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henrypreppy · 11 months

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Not Quite Nepotism

I made it through to the final interview. I needed this job, and since there was a huge influx of accounting grads, I thought my chances were slim. The first few interviews turned out to be mostly small talk and some experience questions. All of it was simple and easy. My family was all the way back in New York, and I came to Texas for a new start and a job lead. I was new. No one knew me, so there wasn't much I could talk about locally, but the managers seemed to like my disposition at the very least. Though, I had a feeling the final interview with the owner of the bank was going to be much harder.

I showed up like every other interview dressed sharply, a neat charcoal suit, white dress shirt, black tasseled loafers, and a burnt orange tie—I knew the owner was a longhorns fan.

I walked somewhat stiffly up to the receptionist and told her I was here for the interview with Mr. Richardson. She smiled warmly, "So, you're the one he's been so excited about! Let me tell him you're here and get you a keycard for the elevator. His office is on the top floor."

I didn't think I was a hotshot or anything, but apparently word had traveled up to the head honcho.

The receptionist grabbed a card from the drawer and dialed an extension on the phone before saying “He’s here.” She handed me a keycard for the elevator with a wink and said "He's ready for you now. Top floor. Good luck!”

I got in the elevator and tapped the card to the reader. I pressed the button to take me to the fifth floor. The doors closed, and I took the brief moment to make sure my appearance was neat in the reflective metal. My black hair looked immaculate with comb lines forming a neat side part. I took a few deep breaths after checking my hair, and before I knew it. I was at the top.

The doors opened, and I realized… His office wasn't ON the top floor. It WAS the top floor. I stepped out, and was greeted immediately by the smell of a citrusy cologne as I advanced toward him. Mr. Richardson, a rather portly man in a navy three piece suit, sat before me. His grey hair was in a neat side part that looked very thick for his other aged features. He spoke in a slow emphatic drawl: “Mr. Matthews! What a pleasure it is to finally meet’cha! My cohorts have told me quite a lot about’cha, son!"

He rose from behind his mahogany desk and extended his hand for a handshake. I took it, feeling his powerful grip on my hands as my eyes locked with his. Confidently, if not overconfidently, I replied "The pleasure is all mine! This is quite an office you have here."

He chuckled softly, "Well, it took a long time to build up. Please, have a seat."

I took a seat on the rather robust office chair opposite his, resting my arms firmly on the thick, cushioned rests. "Thank you," I said politely. As he sat opposite me, I could notice a thick sheen coming from the top of his grey hair. He seemed to have no sideburns either—an odd style choice, but I wasn’t there to question style; I had a mission.

I must have been looking too long, as he almost comically eyed me up and down in an over-exaggerated manner. I let out a nervous giggle as I realized. Ceasing to over-act, his expression turned serious. "I'll cut straight to the chase, son. From everything I've heard about’cha, I think you'll do real nice here with me. I trust those underneath me. They’re a helluva team.”

I was put off slightly by the boldness of his statement, but managed another "Thank you, sir."

With a slight smile, he taunted, “But…” He licked his lips like a wolf eyeing its prey. “Let me get one last look at’cha before yer career with me really gets started.”

With a snap and a few ripped arm hairs, restraints sprang from the armrests and held my arms to the chair. One ankle, being close to one of the legs of the chair, was caught as well. I began to panic and flail my free leg as I heard swift footsteps behind me. I turned my head as much as I could and caught a glimpse of two men in black business suits rushing up from behind the chair.

Mr. Richardson smiled even wider, speaking even slower: "Don't you worry, son. Your career has just begun."

I felt a sharp pain in my neck and everything faded to black. The last thing in sight was the glare from Mr. Richardson's grey hair.

…

I awoke in a dark room, unable to move my arms, legs, or head. All I could do was look forward. There seemed to be whispers in the background, though I could not make out what they were saying. Then, there was a small sting toward the front of my head as the dark room was briefly lit by a pinkish light. It startled me at first, but the stings kept coming and eventually my head became numb from pain. The flashes came to a steady rhythm, and slowly I could make out a something in front of me. It was the silhouette of a person.

Slowly, I could make out more details, and it looked like just a head with hair, but only on the top. It was light, but not quite white. After a few minutes, the flashes stopped. My head felt warm, and the room smelled like something burning.

A bright spotlight came from overhead and illuminated what I saw in brief flashes: a grey toupee on a wooden head form. It looked like Mr. Richardson's hair. I examined it briefly.

Then, I heard a slight hissing noise, as if gas was escaping from a pipe and was instantly flooded with euphoria. All I could do was look at the toupee before me. Blood rushed from my throbbing head to my member; it felt amazing; it felt erotic; it felt wrong in some ways. Soon after, I blacked out from the rush.

