Putting Off the Inevitable
I never understood what had crawled under my skin at so young an age. Was it the brutally short haircuts my father used to give my brothers? Or was it the visits to the salon where my mother would have my hair cropped into a pixie every summer, having painstakingly grown it out over the winter?
Outwardly, I would object to my long blonde hair being cut so short. It would have seemed odd to my mother if I hadn’t done. Inwardly, however, I secretly looked forward to the brutal ministrations of the hairdresser, as she reduced my shoulder-length hair to a hard-part pixie.
I still remember the clippers she would use as she shaved the back and sides to stubble, that same stubble that drove me wild as I lay in bed at night. Of course, it was nothing compared to the eighth-inch buzz my brothers would get. I remember how their scalps would shine; their knobby heads practically bald.
Maybe it was all of it, I decided, finally. Whatever the cause, I suffered from a severe haircut fetish. Then there’s the irony of my situation. Since the age of twenty-three, I’ve been a hair model. You know, those pretty girls you see in the shampoo commercials, with the long, luscious hair. That’s me, and you’ve probably seen me, never knowing that the woman with the long, lovely locks, wanted nothing more than to have it off, in the most brutal fashion imaginable.
So, after six years of renewed contracts, the production company finally failed to come through. It was only a side job, but it filled the gaps my day job left in my income. I worked as a receptionist for a large tech company, and although the pay and benefits weren’t terrible, it wasn’t something I pictured myself doing for the rest of my working career.
I still can’t believe I took the photographer seriously when he approached me at the end of my final shoot. “Bet you can’t wait to get rid of that hair, now that you’re out from under your contract.”
Looking at him, I wondering if he really knew how I felt. How could he? The man, whom I knew only as Robert, went on to explain that he had a small side business that catered to a particular fetish, and that he could take care of that need whenever I was ready. All I could think of was some sort of seedy porn studio, complete with mattresses on the floor and the cheapest props money could buy. I dismissed him out of hand, but he ignited something within me. It’s not that I was attracted to him or anything. He wasn’t someone I would have given a second glance, but he did seem to have a certain allure aside from his plain appearance.
Without the contract, which prevented me from cutting my hair, I was finally free to do with it as I pleased. I would miss the lights and the cameras but knew that it was well past time to be done with it, and in a way, I was pleased that my contract had been denied.
What irked me, though, was the fact that my mind kept wandering back to that photographer, and his rather forward offer. I was still young and was what most people would consider quite beautiful. If I was going to cut it all off anyway, what harm could there be in giving a few guys, or gals, a little joy from the experience? Against my better judgment, I pulled his card out of my purse and called him.
“I’m not entirely sure this is such a good idea, but I decided to call you after all,” I explained, much to the young man’s delight. He set up a preliminary meeting where we would discuss exactly what I would allow him to do with my hair.
It wasn’t exactly a dive, but I wasn’t keen on ordering anything but coffee. The diner resembled something out of an old black-and-white drama. It was an old railroad car, renovated into a single row of seats along a Formica countertop.
“How far are you willing to go?” Robert asked, hopeful, I think, that I would leave that up to him. I thought back to my childhood, where I had no say over my choice of haircut, my sex twitching over the prospect of revisiting that helpless feeling. He made it clear that the farther I went, the more lucrative the compensation would be.
“Why don’t I leave that part up to you.” I surprised myself with my boldness, however sexually driven it may have been. He smiled, insisting that I wouldn’t regret my decision.
In the days leading up to my appointment, all I could do was imagine what this guy had in store for me. I have to admit to masturbating over it a few times, and my expectations grew. I felt as I did when I was a child, the warmer days and the end of the school year, harbingers of my impending haircut.
This would be different. There would be no hairstylist, no skill involved, other than that required to fulfill the fantasies of the audience this photographer catered to.
