LimeNina
“Sort It Out For Me” was one of my favorite stories on the old Haircut Story Archive a dozen years back. (Like a lot of the more explicit stories from the HSA, it can only be found today via searching the Internet Archive piecemeal for pages from the 1hss.com site.) The original author, Tester, never published anything else under that name that I’m aware of. I always wished that there was more to the story, so I’ve taken the liberty of republishing it here and writing my own continuation. If Tester ever sees it, I hope it meets with his/her/their approval. And yours, of course! –LimeNina
SORT IT OUT FOR ME: A Continuation
PART ONE, by Tester
The meeting is dragging on a bit. The decisions that we need to take have been fairly clear now for quite some time, and yet there seems to be an endless supply of people with minor or irrelevant points to make. And make them they do, as the sunlight moves across the room and the clock ticks on. They’ve mostly only got their boring desks to go back to of course, whereas the most interesting and enjoyable part of my day has yet to come.
I’m here on business for a few days. I recognise a face or two around the room of course, but otherwise I’m on my own, and with an opportunity to follow my inclinations. And these are about to take me to a barbershop that I found while strolling around town last night. Clean and bright enough that I won’t be slumming it, but plain and unpretentious enough to suit my taste.
Nothing weird about getting a haircut of course. Hundreds of people in this town will have had one today already, but I wonder how many of them really thrill (I mean really thrill) to the prospect; I wonder how many of them get tensed up at the sight of a pair of clippers; I wonder how many of them hope to get a bit more than they bargained for.
And now I’m away. The meeting is breaking up. ‘Yes, good to meet you…hope to see you next time…and sorry but I’ve got to be off…Thanks…yes…goodbye’. Within a couple of minutes I’m out in the street, and heading for pleasure.
I do so enjoy the gap between commitment and consequence, and now they come thick and fast.
I’m heading towards the shop; I could just as easily turn away; but I don’t.
I’m walking up to the door; I could just as easily walk straight past; but I don’t.
I’m opening the door; more difficult to back out now; but I’m not going to anyway.
And now I’m in the chair with the cape around my neck; I could just as easily say ‘just a trim please’; but I don’t.
What I do say of course is as ambiguous as I can make it – ‘I’m afraid it’s got a bit long, can you please sort it out for me’- in the hope that the barber will have more enthusiasm than discretion. More often than not it’s the discretion that wins out, but not today.
Not today, because what comes back is this:
‘Yes, I see what you mean’
Runs his fingers through it.
‘You know, your hair is quite thick, don’t you think maybe it’d suit you rather shorter?’
‘Well, perhaps…’ Coward ! Backslider ! Go for it ! ‘…..how short did you have in mind?’
‘It’d need to be quite a bit shorter to look really good, you know; particularly up the back and sides. Why don’t you just let me make a start, and we’ll take it from there’.
‘Well, OK, thanks. I’ll put myself in your hands then’.
Another gap between commitment and consequence, and I can feel myself getting hot between my legs in anticipation. As it turns out I don’t have long to wait, because he is now reaching for a large pair of black clippers. So, no shampoo, no conditioner, no careful layering with the scissors; in fact, no foreplay at all, as he moves behind the chair and switches on.
There is no attachment on the clippers, and with a casual brutality he holds them tightly to my nape, and drives them upwards. Their pitch falls a little; I can feel them pinking against my hair as they move up the back of my skull, and up, and up, until he draws them away virtually at my crown.
Everything looks just the same in the mirror, as he repeats the movement, and again, moving to the right. On the fourth pass, I can see a huge mass of hair falling away, and some of it slides forward into my lap. Another couple of passes, and he moves in front of my ear, and moves upwards again. Beneath the clippers, I can see a white skull, and as he moves away, I can see that the entire side of my head has been shaved quite cleanly right down to the skin. I am squirming with excitement in the chair. I have never seen so much hair on my shoulders and in my lap. I have never seen my scalp naked before.
Now he moves round to the left and repeats the whole process in just a few strokes. I am virtually whimpering with …what ? pleasure ? delight ? shock ? horror ? A bit of them all in truth, and I’m so transfixed by the Mohawk staring back at me in the mirror that I miss what he says next.
