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Peter's Intrusion Part 3:Ron's Tail Fail by longhairboy

Aaron’s inflated cock overflowed with pee as a long, high wail rose from his throat. The boy with the closely cropped hair stumbled from the room sobbing, leaving behind an adolescent crown as the sound of his tears echoed down the hall.

Ronny looked upon the mountain of fallen golden hair with a sense of triumph so huge that his chest seemed to fill with the unthinkable euphoria.

There, on the floor before him, in clumps piled high like little blonde pyramids, was the mass of long locks that had bedeviled him since Aaron first started growing them when the boys were in seventh grade.

I can’t believe all of that hair was on Aaron’s head, Ron thought, surveying the yellow ruin that could easily have filled a wheelbarrow to the brim with lengthy strands. He had SO MUCH hair.

“Had” was the key word, though. Now the mane that had constituted his only real rival since middle school was snipped from its owner, more’s the pity to him, and Ron stood alone as the dominant hair boy of his day.

His dick was hard as a rock and stretched to bursting as he comprehended the full scale of his conquest.

“I am king of HAIR!” the boy crowed, stepping on Aaron’s severed tresses and grinding a few into the floor with his foot. His own hair fell in twin platinum waterfalls down his hairless chest and rested, its ends curling, on either side of the throbbing red rod that had poked out of his bathing suit. Some of the thin ends wrapped around his shaft as he turned to face Guillerme, but he didn’t care.

“I really am the hair god,” he said, a huge smile spreading across his face. “It’s ME!”

Guillerme surveyed him then and realized that he was seeing a creature of beauty at its peak. Ron’s waist was slim, his penis erect as a flagpole, his smooth face—plain enough, but made pretty now by youth and hair—flush with victory, his torso lightly muscled, and his hair, of course, a tumbling silver-gold masterpiece that flowed down the length of his sinewy body all the way to the seat of his pants.

Guillerme thought about taking it right then. It would have been easy; he still had the scissors in his hand and the boy was no match for his strength. Something stayed him, though.

“Ronny,” he asked. “How long have you been growing that hair?”

Ron’s smirk faded ever so slightly as he realized his own vulnerability.

“Eight years,” he said.

“And how long is it?”

Ron gulped.

“Three and a half feet.”

Guillerme scowled.

“Three feet and six and a half inches,” he finally answered.

Guillerme considered taking one of those three and a half foot locks for a souvenir, but instead he just reached out and pulled a strand of the boy’s mane to its full length before letting it fall against him again, chuckling under his breath as Ron flinched from the scissors.

“Well,” Guillerme said. “Enjoy it. Looks like you won the hair battle today.”

Ron puffed up again, boner and arrogance sky high now that he knew the danger was passed.

“You know it,” he said boastfully, and then left the room with nearly four feet of hair blowing behind him.

“Oh, I know a lot of things, Ronny,” Guillerme whispered. “Have fun when you get back to school…”

When Ron returned to college that September all eyes were on the 19 year old sophomore and his fantastic head of hair. Three more months of growth had added two inches to the Mane, which was now three feet, eight inches long and very nearly reached the back of his knees.

Ron swelled with pride as he walked into the student union building, his awesome HAIR forming a flaxen cape of long waves that completely covered the bulky backpack he lugged around.

“Dude,” an awestruck freshman with a brown skater’s shag called out as he passed Ron. “NICE f***ing hair.”

Ron smirked and nodded, causing an avalanche of hair to fall over his face and down to the dick that was already hard.

“Thanks, bro,” he answered.

No one seemed to notice the other 19 year old who slunk through the double doors with a few months’ growth of dirty blonde fuzz poking out awkwardly on his head.

Ron’s hair was the star of the show.

“Yo, dudes!” he called when he noticed some of the other track guys sitting at a table in the food court.

One of them, tall, olive skinned, shaggy haired Darius looked up, his dark face breaking into a wide toothed smile.

“Ron!” he said, slapping the smaller blonde boy on the back. “What’s up, man?”

“Glad to be back,” Ron answered, falling into a chair and wincing as his hair got caught under his legs. He pulled it from its prison and flared it out over the chair.

“Dude, your hair is getting ridiculous,” Darius answered with a good natured smile.

