#it was always like I was a spectator watching a cut scene in a video game

[malachitezmeyka]

The worst part of this all is that I’m going through it while I’m still on my period

[rou-luxe]

THEORIES

babe wake up tragic yaoi dropped *THIS ACCOUNT DOES NOT USUALLY POST ALNST FANTHEORIES. IF THAT IS WHAT YOU WANT THIS IS NOT THE PLACE. theories / commentary / spoilers under the cut

I don't know 100% ALNST lore... most of this is speculation I think some people have commented on this already but apparently the one in the couple who wears white dies (Sua, Ivan) Following this pattern, Hyuna x Luka's relationship is complicated but if we go by that Luka is dying next round... But the next round is Till vs Luka, which would be different from the pattern (Sua vs Mizi, Ivan vs Till)... so maybe to complete the pattern Hyuna puts herself in instead of Till. mom pick me up I'm scared On top of that, Ivan wore black before, but switched to white. Does this have to do with something... (Was Till supposed to die instead...) Luka and Hyuna evidently have VERY different singing styles though so that would be interesting def Also the characters look older (not only the haircut man... they're taller) so I wonder... how much time has passed in ALNST??? and is it proportional to irl time (probably not) Not sure about the other videos I need to check but this time there are human spectators amongst the aliens in the crowd for the first time??? is alnst so powerful that they want to watch the showdown too??? Till sounds like he's about to break poor bb Till's lyrics in the beginning start off hopeless, asking someone to hurt him. To dissolve and drown in someone, to become one with them. Definitely Mizi. When Till's master shoves his face towards the newspaper, he's probably telling him to snap out of it, sing properly and let go of Mizi??? Then Till gets his ahh beat and he reaches for Mizi, his one hope in the darkness "Icy lips" - he already thinks Mizi is dead??? Ivan's eyes look empty. interruption from mizisua sponsor /j Even though the MIZISUA video is more of a backstory video, it also suits Round 1. I think it might suit Ivantill as well hold on When Mizi and Sua found each other (refer to MIZISUA video), Sua has lost hope already, but Mizi's love gives her some hope in the dark. Then they are torn apart, but still want to be together. The one who lives (Mizi) is in grief. Ivan's empty eyes look like he has lost hope, just like Sua. Till gave him a reason to keep going (see: Black Sorrow, their relationship shown in Cure <- this video)

Back to the video Till laying there by himself, Ivan moves the (muzzle?) restriction, maybe to help him breathe Ivan's verse reflects Till's but it's different in multiple ways "Cold words" - Referring to Till? (well... till has always been naturally sassy...) Similar to Till's statement in the first part, Ivan is saying that Till can break him apart and build him back again (mend) I guess they fought and became friends 💀 "I'll drown in you" as well. Till would sacrifice himself for Mizi, Ivan would sacrifice himself for Till (CRIES) Ivan feels "seen" by Till, Till wants to dissolve in Mizi's gaze Why does he reach for the back of Till's neck? Till unawares (sleeping)? Are the two somewhat related? Ivan reaches for Till (love) but Till unaware (once again 💀) Consume me + licking the blood from Till's wound. they really want to become one person don't they 2:46 Ivan turns away from the camera is he giving Till a kiss on the cheek or is he whispering something to Till in his sleep we'll never know

"We shall dance", with "our story". TOGETHER. THEY WANT TO BE TOGET- *gets shot* PLEASE LET THEM BE YAOI AGGHGH everlasting memory this moment will last forever THE KISS SCENE I WAS SO HAPPY AT FIRST AND THEN WE ALL KNOW WHAT HAPPENED I rewatched this video too many times the animation just too pretty man 😭 Till pushes him away I noticed this in a lot of promo arts and stuff because yk Mizi

okay back to the video Ivan's expression when he chokes Till kind of looks like him looking down at the camera like he did at the end of Black Sorrow am I reading too into this Till gives up. He doesn't even fight the choking. Normally this would be uncharacteristic but yk Mizi 😭😭 I'm confused how Ivan gets hit??? I think it's bullets but who knows maybe the rain is possessed or maybe Ivan did it himself Like in Till's song (it's been confirmed by the creators that Till killed his enemy to win apparently), if the enemy is killed then you win. Ivan sacrificed himself so Till could win, so Till could live There was also a theory I read that Luka was pissing off Mizi so she would fight back, so she would continue living BUT LUKA IS A WHOLE OTHER STORY THIS ISN'T ABOUT LUKA WE'RE TALKING ABOUT IVANTILL At the end of MIZISUA video, Mizi wakes up crying in the rain. Till stands in the rain staring at Ivan's corpse (but we don't see the body) The light is focused on Ivan, not Till. The light of Ivan's life has been snuffed out, but it also leaves Till in darkness I was expecting Till to make some sort of movement once the lights turned off but nope omg Luka vs Till... Till is gonna kill his ahh for disrespecting Mizi 💀 THE OTHER YAOI DUO!! WHAT HAPPENED TO HYUNA BRO IS MAMA GONNA DIE WHO INTRUDED imagine if the intruder was luka that would be so funny also there is a heavy heartbeat motif in the kick drums for the song omg there is no heartbeat during the music when - Kid Ivan stares deadly at the camera (it stops there) - Ivan enters stage - They build the heartbeat motif again slowly during the backstory part - back to life. Starts with a single kick then double - Ivan is falling insert ivantill my god my universe memes again, Till is literally Ivan's reason for living

thank you for reading my nonsense ramblings it's 3:30 am Ivantill is worth staying up any day THIS IS NOT PROOFREAD I am CRYING 🔥🔥 WE COPE GOOD NIGHT might draw ivantill fanart... doubt I have time though

[jules-slayer-of-the-vampyres]

sorry about tour, i understand your frustration :( hope you can get some rest soon!

i rewatched the anti-hero music video today because of how much i love it, and i finally have been noticing a lot! (my observations are in no way unique to me but i also haven't seen much discourse on the mv myself)

• what does the breakfast plate at the beginning represent? it forms a smiley face, but when she cuts into the eggs, it oozes galaxy-ish, deep purple liquid. (this liquid is very mysterious to me as it's a constant throughout the entire video). she sings that midnights become her afternoons, but the plate of food here is clearly a very american breakfast, and breakfasts are something you associate with mornings, not afternoons. (maybe this is to show that her depression causes her to have a very messed up schedule and lose sense of time, which i personally relate to as a fellow depressed insomniac).

• what happened to the three ghosts? they haunt her at first, but when the second taylor shows up, we don't see those ghosts again. (i've seen theories that the three ghosts represent the eras prior to 1989, while the second taylor represents the 1989, lover, and reputation.) the first taylor ran away from the ghosts while the second taylor did nothing to combat the ghosts, so what happened to the three ghosts, really?

• the scene in which the archer who suddenly shoots her with an arrow fascinates me. firstly, who's the archer and where does he come from? how did he know that giant taylor was there at the party? secondly, why does he shoot giant taylor? and in doing so, she bleeds the mysterious glittery liquid. the “pierced through the heart but never killed” lyric perfectly works with this scene, tbh; i've seen an interpretation that this lyric could mean that as a celebrity, taylor is constantly hurt and attacked by various people, but since she's got a shield of immunity from them with her status, she's just supposed to take them as is. she will be hurt and hurt and hurt, but she won't die that easily. also, why does she cover up her wound with a political sticker? what does the “vote me for everything” campaign mean?

• i do think that one of the themes in anti-hero and the album as a whole is that she doesn't have the courage or what it takes to be openly vocal in the political / social climate like other outspoken celebrities - for example, jameela jamil (love her <3). taylor doesn't have that strong, consistent, or powerful voice to be speaking up about every issue. she can, at best, advocate for herself and the people around her; she can, at best, demonstrate her support through her actions (donations, supporting smaller artists, bringing diversity to her music videos, the like). not using this as an excuse to justify her pseudoactivism, but i definitely do think the political aspect of the lover era is being mentioned here.

• the funeral scene definitely feels both metaphorical and literal. metaphorically, it could represent the internet and this fandom; the constant search for clues in her words is a uniquely swiftie thing. furthermore, i think her peeping from the comfort of her coffin (if she stays in the coffin, people will let her rest, whether she's actually dead or not) is a reference to #taylurking. meaning, taylor is always around and aware of what's going on in the fandom (and she did say this in the late night interview during the red tv era). when the fight breaks out between what i think are various parts of the fandom, taylor is too horrified and shocked to do anything to stop the fight. all she can do is look on like a mute spectator, as if she's watching a trainwreck. again, i think this is a reference to the fact that whenever swifties go too far (for example, sending death threats), taylor doesn't speak out against them though she is horrified by their actions. plus, a lot of swifties call taylor their mum, so there's that.

• literally speaking, i think taylor has a fear that her loved ones are / will be using her for money and fame, and they don't love taylor swift the person, but rather, they love taylor for what she can give them. i think this is a common and rational fear that many celebrities and rich people have; the question, “do they love me or my possessions?” i also think she's worried about what will become of her legacy after she's gone.

• frankly speaking, i don't understand the transition between the funeral scene and the ending. are we to assume that all of the drama has been happening inside the house and taylor got so exhausted of all the chaos that she decided to go up on the roof and just take a break from everything?

• i do think that the first taylor is Taylor Swift The Person, the giant taylor is Taylor Swift The Artist/The Celebrity, and the second taylor is Taylor Swift The Brand. the brand taylor needs person taylor to look and act be a certain way (brand taylor is fun because she does shots and breaks guitars! brand taylor is pretty because she's skinny! but all of that is too much for taylor the person, because she's a human being, not a product).

• instead of villainising any of her selves, taylor ends the music video by showing us that all of the three taylors have found friendship in each other in spite of their flaws (person taylor runs away from her problems, brand taylor is toxic, and giant taylor is too much for other people). accepting your flaws is a major component of self-love; being able to be at peace with yourself is, frankly, the hardest yet the best thing to achieve.

• another question that lingers is... does the alcohol mean anything? the shots? the wine bottles? the three taylors passing around the bottle at the end? the bottle being empty when the giant taylor tried to drink it at the dinner party? brand taylor drinking more shots than person taylor?

thank you for letting me ramble, and i'm excited to hear your thoughts!

Thank you! I have not rested. I suspect it’s a nap later kind of day. Oh well. I appreciate the ramble and here is mine. It felt coherent as I was typing it. Hope it is. If not, I did it without my glasses so I’m sorry 😣

I suspect the breakfast is both a way of talking about her messed up schedule and also a reference to the line “breakfast at midnight” from 22. Especially since the beginning of the video is visually a love letter to Red. The glitter is weird to me. So it comes out three times: eggs, as blood, and as puke. Okay so I did some googling around about this and I’m taking some other opinions and forming my own. She has referenced one of her lyrical styles as being “glitter gel pen” lyrics. This album and this song in particular could be accused of being that style. I think the idea may be that at first glance it’s bouncy and fun but it shows its true self when you look closer. The glitter shows up in her moments of weakness. Which would sort of tie into the smiley face breakfast saying this isn’t actually a happy glittery moment paradoxically.

My personal reading of the ghosts is it’s like in scary movies when someone is being haunted the little ghosts disappear when the true ghost arrives. They’re pieces of the second Taylor.

Okay so I think the archer is sort of harkening back to the concept from the archer the song. This album covers her fears of being left and this song tells us about them explicitly. The Archer the song is about that concept about wondering who could love you enough to stay. In this case, she is shot by the archer. She is the prey. Narratively, I don’t think it’s much more than he saw a scary big monster on the hill and shot her. As for pierced through the heart but never killed I think is about how often people try to take her down, think how many Taylor swift is over parties Twitter has had. But she isn’t over so she isn’t killed. The vote for me for everything campaign is two fold. It references her fears to pick a side and speak to much about political issues and wants everyone to like her and also the ways she has tried to ensure the music industry gives her what she wants. I think she wants to be liked really badly and has some trouble dealing with the sheer number of people who don’t like her just by virtue of how famous she is.

Strong agree about the activism. I understand why it might be frightening for her. She is a human and we’re not meant to comprehend that number of people loving or hating us. It’s something she should work through as other celebrities have managed but I understand it. Especially since how young she started and how long ago.

I think you’re right on the money for the metaphorical read of the funeral scene. And I agree. I think it’s probably scary to want to plan a future with a husband and children and wonder how you manage the wealth she has accumulated. Do you leave it all to them? Is that a good way to raise people? Will their love always be tied to that?

Yes I think Taylor goes to find her other self. She sort of seems to reach an acceptance about being the problem. It’s exhausting but she has herself and she can deal.

I love the way you explained the three Taylor’s and I agree. She accepts all of herself and becomes a full person. Love it.

I think the alcohol is partially meant to be funny because it pops up every time she says tea time in the song. On the other hand. She does talk some about substance abuse on this album and since her brand self introduces it and is her bad influence self I suspect it’s not entirely meant to be viewed in a positive light.

[fishylife]

Thoughts on Street Dance of China 4 episode 2

(Aka Fishy is screencapping shows again. I’m screencapping straight from Youtube so sorry for the shoddy cut off screencaps but blame Youtube for having their player bar cover the video. I’ve never understood that because it’s always in the way.)

(Also Episode 2 part 1 is really just “How many times can Han Geng and Henry hug” and the answer is “as many times as they want”)

- Not really sure why Henry chose Anissa and Tuzi for the 2 vs. 2 battle, especially since Anissa was really not confident about it :( I felt really bad for Anissa because she seemed super nervous!!!!! I just hope that she doesn’t lose enthusiasm and that she can continue to enjoy the rest of the competition v.v

- Kelo and Uwa were extremely impressive though. Like, the way they move together is so awesome and cool.

- Among the dancers, Xiao Jie is actually really good at speaking. No wonder he gets interviewed a lot, because he’s able to describe the dancers to us layfolk, but he is also very smiley and entertaining.

- How dare Yixing be this cute 😤😤😤 He’s definitely far more relaxed when he’s just a spectator, that’s for sure. He was laughing at all the jokes and awkward moments and generally so much more animated when just part of the sidelines.

- Henry covering his mouth because he was enjoying Xiaohai’s performance was pretty cute too, not gonna lie.

- I liked San’er from episode 1, so I was cheering for him when he participated in the 3 vs. 3 battle lol. But it was really interesting to hear the conversation when Wang Yibo asked his team why San’er lost the battle. Ye Yin and Liangliang told him that to the judges who are old school, they care less for explosiveness, and more for actual skill, and while San’er’s performance might’ve looked really exciting to the average viewer, that’s not what the old school judges look for.

- So apparently Lil Kev plays a lot of mind games, and we saw that during his battle against Bozi. So he’s like...the Brad Marchand of breaking lol.

- Are...are we gonna comment on this hug between Poppin’C and Xiaohai? Lmao

- What are they being so cute for. (Also don’t @ me but Bunta is....really cute)

- Is it just me, or did we get fewer behind-the-scenes practice clips this time for Han Geng vs. Henry compared to Yixing vs. Yibo? Particularly for the 5 vs. 5 battle.

- Dimple alert. (Sorry I know this is a Han Geng vs. Henry battle but Yixing just looks so freaking cute today)

- Han Geng.....has a really soft and gentle voice (it is simping hours up in the fishy house okay). He speaks particularly quietly during his one-person interviews and his voice is so pleasant to listen to in those clips.

- Henry was talking about how he wanted to do that move with Poppin’C where they’d lean back on each other’s knees and do a wave with their arms. For some reason that move struck me as something that was very Henry like. He just strikes me as the kind of guy who uses a lot of waves and smooth-looking moves in his dances.

- Also lol @ Henry being “non fatigue!” That Ontario French curriculum at work.

- Han Geng and Henry trash talking each other except it just turns into a walk down memory lane about how Han Geng used to take care of Henry.

- Don’t even act surprised, y’all knew I was going to screenshot this.

- Kitty is amused.

- Of course Han Geng would end his routine with a big ol’ hug. What a huge softie.

- I did think that Han Geng and Xiaohai were kind of a rough duo because even if they were in sync, it was hard to tell because of the height difference. Actually, I spent a lot more time focusing on Han Geng, especially towards the end when the rest of the team crowded around them and he was visibly one of the taller ones.

- Henry’s move where he stood on Poppin’C’s thighs was super cool!! His performance was just super fun to watch. I felt like I was having a good time along with them haha.

- Please sir, may I have more hugs?

- I think Han Geng and Xiaohai’s second performance was better because it relied less on being in sync performing the same actions. However, at this point, Poppin’C and Henry have kind of created a specific brand (TM) for themselves, like they are so uniquely charming to watch, so they have firmly won me over Han Geng and Xiaohai’s team.

- Running into a hug? Are you kidding me, Lau Hin-wah???

- More

- Not only is this show cashing in on the Suju/Suju M fans, it is definitely going to pull in new fans with the Han Geng/Henry ship lol.

- Yixing spinning to get up.

- It is just so goddamn natural for them to be so close to each other. Also Han Geng said that his waist is feeling iffy from that popping ^^;; Old man joints

- Lifting Han Geng’s shirt to look at his patch...

- One of the dancers on Han Geng’s team was crying because he made a mistake in the 5 vs. 5 battle and Han Geng is like why are you crying? And gave him a playful slap on the shoulder.

- Why is that the ads done by the dancer contestants are so much more entertaining than the professional ads (the ads with mainstream celebrities or with professional actors).

- Henry’s written the pinyin on top of the Chinese names of his team members. Better safe than sorry, you know?

- Lmao how dare they bully Tengzai and Shitou by making them talk XD

- I think that when Henry assigns his team members to certain battles, he is thinking more about the combination of styles, rather than the skill level or  synchronization. When he assigned Anissa and Tuzi to the 2 vs. 2 battle, he wanted to try out the East vs. West approach, but the opposing duo of Kelo and Uwa had a lot more history together and were obviously better as a collective unit. When it came to Chen Mo and Waiwai, he was interested in seeing a waacking duo. In theory I think I know what Henry was trying to imagine, but I think it is difficult to have a really intense waacking duo because it’d be hard to synchronize very high speed arm movements. In the end, they went with some moves that were simpler, and I think that’s why they lost out to Tengzai and Shitou. That being said, Henry did win his first battle against Han Geng. I think it’s just the 2 vs 2 battles that are his weakness. The 3 vs. 3 battles are really just individual battles, and the 5 vs. 5 battles are usually made up of dancers who are used to routine group dances as opposed to solo or duo dancers.

- A quick word about the judge Icee. His name in Chinese is 王冰冰. The 冰冰 part is self explanatory enough (冰 means ice), so where does the 王 come from? I read somewhere (I forgot where), but apparently his wife’s surname is 王, so he just took on her surname for his Chinese name. Don’t know how true that is, but I think that’s cute.

- So often I see Bunta and Ibuki having fun and cheering on other people, whether it’s their own team members or dancers on other teams.

- Less than a second flashback of Zitao from a previous season v.v Please producers...let us have a LayTao reunion....please....I beg....

- The 5 vs. 5 battle between Yixing and Henry’s teams was pretty fun to watch, probably because the song was so hype lol.

- The leader battles between Yixing and Henry were really entertaining too though.

- The first piece of music for Henry and Yixing’s leader battles was very very cool. Like, it was just a nice piece of music to listen to, and I think that the kind of music it was gave way to rather creative interpretations. Henry and Han Yu went for a more story-based approach, whereas Yixing and MT Pop focused more on an aesthetic. I preferred Yixing and MT Pop’s performance here.

- Henry and Han Yu also had a pretty solid performance for the second song. As for Mingming and Gumball, they didn’t really perform “together,” because they were both doing their own thing, but their individual performances were interesting. (Also let us acknowledge, nothing gets Yixing turnt like KRUMP XD He was so into the performance haha)

- I was so caught up in the euphoria of Henry/Han Geng that I forgot that Henry and Yixing also had a past history, but I think their friendship probably mostly existed off screen. They were from different groups after all, but we also know how low key Yixing has always been. Even if they were bffs we never would’ve known. I also remember on Back to Field, Yixing said that Henry helped him install and set up his music software, so they probably have some kind of rapport on the music side. But yeah, it just seemed like Yixing was rather formal about it all, calling Henry his 哥哥/前輩. And Henry seemed to look at Yixing like his son lol. He was like oh look at Yixing and how far he’s come, etc.

- Xiao Jie said that he’d battled Hilty & Bosch 14 years ago, which means that Xiao Jie isn’t that young, which may be why he’s so chill lmao. Anyway, Xiao Jie is a very entertaining dancer to watch, and he worked well with Shen Zihao. But of course, HB are formidable themselves as well and their chemistry is just too too good. And they’re just incredibly clean dancers.

- Yibo went over to Han Geng to scope out who he was going to send out for their battle. Xiao Jie tried to warn Han Geng about this but he was too late and Yibo already made his attack. But the entire interaction between Yibo and Han Geng was so lols because it was so strange lmao. Yibo was straight up like “who are you going to send out during the battle?” And Han Geng kept thinking that Yibo was trying to play mind games and use that to gleam other information from him. So Han Geng’s answer ended up being really confusing too, he was like “if that’s what you’ve decided I’ll follow your lead.” The thing about Han Geng is that he is too senior for Yibo to clown on, so he is actually being serious, and Han Geng is trying to keep things light haha. (I think Yibo would totally be his normal gremlin self to Yixing and Henry, but Han Geng is like the next tier up from them both.)

- LMAO Aki-san calling out Tony-san for being older than him XD And Tony Gogo was like what have I ever done to you??? I love Aki-san hahahaha.

- Okay Aki-san vs. Nelson was pretty awesome, but SO WAS BORIS vs. ZYKO???? Holy crap that was sooo much fun to watch because like....human bodies can bend that way? And Boris and Zyko aren’t small guys, so it was insanely awesome to watch.

- Side note, Boris’ Mandarin is pretty good. I looked him up and on his Instagram he says he lives in Shanghai, so it makes sense that his Chinese is good enough for everyday communication. In one part of the show he was instruction Yibo on dancing and like, he was not stuttering at all.

- Wait, Han Geng says that he’s known Yibo for 10 years :o So I just looked him up and it turns out Han Geng has been with Yuehua Entertainment since 2010, so I think the math makes sense. Wow, how time flies. He always such a dad though, he’s always like, the top priority is fun and happiness!!! And honestly, he’s right. Like, what is this show if not just a huge dance showcase more than an actual competition?

- Physically impossible for Han Geng not to hug his didis.

- I love that in a dance party full of dancers, some will still choose to slow dance like this.

- Of course Henry will come and praise his gege. (ft. Nelson in the right lol)

- Yo I love Rochka. He’s one of the chillest guys there.

- The kids’ performance was cute :3 Their little jumpsuits uwu

- Also one of the kids was Shitou’s daughter and it was absolutely hilarious how he still introduces her in the most monotonous and neutral voice and he was like “please give her some encouragement” in the most low energy voice ever XD The b-boying kids were super legit though. Oh and apparently Xiao Jie’s son was one of the dancers too :3 Somebody was like “yo Xiao Jie isn’t that your son?” and he was like “lol yeah.” XD Aren’t they cute?

[mariposalass]

Sora’s Time to Shine

Summary: Mari is already not putting too much expectations going into watching the Final Smash Presentation when someone close to her besides Kirby and Edelgard’s beloved Professor pops out of nowhere in said Presentation. All hell breaks loose (but in a good way).

Setting: Mari and co.’s house in Daly City, California; October 5, 2021

Notes: I was pretty behind in seeing the reveal since I was pretty tired when it came out and I had to check a friend’s post on Plurk to make sure that it was not all for the jokes before watching it on Gamespot and writing this story down. And yes, the Byleth in my S/I verse is the female version in case anyone is curious. And yes, it took me until around 8 AM to write this up. Featuring Luther Vandross. Here is an ask I made on Sora’ behest during a F/O takeover long before he got confirmed recently. #SakuraiHasReachedtheImpossibleDream #Sora4Smash

Tags: Super Smash Bros. Ultimate, Super Smash Bros., Swift Keyblader, Smash Reveal, Sakurai has reached the impossible dream!, Sora for Smash, #Sora4Smash

“Hurry Mari, you’re about to miss it!” Kairi is dragging me out onto the sofa to see the final Smash Ultimate Presentation on the living room pretty early before plopping ourselves onto the sofa.

“Look, Kairi, guys. I hate to be a party pooper, but I have no clue about who could it be,” I try to be realistic in my views.

“Well, at this point, my beloved, it could be anybody from the video game world,” my dear Philip chimes in while trying to reassure me, “Besides, as soon as it is done, we shall try to reply back to this non Smash invitation that El had found in the mail today.”

“Huh, is that correct, El dear?” I asked my regal adopted daughter for confirmation.

“Why yes of course, Mother,” she replies as she passes me the invitation, “I believe that a friend of yours has sent us one, but I didn’t want to open it immediately since this is addressed to you.”

“Okay then, I will get to read it and reply back once the Presentation is over and see who gets to fight with Kirby and Professor Byleth,” I smiled back at her.

“I couldn’t believe that there was a leak that just came out before this Presentation video and it is about music. Who was that dense enough to do it at a time like this?” Riku mumbles as he gets the video streaming on the Nintendo Direct page in his laptop.

“You know, Riku, sometimes people can act very idiotic at times, so there isn’t much we can do besides ignoring and avoiding that as much as possible,” Harry sighs as he is bottle feeding and gently rocking Serena as she had cried a while ago to be bottle fed.

“Guys, have you guys seen Sora lately?” Issa asks us while carrying Chris in her arms, “I haven’t seen him in the last few days. He didn’t even reply back to either my or Kairi’s texts and calls. Do you think he’s off to visit Jack and Sally in Halloween Town? It’s nearing Halloween soon.”

“That’s really a good question, Issa,” Ahk agrees, “I had given up trying to find him by calling over on the phone since last Thursday. All I have gotten from it were many ‘The subscriber could not be reached’ messages.”

Even Riku and Kairi are in a loss for words as they turn to each other and wonder what is up with our friend lately. Did he just went poof without us knowing? Kirby always informs us through his many Poyos that he would have to head off to Smash whenever a new tourney starts or a newcomer arrives and Edelgard’s class often gets shorter class schedules or early dismissals whenever Professor Blyeth gets to fight in Smash: she is the professor handling the Black Eagles class. Sometimes even El, Petra and Dorothea along with a few others (and yes, that includes the Gatekeeper) would come over to Smash to spectate from the sidelines and support their beloved Professor.

There is a long silence when the Nintendo Switch title card plays in the laptop and Karina directs us all to watch the screen to see many clips featuring many Smashers in the current tournament before it transitions to Sakurai-san in the studio explaining about the video as well as showcasing the Mii Fighter costumes.

“Hey look, Isabelle the Dog’s demon slaying friend from Bethesda is now coming to Smash to rip and tear up the competition!” Moana screams when the Doomguy Mii Gunner costume appears.

“Good for him; I know that many fans really did want him to be in Smash, though the costume is a nice addition,” Issa agrees. “That now makes three Bethesda franchises represented in the costumes.”

“Even the Octolings and Judd the Cat got hats based on them too,” I chime in as well.

“Oh hey, guys! Sakarui’s about to reveal the last fighter for the Second Fighter’s Pass, so keep down it and don’t expect too much,” Karina informs as Sakurai transitions to the main event and we all stay silent and stay glued to our seats.

The screen turns black before the usual Smash logo opening shows up, but instead of the usual zoom in, it then turns into a flaming Smash logo with all the Smashers up until Kazuya Mishima (yeah, the guy who tried to drop Kirby off a cliff) looking at it and covered in the shadows. Did MH decided to get them to show up in there and meet the last fighter in the dark? Probably, I bet that he might be keeping it as a surprise and possibly even conserving electricity at the same time. Then cut to Inkling Girl looking in awe with the Smash logo reflecting onto her pupils as a nice ode to the first reveal trailer for the game/tourney, I honestly love this shot.

Wait a minute, the logo turns into stars and the next scene shows everyone frozen in place as toy-like ambiios?!? How is it even possible? Well, it does certainly confirmed once again that the video game version of the tourney is set in a world of make believe after all. I could swear that a lot of people crying their eyes out as they are watching this. It looks like this is the end of one great video game series about mascots fighting among each other. Or is it? Because the camera is aiming at Mario as if he looks like he’s trying to take a nap while standing up.

Riku then proceeds to mumble some words to me incoherently that something big is coming the moment Mario wakes up to see a glowing light to see the last remaining flame glowing on the floor, which I do agree with him. Suspicious right? Oh God, Mario no! Please don’t touch the fire for everyone’s sanity. Wait, hold on a second: that isn’t not just fire that he just grabbed on and then tossed it into the sky like a boomerang: the mystery object looks like a Keyblade and there’s that Mickey keychain! Yep, that’s a Keyblade alright. Could it be...

I could recognize that beam of light that Keyblades often produce whenever they lock and unlock Keyholes to other worlds, so does everyone in the room. Riku and Kairi hugged onto each other as if we’re about to brace for an emergency (Karina and Moana also did the same), Ahk stares at the screen to see if he’s not imagining things all the sudden, Issa has her mouth drop in shock, Chris and Serena didn’t cry throughout this entire presentation, Harry gasps and nearly drops Serena’s bottle, Philip turns to me for answers while Edelgard begins to sweatdrop in concern.

No words are exchanged as the light grows and shines brighter before it proceeds to shoot itself away from the Keyblade to reveal a Keyhole on another part of the room. It then glows bright within as the camera switches back to the rest of frozen Smashers as the light begins to fill the room and revives Link, Cloud, Incineroar and Mewtwo as they all gawk at it as it reveals something from the World of Light with the orchestral rendition of Simple and Clean playing in the background. And that’s when it hits us right at the gut: the familiar spiky brown hair poking out from that Keyhole.

“What!?!” Kairi shouts as the Keyhole ‘spits’ out Sora from the World of Light.

“H-h-he actually got in, for real?” Riku squeaks up.

“Oh my…” I gasp in pure shock as we watch the whole thing played out.

“Sakarui finally did it?” Issa adds in to the discussion.

“Well, it’s about time that they managed to get his darn behind into the tourney,” Karina seconds in.

Soon enough, Sora finally wakes up from his nappy time and takes notes from Peter Pan and Tinkerbell as he flies around, sprinkling fairy dust all over the other Smashers, before landing on the floor and the Keyblade flying back to his hand.

“Damn it, Sora!” I scream as the splash screen pops in.

“Kai, your boy has finally made it big time!” Moana shakes Kairi in congratulation rather rapidly that it nearly gives my lil sis a dizzying spell.

“Moana, please don’t make Kairi that dizzy,” Harry had to tell her that.

“Whoops! Sorry Kairi,” she apologizes to her which she accepts.

So with that, we switch back to Sakurai going in depth with Sora’s moveset after he discussed about the Kingdom Hearts games and world. And he has gotten 4 costume changes, man Sora, that’s a big wardrobe you’re bringing in, oh wait, he even got the Timeless River costume too. That makes it 5 then.

“Oh gods, Sakurai is making us suffer by watching Sakurai using Sora to beat up everyone,” Ahk tells us as the Sora moveset showcase begins.

“No kidding,” Harry muses as we see Sora beating everyone in Battlefield.

“Whoa, they went for Sealing the Keyhole instead of having Trinity Force with Donald and Goofy? What a bummer,” Karina bemoans in dismay.

“Well, you know modern Disney: too overprotective of their IPs,” Philip reminds her.

“Oh new stage, what could it be?” Riku gleefully chimes in before they reveal Hollow Bastion as the stage, “Whoa, Hollow Bastion. I never thought that you will return again.”

Then the stage changes into Dive to the Heart and it had Riku and Kairi in the stained glass in one, Riku being the main focus of the second one, Roxas in the middle of the third, Xion in the fourth, Terra for the fifth, a sleepy Ven in the sixth, and Aqua’s in the seventh.

“Pretty!” I complimented the look of each stained glass.

“Quite impressive I will admit,” El agrees with me too.

Then Sakurai begins a playthrough with Sora facing Cloud and Sephiroth in Hollow Bastion, for a while, we all thought that he’s going to be a goner with Cloud and Sephiroth beating him up in the Stamina match but then the tides begin to turn in his favor after Sephy lost his full stock and with Sora having to take down Cloud next. When he did, the scene begins to go into a slow white fade out with a Game!

“Alright! Sora did it! He defeated both Cloud and mean old Sephy,” Riku cheers on.

“Woo! Go Sora!” me, Kairi, Moana, and Karina screams aloud.

“That was brilliant!” Harry agrees before he turns to Serena, “Did you hear? Uncle Sora managed to defeat two opponents in a Smash Ultimate playthrough.”

“9 songs is better than nothing at all,” Issa observes, “It would be a licensing nightmare to talk to Disney if they can borrow a couple of songs from them and they straight up refuse to assist, oh well. Oooh, a Dearly Beloved Swing arrangement, nice! I better get that save file on the Switch prompto!”

“And check out that Spirit Board: Aunt Kairi has a Spirit of herself,” Edelgard informs us as the Spirit Board for KH is revealed.

“Oh gee, never thought that it could ever happen, but thanks,” she blushes.

“Hey, I got one as well, same with Axel, Xion, Roxas, Aqua, Terra and Ven,” Riku joins in, “Marina is so going to be happy to see her boyfriend as a Spirit. She will probably try to get him real soon.”

“You bet it right, Riku, you bet it right,” I nod and agree with that last statement.

“Oh hey, he’s going to be ready within a few weeks’ time,” Karina speaks up, “Neat! The roster is now complete.”

“Even Steve and Alex have amiibos of themselves being made, that’s even more wonderful,” Ahk takes note of it, “I’m pretty sure that Sora will have one of his own along with Pyra, Mythra, that jerk who tried to threw Kirby off a cliff, and even Sephiroth soon.”

“WHAT?!? Kingdom Hearts are coming to the Switch too!?!” I am surprised to hear the news as Sakurai reveals this new information, that is so mind-blowing.

When it fades to black then to the Ultimate mural, the camera then goes for the space between Ganondorf and Dark Samus to fill in Sora’s spot before panning back. Man, this Presentation is long and is finally ending, thank God; it must be tiring to sit down and watch a nearly hour long video as Sakurai showcases the screenshots he has made and showed off in Twitter. Man, so many memories and montages. And the achievements, wow, that is a lot of them, it will be a game feat that I don’t think it will be broken for a long time.

Man, I will miss the presentations and Sakurai’s corny jokes for sure. I wish him a nice deserving break from all the game development for sure as he gives thanks to everyone from the devs to the players to the people prompting the game and ends it off with a heartfelt goodbye as it fades to back into the full reveal trailer.

“Oh gee, I’m going to miss the Smash Presentations,” Kairi sighs, “I can’t believe that we’re coming to an end.”

“Man, it’s finally over,” Riku gasps in remark as the full trailer plays out, “I don’t think that there will be a game like Ultimate for a very long time. That’s for certain.”

“I agree, Riku. It’s to going to be a tough act to follow up on,” I add in before I look up at the ceiling and murmur some words, “It’s been a long time coming, Sora. You truly deserve that last spot, you really do. Have fun in the tourney and Smash Mansion, buddy.”

Sora is Finally Here!

The End

[keichanz]

Like Magic

hmm self control? don’t know her *fucks off to the land of unfinished WIPs*

so, i started this oneshot a while ago, forgot about it, then decided to dig through my WIP folder to maybe work on something else besides YRM for a while because I needed a small break from it. found this again, immediately dove in and welp here we are haha. I had a lot of run writing it and I hope you guys enjoy it :) it’s 32 pages jesuS CHRI

real quick, if Souji appears smarter than the average 2 year old boy it’s because i legit don’t know how to portray children since i know virtually nothing about them, so just pretend that half-demon children are slightly more advanced than human kids in this fic mkay? kthx. :)

oh and also when reading Inuyasha’s little light show for Souji, think about this video.

@fantastiqueparfait​ @morikothehalfangel​ @cammysansstuff​ @heyy-ahriii​ @tsukinohimeusagi​ @eternalnight8806-3​ @mamabearcat​ @hinezumi​ @sssuperbartola​ @doginabirdcage​ @ideasthatbuildcities​ @armor-emblem​ 

oh and @meggz0rz​.....remember a while ago when i first started this oneshot you mentioned that i should make Inuyasha do Joker’s pencil trick on Kouga? 

well...you’re gonna get a kick outta the ending ahahahah.

enjoy, lovelies~ 

Kagome’s head was positively throbbing and she was pretty sure it had more to do with the very distraught, screaming child in her arms than the fresh cut on her forehead that was still bleeding.

