Kiss of Headshave part 2

"You know, I've always had a thing for hair," she said, stroking her own short bob. Her voice was a casual purr, as if she were discussing the weather. Her friend looked up from her magazine, an eyebrow arched. "Oh? What kind of thing?" "Well," she began, leaning closer with a conspiratorial smile, "not just any hair. It's more about the act of shaving it off, you see. The way it falls, the feel of the razor's kiss on their skin, the sudden vulnerability." Her eyes took on a distant look, as if she were reliving a cherished memory. Her friend's curiosity piqued, she set her magazine aside. "That's... interesting. Have you ever done it?" "Oh, yes," she replied, her smile widening. "It's quite the rush, really. The first time was an accident, you know. A heated argument with an ex. I just grabbed the nearest object—his electric razor—and I couldn't resist the temptation." She paused, savoring the memory before continuing. "The way his eyes widened when I flipped it on, the tremor in his hand when he tried to grab it from me. It was like watching a moth drawn to a flame." Her friend leaned back slightly, her eyes narrowing in both fascination and horror. "And what happened?" The woman took a deep breath, her eyes sparkling with a sadistic delight. "Well, let's just say it didn't end well for him. But that's another story for another time. The important thing is that it awakened something in me." She traced the side of her head with her fingers, feeling the smoothness of her skin. "It's not just about the hair. It's about the power, the control I have over them in that moment." Her friend swallowed hard, trying to digest this new piece of information. "So, you've done this before?" "Many times," she said, her voice a smooth purr. "But it's not just about the headshave itself. It's the build-up, the dance of wills. The moment when they realize they can't fight back, that's when the real fun begins." She leaned in closer, her eyes gleaming with excitement. "I choose my prey carefully, you see. They have to be just the right mix of arrogant and oblivious. It's a thrill to watch their bravado crumble." Her friend's expression was a mix of horror and morbid fascination. "How do you... How do you find them?" she asked, her voice barely a whisper. "It's surprisingly easy," she replied with a shrug. "The world is full of narcissistic men who think they're above everyone else. They strut around like peacocks, flashing their feathers, begging for attention." She took a sip of her drink, the ice clinking against the glass. "And when they finally get it, they never suspect it's the last thing they'll ever see." Her friend's eyes widened. "What do you do to them?" The woman's smile grew colder. "First, I befriend them, make them feel important. They love the attention, the ego boost. I listen to their stories, their dreams, their fears—like a spider weaving its web. And when they're all tangled up, feeling safe and superior, I strike." She leaned back in her chair, a smug look on her face. "I invite them to a private place, usually my apartment, under the guise of a romantic evening or a heart-to-heart conversation. They never suspect a thing." Her friend was on the edge of her seat, unable to look away. "And then?" "And then," she said, "I get to work. I blindfold them, so they can't see the fear in their own eyes. It's all about the sound of their breathing, the quickening of their heartbeats, the smell of their sweat as it mingles with the shampoo in their hair." Her eyes took on a predatory glint. "They're always so tense at first, but once the razor touches their skin, something changes. They start to relax, almost like it's a form of submission." Her friend's hand inched towards her own head, unconsciously feeling for the safety of her hair. "What happens next?" "Well," she said, leaning back into her chair, "once their hair is gone, they're mine. Stripped of their vanity, their sense of power. It's like watching a lion become a housecat." She took a sip of her drink, the ice clinking in the silence. "But the headshave is just the beginning. That's when the real fun starts." Her friend's heart pounded in her chest, a mix of dread and anticipation. "What do you mean?" "Once they're bare, I can see the truth of who they are," she said, her eyes drifting to the side as if she was examining an invisible canvas. "Their fears, their desires, their deepest, darkest secrets. And I play with them." Her friend's hand stopped mid-motion, frozen at the base of her neck. "Play with them?" she repeated, her voice a squeak. "Mm-hmm," the woman said, her eyes snapping back to meet hers. "It's a delicate balance, really. Too much fear and they might bolt. Too little and it's not satisfying. I have to coax it out of them, tease it to the surface." Her friend's hand remained fixed on her neck, the reality of the situation sinking in. "What... what happens after that?" she managed to ask, her voice a tremble. The woman took a moment to consider her response, her eyes twinkling with a dark amusement. "It varies," she said at last. "Some of them, I keep around for a while. Others... well, let's just say they're no longer a part of the conversation." Her friend's hand tightened around her neck, her mind racing with unspoken questions. The room felt suddenly claustrophobic, the air thick with unspoken words and deadly secrets. "What do you do with them?" she whispered, unable to hide the fear in her voice. The woman's smile remained unchanged, as if discussing a favorite hobby. "It's all part of the thrill, the unpredictability. Some of them, I keep as pets. They're surprisingly obedient once they know who's in charge." She winked. "They do whatever I tell them, no questions asked. It's quite... liberating." Her friend's hand fell from her neck, the tremble spreading through her body. "What happens to the ones you don't keep?" "They become part of the art," she replied, her eyes drifting to the abstract paintings that lined the walls of the dimly lit bar. "Every stroke tells a story, every piece a silent confession of their sins. They're immortalized in a way, aren't they?" She took another sip of her drink, the smugness in her voice unmistakable. "But let's not get ahead of ourselves. That's the grand finale, the pièce de résistance, so to speak."