Charlotte and I spent four wonderful years as the barber’s bald assistants. As promised, our heads, and Charlotte’s eyebrows, were shaved multiple times a week. Usually by the young apprentices that stopped by the shop. But our mistress would occasionally bless us with her razor herself.
After I graduated from university, I went to med school in a different state. At my parents’ insistence, I grew my hair back, though never longer than my shoulders.
During my residency, I met the man who would become my husband. While my parents weren’t thrilled by my choice of husbands, a nearly seven foot tall black bald man, they seemed relieved for me to be marrying a man at least. They never directly remarked on my sexuality. I knew that my tendency to seek intimacy with women irked them. To be frank, I have no real gender preference. I just happened to find a man that I wanted to marry. He’s been a wonderful husband to me and father to our two children.
Five years into our marriage, however, I almost left him. I was frustrated with, well, everything and how respectable it was. Even our bedroom kink was from a kit. I found myself missing my days of being Egghead, the bald submissive.
Eventually, my husband noticed my malaise, and he insisted that we go to counseling. At the counselor’s, I told my full story. She, of course, was horrified by it. Called it “a harrowing tale of abuse”. My relationship with the barber literally caused her to clutch her pearls. Luckily, my husband understood me better.
Out of the counselor’s earshot, he said, “I can give you that if you want.”
“Really?” I said, my eyes tearing up, “I love you so much.”
“I love you too, though, me going along with this requires you being subjected to some of my kinks. I’ve always wanted to have your nipples and clit pierced. And I’ve long thought about marking you as my property with a tattoo or two.”
I shivered. “Of course, my body is yours.”
“Always has been, Egghead, but let’s make it official,” he said.
For the first time in years, my heart fluttered with excitement. After we picked up a wig (a very nice one that looked like my actual hair) and an assortment of hats and scarves for me, we went to the first barbershop that we could find. At my husband’s direction, I stayed silent as he told to the barber, an old Italian man, that I lost a bet.
“And now this hair has to go,” he said, running his fingers through it for the last time.
Honestly, we probably didn’t need that story that we cooked up in the car. The old Italian barber didn’t care. He just sat me down in his chair and caped me. As my husband filmed him, the barber ran his clippers through my chic black bob. He was very efficient. Within minutes, all of my hair was on the floor.
“Done?” asked the barber in his thick accent.
My husband shook his head. “She needs to be shaved down to the skin.”
The barber just nodded. He wrapped a hot towel around my head. For five minutes, I sat there, with that heavy towel on my head, as he sharpened his straight razor. My husband made sure to film this. Once the barber finished, he lathered up my scalp and shaved me smooth. In the years since I stopped shaving my head, my scalp went pale. And, yes, still had its peaky little peak that made it resemble an egg. After the barber finished cleaning me off, my husband ran his hand down my bald head.
“Jesus, I can see why they called you, Egghead,” he said, “Clean up your hair and then pay the barber.”
With a sly look, the barber pointed to the broom in his corner. Trying to avoid my new reflection in the mirror, I grabbed it and started to sweep up my hair. As I worked, the barber went over to talk privately with my husband. When they finished talked, and I finished cleaning up my hair, my husband called me over.
“Egghead, you’re going to pay the barber by sucking him off,” he said.
Without saying a word, I knelt down. Back in my college days, often, after one of the apprentices shaved me, they’d take me into the alley to blow them. At least, I’m inside this time, I thought, pulling down the barber’s pants. My husband got the whole thing on film.
The next week, we went to the tattoo shop. My husband was the one that picked it out and made the appointment. According to him, the artist, a woman called Spike, was very excited to work on my flesh. A tall broad-shouldered woman with a severe red flattop was waiting for us the door of the shop. Oh, I thought, avoiding her intense glaze, she’s perfect. Ugly, mean, and ready to humiliate me. That old butch bull dyke snatched the wig from my head and rubbed my stubbly head.
“You’re going to need to be shaved before I can get to work,” she growled at me, grabbing my arm and dragging me inside.
My husband took my wig from her for safekeeping and followed us inside. We went to a private room in the back of the shop. Though the patrons of the shop all got a glimpse of my bald head. Spike made me strip head to toe, and then she sat down me down in a barber’s chair that had interesting modifications. Once she had me strapped in, with my legs up and spread eagle, she lathered up my scalp. With a BIC, she shaved me smooth again. Then she tended to my pussy.
Putting on latex gloves, she said, “The game plan is to pierce your clit and nipples. Then I am going to tattoo “EGGHEAD” on the area right above your forehead. It will be covered by your wig and your hair when it starts to grow back in again. And then finally I will tattoo “PROPERTY OF JAMES” on your pussy. Do I have your consent to do this?”
Glad that I was strapped in tightly, so I didn’t squirm from delight, I told her yes. As she worked on me, my husband never once broke eye contract with me. Even as he filmed my whole ordeal. Afterwards, once the talk on how to prevent infection was over, Spike left us alone together, so my husband could show everything that had been done and talk me through any emotions that I felt about it.
“Do you like them?” he asked, finally showing me my new look in the mirror.
I have to admit, I burst into tears. The EGGHEAD tattoo was what did it. All my shame, which was twisted all with lust, was now written just above my forehead. Forever
“Poor baby, don’t worry, I still love you,” he said, taking off his pants, “you’re my dream girl now.”
As he entered my wet and willing pussy, I thought, I am the luckiest woman in the world. I still think that. It’s been ten years since he took me to that tattoo shop. Once a year, on that day, which we now consider our anniversary, he shaves my head to reveal my tattoo. My pussy, of course, remains shaved all year round.
Our kids definitely don’t know anything about our sex life. Again, we have two, a 14 year-old girl and a 10 year-old boy. As far as I known, they think that they came into being via immaculate conception. The girl, however, recently insisted on getting a short summer buzz cut along with her brother. As I ran the clipper through her wonderful curly black hair, which was down to her shoulders at that point, I thought, oh great, it’s genetic. Well, at least, she has a nice head shape.