she entered this world would she ever be able to leave?

She moved her fingers nervously over Nathalie's scalp to check that it was smooth. “Don't forget my eyebrows, Jennifer," she was reminded. “I keep those shaved too."

Jen stepped in front of Nathalie. “Why do you do that? It looks odd to have no eyebrows, and you draw on new ones with make-up."

“Jennifer, I've told you not to question my decisions." Jen nodded and started to razor away the stubble from her brows. She found she had to draw the skin tight up her forehead. Once it was taut she could easily shave away every trace of hair. She looked at Nathalie, how beautiful she was, pale and hairless. She tried to remember her as she was when she'd arrived at the hospital, long dark hair, fully made-up, but the images were fragmented and vague. She could only visualise her as bald.

“I'm in charge here. That's how it is and how it should be. And you like me to be in charge, don't you?" Jen nodded and looked down shyly. What did that mean precisely? Was she letting Nathalie take control of her? Surely that wasn't a good idea. How could she let a bald woman who seemed to have the craziest sexual appetites be in charge? Well, she could maybe see how things developed. It was just a little game. If things looked to be going too far she'd run. “Say it, Jennifer. Say you'll obey me in everything."

Jen looked into Nathalie's eyes. She meant it. “Yes Nathalie, I'll obey you," she whispered. Suddenly everything felt very solemn. Jen removed the cape and Nathalie rose painfully from the stool. “Kiss me to seal your promise," she ordered. Jen placed her lips to Nathalie's. She was quivering with excitement and Nathalie knew it. She parted her lips, inviting her lover to slide her tongue in her mouth. Nathalie obliged. Jen curled her tongue back and Nathalie's slid over it, the piercing sliding from side to side, raising Jen to ecstasy. She sighed and moaned, pulling Nathalie tightly against her, loving to feel her heavy round breasts press against her own.

She felt Nathalie's fingers touch her clit and sighed. “You're going to cum on the count of five," she was ordered. Nathalie's fingertips moved in a circle, accelerating, faster and faster. As the count reached five Jen couldn't have held herself even if she'd wanted to. Her moan turned to a shriek as she was engulfed in a glorious orgasm.

Nathalie licked her fingers. “You're mine now Jennifer. We're going to have so much pleasure together."

As the two women ate breakfast, Nathalie remarked on the good weather. “We can go for a walk in the park this afternoon to make the most of it. What's that look for? Are you ashamed to be seen with me?"

“No, Nathalie, not at all. It's just that I can't be seen with you. I shouldn't be seeing you. I could lose my registration."

Nathalie tutted, exasperated. “We can't go on furtively hiding behind closed doors. We'll go out but you can wear a mask."

“A mask? You're kidding?"

It appeared she wasn't. As Jen awkwardly backed the wheelchair down the ramp at the front door she was wearing a leather executioners hood which covered all of her head (Nathalie had tightly pinned her hair back) except for her eyes and the lower part of her face. Even her lips felt disguised as Nathalie had painted them in a crimson cupid bow. Nathalie was also masked, her eyes surrounded by ornate black lace and she was wearing a blonde bobbed wig. Jen could hardly bring herself to look at her without a sigh of lust escaping her lips.

“Oh god, are you sure this is a good idea?" Jen whispered as they made their way into the street. “We'll terrify the local kids. Someone will call the police."

Nathalie seemed amused. “I think they've got used to my eccentricity around here. Besides, it's quite a bohemian area, there are lots of arty types so they're a bit more tolerant. I tell them I'm a performance artist. Which is true... in a way."

The anonymity the mask provided was welcome for Jen as everyone they passed stared. Nathalie relished the attention, smiling, waving, blowing kisses. Eventually Jen started to join in, smiling at anyone who stared. She found the mask gave her licence to be free of inhibitions. She could be whoever she wanted to be while her face was hidden.

Nathalie received a call as they were passing the large lake in the park. She sounded irritated; clearly the call was bad news. “Leave it with me, I may be able to sort it." She ended the call.

“I'm making a film tomorrow. One of the actors has pulled out. I knew I shouldn't have trusted her. I'd never worked with her before and I could sense she wasn't sure about the role. Would you like to be in it?"

Jen was astonished. “Me, acting? Is it..." She tried to remember the right word. “Is it an erotic film?"

“Of course it is. I don't make rom-coms. I wouldn't ask you if I didn't think you could do it."

“I couldn't. I'd be terrible. And what if someone saw me?"

Nathalie looked unimpressed. “Didn't you promise to obey me? Well I'm no longer asking. I'm telling you that you're going to do this."

Jen looked horrified. “But Nathalie, I'll get into trouble if anyone sees me. There are codes about professional behaviour..." She felt Nathalie's finger on her lips.

“Hush! No one will see you. And so what if they do? You can make far more money through this than you do in your current job. Stop worrying and start enjoying your life."

The topic was no longer open for discussion. Nathalie refused to compromise and shut down all of Jen's attempts to discuss it. After a long walk in the park they ate a late lunch in a café where a young waitress couldn't stop staring at the two of them. “We could take her home and make her our little pet," Nathalie said. “She's fascinated, isn't she?"

Jen wasn't sure. “We just look... bizarre. Everyone is staring."

Nathalie's face took on a mischievous look. “I can tell when someone thinks I'm a freak and when someone is lusting. I'll prove I'm right."

She started to wheel her chair toward the girl. “I wonder if you could help me? I've had an accident as you can see and my friend needs some assistance to help me onto the toilet. Would you be so kind?"

The girl's face reddened with embarrassment. She looked around as if seeking someone else to take her place, but finally nodded her acquiescence. She held the door to the disabled toilet open as Jen backed in the wheelchair.

“I'm Nathalie and this is Jennifer. And you are?"

“Zoe... I'm Zoe." Jen could almost hear the girl's heart beating. She stood with her back pressed against the door, clearly beside herself with fear to be trapped in such a confined space with two masked women. She was very petite and Jen found it hard to guess her age, but couldn't believe she'd passed twenty. She had long black hair and a pleasant face; big dark eyes and high cheekbones. Jen tried to put her at her ease.

“Hello Zoe. It's so good of you to help. Just stand on the right side and we can help Nathalie to stand." Jen removed the bracket which supported Nathalie's cast and helped her to rise. She turned and put her arms around Zoe.

“Can I hold onto you, Zoe? I can't balance and you wouldn't want me to fall, would you?" Suddenly Nathalie was holding Zoe tight to her, staring down into her face. Jen was left trying to move the wheelchair out of the way, no easy task in the cramped space. “You have such lovely eyes, Zoe," Nathalie continued. “Doesn't she, Jen?"

“Yes, she's very pretty," Jen said, trying to sound as non-threatening as possible. That's not always easy when you're wearing a leather mask. Zoe looked like she was about to faint as these two women started to flirt with her.

“Th... th... thank you," she stuttered.

“Your hair, is it dyed?" Nathalie asked. She nodded. “Such long hair, so lovely. Jennifer's is even longer than yours. Do you want to know a secret? I'm wearing a wig. Would you like to see me without it?" Jen looked at Zoe and thought she was going to cry at any moment. She glanced up into Nathalie's eyes, but couldn't maintain eye contact. “Take my wig off, Jennifer, Zoe wants to see how I really look."

Jen slid the wig from Nathalie's head, exposing her bald cranium. Zoe muttered “Oh... oh god."

“I need to sit down, help me over to the toilet," Nathalie ordered. Jen looked around for somewhere to store the wig. Seeing nowhere suitable she eased it onto her own hooded head. Zoe and she assisted Nathalie to drop down onto the toilet. She groaned theatrically as if in some pain and Jen knew she was making a fuss for Zoe's sake. She slid up her skirt, much higher than was necessary, and revealed that she was without panties. Above her mound was tattooed a large fleur-de-lys, heavily outlined in black. Zoe looked away embarrassedly. Nathalie was revelling in the girl's discomfort. “Oh Zoe, am I so ugly that you can't bear to look at me?"

Zoe was almost squirming now. “I... I just... you should have some privacy."

“Did you hear that Jennifer? She can't bear to be with us. Am I so hideous now that you've seen I'm bald? Or is it my tattoo that you don't like?"

“No Nathalie, please don't think that. You're very beautiful..."

“You've upset me Zoe. If you mean it come and show me." Zoe was only two paces away but seemed to take an eternity to approach. When she was in range Nathalie took her hand and placed it on her scalp. “It's nice and smooth, Jen shaves me every day. She won't allow me to have hair. I was so upset when she first shaved me but after a while I started to like it. Do you like how it feels, Zoe?"

Zoe's eyes seemed bigger than ever. Her irises were thin rims around hugely dilated pupils. She nodded mutely. Her lips parted as if she were about to speak but no sound issued. She raised her other hand and now all of her fingers caressed Nathalie's scalp as if she were handling something precious and delicate. Nathalie was clearly enjoying the sensation, a serene smile spreading over her face.

Zoe looked nervously at Jen. “Did you really shave her head?" Her voice was a quiet croak.

“I did," Jen confirmed. She'd planned to say that she hadn't forced Nathalie to do anything but suddenly she wanted to play along. Zoe thought she was a dominatrix and suddenly that seemed to give her a mystique and power that thrilled her. “Bad girls don't deserve to have hair," she added, wondering where that had come from.

Zoe whimpered. “Please don't do anything to me, Jennifer," she pleaded.

“You need to tell Nathalie what you think of her tattoos, Zoe," Jen said very calmly. The mask seemed to allow her to become an entirely different person.

She looked down at Nathalie's pubis, not without embarrassment, which was increased as Nathalie chose this exact moment to allow a stream of urine to escape, sighing with relief.

“It's a lovely tattoo," Zoe whispered. “I like tattoos and I want to get one. I'm saving up to get one."

“Would you like to kiss it?" Nathalie said. Jen found herself putting her hands on Zoe's shoulders and urging her to kneel. The floor looked clean but it was a toilet floor and she sensed Zoe's humiliation. She willingly placed her lips on Nathalie's tattoo.

Nathalie stroked Zoe's long hair and cradled her head. “You look too young to get a tattoo." Zoe protested that she was nineteen and was studying at the local university. “Well in that case I'll give you my tattooist's card. If you let her know I sent you she'll give you a very good rate. But you have to promise to come and show Jennifer and me your tattoos whenever you get new ink."

“Oh, I will. Thank you, Nathalie."

“Now be a good girl and lick me clean." Zoe looked terrified and disgusted. She was clearly reluctant to do it but the sight of Jen moving closer made her comply. Her tongue moved gently over Nathalie's shaved slit. She moaned as she tasted urine but didn't dare disobey. “What a good girl you are," Nathalie cooed. She raised Zoe's head and their lips met. Jen shuddered as she imagined that the girl's lips still tasted of piss, but somehow that just seemed to make the scene more erotic. “And are you going to kiss Jennifer too? You wouldn't want her to feel hurt, would you?"

Zoe stood and turned to Jen without a word. Jen put her arms around her. She was very slender and half a head shorter than Jen. She tilted her head back and opened her mouth. Jen could feel her hot breath on her cheek. She looked into Zoe's eyes and could see it wasn't only fear that made her do this. There was desire and passion there too. Jen realised that she'd never felt more alive as she let her lips press heavily against Zoe's. She pulled her boyish frame tight to herself, so tight that she felt like she would crush her, and kissed her roughly. She heard gasps and moans which it took her a moment to realise were her own. She ended her embrace feeling shocked and guilty.

Nathalie wasn't finished yet. She beckoned Zoe to kneel again. “Is it ok if I keep a memento of our meeting? I'd like to take a lock of hair." Zoe nodded her tacit agreement. Nathalie took a tiny set of Victorian nail scissors from a case in her handbag. “Jennifer will hold up your hair. We wouldn't want it trailing on the floor. Now put your head in my lap, Zoe."

She lay her head sideways over Nathalie's thigh as Jen played with her locks. Nathalie separated a thick strand from the right side of her nape. It was almost two inches in diameter. Jen's eyes widened. She couldn't possibly cut all that hair?

She could. The scissors snipped right to Zoe's scalp. Jen could see her expression change as she felt snip after snip. There was a large almost-bald area on the side of her nape now as Nathalie allowed her to stand again. The thick dark strand was bound with an elastic band and coiled into an envelope. Zoe rubbed at her nape in obvious shock. She wouldn't be able to wear her hair up without the cropped area being very evident.

“I'll treasure that, Zoe," Nathalie smiled. “You know, you should get your hair cut shorter. It would make you look so much more grown up. I'm a trained hairdresser, so get in touch if you decide you want a makeover."

Now Nathalie was assisted back into her chair. Contacts were exchanged before the three of them made their way back into the public world of the café. As Jen wheeled Nathalie out of the café she smiled back at Zoe, whose face betrayed a complex mixture of feelings. Jen wondered if those few brief minutes had ignited something in the girl which would set her life on a new course.

Back at Nathalie's home Jen couldn't stop going over the events of the day, particularly the encounter with Zoe. She felt as elated as she did as a little girl when Christmas day arrived.

“I can't believe she did everything you asked. She licked you clean. The poor little thing was terrified."

“To be fair, Jennifer, she was more scared of you. Whenever you came near her I could see her panicking," Nathalie replied.

“Only because you told her that I'd forcibly shaved you!"

Nathalie laughed. “And didn't you love going along with it?" She pulled Jen close to her on the sofa. “She will definitely be back for more. When she gets in touch do you want to make her bald?" She pulled the fastenings loose on Jen's dress and started to kiss her breasts. Jen was intoxicated. She felt high, the sensation of Nathalie's pierced lips on her was delicious and the fantasies of taking control of Zoe pushed her into a sort of delirium.

“Oooh, Nathalie, could I really make her as bald as you," she whispered breathlessly. Her hand reached down to her soft bush and she started to rub at her clitoris. Nathalie lifted her hand away.

“I tell you when you can touch that. You do remember you promised to obey me? Do you still want that? I'm starting to think I misjudged you, that you're dominant."

Jen squirmed as her hand was pulled away. Nathalie's control made her even more excited. “I don't know, I love being yours, but I loved the power I had over Zoe too. I'm confused." She kissed Nathalie's head as she continued to suck at her breasts, taking a nipple in her lips now.

“You're a switch. It's not so rare. You enjoy both roles, which is great." She took Jen's nipple in her teeth and closed her jaws till Jen moaned, then started to caress the tip of the nub with her tongue stud.

Jen wailed. “Oh, I'm going to cum, Nathalie, is it OK for me to cum?"

Nathalie said nothing, she kept on with her tongue, then reached between Jen's thighs and placed two fingers over her clit. As she moved them in circles she pushed Jen to orgasm. She licked her fingers then started to rub Jen's juices over her own clit and soon attained a climax of her own.

Nathalie groaned. “Oh I hate being injured. There's so much I can't do. I can't wait until I'm recovered. They tell me it could be months though. Months till I can really show you what I'm capable of."

Jen hugged her. “Oh Nathalie. You've already shown me things I couldn't have dreamed. I know how determined you are and you'll be on your feet sooner than they say. Just don't overdo things. When I tell you to go easy, listen to me. We don't want any setbacks."

“My own little nurse looking after me," Nathalie smiled. “I'll listen to your medical advice, but you don't think you can ever dominate me, do you? If I even suspect you're thinking about it I'll show you how mean I can be when my temper comes out."

“I'll be a good girl, Nathalie," Jen replied. She thought of laughing off the threat but sensed that Nathalie was entirely serious.

“We need to get you ready for your first film role, Jennifer. I think we should do something with your hair. Pre-Raphaelite curls. I'll set it on rags overnight. It will look gorgeous tomorrow."

Jen had to admit that she loved the idea of Nathalie styling her hair. She'd always loved playing with her hair and had always lavished a lot of attention on it. It was waist length, light red, almost dead straight (it did get a little wavy if it got wet, which she hated). She was sent to wash her hair in the shower and returned to Nathalie with all the styling products that were necessary. Nathalie pulled the towel from her wet hair. Jen knelt before her and bowed her head as Nathalie combed out the tangles. She dried it till her hair was just damp, combed out a section and sprayed it, then started to twist it around a strip of rag.

“This is an old fashioned way that people used to curl their hair. Sometimes old ways are best. You have so much hair it's going to take a while." Jen felt Nathalie knot the first rag to bind the curl tight to her head and smiled.

“As long as I'm with you it can take forever. I might need to get up to stretch my legs though."

Nathalie tutted. “You'll have to get used to a bit of discomfort. I bet you get cross when patients complain all the time don't you?"

To take her mind off the difficulties of kneeling for an extended period, Jen asked Nathalie what the film was about.

“You'll play an innocent who stumbles across a sort of weird orgy. It'll be like a classical myth, where someone stumbles across the gods at play and is transformed as a punishment. You have read Ovid? Oh, what do they teach at schools these days?

“Anyway, you'll be transformed into one of the women who you spied on. So that's pretty much all the plot... not that the plot is so important to most of our viewers."

“How will I be transformed?" Jen asked, intrigued.

“Well, you'll be dressed in something very risqué, we'll redo your hair, make-up. And you'll get to behave like a slut, which I can see won't be hard for you."

“Oh, but I won't be able to do it for a camera, Nathalie!"

A shriek ended Jen's complaint as Nathalie tugged on the strand she was twisting. “You'll do as the director tells you! Because I'm the director and you promised to obey me. Now stop stressing that you'll be recognised. Once you've been through hair and make-up you'll look entirely different."

“Yes Nathalie," Jen muttered. “Where are we going to film it?"

“There's a derelict hospital on the moors. We've cleaned up a few rooms ready for filming. I should have been acting in it but the accident has ruined that plan. Some of my friends are going to play the women who abduct you. Don't worry, they'll make sure you enjoy yourself."

They were up at dawn the following day. Jen had slept upstairs in Nathalie's large bed, Nathalie downstairs in the hospital bed she'd been provided with. Jen went to brush her teeth and smiled as she saw herself with the rags still tied into her hair. She looked quite ridiculous. She heard Nathalie calling and made her way downstairs.

“Come on, hurry, we're running late. It's going to be a very long day's shoot. And we can't set off till you've shaved me."

Jen oiled Nathalie's scalp before helping her to get into her wheelchair. She found she was feeling more adept with the straight razor, not worrying constantly about making a cut. Within a few minutes Nathalie was once again fully smooth. “Eyebrows, too, honey?" she asked, and shaved them as requested.

Soon they set off in the car. Despite the hurry Nathalie had applied some make-up and looked very glamorous. Jen felt ashamed of the rags in her hair and was glad that no one was about to see her at such an early hour. The car was loaded with heavy boxes and bags: lights, cameras and other filming gear. They drove about thirty miles, down deserted country roads. Jen was glad of the GPS; the tiny roads wound like a labyrinth over the moorland.

They arrived at the hospital. It wasn't visible from the road, just a large chained gate set in a high fence. Nathalie gave Jen the key for the padlock and they entered. The driveway was in poor condition, the tarmac cracked and potholed. The area around was wooded and overgrown with brambles. “We'll get some exteriors of you in these woods," Nathalie said. “The weather is fine and the light should be really good."

The hospital itself was a dismal spectacle. There were several small hut like structures laid out in a grid, then larger barrack-like blocks. A large Gothic revival hall was laid out before them. All looked like a good storm would finish them off. “Why did they build a big hospital all the way out here?" Jen asked.

“It was a mental handicap hospital, as they used to call them. They liked to keep disabled people hidden away. Terrible places. Families could hardly ever visit because it was so inaccessible. Imagine having to live your whole life in a place like this." Jen grimaced.

“It's like my dream," Jen said, more to herself than to Nathalie, but she immediately wanted to know more details. “I was in charge of some kind of institution, I couldn't even say what it was. There was a young girl that I had to punish."

“Oh, how lovely. Did you enjoy it? What did you do to her?"

“It was horrible, Nathalie, a nightmare." She blushed and Nathalie's smile showed that she couldn't deceive her.

There were a couple of cars parked at the side of the hall and Nathalie had Jen park alongside. “We need some shots of the façade and we don't need cars cluttering them up." Nathalie awkwardly dragged herself out of the car and into her wheelchair and Jen manoeuvred her to the front of the Gothic revival building. Jen had to drag the chair backwards up the steps. They entered a large foyer, dusty, damp, mildewed. Nathalie directed her toward a corridor. “There's an office there that we've set up as our base."

The sound of a generator led Jen toward the room. Some makeshift lights illuminated the corridor which was draped with cables. Jen could hear voices. She pushed Nathalie in and saw that four women were already there. They all crowded around Nathalie, making a fuss of her. Two of them were positively Amazonian and Jen was sure these were stars of the production. She thought she recognised one of them.

Nathalie made the introductions. The two giants were Nicole and Olivia, the other two were Julie (camera) and Fran (sound and everything else). “Ella is on her way," Nicole informed Nathalie.

She snorted. “Always the last. Today she's going to get a forfeit. Oh, and this is our star, can I introduce Jennifer?"

Jen smiled and waved, feeling very foolish as soon as she did. How could she even pretend to be cool with her hair tied in rags? “I know you don't I?" Nicole asked. “You came to see Nat in hospital. You brought the wig."

Nathalie spoke before Jen could. “Yes, she did but it's all hush hush. Nurses/patients, all those bullshit rules. So we have to call her... Cassandra."

Nicole groaned. “Another classical reference, is it? Who was she, another ill-starred nymph?"

Nathalie narrowed her eyes. “Actually she was an ill-starred prophetess, but it's a lovely name. Isn't it, Cassandra?"

It took a moment for Jen to realise she was being addressed and she nodded enthusiastically, although she couldn't conceive of herself being called Cassandra. Was it harder to imagine her name being Cassandra than conceiving of herself as an erotic actress?

“Cassandra" started to realise that the day was going to be real work. Everyone did a bit of everything and she was pressed into service to do Olivia's hair. She had bleached blonde hair, straight, past shoulders, layered heavily. Jen was instructed to use straighteners to get it nice and silky. Nathalie was performing the same service (although rather more efficiently) for Nicole, who was brunette and longer haired. Her waves were being tamed. Jen kept glancing over to see how Nathalie handled Nicole's hair and tried to emulate her but could see she was never going to keep up. She was also keen to steal glances because Nicole was extremely beautiful and the sight of her and Nathalie together made Jen feel like she was in a dream. Olivia was very striking too, tall, broad shouldered, narrow waist, fine featured but not as attractive to Jen, although she knew that was just a matter of taste. She felt very plain indeed in such company.

Nicole's hair was pulled back into a tight ponytail at the top of her head, lots of hairspray being applied to smooth her hair. Nathalie then took over Olivia's styling, putting her hair into a tight French pleat at the back. As she did, Jen sat for Nicole, who blasted her rag-tied tresses with a dryer on maximum heat. “It'll make the curl hold," she explained.

It was now that Ella made her appearance. She was older than the others, Jen guessed mid-thirties (she estimated that Olivia and Nicole were something like her age, Nathalie was four years older), as tall as Nicole but more heavily built, though she had a narrow waist. She had huge breasts, obviously enlarged beyond their natural dimensions and looked utterly terrifying to Jen, although the others greeted her with obvious affection. Her hair was curly and dyed blonde, her darker natural shade visible at the roots. It was cut to her shoulders and Jen thought that she was far more in need of styling than any of the others. Nathalie hadn't missed her need for grooming either.

“Oh Ella, your hair... You could have at least had the roots touched up. You know, you're going to be in the role I was supposed to play. Are you up for something? There was supposed to be a shot where the hood comes off and a bald head is revealed. How about we finally take you bald?" Ella's composure slipped. She looked stunned.

“Come on Ella, you've been saying for ages that you wanted to try bald. Now's your chance. Let go of the curls," Olivia taunted.

Nathalie was enjoying the scene. “You'll get an extra five hundred pounds on your fee. Of course I would film it and get some photos. What do you say?"

Ella tugged at a curl. She was obviously in some turmoil. “Make it eight hundred...?"

“Five hundred," Nathalie replied.

“Six hundred?"

“Five hundred and I let my personal barberette do the shave." Jen gasped as she thought of shaving Ella. “This is Cassandra, she does a wonderful straight razor shave. You're not going to miss out on this chance are you?"

Ella smiled as she eyed Jen. “OK, you have a deal. Nice make-up though if you're going to film."

“Of course. We want you to look your sexy best. Can't disappoint your fans"

Nathalie went to work on Ella as Nicole did the same for Jen. She was given barely any make-up, just a touch of concealer around her eyes and a dusting of powder (“to reduce reflections from the lights"). Then the rags were removed from her hair and the curls teased apart. Her fine hair formed a cloud of curls which framed her face. She examined herself in the mirror; she looked so young, innocent. She'd have liked a little more make-up (she didn't like to be seen without mascara as she disliked her pale lashes) but was thrilled by her hair.

Ella looked more fierce than ever now. Her lips were deep red, outlined with black and Nathalie had given her dramatic black and white make-up around her eyes. Her curls had been blow-dried to give them a little more shape, but it wasn't a very flattering look, somewhat old-fashioned and Jen thought it made her look older. “What should I wear, Nat?" she asked.

“That bra top would be nice. I'll let you wear a cape for the cut. We've got those nice satin ones with the latex collars."

Ella slipped out of her top, revealing her breasts without any self-consciousness. Jen was sure she was the only one present who felt embarrassment. Ella's breasts were huge, the skin pulled tight around the globes, her areolae stretched over a large area at the front. Jen had only seen breasts like these in pictures. She was slightly repulsed but fascinated and, she had to admit, aroused.

A chair was set up, surrounded by lights and cameras. Jen changed into a simple white dress, sleeveless, embroidered around the collar and shoulders. She approached the caped Ella, clippers in her hand, feeling hopelessly out of her depth. Nathalie barked orders on what she should do. “Hold them with the blades at the bottom of your hand, then straight to the middle of her forehead and buzz a strip right down the middle."

“Oh... oh god. Are you sure I can do this Ella," Jen asked nervously.

She tutted. “Just get on with it before I change my mind. I thought you were good at this."

The cameras were rolling and Nathalie called “Action."

Jen flicked the switch. The clippers throbbed in her hand. She ran her fingers through the front of Ella's curls twice, then placed the blades to her hairline. She pulled them toward herself and shivered to see the curls come free. They gathered in the blades, then tumbled down the back of Ella's head. There was a bald stripe on top now, a deep valley in the full curls. Ella stared straight into the camera, her arms shifting nervously under the cape. Jen paused. Was she to continue? The room was silent. She ruffled Ella's curls, then harvested another swath from the top. She was trembling with excitement. The top was bald now, the thick curls reduced to mere stubble. Jen tipped Ella's head to the side and pulled the clippers slowly through the side. She was completely engrossed in seeing the hair buzzed away. The presence of the cameras was forgotten. At least it was until she moved to the side to position herself to shave the back. Nathalie told her to pause as Julie moved her camera to get a clearer shot.

“You're looking good, Ella," Nathalie said. “Doing OK?" Ella nodded and stared straight into Nathalie's eyes. Jen sensed that Ella wasn't finding this as easy as she thought. “Right Cassandra, do the other side, then we'll reset for the back."

Jen flicked the clippers back on, paused till she was sure the cameras were live, then peeled away more of the curls. She could see the shape of Ella's head clearly now. It was smooth and round, very different to Nathalie's more sculptured skull. She buzzed around the ear, rubbing her fingers lightly over the rim before she folded it very gently down, then used the side of the blade to erase the little fringe of hairs that had avoided the clippers. She could hear Ella breathing unevenly and saw the cape move. She was sure Ella was touching herself.

The cameras were moved again to record the hair being shaved from Ella's nape. Jen had to stand in a slightly unnatural position to allow a clear shot, but she soon adjusted. Each breath was audible now as Ella had to keep her head bowed. Jen ran the clippers slowly up the back, shearing from neck to crown in an unbroken stroke. She could hardly contain her arousal any more. She paused to stroke the soft stubble. The touch seemed to take Ella by surprise and she inhaled sharply. “You look so sexy," Jen said.

The last of the curls were severed and Jen continued to buzz the blades over Ella's shorn scalp. She spread her fingers wide over the top of her head and pulled her head back into an upright position. She felt a shudder pass through Ella's body.

Nathalie called a pause. “That was a lovely reaction shot. You didn't cum then did you Ella?"

Ella looked at her sternly. “No, I never. Get me a mirror, I want to see myself." When Nicole held one in front of her, Ella cursed. “What have you done to me?" She tried to lift her hands but gave up when they became entangled in the cape. She curled her lips inward over her teeth. Jen could see she was feeling emotional but was trying to suppress it.

“Ella, you're not going to cry are you? It's only hair, that's what you always said."

She was clearly needled. “No, I'm fine with it. Looks... OK." Her front didn't convince anyone. Jen felt sympathy for her. She'd shaved off Ella's hair without a thought for how it was affecting her.

“It looks great Ella. It makes you look..." She tailed off as Ella glared at her.

“So you want the same, do you, Cassandra?"

“Uh... no, but..."

Nathalie intervened. “Play nice Ella. She was telling you it suits you, which it does actually. And you did a wonderful job, Cassandra, you looked like you were enjoying yourself. I was worried you'd look terrified once the cameras came on but you did us proud." Nathalie pulled Jen toward her and kissed her. “Now we need to lather her up and get her nice and smooth. Let's go quicker, we need to get on with the proper shoot."

Ella took a couple of minutes to compose herself and while she did Nicole mixed up some shaving soap. Once the red lights came on Jen brushed it over Ella's scalp. Ella looked stony faced and Jen sensed her hostility. She covered her scalp with an even layer of white suds then started to tickle at her nape with the brush, the bristles barely touching her skin. Ella lowered her head and moaned slightly, which encouraged Jen to continue. Once she was satisfied that Ella was sufficiently sensitised she folded a towel over her left arm and lifted the razor. The first strokes went up Ella's nape. “Don't move now," she advised.

The razor slid up Ella's neck with a slight rasp from the stubble. Jen wiped the blade on the towel and made another stroke. The scalp looked so pure and smooth now. Jen's nervousness subsided as she became engrossed in the task; she wanted to see Ella's head smooth, hairless, gleaming. Jen moved in front of Ella and lifted her chin so that she was looking up into her face. Ella looked lost. Her composure had evaporated and now she looked surprised that Jen was shaving her with such confidence. The blade slid back over the top of her head, scratching as it removed the velvet stubble. Ella's cheeks flushed with red and she moved her hands furtively under the cape. Every touch of the razor seemed to increase her excitement. Her eyes were fixed on Jen who smiled at her, then formed her lips into a pout and simulated a kiss.

Now that she'd finished shaving Ella, Jen bundled up the towel and rubbed it roughly over Ella's scalp to cleanse it of the remains of the soap. The sensation caught her off-guard and she grunted. Jen felt a prod at her hip and turned to see Nathalie offering a bottle of skin lotion. She took it and squirted a lot into her palm, then worked her hands together before Ella's face. She spread her fingers and placed them on Ella's scalp. Ella closed her eyes and uttered a long sensual sigh. Slowly, gently, Jen applied the lotion to her scalp, front to back, ending with her fingertips massaging Ella's nape. Ella's face was distorted as she was overcome by pleasure. Her body tensed and she remained rigid in the chair. Jen leant forward and placed her lips on Ella's head, warm, smooth, perfumed. She parted her lips and let the tip of her tongue slide from side to side. Ella moaned loudly and Jen suspected she was orgasming, but she held herself so rigid it was impossible to be sure.

Finally Jen rose and smiled down at Ella. Nathalie called cut. Ella pulled the cape free and rubbed at her head. “Oh shit, it's..." She was unable to find the words to express what she felt. She took the mirror again and Jen observed that she was still shocked to see herself.

“You look ten years younger," Jen smiled.

Ella looked at her fiercely. “Just wait and see what I've got in store for you."

“Now, now, Ella, don't be mean." Nathalie was trying to calm her down. “Cassandra did a lovely job on you didn't she?" She stroked Ella's head sensuously and her demeanour changed.

“Oh Nathalie, it feels all tingly. I think I know why you keep yours shaved now."

“And my little Cassandra does a wonderful job, doesn't she?"

“She enjoyed it far too much, the little..."

“Ella! I saw how much you enjoyed it too. We've got it all on camera. Now for once in your life admit that you enjoyed something and thank Cassandra."

Ella rubbed her head. “Yes, you did OK... for an amateur," she finally said to Jen, with an odd smile. Jen could see she was going to be tough to win over.

“Well you'll never guess what her day job is! She's a real nurse," Nathalie announced. Everyone suddenly paid attention. She was astounded by the reaction. It seemed very commonplace given what everyone else here did for a living but for some reason they seemed to find her profession significant.

Julie brought the discussion to an abrupt end. She needed to get on with the exterior shots with Jen (or Cassandra as everyone was now referring to her). Fran and she would work on these as the woods wouldn't allow Nathalie access. Nathalie and the others would start to prepare the interior shots.

Jen enjoyed her first scenes as an actress. Julie and Fran were full of helpful advice, patient when she made a mistake and professional and efficient in their work. She was filmed walking barefoot through the wood, picking flowers. Jen's instinct was to be too demonstrative; she found that Julie praised her much more when she limited her gestures and maintained a neutral expression. The shots took more than an hour and Jen was cold and exhausted by the time she did her last shot, approaching the front of the Gothic revival building and cautiously entering the door.

The interiors were being filmed in an adjacent block, as this was better preserved (“It was the one with the least pigeon shit," Fran explained). Upon arrival Jen could hear that the others were already here and Julie signalled her to remain silent in case they were in the middle of a take. They arrived at the door of a room and waited outside until they could hear that no filming was in progress.

The room had been a shower room and was completely covered in white tiles, cold and clinical, dazzlingly lit. There were various antique medical devices arranged in the centre, but what most astonished Jen was that the three actors were covered head to foot in latex. She had no difficulty telling which was Ella; her body was unmistakable. She wore a surgical green latex suit, marked with red crosses over her nipples, her now bald scalp covered by a tight hood and only her face visible. The others wore white outfits with large red crosses on the front and both had nurse head-dresses attached to the hoods which covered their faces completely. Only their eyes and lips were exposed but she could differentiate them as Nicole's long ponytail hung from a hole in the top of her hood.

Jen felt a genuine fear as she surveyed the scene. The women looked terrifying, faceless demons gathered around an operating table. And who would be lying on the slab but her? She felt a dread growing inside her. Nathalie's welcome distracted her. Julie gave a glowing report on Jen's work.

The next scene was going to be Jen entering the building, then being discovered by Nicole and Olivia, seized and dragged away. Within a few minutes the cameras were set in the foyer of the building and the filming of the scene commenced.

Jen nervously crossed the floor, then Nicole and Olivia appeared behind her, taking her arms. She screamed and struggled, her real terror feeding her performance. It was Ella who called cut. “Far too much!" she said crossly. “I thought we wanted mute and passive? Let's get another take."

Jen messed up take after take. Ella's criticism had hurt her and she lost concentration and she kept missing her marks. When she finally managed a take where she got to the place where she was seized her fear once again gripped her and she screamed. Ella looked on the point of another outburst. Nathalie took control. “Let's have five minutes." She took Jen aside as the others went for coffee.

“You're getting too tense. Here, take this." She held out a pill.

Jen stared at her in surprise. “What is it?"

“Don't worry, nothing dangerous, it will just relax you. It'll make you more amenable which will help you to look right in this role." Jen still hadn't moved, alarmed by the thought of taking drugs. Nathalie placed the pill on the tip of her own tongue then leant forward and kissed Jen. Her tongue snaked into Jen's mouth and flicked the pill onto the back of her tongue. She had no choice but to swallow it or choke. Nathalie seemed intent on making the most of the kiss and soon Jen was moaning as their tongues swirled together ecstatically. “There, wasn't so bad was it?" Nathalie said at last. “Oh, and I love the curls. If I didn't have the bad leg I'd be all over you." Jen giggled shyly. “I'm going to do something to stop you shouting and you won't like it. But... you need to accept it."

Jen looked at her nervously. She couldn't bring herself to say anything and nodded.

Nathalie opened a velvet box and took out a small device which seemed to be two stiff wire arches held together with springs. The ends of the wires were set in rubber blocks. Nathalie used a pair of forceps to squeeze the blocks together and the device opened up like a mouse trap. “Open your mouth and put your tongue out," Nathalie ordered. Jen obeyed but felt panic. The wires slid over her tongue and Nathalie manipulated the device into position. She released the forceps and the wires closed on her tongue, snapping shut with great force. The wires were bent to form teeth-like points and it felt like they were going to sever Jen's tongue. She wailed as the pain grew and gestured for Nathalie to remove the device. Nathalie remained calm and slid a finger into the side of Jen's mouth.

“Bite on the blocks, it will relieve the tension." She had to repeat the instruction before Jen complied. She found when she did that the springs opened sufficiently to stop the pain but not enough to free her tongue. No matter how hard she bit her tongue was trapped by the wires.

“This will keep you from shouting out," Nathalie informed her. “I'm going to leave it in for a while so don't bite too hard or your jaws will cramp up. Chew at the blocks from time to time, it will keep the circulation going." Jen nodded, still feeling stunned that Nathalie had done this to her. Ella came over now. “I've gagged her and she took a pill so I'm sure she'll be fine now," Nathalie informed her. Ella smiled cruelly.

“Oh don't worry Cassandra, I'll take care of you now." She fussed with Jen's curls, preening them back into shape.

Jen was beginning to feel some of the effects of the pill. She felt a little light headed, but not unpleasantly. It wasn't unlike the glow from a single beer. She saw the others return and went to her position for another take.

It soon became apparent that the pill had had more of an effect than she had believed. As she moved across the room she felt giddy and each step seemed to take an eternity. She was sure that everyone would think she was moving too slowly and kept expecting to hear Nathalie shout cut, but she felt unable to act more quickly. She became so focussed on this idea that when she felt Nicole grab her arm she reacted with genuine surprise. Her jaws were still clamped shut and she could only show her shock with her eyes. Nicole and Olivia took hold of her firmly and shepherded her across the room. Everyone was delighted with the take.

“That was perfect!" Nathalie gushed, and even Ella looked pleased. Jen smiled with relief and waited expectantly for the gag to be removed. She was to be disappointed. Everyone now retreated to the room which was dressed as an operating theatre. Jen was instructed to lie on the table while cameras were aligned so that the necessary shots could be obtained.

“I'm not going to tell you what will happen to you next," Nathalie said to Jen. “Just stay in role and react to what happens. I'm sure you'll enjoy it"

Jen sat and nodded as Nathalie spoke to her but found she had to concentrate to take in her instructions. Her thoughts were very fuzzy now. She pointed to her mouth, sure that Nathalie had forgotten about her gag. “No, honey, that stays on till I say so. OK, we're ready now. Get up and we can do the next shot." She had to be helped off the table, sure that she'd slip over if she tried to get down alone from the high platform. Her head was swimming now although she found the intoxication pleasant. She was told to go over to Nicole and Olivia at the far side of the room. When action was called they took hold of her arms and forced her across the room. The tiles felt gritty under her bare feet and she found it hard to keep up with them, almost falling more than once. The expression of fear in her eyes was genuine.

Both of the women towered over her, the difference in their heights exaggerated by the tall heels they wore. Olivia dragged her roughly onto the table and pinioned her arms while Nicole fastened leather straps around her wrists, fixing her hands to the table near her shoulders. Jen's head hung free over the end of the table until Nicole moved a neck rest into position. A leather strap was closed loosely around her neck, making it impossible for her to rise. Her head was still unsupported and she let it fall back, but quickly raised it when the room appeared to start spinning. Olivia reached for a pair of scissors which had been resting on an ice pack and brought them to the collar of Jen's dress. As the cold metal touched her skin she instinctively tried to pull away. Nicole held onto her ribs as Olivia continued to cut through the dress, but at each touch of the blades on her skin Jen's muscles twitched in reaction.

The dress was cut down the full length of the front, then across the shoulders and wrenched free of her body. Jen blushed as she realised she was naked on camera. “You've been spying on us, haven't you?" Olivia asked with menace. Jen chewed at the gag and stared in silence. “She doesn't even try to deny it! We punish voyeurs. The surgeon will be here soon to decide your fate." Jen had no doubts that Ella was the surgeon and thought that there was every possibility that she would inflict real punishments.

Nicole's gloved hands stroked over Jen's body. “She's a pretty little thing, isn't she?" she said with some menace. “I think we can have some fun with this one. If she plays along we might keep her." Jen shivered as her fingertips reached her right nipple. “You like that, don't you, you little slut?"

Jen did like it. She nodded as best she could, although her neck was aching with the effort of keeping her head raised. Nicole bowed over her body and put her lips to Jen's nipple; a moment later Olivia did the same. They were both expert and Jen moaned through her clamped teeth. The sensations were overwhelming, and as one licked and sucked the other would close her teeth until pain was felt. Pleasure and pain mingled until they were no longer differentiated in Jen's muddled consciousness. She opened her eyes and saw a camera pointed straight into her face, shutting her eyes again to go back into her private world where she could forget about the scene being a fiction. It felt more real than anything she'd experienced before.

A moan of dissatisfaction rose deep within Jen. Her conscious mind slowly tried to decode what was wrong and after a few moments she realised that her tormentors had released their contact. She raised her head to see what had stopped them and gurgled in terror, unable to cry out as she wished to due to the gag. Ella was standing over her, her face now contained within a gas mask, a long snout like muzzle tipped with two chrome vents which hissed as she breathed. Her eyes were invisible behind two smoked glass discs. Jen's thoughts went back to the previous day when Nathalie and she had toyed with Zoe and realised that the tables had now been definitively turned on her.

The sight of the faceless mask was genuinely unsettling for Jen and she felt panic as Ella stared down at her while Nicole and Olivia listed her supposed misdemeanours. “What a naughty girl," Ella hissed through the mask. Her fingers reached around Jen's throat and tautened the strap. “They used to hang spies. This one's not getting off so lightly. We're going to have our fun with her first." She made a sign to Nicole and Olivia and they moved a trolley into position behind Jen's head. Her head was lifted by Olivia as Nicole pushed plugs into her ear canals. Her hair was lifted free of her ears, the latex gloves sticking and tugging. Nicole pulled rubber pouches over each ear in turn; the latex constricted and deformed her ears. She heard Ella say something but was unable to comprehend the meaning, her hearing restricted by the plugs and pads.

A collar-like rubber ring was pulled over Jen's head, then stretched tightly so that it reached from nape to forehead and pressed across the ear pads. Her nurses then fed her hair into a large rubber bladder which was lowered onto her head. The edge was tightened so that it formed a seal around the rubber ring. Olivia compressed the sac and air hissed out of vents. Then hoses were clipped into each of the four vents, and these in turn were connected to a large pump. Jen heard a motor start to hum and heard a whooshing sound. A moment later she felt a trickle of warm water filling up the rubber sac and surrounding her scalp. Nicole monitored the seal, tightening a strap and wiping away a trickle of liquid which had escaped.

Jen could feel the warm liquid surrounding her scalp now. It gently started to wash from side to side as the pump forced liquid first in one side, then the other. The flow gently massaged her head and Jen enjoyed the sensation. She let her head fall back, relaxing her neck muscles. It still induced a wave of vertigo as the room started to spin but she could no longer fight it; keeping her head raised was too much effort. She let herself relax fully, momentarily even relaxing her jaw, but reflexively clamped it shut again as the gag tightened painfully on her tongue.

Jen's reverie was disturbed as she felt hands grip her knees and force them apart. She tried to raise her head but realised that she no longer had that option; one of the hoses had snagged, further restricting her movement. Nor could she hear anything; her plugged ears could now only hear a loud gurgle as the bladder rhythmically filled and emptied. Her body involuntarily twitched as a hand swept over her pubis. She was utterly defenceless now; the women could touch her, use her as they wished and nothing she could do would prevent it. Latex-clad fingers stroked her most intimate places. She was aware of a distant murmur of voices as they analysed and commented on her body. She was terrified and humiliated. She pulled her knees inward but felt strong hands pushing back against her efforts and blushed as she realised how much she liked the feeling; she felt a warmth growing in her loins as the hands pressed her thighs apart. She sighed as a hand once more rubbed over her mound and experienced a thrill as she felt bare fingertips on her curls; the glove had been removed. A long nail caressed the length of her slit and she shivered in anticipation. Her helplessness just increased her sensitivity. She knew she was wet and little excited yelps escaped through her teeth. Something cold and hard was lowered onto her mound, covering her sex completely. A finger probed at the edge of the thing, where it met her skin. Jen tried to imagine whose finger was touching her. She kept thinking of Ella, bold, bald, dominant, terrifying. She hoped it was her; she was thrilled by the idea of being in her power. She felt the cup pressed tight to her flesh, then felt a sucking as the air was drawn out. She moaned in surprise as her flesh was drawn upward into the device which sealed tightly onto her. More air was pumped out and the edge started to dig in. She could feel a burning as the vacuum made her flesh tingle and swell. Then something started to vibrate. A rubber bud was touching her mound and buzzing, frustratingly just out of alignment with her clit.

Jen raised her hips and snaked from side to side but realised that she was unable to change the position of the stimulator and moaned in frustration. She felt a stinging slap against the side of her buttock and somebody gripped her hips, pushing them back onto the padded bed. Her left leg was extended and a tight stocking was drawn over her foot and unrolled up her leg. The material pulled tightly, the constriction almost painful. She was in no doubt that her legs were being encased in rubber and shivered as she imagined herself covered in latex like her tormentors. She daydreamed about being in bed with Nathalie, clad entirely in latex. Now both legs had been covered and she tested the feeling. It was uncomfortable to flex her knees too deeply; the rubber squeezed at her joints and pulled at her skin. She held her legs out straight, although the bed only supported them to her thighs.

Jen was suddenly aware that Nicole was standing over her, lifting her head. Olivia pressed an eye patch over her right eye and Jen squealed as she felt that the edge of the patch had been coated with melted wax. The burning made her skin sting and her fingers clutched at the air until the agony passed. Lights inside the patch started to strobe rapidly and Jen was unable to avoid the intense flickering even when she closed her eye. She started to see brightly coloured patterns which changed too quickly to comprehend. She wanted it to stop; her senses were overwhelmed and she felt dizzy and nauseated. The nurses moved back out of her eye line and raised her legs so that her thighs lay on her abdomen. She reacted with panic as she felt hands tugging at the skin of her buttocks. Her resistance was quashed as her ankles were gripped and forced down. She could feel her calves start to tingle as the blood flow was constricted by the stockings.

A finger pressed and prodded at her anus. Jen wanted this to stop immediately. This was going too far. She tried to lift her head to catch Nathalie's eye but her efforts were in vain; she could barely raise her head and the one eye she could see out of was blinded by the intense lights if she didn't look straight up. She felt something cold touch her anus and twitched uncontrollably. It slid inside her now and she felt it expand, pulling her sphincter open. She moaned as she realised that it was a speculum; moaned and moaned incoherently through gritted teeth, an inarticulate protest which no one but her heard. She felt her cheeks blazing as she was stretched wider. She prayed for the pain to stop; instead she felt a finger penetrate her, wet and slimy, teasing, caressing. Her body trembled violently. It seemed to endure for minutes. When the speculum was finally withdrawn she felt something still occupied her; her muscles contracted to try to expel the foreign body but without success. It was lodged firmly in her dilated sphincter.

Her legs were extended and hung limply from the edge of the bed. Jen wiggled her feet slowly to try to get the blood flowing again. She could sense that someone was touching the machine that engulfed her pubis; suddenly the vacuum was broken and air rushed in. There was an intense burning as the pressure normalised. Her skin felt swollen and bruised. She sighed as someone rubbed a soft sponge over her mound; the cool water soothed the pain and felt delightful. There was something sticky coating her skin, covering the entire area that the cup had covered. Now she was being washed clean. It took a moment for Jen to decipher the sensations; something was different, wrong. She was sure that she was hairless. Her suspicions were confirmed when she felt gloved fingers stroke her. Her skin was silky and smooth. The caresses made her shiver. She was growing wetter by the second and thought with horror that without hair that her arousal would be entirely visible to the cameras.

Without warning the eye patch was wrenched free. The wax had congealed to form a seal and she felt a sting, especially over her eye socket. She looked up to see Ella holding the patch. In the wax she saw fine red hairs and felt a sense of dread as she realised that the wax had taken her eyebrow with it. Not content with the damage it had wrought Ella now wielded a pair of tweezers to rid Jen of any hairs which had remained. She realised that there was a pause in filming as she saw Julie making some adjustments. The pump was now turned off and Jen could hear when voices were raised. Ella ordered Jen to close her eyes as she picked up a tiny battery trimmer. Jen was powerless as she felt the eyelashes of her right eye being shorn to the edge of her eyelids. Ella wiped away the cut hairs and once again assumed the demeanour of her on-screen character. A camera pointed straight into Jen's face to record the transformation which had been effected.

Jen now watched in fascination as Ella opened a zipper on her suit, exposing her pussy. Jen's eyes widened as she tried to comprehend what she saw. Her vagina gaped wide; her inner labia were stretched tautly by two pierced rings in each, attached to small chains which vanished inside the latex suit. Above her clit hood was tattooed “FLEUR DU MAL".

“Do you want to lick me?" Ella demanded. Jen murmured and nodded. “I only admit pierced tongues... Ladies, you know what to do."

Jen saw Nicole approach. She prised Jen's jaws open, making her wail as the gag closed on her tongue. Nicole reached in with forceps and clamped the gag open, then eased it free of Jen's tongue. Her relief was so great that she was close to tears, but that relief was short lived. Olivia hooked another device over Jen's teeth and ratcheted her jaws apart. A suction tube was introduced into her mouth and pressed to the tip of her tongue, sealing onto it tightly. Her tongue was pulled out of her mouth; it was so sore from the gag that she started to cry immediately. Even as she saw Nicole unsheathe a needle Jen still couldn't believe that they would really pierce her. It was just a film, they'd use something to simulate it. Olivia tugged at the suction tube and Jen's tongue was immobilised. Nicole touched the tip of the needle to the underside of her tongue and Jen squealed. Her eyes rolled as she looked for someone to stop this. Then her nerves erupted in agony as the needle slid into her flesh. Nicole pushed the needle through in one fluid motion and blood trickled down into her throat. By the time Olivia released the suction tube she could feel round beads top and bottom of her tongue. She felt emotionless now; there were no more tears. She tried to keep her tongue still as every movement caused pain. Nicole released the jaw spreader and Jen gingerly closed her mouth. Her jaw muscles ached. She felt Ella's fingers on her chin, tipping her head back. Ella moved closer, her thighs touching Jen's cheeks. “Lick!" She ordered.

Jen could barely extend the tip of her tongue beyond her lips without searing pain. She touched it to Ella's labia which were stretched tight and smooth. The sensation fascinated her and she tried to explore more of her pussy but was unable to bear the pain that came each time she tried to reach further. “That's pathetic," Ella said scathingly. “Are you scared of my vagina?"

“No, it's beautiful," Jen mumbled. She could barely make herself understood.

“Then you should have the same." Before Jen could object Ella had covered her mouth with her pierced labia. Jen felt Nicole and Olivia swabbing at her mound. She moaned a protest but was silenced by Ella. “Keep licking if you know what's good for you," she called through the mask. Jen pressed the tip of her tongue between Ella's labia. Despite her fear she felt a surge of libidinous energy. She tried to ease her tongue out a little further, fighting through the pain, and prodded weakly at Ella's clit. The moan she elicited made her feel a profound pleasure.

Jen felt sick as forceps closed on her right labium. Ella pinched her nipple. “Stop worrying about what they're doing to you and keep licking." She swallowed hard and did as she was told. A moment later a needle penetrated her. The scream was muted by Ella's pussy which was pressed tight to Jen's lips. Her mind and body seemed weirdly out of synch. The pain hit her intensely, like a blow to the belly and Jen felt a shudder pass through her. As it continued to reverberate Jen realised that she was in the hold of a powerful orgasm. Ella continued to press herself over Jen's mouth and she weakly probed with her tongue in an attempt to draw some air. A second needle entered her flesh while she was still gripped by the climax. By now the lack of air was making her feel faint and she tried to pull her mouth free of Ella's hold. Eventually Ella arched her back and allowed Jen to suck in some air.

“You liked that, didn't you, girl?" Ella hissed.

Jen panted desperately and nodded, shame-faced. She steeled herself for the next piercings. She felt a tugging on her new rings and realised that all four were present; she wondered if she'd lost consciousness. The pain was unbearable and she begged for mercy. “Please, it hurts so much. And... I need to pee. May I use the toilet?"

She was afraid that she'd messed up the filming with her request, but was desperate. “Poor little thing," Ella laughed. “You heard her, she needs to pee. Show her what she's going to get."

Nicole held a sterile pack before Jen's face and she recognised it as a Foley catheter. “Please, no, not that!" she gasped. Her tongue refused to do her bidding and her speech was slurred to near incomprehensibility.

Ella brought her mask close to Jen's face. “I didn't get what you said. I suppose you were saying thank you."

Jen was panicking. She'd seen how painful most people found catheterisation and dreaded experiencing it for herself. She moaned as Olivia tugged at two of her rings; the wounds were fresh and tender and the pain was intense. Nicole swabbed her with saline, pulling at her flesh to expose the opening of the urethra. The tip of the tube was fed into her and Jen screamed as she felt a severe burning pain. The catheter was fed inside and a bulb used to inflate the balloon at the tip.

Ella was taking delight in her pain. “If you ask nicely I'll let all the pee out of your bladder."

“Please, Miss, it hurts. Let me pee," Jen whimpered.

Nicole attached a bag and turned the valve. Jen sighed as she felt the pressure in her bladder relent.

“Put her boots on and get her into the chair," Ella called to her assistants.

Jen was still unable to raise her head and saw nothing of what was taking place. Her legs were held straight as the boots were slid into place. She could feel tight, rigid sleeves envelop her upper thighs and realised that these were separate from the boots, which only came to her knees. As they were fastened she felt that her feet were held in a pointed position, her insteps bound into line with her shins. She soon discovered that her knees were locked but in her confused state was unable to work out precisely how her legs were immobilised. She felt the boots being tightly laced, closing firmly around her calves.

The rubber sac which covered Jen's head was now drained; the water was pumped out and the hoses pulled free. The last of the water was allowed to dribble into a bowl beneath her head. Jen's hands were freed and she was raised to a sitting position for what seemed like the first time in hours. She felt dizzy as she sat up and it took her a minute to regain her wits. She looked down at herself. Her pubis was hairless and four rings were prominent on her labia. She wore black leather ballet boots, the long heels running almost parallel to the sole; the laces were concealed under a leather flap which was sealed with a padlock. Metal rods were set into the heel and travelled up the side of her legs, through loops at the top of the boots, ending in the sleeves which covered her thighs. The catheter bag was fixed to her calf. Clear latex stockings covered all the visible flesh of her legs. When she reached to feel the stockings she saw that her fingers were adorned with long, claw-like black false nails. She had no memory of these having been glued in place.

Jen was helped up from the bed by Nicole and Olivia. She had to grip on to them tightly as she found it almost impossible to balance because of the boots and leg braces. In addition all of her weight went through her big toes and the pain was excruciating. She made her way across the space, teetering from side to side, leaning on the nurses, toward Ella who was standing behind a large leather-bound chair.

Before being allowed to sit Jen was made to support herself before the chair, spreading her feet wide and resting her hands on the chair arms. She blushed as she bent forward, aware that the object which had been inserted into her anus would be visible to the camera. Nicole gripped her ribs and told Jen to stand upright. Olivia fitted her with a canvas jacket with long sleeves which were stitched up at the ends. The jacket laced up at the back and Jen realised she was being put in a straight-jacket. Her hands were fastened together behind her back. She was turned around and a gentle push made her topple back into the chair.

Ella stepped before Jen and pulled her mask free. Jen couldn't take her eyes off her; she looked even more beautiful than Jen had remembered. She leant forward and placed her lips on Jen's and slid her tongue deep into her mouth. Despite the tenderness of her tongue, Jen was quivering with pleasure.

“Now that you've seen me, we have two choices. Either we dispose of you or we make you one of us. Which is it to be?"

“I want to be one of you," Jen lisped.

Ella peeled the hood forward and revealed her bald scalp. Jen was transfixed. It was like she was seeing her for the first time. She shifted in the seat awkwardly. “If you're going to join us you need an acceptable hairstyle," Ella stated. Jen grew pale.

“Please, not my hair," she groaned. She wondered if Ella and Nathalie had conspired to make her as bald as they were. Ella merely held a finger to her lips and gestured toward her assistants.

The rubber sac was loosened and worked free of Jen's head. Her hair was dripping wet and fell heavily over her back. Nicole tugged the band free from Jen's forehead and eased it over her hair, then freed her ears. Jen smiled at her in gratitude, her hearing fully restored.

Ella combed through Jen's hair which was full of tangles. She pulled the comb firmly, paying no heed of the tugging which made Jen wince. “Your hair is so long," Ella said. “Mine was long too but it had to be shaved. So much more beautiful now, isn't it?" she added menacingly. Jen thought of how aroused she'd been when she shaved Ella and felt tears in her eyes as she realised that she was now at her mercy, a quality which seemed to be lacking in Ella.

The nurses lifted Jen's legs onto supports which had been screwed onto the sides of the chair; they diverged at forty-five degrees and left her pierced vulva exposed. Ella was using a dryer to smooth her hair but Jen felt none of the relaxation that having her hair styled usually produced. She was experiencing something approaching a panic attack as she tried to come to terms with the idea that Ella was about to shave her. Nicole pushed her head back and kissed her with unexpected passion. Jen felt something small and hard on her tongue and realised that the kiss was a pretext for administering another pill. Regardless, she felt arousal. Nicole whispered “A present from Nat. Trust her, she's not going to let Ella go too far."

The second pill hit. Everything seemed to slow down, outside and in. Her anxiety reduced and she felt a pleasantly confused state engulf her thoughts. Looking up, Jen saw Ella standing before her, a set of clippers in her hand. She had to suppress a giggle, though she didn't find any humour in her situation. “Are you going to shave my head like yours?" Jen said, her voice slurred both by the injuries inflicted on her tongue and the chemicals she'd ingested. Ella pushed her head to the side and flicked the switch.

Jen felt her body crumple to the side, weak as a kitten as Ella exerted her physical dominance. The blades touched Jen's left cheek. She couldn't breathe; suddenly she felt her rational mind fighting to assert itself. “Please, don't shave me," she groaned. Too late. She felt the buzzing on her scalp, the blades moving in an arc around her ear. Her memory pulled out images from when Ella had sat for her, images of shaven scalp surrounded by thick curls. She wailed as Ella drew her long nails back through the side of Jen's hair and pulled a hank of hair free. Suddenly she felt close to an orgasm. Nicole and Olivia were standing before her, staring as Ella transformed her. It was Olivia who noticed how wet she was.

Her fingers stroked at the inside of Jen's thighs, above the leg braces. “You're getting all wet again. Do you like getting clippered?" Jen groaned. How could she possibly admit how aroused she was? She was sure that if she did it would give Ella reason to shave her fully. Olivia slid her hands over Jen's mound, making her squeal. The piercings were still raw and the feeling of the tube of the catheter felt alien and unpleasant. Despite that, Jen felt herself edge closer to a climax. “I asked you a question!" Olivia snapped. “Answer me!" Her fingers slid lower, and prodded at the plug which still sat in Jen's anus. At the same time Olivia placed her lips on the side of Jen's head and nuzzled against her scalp. Jen felt that her hair had been shaved, or very nearly. She felt her resistance erode and knew that she would climax. “Answer me!" Olivia repeated angrily.

“I don't... it's... I..." Jen couldn't form a coherent thought. Now her speech dissolved into breathy moans as she orgasmed. Ella made another swipe with the clippers which served to intensify Jen's climax.

“I think I have my answer," Olivia snorted and forced a finger into Jen's pussy, working the tip upward toward the catheter, making the tissues burn and sting. Despite the humiliation and suffering Jen's orgasm continued.

Ella forced the blades higher and higher up the left side of Jen's head. She realised that the roaring sound that she could hear was coming from her own mouth; she was screaming as the orgasm consumed her. The clippers mowed a path behind her ear and up to her crown, then Ella pulled more of the cut hair free. Jen stared up at Nicole who had remained static. Her dark eyes looked so mysterious within the mask. At a sign from Ella she moved forward and with Olivia's assistance pulled Jen to her feet. Tremors were still coursing through her and she wasn't sure that her knees wouldn't have buckled without the braces which held her limbs rigid. Ella pulled the jacket's fastenings free and tugged it away from Jen's arms. She used the unaccustomed freedom to place her hand around Nicole's waist and draw her closer, planting a soft kiss on her latex-covered cheek. Ella drew the kiss to a close by tugging on Jen's hair. She smiled in relief that she still had hair to pull.

A thick leather collar was bound around Jen's neck and her hands cuffed to the bar which extended a foot either side of the back of the collar. She was incapable of standing without support and swayed whenever the nurses moved their hold on the bar. Ella attached two hooks to it, one on either side of her head, each dangling from a cord suspended in the ceiling. She whispered into Jen's ear: “Keep still while the nurse does your make-up." Jen nodded meekly.

Nicole stood so that her body pressed against Jen's and brushed her hair off her face. She started to add make-up to Jen's face, brushing colours around her eye. Jen smiled at the welcome attention, her face only inches from Nicole's. “Your eyes are so pretty," she murmured. Nicole placed a finger on her lips.

“Hush, this will hurt." Jen face showed her confusion. After all she'd endured how could she be taxed by the application of cosmetics. Then she felt Olivia's fingers on her labia, spreading them and gripping the catheter. She moaned and pulled her hips back, the only movement of resistance that was available to her now.

“Kiss me, please," she whispered to Nicole, desperate for something to take her mind off the unpleasantness that was about to come. Nicole obliged her, placing her lips on Jen's. Her tongue slid over Jen's, probing at the new piercing. Every touch at the wound induced little flashes of agony for Jen but the excitement she felt made it more than endurable. Ella took hold of her hips and thrust them forward so that she couldn't move. She could feel Olivia grip the catheter and there was a strange sensation deep inside as the balloon was deflated. Then she felt the tube begin to slide out of her urethra. There was a slight burning sensation, but the pain was relatively mild. However, she found the experience horrible; there seemed to be a yard of tubing being pulled free and the sliding sensation induced nausea. Jen fought against the rising panic by pressing her lips more firmly against Nicole's. She tried to move her tongue too but found it was almost paralysed. As the catheter came free Nicole took a step back and Jen shivered, then moaned in relief.

A few minutes later Ella decided that Jen should see the results of her makeover. A covered mirror was set up in front of her and the cameras were carefully aligned so that they wouldn't be seen in the reflection. Jen was now feeling the effects of the pills very powerfully. She was giggly and would tell anyone who listened that she felt horny.

The nurses stood either side of her as Ella theatrically pulled the sheet away from the glass. Jen peered at the reflection. She saw Nicole and she saw Olivia and there was a girl between them, so that must be her, but she didn't look familiar. “Oh, I'm blonde!" Jen gasped. It was true, her hair had been coloured a very light ash blonde. She turned her head to get a better look at the left side which she initially thought had been shaved smooth; now she saw there was a slight peach fuzz which glittered in the lights. The whole side of her head was free of hair now and her ear was completely exposed. Nicole had given her very dramatic make-up, deep red lips, and gothic eye make-up, complete with long false lashes, except that her right eye was devoid of make-up, and also devoid of eyebrow and eyelashes. She should have been in shock but the image she saw was so far removed from the image she had of herself that she couldn't bring herself to believe that it was really her. The girl was too tall, she was naked apart from the weird boots, she was pierced. “So sexy," Jen moaned lasciviously.

Nicole pawed at her nape. “The seal covered up some of the hair here. There's still a bit of ginger left at the roots."

“We can't have that, can we?" Ella said. “People would think you're not a natural blonde. Pass me the clippers."

The yoke was removed and Jen leaned forward against Nicole to maintain her balance. She felt Nicole gather up her hair and twist it into a thick rope. She heard a roar as the clippers were turned on. The feeling of the humming blades on her nape made Jen shiver and moan. “Oh, that's all tingly," she lisped to Nicole. “You should try it yourself." She moved her fingers against Nicole's long ponytail.

Ella pressed the clippers tight into Jen's nape and buzzed carefully to make sure an even line was formed where her long hair started. “The stubble visibly changes colour," she noted. “Going to have to shave this..." Her nails stroked at Jen's velvety nape, eliciting another ecstatic ululation.

It was Olivia who rubbed lather over Jen's nape. She was still leaning against Nicole and Ella was pressing against her back, her oversized breasts rubbing and bumping against her bare skin. Jen was enchanted by being surrounded by three women; she felt like she'd been spirited into a magical erotic dream and if the price was to lose some of the hair she'd always treasured, then so be it.

The razor stroked up her neck. Jen could hardly control herself and Nicole had to hold her head to prevent her from moving. She reached out and grabbed a hand (Olivia's, but Jen wasn't even aware to whom it belonged) then moved it to her pussy. She moved it so that a finger rested on her pussy. Olivia obliged her by pushing slowly, rhythmically against her clit, the latex feeling smooth and sticky. As her skin stretched she felt sharp pangs from the piercings but that didn't dissuade her. She lay her hand over Olivia's and urged her to move more rapidly. Ella was shaving away the last of the stubble and her nape felt cool and fresh. She had to cum. Ella wiped her nape clean then started to kiss the bare scalp. Jen pushed harder at Olivia's hand and wailed. “Mmmmm, kiss me, kiss me," she moaned over and over. Nicole pushed her head down so that Jen's face rested in her cleavage. Now she felt two pairs of lips playing over her newly shaved nape. The sensations were perfect and Jen achieved the most blissful orgasm of her life.

The latter scenes were a blur in Jen's memory even as she filmed them. She could only recall fragments as the four women had what she could only describe as an orgy. She remembered penetrating Ella with the thickest dildo she'd ever seen, she remembered undressing Nicole and feeling shock as she saw that she was heavily tattooed, even more so than Nathalie. There had been a moment when her calf had cramped and she had to endure the agony, unable to flex her leg to ease the pain. But most of the memories were blissful; she could recall kisses on her buzzed scalp, which made her wet, and being allowed to kiss Ella's bald head, which was equally exciting. She'd discovered that the object which had been implanted in her rectum was a tube and at one point a long feather had been introduced. The tickling had made her scream, although she wasn't sure whether it was pleasurable or not; that seemed less important than that it was a powerful experience.

Jen still felt intoxicated as the set was disassembled around her. Everyone seemed pleased with the results but she felt curiously empty. Nathalie came to talk to her. “Jennifer, you were so good, much better than I could have dreamed. I'm so proud of you."

“Thank you honey." Jen's speech was getting worse; her tongue had swelled and she was trying to talk without moving it.

“Why don't you keep the boots on, they look sexy and we can have some fun when we get home."

Jen giggled. “You're so naughty. But I won't be able to drive in these boots!"

Nathalie smiled indulgently. “It's not just the boots that mean you can't drive. Ella's going to take us home and stay over."

Jen had to be dragged and lifted onto the back seat of the car. Once Nathalie and Ella took their seats she giggled as she saw two bald heads and couldn't resist reaching out to stroke them. “Don't even think of doing that while I'm driving or you'll be wearing handcuffs all the way home," Ella growled.

As the car pulled up at Nathalie's house Jen was still giddy and excited. Ella managed to get her out with some difficulty and she supported herself on Nathalie's wheelchair as they entered the house. Jen was eager to continue to explore her new-found sexual freedom but the others decided that food was more important; they'd hardly eaten all day. Jen didn't even make it till the take-away arrived. She crashed spectacularly, falling into a deep sleep on the sofa.

The come-down was tough. Jen awoke the next morning, aching all over, her mouth parched. She tossed over in bed and saw someone laying alongside her. It took a moment to realise that she was sharing the bed with Ella. She edged herself up from the mattress and found she could barely stand; her leg muscles were knotted, a mass of aches. She stumbled to the bathroom as quietly as she could, supporting herself with a hand on the wall, and groaned as she looked in the mirror. Her hair really was blonde. She scooped it back and saw her sideshave. Ella had taken it so high!. The entire side had been shaved to the shortest stubble and because it had been bleached it looked bald. She rubbed at it, shivering at how sensitive it was. Her long false nails would have to go too; she had to work a ten hour shift later in the day.

Even worse than her hair was the sight of her face without make-up. Her right eye looked weird, stripped of lashes. The absence of one eyebrow made her look like the victim of a drunken prank. She fussed at her hair, roughly pushing it into a parting on the right. She felt a measure of relief that the sideshave wasn't visible. She hoped that Nathalie would be able to do some magic with make-up to cover up her missing brow.

Jen opened her mouth and attempted to poke out her tongue, but a stab of pain made her rethink. She gaped and adjusted a lamp so that she could examine herself in the mirror; her tongue appeared to have swelled to twice its normal thickness and was coloured in shades of yellow and purple. The piercing seemed half submerged in the swollen flesh. Her labial piercings seemed to be healing better but Jen could barely bring herself to look at them. How could Nathalie have allowed this to be done to her?

She slurped some water and took some painkillers, not without difficulty in swallowing. She went back to bed and clumsily climbed back in, desperately trying not to wake Ella. She started to sob silently, partly from the shock of seeing herself transformed, partly just because she felt so sore and ill. She jumped as she felt an arm around her. “Are you crying?" Ella asked.

Jen turned to face her. Ella took her in her arms and reassured her, pulling her tight against her bosom. “What's wrong, Cassie?" she whispered. Jen was surprised at how maternally Ella was behaving toward her.

“My name's Jen, not Cassandra," she murmured, her speech even worse than it had been the previous day. “I just feel awful, everything hurts. And look at me..."

“You look amazing. The blonde looks so good on you! And look at me, someone shaved me bald and I'm not complaining."

Jen considered stroking Ella's scalp, but reconsidered. She still found her very intimidating. “You suit it so much though! You look a lot younger, I really mean it, Ella. But... you can get away with that look because you're a... because of what you do. I'm a nurse, I have to work today. How can I go in looking like this?"

“Why do you have to? You're young and pretty and you did a fine job yesterday. You could make a good living at it, much better than with nursing."

“Oh no, I couldn't," Jen replied automatically. “That was a one-off, Nathalie asked me to do it as a favour, I didn't even know what I was getting into."

“And you didn't enjoy it?"

“I'm not enjoying it now," Jen groaned.

Ella stroked her hair. “I'm serious. Are you worried people won't approve? Is that what's stopping you?"

Jen shook her head. “It's not that. I... just couldn't. I'm a nurse. That's what I do."

Ella cradled Jen in her arms until she fell asleep once more. A few hours later she woke again and was alone in the bed. She could hear voices downstairs, slipped into a t-shirt and went to join them.

Ella was preparing breakfast as Nathalie sat at her laptop. They both greeted Jen warmly. “How's my favourite blonde? Come and give me a kiss." Jen bent down awkwardly and put her lips to Nathalie's, feeling more aches as she did so. Nathalie's hand ran up her neck and brushed against her bald nape. Jen felt herself melting. She'd managed to completely forget that her nape was shaved but realised now that the bald area reached half way up her ears. “Mmmm, I can see you like that, don't you? Ella and I shaved each other, I hope you don't mind. I didn't think you'd be up to it today."

Jen nodded her agreement. She went to the freezer and collected some ice cubes. She dropped half a dozen in a glass and filled it with water, then scooped one out and sucked on it to ease the pain in her tongue.

Ella served breakfast, but Jen declined. “Can't eat anything," she lisped. “Tongue too sore and feel sick."

“Are you going to phone into the hospital to tell them you can't do your shift?" Nathalie asked.

“No, I'm going in. How could I throw a sickie then go in next day with blonde hair and piercings? They'd just think I'd spent all day in the salon."

Jen couldn't be dissuaded and Nathalie conceded, but on the condition that Jen took some sustenance. She couldn't possibly work a ten hour shift on an empty stomach. Jen managed a bowl of tomato soup but felt like she was going to be sick.

As the time approached for Jen to depart she asked Nathalie to help her to look more acceptable. “You'll need to do something to fix my brows and to cover up the shaved bits."

Jen sat on a stool as Nathalie considered the problem. “Best to get rid of your brows and lashes completely," she announced. Jen looked horrified.

“Can't you just draw in a brow and make them match? And anyway, why did you shave away the brow and lashes on one eye?"

“It looked good. I guess I watched 'A Clockwork Orange' too much. Anyway, it'll look weird with lashes on one eye and not the other, and there's no way I can draw on a brow that would look anything like a real one. They've got to go. Ella, am I right?"

Ella was still being very warm and maternal and Jen hoped she'd make Nathalie see sense. Jen was to be disappointed. “She's right, they have to go. You'll look really cute with drawn-ons though. Very sexy. Just go with it."

A few minutes later Jen blinked at herself in the mirror. She wanted to cry. Her eyes looked weird, alien. She rubbed at her shaved brow and felt no hair. “The other one was waxed so it'll take longer to grow in. We can keep this shaved till it does, or maybe just keep you browless. Now go and get a shower and we'll see what we can do with your hair." Jen did as she was told and returned. Ella dried her hair as Nathalie started to discuss styles. “If you want to cover up the shaved parts you should wear it down. Is that ok?"

Jen shook her head. “Not practical. Got to wear it up. We deal with every bodily fluid you can imagine," she grimaced.

Nathalie brushed at her hair and tried various arrangements but all of the more practical styles showed at least some of the bald nape and shorn side. Jen was getting increasingly frustrated and closer to tears. “I know what we should do!" Nathalie announced triumphantly. She smoothed Jen's hair back tightly and wove it into a loose bun at her crown.

Jen groaned. “But... but... The side looks like I've been mohawked. And you can see my nape. It shows everything!"

Nathalie smiled. “Exactly. You can't cover it up so don't try to. Let everyone see it and be proud." Jen's lip quivered. “Are there any regulations that say you can't wear it like this?" Jen conceded that there were none she knew of, and when asked if anyone else at the hospital had similar styles she admitted that there was a woman in radiology who had short hair and sometimes had a buzzed panel at the side. “Well that's settled then, we'll go with this."

Nathalie gave Jen fine eyebrows in shiny black liner with thin sweeping lines accenting her upper lids. It was stark and minimal but Jen had to admit that it was a great improvement on how she looked without make-up and, what's more, she agreed with Ella and Nathalie that it did look sexy. The girl she saw in the mirror bore little resemblance to the red-headed innocent with pre-Raphaelite curls that she'd been twenty-four hours previous.

Jen's nerves were getting the better of her as she arrived at the hospital She was dreading this shift. She was still sucking an ice cube (she'd brought a supply in a paper cup as she departed) but her tongue was still almost paralysed. As she entered she passed two nurses she was on fairly friendly terms with; they walked past without a flicker of recognition. She changed into her uniform in the deserted locker room and went to the ward. She saw the staff nurse, Diana, a fiery woman in her forties, but with whom Jen had always had a fairly good relationship, and went to let her know she'd started her shift.

Diana's face showed shock as she recognised Jen. “Oh Jen, what have you done to your hair? You've ruined it. You had such nice hair." She tutted angrily. “And you're wearing too much make-up."

Jen felt furious. She had always been unable to bear perceived injustices and it was obvious that Diana was wearing far more make-up than she was, albeit more conservative. She knew better than to pick a fight with her though. She could make life very difficult for anyone who came into confrontation with her and was renowned for maintaining grudges. Jen merely nodded. “What do you want me to do then?" she asked.

“Why are you speaking like that? Have you hurt your mouth?"

“I got my tongue pierced and it's a bit swollen," Jen said, fighting the pain as she tried to speak as clearly as possible. “It'll be OK in a few hours."

Diana was at her most aggressive. “I can barely understand you. I'm not even sure you're fit for duty if you can't make yourself understood."

“Well I think I'm fine but it's your call. If you want to send me home and get an agency nurse in, that's OK." Jen knew that would bring the discussion to an end, since the budget was far too tight to permit that. Diana dispatched her to look after a homeless man who'd been admitted. Jen couldn't help feel she was being punished when she saw that his filthy clothes were covered in vomit. It was going to be a long shift.

Nathalie had waited up for Jen. She slumped into an armchair, exhausted. “Oh Nathalie, what a day. That staff nurse has really got it in for me now. She gave me the worst jobs all day and criticised everything I did. She really doesn't like blondes."

Nathalie stroked Jen's head. “Probably jealousy, you just look too sexy. Anyway, you're talking better."

“I dosed myself up with some anti-inflammatories. Seems to have helped a bit."

“So did everyone get all excited about your new look? Did you have to keep a stick with you to beat off the horny guys?"

Jen laughed. “Don't joke, you've no idea what it gets like in there! There were a few getting a bit over-amorous today and it's going to be a nightmare when I work a Saturday night. It was bad enough when I was a redhead."

Nathalie urged Jen to come and sit with her. She squeezed onto the armchair, nestling in between Nathalie's legs. Then she was told to open the laptop. “I've been editing all day and I've made a rough cut. I want you to see it."

Jen clicked on the file and saw a shot of sun flaring through trees. She giggled as she saw herself enter. “You look so pretty," Nathalie whispered as it cut to a close up. Jen was surprised to see how well the images were shot. Julie had lit her very flatteringly.

The interiors looked impressive too. The grimy room looked ultra-clean to the camera, clinical, dazzling, intimidating. Jen felt embarrassed as she saw herself being stripped naked and blushed as she imagined strangers would soon be looking at this. Nathalie put her arm around Jen's waist and unbuttoned her jeans. Jen was breathing more heavily. “I suppose you get used to watching what you've filmed. You don't get excited when you're watching it."

“Oh no, if it's not turning me on it needs fixing. That's my rule for editing. And when I'm watching you I'm wet all the time." Nathalie's arms tightened around Jen.

Watching herself on screen was a revelation for Jen. She looked so vulnerable lying on the bed, her body wreathed in hoses and cables. Ella, Nicole and Olivia constantly caressed her and paused frequently to embrace, to kiss, to touch each other. Jen tried to fight her growing excitement; it's surely unseemly to be aroused by watching yourself. But her resistance was worn away as she sensed Nathalie's passion. She could barely watch the shots where she was pierced; they were shot in precise close up and no one could doubt they were genuine. The camera captured every detail of the needles entering Jen's flesh. “How are those piercings?" Nathalie murmured, and slid her hand into Jen's panties.

Jen moaned as she felt fingertips explore her most intimate places. Nathalie took the rings in her fingers and moved them back and forth. “Once these are healed I'm going to make your lips stretch out like Ella's." Jen could see on screen how much Ella's labia had been distorted and she felt repulsed by the idea of the same being done to her but at the same time she could recall how wonderful it had been to feel their smoothness on her tongue and was intrigued about the sensations Ella experienced. Nathalie wiggled a finger between her labia. “Imagine how deep that will let me get my tongue in here. You want that, don't you, Jennifer?"

“Oh yes, Nathalie," Jen panted.

As she watched herself being shorn on screen, Jen, now naked, felt Nathalie's lips form soft kisses on her neck, increasing their intensity as they spread up over the shaved part of her nape. Jen was in no doubt that she'd discovered a new erogenous zone and within moments she orgasmed. Nathalie gripped her so tight, pinning her arms, pushing her head down, ceaselessly kissing her nape. Jen's ecstasy seemed to make time dilate. By the time she came to her senses she was shivering and exhausted but felt serene, rapturous. Nathalie reached out to turn off the film. “We'll save the rest for tomorrow. I'm going to come upstairs to sleep tonight so we can share my bed for the first time." For the first time Jen realised that she loved Nathalie.

Within a couple of weeks Nathalie had invited Jen to move in permanently. She wanted it more than anything and the only obstacle was the practical issue of travelling to work. Since Nathalie would soon be driving again there would be times when Jen wouldn't have the use of her car. Nathalie passed her an envelope of bank notes. “That's your fee for the film. Go and buy yourself a car."

If her home life was a constant delight, Jen's working days were mostly torment. Diana's attitude had become ever more aggressive toward Jen and nothing she could do would appease her. She watched Jen's every move, always gave her the worst jobs, threatened to report her whenever she did make an error, no matter how slight, criticised her appearance and bad-mouthed her to colleagues. Every journey to work made Jen feel anxious. The job she'd loved was becoming unbearable.

On one of her days off Jen made a shopping trip into the city; in a record shop she suddenly got the feeling someone was staring at her. She glanced up and recognised Zoe, and smiled to see her. Zoe immediately turned away and pretended to be looking through one of the racks. It took a moment for Jen to realise that Zoe didn't recognise her; on their previous meeting Jen had been masked throughout. Jen moved closer to her and looked her over. Her hair was still black but she'd had a blonde streak bleached through the left side. Edging close enough to make the younger girl feel uncomfortable, Jen finally spoke. “Hello Zoe, what a nice surprise."

She looked up, her face betraying her confusion. Then her expression changed as she recognised Jen's voice. “Jennifer? Is it you?" she asked, a note of fear audible in her voice.

“Of course it is!" Jen pulled Zoe tight to her and kissed her on the cheek. “I must say, Nathalie and I have been disappointed that you haven't been in touch. Didn't you want to know how she was getting on after her accident?"

Zoe looked ashamed. “I'm sorry, I was meaning to call. I've had a lot going on though, busy with uni work and I split up with my boyfriend."

“Well I'd be lying if I said I was sorry," Jen smiled. “You should keep yourself free and just have some fun. Actually I'm just about to head off and meet Nathalie for lunch. She's just had her cast removed and insisted on travelling alone. Why don't you join us?"

Jen expected Zoe would bolt for the door, but when she said she'd love to join them Jen could see she was sincere. Her dark eyes were glowing.

When they arrived at the restaurant Nathalie was waiting. She was evidently as happy as Jen to see Zoe and they moved to a bigger table, sitting either side of Zoe who was trapped with her back to the wall.

As the meal was served, Nathalie spoke. “Still kept your hair long, I see. Don't you want to try a more flattering and grown up look?"

Zoe paused for some time before she could collect her thoughts. “I have thought about it but I've always had long hair. I'm a bit scared to cut it."

Nathalie nodded. “Did you get any tattoos yet?"

Zoe shook her head. “I've not had much time. And I'm short of money still."

“Well there are better ways than waitressing to make cash. I have a contact with a website who publishes photoshoots. You'd look fine on there. As long as you had some nice tattoos and a new haircut. She could pay you an advance to get the ink. Like I say, my tattooist is very good and would do you for mate's rates."

Zoe's eyes were huge, but Jen couldn't tell whether it was fear or excitement. “Nude photos?" she asked.

“Most of the shoots are topless. But if you're happy to do nude, so much the better. I can put you in touch with good contacts, very professional, good links with magazines. You're OK with showing off your body, aren't you?"

Zoe obviously didn't want to lose face and nodded, trying to look nonchalant.

“So how about we do something with your hair today, then I can show my friend that you're worth an investment?"

She clearly hadn't expected things to move so fast. “I don't know. Maybe I should think about it." Jen saw Zoe's hand move unconsciously to her nape, rubbing at the spot where Nathalie had stolen a lock.

Nathalie smiled indulgently. “I can see you're not ready for this. We should just forget it."

“Oh no, I'm really interested, Nathalie," she said with excessive vehemence as she tried to overcompensate for her nerves. “Let's do it." She smiled nervously at Nathalie, then at Jen. Nathalie had her hook, line and sinker.

Zoe hardly touched her lunch but made up for it by drinking the lion's share of the bottle of wine that had been ordered (Nathalie didn't touch it since she was driving but kept topping up Zoe's glass). By the time they left the restaurant Jen could see that Zoe was a little tipsy. They made their way to the car, Nathalie supporting her weak leg with an elegant antique cane of ebony topped with a chased silver finial. It was a short trip back to Nathalie's house and soon they were welcoming Zoe to their home with a glass of whisky.

Zoe looked nervous as she sat on the sofa between the two lovers. Nathalie started to stroke her hair. “You did tell us the truth about your age, didn't you, Zoe? You look even younger than I remembered. Do you have ID?"

She rummaged in her bag and pulled out a passport. “I get it all the time, because I'm under five foot people think I'm still a kid. I'm twenty in three weeks." Nathalie checked the date of birth and nodded.

“I'll need to take a copy of this." She held up the photo of Zoe at the back of the passport to show Jen. “She'll need a new picture here when we're done with her, won't she?"

“Mmm, I should think so," Jen agreed.

“You don't mind if we undress for the cutting, do you Zoe? I find hair sticks to clothes and makes me so itchy." Nathalie started to unbutton her top. Zoe tried to express her agreement but her voice trailed off as Nathalie pulled the garment free. She stared in wonder at Nathalie's polychrome skin. “Could you help me undo my bra?" Nathalie guided Zoe's hand to the fastening. Jen could see her hand was trembling as she opened the bra.

Jen pulled her long hair to the side to expose her sidecut which had grown out to a soft light red pelt. “Zoe, would you unzip my dress?" She obliged and Jen rose and slipped the dress to the floor.

Nathalie helped Zoe out of her t-shirt. She held it up and looked at the screen-print on the front. “'Off!' Is that the name of a band?" Zoe nodded. “Is it an emo band or something?"

A cross expression momentarily appeared in her face. “No, they're a punk band... hardcore. I don't like emo."

Nathalie giggled. “I don't know much about music these days. I prefer classical, baroque, renaissance myself." Nathalie combed her long nails in Zoe's tresses. “So my little Zoe is a punk girl? Shall we give her a nice little mohawk, Jen? Nice smooth sides..." She pulled Zoe's fingers to allow her to touch her own head which Jen had shaved just hours before.

Jen slowly slipped out of her underwear, standing right before Zoe as she did. “Only if I get to razor her, Nathalie."

“Would you like that Zoe?" Nathalie stroked at Zoe's arm with a strand of her hair. “Jen does such a lovely shave."

“A mohawk... I don't know, Nathalie." Jen knew though. Nathalie could persuade her to do anything she pleased. Zoe was like putty.

Nathalie reached around to remove Zoe's bra. She barely needs it, Jen thought. She was very slim and her breasts were little buds on her delicate ribcage. Her vulnerability was palpable and Jen found herself intoxicated by exploiting it. She sat down so that her body touched Zoe's.

Zoe turned to look at her. She looked longingly at Jen who smiled back at her. “What is it Zoe? Do you want to kiss?" She said nothing, sat very still, then almost imperceptibly nodded. Jen placed her lips on Zoe's; they were full and ripe, sweet, warm. When Jen released her Nathalie turned her head and took her turn. Jen reached down to unbutton Zoe's jeans. She relaxed her legs slightly to signal her acceptance.

Now Zoe sat naked, Nathalie's and Jen's arms around her shoulders. “We'll head upstairs to cut off this hair now. I'll set up a camera so that we can record it, just for our own use, no one else will see it."

Zoe's eyes were wet as she realised the hour had arrived when her long hair would be sacrificed. “Are you really going to give me a mohawk?" she gasped.

Nathalie stared at her. “Might just take it really short. Shaved back and sides, buzz it into a flattop."

Jen giggled. “Oh she'll look just like a little boy!" She was getting very aroused now, all the more so because she could see the idea terrified Zoe.

Nathalie kept pushing. “Yes, she would look very boyish. Your breasts are tiny, aren't they Zoe? I think people might actually think you really are a boy." Zoe looked pained. The size of her breasts was obviously something that she was sensitive about.

“Oh please don't say that," she murmured. “They're still growing." Nathalie stroked at her breasts then took the nipple in her lips, making Zoe sigh, squeal, squirm.

“I've nothing against small breasts. Mine were small too and I only had them done for commercial reasons." She licked at Zoe's nipple again. “ Don't you like your breasts? If you don't you can have them enlarged. Jen's going to get hers done soon."

The statement was news to Jen and she felt slightly anxious. Was Nathalie serious? She dismissed it as something said for Zoe's sake.

“Maybe Zoe would look best bald like me. What do you think, Jen?"

The conversation they'd had after the first encounter came back to Jen, when Nathalie had fantasised about shaving Zoe. Jen stared at Zoe and nodded. “She'd look so hot. Shall I get the razor?"

Nathalie laughed. “Let's go upstairs first. We can decide your fate once I've set the cameras up, Zoe."

Zoe sat looking tiny and terrified as Jen and Nathalie adjusted lights, set up tripods, aligned cameras. Nathalie turned on the camera which was directed straight in Zoe's face. “Smile for the before shot, Zoe." Her smile was weak and forced. Nathalie went to a drawer and pulled out a perfumed envelope. She withdrew a long thick strand of hair, bound with a ribbon. “I've treasured the lock of your hair and now at last you came back to me. May I add your ponytail to my collection? Then we'll have an even stronger bond."

Any Dutch courage Zoe had derived from the wine had now dissipated. She looked back and forth hoping for some sign of mercy. “I'm not sure I want to be bald..." she said. Clearly the idea was more than she could bear.

Nathalie tipped her head back and kissed her. “I'll give you a nice fem cut, Zoe. You want me to cut your hair, don't you?"

Zoe looked delighted that she wasn't going to leave with a shaved head. “Oh yes, thank you Nathalie." Nathalie wasted no time and brushed her long hair back into a ponytail. Jen was given the task of binding it with ribbon; Nathalie indicated that she should do it as high up the hair as possible.

An oversized pair of shears were selected to sever the thick hair, more for dramatic effect than practical reasons. Jen placed her hand on Zoe's crown and forced her to keep her head bowed. She wrapped the ponytail around her hand and lifted it straight up. Nathalie opened the blades and placed them so that they were right at Zoe's nape. Her breathing was audible until the sound of the blades grinding into the silky hair masked it. Jen felt a little shiver pass through her body as she realised that Zoe's long hair was being taken from her.

Nathalie patiently sawed at the rope, each closure of the shears slicing through more hair. Strands of shorter hair dropped forward around Zoe's cheeks. The ponytail was only attached by a thin strand now and a last cut freed it; Jen lifted it, the weight of cut hair increasing her excitement. She let her hand stroke over Zoe's nape where some of the hair was now less than an inch long. Her neck was very slender and Jen couldn't resist cupping her fingers around her throat. Zoe lifted her head and glanced in the mirror which was set next to the camera. She blinked emotionally. “Oh god, so short..."

“Oh it's not short." Nathalie ruffled the unevenly chopped hair. “At least not yet." She brandished her clippers, waving them before Zoe's face to provoke her fear. “Did you ever have your hair cut with these before?"

Zoe shook her head, her eyes glued to the blades that were about to be given free rein over her scalp. “My hair's always been long."

“Oh, you poor thing. You're about to find out what you've been missing. Jen loves it, don't you, honey?" Jen smiled and placed Zoe's delicate little fingers on her sidecut. She shifted in the seat, looking more shy than ever. “While I clipper you, Jen can clean you up with her razor. She's a real virtuoso with it. And keep it secret, but she's a real nurse so you can trust her to look after you." Jen realised with a start that Nathalie intended for her to rid Zoe of the sparse fur that covered her mound but could see that Zoe hadn't yet grasped what was to be “cleaned up". Jen decided that she should sharpen the razor to achieve the maximum effect on Zoe and began to gently slide the blade over an oil-stone.

“It has to be nice and sharp for you, Zoe. Get you nice and smooth."

Zoe looked pleadingly at Nathalie. “She's not going to shave my head, is she, Nathalie?"

Jen took her cheeks in her fingers. “I think you should call her 'Miss Nathalie' and I'm 'Miss Jennifer'. And I'm going to shave your pussy, Zoe. Now open your legs nice and wide." A little whine escaped from Zoe.

“Yes Miss Jennifer," she whispered and opened her knees. Jen felt intoxicated by the power she had over Zoe, all the more because she could sense that Zoe loved it just as much.

“Open them wider," she said sternly and Zoe did exactly as told. She put her hand over Zoe's bush and could feel moisture along her lips. “You'll have to keep very still. The razor is very sharp and if you move suddenly it could slice off something you'd rather keep." Jen knelt in front of Zoe and placed a leather strop against her thigh, then moved the edge of the blade over it to polish it. She glanced up to watch Nathalie combing through Zoe's hair. “No guard on the clippers, Nathalie?"

“No, she's going to have shaved back and sides. You can razor her once I've clippered her." Zoe's lips trembled as she heard what was about to happen.

Jen squirted some shaving foam into her hand and worked it to a lather. She pressed it onto Zoe's bush with a flat palm before starting to massage it in with her fingertips. “Oh, Zoe, I hope you can sit more still when I use the razor. You're going to get cut to ribbons." Zoe moaned and squirmed and was obviously close to cumming.

“Is she a virgin?" Nathalie asked. Jen probed at her with two fingers to examine her. She gasped in mock surprise.

“You know, she isn't! She looks too young to be having sex. I bet it was some horrible rough boy, wasn't it, Zoe?" She bit her lip as she tried to remain in control, nodding. “You've never tasted the pleasure a woman can give, have you, Zoe?"

“No Miss Jennifer," she whimpered. “But I think I'm starting to find out."

“Oh, we haven't started yet," Nathalie said. She chose this moment to flick on the clippers. She placed a hand on Zoe's forehead and pushed her head back so that it was held against her body, her breasts brushing against Zoe's crown. The clippers were brought to her cheek and drawn back, swiping a path through her heavy locks. Jen stared, feeling like she was ready to explode, her fingers making little swirls in the lather. Zoe's body twitched convulsively as she tried to comprehend what was happening. She was experiencing new sensations and didn't know if she was being tortured or achieving new heights of ecstasy. Jen pushed her thighs apart.

“Stay very still, I'm going to shave you." She put the razor to Zoe's skin and drew it slowly over the left side of her mound.

“Oh please, no, just..." Zoe's body stiffened. “Miss Jennifer, please, move the razor, I'm going to cum."

Jen refused to give any mercy to the poor girl. She dragged the razor softly down the other side, exposing pale smooth skin. “You be a good girl and hold yourself until we say you can relax." Another chunk of dark hair tumbled free from Zoe's temple as Nathalie relentlessly clippered her. Jen glanced up and saw the sides of Zoe's head were being shaved. “Oh, where did Zoe go? And where did this little boy come from?"

Zoe was clearly hurt by Jen's words but, regardless, her self control was reaching breaking point. She groaned loudly. “I can't do it, Miss. I'm going to..." Her words tailed off and she panted and shivered as she orgasmed. Jen pushed two fingers into her pussy, pumping, twisting. A lock of black hair slid into her lap and Jen saw that Nathalie had taken hold of Zoe's hair at the crown and was clippering up her nape.

Jen savoured the sensation as she continued to finger Zoe. She was astonished at how long her climax endured. “I think we broke Zoe. She's gone into a permanent orgasm." She picked up some of her shorn hair and used it to tickle her nipple, eliciting a loud response from Zoe.

Finally there was a shudder and Zoe's shoulders slumped. She panted breathlessly. Jen pushed her thighs apart and resumed shaving her. Her head was still bowed as Nathalie finished off clippering her nape. “I must say, I'm a little angry, Zoe. Miss Jennifer did give you an order and you disregarded it. I have punished far lesser transgressions."

Zoe whimpered apologetically. “I'm sorry, you ladies are just so... so... I couldn't control myself."

“Don't think we respond so easily to flattery." Nathalie turned off the clippers and combed back the longer hair that was left on top so that the clipper-shaved area was on show. She turned Zoe to face the mirror, letting her see what had been done for the first time. She looked stunned. “I was going to leave the top longer but maybe to punish you I should flattop it."

Zoe started to cry. “Please don't Miss Nathalie! I'm sorry but I'm not used to this. I've never been with women before and I've been dreaming about this, but this is even better than my dreams. But I'll look horrible if you cut it all off..." Her sobbing overwhelmed her powers of speech and Jen suddenly felt very bad for pushing her so hard. Even Nathalie looked uncomfortable.

“You are new to this so you have one chance, which you've now used up," Nathalie said. “No flattop this time." She lifted Zoe's chin and gently kissed her on the lips. “But you do need to learn self-discipline. It's the key to discovering true pleasure." Zoe's tears still fell but she beamed with relief and she muttered in gratitude over and over. “Now you should thank Miss Jennifer for shaving you so beautifully."

She looked down as Jen washed away the last traces of lather. Zoe's little pink labia were revealed completely. Jen put her lips to the bare sex; it was still moist and Jen used her tongue stud to tease Zoe. She wailed at the unexpected thrill. “Oh, oh, thank you Miss Jennifer."

Nathalie now began to cover Zoe's hair with bleach, brushing it thickly over every strand from root to tip. “We'll have to do it two or three times to get out this black," she announced. “Jennifer, while that does its work would you care to smooth out Zoe's undercut?"

Jen was delighted to comply with the request. She dabbed on the lather a little at a time, working it into the short stubble which was the only vestige of Zoe's long hair which remained on the back and sides of her head. Nathalie had clippered high over her ears; the full width of the blades had passed over the top of each ear. The shaved area angled down slightly at the back, where it formed a wide V, but even the point of the V was as high as the tops of Zoe's ears. Jen massaged the foam, excited to see Zoe squirming at each touch. “Brows too," Nathalie stated nonchalantly.

“Shaved?" Zoe gasped.

“Miss Jennifer has shaved brows. I have shaved brows. Do you think you should be an exception?"

Zoe clearly did believe this but also knew that certain beliefs should go unexpressed. She shook her head. Her forehead furrowed as Jen dabbed lather over each dark and rather heavy brow. The lather was left in place as she started to shave Zoe's scalp, beginning at the left temple. Zoe looked very tense as she felt the blade scratching up her head. She unconsciously moved her head away from the blade and Jen had to tell her to keep still more than once. By the time Jen shaved her nape, Zoe was breathless; she was struggling to keep up with the intensity of the experiences she was discovering. Her scalp was almost white and gleamed under the strong lights that illuminated the room.

Jen spread her fingers across the younger girl's forehead and drew the skin taut, then shaved away the right brow in short strokes. Zoe made odd little gurgles as she tried to breathe. She glanced over at the mirror and winced. Jen turned her head so that they faced each other; the left brow was dispatched with a few more strokes of the blade.

“Lovely job, Jennifer. Not a single nick. She looks gorgeous, doesn't she?"

Zoe blushed. Her eyes had filled with tears as she tried to reconcile what she saw in the mirror with her self-image, but the compliments from Nathalie thrilled her. “Does it really look OK?" she asked nervously. “I'm not sure about the shaved brows."

Jen pushed Zoe's head to the side and kissed her nape. Her scalp was soft and Jen could feel the bones of her skull. It felt as delicate as fine china and Jen was suddenly overwhelmed by an urge to shelter and protect Zoe. They were dispatched to the bathroom where Jen would rinse the bleach while Nathalie made a phone call.

Away from Nathalie's gaze Jen felt the dominant persona she'd affected start to slip. She started to feel more like Zoe's equal. She continued to feel maternal instincts toward her and had to remind herself that there was hardly more than two years difference in their ages.

Zoe smiled at Jen as they knelt together beside the bath. “Miss Jennifer, I didn't recognise you when I saw you in the shop, but I was staring. You look so beautiful, your hair is gorgeous. I can't believe I'm here with you. I'm so lucky."

Jen made her lean over the edge of the bath and used the shower head to rinse away the bleach. Zoe's hair had now faded to a reddish colour, still quite dark. Jen had no idea what Nathalie had in mind for the colour but was sure it would need another application of bleach. Then she poured a generous blob of shampoo onto the crown and worked it to a thick lather. She had Zoe raise her head and they knelt facing each other as Jen worked her fingers into Zoe's scalp. She rubbed at the suds which had dribbled down the back, massaging at Zoe's silky smooth nape. The feeling was delicious for both of them. They gazed at each other until Jen could bear it no longer and pulled Zoe's head toward her, kissing her with the utmost passion. She continued to move her fingers over her bald scalp, lubricated by the shampoo; Zoe's moaning indicated that she was moving toward another climax.

“Hey, you're off Sunday, aren't you?" Jen shot upright, surprised by Nathalie's voice behind her. She blushed guiltily, as if she'd been caught doing something very bad.

“Er, Sunday... yes." It took her a moment to gather her wits; she'd been deeply submerged in her passion as she kissed Zoe.

“What about you, Zoe? I'll need you all day." Zoe looked up innocently at Nathalie and said it wouldn't be a problem. “I've block booked Reiko, my tattooist all day. Nicole and I are getting more work done. And you two can start on your tattoos."

Jen's heart raced. Nathalie hadn't even discussed tattoos with her. Was she really going to get a tattoo so soon or was this another pretence for Zoe's sake? She decided she'd have to play along and ask more when she was alone with Nathalie.

Nathalie had ducked Zoe's head over the bath and was rinsing the shampoo. “It's going to need another bleach before I dye it, Zoe. I'll do that straight away." Jen hung back now, watching as Zoe knelt compliantly for Nathalie, her hair once more coated in chemicals. Jen wondered if she'd crossed a line, whether Nathalie would be jealous because of the passion she'd shown when she was alone with Zoe. Her guilt fuelled these ideas; she'd been close to a climax.

As they went back to the room Zoe again made her way toward the chair but Nathalie stopped her. “No point you sitting down, Zoe. We'll need to get that bleach rinsed soon, then get the dye on. Why don't you take a seat, Jennifer?" She stroked at Jen's sidecut, and twisted at the hair which had got long enough to be gripped with the tips of her fingers. “This is too fuzzy and you'll look so much better once I tidy it up."

Jen climbed into the chair. She noticed that she was no longer “Miss Jennifer". Her heart was still beating fast; she could barely look at Nathalie. She was left alone as Nathalie took Zoe aside and whispered conspiratorially. Jen rubbed at the left of her head. It had grown quite a lot, but she preferred it. It had looked almost bald when Ella had cut it, sexy but too severe. She hoped Nathalie wouldn't take it so short again but knew that she'd have no choice and, truthfully, she was thrilled by the absence of control. She glanced over and saw that Zoe was staring at a laptop. “Don't you know who that is with the ginger curls? It's our little Jennifer."

Jen realised that Zoe was watching the film and squirmed with embarrassment. Nathalie kept skipping forward to show Zoe highlights. She responded with inarticulate vocalisations which showed her arousal more clearly than any words. Nathalie would ask her little questions from time to time to which Zoe would absent-mindedly nod in agreement, only taking her eyes from the screen momentarily to glance over at Jen, who knew what she was thinking: “This is the same woman who allowed that to be done to her."

“Do you like those boots?" Nathalie asked, and there was the customary mumbled affirmation from Zoe. “Why don't you put them on her?"

Jen sat mutely as Nathalie instructed Zoe in how to get the boots in place. She'd been threatened with the tongue gag if she spoke up and suddenly felt very submissive. The rapid readjustment from the domme “Miss Jennifer" was hard for Jen to accept and she felt a kind of vertigo. Her legs were locked straight now, toes pointed and she grimaced as she recalled how they'd made her muscles cramp. Zoe laced them tightly and clicked the locks in place, smiling up at Jen as she did. It was difficult to read her expression now that her eyebrows were gone.

Nathalie put studded leather bands around Jen's wrists, then clipped them into rings on the sides of the rigid sleeves which supported the leg braces. She stood on Jen's left and Zoe took a similar position on the right. They leaned against Jen's arms, pressing them tightly to her sides. “Jen likes being immobilised, and she likes it best when she can feel human flesh immobilising her. Don't you, honey?"

Jen nodded. She'd never discussed it but Nathalie was expert in sensing what stirred each woman's passions. Jen felt her face redden as some strange pressure built inside her. Her breathing became stressed, even more so as Nathalie prompted Zoe to lean more heavily against her. Nathalie brushed through Jen's long hair, gently freeing any tangles. She brushed it till it felt soft and smooth, directing it all away from the short hair on the left side. Zoe gathered the long hair up in her fingers and asked Nathalie if she could plait it.

“Oh, yes, I think Jennifer would like that very much." Zoe slid her fingers through Jen's hair and awkwardly started to wind the three sections around each other, all the time keeping her body pressed tightly against Jen.

“Her hair's quite fine, Miss Nathalie," Zoe observed. “When I used to plait mine it would be twice as thick as this." She tied a ribbon around the end to hold it in place. Jen could see herself in the mirror, the long tight braid dangling over her right ear, her nape and sidecut exposed.

“Very pretty, well done Zoe." Nathalie leant across to kiss her. “You need rinsing now. We'd better head back to the bathroom. We don't want Jennifer getting bored though, let's give her something to think about while we're gone."

Nathalie lifted Jen's legs high and hooked her boots to a line which hung from the ceiling. Jen groaned as her tendons tightened painfully. She desperately tried to flex her knees to relieve the pain but the braces allowed no slack.

Nathalie started to play with the labial rings. “Do you remember what we said was going to happen with these once you were healed?" Jen nodded fearfully. “You may speak."

“You were going to stretch my labia like Ella's."

“And are they healed yet." Jen felt close to tears. She nodded mournfully.

Zoe stood alongside, gently kissing Jen, her cheek, her neck, her ear, as Nathalie pulled at the rings. She attached thin elasticated hoops which stretched under Jen's buttocks and hooked onto the tops of the leg braces. Jen wailed as the rings pulled sharply at her delicate lips. It felt like they would tear her like paper.

Nathalie smiled at her work. “Very nice, Jennifer. Remember, no calling out or I'll have to gag you. See you soon."

She put an arm around Zoe and led her from the room. Jen tried to shift herself into a more comfortable position but every movement (and those available were very limited) seemed to elicit more pain. The worst was the tension in her hamstrings; her labia seemed to become numbed but her legs felt more and more painful, as if something was tightening to the point where it would snap. She prayed for Nathalie to return and free her but as the minutes passed there was still no sign. Tears started to flow. It was an hour before Nathalie reappeared but it felt so much longer to Jen. The first thing she did was to free the labial rings. There was a momentary sense of relief, then Jen made a low cry as the blood returned to the compressed tissues, causing an intense increase in pain. Nathalie ignored her agony and freed Jen's legs, supporting them on her shoulders as the hooks were removed. Jen groaned as her legs were lowered; her muscles went into uncontrollable spasms and she sobbed so hard that her sinuses ached.

“There, there, my little baby, Nathalie's back now. Are your legs hurting you?" she asked, dabbing Jen's eyes with a tissue, then making her blow her nose. She whimpered and nodded, trying to control her crying. “Aren't you going to tell Zoe how pretty she looks?"

Jen blinked to try to focus her eyes, turning to look at Zoe. She had a mop of deep emerald-green hair now, her eyes were surrounded by black, the liner drawn into hard-edged oblong forms below angled black painted-on brows. Her lips were a glossy plum. She wore a grin that suggested that Nathalie had made their time together deeply enjoyable. Jen was astonished by her transformation. “Oh Zoe, you look so different..." Zoe silenced her with a kiss.

“Hush now, Jenny. Miss Nathalie and I are going to fix your hair. She's decided that you're going to be the most sub, so now you're going to call me Miss Zoe." Jen couldn't believe what she was hearing and looked at Nathalie, willing her to correct Zoe, but instead she nodded.

“Yes Miss Zoe," Jen murmured.

Zoe leaned herself tight against Jen's arm. “I want my haircut finished but we have to do yours first, so you'd better be co-operative. Don't make me have to wait." Nathalie grinned to hear Zoe suddenly become dominant. She was already preparing the clippers.

“How short are you going to cut the side, Nathalie?" Jen asked. Zoe immediately ordered her to include the title “Miss" whenever she addressed them and Jen corrected herself.

Nathalie smiled and asked Zoe to break the news to Jen. “You're going to have the side shaved smooth. It'll look great with your long hair." Jen felt panicky. The entire side had been clippered; shaved smooth it would look far too severe. She could only imagine how Diana would react the following day.

“Can't I have a little hair left?" she begged.

Zoe smiled at her. “I told you to cooperate. Don't be a naughty girl." She took hold of Jen's long plait and pulled her head to the side so that it rested on her chest. The clippers cracked as the motor animated the blades. Nathalie pressed them to Jen's cheek and swept them up rapidly, through her sideburn and fully up to the parting. Little clumps of pale red hairs descended over Jen's shoulders and breasts. Zoe giggled gleefully.

“Oh look at that, they just shave it all away! It's already practically bald." Jen wriggled nervously until Zoe tightened her grip on the braid. She felt Nathalie buzz away more of the pelt that had grown in since Ella had introduced her to clippers for the first time. Zoe blew on the bare scalp that was exposed. “Mmmm, you like that feeling don't you? My breath on your shaved scalp."

“Yes, I do," Jen said, her voice high pitched and excited. “Oh Zoe, please touch me."

“Patience, Jenny," Zoe said. “You know, Miss Nathalie, I think it looks a bit strange that she has a block shaved on the side and a block shaved at the back. Couldn't you connect them? And then... I could keep some of her hair. You would like me to have a lock of your lovely blonde locks, wouldn't you Jenny?" She blew again at Jen's scalp eliciting a sigh.

“If you say yes, Zoe will kneel down between your thighs and lick you till you cum," Nathalie said, letting her full weight fall against Jen's body. She moaned her agreement to the pact.

Zoe unwound the plait and aided Nathalie in separating the hair which would be shaved. A part was made diagonally across the back of Jen's head, from the crown on the left down to the right side of the shaved section of nape, half way up her ear. Zoe re-plaited her hair, this time forming the root of the braid on top of Jen's head. She then tied the smaller triangular section at the back with a red bow of ribbon. Jen was trapped tightly between the two women (although Nathalie's greater mass pushed her to one side) and felt like a volcano about to explode, the magma of her passion reaching an impossibly high pressure. The clippers were roaring again, taking away Jen's ability to breath. The edges of the unshielded blades nibbled into her long hair making Zoe squeal with pleasure. She was tugging on the long section which was to be shaved and Nathalie carefully edged the blades under it. She worked in short strokes, pressing the clippers in to follow the contours of Jen's head; it took barely two minutes to free the rope of hair. Zoe whooped as Jen started to pant, realising that she'd been holding her breath for too long.

Zoe stepped in front of Jen, holding up the long blonde hair like a talisman. She let the tip dangle onto Jen's body, trailing it around teasingly. As she did, Nathalie roughly brushed lather over Jen's scalp. “Jennifer, I do believe almost half of your head is shaved now," she announced.

Zoe stood in front of Jen now, insinuating herself between her rigid limbs. She slowly edged forward, pushing her thighs outward to part Jen's legs. “You're turning all red," Zoe said. “I bet you're going to cum really soon, aren't you?"

Jen's attempts at answering were thrown into confusion as she felt a razor rasp up her temple. “Nice and still, Jennifer," Nathalie cautioned.

Zoe dropped to her knees. Her slender fingers probed curiously at Jen's vulva. She placed two fingertips on the lower rings and spread them until they pulled painfully at the delicate tissues. She kissed between her fingers and giggled. “You're spread wider than my whole mouth. Imagine if I got snakebite piercings in the corners of my lips! We could hook the rings together, or better still, the same rings through both of our piercings. Then I'd be able to keep licking you forever." She bowed her head again and pressed her tongue inside Jen.

Jen gurgled as she felt the internal pressure increase even further. “Hold still, now. I don't want you to have a van Gogh ear," Nathalie said, easing the razor in a curving arc from temple to nape.

Jen tensed every muscle and wailed. “Oh Miss Nathalie, I'm going to cum. I just can't... I can't..."

