Consummation

The Consumation – Electra

BRIGHTON, THE PRESENT DAY

Finally, finally, the hands had all been shaken, all the cheeks kissed, all the dances danced, and the happy couple were able to make their excuses. It had been a long, tipsy day.

They squeezed themselves into the back of the limo. Falcon let his top hat rest in his lap, covering the erection that had begun to stiffen beneath the neat grey trousers of his morning suit when his bride, nuzzling against him in a froth of net and organdy, whalebone corset creaking delicately, had leaned against him and reminded him of what was in store when they reached the bridal suite. They held hands silently in the back of the car and watched the twinkling fairy lights on the promenade go by. Brighton could be beautiful by night – beautiful in its very sleazery.

The limo pulled up outside the Grand and Falcon took his bride by the hand and helped her out. Her bosom, pushed into two perfect spheres by the tightly laced corset, heaved in anticipation of the rites ahead, and he held her briefly and tightly on the steps, and whispered her name, “Honey”, into her now somewhat tousled golden ringlets. She laughed like a bell, showing her little white teeth, and he felt a delicious shiver go down his spine at the knowledge that this elf of a girl now belonged to him.

Then he led her inside.

In the privacy of the bridal suite, they turned to each other and kissed, seemingly endlessly, enjoying the wine-sweet taste on each other’s lips. Honey broke off first. She smiled at him her most winning smile, and went to the en-suite to find the black bag. He took off his tailcoat and unbuttoned his waistcoat. Honey reappeared. “Is it time?” she asked him, holding up the small case. Falcon nodded, adding, “Want a cigarette first?”

“Please,” she said, putting the black bag down on the dressing table and holding out her hand for the treat. She never had any cigarettes of her own, she always waited until Falcon let her have one of his Marlboro Lights, just one each day. He’d rather she did not smoke at all, but he understood how it killed her to watch him feed his own craving, and not be able to indulge herself.

He gave her the cigarette, and offered her a light. “Actually,” she said, putting the cigarette down “You go ahead. I’ll save mine just a bit longer, until I’ve done you. I might need it.”

“You’re still sure you want to do this?” Falcon knew she would say yes, but he loved her so much he couldn’t bear to think she might be in any doubt at all.

“I’m sure. Anyway, you’re going first to give me courage, so I’ll be fine.” The frank look in her dark-green eyes reassured him as she helped him unfasten his cravat and take the stud out of his wing collar. He felt better in his shirtsleeves. Unlike Honey, he didn’t relish being tightly laced.

“Sit you down, then,” she said. He took his place before the mirror and lit up his own cigarette, passing his hand through his short dark quiff. Honey opened the bag and took out what she needed. “Big clippers, little clippers, scissors, shaving foam, water spritzer, razor, towel”, she catechised. “Ready, lover?” She unravelled the lead on the bigger set of clippers and plugged them into the wall socket.

He leaned his head back and let a long plume of smoke escape from his lips. “Ready.”

Honey bent over him and flipped the switch on the clippers, which hummed into life. She kissed Falcon’s upturned face, then pressed her lips against the soft brown of his hair. “Bye bye, love-locks”, she murmured, wistfully. Then she plunged the clippers in.

Within minutes, Falcon sported a not unattractive crew cut. Honey rubbed her hands over the velvety stubble and giggled. “Tickles,” she explained. Then, turning serious, she met his eyes in the mirror. “Shall I go on?” Falcon nodded his assent.

Using the smaller clippers, Honey mowed the stubble on his head down to a fraction of an inch – no longer than the five-o-clock shadow that showed on his cheeks. He could see his scalp through the bristles. It looked very white in contrast to his sun-browned face. Before he could worry about that, though, Honey had already spritzed him and smoothed a layer of shaving foam over his head.

He watched her face in the mirror as she shaved him. She was biting her lip in concentration, so very concerned not to nick his skin. Her ringlets dangled in front of her temples. Soon, they’d be gone. What would she look like? At least, being fair-skinned, she wouldn’t have a tidemark like his. The top of his head was smooth and white now. She pulled his left ear out of the way and slid the razor over the bone.

“Do you want me to leave your sideburns?” she asked.

He considered. “No,” he decided. “I don’t want to look like a complete dickhead.”

“Okay,” she said, and angled the razor down onto his cheek.

Then she did the other side, and now there was just a patch of stubble left at the back. She pressed his head forward gently and scraped it away.

“Almost clean,” she said. “I think I should go over it again, though, it’s still a little bit scratchy.”

