Salamander by Mobmij
“I have just updated my report on the Bigfoot film hoax as of 1/11/99. Nice goin’, you fucking morons. And something new I just picked up – a new theory about schizophrenia, compliments of one “Knozit”. Better make that “Knozshit” ’cause his so-called theories are world-class weird – and phenomenally stupid, even for you numbskull denizens of the Net. Click here for the scoop.”
So much for the website update, he thought. Time consuming, but fun. Debunking the crap that passes for news on the Web is like shooting fish in a barrel. Christ, it made him hot to think about that idiotic garbage. That’s why he bothered with his own site: “The Real Deal”. Help for the imbeciles of the world – of which there was no shortage these days.
Though Knozit’s views on schizophrenia were at least original. Those little voices in the heads of schizophrenics – the ones that keep telling them they’re no good or that they have to strangle their neighbor’s hamster or that just blare bad music from the 50’s on and on and on – they’re real. Real voices. Oh, yes. But they come from nixies or pixies or elementals. Voices from the faerie world that get inside your head. Yes, that’s a good theory. Very scientific. Poor fuck has too many voices in his head for his own good. Get a life, Knozit.
Clark Milfer considered adding an update to his schizophrenic piece, based on the newest research on chemical imbalances in the brain. He hated the junk science and bullshit that got such wide dissemination on the Web, and he hated stupid people – which to him meant everyone else in the world. But here he was on the Web, so he thought he’d have some fun before getting back to working on “The Real Deal”. He surfed over to a couple of his favorite hair-related sites. Some nice new pix on one. A whole new site in a links section. The blond with the tight buzzcut was beautiful, he thought. She’d look good trussed up and shaved. But he couldn’t concentrate well – even on his favorite B&D sites. “Knozit” was bothering him. He felt his usual anger – not, of course, for those poor tortured schizophrenic souls, suffering from serious mental illness. He didn’t care about them; he didn’t care about anyone but himself. Other people were just objects to him. He was just angry at silly, stupid, gullible people in general. Those sorry-ass schizophrenics need drugs, Knozit you idiot asshole, and you’re telling them they need some kind of exorcism instead. Stupid fuck. Get ready to be flamed.
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Clark ended up hot enough under the collar to go back and update his “Real Deal” piece. “So,” he wrote, “schizophrenics are really hearing those voices after all. Voices of “elementals” – forest spirits, earth sprites, evil marauding pixies – who get inside their heads and root around in their deepest darkest innermost secrets. Messin’ with their heads. Does it matter to the afflicted schizophrenic which element his “elemental” hails from – earth, air, fire, water? Is it just a matter of getting buried under handfuls of pixie dust? And why do these supernatural creatures even bother? To prove to us humans that they exist? Why would they care? And, more importantly, where is the proof? Listen and learn. In fact, boys and girls, the best evidence concerning schizophrenia is…”
Phzzzt! A flash of bright blue light shot out at him from his computer monitor. The screen lit up white and then went dark.
A thin plume of smoke rose from the back of the monitor. Clark quickly fumbled around, muttering dark curses, and finally pulled the plug and stood watching, ready to grab some water or something if the monitor caught fire in earnest. On the now-dark screen, for a split second, he thought he saw a woman’s face looking out at him, with red burning angry eyes and fire for hair. But then the illusion cleared, and he saw it was just a final spark or two from within the smoldering unit. Never heard of that happening, he thought. Monitors aren’t supposed to explode like that. His computer supplier was going to get an earful in the morning. Those bastards.
The next day, walking back from his office at the university, the skies opened up into a downpour. Clark was already in a bad mood. He had just had a screaming match with the dean of students about an alleged sexual harassment incident – like that little chippie of a coed hadn’t wanted him to grab her ass. Plus the anonymous note in his mailbox: “I hope you burn in hell you asshole.” Very creative. Probably some numbnuts undergrad who got a “D” in Clark’s chemistry class because he thought the periodic table was something you’d find in the cafeteria. Chemical elements are elementary, moron. They’re the only real “elementals” in this world, so you better learn about them. Now the fucking rain. He hiked up his collar and started to run when he accidentally collided with someone. “Goddammit! Look out!” he said. “Watch where you’re going.”
