It's Getting Real
As I sat in my living room, still reeling from the past few days, I began to realize just how all of this was going to impact my life. Until that faithful day at the club, my little obsession had been neatly and discretely packaged. Vanessa had taken care of that in short order. Now my life seemed irreparably scarred, laid bare for all to see. It was a realization that both titillated and frightened.
The rest of that week was a string of one humiliation after the next, usually ending up at the club for a session of Mistress and slave. I still wasn't used to the condescending attitude the staff held toward me now. But, like everything else, I seemed to be warming up to it.
I'd been paraded into restaurants wearing precious little and of course, sporting my new look. Vanessa seemed to take so much pride in presenting me as her servant, saying that I'd shaved myself in devotion to her. The ultimate debasement, as it were. Fortunately, none of the places we went were of any consequence, but I still worried that I might be spotted by someone, anyone I knew.
Friday night at the club had been particularly brutal, as Vanessa had brought in another Domme, who had shown me no mercy. Vanessa seemed to enjoy how rough the woman was with me, only stopping her when she thought some irreparable damage might be wrought. The woman vowed to steal me from Vanessa, who laughed at the supposition. Even so, I dreaded the thought of having to serve this monster full-time.
I was so sore and worn out, that I had collapsed on my sofa, unable to drag myself to the bedroom. I stank of myself, of urine and sweat, but I didn't care. So when I woke on Saturday morning, I was still a bit delirious.
"I have to buy a wig." I blurted, realizing that it was well past noon on a Saturday. I quickly scanned the internet, trying to find a place that carried decent wigs and was still open. I was lucky. Well across town was a place that seemed to carry good, albeit expensive hairpieces. There was no choice. I could never show up at the office as I was. It was a wig or nothing at all.
I quickly showered, which, without any hair at all, was a very brief affair. Sporting a scarf, something I never did, I drove the forty minutes to the "Mad About Hair" Boutique. I was relieved when I walked in to see a myriad of wigs, some of which resembled my once glorious mane.
"Good afternoon." A young woman greeted me, smiling as she rounded the end of a long counter. "You're looking for a wig?"
I nodded, slipping the scarf from my pate, revealing my finely stubbled scalp beneath. "Yes. I am."
"Great!" The girl bubbled, almost too exuberantly. "Do you have a style or color in mind?"
"Uh..., Blonde, and about to here." I indicated the point where my shoulders met my neck.
"Ah, excellent. We have a great selection in that length." She set about grabbing several wigs and bringing them to where she had me sit. The place wasn't fancy by any means, but the small private space made me feel more at ease. As she began to arrange things she took a good look at my head. "So, just a suggestion, but these wigs all fit much better on a smoothly shaved scalp." She smiled, uneasily. "Did you lose your hair, or just shave it off?"
Acutely embarrassed by the question, but not seeing any way around answering it, I replied. "It was shaved off." I wondered just how many shades of red I must have turned.
"Don't be embarrassed. Everybody does crazy things once in a while. It's cool. But the fact remains, the wigs might slip off if the scalp isn't smooth."
I tried to imagine having the thing fall off at the most inopportune moment, and nodded. "I understand."
"Tell you what. We don't normally do this, but I can do it for you. I've got razors and stuff. What do you say?" She prompted.
Thinking that I had few alternatives and that she might not fit me without doing it, I nodded. "Fine."
"Cool. Let me get set up here, and we'll have you smooth as glass in no time." As difficult as it was, I was determined not to become aroused by this. While the girl filled a small basin and grabbed a few disposable razors, I asserted myself accordingly. The thing was, as soon as the blades began scaping at my scalp, I couldn't help myself. My 'lil' stinker was going to do just that, and in no time at all.
I hoped the girl didn't notice, but if I could smell myself, there was no doubt that she could do as well. "There." The girl declared, running her index finger over my freshly shaved skull. "Smooth as silk." She smirked. "You're lucky you enjoyed that, 'cause you're going to be doing it daily."
I looked up at the girl for some sign that she was taking some sort of control over me, but I think she was only being sincere. "Every day?" I asked.
"Oh, yeah. You'll get used to being bald. You'll see." She smiled, caressing my scalp with an open palm, eliciting an inaudible sigh. "Now, let's get you fitted."
An hour later, I walked out of the boutique looking as I had the day before, before the barber's that is. It looked so realistic that I doubted anyone would be the wiser. Of course, there would be no fooling Vanessa Worth. I wondered how she would react to my wearing anything to cover my humiliation. Did she honestly expect me to show up at the firm, bald? I was a senior partner, for heaven's sake.
As nice as the wig looked, I couldn't help but feel uncomfortable with it on. My smooth scalp itched slightly as the rubberized binder clung to its surface. It was only slightly annoying, but enough for me to shed the wig in private. So, I spent the remainder of the weekend, bald.
Sunday night, I took advantage of the gross of razors I had purchased after leaving the wig shop. If I was going to be shaving my head every day, I may as well be prepared. The process was not all that difficult, once I learned the direction of the hair growth. I managed to get things glossy in about ten minutes. Of course, I had to masturbate afterward, my 'lil' stinker demanding attention once I was done.
The shock of the tattoo was beginning to wear off, and I had to admit to finding it almost pleasing to look at. There was no denying that my cunt had earned it, and the idea of being labeled as such was arousing in itself. I was a stinker, and that was all there was to it.
The scars on my back had begun to settle into smoothly sculpted lines, some red and some white depending on the severity of the lash which had raised them. They weren't going away, and that seemed to bother me more than anything else. Perhaps it was by design that those were made so ugly and so permanent.
