Corporate Recon
I’m standing in front of the bathroom mirror in my shirt and trousers, turning my head slowly from side to side. The cut is exactly as he left it: bald sides, skin-smooth from the crown down, then a hard, ugly line where the grade 3 starts on top. No fade. Just a sharp shelf of hair sitting on top of a completely naked skull. High and tight recon. The kind that only ever looks intentional if you’re in uniform or you’ve just walked out of a barber who didn’t give a fuck what you do for a living.
I run my palm over the left side. Nothing. Just warm skin and the faint residual roughness where the blade went closest. The top is short enough that it doesn’t move when I push my fingers through it. It just sits there, dense and military, announcing itself.
I remember the exact second the clippers first touched on Saturday. I was already on my knees in the tracksuit bottoms he’d made me wear, cock out, dripping onto the cheap fabric. He’d said, “Proper chav now,” and the buzz started high and just kept climbing. No guard on the sides. Straight to skin. I felt every hair fall. He held my head steady with one fist in the longer top while the blade made the bald strip wider and wider. Every time I tried to flinch he yanked harder and told me to say it again: “I’m a fucking chav.” My voice was already wrecked from his cock earlier. It came out broken and wet.
I button the collar now and the cotton sits wrong. There’s nothing left at the nape for it to rest against. Cool air moves across the bare skin every time I breathe. My cock thickens against the zip just from that small sensation.
He went all the way round, methodical, until both sides and the back were completely bald. Then he switched to the grade 3 and did the top in long, even passes, leaving that brutal oval. No blending. He made me look in the mirror while he finished, chin forced up so I couldn’t look away. “That’s the one you can’t hide, mate. Corporate chav. You’re walking into that office on Monday looking like you just got out of a young offenders’ unit.” Then he pushed my face straight onto his cock and held me there while the last loose hairs drifted down the front of the tracksuit top. I choked and sucked, eyes watering, tasting him, taking it deep in my throat. I came on the floor with his cock still stretching my throat and the new shape of my head burning in the mirror behind him.
I start putting the tie on. The shoulders sit the same as always, but my neck feels exposed, almost indecent. I can already feel the looks that won’t be said out loud, just the extra second of eye contact in the lift, the quiet recalibration in the meeting room. My cock is fully hard now, pressing an obvious line against the suit trousers. I don’t adjust it.
After the clippers went quiet he made me stay on my knees while he inspected every inch. Thumb dragging over the hard line where bald met short, then down the completely smooth nape. “Feel that? That’s not growing out anytime soon” He pulled me up, bent me over the arm of the sofa, and fucked me with the tracksuit bottoms still shoved halfway down my thighs. He kept saying it into my ear, low and pleased: “My little corporate chav. Look at the state of you.” I came again with my face pressed into the cushion and the word still wet on my tongue.
He made me take a photo before I left his flat. Standing in the tracksuit, dirty 95s, the recon cut still dusted with loose hair. He texted it later with the caption: monday morning reminder. I opened it again last night and got hard enough that I had to wank over the image of my own ruined head.
I knot the tie. In the bathroom light the contrast is even worse: pale bare skin rising into a dark, flat block. It looks deliberate. Aggressive. Wrong for the suit.
I pick up the keys. The front door is three steps away. The mirror still shows me the same thing: a man in a good suit with a haircut that belongs on a different body, a different class, a different set of rules. I can still feel the ghost of the clippers on my scalp, his hand in the remaining hair and his cock still stretching my throat. The fear sits right next to the heat, cold and sharp and unmistakable. I already know I’ll be back next Saturday. I already know I’ll ask him to take the top shorter. The knowledge sits in my gut like a stone and makes my cock throb harder against the zip. I open the door and leave to accept my fate.
