The Train Station Barber

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I would always stop to watch the train station barber. He was an Latino man in his 70s with a shiny bald head, thick black glasses, and such confident hands. One day, he noticed me watching and indicted for me to sit in his chair. Against my better judgment, I obeyed.

Caping me, he said, his accent thick, “It’s time for you to finally get what you want, puta. A shiny bald head like mine. Stay still. I can probably sell that pretty hair for a decent price. I don’t want to lose a single strand.”

He brushed my chestnut brown hair until it shined. Then he tied it into a ponytail. I winced as he used a large pair of clippers to peel the hair from my scalp. He put the ponytail on the counter. Then he ran the clippers over my head again, making sure nothing was missed. When I tried to feel my head, he told me that I wasn’t finished and then wrapped my head in a warm towel. He sharpened his straight razor as I watched, the towel feeling heavy. After ten minutes, he removed the towel and lathered up my scalp. It felt like forever as he shaved me smooth with his razor. When he was done with that, he polished my chromedome to a shine.

As he uncaped me, he told me to follow him to his backroom. He then unbuckled his pants and had me blow him. His load, of course, went to making my head even shiner. I still needed to pay, of course, and he even insisted on a tip, which I gave him.

I called out sick from work that day. How could I focus after such an erotic humiliation? I also had to buy a wig. But, yes, once a week, I still go to the train station barber, and, after he shaves me smooth, I show him my appreciation.

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