The Club By Mobmij
“Right this way please.”
Murphy followed the receptionist into a darkened hallway. They passed a number of silent grey doors with single small black letters of the alphabet painted on them. Maybe there were more, but the lighting was barely sufficient for Murphy to see where he was going, much less make out more than a letter or two. Then a couple of steps up and into a comfortable waiting area.
“The Director will see you now,” the receptionist said, walking through the waiting area and standing by an inner door. Murphy walked hesitantly through the door.
The Director sat behind a huge desk that was empty save for a large stark chrome-looking pen and pencil set. Murphy sat down and looked across the expanse of mahogany. The Director did not stand up to shake hands or exchange other pleasantries. She sat silently flipping pages in a manila folder.
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“Mr. Murphy. Welcome.” The Director snapped the folder closed. “Your – shall we say – “references” are sound. So we can dispense with the usual formalities. I take it you understand how our little operation works.” The Director had a soothing light voice. She seemed to be in her 50s, but the voice sounded younger. Murphy felt more at ease than he expected to feel.
“Somewhat. I understand that this is an… ummm, fantasy house, and I can hire someone who’ll play out my – what’s the term? – psycho-drama with me. For a price.”
The Director smiled a half-smile. “Almost correct. You will be able to play out your fantasy at your leisure. But you will not technically “hire” anyone to play it out with you. That might violate some of the archaic vice laws to which we are all subject. No, your partner will be a willing co-participant and will receive no money whatsoever. You understand? Absolutely no money changes hands here.”
Murphy didn’t understand. Not exactly. But he nodded anyway.
“This club has certain other ground rules. No sex. No activities that draw blood or may cause permanent injury. No names. No, er, exchange of bodily fluids, as the saying goes. And no contact with other club members outside these walls. That would not be prudent. Do you understand?”
Murphy nodded again.
“Very well. Let’s begin. Please remind me of the nature of your fantasy?”
Murphy cleared his throat. He had practiced a speech describing in great detail exactly what he wanted to have happen. But now, sitting across from the Director, he forgot how his speech went.
“Ummm… I want to cut a woman’s hair. Very short. And to… umm… shave um parts of her. In a barber shop setting, like.” Murphy clasped his hands in his lap. “Would that be OK?”
The Director smiled her half-smile again. “Of course. Yes, I remember the scenario from your application. Very nice. Quite detailed. Original. I like that. One of our rooms has been set up as a barber shop for you. It should have all the supplies you will need. Your co-participant will cooperate in any way so long as you abide by the rules of the club. You may snip and clip and buzz and shave to your heart’s content. There is no time limit. In fact, if you would like two or three sessions in a row – as many of our clients do – that would be perfectly all right also. So long as you have fulfilled your ummm “obligation”, that is. Would you like to select your partner now?”
Murphy hadn’t expected to be able to choose. He thought he’d get whoever was working at the time. What was that about an “obligation”? Before he could focus on that question, he was distracted by the thought of his possible partners. Years of Playboy Playmates of the Month flashed before his eyes. His heart started pounding hard in his chest.
“Yes,” he managed to squeak out.
“Through this door. Select anyone in the waiting room. Then proceed to Room N. Your partner will be briefed as to the scene you would like to play out. But feel free to improvise. We like to think of ourselves as… flexible, shall we say.” The Director pointed to a red door behind her and then swiveled her chair around. “Pleasure meeting you Mr. Murphy,” she said brusquely. All Murphy saw was the back of her chair.
Murphy walked through the red door. It opened into a large room. The walls of the room were lined with green plastic chairs, and most of the chairs were filled with people. Some smoking, some reading magazines, some staring off into space. Men and women of all ages. Mostly very ordinary-looking people at that. The visions of Playboy Playmates all vanished from Murphy’s head. Not a bunny in the bunch. The red door clicked closed behind Murphy.
Across the waiting room, two other doors faced the red door, one green and one a pale yellow. Otherwise, the room was bare.
Murphy looked around, scanning the faces in the room. None looked particularly happy, but none seemed much troubled by his presence either. Few even looked up. But there were some young pretty women who fit the profile in Murphy’s head. Not Playmates, but very attractive women with good hair. But then, off to the right, he saw the one. Cute, wavy, shoulder-length red hair, trim body. He didn’t know quite how to indicate that he had made his selection, so he walked over to the redhead and hesitantly cleared his throat. She looked up from her magazine. “Me?” she asked. Murphy nodded.