The woman he had bumped into stood in silence, rubbing her forehead. Clark noticed that she was young and attractive, and his demeanor immediately changed to the obsequious groveling that he engaged in around good-looking woman he wanted to fuck and important people he had to kiss up to (as much as he might hate it). “Oh, I’ve hurt you,” he said.
“No. No really. I’m OK,” the woman said. But then her knees buckled slightly. Clark put his arm around her, holding her up. He let his hand stray down toward her ass.
“Please. Come upstairs with me. My apartment is right here. You can wait out of the rain until we’re sure you’re OK.” Yes, please, he thought. Please come upstairs.
“No, I couldn’t really…”
“Please. I insist.”
The woman looked closely at Clark. “Well. OK. I do feel a bit woozy. And with all this rain – well, I’m really out of my element.”
Upstairs, in his apartment, Clark helped the woman off with her wet coat. He pressed close enough to feel the heat of her body, and he reflexively tried to catch the scent of her hair, which hung soaking wet past her shoulders.
“The bathroom’s over there. Feel free to take a hot shower. There are towels on the rack and there’s a hairdryer in the drawer by the sink.”
The woman thanked him, gently resting her hand on his forearm, and walked to the bathroom. Clark couldn’t tell outside in the rain exactly how beautiful she was. But now, even sopping wet, he could tell that she was gorgeous. And he could feel the heat of her hand even through his wet clothes. It had been a long time since he had had a woman in his apartment – and never one that looked like this one. He would try to make the most of this opportunity. She looked like she could be a pretty plaything for him.
A voice came from the bathroom. “What’s your name?”
“Clark Milfer.” He raised his voice slightly to be heard through the closed bathroom door. “I’m a professor of chemistry at the university.”
“That’s convenient. So close by,” the voice said. “My name’s Blaise. I’m only in town for a few days. I’m in…broadcasting. Excuse me one second.”
Clark heard the water running in the shower and scurried into his bedroom. Not too messy, he thought, gathering dirty clothes up off the bed. With some luck, that mattress will get some use tonight. He changed quickly out of his own wet clothes. “Brrr. Chilly,” he thought. His own hands were cold on his body as he pulled on a dry pair of pants. But the thought of a nice punishment cut warmed him. He let his fantasies run wild, and they were none too gentle. Maybe this bitch liked the rough stuff.
As he reentered his living room, Clark heard the howl of the hairdryer.
“Excuse me. Clark? Could you give me a hand?”
Clark opened the bathroom door. The girl was standing at the sink in one of Clark’s robes. It was short and barely tied in front. He could tell she had nothing on underneath.
“I couldn’t turn the water off in the shower. Do you mind?”
Clark reached into the shower to turn off the water and jerked his hand back out again, shaking it in pain.
“Dammit that’s hot! Jeez.” He shook his scalded hand, watching it turn red before his eyes.
“Let me try again,” the girl said. She reached into the shower and turned the spigot easily.
“There. That does it. The water must have turned cooler.”
Not from the look of the steam still spilling out from the shower curtains. Jesus, she must be made of asbestos, he thought.
“Would you mind helping me dry my hair? Your dryer’s different from mine, and the mirror is all fogged up.”
“Umm. Sure,” he answered. In fact, he was speechless. This was one of his dearest fantasies: drying and brushing out the long hair of a beautiful woman. Right before he cropped it off as she cried for mercy, of course. And it was such beautiful hair too – long and soft and a vivid shade of fiery red. He took a soft brush and began brushing and drying.
“Let me know if the dryer is too hot on you,” he said.
The girl laughed, oddly loud. “Oh, don’t worry about that,” she said.
“So, you’re a scientist?” the girl asked.
