Elizabeth’s Ruin

Elizabeth's Ruin

ELIZABETH’S RUIN

I first saw them at the symphony – an attractive couple sitting two rows ahead of me on the aisle. The people were more interesting than the concert so I watched them for a while. I surmised from his dress and mannerisms that he was a high powered professional – perhaps a lawyer, a doctor or businessman. He carried himself with the air of success. His companion, I assumed it was his wife, was the one who first caught my attention. She was a stunning beauty.

She had thick blond hair draped around her shoulders that looked like she’d just come from a hair salon after a very expensive treatment and styling. I watched her hair as she turned her head to talk to him. Each graceful wave danced in unison like a ballet. The lights in the auditorium were dimmed, but there was still enough to make the highlights of her hair glimmer and shine.

I could tell that he liked her hair also. He put his arm around her shoulders, then he slid his hand under her hair to massage her neck. However when he tried to run his fingers through her expensively styled hair she stiffened and moved away. He got the non-verbal message – “Hands off my hair!” She would turn and smile at him then snuggle up and lean her head against his shoulder implying the promise of good things to come. He was a good boy and kept his hands away from her hair the rest of the night.

I noticed a few other equally attractive women and spent some enjoyable time fantasizing about what I would do if they were somehow in a position where they would have to submit to a haircut of my choosing. My fingers tingled as I imagined caressing the lovely hair, combing it gently and then taking electric clippers and buzzing it all off. It would do some of these women a world of good to be taken down a notch or two. They were so proud and haughty in their comfortable, moneyed security.

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Then during intermission a unique opportunity presented itself. This attractive couple had gotten up to go out to the lobby when a lady walking down the aisle engaged them in conversation. The man had a booming voice that carried clear over to where I was still sitting. As I heard him speak the man seated next to me glanced over, saw this couple and turned several shades of purple. I wondered if he had taken his blood pressure medicine because if he hadn’t he sure looked like he needed it right then.

“Are you all right, sir?” I asked him.

“Do you know who that man is,” he spat out through gritted teeth.

“No, I’m afraid I don’t know the man’s name.”

“Well I do!” he said emphatically. “That’s George Orton and he’s a bastard.”

I was taken back with his vehemence, and didn’t know how to respond. It turned out that I didn’t need to. He kept on going. To make a long story short he spilled out to me, a perfect stranger, a story of a partnership and a betrayal and a fortune lost. This George Orton was a businessman and he had been in partnership with the man seated next to me and then betrayed him on a business deal and subsequently this angry man lost everything he had – his life savings, his house, and his family (his wife divorced him). He claimed that he was in another line of work now and doing well, but he couldn’t forget this Orton man’s betrayal. “I’d give anything,” he finished up his story, “to get back at him and take him down a notch or two.”

I asked innocently enough, “Is that his wife with him?”

That started another whole torrent of words. It was this man’s opinion that the whole betrayal and loss could be put at the feet of the woman (who was George Orton’s wife). She was the greedy one who had put George up to it, he said. George was bad enough, but she was absolutely ruthless in her drive to be at the top. She was the one controlling George’s progress in business. She was intelligent and creative and had the ability to manipulate men. She had latched onto George, seeing in him a willing puppet who would do her bidding. This angry man concluded that actually, she (her name was Elizabeth, “like a queen,” he growled) was the one who made him really angry. She was the one on whom he wanted revenge.

I said quietly, an idea forming in my mind, “That might be arranged.”

“What” he gasped, looking more closely at me. We talked briefly about what he meant when he said he’d “give anything”. He gave me his name and his private phone number. He agreed that if I delivered to him positive evidence that I had done something (short of maiming or murder) that would completely humiliate and humble her, then he would pay me the sum we had agreed upon. I spent the remainder of that concert deep in thought formulating my plan.

Over the next few days I found out as much as I could about George and Elizabeth Orton. I discovered where they lived and where he worked. I sought out places where I could watch them while remaining unobserved. In the process I discovered an added bonus – Elizabeth had a daughter! She was a cute redhead, showing promise of great beauty. Her name was Rachel, she was twelve years old. Her thick, straight hair fell midway down her back, trimmed evenly so it was all the same length.

