“The Clippers, Mr. Bond”
This portion of a manuscript was discovered in a cardboard box at a location which cannot be disclosed. Could it be that the famous 007, with a delectable bevy of long-haired beauties sharing his bed over the years, had a secret side, so secret that M, Q, Chief of Staff Bill Tanner and even the venerable Miss Moneypenny had no idea it existed? You decide…
James Bond tensed his muscles as the rope was tied firmly around his wrists, but sensed it was futile. Blofeld’s minion, the hideous Sissa Wielda, knew what she was doing. The rope bit into his wrists, and when he relaxed his muscles after the knots were tied, the relief was minimal.
Covertly he assessed his surroundings. Escape would be difficult, if not impossible. The chair he was bound to was anchored firmly to the floor with bolts. There were no windows in the basement room, and the walls were hard cement – as well he knew from bouncing off one of them when Sissa, with her enormous strength, had thrown him into the room. There was one door, of the strongroom variety, and it was locked firmly from the inside. To his annoyance Bond had been unable to see the combination when Blofeld keyed it in; he must be slipping! The airconditioning ducts were of the slim variety that only a cat could fit through – a cat certainly slimmer than the fat white Persian sitting calmly on Blofeld’s lap, watching proceedings with interested amber eyes.
Bond ached for one of the custom-made cigarettes with the three gold bands, but they were in his cigarette case in his breast pocket, and Sissa was unlikely to succumb to any request from him at the moment. She still hadn’t forgiven him for the black eye she now sported, which Bond had to say improved her looks rather than detracted from them!
Blofeld sat in front of the door, his electric wheelchair silent and one hand moving idly in the cat’s lush fur. The other held a snub-nosed gun pointed in Bond’s direction. He was, Bond deduced from his enlarged pupils, in a state of sexual arousal at the thought of what was going to occur.
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And the subject of Blofeld’s arousal, the beautiful Miss Lolita Bedsprings, was tied firmly to what appeared to be a barber’s chair. She sat facing Bond, her mouth covered in duct tape, a helpless appeal in her huge blue eyes. Her long tangle of golden hair was spread over her shoulders; she looked nearer sixteen than the twenty-two he knew her to be.
Bond, at the moment, could do nothing for her. He felt a pang of regret at dragging this innocent young woman into the dangerous game he played. Who would have thought that a chance meeting at the casino, a lucky run on baccarat and the ritual careless celebration of sex and champagne would lead to kidnap? Bond groaned internally. Even if he got himself out of this predicament, would Lolita have the strength and courage to face whatever it took to get herself out too?
And what torture was in store for her? Bond knew the terrible things that electric currents could do to a body. Lolita’s breasts, firm and pert, were a very beautiful and very obvious target for the deranged Blofeld. Her skin, white and tender, would be all too easily ravaged by whips and chains. Would he tug out her straight ivory teeth? Was that the reason she was held in a chair whose back could be raised and lowered? Prospective tortures ran through Bond’s mind. He himself could cope with pain; he had been taught how to rise above it. But the current setup of the room and the girl told him that Lolita would be the victim and he an observer, unless he gave Blofeld the answers he was seeking.
“Ah, Mr Bond,” rumbled Blofeld. “You are wondering what I have in store for you and the lovely Miss Bedsprings. SPECTRE has observed you over the years, a spectral analysis one might say -” he chuckled briefly at his own joke ” – and deduced that you are immune to pain yourself, but deplore the destruction of beauty, or pain inflicted on a lovely young lady like Miss Bedsprings.”
Lolita writhed helplessly, her eyes filling with tears.
Bond felt sweat form on his forehead in anticipation and drip down the comma of black hair that hung over one eyebrow.
Blofeld continued. “We have observed Miss Bedsprings too, and know the destruction of which of her physical assets will upset her the most. And probably upset you the most, too, Mr Bond.”
Lolita made a muffled sound behind her tape and shook her head wildly, the golden locks spilling from side to side. She wriggled, but the ropes held her firmly.
Blofeld nodded to Sissa Wielda. The squat, ugly woman had a smile on her face, which was a terrifying sight on the twisted visage. One side of her face was impassive, her glass eye gazing on the world like that of a dead fish, the damaged facial nerves unable to move her lips into a smile. The other side of her face wrinkled in a hideous grimace, showing the gapping, damaged teeth.
Sissa reached onto the metal bench behind the barber’s chair, and brought out a large, sharp pair of scissors.