‘Sorry, I missed that’
‘I said it’d suit you, didn’t I ? Have you never had it short before then ? I reckon we ought to leave some length on the top and try it slicked back. What do you say ?
I’m gagging to say ‘No, shave me to the bone’, but what comes out is ‘Yeah, I’m sure that would be fine’
So now he is working with the comb and scissors to take an inch or two off the top. I’m barely noticing this as I’m too shocked by the sight of my own scalp to register much more. Except that I do notice his body pressing and rolling against my hand on the chair arm. He has an erection, and without thinking much about it I move the back of my hand lightly up and down against him a couple of times. We repeat the manoeuvre as he moves round to the other side. Nothing is said.
Now he picks up a tube of some kind of gel, squeezes a pile of it into his hands, and then moving behind me, rubs it over both sides of my shaved skull, and around the back. It is shaving gel, and he is quickly stropping a cut throat razor on a leather strop. After the short sharp shock of the clippers, the slow cool rasp of a razor through stubble feels divine, and the repeated scraping is blissfully relaxing. Although the effect is not so instantaneous or dramatic as the mowing, the nakedness of my scalp after the razor passes is complete
Now he takes up his comb, and moves over to a large jar of brylcream. Taking a load of it on the comb, he slathers it through my hair, and combs it back. I am no longer looking at a Mohawk, but at a patent-leather Valentino.
I am transfixed by the sight, and when he asks me if I’d like to go into the back room, I just say ‘yes’ as if it was no more than the usual ‘how’s that?’ and a quick turn with the hand mirror.
He holds the door open, and as I get up from the chair, there is an avalanche of hair from the cape. I look around the back room, as he goes to lock up the shop, and as he comes back in I slowly get down on my knees facing him.
As he undoes his trousers, he says ‘That’s right. I knew what you wanted as soon as you came in’, and takes out his erect penis. Not a huge one, but a good shape, and clean, and I am quickly licking its underside and caressing his balls. He is clean-shaven down here. I take him more fully into my mouth, and work my finger round to his anus. Time passes; we are both enjoying ourselves. As he moves to a climax, I give him my finger, and take him as deeply into my throat as I can manage. He comes like a fountain, hot, salty and gushing.
There is an identical chair and mirror in the back room. I sit in it, licking seminal fluid from my lips and rearranging the cape. I lean forwards to take up a comb, and begin to slick back my new hair.
‘Have we finished, or do you want to go a bit further ?’ he inquires, and now I am casting all caution to the wind.
‘I want you to shave me…up here, down there…take it all off’
He soon has me out of my clothes, and I’m back in the chair with my legs wide open and draped over the arms. He is kneeling in front of me peeling off my pubic hair with some small, silver clippers. He uses his fingers and his tongue on me in between strokes, and I’m moaning with pleasure. We switch to the straight razor and the shaving foam, and within minutes I’m as naked as him. He finishes me off with a handful of moisturiser; taking an age to rub it in and massage me. I come with an intense rush. Almost as soon as I’m done, he strips off his own clothes and motions for me to get up and bend down over the chair. He is soon busy applying more lubricant of some kind to my anus. As I wait for him to fuck me, I am looking at myself in the mirror; shaved, glistening and panting in anticipation.
Now he takes me brutally from behind. The pain is sudden and intense…and then just as suddenly over as he enters me and begins to sodomise me. Can that really be me in the mirror ? I wonder what my colleagues from the meeting earlier today would have to say if they could see me now, grunting and gasping, shaved and shining. He comes again inside me, with a slow shudder and thrust of his hips.
After some time, I’m back in the chair. Although he doesn’t need to, he has briskly strapped my wrists to the chair arms; I’m not going anywhere anyway, but he seems to like to be in control, and I’m finding that I like it like that too. Soon, I’m leaning forward with my head over the sink while he washes my hair. There is warm water trickling over my burning scalp and clippings swirling around in the base of the sink; I wonder if they’re all mine, or whether other people have passed this way before. Soon, with what little hair I have left towelled dry, I am looking again at the new me in the mirror, while he picks up the large clipper, and places the bare blade on my forehead.
