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The Greaser Challenge 2 - Chapter 7 by HairF***er


[Author's note - I got totally carried away with Thorne's transformation so I apologize in advance for how long it goes on for! This is the first part - HF]


Chapter 7 - Exposed


Thorne felt the floor twist under his feet as he heard his name read out.

An almost overwhelming urge to run for the exit washed over him.

He just needed to get away, to get away from the studio, to get away from the now cheering audience, to get away from the Forfeit Station, and to get away from the man who was walking towards him with a leather dog's collar and leash in his hand.

The Stylist was laughing, actually laughing, as he approached Thorne armed with those articles of submission and symbols of ownership.

"Consider this your grand unveiling," whispered the Stylist as he fixed the leather collar around Thorne's muscular, tanned, clean-shaven neck.

The Stylist was so close he could smell the other man's cologne; a musky, expensive combination of patchouli and lavender.

"This is your moment of reckoning," he said. "Are you ready to embrace the unknown, Mr Ravenscroft? Because once we're done here, you even won't recognize yourself. And neither will anyone else."

Turning to the audience, the Stylist continued: "Today, my friends, Thorne Ravenscroft's glorious greased haircut, his golden, oiled locks, becomes my canvas, and I am the artist ready to paint a picture unlike anything you've seen before...!"

Then, having attached the leash to the collar, he literally dragged Thorne across the studio floor and towards the Forfeit Station.

For perhaps the first time in his pampered life, Thorne experienced a total loss of physical autonomy. It was like being forcibly strapped into a rollercoaster.

He could feel a lifetime of male dignity and privilege melting away like ice on a summer's day, the collar and leash a stark reminder of his utter powerlessness in the face of the Stylist's authority and the unbending rules of the game.

The thrill of submission that had once tantalized him, excited him and aroused him in his most intimate, private moments now took on a more daunting dimension as he confronted the reality of a humiliating, irreversible change to his celebrated appearance.

As he was led towards the second of the three barber's chairs, to take his place next to Eros, Thorne felt as though his legs belonged to someone else entirely, that he had no choice but to obey.

With each passing moment he could feel the fantasy of relinquishing control fading in the harsh light of the studio's spotlights, replaced by an over-riding sense of dread at what awaited him.

Yet despite the knot of fear tightening in his stomach, or because of it, part of him still yearned for what was now utterly inevitable.

Part of him craved it and needed it to happen, and as the barber's chair got ever closer, he felt another sudden hot surge of anticipation start to stir his loins.

Thorne and the Stylist arrived at the Forfeit Station.

"Sit!" demanded the Stylist, directing Thorne towards the middle of the three barber's chairs, and like an automoton, Thorne obeyed.

The Stylist removed the leash but left the leather collar in place around Thorne's neck for everyone to see.

Thorne glanced across at Eros who was sat about four feet away in the first barber's chair.

The guy looked utterly ridiculous, thought Thorne with contempt. Utterly ridiculous. Those pink and green eyebrows; that lush brown mane ruined and transformed into something so grotesque; the hairless, gleaming bald dome on top of his head; the frizzy green hair hanging off the sides; and the final indignity, the red clown's nose...

Part of Thorne's mind wondered exactly why Eros, a grown, adult man, had sat there and let *that* be done to him, why he'd sat there and allowed himself to be so utterly degraded and embarrassed.

But he was about to find out for himself.

Unlike with Eros, who had endured the first part of his makeover while facing the audience, the Stylist turned Thorne's chair around to face the mirror, leaving the handsome socialite about 4ft away from his own reflection.

At that distance Thorne could see every part of his body from his knees to the top of his head: his bespoke chinos; his hand-made Italian leather belt with the bronze buckle in the form of a prancing horse; the Patek Philippe Calatrava 18ct-gold watch on his left wrist; the dense blond hair on his forearms; the pure white T-shirt that adhered so perfectly to the sculpted, gym-toned torso beneath; the exclusive, black browline glasses.

And at the apogee of his appearance, both literally and figuratively, was his stunning blond haircut.

It gleamed in the studio lights as if surrounded with a halo of untouchability, a symbol of his status and self-assurance.

