BarberBrad
The morning after Stella’s flattop debut, sunlight streamed through the bedroom curtains, casting soft stripes across the bed where she and Brad lay tangled in the sheets. Stella woke first, her hand drifting to her head as it had a dozen times since leaving Peter’s barbershop. She rubbed the stiff, bristly top, then the buzzed sides, still marveling at the precision of it all. But as she sat up, catching her reflection in the dresser mirror across the room, a flicker of doubt crept in. The flattop was bold—sharp lines, military edges, a statement in every angle. Too bold, maybe. She tilted her head, squinting at herself. It was striking, sure, but it felt… masculine, like she’d borrowed a piece of someone else’s armor. The thought nagged at her, tugging at the confidence she’d felt the night before.
Brad stirred beside her, stretching with a yawn, his own shaved head gleaming in the light. “Morning, flattop,” he mumbled, grinning sleepily as he reached over to rub her crown. “Still obsessed with this.”
Stella smiled, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes. She turned to him, resting a hand on his chest. “Brad… what if it’s too much? Too—guy-ish? I love how it feels, but looking at it now, I don’t know. Maybe I should just go back to bald. Like you.”
His grin widened, eyes lighting up. “You want me to shave it all off? Stel, you don’t have to ask me twice—I’d love to.” He sat up, already swinging his legs out of bed. “Give me two minutes to grab the stuff.”
Soon, they were in the bathroom, the familiar setup laid out: towel over Stella’s shoulders, clippers and razor on the counter, a can of shaving cream hissing as Brad shook it. Stella settled into her wheelchair, facing the mirror this time—she wanted to watch it happen, to see the transformation unfold. Brad stood behind her, his reflection catching hers in the glass, and she noticed the playful glint in his eyes as he flicked on the clippers. “Ready to join the bald club again?” he asked, his voice low and teasing.
She nodded, her pulse quickening. “Do it.”
The clippers buzzed to life, and Brad started at the top, pressing them gently against the flattop’s plateau. The first swipe carved a smooth path through the bristles, leaving a strip of pale stubble in its wake. Hair rained down, dusting her shoulders, and Stella watched, transfixed, as the sharp lines she’d admired yesterday began to vanish. Brad worked quickly, buzzing away the top, then moving to the sides, shearing off the tight fade Peter had crafted. The vibration against her scalp sent a shiver through her, rekindling that old thrill she’d missed—the raw, unshackled feel of it all.
As he switched to the razor, lathering her head with cool shaving cream, Stella’s eyes flicked to Brad in the mirror. He was focused, leaning close, his shorts brushing her arm as he angled the blade. And then she saw it—a noticeable bulge straining against the fabric, unmistakable and growing. Her breath caught, a flush creeping up her neck. He was into this—really into it—and the realization sparked something in her, a heat that pooled low in her belly. She reached out, tentative at first, her hand grazing his thigh, then sliding higher. Brad paused, razor mid-stroke, glancing down with a startled, “Stel?”
She didn’t answer with words. Her fingers found him through the shorts, stroking slowly, deliberately, feeling him harden under her touch. His breath hitched, and he let out a low, shaky laugh. “You’re gonna make this tricky,” he muttered, but he didn’t pull away. Encouraged, Stella tugged at the waistband, freeing him, her hand wrapping around him as she began to move—slow, rhythmic, teasing. Brad groaned, steadying himself against the counter with one hand, the razor trembling slightly in the other as he tried to focus.
“Keep going,” she whispered, her voice thick with arousal, and he did, dragging the blade across her scalp in careful, uneven strokes. The scrape of metal, the slick glide of cream, the heat of her hand on him—it all blurred together, a dizzying mix of sensation. Stella’s eyes fluttered shut, her free hand rubbing her own head where it was already smooth, amplifying the electric buzz coursing through her. Then, on impulse, she leaned forward, her lips brushing against him before taking him into her mouth—slowly, deliberately, savoring the way he tensed, a choked sound escaping his throat.
Brad’s movements faltered, the razor slipping once, but he steadied himself, shaving her head in halting, jagged passes as she worked him with her mouth. The bathroom filled with ragged breaths, the hum of the razor, the soft wet sounds of her lips—all of it raw, messy, and alive. He finished the last stroke, wiping her scalp clean with a towel, just as his control slipped. “Stel—God—” he gasped, his hands gripping her shoulders as he shuddered, release hitting him hard.
She pulled back, wiping her mouth with a smirk, her newly shaved head gleaming under the bathroom lights. Brad sank to his knees in front of her, breathless, running his hands over her smooth scalp. “You’re insane,” he panted, but his grin was pure adoration. “And you’re perfect.”
Stella laughed, rubbing her own head, reveling in the familiar velvet feel. The flattop was gone, the doubt with it, and in its place was something wilder, freer—a shared heat that lingered as they caught their breath, the day stretching out before them, bald and bold together.