…

I awoke once again, feeling exhausted, unwilling to struggle to move. The room was dark once again, and the whispers seemed louder, and I could make out a few words. "Lionel Richardson…" "Bank manager…" "Tradition…" "Junior…" The words rolled around in my head at random intervals. When I finally started to hear them clearer, the stinging on my head started again; this time it was closer to the crest of my head. This time, the flashes lasted longer and were accompanied by more intense pain.

As the flashes accompanied stinging, I saw there was something else in front of me: Two cylinders. It continued, and I could see curves in them. The bottom of each one was flared and darker, and there appeared to be a line that separated the dark underneath from the paleness above. A faint glimmer of metal and a dark stripe caught my eye above that. I struggled to focus on it. Finally, I was able to understand what I was looking at. They were legs. The stinging stopped. The smell was far more pungent than last time, and the pain on my head persisted much more.

Then, the spotlight came on once again, illuminating a pair of wooden leg forms wearing dark socks and black leather sock garters with a silver metal clip.

Once I comprehended what I saw, the hissing began again and I was sent into euphoria staring at the socks and garters. My cock grew forcibly in response and even my nipples became erect. I lasted longer before passing out, but eventually the gleam of the silver clips on the garters faded from my hazy vision.

…

I have no idea how long I was out, but when I came to, the voices around me no longer sounded like whispers. I could make them out clearly, but it sounded like I was in a crowded room. I heard full sentences. "I am Lionel Richardson." "I am the regional bank manager." "I value tradition." "My dad calls me Junior." "I love my family."

The room was still dark, and I knew what was coming: another round of stings on my scalp and flashing lights. This time, the stings felt like they were on the back of my head, past the crest. The pain was very intense, and the scent was recognizable immediately. My penis betrayed me ahead of time and swelled in expectation of the erotic rush.

At first, the flashes revealed very little, other than something broad and white. Slowly, more details emerged and I could see what looked like a white tank top and briefs in front of me. The flashing and stinging suddenly became more rapid, almost like a strobe. The pain moved from the back of my head to the front over and over. It was excruciating. Just like before, though, it stopped, but only after light tears formed in my eyes from pain. Even my cock, eager for release, shrank from the discomfort.

The spotlight came on, and the object was revealed. It was a mannequin form wearing a tight, white a-shirt tucked into a pair of high-rise white briefs. As I examined the shirt and underwear further, I saw letters on the waist of the briefs: LR. I could see small ridges in the fabric of the shirt, as I began to hear the hissing.

The voices suddenly fell silent and my privates rose once again to full attention.

Then, I heard Mr. Richardson's voice clear as a bell: "A man should always dress traditionally, Junior."

A rush came over me, as endorphins flooded my system again.

He repeated: "A man should always dress traditionally, Junior." This time, it rang in my head.

As I fought to maintain consciousness, it changed: "You're nothing without your hair, son…"

It echoed in my head, ingraining the phrase on my horny mind as my eyes closed and time passed once again.

…

When I woke up this time, there were no voices. The room was bright, illuminated by an overhead light this time. I could feel something cold and smooth around my neck, but I could move my head this time. I looked around the room and saw only a dresser in the corner, and a full length mirror in front of me. On top of the dresser sat a wooden head with the grey toupee I saw in what seemed like a dream. I saw myself in the mirror, now pudgy, slightly erect, a metal collar around my neck, and fully nude. My head was bald with only a black fringe of hair around the sides. I understood what had been done. My hair was removed. Finally, I heard his voice again. “Get up, and get dressed, Junior.”

The restrains on my arms, legs, and chest were released. I sat forward with a gasp, and felt freedom for the first time in ages. I stood up, but my legs felt weak and shaky from lack of use. I looked behind me to see a metal chair with restraints fully opened. There seemed to be no door to the room behind me either.

I felt a strong shock from the collar I was wearing and heard him repeat: "Get up and get dressed, Junior."

Caught off guard, I stumbled from the pain. I nearly fell, but caught myself on the edge of the dresser. I took a deep breath and stood straight up. I reached for the top drawer and pulled it open with a slow creak. Inside were many pairs of white briefs, monogrammed "LR," ribbed white a-shirts, black socks that had a slight sheen to them, and three pairs of sock garters.

Feeling a slight chill, I decided to cover up my manhood with the briefs first. They were crisp and starched with a rise that I was sure could pass belly button. As I pulled the briefs up, I heard the hissing of gas again. I prepared to lose consciousness again, but the hissing only lasted for a moment; it was euphoria once again, albeit briefly as the waistband grasped my midsection tightly, leaving a clear silhouette of my enlivened tool.

Next, I reached for the a-shirt. Unaccustomed to wearing them, I thought it would be uncomfortable, but I pulled my arms through, and felt warmer once again.

I reached for the socks, but felt a shock from the collar before I could grab them.

I heard him say once more "A man should always dress TRADITIONALLY, Junior."

I was confused. I WAS dressing traditionally. I reached for the socks again, confused. Another shock.