As he had requested, I didn’t touch my hair, as tempting as it was to take the scissors to it. I admit it was a struggle not to. A few times, while I masturbated, I toyed with a pair of scissors, snipping conciliatorily at my bush until I invariably shaved it bald, surprised it lasted as long as it had.
I wondered, why after all these years with my fetish, I had allowed it to get so unruly. I relished shaving it when I did, the razor sliding effortlessly over my pouting folds. Smiling as the pesky blonde curls floated to the bathroom floor, I made a little pile between my feet.
The naked skin felt so good under my fingertips when I finally finished, and I vowed never to grow hair there again. I was certain the boyfriends I entertained would appreciate it. I wondered how well they might adjust to the hairstyle I would sport after my appointment with the photographer.
The day finally arrived, and I suddenly realized that I was afraid. Afraid, as I had been those early summer mornings when my mother reminded me that it was haircut day. It was a strange fear, laced with anticipation and an odd sense of inevitability and loss of self.
I remembered brushing my hair those mornings, enjoying the silky strands as they caressed my shoulders, knowing full well they would be gone by afternoon. Even at that age, I sensed a certain arousal that accompanied my angst. I knew that I would be harassed and bothered by my friends when I appeared with my drastic new look. They knew it was coming and would tease me about too.
“Summer’s coming, Lizzy.” They would prod. “Almost time for the snip.” Their taunts would have the opposite effect than what they intended. I would blush, of course, but I couldn’t help but feel a disturbing sense of subservience to them. They would keep their long hair, and that fact made me feel so small.
I was surprised when I arrived at the address on the card. The small bungalow was tucked into a side street, and I tried to picture what awaited me inside. Parking my car in the drive as I had been instructed to do, I approached the side door, but never had the chance to ring, as he met me outside.
“Elizabeth,” Robert said, an air of excitement in his tone. “Right on time.”
“Of course. It’s a bit of an obsession, always being punctual.” I managed, hoping that the slight shaking of my voice was all in my imagination.
“You’d be surprised how many women don’t show up at all.” He admitted.
“That’s so rude,” I said, earnestly.
“That’s what I say, too.” Robert, or Rob, as he insisted I call him, opened the door and invited me inside. I was surprised when he led me down into the basement, rather than up into the house. I prepared myself for the porn studio but was surprised to find a rather well-appointed set. Everything looked very professional.
“Well, first things first.” He said, matter-of-factly, lifting a few pages from the closest counter, stapled together neatly at the corner.
“Just your standard release.” He explained. “There are a few sections, but you only need to sign the part that applies to you.”
I read over the pages carefully. It started as a mild and simple haircut and progressed from there. The more I read, the more aroused I became, each subsequent section increasingly erotic, until I came to the last page.
“What’s ‘Anything Goes’?” The singular section stood out as it was just that, a heading and nothing more.
He smiled, surprised, I think, that I had read that far. “It’s… well, it’s just as it says. You sign there, and you do whatever I say, no questions asked.”
I flipped back to the more mundane descriptions, haircuts of varying lengths from a trim to a full-on crewcut. The thing was, I kept going back to that last page. Something about surrendering completely played into my fantasies so perfectly. It would be the culmination of a life of denial and restraint. Haltingly, I fisted the pen that still sat on the counter and signed under that last, singular heading. “I guess it’s anything goes, then.”
He smiled contentedly and took the release from my sweaty fingers, locking it in a drawer below the counter, where I saw a number of those same pages. “It would have to be, wouldn’t it, Lizzy.”
I was a bit speechless over what I had done, honestly. I knew that I was thinking with my cunt, which was still very much in the driver’s seat. “Yes. it would.”
“Have a seat, while I get things ready.” He indicated a small loveseat at one end of the studio, before disappearing into an adjoining room. “I’m pretty sure you don’t remember me, do you?” He asked.
His question caught me off guard, and I had visions of some vengeful kid that I had snubbed at some point in my youth. “Sorry?”
“We went to the same high school, you and I.” He sighed, slipping back through the door carrying something that looked surprisingly like shiny rubber. As he laid it over the counter, I realized that it was a bodysuit.
