6.10.06
ST: LN 02 The Bubblegum Kid
If you read the first part of this story, you will know that I am a psychology student working the late shift at my father’s barber shop. The shop is in the lobby of a posh hotel in the centre of the city, and I work from 6 p.m. until midnight Monday to Friday, which leaves me time to study, as well as fondle enough male head hair to keep me horny the rest of the time.
This episode took place one Wednesday night, and it involves me doing things to a young teenager that only a true hair pervert would understand, and although no (physical) sex took place, you can begin to see that I was losing my grip on the straight and narrow. Joseph, the guy who works behind the front desk of an evening came over to deliver a message - it seems one of the hotel guests, a woman, was having trouble in her room, and could I go up immediately. Now, I have nothing ainst women’s hair, but I much prefer cutting and combing a man. (Did I have a secret need to castrate and dominate other men? That could make an interesting subject for my essay on Freud).
"Don’t worry," grinned Joseph,"there is a young boy involved. I think she needs you to ‘save’ her son." I am sure Joseph knew exactly what my preferences were, and as I gathered my gear together, he chuckled his way back to his desk. I left the ‘Back in Fifteen’ sign on the door, and took the elevator up to the fourth floor. It wasn’t unusual for guests to request a haircut in their room, so I knew my way around the hotel, and we always had a mobile haircutting kit ready in the shop. It didn’t take me long to find the room, and my imagination had already played out several impossible but incredibly erotic scenarios. (You know, older woman dressed in leather with whip, young boy tied securely to a chair while unwilling barber shaves him all over - the normal stuff.)
The door was answered by a middle-aged woman who was very hysterical. She almost dragged me in and slammed the door. Through her babbling, I picked up that a) there was a disaster, b) that no-one could do anything and everything was ruined and c) her son was evil and out to destroy her life. This is where eight months of psychological training came in, and I was able to calm her down enough to get the story. Apparently, her fourteen year old son had taken to chewing gum, and had fallen asleep that afternoon. The gum had come out of his mouth, spread itself across his pillow and wrapped itself around his hair. They were to go out that evening to the Theatre, and she was sure he had done it on purpose to avoid being exposed to the world of culture. She had tried to wash it out of his hair, but had succeeded in embedding it even further. I tried not to laugh as she was really upset, but when she led me into the bedroom and showed me this boy sitting on the bed with pink bubblegum spread through his wet and tangled hair, I had to pretend to have a coughing fit to cover up my highly amused reaction.
Now, as any barber knows, there are ways to remove gum from the hair without too much fuss. They do not include using hot water, as this melts the gum and entangles it more. I was thinking about how best to do this, when this darling boy spoke up for the first time. "What the fuck is he doing here? I told you I don’t fucking let anyone touch my hair, unless its someone fucking professional. Not some fucking apprentice from some fucking hotel lobby!" Now, nothing makes me happier than to be referred to as a "fucking apprentice", so any thoughts about being nice to this kid went flying out the window. I suddenly forgot all the easy, painless and non-humiliating ways to remove bubblegum, and instead reached for some entirely perverse and cruel ways of achieving the same end. The kid deserved it, right?
The mother yelled back that he was "gonna have his head fixed and he was going to the fucking theatre if he had to go with a bag over his head". She went into the other room to telephone some friends and tell them that she might be late, and left me to examine the disaster. I got a closer look at the boy and noticed that underneath all the pink strands of gum, he probably did have a stylish cut. His hair was blond and normally done with an undercut - long from the top, and the sides shaved underneath. "Get your fucking hands off me, man. I’m not gonna let you do nothing." Now, I am not a big or tough guy, but I was bigger than this boy, and I was getting sick of his shit. I stepped in front of him, placed my hands on his shoulders, and bent down to look him straight in the eye.
"I am going to fucking cut your fucking hair, and I can do it two ways. If you don’t want to spend the next few weeks with a fucking bald patch on the top of your head, I suggest you fucking shut up and let me do my job" I think I put enough threat into my voice that I actually felt him cower. Normally, I’m not into intimidating someone smaller than me, but I can see it has its appeal. When his mother returned, I explained to her that "that gum is really in there, ma’am", and that my only option was to "cut it all out". She didn’t hesitate and said "Do what you have to."
Without further ado, I got him into the ensuite and arranged the vanity stool in front of the mirror. I wanted him to watch what was happening. Then out came the scissors, as I cut the bubblegum out in the most haphazard and reckless way possible. This left his head looking like a badly plucked chicken, with some long bits and some really short bits side by side. By the look on his face, I figured that for a fourteen year old boy, having your hair demolished like that was about the most humiliating experience he could have. I felt that he had had enough of the pain part, and started with the pleasure. Now, there are two ways to cut someone’s hair. You can just do it mechanically, a snip here, a snip there. Or, you can really get into it, and make it an incredibly sensual experience for both of you. I decided to really get into this cut, and even though he was going to end up as a buzz cut, the process was something he was going to remember for a while.