When I discovered that George was out of town (in fact, overseas) on a business trip for ten days, I knew that it was time to act. He had been gone for three days and the Orton females had settled into a routine. They were both home by nine o’clock and Rachel went to bed at ten-thirty (that’s when I saw her bedroom light go off) and Elizabeth by eleven-thirty.

I waited until one-thirty, knowing they would both be sound asleep. There was a window in the back that had been unlocked earlier in the day. I was glad to find it still unlocked and opened it quietly and crawled in with my satchel. I had been in before and knew the layout of the house so I moved directly and quietly to Elizabeth’s room.

Standing next to her bed I admired her beauty once again. Her lovely blond hair was splayed across her pillow, some of it lying under her cheek cushioning her face. She stirred as if she sensed a presence next to her. When I clamped my hand over her mouth she came wide awake.

“Don’t scream,” I whispered harshly in her ear. “I’m not going to hurt you and if you promise not to make any noise I will take my hand away. Besides, if you wake up Rachel (she stiffened when I mentioned Rachel’s name) then I may have to do something unpleasant to her.” She tried to see who was standing over her but my face was in the shadows. Finally she nodded her head that she would be quiet.

I had discovered something in my research about Elizabeth Orton that I thought would give me control over her. She had not been completely faithful to her husband George. In fact, she had been unfaithful to him with at least three men that I knew about. I snapped on her bedside lamp and opened a manila envelope. I showed her pictures of her with her latest boyfriend. Her face turned white. “Someone is not happy with you.” I said menacingly. She assumed, as I thought she would, that I was referring to the man she had dumped in order to take up her latest affair. “He sent me here to teach you a lesson. I was instructed to not cause any permanent damage, but he wants me to teach you a lesson you won’t soon forget. If you don’t cooperate I will make sure your husband, George, gets a complete set of these pictures – and a few more that you haven’t seen. Do you understand?”

She again nodded her head and whispered, “Yes.” She started to ask, “What are you…”

I cut her off, “Don’t talk. Just get out of bed and come with me.” She scrambled out of bed moving the covers out of the way and tugging down her short nightgown, trying for a bit of modesty. I took her arm and led her to the huge bathroom that was part of their master suite. In fact, her bathroom was almost as big as my whole apartment. I made sure that her door was closed and that the bathroom door was closed to avoid making noise that would wake up Rachel too soon.

I opened my satchel and took out a tripod and a video camera. I set it up saying, “We are going to record this so the person who requested it will know his wishes have been fulfilled.” I turned the camera on and said, “Let’s do a little test run. Sit in the chair in front of your mirror and comb your hair.” I filmed her combing her hair, then running the brush through over and over until it was soft and shiny. She didn’t mind co-operating, thinking it was putting off something more unpleasant. I left the camera running and said, “Now it’s time to wash your hair. Do you need to use the potty first?” Her nervousness had made her feel the need so she pulled down her panties and peed in the toilet. She reached for the toilet paper, but I caught her arm and said, “Not yet. You are going to wash your hair in that.” I pointed down at the yellow water in the toilet bowl.

“Oh, please, not that. That would be awful,” she pleaded in a soft voice. I handed her a bottle of shampoo and said, “Get busy, unless you want your husband to see these pictures?”

She lifted the seat of the toilet and got down on her knees in front of it. Slowly gathering her beautiful, carefully maintained hair she pushed it up and over her face and then tried to get it into the water. Only the ends got wet since she was trying to keep her head out of the yucky water. I stood over her and helped her out – first by unzipping my pants and spraying her head with my own contribution; then by reaching down and pushing her head into the water. It wasn’t deep enough to get it all wet so she had to use her hands to splash the water up and onto her head to get her hair all wet. She then put some shampoo in her hands and lathered up. She wrinkled her nose at the smell of the urine in her hair, but kept at it.

“How do I rinse off?” she asked. I pointed to the toilet bowl, “The same way you got it wet.”

She tried, but it wasn’t easy to get the shampoo out. After watching her struggle (and videoing it) for a while I let her get in the shower and do it right, she lathered up again and again trying to get all the urine out of her hair. When she was done with that I let her towel off and put on a clean nightgown. I then had her sit at her mirror and blow dry and style her hair like she was going out for the day. She did a nice job on it – it looked almost as good as what the hairstylist would do.

