The Curse of the Cut, Part Two

The Curse of the Cut

Part Two

 

Author’s note:

This one sways a bit off the mark, but carries on with the theme. Some may find the stark manner in which the conclusion is written objectionable, but I considered it a natural progression of a character hellbent on self-destruction. Read on, if you are so inclined.

Claire

 

By Shorngirl

         Being prepared for something doesn’t necessarily mean that one is willing to accept that thing, once it is made evident. That certainly applied here.

         In the harsh light of the overhead chandelier that hung at the center of my bedroom ceiling, I saw what could only be described as a man.

         Where once hung pendulous breasts, full and plump, there was now a flatness that went beyond what most would be considered male. Only the slightest padding cushioned the ribs beneath, and my nipples stood out like toothpaste caps as if to mock the lack of accentuating flesh.

         I remembered how my chest had looked as a little girl, and save for the distended numbs at their center, I was utterly flat.

         I allowed my eyes to drift downward, the small but decidedly male appendage which stood, mocking my once feminine sex. To be sure, it was the smallest ‘package’ I can remember seeing, and I’d seen a few before I made my mind up to leave the heterosexual world behind.

         It was hairless, as my vulva had been, and reminded me of a young boy’s equipment, before the curse of puberty. I allowed my hand to grasp it, enveloping the entirety of it within my fingers and palm. At least it could be easily concealed.

         Glancing back at the mirror, the thing that would be the most difficult to conceal was the gleaming white egg that was my head. My fingers instinctively ran over its surface, the glassy smoothness of the skin eliciting the prescribed response and I felt my ‘penis’ stir; stiffening to its fully erect state in a few seconds.

         With one hand still exploring my barren scalp, the other found its way to the small shaft that was no larger than a skinless wiener. It was as sensitive as my scalp, maybe more so, and I stroked it gently with my thumb and forefingers.

         The entire scene was beyond surreal, and I was getting dizzy with a disorienting sense of detachment. Suddenly, I broke from the erotic stroking, falling onto my bed. “I cannot live out my life as a prepubescent boy.” I sighed. Looking down I watched as the diminutive cock shrank back down into the ‘pointer’ I knew it to be. I’d heard the term from some of my straight friends as they commiserated over the shortcomings of their partners and husbands.

         Needing to pee, I slipped into the bathroom, sitting as I always had done. When the lip of the toilet seat deflected urine over the inside of my thighs, I realized that my new penis was fully functional. Panicking for a moment, I pushed down on the thing, directing the stream into the water. Then I had the most awful thought.

         Once I had finished, I slipped my fingers beyond the tightly bunched scrotum expecting to find the opening of my vagina. There was nothing but smooth skin. Smooth skin, all the way to my anus. I felt myself getting dizzy again, so I dropped my head between my knees and took several deep breaths.

         “Shit. This can’t be real!” I wept, standing suddenly, and walked back into my bedroom, only to be confronted with my reflection. “Ugh!” I picked up a shoe, meaning to fling it at the mirror, but pull up short. No sense in breaking things, even though at that moment, it might have been quite therapeutic.

         One thing was certain. I was going to need to wig. There was no way I could show up at work looking like this. Standing closer to the mirror, I looked closely at myself, frowning over how ugly I was without my hair. It was the ears.

         I’d always been sensitive about them and had always gone to some lengths to conceal their size. I reached up and pulled them back against my hairless skull, pleased at the streamlined appearance their absence conveyed. Releasing them, finally, they popped back into their obtuse positions, and as if in sympathy to my new homeliness, my penis twitched to life again.

         “You seem to enjoy my humiliation, don’t you?” I asked, as if it was a sentient entity. It sprung up, nearly touching my belly,  the little head throbbing and begging for attention. “Am I to be utterly insatiable now?” I asked, staring at myself, disgusted.”

         It was getting late, and I knew I had a busy day tomorrow if I was going to return to work in any condition that might pass as my old self. As soon as my head hit the pillow, I knew I would have to relieve my pent-up arousal before I slept.

         Giving in, I pushed back the covers and stroked my new penis, while my fingers tweaked at my nipples. The sensations were so new and so different from anything I had experienced before, that I was on the finish line astonishingly quickly.

         I rubbed my head back and forth over the satin pillow, the fabric gliding effortlessly over its polished surface while I began to grow accustomed to my featureless chest, and the throbbing penis between my vigorously stroking fingers. All the newfound stimulation made for an immediate and violent end.

