Donnie Pfaster - Profile of a Fetishist
By Piper Sargasso

Rated: R 

Feedback: PiperSargasso@aol.com

Keywords: None

Category: S

Disclaimer: Recognizable characters 
within belong to CC, 1013 Productions 
and Twentieth-Century Fox. No 
infringement is intended.

Summary: "What fuels his need? It's as 
if it's not enough that they're dead. 
He has to defile them. There's a deeper 
psychosis at work here. And anger toward 
women, possibly his mother. This kind of 
killer isn't made overnight. He's been 
fueling this fetish for years."

Author's Note: This is a companion piece 
to "Satin." Eternal thanks to the amazing 
Mimic, the fastest beta in all the land! 

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Growing up in the Twin Cities, I was the 
favorite among my sisters. The baby of 
the family. Each doted on me endlessly, 
from my earliest childhood memories to 
the day I fell from their grace.

My childhood was wholly unremarkable. I 
played and went to school, like any other 
child, though the children at school 
teased me relentlessly, calling me 
"weirdo". They would toss bits of their 
lunch at me in the cafeteria and steal 
pencils out of my desk. 

Those things were unimportant to me. I 
always knew I was special.

Other than that, there is little to tell. 
As I've said, it was unremarkable. Not 
like now. Now, my life has meaning. 
Substance. I no longer crave Mother's 
love.

At times I can still hear her demanding, 
judgmental voice, irritated and angry with 
me:

"Donnie, would it kill you to smile once in 
a while?"

"Donnie, must you always sneak around 
here like a little spy? I swear, 
you're the strangest child I've ever 
seen. None of your sisters ever behaved 
this way!"

Or, when she was drunk on vodka and 
cranberry juice, her drink of choice 
after Father's death:

"Donald Addie Pfaster, you look at me 
that way again and I'll knock the livin' 
hell outta you, do you understand me, 
young man?"

I'd been on the receiving end of her 
belt for years, though my sisters never 
knew it. They never saw the red welts 
she strategically placed on my back and 
buttocks. *They* were fawned over, 
treated with love and compassion. My own 
father never even found out what Mother 
did to me while he was away on business. 
No one knew of the anger and hatred that 
dwelt behind the smiling image of the 
perfect wife and mother. It was our 
little secret. And I was always very good 
at keeping secrets.

Whenever she flew into a fury, I 
retreated deep within myself. I learned 
to make myself numb, pretending to be 
Susan or Miranda, sometimes even Rachael. 

My sisters. They were beautiful 
creatures who accepted me and generously 
doled out the love Mother so greedily 
hoarded. Susan was the oldest. She 
married in her early twenties and moved 
out of the house. Andrea was the second. 
Like Susan, she married soon after 
college graduation. Miranda went away 
to Virginia Tech straight out of high 
school. We saw very little of her after 
that. Rachael was the youngest of the 
four daughters. She treated me like I 
was her baby doll most of the time. 

All four of them were the carbon copy 
of Mother - they looked exactly like 
her. All four petted and hugged me 
constantly, maternal and treating me 
as their own. This was my life as a 
child, the youngest of a family of 
women.



It was interesting that, despite their 
love for me, I found myself fantasizing 
about murdering them in their sleep very 
early on, savoring their screams while 
the blood spilled readily from their 
bodies onto the sheets. In my mind, I 
held funerals and graveside services for 
my beloved sisters.

By the time I was fifteen, Susan, Andrea 
and Miranda were out of the house, 
living their perspective lives. Rachael 
attended a community college while she 
stayed at home with Mother and I. She 
took care of the house while Mother 
stayed in her room and mourned for my 
father. His passing the year before 
didn't faze me as it did them. Death is 
not something I fear, nor do I shun it. 
Death is beautiful. It's a thing to be 
preserved and treasured. I envied my 
father.

