Roy Miller
The Price of Equality: Freya’s Degradation
This is in continuation of St. Augustine’s series (Gwen’s Degradation) but can be read as a standalone.
After a strenuous legal battle over my employment at the esteemed St. Augustine’s Academy, here I was, standing at the gate of this hundred-year-old educational institution, awaiting my first day as an English teacher. It was an institution where only male teachers were chosen until I had the balls to challenge them in court over my contemporaries. And I won.
I had put on my crispiest shirt and pencil, paired with nude pumps knowing I deserved every bit of this day.
“Ms. Barker, welcome to St. Augustine’s,” greeted the principal, Jack Owens. “We are really thrilled to have a female colleague amongst us for a change.”
He was a man who looked like in his early forties with an exceptionally good-looking tailored suit and a businessman’s coif.
“Thank you, Principal Owens. I am really looking forward to this day.”
“How about I give you a tour of the school?” He offered.
“I’d like that very much.”
He took me around the large halls, typically fashioned out of ancient structures, the administrative offices, specialised facilities and the library. And since classes were on, I had hardly seen any students loitering around the halls or the ground.
“I have been told that the students of St. Augustine’s are extremely disciplined and academically bright,” I said.
“Oh, yes. We are very strict in matters of rules. Speaking of, you did not happen to go through the school handbook, did you?”
“Well, in all honestly, I skimmed through a few pages,” I admitted sheepishly. “Is there something particular I should have noted?”
“Yes, the dress code and hairdo of St. Augustine’s.”
I stopped, turning to look at him. “The dress code?”
He gestured for me to follow. “Every teacher of St. Augustine’s has to adhere to a light or pastel-coloured shirt and dark blue pants and no jeans are allowed. The socks must be dark as well as the shoes.”
I stared down at my ensemble, noting I had worn everything opposite, but then again, I had my reasons.
“Yes, I did go through them. But those specifics are only applicable to male teachers. I am a female,” I stated the obvious.
Mr. Owen’s lips curved into a smile. “Undoubtedly, you are, Ms. Barker. However, your entire lawsuit encompassed the very fact that women should be given equal and similar chances of employment as men at St. Augustine’s with equal pay, and I believe the court of law granted you the same. As such, the school handbook cannot be altered because of your gender. Don’t you agree?”
“Yes, but…it is different.”
“Please enlighten me.”
I continued to follow, falling beside him as I made my point. “I am as academically capable as any other male teacher so denying my employment was unconstitutional.”
“The reputation of St. Augustine’s is not only built on the fact that we produce the best academics. We make the best disciplined individual and that comes with the rules. And those rules are unequivocally applicable to the teachers as well, irrelevant to their gender.”
He did have a point so I did not stretch it further, knowing I would be fighting a bigger battle of wits with my male contemporaries. “Okay. Shirt and pants then.” I smiled.
“And the hair as well.”
My feet stopped again. “I am sorry, what?”
He turned around to face me, giving a once-over at my sleek low-bun look. “The handbook clearly states that the hair should be off the collar, over the ears and no fringes in the front. And the hair length should be maintained at all times.”
I scoffed. “This is absurd.”
“I assure you, it’s not. Are you having second thoughts about your employment?”
“Absolutely not.”
With that, he continued to traverse through the ground and stopped near a door. “I am so glad to hear that, Ms. Barker. We have arrived at the right place, then.”
My eyes landed on the nameplate and a revolving stripped pole. “A barbershop?”
“Yes. Mr. Cain is our in-house barber and an expert when it comes to the traditional St. Augustine haircut. Come in.”
Mr Owens had already pushed the door open in the invitation for me to enter. And even in reluctance, I had to oblige. A middle-aged barber greeted us inside the narrowly structured room. The smell of masculine products lingered in the air and only a barber chair sat in the middle of the room like a throne. I looked around the surroundings as the men exchanged pleasantries.
“Cain, this is Ms. Freya Barker,” the principal introduced me. “She has joined as an English teacher and is also in dire need of our traditional St. Augustine haircut to begin with.”
“Ah, I see.” The barber assessed me, his gaze hovering over my golden hair.
Half an hour ago, I walked through the gates of St. Augustine’s with the confidence to take on any challenge and now I was standing inside a barbershop, having two men deciding the state of my hair.
When did things start to go downhill?
The barber whisked out a striped cape and patted on the chair. “Let’s not waste our time then.”
I contemplated my options, watching Mr. Owens whisper something into the barber’s ears as he acknowledged with a solemn nod. But the private conversation between the men was the least of my concerns. When their collective eyes landed on me, I moved forward with unsure steps towards the chair.
Before I could even feel the enormity of the seat, the cape enveloped me followed by a strip of tissue which was then folded down. I had no idea the purpose of it but did not venture into it.
The barber wasted no time in unravelling the low bun I had chosen for my first day and combed down my mid-back length hair.
“You have beautiful shiny locks, Ms. Barker,” commented Mr. Owens as he met my gaze in the mirror. “Shame, to have it cut all off.”
I had half a mind to shrug off the cape and run far, far away but somehow I steeled my spine and gripped the chrome handrests. But all my resolve started cracking when I saw the clippers come alive in the hands of the barber. My head snapped in that direction but the barber was quicker.
His free hand grabbed the back of my head, forcing my eyes to look into the mirror. I gasped as the menacing clippers sailed right through the middle of my head, leaving behind a stubble path in the centre. Two passes to the left and two more to the right and the top of my head was bare.
It was the most disturbing sight ever. Long hair still flowed from the sides and back while my blonde hair made the top of my head look almost bald. The barber paused, fiddling with the clippers as I was made to wait.
“That’s quite a look.” Mr. Owens smirked, adding salt to my wound. “I hope you were not too attached to your hair, Ms. Barker.”
