Peter's Intrusion by longhairboy

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She was wearing a flowing scarlet dress and sipping a martini the first time he saw her. Something about her bearing, about the way she hugged the red fabric tightly to her curves as if shielding her body from view, told him even then that this was a woman whom he should not pursue. There was a reservation in her brown eyes, a reluctance to meet his gaze, that made it perfectly clear. She was another man’s. Peter von Husseldorff had spent his whole life having his way, however, be it for ill or good, and he wasn’t about to stop at the age of 25. The habit had been too firmly ingrained in him.

Perhaps that’s why he took what happened so hard; he’d pursued her on a whim, out of boredom more than anything else, and at least in his mind the consequences he incurred for such a meaningless folly were horrendously disproportionate. His punishment ought not to have been so draconian. He’d only meant to have an amusement.

Life had not exactly been hard on Peter. Born to Dutch shipping magnate Erik von Husseldorff and American socialite Annabeth Pearson von Husseldorff in 1986, Peter had enjoyed an idyllic early childhood in Amsterdam before crossing the Pond at the age of six to his mother’s bastion: New York.

Erik had grumbled about the move, but not too much; Annabeth’s happiness determined the family’s happiness, and the flight back to Amsterdam was not a particularly arduous one, marital tranquility being considered.

Peter moved from success to success in the elite academies of the Upper East Side. A child of the prosperous ‘90s and a teen of the indulgent 2000s, his academic success was matched by a kind of social stardom that only the combination of his parents’ wealth, his peer group’s exclusivity, his time period’s vacuity, and his own good looks could provide.

For Peter was good looking: tall and broad shouldered with a lean frame that was nonetheless generously muscled, he had eyes of the most unnatural icy blue hue and a chiseled face that would have brought blush to a marble Adonis. He also benefited, in no small measure, from his hair.

That hair was really the luck of the draw; Annabeth sported a fine patrician head of honey-tinged auburn locks while Erik, who’d had bright blonde tresses in his youth, was noticeably thinning by his late twenties and quite nearly bald within several years of Peter’s entry onto the scene.

This odd combination had somehow left Peter with a sheaf of thick blonde hair that, to his relief, remained firmly intact through college and beyond. Of course, it hadn’t been only as a man in his mid-twenties that Peter had started to appreciate his hair. He first grew it out when the long hair craze began to hit America in earnest in 2000, and the 14-year-old noticed that his already significant effect on young women was amplified.

That settled it.

From eighth grade on, Peter maintained his blonde locks at at least a shaggy length. It wasn’t that he needed the hair, mind you; he’d seen and could recognize the homely boys who hid broad faces behind tumbling bangs of cinnamon and amber, and he knew he wasn’t one of them. Their hair gave them their beauty. His hair was merely an adornment to a beauty that was already great.

Still.

There were plenty of barrel-chested, athletic young men, some of them approaching Peter in attractiveness, who were striding the halls of his high school in the early 2000s flashing square jaws and high cheekbones. Sometimes it was hard to tell any one member of the swim team from any other. Few of them could pull off long hair, however, and he could do it wonderfully, so he let it grow.

This growth was a bit controlled in high school and never went too far past his collar. He graduated in 2004 and headed off to Yale (whatever she said, his mother would have died from shame if he’d so much as looked at a Harvard application) where, in keeping with the fashions of the time, he allowed his golden tresses to become a bit longer and flow a bit more freely.

Four years later, he graduated with a degree in political science and a shoulder-length mop of wind-tossed blonde hair. 2008 was considered an inopportune time to finish school for most young people in the Western world, but where Peter and any of his friends were concerned the economic crisis was just another topic of conversation, much like their ambiguous plans for diversion in post-college lives.

College had been very good to Peter, and consequently good to his hair. It was in college that his hair became the feature that Peter, who admittedly was quite handsome in any case, was most known for.

“You have really pretty hair,” a co-ed had cooed after he’d taken her to bed one night freshman year.

“Yeah?” he asked, bravado in his voice.

