Hairdresser

You really don't want to get out of the car when the five of you arrive at the mall, but you really don't get any say in the matter; Alex jumps out of the back seat, opens your door and, grabbing you around the bicep, drags you out into the parking lot. You stumble over the heels in the sneakers, and she has to support you as you regain your balance.

"Kat told you about walking with us?" she growls. She doesn't really have a deep or rough voice at all, but she manages to growl just the same.

"Yes, Miss."

"Good. I'll be keeping back with you to keep an eye on you FOR TODAY, but remember the rules."

"Maybe we should get her a cute little collar and leash 'til she learns her proper place," Amanda comments, locking the doors with the key fob, "Save you the embarrassment."

Alex smirks, and you note (strictly to yourself) that your dear sister has no compunctions about embarrassing YOU, if she's serious. But then they're all moving into the mall and you're **** to follow, three feet behind and to the left, Alex's iron grip on your upper arm.

As you follow, your gaze is drawn naturally to the girls' asses ... until Alex reaches across your chest and pinches, then twists, your right nipple. You yelp in shock and pain.

"Eyes down, bitch."

You lower your gaze, rubbing ruefully at your sure-to-be-bruised nipple. "Sorry, Miss," you mumble.

"No. You don'tó apologize," she smiles over at you, "We know sissies like you are simple creatures at heart. When you fuck up, we'll let you know, we'll punish you so you don't forget you fucked up ... EVER ... and then it'll be over. Your apologies are ... or will be ... both unnecessary and unwelcome."

The group had stopped outside Maxine's Boutique, a women's beauty salon. "First stop," Amanda announced, "We need to get you looking a little more girly before we go clothes shopping, sissy."

The girls lead you into the salon, where you're all greeted by an older woman, maybe in her thirties. "Welcome to Maxine's!"she announces, "I'm Trish. How can I help you ladies today? Do you have an appointment, or ...?"

Amanda smiles at her and says, "Hi! Yes, the apoointment's under the name of Marcia."

"Hi, Marcia, what can we do for you today?"

You nearly die of shame when your sister announces, "Oh, no. I'm not Marcia. This is my brother, Marc; she's transitioning and needs a girlier hairstyle. Her nails need some attention, too." You certainly try to flee, but Alex still has you in a grip of iron, weighing you down like an anchor.

Trish displays an admirable and completely unsuspected level of professionalism; rather than show the least surprise, she merely smiles over at you (her smile might be the tiniest bit brittle, but you're currently more concerned with struggling to escape than with subtle emotional reactions from strangers) and says, "Well, welcome to womanhood, Marcia. What can we do for you today?"

You're about to reply that you really don't want anything done, thanks all the same, when Amanda interrupts. "Oh, she's not transitioning to WOMANHOOD; she should be so lucky. She's just getting sissified, so the girls and I will be making all her decisions for her."

Trish looks at you with sudden interest, her gaze growing appraising. She places an index finger on her cheek and says, "Well, she's sure got the face and body for it. What were you thinking for the hair?"

Amanda purses her lips and reaches out to run her fingers through your hair. "She looks far too much like me," she muses, "and she's already show us she's kind of a slut ... and not too bright. How 'bout a nice bleach blonde? That's about right for a bimbo like her."

"But ... Miss--" you begin, but Lilly interrupts you.

"Unless you want your new hairdo t' be bubblegum pink, why don't you shut up and let your betters talk?"

Amanda grins and says, "Oh, I don't think we want her attracting that much attention ... yet. What can we do about styling that raggedy-ass hair, Trish?"

"Hmmm. Her hair is really too short for a girl," the hairdresser says, running her fingers through your chestnut locks, "But maybe we could do a kind of unisex, emo look? Or a pixie cut? Let's just get her in the chair and let me work my magic."

The girls surround you and basically **** you into a chair near the back of the salon, where Alex and Lilly hold your arms down to the chair's while Trish wraps thick, pink leather cuffs around your wrists and then those very same chair arms. "What ... what the hell are you doing?" you start to ask, but then you see Alex, Lilly and Amanda all glowering at you while Katrina smirks, lifting her hand to her mouth to hide it, and you find yourself finishing with, "... Ma'am?"

"Now, honey, I've dealt with half-trained sissies before, and I know better than to think you're gonna just go along to get along, the way you're supposed to. But if you're a GOOD little girlyboy, I won't have to gag you while I work. You're gonna be a good little girl, aren't you?"

You nod sullenly. You might have run if you'd known what was up, or if you'd had a chance with Alex the Human Limpet Mine clinging to you. But you didn't try, and now you're stuck here. You won't give them the satisfaction of watching this shopkeeper put a gag on you too. Or at least that's what you tell yourself while they make you more and more helpless and girly.

Trish grins and gives a small "tsk" sound. "Too bad; I'd've liked to see what that throat would'a looked like with a big ol' latex penis ticklin' your tonsils."

