Preserving The Havers Protocol, Part 1 – Hair & Hierarchy

Content Awareness: This series features haircutting and headshaving, but it also includes descriptions of sexual and bondage activities. If you deem these subjects unsavoury, then please may I suggest you swiftly move on.

Prologue

From the predatory manner with which Bruno looked at my hair during that initial recruitment interview, I should have known that he would devour me.

I should have recognised that he had not been looking at my eyes or at my qualifications, but at the heavy black curtain that had forever framed my features and cascaded down my back.

When he subjected me to his unnerving stare, I should have shown caution after commencing employment at the firm.

However, Bruno had remained charming whenever we met around the office, albeit in that cold and formal way of his.

Since joining the firm a month earlier, I had struggled to make friends. Hence, his invitation was welcome. He had casually suggested meeting up one evening, so I had imagined wine and whispered conversation over dinner. As he was so attractive to look at, I was certainly not averse to considering something more following dinner.

That said, I was completely unprepared for what transpired.

My Office

The small town of Bearingham had promised anonymity. I had fled the city with its perpetual noise, professional tensions, and escalating personal pressures. I craved the silence and solitude of the hidden-away backwater town where I could forget my past and plan my future.

The job I had taken at Havers & Co was beneath me in terms of seniority and skills. But the peace that came from simply doing what my supervisor told me was just what I needed after managing large teams of people on complex projects.

The firm’s building was a throwback to decades earlier, comprising a warren of individual offices over two floors. With all doors kept firmly closed, it was a world away from the vast open-plan spaces and open-door policies that were familiar to me.

I worked in one of the firm’s larger offices with six colleagues, our desks placed in three regimented rows facing Miss Clarke. She oversaw us in her supervisory role as well as in a physical sense. Similar offices filled the long corridors throughout the building, but with doors kept closed, I rarely met any of their occupants.

My new colleagues were an outwardly friendly and welcoming bunch of women, and even Miss Clarke was cordial when not playing the aloof supervisor. During our breaks, when we had the opportunity to discuss personal matters, we chatted about inconsequential matters, such as the previous night’s television. Therefore, we failed to build any sort of genuine rapport. Given I had wanted to leave behind the tensions of my past, I should have found that refreshing. Instead, I found it surprisingly draining and incredibly boring.

At twenty-nine I still considered myself young. Although my co-workers were around the same age as me, their appearance and attitude seemed far more mature and sedate than mine. They favoured subtle variations on dreary skirts that fell below the knee and crisp button-up blouses, with tweed and beige all too apparent.

My city business suits with their short skirts and tight blazers attracted bemused glances from my colleagues and disparaging sniffs from Miss Clarke, the supervisor. However, even moving to an out-of-the-way town, I was not going to start dressing like my dear old Granny Bartlett, whose style they personified.

Around the office, I often felt like a surrogate daughter, even a granddaughter, rather than a similarly aged colleague. It was an aspect of working at Havers & Co that I found strangely disconcerting.

My Boss

Mr Bruno Havers, my boss, was the director of the firm. An imposing and immaculately dressed man, his precise role and level of superiority were unclear. I had never encountered anyone else called “Havers” or met another senior individual who might be part of “& Co”, so I assumed he was in sole charge. Given everyone was deferential to Mr Havers, I followed their lead when I encountered him. And on the rare occasions I needed to address him, I adopted the stuffy formality of using his surname. It was a tradition that harked back to a time before I was born, but I adapted.

Against that background, it was a surprise when Mr Havers asked me out on a date! After a brief period of acclimatising myself to working in the old-fashioned firm, he invited me to join him one evening. I had noticed he was careful not to call it a date. I put down his reluctance to labelling our assignation as a desire to keep the arrangement concealed from his other employees. Understandably, the vivacious city girl had turned his head and caught his eye, and he did not want his established small-town employees to get jealous.

I was unsure whether his intention was simply to welcome me to the firm or if he was seeking a relationship. But I did not care, as I was lonely and he looked fit! After all, what was the harm?

My Colleagues

During the tea break in our office on the afternoon before my date with Bruno, I had let it slip to my colleagues my plans for that evening. I convinced myself that my reason for mentioning it was to ask them what they thought I should wear to please Bruno, although I admit there was an element of me wanting to gloat. That said, quite why I was even vaguely considering asking fashion advice from a bunch of women who dressed like Granny Bartlett, I was unsure.