Again, first the clipping, then the shaving. It’s as nothing now, almost as if I’m used to it, and that it is perfectly normal to have an unknown, naked man (now with the makings of an erection again) shaving me bald, and then placing a leather collar around my neck. I’m perfectly calm; I’ve crossed a threshold, and I’m not going back.
***
PART TWO, by LimeNina
I’ve crossed a threshold, and I’m not going back.
The collar is snug around my neck. He buckles it with practiced fingers, steps back, regards me in the mirror. Bald, bound, shaved smooth from scalp to groin, my cock hanging soft and spent between bare thighs. I look like someone I might have imagined in hotel rooms late at night.
‘You can call me Sir,’ he says.
‘Yes, Sir.’
The words fit my mouth like they’ve always belonged there.
He moves around the room, sweeping up the fallen hair. My hair. There’s something intimate about watching him handle what was so recently part of me.
‘How long are you in town?’
I’m meant to fly out tomorrow. Back to the office, the flat, the carefully constructed life. But I hear myself say, ‘A few more days. I could stay a few more days.’
He looks at me. A long look, assessing. Then he nods.
‘Ring your office. Tell them you’re ill. Then the hotel. Extend your booking.’
I make the calls. My voice sounds calm, professional, lying smoothly about a stomach bug. When I’m done he takes the phone from my hand, switches it off, puts it in a drawer.
‘You won’t need that for a while. When you’re here, you’re mine.’
‘Yes, Sir.’
‘Now kneel.’
I kneel. The floor is hard. He walks around me slowly, and I keep my eyes down, watching his feet.
‘You’ve done this before. Not the shaving, but the rest.’
‘A bit. Nothing like this.’
‘Those were men who wanted to use a hole.’ He stops in front of me. I’m at eye level with his cock, soft against his thigh. ‘I want to use all of you. Body and mind. Take you apart and see what’s inside.’
My cock stirs. ‘I’d like that, Sir.’
‘We’ll see. The next few days will tell us what you can take.’
* * *
There’s a flat above the shop. Small, sparse, masculine. He shows me a mat at the foot of his bed.
‘You sleep here. Blanket if you’re cold. You don’t use the furniture without permission.’
‘Yes, Sir.’
‘In the morning I’ll wake you. You’ll shower, shave your head—I’ll show you how—then serve me breakfast. After that I open the shop. You stay up here until I close for lunch. Then we continue your training.’
Training. The word goes through me like electricity.
‘Now on your knees. I want your mouth again before bed.’
I kneel. He’s hardening as he approaches and I open for him, taking him in, tasting salt and musk. He fucks my face slowly, one hand on my smooth skull.
‘That’s it. Good boy. You were made for this.’
I moan around his cock. Yes. All those years of meetings and handshakes, and this was waiting underneath.
He comes down my throat. I swallow everything. Then I curl up on the mat at the foot of his bed and sleep more deeply than I have in years.
* * *
The first morning.
He wakes me before dawn with a foot against my ribs. Not hard, but not gentle either. A reminder of what I am.
‘Up. Shower.’
I shower. The water is hot and I stand under it too long. Then his voice from outside:
‘Out. Now.’
I dry quickly. He’s waiting with the straight razor, the strop, the bowl of lather.
‘Sit on the edge of the tub.’
I sit. He lathers my skull—the stubble already visible, a shadow of regrowth from just eight hours. Then the razor. He shows me the angle, the pressure, the direction.
‘Tomorrow you do it yourself. I’ll watch. The day after, you do it alone. If it’s not smooth when I check, you’ll be punished.’
‘Yes, Sir.’
The blade scrapes. The hair falls. When he’s done he rinses my head with cool water and runs his palm over it, checking.
‘Good. Now breakfast.’
I make eggs, toast, coffee. He tells me where everything is, how he likes it. I kneel beside his chair while he eats. He feeds me from his fingers—a bit of egg, a corner of toast. I take each piece with my lips, careful not to use my teeth.
‘You learn quickly,’ he says.
‘Thank you, Sir.’
Then he dresses and goes down to open the shop, and I’m left alone.
* * *
The boredom is worse than I expected.
