The College President

The day I got my acceptance to Brinyon College, I wept. I’d been checking my email in the walk-in freezer of my senior year job at Dairy Queen when I read the subject line “Congratulations!” from the prestigious liberal arts school in my inbox.

I’d never been out of my rural hometown, and now I would be the first person to attend college in my family. Not only that, but Brinyon was one of the most well-respected schools in the country!

In addition, I’d received a full-ride scholarship from the school, called “The Presidential Award.” Quickly skimming the email, I read that I had to maintain a 3.0 GPA or higher in all my courses and do a work study job in the president’s office. Even though I’d studied my ass off all throughout high school, hitting the books instead of partying or dating, I’d never even dreamed of a financial aid package that good. It was almost unheard of. Of course, I’d accepted my admissions offer and terms of the scholarship without hesitation.

A few days into Fall semester, I got an email inviting me to the work study orientation meeting in the president’s office. In the excitement of starting my coursework and meeting new friends, I’d almost forgotten about my on-campus job.

When the evening of the orientation meeting arrived, I showed up to the ornate, historic building at the center of campus. The president’s office. I expected many other people to be there, but when I stepped inside I was the only person in the waiting room, except for what looked to be a woman, probably grad-school age, who was sitting at the front desk. She was beautiful, with close cropped blonde hair and tattoos lining her arms. Primarily, I’m attracted to men, but something about her her look, especially that hair, made my stomach flutter. I’ve always been obsessed with hair, and I wondered whether she’d always had it short or if it used to be long and she cut it all off.

“Hello,” the woman said professionally from behind the reception desk. “Are you here for the work study orientation?”

I nodded.

“Welcome, Nora.” She said. How did she know my name? “President Evanston has been waiting for you. He will be out shortly.”

It’s just me? I considered nervously. I sat down in a green chair, squirming to adjust my gray wool dress that hiked up much higher on my thighs than I would have liked when I sat down. I ran a nervous hand along the lengths of my own dark auburn hair that fell past my waist, smoothing it. If I’d known it would be a one-on-one with the college president, I would have wrestled it into a more professional style, like a bun. I looked at the woman at the front desk as she returned her attention to her computer. It must be so quick for her to style her hair, I mused as a surprising pang of jealousy hit me.

As I was considering running to the bathroom to quickly fix my hair, the large wooden door opened and a man walked out.

He was older, maybe in his late thirties or early forties, with the barest hint of salt and pepper in his dark, neatly styled hair. He was wearing an impeccably tailored gray suit. The stern look on his face did little to hide his unusual handsomeness.

“Ms. Johnston?” He inquired, and I could only nod in response. “You’re late.” He said curtly and then turned on his heel and walked back into his office. I followed in his wake, sneaking a glance at my phone. I’d maybe been one minute late.

He gestured to a chair before making his way to his side of the desk and reclining in his own.

“I’m so sorry, President Evanston. I thought I was on time.”

“You weren’t,” he said definitively. “You were a minute late. That won’t happen again.”

I just nodded, so he continued, “Ms. Johnston, do you realize what a privilege it is to be a President’s Scholar?”

“I am honored to have been chosen for such a generous financial aid package.”

“It’s more than just a generous award—it’s very exclusive.” He leaned forward on his desk. “You were the only one selected this year.”

My mouth agape, I could only ask, “Why me?” I had been a good student, but every student at Brinyon was one of the best students at their respective high schools. It didn’t make sense that I would be the top choice.

“It’s a scholarship that I am able to choose personally, and it a holistic review process. I saw something in your application.”

“Really?”

“A willingness to do whatever it takes to pursue your education and betterment in life.” He looked at me meaningful.

Was he trying to fuck me? If so, I was definitely interested. The men in my hometown were philistines, and the idea of being at the mercy of this worldly, commanding man made my palms sweat.

He looked at me meaningfully. “As I’m sure you’re aware, your work study position in this office will require some sacrifice.”