         Come erupted from the tip of the little thing, landing in random splotches over my belly. Once I had recovered, I reached for a tissue to clean up my little mess, but not without sweeping a finger through one of the droplets and bringing it to my mouth, tasting myself for the first time.

         I had never been a huge fan of the taste of semen, but for whatever reason, this was different. The liquid tasted salty-sweet, and almost pleasant on my tongue. Finally satiated, I flipped onto my side, trying my best to ignore all the newfound stirrings and sensations emanating from my body.

         Annoyingly, or not, as the case may be, I found the little wiener was up and ready as soon as I opened my eyes. ‘No wonder boys are so frisky in the morning’, I sighed, giving in to the urge. With that out of the way, I set about planning my day. The first stop was certainly going to be a wig shop.

         To my delight, it was surprisingly easy to find a wig that matched my previous style. I imagined it was going to be outrageously expensive, but was pleasantly surprised when I escaped the place for under three hundred dollars.

         I felt so much better, being able to ditch the bandana which I had wrapped tightly around my shaven egg of a head. The salesperson, convinced I was suffering from alopecia or cancer was so helpful. Her attitude changed, however, when I divulged the fact that my bald head had been the result of a personal decision. I didn’t share the reason, of course. Nevertheless, I was pleased with the coif, and made my way to a department store and the purchase of some realistic ‘falsies’ that would fill out my grossly oversized bras.

         The first couple of weeks back at work were uneventful, and no one was the wiser. My boss was relieved to find whatever ailment had manifested itself before my brief sabbatical, was gone and I was back to my old efficient self. Emily too, was pleased, although I think she knew that something was up, and certainly different about me.

         “You’re different, somehow,” Emily observed as she took some notes after an important client meeting.

         “Whatever do you mean?”

         “Calmer, more assertive… I don’t know… masculine, I guess.” Emily said, shrinking at what might be construed as an insult.

         “Perhaps, I am.” I flipped my hair out of my eyes and was conscious of my wig shifting ever so slightly. Fortunately, unless I got excited about something, my ‘little wiener’ as I had decided to call it, was easily tucked away. It twitched ever so slightly at the thought of being exposed, my wig slipping from my bristled head.

         Yes, my hair was growing back in, and now was more of a buzz cut than shaved. This was encouraging to see, but it made the wig less stable. The smooth surface of the inner cap was designed to adhere to another smooth surface, which was my scalp.

         I had now resorted to wearing a wig liner, which compressed my sprouting bristles back against my head, and gave the wig some purchase. So far, I’d resisted going back to the barber for another head shave.

         About a month after my shocking haircut, and the revelation that my womanhood had been stolen from me, I began to notice that my ‘orgasms’ (and I use the term in the loosest sense) had lost some of their explosive edge. In fact, the issue that had once streamed from the tip of my tiny penis had waned to a dribble, and with it, the intensity of my pleasure.

         As I always did, I stripped before the mirror in my bedroom, laughing inwardly as the façade was removed one piece at a time. My blouse and bra were first, my chest as flat and boyish as it had been that first day. Then came the wig and liner, the disheveled crewcut giving me a distinctively masculine appearance. The half-inch long stubble did little to disguise my embarrassingly large ears. By now my little wiener was pressing against the inside of my hose as I stripped out of the rest, quickly.

         Standing naked and knowing that I was indeed as ugly as I had been, I began to masturbate. The nature of my newfound fetish was odd but incredibly powerful; an extreme form of self-deprecation accentuated by the imbecilic gawk on my face. My mouth hung open as my brain emptied; fingers unconsciously stroking my penis, sinking quietly into my abject humiliation.

         Only, this time was different. As my rhythmic stroking grew almost frantic, I worried that I wasn’t going to come at all. It had been getting harder, and now it was out of reach. Exhausted, I fell back onto my bed, my diminutive member still throbbing between my legs. “Oh, what the fuck is this.” I sighed, sweat beading my brow.

         I ran my hand back, the stiff bristles course against my fingertips. “Is it the hair?” I asked, as if speaking to the old woman directly. It was barely long enough to pinch between my thumb and forefinger, yet somehow, I knew that the ‘curse’ was still in full force.