He said, "A man must always be tucked and tidy, son." I understood what he meant as I glanced at my untucked shirt. I slid the bottom of the a-shirt into the high waist of my briefs, smoothing it out all the way around. It did little to hide my erect nipples, which rubbed the ribbed garment with pleasure.

A brief hiss, and another small rush.

I reached for the socks slower this time and felt the silky fabric as I finally made contact. I knelt down to place the first one on my foot and relished the smooth knit working its way up my leg to my calf. I had never worn socks like this before. They felt very nice. I slipped the other one on and enjoyed the feeling once more. Expecting another rush, I took a deep inhale and received nothing but air. I felt strangely frustrated, but intuited that there was more.

I looked to the garters and it clicked. I took the first one, wrapping it around my calf and clipping it to my sock. I cinched it tight and pulled the sock up taut. I repeated the process again, and when the sock was properly supported, I stood up. Another hiss of gas entered the room, and I was feeling great. I wiggled my toes as one hand drifted to my nipple and the other toward my cock. I thought to myself, “Is this what luxury underwear is like? It feels amazing. It feels so—“

"Now look at yourself, son.” Mr. Richardson interrupted. “This is how a man should dress."

I moved my hands away from my body in embarrassment. I walked to the mirror and took a long look at myself. I looked old and stodgy, like I was ripped out of some old sitcom.

"Look at your hair, Junior."

I stared at my pale, bald head glistening in the light.

"You're nothing without your hair, son."

His statement seemed to elude me as I looked at myself. Then, a small shock started from the collar. Very light, but persistent. I snapped out of my disbelief, and looked to the dresser once more to see the toupee sitting on the head form.

He repeated: "You're nothing without your hair, son." The shocking became worse, more painful.

I began to make my way to the dresser as he repeated once again and the shocks became nearly debilitating. Nearly within reach, he repeated one last time before I passed out from the pain, the object of reprieve inches my fingertips.

…

I awoke again in the chair, fully restrained, lights off, and head throbbing. I felt a ringing in my ears as a screen turned on in front of me. It showed a picture of Mr. Richardson; the image flickered every few seconds or so.

A small gust of air hit me, and I was taken back in my mind to the smell of his office when I had first walked in. This must have been his cologne. It smelled of light citrus and teakwood.

Then, the hissing began, and I felt the rush again, just breathing in the scent as my body responded.

I focused on the screen while taking it all in. The flickering seemed to speed up, as the word "FATHER" slowly crept into my vision and overtook the image of Mr. Richardson. It slowly faded away, as I was hit with another puff of air—more citrus and wood. The hissing began and continued this time until I passed out in euphoria some minutes or hours later, staring at Mr. Richardson's picture, "FATHER" creeping back into it all, as I faded to black. This time, I think I understood.

…

I awoke again, the room lit like before. The collar was around my neck again, and I could look around once more. I saw myself naked again and felt embarrassed, my face flushing slightly.

On queue, I heard him say "Get up and get dressed, Junior."

I was freed from my confines once again, and felt a strong shock after getting up.

He spoke: "Please respond to me when I speak to you, son."

I let out a meek, hoarse "Sorry, sir."

Another shock. "Please address me by who I am, not just 'sir.'"

"Sorry… dad?"

Another shock, but less intense. I clear my throat and muster a normal speaking voice: "Sorry, Father."

"Apology accepted, Junior, now please get dressed." He sounded almost heartfelt, but entirely formal.

I walked to the dresser again, finding a bottle of cologne labelled "LR" next to the head form this time.

I got dressed again, not waiting for the rush that he gave me for a good performance. My cock grew as I began the process: Briefs. A-shirt. Tuck it in. Socks. Garters. Then, I reached for the toupee—another shock of moderate intensity.

"Please go take a look at yourself, Junior."

I walked to the mirror once more and took myself in.

He encouraged me, "That is how a man ought to properly dress, but you're nothing without your hair son." The persistent shock began again, as I made my way to the grey toupee.

Instead of repeating, he said, "Don't you agree, Junior?"

The shock intensified until I yelp, "Yes, Father!"

The intensity lessened only slightly as he inquired, "Yes, Father, what?"

I hesitated, and the shocking swelled once again. "Yes, Father, I'm nothing without my hair!"

The shocking went down once again as I touched my hands to the grey toupee. I slowly raised it to my head and placed it on. It slid ever-so-slightly, but the shocking completely ceased.

Instinctively, I walked to the mirror once again to adjust my toupee. I cringed slightly at the grey toupee contrasting with my remaining fringe of black hair. I began shifting around the strands of fake hair with my hands, forming a rough side part that fails to blend in with my dark hair.

Father lauded me, "Very good, Junior! Now you're wearing it like your old man! Aren't you glad to have one just like me?"

"Yes, Father.” A shock. "I'm nothing without my hair."

Father responded, "Thank you, son! Now why don't you put on some cologne and make yourself presentable." I walked back to the dresser and sprayed some cologne on my wrists, neck, and toupee. Citrus and teakwood, just like Father.

