Bouffant Shave
In the small town of Willow Creek, 1964 was a year of big hair and bigger dreams. Debra Ann Whitaker, a 32-year-old firecracker with a mane of red hair that could stop traffic, was a woman who knew what she wanted. Three times a week, she’d sashay into Betty’s Beauty Boutique, her heels clicking on the linoleum like a metronome set to a cha-cha beat. She’d plop herself into the pink vinyl chair, sip a Tab cola, and let Betty work her magic. The result? A bouffant bubble so perfect it looked like a crimson cloud floating above her shoulders—teased, sprayed, and sculpted to withstand anything short of a tornado.
Debra’s husband, Ray, a lanky mechanic with grease-stained hands and a grin that could melt butter, didn’t quite understand the obsession. “Debbie, you spend more time under that dryer than I do under a Chevy,” he’d tease, wiping his brow with a rag. But Debra had her reasons. That hair wasn’t just a style—it was her crown, her pride, her little rebellion against the humdrum of small-town life. And she had a system to keep it pristine until her next appointment.
The first night after her salon visit was sacred. Fresh from Betty’s, her bouffant gleaming under the kitchen’s fluorescent light, Debra would turn to Ray with a sly wink. “Honey,” she’d purr, adjusting her cat-eye glasses, “how about we try something a little different tonight?” Ray, never one to argue with a good idea, caught her drift quick. She’d lead him to the bedroom, her hair still a masterpiece, and encourage him to take her from behind—sodomy, she called it, in her prim little way, giggling at the naughtiness of it all. It kept her head off the pillow, her bouffant untouched, and Ray wasn’t complaining.
The second day, Debra’s hair still held its shape, a testament to Betty’s industrial-strength hairspray. She’d catch Ray lounging on the plaid sofa, a Schlitz beer in hand, watching The Ed Sullivan Show. With a playful shimmy, she’d kneel down, her red locks bobbing just above the carpet. “Gotta keep this hairdo intact, sugar,” she’d say, unzipping his trousers with the efficiency of a woman on a mission. Ray would lean back, eyes half-closed, muttering, “Lord almighty, Debra, you’re somethin’ else.” Her blow jobs were legendary—not just for skill, but for strategy. Not a strand out of place, not a curl crushed.
By the third day, though, the bouffant was starting to sag, like a soufflé on its last legs. Debra knew the jig was up. That night, she’d slip into her satin nightie, the one with the lace trim, and let Ray have her the old-fashioned way—missionary, hair mussing be damned. She’d laugh as his hands tangled in her fading masterpiece, the red waves flattening against the pillow. “Go on, Ray, wreck it,” she’d say, her voice husky with mischief. “Betty’s fixin’ it tomorrow anyhow.” And Ray, bless him, would oblige, leaving her breathless and her hair a glorious mess.
Come morning, Debra would survey the damage in the bathroom mirror, running a finger through the chaos with a grin. Then she’d pin it up under a scarf, grab her purse, and head back to Betty’s. “Same as always, Bets,” she’d say, settling into the chair. Betty, scissors in hand, would smirk knowingly. “Rough week, huh, Deb?” And Debra would just laugh, her green eyes sparkling. “Oh, you have no idea.”
In Willow Creek, the days rolled on—hairdos rose and fell, and Debra kept her little routine, a queen of her own making, ruling with a comb and a wink.
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By late summer of ’64, Debra and Ray had settled into their rhythm like a jukebox stuck on a favorite tune. The third night—always the wild card—had become a kind of unspoken pact, a ritual where the bouffant’s demise was just the opening act. One sticky August evening, with crickets chirping outside their screened-in porch, the air thick with humidity and the scent of Ray’s Old Spice, things took a turn.