She sighed and kissed him.

“You know it’s true.”

The girl was gone and forgotten soon enough, replaced by a long string of nubile young women who would all be forgotten in their turn, but the lesson about his hair stayed with him. And so, beginning at the age of 18, Peter went from simply growing his hair to actively cultivating it.

That’s when the Suave went into the trashcan and the Pantene entered his shower, when the occasional dab of hair gel was replaced by generous applications of mousse. It was also, incidentally, when Peter first became really enamored of his own beauty.

He could vividly remember the moment it happened, the instant when he looked upon his own reflection and felt lust. It had been freshman year, just weeks prior to his nineteenth birthday. He was wearing tight-fitting khakis and a blue and white striped dress shirt when, in anticipation of leaving for a night club, he’d stepped into the dormitory bathroom to give his appearance one last look-over. He was combing his hands through his blonde hair when he got sight of the glossy sheen just gracing his firm collar. Seeing the lustrous, untamed locks standing defiant against the starched stiffness inflamed his loins, and his own blue eyes stared at him in shocked realization. The surprise went away quickly, however, replaced by a smirk.

He piledrived his date (Jenny or Jennifer or something or other) that night, his mind filled as much with her pulsing brown body as it was with his own flushed cheeks, sapphire eyes, wet lips, and glistening golden hair.

And so when Carmen first sent him away, with a head shaken and a hand waved almost in apology, he knew what he would do to turn her affections. By this point it wasn’t even the women themselves who aroused him but rather their infatuation with him and the male beauty that such infatuation implied. If ever he tired of stroking and admiring his own hair in the mirror, he could rekindle the rush by proving the locks’ beauty anew in the field. His hair never failed to close the deal.

On his second morning at the resort he was sure to be very liberal in his application of mousse and gel. Given his hair’s length—it was now solidly to his shoulders and flirting with going farther—this was a bit impractical, and the stiff result that would have looked professional with a shorter ‘do screamed from atop his long-locked head like a plastic billboard blaring neon gold. Given the choice between hair that was mundane or hair that was outlandish, though, Peter would go for the outlandish, and in that he’d certainly succeeded.

Heads turned as he walked through the hotel bar and out onto the balcony that overlooked the Gulf of Taranto. They didn’t follow out of lust or even admiration, just out of curiosity; the product held his waves like frozen water, amplified his soft blonde to blinding yellow. He looked like a giant flashlight with an excellent complexion.

“Hey,” he greeted in his deep, boasting voice. She was in green and black today. She moved to face him, at first with a pinch of annoyance, but then her black-brown eyes took in his magnificently coiffed head of hair and went wide as saucers.

“Listen,” he began. He was careful as he leaned forward to let an errant bit of hair fall over his blue eyes and touch his flushing pink cheek. “I think we started out on the wrong foot yesterday.”

He ran his hand over his forehead, pushing his bangs out of his face. He had her.

If Peter had chosen a different day for his conquest, a day other than that Tuesday, he probably would have been okay. As it so happened, however, Guillerme’s meeting with fellow investment bankers in Naples had ended early the previous afternoon, and he had flown eagerly back to the Gulf to spend the last day of his weeklong working vacation with his beloved wife Carmen.

She was pinned against the headboard when he walked in, one hand gripping the gleaming pink cock that penetrated her and the other clutching at a 25-year-old’s abundant head of hair.

Her eyes shot open in terror at the exact moment that her husband’s voice roared with fury.

“CARMEN!”

Peter cried out in surprise and turned around as well as he could with his cock still stuck between the woman’s legs. Even in his shock he kept pumping.

The moist, boyish face staring at him from his wife’s bed was too much for Guillerme, who seized Peter by his narrow shoulders and flung him onto the marble floor.

“Guillerme!” Carmen yelled. The man was shaking with rage.

“Another one!?” he screamed. “Another one!? It’s Marseilles all over again!”