         I looked up at the ceiling. “I’m a fucking boy, now! Isn’t that enough?” I questioned her. “Obviously not.” Sighing, I reached for some casual clothes, donning my bra beneath, and dressed. I looked over at the wig, the liner still clinging to the inside. “Nope.” I decided, pushing through the door to my condo and turning towards the little barbershop down the block.

         As I entered, the old man was just finishing up on a teenage boy, who had obviously come in with a full head of hair. Blonde ringlets dusted the floor around the chair, his head skinned down to stubble even shorter than what I now sported.

         As he climbed out of the chair, he ran a hand over his head, wincing. “Jeez, it’s short.” I heard him say.

         “Your father was very specific, Tommy.” The barber shook out the cape, a smattering of hair joining the rest on the floor.

         The boy looked at himself in the mirror and shook his denuded head sadly. “I guess I can kiss my girlfriend goodbye.” He mewled.

         The barber chuckled, patting the humiliated teen on his shoulder. His eyes then locked on mine, as the kid made his way out of the shop. “Back again, young lady?” He turned the chair toward me, beckoning me into his lair.

         Not much was said as he wrapped the cape around my shoulders, the tickly paper just a tad too tight around my neck. Before he started the cut, he turned the chair away from the mirror, so I was facing him. “The boys could barely believe their eyes when I showed them the video, you know.” He mused.

         Everything suddenly came to life as he described their reaction to my exhibition in his chair a month before. The pinstriped cape offered some assurance that my arousal would be concealed, but I could feel my penis throbbing against the taught fabric of my jeans. His tale of my forced exposure was like heroin to my senses, and I wished he would just get on with the haircut.

         “All off?” Was all he asked, as he grabbed the same trimming clippers from the hook below the counter.

         I managed a nod, as he dusted the blades of the machine with a small brush. “This’ll be quick. At least I won’t have the mess to clean up.” He grinned. “Do you know you practically filled my dustbin over there?”

         The thought of my precious hair being dumped unceremoniously into a garbage can was about all that was needed to elicit a moan, the slight murmur escaping my lips, inadvertently.

         Knowing he was getting to me, he continued procrastinating, flipping the clippers on and off a few times. “That was a lot of hair, sweetheart.” He chortled. “I hope you don’t mind that I kept some of it.” He admitted proudly. “Yeah, I braided it up for safekeeping.”

         The idea of this old man jerking his meat while he toyed with what was once my crowning glory should have been abhorrent to me. The thing was, it wasn’t. It only served to heighten my bizarre arousal and he knew it.

         “Okay. Here we go.” He finally mused, bringing the whining clippers to my forehead and running them back over my crown. The short hair peeled off my scalp in what looked like a roll, finally tumbling over the back of the cape. It joined the much longer locks that once belonged to the boy, a meager contribution to the pile.

         He wasn’t wrong about being quicker. My hair offered no resistance to the blades, and I was soon bald once again, save for the sandpaper stubble that would soon surrender to the straight razor he now stropped.

         The menthol lather was familiar and almost comforting as he spread it over my exposed scalp. As wonderful as the experience was, it was not the orgasmic revelation that I had shown the first time. Yes, my little wiener throbbed pleasantly in my jeans and my nipples buzzed as the blade slowly divested me of any evidence of hair. I had a horrible thought that my problem coming had nothing to do with my hair.

         The barber was disappointed too, and he covertly shut off his phone and slipped it into his pocket, thinking I had missed it. I hadn’t had an orgasm. He looked at me as he wiped the remnants of lather from my shiny egg. “Let me do something for you.” He offered, excited by whatever he planned.

         I went to protest as he spread a small amount of lather over my brow, but something inside prevented me. ‘Perhaps he was only going to shape them’, I imagined, but knowing better. Now, the rush of arousal was back with the notion of being browless. ‘How would I hide this?’

         It was remarkably fast and over before I knew what had happened. A few quick swipes with the dangerously sharp blade was all it took to scrape the last remaining hair from my head.

         As he turned me to face the mirror, the creature staring back at me was void of emotion or expression. Without their graceful arches, my browless eyes were two black voids in my skull, staring lifelessly back at me. A sudden rush of excitement coursed through me and I felt myself coming, the moisture pooling in my panties as the throbbing slowly subsided.

         “Why did you do that?” I asked, almost tearfully.

         “Because you needed it.” the old man sighed, cleaning the razor and folding it neatly into its scabbard. Perhaps I did at that.

         As I walked home, dazed and slightly bewildered by my predicament, I failed to notice the glancing stares of passersby. I didn’t seem to care.