He stood up and walked around to the front of his desk. He was so close I could smell his clean and masculine scent. He leaned back against his desk a bit, but he still towered over me in my seated position. His knees were so close I could touch them, and I longed to. I was rarely this horny for anyone I’d just met, but something about this man drew me in.

He leaned closer to me and gently grabbed a big lock of my hair, bringing it to him, playing with the silkiness of it in his hand. “How attached are you to this hair? It’s truly lovely. Like silk. It will almost be a shame.”

“What do mean?” I gasped.

He asked, “Did you read the fine print in your contract when accepting this scholarship?”

Bewildered, I shook my head.

“Well, the details of employee conduct and dress in the President’s Office were detailed extensively in your offer email.”

My stomach dropped. “I might have skimmed it.”

He continued his petting of my piece of hair and I felt shivers through my scalp from his touch. “Well that’s too bad—you didn’t get a proper amount of time to say goodbye. Have your last ponytail. Run your hands through it. Have your boyfriend run his hands through it. Knowing it’s the last time. At least for as long as you are a student at this school.”

“I don’t have a boyfriend.” I gave myself a brief shake to get back on message. “What’s in the contract??”

“The employees of this office must maintain short haircuts in order to project the atmosphere of seriousness and professionalism the job requires.”

“How short do I have to cut it?” I asked, feeling tears in my eyes.

He paused, considering. “Did you see Celia, my lovely receptionist out front?”

I nodded.

“She was last year’s scholarship recipient. You should have seen her hair when she first came in—it wasn’t nearly as long as yours, but it was spectacular. Still long, and thick. Bone straight. Naturally blonde. Well, she’s a little overdue for a cut now. I’ll have my barber tidy her up when he comes in for you.”

I wanted to vomit. I grabbed my hair protectively. I was defined by my thick, dark red curtain of hair. I looked like a woman out of a fairytale. And this man wanted me to chop it all off to a boy’s length? The thought of it sent a dual pang of fear and arousal through me.

“Is there any way around this? I could do my work study in a different office, or if I have to cut my hair, maybe I could get a bob or—“

“No. These are the terms you agreed to. The only way out of this is to rescind your acceptance of the scholarship.”

I let out a stifled sob. “But the annual cost of attendance here is like eighty thousand dollars. How could I possibly make that work? I’d have to drop out.”

“Ninety.”

“What?”

“The cost of attendance here is just over ninety thousand dollars a year, including room and board. Multiply that by four years. A full-ride scholarship here means you are being granted a $360,000 education for free.”

My stomach sank even closer to the floor.

He continued, “Just think—no student loans weighing you down for the rest of your life, making it impossible to afford your own home or travel. And all you have to do for it is work a relatively easy job in which you will make many high-powered connections that can help build a solid foundation to your professional network. That and,” he gave my hair a little tug, “cut your hair into a much sexier style. To me it’s an easy choice. But of course, it is your choice.”

I hated to admit it, but of course it was an easy choice. Hair grew. And I had to admit that some deeply hidden part of myself wanted to know what having short hair would feel like. If I hadn’t been forced into it by circumstances, I would never have the guts. And damn it if a part of me didn’t want to do it just so President Evanston could view me as “sexier.”

“How long do I have to decide?” I raised my chin to look at him and did my best to keep the tremble out of my voice.

“My barber is set to be here in,” he glanced at his watch—a Rolex, of course. “Twenty minutes.”

“Like today?”

“Celia has to get her hair cut anyway, of course. So no pressure. The choice is entirely up to you.”

No pressure! How could he say no pressure when my entire future was riding on this choice?

With the feeling right before jumping into a pool, I practically shouted before I could lose the nerve, “I’ll do it!”

His eyebrow quirked up and a wry smile crossed his face as he looked down at me. “I knew you’d make the right decision. Stand up.”

I rose from my seat, my heart beating out of my chest as I stood close to him. He reached out and used both of his hands to push my hair behind my shoulders, the deliberate slowness of his gestures giving me goosebumps of desire. He leaned over and whispered in my ear, “Turn around.”