However, as soon as I mentioned I was seeing Bruno that evening, the conversation paused. Or a better description would be that it froze. My co-workers’ eyes flickered between each other like the guilty suspects in a bad detective programme on TV. Their expressions were unreadable, and none of them spoke.

‘What?’ I finally said, confused and bemused by their astonishment. Or were they simply jealous that their boss would ask the new girl out?

Sheila was the unelected spokeswoman for the office in the absence of the supervisor. She coughed twice to clear her throat before eventually speaking. ‘Yes, well, Michelle,’ she said, her voice higher than usual, ‘it is not entirely unexpected that he would ask you to, er… well, to ask you. After all, it’s, er, protocol. You, with that stunning hair, and all…’

So that was their explanation! Like every man I had ever met, Mr Havers liked my long hair that unusually fell below my waist and caressed my hips. The contrast with my colleagues’ short hairstyles could not have been greater, even falling short of Granny Bartlett’s weekly shampoo and set. With that in mind, I felt I could justifiably scoff at Sheila’s pronouncement. I would have liked further clarification of their concerns, but at that moment Miss Clarke returned, so we all hurriedly skipped back to our desks.

I shook my head in amusement at their obvious jealousy, then looked up to see them all glaring at me. No, not glaring at me, but staring at my hair. As I caught each pair of eyes, their chin would suddenly dip, and they resumed their work. I stifled my laughter at their choreographed action. But then a chill ran up and down my spine as I recalled that same stare echoed in Bruno’s eyes when he had interviewed me.

I shivered before focusing on my work for the rest of the afternoon.

Dressed

When I returned to my apartment, I was initially excited by the prospect of going out in the evening. However, despair soon crept as I struggled to decide what would be appropriate to wear for my date with Bruno. If I had known the type of place we were visiting, it would have been more straightforward. Needing inspiration, I even considered messaging Bruno to ask him, but I realised that would just sound desperate.

So, without fashion advice from my colleagues or, indeed, from Granny Bartlett, I flicked through my meagre wardrobe for a third time. Finally, I opted for a straightforward outfit. Experience had taught me that a short black dress was a safe choice for any occasion. However, assuming he intended it to be a more casual assignation, I selected my special dark grey number festooned with white polka dots, paired with a white blazer. Electing to leave my hair loose, I injected gentle waves in the ends and pinned up the top section in a loose updo. My tresses half-up and half-down, my outfit relaxed, I looked stunning as I straddled the line between casualness and formality.

Hearing a car draw up outside my apartment, I took a final glance in the hall mirror at my magnificent appearance and congratulated Mr Bruno Havers on how fortunate he would be that evening.

Collected

‘You look exquisite, Michelle,’ Bruno said approvingly, as he opened the passenger door of his slick and glossy black saloon. ‘Sleek and polished.’

‘Thank you, Mr, er…’ he smiled, with a slight shake of the head, noticing my discomfort at how to address him outside the office. ‘Thank you, Bruno,’ I ventured, and his smile widened. ‘But tell me, am I as sleek as your beautifully polished car?’ I quipped coyly, knowing an effective way to gain favour with any man was to complement them on their choice vehicle.

‘No, Michelle,’ he said flatly, ‘but I am sure that, with some encouragement, you could become even sleeker,’ he remarked pointedly.

I could have reprimanded his offhand comment for its rudeness or dwelled on a darker meaning that I could not put my finger on. Despite his smile, I found his response unsettling.

As I lowered myself into the passenger seat of his car, careful not to crease my dress, he firmly closed the door, relieving me of the necessity to respond to his ambiguous statement.

Transported

Then we drove. Although I was still unfamiliar with the town, it was apparent that we were not heading to the area where the main restaurants were located. I accepted that with his broader local knowledge, he would have chosen a discreet and out-of-the-way bistro in the countryside, avoiding any prying eyes from work.

‘That dress, Michelle… it suits you,’ he commented as we drew up at a red light. I bathed in his praise. ‘But your hair…’

He turned to face me. The streetlamps carved harsh shadows across his face, highlighting his severe, almost brutal, flattop haircut that made his features appear carved from granite. The crisp white shirt and dark tie, along with his charcoal grey tailored suit, accentuated that illusion. While his apparel looked smart and appropriate in the office, it seemed incongruous and unnecessarily formal for a casual night out.