The flashing lights and loud engines of the emergency vehicles combined with the tow truck’s back-up alarm as it prepared to haul her totaled car away definitely wasn’t helping matters, and she was damn positive all the noise wasn’t helping her baby’s current temperament, either. With his ears pinned flat against his head to no doubt muffle the noise, his face red and scrunched up into a consistent howl with tears running unchecked down his flushed cheeks, her precious Souji had been inconsolable ever since she pulled him from her wrecked car.

At first she’d thought he was hurt somewhere and so she’d frantically searched him over as he cried, ignoring the witnesses that rushed over and asked if she was alright, but she’d only been able to marginally relax upon discovering he’d only suffered a few minor scrapes and bruises. She’d taken most of the damage, with a gash on her forehead, severe bruising on her side and diagonally across her torso form the seat belt, and her right ankle was aching something fierce, but she’d gladly take all that and more if it meant her baby boy was spared.

The accident had happened nearly an hour ago, Kagome was tired, sore, worn out, and Souji was proving rather thoroughly that he was perfectly fine by showing the entire neighborhood that he had quite the set of lungs on him.

Which really was quite unfortunate since it was, y’know, one o’clock in the morning and no doubt people were trying to sleep. Key word: trying. Kagome was pretty confident the entire damn neighborhood was awake now because of her son’s consistent shrieking, and she sent another mental apology to them.

She’d tried everything to get him to calm; singing his favorite lullaby, settling him in his mercifully undamaged car seat to rock him back to sleep, talking to him, walking around with him in her arms—absolutely nothing was working. Some of the kind spectators and even police officers had tried offering food and a young mother had even provided a sippy cup of chocolate milk, but Souji was having none of it. Kagome cursed herself for leaving her phone at home since usually putting on his favorite cartoon worked like a charm, but this was supposed to be just a quick drive to get him to fall asleep; taking her phone hadn’t seemed necessary.

He refused to let anyone come near her to treat her wounds, and he wouldn’t let anyone take him from her either. He became aggressive and nearly hysterical whenever an officer or EMT tried to take him, and she was sporting several scratches from where his claws had dug into her shoulders and arms. His screeching was the worst when that happened and it wasn’t long before they stopped trying altogether. Probably because with every attempt, whoever it was walked away with teeth marks or scratches somewhere on their body and Kagome had lost count of how many times she’d apologized.

To be honest, however, she couldn’t say she was very surprised. Ever since she’d left his father, Souji had been extremely protective of her, and even though he was only two years old, he let it be known if they were out in public that no one was allowed to touch her. He started growling whenever someone got too close, even bared his teeth on a couple occasions, and more than once she’d had to stop him from physically swiping with his claws.

Kagome understood his behavior. She knew why he was acting like this, and while most of the time it was endearing, sometimes it…well, wasn’t, and she wanted to go back in time and punch her ex-boyfriend in his stupid face for what he did. It was his fault her sweet little Souji was like this, and while completely understandable, it was still utterly frustrating and difficult to deal with, especially during times like this so Mama could get some relief.

“Oh, baby,” Kagome cooed for what seemed like the thousandth time, bouncing her son in her arms as she walked aimlessly around a little ways away from all the action of the police cars, ambulances, and curious spectators. Souji continued to wail at the top of his little lungs and she sighed, closing her eyes as she rubbed his back and tried to ignore the pounding in her head. Her arms were aching from holding him for so long, she had a limp from her sore ankle, and his slight weight agitated the fresh bruises on her body.

Ignoring the looks directed her way from the police, medics, and street residents alike, Kagome limped her way back over to the flimsy plastic chair someone had provided from somewhere and gratefully sank down. She grimaced when her sore chest and side protested, but she endured it as Souji burrowed against her, clinging to her shirt and digging his tiny claws in as he sobbed into her neck, his little body shaking, his sobs breaking her heart.

She kissed him between his little ears, feeling completely helpless. She knew he was scared and this was just his way of telling her that, but still, she wished she could do something. She wished she had the ability to make him understand he was safe, she was here, and nothing would ever harm him as long as she was around.

“Shh, baby, shh,” Kagome soothed, resting her head against his own and heaving another sigh as she stared tiredly at the ruckus surrounding her.

The man that had ran the stop sign and slammed into her had long ago been detained and was, last she knew, passed out in the back of a police cruiser. If she recalled, he had sustained little to no injury and that just freaking figured, didn’t it. It was always the drunk assholes that suffered the least, and the victims ended up with most of the damage.

Police tape was cordoning off the scene of the accident, and her car was in the process of being secured to the back of the tow truck along with the truck that had totaled her little sedan. Most of the spectators had returned to their homes, either too tired, or leaving because the excitement had passed. Police milled about, taking statements of witnesses or those who claimed they saw what happened, and the medics just sort of wandered around since their only patient was unapproachable. She felt a little guilty since she was keeping them from doing their job so they could pack up and go home, but it was fleeting because she had no energy to care anymore.

She just wanted to go home because maybe then Souji would finally calm down once he realized he was in safe, familiar surroundings, and a long, hot bath sounded positively divine right now. Thank god she worked from home so she didn’t have to worry about that in the morning, and though she doubted she’d be able to sleep in – a thing of the past when she became a mother – she would at least be able to sneak in a couple naps when Souji slept.

Souji paused in his howling to suck in a few unsteady breaths before continuing his distraught sobbing, mercifully at a slightly lower volume this time, and Kagome sighed as she rubbed his back, thinking that she would just have to let him cry it out. What else could she do?

When Inuyasha arrived on scene, he was greeted with the familiar sight of flashing red and blue lights, ambulances, and a tow truck with two very banged up vehicles hitched to the bed. It was your typical accident scene, nothing at all he hadn’t seen before, and when he spotted several of his colleagues seemingly just standing around doing shit all, he wondered why the hell he’d been called in if medics were already here.

He’d been planning on spending the night watching bad movies and eating slightly burnt pizza since he still hadn’t fixed his oven, but then he’d gotten the call to report to an accident not far from his apartment and those plans sailed right out the window. If it had been anyone other than Kaede that had called he would have flat out ignored them and carried on. But if it was his boss that was calling, he knew it had to be serious, so he hadn’t bothered to ask questions before giving his affirmative and suiting up.

Now, however, as he approached the yellow police tape and cut the engine on his Ford, he had a very good idea as to why his services were required. His ears flicked from beneath his ballcap and when he opened the door, the racket get even louder, confirming his suspicious. Oh yeah—that was one seriously ticked off kid.

He sighed and retrieved his medical bag from the backseat along with another smaller drawstring bag before ducking beneath the tape and heading toward a waving Kaede. He took a moment to glance around, instantly pinpointing where the racket was coming from, and his eyebrows rose into his bangs. Jesus, the kid couldn’t be more than two years old, and the mother looked pretty banged up. What the hell? Why hadn’t she been treated yet?

When he reached Kaede, she didn’t bother with pleasantries and launched right into an explanation. That’s what he liked about her; she never beat around the bush and didn’t like to waste time with small talk, much like himself. Probably why she was the only one he could tolerate to be around for more than five minutes at a time.

“Two patients, one child aged one to two years, one female, appears to be in her lower twenties,” Kaede started, relaying what he already knew, but it was standard procedure so he didn’t stop her. “Baby appears to be unharmed—”

“You don’t say,” Inuyasha muttered under his breath but Kaede ignored him.

“—both from observation and continued reassurances from mom. Mom has sustained several contusions along the torso and left side, possible whiplash and bruised ribs, possible sprained ankle, and possible concussion—”

“Possible?” Inuyasha repeated with a perplexed frown. “Why is nothing confir—”

Kaede leveled a glare at him and he wisely shut up.

“Nothing life threatening,” she continued, shifting her gaze toward the two patients in question and Inuyasha watched as some of her professionalism slipped, face softening into a concerned frown. “However, because we are unable to get close enough to perform an accurate assessment of both of them, injuries for both are as yet undetermined, so nothing concrete is confirmed.”

This just kept getting weirder and weirder. “Why the hell can’t anyone get close? It’s a woman and baby. Hardly any threat.”

At this, Kaede actually sighed and looked directly at him, her one gray eye intense and serious.

“The child is not fully human, Inuyasha,” she revealed and his eyes widened. “Any attempt to get close or take him away results in the babe physically lashing out in an endeavor to, I suspect, protect his mother. Unusual behavior for a child so young, and the mother refuses to have him sedated, which I can’t blame her.”

Inuyasha sucked in a breath and shifted his gaze over to the mother and child, amber eyes zeroing in on the infant bawling against his mother’s chest.

“You said…not fully human,” he murmured and flicked a glance at his superior.

Kaede nodded.

“How…?”

“She managed to relate some information before the child started getting aggressive,” she supplied. “I called you, Inuyasha, not only because of your skills with children—”

He snorted at that because really?

“—but because I thought perhaps out of anyone, you might be able to get close enough to treat both of them without the child deeming you as a threat. It’s a long shot, I realize, but at this point I’m willing to try anything.”

Inuyasha took note of the exhaustion in her eyes and posture and he couldn’t keep the corner of his lips from twitching upward.

“How long has he been screaming?”

“One hour and thirteen minutes,” one of his colleagues groaned from behind her and Kaede sighed again as she pinched the bridge of her nose.

“Fine,” Inuyasha finally said and then cocked a brow at her. “I’ll do what I can, but he’s probably only howling because he’s scared, Kaede, not because he’s hurt. No doubt he smells his mother’s blood and senses her pain, and combined with the shock of experiencing something he doesn’t understand and all the different scents around, it’s unlikely he’ll let me examine him.”

The look Kaede sent him was very dry and suggested that this was reason number two as to why she’d called him. He shrugged and simply raised his brows as if to say “what?”

“Just do something,” the same colleague pleaded and there was a general murmur of concurrence of that statement from the people still present, three of which were police officers.  

Shaking his head, Inuyasha nonetheless did as he was bade, however before approaching he took a minute to appraise his tiny patient and his mother. He still couldn’t get over that the kid was in fact a half-demon like himself since they were such a rarity now a days, but he didn’t allow himself to think on it for too long. The kid was trying his level best to burrow inside his mother’s shirt - a shirt, he noticed, with numerous tears in it no doubt caused by wee claws - and she looked…well, she looked like hell.

Unsurprising, considering she’d just been in a goddamn accident, but still she looked about ready to collapse and before Inuyasha even realized it he was moving forward, absently slipping his hand inside the smaller bag he’d grabbed to set his tentative plan in motion.

“Sou, you’re gonna rip Mama’s shirt if you keep doing that,” Kagome murmured and once again gently stopped him from trying to crawl inside it. “I don’t feel like flashing everybody here if that’s okay with you.”

Souji screeched his protest and Kagome winced, fearing that after this she’d be partially deaf. Sure he’d had his tantrums before, but never like this. She hadn’t even known his voice could reach that pitch, and if it hurt her ears, she couldn’t even imagine what it was doing to his. Then again, he did keep them pinned down most of the time, and he was upset enough where he was ignoring all her attempts to calm him down, so perhaps he wasn’t even aware of it.

“Shh, Sou, it’s okay, Mama’s here,” she soothed for the nth time, kissing his forehead and rocking him in her arms, or as much as she could while sitting. “Mama’s got you, you’re safe, it’s alright…”

Her baby boy continued to cry, obvious, and Kagome’s heart broke a little more. God, she hated this, hated that she couldn’t figure out what he needed, hated that her son was so upset he was having trouble breathing, and she hated how useless she was. She felt like the world’s worst mother and tears pricked her eyes, but she stubbornly held them back. Now was not the time for that. She needed to be strong for her baby, she needed to be there for him. And no doubt he would smell her tears and become even more upset and she really wanted to avoid that.

Feeling helpless, Kagome started humming his favorite lullaby under her breathe as she rubbed his ears, but paused when she glanced up and saw the approaching figure. She sighed and shook her head in a wordless plea for him to keep his distance, vaguely registering that this was someone new she hadn’t seen before, with a lean build, broad shoulders, and long silver hair that hung over his shoulder in a loose ponytail. It didn’t matter, though; man or woman, human or demon, Souji always reacted the same and made it clear that they were not to be touched. She was positive this time would be no different.

As predicated, Souji started growling when he registered the new, unfamiliar scent that was drawing ever closer and when he was close enough Kagome opened her mouth to warn him. But then to her surprise, instead of getting too close and immediately trying to cajole Souji into compliance, the man stopped a few feet away and slowly lowered himself into a crouch before them.

Kagome blinked. Eyes the color of whiskey regarded her steadily before his head dipped in a slight nod and bemused, she returned it. His gaze flicked to the child in her lap and he seemed to be waiting for something, not moving, his posture relaxed, expression giving nothing away. If Kagome had bothered to look up at that moment she would have seen nearly everyone present was watching them but she couldn’t tear her eyes away from the admittedly very attractive man in front of her who, she belatedly realized, must be an EMT judging by his attire.

Souji’s growling steadily grew in volume until, when the scent did not move away like anticipated, he spun around in Kagome’s arms and snarled at the newcomer, his little face screwed up and baring mini fangs. The man was unfazed, calm in the face of her infant son’s righteous fury and since he wasn’t in the vicinity of tiny claws, Souji merely continued to glare at him.

Though not exactly a very good tradeoff for his constant howling, the reprieve was nonetheless welcomed and Kagome was sure she was not the only one giving a soft sigh of relief.

Evidently having been waiting for Souji’s attention, the man braced one knee on the ground, propped his elbow on his opposite thigh, and then did something that Kagome’s exhausted brain was having a very difficult time processing.

He brought his hand up, reached into his uniform shirt pocket, and…brought out a…glowing red ball of light?

The results were instantaneous and so confounded by how the hell he did that, Kagome didn’t realize until a solid ten seconds later that Souji had gone quiet. His growls had stopped, he wasn’t snarling, and he wasn’t attempting to lash out of the man. Utterly captivated, his blue eyes were fixated on the red light grasped between the EMT’s clawed fingertips and Kagome could only gape at him in astonishment. Part of her was actually a little insulted that it had been that easy to gain his attention, but the much larger part of her was just plain glad he’d stopped screaming.

Satisfied he’d gained the pup’s undivided attention, Inuyasha resisted the urge to grin in amusement as he started “tossing” the red light back and forth from one hand to the other, those blue eyes following every move. Relieved his plan seemed to be working, he put on a little show for his two-person audience, making the light disappear and reappear, and he’d be lying it he said the look on the kid’s face was completely endearing.

So was the woman’s for that matter, but that was something to dwell on later.

Alright, on to part two now. Allowing one side of his mouth to quirk up into a half-grin, Inuyasha brought his hand to his mouth and pretended to swallow the red light before splaying out his hands, showing it was gone. The kid made a sound of confusion and blinked. Flicking a brief glance at the pup’s mom, Inuyasha lifted his hand and removed his hat, revealing the twin ears atop his head.

She gasped but he didn’t look at her again as he flicked his ear a few times for effect, tilted his head, and gave a few solid taps to his temple as if to empty his ears of water. He lifted his other hand to his ear and the red light reappeared between his fingers, as if he’d plucked it from his ear. The kid’s face lit up in delight and he caught the soft giggle of the woman before him.

Inuyasha dared to inch a little closer and when the child did not react, his eyes zeroed in on his hands, he edged closer until he was kneeling right in front of him. He never paused in his little magic trick, tossing the light and catching it again in his fingers, changing it up at times by putting the light in his fist and then opening it only to reveal it had vanished. He “ate” it a few more times, only for it to reappear on some random point on his body, and it wasn’t until the fear in the pup’s scent had significantly decreased that Inuyasha decided to take it a little further.

The next time he pretended to swallow the light, instead of plucking it off of his body, Inuyasha very slowly reached forward and grasped it out of thin air beside the pup’s head. He actually giggled that time and Inuyasha released the breath he hadn’t realized he was holding, giving a quiet chuckle as he caught the gaze of the woman behind the child.

She was smiling at him, big brown eyes bright, and he detected a trace amount of salt as she mouthed, “Thank you.”

Inuyasha swallowed thickly and felt his face grow a little warm as he nodded once, his stupid heart doing stupid little palpitation in his chest, and he returned his attention to the task at hand. The light appeared once again and he was surprised when the kid actually reached for it and amused, but grateful, Inuyasha held still and waited until little fingers curled around his own.

It disappeared and Inuyasha held his hands out as he rumbled, “Where’d it go?”

The pup blinked at him and pointed to his ear. Inuyasha obliged and reached for an ear not unlike his own, gasping softly when the light reappeared in his fingers.

“Found it,” he said and received a happy giggle before tiny hands went to grab it again.  It vanished, and he plucked it from under the babe’s chin this time.

Delighted, great blue eyes swung around to regard his mother with a big grin and Kagome couldn’t help but release a choked laugh and lean forward to kiss his forehead. God, she couldn’t thank this wonderful, beautiful man enough.

Inuyasha blew on his fingers and the light vanished. The toddler laughed and pointed to his nose. The older half-demon chuckled and plucked it off the tiny nose that time before boldly reaching for a small hand and placing the magic light onto the chubby little palm.

He held his hands up and said, “Throw it at me, bud.”

Blue eyes blinked at him but the Souji grinned and he waved his entire arm in an approximation of a toss.

“Whoa,” Inuyasha exaggerated, rearing back onto his heels and pretending as if the throw had a lot of force behind it. The kid laughed and bounced in his mother’s lap, utterly delighted. He held out his hand again and the silver-haired medical technician put the red light onto the small hand.

Immediately Souji smashed his hand against his mouth and Inuyasha gasped in faux outrage.

“Did you eat it?” he asked and was rewarded with joyful baby giggles. “Well then, I guess I have no choice but to…”

With a crooked grin, Inuyasha darted his hand out, tickled the pup’s round little tummy, and as the sound of his laughter rang into the night, he withdrew his hand with the magic red light grasped between his fingers.

Souji made the most adorable little “o” face and put both of his small hands over his belly, blue eyes wide as he stared down at it in astonishment. Then he whipped his head around to stare up at his mother in wide-eyed wonder and Kagome couldn’t help but laugh.

The toddler turned his attention back to the EMT in time to watch him put the red light in one pocket of his uniform slacks, only to bring it right back out of the opposite pocket with his other hand. He did this several more times, much to Souji’s giggling pleasure, before one hand up to his mouth and blowing on his fingers.

As he predicted, the kid gasped and started looking around, as if he would find the vanishing light floating about in the air somewhere. Flicking a glance at the woman behind the pup, Inuyasha wasn’t expecting to find her already staring at him, her eyes soft, her smile small but warm and totally grateful. The urge that slammed into him then was so strong and abrupt Inuyasha didn’t even think to fight it, his lips quirked upward slightly as he reached toward her.

Keeping his eyes locked on hers, he heard her soft gasp as he brushed his claws against her cheek, snapped his fingers beside her ear, then withdrew his hand with the red light glowing anew between clawed digits.

Absurdly Kagome felt her face heat in a soft blush even as a delighted smile blossomed across her face. In her lap Souji made a questioning noise and suddenly started squirming around until he was facing her. He pushed to his feet, balancing on her thighs, and Kagome’s hands automatically went to his waist to steady him as his hands reached for her ear and started inspecting it, his face utterly bemused as little sounds of confusion escaped him.

Inuyasha chuckled at the sight and figuring that was enough tricks for now since he still needed to examine his mom’s injuries – that cut on her forehead was especially concerning – he pocketed the fake fingertips and sat back to watch the two for a minute. Despite how clearly exhausted she looked, her patience was evidently limitless as she allowed her son to poke and prod around her head.

But then when he caught himself on her shoulders as he teetered a little on her lap, she gasped and then hissed through her teeth as her face scrunched up in involuntary reaction to the pain. Souji froze as his eyes went wide and as if he felt her pain as clearly as she did, his eyes started tearing up and he whimpered, his little hands fisting in her shirt.

Inuyasha’s eyes widened and they flew to Kagome’s. She was staring at him too, her eyes just as wide, and they knew if they didn’t do something fast Souji was going to go into another screaming fit.

Fuck. Fuck. Wracking his brain, Inuyasha darted his eyes to the pup, who was sitting on her lap now and putting even more tears in her shirt with his claws as he tugged at the fabric. Kagome grunted as she shifted him on her lap to alleviate his weight against her bruised flesh and Inuyasha went with the first idea that popped into his brain.

As Souji’s whimpering became louder, he flashed his eyes to Kagome and urgently mouthed, “Name?”

“Souji,” she immediately whispered back and started rocking her son in an attempt to stall his hysterics, wincing when his claws scratched at her skin through her shirt.

“Souji,” Inuyasha repeated aloud and much to his surprise the pup actually went quiet and turned around to stare at him, most likely perplexed as to how this stranger knew his name.

Encouraged, Inuyasha tried to appear as unintimidating as possible as he continued, “You know your mama is hurting, right? Do you want her to feel better?”

Souji blinked those great blue eyes at him and then nodded, his bottom lip trembling as more fat tears leaked from his eyes and another whine echoed in his throat.

Inuyasha nodded in what he hoped was in a reassuring fashion and cajoled, “Okay, champ, that’s good. Now listen up, I know how to make her feel better. I can treat your mom’s hurts and take the pain away, but in order to do that, I need you to let go of her and come to me, alright? Your mom needs help, and I want to give it to her. You understand?”

There was no way to tell if Souji did indeed understand what he was saying or if he didn’t as Inuyasha watched him, heart in his throat. The young half-demon frowned at him as if he was digesting the words, turning them over in his head, but at least he wasn’t on the verge of another break down which, in Inuyasha’s book, was a success.

Biting his lip, Souji turned his gaze to his mother and stared wide-eyed up at her, uncertainty and a smidgen of fright in those clear blue depths of his. Kagome’s heart ached and she smiled down at him, ignoring the ache in her side and shoulders as she gathered her baby boy closer and kissed him between his ears.

“It’s okay, baby,” she told him gently, rubbing one of his ears and then kissing his pudgy little cheek. “You can trust him, okay? He’s going to help me feel all better and take away all my hurts. Remember when Mama took care of you when you were sick last month? He’s gonna do the same thing, Sou.”

Souji blinked, furrowed his brow, then glanced back at the older half-demon, still a little uncertain. Could this stranger really make his Mama feel better? He remembered when his tummy hurt a while ago and Mama took care of him and made him some soup and crackers and rubbed his ears to make him feel better. This man would do the same?

The pup was still struggling a little on whether or not to trust him so Inuyasha gave him a little nudge in the right direction, slyly slipping his hand back into his pocket.

“You can trust me, squirt,” he rumbled and withdrew his hand to reveal his fingers alight with a familiar red glow. “I have magic fingers, remember? I promise I’ll make her feel better.”

The kid’s eyes grew wide once again as his gaze zeroed on in the clawed fingers. That’s right; he was magic! Then that meant he could make Mama feel better if he had magic hands. Right?

He looked at his mama again and when all she did was smile down at him with a little nod of encouragement, Souji made up his mind. His mama would never lie to him and he did want her to feel better. And besides…this man was different than the other people who tried to take him away from her.

He smelled like him, so he had to be good. Right?

Nodding and giving a little sniffle, Souji finally nodded back and slowly crawled off his mother’s lap. Relieved, Kagome helped him down, keeping her hands beneath his arms in case he slipped and when his tiny socked feet finally hit the cold pavement, she took a moment to rub his ear and run a hand through his hair, so very proud of her little boy.

“There’s my big boy,” she said softly, contrary to her thoughts.

Sniffling again, Souji wrinkled his nose and turned toward the other half-demon, hesitating before taking small steps over to him.

Breathing a sigh of relief and exchanging a quick thankful look with Kagome, Inuyasha offered a crooked grin at the kid and gestured him a little closer. Even though he was a half-demon like himself, he’d still feel better, and no doubt so would his mother, if he performed a brief exam just in case.

“Atta boy,” Inuyasha praised when the kid stopped in front of him and he reached up to ruffle his hair. The twin ears, just a shade lighter than the black hair, flicked in response and then he was rewarded with a soft, watery giggle.

“Thanks for trusting me, Souji,” he went on and reached down to tug his medical bag closer. “Do you mind if I ask you a few questions first before I treat your mom?”

Souji wrinkled his nose and looked back at his mother as if wanting her approval. Kagome nodded and gestured that it was alright, so the little half-demon sighed and turned back toward the older male before giving a nod.

Inuyasha had to smile a little at that. “Thanks, bud. I’ll be quick. I’m gonna use this”—he held up a standard stethoscope—”so I can listen to your lungs and see if there’s anything wrong. That okay?”

Souji nodded again. He recognized that weird smelling thing whenever Mama took him to the get-better man.

“It’s gonna be a little cold,” he warned and with swift movements, Inuyasha placed the eartips into his ears before lifting up the hem of his shirt a little and pressing the diaphragm against the pup’s small chest. Souji squirmed a little at the cold steel but nonetheless stood there and allowed him to listen to his lungs.

“Everything sounds good,” Inuyasha announced a few minutes later and caught Kagome’s gaze over his patient’s shoulder. She was looking at him like he was her hero, eyes bright, the biggest, most grateful smile on her face and he could practically hear the sincerity in the two words as she mouthed to him, “Thank you.”

Inuyasha’s face softened even as a lump developed in his throat and he nodded once.

Putting the stethoscope back into his bag, the silver-haired medic started gently inspecting his arms and legs for scrapes or bruises as he asked, “Do you hurt anywhere? Your head? Ears? Feet?”

Souji wordlessly shook his head and bit his lip, unable to stop from wriggling beneath the older half-demon’s professional touch. He didn’t like people touching him, but he had to be a good boy so Mama could feel better. This was all for Mama, because he had to protect her, right?

“Do you feel sick? Does your stomach hurt?” Another negative. “Do you feel dizzy? Like you can’t see straight?” Souji once more shook his head, his young face open and honest.

Satisfied, Inuyasha nodded and pulled his hands away. “Good. Now, I have one last question.”

Souji cocked his head and blinked.

Inuyasha grinned. “Are you hungry?”

At that, Souji visibly perked up, ears swiveling forward, eyes going wide, and he put his hands over his tummy as if just now realizing he was indeed hungry.

The older half-demon took that as a yes and he chuckled a little then gestured him forward a little. Souji inched a little closer and Inuyasha placed his hand on the kid’s back as he directed his gaze over to a slightly confused, but smiling Kaede.

“See that woman over there, the short one with gray hair?” he asked and pointed across the way toward his boss. Souji stared blankly for a moment and then nodded. “She’s got some snacks for you along with some juice if you’re thirsty. Don’t worry, you can trust Kaede. She’s my friend and she’s also here to take care of your mom, alright?”

Souji was clearly hesitate though, despite the quiet rumbling in his tummy, and his ears flattened as he looked uncertainly between the nice man that smelled like him and the old lady he was pointing too before finally settling his gaze on his mom, needing a little guidance.

And even though her head was pounding, her side was aching, and her shoulder was burning, Kagome managed a warm smile for her little boy. Though it was slightly strained – something that Inuyasha did not fail to notice – it was completely genuine.

“It’s alright, Sou,” she encouraged, sounding tired but nonetheless sincere. “Go ahead. I know it’s late and you aren’t allowed snacks this time of night, but just this once is okay. Bring me back some juice, yeah?” She winked at him and was finally rewarded with her son’s brilliant smile.

Excited at the prospect of a snack so late at night, Souji nodded and with one last glance at Inuyasha, who quirked him an encouraging grin, he brushed by and headed toward the old woman, confident that the man would take care of his mama like he said he would. After all, he smelled like him and his ears were the same as his so he couldn’t be a bad person.

Kaede, already knowing what her half-demon subordinate was up to, gestured to one of the EMTs still lingering to fetch the bag of snacks she kept in her car for just this purpose. She knew it had been the right decision to call him in. Despite his constant gripes about being bad with children, he always proved himself wrong whenever it came to calming down a child and it was a sight she never got tired of. She was certain that the little boy being a half-demon like the EMT was definitely in his favor as well.

It was merely a bonus, she supposed with a sly little smile, that the boy’s mother was single and attractive to boot.

Chuckling to herself, Kaede thanked the young medic that handed over her bag full of treats and sweets and then told him, along with the rest of them still milling about, to either head back to the station and wait for another call. She was fairly certain Inuyasha could take things from here, and sneaking a glance over toward the two adults as the boy finally approached with wide blue eyes and cute little ears, she smiled.

Yes, she thought, kneeling down to Souji’s height with a warm smile. Calling Inuyasha in had been a very good idea.

Two pairs of eyes, one caramel colored and the other a rich honey hue, watched him toddle away, matching looks of relief on both of their faces. When the two-year-old reached the woman Inuyasha had pointed out to him, they both looked at one another and the smile she gave him had Inuyasha’s heart doing double time in his chest as his stomach did not so unpleasant flip-flops.

“I know I sound like a broken record at this point,” she began, her eyes suspiciously bright, “but I honestly can’t thank you enough. For your little show, stopping his crying, and looking him over even though he’s half-demon. So just…thank you.”

Inuyasha felt his cheeks warm and he shrugged, trying to play it off as he picked his hat off the ground and shoved it back on his head.

“It’s nothing,” he mumbled, although he couldn’t stop the little curl to his mouth a he picked up his bag and scooted a bit closer to her. “Just doing my job.”

“So calming down hysterical and terrified toddlers with magic tricks is in your job description?” Kagome teased and she was a little caught off guard by the slightly roguish grin the medic sent her.

“Keh. It worked, didn’t it?” he asked, not exactly sure where this confidence was coming from but not about to squander it. Not with the way she was smiling at him with a little blush on her cheeks and looking absolutely beautiful.

Inuyasha paused. Here she was, shirt nearly in tatters because of her son’s claws, hair a disheveled mess, face a little pale, bags under her eyes, and dried blood on her forehead from a cut and he thought she was beautiful.

Fuck. He was done for.

“I can’t argue with that,” she said, drawing him out of his musings and he focused his attention back on her. “I have to admit, even I was a little captivated. It was a neat trick.”

She giggled and good god could she get any fucking cuter.

“Oh good, because the real reason I do that particular trick is to reel in pretty mom’s with blue-eyed half-demon sons,” Inuyasha shamelessly flirted because fuck it, he was already one toe in dangerous waters he’d only ever attempted to swim in once before; why not just dunk his whole fucking body in in one go and get it over with because at this rate she’d have him on his knees before the night was over.

Crouching next to her now, Inuyasha watched in proud amusement as her pale face turned a deep, becoming shade of scarlet as those dark eyes widened with delighted realization. The corners of her lips twitched upward and she bit her lip, ducking her head a little shyly, but not once did she take her gaze off of his.

Yup. Totally, absolutely, wonderfully done for.

His eyes softened and he murmured, “What’s your name?”

“Kagome,” she replied right away, so trusting, so goddamn beautiful and god fuck she was pretty.

“Kagome,” he repeated and slid his arms beneath her body. She gasped and her arms automatically went around his neck. “I’m Inuyasha.”

Without preamble he stood with her in his arms, his medical bag slung over his shoulder even though he wouldn’t need it, and ignoring the knowing look he just knew his boss was casting him right now, he strode over to the idle ambulance with the open back doors and hopped inside.

“Better light and more convenient,” he explained as he carefully set her on the stretcher. “Plus it’s got better equipment and medical supplies than my bag does. And I think Kaede mentioned something about a possible sprained ankle?”

Kagome’s expression cleared and she nodded, flexing said ankle as if to test it and she winced at the twinge of pain that shot through it.

Silently the handsome golden-eyed medic started poking around the limited space of the vehicle, collecting the supplies required to treat her injuries and managing to find some painkillers along with bottle of water while rummaging about.

“I’m gonna start with that cut on your forehead since head injuries are top priority,” he announced and sank down on the cushioned seat provided for the medics before reaching over and tugging the gurney closer to him.

“Then if you’re alright with it, I’ll examine any contusions, determine if you have any fractured or bruised ribs, and take a look at your shoulder and ankle.”

Kagome gasped a little and curled her hands around the railing beneath her knees. He chuckled and gave the bed one final tug until her knees were between his spread legs. Perhaps the position was a little scandalous, but he needed a good look at that cut to determine if it needed stitches or not after he cleaned it.

“Sorry,” he murmured and received a smile in response. “I probably should have asked this before, but better late than never. Are you dizzy or lightheaded at all? Nauseas? Ringing in your ears? Any disorientation or confusion?”

Kagome took a moment to do a mental inspection of her body, but besides the general feeling of exhaustion and soreness, she otherwise felt fine and told him as much.

Relieved, Inuyasha offered her the painkillers and water for the no doubt pounding headache she had and she gratefully knocked them back with a swig of water. While she did that, he ripped open an alcohol swap and debated on whether or not to use gloves, but decided against it. His claws would just slice the latex, anyway.

He waited until his patient had had her fill of the cool refreshing liquid before muttering a word of warning for the sting and carefully started cleaning the cut on her forehead. Kagome hissed and flinched a little at the anticipated sting, but remained still so he could treat it with minimal difficulty, breathing deeply as she fisted her hands around the cold steel of the railing beneath her.

Inuyasha saw the strain on her face and his ears flattened against his head, feeling guilty, but knowing it was necessary. The more he cleaned it, though, the more apparent it became that she probably wasn’t going to need stitches so at least that was a bit of good news he was more than happy to share. This had no doubt already been the night from hell for her and he didn’t want to make it even worse.

“Good news is,” he said and used a fresh cotton swap to dab some antiseptic on it, “you don’t need stitches. It’s minor and should fully heal in a week or so.”

Kagome sighed, relieved. “And the bad news?”

Inuyasha’s mouth quirked. “It’ll probably leave a bit of a scar, but hey. It’ll look pretty badass, in my opinion. A battle scar.”

Kagome blinked and then snorted a laugh at that. “Something to tell the grandkids about?”

“Yeah, but lie and say you got it fighting a dragon.”

She outright laughed at that and Inuyasha grinned, thoroughly proud of himself. At least he seemed to have distracted her from any pain she might be feeling.

Then her laughter slowly turned into a groan as she wrapped an arm around her middle and bent over a little, however she was still smiling while shaking her head.

Grimacing, feeling a little guilty for indirectly being the cause of her pain, Inuyasha snatched a gauze pad and the medical tape, hoping she hadn’t fractured any ribs and they were merely bruised.

“You alright?” he asked once she straightened up, her face once again pale with lines of pain bracketing her mouth and eyes.

“Yeah,” she answered a little breathlessly and winced as she rubbed her chest, where the seat belt had dug into her skin when she’d been thrown forward. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be,” he immediately said and reached up to brush her bangs away. “My fault for making you laugh. Can you breathe okay? One to ten, how bad is the pain?”

While he carefully went about applying the bandage to her cut, Kagome closed her eyes and thought about his question, trying to rate the amount of pain she was in. Probably not counting her head and ankle, she ranked it to be about a seven or so.

“Maybe a seven,” she answered honestly, knowing it wouldn’t be a very good idea to lie about that sort of information. “It hurts to breathe a little, but only a dull ache. Probably from when I got thrown forward against the seat belt.”

“Thing probably saved your life,” Inuyasha told her, keeping his eyes focused on the task of securing the bandage. Satisfied, he dropped his gaze back to hers, a slight frown furrowing his brow, and Kagome gasped a little at the intensity in his eyes.

“I’m glad you were wearing it,” he murmured, his voice a low rumble, and butterflies rioted in her stomach as he brushed his knuckles against her skin, just below the fresh bandage he’d just applied.

Swallowing, Kagome said a little breathlessly, “Me, too,” and she watched with a little thrill as his gaze dropped to her mouth.

Kagome’s breath sped up a little and she licked her lips. Inuyasha’s gaze grew heavy-lidded and the growl that leaked past his lips did very pleasant things to her insides. But just as she was about to say screw it and lean forward, Inuyasha’s expression suddenly cleared, he grimaced, and leaned back, turning his head with a light flush on his cheeks.

Hoping the disappointment didn’t show on her face, Kagome sighed and ducked her head, biting down on her lip. Well, that had been dumb, and she felt a little foolish now. What had she been thinking, leaning in like that and hoping…

“I need to check if you have any fractured ribs,” Inuyasha stated in a voice huskier than he would have liked and he cleared his throat. Though he was still blushing a little, he didn’t look away from her eyes as he continued, “If that’s alright with you, anyway. I’ll understand if you’d rather I didn’t and if that’s the case, I can go get Kaede and she can do it.”

