Smooth
A Fictional Story by Illustrious_Pen_7964.
I also keep my cock and balls shaved. This is a different thing. This is the thing that I do in private, with the bathroom door locked, sometimes with the mirror angled away so I don’t have to watch. I shave them completely—shaft, scrotum, the base, the patch above. Everything. The result is genitals that are not just small but smooth—hairless, pale, the skin soft and slightly shiny from the razor, the whole package looking less like an adult man’s equipment and more like something that belongs on a child. That’s the thought I don’t let myself think too often, but it’s the truth, and the truth is what it is. My cock is less than an inch soft. Less than an inch. I’ve measured it. I’ve measured it more times than I should have, at different angles, in different states, hoping for a different result. The result is always the same: less than an inch soft, four inches hard, a cock that is small by any standard and that looks smaller still when it’s shaved bare and sitting there like a thumb on a body that is otherwise built like a tank.
I’m a bodybuilder. Not a hobbyist, not a gym rat—a competitor. I’ve been training for twelve years. I’m five-ten, two-twenty in the off-season, two-oh-five when I’m cut. My chest is thick. My shoulders are wide. My arms are the part people notice first—eighteen inches, veined, the kind of arms that get comments at the grocery store. I have abs when I’m lean. I have quads that strain my jeans. I have a back that spreads like a wing when I do lat spreads. I am, by any conventional measure, a big man. A muscular man. A man whose body suggests certain things about masculinity, about power, about the conventional architecture of maleness.
And then there’s my cock.
—
I’d been thinking about getting a Brazilian wax for months. The shaving was fine—it worked, it got the job done—but it was tedious, and the stubble came back fast, and the skin around my cock and balls was sensitive enough that I’d nicked myself more than once, which is the kind of injury that makes you reconsider your life choices. A wax would last longer. A wax would be smoother. A wax would be the logical next step for someone who was already committed to the hairless aesthetic.
The problem, of course, was the exposure. Shaving was private. Shaving was me, alone, in my bathroom, with the door locked. A wax was someone else. A wax was a stranger, a professional, a woman whose job it was to look at the area between my legs and remove hair from it, which meant she would see what was there, which meant she would see what wasn’t there, which meant she would see my cock.
My tiny, shaved, less-than-an-inch cock.
I thought about it. I thought about it the way you think about something you want to do and don’t want to do simultaneously—circling it, approaching it, backing away, approaching again. I read reviews. I looked at salons. I told myself it was no big deal, that estheticians saw everything, that they didn’t care, that it was clinical, that they’d seen it all. I told myself that my cock was just another cock to them, that they wouldn’t think about it, that they wouldn’t remember it, that it would be one of dozens they’d seen that week.
I didn’t believe any of this. But I booked the appointment anyway.
—
The salon was in a strip mall between a yoga studio and a juice bar. It was the kind of place that had a name like “Bare” or “Smooth” or something similarly direct, and the interior was all white walls, potted plants, and the smell of lavender. The receptionist was young—early twenties, maybe—and she looked at me with the expression I was used to getting in places like this: surprise, followed by careful neutrality. A man in a salon. A big man in a salon. A man whose arms strained the sleeves of his t-shirt and who was asking for a Brazilian wax.
“First time?” she asked, and I said yes, and she smiled in a way that was either friendly or pitying or both, and she handed me a form to fill out and told me to have a seat.
The waiting area had two chairs and a table with magazines. I sat down and filled out the form—name, address, medical history, the areas to be waxed—and I tried to calm down. My heart was beating faster than it should have been. I was nervous. Not about the pain—I’d been through worse in the gym, in competitions, in life. Nervous about the exposure. About the moment when I’d have to lie down and take off my pants and show a stranger my cock and balls, my tiny, shaved, baby-sized cock and balls, on a body that looked like it should have a cock to match.
The contrast. That was the thing. That was what made it worse. If I were a small man—a thin man, a man whose body was proportional to his cock—it would have been different. Still embarrassing, still small, but coherent. A small man with a small cock made sense. But I wasn’t a small man. I was a big man. A huge man. A man whose body was all mass and muscle and presence, and whose cock was a nub, a button, a thing that looked like it had been put on the wrong body, like there’d been a mix-up at the factory and the cock meant for a twelve-year-old had been attached to a man who could bench press three-fifty.
