A different weekend

The engine of Master Bruno’s car growled with a dull vibration that seeped straight through my spine as we drove toward the shopping center, a huge, noisy structure that, for me, in my condition as a submissive edumiso, represented the beginning of one of the most absolute tests of exposure and vulnerability I had ever faced under his strict command. I rode in the passenger seat with my gaze rigidly fixed on my own thighs, wearing light clothing that Master Bruno had ordered me to put on to facilitate what he called my initial preparation, feeling my stomach clench with every kilometer that brought us closer to civilization and the bustle of ordinary people. When he parked the vehicle in the underground levels of the complex, Master Bruno turned off the ignition, slowly turned toward me, and fixed his severe, dominant eyes on my trembling face, demanding with a single word that I get out of the car and immediately position myself one step behind his right shoulder, adopting my posture of discreet but absolute submission in public spaces. Walking through the gleaming corridors of the shopping center, surrounded by families, couples, and shoppers completely unaware of the pact of total surrender that bound us, accelerated my heartbeat to the point that I could hear the pumping of blood in my ears while my eyes remained fixed on the floor, following the elegant rhythm of my Master’s shoes. Suddenly, his step stopped in front of the glass-fronted, minimalist facade of an advanced aesthetics and hair-removal center, a place lit with white, clean, clinical light that made me swallow immediately as I understood the fate Master Bruno had meticulously planned for my body that afternoon. He entered with firm, confident steps, greeting the receptionist with the coldness of someone carrying out a routine transaction while I remained motionless behind him, feeling like a half-naked object exposed to the professional gaze of the center’s staff, who were already accustomed to receiving clients under the directives of demanding superiors. Master Bruno paid in advance for the most complete and thorough full-body hair-removal service available in the catalog, specifying in a clear and measured voice that not a single hair should remain from my neck to the tips of my toes, placing special emphasis on the most intimate areas, the pubis, the scrotum, and the perianal area. The aesthetician nodded with unshakable professionalism and indicated that I should accompany her to one of the cabins at the back, a space enclosed around a treatment table covered with cellulose paper where the smell of hot wax and disinfectant filled the air, turning the place into a room for stripping away my natural masculinity. Master Bruno entered the cabin with me and settled into a chair in the upper corner, crossing his legs and holding his walking crop across his knees to remind me that his presence would supervise every second of my humiliation and my physical pain. He ordered me ...