The Boarding House

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When I first took over my dad’s boarding house when I was 22, I had to admit I was a bit green. I’d let people slide on rent every so often, didn’t complain when the tenants got noisy and turned a blind eye to certain things I shouldn’t have. After hosting a massive eviction of all my tenants, I asked my dad for some help, someone to help me run the place properly. I had no clue was I getting myself into. Building management and maintenance weren’t my strongest suit and I was busy trying to find work as a writer. Little did I know, that this hired help would change my life.

Her name was Priscilla Moore. She was an older woman in her late thirties, a former sergeant in the army which meant she was no-nonsense. She was affable , and she seemed to need a place to stay immediately. “My current living situation is deteriorating rapidly” as she would tell me. I offered her a room at half off if she assisted with the tenants. She showed me resumes and her discharge documents to prove she was capable of handling the job and I gave her the position that day. She moved in the following week and for a while, it was just me and her. I lived the larger, sort-of penthouse on the third floor, and she stayed in a room on the ground floor. Priscilla was a spartan woman, not a lot of make-up or dress. She wore a lot of jeans, tank-tops, and slip-on shoes. The only earrings she seemed to own her a pair of white pearls that dangled from gold hooks. She had a curvy yet athletic body, even at her age, most of the boys in the neighborhood would give her a second glance without thinking. The most standout feature was her hair, which always cut short. Either a men’s coiffed look or short buzzcut. She’d always style it with some men’s styling gel, making it shiny. If it weren’t for her wide hips and big breasts, you’d say she was a guy.

She posted a list of rules on the common room wall for the new tenants to follow, with the subtitle that, the punishment would swift and severe if violated. As she posted them, she looked at me sharply and replied: “You’re expected to follow these, you know”. I nodded and took the comment as tongue in cheek remark but she was serious as I would tell soon enough. A few of my girlfriends came back after work to have a few drinks, and blow off some steam. It turned into a 3 am a karaoke contest, fueled by white zinfandel and breadsticks of the pizza was ordered. One of Priscilla’s rules was to keep the volume low past midnight. The next morning, she stood in the common room, looking very tired and patting her foot. “What did I tell you yesterday?” she asked. “Hey, Priscilla, I’m sorry about last night. I didn’t mean for it to get out of hand…” She shook her head and replied, “You broke the rules, and now you have to pay”. “Priscilla, this is my house! I don’t know who you think you are but-“. “No, it’s not your house. It’s your father’s and we had a nice chat this morning”. She handed a folded up piece of paper and replied “Your track record of running this place isn’t great, and now with you breaking the rules we discussed. He made an executive decision, on your behalf, to name me the manager of the building, over you”. I looked at the document and it was official, dated and signed that morning by them both. I exhaled in shock and fear, how could my father have done this to me? “Now, come to the kitchen and let’s get started”.

I sullenly followed her into the kitchen to find a single bar stool, with a bevy of hair products on the side table. “No!” I yelled out, stepping back from the table. “It’s either this, or I call the Marshall to have you evicted”. “You can’t do that!” She smiled at me defiantly and replied: “Yes, I can. Now sit your ass on the stool and shut your mouth”. She had exerted her authority over me, and I was completely helpless. I sat on the barstool on my PJs as she wrapped a cape around my neck, and set up her clippers. I panicked, the idea of getting my haircut by this woman was almost as scary as the thought of being homeless. She pulled on my hair jerking my head up so she could keep my head from squirming too much. The clipper crackled to life and she plunged the clippers into my hair at the hairline, unceremoniously shearing my light brown hair from my head. Long tresses pooled on the floor as she whistled a toon, I whimpered to myself, trying not to cry. She made precise passes over my crown and then the sides, finally polishing off the back. After ten minutes the clippers stopped and looked to a nearby mirror to see the results. A one inch serving of hair was all that was left, I felt like crying even more as she rolled the stooled to the sink and started to shampoo my hair. She kept switching bottles, washing my hair multiple times, which made me even more nervous than normal. I sat back up after she told me to, looking in the mirror to see jet black hair on my head. She sat me back on the stool and slid a shorter guide onto her clippers, cutting my hair to an ultra-short buzzcut. “A quarter inch is all you’ll have for now,” she said. She quickly grabbed a straight razor and gave me a sharp edge hairline all around. She handed me a broom and told me to sweep the floor up. After I finished, I called my father and told him what Priscilla did. I was crestfallen to hear back that I had live by her rules or move out on my own. Rent in the city was expensive and I couldn’t afford it. I laid on the bed and sighed, running my fingers through the paltry amount of hair she left me. I was stuck in this place, with this woman for the foreseeable future.

