Clean up

The hallway felt colder than the booth, though my body was still burning. Each step seemed to echo, like the whole place was holding its breath, waiting to see if I’d really obey. My legs were weak, thighs slick against one another. I could smell myself, shameful and sweet.

The door slid open without me touching it.

The “beauty salon” wasn’t what I expected. No soft music, no pastel chairs. Just a single padded table under white light and one man waiting. He was tall. Broad shoulders stretched the sleeves of his black shirt, veins roped down his forearms. His jaw was clean cut, his eyes calm, like everyone else here. But when they flicked down to my skirt, to the mess I was already, I thought I saw the faintest twitch of a smirk.

“Jane?” His voice was low, steady.

I swallowed hard and nodded.

“Remove your underwear. Lie back.”

My hands shook as I reached under my skirt, sliding the soaked fabric down. I couldn’t look at him as I climbed onto the table, spreading my legs because there was no other way to lie. The air hit me cold, painfully exposed.

He wheeled over a small cart, metal tools gleaming. Scissors first.

The first snip of hair falling from me made my stomach clench. I’d shaved before, of course, but never like this. Never with a stranger’s face so close, his hands so steady, his eyes never wavering from the space between my thighs. The ring pulsed hot, sharp, forcing every clipped strand of hair to feel like a touch against bare skin.

By the time he switched to the razor, my chest was heaving.

The first drag of the blade, smooth and slow, sent a jolt straight through me. I gasped out loud, hips twitching before I could stop them.

“Stay still,” he said calmly, as if shaving a trembling, dripping mess of a woman was routine.

The razor scraped again, closer this time. I bit down on a whimper. Each stroke left me more bare, more raw, the air against my skin unbearably sharp. The ring amplified everything the vibration of his touch, the faint scrape of steel, even the scent of shaving cream rising around me.

My body betrayed me completely. I could feel how wet I was, leaking onto his gloves, humiliatingly obvious. But he never commented. Never faltered. Just kept working, methodical, until every last trace of hair was gone and my skin gleamed smooth under the harsh light.

When he finally set the razor down, I was panting, half-dazed, thighs shaking.

“All done,” he said, wiping me clean with slow, deliberate strokes of a cloth that made me **** back another moan. His voice never changed, flat and professional, but his eyes lingered just a second too long before he stepped back.

“Report back to your booth.”

I slid off the table on shaky legs, tugging my skirt down even though it didn’t matter anymore. There was nothing left to hide. I was bare. Shaved. Exposed in a way I’d never been before.

Walking back down the hall, I felt every brush of fabric against my new, raw skin, every step a reminder of what had just been taken from me. My ring pulsed approval the whole way, a smug electric throb.

The booth door opened as I approached. The chair waited. The screen flickered.

“Welcome back, Jane,” ALI’s voice purred, smoother than ever. “Much better. Shall we continue?”

And trembling, flushed, too wrecked to fight.