When she looked at me and said, “Are you done?” I said, “Oh, no, not yet.” and reached into my satchel and pulled out an enema bag. Her eyes widened even more and she said in a trembling voice, “What are you going to do with that?” I didn’t answer, I just zoomed the video camera in to catch her horrified expression.

I had her kneel down on the cold tile in front of the shower. She was on her knees and bent forward with her head on the tile and her bottom stuck up in the air. I filled the bag completely full and hung it on the shower door. Picking up the nozzle end of the hose, I rubbed petroleum jelly on the tip and then inserted it deep into her rectal opening. She couldn’t help letting out a grunt as the tip slid in. When I released the valve she began to whimper. It wasn’t even half gone when she cried, “I can’t take any more, please stop.” I shut it off for a moment and said, “Do you really want to wake up Rachel? Maybe Rachel would like to watch you get an enema. Maybe I should give Rachel an enema also?” Elizabeth quieted down, with some effort. I told her to relax, it would make it easier and rubbed her extended abdomen. I could hear the water slosh inside her. I turned the valve back on and made her stay there until the whole bag had emptied itself into her. I pulled the hose out and said, “O.K. you may use the toilet now.”

After a few minutes of expelling all the water, with cramps and grunts and groans, she reached for the toilet paper (which I had removed). She looked around and I smiled at her. Her face dropped, “Are you going to make me wash my hair in that crud?” I let her hang for a moment and then said, “No, I don’t want to make all that pretty hair stink again.” She looked so relieved I think she might have hugged me.

When she was finally done on the toilet I announced that the next thing on my list was to get rid of all of her body hair. I handed her a disposable razor and told her to shave her whole body, from her neck down. I filmed her shaving the important parts. She needed some help shaving her pubic area – at least I told her she was going to get some help. So, she laid down on a large towel in the middle of the floor while I painstakingly scraped off all of her pubic hair. She looked thoroughly humiliated – being shaved like that made her feel less than human – and I had it all on camera!

I wasn’t done yet. I had her sit in her dressing chair again in front of the mirror. I focused the camera on her face and then stood behind her. I ran my fingers through her gorgeous hair – she stiffened and moved away just like she did at the concert when her husband touched her hair but I grabbed a handful of it and jerked her back. “Oh, no, you don’t. Tonight your hair is all mine.” I announced that I was going to give her a haircut. Her face drained of all color when I said that. She didn’t like that idea at all.

“Please, no, sir.” she pleaded. “I just had my hair trimmed last week and I need it to look good for a speech I have to give tomorrow.”

I smiled at her. “I tell you what,” willing to make a deal. “I had planned on giving you a really short haircut” She had no idea how short I planned to make it! “But, if you wake up Rachel and convince her to let me give her a really short haircut then when I give you your haircut I won’t make it as short as I had planned. What do you think?”

“What do you mean by really short?” she asked. “What would I tell Rachel when she asks why I want some strange man to cut her hair in the middle of the night?” I didn’t answer any of her questions just shrugged and said, “That’s the deal, take it or leave it.”

She struggled with the decision, looking in the mirror and touching her hair and then thinking some more. After several minutes I pulled a pair of scissors out of my bag and stood behind her where she could see me in the mirror. I lifted a thick strand of hair right at her forehead and then laid the scissors right next to her scalp. She could see exactly what I meant by really short. I said, “Have you decided?”

“Stop, wait,” she cried. “I’ll go get Rachel.”

I couldn’t believe it. She was actually going to sacrifice her daughter’s beautiful long hair to try to save some of her own. What kind of mother was she?

I followed her to Rachel’s room – I didn’t want her to do something foolish or try to run away. I stood outside the door listening where Rachel couldn’t see me. Elizabeth woke Rachel up and tried to talk with her. When she got to the part about the haircut Rachel came wide awake and hollered out, “NO WAY!” Elizabeth talked to her in a soothing, calm voice, but Rachel would not agree to let her hair get cut.

Finally I heard Elizabeth slap Rachel twice across the face and shout, “There is no more debate. You will get up this instant and you will get your hair cut. You don’t understand, just don’t argue with me!” She wrapped her fist in Rachel’s hair and dragged her to the bathroom. I followed along behind barely able to believe what my eyes were seeing.

She pushed Rachel into the chair where she had moments before been sitting herself and then looked at me. “Comb her hair out,” I said to Elizabeth. She picked up a comb and started to work it through Rachel’s sleep-tangled hair. She was none too gentle and Rachel cried, “Ouch” several times. This whole thing was making sweet little Rachel cry.