The good thing about having someone sit on a stool is that it makes it easy to stand really close to them. You can press your groin up against their back, stand in front of them with one of your legs pressed between their legs and against their groin. You can also put your hand in a reassuring way as you bend down to pick up the clippers, and let the clippers hum for awhile to let him think about what’s coming. Most of my work was done, as he already had the shaved sides underneath his longer hair, but I took a great deal of pleasure eliminating the longer locks, and having them drop to the floor to join the gummed originals. All the while his mother stood watching from the door, but I don’t think she had any real idea of what was going on. I wasn’t even sure if the boy knew what was happening - all I really knew was that I was having a great time.
Occasionally when I looked in the mirror, I would catch myself grinning like an idiot, and would have to stop myself before the mother got suspicious and had me locked up for "gratuitous use of a shaving implement".
Anyway, soon it was over, and the newly shorn boy walked from the bathroom, totally subdued. I swept up the cuttings, keeping one slightly gummed lock aside for my scrapbook, and gathered together my things. The mother was thanking me and calling me a lifesaver. She went into the other room to get her purse, and as I stepped from the bathroom, I saw the boy in front of a mirrored cabinet, running his hand gently across the fine hairs standing up on the top of his head. "You know," called the mother from the other room," that looks good on you. You should keep it that way. It will mean getting it cut a lot more often, but it will be so easy to take care of."
The boy turned and actually smiled at me, but his voice was convincingly petulant as he sang out to his mother, "I suppose if I have to...". The mother came out and handed me my fee and a more than decent tip, and as I left the room, the boy gave me a wink over her shoulder, and as the door closed, I realised that I had probably corrupted the moral values of the youth of this country, but that didn’t stop me whistling all the way down to the lobby in the lift.
Joseph asked me what had happened as I walked past his desk, but I just answered, "Nothing much. I’ll tell you later." Not that I was anxious to get a bit of privacy just then, but I was sure my cock was ruining another pair of underpants at that stage, and the sooner it was milked, the sooner I could get back to a saner frame of mind. Of course, when I retold the story to Joseph, the cock would probably need milking again.
But, hey, that was I price I was willing to pay.
This episode took place one Wednesday night, and it involves me doing things to a young teenager that only a true hair pervert would understand, and although no (physical) sex took place, you can begin to see that I was losing my grip on the straight and narrow. Joseph, the guy who works behind the front desk of an evening came over to deliver a message - it seems one of the hotel guests, a woman, was having trouble in her room, and could I go up immediately. Now, I have nothing ainst women’s hair, but I much prefer cutting and combing a man. (Did I have a secret need to castrate and dominate other men? That could make an interesting subject for my essay on Freud).
"Don’t worry," grinned Joseph,"there is a young boy involved. I think she needs you to ‘save’ her son." I am sure Joseph knew exactly what my preferences were, and as I gathered my gear together, he chuckled his way back to his desk. I left the ‘Back in Fifteen’ sign on the door, and took the elevator up to the fourth floor. It wasn’t unusual for guests to request a haircut in their room, so I knew my way around the hotel, and we always had a mobile haircutting kit ready in the shop. It didn’t take me long to find the room, and my imagination had already played out several impossible but incredibly erotic scenarios. (You know, older woman dressed in leather with whip, young boy tied securely to a chair while unwilling barber shaves him all over - the normal stuff.)
The door was answered by a middle-aged woman who was very hysterical. She almost dragged me in and slammed the door. Through her babbling, I picked up that a) there was a disaster, b) that no-one could do anything and everything was ruined and c) her son was evil and out to destroy her life. This is where eight months of psychological training came in, and I was able to calm her down enough to get the story. Apparently, her fourteen year old son had taken to chewing gum, and had fallen asleep that afternoon. The gum had come out of his mouth, spread itself across his pillow and wrapped itself around his hair. They were to go out that evening to the Theatre, and she was sure he had done it on purpose to avoid being exposed to the world of culture. She had tried to wash it out of his hair, but had succeeded in embedding it even further. I tried not to laugh as she was really upset, but when she led me into the bedroom and showed me this boy sitting on the bed with pink bubblegum spread through his wet and tangled hair, I had to pretend to have a coughing fit to cover up my highly amused reaction.