It started as it always did. Debra, in her satin nightie, sprawled across the bed, her red hair already wilting from the day’s heat. Ray, shirtless and still smelling faintly of motor oil, leaned over her, his rough whiskers grazing her nipples. She giggled, squirming under the ticklish rasp, her breath hitching as his calloused fingers found their way south—slipping into her vagina and anus at once, a bold, familiar dance that made her toes curl. “Ray, you devil,” she murmured, her voice a husky mix of delight and daring.
But then Ray shifted. He leaned up, pressing a tender kiss to her forehead, soft and sweet, a contrast to the rough play below. Debra sighed, melting a little—until his lips drifted lower, brushing her brow. What started as a kiss turned into a nibble, then a tug. She froze, eyes widening, as she felt a sharp little yank—Ray’s teeth had snagged a few of her eyebrow hairs and pulled them clean out. A jolt shot through her, amplified by his fingers still working their magic. “Oh!” she gasped, but it wasn’t pain—it was something else, something wild and electric. She grabbed his shoulders, urging him on.
Ray, caught up in the moment, went for it. More nibbles, more tugs—each pluck sending a shiver down Debra’s spine, her body arching as the strange mix of sensations built. Hair by hair, her left brow thinned out, Ray’s teeth ripping them free with a kind of feral focus. Debra’s moans filled the room, her climax crashing over her just as Ray hit his own, the two of them a sweaty, breathless heap. When it was over, he grinned, a couple of stray hairs stuck comically to his lip. “Well, damn, Debbie,” he panted. “That was somethin’.”
Come morning, Debra stumbled to the bathroom mirror, bleary-eyed and sated. Her bouffant was a wreck, but her left eyebrow? Holey as a slice of Swiss cheese. Tiny gaps dotted the arch, like a moth-eaten curtain. She laughed—a full, throaty sound—then grabbed her trusty eyebrow pencil. With a few deft strokes, she filled in the holes, sketching a smooth, if slightly patchy, curve. “Good enough,” she muttered, winking at her reflection.
That afternoon, she strutted into Betty’s Beauty Boutique, her scarf barely hiding the hair chaos. Settling into the chair, she launched into the tale with relish. “Betty, you won’t believe what Ray did last night,” she began, her green eyes gleaming. She spared no detail—the whiskers on her nipples, the fingers in all the right places, and then, the pièce de résistance: Ray ripping out her eyebrow hairs with his teeth. “And Bets, I liked it,” she confessed, fanning herself with a magazine. “Lord help me, I went off like a firecracker.”
Betty, mid-snip on Debra’s wilted bouffant, cackled so hard she nearly dropped her scissors. “Debra Ann, you’re a hoot! Ray’s out here playin’ dentist with your face, and you’re lovin’ it? You two are somethin’ else.” She shook her head, teasing the red locks back into their bubble. “How’s the brow holdin’ up?”
Debra tapped her penciled arch. “Filled it in. Looks like a drunk drew it, but it’ll do.”
That third-night pattern stuck. Every few days, after the sodomy and blow jobs preserved her hair, Ray’s teeth would find her brows. First the left, then the right—nibble by nibble, pluck by pluck, until her natural brows were little more than memory. By October, Debra’s face sported only thin, penciled wisps—high, arched lines she traced each morning with the precision of an artist. She’d catch Ray eyeing them over his coffee, a smirk tugging at his lips, and she’d swat him with a dishtowel. “Keep your teeth to yourself ‘til tonight, mister.”
Betty got the full scoop every visit, her laughter echoing through the salon as Debra recounted each eyebrow-ravaging romp. “You oughta write a book, Deb,” Betty said one day, spritzing hairspray like a fog machine. “Call it The Brow Bandit of Willow Creek.” Debra just grinned, adjusting her cat-eye glasses. “Maybe I will, Bets. Maybe I will.”
And so, in their little corner of 1964, Debra and Ray danced their peculiar dance—hairdos rose and fell, brows vanished, and love, strange as it was, thrived.
