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The Greaser Challenge 2 - Chap. 8 & 9 by HairF***er


[Author's Note - please read at least Chapter 7 first - HF]


Chapter 8 - Smooth Submission


The audience gasped in stunned disbelief.

A pin dropping on the floor would've sounded deafening, such was the silence that engulfed the studio.

"Louder!" ordered the Stylist.

"I want it cut shorter!" shouted Thorne.

The Stylist leaned over and brushed Thorne's left ear with his lips.

"And I want you to call me 'Sir'" he whispered.

The Stylist patted Thorne's shoulder and half-turned to the audience.

"I don't think those at the back quite heard you, Mr Ravenscroft" he said to Thorne.

Thorne could feel his ears reddening with pure shame as he shouted it out: "Please cut my hair shorter, Sir!".

The Stylist chuckled.

"As you wish, Mr Ravenscroft," he said. "As you wish".

Thorne couldn't believe what he'd done, that he'd actually given this foul person permission to remove even more of his prized hair.

He tried to imagine what he'd look like with a crewcut or some horrid brushcut! Or, god forbid, a flat-top, the shaved landing strip on top glistening slick and pale in the overhead lights.

It would be terrible, of course, but the mere thought of having the rest of Marcel's magnificent side part cut down to something so extreme, so out of keeping with his social status, with his carefully nurtured self-image and personal style... just the thought of it... and he was overcome again with a perverse wave of excitement and arousal.

Yes, he wanted to jump up from the chair and run from the studio.

At least that would preserve the remnant of hair that he had left, which was still considerable after all.

But he knew deep-down that he wouldn't get up and that he wouldn't run; that he would sit there and endure it and on some twisted, fundamental level he would enjoy it even as he hated it.

The Stylist combed Thorne's beloved hair for what would prove to be the last time, front to back, and then returned the scissors and comb to the counter.

He then picked up the hair clippers.

Placing his hand firmly on top of Thorne's slicked-back dome, the Stylist forcefully pushed the blond head foward so that that the socialite's chin was almost touching his chest.

Thorne grunted in surprise, his pulse starting to race, as the Stylist flicked on the clippers, filling the studio with the sound of its powerful motor.

There was no guard on the clippers - just the chattering metal teeth that would strip any hair off to the skin.

The Stylist placed the bare clippers at the nape of Thorne's immaculately barbered neck, paused for a few seconds and then very slowly pushed the clippers up the back of Thorne's head, cutting a bald swathe straight through Marcel's masterly taper.

The clippers continued up as far as Thorne's crown before the Stylist lifted them away, clumps of greased blond hair falling down to settle on the back of Thorne's white T-shirt.

The Stylist proceeded to mow the back of Thorne's head down like a field of wheat before repeating the process on the sides.

Thorne emitted a long, guttural groan as he felt the clippers removing the slick three-inch long hair above his ears.

He tried to look in the mirror to see the extent of the devastation but the Stylist's firm hold on his head made it impossible.

He could only gauge the amount of damage being done by the amount of oiled-soaked blond hair that was tumbling down to cover his arms, his chest, his bulging lap.

Once the Stylist had deforested the back and sides he released his hold on Thorne's head.

Thorne looked in the mirror.

The sides had been shorn down to nothing!

Gone was even a trace of the styled three-inch hair that formed the lower portion of his classic side part!

Thorne raised one trembling hand and ran his index finger slowly up and down his left temple.

The almost invisible stubble left by the clippers had the texture of sandpaper.

Thorne tried to think of the crewcuts he'd seen. He thought of Carlos, the handsome Hispanic guy who maintained his swimming pool back in Bel-Air.

Thorne had often watched him, from the safety of the mansion, stripped to the waist as he removed the dead leaves from the pool in autumn. Thorne was sure the man had a crewcut, dark brown, almost black, but the sides weren't bald. It was just a helmet of short, dense, furry hair.

The crewcuts he'd seen had been short but he couldn't recall one in which the sides had been skinned down to what was essentially hairlessness...

The Stylist flicked the back of one of Thorne's ears, hard.

"Hands off," he snapped.

Thorne lowered his hand quickly.

"Sorry...Sir," he mumbled instinctively, much to his own astonishment and humiliation.

He thought of his manservant, Bruno - and how Bruno always addressed him as 'Sir'. How things had changed.

The Stylist exchanged the clippers for the scissors.

With a firm grip, he seized a fistful of the hair remaining at Thorne's hairline. Pressing the scissor blades flat against Thorne's skull, the Stylist snapped them shut, effortlessly shearing through the three-inch-long blond hair at the roots.

The spellbound audience audibly gasped with shock at the sheer brutality of it.

