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By Bouffant Shave
Story Categories: AI Written Consensual
Views: 414 |Likes: +6
Betty’s Beauty Boutique in November ’64 was a tactile playground, the air dense with the sticky cling of hairspray and the faint, powdery dust of talc settling on every surface. The pink vinyl chairs squeaked under Debra Ann Whitaker’s weight, the slick, cool plastic gripping her thighs through her cotton shift, its hem rasping faintly against her knees as she shifted. Her red bouffant loomed—a towering mass of teased curls, crisp and stiff from Betty’s lacquer, each strand prickling like fine wire when she brushed it with her coral-tipped nails. Beneath, her nape was a revelation—smooth as a river-worn pebble, its silken surface cool and slightly tacky from lingering sweat, razored bare after Ray’s toothy conquests. Her brows, once thick, were gone, replaced by penciled arcs so faint they felt like a ghost’s touch—her fingertips grazed them, meeting only the waxy drag of graphite over tender, plucked skin, still faintly bumpy from healed follicles.
Next to her, Lorraine “Lori” Pritchard claimed her own throne, the vinyl creaking as her hips sank in, her satin skirt sliding with a soft hiss against the seat. Her jet-black bouffant gleamed—a dense, inky crown, its surface hard and glossy, like a lacquered shell that resisted her probing fingers, each curl snapping back with a faint, springy tug. Her hands, nails painted a glossy plum, fidgeted as she sipped her Coke, the straw’s ridges rough against her lips, the icy fizz a sharp prickle on her tongue. She’d felt the buzz of Debra’s changes through Betty’s gossip—the beautician’s voice a gravelly scrape, her shears snicking like tiny jaws as she spilled. “Ray’s a gnawin’ fiend,” Betty rasped, her calloused fingers tugging Debra’s hair into place. “Plucks her brows ‘til they’re dust, then chews her nape raw—feels like sandpaper on silk, she says, and that bouffant don’t budge!” Lori’s palms itched, the air humming with the dry rasp of curlers rolling in trays.
Under the dryer’s roaring heat, Lori’s curiosity clawed at her. She leaned close, her elbow brushing Debra’s, the cotton of their sleeves catching with a faint snag. “Deb, I need it all,” she murmured, her fingers grazing the armrest’s cracked leather, its texture gritty under her nails. Debra’s laugh was a jolt, her hand slapping the chair with a sharp smack. “First night’s sodomy—my skin slick against his, rough as burlap, that bouffant bobbing untouched. Second’s a blow job—rug fibers diggin’ into my knees, his calluses scrapin’ my scalp, not a curl shifts. Third, he’s rippin’—brows first, teeth like pincers, each yank a hot, ripping sting; now my nape, hairs tearin’ out with a wet snap, skin burnin’ under his stubble.” She lifted her hair, the bouffant’s weight tugging her scalp, and bared her nape—Lori’s fingertips brushed it, feeling the glassy smoothness, cool and yielding, edged with a faint, prickly heat from razor burn.
Lori carried that fire home, her heels clicking on the ranch house’s hardwood, each step a sharp tap against her soles. The chenille bedspread rasped her thighs through her plum satin slip, its fuzzy nap catching her skin as she sprawled after sodomy—her bouffant still a taut, black dome, resisting the pillow’s pull. Carl’s bare chest pressed against her, his skin tacky with sweat, the coarse bristles of his stubble a gritty sweep against her shoulder. She lifted her hair, the strands tugging her scalp, and traced her nape’s coarse fuzz—wiry and sharp, like a bristle brush scraping her fingertips. “Carl, my brows need work,” she teased, her voice a velvet scrape. “Deb’s Ray bites ‘em off—try it.” Carl’s grin pressed into her neck, his breath a hot gust, and his teeth grazed her brow—rough enamel snagging her thick, dark hairs, yanking a tuft free with a searing, tearing pinch. She jolted, the skin prickling hot and tight, her palms gripping the quilt’s nubby weave as he ripped more—each pluck a sharp, tugging stab, the hairs rasping against his teeth, falling like dry pine needles to the sheet. Her fingers clawed the fabric, the sting blooming into a shuddering thrill, their bodies slick and grinding ‘til they collapsed, her bouffant still rigid.
