He just got home. by UwU

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I trudged through the front door after a grueling day at work, my tie loose, my shoulders slumped with exhaustion. In the center of the living room stood a black folding stool, already set up, its metal seat dry and stark under the light. Brittany stood beside it, her presence commanding and unyielding, wearing a tight vinyl black apron that hugged her body, revealing just the edges of a black bra and panties underneath, her sparse attire amplifying her authority. Her medium-length brunette bob was neatly styled, framing her face with sharp precision.
Since we got married three years ago, Brittany had been fixated on my hair. As a retired hairstylist, she lived for precision, her skills once honed in the salon where she transformed clients with elegant cuts and polished styles. My receding hairline, which I’d stubbornly ignored, became her obsession—not because of any household failures, but because she simply preferred men with short, disciplined hair. She’d run her fingers through my thinning locks, murmuring about how "short hair looks so much better," her frustration growing as my hairline retreated further, clashing with her vision of masculine order. My refusal to let her crop it close had pushed her to this moment—she was done waiting.
"Welcome home," Brittany said, her voice firm and authoritative, running a hand over her brunette bob. "That uneven hairline of yours is unacceptable. I prefer men with short hair, and yours is going. From now on, you’ll call me Mommy. The stool’s ready. Strip, sweetheart. Everything off, including the boxers. We’re getting you cleaned up. Say ‘Yes, Mommy.’"
I blinked, my pulse quickening, my gaze flicking to the stool, its dry metal surface gleaming ominously under the light, a stark reminder of her salon-honed precision. "Yes, ma’am," I stammered, the words feeling foreign, my cheeks burning. "Brittany, please—" I started, but she cut me off with a raised hand. "It’s Mommy, and no arguments," she said firmly. "You’re under my control now." Reluctantly, I stripped, peeling off my boxers last, standing naked and vulnerable before Brittany, the air cold against my skin, amplifying my unease.
"Bend over the stool," Brittany ordered, her voice carrying absolute authority. I hesitated, the dry stool looming ominously. Her hand guided me down, my bare chest pressed against the stool’s cold, hard metal surface, the chill biting into my skin, making me shiver as I gripped the legs for balance. My exposed backside felt defenseless. Brittany stepped closer, her well-manicured nails—perfectly shaped and painted a deep crimson—gleaming as she ran her fingers slowly over my bare skin, her touch lingering with an overzealous intensity. She traced circles, her nails scraping, sending shivers through me as she said, "You’ve been fighting me on this haircut for too long. I prefer short hair, and that’s how you’ll look." Her fingers explored further, teasing, prolonging the moment. "Time to learn," she declared, her hand coming down ruthlessly, the smack stinging my bare skin with brutal force, making me yelp. Each spank was delivered with unrelenting precision, the pain sharp and searing, her strength surprising me as it radiated through my body, the cold stool amplifying my discomfort. She took her time, drawing out the spanking, each strike methodical, alternating between cheeks, the rhythm deliberate and unhurried, letting the sting build and linger. "You’ll wear your hair the way I like it," she said, each strike punctuated by her commanding words, intensifying my humiliation. My pleas for mercy were met with a stern, "Quiet, or I’ll make this last longer." The burn grew unbearable, my face flushing, my body squirming futilely against the dry stool as she continued her prolonged, ruthless assault, her dominance absolute. "I’m in charge, and you’ll respect that," she said, the spanking stretching on, each smack a lesson in her control.