‘My hair…?’ I questioned, wondering what he meant. ‘It’s always been part of me – my identity – so I think that my hair suits me too,’ I countered with a strained chuckle, trying to keep any trace of sarcasm from my voice. While Granny Bartlett had always thought my hair was too long and impractical for a modern young lady, I could not remember any man expressing negative thoughts about it.

‘It’s, well, too much really. Too wild,’ he declared, an edge to his voice that I had not heard previously. ‘Don’t you think so, Michelle?’ he added, his voice softening slightly.

I laughed, a sound like breaking glass. ‘It’s just hair, Bruno,’ I stated breezily, not believing it myself but keen to quickly move the conversation on to another topic.

‘But is it?’ He pressed, smiling, and something in that smile made my stomach tilt. ‘Hair is identity.’

It was precisely my point that I had already made, so I nodded.

‘Moving to a new town is your opportunity to reinvent that identity and just think of how light you would feel without your years of history weighing you down.’

I opened my mouth to answer, unsure whether I was going to ask him to turn the car around after his inexcusable rudeness. But he was already driving again, so I decided to excuse him. After all, as I reminded myself, he was very fit.

Without warning, he turned down an alley barely wide enough for his car. He parked it in a space that I would never have known existed. Hidden from the street, it was located between an anonymous shuttered building and a shop with bars on the windows that had seen better days.

‘Where are we, Bruno?’ I asked nervously, clutching my purse. My lovely hair and carefully chosen outfit seemed out of place in this unfriendly environment. As he opened the car door, I stepped out before carefully scrutinising my surroundings. I was hoping to see bright lights and enjoy the aroma of delicious food wafting from a secluded restaurant, but my search was in vain.

As Bruno led me to a barely visible black door set back in the wall of the shuttered building, I grew increasingly uncomfortable.

‘Michelle, this is somewhere rather special,’ he said, barely able to contain his excitement. His hand on my elbow was gentlemanly but firm, as he pressed a small brass button set into the wall. A heavy latch clicked, sounding incredibly loud in the impossibly quiet lane, and the door swung open.

I hesitated, but his hand was already at my back, guiding me forward into the dim hallway beyond. The door swung shut behind us with a finality that made me flinch.

Delivered

‘Special?’ I questioned, wondering what could be so remarkable in this dark place that would justify spending an evening. I tried to pull away. ‘Look, Bruno, I am not sure –’

‘Shh,’ he said, his finger to his lips, not unkindly but with firm authority. ‘Trust me, Michelle.’

But, put simply, I no longer did entirely trust him. Not anymore. My pulse hammered in my throat as we crossed the dimly lit space to a second door, this one ornate and heavy with thick, ostentatious padding. Bruno pushed through into a light that was blinding after the gloom outside.

As my eyes adjusted to the brightness, I saw the room we had entered was large and industrial. It looked clean, pristine even, but had exposed pipes and concrete floors, as if it had once been a warehouse but more recently undergone an artisan conversion.

Subdued lighting brightened the periphery of the room, while the intensity I had experienced earlier had come from a series of spotlights hung from the ceiling. Strangely, they illuminated a chair in the centre of the room. Comprising black leather and chrome with a series of strong levers, the seat most closely resembled a barber’s chair, but various clunky attachments on the arms and footrest alluded more to the industrial past of the building.

By contrast, off to the side, but with a clear view of the chair, was a long and comfortable-looking sofa with a low table set out before it. On the table a bottle of white wine was cooling in an ice bucket, while an assortment of snacks filled a collection of bowls. It was not the delicious meal in a restaurant I had been anticipating, but I accepted it had a novel, if peculiar, charm.

‘Ah, Mr Havers,’ a woman’s voice rang out. ‘Perfect timing.’

Served

I assumed the owner of the voice who had complimented us on our timely arrival would be serving us. However, as the woman stepped out of the shadows, I could not have imagined someone less like a traditional waitress.

‘Michelle, this is Clara,’ Bruno stated, by way of introduction. ‘She will be looking after us this evening.’

Clara, put simply, looked stunning, but in the most terrifying sort of way. Corseted in black and purple, her waist cinched to an impossible narrowness with leather and silk holding her together. Fishnet-sheathed long shapely legs emerged below a black leather miniskirt, while laced boots rose up to her thighs. Flamboyant jewellery hung from her ears and encircled her neck, while bold makeup enhanced her intimidating features. From my limited knowledge, her appearance screamed dominatrix in every way except, very strangely, for her hair.

