Chapter 6
"Why, hello, Mrs. Smith," Miss Ross said to the short, curvaceous woman who had just stepped through the door of the beauty salon.
"I'm glad you could make it," she said. "I was afraid you would miss your regular appointment."
"Oh no," Mirs Smith said, "I'd never miss that!" She emphasized her statement with a dramatic lifting of her eyebrows and a widening of her eyes.
This cute twenty-five-year-old housewife who lived a few blocks from the salon in an ordinary middleclass part of the city was a regular customer of the "Lookswell" School. But she was more than just a regular customer to have her hair done every week. She came for more than that.
What it was that she craved she could not find at home. Her husband was a plain and slightly boring drone of twenty-nine. His idea of a good fuck was any time in bed when he did not come before he got inside her. She really loathed him for his clumsy and stupid manner.
But he was such a fool he did not even know it. He thought he was pretty hot stuff. She thought he was a piece of shit.
For a few years she suffered unhappily, knowing something was wrong. Perhaps, she thought, it's me. Perhaps, there is something I don't know about.
Then she realized it was not her who was in the wrong. Somehow her husband was not giving her something which she wanted. It was something which she deserved. As time went on it was something which she craved.
By the time she heard about "Lookswell" from her best friend she was ready for just about anything. She was tied down in the house with her two young children. Her husband was away into the evening at his job. When he came home he was not much to be with, anyway. Of course she had given up on trying to enjoy sex with him long ago. She merely submitted herself to his unexciting ministrations and made it as plain as she could that she found them so.
The day she went to "Lookswell" for the first time seemed like the first day of her life. It was only two years ago, she thought, but I don't know what I was living for before that.
Miss Ross was the one who introduced her to the routine of the place. First she would have her hair washed and wrapped in a towel. Then she would go into the baVk room to have a facial.
When she got into the back room the real important activities of the afternoon began.
Some days it would simply be beatings by Miss Ross. Other times masked men would come in dressed in medieval torturers' clothes. There were racks and wheels among the many instruments of pain in that back room.
The basement was reserved for more lengthy and elaborate encounters. In that basement she had been beaten, prodded with electrodes, burned, and gang-fucked up the ass.
Miss Ross was an exquisite torturer. She never let up until the victim was well past the point of complete terror and abject misery. She never failed to think up novel and excruciatingly inventive pain-giving instruments.
She had been beaten by many different men and women. Sometimes they used their hands, sometimes other things. She could remember chains, straps, thongs, barbed wire and wet rope.
They would bind her in excruciating positions. Each time a new and vulnerable part of her body would be exposed to abuse.
Mrs. Smith thought she could not live without the excitement of the "Lookswell" School.
Now, two years later, she was a regular weekly customer. No one suspected she went to the beauty parlor once a week for more than just a prettying-up.
This day Miss Ross smiled sweetly as always and led her to her regular chair in the back. She personally attended to washing her hair. She took particular care to do a good job on her auburn wavy hair.
No one would have suspected what a tyranical bitch Miss Ross was by looking at her gently and carefully washing Mrs. Smith's hair. She looked the sweet young thing.
After Miss Ross was finished she handed Mrs. Smith a towel and said, "We're going down to the basement today, my dear."
They went to the back of the school and opened the door to the basement. Down the stairs they went. They walked all the way back to the same door Regina had been carried through the day before by Morgan.
Mrs. Smith was no stranger to this route. Her heart palpitated with expectation. She had nothing but painful and ecstatic memories of this door to hell.
Miss Ross opened it with her key and they went inside. From one of the metal cabinets she took out a strange looking rubber suit.
The suit looked like a skin-diver's wet suit. But it differed from this by virtue of its being all in one piece. It was put on from the back by way of a tight-fitting zipper. The collar was closed as also were the feet.
"Put this on," Miss Ross said in a suddenly commanding voice.
Mrs. Smith complied meekly. She sat down and removed her conservatively cut suit. Then she took off her undergarments and laid them neatly out on the couch beside her.
When she was completely naked she stood up and stepped into the suit. The thin but very strong rubber was cold against her fresh skin. She slipped her legs into the tight legs of the garment.
It took all her effort to squeeze her feet all the way down into the feet of the ever-tightening and clutching suit. The instant her feet and toes were stuck all the way down there, she felt the rubber constricting them. It felt as if the suit were some kind of giant clam trying to suck her alive.