She couldn't restrain herself a second longer. The full force of the eruption was unleashed. Zoe pulled her face away just in time to avoid being squirted; the gush of liquid fell across her breasts instead. She prodded and rubbed at Jen's clit, tugged at her rings, and then lapped at the dribbles of juice that continued to flow from the eruption. Jen grunted, squealed, roared, giggled, moaned. She felt like she'd achieved a beatific state, a nirvana. It was a far more intense high than the pills had given. She felt like hours had passed when her senses returned and she felt a razor passing high up her nape. Her eyes opened and she saw a green haired girl peering up at her from between her thighs, grinning and blowing kisses. She returned her smile, shivering as the aftershocks of bliss continued to course through her body. “Oh Zoe..."

“MISS Zoe!" she corrected, playfully gripping one of Jen's rings between her teeth and tugging lightly.

Jen tottered to her feet, grimacing as she tried to balance painfully on her toes. She'd been captive in the chair for what seemed like hours. She held tightly onto Nathalie's cane, certain she'd overbalance without it. She ran a hand up her neck and gasped to feel how much more hair had been shaved from her nape. “Bend down, I can't reach you when you've got your boots on," Zoe laughed. Jen leaned forward nervously, gripping more tightly on the cane. Zoe licked the side of her head and giggled, then kissed Jen on the lips. “You're so sexy," she beamed, then hopped in the chair. “Please, finish off my hair, Miss Nathalie! I can't wait to see what you've got planned."

Jen tiptoed to get a good view, and planted her feet widely, the cane forming a stable tripod. She was equally eager to see Zoe's completed style.

Nathalie combed through the green locks. It was longest at the front, completely covering Zoe's face now, but not for long. “Fringe first... What length do you think, Jennifer? Here?" She placed the scissor tips at the middle of Zoe's forehead. Jen smiled excitedly. “No, shorter, I think." She started to snip at Zoe's hair, cutting a very short fringe indeed. The strands tumbled into Zoe's lap and her face was revealed, eyes shut, lips smiling. Nathalie combed and snipped to make sure that she was shaping the fringe very neatly, a blunt line forming less than an inch from Zoe's hairline, her high forehead exposed. Nathalie cut the fringe from temple to temple. Zoe's features seemed transformed from the long-haired little girl that Jen had met a few hours previously; she had a delicately sculptured face, distinctive and striking, beautiful now rather than merely cute.

Satisfied with the fringe, Nathalie turned her attention to the sides. She cut a blunt line half way up Zoe's ears. Zoe's big eyes flickered open and she glanced in the mirror. She then looked over at Jen and gave an excited smile. Jen was impressed by Zoe's lack of fear; she was living in the moment, taking pleasure from everything that Nathalie did. She wondered with a little transitory pang of envy what had transpired between them when they were alone together in the bathroom. Whatever it was, it seemed to have given Zoe a huge self-confidence which Jen found enormously sexy.

The blunt line now surrounded Zoe's head. She had a very blunt, very full, very green Louise Brooks bob. “Are you going to stand there staring all day? I seem to remember I got you very hot when you were getting yours cut."

Jen shuffled closer but felt trapped by the boots. Every attempt to lean forward ended in a sensation of toppling forward and she jerked upright again. Nathalie came to her aid. She moved behind Jen and attached her wrist cuffs to the leg braces once more. Her arms held onto Jen's hips. “Now bend forward, as far as you can, Jennifer." She followed the orders and her head came to rest in Zoe's lap. Jen was helpless, unable to rise now. Zoe took her head in her hands and guided her mouth toward her bare pussy, thoughtfully brushing away the clumps of green hair which had gathered. She stroked at Jen's shaved scalp and purred.

“Lick me gently, my sweet sweet Jenny. I'm so happy we've been shaved together, and in a few days we'll be tattooed together." Jen moaned and did as she was asked. She let the tip of her tongue run lightly up Zoe's delicate folds, each time caressing her clitoris. More hair tumbled on top of Jen's head but her posture prevented any sight of Nathalie's work. She longed to see Zoe's hair being cut but she had no complaints. Zoe's delirious vocalisations delighted Jen and she continued to use her tongue gently. Zoe responded by stroking at Jen's undershave, playing with her hair, tickling her. She sighed with emotion each time Zoe called her “My sweet Jenny."

Nathalie had decided that Zoe's hair was too thick for such a short bob and was cutting the top shorter, leaving the sides of the bob intact. The tips of the scissors sliced randomly at Zoe's locks, leaving choppy, spiky tufts over the top of her head, just a couple of inches long. She used thinning shears to reduce more weight and to blend the cropped hair into the bobbed back and sides. Some wax was rubbed into the top and it was blasted and twisted into messy spikes. The bob was smoothed with straighteners until it gleamed. Zoe stared excitedly in the mirror. “Oh Miss Nathalie, it looks amazing. So wild. My sweet Jenny, make me cum, please, please, please. Then you can see my new hair."

Jen's restraint was cast aside and she thrust her tongue firmly into Zoe's slit, then drew it up so that the piercing pulled at her clit hood. Zoe's wailing was suddenly muted as Nathalie placed her lips over Zoe's mouth, then pinched her nipples and drew them out from her body. Zoe's body stiffened and trembled as her senses were once more overwhelmed to the point of climax. Nathalie lowered her head and relieved the burning in her nipples by licking at them, causing Zoe to mew like a kitten.

Jen had to beg to be lifted from Zoe's lap, and Nathalie obliged her, hauling her upright. She stared at the new Zoe, entranced. Her spiked bob revealed a lot of shaved nape. She looked androgynous, yet somehow very sweet and feminine. And Nathalie had made her into a punky girl, yet her eyes proclaimed a very genuine innocence and enthusiasm. Jen didn't have to say anything, a shared glance let Zoe know exactly how she felt.

The three women retreated downstairs onto the sofa. Jen suddenly felt guilty at having pushed Nathalie too hard. She was so exhausted that she had to descend the stairs by sitting and sliding down a step at a time. She'd forgotten Nathalie was still recovering. However, once they sat together it was Zoe who seemed overcome by melancholy. Jen asked her what was wrong.

“I suddenly feel like I'm the odd one out here. You live together, but I'm just an outsider. I bet you've had other girls here like this."

Nathalie put a finger to her lips. “Hush Zoe. Jen and I have never picked up another girl. You're very special. I don't want this to be an end, it's just a beginning. And I know that Jennifer would be heart-broken if I said she couldn't see you again."

Zoe started to cry tears of joy. “This has been the most wonderful day. I'll remember it till I die." She kissed Nathalie in gratitude, then embraced Jen. “My sweet Jenny, we're like sisters now. Well, except that I want to have sex with you and incest is wrong, so not really sisters," she giggled. “And I can't wait till we get our tattoos. I want us to get tattooed for each other, so that we have something that will last forever."

“Tattooed together." Jen nodded in agreement. The idea terrified her.

The following days were almost unbearable for Jen. Her life seemed to have fractured into two irreconcilable parts, home life and work life, and both were problematic. She dreaded being tattooed but was afraid to mention this to Nathalie and their time together seemed to be spoilt by an unshakable menace hovering in Jen's unconscious. However, it was work that dominated her time, as she worked one long shift after another. On more than one occasion she broke down in tears as a result of Diana's relentless bullying. She'd gone further than ever, even telling lies about Jen's lack of professionalism within earshot of patients; she'd discovered this from one of the patients who was outraged by Diana's behaviour.

By the end of a ten hour Saturday shift Jen was emotionally drained. She let herself in and called out to let Nathalie know she was home. She was answered with an urgent request to come to the lounge. She entered and saw that Zoe was on the sofa along with Nathalie; she joined them and was rewarded with numerous kisses. “Zoe's going to stay over and then we can all travel together to the tattoo shop in the morning.” Jen felt a twinge of anxiety as tattoos were mentioned, like a cloud passing on a sunny day. Clearly, Zoe had no such worries.

“I'm so excited about tomorrow. I can't wait to get a tattoo! And it's even better that I get to spend the night with my two favourite people.”

She embraced Jen and covered her in kisses, her mood buoyed by the wine which still flavoured her lips. Jen's problems all seemed to melt away as she entered her earthly paradise, a world where she was loved by Nathalie and Zoe. They both made a fuss of her and an hour later, following a delicious meal and a few glasses of wine, Jen was blissfully happy, her troublesome day at the hospital a distant memory.

The topic of conversation turned once more to the plans for the next day. It was Zoe who brought it up again. She seemed like an excitable puppy: “I was thinking of a chest piece, something quite big. What do you think, Nathalie?”

Nathalie nodded. “Yes, I love nice bold chest pieces. But if you're going to draw attention to your chest maybe we should get your boobs done.” She stroked her nails around Zoe's small left breast, causing her to sigh fearfully.

“I think I'd like that,” she whispered. “But it's so expensive.”

“We can work something out, I'm sure,” Nathalie reassured her. “Jen, don't you think it would look great to see Zoe with boobs bigger than yours?”

Jen knew how sensitive Zoe was, but Nathalie had her excited. “Yes, I'd love that,” she purred. “You need to do it.”

Zoe giggled. “OK, I'll think about it. And where are you getting tattooed tomorrow, Jenny?”

Maybe the wine had given her some courage, or maybe it was the proximity of the appointment, but Jen finally had to speak up. She turned to look at Nathalie but found she couldn't look her in the eye, and looked at the floor feeling her face flush with shame. “Actually, about that. I don't think I want a tattoo.” There was an awkward silence that seemed to last far too long. “I'm not ready yet. Maybe in a month or two.” Another long silence. “I'm sorry Nathalie.”

“It's Miss Nathalie to you!” Jen sensed her anger and muttered another apology. “You should apologise to Miss Zoe, too. She's your superior now, you're at the bottom of the hierarchy now.”

Jen felt her shame grow rapidly, but also felt a tremor of arousal. Nathalie's dominance was like a drug for her.

“Get undressed, now!” Jen complied immediately with the order. She glanced up at Zoe who looked confused, not sure how she was supposed to behave now. The wine seemed to be slowing her thinking.

“We have some options here,” Nathalie continued. “I can deny you any pleasure and humiliate you until you beg to be tattooed. Or I could just tie you up and let Reiko do as she pleases with you. Maybe just slip you some pills and you'll wake up with more tattoos than me.” Jen started to cry but she felt herself getting impossibly excited. She begged for mercy, but knew that Nathalie was furious with her. Nathalie told her firmly not to speak, then whispered something in Zoe's ear with the result of the younger woman hurriedly scuttling out of the room.

“I'm very disappointed, Jennifer,” Nathalie said now they were alone. “I'm going to humiliate you tomorrow in front of Reiko. And Nicole will be there too for more ink. I could see how much you were attracted to her, and now she'll see what a big baby you are.” Jen wanted to speak up, to apologise and offer herself to be willingly tattooed but she knew she'd been ordered to maintain her silence. She'd never seen Nathalie in this mood and didn't dare risk inflaming her wrath further.

Zoe returned to the room and was instructed to drop whatever she'd fetched behind Jen's back. She felt Zoe pull back her hair and tie it into a ponytail. Then a ball gag was forced into her lips and Nathalie buckled it very tightly at her nape. A leather hood was pulled down over her head, possibly the same one she'd worn the day she'd first encountered Zoe, but this time the eye holes were covered and Jen's vision was completely obscured. “These stay on till morning, Jennifer,” Nathalie cautioned. “You can have a night alone in the basement. Zoe and I will keep each other warm.”

Jen was guided down the stairs where she was ordered to lie on a bed. Her arms were shackled to the corners of the bed and her ankles were bound in cuffs which were then stretched wide apart as Nathalie attached them to the ends of a two foot steel rod. Jen bent her knees to test how much movement was allowed: barely any, as the rod was attached to a chain at the foot of the bed.

“I'll come and let you out in the morning. Sleep well,” Nathalie said coldly and slammed the door as she left. Jen was devastated but her treatment and sobbed uncontrollably. She was not only blinded, gagged and bound, but the basement was chilly and she hadn't had a chance to pee. She'd drank far too much wine to get through the night without needing the toilet.

Despite her fear and discomfort, Jen soon fell asleep, the exhaustion of her long, busy work day overwhelming all emotion. However, she slept poorly and soon woke to find herself shivering and desperately needing to relieve her bladder. She tried to call out but the gag muffled her cries. The tears again started to flow; she couldn't believe that Nathalie was treating her so cruelly and in her state of sleepy confusion she started to imagine that Nathalie and Diana were as bad as each other. She was in a half-waking state as she imagined returning to the hospital, her neck, arms and hands heavily tattooed and being made to display herself in the centre of the ward as Diana denounced her to the onlooking patients and medical staff. This nightmarish reverie ended as she thought she heard a sound next to her. Had she just imagined it? She called out inarticulately through the gag, in the hope that someone was there to come to her aid. There was no response and the room was now silent, despite which Jen couldn't shake off the sensation that someone else was present. After a few minutes she heard Nathalie's voice.

“You could sense me, couldn't you?” Jen nodded her head, turned toward the voice and tried to smile, although the size of the gag rendered it impossible. “I suppose you need to relieve your bladder, don't you?” Another nod. “OK, just try to relax...”

Jen felt a slippery finger probing at her labia, groaning into the gag as she realised that she wouldn't be released. Nathalie would again catheterise her. She felt her flesh being stretched and a burning, stinging pain as the tip was fed into her urethra. Zoe was assisting Nathalie, she was sure of that. The pain and humiliation no longer seemed important, all that she needed was to have relief from her bladder, which seemed on the point of bursting. Jen bit hard on the gag, begging for Nathalie to be swift. She felt an ecstatic sigh escape her as a valve opened and the pressure was relieved.

“Have you learnt your lesson, Jennifer?” Jen nodded her head to indicate her submission to Nathalie's will. “Well, you can stay here for the rest of the night. You can complete your apologies in the morning.”

Jen felt a hand caress her body. It was Zoe who spoke: “The poor little thing is freezing. Can we let her have a blanket or something? She'll get pneumonia.” A moment later a duvet was thrown over her body.

Nothing more was said. Jen heard the footsteps of her mistresses as they left the room. She remembered her first encounter with Zoe, the power she'd had over her. Now she could never imagine dominating her again, after this display of her weakness. She imagined how things might proceed at the tattooist's. She would be under Zoe's control, the younger woman's enthusiasm expressing itself in choosing Jen's tattoos, lots of brightly coloured tattoos. The idea terrified Jen, yet she kept letting her imagination follow this thread; remembering that Zoe loved punk music, and imagining that she chose garish punk tattoos to be forever embedded in Jen's skin. Part of her craved this, and craved the excitement it would cause in Zoe. Jen imagined the nights of excitement that would follow being tattooed, the new heights of ecstasy that she would attain. She pulled at the shackles which held her wrists, longing to touch herself.

“Wakey, wake, sleepy head!”

Jen was startled by Nathalie's voice. She seemed to have slept for a long time and took a few moments to remember where she was. Her tiredness had made her sleep well despite her unfamiliar situation. However, her lack of mobility was now manifested in aches in seemingly every joint. She moaned with relief as the restraints were removed from her limbs and she slowly pulled herself into a foetal ball, rolling onto her side. Nathalie unfastened the gag and prised it from Jen's jaws. Her muscles twitched painfully as she eased her mouth shut for the first time in many hours. “Thank you Miss Nathalie,” she groaned. “Thank you. I'm sorry about last night.”

Jen was helped to her feet. She was still unsteady, extending her arms to aid her balance, her sightlessness adding to her disorientation. Zoe removed the hood, and Jen screwed up her eyes as she tried to adjust to the light. Nathalie sniffed at her hair. “Eww, you smell like damp cellar. We'd better get you in the bath.”

Jen followed, noticing that Nathalie and Jen had been busy. Jen's hair had been styled into a gleaming bob, the top artfully mussed into stiff spikes. Her nape was smoothly shaved. Nathalie had given her dramatic smoky eye make-up, dark crimson lips and dark, angular arched brows. Nathalie's head was also freshly shaved and her make-up had also been applied, a much more restrained and classical style than Zoe's, pale lips and eyes accentuated with perfectly applied liner. Jen felt aggrieved that her role as Nathalie's barber had been usurped by Zoe. She knew she had to guard against such feelings; she felt such affection for Zoe that she wasn't going to allow jealousy or rivalry to poison their relationship.

By the time Jen had bathed, Nathalie and Zoe were dressed and called her to the dining room. She was made to wait on them, serving breakfast whilst still naked. Nathalie was still making her endure humiliations, having her kneel beside her lovers and beg for scraps from their plates. Zoe pushed pieces of food into Jen's mouth with her fingers, teasing her for being so weak. Jen wanted to cry.

Once Jen had cleared the table she was sat at the dressing table in the bedroom she shared with Nathalie, who brushed through her damp hair.

“Still don't want to be tattooed, do you?”

Jen paused for a long time. She could say she'd changed her mind and wanted a nice tattoo, but that wasn't what she felt and she knew that Nathalie always saw through any attempts at dishonesty. She decided that she should say how she felt.

“I don't, Miss Nathalie, the idea terrifies me, but I want to please you so I'll be tattooed.”

Nathalie and Zoe remained silent, letting Jen's unease grow. After a full minute, Nathalie curtly addressed Zoe: “Shave her.”

The stubble on Jen's undercut was massaged with a sweetly scented oil, then Zoe awkwardly held up a straight razor. “I'm only getting used to this so I'll try to be careful. You have to stay very still though, I don't want to hurt you.” Jen looked up into Zoe's eyes and saw she was being completely sincere. The desire and affection she saw in Zoe's gaze made Jen's heart beat faster. She felt her body being pulled tightly against Nathalie, who cradled Jen's head against her abdomen.

The blade dragged through the short hairs, scraping them free. Zoe moaned excitedly. “Your scalp is so smooth and white. You shouldn't let all this ginger fuzz cover it, Jen. It's so sexy to see you shaved.”

Jen was now alive with energy and suddenly all her misery seemed only a prelude to this moment of pure delight. “I'm sorry, Miss Zoe,” she gasped, “I'll keep it shaved.”

Zoe giggled. “Maybe you'd suit a completely bald head.” The razor was forced across the top of the sideshave, and a moment later Zoe held a fine strand of long blonde hair before Jen's face. Jen grunted in disbelief. Was Zoe really going to take away all of her hair? She was repelled by the idea but felt utterly helpless, a helplessness that somehow made her entire being thrill. She was unable to form any word of protest, and lay meekly against Nathalie's body.

“She would look pretty with no hair, much better than me,” Nathalie announced calmly. She paused for a long time before reprieving Jen's locks. “Not for the time being, though. I like her hair too much to let it go just yet. You have hacked a piece out at the hairline, Zoe, so I'll have to shave a little more to neaten up the line.” Jen muttered her gratitude.

Zoe carefully shaved away the rest of the stubble, working slowly and a little clumsily. Once she was happy with her work, Nathalie took over, and went over the shaved scalp with much more boldness. Zoe expressed her admiration, commenting that Nathalie was able to shave noticeably closer. Wisps of blonde hair were freed as Nathalie evened out the line at the top of the sideshave, which Zoe's over-enthusiasm had disrupted. “How much higher are you taking it?” Jen dared to ask.

“Just another centimetre. I can take it higher if you don't want me to.”

“Do as you please,” Jen said dreamily. She was unable to resist Nathalie.

A few minutes later Jen was allowed to rise from the chair and examine herself in the mirror. She lifted her hair away from the sideshave and rubbed at the scalp, which tingled at every contact. She shivered with excitement, her arousal increased as she noticed how much higher the shaved area had gone; surely Nathalie had underestimated how much more hair had been shaved.

“Give her a nice French braid, Zoe. I want all the shaved part to be visible today.” Zoe smiled and complied with Nathalie's command. As she manipulated Jen's hair into the elaborate plait, Nathalie added a few touches of make-up to Jen's eyes and lips.

“Since you're so reluctant to get a tattoo you'll be excluded from participating in all the fun. You'll be restrained so you can watch but do nothing. And when everyone else is finished you'll be inked and sent straight home.”

Jen nodded fearfully and meekly agreed to abide by her mistress' decision. Minutes later the three young women headed out to their appointment.

Reiko was waiting at the shop. She appeared delighted to see Nathalie and greeted Jen and Zoe warmly. Jen was transfixed by her appearance: long hair, dyed red with brightly coloured extensions woven through, a green undercut just visible when she moved her head. Her arms were tattooed with cute animals, huge eyes peering from friendly faces, all rendered in soft pastel hues. She had numerous facial piercings and her earlobes were stretched bigger than any Jen had ever seen: three inch rings held in place by thin loops of flesh.

“Nicole's going to be arriving very soon,” Nathalie informed her, “and Ella said she may join us, but I'd be amazed if she did. She sounded like she had something else on.”

The women were led into the tattoo studio by Reiko and Jen was immediately ordered to strip. “Is she my first? She's very pretty, and no ink at all!”

Nathalie shook her head. “She's an ungrateful little wretch so she's going to take no part. She can sit and watch our fun, then you can tattoo her when the more deserving people have all their ink finished.”

Reiko laughed, increasing Jen's shame. She peered at Jen's pierced labia, noticing the catheter, which Nathalie had refused to remove. “Is that a piercing? What the hell..?”

“No, it's a catheter. She can't control herself you see, so she needs to wear one so we can decide when she pees.” More laughter from Reiko.

“You're the one who doesn't want me to tattoo your pretty little skin? Don't you think I'm good enough?”

“No Miss Reiko,” Jen stammered. “I mean yes, I know you're a very good artist. I'm just very nervous but I want to be tattooed now.”

Nathalie interrupted. “Well you can wait! Sit in that chair!” Jen did as she was told and allowed Nathalie to tether her ankles and knees to the legs, opening herself up and increasing her vulnerability. A metal collar was padlocked around Jen's neck and a long steel bar fed through lugs at the back. Each end of the bar was fitted with cuffs which were locked around Jen's wrists. The chair was tipped back and dragged across the floor, leaving Jen sitting in the corner of the room. “Now you be a nice quiet young lady, and be nice to anyone who wants to use you. If you show you can be obedient I may forgive you by tomorrow.” Before she could even indicate her compliance, Jen had been left alone by Nathalie who turned her attentions to Zoe.

Reiko was already deep in discussion with Zoe, and Jen realised with some horror that her first tattoo was going to be placed on the back of her head. She turned and sat back to front on a chair and made herself comfortable as Reiko pinned up the bobbed locks and cleaned the entire shaved area. She was sitting side on to Jen, who couldn't see the design that was now being finalised on Zoe's nape using a transfer. A mirror was held up behind her so that she could approve the placement. Jen could see her eyes glittering. There was undoubtedly a trace of fear in Zoe's expression, but the fear was outweighed by arousal and desire. Zoe wanted this in a way that scared Jen. Would she ever share her friend's boldness and abandon?

Everything was happening too fast. Reiko had scrubbed her hands and put on gloves. She moved the tattooing machine into place and raised the needle to Zoe's scalp. There was a soft humming and Zoe groaned as her skin was marked for the first time. Reiko's face was a vision of concentration as she diligently attended to the task of rendering the design perfectly. Nathalie squeezed Zoe's hand and asked her if she was doing OK.

“Well, it kind of... fucking hurts! I'll be ok though. That little bitch over there though,” (she gestured towards Jen) “she'll make such a fuss, I bet.” Jen felt deeply hurt by Zoe's scathing remark but didn't dare protest. Reiko seemed unaware of the pain she was causing and continued working determinedly, pressing the needle hard into Zoe's scalp; Jen could see her head being forced forward slightly as each line was inked. Nathalie made soft reassurances to Zoe, stroking her arm and encouraging her to relax. Despite her suffering, Zoe was smiling. Jen imagined shaming herself when her turn came, acting just as Zoe predicted: blubbering, begging for mercy. She didn't know which scared her more, being tattooed or embarrassing herself.

There was a loud buzzing which made Jen jump. It took her a moment to realise it was the door bell. Nathalie went to admit the visitor as Reiko continued to work. Nathalie reappeared with Nicole, taller and more beautiful than Jen had remembered her. She didn't even notice Jen, tied in the corner. Nathalie introduced her to Zoe, whose tattooing was briefly paused to allow greetings. “This is Zoe, a new friend. She's getting her first tattoo.”

Nicole inspected the work and expressed her admiration. “Did you finish with Cassandra?” she asked Nathalie. “I liked her and you seemed to get on well.”

Nathalie waved toward her. “She's in the naughty corner.”

“Ah, did you dump her and take up with Zoe instead? If you don't want her, I'll have her.”

“Tell Nicole what you did, Jennifer.”

Nicole came over, smiling at Jen's plight. “I said I didn't want a tattoo,” she mumbled. She could feel her cheeks redden as Nicole stared at her.

“You surprise me. I thought you liked tattoos. I noticed the way you looked at mine.”

Nathalie joined Nicole now. “I think she likes more than your tattoos,” she whispered. “You've got a little crush on Nicole, haven't you? Did you think I wouldn't notice.”

Jen looked guiltily at Nathalie. “She's very beautiful, Miss, but you know I belong to you.”

Nicole interrupted. “Oh, me and Nat go back a long way. We're like sisters and we share everything. Would it be so terrible if we shared you?”

Jen didn't dare make eye contact with Nicole, looking up at Nathalie for guidance. She felt panic rising. She started to wish she'd never got involved in this world; she longed for a simple monogamous relationship at that moment. The word hubris kept repeating in her mind. She'd dared to believe that she could handle a relationship with Nathalie and now she was being punished for her over-confidence.

“You can do whatever you please with her for today,” Nathalie said dismissively, and returned to her role of supporting Zoe through her ordeal.

Nicole stroked her fingers over Jen's sideshave. “You shaved off more hair, didn't you Cassandra?”

Jen nodded shyly. “My name's Jennifer though, Miss Nicole. I was only called Cassandra for the film.”

“I prefer Cassandra. You don't mind me calling you Cassandra, do you?”

“No Miss.” Jen's breathing was becoming strained. Being seduced by a woman as beautiful as Nicole should have been pleasurable, but the presence of others in the room was making it unendurable. The uncomfortable bondage only added to Jen's insecurity.

“You're a very sexy woman, Cassandra,” Nicole whispered, still caressing Jen's scalp. “But I'd like you even better with some tattoos. Look how much fun Zoe's having with her tattooing. Will you get a tattoo for me?”

Jen nodded. “I've agreed to get a tattoo, Miss.”

“What and where?”

Jen squirmed as she confessed she had relinquished control of that. “Miss Nathalie and Miss Zoe can decide.”

“Oh, how cool.” Nicole was obviously excited by the idea. “How about we each choose a tattoo for you?”

“I'll get three tattoos today?”

Nicole seemed to interpret the question as an agreement to her plan. She went over to Nathalie and enthusiastically informed her that Cassandra had requested that each of them choose a tattoo for her. Nathalie seemed sceptical. “You tell me you don't want a tattoo, but now you want three to impress Nicole. Should I be jealous?”

“No Miss. It was her suggestion, and I'd already agreed to do as you said, Miss Nathalie.”

Nicole kissed Nathalie on the temple. “She'll look so hot all tatted up. Let her go next.”

“No, she's going to wait here till everyone else is finished. That's her punishment. She still hates the idea, despite what she's telling you, so she can stew here and get herself worked into a panic. She's going to find out what submission really means today.”

Nathalie's ire was momentarily defused as Zoe was allowed up from her seat to take a break. It was Jen's first proper sighting of the tattoo, and she stared fixedly at the design, a pyramid bearing an all seeing eye. It was at least two and a half inches high and was extremely prominent on the back of Zoe's head. The younger woman looked delirious as she held up a mirror to allow her to see her new tattoo. “Oh Reiko, it's just perfect. So cool. Really worth all the pain!”

“Thank you Zoe. I want to shade it next but I think we both need a break. Just get a coffee and chat with your friends for ten or fifteen.”

Zoe came over to allow Jen a closer look. “What do you think?”

“It's lovely, Miss Zoe. So bold and brave. Very sexy, Miss.”

She spun around and pressed her lips to Jen's, violently forcing her head back as far as the collar permitted. Her tongue slid inside and poked repeatedly at Jen's tongue piercing.

“Oh god, I'm so turned on. The pain is weird, I started to like it after a bit, and it's made me so horny.” She kneaded Jen's breasts roughly and gave her another powerful kiss. “I can't wait to see you getting tattooed Jen.”

Jen's delight increased as she felt Nathalie tip her head to the side and kiss her shaved scalp. Her hands flapped uselessly as she thought how she'd like to pull Nathalie close and return her kiss, but she remained frustratingly immobile. She moaned and begged to be released from her bondage. “I've learnt my lesson, Miss. I'll let you do as you please.”

Nathalie reached down and stroked Jen's damp slit. “I'm only going to release you when your first tattoo is finished. And that won't happen until Zoe, Nicole and I have all been tattooed by Reiko. But you get to watch everything, so it's not so bad, is it?”

Zoe was now settling into the chair again as Reiko prepared to continue working on her. “No Miss, it's getting me very aroused.”

Nicole came to sit with Jen and Nathalie now, raking her long nails over Jen's body. “Is it ok if I go next, Nat. I have quite a lot that I want to get done today and I can't wait any longer to start.” She leaned forward to whisper in Nathalie's ear, telling her of her plans. Nathalie moaned excitedly.

“That's so hot,” she whispered, and the two friends kissed passionately, their heads inches in front of Jen's face. Nicole repeatedly flicked her hair so that it whipped against Jen's breasts, each touch making her sensitised body shiver with anticipation. It was Nathalie who finally broke away from the clinch. “I better get you ready then, Nicole.”

Nicole undressed. She appeared so nonchalant as she discarded her clothes but Jen could see that she had an uncanny awareness of her body and every move seem calculated to seduce. She pulled over her chair and sat showing her right profile to Jen, who still had a good view of Reiko working on Zoe. Excited as she was by the tattooing, Jen's attention suddenly shifted exclusively to Nicole when she saw that Nathalie had produced a set of clippers.

Nicole's hair was brushed out; it gleamed under the bright spot lights, dark, thick and healthy. Nathalie made a part high on the right. “Is that high enough, Nicole?” She nodded. Without delay, Nathalie turned on the clippers and placed the bare blades at the side of Nicole's forehead. She forced them back along the parting, and Jen watched with fascination as long strands of hair began to slide free, a torrent of hair spilling over Nicole's heavily tattooed body. A bald stripe had appeared now, connecting forehead to crown and Nicole reached up to touch it. She giggled at the unfamiliar sensation, glanced over at Jen and blew her a kiss.

“We're both going to be sideshaved now, Cassandra. You inspired me.” Even as she spoke, Nathalie sheared another expanse of hair from the side of Nicole's head. The blades returned to her temple and mowed away more locks. “Oh, god, yes,” Nicole moaned. “I need a drink! I thought this was a party. Where are the drinks?”

“Reiko doesn't allow alcohol,” Nathalie replied gloomily. “Says it increases bleeding and interferes with healing.” Reiko smiled cheerfully and poked out her tongue.

“You want good tattoos so you abide by my rules. You want to get drunk, you can go to some back street place that does drunken sailors.”

“Oh Reiko, that's so mean!” Nicole complained. “You're such a party pooper!”

“You didn't think I wouldn't have an alternative, did you?” Nathalie smiled slyly. “You know how resourceful I am.”

“Oh, Nat, you never let us down.”

“When Zoe's tattoo is finished and you're shaved I'll get out our supplies.”

The clippers were rapidly ravaging Nicole's beautiful hair and now a large expanse of scalp had been exposed. Natalie edged the blades down behind her ear, baring more skin. They cut very close and barely a shadow remained, despite the dark colour of Nicole's hair.

“Look at Jennifer, she's entranced. I'm not sure she approves of me cutting off your hair.”

“I can't think of her as Jennifer. 'Jennifer': it sounds so mundane. She should always be Cassandra. That was the name you chose for her.”

Nathalie laughed. “You're right. She's going to be Cassandra from now on. Do you like her new name, Zoe?”

“Oh, it's beautiful. I love that she doesn't even choose her own name. Will you rename me too?”

Nathalie turned off the clippers and stroked Nicole's freshly shaved scalp, much to her delight, as she considered this. “You can be my little Trojan princesses, Cassandra and... Andromache.”

“Anne-donkey? What sort of name is that?” Nicole laughed incredulously.

“Andromache! She was Hector's wife, and Cassandra's sister-in-law. Schliemann called his daughter Andromache.”

“Well he was an obvious idiot, whoever he may have been. It's a ridiculous name, and you can't call Zoe that. Pick a better one and stop obsessing about Greeks.”

“You should be careful what you say, Nicole. I still have the clippers in my hand!”

“You know I'm right. Anyway, if you got her tattooed with her new name it would be enormous.”

“And I could never spell it,” Reiko added.

Nathalie looked glum. “You like it, don't you Zoe?”

Even Zoe was opposed to Nathalie's plan. “It is quite a mouthful. I'm not sure. Maybe something more..?”

“Et tu, Zoe!” Nathalie cried with mock hurt. “OK, not Andromache! You all win. I'll think it over, but you're not Zoe any more. You can be the girl with no name for now!”

“Thank you, Miss.” The girl with no name's voice signalled her relief.

Nathalie now once more gave her full attention to Nicole, tidying up the shaved section behind her ear. “What about if I leave you a long sideburn lock?” She smoothed out the last piece of long hair remaining at the right side of Nicole's head.

“Maybe... Can you pass me the mirror, I want to see how it looks.” She whistled as she saw herself for the first time with her sideshave. “Wow, I didn't think it would look so high. What do you think, Cassandra. Should I keep the sideburn?”

“Cassandra”, as she was now trying to get used to thinking of herself, nodded. “I like it Miss. You can keep it for now and if you decide you don't like it you can shave it. It would take a while to grow back.”

Nicole winced. “Years. I don't even want to think about growing it out. Damn you, Nathalie, you're so persuasive when you want to be. I hope I don't come to regret this!”

“Oh, stop being a baby, you look sexier than ever. Now let's get this scalp nice and smooth. Reiko's nearly done with no name and you're next up.” Nicole tipped her head to the side as Nathalie dribbled oil over her scalp and massaged it into the short stubble. Then a straight razor was produced and scraped gently over her scalp. Cassandra could see the edge of the blade darken as the oily stubble collected there. A pale area opened up across the side of Nicole's head. Cassandra stared in wonder to see Nicole's transformation.

As the shaving neared completion Nathalie spoke. “Nicole, I think it's time you let me shave off your brows. No arguments, please. You know it's for the best.” She hardly gave Nicole time to react and quickly worked the blade into the right brow, pulling the skin taut on her forehead.

“Oh shit, Nat! Don't!” she wailed, but already knew it was too late.

“Reiko can tattoo on really sexy new ones for you. I might even start to think you're pretty if you do that.”

Nicole groaned. “Thanks a bunch! That really makes me feel good. Let me see what you've done to me.” She peered in the mirror and grimaced. “That's just freaky... And I'm not getting tattooed brows. No way, Nat. I'm just going to grow my real ones back in.”

A few minutes later Nathalie had drawn in beautifully shaped arched brows, a warm red shading to fine black points at the outer edges. Nicole blushed as she saw them, and squeaked with pleasure. “See, I told you it was a good idea. You look so, so pretty. Just go and see what Cassandra thinks of your new look.”

Cassandra found herself blushing as Nicole displayed herself, her naked, tattooed body moving seductively in a slow serpentine saraband. She slowed to near immobility and gazed into Cassandra's eyes. “Is it an upgrade, Cassandra? Or do you hate it?”

“You look amazing, Miss. You always did, but you're almost unrecognisable from the woman who arrived here this morning. I love your new look.”

Cassandra's joy was doubled as Zoe approached, turning her back to Cassandra to show her completed tattoo. The pyramid was now heavily shaded, the ashlar carefully delineated. The eye had been realised with exceptional virtuosity by Reiko, the subtle brown shades of the iris the only colour in an otherwise monochrome image. “Zoe, it looks perfect. I love it.”

Nathalie intervened. “Her name isn't Zoe, it's Ilione. And it's Miss Ilione to you.”

“That's a strange name,” Nicole observed. “Where did you get it from?”

“She was Cassandra's sister. Her elder sister though, and don't forget it, Cassandra.”

“It's still an odd name,” Nicole continued. “But it is quite pretty. And much nicer than Androgyny, or whatever it was.”

“It's my curse to be surrounded forever by philistines,” Nathalie complained with fake gravitas.

“It's your curse to be surrounded forever by women with better hair than you. That's why you're always grumpy.”

“Enough of your cheek, Nicole. Go and get yourself ready for some ink. Reiko can see to you now.”

“Wait a minute! You said you had something to make the party go with a bang. You need to break it out now. Don't be stingy.”

“Ah, yes, I'd almost forgotten.” Nathalie went to a cupboard and rummaged through some boxes before sliding out a long metal canister which she'd secreted there. “I got this through a supplier. No idea what it is though.” She connected a long plastic tube to the valve, the other end of which ended in a mask. “Want to try it?” she asked Nicole, brandishing the mask toward her.

“Not sure I do. You really don't know what it is?”

“I'm sure it's safe. Fairly safe anyway. And a nice buzz. I'm sure Cassandra isn't afraid to sample it. Are you honey?”

Nathalie's faith in Cassandra's bravery was misplaced, but her bonds made resistance impossible. Her eyes were wide with panic as the mask was fitted tightly over her nose and mouth. Ilione stroked at her neck reassuringly as she pulled the elastic strap around the back of her head, fixing the mask in place.

Nathalie turned the valve until a soft hiss was audible. Cassandra moaned in protest and realised her fear had caused her ribs and diaphragm to become paralysed, stopping any possibility of breathing. “Breathe it in,” Nathalie told her. “It'll relax you.” When Cassandra didn't comply, Nathalie bent forward and started to kiss her neck; a moment later Ilione began kissing her neck on the opposite side. The collar had chafed and the soft kisses on the raw skin were beautiful. Nathalie's lips moved upward slowly and now she was kissing the shaved scalp on the left side of Cassandra's head. Her hands stroked at Cassandra's body, overwhelming her senses. For a moment she was no longer aware of where she was, living entirely in the moment, living only through her sense of touch. She felt like she was floating, her lovers causing her to defy gravity, their bodies entwined. She took a deep breath, then another and felt a darkness take over her vision, perceptible despite her eyes being tightly closed. A delicious tingling numbness passed over her skin and she started to involuntarily mumble a prayer of gratitude which was frequently interrupted by giggling.

When Cassandra opened her eyes she saw Nathalie was reaching to take away the mask. “Leave it, Miss,” she complained.

“Any more and you'll fall asleep. Later, Cassandra. It'll be better if you have a bit at a time.”

The speech seemed distant, slow, reverberant, her own as much as Nathalie's. In the time Nathalie had spoken her interest had shifted to Nicole, who sat at a small table, facing Reiko. Her hands were spread on the table and Reiko was tattooing her knuckles. She had long, elegant fingers, tipped with elongate, pointed nails and Cassandra was entranced by seeing these beautiful fingers being profaned with tattoos. She stared in silence now, so immobile that Nathalie and Ilione started to laugh at her level of intense concentration. She found herself joining in the laughter without knowing why; the gas had made her very susceptible to giggling.

A glance up at Ilione turned into another prolonged stare. Her friend seemed unrecognisable with her hair pinned up, the full extent of her undercut exposed. She took a step forward to get a better view of Reiko's work on Nicole's fingers, bringing her tattoo into Cassandra's line of sight. The eye seemed real now, the intoxication making Cassandra hallucinate. It seemed to slowly rotate in its socket and the lids blinked more than once. The eye turned to look at Cassandra and while they gazed at each other she felt sure she was party to some hidden, profound knowledge, an arcane secret of the universe. Time was suspended because she knew what time was.

Gradually the sounds of the room came back to her: rock music on the radio, the buzzing of the needle, good natured chat between Nathalie, Ilione and Nicole. Cassandra smiled at how ordinary it all seemed to her, but how she was above all this now because of her special knowledge. But what exactly was it she knew? She felt a sudden loss, a grief as she realised that she'd forgotten the revelation that the eye had given her. She looked up at the back of Ilione's head and saw only a tattoo, beautifully rendered, but lifeless. She sighed as she realised her apocalypse was a mere folly of intoxication.

Nathalie smiled at her indulgently and kissed her affectionately on the lips. “Back with us, are you? You were looking at Ilione in a really strange way. What happened?”

“I... I thought the eye in her tattoo was real.” She was too embarrassed to discuss that she thought it had given her the secrets of time and the universe.

“Oh, so the gas is good stuff, is it?”

Cassandra nodded bashfully. “Very good, Miss.” She then begged to have her arms released from their bondage. Her muscles were being to twitch uncontrollably and the collar was taking the full weight of her arms. “The skin at the bottom of the collar feels raw.”

Nathalie examined her neck and frowned. “My poor little baby! It does look sore. If it comes off you have to swear to do exactly as you're told for the rest of the day. Any hesitation and you'll be collared again.” Cassandra pledged her obeisance; by now any thoughts of rebellion had been safely banished from her thoughts.

Nathalie freed Cassandra's hands, then prised the collar open and eased it from her neck. She rubbed a balm over the distressed skin, giving a blessed relief.

“So you recommend that stuff?” Nicole called across.

“Oh yes, Miss, it was very nice,” Cassandra replied.

“OK, give me some, Nathalie! This really hurts and I could use something to take my mind off it.” A moment later she was masked and took a few deep breaths of the gas. Her eyes seemed to glaze and a stillness overtook her body.

“Can I continue?” Reiko asked. Nicole nodded.

As the needle began to buzz again Nicole spoke, her voice solemn and abnormally slow, as if she had to concentrate to enunciate each syllable. “No pain at all. Just a nice tingle.” The last word trailed off into a delirious moan. She turned to smile at her friends and held out her right hand, the knuckle tattoos completed now. Cassandra saw she'd been marked with a different symbol on each; mysterious arcane symbols, which somehow seemed to relate to the delusion she'd experienced after hallucinating. She was still left with a powerful sense that there was an occult secret at work here, to which she and Reiko were party. She was also aware that it was probably paranoia as a result of the drug she'd inhaled. Was it still paranoia if she knew it was paranoia?

Self aware or not, Cassandra was fascinated by the tattoos that now decorated Nicole's fingers and stared at them, trying to piece together some meaning. “They're beautiful, Miss,” she whispered. “I'd feared that when Miss Nathalie shaved your scalp that you might have been planning a scalp tattoo.”

Nicole gave Cassandra a weird smile. “Would that have been so bad?”

“It might have been a bit much.”

Nicole hissed at Reiko and leaned forward to whisper in her ear. A moment later the tattooist rose and pressed the needle to the bared side of Nicole's head. Cassandra gasped in shock as she saw her scalp being freely inked, long thin lines appearing between Nicole's ear and her crown.

A long blissful moan escaped from Nicole's lips. “That feels good, so good. You need to try this stuff Nathalie.”

“Don't worry, I sampled it,” she laughed. “I wouldn't let my girls use something without making sure it was of the highest quality.”

Ilione seemed as aroused as Cassandra by this unexpected development in Nicole's tattooing, and started to kiss Cassandra excitedly.

“Oh, she's so beautiful, isn't she Cassie? I want to have more tattoos than her, and I want you to have more tattoos than me.” She reached down and started to tug at Cassandra's labial rings. The drug seemed to inhibit her pain sensation and there was no discomfort in Ilione's roughness, only pleasure. Cassandra imagined submitting to being heavily tattooed and moaned with fear, but it was a fear that made her sexual arousal grow to a peak.

She glanced across the room and saw that Nathalie was masked, inhaling the intoxicating gas. She then placed the mask over Ilione's face and let her imbibe her share of the chemical. She slumped forward against Cassandra as her muscles relaxed, then a moment later continued to kiss her. “We're special sisters now, princesses. You can feel our special connection, can't you?” Cassandra nodded. She was still sufficiently suggestible as a result of the gas to believe in what Ilione was saying. “We need to fix your hair though. Your hair's still a bit too... Jennifer. We need to make it all Cassandra.”

“No, don't cut my hair,” Cassandra complained weakly. Nathalie pressed a finger to her lips.

“Didn't you promise to be obedient? And now you're defying Princess Ilione.”

“Yes, but work...”

Her complaints were ignored. Ilione was whispering in Nathalie's ear. The two women looked in each other's eyes for a long time, smiling, giggling, their bliss plain to see in their eyes. Nathalie initiated a kiss which seemed to last forever.

“Ohhh. Oh god,” she moaned. “Ilione... Ilione...” The name seemed like a magical incantation. “Where were we?”

“Cassandra... Her hair?”

“Oh yes,” Nathalie yelped enthusiastically. “How could I have forgotten? Unwind her braid while I get the stuff ready.”

Cassandra sat helplessly as Ilione eased her tresses apart, and ran her fingers through to ease out any tangles. Even if she'd had the will to resist her arms dangled uselessly, the joints aching from the hours of bondage they'd endured, and her legs remained fixed to the chair.

“Oh please Miss, no,” Cassandra begged as she saw Nathalie preparing the clippers.

“Do I need to collar you again, you ungrateful wretch?”

“Miss, it's just that I have a hard time in work with my hair as it is.”

Ilione interjected. “Just give her some gas, that will take care of her jitters.”

Nathalie smiled. “You can give it to her, Ilione.” Both of them still spoke with an artificiality that showed they remained intoxicated.

Cassandra felt the mask pressing hard against her face. As the gas fizzled though the tube she knew it was pointless to resist. She breathed it in, a slight sharpness in her throat indicating that she was no longer breathing air. Her mind was thrown into a sudden confusion and she felt the delicious numbness pass into her limbs once more. Ilione took hold of her head, cradling it tight to her body, holding her curls up to allow Nathalie access to cut the right side with the clippers.

The blades were placed on Cassandra's cheek, in front of her ear. Nathalie moved them slowly, her reflexes slowed by the drug. The buzzing seemed to spread out from the source until it made Cassandra's entire body throb; it seemed like the tingling that she felt shared some resonant frequency with the buzzing of the clippers and the two had combined in a sympathetic vibration. Cassandra's fear had been washed away and she moved her hands until she could reach the rings in her labia, tugging at them roughly. She felt a heavy hank of hair fall into her lap but wasn't consciously aware any more of what was falling. She pressed her head harder against Ilione's body, taking great pleasure in the contact of her shaved scalp against the younger girl's bare skin. She imagined that if they maintained a good contact then Ilione would also be subject to the delicious vibrations which still engulfed her.

Nathalie was reaching across to feel where the shave stopped on the left side of Cassandra's head, then ran the clippers back, high on the right side. She still worked slowly, carefully. Once she'd established this line she seemed to relax and mowed away the hair below the parting more quickly. Ilione's fingers reached down to push Cassandra's ear forward and held it there as the clippers moved in an arc around the edge of her hairline. When the ear was freed, Ilione made Cassandra lower her head to expose her nape, and the clippers shaved more hair away, until symmetry had been established. Cassandra's nape was entirely bare except for a V of hair which projected down from her crown, the point ending just above her occipital bone.

Not quite entirely bare: there was a little raspy stubble there when Ilione rubbed at the area of scalp which had just been clippered, but Nathalie wasn't going to let that remain. Cassandra's disappointment at the cessation of clippering was tempered by her delight as the perfumed oil was used to anoint her scalp (Nathalie used it over all of the undershaved area). The sensation of the razor scraping at her scalp was almost unendurably pleasurable and Ilione could only keep her from moving her head by tightly gripping the long hair at her crown and pulling Cassandra's head firmly into her body.

A broad smile was fixed on Cassandra's face as Nathalie wiped her scalp. “Put her hair in two braids, nice and tight,” she instructed Ilione, who set to her task with relish. Cassandra was suddenly aware of her surroundings for what seemed like the first time in hours. She saw that Nicole now had a large black flower on her scalp, three inches across, very detailed, and partially shaded so that each petal looked wet and gleaming. Reiko was now surrounding the flower with spiny leaves, outlining each with an acid green ink. The tattoo seemed to threaten to spill out across Nicole's temple, beyond the area where it would be covered by her hair if it grew back.

Ilione gave a tremulous coo. “Look at Nicole's tattoo! It's so big and pretty. I wish I had a tattoo like that.”

Cassandra could only stare. She remembered how surprised she's been to see the extent of Nicole's tattoos. She'd first met her at the hospital, fully clothed, elegant. She could have fitted in to any polite gathering. Today that had changed: almost half of her head was shaved and her scalp bore a strident tattoo, her face was adorned with strangely artificial painted brows and her knuckles were covered by dark tattoos. Cassandra envied her for her boldness, for being ready to sacrifice so much. Nicole looked ravishing.

Reiko continued to draw the leaves, describing them with a fine network of green lines. Cassandra and Ilione sat watching in stupefied silence for a long time, barely aware of anything else. Eventually Nicole gave a long groan. “That's really starting to hurt now, and my neck is aching from sitting still. I need a break.” Reiko agreed that it was time for lunch and wiped away the excess ink from Nicole's scalp. She rose stiffly from the chair and approached a mirror to take in her new appearance. “Oh, it's very black. Does it look OK, ladies?” She turned to her friends for reassurances. They were given in abundance. A sudden surprise registered in her eyes. “Cassandra, your hair, you shaved more! I hadn't even noticed. Were you worried I was outdoing you with my sidecut?”

Cassandra blushed. She felt confused. She'd forgotten her hair had been cut, and even more shocked that this could have happened. How could she forget having such a lot of hair shaved off? The gas had made her forgetful. She had to be careful. She realised that she still hadn't seen her new haircut and asked for a mirror.

The reflection shocked her and Cassandra struggled to contain her emotions. She saw a girl who appeared bald apart from a tightly braided blonde crest along the top of her head. There were two long braids hanging at the back, but these looked so thin and scrawny. Her features were very exposed and she was browless: she looked pale and androgynous.

“She looks so beautiful, doesn't she?” Nathalie asked and Nicole agreed that she looked better than ever. Cassandra saw her cheeks redden in the mirror. She didn't at all like her new haircut, but loved that it pleased her friends so much.

“Oh, you're shaking,” Ilione observed. “Are you cold?”

Cassandra looked and saw her hands were trembling quite violently. “No, I'm not cold. Maybe it's the drug..?”

Nathalie sagely nodded. “You need something to calm you down. Swallow, honey.” A tiny white pill was slipped into Cassandra's mouth and washed down with a sip of water.

“What was it?” she asked, worried that Nathalie seemed intent on drugging her without even letting her know what she was ingesting, and not for the first time.

“Just something to relax you. You need your catheter out and it will make that more comfortable.”

Cassandra sat pliantly as Nathalie probed at her labia, then eased the catheter out. There was a mild stinging and an uneasy sensation as the tubing slid out of her urethra. A feeling of relief passed through her body. “Thank you Miss Nathalie,” she smiled. “May I lie down? I suddenly feel tired.” Already the tablet was causing her to slur her speech.

Nathalie and Ilione freed her legs from the chair and helped her over to a padded table across the room. “I love you all so much,” she chuckled. “I love everyone here.” Within a minute she was asleep.

It was much later when Cassandra woke. She felt refreshed and healthy despite some stiffness in her arms and neck. As she became aware of her surroundings she gasped. Nathalie was sitting for Reiko now and had a large tattoo outlined on the left side of her head, reaching from temple to nape. The tattoo was composed of curving interlocking lines, like a dense thorn bush. Overlaid across the design were unpigmented circles varying in size, the largest about an inch in diameter. Cassandra felt an unease at the boldness of Nathalie's tattoo. It changed her look profoundly and she wasn't sure she approved. “Oh Miss, your head,” she groaned.

“It's wonderful, isn't it?” Ilione said, reaching out to stroke Cassandra's hand. She now had a four inch high cross inked on her chest, the top aligned with the gap between her collar bones. The cross was surrounded by crystalline points jutting in random directions, except that the patterns were mirrored symmetrically left and right, up and down.

As when a memory of a forgotten dream is suddenly triggered the following day, Cassandra now started to recall some of the earlier events. She reached up to feel her head and shivered as she realised she was nearly bald. She recalled that Ilione's scalp had been tattooed, but was unable to remember the actual design, and since her friend sat staring lovingly into her eyes, she was unable to see the tattoo for the time being.

She looked for Nicole with a sense of dread, aware that something had changed. She felt her stomach contract as she saw how her beautiful friend had been transformed, hair shaved brutally and scalp disfigured with a heavy tattoo, which gave her beauty a gothic, even slightly monstrous, edge.

Nathalie smiled over at Cassandra. “Rested now, darling? It's your turn with Reiko soon.” Her voice had a distant quality which reminded Cassandra that everyone's experiences had been chemically enhanced.

It was Reiko who spoke. “Actually, that's a good place to finish work on your tattoo for today, Nathalie. Let me get you cleaned up, then I can have a quick rest while you get Cassandra ready for me.”

The feeling of paranoia that Cassandra experienced as she was taken to the chair wasn't, she was sure, entirely a side-effect of the drugs. She was experiencing a sense of dread as she realised she was about to receive her first permanent changes. She hadn't been consulted about what type of tattoos would be placed on her body and believed that she wouldn't be. It wasn't defiance that had piqued Nathalie's anger, it was her timidity. Now she wouldn't be allowed the privilege of timidity: she would leave this room a tattooed woman.

“You know, we've all got scalp tattoos today. Is she going to get one too?” Ilione asked, her fingers stroking at Cassandra's bald temple. “It would just look so sweet...”

“Oh please, not that,” she protested, but her voice was barely audible. Part of Cassandra's psyche, the masochist part, wanted to relinquish control, wanted to break free of all the concerns of her mundane life; wanted to be Cassandra and abandon Jennifer to the past.

Nicole and Nathalie crowded close to her too, and Cassandra could sense the other's expectation as she deliberated on what Reiko would be allowed to do.

“Do you know what happened to the original Cassandra? When Troy fell she was captured and enslaved by Agamemnon, the leader of the Greek army. And slaves would have been marked by tattoos. They would have been shaved sometimes too to indicate their status. Imagine that, the most beautiful princess in Troy, the priestess of Apollo, humiliated by having her head shorn and having ugly, demeaning tattoos needled into her skin!” Nathalie rubbed and pinched at Cassandra's breasts as she tormented her with the story. “She was taken back to Agamemnon's palace at Mycenae and displayed to all as a slave. Is that what you want, to be displayed as a slave, shorn and tattooed?”

Cassandra could find no word of answer. There is no cure, and rescue’s far away, she thought. I must endure this, not endure it because Nathalie compels me but because of an existential need. She suddenly had the courage to look Nathalie in the eye and signal her consent.

Reiko was approaching now, gloved and ready to transform her. Cassandra's suffering would be mercifully diminished; Ilione held the mask over her face as Nathalie opened the valve. She drew a breath and felt her limbs grow heavy. She would submit to the tattooing as her mistress desired. Suddenly she felt panic as she remembered Ilione's prompting to tattoo her scalp. That mustn't happen, she wouldn't be able to go into work visibly tattooed. She tried to call out to Nathalie to beg for the tattoos to be concealed in work but her tongue refused to obey. She mumbled inarticulately and a few moments later the panic had passed as the intoxication intensified: she could no longer recall what had concerned her.

The memories of her first tattooing would always be fragmentary for Cassandra. There was little pain due to the anaesthetic qualities of the gas, merely a pleasurable prickling. The attentions of her friends also contributed to Cassandra's joy. She was unable to say how long it was before she was helped from the bed (she didn't remember transferring there from the chair) and standing unsteadily between two large mirrors. Her body now bore three large tattooed flowers, the first above her pubis, three inches wide and lemon yellow, the others twice as wide: a blue cornflower on the left of her ribcage, a red peony on her right hip. All were clearly delineated with fine black lines and boldly coloured. In addition new piercings had been added: four heavy titanium rings were suspended from each of her outer labia and her inner labial piercings had been stretched to receive equally thick rings.

Cassandra shivered with wonder as she saw the extent of her tattoos. “Thank you Miss Reiko,” she said modestly. “You're a real artist. All the tattoos you've given us are so personal, and all beautifully executed. And thank you Nathalie for giving me the option of covering them when I'm in work.”

Nathalie kissed her tenderly. “Don't imagine that will last forever. You're going to be my little flower slave. I've already made a date with Reiko for more work. Now let's head home, we need to celebrate.”

In the two months that had passed since her tattooing day, Cassandra's life had taken a nightmarish turn. Diana's campaign of bullying and demeaning her had increased when she saw the new hairstyle she'd been given, and the matter had reached a head when the patient who'd previously reported Diana's lies had urged Cassandra to make a stand. A discussion with her new ally revealed that she was a lawyer with a detailed knowledge of employment law. Since the complaints that both women had made had been seemingly disregarded, Gwen informed her that she had a good case for constructive dismissal. Her employers had failed to abide by the terms of their contract and she could terminate her employment and seek compensation.

An agonised Cassandra went to see the ward manager to try desperately to remedy the situation but was effectively told that it was her word against Diana's. The manager looked horrified when Cassandra told her in that case she had no option but to immediately end her employment and seek legal redress (Gwen had already helped her to draft her letter). She went back to the ward to inform Gwen, who immediately recommended a colleague to represent her; she would act as a witness and would therefore not risk being accused of a lack of neutrality. Cassandra's last action in the hospital was to tell Diana that she would be a nurse down for the rest of the shift. “And don't think you've won by getting rid of me. I'm going to pursue this in court and every lie you've told is going to be investigated. You're an evil shit stirring old witch and soon everyone will know it. And I can't imagine the board are going to be best pleased with you when they have to pay me all that compensation.” Diana started to tell her that she was being stupid and should get back to work. “No, I don't work here any more. And just so you know, my lawyer will be taking her evidence to the Royal College, so don't think your registration is safe either. Bye, Diana.” Cassandra waved an insulting gesture behind her as she left the office.

The elation and bravado she experienced when finally confronting Diana had soon dissipated and Cassandra had slipped into a depression: constant anxiety, sleeplessness, inability to concentrate. She'd also become very paranoid about her relationship with Nathalie, fearing that her case would be undermined if anyone realised that she was living with a former patient. She decided that she should move out, at least until the case was finished, but Nathalie was distraught. She'd been incredibly patient and supportive of Cassandra and was convinced that if she was living on her own then her mental health would suffer even more. Eventually a compromise was reached and Cassandra moved in with Nicole until the case was resolved, although her lawyer, Julia, had warned that it may be months before any decision would be made, and if it went to tribunal then the delay would be even longer.

Not a day passed without Nathalie or Ilione (who was now living in Nathalie's home) visiting, and it soon became apparent to Cassandra that her friends were being careful to minimise the time when she was left alone. She started to despair of the actions she'd taken, convinced that her case would fail and that she would never work again.

And so, two months after her resignation from the hospital, Cassandra was called by her lawyer to inform her that a meeting had been arranged the following week with representatives of the hospital. She suggested that her case was so strong that they'd try to settle without going to tribunal, but felt that tribunal was the way to proceed. Cassandra disagreed. She just wanted this to be over and would accept any judgement that exonerated her. The lawyer was sympathetic and promised to act to get the best possible settlement.

Nicole found Cassandra staring at herself in the mirror. “Oh look at me! I look terrible and next week I need to face a big hearing.” Nicole stroked at her hair.

“You've not been looking after yourself. You need a trip to the salon, and we can do that right now. Once your hair looks pretty again you'll feel much better. In a week this is all going to be over and you can move on with your life.”

Cassandra hadn't allowed her hair to be touched since her day at Reiko's studio. Her undershave was now covered by an inch of uneven red hair and the long blonde hair had a considerable amount of darker shade visible at the roots. Her brows had also been allowed to grow back in.

“How can I possibly look presentable, Nicole? I can't put my hair up because the undercut shows, but the undercut's too high to be hidden with my hair down. Am I going to have to get it cut short?”

Nicole embraced her friend, who she could see was on the verge of tears. “It could work for you. Diana's alleged that you've been flirting with male patients, then you appear at the hearing as an out lesbian with a butch look.”

Cassandra wailed. “You really want me to get a butch cut?”

“Not really, I was joking.” She hadn't been, but Nicole could see her suggestion hadn't been at all well received. “Let's see what Sarah can suggest. She's a really good stylist, been doing my hair for years. Although she hasn't seen me since your girlfriend attacked me with the razor. That's going to be an interesting meeting.”

Within the hour Cassandra had taken her place in Sarah's chair in a very stylish small salon in an upmarket shopping centre in the centre of the city. Sarah was still obsessing about Nicole's dramatic new look. “I can't believe you've shaved off all that gorgeous hair. And that tattoo! I'm not sure it's you.”

Sarah was clearly a woman who appreciated long hair. Her own hair fell in thick, gleaming auburn waves to near her elbows.

“Well it is me now,” Nicole replied drily. “Tattoos are pretty permanent. Anyway, it's Cassie who needs your help. Can you concentrate on your job instead of pretending to be my mother?”

Sarah laughed. “Touched a nerve, did I?” She combed through Cassandra's hair and tutted as she saw the extent of her undercut. “You're another one who's been playing with clippers? Was it you who convinced Nicole to shave?”

“Oh, no,” Cassandra said innocently, but Nicole interrupted.

“Well, she does take some of the responsibility, She looked so cute with her sidecut that I had to try it too.” Cassandra found herself blushing at Nicole's compliment. She was still in awe of Nicole's beauty and confidence. “But she has an interview next week and needs to do something to make it look professional.” Cassandra gave her a shy smile in gratitude for allowing her to retain some privacy.

Sarah started to play with Cassandra's hair, a look of concentration in her eyes, as she contemplated options. “I'd recommend losing quite a bit of length, I'm afraid. If you want to cover up the undercut I'd think a bob is the best we can get away with. Or we could always go for a crop.”

Cassandra wanted to say no, but found her confidence was so low she couldn't protest, merely looking up sadly into Nicole's eyes for guidance. Nicole looked at her sympathetically. I don't think you wanted to go short, did you, honey? I think a bob would look great on you.”

“It would?” was all Cassandra could reply.

Sarah was enthusiastic. “It would work well for you. If you keep it long it's going to show the undercut.” An emotional Cassandra nodded her agreement. She would be bobbed. “Great, you'll see I'm right, I promise. What about the colour? Did you want to stay blonde, or go back to something closer to your natural shade?” Again, Cassandra was floundering and shrugged uncomfortably.

“Red would look really pretty, honey,” Nicole suggested, and Sarah smiled and nodded.

“OK, red,” Cassandra replied diffidently. She would have agreed just as easily if they'd suggested blonde, black or green.

Sarah combed back the longer section from the top and pinned it up on top. “What about the undercut? It looks fairly straggly, but if you're wanting to grow it out I can leave it.”

Nicole spoke before a hesitant Cassandra could reply. “It's best you take it nice and neat. Not clippered though, cut it scissor over comb, but nice and short. I prefer the softness of scissored.” Sarah gave a wry smile, as if Nicole's decision had revealed something about the nature of her relationship with Cassandra.

“And that's OK with you?” Cassandra nodded. She'd dreamed of growing out her undercut but Nicole seemed to know clearly what was best.

Sarah immediately began to cut, running a comb up Cassandra's nape as the scissors rapidly clicked. Fine red hairs began to fall over the cape, gathering over her shoulders. The comb moved steadily upward, then returned to Cassandra's neck to begin another upward journey, each time removing more length, taming the regrowth.

“How short was this undercut?” Sarah asked after a couple of minutes. Cassandra cleared her throat, ashamed to admit the truth.

“It was shaved smooth with a razor,” Nicole informed her. Sarah's vocalisation revealed her surprise. “Yes, she was almost bald. Looked amazing when she braided her hair to show it off.”

“I bet. You're going more respectable for your new job then, Cassandra? What is it you do?”

“I'm a nurse.” She wanted to say more, aware that she'd hardly made any conversation with her stylist, but no words came to her. She'd lost the ability to make small talk in her weeks of depression.

Nicole broke the awkward silence. “Take it even shorter, Sarah. It looks really cute when it's nice and tight. She has lovely soft hair.”

As Sarah worked the scissors over the sides, Cassandra started to see how short Nicole preferred. It was as short as the number two guard on clippers, but had a softer, less mechanical texture. Sarah folded her ear forward and cut a clearly defined arc around her ear, then snipped her sideburn into a little point. She gazed at herself in the mirror, uncomfortable with the boyishness of the cut. Then she glanced at Nicole, who was smiling, entranced. She clearly loved what Sarah was doing, smiling warmly at Cassandra.

As Sarah made the final snips over the sides, she spoke, addressing Nicole now. “What about the nape? She has a nice hairline, so natural works, but I could tidy it up.”

Nicole rubbed at Cassandra's neck. “I like it natural, works with the softness, but maybe shave her neck. I like that clean look.”

Sarah obliged, and Cassandra felt the razor shaving the soft down from her nape. “I bet you've missed being shaved, haven't you, honey?”

It was true, the razor brought back memories. She thought of how she used to sit obediently for Nathalie, having her scalp shaved on the left side, her brows shaved, then shaving her mistress in return. All that had been denied her in the previous months. Nathalie had been supportive of her through her troubles, but as a result their relationship had entered a sort of purgatory. Everything was put on hold, a waiting game to be endured. And even though she'd been living with Nicole, their relationship had remained chaste, partly through Cassandra's anxieties, partly through a sense of loyalty to Nathalie. In truth, she'd been just as cool toward Nathalie and Ilione, her body language showing a lack of receptivity to anything physical.

A mirror was held up By Sarah to allow her to see her nape. The entire back had been scissored to the same length, if length was the right word. Nicole had chosen to have her closely cropped and Cassandra remembered her suggestion earlier in the day to go for a masculine cut. She started to sense that this hadn't been made in jest. She forced a smile and thanked Sarah. It was too short, but Cassandra couldn't fault her stylist's craft.

Now the long hair was freed and wet with a spray. “You've taken the undercut so high that it's pretty much on the limit of what it's possible to cut into a bob. I can't even guarantee it will look right, but only you can decide that.”

Cassandra felt panicky. She'd just about come to terms with the idea of being bobbed, but now she might have to go short! And how short that would be, given the cropping she'd just received. Sarah combed the wet locks down over Cassandra's shoulders, parting her hair down the middle of her head. “Going to cut it just here...” She chopped her hands into the sides at chin level. “At least for starters. If that looks a bit thin we can go shorter. The shorter it is the fuller it will look.” She slid the comb through the left side repeatedly, until she was confident that the hair was sitting right. Now the comb was held steadily and the scissors clicked, the tips snipping just under the tines. Cassandra held her breath as she felt wet strands tumble into her lap. Despite the undercuts and undershaves that had been inflicted on her, she'd always had long hair. Now that was changing. She saw a girl in the mirror who had half a head of long hair and a chin length bob on the other side. Sarah walked around the back of her and soon both sides were chin length. Only the back remained long.

As the last long strands were cut from the back Cassandra suddenly felt a pang of guilt. Nathalie! She hadn't asked her about this cut and was sure she'd be livid. How could she have been so selfish? She'd been neglecting her relationship, and felt sure that Nathalie wouldn't want her any more, especially since Ilione was now sharing her house and her bed. And how could she blame her? She'd been unbearable over the last few months, wallowing in her own misery and living a directionless existence.

Sarah combed through the newly cut bob and trimmed a few errant hairs. “It's so easy to cut when there's a high undercut,” she smiled. “Maybe I should do one for all my clients.”

Nicole seemed unaware of Sarah's comments, her eyes darting between Cassandra's newly cut bob and its reflection in the mirror. “I'm not sure. It looks quite flat and thin.”

“It is still wet though,” Sarah replied, giving some hope to Cassandra that she wouldn't have to endure the loss of more hair. “Let's try drying it and see how it looks then.” She completed her plan, giving shine and smoothness to Cassandra's hair as she blew it dry.

Nicole played with it, pulling a section back behind Cassandra's right ear. “It's not right, the undercut shows too easily. You should go shorter.”

Sarah was more circumspect. “I haven't used any products in it. I could give more volume.”

Nicole seemed determined, however. “That would give more lift but the ends would still look thin. You should definitely go shorter. I'm right, aren't I, Cassie?”

“You mean a crop?” Cassandra's heart was pumping hard, as she started to suspect Nicole had been trying to engineer this from the beginning.

“No, still bobbed, just shorter. About here.” She jabbed her fingers at Cassandra's cheek. “Quite bold, but it would work much better.”

“A fringe too?” Sarah asked. She seemed unsure that Nicole's suggestions were viable.

“No, I like the centre part on her. It looks quite severe, and that suits her.”

“You're OK if we try that then?” Sarah asked Cassandra. She'd felt totally excluded from all discussion and part of her needed this. She just nodded and gave a meek smile. She still feared that the short bob wouldn't satisfy Nicole.

Her hair was wetted again and Sarah combed it through. She slid the comb in and fixed it on Cassandra's cheek, level with the corner of her mouth. “Shorter,” Nicole prompted. “Take it up to nose level.” Sarah looked at her quizzically. “Trust me, and be bold. It will look better like this.”

The comb was taken up another inch and the scissors chopped at Cassandra's blonde hair. The strands falling were nowhere near as long as those which lay in her lap, but still shockingly long now that she had so much less hair to work with. It seemed as if almost half of the length was being snipped away. Sarah worked very meticulously, ensuring that she obtained a perfect line, re-combing, snipping, checking. The lower half of Cassandra's ear was now being revealed. It was a very short bob.

As with the previous cut, Sarah finished cutting the bob across the back of Cassandra's head, but now she'd exposed a lot of cropped nape. Cassandra's head was bowed and she was forced to stare at the tangled nest of blonde hair that had been hacked. She shivered as Sarah's hand dabbed at her nape. The stylist took hold of her head and lifted it, making her regard herself in the mirror. She found it almost painful to see herself, her bob now so short that it seemed almost ridiculous. She glanced at the figure standing behind her shoulder; Nicole looked very pleased.

“See, I told you it would be better. It looks great, doesn't it?”

Sarah seemed to agree. “Yes, it does look good. It really shows her lovely jawline. You need good bone structure to pull off a cut like this.”

Cassandra found herself smiling embarrassedly at the compliments, despite disliking her new cut. Soon she was slathered in dye and positioned under a dryer, just her and Nicole, as Sarah went to attend to other business.

Nicole squeezed her hand. “You just look so miserable all the time, Cassie. You should let yourself have some fun. This case will soon be decided one way or the other and you have a whole life in front of you. Whether or not they say you were right or you were wrong isn't going to make everything different. You have people who love you, and that's what matters.”

“I know. I can be selfish...”

Nicole interrupted her. “No, you turn everything against yourself. If they say you were badly treated you get some settlement and move on with your life. If they find against you, you move on with your life. There might be a bit of money for you but that's not really important. You're not going back to the hospital. Nathalie and I will make sure you can find work, so the money's not important. And I know you aren't out for revenge. So don't let this whole situation ruin your life. It's over now and you have to accept that soon. You've let it take over and it won't be easy to let go, even if they find completely in your favour.”

“I know you're right but telling myself what to do doesn't always work. My emotions have a life of their own.”

“Nathalie's been great with you but I think she's been too supportive. You need a firm hand, don't you?” Cassandra felt her cheeks colour and nodded. “I'm going to be very strict with you when I get you home, and you'll do just as I say, won't you?”

“Yes,” Cassandra whispered. She suddenly became aware of the passions she'd repressed for so long, growing in force inside her. Nicole cupped her hand to her ear as if she hadn't heard. “Yes Miss Nicole,” Cassandra corrected herself.

“All the time you've been a guest in my house you've been trying to pretend you're not interested in me. But I see the way you look at me. You've been in love since the day we made the film together, haven't you?” Cassandra nodded, ashamed of herself for betraying Nathalie. “Say it!” Nicole ordered.

“You're the most beautiful woman I ever knew and I've loved you since I first met you. But I love Nathalie so dearly and I'd never do anything to hurt her.”

Nicole smiled. “So you need to get her permission, is that it?” Cassandra nodded and Nicole immediately started to dial. “Cassie's finally started to feel something again and wants to have sex with me. She wants to know you're OK with it.” She nodded thoughtfully. “OK, but I can see she thinks I'm making this up so could you send her a text to confirm it?”

Moments after Nicole ended the call Cassandra received a text from Nathalie: “Enjoy sex. See you tonight. Love you x.”

Cassandra looked open mouthed at Nicole, astonished by Nathalie's nonchalant acceptance of what she regarded as an infidelity. “She's OK with it, Miss,” she whispered, not sure whether she was asking a question or making a statement.

“Like I said, we're like sisters and we share everything. Cassandra, sweetie, do stop looking so scared. Anyone would think you were scared of me. Or that you didn't like sex. And I know that's not the case.” She moved closer to Cassandra, her eyes glittering with mischief, but before she could act on her impulses Sarah was back.

Once the dye had been rinsed, Cassandra was returned to the chair and saw her new colour for the first time. Sarah had taken the undercut very dark, on Nicole's suggestion, and the longer hair was a pale red, just a couple of shades too dark to be considered strawberry blonde and noticeably paler than Cassandra's natural shade. She liked the colour but still felt a shock at every sight of her reflection due to the severity of the cut.

Sarah styled her bob, curling under the ends and giving lift through the crown. It exaggerated the cut even more, the curl lifting the ends even higher up Cassandra's cheeks and ears, the fullness making it look mushroom like above her shorn nape.

“That looks just beautiful, Sarah,” Nicole gushed. “Very pretty indeed. We can style it with a bit less volume for the interview next week to make it look more business-like but still stylish and sexy.”

A bashful Cassandra thanked Sarah for her transformation and went to pay, but Nicole insisted on taking care of that. As they walked out of the salon Nicole stroked at the cropped hair on the nape. “Couple of inches shorter and you'd have a bowl cut. You'd look quite the little slave then, especially if it was shaved underneath.”

Cassandra moaned with alarm. “Oh, I'd hate it. Please don't do that to me, Nicole.”

“It's Miss Nicole to you. And I know part of you would hate it, and part of you wants it right now, just as you hated me making you get this cut but loving how it makes you feel. Am I right?”

Cassandra nodded shyly. “Yes Miss Nicole.” Nicole put her arm around her and kissed her gently on the lips. An elation spread through Cassandra's body as she felt enormous pride in being seen with such a beautiful woman.

As soon as they arrived home Nicole seductively stripped Cassandra of every garment and made her sit at her dressing table, before a large illuminated mirror. She started to play with Cassandra's new bob, messing it up with increasing roughness, then working in a dollop of thick gel. Cassandra moaned constantly and started to touch her sex for the first time in weeks: her depression had killed her libido and it felt like she was reborn. The rings which Reiko had pierced into her still felt alien as she stroked herself.

Nicole took a comb and smoothed the longer hair straight back over Cassandra's head. All of the dark brown undercut was now exposed and with the top slicked close to her head, there was no femininity at all in the style. Nicole kept combing through the thickly gelled hair, sculpting it into new forms. Finally she settled on a look where the front was lifted into a sleek pompadour, the bob combed into a V at the back, the sides bared, with not a single hair allowed to hang free. “When I was a teenager I used to read trashy pulp books about secret lesbian passions and there were always manly women in those. The idea used to get me so turned on. So turned on, you've really no idea. And today I was so tempted to have Sarah make you look like a little delicate boy with a very severe cut, like something from fifties America. I only restrained myself because I knew how important the meeting next week is. But now, you'll indulge my fantasies, won't you?”

Cassandra nodded. She'd never seen Nicole like this before, so dominant that she seemed a little crazy. But Cassandra found it thrilling. The pent up energy inside her was like a tempest.

“You've neglected those brows, Cassandra,” Nicole continued. She took a pencil and went over the fine hairs which had grown back since Cassandra had moved out of Nathalie's home. Her brows were pale and reddish. Now that they were darkened the full extent of the growth was revealed. Cassandra grimaced at the ugly heavy brows she now wore. They diminished her femininity further. Nicole went to a cupboard and took out a large paper bag. “Get changed into this outfit. Meet me downstairs in thirty minutes.”

Now that she was alone, Cassandra rose to examine herself more closely in the mirror. The sleeked hair looked terrible and she despised her dark brows, but she couldn't stop staring at herself and guiltily rubbed at her sex, which was growing wetter each minute. Finally she moved away from the mirror, curious to see the outfit she would wear to please Nicole.

Inside the bag was a grey woollen suit, clearly a man's suit. A white linen shirt, a blue silk tie, plain black socks and lace up black shoes completed the ensemble. A more thorough examination of the contents was made but there were no undergarments. Cassandra slid into the trousers, and felt the prickly wool irritating her pierced pubis. The sensation wasn't without pleasure. She put on the shirt, her nipples visible though the fine fabric, then tried the jacket. The cut hid her curves, and in the mirror she saw a figure that only a close examination revealed to be female. The shoes were fastened, a little too large for her, then Cassandra attempted to knot the tie. She failed to create anything that looked acceptable and decided she would let Nicole attend to that.

Ten minutes later Cassandra made her way to the lounge to meet her lover. She was surprised to see that Nicole had dressed in a long coat, covering her to mid calf. Only the lower part of her shiny spike-heeled boots was visible. She'd redone her make-up, rather excessively, her eyes dominated by long fluttering false lashes. She came close to Cassandra and tugged the studs free from her earlobes. “These aren't necessary tonight.” Then she brandished a wipe to remove all of the make-up from Cassandra's face, with the exception of her darkened brows. A smile spread over Nicole's face as she looked at what she'd created. “Come on babe, let's go out on the town!” she said in an affectedly coarse accent, making Cassandra carry a heavy bag.

Nicole insisted on visiting a couple of bars in the town, Cassandra having to pay for everything. Now she felt utterly humiliated to be seen, wondering about how others would think of this strange androgynous figure. Eventually Nicole took her to a cheap hotel. Cassandra had to pay with her card, which still bore the name Jennifer. Nicole constantly made crude remarks to scandalise a disapproving desk clerk and even let her see a set of handcuffs which she'd carried in her coat.

Once they were installed in the hotel room Nicole opened the bag and set two cameras on tripods. She then took off her coat to reveal her latex outfit, which consisted of a very short skirt and a corset. Cassandra fell willingly to her knees and kissed at her mistress' tattooed pussy. The humiliations were forgotten and now she was overwhelmed with desire. Every moment was an eternity of bliss as the two women let themselves explore each other's bodies. By the time Nicole turned in the bed to explore Cassandra's pussy, she felt an explosive energy inside. Nicole hooked her long nails into the rings and drew her labia apart forcefully, then her head bobbed as her tongue stabbed at the younger woman. Cassandra wailed with growing intensity, gripping her own shorn scalp as she fought the climax for as long as she could. She begged Nicole to pull harder, the pain helping her to resist giving in to the orgasm, knowing that it was growing to monstrous proportions, knowing that she would be engulfed at any moment by an avalanche of delight.

An hour later, Nicole showered her lover and made her endure having her hair once more sculpted into the hated masculine style. They dressed as Nicole announced that she wanted to show off her lover in the hotel bar, much to Cassandra's chagrin.

As soon as they entered the bar Cassandra saw the unmistakable figures of Nathalie and Ilione. They both laughed in astonishment as they saw an almost unrecognisable Cassandra. “Nicole, what have you done to her? Her hair... I can't believe you let her do this to you, Cassandra.”

Cassandra threw her arms around Nathalie, suddenly beset by a torrent of conflicting emotions. “Please don't be mad at me. It's not as short as it looks. When it's down it's a bob.”

“Not mad at all,” Nathalie said and showed her pleasure with a kiss. “Just so pleased you finally found some pleasure. I almost said let your hair down, but that seems a bit inappropriate.”

Ilione seemed delighted by Cassandra's makeover, and was happily stroking at her nape. “You're such a little cutie. I want to take you to a club where they ask you for ID because you look about twelve and you have get out your passport with a picture of old Jennifer!” Cassandra gave an embarrassed smile.

Nicole seemed eager to justify her actions to Nathalie. “She's right, it does look more feminine, and professional when it's down. I wanted her to have a look that will look right for the big meeting next week.” Nathalie nodded to show she was happy with Nicole. “Once the meeting's done with though I think she should get a really nice boyish cut. The back doesn't look right now, there's too much bulk.”

“Hey, you're frightening the poor girl!” (This was true, Cassandra dreaded letting Nicole decide another haircut for her.) “She's been through a lot lately, let's just take one day at a time.”

“I know, but she likes being frightened.” (This too was true.) “You should have seen how pleased she was with me for giving her a butch look. Actually you can, I got it all on camera.” Cassandra's shame was reaching new extremes on this evening. Some privacy was to be accorded her now at least, as Nathalie insisted that they should return to hers. Cassandra felt like she'd turned a corner, rising out of the morass of misery that had mired her for the previous months.

Her suffering wasn't quite concluded though. She was so anxious on the morning of her meeting that she was close to being sick. She'd spoken to her lawyer, Andrea, the previous night and was told that only she would be present in the meeting to support Cassandra. Her friends would wait for her in a café near the hospital, awaiting the outcome. However, Cassandra had also been warned that there was no guarantee that the meeting would be final. If a suitable agreement couldn't be reached then there would be no choice but to proceed to a tribunal, which could mean months more delays.

Cassandra was horrified as she entered the hospital boardroom to see that her accuser, Diana, was present. Andrea whispered to her: “This is just intimidation. Don't respond to her. Stay calm and listen to what I have to say before you reply to anything.”

A senior manager made the introductions and summarised the case, getting Cassandra (although she would be called Jennifer for the duration of this hearing) to acknowledge that he'd understood her grievances correctly. Diana kept her eyes on Cassandra fixedly and it unsettled her. She just had to ignore her and do as Andrea had suggested. Gwen had not merely provided a detailed statement in support of Cassandra's good conduct and Diana's unprofessionalism, but had also asked other patients to record their views. There was no criticism of Cassandra voiced by any of them, and several had noted Diana's outbursts. In Diana's defence was a statement from an agency nurse who claimed she'd been uncomfortable with Cassandra's conduct around patients. “Do you know this woman?” Andrea whispered. Cassandra shook her head.

“There are lots of agency workers, I can't always remember names.” The lawyer studied the document as a manger read it, then leafed through some papers until she found a print out of a spreadsheet.

“I need to point out a problem with this statement. On the date this nurse alleges misconduct there were no agency nurses employed on the ward. I got a list of all recent hours worked by agency staff in the ward under the freedom of information act. This statement isn't just flawed, it's false and defamatory.” Now it was Diana who couldn't return Cassandra's gaze.

This was the turning point, as Andrea now went through numerous breaches of employment law and NHS policy in the hospital's handling of Cassandra's complaints. The head of the investigating committee looked increasingly furious as he realised the culpability of Diana and her superiors. At length he asked for Diana, Cassandra and their representatives to withdraw while considering options. Cassandra and Andrea hadn't even reached the café where the friends were waiting when Andrea received a call asking them to return to the boardroom.

“The hospital accepts no responsibility for wrongdoing in this case but is prepared to make a payment to Miss Cane in return for which she will agree to cease all actions in regard to her time of employment by this hospital.” An envelope was pushed across the table which Andrea opened. She remained silent for some time.

“Miss Cane is eager to settle this case but you shouldn't mistake that for a lack of resolve. If you continue to underplay the seriousness of her maltreatment then she will take this to a tribunal, and since I'm sure you understand the weakness of your own position you know what the likely outcome is. If you increase the compensation awarded by fifty percent, grant expenses and guarantee that a disciplinary investigation will be launched against the instigator of the bullying, including passing evidence to the Royal College, then I think we have an agreement.” There was an exchange of glances between the committee and Andrea's proposal was accepted.

“Miss Cane, you agree to the terms of this agreement?”

She looked at Andrea for guidance. “Take it,” she mouthed.

It was thirty minutes later before a slightly bemused Cassandra headed out of the room. There'd been a delay while an amended agreement was printed out, studied by Andrea and then signed by both parties. “Did I just win?” she asked. “They didn't exactly sound apologetic.”

“You won. And no they didn't. You settled so they can deny any wrongdoing. Although I think Diana is going to feel the full force of being a scapegoat.”

“So how much did they offer?”

Andrea looked surprised. “Didn't you see?” She paused and whispered into Cassandra's ear.

“Oh!” she squealed. “You're kidding? That's more that I got paid in years!”

“You'd probably have got more at tribunal, and their legal costs would have been enormous. So just enjoy it.”

Cassandra's first action on arriving at the café was to order a bottle of champagne.

The following weekend Cassandra lay on a lawn with Nathalie sipping a glass of wine and admiring the view. The four friends had gone to a country cottage for the weekend, Cassandra's treat for the support they'd given to her.

“I've got more money than I've ever had, Nathalie. I don't have to work for... well a couple of years. I can take some time and decide what I want to do. I'm not even sure I want to be a nurse any more. Besides, word will probably get round and I'd have trouble finding a job.”

“Well since we're on the subject of jobs... I've heard from an old friend who's invested in a clinic. Very well appointed, very exclusive. It caters to an extremely specialist clientèle. My friend is well connected though and invited me to invest too. If I did you'd be part of my investment.”

Cassandra looked at her blankly. “You're being very mysterious. 'Specialist clientèle?'”

“The clinic does cosmetic work for... fetishistic reasons. If I was to invest it would mean you taking up a nursing position there. But there are unusual terms of employment. It would mean a limited form of slavery.”

Cassandra looked astonished. “And this exclusive clinic, is it far away?”

“You could say that. It's on an island in the Indian Ocean.”

“This sounds crazy. Would you be living there with me?” Nathalie shook her head.

“You'd work there for five months a year, one three month term and the second for two months. I would visit during both. I should warn you that you'd be subject to more stringent control than you've experienced.”

“Nathalie, I love you. I don't want to be away from you ever again. We're free now to live together at last and you're talking about sending me half way around the world.”

“You're right, my love. We'll never mention it again.”

The sun was almost directly overhead and Cassandra could see no place around the harbour where she could find shade. She adjusted her hat and rummaged through her bag for her sunblock, then applied another layer. She was sure she'd made the biggest mistake of her life in coming here. She looked at her watch again, wondering if she'd made some error with time zones. She should have been met almost an hour previously.

She had few distractions to make her wait seem more bearable and she found her mind wandering through the events that had brought her here. Nathalie had planted the seed and despite every effort to forget it the idea kept growing, gnawing at her imagination until she had to find out more. Within days she'd met a doctor for an interview and was surprised that it was more stringent than any other interview she'd experienced. She'd had to sit an exam which posed difficult clinical questions, mostly about theatre nursing, which she was a little rusty on. The doctor told her she'd only just managed a pass grade.

Even more demanding in its own way was the horribly graphic questioning she then had to endure about her sexuality and her kinks. She felt humiliated and slightly disgusted by some of the questions. There seemed no boundaries to what she might have to experience should she take the job. But hours later she felt elated as she was told she'd been accepted.

She had only a few days to say her farewells. She knew that she'd be unable to see her friends for ten weeks, although she would have regular access to web chats. Then she had a series of flights to end up here, on a tiny island in the Indian Ocean where she seemed to have been abandoned. She'd seen the island from the air on the approach and could see nothing which seemed likely to be the clinic. Her assumption was that she'd been told to proceed to the harbour to take a boat to another island. The weather could hardly be a reason for the delay: the water surface in the harbour was barely disturbed by any movement in the air.

She heard the rattle of an old diesel engine and saw a rusted van approaching, which she estimated was at least forty years old. It paused fifty yards from her, at the other side of an open area of worn concrete. “Cassandra?” a woman called from the passenger side door.

“Yes!” she called eagerly and started to approach.

“Passport?” the woman asked coldly. She held it out and the woman took it more roughly than was necessary. She stared at the picture, scanned the information. “It's brand new. Didn't you have a passport?”

“I changed my name. Just a week ago, so I had to change it. Cassandra isn't my birth name. My mistress wanted it.”

The woman stared at her through mirrored sunglasses, then turned to the driver, passing her the passport to scrutinise. The van started forward, causing Cassandra to panic and start to move after it. “Get in the back,” the woman ordered wearily.

Cassandra did as she was told, opening the door with some difficulty. The interior was in darkness and she climbed in without being able to see anything. She gasped as both her arms were seized and she was pulled to the floor. As the van moved away a cloth was tied around her eyes and her clothing was removed. A woman's voice hissed at her to cooperate if she wanted to avoid being hurt.

A compliant Cassandra poked out her tongue as instructed. The bar in her tongue was quickly removed and she felt another object being inserted. She was immediately aware of its great weight and when she tried to withdraw her tongue realised that the new jewellery was hugely oversized. She had to open her jaws wide to accommodate the new object, a glass bead over an inch in diameter, the post attached on the underside fixed in her tongue now, with a large metal bead screwed to the bottom to ensure it was fast. It served as a very effective gag.

The blindfold was removed but Cassandra saw only the inside of a latex hood which was then drawn over her head. It had no eye holes and her vision was once again occluded. A zip was closed at the back and the rubber tightened about her face. She was made to kneel then bend forward. She groaned with fear and humiliation as she felt her buttocks being forcefully drawn apart and lubricant applied to her anus. A finger was eased inside her to relax the muscles of the sphincter, then an object of greater girth was eased inside. Cassandra groaned and started to cry as her anus quivered and cramped. “No tears!” a firm voice barked at her. “You have a long journey and you'll be hooded. I don't want any breathing problems.” Cassandra nodded and focussed on her breathing to restore calm.

If she thought her indignities had ceased she was mistaken; she felt her piercings being pulled to open her labia and a cold tube pressed at her. It entered her and she ground her teeth as she realised she was being catheterised. The tube felt gritty as it passed through the narrow duct, burning and stinging. Her eyes filled with tears despite her best efforts to manage her emotions.

Cassandra was now dressed in tight latex. It felt heavy and constricting, and the close fit may have been reassuring if it wasn't for the fact that she was already terribly warm. Soon it seemed her entire body was covered with rubber with the exception of her genitals, her nose and mouth. Now a corset was added and cinched tight around her waist, then a rubber collar was bound on her neck, sealing the hood in place. Cassandra felt unbearably hot and could feel sweat beginning to accumulate beneath the latex.

The van had stopped moving some minutes previously and Cassandra was now dragged out. The air was cooler and from the reverberation of the sounds she heard she could tell she was inside a fairly large space, one of the small warehouses she'd seen around the harbour perhaps. She was pushed into a chair and told to remain motionless. Her arms and legs were contained in hollow semi-cylindrical guides. A second hood was now fitted, but this one didn't fit close to her face. The hissing she heard as she breathed indicated that she was now breathing through a long tube, and the odour left her in no doubt that it was rubber. It took a few seconds for Cassandra to realise that the loud banging was a lid being nailed to a box which contained her. She nervously lifted a hand, moved a foot to test whether she was restrained. Her movements weren't constricted, nor was she reprimanded. As she tried to lean forward she discovered that her collar had been chained to the chair. It was too much to expect that she'd be allowed complete freedom.

She could still hear sounds outside her box, machinery being moved, electric motors, hushed voices. There was a loud rap on the box. “Cassandra, make sure your arms and legs are in the guides now. The restraints are about to activate.” She pulled her arms and legs tight into the tubes, although they'd already been in place, since the guides provided the only comfortable position for her limbs. There was a loud hissing which seemed to emanate from all around her and Cassandra felt pressure against her as a series of rubber bladders inflated, expanding until they filled all of the free space in the box. The entire surface of Cassandra's body was subject to a firm pressure from the tightly inflated balloons. There was a faint click as headphones in the hood became live. “Cassandra, can you press the button in the recess under your left hand?”

She sought it with her fingers and pressed as requested. “Good. This is a precaution to ensure you don't become hypoxic and lose consciousness. You'll receive a small shock at two minute intervals. This will repeat if you don't press the button. It's sufficiently unpleasant that you will press the button. If it continues to shock you we'll know something's gone wrong and we'll make sure you're recovered. Your journey will begin now.”

With that Cassandra felt the box tip back and start to trundle forward. The unexpected motion made her feel giddy. She imagined the box was being moved with a trolley and could feel every bump as she moved across an uneven surface. There were calls in a language she didn't recognise, then the box moved more violently as it was forced over a step. When the crate was finally righted and the trolley removed Cassandra became aware that she could perceive a gentle swaying. She was on water.

As she awaited the departure of the boat, Cassandra gasped as the plug administered a painful shock. It felt like something sharp had penetrated deep into her flesh and she desperately felt for the button, fearful that a second shock would be administered. “Oh, good, that works then,” a mocking voice shouted from outside.

Cassandra's perceptions of where the box had been taken were largely correct, but there was one error. The box started to vibrate and a rapid acceleration occurred, leaving Cassandra in no doubt that she was on a sea plane. A slightly nervous flier, this journey filled her with terror. The plane lurched unsteadily and a severe vibration frequently beset the box. The engine sounded dangerously unreliable too, the rattling suddenly becoming subdued on more than one occasion. Cassandra's imagination conjured dark scenarios, where the plane crashed but she survived due to the protection afforded by the padded box, only to slowly drown as the fuselage sank under the waves. The regular painful shocks added another awful dimension to her suffering.

The stress increased as Cassandra felt the plane swoop downward. There seemed to be sudden corrections of course, leaving her questioning the competence of the pilot. There was a huge release of tension as the plane slowed and Cassandra realised that she was once more on water, but by now she had a tremendous headache and a strong feeling of nausea.

Nor was she to be swiftly released from her bondage. The plane seemed to taxi for so long that Cassandra started to believe that they'd had to land short of the destination and were now stranded in the open ocean. Finally she felt the crate tipping and she was moved onto Terra firma.

The crate was transported over rough ground, then the movement became smooth. Surely she was inside the clinic now? She started as the balloons rapidly began their simultaneous deflation. Some movement was restored, although Cassandra felt sore and weak as she extended her arms.

The lid of the box was torn open and Cassandra was aided to stand. Her legs were trembling so much that without support on each side she felt certain she would have fallen. She felt helpless as she slumped into a soft padded chair and felt the hood being unzipped and peeled from her head. She was in a brightly lit room and squinted as her eyes tried to accommodate the level of illumination.

“Welcome to the clinic, nurse Cassandra. I'm Doctor Paola, and I'll be supervising you during your introductory period.” Cassandra looked nervously at the woman. She was well spoken, with a faint trace of a European accent. She was olive skinned with thick dark hair which gleamed under the lights. She was very beautiful but there was a coldness to her expression which unsettled Cassandra.

“Your status is that of a slave, but don't think think that means you merely have to follow orders. This is a working clinic and you'll be expected to work to the highest standards, clinically and in client care. Our clients are very wealthy and used to high standards. Any lapses will be punished.

“As a slave nurse you will be expected to attend to the needs of your superiors in the ways they request. I can punish you in any way I see fit, although any more permanent modifications do need the agreement of your owner. Nathalie has supplied me with details of effective punishments.”

Doctor Paola had removed Cassandra's opera gloves during the discussion and had fitted a cuff to measure Cassandra's blood pressure. She noted the reading and looked satisfied. “Your first modification will be to have the mark of the clinic tattooed on your right wrist. All slave status workers receive that.” She pressed a button on the desk phone and a young woman entered. Within minutes she had started to tattoo a two inch roundel on the inside of Cassandra's forearm. She was too exhausted to resist, but winced as the needle burrowed through her skin.

Paola looked amused. “Nathalie did mention that you had a low pain threshold. That's unfortunate, given the nature of your current employment. This little tattoo is really quite insignificant compared to some of the treats we have planned.” Underneath the tattoo, which had now been coloured red and green, the number 126 was neatly graven into Cassandra's skin. “This is your number, and some may prefer to refer to you as 126 or nurse 126 rather than your name.” Cassandra looked sadly at the tattoo, horrified that it would remain with her for the rest of her existence.

“Now that you've been tattooed I hope you're starting to adjust to your new status. However, I think we need to take more action.” The doctor now placed a latex cape over Cassandra, zipping it at the back so that it fitted tightly around her neck. The tattooist assisted as the edges of the cape were pushed into a channel that ran around the edge of the chair. As Doctor Paola manipulated the controls on a console this channel narrowed, forming a tight seal. The air was then sucked out from under the latex which pulled tightly over Cassandra's body. She gave a cry of distress as once more she was completely immobilised.

The doctor now played with Cassandra's hair, which was flattened and dishevelled as a result of the hood. “I'm told haircutting gets you very excited. That's why I'm going to give you an appropriate new look to suit your status.” She held a set of clippers before Cassandra's face, making the young woman beg for mercy. The huge bead which remained attached to her tongue rendered speech impossible. “You're gibbering most unattractively. If you want a more manageable piercing in your tongue for your chat with your mistress tonight then you should remain quiet.”

The clippers were turned on and a helpless Cassandra felt the blades press to her forehead. Doctor Paola held them still for a moment, until her patience ended. She drove them straight back over the middle of Cassandra's head, letting pale red hair fall free over the tightly stretched film of rubber which provided such a firm restraint. “Get her a mirror,” she ordered her assistant.

As more hair was sheared from the top of Cassandra's head she was made to watch, the mirror now held close to her face. Paola was stripping the hair as fast as she could, the blades making rapid swoops from front to back. She laughed as the last of the longer hair fell free. “Your undercut is your long hair now, 126. Except it looks like you have male pattern baldness. Do you want me to tidy up your head?” A tearful Cassandra nodded, trying to accept her fate.

The clippers zizzed up the back of her head now, shaving the short hair that Sarah had cut so carefully just a few weeks earlier. As the last of the cropped hair was buzzed away, Paola asked the assistant to lather Cassandra's scalp. “You're going to wear a hood and some hair will be allowed to grow back. If you're seen without a hood, your head will be shaved again.” As the soap was brushed onto Cassandra's head, Paola took a pair of tweezers. “There's some more hair to be removed now, but this will be plucked and won't grow back so quickly.” She tugged some hairs free from Cassandra's eyebrow, then set to the task of removing every vestige of hair with gusto. Cassandra was simultaneously subject to a razor scraping over her scalp as any trace of stubble was eliminated by the doctor's assistant.

Not content with destroying Cassandra's brows, Paola now began plucking at her eyelashes. It was less painful than she'd imagined, but the sensation nevertheless appalled her. When the mirror was once more held before her face she began to sob. Her face was reddened by mild sunburn from her wait at the harbour, and the contrast with the paleness of her scalp seemed absurd. Her beauty had been taken from her ruthlessly and she believed fully that Paola had reduced her to a slave.

“Tongue!” the doctor ordered brusquely. Cassandra tried to obey but found that she was unable to get the massive piece of glass past her teeth. Her tongue was almost paralysed by the immobility which had been forced on it. Paola groaned impatiently and went to obtain a tray of tools. Cassandra had to endure her mouth being ratcheted open by a set of jaw spreaders hooked over her teeth, then felt her tongue gripped with forceps and guided out. It took only moments for a more modestly proportioned barbell to replace the large bead. Cassandra moved her tongue to try to acclimate herself to this new freedom.

“Thank you, Doctor Paola,” she slurred. The suction on the cape was stopped and a moment later the seal around the edge clicked open. Cassandra was ordered to stand as the cape was removed. The assistant now humiliated Cassandra further by removing the catheter and butt plug.

“You looked quite pretty in those pictures Nathalie sent but I hated that bob on you. Mind you, you don't look good bald either. I suppose you'll just have to get used to being plain.” Cassandra's self confidence drained even further. “I can see you're dying to feel it, so do it.” She did as instructed, nervously feeling her scalp.

“You'll find a tablet in your room. There are some PDFs of research on it. You need to study those papers tonight, and you'll sit a test on them in the morning. Then you have an appointment with the dentist in the morning and surgery in the afternoon. You'll have an hour tonight to chat to your mistress via your tablet as well. I'm sure you're tired after your journey so don't stay up too late.”

Paola left immediately and it was her assistant who took Cassandra to her room. She advised Cassandra to look at a document on her tablet which laid out a lot of the rules of the clinic.

As soon as she was left alone, Cassandra removed her corset and fell to the bed, exhausted and overcome with sadness. She rubbed her bald head and moaned. She could see herself in a mirror on the wall opposite and found herself staring at her new image, despite the discomfort it caused her. She cursed herself for allowing herself to be brought here.

After eating the salad she found in her small refrigerator Cassandra felt slightly more energetic and picked up the tablet for the first time. She skimmed through the rules for the clinic but couldn't take much in, then winced as she saw the papers she had to study. They were quite detailed and covered areas she knew nothing about. There was no way she could ignore them and hope to get through the test.

Now Cassandra found a chat program installed on her tablet and saw that there was only one contact: Nathalie. She eagerly tried to connect and saw that Nathalie appeared to be online. She typed a greeting and immediately got a response. Then an invitation to open web cams appeared. As soon as she agreed she saw Nathalie on the screen.

“Oh Nathalie, look what they did to me! As soon as I got here I was tattooed and shaved. She held up her wrist to show the tattoo, which still had a layer of cling film taped over it. Ilione moved into view as she tried to get a look at the new Cassandra.

“Wow, Cassie, you look so bald. They turned you into a hairless slave.”

“Don't joke, I am. I have loads to study, but apparently I'm due to have dental work and surgery tomorrow. I'm so scared. The Doctor who's in charge is horrible. She just seems to want to scare me and be mean.”

Ilione was eager to find out more. “Are they going to keep you bald all the time? Has she mentioned permanent hairlessness?”

Cassandra started to cry. “Please Nathalie, don't let them do that to me. They're going to operate on me tomorrow and I've no idea what that mad doctor has planned. Nathalie, it was a mistake coming here. I need to come home. Will you tell them? Please don't make me stay.”

The screen blacked out and Cassandra cursed the poor connection. A minute later the door opened and she saw Paola enter her room.

“Didn't you read the guide? All your communications are monitored. And it's very clear: you're not allowed to request an early end to your service here, except on medical grounds. Your communication privileges are rescinded for a week and in addition you'll receive a punishment.” She went to Cassandra's wardrobe and look out a latex hood with an open face. “What did I say would happen if you were seen without this?”

“My head would be shaved again, Doctor. I'm sorry, I didn't think I needed to wear it in my room.”

Paola laughed. “You don't. But I'll be hanging onto it for a few days. Growing out your hair will have to be postponed until I can see you're less hostile to me. 'Mad' and 'horrible', isn't that how you described me?” It wasn't just sunburn that made Cassandra's cheeks glow. “Are you trying to make me your enemy? I'm not that, but I could become it.

“You didn't read your guide, did you? Knowledge is power. When you're advised to do something here, heed the advice. You're not leaving here for three months and I'll enjoy your stay equally whether you're obedient or unruly. The punishments can be so entertaining, for me anyway. I think you'll learn that you don't have the constitution for insubordination. Now get on with your studies or you'll fail your test in the morning.”

Cassandra was left alone and tried to concentrate on reading the set texts. A combination of fear, indignation and tiredness sapped her concentration and within an hour she decided to abandon the effort. She set her alarm for early the following day, hoping that her ability to retain information would have returned.

Her hairlessness had one benefit: her morning routine was much more efficient. Showering and drying took minutes and despite the desire to return to bed and get a few more hours sleep, Cassandra determined to read the research papers. She scribbled some notes as she tried to memorise the more complex concepts. She nibbled a cereal bar and sipped some coffee as she read.

Her studies were disturbed as a chime sounded on her tablet. She saw a message instructing her to proceed to the college in thirty minutes and to dress immediately. There were instructions on what she should wear. Cassandra felt ill-prepared, and knew that she hadn't fully grasped the information she was supposed to learn. She tried to continue reading as she dressed, but the tight black latex outfit was troublesome to don and took all of her concentration. She didn't dare arrive late on her first morning.

She looked at herself in the mirror, bald, collared, corseted. The sleeve of her top contained a clear patch which allowed her new tattoo to be seen. She looked like a slave, there was no doubt. She read through her notes one more time, muttering some of the key facts to herself. She checked the route to the college on her tablet and left her room.

She arrived at the college with seconds to spare. Her tall heels made her walk more slowly than she'd anticipated and she she'd taken a wrong turn in the featureless white corridors. She was greeted by another doctor, who identified herself as Rhiannon. She was dressed far more conservatively than Cassandra had expected any of the staff would be, a simple, well-cut trouser suit. Her hair was cropped very short, quite a masculine style, dyed carrot red. She looked to be in her fifties but had a certain attractiveness to Cassandra.

She seemed to lack any empathy or humour as she studied Cassandra and turned her arm to check the tattoo. “Your dress is in error, 126. Identify your failings and explain.”

“I'm not wearing my hood, Doctor Rhiannon. It was confiscated by Doctor Paola as a punishment.”

The older woman stared at her. “For..?”

“Insubordination, Doctor.” There was a long silence and Rhiannon seemed to expect more. “I called her mad and horrible. And I asked my mistress to end my placement here,” Cassandra added, deeply ashamed.

“Well, well. And you'd only just arrived. Since you're improperly dressed the pass mark for the exam just went up. Go to the desk and start the test. You have an hour and the clock is already running.”

Cassandra eased herself into the chair, trying to find a comfortable position, which her corset made challenging. She read quickly through the questions and started writing.

“And stop!” Rhiannon took the paper from the desk and immediately started to read it. After reading a couple of paragraphs she looked up at Cassandra with some interest, then continued reading. She used a red pencil to make annotations as she went along. “Eighty-three percent. The elevated pass mark was seventy. This was your only major error,” (she indicated a paragraph which she'd corrected) “but I can see you're a bright girl. Keep applying yourself and you'll learn a lot here. Don't deceive yourself that academic prowess is enough. The life of a slave nurse here is very challenging and you have to learn when to be tough and when to acquiesce. I've read all about the trouble you caused in your last job. I hope you don't bring similar troubles here.”

Cassandra felt like she'd been physically assaulted. Just as she started to warm to Rhiannon she'd said something which Cassandra found so unjust and hurtful that she could hardly contain her wish to protest. Rhiannon was sensitive to the change in her mood. “You wanted to say something?”

“With respect, doctor, I didn't cause trouble. I was treated unfairly by a colleague and I was helped to settle the situation. The changes in my appearance that my mistress chose for me were what triggered the bullying and I honestly don't know what I could have done differently.”

“I don't like complaining. I won't tolerate it. As soon as you got here you complained to your mistress. You need to improve your attitude immediately.”

Cassandra nodded. “Yes, Doctor Rhiannon.”

“Now you need to go to the dentist, don't you?” As she led Cassandra to the door she gave her directions. “Smile and let me see your teeth. Oh, what a pretty smile! Be sure to come back later, I want to see how you look by then.”

Cassandra was aghast at the look that Rhiannon gave her. Her hand was shaking as she opened the door to the dentist's room. Inside she saw three women, all covered head to toe in white latex. Only their eyes were visible, surgical masks covering their mouths and noses.

The dentist approached. “And you are..?”

“Nurse Cassandra, 126. I was told to come here.”

The dentist looked at a clipboard. “Yes, that's right. Take a seat and the nurses will fit your restraints.”

Cassandra made her way to the adapted chair and climbed up. She was instructed to grip the handles at the sides of chair and as she did covers were placed around her fists which prevented her from opening her grip. Long pads were now attached along the sides of the chair, L-shaped in section. These were adjusted so that they pressed firmly against her arms, pushing them tightly against her body and preventing any movement of her torso. The straps which were closed across her chest seemed merely cosmetic. Another belt was tightened around her ankles.

The dentist looked pleased at Cassandra's immobility. “Your mistress informed us that you like to be restrained with pressure pads. I hope it will make your treatment more exciting. Now we should have a strap around your hood but you seem to be missing it.”

“It was confiscated as a punishment,” Cassandra said, trying to sound penitent.

“Ah, yes, I see. You know that you have some visible stubble? And that's not acceptable. Ask the nurses to remedy your error.”

Cassandra looked up at the nearer nurse. “Please nurse, would you shave me?” she asked, feeling her humiliation increase.

The nurse mixed up a cup of shaving foam and used a traditional brush to lather Cassandra's cranium. “Open your mouth,” she said as the last lather was applied. Cassandra did as instructed and was rewarded by the brush being thrust into her mouth, laden with a dollop of bitter soap. “That's for speaking disrespectfully about a doctor. You can hold it there until you're bald. It might make you think before you disgrace yourself next time.”

Her colleague wielded a safety razor, pressing it firmly to Cassandra's scalp. There was barely any resistance from the short stubble, mere hours of regrowth from the close shave the previous night. Cassandra sputtered as she tried to breathe, the soap choking as it dribbled over her tongue. “There we are, nice and bald again.” The nurses giggled and stroked her head. “You can keep coming here so we can shave you every day.”

“Ladies...” the dentist interrupted. “We do have work here.” The nurses apologised, and cleaned up the mess that the shaving brush had made. Cassandra's freshly shaved head was pushed back into a soft horseshoe shaped pad and a leather strap fixed across her forehead.

“Please, don't do anything to my teeth,” Cassandra begged. “Please doctor, my mistress wouldn't like it and I was told all permanent work has to be agreed by her.”

“I'm not a doctor, I'm Miss Erin. We use British conventions here. Anyway, do you think I'd be doing this if I hadn't receive Nathalie's permission? It was her idea to do this work. Now open up.”

Cassandra had little choice but to comply as the nurses poked and tugged at her mouth and inserted a lip retractor. “Oh yes, she does have crooked teeth,” one of them said, cruelly. There was a slight unevenness to Cassandra's lower teeth, but very minor. It was something about which she was sensitive, however. “No wonder her mistress wanted her sent here. Miss Erin, should we use jaw spreaders?” The dentist agreed and Cassandra found her jaws wedged open to their full extent.

Miss Erin calmly inspected Cassandra's teeth. “All nice. You look after your teeth. But now I'm going to start your work. I do love undertaking major work on little subs who have no idea what's going to happen to them.”

Cassandra was beside herself with fear. The words “major work” had particularly filled her with terror, and her eyes widened. She tried to beg her dentist to stop, to spare her this, but her jaws were jacked wide apart and she was unable to make herself understood. In her heart she knew that the eloquence of Orpheus would not dissuade Miss Erin from the course of action she'd decided on.

“126, this noise isn't attractive. You can do nothing now to stop this happening. Just accept that and you may find some peace.” She lifted a syringe into Cassandra's view, deliberately letting her see the long needle which would soon penetrate her flesh. “You're not frightened of injections, are you? If so I could proceed without anaesthetic.”

Awful as the sight of the needle was, the alternative was far worse, Cassandra was sure. She tried to convince Miss Erin that she was prepared for an injection, but could only gurgle. Even a nod of the head was denied her. Nevertheless, Erin seemed to have determined that an anaesthetic would be administered. She moved the syringe into Cassandra's mouth and pressed the tip into the soft flesh where her jaws hinged together.

Despite her experience as a nurse, Cassandra had never managed to completely conquer her squeamishness of receiving injections. In addition, she'd had a phobia of dentists as a child and even as an adult disliked her visits intensely. The old phobia came back to her now with renewed force. She felt a pressure which became an ache as Erin manipulated the needle down into the joint, seeking out the nerve supply to her face. Her mouth filled with a bitterness as the syringe plunger was depressed. Cassandra knew that this injection would numb the entire left half of her face, and within moments could feel a tingling starting to manifest. Erin slid out the needle, only to move it to the other side of her jaw to administer a second injection.