Morning light bathed the room, the hardwood cool and slick under her bare feet as she shuffled to the vanity. Her brows were a battlefield—patchy, tender craters, the skin raw and puckered, prickling under her touch like a fresh sunburn. The pencil’s smooth wood rolled in her grip, its tip dragging waxy and firm as she sketched shaky arcs, the graphite’s faint grit catching her fingertips. At Betty’s, she strutted in, the linoleum tacky under her heels, and spun to Debra, her bouffant bouncing with a stiff sway. “Carl’s hooked, Deb—feel these!” she crowed, her brow throbbing faintly as Debra’s nails brushed it, a light, ticklish scrape. Debra’s clap stung her shoulder, a warm jolt. “You’re ridin’ my tail, Lori—he’s a champ!”
Lori shadowed Debra’s every move, her hands restless. When Debra’s nape went bare, Lori pounced. One sodomy night, her bouffant a glossy black fortress, she bared her nape—the fuzz coarse and wiry, snagging her nails like Velcro. “Carl, these itch like a wool scarf—rip ‘em out, smooth me like Deb,” she urged, her slip’s satin cool against her thighs. Carl’s stubble raked her nape, a gritty sweep that raised goosebumps, his teeth sinking in—tugging hairs free with a wet, ripping pop, each yank a hot, piercing stab that left her skin pulsing. The hairs rasped against his lips, falling in prickly clumps, the quilt’s weave catching them like burrs. Her nape burned, half-bare and tender, the raw patches sticky under her probing fingers as they peaked, the bedframe creaking like a rusty hinge.
At Betty’s, Lori bared her nape—mottled pink and prickly, throbbing faintly as she ran her hand over it, feeling the jagged stubble and slick bald spots. “Razor it, Bets,” she demanded, the chair’s vinyl squeaking as she settled in. Betty’s razor bit, cold and sharp, scraping with a gritty drag, the stubble rasping away until her nape was a satin sheet—cool, smooth, and taut, tingling under her touch. Debra’s Shalimar wafted as she leaned in, her fingers tracing Lori’s neck, a light, teasing skim. “You’re a wild one, Lori—Carl’s a keeper.” Betty’s shears snicked, her rough palms tugging Lori’s hair into a black bubble, the tease a faint, tugging pull on her scalp. “You gals are a freak show—husbands chewin’ you raw, and you’re lovin’ the burn,” she chuckled, her grip firm as she spritzed.
Lori’s rhythm locked—sodomy’s slick friction, blow jobs’ rug-burned knees, nape-plucking’s sharp, ripping sting—her hands always tracing the changes, feeling the bare, tender skin. Her brows faded to penciled wisps, her nape glowed, smooth and tight, a tactile echo of Debra’s. In Willow Creek, Betty’s pulsed with their legend—red and black bouffants swaying, bare necks cool and prickly under fingertips, their wild joy a tangible, electric hum.
By the tail end of the decade—say, 1968—Willow Creek had settled into a groove where Debra Ann Whitaker and Lorraine “Lori” Pritchard were legends at Betty’s Beauty Boutique. The linoleum floor, scuffed and sticky from years of heels and spilled peroxide, still hummed with the dry rasp of curlers and the sharp snick of shears. Debra’s red bouffant, though softened by time, remained a crimson fortress—teased high and stiff, its strands crisp and wiry under her fingertips, the faint tackiness of Aqua Net clinging to her palms as she patted it. Her nape, long since plucked bare by Ray’s relentless teeth, was a smooth, taut expanse—cool as polished ivory, the skin faintly puckered from years of tugging, stretching higher and higher up her skull with each passing season. Lori trailed close behind, her jet-black bouffant a glossy, inky crown, its surface hard and unyielding, snapping back with a faint tug when she pressed it. Her nape mirrored Debra’s—silken and tight, the once-coarse fuzz ripped clean, leaving a tender, glossy plane that prickled faintly under her plum-painted nails.
