Bouffant Shave
The Agreement of 1965
In the quiet, pastel-colored suburbs of 1965, where the hum of lawnmowers and the scent of apple pie defined Saturday mornings, Eleanor and Harold Grayson lived a life that seemed, to their neighbors, perfectly ordinary. Harold, a stern but gentle man of 38, worked as a mid-level accountant at a firm downtown, his horn-rimmed glasses and neatly pressed suits a hallmark of his orderly nature. Eleanor, 32, was the quintessential homemaker—her auburn hair always pinned up, her apron starched, her smile bright as she waved to the milkman. But behind the lace curtains of their split-level ranch home, their marriage harbored a secret pact, one that Eleanor embraced with an eagerness that surprised even herself.
It began one humid July evening, the air thick with the drone of cicadas. Harold sat in his armchair, a glass of bourbon in hand, the newspaper folded on his lap. Eleanor knelt by the coffee table, polishing the silverware with a fervor that matched her devotion to him. He cleared his throat, his voice low but steady.
“Ellie,” he said, adjusting his glasses, “I’ve been thinking. There’s something I’d like from you—something… particular.”
She looked up, her hazel eyes wide with curiosity. “Anything, Hal. You know that.”
He leaned forward, his tone deliberate. “I want you completely hairless. Head to toe. No eyebrows, no eyelashes, nothing. Smooth as a porcelain doll.”
Eleanor paused, a silver spoon gleaming in her hand. The request was strange, even startling, but there was a gleam in Harold’s eyes—a mix of vulnerability and desire—that stirred something in her. She smiled, setting the spoon down. “If that’s what you want, I’ll do it. I’ll do it for you.”
The next morning, the transformation began. Eleanor stood in their tiled bathroom, the mirror fogged from the steam of her shower. Harold had brought home a safety razor, a can of Barbasol shaving cream, and a pair of tweezers, laying them out like a surgeon’s tools. She started with her legs, the razor gliding over her skin in long, careful strokes, leaving behind a sheen of smoothness. Then her arms, her underarms—each pass a quiet act of submission. Harold watched from the doorway, his breath shallow, his approval silent but palpable.
The head was next. Eleanor unpinned her auburn locks, letting them cascade over her shoulders one last time. She took the kitchen shears and snipped them away, handful by handful, until her scalp was a patchwork of stubble. Harold stepped in then, lathering her head with the cream, his hands steady as he shaved her bald. The razor scraped softly, a sound like whispers in the still air. When he finished, he wiped her clean with a warm towel, revealing a dome as flawless as marble.
“Eyebrows now,” he murmured, handing her the tweezers. Eleanor sat on the edge of the tub, plucking each hair with precision, her reflection growing stranger by the minute. The eyelashes were trickier—Harold held her face gently, snipping them away with tiny scissors, his fingers trembling slightly. When it was done, she looked alien, ethereal—her features stark and unguarded, her devotion laid bare.
“I love it,” she whispered, touching her smooth scalp. “I feel… free.”
Harold’s requests didn’t end there. That same evening, he sat her down on the floral sofa, his voice dropping lower. “There’s more, Ellie. I want you cleaned out—inside. Enemas, twice a day. Morning and night.”
Her cheeks flushed, but she nodded. “Tell me how.”
He’d prepared for this too. In the kitchen, he unveiled a red rubber enema bag, its hose coiled like a snake, a gallon jug of warm water mixed with a teaspoon of salt, and a Bardex nozzle—a double-balloon device with a sleek, black tip, designed to lock securely inside. Eleanor followed him to the bathroom, shedding her housecoat, lying on a towel he’d spread across the linoleum. Harold knelt beside her, lubricating the Bardex nozzle with a dab of petroleum jelly. He inserted it carefully, her breath catching as the first balloon slid past her entrance. With a small hand pump, he inflated the inner balloon, then the outer one, creating a tight seal that held the nozzle firmly in place. She felt anchored, vulnerable, as he attached the hose and opened the clamp.
The warm water flowed in—a slow, relentless tide that filled her deeply, the Bardex ensuring not a drop escaped. Harold timed it with his pocket watch: ten minutes to fill, five to hold. Eleanor lay still, the sensation overwhelming yet oddly comforting, her trust in him absolute. When the time came, he deflated the balloons with a soft hiss, removing the nozzle so she could release. It was a ritual of surrender, her body his to command.
“Twice a day,” he repeated, rinsing the Bardex under the faucet, its rubber balloons glistening. “And when you’re not being cleaned, I want you plugged.”
He produced the object then—a hollow tunnel plug, three inches wide, crafted from smooth, black rubber, its core open like a window. Eleanor’s eyes widened, but she didn’t hesitate. “Yes, Hal,” she said, her voice steady.
The first time was awkward. She bent over the edge of their bed, Harold applying more petroleum jelly to ease it in. The stretch was intense, a fullness that bordered on discomfort, but she breathed through it, wanting to please him. Once seated, the plug stayed in place, its hollow center a strange sensation—like a secret passage within her. She stood, smoothing her skirt, feeling its weight with every step.