Perched on top of her head was a prim confection of short and stiff silvery curls that Granny Bartlett would have been proud to exhibit after her weekly shampoo and set. Apart from its absurdity, it simply looked wrong on her.

‘I don’t understand,’ I said, my voice too high, waving my hand to encompass everything I had seen. I was not just seeking an explanation for the granny-haired dominatrix. ‘Bruno, where is the restaurant? Where exactly are we?’

He did not answer. He took my hand, his palm dry and hot, and led me toward the gleaming spotlit chair in the centre of the room. It looked even more forbidding the closer I got to it. The industrial appendages became even more menacing as we came to a halt next to it.

Prepared

‘No, Bruno,’ I yelled, pulling back. ‘This is not funny. I want to leave. Now!’

‘Arms out!’ Clara interjected from behind me, making me jump. Like a fool, I followed her commanding voice and did as she said. She eased my white blazer off my shoulders and passed it to Bruno, who hung it neatly on a rail at the side of the room. ‘No, I’m not stopping,’ I whined.

‘Arms up!’ Clara ordered.

I froze. ‘No, I have already said—

‘Oh, don’t be silly, Michelle!’ Bruno sighed. ‘Please do as Clara says,’ he went on, the chilling edge returning to his voice. ‘Clara does not like to ask twice.’

‘Arms up!’ Clara ordered again, a sharper edge to her voice.

This time, despite myself, I reacted to her powerful tone. My arms lifted as if pulled by strings, my body betraying my mind. Clara stepped forward, close enough that I could smell her dark and musky perfume. She pushed my hair away from my back, hooked her fingers into the neckline of my dress, released the zip and, in one fluid motion, she slipped the garment over my head.

The air was cold. Confused, I stood in my delicate black lace underwear, feeling exposed and vulnerable. My hair hung down, covering my breasts, providing my only shield. I tried to cross my arms, but Bruno eased them down.

‘Classy,’ Bruno murmured appreciatively, his eyes roaming over me. Not so much with desire but with appraisal… and that felt even more chilling.

‘Very classy,’ Clara concurred, her fingers – the nails sharp and black – drifting to my hair and arranging it over my shoulders so it cascaded down my back like a silken waterfall. I quivered at the unexpected sensation.

Her fingers lingered on my nipples. She gently tweaked them through the lace of my underwear in gentle, circuitous motion. My body responded with a traitorous rush of heat as my hardness pressed through the flimsy material against her fingers. She smirked. ‘Very responsive too, Michelle. That is excellent.’

‘No, stop it,’ I whispered, but my voice cracked. ‘Let me go. Please.’

But, despite the intensity of my pleas, they were simply not listening.

Installed

With a speed and efficiency that terrified me, Bruno spun me around, and I tumbled backwards and fell into the chair. The leather felt cold through my gossamer-thin underwear.

Before I could express my anger, he had secured my wrists in the leather and metal cuffs attached to the chair, buckling them closed with a menacing snap of finality. Similarly, Clara, kneeling at my feet, swiftly fastened my ankles. Together they wrapped a thick belt around my body, while other restraints ensured I was spreadeagled on the chair and held immobile.

‘Bruno!’ I thrashed, the chair creaking. ‘Let me out! This is insane! Please, someone help me!’

‘Scream if you like, my dear,’ Clara said, flexing her arms and adjusting her corset. ‘The room is soundproof. We prefer privacy.’

Panic flooded me. I pulled against the restraints until my wrists burnt, then I froze, taking stock of the situation. Then I felt Bruno’s hands in my hair as he carefully arranged it back from my forehead and around my face.

He lifted my tresses, section by section, letting them fall through his fingers like water. He sighed, a sound almost reverent, then leaned close to my ear. ‘Your hair really is magnificent, Michelle. But with it that long and so heavy, it conceals the real you. Tonight, we will follow protocol and unveil your new identity.’

‘Please, Bruno… Mr Havers,’ I sobbed. ‘Please, leave my hair alone. Leave me alone. My hair, it is me… my identity…’

‘Precisely, my dear. But it is your past identity,’ he whispered, a malevolent gleam in his eye as he stepped back. ‘Clara, please proceed.’