The flat is quiet. No television, no radio. He’s taken my phone. There are books on a shelf, but he hasn’t given me permission to read them. I pace. I sit. I pace again. I stand at the window and watch people walking past below, ordinary people living ordinary lives.
I think about work. About the meetings I’m missing, the emails piling up.
I think about my flat. Empty. Clean. Nothing in it that means anything.
I think about him. About his hands on my head, his cock in my throat, the way he said *good boy* like it was the most natural thing in the world.
I sit on the floor with my back against the wall and wait.
Lunchtime. The bell on the shop door jingles below. Footsteps on the stairs. The door opens.
‘On your knees.’
I’m already moving before he finishes speaking. The position is becoming automatic. Thighs spread, hands behind my back, eyes down.
He inspects me. Runs a hand over my scalp, checking the shave. Pinches my nipples, making me gasp. Cups my balls and cock, weighing them in his palm.
‘You stayed where I put you.’
‘Yes, Sir.’
‘Good.’
He unbuckles his belt. I open my mouth.
He uses me standing, one hand braced against the wall, the other gripping my skull. He’s rougher than before—thrusting deep, making me gag. My eyes water. Spit runs down my chin. I can hear myself making sounds, wet choking sounds, but I don’t pull back.
When he comes he holds himself deep, pulsing against my tongue. I swallow.
‘Clean yourself up. Then we begin.’
* * *
The training begins with positions.
‘Kneel.’
I kneel. Thighs spread, hands behind my back.
‘Wider. I want to see your cock and balls.’
I spread my thighs wider. He circles me, looking.
‘Head down.’
I bow my head. My smooth scalp gleams in the afternoon light.
‘This is Position One. When I say *kneel*, this is what I mean. Do you understand?’
‘Yes, Sir.’
‘Present.’
I don’t know what this means. I hesitate.
‘On all fours. Head down. Arse up.’
I comply. The position is exposing—my arse raised, my hole visible. I feel the cool air against it.
‘This is Position Two. When I say *present*, this is what I mean.’
‘Yes, Sir.’
He runs a finger down the crack of my arse, over my hole. I shiver.
‘Display.’
Again I hesitate.
‘On your back. Knees up and spread. Hands behind your head.’
I roll over and arrange myself. The position puts everything on display—my cock, my balls, my arse.
‘This is Position Three. *Display*.’
‘Yes, Sir.’
He stands over me, looking down. His expression is assessing, proprietary.
‘These are the basic positions. We’ll add more as you progress. For now, I want you to practice until they’re automatic. When I give the command, you move without thinking.’
‘Yes, Sir.’
‘Kneel.’
I kneel.
‘Present.’
I present.
‘Display.’
I display.
‘Faster. Kneel.’
I kneel.
‘Display.’
I display.
‘Present.’
I present.
Again and again, until my muscles ache and my breath comes hard and the positions flow into each other without thought.
‘Good,’ he says finally. ‘You’re learning.’
* * *
That evening he runs a bath.
‘You’re going to bathe me. Watch carefully.’
I kneel beside the tub as he undresses. He’s seen me naked countless times now, but this is the first time I’ve really looked at him—the compact body, the muscled arms, the cock that’s used me so thoroughly. He has tattoos I hadn’t noticed before. A scar on his shoulder.
He lowers himself into the water. I soap the cloth and begin.
‘Start with the shoulders. Work down. Neck, chest, arms. Then legs, feet. Then back. Genitals last.’
I wash him as instructed. The intimacy is strange—not sexual exactly, though my cock stirs as I soap his chest. Something else. Something like devotion.
‘Gentler on the balls. They’re sensitive.’
I gentle my touch. His cock is half-hard and I resist the urge to linger.
‘You’ll do this every evening before bed. After dinner.’
‘Yes, Sir.’
‘Rinse.’
I rinse him. He stands, water sheeting off him, and I wrap him in a towel. Dry him carefully. He watches me the whole time.
‘Good. Now the bedroom.’
I follow him. He lies on the bed, face down.
‘Oil’s in the drawer. Massage. Start with the shoulders.’
I find the oil. Pour some into my hands. Begin to work his muscles.
I’ve never done this before, but I pay attention to his responses—the small sounds of pleasure, the easing of tension. I work down his back, his thighs, his calves.
