The Boarder, Part 2 (Revised) by Barberian

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Part 2

The following Monday, Troy finally got that promotion. By Friday, he and Victoria were happily and officially engaged. I woke up Saturday morning to find the two of them sitting together in the breakfast nook—Victoria scantily clad in one of Troy’s shirts. Troy started in with the good news, throwing in the nervous addenda that they also planned on moving in together after their honeymoon.

"I’ll still pay you the last couple months of rent, of course." Troy could sense I wasn’t entirely thrilled with the news.

"Hey. No problem, dude. Seriously—Congrats." The best I could come up with.

"I really appreciate it, brother." Troy was obviously still on some other planet, and the mania in his voice made it obvious that he wasn’t really paying attention to what I had to say. "We’re thinking a June wedding," he added finally. "Her family’s from Southern Cali, so we’re thinking of doing the ceremony down there, if we can afford it."

I tried my best to smile and hurriedly choked down a glass of orange juice and two slices of buttered toast as my spirits continued to sink. If I wanted to get my hands on Troy’s hair, the time to act was quickly running out. The trouble was, the damage done by my previous debauch had left Troy with an inferior version of his otherwise perfect coif. Given the necessary risks I would undertake if and when I decided to make my move, there was no question that I had to take Troy’s hair at its absolute zenith for the payoff to be worth the trouble. Even as I watched the proverbial hourglass empty out in front of me, I would have no choice but to wait for Troy’s hair to grow back.

***

Fortunately for me, it actually took very little time for Troy’s dark mane to reestablish itself in all its former glory. Better yet, Victoria (bless her heart) had talked him into growing it out a bit in preparation for their fairy tale wedding. Not wanting to be hasty, I observed as nearly three months passed and Troy Castillo bloomed into quite the Prince Charming indeed. In the back, his hair now spilled just past the top of his collar—rolling down his thick neck in glossy umber waves. Up top, he now wore his immaculately parted fringe long enough that the occasional rebellious forelock sometimes tumbled over and into his eyes, prompting Troy to continually sweep it back with a muscular hand. Troy had taken to wearing backward-facing baseball caps more and more often during this period, for the purpose of taming these insubordinate tresses. The shimmering black hairline that poked through the gap in the hat’s closure was exasperatingly hot, and the hats themselves complimented the overall athleticism of Troy’s look.

The time it took for Troy’s hair to grow, meanwhile, afforded me a chance to make all kinds of important arrangements. When I wasn’t trying to estimate the progress of his hair’s growth by scrounging for a strand occasionally forsaken on a pillowcase (the longer Troy’s hair got, the harder it became for him to keep up with its daily molting), I was hard at work planning for the night when I would reap what he had sown. My online purchases during that period included an expensive pair of wireless clippers (the kind that could cut down to a #00000), two pairs of professional cutting shears, and a top quality men’s razor—the essential tools of the barbering trade, with which I could give our handsome Prince any cut I desired.

Of course, it was unlikely that Troy would sleep through the roar of these industrial clippers the same way he’d done when I had crept behind him with a modest pair of kitchen scissors. The greatest challenge that presented itself as my scheming progressed, then, was finding a way to keep my victim subdued. One thing was certain: this time, my antics would not go undetected. Even if Troy slept through the whole ordeal, he would wake knowing fully well the deplorable thing I had done to him as soon as he reached up and felt the bareness of his scalp. He would also be furious.

Of course, in a way this also freed me from the need to be discrete. As long as Troy was rendered immobile during the cut itself, any punishment I faced for betraying him could be deferred until I’d already achieved my obsession’s object. After days of hemming and hawing and many sleepless nights spent in ethical deliberation, I accepted that the only surefire way was also the most brutal one. Dumbfounded by my own audacity, I found myself investing in a bottle of chloroform, several yards of rope, and two pairs of handcuffs (the real deal, or at least as close as civilian dollars could buy). One pair was set aside for Troy, whom the plan was to sedate and carry to my unfinished basement where the cut could take place uninterrupted; the second pair was predestined for Victoria, whom I would make watch while I had my way with her handsome fiancé. A pretty bride’s horror and hopelessness, I decided, would lend a perversely theatrical quality to the cruel pleasures I had in mind.

***

I decided to make my fantasies a reality on a Thursday night, less than two months before Troy Castillo was slated to take a wife. Fresh home from work, Troy was in his room upstairs suiting up for softball as I worked up the nerve and retrieved my bottle of chloroform from its hiding place in the kitchen pantry. I waited till I heard Troy’s footsteps on the landing above before I poured a little of the noxious stuff out onto a kitchen hand-towel—using just enough, from what my research had suggested, to reliably bring down a man of Troy’s stature without chancing any permanent damage. Quietly, I opened the door of the under-stairs closet and ducked inside its open mouth to wait. I drew the door closed behind me, softly and just far enough that the latch mechanism didn’t engage. I could hear my own heavy breathing magnified in the claustrophobic space, and for a while I was convinced the sound would give me away once Troy reached the bottom of the stairs.