Kagome blinked as she tried to understand what he meant by that, but then realization dawned and her eyes winded a little, her flush deepening at the thought of where his hands would be on her. But Inuyasha was a professional and she trusted him. Besides, Kaede was keeping Souji occupied, and she didn’t want her son to see the extent of the damage on her body.

Clearing her throat, Kagome managed a wan smile and responded, “No, it’s…okay. Go ahead, Inuyasha. I trust you.”

Inuyasha’s eyes widened at that and his ears perked straight up beneath his hat. Something warm and wonderful bloomed in his chest and the corners of his mouth quirked up slightly, those three simple words meaning more to him than she could ever know.

“Thanks,” he murmured as without being told, Kagome lifted her shirt to expose her belly and ribs while still keeping her modestly covered. “I’ll be quick, I promise.”

Kagome smiled wordlessly and he leveled a quick grin at her before getting to work.

The first thing Kagome noticed was that his hands were warm and calloused, not at all unpleasant against her skin, and she almost missed it when he told her to take a deep breath because she was so focused on his touch. Inuyasha frowned, then withdrew one hand to take his hat off, dropping it to the ground before replacing it on her ribs and repeating his request for her to take a deep breath.

She did, her eyes trained on those adorable ears of his so much like her son’s, only a lovely sterling instead of black, and she winced a little when her chest protested the action. Inuyasha was still frowning as he moved his hands up and down her ribs and she breathed deep once more without being told. Again her sore body protested the movement, but it was bearable.

“Well,” he said after a moment and removed his hands from her, trying very hard not to think about how soft and smooth her skin had been. “I don’t think you have any cracked ribs, but there’s some definite bruising. I can’t tell for sure without an x-ray, and I’m assuming since you weren’t immediately whisked away to one when the ambulance got here that a hospital is out of the question.”

Kagome grimaced, but nodded. “With the way Souji was acting, it would have been a very bad idea. It probably would have just made the situation even worse.”

Inuyasha sighed and nodded as he raked his claws through his bangs. “You’re probably right. I do recommend it, though. Preferably as soon as you’re able.”

Kagome nodded in understanding. “Of course. Just…not tonight.” She smiled a little apologetically and he had to return it with his own lopsided grin.

“Nah,” he murmured, eyes soft. “I get it. As long as you can breathe fine, then there’s no urgency.” He nodded to her shoulder then. “Let me see?”

Wordlessly Kagome tugged the collar of her shirt over enough so the skin of her left shoulder was visible. Her eyes widened because this was the first she’d seen of the extent of the damage. No doubt caused from the seat belt, the wound was an angry, bright red stretch of skin that extended down to the top of her breast where the color changed to an array of yellow and purple. A few places had scabbed over where there had been open scrapes, and all in all in looked very painful. No wonder it had hurt so much when Souji had caught himself on her shoulders.

Inuyasha whistled low, drawing her attention, and she watched as he grimaced and very, very gingerly brushed his thumb over the bruised skin.

“Fuck, baby,” he murmured and Kagome blinked at the unexpected endearment but it seemed as if he hadn’t even realized what he’d called her, his eyes focused on her shoulder. “That thing really did a number on you.”

Kagome sighed and gave a tired, wry smile. “A small price to pay if it means I’m still here.”

His eyes flashed to hers and for the second time Kagome’s breath caught in her throat, her heart stalling, warmth blooming in her stomach, in her chest. Her lips parted and for the second time that gloriously honeyed gaze dropped to her mouth, making the blood rush in her veins as more butterflies took off in her belly. Inuyasha was the one to lean in this time, his hand sliding from her shoulder along her arm, claws gently grazing her skin and feeling her shiver beneath his touch.

He growled, Kagome sighed—and then a familiar and very unwelcome scent reached his nose right then and Inuyasha forced himself to lean away with a short growl of irritation, ears pinned against his head. Kagome blinked at him, confused and unable to hide the flash of hurt in her eyes as she sat back. Inuyasha cursed and opened his mouth to explain—

“Mama!”

Gasping, face dark red, Kagome spun around, and then groaned when her sore body protested, arm going around her middle as she muttered, “S-Sou?”

Sighing, Inuyasha leveled an annoyed glare at the old woman that stood before the open ambulance doors, one eyebrow lifted and a knowing little smirk on her face while Souji clambered up into the vehicle to be with his mother.

Recovering quickly, though with a strained smile, Kagome nonetheless accepted her son’s weight in her lap when he crawled onto it and shoved a juice box under her nose. She smothered him in kisses and hugs before taking the offered beverage and setting it aside for now, not particularly in the mood for some juice despite having asked him to bring her one.

While Inuyasha sighed and studiously ignored his boss still watching him with that damn smirk, he hunted down an ace bandage for her ankle since there wasn’t much that could be done for her side or shoulder except let them heal on their own.

“Thank you,” Kagome said and a quick glance revealed she was addressing Kaede with a grateful smile. “For watching him so Inuyasha can treat my injuries without a fussy toddler to distract him. I hope he wasn’t too much trouble and behaved himself.”

Smiling warmly at the young woman, Kaede shook her head and said, “Oh, not at all, my dear. Your boy was perfectly behaved and he was very pleasant company. I did my best to distract him for as long as I could, but I suppose his concern for mom came back after his third mini bag of animal crackers because he ran over here before I could stop him.”

“Three bags?” Kagome repeated with a little smile and poked her son’s belly. Souji giggled and tried to shove her hand away. “You little piggy.”

“No!” Souji protested through his giggles and shook his head with a grin.

Despite his initial irritation at having been interrupted, Inuyasha had to smile a little at the sight. Kid was cute; he had to admit that, at least to himself.

“Thanks, boss,” Inuyasha said loudly, drawing the old woman’s attention. “I got it from here. Can you take care of the paperwork for me? I still need to wrap Kagome’s ankle and take care of a few things.”

Kaede raised an eyebrow and that damned knowing smile was back, but thankfully she said nothing and simply nodded.

“Of course, Inuyasha,” she said, trying not to laugh. “You can have the next few days off too, since you came tonight despite having just ended your shift.”

Inuyasha narrowed his eyes at her. “Sure,” he said slowly, knowing she was up to something, but not sure what.

Her one gray eye twinkled as she smiled at him then turned her gaze toward the mother and child, her expression softening.

“Kagome, was it?” she asked and said woman nodded. “My name is Kaede, dear. While usually I would say it has been a pleasure, I’m sure this night has been anything but for you, hm?”

Kagome sighed and smiled wryly, the exhaustion evident in her eyes and the lines on her pale face. Absently she ran a hand through Souji’s hair, who had settled down and was cuddled up against her chest, the long and eventful night finally catching up with him as a big yawn escaped his mouth.

Kaede’s heart went out to the poor girl and her child and she was glad she had Inuyasha to help her through such a hellish night. He was a good man with a good head on his shoulders; she knew she was in good hands and would be well taken care of.

“Make sure to get plenty of rest, dear,” she told her and Kagome nodded with a grateful smile. “You too, Souji, though it seems you’re already half way there.”

Blinking at the old woman drowsily, Souji grunted then burrowed his head into his mother’s good shoulder, his arms going around her neck with a gusty sigh.

Kaede chuckled and with one last glance at the clearly impatient half-demon that was still pegging her with an annoyed glare, she turned and headed back to wrap things up with the police. Kagome and Souji were in good hands; she wasn’t worried.

Shaking his head and grumbling under his breath, Inuyasha turned toward Kagome and discovered that Souji had more or less passed out in her lap, his breaths deep and even. Kagome was smiling gently down at him, all the love in her eyes as she kissed his head and rocked him slowly back and forth, stroking his hair and back like a loving mother would to her child.

Inuyasha’s heart melted and he suddenly wanted very, very badly to be a part of their cozy little duo.

But then reality slammed into him hard and he ducked his head to hide his grimace, ears flattening against his head as he fiddled with the rolled up ace bandage in his hand. What the hell was wrong with him—she’d literally just met him an hour prior, and he doubted dating was anywhere close on her mind on such on a shitty night. Plus, and he couldn’t believe he hadn’t even thought of this before, making him inwardly curse himself for his earlier attempt to kiss her, there was also the very real possibility that she was unavailable. Hell, she had a fucking kid; the father could be waiting at home for her, though if that was the case he wasn’t sure why the guy wasn’t here by now. Wouldn’t she have contacted him?

Beneath his hat, his ears perked just a little. Then again, she hadn’t mentioned anything about the kid’s old man, and maybe it was just wishful thinking, but he could have sworn she’d leaned in earlier like she wanted to kiss him before he foolishly pulled away, so…maybe not?

He flicked a hopeful glance at mother and child, took in the tiny ears on top of Souji’s head, and the hopes promptly came crashing back down. Souji was a half-demon, which meant the father was a full demon.

Why go for half when she could have full.

Inuyasha bit back a groan and dragged a hand down his face. Dammit, he was reading too far into this. She was his patient, for god’s sake, he had no right to—

“Inuyasha?”

Startled out of his thoughts by the soft inquisitive voice, Inuyasha jerked his head up and his gaze collided with dark, beautiful depths filled with concern, delicate eyebrows dipped down into a small frown.

“Hey,” she said, offering a little smile. “Are you okay? I lost you for a second there.”

Inuyasha blinked at her choice of words and the instinctive response of “You’ll never lose me, Kagome” was right on the tip of his tongue but then he remembered himself and shook his head. Fucking hell.

“Yeah, uh, no,” he said, frowning at his own words and tried again. “I’m fine, Kagome. Sorry. Didn’t mean to space out on ya.”

Her smile broadened. “No need to be sorry. It’s been a weird night, huh?” She chuckled a little and Inuyasha couldn’t help but level a crooked grin at her.

“Yeah,” he agreed then held up the forgotten ace bandage in his hand. “Which ankle is bothering you? I’ll check it out and wrap up so you can finally call it a night and head home.”

“That sounds heavenly,” Kagome said with a sigh and lifted her right foot. “This one. Please tell me it’s not broken.”

Inuyasha only tossed her a wry grin before very carefully pulling off her slip-on shoe and cradling her bare foot in his hands. She winced a little when he turned it over as he inspected and she shook her head at his muttered apologies.

“Can you pin point the pain for me?” he asked and leaned forward to tenderly touch her fingertips to the soft part of her ankle, just a little above the bone. There was some mild swelling and she could still flex her ankle slightly, but not without pain.

“You’re in luck,” Inuyasha said after a minute and shifted forward to prop her foot on his knee while he prepared to wrap bandage around it. “Looks like it’s just a mild sprain, but you should still keep your weight off of it as much as you can.”

Kagome laughed dryly and at his inquisitive look, she raised her brows and remarked, “It’s hard to stay off your feet when you’re a single mother with a hyper-active two-year-old.”

Despite himself Inuyasha felt the hope bloom warm and wonderful in his chest again and he really hoped the excitement didn’t show on his face. She was single. She was single. The dad wasn’t in the picture, fuck yes!

Wow, you fucking idiot, can you be any more insensitive? To hide the shameful blush that colored his face, Inuyasha ducked his head and focused on wrapping her ankle. For all he knew, something tragic could have happened and she might still be recovering. Jumping to conclusions would not only be foolish, but inconsiderate to her as well, and he needed to stay in her good graces if he ever wanted to have a chance with her.

And he wanted. God, did he ever.

“Is there anyone that would be willing to stay with you for a while? Friends? Family?” Inuyasha only flicked her a brief glance before turning his gaze back to his task, not wanting to make the wrap too tight or uncomfortable.

Kagome wrinkled her nose and adjusted Souji in her arms, wincing when her shoulder protested the movement.

“Mama and Gramps are both retired and don’t have the energy to chase after a toddler like they used to, and my brother is away at college. And the only friend I really have is…well, he’s not really…a good candidate for babysitting.”

Inuyasha paused to quirk a brow up at her, a wordless inquiry.

Kagome sighed and her voice was dry. “Let’s just say that Miroku is more interested in the baby making process than actually raising one.”

The silver-haired medic snorted and continued his work, passing under the arch of her foot and around her ankle one last time before gently securing the end via the strong Velcro attached to it.

“How’s that?” he asked, sitting back and inspecting his handiwork. “Not too tight?”

Flexing her foot a bit, Kagome smiled and nodded in approval. “Feels perfect. You’re really good at that; I remember whenever I hurt my ankle when I still lived at home Mama always made it too tight or too loose so I had to fix it myself.”

Inuyasha shrugged off the compliment, though inwardly his ego was inflating to twice its normal size.

“It’s my job,” he remarked and started putting everything back where he’d found it. “Be a pretty shitty EMT if I couldn’t do something I was specifically trained for.”

A soft laugh reached his ears. “I suppose you’re right.”

They lapsed into comfortable silence, and since the driver for this damn thing was still nowhere in sight, Inuyasha decided to give voice to a curiosity that refused to leave him alone and really, really hoped he wouldn’t regret it.

“So, uh,” he began, frowning down at the plastic bin of bandages in his hand as he tried to think of how to phrase it without sounding like an opportunistic asshole. He slid the bin back home to its proper place in one of the cabinets and tried to make himself look busy, avoiding her curious gaze.

“Pup’s father. Is he, uh, is he still around? Why isn’t he here?”

As soon as the words left his mouth Inuyasha wanted to slam his head against the nearest hard surface. Smooth, asshole. Real smooth.

Too busy beating himself up, he missed the little smile that curled Kagome’s mouth as she watched him. Honestly she’d been waiting for him to ask that question. She’d purposely hinted earlier that she was unattached by saying she was a single mother and he hadn’t seemed to really take the bait, so she was glad he took the initiative this time and asked. She’d thought about dropping another hint, but didn’t want to seem too desperate.

“Do you remember how Souji was acting earlier?” she asked by way of reply. “Growling, sort of aggressive and wouldn’t let anyone come near me?”

Not expecting that, Inuyasha turned toward her, the confusion evident on his face. But then he frowned and nodded, prompting Kagome to continue.

“Last year his father and I got into a screaming match that got out of hand and he punched me in the face. Souji saw it happen. I left him and ever since that day Souji has been extremely protective of me and he’s very distrustful of strangers, especially men.”

She looked down at the slumbering boy in her arms and her expression softened, her smile turning sad as she kissed his little brow.

“My fierce little warrior,” Kagome murmured, smoothing back his hair before glancing back at the handsome medic. Inuyasha was frowning at her but she could see the concern in his eyes with a hint of anger simmering just beneath the surface and she had to smile. He was angry because of what had happened to her, even though it had happened a year ago, and she thought that was incredibly sweet.

“I’m sorry you had to go through that,” Inuyasha said, his voice a low rumble and his gaze intense, sincere as he stared into her eyes. “I’m sorry Souji has such a shitty sperm donor, and I’m sorry I wasn’t there to deck the son of a bitch myself for hitting you. Women are meant to be protected. Cherished…loved. Never hurt.”

Kagome didn’t know what to say to that so she said nothing, eyes locked on his and heart in her throat.

Another moment of silence passed as the two of them simply gazed at one another, the air between them charged, heavy with something both of them didn’t quite understand, but then Inuyasha sighed and racked a hand through his hair, shaking his head. Kagome blushed and cleared her throat, dropping her gaze to watch her son’s face, relaxed in sleep.

“So you’re telling me a full demon punched you in the face and he didn’t knock you the fuck out?” Inuyasha quite tactlessly asked, a puzzled frown creasing his brow.

“I saw it coming and managed to dodge at the last second so he only glanced my cheek and temple,” Kagome readily answered, grateful for the subject change if only to calm the rabid beating of her heart. “I smacked my head against the kitchen counter as I went down and I was dizzy for a few minutes, but it passed and I was able to grab Sou and get the hell out of there. I haven’t seen him since.”

“So you have full custody,” Inuyasha assumed.

Kagome nodded and heaved another sigh. “Yes. But even if I didn’t and it was shared, I still wouldn’t see hide nor hair of him.”

Inuyasha’s eyebrows rose at that. “You mean the asshole has no interest in his own son?”

Kagome closed her eyes and the smile that curled her lips was so incredibly sad Inuyasha had to fight against the urge to take her into his arms.

“Souji is the reason why we were arguing that day,” she explained, eyes fluttering open to regard her baby boy the way only a loving mother ever could. “When I told Kouga that I was pregnant, he told me to get rid of it. He didn’t want a half-breed to be related to him in any way, shape, or form, regardless if it was his own offspring or not. I didn’t, of course, and our relationship deteriorated after that. I know I should have left him that day, but part of me hoped…”

She trailed off with a sigh and idly ran a hand through Souji’s dark hair. The toddler stirred slightly and grunted softly in his sleep, but settled down soon after, going still with a quiet sigh. Kagome kissed his head, so overcome with love for her brave, beautiful little boy.

“At the risk of sounding completely selfish and maybe even a bit like an asshole,” Inuyasha began, drawing Kagome’s gaze back to him and he stubbornly refused to look away despite his face heating.

“I’m…sorta glad it happened. I mean not that he punched you of course, I would never—because you’re here now and—ah, fuck.”

Groaning, Inuyasha dropped his head in his hands and willed himself to just fucking turn into a ghost so he could phase into the goddamn ground or some shit but then the sound of soft laughter reached his ears and he dared at a glance at his beautiful patient. Judging by the hand over her mouth, she’d tried to stifle her mirth and failed but even if she’d succeeded, the amusement in her eyes would have tipped him off easily and despite himself Inuyasha felt himself grinning in return.

“Me, too,” Kagome whispered, lowering her hand to reveal a soft, beautiful smile and fuck, what he would give to have her look at him like that all the damn time.

Inuyasha opened his mouth to say something, anything as long as she’d keep looking at him like that, but then she suddenly yawned and he remembered where they were. She blinked and then gave a sheepish smile and shrugged.

Chuckling, Inuyasha pulled out his phone and checked the time. “Two AM,” he supplied and tucked it back in his pocket. “Things are wrapping up here anyway, so how about we call it a night and get you two home?”

The thought of her bed was nearly enough to make her weep. “That sounds like the best idea I’ve heard all night,” Kagome replied and shifted Souji in her arms again. Her shoulder twinged in protest and she hissed through her teeth.

“Um, can you do me a favor?”

Inuyasha crossed his arms and cocked a brow at her, waiting.

“Could you get his car seat for me, please? My shoulder is starting to really hurt for holding him for so long.” She tossed him a pleading smile and he was helpless but to obey.

He deliberated for only a second, casting a brief glance at the child in her arms before surprising her by saying, “I’ll do it.”

She blinked. “What?”

Shrugging, though not without a slight flush on his cheeks, Inuyasha turned his gaze away and repeated, “I’ll put him in it. I mean if you don’t mind. It’ll save you from having to lift your arm if it’s hurting you that much.”

Both of her brows lifted into her bangs and she tilted her head. “Do you know how?”

Inuyasha frowned and looked offended.

Immediately Kagome winced and shook her head, a flush darkening her face. 

“Sorry, that was rude,” she murmured and received a grunt in response. “I was just surprised, is all. I didn’t mean to insinuate anything.”

He grumbled but nodded and Kagome somehow knew he wasn’t really upset over it. Still, she leveled him with an apologetic smile and adjusted Souji in her arms to make the transfer easier.

“Please,” she entreated softly and the wind was abruptly blown right out of his sails.

Relaxing, Inuyasha wordlessly bent down to carefully take the slumbering child from her arms and cradle him in his own. Souji didn’t stir and Kagome watched as the handsome medic who had taken such good care of them tonight stepped off the ambulance and crossed the scant distance to the car seat sitting on the ground. The sight of him slowly settling her baby boy in and checking to make sure everything was secure warmed her heart in ways she hadn’t felt for over two years now. It made her think that maybe, just maybe…that missing piece of her heart, the part that Kouga had viciously destroyed with his actions and carelessness of his own son, could be replaced with a new, much stronger piece to make it whole again.

And that piece had golden eyes, a fanged grin, and two adorable silver dog ears so much like her little Souji’s.

Kagome was just thinking that maybe this night wasn’t as bad as she thought it was when Inuyasha returned and gingerly set her son’s car seat with sleeping toddler cradled within on the ambulance floor before hopping back up into it.

With a rumbled word of warning, he slipped his hands beneath her and easily lifted her up into his arms, only to hop back to the ground a minute later and set her beside her son.

“Sit tight,” he said and before he could stop himself he tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “I’ll bring my truck around since I can’t carry you both at the same time with him in that thing.”

“You’re gonna take me home?” Kagome questioned, surprised, but undoubtedly pleased.

He leveled her with a look and quipped, “You really think I was gonna make you walk home with a bum ankle and a toddler?”

Kagome offered him a sheepish smile. Neither of them pointed out that she could just catch a ride with one of the cops still hanging around for whatever reason.

Rolling his eyes, Inuyasha shook his head and walked away, grumbling under his breath about silly wenches and dumb questions, Kagome’s soft laugher following after him.

Fifteen minutes later Inuyasha had his two patients bundled into his truck with the still snoozing Souji secured in the backseat of the crew cab and Kagome beside him in the passenger’s seat. Despite it being a rather mild night, she was wearing his leather jacket that had been lying on the floor in the back, the EMT claiming that he hadn’t wanted her to get sick on top of everything else she’d endured tonight. Kagome had simply smiled and tugged the garment closer against her and Inuyasha had delighted in the fetching shade of scarlet that colored her cheeks.

The ride to Kagome’s apartment was spent in comfortable silence but that had more to do with Kagome being dog-tired than not having the need to fill the quiet with soft chatter. Inuyasha let her doze with her head resting against the widow and he was content to steal brief glances at her during the short commute. Souji hadn’t stirred once strapped into the back and the half-demon doubted the pup would wake any time before 7 am, possibly later since he’d had a long night.

Parking in front of the address Kagome had given him, Inuyasha put his truck in park then cut the engine before turning his attention to his lovely passenger. She hadn’t stirred, and he hated to wake her up, but he needed to get them both inside so they could get some proper rest.

“Kagome,” he murmured and reached over to gently nudge her awake. “We’re here. Kagome?”

She murmured and frowned, but otherwise ignored him and he chuckled. Shaking his head, he unbuckled his seatbelt and shifted his hand to tenderly cup her cheek, sweeping his thumb across the softness of her skin.

“C’mon, baby,” he rumbled and was gratified to see caramel eyes flutter open to blink drowsily at him. “Let’s get you and Sou inside so you can get some sleep in a real bed. Doubt you’d be very comfortable out here all night.”

Blinking once more before wrinkling her nose in the most adorable way, Kagome offered a small, sleepy smile and gave a slight nod. She yawned and Inuyasha hopped out to retrieve Souji still passed out in his car seat. The older half-demon was a little surprised the pup didn’t wake even once as he carefully scooped him up into his arms, figuring he’d just come back for the car seat after he’d settle the two of them inside. Instead Souji merely sighed, snuggled against his chest, and Inuyasha’s heart about damn near exploded with affection for the kid.

It was astounding, and maybe a little frightening, how badly he wanted these two in his life, and he hoped to god that Kagome would allow him to see them again after tonight.

Keeping the sleeping toddler secured against him with one arm, Inuyasha helped Kagome down with his other arm tight around her waist and he effortlessly bore most of her weight as he led them down the short sidewalk to her front door. He didn’t like how she’d left her door unlocked, but after her explanation of how she’d planned on coming right back after a short drive to get Souji to sleep, he accepted it with a soft grunt and more or less carried the both of them inside her cozy little apartment.

Reluctantly he released Kagome and she took her son from his arms before tossing him a quick smile and turning to no doubt put him to bed. Inuyasha watched her go, frowning at her limp, but forced himself to remain where he was. She needed to stay off of her ankle for it to get better, but he couldn’t very well tuck in her son for her. While he wouldn’t have minded, he didn’t want to impose, and they had just met, after all.

He also didn’t like the thought of her staying here alone with no one around to help and he thought about asking her if it was alright for him to stay, but again he didn’t want to be weird or make her uncomfortable. They were practically strangers and despite the strangely overpowering need to care for and protect the both of them, he didn’t want her to think he had an ulterior motive or the paramedic side of him wanted to ensure she would be alright.

No, it went much deeper than that. But he didn’t want to scare her or freak her out, so he’d force himself to back off unless she outright told him she wanted him around. Or hell, he’d even take a very obvious hint that was impossible to ignore. He didn’t want this to be the last time he saw her, or the kid, and he desperately hoped the feeling was mutual.

Kagome came limping back down the hallway after closing Souji’s door most of the way and instantly Inuyasha diverted all of his attention on her. She looked utterly drained as she gimped her way over to him, however she still managed to muster up a smile for him and his heart ached.

Inuyasha closed the remaining distance between them and wordlessly scooped her back up into his arms. Kagome’s exhaustion was evident in the way she didn’t even gasp, merely releasing a quiet sigh as he strode down the hallway and followed his nose to Kagome’s bedroom. He set her down on the bed and knelt before her so he could carefully remove her shoes for her. He checked her bandage while he was at it, making sure it was good and secure before resting his hands on her knees and lifting his gaze to hers.

“Thank you,” she whispered and he knew it wasn’t just for taking off her shoes.

“I wish I could do more,” he confessed, eyebrows dipping into a slight frown. “I don’t like the thought of you being here by yourself. Are you sure there’s nobody you can call? I’m sure even your friend Miroku wouldn’t mind helping out if you told him what happened.”

Kagome stared at him, warmth blossoming in her chest. Somebody must be really looking out for her up there to introduce her to such an amazing, caring man like Inuyasha. Granted, she could have definitely done without the circumstances in which they met, but, well…beggars can’t be choosers and all that.

“It’s sweet of you to worry,” Kagome began, lifting a hand to cup his cheek and she smiled when he unabashedly leaned into her touch. “But I promise I’ll be okay. Souji will no doubt crawl into bed with me sometime during the night and wake me up when he’s hungry. After he eats something he’ll probably go back to sleep and I’ll be able to stay off my ankle, if not catch a little more shuteye myself.”

Inuyasha still didn’t look happy, but he finally conceded with a sigh and a nod. “Can I at least leave my number with you so you can text me if you need help? Just for my own peace of mind. Please.”

Boldly he reached up, dragged his claws against the soft skin of her jaw and caught a strand of ebony hair between his fingers. He kept his gaze on hers as he brushed his knuckles against her cheek and he heard the way the breath hitched in her throat. Inuyasha fought back a grin and tenderly tucked the lock of dark silk behind her ear.

Biting her lip, Kagome didn’t give herself time to think as she dropped her hand to grab the lapel of his uniform shirt, fingers curling into the fabric to keep him close. Inuyasha didn’t move, didn’t even dare to breathe as she smiled and peered at him from beneath twin fans of midnight lashes.

“You could,” she murmured, her smile widening just a bit. “Or…you could stop by tomorrow morning and we could maybe talk over coffee and pancakes. If you want.”

Abruptly the breath left Inuyasha’s lungs in a relieved whoosh of air and he nodded, eyes going hooded as he slipped his hand into her hair.

“Yeah,” he said, voice husky. “I want.”

“Yeah?” Kagome repeated, eyes bright, lips curving up even further in obvious delight.

Inuyasha nodded again, gaze fastened to her mouth, and that time Kagome sighed. Her hand tightened on his shirt, refusing to let go, or maybe she was unable to. She couldn’t tell, not with the way Inuyasha was staring at her. Or more accurately her mouth and unconsciously she swallowed, lips parting on a stuttered breath.

“Okay,” he muttered. “Alright. Good.”

“Good.”

They stared at each other, saying nothing, her hand gripping his shirt, his in her hair, and Inuyasha was fighting desperately to keep himself where he was, to not give in no matter how bad he wanted to. He couldn’t take advantage of her like that, he couldn’t risk destroying the trust she had so graciously given him—

She breathed his name, the softest of whispers falling from her lips, and Inuyasha’s control shattered.

“Aw, to hell with it,” he muttered right before surging up and claiming her mouth in the passionate kiss he’d been wanting to give her all damned night.

Immediately Kagome responded, both hands gripping his shirt now as Inuyasha braced his knee on the bed beside her and wrapped an arm around her waist to keep her from falling as he leaned over her. He nipped her lips and she parted them with a gasp that turned into a whimper as he deepened the kiss, greedy for her taste. Despite the hunger ravaging in his gut, however, he kept his kiss gentle, his mouth moving over hers in a hot, sensual dance that she eagerly reciprocated with flicks of her tongue and gentle nips.

He growled and with his hand cupping the back of her head, fingers tangled in her hair, Inuyasha pulled back only to press a series of hot, lingering kisses to her mouth but it wasn’t long before he was unable to keep himself from going in for a much longer, deeper taste once more. Her breathy laugh turned into a moan and he would have smirked in arrogant pride had he had the higher brain function to do so.

Several heated seconds later, Inuyasha finally pulled back to allow them both to breathe and he rested his forehead against her own as they panted for breath.

“I’ve been wanting to do that all night,” Inuyasha admitted in a low rumble that sent pleasant tingles down Kagome’s spine.

“Funny,” she whispered. “I’ve been wanting you to do that all night, too.”

He chuckled and couldn’t help but to brush one last lingering kiss across her smiling lips.

“Get some sleep,” he entreated against her lips. “And I’ll see you later.”

“Okay,” she sighed and gave him a sleepy, but genuine smile. “Good night, Inuyasha. Thank you for���everything.”

Inuyasha smiled at her and pressed a soft kiss to her forehead. “Anytime,” he husked. “Good night, baby. Sleep well.”

He helped her get settled into bed and wasn’t surprised that she was out as soon as her head hit the pillow. Inuyasha sighed, kissed her brow one more time, and then quietly stole out of her bedroom to let her sleep. Before he even thought about what he was doing, and almost like it was second nature, he checked on Souji who was still fast sleep in his little toddler bed before making sure all the lights were off and ensuring her door was locked when he finally left a few minutes later.

Just as she’d predicted, Kagome woke up just a little after 7 am to the feeling little hands on her face. She opened bleary eyes to find her son hovering over her, wee hands on her cheeks and blinking owlishly down at her. The biggest, sunniest grin split his cherubic face when he saw that she was finally awake and he patted her cheeks with a happiness only a child could have after only going to sleep a few hours before and getting up at what the fraaaaack o’clock in the morning.

Tiny fingers grabbed her nose and Kagome sighed even as a tired smile lifted the corners of her lips.

“You’re lucky you’re cute,” Kagome murmured and then released a yawn. “It’s too early for your shenanigans, Sou.”

“Mama,” Souji said by way of reply as his mother levered herself upright with a groan. God, she hurt everywhere. Her entire body was sore, not just her torso and shoulder. Not surprising, considering what she’d went through last night, but still.

Ow.

With a soft grunt, Kagome very, very slowly wriggled around until she managed to get her feet on the floor, her sore body protesting every movement. Obviously any pain meds she’d taken last night had worn off by now and her ankle throbbed in protest when she put a little weight on it. Kagome winced and dragged a hand down her face. God, today was going to suck.

But at least she had something to look forward to, Kagome mused to herself, a little smile lighting her face as she remembered they were going to have a visitor that morning. Which meant she needed to get her ass in gear, take a much-needed shower, and feed her hungry toddler.

Souji wedged himself between her knees and stared up at her with worried blue eyes.

“Hurt?” he asked and very gently patted her knee as if the barest touch would cause crippling pain.

Kagome sighed and smiled for her little boy, running a hand through his dark hair and tweaking his ears.

“Yes,” she admitted. “But I’ll be fine, baby. It’s only a little hurt”—lie—“and I’ll feel better once I take a nice hot shower and get some food in our tummies.” She poked his belly and was relieved to see the smile bloom across his face.

“Puffs,” he said and darted for the kitchen.

“Puffs it is,” Kagome murmured and taking a deep breath, she braced her hands on the mattress and slowly pushed herself to her feet. There was pain, but it was tolerable, and she tried to keep as little weight on her bad ankle as she could as she hobbled her way to the kitchen to pour her two-year-old a bowl of Cocoa Puffs cereal.

Even though she wanted nothing more than to sleep all day to let her weary, banged up body recover, being a single mother made that very tempting option unavailable So, despite being slow and muttering curses under her breath every few minutes, Kagome provided her boy with his coveted diabetes-on-a-bowl disguised as sugary chocolate cereal and then went about making herself a cup of much-needed coffee.

After two cups and by the time Souji had finished his second bowl, Kagome was starting to feel human again and since her son had wandered off into the living room to watch cartoons, Kagome seized this chance to take a shower. She knew Souji would pass out soon after on the couch so she wouldn’t have to worry about him for a few hours, or at least until Inuyasha arrived.

The thought of the handsome medical technician brought a flush to Kagome’s cheeks and warmth to flood her entire body. She couldn’t wait to see him again and she wondered if he was as excited about it as she. She could only hope, and the giggle that bubbled up in her throat as she hobbled into the bathroom was girlish and completely involuntary.

Half an hour later Kagome was showered, dressed, and feeling much more like herself, if not still a little tired, but she supposed that was to be expected. The pain meds she’d taken with her coffee had dulled the pain in her ankle, side, and shoulder, and she was grateful because the pain would make whipping up some breakfast much more difficult.

Unsurprisingly Souji was passed out cold in the most ridiculous position on the couch while Paw Patrol played on the television and Kagome left him be to start breakfast. She had no idea when Inuyasha would show up and she wanted to have something made up by then.

Unfortunately, she didn’t get very far before her phone started ringing and Kagome whipped her head around to stare at the device. It was still on the counter where she’d left it last night before venturing out for a drive with Sou and she sighed because she had an idea as to who it could be. And lo and behold, when she picked it up, “Mama” flashed across the screen.

Kagome grimaced, braced herself, and answered.

The conversation with her mother went as expected. Evidently someone from the accident scene last night had captured a brief video snippet of Inuyasha performing his little magic show for Souji and her mother had seen it circulating on social media. Asako explained that she recognized her own daughter and grandson in the video and Kagome managed to calm her down enough to enlighten the older woman what had happened. Several times she had to assure her mother that she and Souji were both fine and probably sometime later that day they were both going to go to the hospital to get an official checkup and an x-ray for Kagome’s ankle and ribs.

Of course, her mother being her mother, wanted to come over and help with Souji while Kagome focused on recovering, but the younger woman managed to convince her that she didn’t need to make the drive just for a likely sprained ankle. She might have put in the little white lie that Miroku would be stopping by later and it was enough to pacify Asako into agreeing.

It wasn’t really a surprise that seconds after hanging up with her mother, her phone beeped with a text message from Miroku but she really didn’t have the energy to put up with him right now so she ignored it and went about preparing breakfast.

In hindsight, she really should have replied to that message.

It was about a quarter after nine when the doorbell rang and instantly butterflies took off in Kagome’s belly from a combination of nerves and excited anticipation. Still, though, it was impossible to hold back the brilliant smile that spread across her flour-dusted face as she shuffled as fast as she could to the front door, heart pounding in her chest as she quickly unlocked it and whipped it open. God, but it was embarrassing how much she’d missed him—

“What the hell are you doing here?” Kagome asked, her radiant expression instantly dropping to one of horror.

Kouga didn’t answer and instantly zeroed in on the bandage on her forehead, blue eyes narrowing as a sense of unease roiled in his gut. So the stupid human hadn’t been lying, then. Least he was good for something other than grabbing ass.

“I don’t want you here,” Kagome hissed after recovering from the shock of seeing her ex out of nowhere. “Leave. Now.”

Stone-faced, she grabbed the door and started to close it in his face, but Kouga wedged his foot into the threshold and prevented it. Kagome glowered at him and tired again, but Kouga pushed his way inside, forcing her to stumble backward and nearly crumple to the floor as her ankle was forced to bear her weight. She gasped as pain ricocheted up her entire leg and she would have fallen backward had it not been for her ex grabbing her wrist and hauling her back up.

“What the fuck, Kagome,” Kouga growled and darted his gaze down to her feet, snarling when she saw she was favoring her right one. “Were you really in a goddamn accident last night and didn’t fucking tell me?”

Regaining her bearings and her balance, Kagome yanked her wrist out of his grip and stumbled backward with a scowl, dark eyes flashing with a mixture of pain and anger.

“Why the hell would I tell you anything?” she snapped, flicking her gaze toward the living room and hoping like hell Souji would remain asleep. “We’re not together anymore, Kouga, or don’t you remember when you punched me in the face?”

Crossing her arms, Kagome simply glared at him, giving up on getting him to leave because she knew in her current state there was shit all she could do. Even if she were at peak physical health, he was still ten times stronger than she and he never let her forget it, either.