‘Acceptable,’ he murmurs. ‘For a first attempt.’
‘Thank you, Sir.’
‘Now get on the bed. On your stomach.’
I obey. I expect massage in return, but instead I feel his weight settle over me, his cock pressing between my cheeks.
‘I’m going to fuck you now. Just like this. Slowly.’
He reaches for the lubricant. I feel his fingers slicking me, opening me. Then the head of his cock pressing, pressing, and sliding inside.
He fucks me slowly, as promised. Long deep strokes. His chest against my back, his breath hot on my neck. I’m pinned beneath him, unable to move, able only to receive.
‘This is what you’re for,’ he murmurs. ‘This body exists to serve me. Do you understand?’
‘Yes, Sir.’
‘Your mouth belongs to me.’
‘Yes, Sir.’
‘Your arse belongs to me.’
‘Yes, Sir. Oh god—’
He’s deeper now, hitting something inside me that makes sparks burst behind my eyes. My cock is trapped beneath me, hard and aching, rubbing against the sheets with each of his thrusts.
‘Your cock belongs to me. You don’t come without permission.’
‘Yes, Sir. Please—’
‘Not yet. Hold it.’
I hold it. I don’t know how. He keeps fucking me, slow and relentless, and the pleasure builds and builds until I’m whimpering into the pillow.
‘Please, Sir. I need to—please—’
‘Come.’
I come. My whole body clenches around him and I cry out into the pillow, my cock pulsing, my arse gripping him tight. He keeps fucking me through it, drawing it out, and then he’s coming too, filling me with his seed.
He stays inside me after, softening, his weight pressing me into the mattress.
‘Good boy,’ he says. ‘My good boy.’
I’m crying. I don’t know when I started. The tears are hot on my cheeks and I can’t stop them.
He rolls off me and pulls me into his arms. My bald head against his chest. His hand stroking my back.
‘There it is,’ he says quietly. ‘What’s underneath.’
‘I don’t know what’s happening to me.’
‘You’re coming apart. That’s the point. All those layers—the professional, the capable man. That’s not who you really are. That’s who you’ve been pretending to be.’
I shake against him, crying, and he holds me until the shaking stops.
* * *
The second day.
I shave my own head for the first time. He watches, correcting my angle, my pressure. The razor feels dangerous in my hand—not dangerous to him, dangerous to me. One slip and I’m bleeding. But I don’t slip. I’m careful, thorough, and when I’m done my scalp is as smooth as when he does it.
‘Good,’ he says, running his palm over it. ‘Now breakfast.’
The morning passes the same as before. The boredom, the waiting, the slow emptying of my mind. I’m starting to understand the purpose of it—the silence strips away the noise, the constant chatter, until all that’s left is the waiting. The anticipation. The need.
When he comes at lunch he doesn’t use my mouth. Instead he takes me into the back room of the shop—the room where it all began—and straps me into the barber’s chair.
‘Today we’re going to work on your tolerance for pain.’
He shows me the nipple clamps. Small metal things connected by a chain.
‘These go on your nipples. It’s going to hurt. Then feel good. Then hurt again when they come off.’
‘Yes, Sir.’
He works my left nipple until it’s hard, then the clamp bites down. I gasp—bright hot pain, eyes watering. He’s already working the right. Then that one’s on too, the chain hanging between them, a silver arc connecting two points of fire.
‘Breathe. Let yourself adjust.’
Every breath tugs at them. A constant reminder.
He kneels between my spread thighs and takes my cock in his hand. Strokes slowly. Despite the pain—or because of it—I harden.
‘See how the pain and the pleasure mix? How one feeds the other?’
I can only moan. He’s right. The throbbing in my nipples is becoming part of the arousal. I’m fully hard now, leaking.
‘I’m going to make you come. But you ask permission first. You don’t come without my say-so.’
‘Yes, Sir—oh god—’
His other hand cups my balls. The dual sensation is overwhelming. I feel the orgasm building.
‘Please. Sir, please, I need to—’
‘Not yet. Hold it.’
