Becoming a Hair Wench

Becoming a Hair Wench

“Liz, could you please take Ryan for a haircut?” my sister asked as she hurriedly packed her office bag. “He’s long overdue, and I just don’t have the time.”

I hesitated for a moment before nodding. “Yeah, I can do that. Should I call his stylist ahead and book an appointment?”

She let out a lighthearted laugh. “Oh, you don’t need an appointment. It’s a barbershop—C&C Clippers, just three blocks down. Just take a number and wait your turn. If the barber asks anything, just tell him ‘the usual,’ and that’ll be it.”

When my sister called me that morning to babysit my seven-year-old nephew, I had no idea it would involve a trip to a barbershop. Having grown up in a household with just my mother and sister, I had never set foot in a barbershop before. It was a space inherently tied to masculinity, a domain that felt almost off-limits to women, something forbidden.

With a final glance at the clock, my sister rushed out for her emergency meeting, leaving me alone with Ryan. Soon after, hand in hand, we walked the three blocks to C&C Clippers—a glass-fronted barbershop, its entrance marked by the familiar swirl of red, white, and blue from the revolving barber pole.

The moment we stepped inside, a shiver ran down my spine as if the air itself carried an unspoken weight. It felt as though every gaze in the room shifted toward us, making me acutely aware of my presence in this undeniably masculine space. The waiting benches were nearly full, and the two barbers were engrossed in their work, expertly maneuvering their clippers. Feeling somewhat out of place, I quickly grabbed a number for Ryan and quietly settled at the far end of the waiting area.

The barbers, as indicated by their name tags, were twins—Cade and Cole. Their resemblance was striking, with sharp, chiseled features and an undeniable air of authority. With precise movements, they continued shearing their clients’ heads, their focus unwavering. Yet, in the mirror’s reflection, I caught them stealing a fleeting glance in my direction. My cheeks warmed instantly, a blush creeping up before I could stop it.

There were at least eight to ten people ahead of us, and witnessing those haircuts was an exhilarating task in itself. Something about the hum of the clippers, the way they stripped away the hair, the way those men sat so still and obedient under the barbers’ touch—it had enthralled me.

And then I saw it—the pattern. The silent, unwavering ritual that played out again and again. It didn’t matter if it was a squirming child, a fresh-faced college boy, or a grown man. Once the crisp white cape was snapped around their shoulders, once the barber’s firm hand tilted their head just so, submission became inevitable. The low, merciless hum of the clippers was the only authority in this space, dictating the fate of every strand. Whatever instructions they might have muttered before sitting down became irrelevant. Because no one—no one—left that chair with more than an inch of hair.

I found my gaze drifting downward, to the growing piles of discarded locks on the floor, and something inside me twisted at the sight. A strange mix of loss and fascination. And I wasn’t the only one who noticed—every man who left the chair would, at least once, glance at the remnants of what had been theirs. A final look at what they’d lost before hesitantly reaching up to touch the bristled remains, their fingertips ghosting over the unfamiliar, barren landscape of their scalp.

For one reckless, delirious second, I wondered—what if it were me? What if I were the one seated in that chair, my head pressed down, forced into stillness while the clippers carved away everything I’d held onto for so long? The thought sent a wicked shiver down my spine, a pulse of heat blooming low in my belly. It was terrifying. It was intoxicating. And before I could stop myself, my thighs pressed together, desperate to quell the ache stirring between them.

I did not know what made me do it, but I simply could not let the moment slip. My fingers, almost involuntarily, gripped my phone as I recorded brief clips of their work, my heart racing with a thrill I couldn’t quite place, all the while making sure that I was not caught. It wasn’t a crime, but it wasn’t ideal either.

“Next!” The barber called out, his eyes landing on me as I gave a shy smile before nudging Ryan to the chair.

He seemed completely ready to be shorn, unbothered even, when the cape snugged tight.

The barber, Cade, turned to me, lifting a brow that said, “What are we doing today?”

“Oh, umm, the usual,” I stammered, quickly recalling my sister’s words.

He turned his attention to Ryan, effortlessly plucking a pair of clippers from the rack. With a practiced flick, he adjusted the guard and switched them on, the low, hungry hum filling the air. The first pass sent a cascade of golden strands tumbling to the floor, but Ryan remained unfazed. He was no stranger to this ritual—his hair was always neatly cropped, and he took the shearing in stride. The transformation was swift, almost ruthless—long locks vanishing in mere minutes, reduced to something crisp, clean, and sharp.