A sigh of deep satisfaction escaped the Stylist's lips as he watched the fat clump of hair detach from Thorne's head.

Then, with a mocking laugh, he sprinkled the liberated locks directly over Thorne's increasingly exposed scalp.

And then he did it again, and again.

As each fistful of his once-gorgeous hair was severed from his head, Thorne writhed in the barber's chair.

He now knew that he wasn't going to receive anything as conservative as a simple crewcut.

The Stylist had something infinitely more radical, more humiliating in mind.

Repeatedly, mercilessly, the Stylist hacked off handful after handful of Marcel's classic side part masterpiece, sending a flurry of detached hair raining down as Thorne squirmed and groaned in a sweet agony of aroused torment.

"You did say you wanted it shorter," mocked the Stylist with malicious amusement as more of the severed hair fell passed Thorne's handsome face and rolled down his chest.

His T-shirt and chinos were soon completely covered with the remnants of his own expensive haircut, the residual grease on the shorn hair sticking it to the fabric of his expensive clothes.

The Stylist repeatedly attacked the remains of Thorne's golden hair, roughly manipulating his head backward, forward and side to side to allow the scissors to make the closest contact with his ravaged, exposed scalp.

The parts of his head that had once been covered in the thickest blond hair now blazed white, sweating and naked under the studio lights.

And the more of Thorne's scalp that was laid bare, and the more his hair was so cruelly and humiliatingly decimated, the more Thorne burned with shame and desire.

By the time the Stylist had finished with the scissors, Thorne's magnificent haircut was just a thing of memory - the dense, oiled locks replaced with an utterly ravaged ruin.

The vast majority of that immaculate hairdo, a style he had cultivated for years, had been reduced to what was little more than uneven stubble in a matter of minutes.

Thorne almost panted as the Stylist retrieved a bowl of hot shaving foam and started to lather it onto his almost bald head.

The feeling of the foam being worked methodically into his scalp, knowing that it was a precursor to total hairlessness, almost pushed his passion to the point of no return.

He just prayed that the cameras didn't notice the most obvious sign of his perverse enjoyment.

Here he was, Thorne Ravenscroft, his hair already destroyed, about to be transformed into a bald man, in front of a studio audience, in front of the television cameras, for everyone to see.

And he'd actually asked for it to happen.

Hadn't he demanded it?

'I want it shorter, Sir'.

Yes. And everyone had heard it, everyone had heard how he had brought his own humiliation down upon his own handsome head.

Bald.

He was actually going to be bald.

'Please cut my hair shorter, Sir'.

The fateful words were already haunting him, and Thorne knew they would haunt him for months, even years to come.

He wanted the earth to open up and swallow him whole.

He'd never felt more vulnerable, more exposed. But he'd been complicit in his own humiliation.

He'd literally consented to his own degradation!

He'd asked for it.

He'd demanded it, and everyone had heard him say it.

He already bitterly regreted the loss of his glorious hair but at that moment his overwhelming need to submit, to be dominated by another man, to be transformed on the whim of another man, was stronger than any other emotion he'd ever felt in his life.

The Stylist finished lathering up Thorne's head.

He picked up the pearl-handled straight razor and waited.

Thorne knew what the Stylist wanted him to say.

He knew it but he just couldn't bring himself to say it.

Seconds passed, then what seemed like a minute.

Two minutes.

Still the Stylist waited, watching him in the mirror, the audience transfixed by the game being played out between the two men.

Thorne, sat amidst the debris of his hair, and closed his eyes again.

Conflicting emotions fought inside him like ferrets in a sack.

The studio seemed to spin.

He thought he was going to be sick.

Thorne knew that this moment would marked the symbolic death of his assuredly virile old self.

It would signal the end of the masculine identity that he'd been crafting for the last 29 years and nothing would ever be the same going forward.

But still he couldn't stop himself saying it.

"Shave me bald..." he whispered, almost to himself.

"Louder!" demanded the Stylist.

"Shave me bald, please, Sir!" Thorne shouted, his cheeks burning with the sheer humiliation of it.

The audience exploded in a frenzy of outraged cries and hoots of derision!

The Stylist placed the straight razor on Thorne's head and shaved him bald.



Chapter 9 - Freak

15 minutes later and Thorne was a hairless man, a chrome dome, a cueball, an egghead - slick bald.

The Stylist had wasted little time in removing the stubble from Thorne's head before relathering and shaving it again, against the grain, "just to make sure I didn't miss anything," the Stylist had said.

Thorne looked at himself in the mirror.

Small rivulets of shaving foam mixed with blond fuzz dribbled down the sides of his head, were caught in his eyebrows and dripped off his square jawline onto his white T-shirt.