She glanced up at Miss Ross questioningly. The look in her eyes was as if to say, "Do you want me to put this on?"
Miss Ross barely even acknowledged the look. She stood tall over the struggling woman and looked down with contempt fluttering around her eyes and lips. She merely held her head a little higher to indicate her orders still stood without modification.
Mrs. Smith resumed struggling with the recalcitrant garment. She ducked her head under the collar piece and up through the very tight-fitting neck. It was a struggle to get her head through the collar. It was so tight it pulled her hair painfully.
At last she got her head through and began sliding her arms into the sleeves. The sleeves seemed so long and narrow. At the end of each sleeve was a tiny rubber glove. She forced first her left and then her right hand into the ever-tightening tubes.
From the instant she shoved her limbs into the rubber torture suit they began to throb. It felt as if her whole body were crammed into ' the confines of a too-small pipe.
She could feel the blood pound and the nerves throb close to the skin. She managed to get her whole body inside the thing. It was then she noticed its peculiar design.
In the front where there should have been extra room for her ample breasts there were simply holes. The holes were not big enough to allow her boobs to tumble out. They were big enough to let them only thrust upward in an effort to escape the suit.
They looked like white lava bubbles in some fleshy tar pit. The crown of the bubbles were the two cherry nipples twisted and curled up i around themselves with excitement.
"Roll over," Miss Ross ordered after Mrs.
Smith had sat back down on the couch.
She did as she was told. Miss Ross savagely zipped up the back of the suit, imprisoning her client within.
Mrs. Smith could hardly breathe inside the tight tube of rubber. Her breasts throbbed where they were half out of the suit. Every section of her body felt confined and throbbing.
Miss Ross roughly grabbed her up by the armpit and threw her toward the table at the other side of the room. That was the very same table Regina had been tortured on by Morgan. Now it was to play some part in the unfolding of Mrs. Smith's life within "Lookswell."
"Get up on it and he down," Miss Ross shrieked.
"But what are you going to do?" Mrs. Smith asked.
"It's not your place to ask questions," Miss Ross said with a snarl. "If you know what's good for you, you'll do as you're told."
Meekly Mrs. Smith got on the table. She lowered herself down and lay there. She stared up at the ceiling with a tingling coursing through her veins. This was the moment she waited for each week.
The time when the expectation and terror were the highest were the times of greatest pleasure for Mrs. Smith. She did not even know herself that this was what she craved the most. She was frightened to her core by the things they did to her.
But all the things thrilled her and she went back for more. Over and over they beat and tortured her. But she loved and craved the pain. She would not miss a week at "Lookswell" for anything in the world. She would sacrifice her children or her husband in order to enjoy this pleasure.
They might even kill me, she thought with fear. But they never did. Again the circle was complete. She knew they might kill her. The thought gave her exquisite pleasure. But they never did. For to kill her would be to extinguish the flame of suffering which warmed them.
Miss Ross did not know that she danced in this circle dance, either. But Mrs. Smith was safe in her hands as she would be in the arms of her ineffectual husband. Maybe she was more safe in her arms. Perhaps Miss Ross loved her more.
Morgan was a different story, though. There was something about him that left him on the edge. He was apt to break the circle someday. His passion seemed more intense and his frenzy more abandoned.
But at that moment Mrs. Smith did not know she was safe. Perhaps in that instant she really was not safe. After all, things can happen which are only random. Perhaps a slip or a twist would do what she feared most.
Miss Ross came over to the table and looked down at Mrs. Smith. She was so pretty and youthful. Her wet hair lay close to her head and her striking eyes looked up at Miss Ross.
She said to her victim, "Put your arms flat on the table."
When Mrs. Smith had complied, those clamps came up and around her wrists. She strained at the unexpected and never-before-experienced bondage.
"Now, my dear," Miss Ross said, "you think that we don't see what has been going on. You come here week after week and take advantage of all our facilities and expect to get off scot-free. Well, that era of leniency is coming to a close." , So saying, Miss Ross whipped out a straight razor and opened it.
"You are all the same," she said to her captive. "You think you are doing so much and you are doing nothing. You enjoy what we give you and like an ungrateful child you want to escape responsibility for your actions. Well, you cannot escape. You will pay!"
She began stropping the razor. Mrs. Smith looked up wild-eyed at the flashing steel. She strained against the bonds but the clamps on her wrists and the thick rubber band which Miss Ross had snapped around her legs, held her fast.