Once Ryan’s cut was complete, I paid and stepped out into the sun-drenched street. It wasn’t until my sister returned and I was about to go home that I realized my mistake—I had left my house keys at the shop by mistake. Cursing my carelessness, I turned back, hoping they hadn’t locked up yet.

The barbershop was empty when I arrived, save for the barbers, and somehow the idea felt more exciting than nervous.

“We’re closed,” one of them said without turning around, his voice smooth but final. “You’ll have to come back tomorrow.”

I cleared my throat, the sound unnaturally loud in the silence. That got his attention. Cade turned, his sharp gaze flicking over me, one brow lifting in recognition—the same subtle gesture he’d made earlier, an acknowledgment, an appraisal.

“Well, well,” Cole drawled, amusement curling at the edges of his voice. “Look what the cat dragged in.”

I forced a polite smile, suddenly hyperaware of how small I felt standing there. “Sorry to bother you,” I said, keeping my voice even. “I was here earlier with my nephew for his haircut, and I think I left my keys behind. Any chance you’ve seen them?”

The brothers shared a glance, something unspoken passing between them before Cade stepped forward. With a slow, deliberate movement, he pulled something from his pocket.

“Looking for this?” His voice was casual, but there was an unmistakable edge beneath it.

Relief flooded through me. “Oh, thank God. Thank you—” I reached out instinctively, eager to reclaim my keys, only for him to pull his hand back at the last second.

“Not so fast, young lady.” The condescension in his tone was subtle but unmistakable as if I were some naive schoolgirl instead of a grown woman. “We’ll return them… once you delete the videos.”

My stomach dropped.

How the hell did he—?

Shit.

I scrambled for composure, pasting on my best innocent expression. “Videos? I have no idea what you’re talking about.” The words tumbled out too quickly, my voice betraying me. “Please, sir, can I just have my keys back?”

Cade’s lips curled into something dangerously close to a smirk. “Oh? Then you won’t mind showing me your phone.”

Fuck. Double fuck.

I folded my arms tightly across my chest, scowling like a stubborn child. “Absolutely not. My gallery is none of your damn business.”

Everything after that was a blur. One moment, Cole was strolling toward the door, flipping the sign to closed with an almost lazy ease. The next, I was being yanked forward, shoved into one of the barber chairs, my body sinking into the leather with a muted gasp. Before I could thrash my way out, thick leather straps snapped tight around my wrists, pinning me in place.

“What the hell are you—”

“Sometimes we get fidgety little kids,” Cade murmured, his voice dripping with amusement as he planted his hands firmly on my shoulders, keeping me still. “And when they don’t behave, we have to take precautions.”

“I am not a goddamn kid!” I spat, yanking at the restraints, my breath coming in sharp, furious pants.

Cade’s lips curled into something wicked, something that made my pulse stutter. “No,” he agreed, his grip tightening. “You’re just a lying little brat who needs to be taught a lesson.” His fingers pressed in, firm and unyielding. “And lucky for you, Cole and I happen to be quite experienced in that department.”

My phone was then taken out of my bag and held right before my face until the face ID deactivated the lock. My heart pounded as Cole scrolled through my phone.

“Well, look at that,” he mused. “She lied.”

I swallowed hard. “I—”

Cade cut me off. “You like watching people lose their hair, don’t you?” I said nothing, my body taut with tension. “Let’s give you a taste of your own medicine.”

I froze.

“No,” I breathed, but Cade was already behind me, unclipping my thick, mid-back length chestnut locks. His fingers combed through my hair in a slow, deliberate motion, sending shivers down my spine.

“You have lovely hair,” he mused. “Such a shame you won’t be keeping it.”

Cole grabbed a thick white cape and flicked it over me, snapping it tightly around my neck, trapping me in place. I felt utterly powerless, my arms pinned, my body immobilized.

I was faced away from the mirror, blind to my own undoing. But I felt it—the taut pull as Cade gathered my hair into a thick, unrelenting grip. And then—schnick. The sharp, merciless bite of steel shears tore through the length, severing years in mere seconds. My breath hitched, every nerve ending raw as I heard the crisp, brutal repetition of each cut, and felt the weight leave my scalp in jagged, unforgiving intervals.

Then—silence. The shears stilled, and Cade stepped into view, dangling my severed ponytail in front of me like some kind of sick trophy.

“Jesus,” he murmured, turning it in his grasp. “You should feel ten pounds lighter.”

