"I've volunteered us for the charity fair. Would you like to be in the dunking booth or the barber booth?"
Lara thought of being hooted at and dunked in the cold water. Marcel would probably have her wear flimsy clothes that would show her breasts through the wet material, probably even show the awful tattoo he'd made her get on her breast when she was drunk.
"Hairdressing," she said.
"Good, I thought you would choose this. We must take it seriously; whoever raises the most money for the afternoon gets the prize and much recognition."
"Ooh, maybe we'll win. When does it start?" Lara was happy to be going to a wholesome celebration, helping the community.
"After we finish brunch. I've helped with set-up. I'll be the hawker and in charge of money; you only must be the salonist and then sit to be beautiful. Here, wear this."
"But I don't know how to do hair." She took the red lace bra and thong, the flowered short skirt and silky white low-cut blouse. She grimaced at how on-display she'd be if she'd chosen getting dunked, how inappropriate these clothes seemed even for hairdressing at a county fair. "I'm going to wear something else," she decided.
"You cannot; your clothes are in laundry and we don't have time to get others."
Lara wondered if Marcel had purposely spilled juice all over the clothes she'd been wearing ten minutes before. It had seemed excessively clumsy of him, and he had seemed overly eager to give her a robe and start her clothes in the washer.
Marcel continued explaining, "At first, you will buzz-cut all the sailors on shore leave. You will have no other duties. You will massage their heads, be gentle, lean far into their faces, across their bodies. You will bend over to pick up the razor, bend to check the cord, bend to find a brush. You will brush the hair from their heads, their ears, their laps. Anything to give them a few excitements. Remember, it is all for charity," he added, seeing the look of consternation on her face.
Lara thought of ways she could protest, but nothing she could think of seemed like it would work without driving Marcel to an even more public, more flaunting scenario. "Well, for charity..."
"That's my good girl. Bring your brush and comb. I bring the rest."
For two hours at the back corner of the fair, Marcel hawked and shmoozed while Lara buzzed, bending away from customers to pick things up and wiggling her ass, pushing her tits into men's faces.
She brushed their necks with her fingers, blew their ears when she was done buzz-cutting, rubbed her hands over their freshly shorn heads. Her own flirtiness and tit-rubbing, along with the blatant lust that men showed her, were making her hot, making her horny. She couldn't wait for Marcel to take her home and impale her.
She'd buzzed every sailor in town, it seemed, and a few dyke women as well (who seemed to press their faces into her tits as much as the men).
Marcel said, "Hour three. Sit and rest. We've done well. Now the next part." He brought her some lemonade and looked down the fairway. When she finished drinking he told her, "Many sailors are returning. Remember, this is for charity, and you promised to do your part."
The first five sailors, their freshly buzzed heads a bit redder in the heat, jostled forth.
"Pay up, Boys, and you can have the honor of the restraints."
Lara watched, wondering what Marcel had just said, feeling good to get off her feet.
Marcel took their cash and gave two sailors a cloth fastener. "Be quick," he said, as others joined them. Instantly, they held Lara's wrists, and cuffed them to the chair arms, fondling her once they did so.
"What are you doing? I didn't agree to this!" She was suddenly afraid they would all grope her, or gangbang her mouth, or all jerk off on her, or some such depravity that Marcel would encourage. The fact that she could move her legs but was powerless to leave made it even more humiliating; she could only stand bent over with the heavy chair on her back.
More sailors were swarming down the fairway. She couldn't imagine them all taking turns with her mouth. It couldn't happen so publicly, could it?
"You did agree, my dear," said Marcel gently. "Do not worry, I will make positive no one hurts you."
To one of the first sailors, he said, "You may softly pull her shirt open and see what's there. But it doesn't seem as interesting as what your friend has found." He gestured to one who was kneeling in front of Lara's knees, staring between her legs.
"Open your knees, my Lara," Marcel instructed. But Lara was busy fidgetting to keep the other sailor from exposing her breasts, barely covered with the red lace of her bra.
"Sheesh, look at that," the man said. The men stared at her breasts, grunting at the hard nipples poking through the flimsy lace. "Those nipples are so hard they're cutting her bra!" one said, and they laughed.
"Some tattoo," said another, as they all stared and nodded at the SLUT emblazoned across the top of her breast. By this time, others had crowded around and muttered their appreciation. "Slut," they murmured, passing the word along like a bottle of beer from which they each sipped.
"Okay," Marcel broke in, still gathering money. "This is Barber Booth. No touching except as barber." He put a sign up behind Lara but she couldn't read it. "Now, as you see, this woman is a slut."
Lara gasped, hearing this. She'd thought Marcel would protect her, but now feared what would happen. As far as she could see in the crowd around her were sailors and rough-looking men.
Marcel continued, "However, this is legitimate event, so we must continue with legitimate Barber Booth. I may make this slut of mine... happier...with a show for you. And you may do anything you like into those bushes behind her. Just be certain to pay for the privilege of snipping a souvenir. Two inches for the bargain, full price let's you cut a full piece to her head."
"What, Marcel? What do you mean?" Lara was panicking again.
"Remember you agreed to help the charity; that is all this is for. It is harmless." He knelt in front of her. "Do not worry, Lara. You are so sexy and these men only want a moment to touch that delicious hair of yours, to have a souvenir for their long voyages. I will fix it later."
He handed the nearest sailor the shears and stayed kneeling in front of Lara, edging her legs open with his arms, caressing her thighs. She felt a man run his hand through her thick hair and heard him sniff, then a snip at the back of her head.
Marcel kept her legs pushed apart and groped her thighs. He pushed her skirt up to show her red thong, and massaged around it as the men watched intently.
Another then another man dropped money in the box beside them, gawked at her cleavage and nipples, groped them, pressed his crotch against her back or neck or head, snipped her hair. She heard men's raspy breathing and grunting behind her. Sometimes she felt sticky skin on her head, smelled the salty tang of jizz.
Sometimes it was quick, sometimes they fondled her head. Sometimes there was a short snip at her neck, and for awhile Lara thought it wouldn't be so bad, getting her hair trimmed was all, no bid deal, and Marcel could even it out later.
But then she felt more and more men pulling great chunks at her scalp and the press of scissors cutting there. Snip. She knew it wouldn't be fixable.
All the while, her breasts hung half out of her bra and her SLUT branding showed; occasionally, a man would venture a quick touch of the tatoo; most pinched, flicked, and kneaded her nipples sticking through her lace bra. Then moan and snip, or snip groan.
Meanwhile, Marcel was kneeling in front of her, rubbing her thighs as he kept her legs spread with his body.
"Your nipples are hard, Lara; are you enjoying this?" She shook her head, felt a stab of scissors in her scalp, and kept still. "Lara, when will you stop pretending?"
Marcel moved his hands between her legs, rubbed her clit with his thumb. The murmuring of the men grew more excited. She couldn't look at them, only at Marcel, to lessen the hot shame she felt.
Marcel looked her in the eyes, soothing her, as he slid her thong aside from her swollen pussy lips and slid his finger in her wet slit. He moved his finger up and down, then pressed her clit, then back and forth through her lips, until her juices ran.
