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King and Pup Part 2: Yes King by Shaggyboy


Part 2: Yes King

He acted quickly. Cole was very excited to be my Master, as I was to be his sub. I had never done it before, and the memories of all of the things I told him I would like in a hypothetical situation made me nervous. I liked my hair a lot and I was working on getting the top long. The next time he came to my house he had shaved his beard into a short chin strap. I remember several parts of my body reacting to this. Every change made him sexier, and now his edged jaw was even more defined. His facial features were sin, and he had just made them more intoxicating by letting them be highlighted, upheld by his new short haircut.

I kissed him, running my hands up the back of his head, no longer feeling mustache stubble on his soft lips. When we were settled in, he made me aware that he had been thinking of how he was going to engage his new role as Master. He said that I would be subjugated to a point system based on behavior and obedience. He was in control of my orgasms as well. He elected that he will call me Pup and I will call him King. I thought it an odd choice at the time, but it grew on me quickly. I was overjoyed to be his Pup, but when he made it clear that he would be in complete control of my hair from that point forward, I fully felt owned.

I was as nervous as I was eager. He had already surprised me with the detail of his engagement to this sexual relationship. It wasn’t long before I was bound, teased, played with. I was performing tasks when he was not with me. My inner thigh had his stamp of ownership on it, which he renewed when he came over. I was doing exercises at home on command and wearing BDSM gear under my clothes at work. Something was always there to me that I was owned. He would mark my body with his teeth. Pull my hair. After a few weeks, the momentum seemed only to increase. But when my hair began to tickle my ear, I was wondering about when he would demand a cut.

Our schedules were difficult to work with and overlap usually was only once a week. After another evening session, I finally asked if I could go get the sides trimmed, as I loved how long the top was getting. My fringe passed my eye and was starting to really have that shaggy-but-clean look, especially if I could manage to get my sides faded again. King agreed and the next day, a Sunday, I was on my way to the barbershop.

It is no surprise that I ended up at a Sports Clips, as all the local barbershops were either closed or booked. I didn’t need anything too technical, and King was texting me the entire time, approving the process of barbershop jumping. Google is not always reliable in terms of local shop hours, I can confirm. So as a last resort I sat, waiting for my turn in the closest Sports Clips. King new the cut I had been working on maintaining: a #1 low fade, nothing off the top to let it grow. But it was his call to make now, not mine. When I could tell that it would be my turn soon, I texted "What cut am I getting King?" I was erotically charged and nervous. He responded, telling my to do a 0 fade this time. I liked that. I saw the cape come off of the man getting his cut before me and watched him smile at himself in the mirror. I judged that this barberette was good. Another text from King: 2 inches off the top. My heart sank. That would kill the style, the growth progress, the ‘look’ I was going for.

"Yes King," I responded, my blood flow redirecting to my groin. I sat and gave the exact instructions that King told me to. Being obedient was thrilling, especially at the expense of what I actually wanted. The fade itself was uneventful, but seeing inches come off of the top and fall was both exhilarating and disappointing. I could see myself in the mirror, past my dangling, wet fringe which hung in my eyes. She collected a large section of my fringe with a comb, clearing my vision. I watched her roughly measure, drawing her fingers up to hold the hair for cutting. Without asking me to confirm she snipped more than 2 inches off, the hair now reaching no further than the middle of my forehead. I held my breath for a moment, elated by what had just been done. In less than a minute the scissors had taken the top down fairly short. The cut was done well, clean. But my style was lost. Taken by my dom. I looked bland and I loved it.

The sub/dom sessions continued. I still had enough hair to be pulled and my appetite was momentarily satisfied by the Sports Clips experience. He would still use my hair as a tool to keep me in line. I had a bad habit of forgetting to address him as King, even when bound. During one steamy session while I was bound to the bed, he grabbed my hair firm, jerking my head. In a serious tone he said, "If you forget to address me as King one more time, I will shave your head." He was serious too, as any other threats he made in the various circumstances we found ourselves in, he delivered. Though, he had yet to take over the role of barber, anxious as I was to have it happen. I remember the intensity of that moment, and one particular swelling muscle. I never forgot to call him King after that.

Over several weeks he learned all of my pleasure buttons, the good and the bad. He was binding me regularly, controlling my orgasms with precise attention, even when he wasn’t actually present. I was obligated to maintain daily exercise, mainly push-ups and sit ups. It was thoroughly thrilling. He would often grab a handful of my hair, knowing what that did to me, and just stare, biting his lip.

In the heat of it all, our work schedules picked up, making it more difficult for him to come over. We talked on the phone, trying to plan a time to see each other. I craved my master’s attention. It looked like over a week until we could manage something reasonable with the appropriate amount of privacy, the next Sunday. What was I going to do? He had me wrapped around his finger, my body lusting for him. That I had to wait almost a week seemed impossible. After we confirmed the day, he told me that I better be prepared because he had something special planned. My pants tightened. He had already been devastatingly dominant with me in all the right ways. Was the haircut finally coming? Or was I hoping too hard?

It was on my mind that entire week. I wished he hadn’t said anything, especially since he was unwilling to discuss it further, and I knew better than to pry beyond his desire. Prepare how? I had no idea. I watched my diet, cleaned my room and all of the toys. I asked if I should trim my body hair, to which he said yes. I trimmed my rather hairless torso down with no guard, as well as my pelvic area and rear. He then instructed me to cut my facial hair into a chin strap, like his. I did so without question. I quite liked the look and later I would repeat the style. The days rolled past, and he gave no real inclination to his intentions. He knew my boundaries and would never cross them, and we had a safe word. I felt as ready as possible for whatever he was going to do.




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