The girl stood up and walked to the yellow door. She was tallish and thin. Graceful looking, he thought. “Coming?” she asked over her shoulder. Murphy followed. “What room?” the girl asked. Murphy was a little confused, but then he remembered what the Director had said.
“OK. Then here we are. You go in and I’ll be right there.”
Murphy walked into Room N. It was fitted out as a typical guy’s barber shop. Chair. Big mirrors. Shelf full of combs and different scissors. Clippers hanging from hooks under the shelf – big long black ones and smaller grey ones. Murphy picked up one of the big black ones and turned it on. It snapped into life in his hand. He jumped at the sound, though the hum of the working machine was quieter than he had thought it would be. Just a gentle steady humming, low but powerful.
As he turned the machine off, the redhead walked in the door.
“Excuse me,” she said, knocking on the already open door. “Are you still open?”
The question momentarily caught Murphy by surprise. Then he remembered the scenario he had written out. The girl was already in character. “Oh yes,” he said. “Certainly, what can I do for you?”
The redhead nodded toward a coat rack. A white barber jacket hung there. Murphy looked over and realized he was still a beat behind the redhead. He quickly stripped off his suit jacket and put on the white barber’s coat. The redhead slid into the barber’s chair.
“Mmmmm,” she said. “I’ve always wanted to have my hair cut in a real barber shop. I love barber shops.”
“Yes, well, what are we doing today?” Murphy didn’t like the sound of his own voice. He knew he sounded stiff and stilted. This wasn’t going quite as smoothly as he had pictured in his mind so many times.
“Well, I’m thinking of a big change. I’d like something nice and short and easy to care for.” The girl sounded natural, like she really meant it. As she spoke, she lifted her hair up over her head, exposing her small fine ears and long neck.
“OK. We can do that.” Murphy swirled a cape in front of the girl. Most of the cape landed to her left, but she straightened it out for him. Then he clasped it around her neck, fumbling with the catch. Finally, it clicked into place, and he picked up a pair of large shears from the shelf. He felt like he was all thumbs. He almost dropped the scissors on his foot and then almost gouged himself as he caught them on their way down.
He stepped behind the girl and started to comb her hair out. It was wavy bordering on curly and very thick – much thicker than usual for a redhead. The comb labored through the weight of it. Murphy grabbed up a couple of fingers full of hair to cut. The captured hair was difficult to control, strands slipping through his index and middle fingers. He struggled with the angle a bit and then nearly cut a gash in his index finger. A rust-colored curl floated to the floor.
Murphy swallowed hard and picked up more of the red hair to cut. It made a crunching sound as the shears chewed through it. Another bigger hunk of red hair tumbled slowly downward. Murphy reached forward and picked up a forelock. He struggled to clip off the foot or so of hair that poked through his fingers, trying to emulate the stylists that he so much liked to watch work. It was harder than he thought. The pros made it all look so effortless. The narrow tress he was able to cut slid down the girl’s face, snaking into her lap.
He tried cutting the wavy hair evenly, row after row. But the red rags he left behind were not at all regular or crisp looking. His work had a choppy, uneven look. He had had higher hopes for his skills. As he kept cropping, the long red hair mounting around his ankles, he realized he wasn’t very good with scissors.
His scissor hand began to hurt from laboring through the thick red tresses, and the funny angles at the nape of the girl’s neck made his wrist ache. But finally he had reduced all the shoulder-length hair to a close 2-inch crop that rested nicely on the girl’s head and made her large blue eyes look even larger.
“How is that, Miss?” Murphy asked.
The girl knew her role well. “Ummm, not really what I had in mind. I was thinking of something shorter. Maybe a nice, neat crewcut.”
The sound of the word coming from the girl gave Murphy a thrill. “Crewcut.” This was going to be the fun part.
Murphy grabbed the big clippers and a wide-toothed comb. He didn’t put a guide on the clippers, preferring to clear off a bit more bulk free-hand style. Stepping in front of the girl, he picked up the short bangs on her forehead in the teeth of the comb and unsteadily buzzed off all but about a half inch. A line of red hair fell off to the side, and Murphy repeated the buzzing, pushing the comb into the uncut hair. The buzzed, left-behind hair began to stand up as he passed the comb through it. A long, imprecise crewcut took shape. He tried to work methodically and precisely. Lifting the hair around the ears was a challenge, but Murphy particularly enjoyed buzzing the nape of the girl’s neck, lifting and clipping and lifting and clipping. He felt more like a real barber.
“I love the sound of the clippers,” the girl said.