“Yes. I teach chemistry courses, mostly undergraduate. Though I’m really more interested in research. But I’m not all work. I also have some hobbies – I have a website for debunking the weirdo claims that nut cases get into the news. Stuff like that. It’s called ‘The Real Deal’. Ever hear of it?”
He didn’t mention his hair-related hobbies. Not yet. Got to feel this chick out first. But the hobby line was his usual lead-in.
“No. Sorry. I kinda like those weird stories and stuff like that. I’ve always liked fairy tales and fantasy stuff. I’m not so quick to judge what’s real and what’s not. It can be kinda – I don’t know – rude or presumptuous. There’s lots that’s still unknown out there. Or forgotten about. And you don’t want to piss off the earth spirits – at least that’s what the folk tales and legends say. The Fair Folk can be pretty touchy. If you insult them, it’s like – I dunno, playing with fire or something. And they don’t play nice. Humans don’t matter to them. People are just their…well, toys. Or so I hear.” The girl smiled warmly.
Fairy tales, he thought. Great. A real airhead. Well, could be good. Easier to take advantage of when they’re dumb.
The girl was silent for a moment. Then she spoke a little reluctantly. “I hope you don’t mind this, but… I looked in the wrong drawer for the hairdryer. And I couldn’t help noticing that you had some… uh…”
Clark’s face turned red. He knew what she had found. God, he should have thought about that before he told her to get the hairdryer. Now she’s going to think I’m some kind of kinky weirdo, he thought. Well, if the shoe fits…. But he sure didn’t want to scare this babe off.
“Oh,” he said. “Those. Well, umm, it’s just that…”
The girl interrupted him. “I’m not shocked or anything like that, if that’s what you’re thinking. There’s no need to be embarrassed. In fact, I thought it was kinda neat. I’ve never seen so many ponytails in one place before.”
He heaved a sigh of relief. Collecting ponytails was one of his hair-related hobbies. He’d never gotten the chance to collect one himself – they were all purchased from third parties, most over the Web. But he loved the look and feel of them. And one of these days…
“Thanks,” he stammered. “I uh…”
“Did you cut any of them yourself?” the girl asked.
“I’ll bet you’d like to though. Hmmm?”
“Of course. But the opportunity doesn’t come up often…”
The girl turned to face Clark, tossing her now-dry red hair off her face and letting a foot or so dangle through her fingers.
“I’ve been thinking about getting my hair cut shorter. Care to take off some of the bulk for me before I call my hairdresser back home?”
The breath left Clark’s body, and his eyes bugged out. He could only nod stiffly. This was too easy. He hadn’t even had to say or suggest anything. Then he leaned past the girl to open the drawer where he kept his haircutting supplies. This was it, he thought. My big chance. As he reached for the drawer, he intentionally brushed against her breasts and again he felt the heat of her body radiating out.
He pulled open the drawer and reached for a pair of scissors and a comb. “What have we here?” the girl asked. She could see the clippers and crewcut guides and the different varieties of shears and razors that Clark had amassed over the years. “What’s all this for?”
“Well, to tell the truth, I thought someday I might get rid of a lot of my own hair. Not shaved or anything. Just some sort of crewcut – so I wouldn’t have to bother with all this…” A convenient lie. Just a temporary cover, to keep her off guard. Of course, they were really intended to complete his dream cut – to crop and clipper a beautiful woman. Maybe this one, he thought.
He ran his hand through his thick unruly hair as he spoke.
“Ah,” the girl said and nodded. “In that case, you must come and sit here first.” She patted the seat of an upright chair just outside the bathroom.
“Wh…?” Clark tried to speak, but the girl pressed her finger to his lips and pushed him gently down into the chair. Then he felt a cape being drawn in front of him – also from his collection.
“So, how short are we going today?” the girl asked. “Wait…don’t tell me. I’ll decide. I like to play.”
Clark was scared but excited. He was always the dominant in his fantasies, but he liked the sensation of giving himself up to this woman – even though he realized that he was trusting a complete stranger with his hair. Plus, the more comfortable she felt here, the more likely she was to let him have his way with her hair.
