Haircut

"You won't graduate like this." That was all he said. “Let me cut your hair. Then we’ll talk.” Failing the seminar means automatic delay in graduation. Desperate, cornered—and then, scissors slide into her long, virgin hair. “Stop... please... not so suddenly...!” Cold steel brushes her ear. Chunks of hair fall before her eyes. In the mirror, a stranger stares back. Shame, confusion—and something else begins to stir. His hands. His scissors. His fingers. They invade deeper, and deeper. “I told you to stop... so why is my body...?” Snipping. Splashing. Moaning. In a locked lab where discovery means ruin, her pride is shaved away with each stroke. And beyond shame—was ecstasy. Overwhelming pleasure. A tale of forbidden submission in academia— She falls, strand by strand. 44 pages of decadent degradation. A single command begins her descent: “Let me cut your hair.”