There are a million dreams recounted on a shrink's couch. The following is one of them.

"Jahst relax, Mr. Rangoon", the Psychiatrist advised, as he swung a pocket-watch back and forth. "You're getting v-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-r-y zleepy now! Cloze za eyes, ond tell za dooktor ool about zat dream zat's been bugging you. Ond no matter how krazy it might zound, don't leave nothzing out!"

In the early twenty-third century, in the Oophmyron Galaxy, all vocations were selected by Federation decree. After your 18th birth-year, vital statistics were fed into the Uber-Computer ( termed "Hubie" by the intelligentsia ), and micro-processors selected your life's work.

Being a champion space-stud ( at least in my mind ), I fully expected an assignment to the Star-pilot Academy. Can you imagine the look on my face when instead, I got appointed to:

They picked me to be a fricking barber?

"There's gotta be some sort of mistake!", I'd pleaded with the robo-representative.

"Buzz --- there is no error --- beep --- I feel your pain --- buzz --- but you are best suited for the work selected --- beep --- you ship out at 1400 star-hours --- buzz --- have a nice life!"

"But I throat-fucked the prom queen!", I'd heard myself yell, as a pair of security agents dragged me off! "I'm no fricking barber!"

"Don't look so glum sonny", Officer Weber told me. "It could be worse ye know. Ye might've been assigned to the security section. Then ye could've grown old-n-bitter curbin' the antics of assholes like yer-self!"

The last thing I remember, after flashing him the bird, was a pair of riot-clubs simultaneously descending toward my head. When I woke up, the transport ship was just docking. I'd missed my scheduled flight. It was two days later, on a planet I'd never heard of before. The starport sign flashed like a cheap hotel marquee:

"Wow! That's quite the goose-egg ye've got there, Lad!"

"It's a pair of goose-eggs", I'd jabbered at the figure standing over me ( I was laying on the concourse floor, having been unceremoniously drop-kicked from the ship ). "Who are you?"

"Me name's Sargent Mostyron. I'm from the Academy. The Captn' sent me to fetch ye."

My ears picked up like a Rottweiler sniffing steak.

"You mean, the Star-pilot Academy?"

"Fock no, Lad! The Barber Academy! Come on, we're already runnin' late. Let's get yer gear."

"Ohhh,... Shit! It's not a dream", I'd muttered, burying my face in my hands. It was only then I'd noticed I was in handcuffs. Leg-irons too. "Why me? Why the fuck me?"

"Errr,... is there a problem, Lad?"

My first impulse was to flash the finger again, but despair had weakened my resolve ( so had the batting practice those security-goons played with my head ). I had no spirit for confrontation.

"Look, Sargent, no offense meant, but I wanna be a Star-pilot, not some fucking barber! I'm sure some sort of foul-up occurred in the computation. That can happen! Can't it?"

"First of all, Lad, call me Mos. None-o-thet Sargent-shit, please. Secondly, I totally understand yer consternation! It's entirely natural. At first glance, who the fock would opt to be a barber anyway? But we didn't select ye. Hubie did. And to me knowledge, it's never been wrong. Of course, I suppose there's always a first time, so I'm sure the Captn' will fully investigate the possibility, if ye wish."

"Yah! Yah! That's what I want", I'd yelped!

"Then that's what'll happen! But fer the time being, Lad, we've gotta go through the new-recruit protocol. Capish?"

"Ok", I muttered punchily, wondering just who this 'Captain' fellow was. The effects of those riot-clubs hadn't completely worn off. My thinking was bewildered. Mos looked like a blur to me. So did the two blokes standing behind him. "Just get me out of these irons, and I'll grab my gear."

"No focking way!"

"Huh? Y-You mean I've gotta stay restrained? Look Sarg,... errr,... I mean,... Mos, all I did was flash some security guys the bird! I'm not dangerous!"

"Don't fathom ye are, Lad. Not fer a fockin' second! Heck, I'd have done exactly the same, plus dropped me drawers and mooned those jamokes to boot!"

"Then why won't you uncuff me?"

"Who said anything about not uncuffin' ye? It's ye carrying yer own provisions that's verboten! Fer Clinton's sake, Lad, despite being reluctant, ye're still a Barber recruit!

"Wha...?"

Before I could mount an intelligible comeback, Mos barked an order.

