A Bit of Nuquey by Sabrina S.
Pierre’s real name was Albert Mogg, but the only people who knew that were his parents and the taxman. Ever since he graduated from hairdressing school, he had called himself Pierre Lefevre, had adopted a French accent that was vaguely modelled on Inspector Clouseau, and wore horizontally striped tops, a beret in winter, and a very continental thin little black moustache. Pierre was more French than the French, and the ladies of Newquay loved it. Men who met Pierre thought automatically that he was gay or a wanker, which pleased Pierre. Nobody thought he was a threat and many a woman had been whisked from her boyfriend by Pierre’s Gallic murmurings and his wicked way with a teasing comb.
Pierre ran a little salon called La Nuque Coupée (The Clipped Nape) He particularly liked the word Nuque, especially if it was Coupée and exposed to the world. Not for nothing had he bought a salon in Newquay; even Newquay, in Pierre’s fake accent, had a lovely ring to it.
Pierre rarely dated only one woman at a time. He usually had two or three on the boil, with Sunday his only night off. He’d creep to bed exhausted by 7.30 on Sunday nights, his diary already full for the next week. Half of his exhaustion was due to planning to ensure none of the girls found out about the others. But he was fair to his conquests: he told each of them that their passionate affair with him would be just that, a wonderful French fling that would last weeks, even months, but, alors, alas, it would be just that, an interlude in each of their lives, for Pierre intended never to marry but to provide pleasure to women. They should not leave their husbands for him, for he would not be faithful. Amazingly, the girls all bought it, and enjoyed their “French fling” with Albert Mogg, born in Bournemouth, immensely. Of course Pierre chose his flings wisely; the women were usually averagely attractive and not terrifically intelligent, and often in stale relationships. He knew a woman with brains would see through him for the cad he was.
Part of his seduction technique was to gently stroke each part of the body and name it in French, which drove the girls wild; especially if they didn’t speak much French. Pierre could get away with murder! Tenderly he would stroke their nape, murmuring, “And zis is your nuque, cherie,” followed by “‘Ow do you Eenglish say, fancy a beet of nuquey then?” The girls, giggling at his double entendre, fell for it every time. With a lot of nape stroking, coupled by championship-level French kissing, Pierre had them eating out of the palm of his hand or, rather, sucking on his cock while he fingered their nape, fantasising about how short he would persuade them to cut their hair afterwards. All Pierre’s girlfriends and lovers ended up with neatly shaved napes at his tender persuasion.
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Life was good for Pierre. Dangerous, with all these women and their enraged boyfriends and husbands floating around, but good. He spent his days cutting hair, and his nights making love, and pitied every man who wasn’t the sexual god Pierre Lefevre.
Late on a Thursday afternoon Pierre was busily trimming the hair of one of his regular clients, Julie, whom he was sure he was going to manage to bed before the month was out.
“Cherie, your nuque, zat is, your nape, ees so beautiful! You should cut your ‘air shorter, and show it off! What a wonderful ‘airline you ‘ave!”
Julie, whose hair hung glossily past her shoulders, bit her lip. “Oooh, I don’t know, Pierre. I’ve never had short hair. My boyfriend would hate it!”
“Zen your boyfriend does not truly lurve you if eet ees only your image he lurves,” Pierre responded automatically, lifting her hair up at the back and showing her the wonderful ‘airline with a hand mirror. “I see you weez a classic leetle boys’ cut, all clippered at zee sides and back, weez zee top left longer, and parted on zee side rarzer zan zee middle.” Deftly Pierre parted Julie’s hair in the appropriate place and drew it back from her face. “Zee ‘ow preety you look weez your ‘air not around your face?”
“Er, maybe,” said Julie.
“I zink you should cut it all off,” recommended Pierre. “A fresh ‘aircut means a fresh start in life. For months you ‘ave been coming ‘ere telling me zat you are bored weez your life. So cut your ‘air, make a change! And eef your boyfriend doesn’t like eet, zere weel be many men who weel theenk you are so beautiful, zey weel be queuing up to go out weez you.”
