The Goonery

Two college buds, Quinn and Jase, cutting class again. They weren’t close friends exactly, more like… adjacent trouble. Jase knew about the tunnels beneath the city—storm drains, utility runs, weird WWII relics half-forgotten. Said you could enter through the busted fence near the old cliffside station and walk all the way to downtown if you didn’t freak out first.

Their excuse? Urban exploration. Jase had a camcorder. Quinn had a flask. They were looking for something off—graffiti, bones, a rush, anything.

The tunnel smelled like sea rot and rust, the deeper they went the quieter it got, until it felt like they’d crawled behind the entire world. That’s when they found it.

Not a normal tunnel door. Heavy steel. The paint flaking off revealed something underneath—a symbol that looked like a fingerprint stamped in chrome. No handle. Just an emergency latch.

Jase, grinning, said, “Bet it’s a fallout shelter or something.” He pulled the latch.

It opened silently. No alarm. Just a hiss of cooler air and a long, dimly lit hallway, industrial-clean, concrete and chrome. A red light pulsed gently from a ceiling strip, rhythmic, like a heartbeat.

They stepped in.

 

Quinn took another swig from the flask and passed it back. “This place is weirdly clean.”

“Too clean,” Jase muttered, aiming the camcorder at a strange wall panel with no seams. “Like it’s used.”

The hallway curved, opened into a room—a stark lounge of sorts. Everything chrome, matte black, and rubberized. Benches lined the walls. In the center, a circular platform sunken into the floor. No controls. No signs.

Quinn stepped onto it, wobbling a bit. “Dare me to twerk?”

Jase snorted. “I double-dog dare you.”

And somewhere deep inside the compound, behind layers of one-way glass and digital surveillance, he watched.

Bald. Towering. Muscles like armor. Gleaming scalp reflecting the light of multiple monitors. A thick collar rested around his neck—not ornamental, not decorative. Worn like a mark of station. His fingers flexed slowly over the control console, though he hadn’t touched anything yet.

They’d triggered a silent alarm when they opened the emergency latch. That door wasn’t meant to be found, let alone entered.

Still, he hadn’t sounded the intruder protocol.

Not yet.

He watched Jase spin around with the camcorder, half-drunk, and Quinn lounging like he owned the place. He watched the way their youthful cockiness collided with something ancient and raw just beneath the surface of this place.

And he smiled.

“Two fresh ones,” he murmured.

 

 

Jase was laughing one second, and the next second, he was gone.

A hiss. A metallic thud. Quinn turned just in time to see a panel slide open in the wall. A large figure in a matte black uniform—clean-shaven, masked, fast—moved like shadows. Jase was seized mid-sentence, the camcorder clattering to the floor. A quick injection, and his body went slack. “We take breaking and entering very seriously here” the large figure said to a nearly unconscious Jase.

Horrified, Quinn bolted.

Around the corner, pulse racing, heart pounding in his throat. He spotted a flickering panel—just slightly loose, likely missed during inspection. Desperation and the whiskey buzz pushed him through it. Inside: a narrow shaft of black metal and mesh. An air vent. He crawled.

His breath caught as he found a grate overlooking the room they’d just been in. Now transformed. Lit differently. Clinical. Holy.

He could see it all.

Jase was reclined in the sunken chair at the center of the room, eyes open but empty. A soft tube in his mouth delivered a thick, milky liquid in slow pulses. Another pill—round, glistening—was placed under his tongue by gloved fingers.

Then, a second man entered.

Massive. Shining bald. A thick narrow fringe contrasted with his shiny bald pate. He stood beside the chair, inspecting Jase’s body like a craftsman might a blank canvas.

“Grade A hair…” he said, his voice low but smooth. “Perhaps a 6. Or a 7.”

Quinn’s blood ran cold. He couldn’t move. Could barely breathe.

Then it began.

They lifted a wide, silver bowl and placed it over Jase’s head, resting it perfectly level. One of them traced around it with a white grease pencil, steady, sure, methodical.

The bald man checked the line, adjusted slightly, nodded.

The technician stepped forward with the laser.

Candela GentleMax Pro. Industrial-grade. Custom-modified.

Quinn watched—frozen—as the machine was brought to life. The beam pulsed with precision and power, devouring every hair inside the circle. There was no pain, no flinching. Just bright flashes. Just scent.

The pate was clean. The fringe, crisp. Perfect.