I try. I clench every muscle, focus on the pain. But he’s relentless, twisting just right on the upstroke—
‘Please, Sir, I can’t—please—’
‘Come.’
I come with a cry that echoes off the tiles. My whole body convulses, cock pulsing, cum spattering my stomach and chest. He strokes me through it, milking every drop.
And then, while I’m still trembling, he removes the clamps.
The pain is extraordinary. Worse than when they went on. I cry out, tears streaming.
‘There. Feel it. Let yourself feel everything.’
His mouth is on my nipple, hot, soothing. The pain transforms into something else. I’m sobbing now—not from pain exactly, but from intensity, from being taken apart.
‘Good boy. My good, good boy.’
* * *
The third day.
He wakes me differently—not with a touch but with a kick to the mat.
‘Up. Shower. Don’t shave yet.’
I shower. When I come out he’s waiting with the straight razor.
‘Lie on the bed. On your back.’
I lie down. He straddles my chest, his balls resting against my sternum, his cock—half-hard—inches from my face.
‘Hold still.’
He shaves my head from this angle, the razor scraping backward from my forehead toward the pillow. I can smell him—the musk of his groin, the soap on his skin. His cock hardens as he works, brushing against my lips. I open my mouth, but he pulls back.
‘Not yet. Stay still.’
The razor moves over my scalp. I’m utterly passive beneath him, utterly his. He rinses the blade in a bowl of water on the nightstand, returns, scrapes again. When he’s satisfied, he sets the razor aside and moves forward, feeding his cock into my waiting mouth.
‘Now.’
I suck him while he grips my freshly shaved head, thumbs pressing into my temples. He fucks my mouth with short, sharp thrusts, using my throat. My own cock is hard against my belly, untouched, leaking.
When he comes he pulls out and finishes on my face, my scalp. Thick ropes of cum on my forehead, my cheeks, dripping down my bare skull.
‘Stay there. Don’t wipe it off.’
He leaves. I lie still, his cum cooling on my skin, my cock aching. Minutes pass. I don’t know how many. Then he’s back with a warm cloth, wiping me clean with something like tenderness.
‘Good boy. You took that beautifully.’
‘Thank you, Sir.’
‘Roll over.’
I roll onto my stomach. He spreads my arse cheeks and I feel his tongue—hot, wet, probing. He eats me out with the same thorough attention he brings to everything, licking from tailbone to balls, tonguing my hole until I’m writhing.
Then his fingers, slick with lubricant. One, then two, working me open. I’m moaning into the pillow, pushing back against his hand.
‘You want my cock.’
‘Yes, Sir. Please.’
‘Where do you want it?’
‘In my arse, Sir. Please fuck me.’
‘Ask properly.’
‘Please, Sir. Please fuck my arse. I need it. I need you inside me.’
He enters me slowly. Inch by inch, letting me feel every bit. When he’s fully seated he pauses, and I feel impossibly full, stretched around him.
‘This is mine,’ he says. ‘This hole is mine. Your mouth is mine. Your cock is mine. Your bald head is mine. Everything.’
‘Yes, Sir. Everything.’
He fucks me then, long slow strokes that build and build. My own cock rubs against the sheets but I don’t reach for it—I know better now. The pleasure crests from being fucked alone, from being used, and when I come it’s with his cock buried deep inside me, my cum soaking the sheets beneath me while he grunts and fills me with his own.
We lie tangled together, his softening cock still inside me.
‘You’re doing well,’ he says. ‘Better than I expected.’
‘Thank you, Sir.’
* * *
The fourth day.
I wake on my own, before he stirs. I lie on my mat and listen to his breathing and think about what I’ve become in these few days.
I’ve been broken down. The professional, the capable man, the one who sat in meetings and made decisions—he’s gone. In his place there’s something simpler. Something that kneels and serves and waits.
Something that belongs.
He stirs. I’m already moving to my knees.
‘Good,’ he says. ‘You’re learning.’
The morning routine. Shower, shave—my scalp is baby-smooth now, I’m getting better—breakfast, kneeling beside his chair. The shop opens. The waiting.
But at lunch, he doesn’t use me. Instead he sits on the bed and has me kneel before him.
‘Tomorrow you’ll have to go.’