“Like who?” wondered Julie, pondering her reflection.
“Me!” cried Pierre gallantly and Gallicly, with a flourish of his scissors. “I zink you are a beautiful woman, Julie, and you weel be even more beautiful weez short, short ‘air.” Aside from which, he’d broken up with Mary, the girl he saw on Fridays.
Julie met Pierre’s black eyes in the mirror. He was smiling tenderly at her. Here was a cultured Frenchman, thinking plain Julie Allnut, 30 and still unmarried, was beautiful! Julie smiled back. “Okay, Pierre, luv, you’re on! Cut it all off!”
Pierre needed no second bidding. Before Julie could change her mind he picked up the white Wahl clippers and flicked them on in one practised motion.
“Aah, zis nuque will be divine!” whispered Pierre as he plunged the clippers into the back of her hair and drew them up her neck.
“Ooo,” gasped Julie, “That tickles!”
She watched nervously in the mirror as the clippers ran up behind her ear. They seemed to go an awfully long way up the back of her head before Pierre pulled them away from her hair. Then the humming blades were nuzzling her nape again, and chewing their way upwards. Julie swallowed, wondering if she was doing the right thing. She couldn’t see how much hair was being shorn, could only feel that the blades were quite warm near her skin, so she surmised Pierre was clipping her very short indeed.
As of course he was. Pierre felt the beginnings of an erection under his continental white smock as he placed the clippers at Julie’s neck for the third time and began to shear away her glistening brown locks to a number two pelt. “You could talk a woman into anything, Albert Mogg!” he thought to himself with satisfaction as he buzzed behind and above her left ear. The cut hair fell heavily to the floor, covering Pierre’s shiny black shoes with a silken cloth.
This was the hard part coming up, when women saw the hair around their face drop like a dumped lover. Julie needed reassurance.
“Zis ees looking magnificent, Zhulee,” Pierre comforted her, stroking up the back of her clipped head with one tender finger and making her gasp.
Julie couldn’t believe how sexy it felt, this finger brushing her tiny fronds of hair the wrong way. “Mmm,” she murmured, closing her eyes.
Swiftly Pierre placed the clippers in front of her left ear and dragged them up into her locks. Julie opened her eyes to see over a foot of hair slide down her shoulders and onto her black-caped knees. She gulped when she saw how short the remaining hair was. It was so short it looked several shades lighter. And her ears looked very pink and exposed. “Pierre, are you sure this looks OK?” she said in a quavering voice as a second pass of the clippers sent the hair above her left ear cascading floorwards.
“Magnificent,” Pierre assured her, “Only zee most elegant of women can get away weez zis style, and you ‘ave a perfect neck for eet.” It was his standard line, notwithstanding that Julie’s neck was on the short and stocky side.
Quickly he moved to the other side of his prey and nuzzled the clippers in front of her right ear. Julie could barely speak as the last of her long locks was heartlessly shorn to a quarter inch.
While Pierre reached for the spray bottle of water to dampen the longer lengths on top of her head, Julie felt her ravaged locks with shaking hands. God, how had she let him talk her into this? She felt bald at the back! Her boyfriend Mike would kill her! Even worse, dump her! Julie felt tears fill her eyes.
“I’ll texture the top for you,” promised Pierre, his erection so big he could have hung his spray bottle from it, “and you weel be delighted weez zis cut, it weel be so easy to manage.”
“Er,” said Julie, whose long hair had been easy to manage too. She simply washed it and let it dry naturally.
Pierre was hacking merrily into the top of Julie’s hair with thinning scissors and Julie was looking more upset by the second when the door of the salon opened so hard the front window rattled.
“Albert Mogg?” enquired a strident female voice that definitely didn’t belong to Pierre’s mother.
Pierre turned his head and raised an enquiring Gallic eyebrow. “I’m sorry, Madame?”
“I’m looking for Albert Mogg,” said the woman, clumping into the salon in shoes that could only be called sensible.