After what felt like an eternity of agonizing smacks, Brittany guided me to sit upright on the stool, the metal biting into my bare thighs, chilling my skin, the lingering sting from the spanking making every movement painful. The dry surface offered no give, its hardness a constant reminder of her authority. "Sit up straight," Brittany ordered, her voice firm as she adjusted my posture with a steady hand. I straightened, my back rigid, the cold stool pressing uncomfortably. Brittany produced handcuffs, the steel glinting softly. "Hands behind you," she commanded. Click—the cuffs locked my wrists to the stool’s back legs, cold and tight. Then, she knelt with thick black duct tape. "Pick your feet up off the floor slightly, sweetheart," she ordered, her tone unyielding. I complied, lifting them just enough, my muscles straining as she wrapped the tape tightly around my ankles and the stool legs, suspending them slightly elevated. "Open your mouth," she said next, her voice sharp. I hesitated, but her piercing gaze silenced any protest. As I opened my mouth to speak, she swiftly pressed a strip of duct tape over it, sealing my lips, the adhesive tight and muffling, rendering me silent and even more helpless. The tape’s grip was unyielding, amplifying my vulnerability as I breathed heavily through my nose, my body fully at her mercy with no leverage to shift or speak. "Yes, Mommy," I tried to mumble through the tape, the sound stifled, the helplessness sinking in. Panic rose, my breaths shallow, her dominance overwhelming.
Brittany draped a heavy vinyl cape over me, its glossy black weight settling like a dark shroud. The material clung to my bare skin, cool at first but warming quickly, its suffocating grip amplifying my vulnerability. She fastened it around my neck with a sharp Velcro snap, pulling it extra tight, the collar digging into my skin like a chokehold, pressing against my throat with unyielding pressure, making every swallow a conscious effort and every breath slightly labored, a constant reminder of her control. The sound was final, the cape rustling with every futile squirm. She stepped closer, her body pressing up against mine from behind, her warmth and dominance inescapable. I felt trapped up against her body, nowhere to run, her closeness suffocating as she leaned in, holding her professional balding clippers—no guard, just bare blades honed for precision—against my forehead, the cold metal teeth buzzing ominously against my skin, sending a chill through me as she bent down and pressed her lips to the side of my neck, kissing it softly, the intimate gesture starkly contrasting the menace of the clippers, heightening my dread and disorientation. "Feel that?" she whispered against my skin, her breath warm, her voice commanding but calm, the clippers still pressed to my forehead, unmoving, prolonging the anticipation. "This is going to make you look the way I like."
She pulled back slightly, tilting my head back with a firm grip. "First, the eyebrows," she declared. I tried to protest through the tape, a muffled whimper escaping, but she ignored it. "No arguments. You’re mine to fix," she said firmly. The clippers pressed against my brow, the vibration sharp and invasive as she shaved them off in quick, expert passes. The sensation was jarring, the blades scraping with a relentless buzz, stripping away each eyebrow hair by hair, the clippings falling onto the cape like tiny feathers, leaving my face feeling naked and exposed. I squirmed, but the cuffs, tape, and duct tape over my mouth held me fast, my elevated feet and the cold, dry stool intensifying my helplessness.
Satisfied, she moved to my head, keeping a tight grip on it with one hand, her body still pressed against mine, trapping me. "Now that hairline," she said, grabbing my hair and leaning my head back over her body, arching it slightly as she positioned the clippers right down the middle. The cold metal teeth pressed against my forehead again, the vibration jolting as she pushed them straight back in a bold, central path. The clippers growled hungrily, devouring my hair in a single, merciless swipe, the blades scraping my scalp with a tingling intensity that sent shivers down my spine. The first pass left a wide, pale strip of stubble down the center, the contrast stark and shocking, clumps of hair tumbling like defeated remnants onto the vinyl cape, sliding down to pool in my lap. Brittany paused, her eyes lighting up as she gazed at the freshly exposed strip, "Oh, I love how pale your scalp is," she murmured, running her crimson nails slowly down the stubbled streak, her touch deliberate and lingering, scratching lightly against the sensitive skin, savoring the moment as I shivered under her grip, trapped against her body. She didn’t pause long, immediately making another pass alongside, the clippers’ teeth biting into my scalp with precision, each stroke methodical yet ruthless, the buzzing filling my ears as she stripped the sides, the pressure firm and unyielding, the sensation invasive and electric. She tilted my head to the side, ensuring every angle was shaved clean, the blades gliding over the contours of my scalp, the warmth of the clippers contrasting with the cold, dry stool beneath me. The back of my neck felt raw as the blades scraped over sensitive skin, leaving short stubble in their wake, every movement deliberate, her hairstylist’s expertise evident in the clean, even paths she carved. As the hair fell away, I felt a confusing rush in my groin, a stirring arousal amid the humiliation, my body betraying me under her unyielding hold. She worked methodically, shaving the top, then the sides, the buzz loud near my ears, her movements as skilled as in her salon days. "This is how it should be," she said, her voice steady, her brunette bob swaying slightly. "Short hair is what I want for you. Nod if you agree." I nodded weakly, my voice stifled by the tape. The cuffs and tape kept me helpless, my feet dangling slightly, the dry stool unyielding beneath me.