I’d seen the looks. At the gym, in the locker room. The glances, the double-takes, the way guys’ eyes would travel over my body—chest, arms, shoulders, all that mass and muscle—and then drop to the locker room floor and then, involuntarily, to my crotch, and the way their expression would change. Not always dramatically. Sometimes just a flicker—a brief, barely perceptible shift that said oh before they looked away. Sometimes more obvious—a stare, a raised eyebrow, a nudge to the guy next to them. I’d learned to shower fast. To face the wall. To get dressed before anyone could get a good look. But I couldn’t do that here. Here, I was paying someone to look.
—
The esthetician’s name was Renata. She came out to the waiting area and called my name, and I stood up and followed her down a short hallway to a small room at the back of the salon. She was maybe thirty, dark-haired, fit in the way that suggested she did yoga or ran or both. She was wearing black leggings and a fitted top, and she had the kind of easy, professional confidence that comes from doing a job a thousand times. She shook my hand. Her hand was small in mine—my hand engulfed hers, the way my hands engulfed most things—and she smiled and said, “First Brazilian?” I said, “Yeah,” and she said, “You’ll be fine, it’s not as bad as people say.”
The room was small and clean. A padded table in the center, covered in fresh paper. A cart with wax pots, sticks, strips, oils. A small lamp. A space heater in the corner, making the room warm. She told me to undress from the waist down and lie on the table, and she stepped out to give me privacy.
I undressed—shoes, socks, pants, underwear. I folded them and put them on the chair. I stood there for a moment, naked from the waist down, and looked at myself in the small mirror on the wall. The contrast was exactly what I knew it would be. From the waist up: broad shoulders, thick chest, the V-taper, the arms, the mass. From the waist down: smooth, shaved legs, thick quads, and between them, my cock and balls. Less than an inch soft. A nub. A button. A smooth, hairless, pale little nub sitting on top of two small, tight, shrunken balls that looked like they’d been vacuum-sealed. The whole package was small enough to cover with my thumb and two fingers. It looked like it belonged on a kid. It always looked like it belonged on a kid. That was the thing about shaving it bare—there was nothing to hide behind, no hair to suggest maturity, no shadow of adulthood. Just the smooth, pale, tiny equipment, sitting there in the shadow of a body that was all man.
I got on the table. I lay down. I pulled the small towel she’d left over my lap, and I stared at the ceiling and waited.
—
Renata knocked and came back in. She was carrying a cup of tea, which she set on the cart, then pulled on gloves and started prepping the wax, stirring it with a wooden stick and testing the temperature on her wrist. She was talking—the way professionals talk, to fill the silence, to put clients at ease. She told me about the process. She told me what to expect. She told me to breathe.
“Okay,” she said, turning to me. “I’m going to need you to remove the towel.”
I removed the towel.
I watched her face. I couldn’t help it—I watched her face the way you watch a doctor’s face when they’re reading your test results, looking for the tell, the flinch, the micro-expression that reveals the truth before the words do.
She looked at my cock. She looked at it the way anyone would look at something they weren’t expecting—not shocked, not horrified, but surprised. A brief, involuntary widening of the eyes. A micro-pause. The kind of pause that lasts less than a second but that, when you’re lying naked on a table with your tiny cock exposed, feels like an eternity.
Then she looked away. Then she looked back. Then she looked at my body—my chest, my arms, my quads—and then back at my cock, and I could see the contrast registering. I could see her processing it. The big man. The tiny cock. The mismatch. The way my body was built like a superhero, and my cock was built like a child’s.
She didn’t say anything. She was a professional. She’d been trained for this—trained to maintain composure, to treat every body the same, to keep her reactions inside. But I could see it. In her eyes, in the set of her mouth, in the way she adjusted her gloves a little too carefully, a little too slowly, buying herself time to settle her expression into something neutral.
“So,” she said, picking up the wax stick, “you’ve already shaved quite a bit. There’s not much here to wax.”
She said it casually. Professionally. The way you’d note that a lawn didn’t need much mowing. But I heard the subtext. There’s not much here. Not much hair. Not much cock. Not much of anything. The area between my legs was small, smooth, and bare, and she was looking at it and noting the absence of things—hair, size, adult proportion.
“Yeah,” I said. “I keep it shaved. I wanted to try waxing for the longer-lasting result.”
“Got it,” she said. “Well, the good news is there’s less to remove so that it won’t take as long.”
