My girl, Terri — Mistress Taran to those in the know — has always had a penchant for playing kinky games in public. Dominating willing males like myself is her greatest passion. There’s something about doing it in the open — and attracting the attention of likeminded passersby in the process — that we both find irresistibly arousing. Really, why should she hide her art away in a dungeon, when she can parade it for all to see? I certainly take a great deal of pleasure in the process, so what’s not to love? Especially when there are plenty of opportunities to air our fetishes.

See, every year in our city there’s a street fair that’s strictly for adults. You won’t find face-painting, but interested parties can sit down with a cross-dressing specialist and be made up as hot girls or boys, depending on their preference. There’s no funnel cake, but there are plenty of booths from local sex toy boutiques. You can find just about anything you like. It’s a lot of fun and great for meetups — and for public scenes.

This year, as usual, Taran started making plans early. She actually drew sketches of how she wanted me to look. Normally, she keeps her preparations and desires a secret for as long as possible, but this time, she gave me a sneak peek!

Her drawings didn’t show me in drag, which I was halfway expecting. Her plans were actually rather simple. Taran’s first sketch showed me stripped down to a G-string. A little extreme, but I try to keep myself fit, so it wasn’t particularly humiliating. Rather the opposite, actually. I was looking forward to lots of appreciative glances from the lady fairgoers.

But there was more. Taran had drawn me with a shaved head. I tend to wear my hair long — not like shoulder-length or anything — but I’d never thought about shaving my head bald. That, I knew, was part of the point. If a dominant limits herself only to things you rather enjoy or that don’t bother you, what’s the point? Still, for the first time since Taran and I became involved, I felt a faint stirring of trepidation mixing with my arousal.

As I continued looking over her sketches, I realized there was also something kind of odd about how Taran had drawn my face. It took me a minute to realize she’d portrayed me with shaved eyebrows. The effect was really shocking, and I wasn’t entirely sure I liked it at first.

But the more I looked at the sketch, the more I found myself excited by it. I could see myself trailing after Taran at the street fair with my eyes downcast as whispers and giggles from the crowd surrounded us. Everyone would know without question that I was the slave of a beautiful woman.

By the time Taran took the sketches back, I was sporting a rock-hard erection and asked if I could be excused to use the bathroom. I was totally turned on.

Of course, I wanted to jack myself off to the lusciously humiliating scenes playing in my head. And of course, my mistress said, “I don’t think so.”

Taran added, “You should keep yourself busy until the fair. You can get started by polishing my shoes. All of them.”

So that was that. I spent the afternoon in a state of happy frustration, polishing every pair of shoes in Taran’s closet until they gleamed. It may sound a little strange, but if you’ve ever relished being under the thumb of a dominant woman, then no explanation is necessary.

Taran put off shaving me until the morning of the fair, so that, as she put it, “your head will be nice and shiny.” She took her time about it, washing my hair first and then giving my locks a careful preliminary trimming with scissors. I enjoyed being the object of her attention, keeping myself still while the razor scraped again and again over my lather-smeared head. I felt like a pampered pet, being carefully groomed by my mistress. Fortunately, I was permitted to have a towel draped around my body, otherwise Taran might have seen my rigid cock. I didn’t want to risk upsetting her with my lack of self-control. I feared she might cancel our outing, and I’d spent too much time fantasizing about the fair.

Soon, it was time to do my eyebrows. The feeling was a little uncomfortable. Taran worked the razor in short scratches, rather than the sensual swipes she’d used to shave my scalp. When she’d finished and wiped away the lingering blobs of lather, she let me examine myself in the mirror.

The effect was really startling, even more so than I’d expected. Without eyebrows, my features — ordinarily quite handsome, or so people have been kind enough to tell me — had taken on a subtly alien cast. I was a little freaked out by it. But remembering the fantasies I’d been enjoying, I soon came to embrace it.

We left her home soon afterward, draped in trench coats to hide our fetishwear. My hard cock was aching beneath my G-string. Taran’s apartment wasn’t far from the fair, so it didn’t take us long to join the party. We ditched our overcoats at a clothing check tent and found ourselves in the midst of a slowly moving river of people. Many of them were in colorful, outlandish costumes. Others contented themselves with simple leather jackets, and a few nonconformists were in casual clothing commonly found on any city street.