Stephen, a fair faced redhead, seized a lock and made scissors with his fingers.

“Coach Watkins is gonna go snip, snip, snip, snip.”

The others indulged in bawdy laughter while Ron blushed bright red.

“Yeah, no f***ing way,” he answered, shooting a glance at Stephen while he said it. He had to be careful not to stare too long; the other guys on the team didn’t know what he and the redhead did in the locker room when they stayed after practice. Stephen returned a smile that the others would perceive as brotherly, and Ron knew for sure his hair would have no threats from that quarter.

I’ve got him wrapped up in my f***ing locks, he thought.

And while Coach Watkins definitely thought Ron needed a haircut—it would make him more aerodynamic or something like that—he never actually ordered the Mane shorn. A good thing, too, because Ron would have quit the track team first thing. Instead, when the first practice of the year finally came, Watkins barked, “Daniels, I want that hair out of the way!”

Ron happily complied.

At first, when he was a freshman, he’d chaffed at the idea of tying his hair back.

No one controls the MANE, he’d thought.

Once he saw the finished product, though, his cock and his vanity liked it well enough. The Tail, far from detracting from his hair’s display, actually enhanced its length by bounding the waves together. In any case, there was something primal and supremely boastful to having a single long Tail trailing down his back, a blonde rope that bespoke arrogance and virility and years of growth. His Tail was a gross parody of professionalism, more defiant even than his Mane because the Tail openly mocked business attire instead of simply ignoring it.

As the team left the athletic complex and began their run around campus Ron was buoyed by a sense of strength.

I’m the fastest runner on the track team, I have the body of an Adonis, and my Tail is a f***ing TITAN, Ron thought.

He was wrong on the Adonis part—the Greek deity had never been so scrawny—but definitely right about that Tail.

It streamed out, a three foot eight inch python that slithered through the air behind a skinny boy who, even half naked as he was, wouldn’t have attracted half the stares he was getting but for his Tail.

Keep looking, he thought, his boner poking through the tight fitting black shorts all the runners had to wear. Keep looking at my massive TAIL.

His Tail was invincible and so was he—at least that’s what he thought until the Python fell into a hunter’s trap. He was rounding a corner around some trees when it happened. A hand shot out from the foliage, caught the end of his Tail, and sent him crashing through the branches and brush.

“What the f***!” he shouted as he tumbled against bark and pebbles, skinning his knee when he landed on the leaf strewn dirt. “My f***ing TAIL!”

He looked up from the ground, his tail piled in a swirl of hair atop some leaves, and saw two chiseled young men with shaved heads standing over him. He recognized them as Mark and Darren, both members of the school’s swim team.

“What the f*** were you thinking!” he yelled, jumping up. His Tail swept up with him and flew over his back. “You can’t just pull my Tail!”

Mark, the darker haired of the two, snorted and pointed to Ron’s crotch.

“You seemed to like it.”

The fabric of his runner’s shorts was stretched tight against the member that was straining to get out, and he covered his fire hydrant in embarrassment.

“Whatever, man,” he mumbled.

Without a word, as if even mocking Ron were beneath his contempt, Darren reached forward and yanked Ron’s shorts down, revealing a pulsating penis that burned red in the cool September air.

“Ah!” Ron screeched, backing up. “Dude, what the F***!”

“Public indecency,” Mark said with a shake of his head. “Don’t blame Darren for just showing everyone what was going on anyway. Why the hell are you running around with a giant boner?”

Ron sputtered as the wind brushed his red cock and abundant brown pubic curls, but before he could make out a reply Mark answered the question himself.

“Too much pride, I think,” he said. “Definitely too much pride.”

His eyes grew cold.

“You’re coming with us.”

“The f*** I am,” Ron replied with a toss of the Tail. “If you think—”

Darren shot forth like lightning, seizing the smaller boy’s massive ponytail before Ron could so much as shout.

“What the F***!?”

Darren took Ron’s two small arms in one meaty hand and with the other wrapped the Hair King’s own ponytail tight around his skinny wrists. There was still a good foot of tail left after Ron’s hands were tied, so Darren jerked the skinny boy’s hands down toward his waist and fastened the end of the knot around the dick that was now painfully throbbing.
Ron stood there, hog tied to his own rod, in a state of total shock.