The gas finally hissed in, and I felt the similar euphoric rush I felt when I have behaved correctly. A small wet spot began to form in the briefs as I stared at myself in the mirror, smelled the cologne, and passed out in ecstasy, my unsecured toupee falling inches from my head.

…

I was roused from my stupor by the sound of muffled crashes and booms. It was coming from outside the room. I was confused. The voice continued telling me who I am as the noises came closer. The lights were off and I was restrained still. I was confused. What was going on?

I heard a faint yell from outside the room: “Hallway clear, proceeding forward!”

Sweat dripped down my neck, and I began to struggle against the restraints. I wasn’t who the voices were saying I was. I was being held. The situation began to click for me. Rescue was on the way!

A light emerged from behind me as a door behind me was opened.

“Hold!” I heard an authoritative man shout as footsteps approached me from behind.

“Hello?” I questioned in a daze.

“There’s a guy in here,” the man boomed before trodding over to my front. Several sets of footsteps followed behind him.

They were clad in S.W.A.T. body armor and riot helmets. One of them removed his helmet, revealing a young but severe face and buzzcut. “Waco PD. Sgt. Mathers. Who are you?”

A softer “The fuck is this shit?” could be heard from another man, acknowledging the situation and the voice speaking in the background.

I was flustered, unsure of what to say. “I-I’m-I… Help me,” is all I could muster.

“Are you being held captive?” He questioned directly.

“Yes… Father!” I eeked, the ‘father’ leaving my lips involuntarily.

“He’s the one. Help me get him out of here,” he commanded to the men behind him.

The men started to work on the restraints as he turned to me: “I ain’t’cher daddy, boy. Now, identify yourself!”

“Li-Lio-I’on’t know.” I slurred madly.

The man held his hand up, signaling the men to stop. He seemed exasperated: “Clearly.”

The men stopped working on the restraints and backed away, their heads shaking almost dejectedly. I was even more confused. Were they here to rescue me?

The man stood straight and broadcasted, “Assessment failed. Recommending more extreme measures.” The lights cut on as the men began to exit as the unmasked one shook his head. He turned to me and said didactically “You’ll only feel good when you accept who you are.” He took a syringe from his vest pocket, flicked it twice and pressed it into my neck with a sting before walking off.

I was betrayed, crazed, confused, and hopeless as I struggled to keep my eyes open. I listened to the voice declaring “I am Lionel Richardson Junior” as I passed out.

…

“Wakey wakey, Junior,” I heard a familiar voice say as I struggled to open my eyes. I was still fully restrained, but the overhead lights were on. My whole body was sore—especially my head and groin. I finally opened them fully and was greeted with Mr. Richardson in front of me. He was dressed in a navy pinstripe three-piece suit with a red paisley necktie. My eyes immediately drifted to his silver hairpiece. He reeked of his expensive cologne, but it seemed comforting.

“There we are,” He said with a grin as my eyes finally met his. “Do you finally understand who you are?” he patronized.

“Yes… Father,” I hesitated.

“That doesn’t sound very confident. Richardsons are nothing if not confident, Junior.”

“Yes, Father,” I repeated without delay.

“Good, Junior. What is your name?” He asked deliberately.

“Lionel Richardson Junior,” I replied weakly.

“Once more with vigor, son,” He urged.

“Lionel Richardson Junior,” I stated at a normal volume.

“Good, son. Now get dressed,” he demanded.

My penis grew automatically at his approval. He moved to the side, and the restraints were released. I could see myself already in the mirror. I had gotten even fatter—not quite to fath-uh-Mr. Richardson’s proportions, but a definitive gut now hung over my substantial thighs. I groaned as I got up and pondered whether or not to make a move for him as I stood. As the thought emerged, a striking pain rapped my head. I reeled back into the seat.

“Precautions have been taken, Junior. You’d never disobey father, would you?” He challenged.

“No, father,” I said dejectedly before standing up again. “I apologize, father,” left my lips robotically as I moved toward the dresser. I had not intended to speak, nor to obey so quickly.

“Apology accepted, Junior. Now get dressed.”

It was hard for me to think of anything but obedience to him. I pulled open the top drawer to the dresser again and took the now-larger “LR” monogrammed briefs out. As I stepped into them, I felt a tingling sensation within my genitals, as if teasing an orgasm. I pulled them up to my belly button, and the sensation felt nearer and nearer to release but never came. It drove me mad to be so close to such pleasure, and I began to paw at my crotch though the briefs.

My father delivered a swift slap to my face. “How unsightly, Junior. Please, control ya’self and get dressed.”

I shook myself, still on the edge of nirvana, and slung the a-shirt over my head, immediately tucking it in to the briefs. My spine tingled and toes curled, as release felt nearer and nearer. I knew what came next. With haste, I grabbed the dark silken socks and pulled them over my feet, eager to fasten them in place with the garters. I let out a slight moan as I clipped each sock into place.

