From my first encounter with Vicente, I couldn't stop replaying in my head what had happened. Was everything that happened, that supposed game, a product of my imagination? Was he really testing the waters? I couldn't stop thinking about him, his voice, his smell. I was jerking off every night imagining how it would be.

Days passed and my head wouldn't stop spinning, I wanted to go back to the barbershop, but I couldn't wait for my hair to grow, so I made the most sensible decision - and the least painful - that would serve as an excuse: let my beard grow wild and go have it trimmed.

Two weeks after my first visit, I sent him a WhatsApp. Only twenty-five minutes had passed and I was already on edge. Would he attend to me?

He replied at noon, without beating around the bush: "Tomorrow, late, at eight."

That Friday, I showered (yes, I showered to get a haircut... nonsense) and put on the chastity cage. I had put it on many times at home, sometimes to go to work under jeans, but never with sweatpants and no underwear, so the package was subtly marked. I needed that pressure.

I arrived at 7:55 PM. When I entered, he was with an elderly man who seemed to be chatting him up. I greeted him from a distance in an effusive manner.

"Sit down on the sofa and I'll attend to you when I finish," he said curtly.

After a short while, he finished with the gentleman and hurried to lower the blinds.

"I'd better close it, in case some impatient person decides to ask me to do something for them."

I smiled, because I wasn't sure I could articulate a word. How ridiculous I felt. He simply looked at me fixedly, waiting for something from me.

"Are you going to come to get your beard done, or what?" he said with sarcasm, but in an authoritative manner.

I felt like a kid, completely disoriented, in front of a man who was doing me the favor of grooming me and I was fantasizing that he would simply pay attention to me.

He stood behind me and prepared the tools without saying a word. When he had everything ready, with the intention of placing the cape on me, and supposedly intending to cover both my arms and legs, he brushed his elbow against my crotch, bumping into the hardness of the cage material.

He didn't say anything, he just looked at me fixedly for two seconds, which seemed like an eternity. Had he realized? I had to break the ice.

"I haven't told you, but I want you to make my features a bit longer," I said with a broken voice.

"I imagine so, I saw how you wore it last time... When men are well-endowed, it's the only way to disguise it a bit," he replied curtly. "And now shut up, I don't want to cut you."

He started trimming my beard in rigorous silence. I only heard the sound of the clippers and the razor, while I, stupidly, focused on his breathing and inhaling his aroma after a whole day of work.

He finished trimmi...