To her surprise, Kouga actually looked regretful as he winced and thrust a hand through his bangs. His hair was up in its usual ponytail, but it looked as if he’d dressed in haste, donned in a simple t-shirt and loose sweatpants he wore when jogging. Oh please; don’t tell her he was actually worried?

“C’mon, Kagome, you know I hate it when you bring that up,” he muttered, having the audacity to actually look embarrassed. “I said I was sorry and it’ll never happen again. It’s been a year, can’t we just forget about it and—”

“You and I both know it’s far more than just a punch to the face, Kouga,” Kagome murmured, face tight with pain and old fury that bubbled up to the surface at his sudden reappearance. How the hell had he even found out, anyway? As far as she knew he wasn’t on social media and her mother would never reach out to him after what happened last year.

Kouga tensed and clenched his jaw, cobalt eyes going hard and cold as steel. Evidently his opinion hadn’t changed about half-demon’s and the old scar he’d left on her heart ached.

Deciding now wasn't the time or place to revisit that particular topic, Kagome sighed roughly and leveled him with a suspicious glare.

“How did you even find out, anyway? I know my mother didn’t tell you.” She arched an expectant brow.

Kouga snorted. “Of course she didn’t,” he confirmed. “It was that perverted friend of yours, Miro-whatever. At least he had the sense to—”

Tuning out the rest of whatever he was going on about, Kagome snapped her gaze around to land on her discarded phone still lying on the counter and the color drained from her face when realization dawned. Oooh, that complete and utter moron! That asshole! She was going to throttle him when she saw him next!

“Ooooh, I’ll kill him,” she hissed, glaring with such vehemence at her phone it was a wonder it didn’t burst into flames right there on her counter.

“—good thing he did because you can’t be staying here alone in your condition, you could fall and hurt yourself even worse—”

“Shut up, Kouga,” Kagome cut him off and the wolf-demon was so startled by her cold tone he actually did. “I have no idea why Miroku would ever contact you because it’s literally none of your business what happens to me or Souji because we are no longer together. I haven’t talked to you in a year, and I liked it that way, so now I want you to leave before my son wakes up and sees you. We’ve both had a very long night and he does not need the stress of your presence after what he went through last night. So get out. I’ll be talking with Miroku to make sure he never contacts you again.”

Arms tight across her chest, dark eyes stern and lips in a flat, thin line, Kagome stared him down and didn’t even flinch at the low growl her ex-boyfriend emitted.

“Like hell I’m leaving here without you,” Kouga growled, his eyes twin pools of blue fire as he stalked forward and reached for her arm. “I don’t care what you say, you can’t be alone—”

“So you’re the asshole sperm donor Kagome told me about, huh.”

While Kouga stiffened and slowly turned around with a dark scowl on his face, relief swept through Kagome and the smile that split her face was grateful and positively radiant.

“Inuyasha,” she breathed and Kouga sneered, crossing his arms as he took in the unwanted newcomer.

Leaning against the door jamb, a paper bag tucked under his arm and holding a cardboard drink holder with two coffees in it, Inuyasha looked unimpressed as he returned the once over before shifting his gaze to the woman behind the wolf. Kagome looked infinitely glad to see him, relief swimming in those dark eyes of hers, and his expression softened. Damn, he’d missed her.

“Who the fuck are you?”

Inuyasha ignored the question and kept his gaze on Kagome.

“You alright?” The sperm donor was blocking most of his view, but from what he could tell she seemed alright. His nose told him Souji was napping in the living room and he was glad for that. From what Kagome had told him, the pup didn’t need to see his father here and have a repeat of what happened last night. Poor kid already went through hell.

“I’m fine,” she assured him and stepped around her ex to take the bag and drinks from him. “I was in the middle of making breakfast, but now I suppose I don’t have to. Smells absolutely divine.”

The most delicious smell of muffins and honeybuns were coming from the paper bag and her stomach growled in agreement.

“I thought about taking you two out for breakfast,” he admitted a little sheepishly with a shrug. “But then figured you wouldn’t really wanna go anywhere considering what happened.” He paused. “How you feeling, by the way?”

Shuffling over to the bar counter and completely ignoring the increasingly pissed off wolf-demon, Kagome deposited their breakfast onto the surface and went about collecting some plates.

“Sore, obviously,” she told him. “But it’s tolerable. It still hurts to walk on my ankle, and I had to take the bandage off so I could shower, so if you wouldn’t mind wrapping it again—”

“I asked you a question, asshole,” Kouga interrupted their pleasant little conversation, stepping up and inserting himself right in front of the half-breed’s vision so he was forced to look at him. “Who are you and how do you know Kagome?”

Immediately Inuyasha’s expression changed from warm pleasantness to cold and flinty as he finally looked at the fucker in front of him that had so rudely interrupted his conversation with Kagome. The wolf was attempting to pull off a pathetic intimidating act by snarling in his face and baring his fangs while glaring balefully at him, a steady growl leaking past his clenched teeth.

Inuyasha stared at him for a beat before saying curtly, “I don’t think that’s any of your business, wolfshit. Matter of fact, you don’t have any business being here so why don’t you do us a favor and get lost because Kagome clearly doesn’t want you here, and you know what, neither do I. Your stench is already giving me a headache. There’s the door. I hope it hits you on your way out.”

With that, the half-demon roughly shoved his way past the other male and made his way over to Kagome who had silently watched the exchanged with a worried frown.

Kouga was having none of that, though, and spun around with a snarl to reach out and dig his claws into the mongrel’s shoulder.

“Listen asshole, I don’t know who the fuck you think you are—”

Inuyasha reacted so fast his movements were a blur. He spun around and in the same movement threw his arm above Kouga’s head before jerking it down hard against his back to dislodge the wolf’s grip on his shoulder. Kouga grunted but could do nothing as the next second the half-demon forced his body to turn and then with a swift kick, swept his feet out from under him. He landed on the floor with a grunt and a scowling half-demon glaring down at him.

“I know where very major artery is on your pathetic, weak little body, wolfshit,” Inuyasha growled and narrowed his eyes in lethal warning. “Touch me or her again and my claws just might slip. Comprende?”

While Kouga grumbled and glowered up at him as he pushed himself to his feet, behind him Kagome was feeling quite flushed at having witnessed the hanyou display a very effective self-defense skill and she had to resist the urge to fan herself.

Good lord, but why had that been so hot? Not to mention that threat if he touched her again.

God, Kagome mused, pressing a hand over her wildly beating heart. Take me now.

Scoffing in the face of the half-breed’s anger and threat, Kouga rolled his shoulders and leveled another scowl at him. If he thought he was just going to—

“Shit.”

Inuyasha’s ear flicked behind him at the muttered curse and a familiar scent told him the reason of Kagome’s sudden apprehension. Instantly schooling his expression, he shifted amber eyes toward the living room and found sleepy blue eyes blinking at the three adults. His black hair was a mess and he’d managed to kick off his pants sometime during his nap.

“Hey, bud,” Inuyasha greeted the toddler with a grin, not even sparing the sperm donor another glance. “Remember me?” He wiggled his clawed fingers and raised his eyebrows.

Souji, sleepy mind still trying to register what he was seeing, blinked and settled his gaze on the older male. He sniffed a few times, tilted his head, and wrinkled his nose.

“Magic man,” he said and gave a toothy grin.

Inuyasha’s face softened. “That’s right,” he affirmed. “The magic man. You hungry? I got some tasty muffins and honeybuns that I’m sure you’d like.”

“He shouldn’t be,” Kagome opined, hobbling over to stand beside him and beckoning her son over with a smile and a wave. “He had two bowls of Cocoa Puffs before his nap.”

“Lucky,” Inuyasha commented with another grin. “My mom only lets me have one bowl.”

Kagome snorted a laugh and covered her mouth, but Souji was too busy staring at Kouga to react. His ears were pinned, his little face was scrunched up and Inuyasha couldn’t tell if it was because he was scared or agitated at his father’s unwanted presence.

Shit. Acting fast, and without thinking twice, Inuyasha crossed the distance between them and abruptly scooped the kid up into his arms. Surprisingly, and thankfully, Souji let the older half-demon carry him and fisted a tiny hand in his shirt as Inuyasha crossed back over to Kagome, who was smiling and had suspiciously bright eyes.

“Chock?” Souji asked and it took him a minute to figure out what he was requesting.

“I’m pretty sure I got chocolate muffin for you, champ,” he said and watched the kid’s face light up in delight. It was true; he did have a chocolate muffin that he’d gotten for himself, but he’d give it to Souji in a heartbeat if that’s what he wanted.

Tired of being ignored, Kouga growled and stalked forward again, refusing to let this mutt get the upper hand here. If anyone should leave, it should be the half-breed, dammit!

“Goddammit, I’m not done—”

“Hey Souji,” Inuyasha interrupted the wolf’s tirade loudly and big blue eyes stared up at him questioningly. “Wanna see a magic trick?”

The tot’s eyes widened and he nodded, remembering the magic he’d showed last night with the red light and his fingers. There was more?!

Wordlessly Inuyasha handed the kid over to his mother and at Kagome’s puzzled frown, he merely grinned and winked before spinning around to face the red-faced wolf-demon. Grabbing a pencil that he assumed Kagome used when making grocery lists, he promptly stabbed the pointed end into the counter with enough force to make it stand upright and he mentally apologized to Kagome for ruining the surface. Kouga paid it no mind and stormed forward, growling low while Inuyasha casually rounded the counter to meet him head on.

“I’m gonna make this pencil disappear,” he announced jovially just as Kouga reached him and with both Kagome and Souji’s wide-eyed gaze on him, Inuyasha promptly grabbed Kouga by the back of the head and slammed his face down hard onto the counter.

Kouga dropped to the floor with a groan as Inuyasha threw his hands up, gesturing to the counter now sans pencil.

“Ta da! It’s gone,” he announced and while Souji squealed in absolute delight and clapped his hands, Kagome gaped at him in disbelief. Where…where did—

Inuyasha reached into his pocket and procured the aforementioned pencil before carelessly tossing it onto the counter. Crossing his arms, he stared dispassionately at the writhing wolf-demon on the floor, clutching his nose with both hands and the scent of blood was prevalent as he groaned in pain.

“I won’t ask again,” Inuyasha growled, golden eyes hard and flashing with thinly veiled warning. “Now make like the fucking pencil and disappear before you really piss me off, wolfshit.”

Managing to heave himself to his feet, but still clutching his nose that hadn’t stopped bleeding, Kouga glared murderously at the half-breed mutt and then shifted his gaze to Kagome. He was expecting sympathy, maybe even a little anger on his behalf – the fucker broke his nose, dammit! – but instead what he got was complete and utter ignorance from his former flame. She dedicated her attention to the boy in her arms, setting him on the counter and reaching inside a paper bag to retrieve what looked like a chocolate muffin, not even sparing him a glance.

And just like that the fight left Kouga and he sighed, giving up. Fine, he could take a hint. He pinned the mutt with one last venomous glare before turning tail and finally leaving, closing the door behind him.

Inuyasha grunted. “Good riddance.”

“Rinse,” Souji repeated with a mouthful of chocolate muffin and Inuyasha turned around to face mother and son. The toddler had more muffin on him than in him and the older half-demon chuckled as he stopped forward to ruffle his hair.

“That’s right, runt,” he praised and then locked eyes with his mother, who stood a few feet away, arms crossed and staring at him with a raised eyebrow.

“Magic trick, hm?” Kagome drawled as he made his way over to her, trying to remain stern but unable to keep the smile off her face as Inuyasha snaked his arms around her waist and pulled her close.

He shrugged, unrepentant. “Souji liked it,” he defended and grinned down at her. “Hi.”

Kagome gave up and laughed, wrapping her own arms around his neck. “Good morn—”

His mouth cut off the rest of the greeting and Kagome melted against him, happily returning his kiss with a little hum of contentment.

“Sorry,” he rasped as he pulled back. “Couldn’t help myself.”

“Hmm,” Kagome murmured and pulled him back down for another one. Kagome felt his husky chuckle and smiled against his lips, tangling her hands in his hair and sighing in bliss as he nibbled the soft flesh of her bottom lip.

Several more kisses were exchanged, some sweet and slow, others deep and hot, until eventually Inuyasha figured it probably wasn’t he best idea to make out in front of her toddler son so he reluctantly pulled back with a sigh and contented himself by holding her in his arms. Kagome seemed perfectly happy to remain there as she watched her son sitting on the counter making a big mess with his muffin. He’d managed to get it on the floor too and she sighed. She wondered if she could persuade Inuyasha to clean it up while she gave the messy toddler a bath…

Her gaze suddenly landed on the pencil and she blinked.

“Hey,” she said and Inuyasha hummed in response. “How did you do that, by the way?”

“Do what?” He rose his eyebrows in question, but the corners of his lips twitched upward, belying his innocence.

She gave him a look and he smirked at her.

“A magician never reveals his secrets,” he rumbled and leaned forward to kiss the corner of her mouth.

“Oh, so you’re a magician now?” Kagome breathed, shuddering as he trailed kisses along her jaw.

“Obviously.” Inuyasha ran his hands up and down her sides, claws snagging the fabric of her thin t-shirt. “I mean I have magic fingers.”

He gave a suggestive waggle of his eyebrows as he said that Kagome couldn’t stop the snort-laugh from erupting from her throat even as a light blush stole across her cheeks.

“And speaking of,” he continued with a devilish glint in honey eyes. “Wanna see me do another magic trick?”

Kagome eyed him suspiciously. “Okay,” she agreed somewhat warily, curious despite herself.

“Alright,” Inuyasha said and nodded. “Now watch closely.”

Kagome blinked and stared at him. Inuyasha stared back and vaguely she was aware of his hand crawling up her back, the feeling of claws through her shirt sending shivers to crawl along the length of her spine.

“What am I supposed to be watching?” she whispered and Inuyasha merely grinned before leaning in to press a lingering kiss to her lips. She felt a slight pressure against her back, but paid it no mind, his kiss thoroughly distracting her.

Then he pulled away, released her from his arms, and that was when Kagome felt the tell-tale slackening of an unlatched bra and Kagome gasped as she immediately snapped up an arm to keep the garment in place.

The devil had just unhooked her bra! Through her shirt!

“Inuyasha,” Kagome squeaked, her face turning five shades of red as the wicked half-demon cackled and darted away, grabbing a happily squealing Souji and making his getaway.

“You—! How did you—?! Dammit, Inuyasha, get back here!”

With one arm pressed against her chest, Kagome took off after the pair of laughing half-demons, chasing them around her small apartment and it wasn’t long before she was laughing too.

“I told you!” Inuyasha shouted as he hopped the couch, grinning when Souji laughed in utter delight. “It’s magic!”

“Oh yeah, well watch as I magically shove my foot up your ass! Let’s see your magic solve that one, you mangy mutt!”

Inuyasha’s reply to that was to drop Souji safely onto the couch, catch his pursuer around the waist as she lunged at him, and then swoop her into a kiss and when Kagome wrapped her arms around his neck and immediately responded, it was warm, it was wonderful, it was…

Like magic.

[yourescared-howadorable]

Trust Me

Yandere!Alpha!BM x Beta!Reader

Warnings: emotional abuse, physical abuse, murder, rape (only mentions, I can not write the actual scene and will put warnings before), neglect, depression

This is also a looooong fic, sorry not sorry😅😅

Also, since I’m doing this on my phone. There’s no option to do the keep reading button so whenever I can get my hands on a laptop; I will fix that. But enjoy!

“So, when did this change for you (Y/N)?” The therapist looked at you, adorned in your in your short sleeve shirt. It was a warm day, sunlight coming through the blinds. Going to see the therapist is something your manager requires you to do at least once a month. Worse if you feel bad.

“Well...” Your fans swore up and down that you were going to be an omega, a few of your fans theorizing that you were going to be an alpha. Because of some moments you’ve had in music videos.

“When I presented.” You admitted softly. She jotted down notes as you were trapped in your own thoughts. You presented as a beta, a useless beta.

The world wanted nothing to do with you once they realized what you were. Your once happy days turned into dark storms, making you fall into places you didn’t know were possible.

There’s four alphas in your pack. Namjoon, Yoongi, Hoseok, and Jungkook. Jungkook being the youngest and newest alpha, really unable to control himself. Three omegas follow the alphas, getting spoiled and coddled. Seokjin, Taehyung, and Jimin.

Lastly, there’s you. The only beta. Before you had presented, the eight of you were close. Clinging onto each other like you couldn’t breath without another’s touch.

But now... You felt like you’re an outsider in the relationship, like you’re just some spectator watching the loving pack.

You remember how the alphas were ready for you to be an omega. They told you that they couldn’t wait to fuck you into the mattress with your first heat, couldn’t wait to see you carrying pups. The omegas had gushed to you about making nests with you, making plans.

But instead, you just disappointed them.

When you had presented, you cried for a week straight. You shut yourself out to cry in peace, scared to tell any of them how you felt. Your manager had to calm you down when he found having a panic attack in the hallway.

“(Y/n)!” Sejin dropped the box he was holding and crouched down in front of you. You were struggling to breath, your body shaking while tears streamed down your face. “(Y/n), calm down. You’re okay. I’m here.”

Sejin held your shoulders, grounding you. He was breathing steady, leading you into some breathing exercises till you calmed down. Once your breathing was back to normal, you broke down and explained why you were there in the first place.

He had tried to explain to you that being a beta wasn’t a bad thing, but you had only snapped at him in response. That was so out of character for you to do so, always been a soft character. So you were pressured with guilt, apologizing to him profusely the next day.

But he had understood your reasoning, almost making you cry. It had been the first time since you presented that someone understood you. But even as he tried to reassure you again, you knew that deep down they were all lies.

You couldn’t be apart of the pack, couldn’t help the omegas with their nests, can’t help with ruts or even take care of them. You’ve tried... You’ve tried so many times to repair the broken bond with them.

“Hey Taetae, want any help making your nest? I know your heat is coming up.” You offered, holding some of the comfiest clothing and blankets that you could find. Taehyung looked back, his heat causing the annoyance to bubble in his chest from the scent coming from you. He was annoyed that it wasn’t an alpha scent, his omega only wanting an alpha scent.

“You ruined the scent on them.” He said with his gruff voice, snatching them from your hands. His face cringed at the scent and you felt your heart starting to break at his harsh demeanor. “I- I’m so-“

“But, how could you know? Your sense of smell isn’t as strong as ours.” Taehyung cut you off, not looking at your face. He didn’t see the way your face fell or that your eyes started to get misty. “Go, I don’t want you to ruin my nest.”

Taehyung pushed you out of the room as he walked to the alphas, asking to scent the stuff that you had just brought in.

—

“Hey Yoongz,” You gently opened the door, holding a bowl of water and rags for them. To make sure they stayed clean with all the sweat and slick that covered their skin. Jimin was wrapped in his arms and Yoongi snarled, “Get out!”

You felt the hair on your arms stand up from the just how dangerous the growl sounded. Toward you. The bowl slipped from your hands at your shock, shattering on the ground and you quickly ran out.

Terrified.

“Come on; don’t be stupid (Y/n). You know how alphas get possessive over their omegas in heat.” Seokjin spoke behind you, his arms crossed. You just stared at the door, the realization slowly dawning on you. “Y- yeah... Forget about that... Stupid, right?”

If Seokjin has been paying attention. He would have noticed you wiping your eyes as you walked away, wrapping an arm around yourself to comfort yourself. He would have noticed that one they cherished was slipping from their grasp.

—

But you never gave up. Maybe it’s because you’re hopeless, maybe it’s because you’re stupid, or just that you’re too blindly in love with them.

You still can’t decide.

But you can’t deny the part of you. The part that you desperately try to hide. The part that hope, prayed, wish, that all of this would just pass over and all 8 of you will be close once again.

—

“Hey Hoseok, can I-“ You started to ask for permission to leave, to let them know that you were going to the studio. But Hoseok just cut you off, “Not now (Y/n), Seokjin’s about to have his first wave of heat. He’s top priority right now.”

Hoseok brushed past you as he nodded solemnly accepting his words. You spoke, hoping someone would listen to you, “I’ll just be at the studio... If you need me.”

Then you left, wishing someone would call you back. Just to say that needed you for something, anything.

“It’s pretty late for you to be here (Y/n).” You heard Sejin’s voice, making you jump from the chair. He chuckled at your reaction before getting serious. “All seriousness, why are you here (Y/n). You need rest.”

“Couldn’t sleep.” You shrugged him off, sitting down in the seat and playing with headphones. There was no way that you were really going to tell him why you were here. That Seokjin started heat and you didn’t want to feel the pain of hearing them make love, helping Seokjin with his heat.

Sejin sighed, noticing her closed off state. He was going to ask the boys about it, seeing if they would know what was going on with her. “Alright, but make sure that you go home early enough to get enough rest. Have a good night.”

“Night.” You mumbled after him, scooting up to the laptop to play around with some beats. Sadly, you didn’t leave that night. But you kept looking to the phone, some hopeful and naive part of you kept thinking they would call you back.

But no one called.

—

You woke up in the middle of the night, going to get something to drink. Namjoon was leaning against the counter, breathing heavy with sweat covering his skin. You recognized the signs.

His rut.

“Namjoon, I can help with-“ Namjoon shook his head, hoping that it was one of the omegas that came down. “Betas can’t take an alpha’s knot. Go wake up Seokjin or Jimin for me.”

He waved you off, panting and nostrils flaring. A sigh came from you, grabbing your water bottle and leaving to find Seokjin first, awake and trying to find Namjoon. He was already reacting to the scent of the alpha and you just mumbled, “He’s in the kitchen, waiting for you.”

Seokjin didn’t even say thank you as he brushed past you, making his way to the alpha in rut. You sighed, walking into the room with grabbing your silencing headphones. The bed comforter was soft as you plopped down, listening to loud music to help just ignore the world collapsing around you.

—

“Hey Jimin.” You opened the door, holding your phone in your hand. There was a new cover that you wanted to show Jimin, possible wanting to do. You, Jimin, and Hoseok used to do covers all the time. You were trying to reconnect with him, continuing trying to fix the bond.

“Did you bring the water?” Jimin turned toward you, sighing in annoyance when he only saw you holding your phone. He shook his head. “Why don’t you understand that omegas need to stay hydrated during their heats? I know you’re a beta, but have some more common sense.”

Jimin spoke harshly, causing you to slowly put your phone in your pocket. “Sorry... I was never told to bring you water.”

“Well you should stopped being useless and thought about it.” He stormed out of the room, leaving to get the water as you stared at him with a tear falling. Quickly, you rubbed your eye and sniffing.

Useless... Just a beta. It hurt more hearing them saying it instead of yourself, but you always knew you were.

—

Days turned to weeks. Weeks turned to months. Nothing but pure rejection. You were pushed to the side, but it goes worse as someone was about to go in heat or rut.

“Tell me how you and your group are doing.” The therapist asked, looking over her notebook to stare at you. You were sitting back in the seat with your hands tapping your knees. “They’re great, supporting me about being a beta.”

You lied through your teeth, putting up and reinforcing the mask. You were completely ignored, sometimes snapped at for the littlest of things.

All because you were a beta.

The ‘I love you’s, ‘you did such a good job’s, ‘good boy’s. All the torturing sounds they made while making love to each other, knowing that I wasn’t apart of it anymore.

Knowing that I was no longer in this relationship.

“Really?” She jotted down some of the notes, seeming surprised that you were being supported. She knew of cases where betas were kicked out of their pack because of their rank, because of the neglect.

But the a thought occurred to her. If you and your pack was fine, them supporting you for being a beta... Then why were you here?

“Are you sure everything’s fine (Y/n)?” The therapist asked, making you pause ever so slightly. You wondered if your mask wasn’t convincing enough, wondered where you went wrong.

“Of course! They’re making sure I’m fine with who I am.” You felt your stomach knot with the lies, feeling guilty of what you’re doing. “Alright... How about your diet?”

You’ve eaten less, slept even lesser. All you do now, when you’re not at practice or doing your idol life, is lay in your bed with your sound silencing headphones. They’ve come to work, even if the sounds haunt your mind. Taunting you about how you’re not with them, teasing you because you will never be there with them.

But there’s nothing you can do for that.

“I’m keeping it healthy. Got to keep up on my strength, three meals a deal with balanced plates.” The therapist nodded at hearing her words, looking down at her book. If she had stayed watching you, she would noticed how your hand touched your hungry stomach or how your eyes were dulled out.

“That’s all the time we have today. I’ll see you next month.”

—

You came back from the therapist, shutting the door behind you. As you did, you could heard Jimin calling out in pleasure for Jungkook’s knot.

An alpha’s knot... Something you’ve always wanted to take, one that was of your lovers. Of your alphas. Your pack.

You were still a virgin, had been waiting for them after you presented. But they didn’t want anything to do with you after you presented.

A sigh came from you as you walked to your room, laying down on the bed. Your hand put on the headphones on, as you crossed your arms over your chest, holding yourself.

There was an award ceremony coming up soon. You knew you would have to smile for the cameras and make yourself seem like you’re happier, happy and carefree like you were before.

You hoped you could pull it off.

Cameras were flashing, reporters asking questions. You were in a black dress, matching with the boys who were all together. Your fingers played with the dress, becoming uncomfortable as you watched how close they were being.

“That dress looks gorgeous (Y/n). Tell me, how does it feel to be the deadweight beta of the group?” A reporter asked you as the boys were in conversation. You couldn’t believe that they would ask a question like that. “I- I’m sorry?”

“As a beta, they’re known for being deadweight. Especially in the spotlight. It has always been proven that fans have left after you were presented. What are you thoughts on that?” They pointed the mic to you again, your eyes looked around for a way to escape.

“U- uh, looks like we’re heading in. I have to go.” You spoke quickly, seeing the boys walking off. It pained you as you could only repeat the reporter’s words in your head, catching up with the boys and walking behind them.

They never noticed that you were gone. They should have, but they were too busy checking on one another to even think about checking you. If they had, they would’ve saw how you were shaken up you were. That you were no longer there with them mentally.

“(Y/n)!” You finally came out of your thoughts at the sound of your name. Your head turned to look toward the voice, seeing Somin standing there.

You were in awe with the beautiful omega, owning her sparkling dress. She sat down next to you, giving you a smile. “How are you enjoying the ceremony?”

“It’s nice.” You responded back, complimenting her dress. She waved it off, saying that she liked yours better. As you guys were in a light conversation, you heard his familiar voice behind you, “We’ve seen Twitter little one.”

Matthew spoke, sitting next to you. You sighed in response. #(Y/n)LeaveBTS is trending all over Twitter, causing a long conversation with the therapist who’s suspecting you.

But you lied to her, saying that the members were comforting you about it and making sure you weren’t paying attention to them. When in reality, that’s all you did. You scrolled through trending, just to see if there were fans to defend you.

But you could never find any.

“How are you holding up little one?” Matthew asked, his hand touching your cheek. He enjoyed the feeling your soft skin, wanting nothing more than to keep you by his side.

But he smirked ever so slightly when he saw your head lean into the touch. He saw it as you craving for his attention, his touch.

When in reality, it was the attention in general. You were attention starved, craving to be held and loved.

You were hopeless.

“I’m holding.” You spoke quietly. Jiwoo gave you a hug of comfort, your hands hugging her back immediately. Sadly, you don’t remember when the last time you got a hug.

Tears pooled in your eyes at the though, but you forced yourself not to cry. You didn’t want to ruin Jiwoo’s beautiful dress with your useless tears. But when you let go of the hug, making sure none of the tears slipped, you missed the way Matthew’s demeanor changed.

His jaw ticked, blood boiling. He wanted to get rid of the ones make you cry. He would- no, wanted to spill blood; just see you smile again.

“BTS!” The host announced the winner. The boys got up with smile on their faces and you stood up, making your way after them. When you saw cameras, you put your happy mask and stood on the stage.

You acted like being alone didn’t bother you, that you didn’t care that you weren’t apart of the celebratory hugs.

Matthew’s eyes narrowed as he watched your arms wrap around yourself, eyes looking toward the seven guys. His eyes turned to the boys, his fist tightening.

They’re tainting my angel’s beauty... I’ll make them pay. Matthew smirked at the thought of seeing them suffer for what they’ve done to you.

Taehyung started breathing a bit heavier and Namjoon’s nose flared in response at the sweet scent. A response that you’ve learned to realize that’s a sign of the alphas recognizing that one of the omegas are going into heat.

Immediately the boys were speed walking off of stage, thanking ARMY and trying to get out of the place quickly as possible. You watched them leave, sighing quietly in knowing that they had forgetten to tell you that they were leaving; leaving you behind once again.

KARD was waiting for you by the exit of the stage. J.Seph immediately giving me a hug, Matthew’s eyes narrowing at seeing another male giving you a hug. He had to hold himself back from ripping J.Seph away, reminding himself that it was his band mate. “Good job (Y/n).”

J.Seph congratulated, letting go of you. You smiled, Matthew taking you in his arms. He enjoyed how your body felt so perfect against his. You’re his and only his.

“Thanks guys.” You spoke, feeling your chest lightening slightly at seeing just a few people caring. Somin patted your shoulder as you were released from Matthew’s arms. “You deserve it (Y/n). We’re going to perform next. You’re going to cheer us on, right?”

“Of co-“ You started to say with nodding your head when you heard Jungkook growl in annoyance, “Come on already (Y/n). Taehyung’s already starting his heat and he’s not going to be in pain because of you.”

Matthew lowly growled at Jungkook’s words, glaring at the younger alpha. Somin looked at Matthew and whispered, “Don’t you dare.”

You looked between Matthew and Somin longingly, a pang of pain hurting my chest. You wished had something like that. You wanted a protective alpha, but you were stuck with neglecting alphas.

If you had just one protective alpha, you would be happy.

Quickly, you walked to the boys that were glaring at you; annoyed that you were lolly gagging around while Taehyung was starting to feel the pain of the heat. They didn’t like how selfish you were acting like.

It’s gonna be a long week. You thought with a soft sigh and making your way to them. Hoseok was whispering words in Taehyung’s ear, making the omega whine and whimper; the alphas responding to his sounds.

—

You thought it was the best option to just stay in the kitchen, working on lyrics, while the alphas were helping Taehyung. Namjoon and Hoseok were currently out, leaving Yoongi and Jungkook to take care of Taehyung at the moment being.

Your pen tapped against the page as you leaned your chin on your hand, not finding motivation to write. Currently, you and your band were on a small break.

Sejin thought he was helping by making them go break, thinking that the boys would get close with you again. But he was wrong. They were getting closer to each other and ignoring you.

Pain struck your head as you let your head hit the counter harshly, a pained whine slipping from your lips.

Your stomach started to rumble, making you realize that you hadn’t eaten all day. One of your hands held your stomach, sighing. Plastic bags were set on the counter and you looked up to see the two previously missing alphas.

You took off your headphones, looking at Namjoon. As you looked in the bags, you noticed that there was only foods that Jimin liked along with heavy bottles of water.

“No ramen?” You asked quietly, catching the alpha’s attention. Your eyes flicked up to look at them through your lashes. What they once thought were a look of innocence, the look they adored. They seemed to hate it now. “(Y/n), we’ve been over this a thousand times.”

Namjoon spoke a little sternly as Hoseok huffed, rolling his eyes. “Whenever an omega is in heat or an alpha is in rut; they need a lot of food to keep their stamina up.”

“Stupid beta.” Hoseok mumbled, you barely catching the harsh words. He left with carrying some of the bags as your chest started to hurt. Namjoon grabbed the bags and said, “Right now, Taehyung’s more important than you.”

Ouch... Was that really necessary? All because I asked for some ramen? Or is it because I’m a beta?

“Here.” Namjoon shoved you some money, waving you off with an uninterested look. “Go buy your food yourselves.”

He left, not sparing you a second glance. You watched your alpha leave, fighting back the tears. What more did you except from them? Not when you’re just... Just a stupid beta.

You found your black hair, putting on a large hoodie with your face mask. The nearest convenience store was a long bit away, but it felt nice to you just walk in the night time.

To let the night air hit you, it was calming and the most peace you’ve had. Especially with the beauty of the stars above.

But this night... You should have never left the dorms. You should have never left the kitchen. Because this night... This was the true hell that started.

(This is the scene that might be really triggering for people. Please, skip to the next time you see the picture if you don’t wish to read it)

You woke up to the sunlight hitting your eyelids. Your body was sore, nothing like you ever felt before. One of your hands rose, holding above your squinting eyes as you sat up; wincing at the stiff feeling.

You were in an alleyway, the concrete had been digging into your skin and there were some left over marks. You looked around, trying to remember what happened.

Your face mask was on the ground, your hat looks like it was thrown off. As you reached over to grab your hat, you cried out at the pain you felt spiking up.

You looked down, your breath catching in your throat. Dried blood covered your skin and stained your ripped pants. Your hands covered your mouth, feeling tears streaming down your face.

You felt sick.

Ding.

You felt around for your phone, hearing it close by. It was by where your head had been. But you looked at the screen confused as you saw that it was from an unknown number.

[I’m hoping you’re awake now beta. It’s been hours now, almost afternoon. You passed out on me.]

You caught sight of the dried blood again, feeling sick. The phone fell to your stomach as you leaned over, dry heaving. There was nothing in your stomach to get of. Sweat covered your skin as your body violently shook, leaning your body back against a wall so you would have some support.

[Who are you?]

You texted the number. Usually, you were a fast tester. But with your body shaking, you couldn’t type out words properly and had to backspace so many errors.

[You don’t remember me? A shame... We had such fun last night. Well... I did at least.]

Then a picture sent shortly afterwards. Your eyes widened, tears pooling in your eyes and steaming down your cheeks.

The picture was you, but you laid out on the ground. Your pants were ripped open, blood coming from between your legs as tears were streaming down your face. Your hair was messed up, looks like it had been pulled.

[I’ve never taken a virgin beta before... Ir was exhilarating. So, here’s what’s going to happen. You are going to do exactly what I tell you from now on, you are to call me sir, and you are to tell no one about this. If you don’t... Then the internet will see how slutty the beta of BTS is. Because trust me, I’ll make sure this looks like you begged for it. It’ll destroy your band’s reputation.]

Your eyes widening, feeling like bile was coming up your throat. Your body leaned over, dry heaving and sobbing. This man... He took advantage of me, now he’s threatening to destroy not only you... But the guys...

[So, do you understand (Y/n)? I can see you’re reading all these texts.]

The guys, the guys who ignore you and neglect you. You can’t help it... Your heart still aches for them, still you want to protect them. So... You knew what you had to do. Even if you’re terrified, you don’t have a choice.

[Yes.]

[Yes what?]

[Yes sir.]

(The scene of its over. There will be mentions of it. But nothing like that anymore. Sorry if I triggered anyone, please don’t get mad at me)

It had been uncomfortable to walk home, but it’s not like you had any other choice. There was no one who would just pick you up, especially not with questions they would ask you about why you were there in the first place.

You can’t tell anyone about this or the man will ruin the others careers. How the boys would blame you for destroying their dream, for destroying everything they had built. You couldn’t allow that.

The hoodie that you were wearing was big enough that it fell to your knees, hiding what happened to you. Which made walking in public more easier. You kept your hood pulled dow to hide your face, your hat aiding with your mask.

You were ashamed of yourself, disgusted.

But as you got back to the dorms, it wasn’t any better. It made everything worse.

“I asked Sejin-nim about us having some pups. He said that we can have a discussion today about it after practice!” Taehyung spoke cheerfully as you stopped by the open door; staring at the seven men with wide eyes.

Pups... They wanted to start a family without you.

You noticed Taehyung was scenting the boys, something that’s done so much that you should be used to it. But it still breaks your heart.

They tell you that it won’t matter if you scent them or get scented by them because your scent. They say your scent is weaker compared to them, but it was really because your scent was appeasing to them. So you were stuck ruining the scent of things while the others moaned about how good each scent was.

“That’s excellent Tae. I heard from Jackson that their manager let them a few months ago.” Namjoon spoke, making the others looking at him surprise.

You gulped silently, shutting the door behind you and making your presence known. As you made your way to the bathroom, not wanting to deal with them. You knew they didn’t ca- “Where have you’ve been?”

You knew that wasn’t a good voice. You knew it. But at this point, you didn’t care. Attention was attention. You were about to explain everything that happened. All until you heard Seokjin ask, “You weren’t out partying or causing us a bad rep, were you?”

You stopped, staring at the oldest in hurt. A part of you wondered if they would really think that you’d do that. So with pain in your eyes and your voice wavering slightly, you asked, “Do you really think I’m like that?”