I grew increasingly aware that there would be no turning back the second I stepped out from this hiding place. The finality of that realization made me hesitate. When Troy rounded the bottom of the steps, making in long strides for the front door, I was honestly ready to abandon the mission altogether, crawl up to my room, and touch myself to sleep the way I had so many recent nights. The consequences of the horrible thing I was planning had suddenly caught up with me, and the threat of being punished—maybe even arrested—for the theft of Troy’s hair took almost total control of my body. But, then, I saw through the louvered door as Troy brushed back his long black fringe from his eyes and secured his cap in place, and I knew that it was already too late to call off the operation.

Sucking in as much air as I could hold, I crouched and then shot out from the closet with my arms spread, throwing the disoriented Troy into a headlock from behind as I secured the wet cloth over his face. Troy thrashed violently and tried to scream, but the rush of adrenaline I felt coursing through my body gave me the strength to overcome the writhing giant. After what felt like an eternity of furious struggle, I wrestled an unconscious Troy to the ground with a heavy, earthen thud.

***

For a while I paced over the unconscious stud—reeling from the thrill of the takedown. More than ever before, I had the object of my obsession completely in my power. Moving cautiously at first, I knelt down beside the slumbering athlete and gently fondled him through his uniform. His chest was fuller and firmer than my wildest imagination could have guessed, and his nipples were big and taut under his jersey. I reached for his crotch, then remembered he of course would be wearing the cup I’d previously discovered in his dresser drawer. I gave the plastic codpiece a squeeze anyway, picturing the treasures it contained and how mortified Troy would be to know I had so defiled him. Troy’s tightly fastened hat had somehow remained in place throughout the previous skirmish, but the flow of hair cascading out the back remained only too vulnerable. I combed his hair gently with my outstretched hand, letting the dark locks trickle through my fingers and spread over the wood floor.

Troy’s phone was in his left pocket, and I used it to dial Victoria’s number. She answered on the third ring.

"Victoria? Hi. It’s Troy’s landlord. Hey, Troy’s—I don’t know how to put this. Listen, there’s been an accident, and you should get over here as soon as you can." My voice was genuinely trembling, albeit for all the wrong reasons.

After several minutes of inarticulate whimpering, Victoria made it known that she was on her way. In the meantime, I packed a duffle bag with my many recent purchases and a can of shaving cream I found sitting on the sink in Troy’s bathroom. Throwing the bag in a chair by the front door, I took the seat opposite and waited for Victoria to arrive.

Predictably, I opened the door to an otherwise pretty woman on the brink of total hysteria. "Troy," she blubbered through runs in her makeup, making her way across the living room to where her sleeping Prince laid supine on the hardwood floor. Having by now regained my calm, I took my time pouring another, smaller quantity of chloroform out onto my trusty kitchen towel, slinking up beside her and smothering her mouth and nose. She let out one last weeping, shrieking cry, then collapsed in a heap on Troy’s broad chest.

Unsure how long the chloroform’s debilitating effects would last, the first thing I did was relocate Victoria to the nearby couch, where it was easier to slip her slender wrists into cuffs. For the first time, I caught sight of her ring, comprising a modest diamond set in gold. The even at the tightest setting, the handcuffs hung loose around her diminutive hands, requiring me to run into the kitchen for a roll of packing tape. The girl at last satisfactorily indisposed, I could now roll Troy over on his stomach and awkwardly work the cuffs around his thick forearms—a choreography that took close to ten minutes to perform. It took another thirty minutes to transport the two insensate bodies to the basement, which I had spent the previous night soundproofing. Then at last, it was time for the fun to begin.

***

When Troy came to, he found himself in the sparsely furnished underground space that served as the house’s boiler room and a kind of impromptu workshop. The pale overhead light had been improved upon by the addition of several hooded lamps, taken from other parts of the house for the occasion. I’d laid Troy on his side, opposite Victoria, with about a four-foot gap of cold cement between them. Victoria, being probably the louder and certainly the shriller of the two lovebirds, had been gagged with one of Troy’s socks and several inches of electrical tape.