         Now, as I stood, stripped and utterly hairless, the mirror in my bedroom seemed to mock me. I was beyond hideous. I looked like an alien and there was no escaping that frightfully dull void that was now my face.

         That was when I noticed the flashing light on my answering machine. No one ever called my landline, the answering machine my solution to the pestering junk calls and fax attempts. They had long since stopped, but someone had definitely left a message.

         “By now, you have most certainly reaped the full measure of my wrath, Victoria. Yes, you may now please yourself, and this is just as well, as you would not be likely to appeal to anyone else. I will grant you one chance to redeem yourself, but it will come at a cost. Meet me tomorrow evening, and we shall discuss it.”

         I listened to the message two or three times, frantically trying to come to terms with what the old woman intended. Did she mean to return my femininity? She said there was a cost, and I feared how costly that would be.

         The following morning was a mad scramble to make myself at least marginally presentable. I thought I had done a bang-up job drawing on my eyebrows, but on close inspection, there was no doubt that they had been shaved. At least I looked human again, and with the wig and the falsies inside my bra, I seemed a passable facsimile of my former self.

         Work was hectic , and I think no one was the wiser, thank god. There were a few odd glances from Emily, who knew my face well enough to notice something was amiss. At least my wig was firmly stuck to my smoothly shaved pate, and I toyed with the idea of shaving it daily. That would certainly avoid any embarrassing slips, or, god forbid, an entire reveal of my baldness.

         As I drove to the old woman’s cottage, I knew better than to appear wearing such prosthetics as the fake boobs and my wig. I stopped at a rest area along the way and removed my bra, peeling the wig from my head in what had become a liberating sensation. I allowed my head to breathe for a moment before snagging the bandana from the glove and wrapping it tightly about my skull.

         Without the bra and the falsies underneath, my white blouse fell lifeless against my chest, leaving no doubt that I was lacking anything that could be called breasts. I debated wiping away the drawn-on eyebrows, but thought that would be a step too far for me to go, even for this meeting.

         As I pulled up into the parking lot that sat outside the perimeter of the small wicken community, I headed off on foot, finding the strange little cottage just as I remembered it. Of course, the old woman knew I was coming and met me with her doorway open, as I stepped onto her walk.

         “You can remove that, for starters, Victoria.” The woman demanded, pointing to the decorative scarf that concealed my baldness. I reached up and slowly pulled the cloth away from my head, the material sliding effortlessly away from my glass-smooth scalp. “Better.” She mused, a slight grin painting her face as she stood to the side to allow my entrance.

         Following behind, she sidestepped me and slid in behind her table, but stopped short of sitting. “So, let me see how you have changed then, Victoria.” She eyed me up and down, certainly noticing my lack of female curves. “Take them off.”

         Understandably, I was hesitant to do as she asked. I had yet to share the humiliation of my changes with my anyone, save for Emily and that was before the really startling changes had taken place. “I…”

         “Oh, come now. How can I help you if you cannot even show me?” The woman decried. “Naked, come on.”

         With a less-than-determined sigh, I began to disrobe, starting with my blouse. She smiled as she took in my boyish chest, knowing full well how much it pained me to reveal something so embarrassing. Continuing, I slipped off my heels and then my slacks, leaving me in only my panties, which did little to hide the noticeable bulge.

         She raised her eyebrows expectantly, and knowing that there was so little to go, I rolled my silky underwear down my legs. Immediately, my little wiener sprung to attention, throbbing stiffly.

         “Well, it’s not very impressive, is it?” She pointed out, the three-inch member being proportionately thin. “But I’m certain you have made the most of it, haven’t you?” She asked.

         “I…” Not seeing any point in hiding the truth from her I answered. “Yes, I have.” I could feel my face flush with humiliation, but the arousal she elicited with her inquisition was palpable.

         “In fact, I think you’ve enjoyed being a boy, haven’t you, Victoria; or perhaps I should refer to you as Victor?”

         My breath caught in my throat at the inference, and again, she succeeded in stroking my excitement. It was all I could do to stop myself from reaching down and stroking it, right in front of her. “It has been an experience,” I admitted, falling short of saying that I enjoyed it. I felt odd being utterly naked before someone completely clothed, but she motioned to the chair, and I took it, anxious to hide at least a portion of myself from her inquisitive eyes.