“Let’s go,” Darren said stonily.

“No!” Ron objected, but the buzzed boy simply took hold of Ron’s Tail and started walking. Ron yelped in pain as his hair and dick were simultaneously yanked and was soon skipping to keep up.

In five minutes his world had been turned upside down. A few moments earlier he’d been striding like a prince across his domain, his cock a proud mast before him and his hair a glorious rope behind, but now penis and pony were tamed together in a humiliating chain of hair. Hair and dick were a boy’s twin prides. How could they be turned against him like this?

“My dick,” he moaned as the soft flesh of his penis chaffed against the extra long hair. “My Tail…”

“Shut up about your dick,” Mark said, turning around and giving the thing a ping. “And about your damned Tail, too. You need a haircut, anyway.”

Ron froze for a second and was unceremoniously dragged forward by his rope. He hadn’t thought his penis could grow any more rigid, but with that last sentence it did.

“Haircut?” he choked out.

“Oh, that he pays attention to,” Darren joked, drawing a guffaw from Mark.

It wasn’t long before they strode into the swim team’s locker room, where half the swimmers were on hand to jeer as the King of Hair was brought in tied to his own red dong by his own long Tail.

Ron was forced down onto a bench by strong, rough hands.

When the swimmers stared silently at him, he called out in defiance, “What the hell is this about?”

“It’s about you talking s**t,” Mark answered, prompting the other swimmers to chorus their agreement. “And answering for it.”

“I don’t know what the f*** you’re talking about!” he railed. “Untie me! Untie my Tail!”

Mark grinned in amusement.

“Why don’t you get out yourself?”

He looked down at the tight cords of blonde hair that encircled his wrists and anchored them to his cock, each twist and coil representing years of work. He tried shimmying his way free, but eight years of growing had ensured that his rope was an exceptionally long one, and for the first time in his life his hair’s length was working against him.

He whined in impotent fury.

“It’s too long!” he blurted out.

The other boys smiled and exchanged wicked glances.

“You think so, huh?” asked Darren.

Ron’s face paled.

“I mean—what I mean is—”

“Man, you are tied to your dick by your own hair,” one boy called out. “It’s definitely too long!”

Ron felt like he was going to throw up and Mark took the opportunity to shove a cell phone screen in his face.

“This,” Mark said. “Is what this is about.”

When he hit the play button, Ron heard his own drunken voice emerge.

“Dude, the swimming team—they’re so f***ing gay,” the words echoed from the cellphone speaker.

“I know,” another voice laughed, hiccupping from liquor.

That was Aaron. Oh, no. This had been from the start of the summer, from right before Ron cut Aaron’s hair. They were at a party at their friend Ryan’s house and got completely slammed.

“You know they’re not ALLOWED to have long hair?” Ron asked. “Like…they don’t have permission.”

Both boys snorted with laughter.

“It’s so they can go through the water faster,” Aaron answered.

“They look like giant penises,” Ron said, and then they were cackling again.

“Like, walking penises,” he continued. “And they even wear rubbers…”

Ron remembered how he and Aaron had howled at that one, thinking Ron was so clever for comparing the swimmers’ caps to condoms.

“It’s gotta suck to not be able to have long hair,” Aaron remarked.

Little did he know, at least then.

“And to look like a tool all the time,” Ron responded.

The two boys began rolling again and then the audio recording ended.

Ron’s breath grew shallow as he looked out at the swimmers assembled around him.

“How did you…” he started, but he let the question go unasked. He knew how they’d gotten it. Aaron had sent it to them.

“So,” Mark said. “You want us to untie you?”

He brandished a pair of gleaming scissors.

“Well, we’ll untie you.”

The scream that followed would have been audible all the way in the pool, had there been anyone to hear it. As it was, the room was empty when the double doors from the locker room burst open and a skinny boy, his hands tied to his erect penis by his absurdly long ponytail, hobbled out with half a dozen ripped athletes in pursuit.

“Not that!” Ron shrieked. “Not thaaaaaat!”

He rushed for the edge and jumped headlong into the pool, his body making a messy wave as he crashed sideways through the surface of the water.