Cassandra felt her tongue lose sensation: it seemed to swell and fill her mouth. She was salivating but struggled to swallow and was glad when a nurse used a tube to suction the excess liquid from her mouth.

Cassandra wanted to escape now as she saw a drill being moved toward her mouth. Erin was deliberately putting every tool in her sight-line to increase the dread she was experiencing. As Cassandra pushed at the pads trapping her arms they seemed to press even more firmly against her. The nurses had immobilised her very effectively and the blinking of her denuded eyelids as her tears started to flow was the only movement she could control. She felt an outrage as the drill emitted a high pitched whine, then pressed to an upper central incisor. Her teeth were being destroyed! How could this be happening? How could Nathalie have permitted this?

She could feel fragments of tooth flying into her mouth, covering her tongue and was grateful for the suction as they were vacuumed away by the nurse. She didn't dare swallow, afraid that some piece of enamel would catch in her throat. She felt saliva collecting and felt like she was choking, looking up at the nurse in the hope that she would understand her discomfort and drain the liquid.

Erin seemed to make the torture last for hours. All of her central teeth were drilled, slowly, painstakingly, six upper, six lower. Cassandra cried until her sinuses ached. She wondered what was being done to her smile, what would happen once her teeth had been drilled and shaped to fit Erin's desire. At last the drill became silent, and only now did Cassandra realise that her head was aching intensely, exacerbated by the prolonged shriek of the drill. The nurse made a more thorough inspection of her mouth with the suction tube, clearing away the detritus which had once been Cassandra's treasured teeth. She nervously moved her tongue and felt an unfamiliar shape to her teeth, finer edges, gaps palpable between some. She looked expectantly at Erin, awaiting the next procedure, but saw that she seemed to be finished. She'd even removed her gloves, allowing the first glimpse of flesh that Cassandra had seen in this surgery.

The nurses started to tidy up, then one came to release Cassandra's restraints. The jaw spreaders were loosened and eased from her jaws, along with the lip retractors. “Thank you, nurse,” Cassandra slurred, her tongue still heavy and swollen from the anaesthetic. The nurse curtly told her to get up.

She was unsteady as she lifted herself from the chair, and had to rest a hand on the headrest, sure that she would topple from her heels if she didn't stabilise herself. “Smile!” Erin ordered. As she complied Cassandra heard cruel laughter from all those present. “Oh, you do look a fright,” Erin said, not without sympathy. “No hair and those teeth. Here, take a look.” She held up a mirror to let Cassandra see that her teeth had been shaved away at the front, making them look thin and peg-like. The removal of the enamel had darkened them and the reflection horrified Cassandra. She started to cry uncontrollably. She looked hideous.

A firm crack of a crop across her buttocks shocked Cassandra into silence. “Control yourself, 126!” the nurse cried. “Thank Miss Erin!”

Cassandra complied with the order automatically and sniffed as she tried to get her emotions under control. “Your teeth will be very sensitive and eating may be difficult. To allow you to get sufficient nutrition I'm going to fit you with a nasogastric tube.”

Cassandra looked at her like she was insane. A tube would be inserted into her nostril, reaching into her stomach via her oesophagus. She'd inserted these but usually only where swallowing was compromised. She knew that wasn't necessary for her, knew that it was another degradation. She sat passively as a nurse inserted a spray into her nostril and allowed her the privilege of some anaesthetic to make the intubation less painful. She saw the long tube, horrified that so much tubing would be passed into her nose. Erin merely supervised as the nurses carried out the procedure.

The tip of the tube was fed into her nostril and she felt herself baulking as she felt it push inside the fine opening. The anaesthetic hadn't removed all sensation by any means and there was some pain as it slid home. The tube wormed its way inside her, inch by inch, steadily fed in by the nurse, who was clearly expert. “Swallow,” she instructed. “ Take it into your oesophagus, 126.”

Cassandra did as she was told and felt the tube in her throat. The nurse nodded, satisfied that the tube was entering correctly. As more tubing passed through her nostril Cassandra felt the stinging pain grow until her eyes were streaming. She felt the valve at the end of the tube being taped onto her left cheek. She could feel the presence of the tube, like some food had caught in her throat. Erin inspected her and congratulated the nurse on her efficiency. She addressed Cassandra: “You have another procedure today, so no lunch. Now you should go to Doctor Paola for instruction. She'll be in room F03.”

The room was only a short distance away. Cassandra knocked and was told to enter. She bowed to acknowledge her mentor. “Ah, you're here at last. What took so long?”

“Miss Erin was fixing my teeth, Doctor Paola.” Cassandra blushed with shame as she realised she'd drooled as she spoke. Her lips were still functioning poorly due to the lack of sensation.

“Oh, that's disgusting!” Paola groaned. “And so are your teeth. I think any beauty you had is gone now. You're just a slave, aren't you?”

Cassandra was devastated to hear Paola's cruel remarks. They hit her harder because she knew there was truth in the statement. She nodded: “Yes Doctor.”

Paola smiled and nonchalantly played with her own beautiful hair. “Your scalp looks very hairless. Did you have another shave? You'll be shaved again before the day is over. Shaved twice each day for as long as you fail to comply with the dress code. Maybe if you're still bald at the end of your induction I'll keep you bald whenever you're at the clinic. Every time you come back to work here I'll snip off whatever hair you've managed to grow and have you shaved. Of course, if Nathalie agrees we could just do a permanent hair removal. Scalp, brows, lashes, pubic hair, everything. I would enjoy that. Why are you looking like that?”

Cassandra wanted to cry but her tears seemed to have been exhausted. “Please, doctor, I loved my hair. I'd hate to be hairless forever.”

“That's just your vanity. You'll lose that. You've been assessed correctly as being very submissive. Don't fight against what's being done to you, it will just make you unhappy. Accept it. Welcome it. Cherish it. If you refuse to bend you'll be broken.”

Cassandra was moved to face a mirror. She looked at the pale, sickly, hairless girl with ruined teeth. She felt an awful despair. She didn't want to exist looking like this. Would she ever accept this was who she was?

Paola stroked her head. “You exist to serve and that will be your pleasure. There's a sadistic component in your personality too, and you'll be allowed to express this once you start nursing. If you prove yourself a good nurse slave you'll start work soon on a new client. Her mistress has very inventive ideas for her transformation and you'll play a very active role in making these dreams become a reality. You want to do this work, don't you?” Paola continued to caress her bare scalp, her voice soft and reassuring. Cassandra, deprived of any positive attention in many days felt a strong desire for the doctor. Her beauty and self-confidence seemed irresistible.

“Yes, doctor,” she mumbled. “I want to prove to you that I'm a good nurse.”

“I'm sure you won't let me down.” She had now begun to work at the fastenings on Cassandra's outfit and the nurse realised that she was being undressed. Was she being seduced by Paola? She felt an anticipation arising inside. She was compliant as the latex was peeled from her body, smiling shyly at the doctor. Soon she was dressed only in a collar and heels. A frisson made her shiver as the doctor inspected her tattoos, staring at them for some time, tracing the lines with her fingertip. “Sit in the wheelchair, 126,” she said, a sudden coolness in her manner. Cassandra unfolded the chair and lowered herself into it.

The doctor now scrubbed her hands and Cassandra's elation turned to despair as she realised that her nakedness was not part of a game of seduction but a prelude to another surgical procedure. She found that she was unable to swallow, so great was her anxiety. She was about to undergo some form of surgery, to experience some transformation but had no idea what would be done to her. Her thoughts began dwell on negatives: were the surgeons really qualified, would they do more horrible things to make her ugly? She extended a hand upon a request from the doctor and a cannula was inserted into a vein and fixed in place.

Paola filled a syringe now. “A nice pre-op. It will take away all those worries. When you wake everything will be done.” She fitted the syringe into the cannula and injected the liquid. It took only seconds for Cassandra to feel the effects. A benzodiazepine, she was sure. She felt sleepy, a growing confusion. She knew her memory would be impaired and it was unlikely that she would remember any of this later.

Paola placed a belt around Cassandra's waist, removed her shoes and her collar. Then she wheeled her through the corridors of the building. Cassandra saw people staring at her, strange people, some dressed in clothes that were unremarkable, but most wearing latex, leather, vinyl, or in states of more or less undress. All seemed to stare at her as she passed, some with some sympathy, others with overt amusement. Perhaps they all knew what was to be done to her. She was the only one who was ignorant. Her body was no longer her own.

Paola took her into an anteroom where some nursing staff were waiting for her. They had her stand, although they had to support her arms as the injection had made her so weak that her legs could barely support her weight. She was escorted into the theatre, helped onto a table. She tried to look around at the equipment, eager for clues as to what would happen, but she felt hands gripping her head, making her look straight up at the array of lights. Her curiosity began to wane as the drug reached its full potency. She saw a hooded figure standing over her, dressed in red. The deference shown by the other staff showed her that this was a leader. She looked into her eyes and was sure it was Paola, and smiled at her. “Hello, Doctor Paola. Are you operating on me?” She felt giggly and elated.

“I am,” Paola replied. Cassandra could see her eyes were smiling. “The midazolam helps, doesn't it? You're not afraid any more, are you?”

“I feel fine, doctor,” Cassandra murmured. Further conversation was denied as a mask was placed over her face. A calm voice instructed her to count backwards from one hundred. She reached ninety-four.

And then it was all over. Cassandra came to a sort of wakefulness with the feeling that only a few moments had passed, as if somehow the time that had been necessary for the surgery to be completed had been snipped out of her existence. It was only an approximation of consciousness; she could only vaguely recall where she was and what had happened, but that didn't seem a matter of concern. Soft voices reassured her that everything was good, although her body gave her a different message. She was in a semi-reclined position on a hospital bed, pillows lifting her back and she could feel soreness in so many places that it seemed her entire body had suffered some trauma. Even in this confused state she was aware that she was heavily medicated and that the true extent of her injuries was muted by the analgesia. She took rapid, shallow breaths, shuddering as a sharp pain was triggered by each inspiration. She didn't want to open her eyes; the light caused discomfort and kept her in a state of wakefulness. Wakefulness was her enemy; the oblivion of sleep was all that she desired.

It was twenty four hours later before Cassandra achieved full awareness. She was wakened by a nurse calling to her. “Cassandra, come on! Wake up, there are things for you to do now.”

She groaned a wordless complaint. She looked at her surroundings for the first time and saw that she was in a small room, bright daylight filtering through blinds. The nurse was standing over her, smiling. She was dressed in the same latex uniform that Cassandra had worn, but wasn't hooded. She wore her dark hair in a precise chin length bob with a short fringe and wore heavy make-up. Cassandra took an immediate liking to her; she had a good-natured face and a gentle demeanour. She asked Cassandra how she was feeling.

“Sore,” she croaked. “Everything... everywhere. What's been done to me?”

The nurse adjusted a pump. “That should help with the pain.” Cassandra could see a line from the device was connected to the cannula in her hand. “You'll have to wait until you see the doctor to hear what procedures you underwent. I'm not allowed to give that information. But I'm sure you're aware of some of the changes.” She gestured towards Cassandra's body. The merest glimpse showed Cassandra that her breasts had swelled considerably beyond their natural dimensions.

She wailed in shock. “Oh God! My... They're huge.” Her moderately sized breasts were now a D-cup, she estimated. She felt sick that this violation had been enacted upon her.

The nurse wiped a cloth over her face and scalp. “They'll be just fine. They look good on you. Don't get upset. The bad news is that your corset has to be applied now and that will hurt a little.”

Cassandra looked at her pleadingly. She understood now why her body was aching and knew that to constrain it in a tight garment would cause agony. The nurse was not to be deterred, however. She made Cassandra raise herself slightly from the pillows and slid the satin corset behind her back. Every movement, no matter how small, was a source of pain.

As the corset was moved into place, Cassandra cursed, trying to control her response to the pain. The lower parts of her breasts (which were currently bound with surgical tape) were supported by cups which were attached to the upper part of the corset. The nurse used a hook to close the tiny spherical buttons of the corset. By the time it was in place, Cassandra was crying with pain and struggled to breathe.

The nurse stroked her hand. “There, there, all done now. You can relax, the worst is over for today. A few days and you'll be over all this pain. Now I need to shave you before Doctor Paola comes to see you. You want to look presentable, don't you?”

Cassandra nodded sadly. “Can you wipe my nose? It feels all blocked.”

“We need to be careful, it's quite swollen.”

Her awareness was still compromised by the opiates used to control pain, and a horrified Cassandra guessed only now that it was swollen because of surgery. “Rhinoplasty?” she gasped? “Can I see?”

“Yes it is and no you can't!” the nurse replied. “You've got a lot of bruising and it would only upset you to see it. Wait a few days and you'll see the new you.” Cassandra nodded, knowing that she wouldn't be able to persuade the nurse. It wouldn't have surprised her if the room was under some form of surveillance and that the conversation was monitored.

The nurse started to brush lather over Cassandra's scalp. She was suddenly curious to find out more about her. She saw that she had a tattoo on her wrist, and her number was 113. “Do I call you 113? Or do you have a name?”

“I'm Jennifer. You can call me that, or nurse, or 113. I don't mind. I'm your personal nurse so we'll be seeing a lot of each other in the coming days.”

Cassandra looked surprised. “I used to be Jennifer too! That's so strange.”

The nurse nodded. “I know a lot about you. I've read all your background history.” Cassandra's face betrayed her discomfort. “Don't worry, I'm not here to judge. Actually I was very interested to read about you and I'm so pleased to finally talk to you.”

The razor dragged over the soft stubble as once more Cassandra was rendered hairless. “Jennifer, were you shaved when you came here?”

“No. I did have to have my hair cut though. It was long and they made me get this style.”

Cassandra felt a little hurt. “So why am I bald? I though all the submissives here were shaved.”

“Everyone is treated differently. It's a combination of your mistress' desires and the results of psychological profiling. Do you like me shaving you?”

Cassandra was surprised by the question. Obviously she hated being bald, didn't she? But she had to admit, the sensation of being shaved by Jennifer was pleasant. More than pleasant, arousing. She was gentle and patient, but sensitive and sensuous too. “Yes, it feels good,” she whispered. She felt like admitting it was a betrayal of herself, that it may have been another step on a path which would mean she was forever bald.

“You'll look amazing when all the work is finished and you're healed. The doctors here all all real artists. You're such a pretty girl and with your little enhancements you'll look stunning.”

Cassandra blushed. “Pretty? But my teeth are ruined and I'm bald. And I suppose I have so much bruising that I look like a panda.”

Jennifer looked at her affectionately. “You're... a work in progress. I can see under the swelling and bruises. Trust me, you'll look sensational.” She wiped Cassandra's bald scalp with a damp cloth to remove the traces of shaving cream, then placed a gentle kiss on her scalp. “You suit being bald. Not everyone could look so good with no hair.”

Starved of any affection for the previous days, Cassandra felt a surge of fondness for Jennifer. She was sure she'd made her first friend at the clinic. Their conversation was disturbed as Paola made an entrance and Jennifer immediately became more formal and deferential in her behaviour.

“How's the patient doing?” she asked Jennifer.

“Very well. All her vitals are normal, wound healing appears excellent and she's in good spirits.”

Paola stared at Cassandra with an objective eye. “She can get up. She's ready to stand.”

Jennifer immediately came to assist the patient to rise from her bed, causing her to groan at the hurt which every movement caused. Cassandra was determined not to cry in front of Paola.

“I know this is painful but activity aids healing. As a little motivator, we have a new patient arriving at the end of the week and if you can prove yourself fit you'll be her named nurse. I'm sure you want to get to experience the work we do here. Obviously your surgery has given you certain insights but I hope you're eager to demonstrate your clinical skills.”

“I am, doctor,” Cassandra muttered as she struggled to twist her corseted body. As she moved from the bed she was aware of a tangle of tubing connected to her: to the cannula in her hand, another to the nasogastric tube which remained present, and she saw that she was catheterised.

“I'm going to discontinue the morphine tomorrow. You'll still have anti-inflammatories and can manage any residual pain through strength of will. But you'll have to study to get on top of the regime for the new patient and you need a clear head. Opiates would screw your memory.” Paola turned to face Jennifer. “Use an ice mask to reduce the swelling on her face. Corset to stay on for four hours today.”

The cessation of opiates meant that Cassandra was in a lot of pain the following day, especially since she was now expected not merely to stand, but to walk back and forth in her room and wasn't allowed to spend her day in bed. She was expected to sit in a chair and study to prepare for her first patient. The material she was given was very dry, studies on best practice to encourage healing, texts on minimising scarring in plastic surgery, policies on confidentiality. She found her attention was poor on the first day as she was in constant pain. She'd made more discoveries since her morphine had been stopped, including that her lips had been modified. She'd assumed the soreness was due to swelling from her nose, but had now found stitches deep inside the sulci, top and bottom. She was also in little doubt now that her buttocks had received implants.

By the end of the week the pain had reduced greatly and Cassandra's mobility was returning to normal. The biggest adjustment she'd had to make was that she hadn't eaten anything; all her nutrition was supplied via the nasal feeding tube, which was permanently connected to a pump. The days seemed to merge as she wasn't allowed out of her room once and was merely supplied with study materials. Jennifer spent a lot of time with her, and that was her greatest pleasure. She was good company and it soon felt like they'd been friends for a long time. She was completely open with Cassandra except when it came to discussing certain matters at the clinic, including Cassandra's own surgery.

“We have to be very obedient and respect the codes that are in the policies. People pay a lot of money for our services and we have to be professional at all times. I've been instructed not to discuss your surgery with you and I won't. Some patients will be informed of every detail of their modifications and at the other extreme some are kept heavily sedated until all procedures are completed and they're healed. Your patient will be much the same as yourself: she knows she's going to be changed but doesn't know any details about what will be done. You'll be discreet at all times, but politely. Some mistresses want their slaves to be treated very severely, punishments for asking questions, but you can be nice to your patient. I'm sure that will suit you better, you don't really strike me as the mean type.”

Cassandra found her thoughts drifting back to her first encounter with Ilione, back when she'd been called Zoe. She felt a longing to be reunited with her lovers, Ilione, Nicole, but most of all Nathalie. Without that chance meeting she'd still be a humble nurse in an NHS hospital. For all her doubts, for all the pain she'd endured, she regretted nothing. Her life now seemed unimaginably rich, unpredictable, exciting. She squeezed Jennifer's hand. “You might be surprised. I've had my moments.”

Jennifer's attention was momentarily distracted as she received a message on a pager. “Oh, we need to get you ready. Shaved first.”

Cassandra sat passively as her head was lathered. She'd had to endure twice daily head shaves since arriving on the island and had become used to it. The absence of mirrors in the room had made it easier for her to accept her baldness but each time Jennifer shaved her she again had to accept that she was totally hairless. Not that the process was without its pleasures. The enthusiasm Jennifer had expressed for Cassandra's baldness seemed to grow each day and her friend's encouragement had made Cassandra ambivalent about wanting to grow back her hair. Each time Jennifer finished shaving her head she would stare in admiration at Cassandra, anoint her scalp with a delicately perfumed unguent and reward her with a little kiss on her head. Today Jennifer seemed to be particularly diligent. After the shave was complete she took tweezers and plucked away the few fine hairs that had started to sprout on the edges of her patient's eyelids and across her brows. “You look perfect, Cassandra. Just perfect!” she beamed.

Cassandra was allowed out of her room for the first time in days, not quite sure of the precise number. She felt her heart sink as she saw that she was being taken to the dentist's room once more. She made a respectful greeting to the assembled team. The hooded figures were forbidding and anonymous. Was the dentist Miss Erin once more? She peered into her eyes, trying to recall some identifying feature.

“Yes, it's me,” a familiar voice said. “I'm a little offended that you don't recognise me. After all it's you who's changed since your last visit. Now get in the chair and we can fix you up.”

Jennifer escorted Cassandra to the chair and helped the nurses to immobilise her. As previously, her arms were pinioned by pads and belts enclosed her body, legs and head. Jennifer gave her a warm smile and fluttered her fingers as she took her leave. Cassandra found herself panicking as a mask was pushed over her face and a soft hissing was heard. She considered holding her breath but knew it would only cause a brief delay in her unconsciousness and would almost certainly irritate Erin. She inhaled and almost instantly felt her sense of self dissolve.

It was Jennifer's voice that roused Cassandra. Although she felt some after-effects from the anaesthesia, she felt clear headed, as if she was waking from a good sleep. She realised that she was in her own room and guessed that she'd been sedated to allow the anaesthetic to clear from her system.

Jennifer was almost silent, merely giving minimal instruction, but Cassandra could see she was full of happiness and anticipation. The corset was applied, a little tighter now, still painful as it pressed against the tender, bruised flesh of Cassandra's artificial breasts. Some make-up was applied to her face now, which took her by surprise: she'd not been allowed any since her arrival at the clinic. Jennifer gently applied it to her nose, around her eyes. “You're covering up the bruising?” Cassandra asked. Jennifer looked at her as if she'd asked something forbidden and only responded with a mischievous smile.

Once the make-up was finished Cassandra was taken out of her room, and arrived in a photographic studio. There were several women here, of whom only Paola was known to Cassandra. Jennifer led her to stand on a black circle which was inlaid into the linoleum and she was instructed to turn.

Before her was a full length mirror, and for the first time in a week Cassandra could see her reflection. She felt a moment's numbness as she took in the changes to her features. Her face had been subtly remodelled, although the changes to her nose were rather radical. She'd been given a classical nose, the bridge forming a continuation of the line of her forehead when seen in profile. The tip of her nose and nostrils had been reduced to give a fine elegance. Underneath the heavy make-up a little bruising was still visible and she knew that her nose would be even more delicate when healed. Her lips seemed to have been drawn tighter, narrowing her mouth, which had been sculptured to give a cupid bow. She smiled, relieved that the face she saw, although shockingly unfamiliar, was one that she found attractive. As her lips drew back she gasped with pleasure. Her teeth had been restored to their previous state. No! As she looked closer she saw that they were far more perfect, regular, even, pearly white, but different to how they had been. A small gap was now noticeable between the upper central teeth.

Paola had come to stand beside her to study her reactions and now felt that she should explain what had been done. “The teeth, they're veneers. You have perfect teeth now, thanks to Miss Erin's excellence. And your face... I remodelled your lips and nose, but you also have implants to lift your cheekbones and to balance your chin. They're very small changes but they improve your facial symmetry and those subtle differences are what makes some women look perfect.”

Cassandra muttered some words of thanks. She felt very emotional as she tried to accept the face she could see was her own. “I'm sure,” Paola continued, “that you already realised that your breasts and buttocks have received implants. You've also been on a very rich diet and you've gained some weight, while the waist training has ensured that the pounds have accumulated in the right places. The work isn't completed on your figure yet, but you'll have a very voluptuous hourglass figure.”

For the first time, Cassandra noticed that what Paola had said was true. There was a new fullness to her arms and thighs. She twisted and could see her rump had now acquired a soft fullness. She'd always been proud of her slim figure and felt a profound anguish to see that it had now been taken from her in the space of a few days. The assembled team seemed very pleased with her though and praised her lavishly. Despite her shock at her new body she felt a pride as the clinic staff praised her beauty and the good taste of Nathalie in devising these changes.

A photographer now recorded in detail the results of Cassandra's modifications. She found herself smiling joyously as she imagined that Nathalie, Ilione, Nicole would soon be able to see her. She again found herself longing to present herself to them in person.

Once the photography session was completed Cassandra was allowed to dress for the first time since surgery. The tight latex outfit caused her pain as it pressed tightly over her bruised body, but once it was in place, that same tightness felt wonderfully reassuring to Cassandra, as if it made her understand her new form better. Paola took her to her office and passed her a file. “You need to familiarise yourself with this. Your new patient arrives tomorrow.”

Cassandra thanked the doctor and started to scan the information. She turned some pages and found drawings of what would be the result of the work at the clinic, then looked up at the doctor, a gasp escaping her lips.

The Princess Elspeth bade farewell to the delicate girl who she'd come to adore more than life itself. She gazed anxiously at Florentia, and pondered that perhaps she'd delayed this journey too long. The girl's face was wan, but for the roses burning in her cheeks. Her emaciated frame was frequently tormented by coughing, and without fail the handkerchiefs that she held to her mouth would be spotted with blood. The road to the city of Prague would be treacherous but the great master was the only one whose arcane knowledge could save Florentia now. She must persuade Dee to return with her, but was convinced that he would not be able to resist her offer. Gold and jewels would not suffice; this was a man who reputedly possessed the secret of the philosopher's stone, so what use was material wealth to him? But what she possessed was the finest library in all of central Europe, and the great sage, she knew, had an unquenchable thirst for knowledge. She selected a rare manuscript volume of the hymns of Hermes Trismegistus, a wonderful bait to snare her fish. She knew that once Dee had seen this he would agree to anything to have free access to her library.

The road north through the mountains was hard, the storms turning the roads to near impassible mud. Even Elspeth was reduced to pushing the wheels of the carriage to free them from the quagmire. Every moment's delay caused her grief, her heart heavy with the knowledge that her dear Florentia was close to death. She arrived in Prague and sought counsel with Dee that very night, despite the late hour. He was furious that his researches had been interrupted, and those of his accomplice, the gruff and untrustworthy Kelley.

“Woman, why come thee hence on this storm-tossed night? I fear thou art sent by my enemies to distract from my work, to aid the forces of darkness and ignorance.”

“Verily, my lord, I come in good faith, for thou art my only hope. My dear, treasured friend labours in the bonds of a heinous distemper, which only thee may cure.”

It was Kelley who broke in. “My master is no physick. Get thee hence, wench, for we have work of importance here. Nothing you have can interest my lord and divert him from his needful tasks.”

“No wench am I, I am of the royal line. Nor is your boast that I have nothing to interest Master Dee truthful.” And she passed the small volume, bound in ancient hide, into the hands of the alchemist. He perused the ancient vellum and his eyes took on an unearthly gleam.

“A fine rare work, one which I have only heard of in rumour. Forsooth, I never held that such a volume existed yet. Whence came this jewel?”

“From my library, a cornucopia of rare knowledge, assembled by my great and noble grandfather. But we must set out this very night if you are to see this treasury. And thou must pledge to use thine powers fully to aid my love.”

Despite the slurs and innuendo that the roguish Kelley whispered in his ear, the great John Dee was not to be diverted from his desire to see this library. And so the three travellers set off to follow the course southward through those same mountains. Alas, the storms continued to rage unabated and it was a full three days before the Princess arrived at her palace once more. A grave-faced steward met her as she passed through the gate.

“Woe, woe, woe hath befallen us. For the gentle spirit Florentia has left us this very eve, to finally find her peace.”

There was no room for sadness in Elspeth, only a rage, a refusal to accept that death could hold dominion over Florentia. She addressed Dee. “My lord, this will be thine greatest challenge! Thou shall return this girl to the realm of the living. For her spirit is restless and must not be allowed to cross into the dark realm of Hades. We must act now before Charon bears her from us to the eternal gloom beyond the Stygian waters.”

Dee looked moved as he spoke. “Fair princess, would that I could help. I fear only the redeemer was blessed with the power to overcome mortality.”

Kelley leant forward to whisper in his ear. Dee looked disconcerted. “My Princess, Kelley will use his scrying mirror to consult our angelic advisor. She will provide an answer to this question. But I fear that nothing may be possible to return Florentia to this sub-lunar world. Even Orpheus was thwarted in his expedition to regain his lost love.”

The two men, despite the ardours of their journey, set themselves in a distant chamber in the palace. The Princess strode back and forth outside the door, every passing moment increasing her agony. She heard Kelley shouting words in a strange guttural tongue, then replies came to him, the voice that of a young girl. “But how can this be?” the Princess thought, “For no door but this and no window lets in this chamber, and only two men entered.”

The sun had made a half circuit of the heavens by the time that the men emerged. Dee looked aged and pale, Kelley a shadow of his previous forceful persona. Elspeth was moved to see what these men had endured in their quest to seek life for Florentia. Dee nodded toward her. “My lady, I am tired beyond what any man of my years can reasonably suffer, and yet sleep must wait. For the angel gives hope that the fair Florentia may yet live. We must to her this instant.”

Kelley excused himself; he would gather the necessary items to conduct the enchantment. The Princess and the alchemist entered the chamber where Florentia lay motionless, a lady-in-waiting who carried out a vigil was dismissed. “Take this robe from her body. We must enact a violation on this maid, I fear. Her body must be made hairless from head to toe.”

Elspeth refused to allow this. She adored the long golden tresses which crowned Florentia and wonderfully enhanced her features. But Dee was not to be denied. “My lady, the angel spoke of this without equivocation. The maid's body must be marked with symbols in order for her anima to return. The presence of any hair will deny the efficacy of these magical inscriptions and condemn our labours to failure.”

Thus, Elspeth was forced to accede to Dee's demands and had a servant bring shears, soap and razor. She would let no other hand touch the body of her beloved Florentia and used the razor herself, delicately shaving every trace of soft downy hair from the young woman's corpse. Dee examined her work closely, using a glass to reveal any hair which had evaded the blade of the knife. The Princess was moved to tears as she cut away the golden curls from the girl's scalp. She was trembling as she shaved away the ravaged stubble, but was determined that no other hand could violate the beauty of Florentia thus. The shaven girl laid out on the dais looked tiny, vulnerable, the difference in shade barely discernible between her wan flesh and the sheet on which she lay, her skin now as fine and translucent as vellum. Even her brows and eyelashes had, at Dee's insistence, been made to undergo the attentions of the blade.

The coarse, untrustworthy Kelley now returned, bearing in his fists clumps of strange leaves. He ground them with salts in a pestle and mixed them with rare oils to form a paste, with which he anointed the body of the girl. Elspeth felt a disgust to see his dark, muscular hands dare to touch the white, pure flesh and could only bear this offence by looking away.

Dee had crushed some of the leaves which Kelley had provided into a crucible and now applied a lamp to burn the leaves. A heady smoke filled the chamber and the Princess felt sure that the forms into which the smoke contorted were suggestive of the angel which had instructed the philosopher. The leaves were heated until they had reduced to mere soot, which Dee then blended with an unguent. Taking a brush, he carefully marked the body of Florentia with seven symbols, complex glyphs drawn with the utmost precision. Each limb was given its mark: outer thighs, upper arms. As he drew the design, the sage chanted softly in the tongue of Enoch. Kelley had stationed himself near to the Princess and whispered in her ear: “Those hieroglyphic signs will allow the spirit to regain possession of the part of the body they mark, but only for so long as the mark remains in place.”

The girl's abdomen was painted, then another symbol was added, covering the top of her breastbone. The last symbol, and the most complex, would adorn the forehead of Florentia. As Dee prepared to limn it he glanced up at Kelley with the most pitiable aspect. Elspeth was left in no doubt that this was the most important moment of the ceremony and that most prone to failure should the slightest error occur. She saw the exhaustion that the old man was suffering, and was aghast that this frail being, who had barely slept in three days, was the only hope of salvation for her dear Florentia. The merest error and all would be lost forever.

The last stroke of the brush was made. Dee straightened and looked down at the pale, hairless girl. His brow knotted and he shot a troubled glance at his devious collaborator. Neither seemed to know what they should do now. The Princess felt a cold despair as she regarded them. The ceremony was complete, and yet Florentia still lay lifeless on the slab before her. Lifeless... lifeless... lifeless..? Did her chest rise? Elspeth felt a terror as she gazed looking for confirmation. Now the girl's ribcage fell down, then rose again. She was breathing!

All of the assembled company seemed moved beyond words as they saw vitality return to the girl. No one seemed sure how to act now, and it was Dee who eventually reached out to tap the cheek of Florentia, which was now beginning to suffuse with pink. Her lashless eyes flickered open and her gaze alighted on Elspeth. “My Princess! Thou art home. Please, Madame, I am afflicted by a dreadful thirst, may I be spared a little water?”

The girl was given drink and food and the miracle that she'd experienced was explained to her. She felt her head and gasped piteously as she realised that she was now bald. “My treasure, it will grow back,” the Princess reassured her, but Kelley shook his head cruelly.

“The angel made it clear that the reanimated body is incapable of manufacture of hair. You will remain hairless eternally, my girl.”

Dee checked her hand. “The symbol on thine head must not suffer a perturbation, else the spirit will go hence from thee. It troubles me sore to know how to cause these symbols endure, for thy life will continue for only so long as the glyphs are present.”

It was the uncouth Kelley who suggested a solution. “Slaves and primitives are adorned with tattoos, where a needle pricks ink into the skin. If the glyphs were pricked then they should never be washed from the maiden's skin and her life may sustain.”

And so Florentia was forced to suffer as Dee himself inscribed the arcane symbols, a needle jabbing at her delicate skin, the darkness of the ink so black against her snowy flesh, which now spotted with blood as the needle thrust through the surface.

Cassandra looked up from the novel and peered at the doctor. “This stuff really sells? She's really a rich writer?”

Paola looked at her witheringly. “Now, now, nurse, don't be catty. She's very rich and she's chosen to spend a lot of her money in our clinic so you'll treat her with the utmost respect. She's found a girl that she wants to look like Florentia and we'll make that happen.”

Cassandra blushed as her sarcasm was condemned and nodded obediently. “I'll do everything I can to make her feel welcome doctor. What happens in the rest of the novel? I couldn't get through any more, all those thees and thous...”

“Well, our heroines become sort-of-vampires, feeding on the blood of unsuspecting young ladies around Europe through the ages. Florentia's lust for blood makes her teeth grow into fangs which she has to file and sharpen. If anyone asks you, you say you read the whole book and you adored it!”

“Oh, yes, I loved it, doctor!” she smiled. She picked up the file and took out a picture of the would-be patient. “She's not exactly as I imagine Florentia. The pale, emaciated consumptive. She looks very healthy, a bit...” Overweight was the word that occurred to Cassandra, but she felt that might be construed as judgemental. “A bit voluptuous.”

Paola smiled ironically at her euphemism. “Well that's where we come in. Elspeth is paying handsomely for her transformation and there's no limits to what we can do to reshape her. We'll start with liposuction and a breast reduction. Her hips are quite narrow so she'll look fine. She'll be maintained on a strict dietary and exercise regime to perfect her figure.”

“And she's ok with becoming Florentia? I mean the hair loss and the tattoos?”

“Well, she doesn't know. And you won't so much as hint what will be done to her. Don't get sucked in and start to think you're her friend. Your duty is as a nurse, and that means the person who pays determines exactly what you do. Florentia has signed over all consent to Elspeth, which is legally binding here. This isn't the NHS. Jennifer will be shadowing and mentoring you for some of the sessions, so take direction from her. She's very good.” Paola received a call and answered it with a few words. “Elspeth is here, let's go and say hello.”

They went to a large lounge where the writer was sipping a cocktail. Paola greeted her cordially then introduced Cassandra. “Cassandra is quite new here but a very experienced nurse. She'll be closely supervised and I can assure you that Florentia, and yourself, will receive the best treatment.”

Cassandra remained silent, standing behind Paola. She took in Elspeth: she looked older at close quarters than Cassandra had first estimated, probably mid forties. She was more conventional than expected, shoulder length blonde hair, nicely tasteful make-up. Only the velvet Victorian-style dress made her look like a writer of gothic erotica. She beckoned to Cassandra and indicated that she should kneel beside her chair. The tight latex compressed her bruised body as she complied with the request, making her utter a little moan. “Oh, you're sore aren't you? What have they been doing to you?” Cassandra started to turn her head to look at Paola for permission, but Elspeth held her cheek. “Look at me and answer me!” she said firmly. “I can see bruising under your make-up. What did you have done?”

“I had my nose, lips, chin, cheeks reshaped. Implants in breasts and buttocks. Dental veneers.”

Elspeth clapped her hands in delight. “So much work done. That's tremendous, Paola. It all looks so perfect.”

“Yes, she's on a program to gain weight too, her mistress wants her to have a more 'voluptuous'” (there was an archness in the way Paola said the word) “figure. And her head was shaved.”

This excited Elspeth, who Cassandra was sure had a thing for bald girls. “Oh, lovely! Take her hood off, Paola. I want to see.”

The doctor obliged and peeled the latex away from her scalp. Elspeth stroked her head and winced. “There's a bit of stubble there. I hoped it would be nice and smooth.”

“She's allowed to grow some hair now, Elspeth. She was made to maintain her baldness as a punishment but she's completed her penance now. That's why she's hooded, to conceal the ugly stubble.”

Elspeth was clearly unimpressed. “I don't want her hooded. I want her shaved nice and smooth. It will be good for Florentia to see such a beautiful bald girl.” She gripped Cassandra's cheeks and turned her head so that they were looking into each other's eyes. “Go and get a razor and shaving cream. You want me to shave you, don't you?”

“I'd love it, Miss,” Cassandra lied. “What sort of razor?”

“A good safety razor. I can't use a straight razor, unfortunately. Maybe I can learn while I'm here. I can practice on you.”

Cassandra was shaking as she entered the hair salon and requested the razor and shaving cream from the stylist, explaining why it was needed. She stared at herself in the mirror, fascinated by the perfect symmetry of her new features, by her classical profile. She wore make-up now and had even been given fine curves of black to suggest eyebrows, which flattered her features. She could see a faint bloom of red stubble on her scalp and, pitiable as it was, this was the longest hair she'd had since she'd been shaved on her first day on the island. She'd been thrilled to be told she could begin to grow her hair again, despite the disappointment she'd seen in Jennifer. Now, hardly a day since her last shave the privilege was again withdrawn. And, since the extensiveness of Florentia's transformation would mean a prolonged stay in the clinic, it seemed that the possibility of ending her period of baldness would be delayed for at least a month.

She knelt meekly before Elspeth and offered the razor. The older woman squirted the shaving cream directly onto the top of Cassandra's head, until a large white cone had grown there. “You'll come to me each day to be shaved, won't you, Cassandra?” The nurse looked at her, unable to disguise the sadness she felt and assented. Paola spoke.

“Cassandra should be shaved twice daily if she goes without her hood. Would you care to perform both shaves? If it's too much work I can arrange for one of the shaves to be performed by one of our operatives.”

Elspeth stared straight into Cassandra's big blue eyes. “I'll take great pleasure in shaving her twice daily. Maybe after my surgery I'll struggle for a few days. Could you arrange for someone else to shave her in my presence?” Paola assured her this would be done.

The lather was worked clumsily over the entirety of Cassandra's scalp as Elspeth continued to stare at her features. “She doesn't even have eyelashes! How delightful. Would Cassandra like to kiss Princess Elspeth?”

The description of herself as a princess made Cassandra feel embarrassed. She found Elspeth pompous and more than a little creepy. Nevertheless, she knew she had to work to please her. “I'd be honoured,” she said with a shy smile.

“Let's get you shaved first.” She pulled the razor roughly back from Cassandra's forehead, rasping unpleasantly as it dragged against the stubble. She seemed to be very heavy handed and clumsy in everything she did, which came as no surprise to Cassandra, having seen how she wrote. The nurse didn't risk offending her patron, however, and maintained an impassive mask. “I'm out of practice. I've nicked you in a few places.” Cassandra smiled with deference to show she wasn't concerned, but secretly thought that Elspeth had done it deliberately. Now she felt the older woman's lips close on her scalp, licking and sucking. So that was her game: her vampire fantasies had made her want to taste Cassandra's blood. She kept it going for so long that Cassandra's neck was aching.

Now Elspeth tipped back her head and kissed her on the mouth. She moaned deliriously, seemingly transported to a state of ecstasy by the taste of blood. Her tongue pushed roughly between Cassandra's lips, sliding deep into the cavity of her mouth. Her tongue curled and the tip wove in circular patterns around the bar which pierced Cassandra's tongue. Despite her revulsion at being so roughly treated, she felt herself becoming aroused and was even slightly disappointed when Elspeth roughly broke free from the kiss.

“Oh, you are a little horny bitch! I bet you've used that tongue to please a lot of women, haven't you?” She reached down and stroked at Cassandra's groin. “Mmmm, pierced here too. You'll have to show me more of yourself some time. Paola, I want Cassandra to attend our feast tonight. She can meet Florentia there and get to know her. But no hints about what she will become, understood?”

“I'll be very discreet, Miss,” Cassandra promised. “She hasn't read your books then?”

Elspeth grunted. “Oh Florentia never reads. It does hurt me, she only got a few pages into 'The Twelve Dreams of Cressida Rose'. Still, she has other virtues, so I can forgive her. I'll see you ladies in about two hours then. I've heard you have a first rate chef here, and I'm so hungry after the journey. I'm so looking forward to satisfying my appetites,” she said with a coarse leer.

Shortly before the feast was due to begin, Cassandra was summoned to Paola's office. The doctor examined her scalp, where several nicks were clearly visible. “I'll have a word about that. We can't have you going around with a head full of scabs.”

Cassandra thanked Paola and asked if she could express herself candidly. She was told it was acceptable. “I don't find her very sympathetic, which isn't a problem. I'll always act with professionalism, but I know she wants to go too far, further than I'll accept. It scares me.”

“You're right, I can see she's had her own way far too long. She's spoilt in the extreme. Don't worry, I'll see that rules are reinforced, and that she's made aware that there are standards here. She's bound to try some humiliations with you at the feast. If she's going too far you can catch my eye and I'll intervene. We have a duty to you and a duty to Nathalie.” Cassandra thanked Paola, reassured by the maternal feelings that seemed to have formed between them. “Unfortunately, she's asked that your arms be bound tonight at the feast and I couldn't find any reason to object. Plus you'll be wearing ballets so you're going to have to suffer a little.”

Padded latex mittens were strapped around Cassandra's wrists, her hands forced into tight fists inside. Then her elbows were bound together behind her back, the posture causing her shoulders to immediately ache with strain. Her wrists were cuffed together and a leather sleeve was zipped around both arms, a strap around her chest keeping it in place. The ballet boots were fitted, forcing her insteps to conform to the same line as her shins. The long heels were only separated from the toes by a few centimetres. The padlocks which held them in place seemed redundant given that Cassandra had no use of her hands, but they did serve to hold a short chain which would limit her stride to less than a foot. As Paola helped her to her feet, Cassandra realised how difficult it was to balance: all of her weight was on her toes and her arms were immobile. Paola had her practice walking up and down the corridor to familiarise herself with the sensations. It had been a long time since she'd worn ballets.

The two women entered the hall together, Cassandra tottering along at the doctor's shoulder. The table was already almost full, some of the senior figures from the clinic recognisable to Cassandra. At the head of the table were the guests of honour, Elspeth and Florentia.

Florentia seemed rather unprepossessing in the flesh. She had a fairly pretty face, but was shorter than Cassandra had imagined and had nothing of the consumptive, pre-Raphaelite beauty of the fictional Florentia. She seemed like an excited child at a wedding, and Cassandra thought she seemed remarkably ill-fitted to a relationship with the egotistical Elspeth.

The senior partner in the relationship had clearly spent the intervening hours at the hair salon and now wore a beautiful updo, her tresses sleeked into a gleaming French pleat, with not a single errant hair ruining the helmet-like perfection. Her make-up was heavier now, dark lips and dark eyes giving her a gothic glamour. Cassandra couldn't help feeling that it looked a bit excessive, like she was trying too hard. Her tastes made it clear that she'd come of age in the eighties.

Elspeth immediately summoned Cassandra and introduced her to Florentia. “This is Cassandra and she'll be your personal nurse. She'll be here to look after you and see to all your needs. Isn't she a pretty little thing?”

Florentia stared disconcertingly at Cassandra. Evidently her baldness was something very unfamiliar to the young woman. “Oh, shit, they shaved all her hair off! That's horrible.”

“She likes it, don't you, Cassandra?” The nurse couldn't contradict her patron and nodded. “Feel her scalp, Florentia.” The girl did as she was bid, but reacted like a much younger girl at a Halloween party.

“Oh, it's weird, all smooth and hot.” She pulled her hand away and looked disgusted. Elspeth placed her hand on Florentia's, interlacing her fingers and returned it to Cassandra's scalp.

“She's very kinky, your nurse. She gets turned on by having her head shaved. She'll let you do it for her, won't you 126?”

“Yes, Miss Florentia. You can shave me tomorrow if you please.” Cassandra tried to smile at her but the thoughts of allowing such an immature girl loose on her scalp with a razor seemed terrifying.

“Why don't you put the contact lenses in her eyes now?” Elspeth said, winking deviously at Florentia. The girl seemed thrilled at this new game and retrieved a tiny white case from her bag. Due to the difference in their statures, artificially shifted in Cassandra's favour by the ballet boots, Florentia had to stand on her chair to comfortably access the nurse's eyes. She was heavy handed as she pulled her eyelids apart and thrust in a cool lens. An accidental jab which touched her eye had Cassandra wincing and her eyelids involuntarily closed tightly. Florentia forced the other eye open and inserted a second lens. Cassandra screwed up her eyes to try to adjust to the unaccustomed sensation of having a foreign body in her eye. She blinked and felt a horror as she saw nothing. “That's right, Cassandra, you can't see. They're opaque lenses. You've got big black eyes now, like an alien.”

Cassandra was starting to panic: without her sight her precarious balance would be impossible to maintain and if she started to fall she couldn't put out an arm to steady herself. She knew the wall was only a foot or two behind her and edged back until she could rest her back against it. Only now did she feel she wasn't about to topple heavily to the ground. Elspeth roared with anger. “Did I say you could slouch against the wall?” There was laughter around the table.

“Please, Miss,” Cassandra begged. “I can't balance now. I'll fall...” There was a quieter voice close by now, too quiet for Cassandra to hear above the din around the table. Whatever was said made Elspeth more restrained.

“Very well, you can lean against the wall. But stand upright, head back. Show off those new boobs.”

Cassandra could hear the food being served and had some respite from Elspeth's unwelcome attentions as Florentia and her mistress dined. Florentia soon began to complain. “I don't want salad, I want to try all this lovely food.”

Elspeth sounded annoyed at her public display of petulance. “You'll eat what I choose for you. You need to lose weight. And don't question my decisions, especially in public.” There was a period of strained silence between the two, broken eventually by Florentia's wheedling request to try some of the seafood.

“OK, a little,” Elspeth conceded. “But if you can't control your appetite I might do what Cassandra's owner is doing with her. She's being made into a big fat girl.” This information seemed to amuse Florentia greatly.

“Aww, look, she's blushing. She's going to get really fat then?” Cassandra jumped as she felt the young woman stroking her corseted waist. “You'll have a big jiggly belly under here. Baldy, fatty Cassie. Open your mouth, you look famished.” Cassandra was close to tears from the insults but did as ordered. She was rewarded with a ball of food being thrust deep into her mouth by Florentia's fingers. She baulked as she tasted a potent fishy flavour. “Don't you like seafood? It's good for you, eat it! It's just an acquired taste, like fat bald girls. You need to get used to it. Here, have some of this. Don't just swallow this down, chew it so you can get the taste and the texture. Don't swallow until I say so!”

Cassandra was struggling not to be sick, her lifelong aversion to seafood now becoming a torture. “I'm going to feed you the scraps off everyone's plates,” Florentia continued. “There's loads of food so loads going to waste. I'll have to take off your corset so you can fit it all in your fat belly. Here, try some sea urchin.” The newest morsel which was pushed into Cassandra's lips was more than she could bear. She was astonished that anyone could find this edible and immediately started to gag.

Paola suddenly spoke nearby. “I don't want to spoil your fun but her owner has placed her on a set diet and we'd better not go too far outside her limits. You understand how important control is, don't you Elspeth?” Her tone was light and friendly but there was clearly a reproach there too. “Swallow that last mouthful, Cassandra, and thank Florentia for treating you to these delicacies.” The nurse was shocked to hear Paola's request, but after a moment's thought realised that it was necessary in order to save face for her client. She gulped down the sea urchin, fighting to control her nausea.

“Thank you, Florentia. It was very thoughtful of you to share your food with me,” she said with admirable calm.

“Now I'm afraid Cassandra has to study tonight so her participation in the festivities will have to end now.”

Once she'd said a formal farewell to her tormentors, Cassandra was escorted out of the hall by two slave-maids and returned to her room. It was Jennifer who met her there and freed her from her restraints. As soon as the lenses were removed Cassandra started to sob. “Oh Jenni, I hate them. Elspeth is so creepy and pompous. She really thinks she's a princess from one of her novels. And Florentia is a little spoilt brat! Never met anyone so wrapped up in herself. I don't think she even realised what she was doing to me was cruel.”

“And in a few days Elspeth will be laid up after her surgery and you'll be nursing Florentia after hers. She'll be totally at your mercy.”

Cassandra giggled. “It's not professional to be cruel. But maybe I will take a bit of pleasure in her discomfort.”

“Discomfort? She hasn't got a clue what's going to happen to her. She'll unravel. I never saw anyone else here who was so ill-prepared. She's not got any idea what submission is, she's just a trust fund kid who saw some article in Vice and thought BDSM would be fun to try. Her bad luck was to meet a predator like Elspeth. If she wasn't so bratty I'd feel sorry for her.”

Cassandra didn't have to wait long for her next meeting with Florentia. Early the following morning the two met as Florentia was prepared for her first surgery at the clinic. “You're all alone this morning?” Cassandra asked, surprised that Elspeth wasn't there to support her young friend, who was obviously nervous. She was determined to behave professionally and not show how much Florentia's behaviour had antagonised her the previous night.

“No, Elspeth is having her teeth seen to this morning.” She looked at the floor gloomily and continued in a very quiet voice. “I'm sorry about last night. I do this thing where I have to be the centre of attention when I'm in big groups, especially with strangers and when I've been drinking. I used to be very shy and it's a coping mechanism. I always hate myself after.”

Cassandra hadn't wanted to discuss the previous night, and was hardly won over by Florentia's excuses. “Apology accepted,” she said, smiling reassuringly, not that her patient was looking at her face.

“I'm really stupid, Cassandra,” she went on, her voice betraying her emotion. “I'm not a bad person. Please don't think I'm like that all the time. I want to be nice but sometimes I just can't help myself.”

“We can't see what people's intentions are. We can only judge them on how they act. You should remember that. And if alcohol makes you do things you don't like then you should try to reduce your intake.”

“I know I should. You're so much more sensible than me, Cass. I think you'll make a great friend.” She reached out to squeeze her nurse's hand. “It'll take more than you calling me Cass to make me think of you as a friend,” she thought.

“Well, let's focus on your surgery now. You'll be seeing our surgeon, Doctor Paola soon and I have to do some checks to make sure everything goes to plan.”

As Cassandra took her blood pressure, Florentia asked “What will I be getting done today?”

“I'm sure your mistress has told you she wants some changes made. I'm not at liberty to discuss the details of the procedures, Florentia.”

She groaned. “Don't call me that! I'm Heather. Elspeth just has this thing about pretending it's my name. I find it quite embarrassing.”

“I'll call you Florentia. It's what your mistress wants for you and you have to accept it. You're Florentia now, not Heather. You've come to this clinic to be changed to meet Elspeth's desires. The change of name is a tiny detail in your submission.”

Florentia looked lost as she stared into Cassandra's eyes. “I must be crazy to follow her half way around the world and let her choose to do this to me. We only met a few months ago, but she's so exciting. She's shown me a world I didn't even dream of. But she's been nagging me to lose weight since day one and she said liposuction would be the best way for someone as undisciplined as me. So here I am...”

Cassandra felt her dislike of Elspeth intensify. Had she really told her lover that she was merely here for liposuction? Expensive as the treatment in the clinic was, Cassandra started to imagine that, in the long term, Florentia's psychiatric treatment would be more expensive. “Will it be painful?” she asked, suddenly seeming much younger and more vulnerable.

“The procedure will be carried out under general anaesthetic so there'll be no pain at all. But you will be very tender when you wake. There'll be some pain, inevitably, but we can make it bearable with pain relief meds.”

“And when I wake up, I'll be slim?”

“Yes, you'll be much slimmer.”

The surgery was routine and went without a hitch. Florentia was kept heavily dosed with opiates when she came round and spent the afternoon drifting between wakefulness and sleep. Since the surgery had been very extensive any movement caused her distress.

In the evening Elspeth made her first visit. She sat and held her lover's hand and said she had a nice surprise. She drew back her lips in a snarl which Cassandra suspected she'd been practising in a mirror for months. Her teeth had been modified and her upper canines were now lengthened into long, pointed fangs. Florentia looked at her dreamily, as if she thought the fangs were a hallucination. “Oh, you're a vampire,” she whispered, a gentle smile crossing her features.

“I'm the Princess Elspeth. It's becoming real. You shall address me as Princess now, Florentia. Now rise from your bed and see who you are becoming.”

Jennifer and Cassandra complied with Elspeth's instruction and helped their patient to rise painfully from her bed. She was in tears by the time she'd managed to plant her feet on the floor. Elspeth made them remove her gown and she stood naked before a mirror.

The tears of pain were now supplemented by tears of shock. “Oh! My boobs. They're gone.” If Florentia was overstating the change, it wasn't by much. Her previously ample breasts had been reduced considerably and now all that were remained were small buds. The rest of her body had also undergone a reduction and now she had a much slighter figure.

“I love this figure, Florentia,” the self-styled princess gushed. “You'll be on a strict diet from now on. Any weight gains are going to get you very severe punishments. You're not quite at your target weight but you will be in a few weeks.”

Florentia seemed unable to take in the information. She stared at her body in horror, tears flowing, mourning the loss of her beautiful breasts. “I look like a twelve year old,” she cried.

“Florentia, enough of the tears! I'll make you get on your knees to beg for forgiveness if you can't stop them right now. And I know how painful kneeling would be for you.” The younger woman sniffled and tried to control her emotions. Clearly she'd experienced Elspeth's wrath previously. “That's better! Now some gratitude, girl!”

Cassandra watched in disgust as the pathetic figure voiced her thanks for the injuries inflicted on her body. Now Elspeth addressed the nurses. “I'm really ticked off with Florentia. We stopped off in Dubai en route and, against my explicit orders, she went out sunbathing to work on her tan. Can you do something to make her pale?”

Cassandra wasn't sure what could be done, but Jennifer spoke up. “Yes, we can use a bleaching cream and a melanin inhibitor. That should work.”

“I want it done immediately. Tonight.”

“The bleaching agent has to be massaged in. Given the amount of bruising from the liposuction that wouldn't be wise. It could cause further swelling and lead to complications, in addition to the pain it would cause.”

“I don't care about the pain, she deserves to suffer for disobeying. Anyway, I'll consult Paola. I want it done as soon as possible.”

Cassandra helped Florentia back into bed as soon as Elspeth left the room. She was beginning to see how difficult this work could be, as her instinct was to advocate on behalf of her patient. However, Florentia had given Elspeth control over all medical procedures and it was Elspeth who had to be listened to; obeyed without question. Florentia again started weeping, undoubtedly partly as a result of the pain caused by moving, but also because of the shock of seeing what had been done to her. Cassandra stroked her head to console her. She had beautifully soft wavy hair, red-brown with golden highlights and a lighter blonde through the ends. She had no idea that her hair would soon be taken from her. Cassandra felt a great relief when Jennifer administered a sedative, causing Florentia to slip into a restful sleep within minutes.

Early the next morning, Paola came to examine her patient. Her body seemed better able to cope with the changes than her psyche, for, despite her continuing distress, Florentia had healed remarkably well. The swelling caused by the liposuction had decreased dramatically overnight (making her appear even more slender) and the small wounds from her breast reduction looked like they were knitting together very well. Paola congratulated her: “You're very lucky to have such good healing properties, Florentia. I wish all my patients healed with so few problems. I have no concerns that you can continue with the planned treatments today. We'll continue the pain meds as you are still going to be tender for a few days, particularly around your breasts, but within a week this will be perfectly healed.”

Florentia looked lost, devastated. She barely reacted during the examination, only showing a look of concern when the surgeon mentioned further treatments. Once Paola had left and she was alone with Cassandra she tried to extract information from her nurse.

“What's going to happen to me? Is she going to get more surgery done on me?” There was a wild fear in her eyes that made Cassandra worry for her mental state.

“You know I can't discuss that, Florentia. You agreed that Elspeth would decide everything for you and I have to respect her decisions. You'll have your skin bleached this morning, as she told you last night, but other than that I can't let you know anything.”

“Bleached? My skin?” Florentia looked incredulous. She'd clearly not taken in Elspeth's request on the previous night, or else the sedatives and pain meds had caused some amnesia.

“That's right, Florentia. Elspeth wants to get rid of your tan.” Despite Florentia's pitiable begging, Cassandra would disclose no more information. Her curiosity about the procedure was soon to be sated, however, as Jennifer arrived carrying a box with the necessary materials.

Florentia was made to climb from her bed and stand naked, freed of her drips for the first time since surgery. Jennifer tied her hair up so that it didn't impede their work. “We'll start with your face. Close your eyes.” She spoke quite coldly and unsympathetically. Florentia stared at her and defiantly kept her eyes open. “This cream will sting when I apply it to your skin. How do you think it will feel if you get it in your eyes?” The patient reluctantly closed her eyes.

Jennifer put on examination gloves and filled her palm with the white cream from a large pump top dispenser. She started to dab it over Florentia's face, covering every part whilst being careful to avoid her eyes. Once the cream formed a uniform layer she began vigorously massaging it, concentrating one her cheeks and forehead. “We have to make sure it's massaged in really deeply,” she explained to Cassandra. “It'll hurt a bit when we work it into your body where it's tender. I want to see you show some discipline, Florentia. We'll report back to the princess on your conduct and I'm sure she'll be unhappy if you make a scene.”

“But it burns,” Florentia moaned.

“Discipline!” Jennifer said firmly. “Grit your teeth and deal with it. The more you complain the rougher we'll be and the longer it will take.” Now she and Cassandra worked in tandem, slathering the cream over her entire body (her tan was obviously acquired naked), then kneading it into the bruised and tender skin.

At length Jenni was satisfied that her entire body had been treated and instructed Florentia to stand for a further twenty minutes while the chemicals worked at breaking up the melanin. Florentia was trying hard to endure the pain but her contorted face demonstrated her suffering. “Please, Cass, can I sit down?” she asked meekly. She could sense who was the more sympathetic nurse.

“No, Florentia. The cream would be disturbed on your thighs and buttocks. We can't have the back of your legs tanned and the rest pale, can we?”

Time dawdled as they waited for the chemicals to complete their processes and no one seemed much in the mood for conversation. Finally Jenni assented to Florentia showering to wash away the cream. She needed to be helped to wash; the pain from the surgery meant she was unable to raise her arms above her shoulders. She was towelled dry and now examined herself in the mirror. Her eyes widened as she took in the latest changes. “I look so white,” she whispered.

“Actually, there is some residual tan left,” Jennifer observed. “You'll be repeating the treatment for two or three days to get it all. You've also been started on melanin inhibitors so you won't tan now. Make sure you stay out of the sun or you'll burn really quickly.”

Florentia seemed hardly aware of the nurse's advice. “My eyebrows have gone!” she complained.

“They've just been bleached,” Jennifer reassured. Cassandra noted the brows were almost invisible now, and saw that the hairline at her cheek had also been bleached white where some of the cream had come into contact. “The princess has requested that you visit her as soon as the treatment is complete, so let's go.” Florentia hesitated and glanced toward her wardrobe. “You'll do just fine naked. We're keen to have you show off your new body.”

As the three women walked through the corridors of the building, Cassandra could see how pained Florentia was about her new appearance. Every time someone else passed she lowered her head and shrunk from them. She leant close to the young woman and whispered: “Hold your head up and be proud. You're a beautiful woman.” Florentia smiled at her gratefully but Cassandra could see she was close to tears.

They entered the hair salon where Elspeth was present, sat in the treatment chair. Her appearance had changed considerably from the previous night. Her face was whitened with heavy make-up, her lips painted a liquid crimson, eyes defined by harsh black lines. Her natural brows appeared to have been removed and pencil thin arches now took their place. Her hair, which was dripping wet, had been dyed an unnatural black.

“Oh look at my little Florentia!” she exclaimed, clapping her hands in a very mannered way, and drawing her lips in a false smile to expose her new teeth.

The girl seemed shocked at her lover's transformation. “Elspeth. Your hair!”

“Princess!” she bellowed. “Address me correctly!” She reached out and took Florentia's left nipple in her long, claw-like, blood red nails. Despite the delicacy of the grip the contact was agonising for the girl, her flesh still sensitive from the recent surgery.

“I'm sorry, my princess. Please forgive me.”

“You've grown much paler, but I hoped for better results. I was assured you could get her as pale as an albino.”

Jennifer was very deferential. “Yes, princess. But it will take several applications. The cream is quite harsh so can only be applied once a day without risking making the skin very dry and damaged.”

Elspeth waved her hand in irritation but seemed to accept Jennifer's words. She drew Florentia close to her and stared at her disquietingly. “I'm a vampire now, darling. And if I bite you, you will be too. Would you like that?”

Florentia looked terrified, but there was excitement there too. “Please, princess. It would be so painful. I can't...”

The older woman stood and threw aside the hairdresser's cape. She enfolded Florentia in her arms; she looked so tiny and vulnerable now, naked, slender, pale. “Offer your neck to me. Submit.”

Florentia looked into her eyes, any defiance quickly being destroyed by the fierceness of Elspeth's gaze. She lowered her head slowly to her shoulder, exposing the left side of her neck, trembling all over now.

The princess slowly lowered her head and let her lips touch the girl's soft flesh, surprising her with gentle kisses instead of the anticipated pain. Just when the girl seemed to relax, to believe that she was safe from injury, Elspeth opened her jaws wide and bit. Florentia moaned at the unexpected pain, then as Elspeth increased the pressure she started to squeal, eventually giving a full throated scream.

Elspeth shifted her lips and began to suck at the wound, with a slurping sound that disgusted Cassandra. As she continued to draw at the wound she began to moan ecstatically and appeared to be closing on an orgasm while Florentia mewed like a wounded kitten. Elspeth raised her head at last, her teeth bared and stained with blood, hissing with a strange delight. Florentia seemed to have weakened and hung limply in her arm, crimson trickles dribbling down her neck from two wounds. The princess extended her tongue and with the tip licked away the flow of blood, sighing rapturously at the taste. “Take her,” she said at last to Cassandra.

Florentia was guided to a chair. She looked grey with shock, shivering pathetically as Cassandra cleaned the wound, relieved to see that the bite was no more than a superficial scratch. “Our souls have changed forever, Florentia,” Elspeth announced. “Can you feel your body changing?”

Florentia looked dreamily at herself in the mirror, her neck twisted to allow herself a better view of the wounds that her lover's fangs had inflicted. Her sudden calmness was surely a result of the narcotics which coursed through her veins, and there was something about the way she viewed her environs that suggested she was in the grip of a hallucination. “It's time I had my hair cut, don't you think, darling?” Elspeth called to her. “Would you like to stay and watch?”

“I'd love to, your highness,” she answered shyly. “You're not going to get it cut short though? The black is already a big enough shock.”

Elspeth said nothing, merely exchanging a knowing look with her stylist, a young Japanese woman named Rie, whose own hair was cut in a very severe white blonde bowl cut, mushrooming out a full inch above her ears, the lower part of her head dusted with red stubble decorated with shaved geometric patterns. Her tanned arms were entirely tattooed in pastel shades, flowers and leaves drawn in a stylised manner which extended over the backs of her hands and even onto her fingers. These fingers now took a set of clippers and fitted a small guard. She spent a few moments combing through the section of hair at Elspeth's nape which was the only hair on her head which wasn't securely twisted and pinned tightly to her scalp. The nape section started more than half way up her ears and rose higher in the centre, forming an inverted V. Rie lifted the long hair from Elspeth's neck with her comb and activated the clippers.

Florentia wailed as she saw the blades rise effortlessly though the damp hair. A long, heavy strand slid free, fell to the floor and coiled like a serpent at Rie's feet. There was a gap in the hair on the back of Elspeth's head now, a gap where her hair was cut close to her scalp, just millimetres remaining. Cassandra, familiar with how clippers worked, could judge that Rie was using a number two guard. Florentia voiced her opinion that her mistress was being shaved.

“Shaved? I hope not. That's not what we agreed, is it, Rie?” She raised her hand and stroked the velvet-like black pelt. “No, that's just...” Her voice trailed off into a dreamy sigh. The stylist, entirely taciturn, continued to clipper away the hair, until the entire section had been sheared into a perfectly uniform crop. She had a very relaxed air in her rhythm of working, but had removed all the long hair very quickly. Now she massaged conditioner through the short hair (eliciting more ecstatic vocalisations from the princess) before taking a straight razor. She touched Elspeth's crown, causing her to bow her head, then began to shave at her neck. The razor made little upward strokes, shaving away the fine hairs, then continuing upward into the coarser hairs around the hairline. The blade clogged with short black hair, which Rie wiped away on the towel over her left arm. She wasn't merely tidying up the hairline, she was dramatically reshaping it. Cassandra watched the efficiency of her work with admiration. She formed the clippered hair into a perfect V without the need for a single correction. Now the clippered hair formed a lozenge shape on the back of the princess' head.

“Oh my,” an awed Elspeth gasped as she regarded the back of her head in the mirror. She raised a hand from under the cape to explore the sensations of her newly shaved neck and moaned. “You're a little magician, my dear,” she smiled at Rie. “I wish you could cut my hair every week, and you will while I'm here. I'll have to see if we can persuade you to join my entourage before we head home.” The young woman said nothing, and her expression barely seemed to acknowledge Elspeth's praise. She continued her work, now freeing some hair at Elspeth's crown, spraying and combing.

Florentia stared at her lover's transformation with undisguised fascination and was so taken with Rie's work that she failed to notice the entrance of a second hairdresser until she took hold of Florentia's hair. The stylist's appearance made the girl gasp, and Cassandra sympathised. She had a very extreme, almost alien, look. Her long blonde hair had been shaved entirely in front of her ears and across the top of her forehead, the top cropped to a couple of inches and messily spiked up. Her large forehead had been transformed with sub-dermal implants, the edges adjacent to temples puckered by serrated ridges. Her temples were marked by tattoos, scaly, pale blue patterns which extended faintly over the sides of forehead and onto her cheeks. Her white lips were pierced by numerous rings and studs, all the jewellery matt black in contrast to her pale skin.

Her ears were even more heavily pierced, the cartilages penetrated in numerous places by thick metal. The lobes were stretched into long ribbon-like loops, dangling against her neck, weighted with ceramic and metal beads. Perhaps the most shocking modification was to her eyes, the black irises ornamented by gothic filigrees extending in a cross shape over the whites of her eyes. Cassandra tried to get a better look, convinced that the patterning wasn't merely a result of large contact lenses, but was a tattoo that marked the eyeball.

“I'm Sami, I'm going to be looking after your hair.” As she spoke to Florentia, she revealed her pointed, filed teeth and her split tongue. “I'm taking you blonde to start.” She wrapped a strip of paper around Florentia's neck, binding it tightly over the dressing which Cassandra had used to cover the bite. Then a cape was fastened around her neck and a rubber shield placed over the shoulders. Florentia looked terrified by the hairdresser, enduring her attentions with evident fear. Her long curls were covered entirely with a viscous, greyish liquid, loosely pinned on top of her head as the chemicals stripped her tresses of their colour.

So distracted was she by the attentions of her strange stylist that she'd neglected to study Rie's work on Elspeth. When at last she did glance over, she saw that the princess now had a short bob, the back cut into an arch, revealing much of the shorn nape and the entirety of the pointed hairline. The sides had been angled, parallel to the line of her jaw, forming sharp points which ended at the corners of Elspeth's lips. Now Rie was giving form to a short fringe, cutting precise arches with a shallow point in the centre, a heart shape framing Elspeth's features. The princess regarded herself curiously in the mirror, obviously delighted with her metamorphosis. Cassandra agreed that the cut flattered her features, and she looked younger and more handsome than the blonde woman that had arrived on the island a few days previously.

Rie styled the new cut until it gleamed, forming a sleek helmet on Elspeth's head. The older woman was released from her cape and stood to look more closely at herself in the mirror. She said nothing to Rie, instead taking her in her arms and kissing her on the lips to express her gratitude for the stylist's artistry. Rie showed no discernible change in her expression, only acknowledging Elspeth with a modest bow before taking her leave.

“It looks beautiful, princess,” Cassandra said. “It suits you so well and it's cut perfectly.”

“Thank you, nurse,” she smiled, her vanity responding to flattery. “But I think it's you who should be in the chair now, isn't it? I can see a little stubble, which isn't good.”

Cassandra climbed into the chair, trying to maintain a good-natured air, but inside feeling a repulsion as she anticipated Elspeth's touch.

The princess called over Florentia and Sami to assist with Cassandra's latest shave. “I'll have to be careful today. Paola wasn't at all impressed that I cut her dear little Cassie. I've been told that every nick I cause from now on will mean I'm not allowed to touch you for a day. She's such a killjoy!”

Cassandra nodded in agreement, but was delighted that the doctor had made good on her promise to provide protection. Now Elspeth addressed Sami. “Be a dear and lather her for me. Menthol shaving cream will be nice.”

Cassandra felt her cheeks colour as the stylist worked the thick foam over her scalp, long, sharply pointed nails caressing the bare skin. She still felt uncomfortable with her reflection, a strange face peering back at her. She still felt she should see a girlish face with long red hair, not this bald woman with something unmistakeably artificial in her features. Alarmingly, she could see that her rich new diet was making her cheeks (and the rest of her body) fuller by the day.

Sami had now covered Cassandra's scalp with an even white layer and her scalp started to tingle as the menthol was absorbed. Elspeth had selected a razor and was showing it to Florentia, whispering something of her intentions. It was the younger woman who now took hold of the razor and nervously took position behind Cassandra. “Just put it at her forehead and draw it back, nice and even,” Elspeth ordered. “You can press quite firmly, that will make it shave very close.”

Florentia made a slow stroke from forehead to crown, her features showing a dullness and confusion from the effects of the medication. She stared at the strip of bare scalp which the blades had revealed. Now Cassandra felt a desire to squirm as Florentia, then Elspeth, started to caress the shaved strip. “Doesn't it feel delicious?” the princess asked. Her lover merely moaned excitedly, and it was obvious that both were becoming aroused.

“Florentia, my neck is even smoother, feel it.” She did as she was instructed, her fingers sliding up her mistress' neck, a little moan escaping as she felt bare skin where hair should start. Cassandra watched in the mirror as Florentia explored the feeling of the velvet on Elspeth's nape, stared into the eyes of her lover and initiated a kiss. The princess moved cautiously, careful not to let her immaculate coif touch the bleach which covered Florentia's locks. Even in the heat of passion she was careful to maintain her image. After a long joyous kiss, Elspeth forced Florentia back. “You still didn't tell me what you think of my new haircut, Florentia. That's very rude!”

“I'm sorry, princess. It was a shock to see you with short black hair but now I'm getting used to it I can see how sexy it is. You look really beautiful.” The compliment was rewarded with a continuation of the kiss. Cassandra found herself staring down into her lap, trying to wait patiently. The princess eventually remembered the task she'd initiated.

“My little darling, I think it would be nice if we just watched Cassandra being shaved by Sami today, wouldn't it? I want to see a straight razor on her head, getting her smoother than ever. Sami, indulge me.” She moved behind her lover, wrapped her arms around the small girl, her hands hidden in the folds of the cape, and Cassandra was certain her fingers were exploring Florentia's sex, to judge from her reaction.

Now Cassandra found herself in Sami's power. She spread her fingers under Cassandra's jaw, gripping firmly and forcing her head back. Then the razor made long, slow tracks back over the dome of her head. The keen blade rasped softly as it took away the faint stubble, and Cassandra felt breathless, completely controlled by this fierce barbarian. Sami made her tilt her head to the side as she shaved the temple, and Cassandra stared at herself in the mirror from the corner of her eye, feeling a passion growing inside her. She loved the image of herself, meek, bald, humiliated, controlled by this wild and powerful creature, who looked barely human. As Sami shifted position she turned Cassandra's head so that their eyes met, and Cassandra immediately wanted to look away from the strange, frightening eyes which scrutinised at her so forcefully, but found herself unable to break her eye contact. Sami bared her teeth in an enigmatic smile, then forced Cassandra to bow her head as she commenced shaving the back. Now that she could only stare into her lap she became aware of Florentia's breathless moaning as Elspeth urged her toward an orgasm.

As the razor finished its course over the entirety of Cassandra's scalp, Elspeth reminded Sami that her eyebrows were to be shaved too. Moments later, Cassandra's eyebrows had been lathered and shaved, removing the finely painted arches she'd been allowed that morning. Now her face had the strange blankness once more that browlessness lent to her features. “Some cologne,” Elspeth instructed Sami. “Something rich in alcohol, I want her to feel a nice tingle.”

Sami applied the cologne liberally, each slap of her hand causing a sharp smarting of Cassandra's scalp. She wanted to scream but tried to suppress the pain, and her mouth emitted only a breathy sigh. “Kiss her head,” Elspeth roughly ordered Florentia. The girl bent forward and started to passionately apply her wet mouth to Cassandra's newly bared skull, her moaning increasing as her mistress crudely stimulated her under the cape. Cassandra closed her eyes, transported to bliss by her client's attentions. Moments later, Florentia wailed ecstatically as she climaxed.

Elspeth wrenched her upright and kissed her while the orgasm continued to consume her flesh. “You see, bald can be erotic, can't it, darling,” the princess whispered between kisses. “You're learning all the time.”

Abruptly, she ended her embrace with Florentia and commanded Cassandra to come with her. As she left the room she gave some last commands. “Sami, finish colouring Florentia's hair, but no styling till I return. And you be a good girl, Florentia. If Sami has any problems with you she's got my permission to mete out any punishment she sees fit.” Florentia vowed her obedience, but Cassandra was sure she would never have the courage to defy Sami, who exuded a fierceness which clearly terrified the young girl.

Cassandra made her way back to to princess' apartment, where she was informed that she would help her to dress. An array of vintage silk dresses were displayed, all of the most beautiful manufacture. “Now that I have my flapper bob, I want a real jazz age look,” Elspeth mused, holding a mint green dress against her body and scrutinising herself in the mirror. Cassandra examined the dresses, awed at the beauty of each. She lifted one out, a royal blue dress, boldly patterned with golden flowers.

“This is gorgeous, princess! You should try it on.” The older woman indulged her and changed into the dress, sleeveless, a simple tunic-like bodice with a low waist and a pleated skirt. It looked ravishing.

“Oh, it is pretty,” the princess smiled as she regarded her reflection. “I feel like I really am the princess in the story now, the last section in the 1920s.”

“Yes, you really have become her,” Cassandra encouraged, despite never having read this section of the novel. “Maybe some jewellery now?”

The two women explored the princess' jewel case, which was amply stocked with treasures. In the end they decided on a long string of pearls to adorn Elspeth's slender neck, a wide gold bangle studded with a large ruby on her right wrist and long beaded earrings to draw attention to her newly exposed earlobes. A pair of elegant blue silk shoes completed the outfit, and Cassandra was entirely sincere as she praised the princess' beauty. The new haircut and outfit had transformed her.

“We'd better go and see how Florentia is progressing,” Elspeth replied.

When they entered the salon, Florentia, now freed of the cape and naked again, rose to greet the princess. Her long curls were now a pale honey blonde, which seemed to make her bleached skin look even paler. “I'm blonde now, princess,” she said shyly, but it was obvious that she liked the change.

Elspeth played with the curls and a smile spread over her face. “Just perfect, perfect,” she muttered. “Lovely and soft, and the colour is just right. You're an artist, Sami! Now let's see her in the style we discussed.”

Sami wordlessly directed Florentia to take her place once more in the chair and combed through the blonde curls. She combed a section from the front forward over the girl's face and directed the rest of the hair back, loosely gripped with a clip. She looked over at Elspeth for a confirmatory sign. A nod indicated the princess' assent.

Sami gathered in her fist the hair which had been combed over Florentia's face and without delay brought her scissors to roughly hack it away, no more than an inch from the girl's scalp. It took only seconds to chop away the hair and Florentia seemed frozen by shock. Only as Sami let the long severed curls fall to the floor did she numbly start to curse at the violation of her beautiful hair.

“My hair!” she complained fearfully to Elspeth. “What's she done?” Her eyes flickered anxiously at Sami. Clearly the stylist terrified her.

“Don't whine, darling. It's most unbecoming. Just sit and look pretty. Sami will make you look more lovely than ever.” She silenced Florentia as she made to add further protests and now Sami attacked her forehead with unguarded clippers. The ravaged hair was shaved close to her scalp, a band a full two inches wide being shorn from her forehead. Cassandra could see she was close to tears but a disapproving look from Sami made Florentia contain her grief. The clippered area was now lathered with the same menthol foam as had been used on Cassandra and Sami showed the razor to the terrified girl.

“Don't move, there's a good girl. This is sharper than you can imagine and soon you'll be as smooth as Cassandra. I love the look of an extended forehead, don't you?” Florentia's eyes widened as she regarded Sami's unnaturally large expanse of bare skin, which was also heavily modified by implants. Cassandra could see pain in the girl's eyes as her imagination dared to think that her mistress may turn her into something similar to Sami. She lowered her eyes as the razor scraped away the lather and with it the last vestiges of hair.

“There's a difference of colour in the shaved skin,” Elspeth said with some disappointment.

“I'm sure in a couple of days we can even that out with the bleach, Cassandra reassured. “Until then a little make-up will cover up the line.”

Sami was shaving down Florentia's temples, forming a new hairline which conformed to a much simpler line than the natural growth. “Get rid of those brows. They look ridiculous after the bleaching,” Elspeth instructed. Sami dabbed a little foam on to lubricate the passage of the blade which now stripped away the pale bands of hair. Florentia's lip quivered as she looked in the mirror and saw herself browless for the first time. Her artificially enlarged forehead looked even more extreme now.

Sami now crimped Florentia's hair. The process wasn't quick, her hair long and abundant. By the time the crimping was complete her hair looked absurdly voluminous. Sami divided her hair into sections and started to loosely braid her hair, long thick plaits now forming at each temple. The braids were arranged around her head, criss-crossing, strings of tiny pearls interwoven, jewelled pins added as ornaments. Sami formed the hair at the back into a complex braided knot, jewelled and ornamented. Cassandra was sure she recognised the style from a renaissance painting and asked Sami if she was right.

Elspeth replied. “It's the style Simonetta Vespucci wears in the portrait by Piero di Cosimo. I adore renaissance art and it looks just perfect for my darling Florentia.”

Cassandra smiled and complimented Sami for her abilities and Florentia on how beautiful she looked. Cassandra was also a lover of art and knew that the style was anachronistic: Piero had lived a century before the time of John Dee, as described in Elspeth's novel. She knew that to point this error out would embarrass the self-styled princess and, great as the temptation was, she decided discretion was the correct course.

Elspeth took a small wooden case and opened it to reveal a golden object studded with pearls and semi-precious stones. With Sami's help it was clipped into Florentia's hair on the top of her head, which was now just behind her hairline. “Now you're really becoming Florentia,” Elspeth whispered blissfully. When Sami had added a thick layer of pale powder to her face and stained her lips crimson, the young girl was indeed transformed. The simple make-up was completed with touches of rouge on her cheeks.

Cassandra had to remind herself that only a few days previously Florentia had been a slightly chubby and very ordinary looking young woman. Now she looked pale and vulnerable and possessed an unworldly beauty. Cassandra helped her to dress in a replica of a sixteenth century dress, a tight embroidered bodice binding her torso tightly, a full skirt sweeping the floor. Florentia looked astonished to see herself, as if she was inhabiting a dream.

“We've got a photographer to see now. I want to get some pictures of us just as we are, and then we'll go to a feast,” Elspeth said. “You two ladies have been very helpful today and you can have the night off. I've spoken to the director and she agreed to it.” Elspeth kissed Sami and Cassandra as she bade them farewell and left with her arm around Florentia's waist.

“The evening to ourselves,” Sami said, smiling. “Why don't you come over to my room? Nathalie is an old friend and she said I should look after you.”

Cassandra felt very nervous as she looked into Sami's strange eyes. “I'm not sure. I have things to prepare for tomorrow.”

Sami placed her hands on the sides of Cassandra's bald scalp. “I think you misunderstand. You will come with me and you'll obey my commands. Don't worry, I won't keep you late. I know how Paola makes her nurses study hard. But for tonight I'm your mistress and you'll address me as such.”

“Yes Miss Sami,” Cassandra replied meekly. Ten minutes later she was in Sami's room and was ordered to undress. As she awkwardly stripped out of the tight latex, Sami came over to help.

“You're still sore from the surgery, aren't you? I hardly recognise you. I saw the film you made with Nathalie and was expecting a delicate little blonde. But now you're curvy and so bald.” As she removed the catsuit from Cassandra she ran the tip of her long pointed nail over the tattooed flower which covered her ribs. “Tattoos now as well, hey? Very nice. I love tattooed girls.”

As Sami undressed she revealed her own tattoos to Cassandra, her entire body covered in scales similar to those on her temples. The tattoos covered all of her trunk and extended to her elbows and mid thighs. The irregular margins on the extremities suggested to Cassandra that the patterning would be extended. Cassandra was breathing heavily as she took in all the modifications which Sami had undergone. Her labia were pierced with heavy titanium rings and her upper arms had raised ridges where implants had been inserted beneath her skin.

“Don't you like what you see?” Sami whispered. “I know not everyone does.”

Cassandra smiled weakly. “I have to admit, I'm slightly shocked. I never saw anyone in the flesh with such extreme mods and I can't help thinking what it would be like to be transformed like you. And that does scare me. But I've been turned on by you since the moment I saw you.”

Cassandra was silenced by Sami's lips, a kiss of force and passion. The intrusion of her divided tongue was slightly repulsive, shocking. Cassandra moaned and squirmed and dared to let her own tongue slide through the cleft, past the piercings in Sami's lips, the tip of her tongue exploring the pointed teeth. Everything rational in her told her these transformations were alien and ugly, yet her body spoke differently; Cassandra found an enormous erotic force growing in her, taking possession, an ecstasy beyond words and reason. Sami was an attentive lover, unpredictable, wild, subtle, forceful. Despite the pain of her still bruised body, Cassandra found herself unable to resist the passions of her lover, climaxes of bliss engulfing her like storm-driven waves breaking over a cliff. Both women were exhausted as they lay arm in arm, panting from their exertions.

Cassandra was still in fear of Sami's gaze, those strange eyes holding her in an unblinking stare. “Your eyes, Miss Sami... they're not contacts, are they?”

“They're not, Cassandra. I've had my eyes tattooed. There's an eye surgeon here who's really perfected the technique. My eyes have been her most complex work to date. You're fascinated, aren't you? I can arrange for her to do your eyes too. I'm sure Nathalie would agree to it. I'll run it by them tomorrow.”

Cassandra felt faint at the idea of her eyes being permanently changed. “No, please Miss. Not that...”

Sami kissed her to silence her protests and to calm her. “You need to accept that this body is no longer your own. You'll change, grow, become beautiful in new ways, become something rich and strange. I love to think of you as you were and see what you are now.” With one hand she held Cassandra's now very ample right breast, and with the other stroked her scalp, to remind her of two of the more obvious changes. “I'm sure you were reluctant to be bald but it looks just right for you. You should consider making it permanent. My temples and forehead have been lasered and they'll never grow hair again.”

Cassandra dreamily let her fingers play over Sami's temple. She felt the skin, perfectly hairless and smooth, saw tattoos which would never be covered by a regrowth of hair. Then she caressed the ridges which reshaped her forehead. “What did you look like before all this was done?”

“Would you like to see?” She sat up and took her laptop. She opened a video file, then skipped on past the start.

“Oh, that's Nathalie!” Cassandra squealed excitedly, suddenly feeling more intensely than ever how she missed her lover.

“And that's me with her.” The woman Cassandra saw on screen was beautiful in a conventional way: slim, long brown hair, nicely applied make-up, even white teeth, free of tattoos. She bore no resemblance to the woman who now sat with her arm around Cassandra's waist.

“No... It can't be!” Cassandra gasped. “What made you want to change so dramatically?”

“I don't know. I always liked tattoos. When I started my tattoos I just got an urge to try more modifications. That was two years ago. I've changed everything since then, but I've still got a long way to go.”

“I can't even imagine anything more that you could do to add to your look,” Cassandra whispered.

“It's just as well I'm the creative one, isn't it then? I can think of a lot of things that I'd like to see done to you. The most pressing need is for more tattoos, I'd say. Would you like that?”

Cassandra felt herself growing weak. She'd been imagining getting more heavily tattooed ever since her day with Reiko but the desire was always countered by her innate caution. Renouncing control always caused a weirdly intense arousal, however, and Cassandra nodded shyly. “You go and get a shower, honey,” Sami instructed her with a kiss.

Ten minutes later, a refreshed Cassandra emerged. Sami was smiling broadly and looked very excited. “I just spoke to Nathalie. She's missing you so much and says she's going to visit in a few weeks. She also agreed to my suggestions. Get a robe on and we'll get you fixed up.”

Cassandra felt a surge of panic. “You mean now? Tonight? I'm getting tattooed?” She'd imagined that she'd have time to adjust to the idea of more ink, sure that getting Nathalie's consent, confirming a design, and arranging an appointment would cause a considerable delay, but Sami confirmed that by midnight Cassandra would have new mods.

The two women found their way to a room on the first floor of the complex where two tattooists awaited them. Cassandra was made to strip as they studied her body and her existing tattoos. “She's going to gain a fair bit more weight, so her mistress had some concerns that her tattoos might stretch and lose shape.” The taller tattooist, Kendra nodded, seemingly unconcerned by Cassandra's obvious distress as she heard she would become much heavier.

“She's going to be kept corseted as she grows? Her waist won't expand as dramatically so I'll add something to her abdomen.”

“Her mistress wants her torso to be covered in flowers. She likes the idea that every tattooist who works on her will add a flower in a very personal style. Her arms and legs will have more abstract, geometrical designs, but still circular and related to floral forms, so there'll be some continuity between them.”

“That sounds like a very good plan,” Kendra agreed. “Jasmine is a specialist in geometric line work. Elbow should be a good spot, the skin won't stretch so much there.”

Moments later, Cassandra was lying on a bed, her right arm lifted out in a support as she was prepped for more tattoos. Kendra was the first to begin, drawing a freehand flower surrounding Cassandra's navel, as large as her open hand. Jasmine's more complex design was marked around Cassandra's elbow using a transfer. The nurse's head was supported by a head rest at the end of the bed and she was unable to see anything of the permanent changes which were being made to her skin.

“She's not got much of a pain threshold,” Sami said. “Her mistress doesn't want her to suffer, and elbow can be quite painful. If she needs it she can have some pain relief.”

Cassandra thanked her and said she'd try to be brave. She heard the buzz of the needle and felt a burning on her belly as Kendra started to ink her. A few minutes later she felt the sting of Jasmine's instrument, more intense and insistent. She tried focus on other things, going through academic topics that she had to study, anything to distract her from the pain, but the attentions of two tattooists simultaneously made it impossible for Cassandra to escape from the immediate sensations.

“Will I be OK to work tomorrow, Sami?” Cassandra asked, suddenly nervous about letting down Elspeth and Florentia.

“You've been granted a day off. Jennifer will cover for you.”

“I'm sure I'll be able to function, Sami. I was only a little tender last time I got tattooed.”

“Yes, but your eyes...”

Cassandra wanted to protest, to beg, but was silenced by panic and nausea. She glanced at Sami, who stood over her, but couldn't bear to look into her tattooed eyes, feeling a dread as she imagined her own beautiful eyes being similarly altered. Suddenly the pain of her tattooing seemed a welcome distraction as she awaited her fate. She tried desperately to think of a way to escape. “Did Nathalie agree to this?” she asked Sami, unable to believe that Nathalie would want her eyes disfigured.

“Of course, honey. We wouldn't do anything to you without her consent. That's not how we work in the clinic. Here's Doctor Gill now to see to you.”

Sami crossed the room to greet the eye surgeon, then the two approached Cassandra, arm in arm. Gill looked young for a surgeon, late twenties, Cassandra would have guessed, although her small stature may have made her appear younger than her real age. She wore her thick, straight hair in a sixties-inspired bob which flattered her features. She seemed vivacious and good-natured, a smile constantly playing over her features as she introduced herself. “I've been looking at your medical history, Cassandra. Never had any problems with eyes?” Cassandra confirmed her sight had never been a problem.

“I am a bit squeamish about eyes though, doctor,” she added. “If it's possible, may I have a sedative to get me through the procedure? I'm dreading it, to tell the truth.”

“Of course, dear. It's not the easiest to tolerate and a dose of benzodiazepines will make you much more compliant, so it will help both of us.”

Before the sedative was administered Cassandra had eye drops put in both eyes and immediately noticed her sight blurring. Gill reassured her that this was normal. “There's a paralytic agent too so you'll find you can't move your eyes in a few minutes. It's not a very pleasant sensation but don't worry about it. Once the procedure is complete I'll administer an antidote and in a few minutes you'll be back to normal.”

As predicted, Cassandra found her eye muscles weakening and soon she could only stare straight up. As the headrest restricted movement of her head she found her vision started to disintegrate. She felt her anxiety growing as the painful tattooing continued and she was now essentially blind. She welcomed the injection of anxiolytic that Gill administered and almost instantly felt her attentiveness slide. She was still conscious, but barely aware as Gill moved into place to transform her eyes. She felt her eyelids being drawn open, held in place with some sort of clamp. Her eye was irrigated and Gill asked her to confirm that anaesthesia had been effective. Cassandra made a slow sigh to agree.

Her right eye was first to receive treatment. Cassandra could only stare up into a bright light, occasionally occluded by the instruments which Gill wielded. The nagging pain in her elbow seemed to demand more of her attention now. Eventually she felt a prolonged irrigation and the clamps were eased free. Her right eye was taped shut as Gill focused her attentions on the left eye. She started to feel sleepy and some time after her left eye had been altered she fell asleep, despite the continuing work of the two tattooists.

When she awoke, Cassandra felt panic as she realised she couldn't see. Her thoughts were still fugged by the effects of the sedative and it took her some time to piece together the fragments of memory from the previous night. She reached up to her face and felt plastic shields taped over her eyes. The movement made her aware of a soreness in the skin around her elbow.

Feeling along the cot side on the bed, Cassandra located an alarm and pressed the button. She was reassured to hear a familiar voice respond to her call. “You're awake? How do you feel?” Jennifer asked.

“Groggy. Did everything go OK? I didn't expect I'd have my eyes covered when I woke.”

“Yes, it's just a precaution. Gill will pop in later to check your eyes, but she says it all went swimmingly. A bit surprised you had your eyes done. New tattoos too, I see.”

“I'm more than surprised, I can tell you. It was all Sami's idea, and within minutes of the idea she was making it happen.”

“Ah, Sami. She's scary, isn't she?” Jenni whispered. “You're blushing, Cass. What's going on?”

Cassandra suddenly felt shy. “Oh me and Sami... Last night...”

“Whoa! You got... 'romantic' with her? You're wilder than I thought.”

“She's really nice once you get to know her.”

“And your reward was tattooed eyes... I'm not sure I'll be asking her for a date just yet.”

“Oh God, my eyes. Am I going to look like a freak?”

Jenni admitted she had no idea what had been done to Cassandra's eyes. “We'll just have to wait. The tattoos I can see though and they look great. By the way, I did the skin bleaching for Florentia earlier. She and Elspeth are going to call in later to see what you've had done, so prepare yourself.”

Cassandra was beside herself with anxiety when Gill arrived in her room. She'd had to wait four hours with nothing to distract her from thinking about how her eyes would look.

Gill sounded bright and cheerful as she enquired how her patient had been. She eased the tape free and pulled away the patches from Cassandra's eyes. For the first time in fifteen hours she was able to open her eyelids. As she looked around the room there was a growing panic. “I can't see, everything is blurred!”

“Don't worry, that's perfectly normal. There's a little swelling from the procedure. It'll most likely right itself with twenty-four hours, but in some cases it can take up to a week. I'll prescribe some steroid drops to get the inflammation down. Everything looks good,” she enthused as she examined Cassandra's eyes closely. “You have very beautiful and striking eyes now.”

Cassandra looked at herself in a mirror, but couldn't make out any detail. She tried squinting, but since that made her eyes almost invisible it was counterproductive. “I can't really see,” she admitted sadly. “What do they look like, Jenni?”

Jenni looked closely into her friend's eyes. “Very cool actually! Your irises are bleached in the centre, almost white, blending into the natural blue at the edge. Then around the iris there's a ring of little black dots, each about two millimetres wide. It's very noticeable but not too extreme. I love it!”

“The white is a dye, rather than bleach,” Gill stated. “It absorbs onto the surface of the iris and it's pretty much permanent. Since it colours the iris itself it will expand and contract so it gives a very different effect to contacts. It suits you, Cassandra. I'm very pleased. I'm going to supply you with glasses. They should help to compensate for the swelling and let you see better. There's no point in giving you a very accurate prescription, since your vision will change rapidly as your eyes return to normal, but these should help you for today.”

Gill left the room to find a suitable set of glasses and returned within ten minutes. A heavy set of frames were placed on Cassandra's nose and she was again passed a mirror. She could see herself more clearly now, but the reflection was less like herself than ever, a bald woman with large black framed glasses which made her look older. She peered through the thick lenses to try to make out her new eyes (the presence of her nasogastric tube reminding Cassandra that even during sleep she would continue to gain weight). Her sight was still a little blurry but she could make out the tattooed dots ringing her irises, and the new paleness of her eyes. She made a little excited coo, but it was largely for Gill's sake. She was sure that without the glasses this latest modification would dominate her features. “Thank you, doctor,” she said demurely. “You've done a wonderful job.”

Not long after, Paola came to visit her protégée, and examined her new additions. “Oh, I do like those glasses. They make you look so nerdy. My little bald, chubby geek. Maybe I'll have you wear glasses more often.”

Cassandra blushed as she heard herself described in these terms. She wasn't at all comfortable with her new image, and still thought of herself as the long haired, slim, pretty girl she'd been so recently. She still found herself thanking the doctor. A compliment was, after all, a compliment.

“Nice work on the tattoos, too. The one on your elbow is very pretty, like a mandala.” The design which marked her arm was a series of repeating patterns, spiralling out from the point of her elbow, the pattern formed of tiny black dots. “It's like a contemporary take on the old spider web on the elbow. I approve. And the flower on your belly is very striking.” The abdominal tattoo was a fleshy red flower, five broad petals shaded to appear as bulging out convexly across Cassandra's stomach. “I think we should get you more heavily tattooed before Nathalie comes to visit. It'll be a nice surprise for her.”

Cassandra nodded her agreement but felt fearful of how far her transformation would go, and at the speed of change. “Now I want you to go and visit the princess and Florentia. You need to apologise for not being there for them today, although I know it wasn't your choice. Elspeth likes servile so servile she'll get. Offering to let her shave you will probably smooth over any resentments she has.”

Cassandra, now alone, had to endure a trip through the clinic to the wing of apartments where Elspeth had taken residence. She tried to reassure herself that her nakedness wasn't out of the ordinary, nor were her modifications as extreme as many of those she'd seen since her arrival. Nevertheless, she felt an urge to hide every time another person passed. The arrival at Elspeth's rooms was no consolation. She was sure that she and Florentia would delight in humiliating her. She wasn't mistaken.

Florentia opened the door and ushered her in. She immediately questioned why Cassandra was undressed.

“I'm unable to work today and so I'm not allowed my uniform. I wanted to say sorry for letting you both down. Doctor Paola insisted I apologise in person and thought I should let you see the new work I had done.”

“You look fatter out of your suit,” Florentia said, rubbing at Cassandra's belly. She wanted to tell her to stop, since the tattoo was still fresh and infection was still a risk, but decided she should endure the unwelcome attentions with good grace. “You've not gained much of a belly though, have you? It's all going on your hips, thighs, arms.”

“I'm corseted most of the time, that's most likely why,” Cassandra suggested.

“It's a shame. You can leave your corset off from now on. I want you to have a big fat belly hanging here.” She gripped the thickening layer of flesh under the new tattoo.

“Now, now,” the princess cautioned. “It's her mistress' choice. You don't get to decide Cassie's shape.”

Florentia looked hurt by the reprimand. “I didn't know you wore glasses. They look weird on you. Especially since they're all you're wearing!”

“I don't normally, but I had my eyes tattooed last night. These help me see until the inflammation settles down.”

Cassandra realised that neither of the women had noticed the changes to her eyes, disguised as they were behind the thick lenses. Florentia pulled the glasses from her face and whistled as she saw what had been done. “Wow, those are tattoos? That looks so freaky, Cassie!”

Elspeth now examined her eyes with great interest. “Who did this?” She asked. Cassandra discussed Gill and how she'd worked on Sami's eyes too.

“See, I told you Sami didn't have contact lenses,” Florentia crowed. “Who was right?”

Her attitude earned her a sharp slap across her thigh. “Enough, Florentia! You need to learn to behave like a lady. “That looks very interesting, Cassie, dear. And Sami's eyes are tattooed too?” Cassandra noticed her looking slyly at her young ward, obviously formulating a plan. Florentia seemed unaware of the plot.

“Princess, would you do me the honour of shaving me today?” Even with her temporarily weakened sight, Cassandra could see the pleasure that being addressed thus gave to Elspeth.

“Much as it would please me, I was just about to take Florentia to Sami to have her hair styled. You may accompany us and Sami can have the pleasure of shaving you.” Cassandra nodded and expressed her gratitude. She felt a throb of anticipation as she imagined seeing Sami again. Despite the terror that Sami's appearance generated, she found herself longing to be alone with her once more, even if it meant more permanent alterations to her look. She started to drift into a fantastic reverie, her concentration still impaired by the sedatives. She had to remind herself that she was in the presence of clients and brought herself back to reality.

She made her way back through the clinic, respectfully following a few paces behind Elspeth and Florentia. She noticed that Florentia's skin was now even paler, the bleach stripping the last vestiges of her tan. Her blonde curls were now loosely gathered in a ribbon at her nape, a long, thick ponytail falling over her back. The elaborate work that Sami had created was now only a memory.

They entered the salon where Sami waited. She looked pleasantly surprised to see Cassandra enter. “Can you fit in an extra customer?” the princess asked. “This little waif came to me begging for a shave but I'm so tired after last night. Take care of her.”

Sami came over to Cassandra and pulled the glasses free. She put her fingers under her chin and made her look up into her eyes. Cassandra found her gaze almost unendurable. Sami stirred a maelstrom of conflicting emotions: fear, desire, repulsion, lust, a profound desire to submit. After a long silence, Sami whispered “Get in the chair, Cass. If you're a good girl you might get rewarded once you're properly bald.”

There seemed to be something profoundly threatening about Sami's use of the word 'properly'. Cassandra was shaking as she took her place, but despite her terror, she knew that she was experiencing an arousal that she would be unable to conceal in her state of nudity.

She felt sure that Elspeth was aware of her inner state as she brought Florentia close and drew attention to the studs which pierced her labia. “See those, darling? I want you to get yours pierced too, as a part of your commitment. You'll wear rings in your pussy as part of your acknowledgement of me as your wife.”

Florentia nodded weakly. She was clearly afraid of being changed like this, but her romantic sensibility made such a submission intensely attractive. “She's glistening down there, princess. Do you think she likes Sami shaving her?”

As the blade moved over the top of her head, Cassandra felt her humiliation growing. “Well, do you?” Elspeth quizzed.

“Yes, princess,” Cassandra murmured, her voice trembling with emotion. Her interrogator stared at her expectantly, and she felt compelled to illuminate her answer. “I love the feeling of the razor on my scalp. I like to submit too, it makes me very excited.”

“Would you like to feel Florentia exploring those piercings in your sex? And to feel her fingers inside you?”

Cassandra felt her cheeks burning with shame, but still her arousal was growing. She could hardly bring herself to speak but grunted her agreement. “You'll have to do better than that. Tell Florentia what you'd like her to do.”

“Please, Miss Florentia,” Cassandra began haltingly, “would you touch my piercings and explore them so that you know what they feel like, then, if it pleases you, finger me until I cum.”

“Oh Cassie, you're so sweet,” Florentia said, in a teasing voice. “And should I be gentle with you, or would you like me to be rough?”

There was a long silence before she could reply. “I'd like you to be rough, Miss.” Cassandra felt a tear fall down her cheek as she spoke.

Florentia grasped two of the studs on opposing labia and drew them wide apart, tugging until the flesh was painfully stretched. Cassandra gasped, wanted to writhe about to help endure the pain, but didn't dare move since the razor was still pursuing its course around her scalp. Florentia relaxed the tension, only to pull even harder moments later. Cassandra panted, her face reddening as she struggled to cope with the suffering. Sami placed her hand on top of Cassandra's scalp and forced her to bow her head as her nape was stripped of the faint stubble. She could only stare at her pussy which gaped horribly as Florentia pulled once more at her piercings.

“Oil her scalp,” Elspeth commanded Sami. “I want her head to gleam.” Now that the shaving was completed, Cassandra started to move about in the chair. Sami's attentions were delicious, the sweet oil being massaged into her tingling scalp, her soft fingers caressing, the gentleness conflicting with the agony of Florentia's torture.

“Now put her glasses on.” Elspeth wanted Cassandra to see the equipment she'd placed before her on the counter. “Do you know what this is? And what it does?”

Cassandra felt her fear and humiliation reach new heights. “It's an electrolysis machine, princess,” she sobbed. “It causes permanent hair loss.”

“And you know how to use it?” Cassandra nodded. She'd been made to study how to use this specific machine as part of her training at the clinic.

Florentia gave a whoop. Her fingers slipped inside Cassandra's dripping slit and started to slowly, gently pump back and forth. “She's going to be permanently bald?”

“Start with your eyebrows, Cassandra,” the princess ordered.

“Please, princess, my mistress...” Cassandra begged.

“We're not doing anything Nathalie hasn't agreed to,” Sami said sternly.

A brightly lit mirror was moved to before Cassandra's face. “I can't see well enough... My eyes are blurry.”

“Because you're crying! Stop the tears.” Sami wiped a tissue roughly at her eyes. “Now begin.”

Cassandra lifted the wand to her brow, her glasses on the end of her nose to allow access. She pressed the tip to her skin and felt a shock. “No more eyebrows for Cassie,” Florentia teased. She tried to harden herself, determined not to fuel Florentia's cruelty.

“Keep going,” Sami urged. Cassandra moved the wand over her brow, flinching with each sting. She genuinely was struggling to see what she was doing, however, and her hand was trembling so much that she found it hard to control her movements, exacerbated by the ongoing fingering to which Florentia was subjecting her. After ten minutes Sami's patience seemed to run out.

“You're trying, but this is going to take forever! Time for me to put things right.” Cassandra's head was pushed back into the chair, her glasses removed, then she felt a rapid series of stings as Sami efficiently killed the follicles.

“This will make her bald forever?” Florentia asked curiously.

“Pretty much,” Sami replied. “There will be some regrowth when dormant follicles become active again, so she'll need a second treatment in a few months, and possibly a third a while later. But once this is done she'll never grow hair properly again.”

Cassandra saw a smile spread over Sami's pierced lips and despite all the pain found her desire to submit taking possession. She found herself welcoming the torment of the wand passing over her head, knowing that the beauty of her hair was being taken forever, knowing that she would be bald eternally.

Sami allowed her to sit up and replaced the thick glasses. She saw herself in the mirror, her brows red and sore. “That's enough for now,” Sami said, to the obvious disappointment of Elspeth and Florentia. “I'm not sure I want to deprive myself of the pleasure of shaving you just yet.” She stroked Cassandra's gleaming scalp and leant forward until their lips met. Cassandra thrust forward her tongue to explore Sami's own cleft tongue, sighing with joy at the strangeness of the sensation.

Florentia was evidently alert to Cassandra's pleasure in the kiss and immediately began to increase the violence of her stimulation, much to Cassandra's delight. She was powerless as between them Florentia and Sami brought her to a passionate climax.

“What a slut!” Florentia announced. “Look at the mess you've made, and I have to sit in this chair now.”

“Yes, get on your hands and knees and lick it clean,” Elspeth ordered. Cassie obeyed without delay. This was just one more humiliation, a minor one compared to many that she'd endured on this day.

Once the chair had been licked, Cassandra was obliged to use a cleaning spray to make sure it was clean enough for her patient. Nonetheless, Elspeth made her lover strip naked before she was allowed to sit for Sami.

“Sami, Cassandra, I want Florentia to start to appreciate the delights of bondage so we'll apply full restraints today.” Within minutes, the young girl was bound into the chair by straps around her waist, chest, wrists, elbows, thighs and ankles. She smiled happily at her mistress, seemingly unaware that her vulnerability was about to be ruthlessly exploited.

“Can you do another nice style like yesterday, Sami? It did look pretty, even though the shaved forehead is a bit nasty.”

“Shave her. Shave it all off,” Elspeth stated coldly. “No more mollycoddling, Florentia. It's time to get on with your metamorphosis.”

Florentia struggled against the bonds, cursed, begged, cried, threatened, offered bribes, but to no avail. As Sami prepared the clippers she wailed and begged Elspeth a last time. “Not my hair, please Princess Elspeth. You can do anything to me if you let me keep my hair.”

The offer amused the princess. “It's very kind of you to offer, but you seem to misunderstand. I can do anything to you regardless of letting you keep your hair or not. Taking your hair from you may help you to understand just how submissive I expect you to be. Now settle down and show me you can be mature. If you do I might just decide not to punish later you for acting out.”

Despite the warnings, Florentia sobbed constantly. Sami put the unshielded blades to the girl's forehead and ploughed them back through the soft blonde curls. Cassandra felt no pleasure in watching, despite Florentia's sustained cruelty toward her. Schadenfreude was ultimately a destructive pleasure, Cassandra was sure, and as the top of Florentia's head was reduced to a fine stubble the nurse felt sympathy for the girl. She was naïve, immature, unprepared for what was being done to her. Cassandra determined that she would support her, try to help her to deal with her new life, try to help her to grow. She stroked Florentia's arm and reassured her that she'd look just fine without hair.

For a moment, anger flared in her eyes, and she looked like she would have attacked Cassandra if it weren't for the restraints. Then something seemed to melt inside her and she sobbed like a baby. “I don't want to be bald!” she wailed piteously.

Sami was less sympathetic. “Head down!” she barked. “What you want is unimportant. Obedience to your mistress is all that matters now.”

The blades were lifted through the long hair which covered Florentia's neck and shoulders, pass after pass denuding the back of her head completely. Now the thick hair reaching down from the sides was all that remained. It looked comical, Cassandra thought, like enormous spaniel ears. Despite the tension, Cassandra felt an urge to laugh and had to look away to control herself.

The spaniel ears weren't allowed to remain in place for long, as Sami sheared away every hair with an efficiency which was in equal parts admirable and terrifying. Florentia peered at herself in the mirror, her eyes red with sobbing. She looked tiny without hair, and Cassandra had to remind herself that this was the same girl she'd met a few days previously. She had altered beyond recognition.

“I'll not forgive you until my hair grows back,” she spat at Elspeth with menace.

The princess laughed at this outburst. “Oh, Florentia, that could be a long time. But there's nothing to forgive, is there? You'll learn to love what you're becoming, just as you'll learn that your greatest pleasure in life is in obedience and submission. Just look at how happy Cassie was to be shaved and to lose her brows forever. I'm sure she once loved her hair as much as you.”

Florentia looked broken as Sami stared into her eyes. “Are you going to shave me now... Miss Sami?” She was clearly very intimidated by the hairdresser.

“Do you want to tell her?” Sami asked the princess.

“I'm afraid you're never going to experience a full shave. Sami and Cassandra are going to use electrolysis on you. You're never going to grow hair again.”

Anticipating her protests, Elspeth forced a ball gag into Florentia's mouth and fixed it in place by fastening a strap across her newly shorn nape. “OK, Sami, do it.”

Sami took the electrolysis wand and began to apply it to Florentia, beginning at the front of her head, where the shave the previous day had left the hair even shorter than the freshly clippered areas. Muffled sobs came from the girl as she tried to adjust to her new baldness becoming permanent. After a few minutes Sami looked crossly at Cassandra. “Well, aren't you going to help. There's a lot of follicles to treat. There's a second electrolysis kit in the cupboard under the counter.”

Cassandra was soon working on Florentia's head, working forward from her crown on Sami's instructions. She was relieved that she was behind Florentia, and wouldn't have to see the sadness in her eyes. She could empathise only too well with what the girl was feeling, having been sure that she was going to be made permanently bald. She still felt a dread that very soon she might receive the same treatment as Florentia.

Sami worked back and Cassandra worked forward, until eventually the entire top of the girl's head had been treated (Sami, more experienced, had covered almost twice as large an area). Florentia, now calmer, looked pleadingly at her mistress, who, taking some pity, allowed the gag to be removed. “Please princess, it really hurts. Can we leave it at that for today?”

Her entire demeanour had changed. She was now exhausted, broken. Elspeth gave Sami a questioning look. “It is quite painful, it's true. If she thinks that she can make you change your mind by procrastinating, well that's not going to happen, is it? Even if we did stop now, she'd look like she has very bad male pattern baldness. You want it all gone, forever, don't you honey?” Sami looked at Florentia and stroked her irritated scalp.

“Yes Miss Sami,” she replied with a look which Cassandra found unbearably poignant.

“Very well, just shave the back and sides nice and smooth,” Elspeth instructed. “It's still early though, Florentia. If you're not going to get your hair removed then you can go and see the dentist.”

Sami slapped a thick coating of white foam over Florentia's head, covering the pale stubble from the clippershave, as well as the red and irritated dome of her cranium where the electrolysis had been conducted. She made to cover the girl's eyebrows but Elspeth checked her hand.

“No, those can go permanently today. She seemed to find it amusing when Cass lost hers so she can share the joke. And you can do the honours, Cassandra.” As the razor slipped around her scalp, softly shaving the stubble, Cassandra awkwardly began treating Florentia's brows. She tried to concentrate on the task and avoided looking into the girl's eyes, sure that it would make her cry. Her eyesight was still weak, however, and she struggled to see where the brows actually grew. There was hardly any growth of the fine hairs and what there was had been bleached. She worked the same areas over a few times but admitted to Sami that the task was beyond her.

Florentia was now fully bald for the first time in her life. Cassandra marvelled to see that her scalp was barely paler than her face, which only a few days previously had been tanned. The bleaching had been extremely effective. Sami took the electrolysis wand from Cassandra and set to the task with her customary efficiency. Florentia adopted a pained expression as the stinging reminded her that another permanent change was being wrought on her. “Eyelashes too,” Elspeth commanded.

“I can't do those with this machine,” Sami advised. “What if I just pluck them for now and we make it permanent in a day or two?” Elspeth accepted this compromise.

Once Florentia's brows had been consigned to history Sami took tweezers and plucked out the long lash hairs one by one.

“Does it hurt, darling?” Elspeth asked, showing some warmth toward her lover for the first time in hours.