As far as I could tell, I was the only person in a G-string, though I imagined I was far from the only one with an erection! I was definitely the only one with a shaved head and no eyebrows. I felt my heart pounding as I followed Taran past booths, bands and small knots of dancing partiers. But after a time, I realized no one in the crowd was even looking at me!

Shaved eyebrows or not, “alien” looks or not, nobody paid me a bit of attention. They were laughing and chatting among themselves. If I chanced to catch anyone’s eye, they smiled at me — but not in a way that suggested they were responding to my appearance. Pretty soon I was scanning the crowd for people I knew from my vanilla life, hoping that they, at least, wouldn’t fail me. But I didn’t see a single familiar face!

Of course, in hindsight it wasn’t really surprising. The festival was for self-described fetishists, after all. I certainly would have gotten more of a response had we gone to the mall. Still, it was kind of a disappointment, and I thought I read displeasure on Taran’s face as we strolled along. Occasionally she glanced at me, possibly second-guessing her decision to shave me. I suddenly thought if things went on like this, who knew what she might try to snag the crowd’s attention!

At that point, I heard a female voice cry out my name. I turned, startled, and saw a girl break from the crowd and approach us. I felt a strange mixture of pleasure and apprehension as I recognized her. It was Kristin, a girl I’d briefly dated before hooking up with Taran. She was fairly conservative, and I guessed she’d come to the fair mainly to gawk at the outlandish outfits.

“It is you!” she cried out, running a hand down my arm, as though she wanted to see if I’d suddenly change back into my old self. “My God, what are you doing? What is all this?” She wasn’t really being unpleasant. She was laughing, but her laughter was uncomprehending. From her tone, I could tell she had no idea why I’d come out in public dressed the way I was.

I felt myself blushing. I’d been hoping for a kind of humiliation, but now that I was getting it, I found myself a little put off. Taran quickly inserted herself into the conversation.

“Do you like his new look?” she purred.

Taran isn’t especially tall, but as you’d expect from a dominant, she knows how to intimidate.

“Uh, sure,” Kristin said, seeming to draw away from Taran a little. She’d obviously thought my outfit was some kind of bizarre joke. She was probably expecting I’d break character and we’d all have a good laugh. But when she saw who was commanding me — and gathered how serious the situation was — it was clear that wasn’t going to happen.

“Can I take a picture?” Kristin asked, taking her cellphone out of a pocket in her shorts. Tellingly, she aimed the question at Taran rather than me.

Photos aren’t forbidden at the street fair, but they’re not exactly encouraged, either. Had Kristin just lifted the phone and started snapping, Taran would have said something to put her in her place. But at least she’d asked permission.

“Sure,” Taran said blithely. She stepped up beside me and slid a proprietary hand between my legs. I started a little as I felt her cold, strong fingers grip my swollen package through the thin G-string. Her hand squeezed me firmly, giving my poor nads a much longed-for bit of human contact. Combined with the weird humiliation of encountering my ex-girlfriend Kristin, Taran’s clutch quickly brought things to an explosive climax. I gasped, and unable to help myself, I rose up on my toes, crying out and pushing my crotch toward her hand. Before I realized what was happening, I felt my balls emptying, my load squirting in blissful release. Had my G-string been made of an absorbent material instead of nylon, my indiscretion might have been more readily evident. As it was, I could feel the distinct sensation of my parts squishing in my own come.

But Taran knew. Laughing loudly, she guided me into a portable john. Like a good mistress, she had brought along a spare G-string and plenty of wipes. But by the time we’d emerged minutes later, Kristin was gone.

“She didn’t even say goodbye,” Taran hissed. “What a rude bitch!”

A few days after the fair, though, I received an email from Kristin. No message, but she had attached a copy of the picture she’d taken. Her camera had captured me at the exact moment I’d climaxed. I stood beside Taran, who wore a predatory leer as she squeezed my balls. My face — open mouthed, eyes half-closed — struck me as quite a bit stranger than Taran’s sketch. And sexier. In fact, I’ve masturbated to the pic quite a few times since receiving it. So has Taran.

All in all, our outing was a success — thanks to Kristin, and Taran is already making plans for next year’s fair.