“Well, betas do get more lazy and are known for being in drugs.” Probably because of how their pack abandons them when they’re presented you. “Are you on drugs?”

“Of course not!” You exclaimed, a harshness underlying your voice. Namjoon straightened up, standing up sharply from the table. He snarled, “Don’t raise your voice at us. We’ve done nothing to you!”

A petty laugh fell from your lips as you shook your head, feeling the little flame of hope you had been protecting in your chest just go out.

“It’s time for practice.” Jungkook spoke, everyone starting to get up. You just moved out of the way from the door, feeling a little bit of blood starting to down your legs.

Hoseok looked at you as you were just standing there. He sighed in annoyance and said, “Let’s go (Y/n).”

“Not feeling good, I’ll stay home today.” You spoke quietly, hiding your tear filled eyes. Seokjin shrugged and spoke, “Told you that betas get lazy.”

The rest agreed with him, leaving while you continued to blankly staring at the floor. Slowly, you made your way to the bathroom and shut the door behind you.

When you heard the click of the door, you broke down. Your knees gave out from under you as you sobbed, loud as you want because no one was here anymore.

You cried till you had no more tears, sobbed until your throat was raw. Slowly, you made your way to the shower and turned to the water.

Painfully, you stripped of your clothing and stepped into the shower. The shower was hot against your skin and you didn’t feel like changing it, your eyes blankly watching the blood going down the drain.

The music was playing through the practice room, small bass pounding the mirror at different points of the song.

Sejin crosses his arms, noticing the absence of the beta. His eyes watching the boys move smoothly between each other.

He’s been worrying about the beta ever since he caught you breaking down after you were presented. It’s been over a year and he knows you haven’t gotten any better, even when you say you’re okay, thinking that it would have been best for the band to take a break together.

But now... He thinks that was a bad idea.

“Practice’s over.” He announced, looking over at the dance coach who nodded. The boys waved their goodbyes and the coach left. “Let’s talk about pups!”

Taehyung excitedly spoke and Sejin sighed, his fingers tapping on his arms. He looked between the members and asked, “Where’s (Y/n)?”

He wanted you to be apart of this decision, that you were just as important than the others. You were apart of this pack. “She didn’t want to come to practice.”

Taehyung spoke with shrugging his shoulders. He didn’t want to talk about the beta, he wanted to talk about what was actually important. “What does that mean?”

Sejin asked, worrying for you. Seokjin spoke as if he was telling gossiping, “Honestly, I think she was out partying last night.”

Sejin’s eyes widened in response. Jimin nodded and said, “I know, it’s shocking to all of us. We don’t know why she would want to bring us down like this.”

“You promised to talk about having pups!” Taehyung whined, stomping his foot as he was having a small temper tantrum. Hoseok wrapped an arm around his waist, nipping at his ear to make him down. Namjoon’s alpha side kicked in to take care of his omega, “With all respect, Taehyung is right. We need to focus on what we’re here for. (Y/n) is home, she said that she was tired. End of story.”

Sejin sighed, rubbing his face and deciding to let it go for now. “Alright. Alright. Let’s talk.”

—

“I’m going to kill them.” Matthew growled lowly under his breath. Somin watched him pace, his body shaking in anger. “Matthew, I know you’re worried about her-“

“Do you realize how fragile she was at the award ceremony?” Matthew snarled, his eyes darkening with the murderous thoughts plotting his head. “She’s attention starved!”

Matthew wanted nothing more than to take you away from the world, but you wouldn’t fight against him. He would give you all the attention you craved for.

“They’re ruining my precious flower.” Matthew growled lowly, his fist tightening. Then he smirked when he thought of an idea, a wonderful idea. “I’ll make them pay.”

“How have you’ve been lately (Y/n)?”

Drowning.

You looked up at the therapist. Your body was adorned in a hoodie, hiding your bruises from the world.

Weeks have past, your manager allowing them to have pups. That’s all you’ve heard them talking about. They’ve gotten their fantasy, while you’ve gotten worse and worse; just becoming a hollow shell.

“Well (Y/n)?” Your eyes blinked, your focus being put back on her. “You okay? You look a little out of it.”

“Yeah... Just tired.” The therapist looked at you closely, taking down notes of your appearance, how you acted. She peeked at her notes from earlier sessions, noticing something. “Are you’re just tired?”

(So... This is the first time this has happened to me. I’ve written this so long so there’s going be a part 2!)

[tare-chan]

Frozen 2 Junior Novelization

Finally got a copy of this book. And after reading the book, I found several interesting insight:

The Northuldrans already lives in the vast area of the fjord, before the Arendellians came, and started a modern living. This, IMO, strengthen the theory stated that the Northuldran forest and Arendellian soil were still one kingdom. They're not a sepparate kingdom. Meaning, the sisters will always rules together. No separation and whatsoever :)

Elsa's role more like minister of nature, and travels a lot through the vast area of "untouched" forests, but still report to the Queen in charge, that is Anna. The people connected by love, and the sisters continue to be the bridge. The Northuldran suports the natural resources, the Arendellian suports the technologies. At the end, the kingdom will prospers more :)

It was never been implied that Elsa was uncomfortable with her role as sovereign. She was sometimes too hard on herself, yes, but she's actually at peace with the role of the Queen. It's just that, in the past few days/weeks, when she started to hear the call, she felt the sudden boost in her power, so that she need extra concentration to control it. Plus, the very same haunting voice has bothering her sleep for days. Sleep deprived while the same time need more effort to control her power, and still need to do her daily routine..... that sure was exhausting. So that she need more time to 'rest' between her meeting: such as take a breath at the balcony (and lovingly viewing the village/fjord), throwing a big pile of snow to splash at the water and gigling when the water splashed back at her (while no one spectate of course).

In the book, it is shown that Anna help her by mingling with the citizen, and choosing the best pumpkin for the later event, even Kristoff help her, by meeting dignitaries, and shared his knowledge regarding reindeer. When Elsa mingling later that day (like shown in the Something never change sequence), the citizen cheered for their Queen. These really shown that everything was going just fine, and everyone was at their comfort zone. But greater things called to them, and they need the change for greater good (and for us to have the story of the sequel of course ;P)

There are also several scenes that I hope was animated in the movie, like:

Apparently it was Elsa who asked Grand Pabbie to look after the citizen of Arendelle while the royals went to their adventure. And Anna add to the ask, so the people remain camping at the higher ground.

During their travels, before they went to sleep at the sled, Elsa made Olaf a snow blanket... awww.... And after that Anna made the effort to jump to the front of the sled, to sit by Kristoff.

While fighting Gale, Elsa have the idea of pushing snow flurries to weigh down the wind. At the same time, it gave Gale idea to extract memories from water, and shown them to Elsa.

The hate and like relationship between the Northuldran leader, Yelena, and the Arendellian soldier leader, Mattias. They respect each other, sometimes help each other, while at the same time always be cautious at each other.

The ice statues in the ship wreck were shown more. Especially one where Iduna was sitting and deciphering the old runes, and Ahtohallan where Iduna was shown to be accepted at an orphanage after the forest was blocked by the mist.

At Ahtohallan, it was also shown that Elsa could choose a moment of memories like rewinding or fast forwarding videos.

The effect of Elsa being frozen solid, shown to everyone: Kristoff watching the snow statues flurries away, the crumbling of the ice castle, Grand Pabbie watch the snow decoration of the castle flurries away, and relies the bad news to the citizen. It imply that these people knew that they lost their Queen. Later, when Anna tried to rely the news to Kristoff, he cut her, implying that he also knew, and thus tried extra hard to keep the 'last' royal family safe while finishing what need to be done. And this scene could justify more the relief and cheering of the citizen, and the hug from Kristoff, when they saw Elsa was okay.

The moment Elsa said, "The spirits are agree, Arendelle should stand with you", Anna already understand that she will continue to rule as the Queen. And when Elsa said that they will continue to do things together, Anna immediately agree to her sister humble ask. (At the same time demolishing all of her insecurities deep down her heart, I pressume).

All in all, this book is a good read, and together with the movie, make a more complete beautiful story :)

[pierrelucdisaster]

Hello! Hope you're doing well! How was that dive into Panthers' marketing?

Hi, friend. I am doing alright. Hope you are well!

So, I had fun exploring the Panthers and their marketing but midway through I decided to change up my focus. I’ll write all about it under the cut bc I know I am going to go off!

ok first thing is first. I looked around their NHL site, Instagram, and twitter. I know they have a lot of accounts on various social media sites but I was just focused on what I use often. While just looking around I realized that I think it’s better to focus on the whole team as a “brand.” By this I mean, each team is their own entity and they control what they post and what they show, and how they come off to their fans and spectators. Now, I’m no marketing major or public relations major, or communications major. I am just a person with their journalism degree wanting to work in marketing/communications/social media etc. (But I still think it’s important to show what I expect from teams and what I hope they bring to their “brand”) From the various networking events I have been to hosted by the Kings I have learned one really important thing, teams like to hire people who are not big hockey fans, people who are at most casual fans so that they can help curate what non-fans want to see to make them fans. Personally, I think that’s kind of dumb bc you should be able to cater to both. But that’s beside the point, sorry. 

So, going off of that. The Panthers tend to have an approach to their socials for the most part that caters to their existing fans. As someone coming in knowing some players and knowing they’re a team, I don’t see them doing anything differently to bring in new fans. Especially in Florida where the easiest and most successful marketing trick to get new fans is to have food deals when you win a game, score a certain amount of goals, etc. My brother lives in Florida, he lives close to where the Orlando Solar Bears play, and they are my favorite ECHL team. He has no clue who is on the team or what the ECHL is but he became a fan of theirs bc they have a pizza deal each time they win and he wants cheap food bc he’s a young adult living on his own. All of a sudden, he’s downloading their schedule, checking their social media, and keeping tabs on them just for a pizza code. One of my best friends likes the Kings, she’s now just a causal fan but she had no clue about the AHL or the Ontario Reign. I dragged her to a game and she had fun, but she always came back with me bc the beer was so cheap and she liked to mix hockey and drinks, and at least I was there to look out for her. I know I got off course and that food deals won’t make a lifelong fan which is what teams want, but that’s a good place to start. 

Of course, I have yet to watch one of their games on their tv station. That’s a whole different thing to approach. I love tv broadcasts, I love the Kings broadcasters, the pregame show, the post-game show. I know the ins and outs of how it all works bc I work in something similar, I am a huge production nerd. I know how the Fox Sports broadcasts go regardless of region. So, I know what I am going to be looking for tomorrow when I watch them play Nashville and tv broadcasts I feel are the best marketing tool bc that’s the first introduction to the team besides social media. You give the viewers a foundation, get them interested, and find a way to make them stick around after the game. One of my favorite thing anyone has ever done is the viewer or fan tweets/feedback etc. EVERYONE does that, it’s a quick and easy way to get fans engaged and I am hoping they do that. Another thing I like are little feature stories, exploring a players history or a milestone in a quick little video either for the broadcast or online on socials but maybe that’s just a thing I am into bc it’s one of my favorite things to watch and work on but again, that’s beside the point. 

Let me work back to the social media posts thing from earlier. I feel like their approach is to show you players as if you’re well established, but I am all for making a connection with the audience. I think some teams do a really good job of that with fun segments with players, and behind-the-scenes footage of players warming up or skating at practice. I think fan engagement is the biggest and most important aspect of a team's brand. I know a lot of teams do that and some do it really well. The Sabres, for example, sometimes have a thing where they ask who people want videos of during practice and people will send in names and they post videos of said players. They’ve done it twice this season and I’ve always had fun. I think if anything, the bubble last summer should’ve shown these teams how essential social media platforms are for fans and just bc a huge portion of the league is allowing fans in to watch games doesn’t mean they shouldn’t keep engaging with them online. 

I think I have to keep watch over the Panthers for like a week or so to gather more information bc this is all based off of two days of checking out their socials and that doesn’t give me the best sampling of their work. I also am in no way bashing anyone who works for them bc I can imagine that things are not easy and they’ve probably had to make cuts and I am fearful that one person is doing the job of many right now and I know that’s a thing with a lot of teams and leagues right now. And again, I am not a marketing person and I am not a communications person and I could be completely wrong in what I think people want and what teams think people want and I am just clueless and will never be hired by a team ever. lol I will say I do like what they posts on Instagram, a lot of what I wrote on here was based on their Instagram stories but I do like their posts, and photos and especially their graphics. I think they’re made so well. So there is a bright side to all of this.

Alright, that’s it. Sorry this got incredibly long, I did not map this out and instead started free writing and this is where I ended up and I guess I’ll have another update in a week or so once I’ve watched over the Panthers a bit more. Anyways, thanks for reading!!!

[rndyounghowze]

Kristina Wong Has Our Vote

A remarkable show that was both touching and innovative #vote

By Ricky and Dana Young-Howze

San Diego, California

Review 122

We’ve been watching this whole digital theater thing for a while now (something to the tune of 70+ shows since March. What we love about it is that it is such a new platform we still have time for people to “surprise’ us. The genre doesn’t really have too many conventions and rules yet so this is definitely the time for the innovators to come out and play. Seeing Kristina Wong’s wonderful show, Kristina Wong for Public Office, last night did something different. It not only surprised us, it surprised the hell out of us. Despite our vast knowledge of digital theatre she still was able to change the game in a way that inspired us.

This is probably the first one person show that used their entire house during the course of the show. I swear that if the show went any longer we were going to get an up front and personal look at the grout on her bathroom tile. This is also the first full set we’ve seen. It gave us a sense of “realness” like this was a more three dimensional and tactile world for this play to happen in.

I was laughing from the very first line of the very first scene. I have a fondness for that kind of humor that is equal parts irreverent, self deprecating, and always deeply honest. I love someone with a razor sharp wit and brutal honesty. The one thing about a really sharp knife is that you don’t really know that you’ve been cut until you see blood. Sometimes you didn’t know that one of Wong’s biting comments cut you deep until you stopped laughing.

This is also one of the first shows that used audience voting and input in a real and meaningful way. From using people’s videos and giving them lines or giving them polls or menus to choose from we became an extra character. We aren’t spectators, we are part of the plot. This is a great innovation in the genre that turns this truly a social art form. I can’t wait to see how these innovations keep evolving as the years go by.

I haven’t seen a show in a while that took us on such a journey. I also haven’t had my heart broken this wide open in a long while. All this while running around her house with a camera on two totes and a rolling chair. Man I said it before and I’ll say it again: I fracking love digital theatre!

To see all the dates on this “tour” go here.

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[palamig]

hi! i'm reading furuba and there's something i don't quite understand so can i ask you a little question? so after tooru fell and ended up in the hospital why does everyone acting so rude and accusatory towards kyo? saying it's his fault, he need to apologize etc. i suppose they are doing this to help (?) but it feels so hurtful... and overall i can't help but feel so sad for kyo during the progression of the story, people treat him so poorly and i barely see anyone actually being kind to him :(

Hello anon!! Thank you for this question!! The hospital arc is really the toughest one on kyo :( but it’s also the same arc that finally gave him a reality check. Kyo’s biggest flaw has always been that he’s too (unintentionally) self-absorbed with his issues. His struggle to deal and cope with his trauma has had a disastrous effect on his relationship with the people he interacts with like kyoko, kazuma (for that period in time he refused to let himself call kazuma as his dad), and to a really great extent yuki. It reached its peak at the hospital arc, when instead of accepting tohru’s feelings for him, kyo, blinded by a really awful mixture of guilt over kyoko’s death, his self loathing, and the sincere expectation that there was no other future for him except for being imprisoned for eternity, said some really terrible stuff to her

No one is truly, sincerely blaming kyo though. Cat boy really had too much stuff going in his head. The problem was, not only did kyo really really hurt tohru, because of his brooding, he ended up never going to the hospital to visit her at all. Whether or not for understandable reasons, it certainly pissed off a bunch of people. Yuki was the first one to confront him because at this point, he’s just fed up with kyo’s infinite problems.  Tohru fell from a cliff, sustained serious injuries, and is literally confined in a hospital!!!! Meanwhile kyo, the closest person to tohru, the person tohru’s so clearly in love with and vice versa “that it’s obvious even to a middle schooler”, is sulking around on the balcony like he was in some linkin park music video or something. Like what the fuck man!!!! What the fuk!

That’s how we got the oscar award winning Shut The Fuck Up scene on the balcony. Yuki got even more pissed when he found out that the reason why kyo didn’t go was because kyo blamed himself for tohru’s accident and he thought she’d be better off if he never came because all he ever did was hurt her. And honestly, if you’ve been watching your two housemates flirting and being gross like it’s no ones business for almost 2 years now, and you hear this kind of shit from one of them “im like..only hurting her dude…” you’d be super pissed too like im sorry kyo but its true

For the most part of the manga yuki’s been an unwilling spectator to most kyoru scenes, and a lot of people attribute this to him trying to understand the nature of his feelings for tohru—which is true! But when we finally get to the hospital scene, we also see that maybe a small part of that is also yuki’s slight frustration that he can’t make tohru happy the way kyo does. The Shut The Fuck Up Scene takes their mutual jealousy into its final form: because now it involves tohru.

At this point “jealous” isn’t the right term. More of, both of them sincerely believed that the other can treat tohru much better. But we see that this is an issue that affects yuki—their unwilling spectator—so much more, not only because of the way kyo hurt tohru, literally one of the most precious people to yuki, but also because of yuki’s awful history with kyo. A lot of people have already talked about this scene from the yuki and kyo perspective, so i’ll limit my discussion to what i believe is the kyoru aspect.

When Yuki kicks the wall and starts crying when he tells kyo “do you really think it would be the same if I were beside her?” — you know from the many panels we’ve seen of yuki watching kyoru flirting from afar or kyo noticing stuff about tohru yuki never noticed, he’d been thinking about this a lot. So kyo telling yuki that tohru would be much better off with him is, to yuki, a load of bull! fuckin! shit!. But poor cat baby is way too oblivious to notice just who exactly he was to tohru. To ignore tohru’s own feelings. How tohru sees him, and only him. There were some things only kyo can do. And the most effective way (possibly even the only way) to get stubborn kyo to finally understand it is thru some screaming and a nicely aimed punch on the face. Because this is no longer about kyo’s issues, this is also about tohru, her feelings, her loneliness,  her quiet struggle to fight for her favorite person and to save from his destiny as the cat. This scene was beautiful because yuki finally explodes, both for his own sake and for tohru’s.

And then there’s saki and arisa. I think saki and arisa were also rightfully pissed. Like, more than “rejecting” the girl u’ve been shamelessly flirting with for the last gazillion years, u just called tohru, the nicest purest kindest girl in the world “delusional” like boi???!? Let’s just say if kyo was just some other random guy he wouldn’t have come out of that confrontation at school alive. But because saki and arisa genuinely love kyo, they cut him some slack. While neither saki nor arisa knew about the curse and the imprisonment, both of them, especially saki (who has been reading kyo’s ~feelings~ since the first time they met) know that despite this one instance of him seriously hurting her feelings, kyo is a positive influence on tohru. There was really no other person for tohru than kyo. They wanted him to stop moping around and blaming himself. 

Saki told kyo that tohru wasn’t looking for an apology. What tohru really wanted was for him to return her feelings. Everyone and their mothers knows that kyoru is written in the stars; but kyo, way too absorbed with his issues, actively pushed her away, when he could have let her in. They wanted him to realize this for himself before they could let him see tohru again. And kyo knows deeply within himself that he needs to get his shit together. He didn’t need other people to figure that out for him, but what he does need is other people to drag his ass to finally get it done.

These three showed kyo some tough love during the hospital arc and i can understand why people might think kyo is getting too much bad treatment, especially in this arc. But personally i think these three did the right thing. Kyo needed to take a step back from the chaos in his mind and see the big picture; to see what he’s been desperately trying to avoid. Tohru’s out there ready to love him, and all he needed to do was to let her in. But cat boy is furiously stubborn there was really no other way to make him realize that than to be harsh on him

The hospital arc is one of my favorites because from there we see how kyo finds the courage to face the one person who was the root of all of his trauma—his biological dad—and come into terms with all of his complicated issues, even (and i really want to emphasize this) before akito told him that the cat room has been destroyed. He was willing to let go of his shackles to be with her, despite a future of being caged forever. All of it for tohru. So that when he finally saw her again, he’d be a man free from all the shit that had truly been imprisoning him all his life. So he could be with tohru, and she could be with him, with nothing holding them back.

Ahh there are so many more beautiful things about this arc but i hope this is a sufficient answer to your query!!

[ohblackdiamond]

careening (bruce/paul, pg-13)

"There’s no—casting couch for a bunch of has-beens. No magic bullet. You can push and promote however you wanna, but if they don’t play it, it doesn’t fucking matter.” Struggling with Gene's indifference towards the band, Paul takes Bruce out to dinner after a recording session.

Notes: For @lillianastras who I believe requested Bruce/Paul a long, long time ago. My only wish is that it was cuter.

“careening”

by Ruriruri

we measure our gains out in luck and coincidence lanterns to turn back the night and put our defeats down to chance or experience and try once again for the light –al stewart, “a man for all seasons”

“What do you mean, you’re not coming?”

Bruce looked at Eric, who shook his head dully, but didn’t say a word. As soon as Paul’s back was turned, he ran his finger in front of his neck. Bruce nodded.

“We can’t just cancel for today. We paid for the studio space already. We—I don’t fucking care, Gene. I don’t. No. You’re not—you’re not listening to me.” An exhale. Paul had the phone cord wrapped around his fist, was pacing back and forth. “The hell does that matter? You still think you’re gonna be some big star?”

Bruce had thought things were improving between them. That long break after the last tour should’ve done them some good. He’d mentioned it to Eric a few months back, after a shoot. Eric, weirdly cynical, had just shrugged.

“Gene wants to get a finger in a bunch of pies at once.” He’d looked off somewhere, past Bruce and past the room itself, not really wistful, and not really condemning, and took a swig of water. “Paul doesn’t like taking chances. Which is kinda funny, I mean, music’s such a… such a big risk in the first place. But I guess it’s the only chance he ever took.”

“What about you?” Bruce had asked, and Eric had laughed, a little.

“Well, my chance didn’t get me there half as fast, but maybe I’m better off for it.” He’d paused, pulling something out of his hair. A rhinestone that must’ve fallen off his outfit during the photoshoot earlier. He squinted at it, then he flicked it to the floor. “I don’t want anything bigger than I have. The fame bit, the glamor bit… it’s crap, Bruce, you know it, I know it—but they—they don’t know it. And they’re not gonna ever figure it out.”

It was a hell of a thing to say while drinking a bottle of Evian. It was also a hell of thing to tell a guy who’d known both of them, in the periphery, before KISS was even a band. But Bruce knew Eric was sincere. He couldn’t help himself. That it-factor, star power, whatever, that could spin pretense into reality for two hours at a time—it wasn’t in Eric any more than it was in Bruce. And that was fine, that was fine, except that it meant they never had any leverage. It forced them both into hours spent sitting through Paul and Gene’s arguments, paid to spectate, paid to shut up and do their jobs. Like right now. Paul was in particularly bitter form this afternoon, Queens accent getting stronger with every sentence. Bruce could picture Gene on the other line, unemotional at first, all-business, gradually devolving into defensive protests as Paul kept on.

“Oh, don’t start. Don’t start. I don’t wanna hear it. Personal? No, it’s not personal, it’s just my fucking livelihood and our fucking band—why the hell would I be upset? Yeah. Yeah, why the hell not. You didn’t even write the shit you mailed in—” and Paul cut himself off. Bruce could feel his gaze on him. It made him stop—despite Eric shaking his head earlier, he’d been trying to leave the room.

Something in Paul’s gaze seemed like it faltered. Maybe some residual piece of shame. He took the phone from his ear, cupping the receiver in his palm.

“I’m almost done, Bruce. Don’t leave yet.” And then, quieter still, without raising the receiver to listen in again, he hung up. Not with the slam Bruce had heard at least five times just during their time in this studio. Just set it down almost timidly, as if it were a piece of crystal instead of plastic. As if he were giving up. It was another few tense seconds before he spoke again. “Three-fourths of the band, that’s seventy-five percent. That’s still a passing grade, right?”

Eric nodded. Bruce repeated the gesture, added a quick “yeah” that didn’t seem to bolster Paul any. Paul still managed a faint twitch of a smile.

“C’mon.”

--

It wasn’t much of a recording session. Paul messed around on the guitar a bit, going back and forth on some lyrics. Eric was too enthusiastic on the drum fills, trying to make up for the tension in the studio, still heavy as L.A. smog in the air. It seemed like it just pissed off Paul further, but for once, he kept all snippy comments to himself.

Bruce just played when he was told, the chords as easy and rote as folding clothes. He knew Paul was looking for that sound—that one melody to bring it all back. That confidence behind a sure-fire hit. Bruce didn’t know what that feeling was like, but it must have been something else, or Paul wouldn’t still be chasing it ten years later. Gold record sales and MTV video rotations didn’t matter like Billboard bullets. Proof of success wasn’t in the tape deck—just in sold-out stadiums and constant radio play.

And Bruce couldn’t kid himself, really. There was no way this album would even get a top-40 single, no matter the press or the songs or the guitar work. No amount of effort could court a burnt-out audience. The old KISS Army had long since devolved into a bunch of twenty-somethings more interested in the stock market than heavy metal. Gene understood that. Paul didn’t.

Paul cut the session about half an hour short. Eric ducked out quickly, just a fluffy mess of curls rushing out the door, and after awhile, Bruce found himself nearly alone in the studio, with just Paul standing there, watching him pack up his guitar. Bruce raised his head, expecting a goodbye and getting a question, sudden and a little edgy, instead.

“How long’ve you been in KISS now?”

He didn’t have to think about it.

“Three years.”

“Three years? Three years and I haven’t ever taken you out to dinner. Jesus. Well. We’ll fix that.” Paul got up, putting his own guitar, one of them, back in its case. “I haven’t had a bite all day. What do you like, Bruce?”

“I’m not picky.”

“Then I’ll be picky. There’s a sushi place a couple miles from here. I’ll drive us over.”

And that was it. Ten minutes later, he was in the passenger’s seat of Paul’s car. Paul fidgeted, stuck in a CD (“the damn things skip as bad as a record, I should’ve got the tape player”). For all his interview claims of not listening to other bands, Bruce knew better. He had Slippery When Wet in there, was tapping his fingers against the wheel to the beat. Always on the lookout for a hook to riff off of, or a turn of phrase to peel away. Something dirty and distinctive. Emulating the other bands wasn’t getting them any airplay, but God, were they all trying.

“They say Mick Jagger’s putting out another solo album this year.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Paul nodded, turning up the volume. He was always doing that. When Bruce had first joined KISS, Gene had pulled him to the side one day, told him, quietly, that Paul needed to stand or sit beside him during interviews and T.V. appearances. Bruce had thought that was the oddest bit of micromanaging he’d ever heard of, telling him where to stand, or where not to stand. It had taken him awhile—probably half that tour—to really figure out why. Paul’s hearing wasn’t great, and it made his nerves worse. Particularly when there was more than one interviewer, more than one voice he had to focus on. He depended on Gene’s oddly gentle conspiracy, Gene’s automatic willingness to stand next to him and repeat any question for him, to even get out there, as if Bruce or Eric couldn’t have done the same.

“If it does well enough, he might cut out.” Paul said it almost like a dare. Still on about Jagger. Bruce raised his head.

“Of the Stones? I don’t think he would.”

“No, out of the Commodores. Of course the Stones.”

Bruce flinched slightly. He felt Paul’s glance on him, brief and almost softer, heard him clear his throat.

“Sorry. You don’t think he’d leave? Why not?”

“Because he can’t. There’s the money, but… he couldn’t cut out of being one of the Stones, not even if he wanted to.”

“You’re real naïve, Bruce. It’s cute.” Paul skipped the next song on the CD, then, once he’d surveyed the deck, he pushed another button. The CD swapped out with a humming sound, and after a second, Bob Seger came rasping through the speakers. Paul went silent then, except for that slight rap of his fingers against the steering wheel.

Bruce didn’t push for more conversation. Something mild about the weather, maybe, but that was about it. Paul was an oddly adept driver; Bruce had known that beforehand, but being in the car with him cemented it. He threaded through the traffic as adroitly as the cabbie he hadn’t been in fifteen years. Pulled in to the restaurant, a restaurant that didn’t look as luxurious as Bruce had expected.

He knew, three years in, that the flush of fame was more than half a put-on, that pretense was the name of the game, but he was still surprised. Paul and Gene kept a tight fist on KISS’ image, made sure the Playboy playmates and the rented mansions were all the public got a glimpse at. Even tried to keep him and Eric from really seeing what was behind the scenes. The money situation, the tour situation, like the two of them couldn’t count the empty seats from their vantage points onstage. But the put-ons had continued anyway. When they’d had sit-down dinners as a band, depending on the area, Paul and Gene would do their best to go somewhere classy, somewhere the right people would be. Not someplace like this.

He was surprised when Paul stepped out ahead of him and opened the restaurant door for him. Less surprised at the flash of recognition from the hostess, and the hasty way she led them both to a table.

“You come here often, Paul?”

“I’m just a good tipper.”

They sat down. The waitress awkwardly tried to pull back their chairs for them. Bruce cocked his head at that, but let her. She passed out the menus, rattling off the evening’s specials as if she wasn’t used to giving them, taking furtive glances at Bruce that Paul didn’t seem to notice, handing back the menu after barely looking at it.

“I’ll have a Long Island iced tea,” he said, “and he’ll take—Bruce, what do you want?”

“Coke is fine.”

“Are you sure?” Paul paused. “I probably won’t have half of it, if you’re worried about my driving—"

“I’m sure.”

“All right. … Go ahead and start me off on the spicy yellowtail roll, I think.” Paul said it so conversationally that Bruce thought he was still talking to him and not the waitress, at first. It didn’t help that he wasn’t quite looking her in the face, just turned vaguely in her direction. Antsy. The busboy darted over, passed out their glasses of water and a small saucer of lemon slices—Paul must’ve come down here more than once or twice.

It felt odd. The whole thing felt a little off-kilter, as if the tenseness from the studio had lingered like a shot of novocaine in his system. As if there was something—something everyone else was expecting. Bruce gave the waitress a second to scribble the order down before adding his.

“I’ll have a California roll.”

“Damn, you’re really breaking the bank here,” Paul said dryly.

“Nah, just kosher.” It was the first joke he’d even tried to go for since getting in the car, but Paul seemed to appreciate it. Enough to smile.

“I won’t tell. In fact, I might have one myself.” Paul took one of the lemon slices, squeezing it into his glass of water before dropping it in, shoving it down to the bottom with his straw. “Can’t get any farther from yeshiva than Hollywood, can you?”

“There’s always San Francisco.”

“You’re pretty funny when you try, Bruce.” Paul sipped at his water. “Did you go?”

“Go where?”

“To yeshiva.”

Bruce peeled the paper off his straw, shaking his head.

“Nah. Bob did. I wasn’t that interested.”

“Me, either. Hell, I didn’t even have my bar mitzvah. How’s Bob doing these days?”

Bob wasn’t a topic Bruce expected Paul to broach on his own. He blinked, then nodded, answering after a swallow of water.

“He’s good. Still touring with Meat Loaf.”

“Good.” Paul toyed with his straw. “If… if he gets a break, tell me. I’d like to catch up.”

Bob probably didn’t want to catch up. With him, the resentment simmered deep under the surface, probing its way up at regular intervals that only Bruce ever had to deal with. Fifteen years of it. Awhile back, Bruce had gone on a tour of Mount Kilauea, over in Hawaii. The guides had let them walk nearer to the lava flows than Bruce ever thought they would, and one guy almost lost his shoe from taking a second to step on the stuff. That was how Bob was. Volatility that seemed harmless right up until it set you on fire.

“Well, he’s on that world tour now, he’s pretty busy.”

“Yeah.” The corner of Paul’s mouth quirked up faintly as the waitress returned with their drinks. He was looking at her now—he kept looking at her past when she left their table—a wry expression on his face that Bruce couldn’t quite figure out. It wasn’t interest. She wasn’t Paul’s type; not blonde and not beautiful. Just a regular girl with an irregular patron. “I know.”

“I think he’s got a month off in July,” Bruce finally offered.

“Cool. Let me know?”

“Sure.”

Not a whole lot they could talk about that Bruce could see. Bob hadn’t ghosted a track for KISS in five years or so, and with Bruce around, he wouldn’t need to. Maybe Paul was just feeling sentimental, wanting to visit somebody that had been his friend. He didn’t exactly have a surplus of those.

Bruce sipped at his Coke, but Paul was already downing his drink like it was water after a marathon. Strange to watch. Bruce had never seen Paul take more than a single glass of wine at a party. New Year’s saw him more sober than most nursing home residents. Another absence out of Gene shouldn’t have been enough to change that.

“You probably think I’m a prick,” Paul said out of nowhere, waving his hand before Bruce could respond. “It’s fine, everybody does.”

“I don’t.”

“Jesus, Bruce, we’re having dinner, not discussing your contract. You can say I’m a prick if you want to. It won’t hurt my feelings.”

“I think you’re under a lot of pressure right now.”

“Is that what Eric told you to say?”

“No, I’m just—things seem like they’re getting to you.”

“Then it’s that obvious.” Paul laughed. “It’s so obvious you’re calling me out on it.”

“Paul, I’m not calling you out—”

“You are. That’s fine.” The Long Island iced tea was already halfway gone. Bruce hadn’t had more than three swallows of his soda. Paul shifted. “Hell, it’s kind of refreshing. I didn’t think you had it in you.”

“I’m not trying to—” Bruce started, but Paul continued before he could even finish the thought.

“I like it, all right, Bruce? Nobody but Gene’ll even try to tell me off anymore. And he doesn’t care enough to bother.” Paul only paused to take a long gulp of his drink. “Tell me what I should do. Tell me how to calm down.”

Bruce hesitated. His palm felt like wood against the side of his glass of Coke. He’d seen this before out of Paul. Not particularly often, and almost never toward him. That weird, calculated lashing out. It made him feel like a frog in the hands of a biology major. The amount of evisceration didn’t matter; he’d be dead no matter what.

“I don’t know. Look, man, your business is your business.”

Surprisingly, Paul went silent at that. His brow was furrowed, but he didn’t look angry or put-out. He didn’t look much of anything. The waitress came by with their sushi rolls, but Bruce only took the chopsticks in his hand and broke them apart, waiting for Paul to answer, or change the subject, watching him drain the last of his drink and order another without much of a pause.

“My business is your business, there’s the problem. Yours and Eric’s and Gene’s and—and Peter’s, isn’t that a laugh? His share of KISS hasn’t expired yet. God. I’ve been paying his rent for seven fucking years. Serve him right if the new album didn’t sell one copy.”

That was news to Bruce. He tried not to react visibly.

“You don’t mean that.”

“You sure I don’t? A quarter of zero’s still zero.”

“You want the album to do well. So do I. So does everybody involved.”

“It’s not gonna do well. Y’know what me and Gene did? We fucked ourselves over. We threw out everybody that we thought was trying to—to steer the ship out from under us. We stacked the deck so full of yes-men that we couldn’t see past our own asses.” Paul exhaled. “You… you’re never gonna tell me my lyrics are shit. You’re never gonna tell me I’m making a goddamn fool of myself out there onstage. I wish you would. I wish for one minute somebody would tell me exactly—”

“Do you really want someone to hurt you that bad?” Bruce said it softly. His throat felt like wet cardboard. Paul’s gaze—vaguely on his face, nowhere near his eyes, ever— dropped straight down to his drink, his fingers twitching before grasping his empty glass again, as if to steady himself.

“I’d beg them for it. If it’d get KISS back on top again, I-I’d let anyone do whatever they wanted.” Paul finally seemed to notice his plate of sushi. He picked one of the rolls up, slipping it into his mouth. He didn’t speak again until he’d finished swallowing. “Course, that’s not how the music industry works. There’s no—casting couch for a bunch of has-beens. No magic bullet. You can push and promote however you wanna, but if they don’t play it, it doesn’t fucking matter.”

Bruce didn’t know how to answer that. The silence spread like the cigarette smoke from a few tables over. He took in the scent, thinking of barrooms and ballrooms, thinking of KKB’s sad little shows when he was a teenager. The way the three of him would go out there for a handful of people, certain it’d work out, because it was working out for his older brother’s buddies. Because they were on tour, only Bruce didn’t know back then that tour was full of pubic lice and moldy boots, only Bruce didn’t know back then that tour nearly ended only a couple months in. He’d only scratched the surface. He hadn’t understood.