Quinn wanted to scream. He wanted to run. But more than anything—

He realized, with sickening clarity...

He was hard. Rock hard. Watching Jase be taken, marked, and branded as a severely bald man. Watching the fringe remain—just a thick ribbon of hair. Something inside him broke. Or bloomed.

 

Quinn couldn’t hold the scream in when he saw his friend in the full light and Jase was left stamped—fresh fringe like a perverse crown, everything else raw and shining.

They heard him.

A red light blinked in the vent above. Too late.

He turned, scrambled, tried to backtrack—but the vent slammed shut behind him. A chemical mist filled the shaft. His muscles failed. The last thing he saw before blacking out was the bald man staring up at him, smiling. Like this was always going to happen.

 

He woke on a cold, padded surface. Hands bound. Chastity cage locked. The collar snug around his neck.

No windows. Just screens. One by one, they flickered on.

Clips of his friend Jase, now clean-shaven, eyes glazed, rubbing his gleaming stamped scalp. Looping footage of other bald goons riding toys, moaning as they whispered affirmations:
“I am smooth. I am owned. My hair disgusted me. The stamp makes me whole.”

Then, the Voice.

Deep. Mechanical. Calm.

“You have seen the punishment for breaking and entering. Are you ready to get the same as your friend?" 

Quinn thrashed. Cursed. Begged for release. But they didn’t want escape—they wanted conversion.

The door never opened.

But the program began.

Every day, he was pumped full of language. Hypnotic tracks played in his sleep. Affirmations buzzed in his cage with each pulse. Smooth men with gleaming heads spoke to him through one-way mirrors.

“You’re not strong enough to keep your hair. That’s why you’re here.”
“You’ll feel free once it’s lasered off.”

Every third day: ketamine sessions.

Bright light. Music. Echoing whispers.

They played loops of his own voice, edited, saying the words he wouldn’t say:

“I need it. I need to be bald. Stamp me male pattern bald.”

On day 37, he stopped screaming.

On day 56, he started rubbing his scalp in his sleep.

By day 78, they gave him a rubber cap to wear—fringe cut out, the rest slick and smooth. He cried with pleasure just putting it on.

By day 89, he was begging to be stamped, desperate.

And on day 90, they unlocked the door.

He dropped to his knees, weeping, trembling, stroking the sides of his shaggy, disgusting head.

“Please,” he whispered.
“Please take it. I want to be a bald goon. I need to be stamped.”

The room was sacred now.

Dimmed lights, cool air, scentless antiseptic and synthetic pheromones in the vents. Quinn stood naked except for the chastity cage, oiled and trembling. His hair—lush, untouched, thick and radiant—had been shampooed, dried, and brushed one last time.

A ritual of mourning.

The two men entered together.

The First—broad, gleaming, stamped already. The one who caught him. The one who watched his defiance decay into begging.

And now, the Second—older, leaner, his scalp polished to a blinding shine. He carried the bowl. Not the standard one.

Larger. Custom.

He circled Quinn like an appraiser at auction. Fingers combing through his hair, tugging gently, assessing.

“This one is Grade AA. Really beautiful stuff.”

The First nodded. “No recession. Great density. Natural wave.”

The Second clicked his tongue, almost lovingly. “Wasted potential. Too good for a six. He’s begging for a Norwood Eight.”

They both chuckled.

“There is no Norwood Eight,” the First said, removing the bowl’s cover, revealing its cool underside.

“So we’ll give him the N7++, extra wide. Something obscene.”

Quinn whimpered in anticipation.

The bowl was lowered over his head.

Cool metal against the crown. The final moment before no return.

They adjusted the tilt, the placement, until it framed the most perverse geometry—just a whisper of fringe to remain, everything else destined for smooth, stamped exposure.

A white marker dragged along the edge, clean and slow.

He couldn’t breathe. Could barely think. His cock tried to twitch inside the cage, helpless.

Then they secured him in the chair.

Straps. Armrests. Chin brace. Eye protection.

The Candela GentleMax Pro was already humming.

“You asked for this,” the First whispered, close to his ear. “Say it again.”

“I want it,” Quinn moaned. “I want to be stamped. Please, take it all. I’m ready for the N7++.”

The laser began.

Precise. Relentless. Hair instantly obliterated. A sterile annihilation.

They worked slow, deliberately cruel. The sides. The back. The nape raised high, cruelly high, like an animal on display. A bald expanse so exaggerated, no natural pattern could explain it.

