Peg'n' Elvis

"Okay," he shrugged grudgingly agreeing, but, planning to once again put off the day of reckoning, he stood, ready to leave the bathroom.

Peggy blocked the door. "Where do you think you're going?" she arched a skeptical eyebrow.

"To get dressed," Harry sighed.

"You've got an appointment with the barber first," she laughed wickedly and, reaching onto the counter, pulled forth large, evil-looking electric shears.

Harry moaned. "You've thought of everything, haven't you?" Staring at the razor, he remembered last night, when she brought latex gloves and lube as well as her dildo in harness, which she wore under Carmen's trench coat. "You always do!" he admitted, with grudging admiration.

"Have a seat, Harry." She pointed to the toilet. Defeated, he sank back down.

She snapped on the razor, which buzzed malevolently. Without preamble, she drove it across his crown, right down the back of his head straight to his neck, releasing an avalanche of shorn locks down his back. She repeated the process down a parallel path on the other side. In embarrassingly little time, whatever little hair he possessed tumbled onto the bathroom floor. Peggy stood back and, regarding her handiwork with a sarcastic smirk, clicked off the razor and set it down. "Stand up, Harry," she ordered.

Meekly, he did so, not daring to meet her eye or risk a glance in the glass.

"Face the mirror," she commanded.

Reluctantly, he did so but kept his eyes downcast.

Peggy stepped behind him and put her arms around his chest, hugging him to her. She hissed into his ear, "I want you to meet the new you, the true you—presenting my honey, Hairless Harry," she nearly squealed with delight. "Look up!"

He did so and moaned at the sight of the elderly fellow who stared back at him confusedly through watery eyes, the harsh bathroom light bouncing mercilessly off his chrome dome. After years of dread and denial, he now confronted what he'd become over time. Beneath his depilated scalp, he saw the true shape of his head, the skull, like a death's head, that lurked beneath his skin. For some men, a shaved head betokened toughness, the sort found behind bars and in barracks, the kind that belonged to convicts and recruits, badasses, who appealed to women, who loved bad boys, but that kind of virile baldness belonged to young men. Maybe I should have done this when I was younger, he thought ruefully. But now, at his age, Harry looked monkish instead, the absence of his hair betokening not virility but enforced celibacy for the rest of his life—whatever remained to him.

"Well, what do you think?" she whispered into his ear, sounding like a hairdresser proud to have done a long overdue makeover on a recalcitrant client who'd finally relented. He shook his head, struck by the incongruous excitement and anticipation in her voice.

He swallowed hard, trying not to sound choked up. "I look like an ugly old bald man," he muttered, feeling as defeated as he sounded.

Peggy reached down and began stroking his naked, flaccid manhood, deflated by his sudden and complete humiliation at his wife's hands. "That's right. You do, but when you walk out that door, I want you to hold that ugly old bald head of yours up high."

"Why?" he nearly sobbed.

"So everyone can see just how hairless you are, do you understand?"

"No," he sniffled, as a single tear escaped his right eye and trickled down his cheek into his mouth. He struggled to keep from bawling like a baby, a bald baby at that.

"Because even if every other woman who looks on you from now on rightly finds you hideous, there's one woman who, despite your appearance, wants you, no matter what. Can you guess who she is?" Peggy grinned lusciously over his shoulder into the mirror.

He felt his penis surge. He turned in her arms and reached down to kiss her. She kissed back passionately, pushing her face into his. They both eventually broke their embrace, panting. "Come on," he gasped to Peggy. "I'll be penetrating you this time, Carmen!"

"Really?" she tittered. "Well, this girl has three orifices available for your exclusive pleasure, Mr. Presley: ass, pussy, and puss."

"Let's go back to bed and sort it out there," he urged.

She stepped back. "Let's start with this." She puckered her lips and pressed her right hand against his heaving chest. She stepped past him to sit on the toilet. He turned and shuffled a step forward, bringing his stiff penis right up to her lips. She flicked out her tongue and brushed the end of his penis with it. He moaned, "Suck me, baby!"

"Not so fast," she chided then reached up to the counter and picked up the electric shears with her right hand. "One good turn deserves another," she declared, and putting the razor into his right hand, she ordered, "Shave me, baby!"

"But why?" he gasped.

"Look, honey," she laughed. "I'll wear a wig in public to spare you the humiliation of being seen with a bald woman, just like I promised. In fact, I have a wig in the room."

"Because, of course, you thought of everything didn't you?" he sighed.

"That's right, and now that I'm bald on top," she said, running a hand over her completely depilated cranium, "I want to start fresh all over!" She concluded, running her fingers though the long strands that still hung in profusion from the back of her head.

Dubiously, he raised the razor.

"Look," she stared up at him mischievously, "I'll make it worth your while," and so saying, she took his whole penis in her mouth. As she sucked, she reached her hands around to his butt cheeks and, stroking then squeezing them, pulled them toward her as she leaned her head into his crotch, starting a rhythmic in and out motion with her mouth. After a moment, she paused and looked up at him with an expectant eye, as if to say, "I'm doing my part. Don't forget yours!"

With a satisfied sigh, he flicked on the razor and, reaching down, began to systemically shear off the profusion of locks round her right ear, intending to work his way around the back to finish with the total obliteration of her hair around her left ear. Even above the buzz of the clippers, he heard her satisfied moans as he systematically deprived her of whatever remained of the glorious corona that once marked her femininity, rendering her as completely bald as the old man she'd so utterly and easily—and, he now accepted, permanently—transformed him into just moments before. In return, she humbly and gratefully performed what to Harry felt like the best fellatio of his life. In that moment, he considered the loss of his hair and, with it, whatever remained of his youthful appearance, more than a fair trade for the pleasure pulsing through him.