“Not as much as I thought.” Despite her statement, tears were in the girl's eyes. She was finally freed from her bonds and allowed to stand. She regarded herself in the mirror, a melancholy there for all to see. She looked lost, pained to see what she had become. Cassandra thought the change unflattering: her hairlessness cruelly exposed her features, which appeared rather heavy and commonplace without brows and without the soft frame of curls. Nonetheless, Elspeth was clearly delighted, and embraced her girl. “My little Florentia, look at you. Within a couple of days your entire body will be treated so that you'll never sprout another hair. You've no idea how it excites me to see you as you are.”

She bowed her head and started to kiss Florentia's neck, letting the sharpened fangs play over the delicate skin.

“But now that I've bitten you, you've become a vampire, too, darling. And that means your teeth need to change so that you can feed yourself.” Florentia blinked her big eyes. Cassandra could see an appeal for mercy which the girl dared not voice. Elspeth was devoid of compassion; the power she now yielded was intoxicating. “Say you want it. Say you need to feel yourself change, that together we will be immortal vampires.”

She turned Florentia so that she faced the mirror, still in Elspeth's arms, their faces cheek to cheek. The princess bared her long fangs in her well practised snarl. “My teeth...” Florentia murmured.

“Fangs like an animal's,” Elspeth whispered excitedly, turning her lips to meet her lover's in a rapturous kiss. She ran her hand up Florentia's shaved nape and let her fingers hook over the top of her head, raking the points of the sharp nails over the tender flesh. Her eyes were fiery as she glanced up at Sami and Cassandra. “Leave us!” she croaked.

“Yes, princess,” Sami replied, and ushered Cassandra out of the treatment room toward her own apartment.

When they were alone together Sami started to caress Cassandra's head, making her moan with pleasure. After enjoying the sensation for a few minutes, she asked fearfully: “Am I really going to lose my hair permanently?”

“That's for Nathalie to decide. You just obey her wishes and enjoy the consequences. Don't you?”

“Yes Sami,” Cassandra whispered breathily. She felt desire burgeoning. Sami leaned in to kiss the upper margins of her eye sockets, where the tenderness reminded her that no hair would ever sprout again. She thought back to the shock of losing her brows for the first time, the oddness of her look when deprived of them and shivered as she tried to accept that she'd never have eyebrows again. Sami stared into her eyes and she had to force herself to meet her strange lover's gaze.

“Nathalie wants you to have bigger rings. Or at least she accepted my idea as being a good one. Let's start stretching you now.” Cassandra's hesitant agreement was silenced by a finger on her lips. She merely nodded to show her acquiescence. Sami led her to a bed and shackled her wrists to a lug in the wall above her head. Her vulnerability increased as Sami fastened leather cuffs on her ankles, fixing them to straps at the bottom corners of the bed.

Sami started to tug at Cassandra's labial rings. “I'm going to make your little pussy my project. By the time Nathalie arrives she won't recognise you or your pussy. You'll be fat and bald, lots of tattoos, and this...” She roughly disengaged a ring from Cassandra's right labium, making her cry out. The pain continued as she forced a thick, blunt-tipped needle into the hole, stretching it agonisingly. “Does that feel good, honey? I'm going to make you sting a lot. We don't have much time because we'll have to go and help with Florentia before long. But I can do a lot very quickly. Even if you were dressed everyone would be able to tell you'd had something done because of the way you'll walk. But of course, you'll be naked all day, which is even better.”

The reminder of her forced exhibitionism made Cassandra moan with embarrassment. One by one, Sami removed the rings which adorned her sex and stretched the holes with identical thick needles, which Cassandra could see jutting out from her mound like lances. They appeared to be around a quarter inch thick, which was roughly twice the girth of the rings which Cassandra had worn. “It seems a shame that you only have two rings in your inner lips,” Sami said. “We need to create more flesh down there to give some room for another couple of rings in each, don't we?” As she spoke, she started to replace the needles with rings. Cassandra was immediately aware of the great weight of her new piercings: each ring was an inch in diameter, a quarter inch thick, closed with a spherical bead. There was a lot more metal than in the jewellery she'd previously worn and she could feel gravity tugging at her flesh. By the time each hole had been filled, a dozen heavy rings dangled from Cassandra's labia, painfully stretching the openings.

Sami smiled at her sadistically. “The best is yet to come. And there's nothing you can do to stop me, even if you wanted to. Which of course you don't, because you're a masochistic little slut who would do anything for Sami.” Cassandra's pussy was swabbed thoroughly and roughly, causing each stretched wound to sing with a new agony. Sami scrubbed her hands, then theatrically adorned herself with surgical gloves. “I wonder if you know what comes next. I wonder if this is something you've dreamed about.”

She hooked a litre bag of saline onto a stand and attached a cannula to the end of a line. She started to wave the needle around Cassandra's mound, ever closer to her skin. Cassandra found herself anticipating the prick and found herself twitching involuntarily with fear. Sami's delight increased at the visible reaction she was producing. “I shot an arrow in the air, it came to rest precisely... there!” She jabbed the needle deeply into Cassandra's flesh immediately above her clitoris, burying the short needle completely in her skin. The younger woman screamed loudly: although she'd experienced greater pain, the injury was accompanied by a sense of release. “We'll just put a little saline into here,” Sami said in a soothing voice. “It might get a bit swollen and sore, but you can take that, can't you, Cassie?” She opened the valve on the cannula and the liquid began to flow into the tissues. Almost immediately Cassandra could feel her flesh distending, the cool saline causing a nagging pain as it bathed the tissues.

Sami's impatience made her want to speed the process and she repeatedly squeezed the bag to force the saline into Cassandra under pressure. The greater flow resulted in more intense pain. When Cassandra glanced down she could see her clitoris had grotesquely enlarged, forming a tumescent nub now, red and shiny. Sami smiled as she observed Cassandra's reaction, stroking her head. “Soon it'll be bigger than that permanently, baby. Isn't that wonderful?” Cassandra's face showed that she didn't agree.

“Oh, you're so ungrateful,” Sami snapped. “It looks so...” She leaned down and started to stroke her puffy clitoris with her gloved fingers, then bent down and let her split tongue squeeze at it, the twin tips pressing into Cassandra's flesh with surprising force. Every movement caused pain, especially since the needle was still rooted deeply into her mound, yet the feeling was astonishing and Cassandra couldn't disguise her delight, mewing like a kitten as she experienced a fresh ecstasy. “There we are, that's better,” Sami smiled. “You do want it like this forever, don't you, baby?” She let her sharpened teeth play at the tender protuberance, then delighted Cassandra again with her tongue, depriving her momentarily of the power of speech.

By the time Cassandra rose from the bed, not only had her clitoris expanded to even greater dimensions, but her inner labia had also been subjected to saline injections, making them pucker monstrously, the huge new rings buried in the swollen fleshy folds. Every movement produced clicks as the rings swung and collided. Cassandra's face reddened with humiliation as she examined herself in a large mirror.

Sami stood behind her, kissing her bald pate. “If we regularly inject into your pussy it will stretch permanently. And you know what? We will inject it regularly. Because you desire it more than Nathalie does, more than I do. I'm right aren't I?” Cassandra sighed and nodded. Sami made her feel so confused that she no longer knew what she desired, only knew that no matter what was done to her she ended up experiencing a flood of such intense emotions that she couldn't resist this woman.

“Time we caught up on your little project, isn't it?”

A few minutes later they were in the dental surgery where Erin had been busy with Florentia. The young woman was fully restrained in the chair as the hooded, latex-clad figure leaned over her. “Who's this then?” she asked as Cassandra entered. “Oh, it's you. I think you've been putting those pretty new teeth to a bit too much use. You're getting so fat! I barely recognised you.”

Sami was clearly delighted by Erin's humiliating comments, and joined in with her own demeaning remarks. “You know, even her pussy got fat! Look at how those labia are bulging.” Elspeth had come over to enjoy Cassandra's humbling and whooped with delight as she took in the new modifications.

“Saline injections?” she asked. She couldn't restrain herself from stroking the swollen folds and pulling at the heavy rings. “It looks wonderful, Sami. You must show me how to do it. I'd love to try it on Florentia.”

Sami promised that she would. “And how is the patient?” she asked.

“Oh, do come see! Erin is so brilliant. She'll have her new teeth within the hour.”

The new arrivals went over to see Florentia who looked utterly broken. Her limbs were immobilised and a strap fixed her hairless head to the chair. Her mouth was jacked open by a lip retractor, which exposed her teeth. Her canines, upper and lower, had been filed away, almost to the gum line, and fitted with posts. Even more shocking for Cassandra, her central upper incisors had been treated in the same way. Her even, regular teeth had been destroyed. She looked up pleadingly at Elspeth but her mistress seemed ignorant of the girl's discomfort.

Erin addressed the princess. “Are you sure you want those extractions?”

“I am, dear. They will help with fitting a bit. I think it's a lovely idea.”

Cassandra watched with fascinated horror as Erin gripped the first premolar, immediately behind the destroyed upper left canine, with forceps. She pulled and twisted and there was a grotesque crunching sound. Florentia groaned softly. The anaesthetic dulled the physical pain but did nothing to reduce the emotional wrench. A bloody tooth clinked as it fell into a glass jar. A few minutes later another empty socket was present on the other side of Florentia's mouth.

Elspeth lifted the jar to look at the teeth. “They're such beautiful things, my sweetheart. I'm going to have them made into earrings.”

Erin complimented her on her idea. “You want me to go ahead with the lower extractions too? There are bits which could be fitted with just these upper teeth missing.”

Elspeth seemed distracted by imagining her new earrings. “What..? Oh, sure. Go ahead, it will look nice.”

Florentia screwed up her eyes as she heard more of her teeth being condemned by her cruel mistress. Cassandra knew she was the only one present who empathised with her suffering. Erin efficiently pulled another two teeth and soon there were two more empty sockets gracing Florentia's lower jaw. A nurse, rendered anonymous by a featureless hood and mask, attended to staunching the flow of blood from the wounds.

Soon, Erin was fitting Florentia with her new teeth, the long, tapered, ivory crowns being cemented in place to replace her natural canines, and fang-like teeth being added in the centre of her upper jaw. Cassandra found the teeth ugly and intimidating, and knew that Florentia would be horrified to see what she had become. Predictably, Elspeth and Sami loved Erin's work. The princess expressed her delight.

“Oh, she's finally becoming the vampire lover I dreamed of. How can I ever thank you, Erin? She's just so perfect... Well not quite, I still want her face to be altered... Can she bite me?”

Erin tried to dampen her enthusiasm. “Let the teeth settle for a day, princess, the cement needs to firm up. You need to be careful about bites though, there is a high risk of infection.”

“Oh Erin, you're such a killjoy! It'll just be a little scratch. I have no intention of letting her bite me on a regular basis.”

Erin restored Elspeth's faith in her by providing her with antiseptic wipes to treat the wounds after the bite and a jar of topical anaesthetic cream. “This will make the bite almost painless. Just leave it on for about forty minutes before and it'll make you pretty numb. I know how important this ceremony is and I want to make sure it's as pleasurable and safe as possible.”

Florentia had been released from her bondage and rose shakily from the chair. Cassandra took her hand and helped steady her as her tongue nervously darted around her unfamiliar new teeth. Her tongue was clearly still numbed as she seemed unable to grasp the details of what had been done to her. It was Elspeth who provided a mirror to enable her to see herself.

There was an evident shock as Florentia took in her unfamiliar bald head. She looked pained as she slowly pulled back her lips to view her radically transformed teeth and gasped as she saw the spine-like new crowns. “You're really becoming Florentia now,” Elspeth whispered ecstatically. “You've endured a lot today and I think you deserve a few days off before we make the final alterations. Although you still need to complete the electrolysis... That's what we'll do then: until the beginning of next week you'll just have electrolysis sessions and the rest of the day we can spend together enjoying our holiday.”

Florentia mumbled to her mistress to express her gratitude, but she sounded as emotionally numb as the anaesthetic had rendered her mouth. Cassandra remembered her difficulties in adjustment when her transformation had begun, but Nathalie had been nothing like as cruel as Elspeth.

“I suppose if we're taking a break that will mean less work for you too, Cassandra,” the princess added. “You and Sami can work on the electrolysis each morning until it's completed. But I'd like to see you proceed with your tattoos, Cassandra. I want to see plenty of new ink on you by the time we start on our surgery. Can you see to it that my wishes are met, Sami.”

Sami looked dreamily at Cassandra's body and nodded. “I think that's a very good plan. She's filling out nicely and I think she's ready to become heavily tattooed. Aren't you, my honey?”

Cassandra was unable to control the fear of more permanent changes being added to her skin and felt shaky as she realised that her fate was already sealed. She remembered her last tattooing session on the previous day when she'd been at the mercies of two tattooists simultaneously. She was aware that in a few days they could transform her completely. She felt a rising panic and tried to delay her tattooing.

“But you said I'd have to gain more weight and it could stretch the tattoos. Wouldn't it make more sense to wait?”

Sami smiled reassuringly. “Good news there. Nathalie has decided she doesn't want you much bigger than you already are. I think she'd underestimated how fast you could gain weight, so there's nothing to stop you getting more tattoos. We're going to let every tattooist on the island work on you during the next few days.”

“What's the matter?” Sami said drowsily. She rubbed at her eyes to bring herself to wakefulness and sat up to put her arm around the sobbing Cassandra. “Are you in pain?”

“No... no...” She was so upset that she could barely get her words out. “A dream... bad dream.”

Sami held her in her arms and let her tears flow until she'd regained some emotional equilibrium. At last she asked what it was that had upset her.

“I was in a little town in Spain and I went to a market, it was packed with hundreds of people. Then suddenly Nathalie was in front of me. She looked straight at me but didn't recognise me. Ilione was with her too, and Nicole but all of them looked at me without recognition. And I was so shocked I couldn't get out any words. Then they started to disappear into the crowd and I was chasing after them, but all the time I was getting trapped by the people in the little alleys. And I was calling out but there was a brass band playing and they couldn't hear me, and I knew if I didn't catch them up I'd never see them again. But I couldn't reach them and they were lost. Oh, Sami, I miss Nathalie so much!” She struggled to free herself from Sami's embrace. “And I feel guilty about getting so close to you,” she added, looking shame-faced.

“Don't give in to guilt. Nathalie has never expected you to stay faithful to her in any conventional way, as well you know. She encouraged me to take care of you and is aware of everything that's happened between us.

“And it's natural that you miss her. You've been apart for a long time, and that must be awful. But she'll be coming a bit sooner than she'd originally said, so in a couple of weeks you'll be reunited with all your friends. I do wonder if she'll recognise you though...”

Sami caressed her right arm which still tingled from the recent tattooing it had endured. It had been decided that Jasmine, with her expertise in geometric forms, would be given free rein over Cassandra's limbs and over the previous days she'd worked hard on transforming the right arm that she'd previously decorated with a mandala around the elbow. Now the entire arm was densely patterned in precisely drawn mathematical patterns. Only hours before, the back of Cassandra's hand had been tattooed with tessellated patterns, hand poked, the design formed from thousands of tiny black dots. It merged with the other patterns at her wrist, and now the design flowed up to reach her shoulder.

Nor had her torso escaped being inked, and now her back, chest and breasts had been adorned with new flowers, inflicted on her by four different tattooists, including Gill, who was keen to explore her art as a tattooist on skin and not just eyes. She'd adorned Cassandra's back with a diagonal row of half a dozen cherry blossoms, the largest six inches in diameter. The design was simple but beautifully realised.

Sami kissed Cassandra's soft cheek. “Nathalie will love what you've become, believe me! She won't walk away from you. When I knew her, I thought she'd never settle down, but you've won her heart. She's absolutely in love with you and I know she's been missing you every bit as much as you've missed her. Now try to get some sleep. You're going to be assisting with Elspeth's surgery today, and I know how much you're going to enjoy seeing her suffering.”

Cassandra giggled as she imagined having some control over the princess. “You say that, but can you imagine what she's going to be like when she's recovering? She'll be the worst patient ever. I bet she whinges about every pain and wants to be waited on every minute of the day.”

Elspeth's entry into the surgery was theatrical. She was dressed in a red silk gown, her bob sleek and perfect. Behind her, leashed, came Florentia. Her slave had been rendered permanently hairless during the last week, every hair on her body destroyed by electrolysis. Elspeth had insisted on leaving her eyelashes till last, but Sami had burnt away the follicles on the previous morning.

Florentia was now bound as a punishment for some imagined slight. Her arms were bound tightly behind her back, elbows and wrists tied with a rough cord. Her pale, bald head was contained in a harness, part of which formed a bit, fitted harshly into the gaps where her teeth had been removed. Retractors fanned out from the ends of the bit, opening her lips to expose the new fangs.

A cervical corset restrained Florentia's neck, forcing her head back as far as possible. This was attached to a wheeled tripod which lay under the girl's shoulders and was fixed to her body by rings which passed through her pierced nipples. Awkwardly, she shuffled along on her knees, struggling to keep up with her mistress.

“Doesn't she look delightful?” Elspeth laughed. “She's finding out about what happens when she's naughty! Once I'm in the theatre she's to stay here for another hour. Then she can make her own way back to our apartment where someone is to free her.” Assurances were given that the princess's orders would be followed.

Elspeth's vanity was clearly offended as she was stripped of her make-up, then her beautiful hair was concealed under a surgical cap. She bore this imposition silently but with ill grace. Paola would take charge of her surgery and oversaw the work of the anaesthetist. Soon she fell into a deep slumber and Paola mobilised her team to complete the surgeries as speedily and efficiently as possible. As Paola started to snip away at her face, another surgeon took charge of her abdominal surgery. She would wake with her breasts enhanced, her abdomen and buttocks tightened. As for her face, Paola was making a series of tucks and lifts to smooth the effects that age had wrought on her features. She'd persuaded Elspeth that a conservative approach would be most effective, that a woman as well preserved as her (she knew that the princess loved flattery) shouldn't risk having a face that revealed the work of the surgeon.

The most radical intervention was rhinoplasty. Elspeth's nose was by no means unattractive, but it was quite pointed and, if one was being minutely critical, slightly asymmetrical. It appeared that for many years she'd harboured a dissatisfaction with the nose nature had provided for her and finally she would have the opportunity to redeem the central feature of her face. Cassandra winced as the bone was reduced by a chisel: it was the first time she'd observed this procedure so closely and she was shocked to see how much effort was required to render such minute changes. Paola was a true professional, however, and shaved away the bone with the skill of a sculptor. There were more delicate activities used to reshape the cartilage, ensuring that Paola would provide an ideal nose for her patient. By the time the wounds had been sutured, Cassandra could see that a lot of swelling was already present across Elspeth's face.

The last touches were being completed on her body as Paola addressed Cassandra. “You can go and take care of Florentia. It's time she went back to her apartment and you untied her. She's nil by mouth, remember. She's in here this afternoon. Try to keep her calm and relaxed.”

Cassandra stripped out of her scrubs and washed her hands thoroughly. Her right hand seemed alien as she watched it, forever blackened by strange patterns. She found herself staring at this weird appendage, fascinated by the way it responded to her will. Finally, she recovered her self-awareness and made her way through to the anteroom where Florentia still knelt, supported by the tripod.

“Everything has gone fine, they're just finishing off in there. It's time for you to go back to your apartment.” Florentia tried to say something, but the bit made her speech unintelligible. Cassandra picked up her leash and smiled reassuringly. “Once you're back in your suite I'll free you and you can talk.” She led Florentia toward the door.

Movement was agonisingly slow and difficult for the young woman. She was obviously in some discomfort from the restrictive bondage and her knees ached from having to support her weight for so long. She made her way along lengthy corridors, her appearance a source of amusement and fascination for all who passed. She was clearly displeased by the attention.

Cassandra was relieved to finally arrive at the apartment which would provide some temporary sanctuary for her patient. She immediately removed the ropes from Florentia's arms, making her moan with relief. She then tried to extricate her breasts from the tripod, but realised that the rings were soldered to the frame. She eased the rings from the wounds in the girl's nipples, which had been recently pierced and looked sore and swollen. Florentia wailed at every move. Finally she was freed from the tripod and knelt upright for the first time in hours, rubbing at her back vigorously.

Cassandra removed the collar and the harness which had surrounded Florentia's head. She massaged her neck and worked her jaw.

“Thank you, Cassie. I'm aching everywhere,” she slurred.

“We need to put rings back into your nipples. It wouldn't be good if they started to close up.”

Florentia directed Cassandra to a cupboard where Elspeth kept the jewellery for her piercings. The younger woman hissed with displeasure as Cassandra eased the titanium rings into the unhealed wounds. “Oh, that stings,” she sighed. Despite the pain she didn't resist.

Florentia seemed fascinated by the large rings which now hung from her nipples. “Cassie, why aren't yours pierced? You have such big nipples now.” She reached out and gently caressed the protrusions, inducing a shiver in her nurse.

“They will be soon. I've been getting saline injections and pumping to prepare them for some big piercings.”

“You poor thing. That must feel horrible...” Florentia looked into Cassandra's eyes with tenderness and sympathy. Her transformation seemed to have made her feel closer to those who had experienced something similar and her attachment to Cassandra was becoming closer, sororal. Cassandra, for her part, felt an affection for her patient, delighted to hear her expressing empathy for another. Her ordeal had made her grow and mature.

“I think we're both in that weird position where we hate the things that are done to us but crave them and delight in them despite ourselves. That's why we haven't got a hair between us.”

Florentia flushed. “I can't get used to being bald,” she whispered. “And knowing it's forever...” She nervously reached out to stroke Cassandra's scalp. “You can pull off bald so much better than me. I'm sorry I was so mean to you when I arrived. It's only as I've got to know you that I can see how beautiful you really are.” She leaned forward and kissed her nurse, a long, gentle meeting of their lips.

Cassandra smiled at Florentia. Their kiss seemed chaste, free of eroticism, but it cemented their new sisterly relationship. Florentia suddenly looked distracted. After a pause she asked: “What's going to be done to me today?”

“You know I can't answer that. The princess has given clear instructions that your metamorphosis is to be a surprise for you. Just be strong. You'll be having a fair bit of surgery and you'll be very sore. The healing process will take a few weeks. You need to be patient and rest.”

“Just wish I could get it done now. The waiting is awful.” She licked nervously at her new pointed teeth, a mannerism she'd acquired since her dental transformation.

Cassandra agreed to call to see if the medical staff were ready to receive her. Thirty minutes later Florentia succumbed to the anaesthetic and immediately Paola set to work. Cassandra watched with fascination as her eyes were carefully reshaped. It was the first of many minor procedures, with every aspect of the girl's face being altered, mostly fairly subtly, but, like Elspeth, Florentia was subjected to a rhinoplasty. The trauma caused a lot of swelling and Cassandra found it impossible to assess how Florentia would look.

As Paola was coming to the end of her work, a familiar figure entered the theatre. Cassandra took a moment to recognise the eyes visible above the surgical mask. It was Gill, the eye surgeon, and she looked intently into Cassandra's eyes, evidently pleased with how her work had turned out. Now she would use her skills to alter Florentia's eyes.

Cassandra watched with a horrified fascination as ultra fine needles were used to inject pigment into the iris. The girl's eyes lost colour, becoming paler and paler, almost white. A darker ring was allowed to remain around the perimeter of the iris.

Gill was now provided with a tattooing machine and started to add a greyish pigment to Florentia's lashless eyelids. Then a bluish taint was tattooed across her lips, the effect of the tattoos being not to simulate make-up but rather to give an unhealthy aspect to her visage.

Cassandra found herself becoming emotional as Florentia's ample breasts were radically reduced, large amounts of tissue being excised. Her areolae were reduced too and now her breasts looked immature, her figure androgynous.

Cassandra spent the night in Sami's bed once more. She kept discussing Florentia's latest transformation, disturbed by the impact it would have on the patient she now felt more than sympathy for. “She's not allowed to see her face until everything has healed. How do you think she'll look? I'm not sure whether the changes will make her prettier or if Elspeth's plan is to make her ugly. I mean, those teeth... They're ugly aren't they?” Sami endured Cassandra's talking with a weary patience.

“You'll see soon enough. Don't get too emotionally involved. You've been a nurse long enough to know that. In a few weeks Florentia will be gone and you'll most likely never see her again.”

Cassandra nodded. “I know you're right, but I've seen a nice side to her. She's grown so much since she arrived here. I just wish she was with someone more humane than Elspeth. We even kissed today.” Sami couldn't hide her disapproval. “It wasn't anything big, just a sweet moment where we felt close, but like sisters, nothing more.”

“You kissed Florentia? I should tell Paola and Elspeth and let them decide your punishment.” Cassandra felt a rising panic. She hadn't considered the kiss to be a transgression but now realised that it could result in a lot of trouble for both parties.

“Please Sami, don't. Florentia would be treated horribly if you told Elspeth. And she did nothing wrong, I swear. Punish me if you need to but I beg you not to tell anyone.”

Sami needed no further encouragement, and her punishment was swift. Ten minutes later Cassandra was staring into a mirror at her grossly swollen lips, still stinging from the injections of saline which Sami had administered. “Oh God, it looks horrible,” she muttered, having trouble articulating her words. Sami laughed cruelly.

“It looks so sexy, but I think even bigger would suit you. Pucker up, sweetie!”

Cassandra obeyed the order and was rewarded with a glass tube, about three centimetres in diameter, being pressed over the centre of her lips. Sami turned on a vacuum pump and the air was sucked out. As the tissues were drawn into the tube Cassandra felt a throbbing pain and moaned.

“You'll look so slutty with your big fat blubber lips. We can make them as big as this permanently. I'm sure Nathalie will approve.”

Sami was so pleased with the effect of the vacuum pumping that she decided to add more tubes, and soon Cassandra's nipples were drawn deeply into glass tubes. Then the heavy rings were taken from Cassandra's labia and replaced with studded bars. A glass cup was placed over her mound and the pump made it fill with tumescent tissue.

“You're progressing very nicely,” Sami smiled, stroking her lover's shaven head. “You've got plenty of flesh now and I think very soon it'll be time to add some new piercings. You want that, don't you?”

Cassandra's excitement was peaking, despite the pain. She nodded willingly, eager to please Sami.

Sami took hold of the lip tube and started to tug at it to increase Cassandra's suffering. At last the seal was broken and it came free. A mirror was still in front of the young nurse and she gazed in horror at her ludicrously swollen lips. Sami crudely smeared them with a bright red lipstick so that they appeared even more prominent, a huge wound-like maw which dominated her face.

Cassandra was close to tears. “How long will they stay like this?” she mumbled.

“It'll take a few days for them to go down. Of course we could inject filler and make them stay like this...” She bent forward and roughly kissed Cassandra. The traumatised flesh transmitted only pain, and Cassandra made a high pitched moan. Sami probed and nibbled at her lips to increase the misery.

When Sami moved back, Cassandra could see that the lipstick had smeared all over her face. She looked pleadingly at Sami and begged her not to make her lips this big forever.

“Well that depends on how well you take your punishment.” Cassandra looked puzzled. “You didn't think this was your punishment, did you? This is pleasure, sweetie. But these...” She held up four needles, each three inches long. “Maybe these will make you remember that a kiss is important and not to be given without thought.”

Cassandra tilted her head back as Sami introduced the first needle, sliding it into the upper margin of the top lip so that it passed vertically through the distended flesh, then forced it through the lower lip until the tip appeared just above Cassandra's chin. She tried to bear the acute pain but felt tears rolling down her cheeks. The second, third and fourth needles were added, forming a fan shape through Cassandra's lips. She ground her teeth together to try get used to the intensity of pain.

Sami looked at her adoringly. “That looks so cute! I think we should mark your bravery with something permanent to remember tonight by. I'm going to add a little piercing.”

Cassandra sat obediently as Sami marked her inner nostrils so that the new piercing would be placed correctly. “I think it's very remiss of Nathalie to allow you to go around without this piercing.” She raised a thick piercing needle and lined it up with the mark she'd made. She let the tip press against the sensitive flesh, making Cassandra wince. The stinging made her eyes water and she felt like she was going to sneeze. Without warning Sami increased the pressure dramatically and the implement passed through the cartilage. There was an audible pop as it penetrated the tough tissue and the sound nauseated Cassandra who couldn't suppress a groan. The pain seemed to arrive late, only peaking a few seconds later. The squeal she gave was muted by the gag her pinned lips now formed.

The process of replacing the needle with a ring was painful but Cassandra bore it stoically. She felt the new ring dangling against the plastic tips of the needles which penetrated her lips. “A good slave should have a nice big ring in her septum. Now you can be easily led like a good little pig.” She delicately tweaked the ring, tugging at the wound, making Cassandra wail and push her head forward to relieve the strain.

Cassandra looked in the mirror and saw that she had been provided with a large ring, three millimetres thick, a little over a half inch in diameter. A large bead closed the ring and touched the middle of her upper lip. “We'll stretch the hole once it's healed. Obviously you'd benefit from a much bigger ring.” Cassandra nodded, hypnotised by her reflection. “Now I think you should get those needles out, don't you?”

Cassandra's relief was short lived as Sami informed her that she'd have to remove them herself. Every movement of a needle caused an intense pain which made Cassandra yelp. It took her ten minutes to remove all four, but it felt much longer. Sami looked unimpressed. “You're a nurse, and yet you struggled with such a little procedure. What am I going to do with you?”

“Urghhh, it really hurts,” Cassandra replied. “I've never claimed to be able to tolerate pain well, and Nathalie accepts that.” Sami remained silent, turned off the vacuum pumps and violently freed the tubes from her lover's distended nipples. The sensation was agonising.

“Nathalie may have accepted it when you were a naïve little girl but you're not that any more. You're fat, bald, tattooed and pierced. Look at yourself! You're a sub now forever. You're never going to go back to a vanilla life.”

Sami's directness was upsetting for Cassandra to hear, yet her humiliation made her feel a growing excitement inside. “You like it when I say that, don't you?” A shame-faced Cassandra nodded. “Tomorrow I'm going to start electrolysis on your scalp. I've seen the sour look every time you're shaved, how you long to grow hair again. Well, I'm going to deprive you of that option.”

Cassandra felt tears rising and started to protest, but her begging was occluded by Sami pulling the cup from her pussy. She fell between Cassandra's thighs and started to lick at the tumid lips. Just when Cassandra was delirious with pleasure, she felt a bite from Sami's sharpened teeth on her swollen clitoris. As the shock passed through her body she started to feel an orgasm growing slowly. “Tell me you regret nothing, Cassie. Tell me you abandon yourself to me entirely, to losing every hair on your body.”

“I'm yours, treat me as you please, abuse me...” As Sami's split tongue began pleasuring her in ways she had thought impossible, Cassandra pulled at her swollen nipples, imagining them bearing huge rings, then let one hand rise to play over her shaved head. She thought of herself back in a provincial English city, bald and pierced, a constant source of fascination to passing strangers. She imagined her life if she hadn't met Nathalie, still working in a hospital, still with long red hair, slim, pretty. And she realised that, for all her suffering, she truly regretted nothing. Her life was a constant adventure now, every day filled with surprises. She let her tongue stud slide forward until it pressed at her tender lip, the tip of her tongue playing with the new septum ring. She relaxed and let the climax engulf her. She was in paradise.

At six a.m. Cassandra was roused from her uneasy sleep by her lover. “Come on, sleepy, time to get up. We've got a few things to do before you get to work.”

Sami appeared to thrive with virtually no sleep, and was already fully dressed. She goaded Cassandra out of her bed and made her walk naked through the clinic (which was almost deserted at this time of day) until they reached the salon. The sight of her reflection in the mirror made Cassandra groan: her lips were still awfully swollen and her nipples were discoloured by bruises. She reached up to touch the large septum ring, which she knew would be a permanent addition to her face.

“Now, darling. What did I say I was going to do to you today?” Sami asked, sitting on the edge of the counter, staring deeply into Cassandra's eyes. Her gaze had lost none of its intimidating aspect: her modified, inhuman features were still terrifying to the young nurse.

Cassandra looked at her sulkily. “Please don't...”

Sami hushed her. “Focus! Answer the question.”

“You said... permanent hair removal.”

Sami jumped to her feet and came behind Cassandra, running her hand up her nape and forcing her to bow her head. Her nape had only the faintest bloom of visible regrowth, soft bristles discernible when Sami rubbed her fingers up toward the crown. The caresses grew into a seductive massage. “Does it feel good to be bald?” Sami cooed. Cassandra guiltily agreed that it did. “And does it look sexy?” She spread her long fingers over the top of Cassandra's cranium and lifted her head to allow her to stare at her reflection.

“It does,” Cassandra whispered, her eyes moistening. She felt that her self-betrayal was complete. She'd condemned herself to eternal baldness. Sami pushed her head down once more and a sting prickled on her nape. The process had begun.

After a few minutes of bearing the electrolysis in silence, Cassandra spoke. “Please, Sami, I'm going to cry. I can't accept I'm going to be bald forever. It really pains me. It's worse that anything else that's been done to me.” She suddenly broke into sobs.

Sami continued to work for a minute before speaking. “Let it out. It's cathartic. The old Jennifer is gone. You're Cassandra now, irrevocably. Grieve for your memories of your life as Jennifer.”

After a prolonged period of work on Cassandra's nape, Sami allowed her to raise her head, but didn't stint from her task. Now the stylus was applied to the margin of her forehead, deleting the follicles from the front hairline. Cassandra was now forced to see herself in the mirror. Superficially, nothing had changed, and yet, the knowledge that this baldness would now be irredeemable was agonising.

Sami worked back and forth across Cassandra's forehead and down her temples. She spent some time treating the sideburns, and worked down in front of the ears onto the cheeks. Cassandra thought of her sideshave, how delightful it felt when Nathalie had stroked the soft short hair. It was a pleasure which would be denied to her now.

[lsds-blog]

Bex

I recognised her immediately, though it had been four years since we'd last met. She noticed me staring and it was clear that there was some recognition, but she couldn't place my face. I felt myself growing embarrassed. I wanted her to look away, move on. But then her face lit up in a smile. “Bex, isn't it?”

“Hi Jana,” I smiled. She'd blossomed since our last meeting. Her hair in particular was beautiful, a warm blonde, set in shimmering waves sweeping into carefully set big curls through the ends. Her make-up was no less perfect. On the other hand, I became painfully aware of how much my appearance had slipped in the intervening years.

“You look great. I mean... really great.”

“Thank you. You're looking well too.” I blushed. If by well she meant well-fed then she was correct.

“It's so nice to see you...” I was looking for an exit but it seemed she had some time to spare. She suggested we should go for a coffee to catch up and I was too weak to say no. A few minutes later we were sat in a stylish coffee shop hidden in a back street. She brought me my coffee and a few minutes later a waitress brought us each a large slice of cake.

I'd met Jana through a mutual friend when we were studying at university. We'd gone on a few dates, which I'd enjoyed. But then we went back to our parents' homes for the long summer break and the separation had interrupted our relationship. When the new term started we couldn't seem to ever find a mutually convenient time to meet and after a few weeks Jana had suggested that we should move on. I agreed.

But she'd hurt me more than I'd dared admit. Jana was very pretty, bright, a little too bossy, but always caring. I'd liked her more than I'd ever expressed and spent a long time regretting agreeing to her suggestion. I should have told her I believed we had something special.

But I was always the shy little girl, eager to please. I'd had a difficult phase as a teenager. My parents separated when I was twelve and mum had always had a lot of health problems. She couldn't care for me when she was unwell and I spent weekdays with dad and his new wife, who couldn't feel anything approaching real affection for me, although she always tried to treat me with kindness. At weekends I would go to mum's, far away from my school friends (she'd gone to live near her parents). She assuaged her guilt at her perceived abandonment of her only child by never setting boundaries and giving me constant treats. I would eat endlessly at weekends and by the time I was fifteen my weight had become a real problem. I was teased and bullied, became isolated, introverted.

I had a year off before attending university and worked hard to exercise and diet. By the time I met Jana I wasn't slim but I was no longer the fat girl that no one wanted to be seen with. But the patterns set in our childhood have a tendency to recur later in life. After graduating I became unhappy in my new job, found myself isolated as most of my friends moved away and took solace in comfort eating. My weight now wasn't much below what it had been at its maximum when I was sixteen, and I felt ashamed of myself for not being able to control my impulses.

Jana told me that she'd started to work as a make-up artist at a very upmarket salon, just at weekends to start. Now she'd trained as a hair stylist too and was working full time. “It's very satisfying work. I've been doing some photoshoots recently. It's a steep learning curve. What looks good to the eye can seem sloppy through a lens, but I love the challenge. But enough about me. What are you doing?”

I told her I was working as a bookkeeper in a small engineering business. “It's not very glamorous,” I admitted sullenly.

“You're not eating your cake, don't you like it?”

I felt myself getting embarrassed. “I really shouldn't. I've been trying to do something about my weight.” I looked down at the table. She looked more beautiful than ever, but I couldn't look at her. It wasn't true. I ate far too much, too many sweet things, but I was ashamed to indulge myself in public. What must she think of my appearance?

“Bex, you seem so sad. What is it?”

Suddenly I let go of all the things I'd been troubled by. I poured out my heart to her, on the verge of tears most of the time, always aware that I shouldn't unburden myself to a woman I'd only slightly known years earlier. I told her of my loneliness, my difficulties with my job, and of my struggles with overeating, right back to my childhood. She listened patiently, sympathetically.

“I actually think you look good,” she smiled. I looked into her eyes. I was used to condescension, but she seemed sincere, even a little embarrassed. “I have a bit of a thing for big girls,” she whispered. “If you'd been this size when we last met I'd never have let you go.”

I didn't know what to say. Could Jana really regard my weight as my most attractive feature? “I... I wish you hadn't,” I admitted. “When you said we should end things I went along with it but I liked you a lot more than I'd admitted. I was devastated that we didn't meet again.”

“I had no idea. I thought you were avoiding meeting me. Are you seeing anyone now?” I shook my head. “Me neither. Nothing worthwhile in the last year. Maybe we should pick up where we left off.”

I was surely hallucinating. I felt like I was floating, but not in any pleasant way. I was unanchored, felt like I could faint at any moment.

“Jana, please don't tease me. I couldn't bear it if you took advantage of my vulnerability. It would kill me.”

She took hold of my hand, kissed me on the cheek. “I'm totally sincere, Bex. I'd never do anything to upset you, I promise.”

“I'd do anything for you, Jana.”

She smiled. “I've learnt a lot about what I like since we last met, and I do like girls who will obey me. Is that OK, honey.” I nodded shyly. “So do you promise to end all this silly talk about losing weight?” I looked at her curiously. No one had ever accepted my weight before, much less welcomed it. “Being fat is nothing to be ashamed of, babe. You're more beautiful than ever. Now do you want to be mine?” I nodded. “Then promise.”

“I won't try to lose weight,” I swore.

“That's my little baby. Now eat your cake up.”

Jana had suggested that we should go straight back to hers, but I excused myself, saying I had to attend to matters which couldn't wait, although the truth was that I wasn't ready for intimacy, indeed the idea of showing my body to another person terrified me. Nevertheless, I agreed to a dinner date the following night. I was more excited than I'd been in my entire life, but terrified too. I felt despair when I looked at myself in the mirror. Everything about me suggested neglect. My hair was longer than it had ever been, past my waist, but it looked oily and unkempt.

I showered the following morning, washed and conditioned my hair, then spent an eternity combing out the tangles. I cursed myself for letting it get to this state and promised to start looking after it better. I had nice hair, thick, wavy, light brown with a hint of red. But I realised that the ends were damaged. I'd have to have a good trim if I wanted it to look healthy. Jana's hair was so perfect, and a lot different to how it had been when I'd met her. Back then her hair had been quite short, brown. I couldn't remember her looking like she devoted much time to appearance.

Now she had perfected her styling skills and I felt unworthy to be seen alongside her. We'd arranged to meet at the salon where she worked and head out from there to a restaurant. I phoned her to ask if she could see to my make-up for our date.

My nervousness as I called evaporated as I heard her voice, her obvious pleasure at hearing from me. “Of course, silly. I wanted to do your make-up for you, hair too actually. Is that OK, sugar?”

“Yes, Jana, I'd love it.”

Three hours later and we were alone together in the salon, which was expensively decorated in a kitsch recreation of fifties decor. She was combing through my hair which somehow seemed to have re-tangled itself since the morning. “Your hair's got so long,” she said admiringly. “It must be a full foot longer than back when we dated.”

“It's not in very good condition though,” I admitted.

“Oh, I noticed!” she giggled. “I'm thinking a good cut is in order for you, baby. But not tonight, there's not time. Still, a trim would make you look better. I mean a big trim. Does my little Bex agree?”

My heart was in my mouth. I liked my long hair, despite my inability to look after it. “How much did you want to trim?” I dared ask.

“Six inches.” Jana seemed untroubled by the loss of so much hair but I was shocked.

“That's a year's growth, Jana. It's a lot!”

“Oh, baby, weren't you listening,” she said, smiling, “once we can find a suitable appointment you're going to get a proper cut. You need to look stylish. I want you to see that you can look really pretty.”

I was panicking at the thought of my hair being cut short. “Please Jana, I like my hair long.”

“I do too. But I don't like seeing long hair that's not cared for. And I want you to try a very different look. I want it because I need you to look pretty, but... oh, hell, the truth is I want you to make a sacrifice to show that you're obedient. I want you to let me do as I please with your hair. With you. Can you do that for me, Bex?”

I looked lost as I heard her demand so much. I couldn't say yes, I had too many trust issues. I needed reassurance.

“Baby, look at you. You're so full of disappointment and self-loathing. You need to let yourself fall. I promise to catch you. I'll teach you to love yourself, but to do that you have to let me love you. If you hold back you'll never find fulfilment.” I looked at her sadly. “Pass me the shears,” she said firmly.

I obeyed her and stood as she cut the promised six inches from my hair. I cried as I looked at the floor and saw the heavy chunks of hair which had been cut. She held me to her and pressed me tight in her arms. “Let it all out, baby. You have so much pain. I'm going to heal you, you just have to learn to trust me.”

I was treated to a lot of pampering. Jana shampooed my hair (the scalp massage had me swooning with pleasure) and then layered through the ends of my hair. I was unhappy about the loss of more hair, but she assured me it would make my hair look so much better, although I couldn't judge, since she'd covered the mirror.

She decided I'd look nice with braids for our date and set to work creating the style she'd imagined. Then she did my make-up, taking longer than I ever imagined someone would work on my face.

I was tearful again as I saw my reflection for the first time, but now with delight. Jana was obviously pleased with my reaction, but told me that I mustn't cry and spoil my make-up. She'd made me look like a stranger, with my lips the centre of attention. They were a rich, shimmering purple, but in the centre the colour was perfectly blended into a vivid orange. My eyes were made to look bigger by perfectly applied liner across the upper lids, the outer corners drawn out into sharply pointed wings. My skin seemed unnaturally perfect, with a pale orange bloom on my cheeks.

I knew this was too much for me, slightly ridiculous even, but I did enjoy seeing the transformation. And my hair: Jana had made elaborately woven braids, one on each side, with the long plaits falling free behind my ears. I couldn't really see how short it was, which was merciful, although I knew the plaits were shorter than I'd have liked.

We arrived at the restaurant, and I felt my emotions constantly see-sawing. I was delighted to be seen in the company of Jana, but then would notice someone looking at me and suddenly I'd feel my confidence flounder. “What's wrong?” Jana asked as she saw my smile fade.

“I keep wondering what people are thinking about me. I can see a lot of people think I look ridiculous.”

“That's just your negative side making you unhappy. You're a beautiful woman, Bex. I can see that. Do you think I'm wrong?”

I nodded. “I'm sorry, I do. I'm just so big.”

“You're fat, Bex. You can use the word. You're fat. So what? Fat is beautiful. You're beautiful. There isn't a woman in this place that turns me on like you do.”

I blushed at her compliments. I knew she meant every word she said.

“You just have to have confidence. You'll be strong. I'm going to make sure you get a lot of attention. When you attract attention you have to carry yourself with confidence, and I'm going to make sure you do. Now say 'I'm a beautiful, fat woman'.”

I said it but I couldn't even look her in the eye.

She took my hand. “You still think it's so shameful to be fat that you hardly dare say the word. And you can't allow yourself to think you're pretty. But soon you'll accept everything I say. Because it's true, you're a beautiful fatty.”

“Please don't say that. I've been called so many insulting things.”

“And now you're going to accept who you are and reclaim those words. If you learn to accept your beauty then being reminded that you're fat won't hurt you any more.

“And you feel guilty about your eating, don't you? That has to end. Your mum looked after you as best she could and her treating you wasn't wrong. I'm going to let you eat well tonight, and you aren't allowed to feel bad about your big appetite. You'll have a starter, a pizza,” (my childhood favourite meal) “a dessert. Two desserts if you like. It'll be my pleasure to see you eating all that, baby. Can you do that for me?”

I discovered that what Jana said was true. She took a delight in seeing me eating generously. I love Italian food but I struggled to finish the huge pizza she ordered for me, laden with extra cheese, having already eaten a good sized platter of cooked meats and sliced sausage as a starter. Jana herself ate much more modestly, a salad followed by a small pasta dish.

“Do you want a nice dessert, Bex?” she asked. Truthfully, I didn't. My nerves had made it hard for me to eat and my usual appetite was absent, although I had finished my meal, spurred on by Jana's encouragement. She saw my reluctance but wouldn't accept that I'd eaten sufficient. “We'll get a dessert to share. That would be romantic, baby.” I couldn't disappoint her.

When the waitress was summoned she ordered tiramisu. “A portion for two, we're going to share.” The dish soon arrived and Jana rose from her position sitting in the booth opposite me, now sliding onto the bench seat next to me.

“My darling fatty, soon you'll be too big to let me sit here next to you. Maybe too big to even get in this seat.” I blushed at the idea of gaining so much weight. Her fingers stroked at my belly. “Oh, baby, it's got so tight. You'll be like a big round drum by the time I get you home.”

I was shocked by her desire to make me gorge but was unresisting as she spooned my mouth full of the rich, creamy dessert. I looked about me, sure that our behaviour would attract disapproval. In fact, I couldn't see anyone else aware of us.

I felt sick by the time I'd finished the last spoonful (Jana had eaten no more than a single mouthful). “If we weren't in such a nice restaurant I'd make you lick the plate clean,” Jana smiled. “I never want to see you wasting food, baby, OK? Tonight you've been a perfect companion and I want to take you home to show you how pleased I am.”

I was astonished at Jana's desire for me. She was moaning ecstatically as I obediently undressed for her, knelt before me and covered my swollen belly with kisses. If I remained sure that my weight made me unappealing, I was in no doubt that Jana found me beautiful, or sexy at any rate.

By the time I fell into an exhausted slumber Jana had made me orgasm numerous times, delighting me with her expertise with a large strap on. She was rather rough, which had left me sore. I had always liked to be treated gently by my lovers but her desires had drawn me in. When I awoke the following morning I felt bewildered. Jana was the woman of my dreams but was I losing myself in my need to please her?

She treated me like a princess as we breakfasted. She'd prepared far too much food, however, and I remembered her injunction that I should never waste food. I finally found the courage to speak.

“Jana, I feel so happy that we're together, but I'm a bit scared. You seem to want to make me really big, bigger than ever. I can't live like that. It would make my life so hard.”

She smiled at me indulgently. “I'm sorry, baby, I get carried away. I do like the idea of making you enormous, but that's really just a fantasy thing. But I do want you to gain a little for me. I want you to be your heaviest. Could you promise to gain say... forty pounds?”

I felt shocked. It was a lot.

“Then we'd maintain you at this weight. You'd eat normally most of the time, modestly even but you'd gorge a few times a week. I do love seeing you eating. It's so erotic for me. Please say yes, baby.”

I smiled shyly and pledged to make her happy.

Jana drove me home and, away from her forceful personality, my doubts returned in abundance. I took out my braids and stared sadly at myself as I saw clearly for the first time how much shorter my hair looked. It was still long, but I'd prided myself that very few other girls had hair as long as mine. Now the length was much more ordinary. I couldn't deny that the cut had made it look healthier: the ends were cut to a crisp line, no split ends, no thin wisps. I decided that healthy or not, I would wear my hair up to disguise the loss of so much length for the time being.

I was also filled with regret and guilt about my agreement to gain weight. Jana was very controlling, and I realised that I was finding it impossible to say no to her. She'd also told me that she planned to cut my hair again, too, and that was something I didn't want. I decided I should write a letter to her to present at our next date, to say that I had to set limits, that that was the only way I could preserve my dignity and self respect.

A few days later I was invited back to Jana's. After she'd welcomed me with a very affectionate kiss she asked me why I looked so nervous.

“I've been very happy that we've got together again, but there are some things troubling me. I always become awestruck when I'm with you so I decided I should write down what I feel.” I passed her the letter.

Jana looked very serious as she scanned through what I'd written. She glanced up at me and read through the text again.

“No,” she announced.

“What?” I felt astonished that she could read my thoughts and dismiss them with a single syllable.

“Did you think I'd agree to all this? Or did you want some sort of negotiation about how far I can go? I'm not going to agree to any of this, baby. Now are you going to be silly and threaten to walk out? I know you wouldn't seriously consider that.” I shook my head, admitting defeat.

“Come here, Bex!” She took me in her arms and squeezed me. “You need to trust me. I won't do anything except make you beautiful and make you believe in yourself.”

“I know that's what you want, but we have different ideas of beautiful.”

“So you didn't like how you looked for our date last weekend? Your braids and make-up?”

I nodded. “It did make me feel special. You're very talented.”

“I know I am. And that's why you'll enjoy seeing yourself after I do some real work on your hair.”

I groaned. “Is it going to be short?”

She nodded. “Some of it will be very short! And a new colour too.” My evident discomfort seemed to amuse her. “What do your friends think of your new haircut?” She could read my silence as evasion. “Oh, Bex! You've put it in a bun all the time to hide it, haven't you?”

I nodded guiltily.

“Oh, I'm hurt! Your hair looked much nicer.”

“I know, it looks a lot more healthy. It's the best cut I ever had, but I don't like seeing how short it is now.”

“And you worried about all your friends passing comment, I suppose. Well soon you won't have the option of disguising your new haircut, will you? Promise me that until you get your new cut you'll wear it loose, or I might decide to go for a more dramatic look.”

I swore my agreement, apologising for my ingratitude in hiding my lovely new cut.

“I'll forgive you, baby, if you agree to a nice feast for me tonight.”

I was learning to understand that I couldn't stand up to her. She sent out for a take away and I had to eat more food than I had during our last date. She was constantly excited as she watched me eat and had me undress to continue the meal. She liked to feed me herself, liked spilling food down my body, liked seeing my mouth and chin smeared with food. And because I so wanted to please her, I found myself drawn into her world, found that whatever she liked started to turn me on too.

I drank too much too and soon I felt sick as she forced too much food into me. Even this didn't make her relent. “You need to treasure that feeling, Bex. I want you to crave that sensation, when you've eaten so much that you feel sick. That means you've been a good girl for Jana.”

She made me weigh myself after I'd completed the meal. I hated knowing how big I was and I hadn't done this for a long time. I winced as I saw how heavy I was now.

“What did we say? Forty pounds wasn't it? So now you know your target weight.”

“But that's not fair,” I protested. “I've already gained quite a few pounds since you said that, I'm sure.”

Jana grinned mischievously. “However do you know what your weight was? Have you got some proof?” I shook my head. “Then for being naughty you just got your target weigh increased by five pounds.” I gasped at this injustice. “Got something to say?” she giggled. I knew if I complained I'd be punished further.

“No Jana,” I said, defeated.

“That's better. Once you've gained fourteen I'll get you into the salon for your big hair makeover.”

I felt myself getting horribly scared. The idea of my hair being cut was still terrifying me. “I don't want my hair cut any time soon, to be honest, so that's hardly a motivator. ”

“Oh, but it is, baby. I've come up with a series of possible cuts, but there's a time schedule too. The longer you delay the cut the more hair will be coming off. So I win either way. If you take your time getting fat I'll have the pleasure of cutting your hair so short that you won't be able to hide your pretty little ears.”

I groaned as she scooped back my hair and started to nuzzle at my earlobe, her other hand stroking up my inner thighs. “You really are so pretty, Bex. I'd love to get you modelling. Glamour and nude to show how delicious you've become once I've perfected you.”

I was shivering as she caressed and kissed me, but I was still unused to compliments. “Perfecting me will be a lot of work,” I said shyly.

She nodded. “It's true, perfection is always hard, but I have a lot of resources and a lot of patience.”

It wasn't the reply I was expecting. I knew she liked me and I guess I hoped she thought I was already almost her ideal. “What would I need to be perfected?” I asked, piqued by her seriousness.

She threw me on my back and lay on top of me, compressing my full belly. She started to kiss me with more passion. “You already know about getting bigger, and obviously you need a far sexier haircut.” She tucked my hair behind my ear, staring at me hungrily, imagining how she would make me look. “There are little imperfections in your features too that I'll get sorted out.”

“What sort of imperfections?” My confidence was draining rapidly at this detail critique of my failings.

“Your chin is a bit off centre, you have a little bump in your nose, cheekbones should be more prominent. Teeth could be better.”

I was becoming distressed, but if Jana noticed it did nothing to dampen her passion. “But how can you sort out all this? Make-up?”

“No, baby. Obviously you see a dentist for your teeth and a surgeon for the rest.”

I was shocked and tried to push her away but she was too strong. “I wouldn't allow it,” I whispered. I wanted to shout it but I was afraid of stirring a strong reaction.

“Come on, baby, don't be silly,” she laughed. “We have to make sacrifices if we want to look beautiful. I've been through similar. You like how I look, don't you?”

I was astonished at this revelation. “You look beautiful, but you always did. What have you had done?”

“Lips, cheeks, chin,” she smiled.

“But there are no scars?”

“They go in here...” She pushed her finger into my mouth and slid it between lip and teeth. “The scars are all inside so no one ever sees them. See, it's not crazy, is it? I just get so excited when I think of you all perfect. Say yes to me, baby. Always say yes. Then I'll get my strap on and make you the happiest girl in the world.”

For much of that night I believed I was the happiest girl in the world.

I was seeing Jana regularly and each time I did she made sure I was weighed, then well fed. I was gaining rapidly, but not fast enough, it appeared. A week after my first weigh in and I'd gained ten pounds, enough that I could see myself getting bigger, as well as feeling all of my clothes getting tight.

“Still not there,” she said sadly. “And the first cut expires today. That was the only one where you kept your hair long, at least most of it. Naughty Bex is going to be getting short hair!”

I groaned. “Please, Jana, I'm doing my best. I'm sure I've got over a stone fatter since we met, just that half of it was before I got weighed.”

She put her arm around me and drew me close. “I love it when you say 'fatter'. But stop thinking the haircut is something to fear. You're going to always be in my salon for little touch ups, getting sets, and so on. I'm going to pamper you and I hope you'll learn to love it. You're like a little girl who doesn't want her long hair touched. Once I've cut all this off and you see how much fun you can have you'll wish you'd done it years ago.”

A week later and I'd broken through the target. I begged Jana to cut my hair in private. She was reluctant, said she'd like me to experience the salon when it was busy and would like to show off her new girlfriend to her colleagues. I'd tried to come to terms with a big makeover, but frankly, I couldn't. I knew I'd cry and make a terrible scene, and neither I nor Jana would enjoy that.

“Please let me do this one time in private,” I begged. “I know you don't like to indulge me, that you're worried it will set a precedent but I promise I'll make it up to you. I'll even let you take me to the dentist.”

She laughed. “Wow, you really are serious. I know you don't like dentists, you made that very clear.” She looked thoughtful. “You're on cut number three of the schedule. You take that in public or we go private and you get cut number four and go to the dentist as soon as we can get an appointment.” I steeled myself to agree, but she didn't want to make it easy. “It'll mean losing a lot more hair,” she added.

“I'll just make a fool of myself and you'll be really mad at me,” I said sadly.

“I've been kind. You have a choice.” She looked at me unsympathetically. “Decide!”

“Private cut,” I whispered.

“You're such a naughty girl,” she giggled. “I suppose you want to bring toys!”

The following week I got a call at work. “Hi baby. You told me you have a few hours owing at work. Get the afternoon off.” I tried to tell Jana that my boss wouldn't let me just take hours now, that he liked to get some notice. “You haven't even tried. Tell him it's important.”

“What's it for?” I asked.

“Hmmmm. Tell him it's an emergency. You have toothache and you have to see a dentist.” She told me where to meet her an hour later.

The mention of toothache seemed to evoke sympathy from my manager and he agreed to my request immediately. I had to feign gratitude, although I would have been delighted for once to be stuck at my desk. I was trembling by the time I met Jana. She looked, as always, serene, radiant.

“It's the dentist, not execution,” she said derisively. She didn't like it when I got nervous about things which seemed routine to her.

“I always got nervous about dentists,” I told her.

“I suppose you ate a lot of sweets. Don't think I haven't noticed all those fillings in your molars. Did he used to tell you off for not looking after your teeth?” I nodded guiltily. “You never were good at looking after yourself, then? Just as well you have me now, isn't it? I'm not sure I should let you live alone. I bet you don't even brush your teeth when you're left to your own devices. Anyway, we're here now so let's see what the expert thinks.”

We were at a fancy clinic specialising in cosmetic work. I gripped Jana's hand as we waited. “I can't afford a place like this,” I said fearfully.

“Just as well I can, isn't it? We'll have to get you earning a bit more.”

We were soon inside, the dentist clearly already acquainted with Jana. I'm sure it wasn't just my paranoia that made me perceive a surprised look when Jana introduced me as her girlfriend. I noticed the same look again when it was suggested that I was looking for modelling work. Shy, short, fat girls weren't my idea of typical models either.

I was examined by the dentist who discovered a small cavity and gave me a very polite telling off for my infrequent visits to her fellow professionals. I looked over at Jana who pulled an exaggerated frown and slapped at the back of her own hand.

“Rebecca doesn't just want her teeth made functional. She has been asking about getting perfect teeth.” Rebecca had done nothing of the sort, but she nodded meekly at the intimidating, masked figure.

“There is some unevenness. We could try braces. How old is she..?” She looked at my record. “Oh, twenty-four. I assumed you were younger. It's a pity I didn't get to work with you ten years ago. Still, I think the orthodontic route is worthwhile. There isn't a terrible amount of correction to be made.”

I endured a scale and polish (it caused a headache), the impressions being made of my teeth (repeatedly inducing a gag reflex), the anaesthesia (a horribly painful injection), the drilling and filling. But when I returned to the car I could endure no more and started to cry. “Please Jana, don't make me get braces.”

“Rebecca!” I was starting to see that my full name was used when Jana had perceived me to be naughty. “Don't think that you can turn on the tears and get me to take pity on you. I'm starting to think that I was too lenient with you. You're going to get your big cut in public unless you apologise right now.”

I made a tearful apology and accepted the inevitable. Jana was paying for my expensive treatment and she wasn't going to allow me to back out.

“Actually, I think it'll look cute. We should make you look all kawaii while you have your braces. I'll see if I can get coloured braces that they use for kids now. Dress you in bright, cartoon-y clothes and such. Cutesy is definitely a look you can pull off. I mean, even if you weren't outgrowing all of your clothes, you do need a new wardrobe.”

I nodded as I tried to imagine myself dressed like a little girl obsessed with mermaids and garish colours. Not me at all. “Since you're sulking and you have to let the filling settle, I think I should send you home. Let you think about what you really want.”

“Please, Jana, I don't want to be alone tonight. I need you.”

“I'm glad to hear you've realised it. You have to see though, it's not just tonight you need me, it's forever. Once you acknowledge that I think you should move in with me.” I hugged her tightly.

“Oh Jana, it's so soon, but I do love you.”

“Baby, you know once you move in I'll be taking a lot more control. And that means you have to be a lot more obedient. No more crying about my choices.”

“I'll try,” I promised solemnly.

“But I'll push you hard. You have to get cosmetic surgery, remember. That'll be done before the year's out.” I couldn't hide my shock. It was already almost autumn and that meant I'd be transformed within a few months.

“And once that's healed I'm thinking you should start getting tattooed.” I stared at her, my mouth open. “You'd be hard pressed to find a model of the type I'm going to make you into who doesn't have some ink. I need to find you a good artist who can give you something really original and distinctive.” She tugged at a lock of my hair to bring me out of my shocked reverie. “Bex, did you hear me? Are you in or do you 'need some time to think'?” She said the last phrase in a mocking imitation of my voice.

I shrugged. “You terrify me, Jana, but what's the point of delaying? I know I'm too weak. You'll see to it that I do as you want, won't you?”

She put her hand into the waistband of my skirt. “You love me pushing you anyway, don't try to deny it. I bet even now you're getting wet thinking about how you'll look with big fat arms covered in the densest tattoos.” I groaned as I heard her plans. Her hand pushed to get deeper into my groin. “Damn, girl, you're getting so fat I can't get my hand in here.” She grabbed a handful of the thick fold of skin covering my burgeoning belly.

“Decision time, Bex. Are you moving in tonight?”

“Yes, Jana, it would be the greatest honour of my life.”

She smiled. “You never again get to say no to me.”

By Saturday morning I'd been fitted with my new braces. Since Saturday was the day when Jana was most busy (she claimed she made more than half of her tips on this one day) I had to go alone. I took a first look in the mirror, pulling back my lips in a poor imitation of a smile as I saw the metal apparatus binding my teeth. As promised, Jana had had it made up with brightly coloured plastic pads on each tooth. I wandered out and realised that nothing the dentist had said to me had consciously registered. I was surprised to find a sheet of instructions folded in my pocket later.

I did as instructed and went to the salon immediately. In contrast to the stillness when I'd visited, it was now bustling. The receptionist, a beautiful young woman with an oversized bouffant looked at me witheringly (or at least that was how I imagined). I felt terribly out of place in this temple to vintage glamour.

“Hi, is Jana about? Could you let her know Bex is here?”

She seemed to think I couldn't see her without an appointment, but I meekly told her that I was a friend and Jana was expecting me. Eventually Jana was summoned and came to me excitedly. “Come on, let's see. Smile!”

I shyly parted my lips. Jana giggled. “Oh, babes, it's sooo cute!” She turned to the receptionist. “Yasmin, this is Bex, my girlfriend.” I waved at her, said it was nice to meet her, but felt her disapproval. I sensed she thought me not worthy of Jana.

“I don't think she likes me,” I whispered to Jana.

“Ah, stop being so sensitive,” she said. “I want to take you out to a restaurant tonight and feed you things that will get snagged in your braces. You need a good bellyful, baby. I can't have you getting skinny.”

I blushed at her promises, sensing how turned on she was getting, and uncomfortable with the attentions of Yasmin.

“I don't think I'm going to be skinny any time soon.”

“I should bloody hope not! Now go home and get yourself all pretty for me. I'll meet you back here at six thirty.”

I was beside myself as I arrived to meet Jana. I'd started to believe that by the time I arrived at the restaurant I'd look like a new girl. I tried to prepare myself to be ordered into the chair, but I was relieved that she was waiting for me at the door.

“What a day!” she groaned. “I haven't had a minute's peace. I just want to sit down and have a good meal with my favourite little fat chick. Smile, baby, let's see those teeth.” I obliged her. “Oh, you have the loveliest lips, like a little rosebud, and you have such a pretty smile. You need to show it off more often. Soon you'll have perfect teeth to be proud of. And they're costing me a fortune, so make sure I get to see plenty of them.”

We arrived at our favourite Italian restaurant where, as usual, Jana did all of the ordering. “I'm going to get you drunk tonight, baby. And I'm going to make sure we fill that big bowl of a belly. Think you can manage two mains and a dessert?” I started to shake my head but was interrupted before speaking. “Remember your promise about a certain word? Think carefully.”

I could only answer with one word. “Yes.”

My second course was a large pizza, which was covered with (amongst other things) a generous helping of spinach. I struggled to swallow it, bloated after the first course, a generous helping of rich lasagne. “Does it feel strange eating with your braces?” I nodded. “You do know... No, let's take a pic and show you.” I was instructed to smile and an image was taken on Jana's phone and shown to me.

“Oh shit,” I groaned. My teeth were discoloured by numerous dark fibres where the spinach had become trapped in the wires of the brace.

“When we kiss later I might actually get a meal out of those teeth of yours. You do look a disgrace, Bex,” she teased.

“It's your fault,” I replied playfully. “You ordered spinach.”

“Oh yes, I wanted to let everyone know about your braces. It does turn me on seeing how shy they make you.”

By the end of the night I'd reached the state that Jana so treasured, full to the point of nausea. I'd also drank more wine than I should have to help me to get down all the food. I wasn't good at handling alcohol and I was trying (unsuccessfully) to hide my drunkenness. I sobered up suddenly as we got into the taxi. Jana gave the address of the salon.

“What's going on?” I asked.

“It's time baby. Snip, snip, snip.” I flinched as her fingers made scissoring motions around my head.

“Please, Jana. Tonight? I'm drunk and full to bursting. Can't we go home?”

“You're not saying no are you? If that's your attitude you can walk the streets all night. Now... Do you want a nice makeover?”

“Yes, Jana,” I said morosely.

“Oh, just look at that belly,” Jana said admiringly. “I don't think it's ever been bigger. I do wish we could dine out every day. You'd be at your target weight in a few weeks.” I smiled shyly, naked in the salon chair, at Jana's request. “And once you get nice and big I'll get you to the clinic to make your face worthy of that gorgeous body. Look how your breasts are filling out. I'd considered getting you a boob job, but I think we might just get away with natural. They feel so much nicer anyway.”

I was silent, so tipsy that I was having trouble focussing my emotions. It took a few seconds to process the idea that I'd been considered for breast enlargement, a real surprise since my breasts, even before my rapid weight gain, had always been large. I adored getting compliments from Jana, despite my lack of confidence and my inability to genuinely believe that I was worthy of praise. But tonight I was impossibly anxious because I knew that by the time I left the salon I would have short hair for the first time in my life.

“You're not getting a cape tonight, Bex. I want to see your boobs and belly covered in your hair. Shall I start?” I nodded. “Poor baby, you look so scared. I'm going to tie you up and blindfold you, if that's ok.” She smiled at me, her eyes glinting with malice and undisguised lust.

I wanted to run away but I knew what was expected of me. “Yes, Jana,” I said meekly. I wanted her to enjoy this moment, which she'd dreamed of for so long. I was sick with nerves, sure I'd disgrace myself before long by vomiting up the expensive meal I'd just eaten. I was sure I'd take no pleasure at all in taking another step toward being Jana's ideal.

She tied my arms to the sides of the chair using soft velvet bands, fastened at wrist and elbow. I tested them and found I was helpless. Then my knees were loosely bound to my wrists and my ankles were tethered to the footrest. “Does that feel nice, baby?” she asked.

I moved my limbs, but there was hardly any play in the bonds. “Yes, it does,” I smiled. I was being truthful. The imposition of helplessness was genuinely pleasing.

“Now we need to cover your pretty eyes without anything getting in the way of me working on your hair.” She pressed two small cup-like discs to my eye sockets, bound together with a string. The strings were taped to my temples and the discs pressed in so that they adhered to my skin. “See anything?”

I moved my head. Not even a trace of light entered at the edges of the covers. “Nothing. It's a bit scary, Jana.”

“Poor baby. When you see again you'll have a new look. Does that cheer you up?”

I gave a bleak laugh. “You know it doesn't.”

“What about this?” I felt her kissing me, her tongue probing at the new braces, which were now mercifully scrubbed of food residue. “Or this?” She pressed something blunt to my slit and it began to buzz. I moaned softly as the delicate sensation started to fill me.

“Or this?” There was a loud crack and a new mechanical buzzing, much more insistent than the vibe. Without preamble I felt her pull back my hair at the temple and press the device up my cheek. I felt panic possess me. Was she clippering me? I was gasping for air as she drew the machine away from my scalp. Something soft, brushlike was caressing my breast. Was she teasing me with a sheaf of hair, cut from my head? Surely this was a prank. I couldn't have short hair.

The doubt was gone now. Her lips went to my temple and kissed at the shorn hair, soft, velvety, more enticing than I could have believed. I seemed to be pulled apart, wanting to cry and mourn at my loss, but jubilant at the loveliness of the sensation. I wanted to say something, but no words came. And Jana was silent too.

Now she combed at my long hair, forming it into sections. The top was isolated, twisted and pinned up. I felt Jana's elegant fingers touch my crown and without thought bowed my head. Her hand stroked my neck, lifting my hair as the buzzing began again.

The clippers rested on my neck and slowly rose through my hair. I remembered Jana's threat to cut some of my hair very short and realised that she had been sincere. I remembered how short clippers could cut, how I'd seen people clippered to near baldness. I had no way to gauge how short my hair was being cut except for the kiss on my temple, and all that had told me was that it was short, but it could have been a centimetre or a millimetre.

I started to curse myself for taking so long to achieve Jana's first target. If only I'd done as she wanted I'd not be getting shorn now. I felt her press the blades to my nape, rising high up the back of my head. I felt my long hair falling free, tumbling over shoulders and into lap. I could hear panting, louder than my own breathing. I knew Jana was supremely aroused and I knew that I was deceiving myself if I thought that I could somehow have avoided this cropping. Even had I achieved her target, it would only have brought a brief respite before my lover had been unable to resist shearing me. Even now I presumed that this new style would only be a step toward something even more dramatic. After all, this was not the shortest style Jana had added to her secret list.

My clippering didn't just take the hair from my nape; the sides of my head were clippered tight over my ears. By the time that the buzzing stopped I'd lost some of my fear, and found myself drawn in by Jana's audible excitement. I jumped as her fingers brushed against my ears. “Baby, you look so sexy. I can see your face properly now. You'll never be allowed long hair again. Understand?”

“Yes Jana,” I sighed. I wanted to rub at my nape and feel the softness of my new cut, haunted by the memory of Jana's kiss on my temple. She seemed to be aware of the effect it had had and was careful not to touch my scalp again. This denial was having the unforeseen consequence of making me unbearably horny, the vibrator throbbing against my mound only adding to my ecstasy. “I'm being a good girl,” I lisped (the braces had affected my speech). “Please may I have a kiss?”

I felt her brush her fingers across my lips which were dusted with clippings. “How can I deny such a sweet request?” She rested her burning lips on mine. I'd expected passion, but got tenderness. I found myself filled with the fire of lust regardless. “Head back, mouth open,” she ordered as she ended our kiss. I felt her press four chocolates into my mouth, filling it beyond comfort.

I had barely begun to chew at my treat when I felt another buzzing set of blades on my neck, this time a high whining drone. The device was carefully pressed to my neck as Jana shaped the contour of my undercut, around nape and looping over each ear. My head felt cool and light, and even though I was terrified to see the result of my makeover I couldn't deny that the feelings Jana was inflicting on me were very seductive.

“Dear God, just look at you. Stuffing your face and getting your hair all cut short. You've made me delirious with pleasure, baby. When I see you like this I imagine you getting fatter and fatter and ending up bald.”

I groaned a curse, terrified by Jana's prophesy, but something stirred inside that made it seem enchantingly sexy. “I'd look awful bald, it's such an ugly look,” I complained.

“It isn't, Bex. But anyway, you'd have your scalp tattooed all over to make you look sexy.” It must have been my drunkenness that made me moan with desire at this point. Jana took this as a sign that I was ready to receive the dildo which had been only resting against me up to this point. She slid it home and I was so wet that it entered smoothly. I called out loudly as she pushed it upwards, moved it in and out, until she found the exact positions that had me all of a tremble.

I was gasping, breathless, trying to hold myself. “You may cum, my lovely short haired girlfriend,” she whispered and kissed me so forcefully that my head was thrust back against the headrest. I could feel the cool leather on my shorn scalp and I was overwhelmed with strange sensations. I released the tension and felt the vibrations from my loins spread and take hold of me. I seemed to magnify the vibrations from the dildo which now extended beyond my body, or rather extended my body until it seemed to take on cosmic proportions. Even as the orgasm took fire I felt more chocolates being stuffed to fill my mouth before my lips were once more covered by Jana's.

I wanted her to caress my buzzed scalp, better still, kiss it (better still, I imagined guiltily, was that when she did she kissed bald, tattooed scalp, but I retreated from this desire, knowing that this was some folie à deux generated by my sympathetic response to Jana's fantasy), but still she refused to touch my short hair. I knew this was no accidental omission, she would make me wait to feel the new delights my cropping had allowed. I knew that this would not be my only climax of the night.

My hair was now released from the twist which had been pinned to my crown and I felt the comb pass through long hair. I longed to see it, knowing that soon it too would be cut short (please not too short, I prayed to some unknown force, or maybe just to Jana, hoping she would sense my silent plea). I'd had long hair for my entire life and now for the last moments of this lifelong relationship I was denied my vision to have a last memory of my treasured hair.

Jana sprayed my hair to wet it, then re-sectioned it. More lengths were twisted and pinned up, with a fringe of wet hair hanging free, touching my bare shoulders. I felt breathless from my orgasm, my mouth still filled, breathing noisily through my nose. I moaned as I felt the comb smooth the hair down over my cheek, then rest across my ear. I heard snipping and felt wet strings fall loose over my body. My hair was being bobbed.

My lack of vision had made me hyper-sensitive to every nuance of sound and touch. In my mind I built a vision of my environment, sensed every move of Jana's hands. I felt her cut the hair at the back in an arch, surely much shorter than at the sides. It would expose a section of the tightly cropped undercut to view, which seemed very provocative to me.

Jana worked painstakingly, which didn't surprise me. I knew she was a perfectionist. Every hair had to be cut to the correct length. Now she cut my fringe. It fell half way across my nose. I imagined being made to peer through my fringe or look under it. The idea of this impracticality seemed alluring to me.

More hair was freed from the coils on top of my head, only to fall, as the scissors worked, into far less orderly coils which gathered in my lap or over my breasts. I found myself concentrating on the feelings of damp locks tumbling over my bare skin. I'd lost my fear of losing my long hair.

But even as I dared think it I imagined my return to work on Monday. I groaned aloud as I imagined my colleagues, the dull eyed lot with whom I felt no connection, staring to see me, bobbed and braced, unrecognisable from the quiet little girl who'd left them only a couple of days earlier, unmistakeably heavier too. I imagined their dreary questions, which I would be unable to answer. It wasn't shame that made me reluctant to share the reasons for my metamorphosis, but rather the realisation that none of them would be able to understand the desires and pleasures which Jana had stirred in me.

My troubled thoughts were suddenly interrupted as I felt my hair being treated with a creamy mixture. I realised with a shock that it had been a few minutes since the scissors had worked on me, though my drunkenness had meant that I hadn't consciously registered this. I would have a new colour too. That added even more to my anxieties about how my colleagues would react. I knew that Jana wouldn't subtly enhance my colour. Only something dramatic would satisfy her.

Gradually I relaxed again and put away my concerns. I cared not a jot about the reactions of these people and told myself that only Jana mattered now. The rhythms of being coloured were slower. I lost track of time, lost track of how many times my hair was processed and rinsed. I fell asleep more than once, which Jana tolerated. I had to endure my eyebrows being plucked to shape them. They were tinted too.

The last sleep had seemed to extend for a long time and I woke feeling confused, and I couldn't shake the slowness of thought. I realised that my hair was being styled. The smell of the products, the delightful odour of hot hair, even these couldn't make me fully awake. I seemed to drift, free of thoughts, for minutes before coming back to awareness.

Now Jana was applying make-up and I knew that my transformation was almost complete. She tipped back my head and pulled the eye shields free. I was staring up into her eyes, the most beautiful woman I'd ever seen. She gave a tremulous gasp as she looked into my eyes. “Baby, look at you. I'd forgotten how pretty your eyes are. Next time I won't cover them and deny myself this pleasure.”

She could now work unimpeded on completing my last cosmetic work. At last she smiled and announced I was complete. She moved behind the chair and lifted my head so that for the first time in many hours I could see a mirror.

“Oh, it's blue!” I shrieked. It was very blue. My softly curled, voluminous bob was a vivid, bright blue. Jana had swept my locks to the right side and the longer hair on the left side had been braided tight to my head, exposing the undercut, which was a rich sea-green, and cut to, I estimated, about a quarter of an inch. Only a little pointed wisp at the tip of my sideburn had been left longer.

My make-up was almost as richly coloured as my hair. Jana had generally given me fairly simple make-up but this was even more daring than I'd worn on our first date. My lips were a dark purple, so dark it appeared blackish, but there was a blue iridescent sheen to enliven the colour. My pale cheeks were blushed with a soft magenta, and my eyes, lined with spiny shards of black, shimmered with burnished gold. My reshaped eyebrows were as blue as my hair.

“I love it, Jana,” I yelled. “I absolutely adore you and how talented you are.”

I could see that my acceptance of my new image made her happier than words could express. “You are just adorable, baby,” she smiled. “I'd imagined you crying when you saw yourself, and that would have hurt me. But I'm so proud of you. I wanted you to take some pleasure from this night, but you've gone beyond every expectation. You've gone beyond my expectation of how beautiful you could be too.”

“Thank you, my love,” I blushed. For the first time in my life I dared allow myself to believe that maybe I was beautiful. “Now are you going to release me?”

“Not any time soon,” she said with an evil smile. She pushed my head to the side and started to smother my green stubble with kisses. I felt myself dissolving into ecstasy as the sensation I'd longed for was realised more beautifully than my imagination could ever have suggested.

I looked at myself and winced. “I look like a little girl, Jana. Do I have to?”

My new work outfit was, to me, unbearably childish. My hair had been smoothed into a sleek style with my long fringe swept to the side. My make-up was simple, just a thin line of black on upper lids, pale pink lips. I was dressed in black ribbed stockings, flat shoes with bows and silk flowers, a navy and white pinafore over a black blouse trimmed with far too much lace. The final straw was a pair of big glasses with thick blue plastic frames and plain lenses.

Jana looked at me with amusement. “I don't know. Do you have to?”

She used my promise to contain any resistance from me. I knew when she asked me a question of this sort that the only acceptable answer was yes. I didn't dare disappoint her now. “Yes, Jana,” I sighed. “But I'm going to get teased so much...”

“About your bunches?”

“I don't have bunches, though.”

A few minutes later I did. My bob had been gathered into two tufts, tied each side of my crown with elastics decorated with cubes of garishly tinted clear plastic. I blushed as I saw myself regressing even further.

“Just so pretty. And all your undercut visible. Are you going to smile and thank me or do we need to put a little clip in your fringe too?”

I forced a demure smile and Jana giggled. “I do hope you keep using that smile today, baby. I love seeing your braces.”

“I'll try to look happy. But you have no idea about how boring the people in work are. They won't like me dressing like this.”

“But someone who matters does like it. She likes it a lot. She can barely keep her hands off you and if she didn't have to get to work herself she'd give in to temptation.”

A few minutes later and I was being dropped off at the factory. I trudged in numbly, sure that my image would provoke bemusement, derision and hostility. I nodded to acknowledge one of the machinists who only stared at me with undisguised amazement. I wasn't even sure he recognised me.

His reaction wasn't untypical. I had to stomach numerous stupid questions about why I'd turned into this blue haired girl from some children's story. I struggled to formulate any answers that didn't sound evasive. At lunchtime one of the men who made my life in the office much less bearable asked me if I'd done it to please a new boyfriend who had a thing for little girls.

“No, I'm a lesbian. I do have a new girlfriend though. Does that satisfy your curiosity?” I'd never spoken so forcefully to him and he seemed shocked. I felt a quiet satisfaction that I'd offended him. Now I'd probably made an enemy, would be the subject of even more gossip, but I didn't care. They would never understand me, and I was delighted that they wouldn't. Jana had made me accept that to be different was thrilling.

I got a text late in the afternoon asking me to drop by the salon. I went there straight from work (it was only a short walk). Jana greeted me like I'd been gone from her for months, then introduced me to her colleagues. Yasmin looked particularly astonished by my metamorphosis into an exotic creature. Yet I felt uncomfortable as the elegant stylists took in my appearance. I could sense that they wondered why Jana, so pretty and popular, would choose such a fat girl as her companion. I suspected that they thought her preferences slightly unseemly.

On the way home I told Jana about my angry retort to my colleague and she looked delighted. “Bex! You outed yourself. You're finally out of the closet. I'm so proud of you.”

“I've never denied my sexuality!” I protested.

“Maybe. But you've never told anyone but close friends, have you? This is a big day for you baby. We should have a little celebration.” I was rewarded with a huge bag of crisps and half a litre of my favourite ice cream. After a generous meal I was ordered to strip and my wrists were tied behind my back with a soft cord. I sat on the floor next to the sofa and Jana took her place behind me, her legs astride me.

“Sit back,” she told me as she opened the tub of ice cream. I tried to make myself comfortable, but I shrieked as she thrust the freezing container so that it rested between my breasts, the base resting on my belly.

I groaned and asked her to move it. “It's so cold it's making my boobs ache.”

She reached down but only rotated it so that a colder part moved into contact with me. “I think you make a nice machine to get ice cream to the right temperature to eat. Or at least you would if you didn't complain so much. You do want it to stay there?”

I poked my tongue out at her playfully. “Yes, you big meanie. It really does make me hurt though,” I sighed.

“Never mind, baby. Soon I'll let you eat it all. You're going to get all messy, but try not to get it in your hair. Blue washes out really fast so we need to be sparing with shampooing.”

“It'll go back to brown?” I asked naïvely.

“No, silly! It'll go really pale. Your hair was bleached. What did you think I was doing when I put all those chemicals on?”

I shrugged. “I was pretty drunk and sleepy.”

“You were blonde for a while. It looked quite pretty, really light blonde it was. Actually, faded might not be so bad. I can imagine you with a baby blue bob. Maybe perm it to give you big soft curls.”

I couldn't bear the thought of being permed. “Please don't!” I baulked.

“Honey bunny, would you like a perm next time?” She smiled cruelly, poking her fingers into the melting ice cream.

“Please, darling. It would be so humiliating.” She pressed a dripping finger to my lips to silence me, a trail of liquid dribbling down my chin.

“One word, answer please! Do you want me to perm you?”

I was still forbidden from saying no and knew if I violated this directive I'd be given some awful punishment. “Yes,” I lisped. I was rewarded with the privilege of licking the ice cream from her fingers. As she spooned more of the dessert into my mouth she announced that she had imagined the perfect style for my next makeover.

It was two weeks later that Jana informed me that I'd been booked in for a day at the salon and I should travel in with her. It was a Saturday and I knew that this time I'd have to endure my makeover in public view.

“How do you feel?” Jana asked as she parked the car.

“Not nearly as scared as last time. I'm not sure I'd be scared at all if it wasn't for the perm.”

“You won't cry?” I shook my head and smiled. “Ooh, you're getting brave. I might have to start pushing your cut a bit further.”

“Jana, you're so evil! Sometimes I don't know why I love you so much.”

“Baby, you'd better give me six reasons right now or I'll give you the worst style imaginable.” She tugged at a strand of my hair harder than I liked. I squealed and asked her to let go but she demanded a list of her virtues.

“You're very beautiful. You're the best kisser. You're a brilliant hair stylist. You're just as good at make-up. You're super generous. You're the sexiest woman in the world.”

“Hmmm. You said I'm beautiful and sexy. Not sure they're different.”

“Well they are, darling. There are people who aren't beautiful but they're still sexy.”

She feigned a gasp. “Are you saying I'm wrong? Another reason, quick, or you get the nastiest look I can imagine.”

“You make me believe in myself. No one else ever did that and I didn't think anyone would ever make me so happy.” The game had become serious now and I felt myself becoming tearful. She kissed me lovingly.

“I feel the same. We're just perfect for each other. You're getting cuter every day, the chubbier you get the more I love you. The more of you there is the more I have to love.” I laughed, but tears were rolling down my cheeks.

“Oh Jana, look at me. I'm going to look such a state when I go inside. All your friends will think I'm so pathetic.”

“It's true. You will but then I'll weave a little magic and you'll look amazing when you leave.”

I hugged her. “I will miss something from last time. We'll have to behave ourselves.”

“Well, I might try to make you get awfully turned on and lose control. I'd like to see you disgrace yourself in front of my friends.”

Only a few minutes later I sat staring in a mirror. I still could hardly believe that I had blue hair, much less that I was about to get the second big makeover of the month and was genuinely excited to be here. Jana came to me and started to brush through my bob.

“It's faded quite a lot, hasn't it, baby? I'll start with freshening up your undercut.” She combed the top up and pinned it so that the short back and sides was clearly visible. “You liked the clippers, didn't you?”

I felt a twinge of embarrassment. I felt guilty about admitting to liking something that cut my hair so short. Somehow I still felt that I should have long hair, that my undercut was too blatant an admission of my new-found kinkiness. I felt like I should only show it in private (although, naturally, Jana had different ideas).

She laughed at my reticence. “I'm not just asking because I want to force a 'Yes'. I saw how you got when I did this.” I heard a pop and suddenly she was shearing my nape, forcing my head down with too much vehemence. I saw little blue hairs dust the cape, saw fluffy clumps roll into my lap. I groaned as I felt the vibrations, the clippers pressed uncomfortably tight to my skull. I was already feeling a loss of control, seconds into my makeover. Jana knew too much about me.

“I think I'll shave you higher.” I felt the blades nibbling into the longer hair that was pinned up. “I'm so tempted to buzz it all off, baby,” she whispered, her voice low and hoarse, sexier than ever. “You know one day I'll give in to my temptation. I always wanted to date a bald girl. A bald chubby girlfriend would just be so sexy.”

My posture made it hard for me to breathe but my breathlessness just seemed to make me even hornier. I was terrified that Jana was going to shave me, but fear and arousal were becoming blurred in my imagination. Jana whispered an instruction to hitch up my skirt and touch myself through my panties. Despite my shame, my anxiety that I would be discovered, I couldn't resist obeying. I was trembling and the lightest touch made me sigh, so sensitised was I.

As the clippers made their way across my temple I groaned. “Shit, you're shaving me, Jana!”

She laughed. “You still have hair.”

“Hardly! All the blue is gone. It's well shorter than last time.”

“Half the length. An eighth of an inch. That's a number one. Nice, isn't it?” I winced. “Isn't it?” she repeated vehemently.

“Yes, Jana,” I said so softly that she could barely have heard me over the sound of the motor. I knew any other answer would have earned me a punishment but I admitted to myself that I liked how it looked, couldn't wait to feel it.

The narrow strip of short hair over each ear broadened now, and almost the entire sides were mown down to stubble. It was so short that it looked pale and greyish, my scalp easily visible. “That's a proper undercut,” Jana said admiringly. “Still sure you won't get emotional?”

“I am emotional,” I smiled. “I'm really happy. I'm trying to enjoy everything you do to me. Last time I was too drunk to appreciate much of what you did.”

“I'm not sure I like this, Bex,” she giggled. “You're getting very confident! Actually, forget that. I love that you're enjoying what I'm doing. You're a little doll and I can't wait to get you home.”

My next treat was to have my undercut contoured. This time it wasn't the trimmers that were used but a cut-throat razor. The sideburns were shaped to sharp points, the contour up my temples a hard, sinuous line, nothing of the softness of natural growth allowed to remain. As she shaved my neck, Jana made an observation. “Your neck's getting chubby. You have a fold across your neck now. And your double chin, of course.”

She held up a mirror behind me to allow me to see. There it was, a roll of fat forming across the back of my neck, beneath my near-bald nape. I groaned. “It's so ugly, Jana.”

“I think it's very sexy,” she assured me. “But maybe I could bind your neck to control the fat growth. I'd love to see you wearing a neck corset. So submissive.”

“I don't know what that is,” I said feebly. I hated it when I had to admit to my naïvety. Jana was much more worldly than me.

“Baby, I could get you fitted with one. But it would be very expensive and you'll have to promise to wear it all the time at home, and out too for special occasions.”

“I'd have to see what it was, though.”

Jana looked at me with evil in her beautiful eyes. “No, baby. You can use your imagination and decide now.”

“Do I have a choice?” I groaned.

“You ungrateful little wretch! I offer you a very expensive gift and you sneer at it. Ingrate.” She turned the clippers back on and started to run them up my nape again. “Shall I just take them right over the top?”

“I'm very sorry, Jana. I'd be honoured to wear a neck corset for you.” As a reward for my compliance she ran her hand over my nape, which had me moaning. The new shortness made it feel better than ever, even if it was shockingly close to bald. It was unbelievably soft and the lack of hair seemed to make my scalp ultra-sensitive. I couldn't wait for Jana to take me home and explore the new sensations more intimately.

All too soon she stopped and continued with my haircut. She unpinned the hair on top of my head, loosing a lot of hair which had been cut as my undercut was augmented. Suddenly there were blue locks all around the chair.

My bob was wet and re-cut. I'd imagined that Jana wouldn't do much to change the cut but I was wrong. As she worked through the sides (the back had already been cut, but hardly shorter than last time) I saw that the angle she'd previously worked to was gone. Now the hair fell to the same length all around, meaning that the sides were a lot shorter: my earlobes were bared and the points on my cheeks were barely longer than the fringe.

Jana smiled mischievously. “Shorter, isn't it? You don't look so comfortable any more.” She put her hand to her mouth as if shocked. “Oh and it's going to be curled! That will make it look even shorter. Poor little Bex,” she said teasingly.

It was true, I didn't like how short it was. The fullness of my previous cut had been something of a reassurance, but this bob was too short. I felt it looked slightly ridiculous and just prayed that the curls would give some sort of balance.

It would be some time before the curls would be visible, as the next hours were spent giving me the colour that Jana had chosen. My hair was re-bleached and after a shampoo I saw myself blonde for the first time. I couldn't stop giggling, but it was partly embarrassment. The undercut looked almost bald now it was a very light blonde. Worse, my eyebrows had been bleached too and they were almost invisible, hardly differentiated in tone from my pale skin. I didn't like how it made me look, strange and ugly.

“It does make you look a bit weird,” Jana agreed. “But I like it. Anyway, now I know how much you dislike it I can use it as a threat. If you ever disobey me I'll shave them off.”

“But you said you don't like it either!” I protested. “Don't you want me to look pretty?”

“I said you look weird, but it's still a sexy look. Anyway, shaved gives the option of drawing any shape I please. We're going to explore that some day, regardless of how obedient you are. I might even have them permanently removed.” I looked horrified, I'm sure. “You're very beautiful, Bex, but you have to make sacrifices to be the woman I want you to be.”

My hair was now smooth and a pale baby blue, even the under cut and my eyebrows, which were too pale and faint for my liking. As I stared at my reflection, I decided that it was the exposure of my ever fuller face which disturbed me. I could see much more clearly just how fat I was becoming. I took a deep breath as Jana took the first rod and, combing up a section from the top, wound it tightly into my short hair. “Can you imagine how long this would have taken a few weeks back?” she laughed. “You had so much hair then. Now you've got a really short bob and a high undercut. Much more manageable.”

Jana added rod after rod with practised fingers. Soon the entire top of my head was covered in little rolls of blue. Only my long fringe was free: that would remain straight. Jana was obviously amused by how I looked and recorded my appearance on her phone. “See how pretty it looks! You would suit it all short. Maybe when the perm's growing out we'll try a cute little boyish crop on you.” I nodded meekly, overwhelmed by her enthusiasm to change me. The girl I saw in the mirror looked tortured, vulnerable. I was convinced that allowing this perm had been a mistake. Maybe I'd soon be begging her to crop me to spare me the ridiculous curls.

My ears were covered and the perming solution was applied to my hair. “Just relax now, Bex,” Jana smiled. “We're almost there.”

An hour plus later and, after a prolonged spell in a huge hood dryer, I saw my perm for the first time. My wet curls looked like little springs, tightly coiled and doing little to cover the extent of the undercut on my temples. I was terrified but had to trust Jana to style them to look acceptable. After all she'd had a clear vision of how I should look and she was a good stylist. She patiently loosened each curl in turn and gradually a full head of soft curls appeared. It was an improvement, but it was shockingly short.

She used a diffuser on the dryer to soften the curls further, gently shaping the style. The rods had been positioned so that the curls swept out from a parting along the middle, behind my fringe. Jana sculpted the curls now, and smoothed my long fringe, which lay over my eyes, occluding my sight.

“Did you think I'd allow this to remain?” she asked. I had no idea what she was talking about and sat in silence, hoping for an explanation.

The scissors showed me her intent. 'This' was my fringe and Jana was snipping it high on my forehead, well clear of my eyebrows. I could hear my breathing as I felt panic.

“Shit, Jana, that's short,” I gasped.

“Could be shorter if you keep moaning. Quiet while I work.”

I saw my cheeks redden in shock as I saw my new fringe, cut to a heavy blunt line, a fraction shorter than half way between eyebrows and hairline.

Jana looked satisfied. “I love seeing you like this. Baby. You really don't like it, do you?”

I couldn't hide my dissatisfaction. “It's going to take a bit of getting used to.”

“You can be honest,” Jana smiled. “You can even say no. What do you think of your curls and fringe?”

“The fringe makes me look like a little girl. And no, I don't like it,” I said, the sourness making me feel I'd ruined mine, and Jana's day.

“You can have a little cry now, before I do your make-up. It's ok, baby. I know I've pushed you very hard and it's going to be difficult for you looking like this when you go back to work next week.” Suddenly I was crying, aware that Jana liked this discomfort in me, giving in to my negative thoughts. It was true, I'd be ashamed when my colleagues saw me, gossiped about me. I tried to convince myself that I was hurt by Jana's behaviour, but I knew that I was only playing a role. I adored being embarrassed by her, and for all my insecurity I adored what she'd done to my hair.

After I'd exorcised my sense of shock and spent my tears Jana cleaned my face and had me blow my nose (that was humiliating in a busy salon) she set to work on my make-up. She mostly used pale, cool colours, soft pastel green and yellow around my eyes, light blue mascara, a little blush. But she liked to draw attention to my lips and those were much more ostentatiously painted, a deep green which extended to a precise line a little beyond the margin of my true lip line. She liked to show her skills and a second colour, a sparkling blue, was delicately blended across the inner part of my lips.

I smiled as I saw the completed look. She'd worked magic and I believed her entirely when she said how cute and adorable I was becoming. “You have gorgeous lips, but I want them even fuller. It's going to wait till we have your face done though, Bex. I want then to be sculptured very precisely.”

I grabbed her hand. I was still terrified at the prospect of surgery, still hoped that it was one of Jana's fantasies, though she'd assured me numerous times that she was entirely serious. “Nothing too much, just subtle, please Jana?”

She bent to kiss me on the cheek, her face brushing against the unfamiliar curls. “I only want excess for my little chubby angel. You're going to look very obviously like a girl who's had a lot of work done. And it'll be soon too! You're only a few weeks away from your target, aren't you?”

I was left ruminating on the changes which had happened and those soon to come. Jana had arranged to leave the salon early, but had another client to attend, another ninety minutes working before she could leave with me. I was instructed to sit in the waiting area by reception, a carefully selected chair where I faced a mirror so that I could stare at my halo of baby blue curls and my Bettie bangs, as Jana referred to them. They'd been styled to curl under, and now appeared even shorter. They made me feel very childish, as did my outfit, my dress spotted with drawings of ladybirds, and Mary Janes on my feet, over frilled ankle socks. To pass the time Jana had provided a bottle of fizzy drink, a large bags of crisps and a chocolate bar. I felt the disapproval of the other customers as I ate them; I was confirming every negative stereotype about fat girls, eating far too many unhealthy snacks.

It was at this time that I touched my nape for the first time. I felt weak at the touch, so short, but so beautifully soft. It made me blush to think how much of the undercut was visible at the back, but I had no regrets. I was becoming addicted to the feelings of a fresh haircut, I who had spent her entire life loving my long hair. Jana had shaved my nape into a dramatic point, and the bare skin she'd shaved on my neck added immensely to the pleasure I was experiencing. I had to stop playing as I knew it would get me too excited.

Eventually Jana appeared, her client wearing a stunning retro style, stiffly set waves, perfect pin-up make-up. She was clearly delighted and I was more proud than ever of my girlfriend's skills. She was, I had no doubt, the star stylist of the salon.

As we set out, Jana put an arm around me. “I can see your ears, at least about half of them. Did you ever have a cut where your ears were on view?”

“You know I didn't,” I blushed.

“We should celebrate. I'm going to take you to get your ears pierced.”

We went to a nearby tattoo and piercing place where I sat anxiously, looking at images of tattooing from the shop. Jana wrinkled her nose. “This place isn't good enough for your tattoos,” she whispered. “I want you to get something really original.”

I nodded, feeling sick at the thought of being tattooed. “What about my ears? They are pierced already.” The studs in my ears were my only piercings. Jana's ears were pierced numerous times, and she had a little ring in her left nostril and a piercing in her navel.

“Oh, are they?” she asked, sarcastically. “I suppose a few more holes won't hurt... much.” She poked out her tongue at me. “I'd love you to have a septum ring, but that'll have to wait till you have your new nose. I don't want it to interfere with the procedure.” She giggled at my discomfort. “I love seeing you squirming when you think about your new face. It's adorable. I'm going to make you binge a lot. I think we can hit your target within two weeks, then I'll be getting you booked in as soon as the clinic has an appointment.”

I buried my face against her arm. “Jana, it scares me so much. I mean, it'll hurt, I'll be so sore, and then I'm going to look like a stranger. It's not like a haircut, this is forever.”

“I know, and your tattoos will be too. You've no idea how it turns me on to think about how brave you are to do all this.” She kissed me tenderly.

“I don't have a choice,” I sighed. Despite my fears I felt elated, Jana's love for me was palpable.

“Of course you have a choice, baby. You have a choice but you put your feelings aside and let me choose for you. That's why you're brave. You think you're weak but you're the strongest girl I ever met. Why do you think I love you so much?”

I begged her to stop till we were home. “You'll have me crying again and that will never do. I want to go out to show off how pretty you've made me.”

My sentimental mood soon evaporated as I was taken inside. It took only a few minutes (and some painful jabs of a needle) to give me triply pierced lobes, fitted with large studs. The fifth piercing was a tiny ring in the tragus of my left ear, and that hurt a lot more than summation of the other four. The cartilage was much more resistant and I wailed sadly as needle was forced through. Even after the ring was fitted my ear continued to throb and it felt like it was on fire.

As I recovered Jana expressed her satisfaction to the piercer, Kaya. “I'm going to bring her back in a few weeks for more work. I want her septum done, maybe something in her lips. I'd like a medusa, but she has such a short upper lip and I'm worried it'll get lost under the septum. She's getting quite a lot of cosmetic work done so we'll have to see how she looks once that's settled before we can decide.”

I felt exposed and helpless as a stranger was brought into the confidence of Jana's plans for me. But the revelations weren't ended. “She's on a weight gain program too,” Jana added. “She's put on over two stone since we met. She's still got about a stone to go before we hit the weight we agreed on. Really, I'd like more, but we do have to think about how practical it would be.”

Kaya seemed intrigued, pleased by Jana's revelations. She was curvaceous herself, and was complimentary about me. “She is a pretty little thing, Jana. Cute as a button. I love her hair.” She seemed to have slipped into a mode of speaking about me as if I wasn't there, objectifying me. I found myself blushing, unexpectedly excited.

“I've just cut it, coloured it, permed it. I mean we just got out of the salon, maybe thirty minutes ago. A few weeks ago she had hair past her waist, all natural. She's never going to have boring hair again, Kaya. I'll see to that.”

“She is pretty. You're very lucky to have her,” Kaya said wistfully.

“She has the most wonderful body now, so soft and curvy. Maybe she'd let you see it and play with it, but of course I would expect something in return.” Jana whispered something in Kaya's ear and she giggled embarrassedly.

“Baby, would you let Kaya play with your big boobies for ten minutes? If you say yes she'll give you a nice present.”

I knew this was a time when “No” was off limits, although it had taken my humiliation and shame to new regions. I didn't want to expose myself to a stranger. She was turning me into something like a whore.

Still, I nodded my agreement, mute with embarrassment. Kaya unzipped my dress, tugged it down to my waist, my arms still tangled in the fabric. She unhooked my bra and sighed as my breasts flopped free. “May I?” she asked, seemingly sharing some of my awkwardness.

“For the next ten minutes they're yours to do as you please. Just nothing too rough please, I don't want them covered in bruises.”

“I could never be rough with such a delicate little flower,” she laughed, weighing my breasts in her hands. “Poor little Bex, you look so scared. Haven't you done this sort of thing before?”

I shook my head.

“Rebecca, speak up. And address our guest as Miss Kaya.”

“Sorry,” I stammered. “I haven't, Miss Kaya.”

My new friend didn't reply since her lips had closed around my left nipple. She sucked at it gently, the tip of her tongue, flicking back and forth inside, tickling at the tip.

“She has a thing about her buzzed hair, Kaya,” Jana advised. “You should stroke her nape if you want her to get horny.”

I felt her fingers caressing my velvety nape and my head pushed back, seemingly through its own volition. I sensed Kaya's growing delight and she sucked more forcefully, then brought her tongue piercing against my nipple. I exclaimed a squeal at the surprise of the metallic contact.

Kaya smiled up at me, her face filled with bliss. She turned her attentions to my right breast. After ensuring that my nipples were engorged she pressed her face into my cleavage and lifted the heavy flesh to press against her cheeks.

She remained still for a full minute, then sighed loudly. “Oh, Jana, I want her so much.”

Jana laughed. “But so do I. I'm afraid you definitely can't have her.”

“Please let me do her piercings though. I won't even charge you. Just let me have some favours and I'll do anything you want.”

Jana looked deep into my eyes as she considered Kaya's offer. “Let's see how you do on this. Bex will have some say so you'd better make her enjoy it.”

What she meant was soon revealed. “It” was the fitting of my nipples with rings. Kaya had me lay on a bed where she tugged and pinched at my nipples, making me cry out (but I still experienced her attentions as pleasurable). She told me to keep quiet, since she was worried that she'd be fired if her boss became aware of what she was doing. Suddenly the playful interaction slid into something else. She rubbed my nipples with an alcoholic solution, the cold as it evaporated making my nipples firm and tighten, but as she made marks with a pen I suddenly realised her intention.

“Please, Jana...” I said, but she cut me off.

“Best behaviour now, baby blue. I want you to be brave and take this in silence.”

I gritted my teeth as a needle slid through my flesh, piercing the base of my nipple, but I couldn't take the pain without making a frustrated groan, frustrated because I wanted to scream and cry. It was the worst pain I'd felt, or so it seemed. The thick ring that soon dangled in my tender nipple nauseated me, all the more so because I knew that a second piercing was yet to come. A cold sweat broke out as I endured the sequel. I suppressed my vocalisations as much as possible but was far from silent, though never loud. I glanced at Jana for reassurance but her face was impassive and I looked away, sure that she was mad at my weakness.

Kaya wiped away the trickle of blood from my breast before loosely taping pads over my breasts to cover the fresh wounds. It was she who refitted my bra, and I knew she was taking pleasure from the manipulation of my breasts. I felt simultaneously used and thrilled. I had to admit that I liked Kaya, despite the pain she'd inflicted. If, as Jana had indicated, I'd have some choice in seeing her again, then I'd say yes, despite knowing that she would add more piercings.

“Nice work, Kaya,” Jana said. “Maybe I'll bring her back to you, or you could do a home visit. But you know I'm a hairdresser and your fee might be your hair.” Kaya had a lot of hair and she couldn't hide her discomfort, which had Jana laughing. “You did say you'd do anything! After all you saw how Bex likes buzzed hair so maybe she'd like to see you with yours cut as short as her nape, but all over your head.”

Kaya was too shocked to reply. Jana took one of her business cards and assured her that she'd be in touch. Kaya was thanked with a kiss from me and a kiss from Jana, who took me out without paying a penny for my new jewellery.

We went to a nearby café where I was treated to a drink and a sandwich. “I'm sorry, Bex,” Jana said. “I don't know what got into me. I shouldn't have let her touch you like that. I got carried away.”

I felt my cheeks reddening as I smiled at her. “I liked it,” I admitted. “But please don't make a habit of it. I liked it because I liked Kaya. If you let someone I didn't like do those things to me I'd be so hurt.”

Jana seemed genuinely surprised, but pleased. “Rebecca, you're such a slut,” she whispered in my ear, feigning shock. “And you have big rings in your nipples that will show through your clothes. What do you think people will think of you when they spot those?”

Her taunts made me blush all the more. “Do you want to see Kaya again?” she asked, more serious now. I looked at her shyly and nodded. “You do know that that will mean you'll get more piercings. You could end up with a lot. But you won't see her again till your face is healed. She'll be shocked at how different you look. Let's hope she still thinks you're pretty.”

Jana knew that reminding me of my imminent surgery provoked a response of dread, but I couldn't help getting turned on too. It was becoming an addiction for me; I craved fear because it thrilled me. “I will still be pretty, won't I?” I demanded, needing Jana to still my insecurity.

“You will, but it won't be a look everyone likes. That's how you want it to be now, isn't it, baby blue?” I nodded. “Anyway, maybe I'll let Kaya have some fun with you but I'll demand she lets me shave her head before she touches you.”

I gasped. “Jana, she has nice long hair. Don't shave it!”

She stroked at my neck and up onto the edge of my nape where only a couple of hours since she'd razored away my hair. “But this feels nice, doesn't it? Imagine having a lover whose whole head felt this soft and smooth and sexy. You would like it, wouldn't you, baby?” Of course she was right. The sensation of her fingers on my newly shaved skin had me fidgeting, wishing we were somewhere private. “So that's decided then. If Kaya is allowed to see you again she has to submit to a head shave. If you're going to be her whore you should at least have the self respect to demand a good price.”

Something changed on that day. Jana had revealed a new side to my sexuality, a desire to be degraded, to be used. In private she would whisper tales to me, stories where I'd become the plaything at an orgy, being used and tortured to delight others. I'd have to confess to her my response to every suggestion, whether it was something that I wanted, whether it repulsed me, whether it was something that scared me but nevertheless turned me on. The game was all the more dangerous because I knew she had contacts who could make almost everything she described become real, and I knew that soon I would experience some of the scenarios.

She was becoming ever more sensitive to my tastes, exploring my body to find how to lift my experience of pleasure to new heights. I was always surprised that her greatest pleasure was in seeing me driven to new ecstasies. I was a largely passive lover, infrequently called upon to pleasure her with my tongue. Jana seemed to prefer driving me to orgasm, which would induce a similar wave of pleasure within her. Nothing pleased me more than to feel the delight of a mutual orgasm with the woman I loved.

And still she adored seeing me binge. I was allowed to feast two or three times a week and my weight continued to grow, getting ever nearer to my target. I worried that Jana would forget her promise to maintain me at the agreed weight, knowing that part of her desired to see me become immensely fat. But as the desired weight became imminent Jana started to discuss how I could be allowed to still pleasure her by feasting without continuing to gain. When I was away from her I'd eat tiny meals, small portions of salad without dressing, for instance. I would only be allowed pleasure in my food in her presence, and I would be allowed to gorge at least twice a week. I would be weighed each day and the details of my diet would be adjusted to ensure a fairly constant weight.

I was displaying myself after a weighing, and Jana stroked my neck. “The fat rolls are getting more noticeable, baby. Do you remember what we said we'd do to control your neck fat?”

I nodded. “You said you'd corset my neck.”

“Did you think I'd forgotten? I don't forget anything. I made an appointment for you to see a specialist maker. We're going later but I think you should have a makeover to meet this lady. She's quite a famous figure in the fetish scene. She makes the most perfect medical equipment and you're very lucky that she's agreed to make some things for you.”

Jana had recently acquired a vintage barber chair which had been in rather poor condition. It had returned from a restorer a couple of days previously, reupholstered in soft black leather, the metal fittings polished, but still with a patina to show their age. Jana decided that I should sit on the padded plank that fitted over the arms of the chair to lift children to a more comfortable working height (I was barely over five feet tall).

I smiled nervously at my reflection. I was still unused to my curls which today formed a frizzy halo around my head, since Jana had told me to shower and dry them without product. Jana pumped the chair to raise my head into her hands, then pushed my head back into her naked bosom. Without preamble she took a razor to my eyebrows and dry shaved them.

I gave a distressed gurgle as I saw myself. “Oh Jana,” I murmured sadly. My dislike of what she'd done was tempered by the pleasure I saw burgeoning inside her. I knew that today would be challenging for me but I expected that a tempest of raw emotion would engulf me.

Jana said nothing as she brushed up my curls and pinned them free of the undercut. Even though it had been cut little more than a couple of weeks previously my undercut looked tired, with some regrowth of darker hair discolouring the pale blue. I sighed as the clippers were taken to my nape, buzzing in long slow strokes. It was only my third experience of clippers and each time I became less fearful, more attuned to feeling the pleasure of the sensation. “Are you cutting away all of the blue?” I asked dreamily.

Jana was intent on saying as little as possible. In answer she pushed my head to the side and pressed the blades in a trajectory from my cheek and up my temple.

“Oh shit, Jana, it's bald!” A strip of bare skin was left where the blades had passed. My head was forced down again, my chin pressed to my chest so that I could barely breathe.

“Tug on your rings,” Jana said, her voice toneless, but I was by now sufficiently receptive to her instruction to obey without hesitation. My nipples were still healing, tender and sensitive. Jana had played with my new piercings, but mostly fairly gently. I'd never been bold enough to test them, still, in truth, rather repulsed by touching my nipple rings. Now was the time I would have to learn to overcome my repugnance.

I could hear the blades crackle as they rose high at the back. I knew that the change in sound meant that they were meeting longer hair, that Jana was taking my undercut higher, that it was no longer and undercut but an undershave. I felt a chill pass through me as I imagined my short hair exposing a starkly shaved nape. “How severe it will look!” I thought. Every time Jana touched my hair I became more extreme, and this would push me to a new level. I was still uncomfortable with the attention my image received and I knew that my new haircut would be my most extreme. Yet I wouldn't beg for mercy. In private I loved how Jana had made me look, and my pleasure was multiplied by knowing how I pleased her aesthetic sensibility.

I felt overwhelmed as I looked at my new appearance as the clippers were turned off. I tugged at the rings to make my nipples sting. Somehow only pain could reassure me that I was strong enough to accept this. The effect of baldness was increased since all of my hair was pinned tightly atop my head, and with bald scalp all up the sides and shorn of eyebrows I looked like some freakish baby. I shivered as I saw Jana preparing a cup of white foam. She started to spread it across my nape with a soft bristle brush. The lather was hot and as it lay on my skin I could feel a strange cool tingling from the tea tree oil in the foam. After covering my scalp I had to endure the indignity of my cheeks, neck, chin, lips, being spread with the lather. I looked at Jana with hurt in my eyes.

“Don't pretend you haven't seen some downy hairs. Just because they're pale doesn't mean they're not there. You can have this every day now, baby.”

She used a four bladed safety razor to shave me, even re-shaving my eyebrows after dabbing on a little more lather. My face glowed, pink and shiny. Below the top of my head I was hairless except for my long eyelashes.

My hair was now anointed with a dark paste, the edges of my scalp smeared with Vaseline to ensure that it wouldn't be accidentally discoloured. “No bleaching, this time?” I dared ask.