“Good, my boy. It feels good to be a Richardson, doesn’t it?” My father cooed.

“Yes, Father,” is all I could think to say, lost in the pleasure of it all.

“Now look at’cha’self,” he rang. “What’re we missin’?”

My eyes glanced between the mirror and the toupee repeatedly. I knew what was missing. I was lost in the thought of the pleasure that would come from placing the toupee on my head before he prodded: “Answer me, Junior.” The pain in my head began again.

“I’m nothing without my hair, Father!” I declared, the pain receding.

I approached the toupee on the form with a “Very good, son,” from Father. The tingling in my groin intensified as my hands touched the toupee. I lifted it onto my head with a moan. As my head made contact with the piece, a tingle went down my spine to my groin; I thought orgasm was near, but it never came no matter how much I adjusted my hair in a craze.

“Calm down, Junior. Let’cha father help ya’. Com’ere.” He beckoned me to the seat that restrained me for so long. “Let me show ya’.”

I did not have time to think before I moved in hope of release. I sat down and stared at Father’s hair in the mirror as he came around behind me. He took the toupee off of my head and removed tape from his jacket before applying it to the inside of the toupee and rolling the piece back onto my head.

“That should hold it in place now. Let’s get’cha lookin’ right like yer ol’ dad.” He removed a brush from his jacket as well before styling the toupee. As he dragged the brush through my hair, I could feel the tape pulling at my scalp. Even that felt erotic on my denuded pate. I cooed after each pass with the brush, watching him groom me. With several more strokes through my hair, my father had it looking just like his, save the ring of black hair surrounding the piece.

He put the brush back in his pocket and placed his hands on my shoulders. His palms electrified me and pushed me closer to the precipice without allowing any release. “Lookin’ better already, son. Whaddya’ think?”

“It’s perfect, Father!” I groaned in ecstasy, reaching for my hair.

“Now, now, son. Don’t want to mess it up now, do we?”

“No, Father,” I agreed.

“Exactly,” he stated with a smirk. “Now put’cher cologne on ’n wait for me here. I have a surprise I’m sure you’ll love.”

“Of course, father,” I said formally. I walked toward the dresser as he walked to the back of the room. As I sprayed the comforting Richardson aphrodisiac on my neck and wrists, I glanced behind to see a crack form in the wall behind the chair. The crack parted farther into a doorway as my father walked toward it, and into a hallway. The door stayed open as I applied the cologne and relished the scent.

I stepped back to the mirror, admiring my appearance once again. The more I looked, the more pleasurable it felt: the high briefs, that did little to hide my engorged, leaking member; the undershirt, that coaxed my nipples to the size of dimes; the silky socks that caressed my toes and calves; the sock garters that kept them taut and gripped my legs; and especially the toupee that covered my baldness and finished the family resemblance.

Eventually, my eyes fell to the door reflected in the mirror. The vague thoughts of making a run for it were met with the pain of the harshest migraine I could have imagined. Respite only came as I focused on obedience and my appearance; the pleasure soon followed, forcing a smile onto my face as I pawed at myself in privacy.

After a moment to myself, I heard the hard clacking of Father’s footsteps approaching and stood straight up, locking eyes with myself in the mirror. He approached from behind carrying several bagged hangers and a shoe box.

“Are ya’ ready, son?” He teased.

“Yes, Father.”

“Good!” He said, placing the hanger bags down on the dresser and removing a pair of pleated, navy pinstripe trousers. “These are for you,” he said cheerily. They were a matching pair to his own.

He handed them to me with a smile and I stepped into them hungrily, pulling the wool up to my bellybutton. Next, he handed me a white dress shirt with French cuffs and watched as I pulled my arms through and buttoned the buttons. Before I could finish, he reminded me “Tucked and tidy, son!”

I tucked the shirt in as he fished out a pair of gold cufflinks. I caught a good look at the engraving on them as he handed them to me: “Jr.” I blushed and fastened them with confused erotic pride. Next came the red suspenders that he fastened to my pants personally, peeling back my waistline to button them to my pants underneath. The braces pulled my pants up even higher, leaving a bulge for each of my balls—eager for release—visible.

He then pulled out a pair of shiny black penny loafers from the box he brought. He set them out before me with an expectant smile. I stepped into them, the luxurious socks sliding smoothly against the leather of the shoes. As my heels hit the insoles, a puff of pleasure emanated from the shoes like a wave until it hit my groin. Once again, release did not come, but I was desperate for more.

Father then revealed a red paisley bow tie. The pattern was the same as his necktie. “Like father, like son,” he teased before draping the silk around my neck and buttoning my collar button. He deftly tied it on me, and I nearly felt complete.

He took the last garment from the bag, a navy pinstripe jacket, matching his. “Arms out, Junior,” he commanded. I obeyed. My arms slid through the luxurious lining, and my hands and cuffs emerged at the end. He buttoned the top button before standing back to admire his work.