Now, as any barber knows, there are ways to remove gum from the hair without too much fuss. They do not include using hot water, as this melts the gum and entangles it more. I was thinking about how best to do this, when this darling boy spoke up for the first time. "What the fuck is he doing here? I told you I don’t fucking let anyone touch my hair, unless its someone fucking professional. Not some fucking apprentice from some fucking hotel lobby!" Now, nothing makes me happier than to be referred to as a "fucking apprentice", so any thoughts about being nice to this kid went flying out the window. I suddenly forgot all the easy, painless and non-humiliating ways to remove bubblegum, and instead reached for some entirely perverse and cruel ways of achieving the same end. The kid deserved it, right?
The mother yelled back that he was "gonna have his head fixed and he was going to the fucking theatre if he had to go with a bag over his head". She went into the other room to telephone some friends and tell them that she might be late, and left me to examine the disaster. I got a closer look at the boy and noticed that underneath all the pink strands of gum, he probably did have a stylish cut. His hair was blond and normally done with an undercut - long from the top, and the sides shaved underneath. "Get your fucking hands off me, man. I’m not gonna let you do nothing." Now, I am not a big or tough guy, but I was bigger than this boy, and I was getting sick of his shit. I stepped in front of him, placed my hands on his shoulders, and bent down to look him straight in the eye.
"I am going to fucking cut your fucking hair, and I can do it two ways. If you don’t want to spend the next few weeks with a fucking bald patch on the top of your head, I suggest you fucking shut up and let me do my job" I think I put enough threat into my voice that I actually felt him cower. Normally, I’m not into intimidating someone smaller than me, but I can see it has its appeal. When his mother returned, I explained to her that "that gum is really in there, ma’am", and that my only option was to "cut it all out". She didn’t hesitate and said "Do what you have to."
Without further ado, I got him into the ensuite and arranged the vanity stool in front of the mirror. I wanted him to watch what was happening. Then out came the scissors, as I cut the bubblegum out in the most haphazard and reckless way possible. This left his head looking like a badly plucked chicken, with some long bits and some really short bits side by side. By the look on his face, I figured that for a fourteen year old boy, having your hair demolished like that was about the most humiliating experience he could have. I felt that he had had enough of the pain part, and started with the pleasure. Now, there are two ways to cut someone’s hair. You can just do it mechanically, a snip here, a snip there. Or, you can really get into it, and make it an incredibly sensual experience for both of you. I decided to really get into this cut, and even though he was going to end up as a buzz cut, the process was something he was going to remember for a while.
The good thing about having someone sit on a stool is that it makes it easy to stand really close to them. You can press your groin up against their back, stand in front of them with one of your legs pressed between their legs and against their groin. You can also put your hand in a reassuring way as you bend down to pick up the clippers, and let the clippers hum for awhile to let him think about what’s coming. Most of my work was done, as he already had the shaved sides underneath his longer hair, but I took a great deal of pleasure eliminating the longer locks, and having them drop to the floor to join the gummed originals. All the while his mother stood watching from the door, but I don’t think she had any real idea of what was going on. I wasn’t even sure if the boy knew what was happening - all I really knew was that I was having a great time.
Occasionally when I looked in the mirror, I would catch myself grinning like an idiot, and would have to stop myself before the mother got suspicious and had me locked up for "gratuitous use of a shaving implement".
Anyway, soon it was over, and the newly shorn boy walked from the bathroom, totally subdued. I swept up the cuttings, keeping one slightly gummed lock aside for my scrapbook, and gathered together my things. The mother was thanking me and calling me a lifesaver. She went into the other room to get her purse, and as I stepped from the bathroom, I saw the boy in front of a mirrored cabinet, running his hand gently across the fine hairs standing up on the top of his head. "You know," called the mother from the other room," that looks good on you. You should keep it that way. It will mean getting it cut a lot more often, but it will be so easy to take care of."
The boy turned and actually smiled at me, but his voice was convincingly petulant as he sang out to his mother, "I suppose if I have to...". The mother came out and handed me my fee and a more than decent tip, and as I left the room, the boy gave me a wink over her shoulder, and as the door closed, I realised that I had probably corrupted the moral values of the youth of this country, but that didn’t stop me whistling all the way down to the lobby in the lift.
Joseph asked me what had happened as I walked past his desk, but I just answered, "Nothing much. I’ll tell you later." Not that I was anxious to get a bit of privacy just then, but I was sure my cock was ruining another pair of underpants at that stage, and the sooner it was milked, the sooner I could get back to a saner frame of mind. Of course, when I retold the story to Joseph, the cock would probably need milking again.
But, hey, that was I price I was willing to pay.
Labels: LNHB
# posted @ 12:02 pm 