Peter stood, his smooth face radiating cherry red from beneath the helmet of hair. A normal 25-year-old would have exercised more discretion when caught having his way with the wife of a much larger man, but Peter had never tolerated so much as the word “no,” let alone brooked the indignity of being hurled out of a bed.

His disdain was palpable as he threw a look at the bellowing Italian.

“Carmen, why do you permit your gardener to speak to you this way?”

He’d hardly gotten the contemptuous question out when Guillerme turned and fell upon him. The older man crashed across the room and with a quick swoop of his muscled right arm caught Peter’s still-erect cock in a vise-like grip.

Peter gasped, an effeminate sound, and nearly fell to the ground, his sneering pride evaporated as the powerful fingers dug their way into his penis’s red flesh.

Guillerme smiled wickedly.

“You must be American, then?” he asked as if in casual conversation. “You people think anyone darker than yourselves is the help.”

He shot a look at his wife, who was cowering with the covers pulled up to her mouth.

“I think I could have figured it out anyway, though,” he said, turning back to Peter. “You see, my wife has a thing for American boys. They’re normally a bit younger than you—” Carmen looked away in shame “—but you certainly measure up to her tastes. Carmen and the American boys. She thinks they’re just pretty as flowers.”

He grinned again.

“But I know how to take care of that.”

He strode across the room, fist still clasped around Peter’s dick, as the young man yelped and struggled vainly to extricate his erection.

Guillerme slammed him down on a settee that sat before an ornate vanity and mirror. Peter’s naked backside burned against the fabric while he struggled, his sweat-drenched boner growing slippery in Guillerme’s hand. Guillerme fished around in the drawer and withdrew a small pair of scissors.

Peter momentarily stopped squirming when he caught sight of the gleaming blades. He looked at Guillerme with eyes widened by fear and pleading. His heartbeat jumped so rapidly that the pulse resonated in his rod.

Guillerme felt the American’s penis beating with terror on the inside of his hand and he broke into an evil smile.

“Perfect,” he said.

Then he took his scissors to Peter’s head and began to cut.

“No!” Peter yelled, suddenly snapped out of his trance. “No! No! No!”

Protest all he might, Peter could do nothing to stop the devastating path Guillerme’s shears took across his head, and within moments thick blonde clumps, sticky with product, were falling across the floor, into his lap, and everywhere else. The ones on the table were the worst; it was there that the reality of his haircut was undeniable, there that the actual fruits of his years of growth were laid out like severed roses.

At one point Guillerme forced Peter’s head down so that the falling hair landed directly atop his penis. The Italian relaxed his hand just enough to let some of the amputated locks collect in his fist, then clamped his fingers closed again so that William could feel his own hair rubbing against his dick as his mop was systematically ruined.

It didn’t help that he was sitting in front of a mirror, the full scale of the damage reflected back at him. Where that morning had been the shoulder-length golden tresses he’d maintained since college, now there were short patches of uneven growth where the hair had been so savagely hacked. He looked ridiculous, and yet it wasn’t over; the brutal haircut had left some parts long and others horrendously short. The short sections were so widespread, though, that the long ones couldn’t possibly be salvaged. He’d have to have it all shaved.

Peter, now good looking but in the exact same way as millions of other men, started crying then as much from the shock of losing his hair as from the shock of being put in his place.

“Now get out of here,” Guillerme barked. “Go get your hair evened up.”

Peter slunk out of the room without so much as a glance at Carmen, his sniffling echoing in the hallway until he reached the elevator and stepped in.

Guillerme and Carmen sat in absolute silence for several minutes until another sound floated through the open door. The two voices were husky and boastful.

“No, Ron, my hair’s better,” one of them declared with adolescent arrogance.

The other guffawed and Guillerme could practically see the sneer.

“No way, Aaron,” the second one replied. “My hair rules and it’s way longer than yours.”

The first boy, Aaron, laughed.

“We’ll see what Carmen thinks.”

Guillerme turned to his wife, the ghost of a smile dangling around the corners of his mouth.

“We will, won’t we?” he whispered.

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