“‘Kay,” he murmured, feeling very submissive all of a sudden, and like a little boy at the barbers he sat very still with his eyes downcast as she once more spritzed water over the newly-exposed skin and stroked it with the razor.

“There,” she said at last. “You’re done.” He looked up at himself in the mirror. Behind him, he could see her standing wide-eyed with the razor still in her hand.

“You don’t look like you,” she gasped. “So different. I think you should keep your goatee, or I won’t recognise you any more.”

He could see what she meant. He didn’t look bad, but the gleaming pate was shocking in and of itself. He ran his hand over it. Very, very smooth.

“Well, you did a good job, anyway, Hon,”

“Yeah,” she smiled. “I did, didn’t I?”

“You still fancy me?”

“Uh-huh. You look… sexy.” She stroked him with her fingers, sending a tingling sensation through the denuded skin. “Feels great,” she added.

He turned around to look directly at her.

“What about you?” he breathed. “You still up for it?”

She breathed in, deeply.

“Yeah,” she said. “Yeah, I am. Give me that cigarette, will you?”

He complied, lighting it for her. They swapped places. When she sat in the chair, Honey’s corset forced her to sit bolt upright. She gazed at herself in the mirror, at the bald man behind her who was and was not the man she had married.

“Falcon,” she whispered, vulnerably.

“Yes, Sweetheart?”

“Please cover up the mirror. I don’t think I want to look.”

“No?”

“I just want to feel it.”

Falcon covered up the mirror.

“I’ll start by cutting off the ringlets,” he said. “I’d like to keep them.” Honey said nothing. She puffed at her cigarette in that non-smokerish way of hers. She hardly ever inhaled properly, just drew the smoke into her mouth and breathed it back out again almost immediately. Funny girl.

Gently, he lifted one of the spiralling locks that hung over her brow. It was stiff with hairspray, a perfect corkscrew. With his right hand, he lifted the scissors and sliced through the hair, close to the roots. Honey did not move, except to raise the cigarette to her lips again.

Falcon snipped all her ringlets in the same manner, and laid them on the surface of the dressing table. He smiled at Honey, but she had gone distant on him. He respected her silence. This was a big thing for her. Bigger than it was for him.

Honey shut her eyes and focussed all her concentration on her scalp. She felt him pulling the hairgrips out of her French pleat one by one, the long tendrils of hair unravelling, his fingers ruffling them out. Her hair felt uncomfortable and stiff with hairspray. It would be a relief to be rid of it. He was cutting it close to the roots now with the scissors, being careful to let each handful of hair fall onto the floor and not on her dress. She fancied her head felt lighter and cooler. It was nice not to feel the hair tickling her neck and face.

Falcon took one of the big fluffy towels from the en-suite and draped it around her shoulders, fastening it with a hairclip.

Behind her, the clippers started to hum. He took her face gently in his hand and held the clippers by her ear, close enough so she could feel the vibrations. He showed them to her. It was the big set, but he had taken the guard off. They would take her hair right down to 1/8 inch of stubble straight away. She sighed and felt her vulva moisten. Then suddenly, before she even realised what was happening, he had run the clippers right down the centre of her head, from forehead to nape. A drift of shorn hair floated down onto the towel. Her flesh crept and tingled and in her mind’s eye she saw the stubbled path left in the wake of the clippers’ hungry teeth. Shocked, she let out a gasp and wondered what on earth she was doing, but it was too late to ask him to stop now, and anyway, the more times he passed the clippers over her scalp, the warmer and wetter she became.

He stopped and she felt him rub his hand over the damage. Against the stiff corset, she felt her nipples harden. There wasn’t any part of her that did not shimmer with sensory pleasure. She realised, belatedly, that he had said something.

“Huh?” she replied.

“I said, we could stop there, if you like. If you don’t want to go any further. Stick with a suedehead. It looks quite nice.”

She knew he didn’t mean it. He wanted to go all the way. It was concern for her that made him hold back.

“No… I want to be smooth, like you.”

“Are you sure?”

Honey knew that she was only minutes away from the best orgasm she had ever had in her life. They could not stop now. She did not care how she looked afterwards.

“Please, Falcon,” she moaned, writhing in her seat with longing. “Pleeease.”

“Good girl!” he purred, and he lathered her up.

The razor was a hard, lascivious tongue licking her scalp. She could barely keep still. Her legs began to tremble violently and she pushed her hand against herself through the rustling layers of her gown. Falcon gripped her neck hard with his left hand to keep it steady so that he would not cut her with the razor in his right. He was careful and thorough – her skin must be satin smooth, no nasty rough patches or razor burn. In Falcon’s hands, the blade just glided.