I did as he asked and had to stifle a moan as he gathered my hair into his hands and lifted the mass of it. “Just like I thought,” he mused. “You have a beautiful neck.”

After running his hands through my hair, he rotated me back toward him. The air heavy with tension, I thought we might kiss, but instead he stepped away from me and toward the door, opening it for me.

“You can wait in room 103. It’s right down the hall,” he gestured to me and then turned to Celia, “Celia, you’re due for a cut today as well. Show Nora the way.”

Celia looked up from her typing, “But I just got a cut two weeks ago.”

President Evanston gave her an unyielding look. “That has been an ample amount of time. I will see you there in ten.”

He shut the door and it was just the two women alone in the waiting room. With a sigh, Celia slammed her laptop closed and looked sympathetically in my direction. “I just like it a little grown out, ya know? I feel like this barber goes shorter on me every time.”

We walked side by side down the hall. “What’s the deal with this contract stipulation?” I asked.

“You get used to it,” Celia said, rubbing a hand through her short pixie cut. “At first, I was devastated. My boyfriend when I first started here loved my long hair. And just coming home one day with it all chopped off made him break up with me. Of course, he waited a few weeks and blamed it on something else. But I knew.”

“That’s horrible!”

“I guess,” Celia said. “Good riddance, honestly. But having my hair this short has been attracted a lot of people who specifically like short hair. Men, women. All genders. I might not be as traditionally, acceptably attractive with this hair, but the people who like it like it a lot. I’ve never felt sexier, honestly.”

“Is this job worth it?” I almost cried again, thinking about losing all my hair.

“Oh, without question. It’s super easy, and I feel like I’m actually learning a lot. I’ve met so many important people in this town. And President Evanston is a fine piece of eye candy, if you don’t mind me saying.”

I laughed then. “Yeah, I noticed.”

“And he’ll never do anything you don’t consent to” she said meaningfully. “But he will do…a lot.”

I’m sure my face flushed as I thought about Celia and President Evanston’s bodies pressed up against each other. I’d love to watch that. Hell, I’d love to be there with them.

They walked into Room 203, which I figured would be a conference room, but it was more of a locker room, with mirrors on the walls and cubbies to lock up personal belongings. It must be a place for workers to get ready. Shockingly, in the middle of the room was a real barber’s chair.

Celia looked at me, “I was shocked when I first came in here too. I guess we used to have a contract with a barber shop, but the president decided it would make more sense to just set up a space here. Especially since these cuts are so frequent and he often sets them up at the drop of a hat.”

She ruffled her hair in the mirror and fixed a small smudge in her eye makeup with her pinky finger and then looked at me then as if really looking at me for the first time. “Wow, you are going to lose so much hair.”

Frowning, I looked at myself in the mirror and didn’t say a word.

The door flung open then and President Evanston entered the space with a barber carrying a case of equipment in tow. I was picturing an old, grizzled barber, but this man was young and attractive, which made what I was about to endure even more humiliating.

The man nodded to us, “Good evening, ladies. Celia, good to see you again.”

He shook my outstretched hand. “I’m Nora.”

“I’m Marcus.” His smile was warm. Marcus scanned the length of my hair and then turned to ask, “So, should we start with Celia? Get the easy one out of the way?”

Celia nodded, swiftly removing her professional top and skirt before sitting in the barber chair, wearing nothing but heels and black underwear. “It’s better this way,” she explained to me. “I’m not about to get hair all over something that I have to dry clean.”

President Evanston nodded his approval and Marcus draped her in a long, black vinyl cape with paper at the neck.

“So what are we doing for her today?” Marcus looked at the president, not Celia.

“Please don’t go too short,” Celia asked. “I just had it cut two weeks ago.”

Ignoring her protests, the men discussed around her. “I think we should go a bit shorter than last time, don’t you think, Marcus? Maybe take the sides down to a skin fade? And take an inch or so off the top?”

Celia rolled her eyes. “An inch? I only have like 2 inches of hair. An inch will make me basically bald.”