Paul’s second drink was set on the table, the drained glass disappearing like a magician’s feeblest trick. The waitress shot both of them a questioning look, one Paul ignored, taking his first swallow. Three shots worth of alcohol in a single glass of that shit. Three shots on an almost empty stomach. Bruce didn’t want to look at Paul right now. Instead, he looked over at the girl, wanting, strangely, to speak to her, to ask her what her expression was for, what she knew that he didn’t. It seemed—it seemed, strangely, like he ought to know, like everyone else knew—but she was back to the other patrons once she’d refilled Bruce’s glass.

“It isn’t even just about being on top anymore. It isn’t about the—the ego trip the way it used to be. I don’t give a damn these days if anybody recognizes me on the street or not.”

Bruce doubted that. He doubted that intensely. He’d seen Paul peering out the tour bus windows after they were in the hotel parking lots too many times. He knew he was always hoping for the old throng of autograph seekers and groupies. Gene, too. Even Eric, in scattered, abashed moments, would talk about the Australian and European tours back in ’80, the utter insanity of it (“so many girls I could’ve made it with, but I didn’t know any better—I thought they couldn’t want me, man, they had to be wanting somebody else”). Paul could still pick any girl he wanted out of the crowd, have a roadie bring her backstage. He still did it most nights. But the adulation had disappeared before Bruce ever arrived at the scene.

“If I could get a hit… if KISS could fill a couple stadiums, just a couple… then it’d be all right. I’d feel okay. God, who knows, maybe Gene would even show up to record again, you think?”

“He’ll be back anyway, Paul.”

“He won’t. He thinks we’re finished.” He was working on that second glass, almost as enthusiastically as the first. “Ace was mailing in his guitar parts just before he quit. But at least they were his. Gene’s throwing me songs he bought off the nearest wannabe writer on the street. And I sucked it up like an idiot at first because I thought he was gonna come back anytime, say he was sorry, get back to how it was. Instead he lets me handle everything, album after album. He gets credit for the successes like he even showed up. And he blows off the failures ’cause he’s got plenty of other bands he’s managing. Never mind his own.” An exhale. “He doesn’t give a damn anymore.”

“I think he does.”

Paul’s expression changed at that. The cynical cast to his features, the tight way he was holding his jaw, all that shifted, flickered, and for a bare, odd second Bruce could almost see the twenty-year-old Bob had brought over to their parents’ apartment and introduced as Gene’s friend. Then Paul shook his head and the moment disappeared.

“You don’t need to prop me up like that. It’s okay. I can’t give him what he wants, I need to cut my losses and quit trying.”

“Paul, listen, you’re not looking at this right. Gene’s not—”

“You don’t know how Gene is. I could be as understanding as Mother Theresa and he’d still be blowing me off.” Paul paused, drink midway to his lips. “I’m sorry. Am I ever gonna let you talk, Bruce? I can’t afford two therapy bills.”

Bruce shrugged.

“I don’t mind.”

“You’ve got a lot to say and I don’t ever let you say it. Not on MTV or the interviews… God, I act like we don’t all sleep in the same crappy hotels.”

“I don’t really like interviews, it’s fine.”

“Bruce, I’m trying to apologize.”

Bruce’s free hand went to the back of his neck, rubbing awkwardly, before resting back on the table.

“I know what you hired me to do. I’m not expecting anything else.”

“Maybe you deserve it.” Paul’s hand was on the table, fingers curled inches from Bruce’s own. “I like writing songs with you. I never… I didn’t write any with Ace, and Vinnie, well…” He shrugged. “It feels good. It feels real good.”

“I like it, too. It’s fun.”

“It makes me think it’s ’76. Like I’ll turn around and find Bob Ezrin snorting a mountain of coke in the office. And—and Ace and Peter, too, looking like they used to. I can fucking see Ace’s card deck. And Gene’d be right there, leaning up against the music stand—I can fool myself pretty good, when I want.”

“Look,” Bruce said, rubbing his chopsticks together with his finger and thumb, the sound soft, dry, “look, I honestly think things might be turning around.”

“They won’t turn eleven years around. I can’t fool myself that much.” Paul’s expression darkened back up, and he reached for his drink again. More than half of it was gone now. The side of his boot brushed against Bruce’s ankle for a brief moment before pulling back. “My accountant told me to stop sending my parents so much money. Like I was a kid spending all his allowance. I’ve cut so many expenses I’m down to a fucking one-bedroom apartment.”

Bruce’s gaze dropped to the untouched California roll on his plate, and the chopsticks in his hand. Paul laughed again.

“Go for it. It’s fine.”

“I wasn’t really that hungry.”

“Your check’s gonna clear with or without the sushi. Trust me.”

“Paul—”

“In fact…” Paul trailed, pulling his own plate forward, “that’s not how you eat sushi, anyway. When we went to Japan in ’77… we went out to this real authentic restaurant, supposedly. The sushi chef came out there and our guide, she’d translate everything he said… he said you don’t eat it with chopsticks, you eat it with your hands. ’Cause it was fast food, before Americans turned it into something it wasn’t.” Paul paused, picking up the second roll on his plate. “This used to be their version of a fucking hamburger, can you believe that?”

“That’s interesting,” Bruce said, and he meant it, but Paul’s expression got a little deflated.

“It’s not interesting, it’s awful. Like the hula girls in Hawaii. Every-everything turned into a commodity. You gonna eat that roll, Bruce?”

“Yeah, I’ll—”

“One bite.” Paul popped his own into his mouth to demonstrate. A few seconds of chewing, a swallow, and then he continued. “Course, you didn’t get the real stuff, so maybe it doesn’t matter, but…” He waved the waitress back over, absently. “Get him a rainbow roll, would you? Thanks.”

“Paul, c’mon—”

“If you don’t eat it, I will.” Paul said. His eyes looked a little sharper now, a little more intent. Bruce set down his chopsticks, picked up one of the small California rolls on his plate. The rice was sticky and cold against his fingers. He stuck it in his mouth, not bothering with the smear of soy sauce on the dish. The taste of surimi and cream cheese burst onto his tongue, neither excellent nor terrible, just there, competently mediocre. He reached for the next one, almost mechanically, but Paul’s hand was there already, closing over the roll before he could.

“Not real crab, I know,” he said, quietly, “but maybe it’ll taste better this way.” And then Paul had the roll in his palm, extended towards his face like an offering.

“Paul—”

“Go on, Bruce.”

Bruce reached for the roll. He meant to pick it up out of Paul’s hand, but something stopped him. Not Paul, not exactly. Paul didn’t curl up his hand or push it out further or say another word. Maybe it was pity, that bastard child of all emotions, that made Bruce just tip the sushi a little closer with his fingers as he ate it from Paul’s palm. One bite. His tongue didn’t get anywhere near Paul’s skin. But Paul seemed to relax at that. He was starting to smile again, mouth wavering like wind-tossed stalks of wheat in a field. The pads of his fingers brushed up against Bruce’s almost delicately, before he withdrew his hand.

“How was it?”

“Good. It was good.”

“Good.” Paul took another piece of his own sushi, dipping it lightly into the soy sauce. “Want to try some of mine?”

“I—no, that’s fine.”

“You don’t have to worry. Nobody here is gonna bother us.” Paul started in again, conversationally. “Are you shy, Bruce?”

“No. I’ll just finish what I’ve got.” Two pieces left. The waitress hadn’t returned with the rainbow roll yet. Bruce hesitated; for an insane moment he felt like he should add a thank you, but he cut himself off with another swallow of sushi. Across from him, Paul just shrugged and popped his own piece in his mouth, following it up by downing a little more of his drink.

“You are shy. That’s all right. I am, too.”

“Paul—”

“It’s cool.” Paul reached his hand across the table, resting it on top of Bruce’s, running his fingers up and down his wrist. His face was faintly flushed. “I mean, to be honest, it sucks, being shy in a rock band, but—it’s cool, I get it, if you’d rather in private—”

Bruce drew his hand back belatedly. Slowly, not wanting to startle Paul, whose expression barely faltered at all.

“I don’t think so.”

“Bruce—”

“You’ve had too much to make an offer like that.”

“I’d make it sober,” Paul said. Deprived of Bruce’s hand, he shifted forward. A second and Bruce felt the side of Paul’s boot against his ankle again. “You’re a good guy, I always liked you.”

“Paul, no.”

“I did. I always did. You…you’re reliable, you listen, you’re easy on the eyes—Bruce, it’s not—if you’re worried about your job, don’t be, this doesn’t need to—be anything, it’s just—”

“No.”

“Bruce, please.”

“No.” The wet cardboard feeling in his throat was back again. He could feel Paul’s eyes on him, not sharp anymore but suddenly desperate instead, his mouth tight as a steel trap. He should’ve stopped him. Shouldn’t have let him keep on and on. He’d never have gotten to this point then. He’d never peel back this much of himself, like the soft insides of a crab, weak and exposed. Bruce never should have let him do it.

He shifted his foot and stood up.

“Give me your keys. I’ll take you to the hotel.”

“I’m not—”

The waitress arrived with that second plate of sushi. This time she wasn’t looking at them at all. Something caught deep in Bruce’s throat then, something dark that he didn’t want to place or name for sure.

“Bruce, please.” Now Paul was standing, leaning one hand heavily against the table. A step, hand sliding to the edge of the table, and he was in front of Bruce, his other hand clamping around his shirt. Bruce could smell the cologne in his hair, the alcohol on his breath. “It—if you’d just stay with me—"

“Paul, let me have your keys.”

Paul pulled them out. Fumbled with his wallet. Bruce shook his head, taking the keys but nothing else, putting a couple bills from his pocket on the table before Paul could try to argue. He felt Paul press in against him, push his mouth sloppily against his neck, but that was all. No other come-ons or protests. Nothing. He shifted easily after, let Bruce walk him to the car, to the hotel, to his room, even. Bruce didn’t give the keys back until after that hotel door was unlocked and Paul was inside. He was tempted to hold onto them, even then—but Paul’s expression was faltering so badly that he didn’t want to strip any last piece of pride from him. He’d had sense enough to let Bruce drive. Surely he’d have sense enough to stay in his room.

Paul’s fingers closed around the keys for only a few seconds. Bruce watched as he dropped them on the dresser and stumbled to the bed, peeling off his boots, head bent and turned away from him.

“Go on. Would you go on, Bruce? I got it from here.”

Bruce hesitated at the door.

“Go on.”

Every reassurance he could make sounded hollow even in his brain. Even the ones from that afternoon. He couldn’t ease a burden he didn’t have the means to lift.

He turned the knob and left without a word.

--

He didn’t see Paul again until their next recording session. He’d left an apology on Bruce’s hotel answering machine, and a written one under his door, his cursive cramped and uneven, but he didn’t say a word. Bruce didn’t expect him to.

Gene was there at the studio, surprisingly, indifferent, with a copy of Variety open on his lap and a Pepsi in hand instead of his bass most of the session. Paul looked more sunken in than ever, vying for his attention, fooling around and playing riffs nearly twenty years old (“that’s how it goes, Gene, right, do you remember—‘My Uncle is a Raft,’ that’s the first song you ever—“) instead of laying down tracks.

It’s crap, Bruce. They don’t know it. They’re never gonna figure it out. That was what Eric had said, and maybe it was true, but maybe it wasn’t. And maybe he could do something, now that he’d seen past the last desperate bits of glamor Paul had left to offer.

Paul left before he did. Bruce watched him crank his car from where he stood outside the recording studio, the taillights glinting to life, and then the faint sound of the radio before he sped away. Mick Jagger blaring out “Just Another Night.”

Eric ducked out soon after, his ’79 Porsche like an artifact backing out of the parking lot. Gene’s chauffeur was already waiting, engine idling. Gene had the magazine under his arm. Bruce reached over on impulse, briefly grasping his forearm.

“Hey, Gene.”

“Bruce?” Gene looked up at him. “You need anything?”

“Could you do something for me?”

“You need a lift? You don’t have to ask—”

“I don’t need a lift.” His taxi had pulled up. He could picture the meter running, numbers spinning up like years, the inverse of the Billboard charts. “It’s not really for me, anyway. It’s for Paul.”

“What about him?”

“Be kinder to him. That’s all.”

Bruce expected Gene to protest. Give out the old lines he trotted out every interview, we’re like brothers and it’s like a marriage, tired and overplayed even five years ago. Instead, Gene hesitated.

“Bruce, you don’t understand.”

“No, but I’ve got a good idea.” The cab driver was looking at him, staring impatiently. Just a five-mile ride back to the hotel, a five-mile ride that’d take forty-five minutes, easy, this time of day. “You keep on hurting somebody and they’re never going to forget it. Whether this album’s a hit or not. Whether KISS ends up back in stadiums or back in ballrooms. That’s it. That’s all, Gene.”

He didn’t wait on an answer, just walked over to the cab. Gene clapped his shoulder on the way, and for a second, Bruce almost thought he’d say something, or follow him to the cab, something. But he just saw the brief shift of Gene’s expression the second before he shut the passenger door, the faint tightening of Gene’s mouth as he walked past the cab and to his own car, dropping the magazine to the pavement as he stepped inside. Bruce watched the car’s back wheels run it over, and then the cab’s, the pages fluttering on the pavement, nothing but vapid gloss against concrete.

[valasania-the-pale]

The Last Rose - Chapter One

A figure cloaked in white knelt before her, arms held wide in invitation. “I’m going be gone for a while, Little Rose… A lot of people need help out there, so I’m going to help them. I want you and your sister to be strong for me and smile for your daddy, okay?”

Ruby returned the hug with vigor, burying her face in the crook of the woman’s neck. “Okay, Momma!”

The woman’s smile was affectionate and slightly sad as she pulled away, her hands reaching up to re-fasten the buckle of Ruby’s cloak. It was so big on her tiny body that she wore it more like an adorably oversized blanket.

“That’s my girl.” She ruffled Ruby’s hair. “I love you, Ruby. I’ll be home soon!”

…

Be strong… Every day, I’ve tried. I’ve tried, so, so hard. When the Grimm took her away, I tried my best to stay strong for Dad and Yang… Often, though, it felt like I was trying to hold back the tide. Or outrun the coming night… And now it looms over me, a specter of loss and doubt…

I wonder—

…

Of all the directions I might have taken in life… following in her footsteps… Is this what she’d have wanted for me?

X_0_X

Exhausted, Ruby Rose pulled her cloak tighter around her shoulders as she made her way through Mistral’s working district, feeling every inch of the previous week’s mission deep in her bones. Though lacking the snow that had already blanketed its northernmost territories, Mistral’s winters were renowned for their bitter winds.

For a good reason, too, at these heights. She deeply regretted not stopping by her house first for warmer clothing.

Still, it was better than Atlas, where the cold was everywhere – Spreading up from the ground, biting toes, and delivered amidst the heavy snowfall the northern continent received almost daily.

Regardless of the source though, after a week in the wilderness she despised any kind of chill, no matter the source. She needed a soft mattress and a radiator in her life.

The narrow, winding streets were quiet, Mistral’s citizens content to stow away within their sturdy dwellings with their families and dinner. Most were probably already sleeping. Evening was quickly turning into night and Ruby could sympathize.

‘Almost there.’

Check in at the Huntsmen’s Guild, report her success and survival, collect her reward, rest. This assignment would pay her rent for at least the next three months, so she’d hopefully get the chance to relax and take more low-risk missions while the cold lasted.

No guard duty though. The tedium was awful, and she liked her toes.

She turned the corner into one of the city’s many stairwells, this one cutting through the mountainside to bring her into the beginnings of the Market District, where one could find food, supplies, and the headquarters of the majority of the city’s guilds.

Ruby grimaced, her burning thighs protesting the climb. It was too cold for this…

Winter was hard for huntsmen young or old. For those like her, years into her career, it resurrected a deep, throbbing ache in her bones. She could feel it deep inside, like an itch she couldn’t scratch, or a joint out of alignment.

‘Almost there. Just a few more minutes and I can sleep.’

Sleep, and hope the exhaustion was enough to ward away the dreams once more. Her last break hadn’t been nearly as restful as she had hoped—

Thump.

Silver eyes grew wide. Ruby sagged against the freezing stone wall of the stairwell. Her hand grasped her chest above her heart, feeling the aching pangs against her ribcage. Now…?

Thump.

It had been a mistake to allow that train of thought. Breathe.

Just. Keep. Breathing.

Thump.

Eyes clenched shut, Ruby forced her chest to move, inhale… hold… exhale. Rinse. Repeat. Just like she’d read about, like she’d practiced. It would help. In through the nose, out through the mouth. Her back sank down the wall and she tucked her head against her knees. In… out.

Thump.

Her vision warped, so she closed her eyes. ‘This is normal,’ She counselled herself, enforcing calm on her scattering thoughts. ‘It is normal to feel like this after... You’re just anxious and tired and need rest. Breathe. In. Out’

The mantra repeated for several minutes, time losing meaning with the leeching cold and pounding blood. She rhythmically tightened her hands into fists, then slackened. Repeat.

She was patient.

The agonizing throb of her heart eventually slowed into its normal rhythm, and her pulse ceased to fill her ears with an inconstant roar. They were far from strangers to her – far from friendly too. Acquaintances she’d prefer not to know but long since resigned herself to dealing with.

The attacks, while not precisely normal, were something she’d built up years of experience managing as they came. Never wanting to repeat the terrifying experiences of when they’d first began, when she’d had no clue what to do and could only ride them out, such had been a necessity, as vital as maintaining her weapons.

The mind was a weapon. She must keep hers sharpened.

Beacon had prepared her well academically for the problems many huntsmen would face in the field and at home, but it had never seemed as real in the classroom as it had become after the Fall…

Thump.

In… Out.

Ruby sighed wearily. She was fine. Report in, go home, rest. Everything would be just fine once she could lay down and get some sleep.

Resolved, Ruby pulled herself to her feet, shivering as the stone stairwell retained the heat she’d given it, leaving her colder.

Her inner voice was tired even to herself. ‘Almost there.’

A quiet tinkling announced her arrival to the clerk in charge of the guild, a nondescript Mistral native whose hair had begun to grey at the temples. He smiled tiredly at Ruby as she shut the door against the wind. “Welcome back, Ruby. I was hoping I’d see you before my shift was up,” the man greeted warmly.

Ruby smiled back, equally tired. “I managed to catch up to my mark just yesterday,” she said, pulling out her ID for the clerk to scan into the system. “The reports didn’t do it justice. If it wasn’t so injured from the team that chased it away from the village then I’d still be out there.”

It had been an impressive specimen, though that hadn’t been anything to celebrate once she’d found it limping away from civilization. Its gait had been hampered by fractured shards of its own armor digging into its leg. Without that vulnerability, she’d have had to resort to a series of ambushes to wear down its considerable defenses… Not a pleasant prospect in Mistral’s colder northern territory.

The clerk hummed agreeably, eyes widening in surprise as the video feed he’d pulled up from her gear showed the monster in all its malevolence. “Definitely bigger than the reports said,” he agreed.

Goliaths were no huntress’ favorite Grimm to kill. Too big, naturally strong, and far, far too crafty. Hunting them without a full team was considered ambitious for any but the best.

Her uncle had had no trouble with such assignments, and now neither did she.

Thump.

Her fingers tightened on the countertop. She forced her breathing to slow again, closing her eyes briefly against the unpleasant sensation. Ignorant of her internal struggle, the clerk cheerfully typed on his keyboard with one hand, watching the kill feed with interest. Getting to view a professional at work was something special. Even for someone whose job allowed him to view such things every day, it was always a spectacle.

Ruby shifted on her feet, stifling a yawn behind her hand.

The clerk jerked, looking away from the video with an embarrassed flush. “Sorry Ruby. I don’t mean to keep you here overlong. You’re all cleared. The reward should be deposited in your account by mid-morning tomorrow.”

She nodded thankfully. “Thanks Li, I hope you have a good evening.”

“I will now! This’ll be my evening entertainment.”

She stepped out into the cold with a wan, amused smile. It had been a good kill. Better than most huntsmen were capable of on their own, if she were being completely honest. But she was tired and not in the mood for bragging.

Idly, her eyes flicked down to her identification, spinning it in her fingers to see her face – younger and softer when the picture had been taken – and registered team.

R___.

She sucked in a breath against the expected clench in her chest, eyes squeezing shut, but it didn’t come.

Only an echo.

Strangely disappointed, she let the breath go and tucked the card into her pocket, holding her hands there for warmth. The temperature was dropping even further with the descent of the sun below the horizon. Ruby set a quick pace back to her house.

She felt cold.

X_0_X

She stood beside her body, a ghost, frozen, reaching out toward the scene. RED hair kneeling opposite HER crumpled in THREE on the ground, sparking, sputtering, fading, emptying, dying. Swords falling to the ground lifeless distant voices jeered and booed and screamed in horror at the sight of the CORPSE laying on the ground.

Tears streaked her face but she couldn’t move couldn’t run to see if her FRIEND was alright because she knew she knew that PENNY wasn’t alright and PYRRHA and wasn’t alright and nothing at all was right in the world.

Why why did this happen? What was the point? The low, satisfied voice spoke over the uproar, but the words were meaningless to Ruby. They weren’t important didn’t matter what was important was her FRIEND lying DEAD on the ground and she could feel her HEART throbbing in her chest - could only watch and weep and stare, USELESS..

The screens above all their heads turned menacing red as sirens blared; a queen mocking them as the spectators ran, only now realizing they were only PAWNS fit for slaughter.

Move. Move. Move. Be strong. Move forward. Stay ahead of it. Must keep moving on.

X_0_X

Ruby jerked awake, heart throbbing painfully in her chest, cold sweat clinging to her body. In her ears a horribly loud ringing swallowed all other sounds, save one.

Thump.

A hand flew to her chest, eyes squeezing tightly shut. That had been… the Vytal Festival Tournament? That had was years ago, but it felt like she’d just been pulled straight from the moment… That moment. The beginning of the Fall.

Thump.

She breathed deep, desperately trying to stabilize her pulse and push down the encompassing panic. It was just a dream, it was all over. It was done. In… Out. There was nothing to panic about. In. Out. Nothing. In. Out. Why wouldn’t it go away? InOut. In… Out. InOutInOutIn—

Thump.

Cold seared her lungs, spreading like plague through her limbs. She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t get enough air.

InOutInOut—

Thump.

‘Stop,’ she moaned in the confines of her mind. InOutInOut. ‘Stop! Please!’

Thump.

Her breath came in rapid, shallow gasps. It wasn’t enough. She couldn’t get enough air into her lungs. Silver eyes flew open, blankets falling to her lap as she lurched upright, watching her hands shake violently through vision tinging grey at the edges, periphery warping inwards.

Thump.

‘Stop,’ Calmer. A command. She fought against the fear devouring her. ‘Think.’

Thump.

Breathe.

In. Hold. Out. Wait. In. Hold. Out. Wait. In. Hold. Out. Wait. In.

Thump.

The panic came in waves. Ruby resolutely clung to her breathing, forcing her body to adhere to the rhythm she set for it, riding out the waves of nausea and dizziness. The ringing was nearly unbearable, drowning her, drowning the world.

‘This is normal. It is normal for you to feel like this. It will go away in time.’

In. Hold. Out.

Thump.

The room swam around her when she dared to open her eyes again, pulsing in eddying rings, speckled by spots of white and black. Her body flashed hot, then cold, and back again, bones feeling sick, blood pumping electricity through her temples.

In. Hold. Out.

Thump.

Innnnn…. Out…. Innnn…. Out.

…

Nothing?

She waited another beat, wary.

Nothing. Finally, her heart resumed its normal pace.

Ruby weakly pulled herself out from under the suffocating covers, her body settling on an uncomfortable flush that didn’t quite reach her skin. The room tilted around her, limbs protesting as her fatigue resurged. Silver eyes flicked at the analogue clock at her bedside.

Three in the morning… No rest for the weary, apparently.

Leaning heavily on the wall, she staggered toward the tiny living room at the center of her home. Like the rest of the dwelling it was sparsely decorated. Empty wall space begged for pictures, bookshelves stood empty. The furniture could have been mistaken for brand new if not for the thin layer of dust.

Ruby sank gratefully onto the couch, glad for the cool vinyl on her skin even as she trembled from the remnants of the dream.

The Vytal Festival… She hadn’t revisited that day for weeks, too exhausted or too consumed by an assignment to dream.

Hands shaking, her body still too awake - too alive - Ruby cast her eyes about for distraction. One of the wall’s few fixtures, an old pendulum clock, had come with the house. Ruby tracked its motion, absorbing herself in the play of shadows, the low, rhythmic ticking.

It didn’t help all that much. Her flesh prickled with awareness, muscles tensing every time the winds moaned, with every creak of the rafters. Shapes danced in the darkened corners of the room, while each distant cry of some nocturnal animal recalled the furious shrieks of the creatures of Grimm.

‘I can’t do this,’ the huntress sighed, breathing deep.

She dug her hands into her pockets, retrieving her scroll. Though in need of charging, it would serve for now. She browsed through her contacts, tapping on one name she knew she could turn to at so late an hour.

[Hey Sun. You awake?]

It was only a few seconds before she got her reply.

[Yeah, what’s up Ruby? O.o]

[Nothing much. Got back from my assignment a couple hours ago. Tried to sleep, had a nightmare. Can’t sleep now]

[That bites. Wanna talk about it?]

Ruby grimaced tiredly, echoes of the dream playing across her vision.

[I saw Penny again. At the tournament, the last round]

RED hair kneeling opposite HER crumpled in THREE on the ground. The image etched into her mind for eternity, preserved against every desire to forget and let go and move forward before it consumed her any more than it already had.

[I’m sorry Ruby. I miss her too]

Her hands squeezed the scroll tightly, willing the visions away. Beneath the ache in her chest, a few fragile tendrils of warmth unfurled; gratitude, she knew, and empathy. She wasn’t Penny’s only friend, just the closest.

Well.

Closest, yet so far from knowing the girl as well as she might have, if they’d been given the time.

[Do you want me to come over? You don’t have to be alone right now. We can talk, or sit, or just binge some tv if you want]

Ruby started, not realizing she’d been staring past her wall, at a distant head of fiery hair lying still on the ground…

[No, I’m fine] she typed quickly, pushing back against the memories.

[You sure?]

She could read the doubt underlying the message, clear as the dawn.

She was fine.

[Yes. It’s too cold out to be walking over anyways]

[Well… okay. It’s alright if you change your mind, just so you know.]

[I’m sure. Thank you, Sun]

[No problem, Rubes]

The messages lapsed. She could think of nothing to say, pale fingers hovering over her scroll’s keyboard in indecision. Maybe something more domestic?

[How are Scarlet and Sage doing?]

It worked. Sun’s reply was quick and earnest.

[They’re alright. Scarlet’s been pining for Vacuo lately. He hates the cold here]

[Why doesn’t he?]

[Go back? Cuz he’s overprotective and thinks I’ll stop eating if he leaves me behind. Jerk doesn’t think I can take care of myself]

Ruby lips quirked, amused by their interplay.

[He might have a point, you know. Talking to girls at ungodly hours isn’t a stellar life decision]

[Hey, talking to a friend when she can’t sleep is different from starving myself]

[Touché]

Her frown slowly fading, Ruby felt herself relax into the dialogue, adrenaline settling, the need to run draining away into nothingness.

Conversation such as this – late at night, bantering or comforting each other in turn – was normal for them. Scrolls still weren’t strong enough to transmit between kingdoms, cutting them off from most of their other friends across Remnant, so Ruby and Sun made do with each other. Over time, what had been at best a friendly acquaintance grew into close friendship.

It was a lifeline that both of them desperately needed, more often than they’d admit.

Ruby’s fingers danced across the miniature keyboard.

[And Sage? Any of you take on any assignments while I was gone?]

[He’s doing alright, same as the rest of us, really. And we had a small one on the outskirts of the city a few days back. A couple Grimm were getting nosy. Me and Scarlet handled it ^.^]

[Kind of jealous. Had to kill a Goliath yesterday. Spent four days following its trail. Thing was huge]

[Slick! That the class six mission I saw on the board?]

[Think so, unless they added another when I wasn’t looking]

[Guess rent’s all taken care of then]

[No kidding. Pay’s great on some of these jobs]

[Sometime you, me, Scarlet and Sage’ll have to do one together and throw ourselves a party with it]

[Sure, I’ll bring the snacks, you bring the hookers. Party, planned]

[What makes you think I’d know where to find hookers?]

Ruby rolled her eyes.

[It’s Mistral. I know where to find hookers here]

[Eh… point taken. Sensing a story there]

[Not much to say. I went exploring the seedy side of town and found a few massage parlors. They weren’t actually massage parlors, I’m told]

[Do tell]

[Like I said, nothing much to say lol. They’re in the lower district, southeastern end, near the old pub if you wanna check them out yourself. I didn’t go inside because there was this creepy old guy walking out who leered at me]

[Nobody can resist the Rose’s charms!]

[Yeah, well, I kind of showed him Crescent Rose and he lost interest]

[Roses, thorns. Scary :P]

[Ha ha]

Sun’s reply was longer in coming than the rest.

[You feeling any better?]

Ruby paused, fingers hovering over the keyboard. No memories searing into her vision, no ringing in her ears, no racing pulse.

[Yeah. I am, actually :)]

[Wukong: 427, Negativity: 0]

[I think you’re overselling yourself there, Sun]

[No way!]

The conversation continued, Ruby blinking against tired eyes to continue typing with her friend. Her missions kept her away often; intentional on her part, since she could usually beat back the nightmares if she kept herself occupied enough, but times like these where she could just relax with Sun and act somewhat immature were precious.

[So lemme tell you about how Scarlet tried to pick up a date the other day…emphasis on tried]

X_0_X

“So, Rubes. You planning on taking another mission soon?”

They sat together in relative quiet, the café they’d chosen a far cry from the bustling mess it would be during the morning rush in an hour. Neither able to fall back asleep that night, they’d instead chosen to at least start the day together throwing off their collective cloud of fatigue with some caffeinated goodness.

Or Ruby had, at least. Sun refused to touch it. He’d ordered cocoa instead.

Ruby pursed her lips, idly tapping them with her straw. “I think so. You know I don’t like hanging around the city for longer than I have to. A few days to rest from the last assignment before I take another. Maybe some low rank jobs for once.”

Sun sipped pensively from the polished white mug in his hand, steam rising in delicate wisps from the rim. “I figured.”

Just like the day before, Mistral was bitterly cold. A cloud of freezing mist engulfed the city, with only those living on the highest terraces of the upper levels able to walk outside without heavily insulated clothing.

For Ruby, that meant her worn, tattered red cloak over a dark trench coat and cargo pants. For Sun, it meant ditching the casual, chest-baring Vacuo style for a fleecy hoody and jeans. For once in his life he looked somewhat respectable, though the blonde tail idly flicking around behind his ear detracted somewhat from the image.

Still, it was better than the time he’d accidently whipped up some poor woman’s skirt… Ruby hadn’t known Sun was a soprano until the moment he turned to apologize and received the point of a heel in the fork of his legs.

Ruby peered at Sun over the rim of her coffee with concern. Shadows ringed the faunus’ eyes, and his cheeks sagged. Though still young by any standard, the laugh lines found all over Sun’s face only served to age him in the dim lighting.

The blonde took note of her unsubtle examination and smiled weakly. “I know I’ve got to look like crap right now, but I’m really not that bad.”

Ruby was not impressed. “Sun, I don’t think you’ve cracked a single joke since we sat down. That’s like, a record for you.”

Indignant, Sun looked ready to protest the point for a moment before his eyes flicked down in thought.

“Ehhhh… point,” he grumbled.

Silence fell between them.

Ruby itched to break the uncomfortable lull. Having known Sun for over a decade, she knew how out of character it was when he fell to brooding. He normally preferred to confront whatever problems he faced, either with firm confidence or a flippant attitude.

Days like these and the problems they brought however, perfectly disarmed him. With nothing to confront and weighed down by fatigue, it was all she and his remaining team could do at times to draw him out of his shell.

Well, nothing for it.

“So,” Ruby drawled awkwardly. “What about you? I mean,” she coughed. “Any plans to take a new assignment?”

Sun looked out the window uncertainly. “Yeah, been thinking about it. Sage likes border defenses – not too many Grimm to deal with at any one time, and it pays well – but I’m pretty sure Scarlet’s gonna throw a fit if we don’t get out to do something challenging soon. He doesn’t like not having stuff to work on.”

They all tried to keep themselves occupied in some way.

Ruby had found her opening, however.

“Want to go take a look at the board and see if anything catches your eye?” She suggested.

Sun seemed to think about it for a moment, before perking up. “Sounds great to me, Ruby,” he answered, smile turning jaunty.

Ruby: 293, Negativity… well, she’d lost count, but she was doing her best!

Gulping the last of her coffee down, Ruby joined the faunus at the counter to leave their mugs for the barista to collect. They left the café, shivering as they stepped into the cold morning air, before moving toward the Huntsmen’s Guild where they would find the list of available assignments.

Though it was still early, the city of Mistral was slowly coming to life around them. Smoke rose from hundreds of chimneys as denizens stoked their fireplaces and prepared the morning meal, while the earliest of risers made their way mechanically to wherever they worked, or to the nearest venue serving their fix of morning caffeine.

With something to take his mind off the night before, Sun adopted a much brighter disposition, happy to comment on whatever innocuous detail picked his fancy. Ruby smiled indulgently as he leaned over the railing on the roadside to peek down at the market like a small child.

“Hey Ruby, you gotta come look at this guy – looks like someone forgot he had work in the morning cuz’ he’s running like he’s got the mother of all Deathstalkers on his – Oh ha!” He dissolved into helpless laughter.

Ruby joined him at the ledge, raising a dark eyebrow at Sun. Her companion missed it, having covered his face with one hand as the other pounded on the railing. She nudged him, and he pointed out where she should look.

Ruby giggled.

The poor man, looking like a tiny doll from their vantage point, had stumbled into a fruit stall in his haste and was being viciously torn into by the owner. Even from up there, Ruby could see the crushed produce adorning the man, as well as the vivid yellow banana stuck partially through his button-up shirt.

The two pulled themselves away from the sight as the man pantomimed forgiveness against the owner’s vigorously waving arms, shuffling around in his pockets for the lien to pay back the owner.

“You see that’s why you’ve got to be agile as well as fast!” Sun crowed, eyes crinkling at the corners in his mirth.

Ruby mirrored the expression. “And you’d know?”

“Sure I would!” Sun said proudly, pointing to himself. “You’re looking at the best troublemaker this side of Remnant. Can’t tell you how many times I’ve had to chase people through crowds without knocking anything over.”

Ruby stared at her companion in disbelief. “Chase? You mean being chased, right?”

“You’re never gonna let me live down that stowaway thing, are you?”

Her smile grew just a touch vicious, all the answer needed. Pride soundly punctured, Sun marched ahead with just a touch more pouting than he thought he probably realized. Watching her friend, Ruby’s smile dropped away.

Chasing the competition, falling slowly behind. Telltale spiked blonde hair disappearing into the crowd – hearing a surprised grunt, she sped around the corner, saw her PARTNER lying tangled with someone else…

“Sal-u-tations!”

Ruby felt something pinch in her chest and breathed deeply. Mechanically forcing one foot in front of another, she put the shadows out of mind and kept moving, determined not to lose Sun in the crowd again.

They descended to the lower level, suddenly surrounded by the sounds of early risers and shopkeepers hawking their wares.

“Fine jewelry for your little lady!”

“Meat, fresh in from Wind Path!”

“Hey…! You cheat! This lien is no good! Get back here with my merchandise!”

“Only the freshest produce here at my stall!”

Sun breathed deep of the morning air, content to be surrounded by such controlled chaos. At ease herself while surrounded by the growing bustle of humanity, Ruby felt her mood lift again.

They drew stares from Mistral’s citizens as they passed. Even without their weapons, any huntsman could be easily recognized by their appearance alone. Few could match the predatory grace that even most novice students walked with, nor the unique style that came with the vocation.

That said, Ruby and Sun were a familiar sight around Mistral already, so the stares lacked the usual veiled apprehension that many couldn’t help when faced with such dangerous unknowns.

Pulling her expression into something more confident and respectable while forcibly ignoring her companion’s giggles behind her – could he forget about the fruit vendor for just a few minutes? The man was visible just a few stalls down; she didn’t think his expression was that funny – Ruby strode up to the man hawking fresh meat.