Wired

I watched Clara move to a cabinet, returning with a red cylindrical object trimmed with bare metal. As she held the device up, I realised she was brandishing sturdy and professional hairclippers. With a cold smile she placed them on a low metal table beside the chair.

‘No,’ I whimpered, thrashing harder. ‘No, Clara, please. Not my hair. Please,’ I implored, ‘I will do anything else. Please.’

‘You may well have to do other things too, my love,’ Clara whispered enigmatically, smirking. ‘But first we must do what Mr Havers dictates and what protocol requires,’ she explained, nodding in his direction.

Bruno had retreated to the sofa, shedding his suit jacket, then his tie, then his shirt with methodical precision. Finally, he slipped off his trousers. He hung each item carefully on the rail next to my own garments, acting absurdly domestic amidst my mounting terror.

In just his boxers, his immaculate body was lean and hard, just as I had imagined under the stiff suits and starched shirts when seeing him around the office. However, he was muscled in ways that spoke more of firm discipline than unrestrained pleasure. He poured a glass of chilled white wine before lounging back on the sofa in a fluid motion. Despite my predicament, I could not help feeling lust as my eyes roved over his fit body. After all, I had not enjoyed any form of intimacy for months.

I was revelling in my lascivious assessment of Bruno’s glorious body. However, a sudden cold smoothness thrusting upwards between my thighs distracted me. A feeling that soon extended deep inside of me. I yelped with a complex blend of undisguised bewilderment at the uninvited intrusion, and I masked my pleasure at the deliciously intimate sensation.

‘Don’t fight the feelings, sweet one,’ Clara coaxed as she retrieved the abominable hairclippers and turned them on. ‘Just let go, and flow with your emotions.’

The insistent hum of the haircutting device became synchronised with a deep thrumming that was unaccountably growing inside me. The arousing sensation was coming from the object Clara had thrust inside me, pressed against my most intimate and sensitive parts.

As my mind tried to make sense of what my body was experiencing, I glanced across at a grinning Bruno. He was playing with the dial of a remote control in his hand, and, as he spun it around, I felt a jolt of pleasure stab me through to my core. Correlating the cause with the effect, I quickly understood that he was controlling the vibrator that Clara had forced deep inside me.

I was unable to mask the shriek of delight resulting from the vibrating device deep inside me. The pleasure was immediate, if unwanted, but my mind reeled. I arched against the restraints while he casually adjusted the remote-control dial. He gave off the air of a boy evaluating the power of a new toy, assessing the effect of it at “eleven” purely out of academic interest.

Eventually, the vibration within me reduced to a more bearable, although still enjoyable, level. My respite did not last long, as Clara moved the whirring blades of the hairclippers, buzzing like angry hornets, closer to my head.

Tuned

‘You see, Michelle?’ Bruno grinned, his hand drifting to his lap, stroking himself through the fabric of his boxers. ‘You will enjoy the process of what is to come as much as we will… and, trust me, we will have you hungry for more.’

Even in my heightened state of unwanted arousal, I scoffed at his suggestion. ‘You will not get away with this. I –’

Despite my assertion, I was suddenly shocked into silence. With the hairclippers so close to my hair, I simply could not believe what Clara did next. With her spare hand, she unexpectedly tugged at her hair. In one theatrical and fluid motion she stripped away her bizarre grandmotherly hair to reveal, under that wig, a bare scalp so smooth and gleaming that it seemed to glow.

Her shiny bald head gave her a terrifying, alien appearance but one that was far more in keeping with her goth-like persona.

‘You see, sweet one,’ Clara crooned, running her fingers over her smooth scalp, ‘baldness is a powerful look, and I will ensure you will look exquisite.’

‘Don’t, Clara,’ I begged, tears blurring the light. Until that moment I had hung on to the faint hope that they were playing, hoping they were not serious about cutting my hair. Even if they did, I prayed that it would just be a trim or, worst case, a short style. But seeing Clara’s unconcealed baldness dashed my last glimmer of hope. ‘Please, don’t,’ I whined. ‘I will be ugly. My identity stripped bare. I will be nothing.’

‘Shh, sweetie,’ Clara cajoled in a pacifying tone, her free hand cupping my breast, pinching the erect nipple until I gasped. ‘I will soon have you looking absolutely pure, creating a stunning new you.’