         She sat across from me at the very table where it all began, and sighed. “I’m not entirely certain you will be happy with what I am about to offer you, but it is all I am willing to do.” She reached under the table and handed me a handkerchief, urging me with her eyes to rid myself of my last scrap of pretense.

         Without any thought, I swiped at my brow, knowing how ridiculous I would look with them gone. She nodded when satisfied by my efforts, taking the soiled kerchief from me and tossing it aside.

         “I’m afraid there is nothing I can do about your need to be hairless. You have brought that upon yourself, and if you wish to continue the self-abuse you seem obsessed with, then hairless you shall remain.”

         My heart sunk, as I had hoped that this would be one thing she might be able to return to me. As much as the humiliation of being bald had driven my sexual appetite, I did miss my long flowing tresses. Now, it seemed, I would have no choice but to maintain the drastic look, or suffer with the inability to pleasure myself. “I understand.” I managed, running a hand over my head, in surrender.

         “As far as the rest, I’m not all that convinced I should grant you the vanity of returning to your former self.” She smirked, noticing my fingers stroking one exposed nipple unconsciously. “I think you enjoy being an underendowed, oversexed little boy entirely too much.”

         “Oh no, no, please,” I begged. “I want to be a girl again.”

         “Do you really?” She stood, walking behind me, and looked down, catching me with my thumb and forefinger stroking ‘it’. “I think you do that a lot, don’t you, Victor?”

         Caught, and with little to say but the truth, I confessed. “I do.” I sighed, but then the words continued to flow from my mouth, unbidden. “I’m obsessed, really, Sometimes I play with it at work, and when I get home, well…” I stopped myself, ashamed. “A lot, yes.” I mewled.

         “Yes. Just like a little boy with a new toy. You can’t stop playing with it, can you?” She smiled.

         I realized that I was now masturbating, and in spite of the old woman staring disapprovingly at my reckless display, I didn’t stop. I couldn’t. Hearing her laughing as I came, was feeding my shame, her insulting taunts pushing me over the edge.

         “Well, little boy. I think my work is done here.” She returned to her seat and indicated my clothes which were scattered over the floor like so many rags.

         “But, what about my….”

         “Oh, I think we’ve established that you are quite well satisfied with the way things are.” She shook her head. “You’re a disgusting little boy, who’s obsessed with masturbation, and that’s exactly how things will be from now on.”

         I dressed, hurriedly, almost ashamed to be donning my decidedly feminine attire. Her words had affected me so, that the satiny garments felt all wrong. Had she cast another spell?

         All the way home, I was conscious of the stares I was getting from other motorists. I had managed to slip on the wig but quickly had to remove it, the weight of the hair on my shoulders making me feel self-conscious.

         I couldn’t get the clothing off fast enough when I got home, and not because I needed to be naked as I usually did. No, this was entirely different. I opened my drawers, frowning at all of the frilly lace and smooth feminine clothing.

Without thinking, I emptied my dresser and closets and tossed the clothes in a pile at the center of my bedroom. They had to go. One black trash bag after another was thrown into the Goodwill bin at the corner of my street. What remained were a few pairs of baggy jeans, some tees and sweatshirts, and a single pair of all-stars that were a carryover from my youth.

In my haste, I realized that along with the clothes, went the wig and any makeup that I once had. I sat, naked once again, staring at my empty closets and barren shelves, panting. What had I done? What about my job? Was I to simply show up dressed as a guy, suddenly?

I wasn’t sure what else to do, so I made my way to a clothing shop and purchased what I needed to live my life as I was. I could have continued to masquerade as a woman, but something inside me had changed. Of course, it was no mystery that another spell had been cast by the old woman; one that made it impossible for me to continue with that illusion.

After a few weeks, I was fired from my job, and not because of my decision to change my gender. It was my choice to maintain the gaunt, hairless visage that swayed their hand. I was powerless to stop myself. Every evening, I would shave away any trace of stubble that had grown from the night before, my eyebrows as well. Then I would settle in before my mirror to masturbate over my hideous appearance.

Surprisingly, it didn’t take but a few days for me to secure another position. My new job was far more lucrative, even if it was in the adult film industry. It seemed there was an exclusive market for oddities such as myself. All that mattered was that I was finally content; comfortable in my ugliness and with no incentive to hide what I had become. I began to wonder if the old woman would be pleased by what had happened to me, because what she had considered a curse, was, in fact, a blessing in disguise.