“Huntress Rose!” the man – Sunil, she knew - grinned, hands rubbing together in anticipation. “And Sun Wukong. What brings you to my stand? Looking for a fine cut, or perhaps a fresh rack of ribs? I’ve got it all here, fresh from Wind Path.”

Ruby shook her head. “I’m not looking for anything at the moment,” she declined. “Just wondering if the caravan saw anything bad between here and there?”

She felt Sun disappear behind her, happy to let her take this one.

“Ah, thankfully not. Nothing unexpected at least,” Sunil smiled. “Some Beowolves, some Creeps, but nothing unusual.” Understandably, he seemed pleased with the caravan’s good fortune.

Ruby nodded, having expected as much. “Glad to hear it, Sunil. You know where to find me if anything happens.”

Sunil clapped his powerful hands together. “Indeed, I do! If that’s all then, I bid you happy hunting!”

Ruby stepped away, rising up on her toes to look for Sun. Where did the faunus get – oh.

She sighed.

It was normal practice for them to ask around the market for rumors of Grimm in need of chasing. It was also normal, if more than a little annoying, for Ruby to find Sun chatting up some blushing widow or housewife. Ruby was the respectable one around here, while Sun was better known as the man anybody and their mother could have a good time talking to.

Ruby pouted. Sometimes it wasn’t fair when Sun showed off his superior social skills.

Marching over, she caught the eye of the woman Sun was entertaining, the twenty-something brunette smiling secretively as the huntress stopped short of her companion and tilted her head, eyes narrow in thought.

“-and then he just plows into the stand and goes tumbling and it was about the funniest thing I’ve seen in ages!” Sun recounted animatedly, ignorant of her presence behind him.

Ruby scoffed. At least he was predictable. She cleared her throat, the brunette giggling as Sun froze and spun on the spot, eyes wide.

“Find any interesting leads, friend?”

The faunus cleared his throat sheepishly. “Ah-hmmm. Nope! Nothing yet, Rubes.”

A dark eyebrow, already raised in faux-shock, lifted even higher. Sun drooped, turning back to the now-smirking woman. “Ah, well, it was good to meet you Mara,” he said, rubbing the back of his head.

“You as well Mr. Wukong. I’ll have to tell my husband all about that little debacle – Mr. Konomi has been asking for a little misfortune of late, what with his temper,” Mara smiled, winking at Ruby playfully as she returned to setting up her wares.

Sufficiently cowed, Sun wasted no more time as the pair went from stall to stall, asking after any news from the other cities and the wilderness beyond. Save for a few scattered attacks along the roads, the only notable news they encountered came from the western end of Lake Matsu. One of the settlements there had apparently been annihilated by rampant Grimm, the survivors fleeing to other settlements deeper in the swamps.

While this would ordinarily be cause for interest for the two, there were already teams in the area cleaning up the mess of Grimm left behind, and fortifications being built around nearby settlements to prevent panic from spreading.

It was a tragedy, but with further crises averted the two were left with nothing substantial from their inquiries. Not a bad thing, but it left them with the more banal missions the guild always had in abundance.

As the two entered the quiet building, they sighed. The mist had already begun to recede along with the worst of the chill, but it was still uncomfortably cold out and there was a pleasant fire roaring against the far wall.

Per ingrained habit, Ruby’s eyes swept over the room, noting that Li’s shift had ended. His replacement, a small, dark haired woman with sparkling green eyes, perked up as Ruby met her gaze. The huntress could only blink at the not-quite-so-normal realization that she had at least half a decade on the clerk, who seemed only just past her teenaged years.

“Welcome!” she greeted energetically, head bobbing as she bounced on her heels. “Are you two looking for anything in particular?”

Probably a new employee. Ruby wondered what had happened to Vanna, who usually handled the morning shift.

“Just checking out the assignment board,” Sun replied warmly. The young woman’s attention immediately shifted to him, eyes flicking up and down. Ruby rolled her eyes. Leaving Sun to engage her in conversation, Ruby turned away to focus on the digital touchscreen listing the most current assignments.

With long practice, it had become simple to tune out Sun’s baffling energy – he hadn’t slept in at least two days, how did he manage to be so peppy when she needed coffee to function? – and it was just as simple to ignore the clerk’s bubbly personality.

Silver eyes examined each description as she scrolled down the list of assignments. Patrol missions… bleh. They were a dime a dozen, as even when technically unnecessary the kingdoms preferred to keep them flowing. One never knew when pockets of Grimm would begin to encroach on friendly territory, after all.

Nothing she was interested in, however.

Another assignment to track down and eliminate a Beowolf pack roaming the base of Mt. Naili… led by an Alpha? That was intriguing, if not all that thrilling. Alphas weren’t rare but tended to keep to themselves. Only the older specimens tried to take command of their younger peers and form the more dangerous packs.

Beowolves were Beowolves, however, and the area was too remote for it to be a pressing issue.

Plenty of reports of individual powerful Grimm. Middle-aged Alphas wandering in their solitude or nuisance cases that the smaller villages couldn’t handle alone. No Ancients on the table, fortunately. There were plenty around Mistral, she was sure, but they were too canny to allow themselves to be so easily tracked.

They would only emerge amidst fire and death. No sane hunter relished in those assignments.

Ruby paused over a report of a pack of Deathstalkers, scanning the description. While yet to become notorious for any reason, they’d begun to encroach on the territory of some of the isolated mountain villages in south-central Anima. Given that the reports were already a month old upon arrival, that might have even changed by now.

Not for the first time Ruby cursed the lack of efficient communication in Mistral. While the kingdom had never lost its CCT Tower, the further away from the capital one moved the less likely you were to get a signal. The ruling council had consistently refused to implement boosting towers in the most isolated areas of the kingdom, leaving it to the occasional bullhead visit or foot travel to move information around.

Pursing her lips, Ruby tapped the mission. While the other assignments were important in their own right, this one was unlikely to receive attention from other huntsmen for at least another week.

With a pleasant chime, a window popped up:

‘YOU HAVE SELECTED A CLASS 4 SEARCH AND DESTROY MISSION. DO YOU ACCEPT?’

‘Would I have selected it if I didn’t want to accept?’

Sun’s hand came down on her shoulder as she tapped ‘YES.’ Ruby jumped at the contact, looking up at her companion.

“Guess you’re gonna be heading out sooner than expected, aren’t ya?” he commented drily.

Ruby flushed. They were just here to look at potential assignments… but the moment Ruby considered putting it off she could only picture the destruction a pack of Deathstalkers - and really any kind of Grimm - could wreak if left to their own devices.

It was never a pretty picture. She’d read more than enough reports and seen the results firsthand far too many times.

Sun didn’t seem too ruffled, if the wry glint in his eyes was to be trusted. “You wouldn’t be Ruby Rose if you weren’t looking out for others instead of yourself.” He shook his head in fond exasperation. “At least promise me to get some actual sleep before you head out?”

Ruby punched his shoulder. “I’m not that bad.” She protested.

“Bullshit, Rubes. Complete bullshit.”

“Jerk.”

“Heh. I’m right though.”

Ruby scowled as the clerk giggled inanely. Jerks.

X_0_X

The low roar of the bullhead’s engines on the tarmac split the morning air. Busy handing her heavy pack of supplies to the operator inside, Ruby tried to ignore the cacophony, as well as the worried look that Sun gave the back of her head.

‘Hypocrite.’

Touched though she was by his concern, another part of her was wholeheartedly annoyed that Sun could be concerned for her welfare when he had barely managed a scant few hours of sleep in the last three days. Ruby had been tempted to knock the faunus out cold directly when he’d shown up at her doorstep that morning, swaying on his feet and far too pale to be healthy.

She had kept her promise, forcing down the nightmares to catch a solid night’s rest. In hindsight, she ought to have drawn a similar pact from her fellow huntsman.

Sadly, she was on a timetable and reluctantly accepted his company, though only after he’d promised to lie down for a couple hours after she was gone. Threatening to interrogate Scarlet on the matter on her return ensured that it would be a promise kept, or there would be hell to pay.

One of the bullhead’s two pilots, a flax-haired Atlesian, gave Ruby a thumbs-up as she finished strapping down the last of her provisions. Her ire vanishing suddenly, and with nothing left to distract her from the impending goodbye, Ruby turned to Sun, awkwardly wringing her hands.

The furrowed brow, narrow eyes and frown spoke volumes of what he thought of her leaving.

“I’m going to be alright, Sun,” she said firmly, pulling her hands behind her back. Silver eyes dared him to contradict her. The faunus’ frown deepened, but his hesitation finally broke.

“I know,” Sun admitted despondently. “This isn’t any trouble for you. I just can’t help feeling worried.”

Ruby pulled him into a hug, squeezing as tightly as she could. As a huntress, with arms corded with lithe, hard muscle, that was pretty tight. Sun groaned under the assault but squeezed her back all the same.

“Just be careful, alright?” he muttered. “I don’t like it when friends are in danger and I can’t help.”

Ruby pulled away, quietly pleased as Sun not-subtly sucked in a breath of air and grinned impishly. “Me? When am I not careful?”

Sun levelled a flat look at her.

…

Jerk. Fine, it was a valid concern.

“You two finished back there? We’re on a tight schedule to get you south, huntress,” one of the pilots called from the cockpit.

Ruby jumped at the interruption, then stuck her tongue out at Sun when he began shepherding her into the airship with a few shooing motions.

Ruby pulled herself up into the bullhead’s fuselage, quickly turning back to the faunus as the craft began humming louder. He sent her a lopsided grin and a wave in lieu of a goodbye (not that she’d have heard one anyways), and then the doors slid shut around her, cutting her off from the outside world.

The bullhead rumbled, blaring the Mistral model’s ubiquitous sonar call. With a tired sigh, Ruby sat herself on one of the benches and prepared for a long flight.

X_0_X

It's amazing to me that I'm finally beginning this. The original plan was to finish the entire story before I began posting, but around 90k I began hitting a wall and decided that I'd start posting chapters, hopefully getting some inspiration along the way. That being said, the first third of the story is already done, pending some edits - while the rest is generously planned out.

Hopefully you all enjoyed! Please leave a review! Reblog so more people can see it too! 

[bloglilyjoyce]

Shannon Te Ao - Dominant Artist Model. 

First row: Video installation pictures from “With the sun aglow, I have my pensive moods”. 

Other rows: “My life as a tunnel”

I’ve sat down to write about Shannon’s work a few times now. It overwhelms me because I think I take inspiration from so many works of his and in so many ways. Plus navigating the different contexts behind our works is unfortunately often put into the ‘too hard’ basket. I often do this with the works of Indigenous artists because I understand my Pakeha, coloniser identity cannot be directly or wholly compared to those of indigenous artists. Obviously this is problematic in itself and means that I cut myself off from a whooole lot of amazing artists works. This is something I’m really working to resolve in my works and in my research. It’s not that I don’t already engage with Indigenous artists, it’s just that up until this semester I may have avoided talking about them so not to run into these things... not algood but I’m going to conscientiously work on it from here. Te Ao has definitely shaped a lot of my art In terms of his mediums, I was always inspired by the merging of performance, writing, video work, expanded drawing and collaboration. We had a chat once about this idea of mirroring empathy. This has now become the start of a new vein of works. 

Excerpt from my last essay !

“Shannon Te Ao is a multimedia artist working predominantly with performance, video and writing (festival). Themes found in his work are always filled with potent cultural references which generally diverge from a lived indigenous, Maori experience (Te Ao, lecture). Te Ao’s work, “With the Sun aglow, I have my pensive moods” is a two channel video work, shown at Edinburgh Arts Festival in 2017. It explores themes around his own cultural history and others alike. The first work shows two women, as they embrace each other in the throws of an evening skyline. The scene plays out an imagined meeting between Te Roha, a nineteenth century Maori princess originating from Te Ao’s own iwi (Te Ao, vimeo), and an unnamed, fictional character from a Charles Burnette film; “The killer of sheep” (1978) (Te Ao, festival). Burnette is an African American director has been known to cast black characters, fighting against the lack of historical representation of black people on television, particularly in a positive light. Similarly, Te Ao uses Maori indigenous characters to create conversation around his own indigenous experience (Clifford).

The second video is a series of “barren landscapes” (Clifford), shot in the north Island, near Taupo, wherein lies Te Ao’s iwi, Ngati Tuwharetoa and the cemetery of his ancestors’ (Te Ao, vimeo). Cattle grazes in perhaps the early morning, or the fading day. In another scene, power-lines stretch across misted farmland. Both are shot in black and white cinematography style. Te Roha’s waiata plays in linkage to the two video works (The aforementioned ancestor of Te Ao). The waiata tells the story of love and loss; “Te Rohu has contracted leprosy (introduced by European settlers) from a suitor, but also laments a landslide that wiped out a village including her father, Mananui Te Heuheu Tukino II, and the wider trauma that colonisation has brought to the country” (Clifford). Te Ao reconstructs this waiata with his own voice, taking on her mourning as his own (Te Ao, lecture).  

Packed with personal sentimentality and referential of his own and others intergenerational trauma, Te Ao attempts to create a rush of empathy within the viewer’s perception of the work. When simply watching the two channel video work, none of these narratives are explicitly played out. What we see are only disparate landscapes, two women in what seems like an impending parting, or perhaps, an intimate return, and the droning lyrics of ambiguous waiata, yet, we empathise with what we do not wholly know. We come to a crossroads: “Cinematic minimalism” (Te Ao, Lecture) with maximalist meanings. Jeanette Winterson (who I will later talk about in more detail) tackles an adjacent idea in her self written memoir. She comes from the context of writing, but perhaps it is relevant in the case of cinematic work, too. “What you leave out says as much as those things you include” (Winterson). What Te Ao does not include explicitly in his work, is still felt with energetic intention. He is able to do this because “most spectators of works of art are familiar with feelings of empathetic engagement with what they see in the work itself” (Freeberg, Gallese). We feel connected to what’s in front of us, partly because we’ve experienced it before in some capacity. Te Ao uses cinematic tropes such as monochromatic film and “empathetic sound” (Carlsson), pairing these with the seemingly disparate landscapes and narratives, there is still a gap between between personal and universal experiences. “When we observe what someone else is doing and we ourselves live in it in some sense, rather than just understand it at an intellectual level" (Michotte, Reynolds 98)”. 

https://www.contemporaryhum.com/shannon-te-ao-in-edinburgh

--

Cool that I just get to chat with one of my favourite artists. What i wrote about Te Ao in my first IPO iteration 

“Since I learnt about Shannon’s work, it has excited and annoyed me. It is everything I look for in art, and everything I want to make. It feels like what I am trying to realise in my own work. Though this is satisfying to see what you want to see in yourself, laid before you, it is frustrating to see it already being done so elegantly. Of course, Shannon has nuanced, and important parts of his work that are far removed from my own cultural background, lived experiences, etc., and vice versa. This gives me hope.

Some things that I really appreciate about Shannon’s work are

• His use of poetry; whether it is shown as piece on it’s own, slipped into titles of the work, or sung, overlaying the video, etc. His creative use of words to permeate more meaning and finish a piece.

• Showing and finishing of video works, e.g. double sided, contrasting videos

• Collaboration. Expanded drawing. Video. Performance. (All mediums that are and are becoming stronger throughout my practice).

• Themes of intimacy, bringing together, healing etc. Example of this is “My life as a tunnel”.”

[lsds-blog]

Poppy’s Initiation

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 obsession 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's 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 powerlessness 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 felt 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 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 have 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 two! 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 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; 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, though 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 restricted 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), and the circumstances of its first performance. 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 forming 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 and 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 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 little bee.”

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 said that as Crystal 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 has 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 my 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 area 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 week. 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. We don't talk about cousin Bobby in the family. And 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 uncertainty. 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 knot 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 am,” 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.”

“Oh, that's great, congratulations!” Jenni squealed. “I'm so excited for you both. When are you doing it?”

“In a month's time,” Madame stated. It was the first indication Quinn or I had had of a timescale. “They're just the most perfect couple, aren't they?”

I blushed with pride at Madame's compliment. I knew she was entirely sincere, and I loved her deeply. I was prepared to give to her as openly as I would to Quinn. She could provide something we both needed that neither of us had in our personalities. Our three-way relationship seemed ideal.

My excitement and pride was soon worn down by the suffering that Jenni's needle inflicted on me. I'd read about people who experienced tattooing as a pleasure, that the gnawing of the inking gradually became hypnotic and a delight. I was to find no such relief. The last half hour (I know it was this long because Quinn told me so; it seemed far longer to me) was spent with tears of frustration at the unbearable pain, but I wouldn't let Jenni stop. I'm sure I hurt poor Quinn as I squeezed ever harder on her hand, but it was the sole source of support for me throughout the process.

Finally Jenni smiled and put aside her instrument of torture. “You were so brave!” she said. “I've not seen many people who were in such pain and told me to carry on anyway. You're a queen and now you have a crown.”

I was allowed a mirror and saw what she meant. It was at least a diadem, a tattooed tiara. The scaly design now filled my temples and wrapped around my ears, both in front and above. From the front it appeared as if I had a tattoo covering the entirety of my scalp.

I felt a tremor as I took in my appearance. My make-up was smudged and had run, a result of my tears, making me look pitiable rather than haughty. As I took in the extent of the new tattoo I felt a profound regret that I'd done this. I'd gone too far, I'd allowed myself to do something ridiculous and shameful, something that would knock my life out of its track. I had chosen to do something that would deny me the course through life that should have been.

“You look so beautiful,” Madame whispered. I looked at Quinn who held me in her gaze, wistful and enchanted. She was too far lost in her reverie to speak, but I knew I'd made her happy. I had to console myself with the happiness my metamorphosis gave to the two people who meant most to me in the world.

“And now you have to suffer a little more. We'll all be tattooed to show our mutual commitment. You'll be first, Poppy. Undress for Jenni. Let her give you my mark.”

I was to be tattooed above my sex and was soon stripped to only my bra. I reclined in a chair as Jenni shaved the area (I kept myself shaved daily, but she evidently saw it as necessary). Madame wiped away the ruined make-up from my eyes and set to renewing it as Jenni began to give me the mark that Madame had requested to prove my commitment. “As long as you bear this tattoo you will be obedient to me,” she said and I gave her my pledge.

Surprisingly, the pain was nothing like as intense as the tattooing of my scalp. I could see nothing of the design as Jenni worked, and only after a full half hour was I allowed to sit up and see my latest tattoo (since my scalp tattoo was a single uninterrupted design, I suppose I should call it my second tattoo). The image was of three interlinked circles, arranged in a triangle, about four centimetres high. The circle at the apex was filled by a Latin 'A', finely wrought with slender black lines (A for Anne, Nancy's real name). The lower circles were labelled 'P' and 'Q', representing the hierarchy that we were now part of. The upper circle was ornamented with fine radiating points, turning it into a representation of a sun.

“When you two become Beausoleils, your circles will become suns too,” Madame informed us. “Now I will get my tattoo.”

For the next hour I watched with fascination as Madame, then Quinn were given tattoos identical to my own. We were now bound together, the tattoos a symbol of the permanence of our commitment. There was a sense of solemn ritual, and our marriage was now completed I felt, though the legal niceties were some weeks off. A contract written in skin seemed to me far more binding than any statute of the state.

By the time we made our journey home I'd been given a set of nails, pale pink, matt, long and claw like, with three of them ornamented by a row of gilded studs. Quinn insisted that I'd become as beautiful as an insect, and a look in the mirror showed me exactly what she meant, though the insect-like creature I saw was to my tastes not beautiful.

Madame treated us to a meal at her favourite local restaurant. She sighed as she looked at me. “My dearest Poppy, you've completed our agreement, and you couldn't have made me happier. I was full of trepidation when I arrived. I was sure you'd end up hating me for insisting on such a terrible makeover, and yet now we're all bound together forever. It hurts me to think that in a couple of days I'll be so far away from you and Quinn. You've become like my daughters, and more. I'll be here for your wedding, and of course we'll Skype every day.”

“Our evil mother,” Quinn said mischievously, defusing the intensity of emotion. “But evil in a nice way,” she giggled.

The sadness returned in abundance as we saw Madame off at the airport, however. I'd hardly been out since returning from the restaurant, and going to a busy public place was now a considerable trial for me. I'd just been to Crystal's barbershop and my shave had been freshened, my scalp polished to a high gloss (Madame had paid Crystal for a full month of daily shaves for me, and warned that a missed visit would require a trip to a piercing studio). I wore my black lenses, and my make-up was relatively restrained, but that only made me look pale and odd. I felt an almost unbearable fear of the attention my strangeness drew.

As we said our farewells, Madame had a last instruction for me. “I've been showing your pictures to some photographers who use alternative models,” she said. “They seem to feel you're a little too slim to be regarded as a plus size model. I think it's best you gain some weight.”

“Uh, really?” I was stunned by the request. “I'm not sure...”

“If Madame wants it you need to obey,” Quinn said.

“How much?” I asked.

“Well what weight are you now?”

“I'm about twelve and a half stone.” She looked uncomprehendingly at me. I did a quick calculation. “About a hundred and seventy-five pounds.”

“Well let's see if you can't make two hundred by wedding day. I want you to keep your waist though, so you'll be corseted all the time. And Quinn can massage you every day to try to minimise stretch marks. Are you happy that she'll be bigger and softer, Quinn?”

“Very much, Madame,” my love said happily. I could see a dreamy look in her eye as she looked at me, imagining me getting fat. I knew I couldn't resist this plan, though it shocked me. “Will we stop at two hundred?”

“We'll see how she looks, but I wouldn't be surprised if we make her bigger still. Would you like to weight two twenty-five, Poppy?”

“That's... sixteen stone,” I sighed. “Properly fat. Honestly, the idea is hard for me to bear. But I'll do it anyway if it's what you want.”

“My little angel,” Madame said, and kissed me. “Or should I say my big angel. You'll look so beautiful, Poppy, never doubt that.”

Of course I did. Doubt was everything to me now. I'd allowed myself to be transformed in a manner that was increasingly permanent, and yet I couldn't feel comfortable in my new body. Every time I looked in the mirror I still expected to see the plain girl with long hair. The tattooed girl, pierced heavily, nearly bald with only her odd braids, she shocked me every time I saw her. And she shocked my friends too. I wanted to avoid them now, since so few of them could adjust to my makeover, and my presence all too evidently discomforted them. Quinn's friends were a little different. They seemed fascinated by my rapid metamorphosis, but asked too many questions which I struggled to answer. Still, at least they could seem to accept me, and once they'd got over their initial surprise they were able to relax in my presence.

Quinn had taken on the role of dietician for me, eager to try to attain the specified gain by the date, only a few weeks off, of our union. She encouraged me to drink alcohol each evening, and I did find that the slight hangover I'd have each morning drove me to seek out unhealthy foods. The kitchen was generously provided with stocks of biscuits, cakes, salty snacks, and with Quinn's encouragement I indulged myself, though I felt a guilt as I became gluttonous. I'd been provided with some new corsets, which were very loose compared to those I'd become accustomed to, yet within a week I was aware that they were growing tighter. At about the same time I became aware that my face was becoming rounder, my cheeks filling out.

I nervously asked Quinn if she could see a difference in me. “Definitely. Your boobs and butt are softening. Madame's right, you definitely suit being chubby.” I didn't share their confidence in my growing beauty, yet I didn't for a moment doubt their sincerity.

Madame remained silent about her plans for our wedding, only informing us that all of the arrangements had been made. We didn't have to worry about anything, just do as we were told on the day. It was a few days before the festivities when I made my usual trip to the barbershop, accompanied by Quinn (I'd made a few trips by myself but had found them terrifying and begged Quinn to be there for me, since the presence of strangers watching me being shaved was more than I could bear on my own). Crystal waved me to the chair, as usual hardly saying a single word. She caped me and wetted my scalp with the lubricating spray that she'd taken to using. “You can shave over the full tattoo today,” I told her. The tattoo had healed nicely and the last traces of scabbiness had gone. There was a slight growth of downy hair, obviously different to the stubble which normally grew, the effects of the depilatory finally receding.

I took off my glasses and tipped my head back as she shaved over my eyebrows. As she shaved my forehead I felt the blade slip back and begin to crunch through thick hair. She was slicing the razor into the root of my foremost braid. “Uh, Crystal, what are you doing?” I almost shouted.

“Your Madame was in touch and said she wanted this. Your braids are too loose. She said you were to be a good girl or I would have to report you to her. Now will you sit still?”

“Yes... I'm sorry,” I said, too shocked to know what to do.

I felt the blade slice through the tightly wound hair and moments later a braid was dropped into my lap. Within a few minutes the rest of them were gathered there.

I was treated to a full lathered scalp now and a shave with a safety razor. As I put back my glasses and saw the effect in hard focus for the first time I was devastated. I'd imagined the braids hardly covered my baldness, yet without them I looked so different. My head looked too round, the tattoos so much more dominating. I looked to Quinn and she was clearly shocked too, unsure whether she liked this new development.

“Your turn now,” Crystal said to Quinn.

“Me? I didn't want a cut.”

“Your mistress said you will sit in the chair in silence and take what you're getting. Now stop wasting my time and sit down.”

Quinn was treated to a shampoo at the backwash in the rear of the shop before she took her place in Crystal's chair. I couldn't stop feeling my scalp as I stared in fascinated horror at what was unfolding before me. Crystal combed back Quinn's short hair then lifted her razor to her forehead.

She drew it back in short, measured strokes and wet locks immediately began to spill onto the cape. I knew that Quinn would now be bald too; the first stroke of the razor made the outcome inevitable. We would both be hairless for our wedding. And maybe longer? What if Madame wanted us to maintain this look for a long time? Forever?

I stared with fascination. Crystal appeared utterly indifferent as the razor quickly sheared away more hair, but Quinn was struggling to control her emotion. I could sense her tension, her difficulty in maintaining her posture, her fear of moving and getting cut inducing a rigidity. And she was undoubtedly unhappy that she was being shaved. She looked more unsure than ever since I'd known her. Her eyes were sparkling with barely contained tears. The top of her head was now exposed, the strips of hair at the sides giving a suggestion of severe male pattern baldness. It was painful for me to see my beloved girl being so humiliated. I was eager for all of her hair to be gone, to see her clean and beautiful.

Crystal never appeared to be rushing in her work, yet she operated with an admirable efficiency. Now that her scalp was shaved completely, Quinn was given a brow shave by the implacable Crystal. The straight razor had seemingly not cut close enough to satisfy her, so that Quinn's head was doused in white foam an a safety razor was employed to give a second shave, Crystal pressing the blades tight to her scalp, which now gleamed palely.

“Oh god, look at us!” Quinn moaned as we made our way home. “I can't believe she's shaved us both. I do like it on you, honeybee, but I look just awful.”

Oddly, those were my feelings too: I looked terrible but Quinn looked strangely beautiful. Her head seemed perhaps oversized (a paradox, given that the absence of hair made it smaller than ever), her tiny neck seemingly insufficient to support the rounded bones of her prominent nape. Yet I found the look intensely erotic, a fragile beauty that was entirely suited to the most brilliant person I'd ever met.

As we arrived home we were both eager (if nervous) to take in our latest transformation. We stood side by side in front of a mirror, both of us upset by the loss of every hair, but both experiencing a growing feeling of arousal. Quinn pawed at her own head, then let one hand slip over my shiny scalp. “Oh, my little baby, I love the feeling. If I didn't have to face people I'd probably be happy to look like this forever to be able to enjoy this sensation.”

We were soon lying together in bed, our frantic writhings interspersed with ecstatic descriptions of each other's loveliness. I couldn't doubt that Quinn was enchanted by my baldness and by the unmistakeable growth of my body. She kissed my tattoo and expressed a fervent hope that Madame would press on with my tattooing soon.

“I want to see a lot of tattoos on you. You look so wild now, and I know that deep down inside that's really who you are, fight against it though you will. I've seen how you look at my tattoo. You love it. You want more on my body too, don't you?”

I was barely able to speak as Quinn worked her magic on my body. I stared into her eyes and nodded. “I want to offer my back to Madame to be tattooed, every inch of it. Maybe covered from buttocks to neck.”

“Oh god, too much,” I slurred.

She giggled. “So why can I see you getting so excited? Anyway, your thigh is soon going to be as big as my back. You'll need ten times as much ink to be tattooed as I will.” She pressed her forearm against mine. “My tattoo would look tiny on your arm.”

“Oh, Quinn, it's horrible to see how fat I'm getting.”

“It's not for me. You look wonderful. I adore the shape of your arms now, so soft and sculptural. Madame sees things we don't and she's right to make you bigger. You look so much more sensual now. You look tougher with your head shaved. I want you to hold me in your big strong arms and make me feel safe.”

I didn't feel tough, but later as I looked in the mirror I could appreciate what she meant. We'd Skyped with Madame to allow her to see that her instructions had been followed and now I'd been made-up by Quinn, given black lips and thin rims of black eye-liner. The heavy, bald girl with tattooed scalp that I saw looked intimidating. Beside me was my tiny love, her eyes now swirled with thin curves and fine painted brows. Her beauty made me tremble with joy, and I was even prepared to believe that my sacrifice was worthwhile. We pledged to remain bald until our wedding day.

It seemed shocking now to look at our wedding photographs as our first anniversary arrived. It still astounded me to see myself bald, and hardly less so to see Quinn and Madame bald too. I'd cried when Madame had arrived at the airport just as hairless as us, though she clearly loved being bald, and once I'd got over the shock I could see that she was more beautiful than ever. She wore a wig to hide her scalp in her professional life.

On the morning of our marriage Madame revealed that our change of name had now become official and we would sign our contract with our new names. We were now Quinn and Poppy Beausoleil, and I felt that the change of name bound me more closely than ever to Madame. After we'd been through the legal ceremony we went to our hotel where Madame's, Quinn's and my pubic tattoos were amended, the circles bearing our initials now given the same radial rays as the upper A. I was the proudest woman in the world when we went to enjoy the feast in our honour.

But now everything in our lives had changed. The most obvious was that we were now living in the Netherlands. A few weeks after the ceremony Quinn learnt of a position of principal flute with a well-regarded new music ensemble in a small Dutch city. She'd applied and been accepted. Two months later we'd moved from the UK and were living in a much nicer apartment than our meagre income had been able to provide in England. Quinn was now also teaching in the conservatory in the city (the ensemble was attached to the school which was eager to exploit her expertise both as an instrumentalist and as a composer). Since most of my work came through writing there was nothing to prevent me doing my job in another country.

Madame had been supportive of the change and had insisted that Quinn should grow out her hair for her interview. By the time she travelled to the Netherlands she had a covering of auburn bristles, which looked cute and boyish. We'd agreed to both grow our hair for a full year, which initially seemed thrilling, yet soon I missed being subjected to my barbershop ordeals, especially once my hair got to an inch and the awkwardness of growing out became apparent.

In return for the indulgence of longer hair we'd agreed to monthly tattooing sessions of no less than two hours. By the time we next sat for a haircut I would have a full sleeve covering my right arm and Quinn would have the back piece she'd suggested. Madame spent a few weeks researching the best artists she could find in the entire country and beyond; Quinn would travel to Antwerp each month to receive the next session of work on her design. Now her delicate, pale back was covered in black lines and dots, the complexity of the geometric design a thing of wonder.

I still recall vividly the first session where her back was adorned with sweeping lines of thick black, a freehand translation of some rapid sketches the artist had made. The extent of the tattooing frightened me. The lines grew inch by inch to cover the full length of Quinn's narrow back. It seemed unthinkable that every mark that I saw would remain with her for the remainder of her life. She seemed to take the hours of tattooing with ease, yet as we made the long train journey home she admitted that it had been agony.

“But I loved it too,” she admitted. “I felt faint at times with the burning, but after maybe half an hour I started to realise that I want to suffer like this. Being marked too, the acceptance of that was thrilling. I feel like I need to submit and feel pain more than ever.”

I felt a fear at her words, discomforted by her desire to be pushed ever further. And yet I adored her braveness, her desire for the extremes of experience. I wished that I could be as bold. When, soon after, I began my tattooing I was hopeful that I too could find pleasure in the pain of the needle, but no such delight was allowed me. The end of the session was a source of great relief for me. I stared in curiosity at my arm, now largely covered in a network of fine lines. The artist Madame had chosen specialised in strange, abstract forms, somewhat reminiscent of early European biomorphic abstractionists: Arp, Kandinsky, Klee. I'd seen that her work was mostly brightly coloured but at the end of the first session I only had outlines in red. A particularly complex form filled the outside of my upper arm (which was now noticeably thicker than it had been a few months earlier, my weight gain especially apparent in the girth of my limbs). Smaller images were arranged over the rest of my arm, though the inside of my forearm was marked with a narrow drawing extending from inner elbow to wrist. The patterning that covered the point of my elbow had been particularly painful.

I had difficulty accepting that this patterned limb was part of me and looked at it in astonishment for the next few days. Quinn, however, was delighted with my new tattoos. She loved to stand in our bedroom between two mirrors to allow us to see our entire bodies. She became enraptured as she imagined how our completed tattoos would look, and her arousal would infect me.

I'd experienced some homesickness for the initial weeks of our resettlement. I was lonely and unsettled, especially since Quinn was so busy that she was rarely at home. But soon Quinn had made new friends from the academy and I found I was welcomed into this social group. Many of our new friends were musicians, writers, artists. There was a greater mixing of high and popular culture here, and classical musicians had strong links with jazz, rock and indie musicians, as well as electronic and dance artists. There was a relaxed bohemianism in the city, and most of our circle were tattooed. Whereas my friends in England were shocked by my image my new friends were entirely accepting and my scalp tattoo was a source of admiration.

And it seemed that the acceptance of others affected my perceptions of myself. I found a sense of comfort in myself that had been lacking throughout my life. My inner desires were now being manifested in my appearance and I was no longer filled with fear that my wishes were shameful and needed to be hidden.

And as I made a rapprochement with my hidden desires I found that my creativity was unleashed. I began writing short prose texts, some just a few lines, none much more than three pages. After a few months, encouraged by Quinn, I showed them to some of the writers I'd got to know, and was surprised by the enthusiasm they expressed.

And now, a year after we were married, my texts have been published in some literary magazines and a selection is shortly to appear in a book of short stories with other new writers. And Quinn is gaining a reputation as a composer of talent, currently working on a half hour piece for a very good German chamber ensemble. She continues to work with her ensemble and has been engaged as a soloist in some contemporary flute concerti with other ensembles and orchestras.

Now when we stood before the mirror I saw Quinn with a full back tattoo. There were large areas which had been filled in a solid black, and it was especially hard for me to see these being covered. Areas of pale skin on each side of her back, four inches wide and almost a foot long were slowly filled with inky black. The skin there now looked so strange, and I knew that over time more large sections of Quinn's body would become blackened too. It still frightens me yet I can't stop stroking this black flesh, kissing it, and each time I do I become enormously excited.

My own tattoos are, in contrast to Quinn's stark black work, brightly coloured. The forms which had been sketched were gradually filled with luscious colour, applied in a beautiful imitation of watercolour. The problem that they'd initially looked like a series of discrete images rather than a sleeve was solved by the addition of smaller sections filling larger gaps, then additions of tube-like additions connecting the drawings. On one expedition to my tattooist I was appalled to see that I was to have a tattoo added on the back of my right hand. It would be so exposed, more so than even my scalp tattoos (with my longer hair worn down I could hide the tattoos on my cheeks and forehead). But as I felt the needle stinging me I looked at Quinn and saw how happy she was. Even though I'd started to come to terms with the changes to my image I could never relish these changes as Quinn appeared to, nor could I accommodate the pain of being tattooed in the way my beautiful and brave girlfriend could. I envied her ability to take pleasure in the pain that I found hard to endure. From the moment when the needle first touched me I longed for the moment when my tattooist would say “That's enough for today”.

And now when I looked at my sleeve the design has a unity provided by the final addition: a dense red background filling every space between the forms. The colour was applied with subtle shadings, so that wisps of darker red flicker and spiralled around my arm. The red even covered the back of my hand, up to the first joint of each finger, but even that was not the end. Each finger was now adorned with a line growing from the red area, the line crossed with short irregular bars, like some sort of ogham script. The lines all ended in a U-shape that surrounds each nail bed, every finger subtly ornamented in a unique manner.

I sometimes felt like my arm was an alien creature that had attached itself to my shoulder. Certainly I felt surprise each time I saw it in the mirror, and often when I glimpsed it from the corner of my eye it shocked me. Quinn adored my sleeve, however, and I found it hard to resist her when she said my left hand should be made as beautiful as the right. I knew that I would submit to more tattoos, many more. Even if Quinn and Madame never again asked it of me I accepted that I now had a desire to ornament my body.