“I’m sorry Madame,” said Pierre smoothly, “Mr Mogg weel be along after five when zee salon ees shut.”
“I wasn’t aware Mr Mogg had any employees,” said the woman, tapping one foot and rustling through some official looking papers. “It’s not on his VAT return.”
Pierre gulped. VATwoman! The most dreaded creature on earth, death to small business operators like himself! Hastily he patted Julie’s shoulder and murmured, “A moment, ma cherie.”
He drew VATwoman to the far corner of the salon and hissed, “Madame, I ‘ave a client, can we wait unteel I ‘ave feenished wiz ‘er?”
VATwoman pursed her mouth, which was painted a rather awful purple crimson, the kind of colour middle aged women wore in the 1950s. She glared at him from behind big round tortoiseshell specs. Pierre regarded her; she wasn’t middle-aged, she would be in her early thirties, but you couldn’t tell from the awful makeup and even worse hair. A regular Barnet! Her frizzy brown hair was a growing out perm. Pierre assessed in a split second that the perm was about three months old. Her hair was savagely drawn back into a frizzy ponytail clamped firmly at her nape. The ponytail rested on a dull brown business suit that clashed revoltingly with her lipstick. Pierre felt a challenge coming on. How he would love to cape her up and hide the awful brown suit, make her take the overlarge specs off and rid her of most of that annoying, out of condition hair!
“I’ll give you five minutes,” VATwoman agreed in her flat Birmingham accent.
Back at the cutting station Julie was sniffling. “Ooo, I dunno, Pierre. I think it’s too short.”
“Nonsense, ma cherie.” Pierre ran his fingers up the back of her head and into the longer, textured top, biting back a gasp as her soft, short locks felt so wonderful on his fingertips.
Julie shuddered in pleasure. She loved the way her haircut felt, just wasn’t sure about how it looked. “Not much I can do about it now though, is there?” she said laconically.
“I am free tomorrow night,” Pierre whispered to her, “I can show you just ‘ow sexy men weel find zis ‘aircut of yours.”
“Ooo, Pierre,” Julie giggled, her good humour returning. “It’s a date!” She paid him, with Pierre saying loudly, “Of course it includes VAT,” and walked out the door, fingering her nape interestedly. Pierre locked the door behind her and flicked the sign from Open to Closed.
“Ooo, Pierre,” mocked VATwoman, “It’s a date! You ARE Albert Mogg, aren’t you, not Pierre?”
Pierre glared at her. “Okay, so I’m Albert Mogg,” he said in his normal voice, thinking how strange it sounded. He even thought in his French accent these days. “But that’s between you and me. My customers know me as Pierre and believe me it keeps them coming back.”
“Or just coming from the sound of it,” jeered VATwoman, opening her briefcase. “Right, down to business. There appears to be a discrepancy here of £15,000.”
Pierre gulped. He knew his accountant was a cordon bleu graduate in cooking books. How could this have happened? There was only one thing for it. “God, you’re beautiful,” he gasped, thinking how bloody silly it sounded with an English accent.
“I BEG your pardon?” VATwoman’s eyebrows almost met her hairline.
“Your cheekbones,” Pierre went on bravely, “Your mouth. Those big brown eyes, I bet they look gorgeous without your specs on.” Swiftly he reached up and snatched them off her face.
VATwoman blinked several times and snapped, “Give them back! I can’t see!” Pierre was surprised to note that she did have lovely eyes after all.
“Not till you let me give you a makeover,” said Pierre. “A different hairstyle, you’d be a total knockout!”
VATwoman was human after all. “Do you really think so?” She put up a hand and touched her frizzy ponytail. “I’ve worn my hair like this since I was twenty though. It’d feel funny having it any other way.”
“You would look dynamique weez short ‘air.” Pierre slipped back into his comfortable fake accent without thinking. This was familiar territory. “In your line of work, you would get much more respect from your fellow workairs, and zee people zat you veesit like moi. Zey would look up to you, a woman of power.”