Bond watched, his muscles tensing. What was she going to do?
Sissa picked up a lock of Lolita’s hair at the top of her head, slid the scissors into it and with a SNICK! severed it. She dropped the lock onto the girl’s lap, and a tear ran down Lolita’s cheek.
Bond’s eyes swivelled from Lolita to Blofeld. Blofeld’s cat gave a hiss and jumped to the ground in feline annoyance, stalking to the side of the room and proceeding to wash itself. Bond saw why. Blofeld’s erection had obviously been prodding the cat’s belly.
He looked back to Lolita. She had a thick tuft of hair standing upright in the middle of her head. He wondered what she’d look like with all the lovely hair cut off, covering the floor in a golden mound. Would she look like a waif with a shorn head, would he still find her attractive if the soft hair he had murmured into last night, and stroked and caressed, was clipped as short as his own….or shorter? Bond felt himself breathe quicker. This was not the kind of torture he was used to. He had grown impassive to beatings and physical pain. Years of experience had taught him the resilience of the human body; few tortures were fatal, especially if the torturer had to keep one alive to find out information.
But now Bond’s body was thinking of its own accord. The vision of Lolita’s hair being shorn had elicited a physical response he didn’t anticipate or expect. Bond felt himself harden, and flushed when he realised his erection would be visible to not only Blofeld and Sissa, but the terrified Lolita herself. He cursed himself silently at his body’s betrayal and thus his vulnerability. Blofeld had him! By the short and curlies! Bond allowed himself a twisted smile at the little joke. He tried to focus on torture as a whole to curb the excitement he was feeling; he visualised Lolita getting whipped, beaten, but all to no avail. The Lolita Bedsprings he was seeing in his mind had short cropped hair.
Bond scrutinised his enemies. Blofeld was gazing at Lolita, his mouth open, his own smoothly shaven head beaded with sweat. Sissa Wielda was running her fingers through Lolita’s locks, obviously picking the next one for sacrifice. Lolita herself was eyeing Sissa in terror. Bond breathed a sigh of relief. They hadn’t noticed!
Another lock of hair was selected, this time near Lolita’s forehead. Sissa’s awful grin reappeared as she slowly and languorously snipped it off and dropped it onto the girl’s lap.
“Ah, Mr Bond,” said Blofeld, frantically licking his lips. “As you can see, we will cut off the beautiful Miss Bedspring’s hair bit by bit until you tell me the information we both know I seek. And I’m sure you would hate to see a lovely lady like Miss Bedsprings with ravaged hair, or dare I say no hair at all?”
Bond fought back an enormous erection by picturing himself in bed with the repulsive Sissa Wielda. “I can’t give you the information,” he said firmly. He shot Lolita a glance full of apologies. She glared back at him through her tears, hiccuping as she fought for breath.
Blofeld nodded to Sissa, who picked up a larger chunk of hair and lopped it off. The scissors sawed at it three times before completing their task. Lolita’s head jerked back and forth as her hair was cut away.
Sissa walked over to Bond and laid the sweetly-scented lock of hair over his legs. It had to be twenty inches long and Bond caught his breath.
Sissa then gathered up the remaining hair growing on top of Lolita’s head in a ponytail. It was thick and sinuous and curled over the ugly woman’s arm. Without hesitation Sissa drove the scissors into it, cropping it close to the girl’s scalp. Bond could see bare patches of skin as Sissa mercilessly hacked away, shearing the girl’s hair carelessly and brutally.
Lolita wriggled as she felt the blades against her skin, but the ropes bound her firmly. No longer did she have a long fringe of hair caressing her temples and eyebrows; Sissa had shorn it close to her hairline and her pale face was vulnerable without its soft curtain of hair.
Bond watched, unable to breathe, as Sissa hacked off the last piece of hair on Lolita’s crown and threw the silken locks onto the floor. The girl was cropped on top with her golden hair still falling around her shoulders at the sides and back. It was painfully erotic, an awful torture for Bond, far worse than watching the girl undergo physical pain.
Several things went through his mind. He longed to take Lolita in the chair, bound and gagged, with her tufty crown. Then he would take the scissors, and rather than cut the ropes that tied her, clip the rest of her golden waves. And only then would he let her go, and make love to her again… All this he thought of in an instant, and then calmed himself with the vision of the disgusting Sissa, her foul-breathed mouth on his own, her overweight body sweatily encompassing his. Bond’s erection mercifully subsided.