My chest tightens. I’ve known it was coming.
‘I don’t want to.’
‘I know. But you can’t stay. Not yet.’ His hand traces my scalp. ‘You’ve got to go back. See what’s there. What’s worth keeping and what’s not.’
‘And then?’
‘Then you come back. If you want to. When you’ve sorted it out.’
‘You want me to come back?’
‘I want you to choose to come back. There’s a difference.’ He tips my chin up, makes me meet his eyes. ‘What we’ve done here—that’s the beginning. I’ve shown you what you are. Now you’ve got to live with that knowledge out there. See if it holds.’
‘What if it does?’
‘Then you come back for good. Sort out whatever you need to sort out—job, flat, whatever—and come back, and we do this properly.’
‘Properly?’
‘Full-time. You live here, as mine.’ His eyes hold mine. ‘That’s what I want. But it has to be what you want too. Not just endorphins and submission. A real choice, made in the cold light of day.’
I’m silent. Trying to imagine it. Giving up everything. Coming here to live at the foot of his bed.
It should terrify me. Instead it feels like the first thing that’s ever made sense.
‘I’ll come back,’ I say. ‘I’ll do it the way you’ve asked. Go back, sort things out, and come back for good.’
‘Good boy.’
He kisses me—the first time. His mouth firm and certain against mine. I open for him, tasting him, and he kisses me like he owns me. Because he does.
* * *
The last night is different.
He takes me to his bed—actually into it, between the sheets. His hands gentle on my skull. His mouth on my neck, my chest, my nipples still tender. His fingers opening me slowly until I’m loose and aching.
When he enters me it’s not brutal. Slow and deep, his body covering mine, his eyes on my face. Long strokes that touch something at my core.
‘This is what it could be,’ he murmurs. ‘When you come back. The tenderness and the brutality. The service and the love.’
I wrap myself around him, taking him deep. I don’t care about my own orgasm. I just want to feel him, to memorise this.
He comes inside me with a groan. I come too, untouched, just from the feel of him pulsing within me, crying out ‘Sir’—because that’s what he is, the only thing he needs to be.
Afterward, tangled together:
‘In the morning I’ll shave you one last time. Then you shower and dress and go.’
‘Yes, Sir.’
‘The collar stays. Hidden under your shirt. You don’t take it off until you’re back here and I take it off myself.’
‘Yes, Sir.’
‘Good.’ He kisses my scalp. ‘Now sleep.’
* * *
Morning.
The last shave. Hot water, lather, the razor gliding over my skull. I close my eyes and feel each stroke, committing it to memory.
Shower. My suit, wrinkled but wearable. The collar hidden beneath my shirt. I look in the mirror and see a businessman, slightly rumpled. No one would guess.
But I know. I can feel the smooth slide of fabric against bare skin. The weight of the collar at my throat.
He walks me down through the shop. Everything looks the same as it did when I walked in—was it really only four days ago? The chair, the mirror, the rack of magazines. The jar of brylcreem. The large black clippers.
At the door he hands me my phone, my wallet, my keys.
‘You’ve got my number now. When you’re ready, you ring me.’
‘Yes, Sir.’
‘Don’t make me wait too long.’
‘No, Sir.’
He kisses me once more—brief, firm—and then opens the door. The street is bright with morning. Ordinary people walking past, living their ordinary lives.
I step out. The air is cool on my bare scalp. The collar is warm against my throat.
I walk toward the station, feeling his eyes on my back. I don’t look around.
* * *
The next weeks are strange.
I go back to my life. The flat, the office, the meetings, the colleagues. They notice the shaved head, of course. I say I fancied a change. They accept it. People accept most things if you say them confidently enough.
But everything feels different now. Thinner. Less real.
I sit in meetings and feel the collar beneath my shirt. I remember kneeling on a hard floor, his cock in my throat, his hand on my scalp.
I shower in the morning and run my hands over my smooth head. I remember his hands doing the same.
I lie in bed at night and touch myself. I remember being filled by him, used by him, owned by him. I come with his name on my lips—*Sir*—and lie in the dark afterward, aching.
I maintain the shave. Every other day, carefully, the way he taught me. The razor is sharp and the lather is warm and each stroke is a kind of prayer.