If VATwoman noticed the change from Albert Mogg to Pepe Le Pew, she didn’t indicate it. She chewed on her lower lip, considering Pierre’s words. A woman of power! People looking up to her instead of sniggering behind her back, “There goes old frizzball again.”
“Come and seet down,” offered Pierre, “And I weel geeve you an ‘aircut zee ozzer women at your work weel envy.”
Nobody had EVER envied VATwoman. Pitied her, laughed at her, were scared of her, but envied her? No. It was the final temptation and it worked. VATwoman strode across the salon in her sensible shoes, almost slipping on Julie’s shorn shining locks, and sat down firmly in Julie’s chair.
Pierre caped her up before she could change her mind.
“C’n I have my specs back?” she said. “I can’t see myself in the mirror.”
“Ah, but zat’s for zee best,” murmured Pierre, close to her ear, “I want you to see yourself transformed, not to see zee transformation in progress. Eet weel be a total surprise, zee unveiling of somezing wonderful, when you put your spectacles back on.” Aside from which, Pierre thought to himself, I can’t cut your hair properly with your bloody specs in the way. He put her specs well out of reach.
Pierre released the dreadful, dry ponytail from its pussy bow hairclip with a moue of disgust on his face. God, had the woman NO fashion sense? The permed ponytail exploded into a mass of frizz that just reached VATwoman’s shoulders. At least it was clean. That’s all he could find right with it though. “Ah, mademoiselle,” he said sadly, “Why do you punish your ‘air so, perming eet like zis? Eet ees so dry, so lifeless, yet ‘ere, where zee perm ‘as grown out, eet ees shiny and ‘ealthy. We must get reed of zee perm, and show zee world only your beautiful, shiny ‘air.”
VATwoman could have been renamed Batwoman, she was so blind without her glasses. She couldn’t clearly see Pierre pick up the clippers, and thought the humming sound was simply the heating system in the salon.
So it was a real shock for her when she felt something quivering and nuzzling her neck, then chewing away swiftly at the hair at the back of her head. “What the hell are you doing?” she snapped, almost jumping out of her seat.
“Cutting your ‘air,” responded Pierre smoothly, “You ‘ave a beautiful nuque, zat ees, nape, and I long to expose eet to zee world so everyone can gasp at zee beauty of your ‘airline. Zee only way to do zat is wiz les tondeuses, zee clippers.” As he spoke he placed the clippers low on her neck again, under the wild perm, and sheared it all off to a neat quarter inch up past her occipital bone. He watched with satisfaction as the fine frizz floated to the floor.
VATwoman, at the promise of beauty, said no more but quailed inside as she felt her hair get cut. She had long learned to keep her emotions inside and outwardly showed as much personality and feeling as a garden statue. The clippers racing up her neck and nape actually scared her. She had NEVER had short hair before. And without her glasses she couldn’t see how short her hair was being cut, she could only surmise, from the cool breeze on her neck, there wasn’t much left of it. The clippers tingled and tickled as they bit and nibbled her hair away.
The blades travelled up behind her ear, and Pierre tossed the shorn clumps of hair forward onto his victim’s lap. VATwoman gasped as she saw all her curls and a fair bit of the grown-out straight hair land with a soft hiss on her knees.
The clippers were warm near her skin as they peeled away the hair around her ears. The soft hum sounded ten times louder as Pierre sheared away her sideburns and whizzed the clippers up to her temples, causing a rainfall of over-processed hair to land on her shoulders and legs.
Pierre clipped the other side close too, carefully bending VATwoman’s neat little ears forward to clip around them, flicking off the unwanted long locks with a practised flourish.
VATwoman looked like a pineapple, her sides neat and shorn, the top still a wild frizz.
Pierre combed out the top and wet it with his spray bottle. He was surprised to see that VATwoman actually DID look attractive with her new, shorter hair. Enough so that he was getting quite an erection again as he took up comb and scissors.