For years, their husbands—Ray with his grease-roughened hands and Carl with his calloused electrician’s grip—had turned into precision pluckers, their teeth like living tweezers. Third nights still roared with ritual: after sodomy’s slick, grinding heat and blow jobs’ rug-scraped knees, Ray and Carl would attack their wives’ napes. Ray’s stubble rasped Debra’s skin, a gritty sweep that raised goosebumps, his teeth sinking in with a sharp, ripping tug—each hair yanked free with a wet pop, the sting hot and piercing, leaving her nape raw and throbbing. Carl mirrored the dance on Lori, his whiskers scraping like sandpaper, his bite tearing black tufts with a gritty rasp, her skin pulsing tender and slick as hairs fluttered down like ash. The sensation—sharp, electric, and oddly plush—never dulled, their fingers tracing the bare patches afterward, feeling the tight, smooth skin cool under their touch.
But the plucking crept higher. By ’68, Ray’s teeth had climbed past Debra’s nape, inching up the back of her skull, the hairs finer now, softer, like downy feathers snagging his lips. One sticky July night, the air thick with the buzz of cicadas and the musky tang of Ray’s sweat, he reached her crown—the tender peak where her bouffant’s base began. His teeth tugged a cluster of red strands, thin and wispy, and they ripped free with a faint, tearing snap, the scalp beneath prickling hot and tight. Debra gasped, her hands clutching the quilt’s nubby weave, the sting sharper here, closer to the roots, her skin buzzing as he plucked again. She loved it—the raw, tugging thrill—but a pang flickered beneath the heat. How much higher could he go?
Next day at Betty’s, the salon’s air swirled with ammonia’s bite and the warm hum of dryers, Debra bared her crown to Betty. The beautician’s rough fingers probed the spot—still tender, faintly bumpy from plucked follicles, the skin taut and pink under the thinning red fringe. “That’s high enough, Deb,” Betty said, her voice a gravelly scrape, her beehive wobbling as she shook her head. “Ray keeps goin’, I won’t have enough left to tease that bouffant into a bubble. You’ll be flat as a pancake up top.” She tugged a strand, the pull sharp against Debra’s scalp, and Debra’s heart sank, her fingertips brushing the bare crown, feeling the prickly stubble amid the smooth. The end of an era loomed, her nape-to-crown journey complete, and the quilted armrest creaked under her clenched grip.
Betty’s eyes twinkled, though, her calloused thumb tapping Debra’s shoulder with a firm pat. “Ever hear of pierced nipples, hon?” Debra blinked, her glasses slipping, the word foreign and prickly on her tongue. “Nope, Bets—what’s that?” Betty grinned, leaning close, her coffee breath warm and bitter. “Little holes right through ‘em—stick rings in, let ‘em heal up. Once they’re set, Ray can pull ‘em, stretch ‘em, even chew on ‘em if he’s game. Feels like a jolt—sharp and hot, tender for weeks, then toughens up. They’ll dangle under your blouse, a secret kick.” Her fingers mimed a tug, the air snapping with the gesture, and Debra’s skin tingled, imagining the bite of metal, the rough drag of Ray’s teeth on something new.
Debra beamed, her coral nails clicking against the chair’s arm. “I’m sure Ray’ll love it—can you do it, Betty?” The idea danced in her mind—her bouffant safe, her nape bare, and now her nipples a fresh playground, the skin there soft and puckered, ripe for piercing. Betty’s laugh rattled the curlers. “Next week, hon—come ready. I’ll get the needle, the rings, the whole kit. Gonna sting like a hornet, but you’ll be grinning.” Debra’s hands brushed her chest through her shift, feeling the faint give of flesh, the fabric’s soft rasp teasing her, anticipation prickling her palms.