“It’s perfect,” Harold said, his voice thick with pride. “But there’s one more thing. To keep it tidy—no leaks—I want you diapered. Always.”
Eleanor laughed softly, a nervous sound, but she agreed. Harold had bought a stack of cloth diapers, thick and white, with pins shaped like ducklings. She lay back as he folded one around her, the plug’s presence accommodated by the bulk, the fabric snug against her hairless skin. He fastened it with care, then handed her a pair of plastic panties—pink, crinkling faintly—to seal it all in.
From that day forward, their routine shifted. Each morning, Eleanor woke to the enema, Harold preparing the Bardex nozzle with precision, inflating its balloons to secure her for the cleanse. She’d stand in the kitchen afterward, bald and diapered, the plug settled within her, cooking his eggs sunny-side up. At night, after dinner, the second enema came—the Bardex’s double seal a quiet promise of control—followed by the reapplication of the plug and diaper. When she moved—vacuuming the shag carpet or watering the begonias—her waddle was subtle, the diaper’s rustle a private symphony.
To the outside world, she wore wigs—blonde bobs or brunette curls—to mask her baldness, her lack of brows and lashes hidden by penciled lines and false fringe. But at home, she was his vision: hairless, plugged, diapered, cleansed. And she loved it—not just for him, but for the way it made her feel: cherished, controlled, complete.
One evening, as they sat by the fireplace, Harold traced her smooth scalp with his fingers. “You’re mine, Ellie,” he said. “Every inch.”
She smiled, leaning into his touch. “Always, Hal. Always.”
A Permanent Promise
By late August of 1965, the Grayson household had settled into its peculiar rhythm. The summer heat lingered, pressing against the windows of their suburban ranch home, but inside, Eleanor and Harold thrived in their private world of ritual and devotion. Eleanor’s hairless form—scalp gleaming, brows and lashes gone—had become Harold’s obsession, a vision he couldn’t tire of. Each morning, as she stood in the kitchen, diapered and plugged, flipping pancakes with a practiced hand, he’d watch her with a quiet intensity, his coffee cooling untouched. But a new thought had begun to take root in his mind, one that gnawed at him until it spilled out one crisp Saturday evening.
They sat in the living room, the glow of the Zenith television casting flickering shadows across the shag carpet. Harold muted the news broadcast—something about Vietnam, but he wasn’t listening—and turned to Eleanor, who sat cross-legged on the floor, folding a stack of his laundered handkerchiefs. Her bald head caught the light, a perfect curve he’d shaved himself just that morning. He set his bourbon down on the side table, the ice clinking softly.
“Ellie,” he began, his voice measured, “you know how much I love you like this. Smooth. Perfect. But… I’ve been thinking. Shaving you every few days—it’s not enough. I want it permanent. I want you bald for life.”
Eleanor paused, a handkerchief half-folded in her lap. She tilted her head, her bare face open and unguarded, those penciled brows she’d drawn on for the neighbors’ sake absent in the safety of their home. For a moment, Harold wondered if he’d pushed too far, if this request—wilder than the others—might fracture the trust she’d given so freely. But then her lips curved into a smile, soft and certain.
“Yes, Hal,” she said, her voice steady as ever. “If that’s what you want, I’ll do it. Tell me how.”
Her willingness sent a thrill through him, a warmth that settled deep in his chest. He stood, crossing to her in two strides, and took her hands, pulling her gently to her feet. “I’ve been reading up,” he said, his excitement breaking through his usual reserve. “There’s a way—electrolysis. They use a needle, a little electric current, to kill the hair roots one by one. It’s permanent, Ellie. No more razors, no more stubble. Just you, smooth forever.”
Eleanor’s eyes widened, but she didn’t flinch. “Does it hurt?” she asked, not out of fear, but curiosity.
“Some say it stings—like a pinprick, maybe a burn. But it’s quick for each spot. And I’d be there with you. Every step.”
She nodded, squeezing his hands. “Then let’s do it. I want to be what you see in your head, Hal. Always.”
The next Monday, Harold made a call from his office, flipping through the Yellow Pages until he found a discreet electrologist downtown—a woman named Marjorie, who ran a small salon above a drugstore. He booked an appointment for Wednesday afternoon, telling Eleanor over dinner that night. She listened, her fork poised over a plate of meatloaf, her enthusiasm mirroring his own.
Wednesday came, and they drove into the city in Harold’s Ford Falcon, the radio playing “Ticket to Ride” as Eleanor sat beside him, a blonde wig perched on her head for appearances. Marjorie’s salon was a narrow room with a single chair, a table of equipment, and a faint hum of electricity in the air. Marjorie herself was a wiry woman in her fifties, her hair teased into a beehive, her voice clipped but kind.
“So, the whole head?” she asked, peering at Eleanor over her cat-eye glasses. “Eyebrows too?”