Murphy worked on a final section at the back of the girl’s head, buzzing down her cowlick. He could see the growth pattern of the redhead’s hair now, how it emanated out from a cute off-center swirl at the back of her head. How the hair at the nape grew upwards in two graceful wings that met in the middle of her neck. Murphy snapped the clippers off.
The girl felt her new hairdo with both hands. “Mmmmm, I love the feel of it this short. But I was thinking of something a little shorter. Can you buzz a bit more please? Nice and tight.”
Murphy swallowed hard. The girl was good. She was a quick study and knew her part well. Murphy snapped on the quarter-inch guide – his personal favorite. Then he stepped behind the girl and placed the humming blades at her nape, buzzing upwards. A small blanket of red hair fell over his hand as he ran the clippers up the girl’s head. Then a second path right next to the first. He hated watching the progress of a sloppy crewcut, with paths of uncut hair left all over. He wanted his cut to be sharp and precise, like the military-short hair the clipper left behind. Short cut-off hair clumped over the blades and fell about the girl’s shoulders as Murphy worked.
Up the back and up the back and around to the sides. Murphy was careful to clip against the tricky growth at the girl’s nape and to catch the sideburns squarely underneath, mowing the uneven half-inch of hair down to a uniform quarter-inch. Then he swung the cord over the girl’s head and brought the clippers to her hairline in front. Carefully, Murphy clipped back and over the top, joining up with the already mown back section. Back to the front again, small hairs jumping and firing off the blades, and clumps of shorn redness tumbling down the girl’s face and neck. Her small head shrunk even more as the clippers shaved away a whole layer of longer hair, leaving just short regular burr with a trace of white scalp peeking though.
Finally, the crewcut was done. The girl had a sweet, all-over buzzcut, an even quarter-inch hugging her small head. Murphy caressed the short-clipped hair with his hands, letting his fingers linger over the shorn nape and the close-cropped hairline in front.
“Yes,” the girl said. “This is what I wanted. A nice barbershop crewcut. I like it very much.”
Murphy whisked away some stray red micro-hairs from the girl’s face, waiting.
“Excuse me. Do you also do any shaving?”
The girl was really good, Murphy thought. “Yes, of course,” he answered.
“Well,” the girl said, raising her right arm from under the cape. “I could really use a shave.” As she spoke, she caressed her right armpit. Murphy saw the lightest shadow of dark-reddish hair.
“Coming right up.” Murphy’s hands shook as he stepped to the shelf. There was an old-fashioned straight razor (No way, he thought to himself), a modern Bic-looking disposable (Nope, too light) and a heavy Gillette double-edge like his father used to use. Murphy picked up the big Gillette. There was a hot lather machine that he fumbled with, but he finally got a handful of warm suds. Then he realized that the should have taken the cape off the girl before he gunked up his hand. But the redhead came to his rescue again, reaching behind her neck and releasing the cape. An avalanche of quarter-inch hair slid down the cape to the floor. Slowly, the girl brought her hands back up over her head, rubbing her nape up and down deliberately and with pleasure. “I especially like the crinkly feel up the back,” she said. “Make sure you clean it nicely.”
Murphy lathered the girl’s long neck and carefully shaved off the light hairs that trailed down and away from the hairline, leaving a clean well-defined line behind. The girl was doing something with her hands as Murphy shaved her neck. As he finished and wiped away the remnants of the lather, Murphy saw that she had unbuttoned her blouse, which she deftly stripped off. Then she unlatched her bra and tossed that aside also.
The girl leaned back in the chair, lifting both arms behind her head. “Do a good job, now. I want a nice close shave to go with my new crewcut.”
Murphy lathered the girl’s right underarm, feeling the soft stubble beneath his fingers. Then the did the same to the left. One pass of the heavy razor and another and another and the right armpit was clean of hair. Then a few scrapes on the left side, and he was done. It took much less time than he had thought it would.
“Oops.” Murphy turned to face the girl, naked to the waist as she was. She cupped her small breasts in her hands, fingering the nipples. “Not done yet, Mr. Barber. Not done yet.”
Murphy was confused. He had gone through his entire fantasy. He hadn’t dared to write down any more. Not on his first visit.
But the girl reached under her skirt, caressing her thighs as she went and pulled down her white panties. She kicked the panties off and pulled up her legs and sat facing Murphy with her legs spread. She stroked a thick brown patch of hair between her legs.
“Clippers, please. Then a good close shave, thank you.”