“I’m sorry, I…”
“It’s alright. I just sort of admired you from afar, you know.” Robert admitted.
I did my best not to get too weirded out, but learning that I just gave a secret admirer permission to do whatever he pleased with me, was a lot. “Um… I think…”
“I still remember seeing you that first time, after you got your summer haircut; how shy and submissive you seemed. You let those girls walk all over you.” He watched me for a reaction, but all I could offer was a blank stare. “It’s alright, you know. You’re the reason I do what I do.”
“I don’t think you could possibly know how I felt back then.” I chortled, trying to defend something I couldn’t defend, because it wasn’t true. He was right on the money.
“Oh, I know precisely how you felt, Lizzy. Deep down, you liked those summer haircuts you were forced to get. You liked them because they took something from you but most of all you liked them because you were made to get them.” He said, confidently.
How could this guy, whom I had never even met, know so much about me? “Even if you’re right about… that, I don’t see how…”
“We both suffer from the same affliction, Elizabeth. The only difference is, you long for the humiliation of receiving a short haircut, whereas I enjoy administering them.” He seemed lost for a moment, then smiled. “I remember seeing one summer; I think it was the end of June. You must have just been shorn, because you were in the park, your fingers running up your nape, caressing the bristles that only just hid your scalp. Your other hand, well… let’s just say…”
“You saw me?” I blurted. “I stopped because there was some kid on a bicycle…” Then I realized that he was that kid, the kid on the bike that had seen me with my hand down my jeans. I had just come from the salon, as he suspected. “That was you?”
“It was.” He blushed. “I won’t lie, I rode straight home and jerked off imagining it was my fingers on your nape.” He turned away, embarrassed. “So just think of my delight when you walked into the studio half a decade ago, and my amusement when I learned you were a hair model and forbidden from cutting your hair. The irony of it.” He exclaimed.
I hope you can forgive my interference, but I just couldn’t go on watching you struggle with that hair any longer.
“Then my contract, you…”
“They had every intention of renewing you for another year at least, Elizabeth. I just couldn’t allow that to happen.” He admitted, smugly.
I was angry at first. But the idea of having to endure another year of pampering and caring for my much-maligned tresses was equally unattractive. I sighed, finally. “Thank you for that.”
“You are quite welcome, Elizabeth.” He smiled, knowing he had indeed done me a great kindness.
Having had enough, the uncomfortable truth of my termination revealed and my childhood relived, I changed the subject. “What is that?”
“That, my dear Lizzy, is a latex body suit; one you are going to wear for the video.” He hoisted it up full-length, its shimmery surface looking almost wet.
“I’d have to be naked to get into that thing, it’s so…”
“That’s exactly what you are going to be. So, why don’t you just slip out of those clothes for me.”
I looked at him, quite certain my mouth was agape. “Naked?”
“Anything goes, remember?” He knocked on the drawer that contained my release, locked safely away from me and any ideas I might have of tearing it to bits. He needn’t have worried. My cunt was still in control, even if my mind was still reeling from the revelation of our estranged connection.
I sighed, as if in resignation. “I did sign that, didn’t I?” I stated.
“Indeed, you did. So… if you’ll just remove your clothing, we can pick up where you left off back in high school.”
I stood at his command, feeling any sense of control I might have had before, slipping away. I saw him play with a couple of cameras and I figured he had started filming. Under the camera’s intense scrutiny, I began to unbutton my blouse, my braless tits falling free as I slipped the sleeves away from my arms. My jeans were next, and he seemed in his glory as I revealed my freshly shaven mound.
“Now, how did I know ‘that’ was going to be shaved?” He chuckled, gathering my clothes and throwing them in the direction of an available corner. His disregard for my things only made me feel more aroused. “I can smell it, you know, that pussy of yours.” He had to impart.