"Spin, unlock the Lad! Code 37854. Dry, secure his baggage!"

The blokes behind Mos jumped at the command. Jiggles abounded. Jangling bells too. Even though I was still in a fog, one thing became clear:

Two pairs of beautifully feminine feet flanked me. Bare and cute; big toes ringed and sleighbelled; nails gleaming with enamel; balancing on tippytoes; heels quiveringly aloft; ankles deliciously slim; calf muscles rippling; obediently equestrian!

Milky thighs flashed as the duo dropped and squatted. A Jasmine fragrance bathed me. Girl sweat too. Bashfulness was a no-show. Only hip-dislocations could've beget more wide-spread postures!

Although translucent loin cloths shrouded their privates, I'd hardly minded. It was the jiggling that hammerlocked my attention, and with everything else oiled and bare, girl-charm was off the scale. Pliant boobs mamboing up a storm! As feminine and wiggly as any two-fister could dream! Despite having been bludgeoned into a stupor, my awareness suddenly loomed razor-keen. Had a Where's Waldo puzzle graced those tits, I'd have found him in a nano-second!

"Whinny! Snort! Whinny!", yapped Spin, as she face-lunged toward my handcuffs, tapping out the release-code with her nose. For some reason, her arms stayed cris-crossed behind her back.

My handcuffs fell free.

"Snort! Whinny! Snort!", went Dry, as she squat-waddled over to my duffel, adroitly fetched it by slipping her head under it's carrying strap ( arms also remaining criss-crossed behind ); then struggling back up, standing at full attention, still on tippytoes, boobs wiggling with each labored breath, sleighbells jingling up a storm.

"Whinny! Snort! Whinny!"

Bye-bye leg-irons. Boy, Spin sure had a talented schnazz. And as I would eventually discover, that would prove to be the least of her skills. A second later, she was back flanking her friend, looking no less beguiling.

A million questions churned in my head. The one I blurted was as random as a lottery ball.

"Errr,... why do they keep their arms criss-crossed behi...?"

"Tell ye on the fly, Lad", Mos interrupted. "Come on. We're really runnin' late!"

Something about this felt familiar. Like I'd fallen through a looking glass.

Remember the Cantina bar in Star Wars, when Han blasted Greedo? Recall the wide spectrum of life-forms?

Ditto for the the Ponyworldo Starport, with males markedly varying in physique; spanning a gamut of looks and function that made one's head spin ( if one had a head ). Cyclops, triclops, hands, hooks, lobster claws, legs, fins, wings, stumps, hover-boards --- take your pick! ( I, of course, was considered quite handsome ).

Females, however, irrespective of origin, all looked much the same, --- all circa 20th century Earth girl!

Huh? How's that?

The best explanation is put forth in Gabriella Balboa's SPACE GIRLS FOR SALE ( published in EGAD Magazine no.1, vol.1 ). Paraphrased, Ms. Balboa wrote:

Accordingly, the Ponyworldo Starport was indeed a rich stew. Curiously bizarre-looking palookas; stunningly gorgeous women! ( in fact, much like 21st century L.A.) To all of which, as we traversed the maze of corroders, I'd been totally...

And it wasn't because I was unobservant.

Or unintelligent.

Or a cultural boor ( although this was close ).

"Whinny! Snort! Whinny! Snort! Whinny!"

"Snort! Whinny! Snort! Whinny! Snort!!"

No, it's because I was distracted!

Spin and Dry, who'd been leading the way, had the most lovely big-bottoms imaginable ( and I can imagine a lot! ). And dreamy haunches too. Satiny and full. Oh-so fit. Rippling just right. And the most curvaceous calves ( impeccably conditioned, perhaps by the tippy-toed stance they exclusively displayed ). And it all loomed sassy and bare; oil-glossed; tightly harnessed in polished leather.

"W-What's the size of those w-waist g-gussets?", I blurted at random, eying the swaying girl-cabooses unblinkingly.

"24 inches", Mos replied.

"Wow! They look tinier then that!"

"It's the hips, Lad. A robust 36 and 38 inches respectively. Coupled with big alabaster cheeks and contrasting black leather, it gives the illusion of a really tiny waist. But believe me, they're exactly 24. Heck, they're all 24. That's the standard for B.I.S. caliber ponies!"

"B.I.S. ponies? Wha... What's that?