“Everything,” Harold confirmed, standing by Eleanor’s side. “She’s to be completely hairless. Permanently.”
Marjorie raised an eyebrow but didn’t question it. “Well, it’ll take time—hours per session, and several sessions over weeks. Scalp alone’s got thousands of follicles. But I can do it. Lie back, dear.”
Eleanor settled into the chair, shedding her wig without hesitation. Marjorie swabbed her scalp with alcohol, the cool sting making Eleanor shiver. Then came the needle—a thin, gleaming probe attached to a buzzing machine. Marjorie worked methodically, inserting it into the first follicle at Eleanor’s hairline, a tiny jolt of current zapping the root. Eleanor gasped, her fingers tightening on the armrests, but she didn’t pull away.
“Stings a bit, doesn’t it?” Marjorie said, moving to the next spot. “You’ll get used to it.”
Harold stood close, his hand resting on Eleanor’s shoulder, watching as each hair root was destroyed. The process was slow—zap, pause, zap again—the air filling with a faint burnt smell. Eleanor’s scalp reddened slightly, but she smiled up at him between pricks, her trust unshaken. They spent three hours that first day, Marjorie covering a palm-sized patch near Eleanor’s crown before wrapping up.
“Back next week,” Marjorie said, handing Harold a jar of aloe cream. “Keep it clean, no shaving in between.”
The sessions stretched into September. Every Wednesday, they returned—Eleanor lying still as Marjorie zapped away, Harold holding her hand or reading her snippets from Reader’s Digest to pass the time. The scalp came first, patch by patch, until no stubble dared to grow. Then the eyebrows—Marjorie plucking the last stragglers before electrifying the roots, leaving Eleanor’s face a blank canvas. The eyelashes, too delicate for electrolysis, had been snipped away long ago, and Harold decided they’d stay that way, her eyes framed only by her willingness.
By mid-October, it was done. Eleanor stood before their bathroom mirror, her head a flawless expanse of skin, no trace of hair anywhere—scalp, brows, lashes, all gone for good. Harold ran his hands over her, marveling at the permanence, the smoothness that would never fade.
“You’re perfect,” he whispered, his voice thick. “My Ellie, forever.”
She turned to him, her bare face alight with pride. “I’m yours, Hal. Just like you wanted.”
From then on, the razors stayed in the drawer, the shaving cream unopened. Eleanor’s baldness was no longer a task but a state—eternal, unchanging, a testament to their bond. And as she moved through their home, diapered and plugged, cleansed twice daily with the Bardex, she felt not just his desire, but her own power in giving it life.
Whispers and Wonders
By the fall of 1965, Eleanor Grayson’s transformation had woven itself into the fabric of her daily life, a secret symphony played out beneath her wigs and modest dresses. The electrolysis was complete, her scalp, brows, and body forever hairless, her mornings and evenings punctuated by the Bardex enema, her days spent plugged and diapered—all at Harold’s behest, all embraced with her unwavering consent. But such changes, even hidden beneath blonde curls and penciled brows for the neighbors’ sake, couldn’t stay entirely unnoticed. Not by those closest to her.
Her best friends, Betty and Lorraine, had been Eleanor’s confidantes since high school—girls who’d shared secrets over milkshakes at the diner, now women with husbands and kitchens of their own. They met every Thursday for coffee at Betty’s house, a ritual of gossip and laughter. It was late October, the leaves outside Betty’s window a riot of red and gold, when Eleanor decided to let them in. She arrived that morning in her usual disguise—a brunette wig, a sweater set, and a skirt that hid the faint crinkle of her diaper—but her hazel eyes sparkled with something new.
“Girls,” she said, setting her coffee cup down on Betty’s Formica table, “I’ve got something to show you. Something Harold’s done to me. Well, something I’ve done for him.”
Betty, a plump blonde with a penchant for bridge, leaned forward. “Oh, Ellie, don’t tell me he’s got you wearing those new miniskirts!”
Lorraine, wiry and sharp-tongued, laughed. “Or dyeing your hair jet black like Liz Taylor?”
Eleanor shook her head, her smile widening. “No, it’s more than that. Come upstairs. I’ll show you.”
Intrigued, they followed her to Betty’s guest room, the air thick with anticipation. Eleanor shut the door, turned to face them, and kicked off her loafers. “First,” she said, “the hair.” She lifted the wig from her head, revealing her bald scalp, smooth as porcelain under the soft light. Betty gasped, clapping a hand to her mouth, while Lorraine’s eyes widened.
“No eyebrows either?” Lorraine asked, stepping closer. “And—good Lord, Ellie, your lashes?”
“Gone,” Eleanor said, turning her head to show the full effect. “Permanently. Electrolysis, all over. Harold wanted me hairless for life, and I said yes.”
Betty reached out, hesitant, then touched Eleanor’s scalp. “It’s so… soft. Like a baby’s.”