She smiled when she said it. A small smile. Professional, but not entirely. There was something in it—something amused, something knowing, something that was just barely on the right side of polite. I felt my face go hot. I was blushing. I was lying on a table with my cock exposed, blushing, while a woman I’d just met looked at my babydick and smiled.
She started with the area above my cock. The patch of skin where the hair would have been if I hadn’t shaved it—if I’d let it grow, if I’d been a normal man with a normal amount of pubic hair, the kind of hair that would have covered the base of my cock and made it look, if not bigger, then at least more present. But I’d shaved it, and the stubble was short and sparse, and she applied the wax, pressed the strip, and pulled, and the pain was sharp, immediate, and fine.
“Doing okay?” she asked.
“Yep,” I said, through gritted teeth.
She worked her way down. The sides. The creases of my thighs. The area around my balls. She was efficient and professional, her hands moving with the practiced confidence of someone who’d done this a thousand times. I tried to focus on the pain instead of the exposure, tried to let the sharp tugging of the wax distract me from the fact that I was lying there with my legs apart and my tiny cock and balls on display.
But I couldn’t not think about it. I couldn’t not be aware of it. My cock was right there—less than an inch, soft, smooth, the head barely visible, the shaft a nub, the whole thing looking like a thumb sticking out of a fist. My balls were tight and small, drawn up close to my body, the skin smooth and hairless, each one smaller than a walnut. The whole package was compact, contained, child-sized, and sitting in the middle of a body that was anything but child-sized, while Renata looked at it.
She was trying not to. I could tell she was trying not to. She kept her eyes on the wax, on the strip, on the area she was working on. But every few seconds, her gaze would drift—to my cock, to my balls, to the tiny nub that was sitting there in the middle of all that muscle—and she’d look away, and then look back, and I could see the corners of her mouth twitching.
She was trying not to smirk.
I recognized the expression because I’d seen it before. On Nora’s face, when she looked at my cock. On the doctor’s face during my physical. On the faces of guys in the locker room who caught a glimpse and tried not to react. The suppressed smirk. The controlled amusement. The face of someone who is looking at something that is simultaneously surprising and funny and who is trying, with varying degrees of success, to act professional about it.
Renata was losing the battle. Not dramatically—she wasn’t laughing, she wasn’t pointing, she wasn’t making comments. But the smirk was there, lurking at the edges of her mouth, surfacing every time she looked at my cock and then looked away. And I was watching it. I was watching her face the way I’d watched Nora’s face on the phone, the way I’d watched Connor’s face at breakfast, the way I always watched people’s faces when they saw my cock—looking for the reaction, dreading the reaction, needing the reaction.
“Can you hold this for me?” she asked, and she placed her hand on my cock—on my cock, which was less than an inch soft, which was tiny and smooth and which she moved to the side with two fingers, the way you’d move a pencil—and pressed it gently against my thigh so she could wax the area underneath. Her fingers were warm and gloved, and she held my cock between her thumb and forefinger, and I could feel how small it was in her grip, how little there was to hold, how easy it was for her to move it out of the way with two fingers because there was nothing to move.
She held it there while she applied the wax. She held it there while she pressed the strip. She held it there while she pulled, and I winced, and she said “Sorry, almost done” and she was still holding my cock, still pinching it between two fingers, and I was acutely aware of how it must feel in her hand—small, soft, barely there, the cock of a grown man that felt like the cock of a child.
—
She moved to my balls. This required her to hold my cock up and out of the way, and she did this with the same two-finger grip, lifting it. Which meant lifting less than an inch of soft flesh, which meant her fingers barely had to close around anything, which meant the act of holding my cock up was less like holding a cock and more like holding a small piece of fruit, something you could pinch and lift with minimal effort.
My balls were the harder part. They were small, tight against my body, and the skin was delicate; she had to work carefully, stretching the skin taut with one hand while applying wax with the other. She asked me to hold my cock up—out of the way—and I reached down and held it, my own hand around my own cock, two fingers and thumb, the grip I knew, the grip that fit, the grip that Nora had named and that Connor had heard named—. I held it up while she waxed my balls, and I was looking at the ceiling, and she was looking at my balls and the room was warm and quiet, and the only sounds were the pull of wax and my breathing.
“Your skin is really smooth,” she said. “You do a good job with the shaving.”
“Thanks,” I said.
“It makes the waxing easier,” she said. “Less hair, less pain.”