“We can do that, if you want to complain about a free haircut, Celia,” he scolded mildly. “I can tell Marcus to shave you down to the skin. Your contract doesn’t stipulate how short we can take you.”

Celia looked properly reprimanded. She was being bratty, but you could tell she was submissive by nature. “Sorry, sir. Do what you think will look best.”

I watched as the clippers expertly and ruthlessly sheared Celia’s blonde hair to a well shaped, but extremely short pixie that was about an inch on the top and half an inch to the skin faded on the sides. It was seamless. I wanted it to last longer, but Marcus did quick and technically precise work. Celia looked in the mirror and rubbed her hands over her head, “You know, I actually don’t hate it.”

She hopped out of the chair and everyone turned to look at me as Marcus took a small hand broom and swept off the back of the chair. President Evanston was rubbing a hand over Celia’s freshly buzzed scalp when he met my eyes. “Your turn, Nora.”

No one moved as they looked at me, Celia still in her underwear and heels as she leaned into the president’s petting, exposing a curvy body and a tattoo on her upper thigh. The combination of her womanly body and short boyish hair was electrifying to me. Did they want me to undress, too?? I looked at them for a moment before asking, “Can someone unzip me?”

Marcus stepped up and took his time lowering the back zipper on my gray wool office dress. My one professional outfit—I guess I’d have to buy more. I felt the air kiss my back as the zipper lowered to the top of my ass and I swore I felt a brush of his hand on the tender skin of my lower back. I turned to look at him and he gave me a knowing smile. I stepped out of the dress and folded it to place it on a table in the corner. In my simple cotton underwear, I felt woefully pedestrian compared to the elegance of the rest of the people in the room. I hugged my arms around myself as the three people in the room took in the curves of my body.

Marcus took my hand with a gentle squeeze and led me to take a seat in the chair, facing the mirror. Tears rimmed my eyes and threatened to fall if I said anything, so I just followed his lead and settled in as he lifted my thick hair off my neck and snapped the black cape around me.

“This might be the longest hair we’ve ever chopped,” Marcus remarked, running his hands through my lengths, a glint in his eye. You could tell he was taking his time playing with my hair while he was detangling it with a wide tooth comb. It felt amazing.

President Evanston looked on with hungry eyes. “I think so, Marcus. It’ll likely be the longest in my collection.”

His collection? I imagined a closet with hair hanging in bunches—different lengths and textures and colors. Did he mean to keep my hair? I felt a surprising sort of pride that mine would be the longest.

I felt the weight of eyes on me as Marcus arranged my now-detangled hair in a shiny auburn curtain around my shoulders and back. “So what are we doing to her today?”

The president walked over to us and the men discussed in the mirror. “Something short, of course. Work appropriate for the setting.” He pulled out his phone and showed the screen to Marcus. “I was thinking something like this for her. I think she could pull it off. That jawline.”

Marcus’ eyes widened a little but then he nodded. “Yeah, that would look great on her.”

I wanted to ask if I could see, if I could have input, but I had a feeling it wouldn’t be worth it to ask.

He turned his back to me and retrieved a large pair of shears. “Let’s do this.”

My heart was thudding in my chest and my palms were sweaty against my naked thighs under the cape as he brought the shears to the thick tendril of hair at the front of my face, right near my cheekbone. What was I going to look like? I’d only ever had long hair. And I’d have to live with this for my entire college education? Was I really ready to commit to that?

I was lost in thought as the cold metal danced against the side of my face and Marcus clamped down on the scissors, the distinct slicing sound reverberating throughout my whole body.

“Celia, can you come over here and hold this?” Marcus asked, holding the impossibly long, lifeless piece of hair in his hand. Obediently, Celia walked over and held her arms outstretched like a table, ready to hold my hair as it was removed from me.

I looked in the mirror and started to fully cry as I saw the contrast between the cut portion and the rest of my flowing locks. I was going to leave this room a different person.

Marcus patted the long side of my hair and said reassuringly, “You’re doing great, sweetheart.” But my tears didn’t stop him as he brought his scissors again into my hair, slicing section after section and resting them in Celia’s outstretched hands as I watched helplessly as I was being shorn in front of this small, but magnetically attractive, audience.

