I was only trying to put a few more dollars in the bank, that was all. I wasn’t desperate, but the finances of late had been a bit dismal. I had a job, but it paid like shit, and my prospects weren’t all that rosy either.
I paid the rent, made the car payment, and even managed to put a decent meal on the table. The thing was, I saw everyone around me excelling, and it made me jealous. Yes, that infamous green demon of envy, made me cross with my situation.
The advertisement was for a model, and it did specify a female with a reasonably attractive visage. I wouldn’t exactly call me a knockout or anything, but I wasn’t hard on the eyes, according to various suitors and that included my ex-husband, who was never far from working his way back into my panties.
We had, once or twice, allowed the convenience of that familiarity to lead us back into the bedroom. I was constantly reminded what a terrible idea it was; this from my best friend Mary, who was still sleeping with her ex, five years on.
Anyway, back to the ad. The money they offered seemed well beyond what one might expect for simply demonstrating a product. Not being entirely without my female wiles, I knew there was something more to this than met the eye. Still, it was a lot of money, and well worth looking into.
When I arrived at the address shown in the ad, the location seemed a bit odd. I stood in front of an old-fashioned barbershop. I pulled out the ad and read that they indeed were in search of female models. “Well, let’s at least check it out,” I said out loud as I walked through the wood-framed door.
A small bell tinkled overhead as I entered, garnering the attention of several men, all in various stages of their haircuts, the attending barbers equally distracted.
“Can we help you, young lady?” The eldest of the barbers inquired.
I held up the ad, which I had torn from the local newspaper. “I’m here about the modeling job,” I answered, meekly.
Hearing my response, a young woman popped her head out of an office in the back of the shop. “Right this way, Miss.” The woman, sporting a luxurious hairstyle that was not unlike my own, certainly didn’t employ the services of the establishment.
She ushered me into a club chair that was facing her desk, which she nimbly swept around and took a seat. “Do you know anything about what the job entails?” the woman asked.
“No, the ad was a bit vague. I’m Victoria, by the way. Victoria Anderson but most people just call me Tori.” I handed her the dogeared scrap of newspaper, which she perused and immediately frowned.
“Doris.” She shook my hand. “They’ve clipped the ad.” She said, disgusted. “Originally, there was a descriptor in fine print at the bottom. I’ll have to have a word with them.” She opened a drawer and pulled out what must have been the original ad, handing it to me. “To be honest, Tori, you’re the first woman to apply, certainly as a result of their sloppy workmanship. Have a read, and if your still game, we’ll talk some more.”
She left me in her office, needing to attend to some business elsewhere in the shop. I wondered what she did. I unfolded the page, and read.
Female model required for product
Demonstration. This is a one-time opportunity
With an ample compensation of $2500 per month
For the life of the contract.
You should be attractive and well dressed.
Interested parties apply in person at:
1546 West Millicent Blvd
West Palm Beach, CA
Disclaimer: The assignment requires significant changes to your appearance.
Applicants should be open-minded and not averse to shaving.
“Shaving?” I muttered. “Shaving what?” I leaned back and looked back into the shop, only to find the young woman cutting hair. She was a barber. I supposed I should not have been surprised. She caught my eye, held up a finger, and was soon back at her desk.
“Well, you’re not running for the exit, so I suppose that’s a good sign.” She chuckled, taking the ad back from me and setting it on the side of her desk.
“Shaving? Shaving what?” I asked, almost afraid to hear her reply.
“Why, your head, of course.” She frowned. An eyebrow raised, she leaned closer. “Why don’t I sweeten the pot a little. You sign a contract today, and I’ll make it an even $3000 per month.” She leaned back in her chair, the springs creaking with age.
“Three thousand?” I stammered. Running a hand down the length of my long blonde hair, I swallowed, audibly. “That’s a lot of money.”
“It certainly is. But there is an element of sacrifice attached to that amount.” She indicated. She reached back to a small shelf and lifted a small bottle from it, handing it to me. I snickered as I read the label.