I think about what I’m going back to. What’s worth keeping.
The flat—rented, nothing special. Easy to give up.
The job—well-paid, respectable, utterly meaningless to me now. I’ve spent fifteen years building a career I don’t care about.
Friends—a few. No one close. No one who would miss me much, or for long.
Family—distant, both geographically and emotionally. A card at Christmas, a call on birthdays.
There’s nothing holding me here. I see it clearly now. I’ve built a life like a set in a theatre—convincing from the front, hollow behind. All those years of work and there’s nothing I’d fight to keep.
Except the collar. The memory. The knowledge of what I am.
Six weeks after I left him, I ring.
‘I’ve sorted it out,’ I say.
‘And?’
‘I’m coming back. For good.’
A pause. Then: ‘When?’
‘I’ve given notice at work. Month’s end. I’ll be there on the first.’
‘Good boy.’ I can hear him smiling. ‘I’ll be waiting.’
* * *
The first of the month. A taxi from the station.
The shop looks the same. Clean and bright, plain and unpretentious. The striped pole turning slowly outside. I push open the door and the bell jingles.
He’s there, cutting someone’s hair. An ordinary customer, ordinary trim. He looks up and his eyes meet mine.
‘Take a seat. I’ll be with you in a minute.’
I sit. I watch him work. The scissors flash, the hair falls. The customer pays and leaves.
We’re alone.
He walks toward me. Stops close enough that I can smell him.
‘You came back.’
‘I came back.’
‘For good?’
‘For good.’
He reaches out and touches my scalp. I’ve maintained the shave, but it’s been two days—there’s stubble there, rough under his palm.
‘You need sorting out,’ he says.
‘Yes, Sir. I do.’
He leads me to the chair. The cape goes around my neck. The clippers buzz to life.
‘I’m afraid it’s got a bit long,’ I say, and I’m smiling now, we’re both smiling. ‘Can you please sort it out for me?’
‘I can,’ he says. ‘I will. I’m going to sort out every inch of you.’
The clippers touch my forehead. The first stroke clears a path through the stubble.
I close my eyes and feel myself falling into the gap between commitment and consequence. Into the life I’ve chosen. Into his hands.
The hair falls away. The man I was falls away with it.
And underneath, at last, I find out who I really am.
* * *
The back room. The chair. Naked, shaved, collared.
He stands behind me, both of us looking at my reflection in the mirror. My bare skull gleams. My cock hangs soft between smooth thighs. The collar is buckled snug around my throat.
‘This is where you live now,’ he says. ‘This is what you are.’
‘Yes, Sir.’
‘There’ll be rules. Strict ones. You follow them or you’re punished.’
‘Yes, Sir.’
‘You serve me in the shop when I need you. Sweeping, cleaning, fetching. Customers won’t know what you are to me.’
‘Yes, Sir.’
‘And when the shop is closed—’ His hand closes around my throat, just above the collar, squeezing gently. ‘When the shop is closed, you’re mine completely. To use however I want.’
‘Yes, Sir.’
He releases my throat. His hands move down to my nipples, still sensitive, always sensitive now. He pinches them and I gasp.
‘Stand up. Bend over the chair.’
I stand. I bend. My hands grip the armrests, my arse raised, presented. I hear him undoing his trousers.
‘This is your life now,’ he says, and I feel the head of his cock pressing against my hole. ‘Say it.’
‘This is my life now.’
‘And whose are you?’
‘Yours, Sir. I’m yours.’
He pushes inside me, one long slow thrust, filling me completely. I moan and grip the chair tighter.
‘Good boy,’ he says, and begins to fuck me with long, deep strokes. ‘My good, good boy.’
In the mirror I watch myself being taken. Bald, collared, bent over and used. The man from the meeting, the professional with his briefcase and his business cards—he’s gone. He was never real anyway. Just a costume. Just a role.
This is real. This body, this cock inside me, this man’s hands on my hips. This collar around my throat. This is who I’ve always been, underneath everything.
He comes inside me and I feel it like a baptism. Hot and deep, claiming me.
I’m home now. I’m finally, completely home.
And I’m not going back.