Every one of them had a certain hunger in their eyes while watching me transform in front of them, and I realized that I was becoming extremely aroused. The sounds of the scissors slicing through my hair, the tension in the air, their eyes on me. I pressed my thighs together to feel a bit of friction, even though I was still crying.

After what felt like an eternity, the initial chop was done. I looked into the mirror and saw a choppy, short bob where I’d once had storybook hair. I could see my neck, my jawline, and began to think that maybe I could pull off this look after all.

Marcus rummaged around behind him and I snuck a hand into my ruined hair. The president looked at me. “Yes, take your last change to run your hands through it.”

Celia gathered the pieces of my cut hair together and secured it with an elastic and asked, “Would you like to hold it?”

I nodded and brought it into my hand, gently running my fingers along the length of it. Feeling the bluntness of the cut end and the slightly tapered softness of what had once been the ends of my hair. “I can’t believe this isn’t on me anymore,” I whispered, holding it aloft. Looking up, I saw Celia snapped a picture of me. I was embarrassed to have this vulnerable moment captured, but I didn’t say anything and handed my hair to the president, who examined it with approving eyes.

Marcus turned around and held his clippers up. “Are you ready for a haircut?” As if it hadn’t even started.

He didn’t wait for my response as he tipped my head to my chest and ran the clippers up the back of my head. Electricity shot through me and a roar of need pooled within me. Without thinking I began to touch myself under the cape. I was soaking wet.

As pleasure filled me, I closed my eyes and rubbed as the loud hum of the clippers seemed to drown out the anxious thoughts in my head. It felt like the most intimate experience I’d ever had in my life.

Marcus turned off the clippers to change the guard, and the president’s voice interrupted my reverie. “Nora, are you touching yourself?”

He pulled the cape up and everyone could see the unmistakable proof of my fingers inside my soaked, floral cotton panties. I flushed bright red, purely mortified that I’d been caught in the act.

“Don’t be embarrassed,” he said. “Let me take care of that for you.”

He knelt in front of me, pushing the cape up around my waist and tucking it around me so I was fully exposed. Marcus continued to run the clippers up the sides of my head as hair continued to slide down the cape and into my lap and now onto President Evanston, who was gently circling my clit with his slightly calloused thumb. My embarrassment gave way to a blinding amount of pleasure as I felt the clippers run over the crown of my head and the pace of his hands on me quicken and he slipped a finger, and then two, inside me. I looked up for a moment to see Celia watching the whole experience intently from a stool in the corner of the room, clearly turned on herself. I looked into the mirror to see that my hair had been reduced to a haircut very similar to Celia’s…very short and faded on the sides and only slightly longer on top, maybe two inches. My hair was everywhere. The president began to go down on me, which sent spirals of pleasure through me. Marcus picked up scissors and began to texturize the top of my hair and the feeling of his gentle attention, plus President Evanston’s skillfully licking me while fucking me hard with his fingers, sent me over the top.

I came, loudly—moaning “oh fuck!”, forgetting my self-consciousness in a cloud of desire.  When I came back to Earth, President Evanston was standing and taking in my transformation as Marcus unclipped the cape from around my shoulders. Hair fell from the cape to the ground, joining the rest of my hair that hadn’t been saved in a ponytail. It was still a lot.

I stood up. In my bra and underwear, I looked at myself in the mirror. A completely unrecognizable person looked back at me—my face glowed with the flush of a spent orgasm and my hair hid nothing of my face. They were right, my jawline and cheekbones popped without all that hair obscuring my features. My green eyes, still wet with tears, looked enormous. The short pixie made me look more sophisticated. I ran a hand over it and shivered at the feeling of freshly buzzed hair.

President Evanston walked up behind me and squeezed my shoulders. Celia and Marcus joined him and we all looked at my hair in the mirror.

“Welcome to Brinyon,” he said with a smile.

Thanks for reading, everyone! -LoW

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