Murphy was in shock. This wasn’t in his scenario. He had surely wanted it to be, but it wasn’t. He grabbed a pair of the smaller clippers and approached the chair. His knees were slightly shaky. He turned on the clippers, which hummed an almost silent hum in his hand, and bent toward the girl, holding her skirt back with one hand. With the other hand, he gently lifted a puff of brown hair with the clipper blades and let it fall to the floor.
“Buzz it to the skin please. I like the feel of the clippers on me.”
Murphy was afraid the blades would bite the girl’s delicate skin, but she pressed his hand down onto her. The clippers left behind just a reddish stubble that clear-cut into the brown thatch. Murphy continued to work, buzzing with the grain and careful around the many folds of skin. The clippers left little behind, and when he was done, the girl took his hand and rubbed it on her, pushing it up against the grainy stubble. “That feels good. But I want it smooth for now. It can be stubbly tomorrow. Shave please.”
Murphy got more hot lather and rubbed it against the girl with his fingertips. The soft dense stubble resisted just a little. “Mmmm. Warm,” the girl said. Then he slowly shaved in gentle downward strokes. The heavy metal razor made a raspy sound against the girl’s skin, leaving a smooth hairless path behind each stroke. Finally he was done. The girl pressed his towel hand against her as he wiped up the leftover lather, rubbing her buzzed head against his cheek.
“That was good,” she said.
Murphy gulped. “It was great. Thank you very much.”
The girl stood up, pulling on her panties and grabbing her bra from the arm of the barber’s chair. “Don’t thank me. This was the first session in a long time where I haven’t had to be smacked or poked or prodded or tied up. It was a pleasure. And I really like this haircut. I didn’t think I would when I read your scenario. But you can’t back out. You know the rules. You take what you get.”
Murphy reached for his wallet. “Look, can I give you…”
The girl saw the wallet and waved her hand. “Put that away. Don’t be nuts.” Murphy put his wallet away.
The girl was fully dressed. She stood in front of the mirror, caressing her head from front to back, watching how the crewcut hairs jumped back into place as her fingers passed over them. “I’ll have to remember this,” she said. “My usual fantasy is a kind of violent French maid thing, but it’s getting kinda old. I mean, I did a session this morning, but the usual jolt just wasn’t there. But this – this kinda did things for me. It must really be fun to be the barber. I’ll have to try it some time.”
Murphy grunted an assent as he put his suit jacket back on. It had been more than fun for him. He looked forward to doing it again. Once he had figured out the actual cost to do it. He tried to make conversation with the girl.
“So, you act out your own fantasies here too?” he asked.
The girl just looked at him funny and turned back to her reflection. “Ready to go?” she asked. The two walked back into the hallway and through the pale yellow door back into the waiting room with the green plastic chairs. Only about half of the chairs were filled now.
“Well, good-bye,” the girl said. “See you again, I hope.” She opened the green door, but as Murphy tried to follow her out, she stopped. “Uh-uh, first-timer. Not yet. Rules, you know.”
Murphy stood there confused. He stepped back over to the pale yellow door and turned the knob. It was locked. Then he walked across the room to the red door that led to the Director’s office. It had no knob at all. Just a smooth plank of solid flat door. He tried to knock, but some kind of padding muffled the sound.
Murphy walked back to the green door. Still locked. Then he tried the yellow door again. Also locked tight. Someone sitting by the yellow door cleared a chair for him to sit down. He tried the door one more time, but it didn’t budge a bit. Someone else rattled a newspaper behind him and cleared his throat. A chubby woman with what looked like purple lipstick motioned for Murphy to sit. He realized wasn’t going anywhere.
As he sat considering his situation, the method of payment dawned on Murphy. Exactly how the club worked and the nature of his “obligation” and what he was now waiting for. Quid pro quo. Very simple and elegant. He wished his “references” had mentioned that this was part of the deal. But too late now. Murphy sat patiently and resigned – a willing co-participant, as the Director had phrased it. He stared dully into space. He wondered with whom he would find himself “cooperating” and what he would be put through and how much it would hurt. He figured he stood a good chance of being tied up by a hairy repressed banker and spanked for an hour or two. That would hurt – though actually the redhead was well worth it, he thought.
Across from Murphy the red door opened, and a redhead with a short crewcut entered and walked toward him. His redhead. She was wearing a white barber’s jacket. She opened and closed her fingers a few times in a scissor action and pointed to Murphy. He ran his hand through his hair and stood up. Quid pro quo, he thought. And it wouldn’t hurt a bit.