Why did I go to the Carnivale of Humiliations when it came to town? Because I needed to be punished. For two weeks, I tried to resist, but, on its last night, I found myself putting on my coat and heading into the crisp fall evening.
When I went to the ticket booth to pay, the carnie manning it, a toothless, tattooed bald man, simply waived me in, telling me not to worry about money.
“Pretty lady like you,” he said, leering, “pays in different ways.”
Then he told me to surrender my clothing and purse. Wanting access to the carnivale, I obeyed. After I stripped, he gave me a little smack on the bottom and urged me forward. As I walked into the carnivale, nude, I wondered if I simply chose to go into one of the brightly colored booths, or will they choose me. The carnivale soon answered my question. When I passed by a booth labeled “BARBERSHOP”, a bald man with no eyebrows stepped outside.
“Hello beautiful. What pretty hair you have! Are you a natural blonde?” he exclaimed, pulling one of my short curls.
My face red went from his bold touch. “No…” I said.
“Oh, that’s a shame. Natural blondes are my favorite. Still, I don’t currently have a client inside, and you have a pretty head of hair. My fingers itch to deal with it. Step inside, bitch, and I’ll sort it out for you. Give you the makeover that you truly deserve.”
When I hesitated, due to the years of loving care that I put into my curls, he grabbed my hair and dragged me inside his tent. He then forced me into his barber’s chair. A big man, I didn’t have the strength to fight him. To make sure that I didn’t run during “my makeover”, he strapped me down, tightening the leather straps into my hands and feet until they cut into the flesh. Then he picked up his clippers. As I wept, knowing that I wouldn’t leave his chair with a single hair left on my body, he run them down the center of my head. When he made me look in the mirror, my tears intensified.
“Bitch,” he said, laughing, “you wanted this.”
And, with that, he finished buzzing off my curls. He then took off my eyebrows with two flicks of his clippers. But, folks, I wasn’t done yet. He put down his clippers and picked up a gray bowl. In it, he mixed a rich lather. As he painted my scalp and eyebrows with it, he told me that he made his shaving cream with a root killer in it.
“You’ve have hair again…eventually,” he said, still laughing.
I managed to hold my tears and stay very still as he used his straight razor to shave me smooth. Once he finished, however, they started flowing again. Frankly, I looked fucking ugly, with my so very bald head and blank red canvas of a face. As the barber slapped stinging aftershave into my scalp, he told me not to worry, he’d still fuck me.
Undoing my straps, he said, “In fact, I will be doing it right now, baldie! All those tears got me hard.”
After he took me, against the counter and in the ass, he brought me to the next tent. As he shoved me inside, he assured me that I’d enjoy it. I stumbled in the arms of a large leather-clad man. He put me into the nearby stocks. Then he pulled out a large bull-whip. Oh, I thought, my pussy wet, the barber was right.
That morning, as I left the carnivale, bald, bruised, and broken, I stopped by the gate to get my stuff back from the carnie there.
“Let me look you over, bitch,” he said, rubbing my bald head, which made me purr, “not so proud and pretty anymore, are you?”
Then he took me by the hand and lead me the main tent at the center of the carnivale. He put me in a pen with a dozen other bald women. One by one, they lead us out to the waiting tattoo artist. On each of our backs, he tattooed “PROPERTY OF THE CARVNIVALE OF HUMILIATIONS” and our slave number on the back of our heads. I am now #452, and that’s what you may call me. I will never leave here. Why would I want to?