They traced the white line twice to burn it in. Made sure the edges were sharp.

And when the laser finished—

He wasn’t Quinn anymore.

He was gooned. Branded. Marked. Transformed.

​

​

He gasped awake.

Chest heaving. Room dark. Cold.

Had it been a dream? The begging? The bowl? The stamp?

His whole body was slick with sweat. His heart was racing like it had been running for hours.

He reached up to wipe his forehead—

And his hand kept going.
And going.
And going.

No fibers met his fingertips. No hairline. Just skin. Smooth, raw, tender from the fresh laser. He slid further back, past his crown, to the very back of his head—the nape. Higher than it had ever been. It didn't feel real. It couldn’t be his.

But it was.

Stamped.

His cock surged in the cage—throbbing so hard it hurt, leaking uncontrollably.

The shock. The thrill. The sensation!

The sick, dizzy pleasure.

He moaned.

The world blurred.

He passed out again.

 

 

When Quinn woke again, the light was sharp. Blinding.

His head felt tight, like it had been shrink-wrapped in heat.

The door clicked.

Two bald handlers entered without a word. One clipped a leash to his collar. The other handed him a towel—he was still leaking.

They walked him through a long, humming hallway. Fluorescent. Cold. Every few steps, he caught glimpses of his reflection through glass panels.He also caught glimpses of exam rooms, consultations.. he tried to scream, but no one could see through the one way mirrors.

Next, a door hissed open, and he was shoved into darkness.

He stumbled, hit the padded floor—and then felt them.

Hands. Legs. Skin.

Bodies.

Dozens.

Warm. Slick. Buzzing.

And all of them bald.

At first he panicked. Tried to crawl backward. But the room was too full. The air, thick with musk and lube and pheromones. Moans echoed off the padded walls, low and guttural, locked in a rhythm that wasn’t just sexual—it was ritualistic.

And then it hit him:

They were all caged. All of them.
And yet they were riding. Grinding. Sucking. Slobbering on each other’s domes. Treating those polished, stamped heads like cocks—because they were.

He saw one man on all fours, head slicked with spit, being ridden by another—grinding his ass, taint and balls over over that freshly lasered dome. Another goon sat in the corner, rubbing his smooth crown furiously, his hips bucking like he was getting off just from the friction.

One had a face buried in the lap of a larger man, tongue working at the curve of his fringe like it was the head of a cock. Slapping it. Licking it. Worshipping it.

It wasn’t a room.

It was a pig pen.

And he belonged in it.

He felt hands on his own scalp—testing his lasered egg. Smearing slick across his crown. Stroking it like a brand-new toy. He didn’t resist. Couldn’t. His body betrayed him. The cage filled with precum, aching.

He was home now.

The door hissed once more.

A flood of thick, heavy poppers spilled into the air. The scent hit like a hammer—sharp, intoxicating, overwhelming.

The whole room seemed to shift in an instant.

The goons went wild.

Quinn’s mind fractured. He felt the rush of chemicals hit his brain, buzzing through his body like liquid heat. His skull—so smooth now—throbbed with desire, with need.

Have you ever felt it?
A man’s hands, his tongue, his body, rubbing all over your freshly lasered pate?
The smoothness.

It was something like he'd never felt before.
So silky. So soft.
Every inch of his head, shaven and raw, was a playground of pure sensation, an irresistible surface, now sleek, polished, pristine. It felt like nothing else, like the skin of his scalp had become something alien to him—so smooth, so inviting, so perfect.

And it drove him wild.

Every touch sent him deeper into hunger, insatiable. His hand constantly sought the feeling, sliding across his bare skull like he couldn’t get enough, like the slick, tender surface of his head had become addictive.

He rubbed his palm over it again and again, every pass deeper into a frenzy, knowing full well that the feel of that smooth skin had become his obsession. He couldn’t stop. The soft slickness of it only made him want more.

His freshly lasered shiny bald knob, once just a head, had turned into that. A second cock—smooth, tender, throbbing with need, slick and sensitive to every touch, every rub. The sensation of his head now had become part of him, an extension, his new erotic power.

His cock was locked, throbbing, aching, leaking inside its cage. The tightness of it only made his craving worse, like a drug he couldn’t shake. He sought out another lasered head—another smooth dome to rub, to worship, to feel. The craving was all-consuming. He was no longer just serving—he was desperate for the silky, smooth sensation. He was addicted.