My stomach twisted painfully at the sight. I didn’t want to look in the mirror—I didn’t want to see what was left.

“Okay, okay,” I gasped, the words tumbling out in a desperate rush. “I’m sorry. I’ll delete the videos. I swear, I will.”

Cade’s lips curled into a smirk. “Well, sweetheart, that’s a little too late for an apology.”

Cole chuckled, the sound dark and knowing. “You know,” he mused, glancing at his twin. “Maybe she doesn’t need those videos after all.” He let the suggestion hang in the air, thick with wicked promise. “I think she ought to experience it firsthand.”

Cade tilted his head, considering. Then, with a slow, predatory grin, he reached for the clippers.

“Let’s give her the barbershop special.”

At this point, I was trembling—caught in the merciless grip of both arousal and fear. My pulse hammered in my throat, a desperate, frantic rhythm, but I knew there was no escaping this. And worse—some traitorous, wicked part of me didn’t want to.

Cade picked up the clippers, and with two unhurried strides, he was standing behind me. I knew what was coming before it even happened. A firm hand pressed down on the crown of my head, not gentle, not cruel—just final. The cold, vibrating teeth of the clippers touched the nape of my neck, and with one ruthless stroke, they carved their way upward, sending a sharp jolt through my body.

The sensation was electric. The blades gliding over my scalp, stripping away my hair in thick, merciless swaths—it was devastating. Humiliating. I was being reduced to nothing, made into a spectacle for their amusement. And yet—

Heat coiled low in my stomach.

I shouldn’t be enjoying this.

But every time the clippers scraped along the sides of my head, every time Cade tilted my chin up with confident, unyielding fingers to bare more of my nape, something darkly exhilarating curled through me. My breath hitched as he took a comb and meticulously smoothed out the sharp divide where the top layers still remained. And then, with practiced ease, he folded down my ears and ran the clippers higher—far higher than he’d done for any of the men before me.

Hair tumbled onto my lap in severed clumps, a ruthless cascade of what had once been mine.

“I think she should watch,” Cade mused, his voice rich with amusement as he spun the chair to face the mirror.

And for the first time, I saw myself. The jagged, uneven remains of my hair, the stark contrast between the stripped-down undercut and the last, pitifully long strands left untouched. My throat tightened as I stared at the unfamiliar reflection, dread pooling in my stomach.

Because the worst was yet to come.

My head was wrenched upward, forcing my gaze to lock onto the mirror, to bear witness to my own undoing. The scissors whispered against my skin, slicing through my bangs—short, far too short, cruelly hovering an inch above my brows. And then, with merciless precision, they traced a path around my head, severing every last strand until the pale, vulnerable expanse of my undercut was laid bare. A bowl of shame, stark and humiliating, settled onto my scalp.

Cade worked with measured intent, his fingers tilting my head just so as he snipped once more, refining the harsh divide where silken darkness met shorn, naked skin. The sound of the shears was hypnotic, a rhythm that sent heat crawling up my spine. Then came the thinning shears, ruthless in their duty, stripping away the weight, making the cut even more severe.

And then—God help me—the clippers. Their low, hungry growl vibrated against my nape as they kissed my skin, dragging upward to erase every stray wisp, to leave nothing but obedience in their wake. I barely stifled the moan that caught in my throat, my breath shuddering as the final remnants of softness were stripped away.

“That good enough for you, sugar?” Cade murmured against my ear, his voice thick with amusement, with possession.

A helpless whimper was all I could manage.

He straightened, his tone shifting from a purr to a command, loud enough for Cole to hear. “How about you spread those pretty legs and show my brother just how wet these clippers made you?”

Cole wasted no time in lifting the cape, waiting until I parted my legs and then lifted my dress. His hand plunged deeper, meeting my drenched core as he parted my panties before ripping it off me. He inspected me, from clit to anus, probing and touching and teasing until I orgasmed right there—with his hands defiling me.

Cade fisted the hair on top of my head and yanked my head, growling, “Look at that, barber wench. A bowl cut is making you so hot and bothered. Even kids look ridiculous with a bowl cut, and well, you look ugly,” he said, feeding my humiliation.

The cape was finally taken off, followed by the restraints, but I knew that my ordeal was far from over. Cade plucked me off the chair, my legs still wobbly, and then ordered, “Kneel,” he commanded, his tone sharp, deliciously cruel. “On the seat. Ass up. Hold on to the back of the chair.”