I bit my lips. I knew he was enjoying my humiliation and oddly enough, I felt powerless to stop myself from plunging deeper into it. I could have refused, walked away or given it a thought before walking up to the chopping block, and yet I did not.
The barber moved to seize the top of my head and thrust the vibrating clippers against the temples, tapering down the look. The string of golden locks slid down the cape and onto the floor as the clippers climbed higher and higher. He went around the perimeter of my head, creating a halo while my ears were still covered.
“Do you want me to take this higher, sir?” The barber asked the principal.
“Yes, please. And make sure it’s smooth as well.”
“As you say, sir.”
I had barely understood the specifics but the words ‘higher’ and ‘smooth’ did not give any relief. And true to my senses, the next set of clippers ran over the back of my head and around the ears, leaving no trace of hair in its wake. Despite the loss of the only remaining length, I was relieved because the longer hair on the side and buzzed top made me look like a freak.
A part of me felt the loss of the sensation of the clippers against my bare scalp but little did I know that the warm lather would even feel even better. The tingling feeling was the evidence of my baldness. The barber proceeded to hold my skin taut as the blade rasped against my skin. I closed my eyes and bit my lips to suppress the moan while my hips ached to move and seek the much-needed friction against my throbbing clit.
“Again,” the principal instructed. “We want Ms. Barker’s first haircut to be proper.”
My eyes flew open, meeting his. The obvious bulge in his pants was evident that he was enjoying this at the cost of my degradation. And hell, it turned me on, too.
“Cain, please take care of the facial hair too,” he added.
“Surely, sir.”
I had never fathomed to be shorn by a barber, let alone having him tilt back my head to lather my cheeks, upper lips, chin and neck like a man. I had always considered myself on par with male contemporaries, even superior at times, but sitting here, being treated like a man, made me yearn for my feminine qualities. And I doubted how much of my feminine outlook was retained after this.
My nose was embarrassingly pinched and then the lather was skimmed off from the upper lips and around.
“Is that alright, sir?” The barber asked, wiping the residual cream off my face and neck.
“Yes, absolutely perfect. Ms. Barker now truly looks like she belongs to St. Augustine’s.” He beamed from behind the chair.
The caped was removed, sending the blonde, lifeless locks to the linoleum floor. My fingers gingerly reached out to touch my head and instead of soft, golden tresses, I was met with smooth, glassy skin. I had to tilt my head down to notice that the only evidence of hair left on my head was on top but it so scanty, so brutally short that I could not even pinch between my fingertips.
The barber’s phone rang out and quickly he excused himself out of the door, leaving behind the two of us.
“This is not the St. Augustine’s traditional haircut,” I hissed.
“It’s shorter, yes,” he answered simply.
“You told the barber to cut it shorter.”
“I thought that your induction into the male-dominated world of St. Augustine’s should be special as this haircut looks fitting. You have a bold personality and your haircut should reflect the same.”
I was seething from inside, but when his calloused, masculine fingers touched my head, exploring the smooth sides and back, the fuzz on top, I could not stop moaning into the sensation.
“You loved the clippers, even when they stripped you of your precious locks,” he rasped, his lips against my exposed ears. “It made you wet, isn’t it, Ms. Barker?”
I shook my head stubbornly, still not aligned with the raging ecstasy building within me.
“No? Then lift your skirt and show me,” he challenged.
I gasped. “This is inappropriate…”
“So is getting aroused when you are being shorn like a lamb. Yet, it turned you on and made you wet. Go ahead and prove me wrong, Ms. Barker.”
I was left speechless. Desire trickled down—hot, dark and savagery.
“I don’t understand…this.”
Mr Owen read into my hesitation, approaching slowly and inserting his hand through the waistband of my skirt. His fingers wasted no time in sliding aside the thong and inspecting the arousal.
“Ah! Warm and wet, like a sleazy little slut I had guessed,” he boasted.
I squirmed only to have his free hand grab my hips to keep me in place. I half-moaned and half whimpered.
“Look at the mirror,” he commanded. “Look at yourself.”
My eyes fluttered open, watching as he wrestled down my pencil skirt and panties and pushed his thick finger into my pussy.
“The moment I saw you walk into my office, I knew I’d take those precious golden locks and reveal these big, protruding ears for everyone to see. The shortest, rugged manly haircut. Yes.”
His other hand climbed higher to pinch my nipple, hard.
“And I knew that you would sit on the chair and take it…take it like sleazy slut. And this is just the beginning. Every week, you will sit be on this chair and have this haircut and then you will thank me.”
A second finger joined the first, sending me closer to the edge.
“You will thank me for making you a hair slut.” His voice was thick and rough.
A third finger slipped in, stretching me and making me moan louder.
“You will thank me on your fucking knees.”
“Yes…yes…” I gasped, whimpered and cried.
“Teachers and students call me ‘sir’, but you will call me ‘master’. Is that understood?”
“Yes…” I was close…so fucking close.
All of a sudden, he retracted his fingers.
“Yes, what?”
I watched his expression in the mirror, harsh and demanding. “Yes…Master.”
And then a knowing smirk emerged from the corner of his lips. The next thing I knew, he raised his palm and connected straight with my wet pussy with a resounding slap. Smack. The pain and pleasure morphed into an explosion, sending my shivering body down to my knees. By the time, I regained my senses, I was kneeling amidst the pool of my once-cherished golden hair strewn on the floor.
And the man in the bespoke suit who had reduced me to this position was towering over me. “You have made quite a mess on my fingers,” he said with a hint of annoyance and lifted up the glistening digits for my perusal.
He wiped the fingers over my head and smeared the cream along my cheeks.
“Put on your skirt, Ms. Barker. Then you will be assigned your first class for today.”