You look at her in horror, and then at your sister when she says, "Maybe next time ... AFTER she's had some training swallowing cock; I wouldn't wanna **** the poor darling before I've gotten any use out of her, after all." She rounds the chair and leans over in front of you, hands weighing down your cuffed wrists. "Eyes up here, slut," she whispers before announcing, staring into your eyes the whole time, "Of course, that depends on her being cooperative and RESPECTFUL. If she fights you or gets mouthy, use your best judgement; I wouldn't mind seeing her throat twitching around a big ol' cock either, myself." She pats your cheek and turns away with her girlfriends, leaving you alone with the evil beautician ... yet another word grouping you never thought you'd use, even in your head.

Trish turns back to you and says, "Now you just relax and try to enjoy while we pamper you and make you pretty," she says with a grin that makes you wonder if Amanda or one of the other girls told her about your ... performance ... last night. But no, they've all been in your presence, or more accurately, you in theirs since you're apparently their prisoner now, since they woke. Besides, Amanda might be enough of a ravening bitch to destroy your reputation by letting out what they've done to you, but Katrina's too good a friend to allow it, isn't she?

Well, isn't she?

While you ponder these suddenly important matters about your sister suddenly having the power to destroy your none-too-stellar-to-begin-with reputation, Trish presses your head back into a sink and washes your hair ... again. Her fingers feel incredible on your scalp, and you close your eyes and relax into the sensations of warm, soapy water and warm, strong fingers on your skin. Your hands, which haf been clenched into ineffectual fists since being restrainef by the cuffs, relax, and you find your fingertips resting on a sort of shallow, metal tray at the end of each chair arm.

Trish is now rubbing some sort of goo in your hair, a conditioner of some sort that seems to be untangling and softening it. "We'll just let that soak in for a while, Marcia sweetie," she says, "I'm gonna get you some DECENT hair care product while you're here, too ... everything you'll need to keep the hair I'M working on in tip-top shape."

With that she walks away, allowing you to close your eyes and try to relax again. You couldn't get away if you tried right now, so why drive yourself to distraction trying? Better to go with the flow for the time being, particulay since you absolutely do NOT want a ... a penis gag ... shoved down your throat. Ever.

Well, so much for relaxing. You do, however, manage to keep your shoulders, arms and legs loose and tension-free while your mind insists on conjuring up tortures courtesy of Amanda and her friends.

Trish returns bearing a couple of large bottles containing shampoo and conditioner of a brand you've never seen before along with a bunch of jars; some spray cans and smaller bottles; and a bright pink, zippered plastic case. She places these items on a bench beside your chair and begins rinsing the conditioner out of your hair, admonishing you again to relax.

That done, she raises your chair back so you're sitting upright again, briskly towels your hair dry, picks up a comb and scissors, and begins combing and clipping. She isn't talking to you, apparently feeling that she has no need to entertain a literally captive client who has no say in what she's going to do anyway, so you look over the collection of ... stuff ... she's placed by your chair.

There sure is a lot of it. The first things you notice are three different bottles of lotion: skin, hand and foot. You wonder if there's actually any difference between the three or if she's just trying to oversell your sister. Then there's a jar of something called "callus softener," a jar of gelatin capsules, something called "nail strengthener lotion," hairspray, mousse, little bottles of nail polish ... and hairbrushes, combs, plus that little plastic pouch, that seemed filled with nail clippers, ti,y scissors, emery boards, pumice stones ... who knew taking care of hair and skin could be so complicated. You hope you're not going to have to learn to use all this stuff, but have a sneaking suspicion Amanda's going to absolutely revel in forcing you to become proficient.

Trish has apparently finished cutting your hair, as she's now pointing a blow dryer at your head and turning it on. After a surprisingly short time (it always surprises you), your hair is dry and she steps away, disappearing into the shallows of the salon, since you're imprisoned in its depths.

She reappears several minutes later bearing a bowl of some vile-smelling paste and several hair clips. After clipping your hair up in what feels like umpty-bazillion places, she begins using what looks like an oversize popsicle stick to apply the chemical-smelling goop to your locks. It takes a few minutes, during which you say nothing, mindful of the cuffs around your limbs and her threats to shove a dildo down your throat, but also alert for any potential escape. A passing cop or even security guard would be perfect, you think.

Unfortunately, neither appears. Trish, apparently finished with your hair for the moment, wanders away again, leaving you to futilely "test" the strength of your bonds.

She returns quickly, and you quit trying the cuffs; they're both too strong and too tight to escape, and you don't want her noticing your escape attempts. She sits on a stool in front of the chair and drops a small box in your lap, a box of glue-on false nails.

"Open your hands, sissy. You're not getting loose 'til I let you loose, and it's time to do your nails."

