2867 Stories - Awaiting Approval:Stories 0; Comments 1.
This site is for Male Haircut Stories and Comments only.

A Generous Benefactor: Part 2 by dukebaldfade

The scene in the barbershop flashed back to me constantly, with that authoritative voice ringing out across my memory over my head, small and helpless in the chair under the cape. I had to keep reminding myself to concentrate on my work, but no matter what, I was brought back to the chair, that voice, and that mysterious evening.

After my generous benefactor's trim, he had led me out of the shop and driven me to an old-fashioned apartment, where we explored each other's hair and more.

I had tried calling since then, hand slick on the phone, heart pounding, but I had to listen to my pulse rushing between the dial tones as he failed to pick up. He was toying with me, just as he had done in the barbers. Perhaps a couple of days was not yet enough time. I tried again after a week, but couldn't reach him for another three, by which point a significant amount of fuzz had grown back. It was far from being anything like the gloriously coiffed style I had before, but it looked more like a normal haircut than what I had been given before.

"Good evening," came that chocolate-smooth voice.

I was so taken aback that I almost dropped the phone. "I- I- er- I mean, good evening." I cursed myself for stuttering and merely repeating his wordsmith

"So you must be ready for your next haircut, boy."

I gulped. He had me. Those words in that voice made my stomach do a flip.

"Your silence indicates your assent." His voice was wickedly cruel, but oh how I craved his cruelty. To have yet another short haircut by his word would be delicious and yet I found myself full of dread. "Meet me by Thomson's Barber Shop tomorrow afternoon, 6 o'clock sharp."

Click. He had hung up. I stood there, stunned for a moment, before putting the receiver down.

Thomson's - I knew where it was but had never gone in. It had a red and white striped awning that was grubby with age, and it wasn't far from my generous benefactor's apartment. I wondered with a jolt if we would repeat the routine of going back to his apartment after the haircut where he would pose as my father.

After a fitful night, I got up and showered by 8, and then sat in my living room, sweating slightly despite the chill in the air, not feeling hungry in the slightest, consumed by thoughts of my evening. I set out at 8:50 for work, a little late in my distraction. The day passed in a blur, and I barely remembered talking to my colleagues or customers. I drove home quickly, having left a little early. As soon as I got home, I left for Thomson's on foot, not wanting to be overly early but also wary of being late.

I sat outside the barber shop on the bench, noting that over my shoulder the barber had no clients, but was busying himself inside. I watched the hands on my watch edge slowly towards 6.

A soft touch fell on my shoulder, causing me to jump a mile. I looked up to see the handsome man who I knew so well from our first encounter at the barbershop and from the dreams that had haunted me since. His small wire-rimmed glasses flashed in the evening light, and pale blue eyes glittered with expectation behind the lenses.

"You're on time. Good," came that voice. I shivered slightly. "Come along."

I followed him into the barber shop and hovered awkwardly behind him, admiring his tailored tweed suit. The barber looked up, his hair wet with a strong-smelling pomade, and smiled at my friend.

"Evening, Dr. Winsor. Here with your son?"

"Yes, Thomson. The boy needs a good short haircut and I know you specialise in a certain cut that would suit him excellently."

Dr. Winsor chivvied me into the single barber chair with a pat to my rear with the newspaper he was holding. I craved seeing his hair shorn off, hacked into a brutal butch cut, no longer long enough to part in that professorial cowlick wave. But his hair was also a source of fascination for me, a reminder of what I once had and what he had deprived me of. I wondered why he kept it so long, considering his obvious preference for short hair on me.

"What do you want?" The words were directed at the mirror to the doctor behind me.

"A short flattop." My blood turned to ice as the cape was whirled around me. Dr. Winsor's words were brief but full of authority. "Sides taken high, horseshoe, and a nice big landing strip."

The words were mostly foreign to me. I could tell it was going to be short because I didn't have much to work with. The top had grown out to around just over a half inch now, so it had to be very short.

"Good choice for a lad this age. No nonsense, nothing to fiddle with."

Evidently Thomson was also unaware of my actual age, thoroughly convinced of the lie that I was Dr. Winsor's son. Thomson already had a set of large clippers in his hands, and I tried to see if they had a longer attachment in the mirror, but my head was pushed right down into my chest. They clacked to life, and I felt as the barber scooped them up the side of my head almost to the top. He worked quickly, stripping the hair off and allowing it to fall into the cape, but he didn't get far before my benefactor spoke up again.

"Shave the sides to zero, won't you, Thomson," came the smooth voice over my shoulder.