Lori, perched nearby, her bouffant swaying as she sipped her Coke, caught every word. Carl hadn’t hit her crown yet—her nape’s upper edge still bore a thin, bristly line, rasping under her nails—but she leaned in, the straw’s ridges rough against her lips. “Pierced nipples, huh?” she mused, her fingers tracing her own chest, the satin cool and slippery, the skin beneath yielding softly. “I’m next, Deb—soon as Carl catches up.” Her nape throbbed faintly from last night’s plucking, the skin tight and smooth, and she grinned, eager to follow.
At home, Debra spilled the plan to Ray that night, the chenille bedspread prickling her thighs as she sprawled beside him. “Betty’s piercin’ my nipples next week—rings for you to tug and chew, sugar,” she purred, her fingers brushing his stubbled jaw, coarse as a wire brush. Ray’s grin split wide, his rough hand cupping her breast through her nightie, the fabric dragging taut, his thumb grazing the soft peak with a firm press. “Hell, Debbie, I’ll pluck ‘em raw,” he rasped, the quilt creaking as he pulled her close, her bare nape cool against his palm.
In Willow Creek, the years had carved their mark—napes bare and taut, bouffants teetering on the edge, and now a new frontier loomed. Debra’s hands itched for the sting of Betty’s needle, Lori’s trailed a step behind, and Betty’s salon pulsed with the promise of fresh, tactile thrills
By the waning months of 1968, Debra Ann Whitaker and Ray had turned her pierced nipples into a playground of raw, tactile delight. The procedure at Betty’s had been a jolt—the needle’s cold, piercing bite slicing through her soft, puckered flesh, the skin throbbing hot and tender as Betty threaded silver rings through, their weight a constant, tugging pull against her chest. Now, healed into toughened nubs, they dangled under her blouse, cool metal clinking faintly with each step, the rings’ edges smooth but firm under her fingertips. Ray, with his grease-stained hands and bristly jaw, couldn’t get enough. He’d rigged nipple chains—thin, silver links that rattled softly, their chill biting her skin as he hooked them on, tugging with a sharp, stretching yank that made her gasp, the flesh pulling taut and prickly. Nipple shields came next—ornate, filigreed discs that pressed flush against her areolas, their textured rims rasping her skin, amplifying every graze of his rough fingers. Then the stretchers—rubbery loops he’d wedge in, cranking the rings wider, the slow, burning stretch a deep, aching thrill that left her nipples swollen and pulsing.
Ray’s favorite, though, was chewing them raw. On third nights, after sodomy’s slick grind and blow jobs’ rug-scraped knees, he’d pin her to the chenille bedspread—its fuzzy nap prickling her back—and dive in. His whiskers, coarse as steel wool, raked her nipples first, a gritty, scraping sweep that turned the skin red and raw, each bristle digging in like tiny claws. Then his teeth—sharp and relentless—clamped down, gnawing the tender flesh, tugging the rings with wet, ripping pulls. The sting was fierce—a hot, searing pulse that shot through her chest, the skin splitting faintly, beading with salty blood she could taste on her lips when she licked them. Debra loved it, her hands clawing the quilt’s nubby weave, the pain a wild, intense joy that left her nipples chewed ragged, scabbing over, only to be torn open again weeks later. “Rip ‘em raw, Ray,” she’d moan, her bouffant swaying—a crimson, teased crown, crisp and stiff, its strands snagging her nails as she gripped it.