“There’s more,” Eleanor said, her voice steady. She unbuttoned her sweater, then her skirt, letting them fall to the floor. Beneath, she wore only her diaper—thick white cloth pinned at the hips, the plastic panties crinkling as she moved. “He wants me plugged and diapered, too. All the time, except for my enemas—twice a day with a Bardex nozzle.”
Lorraine’s jaw dropped. “Plugged? You mean—”
Eleanor nodded, unpinning the diaper with practiced ease. It fell away, revealing the hollow tunnel plug, three inches wide, nestled within her. The black rubber gleamed faintly, its open core a stark contrast to her pale, hairless skin. She stood nude before them, unashamed, her body a testament to Harold’s vision.
Betty giggled nervously. “Ellie, you look like a doll—a bald, diapered baby doll!”
“I love it,” Lorraine said, circling her. “It’s wild, but it’s you. So smooth, so… pure. Harold’s a lucky man.”
Eleanor beamed, stepping back into the diaper and pinning it up. “I feel like his creation. He loves me this way, and I love being this way for him.”
They spent the rest of the morning marveling, asking questions—how the enemas felt (warm, full, cleansing), how the plug stayed (tight, heavy, constant), why the diapers (no leaks, total control). Betty even begged her to model again, clapping as Eleanor twirled, bald and diapered, a strange, joyful figure in the guest room’s pastel glow.
But not everyone shared their delight. A week later, Eleanor’s mother, Ruth, stopped by unannounced. Ruth was a stout woman of 58, her gray hair permed tight, her opinions sharper than her knitting needles. She’d noticed Eleanor’s wigs—always a touch off-center—and the way her daughter’s face seemed oddly bare, even with makeup. That afternoon, as they sat in the Grayson living room with cups of tea, Ruth set her saucer down with a clink.
“Eleanor,” she said, her tone clipped, “what’s happened to you? You look like a mannequin. Where’s your hair?”
Eleanor sipped her tea, her wig—a blonde bob—itching slightly. She’d kept her full transformation from Ruth, but the baldness was impossible to hide forever. “Mama,” she said, “Harold wanted me hairless. Permanently. So I did it—electrolysis, head to toe. I’m bald for life now.”
Ruth’s eyes narrowed. “Bald? For life? What kind of man asks that of his wife? And you agreed?”
“Yes,” Eleanor said, meeting her gaze. “I love it, Mama. I love how he loves me this way. It’s not just the hairlessness—there’s more he wanted, and I wanted it too.”
Ruth leaned back, arms crossed. “More? What more could there be?”
Eleanor hesitated, then decided on half the truth. “He likes me… cared for. Cleaned out, controlled. It’s his vision, and it’s mine now too. I’m happy, Mama.”
Ruth didn’t press for the nude reveal Eleanor had given her friends—she wouldn’t have stomached the plug, the diapers, the full scope. Instead, she huffed, her disapproval sharp. “You’ve lost your mind, girl. Hairless like some freak, doing whatever that man says. I raised you better.”
Eleanor smiled, unshaken. “I know it’s strange to you. But listen, Mama—it’s what Harold wanted, so I wanted it too. The electrolysis made me permanently hairless, yes, but there’s more I haven’t told you. The plug—the wide, hollow one I wear—it’s changed me. I’m incontinent now, permanently. Can’t control it anymore, and I don’t mind. The diapers catch it all, and the enemas keep me clean. I’m his, completely, and I love how he’s shaped me.”
Ruth’s face paled, then reddened. “Incontinent? Eleanor, that’s not natural! You’re throwing away your dignity for some man’s whim!”
“No,” Eleanor said, her voice soft but firm. “It’s my choice too. I love how Harold loves me—bald, smooth, helpless in his hands. I’m his vision, Mama, and I’ve never felt more myself.”
Ruth stood, clutching her purse. “I can’t hear this. You’re not my daughter like this.” She stormed out, the screen door slamming behind her.
Eleanor sat still, the tea cooling in her cup. She didn’t cry—Ruth’s words stung, but they couldn’t touch the joy she felt. Later, when Harold came home, she greeted him at the door, shedding her wig to show her gleaming scalp. “Mama didn’t understand,” she said, “but Betty and Lorraine did. They loved my bald baby look. And I love how you love me, Hal.”
He pulled her close, his fingers tracing her hairless head. “You’re perfect, Ellie. Every inch, just as I dreamed.”
She smiled, nestling into him, the crinkle of her diaper a quiet hymn to their bond.
A Doll’s Smile
By November of 1965, Eleanor Grayson had fully embraced her role in Harold’s world, a role she wore like a badge of honor. The crisp air carried the scent of burning leaves, and the neighborhood buzzed with preparations for Thanksgiving, but inside their ranch home, Eleanor and Harold lived in a bubble of their own making. Her permanent baldness, her twice-daily Bardex enemas, her hollow plug, and her ever-present diapers had become second nature, a rhythm as familiar as the ticking of the mantel clock. She’d taken to boasting about it, her voice bright with pride whenever they were alone.