"What the actual f***," Troy demanded. His voice carried an equal share of outrage and genuine confusion. He tried to inch his way across the concrete floor toward his unconscious fiancée, but with the help of an improvised pulley system I was already in the process of hauling him up onto his knees. His baseball cap, which had remained miraculously in place throughout Troy’s subjugation and transport, chose this moment to roll off his head to the floor—casting a plume of midnight black hair down into the protective alpha’s grimacing face. I tied off the pulley’s rope on a massive piece of exercise equipment, then stepped out in front of him where he could finally see his capturer.

"Wait, Chad? What the f***, man. Let us go! This isn’t f***ing funny!" Troy was trying hard to be intimidating and suppliant at the same time, which resulted in a face that wasn’t much of either. His voice had, however, woken his girl, who let in with her own, unintelligible entreaties.

Trying to make it clear that no amount of pleading on behalf of either party was going to much alter the course of the night to follow, I reached silently for my duffle bag and produced the larger of the two pairs of scissors I’d bought during my online shopping binge. I brandished these shears the way a serial killer might do a weapon: opening and closing the blades with calculated detachment.

"Whoa. Wait, wait. What are you going to do with those?" Troy was clearly beginning to understand how much trouble he was in.

Pressing the pointed blades to Troy’s exposed throat, I leaned in close and whispered in his ear. "Listen up, Troy. I have you and your little girlfriend exactly where I want you, and if either of you want to get out of this in one piece, you’re going listen and you’re going to cooperate. Understand?"

Troy began what I imagined was another snarling f*** you, but caught sight of Victoria’s increasingly puffy eyes and clenched his teeth instead.

"Good, good. I’m glad we have an understanding. Now that we’ve established the pecking order here," my lips curled into a snarl of their own, "let’s have a little bit of fun." With my free hand, I gave Troy my best imitation of a good-natured sportsmanlike swat on the ass. His glutes were fleshy but firm, held aloft by the jockstrap I knew he wore under his uniform.

The complicated system of ropes I’d employed to render Troy defenseless all but ruled out the idea of removing the many items sports gear protecting Troy’s body. His shirt had to be cut and sort of shimmied out from the ropes around his torso, while his pants, once unbuttoned, could only be lowered as far as his lower calves before snagging on the rope-work binding either of his muscular legs. I made quick work of his jock strap, cupping his manhood in one hand while I snipped my way through each of the two straps with the exemplary scissors I held in the other. With nothing left to hold it in place, I pulled away the bleach white cup and held it up to my face for a good whiff while Troy’s cock and balls sprang the hard shell of their prison and bounced against his thighs. The exposed athlete made as if to cry out, but merely emitted a soft grunt as he lowered his head.

"Don’t worry, Troy. You have a very nice body, but that’s not why we’re here." I brandished the scissors once more for effect.

***

All this foreplay had worked me into a state of considerable excitement. Thinking with my throbbing erection, I also realized the main event couldn’t be put off much longer. Troy’s hairline had grown downright wet with perspiration at this point, and any further delay on my part would spoil the whole crop of hair I’d come down here to harvest. Victoria, who’d watched the last few minutes unfold, had cried until there were no more tears to cry and now looked on with an empty expression.

With one hand, I reached out to caress one of Troy’s glossy black locks as it cascaded into his face. Softly, almost sweetly, I brushed this forelock back over his perfectly formed right ear.

"I’ve always thought you had the most beautiful hair of any man in the world," I cooed. Troy, who until now had endured so much with borderline stoicism, began to tremble visibly.

I continued gently brushing Troy’s hair with my hand as I circled my quivering prisoner. Coaxing one final lock into position, I stepped back to admire Troy’s exceptional mane for the last time. Then I focused the lens on the nearby camcorder (perched, just out of sight, on a tall tripod), and pressed the button for record.

***

As if coming out of a trance, I find myself in front of Troy Castillo, who is still on his knees and naked from his mid-thighs up. I’m holding the larger of the two pairs of scissors I’ve brought along for the occasion—the pair I’ve since decided is my favorite. On a nearby, portable worktable is the rest of my equipment: a pair of clippers, a razor, and a can of shaving cream.

Reaching out, I grab Troy by the back of his head and force his chiseled face toward my engorged member. Even in bondage, Troy is a powerful man, and it’s all I can do to try and hold his head in place as I ponder where to make the first cut. I begin running my fingers through his thick hair, front to back, and watch as whatever product he’s used to control his black fringe begins to lose its hold. This combing motion slowly gives way to more and more vertical pulling, then me at last grabbing a whole tight fistful into something like a samurai’s topknot. I’m torn: I want to savor every moment in the long process of depilating Troy’s head, but I also want to see how Troy handles the shock of losing his crowning glory in one unrelenting flash of the shears. I let go of the sort of man bun I’ve fashioned on top of Troy’s head, and marvel as the bountiful crop of ebony waves cascade back into place.

