Peter's cock hung soft against his thigh, still smelling of the day—salt and exhaustion and the faint ghost of the office's recycled air. Adwait's mouth watered instantly, tongue pressing against his teeth, but Peter's hand stopped him before he could lean forward.
"Not yet." His voice was hollow. Drained. "You've been lying on my floor for ten hours. You're covered in dried spit and old sweat and your own pathetic leakage. I can smell you from here." He tucked himself back into his briefs and stepped toward the bathroom. "Follow me. Crawl."
Adwait's knees screamed as he pushed himself onto his hands. The journey down the hallway was a blur of carpet burn and collar-weight, the silver ring still throttling his cock, which bounced obscenely with each shuffle forward.
In the bathroom, Peter had already opened the cabinet beneath the sink. He pulled out a plastic basket—shaving cream, a fresh razor still in its packaging, a small towel—and set it on the edge of the tub.
"I had a lot of time to think in traffic." Peter's voice was casual now, the exhaustion sharpening into something more deliberate. "About what to do with you. About why you're still not broken in properly." He unwrapped the razor, letting the plastic crinkle loud in the quiet room. "You've got too much body hair. It's distracting. When I look at you on my floor, I want to see smooth skin and submission, not some hairy-legged man who still thinks he's a person."
Adwait's stomach dropped. His thighs prickled with sudden awareness of every follicle.
"You're going to shave. Everything." Peter's eyes met his in the bathroom mirror. "Legs. Ass. Chest. Underarms. That little trail below your navel. And if you miss a single patch of hair, I'll shave it myself with cold water and no cream. Understand?"
"Yes, sir."
"Get in the tub."
Adwait climbed over the porcelain lip, the cold surface shocking his raw knees. Peter gestured, and he sat with his legs splayed open, the cock ring glinting under the bathroom lights.
"Start with the left leg. I want to watch." Peter leaned against the sink, arms crossed, still in his work clothes. Watching. Always watching.
The shaving cream came out in a cold, white puff. Adwait spread it across his shin with trembling fingers, the foam melting against his skin, and then the razor touched down. The first stroke left a clean path through the dark hair on his calf, revealing skin that looked paler than he remembered, almost naked, almost new.
"Slower. I didn't say you could rush." Peter's voice was flat, but his eyes tracked every movement. Adwait could see his reflection in the mirror—Peter's reflection—and the bulge in Peter's briefs had begun to thicken.
His own cock twitched in response. A bead of pre-come swelled at the slit.
"Your prick is leaking again." A statement, delivered with the same tone Peter might use to comment on the weather. "You're really going to enjoy this, aren't you? Stripping yourself bare for me. Removing every last hint that you ever existed as anything other than a hole I own."
"Yes, sir." The razor shook in Adwait's hand. He moved to his thigh, carving another stripe of smooth skin through the lather. "I want to be smooth for you. I want to be—"
"I didn't ask for commentary. Shave."
Adwait shaved.
His left leg took five minutes of careful strokes. The razor clogged twice, and he rinsed it in the tub faucet's thin stream, the water running gray with foam and hair. His right leg went faster—Peter's eyes drilling into him, Peter's cock growing visibly harder behind the fabric of his briefs—and then his chest, where the hair was thicker, coarser, requiring short strokes that left his skin tingling.
"You look stupid." Peter's voice cut through as Adwait contorted to reach his underarms. "With one smooth leg and one hairy leg. A half-finished project. A whore who can't even shave himself properly." He pushed off the sink and crouched beside the tub. "Give me the razor. Underarms. You'll cut yourself at that angle."
Adwait surrendered it. Peter's fingers gripped his wrist, lifting his arm overhead, and the razor scraped through the thick hair in three efficient strokes. The skin left behind was impossibly soft, raw, goosebumped from the cold air.
"Other arm."
Peter shaved the second underarm with the same clinical precision, then pushed Adwait's shoulder until he was leaning forward, hands braced against the tub floor.
"Ass and crack. I'll do those too. You'd miss a spot."
The shaving cream was cold between Adwait's cheeks. Peter's strokes were unhurried, thorough, the razor grazing sensitive skin in a way that made Adwait's balls draw tight and his cock drip a fresh string of pre-come onto the porcelain.
"You're enjoying this." Peter's breath was warm against his lower back. "Being shaved like an animal. Having your asshole scraped clean of hair so I can see it better. Tell me why."