“I’m a bald, diapered baby doll!” she’d declare, twirling in the kitchen as she stirred a pot of stew, her scalp gleaming under the fluorescent light, her diaper crinkling beneath her apron.
Harold, sitting at the table with his evening bourbon, would look up from his newspaper, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “No, Ellie,” he’d correct, his tone warm but firm, “you’re my bald, diapered baby doll.”
She’d pause, turning to him with a grin. “Yes, I am. All yours, Hal.”
It was a routine, a call-and-response that delighted them both, but one chilly Friday night, it took an unexpected turn. They sat by the fireplace, the logs crackling as Eleanor folded a stack of freshly laundered diapers. She’d shed her wig for the evening, her hairless head reflecting the flames, and she piped up again, “I’m a bald, diapered baby doll!”
Harold set his glass down, leaning forward in his armchair. “You are,” he said, then tilted his head, a glint of curiosity in his eyes. “But tell me, Ellie—would a bald, diapered baby doll have teeth?”
Eleanor froze, the diaper half-folded in her hands. Her hazel eyes met his, wide and searching, and then a spark lit within them. “No,” she said instantly, her voice rising with excitement. “No, they wouldn’t! A real baby doll wouldn’t have teeth—smooth gums, that’s all. Oh, Hal, I want to truly be your bald, diapered baby doll. Can I have my teeth removed?”
Harold blinked, caught off guard by her fervor. He studied her for a moment—her bare scalp, her eager expression, the way she leaned toward him, awaiting his word. He could have said no, could have steered her back to their familiar boundaries, but something in her plea stirred him. This was her choice, her gift to him, as much as his vision had shaped her. He leaned back, folding his hands. “I leave it in your hands, Ellie,” he said, his voice steady. “If that’s what you want, you decide.”
Her smile widened, a row of white teeth flashing briefly—teeth she now imagined gone. “It is,” she said. “I want it, Hal. For you, for me. I’ll call a dentist tomorrow.”
The next morning, after Harold left for work, Eleanor stood in the kitchen, the breakfast dishes still soaking in the sink. She wore her diaper and a loose housecoat, the plug a familiar weight within her, and flipped through the Yellow Pages on the counter. Her finger traced the listings under “Dentists,” pausing at an ad for Dr. Leonard Hirsch, a specialist in full dentures. The ad promised “modern techniques, comfortable fittings,” and a phone number in bold print. She lifted the receiver of their rotary phone, the dial whirring as she spun each digit: 5-5-5-2-3-1-9.
The line rang twice before a woman’s voice answered, clipped and professional. “Dr. Hirsch’s office, this is Doris. How may I assist you?”
Eleanor straightened, her voice clear despite the flutter in her chest. “Hello, Doris. My name’s Eleanor Grayson. I’d like to make an appointment with Dr. Hirsch—for a full extraction, all my teeth, and dentures after. Can he do that?”
There was a pause, a faint rustle of paper on the other end. “A full extraction? You mean every tooth?” Doris’s tone held a hint of surprise, but she recovered quickly. “Yes, Dr. Hirsch can do that. He’s done full mouth clearances before—usually for folks with bad decay or gum trouble. May I ask why you’re looking to have it done?”
Eleanor smiled, though Doris couldn’t see it. “It’s personal. My husband and I… well, it’s what we want. I don’t need my teeth anymore, and I’d like them out permanently. I’ll need dentures to wear sometimes, but mostly, I want my mouth smooth.”
Another pause, longer this time. “Well, all right, Mrs. Grayson,” Doris said, her voice softening. “It’s unusual, but it’s your choice. Dr. Hirsch uses gas—nitrous oxide—for the procedure, keeps you comfortable. He’ll extract everything in one go, then fit you for dentures once you’re healed. Takes about six weeks for the gums to settle. Can you come in for a consultation first?”
“Yes,” Eleanor said, her excitement bubbling. “When’s he free?”
Doris flipped through her schedule. “How’s Tuesday at 10 a.m.? He’ll check your mouth, take X-rays, talk you through it. Bring your husband if he wants to weigh in.”
“Tuesday’s perfect,” Eleanor replied, glancing at the calendar pinned to the wall—a picture of a turkey for November. “I’ll be there. Just me, though—my husband trusts me to handle it.”
“Very well,” Doris said, scribbling a note. “Tuesday, 10 a.m., consultation for full extraction and dentures. We’re at 412 Main Street, second floor. Anything else I can help with?”
“No, that’s all,” Eleanor said. “Thank you, Doris. I’m looking forward to it.”
She hung up, the receiver clicking into place, and stood there a moment, her hand resting on the phone. She ran her tongue over her teeth—soon to be gone, replaced by the smooth gums of a baby doll. Her heart raced with anticipation, not fear. This was the next step, the final piece to make her Harold’s vision completely. She imagined his face when she’d lisp her first toothless words, her mouth as bare as her scalp, her body wholly his creation.