Eventually, I found a way to make myself 
happy, to fill in the void Mother created 
in my heart, despite the love of my 
sisters. It was just the three of us at 
that point and though Rachael was kind, 
Mother still made her hatred toward me 
very clear. 

One night, I snuck into Rachael's room 
while she was away at classes and rifled 
through her closets. She had the most 
stunning dresses of all my sisters, but 
wasn't quite tall enough to have the 
appropriate sizes for me. I was 
discouraged and nearly gave up on the 
whole idea when I remembered the unwanted 
clothes Susan had left behind in her 
closet. My search produced a lovely 
green dress with ruffles and sequins. I 
dressed hastily and returned to Rachael's 
room.

Her vanity was filled with trinkets and 
tidbits of interest. I sifted through a 
wicker basket of makeup she had there 
and chose my colors carefully, recalling 
all the times I'd spent watching my older 
siblings apply their makeup in preparation 
for a date or other event. They'd satisfied 
my curiosity with their teasing answers to 
my questions, unknowingly preparing me for 
that moment.

Once I was comfortably seated, I began 
a ritual that would fill my nights for 
the next few years. I first used a 
cotton ball and a witch hazel solution 
to cleanse my skin of impurities. Next, 
I smoothed on a moisturizer, which made 
my skin soft and smooth. The trickiest 
part was the foundation, which had to 
be applied heavily over the area where a 
beard was trying to grow in. I shaved 
three times a day in order to keep the 
whiskers at bay, leaving tiny red bumps 
wherever the blade went. These had to be 
covered.

The eye makeup wasn't so tricky. I became 
skilled at using the little brushes and 
applicators and a genius when wielding my 
eyeliner. It paved the way for the 
cosmetology classes I took later in life. 

The lipstick was my favorite part. With it, 
I was able to create pouty, sensuous lips. 
It truly transformed me. I completed my 
look with jewelry and pantyhose, though 
none of the shoes there fit my large feet. 
Then, I would stand up and admire my 
handiwork before the full-length, standing 
mirror. I was beautiful.

Everything would be removed and put away 
before Rachael returned.

This was my little secret. No one else 
knew. 




I once overheard Aunt Alice and 
Grandmother speaking in hushed tones in 
our living room. I was seventeen, ready 
to graduate high school. That was the 
day I found out who I really was - and 
why Mother hated me.

I was the product of a rape. Mother had 
been late one evening from a bridge club 
meeting. Walking on her way home, a man 
jumped from behind a parked car and 
attacked her. Grandmother shook her head 
and commented that Mother had not been 
the same since. 

I was intrigued. Who was my real father? 
What events in his life had led him to 
attack Mother? It also explained the hatred 
Mother afforded me. Would I have felt the 
same, were it me? I suppose I should've been 
horrified by the discovery. Instead, I was 
fascinated.





As a young adult, I discovered a need 
like no other. I became entranced with 
women, feeling urges unlike any I'd ever 
known. Sometimes, on a bus or standing 
in line behind a beautiful young woman, 
I felt the overwhelming desire to reach 
out and touch her hair. The sight of a 
woman running long, perfectly manicured 
nails through her hair was sometimes so 
erotic, I would spill into my pants. I'd 
never been with a woman, but I was sure 
this was better than intercourse could 
ever be.

Soon, all I wanted was to have some of 
that feeling for myself, to reach out 
and touch any time I pleased. I began 
to fantasize not about my sister's deaths 
anymore, but about cutting thick locks 
away and hoarding them in my house. I 
imagined what a pair of scissors would 
feel like in my hand, the weight of them 
and what sound they would make as they 
sliced through full and shiny tresses.

I found it was controllable. After 
graduating from cosmetology school, I 
began working in a salon, loving the 
daily exposure to the different colors and 
textures of women's hair. It was heavenly. 

