A/N: As you can guess from my profile, I'm more used to writing in French. However, this ficlet came to my mind in English, so there you are. Enjoy, and please leave a note to let me know your thoughts on this. :)
Have you ever loved? Really loved? Loved to the point that infatuation and frustration mingled in a mist messing your mind?
If you haven't, you can't understand me.
I fell in love with her the minute she cut my hair. Oh, that was something she was good at, Claire, cutting hair. She makes you sit on a wooden chair, a leather armchair, or a plastic stool; it doesn't matter where, because suddenly it feels like you're bound to your seat. There are no ropes, no handcuffs – not yet – nothing kinky, but her attitude is so confident it grounds you and keeps you attached to her.
She then places her hands on your skull, as if she was about to shampoo it. Only she runs her fingers through your hair, along your neck, in light touches and firmer grasps, and one minute your head is a tree full of rustling leaves and the next they're all blown away.
She takes hold of her scissors, and your heart's racing in your chest, as much from the anticipation of getting a new haircut as from the underlying danger of the blades. She tilts your head down in a strange prayer, and she starts cutting the hair at the back of your nape, and it sends shivers down your spine. Her hand slides in your mane, combing your locks with her fingers, before savagely gripping them and shearing them.
Chop chop chop, go the blades. Down, down falls your hair. Away go your inhibitions.
Her hand is grazing your scalp – hot, moist, contrasting with the steely coldness of the blades; and the only thing you can think of, the only thing you wish at that moment, is for her to touch your neck, your shoulders, your torso. Metallic touch or soft caress, it doesn't matter – all you crave is to feel her against your skin, under your body. But you are still a prisoner of that chair, restrained by a invisible and compelling force.
You bend your head backwards, biting your lips not to let out a frustrated sigh. She pretends not to notice and goes on with her task, in a dutiful silence that muffles all your objections.
You try to catch her eye, but she straightens your head instead, and leaves you confused as to what her next move will be. Her soothing fingers unfurrow your brow, and you suddenly realize that your whole body is tensed in anticipation. You want her. You want her to respond to your touch, to shiver as you burrow yourself in her, to scream and shake indecently as you bring her to ecstasy.
But instead she stands in front of you, her gaze beyond you, around you, above you; entirely focused on her job, dismisising your desire. A smirk flashes on her face, and she simply says "There you go" – before leaving you to your chair, sat, stunned, starving for her sex.
And when finally you rise, you accept her as your downfall.