That evening, when Harold came home, she greeted him at the door, her wig off, her diaper rustling as she hugged him. “I called a dentist today,” she said, her eyes shining. “Dr. Hirsch—he’ll take all my teeth out, fit me with dentures I can take out whenever. Tuesday’s the consultation. I’m doing it, Hal. For you.”
He pulled her close, his hand tracing her bald head. “My bald, diapered baby doll,” he murmured, a rare softness in his voice. “You’re something else, Ellie.”
She grinned, her soon-to-be-gone teeth gleaming. “I’ll be even more yours, Hal. Just wait.”
Tuesday morning dawned gray and brisk, the November wind rattling the windows of the Grayson home. Eleanor woke with a flutter of excitement, her mind fixed on the day ahead. She’d decided the night before, as she lay beside Harold, that she’d go to Dr. Hirsch’s office as her truest self—no wig, no penciled brows, no pretense. She wanted the dentist to see her as Harold’s bald, diapered baby doll, a canvas of his desires and her devotion. At 9 a.m., after her morning Bardex enema and the reinsertion of her three-inch hollow plug, she pinned on a fresh diaper, slipped into a simple gray dress, and pulled on her coat. She caught her reflection in the hall mirror—her scalp smooth and bare, her face stark without brows or lashes, her mouth still lined with perfect teeth soon to be gone. She smiled, pleased with the strangeness of it.
Harold kissed her goodbye before heading to work, his hand lingering on her bald head. “You sure about this, Ellie?” he asked, though his eyes gleamed with approval.
“More than sure,” she said, her voice bright. “I’ll be back toothless tonight, Hal. Your baby doll, all the way.”
She drove the Falcon downtown, the heater humming, and parked outside 412 Main Street. The building was a squat brick affair, the sign for Dr. Hirsch’s office small but clear on the second-floor window. She climbed the stairs, her diaper rustling faintly beneath her dress, and pushed open the door to the waiting room. It was a modest space—linoleum floor, a few chairs, a table stacked with old Life magazines. Doris, the receptionist, sat behind a desk, her beehive hairdo catching the light. She looked up as Eleanor entered, and her polite smile faltered into a double-take.
“Good morning,” Doris said, her voice catching slightly. “You’re… Mrs. Grayson, yes? 10 a.m.?”
“That’s me,” Eleanor replied, shedding her coat to reveal her fully bald head. “Eleanor Grayson. No need for the wig today—I’m here as I am.”
Doris blinked, her eyes darting over Eleanor’s smooth scalp, the absence of brows, the bare eyelids. “Oh,” she managed, then recovered with a nervous laugh. “Well, you’re certainly… striking. Dr. Hirsch will be with you shortly.”
A hygienist, a young woman with a ponytail named Patty, emerged to call Eleanor back. She, too, froze mid-step, her clipboard nearly slipping. “Mrs. Grayson?” she squeaked, staring. “You’re—uh—follow me, please.”
Eleanor followed, her head high, enjoying their shock. The exam room was small, with a reclining chair, a tray of gleaming tools, and a faint antiseptic smell. Dr. Hirsch entered moments later—a wiry man in his forties, with thinning hair and a white coat, his demeanor calm but curious. He stopped short when he saw her, his brows lifting.
“Mrs. Grayson,” he said, setting his chart down. “Doris said you’re here for a full extraction, but—my word, you’re completely hairless. That’s… unusual.”
Eleanor settled into the chair, her diaper crinkling as she shifted. “It’s permanent,” she said proudly. “My husband, Harold, wanted me this way—bald for life, head to toe. Electrolysis did it. And now I want my teeth out, too.”
Dr. Hirsch adjusted his glasses, peering into her mouth as Patty handed him a mirror and probe. He examined her teeth—white, straight, no hint of decay. “But your teeth are perfect,” he said, frowning. “No cavities, no wear. Why remove them?”
Eleanor smiled, her soon-to-be-gone teeth flashing. “Because I’m Harold’s bald, diapered baby doll,” she said, her voice steady. “He asked if a baby doll would have teeth, and I said no—they’d have smooth gums. I want to be that for him, completely. No teeth, just like the rest of me is his vision.”
Dr. Hirsch leaned back, his expression a mix of surprise and professionalism. “Go on.”
She didn’t hesitate. “It’s more than that,” she said, lifting her dress slightly to reveal the edge of her plastic panties and the thick diaper beneath. “He wants me cleaned out twice a day—enemas with a Bardex nozzle. And when I’m not doing that, I wear this.” She stood, turned, and tugged the diaper down just enough to show the black rubber of her three-inch hollow plug, its open core stark against her pale skin. “It’s left me incontinent, permanently. The diapers keep it tidy. And now, no teeth—it’s the next step. I want it, Doctor. I love being his creation.”