“Well, Mr Bond,” Blofeld said, his voice almost shaky. “We shall have to move to phase two. Obviously the sight of Lolita’s haircut isn’t taking the effect we hoped on you -” Bond wondered about THAT! ” -so we shall have to ask you to come forward and continue it. I’m sure you don’t want to be the one to cut off this lovely girl’s hair and have her hate you forever for it.” Blofeld smirked.
Sissa swiftly cut the ropes that bound Bond’s hands and he rubbed his wrists in relief. But the woman was quick. Before enough circulation returned to his fingers, Bond found his hands bound together in front of him. He could easily – so easily! – immobilise Sissa if he wanted to. He could have killed her two seconds ago! But the thought of cutting off the rest of Lolita’s hair had jolted him unexpectedly from the professional to the personal.
“So, Mr Bond,” growled Blofeld, handing his gun to Sissa. “The information?”
“I can’t,” Bond said shortly, lifting his arms to wipe the sweat from his brow. He hoped Blofeld thought he was sweating in indecision.
“Sissa,” Blofeld ordered, “we can’t give Mr Bond the scissors, who knows what damage he may do with them… and not to Miss Bedsprings.” Again that rumble of laughter.
Sissa reached onto the bench again and a delighted smile broke Blofeld’s impassive features. “Ah, much better. The clippers, Mr Bond.”
Sissa held them out to him and he took them in one disbelieving hand. They hummed and vibrated like a live thing. He’d never had much experience with clippers. His own hair was carefully scissor-cut by a master barber in the quiet privacy of a gentleman’s club. Clippers, to Bond, were the purveyors of cheap and nasty haircuts, a quick and undesirable alternative to the relaxing gentleman’s shampoo and trim.
Lolita gave him a desperate glance, shaking her head. The pretty hair still growing long fluttered like pennants.
“Lolita,” Bond said quietly. “The future of world peace depends on this. I’m sorry,” he lied as he stood next to her and placed the clippers against her cheek.
She closed her blue eyes and her angelic face clenched as Bond drew the clippers up into her hair.
He noticed with fascination that they had no attachment on them, and the blades were shearing Lolita’s hair to her pale scalp. He’d shaved a bald patch up to her temples. The shorn hair lay on his hands, on her shoulders, soft and useless.
Bond hesitated. He had to look as if this disgusted him, and hastily formed the correct expression on his face.
“These clippers are shaving her head,” he said shortly. Lolita made a squealing noise.
“Correct, Mr Bond,” Blofeld confirmed. “And unless you give me the information, you will be the one to shave her totally bald. To ruin her beauty.”
Why was it that his deadly enemy knew how to get to the man inside far more than his closest workmates did? Bond wondered. But this time, even Blofeld didn’t know exactly what the man inside was feeling. It was new to even Bond himself.
Resolutely Bond placed the clippers above Lolita’s delicate ear and shaved off her hair to the top of her head. It was difficult with his hands bound together, but he contrived to hold the clippers in both hands. Not only did it enable him to see more clearly what he was doing, but the clippers didn’t tremble so much and give away the strange emotions he was feeling.
The clippers worked swiftly; Bond was impressed by their power as he nuzzled the hair behind her ear and dove the blades into it. Mesmerised, he watched the blades bare her scalp, and the hair pile up on top of the clippers to fall in clumps to the ground. He allowed one finger to stroke the newly shorn skin, and Lolita trembled at his touch.
Sissa grabbed the girl’s head and bent her neck forward, exposing her vulnerable nape. The hair swung to either side in heavy wings.
“Ssshave it all,” hissed Sissa in her sibilant voice. “Sssshave your little girlfriend’ssss head.” The snub-nosed gun pointed at Bond’s chest, but Bond was less afraid of the gun than himself. He could have taken the gun from Sissa in an instant, turned the situation around and freed himself and Lolita… but not yet, please, not yet!
Bond pretended to look repulsed, but his heart thudded. The clippers sat in his hands as if they were made for it, the plastic casing warm and the motor within throbbing.
He moved behind the barber’s chair so neither Blofeld nor his assistant could see the erection that threatened to burst through his trousers, and nuzzled the blades at Lolita’s nape. Then his hands took on a life of their own, and thrust the clippers into Lolita’s locks, shaving a path straight up the back of her head.