I looked at him, then at my reflection as a grand smile appeared on his face. A similar smile formed on mine. My cock was throbbing, aching for release and satisfaction as I looked at the two of us. “Wow!” Was all I could manage to say.

“Wow, indeed, Junior,” he punctuated. “Wow indeed.” He approached me and leaned in for a hug. The scent of his cologne and the feel of his his body against mine sent me reeling. I would do anything for this man. I would do anything for my father.

He rubbed my back with his hand as he embraced me, and I felt secure. The sense of danger I developed over the period had faded. He pulled back with a smile and locked eyes with me.

“What’s yer name, son?” He asked.

"I am Lionel Richardson, Jr.”

“What do ya’ do for a living?” He continued.

"I am the regional bank manager."

“What’s important to ya’?”

"I value tradition,” I said, as my balls began to churn like never before.

“Do ya’ have any nicknames?”

“My dad calls me Junior." It became hard to maintain my composure as the line of questions came.

“Is there anything else I should know about you?” His smile grew.

"I love my family." Everything became clear with this statement.

His smirk evolved into a wide grin: “I know the whole interview process was a bit of a formality, Son, but thank ya’ for goin’ through the steps with me. Consider ya’self promoted officially.”

I was in ecstasy. “Thank you, Father.”

“No. Thank you, Junior. You’ve grown up quite a bit at college.”

We paused momentarily, a tear of pleasure forming in my eye. He continued: “I’m proud of ya’, son. Real proud.”

His words echoed in my head and went straight to my core. A tingling emanated from the back of my neck and from my feet. The sensations met at my groin as I convulsed in pleasure. Stream after stream erupted from my cock as I fell back into the chair that once restrained me. The pleasure continued pulse after pulse as I soaked my briefs and then my suit pants with semen. I panted heavily, focused on my father’s proud face and shiny toupee as I passed out in pleasure.

…

The alarm clock blared. I was disoriented. My eyes opened and I found myself in a luxurious bedroom. I slammed my hand onto the clock, silencing the cacophony. I groaned, rubbed my eyes, and threw the silky sheets off. I was free? It felt normal. Was it all a dream?

I rubbed my bald crown, and heard a call from outside the room: “Get up and get dressed, Junior!” It was my father. I felt a slight pain in my head before I got up. I went to my antique wooden dresser and proceeded as I always did: White monogrammed briefs pulled up to my bellybutton; a ribbed white tank tucked into them; black silk socks, fastened by garters. I went to the en suite bathroom and looked at myself. I felt good and looked good. My cock grew within my briefs—morning wood, I thought.

I placed the tape in my grey toupee and placed it on my head. There was a light contrast from my black fringe, but there was some greying; no one would notice. I spritzed myself with cologne, taking a big inhale before walking to the closet. A charcoal grey suit would do for today, and an orange bow tie, I decided.

I got dressed quickly. My father was waiting. The growth in my groin could not be taken care of this morning, unfortunately. Pleated pants, white shirt, navy suspenders, black tassel loafers, burnt orange bow, jacket, and ready to go.

I emerged from my room and was immediately greeted by my father. He wore a charcoal suit and orange necktie today. We were nearly identical again. “Junior! I was just about to pop in and check on ya’. Ready to head in? I’ve got an intern pickin’ up breakfast this mornin’.”

“Yes, Father. I’m excited for my first day in the position.” I said giddily, but automatically.

“Great! I already got that corner office on the fourth floor cleared out for ya’. Make the best of it,” he advised.

We went downstairs past our housekeeper who waved us off and into a black car. A stern looking young man in a buzz cut opened the door and ushered us in. The drive was short, and uneventful. When we arrived at the office, the receptionist greeted us, welcomed me back from college, and passed me a wink as we walked toward the elevator. I pressed my keycard to the reader with a sense of deja vu as I examined my hair in the reflective elevator door. It was good to be the owner’s son.

#toupee #traditional undergarments #loafers #suit #bow tie #sock garters #first person #brainwashing #reprogramming #office #father son

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rugtopper · 7 months

Text

THE INTERVENTION

BY RUGTOPPER

Vinny did not expect to find anything in his mailbox at work. He did not he know why he bothered looking in it. He had been an inter-office courier at Payton Publishing for three years. No one ever sent him messages; he was never invited out for a drink after work; and, no one even bothered to say hello to him in the halls as he made his rounds. Finding a handwritten note in his box was a shock. He was even more shocked to read that he was invited to watch a football game with some of the executives from the eighth floor this weekend. He hated going to the eighth floor. All the male executives would give him strange looks. They were looks he was not used to getting. They were looks of pity, but not in a condescending sort of way. It was a look of pity that you see someone give another human being when you know that that someone is about to help that human being. Regardless, it did not make Vinny feel comfortable. When he left the eighth floor, he always felt like he was about to be the next big project for the local Junior League to take on to make them feel good about themselves. He had no idea how wrong he was. He had no idea just how good he was going to feel about himself.