"Right you are, doctor," said Thomson, and gleefully removed the attachment from the clippers before going back over what he'd done. This time, the metal teeth of the clippers bit into the pelt of hair again, and I felt my hair being buzzed off at the scalp, disbelieving my own arousal as my hair was removed. I watched in stunned silence as Thomson peeled off my sideburn that I'd rebelliously allowed to grow a little. The mirror showed naked skin around one side of my head, while the other looked short enough already to me.

Thomson was a much faster barber than the one he had had give me the ivy league before, and I could tell why Dr. Winsor preferred him. His clippering was efficient and smooth, and he treated me like a boy, shoving my head this way and that in order to better shave off my hair. The comb was brought in as well to guide the very upper part of the sides, pressing close to my head such that I wondered if it had any length at all. Soon the clippers and comb were put to the side, and I sat motionless with my hair regrowth in my lap, bald except for the top of my head.

The spritz bottle drenched the hair on top of my head in moments, but there was no scissor or clipper produced. Instead, the barber had a hairdryer and brush, and turned me from the mirror to brush the top of my hair straight back and blast hot air over it. He continued like this for several minutes, and my scalp prickled slightly with the scratching bristles of the brush and the weirdness of my hair being blow-dried the wrong way.

The dryer fell silent, and I was turned back to the mirror with my hair looking like a wave standing up straight, my forehead wide underneath.

He took out a very thin flat comb and the huge clippers again, and caught the comb in my erect fringe. The buzzing clippers hungrily came closer and to my shock, sheared off everything that came above the comb. I instinctively followed the tumbling hair to the cape with my eyes, but Thomson wrenched my head up straight again.

"Don't move, boy," snapped the barber. "This is a precision cut and any mistake will mean I have to shave you bald."

My cock twitched and I instantly froze, and looked dead ahead at myself in the mirror. A chunk of my fringe was gone, and I noted that the edges of the hair were shorn completely flat like a ledge on top of my head.

The comb was reinserted, and pushed back. I watched as the clippers once again zipped across the comb and another swathe of hair was flicked over my nose. As he went further back, the comb pressed closer and closer to my head. It seemed odd that the sides should stick up and yet the hair in the middle of my head should be clipped down so short. Behind, Dr. Winsor's glasses flashed as he watched over the newspaper the progress of the haircut he was forcing me to have, a slow smile curling his lips and twisting my insides. As the barber got to the back, the comb was removed, which released some of the pressure on my head. But then the clippers mowed forwards from the back of my head, completely without guard or comb. They pushed over my crown and then further forward towards the remains of my fringe. The top of my head was being shaved bald!

I must have looked shocked because the barber chuckled at my expression. "Never had a landing strip before, boy?"

I opened my mouth but no sound came out. From the front I couldn't yet see the bald patch the barber was making on my head, but I could sure feel the teeth of those clippers. He brought the clippers and comb to the front again and shortened the level all over again, precisely making sure every hair was accounted for and clipped flat as a well-trimmed lawn.

"Now keep even more still," warned Thomson as he put his comb down. He brought the clippers over and free-handedly went over the transition from the horseshoe to the landing strip, carving off barely a millimetre. I dared not breathe.

Another blast from the dryer later and I thought I was almost free. But I was wrong: he started dispensing some hot lather from a machine to the side of the station, and coated my head almost entirely with it. Then with a straight cut-throat razor, he shaved away any and all of the stubble remaining. The rasping and stropping of the razor formed a rhythm to the bizarre feeling of my head being shaved. I was still frozen and stiff from being told to stay still, and the sight of my head encased in white fluffy lather would have been almost comical, had it not been for the hardness of my cock straining against my jeans.

Now I was sure I must be almost done. But the barber smeared a smudge of some pomade or another in his hand and massaged it into the semicircle of quarter inch hair I had up there now. The quick comb Thomson gave me seemed unnecessary, since there was practically nothing left up there now.

My generous benefactor came over and inspected the cut. He nodded curtly, unable to find fault with the immaculate flattop that had been made of my hair.

"A perfect military-standard horseshoe for the boy. Will you be wanting a trim too, Dr. Winsor?"

The doctor shook his head. His own hair was quite long, a good few inches on top combed into a razor-sharp parting with a spectacular wave. His nape still looked trimmed, if a little longer than when I had last seen him. "Just the boy."

He paid for my haircut before tapping my rear again with the newspaper towards the door.

"Don't touch it," he said sharply as my head rose to feel the baldness on top of my head. He walked quickly down the street, indicating that I should follow him back to his apartment.

**email me for further steamy scenes in this story: dukebaldfade at gmail dot com**

Your Name
Web site designed and hosted by Channel Islands Internet © 2000-2016