Adwait's voice came out muffled, his forehead nearly touching the tub. "Because it makes me less of a person. More... more yours."
"Go on."
"Body hair is something men have. Men with jobs and opinions. I don't—I don't get to have that. I don't get to look like a man. I get to look like your property."
Peter's hand paused. The razor hovered. "That's the first intelligent thing you've said all day." He finished the stroke, rinsed the razor, and stood. "Rinse off. Legs first, then stand and do the rest. I want every stray hair washed down the drain. Then crawl back to the bedroom. I'll be waiting."
He left the bathroom. Adwait heard the bed creak.
---
The spray was lukewarm this time—Peter hadn't specified cold—and Adwait watched the shorn hair swirl around the drain in dark, wet clumps. His skin felt alien. The water hit different without hair to break its path; every droplet was a distinct, sharp sensation. His legs looked thinner. His chest looked paler. The cock ring had been the centerpiece of his degradation last night, but now—now his whole body was the decoration.
He ran his palm down his thigh and shivered. Smooth. Bare. Wrong.
Right.
He dried himself with the small towel, rubbing briskly until his skin was pink and stinging, then dropped to his hands and knees. The hallway carpet felt different too—rougher, more textured, every fiber communicating directly with his newly exposed skin. His balls swung freely between his thighs, the hair that had cushioned them now gone, and the silver ring was the only point of visual interest left on his entire body.
The bedroom smelled like Peter—cedar and salt and the faint musk of a long workday. Peter had stripped to his briefs and was sitting on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, looking at Adwait with an expression that mingled contempt and satisfaction.
"Stand up. I want to see you."
Adwait rose. His legs wobbled from the hours on his knees, and he had to lock his thighs to keep from swaying. The lamplight caught his skin—all of it, every inch, smooth and bare and glistening faintly from the towel-dry dampness.
"Turn around."
He turned. Peter's breath escaped in a slow, audiblle exhale.
"Look at you." Peter was standing now, circling him like a buyer inspecting livestock. "No hair. No dignity. Just a smooth little cocksleave with a silver ring and my collar. Spreak your cheeks again. I want to see how clean you are."
Adwait reached back and pulled himself open. The air touched his hole—cool, exposed, vulnerable—and he felt Peter's gaze like a physical weight.
"Do you know what you look like right now?" Peter asked, stepping closer. His breath hit Adwait's ear. "You look like something that was never supposed to be a man. A body without any claim to masculinity. A blank surface for me to write on. You look like you don't even deserve body hair—like your pathetic frame was always meant to be smooth and soft and easily accessible. Tell me that's true."
"It's true." Adwait's voice was barely a whisper.
"Louder. Say it like you belive it, or I'll make you sleep in the bathtub."
"It's true!" The words tore out of him, loud and ragged. "I was never supposed to have body hair. I was never supposed to look like a man. I'm a blank surface. I 'm—"
"—Mine." Peter finished the word for him, then stepped back. "Kneel. Facng the mirror. I want you to see what I see."
The full-length mirror was still propped against the brick wall, the same one from last night, the same one where Adwait had recitd his oath. He knlet in front of it and forced himself to look.
The man staring back was unrecognizable. Hairless legs, hairless chest, the dark nipples standing out against pale skin like bruises. The colar at his throat, the ring at his cock's base. His face was the same—despearte eyes, swolen lips—but his body belonged to someone else. Something else.
Peter knlet behind him, his chest pressing against Adwait's back, his cock hard through his briefs and nestled against the crease of Adwait's shaved ass. Their refections filled the mirror.
"That's what you are now." Peter's hand came around and pressed flat against Adwait's haless chest. "Not a man. Not even a person. A set of holes I keep smooth for my own convenience. Say it: I am a set of holes."
"I am a set of holes." The words fel out of Adwait's mouth like they'd been waiting there all along.
"Say: my body hair was the last thing that made me look human."
"My body hair was the last thing that made me look human." His voice craked on human.
"And now I'm just a warm place for Peter to put his cock."
"And now I 'm just a warm place for Peter to put his cock." Adwait's eyes were streaming now, tears cutting hot paths down his cheeks, but his cock—his pathetic, traped, leaking cock—was harder than it had been all day. A fresh drop of pre-come swelled at the slit and fell to the floor.
"Good boy." Peter's hand moved lower, fingers wrapping around the silver ring. He tugged once, a warning pressure. "Now get on the bed. Face down. Ass up. You're going to learn what your newly-smoth hole was made for."