You relax your hands, unclenching your fists again and relaxing your fingers. Trish, without another word to you, picks up the box of fake nails and begins comparing them to your own, putting those of similar sizes to one side. She then picks up a small, plastic bottle of glue and uses a scissors to clip off the end and spread some glue on one of the nails before pressing it firmly into your right index fingertip and holding it, continuing to squeeze, for a couple of minutes before continuing on to the next nail. All in all, the process takes about twenty minutes for all ten fingernails.

"These are French cut nails; see how they're kind of squared off on the ends?" she says, lifting your fingers to display her work even though you've pretty much been doing nothing BUT watch her ... with growing alarm ... since she started. "They're shorter than most, easier to get used to," she continues as if she's been doing you a favor. "Now, we'll just give 'em a coat of polish, then rinse and dry your hair, 'kay?" She reaches into a pocket and pulls out a vial of pink nail polish.

You can see a disturbing pattern emerging, first with the pink bra-and-panty set, then the pink-and-white corset, the sneakers, and now this. It's time to ... well, not put your foot down, exactly, not cuffed to a hairdresser's chair ... but to put a stop to it, if you can.

"I'm not really a girl, you know. And I'm not 'transitioning' into anything. Ma'am."

"Oh, I know you're not a real girl. Don't you remembet what the nice girl who brought you in ... your Mistress, I assume ... said? You're just very girly. It happens as a sissy discovers her true self."

"I'm not a sissy!" you begin, but then, seeing Trish's eyes flash angrily, you quickly moderate your tone. "Look, I'm sorry, but ... my sister's a bully, and she and three bully friends did all this to me. What was I supposed to do, beat up four girls?"

She grins and taked hold of your upper arm, squeezing briefly. "No, I don't think you were 'supposed to'do that at all. In fact, it looks to me like things worked out exactly the way they were supposed to ... Marcia." She returns her attention to opening the bottle of nail polish.

You clench your fists again. "Please, no more pink; I can't handle any more today. Couldn't ... couldn't we do a nice, shiny coat of clear varnish? Or black? That'd look nice ..."

"Unclench. Your. Fingers," she orders. You obey only when you remember thr threat of penis gags.

"Good," Trish continues, "Now, I suppose I could give you SOME choice if you like. I'm not heartless, after all." She picks up the bottle she'd been opening before you spoke up. "We can put this nice, girly innocent pink on your nails, or ..." She lifts a bottle of garish, nearly neon pink, "we can use something that screams 'bimbo slut' from twenty yards away. I bet your Mistress would like that. Your choice."

You swallow hard. You consider shouting for help in the hopes of attracting somebody with official standing ... or just not insane ... to witness you bound to a chair and maybe freeing you before this woman can get a gag in your mouth ... or even after, so long as the end result is freedom and escape. But then you consider what might happen if you DON'T attract any attention, or even if you do and the authorities write it off as "teenage hijinks" or something. You'd end up right back where you are now, but with Amanda seriously pissed at you. Thinking of the beating she and her girlfriends described as a spanking last night, you make your decision, at least for now, and go with the less obvious and outrageous option.

"B-baby pink."

"No. Say, 'Baby pink PLEASE, Mistress Patricia, and thank you for giving me a choice.' It's time you started learning some sissy manners, since it's obvious you never learned normal courtesies."

You repeat the words, stammering and growing more red-faced by the second as you do. "B-baby pink, puh-please, M-mistress P-Patricia, and ... and th-thank you for the choice ..."

"Such a sweet sissy," she smiles down st you, patting your cheek, "Of course, baby. And I'll be sure to tell your Mistress you asked for it special."

Trish returns to her work, quickly and skillfully applying the polish to your extended fingers and leaving nary a brush stroke or spatter on your fingertips.

After all the rest, her rinsing and blow drying your hair is almost relaxing, though she seems to use a lot of "stuff" ... mousse and hairspray ... as she works. Your sister, her friends, and Katrina enter the salon just as she turns off the hair dryer. They stare at you, jaws dropped, wide-eyed.

"What?" you ask, annoyed, before remembering your new "rules." "What is it, M-mistress?"

Katrina smiles over Amanda's shoulder. "Just show her, Trish."

Trish ... or should you be calling her Mistress Patricia now? ... holds up a mirror before your eyes.

Your jaw drops and eyes widen, too, just like the girls'. If you could lift your hands from the arms of the chair, your fingers would be touching your cheek right now, just to prove the image in the mirror is you and not some kind of optical illusion.

Apoarently, Trish opted for a pixie cut, not the emo, unisex look.

"I ... I look just like Keira Knightley ..."

"Nah," your sister quips, "You don't even have HER micro-tits yet."

Lilly's smile widens. "Better ass, though."

Alex chuckles, "You'd know, bitch. Yeah, she makes a pretty little sissy ... but we knew she would," she says, as if it's a compliment.

Amanda hands Trish your mother's credit card. "Give yourself 20% as a tip," she tells her, "You do amazing work."

Trish rings up the sale ... and her tip ... and hands Amanda the card back.

"Well, come on, girls," she says, "We got more sissy shopping to do, and time's a-wastin'."