Follicle

Beverly Whalen walked up to the clinic door hesitated for a moment before entering. Dr. Harrah had been quite adamant about this place and its discretion when she gave her the referral, but the last thing she wanted was to be sitting in a waiting room full of year-old fishing and sports magazines, and the bald men that would go with them. Heaving with a resigned sigh, she pulled the glass door open and stepped in.

The Fangor Clinic.

Beverly had the obvious thought about vampires, and smiled about as much as the little joke was original. The Blood Bank opens at two AM...

The interior was light coral and blue, with white walls. At least it wasn't dark and dingy. It also had one remarkable and pleasantly surprising feature. It was empty.

She walked up to the counter and waited for the receptionist to notice her.

"May I help you?" asked the young girl, whose name was Amy, according to her nametag. The nametag was coral and blue, too.

Coral and blue in a rainbow tattoo, mused Beverly, as always, thinking of the next song.

"Yes, I was referred by Dr. Harrah's office," she answered, smiling. She tried bravely to hide her embarrassment, but her hands trembled as she signed in. "Beverly Whalen," she prompted.

"Oh, okay, I see it here. 10 o'clock," said the young girl looking down the list in the calendar book. "Do you have an insurance card? I'll need to make a copy," said Amy, when Beverly looked up. She was pleasantly surprised not to get the usual gawking and stuttering request for an autograph.

"Sure... let me find it..." said Beverly as she began to rifle through her purse.

"And I have some forms for you to fill out, this being your first time and all," added Amy, placing a clipboard on the counter.

"Right. Always the way, isn't it," said Beverly in her most I'm-going-to-be-friendly-if-it-kills-me voice.

"Unfortunately, yes it is. Just bring it back when you're done, and someone will call you when the Dr. Fangor is ready for you," said the cheery girl.

Despite her cynical nature, Beverly found the genuine friendliness of the girl disarming and just the thing to make her feel a bit more at ease. She found a chair near the window and began filling out her personal information and medical history.

When she brought it back to the desk, Amy was busy on the phone. She looked at the sweet girl with envy. Dark brown curly hair, cut close but attractively... wide set, big hazel eyes that were incredibly striking against the hair... petite features and a slightly triangular face...

As she returned to her chair, Beverly felt a moment of regret and bitterness sweep through her. She had been beautiful herself, a year ago, although she hadn't ever thought of it that way, until... until she started losing her hair.

Her stylist had noticed it first, and asked what kind of shampoo she was using, and recommended a cleansing rinse.

She'd hardly given it a second thought, but by the time six months had rolled around she was getting worried. Her scalp was clearly visible through her hair no matter what she did. Going to Betsy Harrah, her doctor, she had tried all the latest treatments and techniques. She changed her diet, exercised, and in all respects improved herself... except that she kept losing more and more hair.

And now, after a year, it was so wispy that she generally wore a scarf or hat, and let the wisps imply the hair underneath. It wasn't such a bad look for her, but the tabloids already had her heroically battling cancer.

She'd never thought she was vain, but this was just... so basic.

It was killing her soul. It was also threatening to kill her career.

Dr. Harrah had finally had to admit defeat. She was getting nowhere, and Beverly was becoming dangerously despondent. The final result had been a long conversation, and this visit to a new specialist.

"Dr. Fangor has some methods that are unorthodox, but they work when many other things fail. In your case, with no condition or reason to have lost so much hair, I think it's certainly worth a consultation," Dr. Harrah had said. Beverly was at the breaking point, and ready to grasp at any glimmer of hope. It wasn't that she...

"Beverly Whalen."

The sound of her name jerked her out of her thoughts and she nodded, stood, and followed the nurse back to the examination rooms.

Weight, blood pressure, temperature. Standard operating procedure. However, the familiarity of the ritual helped make Beverly more comfortable with her surroundings -- she might as well have been coming in about a cold. Once the rites had been performed, the nurse left, and Beverly found herself doing what she always did: she studied the industrial artwork on the walls and sifted through the out-of-date magazines that had once been in the waiting room.

She had just settled into a chair beside the lavatory and started an article about the fall of dot-coms, when there was a knock on the door and Dr. Fangor entered.

Beverly put down her magazine and smiled. Doctor Fangor, far from being a vampire, was an attractive woman in her mid-forties. Her smile beckoned Beverly's in return, and she said, as if she needed to confirm it beyond the name embroidered on her lab coat, "Hello, Ms. Whalen. I'm Dr. Fangor. My friends call me Carmen, and I think we should be friends, so Carmen it is."

"Beverly," she answered, not sure of how to proceed. Regardless, she liked this doctor. Carmen exuded a kind of kindly, gentle warmth, and Beverly felt herself relax.

"I've been reading over the file sent from Dr. Harrah's office. This must be pretty tough on you."