Patty gasped softly, stepping back, but Dr. Hirsch only nodded, unfazed after a moment. “Very unusual,” he said, scribbling a note. “I’ve seen a few cases over the years—wives whose husbands wanted them toothless, usually for… well, oral reasons. Gummy blow jobs, they call it. Is that part of it?”
Eleanor laughed, pulling her diaper back up. “Well, of course it’ll let me give Harold gummy blow jobs—smooth and soft, just how he’ll like it. But it’s more than that. It’s about being his baby doll, top to bottom. I want these teeth out.”
Dr. Hirsch tapped his pen against the chart. “Okay. If that’s what you want, it’s your call. I’ve had some cancellations today—Mrs. Perkins postponed her cleaning—so we can begin now if you’re ready.”
Eleanor’s eyes lit up. “More than ready,” she said, clapping her hands. “I’m pleased there’s no delay. Let’s do it.”
“Alright,” he said, turning to Patty. “Get the impression kit first—we’ll mold her teeth for dentures before we extract. She’ll need them in six weeks, once the gums heal. Baby food only ‘til then.”
Patty hurried off, returning with a tray of alginate and metal molds. Dr. Hirsch mixed the pink goo, its sharp chemical scent filling the room, and pressed it into Eleanor’s mouth—top, then bottom. She held still, the cold paste hardening around her perfect teeth, capturing their shape for the dentures she’d wear optionally. When he pulled the molds free, she ran her tongue over her teeth one last time, savoring their presence.
“Fitting,” she said, chuckling. “I’m a bald baby doll, so baby food seems right.”
Dr. Hirsch smiled faintly, then prepared the nitrous oxide. He fitted a mask over her nose, the gas hissing as he turned the valve. “Breathe deep,” he said. “This’ll relax you.” Next, he numbed her gums with a series of injections—lidocaine, sharp pricks that faded into a heavy, tingling numbness. She felt her mouth grow thick, her lips slack, as the gas softened the edges of the room.
Fully numb, Dr. Hirsch began. He worked methodically, starting with her upper front teeth. The forceps gripped each tooth, a gentle twist and pull, the roots yielding with a soft crunch—inaudible to Eleanor through the numbness and gas, but a rhythm she sensed in her jaw. Blood welled, quickly swabbed by Patty, who held a suction tube to keep the field clear. One by one, her incisors fell, then her canines, her premolars, her molars—two hours of steady extraction, her perfect teeth piling in a metal tray. The lowers followed, the dentist’s hands deft and precise, until her mouth was empty, a cavern of raw, red gums.
When it was done, he packed her mouth with gauze, the metallic taste of blood faint beneath the numbness. “All out,” he said, removing the mask. “Rest here a bit. Ice your face tonight, soft foods only. Come back in a week to check healing.”
Eleanor nodded, her speech muffled by gauze. “Thang you,” she lisped, already feeling the change. She sat up, woozy but elated, her bald head gleaming, her toothless mouth a new frontier. She drove home slowly, the Falcon’s heater warming her diapered lap, and walked through the door just as Harold arrived from work.
He stopped, staring at her gauze-stuffed grin. “Ellie,” he said, awed. “You did it.”
“Yeth,” she lisped, pulling the gauze free to show her smooth, bloody gums. “Your bald, diapered, toothleth baby doll.”
He pulled her close, his laughter soft against her scalp. “My Ellie,” he murmured. “Perfect.”
A New Step Forward
November slipped into December 1965 with a quiet chill, the Grayson home aglow with the soft flicker of Christmas lights strung along the eaves. Eleanor’s toothless transformation had settled in faster than expected—her gums, raw and tender after Dr. Hirsch’s extraction, healed with remarkable speed. By the fifth day, the swelling had subsided, the bleeding stopped, and the soreness faded to a dull ache. She’d spent those days sipping strained broth and mashed peas through a straw, her bald head wrapped in a scarf against the draft, her diapered form nestled in Harold’s armchair as he read to her from the evening paper. But she was eager—eager to test her new mouth, to give Harold the gift she’d promised.
It was a Sunday evening, less than a week after the procedure, when she made her move. Harold sat on the couch, his tie loosened after a day of balancing ledgers, a glass of bourbon in hand. Eleanor, fresh from her evening Bardex enema, wore only her diaper and plastic panties, her plug snug within her, her bald scalp gleaming in the lamplight. She knelt before him, her toothless grin still a novelty, her hazel eyes bright with intent.
“Hal,” she lisped, her voice soft and gummy, “I’m healed enough. I want to give you your first gummy blow job. Right now.”
He set his glass down, his breath catching as he looked at her—his bald, diapered, toothless baby doll, so fully his creation. “You sure, Ellie?” he asked, though his tone betrayed his anticipation.
“Yeth,” she said, nodding. “I’ve been waiting for thith.”