“No, baby. You're not baby blue any more,” Jana smiled, but she'd give no more hints.

After the dye had had time to transform my colour I was taken to the bathroom to be rinsed. I sat on a stool as Jana attended to my hair. The wet curls were doused with setting lotion and swept back, meticulously fixed in place with a careful arrangement of long clips. I was taken back to the salon room but sat under the hood dryer, out of sight of the mirror, so still I had no clue as to my new colour.

Jana sat in my lap as my hair was baked into the new style and examined my nipples. “I saw how you got excited tugging on these. When Kaya comes to see you next I'm going to ask her about stretching the holes. You deserve bigger rings, don't you, baby?”

I nodded. “I think I'd like that,” I said, blushing with shame. Jana had taught me to accept that my nipple rings were a symbol of my sluttish personality. She reached to a shelf and brought out a box. Inside were a pair of huge rings, an inch and a half in diameter, the closing bead a third of an inch across. “These look good for now,” Jana smiled as she fitted them into my wounds, “but I would prefer something thicker and heavier.” She pulled them upwards, making me groan as they took the full weight of my ever larger breasts, but the pain was delicious.

Soon the dryer was lifted and I was taken back to the chair, but it was turned away from the mirror. I'd imagined that my hair was not to be cut today (with the exception of my shaved back and sides) but now my short fringe was cut. It was immediately apparent that Jana wasn't merely trimming the blunt line to neaten it. Her cutting was precise and careful as she formed the hair to a new shape. I felt the cold scissor tips high on my forehead, and I shivered as I realised that my fringe was being cut even shorter than on my last trip to the salon, when it was so short that I'd cried. Jana combed it through and made a few last snips to perfect the cut. She held her hand over my eyes as she fixed it in place with a liberal misting of hairspray.

Now the clips were eased out of my hair and with fingers and comb Jana delicately manipulated my still hair into the finished form. More hairspray, then make-up.

I gasped when I was turned to the mirror. My face was paler than ever, partly in contrast with my hair which was now black. My fringe had been cut to a peak at the centre of my forehead, low arches looping up symmetrically at either side. The top was set in stiff waves, very regimented, a perfect recreation of a thirties finger-waved look. The product was shiny, wet-looking. The full shaved area was visible at the sides (and Jana had extended the undershave so that it rose virtually to my crown). At the back my hair was stiffly fixed in a little curl and little of my bald nape was covered.

My make-up was almost as dramatic. My lips were a deep red, very matt, as was my pale face (Jana had applied make-up seamlessly across my scalp too and there was no indication of where my hair started to grow). A pale blue blusher had been subtly applied to cheeks and temples. My eyes were ringed by thick, smoky layers of black, the edges of upper lids given a sparkle with a black glitter. The inner edges of my lower lids were lined with a brilliant white, which seemed to make my eyes look huge, paler and bluer than ever before.

“It looks amazing,” I gasped as I tried to accept that the fat gothic girl I saw was me. “But can't you give me brows, please, Jana?” The absence of eyebrows was difficult for me to accept.

“Since you asked so nicely... No! And as a punishment you can remain browless for a week, even in work. You look gorgeous like this, baby. Don't ruin the moment with complaints.”

I knew better than to complain again when I was dressed, although the word is perhaps inappropriate given the scarcity of covering. I was allowed only a pair of leather hot pants and a bra top of the same material, the nipples cut away so that my heavy new rings poked through. I was locked (literally, the straps were fixed with tiny padlocks) into platform soled Mary Janes with five inch heels, and tottered awkwardly as I adjusted to the unfamiliar, and uncomfortable, experience of such tall heels.

I went out with Jana now, my outfit covered by a black trench coat which was only fastened by a belt. It was a breezy day and I was constantly on edge as I was aware that the coat could blow open and expose my shamefully revealing outfit. We made a long car journey but at the end of it walked for fifteen minutes through the busy streets of an unfamiliar city. I felt every eye taking in my appearance, the disapproval of all palpable, initially feeling cowed by this attention but as Jana whispered her love of my boldness, I felt my confidence grow, started to like my ability to shock, found myself returning the gaze of my accusers and seeing their weakness as they looked away. Even the derogatory comments shouted from a distance were laughed off.

We arrived at our destination, which was a medical supplies shop, but we entered through an alley, respecting the discretion of the owner who wanted to keep the different aspects of her business separated.

I was surprised to see that the proprietor was a woman of, I guessed, around sixty, well coiffed, with blonde hair set in an old fashioned style, but flattering for all that. She was quite conservatively dressed, but the tightness of her skirt, her buttoned up silk blouse, her tall spiked heels subtly suggested something kinky.

She greeted Jana warmly, but her demeanour altered as she addressed me. “So this is the little fat sub?” she asked, a harshness in her tone which immediately made me feel nervous of her. “Take off your coat and let me see what I'm working with.” I slipped out of the coat and let it fall to the floor. She gazed at me with a disconcerting directness. “Tell me about her weight gain.”

“We're going to maintain her weight at sixteen and a half stone, Doctor Green,” Jana explained. I was unsure whether her title was a mark of respect or whether she was indeed a doctor. “She's currently just below sixteen, but we should hit the target within two weeks.”

“How tall is she?”

“Just a fraction over five foot. We started the program almost as soon as we met. I had her eating informally before she was weighed, but in total I think she's going to have gained about fifty pounds by the end.”

“Very good,” the doctor said. “She's quite the little piggy, isn't she? I hope your mistress denies you in other ways, fatty.”

“Not really, Doctor,” I said shyly. “I'm very obedient but she indulges me very much.”

Jana seemed embarrassed by the Doctor's disapproval. “I did shave off most of her hair. She had lovely long hair when we met.”

I couldn't suppress a little purr as the Doctor ran her hand over my nape. I'd hardly come to terms with its baldness and every touch was shocking and overwhelming. “That's a good start. But if you take my advice you'll complete the job. She'll be much better for you in the long term if you treat her more strictly. A bald head and six months in a chastity device will make her yours for life.”

“I will give your suggestions some thought,” Jana said to placate her interrogator.

“You want it, don't you Piggy? I can see it in your eyes. Shall I put you in long term chastity tonight and shave the rest of your silly hair off?”

I was terrified of her and nodded. “I'd be pleased to accept it if my Mistress willed it, Doctor.”

Doctor Green laughed. “You see, she knows what's best. You youngsters dabble at dominance, with no respect for tradition. You'd do well to come and serve an older domme for a few months as an apprentice. You'd learn that this is no joke.”

Jana nodded meekly. “I'm not sure I have the discipline to be an apprentice but I would like to learn. I'd love to get to know some of the people you respect and learn from them.”

“I'll make some introductions, dear. It's good to remain humble and see that you have things to learn. Even the best dominants need to retain humility, not that it needs to be shown before their subs,” she winked.

She came behind me and had me hold my arms out, level with shoulders as she put a tape measure to work, recording my girth at hips, waist (if you could call it a waist), under breasts. “So she's going to be about half a stone heavier?” she asked Jana, who nodded. “OK, I'll make the corset a little more generous than her current dimensions, but not much. You want it firm rather that painfully constrictive?”

“Yes, I want her to be able to wear it for extended periods in social settings.”

Now the Doctor started to measure my neck. As she brushed against my nape a little moan came forth.

“She is sensitive. When did Jana shave you?”

“This morning, Doctor. I'm sorry for my lack of control, I'm still unused to it.”

She seemed intrigued. “You had long hair till this morning?”

“Oh, no Doctor, it was already short on the undercut. I'd never been shaved before though.”

She caressed my temples longingly. “I do remember back in the seventies there was a group of subs at a club I used to visit. They were all kept bald. Of course, then it wasn't acceptable for a woman to be bald in public and they all wore wigs. Some of them were very well connected business women, it would have been very difficult if their shaved heads had become public knowledge. I used to love seeing them humbled when they entered, having their wigs removed. The world has changed and women don't feel the same degree of humiliation from being shaved as those women did. I do sometimes regret how society has changed. Maybe there was something valuable in the conformity back then.”

She laughed to dispel her wistfulness. “You must think I'm a crazy old woman. There are virtues to our new freedoms. What plans do you have for little piggy?”

“Oh, lots. She's going to have surgery to alter her facial features. And quite a lot of tattoos. Those will be the big projects for the next few months.” The Doctor stared into my eyes as Jana spoke.

“Poor little piggy, that scares you, doesn't it? You don't like permanent changes, do you?”

“I...” I tried to frame an answer that put my conflicting emotions into place, but the immensity of the task was too much. “No, Doctor. It scares me,” I admitted. “But I trust Jana completely and I'll do as she asks of me.”

The Doctor's expression soured. “She calls you Jana. Too familiar! You need to give her to someone for training. She'd be a real sub when she came back to you. Please consider it. I have two or three people in mind to fix her.”

“I will consider it, Doctor. She's just so lovely though. I like her as she is and I'd miss her terribly. But I will study your suggestion. She likes it when other people use her and it might be good to train her to act properly around other dommes.”

“Not good, essential. I'm glad to see you're recognising the value of training.”

Jana nodded demurely and gave the Doctor her most winning smile.

Now that my neck had been measured I was to be fitted for my neck corset. I still had no idea what was in store for me, having promised Jana that I wouldn't search out information. My neck was enclosed in a large neck brace of padded leather over a rigid metal frame. I immediately felt claustrophobic, almost panicking. Jana had mentioned that she expected me to wear the device for extended periods but it felt horribly restrictive. The top was pressed firmly against my jaw and the base of my skull, completely removing the possibility of moving my head, which was held in an upwardly tilted posture.

“This isn't a bad fit,” the Doctor explained, “but I would make one from scratch to fit perfectly.”

“It'll be comfortable for extended wear?” Jana asked.

“Yes and no. The padding will mean no chafing, but the posture isn't comfortable. It's quite impractical and it can cause neck ache, headaches in some.”

“I suppose that's inevitable,” Jana smiled. “Rebecca wanted to ask you something about it.”

I blushed. “Will it help to reduce the fat on the back of my neck and my double chin?” I asked I realised it was so tight that I had to speak through clenched teeth. The Doctor looked at me witheringly, as if I had no right to have vanity.

“It is something I'd like to reduce too,” Jana said soothingly.

“It... could, I suppose, but I can't make any guarantees. You would have to wear it a lot though to get any benefit. I mean several hours each day. I'm not sure sleeping in it would be very comfortable. I could include extra padding through the throat and up the nape. It would feel very snug.”

“Lovely, let's do that.”

“You want to go for the deluxe model? That's the one with adjustment of the head angle and extenders to allow the tension between the yoke and the head support to be adjusted.”

Jana agreed that this was necessary and left me alone as she went to view the finish options on the Doctor's laptop.

Five weeks had elapsed, but the time had passed all too soon given the changes I'd undergone. Jana had booked my surgery but my employer refused to grant me sufficient leave (three weeks were requested to allow recovery time). As a result I'd tendered my resignation.

Jana had been very busy, making two trips during this period to work on a photo shoot, then on a catwalk show. The absence of three days for the first trip was difficult, for a week during the second unendurable, but it did serve to demonstrate how close to, how dependent on, Jana I was.

Now I was in her car, heavily sedated, moaning whenever the car made a sudden movement. My body was bruised and sore, and I'd spent a night more in the clinic than planned, due to the amount of swelling I'd suffered. I wanted nothing more than to be in my own bed, to take enough meds to allow me to sleep. I knew that sleep was my only friend during recovery. I spent most of the journey barely aware of my surroundings (the pain medication had left me confused and sleepy) but became suddenly aware that we'd turned off the motorway far from home.

Jana's intentions soon revealed themselves and soon I was walking agonisingly toward Doctor Green's shop. I pleaded with Jana to spare me this, complained that I felt terribly ill.

“Baby, I know you've endured a lot but we won't be here long. We need your appliances to be fitted during your recovery, so there's no way around this. Just be a good girl and show me how brave you can be with the Doctor.”

I had to display myself for the Doctor but was too sore to be able to undress without assistance. She stared at me with her customary gaze, clinical, intimidating.

“I'm having trouble seeing what exactly you've had done. Her face is just bruising and oedema at the moment, isn't it? Talk me through the procedures.”

Jana smiled at me proudly. “I decided at the last minute to go for the breast enhancement. I was going to just have them lifted so that the nipples pointed up but I wanted her tits to be less affected by gravity, so they got bigger too.”

“Yes, they are very big,” the doctor said. I couldn't say whether she approved, so deadpan was her response. I was sufficiently diffident that I imagined she thought my new breasts were vulgar.

“Most of the work was on her face,” Jana continued. “The rhinoplasty was fairly radical. I wanted a very cute little nose.”

“May I?” the Doctor asked but she was easing the dressing free without awaiting a reply. “Oh, it's so swollen. Even so, I can see that her nose is going to be different. The end is turned up?”

Jana nodded happily. This information had been unknown to me.

The Doctor laughed. “It's so nice that you gave her a piggy nose. I do hope you'll bring her back when she's healed.”

Jana promised to comply with her request, then continued to describe my transformation. “I've had her eyes altered. The inside has been tucked to form an epicanthal fold and the outer corner has been lifted to give an almond shape. Her eyes should look bigger though. I love her huge eyes and I wanted to make them look even bigger.

“Her lips were the other big area of work. There are some tucks inside, so that her mouth is narrower now. The tissue was removed to sculpt the top lip into a deep cupid bow and the lower lip will have a deep furrow at the centre. She's had fat implanted to replace the lost tissue and to make her lips fuller.”

“I seem to remember she already had quite pouty lips,” the Doctor said. “Won't it look too much?”

“Oh, I do hope so,” Jana laughed. “I didn't spend all this money to have her looking subtly different. But the surgeon is very good and I saw predictions of how it will look. Her mouth will look very pretty, I can assure you. I'm sure you'll want to kiss her when you see her healed.

“The other work was to fit implants on her cheekbones and on her chin. She has a lovely pointed chin now, very fine and delicate, and even though her cheeks have got very rounded with her weight gain she'll still have nice broad cheekbones giving her face a nicely balanced structure.”

“She still has her braces,” the Doctor noted. “Are those coming off soon?”

“They are, but they haven't been very successful. The dentist says they should stay on for longer, maybe a year more, but I've lost patience. They're coming off next week.”

The relief of knowing I'd lose my braces was scant consolation. I'd not been allowed to know in any detail what had been done to my face and I felt devastated to hear how radically different I would look. I didn't have time to dwell on my plight, as the doctor insisted that she press on with my fitting.

I was laced into a corset, a rigid structure of black leather and red silk. As the Doctor pressed it into place I started to cry as it lifted my breasts. They were by far the greatest cause of post-operative pain and the pressure against them was unbearable.

“Please Jana, that hurts so much. Can't this wait?” I sobbed. Her reply was cut short by the Doctor.

“I know you're in pain but this is necessary. Stop being such a baby. This suffering will make you grow. A sub who can't tolerate pain is worthless. Are you worthless, Rebecca?” I nodded. That's exactly how I felt about myself.

“No, silly. You're the prettiest girl in the world, or at least you will be once your wounds heal,” Jana said proudly.

The corset became a source of even greater pain as Doctor Green pulled on the laces. My breasts were lifted even more painfully and I felt my belly being compressed. Jana made a long sigh. “Oh, I love it! She has a waist. I can't believe how lovely it makes her figure look. Baby, I just want to eat you all up, you look so delicious.”

I wanted to be happy, was at some level, but the corset caused me agony. The Doctor seemed in a hurry and wanted my neck corset to be fitted immediately. However, as she took it from the box a thought occurred.

“Her hair is a little neglected. I think it would be more comfortable if her nape were bald again. Rebecca, you like the feeling of soft leather on bald nape, don't you? Ask your mistress nicely to shave you.”

It was true that my hair hadn't been cut since Jana had given me my gothic look, and even my undershave had gone over two weeks without attention, due to Jana's trip away and my surgery. My perm had softened too and the regrowth meant that some of the lift had been lost. I looked at Jana and felt my lusts awaken for the first time since I'd gone under the knife. The Doctor's description of soft leather on bald nape was indeed alluring.

Jana clippered my undercut at the back, fading it higher up my nape, and as I bowed my head I was aware of looking down at a huge bosom, absurdly large and unnatural. I felt shame as I tried to comprehend that these inflated globes were now part of me.

My thoughts were interrupted as Jana's delicate fingers spread my stubble with a viscous lather, smooth and aromatic. “Still not going to shave the top too, Jana?” the Doctor said with regret.

“Maybe one day. I want her to enjoy it and you're not ready for that yet, are you baby?”

“No Miss Jana,” I whispered. I tried to imagine how I could ever like being completely bald. Even if the sensation of a bald head would excite me (and I knew it would) the image of myself in the mirror would make me lose every shred of belief in myself.

“Too soft,” the Doctor muttered, venting her frustration.

“I know, but I'm so happy.” Even though Jana was behind me, gently pulling the razor over the rasping stubble I could sense her smile. Despite my pain I was more in love with her than ever. I would do anything to maintain her happiness.

I blushed as a soft towel wiped away the traces of lather. I adored feeling my scalp newly shaved, so sensitive, so clean. The days in bed had left me feeling cramped and dirty and this shave had made me feel alive again.

Now I lifted my head to allow Doctor Green to fit my neck corset. My breathing was rapid and shallow as it snapped closed. I looked at Jana fearfully. Surely this wasn't the correct fit. It seemed to press too firmly at my jaw, which was sore and swollen. And the softly padded leather lining moulded itself to my neck, pressing firmly over every inch of my neck. It was so constricting that I felt I couldn't breathe. I couldn't wear this.

“How does it feel, baby?” Jana asked.

“Too tight,” I complained. “I can't breath.”

“I can see why you call her baby,” the Doctor said cynically. “I do think that it's a bit tight around her jaw, given the swelling. I'll show you how to adjust that now. Once she's healed, this setting should be fine.”

Jana, under the Doctor's tutelage, worked at the ratchets at the sides of the collar and I felt the tension on my jaw slowly reduce. “That better?” Jana smiled. I agreed it was. I could even open my jaw a little now.

“The inside is very tight though. I'm having trouble breathing.”

The Doctor had me stand and placed her hands on my flanks. “Breathe in... Breathe out...” she instructed. “No, there's no problem with breathing, you silly girl. It's all in your head. You really should be punished for imagining problems where there are none.”

Jana nodded. “I'll make her wear all this for our journey home. The discomfort will be sufficient punishment.” I looked at her with tears in my eyes. Would I really have to be seen in public like this, not to mention the pain that my collar and corset caused my damaged body.

As I left Doctor Green my new acquisitions were fixed in place with locks. An ill fitting crop top was stretched over my breasts, and a short skirt (barely) covered my shame. I was struggling to walk in the heels that Jana had supplied: my head was tilted back and I was unable to look at the ground before me. I had to take Jana's arm to support myself as I made my way back to the car. I felt ashamed as I saw passers by taking in my appearance with shock. “Just smile,” Jana insisted, but my lips were too sore to allow a smile.

By the following week my recovery was progressing, yet still I was suffering. Each day I was being weaned off my pain medication and as a result the soreness seemed no better. I knew that the swelling had reduced (I spent much of the day in an ice mask to help) but Jana told me that the bruising still badly discoloured my face, told me because I was forbidden to look in a mirror (and was pleased at this decision, sure that seeing myself before I was healed would be too traumatic). My collar and corset were used for six hours each day, each moment when I was constricted adding to my torment, but Jana's pleasure at seeing me corseted made me willingly accept this torture.

When I was taken to the dentist I was nervous, but less so than usual. At last the embarrassing braces would be removed, and I had no regrets about that. The dentist was surprised to see the extent of my surgery and examined the wounds in my mouth. The stitches around my mouth had become tight and as she manipulated my lips I groaned. “They're about ready to come out,” she said. “All healed well but I can see they must be uncomfortable. Still I think we'd best leave them in till all the treatment is done. I'm afraid I'm going to have to fit a lip retractor and it'll make your lips sting.”

As my lips were stretched into a big oval, I realised that she'd understated the pain I had to endure. I had to hold Jana's hand to help me bear the pain; the wounds were drawn tight and the stitches felt like they were sawing through my flesh. I groaned with relief as I saw the braces being pulled free.

Something was wrong. The dentist said she'd get right on with the treatment and I lay in pained horror as she injected my gums with anaesthetic. I had no idea what was happening. I saw her prepare a drill and felt panic. I squeezed Jana's hand furiously, looked at her to stop this error. Surely my teeth were fixed now. “Maybe she does need that sedative,” Jana said, staring into my eyes. I felt an injection in my arm and remembered nothing till I was home.

I woke and licked at my teeth. The front surface was eroded, rough. I was suddenly wide awake, back into the nightmare. Jana was across the room, working on her laptop. She smiled at me. “Feeling OK?”

“What did she do to my teeth?” I asked.

“She's ground away the front surfaces to make them nice and level. You don't have the slightest crookedness any more.”

“But they feel horrible, all rough.”

Jana laughed. “They look even worse! You do look a fright, baby. Smile for me.”

I tried to do as she asked and realised that my lips felt more mobile. The stitches which had held them so tight were gone. Jana winced as my teeth were revealed by my smile.

“You look like zombie Bex,” she laughed. “Bruises and fright teeth. Poor little baby.”

I started to cry. “Why did she ruin my teeth?”

Jana kissed me gently, her tongue slipping between my lips to explore the dull surface of my incisors. ���They're not ruined. You'll have the most perfect teeth in a few days. She's giving you veneers. Your teeth will be even and white and you'll have a lovely smile again.”

It was four days later when I returned to the dentist. My teeth had been hypersensitive since the previous visit and I'd relied on Jana applying oil of cloves to contain the pain. I'd barely eaten either, so uncomfortable was I with chewing, and this had made Jana very frustrated. My weight had dipped markedly since my surgery despite my lack of activity.

I ran my tongue over the new teeth and was thrilled to feel an even, smooth surface, more even than ever before. The dentist looked satisfied as she examined my smile and reached for a mirror. “Please don't,” Jana said. “She hasn't seen herself since her surgery and I want her to see herself without bruising. I'll put some make-up on her later and she can see her new face.”

The dentist smiled. “You have such a thoughtful girlfriend. I bet she's been looking after you.”

“She always takes care of me,” I said lovingly.

We didn't head back home, but instead drove to the salon. I looked at Jana with trepidation. For the first time people I knew (if only slightly) would see my new features, and that made me deeply uncomfortable. “I'm going to give you a new haircut and colour,” Jana said, “then do your make-up. The swelling is almost gone and if we cover up the bruising we'll see your new face properly for the first time.”

I entered the salon through the back door. Before I was allowed to enter the shop I was corseted and dressed in a low cut black dress. “Oh baby, just look at you,” Jana purred. “That cleavage makes me want to lose myself inside you. You're so sexy.”

I was still blushing as I was taken inside and promenaded before Jana's friends. Their surprise at my new appearance was certainly genuine, but I felt their compliments were hollow, made to satisfy Jana, who was clearly popular. I still sensed that they found her choice of partner beyond reason.

I was glad when I no longer had to display myself and I could relax in Jana's chair, although relax is a relative term, given the tightness of the corset. My posture was controlled by the rigid stays which forced my flesh to conform to a new shape.

The mirror was covered and I knew I would have to undergo my makeover without seeing Jana's work. She combed through my hair, which had become unkempt in recent weeks, for the first time since I'd met Jana. “Short hair today, my baby. I want something off your face to show off your new features very clearly. It's going to be quite a bold look. Do you think you can live with it?”

I knew she was taunting me, trying to add to my fear. And she was winning. Despite all that had been done to me in the recent past I was still afraid to have my hair cut short. I'd accepted a bald back and sides, yet the top had still been a bob (short as it was). Now I knew that all of my hair would be cropped close.

“Head down,” Jana ordered. I complied without thought. The comb slid up my nape and scissors clicked rapidly. The lower part of my nape was still so short that barely any hair would protrude past the tines of a comb, but little flecks of hair started to dust the cape as Jana worked higher at the back. She snipped at the back repeatedly, and the sensation, the sounds became hypnotic. I found myself lulled into a trance state, which Jana's silence did nothing to dispel.

Now my head was lifted and tilted toward my right shoulder as Jana continued to snip over the comb, taking the side back to a neatly cropped length. I felt Jana pausing and she caressed my nape. A finger traced a line about half way up my ears.

“Your collar rises to here, baby. Would you like me to shave you this high? A hard line cut into your hair, all smooth below it?”

I shivered as I imagined the effect. The cutting so far had taken my hair very short, but I knew Jana was taking care to leave the cut soft and feminine. A shaved nape would look severe, brutal even.

“Poor Bex, you don't know what to say, do you? You want to feel the lovely smooth shaved scalp but you're afraid how it will look.” I nodded. She understood my turmoil. “It only confuses you when I offer choices. You should have fewer choices in your life. That's how you will be happy, isn't it, baby?”

“Yes Jana,” I smiled, blushing. “You decide what's best for me.”

“Always, Rebecca.” I felt the tips of the scissors touch my scalp, rapidly snapping open and closed, cutting my hair to the skin, tracing a line across the back. Now there was a high whirring sound, the trimmers, not clippers. Jana put the blades to the scissored line and drew them down. She blew away some of the hairs that had gathered, blew to let me feel her breath on my bared scalp, then sheared away more hair.

I felt her fingers stroke my nape, so bald now. “Oh, that feels good, baby.” Her voice was breathy and excited. “I got new trimmers and they cut almost as close as a razor. Feel it.” She interlaced her fingers with mine and together we explored my bare scalp.

“You like to feel the leather against your bare skin, don't you?” I nodded, enraptured. “Before too long I'm going to shave your head fully, baby. And I'm going to have you a hood made of kid skin. The softest leather, like used in gloves. It'll stretch tight over your scalp, like a second skin. You want to know how it feels, don't you?”

She cupped the warm palm of her hand around my nape and I dreamed that it was the hood she'd described, slowly being swept over my head, adhering to the newly shaved skin. “I do, Jana,” I whispered ecstatically.

“One day your dreams of experiencing it will become too much and you'll ask me to shave your head. You can keep some hair until then. The choice will be torture,” she said with a mischievous laugh.

Jana returned to her concentrated, silent demeanour as she recommenced cutting. My crown was being shorn close, still cropped scissor over comb. I was becoming alarmed that no length seemed to be spared on top. I tried to imagine myself with a crop where my hair was no longer than a centimetre. But how could I imagine how it would look when I had, unseen, the features of a stranger?

Frizzy curls tumbled now. I knew that Jana was cutting so short that all of the permed hair was being taken. I silently prayed that she'd relent, show some mercy and leave a little length, softness and femininity through the front. I was rewarded as she combed out a section and gripped it in her fingers before cutting it short. It was probably not more than an inch, but even this seemed a triumph, given how short the rest was.

Once the cut was completed (and Jana had cropped me with notable speed) my hair was covered in bleach. “We're going to do something special with the colour,” she assured me. “But we have to get that black out first.”

After bleaching Jana applied the dye, brushing on colour from five different bowls. I could feel a longer section of hair at the front which had been spared the scissors, but couldn't make sense of how these curls would work with my crop. I'd find out soon, I was sure. When my hair was styled, Jana shaped the longer disconnected hair with tongs: I'd still have a curl to remind me that I'd been permed.

I awaited the revelation of my new image nervously. The make-up had taken longer than ever, and the delay had only intensified my angst. “A little present,” Jana smiled as she looked at her work. “Ever worn contact lenses?” I shook my head.

She pulled down my lower eyelid and told me to look up. I groaned as I saw her finger approach my eye. I was squeamish about eyes and every part of me wanted to resist this, but somehow I couldn't disappoint Jana. I wailed as I felt something cool being dabbed onto my eye. “Blink,” she instructed. I felt the lens slip into place.

“Does it hurt?” she asked. I shook my head. I was aware of something in my eye but it was hardly uncomfortable. “Then stop pulling that aggrieved face!” The second lens was inserted.

Jana fiddled nervously with my hair. I realised that she was more than excited, she was fearful too. I was about to see what I'd become and she was afraid I wouldn't like the face she'd designed for me.

And after so many weeks without a mirror I was looking at myself. I felt a terrible coldness grip me, a shock of dislocation. I wouldn't have recognised myself in a photograph. My face was differently shaped, broader, angular cheekbones protruding through my soft cheeks, and my chin tapered to a delicate point. My nose was tiny, unnaturally so. It was perfectly shaped, however, delicate and button-like, the tip turned up delicately. I'd been fearful of looking piggy after the Doctor's comments, but, mercifully, I wasn't.

My eyes were the hardest change to accept. I'd always had large eyes, but now they seemed even bigger, drawn up at the outer corner. The inside was reshaped and the new shape, a fold concealing the innermost corner, suggested something Asian about my ancestry. I blinked to reassure myself that this girl was me. Her long false lashes fluttered in confirmation.

The contact lenses were a deep blue, and they were far larger that my natural irises, the colour now covering an area of sclera. They added to the exaggerated nature of my features. I'd been turned into a living anime girl, it appeared.

And my lips: so full and pouting now, narrowed by the surgery. The inside of my upper lip was distinctly different, formed into a bow-like form. Jana had painted my lips with a metallic peachy shade, with a soft plum colour subtly blended in at the margins. There was so much gloss that they looked like they were dripping with syrup.

My entire face was boldly coloured, my eyes outlined in black, with upper lids gleaming with a mixture of purple and violet, the lower lid softly accentuated with a soft pink. My brows were thick and angular, but not too dominant because they were marked in a pale indigo (my natural brows were still absent).

And if my face wore an abundance of colour, my hair was no less flamboyant. The short crop was mostly dyed a peacock blue, with the sideburns shading into a watery green. All of the emphasis was on the front of my hair: my wispy fringe swept up on the left side into a long curl, which tumbled softly beside my eye. The curl was a mixture of blue, green and yellow, fine strands discretely coloured.

It was all rather too much for me to take in, and I could only see myself as a series of fragments. I'd been staring for some time at my face before I even became aware of my new body, which I was seeing in a mirror for the first time. The corset altered my silhouette radically, and my hips and thighs looked enormous in contrast to my tightly bound abdomen. But it was my huge breasts which were the biggest change, lifted by the corset, the rings in my nipples obvious under the stretched fabric of my dress.

“You look beautiful, baby,” Jana whispered. I could hear her nervousness, her need to be reassured that I shared her pleasure in what I'd become.

“I am,” I sighed. “I do like it, Jana, but...” She looked at me, her face filled with emotion. “Oh, Jana, I'm going to cry. It's all too much...” And I began sobbing. I had to sit down, so weak that I thought I might faint. The girl I'd seen was beautiful, but she wasn't me. How could I ever accept that the girl I'd always been no longer existed? Would I ever look in a mirror and feel comfortable to see these features that I now wore?

I could barely recall my journey home. I was still sobbing when we entered and Jana put me to bed, having urged me to take a tablet to calm me. I woke much later, feeling a strange dullness which I knew was a result of the pill. I took myself to the bathroom and stared in the mirror, which was now uncovered. Jana had cleaned my face of all cosmetics and I saw my new face unadorned. My nose and eyes were still mottled with yellow and brown bruises, and free of make-up I looked even more extraordinary. My eyes, my lips, my nose were all slightly beyond the natural and in combination I looked decidedly weird. I tried to like my new self but soon I was crying again.

Jana was soon consoling me, but as she put her arms around me she started to sob too. “Oh, my sweet little baby, what have I done? I went too far and I've made you so unhappy. I don't know what to do!”

“I just need to get used to it,” I said. “It's a shock, but you haven't made me unhappy.”

She pressed me tighter to her. “You're trying to make me feel better, but you can't see yourself without tears. How can you say you're not unhappy?”

“Jana, it's the first time I've seen you doubt yourself. You were unsure even before I saw myself. You have to show me you believe.”

“So you're saying it's my fault?”

“Yes,” I smiled. She looked shocked. “Well, I can't say no, can I?”

She laughed and kissed me. “I mean it though. You have to show me that you have absolute faith in my changes, and don't allow me to have doubts. I find it easier when you're firm with me.”

Jana stared into my eyes and her sadness was gone. “I must never be soft with you again. I do love you so much, Rebecca.” She turned me to the mirror and stood behind me. “Look at that girl, she's the sexiest girl I ever saw. She has the cutest little button nose, and big sexy eyes. And her lips just make me want to kiss them all the time. But she's not perfect yet. She's lost weight and I want to see her fill out again. And I want her pierced more and heavily tattooed.” I gasped at Jana's forcefulness. “You'll do everything I want, won't you? And soon.”

“Yes, Jana,” I whispered breathlessly. She kissed my nape and I groaned ecstatically. It had been too long since I'd felt a surge of erotic energy.

“You have the most expensive teeth of anyone I know, but you haven't eaten anything with them. We need to put that right immediately, don't we?” I agreed to a feast in Jana's honour.

We ate an Indian meal, enough food for four, but Jana ate modestly. I'd been unable to muster an appetite following surgery but now Jana insisted that I had to finish everything. Only her persuasiveness could have made me eat more than half of the food she'd provided, yet somehow I emptied every plate. By the end I was filled to Jana's satisfaction.

She kissed me and licked food from my face, which should have repelled me, but somehow made me excited. “Do you remember Kaya?” Jana asked. I'd sensed she'd had something on her mind for the past hour but only now was she sharing her ideas.

“The piercer? Of course.” I blushed as I recalled my abuse at her hands, and realised I was twisting my earlobe, tugging at the piercings she'd given me.

“It's time you got some more work from her. Why don't you give her a call and see if you can't persuade her to come around here one night later this week?”

I was handed Jana's phone, already ringing out to Kaya's number. She answered promptly.

I felt shy and nervous as she said hello. Was I to offer myself to her again? “Hello, Kaya. It's Rebecca. Do you remember me?” She obviously didn't, but then Rebecca is a common enough name. “You pierced my nipples. You played with them a lot first.”

Kaya made a little shocked exclamation. “It's been so long. I didn't think I'd hear from you again. Is Jana well.”

“She is, she's here with me. She thinks it's time you gave me more piercings. Wouldn't you like to come to our home and play with me?” Jana was whispering suggestions in my ear, making me blush with shame. “You can have your way with me. A full hour of freedom to use me as you please. And you should know that my tits got much bigger since we met. Does that please you?”

Kaya sounded like she didn't know what to do with herself. “Yes, Rebecca,” she said, stumbling over her words. “I'd like to meet you very much.”

“Tomorrow night good for you?” She agreed to visit at seven and I told her our address. “You have to provide all the jewellery for my piercings, and of course there was the other fee that Jana mentioned to you.”

“What?” she asked innocently. She'd clearly forgotten Jana's threat.

“Your hair. It's Jana's to do with as she pleases if you want to see me.” I could hear her fear, sympathised with her plight, but at the same time shared Jana's delight in her discomfort.

She tried to negotiate how much could be done but Jana whispered my response. “It's no use, Kaya. If you want me to be yours tomorrow you have to agree to her conditions. Do we still have an appointment?”

She paused as she tried to judge whether she should agree to this but I had no doubts about what she'd say. She was hooked and no matter how much she tried to behave rationally she couldn't fight off her desire. “Yes, I'll be there for seven,” she sighed.

Our guest arrived exactly two minutes early. Jana answered the door and brought her inside. I smiled shyly as she entered. Jana had made me display myself naked on the sofa to ensure that any resistance that lingered in Kaya would be eroded. “Oh, dear god, look at you, Bex,” she gasped. She'd demonstrated that she had a weakness for breasts already and she was entranced by the transformation mine had undergone. She came to kneel before me and slowly extended her hand.

“Uh-uh!” Jana said, blocking her touch. “You know the price for my little princess.” She made a scissoring action with her fingers.

Kaya had clearly gone to some effort to make her long hair look good. Was it a fond farewell to her thick locks, a last chance to enjoy her beautiful hair, or did she think by making it look its best she could make Jana take pity on her and spare her tresses?

A few minutes later her hopes were fading quickly. She was caped and Jana had laid out her tools on a table in her victim's view: combs, brushes, scissors, clippers, trimmer, razors. “Kaya, darling, do you want me to try some pretty styles on you or do you wish me to get you through to your finished look quickly so that you can enjoy your prize?”

“What is the finished look?” Her voice barely sounded, a faint whisper.

“You're going to be bald, of course,” Jana smiled malevolently.

Kaya whimpered pathetically. “Please, that wasn't what we said. Leave me some hair.”

“You're trying to negotiate again. Rebecca, you can get dressed and show our guest out.”

“No, please, Jana. I just... I mean how do I explain going in to work tomorrow with a bald head?”

“I don't really care about tomorrow, but I do want you to have a night you'll remember forever. And don't think tonight will be the last time Rebecca will offer herself to you. Unless of course you walk out now, in which case our relationship is ended forever.”

I looked at her with pity. She was a lovely young woman and Jana was treating her cruelly. Yet I couldn't deny that Jana's and my own desires were identical. “Kaya, you'll look more beautiful than ever. My hair was even longer than yours.”

“Yes, but you're not bald,” Kaya objected, reasonably enough.

Jana took Kaya's hand and put it to my nape, which she'd shaved only an hour previously. “Doesn't that feel delicious, Kaya. Are you really going to deny yourself the pleasure of feeling your head shaved once in your life? Or were you just trying to make Bex get her head shaved too?”

The poor girl didn't know what to say. She just ran her fingers over my soft, smooth nape, obviously pleased by what she felt.

“Don't just have it all shaved off at once, Kaya,” I urged. “Let's have some fun with your hair. Let Jana be creative with you. I'll be here to make it fun for you, I promise.”

Kaya's indecisiveness only seemed to increase as she threw down a few measures of vodka, which were supposed to increase her resolve. But if she couldn't make a clear decision then she was less resistant too. Jana was anything but indecisive. She told Kaya to sit and turned on the clippers. Moments later, the side of Kaya's head was buzzed close to her scalp. I was stunned to see that no guard had been left on the clippers and her long hair was reduced to fine stubble.

She looked sick and asked for a mirror. I held one before her and she moaned sadly. “It's really bald,” she gasped.

“It looks good,” I smiled and kissed the shorn scalp. “Oh Kaya, it feels lovely. Let her do a bigger sidecut.”

A few minutes later the shorn area extended higher up the side and around the back of Kaya's delicate ear, which, appropriately for someone of her profession, was heavily laden with piercings. Jana wasn't content with the closeness of the cut and insisted on lathering her scalp, then shaved it smooth with a straight razor.

Kaya's emotional state lurched between extremes. The razor brought a new wave of fear, just as she seemed to be relaxing into drawing some pleasure from her haircut. I provided another generous measure of vodka to quell her nerves. I knew that she'd be drunk by the time Jana was finished.

“Oh Kaya, that looks so sexy,” I gushed as Jana wiped her scalp clean. “You should have done it ages ago to show off your piercings. And it feels better than it looks.” I caressed her soft scalp then leaned in to kiss it. I'd been exaggerating my enthusiasm to seduce Kaya into letting Jana have her way, but now I started to feel genuinely aroused. Kaya's sideshave looked wonderful.

She blushed at the compliments, stroked the bald scalp nervously. She agreed to Jana's request for some photographs. As Jana recorded this transitory style she said: “Mohawk next, Kaya. That will make you look so sexy!”

Kaya was putty in her hands now, but she was also drinking at an alarming rate. I was supposed to be receiving piercings from this woman. I whispered my concerns to Jana. “Yes, she's in no state to pierce you. Never mind, she can always come back another night.” Jana winked at me and I blushed to think that Kaya would start to visit regularly.

Soon we were all naked. I couldn't hide my excitement at seeing Kaya's body, nor could I feel comfortable with Jana present. Jana had a beautiful body, slim, toned, soft, but Kaya was much heavier and had a lot of tattoos. There was an earthiness to her beauty that contrasted with Kaya's but which I found irresistible. I found myself looking at Jana, afraid that if I showed my enthusiasm she'd be jealous and angry. She seemed to sense my unease and kissed me.

“Relax. You can do anything you please with Kaya and she can do anything she pleases with you. You're off the leash tonight,” she whispered, then dragged Kaya back into the chair.

There was hair everywhere now as the left side of her head was shaved. It was immediately apparent to me that Jana was shaving a lot more from this side, but Kaya seemed unaware, her inebriation dulling her senses, but silencing her inhibitions. I held up a mirror as Jana finished shaving her.

“Oh fuck!” she moaned, her hand flying up to her scalp. “You shaved loads more on that side!”

“Yes, you look amazing,” I whispered. I started to suck at her nipple, which was pierced with a thick bar. I loved pulling it out with my teeth, feeling the soft tip stretch around the metal.

“I'll have to get the sides to match, won't I?” Jana asked her.

“Mmmmm, yes,” Kaya moaned, but probably in response to my attentions rather than Jana's query. “Harder,” she demanded of me.

I played as hard as I could, making Kaya feel delight, as Jana worked her magic with my new lover's hair. The back was still long but she cut the top much shorter, sculpted it with hairspray and tongs until it swept sideways across her forehead and curled into a stiff roll. Pin-up and punk styles merged beautifully.

Kaya giggled as she saw a mirror. “It's gorgeous. I know I'll be in shock tomorrow when I see how much I let you shave but it's just adorable. And the sides do feel so... mmmmm. I get all horny when I feel them.”

Jana took more pictures, but these were much more explicit, Kaya and I indulging in the pleasures that two happy young women will enjoy when they're drunk and naked.

“Oh, did you bring the stretchers?” Jana asked.

“Yeah, in the bag.”

I was now subjected to Jana's and Kaya's attentions. Kaya held my arms behind my back as Jana (the only one who was sober) applied the new devices to my nipples. She took out my piercings and pulled my left nipple through a wire ring which was fitted with vertical rods, almost an inch long, ending in upturned semicircles. She fitted my piercing with a bar, then pulled it out and fixed it into the ends of the rods. My nipple was stretched until it stung.

“Ow, it hurts,” I squealed.

“Shut the fuck up, Bex,” Kaya slurred.

“Yeah, Bex, shut the fuck up,” Jana added. “You're Kaya's slut for the night so no complaining.”

I moaned as they spoke to me so demeaningly. I realised guiltily that it was a big turn on.

My nipples were drawn out into taut strips now, and Kaya told me that I'd be wearing these stretchers a lot now. “Jana wants you to have nice big jewellery in your nipples and these will help to grow the holes. They look so hot too.” She enveloped my nipple in her lips and let her tongue stud click against the stretcher and the bar. I moaned at each touch.

For the next hour I served Kaya and I loved every moment. I was forbidden to orgasm until she said so and it was almost impossible at times to control myself, as she explored every orifice. Finally I was allowed to let my control slide as she penetrated me with a strap-on while working her hands frantically over the taut skin of my breasts. I felt an explosion of joy, pulling away the strap-on and eating Kaya to bring her to orgasm before my own subsided.

Her cry of shock made me look up. Jana had taken a rough hold of her hair and was clippering away the long locks at the back of her head. Kaya was in the throes of pleasure, but fearfully pleading for mercy. She'd supposed that Jana's desire to cut her hair had been sated by her mohawk but now I saw that she was mistaken.

Kaya was sobbing but as Jana slid the blades over the top of her head she started to cum again with increased force.

“You're not in any state to pierce poor little Bex, so I'm going to keep you bald for a while as a punishment. You agree, don't you, Kaya?”

She looked broken as she nodded her head.

Jana made her endure a full shave, eyebrows too. I couldn't stop fingering myself as I watched, always reassuring Kaya that she looked very sexy. We were taken to sit before the large mirror in our bedroom and Jana asked me to say something about how I thought Kaya looked now.

“She suits being bald,” I smiled. “I like how embarrassed she looks too, I can't deny it. She was made to be a sub, and a bald head brings out her submissiveness perfectly. She looks very sexy and the shaved brows just add the finishing touch. She looks kind of weird, which I adore. And she'll look beautiful in a different way with brows drawn on. She did have pretty hair though. It's a shame that's all gone.”

I knew my last sentiment would hurt Kaya but I couldn't resist. I wanted to add to her humiliation, and I knew that at some level she'd love me for it. I was certain I was right when she leaned over and kissed me.

“And, Kaya, you never said much about the changes to Bex, other than your obvious delight at her titties. Tell her what you think about how she looks now.”

Kaya looked at me in the mirror. “Well... she's very fat now, that's the most obvious thing about her. And those enormous fake boobs, she looks like a girl who wants attention for all the wrong reasons, but I know that she's a slut, so they suit her. Her face... she went too far. The work is really obvious. She looks like an alien now, where she used to look pretty.”

I started to regret being so direct with Kaya. She was being far more intense in her description of me. It was hard to hear myself described like this, but I knew this was satisfying some deep, dark desire.

“So she's not pretty, exactly, but she is so sexy. I just want her so bad.”

Jana smiled. “I bet you two are getting horny, hearing each other talking like this.” We both nodded shyly. “Kaya, if you want to keep visiting you have to keep your head shaved. And I can't promise I'll let you back in any time soon. You have to shave every day or you'll never be allowed near Bex again. Do you agree?”

She nodded without hesitation. I sensed that it wouldn't be long before I was with Kaya again.

Now that my healing was well under way, Jana gleefully started my training with the appliances that the Doctor had made for me. I was initially very unhappy. The corset was painfully constricting and made my breasts ache, but Jana was insistent that the pain would pass once my body had adjusted. The neck corset was even more problematic. Extended periods bound into the brace made my neck ache and I would develop terrible headaches. This was alleviated to some extent by adjustments to the posture and soon I could wear it for hours without such intense suffering.

Even so, it was hardly a comfortable appliance. My head was held so firmly that I had almost no movement and the padding was suffocating. But within a couple of weeks I found that I'd not just become tolerant of the tightness of my corsets but actually welcomed the sensation of being swaddled. Something about this tightness made me feel safe and calm, and brought me closer yet to Jana, whose delight in seeing me corseted was always evident.

“I'd love to make you wear your neck corset so much that your muscles waste away and you cant keep your head upright without it,” she teased. “I'll only take it off when you have to get a haircut (although that will be very often now) and when I do your head will flop around so much that I'll have to get one of the junior stylists to hold your head in place. Maybe I'll even make you get Botox injections in your neck to make it weak so that you become reliant more quickly. Then you'll never be able to go anywhere without your neck brace.”

I blushed at the threat. On the few occasions I'd worn the neck corset outside I was acutely embarrassed. It drew a lot of attention. If most people's immediate assumption was that it was a medical aid, a closer examination made it apparent that it was worn entirely for hedonistic reasons. And yet the threat of being made to display my perversions publicly only made me feel an intense longing.

The corset induced more equivocal feelings in Jana. She adored how it sculpted my figure, but wearing it made me unable to binge as she liked. The constriction of my stomach meant that I could only eat a small meal before I reached satiety, as we discovered when I was taken to a restaurant in the garment. I was almost in tears as I admitted that I couldn't even manage half of the generous meal. “I'll be sick if I eat any more,” I confided. Jana was understanding but clearly disappointed. She was eager for me to regain the weight I'd lost during my convalescence but wanted to control my belly from becoming too large, to push the increase onto hips, buttocks, thighs.

We found that when I was corseted I had to prolong my meals over hours, eating a little at a time. We experimented with gorging, then fitting the corset, but it couldn't be fitted tightly when I was full and the constriction of my bloated belly was so uncomfortable that I begged Jana not to do this to me. We reluctantly accepted that the corset had to be denied me on the days when I would binge.

My hair had grown out a little since my crop. Jana had let it alone for over a month but one morning (her day off from the salon) before we'd even had breakfast she ordered me into our beauty room.

I smiled at her in the mirror as she played with my hair. “I think it's time we went and saw how our piercer friend is doing. Of course we need you to look at your sexiest. Otherwise she might just be able to resist our naughty suggestions.” I was already getting excited and agreed eagerly.

“She likes you looking a bit weird so I think we should lose your eyebrows again, baby.” My pleasure was suddenly soured. I'd been pleased to see my brows growing back, even if they were shaped somewhat thinner than my preference. Jana was surely aware of my anxiety (she read my facial expressions with perspicacity and seemed to miss nothing) but gave not even a hint of acknowledgement. “I think we should pluck today. Best to go with something that will keep them smooth a bit longer. You, do agree, don't you Bex?”

“Yes Jana,” I sighed, aware that she wasn't going to tolerate any dissent. I winced as she smeared hot wax over my thin brows. I gave a little yelp as she tore away the strip she'd pressed over the wax, dragging the fine hairs out at the roots.

“You were made to go without brows,” Jana whispered. “I love how it makes you look. Maybe I'll have them permanently removed.” I couldn't suppress a groan of indignation. “Or maybe I'll just do one to embarrass you for your timidity. Make you go around with one eyebrow until you beg me to finish the job.”

I wailed. “Oh Jana, stop tormenting me. You know I find no eyebrows difficult but you know I can't ever resist you. And don't pretend that you don't love it when I get scared at your ideas. I think you'd be devastated if I ever became blasé about your proposals.”

She snorted. “Don't think that's ever going to happen. I can always find more extremes. You haven't got a single tattoo yet, have you?”

I blushed. “No Jana.”

“You are right though. I do love to see your pretty little cheeks get all flushed as you try to come to terms with becoming my perfect vision of beauty. You're well on your way. You're the most gorgeous little thing I ever saw.”

She chose my moment of pride at her compliment to tear out my left eyebrow. I hardly had time to react before she was tidying the few hairs that had remained, plucking them free with tweezers. She smoothed a cool gel over the reddened skin, soothing the burning. “You look better already,” she smiled.

My hair was now trimmed close over the sides, Jana cutting it with scissors, but snipping over a thin comb so that the sides were as short as they would have been had she used a number two guard on the clippers, graduated so that there was a little more length higher on the sides. The texture was softer though, none of the uniform bristliness that the clippers gave. The back was cut to a similar length but the lower nape needed to be shorter to fulfil Jana's vision. I felt the clippers fizzing up my nape, pressing tight to my scalp. “How short?” I asked.

“What do you think?” Jana laughed. She was tapering a line, level with the tops of my ears.

“Oh, shit, it's not going to be bald up to there, is it?”

She remained silent, but answered my question by spreading my nape with lather. “Head down,” she whispered. I bowed my head and let her drag the razor up my neck, high on my nape. “Oh, Bex, that does look a bit much. I've shaved it so high, haven't I?” Her taunting had me breathless, embarrassed but hopelessly turned on. “But I had to do it for you. I know how you love the feeling of the leather of your neck brace pressing on newly shaved skin. Do you want me to put it on now?”

“Let me see it first.” Jana indulged me and I sighed as I saw the back of my head. She was right. “It is a bit much,” I agreed. The shave had made my cut an unmistakeable expression of Jana's fetish (my fetish too, I have to admit).

Jana stroked my nape then kissed it. “A bit much, but you love it, baby. I think for the time being I'll keep your nape shaved smooth. I know you feel ashamed at how it looks but it's worth it for how sexy it makes you feel, isn't it?”

“Oh, Jana,” I purred, hopelessly unable to resist her. “I just want to cum right now.”

“No, baby. You need to control yourself. I want you to be a little time bomb of eroticism when you see Kaya. If you can't learn to self-discipline I'll have to consider the Doctor's suggestions: a chastity device or even a spell in training with another domme.”

I shook my head. “Please no, I'll be good. I couldn't bear to be separated from you. And I'd be so unhappy if someone else was in charge of me. I only want to be yours.”

“Oh, I know that isn't true.” She took the long curl from the side of my fringe and snipped it off. “I've seen how you are with Kaya. You love her too, don't you? You won't say no if I let you have her for another night, even if it does mean you'll end up sore and with lots of new jewellery.”

“Well Kaya's different. I know you like her too.” Now she was combing up little sections from the top of my head and snipping through to neaten my short crop.

“We're not talking about what I like. Or do you just want me to force you to put on a show for me with lots of other women?”

I shook my head. “Please, Jana, I'll be disciplined. I'll learn to control myself.”

“Well... We'll see. If you can prove you can contain yourself then maybe I'll spare you the training. But you do want to be Kaya's little slut don't you?” I could barely bring myself to nod, so ashamed was I by my urges. “Oh, my poor little baby! She'll have you looking like a pincushion! Your cute little ears will have so much metal in them. Your puss too I shouldn't doubt.”

I wrinkled my nose. “Don't let her go too far. Please, Jana.”

“But that's the deal,” she giggled. “If she does as I ask then you do as she wishes. She can pierce you anywhere she chooses. We'll keep her sober this time though. I don't want her to mess up.”

“Oh, shit, Jana. I'm not sure about this. She seems to like a lot of piercings. You don't want me with loads of metal in my face do you?”

“Awww, is that what's worrying you? You're worried I won't like you? It's fine baby, I like lots of facial piercings. I'm sure I'll approve of everything Kaya does to you.”

I looked at myself as Jana finished dressing me. My hair looked more conventional than it had since my transformation had begun (at least from the front where my bald nape wasn't visible): a neat, boyish crop, the top swept back in a little quiff. Even the colour was surprisingly normal, a bright, pale blonde. But as if to compensate my make-up was more extreme than anything I'd worn before. My eyes were thickly adorned with an oily black, jagged points sweeping out from my lids toward my temples. I was wearing new contacts too, large bright blues irises adding to my strangeness. My lips were glossed with deep red and violet.

I was corseted and dressed in a tight red silk dress, frilled with black lace. My neck corset was in place and I was wearing ankle boots with platform soles and huge heels. I knew that I was going to attract a lot of attention today.

We arrived at Kaya's shop shortly before midday. We entered and asked the receptionist if she was available. She came out from the back and looked embarrassed to see us. She quickly ushered us through to a small room.

“Hello, Kaya, honey,” Jana said, kissing her. “Are you ashamed to be seen with us?”

“No, no,” she said, stumbling over her words. “It's just that I... Well, I thought... More private?”

Jana stroked her head. There was a noticeable layer of dark stubble covering her scalp. “I thought I'd asked you to shave your head.”

“I have kept it shaved,” she insisted. “I got up late today, I was going to do it later.”

“I said you were to shave every day. Are you telling me this was shaved yesterday?”

“No,” Kaya said apologetically. “The day before, I think.”

“Your hair must really grow fast. I'd estimate three or four days.”

“I'm sorry. It's just that I hadn't heard from you and I thought you'd forgotten our agreement.”

“Of course I didn't. You still owe Bex some work, don't you? I am disappointed that you have eyebrows again though. Sit down.”

Kaya did as she was told but looked uncomfortable. “What are you doing?” she asked. She looked close to panic.

“Bex, rub her hair with oil,” Jana instructed. I smiled as I poured some of the perfumed oil into my palms and started to massage it into Kaya's scalp. She looked up at me, smiling nervously. Her fear of the situation couldn't mask her pleasure at my gentle touch.

Jana indicated that I should work from behind. I moved aside and now Jana scrubbed the heavy make-up from Kaya's face. “For being a naughty girl I'm going to deny you make-up for the next month. You'll be proudly showing off your baldness, Kaya.” She looked hurt but couldn't bring herself to resist. She did, however, groan as Jana reminded me to oil her eyebrows.

Jana took a wooden case from her bag and took out a straight razor. She oiled a stone and gently sharpened the blade. “What did your friends think of your bald head?”

“Not everyone liked it. I'd been seeing someone and she hated it. We split over it.”

“Ah, poor little Kaya. Did you hear that, Bex? Kaya's single now because she shaved her head for you.”

“That is a pity. She looks so lonely.”

“Yes, makes me want to take pity on her. Maybe we should let her spend more time in our home. Would you like that, Kaya? We can appreciate a girl with or without hair.” Kaya nodded, smiled shyly, but then her face tensed as Jana tautened the skin of her forehead and shaved away her eyebrows.

I watched entranced as Jana shaved away the stubble. The blade darkened with oil flecked with specks of hair, but where it had passed pure, pale skin was left. Jana smiled as the shave neared completion. “You look so different now, Kaya. Blank, filled with potential to be remade. Submissive. Does that make you happy?” Kaya looked embarrassed, shy. “If not happy, horny?” She nodded.

“Now I did say if you failed to shave every day that you'd never be allowed to see Bex again, and you did fail. If I'm going to forgive you then you have to be punished.” Kaya looked at her pleadingly.

“You said I'd not be allowed make-up. I promise I'll stick to that.”

“Oh that was for lying about when you last shaved. For not shaving you have to agree to having your eyelashes plucked.”

She looked like she was going to cry and I felt sad that Jana was treating her so cruelly, but I couldn't deny that I found it very arousing too. “Do say yes, Kaya,” I whispered. “I don't want you to be gone from my life all because of a few silly hairs.” She nodded.

She was passed a pair of tweezers and I watched as she tugged some lashes from the centre of her right upper lid. Soon a gap was very noticeable in her thick dark lashes. She was shaking so much now that she was barely able to continue her task. Jana took pity on her and asked me to finish the job.

I braced my hand against her cheek so that I could pluck her with a steady hand. She winced at each pluck but remained silent. I was so concentrated on my job that I was astonished to see how strange Kaya looked when I took in her newly bared eyes. Jana looked on, smiling beatifically. She looked delighted as she allowed Kaya to see herself. Her reflection provoked tears.

“I love this look,” Jana said. “So submissive. Let out all that shock and sadness. In two minutes you'll go and show your colleagues how you look now, then we'll all go out for lunch. You can take an hour for lunch, can't you? You hardly seem busy.”

Kaya nodded, but was too choked to speak.

“Because you've atoned for your mistakes you'll be at our house tonight. You can have Bex for a couple of hours. An hour to play and an hour to pierce her. That'll improve your mood, I'm sure.”

She looked at me, a mixture of astonishment, lust, query, as if she wanted me to confirm this wasn't some trap. I could barely hold her gaze. Suddenly her vulnerability seemed to reflect back on me as I realised the price I'd have to pay.

“I had something planned tonight but of course I'll cancel it.”

“Of course. You have to show me you can be obedient now, Kaya,” Jana said and sealed the agreement with a kiss. She wiped her eyes of tears and told her that it was time for Kaya to face her colleagues.

As I saw her shyly make her way into the reception area, where her colleagues had assembled to chat since there was little work at this time, I felt keenly her humiliation. I remembered how pretty her hair had been, but now Kaya was so bald that not even an eyelash remained. I felt more intensely how difficult it would be for her to spend a month without make-up to compensate for her hairless eyes. The looks of surprise, shock even, from her friends made Kaya wince with shame. “Christ, what did you do?” someone asked.

“She looks so beautiful, doesn't she?” Jana said, and stroked her scalp. “Don't be shy, you're much more beautiful with a nice bald head, Kaya.” She couldn't lift her head as she stammered that she was taking an hour for lunch with her friends. What must they have made of Jana, so beautiful, with her strange companions?

Now it was my turn for nervousness, to feel a fear of how my appearance would be changed. I kept dwelling on Kaya's feelings as she exposed herself to the eyes of her friends after her transformation. I knew by tomorrow I'd experience a similar insecurity about my appearance. Jana did nothing to comfort me, in fact she delighted in taunting me.

“Kaya was good enough to let you pluck her eyelashes and she's agreed to be hairless for a month. I think the least you can do to thank her is to let her pierce you a few times. I'm not going to put any limits on what she does to you except that she only has two hours with you. If she wants to spend all two hours putting holes in you then so be it. I guess you could get a lot of piercings in that time.”

I hugged Jana tight to me. “Please, love, you don't want me to look like a freak, do you? I don't like it when girls have loads of piercings in their lips and nose. You wouldn't want her to do that to me?”

She ran her finger over my lips which still felt tender and tight from the surgery. “I'm going to put her in charge, baby. But if you're hinting that you want her to focus away from your face... Should I let her know that you want her to concentrate on genital piercings?”

“No!” I wailed. “That's not what I meant at all and well you know it.”

She giggled mischievously. “I'm sorry, Rebecca, but this is how it has to be. I like seeing you with Kaya but there's a little grain of jealousy in me. I want to see you enjoy yourself, but at the same time I want you to be punished for pleasuring yourself with another. Somehow this set up seems just perfect. When you're with Kaya there has to be some suffering. But I know that deep down you want it anyway. You want to feel Kaya hurting you and making you look like a freak.”

I tried to weakly protest, but she silenced me with her lips. I was so aroused that I had to consider that maybe she was right. “You'll not wear any make-up tonight, Bex. I think it's best, since it would have to come off when she's piercing you. You'll look so pretty together, all bare and natural.” I nodded my agreement but as my face was cleaned of the painted mask I felt ugly. I was still uncomfortable with my new features and the lack of brows troubled me.

“She'll be here soon,” Jana smiled. “You will be good for her, won't you?” I nodded. She looked thoughtful. “Poor Kaya, she's all alone. Would you like her to be with us more? I mean a more concrete relationship, maybe even look at her moving in?”

I was very surprised by this suggestion. “You mean the three of us living as girlfriends?” She nodded.

“Of course she'd have to agree to be my sub. I'd insist that she gains weight too. I might let her control your piercings and tattoos. I'm sure if I suggested that she could choose that she'd be quite unable to resist anything I asked of her.”

I sat looking at Jana, open mouthed. Kaya was herself heavily tattooed and I suspected that if she were given freedom I would soon be more modified than her. My thoughts were interrupted by the doorbell.

“Oh, she's early. I'm so pleased you like the idea,” Jana gushed, despite my lack of actual agreement to her proposal. “We'll discuss it with her at the end of the night, I don't want her distracted while she's working on you.”

Jana showed Kaya into the bedroom where I'd been instructed to display my naked body, open and receptive. She looked shy as she undressed, and I stared at her fascinated. I was still unused to her strange, hairless face and as she came beside me I kissed her tenderly. Poor Kaya was being made to endure a lot by Jana. “I love you as a blonde,” she whispered. I sensed her nervousness, her discomfort that every caress was made under the eye of Jana who was now my watchful procuress.

Kaya's attentions turned to my breasts (no surprise there, she made no secret of her proclivities) and tugged at my nipples. The flesh had been subject to regular treatment with the stretchers that Kaya had previously provided and had hypertrophied. Now I felt new stretchers being fitted which made my nipples sting, since these exerted a greater tension than my accustomed appliances.

“I'll put much bigger rings in your nipples later,” Kaya promised. “I know it hurts, Bex. Does it make you sad when I hurt you?”

“No, Kaya,” I whispered. “I like it, I want you to hurt me.”  I blushed to hear myself say these words. I felt a mixture of emotions. I was saying this to please Kaya, I was sure, telling her what she wanted to hear, giving her license to use me as she pleased without guilt. I felt a horror at allowing this, fearful of the hurt that she would inflict, perhaps more fearful still that I did want her to hurt me.

Her mouth opened and descended over my breast, sucking the nipple in, then her tongue delicately traced a path over the taut flesh. I stared at Jana who was undressing, but not for a moment did her eyes look away from mine. She slumped in a chair, legs wide open and let her hand start to move rhythmically over her sex.

I felt Kaya rise and she stroked my head, bidding me to lie back. “I should hurt you, then. You have such gorgeous lips and I want to see a piercing in them right now. Finger yourself all the time while I pierce you.”

I was almost in tears now as Kaya prepared the necessary tools, which were all contained in the large leather bag she'd brought. I rubbed at myself desperately, eager to take my mind off the impending suffering. I glanced at Jana who was continuing to pleasure herself, staring at me, her lovely face showing no emotion. The whole situation felt unreal, nightmarish.

Kaya pulled at my lower lip and I felt a clamp close on it. Then she touched the needle to me. “It's a big piercing you need, isn't it, slut?”

“Yes, Kaya,” I slurred. I groaned as I felt the needle scratch my skin. Then the pressure increased greatly and I wailed. My hand moved automatically as if seeking solace for my suffering. Still the pain increased, a throbbing energy that made my head ache. I felt a wave of cold nausea seeping through me, thought I might lose consciousness. There was an awful feeling of a decrease in tension as the punch popped through the inside surface of my lips. A glance at Jana did nothing to console me. Her studied nonchalance had dissolved and she looked at me with frank astonishment.

“Shit, she's bleeding,” Jana gasped. I became aware of something warm trickling down over my chin. Kaya smiled with a perverse satisfaction.

I was barely aware of how the jewellery was fitted, my only perceptions were those of more pain. A mirror was thrust in my face and I saw a huge bead nestling beneath my lip, maybe seven millimetres in diameter. My chin was streaked with blood and I shuddered as Kaya lowered her face to mine but, instead of the kiss I'd expected, merely lapped at the fresh blood. She made a breathy moan that left me in no doubt as to how excited she'd become.

“You're still bleeding,” she said passionately. She lay on her back and bid me lie on top of her, my bulky frame pressing heavily. She urged me to put all of my weight on my breasts. “Drip your blood into my mouth,” she ordered. I took a strange delight in her vampiric desires.

She pulled me tight to her. “You've got so fat, haven't you, Bex? I love you like this, you're so pretty and sexy.”

“You're drinking a fat girl's blood,” I teased. “It's very rich. I wouldn't be surprised if you got fat too.” I glanced at Jana who winked at me.

“Oh, really? Would you like that?” Kaya asked.

“Well I wouldn't object. I used to feel so guilty about my weight but now I've accepted that I can be big and sexy. And I've started to appreciate that other girls are cute when they're fat too.”

She pulled on the rings in my breasts making me squeal. “You're a very naughty girl, Bex. You shouldn't try to influence me. That's not your job, is it? Your job is to make me feel happy.”

“Oh, I think I can do that. And naughty or not, I can see that the idea of stuffing yourself intrigues you.”

Kaya was blushing now, but she refused to admit that I was right. I saw her glancing at Jana, and I knew that she was afraid that if she showed the slightest interest in gaining then she'd open herself up to Jana exerting control to fatten her.

“Let's see if you want to keep pushing this,” Kaya said firmly, pulling a needle from the bag. “I'm sure I can take your mind off trying to persuade me to do things I don't want.”

She was right. I was soon groaning in agony as Kaya pierced my clit hood and fitted it with a long curved bar. “What's wrong, Rebecca?” she mocked. “Not in the mood for talking now?”

“Oh shit, that's sore,” I whined.

“I think a few ear decorations would look nice since you have such short hair and your pretty little ears are always visible. Think you can bear to have a dozen ear piercings?”

Since my ears had three studs in each lobe, plus the tragus, I calculated that this would mean five more. My first encounter with Kaya had resulted in five new holes in my ears, which I'd borne fairly easily. I agreed to her proposal (realistically I knew I had no choice) but knew this would be considerably more problematic. My lobes were pierced to capacity and I fully expected that cartilage would cause more pain when it was pierced.

My expectation wasn't wrong. By the third piercing in my right ear I was in tears. My entire ear seemed to be a heavy slab of burning flesh hanging from the side of my head. Each new injury seemed to cause more pain than the previous, which had caused the flesh to swell and sensitise. I felt Kaya preparing me for another piercing in that same ear.

“Please Kaya, can you do the rest on the other ear?” I pleaded.

“Really? You want the other nine in your left ear?”

“But you said I'd have a dozen piercings and I already had seven.”

She laughed at my shocked reaction. “I meant twelve more piercings. You're only a quarter of the way there, Bex.”

I looked over to Jana to mediate but she shrugged. “If Kaya wants you to have the piercings, you get them, as long as she's done within the agreed time. If you're going to be disobedient I'll add a punishment and you'll really be sorry.”

Kaya kissed me triumphantly, but even that only caused pain as she pressed at my new labret. I felt despair as I allowed her to stab another needle through the top of my right ear. It pierced through two points and a minute later an industrial had been fitted through my ear. “Two holes but one piercing,” Kaya smiled cruelly.

By the time she was finished my ears were weighed down with numerous new piercings and heavy titanium jewellery. If my sobbing had reduced it was only through exhaustion.

“You've cost me a fortune tonight, Bex,” Kaya sighed. “All this jewellery! You should at least pretend you're grateful.”

“I'm sorry, I just can't bear this much pain.”

“We're not done yet. How long have I got left, Jana?”

There was a further twenty minutes of Kaya's control for me to bear. She'd left the worst till last. The piercing of my septum felt brutal since she was determined I'd wear a thick ring. Then her attention turned to my nipples. She made me watch as long dermal punches were prodded firmly through the stretched flesh, and I came close to fainting as I saw little red trickles well from the wounds. The holes were fitted with vertical bars before she released the stretchers. Nor was my suffering over. The existing piercings had their rings removed only for much thicker and heavier rings to be forced home. The tugging and straining was almost unbearable after having just endured a new piercing.

“That's enough for tonight,” Jana said, kissing Kaya tenderly. “I hope her snivelling didn't disappoint you. I hoped she might be braver.”

Kaya looked at me and smiled. “Not at all. I think I'd have been disappointed if she'd been Stoical. I don't think I've ever been happier.”

Jana hardly acknowledged my suffering and chose this moment to fit me with my neck corset. I grunted as she fastened it, aware that it had been adjusted to lift my head more than ever. I knew that it would soon become uncomfortable. Kaya cooed with delight. “Oh, I do love how that looks on her. You're such a lucky woman, Jana.”

“Oh, I am. But we've been having a discussion and I have a proposal. We'd like you to become part of our household. We both like you very much and we'd like to have you here. I'd also like you to take charge of Rebecca's tattoos. I can't decide what sort of look she needs and I think with your expertise you might be better placed to decide for her.”

She looked at me with astonishment and I looked down shyly. I couldn't believe that someone who could have caused me so much pain would now be allowed to choose permanent changes.

Jana continued: “Of course, in return you'll be expected to give back. The first demand would be something Rebecca hinted at earlier. You'd gain weight for me.”

Kaya looked nervous now. “How much?” she said, her voice filled with emotion.

“Oh, honey, don't ask. I can see you won't say no. Even if I said you had to be over four hundred pounds you couldn't say no to me, could you?”

Kaya winced. “I hope it doesn't come to that, but... No, I don't think I could.”

“Not when you'll have my devotion to you, and Rebecca's too. And I can see how excited you are about being in complete control of her modifications.”

“There won't be any limits?” Kaya asked, looking like she expected to wake at any moment.

“Nothing more will be done to her without my agreement, but I'd consider anything.”

“So if I wanted facial tattoos..?”

“You'd want that?” Jana looked surprised but her tone suggested she wasn't opposed to it. I felt terrified.

“Maybe something on temples, or edges of her cheeks.”

“I'm sure if you could find something pretty I'd be persuaded. It'll make you look sexy, won't it, Bex?”

I stared at her in shocked silence.

“I want your answer now, Kaya. If you say no there'll be no further contact between us.”

“How could I say no? I've been obsessed with you and Bex since we met. I'd be honoured to be your... is girlfriend the right word?”

“Sure, why not?” Jana laughed and kissed her. “Rebecca, kiss your new girlfriend.”

I did as I was bid, not without pain as my lip pressed on the new piercing.

“I suppose there's some sort of hierarchy here, with Bex as the most submissive. I'm not sure it's right for Bex to have nice hair while Kaya is bald. Would you like to offer your hair to Kaya so that you look more submissive?” I looked at Jana in silence. I tried to shake my head but the neck brace was so tight that I'm sure no movement was discernible. “Speak now or forever hold your peace,” Jana laughed. She turned to Kaya. “Go and fetch me my clippers and straight razor.”

I tried to face the loss of my hair with bravery but I felt despair as I knelt before Jana, who immediately pushed the bare blades through the top of my head. I glanced up at Kaya and saw that she was recording my humbling on her phone. I managed to hold my emotion in check until Jana shaved the sides. She folded down my ear to ensure that all of the hair was shorn, but even this gentle touch on my wounded ears was too much and I started to sob.

“There, there, baby, it's ok. You'll look pretty without your hair, and you won't stay bald. I've always wanted to see you bald and it's best we do this while your hair's short.”

“Maybe she should get a scalp tattoo,” Kaya suggested. “If she's not going to stay bald maybe we should do that first.”

I felt Jana spread my head with lather. “Oh, wow, that would be hot. Of course, Kaya, if Rebecca is going to agree to that, I'm going to insist that you get a scalp tattoo as well. When you make her do something really brave you'll have to make a sacrifice too.”

I blinked away my tears to focus on her reaction, praying that this threat would make her reconsider. “I think I'd like it,” she said solemnly. “Very much.”

“Oh, how sexy!” Jana gasped. “I'm imagining my two favourite girls sitting side by side in big barber chairs with a tattooist working on each of your heads at the same time. You know, I think by this time next week, my vision is going to be a reality.”

“Oh god, so soon?” Kaya asked.

“I want you to find suitable artists in the next day or two. Then we can make the arrangements for your tattoos.” I felt the razor scratch over the top of my head, shearing through the soft stubble. “It's not every girl who gets her first tattoo to cover her bald head, is it baby? You'll look stunning.”

Jana wielded the razor with expertise. Even so, my rigid head position was a challenge and she had to kneel alongside me as the sides were shaved. I wailed again at each touch of my ears. They were so sensitive that they felt like they'd been stripped of their skin.

I experienced something like a panic attack as I was allowed to rise and see myself in a full length mirror. My eyes were sticky and red from crying; my face, ears, breasts were smeared with blood. It was shocking to see just how much metal hung from my ears, so much that I was barely able to discern separate pieces of jewellery. It seemed to my tired perceptions that my ears had been woven with blobs of molten silver. Almost all of the rings were of thick titanium, not the fine wire which I'd worn prior to meeting Kaya. The septum piercing was of similar dimensions, three millimetres thick, the bead which locked the ring hanging to the edge of my lip.

And then there was my bald head. I hated how it looked. My head was so round and bulged so that I looked like a freakishly huge baby. “Don't you like all my work on you?” Kaya asked.

“I... like it but the blood makes me uneasy,” I said. I realised that I was afraid of her sadism.

“Here, I have some pills. You should take these, they'll take away the pain but they'll make you sleepy.” I gladly swallowed them and prayed for them to numb me.

Soon Kaya was dabbing at my ears with great delicacy. They were still tender but I could feel nothing of the rawness I'd felt earlier and knew that the pills had worked. I started to zone out, and would suddenly be called back to consciousness after moments when I became absorbed in thought, or perhaps its absence.

I felt my eyes being bathed and when I saw a mirror I looked fresher at least, if no less freakish. I started to feel a new wave of distress as I saw that Jana had tweezers. “Not my eyelashes, please,” I begged her, but my voice was weak and etiolated. I started to doubt I'd made myself heard at all as the tweezers were pressed into my hand and I clumsily plucked some lashes from the side of my left upper lid.

“She's too doped up to do it. Let me fix her,” Kaya said with vigour. I felt her come close, towering over me, and begin to tear out my lashes.

If the sensation was repulsive at least it caused me little pain. The drugs had numbed me to the point where I was having difficulty remaining awake. It seemed like a dream state as I saw my new image in the mirror. Kaya was laughing, saying that she loved how submissive I looked now. I was too confused to comprehend my situation and was glad when I felt myself being put to bed.

I woke the following morning feeling great distress. I'd slept in my neck brace and it had caused an ache through neck and shoulders. The collar had accumulated clippings from my haircut and the skin itched in places that I couldn't reach.

I immediately reached up to feel my head. I felt pure, smooth skin and groaned as I realised I had indeed been shaved. Then I stroked at my eyelids which felt so strange without the long hairs that had been there all my life.

My entire body seemed to ache from the numerous piercings I'd been subject to. There were points of pain from ears, nose, clitoris but there was also a diffuse pain which seemed to engulf my entire body. If I felt some arousal at my treatment at Kaya's hands I was frustrated in my ability to express it: my breasts and genitals were too sore to bear any touch.

And if my physical pain made me feel upset, there was a greater agony from the realisation that I'd slept in the single bed in the spare room. That led me to believe that Jana and Kaya were together in the bed which until now only I'd shared with Jana. I started to imagine that I'd been duped into accepting Kaya into my home, that now my position would become one of suffering and humiliation, that soon I'd be replaced in Jana's affections by Kaya, and that I'd be discarded and alone again.

I lay awake, suffering for an hour before I decided I had to get up. As soon as I'd sat up I saw a note on the bedside cabinet. “More pills to help you sleep. Don't take before 5 a.m.” It was after seven and I gladly swallowed them. Ten minutes later I slept soundly.

I was woken much later in the morning by Kaya. “Wake up, baldy. I've already had my head shaved this morning and it's about time you had the same, isn't it?” I struggled out of bed and followed her silently to the salon room where Jana was waiting, beautifully coiffed and made-up.

“Good morning, sweetheart,” she said with such tenderness that all my insecurities were stilled. “Oh, your poor ears are swollen so much. Kaya, are they OK?”

She examined me and seemed unperturbed. “I'll bathe all the wounds later. But there isn't anything I can see that gives me concern.”

“Are they hurting?” Jana asked.

“Yes, I'm quite sore but the pills help. My neck is really aching though. Please don't make me sleep in the neck corset, Jana.”

She giggled. “Kaya is so sadistic, baby. You should hear some of the ideas she has for you. A bit of neck ache is nothing compared to what she'd do.” She came closer and whispered to me. “I do find some of her ideas quite exciting. I want you to test your limits and see how you feel about submitting to her. Is that OK?”

“She scares me a bit.” I had lowered my voice, afraid of Kaya hearing me.

“Aww, Kaya, Bex is scared of you now. You have to reassure her. She's a shy, delicate little baby and you have to show her that you love her.”

I found myself being led to sit on the sofa alongside Kaya.

“Bex, my little darling, you know I love you so much!” she crooned. “If I hurt you sometimes it's only because I know it'll show you a new way to feel bliss. I want you to remember the rush you got from all your piercings.”

I nodded. “Last night was too much for me though. I'm really sore.”

“We won't do that many at once again,” she agreed. She had the key and now opened the locks of my neck brace. I groaned with relief as she eased the corset free. She massaged at my muscles which had locked.

“In a few days you'll be recovered and I'll add a few more piercings. You need something to compensate for losing your pretty hair.” She caressed my head and made no attempt to hide her pleasure in the feeling. “You do look odd, Rebecca. A little plump pudding with no hair at all and that weird little alien face. And those monster tits. Does it turn you on to look so weird?”

I was squirming at her description of me. “You find it embarrassing to admit you like looking like this, don't you? But I understand that feeling all too well. I've had to endure all the disapproving looks since you made me bald. But deep down I love looking like this, and it's the deep feelings that matter. And now I've started to love the way people look at me, whether I see lust or disgust when they see me. Soon I'll be fat too, and my bald head will be tattooed. I want that. You'll want it too. Or maybe you won't, but it'll happen anyway.”

Jana appeared and put her hands over Kaya's scalp. “You're scaring her again, Kaya. Let's not go too far. I don't want my baby to be sad.”

“Jana, darling, let's get her shaved then head out for breakfast. I'll pay. I want the world to see me with my new loves.”

The plan was accepted and I bowed my head where I sat to allow a fresh shave. I could hardly believe that I needed a shave, so little time having passed since my humiliation of the previous night but Jana deemed it necessary. Kaya gently massaged my head with the aromatic lather which made my entire scalp tingle. Rather than the cut-throat I'd had last time, Jana used a safety razor with four blades to shave me. It made a soft rasping as it removed the stubble and as I was shaved for a second time the blades moved smoothly over my head. A rough towel was scrubbed over my head and the sensation made me suddenly aroused.

“You like that, Bex. I knew you'd like being bald,” Kaya said, making me blush. She seemed very sensitive to my moods.

“Is she right?” Jana asked.

“It feels nice,” I admitted. As I stroked my head it felt different, smoother. Every touch made me feel hornier. “I don't like how it looks though.”

“It does make you look fatter,” Kaya laughed. I knew her cruel comment was true.

“Don't be so mean,” Jana chided her. “You'll be fatter than Bex soon. How does that sound, Kaya?”

“It sounds wonderful,” she purred. “I know you like fat girls. Maybe once I'm the fattest you'll like me more than Bex.” She giggled and winked salaciously.

“Oh Bex! Did you hear that? I think she's trying to compete for my affections. You might have to gain to keep up with her.”

I hated the idea of any sort of competition arising between us. “I thought you liked me at this weight, Jana,” I said, my insecurities growing.

“I do, baby, but it was a compromise. I never said I wouldn't like you to get bigger. This was as big as you wanted to go when we met. If you wanted to rethink your weight I'd be very happy.” I nodded my agreement. I knew I'd been manipulated into this by Kaya but felt that if I didn't agree then I'd be made to regret it.

We headed out to a burger place for breakfast. The morning clientele was a mix of workers from local businesses and families (it was during a school holiday). I'd been spared my neck corset but nevertheless the appearance of two bald women in the restaurant attracted a lot of attention. Kaya went to order the food as Jana and I sat at a table.

“You look so out of place in here,” Jana laughed. “Everyone is staring. I bet they're all thinking 'Look at that fat girl. I bet she's going to gorge herself with tons of burgers.' You're not going to disappoint them either, are you?”

“I'm sure I'm not.”

Kaya came back bearing a large tray laden with numerous burgers. “Bex was just bragging about how much she can eat,” Jana told her. “Reckon you can match her?”

“I'd give it a go. I have a big appetite,” she said confidently.

“Let's make a competition of it then. What would you like to see done to Bex if she loses?”

[lsds-blog]

Anna

The room is small and stale smelling, the paintwork scuffed and yellowed, the walls scarred by numerous signs of the carelessness of previous tenants. Anna loathes herself for agreeing to rent this room. George should be the one suffering. He's the one who betrayed their marriage. Betrayed her. “Traded in for a younger model”. She always hated that phrase, always felt it demeaned women. Now she feels the hurt more keenly. She examines herself in the bathroom mirror. She's got old without realising it. Maybe if she'd looked after herself better, not taken things for granted then George wouldn't have gone looking elsewhere.

NO!

She mustn't start blaming herself. She's 33 years old and can still pass for younger. She's been crying, that's why she doesn't look at her best. She has her pride, that's why she left the house, left George to it, let him move HER in. Anna will make a new start. The enormity suddenly hits her. She hasn't had a job in five years, she's come to rely on George's income. She's got complacent, lost her skills, lost her self-confidence. It was a game he played, make her the little quiet mouse, bribe her into being his meek little companion.

After three days in her new flat Anna feels that everything is against her. George has cleared the joint account and she's had to humiliate herself by begging him for a few thousand pounds to tide her over. The tedium of enduring the same four walls for days on end has deepened her depression and she decides she needs to get out. She takes a walk into town and makes her way to her favourite bookshop. She's become friends with Julie, the manager of the café, but dreads facing her. She's only discussed the breakdown of her marriage with her mother (a terrible, embarrassing conversation) and feels a deep shame at what she regards as her failure.

As she enters the café she feels a shock. Julie is bald. Her head is shaved smooth. She's always been quirky, openly lesbian and quietly outrageous but this is such a crazy thing to do. Anna stands and stares for a moment, she almost leaves the shop before Julie spots her. Then their eyes meet and she forces a smile. She feels shy, as if meeting a stranger (a strange stranger). Julie greets her warmly and comes from behind the counter to embrace her, a little flush of embarrassment colouring her cheeks, but a glow of pride in her new appearance also apparent. Anna realises that Julie's change is more extreme than she at first recognised: hidden by her make-up, her eyebrows (and lashes?) are gone too and there's a small symbol drawn (tattooed?) near the corner of her right eye, a Greek letter (Ψ) which Anna struggles to remember, finally recalling that it's a psi. Anna starts to ask her why she's shaved her head, then suddenly feels a twinge of panic. Perhaps she's ill, she's lost all of her hair!

“Oh it's a long story, but let's just say I've been considering it for a while and I gave in to temptation.” She gives a little smile which indicates she's holding something back. “I'm going to be bald for a while I guess,” she adds gnomically.

“I thought you might have been ill,” Anna says with relief, then immediately regrets expressing her thoughts. “Is that a tattoo?” she asks, looking at the symbol. Julie nods, her expression again expressing a mixture of embarrassment and pride. Anna tries to look cool about it but is a bit shocked that Julie has a tattoo on her face as well as a bald head.

“Oh, you hate it, don't you?” Julie looks genuinely hurt.

“No, no,” Anna says, desperate not to offend her friend. “It's just... a shock. I know you're always messing with your hair, but this is quite a big step.”

Julie smiles but looks unconvinced. “And how are you?”

“Oh... I split up with George.” Her voices cracks with emotion. Julie embraces her and coos sympathetically. “He's been seeing another woman,” she adds. She wants to sound like she's accepting of the situation but it sounds self-pitying and despairing.

“Well, he's an idiot. He'll see what a mistake he's made but it'll be too late by then. You're better without him.” The intimacy of the conversation is breached as another customer approaches the counter. Anna takes her leave, she orders a coffee, begins reading the paperback she's treated herself too, despite knowing she can ill-afford it.

She feels so much happier in the café than in the dismal room she's renting. She becomes engrossed in the book. It's by an author she used to like, a darker, more fragmented novel than she's read in years and she feels something of the love of reading she experienced as a student. She glances up occasionally and sees her friend, still trying to accommodate her new look. She feels uncomfortable with the change in Julie's image, but every time their eyes meet the warmth of her smile is a great reassurance to Anna. It's the first time in days when she's felt anything positive.

Anna finishes a chapter of the novel and decides it's time to leave. It's nearing closing time and she's been the only customer in the shop for the last fifteen minutes; stands to say goodbye to Julie, but is urged to stay. “Why don't you have a little drink with me here? The other staff are going in ten minutes, I'll lock up and we can share a bottle of wine. There's some food left over from lunch and we can get a decent meal out of that.” Anna has a fear of being on her own and agrees to the plan.

After the meal is finished Julie treats Anna and herself to large slices of cake (“...to indulge ourselves”). Anna has been drinking a little too much (a second bottle of wine is already opened) and her mood is cycling uncontrollably, from despair to elation. Her reticence is dampened by the alcohol and she asks Julie directly about her new image.

“So, why did you shave it all off? There's a story behind it, isn't there?”

Julie looks a little sheepish. “You'll probably never want to talk to me again if I tell you.” Anna promises to try not to be judgemental. “Well... It was my girlfriend's idea. An occasional girlfriend, it's not an exclusive relationship. I'm submissive and she's dominant. She shaved me.”

Anna stares, open mouthed. She's long been secretly fascinated with the world of fetishism but it's remained very distant to her, it has something approaching the character of myth for Anna. “You didn't want to be bald?” Anna asks in astonishment.

“I sort of agreed to it, but the eyebrows and eyelashes were a surprise.”

“And the tattoo?”

“It's her mark. I finally earned it.”

Anna is speechless. She's lost in a fantasy world, trying to imagine Julie losing her hair, choosing to relinquish control, even to the extent of a tattoo on her face. She keeps imagining herself being treated in the same way. Perhaps it's the wine but she finds herself getting turned on. She's always found something intriguing in a quirky way about Julie but now she finds herself really attracted. “Can I feel it?” she whispers. She takes a quiver of Julie's lips as consent and strokes her scalp.

The softness of the skin surprises her. It's deliciously warm and smooth. Anna can't resist putting her lips to Julie's scalp. She's panting with excitement and is delighted to see Julie smiling. She's never kissed another woman in passion, she's kissed no one but George for over a decade. She presses her lips to Julie's, rubbing frantically at her bald head as they kiss.

She feels Julie's tongue slide over her own, momentarily shocked to feel something hard, realises it's a piercing, pushes her tongue over the piercing, now intrigued by how it feels. More than intrigued; she feels herself growing more aroused than she has in years. She's rediscovering how she used to feel before she slipped into a bored complacency with George. She feels alive again. Julie breaks the kiss, it feels like minutes have passed locked together. She unbuttons Anna's blouse and unhooks her bra, then roughly presses her breasts, rubbing her thumb over the nipple. Anna moans, looking deep into Julie's eyes. She adores the sensation, but is more aroused by seeing her lover is female, pierced, tattooed, bald. She feels she's suddenly torn away a curtain that was concealing her true desires, this is what she's always wanted. Suddenly Julie stands. “Not here. We should go back to mine.”

Anna wants to protest but is suddenly overcome by embarrassment. Her mood has flipped her from joy to gloom in moments. What was she thinking? She tries to fix her clothes, clumsily, her hands are trembling. “No, Julie, I need to get home,” she mutters. She feels close to tears. Julie tries to take her hand but she pulls back, too strongly, she can see Julie's hurt. Julie offers to drive her home, but she insists that she'll walk, it's not far, she assures her, she tells her where she's living now. She says goodbye and makes her way out.

She wakes the next morning feeling dreadful. She's got an awful hangover but the pain that the memories of the previous night induce is far worse. She lies in bed feeling sorry for herself. She's angry at Julie for trying to take advantage of her vulnerability. But then she remembers who initiated the kiss. She feels ashamed as she recalls rubbing Julie's head, kissing her, the feel of her pierced tongue. She starts to cry. She can't make sense of her feelings. She tries to feel revulsion at the idea of kissing another woman but she can't. The memories come back to her in fragments, incomplete but vivid. She starts to feel an excitement again but fights against it. She takes one of her sleeping pills and falls asleep again.

She's woken by a noise. She feels disoriented as she looks about her. It takes a moment to understand where she is. She's slept the whole day, it's after six now. She hears her door bell ring and realises that was the noise that woke her. She pulls on a t-shirt and jeans and goes to the door intercom. “Hello?”

“Hi, is that Anna?” a voice asks tentatively.

“Julie?” She feels sick, wishes she'd not answered.

“You left your book in the shop, I brought it for you.” There's a long silence. “I'll just leave it on your mailbox...”

“No, no, come in,” Anna blurts out, angry with herself for being so mean.

Julie comes up to her flat. She's wearing a woollen hat to cover her bald scalp. She passes Anna her book and glances around the flat. “Yeah, it's awful, isn't it?” Anna says gloomily.

“It's not that bad, you just need to make it more homely.” Another pause. “I'm sorry about last night, I...”

Julie clearly doesn't know what to say. Anna knows that she has nothing to apologise for. “No, Julie, it's me who needs to say sorry. I'm a bit vulnerable, I don't know what came over me.”

“No need to mention it ever again. Let's just forget it happened.” Anna's face betrays her emotions; Julie can see her disappointment. “Unless..?”

“What?”

“Unless you want to continue where we left off.”

Anna feels her face redden. She doesn't know what to say. She looks into Julie's pale grey eyes and nods. They smile uneasily at each other, both feeling nervous and awkward. “Do you always wear a hat when you go out?” Anna asks at last.

“I didn't want your neighbours gossiping about strange bald visitors. Do you want to take it off?” Anna accepts the invitation. She can't resist touching Julie's scalp again. She feels ashamed of openly showing her obsession but her desire is too strong. Julie looks so sexy to her.

“There's still no stubble,” Anna whispers.

“I shaved it again today. I'm staying bald until I'm told otherwise. You're not unhappy about that, are you?”

Anna smiles shyly and shakes her head. She kisses Julie and pulls her to the sofa. “I can't stop thinking about you and your girlfriend. She's really alright with you seeing other people?”

“Yes, but I have to tell her about anyone else.”

“Even me?” Anna yelps.

Julie nods. “I called her last night. I'm sorry... I promised her.”

Anna takes a moment to think about it. “You told her how I ran out on you? I promise not to do it again tonight. Maybe you'll have more to tell her next time.”

“I will...” Julie promises.

The following morning Julie has a long phone conversation, reporting a night with little sleep. She tells how Anna endlessly asks about Julie's submission, about how she came to accept being made hairless, about being led to the tattooist, about her relationship with Pamela. She's cautious about the prospects of Anna wanting a long term relationship. She's hurt and vulnerable but her interest in Julie seems more than a mere rebound phenomenon. She seems very naïve considering that she's been married for ten years, even asking about a three-way date with Julie and Pamela, seemingly without conceiving of it as a sexual encounter. Pamela gives her blessing to Julie meeting with Anna again that night.

The prospect of meeting Julie in a public place has piqued Anna's anxiety. People are bound to stare at a bald woman. Will they assume that they are lovers? She's mad at herself for worrying. It's the twenty-first century, same-sex relationships are accepted by all but the most moronic and reactionary. If people think she's a lesbian, then so what?

Julie has arrived at the restaurant before her. She's wearing a lot of make-up. Her eyes are outlined by heavy black oblongs, making her eyes appear even paler, and her upper lids are shaded with a deep blue. She wears a tight fitting lime-green dress that accentuates her voluptuous figure. Everything about her is attention grabbing and Anna is enchanted by how sexy she looks. She feels almost invisible in her tasteful grey dress and understated make-up, her dark blonde hair worn straight and loose. Julie rises and kisses her on the lips, a lingering kiss that could leave no doubt in any observer that the two women are lovers.

As they take their place at the table Anna asks if their previous encounter was reported. Julie confirms it was. “I told her that you'd asked about meeting her. She seemed interested, even asked if you wanted the three of us to meet this Friday.”

“Oh wow, great!”

“Anna, don't rush into this. You'll get your fingers burnt. I worry that you've got some very romantic notions about submission.”

Anna squeezes Julie's hand. “You make her sound like a monster! You told me she's so loving and sweet and I can tell how much you like her, so she can't be that bad.”

“Don't rush into it,” Julie repeats. “She can be very persuasive, she'll eat you for dinner if you're not careful. Think about it and let me know tomorrow.”

Anna isn't to be easily put off. She feels intoxicated by the new worlds she's encountering for the first time. She finds Julie's overly cautious attitude an annoyance. She's a grown woman, Julie's four years younger. She wants to explore and Pamela will add to her excitement. She imagines being in the power of a dominatrix and the idea excites her enormously. Her life with George suddenly seems terribly staid, a waste of more than a third of her life. She confirms that she'll come to Julie's house on Friday at five where Pamela will meet them.

Julie welcomes her into her home for the first time. She's surprised to see someone in the living room. A very young looking girl, she looks barely out of her teens. Very short, quite plump, but very pretty. Her hair is dyed a vivid deep red and cut in a short textured style which flatters her features. Julie makes the introduction: “Pamela, this is Anna.”

Anna can't mask her surprise. Pamela isn't at all like her idea of a dominatrix. She looks so girlish, friendly, cute.

“I've heard so much about you! Julie tells me you approve of her makeover. Do you think I should let her grow some her or keep her bald forever?”

“I don't know, Pamela,” she says shyly.

“Maybe I should arrange the same treat for you. She'd suit a bald head, don't you think Julie? Nice shaped head, good bone structure.”

Julie smiles and agrees, making Anna feel very nervous. She seems different in Pamela's presence, deferential, eager to please, hiding her intelligence.

Anna wants to make it clear that she's no push over. “I don't think so.” Pamela looks at her challengingly.

“I thought you wanted to be dominated.” Anna nods. “So I'll decide what's good for you, won't I?”

Anna feels an anger flare momentarily, she looks defiantly at Pamela. She's too young to speak to her like this. Pamela looks unimpressed.

“Get on your knees. We need to show you how to behave.” She feels herself being forced to kneel by Pamela and moments later her wrists are locked behind her back with handcuffs.

Anna starts to mutter, not sure whether to apologise or protest. Pamela's index finger, decorated with a long false nail, is placed on her lips to silence her. “Julie, dear, get the needles. She's been verbally defiant, so her punishment will be her tongue.”

Anna looks at Julie pleadingly but she avoids returning eye contact and leaves the room. She returns moments later and passes a black leather case to Pamela.

“Now are you going to be a good girl, or are you going to try to be tough? I do hope it's the latter because I love showing women like you how powerless they are.” Anna feels herself tearing up. She's sure this is all an awful mistake and wishes she'd heeded Julie's warnings.

“Please, I'm not ready...” Her plea is curtailed by a spatula being slipped into her mouth. Pamela twists it to part her teeth and slides in a jaw spreader. The arms hook around her teeth and ratchet apart, forcing her mouth open.

“Your tongue can be a terrible weapon. It can cause so much trouble and offence. But it can also give so much pleasure. Your tongue is going to give me a lot of pleasure, isn't it, Anna? Poke it out for me like a good girl.”

Anna pleads to be released but her speech is unintelligible. From the case Pamela takes out a two pronged hook made of plastic coated wire. She inserts it into Anna's nostrils and pulls the attached cable up so hard that Anna's eyes begin to water. She fixes a clip on the end of the cable to Anna's hair just above her forehead. The tension is maintained on her nostrils and now tugs at the roots of her hair.

Pamela smiles at her. “Is the little piggy girl going to obey me now or do I have to add some more motivators? Tongue out!”

Anna feels her tears roll down her cheeks. She uncurls her tongue and nervously extends the tip beyond her teeth. She thinks of Julie's tongue piercing and how much she liked the feeling but the idea of her own tongue being pierced in the same way terrifies her. Pamela kneels now, facing her and lets her own tongue touch Anna's, the tips moving around each other in a dance. Pamela's tongue is pierced like Julie's. Her touch is surprising gentle and Anna feels an unexpected twinge of pleasure but the tongue play doesn't last. A pair of forceps close around the tip of Anna's tongue and she's made to extend it fully. A second pair of forceps close and she feels like she's choking. Pamela is pulling roughly to drag her tongue out. Then the pain suddenly increases and she tastes blood. It keeps growing as the needle is driven through the muscle. Julie is standing close and assisting, wordlessly passing objects to Pamela, anticipating what needs to be done. Anna feels a spike of pain as the stud is fitted and moans in anticipation of being released. She's to be frustrated. To her horror, a second stud is added, a little further forward on the mid-line of her tongue, then a third at the tip. Her tongue throbs and each piercing is more painful than the previous one. Pamela looks totally absorbed as she pierces Anna. She finally takes a pair of scissors. She opens the jaw spreader wider and draws her tongue up and out, which causes her to shriek as her tongue is tender and swollen. Her vision darkens as she feels a snip under her tongue, cutting through the little web of flesh that attaches the centre of her tongue to the floor of her mouth. Anna's stomach starts to move rhythmically and she has to fight against the nausea.

Pamela finally releases her tongue and moments later the nose hook is removed too. Anna's tears are now from relief. Her mouth is awash with blood and she can barely move her tongue. The tiny stud at the tip of her tongue clicks against her teeth at every slight move. Julie removes the handcuffs and helps Anna to regain her feet. Pamela embraces her and kisses her on the mouth, her tongue pushing past Anna's lips, probing at the swollen pierced flesh. When she ends the embrace Pamela's lips are stained with blood.

“It's only quarter past five, the salon will still be open. Let's take you there for a little makeover.” Anna's eyes widen in horror. She looks at Julie for support but can only see her bald scalp. She can't be shaved too, she mustn't allow it. But she's afraid of Pamela, she's so ruthless.

“Oh poor little baby! Did you think I was going to shave you?” Pamela strokes her neck tenderly. “You're not ready for that. You'll still have long hair, I promise. Just a few nice tweaks, you'll look so sexy. Is that ok, Anna?”

Anna smiles nervously and nods. “Yes Pamela,” she agrees, but her tongue is paralysed and her speech is hard to understand. She's allowed to rinse her mouth and wash her face before the three women make a short journey in the car to the salon.

They enter, Anna feeling sick with fear and in considerable distress from the wounds inflicted on her tongue. The receptionist smiles to see Pamela. “Hi! What are you doing here on your day off?”

“This is Anna, she wants a new cut so I'll take her to the upstairs room. I'll lock up, so just call up when everyone is going.”

The upstairs room is a private salon, a single chair and a massage table. Anna is ordered to undress. She strips off, feeling humiliated to be watched by two women. Pamela orders her to stand, legs slightly apart, for examination. She looks intently at Anna for some time before speaking. “You have a good body but I sense you've been lax recently. You need to to lose a few pounds and tone up. I'm going to start dressing you in clothes where any imperfection will be visible.” Anna is furious to hear Pamela's criticism, especially since she's clearly heavier than Anna and a good seven inches shorter. A slap lands on Anna's left buttock. “Don't you dare look at me like that! Defiance isn't tolerated. You'll do as I say, won't you?”

A shocked Anna mumbles her assent. She's taken to the chair which appears to be a vintage barber chair. Julie fastens broad leather straps around her waist and chest and her wrists are tied to the armrests with silk scarves. Anna is too scared to resist. Pamela has set up a video camera on a tripod.

Pamela now ties a long ivory satin cape around Anna's neck, covering her body. She sees herself in the mirror, her face puffy from crying, free of make-up which she was made to scrub off. Pamela brushes through her long blonde hair. “Your roots are showing. It's two months since you coloured this, isn't it?” Anna nods, she's about right; in fact it's probably nearer three. Her hair is only a couple of shades darker so the roots aren't too obvious, but Pamela is obviously a perfectionist.

“We need to lose this plain Jane look, Anna. I think it's time you had a sexy haircut for the first time in your life. That's what you want, isn't it?” Pamela says as she pumps the chair up to a comfortable working height. Anna's eyes glisten with tears. She's starting to panic but she's helpless. Pamela can do as she pleases now and there's no way she can resist. “Julie, dear, get me the clippers. Don't bother with a guard, I think Anna will appreciate shorter.” The panic is growing rapidly now. Julie smiles and kisses Pamela on the cheek before going to search a cupboard. As she does so Pamela slips off her cardigan. Her right arm is tattooed extensively although much of the design is only sketched in outline. The finished areas are boldly coloured and clearly the work of the same artist as the incomplete large tattoo that Julie has on her back. Pamela combs through Anna's long hair and notices her staring in the mirror.

“Do you like my tattoos? I noticed yours.” (Anna got a little heart tattooed when she was 19, a tiny little tattoo on her bikini line which George never liked and she's come to regret). “Was that a little rebellion from your youth? I'm sure we can do better than that now, can't we?”

“No, please, not tattoos,” Anna moans, but her tongue is unable to articulate her pleas. Pamela has begun to section her hair, beginning with a part over the top of Anna's head, running vertically from ear to ear. The back half is coiled into a tight rope and pinned to her nape.

Pamela plays with the hair at the front. Her hands fascinate Anna, small, rounded and plump with tiny tapered fingers, each fitted with a long nail painted orange-red. “You have quite a widow's peak!” Anna is very aware of this, always self-conscious about it. She's always worn her hair in a side part to cover it and has avoided styles where her hairline is exposed. Pamela now makes horizontal part high on each side. The top is combed back and secured with a clip at the crown. Julie has plugged in a huge set of clippers and passes them to Pamela.

Every movement of her tongue makes Anna wince and she's afraid that it will start the bleeding again. She desperately want to tell Pamela to spare her the clippers but can only make a low animal moan. Pamela seems to pay no attention to the sound, or perhaps interprets it as a sign of arousal. The clippers are turned on, making Anna jump; Pamela lifts them toward Anna's left temple and she moves her head sideways to avoid them. Pamela moves her head back so that it rests against her breasts. Anna shivers at the sensation of her nape nestling in the full soft flesh and the scent of Pamela's musky perfume. Anna feels an intoxication from the perfect femininity of Pamela, her voluptuousness, her sweet smile. She wants to abandon herself to pleasure, an earthly paradise of femininity. The clippers touch her temple and slice back, following the part. A curtain of long hair slides free and slips noiselessly down the cape. Anna gulps as she sees a bare strip of scalp on the side of her head. She's being shaved. She should be horrified but she doesn't know what to feel. Her emotions are in turmoil. The net result of the conflict of feelings is an icy numbness.

The clippers cut close, very close. There's hardly a trace of stubble left where the second stroke has removed more hair. Pamela buzzes away more of Anna's blonde hair, until the whole side is bare. She runs the blades up Anna's cheek and her sideburn is now non-existent. Anna stares in the mirror and sees her cheeks burning, but doesn't know if it indicates shame, humiliation, horror, passion. Pamela is cleaning up the side, folding her ear down to shear away all the hair from the upper perimeter. The shaved area goes back to a vertical line which coincides with the furthest back point of her ear. The clippers zizz back and forth along the side parting, ensuring a neat line is formed. Anna has seen (and secretly adored) plenty of girls with sidecuts (mostly much younger than her) but few as extreme as this.

Pamela appears satisfied with the shaving but refuses to turn off the clippers. She merely turns Anna's head and sets to work on the right side. An area of bared scalp now touches the skin of Pamela's cleavage and Anna loves how it feels. Her scalp is so sensitive. She closes her eyes and focusses on the bliss of the sensation. She can feel more of her hair slip free as the clippers press firmly over her scalp. The warmth of the blades and the relentless soft vibration start to feel soothing to Anna.

She's brought out of her trance by the clippers' silence. She opens her eyes and lifts her head. She sees herself with the sides shaved bare, the narrow strip of hair on top swept back. Her lips tighten. She has a sort of mohawk. It looks extreme, boyish. So unlike her. Pamela's fingers stroke at the flesh, rubbing the soft stubble, and she lets the tips of her nails teasingly caress Anna's scalp. “You want this as smooth as Julie's, don't you, Anna?” Anna feels a turmoil as she remembers the delight she took feeling Julie's head for the first time, the fantasies about how she would feel to undergo the same. Now it's (partially) happened. She nods her head almost invisibly, afraid to give in to these crazy desires. She doesn't know where it will end, which terrifies her. Pamela wastes no time; she spreads the shorn scalp with a thick white foam, then orders Julie to kneel alongside her. Julie's scalp is completely covered in a white mantle. She remains utterly compliant as Pamela scrubs away her make-up and re-shaves her head. Each touch on her scalp makes her utter a soft swooning sigh. She's obviously enraptured by this submission.

Anna feels herself trembling with excitement to see how Pamela controls Julie. She wants to stroke her sex, to savour the delight she feels. She glances at herself in the mirror and looks away. Her hair is ruined and she looks ridiculous. How will she ever be able to face people? Pamela is running the razor over Julie's brows. She does it over and over, pressing the blades tight to her skin until there's no indication that hair was ever present. Anna recalls how when she first saw Julie her hair was quite long, past shoulders with a short fringe, dyed a washed out red. Now she doesn't have a hair on her entire body. She recalls how frequently Julie's hairstyle changed. Almost every time she visited the café she'd have a new cut or a different colour. She wonders if all of this time her look was dictated by Pamela. Her arousal is continuing to grow as she watches Pamela use a tiny trimmer along the edges of Julie's eyelids. The sensation is clearly uncomfortable to judge from her expression.

Julie is allowed to stand and Pamela rewards her compliance with a kiss while she strokes her denuded head. When their lips finally part both women are smiling. Julie looks so happy that she's unable to focus, a dazed look in her eyes. She remains lost in her thoughts as Pamela begins to shave the sides of Anna's head. The blades make a soft rasp as they drag through the stubble. Pamela makes swift, confident strokes up Anna's temples. Her scalp looks pale and milky, much whiter than her face which is slightly tanned. “You're going to keep this nice and smooth,” Pamela instructs her. “I don't want to feel any stubble. You can keep this style for a month if you're obedient.” Anna nods to indicate her acceptance. She can't bear to think what will happen if she offends Pamela, or at the end of the month for that matter. The right side of her head is now bared, the scalp gleaming. Anna feels faint. Why is she thinking of a future with Pamela? Surely this is all a terrible mistake. Once she's out of here she must never see Pamela again. She could have her arrested. She's been assaulted!

Both sides of her head are now clean shaven and Julie massages the scalp with a perfumed moisturiser while Pamela mixes some dyes at a sink at the other side of the room. Anna looks up at Julie. It's the first time she's seen her without make-up and she looks oddly unformed, a blank canvas that needs to be ornamented. She feels a little thrill to think of how cruel Pamela has been to make her look like this; a dim longing wells inside her to see Julie made to display herself like this, hairless and free of make-up. She immediately feels guilty for indulging such feelings, closing her eyes and concentrating on the delicate strokes of her lover's fingers on the freshly shaved scalp. “You're going to look so sexy,” Julie whispers.

She feels Pamela freeing her hair, combing it out. She combs it into different styles, some covering the bald areas, some not. Anna feels some relief to see that she will be able to style it so that the sides aren't visible. With Julie's assistance some foils are put into Anna's hair, a strip of foils through the right side at the front and a larger panel through the back, left of centre. Then the rest of Anna's hair is covered with a dark paste. Pamela expertly twists each painted strand up on top of Anna's head, ensuring that the dye doesn't get onto her scalp and discolour it. Anna is going to have dark hair for the first time in her life.

When the dye has processed, Anna is freed from her straps. She gets up stiffly and is taken to bend over a sink. Julie rinses the dye from her while Pamela starts to touch her in the most humiliating way, grabbing her buttocks and probing at her anus, sliding a finger into her slit. She then tugs at the fine sandy-coloured curls which lightly cover Anna's mound. “This is unhygienic!” Pamela declares. “It's got to go, hasn't it?” Anna mumbles indistinctly. Her tongue feels more swollen than ever. She feels a jolt pass through her body, surprised by the loud crack as the clippers start up. She feels Pamela push them awkwardly across her pubis. The bare blades nip at her skin more than once, making her squirm and pull away. Her skittishness is punished by a sharp slap on the buttock. Julie wraps her hair in a towel and makes Anna sit up against the edge of the sink. For the first time she sees that her bush has been ravaged. It looks so untidy: uneven, short stubbly hair, buzzed to the skin in places, two small nicks oozing blood. Julie teasingly rubs it with lather, the soap causing a stinging pain over the cuts. As she works Pamela kisses Anna, working her tongue between her lips. Anna is fearful of any contact with her own tongue, but Pamela isn't to be dissuaded. The tip of her tongue probes gently at Anna's new piercings, who is afraid to move since Julie is wielding a razor over the flesh of her pudenda.

Julie informs Pamela that her task is complete. Anna sees that not a trace of hair is left; her mound is bare, the pale skin marked only by the red nicks inflicted by the clippers. Her tattoo, to the upper right of her mound, is plainly visible. The outline of the heart is faded and blurred, the form now barely discernible. Pamela is studying it too; she runs her finger around the pattern curiously. “This looks so bad, doesn't it Anna? I think we should get it covered up with a nicer tattoo.”

Anna shakes her head but Pamela pays no heed. “I'm going to get more work done on my sleeve and Julie needs to finish her back piece. I bet you'd love to come and watch.” She traces a nail around the scrolling lines on her forearm. Anna is entranced. She finds the tattoos erotic and she's unable to conceal her fascination. “That's settled then,” Pamela smiles, sealing the agreement with a kiss.

Now Anna is taken back to the barber chair and once more strapped in place. “I bet you can't wait to see your new look, can you?” Pamela fusses around the towel, heightening the excitement before ripping it free with a dramatic flourish. Anna sees her wet hair fall loose over her shoulders, her blue-black hair. She gasps to see how dark it is. She notices that there's a stripe of sea green hair through the front and an area of the same colour at the back of her head. “It's so dark!” she lisps.

Pamela's smile shows her contentment with how the transformation is progressing. “You look like a goth, Anna.” She combs the hair back to expose the shaved sides. Anna is horrified by how severe it looks. Pamela starts to blast it with a drier, smoothing the long hair with a bristle brush. We'll get it dry, then do the cut.”

Anna looks uncomfortable. “You're cutting more?”