"Well, it's certainly not my favorite lifetime achievement," joked Beverly. She winced as the grit in her voice strangled her attempt at being light. She could almost see the words writhing on the floor, pulled down by the weight of her depression.

Catching the not-so-subtle nuance, Carmen said softly, "It's really okay, Beverly. It's not so rare for women to lose hair as you might think. But culturally, it's like a death sentence, at least in the way we're brought up. 'A woman's hair is her glory.' It's built into every concept we know. It makes sense for you to be distraught. The question is really what you're willing to do about it."

Opening the chart, Carmen looked over several pages. "It looks like you've been through all the standard tests. You seem to be a good candidate for our procedure. Of course, we'd have to run several further tests to be sure, but there actually may be a solution for you." She looked at Beverly expectantly, in the standard "it's time for you to say something" way.

"At this point I'm almost willing to try anything. If you told me you were going to graft my pubic hair to my scalp, I'd probably go along." Beverly's eyes bugged out in embarrassment at the words that popped out of her mouth.

Carmen just smiled, taking it in stride and soothing the situation. "Well, I don't think it will come to that, but let me explain the procedure.

"Your follicles have, for all intents and purposes, died. Maybe they could have been saved, but probably not. It's unlikely that any treatment would have helped prevent your hair loss, not only based on the tests, but because you were given these treatments, and not one of them resulted in halting the ongoing loss of your hair.

"We do a specific kind of hair transplant. We don't use plugs... we use a bio-engineered follicle and hair that is self-sufficient. It isn't like it's a part of you, exactly, but exists in a symbiotic relationship, in the original placement of your original hair. You provide nutrients, at the low levels that killed your own hair follicles, but this follicle is extremely... efficient, for lack of a better word.

"The advantages are steady, predictable growth, increased hair strength, and... you never go gray. You can choose color, density and body, among other things. All in all, it's better than the hair you were born with. I don't mean to sound arrogant," concluded Carmen.

"And the drawbacks?" asked Beverly.

"In less than one-hundredth of one percent of patients, there is a risk of rejection or allergic reaction. That's why we run the compatibility tests. We don't want to go there, so we don't. Also, the mapping of your scalp for proper follicle placement is a tedious procedure in which you are awake, but cannot move. We actually have to immobilize your head. Honestly, it's not pleasant. But to me, it's worth twelve hours of discomfort for a lifetime of perfect, glorious hair."

"It sounds pretty amazing, doctor," said Beverly. "Do you have any pictures I can look at?"

"I can do better. Inspect my scalp. I had the procedure done a year ago. So did my receptionist, Amy."

"Really! Amazing... I noticed her hair when I came in," admitted Beverly. Then whispering slightly, "I notice everyone's hair these days... but I thought you..."

"Perform the procedure? I do set it up, with two assistants. But the actual implantation is done using a laser-guided inser... well, a very complex machine. All I do is prepare you and monitor the process to make sure it goes correctly."

Beverly nodded in understanding.

"Well, I can't make your decision for you. I can give you some information, and you can take it with you. Just call me and we can schedule you within a few days. The entire process takes a little over a month, between testing, mapping, insertion, recovery and observation. Just let me know."

Although she didn't make an appointment, Beverly's mind was made up before she left the office.

Beverly had the Mother of all Migraines. When Dr. Fangor -- Carmen -- had said twelve hours of discomfort, it was quite the understatement. Twelve hours of hell had been more like it.

A steel ring had been clamped to her head, and the ring inserted into a clamp that held her head completely immobile. They had sedated her, but she'd been awake for most of it... the pain would not allow her to sleep.

And now, with the clamps removed, she had four huge red circles and a pressure headache that made her previous migraines feel like minor nuisance in comparison. She was sick, miserable and wanted to die. Literally. Before her head exploded.

After another hour, and within a space of ten minutes, the headache lifted and nearly disappeared.

As if on cue, her agent, Randii, walked in. "Hey, kiddo. You looked like some creature from Planet X when they brought you in. That ring was totally weird. How you feelin'?"

"Like twice-baked shit potato pie," said Beverly, her voice hoarse and dry from the ordeal.

"The doctor wants you to stay overnight here. They have the facilities for it. I happen to agree... but I stopped by to tell you that if you need anything, anything at all, just call. I'll only charge half-price."

"Thanks, Randii. Don't worry. I don't want to move. Not for another few lifetimes, anyway. See you tomorrow?"

"Sure thing, kiddo." She gently squeezed her client's hand and smiled, and then left the room.

Agents. Blech, thought Beverly. She laughed a little, sure in the knowledge that when Randii had mentioned the price, she wasn't kidding. What a favor.

She stopped laughing abruptly as a twinge shot through her head. She didn't want the giggles to bring back the wall of pain she'd just escaped.

She wondered what kind of song this would make. Mmph. Song. Oh, yeah... Coral and blue in a rainbow tattoo... Staining my heart with love...