She reached for his belt, her fingers deft despite the slight tremble of excitement. He shifted to help her, his trousers sliding down, his arousal evident as she freed him. Eleanor leaned in, her smooth gums brushing against him first—a soft, warm pressure, no sharp edges, just the yielding flesh of her mouth. She took him in slowly, her lips sealing around him, her tongue working where teeth once were. The sensation was new for both—velvety, slick, a gentle suction that built as she bobbed her head. Harold groaned, his hand resting on her bald scalp, guiding her lightly. Her lack of teeth made it effortless, a seamless glide, and the hollow plug within her shifted slightly with each movement, a reminder of her total submission.
It didn’t take long—minutes, maybe, before Harold tensed, his grip tightening, a low sound escaping him as he finished. Eleanor pulled back, licking her gums with a satisfied smile, her lisping voice triumphant. “How wath it, Hal?”
“Perfect,” he said, breathless, pulling her up to sit beside him. “My baby doll—you’re incredible.”
She nestled into him, the crinkle of her diaper loud in the quiet room. “I’m glad,” she said. “I love being thith for you.”
For the next six weeks, Eleanor stuck to baby food as her gums fully healed—jars of Gerber strained carrots, peas, and applesauce, spooned into her toothless mouth with a tiny silver spoon Harold had bought her. She’d sit at the kitchen table, her bald head bare, her diaper pinned snug, giggling as she lisped through meals. “I’m a baby doll through and through,” she’d say, and Harold would chuckle, ruffling her nonexistent hair.
By mid-January 1966, her dentures were ready. Dr. Hirsch fitted them during a quick visit—upper and lower plates, pink gums and white teeth, clicking into place with a dab of adhesive. She wore them home, testing her old smile in the car’s rearview mirror, but took them out the moment she stepped inside. “They’re for outthide,” she told Harold, setting them in a glass by the sink. “At home, I’m your gummy girl.”
That night, as they ate dinner—Harold with steak, Eleanor with pureed squash—he set his fork down, a thoughtful look crossing his face. “Ellie,” he said, “let’s keep you on baby food from now on. It suits you—my bald, diapered, toothless baby doll. No need for anything else.”
She paused, a spoonful of squash halfway to her mouth, then grinned. “I’m almotht out,” she lisped. “I’ll rethtock tomorrow. Gerber’s got plenty at the grocery.”
“Good,” he said, leaning back. “And while you’re out, stop by that sex shop downtown—Roxy’s, on 5th Street. Get a 3.5-inch tunnel plug. You’ve been on the 3-inch too long—it’s time to move up. Pick up a 4-inch too, so we’re ready sooner.”
Eleanor blushed, her bare scalp pinkening slightly. “Wow, that’th big,” she said, her eyes wide but sparkling. “Hopefully they have them in thtock. Can we thtart my 3.5-inch tomorrow?”
“Yes, we can,” Harold replied, his voice warm with pride. “My bald, plugged baby doll—you’re always ready for more.”
She giggled, setting her spoon down. “I am. I love how you change me, Hal. Bigger plugth, baby food, no teeth—I’m yourth, every inch.”
The next morning, after her enema and a breakfast of strained pears, Eleanor pinned on a fresh diaper, slipped her dentures in for the public, and pulled on a blonde wig. She drove to the A&P first, filling her cart with jars of Gerber—carrots, peas, sweet potatoes, enough to last weeks. Then, heart pounding with a mix of nerves and excitement, she headed to Roxy’s. The shop was dim, its windows curtained, a bell jingling as she entered. A clerk—a woman with heavy eyeliner—looked up, unfazed by Eleanor’s wigged, dentured appearance.
“Need a tunnel plug,” Eleanor said, her dentures clicking slightly. “3.5-inch and a 4-inch, both hollow.”
The clerk nodded, pulling two black rubber plugs from a shelf—3.5 inches wide, then 4, their open cores gleaming. “These’ll stretch you good,” she said, bagging them. “Anything else?”
“That’th all,” Eleanor replied, paying with cash Harold had left her. She drove home, the plugs in their discreet brown bag beside her stockpile of baby food, already imagining the feel of the 3.5-inch tomorrow—another step in her journey as Harold’s vision.
That night, she showed him her haul, lisping proudly. “All thtocked up, Hal. Baby food and bigger plugth—I’m ready.”
He pulled her close, his hand on her bald scalp. “My perfect Ellie,” he said. “Tomorrow, we start.”
Hello, I really like your story and invite you to continue in this vein. If there is a sequel, can a doll orgasm?
Could you tell me which AI you use?
Thank you.
I broke my “skip anything tagged as AI written” rule for this one given my interest in diapered ABgirls,and for that matter in girls wearing plugs too.
It’s an interesting yarn (though my tastes in ABgirl stories generally do NOT involve their going bald) but the achievement of incontinence is merely asserted and otherwise glossed over…it’s generally a key part of a woman’s evolution into needing her diapers.Did Harold use catheters as well as the tunnel plug or how was she trained?
Is her tunnel plug kept in during anal sex,so that he feels the sensation of having sex with a rubber doll?