All I managed was a stifled moan, as I began to feel that same belittling humiliation I had experienced each and every summer. The fact that I was completely naked in front of this guy who probably thought he’d died and gone to heaven, made things even more uncomfortable.
“Still a looker, and I have to say, this is so much better than I imagined.” Robert held out the latex suit and jiggled it, so the rubber squeaked against itself. “I almost hate to cover up all that flesh, Lizzy, but there’s actually a plot to this video.”
“How did you know what I would even agree to?” I asked, as I took the suit, which was considerably heavier than I expected. There was a zipper that ran up the back, so I proceeded to step into the thing. The latex felt smooth, almost exceedingly so, and it was quite a pleasant experience as it slipped along my naked skin. Once my arms were in, Robert quickly turned around and zipped me in.
“I knew before I even talked to you that day, that you’d be going all the way.” He mused.
I immediately began to sweat within the skintight suit, the comfortable silkiness of the latex growing wet, clinging to my skin. My own moisture made the suit feel even tighter than it already was. On top of that, the crotch of the suit had a zipper of its own, my juices lubricating things so that the cold metal cinched up tight into my slot. It was an odd sensation, but not entirely unpleasant.
I was all ready for the haircut to begin, surprised when Robert began to tie me by the wrists between two metal rings suspended from the ceiling. The rope wasn’t tight, and I could easily have slipped out of the knots, but then, what was the point of that? This was theatre, after all.
All trussed up and completely drenched inside the latex suit, I seriously began to wonder just what Robert had up his sleeve. I didn’t have to wait very long to find out, as it happened. I was only a little taken aback when my mouth was filled with a ball gag, the viewers of the video obviously not interested in anything the subject had to say about what was happening to her.
Being a rather tall man, he began parting my hair at the scalp, applying a clear liquid from a plastic dispenser. I wanted desperately to ask just what the bottle contained, and I imagined all sorts of ghoulish things. Nothing could have prepared me, however, for the reality of the situation.
Much to my dismay, my scalp started to itch terribly. For a moment I thought of breaking free of my bonds to scratch it, but then thought better of it. Robert, by now, was resting comfortably in the barber chair that was rather obtuse in that it wasn’t being used by me. After twenty minutes or so, he finally stood and adjusted the cameras so that they were trained specifically on my face.
The itching had long since been replaced with an ice-cold sensation as whatever the liquid was, did its thing, whatever that was to be. I presumed it to be a hair dye of some sort, judging by the smell. It seemed an odd sort of video, watching the painstaking process of dying hair a different color. Meanwhile, my body was broiling in its own juices, for lack of a better description. I didn’t imagine it was going to be a very pleasant prospect when I was finally exhumed from it.
Robert then proceeded to tie a rope around my hair, but down near the ends, forming a sort of inverse ponytail. Feeding the thing around a pulley above my head, he pulled it upward until my hair stood up straight above me. I was ready. If he was going to attack me with clippers, now was going to be the time. I saw them at the ready, conveniently placed on a nearby counter, but he never went for them.
Instead, he attached a rather heavy-looking weight on the other end of the rope. He set it down on the counter, the slack allowing some of my blonde curls to descend, tickling my cheeks.
“Are you ready, Lizzy?” I gave him the rather annoyed glare one might expect from a woman who was prevented from speaking. “A simple nod will do.”
For lack of direction, and perhaps sheer curiosity, I did as he asked. Out of view of the cameras, he lifted the weight and held it at arm’s length, where he couldn’t possibly maintain it for long. He didn’t have to.
As the weight fell, I prepared myself for the inevitable pain. Surely this thing was going pull my hair out by the roots. I heard the weight hit the carpeted floor before realizing that my hair hadn’t offered any resistance. All I had noticed was a slight tug at the base of my nape, and then nothing. Nothing at all.
It took all my willpower to bring myself to look up. I suppose I shouldn’t have been surprised by what I saw, but I was. There, in all its magnificent glory was my hair; all of it, still quite attached to the rope and alarmingly detached from me.