“Have you ever cut hair before?” he asked.
“Shush,” the girl said. “Besides, what does it matter with these comb things on the clippers. Now head down please.”
“Just not too short. Use the biggest guide,” he said nervously. Could he really trust this bimbo?
Clark felt the girl firmly press his head down till his chin touched his chest. The clippers snapped to life behind his head, and he felt the blades begin chewing into his hairline. Clumps of dark hair began to fall about his shoulders, some sliding down the cape in front of him, collecting in his lap. The girl was working the clippers up the back of his head, row after row. It looked like a whole lot of hair being sheared off, and he didn’t know what – if any – guide was on the blades. But not knowing just seemed to excite him all the more, semi-angry though he was. He felt his body heat rising as the clippers effortlessly buzzed off great strips of his curly hair.
Now the girl was running the blades up the sides of his head, pulling his ears out of the way none too gently. The hum of the machine filled his head, but he could still hear his hair hitting the plastic cape as it was shorn away. First the right side of his head, then the girl worked the left side, pressing the teeth of the guide firmly into his scalp.
“Head up,” she said. Clark looked up, but there was no mirror to see. He could, however, make out his reflection darkly in the TV screen across the room. His head looked very white. Lots of scalp showing through. She hadn’t used the half-inch guide at all, the bitch. Then, without changing guides or adjusting the clippers, the girl began to run the machine over the top of his head. Huge globs of hair began hitting his shoulders and rolling down his back. Over and over his head, he felt the clippers moving, always in precise straight rows, front to back. Then the chewing sound stopped, and the girl clicked off the machine. She undid the cape and shook it out. Masses of dark hair – his hair – spilled onto Clark’s carpet.
“Come here and look.” The girl took Clark’s hand and led him into the bathroom. “What do you think?” she asked as they both looked in the mirror. He was in shock. He looked like a boot camp recruit. Clark ran his hand over his shorn head. Perhaps there was a quarter inch of hair there – but not more than that. The hair felt stiff and brushy under his hand. Goddammit! he thought.
“MMMM. I sure like the feel of it.” The girl was running her hot hands gently over his head, lingering at his nape and around his now-exposed ears.
“I like it too,” he lied. We’ll be a matching pair soon bitch. A good match. How could I let this happen? he thought. But too much else going on to worry about it now.
“Get your scissors,” the girl said as she slipped into the chair.
Clark grabbed a pair of his largest shears and stood behind the girl. “How much should I cut off?” he asked. He only asked to put her at ease. He would take as much as he pleased. After all, the bitch had just about shaved him.
“Oh. That won’t matter. Be brave,” she answered.
Clark’s hands shook as he clumsily wound a large elastic band around the girl’s red hair, as close to the hairline as he could get it. He was going to claim as big a trophy as he could. Struggling with the thickness of her hair, Clark worked the scissor blades roughly back and forth. Finally, after much hacking, he pulled the ponytail loose. It filled his hot, sweaty hands, thick as his forearm. The rest of the girl’s hair tumbled around her now bared nape, freed from the weight of the ponytail.
“There. How’s that?” he said, his voice quavering with excitement.
“Great,” the girl replied. “But you’re not done yet. Get the clippers.”
Clark felt his knees shaking as he walked the few steps to grab the clippers. This is it, he thought. This is it.
The girl was looking straight forward as he turned back to her. She spoke without looking at him.
“I think you look so hot that I want my hair just like yours. I want us to be a perfect match.”
Clark didn’t hesitate. He didn’t want to give the girl the benefit of even a second to change her mind. This wasn’t the semi-brutal punishment cut that he had always fantasized about; the girl was too willing, too much in control. But it was real and it was happening now. He flicked on the clippers and shoved them roughly into the girl’s nape. Hair fell over his hand and spread over the floor at his feet like a wildfire. A strip of neat quarter-inch hair appeared from beneath the blades. He pushed the machine up again, widening the strip and revealing the girl’s thick hairline.
“How does it look back there? Will I look good with a crewcut?” the girl asked.