She said it matter-of-factly, but I heard the echo of what she’d said earlier—there’s not much here to wax—and I thought about how my cock and balls looked from her angle: smooth, hairless, small, the genitals of a man who shaved them to look like a boy’s, on a body that was built like a man’s, and I felt the flush in my face and the warmth in the room and the strange, familiar, unwanted heat in my groin.
I was getting hard.
Not fully. Not even close. But the stirring—the first, involuntary response, the blood starting to move, the cock starting to swell from less than an inch to slightly more than an inch, the nub thickening slightly in my two-finger grip. It was the exposure. The humiliation. The woman’s hands near my cock, her eyes on my body, the smirk she was trying to suppress. My body was doing what it always did when the shame and the exposure combined—responding, waking up, the wires crossed in the specific way that made humiliation feel like arousal and arousal feel like shame.
I tried to stop it. I thought about dead puppies. I thought about tax returns. I thought about anything other than the fact that I was lying naked on a table with a woman holding my balls while my cock started to stiffen in my own hand.
But it was too late. The cock was growing. Not much—it was never much—but enough. Enough that I could feel it in my fingers, the slight expansion, the thickening, the way the soft nub was becoming a slightly less soft nub. Enough that when Renata looked up—glanced, really, a quick check of the area she was working near—she saw it.
She saw my cock getting hard in my hand. At the same time, she was waxing my balls.
Her eyes flicked to it. A fraction of a second. Then back to her work. But the smirk—the one she’d been suppressing—broke through. Just for a moment. A brief, uncontrolled smile that crossed her face and then disappeared, replaced by the professional mask. But I saw it. And she knew I saw it.
“Almost done,” she said. “You’re doing great.”
—
She finished. She applied a soothing oil, which she spread over the waxed areas with her gloved hands, and the oil was cool, and the touch was gentle, and my cock was still in my hand, still slightly swollen, still betraying me. She worked around it, careful not to touch it, and when she was done, she stepped back, peeled off her gloves, said “All set,” and I sat up. The towel was there, and I put it over my lap, and I was done.
I got dressed. I paid at the front desk. The receptionist asked how it went, and I said “Fine,” and she smiled the same smile as before—friendly, pitying, both. I tipped Renata well. I walked out to my car. I sat in the parking lot and breathed.
I could still see her face. The widening of the eyes when she first saw my cock. The suppressed smirk. The moment the smirk broke through. The glance when she saw me getting hard. The professional composure that held, barely, over the amusement that kept leaking through.
I thought about the contrast. The thing I always thought about. The big body, the tiny cock. The muscle, the nub. The man, the boy’s genitals. The mismatch that was my body, the thing that made every exposure a revelation, every glance a double-take, every new person who saw my cock a new witness to the fact that I was built wrong, that the factory had made a mistake, that I was a man with a babydick on a body that was anything but.
I drove home. I thought about going back. I thought about the next appointment—four to six weeks, she’d said, for the next wax. I thought about lying on the table again, taking off my pants again, showing her my cock again. I thought about whether she’d remember me. I thought about whether she’d tell her coworkers. I thought about whether she’d go home that night and tell someone—her boyfriend, her roommate, her friend on the phone—about the big guy who came in for a Brazilian wax, the bodybuilder with the tiny cock, the man who was all muscle and no dick, the punchline that wrote itself.
I thought about her smirk. The way it broke through, just for a second, when she saw my cock stirring in my hand. The way her eyes moved to it, then away, and then the smile she couldn’t quite contain.
I was hard in my car. Fully hard. Four inches, straining against my jeans, the cock that was small even when it was hard, the cock that had been less than an inch soft on the table and that was now four inches hard in my pants, driven there by the memory of a woman’s smirk and the sound of her voice saying there’s not much here to wax. The feeling of her fingers holding my cock like a pencil, two fingers, barely closing around anything, the grip that was all my cock needed because there wasn’t enough of it to need more.
I drove home. I went inside. I took off my pants. I sat on the edge of the bed, and I held my cock—two fingers, thumb, the grip that fit—. I thought about Renata’s face and the smirk and the wax and the warm room and the small table and the way she’d looked at my body and then at my cock and the way the contrast had registered in her eyes. I came in less than a minute, quick and intense, the orgasm proportional to the cock, the shame proportional to the pleasure, the two of them braided together the way they always were, the way they’d always been, the way they’d always be.
I cleaned up. I pulled on my pants.
I went to the gym. I lifted weights.
I got bigger.
But my dick and balls stayed the same.
So small.
The End.
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