Why be just bald
When you can
Be truly bald.
I remembered when I was a teenager, rebelling against my parent’s authority and thoughtlessly shaving my head. I had instantly regretted it, but had worn the look with false pride born of youth and ignorance. Now I was being asked to shave it again. At least I knew what to expect. Besides, there were always wigs to conceal my baldness. “What does it do?” I asked, handing the bottle back to her.
“It temporarily induces catagen, the resting phase of the hair follicles.” She indicated. “It’s very new, and we’re quite excited about it.”
“The name is a bit… well…”
“After continued use, the scalp converts to glabrous skin, similar to that on the palms. It tends to appear, and feel a bit like rubber; hence the name.” She explained. “At that point, the baldness is permanent.”
“Permanent?” I mused. “And how long would I be required to use the product?” I asked, already warming up to the idea of having my head shaved. It tickled something deep inside, but I had yet to discover what that sensation was.
“As an ambassador of the company, you would need to use the product until the process is complete; about nine months.” She indicated, half expecting me to dash for the door. For whatever reason, I didn’t.
“Five thousand?” I asked, hoping that she might refuse and relieve me of this strange urge to destroy my looks. At that moment, all I wanted to do was the predictable. Run.
“Is that what it would take?” She asked, contemplating my offer.
Words would not come, but I managed a nod. Why the hell was I doing this? I struggled to push myself out of the chair, but something held me there, firm.
“You drive a hard bargain, Ms. Anderson, but I doubt we’ll have too many that would agree to this. Done!” She decided.
And that was that. She produced a detailed contract, that I supposed I should have read more thoroughly. The pang in my gut was now an unmistakable excitement that bordered on arousal, coursing down my belly and centering on my clitoris. I fought with the idea of it, strangely aroused by this irreversible treatment I was agreeing to. Driven by the same inexplicable sexual torment, I signed on the dotted line.
I was to arrive three days later at a specified location for the big ‘shoot’. I assumed it was a studio of some sort, and I wasn’t far off the mark. The studio was a makeshift affair, with portable lighting and dividers that separated the space from what was obviously a laboratory. It was obviously where they made the stuff, so that made sense.
At the center of the space was a barber’s chair, which seemed a bit out of place in the stark white room they had created. Several cameras had been set up, basically surrounding the chair, along with chairs for a small audience. They surely didn’t want to miss any of this, considering they only got one shot at it.
I had spent the morning pining over my hair, enjoying the last few hours I would ever have with it. It seemed too surreal a concept to absorb entirely, to be fair. I had washed and brushed it, having second thoughts, but no options to back out. A contract was a contract, and I was certain I’d be handed a hefty bill for backing out now. The lovely Doris guided me into the chair, wrapping a gloss black cape around my neck, apparently happy to be doing the honors.
Then came the shocker. Into the contrived studio poured what must have been thirty or forty men, all in various stages of male pattern baldness, taking seats in the chairs provided. I presumed it would be scientists and production staff that might be in attendance, not a gang of bald old codgers. Wouldn’t they be in their glory, watching some twenty-something hottie, losing it all before them?
The gentleman that was commenting on the proceedings was not unfamiliar to me. I had seen him in a few advertisements on the television, selling this and that. Now he was here to oversee my unveiling. The last haircut I would ever be having.
With those thoughts, I couldn’t help but notice how wet I was getting, down there. If I was excited now, I tried not to think how things would be once the cutting began. I didn’t have to wait long.
“Victoria Anderson has lovely hair, doesn’t she?” The emcee commented, getting a round of disgruntled applause from the men. I could hear the comments, and some were less than flattering. “Well, it’s all coming off in a moment, and all in the name of science.” He went on. Then it was basically an ad for Rubberhead, extolling the advantages of going ‘all the way bald’.
He was reading from cue cards, projected on the wall above the audience, and I had to laugh at some of the reactions from the men. I could see that some of them seemed honestly intrigued by the idea, whilst others remained skeptical. Suddenly, all eyes were on me, as Doris fired up the clippers.