Some nights, I would dress in the prettiest 
ensembles I could find in my size, taking 
great care with my makeup and wigs. They 
were made of the clippings I'd procured at 
the salon and woven by myself. I loved to 
parade around at a local drag club in my new 
hair, but I never spoke to anyone. I never 
took a lover. Those things didn't interest 
me. I wanted only to be seen, to show off my 
beauty. When I was found out by a friend of 
the family, my sisters and Mother never spoke 
to me again. I think they were afraid. I quit 
dressing up soon after - it no longer held 
the satisfaction I desired.




As I grew older, my fondness of the dead 
became an obsession. I yearned to touch 
the cold skin and comb their hair with my 
fingers. Sometimes, I even imagined making 
love to them. They would be so giving, so 
caring - if I made a mistake, they would 
patiently wait for me to correct the 
problem. I couldn't dream of a better 
introduction to intimacy.

After an unfortunate encounter with my 
boss at the salon, I was forced to find 
employment elsewhere. An ad in the 
newspaper for an assistant at 
Janelli-Heller Funeral Home captured my 
attention. Within a week, I was hired.

Watching the mourners weep for their 
lost loved ones was exhilarating.  I 
soon realized I couldn't deny myself 
any longer. The dizzying urge to snip 
locks of hair from the pretty corpses 
became too great for me. It was what 
I'd always dreamed of, what I'd always 
wanted, but never knew until then - the 
hair of the dead. The beautiful dead. 

It amazed me that the texture never 
changed, a stark contrast to the stiff 
and cold skin. I found myself obsessed 
with the prospect of death, of its 
perfection. People would sob and cry 
for the loss of a young woman, berating 
God and declaring the injustice of a 
life with such potential being cut 
short. 

I, however, reveled in it, eager to 
assist in the process of preservation. 
I would let my touches linger over 
their breasts as I buttoned their 
blouses sometimes and loved to run my 
hands over their nude bodies. Their 
nipples were always in a state of 
arousal. This fascinated me. I trembled 
as I applied the makeup and combed 
slowly through their hair, alone in 
the room after the embalming. I wanted 
to make it last, to savor every second 
of our time together and commit it to 
memory. It was enough to last me until 
the final closing of the casket where I 
would finally take what was mine. 

Not even the autopsy cases bothered me 
or kept me from deriving my pleasure 
from their cold, but giving bodies. 
One of my fondest memories is of a 
beautiful brunette who'd arrived late 
in the day. I ran my hands lightly over 
her stomach, up to her firm breasts and 
across her stiff nipples. The Y-incision 
left on her delicate belly and chest was 
so pretty. I found myself unable to resist 
licking the puckered flesh around the 
sturdy thread holding her together. I 
smile every time I think about it.

Mr. Toews never knew that I stole into 
the lower rooms of the funeral home 
and collected my treasures. I stuffed 
a pillowcase with luxurious hair of 
all colors, which I slept on every 
night. Every attractive young woman 
that had passed through our doors 
contributed to my collection. In the 
quiet solitude of my bedroom each night, 
I would rest my head atop my soft pillow 
and pull out the Ziploc bag filled with 
the excess hair I'd gathered. I would 
reach inside, rolling the silkiness 
between my fingers and rub it across my 
face and bare chest as I touched myself.



When I was caught at the funeral home, I 
was still high on the adrenaline rush of 
a conquest achieved. I had what I wanted 
from that place. However, I quickly 
realized my mistake. Soon, I was forced to 
resort to grave digging to satisfy my urges. 
It just wasn't enough. I needed more.

One morning, I went out to get the paper and 
saw an article warning of a possible stalker 
in the area in the corner of the front page. 
It cautioned women to be careful and listed 
several safety tips and defense mechanisms, 
urging them to be aware of their 
surroundings. That made me smile. 

It also gave me an idea. What if I were 
to create my own bodies? They would be 
fresh and I could take my time with them, 
rather than having to rush around for 
half-decayed tidbits. A plan formed in my 
mind. I would seek out the easiest, most 
available donors, as I liked to think of 
them, and harvest from them what I needed.