But dominating everything else, even the enivable haircut itself, was the Stylist's leather dog collar.

Also reflected in the mirror was the Stylist himself, standing behind the barber's chair, his hands pressing down on the younger man's shoulders.

He looked at Thorne coldly, dispassionately, for what seemed like a full minute before leaning foward and whispering in Thorne's ear: "You will watch every single moment".

And then Thorne audibly groaned with an almost overwhelming combination of horror and desire.

The Stylist then took a deep sniff of that immaculate, pomade-drenched hair, breathing in the oriental perfumes of sandalwood, citrus and Thorne's own natural musk.

"Ah," he murmured. "You know, that really *is* quite exquisite."

The Stylist then removed Thorne's glasses and placed them on the counter.

"No cape," he said. "Not for you."

A hush descended upon the studio as the Stylist selected a comb from a jar of Barbicide on the counter.

Thorne's makeover had begun.

Without speaking, the Stylist placed the comb at Thorne's thick blond hairline and then slowly drew it back over the top of his head, through the greased and oiled locks, dragging Marcel's meticulously-styled classic side part completely out of shape.

Again and again the comb passed through every stand of Thorne's hair, front to back, front to back, traversing over every inch of the man's blond head until the classic side part had been obliterated and replaced with a regular slick-back, every single hair combed parallel to its neighbor.

Of the original side parting itself, there was no trace at all.

Thorne sighed with pure arousal as he watch in the mirror through half-closed eyes.

The Stylist then restyled Thorne's hair by parting it in the center, combing each side straight down until it covered his ears.

The Stylist stood back, a look of exaggerated uncertainity on his face.

"I'm not sure..." he pondered.

"What do you think?" he asked, turning to face the audience.

He was met with mutterings of dissent and a few shouts of "No!".

It seemed the greased center-parting was not a popular choice.

"I agree!" said the Stylist.

"It needs to be a little..."

and then the Stylist said the very word that Thorne was both longing for and dreading in equal measure.

"It needs to be a little...shorter," said the Stylist.

And then Thorne moaned as only a man can moan when he realizes his prized hair, his very expensive and perfect haircut, is on the verge of irreversible alteration.

The Stylist used the comb to drag all of Thorne's exquisitely barbered hair forward, right over his forehead so it hung down in front of his eyes like an oily golden waterfall.

The locks at the front were long enough almost to reach his lips.

And then it was Thorne's turn to breath in the heady aroma of the sandalwood and citrus pomade that he'd carefully applied to his hair earlier in the afternoon before leaving his Bel-Air mansion for the studio.

Slipping the comb under the long hair at the front, the Stylist lifted it up and held the golden strands taut between his fingers.

As the Stylist pulled up the hair, Thorne could feel it tugging at his scalp where it was still attached by the roots.

Bringing the scissors over to the now-erect forelock, the Stylist placed the blades about an inch down from the hair's oiled tips.

He looked at Thorne in the mirror. The two men's eyes met for a moment and then the Stylist closed the scissors.

Thorne gasped in surprise even though he'd been expecting it.

An inch-long section of Thorne's golden hair bounced off his forehead and came to rest on his thigh.

"Oops!" smirked the Stylist.

He recombed the hair, pulled it upwards and snipped off another inch in another location.

Working rhythmically, the Stylist quickly reduced all of the hair on top of Thorne's head by just one inch, leaving most of the length intact.

Soon Thorne's T-shirt and chinos were covered in little inch-long snippets of his own greased hair.

Apart from the fact he wasn't wearing a cape, and he was in a TV studio, the experience so far hadn't been that different to what usually happened when Marcel called at the Bel-Air mansion for Thorne's monthly trim.

The Stylist combed all of Thorne's hair straight back again, smoothed it down and looked him in the eyes.

He then resumed the process, combing the hair, pulling it away from Thorne's scalp and taking off another inch all over.

The six-inch locks at Thorne's hairline had now been taken down to around four inches.

He did a rough calculation: the lost two inches represented around four months of hair growth given the speed at which Thorne's hair usually grew.

It was shorter on top than he usually wore it, true, but it was still more than combable and the classic side part would be easily achievable even with the reduction in length.