"Them's that!", Mos chuckled, pointing to the tandem in front of us. "They're gifts from appreciative clients. We get 'em all the time. Most are former B.I.S.'s. And, hey, ye won't catch me complainin'!"

I should have asked what B.I.S. meant, but the bondage issue was too compelling to be deferred any longer. Not with the charming way the girls' arms twitched in those pretzel-like configurations.

"Why the criss-crossed thing?"

"Ye got a look at their titties, did ye?"

"Heck, yah!" ( let's face it, the shit-eating grin frozen on my face was a dead give-away! )

"A really good look?"

"Yah!" ( once again, reference the S. E. G. )

"Like 'em?"

"Y-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-h-h-h-h-h!", I'd hissed, sounding like Bubba responding to an Interns-Day invitation. "With all that fabulous jut and jiggliness, how could you not?"

"That's the bondage takin' it's toll, Lad! Nothing makes girl-glands look more alluring; or gavotte more bodaciously then arms locked behind-the-back. And then of course, there's the phylogeny thing: ponies don't have arms, and most ponymasters want to be true to that. But thet's just my opinion, and ye have to remember where me expertise lays. I'm a barber!"

Oh yeah. That's right. And I'm supposed to be one too. Fuck! Reality bites! ( bye-bye S.E.G.! ).

Still, the girls' bondage commanded my focus.

"But what keep's 'em criss-crossed like that? I mean, I don't see any connecting straps or cables?"

"Very perceptive of ye, Lad", Mos complemented. "That'd be an easy point to miss, conciderin' all the eye-candy; not to mention them sumptuous coiffures!"

Boy, Mos hit that nail squarely! Besides having grade-A physiques, both girls sported high-tied ponytails, each luxuriously cascading to the top of their butt-cracks; partly cloaking the cuffs they wore at upper arms and wrists.

Spin was a lush, wavy, nearly black brunette. Dry loomed naturally blonde and curly.

"I've always noticed things easily", I replied. "On all those standardized-tests, where you've gotta read something, then answer questions --- I'd always scored high! Plus, no one can beat me at Wheel-of-Fortune or Concentration. I guess it just comes natural to me."

"What about Scrabble?"

"That too!"

"Mr. Potato Head?"

"I'm Invincible!"

"Twixt?"

"Ditto!"

"I'm beginnin' ta understand why ye've been sent here, Lad!"

"Huh?"

"Those cuffs are magneto-dynamic", Mos lectured, returning to the original subject, ignoring my quizzical look. "They generate force-vectors which define exact position in space relative to each other!"

"Wow!", I'd exclaimed, immediately recognizing the implications. "Are the waist-gussets and collars magneto-dynamic too?"

"Naturally."

"Then with proper software integration", I hissed, "a damsel could be corkscrewed into any posture imaginable! Wrists-to-opposite-elbows! Ankles-to-wrists! Neck-to-ankles! Anything!"

"Bingo!", Mos chuckled. "Whatever ye fancy, Lad, there's a program can be written for it!"

"Fuck!", I blurted, staring at the nearly-nude girls sashaying in front; suddenly loving computer science.

"But don't ferget about the 'dynamics' part, Lad!"

"Huh? Wha-da-ya mean?"

"Think about it. You're a smart boy."

"Ok,... lemmie see. D y n a m i c? Lively? Energetic? Animated? Yah! That's it! Animated! You can program choreography! Make a full-figured girl creep like a nun, or cavort like a harlot!"

"Bingo again, Lad!"

"Double fuck!", I hissed through clenched teeth.

"I concur", Mos replied. "But the preferred accolade in these parts isn't 'Fuck'. It's Yabba!"

"Yabba?"

"Exactly! Say it again, Lad."

"Yabba!"

"Again! But, with more feeling! Eyeball them fabulous girl-cabooses while articulating."

"Excellent! Now,... try ta imagine a taskmaster wielding a riding-crop; havin' his way with one-o them cheeky bottoms! Doing whatever strikes his fancy, if ye'll excuse the pun. Nyuk! Nyuk!"

Did he say try to imagine? Gee,... h-here goes...

"Yer a quick study!", Mos exclaimed, "And I hope ye don't take offense at this, Lad, but I'll bet me last Clintollar Hubie's made no mistake! If ye ask me, ye're a natural fer barberin', Lad! A fockin' natural!"