Pamela giggles. “Of course we are. But I think you should stop talking. You need to rest your tongue and let it heal.” She combs Anna's hair down over her shoulders, the front falling straight over her face. “You'll look so pretty with a fringe.” The comb smooths Anna's hair over her face, then she feels the cold blades of the scissors making contact with her forehead. It feels high, too high. Well clear of eyebrows. She wants to protest but feels utterly helpless. The blades slowly move over each other with a quiet crunching sound and Anna feels a lock of hair slip past her nose. Pamela slowly widens the fringe. She combs down the hair then snips away another lock. Anna feels her eyelids twitch uncontrollably as a freed lock touches her eyelashes. Pamela works methodically, ensuring she keeps the line precise and straight. Anna catches a glimpse of herself in the mirror. She can't help but feel a thrill as she sees how different she looks, a gleaming dark mane and a dramatic mid-forehead fringe framing her face. Julie and Pamela both compliment her.

But the cutting isn't finished. Pamela extends the line of the fringe through the side. She keeps cutting and cutting, exposing the bald sides of Anna's head. It's far too extreme now. Anna feels sick as she sees the style emerging. Her hair finishes clear of her ears now, a 2 cm strip of bald scalp visible over the top of each. Her fringe now extends around the entire front half of her head. It's as if she has a bowl cut (a very severe one) at the front and long hair at the back, like an extreme type of mullet.

Pamela chops into the shorter hair to layer and texture it. She tells Anna that she wants it to look messy. A girl like her should look like she cuts her own hair; she should be daring and not bothered what people think about her look. Anna knows the opposite is true; she dreads being seen. Pamela continues to hack into her hair, artfully concealing the skill of her cutting. She uses the blades of the open scissors to slice away long strands from Anna's thick mane at the back. In contrast to the patience she showed when cutting Anna's fringe she now works with shocking speed.

Pamela showers Anna's hair with a fine, dark powder, working it into her hair with her fingers. She explains that it will give lots of volume, and ensures it does by teasing her hair at the roots. She finishes the style with a copious amount of hairspray.

Anna squirms as she confronts her image in the mirror. She feels like she's about to lose control of her bladder, so shocked is she by her transformation. She sees a woman who looks provocative and wild, gothic and blatantly sexual. She feels anything but. This has all been an awful mistake. Momentarily she finds herself longing to be back with George, but what would he say if he saw her? Her hair is ruined, she's no idea how to fix it. Let it grow a bit through the sides, then she'll probably have to get it cut very short, she thinks sadly. The piercings can be removed, her tongue will heal.

Pamela and Julie have no such doubts about her new image, they are enraptured, caressing and kissing Anna. She tries to resist the sensations but is unable. She loves their attention, moans to be released so that she can bring herself to a climax. Pamela informs her that she'll have to wear more make-up to go with her new look. She applies a heavy foundation which is noticeably paler than Anna's skin but which helps to disguise the difference between the tone of her face and her scalp. Anna's lips are painted a deep plum; Pamela doesn't follow the natural form of her lips, adding pouting curves to her upper lip. Then she discusses with Julie what should be done with Anna's eyebrows. She suggests removing them, which excites Julie but appals Anna. Pamela asks her if she wants to keep them for now and she nods eagerly. A pencil is used to shape them; Anna hates what Pamela has done. They're black and extremely heavy now, twice as thick as her natural brows toward the centre, tapering to sharply defined points at the outside. Her brows and lips completely dominate her face. Her eyes have only been accented by a brushing of mascara to define her lashes.

She's freed from the chair at last: the cape is removed and her wrists untied, then Julie unbuckles the straps. She rises stiffly from the chair and wants to escape, but Pamela makes her face a mirror where she sees only a woman she cannot recognise. Pamela keeps stroking her shaved scalp and fussing with her stiff dark hair and Anna can't help feeling pleasure. “You're mine now, aren't you, sweetheart?” Pamela whispers. Anna nods. She tells herself that she'll agree with Pamela to placate her, but when she's released she'll never see her again. But part of her wants to give in to Pamela, to be her lover, to give in to pleasures she'd never even dreamed of. The idea of being under Pamela's aegis, her protection and her control, thrills Anna.

She wakes with a start. A web of limbs surround her own. Pamela's arm is draped across her breasts. She stares at the tattoos which mark the pale, soft skin. The lines are black and crisp, the colours rich and vivid. On her left side Julie slumbers, her face turned up toward Anna. Her hairlessness makes her look so vulnerable, so tender, and Anna feels a need to protect her that she thinks may indicate that's she's falling in love. Her scalp has developed a faint bloom of stubble that she knows Pamela will not tolerate, will not allow to grow into a soft head of hair. Julie will be shaved completely and Anna is secretly delighted.

She feels breathless as she remembers the previous night. How she was made to show off her new look at a bar, dressed like a slut. How the three of them played for hours in Julie's bedroom. The pleasure and pain that engulfed her. Her tongue is still paralysed from the piercings; it feels swollen and burnt. She needs to pee, she needs a drink but she can't move without waking Pamela and Julie, so lies still. She considers how later she will leave them forever and how she has nothing to regret. Maybe she regrets letting Pamela destroy her hair, but even that... The experience was thrilling for her, but it's a look she can't live with. She'll get extensions, let the shave grow out. The night they spent together will be something she'll have to remember for the rest of her days, her night of endless passion with two beautiful women. She's never experienced such desires, but this isn't her. She must return to a more dependable (stolid?) way of life. Find a job, let her wounds (physical and emotional) heal. Find a nicer place to live, maybe one day she'll be ready to find another man.

Her resolve is weakened as soon as her lovers wake. They embrace her (and each other) with a tender outpouring of affection. She's close to tears. She's felt emotionally numb for so long and these women have stirred depths she'd closed off for so long she'd almost forgotten them. There are no secrets here, everyone is naked and everyone uses the bathroom together. Julie bathes Anna, lavishing attention on her. She washes her hair and Anna is close to a climax as she feels the lather massaged on her shorn scalp. Pamela watches the scene with undisguised pleasure and whispers something to Julie. She bends over the bath and takes a razor. Anna is helpless as the sides of her head are shaved. She wants to protest, to tell her to stop. She wants to tell her that she's going to grow her hair back to how it was but words fail her. Perhaps those words would all be lies.

Julie is next in the bath. Pamela takes care of her, washing her with a sponge. She shaves her arms before lathering her head. She starts to remove the stubble then turns to Anna. “Would you like to help? I'm sure Julie would love it.”

Anna's hand is shaking as she nervously draws the razor over Julie's scalp. She keeps apologising, afraid that she will cut her. Pamela puts her arm around her and reassures her. “You're doing fine, sweetheart. Look how beautiful she is without hair. She's the most gorgeous bald girl in the world, isn't she?” Julie giggles to relieve her embarrassment but Anna believes it. She sighs with relief as she finishes shaving Julie, passing the razor back to Pamela who finishes the job much more confidently. She shaves Julie's face entirely, brows, cheeks and lips are all razored. Anna dabs her face with a towel. She can't take her eyes off Julie now, her skin looks so soft and fresh. She's starting to prefer her like this, without make-up.

Anna sits meekly for Pamela to have her hair styled. The back is braided into a tight fishtail which falls forward over her right shoulder, the patterning of the braid emphasised by the green which is streaked through the black. The short hair at the front is gelled and made to stand straight up, the front curved back in a little quiff which emphasises Anna's widow's peak. Pamela again gives her thick, dark brows but today her eyes are much more boldly outlined with thick black liner. She paints her lips black too.

Anna wants to cry. Pamela has made her look even more weird and gothic. The make-up is far too extreme and her hair even worse. Styled like this, the full extent of the shave is apparent, and it looks so boyish. Pamela was surely aware of her dislike of her widow's peak and deliberately made it prominent. Anna is unable to hold her tongue. “I don't... really like it.” Her nerve fails her as soon as the words are given flight. She remembers her initial encounter with Pamela: Anna's tongue still bears witness to her wrath.

Pamela looks thoughtful and stares at her in silence. At last she speaks. “What is it you don't like?”

Anna is afraid to respond. “I hate my widow's peak,” she concedes. Surely Pamela can't be offended by that. It was given to her by nature, not by Pamela.

“Oh, but sweetheart, it's so sexy! Isn't it Julie?”

“Oh yes,” Julie concurs, enthusiastically. She starts to stroke and fondle Anna. The touch delights her; it's irresistible.

“You want to look sexy for Julie and me, don't you? Julie is going without make-up again today to please you.” (Did she reveal her delight in that last night, when alcohol had loosened her tongue? She feels ashamed to have voiced such perverse pleasures.) “I think it's a little unfair to expect us to be deprived of such a subtle pleasure as seeing your hairline when Julie has to have her whole body shaved to please you.” Anna knows that Pamela is being dishonest. Julie wasn't shaved to please her, Pamela shaved Julie before she even knew of Anna's existence. But this is hardly the time for logical argument; Julie has her moaning as she slides between her legs. She can only murmur her assent to Pamela, grateful for her tacit consent to Julie's attentions.

Julie transports her back into the ecstasies of the previous night. Her pierced tongue explores Anna's sex, now a touch as light as gossamer, now thrusting surprising firmly. Pamela strokes and kisses her. “Are you going to wear my collar today, Anna? I want you to show some commitment, and you want that too, don't you?”

Anna knows what it means, how a collar is a symbol of submission, of ownership. This is all too fast. She had resolved to remove herself from Pamela, to return to the way of life that was comfortable and stable but now she finds herself looking shyly into Pamela's eyes and nodding. Moments later Pamela has a collar in her hand. Anna feels the rough leather tightening on her delicate neck, over-tightening. Pamela has deliberately clasped it so that she will be always aware of it, chafing, restricting. Anna moans as she sees a little padlock in Pamela's fingers. As the hasp clicks shut she makes a high pitched sigh which evidences her climax.

Before they head out for breakfast Anna excuses herself and goes into the bathroom. She stares in wonder in the mirror. What is becoming of her? The shock of how she has been made to look is undiminished. She strokes her bald temples. The touch is almost unbearable, her scalp so sensitive that she isn't sure whether the touch is pleasurable or distressing. But that applies to most of what Pamela has done to her; she sees in the mirror a woman that she finds extremely arousing, sensual, audacious, but she doesn't want to be that woman. The collar is two inches wide, the front decorated with rings whose function is obscure. The buckle is hidden beneath a flap which the padlock seals. She hates to see it there; it could never be mistaken for jewellery, it suggests things about her which she'd prefer to keep hidden. Julie calls her, tells her that they're going now and she has to join them. For a moment she considers locking herself in the bathroom, even looks at the window to consider using it as an escape route. A moment later she's climbing into Julie's car.

They breakfast at a local café; Anna's tongue is extremely sore and she can manage only a few spoonfuls of porridge. Her appetite is compromised by the stares from the other patrons. She's uncomfortable with this sort of attention but Pamela and Julie seem to thrive on it, even the glares from those who are undisguisedly hostile.

Their conversation turns to tattoos and it's only after a few minutes that it dawns on Anna that they are discussing plans to extend their own tattoos that very morning. Anna starts to imagine watching Pamela being inked and she feels an erotic thrill growing inside. She knows Julie will be tattooed too but it's the prospect of seeing Pamela's sleeve spreading over her pale skin that excites her more. But she feels uneasy too. Entering a tattooing shop with Pamela is surely dangerous. She knows that she may try to persuade her to get inked; she'd suggested as much the previous night. She grows mad at herself for her weakness. Why doesn't she stand up and tell Pamela that all of this is not for her? Return to her flat, get on with her real life, not this pantomime. She doesn't move, she doesn't speak. She feels like a moth confronted with a candle. Pamela is a flame that will lead her to her fate and she can't escape. She will continue to move ever closer in a fatal spiral.

Finally, Pamela addresses her. “I booked you in for some work too. You want that, don't you?”

This was what she had half expected. She hasn't even known Pamela for a full day and now she expects her to be marked in a way that will remain with her for her entire life. She looks at Julie and sees the tattoo on her cheek. She feels a horror as she imagines her face being marked.

Pamela notices her gaze. “Not that, you haven't earned the right to my mark yet, Anna. Just what you agreed last night, cover up your own nasty little tattoo.”

Anna looks down into her lap. She feels shy and anxious. Maybe that won't be so bad, she tries to convince herself. The ink of her tattoo has spread and faded. Just a tiny little tattoo to cover it, something pretty. She remembers that it hurt to be tattooed but she can endure that. “Yes Pamela,” she whispers.

All three of them enter the shop, which is decorated in a fantasy-Victorian gothic style. The receptionist appears to be on friendly terms with Pamela and Julie. “Who's first?” Pamela asks. She looks at Anna, then Julie. Julie is relaxed, she gives a casual shrug of her shoulders. “Poor Anna, you look so nervous. Shall we get yours out of the way?”

She feels trapped. How did she ever get into this? She can't disagree with what Pamela says; if she has to be tattooed she'd rather not have to wait. “Thank you, Pamela,” she says with a deferential smile.

Pamela leans in close to her ear and whispers. “You be a good girl for me and I'll give you a special treat when we get home. But you have to do as I say! If you embarrass me I'll punish you and Julie.”

Anna feels her excitement growing. She doesn't want to feel like this but Pamela knows how to turn her on. Her lips touch Anna's ear and she loves the sensation. She desperately wants Pamela's approval and finds herself nodding shyly. All of them enter a tattooing room.

The room is spotless and smells clean. Anna can barely remember her last experience of being tattooed. It was when she was at university, a little assertion of her independence. And now it seems she'll be tattooed to show that she's relinquished control.

The tattooist greets them; Pamela introduces her as Carmen. She looks Mediterranean, dark eyed, olive skinned, dark roots peeking through her dyed red hair. She's tall, long limbed, young, pretty. Her thigh is adorned with a huge tattoo of an orange flower nestling among spiky green leaves. Her arms are covered by long sleeves but Anna finds herself speculating that she must have more tattoos concealed under the fabric.

Carmen is asked to inspect Anna's piercings. She groans as her tongue is lifted with a wooden spatula. “Oh, Pamela, you cut her frenulum! You are a naughty girl.” She apologises to Anna as she inspects the wounds, aware of how tender they are. “It looks fine. Just rinse your mouth three times a day with a salt solution.” She turns to Pamela. “You're getting better at this. I can see you're trying to put me out of business! Just don't do too much... Three tongue piercings at once is a lot.”

Pamela tells her that Anna wanted it and she's a very brave girl. As she does, she begins undressing her, slipping her dress up over her head. Anna feels her face colour as she displays herself to Carmen. She's very conscious that she's the oldest here, her body not in the first flush of youth like the others. “Take off your panties,” Pamela tells her. She complies without hesitation.

Anna is led over to the bed, made to lie back with her heels drawn back to her buttocks, knees splayed out wide. Carmen studies her mound, stares at the old tattoo. “She wants that covered up. The design we discussed will be fine.”

Carmen nods. “And you're sure you want this?” she asks Anna. She nods, smiling shyly at Pamela. Inside she feels panic. What has she agreed to? Why doesn't she stop this?

A transfer is applied to her mound, pressed onto the right side. Then another is applied to the left side. She feels herself getting anxious. This wasn't what she wanted. It was supposed to be a little cover up. Why is she marking the left side? She raises her head to see what Carmen has done. Faint black lines scroll around her shaved pubis, outlining symmetrical vine-like forms. It's nicely drawn, not the clichéd tribal patterns so many tattooists use. But there are too many lines! The pattern looks like a decoration from an old architectural print, a baroque form? Anna doesn't know her art history well enough. But as she looks she sees that the curves seem to surround her tattoo but not pass over it. She feels confused. “Wasn't it supposed to cover the tattoo?” she lisps.

Carmen looks up. “Oh it will, don't worry. It'll cover it just fine.” She looks puzzled by Anna's concern. There's clearly some sort of misunderstanding between them. Pamela smiles at Anna but there's a hard look in her eye. She's showing Anna that she shouldn't try to interfere.

Some details are added to the lines manually. The tip of the pen tickles and Anna closes her eyes as she tries to keep still. She starts to feel tearful. The design is too extensive. Her whole mound will be covered in tattooed scrolls! How will she ever show herself naked? She has only to say “No!” and this will stop. But she doesn't.

The first touch of the needle makes her grit her teeth. It's horrible: sharp, gnawing pain. She screws up her eyes, chews at her lip. Carmen presses the needle firmly while pulling her skin taut. She urges Anna to relax, insisting the pain will be easier to bear. She wants to swear at her, to tell Carmen that it's not her feeling the pain. Julie takes her hand and strokes her arm, smiling serenely. “You'll be fine, baby,” she coos. “I hated it at first but now I'm addicted. I can't wait to continue with mine.”

She tries to settle, keeps telling herself that she'll get used to the feeling, but it just seems to get worse. It feels like her flesh is being burnt as the needle digs into her skin over and over. She thinks about how freakish she will look now, her pussy heavily marked. Unable to bear the humiliation, unable to bear the pain, she starts to cry, which Pamela remarks. “Does it hurt, kitten?” She bends to kiss Anna's cheek as Julie caresses her arm. She feels muddled, for a moment she doesn't know where she is. She doesn't know if she feels unhappy or blissful. The attentions of Julie and Pamela are wonderful and she thinks back to how she felt as a little girl, how it felt when she was ill and her mother held her in her arms. Everything bad would be banished. And now it's Julie and Pamela who hold her and make everything better. Is this what she's come to? She'll allow herself to be hurt and disfigured to gain some attention? She shivers as she thinks how much she's loved being with Julie and Pamela. She feels dizzy, crazy. Is this what she really wants or is it just a way of coping with the hurt inflicted by George?

She squeezes Julie's hand, puts her other arm around Pamela's waist and draws her closer. “Don't leave me,” she whispers.

Pamela hooks her finger inside the tight collar. “You're mine and I'm yours. Forever, sweetheart.” She kisses Anna over and over, slow, delicate kisses, over her cheek and up onto her shorn scalp. Anna feels herself tingling deliciously. She's never felt happier, despite the pain she feels. All her doubts recede. Thinking too much isn't good for her, she should let herself enjoy each moment, stop worrying about things that may never come to be.

She is still aware of the pain of the needle boring into her skin, turning her flesh black, but each time she shows discomfort Pamela and Julie come to her aid, playing some special game with her, their subtle skills rooting out some new source of delight. She looks into their eyes with gratitude. Pamela is so pretty, big dark eyes, soft cheeks, delicately pointed chin, beautifully cut hair. Julie is no longer allowed to be pretty: her features are quirky, and without hair or make-up there's nothing to flatter. There's even an ugliness in what Pamela has turned her into! The idea excites Anna more than it should. She imagines herself teasing Julie about what she's become, goading Pamela into making more extreme changes to her, although what those changes should be escape her imagination. She stares into Julie's eyes, her lovely pale eyes which look so sad without lashes; she's beautiful and ugly at the same time. Anna reaches up and spreads her fingers over Julie's scalp, the scalp she shaved, rubs it and forces Julie's head down to kiss her.

The idyll is interrupted by Carmen. “I'm sorry, Anna, I need to go to the toilet. You have a little breather. I'll only be five minutes.”

Anna sits up, her muscles stiff from tension. She gasps as she see the progress that's been made with her tattoo. She'd imagined that her mound was to be ornamented with fine black scrolls. Now she realises in horror that the linear forms are to be left unpigmented, with the skin around them blackened, all the skin. Carmen has surrounded her pubis with a heavy black line shaped like a heraldic shield and has commenced filling it in: a significant area of the right side is already completed. She looks up accusingly at Pamela but is too shocked to say anything. Is this what Pamela wanted? Of course it is! Now she understands why the forms didn't seem to cover up her old tattoo. It's submerged forever now, a slab of black burying it. Her sex will be almost completely pigmented, the fine pattern of stylised vines looking white against the depth of the ink. She imagines how stark it will look, how no amount of hair will hide it. She imagines how obvious it will look, how ugly.

Carmen returns and once more bends over Anna's crotch. Even the pause of a few minutes has made the pain seem less bearable. Her anger with Pamela is forgotten and now she looks pleadingly at her and Julie, needing their support now if she's to bear the agony. She reaches a hand out to Pamela who pauses for a moment before taking it. She puts her lips to Anna's ear. “I saw that look in your eyes,” she whispers. “You still think you know best, don't you? It's not true any more. Tell me who's in charge.”

“You are, Pamela,” she lisps. She's giving away all control now, consenting to everything Pamela wants, even permanent changes like this awful tattoo. She feels tearful, angry with herself. Why has she lost the ability to say no?

The pain increases as Carmen drives the needle into ever more sensitive and intimate places. She feels her labia being stretched out to hold the skin taut as Carmen tattoos them black. The tattooist seems so devoted to her task that she doesn't give any heed to Anna's distress. The pain increases even more as Carmen starts to ink Anna's hood. Tears roll down her cheeks as she imagines how it will look. She daren't raise her head to look at how Carmen is transforming her. More than ever she needs the kisses and caresses that Pamela and Julie lavish upon her.

She feels Carmen wiping at her flesh with a wad of gauze, as she has throughout the entire process of her tattooing. But now the silence continues. There is no buzzing, no pain. “All done,” she says. Anna feels uneasy, despite the relief that the cessation of her agony has brought. She feels herself being lifted and glances down to see the damage that has been wrought upon her. The entire mound is stained the deepest black. She doesn't want to look at it. She's helped to her feet, complying without thought, and finds herself standing before a full length mirror. The tattoo dominates her vision, a dark escutcheon covering her genitalia, ornamented with arabesques which look snowy white when set against the ink. Her inner labia are left untouched, the pale pink slit seeming like the only part of her that looks like human flesh and blood. She glances at her face. Her eyes are ringed by blurred and streaked make-up. She looks a fright.

“Oh, Anna, so sexy...” Julie purrs.

“Yes, sexy,” Pamela agrees, putting her lips to Anna's ear to whisper “The first of many.”

Anna sits naked as Carmen tattoos Julie. She sits back to front on a chair, her arms resting against the top of the chair, displaying her back. Carmen adds colour to the design which was outlined in the last session. Bright colours are blended into a vivid, symmetrical design which Pamela has chosen, and which will eventually cover Julie's entire back. The pain is obviously intense, Julie wincing as the needle passes over her spine, but Anna can see a look of bliss in her eyes. Pamela keeps telling her how beautiful she will be, which makes Julie moan ecstatically. Anna grips her hand, weirdly fascinated to see her friend's skin being transformed from pale to brightly adorned. From time to time she glances down at her own tattoo, covered with strips of cling film. She still can't bear to think it's part of her.

As she concludes a section of the image, Carmen announces that she will stop work on Julie there for today. Pamela's tattooing will take place after a break for lunch. Julie examines herself in the mirror, her eyes glazing over with joy as she views her new ink. She thanks Carmen profusely as Pamela sits Anna down to repair her make-up.

Pamela treats her two friends to lunch in a smart café, although Anna is only able to sip a lukewarm cup of coffee. Anna imagines everyone is staring at Julie and her. She feels tense, paranoid. The waitress looks at her for a bit too long, her gaze isn't friendly, she looks... intimidated? She looks nervously at Julie too, tugging nervously at a loose curl as Julie ponders her choice from the menu. Anna can sense her fear as she imagines how it would be if she were bald too. Anna feels uneasy as she imagines how only yesterday she would have fitted in here comfortably, how her appearance would have been welcomed. Now she scares people. The realisation appals her, but she's aware of something else, deep inside: she feels a power. Her image gives her a strength, she's different now, not just different to how she used to be, different to almost everyone. She's become an outsider. She blushes as she considers this, embarrassed at her own vanity. Every teenager thinks such things when they make a little act of rebellion. But somehow this is different. Anna feels like her old life has broken away from her and now she will slide inexorably toward a new destiny.

The lunch is soon over and Anna now finds herself staring as Carmen tattoos Pamela's forearm. The needle buzzes and fresh lines appear over the soft pale skin. Carmen is drawing freely, following no predetermined design. The outlines appear rapidly, and there is no indication that Pamela knows in advance what the details of the tattoo will be. She appears to trust Carmen entirely. Undulating curves slide into bold geometric shapes, rectangles, stars, circles, spirals. Anna is spellbound; the tattoo that previously terminated just below elbow now tumbles around Pamela's entire forearm. Carmen works in silence, occasionally glancing up at Pamela. Each time their eyes meet smiles are exchanged. A spiralling line spreads down the back of Pamela's wrist and Carmen pauses, unsure. “Onto your hand?” she asks. Pamela moans softly, nods enthusiastically. And so the ink spreads over her pretty little hand. Anna imagines her working in the salon now, the scissors held in a heavily tattooed hand, her boldness on display to every client.

A touch on her ear makes Anna jump. She's so engrossed in her thoughts that any intrusion from the outside world shocks her. Julie kisses her ear, looks into her eyes. She wears an expression of serenity, a gentle smile on her lips. Anna puts an arm around her waist and draws her closer. She can see how happy Pamela looks despite the pain of being tattooed. “You two should get hand tattoos as well,” she announces. “It feels great. Looks so...” She breaks off with a soft, elated sigh.

Anna feels a wave of panic, but Julie seems to love the suggestion. She expresses her enthusiasm for the idea, but Pamela notices Anna's reluctance. “Anna, you do want it too, don't you? I don't want to have to send Carmen to get some scissors and snip off your plait.”

Julie answers for her. “She'll be a good girl and do what you want, Pamela. Won't you, baby?” She kisses Anna's cheek excitedly. Still Anna can't answer. She knows she must say no, but she daren't refuse Pamela and she feels a weird leaden sensation that may be fear or excitement.

“I still didn't hear you say yes, Anna. Carmen, can you get me some scissors?”

“Oh please, Pamela, no!” she wails. “I'll do it, I'll do it!”

Julie goes first. Carmen outlines a large rectangle on the back of her right hand, about 2 ½ by 2 inches. “Oh it's big,” Julie says with surprise but seemingly no displeasure. Anna feels nausea, not for what she's seeing, which if she's honest truly excites her, but because she knows that her hand will soon be marked similarly. Filling the centre is an outline of a heart (“For my love,” Pamela smiles). The rectangle is filled with black ink until only the heart shape is left, and Carmen then decorates the open space with undulating blue lines. Julie groans with pain but a smile plays about her lips. “Oh god, it's so beautiful. Thank you Pamela!”

Anna sits and places her hand on the table. She feels sick. She can't understand why she's going along with this. Her right hand will be indelibly marked, a sign for everyone to see. She winces at the sting of the needle. It's begun. She feels tears in her eyes as she sees a heavy line spread across the skin, forming a box just as big as Julie's new tattoo. Carmen is using a different needle which gives a thick line, 3 mm wide. Anna has assumed that she will be given the same design as her friend but instead Carmen inscribes a five-pointed star in the centre, the lines now extremely fine. Further stars are described concentrically within the first, then outside the star until the rectangle is filled with what appears to be a view down a tunnel of star shaped section. Carmen cleans the excess ink away from Anna's tender skin, leaving her an unimpeded view of her new tattoo which is extremely black and geometrically perfect.

“My little star,” Pamela says. Anna smiles nervously. She can hardly bear to look at Pamela. “You have a lovely smile, but I don't see it often enough. You have pretty dimples when you smile. Carmen, can you do her dimples?”

Anna feels confused. She looks at Julie for an explanation. She feels herself being led to a reclining chair, sitting back. Everything feels unreal, nightmarish. Carmen tells her to smile and then puts dots of ink on her cheeks where the dimples form near the corners of her mouth. “Please, not my face... Don't tattoo my face,” she mutters.

Carmen smiles at her reassuringly. “Not tattoos, Anna, I'm just going to pierce you.” And she does. Anna feels the needle slide through the thick flesh of her cheek, moaning as the pain hits her. She feels like she will faint, then as the pain grows even more intense she longs to lose consciousness. Finally Carmen stops tugging and pushing and she feels the presence of the jewellery in her cheek. She probes at it delicately with her tongue, wincing as the piercings click together. “Well done, Anna,” Carmen says. “It's quite a tough piercing and you're coping with it well. Ready for the right side?” She doesn't wait for a reply and immediately pierces Anna's cheek.

A mirror is waved before her face and Anna sees silvery beads jutting from her cheeks. They're about 5 mm in diameter, very shiny and they really seem to dominate her face. Pamela tells her to smile but as soon as she tries she feels an aching. “Just one more piercing for today. Will you do that, baby?” Pamela says in her sweetest voice, playing with Anna's braid. Anna can't bear the idea. She's had far too much done at Pamela's request, much of it irreversible. The time has come to assert her will, to show Pamela that she still has some dignity, some will of her own.

“Yes Pamela,” she says meekly. She's betrayed herself, her voice seemingly working under the control of some unconscious urges which chill Anna, all the more so as she doesn't comprehend her desires. A whispered conversation takes place between Pamela and Carmen and moments later forceps are closed on her right nostril. The pain is less intense than much that she's endured today but she still cries out, the little shock of pain reinforcing her sense of being completely unable to resist what's happening to her.

She groans as Carmen fits a ring into her nostril, her eyes involuntarily tearing. It's not so bad, she tries to tell herself. A lot of her friends have a piercing in their nose, even if they wear studs rather than rings. “I'm going to put a new ring in your ear,” Carmen tells her. She has to use some force to slide it home as it's thicker than any earring Anna has worn. She feels a chain hanging from it, brushing her neck. Now Carmen slips the last link of the chain onto the nose ring and locks it in place. The girl in the mirror now has a golden chain dangling in a catenary across her cheek, the links brushing against the stud which adorns her cheek. She's so obviously demonstrating her sexuality, a girl with tastes which are outside of what decent society will tolerate. Her hair and make-up, her collar all unequivocally state what she is. Anna can't comprehend how this girl is her.

Carmen records her work with a series of photographs. Anna is made to pose for one of her face, her tattooed hand resting against her collared neck. Another picture shows the three newly tattooed hands pressed together in a sort of triskelion. Anna's genital tattoos are photographed too. Carmen gains her permission to include the pictures on her site.

Pamela and Julie upload the pictures of themselves to their Facebook pages. Anna is made to upload her pictures as well. She realises her friends will see what she's become. George will see her too. What will they think of her? They'll think she's mad, that her separation has made her go crazy. Perhaps they'd be right in thinking that. Anna dreads seeing their replies, dreads trying to explain herself. She doesn't want to face her old friends any more, doesn't want to justify herself to anybody. She asks Pamela if she can return home now to rest.

“You want to go back to your place?”

Anna realises that when she said home she meant Julie's. “No, Pamela, are we going to Julie's?” The thought of being on her own is unbearable. She smiles at Pamela, then at Julie, trying to get her own way, but both remain silent. “Please, Pamela, I don't want to be on my own. I don't feel well.”

It's true, she feels sick with tiredness and her whole body aches with tension. Pamela looks thoughtful. “I wanted to go out and have some fun tonight, so did Julie. If we have to stay in and look after you you'll have to make it up to us tomorrow.”

“I will, I promise to do something nice with you tomorrow.” Anna feels her dependence growing. She knows she'll regret her promise but for now it's enough that she can stay away from her horrible room and have some company.

“And before we go I'm going to buy you some new jewellery and have Carmen put it in.” Anna is made to put out her tongue (which causes her some considerable pain) and Carmen delicately removes one of the studs, only to replace it with a ring which encircles the tip. Anna is warned to be careful, not to bite the ring accidentally as it could chip a tooth. She realises that it makes it even more difficult to talk and hopes that she'll soon be allowed to put the less intrusive bar back in.

When the three women get back to Julie's they immediately undress. Anna's resolve to sleep is forgotten as her excitement grows. She tells Julie and Pamela how lovely their tattoos are, flushing as she lisps so badly that her speech is hard to understand.

Pamela puts her hands behind her back and locks handcuffs on Anna. “Maybe it would be best if you're the most heavily modified of us.” Pamela whispers in her ear. Julie has come close and is teasingly tickling her breasts.

“No, please, not that...” Anna murmurs. Pamela kisses her on the cheek, her lips closing about the new piercing. She tugs at it until it presses against the wound. Anna moans as she feels how tender her cheek is, but she's thrilled by the sensation.

“Tongue out!” Pamela snaps. Anna does it without thought. “I've got plans for your tongue.” She guides a loop of stiff black thread around the ring at the tip. “I'm going to make it longer.” She pulls steadily on the fine cord until Anna is squealing. “Cutting the frenulum means you can extend it more but now we'll stretch it.” She pulls down on the thread so that Anna's tongue is pulled down toward her chin. “And once it's stretched we'll...” She pauses as she knots the cord onto the ring at the front of Anna's collar. “No, I won't say any more, it will ruin the surprise!”

Anna catches sight of herself in the bedroom mirror. Her tongue is horribly pulled out, the piercings jutting out. She wants to cry. Pamela's plans are crazy, she would turn her into a freak. But she's losing control again, Julie is now bent over her, sucking at her nipple, her tongue piercing flicking at the tip.

Pamela is adorning herself with a strap-on. “Not too big, baby. I have to go in the back door, don't I? We can't risk hurting your tattoo.” Anna wails as she feels the slippery dildo move up and down between her buttocks. Julie makes her bend forward. She's kneeling in front of Anna and licks at her immobilised tongue. Anna starts to drool uncontrollably. She feels utterly humiliated. Pamela pulls her buttocks apart. She feels her anus stretching. “Just try to relax...” Pamela's voice is so girlish and pretty. She moans as the rounded tip enters her, the muscles tightening to fight against it. The dildo slides inside and there's a moment of pain. Then her body is engulfed by a flood of ecstasy. She knows that everything she's endured today has been worthwhile for this. She wants to be with Julie and Pamela forever, to be transformed into the sensual creature they know her to be.

Anna is standing naked, displaying herself for Pamela, as Julie kisses her and feeds her chocolates. This has become a frequent ritual during the previous weeks. Pamela comments on and criticises Anna, which she finds almost unendurably humiliating and yet at the end of each session finds herself so sensitised that she will reach orgasm with the slightest push.

“She still looks so bourgeois, doesn't she?” Pamela asks Julie.

“Yes, Pamela,” Julie agrees. She's still bald, shaved that morning, as she is every day. More often than not it's Anna who has the duty of maintaining her hairlessness, a duty she finds more thrilling each time she performs it.

“I think if we let her go she'd revert to her old ways in days.”

“Probably hours,” Julie adds.

“Yes, you're right. We need to teach her a lesson.”

“More tattoos?” Julie suggests. Anna groans to hear this. She's terrified by Pamela's plans to extend her tattoos. She feels shame as she glances down at her body and sees the dark ink that covers her mound.

“Yes, soon enough, but for now there's no money. I was thinking...” Pamela puts her lips to Julie's ear and whispers. Julie's face lights up with a broad smile.

“Oh yes, Pamela. I think that's perfect.”

Anna hates to hear what Pamela plans to do to her, but this is even worse. She feels herself growing red as her lovers plot something to change her. She feels a little flame of anger deep inside herself, anger that Pamela and Julie treat her like this, anger with herself for permitting it. But she's aware that the fury she used to feel has been almost extinguished. She's almost lost touch with the woman she used to be. This anger is the only thing that makes her resist Pamela's idea. Soon she worries that she'll lose all will.

Pamela approaches her now and Anna feels her excitement increase. “You've lost weight and toned up but I hoped more would come off around your waist. So you need a corset to train your waist. Julie, be a dear and bring it over.”

Anna is bound into the stiff corset which is so tight that she finds herself breathing in shallow pants to get enough air into her lungs. Pamela seems pleased with what she sees. She repeatedly runs her beautiful hands over Anna's waist, enchanted by the new contours she feels. Standing behind her, she puts lips to Anna's neck, softly kissing her delicate skin, nuzzling her ear. Pamela's tongue plays with the chain which runs from Anna's earring to nose ring, which has been ever present since the day Carmen pierced her nose.

Pamela buries her face in Anna's long hair and breathes in. “You have lovely silky, healthy hair, sweetheart.”

Anna expresses her gratitude. A compliment from Pamela makes her heart beat faster, arouses her.

“That's a problem though. Your old vanity. The old bourgeois ideas of propriety. We need to fuck your hair completely to get rid of that, don't we?”

The compliment has suddenly turned into a condemnation and Anna feels her eyes moisten with shame and fear. “Are you going to cut it all short, Pamela?” She knows she shouldn't ask but the question slips out anyway. She knows Pamela will just tease and taunt to add to her humiliation.

“Is that what you'd like, to be bald like Julie? You know I like the two of you to be different. Of course, if I allow Julie to grow hers...”

Anna shakes her head, more out of panic than defiance. Pamela is caressing her side shaves now, halting the movement of her head. “I could send you out now to find a barber shop. Make you go on your own and not let you back in until you were as hairless as Julie. Ask for a head-shave, with eyebrows and lashes to go as well.” Pamela starts to knead Anna's breasts. At a little sign Julie kneels and her tongue starts to lap at Anna's tattooed pussy. Within moments she's ready to cum and asks for Pamela's permission.

“Say that you'll do everything I want, that my will, is your will!”

“I want what you want,” Anna groans. “Please Pamela, may I cum?”

“So be it...” Pamela whispers in her ear.

Later in the day Anna is informed that the necessary appointments have been booked but she will not be informed when until absolutely necessary. Anna knows this is to keep her in a constant state of anxiety. As the week passes she becomes ever more fearful. She tries to read significance into every word that Pamela and Julie say but soon finds herself becoming ever more confused and paranoid as they tease and taunt her. The only significant variation to her routine is that the sideshaves have been left for a few days and a light stubble has now grown.

Anna spends her days maintaining the website for the salon where Pamela works (she's initially a bit rusty, but soon finds it well within her capabilities) or else helping Julie to run the café. The wages she earns are paid to Julie for her board; she's now quit her room and lives permanently in Julie's home.

On Sunday morning the three women go through their normal bathing routines, and Anna ensures that Julie is stripped of all traces of hair. Pamela supervises Anna's bathing, the only time when she's allowed to remove her collar. Anna is instructed to put out her tongue and feels the ring being fitted into the furthest forward piercing. Pamela has continued to stretch Anna's tongue, fitting the ring every other day and tying it to the ring on Anna's collar. Each time she increases the tension slightly. Anna despises every moment of this, it's painful and humiliating, and she's aware that the stretching is working. Her tongue has got longer and, with the addition of the piercings, her speech is affected.

“Look at your face!” Pamela chuckles. “You're sulking already. Well today I'm just putting the ring in for cosmetic reasons. No stretching, at least not until tonight.”

“Thank you, Pamela,” Anna mumbles. Regardless, she's unhappy about wearing the ring encircling the tip of her tongue: it makes her speech more unclear than ever, she worries about biting it and it makes eating near impossible.

The corset is applied before breakfast and Anna is only allowed to sip a milkshake as her lovers enjoy a cooked breakfast. Anna's hair has been blow-dried, no product applied. As breakfast is finished, Pamela calls Anna to kneel before her.

“It's your big day. Are you ready?” She runs her nails through Anna's fringe.

Anna feels breathless, the corset adding to her feeling of claustrophobia. She nods. “Yes, Pamela,” she lisps.

“Salon first, but not mine.”

“I'm not going on my own, am I?” Anna asks. This has been terrifying her since Pamela threatened her with being sent to a barber on her own. If Pamela and Julie are with her, every transformation is thrilling and sensual. Without them, she'd only feel terror of loss of her identity, loss of control.

Pamela smiles benignly. “We'll be there all day for you. We wouldn't deprive ourselves of the pleasure of seeing you transformed.”

The journey takes an hour, heading to a district just outside the centre of a neighbouring city. Anna has never been here before and struggles to make sense of it. The area is run-down and yet discount shops rub shoulders with music venues and hipster café bars. Anna imagines that the attempts at urban regeneration here were only partly successful, resulting in an awkward collision of cultures. They park outside a salon which the sign identifies as Illuminati. There are pictures of girls with neon coloured extensions on the walls, which Anna nervously takes in as Pamela discusses the appointment with a receptionist. There's loud music playing, doomy electronic dance music, too loud to allow Anna to hear the conversation, too loud for a salon, too loud for a Sunday morning.

Anna is led over to a chair where a stylist called Yasmin greets her. She's in her thirties, tall, slim, black, long thick dreads knotted in a huge bun at her crown and spraying out of the top. She starts to ask Anna about what she wants but is interrupted by Pamela.

“I want you to address me. I'll be deciding what Anna gets, which is what she wants. Isn't it, sweetheart?” Pamela gives Anna her loveliest smile, and Anna can only return it and nod. Yasmin looks unsure, a bit freaked out for a moment. She glances at Julie, taking in her complete hairlessness. Her eyes momentarily alight on the leather collar which is locked around Anna's neck.

“Okay, if that's what you all want...” She shrugs and accepts Pamela's request. Anna is fitted with a shiny vinyl cape, metallic bronze which sparkles under the glaring spotlights. She starts to comb through Anna's hair. “Your hair's in very good shape. Soft and silky.” Anna smiles and thanks her for the compliment. “No, that's not necessarily a good thing.” Pamela clears her throat and Yasmin realises her mistake, turning away from Anna now. “Dreads hold better on Caucasian hair that's not in such good shape. I can't guarantee that if I put dreads in they won't fall out after a week or two.”

Anna suddenly realises why she's here. She's getting dreadlocks!

“If you bleach her hair,” Pamela suggests, “that should roughen up the cuticles a bit, make the dreads bind better. I do want her to have really solid dreads.”

“Yes, bleaching might help. Have you considered a perm? That would really be best for her hair type.”

“Hmmm. Tell me about that,” Pamela asks, stroking Anna's fringe now.

“We'd back-comb the hair really tightly to form the dreads, then perm it quite harshly. As well as fixing the hairs in the new shape, the perm makes the hair shaft swell up and roughens the cuticle so the dread really binds well.”

“Let's go with that then,” Pamela agrees, “but bleach her as well. I want her blonde.”

Yasmin nods. “And the undercut?”

“Shaved,” Pamela instructs. “I was thinking a bit higher. Actually I did wonder if just shaving the entire fringe off might look good.” She pulled back Anna's fringe and points to the middle of the top of Anna's head, where the longer hair begins. “Bald back to here, then dreads behind.”

Anna looks at her in the mirror, feeling as though she is about to be sick. She's literally biting her tongue to resist her urge to beg for mercy. That would be disastrous, she's sure. Even Julie looks surprised; she'd obviously not been informed of this.

Yasmin looks at Pamela sceptically. “Really? Would look pretty extreme. But you're the boss I guess.”

“Yes, I am. I'm the boss, aren't I, sweetheart?”

“Yes Pamela, the boss,” Anna lisps.

“Better get your clippers then,” Pamela smiles at Yasmin.

Anna looks at Pamela pleadingly, but her mistress pointedly refuses to make eye contact. She's whispering to Julie instead. Yasmin plugs in a set of clippers, oils them and moves the taper lever back and forth. They crack loudly as the switch is engaged. A profound turmoil churns inside Anna. She feels helpless and desperate now as Yasmin lifts the fringe of hair from the side of her head, brings the blades closer to her scalp.

“Oh no,” Pamela yelps. Anna feels a glimmer of hope, that she may have changed her mind. “Start at the front, right in the middle. And let me get my camera.”

Anna is devastated. Yasmin pulls back her fringe and the cold blades touch Anna's forehead. There's a slight rattling as the blades meet her hair. They're shaving away her widow's peak, but Anna feels no happiness to lose it. She suddenly wishes she'd used the toilet before taking to the chair; she feels like she can no longer be sure she can control her bladder.

The blades push slowly back through her hair. Her lips are tingling and she realises she can't breathe. Her vision mists as tears form in her eyes. “No, Yasmin, wait. Let's just undershave her fringe, take the shaves a bit higher through the sides.”

Anna gasps, smiles at Pamela gratefully in the mirror. She's shaking as Yasmin clippers away the rest of the undercut, sees herself in the mirror with an absurdly extended forehead. The shaved section extends back about two centimetres where previously there was hair. “How high do you want the sides done?” Yasmin asks.

Pamela looks thoughtful. “Just buzz up slowly and I'll say when it's high enough.”

“It's already quite high,” Yasmin observes. Pamela looks unimpressed and merely shrugs. “OK, boss,” Yasmin murmurs.

She lifts the hair at the side and holds it in place on top of Anna's head with a comb. The clippers buzz again and Yasmin starts to cut through the short stubble where Anna has already been shaved. She's becoming breathless again; she's unconsciously leaned to the side, as if to try to escape the blades' destructive powers, and her posture tightens the corset's restrictiveness. Yasmin seems intent on clearing away the stubble before extending the sideshave, although the clippers barely remove any length from the stubble, a fine greyish dust falling over the shoulders of the cape. Julie and Pamela watch intently and Anna starts to wonder if Yasmin's seeming reluctance isn't actually teasing. Finally the blades start to nibble into her longer hair. Pamela and Julie make little encouragements, little moans and sighs that show their excitement, and when they become excited Anna does too.

“Keep going... Higher, higher...” Pamela says softly, dreamily. Her big eyes are fixed on Yasmin's work. “I want her to be able to style her fringe like a hawk so you can go quite narrow.” The words seem to have no immediate effect on Yasmin. She continues to nibble away at the edges, pruning away a few millimetres at a time of Anna's precious hair. Her mood is wildly changeable: she feels a profound sadness as she realises how irretrievable the style she'll soon have will be, almost all of her hair either shaved or permanently fused into dreads. But she knows that to be transformed is so exciting that giving herself up like this provides a high so intense that it's addictive. She shivers with anticipation as she imagines being back at home, alone with Julie and Pamela. She reaches a hand from under the cape and squeezes Pamela's fingers. More than anything in this moment she wants to make Pamela proud of her.

Yasmin keeps slowly trimming away hair; she combs the hair down, then back up so that it doesn't interfere with the clippers, so that she can shave a precise line. Each time she combs through Anna's fringe more hair falls, and a higher shave is revealed. “You do work slowly,” Pamela comments, smiling to defuse any hostility. She indicates a line with the tip of her nail. “Shaved up to there. We need to get on and I suppose the perm is going to take ages.” Yasmin admits that it will. “We have another appointment later so I'd appreciate it if we can get this bit over now. Anna doesn't mind, do you, sweetheart?”

“No, just do as she says, please, Yasmin.” Anna gives a deferential smile, pleased to show her obedience, but squirms uncomfortably as she acknowledges her complicity in her own transformation. The promise of another appointment chills Anna.

Yasmin works differently, more swiftly now that she has clear instructions and within ten minutes both sides of Anna's head are clippered so that only a narrow strip remains on top, less than three inches wide. Yasmin combs it back and fixes it in a clip, then wraps a hot towel around Anna's head. The towel is removed and lather dabbed onto the stubble and worked into her scalp with a bristle brush. Yasmin shaves away the stubble, dragging the razor in a swift upward stroke. Anna is surprised by the sensation and groans as the blades pull against the hair.

Julie smiles as she observes and rubs at her own head. “She's not as gentle as you, Anna. I'd love to have a shave from you some time, Yasmin. I'm sure it would be fun.”

Anna is soon contemplating herself in the mirror, looking very bald now that the front and sides are free of hair, a strip shaved out above forehead and the little remaining hair pulled back in the clip. Yasmin suggests getting the bleaching done now. “We can finish off trimming her fringe when the perm's taking. There'll be plenty of time.” Pamela agrees that this is a good idea and Yasmin has soon mixed up a bleach which is applied to all of Anna's hair.

“It's going to take a bit of work to get out this black,” Yasmin observes. “It's going to really affect the condition, but if we're going with the dreads I suppose that's OK.” Anna sees Pamela nod, agreeing on her behalf. She tries to reconcile herself to the idea that she'll no longer have nice silky hair, but she knows that it upsets her. She's devoted so much time, effort, expense to making her hair look good and now Pamela is going to make her sacrifice her hair to show her submission.

Anna's hair is covered in bleach three times to get rid of the black dye. By the end of the tiresome process her hair has turned the colour of straw. Yasmin dries her hair and Anna is saddened to see how dry and lifeless it looks now. “It's come out well,” Yasmin comments. “I was worried it would get really brittle but it's going to stand up fine.”

Anna bows her head as the long hair at the back is pinned up. Yasmin leaves a section free at the bottom of her nape and takes a strand from the corner and sprays it. “I'll go for sections about a square inch. That should give good dreadlocks.” She starts to backcomb vigorously at the roots, then works her way back down the strand. Anna's hair has never been worked this hard and she feels concerned that Yasmin is attacking her hair. Pamela has noticed her enthusiasm.

“You really tease it hard, don't you? Can I help out and do some with you?”

Yasmin agrees. After all, there's a lot of hair to be backcombed. Anna can feel Yasmin's attentiveness as Pamela sets about matting another lock of Anna's hair. She gives advice, encourages Pamela to be more energetic. Soon Pamela has met with her approval and Anna has two hairdressers attending to her dreading.

Her scalp is irritated from the harsh bleaching and now Anna has to endure tugging and straining as the dreads are tangled into ratted knots. The bowed posture makes her neck and shoulders ache, and the corset makes her breathless. So much suffering! And all to get a new hairstyle which a few weeks ago would have been unthinkable for Anna and even now she knows she'll detest. The backcombing seems to take forever, even with two stylists at work and before long Anna has almost forgotten what's being done to her hair, merely longing for the discomfort and suffering to come to a conclusion.

Yasmin is the more expert and works more effectively. Pamela tries to keep up (Yasmin keeps giving advice to help her) but Anna can sense her irritation that she's second best; she has a very competitive streak, Anna knows, and won't be content until she's mastered this skill. Anna even wonders if this was why this style was chosen, to allow Pamela a chance to expand her skill set, but she discards this hypothesis; Pamela's vanity is wounded by showing her inferiority to another stylist. She hadn't imagined that Yasmin could be better.

Since the last hair to be matted is at Anna's crown she's able to adopt a more comfortable posture. She can see herself in the mirror, she can see the dreadlocks at the back of her head, yellowish and tangled. Her hair appears much shorter, as the process has knotted much of the length. Yasmin checks at each dreadlock, firming up the backcomb, working more at those Pamela formed than her own. Anna glances at Pamela and can see the anger in her eyes, as her work is found wanting. She daren't maintain eye contact and looks down into her lap. Yasmin seems unaware, she compliments Pamela. “I can't believe you haven't done this before. You did a pretty good job. A little bit of practice and you'll be better than me.” Another glance at Pamela shows Anna that the fire in her eyes is fiercer. Anna prays that this anger won't be quenched by her own suffering at Pamela's hands.

Soon Yasmin saturates Anna's hair with vile-smelling chemicals. A horseshoe-shaped bowl has been fitted around Anna's neck to catch drips, her neck is protected by a sheet of plastic film, little discs surround her ears. The dreadlocks soak up the perming solution like sponges and Yasmin's gloved fingers twist and pinch the locks to ensure that the full thickness is being permed. A lot is applied until all her dreads are dripping wet and Anna is informed that she's going to have to endure four hours of processing time to ensure that the hair is welded into its new form. She moves to the back of the salon where a halo-like dryer is positioned over Anna's head.

Yasmin contents herself that all is as it should be and goes to attend to another customer. Anna is now alone with Pamela and Julie, smiles nervously at them, still aware of the former's prickly mood, eager to avoid needling her further. Pamela is silent, staring at her petulantly. “Oh, let's leave her to it,” she says to Julie, then turns to Anna. “No reading books or magazines, no food or drinks while I'm gone. I want these four hours to seem very long for you.” Anna nods, gives a conciliatory smile to try to appease her lover. “Can I trust you not to touch yourself under the cape?” Anna swears her obedience. “I bet you think you can amuse yourself with watching what's going on in the salon and looking at all the pretty girls. Think again!”

It's Julie who comes close. She unscrews a tiny cylinder and takes out a contact lens, sliding it into Anna's left eye. She's never worn them before, her eyesight is good, and the sensation is uncomfortable. She blinks to adjust to the foreign body that rests over her cornea, but before she can accommodate it Julie has pulled down her right lower lid and inserted a second lens. Anna squints and blinks, realises that the lenses have distorted her vision, made everything blurred, induced myopia. “See you later. Much later!” Pamela says, and retreats out of the shop with Julie.

Anna feels lost and alone. Her only respite from her isolation comes when Yasmin applies more solution to her hair every half hour. Each time she's offered a drink, a magazine to read. Each time she politely declines. The interval between the visits seems to grow but Anna is aware that this is because of her perception, not Yasmin's inattentiveness. She tries to empty her mind, like when she used to go to meditation classes, but her mind is too active and there are too many distractions from her aching body and gritty eyes. She's fearful and uneasy and time with her thoughts makes her dwell on this all the more.

She sees someone approaching and recognises Julie. Even with her poor eyesight Anna can perceive Julie's bald head. “I'm so pleased to see you,” she gasps. “Am I nearly done?”

“You are, love. Just a few more minutes.” She manipulates Anna's head into position and draws the lenses from her eyes. Anna feels a revulsion from the touch inside her eyes and is left feeling relieved but queasy.

“Where's Pamela?” she asks. Julie gestures across the salon, toward Yasmin's station. It takes a few moments before Anna realises that the woman in her chair is Pamela. Her hair has been restyled and coloured. Yasmin is applying a final layer of hairspray, then removes the cape. Pamela regards herself in the mirror, turning her head from side to side. Her body language tells Anna that she's happy.

She approaches her lover to allow Anna a better view of her new style. The back and sides are clippered, cropped to just a few millimetres, dyed a purple-black. The entire hairline has been shaved into an unnaturally perfect geometric precision, In contrast, the top is a pale blonde, the thick hair waved and pinned into a very pretty pompadour, the sculptured lines of the front emphasised by a streak of violet.

“Gorgeous, isn't it?” Julie enthuses.

Anna nods in agreement. It's beautifully executed and the androgyny of the style seems hugely appealing to Anna. Pamela strokes at her shorn nape, her shaved neck and Anna feels an intense desire to share the sensation, to explore the freshly cut hair with her lips. “It's wonderful, Pamela. It really suits you.” She knows that she'll do anything for Pamela at this moment.

Finally, she's allowed to rise from the chair. Her joints are stiff from immobility and her body aches. A neutraliser is applied and the chemicals are washed from her hair. Anna walks stiffly back to face herself in the mirror. She sees the dreadlocks that now sprout from the back of her head, thick and full. She smiles uncomfortably at Pamela, hoping that her lover will approve of what she's endured. She feels a quickening of her heart as her smile is returned.

Yasmin is instructed in shaping Anna's fringe. She cuts a point in the centre, a broad V which reaches to the middle of Anna's forehead, then extends the line through the sides, cutting a crisp line which exposes a lot of the shaved scalp through the sides. More than an inch separates the fringe of hair from the tops of Anna's ears. The hair is quickly dried, sprayed with a heat protector and sleeked with straighteners. Yasmin smooths the fringe so that it lays close to Anna's scalp (the undershave makes it lie much flatter), to give a greater contrast with the bulk of the dreads. The style is finished by the ends being snipped from the dreadlocks, to even up the length and to remove the tufts of loose hair which have escaped from some. Anna's makeover is complete.

Anna travels home in the back of the car with Pamela. As soon as they are seated Pamela binds her wrists with a short length of cord which is threaded through the ring on Anna's collar, severely restricting the movement of her hands. “How did you enjoy your trip to the salon?” Pamela asks. She slips a hand up Anna's thigh, reaching under her skirt. Her fingers stroke against the thin fabric of Anna's panties, sensing the moisture. “I could smell you in there. When you get excited you give off a smell like a bitch in heat.” Anna squirms with embarrassment, but her excitement only grows.

Throughout the journey Pamela taunts and cajoles Anna, keeps touching and caressing her to keep her in a state of extreme arousal without ever promising fulfilment. Anna moans incoherently, feeling drunk on Pamela's attentions. Anna is relieved to see that Julie drives them home, relieved that the threatened appointment which was mentioned earlier seems to have been abandoned. The perm took hours, and Anna guesses that Pamela had underestimated how long it would take, necessitating the postponement of the later engagement.

She's made to get out of the car with her wrists still bound. Anna hurries into the house, ashamed that the neighbours may see her like this, then blushes as she guiltily realises that she's still holding on to the bourgeois values of propriety that Pamela has promised to eradicate in her. She enters the house and feels a need to admit to her failings.

“Pamela, I'm sorry. I rushed to get inside. I was scared that someone might see me tied up.”

A broad smile spreads over Pamela's lips. “If you're going to make a confession you should be on your knees.” Anna carefully goes to her knees, afraid of overbalancing because her arms are immobilised. “Now, let's start again. 'My divine Pamela, I have sinned by...?'”

“My divine Pamela, I have sinned by rushing into the house to try to avoid being seen by neighbours, because I still hold on to old-fashioned ideas about what looks acceptable.”

“And what other sins have you committed today, Anna?”

Anna looks up at Pamela, the unfamiliarly short hair making Anna's desires more intense than ever. “I... I...” She wants to confess, to expose herself utterly to Pamela, to be punished for her imperfections, but remembering her thoughts from earlier in the day proves difficult. “I was upset, even a bit angry, when I thought Yasmin was going to shave off all my fringe. Then when I was left alone I felt a bit jealous that you were favouring Julie above me.”

“Anything else?” Pamela asks. Anna replies that that is all she can think of. There's a long pause. “I like this, Anna. I like seeing you contrite and having to face up to your sins. You'll confess to me every day. Now that I know about your sins I'll have to make you do penance to expiate your transgressions, won't I?” Anna nods her assent.

At a signal from Pamela, Julie steps forward and grasps Anna's dreadlocks, pushing her forward. Unable to use her hands to balance, she's left suspended with her weight split between her knees and Julie's grip on her hair. Her scalp is sore, abused by the exposure to irritant chemicals and from the mechanical distress of the severe backcombing; this new assault feels to Anna like her hair will rip out at the roots and she wails a plea for mercy. Pamela is silent, instead tugging Anna's skirt down her thighs, then tearing off her panties. Julie releases the tension on Anna's hair, which results in her face descending until it rests in the carpet, and Julie now presses down on Anna's dreads, forcing her face into the floor. Pamela's fingers stroke across her backside, then deliver a sharp slap without warning. She continues to explore this pattern, seductively caressing Anna's most sensitive areas then delivering painful blows. Anna moans mutedly into the floor, finding herself intoxicated by the torment and abuse. Pamela pushes her hand between Anna's buttocks and a finger insinuates itself into her anus, then a second is forced in. Anna cries out, discomforted as by this intrusion, Pamela's fingers forcing themselves into a dry orifice. Pamela speaks.

“You'll have a custom collar made that you'll wear whenever you go out, that will make everyone stare and make your status obvious. And I'm going to step up your waist training. A tiny wasp waist will look very sexy.

“As for your fringe, I'm tempted to make you get it shaved, but I'll consider that for a few days before I decide.

“That leaves us with your jealousy toward Julie. If I do favour Julie, it's because she was tested and proved equal to my demands, which was rewarded by her receiving my mark. Are you saying you want to receive my mark too?”

Anna is hauled up by her hair until once more she's kneeling, face to face with Julie where she can see the tattoo which marks the corner of her eye. Pamela's fingers remain embedded inside her, and wiggle as Anna considers her response. She finds the idea of accepting a facial tattoo unpalatable.

“Don't think on it too much,” Pamela warns. “Your conscious thoughts are your enemy. They just repeat your nice middle class conditioning. You need to start to trust feeling and instinct. If it feels pleasurable, do it. You're a hedonist now, Anna.”

Anna finds herself unable to answer. Perhaps Pamela is right, and she does have to learn to be more attuned to intuition. However, her conscious thoughts for now have a grip on her mind and the idea of lying back in Carmen's chair and allowing her face to be permanently marked fills her with a revulsion, but this is set against a terrible fear of abandonment by Pamela and Julie which would devastate her.

Pamela turns Anna's head to face her. “Don't you want to be mine, sweetheart?” She leans forward and kisses Anna's shaved scalp. Anna breathes in the heady perfume and moans ecstatically. She stares longingly into Pamela's eyes, thinking how beautiful the new haircut makes her look, finds herself nodding compliantly.

“So you want to be marked for me?” Again a nod, more reluctantly offered now. “Oh you have to do better than that,” Pamela chides.

“Yes, my divine Pamela,” Anna croaks. There's a long silence which Anna finds unbearable. She feels she's expected to say more. “Will Carmen give me my mark?”

Pamela gives a dismissive laugh. “You haven't earned it yet! I'm going to give you a series of tasks to complete. When you've completed each of them you'll be allowed to receive my mark.” She withdraws her fingers roughly from Anna and holds them to her lips. Anna licks at the fingers with her mutilated tongue to rid them of her own body fluids. Pamela sits at the table and starts to write on a sheet of paper. She folds it, seals it in an envelope, then writes more on the envelope, which is in turn folded inside another envelope. She continues this, producing a sort of Russian doll of envelopes. As she attends to her task, Julie orders Anna to her feet and unbinds her wrists, then tells her to undress. Moments later Anna wears only her corset and collar, neither of which she can remove as Pamela has secured them with locks. She reaches up to feel her dreadlocks for the first time, marvelling at the transformation which has been wrought on her hair. Thick matted locks where previously there were long silky strands.

Pamela glances up and tells her to kneel. She passes her the envelope. “Do you want to receive my mark, and agree to complete all the tasks I've set?”

Anna feels that she's partaking in a ritual and responds with appropriate solemnity: “Yes, my divine Pamela.”

“Failure to adequately complete a task will bring down a serious punishment, and the task will have to be attempted again. Refusal to undertake a task will mean our relationship will be severed entirely. Do you understand this?” Anna repeats her response. “You'll open the envelope and read a task. Only when that has been completed to my satisfaction will the next envelope be opened to reveal the next quest on your list. You may open the first envelope and read your first test.”

“I will pluck my eyebrows until not a hair remains,” Anna reads. She looks nervously at Pamela, biting her lip.

“Well?” Pamela says, impatiently. “Go to the spare room, there are tweezers in the desk drawer. You can work without a mirror. Make sure there are no hairs left when you come back downstairs.”

Anna stumbles to her feet and goes up the stairs as Pamela and Julie sit together on the sofa, chatting amiably. She glances back, sees Julie is caressing Pamela's shorn nape, and longs to do the same. She enters the small bedroom which Julie uses as a storeroom, finds the tweezers and sits on a large box. She sighs deeply and raises the tweezers. She thinks how strange she'll look with her brows gone, especially given how much hair has been shaved from the sides of her head today. But there's no turning back now, she needs Pamela and Julie. They are her life and she wants to be with them forever. She closes the tweezers on some hairs at the inside of her left brow and tugs sharply. There's an acute sting which Anna finds somehow fulfilling, at least to the extent that she wants to experience it again. She sets to work at the task of ravaging her beautiful brows.

Working without a mirror proves more difficult than Anna expected. As her left brow dwindles she can feel a few stray hairs, but finding them with the tweezers isn't easy. She knows that if so much as a single hair is left in place then Pamela will punish her, and she knows the punishment would be harsh. She moves to the window to use it as her mirror but it's still daylight outside and no reflection is visible. She can find no objects with suitably reflective surfaces so goes on working by touch.

Frustrated by a few elusive hairs, Anna sets to work on the right brow. She's barely started when she hears Pamela outside, asking what's taking so long. “It's hard to do this without a mirror,” she replies. “May I have a mirror to finish off?”

“I'm not here to make life easy for you. Do your task and do it well, otherwise there'll be a punishment for you.” Anna is all alone once more.

She becomes more proficient in tweezing the stray hairs, her fingers sensitised to finding the smallest hair protruding from her skin. She feels her way over the skin of her brows numerous times; the skin is irritated from all the plucking but Anna finds something reassuring in the soreness. Her anxiety stems from her fear that some fine hair will have evaded her and that will bring down Pamela's wrath. Finally she admits to herself that she can find no more hairs and decides that she must face her mistress for judgement. If she has failed it's an honest failure as she's completed her assignment to the best of her ability.

Anna pauses nervously outside the door, listening to the voices and realises that Pamela and Julie have a guest. Her hand trembles as she opens the door and steps inside. Sitting on an armchair is Carmen. Anna greets her, but her presence further upsets the equilibrium she's tried to maintain. She'd been focussed on completing the tasks Pamela had set but the intrusion of an unexpected visitor makes Anna fully aware of the radical change in her appearance which has occurred during the day. Carmen stares at her and is unable to hide her surprise at the difference in Anna since their previous encounter. Anna approaches Pamela and kneels to allow her to inspect her brows. She feels a wave of panic as she realises that another appointment had been promised and now Carmen is here. Is she to be tattooed? She closes her eyes and tries to calm herself as Pamela peers closely at the skin.

“There are a few little fine hairs here,” Pamela announces. She strokes her finger over them. “I suppose since I can't feel them it would be unfair to expect you to find them.” Pamela goes over Anna's brows once more and removes the last downy hairs. “I expect you want to see yourself, don't you?” Anna nods and Julie leads her over to the mirror.

The image takes her by surprise. She looks strange and alien, thinks back to how she thought Julie had a beguiling ugliness when Pamela shaved her and now realises that something similar has happened to her. She's unrecognisable from the woman who she saw in the mirror only that morning.

“Since you've been a very obedient girl you may open the next envelope,” Pamela says, and rewards Anna with a gentle kiss on each now hairless brow. The warmth of the sensation on the raw skin delights Anna and she shivers with pleasure. It's moments like this that make her sacrifice worthwhile.

Anna tears the envelope open, her fingers shaky and unwilling to act as she desires. Her three companions face her as she unfolds the next envelope and reads aloud the text. “I wish for Carmen to add more piercings and modifications of her choosing to make me look desirable.” There's little consolation for Anna in knowing that today she'll receive no further tattoos: she knows that she'll undergo a very painful session which may change her forever.

Anna realises that everyone is looking at Carmen, who looks a little shy. “Thank you, Anna,” she smiles. “It's a privilege to be allowed such freedom and I'm sure we'll both enjoy what I'll do to you.”

Pamela strokes at Carmen's hair. “You still didn't come back for an appointment, did you? Your roots look awful! I did tell you when I coloured your hair that you'd have to come and see me regularly, and you know how I hate disobedience.”

Carmen looks embarrassed and tries to make excuses. “I've been meaning to but I've been so busy. And I didn't want to take advantage of your generosity! You never charged me for my hair.”

Pamela suddenly tugs hard at her hair. “Carmen, dear, I gave you an instruction and you disregarded it. Everyone here has had their hair done today. Julie was shaved, as she is every day, Anna was bleached and dreadlocked and I got a new cut and colour. I don't think it would be fair to allow you near Anna until you have your hair fixed.”

Carmen is passive, unresisting as Pamela continues to pull her hair. “Yes Pamela, I'm sorry I didn't come to you.”

“You want me to cut it now, don't you?” Carmen agrees.

Anna watches with fascination as Carmen is made to undress and is led to the main bedroom where there's a salon chair and a large mirror. Her body is decorated with numerous tattoos in every conceivable style, some of which are only sketched in outline and obviously unfinished. She's very slim and tall, and without the tattoos Anna thinks she could have been a catwalk model. A shiny pale blue cape is draped over her and Julie holds the fine fabric closed around Carmen's long neck. There are no fastenings and Anna gasps as she realises how the cape will be held in place: Pamela takes a needle and slides it through a section of the collar, and into the underlying skin of Carmen's neck. She closes her eyes and inhales deeply but shows no signs of distress. Five needles are used to pin the cape to her neck, each wound now marked by a dark stain which slowly grows around each needle.

Pamela notices that Anna is staring. “It's ok, she likes pain. Look how pleased she looks.” Pamela pulls at one of the needles to stretch the underlying wound, making Carmen gasp. “When she first came to me her hair was so long that she could sit on it. Long and black and neglected. There were a few tears when I cut off so much length, weren't there?” Carmen looks emotional as she nods. “And now it's red and shoulder length. But still neglected. Do you think you'll be able to look after short hair, Carmen? All you have to remember is to come and see me every month.”

“Please, Pamela, don't cut it short,” she begs. Pamela has lifted a lock from the top of her head and now has scissors in her hand. She snips away all the coloured hair, leaving only a short black tuft, not even two inches long. An animal cry of pain is Carmen's response. Pamela shows no reaction to her cry, shows no mercy. She ruthlessly chops away all the red hair from the top of Carmen's head.

Julie takes Anna's hand and kisses her cheek. “You're enjoying this, aren't you?” she whispers. “If I were you I might do something for poor little Carmen to cheer her up. After all she's got carte blanche to modify you after her hair's been cut. I wouldn't want her in a bad mood.”

Pamela obviously approves of the idea, smiling warmly. “Would you like Anna between your legs, showing off what all those tongue exercises have done for her?” Carmen looks ashamed of herself as she nods.

Anna walks over and brushes a piece of hair from the cape before lifting it to expose Carmen's sex. She opens her knees and slides forward on her seat to accommodate Anna. Her pussy is free of tattoos, hairless except for a fine strip at the top. Her hood is decorated with a curved bar, a small bead shining at each end. It's there that Anna decides to begin, gently feeling at the piercing with her tongue, which still bears a ring enclosing the tip. Anna likes the sensation of flesh on flesh mixed with metal on metal. She strokes at Anna's thighs: her skin is soft, softer than any she's ever felt. She looks up at Carmen, smiling to try to reassure her. She needs a friend right now as Pamela is being cruel. She has a lovely face, Anna thinks, dark sad eyes, full lips, everything in proportion, harmonious. Is it too late to stop Pamela from attacking her hair? For a moment she wants to be Carmen's protector, to fight Pamela off, to take Carmen as her lover. But yes, it is too late. Too much hair is already cut, and bedsides, Anna is as excited as Pamela to see Carmen shorn of her long hair. She has a cruel streak too, a side that she's only become aware of since she submitted to Pamela.

“Do you think she'd suit really short hair?” Pamela asks Julie.

“Oh I think she could pull it off.”

“And you Anna? Do you agree?”

“She's got such perfect features, I think she'd look beautiful with almost any style.” Anna looks up at Carmen to reassure her but sees only devastation. She clearly isn't enjoying this. Now Anna regrets her comments, feeling that she's betrayed Carmen and risked triggering Pamela's jealousy with her compliments. Carmen starts to cry as the clippers are brought to work and the sides of her head are shorn. Anna tries to assuage her guilt by working more keenly at her task, her tongue probing deep inside Carmen, determined to make her aroused. She's become expert at this, Pamela has taught her well, and Carmen is unable to resist. Soon her sobs are mixed with quiet yelps of joy.

The buzzing stops as the clippers are turned off and Anna momentarily stops her task to look up. Carmen has no more than a centimetre of hair covering the sides of her head, but the back is still past her shoulders. Pamela is now scissoring the top, evening out the crudely chopped hair. “How do you like mullets, Carmen? I'm sure they're still popular in Spain. Eighties fashions still seem popular there.”

“Oh god, no, it looks terrible,” Carmen complains. “Anyway, I was born here and lived here all my life. I don't want a mullet.”

Pamela brushes at the clippings which cover Carmen's neck. “It does look terrible, but so did your roots and the faded colour. So you can wear a nasty old mullet for the rest of the night as a punishment. Besides, you should be careful what you say about mullets, you'll upset Anna, with her dreadlocked mullet.”

“Anna looks good,” Carmen says. “I don't!” She winces as Pamela slides the needles out of her neck and frees the cape.

“Since you too like each other so much you can have the night alone together. I'm heading out with Julie, so have some fun with needles. Just don't be too gentle with her, Carmen. Remember I have to finish off that haircut and if I think you've been soft on Anna I'll be anything but soft when it comes to your cut.”

Anna receives a goodbye kiss from Pamela, another from Julie and suddenly she's alone with Carmen, the room heavy with embarrassment from both women. Carmen leans forward to examine herself in the mirror. “Oh shit, look at me. She's really ruined it!” She pulls the long hair at the back into a ponytail and imagines how it will look when Pamela has finished her cut. “I'll look like a boy,” she groans, her voice filled with sadness and disgust.

Anna puts her arm around Carmen, and whispers in her ear. “You'll look fantastic, don't worry. You're so beautiful, Carmen.” She's not sure whether she wants to console Carmen or seduce her. “Anyway, look what she did to me.” She pulls back her fringe to reveal the high undershave across the front of her forehead. It's the first time she's looked at herself closely since her brows were destroyed and she feels a horror at what's become of her, but she can't deny that she's thrilled by her submission to Pamela's will.

Carmen gently smooths her fringe back into place. “You look good, Anna. I love dreadlocks. They were permed, weren't they? I can smell the perm on you. They'll never come out now.”

Anna senses Carmen's arousal and can't resist stroking the buzzed hair on the sides of her head. Her hair is thick and coarse, wiry and bristly in contrast to to delicate softness of her skin. She feels herself becoming dizzy with pleasure and leans forward to place her lips on Carmen's. Both women moan, kissing each other greedily. Anna is delighted to feel Carmen's fingers in her dreads, gripping the matted hair tightly and pulling so that she can't end the kiss.

“I'd better pierce you some, I suppose,” Carmen whispers at last. “I don't want to end up with a haircut like Julie's.” Anna tenses up, her muscles involuntarily betraying her fear of pain. “I like older women. And I love the idea of an older woman who wants to get piercings.” Anna pride is hurt by being called an older woman, but she tries to rationalise Carmen's statement. Carmen is obviously much younger; she asks how old she is. “I'll be twenty next month. How about you give me an early birthday present and let me pierce your pussy?”

Anna stumbles over her words. She's astonished to find that Carmen is still a teenager but finds her desire increasing. She knows she can't resist Carmen, and knows that she has to agree to all her wishes to satisfy Pamela. Despite this her fear of pain gnaws inside. “I'm scared,” she admits. “I'm not good with pain.”

Carmen seems amused by her confession. “You're Pamela's girlfriend and you don't like pain? That does surprise me. I know she can be quite rough. I know that from experience.” She strokes a finger over the tiny wounds on her neck where the cape was pinned to her. “I can't believe how naïve you seem. You're in your thirties and all this is a new world for you, isn't it? I get the idea you've lived your entire life as a nice little housewife and now all of a sudden you're discovering a new world. It's like playing with one of my friend's mums when I'm with you.”

Anna's shame grows as Carmen taunts her. She makes her feel simultaneously old and child-like. Her situation is ridiculous, she knows that, but to be reminded of her status by a teenager is hard for Anna. She tries to appease Carmen by acknowledging that she's ready to be pierced. “Let's get started then,” she says. “No idea how soon Pamela will be back so we should get on.” Her attempts to sound purposeful is undermined by a quiver in her voice.

Carmen strokes her sideshaves. “Poor little Anna, you're so scared, aren't you? I'm afraid I can't promise it won't hurt. After all, I don't think your mistress would like it if I gave you little fine rings. We need to go for bigger gauges to get you started. Makes it easier to stretch the holes.”

Anna is taken to the bedroom and sits at the end of the bed on a towel, her legs wide apart. Carmen leaves her alone for a few minutes while she prepares. She re-enters wearing vinyl gloves and a surgical mask (the latter only for effect, Anna supposes). Anna reclines in silence as Carmen sprays a disinfectant over her hairless pubis, then swabs it. The chemicals make Anna's lips burn slightly. Carmen rips open several sterile packages. She takes a pen and carefully marks dots on Anna's pussy. She places a clamp on Anna's left outer labium: it's tight but not painful. “You might want to put your head back so you can't see,” Carmen suggests. “I don't want to have you fainting or end up cleaning puke.”

Anna complies. She feels dizzy and nauseous. Her skin is cold but despite this she's covered in beads of sweat. Then the pain begins. Just a scratching sensation. Anna wants to be brave and bear it in silence. For a moment she thinks she can, but then the sensation grows, a horrible pain that feels like something has struck her hard. She cries out, a ugly wail that she can't stop for what seems like minutes. When it finally subsides Carmen admonishes her. “That sounded horrible. Do you want me to tell Pamela what a big baby you are? You'd better try harder with the other piercings.” Anna agrees that she'll try to do better, then gurgles as a ring is fitted. The pain is horrible and she wants to cry out again but tries desperately to suppress it.

Carmen readies herself to inflict another hole in Anna's flesh, seeming oblivious of the distress that she's causing. She asks Anna about the business with the envelopes.

“I've been set some tasks to complete to get Pamela's mark.”

“You want a tattoo on your face?” Carmen asks, accusingly. “Really?” Anna can only nod, unsure how she ever agreed to this. She's being made to humiliate herself and bear terrible pain and her sole reward is to receive a facial tattoo which a few weeks ago would have seemed like the worst imaginable addition to her body. “And do I get to do it?”

Anna nods weakly. “I suppose so, if Pamela agrees. Did you do Julie's face?”

“I did. Still remember the shock of seeing her walk in with her head just shaved. She looked so embarrassed. But sort of sexy too. So will you be bald too?”

“I don't know, possibly.” Anna hates to acknowledge the possibility. She tries to block out her anxieties, but she feels an unease that won't go away.

Carmen tells her to sit up and kisses her on the cheekbone. “I'll tattoo you right here and then you'll be Pamela's forever. Tell her if she lets me watch you being shaved I'll tattoo you for free.”

The feeling of Carmen's lips on her face is blissful but Anna is distressed by the idea of being bald. “I don't know if she will shave me, Carmen,” she protests.

“Just tell her, ok?” Anna nods.

She lies back once more and endures more piercings. At times she pushes her fist into her mouth to try to bear the suffering, or maybe just to silence her cries. Finally she's helped to sit up and looks down in shock to see six heavy rings dangling from her most intimate flesh. The outer labia each hold two rings, maybe five millimetres thick and two centimetres in diameter. Her inner labia are also pierced with single rings, slightly smaller and finer. All of the rings are closed with large beads. The metal gleams brightly against her darkly tattooed skin. “I think that's physically as much as you can bear in one session. But you can tell Pamela once these are healed I'll be putting as many in again.” Anna nods meekly, her shock making her incapable of speech. “Now let's continue your piercings.”

Anna looks at Carmen in confusion. “I thought you said I wouldn't be getting more, that was all I could take,” she protests, desperation making her speak up.

“I meant as many as you could take in your labia. You've got a whole lot of other flesh we can work on though.”

Anna wants to cry. She's endured so much today and feels exhausted, but can't say no to Carmen. She knows that would earn her a punishment from Pamela which would make her suffering at Carmen's hands seem negligible. Soon her nipples bear rings identical to those in her outer labia. Carmen still isn't satisfied, and gives her a heavy ring in her septum. Anna is unable to remain quiet as the needle is forced through the cartilage, a long wail escaping as the thick punch is forced through. It's the most painful piercing she's yet experienced. But Carmen isn't finished. She smiles as she shows a scalpel to Anna. “This is for your ears. With the look you have now it would seem wrong not to have stretched lobes. So I'm going to fix them for you.”

Anna is made to hold a clamp, stretching her right lobe which has been stripped of its jewellery. Carmen makes the first incision and Anna shivers with pain. The sensation is very different to being pierced and the next stroke of the scalpel is far worse, slicing into exposed nerves. There's also the matter of the cutting sensation which makes her stomach start to contract and threatens to make Anna embarrass herself by being sick. Carmen tells her very strictly to maintain the tension on the clamp and Anna focusses on this to try to endure her latest trial. At last the clamp is removed and Carmen dabs at Anna's ear to mop up the blood. Then she pulls at it with forceps and begins the task of stitching the wound. The needle causes Anna to gasp as it pierces the raw flesh; Carmen draws through a fine thread of silk and ties it to close the wound. She works diligently, making tiny knots, regularly spaced along both edges of the incision. Anna is close to tears, as much from exhaustion as pain. She knows that once the sutures are in place she will turn her head and submit her left ear to the same insult. She prays to some unknown, unnamed force for her ordeal to be over.

A last suture is tied and the ends of the silk snipped close to Anna's skin. She looks pleadingly at Carmen, hoping that this will be the last piercing of the night. Carmen gives her a mischievous grin. “What are you looking at me like that for? Do you want more piercings? Oh, I'm exhausted, can't you be happy with what you've got?”

Anna smiles. “It's enough, Carmen, thank you.” Despite Carmen's mercy, Anna's suffering isn't quite at an end. Half inch discs are inserted into the stitched wounds in her ears. Anna bites at her lip as her distressed ears are tugged and distorted to fit the jewellery; even once the discs are in place they stretch at her lobes and cause a constant stinging.

Anna is told to get up. She feels unsteady and her entire body aches. She can feel the weight of the rings in her nipples and especially her labial piercings. Carmen is making a call. “She's all done. You can come back now,” she says, and ends the call.

It's barely ten minutes later when Pamela and Julie arrive home. Anna can smell alcohol and both seem high spirited, but not drunk. She displays herself for her lovers and they assess her new modifications with evident pleasure. “Very good, Carmen. I love these big rings in her puss, the way they stand out against her tattoo. I think she needs something extra in her face though. She still looks too middle class.”

Anna's cheeks colour at the criticism. A few minutes later she can see shiny beads gleaming on her nose, at the closest point to her eyes. The bridge piercing was excruciating and, despite her efforts not to cry, Anna's eyes have involuntarily started to water copiously. “I'm not crying,” she says to Pamela. “It's just made my eyes water.”

Pamela laughs. “I believe you! And how was she with all the new piercings?” she asks Carmen.

Carmen sighs. “A bit of a baby, to be honest. I thought she'd be quite tough but she's really soft and naïve.” Now Anna does feel like crying.

“She's so sexy though, isn't she?” Pamela replies. “She's new to all this, but we'll soon get her fixed up real nice. You'll help with that, won't you, Carmen?”

“Oh, it will be a pleasure. I can't wait to tattoo her properly.” She smiles cruelly at Anna and whispers in her ear: “What were you going to tell Pamela?”

Anna stammers as she says: “Carmen says she'll tattoo my mark for free if she can watch me being shaved bald.”

“Oh did she?” Pamela says. “Come and kneel here, Anna.” She tugs at Anna's dreadlocks as she gazes into her eyes. “Have you been talking about being bald. That's very presumptuous, isn't it? Your hair is mine.”

“I said I didn't know if you wanted it, Pamela. I'll do as you please.”

Pamela gathers Anna's fringe to expose all of her undershave. “Hmmm, we'll see. I'm happy with you for being a good girl today. But now it's Carmen who needs a haircut finished. Do you want her to keep her mullet or shall we give her a short back and sides?”

“Short back and sides,” Anna says immediately, then glances guiltily over at her tattooist who looks sullen.

“We better get you finished up, Carmen,” Pamela announces.

Carmen is once more furnished with a cape without fasteners and Pamela instructs Anna to insert the needles to hold it in place. Her fingers are shaking as she feels the first point slide into Carmen's skin, sees a little dark bloom of blood spread into the fabric. Carmen moans and sighs as each needle is placed. Anna envies her capacity to experience pain as a pleasure and hopes that soon she'll share this talent. Carmen gives her a strange smile. She blushes as she thinks that she's decided that Carmen will be shorn, and knows that she'll hate having short hair. Making an enemy of the woman who will soon be allowed to tattoo her is the last thing she wants. She wants to be friends with Carmen. No, she admits to herself, she wants more than that: she desires Carmen as a lover. She's a very beautiful woman, and Anna was bewitched by her for every minutes of the time they shared together tonight. Now she longs to see her with a boyish haircut and knows that Pamela is about to make her dream become reality.

Pamela turns on the clippers and forces Carmen to bow her head. She makes a rapid pass up the centre of her nape and Anna sees that the cut is very short, only a few millimetres of hair left. She knows that Pamela is using a number one guard on the clippers, cutting much shorter than the hair at the sides of Carmen's head. The last of the red hair is being stripped away ruthlessly.

“I think you shouldn't be staring, Anna,” Pamela chides. “Show your gratitude for Carmen's work tonight and get on your knees between her thighs.”

Anna is glad to oblige, and kneels between Carmen's wide-open legs. She licks Carmen who is sticky and wet. She's obviously been aroused for a long time, which delights Anna. She sets to her task with energy but her enthusiasm makes her forget about her new piercings. She snags her new septum ring against Carmen and the pain shocks her, makes her pull away reflexively. She catches sight of the clippers running over Carmen's temple, reducing her dark hair until it's only a shadow, greyish because her scalp shows through. Carmen is staring at her own reflection, her face mask-like, but Anna can see she's horrified at how short Pamela is cropping her.

Anna once more begins to probe at Carmen, easing her pierced tongue between her labia. She thinks of Pamela's description of Carmen a few months ago, hair reaching past her buttocks. She steals another glance at the young girl as she is now, her severely shorn hair exposing her face, enhancing the perfection of her features.

Pamela smiles benignly at Anna. “Do you like it so far?” Anna nods and smiles back. “Do you think we should soften the top and give the cut some femininity? Or should I take it nice and neat, really hard and masculine?”

Carmen's nose wrinkles and her mouth contorts with disgust. Anna wants to be merciful to her, she knows that Carmen hates her short hair, but she's greedy to see her transformed. She tries to rationalise her desires: even if Pamela leaves a little more hair on top it will still be very short, and would grow out to this length from a real crop in a matter of weeks. So it can't hurt to ask Pamela to go for the more extreme cut, can it?

“I think a nice barbered look is best,” Anna says. As soon as she voices her thoughts she knows that her only motivation is her desire to see Carmen transformed. She smiles reassuringly at Carmen but can see that the younger woman feels betrayed. “She'll look so sexy,” Anna says. She slides two fingers between Carmen's slippery labia and forces them apart, opening up and stretching the soft pink flesh of Carmen's vagina. Anna lets her tongue run delicately over Carmen's slit, then works the piercing at the tip of her tongue from side to side over the clitoris, eliciting a delirious moan from Carmen.

Pamela is cradling the younger woman's shorn head. “I was thinking a flattop, but you'd have to make sure to drop by for weekly touch ups. If you don't then I'll find someone else to work on Anna.” The mention of a flattop makes Anna's energy surge and she works at pleasuring Carmen with ever greater desire. Pamela puts her hand under Carmen's jaw and turns her head violently until their gazes meet. “I want you to say this is what you want, Carmen,” she demands.

“Yes...” she pants. “Give me a flattop.” Anna moans now, delighted not just that Carmen has agreed, but also feeling proud that she's only agreed to suffer such an extreme haircut to allow herself the opportunity to work on Anna. She allows herself to believe that Carmen reciprocates her desire.

The short guard which covered the blades is flicked free and lands beside Anna's thigh. Pamela turns the clippers on once more and attacks the hair atop Carmen's head, sculpting it using a comb. Anna raises her head so that she can watch; her tongue is almost paralysed from fatigue. To maintain Carmen's arousal she inserts a finger deep inside her, moving it back and forth rhythmically, stroking at the upper vaginal wall. Now she can witness how artfully Pamela works, the left hand doing all the creative work, positioning the comb at exactly the correct place. All that is needed of the right hand is to press the clippers over the tines of the comb to shear away the protruding hairs. With military efficiency, Carmen's hair is tamed, and the style which forms is indeed military. Pamela produces a haircut of geometric perfection, all flat planes: hard and brutal. The last touches are made to finalise the cut, each pass of the clippers now removing hardly any hair, just a stray wisp here and there which evaded the initial cut.

Pamela looks indulgently at Anna. “Is that what you wanted?”

Carmen has been transformed from the tousled mess of thick red hair that she wore on her arrival. Anna is breathless to see how desirable the new cut has made her. Her face seems faultless to Anna and she's sure that few other women could look as good with this cut. The top is hardly more than half an inch in length anywhere, much shorter than that toward her crown. The density of her coarse hair contrasts nicely with the near shaved back and sides. “She's just perfect,” Anna gushes. She can hardly contain her excitement as she thinks that Carmen has agreed to stop by for weekly touch ups.

“I agree, she suits it really well. You can finish her off.”

Anna gleefully does as instructed. She uses two fingers to open up Carmen and hungrily pushes her tongue as deep as she can. Her heavy septum ring is compressed against Carmen's pierced clitoris, painfully so, but Anna doesn't let the pain discourage her. In fact she determines to fight through the pain and in a strange way finds herself relishing and cherishing the pain her piercing is giving. Carmen's moans increase in amplitude and there's a sudden change of tone; obviously Pamela and Julie are doing something to turn her on, but Anna can see nothing except flesh. Moments later Carmen attains fulfilment and water gushes from her over Anna's face. Anna wails excitedly and feels a spasm engulf her. She's coming too, the first time in her life she's reached an orgasm without touching her sex. She throws her head back and squeals with delight.

“Oh, look, they're both having orgasms!” Julie cries.

“What a pair of sluts,” Pamela hisses, but Anna can hear humour in her voice. There's even pride in her tone. She's succeeded in turning Anna into a slut, which displeases neither of them. “She's soaked your dreadlocks, Anna, and you're not allowed to wash them until the perm has settled down. You'll smell like a toilet for the next week. And you're still smiling! What sort of woman have you become?”

“Your sort of woman, Pamela,” Anna groans ecstatically.

Pamela moves to stand behind Anna and grasps a bundle of dreadlocks in each hand, pulling her head back gently until she's left staring up into Pamela's face. “You're not quite my sort of woman just yet, but you're evolving very nicely. Once you've opened all your envelopes and done what's required you'll be acceptable.”

Anna knows that she'll feel regret about her acquiescence at some time in the future, but for now it feels like the most desirable thing imaginable to be under Pamela's control. She remembers that she promised to be more reliant on her intuition and her intuition tells her to live in the moment and delight in sensation. “I won't let you down,” she sighs rapturously. Pamela places a kiss delicately at the corner of her eye. Her skin tingles as Anna dreams of the tattoo that she'll soon wear in that very spot, the tattoo that will forever mark her as a new woman. She knows she will submit to Pamela's demands and earn her facial tattoo despite her fears and regrets. The course of her life is no longer in her own hands.

The following morning Anna is woken by a movement in the bed. She groans as she comes to consciousness, aware that every part of her body seems to be emitting pain. She's been made to sleep with her tongue stretched out of her mouth, the piercing tied to a ring at the front of her collar. Pamela has coated her tongue in a bitter tasting gel to prevent it drying out, but despite this her mouth is unbearably dry. Her wrists are cuffed and attached by six inch chains to rings fixed to the sides of her collar.

It's Julie who has woken her. Her thoughts are sluggish and it takes a moment to realise that they're alone in the bed now. Carmen had spent the night too, and despite the generous dimensions of the bed, it had been uncomfortably crowded with four. “Carmen had to run,” Julie explains. “You looked so exhausted we didn't want to disturb you. Pamela's just preparing breakfast so it's time you were up.”

Julie helps her friend downstairs. Anna is astonished to see that she's slept till ten o'clock. She never sleeps so late, yet still feels exhausted from her treatment on the previous day. Pamela greets her; she's showered, her hair wet and combed back, exposing the short clippered nape and sides. She looks even younger without make-up, fresh faced and innocent looking. Pamela gestures for her lover to kneel and waits until she's complied before freeing her tongue from its torture. Then she slowly removes the cuffs from Anna's wrists.

“Oh, sweetheart, your nose looks sore.” She gently touches the bridge of Anna's nose which feels hot and swollen. “We need to be careful it doesn't get infected. How do the other piercings feel?”

“I'm aching everywhere. I don't really know which ones hurt most.” Anna speaks slowly, slurring and lisping. Her tongue barely complies with her will, which obviously amuses Pamela.

“You need to get your tongue working for something other than pleasuring sluts. Maybe before I let you breakfast you should make your confession. I want to hear about your feelings toward Carmen.”

Anna feels her face redden. She has no idea how to play this. “My divine Pamela, I have sinned... by...” She glances up at Pamela's expectant face, then looks down to avoid meeting her eye. “I enjoyed being with Carmen, getting attention from her because she's so pretty.”

“Oh, so you think she's pretty?” Pamela accuses. Anna is unable to tell how serious she is; even when she's joking, Pamela is able to keep her face completely serious. “Is she prettier than me?”

Anna shakes her head guiltily. “No, you're more beautiful.”

“And is she prettier than Julie?” Anna feels uncomfortable as she shakes her head. “Really? Are you lying to me? Carmen is stunning, but you think she's not as pretty as Julie?” Anna glances at her bald friend who looks uneasy at this game.

“Well, maybe she's prettier in a conventional sense, but Julie is really beautiful, I always thought that.”

“So if you were ranking us, what order would you put us in?”

“You're all beautiful and sexy and I don't have to rank you,” Anna slurs.

“You do if you want to eat today! In a 'conventional' sense, is Carmen the prettiest of us three? Don't try to lie, Anna. I can see through your deceptions easily!”

Anna feels nausea growing. “Yes she is,” she whispers.

“And who's prettier, Julie or me?”

“You are Pamela. But...”

“Never mind trying to justify your treachery!” Pamela cries. “So I have to be jealous of that little slut Carmen? I'm glad I cut off all her hair now. Oh, wait... That was your idea, wasn't it, Anna? You like her with her butch cut, don't you?”

Anna starts to quietly cry. “Yes Miss. I was really excited seeing her getting a makeover.”

“Why are you crying?” Pamela demands.

“I just feel so confused. All my life I've been monogamous and suddenly I have two lovers and last night a third. I don't have any rules about what's permitted in my relationship with you, Pamela. Julie told me she has an open relationship but I need to be told what I'm allowed.”

Pamela stares at her intently. “You'd prefer me to keep things as you've been used to? No relations with anyone but me or Julie? I can be a very jealous lover when I want to be.”

Anna shakes her head without realising. “If that's what you want...”

“But you wanted to be with Carmen last night?”

“It was difficult... Being in such intimate positions with someone, I can't help but get aroused, attracted. I'm sorry Pamela, I'll do as you tell me, but you have to understand that this is all new to me.”

“You mean you're not used to being a slut? Well, I suppose you have to make a decision on whether you want to be a slut or not. If not then I'll be jealous with you and punish you when you look at any other girl.”

Anna feels horrified, sure that the fire that's been roused within her wouldn't allow her to ignore others. “I don't think that would work for me, Pamela,” she murmurs. Her girlish lover looks at her expectantly. “I want to be a slut.” She feels disgusted at herself for saying these words.

“Well, Slutty McSlut, we need to lay down some rules. If you pick up a woman you tell her that you already have a girlfriend and you need to ask my permission to do anything which involves touching. And you will call me in her presence and candidly answer all my questions.” Anna nods, shame-faced. She finds the rules sufficiently demeaning that she won't ever be tempted to put them into use. “You're to get pictures of all lovers and submit a written report to me about your encounter within twenty four hours.” Anna agrees but feels a sense of hurt that the rules applying to her are more stringent that those that Julie follows, whereby she merely reports any rendezvous to Pamela. But then, Anna is at the bottom of the hierarchy and she has the biggest adjustment to make.

“I think you should get a tattoo to show that you're proud of your sluttery. 'I'm a slut'... Something like that?”

“One hundred percent slut,” Julie suggests, and Pamela squeals with delight.

“Perfect! So where do you think your slut tattoo should go?” Anna shakes her head, unable to speak. The idea of such a tattoo disgusts her. “I want it somewhere visible, so that you can show it off to girls you're trying to seduce. You need to let them know what sort of girl they're getting mixed up with. Do you think it should go on her wrist, Julie?”

“I think that would be perfect,” Julie agrees, going along with everything Pamela says, feeding her cruelty.

“That's agreed then. You can find Carmen later and get it done. But remember, if you decide you can't keep your hands off her you need to call me for permission.”

“Yes Pamela,” Anna says humbly. She feels numb with shame for agreeing to this latest humiliation.

“Now since you were a good girl last night you can go and open the next envelope. If you keep going like this you might be getting my tattoo on your face before very long.”

“Thank you Pamela,” Anna whispers, smiling shyly. She feels a thrill at Pamela's pleasure in her, despite knowing that the reward for her disobedience is merely more pain and humiliation. She goes to the drawer where she knows the envelope is kept and returns to Pamela, who impatiently tells her to open and read.

“I will purchase and wear a pair of rubber panties with attached inflatable dildo and butt plug. These will stay in place until I find a woman with long hair who must agree to let my divine Pamela do as she pleases with her hair.” She looks up at Pamela hoping for some clarification but none is forthcoming. “Where will I get the panties?” she asks.

“I'll show you exactly what to buy and where to buy it.”

“And the woman who has to offer her hair, it's just a makeover she has to agree to? Nothing sexual?” Pamela nods. “So if I get her to come to your shop..?”

“That's fine. Her hair has to be past her shoulders and there are no limits to what I will do with it.”

Anna contemplates her task. It's nothing like as physically demanding as the piercings which still make her suffer but it carries a far higher risk of failure. She imagines the difficulty of making a stranger agree to sacrifice her hair and Pamela's displeasure when no victim is supplied. She tries to think of a plan but her thoughts are disrupted by Pamela's insistence that she must be dressed. No bathing will be permitted because of her piercings and so Anna stands while her lovers scrub her body to cleanse her. Her dreadlocks smell strongly of the chemicals which were used to perm them (the smell largely masks the smell of Carmen's bodily fluids which still clings) but no washing is permitted until the perm has settled. Pamela pins back Anna's fringe and anoints the sides of her head with snowy lather. The blade drags up, hissing quietly as it smooths away the tiny tips of hairs which have grown since yesterday.

“Do you want all your hair gone?” Pamela whispers. “Is that what you were plotting with Carmen? You want me to expose you for her, make you bald?” Anna shakes her head desperately. Pamela strokes the newly shaved expanse of her temple and kisses it. “Shall I let Julie grow hair again so that you'll be the bald one?” Anna feels her vision darkening as she imagines being forced to lose the rest of her hair. The idea is appalling, but the sensation of Pamela's lips on her bare scalp is thrilling and she tries to lose herself in the moment. She knows her will is as nothing now, that Pamela will make her obediently submit to any decision.

Her fringe is doused in a sticky spray and styled so that it juts up vertically from her head like an axe blade. It looks absurd, and it conceals none of the shaved areas of her scalp. Julie tells her she looks great and she blushes and agrees. Pamela spends a lot of time applying cosmetics, and Anna soon wears mask-like make-up, her complexion pale, her eyes heavily smudged with black, her lips coated in a shiny plum. She has no eyebrows, which lends a strangeness to her features.

Pamela seems to take a special pleasure in the outfit which Anna is compelled to wear. She's dressed in a blue bra which is clearly visible through the lime green mesh crop top she wears. Her legs are clad in zebra-striped Lycra trousers and she wears shaggy fake fur boots. These are complemented by a short jacket, also in fake fur, bright red rather than the electric blue of the boots. Anna feels ridiculous as she sees herself in the mirror, garishly overdressed. Her face is dominated by make-up and piercings, her features overwhelmed to the point of being unrecognisable.

Pamela and Julie both seem pleased by her latest transformation and Pamela treats her to a wad of bank notes. She places a sheet of paper in her pocket. “This is what you'll buy in the sex shop. You're to get them fitted in the shop and wear them out of there. Don't think you can fit them yourself. You can't. You'll ask an assistant to help you. Then you can look up Carmen and get your tattoo. And then you can find a little cutie to offer me her hair.”

Anna nods, trying to remember every instruction. “Pamela, I had an idea. Can I print a flyer for the salon, saying you're looking for hair models for free makeovers? It might help to get someone to let you do as you please.”

Pamela nods, laughs. “Aren't you clever?” she says with a hint of patronisation. “Of course you can. You better hurry though, you've got a lot to do today.”

After half an hour Anna has produced a flyer which she thinks looks reasonably professional. “Models required,” the headline proclaims. She's used a couple of stock images of beautifully cut bobs which she realises are unlikely to resemble any style that Pamela will inflict on her victim. She'll stop at a print shop to get some copies printed.

Anna's neon shaded outfit makes sure that she attracts a lot of attention as soon as she leaves the house. She makes her way to the sex shop and enters, feeling crushingly humiliated. She pauses inside, trying to assess the situation. There's a gay couple in there, the only customers, looking through some DVDs, joking with each other. There are two assistants, one a woman in her thirties who looks experienced and a little intimidating, the other a girl who looks no older than Carmen. She looks out of place here, bookish and quiet. Anna is reminded of the daughter of one of her friends. Now she feels she must say former friends. She can no longer imagine being welcome inside the homes of the middle class families who used to be her main points of social contact.

Anna strolls around the shop, attempting nonchalance as she tries to pluck up the courage to make her purchase. She examines some clothes whilst all the time assessing who she feels would be more trustworthy in confiding. She starts to feel the older woman may be more expert, the younger more sympathetic. The gay men approach the counter and it's the older woman who serves them. Suddenly Anna hears a voice next to her which makes her jump.

“Can I help you with anything?” It's the young assistant. Anna feels a little flustered and nods. She passes the sheet of paper from her pocket, feeling herself blush.

“I wanted a pair of these,” Anna croaks, her voice betraying her anxiety. She clears her throat and repeats herself. The girl nods and confirms she can supply a pair.

Anna admits she doesn't know what size would fit best and adds sotto voce, “I want to wear them out of here. Could you help me with fitting?”

The girl nods and gives a little smile. Anna finds her hard to read. Is she shy or very controlled?

“Come and wait in the fitting room while I get the item.” Anna is taken to a small room with a full length mirror. She has to wait for a full five minutes, all the time having to take in her new garish image. She tugs at her dreadlocks, which still feel alien to her. Her fringe hasn't moved at all and the product has hardened into a plasticky mass.

The girl enters, again taking her by surprise, Anna looking in the mirror, stroking her bald temple. She apologises and lets the girl measure her waist. She seems reluctant to touch Anna, who decides that her her reserve is caused by shyness. “I'm Anna. Sorry I didn't introduce myself before.”

“Izzy,” the girl smiles back. At close quarters Anna can appreciate her charms more fully. She has a pleasant roundish face, good bone structure, pretty eyes, which get lost a little as she wears large glasses. She's quite small with a good figure, fleshy but with a small waist. She wears a sleeveless red blouse and a short flared skirt. Her hair is a light brown with a hint of red, tied back in a simple ponytail. She looks too respectable to work in a sex shop and again Anna finds herself thinking of daughters of past friends. She could even imagine a maternal feeling developing toward this girl.

“That's pretty. Is it short for something?” Anna is glad to indulge in small talk to defuse her anxiety.

“Isolde,” she pronounces comically slowly, as if the word caused her distress. “It's awful so I never tell any one. You're sworn to secrecy! Stupid parents.”

Anna laughs. “It's a lovely name, and so unusual. Wagnerian?”

“Stupid parents,” she repeats, her face utterly deadpan, which amuses Anna all the more.

“It might have been Brunhilde. Oh... You don't have a sister called Brunhilde?”

“No, I'm an only child. Probably just as well.” Izzy takes one of the boxes and tells her that these will fit Anna. She sighs as she contemplates undressing.

“It's OK,” Izzy says softly. “I've seen it all before. I'm older than I look. I'm twenty-two, and I'm a physio student so I've seen enough flesh that it doesn't freak me out.”

Anna feels her shame growing. “Well, maybe there are still things that can surprise you...” She slides off her boots and slips her pants down. Izzy tries to look calm but her eyes widen as she takes in Anna's modifications.

“Oh,” she says softly. Anna can see that she's not prone to displays of emotion but the sight of the tattoos and piercings has caught her off guard. “Those piercings look new. It's hard to see with the tattoos.” Anna agrees that they're very recent. “I wouldn't recommend these panties then. You should let the piercings heal.”

“I'll be OK,” Anna says. “I'm tougher than I look.”

“You look pretty fearsome,” Izzy smiles.

The latex panties are extracted from the packaging and Anna slides them up her legs. Izzy lubricates the appendages and studies how best to insert them. “Maybe go in the front first, since that's bigger.” Anna does as suggested and feels her shame grow as she feels the slippery dildo enter her. “Can you get the plug in?” Izzy asks. Anna knows she'd never be able to manage it.

“Sorry, Izzy, you'll have to help me.” Her mortification is evident.

“It's OK,” she reassures. “I have to do all sorts of stuff in this job. When I meet someone nice like you it makes it all a lot easier.”

The two women are soon giggling like teenagers as they try to insert the plug into Anna's anus. After a lot of farcical struggles it finally slips into place, a high shivery “Oooh!” escaping from Anna's lips. Izzy helps to roll the panties into place and wipes them with a polish to make them gleam. A buckle is fastened in place just below Anna's navel.

“How do they feel on your rings?” Izzy asks.

“A bit sore, but it's bearable.”

“Don't wear them for too long though. You need to make sure the blood supply is good. Do you want to try inflating them?” she asks, holding up a bulb attached to a length of rubber tubing.

“You do it,” Anna says softly.

The dildo slowly expands inside her and she feels herself start to glow. Then Izzy attaches the tubing between the buttocks and starts to pump. “More,” Anna groans. She doesn't like the sensation but there's a compulsion to feel herself stretched. She feels her face turn a deep red, from discomfort now rather than shame. She makes eye contact with Izzy and can see that the young woman is fascinated, even aroused by events. Is her desire to kiss Izzy a mere accident, that it's she who's closest at this time of arousal, or is there a more individual attraction? A mutual attraction even? Has her libido been so unleashed that she's attracted to every woman she has any intimacy with? Perhaps Pamela isn't wrong in labelling her a slut.

She recovers her composure and retreats from the ludicrous idea of letting her lips meet Izzy's. She stands to measure how she can move when her orifices are so filled and realises that she feels like she will burst if she has to walk. “Maybe deflate the plug a little, Izzy?”

“Are you sure? I'm sure your girlfriend would be proud of you for enduring this.”

“My girlfriend?” Anna feels taken aback. What does Izzy know about her?

“I presume it was your girlfriend I spoke to yesterday. She called about these panties.”

Anna nods and agrees, says she wasn't aware that a call had been made. Her equilibrium has been upset and her thoughts are racing as she tries to imagine what Izzy knows about her. All is a blur as she dresses and pays for her purchases, tips Izzy generously and leaves the shop in a state of panic. Every step tells her that the butt plug is unendurable but she can hardly do anything to remedy the situation at present. The nozzles of the panties are visible through the clinging fabric and Anna is glad that the patterning helps to disguise the protrusions.

She knows that next she has to visit Carmen to be inked with her humiliating tattoo. Her shop isn't far away but she finds her stride is so restricted that she takes twice as long to get there as she would usually.

The door is locked and she rings the bell for attention. A young woman lets her in and she sees that Carmen is sitting in the reception area. She looks at her for a moment before recognition hits her. “Anna? Wow, what are you wearing? Did you just get out of an all night rave?”

Carmen has gone to great lengths with her make-up to compensate for her shorn head. Her eyes are strongly painted in sombre shade, blacks, blues, greens which cover her upper lids right up to her thickly pigmented brows. She looks quite gothic, although this is somewhat undermined by the severe butch haircut. Anna smiles embarrassedly and asks Carmen if she can see her in her studio. Carmen seems to be showing off a little in front of her colleague. “You can only go to the studio if you want some work done.”

“I do. A little tattoo.” The croak comes back into her voice, betraying her nerves.

“Come!” Carmen orders, beckoning her toward her lair. Soon Anna is sitting nervously in the chair looking up into Carmen's beautiful face.

“What did your friends think about your haircut?”

Carmen groans as if pained and rubs her brutally cropped head. “Oh, they think I've gone dyke. It's awful. Pamela is so evil.”

“No, no, you look sensational,” Anna smiles.

“It was your fault I ended up like this.” She tries to sound spiteful, but a smile splits her lips. “Anyway, why have you come looking for me?”

“Pamela wants me tattooed on my wrist... It has to say one hundred percent slut.” Her stomach knots as she say the words. She despairs at the idea of being visibly marked thus.

Carmen looks at her in silence. “Well, well,” she says at last. “Pamela wants it or you do? Don't hide behind her, you want it don't you? Does it turn you on to show everyone how slutty you are? Is that why you want it so public?” She places her hand on Anna's pubis and reacts with surprise to feel a hard disc. “What's this?”

Anna explains what she's spent her morning doing. Carmen is amused and starts to massage the panties so that the dildo presses more deeply. Soon Anna is moaning. “Please, Carmen, it's pulling at the piercings. It's hurting. And the girl in the shop over inflated the butt plug and I feel like I'm going to explode.”

“Poor little baby. When do you get to take them off?”

Anna winces. “I have to recruit a stranger to let Pamela do as she pleases with her hair?”

Carmen laughs. “Want me to help? Us two would reassure anyone that their hair would be in good hands.”

Anna groans. “It's not funny. She really will make me wear these till I get her a model. I made a flyer to try to find someone.” She rummages in her bag to show Carmen.

“Actually that's not bad. Still not sure it would make me sacrifice my hair. If I had any, that is...” she adds ruefully.

“Has to be someone with long hair, too. I'm sure there will be punishments if I don't get someone today.”

“I better get you tattooed then. You're going to need as much time as possible.”

Twenty minutes later, a black square marks the skin of the inside of Anna's wrist, almost two inches wide. In ultra bold text on two lines it says:

100%

SLUT

“You're officially a slut now,” Carmen whispers. “Are you going to try to seduce me?” She leans over Anna and caresses her shaved temple.

“Oh, Carmen, don't. I have to get permission from Pamela now if I want to play with another woman.”

“You have to phone her and tell her what you want to do?” Anna nods, shame-faced. Carmen reaches into her bag and throws a phone to her. “Get dialling then. Put it on speaker so I can hear everything.”

Pamela answers almost immediately. “Hello, Annie. Where are you up to on your tasks?”

“I got my panties and now I'm with Carmen. She just did my tattoo.”

“Lovely. Are you pleased with it?”

Anna has a thousand thoughts in her head about how it feels to bear such a humiliating tattoo. How can she summarise them? She finds herself saying: “Yes, Pamela.”

“And how do those panties feel? Are you nice and full?”

“Too much!” she groans. The girl in the shop made the butt plug too big. Please can I reduce it?”

“Of course. You can take it out,” Pamela says generously. Anna's expression of gratitude is cut short. “Just as soon as you bring me a head of hair to have my way with. Until then the panties stay as they are. Was there anything else?”

Anna glances nervously at Carmen. “Well... Carmen wanted... We wanted to cuddle a bit.”

“Ah, so that's what the call was about. You didn't care about me, you just wanted to have your way with Carmen!”

Carmen interrupts. “She's been giving the signals since she got here, Pammie. She's just insatiable, this girl of yours. How about I do her another tattoo saying 'Horny all the time?'”

Pamela laughs and says maybe they can wait before she gets that one. “Anna, how does Carmen look today?”

“She's wearing lots of make-up to compensate for her lovely short haircut. She looks very sexy though. Her eyes look very dark and mysterious.” She blushes as she looks up at Carmen, pained to have to describe how attracted she is in her presence.

“And Carmen, how does Anna look?”

“She looks weird with that fin sticking up and no eyebrows. Can I shave off the fringe and tattoo her some nice arched brows?”

“You could...” Pamela says with malice. “But of course I'm in charge of your haircut and you wouldn't like the haircuts you'd be getting for the next year. But it's your choice.”

“Oh Pamela! Worse than I have now?”

“Of course. Far worse.”

“Damn. I guess the fin stays then,” she says sadly.

“Yes it does! I've got a customer arriving so I have to go. Don't play for too long. Remember, I want some nice hair to play with, Anna. I'll be very displeased if you don't deliver.”

Anna is surprised to discover that Carmen has a warm and gentle side. They spend half an hour kissing and exploring each other's bodies. She doesn't want it to end, since every moment has been a beautiful pleasure. Carmen is open about her attraction to Anna, despite her unflattering hairstyle. Carmen shares her lunch with Anna and reluctantly says they must part if Anna is not to earn a punishment for failing her most important task. Before she allows her to leave, she makes Anna lie down and pierces her navel. Now a ring dangles from the fold of skin at the top.

