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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.

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