Vinny went to eighth floor, as instructed in the note. He waited outside Mr. Reynolds' office. Albert Reynolds was a tough man to size up. He was not the type of man you would see going to a football game, much less hosting a football party. He was more the type who might sing with the local chamber ensemble on a Tuesday night, and play golf on Saturday afternoon. Mr. Reynolds came out of his office with a big grin on his face. He was a slight man, maybe 5'7", if that tall; very trim with no facial hair. Aside from his height, his most striking feature was his fiery strawberry blond hair. At 43, he was still very youthful looking with his ruddy complexion and the flaming head of hair.

"Here are the directions to my house, Vinny. I hope you don't have any trouble finding the place. There are only going to be six of guys there, plus you."

"Should I bring anything, Mr. Reynolds?" Vinny asked.

"Well, Vinny, first call me Al. Second, if you want to you can bring some chips. The other guys are bringing the rest of the food. I'll be in charge of the grill out back."

Thanks, Mister . . . ah, Al."

"No, problem. See you Saturday at noon."

"Sure."

All week, Vinny looked forward to the weekend. Also, he noticed that the guys on the eighth floor looked at him differently. He wasn't sure what kind of look this was. Still, when they saw him, they did at least speak to him. That was the best change.

Saturday finally came. Vinny showed up at Al's house right at noon. He could hear the TV when he got out his truck. He grabbed the grocery bags and headed toward the front door. Before he even got to the porch, the door opened. It was Mr. Pierce. Perfect Pierce they called him. He once recalled a book that had had 10,000 copies printed because of a punctuation mistake on the last page of the book. He was not one to mess with at all.

"Hey, Vinny, glad you're here." Mr. Pierce said as he took the bags out of Vinny's hands.

"Hi, Mr. Pierce.

"Now, Vinny, we're away from work. Just call me Derek."

"Okay, Derek." Vinny replied.

"I think you know all the other guys here," Derek said as Vinny made his way through the door.

Yes, Vinny knew all of the men. After a quick survey of the room, he also knew why he might be there. He didn't really make the connection when Al gave him the directions, or even when Derek, with his stark-white preppy hairdo, greeted him at the door. Now he knew. There sitting in front of the giant screen television were the other four men from the eighth floor. All six were clothed in their khaki slacks, typical golf shirts and their obvious toupees. Here Vinny was in his blue jeans, faded t-shirt, tennis shoes, and ratty black hair. Now he knew that something was up.

Derek closed and locked the door. Al got up from his chair and came to shake Vinny's hand. Vinny was led over to the sofa.

One of the guys turned off the television.

"Now, Vinny, I bet you're wondering why we asked you here. Especially when you think we haven't even had anything to do with you all these years."

"Well, it is kind of odd, don't you think?" Vinny asked, as he ran his hands over his messy hair with the V-shaped hairline.

All the men just looked at each other and then at Vinny.

"Vinny, we want to help you. We think you're a great guy. We know you've been waiting for job to open up in editing. You've seen people come and go. You've even been overlooked twice. Most men would have left, but you've stuck it out. We appreciate that more than you know. But we can't help you until you decide that you need help. We need to know that you are willing to do what it takes to improve yourself for the job that you want."

"Look, uh, Mr. Steel, is it? I just came to watch the game. Yes, I'd like to move into editing. Yes, I'd like to remain in the publishing business. I've got time. It's been three years since I finished grad school. I've had a lot of offers, but not with a smaller publishing company like yours. I like what Peyton produces. I like their style. I like the fact that they really want to publish local authors."

"Yes, it is Mr. Steel, but you can call me Gene. We like what we see, but only in your resume, Vinny. There is plenty of room for improvement in so many areas of your life. We just want to help you, that’s all."

"Vinny, let me just cut to the chase. The way you present yourself on paper is suburb. The way you present yourself in public is another story. That is what we want to change."

"Look, Al, let me make myself clear. I don't need your pity that each of gives me every day at work. I certainly don't need some sort of intervention to help me make it in the publishing world."

"True, Vinny, but believe me when I say that the publishing world is not busting down any doors to find the next best editor. It is a closed field. Everything is focused on the next author, the next bestseller. No one cares about editors or proofreaders. They are a dime a dozen. What I'm trying to tell you is that, as you are now, you will never stand out. There is nothing in your appearance that says, 'yes, I am a professional.' It says 'look at me, a man in his thirties who can barely make ends meet, who can't dress himself, and who is losing his hair.'"

"So, it comes down to that, does it? My hair. Is that what this is all about? This is rich. A room full of men in rugs giving me a lecture on hair loss. This day just gets odder and odder."