He started at her crown, snipping off her hair to half an inch, so short it stood up in surprise. Carefully he worked forward, cutting her hair a little longer each time and blending it with the super-short sides. Wet clippings fell over his fingers, her head, her nose, her cape, as all of the perm was cut away and banished. What was left was, at the most, an inch and a half long near the front of her head.
Pierre swung the chair around to face him and carefully combed down the very front portion of VATwoman’s new short hair. “I see a short fringe for you, mademoiselle,” he murmured, “You ‘ave no need to ‘ide behind a long one.” And with that he sank the scissors into her hair barely half an inch from her hairline. VATwoman gasped. She hated fringes, and short ones most of all, having suffered from home haircutting as a child, with her fringe cut progressively shorter as her mother struggled to cut it straight with the kitchen scissors. She felt the cold blades travel mercilessly across her forehead, snipping off her hair.
Then Pierre was hacking into the top of her hair again with the points of the blades, spiking it. Again and again her hair was pulled taut and chipped into. It seemed to be getting shorter and shorter. VATwoman looked at the pile of hair on her lap and bit her lips, finally ridding them of the dreadful lipstick.
At last Pierre put the scissors and comb down, and pumped some mousse into his hands. Rubbing it through the top of her hair, he turned the blowdryer onto “tornado” level and tousled it dry in a couple of minutes, running his hands through the spikes to make them stand up in all different directions.
VATwoman, he was pleased to see, looked dynamic. Her clean, unprocessed hair was a deep seal brown, and wonderfully shiny. The tousled top balanced her face nicely, and now that her hair wasn’t reefed back tightly from her face the strained look had left her eyes. Proud of his handiwork, he gave her back her spectacles. VATwoman, with trembling fingers, fumbled them onto her nose.
“Oh!” she gasped, as she saw a woman who looked quite young and attractive gazing back at her, the super short fringe setting the style off to perfection. “Oh, Pierre! It’s amazing!”
Pierre smiled smugly, his thin moustache twitching. He showed her the newly shaved nape in a hand mirror.
“Oh, it’s very short,” said VATwoman doubtfully, and then Pierre produced his pièce de resistance. The finger, travelling tantalisingly from her lower neck up through the clippered hairs of her nape. “Oh,” said VATwoman again, but it was quite a different “Oh” this time. She closed her eyes and sighed when she said it. “Oh, that DOES feel good!”
“La nuque, mademoiselle,” whispered Pierre in one of her newly exposed ears. “La nuque, zee nape, eet ees v-e-r-y sensiteeve, yes?”
“L-la nuque,” stammered VATwoman. “Oh, yes, I like that.”
“Eet could always lead to, ‘ow you say, a beet of nuquey,” Pierre offered in a voice of total syrup, still stroking her shaved hair. God, he was good! he thought. Women were putty in his hands.
VATwoman was squirming in her chair, the silken cape rustling and hair raining to the floor. She swung around and with arms of steel grabbed Pierre in a locked embrace and brought her mouth down over his, sucking on his lips like a Hoover on full power.
Pierre’s eyes widened and he thought he’d die of asphyxiation. The woman had no kissing finesse whatsoever! He felt his tongue get sucked helplessly into her mouth.
“A bit of nuquey,” gasped VATwoman when she came up for air. “Ooo, I like that. Very clever,” she said, and resumed kissing him, diving her fingers into his own short hair with satisfaction.
Pierre said something unintelligible and VATwoman released him for a moment. “Pardon?”
“I said, zat feefteen zousand pounds, zat could be a computer error, yes?” He kept stroking her nape and looking deep into her eyes.
“Maybe,” said VATwoman, breathing heavily with unleashed passion, “but you’d better hope not.”
Pierre’s heart fell. Shit!
“Because,” VATwoman went on, “It appears that WE owe YOU!” And with that she suctioned onto his mouth again.
Pierre thought that this was one haircut he couldn’t possibly charge for. But he did feel like giving her a bill for kissing lessons.
(c) Copyright 2000, Sabrina S.
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