The Stylist combed through Thorne's hair for a third time, making eye contact once more with the man in the chair.

Then, starting at the front, the Stylist combed Thorne's greased hair upwards and cut off another inch.

Thorne groaned again, but louder.

Inch-long fragments of his gorgeous hair continued to rain down as the Stylist worked the comb and scissors through Thorne's increasingly-short mane.

Comb and cut.

Comb and cut.

And still the hair kept falling.

With another inch removed, the Stylist combed all the remaining hair forward again.

Now, instead of reaching Thorne's lips, the hair growing at the hairline barely reached passed his blond eyebrows!

The Stylist combed the hair back again and pressed it flat to Thorne's skull. The weight of the grease in his much-reduced hair still kept it slicked tightly to his head.

Even so, Thorne could imagine the hair on top breaking free of the pomade and standing to attention, erect, like the bristles of a brush.

Any shorter and he'd be left with just a long crewcut, the classic side part nothing but a distant memory.

Thorne figured that he'd lost around half the hair on top of his head. At around three inches long it was almost the same length as the finely-barbered sides and back which had remained completely untouched, for the moment at least.

If the Stylist stopped now, and didn't trim another hair, it would be still six months before the former length grew back.

But part of Thorne found the prospect of being forced to relinquish his exquisite classic side part for something as vulgar as a crewcut to be as exciting as it was degrading, or maybe exciting precisely because it was degrading.


The Stylist looked at Thorne in the mirror.

"So, Mr Ravenscroft," he said, casually re-combing the three-inch-long hair on top of Thorne's head, almost like he was playing with it.

"Should we stop here? Or do you want something shorter?"

There was a prolonged, pregnant silence in the studio.

'Shorter?' thought Thorne.

His mind reeled. He had hoped the makeover had almost finished but it seemed as if he was being given permission to end it himself anyway.

His hair was already significantly shorter that it had been at any time in his adult life.

'Shorter?'. He could barely imagine it.

He looked at his greased blond locks in the mirror, at the slightly butchered remains of Marcel's gorgeous classic side part.

The side parting itself had been combed out but it could easily be re-created and the hair on top could probably be coaxed back into something resembling its former style, especially if Marcel used as heavier pomade.

"It's your choice," confirmed the Stylist.

The audience waited for his answer in almost total silence.

Thorne felt the sweat beading on his forehead as his heart beat relentlessly in his chest.

'Shorter'.

The word pulsed in his thoughts.

Why would he want to go 'shorter'??

His golden greased hair was a thing of utter beauty in its own right upon which he'd lavished so much time and so much expense.

It was a part of his identity both as a man and as an individual.

It was a greasy symbol of his control, over both his world and over himself.

He was 29 years-old. He was wealthy and virile, and he was incredibly handsome, all of which were reflected in his magnificent head of hair.

To have it stripped off...

'Shorter'?

It would be intolerable.

Wouldn't it?

But the thought of relinquishing something that was so beautiful and such a fundamental part of himself excited him in ways he could barely comprehend.

The prospect of sitting in a barber's chair while this repellent man continued to assault his follicular pride and joy, it was profoundly thrilling even as it instilled in him nothing but utter disgust.

"Do you want something shorter?" repeated the Stylist.

The destruction of his treasured, immaculately-styled haircut filled him with understandable dread but just *there*, buried beneath the layers of societal expectations and self-imposed norms, dwelled the realization that he also craved the opportunity to succumb, to bow down totally and without reservation, to another man's merciless Will.

"Do you want me to cut your hair shorter?" he heard the Stylist ask again.

Now, with the need to make a decision fast approaching, Thorne couldn't help but feel a surge of the most intense arousal at the prospect of submitting in full to a totally dominant male, of being transformed at the hands of this malicious, sadistic stranger.

"Do you want it shorter!" demanded the Stylist for the fourth and final time.

Thorne moaned like he'd never moaned before.

He looked once more at his reflection in the mirror.

He took in his expensive clothes, his luxury wristwatch, the studio lights shining off what remained of his gorgeous golden locks, and finally his eyes came to rest on the leather collar around his neck.

"Yes," he said, quietly. "Shorter".




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