"Alright, Vinny. So what. So, we happen to wear toupees. The alternative is what you are quickly moving toward. We have all been there. We all know what will happen. We see what you do. We see you try to hide it at work. We see you use a lot of product to make the front look fuller. You brush down the sides to hide that growing V at your temples. We even see you slap on that awful ball cap when you get into your truck everyday when you leave. Is that how you want to live, Vinny? Are you prepared for what happens next?"

Up until this point Vinny and Al had been the only two involved in this exchange. Suddenly, Mr. Cappato spoke up. He was Italian, just like Vinny.

"Vinny, you and I are a lot alike. We both come from big Italian families. We both know how hard it is to be the one in the family who is losing his hair. Look at me Vinny. I was your age when all my thick, black hair started going down the drain." With that, Mr. Cappato reached his hand up to his full, coal black pompadour, and took it off. There sat Mr. Cappato with just a narrow rim of dyed black hair over his ears and across the back of his head.

Vinny just sat there in shock, speechless.

"This is where you are headed. Look at me, Vinny. Let me help you. Let us help you." Mr. Cappato pleaded.

"What, now all of you are going to take turns showing me your bald heads?" Vinny asked.

"We just might, but first I think we need to do something else."

That was Mr. Peyton, Jr., the boss’s son. He had the fakest head of brown hair you have ever seen. It did not even match the course salt-n-pepper hair on the back and sides. He didn't even bother to dye it to match.

"Vinny, I think you need to go to the bathroom and wash out all that product. I think you really need to see just what little you have up there."

"I think you might just need to make me, Junior." With that Vinny jumped up and snatched off Mr. Peyton's toupee. Not only did it reveal his bald pate, but it also revealed where his tan line stopped and his pasty scalp started.

"Well, I think that is enough childishness for one day." said Al. "Boys, I think Vincent here needs a bit of help. Please escort him to my barbershop in the basement."

When Al said this, two security guards from the building came in from the other room and lifted Vinny off the ground. One of the other executives, who had remained silent to this point, produced a large needle.

"This will make things easier, Vincent." said the executive with the tightly-curled wig.

Vinny found himself half awake in a barber's chair, strapped down and wearing only his teal-colored bikini briefs, surrounded by the six men. All of them were now totally bald. Their wigs and toupees were lined up in front of Vinny on stands just staring at him. One of the security guards was now dressed in a white barber's uniform. Vinny's hair was dripping wet. All of the black-colored mousse and fiber thickeners had been washed out. Gone was all the darkened powder used to hide his nearly hairless crown. Vinny just looked at himself for the first time. Then he looked at the men in the mirror. Lastly, he looked at the six Styrofoam heads staring at him.

With slurred speech, Vinny managed to say, "you're right, guys, I need help. I know if I ever want to advance to the eighth floor, I have to change my look. I've been denying it for over ten years now. I need to improve my image. I want a full head of hair like you guys. Mr. Cappato, I do want to look like you."

"Call me, Carmine, Son. I think that would be the best thing."

"Rex, go get a wig just like Carmine's out of the closet for Vinny here." Al told the barber.

While Rex was gone, the other security guard, now in full barber's gear came and began prepping Vinny.

Vinny's head was shaved until there was just a shadow left. Vinny was given two more shots. With this he passed out. Hours later, he awoke in the chair with a stiff neck. He was still hung over, but managed to open his eyes. In the mirror was this guy with eyes like his, who had a totally hairless, shiny dome. Rex was behind him mopping the floor. The smell was worse than a locker room. He knew that smell. He didn't need to think about what had happened while he had been out. The other barber came back into the room. He rubbed Vinny head with a clear liquid. This was cool and cleansing. It also completely removed the shine on his scalp. While the barber was doing this, Vinny noticed that there was only one wig stand in front of him. On it was a thick, black wig. The barber took this off the stand, applied tape to the underside and put it on Vinny's head. He pressed hard so the tape would adhere. He turned Vinny to the side and started combing and cutting. Next, he got out a steamer and started styling the wig. While Vinny was still groggy, Phil turned Vinny toward the mirror. Suddenly, Vinny was wide awake. Now he really recognized himself. This was the Vinny from high school. This was the cool Vinny that every girl and boy wanted to sleep with.

All six executives filed into the room. They were wearing their toupees and wigs.

"Vinny," Al said, "We have a change of clothes for you upstairs. We've recorded the game, if you want to watch it with us. Also, you are expected in my office on Monday morning to discuss your new position as a copy editor. Are we clear?"

Vinny nodded as Rex and Phil helped him up. Mr. Cappato helped Vinny up the stairs to the guest bedroom. Vinny put on his new casual clothes while Carmine watched and occasionally helped. Several hours later they eventually emerged from the guest bedroom each brushing down the back of his hair. The weekend turned out better than he had hoped. Vinny never watched the game, but spent the rest of the weekend with Carmine. Monday morning a whole new world began.

THE END

#cheap toupee #voluntary bald fringe #toupee for men #hair replacement for men #male transformation #toupee

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