Mrs. Smith began shouting.
"If you don't shut up," Miss Ross shouted back, "there is no telling what might happen to you. Do as I tell you. Be quiet!"
Once again, Mrs. Smith obeyed. She was used to doing nothing else in the face of Miss Ross's commands. It would have been futile to disobey. Miss Ross's strength was overwhelming.
Waving the razor high in the air, Miss Ross began yelling into Mrs. Smith's frightened face.
"Now you will see what real discipline means," she said. "Up until now you have just been playing. Now you will begin to work."
Miss Ross turned toward the wall in back of the table and picked up the end of the hose that was there. One end was attached to a nozzle in the wall, the other was in her hand.
She turned on the faucet marked "H." From out the hose came a thick stream of scalding water. She aimed it at the face of Mrs. Smith.
Mrs. Smith gasped and spluttered as the scalding liquid hit her in the face. She felt as if she were drowning. She struggled to breathe in the deluge.
"You like that," Miss Ross said. "Maybe you'll grow gills, then you'll be able to breathe."
But Mrs. Smith could hardly hear the mocking for the water in her ears. It splashed in her head and around the tight collar. The burning was as bad as the drowning feeling.
All up and down the body of the prostrate figure Miss Ross played the stream of hot water. Through the rubber Mrs. Smith could feel the heat as though it were on her bare skin. She writhed as if being scalded with red-hot coals. But the pain was liquid and sought her out.
Miss Ross paid special attention to the exposed breasts. She shot the water at them from all angles. The pain and the pressure brought thrills to the chest of Mrs. Smith.
"Oh please," she said, "that hurts too much!" She tried to twist away from the jet.
But Miss Ross was relentless. She tortured the delicious boobs until they were crimson. Then she wended her way down her body to the rubber-clothed crotch.
There she shot the jet right into the V between her lady's legs. This sent an even more agonized expression of joy and pain to the face of her victim. She contorted her face as if being tortured on the rack. But the torture was as much pleasure as pain.
Finally Miss Ross doused her head. Quickly, then, she switched the faucet to cold and sprayed the startled Mrs. Smith. In an instant the ice-cold water had the woman's teeth chattering. But like an Eskimo in a blizzard, there was no escape.
Miss Ross turned off the hose and threw it down on the floor. Then she came toward her captive.
"What are you going to do?" she asked.
"I'm going to shut you up, first off," she said, slapping her across the face. In that, Miss Ross succeeded, for Mrs. Smith did not say another word. Her only sign of agitation was the white of her eyes staring up at Miss Ross.
Miss Ross had ways of persuading recalcitrant people to obey. One of her pet tricks was pressing the Adam's apple until breathing became impossible. Another neat trick was pulling the hair way down at the roots until the pain was excruciating.
Using both these techniques, she easily subdued Mrs. Smith. There was no way the woman could escape the inevitable. What the inevitable was she was about to find out.
"I think," Miss Ross said, "you've had that hair style much too long. I am getting tired of taking care of the same style month after month. Frankly, I'm bored with you and your head.
"This is what I'm going to do about it. All you have to do is watch." So saying, she adjusted the mirror in the ceiling so that Mrs. Smith could see her reflection clearly as she looked straight up.
Miss Ross got a good grip on the roots of her hair and pulled her head all the way back. Then she coughed and began shaving Mrs. Smith's head at the side of her forehead.
Mrs. Smith gasped. Her whole body tensed. She looked up with growing horror at her reflection on the ceiling. She saw more and more of her forehead appear. Slowly her forehead extended up and became her bald head.
Miss Ross worked away mercilessly. She had no ears for the groans and the sobs of the young woman. Or more precisely, those noises did nothing but provoke her to greater effort.
"I am going to bald you," she crooned in a sing-song voice. "You will look so beautiful, so pretty," she said, gritting her teeth more and more as she spoke.
But it was only clear that Mrs. Smith's head was losing its covering. She felt like a skinned animal. She flashed the thought of what she would say to her husband. But even the horror and the shame she pictured could not prevent her from being turned on by the firm hot hand possessing her.
Slowly all her hair was scraped away. She stared fixedly up at the mirror. She could not believe what she saw. Her slightly pointed bald head gleamed up under Miss Ross's knife. It gleamed even more when Miss Ross turned on the hot water and washed the clumps of hair off the limp woman's head.