One lock spills down into the center of Troy’s forehead, where it lands across the bridge of his nose like a slightly longer version of Superman’s emblematic forelock. I decide this black sheep in the herd of glossy perfection will double as its first sacrificial lamb.

Spreading my oversized shears wide, I lay them across Troy’s hairline, lifting the wayward tress in the crux of the two long blades. A long beat follows, ample time for Troy to close his eyes in dread anticipation, then open them again as if to make sure I was still there. Snip. The forsaken lock comes loose with a clean slice, falling in almost slow motion past Troy’s bewildered face and settling into the furrow of his large pectorals. I retrieve my prize and hold it up for the immobilized stud to see.

"Had," I sneer. "I always thought you had the most beautiful hair." Troy’s face turns a deep crimson, and the veins in his neck seem almost ready to pop, but in a gesture of masculine pride he maintains a impassive silence.

For a moment, I consider the scissors in my right hand, which suddenly feel like the wrong tool for the task. I lay them down on the steel table and pick up the clippers, lightly tossing and catching them as if to test their weight. A flick of the wrist, and these electric shears roar to life—set, in advance, to their very shortest setting and ready to make quick work of Prince Charming’s remaining coif.

"Please, don’t…" Troy finally breaks his silence. "I’ll give you anything you want, just—not my hair." Victoria breaks out of hers stupor, chattering frantically through her gag as if to sacrifice herself, instead.

I mow through the crown of Troy’s head in a facile motion. Troy’s hair really is unusually dense, and even these heavy-duty clippers groan loudly under the weight of their work. Troy lets out a terrible roar, a sound not unlike that of a man who’s just been run through with a sword. When I angle the clippers up at the end of this long stroke, Troy’s desiccated locks fall to the floor in one sensational clump.

To either side of the long white landing strip I’ve just carved into my captive’s head remains a thick forest of dark hair that all but completely covers his neck and shapely ears. I decide not to rush in my plundering of these identical dark forests, so I power off the clippers and switch back to the large scissors with which I began. I grab at the right flank of Troy’s head and use a thick handful of his hair to steer his skull into a more accessible position before chopping off the same makeshift bridle with truly savage alacrity. Once more, both Troy and I watch as an inestimable yield of his princely hair roll down his broad shoulders to the basement floor.

Next to find itself on the sacrificial alter is Troy’s impressive right sideburn—visible now that the canopy that used to cover it was gone. I cock Troy’s head to the side with undue force, and plow the clippers upwards from just below his ear, all the way up the side of his head to the furrow of white scalp marking where his widow’s peak had been. Moving behind for a better view, I grab Troy by his chin and bend his head back as far as it will go, shaving the rest of his crown in long, parallel strokes. Tears are now visible in the tonsured athlete’s newly unframed eyes.

What’s left of either side of Troy’s head falls quickly to four or five strokes of the clippers. These are doing their work much easier now that so much of Troy’s hair is out of the way. Preparing myself for the final stages of the shave, I fashion the back of Troy’s head, where his hair was and still is the longest, into short ponytail, which I tie off using the plundered elastic of his jock strap. I slide the clippers up to rest along his neckline before turning them on. I can see the goose bumps on Troy’s neck as the back of his head is bared. The longest section of his hair is transformed into the perfect memento, handsomely bundled together by the ex-ponytail’s elastic band.

I take a moment to look Troy over as fatigue sets in over his features. There is no doubt in my mind that I am looking at a broken man. Still, even with a very close buzzcut, the dark stubble peppering Troy’s lilywhite scalp reminds me how temporary my dominion over him will be. My triumph is as yet incomplete.

I apply a thick lather of shaving cream (Troy’s own) over the prickly globe of his head, then begin the long enterprise of shaving him smooth. I fold each of his ears forward as I scrape clean the area behind them, working my way from the back of his head to the front and shaving against the grain for especially close results. For a moment, I’m unsure whether to leave Troy his little goatee and eyebrows, but decide against it in the spirit of truly leaving my mark on the handsome southern gent. His brows are thick, and require a fresh blade on my detachable razor before they will yield. Underneath his soft black beard, Troy’s skin is soft and slightly paler than the rest of his face.

At last, the deed is truly done. I take a step back and admire my own work, smiling down into Troy’s baby-faced visage. It takes another half hour for me to collect Troy’s fallen locks from the floor, which I transplant carefully into a large wooden box where I hope to keep them for as long as my circumstances will allow. Exhausted from a long night’s work, I climb the stairs to my room at the top of the house, leaving Troy, the once darkly flossed prince, to ponder the loss of his crown.

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