The men around him were locked in the same frenzy—hands, bodies, all smooth domes and desperate pleasure. Every head was a prize, every scalp a new toy to stroke, to love, to feel. And Quinn couldn’t get enough of it.

Eight hours passed like nothing.

Exhausted. Overstimulated. But still, the smoothness was burned into his mind. He couldn't imagine life without it. His body had been wrung out, drained, but he needed more. More of the silky touch. More of the feeling.

And when his body finally gave in, collapsing into the haze, he passed out again, still craving the smoothness that now owned him.

The long nights in the darkened room, the haze of poppers, and the overwhelming rush of sensations had been wearing him down. Quinn had reached the point where his internal struggle was no longer something to fight off—it was something to embrace.

He woke up, eyes heavy, mind foggy but clear enough to know what was happening. The smoothness of his scalp, that delicate feeling of his freshly lasered head, had become a need, a craving that dominated his every thought. He had been conditioned. He had been programmed. The pull of the transformation was more powerful than anything he had ever known. The flood of desire to feel that silky skin under his hands was unrelenting. He had crossed a point of no return.

But there was one thing left. The final step. He had to ask for it.

The stamp.

This time, Quinn wasn’t asking for the full, brutal, radical transformation of cueball, the contrast was too good. He had his limits. No, this time, he asked for the Ribbon Fringe.

It was a clean, sleek strip—a bold, erotic ribbon of hair just 2 inches thick at the base of his skull. It was minimal yet striking, a mark of submission. This was the perfect balance between maintaining a trace of his old self and embracing the sheer eroticism of baldness. His scalp, exposed and smooth, would scream submission. The strip of hair left behind would act as both a symbol and a secret.

The more exposed his scalp became, the more exposed he became. That smooth, silky lasered feeling was addictive. The sensation, the rush—it felt like nothing else. It was pure ecstasy, and he had realized that the more he shed, the more intense the pleasure would become. Every inch of skin revealed would mean more gratification. Quinn knew he had to go big. He wanted to be as exposed as possible. It wasn’t just about the look anymore; it was about the feeling.

The strip of hair would be his mark—his total admission of what he had become. It wasn’t just an aesthetic choice; it was the embrace of pure, sexual kink. No look felt as good as the sensation of submission, the pleasure of complete surrender. The aesthetic was replaced by the gratification of every smooth inch of exposed scalp. No longer did Quinn crave to hide, to preserve some semblance of his former self. He craved the raw, sexual experience that came with full exposure—no frills, no compromise.

The more bare he became, the more whole he felt.

And so, the process began.

 

A New Role: Employee & Recruiter

It wasn’t long before Quinn became an employee at the very place he had once been a captive. It wasn’t a life he’d imagined, but it was one he had come to crave. His role was simple: recruit, condition, stamp.

His first few months in the job were spent learning the ropes, handling clients, and gaining a deeper understanding of what made the men in the compound tick. He used his own experience—his journey from resistance to surrender—as a tool to connect with the men he was tasked to bring in. He spoke with the deep understanding of someone who had walked through the fires and emerged with a head as smooth as glass, a strip of hair left to remind him of the life he’d left behind.

His sales pitch was irresistible.

And it worked.

Quinn became a force in the operation, a key recruiter who quickly made a name for himself. His success rate skyrocketed, especially among the gay demographic. He had always known how to work his charm, but now it felt different. It was empowering—seducing men into the same transformation that had captivated him. The obsession with smooth, polished domes, the craving for the silky, bare feeling beneath fingertips—it became second nature.

Within a year, Quinn had stamped over 10,000 men. He was a well-oiled machine, efficiently hunting down potential recruits, targeting certain markets, and making the most out of each encounter. His deep dive into the gay and fetish scenes was the key to his success. The numbers spoke for themselves: 95% success rate.

As Quinn stood at the helm, he couldn't help but marvel at how far he'd come. The initial pull of transformation had driven him, but now it was the power to reshape others' lives that thrilled him. The stamped heads, the smooth, glistening scalps that filled his world, had become a reflection of his own dominance in this new, intimate empire. And for the men who walked out of his world, their journey wasn't just about shedding hair—it was about embracing a new identity, one that they were forever linked to Quinn's influence. The bald revolution, the fetish, the subculture—it was Quinn's now, and he was its undisputed champion.

 

 

Want to know what happened with Jase? Stay tuned for more!