Manuel’s Trial of Manhood by Dominic

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Manuel had always been fascinated by strength. Not the kind you saw in gyms or in polished suits, but raw, living strength — the kind that walked in boots, carried in the chest, spoke with a voice that made you obey before you even thought. That strength was his soldier. Broad shoulders, a gaze like steel, and discipline etched into every movement.

They had kept their relationship quiet, meeting only outside the barracks. But even there, Manuel felt the soldier’s authority press on him, shaping him. One night, as they sat drinking, the soldier leaned close, his breath hot, his tone sharp and dangerous:

—"If you’re with me, you don’t wear your hair like that. You shave it off. Smooth. Like a man."

Manuel froze, his hand brushing the long hair that fell over his ears. That hair had always been part of him, something soft, something free. The idea of losing it left his throat dry. But in the soldier’s eyes there was no room for debate. It wasn’t a request. It was an order. And God, something inside him lit up at the thought of obeying.

The following Saturday, the soldier took him past the gates of the battalion. The world inside was different — sharp, masculine, unforgiving. The rhythm of boots, the shouts of orders, the smell of sweat, oil, and dust. Manuel’s pulse quickened with every step.

At the far end of the barracks was the barber’s room. A chair stood waiting, simple but heavy with meaning. The soldier pushed him down into it with one firm hand on his shoulder. The barber looked at the soldier, not at Manuel.

—"Zero?"

The soldier’s nod was absolute.

The clippers came to life with a brutal buzz. Manuel felt the vibration before the first pass carved through the middle of his scalp, cold and merciless. Thick locks slid down, hitting his shoulders, tumbling to the floor. His reflection stared back at him — exposed, vulnerable, burning with humiliation.

—"Chin up," the soldier growled. "Men don’t hide. Men endure."

The clippers carved path after path, erasing him down to stubble. The room filled with the sound of steel on skin, and Manuel’s body burned with adrenaline. He wanted to look away, but the soldier’s presence behind him, arms crossed, eyes hard, kept him frozen upright.

When the machine fell silent, the barber smeared his scalp with cold foam. The razor followed, sharp and steady, scraping everything down to bare skin. Each stroke stripped away the last of his softness. He could feel himself being remade, his scalp tingling, shining under the fluorescent light.

The soldier finally stepped forward, placing his rough palm firmly on Manuel’s freshly shaved head, pressing until Manuel nearly buckled.

—"Better," he said, his voice deep, satisfied. "Now you look like mine. Hard. Disciplined. A man."

Manuel’s breath came shallow, his chest tight, his body alive with the humiliation and the rush of it. He had never felt so vulnerable, and never so claimed.

But the soldier wasn’t finished. He leaned in, his voice a low command against Manuel’s ear:

—"This isn’t just about hair. You want me? You live like me. Same cut, same uniform, same discipline. You sign up. You join the military. Then you’ll prove you’re not just mine — you’re worthy of me. You’ll prove you’re a man."

Manuel’s scalp burned under the soldier’s grip, his heart hammering against his ribs. He wanted to resist, but deep inside, he knew he wouldn’t. He couldn’t.

The uniform wasn’t just calling him. It was claiming him.

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