The hair slid down, some on the floor, some down the back of Lolita’s expensive lace shirt. The girl shuddered, her naked neck pink.
Again Bond moved the clippers into her hair, shearing it away in a long, fluid motion. “Baaaaaaalllllld,” the clippers seemed to hum, “Baaaaaallllllld.”
A drop of sweat fell into Bond’s right eye and he blinked at the saltiness. His dark blue Sea Island cotton shirt clung to him as he shaved the last of Lolita’s locks from the back of her head, clipping away the hair behind her right ear and watching it fall to the floor.
Sissa, her gun still trained on him, yanked the girl’s head up by the short tufts still growing on her crown.
“The ssssside,” ordered Sissa.
“Sorry, Lolita,” lied Bond again in a voice he tried hard to stop from shaking. Then he placed the clippers at her cheek and shaved off the last of her long hair.
There was only the hair left on top of her head. Bond forgot Blofeld and Sissa. Concentrating, he put the blades at her forehead and then pushed them into her hair, breathing roughly as he watched the erotically short tufts disappear as if by magic to leave smooth skin in their wake. He shaved down the middle of her scalp, all the way to the back, and then, with sweating hands, made three more passes with the clipper and rendered Lolita totally bald.
“You are a tough man, Mr Bond,” said Blofeld, swiftly pulling one hand out from inside his trousers. The bulge of his erection sank, sated, as Bond watched. Blofeld’s eyes were vague and unfocussed with desire. “Obviously we will have to work harder to get the information from you.”
Bond came to his senses. The professional man took over. In an instant he forgot Lolita’s shaven head and was only aware of Sissa’s awful smile and the gun she held.
Dropping the clippers, which landed on the floor with an electric spit and sizzle, he swung his arms around in a club and knocked the gun from Sissa’s hand before she realised what was happening. It flew across the room.
As Sissa, with her clumsy frame, lurched across towards the gun, Bond snatched the sharp scissors from the bench and dug them into Sissa’s back with all the force he could muster.
She cried out, but still stumbled across the room for the gun. Bond wrenched the blades from her flesh and thrust them deeply into her neck. Sissa’s cry became a gurgle as the blood pumped from her body. Her hands clutched at her neck, and the gun was forgotten.
His feet still tied, Bond hopped across the room, marginally beating Blofeld’s electric wheelchair to the gun.
He made a split second assessment. He’d need all the bullets he could to get out of the compound, once he’d unlocked this room. He had no idea just how many people Blofeld had stationed here, but every bullet would be valuable. Should he spend one on Blofeld?
Instead, he used the gun to hit Blofeld on the back of the neck to give himself some time to calculate his escape. The squat man flopped forward in his chair, unconscious.
Bond swiftly cut his own legs and hands free with the scissors, and then proceeded to free Lolita. He completely ignored Sissa, still gurgling her lifeblood out on the floor.
Tenderly he peeled back the duct tape from Lolita’s gentle mouth.
“Why, James?” she asked petulantly, touching her clippered scalp. “You could have killed them any time. Why did you shave my head?”
He looked at her in the barber’s chair, strewn with cut hair, her angel eyes huge in her delicate face. Roughly he leaned down and kissed the full lips with his cruel mouth, becoming almost savage as he thrust his tongue between her teeth. His hands reached up of their own accord and caressed Lolita’s shorn head. It was the most erotic moment James Bond had had in many years.
Lolita gasped as she felt his warm, strong fingers on her newly bared skin, “Oh, James! James…” and didn’t say much more for quite a while.
James Bond wasn’t a man given to fantasy, but the time he spent taking bald Lolita in the barber’s chair with a dead woman on the floor and his unconscious enemy across the room made him wonder if he took his life just a little too seriously sometimes. A little more fantasy, especially when it became reality like this, wouldn’t go astray.
After, he lit one of his custom-made cigarettes for himself and one for Lolita as she surveyed the wreckage of her hair on the floor. She was idly fingering her scalp and getting used to her new haircut.
“Oh, James,” she said rather sadly, kicking her hair into a pile, “the things we do for England…”
Bond gave her a distracted smile which didn’t make it to his eyes. He was already putting into play his plan of more fantasy in his life. For instance, he had a suggestion to make to Miss Moneypenny about a new hairstyle for her. James Bond picked up the clippers from the floor and put them in his pocket.
(c) Copyright 1999 Sabrina S. (with apologies to the estate of the late and incomparable Ian Fleming)