His beloved Tail was still wound fast around his wrists like a gorgeous pair of handcuffs, but the water weighed down the locks and took away just enough volume for his hands and cock to slip free. With his limbs unbound and his Tail loose he paddled like mad for the other side as three boys plunged into the deep end behind him.

Two things worked against Ron in this situation. The first was that, though he was a marvel on the track course, he was untrained in the water, whereas his pursuers were all professional grade swimmers. The second was that his Hair, liberated from its oppressive knot, floated behind him like a four foot leash. He made it a few yards before Mark’s strong hand grabbed the end of the Tail.

The sharp pull felt like a death sentence, the cheers of the swimmers ringing as Mark hauled him to shore by the awesome braid he’d grown since seventh grade.

“Hey, guys,” Mark called, pulling the longhaired boy out of the pool by his sopping wet, massively long Tail. “Look what I caught!”

Even soaked through the Tail was impressive, a dripping four foot anaconda that clung to Ron’s left leg with slippery fingers.

“Please, man,” Ron begged Mark. “I’ve been growing this for eight years—”

“Shut up,” Mark dismissed.

He spun Ron around, brought the scissors to the base of the legendary Tail, and closed the blades.


The wet locks squealed like rubber as the blades the spiraling four-foot ribbons from the rest of the Tail. Ron, however, squealed like something else.

"NO!" the Prince of Hair shrieked, tossing his gigantic Tail like an anaconda in its death throes. The only thing his hair had felt for eight years was combs, ties, and expensive shampoo, but he recognized the hideous wet crunch right away--HAIRCUT.


Another swimmer held the waterlogged Tail out as the scissors steadily advanced across the hair tie and then, with one final plastic squelch, the whole massive thing snapped free and eight years of ponytail flew across the tiled floor.

Ron fell into the pool and no Tail came with him.

When he broke the surface he was shocked to find his face covered in waterlogged hair that obscured his vision, ran around his flaring nostrils, and ended in his mouth. When he cleared the chin length locks out of the way he saw Darren spinning something through the air like a lasso as the other swimmers whooped with mirth.

It was his TAIL. All three feet and eight inches of it swung around Darren’s head as the swimmer called out in a feigned western accent, “I’m gonna catch me some varmints!”

“Man,” Mark called. “You grew that thing for EIGHT YEARS? It came off with one snip!”
The laughter grew louder as Darren threw the chopped off Tail onto the tiled floor, where its nearly four feet landed with a dull splat.

Ron clutched the back of his head and felt nothing.

“My TAIL!” he cried. “MY TAIL!!!”

“Yeah, dude!” Mark yelled, picking the thing up off the floor. “Your Tail!”

He sent Ron’s awesome rope flying in an arc through the air and into the pool, where it floated like an impossibly long weed.

“Maybe next time you’ll keep your f***ing mouth shut!”

Ron pulled up the massive ruin of his hair and began to cry.

“My TAIL!!!”

“Dude, you needed a haircut,” Mark smirked. “So I gave you one. It’ll grow back in like ten years!”

The swimmers laughed and Ron’s blood filled dick unleashed loads of cum and urine.

“Hey,” Darren called back as Ron sobbed. “No peeing in the pool!”

At that moment the front doors opened and another boy entered.

Ron looked up at him and even through his grief felt immediate envy.

The boy was stunning, a tall, slender adolescent with muscled calves, toned arms, a board flat stomach atop a minute waist and, framing a face far prettier than Ron’s, a magnificent head of blonde hair. It rolled halfway down his back, thicker than Ron’s, longer than Aaron’s (before Aaron’s haircut, that is), and more golden than either hair boy had ever hoped for their own locks.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” the boy said. From where he stood he couldn’t see the maimed hair boy and the formerly great Tail that drifted on the water. “I’m Josh. I’m a freshman and I’m trying to find the track team…”

Ron expected (and half hoped) that they’d take this boy’s hair, too, but instead Mark stepped forward and explained, “Oh, dude, you want to go a quarter mile down the sidewalk and it’s literally right on your left.”

“Thanks!” Josh said, darting out of the room with his mane swinging behind him.

“As for you,” Mark said, turning to Ron and drawing a pair of clippers from behind his back. “You don’t look like a swimmer yet…”

The only sounds in the pool then were a low electric buzz and Ron’s long, desperate yell.

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