Lori Pritchard, ever Debra’s shadow, followed full suit. Carl pierced her nipples a week after Debra, the rings glinting against her pale skin, their weight a constant, dragging pull she felt through her satin slip—smooth and cool against her thighs. She mirrored Debra’s toys—chains clinking like loose change, their icy bite pinching her flesh; shields pressing tight, their etched patterns a faint, prickly tease; stretchers widening her rings, the slow, rubbery tug a deep, throbbing ache. Carl’s whiskers rasped her nipples raw, his teeth gnashing the metal and skin, each bite a sharp, tearing sting that left them tender and pulsing, healing only to be ravaged again. At Betty’s, the two women bared their progress—lifting their blouses, the salon’s linoleum cool under their heels, the air sharp with ammonia and hairspray. Debra’s nipples gleamed, red and scabbed, the rings glinting; Lori’s matched, swollen and raw, the shields’ edges catching the light. Their fingers brushed the modifications—metal smooth and cold, skin hot and bumpy—sharing every tug and chew with a conspiratorial grin.
But Lori’s path veered. Carl hadn’t stopped at her crown like Ray had with Debra. Her jet-black bouffant, once a glossy, unyielding orb, was thinning—its base prickling with stubble where Carl’s teeth had climbed higher, ripping hairs from her scalp. Each third night, after nipple play left her chest throbbing, he’d attack her head—his stubble scraping her crown, a gritty rasp that raised goosebumps, his teeth yanking clumps of black strands with wet, tearing pops. The roots tugged hard, the scalp beneath hot and tight, each pluck a sharp, electric sting that made her shiver, her hands gripping the pillow’s coarse weave as hairs fluttered down, sticking to her sweat-slick neck. Her bouffant shrank, the teased bubble sagging, its surface still hard but patchy, the scalp beneath tender and prickly under her probing nails.
One sticky August day at Betty’s, the dryer’s hum pulsing through the air, Lori sprawled in the vinyl chair—its slick surface clinging to her thighs—and ran her fingers over her scalp, feeling the thinning crown, bumpy and raw. “Carl loves my bouffant,” she said, her voice a smoky rasp, “but he loves denudin’ my scalp more. And I want him to keep goin’ ‘til I’m bald as an egg.” She grinned, her plum nails tracing the bare patches, the skin smooth but prickling with faint stubble. “I know it’s Trichotillomania—hair-pullin’ madness—but it ain’t a problem. It’s a problem I crave. Every rip, every tug—it’s pure pleasure, hot and sharp, like fire under my skin.” Debra, teasing her own bouffant, its crisp curls snagging her fingers, nodded, her coral nails tapping the armrest with a faint click. “I get it, Lori—completely. That sting’s a drug. But Ray wants me bouffanted to my grave, teased high ‘til I’m dust.”
Betty, her beehive wobbling as she leaned in, her rough palms tugging Lori’s thinning hair, chuckled—a gravelly scrape against the salon’s buzz. “We’ll keep you done up, Lori, long as we can—tease what’s left into a bubble. But when it’s gone, I’ll have a jet-black bouffant wig waitin’—glossy and stiff, just your style. You’ll rock it bald underneath.” Her fingers rasped Lori’s scalp, the stubble catching her calluses, and Lori smiled, her slip’s satin cool against her skin. “Betty, I knew you’d fix me up. I’m lovin’ this slow crawl to bald—every pluck’s a thrill, feelin’ my scalp bare out bit by bit.” Debra’s eyes gleamed behind her glasses, her hands brushing her nipples through her blouse, the rings’ tug a faint, prickly pull. “Now I’m jealous, Lori—you’re goin’ all the way, and I’m stuck with this bubble!”
Ray kept Debra’s bouffant intact, his teeth reserved for her nipples—chewing them raw, the whiskers’ scrape a brutal, delicious grind she felt in her bones. Carl pushed Lori toward baldness, her scalp a tender, prickly canvas, the bouffant fading as her pleasure soared. At Betty’s, the air thrummed with their tales—nipples raw and ringing, scalps bare or bouffanted, their hands tracing every change, the tactile dance of their wild, willful joy.
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