Carmen looked at the 3-D map of Beverly's scalp, plotting the primary insertion points with a light pen. Hundreds of tiny red dots showed on the monitor, tracking her progress. She'd been working for hours.

Setting the light pen aside for a moment, she sighed, happily. Tedious, but fruitful, she said to herself. I'll have to call Dr. Harrah and thank her for this one.

She shifted in her chair, opening her legs a bit more for the kneeling, latex clad woman before her. "Mmmmm, Amy... you're getting to be quite the nasty improviser..."

She felt Amy's fervent response as the pace of her tireless tonguing increased, slathering her pussy with more and more wetness and pleasure. So suggestible. So obedient. So owned. She ran her hands through her slave assistant's short, curly hair, sending waves of mind-melting pleasure into the slut's brain, opening her even more to the words of Mistress. All sex is brain sex...

"Ohhhh my... you are so lovely, my little Amy. I love the way that you take on any reality I give you. I think it's time for your next assignment...

"You live to eat my dripping cunt. To taste it. To pleasure... mmmm, yes... my snatch. Mistress's pussy is your fucking life. What you were born to. You aren't human. You're a new species... cunnilingus eternum.

"There is no past. No future. Only Mistress's delicious cunt and its juices, and your purpose is to make it... cum.

"Oh, and my pretty tongue-puppy? Finger my ass... the way you know I love it..."

Carmen began moaning as the torrential pleasure began to spread outward from her cunt and asshole and into her pelvis and belly... the heat making her jerk her neck involuntarily and the arches of her feet twitch. So fucking good...fucking good... yes... licking... fucking...

She reached over and pressed a key on the keyboard, beginning the simulation on the monitor.

A wave passed through her scalp and into the back of her neck as she watched the red spots grow inward to the cerebral cortex of the 3-D image of Beverly Whalen, intersecting and spreading... captivating... controlling...

Her orgasm began to wash over her, not from her clit but from the surface of her scalp, through her vision, down her neck and spine and out through every muscle and bone of her body, the pleasure-blood soaking every molecule in overpowering lust, taking the flames higher and higher, until her entire body was joining in her screams of passion...

And then it broke over her, a rainbow of violent passion, showering over and through her, her head slamming against the chair as her slave went on, relentlessly driving her climax into the next moment, and the next, and the next...

The unearthly wail of her impassioned throat lit up the air around her and took her even deeper into desire, sending another thunderbolt of bliss coursing hotly through her oil-soaked naked body. Her nipples sent out streamers of molten fuckheat, like lava from a volcano's core, over her sensitive, ripened breasts. As she lost sight of reality, the room washed away in a burning ocean of flaming tongues and licks...

And in the moment that she came down from her summit, preparing to ascend again, she focused on the image of Amy, and then someone else: her next slave, her next lover, her next thrall... Beverly... Beverly... Beverly... so sweet... trusting... so ready to be remade...

Beverly woke up to the sun shining through her window and felt the smooth, oiled skin of her scalp. Running her hand over it, she noticed the sensuous feel that had come after the removal of her last remaining natural hair. Looking in the mirror, she thought that if she were a bit bolder, this might be a look for her... but it wasn't something she could just take on.

The red circles left by the clamps were already fading. She looked less like some creature from a bad science fiction movie and more like herself, although the lack of hair gave her eyes a prominence they had not had before. At least I'm not some lump-a-bump, she thought. She had to find happy thoughts where she could.

Dr. Fangor knocked and came in. "And how's my most famous patient this morning?" she asked, smiling broadly.

"Ready to go on, I hope," replied Beverly. "The sooner the better."

"Good. I have some excellent news. Not only have we mapped your pores for re-insertion of the new follicles, but you are anything but allergic to the chemicals and the follicles themselves. It's almost like you were made for them, and them for you."

"Ooooo, sounds kinda creepy, Carmen," smiled Beverly.

"Not at all. It's just rare to find this strong a match. If you want, we can perform the procedure as soon as say... tomorrow."

"Great!" said Beverly, her eyes going wide with excitement. "What do we have to do?"

"Well, I have to tell you what to expect, and everything that can go wrong. There will be some initial discomfort, for about thirty days or so, as the follocles bond to their new home. They could be rejected, but the chance of that happening is very slim. So slim, in fact, that you shouldn't have to worry in the slightest. The worst thing will be the itch, during which time you may have to be restrained during sleep..."

Carmen went on and on, describing what was to come. As it went, Beverly found that she was more and more enthusiastic, even more than with her first hopes upon talking to Carmen. She didn't hear one thing that sounded like she should reconsider.

She also couldn't see under Carmen's lab coat, beneath her dress, to the dark stain slowly spreading outward from the doctor's crotch as she talked to and stared at the young, famous, and soon to be owned, singer.

Carmen was on the verge of orgasm without even trying.

This is going to be simply divine, she thought, as she watch Beverly's excitement grow... excitement that would soon be about much more than her brand new hair.