A shudder rolled through me as I obeyed, fingers curling around the chair, bracing myself for whatever wicked punishment he had planned next and completely unfazed by the debasement of my feminity, and almost howled in surprise when he entered me in one push.

“Fuck, you are goddamn tight,” he grunted.

Cole was adjusting his manhood from the top of his pants. I was almost lost in the haze of sex and occasional spanks Cade rained down on my ass until the sound of clippers invaded my senses.

“Hair wenches deserve no hair,” was all Cole said before the clippers mowed a path straight down from the middle. I did not need to know how horrendous I looked.

He, too, enjoyed rubbing my denuded scalp until another path was shorn, followed by another. “Oh God,” I whispered, enduring helplessly as my hair continued to be obliterated.

While Cade rode me, his brother ran the clippers ruthlessly over my head, removing every last strand. The final remnants of my bowl cut fell away, landing around my feet in a halo of discarded locks.

The sensation was intoxicating—my scalp was hypersensitive, every tiny vibration of the clippers sending shockwaves through me and the ruthless pounding driving me to the edge. The raw exposure, the sheer helplessness, the act of being completely shorn—it was overwhelming.

I trembled a desperate mix of humiliation and something far more dangerous curling in my stomach. My body betrayed me, heat pooling between my legs even as I fought against the rising tide of pleasure until I came screaming.

Cole ran his hand over my bare scalp, his touch electric. “Smooth as silk,” he murmured. My breath hitched.

Almost the same time, Cade came, pumping his seed into me. Cole then took his brother’s place, fucking me in slow, hard strokes while Cade spread a warm lather over my head.

“I don’t care how hard my brother fucks you, you are going to stay really still for this,” he warned, waving the straight razor in my face.

I whimpered, shaking my head, but the sharp smack against my ass jerked me still. “Do as my brother says,” Cole ordered.

Since I had no choice in the matter, I simply bowed my head in submission, feeling every scrap of the blade so acutely that it only heightened my next release. No matter how squarely I was spanked, how hard I was fucked, I simply could not move until the blade swiped the last trace of the shaving foam.

And when it did, I came. And it was probably the most intense orgasm of my life.

Cole wrapped a hand around my waist, steadying me once he was done. “Press your legs together, and make sure you don’t let a drop leak out of your cunt.”

It was an impossible feat—they had taken everything from me, yet somehow, I still craved more, my thighs pressing together in a desperate attempt to hold onto something, anything. And then, they forced me to look.

The mirror didn’t lie.

The reflection staring back wasn’t mine. It was something unrecognizable, something raw and obscene. The harsh, glossy curve of my skull gleamed under the fluorescent light, a crude, unsparing shape that made my stomach twist. My ears—God, my ears—suddenly too large, too exposed, sat awkwardly against the cruel bareness of my head. It was wrong. It was humiliating. It was devastating. And yet—my breath hitched—why did it feel so unbearably intoxicating?

Cade and Cole took their time, their hands gliding over my freshly shorn scalp, tracing the curve of my skull as if admiring their own handiwork. Their voices were low, taunting, murmuring observations about the peculiar smoothness, the way my head was shaped just so—each word laced with amusement, each touch a slow, deliberate stroke of humiliation.

And yet, beneath the burn of shame, something darker stirred. Something illicit. My breath hitched as the sensation rippled through me, pooling low in my belly. I shifted, just slightly, but it was enough—a betrayal of my own body. A mistake. Because I parted my legs. And they noticed.

A drop of cum felt on Cole’s shoes, like a viscous droplet on the tip of his leather loafers.

“Uh, huh. Clean it up,” Cole commanded.

I quickly got to my knees, trying to wipe it off, when he shook his head sternly. “Lick it clean.”

Heat bloomed at my skin anew as a slow, searing flush crept up my neck. The act should have felt degrading, should have hollowed me out, but instead—it filled me. A strange, liquid warmth pooled in my belly, and the weight of surrender settled deliciously over my shoulders.

I hated how much I loved it.

My lips parted. My tongue flicked out, hesitating, hovering over the polished leather. My pulse roared in my ears as I lowered myself fully, the barest press of my mouth against the shoe sending a wildfire of sensation through me.

And then, I did it.

A slow, deliberate stroke, tasting leather and the weight of my own surrender.

Humiliation. Power. Obedience. Desire.

“That’s a girl!” he praised, pulling me to stand.

“We will see you next week, and then every week thereafter,” Cade promised. “Is it clear?”

Cole, palming my sore cunt, whispered, “And don’t even think of wearing a wig.”