She placed the cold blade of the hairclippers against my forehead. The insistent pulsing against my skin, attuned to the intimate vibration deep inside me, was unlike anything I had ever felt before.

Sheared

I screamed uncontrollably as she drove the fearsome teeth of the hairclippers through my hair, the blade biting into my hairline. A heavy black lock – my hair, my pride, my identity – drifted past my eyes and fell against my bare thighs with an audible slap. Then another. Followed by another. And more in quick succession.

Through bleary eyes, I saw Bruno biting his lip as if in pain, but his eyes betrayed his rapture as the bizarre, choreographed scene played out before him. With a rictus grin, I saw him nudge the dial on the remote control in his unoccupied hand. A jolt of pure pleasure swamped my senses despite Clara’s focus on erasing my identity as she enthusiastically worked the hairclippers around the back and sides of my head.

The vibration between my legs and that against my scalp synchronised as if they were one inseparable force. The primaeval sensation was flooding my body and consuming my mind.

Clara continued moving the hungry blade of the hairclippers wherever she could find hair, and I soon felt a cool breeze caressing my smooth and sensitive skin that had never seen the light of day. Thirty years of growth and nurturing consigned to the floor in seconds.

‘Stunning,’ Bruno exclaimed, his breath catching. Leaving aside the remote control, his hands were moving faster along his shaft. ‘Absolutely beautiful. Just look at that perfectly formed smooth and unmarked skull emerging.’ He grunted. ‘A pristine white scalp.’

Clara worked with the terrible efficiency of someone who had frequently performed the awful process before. The ample tresses that had once framed the sides of my face were next to go, the clippers humming up my temples, sounding impossibly loud around my ears as she shaved me down to stubble. My head felt light and untethered as the waves of pleasure ebbed and flowed through my body, in contradiction to the sense of loss that occupied my mind.

Hair continued falling around me like black snow, wrapping around my taut breasts, and tickling my throbbing thighs. Clara was methodically and systematically erasing my identity, creating a blank canvas.

And throughout it all, although I was afraid of what I was becoming, the pleasurable thrumming between my legs was urging me on to, reluctantly or eagerly, accept my new future.

Clipped

Clara’s fingers danced across my exposed scalp. However, they could just have easily been stimulating the nerve endings that fed directly into my pleasurably confused mind. And for the whole time, Bruno’s eyes devoured me with a hunger I had never inspired in anyone before. At that moment, I was the centre of his universe, and my hair was a sacrifice on his altar.

‘Almost done, darling,’ Clara said, tilting my head forward to clear the nape. The hairclippers repeatedly ran up the back of my neck. I felt the vibration travelling down my spine, gathering in my very core. My nape was one of the most sensitive parts of my body. In the past, this had led me to wonder if I kept my hair long to guard against inadvertent stimulation. But in future my neck would have no protection. Hence, I mused on how my body and mind would react to its constant exposure.

Eventually, Clara silenced hairclippers. Every strand of my long hair had either collected across my sensitive thighs or gathered in large piles on the floor. The air currents in the room kissed my bare skin in ways that made me shiver.

She tenderly brushed away loose tendrils from my scalp. The movement elicited a rasping sound like sandpaper that made me aware that I was not completely bald. Her gentle motion caused me to breathlessly squirm against my restraints, the buzzed sensation feeling extraordinary. My reaction amused Clara, and it resulted in her wandering fingers exploring my body further. Lingering on my breasts, she expertly stimulated my nipples, heightening my pleasure even further so that nothing else mattered.

Bruno brought a sudden end to the floating sensation I was enjoying. ‘Clara, as protocol demands, finish her off,’ he called across.

‘Certainly, Mr Havers,’ she replied, her abrupt tone suggesting she was disappointed not to be pleasuring me further.

I froze, unsure what he was ordering her to do to me next.

To be continued

A Note from the Author

Further to sharing my stories here, on the Hair Story Network, they are also collected on my personal archive, along with additional exclusive material, at The Hair Apparent Stories.

Traditionally, I have relied on my own imagination and that of my readers to visualise my stories. However, on my own site I have experimented with a single AI-generated image to serve as a “book cover” for each story. They provide a pictorial introduction to the characters and scenes portrayed in the text that follows in the story. Although I currently do not plan to illustrate my stories, I will remain open to what the future may bring!