Honey felt her orgasm coming, the hot spasms deep inside her vagina. She forced herself not to move as the pulse slammed through her but cried out instead, alarmed at her own voracity. Falcon slipped the middle finger of his left hand into her mouth and she sucked on it hungrily, moaning faintly as the aftershocks waxed and waned within her.

All over now. Falcon set her free. Hesitantly, Honey raised her hand to her denuded scalp and stroked it. Shocking, yet thrilling, to feel her fingertips on the bald skin. Her skull felt smooth and round, gracile. Falcon moved to take the cover off the mirror, but she stopped him; she was afraid, still, that this would not look as good as it felt. Instead, he pressed his lips gently against the crown of her head. The bristles of his moustache tickled her.

“Make love to me”, she breathed.

“Yes,” he whispered, “I will.”

Her corset was laced up the back with satin ribbons. He began, slowly, to unlace them. The stiff, boned bodice fell away, allowing her firm, high breasts to bounce free. She let out a sigh of relief; she had been laced up for so long she had forgotten how it felt to breathe unfettered. She stood up, and Falcon unfastened her skirts. They fell around her ankles with a delicious rustle. She wore no panties, only her lacy stockings and suspenders in bridal cream, and her satin pumps.

He lifted her then and carried her to the four-poster bed, and lowered his lean, muscled body next to hers, where they lay, nuzzling their bald heads together and stroking each others’ skin, bringing every nerve ending alive. Her hands moved deftly to unfasten his clothes and help him slip out of them. His cock was hard and ready. She lay still like a shy virgin and let him cover her body with his own. Her sex was ready for him and he slipped into her snug velvety passages like a hot knife into butter. Her grip on him was yielding, yet firm. Her open mouth captured his tongue. Her hands on his buttocks urged him to go further into her, as far as he could. He fucked her hard and fast and strong, the way she liked it, the way he liked it. What was to hold them back? They were wed; it was right.

She began to come again, more gently this time. Instead of a great storm surge like before, these waves were the merest lapping. Still, Falcon felt the pull of her tightening vulva and that was enough to trigger his own climax. He cried out as he ejaculated, thrust once more, and was still. He sank down onto her, and she cradled his head: satisfied, satisfying, drifting both into unconsciousness.

In the middle of the night, Falcon woke. The bed felt cold; Honey was no longer beside him. He turned, puzzled, towards the light that was coming from the en-suite.

“Honey?”

She did not answer, but he thought he heard a sniffle. He gathered himself up and went towards the light.

She was sitting on the edge of the toilet, wrapped in her silk kimono, staring at herself in the mirror above the sink. There were tears smudging the makeup around her pretty green eyes. He went to her and took her hands in his own, questioning her with his eyes.

“I don’t like the way it looks,” she said, quietly. “I was afraid of this.”

“Honey, you’re beautiful,” he whispered.

Honey turned her bald head one way, then another, watching her reflection as she did so. “I can’t get used to it,” she said. “It felt so right, but…. It looks so wrong.”

“Not to me,” he said. “You could never look wrong to me. A beautiful picture is still beautiful, with or without a frame. You know that.”

He put his head against hers so that she could see them both together, bald twins in the mirror, and smiled. She smiled back at him, but even as she did so, a tear escaped over her lashes and rolled down her cheek.

“Darling heart,” he said, “you can grow it back if you want,” and he stroked the bare skin, making it tingle.

She shivered. “No,” she said. “It’s not that. It does feel good, this not looking quite right. Its like having a… a brand or tattoo, that says I belong to you. But I think – I think I shall cover it. Yes, that’s what I’ll do. I’ll wear a headscarf, and no one, not even I, shall look at it. No one but you. I want you to be the only one who knows how I really look.”

She reached into the pocket of her kimono and drew out a silk scarf.

“Bind me,” she said.

He nodded and took the scarf, then said, with due solemnity, “it shall be done”.

She watched in the mirror as he laid the scarf over her head, and knotted it at the nape of the neck, gypsy style, drawing it tight, then tucking the ends under neatly, so that the scarf formed a snug cap covering her head and ears. The slippery, cool silk was delicious against her skin. She nodded approval. “Its better,” she said. “I like it like this. My little secret.”

She kissed him then, pouring out all her love in that one simple action and he knew she really was his, forever.

 

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