Miss Ross spit in her face and turned off the water. She rolled the hose back up and picked up the open razor.
"You think we're finished with you," she said. "But you're wrong. This is not all you'll have to endure. One other thing. What you tell others is of no consequence to me. But if you mention "Lookswell" in any way you will be very sorry indeed. You are as much involved as we are. If you hurt us, you will hurt yourself even more."
Even in her misery Mrs. Smith knew Miss Ross was speaking the truth. Her denuded skull was only one more price she would have to pay for her pleasure. There was no escape from the responsibility of her actions.
She craved the torture as much as they craved to torture her. Of course they had photos of her doing unspeakable and humiliating things. But that is not what kept her from thinking of revealing the source of her bizarre nudity.
Even now they had abused her so brutally she stirred inside at the thought. They could do nothing to her to make her ever give it up. Nothing!
Miss Ross disappeared from the room. She left the lights on. Mrs. Smith lay on the table staring at herself in the mirror.
The tears were drying in her eyes. She felt like a hurt child who is starting to feel better. She did not know that very soon she would feel much worse.
After a long quiet while Morgan appeared in the room. He was dressed in a tight-fitting rubber suit. It was similar to the one Mrs. Smith was wearing except that it had no cut-outs at the breasts and it was of even thinner material.
Through the clinging suit she could see the muscles and bones of the well-built man. He seemed to be wearing nothing underneath. She could see the jut of his hips and the bulge of his crotch. When he moved she saw the muscles in his chest and thighs ripple.
She could not tell if the garment caused him as much pain as the one she was wearing caused her. But as she lay there she wondered
IIS what he would do with her.
He walked around the table very slowly, surveying her. Then he loosened the band of rubber around her feet. He reached under the table and released the lever to the wrist clamps.
Mrs. Smith was free. But that feeling did not last. Morgan grabbed her arms and twisted her body around so she was lying on her stomach. He grabbed the zipper and jerked it down.
She screamed when the zipper caught a snag of her voluptuous back. But he paid no attention. He pulled the zipper all the way down and started peeling her from the suit.
He started with her head and shoulders. Then he sucked her arms from the garment. The blood rushed back into the long-deprived arms, making them throb and ache instantly.
When he finshed with her arms he began peeling her tits from their holes. Where they pressed against the too-small openings in the suit, there were red rings. When he peeled them from the holes she felt the breasts coming away from the groove-making edges.
They parted from the suit with a sucking pop. The thrill they sent through her was exquisite, but she did not have time to appreciate this. He continued removing the suit from her form.
The wet suit resisted his efforts at coming off from her hips. Only with extreme difficulty and tugging could he dislodge it.
She felt like a diver who has come up from the deep too fast. Her legs throbbed and ached with the rushing of the blood back into them. The rubber was of some peculiar material and it tore and sucked as he pulled it from her. She felt one big hickey by the time he was done.
He threw the suit in a heap on the floor and refastened the wrist clamps. Then he took from out a closet behind him some heavy chains and bound her to the table at her ankles and her breasts.
The cold steel shivered Mrs. Smith to the core. She looked up at the ceiling and hardly recognized herself.
Where was the ordinary young housewife? The person she saw lying there was a bizarre creature with a shaved head. She was bound with cold-looking chains which pinched and pressed deeply into her soft flesh. As this creature struggled she looked like a vision from a lustful fantasy.
But it really was her. There really was a demon in black rubber standing over her with a hose in his hand. There was scalding hot water shooting from the nozzle. She could feel the heat and see the steam.
Morgan tilted the table back over the basin at the corner of the room. He turned on the water and shot a spray over her abused and now bald head. He washed it perfectly clean.
The scalding water burned but Mrs. Smith struggled to keep her eyes open. She longed to see what he would do to her.
Next he tilted the table back even more and pressed the nozzle against each breast, turning each one in turn pink. The quivers of breath-taking sensation spiraled out and inward.
Her fantasy was reaching its frenzy of conclusion. He moved the nozzle down her body, making her succulent flesh vibrate. He turned off the water for a moment.
Then with a swift flick of the wrist he turned on the water and jammed the spray nozzle up her honey hole.
She felt exploded with scorching pleasure. It burned. It ached. He rubbed it harder and harder. The pain became pleasure, became pain. In the endless frenzy she did not remember when it was finally over, or why.