Brittany set the clippers down and picked up a can of shaving foam, shaking it with a soft hiss before turning her attention lower. "We’re not done," she said, her voice low and deliberate. My eyes widened, panic surging as she knelt in front of me, her bob glinting under the light, her body still close, trapping me in her presence. She sprayed a generous amount of foam into her hand, the cold, creamy lather glistening as she applied it to my groin, covering my member and surrounding area with slow, deliberate strokes, the sensation cold and startling, making me tense against the restraints. "Mmph!" I tried to protest through the tape, my voice muffled. "Shh," she said, her eyes steady, her tone unyielding. "Every part of you will be disciplined the way I like." She picked up a straight razor, its blade gleaming sharply, and began shaving slowly, her movements precise and controlled, the blade gliding over the sensitive skin with agonizing care, each stroke stripping away hair with a soft scrape, the sound intimate and terrifying. The razor’s edge felt cold and dangerous, her professional skill ensuring no nicks but amplifying my vulnerability, her close proximity making every moment more intense. She took her time, her crimson nails occasionally brushing the skin as she worked, the foam slick and cool, the process methodical, leaving the area smooth and exposed. I squirmed, the cuffs, tape, and duct tape over my mouth holding me fast, the dry stool adding to my helplessness, her body’s closeness ensuring I had nowhere to run.
Satisfied, she wiped the area clean with a warm cloth, the sensation jarring against the newly bare skin. She stood, picking up a foil shaver, its high-pitched whine sharper, a tool she used with practiced ease from her hairstylist days. "Time to finish your head," she said firmly. I tried to plead through the tape, a muffled whimper escaping, but she leaned in, her eyes steady, her body still close, trapping me. "No arguments," she said, her voice authoritative. "You’re under my control. Nod if you understand." I nodded, defeated. The foil shaver scraped my scalp, the sensation like tiny blades, leaving it impossibly smooth, her hairstylist’s touch flawless. The air felt cold against my bare scalp.
She moved to my face. I whimpered through the tape, but she held my chin firmly, her closeness unrelenting. "This is necessary for the look I want," she said, the shaver buzzing over my beard, stripping it away with professional precision. Hairs fell like ash onto the cape, my face naked. Each pass deepened my humiliation, the restraints and taped mouth rendering my pleas useless.
She stepped back, running her manicured nails over my smooth scalp, bare face, and newly shaved groin, lingering on the pale, freshly shaved skin with a satisfied smile. "There, perfectly disciplined, just how I like my men," she said, her brunette bob framing her authoritative expression, her sparse attire under the apron a mark of her control. "Keep your hair short, or you’ll be back on this stool, and I’ll shave you bald. Understand?" I nodded, my voice silenced by the tape. Brittany cut the tape from my ankles and uncuffed me, peeling the duct tape from my mouth with a slow, deliberate tug, the sting sharp but brief. The cape’s weight lingered as I stood, humiliated yet reshaped, her commanding presence and brunette bob a constant reminder of her unyielding control.

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