3 months had passed and I was still wearing the buzzcut. I decided to keep it short because it just was easier to deal with. Priscilla didn’t seem to mind keeping it groomed for me, she didn’t ask for any money and it felt like she enjoyed it on some level. However, I was still getting into trouble with her every now and again but she seemed to ease her grip once she got to know me completely. My friends despised her but she was a den mother and nobody dared to mess with her. My second strike occurred innocently, but Priscilla said I still needed to be punished. My dad was no help as I learned that Priscilla was going to shave all my hair off and use a razor to make me bald. I reported the kitchen and she caped me. She approached with her clippers, the blade she had on it had four zeroes. It only took five minutes to shave the hair off completely, I stared at my bare head, regretting that I left a window open and the house was broken into. She beat the guy senseless but because I left everyone vulnerable to the threat, I had to suffer the consequences. She lathered my head with a men’s shaving brush and scraped the last bit of hair from my head. I didn’t cry or panic, I just took my punishment and moved on about my day. It wasn’t until she produced a tube of cream that sent my heart into my stomach, slathering the cream on and massaging it into my scalp. “This cream will make your head smooth for the next six months. That’s how long you have to prove that you desire to have hair on your head”. I gasped, realizing the gravity of the situation at hand.

I went home for Thanksgiving and everyone reacted with shock and awe to my bald head. A few ex-boyfriends palmed it at the bar, my brother kept poking it and my parents were absolutely no help, siding with the army lady who was bringing in a hefty profit. I returned home after Christmas to Priscilla sitting the common room, drinking and smoking a cigar. It was technically against the rules, I dared not to call her on it. I went in and plopped on the couch, giving her a curt “Hi”. “Someone ruined your holiday?” she asked. “Yes, because of this stupid bald head. I wish I could have beaten that burglar’s ass myself. At least, I could have vented a bit”. Priscilla chuckled and said “I might have something that will make you feel better”. “And risk breaking another rule? No thank you, Sergeant”. She scoffed and replied, “Take off your shirt, and sit in front of the fire, smartass”. Not wanting to piss off my landlord, I did so. I waited in my jeans and black lace bra, as she strode in with a tube of oil, a bottle of wine, and what looked like a joint. She closed the door and locked it, smiling at me. I was getting more nervous by the second but she sat down behind me, ran her fingers over my bald head. In that instant, I felt a bit more relaxed. “By the way, you make bald look good. Not much of a punishment” she poured a bit of the oil onto her hands, rubbed them together and started to rub my scalp. “This won’t make me bald forever will it?” I replied, feeling her fingers over my scalp. “No, but you might reconsider that option after I’m done”. She massaged my temples, softly rubbing my skin, gradually working up to a kneading motion. I felt more and more relaxed as her fingers did their magic, I even started to get aroused. It had been so long since I’d gotten any, trying to stay out of trouble in my place was exhausting me. I could hear Priscilla giggling from my reactions. My pussy got wet from her touch, and I was the furthest thing from a lesbian, so it was baffling. She slowly finished as I felt how wet I was. “Oh, God! That felt amazing!” I said, taking a sip of wine. Priscilla smiled and said, “You’re welcome”. I patted my crouch to find it soaked, she looked at my wet spot and replied: “Take your pants off”. “What? No!” I replied, totally taken aback. She folded her arms and looked at me with the same look she gave me when I got in trouble. “Oh, fuck me!” I replied, sliding off my jeans. “Lay on your back with your knees up”. I followed suit, and she knelt down sliding my black lace panties up and down my legs. She spread my legs and held her index finger to her lips, softly shushing me as her face disappeared between my legs. The sensation I felt was heavenly, her tongue felt so good. I struggled to keep my moans inside, but it was hard, Priscilla was pro down there. I came quicker than I had ever thought I would, she seemed to enjoy it. She sat me up and held me by the fire. “You know this makes you my bitch now, right?”. She kissed the side of my head and I smiled, as bizarre as it sounds, we drank the wine and split the joint, chatting the rest of the night. She also believed I had learned my lesson and she’d stop with the impromptu haircuts. The next day, I went down to her room and we did it again. Priscilla was turning me from a ditzy wannabe blonde to a bald lesbian, something at that time I wouldn’t have believed was even possible.

In the present day, I’m 31 now. Priscilla and I live in the penthouse together, it has been almost 10 years since we starting dating. Priscilla purchased the building from my dad eventually, having turned a nice profit and she managed a few others in the neighborhood. I was writing in my spare time, Priscilla basically took care of me financially, I really wanted for nothing with her. The hair removal cream wore off and for several months after I had hair, I missed the sensation of the wind on my scalp, Priscilla’s fingers, and her lips. Every summer since that fateful evening by the fire, I usually go bald. Priscilla gradually reduced my hair growth with her removal cream to the point where it barely grows past a quarter inch. The same length as when she first shaved my head all those years ago. In the next few months, it could eventually stop altogether and I’d be bald for good. Priscilla absolutely wears the pants in the relationship and I’m perfectly happy with her, my perfect woman in this little old boarding house.

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