The thought was exciting. Now that my 
supply had been cut off, thanks to an 
unexpected, late arrival by Mr. Toews, I 
had to find a new source anyway.

Driving down the streets of downtown 
Minneapolis, I found exactly what I was 
looking for. A row of prostitutes lined 
the sidewalk next to an abandoned 
building. All were vying for my attention, 
but only one caught my eye - an angel in 
black, with her golden tresses falling 
delicately over her shoulders and down 
her arms.

I liked blondes. I loved the way the 
light glinted off of each strand and 
shone brightly in the sun. 

She complained about the apartment being 
cold, but I thought the temperature was 
quite lovely. I liked it cold. It enhanced 
the mood.

It was unfortunate that Marilyn at 
Ficicello's chose that particular moment 
to call me. It forced me to take drastic 
measures, depriving me of my fantasy. 
Instead of taking her life in the tub, as
 I had so desperately wanted to, I had to
 chase after her. I dragged her into the 
kitchen by her hair and pulled the butcher
 knife from the block where it rested, then 
yanked her back into the bathroom. She 
fought, but weakly and in vain. I shoved the
 knife into her stomach, to the hilt, and 
pulled forcibly upward, causing some of her
 entrails to peek out from behind the 
splayed wound.

She took her bath then.

I refused to be discouraged by the change 
of plan, instead deciding to make the best 
of it. I toweled her body off and blow-dried 
her satiny hair, then laid her gently upon 
my bed. The bed was chosen specifically for 
it's wrought-iron handiwork, which reminded 
me of the cemetery's gothic fences surrounding 
our large family plot. I liked to imagine I 
was lying atop that plot when I was alone in 
the dark with my bundle of hair. Beautifully 
decayed funeral sprays decorated the room, 
borrowed from the dumpster of a nearby 
cemetery.

She was perfect. 

I took some of her fingers with a 
wire-cutter and carefully extracted the 
nails of her remaining fingers with a 
pair of needle-nosed pliers. The biggest 
chunk of the time was spent trimming away 
her gorgeous blonde locks.

Once I was finished with her, I dumped her 
near where she worked. The dogs could have 
her for all I cared. I had what I wanted.




On my new job for Ficicello's, I stumbled 
upon something wonderful. Lisa Brumfield 
was so like my sisters and her mother was 
so trusting, telling a complete stranger 
about their lax security habits. I 
collected a wad of brown hair out of their 
wastebasket, giving myself an appetizer to 
hold me over until the main course was 
available.

If it weren't for Claire, I would be 
sampling that main course now, rather than 
sitting in this jail cell, staring uselessly 
at the four walls. Her hair was too short 
for my liking anyway. What I really craved 
were those perfect, pink fingernails of hers. 
I'm angry with myself for being so careless 
as to get caught.  

She was so pretty, sitting in that 
classroom. I knew I had to have her as 
soon as I saw those manicured nails 
scrape lightly beneath her cropped, 
blond hair. It was a shame that I 
startled her. She had campus security 
on me before I knew what was happening.

But all these thoughts are swept away 
as soon as I see her. She's a vision, 
a portrait of perfection in her serious 
business suit and glowing red hair. A 
lawyer? No, lawyers don't travel in such 
large packs. 

I hear the tall man identify himself as 
FBI. So she's an agent? That's fine with 
me. I don't discriminate when it comes 
to my donors.

The deep auburn of her shiny hair refracts 
the light, creating a dance of colorful 
prisms in the dull jail. I am mesmerized by 
this. Never before have I encountered such 
a rich and glossy shade of red. The 
clippings I have at home are either too 
red, too blonde or chemically enhanced. 
Not her. She's natural. I can tell.

I want her to come closer so I can touch it, 
feel the texture and weight of it in my hands. 
I want to bury my nose in it and inhale the 
fragrance deeply. She's so very beautiful. 



I want her.




~The End~