“Oh baby yes,” Clark squeaked. His voice had stopped working.
“I’m sorry, did you hear me? How does it look?” The girl repeated her question, speaking softly despite the din of the clippers, which were just then shearing away the hair around her left ear, sending it plummeting onto her shoulder. But despite the loudness of the machine, Clark heard her soft voice loud and clear, as though she were whispering in his ear, speaking directly inside his head.
“MMMMM. Make it nice and short and even. I love the brushy feel of a good short crewcut.” Still, the girl’s voice echoed like a whisper in an empty room inside his head. “This is what you’ve always wanted isn’t it? Your fondest, most secret desire. Buzz me close. MMMM. I like the feel of the clippers on my head. You like it too. I can sense how excited you are. Take your time over the top of my head. This isn’t a military barbershop. We have plenty of time.”
Despite the humming clippers, Clark heard the girl’s monologue clearly as he continued working the razor over her round head. It was as though he was hearing her voice emanating from the vibrations of the clippers – like the machine itself were talking to him.
All that was left on the girl’s head now was a red mushroom cap of hair sitting atop a neatly barbered nape and sides. Savoring the moment, he began to push the clippers into her hairline in front, matching the razor’s path against the already shorn right side of her head.
“Keep going. Nice and slow. Are you hot yet? I am. I can feel the heat of the clippers as they’re shaving my hair down. Do you think it’s short enough? You can’t think of anything else can you? This is all you’ve ever wanted. Maybe I’ll keep coming back to you again and again for my crewcuts. Maybe I’ll let you shave off all my hair everywhere.”
Clark’s head was reeling from the constant drone of the clippers and the constant seductive whispers from the girl. Both were echoing, echoing, echoing in his head. He could feel the machine heating up in his hand. It had never run for so long at one time. It was almost becoming uncomfortably hot to hold. But he had only a small strip or two of hair left to buzz down, so he concentrated on finishing the job.
“Oh. Almost done… I wish it could last longer. I love the feel of the clippers and the avalanches of buzzed-off hair pouring down off me. I can’t wait to feel my crewcut, to run my hands over my head, to have you run your hands over me…”
Was that her still talking? Or was he imagining it, playing out his own daydreams in his head? Clark could barely tell the difference between reality and his fantasies. Was this real? It seemed too perfect, too much like a dream. He felt like he was in a daze. Is this how insane people feel?” he wondered.
Finally, the clippers stopped making their chewing sound and reverted to an idling hum. The girl had a perfect, evenly shaved crewcut, the quarter inch of hair left on her head still red as fire.
The girl began running her hands over her scalp, letting the loosened robe fall away from her body. Then she stood up and took Clark by the hand and led him to the bedroom. Quickly, she unbuttoned his shirt, while Clark – still stunned and bursting with excitement – undid his pants. In a few seconds, both were naked on the bed, the girl atop Clark. She took his hands and ran them over her shorn head, as she caressed Clark’s new crewcut with her own soft hot hands.
“Wait here,” she whispered and tiptoed from the room.
Clark lay there, unbelieving. This was better than any fantasy. He could not have imagined in his most insane dreams that something like this could happen. He would, he thought, write a letter to Penthouse about this.
The girl returned, carrying big handfuls of her cut-off hair. “Let’s play, my little boytoy. You’ll like this,” she said. Slowly, she began teasing Clark with the bundled ends of her hair, using the longer tresses like a paintbrush on his naked body. Then she began coating him in shorter hair, covering every inch of him with the fur-soft trimmings. Clark felt himself getting hotter and hotter.
Then the girl began rubbing her raspy head over his body, slowly at first and then faster, rubbing the softness of the shorn hair into him in gentle circles. Next she began long, straight rubbings that started high on his chest and ran roughly down his torso, sanding his nipples. Harder and faster, she rubbed. She looked to Clark like a matchhead trying to ignite. Harder and faster she worked, and Clark felt himself growing hotter and hotter, the red hair that covered his body burning him like fire.