Anna returns to the outside world and tries to find a place where she may find a young woman who will offer her hair to appease Pamela. She finds herself near the university and approaches a group of students with the flyer (she's had a hundred copied in a print shop). She soon realises that she's not a natural at selling. Her gaucheness seems to make the girls uneasy and they've moved on before she's even been able to pass a single flyer.

She tries various approaches. She has more success in engaging with girls who are alone, especially quiet looking girls. But they are the ones who are most put off by the idea of losing their luxuriant locks. As soon as they realise that they would lose control of the style they'll receive they make their apologies.

Anna moves back toward the area where the salon is, locating herself in a street with some cafés and bars. The clientèle is more fashionable here, the girls more daring in their looks. A few agree to take flyers but none seem genuinely interested in taking up the offer. Suddenly it's after five and Anna realises her time is dwindling; the salon closes at six and it would seem peculiar (and doomed to failure) to try to find models at night. She wanders through the city, feeling close to panic but nowhere does she spy a suitable candidate.

She finds herself back where she was in the morning, outside the sex shop and despair makes her try a last gambit. She enters and sees the shop is free of customers. Izzy is cleaning up and smiles as she sees her.

“Isolde, I wanted to ask you something,” she says seriously. “My girlfriend is a hairdresser and she needs a model with long hair for a makeover. Would you consider it?”

She pauses, her face giving away little. “Would it be just styling or a cut?”

“A cut, probably colour too.” Anna knows it's not what she wanted to hear, but she doesn't want to deceive her about what she's getting into. “Don't worry, she didn't cut mine,” she says to relieve the tension.

“I don't know,” Izzy says. “I've always had long hair.”

“You can discuss it with her. She wouldn't necessarily take it really short.” But she's probably going to do something extreme, Anna thinks. “And I think you'd probably get a lot more tips here if you had a more flamboyant look.”

“I don't know...” she keeps saying. “I'm only working here over the summer, then I'm back to university.”

“You can tone down the style when you finish here. I'm sure I can talk Pamela into giving you a free restyle when you want it.”

“Is it for a competition? I don't want one of those weird styles where the back's shaved and the fringe covers my face and it's rainbow coloured.”

“It won't be anything like that. Please Isolde, you'd be doing us such a favour.”

“OK then. I'll be about fifteen minutes finishing here, then I'm free all evening.”

Anna hugs her new friend, and is so delighted that she can't get out her words. She agrees to wait outside the shop and immediately calls Pamela.

“Pamela, I found someone. Do you want me to bring her right over to the shop?”

She sounds unexcited. “Yes, I'll be ready in about ten minutes.” Anna explains that they'll be there in about twenty. “Is she pretty? And she has long hair?”

“It's well past her shoulders, nice healthy hair, looks like it's never been coloured. And yes, she's really cute. She's a bit geeky, studious looking but she has a lovely face. She's really pretty.”

“That could all change very soon,” Pamela adds, ominously.

They arrive at the salon which is now locked up. A light is on upstairs and a call to Pamela gains them access through the back entrance. Izzy is taken up to the private room where Anna's first big makeover was performed. “Pamela this is Isolde,” Anna says by way of introduction.

“Izzy, please! I hate Isolde.”

Pamela shakes her head. “No, Isolde is much nicer. Izzy sounds like a hyperactive little girl. Isolde sounds full of Celtic mystery. You're going to be Isolde, OK?”

Isolde looks at Pamela inscrutably. Anna finds her expression so difficult to read that she can't assess how she's reacting to Pamela's dominance. “OK,” she agrees, seemingly brightly. Moments later she's sat for Pamela who has freed her hair from the ponytail and is smoothing it with a comb, appraising the raw material she has to work with. She pulls the glasses from Isolde's nose and gazes at her in the mirror.

“Did Anna tell you that I have complete control over the finished style?” Isolde nods. She looks more vulnerable now that her glasses are removed. “You're OK with that? A lot of girls would be nervous about getting a completely new cut and colour.”

“I'm nervous but a bit excited too.”

“Anna's piercer got her hair cut last night to please her. Anna, tell Isolde what cut you chose for her.” Anna starts to feel like this is descending into nightmare. She's sure that scaring Isolde will make her run.

“She got a really short style.” Pamela looks at her with irritation. This single sentence clearly isn't acceptably detailed. “Sort of flattop...”

“Tell Isolde how short the back and sides were.”

“Pretty much shaved.”

Isolde can no longer hide her discomfort. Her face has grown pale and her lip quivers. “Would you like something like that too?” Pamela asks. “Anna likes that sort of look for her lovers. She was delighted that I took mine so short too, weren't you sweetheart.”

Anna nods.

“I didn't want to go that short,” Isolde says. “Anna suggested something...” She searches for the word. “Flamboyant? She thought it might help me get more tips.”

Pamela looks intrigued. “What do you do?”

“I work in Sybaritic”

Pamela looks astonished. “Wait so you... Did you dress Anna?” Isolde nods, causing Pamela to start laughing exuberantly. “I was hoping I could surprise you with Anna's perversity but you already know all about her. Did she show you what she did after she left you?”

Anna is made to take off her fur jacket. Her wrist bears a dressing to protect her tattoo from the fibres. Pamela instructs her to rip away the dressing and giggles as she sees the bold text. “Show it to Isolde. Do you like Anna's new tattoo?”

The girl is short sighted and squints to read the legend. She tries to remain impassive but Anna is sure she can see a disappointment in her eyes that someone apparently intelligent would disfigure themselves with such a crude tattoo.

“It's very nicely tattooed,” she says diplomatically.

“You have to understand, Isolde, it's a sexual thing for Anna. She's insatiable and she likes to be humiliated and to have her addiction exposed. She's a reluctant but compulsive exhibitionist. Aren't you sweetheart?” Anna hardly recognises herself in this description but finds herself growing inflamed. “You don't mind me talking so frankly, do you, Isolde?”

“No. I hear all sorts of stuff in the shop.”

“And what did you think of my little Anna when you first saw her?”

“Once I saw past the crazy hair and all the piercings I could see she was very pretty. She intrigued me, because she seems so intelligent and well mannered.”

Pamela smiles enigmatically. “Anna, what did you think of Isolde?”

“She's very bright and I was impressed by her calmness. She reminded me of a friend's daughter.”

“Awww, so sweet! I should warn you, Isolde. By the time I've given you your 'flamboyant' new look, Anna will be all over you. All her maternal, protective feelings toward you will be cast aside by lust.”

For the first time, Isolde looks embarrassed. Pamela's acute intuition seems to sense the root. “Is that something you want?” she whispers. Isolde remains silent, her eyes glowing now. “You're nervous, aren't you. I know you've never been with a woman before. A few drinks will help relax you.”

Anna is tasked with providing Isolde with a glass of whisky and helps herself to one. Pamela abstains as she wishes to keep her head clear while she's working.

And now she sets to her work, combing through Isolde's long hair as she imagines the style she will execute. Anna stands at Pamela's shoulder watching everything; reality seems to have taken on a crystalline air, every movement has a special significance.

“You look like a teenager still, Isolde. Cute, but sexless. I'm going to give you a very sexual look. I'm going to corrupt you for mine and Anna's pleasure. Do you want that?”

Isolde looks a bit shocked and fails to respond. Pamela pours a good measure of whisky into her glass and orders her to down it. Once more she asks “Do you want to be corrupted?”

“I have a boyfriend. Will he be shocked?”

Pamela nods. “Very.”

“Do it anyway,” she sighs.

Pamela reaches for the clippers. She oils them, making a show of the absence of a guard over the blades. She turns them on and winks at Anna. She runs a comb through Isolde's silky hair, letting it come to rest above her shoulders. Then the clippers move across the comb and all of the hair below is instantaneously severed. It takes hardly a minute for Pamela to reduce Isolde's long mane to a rough bob which reaches the base of her neck.

Anna gasps at what she sees next. Pamela tilts Isolde's head back and to the side to expose the left temple. She slides the clippers back through the soft hair and shaves a trench through to the pale scalp. Isolde makes a soft ululation as she realises that her hair is going to be cut in an extreme style, but Anna still finds it difficult to read her; was that moan one of shock or pleasure? Pamela combs some strands upward and shaves away more hair from the side.

“Doesn't she have sexy little ears?” Pamela asks Anna. Indeed, the exposed ear is tiny but beautifully shaped and Anna voices her agreement. She reaches out to caress the ear as Pamela continues to disrobe Isolde's scalp. The right side is treated to the same violence and locks tumble over Isolde's shoulders and into her lap. Her clothes are covered in pale clippings as Pamela has provided her with neither gown nor cape.

Pamela turns off the clippers and pulls back the hair at the top, tugging at it hard enough to induce a wince from Isolde. The sides are shaved high and close. She requests her glasses and Anna places them on her face. She whistles as she sees how bare the sides are now. “I thought you were just buzzing it, but it's really bald, isn't it?”

Pamela tells her to stroke her head, then to feel Anna's scalp. “That's really bald. Which do you prefer?”

“Anna's,” Isolde says dreamily. “It feels lovely.”

“Yours will feel even nicer when it's freshly shaved. But now we're going to bleach you.”

A bowl of bleach is mixed and the pale paste plastered over the remaining hair, which is piled on top of Isolde's head, leaving the shorn sides exposed. “So I'm going blonde?” Isolde asks quietly.

Pamela shakes her head. “No, we just need to lighten the hair so that the new colour will be more vibrant.”

Isolde shivers. “Oh, I can't quite believe this is happening. I'm sure I'll regret it tomorrow.”

“Regret nothing,” Pamela smiles. “Anna wasted thirty years trying to be conventional and live like a nice bourgeois wife. That's regrettable. She's had more pleasure in the weeks since we met than in her previous decades. Haven't you sweetheart?”

Anna nods. What Pamela says is true, despite the terrible humiliations she's had to adjust to.

“You know, Isolde, she brought you to me for her pleasure? She loves to see beautiful young women being transformed. Almost as much as she loves being forced to change. I said she would keep on her dildo panties until she found me a victim and she did bring you here. I suppose it's only fair that you end her suffering.”

Isolde rises from the chair and approaches Anna. Her boots are removed and Isolde rolls Anna's trousers down, pulls them off. The panties seem to have welded to her skin and it takes some force to peel them free. Anna groans with relief as the protrusions are allowed to deflate, then realises that she needs to pee. She begs Pamela to be allowed to relieve herself but her lover insists that she exercises self control. The dildo is eased free and Anna wails as the tenderness of the piercings is made apparent. Isolde strokes her cheek and whispers soothingly. Suddenly it's her who seems the maternal one. Her youth is revealed again as she extracts the plug from Anna's anus; the ridiculousness of the situation makes Isolde start to giggle.

Anna sits with legs tightly crossed to prevent an embarrassing accident. Pamela makes her lick the dildo which is sticky with an accumulation of her secretions. It tastes disgusting: a mixture of a rubbery latex taste, salt and stale sweat. Despite this, the flavours excite Anna: they're the flavours of sex.

Pamela interrogates Isolde. She's fascinated by the girl's initial impressions of Anna. She says that she's not easily shocked after working in a sex shop for a couple of months, but admits that the extent of the tattoos and piercings on Anna's sex took her by surprise.

“She only has a few little tattoos. Do you think she would look good with more?”

Isolde nods. “I think that would look right on her.” Anna moans into the dildo which she holds in her lips.

“The little slut gets so turned on when we discuss tattooing her. She's still very conflicted about allowing herself to become what I desire. I treasure her inner conflict. It makes her all the more appealing. Soon she'll be broken and there'll be no resistance, which will be a pleasure of a different sort, but for now I love to see her shame as she realises she can't say no to me. She still has an image of herself as a respectable housewife but she's changing from the outside in.”

“She doesn't look respectable now,” Isolde smiles.

“And soon she won't be able to reverse the changes. She fears that but it's what she really desires. I can see her disappointment because she thinks I haven't noticed her new pierced navel. Was that a little act of rebellion to provoke me, Anna?” Pamela pulls the panties away from Anna's mouth to allow her to respond.

“No Pamela,” Anna says contritely. “Carmen did it without asking my permission. She said that I'd agreed to be modified by her however she pleased, and there was no time limit set for when she could change me.” Pamela laughs as she realises Carmen is correct.

“I can send you back to her frequently and you'll always get new work done! I just have to decide if I trust Carmen's tastes. She's very young and easily swayed by fashions. Still, if I don't like something she tattoos on you I can always get it covered up, like I did with that nasty little blob on your pussy.”

Anna nods her agreement but her shame makes her avoid eye contact with either of her companions.

“Anna, come and kiss the nice lady to thank her for offering her hair to me.” Anna takes Isolde's hand and lifts her from her chair. She nervously embraces her (Isolde seems just as nervous, unsure whether to play along) and their lips meet. “Let her feel your tongue, Anna. We've worked hard on her tongue,” she explains to Isolde. “I pierced it as soon as I met her and we've been stretching it ever since. She's very skilled at using it to provide pleasure.”

Anna finds herself losing her self-consciousness as the delight of the kiss comes to take over her inhibitions, which were already eroded by the whisky. She can sense Isolde's curiosity about the modifications her tongue has been subjected to, the multiple piercings and its freakish length. At first she seems repulsed by the unfamiliarity of the sensations but soon adjusts and responds to Anna's attentions with enthusiasm. Anna finds herself unable to resist caressing the shorn sides of Isolde's head, ambivalent about her role in destroying the girl's image. She grows more and more excited as she imagines Pamela taking charge of Isolde, turning her into something exotic and sexualised, as she's done to Anna.

“OK, enough of that,” Pamela whispers and Anna withdraws from the embrace. Without her intervention, Anna has no idea how long she may have continued. “Your first kiss with another woman?” Pamela asks Isolde. “Not a disappointment, I hope.”

Isolde smiles, her cheeks reddening. “I liked it,” she whispers, seemingly embarrassed by her lack of articulacy in describing her pleasure.

“Wait till...” Pamela pauses and whispers in Isolde's ear as she stares at Anna. Isolde smiles nervously and giggles. “You want her to?” The girl sucks on her lower lip, looks at Pamela and nods.

Pamela leads Isolde over to a sink and makes her bend forward so that the bleach can be washed from her hair. She starts to wash away the chemicals, then urges Anna to take over. As she obeys, Pamela unfastens the younger girl's skirt and slides it down to her ankles, exposing her soft, rounded buttocks. She eases the clothing free and makes Isolde move her feet far apart. She takes over the duty of rinsing the hair and whispers to Anna: “Give her a special treat.”

Anna kneels and gently massages Isolde's buttocks, eases them apart as she allows her tongue to explore the cleft. The tip of her tongue seeks out the dark bud at the heart of the hollow, and she teasingly lets the stud in the end of her tongue play over the puckered flesh. A shiver passes through Isolde and for a moment Anna thinks her knees may buckle. She pants as she adjusts to the new sensations, gradually starting to delight in Anna's attentions, urging her on.

Anna is lost in the moment, but is suddenly brought back to earth as Pamela reaches down past her face and takes hold of her septum ring. She moves Anna back, away from Isolde, her nose so tender that every movement of the ring makes her comply with Pamela's direction. “I love the control this ring gives me,” Pamela says, smiling down at Anna. She ushers Isolde back to the chair and dries roughly at her hair with a towel.

Anna looks at the girl she's brought into the salon. She now has bleached blonde hair, shaved at the sides. She turns her head to take in her new image in the mirror. Once more, Anna finds her expression impossible to read. She seems unperturbed by the changes that Pamela is imposing on her. Does she like what she's becoming?

“Anna, sweetheart, do you want Isolde to be a little punk girl? She can have a nice mohawk and lots of make-up.”

Anna finds the idea shocking, and her face reveals her disapproval. She thinks of the studious-looking girl she thought looked so out of place in the sex shop and finds the idea that she could soon be wearing a mohawk untenable.

“I thought you'd like that. What's wrong with it?”

“I don't know...” Anna mumbles. “I thought maybe a bob?” she adds.

“Ahhhh. You want her nape shaved, is that it? A nice cute little bob with a high shaved undercut?”

Anna blushes and nods. She's not sure that is what she wants but she knows that to constantly go against Pamela's suggestions risks provoking her anger.

“Did you hear that, Isolde? Anna wants you to get clippered more. You don't mind do you?” Isolde shakes her head but looks like she's in a trance, barely aware of what's happening to her.

Pamela dries Isolde's newly lightened hair, then tells Anna to pass the clippers. “The poor girl is sacrificing a lot of hair for you,” Pamela says sternly. “Don't you think you owe her a little pleasure? On your knees, sweetheart.”

Anna obeys her mistress, and imagines this is becoming her new role, to provide pleasure for Pamela's customers, as she did for Carmen so recently. She looks up and sees Isolde, head bowed, staring deep into her eyes. There's a loud crack as the motor engages in the clippers; Isolde tenses as the blades shear into her nape. Anna bows her head and lets her tongue play up Isolde's pink slit. She has a delicate fur of light brown curls covering her mound. Anna strokes at the soft hair as she continues to caress with her long tongue. She feels a heavy strand of hair tumble past her cheek and closes her eyes. Isolde spreads her fingers over the sides of Anna's head, enjoying the feel of the shaved scalp. “Why does she have this fin on her head?” Isolde asks Pamela.

“Don't you like it, Isolde? Carmen wasn't impressed either. Poor Anna, no one likes your new look!” She feels Isolde playing with the stiffly spiked hair. “You can fix it, Isolde,” Pamela says.

“Really?” She sounds shocked but seconds later Anna is horrified to feel the clippers on top of her head. Isolde grips her skull to prevent her resisting and presses the blades into the root of the stiff, sticky hair. Anna's excitement grows, and she licks more forcefully at her barberette. The blades sever the fringe which comes free as a single gluey block. Isolde drags the blades a few more times over the top of Anna's head to mow away the uneven tufts and then lifts her chin so that she can see how the newly shorn Anna looks.

“Ah, she looks so bald, the poor little thing!” Anna can't resist reaching up to feel her head. There's only a faint line of stubble on top of head head now. She wrinkles her nose in despair, knowing that the entire front half of her head is bared now. “Can't you give her eyebrows, Pamela? That would make her look a bit more human.”

Pamela laughs. “That's just what Carmen said, although she wanted to tattoo her brows on. Would you like that, Isolde? If she had really extreme tattooed eyebrows? Ridiculous, even?”

“You'd really do that to her?” Isolde gasps. Pamela beckons Anna to stand and starts to draw on her forehead with an eyeliner pen. She produces elaborately drawn patterns and finally lets Anna turn to see a mirror. Her brows are a series of curves, arabesques and dots with no pretence of symmetry. Anna finds the look strange and exciting, but the idea of this becoming everlasting horrifies her.

“Just say the word, Isolde, and we can make this permanent. Carmen will make them last forever.”

“God, are you serious?” She looks at Pamela with a mixture of shock and lust.

“Just say the word and it'll happen,” Pamela repeats.

Isolde laughs nervously. “I'm not used to having this sort of power. I can't rush a decision like this.”

“I suppose it took me a little while to adjust to being dominant too. Don't worry too much about Anna. A few little tattoos on her face aren't really going to make much difference, are they?” Pamela stares at Anna with such disdain as she says this that Anna finds herself recoiling. To be spoken of so dismissively is terribly hurtful, yet she's so turned on by Pamela's attitude to her that she knows she could be pushed easily to a huge climax.

Pamela strokes over the top of Anna's head where the fringe has now been shaved, Then gathers the dreadlocks at Anna's nape so that she looks bald. “Your forehead looks huge. I don't think you suit being bald and browless, do you Anna?” She shakes her head in despair as she senses that Pamela is edging toward making her receive tattoos over her brows.

“Please, Pamela, may I have more neutral brows tattooed?”

Pamela suddenly laughs. “This evening was supposed to be about giving Isolde a nice experience, but you're trying to make it all about you! Apologise to her.”

Anna is close to tears as she apologises, confused as to what she's done wrong. Pamela seems to be at her cruellest to make an example of her in front of this young stranger. She's relieved when Pamela turns her attentions again to Isolde, clippering away more of the hair from the back of her head. Anna insinuates herself once more between the girl's thighs and stimulates her with her tongue.

“Does this lifestyle intrigue you, Isolde?” Pamela asks. “Do you feel aroused by dominance and submission?”

Isolde moans that she does. She seems to have been affected a lot by the alcohol, and Anna supposes that she's unused to drinking. She shudders excitedly at every touch that Anna makes on her sex.

“And what excites you more, being in control or being dominated?”

“I'm not sure... It's all a big surprise to me.” Pamela grabs a handful of the hair from the top of her head and pushes her head forward as she mows another rectangle of hair from her scalp. “And this? Letting me take away your pretty hair, does that feel exciting?”

She makes an anxious wail. “Yes. Yes it does,” she sighs. “It scares me to think how I'm going to explain it, but I want it.”

“And when you shaved off Anna's fringe, did that feel good?” Isolde strokes Anna's shorn head and makes her look up into her face. “Did you like seeing how bald you'd made her look?” Isolde gasps as a sudden passion takes hold of her. “You have power over her, Isolde. It feels good, doesn't it?”

“Oh yes, so good,” she wails. “The power!” She pushes her mound forward so that it presses against Anna's face. It takes little effort to drive Isolde to a noisy orgasm. As the climax grips her, Pamela continues to forcefully shear away more of the bleached hair.

“Didn't that feel good?” Pamela asks. “Most people who are attracted by dominance and submission are somewhere on a continuum between completely dominant and completely submissive. I'm guessing you're somewhere in the centre but a little towards dominance. I'm very dominant and Anna is the most submissive woman I ever met. We have another partner in our household, Julie. She's quite submissive too but enjoys dominating Anna.”

Isolde listens with interest, her features relaxed in a beatific smile as she basks in the afterglow of her orgasm. Anna wonders if Pamela's characterisation of her is true. Sometimes she's imagined being allowed to dominate another but usually in these fantasies the situation turns around until she becomes the victim of the tortures she's devised for others. Perhaps it's Pamela's treatment of her that makes her unable to express a dominant side.

Anna is told to kneel and watch as Pamela adds dye to Isolde's hair and soon her head is covered in rows of foils, hanging in geometrically perfect arrangement over the clippered lower scalp. Anna finds herself getting uncontrollably excited as Pamela shaves away the stubble, making Isolde's scalp gleam. The same razor is then dragged over the girl's brows and soon she's staring in some amazement at how unfamiliar her reflection has become. She's not left browless for long, however, as Pamela immediately begins to re-frame her features with bold make-up. She's given thick dark brows, hard edged and artificial. Her eyes are accented with heavy black wings, emphasised with highlights of white along the edges of her lids, and the monochrome scheme is completed with a layer of black coating her lips. The dark lipstick reveals how small and delicate her mouth is.

Isolde looks at her new image with some satisfaction, strokes her newly shaved nape and murmurs in ecstasy. She's unrecognisable as the quiet girl that Anna met earlier. Pamela bends and whispers in her ear, making Isolde squirm with some imagined pleasure. She turns to kiss Pamela, and blushes.

“Do you smoke?” Pamela asks her. Isolde shakes her head and says she's never smoked. “Want to start?” Pamela says, a belligerent edge in her voice. Anna thinks that Isolde appears not to, but she says nothing. Is she afraid to refuse? Pamela orders Anna to bring another whisky for Isolde, which she downs immediately.

“Now, where were we?” Pamela asks. “Ah yes, your smoking. Anna, do you think it would look sexy for Isolde to smoke?”

Anna finds the idea grotesque. She's always disliked smoking, hates the smell, how coarse it looks. She thinks of how out-of-place it would seem for the bookish Isolde to become a smoker and shakes her head at Pamela. “Do you think it would look too slutty?” Pamela demands of her. “You do, but you like slutty, don't you? You even have your tattoo to prove it.”

Pamela orders her to go to a cupboard where she finds a vintage lighter and a pack of cigarettes. She finds herself obeying Pamela's orders as if in a nightmare. “Open the pack, take one out and put it in Isolde's lips, to the right of centre.” She wants Isolde to say no, to resist Pamela, since she's unable to, but instead the young woman takes the cigarette with a smile. “Now light it for her. Isolde, just breathe in gently, take the smoke in your mouth and hold it while you get used to the taste.” A little grimace twists her lips as the bitter smoke meets her tongue. “Anna, take the cigarette from her lips and put your face close to hers to take the smoke she blows out.”

Anna feels herself grow disgusted as the strong smoke covers her face. “Now let her take another drag and this time I want to see you breathe it in, Anna.” Isolde seems to delight in puffing the smoke into Anna's open mouth. She inhales and starts to cough, provoking laughter from both of her companions.

“Now, Anna, hold the cigarette to my lips and let me take a drag,” Pamela orders. She inhales the smoke deeply and looks delighted as she holds it in her lungs. She kisses Anna and exhales until Anna starts to cough and withdraws. Now Isolde is allowed to take the cigarette in her fingers and continue smoking.

“Are you disappointed that Isolde is picking up bad habits?” Pamela teases. “It's very addictive, you know? She'll probably keep smoking now that I've got her started. Won't you, babe?” Isolde gives a little smile and blows out a stream of smoke. She squints myopically at herself in the mirror, but Pamela tells her she should manage without her glasses until she gets contact lenses. “The glasses made you look like a good little student. I think you should cultivate your vanity. You shouldn't let yourself be seen looking anything but sexy.”

Anna remembers Pamela's threat to corrupt Isolde and realises that that's exactly what's happening. Not only has she been changed physically, but she's being given new desires. Pamela notices Anna's troubled expression and confronts her. “You look like you're going to cry. I think it's time for a confession session. On your knees!” She sits on the arm of the salon chair, pushed up against Isolde as Anna has to kneel looking up at them. She pauses for a long time before she can speak, and even when she does the words seem to come without thought.

“My divine Pamela, I have sinned by wishing for Isolde to hold on to her bourgeois standards of propriety. I don't want her to drink and smoke and spend more time looking after her appearance than studying.” Anna's concerns are greeted with derisive laughter from both women.

“Are you worried that she'll drop out of her course and spend all her life working in a sex shop?” Anna nods. “But she's a smart girl and she could open up her own sex shop which could make a lot of money. A sex shop for women. We should do it together,” Pamela adds, addressing Isolde. “A salon and sex shop. We could make so much money. And we'd have lots of leisure time so that you could continue your life of corruption,” she winks.

Anna is made to stand and face away from Pamela. She spreads her legs and bends forwards. Pamela reaches between her legs and places two fingers over Anna's slit, rubbing gently over the tender piercings. “So you dislike what I've done with the nice little girl you brought to me for a haircut? You think I'm a bad influence? I cause people to have bad habits? If that's true, then why are you getting so wet when I talk about it?”

“I don't know, Pamela. It turns me on, but I don't know why.”

“Is it because you're a slut? And you like other sluts? Even though you try to deny it, even to yourself.”

Perhaps Pamela is right. Certainly her words make Anna groan and sigh with pleasure and desire. “And does it turn you on to see Isolde smoking?” Anna nods, ashamed. “Say it! Tell her you like the new corrupted Isolde.”

Anna turns to look at Isolde as she takes a last drag on her cigarette, her features hidden beneath a mask of make-up, her little remaining hair covered in rectangles of folded foil. “You look very sexy, Isolde,” Anna croaks. “I'm really turned on by you.”

Pamela gives Anna the role of being Isolde's cigarette maid. She has to stub out the cigarette, provide more as she requires, light them for her, hold her ashtray. Pamela informs Isolde that Anna is unable to wash her hair for another two days until the perm has settled and encourages Isolde to blow her smoke into Anna's dreadlocks which are left reeking of cigarette smoke. The two women laugh as they taunt Anna about how it will help her get used to the smell.

Anna waits on Isolde as Pamela continues to work on her hair. The foils are removed and Isolde now has hair which is swirled with two rich shades of blue, a royal blue and a greenish sea-blue. The length is chopped away to give a short, very precise bob which falls half way over Isolde's pretty ears. Her bald nape is exposed and the style emphasises her long, slim neck. Anna can see that Pamela has chosen this style to flatter Isolde's features. She's given a short blunt fringe which stops well short of the thick, drawn-on brows. By now Isolde is quite tipsy and she looks delighted with the look that Pamela has devised for her, celebrates by having Anna light another cigarette for her. The colours seem to intensify as Pamela blow dries the bob, making the short hair gleam and glow. She stands and leans close to the mirror so that she can see the new cut more clearly. She rubs her bald neck and moans. “It's stunning, Pamela,” she exclaims. “I can't believe it's me.”

Pamela takes her in her arms and they share a deep kiss which, even as a mere spectator, Anna finds deeply erotic. Pamela looks enamoured of her new creation and asks her if she'd like to tidy up Anna's skull.

Isolde looks at Anna, rubs at the stubble which is visible where the line of hair was shaved. “I'd love it,” she smiles. “But I had an idea, Pamela. It's a bit odd, but I wondered if...” Her voice trails away self-consciously.

“You can do anything you like to Anna,” Pamela reassures. “Can't she sweetheart? The rougher the better.” Anna blushes but nods her assent.

“I keep thinking about when I put those panties on her. I'd like to make her wear a butt plug.” Pamela only has to look at Anna to make her comply. She walks to the chair and bends over it, her legs spread, her buttocks offered.

Since there is no suitable butt plug present in the salon, Pamela improvises and cuts the plug out of the panties. Anna is made to suck on it (the taste is sickening as it hasn't been cleaned since being removed) while she lights another cigarette for Isolde. Once she's smoking, Isolde takes the plug and makes Anna touch her toes. Pamela spreads her buttocks forcefully as Isolde probes at her anus with a wetted finger. The plug is thrust home with a sudden push.

Anna is allowed to stand, a tube and bulb dangling between her legs. She's ordered to inflate the plug as much as she dares. She pumps at the bulb, feeling her discomfort grow with each contraction of her fingers. She can feel the blood coursing in her face as she takes it as big as she can without fear of injury.

“Is that as big as I pumped it?” Isolde asks.

“Bigger,” Anna replies. “I'm sure it is.”

“We have no way to be sure, do we? And I'm not sure I believe you.” Isolde makes three more pumps, eliciting a groan from Anna. “That's better, isn't it?” She seems to have been infected with Pamela's cruelty. “Go and sit down and I'll shave your head.”

Anna lowers herself gingerly into the chair, the pressure growing painful as she puts her weight on her buttocks. As Isolde anoints Anna's head with lather, Pamela sharpens a straight razor. Isolde laughs as she sees it. “You think I'm safe with something that sharp? I've never shaved anyone before, and I'm pretty drunk.”

“What's the worst that can happen? A few little cuts? Anna can take that, can't you, sweetheart?” She nods nervously as she imagines the sort of damage a razor could inflict on her scalp.

Isolde takes the razor and moves it across the top of her head but she's so nervous that the blade doesn't even meet the skin, merely taking off a layer of lather. Pamela grunts her disappointment. Isolde apologises, but is insistent that her coordination is so impaired that she's incapable of using the razor and asks Pamela to do the job instead.

Pamela's confidence with the razor is immediately apparent as she presses the blade close to Anna's scalp, as firmly as she dares without risking blood. The sensation chills Anna as she realises how easily the sharp blade could slice into her scalp. “See how easy it is?” Pamela says to Isolde, her pride in her technique evident.

Isolde seems distracted; she has a distant look in her eye and seems to have other thoughts filling her head. At last she voices them. “Could we cut some of the dreads? It would look cool if she had a smaller tail of dreadlocks and more bald head.”

Anna knows that Isolde is drunk now and her ideas are crazy. She looks at Pamela pleadingly, hoping that her greater sobriety will moderate Isolde's lunacy. Instead she passes scissors to Isolde and instructs her to cut as many as she likes.

Isolde whoops with glee as she chops away the dreadlocks from Anna's crown. “You're going to have a skullet, Anna,” Pamela teases. “It's probably the worst haircut known to mankind. Only rednecks can really pull it off, although even they usually don't go for the shaved version. The dreadlock version is for hippies though, new-age traveller types. Not sure I ever saw it on a girl. You'll be a trend setter.”

Once Isolde has harvested a good crop of dreadlocks, Pamela sets to shaving away the dishevelled remains of hair, snipping away a few more locks too to re-establish symmetry. Anna finds herself tearing up as she sees how much hair Isolde grips in her hand. All of the front of her head is now bald, behind her ears, back past her crown. The girl she sees in the mirror appears entirely bald, her face rendered ludicrous by the ridiculously ornamented brows. She turns her head and sees the absurd tail of dreadlocks jutting out at the back. Only a narrow rectangle of scalp now sprouts hair. She'd prefer for that to be shaved off too but knows that Pamela desires it to add to her humiliation.

“You know, I've been considering some scarification for my little slut,” Pamela whispers to Isolde. “Maybe I should give her a taste of it, something superficial and temporary.” Isolde looks shocked at this revelation. It's more than she was prepared for. “Your scalp looks so bare, sweetheart. Do you think you could sit still while I put some scratches on your head?”

Anna nods but starts to cry. Isolde lights another cigarette as she watches in fascination, but there's a little fear in her eyes too. Pamela strokes at the top of Anna's head, then draws the skin tight. She lets the edge of the razor lie against Anna's scalp, then starts to move it so that the blade travels in a diagonal line. There's a stinging, like a paper cut and Isolde gasps. Pamela gives her a playful smile, then makes another cut, and another...

Anna's scalp is dabbed with a tissue which is spotted with blood when she removes it. Anna can see the cuts are only oozing blood, and she knows they can't be deep but they feel quite raw and painful. She bows her head to see what has been done and sees that Pamela has marked the top of her head with three Vs, forming a chevron-like pattern pointing toward her forehead. The cuts are very fine and superficial but about three inches wide. It looks vaguely ridiculous to Anna, not sufficiently refined to look like a real decoration, more like a mark of self injury, although too regular for that.

“I've been reading about scarification,” Pamela announces. Anna can't be sure who she's addressing, her or Isolde, or whether she's just expressing inner thoughts aloud. “Sometimes the scars can be encouraged to form thick raised keloids. I've been dreaming about making breasts dotted with rings of little keloid scars, so that they looked like extra nipples.” She begins running her delicate fingertips over the smooth skin of Anna's breasts. I've been wondering if we could make the scars so big that they can be pierced and you'd have dozens of rings dangling.”

“You could really do that?” Isolde asks in wonder. “It would look so freaky.”

“Yes, with that and all the tattoos she'll get...”

Anna is groaning now with dread, but she knows that this fear makes her tingle with excitement. What's more, Pamela is very aware of the effect these threats have on Anna's psyche.

“Would you like to borrow my little pet for the night?” Pamela asks. “You can take her home and use her exactly as you please, but you should be rough with her if you want to see her at her best.” Isolde's face can't hide her desire, but there's some insecurity and confusion too. She's entering new territory and evidently feels a little lost. “It's OK, Isolde, I'll lend you some of Anna's favourite toys and she will instruct you in their use. You can't do anything that will break her. She's tougher than she looks. Oh, and Anna... You're not allowed to say no! If I hear from Isolde that you've resisted any of her desires, well I'll be giving you a punishment you'll remember till your dying day.”

“I'll be good, Pamela,” Anna whispers, as her lover leans forward to kiss her.

“And I want to hear every little detail about your night as Isolde's whore,” she whispers in her ear, “so don't forget a thing.”

Anna blushes as she's dressed for her journey to Isolde's home. So this is what she's become: a thing to be lent for other women's pleasure. Isolde has readied herself for the journey and plants a wet kiss on Anna's shaved scalp. “When I set out this morning, I never dreamt that I'd have my own personal slut to take care of me. You are going to take care of me, aren't you, Anna?”

“I am,” Anna sighs. Isolde looks so beautiful and she's such a sweet girl, or at least she was. Anna wonders if once she's away from Pamela's influence the bad habits will fall away. As they depart the salon she admits to herself that she doesn't want them to.

Anna regards herself in the mirror, caped and expectant. She has almost an inch of hair covering her scalp now, the product of almost two months growth, the first hair she's been allowed in the best part of a year. She's been allowed this privilege because Pamela decided that she should have a full time job and as soon as this decision was made she stopped shaving. In three hours Anna begins her job as an administrator in an IT company and Pamela has made her rise early to give her a new image.

Anna was made completely bald for the first time on the day she earned the tattoo which is ever-present by the corner of her right eye. She was sent alone to a busy Turkish barbershop and waited until she was called. The dreadlocks were chopped from her nape and the short fuzz of hair which covered her scalp was shaved. Once she was bald she'd walked to Carmen's shop where Pamela and Julie were waiting, and she sat passively as the character Ψ (the psi chosen for Pamela's initials, PS) was inked on her cheek.

At her interview Anna wore a wig and the tattoo was covered up with make-up. She wonders how her new colleagues will react to her, since she will attend on her first day with very short hair and a tattooed and pierced face. Pamela has been explicit in her instructions: she is to be quite aloof from her colleagues, will speak little about anything other than work related issues. She will not mention a girlfriend or say anything about her sexuality. She is to smile as seldom as possible and will be particularly frosty toward male employees. Anna knows that this will be a challenge since she's long recognised in herself a need to make others like her. The idea that she will be thought of as icy, scary even, doesn't sit well, but her obedience to Pamela is now complete.

In the months she spent bald, Anna has been rigorously trained so that she now depends entirely on Pamela. The most recent accomplishment is that she has gained the ability to orgasm on command from her mistress. Pamela had worked hard on enabling her to achieve a climax without touching herself (as a motivator she was forced to wear a chastity device for two months) and this latest extension of her control was a source of great delight to Pamela.

Anna's obedience was severely tested a few days previously. She was made to attend a late night party at Carmen's shop where she was the focus of attention. Her arms were made available to all the guests to tattoo as they wished (most of them had never held a tattooing needle in their lives). Anna's arms are now marked with horrible tattoos, crudely executed. She remembers the Anna of a year ago and knows that this would have made her suicidal. Now she finds an excitement in abandoning her body to others. Pamela has assured her that she will be allowed to keep the tattoos covered in polite company (by which she means her work) and has hinted that at some point she will remedy the ugliness of Anna's arms. For now she finds a thrill in the teasing that Pamela and Julie subject her to: they tell her stories of a fantasy where she was tattooed horribly as a punishment in a tough women's prison. Anna finds her imagination running away with her and this humiliation is enormously exciting.

Pamela enters her private salon now and greets Anna with a kiss. Anna smiles with delight to see her adored mistress, who she now addresses as Divinissima. Pamela has now grown her hair into a long bob, although she's kept the sides shorn closely. Her thick hair has been set in voluminous waves and softly curling ringlets today, sweeping to the side so that the dark undercut on Pamela's right temple is exposed. The longer hair has been dyed violet although the colour has faded to a slightly washed out tone which Anna finds more appealing than the vibrant shade it was a couple of weeks earlier. Despite the early hour, Pamela is already fully made up.

She begins by applying bleach to Anna's full head. Anna feels her excitement growing as she wonders how she will look. Since Pamela's decision to let her grow her hair she's mostly been prevented from wearing make-up and has been dressed in masculine clothes, giving an unfamiliar butchness to Anna's look (although her features and figure will always make her appear feminine). Anna realises how much she's missed the pleasures of a trip to the salon. For months she'd sat willingly for Pamela for all trace of hair to be shaved. She grew to love being bald, the purity it gave her, the attention it gained her wherever she went. But now she has a little hair, and she enjoys the privilege enormously.

Her hair is rinsed and now it's lost its colour. It's pale and washed out, not a flattering shade, but, nevertheless, the change in appearance is thrilling for Anna and she can't disguise her excitement. “We'll cut it now, then finish the colour,” Pamela whispers. For months Anna's enthusiasm for hairstyling has been fed vicariously through Pamela and Julie and the frequent makeovers they undergo. Now she feels an urge to touch herself as she sees the clippers being prepared, but the urge will go unfulfilled. Her sex belongs to her mistress and she would be punished if she so much as hinted that she would like to pleasure herself. Her haircut will be sufficient pleasure, unless Pamela decides that she should achieve a higher level of delight.

The clippers come alive with a rattling roar and Anna bows her head in anticipation. She lets out a long sigh as Pamela rewards her by pressing the blades up her neck. She mutters expressions of her gratitude, her hands gripping the arms of the chair tightly lest her will weakens and she gives in to her sensual urges. She knows that the clippers aren't shaving her, that there will be a short covering of blonde hair on her nape. She longs to see a beautifully even cut, to feel the softness of the crisp buzz. Her hair has got untidy since it grew and Pamela will now make it perfect, she's sure.

Her hair peels away in pale fuzzy clumps which drift down the cape like thistle down. Pamela works quickly, but not so fast that she denies Anna pleasure. The sensation of the buzzing blades makes Anna tingle and she shivers, closes her eyes and pulls her lips tight as she savours this unaccustomed ravishment. She giggles as Pamela touches her ear, gently folding it forward as she trims around it.

“You've missed my haircuts, haven't you, Anna? You're such a good girl now. Maybe I'll let you keep some hair so that every week we can share this pleasure. Would you like that?”

“Oh, Divinissima, you don't have to ask! I'd love it, you know that. But then I love everything that you do for me.”

Pamela tickles her neck, making Anna squirm and giggle. “Do you love your new tattoos, too?” Anna nods embarrassedly. “Oh, but honey, they're a jailbird's tattoos!” Pamela taunts. “What will your new colleagues think if they see them? They'll know the truth about you, that you're a criminal. That you're so weak willed and you got yourself into a heap of trouble for a lover. And once you were in prison you were so pretty that all the tough butch lesbians wanted you, and you couldn't say no. And because you were unfaithful to the toughest one of all she cut off all your pretty hair and covered you in nasty tattoos so that no one else would touch you.”

Anna's heard this story, or variants, numerous times, but each telling makes her purr with exhilaration. “I'm your bitch now, Pamela,” she whispers fervently.

“I'm dressing you in a sleeveless blouse today,” Pamela states. Anna smiles then suddenly realises it's not a joke. “You've got a lovely tailored suit and I don't ever want you to take off your jacket, even when it's as hot as today. I want you to keep a very formal look in work. It will add to your stern image with your colleagues.” Anna nods her agreement. “You're not even to unbutton your jacket,” Pamela adds firmly.

Anna's haircut continues: Pamela shears away the untidy growth from the back and sides and soon Anna has an even covering of pale blonde hair, exactly a quarter of an inch long. Pamela blends the sides and crown into the longer hair on top, then removes the guard from the clippers. She uses the bared blades to fade the hairline at Anna's neck, tapering it evenly. Then she cuts around the top of Anna's ears, making the hair conform to a perfect arc with no softness remaining.

A smaller set of trimmers are now brought into play, and Pamela shaves away at the hairlines down Anna's temples, shaping them to simple curves and forming the sideburns into acute points. The detailing transforms the haircut and adds a note of femininity.

Pamela uses scissors to tame the irregularity of the top, snipping away over a comb to produce a neat short cut. Anna wears a smile all the time as she sees how beautiful the new cut looks. Pamela blasts her head with a hair-dryer to remove the clippings, then immediately begins brushing on the dye.

Anna watches with satisfaction as her short hair is coated in a red paste. Pamela works conscientiously, ensuring that the hairline is covered but that no dye will stain the adjacent skin. “I think it would be nice if you arrive every week with a different colour,” Pamela informs her. Anna enthusiastically agrees.

Julie enters now, looking like she's just woken up. “Oh look at you! You're going to be a redhead, then?”

Julie is given the treat of shaving Anna's brows (those haven't been allowed to regrow, although threats of permanent removal and tattooing have not yet been carried out). She does it quickly, complimenting Anna on how beautiful she looks. Anna feels closer than ever to Julie and in the previous months they've become almost inseparable. Anna pulls her fingers through Julie's hair, trying to tidy the unruly locks. It's about five inches long now and for some weeks Pamela has been threatening to take her scissors to it, but has yet to decide the style she will inflict.

Julie now has a shock of bleached blonde hair, which has been growing since the night when Anna became Isolde's plaything. The following day Pamela made her decision that Anna would soon become bald and that Julie should have long hair. Since that day her hair hasn't been cut, although it has been subjected to almost every other process that Pamela can devise.

Isolde has returned to continue her university course, in a town far away. She's remained in contact with Pamela and occasionally sends a video to Anna, which is always highly erotic. Two months earlier, Julie was sent to spend a weekend with Isolde, and returned with a new tattoo on her foot, in addition to deep bruises on her buttocks and breasts. She was sworn to secrecy about what had gone on with Isolde, and despite various tortures, Pamela has been unable to loosen her tongue.

Anna's hair is rinsed and she sees with satisfaction that the colour is a very vibrant crimson. She sits as Pamela styles it, forming a straight part on the left side, and stiffly smoothing the hair so that it lies flat and even over the top. Not a single hair is allowed to fall over her forehead and Anna's widow's peak is apparent.

Julie does the make-up: very matt foundation, lips the same shade as hair, discreetly winged eye-liner, brown shapely brows. It looks professional, if a little more than would typically be expected for office wear. But then Anna has pierced cheeks, studs on each nostril, a labret in her lower lip. Her ear lobes are stretched to three-quarters of an inch and her tongue is triply pierced (her septum is pierced too but the jewellery she wears there is almost invisible), so she's never going to look like a typical office drone.

She's made to wear a red silk corset, which tightens her already small waist, and beautiful embroidered panties of the same material. A simple sleeveless white blouse is covered by a charcoal grey woollen trouser suit which is tailored to show off her corseted waist. On her feet are elegant black leather lace ups with a three inch spike heel. She looks extremely elegant, but the hair and piercings hint at something darker.

Anna sits at her desk with her new laptop, methodically attending to the tasks she's been allotted. She has a desk in a large open plan area with numerous other employees. Her supervisor, Callie, comes over frequently to make sure she's not struggling to get used to the systems, but the tasks are so simple and monotonous that Anna has easily been able to get to grips with them. She's sure this job will soon become tedious and boring for her but for now she's happy to be in a new environment and meeting new people.

She can sense curiosity in everyone who's met her. She feels their gaze alight on the tattoo on her cheek, the tattoo on her hand too, knows they all want to ask about them. But she's remained cold and said little. She feels like Pamela has provided her with a mask to hide behind, has given her a public persona for her time at work and she's surprised that she enjoys taking on this role. She expected that she'd be nervous, fumbling for acceptance and respect, but instead she's felt calm and utterly in control. She knows that Pamela has made her look very beautiful and that beauty is a weapon in her hands. Her colleagues seem intrigued by her, and her aloofness only adds to her mystique.

As instructed, she's contacted Pamela to pass on her work email address. In the early afternoon she receives a congratulatory mail from her mistress. She opens the attachment and sees a picture of Isolde. Her occasional lover is naked, a long cigarette in her dark full lips. Her right upper arm is now inked from shoulder to elbow with a richly ornamented gothic tattoo of a lizard and roses (a new addition, since Anna has frequently seen nude images of Isolde). Her hair, which had been growing out, has been dyed black and cut into a severe Louise Brooks bob. Anna shifts uncomfortably in her chair, aware that the open plan means that others may be able to see what's on her screen, but she can't bring herself to close the window. She needs to stare at Isolde for a little longer, enchanted by her latest transformation.

She finally decides she must hide the photograph but as soon as she does another alert pops up to inform her of another email from Pamela. “Isolde is very pleased to hear of your new job and sends her congratulations. We both order you to express your gratitude with an immediate orgasm.”

Anna braces her arms against the edge of the desk and feels every muscle in her body contract. She remains rigid as a warmth spreads from her loins. Soon her head is swimming as she feels herself consumed by wave after wave of ecstasy. Her breathing ceases as her weak consciousness tries to disguise what's happening in her body.

Then, as soon as it arrived, her joy passes. Suddenly she's in a noisy office, surrounded by people she barely knows getting on with their mundane chores. Her breathing is laboured and her face is red, but Anna is sure that no one noticed what just happened. She regains her composure and slowly walks to the toilet to clean herself. As she locks the cubicle door she receives a text on her phone: more instructions from Pamela.

She obeys: her panties, heavy with slimy exudate, are folded and put into a zip-lock bag, which was concealed in Anna's handbag. She wipes her pierced and tattooed pubis clean and dresses again, the wool of her trousers itching at her sex, the irritation both annoying and sensual. She retouches her lipstick and returns calmly to her desk, a quiet satisfaction that her pleasure has remained secret, but thrilled by the risk of discovery.

On her return home, Anna is made to undress, then put on the damp panties which now smell strongly, some fermentation seemingly having taken place in the bag. She kneels before Pamela, as Julie caresses her velvet nape, telling of her thoughts as she saw Isolde's new image and the ideas that filled her head as she was allowed to orgasm.

Anna knows that she must be truthful to her mistress when revealing her thoughts, even if her ideas sometimes displease her lover and lead to punishment. Pamela likes to control how Anna thinks and encourages certain thought patterns while trying to abolish other lines of thinking. Anna tells of her excitement to see Isolde, the frisson she felt to see her haircut and tattoo. She mentions that she feels like she has a new persona when Pamela dresses her for work, how she dismissed the attentions of a young man, seemingly entranced by his new colleague's beauty, without a single word, with a mere cold look.

Pamela expresses her pleasure in Anna's adoption of this alter ego, but sounds a warning. “Just make sure that you only enjoy this control when you're dressed in your business suit. The moment I take it off you, once again you're the weak sub who revels in every degradation I wish on you.”

Anna smiles and pushes her head back to enjoy Julie's massage. “Yes, Divinissima! I could never forget that. I was so delighted when you sent me your order. The idea that I might get caught added so much to my joy.”

Pamela rubs at the slimy panties. “The new girl getting caught at her desk masturbating to porn? What a scandal! You'd probably end up getting named in the local press. Imagine what your family would think.”

Anna's consciousness slips into a fantasy where every word that Pamela says becomes a reality. This is something that Pamela has encouraged, conditioned. Anna's humiliation becomes concrete and she moans with fear and dread, but this only fuels the fires of sensuality that grow inside. Abruptly, Pamela ends this play and commands her to attend to her household chores. Anna is left dangling, her unfulfilled desire only strengthening her bond to her mistress.

Anna has completed a full week in her job. She meets with Callie on Friday afternoon and is given a glowing report. It seems that she's regarded by her superiors as a model employee. Anna remains cool, her face impassive as she thanks Callie for her support. Inside, she feels a sense of victory that she's concealed her real purpose in taking this job, to allow her Pamela to have new ways to exploit her desire for humiliation. The hours of tedious work have been leavened by Pamela's infrequent messages which always require some new devious task, some new risk of discovery and disgrace. But Pamela has been clear that Anna must take her job seriously. Poor performance will not be tolerated. When the moment arrives where some awful misconduct is disclosed Anna's fall from grace will be even more shocking.

Pamela is delighted that the first week has gone entirely to plan. She tells Anna that as a treat she'll be her guest in the salon the following afternoon. She's allowed to sleep in while Pamela has set off early to work, so it's Julie who's responsible for dressing her today. Anna is told to put on a t-shirt with crudely hacked off sleeves, the front adorned with a screen printed logo for an obscure punk band from the seventies. She's nervous as her arms are completely exposed and the full extent of the dreadful tattoos is visible. She's also not been allowed a bra and the heavy rings that hang from her nipples are easily discerned through the thin fabric. Her legs are clad in tight tartan trousers and she's laced into boots, similar to DMs but with high platform soles. Julie lavishes attention on her make-up, enjoying the opportunity to indulge her delight in excess. When Anna sees herself, her eyes are adorned with thick black wings and long false lashes, she has streaks of violet blusher over her cheeks and her lips are shiny and black. She meekly thanks Julie and tries to imagine that she has a new mask and a new persona today. Is she a reckless punk girl, coarse and aggressive?

It's difficult to adopt a new persona when you're accompanied by someone who knows you so well. Julie takes every opportunity to remind Anna that she's in her control for now, but that soon she'll be back in Pamela's care. “I bet she'll take your hair shorter. She thought this was too short for an office job,” Julie says, tugging at the hair on top of Anna's head, the only hair long enough to grip. “But no one has said anything negative have they?” Anna shakes her head. “We'll see if we can earn some complaints next week for looking too butch.”

She kisses Anna excitedly. “You'd like that, wouldn't you? Being called to see the manager, having to wait outside her office. Then getting shouted at for having a man's haircut. “Anna this is unacceptable! Your hair is too short! And those tattoos, piercings... You look like a dyke slut!'”

Anna wails softly. “Oh, I'm sorry Miss,” she whimpers. Julie is delighted by her reaction and pulls at the nipple rings through the t-shirt.

“I should sack you,” Julie continues. “But I'll let you keep your job if you promise to be my bitch.” Anna gurgles as she grows more passionate, nods her agreement. “I should shave your head and make you wear a wig. And make you pay to get these ugly tattoos lasered off. Are you hiding more under your suit?”

“I am, look at my arms,” Anna whispers, ashamed.

Julie pushes her onto the bed and kisses her amateur tattoos. “Such a slut,” she whispers over and over, between kisses. “And you smell like sex.”

Anna feels herself losing control and knows that if Julie keeps pushing her she'll climax, which would earn the wrath of Pamela. She knows it but can do nothing to resist.

Fortunately (or unfortunately), Julie stops abruptly. “You need to get on your way. We don't want to be late for your appointment.”

The two friends make their way on foot to the salon, Anna being constantly teased about her tattoos, about the damp patch which marks the crotch of her trousers, about the haircut Pamela is about to inflict on her. She adores Julie's taunting, which keeps her in a state of anticipation. She's tingling with desire by the time she arrives in Pamela's chair.

“Its seems no time since I last cut your hair,” Pamela smiles as she ruffles the short red locks. “The hairline softens so fast though. I think you need weekly updates, don't you Anna?”

“I do, Divinissima,” she readily agrees.

“Julie made you very punk today. It's a nice look. Goes well with those home made tattoos. Looks like a girl who spent her youth getting wasted and sacrificed her skin to a girlfriend who wanted to learn to be a tattooist. She must have really loved that girl, cos she couldn't tattoo worth a shit! Look at the mess she made...” Pamela traces her finger over a crudely drawn heart pierced by a line which is hardly recognisable as an arrow. Anna is shivering as she imagines the scene.

“She wants you to give her an extreme cut today,” Julie adds. “She wants to get into trouble next week with her boss. Get a good telling off for her nasty haircut.”

“Is that so?” Pamela muses. “Shall I shave the sides and leave you a little glued hawk? Just a strip an inch wide gummed up with superglue, the rest bald. That should upset Callie.”

Anna tries to respond but doesn't know what to say. Does she plead for mercy or plead for a mohawk? No, she only wants what Pamela chooses, she won't plead. She'll stay silent and take what she's given.

She's given a red cape and a headful of bleach. The fugitive red pigment is vanquished in minutes and soon her hair is again blonde. This time the blonde isn't just a temporary step in the process, and Pamela adds a toner. Anna is delighted when the colour is completed: she has white blonde hair now, with a hint of pale lavender through the top.

For a moment as Pamela begins cutting, Anna worries that she will be given the threatened mohawk. The sideburns are attacked with clippers, the blades freed of any guard. A fine white dust is liberated, floating through the air and coming to rest over the shoulders of the cape. Pamela presses the blades tight to Anna's head, shaving the short hair to a fine white stubble which gives a glitter to her scalp. As she moves up, Pamela uses the taper lever on the clippers to leave a little more length, although it's still extremely short, noticeably tighter than the previous week's number two buzz.

Anna takes in her new cut in the mirror. The shaved sideburns and tight back and sides look quite boyish, but the brightness of the colour compensates. Pamela hasn't cut anything from the top other than a slight trim around the edges to ensure a nice blend into the sides. Anna is sure the new look will attract a lot of attention on Monday but it's safe for work. She mutters her thanks to her mistress, thinking her for her skills and her imagination.

“It was a pleasure, sweetheart,” Pamela beams. “Was Julie very dominant with you this morning?” Anna agrees that she was, and wonderfully so. “That's all well and good, but it's my job to be your mistress. Julie, I think your long hair is giving you ideas. Get in the chair while I tame you.”

Julie looks a little shocked at this turn of events but climbs into the chair without delay. “I have two little blondes now, don't I? I'll have to see if I want that. After all, I don't want people to think I have a 'type'. I like all sorts of girls. Except disobedient ones.” She combs roughly through Julie's hair, which isn't in ideal condition due to the amount of work that it's endured. It's been dyed, bleached, root permed and straightened. For a month Julie wore her hair in the tightest imaginable cornrows, which Anna loved, but which Julie found extremely uncomfortable. She looks every bit as uncomfortable at the prospect of Pamela taking away her hair once more.

“Do you think I should shave her again?” Pamela asks Anna.

Anna can only smile (she's still rubbing her nape with delight) and say that she'll love whatever Pamela chooses for her.

Pamela giggles. “Poor little Anna, always sitting on the fence, never able to make a decision. I suppose that's part of what makes you such a good sub so I shouldn't complain. Julie, what's wrong? You look petrified!”

It's true, Julie is obviously distressed by the prospect of having her hair cut. Since it's grown she's realised that she much prefers herself with hair rather than the time she spent completely bald. “Please not bald,” she whispers sadly, angry with herself for her weakness.

Pamela seems amused by her distress and spends a moment just grinning at her. “Would you rather we went upstairs for some privacy? Then you can undress and Anna can console you while I show you that you've gone soft.”

The three friends make their way up the stairs to the private salon which holds so many memories for Anna. She's ordered to undress Julie who smiles nervously but doesn't resist. Anna caresses her soft skin which is now marked heavily with Carmen's work. Her torso is covered back and front by tattoos and both arms are progressing toward sleeves.

Julie is breathing heavily as she sits for her mistress. “You know I'm not happy with your behaviour today. Remember when you got this?” She runs a nail over the tattoo which Julie bears near her eye. “That was supposed to be an expression of your acceptance that you would do anything to please me. But I give you a little power over your sister and suddenly your will, your vanity, are back.”

Pamela absent-mindedly teases Julie's hair, backcombing at the roots, making it stand up like a fuzzy cloud around her head.

“I don't know what to do. I should shave you bald to teach you a lesson, but I didn't want you bald and that would mean I have to look at you with a style I didn't choose. And I did think of making you submit to Anna. But look at her!” Pamela giggles. “She couldn't dominate a rabbit. She's so weak willed, and that's why I love her.”

Anna smiles shyly at the description and approaches Pamela for a kiss. However, her pleasure is tempered by the tension between the two women she loves. She feels sympathy for Julie's plight but knows that she shouldn't question Pamela's will.

Suddenly Pamela has clippers in her hand, alive and throbbing. She slides the blades over Julie's dark, full eyebrows and in seconds only a shadow is left. Anna looks on; suddenly Julie looks more vulnerable, and her face is the face of the Julie that Anna fell in love with all those months ago. It's Anna who is tasked with removing the stubble, and she shaves away the traces of the brows, as she's done so often.

Pamela insinuates her fingers into the hair at Julie's crown. It's sticky and matted and Pamela uses it to force Julie to bow her head. Once she's immobilised, Pamela pushes the clippers up her nape and shears through the mass of thick hair. Anna can see that she's put a small guard on the blades, but Julie has no way of knowing. She must imagine the blades are mowing her hair to the scalp.

And they almost are. The guard only allows an eighth of an inch of hair to remain. All of the bleached hair is razed and the remaining light brown hair is so short that Julie's scalp is visible. Pamela pulls at the cut hair, which binds together in tangled clumps; she pulls free a handful and tosses it into Julie's lap.

“If you cry I'll be taking you to Carmen later for a particularly painful piercing. Understood?” An emotional Julie sighs her agreement.

The clippers whirr up the back of Julie's head, making numerous passes from nape to crown. Julie tries to endure her ordeal but a groan escapes her lips.

“Oh, you're being so silly. You're a silly little girl,” Pamela states. “Shall we make silly Julie look silly?” she asks Anna, who giggles and nods.

Pamela uses her grip on Julie's hair to manipulate her head so that she can strip the hair from the sides of her head. She's reluctant to relinquish her control for even a moment and so it's Anna who folds down Julie's ears to allow the blades free access to the hairline. Julie stares at herself in the mirror, trying to come to terms with the severity of her new cut. The sides, like the back, are now reduced to stubble.

Pamela flicks off the clippers and turns her attention to the long hair (there's almost six inches of length) on top. She continues to tease it, now adding copious amounts of hairspray. The hair is sculpted so that it rises straight up, forming a conical shape above the finely buzzed back and sides.

“Remember those troll dolls? Well that's your new look!” Pamela giggles, and Anna can't help laughing too. Julie forces a smile but she's clearly far from happy.

Her discomfort increases as she's made to parade her humiliating look through the town and in the café which Pamela chooses for lunch. As she pays the bill, Pamela suddenly becomes serious. “Julie, how has this been for you? Do you still want my control or has something changed inside you? You know I'll always love you but if you can't accept my control then you need to move on.”

Julie looks shocked. “No Pamela! I'm yours completely.”

Pamela can't conceal her joy. “I've only myself to blame. I've given you too much freedom with Anna and the roles have become blurred. We'll stop that now. You and Anna are equals, as you were always supposed to be. If you need to express your domme side we'll find other girls to play with. Now we should head back to the salon and give you a proper haircut, shouldn't we?” A blushing Julie concurs.

Back in the salon Anna is instructed to comb out Julie's hair. The process is long and painful for both parties: Anna's hands ache and cramp with the effort, and Julie complains about the pain as the matted hair is painstakingly de-tangled.

Pamela sits watching everything and suddenly becomes animated. “Is that a tear, Julie? It is! You're crying.”

Julie protests, saying that the pain is making her eyes water, but Pamela won't accept the excuse. “What did I say would happen if you cried?”

“I'll be getting a new piercing, Pamela.” Pamela cups her hand behind her ear, wanting to hear a fuller description. “A very painful piercing,” Julie adds glumly.

Anna starts to apologise but is hushed by her mistress. “Let's wash your hair now, Julie. I think Anna's got enough of the tangles out to let me get it clean.”

The shampooing is no gentle exercise as Pamela roughly frees the remaining tangles, and Julie frequently makes exclamations expressing pain. Eventually she's allowed back to the chair, her wet hair smoothly falling over the undercut.

As Pamela begins cutting away most of the length, it's soon apparent to Anna that Julie is being given a bowlcut. A heavy line is snipped around Julie's head, forming an uninterrupted circle. It's short too, the fringe at mid forehead, the sides high above Julie's heavily pierced ears. It's such a simple cut that Pamela completes it very quickly, but with her usual precision. Julie tries to look calm but Anna can see that she doesn't like this new style. And it is very unflattering.

The finished style is no more flattering but it is more colourful. The undercut is dyed black and the nape is shaved into a very geometric hard edged square. The top is coloured lemon yellow and sculpted into a voluminous mushroom-like cap, which only enhances the ridiculousness of the cut.

“Does that help you to remember you're my little sub?” Pamela asks Julie as she makes her regard herself in the mirror. Julie nods shyly. “You're going to wear a mushroom cut until I can see that your resistance has worn away.”

Anna is delighted to see the new Julie and longs to be able to show her appreciation when the three lovers are home. On the way to see Carmen, Pamela notices an opticians and decides that Anna's professional look may be enhanced by a pair of spectacles. Soon she's purchased a pair, wide oblong frames with wide side pieces ornamented with a line of crystals. Anna has never worn glasses and is unsure if they suit her, since they seem to dominate her features, and is sure they will even more so when she wears a more restrained make-up for her work. However, Pamela likes them and that's enough.

“What about Mushroom? Would you like glasses too?” Julie obviously hoped to be spared this but daren't say no. Soon she's leaving the shop wearing large round lensed glasses with heavy tortoise shell frames. Anna loves her transformation as much as Julie hates it. The weird glasses and unflattering haircut just enhance her quirky features. For too long Julie has been trying to look conventionally beautiful and it didn't work. Anna can't wait to show her appreciation of what her best friend has been turned into.

Predictably, Carmen subjects Julie to a lot of teasing about her makeover. “Oh my God, what happened here? You look so funny! Funny weird and funny ha ha.” Julie's usual composure has deserted her and she looks defenceless as Carmen adds to her humiliation. “Are you going to make her stay like this, Pam? I think I like it, she's so quiet and meek like this. I do like a girl who's a pushover.”

Carmen strokes her nape and giggles. “So soft and sexy. If I close my eyes I think I could enjoy a night with you.” Carmen's hair has grown since Pamela's punishment cut was inflicted on her. She's been a frequent visitor to the salon since then and recently had her sides shaved so that she now has a long, wide mohawk with a heavy fringe reaching to her eyes. It's dyed a dark purple with a block of bright blonde through the left side. It's the first time Anna has seen this style on her and she adores it.

She notices Anna staring and comes over. “And look at you! All cute and blonde. Although... those tattoos! It's painful for an artist like me to have to look at so much ugliness. When are you going to let me do something about them, Pamela?”

“Soon, I promise. I just have so much fun teasing her about them though, so it's difficult to let them go.”

Carmen lifts Anna's arm to examine the tattoos and groans. “I know, she's such a slut. But a sweet one, so I am a bit envious sometimes. Anyway, are you just here to socialise, in which case I suggest we head to a pub, or did you want to draw on my world famous artistry?”

Pamela laughs. “The pub sounds an excellent idea, but first Mushroom has a request.”

Julie shuffles nervously but is ordered by Pamela to say her piece. “I cried when Anna was de-tangling my hair so I need to be punished with a very painful piercing, Carmen.”

Carmen nods thoughtfully. “A painful piercing or a very painful piercing?” she asks.

“Very painful,” Julie confirms morosely.

Carmen turns to Pamela. “Are you thinking face or pussy?”

“I think we should go downstairs. Something painful in the short term but pleasurable in the long run.”

“OK, Mushroom, panties off,” Carmen winks. She studies Julie's sex with great concentration as she weighs up the options. “She's got a nice little clitoris, hasn't she? How about we put a ring on it?”

“Oh, yes! That sounds absolutely beautiful. I do need to know something about it though.” She looks at an expectant Carmen. “Will it really hurt?”

“Oh, I'm sure it will.”

“Then let's do it.”

Anna is told to cleanse the area as Carmen prepares herself. She washes Julie's entire mound which she helped to shave that morning. She keeps smiling at her friend, eager to relax her and help her to endure her punishment. She whispers: “Julie, I love how you look now.” Julie looks at her with some distrust. She obviously suspects Anna is just saying this to be nice. “Really! You're so much more sexy than when you had a more conventional look. Quirky suits you.” She kisses her, sure that her sincerity will be undeniable when their lips meet. Julie blushes as she recognises Anna's delight. There's a frisson in their embrace.

“I hope Pamela keeps you in this hairstyle forever,” Anna whispers. “You're just adorable.”

She lowers herself to her knees and lets her tongue play at Julie's clitoris, earning a reproach from Carmen. “Hey, cut that out! What are you doing, Anna?”

“I just wanted to make it nice and full so it's easier to pierce. Plus I love doing it and it will be off limits for a while during the healing process, won't it?” she laughs.

“Well I'm glad you're so thoughtful as to try to make my job easier, but you're getting her all wet. Do you think it's nice when I have to work on someone and they have a smelly, slimy pussy?”

Anna makes an apology and starts to clean Julie once more.

“Which way do you want her pierced, Pammie?” Carmen asks.

“Horizontal would look best for a ring, wouldn't it?” Carmen nods in agreement.

She places a clamp on Julie's tender bud and unsheathes a long needle. Julie's face blanches as she takes in its size and she looks away, although rather too late. She looks like she might faint. Anna starts to feel a sadness for her part in Julie's punishment and feels the need to make some sort of amends.

“Please, Pamela, may I take her mind off it?” Pamela nods her agreement.

Anna pulls up a stool next to Julie and starts to kiss her, her cheeks, her neck, her shorn nape. “You're so sexy,” she murmurs. “And your new ring will be so much fun once it heals. Be brave, Julie, be strong. I love you so much.”

Julie suddenly roars and curses. Even when the cry has dissipated she continues to groan loudly. Anna glances down and sees her clitoris is transfixed by the long needle which juts out on either side of the glowing flesh. Pamela lifts the needle to stretch the wound and induce more pain.

“Is that painful?” she asks, and a desperate Julie nods. “I wanted very painful though.”

“It is, it is,” Julie groans. “Very, very painful.” She squeals as Pamela tweaks the needle once more.

“I suppose I believe you. If Carmen takes her time and makes you suffer a little your punishment will be complete I suppose.” Julie retains enough composure to smile and thank her mistress.

Carmen's sadistic side is revealed during the next twenty minutes as she takes every opportunity to make Julie suffer. Finally a ring is locked in place and Julie is allowed to stand. She takes Pamela in her arms and holds her tightly. “I was brave, I didn't cry,” she whispers.

“You were a good girl. And Carmen was very bad,” she adds, looking slyly at the piercer. “Maybe she'll be getting a bad girl's haircut some time soon.”

“Oh, not fair!” she protests. “I only did as you asked.”

“You enjoyed it a bit too much.”

“I can't win! If I disobey you, I get punished. If I obey you I get punished.”

Pamela kisses the shaved side of her friend's head. “It doesn't matter what I do with your hair, you still look incredibly gorgeous. Even when I buzzed it all off and gave you a high and tight you still looked like a model. If you weren't so damned sweet I'd hate you.”

“Oh but I am sweet, aren't I? Why don't you give the children” (she gestures at Anna and Julie) “the night off to play? I can see they want that, and I'll give you a little tattoo and a night to remember it by back at my place.”

“Damn it, Carmen, you know exactly what to say. I do think there's something a bit diabolical in you. But I can never say no when you try to seduce me. Girls, you run home. Mummy and Auntie Carmen are going to have a night out.”

She comes over to kiss Anna and Julie and tells them they have complete freedom in their play together, except that Julie's fresh piercing imposes certain restrictions. Much as she adores Pamela and wants her constant attention, for now this seems perfect to Anna. She wants nothing more than to be alone with Julie.

The passing weeks have done nothing to diminish Anna's delight in Julie's new look. Her hair has been maintained in a severe mushroom cut: although the top has grown longer (now brushing tops of ears), Pamela decided to shave the undercut smooth a few days previously. Anna has pinned up her friend's hair (it's dyed a watery green at present, the latest in a series of pastel shades which Pamela has favoured) and is removing the regrowth of stubble, as she has each day since the shave.

Julie looks at herself in the mirror as Anna eases the razor up her temple. Her makeover seems to have made her confidence dissipate and she's become a little shy, almost childlike since Pamela enforced her bowlcut. “We need to get rid of this yucky stubble, don't we, Juju?” Anna chides. “Pamela wouldn't like it if your head felt all sandpapery, would she?”

Julie looks uncomfortable as her scalp is freed of the coating of lather and the shadow of stubble it concealed. She's struggled to adapt to her new image, and Pamela has missed no opportunity to tease her about how unflattering this look is. She's been dressed in what Pamela calls librarian chic: cardigans, blouses with bows at the neck, opaque stockings, flat shoes. However, Pamela has favoured bright colours and Anna loves how her friend looks. Despite Anna's reassurances, Pamela's teasing has made Julie incapable of believing that she looks attractive. Anna wipes the traces of lather from Julie's scalp and lets the wet hair down, then sculpts it with brush and dryer into a voluminous mushroom. She can't resist kissing her bald nape, then tells Julie how lovely she looks.

“My most perfect, gorgeous little girl. I love the undershave! You've got such a lovely nape and this shows it off to perfection.”

“Oh, Anna, don't tease. I look awful and you know it.”

“Stop it! I adore you more than ever. I just think you're not seeing yourself clearly. These might help...” She slips Julie's glasses on, the oversized round lenses giving an owlish aspect to her face. The plain lenses don't do anything to improve Julie's vision, which is quite adequate without aids. She grimaces as she sees her hated glasses on her face.

“They don't help at all. I look like a frumpy nerd.”

Anna silences her self-pity with a kiss, savouring the sensation of the medusa which has recently been pierced through Julie's top lip. “You look adorable, Juju,” she whispers excitedly. “Now stop complaining or I'll tell Pamela.”

“You know Pamela loves me complaining about how I look! If I started to like it she'd give me another makeover. Anyway, if you think I look so good, why don't you ask her to give you a mushroom cut? Your hair's got long enough on top now.”

It's true: Anna's hair has been allowed to grow out through the top, although the sides have been neatly maintained to prevent any hair touching her ears and her nape is tightly sheared. For work Anna wears her hair (which is currently dyed a vivid yellow) in a slightly preposterous pomaded pompadour which Pamela insists adds to her height and therefore her ability to intimidate.

“I'd love to be dressed just like you!” Anna whispers. “I've been dreaming about it for weeks. But Pamela would never give in to a request for how I should look. She'd be sure to punish me for daring to think it.”

“Well I'm going to tell her,” Julie says, grinning. “If she likes the idea you'll get a bowl and if she doesn't you'll get a punishment, and either way I can see you squirm.”

“I'd like getting a bowlcut, and anyway, she'll probably punish you for being a tittle-tattle,” Anna replies, poking her pierced tongue out.

“Who's a tittle-tattle?” Pamela asks. The two friends were so engrossed in their playful dispute that they didn't hear their lover enter. Her hair is the longest it's been since Anna met her, reaching past her shoulders now. It tumbles in big, loose curls, dyed in a mixture of a rich, blood red and a velvety black. She's favouring a rather gothic style lately and her eyes are painted darkly, which makes her green irises stand out. The curls are directed away from the sidecut on the left of Pamela's head (the right side is currently in the process of growing out) which also means the large, dark tattoo on the left of her neck is visible (the tattoo which Carmen added on the night when Julie's mushroom cut was first executed). Anna still feels the tattoo is rather excessive, but every time she sees it she feels a throb of desire for her reckless lover.

Julie looks mischievously at Anna, then addresses Pamela. “Anna was telling me she doesn't like her haircut and for weeks she's been unhappy. She'd rather she got hers cut like mine.”

“No!” Anna protests. “I love my haircut, Divinissima! I never said I don't like it and I never would.”

“But you did say you wanted a cut like Julie's?” Pamela asks calmly. Anna nods.

“I've been fantasising about it every time I see Julie getting her hair cut. I can't help it. I just think she's so cute.”

Pamela starts to tousle Anna's locks. “Well now... You'd have to style it differently for work. And a shaved back and sides wouldn't look very professional, would it?” Anna shakes her head, astonished that Pamela seems to be considering the idea. “Julie, did you think if I agreed to Anna getting a bowlcut it would be your way out? After all, I've always said I like you to look different.”

Julie looks a little flustered as she denies this was her motivation. Pamela stares at her in silence. “Really, Pamela, I didn't think about it... Maybe unconsciously,” she admits.

“Actually, I've been considering it for a while, dressing you two the same. I like the idea of going out with my two subs dressed like twins. And Anna is such a good girl now it might be a good example to you. You can grow out your undershave, Julie. In two weeks I'll decide if you're both getting the same look.”

Pamela has forbidden any discussion of Anna's possible makeover so that when she arrives at Pamela's salon on a Friday evening after a hard week of work, Anna has no idea of the style she'll be receiving. She's arrived slightly late as she had a backlog of work to clear by week's end and apologises profusely.

“You're quite the professional, aren't you, Anna. Does your boss still think you're wonderful?” Anna nods her head. She knows she's admired by Callie, that she's shown competence in her work and that she's being considered for a promotion ahead of colleagues who have worked in the office for years. “I bet they all hate you, don't they? The little ice queen who's so focussed on her career.” Anna gives a little smile. It's true, her colleagues haven't taken to her, and how could they? She's so aloof, unfriendly even. “And their jealousy is only increased because you're so much more stylish than they are.

“I bet they'd all love to see you get into trouble. Which makes your game all the more risky. Did you cum today, as ordered?”

“I did, Pamela,” Anna replies with pride, although she blushes as she imagines the trouble she could get into. She's made to undress and put on the wet panties which her orgasm soaked. Although the salon is closed and the three friends are the only people present, Pamela has left the door open and it's not impossible that a stranger could enter. As Pamela reminds her of this, Anna feels her excitement growing. She's come to feel the risk of discovery of her lifestyle as something which adds to her excitement. She's admitted that Pamela's characterisation of her as an exhibitionist is true.

“I want to hear the little fantasy that you lived out in your head. And I want to see you cum again too.” Anna is made to sit on a towel as she relives the scenario.

“It was another prison scene,” she begins. “I'd been widowed.” Pamela's eyes widen as she considers the implications that in her fantasies Anna's husband is now dead. “I was taking a holiday in a former Soviet country and I got framed for a currency violation, bringing in dollars or something. I ended up getting a long sentence.

“So I got sent to a tough prison and I didn't speak a word of the language. I was being menaced by the women but I had no idea what they were threatening. Then I met a beautiful young woman there, Sofia, who spoke a little English, and even though she looked slim and delicate all the prisoners clearly respected her. She told me she would protect me but I had to agree to serve her. I was scared what this would mean but I was more scared of what would become of me without her protection.

“After a few days she told me I had pretty long hair and asked if she could use some to provide her with extensions. I was horrified, but how could I say no? As soon as I agreed I was taken to the prison salon where a tough looking woman with a bad eighties perm was in charge. She laughed and looked slyly at me as she chatted in Russian with Sofia. Then she started to cut my hair off right at the scalp.”

“Oh, my poor little baby!” Pamela whispers, stroking Anna's nape delicately.

“Soon my hair is all hacked off, and the stylist buzzes it to the skin. But even then she isn't finished... I'm lathered then shaved with a cut throat razor. I see myself in the mirror all the time as she works and now my head is shining. I try to be brave because I know how they prey on weakness, but I'm in shock and I start to sob uncontrollably.

“But that's not the end. Sofia mocks me mercilessly. She says she thought I had some strength, but now she can see how weak I am. 'What sort of woman allows her hair to be shaved off without a fight? You're less than human, you're a pussy,' she screams at me.”

“I bet you loved that, didn't you?” Pamela asks. She pushes the tunnel out of Anna's stretched lobe and fills the hole with her tongue.

Anna's excitement is growing. She longs to touch herself but knows that isn't allowed. She grips the arms of the chair as she savours Pamela's attentions. Her story is interrupted for a moment as Anna's voice is reduced to inarticulate moans. “I was so humiliated, but then I realised that if Sofia would protect me I would endure any shame for her. She made a display of me, making me enter the canteen in front of her. And all the women were screaming at me, making obscene gestures. Even the guards joined in. Sofia made me stand beside her, stroking my head comically, making me take scraps of food from her fork. 'Pussy girl, I think you should have tattoos to show what a pussy you are,' she said as we left the food hall.

“And she took me to her cell where she drew on my back and arms with ink. Then she took a needle, tied to the handle of a toothbrush and made me lie on her bed. 'Once you're tattooed you'll be the lowest of the low forever. Make sure you serve me well, because if I abandon you your life will be truly horrible!'

“And I felt the needle jab into my flesh and I knew my previous life was over. My life depended now on making Sofia happy and as I looked into her lovely face I knew I would devote myself to serving my wicked new mistress.”

By now, Julie is kissing the distorted amateur tattoos which disfigure Anna's arms. “And what precisely was it that tipped you over the edge?” Pamela asks.

Anna's breathing is troubled as she feels her excitement spiralling. “I saw myself in front of a mirror, bald head gleaming, body covered in Russian prison tattoos. I looked horrible, but so sexy...”

Anna moans and looks imploringly at her lover. She longs for release. Pamela knows exactly what she's feeling but wants to make her wait a little.

“Does that mean you'd like me to shave you bald tonight and make you a little more like your ideal self?”

Anna mews with fear and arousal. “Divinissima, if you choose to make me bald again I'll take it happily. You know I only want what you want.”

“You almost sounded sincere, Anna,” Pamela teases. “But I can see fear in your eyes. You don't want to be bald again, do you?”

Anna admits it would be difficult. “I don't know how I'd manage in work, it's true. And I have enjoyed having hair. But you know I'd accept it without question. Being bald was a pleasure for me too.”

“You are a good girl, Anna.” Pamela tugs firmly at the hole in her earlobe as she kisses her nape. “Cum for me like you do when you sit at your desk.”

Anna feels a change pass through her at Pamela's command. Within moments she feels a climax warming her flesh, spreading like a wave from her loin. She tenses her body, holds her breath to try to conceal the pleasure from the outside world. Pamela tries to distract her, peering into her eyes, placing her hands on her cheeks. “Quite good, but you get flushed. And I can tell you're holding your breath. I'd guess. Wouldn't you, Julie?”

“Oh yes, definitely,” Julie agrees. “She's bound to get discovered soon.”

The teasing of her friends only acts as an aphrodisiac, intensifying Anna's orgasm. She feels her lungs ache as if they will explode and finally manages to take a breath, but releases the air with an audible grunt. “Yes, when she starts doing that all the time someone's definitely going to figure it out. And the smell! You smell so dirty, Anna. I'm sure they'll spot the wet patch on your trousers one day and report you. None of your colleagues like you, do they? I bet they'd love to see you get in trouble.”

Anna takes slow deep breaths and lets the energy of the orgasm slowly dissipate, relishing the tingling that inhabits her flesh. She knows that at some point Pamela will more that likely make her take so many risks that she will be found out and shamed. In truth, this is the moment she longs for: her job only acts as a device to allow herself to intensify the pleasure she feels in Pamela's control. She takes no pleasure in the tasks she performs, nor in socialising with her colleagues. “They think I'm a bitch,” Anna smiles. “They have no idea that really I'm your bitch.”

Pamela looks delighted. “You do smell like a bitch in heat at the moment. I'm not going to let you clean yourself up until you have a new haircut. Maybe the pheromones will add to your pleasure.”

The haircut is performed without cape, the cut hair falling over Anna's naked body. Pamela wastes no time in attacking her hair with the clippers, immediately shearing a path up the back of her head, almost as high as her crown. Anna shivers and smiles as she feels her hair tumbling. As her nape is buzzed short she's sure that Pamela is giving her a bowlcut, but daren't risk upsetting Pamela by being presumptive. She imagines walking into work the following week, the ice queen, who's always looked so chic and seductive, now wearing a severe mushroom cut. Will she be made to wear the same ugly glasses as Julie? That would make her look even more bizarre and she can already hear the sniggers of her colleagues as they try to adjust to her new image.

Pamela raises her head and brushes the hair on top so that the left side is exposed. It's rapidly sheared down to a short, even layer, just a quarter of an inch of hair evading the blades. Anna can't help smiling as she sees it. She loves the look and feel of a number two buzz and smiles gratefully at Pamela. But she won't allow herself to assume anything: Pamela has in the past given her a finished cut, only to cut her hair a second time into a less flattering look.

Soon, Anna has her back and sides clippered to the same length all around, high above her ears. Pamela looks into her eyes and smiles. “Do you want me to give you a bowlcut, honey?”

Anna nods. “If that pleases you, I'd adore it.”

Julie gives a little derisive laugh. “You're crazy, Anna. It won't suit you.”

“I don't care,” Anna smiles. “I want us to look the same.”

Little more than an hour later Anna and Julie stand side by side in front of the mirror. They have almost identical haircuts (Julie's undercut is marginally shorter, since the hair hadn't grown out enough to match Anna's number two buzz). Their hair is dyed black and curled into very full mushroom bowls which are an inch clear of the top of their ears. Their short fringes expose their drawn on brows, very fine black arches. Both have thin wings of eyeliner and deep red lipstick. Both have their features dominated by glasses with large round lenses. Pamela has dressed them in polka dot blouses with puffed sleeves, bows at the collar, flared black skirts, blue stockings, black lace up heels.

Anna can't stop giggling as she looks at herself, blushing as she realises how ridiculous she looks. In work her image has provided her with a persona which has protected her, but this makeover will make it impossible to project authority. She rubs her hand up her nape, shivering as she feels the soft buzzed hair, moaning as she realises how high Pamela has cut the heavy weight line into her thick, silky hair. She looks childish, nerdy, plain, her features completely disguised by her glasses and haircut.

Pamela smiles as she looks at her girls. “You do look like sisters now. Very young sisters. You know, now I look at you I have a nice idea to complete this look. I'll have to make appointments for you during the week,” she says with an enigmatic smile.

“Will this be my look in work?” she asks. “It's just that... I don't think I can continue to act as I did, being icy and aloof when I look like this.”

“Don't worry, sweetheart, I have a plan. I always have a plan.”

The plan becomes apparent a couple of night later, as Anna is taken to the bathroom and made to sit on a stool. Pamela winds her hair on large rods and adds perming solution. Her hair is wrapped tightly in plastic film and she's told she'll sleep like this. She sits in a chair all night, her head supported by a travel pillow and is woken early the next morning by Pamela to have her new style finished.

The perm is neutralised and the rods removed. Pamela styles her hair and lavishes attention on Anna's make-up without her ever being allowed to see a mirror. Anna is corseted and buttoned into one of her tailored suits, this one with a pencil skirt which constricts her stride. She feels her business-like persona taking hold of her, but still feels a concern about her hair. Because she hasn't seen her curls she keeps imagining that she still has the bowlcut, even though she knows her hair is now tightly curled. Finally (just minutes before Anna has to leave to catch her train for work) she's allowed to see herself. Her black hair is set in large, irregular curls, pretty and fashionable, the apparent softness offsetting the severity of the tightly shorn back and sides. She wears a new pair of glasses, dark grey cat's eye frames, which are far more flattering than the large round glasses she's worn since she was given her bowlcut. She looks sophisticated and very grown up. The childish Anna has disappeared once more and she knows her protective persona will be with her through her working day.

But as Pamela bids her farewell Anna is warned that as soon as she returns home tonight she will smooth out her curls and wear her mushroom cut again. “If I can see any curl remaining you don't get fed. And it's a very stiff perm so you're going to have to work hard at it.” Pamela smiles cruelly, enjoying Anna's realisation that having two styles will create a lot of work. She finds out quite how hard it is that evening when she spends ninety minutes with her straighteners trying to iron out the curls.

Once she's happy that the curl has been banished, she calls Pamela to check the results. She laughs as she sees Anna. “The perm has given it more volume than ever. It looks so full! Maybe I should perm Julie too so hers matches.” Anna is stripped of her sophisticated work make-up and has the thin arched brows drawn in. She's dressed in a mustard blouse and a red miniskirt and goes downstairs for dinner, where Julie is waiting, dressed identically. Julie too is amused by the volume that the perm has added to Anna's bowl and can't help giggling.

Anna sits next to her friend and they hold each others hands, staring at each other, delighted by their similarity. Anna starts to dine on the meal Julie has prepared.

“Can you finish work early tomorrow, Anna?” Pamela asks. “I've made an appointment for both of you in the evening.”

“That shouldn't be a problem, I'm owed a few hours,” Anna confirms.

As she arrives home the next night Anna still doesn't know the reason for her appointment. She's been instructed to straighten her hair, to dress in the clothes which Pamela has laid out on her bed. She's a little more speedy in smoothing the curls so that she once more has her bowlcut, manages to make it lie a little flatter to her head. She heads out into the town: Pamela has given her only vague directions and doesn't send a full address until Anna has reached her rendezvous point and texted Pamela. She waits nervously to see where she has to go. Her new look makes her feel vulnerable, attracts the wrong sort of attention. She realises that she doesn't like being on her own when she looks like this and longs for the protective presence of Pamela and Julie.

When she arrives at the address she sees it's the dentist that she's attended since she came under Pamela's influence. She feels a dread as she enters; she's always been nervous around dentists and now she can't imagine what Pamela has planned. Her conjectures are soon satisfied. As soon as she sees Julie she gives a nervous smile at her mistress's behest. Her teeth are clad in a fine wire, little squares of metal aligned with each individual tooth. Julie has braces and Anna knows that she must acquire them too.

“You're late,” Pamela chides.

Anna apologises. “I was held up a little at work and it still takes me forever to fix my hair. I'm sorry Divinissima.” She speaks quietly, meekly, finds her voice is taking on a girlish affectation.

“Maybe I should shave off your curls if they're so problematic. Is that what you want? You and Julie both bald?”

“No, Divinissima,” Anna whispers. “I love my bowlcut and Julie's even more. I'm not as good as you at styling my hair but I'll get better with practice, I promise.”

“Shall we see if the nice dentist will agree to punishing you for being tardy?”

Anna feels horrified by Pamela's words. She knows that this dentist was chosen on a recommendation of a friend of Pamela's because of her fondness for sadism and domination. Anna's previous encounters with her have been nothing but professional but there's always an underlying threat. Anna nods her head and agrees that bad girls should be punished, but she feels more afraid than she has in years. As she enters the surgery she feels herself regressing to her seven year old self, who cried copiously and refused to let the dentist examine her teeth.

The dentist, Miss Dillon, is a stern looking woman in her forties. Since Anna last saw her she's had her hair cut in a short, mannish style which makes her look even more fearsome and rather butch. As soon as Anna enters, she dismisses the nurse from the surgery, assuring her that Anna's treatment is very routine and can be completed without her assistance. This only adds to Anna's conviction that she is to be subjected to a humiliating punishment.

She's ignored Anna since she entered the room but now she addresses her directly. “So this is the naughty little bitch who couldn't be polite enough to arrive on time. Kept me waiting, kept her friends waiting too. Get in the chair!”

“Please, I need to go to the toilet,” Anna says to Pamela, almost calling her 'Mummy'. She feels a panic rising, a panic of an intensity she hasn't experienced in decades.

“Well cross your legs!” Miss Dillon bellows. “You're not going to delay this any longer. And no fidgeting.”

Anna is paralysed and stands still, staring in shock at her tormentor. Only a firm shove from Pamela makes her move. Moments later she's lying in the chair, unsure how she got there. A paper bib is clipped into place around her neck. Pamela is apologising for her behaviour. “She's normally a good girl but she is quite sensitive and timid. I think you'd better use the straps to keep her still. And she's very sensitive to pain so maybe some local anaesthetic?”

Miss Dillon looks sceptical. “It's not a painful procedure. I wouldn't normally give an anaesthetic. The injections are more painful...” A wink from Pamela causes Miss Dillon to understand the request. “OK, anaesthetic it is then,” she smiles.

Anna reclines helplessly as her wrists are secured to the chair with Velcro straps. “Please Miss, I'll be good,” she begs, looking back and forth between the dentist and Pamela. Neither seems to hear her pleas.

“Open,” Miss Dillon snaps. Anna decides she won't comply and clamps her jaws together, even though she knows that disobedience will only cause trouble for her. Miss Dillon stares into her eyes with such anger that she finds her will dissolving and her mouth opens, seemingly controlled from outside her body. Her mouth is open only slightly when she feels metal bars hooking behind her teeth. The device opens up, forcing her to part her jaws uncomfortably wide. The ratchet holds firm and she knows that she's no longer able to put up the slightest resistance.

“Your sister was such a good girl,” Miss Dillon say. “You're obviously the naughty, wilful one. I can see I have to be strict with you.” She loads a syringe with anaesthetic, holding it up before Anna's eyes so that she can see the long needle which will be used. “Pamela, have you considered Ritalin for this one? It might help curb her behaviour. I know someone who'll write a prescription for her.”

Pamela nods and says that might be a good idea. “She can be a handful sometimes. I've thought maybe some medication may make our lives easier. I have to keep her arms covered, you know? She got drunk one night and let some friends tattoo her. Take a look at how ugly her arms are.”

“Oh Pamela, that's awful,” Miss Dillon says as she pushes up the sleeves of Anna's blouse. “The girl obviously has no self-respect.”

“She didn't, but I'm trying to improve her. She tells me she's a slut. No shame when she says it. That's why I've given her this haircut. I hope she can learn some modesty. Maybe your doctor friend could prescribe some hormones to reduce her libido.”

“I'm sure she could, another girl I see had a course to do that. It did have some unfortunate side effects though. She gained a lot of weight and it made her skin very oily. She developed quite bad acne.”

Pamela strokes Anna's cheek which is smooth and unblemished. “Julie, what do you think? Anna could get fat and spotty.”

“I'd still love her,” Julie whispers lovingly. “If it helps with her behaviour you should do it.”

Anna can no longer control herself and starts to cry. Her fear and humiliation have never been more intense. Miss Dillon seems to have tapped into an unexplored area of fear for her, the loss of her figure and the despoiling of her beautiful skin. Now the dentist gives her more reason to sob as the long needle is forced into her flesh at the back of her jaw, left side then right. Within moments her face becomes numb, the soft tissues seem to swell and Anna drools uncontrollably.

As Pamela chides her for her show of emotion, Anna feels herself regress further into childishness. Pamela is identified as a mother figure, despite her youth. She desires a punishment for her weakness, then for Pamela to hold her and tell her that she's forgiven.

The fitting of the braces takes little time. Miss Dillon attaches them to upper and lower teeth, but Anna has little awareness of what's happening since she has no feeling in her mouth or tongue. She's allowed a mirror to see the effect. She's shocked to see how pale she looks and her make-up is smeared and smudged, her eyes stained by mascara which has run down her cheeks. The metal caps and wires render her smile strange and unattractive, which in a perverse way pleases Anna. She meekly thanks Miss Dillon and Pamela and climbs unsteadily from the chair as soon as the straps are torn open.

Pamela and Miss Dillon embrace and it's clear that their relationship is more than merely professional. Pamela runs her hands up Miss Dillon's nape and smiles. “I'm so glad you finally got the courage to go short. You should come and see me at the salon. I'd take it more extreme but it would be perfect for you. You were born for butch, Sam.” They share a long, gentle kiss.

“Very tempting,” the dentist replies. “Very tempting, but I can't scare off my patients. We'll see how bold I feel when I need a trim.”

When the three lovers return home everything seems to have changed. Anna, who has recently been regarded by Pamela as the good, obedient lover, is now under suspicion for being resentful of Pamela's dominance. Julie, who had been openly resentful of her image, is now treated as Pamela's favourite.

Anna is made to undress and kneel before her lover. “What was going on in your head in there? You embarrassed yourself, and me.”

“Divinissima, I'm so sorry, please forgive me. I've always had a phobia of dentists and Miss Dillon made me feel like I did when I was seven.” Anna's speech is distorted by the partial numbness which still affects her, as well as the unfamiliarity of the braces which firmly bind her teeth. “I was terrified and very humiliated, but I think that's exactly what you wanted.”

“Don't tell me what I want!” Pamela shrieks. “I could sense something really scaring you. More than the needle. What was it?”

Anna can hardly bring herself to hold her eye contact with Pamela. “I didn't like the idea of the hormone treatment,” she confesses. “I hate the idea that I wouldn't be able to feel turned on.”

Pamela stares at her as if her gaze could delve deep into Anna's feelings. “I know that would be hellish for a slut like you. But you're holding back.”

“The idea of weight gain and acne, Divinissima. That scares me,” Anna adds softly.

Pamela stays quiet but she looks angrier than ever. “So you hate the idea of putting on weight? Don't you like fat? I'm fat, aren't I? You don't find that attractive?”

“You're not fat, you're... curvaceous,” Anna says, struggling to find the word. The pause makes her statement sound condescending.

“Curvaceous, Rubenesque, I've heard all the euphemisms. I'm fat, aren't I?” Anna can't get out an answer. She's never thought of Pamela as fat and would never dare to call her that.

“You're fat and gorgeous,” Julie says, kissing her on the cheek.

Anna smiles uncomfortably, baring the new braces. “Yes, so beautiful,” she adds.

“But you think I should lose weight?”

Anna shakes her head. “Not at all. You look perfect.”

“And if Julie got fat, you'd still like her?” Anna nods. “So you like fat women?” Another nod. “Very well, you can be fat too. Fatter than me.”

Anna feels empty, a cold dread seizing her. “I'm going to get the hormone treatment?” she gasps.

“I didn't say that. I don't want you getting spotty. And I'm not sure I like the idea of a frigid sub. But If you're resistant I'm going to get you dosed up with hormones regardless of the side effects. Just eating plenty and resting as much as possible will get you chubbied up.”

Anna is in shock as she imagines how different she would look if she were as big as Pamela. She thinks of her workplace, how her colleagues would react to a fat Anna. She realises that she's come to enjoy the role she plays there, and her appearance gives her enormous pleasure too. Since she met Pamela she's worked hard on maintaining a good figure but now it seems she'll abandon her slim figure.

“I have to decide how to best make this happen,” Pamela announces. “But for tonight can go to sleep on your own on the floor of the little room and you'll get no supper.”

By the following morning Anna learns of her fate. She'll use up all of her annual leave (three weeks), the end of the leave period to coincide with Carmen's twenty first birthday. A week before her leave starts (which will be in just less than two weeks) Anna will commence her new diet. Pamela will calculate the weight she must reach by the end of the four weeks and on Carmen's birthday she will be taken to the tattooing studio to be weighed. Anna will not be informed of the size she must attain, nor will she be allowed to monitor her progress by weighing herself. If she exceeds the target weight she will be rewarded by Carmen covering up the tattoos on her arms. Failure will result in a heavily tattooed face for Anna.

Anna is stupefied as the terms of the new challenge are revealed. For the first time in months she finds herself questioning her loyalty to Pamela. The idea of her features being concealed beneath a mask of tattoos makes her feel panic. She doesn't for a moment doubt that Pamela would enact the punishment. Her horribly marked arms bear witness to her young lover's ruthlessness. In a few weeks she could be fat and disfigured because of her loyalty to Pamela. Should she accept that Pamela's cruelty has gone too far and leave her? Her doubts last moments. She knows that she's so besotted with Pamela and Julie, that her life with them is so pleasurable, that she will endure this latest order and try to accept her new body. If she follows Pamela's orders she will be spared the facial tattoos, which will act as a powerful motivator.

For the next week Anna tries to accept that she'll soon be fat but her resistance is deep seated. Pamela is fully aware of her inner conflict and feeds her fears by sending her images of obese young women, naked, crudely tattooed. Anna receives these pictures at her desk in work and is ordered to climax while looking at them. She finds it hard to believe that she could be as big as these women, all of whom weigh at least twice as much as her. She finds them unattractive, although she's by no means someone who only finds slim women sexy. She's sure that Pamela has selected these women to feed her fears, to make her consider that once she's fat she too may be ugly.

The fear of losing her looks terrifies her, but Anna is also aware that this anxiety feeds the intensity of her orgasms. Each day she comes closer to losing control as she sits in the office obeying her mistress's command to orgasm and realises that before long (if they haven't already) her colleagues will recognise what she's doing.

Anna has come to enjoy her job. The routine suits her. She even derives some pleasure from the tedious tasks that fill her day, although the tiresome regularity is leavened by the games that Pamela plays. She has come to enjoy the limited relationships she shares with her colleagues, although she has long since realised that she is unpopular; nevertheless, this regular contact with people has become valuable. She feels that since her braces were fitted, something has changed in how her colleagues treat her. She senses that they make her less attractive and therefore more vulnerable. She perceives, or imagines, that she's treated with less respect, that there's less fear of her icy persona. It hurts Anna to imagine how she will be treated in a month, when she will return to the office, inexplicably obese. Will she be able to maintain anything of her current persona? She's sure that the mask will fall from her, that she'll be revealed as diffident, insecure, needy.

Anna's worries affect her concentration and her work-rate slackens noticeably, to the extent that Callie notices, queries her about it, tells her that she seems preoccupied. Anna excuses herself, says that she's a little exhausted and needs a break, but that she's sure she'll be back to her old self after her imminent holiday. Even as she says the words she realises the irony.

The day soon arrives when Anna will commence eating to gain weight. She's woken early and brought to eat her breakfast. She eats a large bowl of cereal, which is filling enough, but then Julie places a large plate in front of her laden with fried food: bacon, sausages, hash browns, mushrooms. Anna knows better than to protest but would have difficulty eating this meal on an empty stomach. By the time she's cleared half the plate she wants to stop. Pamela smiles sympathetically. “Is it too much, sweetheart? You know you can stop any time you want, don't you? I'll still love you if you've got a tattooed face, and you'll get just as big, even if it takes a bit longer.” Anna returns to her task with vigour.

By the time she reaches work, Anna has an uncomfortably full stomach, a generous helping of ice cream sitting on top of the fried breakfast. The pockets of her suit (which feels tight without the corset) are stuffed with chocolate bars which Anna must eat during the day. Pamela has told her that she will purchase some loose fitting clothes for Anna to get her through the rest of the week. She's taunted her by saying that by week's end she will be attending work in a caftan, her hair smoothed into a bowl, the big round glasses on her face.

Anna had thought that her wilfulness and vanity had been eradicated by Pamela but now realises that she has a long journey ahead before she can truly abandon her ego. Pamela doesn't enforce her threat but by Friday Anna is no longer able to wear the suits that have been her regular work attire. She wears a baggy black suit which helps to conceal her ever expanding waist, but she knows her colleagues have already detected an increase in her weight.

As soon as Anna returns home she's told that a new regime is to be put in place. Anna will live in the kitchen, where a bed has been installed. She will decide her own dietary needs and have free access to a well stocked fridge. She will not cook for herself: all meals will be prepared by Julie as it's felt that cooking will be too energetic. When she's not eating she'll lie in her bed to save her energy. To ensure her docility Pamela instructs Anna to take some pills, and within minutes Anna feels sleepy. She's told to make sure she eats heartily before taking to her bed. “We don't want bzzzz, bzzzz, do we?” Pamela asks, mimicking a needle passing around Anna's cheeks.

Anna takes her tablets regularly, and the days start to blur together. She has no energy and sleeps for many hours each day. She eats more than ever, motivated by the waking nightmares she has about failing to meet the unknown target and having to endure a life where her face is covered by dense black patterns. She sometimes shares a meal with her lovers, but Pamela's cruelty is exhibited when she and Julie eat a delicious looking salad while Anna is served with a block of butter.

Anna can see her body growing with each passing day. Her waist vanishes, her belly swells and softens. Her limbs are rounded and heavy. There is no mirror to see how her gluttony has affected her face.

Julie and Pamela wake her to show off their new makeovers. Julie has a chic red crop, the front swept up into a sleek quiff. She looks tough and beautiful, the vulnerable girl with the bowlcut and ugly glasses transformed beyond recognition. Pamela's hair has been bleached to a snowy white. The back still falls past her shoulders in stiffly tousled waves, the fringe is cut in a blunt arch, the line continuing over the sides which are shaved smooth. She has white make-up surrounding her eyes which are now decorated with black contact lenses. Anna's medication is causing her to feel confused all the time and she wonders if the strange new look that Pamela has adopted is an hallucination.

“She looks amazing, doesn't she,” Julie gushes. “She's like Yolandi from Die Antwoord. Totally hot!” She can't resist kissing her newly remade girlfriend.

“You're not so bad yourself,” Pamela murmurs. “You suit red. And the glam androgyny thing totally works on you.”

They relapse into more kisses. “Poor little Annie looks so dishevelled. The curls are growing out and they're falling flat. Maybe it's best to shave you for Carmen's birthday next week.” Anna knows her hair must look awful as it's been well over a month since her last restyle. “And that would mean no hair getting in your face when Carmen tattoos your face.” Anna's face twitches in panic at the threat.

“Am I not big enough?” she asks timidly.

“I don't think you are. We'll find out when we weigh you at Carmen's place. But there's still a few days for you to redeem yourself. You're going to try harder, aren't you, Chubs?”

“I am, Divinissima,” Anna says fervently.

When the day of Carmen's birthday arrives, Anna is beside herself with fear. Even as they're preparing to leave she crams more food down her throat, believing that a few more grams could make the difference that make her exceed the target.

Pamela has dressed her in an awful maternity dress, purchased in a charity shop, navy blue with an embroidered bodice, tent-like and unflattering. Anna has been naked for the past three weeks and the sensation of the material on her skin feels strange. Her tablets were stopped on the previous day and Anna feels alert, if somewhat anxious, for the first time in weeks. Her hair has been washed and allowed to dry naturally, and has curled tightly to her head. As she steps out of the house she feels weak. She finds herself craving the tablets which have kept her so calm. Now she must accept that she's fat and unattractive and nervously avoids the gaze of the strangers she sees in the street.

As the three friends near Carmen's shop, Pamela mentions that Carmen doesn't know anything about Anna's weight gain. “Let's send you in first!” Julie suggests. “Go up to her and kiss her and wish her a happy birthday. She'll never recognise you. You'll give her such a fright.”

Anna is close to a panic attack as Pamela approves the idea and she's forced to enter the shop alone. She sees Carmen sitting behind the counter. Anna takes a moment to recognise her: she's wearing her hair in a style identical to Pamela's and bleached just as light. She looks yet more beautiful than Anna remembers.

As Anna approaches her, Carmen looks at her, but there is no flicker of recognition. “Happy birthday,” Anna says with a nervous smile, bends forward to kiss her friend. Carmen shrinks from this stranger's kiss, yet the voice triggers a memory.

“Anna?” she asks hesitantly. Her face falls as she finally experiences recognition. “Oh... My... God! What the hell? What happened to you?”

Anna is spared the embarrassment of explaining as her girlfriends enter, shouting good wishes for Carmen's birthday and fussing about her.

Once the greetings have subsided, Carmen's attention once more falls on Anna. “What did you do to her, Pamela?” she asks. “I can't understand how she's changed so fast. When she came in I thought it was some woman in her fifties. You really need to do something about that dress and that hair,” she says to Anna. “You've really let yourself go!”

Pamela, interrupts, taking charge, as is her wont. “Get those scales I brought in. Anna was set a target weight and we have to see if she's achieved it. Otherwise, Carmen, her birthday present to you is her face. You can use it as a canvas for your skills.”

Anna is taken into Carmen's studio where she notices all the mirrors are covered. A scale is placed on the floor and Anna is instructed to undress. “We don't want you cheating. You could be hiding a sack of potatoes under that tent,” Julie jokes.

Carmen whistles as she sees Anna's naked form. “Wow, you really have... grown. I can't believe you've put on so much weight so fast.”

Pamela tells her to be quiet and tries to introduce some solemnity, which adds to Anna's growing panic. “What weight were you four weeks ago?” she asks.

“I was nine stone, three pounds” Anna says, a tremble audible in her voice. Pamela passes her a folded piece of paper.

“This is the target I set for you. Open it.”

“Fourteen stone, four pounds,” Anna reads fearfully. Could she really have gained seventy-four pounds in four weeks?

“What will happen if your weight is below this?”

“I'll sit in the chair and offer my face to Carmen.” She's close to tears as she says this. Suddenly the threat of the tattoo seems likely imminent. Within moments Carmen could be inking her face.

“Anna, my sweetheart, step on to the scale and read the weight.”

Anna almost loses her balance and Julie has to help her to steady herself. The dial flickers back and forth and finally comes to rest. She gasps as she sees the reading. “Sixteen nine!” Her relief that she's exceeded her target is tempered by the realisation that she's now almost seventeen stone, not far off twice the weight she was a month previously.

“How many pounds is that?” Carmen asks. Julie looks at the dial, which is calibrated in pounds and kilograms too.

“Two hundred and thirty-three. Oh, Anna, you topped two hundred!” Julie cries.

“Two and a half stone over the target,” Pamela says. “That's just greedy, isn't it?”

Anna nods meekly, although since she didn't know what her target was she can't see how overshooting it can be criticised.

“You've been so greedy that I'm tempted to punish you. Maybe just maintaining you at this weight would be the ideal.”

“Thank you, Divinissima,” Anna whispers.

“I suppose you want to see how beautiful you look now you're fat, don't you?” Anna nods. She hasn't looked in a mirror for three weeks and steels herself.

She's unprepared for what she sees. Her body looks far bigger than she'd imagined, her belly bloated, her breasts hugely swollen. Her arms and legs have lost their angularity and, most hurtful of all, she's developed a double chin. Her cheeks have filled out and her face seems rounder. She stares at the reflection in anguished silence, unable to accept that the reflection is her, that this is the image she now presents to the world. She fusses with her hair, which looks neglected, especially in the company of her perfectly groomed companions.

“Poor little Anna,” Pamela teases. “Do you think fixing your hair will make you go back to how you were?”

Anna is breathing heavily. She doesn't want to cry but it's hard not to. “No, Pamela, I've changed forever,” she finally manages to say. Those words hit her hard, a realisation that her submission has taken her into a new region from which there will be no return.

“That's right,” Pamela says, kissing her tenderly. “You've changed for me, because we love each other so much. Now you need to learn to love yourself again, the new Anna, the Anna that I control. Will you do that, Anna?”

Anna nods. She wants more than anything in the world to please her beautiful girlfriend, who she knows adores her.

“You have to say it. Every day until it's fixed in your brain. We need to rewire that brain of yours, don't we? Say you love fat Anna, that this is what you want forever.”

Anna stares in the mirror as Pamela strokes her soft round belly and tries to accept that she is still beautiful, but every sight of herself still results in emotional turmoil. However, she looks at Pamela's reflection and sees the joy and affection in her eyes, and she whispers “I love being fat. I want you to remake me and I'll accept and love everything you do to me.”

“You're such a good girl, Anna, the best fat sub in the whole world. And for being so good I'll fix your hair while Carmen fixes your tattoos.”

Anna is soon prepped for her re-tattooing, although she has no idea how the extensive ugly tattoos will be redeemed. Carmen complains that the extra girth of her arms will create a lot more work for her.

“Look, the tattoos have stretched since you got fat. You have a lot more skin now, Anna. You'll probably end up covered in stretch marks from gaining so fast.”

“I did think about that,” Pamela adds. “I massaged her skin with oil every night to reduce the risk. So far it's all gone fine and her skin is still lovely. I'm so glad we didn't have to resort to that hormone treatment that would have given her terrible acne.”

Anna watches as Carmen marks her arms. She marks the upper and lower limits of each tattoo, then draws a line which circumscribes her arm at each point. Soon her arms are divided into a series of bands, some very wide where two or three tattoos overlap. The upper part of both arms is given a band, marking the point where arm meets torso, wrapping around her shoulder and through her armpit. As soon as the last line is marked, Carmen begins to make them permanent.

Anna's curiosity about how the tattoos will look reduces as she feels the burning of the needle. Her skin seems to have acquired an extra sensibility from becoming so stretched and the pain seems more intense than when her arms were last tattooed. The pain is even more intense where the needle works its way into certain sensitive areas, such as the armpit and elbow. Anna grimaces and longs to ask for a break. Carmen notices her discomfort.

“Don't look so sorry for yourself, Chubby. I'm spending my twenty-first tattooing your fat arms. You think I couldn't be doing better things with my time?”

“I really appreciate you doing this for me, Carmen and I'll do anything to make your party go well. But it does really hurt! I can't help that, but I'll try to bear it with good grace.”

Soon Anna's arms are segmented by fine black lines, which Carmen has tattooed with absolute precision. Another needle is placed on the tattoo gun and now each stroke produces a wide black line. Anna realises within moments that she is to be tattooed with wide black bands around her arms which will submerge her existing tattoos. She glances along the length of each arm and recognises that only narrow bands of skin will be free of ink. She estimates that between seventy and eighty percent of her arms will be blackened.

As she watches Carmen make the pigmented area slowly grow to fill the first band She tries to imagine how her arms will look when they are black. Carmen groans as she contemplates how much work she has. “Why didn't you get this done when you were skinny, Anna? It would have taken half the time.”