My mumblings from behind the gag were enough to convince Robert to take a break from filming. He reached in and switched off both cameras. Holding up a finger, and smiling ear to ear, he released the strap that held the gag in place.
“What have you done?” Those were the first words from my mouth, an arc of spittle still attaching me to the bright red ball.
Without being prompted, he held up a mirror so that I could see rather than hear what had happened. Staring back at me was someone I didn’t recognize. I’d seen plenty of shaved heads in my time, and I’d seen people who were truly bald. I was the latter, smooth as glass and almost polished to a gleam. “I’ve removed your problem, Elizabeth.”
“My problem? I expected a haircut, Robert! Look at me! I’m fucking bald as a boiled egg!” I scolded. I suppose he must have been expecting my reaction because he took it in stride before responding.
“You are bald. Bald, and may I say, beautiful.” He grinned. “I mean, aside from your ears, which are a little larger than I remember them being, you are the picture of erotic perfection.”
“What did you put on my head?” I asked, a little more calmly, but far from docile. “Please tell me it will grow back.”
“It will take some time, certainly longer than if I’d simply shaved it. The liquid is quite new. It’s a releasing agent that acts on the follicle rather than the hair itself. It also has the distinct advantage of sending your entire scalp into a telogen phase.”
“What the hell is telogen?” I asked, tersely.
“Putting it simply, your whole scalp is in a dormant phase. It should regenerate after about four months.” He winced, knowing what was coming.
“Four months! Jesus, Robert. I have a job and a boyfriend, and…and….” Stammering stuporously. “What the hell am I supposed to do?”
“Well, considering the amount of money I am about to pay you, you could always purchase a wig.” He sounded sincere, but the thought of wearing a wig for months on end seemed ludicrous to me at the time.
I looked up once again, my hair still dangling, lifeless but beautiful in its own right. “What about that?”
“I’ll sell it. The proceeds help pay for the cost of the models.” He admitted.
“Models? Victims, more like.” I spat, accusingly.
“Hey, you signed the release, Lizzy. You must have known what might happen.” He pointed out.
“Fine. Just get me out of this suit before I melt.” I demanded.
“Oh, we’re not done yet.” Robert sighed. “There’s still the humiliation section of the video to shoot.”
“You mean this isn’t humiliating enough for you?” I growled, the notion of being utterly bald, humiliation enough to last a lifetime, or so I thought.
“Oh, not hardly. There’s still this.” He held up what must have been an accessory to the suit. It was a latex mask that matched the suit I was wearing to a T. I rolled my eyes, knowing that there was very little I could do about it anyway.
If I thought the suit was stifling, the hood was ten times worse. The latex zipped up the back as the suit had, but once on, it adhered to my freshly denuded scalp like glue. If I wasn’t feeling the baldness before, I certainly was then.
A hole for my mouth was the only opening, my nose, and eyes rendered useless behind the black rubber hood. Guided here and there, I posed as he ordered, the video undoubtedly continuing. I thought for a moment, that he was replacing the gag, but quickly realized that it wasn’t a gag at all.
I struggled for a moment as he eased his cock into my mouth, the length surprising me as it tickled the back of my throat. To my absolute horror, I realized that I was incredibly turned on. This couldn’t have been a state I could just materialize into spontaneously. Perhaps all the anger and disbelief had masked the fact that this entire thing ordeal was incredibly arousing to me.
Setting my lips and tongue to work, I began to reciprocate. Robert’s thrusts grew more insistent, so I was disappointed when I wasn’t rewarded with a mouth full of his cum. Instead, I was pushed forward, feeling the zipper in my crotch being opened. The room was immediately flooded with my aromatic scent, which had been pent up inside the latex suit for nearly an hour.
Was this still part of the video? Was he doing this for his own enjoyment? I was soon enlightened as his cock entered me from behind and the hood was removed. Both cameras were pointed directly at my face and the red lights were definitely on.