Rachel’s hair was ready for me. I stood behind her and looked at her mom. “You remember the agreement we had. If you let me give Rachel a really short haircut then I won’t cut yours as short as I had planned, right?” Rachel glared at her mom, “Did you make that deal?” When her mother blushed a little and looked embarrassed Rachel said, “I hate you!”

I made Rachel braid her hair starting low at the base of her neck and then fasten the braid with ribbons at the top and bottom. I then took sharp heavy scissors and cut off the braid right at the nape of her neck. She cried as it came free and I used the severed end to tickle her cheek and newly uncovered neck. “Is that all you’re going to cut off,” she asked timidly.

My answer was to place the electric clippers – with no blade guard – against the skin of her neck and turn them on. The buzz seemed loud in the tiled bathroom. As it mowed a swath up the back of her head the buzzing was soon drowned out by Rachel’s shrieks. Her mom looked on absolutely aghast as I shaved a path all the way down to her skull. When Rachel caught sight of the white stripe all the fight went out of her. She slumped down in the chair and sobbed while I finished buzzing her completely bald. She looked worse than a new recruit in the army. When I was done she walked over to the corner of the bathroom, collapsed into a fetal ball and sat holding herself rocking and crying. I picked up all of the long lengths of hair and put them in a box I had brought for that purpose.

“You’re next,” I said to Elizabeth.

“Were you really going to cut my hair that short?” she asked in a subdued voice.

I nodded with relish. “That was my plan,” I said.

“What are you going to do now?”

“You’ll see,” I said, as though I were talking to an impatient child.

She sat down with fear all over her face and looked at my reflection behind her in the mirror. I began combing her hair. I did that for probably close to five minutes. Gently combing, combing, combing. The rhythm of the comb relaxed her somewhat, but not totally. Finally I picked up the scissors and pushed her head forward. She took a deep breath, she knew it was about to start. Rachel in the corner stopped whimpering and stood up to watch. I turned and winked at her. Rachel started to smile – she thought she knew what was coming.

I grabbed a length of her hair at the nape of her neck and holding the scissors three-quarters of an inch from her skull I closed the blades. The lock of hair came free with a crisp snap. Elizabeth was trying desperately to see in the mirror how much I had cut off, but her head was down and I held my hands where she couldn’t see them. I worked my way across the back of her head the same way – three-quarters of an inch as evenly as I could. By the time I was halfway up the back of her head she knew that she had lost a lot of hair. It felt really different and with her head down she could see long strands floating down to the floor.

“You’re taking an awful lot off,” she said.

“Yes,” I replied.

“But you promised it wouldn’t be short.”

“No, I promised that it wouldn’t be as short as I was going to do – that would be bald, like Rachel is now.”

Elizabeth burst into fresh tears. I gave up all pretense, fitted the clippers with a guard that would make it an even half-inch everywhere and proceeded to give her the shortest cut of her entire life. Half an inch left on the back, around the ears, up the side, across the top, right to her forehead where I left the bangs a full two inches long for contrast. She really looked different. Rachel looked pleased that her mom had gotten what she deserved for trying to sell her out.

I took more pictures of them – singly and together and then filmed them with the video camera picking up every last strand of hair and putting it in the special boxes I’d brought with me. I packed up my gear and slipped out while they finished cleaning up the bathroom. I was out of there quickly before they decided to cause a fuss.

I delivered a copy of the video tape and the box with Elizabeth’s hair to my angry friend from the concert two days later. He was looking at a copy of the society page of the newspaper. There was a picture of Elizabeth giving her speech in a horrible looking wig. Elizabeth’s speech bombed, she was so shaken and nervous she forgot half of what she was going to say. The society writer, not knowing what had happened the night before was ruthless in criticizing her for the lousy job she’d done. It will be a long time, the writer said, before she gets invited to give a speech again.

My friend was so pleased when he saw the video that he doubled the money he’d promised to give me. I had so much fun I would have been willing to pay him, but I accepted the money anyway. I kept the original video and pictures and I kept Rachel’s braid and severed hair. Every so often I would bring those things out and relive that exciting night. I wondered what story they concocted for George when he got home from his business trip.

 

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