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By the fall of ’64, Debra’s eyebrows were a distant memory, replaced by those pencil-thin arcs she drew on each morning with the flair of a cartoonist. Ray had plucked them bare, night after night, until there was nothing left for his teeth to claim. For a while, their third nights settled into a tamer groove—missionary tangles that left her bouffant a mess and her nape hairs tickling the pillow. But Debra, ever the innovator, wasn’t one to let things stagnate.
One crisp November evening, after a sodomy night had kept her hair pristine, Debra lounged on the bed, her satin nightie slipping off one shoulder. Ray, sprawled beside her, was catching his breath, his whiskers still prickling from their earlier play. She propped herself up on an elbow, running a hand through the fine, pesky hairs at the back of her neck. “Ray, honey,” she said, her voice a mix of pout and plotting, “these neck hairs really get on my nerves. Always ticklin’ me, makin’ me itch. Anything your teeth can do about it?”
Ray blinked, then chuckled, scratching his stubbled chin. “You want me chewin’ on your nape now, Debbie? What’s next, your elbows?” But her green eyes sparkled with that familiar mischief, and he knew she wasn’t kidding.
“In fact,” she went on, sitting up and lifting her hair to expose the nape of her neck, “my whole nape—I wish it was clean gone. Smooth as a baby’s bottom. Think you’re up for it, sugar?” She wiggled her shoulders, the challenge dangling like a carrot.
Ray didn’t need convincing. He leaned in, his breath warm against her skin, and started with a tentative nibble. The short, wiry hairs prickled his lips, but he found his rhythm—tugging, plucking, working his way across her nape like a man weeding a garden. Debra shivered, her giggles turning to soft moans as the sensation—strange, sharp, and oddly thrilling—lit her up. “Harder, Ray,” she urged, and he obliged, ripping out clumps until her neck was a patchwork of bare spots and stubble. By the time they collapsed, breathless and laughing, her nape was half-denuded, and both were grinning like fools.
The next morning, Debra studied the damage in the mirror. Her bouffant still towered, but below it, her neck looked like a moth-eaten sweater—reddened patches of skin peeking through sparse hairs. She shrugged, grabbed her scarf, and headed to Betty’s Beauty Boutique, ready to spill the latest.
“Betty, you won’t believe what Ray’s done now,” she announced, plopping into the chair and yanking off the scarf. Betty’s eyes widened at the sight of Debra’s ravaged nape, but her laugh came quick. “Lord, Deb, he’s turned into a human lawnmower! First your brows, now this?”
Debra beamed, recounting every detail—the sodomy segue, the neck-hair brainstorm, Ray’s eager teeth. “I want it all gone, Bets. Clean as a whistle. Can you keep my bouffant full with a bald nape?” Betty, ever the pro, twirled her scissors with a grin. “Honey, I could make you a bouffant with no hair at all if I had to. We’ll tease it high and wide—nobody’ll notice your neck’s smoother than a cue ball.”
From then on, the system evolved. First nights stayed sodomy, preserving the bubble. Second nights, blow jobs kept it intact. Third nights, Ray’s teeth went to work on her nape, plucking and ripping until, over weeks, every last hair was gone. Betty helped finish the job—shaving the stragglers with a straight razor, leaving Debra’s nape silky and bare, a stark contrast to the crimson cloud above. The bouffant stayed majestic, teased to perfection, framing her penciled brows and cat-eye glasses like a halo.
Ray took to running his fingers over her denuded nape, marveling at the softness. “Feels like velvet, Debbie,” he’d say, and she’d swat him playfully. “Keep your paws off ‘til night three, you animal.” Betty, privy to every update, would shake her head and spritz more hairspray. “You two are a riot. Most folks settle for a haircut—I’ve got you in here reinventin’ foreplay.”
And so, in Willow Creek, the seasons turned, Debra’s nape gleamed, and happiness reigned. Her bouffant soared, her brows stayed drawn, and Ray—well, Ray just kept grinning, teeth ready for whatever Debra dreamed up next.