His long cock tested the depth of my cunt as he pressed in to the hilt, causing me to gasp. That’s when his hands came down on my scalp with a resounding slap. It wasn’t the sort of sound I was expecting, and it sent a shudder down my spine.
By now I was literally swimming inside the suit, and I wondered if I would be afforded some privacy when it was removed. It was surely going to be a humiliating affair. So as the zipper started opening along my backbone, I prepared myself for the worst.
“Oh, you are slick in there, aren’t you Lizzy?” He exclaimed for the benefit of the cameras. I was mortified as the suit began to retract from my body. All the while, Robert brutally fucked me, his pace only quickening as my pungent scent hit the room, filling my nostrils like some perverted aphrodisiac.
I was nothing more than his little fuck pig. I knew it, and I was quite certain Robert did too. There I was, utterly slick and hairless and basted in my own sweat. I was actually moaning; panting like an animal as I was thoroughly fucked by this rather mundane-looking man.
I felt my clit swell and I knew that I was about to come. The intense wave of pleasure surprised me as it centered on my tiny organ. I had never in my life, orgasmed from being fucked. It had to be the abject humiliation that drove me over the edge, finally.
I screamed gutturally, as wave after wave of the most intense pleasure I had ever experienced coursed through me, out of me, and in towards the core of my being. Hot jets of cum exploded deep inside me and I collapsed out of sheer exhaustion. I was beyond shattered.
It had been eleven months since the day when I learned just how far I would go to relive the humiliations of my youth. Having surpassed them in every way imaginable, I seemed lost without that push over the proverbial edge. Robert had provided that push, and for that, I was grateful, and angry.
Angry? I was angry because I could never enjoy a normal orgasm again. Even masturbating became a lesson in frustration. I needed that humiliation, that debasing degradation that Robert had so unwittingly provided that day.
As for my hair, well I did purchase that wig. It was too short to be called a bob but long enough not to be mistaken for a wig without close examination. After four months, my hair did start to grow again. Robert never explained that it would come in so fine, like peach fuzz at first.
Eventually, the fine blonde wisps thickened, until I was able to leave the wig at home, sporting the rather unkempt crop of curls. Doing something I had never done, I visited a barbershop for the first time.
I felt out of place at first, a beautiful woman in so masculine an environment. But as soon as the clippers touched my nape, I knew it was worth it. Leaving the shop with a tapered fade, I was close to bald once again. The hair on the crown only just long enough to pinch between my fingers; the sides shaved to the skin. It was far shorter than I had ever been taken in my youth, but I needed something that extreme.
The people at my job soon forgot that I was ever a long-haired vixen, growing accustomed to the sharp, well-barbered girl that manned the front counter. The look was refreshing, but it wasn’t the same as being bald. As much as the ultra-short stubble on my neck and sideburns evoked pleasure while I masturbated, it wasn’t the same as the shiny bald pate I had lived with for months.
As far as love, well, that part seems to have eluded me so far. All of my previous boyfriends deserted me once they learned I was bald. I wasn’t exactly surprised, not that any of them could ever satisfy me, sexually.
I did run out and purchase the DVD at a local porn shop, as soon as it was released “Rubbergirl Snatched Bald”, I had to chuckle at the title. It was wonderful to live that experience again, even if it was in the third person. I couldn’t get over how wanton I appeared. There was no doubt about it, I was every bit the fuck pig I imagined myself being.
I had to wonder how many people had made the connection. Was this hairless animal the same luscious blonde they had seen in so many shampoo commercials? There had to be a few, and that idea alone was fodder enough for a few good orgasms.
A couple of weeks passed, and I was done trying to live vicariously through that video. As much pleasure as it had provided, it just wasn’t enough. I knew what I needed but fell short of acting. I was frightened. Terrified by the notion that should I experience that again, I would be beyond help.
“Hello, Robert?” I panted, my fingers whipping my cunt into a froth. “I’m ready.”