And my body was so much bigger and softer now. I looked back at images of myself before I met Quinn with wonder. I was so much slimmer, so conventional, long hair and no piercings or tattoos. Now I'd been turned into a much heavier girl, my body sculpted by Quinn who acted under Madame's instruction. My generous diet was tweaked each month following a weighing. I'd gained around forty pounds since Madame decided I should be chubby, and my corseting had meant that I'd retained a disproportionately small waist. The pounds had given me bigger breasts and buttocks, thickened my arms and thighs. I had moments of despair, conditioned like everyone in our society to believe that slim is beautiful, yet at other times I felt pride in my appearance. Quinn adored the changes to my body and insisted that I look far more attractive at this size, and I'd started to do some modelling, the photographers assuring me that I have a very special look (despite my awkwardness before the lens they'd all been keen to continue to work with me, so I suppose that something about my modelling must have had merit).

A common complaint during my photoshoots was that my hair was untidy, and a trim was often suggested, but in every case I had to decline, because I'd promised Madame that my hair would remain untouched for a full year. Now it was longer it was possible to style my hair to something acceptable but when it was a couple of inches long it looked very untidy. Quinn loves making me wear my hair slicked back so that the tattooing about the edges of my hairline is exposed.

But now a full year had passed since the last time Quinn and I were shaved. Her hair had grown a little faster than mine, but both of us had shoulder length hair now. Madame had scheduled a week long visit, and both of us had tried to clear our schedules, though that was far easier for me than for Quinn: even during the holidays at the conservatory she still has a busy calendar, with rehearsals, performances and private pupils. She would still have to attend a few rehearsals and play a concert during Madame's visit, though since it was in our home city it wouldn't be too intrusive.

The excitement we both felt at meeting once more with our mentor was tinged with fear too. I wanted to have my hair cut and coloured to a striking look, but was afraid that Madame would make me acquire a style that was extreme and shocking. And I knew that a mere haircut would not placate her desire to change me. I tried to prepare myself for more permanent changes, though all she'd confirmed was that she would like to see me with more piercings. What she planned for Quinn was even less clear. We'd talked of little else in recent weeks, and we suspected that since our major tattoos were now complete Madame would now initiate another tattooing project for each of us. The prospect of another expansion of our tattoos made us both tingle with nervous anticipation.

On the day of Madame's arrival she'd instructed us to each dress the other as we desired. Quinn put my hair hair in pigtails, a style I probably last wore before I was a teenager. She gave me a pale, very matte face, deep red lips and winged liner with a pale iridescent tint, very subtle, on my lids, though it was almost lost once she puts on my glasses. They were a new pair, round lenses surrounded by thick imitation tortoiseshell frames.

I wore a peach coloured satin blouse with a bow at the neck and a knee-length flared maroon skirt (my form was exaggerated by the tight corset I wore), with pale yellow opaque stockings and flat shoes. I couldn't help giggling as I looked at myself in the mirror. My bookish, librarian-like image was undermined by the tattoos which peeked down from my forehead and sideburns, not to mention my tattooed right hand. Still, I adored how Quinn had made me look.

And she giggled too as she took in the look I'd chosen for her. Her hair was set overnight on small rods and I brushed it out to a frizzy, afro-like look. It made her beautiful auburn hair look much shorter. It was a change that I found very exciting.

I'd gained a lot more confidence in applying make-up during the previous year, and I gave Quinn brightly coloured eyes, softly blending cool pastel shades: blues, greens, a hint of yellow. Her pale lashes were tinted with baby blue and her lips were painted pink with a thick gloss. Her cheeks were amply highlighted.

And I chose for her a red dress, sleeveless and with a low cut back so that the extent of her tattooing was evident. “Oh look at me,” she said happily as we stood before the mirror. “My make-up is perfect. You've got so good, Poppy. I hope Madame isn't too keen on my hair, though, it looks like clown hair. Imagine if she made me perm it and it was always like this!”

I played with the springy curls. “I'd be happy if she did. Seeing you having to spend hours getting it turned to frizz would be so sexy. Maybe I did this because I want her to fall in love with this look and get you permed. She did perm me, remember?”

I was unbearably excited as we set out. I was trembling and the adrenaline that was surging through my body made me feel sick and giddy. Her flight had just landed as we arrived at the airport but it was more than an hour before she finally emerged from the arrivals gate. We ran to her and embraced her, all three of us in tears as our expectation turned to joy.

“Oh look at you both,” she finally said. “You look so pretty, so much more beautiful than I remember. You've both really blossomed. How have I managed to live without you for so long?” It was nearly eight months since our last physical meeting, and that had been only an overnight liaison when Madame had visited Europe on a business trip.

“And you look so good too,” Quinn replied. “Your pretty bob is back. I adore it on you.”

“It's a wig, darling,” she laughed. “Let's head back to the hotel and I can change into something more sexy.”

We were soon in her suite and she ordered us to undress. “I'm afraid my encounter with your friend Madeleine had some long term consequences. I've started smoking again. The pressures of my work have made me unable to stop. Poppy, dear, light my cigarette for me.”

I took the cigarettes from her handbag and placed one in her lips, then held up the lighter with my tremoring hand. She took a deep breath and closed her eyes with evident pleasure. “I've been craving this from the moment I got on the plane. And have you been smoking, girls?”

“I haven't even once,” Quinn said proudly. “Poppy lapses occasionally, when she's out drinking. A lot of our friends smoke, but she never has more than one.”

She called me over and made me kneel beside her. She held the cigarette to my lips. “Deep breath, honey, and hold it. You've been a bad girl. I told you that you only smoked on makeover days and you haven't had a haircut for a year. Maybe I should punish you, take you for a barbershop shave right now and get your scalp tattoo completed.”

“Oh, Madame, I'm sorry. I'm weak.”

“But look at you! So much prettier with your big, soft body. And that tattoo looks so perfect. I'd not really been able to tell just how good it was from the pictures. I'm so pleased that I can forgive some little failings. But you must try harder to be obedient. Now undress me, Poppy.”

As I unfastened her outfit and peeled it free of her body I heard Quinn gasp. Over the previous months she'd been extensively tattooed, so that roughly seventy five percent of her skin was covered, at least from knees to collar bones, her arms covered down to the middle of her forearms. The tattoos were intensely coloured, very dark, beautifully executed. “Quinn, my wig,” she ordered, taking another drag.

As the wig was lifted from her scalp I saw that her hair had been clippered very short, not much more than a quarter inch, bleached and tinted a pale pink. A large tattoo was easily visible through the hair on the left side of her head, curling around her ear, a stylised floral form. The beautifully dressed businesswoman who'd arrived on the plane was now unrecognisable. The woman I knelt beside was every inch the woman who deserved to command me, to shape me. I joined Quinn in putting my lips to her nipples and sucking at the large rings that hung there.

We spent an hour or more indulging our beautiful mistress, during which time she orgasmed numerous times, yet she made it plain that we were to control our impulses and refrain from climax. It was extremely difficult; I was so close to orgasm from the moment I saw her naked that the slightest pleasure made me come to the brink, but I was obedient to Madame and knew that she wouldn't fail to punish me should I fail.

An alarm sounded on Madame's phone and she ended our session of love-making. “We have so much to pack in,” she smiled. “I want to indulge my girls and make them ever more beautiful. You both have some appointments today. And because I want to spoil you I'm going to allow you to orgasm whenever you please, except when you're in private.”

Quinn and I were now fitted with pink vibes that fitted entirely inside us with the exception of a fine antenna (which also acted as a means of retrieval). As it slid inside me I clenched my muscles, trying not to succumb to the delight of the sensation, yet I also had in mind the fear of being embarrassed in public by an orgasm that I couldn't conceal.

“These are remotely activated,” Madame explained. “I have an app on my phone that can set various patterns for stimulation. Since some of the procedures you'll be facing might be challenging, these will help to distract you and make the ordeal more pleasurable.” We both thanked her, but I could see that Quinn was as appalled as I at the prospect of noisily climaxing during a salon treatment. We were, however, too fond of Madame to do anything but thank her.

We dressed once more in the outfits we'd began the day in, and retouched each other's make-up. Madame dressed entirely differently, however, a little t-shirt and short skirt, so that she was revealed as a heavily tattooed woman. She had me do her make-up, and as I scrubbed away her old make-up I saw that her brows were now tattooed in place. I complimented her on how lovely they looked.

“I had electrolysis to remove any growth of hair and got these tattooed because it took me so long to draw on nice brows. I've been so busy during recent months that I can hardly spare any time in the morning for complicated make-up. I'm so glad you like them but I don't want either of you two getting tattooed brows. I want your looks to be more adaptable. Still, that could change. I've sometimes wondered about something more dramatic, completely non-naturalistic being inked over your eyes, Poppy. These tattoos fade after a year, and will be gone in two, so it's not as if it would be forever. So it remains an option for you.”

We travelled in Madame's hire car to a clinic on the outskirts of the city that specialised in cosmetic procedures. I could see Quinn was no happier than I, and it was she who couldn't suppress her curiosity. “What are we having done, Madame?” she asked.

“A nice surprise,” she laughed. “You just agree to everything, sign all the consent forms and act like you were expecting all of this.” She was on her phone as we crossed the car park when suddenly Quinn stopped walking and gave a shriek of surprise.

“Oh, shit,” she muttered. “That's really intense!” She gasped as she tried to control herself. “I feel like I'm going to pee myself.”

“That's for asking silly questions,” Madame said, amused by her predicament. “I've set it for ten second bursts of stimulation at random times for the next ten minutes.”

Her face reddened as she realised how hard it would be to hide the effects of the stimulator. And my horror at her situation was in large part selfish; I knew that soon I'd have to endure the same shocks, and that I wasn't as good as Quinn at maintaining control.

It was soon apparent that both of us had been booked in for dental work. I'd never been good with dentists and I was beside myself with fear. Quinn was no happier, and whispered to Madame: “Please Madame, teeth are really important in forming the embouchure. I have a concert this week and I can't risk a treatment that will affect my playing.”

“Well you can just have your lip injections then,” Madame said, deadpan. “Nice full lips...”

Quinn looked horrified. “But Madame, that would mean I'd have to get used to a new lip shape. It would have a huge effect on my playing.”

Madame laughed. “Well if Poppy agrees to go a bit bigger on her lips then I'll spare you that. What do you say, Poppy?”

I groaned. “Oh Madame, will they be really big and swollen?” My head was filled with images of girls I'd seen with over-inflated lips, coarsely suggestive.

“I suppose so,” she nodded. “Or we could go more subtle if you insist on Quinn taking her share.”

“I'll do it,” I said unhappily, though a glance at Quinn and her adoration of me for my sacrifice made me feel better.

Unfortunately for her my promise of agreement, the arrival of the dentist in the waiting area and the discharge of her vibrator coincided. As the dentist greeted us Quinn clapped her hand over her mouth to mute her wailing. I knew that the unexpected jolt of pleasure had made her climax and the dentist looked confused as she held out her hand to welcome us.

“I'm sorry, I have wind,” Quinn said, her voice trembling as she tried to hide the orgasm that still shook her body.

Madame couldn't hide her amusement. She giggled as she addressed the dentist. “Quinn has a few concerns. She's a professional flautist and and has a concert in a few days. She's worried that the treatment will affect her playing.”

The young dentist spoke in flawless English. “It shouldn't be any problem. There'll be minimal swelling in almost all cases, and the tooth will be almost identical in shape to your natural tooth. I can't imagine any reason why you'd experience any difficulties.”

I struggled to take in what the dentist was saying, but a revelation hit as she spoke. “...the gold crown will be fitted later today...” We were both to have gold teeth.

Quinn was first to undergo her treatment. She emerged, accompanied by Madame, who'd been allowed to go in with her to hold her hand, looking upset and pained. Now it was her turn to sit alone in the waiting area as I took my place in the chair. I wanted to cry, so afraid was I of the distressing treatment I would have to undergo. The dentist spoke calmly and reassuringly, but I knew that the clinks I heard out of my eyeline were the sounds of a syringe being prepared. As I opened my mouth I knew that soon I would feel the nagging pain of an injection.

“Do sit still, Poppy,” Madame cautioned. “You're making the doctor's work more difficult.” I had shifted awkwardly in the chair, but the reason wasn't fear, it was an intense vibration filling my loins. Madame had triggered my stimulator at the precise moment when the injection was to be made.

And as the needle sank into my gum and injected the bitter anaesthetic I continued to feel wave after wave of pleasure threatening to engulf me. It was the weirdest sensation, my mind unable to process such strong, yet conflicting, perceptions. It was only as the needle was slid free that the vibrations ceased.

“That was the lowest setting,” Madame said softly as the dentist and her nurse stepped away. “Once she starts drilling your tooth I'll try you on the middle setting. I think by the end of the day you might actually find you like dental treatments.”

I dabbed at the sweat on my forehead. “I doubt that very much. I'll make such a fool of myself.”

“She'll probably think you have a fetish for dental treatment if you orgasm loudly. You'll be banned from coming back here. You'd best try to hide it, at least until she's fitted your crown. I'd hate to see you left with the drilled stump of tooth like Quinn has.”

Unfortunately, Madame hadn't been joking. As the drill screamed into action and began to shave away slivers of my left upper canine I felt my body tense in response to the vibrator. It was far more powerful now, and might have been audible had it not been for the sound of the drill. I gurgled, unable to keep silent in the face of this new assault. The dentist, fortunately, appeared to interpret my vocalisation as a sign of distress at her own actions and continued, making soft reassurances that I'd be OK. I gripped the arms of the chair and felt my body become rigid with tension, fighting hard against the urge to allow the pleasure to take fire through my body. The relief as the drilling ended was not as great as the relief that I'd managed to control my urges.

I was now required to undergo the taking of a cast of my teeth, from which the new crown would be modelled. “We have our own technicians on site who will set to work immediately. You can return in four hours for the crown to be fitted. Your tooth will be sensitive, so avoid anything hot or cold. I'll provide some pain killers but if you experience any discomfort you should apply oil of cloves.”

I rejoined Quinn, discovering that we each had a similarly mutilated tooth, though hers was in a mirror image position to mine. “You both look gloomy,” Madame laughed. “You should be pleased that I'm buying you gold jewellery!”

“I never liked dentists, Madame. And I don't need you to buy presents to make me happy.”

“Nonsense. I love to indulge my little cherubs and I will always do so. Now I'm going to take you both for a nice meal to pass the time until your crowns are ready.”

And so we were taken to a restaurant, but both Quinn and I ate little, our teeth so sensitive that we had to avoid anything touching them. The dentist had provided us with bottles of eugenol which we intermittently dabbed on our stumps and which provided some relief from the unpleasant sensitivity, but which Madame disliked because of the strong smell. I could see that Quinn was worried that the crown would affect her playing and she couldn't relax. The meal was eaten with prolonged silences, though to say it was eaten is misleading; more than half of our plates of food were returned.

It was something of a relief when it was time to return to the dentist. Quinn again went first and as she came back out into the waiting area she flashed me a smile to show her new tooth.

It was rather too obvious, wider and flatter seemingly than the natural form of her tooth and polished brightly so that it gleamed brightly. I couldn't believe that this tooth would now dominate Quinn's smile forever, yet I had to accept that her natural tooth, so pretty and perfect had now been destroyed.

Or was I merely reacting with fear to how my own smile would now look? The fitting of the crown proceeded quickly and without difficulty and soon I was sitting up and looking at my own smile in a mirror. The presence of the gold seemed alien and unwelcome. I didn't like it. Yet Madame was obviously enchanted and her enthusiasm caught me up. I tried to appear pleased at her latest gift.

Quinn was now able to relax, her treatments for the day completed, but I was not so privileged. I was now taken to see another therapist who would reshape my lips. “She's decided she wants to go quite full and pouting, rather obvious, extreme even,” Madame said to my torturer. She pulled up an image on her phone to show the technician. I shuffled closer but she'd made sure the screen was out of my eyeline.

“Well yes, that is quite... dramatic. Are you sure about this?” she asked me, the young woman with the perfect blonde hair, perfect make-up, perfect pouting lips. I nodded. She smiled happily. After all, why would a girl with a gold tooth, tattooed hand, forehead, cheeks worry about her lips being engorged to a ridiculous extent?

As the fine needle slid into my lip I was surprised to feel less pain than I'd expected. My sense of relief was, however, short-lived. As the filler began to enter me there was a stinging and a distressing feeling of rapid swelling. Even as I sighed at the discomfort I felt the unwelcome tingle of the intruder that Madame had seated deep inside me. I wanted to beg her to stop, but how could I?

The injections seemed to continue for an eternity, a tedious, exhausting cycle of injections, my lips growing ever heavier and more numb. And deep inside me a nagging vibration that turned a sensation that should have been joyous into another torment, another challenge to be resisted. Finally, as the vibe was extinguished, I was allowed to see what had been done. My lips had grown, swollen and full so that all of the lines had been stretched smooth. “They're not what you intended, are they?” Madame said. “You'd wanted bigger.”

They were already more full than I could ever have desired. She came close as I looked at her pleadingly. “Or should I call Quinn through and have hers made bigger than this?”

“But she wouldn't be able to play her concert,” I whispered, my lips making articulation difficult.

“So what are you going to ask the nice lady?”

“Yes, I wanted them more full, more of a pout,” I said. As soon as I started to speak the vibration began once more and I completed my sentence in a breathy, excited voice.

“They'll settle down in a day or two. The size now is partly a result of the swelling caused by the injections, so you'll see the shape more clearly then. This filler is the best available. It shouldn't decrease appreciably for at least two months and in some clients I've seen the lips retain their shape for six months. Still, I'd recommend you make another appointment in two months and we can assess how best to retain the look you want.”

I took in my new look in silence, only muttering a stunned “Thank you,” as I left the treatment room.

“Oh shit, what have you done to her?” wasn't what I'd wanted to hear from Quinn.

“Please, Madame, turn it off,” I begged her. The vibrator had continued to gnaw away inside me since the beginning of the second round of injections and I felt sore and sick as I tried to resist its effects. She gave me an enigmatic smile and led me out to her car.

I groaned as she pressed a lipstick hard over my huge lips. “Don't you love her big, red duck lips?” Madame asked Quinn.

“Oh god, yes,” she said excitedly.

“She looks ravenous, trashy, but I think it suits her so well. Poppy, you'll make a lovely bimbo.”

Madame promised later that she hadn't done anything to modify the action of the vibrator, that it did nothing it hadn't been doing for the previous fifteen minutes, yet to me, as she made these accusations it felt like it hastened and became more violent in its buzzing. I could no longer control my reaction to its stimulation and broke down into a quivering mass of trembling, ecstatic flesh. I felt broken, yet filled with joy.

I woke the next morning in Madame's hotel suite. It was late in the morning and Quinn had long left to attend a rehearsal. Madame sat on the bed telling me I couldn't sleep in any longer. “There's lots to be done to you today, Poppy. You wouldn't want to disappoint Quinn by looking the same as you did when she left. I think your look from yesterday was fine in the morning but by the evening, once you had those adorable lips I could see something new was needed. You'll be perfect by the time we meet Quinn at the bar this evening.”

I couldn't resist Madame and willingly complied with her instructions. I was taken to an expensive salon and spa in a neighbouring city, my first hair appointment in over a year (and the most recent visits had been for a head shave). Now my long brown hair was subjected to an intense bleaching and by lunchtime it was a pale, silvery blond, not a hint of colour left. And to add to my sense of dislocation I'd been given long extensions. I regarded my reflection with astonishment. I saw a round faced girl with long blonde hair, a fringe which was long enough to reach her nose, softly parted in the centre, wisps framing her eyes, which were huge and pale blue, though the colour was very obviously the result of contact lenses, thick black brows, largely hidden by the fringe.

My complexion was a warm russet now, the outcome of my first ever spray tan. My cheeks were blushed with a deep brown and along the cheekbones were glowing stripes of highlighter. But my huge lips were the dominant feature, despite their paleness, in contrast to the garishness of the rest of my make-up. The pale, glossy pink of my lips was mirrored in the shade of my long, chisel-tipped nails.

Before we went to lunch Madame had me change into tight white jeans, knee length boots and a roll neck sleeveless jumper. “What a lovely difference from that cute, shy girl I met yesterday,” Madame giggled. “You look the perfect bimbo now. I think you've earned a cigarette.”

I lit it without a thought. I was glad of something to calm my nerves. “My poor little baby, you don't like what I've turned you into, do you?”

“I guess not. I look like the sort of vain, shallow girl I'd always avoid. And I can't accept that I've got these lips now.”

“The lips aren't going to go any time soon, but everything else is temporary. I imagine that you'll be feeling a razor on your scalp before long, Poppy.”

I took a nervous drag at the cigarette. “Bald again?” I was terrified by the idea.

“Not necessarily completely. We could shave some hair to allow your scalp tattoo to be extended. Or maybe just shave enough to let me see that lovely tattoo that your hair hides.”

By the evening I'd added a heavy fake fur jacket to my outfit (Madame had offered a real fur garment but I recoiled in horror at this and begged her never to buy fur, either for me or herself. She indulged my wish), and waited alone in the bar. Quinn entered and looked around but failed to recognise me. I felt a new humiliation as I walked over and stood before her. There was a moment of confusion before her face registered me. “Oh my little honeybee! What has she done to you?” Madame joined us now and there was a prolonged discussion of my metamorphosis into Poppy the bimbo, as I was now renamed.

Quinn seemed amused, repulsed, fascinated, aroused. She grimaced as she kissed me. “You've been smoking again, Poppy. You know I can always smell it on you. It doesn't smell nice.”

“She's smoked five today, and so have I,” Madame stated. “She's been a very brave girl, and tomorrow I've got a very difficult day planned for her. I think you can smoke too tonight, Quinn. I don't like it when you're so critical of poor Poppy. She's not a very bright girl, after all. Very easily led.”

We went to the terrace of the bar and Madame insisted that it should be Quinn who lit all three cigarettes. “You see, smoking isn't so bad, is it, Quinn?”

“I think she likes it more than I do,” I interrupted. My sixth cigarette of the afternoon was rather more than I could bear and it was making me feel sick.

Quinn wrinkled her nose at my revelation. “I do like it a bit too much, but I know how bad it is for me. And every time I smoke I feel a craving for days. When I'm composing I know I could very easily get into smoking one after another, and I never want to be like that.”

Madame kissed her, obviously relishing the rare opportunity to see Quinn smoking. She did look very sexy. “I share your concerns. I love smoking but I know I need to stop. Or at least just smoke occasionally, as a sexual thing. I've been so stressed that it's made my habit get out of control. I think you both need to support me to stop, don't you?”

“Yes, Madame,” Quinn said. “We're only allowed to smoke one day a week, no more than three each day and only when we're together, never alone. I mean when you're on the phone to us, or online, that's included.”

Madame laughed. “You can be very strict when you want to be. I like that. But I've smoked more than three today, so I should be punished. What would you suggest?”

“I think you should lose your pink bristles. I liked you better when you were bald, pretty though the buzzcut is.”

“Oh, Quinn, that's a bit more than I was expecting. A bit more permanent...”

“Nancy, for tonight it's Miss Quinn. And that goes for you, too, Poppy.” I was shocked to hear her call Madame by her given name. We never did that, but it was clear that Madame had accepted it. I realised that Quinn might have punishment in mind for me too. “And don't complain about your punishment, you'll only make it worse. I don't like bratty behaviour.”

“I'm sorry, Miss Quinn,” Madame said with a delighted grin. I was alarmed to see how much pleasure she was deriving from her role reversal.

“Madame, you don't have to do this. Your hair is so pretty.”

“Poppy, stop that right now!” Quinn said forcefully. “You're to call her Nancy and you're to obey me and not incite her to be naughty. I think those lip injections have made you forget how to behave. I think your IQ must have dropped fifty points from your makeover.”

Madame (I still couldn't think of her as Nancy) laughed at my admonishment. “Yes, Miss Quinn, she is a little slow now. Please don't be too hard on her.”

We finished our cigarettes and Quinn demanded a return to the hotel immediately. As soon as we entered the room she demanded that I should strip. “Do you like seeing her fat body?” she asked Madame, who was still revelling in doing everything to please the newly dominant Quinn. She pushed my arms down and it was Madame who stripped me, relishing the caresses over my arms, legs, torso.

“I do. Does she like being told she's fat?”

“Oh gosh, no!” Quinn said, making me blush. “She never uses the word about herself. She'll say big, maybe chubby occasionally, but she gets upset to be described as fat. And I don't like to hurt her feelings, so I tend to go along with her.”

“Oh, but Miss Quinn, she likes it when she's being humiliated. If you like her being fat you should tell her. Encourage her to get a bit bigger even. She's got such gorgeous big thighs and buttocks now. And now that she's a bimbo I think she should have her boobs enhanced a size or two. It would look in proportion with her new body.”

“Her fat body,” Quinn corrected. “Would you like that, Poppy? A boob job? We'll get Nancy to pay for it tonight.”

I shook my head weakly, but in my slightly drunken state I felt barely able to resist these crazy suggestions. The idea of impulsively giving in to such a major decision was somehow thrilling. “Give in to Miss Quinn,” Madame whispered, then gave a slap across my buttock. “Don't be selfish and boring. If she wants this who are you to deny her a little pleasure? She's done so much for you.”

“Yes Madame, but...”

“Nancy!” she insisted and slapped me playfully again. “That bleach really did addle your brains. Do you really think you're able to make a decision or do you just want all responsibility taken from you?”

“I'll do it, Miss Quinn,” I said, breathless. I hoped that in the morning we'd all see how foolishly we'd acted and come to our senses. Or maybe I didn't. I couldn't deny that the thing pushing me toward a climax was the thought of the permanence of my decision. Within ten minutes I'd been booked in for an appointment to see a surgeon. Despite my protests, Madame had paid a large non-refundable deposit.

Quinn looked more excited than I'd seen her in a long time, her eyes glittering with energy. I'd assumed her sweet nature would start to nag at her for being so cruel in her new role, but she seemed to be relishing her reversal. “For being a good girl I'm going to treat you to a huge meal. You're going to stuff yourself while I shave Nancy. You two can play with each other all the time, but you're not to orgasm until I say so.”

Between them, Madame and Quinn decided I should have two starters, two meals and three desserts. I knew that this was too much, more than I'd probably ever eaten in a single sitting, though Quinn had in the past pushed me to eat copiously. My complaint that it was too much was hushed.

“You'd better leave clean plates,” Quinn insisted. “If either of you fail me you'll swap places. Nancy will be finishing the food and Poppy will be getting shaved. And don't think you'll be just eating Poppy's scraps, Nancy. If you swap places you'll be going home at least ten pounds heavier, and maybe twenty.”

I looked at Madame and for the first time I saw she looked uneasy with Quinn's dominance. This was something she would really struggle with. She'd told us how she struggled to maintain her weight and giving in to a rapid gain would significantly disturb her body image. But I could see that she had something of the gambler's need to take risk. Suddenly there was something at stake for her and she needed it.

By the time the food arrived Nancy too was naked, and seated with the clippers and razor laid out for her. The young waitress tried to appear composed but I knew she was as embarrassed as me. Nancy coped with her humiliation rather more easily, smiling and greeting the waitress with an easy manner. I tried to allow the poor girl a rapid exit, but Quinn was eager to keep her around longer to add to my suffering. The dishes were placed on a table for me, and the waitress was left in no doubt that it was greedy Poppy who would devour every morsel. The waitress received a generous tip for her humiliation.

[fictionaljournalofbbwomans-blog]

06.03.4040

DOLLAR DOLLAR BILL YO (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=U-LHFfFKCsY)

BB Womans wakes up; 08:45

Before opening her eyes or even feel conscious she throws a loud scream! She so angry this morning, her jaw hurts, it’s blood driping time for the month, and electro-postillions keep wetting her neck with discouragements on absolutely everything she needs to do. BW’s state is close to punch the walls, scream, jump, hurt herself but ventilates a while, opens the window, repeats a mantra, has a coffee and a cigaret and remembers how bad it was a few weeks ago, enabling pride to have gone this far and motivation to keep on. 

So she sits and types under constant pressure to stop: 

V2K: “Don’t do that BB, people are going to think you are crazy!”. This morning BB really wants to tackle the DIRTY CASH question! 

V2K: “No BB, what are people going to think about you? You don’t like money, remember?”. The question at the tip of her finger is do you dear readers? Do you like Money? 

BB: “Shut up ass-faces, let me concentrate… Mmmhhhh… Yes, how bad was it? BaaaaAAAAAd bitch baaAAAAD!… I tried to end my life for christ-sake… I had no hope to make it out of this misery… I was alone as always in my room, but loosing strength, remembering I never wished to live this life, and now that I am aware of being blood pumped, brain sucked and my limbs attempted to be controlled and automated this confirms how fucked I always thought it was and I figured dying could be my best exit plan… I might loose consciousness completely and just switch off… huh huh…?! Don’t EVEN have the right to fucking die!!! Fair? I have been lower though really... smashing dishes, cutting my hands, ripping my face, falling around, hitting myself… The G seemed so much more of a smoother idea… Wait that’s right, I am fucking Jesus and I don’t want to hurt or sadden anyone! Queen get the money!” 

The only contact BB had with the world was her phone, emails and social media… She attempted to message some people to hint at the fact that she was going to end her days, but without being too clear, saying she wants to die is a reason to lock her up in hospital for a days and harass her to cease to resist to her robotic fate as well as use real sick patients to participate. A few mails here and there, Polo, her dad, her mother… How did this guy made it to her VIP list for suicidal notes? Not sure who else but turning around all the options for perpetrators that are given by the evil orchestrators. The messages were accusatory, sad and menacing but with a romantic rave infused twist because she always has to tell stories or write poems to get her ass out of trouble. “The truth! I want to say the truth!… Pfffff… Let me write! What are you trying to achieve? You know harassing me now is only powering me through writing more! You think I write well?! Cool for you! I am not trying to show skills, play a character, I am trying to save my ass from your puppet show! Do me a favour and go fuck yourselves!” A few breaths in and out and, another cigaret she should not smoke! 

V2K: “C’est bien, C’est bien… On a compris… On va te libérer!”

BW: “I do not give a fuck what you do, nothing will stop me from expressing myself and exposing your despicable enterprise!”

It was day or night in a time and space that felt like in between life and death, she missed her friends nights and hang outs, because she did not want to impose her sorrow or provoke the Masters instructions for actions and loud laughter shooting orders. She was shaking and could not stand up anymore, had thrown her phone somewhere in her messy flat, but needed to find it now, she crawls around, thinking she heard it calling, and maybe that means someone wants her to live. Every time she fills up with another dose, neighbours are banging on her floor from under! 

BB: “Pffffff, leave me aloooOOOOne!”

Some miracle lets her access her phone and dive in a long scroll down facebook and Instagram. She is looking for signs, and isn’t disappointed; Posts are mostly about her, what she said, what she likes… etc… Let us explain that more in depth a bit further. These posts have for aim to keep on inducing schizophrenia but the psychosis social media circus has a saving effect strangely, she is not crazy, what she knows is real and there is a reason to keep standing, at least for a little while, at least to try and make a change before departing from this sick sick SICK world.

BB: “LOVE is SICK!” (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eXdWxFj0y3s)

 BB: “Anyway, let’s look forward now that we have made so much efforts to stay alive and healthy, let’s write a fucking budget with that pitiful amount of cash that is left for the whole month… Mmmmhhh… food… mmmmhhhh… fuck, I’ll never be able to repair my gear! And huuuuhhhh, people aren’t going to hire me with the rumours they spread… Are they? And I am fucking working all of the fucking time… and I need a flat… and I want a dog… and… wait a second… how much are people making for digging my brain, recording it’s waves and traumatising me? WAIT! First the V2K staff… Huh, how much are you making an hour to harass and rape me? I do more than half of your job! Care to share your salary hyenas?… What about the others? What could push someone to take action towards hurting someone else or induce their paranoid state?… Again I am wondering? Are they intimidated? Or are they being my datas to make some dirty cash? Make music? Produce series, films, advertisements? Code new websites and algorithms? Write thought reading studies and experimentation reports? Print billboards?… Again… wawaiwaiwaiWAIIIIIIT! Question is not only how much do they get for it but most importantly how much do they fucking MAKE from it…?”

Now we could write our beloved reader a poetic little paragraph to expose all the details BB backed up from what and how it is all organised around her, what acts are performed and capitalism produced, but BB has nothing to prove and certainly not that she can write, so here is a vulgar run down; 

Instagram + Facebook 

Instructed posts about: making sushi, nobody loves her, she likes to have brunch, she often hides under table, her sexual persona is named Mood, cuuuute, she wanna fuck, who are they? Dogs, rats, horses, Unicorns, pink, red… Yak, yak yaaaak. She has precise theories on how instructions present, here is the most likely; Members of her social media entourage probably receive a series of options to choose from and can fashion their stories or posts as wished. Instagram also provides animation to add on their images like the Rat or the Horse one, maybe the fire was a thing too?

Videos made by different video channels, an obvious one is “THE VIEW” on facebook with pop stars and actors; Woopy Goldberg, Alicia Keys (On Instagram: “You at the back, listen and shut up…”; referring to her joke about being a teacher and V2K bad actors being her pupils), Scarlet Johanson and questions about her underwear and body size!!!? What the fuck? Sometimes actuall speaking live of celebrities sometimes just picture montages with written quotes. On suicidal season, some of these videos were called: “If you are about to give up, watch this!”, people said things like, “It’s a story of numbers”… Bla blablablabla   

Tracks under- and over- different scenes 

Describing her actions, loneliness, her writing poems, being ridiculous, liking to walk in Paris, her fears, Her horoscopes, her obsessions…  

Actions 

As mentioned before people crossing her in the street reiterating what she has done the day before, where do they receive these? From whom? Whats app? 

scripts

With subjects to talk about, words to mention, things to remind her, ways of acting or falling down miming her… when to laugh and as loudly as possible please. Often these recent days, she can identify the speeches directed to her because it is performed obviously loud, making her feel like a theatre spectator, she guesses it is to make sure she does hear it over her repetitive thinking mantra loops she has developed and self defence and tactics to avoid repeating offensive and self incriminating sentences like: “I am a pedophile”, or “Black person... hhhmmm nooooo, Big dick” or getting blocked on a genital drumming thought session or “I find her ugly...” Etc EEETTTTCCCC...!

Adds

Relating to her teeth, selling fairy lights for your room, denouncing capitalistic routine, Job offers… this list is endless and could spiral towards unrealistic revelations.   

Audio announcements in Public spaces or billboards 

Radio 

Programme relating to her struggles, comments and jokes making fun of her 

Tape recording sold in shops she regularly visit

Talking about her refusal to work… “Warum Nicht?”, Her Birthday… 

Without counting weird emails

From company she uses telling her they like their customer well caffeinated, people advertising their music to be featured on her radio…

And we could keep that up for a while, but our tired anti-hero has it up up UP over her head to try and prove she really does know about it all while getting harassed with contents making her feel bad for placing herself in the middle of it all: “The world is not turning around you BB” Friends would say some years back. 

Now lets point out all the money she has had and still have to spend to survive, no wait, another waste of time? It is utterly obvious; medicines too calm down, machinery to find out more about the electro harassment, countless hard drives to save her datas, replacing her fucked up devices, or simply time spent researching and unveiling Patriarchal societies secret studies and machineries to learn and spread awareness so to build a network of allies. Then there is all the drug taking and urge to spend that is induced by the Bastards… Getting fired, not being able to find a job, what else… cream for wounds… food to eat her lack of affection… massages to undo her nerves that are conducting the electro current through her limbs to her brain, LUNCHES, BRUNCHES!

Do you believe BB deserves to get reimbursed? Do you believe she deserves to get paid even? How much could they have generate from their tests, products, results and new high tech machine building, or add placing on social medias, or could we go down in this darker deeper hole of wondering if they make money from the audience avid to follow the thinking series of her intimidation? She thinks 50/50 sounds right, but as it is a story of numbers, and hers is 33! 

BB: “Soooo Double that... Mmmhhh... What about 66% of your studies earnings nasty rat-bags? If you want to share your illegal cash born out of my fucking brain waves, do that! send me a fucking email or transfer direct into my bank account you know the passwords and details from by heart, I might be able to get on writing my book, make art, music, get onto my project to empower womxn to speak without fear, now that I am an expert at it!