Pamela intervenes. “And now it would look all stretched and uneven and you'd have to tattoo it all again. Stop complaining or you'll be butch for your party tonight.”

Carmen pokes her tongue out at Pamela. “I thought we were sisters or something now and we would dress alike. Are you going to get yours cut butch too?”

“Well I might... Or I might sever our agreement when I sever your locks. After all, Julie and Anna used to look like twins but look at them now.”

Carmen laughs. “Anna used to be the skinny one. And the hot one. But your makeover worked wonders. Julie is such a babe now.”

Julie thanks her and tries to console Anna. “You still look cute even now you're chubby.” Anna smiles but is saddened to hear herself described thus. She was always a beautiful woman, but now she's condescendingly described as cute. “The hair ages you though. Please Pamela, do something with it. She can't go clubbing tonight with these tired curls.”

Clearly, Pamela had planned to see to Anna's hair. All the necessary supplies and equipment have been secreted in the studio and soon Anna is receiving her latest makeover as Carmen continues to tattoo her arms.

Anna's hair is sprayed and Pamela begins by taking a straight razor. She rubs her finger over the strips of darkening stubble which have grown in over Anna's eyes, giving her faint brows. “How long is it since you had eyebrows now?” She asks.

“Over a year, I think,” Anna says. She's unused to seeing herself with brows but likes how it softens her features. Pamela is obviously less pleased and moments later the stubble has been shaved. Anna is saddened by what she sees in the mirror. Her eyes seem narrower now that her features have been altered by her weight gain, and the effect is increased by her browlessness.

Nor is Pamela finished with the razor. She wields it over Anna's temple, shaving away the thick layer of hair which has grown since her last haircut, well over a month earlier. Anna hasn't been shaved to the scalp since she started her job and she finds the sight of a rapidly expanding area of bare scalp somewhat distressing. She has to bend her neck to the side to allow Pamela to work without risking hair falling over her arms, which Carmen continues to permanently pigment.

Julie watches with fascination as Pamela works, now forcing Anna to bow her head as her nape is shorn. Carmen makes her lift her arm as she works on the underside and Anna groans as she tries to endure the discomfort of the unnatural posture into which she's been forced.

“When are you back to work?” Carmen asks.

“Monday,” Anna says glumly, imagining that in two days her colleagues will be shocked to see what the ice queen has become. She sees a curl tumble into her lap and starts to believe that Pamela is addressing the problem of her curls by shaving her head.

“You can show off your new tattoos then, can't you? I'll cover up all the obscene stuff so they're safe for work.”

Anna hadn't even considered this. She imagines how hard it will be for her to be seen by people she knows, bald, fat, arms covered in wide black bands. “It's... Pamela's decision,” she murmurs.

“Everything is Pamela's decision now, isn't it, sweetheart?”

Anna experiences a small measure of relief that Pamela's decision regarding her hair isn't to shave it entirely. Though she's left with shaved back and sides, right up to her crown, the top is spared the razor. Pamela bleaches it numerous times to get out the black, then treats it with harsh chemicals to remove the curl. Her hair looks dull and damaged by the processing before the final treatment, an addition of dye. Anna watches as the cut is quickly completed: her hair is now a baby pink and Pamela trims around her head to give her a short bowlcut. The cut is much shorter than her previous mushroom bowl, and sits flatter, closer to her scalp. The fringe is cut high on Anna's forehead, and the line continues horizontally around her head, high over ears, exposing the shaved sides and nape. It's a cruelly unflattering style and Anna stares at herself with pursed lips as she tries to endure another humiliation.

“There are no styling options with this cut,” Pamela informs her. “This is how you'll wear it to the office on Monday, Anna.”

“Thank you, Divinissima,” Anna manages to say. She would give anything to be able to quit her job and never have to be seen by her colleagues again.

Carmen pauses from her work to take in the finished style, giggling as she sees the severity of the cut. “Oh, Pamela, you've really done a job on her. She should look so repulsive. She's really fat and that's a terrible haircut, but somehow she's still really sexy.”

Pamela smiles at her creation and rewards her with a series of kisses up her bald nape. “Sexy but oh so submissive. I knew you were since that day we met and I immediately pierced your tongue, but until now you could hide it. Not any more, Anna. Twenty-four seven submission.”

“Thank you Divinissima,” she sighs. “I'm ready.”

Anna's transformation on her day of complete submission isn't limited to her tattooing and haircut. A colleague of Carmen's, Mari, is invited in. It quickly becomes apparent that she's a piercer and her first task is to fit Anna's nipples with bigger rings. She forces the holes to stretch to fit the new jewellery and Anna is left sore. The rings are two inches in diameter, fashioned from thick titanium and their weight pulls at Anna's distended nipples. Mari opens another box and shows Anna the rings that will be fitted to her labia, just as large a gauge as those which dangle from her nipples, but only an inch in diameter. When Mari has added all of the rings Anna can see that her lips are stretched down by the weight. She moves her hips and sees the rings swinging pendulously.

Anna is returned to the chair while Mari administers filler injections in her lips. Pamela tells her that she needs them to return some balance to her features, which are so different now. Mari is brought into the confidence of the group about Anna's rapid weight gain. She's shown photographs of Anna when she was slim. “Oh, I remember you! You've been here a lot. I didn't recognise you today, you look entirely different. You've got good bone structure though; you still look pretty.” Anna feels happier than she has all day at this compliment from a stranger.

Mari now sets up tattooing equipment and assists Carmen to complete Anna's arms as Pamela works on her make-up. The stranger in the mirror alters again, as she's given dark, heavy, angular brows and long false lashes on her newly painted lids. Her lips are the focus of attention, however. Pamela renders them crimson, shining with a layer of wet gloss. Anna's lips are smooth and bulging now, the injections having taken away the natural texture. The fullness has caused a permanent pout, as if Anna were puckering for a kiss.

The hours of tattooing draw to a close and Anna's arms are now a dense black ringed with thin bands of untouched skin which the contrast makes appear white. The dark pigment makes her arms appear even thicker. Anna feels alienated from her body: the dark appendages which move of her volition bear no resemblance to the limbs with which Anna is familiar, and the face she sees whenever she glances in the mirror continues to appear strange. She has an irrational desire to see her old familiar self looking back at her and can't accept that this woman is now her.

She's dressed for her night out in a tight latex suit, which compresses her body uncomfortably. Her breasts bulge through the rubber and the large rings are easily visible at her nipples and labia. Her arms are left uncovered to display her new tattoos.

Her friends now dress for their party, styling each others' hair, putting on make-up, revealing the outfits they will wear. A tap at the door is answered by Pamela. In walks a familiar figure: Isolde. She's wearing a black minidress, sleeveless so as to reveal the large tattoo which now adorns her upper arm. Her hair is still cut in a short bob, still black, but a flash of white-blonde is present through the side of her short, blunt fringe, and along the edge of the sharp point that falls over her cheek. Anna hasn't seen her in the flesh since the night she spent with her immediately after they met, although Pamela has been in close contact with her. Seeing Isolde instantly causes Anna's arousal to increase.

Isolde greets each of her friends in turn (Carmen is included, who she greets warmly and with familiarity, though Anna isn't aware that they'd met. Close up, Anna can see that Isolde's tattoo bears the stamp of Carmen's work), leaving Anna till last.

Isolde stares at her, looking up and down her body. Her gaze is inscrutable, no reaction readable in her face. She continues to regard Anna in silence, until the older woman feels the situation is unbearable. “Anna, you're fat,” she says eventually. Everyone laughs.

She slips her hands over the sides of Anna's head, caressing the newly shaved scalp. “You poor little thing, she's fattened you and given you a cruel haircut. Oh, and braces on your teeth, too! You used to look so pretty. I bet you're struggling to accept what you are now, aren't you Anna?” Anna nods her head, ashamed.

“I love it, though, Isolde. I'm Pamela's entirely.”

Isolde turns to Pamela. “Can I have her for a weekend some time? I really want her so much right now. I didn't think I liked the chubbiness when I first saw her, but she's so eager to please.”

Pamela comes closer, stroking the soft, firm belly which bulges through the latex. “I can't trust you, Isolde. You were very naughty when I loaned you Julie. She still hasn't told me what you did together. And you tattooed her, which was definitely not part of our agreement.”

Isolde leans forward to kiss Pamela. “I'm a very naughty girl. You know that, it was you who corrupted me. And if you make me agree to things when Anna comes with me for a weekend, I can't promise I'll stick to them.” She giggles. “Actually, I know I'll break any promise I give you. I'll treat her however I please, but I know that that's what excites you.”

Isolde's threatened disobedience seems to have the effect she desired and Pamela moans softly as the pair kiss rapturously. “If you can wait a month or two, I can spare Anna for a full week with you. She's going to get herself sacked from work soon and once that happens she'll have a lot of free time.”

Anna feels a strange mix of emotions. She's horrified that she'll have to do something to get herself dismissed, sure that it will be an act of stultifying humiliation. She knows that Isolde will treat her with violence and cruelty, having seen Julie's injuries after a weekend spent with her, but feels a desire growing. She finds Isolde fascinating, exciting, sexy. She waits eagerly for the deal to be agreed.

“Oh, that's perfect. I have a break from studies in five weeks, how about then?”

“I'm sure I can liberate our little princess from her boring little job by then. Of course, in return I want something from you.” Isolde tilts her head back inquisitively, waits silently for Pamela to name her price. “Your hair, plus a tattoo session with Carmen, which you pay for.”

Isolde primps her perfect bob affectedly. “I'm not sure if you're worthy of cutting my hair after the job you did on that bowlcut for Anna. I have an image to maintain so nothing ugly, OK?”

Pamela laughs. “I wouldn't give my sweet Isolde a nasty old submissive cut! You'll look gorgeous.”

She nods. “I think we have a deal then.” She seals the agreement by sharing a long, passionate kiss with Pamela. When they separate, she addresses Anna. “Do you notice I haven't been smoking? You love me to smoke, don't you?” Anna nods guiltily. “Run along to the shops and get me a packet. You're going to be my cigarette girl tonight, aren't you?”

Anna looks at Pamela. Does she want to be spared this? She hates smoking, hates how it looks, hates the smell, and wants to be spared serving Isolde. Yet this very resistance makes her yearn. Pamela ignores her unspoken plea and she meekly agrees to serve. She knows this will be a memorable night.

The long train journey is made uncomfortable for Anna by Pamela's choice of clothes. Despite the warm weather, she's dressed in a heavy padded coat, her hands covered by leather gloves, her shorn head by a woollen hat, a misshapen, oversized beret. Not only is she discomforted by the heat in the carriage, but she knows she looks old and plain. Pamela has given her a pair of glasses, acquired on eBay, which dominate her face and look most unflattering. They have large lenses, surrounded by pinkish tortoiseshell-effect plastic, and curving side pieces, decorated with metal filigree. Anna estimates that they're thirty years old and they make her look like someone who's trying to hold on to the styles of that era. The lenses are heavy, a fairly strong prescription, and her sight is severely inhibited by them. She sits looking disinterestedly from the window, a blur of landscape her only distraction through the hours of her journey. Inside, she's full of nervous anticipation as she contemplates her week with Isolde.

Finally Anna arrives at the café where she's been told to meet her temporary owner. She glances around but can't see anyone she recognises (although that may be a result of her poor eyesight rather than Isolde's absence), and settles down in a corner with a bottle of mineral water. She has only a few minutes to wait before Isolde drops onto the bench next to her; Anna jumps as she hadn't seen her approaching.

“Dear god, what has she done to you? You look as old as my grandmother. And did you gain more weight or are you just wearing a lot of layers?”

Anna peers at Isolde to see how she looks. She's excited to see she's retained the haircut Pamela gave her during her visit for Carmen's birthday: an orange mohawk, sides shaved bald, fanned into a stiff crest. She's gone for a punk style today, in keeping with her hair: eyes heavily made-up, sleeveless band t-shirt, tartan trousers. Her arm is now tattooed from shoulder to wrist, part of the requirement for Anna's visit. Anna is aware that they make a very odd couple.

“My weight's stayed the same,” Anna whispers.

“Still having trouble speaking, then,” Isolde grins. “Let's see it then!”

Anna nervously pokes out her tongue, two pink points sliding out past her lips. Isolde chuckles.

“It looks weird seeing this old woman with a split tongue. You've still got your stitches in too, but they look really tight.”

“They are,” Anna says, with a hint of self pity. “They need to come out in a day or two. Did Pamela mention it?”

“She did, Anna. I can take them out for you. We'll make a little game of it. Now take off that awful hat and let's see what's going on with your hair.”

Anna pulls the hat free as ordered and looks down shyly, sure she's attracting attention now. She's been made to retain her bowlcut, and Pamela has kept the back and sides smooth, although the cap of now blonde hair has grown at least half an inch since Isolde last saw her.

Isolde sighs. “It's a bloody awful look for you, Annie. I'm going to have to get you fixed up with something different, aren't I?”

Anna wriggles nervously. “Please, Isolde, Pamela was quite clear, you're not to touch my hair.”

“Hush!” she whispers, stroking Anna's cheek. “You're mine for a week and I shall do whatever I please. And I know that Pamela has ordered you to tell her everything that passes between us, but you won't. I expect you to keep silent, no matter what tortures she inflicts on you.”

Anna looks at her, attempting to show defiance in her gaze, but she weakens. She's not sure the thick lenses allow much expression anyway.

“Annie, don't make life hard for yourself. I can make you do as I please, and you know it. By the way, did you get sacked from your job?”

“Not exactly... I'm on an enforced leave. They want me to get treatment for my problems. My boss thinks I'm having some sort of breakdown.”

Isolde laughs. “What happened?”

“It all started to unravel when I had to go back in and my weight had almost doubled. No one even recognised me, and I found I couldn't keep up the persona I'd had till then. I almost got sent home on the first day because I kept crying.”

“Oh Anna,” Isolde scolds. “I thought you were stronger than that. Pamela must have been furious.”

“She started making me drink in work too. I had to have a bottle of vodka with me and she'd text me during the day ordering me to take a swig. My work started to get really sloppy. And she was pushing me to take more risks too. I had to use a dildo on myself in the office.”

“And you got caught?”

Anna feels her cheeks redden as she remembers the day when her shame reached its peak. “She made sure of it. She mixed a drug into the lube, it made me fall asleep. I mean, I'd been drinking too so it was more potent. She sent a really extreme picture and told me to slip in the dildo while I stared at it. I fell asleep at my desk with a pornographic image on my screen and a dildo in me. You can imagine what everyone thought.”

“Crazy fat slut? Sex addicted alcoholic?”

Anna's embarrassment increases. “Probably. I bet they still haven't stopped gossiping. I thought I'd be sacked for sure but they want me to undergo counselling. Pamela hasn't decided yet whether I should refuse and force them to sack me or make me see a counsellor with some weird explanation for my behaviour.”

Isolde smiles. “So you might still have to go back and face all your colleagues? Wonderful!”

Soon Anna is in Isolde's flat, a small but pleasant apartment in a quiet suburb. She's relieved to be allowed to take off her coat, even more that Isolde takes off the glasses. They've given her a headache, and to have her vision restored is a pleasure to Anna. “I can actually see you at last,” she says. “You look so sexy, Isolde.”

“Thank you. I wish I could say the same, but you look terrible! Pamela must be really insecure if she thinks she has to make you look so dowdy. Oh, and don't call me by my name, you're to call me Divinissima.”

Anna's brow furrows. “No, I can't. That's Pamela's title and hers alone. She's quite clear about that.”

“Don't you dare say 'No' to me, Anna!” Isolde is suddenly fiery, an anger Anna has never witnessed before. “I can use the carrot but I can also use the stick. You're about to find out what pain really is.”

Anna is made to strip and taken into a small room which Isolde has made into her dungeon. She tries to placate Isolde before her torture begins. “Please, Isolde, I'll call you anything, but Divinissima is the title for Pamela. You can choose any title.”

“But Divinissima means most divine, so anything else means I'm second best. I won't have you think I'm second best in anything. Do you think I'm inferior to Pamela?”

Anna feels helpless, defensive. “No Isolde. You're wonderful, beautiful, sexy. But I love Pamela.”

“Call me Divinissima!” Isolde hisses. Anna shakes her head. “Very well. I'll make you.”

Anna is stripped naked and forced to lie face down on a padded bench. Isolde pushes a tablet to the back of her tongue and she has no alternative but to swallow it.

“That's a muscle relaxant. It may make you feel a little sleepy, but it will pass. It will help you to get your limbs into positions you didn't think possible.”

Isolde soon gives a practical demonstration of her claim. Anna's waist is fixed to the bench by a wide leather belt, then her wrists are bound by a thin cord. The rope is threaded through a ring on the wall and Isolde increases the tension, lifting Anna's wrists higher and higher over her back. The tension on her shoulder joints increases dramatically with every slight shortening of the cord.

“It's a very simple technique, but very effective,” Isolde whispers seductively. “I could just pull a little more and your ligaments would start to tear. I dare say your joints would never fully recover. And I suppose you can feel tingling in your arms and fingers.” Anna calls out to confirm this. “That's because this position puts pressure on the nerves. If the tension increases the nerves will sustain permanent damage. Your fingers will be numb and weak forever. And all you have to do to save yourself this anguish is to call me by my true title.”

Isolde adds to Anna's dilemma by setting up a camera to record what she hopes will be her submission to her demands, which will be a betrayal of Pamela's orders. Anna grinds her teeth and tries to remain stalwart. The pain is so intense that she doesn't feel any sleepiness from the actions of the pill. Isolde has tied off the cord, fixing her arms.

“Do you remember that first day we met? The first thing you had me do was to put a butt plug in you, wasn't it? I think we should revisit that and stretch that tight little hole of yours.” Isolde starts to inflict humiliation and pain on Anna's anus, using not a plug but a speculum. The prongs are slid home with less struggle than Anna expected and she sighs with some relief. “Did you think that would be worse, honey? Remember, I've dosed you with a muscle relaxant. It'll allow you to stretch more than ever before.”

Anna wails as Isolde violently dilates the speculum. Her sphincter reacts by spasming but the metal jaws are unforgiving. Isolde waits for Anna to accommodate the sensation, then opens up the jaws wider. The ratchet clicks once, twice, each time adding to Anna's agony.

Isolde moves to kneel before Anna, their faces inches apart. “Is that nice, Annie? You must adore the feeling, because you're doing nothing to stop it. You just have to call me Divinissima. Once you say it you'll always call me that name, won't you?” Anna shakes her head, determined to remain faithful to Pamela.

“I have time on my side. I'm a very patient person,” Isolde says softly. “The muscle relaxant makes it easier for you to hold this position but it's a short acting drug. In a few minutes it will start to wear off and your muscles will tighten. And your little anus will try to push out the speculum but it won't move and you'll feel like you're going to tear. And your arm muscles will contract and the tendons will increase the pressure on your poor little shoulders. And something may just snap in there and you'll find a whole new experience of pain.”

Anna knows that everything Isolde is saying is true. Every moment her arms are kept in this position seems to increase her suffering but now she fears the moment when the relaxation starts to recede. She sobs from frustration, knowing that a single word could earn her Isolde's mercy. She wants to be faithful to Pamela but knows that she will never be able to resist Isolde's cruelty. In her head she's already reconciled to betrayal, but wants to put up a show of resistance, so that she can justify this treason. She curses her weakness. Is this charade of defiance an act of loyalty to Pamela or to allow her to continue to believe that she is only acting from necessity?

A few minutes later and Anna is sure that the drug is wearing off. Her shoulder joints feel like they're about to tear and she's sobbing for mercy.

“Just say 'Mercy, Divinissima,' and you'll be free of pain for the rest of the day,” Isolde whispers seductively.

“Mercy... Divinissima,” Anna whispers.

“You have to call me by that title forever, you understand?”

“Please, not forever. I can't call you Divinissima when we're with Pamela. But I promise to use it for the duration of my stay with you,” Anna pleads.

Isolde thinks on her offer for some time. “Not good enough. You'll use my title whenever Pamela isn't present, forever.” Anna nods her acceptance. She knows that Isolde will allow herself no further compromise.

Anna groans as her arms are allowed to move back into a natural position. Her joints remain so sore that she's effectively lost the use of her arms temporarily. She's delighted when Isolde shrinks the jaws of the speculum. Awkwardly, she rises to sit on the bench.

“Thank you, Divinissima,” she murmurs. Every time she addresses Isolde thus costs her an effort.

“Poor little Anna, you have such a low pain threshold. Julie is much more fun to play with. Still, I think this sets a nice pattern for our stay. Each day I'll devise a little game to inflict some pain, with the threat of something greater. Then you'll agree to be a good little kitten for the rest of the day while I make you do something humiliating. We'll start with a trip to the salon tomorrow. I need to see you with something less repulsive than that terrible bowlcut!”

Isolde is true to her word. Anna's protests about receiving a new style are silenced by a session in which her breasts are subject to a painful torture. Her nipple rings are removed and Isolde inserts a steel bar through the holes. A device is attached to the centre of the bar which presses against Anna's sternum. As Isolde turns a screw, the bar is pushed further from Anna's body, stretching her breasts out from her body, pulling at her nipples alarmingly. Isolde's delight in the form it gives to the breasts is matched by Anna's distress at the pain she experiences.

“I love how big your breasts have got since you got chubby. They look so sexy like this, Annie, I wish they stuck out like this all the time. But I suppose if we keep stretching them like this they'll look great with the stretcher in place but all big and sloppy without. Do you want floppy boobs, Anna?”

“No, Divinissima,” she lisps sadly.

“The stretcher is extended to two thirds of its length. Do you want me to take it the rest of the way? I'd love to see how stretched your nipples would be then.”

Anna shakes her head. She's already beyond the limit of what she can endure.

“Do you want to get your hair cut as I desire? You'll sit meekly in the chair and accept everything I say with a demure smile?” Anna nods. “And you'll address me as Divinissima, won't you?” Another nod.

As soon as Anna is freed she's taken to the salon of Isolde's choice. Since she has no other clothes, she's dressed as she was the previous day by Pamela, hat and glasses too. The salon she's taken to is defiantly alternative, the sign spray painted by a graffiti artist. The interior is no less unconventional, the mirrors formed from broken shards of larger mirrors, inserted into broken frames. While Isolde looks entirely at home in such surroundings, the dowdily dressed Anna feels entirely out of place.

“Wow, who's this?” A young stylist has approached, clearly a friend of Isolde's. The two of them share an embrace before any further words are exchanged.

“Clemmie, this is Anna. She's hopelessly submissive and her owner has turned her into a grandmother. I think it's time we fixed her.”

Anna is soon sitting in Clemmie's chair, facing a reflection of a caped figure with a terribly unflattering bowlcut. The glasses are gone and she can now better appreciate Clemmie's appearance. She has long black hair, bleached through the wispy ends which have been tinted a pastel blue. Her pale features are dominated by scarlet lips and geometrical black brows. She has a number of facial piercings (though fewer than Anna), black anodised metal to contrast with her complexion. She's tall and athletic, and though she's no classical beauty, Anna finds her very attractive.

Clemmie runs her long nails through Anna's hair, gathering it above the undershave as she contemplates options. “Wow, I really don't have much to work with here. Most of it's shaved and the top is pretty short. What were you thinking, Izzy? Something butch? Flattop, maybe?”

Isolde makes a low moan. “Oh, Clemmie, she'd make a sweet butch. She's so big and soft, and a really masculine haircut would really make her look a dream.”

Anna hates the idea but forces a smile, as she knows she must to avoid further tortures. “Thank you Divinissima,” she whispers, her speech still affected by the bifurcation of her tongue.

“I don't know though. I had something more... gothic in mind for her. When I first met her she got given this weird cut with the front all shaved. It looked really hot, although back then she was all skinny and pretty. How about we shave out the front and put extensions in?”

Seconds later Clemmie is buzzing away Anna's short fringe. Anna sits staring, feeling her arousal grow. She's going to look exciting again. Ugly, almost certainly, but she feels that anything is preferable to looking prematurely old. Clemmie wields the clippers rapidly, their blades zipping tight to Anna's scalp, buzzing her hair right to the skin, barely longer than the single day's growth of stubble which discolours the back and sides. She uses a comb to pull the hair back from the area being buzzed. The remaining area of hair is shaped into a circle surrounding Anna's crown. Clemmie has shaved back more than two inches from Anna's forehead.

“Wow, I wasn't really imagining shaving back that much,” Isolde laughs. “But it looks quite sweet, doesn't it Annie?”

“Yes, Divinissima,” She smiles, although sweet is hardly the word she'd use.

“You need to shave her nice and smooth. Get rid of those eyebrows too. I've always known her without brows and I don't know why Pamela has let them grow back in.”

Clemmie lathers Anna's head and brows and shaves her expertly. The sensation of the razor passing over the front of her scalp reminds Anna of her first encounter with Isolde, although on that day she remembers that Pamela adorned her head with a series of cuts. She still feels disconnected from the reflection she sees, and knows that she has yet to accept that she will never be slim again.

Anna blushes as she sees herself looking almost bald, a baldness intensified by the absence of brows. She finds this image of herself distressingly unattractive, but somehow this makes her excited almost to the point of climax. She licks her lips, trying to make it look natural but it comes off as mannered. She does it to expose her split tongue, which Clemmie remarks for the first time.

Anna's remaining hair is dyed an unnatural bluish black and is then enhanced with the addition of long extensions. The black lock hangs eighteen inches down from her crown. Isolde tugs at the hair with some amusement. The rough treatment adds to Anna's feeling of helplessness. Clemmie suggests she tries something, and forms the hair into a ponytail, which she binds tightly at its root with a cord. The base of the tail now forms a tight vertical column, two inches long, from which the soft black hair hangs.

Isolde looks admiringly at Anna. “Very exotic, mysterious. She looks like a slave girl. I love it, Clemmie!”

Anna has to agree. This style makes her feel like she belongs in some harem. She's almost unendurably excited as Clemmie adds her make-up: her face and scalp are whitened, her lips too, with just the centre marked with a touch of red. Her eyes are coarsely outlined with hard edged kohl, her lashes thickened with the addition of a fringe of artificial hair.

Isolde holds Anna's phone before her face to record her newest transformation. “Now, Annie, my good little kitten, say how much you love your new look and thank me.”

Anna knows that this betrayal will be recorded and sent to Pamela, but she knows refusal will result in terrible pain followed by acquiescence. “I love my makeover, thank you Divinissima.” Isolde makes her repeat her message three times, recording each. She passes the phone back to Anna and instructs her to choose her favourite of the videos and to send it to Pamela. She does so without resistance. She'll face Pamela's wrath but for now she is blissfully happy to be Isolde's plaything.

When Anna arrives back at Isolde's apartment she's no longer the dowdy figure of the morning. She's dressed in a full-skirted black velvet dress, the tight bodice of which covers neither arms nor shoulders. It shows off Anna's ample belly and forces her large breasts up so that she has a very dramatic cleavage. Everywhere she's gone, Anna has been stared at, and she feels a joy in her capacity to shock.

Isolde had followed Anna into Clemmie's chair and now her mohawk is noticeably shorter, and dyed a vibrant yellow, although the locks which dangle before her ears are black. The sides are freshly shaved and Anna can't stop thinking about being allowed to caress her lover's scalp.

Anna is told to kneel before the seated Isolde, who leans forward to kiss her. Anna moans as she feels Isolde's tongue probing into the wound in her own, repeatedly trusting deep into the cleft, which is so raw that it brings tears to her eyes. “Tongue out,” Isolde says, quietly but firmly.

Anna is distressed to feel Isolde's teeth sliding over the edge of the wound. She feels the teeth close on one of the stitches, starting to nibble at the suture. The pain is intense as she feels the tension increase on the already tight stitch. Everything about this situation makes it unbearable, the pain, the fear of being bitten... Anna wants to plead for mercy but she's deprived of speech and so can only make a long pitiful wail. There's a brief sharp sting as the stitch pulls free then a sense of release. Anna is crying as she begs Isolde not to bite out the remaining stitches, but her request is greeted by her young lover spitting the knotted suture in her face.

“Tongue out,” Isolde repeats. Despite her dramatic hairstyle and the heavy make-up, Isolde still looks very young and girlish, and it's hard to believe she's out of her teens. Nevertheless, Anna finds her terrifying and can't resist her authority. Nor is it as simple as Anna obeying because she knows that any insubordination will be firmly punished. She deeply desires to please Isolde.

Anna tries to adjust to the sensations of feeling the teeth gnawing at the stitches, but each one seems to get worse. The last two stitches are deep inside the cleft of her tongue and it's a struggle for Isolde to reach them, but she won't allow Anna any respite. Anna weeps with joy as the last one comes out. She can immediately feel that her tongue moves more easily without the constricting sutures.

Isolde strokes her bald head and soothes her. “I know that was horrible for you and you cried like a little girl but you endured it well. You're so beautiful now, my lovely slave girl. You've earned the right to wear my collar now. Does that please you?”

“Yes, Divinissima,” Anna purrs. Her voice still has a soft lisp.

Isolde takes a large metal ring from a velvet lined box. The ring is perfectly smooth and round but bears a small cylinder, pierced with a hole, hanging from the front. Isolde opens up the ring, then clicks it into place. “You can't open this, nor can Pamela. How do you think she'll react to that?”

“She'll be furious, Divinissima,” Anna says, blushing as she realises what a difficult position she finds herself in.

“And what about if I add more tattoos?”

“Even worse, I suppose. I think she'd probably cover them up.”

“Like she did with your arms?” Anna nods. “Then tomorrow when we get you tattooed we'd better go with the style she's used on your arms, hadn't we? Solid black is impossible to cover up.”

Isolde caresses the solid black bands on Anna's arms as she looks up and down her body, imagining how Anna will look with more tattoos. “Do you want me to tattoo you? Even if it causes lots of trouble with your little fat girlfriend?”

Anna adores Pamela but in this moment she wants to betray her. Isolde brings out something reckless and cruel in her, even though she knows that the cruelty will be turned back against her. “Yes, Divinissima,” she croons. “Please tattoo me. Make me your slave girl!” Her obedience to Pamela, so hard won, is shattered by a moment of desire.

Isolde seems to take a delight in Anna's treachery. Clearly it arouses her to destroy Anna's loyalty and her usual inscrutability is washed away by a surge of passion which astonishes and thrills Anna. The two lovers seem to become one through a night of limitless pleasure.

Anna is woken by a hand stroking at her bald scalp. She looks into Isolde's eyes, a warm smile spreading over her features as she recalls the wonderful night. Isolde looks a different girl without her make-up, and now wears her glasses. She's recognisable as the girl Anna met all those months previously in the sex shop, despite her radically different haircut. She greets Anna's waking with a gentle kiss.

“I could barely sleep with excitement. I keep thinking about how I want to alter you. Did Pamela say it was OK for me to make some permanent changes?”

“You know she didn't, Divinissima,” Anna whispers, still self conscious about how her modified tongue affects her speech. “Quite the opposite, she gave strict orders for me not to permit any changes, even to my hair.”

“You're such a wicked girlfriend, aren't you, Anna? You betrayed my friend Pamela when you begged me to let me fix your hair. Why didn't you tell me she didn't want it?” Anna wears an embarrassed smile as she listens to Isolde's playful teasing. Embarrassed because she knows that there's some truth in the accusation of betrayal. Isolde traces a nail over the tattoo on Anna's cheek, her mark of loyalty to her mistress. “Did you desire me too much to remember your promises?”

“You stir up something inside me, Divinissima. I can't control myself.”

“I think I need to mark your other cheek to show that you're mine now. Then you'll be at least as much mine as Pamela's.” Anna can't hide her dislike of this plan. Her time with Isolde is an interlude, a mere week, after which she'll return to Pamela and Julie, the women she loves. “Oh, Annie, do you think you can get out of this? I do love an opportunity to show you how much I can control you. You're beautifully weak and that's such a turn on for me. I'm sure in an hour I can make you beg to be taken to the tattooist and have your face marked.”

Anna shakes her head sullenly. She wants to deny Isolde's claim but knows that she's so expert in inflicting pain that Anna's resistance will surely be worn away. She knows that it will be difficult for Pamela to accept her if she returns bearing Isolde's mark as prominently as her own, that if she allows the tattoo on her face then she will jeopardise the relationship. “Please, Divinissima, not that. It would be a humiliation for Pamela and I couldn't bear to hurt her.”

“You asked to be tattooed last night, against Pam's wishes. It's not your place to tell me what is and isn't acceptable. You've made yourself so desirable that I want to make you mine, at least so much that I can share you with Pamela. You're my slave girl, as you told me so often last night. And my slave girl bears my mark. You should worry less about hurting Pamela and more about the hurt I'll inflict on you. That will only cease when you agree to my mark being inked on your cheek.”

Anna sits in a wooden chair, her ankles tied to her thighs with a cord that digs deeply into her flesh. Her wrists are tied to the back of the chair and she swallows anxiously as she looks at Isolde who has been silently gazing at her for some minutes.

“We'll start with a nice shave, Anna. That will help relax you, and give you some time to see sense and be spared all the suffering and humiliation that your pride is going to cause.” Anna cooperates as Isolde ties up the single remaining lock of hair, brushes her head with shaving foam, then slowly uses a safety razor to shave every trace of hair. She shaves Anna a second time, dragging the blades up the back of her head, always shaving against the direction of growth to ensure as close a shave as possible.

“Would you like your eyebrows shaved today, Anna?” Isolde asks, breaking the silence.

“Yes, Divinissima,” she pants. The sensations of being shaved smooth have made Anna feel excited, despite the threat of torture which hangs heavy.

“Well that's too bad. But the good news is that today I'm finally going to get your brows permanently removed. And once that's done you're getting brows tattooed on. Pamela has been talking about it for ever but she's indecisive. I'm not going to procrastinate like her. Is that a smile, Anna? You want this, don't you?”

“No, Divinissima,” Anna pleads. “Pamela needs to decide these things for me. She's not indecisive, she just likes to play.”

“Yes, that's indecision!” Isolde barks. “I like to act, as you can see.” She now turns uses the razor to ensure that Anna's pubic mound is entirely hairless, pressing the blades tight to Anna's skin, and causing her to flinch more than once as the blades injure the delicate folds of her sex.

“Was this your first tattoo from Pamela?” Anna nods. “It doesn't look right, does it? Those little scrolls look a bit insignificant. And now that your arms are all brutalist black blocks, I think a little touch up would make your tattoo more fitting with your current style.”

Anna sits in silence. She regrets having agreed to Isolde's idea to tattoo her last night, regrets her betrayal of Pamela. But now she's helpless and Isolde is about to inflict agony on her until she will agree to anything she demands.

“You're just going to agree to everything I say when we get to the tattooist's, aren't you, slave? You'll ask for my mark on your cheek, and if I see even a hint of defiance, as much as a slight hesitation, I'll have Pamela's mark lasered off and keep you all to myself forever.”

For a moment Anna considers that this would perhaps be a better plan than having to face Pamela's anger when she sees how much Isolde has changed her, but then curses herself. How could she endure never seeing Pamela again?

Isolde tugs on her nipple ring, ending Anna's inner debate. “I asked you a question. Please don't ignore me. Getting me riled up probably isn't a good move for a girl in your position.”

“Divinissima, I don't want to be tattooed, but I know I can't resist you so yes, I agree to be tattooed.”

Isolde smiles cruelly. “A grudging 'I don't want it, but if you must...' isn't good enough. I want to see some enthusiasm. And if you don't have any enthusiasm then you'd better learn to act, because it might save you some suffering.”

Isolde puts on some surgical gloves and opens a tube, which Anna naively thinks is toothpaste. “This is a heat cream that's used to treat muscular injuries. I've been able to try a lot of different ones and this is by far the most potent. The thing is, it causes an unbearable burning on mucous membranes, and it's just as bad on freshly shaved skin.” She squirts a pile onto her fingertips and holds it before Anna's face menacingly. “And, I'm sure I don't need to tell you, if the skin is broken, say a few shaving nicks, the burning will be far worse.”

Anna finds herself turning away from Isolde, as if that could somehow protect her. In truth, she's helplessly exposed. Isolde reaches down and with a firm slap applies the ointment to Anna's mound. She starts to massage the greasy unguent over her flesh and Anna feels a warmth growing, some stinging immediately noticeable where the razor nicked her. Anna chews her lip, discomforted by the stinging, but she's endured far worse. Has Isolde overestimated the power of the compound?

She keeps stroking at Anna's sex, and the burning grows more intense. A finger, heavily coated with the cream, slips inside Anna's slit. It should be erotic, pleasurable, but instead Anna groans. Clearly the mucous membranes absorb the compound more quickly. The sensation is unbearable and Anna's moaning increases. But the awfulness only increases and soon it feels like she's on fire. She begs Isolde for mercy, begs for her to wash away this burning.

Isolde remains grimly silent, and, instead of providing salve for Anna, she adds to her suffering. A device resembling a surgical gas mask is fitted over Anna's mound, and the tubing hisses as a pump withdraws the air. Anna's tissues bloat to fill the cup, darkly flushed with blood. The intensity of the burning increases and Anna cries out in despair.

Anna sobs, she curses, threatens, offers her obedience, then begins the cycle again. Isolde remains silent. Each minute seems like an hour and finally Anna is exhausted and can speak no more. The only sound is Anna's muted crying.

“Anna, you need this, don't you? You need my pain and you need my pleasure. And you need to obey. You want it all, don't you?” Anna nods, exhausted, broken.

The pump is turned off and the seal broken as the cup is eased free. Anna wails in delight as Isolde smooths a layer of a balm over her flesh, and works it inside her vagina. The burning is stilled and Anna gives soft sighs of delight. “Tell me what you want,” Isolde says softly.

“I want your mark,” Anna says.

She arrives at the tattooist's knowing that her appearance makes everyone stare. Isolde has tied her hair so tightly that it feels like it will tear out at the roots. Her brows are sore as she's already undergone an electrolysis treatment, and although she's been informed that further treatments are necessary to ensure complete hairlessness, she knows that she will never be able to grow brows again. She wears the same velvet dress as on the previous day, since she has no other clothes, apart from the dowdy outfit in which she travelled.

She's ushered into a private room where Isolde introduces herself to Amity, the tattooist, and refers to Anna only as Slave.

“Slave, tell the nice lady what you want first.”

“I want your mark on my face, Divinissima,” Anna says. She knows that her performance today is being ruthlessly assessed. Isolde has told her that to even think about Pamela is forbidden. Anna must think ahead no further than this evening, when she will be Isolde's. A good performance will make Isolde very passionate, a bad performance very angry, which will mean a further treatment of heat cream. Anna is trying very hard to control her thoughts.

Isolde has prepared a design for the mark and she views it with Amity on her laptop. A transfer is prepared and applied to Anna's left cheek, mirroring the position of Pamela's mark. Isolde nods as Amity asks if the size and placement are good. “Let's make it permanent,” she says cheerfully.

Anna sits back in the chair and allows the needle to fire ink into her face. She allows herself only practical thoughts: keep her neck relaxed so that it won't ache from tension later, keep her mouth moist so that the pain of the needle remains endurable. The needling sting is intense, but Anna is becoming hardened to pain and the sensations seem slight compared to what she tolerated earlier. It's a small tattoo and Anna knows it won't take long. When it's completed she allows Amity to scrub away the blood and excess ink. Isolde insists that she looks in the mirror to see herself.

Anna sees that her cheek now bears a gothic “I”, a particularly floridly designed one. It's black and thick, and looks much more prominent than the “Ψ” on her right cheek. Anna smiles shyly as she thinks how delighted Isolde must be to see her tattooed like this, and thanks her tattooist, then Isolde, ensuring that she is more fulsome in her praise of the latter.

“You look so much more beautiful now,” Isolde purrs. “Just this little tattoo was all it took. Although I think some more tattoos will make you irresistible.”

Anna smiles and says she agrees. She's instructed to undress and complies. She's still somewhat ashamed of her body, and in truth she would love to restore her figure to the slim physique that was hers for so much of her life. However, she knows that realistically this is unlikely ever to be allowed her.

Isolde starts to manipulate her breasts, lifts them by pulling up on her huge nipple rings. “I wanted something to mark these puppies,” she says to Amity. “Something black and vivid, in keeping with her arms. Would you be able to mark thick black crosses on them?”

Anna is marked for her new tattoos. The width of the crosses is to be determined by the size of her areolae, which have now stretched to more than two inches. Two wide vertical bands are marked, starting just an inch or two below the collar bone, passing down over the nipples and ending at the base of the breasts. As Amity marks a horizontal bar, equally thick, she asks how wide this should be. Isolde decides that the horizontal should connect the two nipples and extend at the sides onto Anna's ribs, ending beneath her armpit.

Anna lies back and allows herself to be tattooed. She tries to imagine herself as a block of inert flesh, insensate. The buzzing of the needle will cause her no pain. She is mere material to be shaped to something aesthetic to please Isolde, this is her purpose, and only this will allow her to live.

Surprisingly, she is able to achieve her aims well. The pain seems remote and time seems suspended. She closes her eyes and drifts into a thoughtless space. She hears a voice come to her from time to time to ask something. “Do you need a break?” someone asks. “No thank you,” she murmurs.

Deeper into this trance she passes until her consciousness seems to retreat. She's finally broken out of this restful state by Isolde's calls and suddenly she wakes. Anna is helped to sit up but her head is swimming and she's unable to stand. She feels a pride as she looks into Isolde's eyes and sees how joyful she is. Glancing down at her body she sees the thick crosses which divide her breasts. The black looks livid, darker than the tattoos on her arms, which have lightened slightly. She notices that her pubic tattoo has been renewed, extended. She realises that in her torpor she was vaguely aware that this was taking place but only now sees what has been done. The scrolling designs which illuminated her tattoo have now been obscured, and the entire pubic triangle is now a sooty black. But another area above the original tattoo has now been inked, so that the tattoo now forms a lozenge, the upper point extended into a fine spike which reaches into her navel (she will later discover that the lower angle of the tattoo is similarly extended with a line that reaches to her anus).

Anna has a drink to help restore her strength and soon she's able to rise from the bed and regard herself in a mirror. She senses a cloud of unhappiness, something which suggests that to allow herself to be tattooed so radically was folly, but she won't allow these thoughts to occupy her, to resolve themselves. She can feel the intensity of Isolde's delight and that causes her to feel the same. Allowing Isolde to reshape her means a deep connection is established. She dreams of becoming a part of Isolde, an extension of her, until they can feel every emotion together.

“You look so pretty, don't you, Slave?” Isolde whispers, making a euphoric Anna blush. “I want another tattoo, a secret one that no one but us will know about. Something that says 'Isolde's Slave'” Anna agrees enthusiastically.

Anna can see that this isn't a spontaneous idea; Isolde has thought it through. The tattoo is to be inked on the inside of Anna's upper lip. Anna is taken to the chair and told to hold up her lip, curled back to expose her teeth. Amity suggests that this is not an easy position to hold and that Anna will struggle to hold the lip immobile.

“What if we pierced the side of her lip? Put two rings in and tied them up to keep her lip peeled back.”

Amity looks dubious. “Really? That would hurt a lot you know.”

Isolde laughs. “Slave, you can take a little pain like this, can't you?” Anna nods.

Anna has allowed herself to believe that she's now able to endure a lot of pain, but as the needle penetrates her lip she feels an anguish. The pain is horribly intense and she feels a tear roll onto her cheek. The clamp which holds her lip is raised as Amity manipulates the flesh to allow the ring to pass through the newly pierced hole; every touch, every movement causes a new agony.

Once both rings are in place a length of silk thread is tied to each. Anna is made to curl back her lip and Isolde wrenches up the threads and ties them off at Anna's ponytail. She groans as she feels the tugging on the new rings. The tension on her fresh piercings is hideous and it feels like the fine rings will cut through the wounded flesh. She tries to ease away from the pain, tries to remember how she coped so successfully with the hours of tattooing, but there seems no escape. And Isolde seems intent on maintaining her attention, as if she understands that this will intensify Anna's suffering.

“Those braces on your teeth need to come off, don't they, Slave? They seem to belong to another age.” She asks Amity to bring her some pliers and determines to remove them immediately. The braces are cemented in place and prove more stubborn than Isolde had imagined. She manages to snip the wire of the upper brace (Anna feels like her teeth will crack as the tension increases), then bends the ends back and cuts them free, so that the remaining fragments, glued onto Anna's back teeth will be invisible. Anna can feel a jagged loop of wire rubbing against her cheek and knows it will cause some injury but daren't complain. Encouraged by her success, Isolde chops away the lower brace and looks pleased to have restored her slave's smile, a smile which is grotesquely forced by the distortion caused by the rings.

Anna is now free to have her secret tattoo marked. Amity dries the flesh and applies a transfer. The needle presses against her lip and Anna winces. Why is this so much more painful than the extensive tattoos which now disfigure her breasts and pussy? Every touch makes her long for release, but time seems to extend. Anna remembers how Isolde once preferred to be known as Izzy and resents her adoption of the fuller name, which means extra letters to tattoo.

In reality, the letters take little time for Amity to complete and soon Anna is able to see her latest tattoo in a mirror, neatly inked in a font which resembles an old typewriter. The distortion of her lip, her teeth exposed like some strange rodent, is another humiliation for Anna, and she imagines being exhibited like this. She looks repulsive and scary, yet she comes to realise almost immediately that it's something she longs for. Isolde asks her if she likes her tattoo, and Anna replies in a voice which is deformed by the immobilisation of her lip.

“You've been a good girl so you deserve to be freed,” Isolde says proudly. Anna's eyes must give away something of her desire, a flash of disappointment at her release, which Isolde recognises. “What is it, Slave? Tell me why you look disappointed.” Anna hesitates to express what she feels, largely because she finds it so hard to put into words. Isolde repeats her demand angrily.

“It looks... so ugly, shameful,” she gurgles. “But it exposes the tattoo which shows my love for you. And part of me wants that.”

“To show your love or to be shamed? Both, I suppose.”

“Yes, both, Divinissima,” Anna says, drooling.

“You do look a little disgusting though. I could hardly take you on the train like this, dribbling all over the seats. Maybe I'll display you at a club tomorrow. Does that please you?”

“Perfect, Divinissima,” Anna says, aware that she's allowing herself to descend into a new low of humiliation.

As Anna dresses she takes a last look in the mirror. She takes in the new eyebrows which have been tattooed in black ink over her forehead, thin arches, though the lines broaden toward the inside. They're higher than her natural brows and give Anna a look of surprise, and a strange innocence, although she feels anything but innocent. She doesn't like them, she admits, and wishes Isolde had gone for a less extreme look, but she has to accept that they're part of her now. Her most recent modification was to have piercings added to the ends of her tongue, and the studs which occupy the holes now click against her teeth at every movement. Isolde is keen for Anna's tongue to be stretched to maintain its length, if not increase it; the new piercings will allow this to be accomplished.

The low cut dress exposes two wide black lines rising up from Anna's breasts, a hint of her new tattoos. Isolde thanks Amity for her hours of work and suggests that Anna may make a return visit soon. “She has all of her back to work on. And her scalp too!” Amity has made no secret of her pleasure in working on Anna. Her questions to Isolde have made it clear that the nature of her relationship with Anna fascinates the tattooist. She tells Isolde how much she would like to add to Anna's modifications.

Isolde permits no further visits to Amity during the trip, and Anna's modifications progress no further. As promised, Anna is taken to a club, her lip tied up to expose her slave tattoo. Isolde adds to her discomfort by placing rings in the tips of her tongue and linking these rings to those in the outside of her upper lip. Anna has no functional speech for the duration of the night. She's blindfolded before entering the club and is subjected to numerous assaults. Isolde has dressed her in a white bikini, “All the better to show off your wonderful big belly.” Anna is powerless to protect herself as she feels numerous hands explore every orifice, playing with her breasts, mocking her bald scalp, tugging at her piercings. Anna finds herself crying, angry with Isolde (and herself) for permitting this, yet at the end of the night, she feels a magical level of arousal. Somehow, the experience is transformed into something pleasurable.

A few days later Anna rises from her bed to be told that today she will return to Pamela. The news shocks her. She's allowed herself to be consumed with desire for Isolde and has fallen deeply in love with her. She has (as ordered) not allowed herself to think about Pamela, and begs Isolde to let her stay. Isolde hugs her and says that that's not possible. “This flat isn't big enough for two people, and there's no way I can afford to have you living here. You eat so much now, Anna!” Even hearing her own name is difficult for Anna; for days she's only been called Slave.

“I'll get a job, earn some money,” she says. “We can save up and move into somewhere bigger. I want to be yours, Divinissima. I'll diet too, lose weight. I can survive on next to nothing.”

“Anna, I love you too, but you have to go back to Pamela and Julie. Don't you love them more than me?”

A sad, confused Anna shakes her head. “I don't know anything any more. I've not even thought about them in days. How can I say I love someone that I forget so easily?”

“The normal rules don't apply to you. Pamela and I can get inside your head and control your thoughts. Maybe in a few days you'll forget about me.”

Anna starts to cry. “I don't want that. I want to be yours forever.”

“You'll come back to me, I'll make sure of that. Maybe Pamela and I can come to an arrangement to divide your time between us. Can you live with that?” Anna nods and embraces her Divinissima.

Anna asks for a last shave before departing and Isolde willingly agrees. She winds the lock of long hair into a bun at her crown and smooths a layer of white foam over Anna's scalp with her fingers, lovingly massaging the soap into her nape.

“You know my biggest disappointment of your visit, Anna? You didn't once ask me to smoke. Don't you like me smoking?”

“No,” Anna replies nervously. “I'm glad you've stopped.”

Isolde wipes her hands and tilts Anna's face up so that their eyes meet. “We both know that's not true. I only smoke for you and I know how it turns you on. I think you should beg me to smoke for you.”

Anna wants to resist, but she thinks back to the images and videos of Isolde smoking, and knows that every one of them has made her lose control, has inspired her to a rich orgasm. She shivers and whispers: “Please Divinissima, smoke for me.”

Isolde opens a pack of cigarettes and shakes them until one stands proud of the others. She extends the pack towards Anna and tells her to lift the cigarette with her tongue. Anna has been made to exercise her newly split tongue and has achieved a modest level of dexterity. She slides the cigarette free, and it dangles from her tongue. She then awkwardly lifts it towards Isolde's lips. She lights the cigarette and takes a deep drag, holds it, then exhales slowly, the smoke blowing in a fine jet into Anna's mouth.

“Next time you visit I'll have to train you to strike a match with that tongue,” she laughs. Isolde holds the cigarette in the side of her lips as she drags a safety razor up Anna's temple. Anna stares at her in the mirror, thinking how wrong it looks for Isolde yet adoring the girl she's become. The sweet, innocent, bookish girl she met only a few months previously is now wearing a mohawk and smoking to show her corruption. She's the sexiest woman Anna has ever met, and she despairs at having to leave her.

“Please, Divinissima, may we spend a last hour in bed together?” she pleads. Isolde smiles indulgently. “Before we do, may I shave your sides? I liked it when they were smooth.”

Since Isolde's mohawk was refreshed at the beginning of Anna's visit the stubble has remained untouched on the sides of her head. Isolde takes the cigarette from her lips and blows smoke in Anna's face. “I was thinking of growing it out, Anna. I suppose I could but I'd need something in return...”

“You know I'll do anything for you, Divinissima. I can't resist you.”

Isolde once more clamps the cigarette in her lips and shaves the stubble from the front of Anna's head. “You're to start smoking then.” Anna winces. She doesn't want that. “It will be our secret bond when you're with Pamela. When you think of me you'll have a cigarette in secret, Pamela mustn't know. Just as she mustn't know about your lip tattoo. Some things will remain secret.”

Anna follows her orders: she takes a cigarette from the pack, gripping the tip between the ends of her tongue, then slips it into her lips. Isolde lets her take in how she looks in the mirror before lighting it. “No coughing!” she insists. “Just take the smoke into your mouth for now. And when you exhale, take the cigarette in your tongue so you can open your lips.”

Anna does as she's told, her vision clouding as her eyes water copiously. The smoke takes her breath away and she can only suppress a cough with the greatest of will. “You'll soon learn to love it,” Isolde smiles. “It's our special bond now.”

Isolde is especially gentle today as she shaves Anna's head. Anna tries to recall how she looked when she arrived, the dowdy clothes and the ridiculous bowlcut. Isolde has transformed her and she loves how she looks, despite the crazy brows, even despite the cigarette she bears in her mouth. When she opens her mouth and extends her tongue, which grips the cigarette, she thinks how strange, repulsive, alien even, it looks, but Isolde smiles each time and her joy is infectious. Anna doesn't know how she will be able to leave her.

Anna looks at her phone and sees that the caller is Isolde, which makes her heart beat faster. She glances around the shop to ensure that she's not being observed before answering.

“Hello, Anna. Missing me?” Isolde asks.

“Oh, yes, I am. You've no idea how much. It feels like a year since I saw you. I can't believe it's only two weeks.”

“And has Pamela forgiven you yet? I've tried calling her and emailing but she's not responding.”

“No, she's furious. She's not speaking to me. She shouts and screams at me sometimes but never speaks to me.”

“Anna, you little bitch, I can't hear you sucking on a cigarette. You should be when you're talking to me. Light up.”

“I'm in a shop so I can't.”

“But you have cigarettes with you?” Anna admits she doesn't, for fear of discovery by Pamela. “Then go and buy a pack and smoke one. Stay on the line. I have plenty of time.”

Anna obeys Isolde, but as she attempts to fill in the time with chat she's silenced. “Tell me when you're smoking, then we'll talk. Until then just stay silent.”

Five minutes pass before Anna is able to light a cigarette, standing before the newsagent where she bought the cigarettes and a lighter. “Take a deep drag for me,” Isolde instructs. Anna does so, barely able to prevent herself from coughing. “Have you been smoking in secret like I asked?”

“Yes, Isolde, but I've only had three,” she admits. “Pamela has forbidden me from smoking and I don't often get a chance to do it. Her and Julie are watching me.”

“That's OK, my love. I'm just pleased that you think of me and smoke. I know you're risking a lot. Anyway, tell me about how Pamela reacted when you got home.”

“She was furious, I'm sure you can imagine. She made me undress and I thought she was going to cry when she saw how you'd had me tattooed. She said she was going to get all the new tattoos lasered off but I think Carmen's told her that it's not really going to remove them fully, there would still be a trace of them. She's said your mark on my face has to go, even if it means a skin graft and a nasty scar. She hasn't mentioned it for days so I'm not sure what she's thinking now.”

“And your nice hairstyle? Did she approve of that?”

“Definitely not. She made me kneel in front of her as soon as I got home. She was going to shave me bald but then she changed her mind. She's told me now that she's not going to touch my hair, so I have some fuzz grown in. The extensions are going to be left till they fall out, she said.”

“Poor little thing. I bet you're being deprived of pleasure, aren't you?”

“Of course. She's strapped me into a chastity device. You've no idea how uncomfortable it is. I'm going mad with frustration.”

“And so am I, Anna. That's why I had to get in touch. I've decided I want to be with you.”

There's an awkward silence. Anna is flattered but... “I couldn't leave Pamela. Or Julie. I love you Isolde, and I miss you terribly. But I can't leave her.”

“That wasn't my intention. I want us all to be together.”

“One big happy family? I don't think Pamela would see it like that. She likes you, at least she did, but she sees you as a rival. Or are you prepared to put all your instincts aside and become her sub?”

“Is that what you'd like?”

“No,” Anna replies without hesitation. “You're not a sub at all. I love how wickedly you treat me. But Pamela would never share us with you on a full time basis. In fact I think she's done with the temporary loans after our last rendezvous.”

“Then there's only one solution. I have to make Pamela submit to me. I want her as a twenty-four seven slave, alongside you and Julie. Are you prepared to help me to make it happen?”

“But Isolde, that's not going to happen! Pamela isn't a sub, she's too...”

“Anna, stop over-thinking. I'm smarter than you, smarter than Pamela too. I can do this but only with your support and maybe Julie's. Is this what you want, yes or no?”

Anna feels very emotional. She's being asked to betray the woman she loves. But if Isolde could do what she promises then perhaps she could be even happier. “Yes,” she finally groans. “But it could go wrong, Isolde, couldn't it?”

“That's a possibility, yes. And you may have to make a decision then, me or Pamela. Are you going to be loyal to me if you have to choose?”

“Oh Isolde, I don't know. This is so hard.”

“Light another cigarette, Anna. You're mine now. Failure isn't an option. I can bring out what I want in Pamela. We just need to get the four of us together for a little while. Soon she'll be lower than you in our hierarchy. She just needs to admit to herself that slavery provides her with more pleasure than being your mistress. Now get that cigarette lit and cum for me right where you are.”

Anna can't control herself any longer. She can't shake the image of Pamela begging to be Isolde's slave, being punished terribly before Isolde consents. Despite her pussy being locked away from her touch, Anna can induce a deep orgasm when she's this aroused. She takes a drag on her cigarette and shivers with pleasure. There are people walking only a few feet away from her but she doesn't care. Isolde makes her feel blissfully happy.

Anna returns from her shopping expedition and is surprised to see Pamela is home. She'd expected her to still be working and now she feels threatened. Not only is she worried that she'll smell cigarettes on her, despite the mints she's consumed, she knows that an examination of her sex will show the indisputable signs of her recent orgasm.

“Phone!” Pamela demands coldly. She scans through the menu screens. “Did you speak to anyone while you were out?” Anna shakes her head but she knows she'd a bad liar. She's sure her deception won't fool Pamela. “You've deleted your call log. Why did you do that?”

“I... don't know.”

“I tried calling you when you were out. I got a message to say you were on another call.”

“But...” Anna feels her face redden. But Pamela is surely lying. She'd have got a call waiting signal.

“You didn't get a tone to indicate another call?” Anna almost agrees, only barely checks herself in time from giving away her deception. “I changed your settings. You were on a call for at least ten minutes. One more lie and I'll throw you out. Was it Isolde?”

Anna sees that more lies will only deepen her plight. “It was,” she admits, lowering her head in shame.

“What did she want?”

“She said she missed me. She wanted to know how I am.”

“How sweet. And how are you, Anna?”

“I'm... troubled.”

“Poor little baby. Troubled. Ahhh.” Pamela's bitterness saddens Anna.

“You knew Isolde would make me do things. And you know I'm not strong enough to resist. I deserve to be punished but please, Pamela, this can't go on forever. I love you but I can't bear the way you look at me.”

Pamela comes closer and sniffs. “So you want me to forgive you for your betrayal with that... bitch?” Anna nods. “Which betrayal are we talking about? The numerous ones when you stayed with her, or today when you did what she pleased?” Anna can't defend herself. She stares at the floor, wishing this would all be taken from her. “Smoking, weren't you?” Anna's head nods in confirmation. “I can smell it. I can smell more though. You need a bath, don't you? You cum too easily. I regret training you so well. Get out of my sight.”

Anna does as ordered, goes to take a bath to stay out of Pamela's way. It's barely begun filling when Pamela enters and turns off the hot water. “The electric bill is getting too high. Don't use hot water unless I say you can.” Anna has no choice but to get in. She groans as the water seems to tighten her skin. Her muscles twitch, seem to try to resist climbing into the icy bath.

“You know that smoking is bad for your teeth? If I catch you smoking again you'll be going to the dentist and coming home with a full set of dentures. You're right, I can't keep treating you like this, it has to end. But if you keep going behind my back you're going to regret it. Isolde wouldn't want what's left of you.” She scoops up a jug of cold water from the bath, throws it in Anna's face and walks out of the bathroom.

Anna realises that her latest indiscretion has pushed Pamela further into resentment. Julie returns home that evening with a new hairstyle. Though the cut is barely changed from what she's worn in recent months, the quiffed crop, the back and sides have been taken very short, faded close to her scalp. The colour is entirely new, bleached a snowy white with the front coloured with numerous fine streaks of blue. Julie has been losing weight in the time since Anna's sojourn and Anna thinks she looks prettier than ever. She feels a little thrill as she sees Pamela greet her lover, the warmth of their kiss is beautiful, they are beautiful. But Pamela seems to realise immediately that her actions are providing some pleasure for Anna and breaks off abruptly.

“Anna, are you getting turned on?” she snarls. Anna looks ashamed and admits that she always loves to see Pamela's affection for Julie, and that she loves how Julie looks.

“Yes, but I don't want you to feel aroused. You don't deserve it. And I can't think of a better punishment for a slut like you than to be unable to feel anything sexual. So I've decided that you need to be medicated for a while. A few months perhaps.”

Anna feels tears rise but makes no protest, merely nods. Julie takes some boxes from her bag and passes them to Pamela, who studies the labels and takes out the cylindrical pill boxes. “Open up!” Pamela shouts and Anna lets her mouth gape. Pamela drops some tablets into her mouth, ordering Anna to swallow each separately. No drink.

“I suppose I should have looked at the side-effects. Lets have a look,” Pamela says, extracting a finely printed sheet of paper from the box. “Weight gain!” She laughs cruelly. “Julie, do you think it's even possible for the hog to get bigger? I mean, look at the size of her!” Julie joins in with the joke. “Oh, and look at this. Acne! Poor Anna had such nice skin too. I do hope it doesn't scar. Imagine her face all pock marked.” She comes closer and strokes Anna's smooth cheek. “Did I say I hope it doesn't? Actually I don't care in the slightest. It's been a long time since you were attractive.”

This is too much for Anna, who starts to softly cry. “These tablets will take away your libido, Anna,” Pamela continues, seemingly unaware of, or at least unconcerned by, the distress she's causing. “You won't feel aroused, especially since I'm going to avoid any situations where you might find pleasure. And the other tablet is a sedative so you'll spend most of your time asleep. It'll help you to get over your longings to be with that other slut.”

Anna is taken to her bedroom, sits on the floor as Julie and Pamela remove the few items of furniture. She's hardly able to keep her eyes open. When the room is bare she's made to lie on a board in the middle of the floor, a strip of plywood with numerous metal fittings around the edge. She's so sleepy that she can't make sense of what's going on. She just needs to sleep, and very soon she does.

Anna awakes in panic. She's lying on her back in a cage barely big enough to contain her. The top is so low that it presses against her breasts and belly. Her arms are stiff as they jut out of the sides of the cage. The wrists are loosely bound which makes it impossible to move them to another position, and also means that Anna must remain in her supine posture. The top of the cage is metal and Anna can only see anything by looking through the bars which form the sides. She calls weakly for help but no one seems to be in the room with her. She's overcome with claustrophobia, a panic rising in her. She starts to call out desperately but no succour is given. Eventually, hoarse, exhausted, she falls asleep again.

Anna has no way to tell how much later it is when she wakes again. She's cold and hungry, but her main concern is that her bladder needs to be emptied. Again she calls out but her loneliness is unrelieved. She feels more afraid than ever in her life. If Pamela sustains this treatment she'll go mad. She's read about the damage isolation causes to mental well-being. But she has the added torture of being contained in this cage. Her back is already sore and she knows that if she stays in this cage for a long time then the skin will break down and ulcerate, especially since she's so overweight now. She's ready to give in to Pamela already, to beg for her forgiveness. But she knows that Pamela's anger hasn't been assuaged. She must endure this hell for as long as Pamela chooses.

Her isolation is total. A few times a day Anna is allowed to rise from the cage (the closure opening via a remote mechanism) although the windows are boarded and a dim light shines constantly so Anna has no way to measure time. She relieves herself in a bucket, cleans herself as best she can with the roll of toilet paper. Then she must eat the large bowl of cold, tasteless porridge, her only nutrition, take her pills and return to the cage, which locks shut as soon as she presses her hands into the restraints. Her waste is removed when she is asleep and Anna has never witnessed this taking place.

After some days (Anna has no idea how many), she's roused and taken out of the bedroom. Pamela tells her that she has a meeting in an hour. Anna looks confused but is so sedated that she's unable to reply. “It's about your job. Remember, you used to have a job? Callie wants to see if you're well enough to return to work. You have to convince her that you're OK. If you do that I'll let you out of the cage. But you do look awful. I think we need to tidy your hair.” Anna smiles and nods, but she's barely able to process what Pamela is saying. She can only focus on the possibility of freeing herself from the cage.

Pamela starts to snip at her hair with scissors. She crops close to the scalp, the cold blades lying in contact with Anna's head as she cuts. Pale brown tufts are freed and fall over Anna's tattooed body. “Cut it nice,” Anna drools but Pamela has no such intention. The long extensions, which have become matted and untidy are cropped away too and Anna is allowed to see a mirror. She's so shocked that for a moment her consciousness breaks through the fog the sedatives have caused. Her hair is hacked and ruined, the stubble marked by lines where the scissors have exposed scalp. Her face looks puffy, mottled, dirty and there's a sprinkling of red spots forming across her cheeks. But it's her eyes that most shock Anna; she looks wounded, haunted, like a frightened animal. “I can't go out like this!” she groans. “Please Pamela, don't do this.”

Pamela is unsympathetic. “You need to go to this meeting,” she laughs. “Maybe some Dutch courage will help.” Before Anna can react, a bottle of whisky is pressed to her lips and she takes a swig but more spills down her. The smell of whisky mingles with the vile odours of her unwashed body. Pamela dresses Anna in the old maternity dress which is creased and stained. No underwear is to be permitted. She's provided with a pair of scuffed shoes, which are at least comfortable and forced out of the door. “You have to be there for eleven, so don't dawdle. You've got twenty minutes.”

Anna used to walk to the office in fifteen minutes but today she's not her old self. She can barely take in the outside world. Everything is too bright, every person is menacing. They look at her with disgust and as she remembers her image in the mirror she can understand why.

Her limbs are weak and stiff from her enforced immobility and Anna arrives late for her appointment. She's stared at by everyone in the office. Some fail to recognise her, she's sure, but then the whispers start up. She must look like she's homeless. She stinks, she's dirty. And her hair! Callie comes out to meet her and takes her into the office, opens a window, although it's not warm. This can only end badly.

Anna's split tongue seems to respond badly to her will. She stumbles over the simplest of responses. Her isolation, her sedation have left her barely able to communicate. Once Anna is seated her anxiety, which has been keeping her alert, is fighting against the drugs and her wakefulness is compromised. She keeps asking Callie to repeat her questions, rambles over her answers. It's immediately apparent to the manager that Anna is unwell, she supposes that she needs psychiatric support. Anna was her favourite and she seems genuinely upset to see her fall. She soon, mercifully, ends the questioning and breaks the bad news that Anna's contract will be terminated on health grounds. Anna starts to cry. She remembers that Pamela had told her that this was a way out of the cage, and although she knew that she couldn't possibly win over Callie, the loss of the last glimmer of hope is painful.

Callie tries to console her. She says Anna is obviously unwell, neglecting herself. “Do you have friends looking out for you?”

“Yes,” Anna says, trying to smile despite her tears. “Pammie, Julela. Julia. Julie.” As an afterthought she whispers, to herself now: “I think Isolde will help me.”

Anna composes herself before her exit from her former workplace, an exit which fills her with shame. She thinks to herself that she could run away, at the very least enjoy some time free of Pamela's punishment, but as soon as she's outside the office she feels overwhelmed, terrified; her only thought is to return to the oppressive safety that Pamela provides. She makes her way unsteadily back toward her home, taking side roads, avoiding people wherever possible. She hears someone calling her name and is surprised to see Julie walking behind her.

“Listen, we don't have much time. Don't say anything about Isolde's plans, OK? Pamela will ask you about it but you have to be brave. This is the only way to end all this madness. A few more days and you'll be free.” Anna nods in agreement, struggling to take all this in.

Julie is suddenly emotional. “Oh, look what she's done to you! Your poor hair! She made you go to the meeting like this?” She runs her fingers over Anna's ruined scalp, which makes her flinch. The touch is too much for her, it feels physically painful to experience human contact. “She's gone too far. We need to let Isolde make her see that she's gone too far.

“Just a few days, Anna, and you'll be free, I promise. Everything will change. Just remember to keep secret everything you promised Isolde.” She gently kisses Anna on the lips, and Anna feels her spirit growing as she looks deep into Julie's pale eyes. She suddenly trusts Isolde to bring her ambitious plan to fulfilment.

Pamela coldly examines Anna on her return. She shows no emotion as Anna describes her humiliation. “You couldn't even keep a boring, mundane job, Anna,” Pamela taunts. “So I think that means you live in the cage a bit longer, doesn't it?” She points for Anna to return to her bedroom and doesn't even accompany her. Anna slips out of her dress and places herself in the cage. As she slips back into her sedative-induced slumber she feels different. Pamela cannot extinguish her resolve. She has hope again. Isolde will save her.

Anna's renewed hope has unforeseen difficulties. She loses track of time again and each time she wakes she expects salvation. Gradually her optimism wanes. Something has gone wrong, she feels. Perhaps Julie betrayed her. Perhaps she only questioned her at Pamela's behest. Her own answers gave away Isolde and now Pamela will guard against Isolde's plan, never allow it to fruit. She wonders how long she can keep her sanity in this situation. Will it take just a few weeks to turn her into a crazy?

One evening she's freed. It comes without warning. She's awoken by the cage being unlocked from the outside. Pamela and Julie are there. She has no way to know how long it's been since she last saw them but both have new hairstyles. Julie's short back and sides have been maintained, the top now somewhat shorter, stiffly standing up above her forehead. It's dyed canary yellow with a streak of black through the right side of her quiff. Pamela's hair is a rich red, similar to the shade it was at their first meeting. The sides are clippered neatly and dyed black, but the rest is set in soft springy curls.

Anna is told to come with them. As usual, getting out of the cage is a struggle, but it's one that was never witnessed before. Pamela tells her to follow and leads her into the bathroom. “Take a bath,” she orders. A steaming bath is already run. Anna needs to be helped in as she's too weak to step over the high side without falling. She cries out as she feels the hot water against her skin. The areas which have borne her weight against the rough board are thinned, red, sensitive. She tries to ease herself into the water but her muscle loss means that she drops inelegantly, splashing water over the side, to Pamela's chagrin. The expected tirade doesn't materialise. She merely glowers at Anna.

Anna washes herself in silence. She's afraid to look at Pamela or Julie. The atmosphere is tense, unpleasant, which Anna can sense even in her sedated state. But it feels slightly unreal to her. She starts to wonder if this isn't a delusion, a manifestation of the desires she's had for since she was imprisoned. She can barely allow herself to take pleasure in washing her soiled body, sure that Pamela will sense her joy and punish her.

Julie shampoos her scalp. Anna finds herself still discomforted by her touch, no matter that she's so gentle, at first shies away from her attentions. But Julie looks at her with sympathy. Anna looks deep into her eyes and Anna knows immediately that Julie is to be trusted. In the moment it takes for their eyes to meet Anna knows that she has a friend.

Once Anna's brutally shorn hair is lathered, Pamela moves in. She stares into Anna's eyes venomously, so that Anna looks away despairingly. Pamela, worryingly, bears a straight razor, which she brings to bear on Anna's scalp. It scrapes away the uneven covering of stubble. Anna will be bald again. She remembers how awful her hair looked and feels some gratitude to think that she will be bald. At least it will look clean. How far I've fallen, she thinks. I'm grateful to be shaved bald.

Pamela washes the clumps of hair away, sluicing the blade under the tap. She studies Anna's brows and looks troubled. “There's hardly any hair grown in. What did you do, Pig?”

“I had electrolysis,” Anna admits timidly.

Pamela makes a long, angry sigh. “Bitch!” she wails. Anna looks at the soapy surface of the bath. She's not sure whether the insult referred to her or to Isolde. The razor drags across her eyebrows anyway. She dares a glance at Pamela, unsure why this is necessary. Pamela laughs derisively. “She didn't do a good job, there are some hairs growing in.” Anna closes her eyes and lets her do her work. She'd been told that some hair would grow back, that a few treatments would be necessary to remove all trace of hair, and she knows that Pamela is aware of this. Her taunting is just to try to discredit Isolde.

Now Pamela takes a tiny pair of scissors and brings them to Anna's eye. “Keep still, fatty,” she warns. “I wouldn't want you getting these poked in your eye and ending up blind.” Her voice is filled with malice. Anna's eyelids flutter nervously despite her efforts to stay immobile. She's tried to remain her composure but the hate in Pamela's voice upsets her and she feels tears fill her eyes. Pamela roughly stretches her eyelids and snips away at the eyelashes, the cold steel touching flesh as they cut the long hairs to nothing. Anna can't help groaning with displeasure as some of the short hairs fall into her eyes. When Pamela releases her she rubs at her eyes to try to remove the gritty foreign bodies. Her eyes feel strange without lashes; only stubbly roots can be felt along the rims of the lids.

Anna is told to rise from the bath, can only do so with Julie's aid. She has to bend over and grip the side to get to the bathroom floor. She's astonished at how weak she's become. Pamela tells her to stand and display herself. “You look absolutely disgusting, which is only fair, because that's what you are. I suppose you wonder what's going on. Isolde has made me certain offers that I can't really refuse and she's asked me to let you chat to her. I've agreed to this but don't think that she has any influence on how I treat you. If I so choose you'll be back in the cage. Do you want that?”

“No, Pamela,” Anna says contritely.

“Then don't be making out that you've been treated badly. I'm still angry with you but if you start to show I can trust you then you can redeem yourself yet. So do you promise to be faithful to me and to think of how much you love me when you're talking to Isolde?”

Anna lisps “I do.” She feels emotional. Pamela wants them to be lovers again, and that hope causes her delight. But there's also a fury within her for how cruelly she's been treated. She wants Pamela to be made to atone, to realise how badly she's behaved. She thinks of her promise to Isolde to put her first and knows that even as she makes her pledge to Pamela that she doesn't mean it. She will put her faith in Isolde. Her deepest desire is to see Pamela humbled as she has been. Only then will she once more love Pamela unconditionally.

Anna kneels on the floor before Pamela's computer, alongside her seated mistress. Julie is at Pamela's right. A webcam image opens on the screen and Anna sees Isolde. She's changed since Anna last saw her. Her hair is cut very short, the top gelled flat to her head in a side part, a short wispy fringe barely covering any of her forehead. Her hair is dyed a dark purplish shade. Despite the brevity of the cut it's still feminine and suits her very well. She's wearing a smart jacket which reveals none of her tattoos. Anna tries to conceal her emotions but can't suppress a broad smile as soon as she sees Isolde. She looks more mature with this new look, but no less sexy.

“Good evening, ladies,” Isolde says calmly. “You all look very beautiful. Anna's completely hairless now, is she?”

“Not quite,” Pamela sneers, eager to needle Isolde. “She's decided to grow back her bush. You're a little ashamed of the tattoos you decided to get on your pussy aren't you, love?” She strokes Anna's head teasingly. Anna's instinct is to pull away from Pamela's touch but she knows she must pretend to like this.

“You did say that I could speak to Anna alone. I won't say anything to undermine your position, Pamela. I'm sure you don't trust me and you'll record it all anyway.” Anna realises that this is a warning to her, that she mustn't disclose any of her secrets. “So may I have my time with Anna to tell her what's going on?”

Pamela mutters some curses and leaves the room, accompanied by Julie. Anna struggles into the chair and smiles at Isolde. “You look beautiful. Very pretty and professional.”

“Thank you, Anna,” she smiles. “You look... unwell. Has she had you medicated?” Anna nods, but is reluctant to say too much. She doesn't want to be critical of her treatment, not if Pamela will hear every word she says. She could be listening in on the conversation even now.

“That will stop immediately. In fact, you should have had your pills stopped already.” Anna admits that she can't remember when she took her last pills.

“I suppose you're wondering what's going on. I've made Pamela a business proposal. I've started up a company and it's been fairly profitable already. I'm investing in some new ventures and I've offered Pamela the position of manager of one of the businesses, and Julie will manage another.”

Anna is speechless. She can't imagine how Pamela would accept a position where she's working for Isolde. Money? That must be part of it. Pamela has expensive tastes. But Pamela loves control too. She wouldn't readily put herself in a position where she's accountable to her rival.

“I wanted you to help running my businesses, Anna. I know you have some experience in business. You'd all relocate up here. My preference would be that the five of us would share a house, but the details are still to be decided.”

Anna is still unable to think clearly. None of this makes sense. Is this entire scene hallucinatory? Is she, in reality, still locked in her cage, her imagination weaving a tale to save her from the horror of her situation? She thinks on Isolde's words. “Five? Who's the fifth?”

“Oh, of course, you don't know. I have a new girlfriend. You would like to see her?”

A girl crosses into the field of view and kisses Isolde. Her appearance is quite shocking, even to Anna. She's as bald as Anna but her scalp is marked at the sides with dark tattoos, flower-like geometric figures which encircle both ears, the spiny projections spreading over her nape, her temples and, at the front, her cheeks. Her body is covered in more tattoos and as she greets Anna there's a shock of recognition. Anna isn't sure if it's the familiarity of the tattoos or her voice that first triggers her memory, but there can be no doubt that this odd girl is no stranger.

“Carmen?” Anna gasps incredulously. “What are you doing with Isolde.”

Carmen smiles. She looks happier than Anna has ever seen her. “I do everything that's asked of me. I love my Divinissima so much.” She fingers the silvery torc which binds her neck, a symbol of her devotion to Isolde. Now Anna begins to understand. Carmen is the reason that Pamela has agreed to Isolde's requests. More than money, more than control, Pamela is motivated by lust. She adores Carmen, and Isolde knows this.

It's only three days later when Anna sets off to join Isolde, Pamela and Julie as her companions. She knows she should be happy but feels anything but. The withdrawal of the sedatives has left her feeling anxious and paranoid, subject to muscle cramps and stomach pains. Despite Isolde's assurances, the hormone treatment has been continued and her cheeks are now marked by numerous sore, red spots. Anna feels only a longing for desire, rather than actual desire. She still wears the chastity device, which she curses for the discomfort it causes. She hasn't felt aroused since the day when Isolde phoned her.

Now she boards a train to go to her new life, unsure as to what the outcome will be. She thinks constantly about how Isolde will make her plan to have all her and her three friends submit, but is unable to believe that Pamela would ever agree to this. She's subject to sudden episodes of panic as she imagines how this plan will end in disaster; if Pamela knew the true extent of her disloyalty, Anna knows she'd be punished terribly. Sometimes she feels that she deserves this, as she remembers how happy she used to feel in Pamela's company and has been close to confessing numerous times.

Her prolonged isolation has made her uncomfortable in company, although the awkwardness of her relationship with her lovers has surely added to this. Apart from her visit to her former workplace, Anna hasn't been outdoors in weeks, and this unfamiliar experience is a challenge for her. She's been dressed in a dowdy dress, the cheapest garment which Pamela could find to fit her in a charity shop. Her tattooed forearms are bare, and her face bears heavy jewellery in her piercings, including the lip studs, which Isolde gave her. Her head has just been reshaved and she knows that her appearance draws a lot of negative attention, although her sight is impaired by the thick-lensed glasses which Pamela has forced her to wear. She knows the dress seems inappropriate for someone with her piercings and tattoos.

Anna isn't allowed to sit near Pamela and Julie on the train. Instead she must sit alone, enduring the headache that the glasses cause, unable to speak clearly because her split tongue has been fitted with heavy rings at each tip (forced through the slightly too small holes by Pamela, who was unconcerned about the pain she caused). The pain of fitting the rings was less than the anxiety that Pamela might have caught sight of the hidden tattoo, claiming Anna as Isolde's slave.

At the end of the laborious journey, Anna is reunited with her friends to take a taxi journey to a large house in the suburbs, seemingly Isolde's new home. The three guests are welcomed in by Isolde, who removes the glasses from Anna.

Isolde seems to have grown in the short time since Anna last saw her. She seems to have a new confidence, to have become a woman sure of herself, rather than the precocious and enigmatic girl that Anna had known. Pamela maintains a coldness, but this is dented as Carmen appears. She's wearing a latex minidress, and Anna is able to observe that her tattooing has progressed greatly, and not just the decorations on her temples. Her legs are almost completely inked now, the newer tattooing stylistically distinct from her existing tattoos, but obviously the work of the same artist as those which adorn her head.

Carmen barely speaks. She immediately makes her way to Pamela and starts to cover her in kisses. Her conduct suggests foreplay rather that a friendly greeting for an old friend. Pamela's aloofness is challenged by this unexpected salute, but Carmen doesn't allow her to withdraw. In fact she increases her attentions and begins to pull at the fastenings on Pamela's clothes. Isolde draws close and joins in the seduction. Pamela tries to resist but the attentions are too much. “Anna, Julie, there are bedrooms upstairs prepared for you. Go up and spend the night there. There should be everything you need to make yourself comfortable,” Isolde states.

Pamela's eyes harden with defiance as Isolde issues this order to her girls. But Isolde explains, conciliates. “I want your first night here to be pleasurable. Best to leave Julie and Anna out of this until tomorrow.” She resumes her kisses and Pamela makes a shivery sigh of pleasure.

“Go upstairs,” she curtly snaps at Anna and Julie, maintaining a pretence of being in charge. “No talking to each other,” she adds. As Anna leaves, she glances back and sees Pamela stripped to the waist, Carmen's lips pressed to her left breast. Pamela appears unaware of anything but the attentions of her two seductresses.

Anna awakes the next morning. She's enjoyed the most restful sleep in several weeks. She looks around the room, which is sparsely furnished but light and clean, and wonders if this is to be her new home. There's no way to tell how late it is since Anna has no watch nor phone and there is no clock here. She thinks it best to remain upstairs until summoned. She's still astonished as she remembers how Pamela was seduced last night. She hadn't conceived of Isolde using her sexuality so daringly.

A faint knock at the door and Carmen enters. Anna smiles nervously, still uncomfortable to see how Isolde has changed her. She can now see how the tattoos cover a large area of her cheeks, and could never be concealed even were she to grow her hair. Carmen climbs onto the bed and kisses Anna on the cheek, and begins stroking her scalp.

“I've missed you,” she says. “You look like you've endured a lot. Pamela has gone too far, hasn't she? We need to re-educate her, to show her how to love again. We did a lot of foundation work last night,” she giggles. “Did you say anything to her about Isolde's conversation?” she adds, more serious.

Anna is self conscious as she speaks, her tongue piercings making it hard for her to speak. “Nothing. Julie's in on the plan though?” Carmen nods a confirmation. “I've been getting paranoid. I wondered if she wasn't trying to trick me.” Now she stares at Carmen's arms. “You've got a lot more tattoos,” Anna whispers.

“I have. And a lot less hair. Isolde is very persuasive. I'd do anything for her. And you will too, won't you?” Anna nods shyly. “She'll make you beautiful again. We're sisters now, Anna.” She points to the small tattoo at the corner of her eye which is identical to Anna's own. “Bald sisters,” she smiles and starts to kiss Anna's scalp.

Anna climbs out of bed and prepares to face the day. Carmen studies the chastity belt which clasps to her hips, digging into the soft folds of flesh. “Oh honey, it's all sore! This needs to come off.” She notices the raw areas on Anna's back, her buttocks, her heels. She leaves the room and returns minutes later with Isolde. Carmen is visibly upset as she points out the degraded skin.

Isolde hugs Anna and kisses her. “I'm sorry, Anna, I should have come to your rescue earlier. We need to show Pamela that she can't treat people so badly. This will come off today,” she says, pointing to the tightly fitted cap that covers Anna's pubic mound. “Oh god, do you have all your piercings in under there?” Anna confirms that she does.

Carmen curses in disbelief. “This has to come off right now. There'll be no blood supply. Isolde, go and wake Pamela!”

Isolde shakes her head. “I'll let her wake and persuade her it's the best thing. If I'm confrontational now she'll dig in her heels. You can bear it for another few hours, Anna?” she asks compassionately.

“It's been there for weeks,” Anna lisps. “A few more hours isn't going to make a lot of difference.”

Isolde strokes her arms. “I'm sorry you've had to suffer so much. I had no idea she'd go this far. I think your friend is overcompensating. She's unhappy with her life, despite having you and Julie adoring her. I can set her on the path to redemption.”

Isolde wears only a large t-shirt and Anna can see her beautiful limbs. Her arms are now both tattooed, and Carmen has inked a large dark design on the outer side of her right thigh. Anna remembers the girl she met in the sex shop, how seemingly innocent she was, how bookish. She feels a stirring as she sees how she's grown into this woman. But the hormone treatment frustrates Anna's desires. Isolde looks disappointed, as if she expected a greater response from Anna.

“You should go and take a bath,” Isolde smiles. “Then join us for breakfast. Julie is already up. Pamela didn't sleep much so she may be late.” She exchanges a knowing look with Carmen.

A little over half an hour later Anna joins her friends for breakfast, which Isolde has prepared. She's unused to such a relaxed atmosphere. Just to be clean seems a luxury for Anna after her period of enforced seclusion.

“I adore your split tongue,” Isolde tells Anna. “I've been considering letting Carmen do mine. Would you recommend it?”

“Sure,” Anna smiles. “It's quite painful, as you can imagine, and the first week was quite tough. Once the stitches came out though it was fine. It does feel nice.”

“We should all get split tongues,” Isolde laughs. “I know Carmen likes the idea. Are you game, Julie?”

“Oh sure, I'd risk it,” Julie laughs. She abruptly becomes more serious as the door opens and Pamela enters. She looks tired and her hair is a tangle. She mutters a gloomy greeting.

“We were just talking about split tongues,” Isolde explains. Her enthusiasm is undiminished by Pamela's entrance. “I'm going to let Carmen do mine and I think it would be great fun if we all did it.”

Pamela tries to look unimpressed. “It's not something I really want.”

“But kissing Anna's is so lovely. And she tells me that kissing with a split tongue is better than kissing someone else's.”

“Two split tongues kissing is better still,” Carmen adds. “Everyone says that. That's why I want mine done.”

Isolde fills Pamela's plate. “Eat up, honey. Once you're finished Carmen can operate on me.” She giggles and pokes out her little pink tongue.

“You're not serious,” Pamela says, as she starts on her breakfast.

“Sure. I've never been one to procrastinate. I've thought about this for long enough. I want to do it and now I will.”

“She's just amazing, isn't she?” Carmen squeals with delight. “She's so full of energy and so spontaneous. We'll just be relaxing watching TV and she'll ask me to tattoo her. Or else she'll tattoo me.”

“Isolde, you did Carmen's new tattoos?” Anna asks, astonished.

“She did,” Carmen says proudly. “She's such a good tattooist. I can't believe how quickly she's learnt.”

“I'm just at apprentice level,” Isolde says modestly. “Still learning.”

“No, they're beautiful,” Anna says. “You're really good.”

Pamela looks irritated by Anna's compliments. “If you like her tattoos so much why don't you let her tattoo you right now?”

Isolde laughs. “That sounds like a good idea! But if I do you have to take that chastity belt off her. The poor girl is getting sores from the chafing and I don't even want to think about what it's doing to her piercings.”

Pamela sends Julie to her room and she returns with a key. Moments later, Pamela has freed Anna from the device which has tormented her for weeks. She wants to scream as the heavy piercings in her labia dangle free from the bruised and chafed flesh but she contains her discomfort with a long sigh. Isolde is fulsome in her praise for Pamela's mercy. Carmen, on the other hand, looks furiously at Pamela, unimpressed by the damage the chastity belt might have done to Anna. Pamela doesn't notice the disapproval.

Isolde announces that she will decorate the base of Anna's nails and the women all head to the basement of the house which has been set out as a tattooing room. Anna is so pleased by her unaccustomed freedom that she's unprepared for the discomfort of the tattooing. Isolde works with primitive tools, a needle set in a long stick she dips the needle in a dish of ink and jabs it into the tender skin at the base of Anna's nail. The first poke draws a squeal from Anna, to the amusement of her friends.

“Ah, it really hurts,” she groans. “It's not like the electric tattooing needle.”

“Anna, stop being a baby. You can take it,” Pamela chides.

“I'm sure you can take it better,” Isolde smiles. Pamela looks puzzled. “I'm going to tattoo you in the same place once Anna is done.”

“Oh no,” Pamela smiles.

“Oh, Pamela, you have such pretty hands. They deserve to have pretty tattoos around your nails. Besides, the tips of your fingers are so fine that they'd be done in moments.”

“I decide when I want tattoos and what I want,” Pamela states.

Carmen speaks. “That's not entirely true is it? You used to love it when I tattooed you. I never planned half of your tattoos, I just did what I felt was right.”

Pamela's resolve is weakening. “It would look good, wouldn't it?” Isolde says, purring with excitement. “Of course, if it's the pain, I could use something to numb you a bit.”

“I'm not worried about the pain!” Pamela snaps. “If Anna can take it then I can.”

“Good, that's that sorted. I can't wait to tattoo you, Pam.” Isolde gives a warm smile to Anna. She's getting inside Pamela's head.

Not only is the hand poked technique painful, it's laboriously slow. Anna's tattoos grow slowly to surround each nail. But the pattern of dots which Isolde inscribes is very beautiful. Each finger has a floral ornament which reaches back over the first joint. The nails are now surrounded with solid black which fragments into tiny dots to give a graduated effect. Anna is impressed by Isolde's artistry, but is more pleased by the cessation of the pain.

Julie is allowed to work on Anna's nails as Pamela takes her place in the chair. The nails are filed and carefully painted (nothing must touch the newly tattooed skin) with a turquoise lacquer.

Anna feels more content than she has for a long time. She's the centre of some positive attention, she's being pampered. The withdrawal from the sedatives finally seems to have passed.

Pamela cries out as she feels the first jab of the needle. “You went too deep!” she complains.

“Not at all,” Isolde says calmly. “That's what you have to endure with this tattooing. You did say that you could cope with pain better than Anna. She managed to suffer in relative silence.”

Pamela winces as Isolde continues. She's obviously struggling but she needs to save face. Isolde smiles at Carmen to cue her.

Carmen comes to console Pamela, stroking at her long curls. “Your hair's got all matted at the back. I can't imagine what you were getting up to last night to cause this.” A playful smile crosses Pamela's lips. “You should let me cut it, Pamela. Better still, go bald. I'd love to tattoo your scalp for you.”

Anna expects Pamela to rebuff this suggestion vigorously but she's silent as she tries to endure the pain Isolde is inflicting. Carmen caresses the short hair on the side of Pamela's head and bends to kiss her ear. “At least let me shave up the sides and tattoo your temples, babe. That would be so hot!” Pamela is growing aroused, and very much so. For a moment Anna believes she'll do anything that Carmen suggests.

“No, not that,” Pamela groans, but she sounds like she's fighting temptation. “I do want more tattoos though, Carmen. I love your tattoos.”

“I'll do one right now if you promise to get your hair cut,” Carmen smiles.

“Don't tell me what to do,” Pamela says. But her tone is weak, a plea rather than an order. She looks at Anna and Julie as she says it. The statement seems to be designed to maintain her image before her subs rather than something Carmen would believe.

“But babe, you looked so sexy when you had your short back and sides.” Carmen gathers the long curls behind Pamela's head to expose the buzzed sides. “You should get a nice crop like Julie's. Are you going to do that for me?”

“You should,” Isolde adds. “You should bring out your boyish side. It would be a very sexy change.”

Carmen is becoming less restrained as she kisses the large cluster of tattooed roses on the left of Pamela's neck. The mixture of pain and pleasure is hard for Pamela to resist. “I'll think about it,” she gasps.

“No one likes indecision,” Carmen giggles, between kisses. “Be more spontaneous, see where it takes you. Say yes and I'll give you a beautiful new tattoo.” There's another uncomfortable glance toward Anna and Julie. Carmen smiles indulgently. “Just whisper it,” she says and puts her ear to Pamela's lips. Moments later she prepares to tattoo her.

By lunchtime, Pamela's fingers are painfully adorned with dark filigree and her plump right instep has been tattooed with a spray of flowers supported on a frame of quasi-mystical symbols. She looks delighted with Carmen's work, but shuts down any discussion about making a trip for a new haircut. “When I'm ready,” is her only statement.

Isolde announces that she'll go without lunch, since immediately afterwards she'll allow Carmen to perform the splitting of her tongue. “I'm not sure a full stomach would be a good idea,” she laughs, but admits she is nervous. “It's going to really hurt, isn't it, Anna?”

“No, you'll be fine,” Anna reassures. “At least it doesn't go on for as long as this!” She holds up her swollen fingers, proud to show off her new tattoos which frame her pretty turquoise nails.

“I really think we should all have our tongues split,” Isolde says dreamily. “I want to kiss you all and feel our tongues moving around like little tentacles. Julie, are you going to volunteer?”

Julie nods shyly, then looks over at Pamela. “It's up to Pamela, but I don't mind.”

“I really want it now,” Carmen says enthusiastically, “but I'm the only one who could actually perform a split and there's no way I can do that on myself.”

“Awww, I know. If we all agree to do it we'll find a nice piercer today who can split yours for you. Deal?” Isolde looks at Pamela for her assent.

“Are you asking if I'll let Julie have hers done? I suppose if she wants...”

Julie thanks Pamela and smiles, but Anna can see that the decision has made her pale. She was squeamish about Anna's tongue, couldn't bear to look at it when it was stitched and swollen.

“That's very nice,” Isolde states, “but I did wonder if you're going to let Carmen use her scissors on your tongue.”

Pamela looks unsure of herself. How should she play this? She can feel her authority being undermined, her leadership slipping away. Isolde is becoming dominant in the group, yet if Pamela refuses this challenge she'll appear weak too. “Are you sure we should all do this together? That would leave us all unable to talk.”

“Anna can be our voice,” Carmen suggests.

Pamela laughs derisively, but it sounds forced, false. “She can hardly talk at the best of times.”

“Oh, Pammie, that's just because of those rings you put in her tongue. Take them out, Carmen,” Isolde instructs.

Anna looks at Pamela for permission as she swallows a mouthful of her lunch. Pamela looks at Isolde, not Anna. She looks lost, not the Pamela of old. She wants to say something but she can't decide what to say. Anna takes a sip of water to clear her mouth and pokes out her tongue. Carmen expertly opens the rings and slips them out of the piercings. Anna's tongue is pain free again. The holes are fitted with small acrylic tipped bars to prevent them closing.

“Read this for me, Anna dear,” Isolde asks, taking a book from a shelf and opening it at random.

“The Sun and the Moon of this Monad desire that the Elements in which the tenth proportion will flower, shall be separated, and this is done by the application of Fire,” Anna reads.

“The application of fire? I wonder who's going to get burnt?” Isolde smiles knowingly. “Anna, you have a beautiful voice, clear diction and a nice softness. I could listen to you read all day long.”

“Thank you Isolde. I still have a lisp though.” It's true that the piercings affect Anna's sibilants, although she is able to articulate clearly now that the rings are gone.

“I like the lisp. I suppose we'll all be lisping for a while soon. Unless Pamela doesn't wish to join in..?” She looks expectantly at Pamela who remains silent. “Do you need more time to think?” Isolde asks indulgently, but behind her friendly tone she's demonstrating that Pamela is indecisive, a quality for which she's already shown her abhorrence.

“No, I'll do it,” Pamela smiles, but no one is deceived.

Once lunch is completed Isolde orders Anna and Julie to clear away the dishes. As they complete their domestic duties Isolde invites Pamela to have a cigarette with her.

Pamela declines, looking across the open plan space at Anna and Julie. “Oh, I don't think they'll disapprove,” Isolde laughs. “You didn't seem to mind smoking with me last night. In fact you seemed to find it quite sexy.” Isolde lights a long cigarette and takes a deep breath, making her pleasure very obvious. Her sexuality is irresistible to Pamela, whose reluctance is now undone. Isolde takes the cigarette from her mouth and moves it to Pamela, her fingers pressed to her lips. “Let's share then,” she whispers, the smoke making her voice huskier. “We should share everything now. You'd like me sharing Carmen with you, wouldn't you? She's such a sexy young woman, and she's learnt from me. Last night was only a little demonstration of what she's capable.” Isolde seems transported by her memories of her time with Pamela and Carmen. She withdraws the cigarette from her lover's lips and their mouths meet. She takes a long drag and kisses Pamela again before exhaling.

Anna feels her excitement growing as she watches Isolde's seduction. Pamela seems drunk as she gazes into Isolde's eyes. “So...?” Isolde asks.

“What?” Pamela looks distracted, unsure what's she's being asked.

“You want us to share? Carmen? Julie and Anna?”

Pamela's nod is rewarded with the cigarette being placed in her lips again. She looks so vulnerable, Anna thinks. She likes Pamela like this. She still loves her deeply, despite her recent cruelty, but now she wants to see Pamela humbled, tamed.

Anna sees Julie walking toward the smokers and realises that she too is being beckoned by Isolde, who offers cigarettes to Julie and her. She doesn't react.

“What's wrong Anna, did you give up?”

“Pamela said I shouldn't. She threatened to remove all my teeth if she caught me smoking again.”

Isolde laughs incredulously. “Pamela, you didn't?” She remains silent, forcing Pamela to respond.

“She was smoking behind my back. I wanted to scare her.”

“But if you make a threat you have to be ready to carry it out. You'd really have had all her pretty teeth pulled?”

“I suppose I would,” Pamela says.

“Wow, you're cruel,” Isolde says. “I wouldn't like to piss you off.”

“You have! Many times.”

“And yet, you always forgive me. I'm just too much fun, aren't I?” She winks at Pamela and slips a cigarette into Anna's lips. “This was my doing,” she says to Pamela. “So don't even think of punishing Anna. I'm very protective sometimes, you know?” Anna draws on her cigarette in the manner she's been taught by Isolde. She feels like Pamela can't harm her again. Isolde's aegis will always defend her now.

On the stool Isolde sits upright, her head thrown back, breathing slowly and deeply as she prepares herself for Carmen's approach. A moment later and Carmen sits too, directly in front. Isolde slips out her tongue. She doesn't try to hide her nerves but she's happy. Anna has been asked to assist and stands close by, her hands covered by sterile surgical gloves.

“Pammie, be a dear and come and hold my hand. This is going to hurt like a bitch.” Not only Pamela, but Julie too, come to grip Isolde's hands in a gesture of reassurance.

Carmen has clicked into her professional mode, seemingly emotionless, focussed entirely on accomplishing her task with precision. She clicks clamps onto each side of Isolde's tongue and instructs Anna to support them. Now she takes a set of sharp scissors.

“Just maintain a little tension throughout, Anna. Gentle but even.” She spreads a towel over Isolde's lap, asks Pamela to hold a kidney bowl under her chin. Anna takes a deep breath and regrets having eaten so much. She remembers how much she bled when this was done to her.

And without any delay the scissors close. The first snip draws a tiny grunt from Isolde as she tries to bear the sting. “Just relax, honey,” Carmen says, but her words seem abstracted, distant, automatic. All of her attention is fixed on making sure the incision is precise.

Anna stares in fascination as the wound opens. The clamps draw open the bifurcation and the edges fill with crimson. Dribbles start to trickle into the bowl. She's aware that Isolde looks more at peace than either Pamela or Julie. The former had tried to observe the procedure, but now looks away, pale and glistening with sweat. Julie had fixedly turned her gaze as soon as Carmen had lifted the scissors.

Anna is shocked to see how quickly Carmen cuts. When her tongue was split it seemed to take forever, but she supposes that in this moment Isolde's perception of the passing of time is very different to her own. Carmen wields the scissors with precision but it's a sort of controlled brutality. She slices through as if she were cutting through a chunk of meat. That's all we are, living meat, Anna thinks as she sees the exposed flesh.

In a few seconds Isolde's tongue is divided to Carmen's satisfaction. Gauze swabs are pressed to the dripping wound, drawing a moan of displeasure for the first time. Carmen mutters an apology but repeats the pressure, eager to staunch the blood flow. Now she uses a cautery along the edges of the injured flesh, dabbing at the wound before each application, the better to see where to direct the heat.

The machine whines loudly each time Carmen uses it, masking the soft sizzle as it burns the flesh. The smell isn't masked and Pamela makes a distressed shriek as some of the smoke drifts toward her face. Isolde bears her torture with stoicism.

The cauterisation brings the bleeding to a halt and Carmen now begins suturing the wound. Anna's hands ache but she daren't move. She stares in fascination at the damage to her friend's tongue. The perfect pink little organ is now bloodied and swollen, a yellowish discolouration starting to form where the heat was applied. Isolde closes her eyes and maintains her breathing. Despite her well-maintained composure, Anna can see that Isolde wants this to be over.

Carmen uses an arched needle. She slips it through the flesh with practised efficiency. The sutures are placed at even intervals, the black silk tied in tiny knots. Four of theses tiny black flowers adorn each side of the bifurcation.

Anna is instructed to release the clamps and Isolde moans with relief as she nervously draws her tongue into her mouth. She smiles and pulls Carmen to her, kisses her with her bloody lips. She looks ecstatic, energised by her suffering. “Oh, that's amazing,” she mumbles, her voice sounding like she was holding something large in her mouth. She pulls Anna to her. “Kiss me,” she slurs. “Use your tongue. Not gentle.”

“Not rough, either,” a perturbed Carmen cautions.

Anna tastes the blood as her lips meet Isolde's, but there's also the taste of the burnt flesh, the crystallisation of the awful smell she found so repulsive earlier. She feels Isolde sucking at her lips, eager to draw out her tongue, for Isolde's tongue is too damaged to be anything but passive. Anna feels a disgust as her tongue moves forward, a reluctance to meet the wreckage of Isolde's sweet pink tongue. Isolde's hand moves up Anna's bald nape, forcing her head forward, urging her on.

Anna's tongue comes against the wounded flesh, delicately, afraid of hurting. The first sensation of a suture makes her tongue recoil; her tongue seems to have developed volition, to behave in response to what it senses without Anna's conscious control. Isolde seems unhappy with Anna's restraint, her fingers press into her scalp, nails claw at her skin. She's aroused, she needs Anna to act with similar passion, violence even.

Anna feels disgust as she probes at the fresh wound with her own divided tongue. The unfamiliarity of sensation, the taste of blood and burnt flesh... disgusting, yet somehow Anna is caught up by Isolde's passion and slides her own tongue beneath her partners. She extends her tongue, lifting up the flesh until the tips meet the base of the wound. Isolde gurgles, a sound which thrills Anna with its animalism. Isolde wants more, Anna is still too gentle, it seems. She pinches painfully at Anna's neck, urging her to be more rough. Anna responds by thrusting her tongue against Isolde's, the right half slipping above, the left below. The cleft in Anna's tongue, the most sensitive part, rubs against the harsh silken knots. Isolde is in pain, but this is what she desires. Anna loses control, moves her tongue back and forth violently until she tastes fresh blood. She wants Isolde to feel delightful hurt, and she knows Isolde craves this too.

Isolde smiles at Anna blissfully. She rewards Anna's service with a kiss on her head which leaves a bloody imprint of her lips on Anna's scalp. “Oh, delightful,” she groans, her voice almost unintelligible, but her pleasure most apparent.

An hour later and Isolde is more subdued. The rush from her modification has gone and now she's become aware of the pain. She's taken some painkillers and is waiting for them to kick in. Despite the pain, Isolde remains happy as she plans for her friends to have the same experience as her. She has now abandoned efforts to speak, for the dual reasons that it causes her pain and because most of what she attempts to say is incomprehensible. She now scribbles notes on a pad.

Julie has, somewhat reluctantly, offered to go next, though she and Pamela look terrified. Isolde scribbles: “If anyone faints we should prank them. A haircut or a piercing.” Carmen loves the idea but Pamela is opposed.

“No way! If anyone cuts my hair...”

Carmen cuts her short with a derisive laugh. “Are you expecting to faint? Actually you do look a bit pale. I thought you were tougher than that, Pam.”

“It's Pamela,” she says. “Anyway, you've still got to get yours done. It might be you who faints.”

“Well, in the unlikely event that I do faint you can give me a haircut, any haircut you choose.” She runs her hands over her scalp which, unlike Anna's, was shaved that morning. “And I actually like piercings, a new one is always fun for me.”

“You did say you were getting a short cut, Pam,” Isolde writes, using the contraction of her name to needle Pamela further. “If you do pass out I might take the opportunity to stop your procrastination.”

“Well... I won't pass out and I'll get my hair cut when I decide, Izzy.” Isolde just smiles back at her.

“Then you're agreeing that anyone who faints gets pranked?” Carmen asks. Pamela reluctantly gives her assent.

Julie eyes the clippers which Carmen has added to her trolley with some anxiety. She's looked uncomfortable all day and now that she's about to submit to Carmen's attentions she's almost in tears. Anna wants to hug her and tell her that she doesn't need to do this but she knows Julie wouldn't thank her. She thrives on pushing herself and accepting her submission. This may be the hardest thing she's ever done.

Julie takes the procedure with admirable restraint but as the cautery is applied Anna notes her distress to Carmen. “She's going to faint!” Anna catches her back and lowers her to the floor with Isolde's assistance.

“I knew she would. Poor little thing, she's so brave for going through with it,” Carmen says sympathetically. She's wrapped in a blanket and everyone helps until Julie returns to consciousness. Anna is almost in tears as her friend has to endure the stitching of her tongue. She looks sick and helpless, but Carmen has no choice but to finish up; leaving the wound open isn't a good option.

Even when everything is done, Julie is left pale and shivering. No one can bring themselves to do anything to punish her weakness when she's in this state. If she must endure some humiliation that will wait until she's recovered. For now, Carmen insists, she'll take some painkillers and take to her bed to rest.

Pamela is next to undergo this trial. She can't stop thinking how Isolde seemed to take pleasure in everything that was done to her. Her determination to match her rival is soon swept away. The first touch of the scissors is agony and her ambition is redrawn, now only focussed on not embarrassing herself. She tries to bear the pain with dignity but is soon sobbing. She mustn't repeat Julie's fainting, that would be the greatest humiliation, although she is already aware that Julie bore her suffering with greater decorum than she can muster.

She preserves her consciousness by a whisker; at times the room starts to spin, and she's cold and clammy, dripping with perspiration. She needs to be supported to rise from the stool and needs to lie down to compose herself. She can hear Carmen talking, passing on Isolde's comments but she's unable to process them, waves her hand dismissively. She lies still for fifteen minutes before she's sufficiently well enough to rise.

“I think you'd better do what Julie did and go and sleep it off,” Carmen suggests. Pamela knows this is a wise course of action but is determined to be tough. “Isolde, Anna and I are feeling horny. Are you up to joining us?” Pamela insists that she is.

Anna lies exhausted in the aftermath of her liaison with Isolde, Carmen and Pamela. She can't match Isolde's energy, even when she's hampered by the slitting of her tongue. Carmen too is an amazingly inventive sexual partner. Pamela, on the other hand was weak and passive, to the delight of Isolde and Carmen. They taunt her as they relax in the huge bed. Isolde insists on speaking, despite the difficulties her tongue imposes.

“Poor little Pammie. You've got soft.” She rubs her fingers over the curves of her belly, her breasts. “Too soft. Too fat. I think you'd benefit from toughening up. I think I should put you under a personal trainer. Make you harden up. She'd look great, wouldn't she, Carmen?”

“Oh wow, yes,” Carmen enthuses, kissing first Isolde, then Pamela. “I love muscly girls.” She flexes Pamela's fleshy arm and strokes the soft biceps. “If you work hard I'll give you lots of nice new tattoos. Will you do that for me, love?” Pamela is too weak to resist Carmen's kisses and nods her agreement.

Two weeks pass and with each day Pamela has come further in the thrall of Isolde and Carmen. Her reluctance to give in to their requests has been eroded by the pleasure they can unleash in her when she does as they ask. Now all pretence of being Isolde's equal is foregone, even in the presence of Anna and Julie. Pamela retains a sort of dominance over her subs but even this is no longer apparent when she's in Isolde's presence; Isolde treats Pamela, Julie, even Anna, as equals.

Pamela has agreed to subject herself to a regime from a personal trainer. The trainer Isolde has employed for her is ruthless and makes Pamela work herself to exhaustion. She's always been rather lazy and abhorred physical exercise, and this regime is extremely challenging for her. Her body is changing rapidly, with a significant loss of weight already apparent. Isolde has insisted that she does a lot of weight training as she wants Pamela to develop a sculptured, muscular body.

On this day, Pamela returns home from a strenuous session in the gym without showering. She does this reluctantly, as she hates to be less than perfectly groomed, but she does it, since Isolde likes it when Pamela is sweaty from exercise, and Pamela likes to get Isolde aroused. Today, she's treated differently.

“I think it's time you did something about your hair,” Isolde informs her, before all of the gang. Pamela's hair looks unruly, the curls falling flat, the roots showing, the clippered sides becoming fluffy. “You did promise to go short 'when you're ready' but I'm fed up with waiting so I'm taking charge. You'll go to the barbershop in the town and show them this picture. Say you want this style exactly.” She passes a sealed envelope to Pamela, who pauses, want to say no, but daren't. “I'll be so happy with you when you have a nice new cut. I can't wait to get you home.” She kisses Pamela teasingly on the cheek. “What are you waiting for? The sooner you go the sooner you'll be back here for your reward.”

Anna can't believe that Pamela obeys. The next hours are almost unendurable for her as she wonders what Pamela is enduring. She's sad to think of her love being forced to undergo a demeaning haircut in a barbershop, but the idea makes her so aroused that she can feel herself getting wet.

There are expectant looks as they hear the door closing. A shame-faced Pamela enters. Her hair is gone on the nape and sides, shaved to the skin, then faded up the temples and crown to a slightly longer top, which is slicked tightly to her head. It's shockingly boyish, so unlike her previous styles, even when it was cut short. Isolde smiles but says nothing, which makes Pamela squirm. Now a moist tissue is used to scrub away Pamela's make-up which was rather distressed from her exertions at the gym. The long false eyelashes are peeled away and Isolde erases the last spoor of cosmetics.

“Undress,” Isolde says softly. Pamela does so, changes into the new outfit she's offered. She's wearing boxing boots, baggy gym pants, a white wife-beater, which shows off her tattooed arms and neck. She visibly winces as she looks at herself in the mirror.

“I love it,” Isolde purrs, stroking her fingers over the bald sections of scalp on her temples and nape. “Doesn't she look great? So tough, a lovely mean little dyke. We're going to run with this look for a while, Pammie, and see where it takes us. No more make-up. Regular haircuts. And let's keep you working out. I want you to have hard muscles, Pam. The girly, fat Pamela is gone.”

Carmen thrusts a cigarette into the side of her mouth and lights it. “Yes, she does look tough now. It's ironic, isn't it? The meaner she looks, the stronger her body gets, the weaker she is inside. You've totally broken her now, Isolde.”

“Is that true, Pammie?” Isolde taunts. “Are you ready to be my slave? If you are, you have to give up Anna and Julie, say that they're mine.” Pamela starts to reply, but Isolde silences her. “You should be on your knees now, shouldn't you?”

Pamela falls to her knees. She's crying, overcome by conflicting emotions. “Please Isolde, I want to serve you,” she croaks. Her tongue is healing more slowly than her friends' and she still has difficulty articulating her words.

“Even if you're the number four slave? That means you submit even to Anna. I so want to see that! Anna taking her revenge on you for all your atrocious cruelty. Do you agree to my terms?”

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