He was indisputably bald, his tanned face contrasting shockingly with the sweaty, white dome that now glistened in the studio lights.

Absolutely every trace of Marcel's classic side part, a hairstyle Thorne had worn and loved for the last nine years, had been removed.

It was like it had never even existed. Not even the shadow of his former hair was visible.

At the start of the show Thorne's greased and oiled haircut had been an object of wonder.

Now it had been utterly destroyed and he was literally covered in the wreckage.

The Stylist wiped Thorne's head with a towel.

"You've now been shaved bald," he said, "just like you wanted".

The Stylist brought a hand down and casually slapped Thorne's newly-exposed dome, making him flinch.

"Now take off your T-shirt," the Stylist added.

The audience murmured in anticipation, the crowd sensing that Thorne's makeover wasn't quite over.

Thorne hesitated.

"Take. It. Off," ordered the Stylist, coldly.

Thorne reluctantly obeyed, pulling the T-shirt over his naked, exposed head and sending a scattering of cut hair onto the floor and into his lap.

His toned, athletic torso was as impressive as everyone had imagined from the way his T-shirt had clung to it.

The Stylist took the hair-covered T-shirt, rolled it up into ball and threw it dismissively onto the floor.

"Put your hands behind your head," he commanded.

Thorne paused for a second or two, wondering what was coming next, and then slowly raised his arms and grasped the back of his head with his hands.

He noticed how weird his newly-exposed scalp felt, almost like it belonged to someone else.

The Stylist turned the chair so Thorne was facing out toward the audience and then ran his fingers through the dense blond patch of hair that sprouted from one of Thorne's armpits.

"This will never do," he sighed.

He then picked up the straight razor and, to Thorne's mortification, started to strip the left armpit of its thatch of slightly curling, thick man-fur.

Within just a few seconds the pit had been scraped clean, its hair, one of the badges of Thorne's masculinity, lying in a small pile on the floor.

The Stylist repeated the process with the right armpit as Thorne sat there, his eyes closed, his hands clamped to the back of head.

He felt any remaining dignity he might've still had shrink away inside him as he let the Stylist inflict this new debasement upon him.

Within two minutes both of Thorne's armpits were as smooth as his scalp.

Still facing the audience, still with his hands clutching the back of his bald head, the Stylist asked him: "Do you submit?".

Thorne didn't know how to respond.

He'd already submitted, hadn't he?

Surely the scattered scraps of his treasured hair littering the studio floor was testament to that, as were his now shockingly hairless armpits.

"Do you submit?" asked the Stylist again, the audience starting to grow restless as they sensed something singular and strange was brewing.

Thorne felt his bald scalp pliant beneath his fingers.

The fact that the shaving of his head and armpits had been so profoundly humiliating just added to the intensity of the transformation.

"Do you submit!" demanded the Stylist for the third and final time.

Thorne felt as though he had nothing left to lose.

His dignity, his reputation, his self-image, it all lay in tatters, as irreversibly damaged as his once-beautiful hair.

"Yes, Sir," said Thorne. "I submit".

The audience watch in stunned silence as the Stylist leaned over the barber's chair with his straight razor and proceeded to shave off both of Thorne's luxurious, blond eyebrows.

Thorne almost wept with pure shame as he felt the straight razor edging its way slowly and deliberately across his face, severing at the skin every single one of those hundreds of individual thick blond hairs, scraping away the last remnant of his former identity.

In no time at all Thorne's eyebrows, such a defining part of his appearance, had been obliterated.

"Behold the Freak!" declared the Stylist, before whirling the chair back around so Thorne could see for himself the end result of this most remarkable of makeovers.

And a freak is what Thorne saw looking back at him in the mirror.

Without his signature blond hair he had been almost unrecognizible even to himself but with no eyebrows he looked almost inhuman.

His strangely androgynous face seemed vulnerable in a way that his old self would never have believed possible.

He looked weak. Meek.

He looked submissive.

The Stylist bent over and whispered again in Thorne's ear: "After the show I will give you my address. I will expect you to arrive at the agreed upon time when I will take the very greatest pleasure in stripping you of every single strand of your golden hair, from the top of your head to the very tip of your toes, and everything in-between, including those pretty long eyelashes. You are now mine. Do you understand? You belong to me, and 'hairless as a cucumber' is going to be your new look for the foreseeble future. Because it's what I want."

The Stylist returned the chair so that Thorne was facing the audience once more before he bowed to the watching spectators with exaggerated deference.

An awkward ripple of applause went through the audience.

Thorne's transformation was complete but one of the barber's chairs still remained to be filled.

Sawyer and Max could only look on and wonder which of them would find themselves sat in it.



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