“Okay, guys, the moment you’ve been waiting for. Let’s see what’s underneath all that luscious blonde hair!”
Doris had posed with the clippers nibbling at top of my forehead, waiting for the nod from one of the producers. The feeling was quite overwhelming, as the blades mowed into my center part, widening it by a couple of inches. There was no guard on the things, so I knew the path they cut was right to the scalp.
There was exuberant applause from the old guys as the shaving began in earnest, a second path being laid down right next to the first. A small monitor that was just visible to me, was my only clue to the spectacle I was providing. I could see my jet-white scalp emerging as my lovely mane slid over the cape and onto the cement floor.
The cool breeze from the air movers in the lab created a chilling effect on my freshly exposed skin, and goosebumps rose on my arms in response. Just about the same time, I felt myself becoming dangerously aroused.
With each pass of the clippers, I could feel my clitoris swell and throb. I wondered if it was inevitable. Was I really going to come in front of all these old men? I had to stop because the humiliating idea only served to push me ever closer to orgasm. The cat calls didn’t help as the last of my hair cascaded off my head to join a pool of blonde tresses surrounding the chair.
While the emcee explained the next step, a young woman, her own hair well past her shoulders, entered to sweep up the blonde mass, depositing it unceremoniously into a handy trash barrel. The irony wasn’t lost on me and was just another prod at my already bursting clit. The thud when it hit the bottom of the can was almost enough to send me over the edge.
I thought that I would be razor shaved, but apparently, this was not going to happen. Instead, the goopy grey liquid was spread thickly over the fine stubble that remained on my scalp.
It started to tingle almost immediately, and the smell was God awful. The stuff started out smelling of alcohol, but as it worked, it produced a sickeningly sweet odor that was a cross between sour peaches and unwashed feet. It was enough to temper my arousal, and for that I was grateful.
Near the end, an almost electric buzz began to migrate over my scalp as my nerve endings played tricks on my brain. Just when I thought I might lose it, the stuff was wiped away with a damp cloth, along with any remaining stubble.
The result was beyond smooth, and even on the small monitor, I could see the studio light reflecting off its surface. There was an embarrassingly enthusiastic applause from the men, as if they’d gotten even for their lack of hair. I’m sure more than a few imagined getting their hands on my freshly denuded scalp.
Of course, the emcee was quick to chime in. “See how it shines, gentlemen. Why it’s like she’s had a buff and polish, and all with the simple application of Rubberhead.” He ran his splayed fingers over my scalp, enjoying my apparent humiliation. “Smooth as a bowling ball. Let’s give Victoria here a round of applause.”
Again, the studio erupted with not only applause but whistles and laughter, certainly not missing the myriad shades of red my face must have turned. I worried that when Doris removed the cape, I might be further embarrassed by the inevitable wet spot in the crotch of my slacks.
Now that the irritating liquid had been removed, the gravity of my situation sparked an entirely different level of arousal. Between the men gloating over my depilation, and the emcee making me the center of their celebrations, I was utterly humiliated. That humiliation was the most intense of my life. I tried to imagine something that even came close, and the dream where you show up naked for work paled in comparison.
Finally, Doris took pity on me and removed the cape. I could smell myself as the air wafted up from beneath, and I was sure I wasn’t the only one. Doris leaned down, whispering in my ear. “I think you enjoyed that a bit too much, Ms. Anderson.”
Once in receipt of my compensation, as agreed, I was subjected to a few tests back in the lab. They confirmed that the process had begun, and there were smiles all around.
To my relief, the audience of balding men had dispersed by the time I was allowed to leave. I would eventually be in need of a wig, but as a stipulation of the contract, I was not allowed any head coverings until the process had been completed. Something about skewing the result.
I have to admit to being a bit of a masturbation slut over the following few months, both from the humiliation of having to remain bald and the fact that I couldn’t get any. Being able to wear a wig would certainly help in that regard.
As I drove home from my final treatment, I began to wonder if I might continue as I am. The lab had confirmed without a doubt that the process had completed its course, and then some.
Some of the fine print in the contract, stuff I hadn’t bothered to read, absolved the company of any side effects I might experience as a result of using Rubberhead. One of those side effects occurred about three months in. The complete loss of hair, anywhere on my body. It all sort of happened at once. One morning I woke up to find my eyebrows and lashes were scattered all over my pillow. Now only that, but my panties were full of my detached pubic hair.
I guess the only good part was that I wouldn’t have to shave my legs again, ever. I grew accustomed to my hairless body easily enough, but the lack of eyebrows and eyelashes gave me a ghostly, alien appearance, no matter how skilled I became at drawing them on.
A further six months ensured that my entire body, from head to toe, was now hairless glabrous skin. Another side effect of that process was the overgrowth of nerve endings. In other words, I was one huge erogenous zone. Clothing became difficult to wear, as it was too much stimulation. And my head, Jesus, it was like a giant clitoris. Two or three rubs and my pussy was streaming.
The worst of the side effects occurred after six months and was completely unexpected. The scientists at the lab were baffled but insisted that I continue with the treatment, in spite of the shocking nature of the effect.
One morning, as I was getting ready for work, I noticed that a few of my teeth were loose. Foolish as I was, I tested how loose, and one of my front teeth simply fell out of its socket. Fascinated, and marginally horrified, I systematically removed all of my front teeth with my fingers. It didn’t hurt, not at all. They were simply disconnecting from my gums. Of course, I never made it to work that day.
I deposited my teeth in a sandwich bag and drove in a panic to the lab, struggling to speak coherently to the receptionist. Once in the exam chair, the scientists informed me that all of my teeth had disconnected and could not be saved. As painless as the procedure was, losing all my teeth at twenty-six was not what I signed up for.
To make matters worse, the same overgrowth of nerve endings occurred once the holes in my gums had healed over. Although I wore dentures at work, it was as though my entire mouth had converted into a second pussy hole. I never wore them if I didn’t need to.
Work was torture, between the dentures and the clothes I was in a constant state of arousal. Outside of work I was forced to live utterly naked and toothless. I imagined my body as a huge oversexed cunt with a brain along for the ride.
Another stipulation of the contract allowed them to use an image of me on the bottle of their newest product, Slicker. Formulated to avoid the side effects I had experienced, it seemed I would be the only one to undergo the unexpected wonders of Rubberhead. The company had pulled it from production.
Miraculously and just in the nick of time, I found a woman who seemed fascinated by my predicament. I had never understood my attraction to women, sexually, and had fought it all my life. Now, I was forced to come to grips with it.
Here was a woman who was not only attractive but found me to be as well, even in my hairless, edentulous state. She was wealthy, so I was able to quit my job and stop trying to live a life of torture.
I moved into her sizable suburban mansion, taking my place as her sex slave. It was the only thing I was good for, really. One of three slaves in her stable, mine was the most interesting of situations.
I was kept in a rubberized room, the floor and walls oozing with an organic lubrication, which, in turn, kept me slick and sliding over its padded surfaces. I was really nothing more than a fetish doll for my Mistress; one she would use a few times a week.
I would watch from my slippery lair as she disrobed, shedding her glorious blonde wig, her head as slick and hairless as my own. She knew how oversexed I was, and would use that to her advantage, slaying me with one orgasm after the next.
“You are such a freak, Tori.” She would say. “Just look at you. Look what you’ve become.” I slithered down her to her feet, licking her toes, the smooth rubber floor slipping frictionless over my equally lubricious skin.
She pressed her foot into my face, pushing me away; finished with me. I squirted over to one of the large nipples that protruded into the room, wrapping my lips and gums over its long yielding form, sucking the contents into my mouth, quenching my thirst.
“Thank you, Miss Doris. I am only what you made me.”
“That you are, Rubberhead, that you are.”