My Girlfriend’s Sister – Part 2

This is an continuation of My Girlfriend’s Sister 

Chris sat back down on the stool, still half-naked, still trembling with the intensity of what had just happened. His scalp tingled from the buzz Riley had given him, short stubble barely covering his head — but she wasn’t finished.

Riley returned from the bathroom cabinet with a fresh razor and shaving cream in hand, her bare feet whispering across the floor. She didn’t say a word, just stood behind him, lathered up her palms, and began rubbing the cool foam across his head with slow, sensual circles.

Chris inhaled sharply. The feel of her fingers on his scalp, the scent of mint from the shaving gel, the aftermath of sex still throbbing through his veins — it was too much.

Riley kissed his bare shoulder. “Relax, baby. Let me make you smooth.”

The blade slid across his scalp with a soft whisper, every stroke erasing the last hint of hair, of guilt, of control. Riley worked methodically, humming softly under her breath, gliding the razor across his skull with perfect care. She paused occasionally to wipe the blade clean, then returned with that same slow rhythm, eyes locked on her work.

Chris stared at his reflection in the mirror — the gleam of skin, the absence of hair, the rawness of it all. He looked… owned.

When she was done, Riley stood in front of him again, kissed the top of his freshly shaved head, and whispered, “There. Now we really match.”

But his stomach twisted with unease. “What if Sara notices? She’s not stupid, Riley. She’s going to put it together.”

Riley smirked, already slipping her shorts back on. “I’ve got it covered,” she said confidently. “I’ll say I dared you. Or that you wanted to try something new and I helped. She won’t suspect a thing.”

Chris frowned, not convinced.

Just then, the front door creaked open.

“Babe?” Sara’s voice rang out from the hallway.

Chris froze. Riley calmly picked up the towel from the floor and began wiping up the hair.

Sara stepped into the bathroom and blinked in surprise at the scene: Chris standing shirtless, freshly shaved, the clippers and razor still out on the counter. Riley pretending to clean up like she was just helping out.

“Whoa,” Sara said, wide-eyed. “You really went for it.”

Chris opened his mouth to speak, searching for a story — any excuse. “Yeah, I, uh—”

But before he could finish, Sara dropped her bag, pulled her shirt off in one smooth motion, and stepped up to him, completely naked.

“You look so fucking hot,” she whispered, grabbing his face and kissing him hard. “Why didn’t I do this sooner?”

Chris barely had time to react before she pushed him toward the bedroom, practically dragging him by the waistband of his shorts. His head spun — from the tension, the panic, the whiplash of switching between women and roles and emotions.

He looked back once — and saw Riley watching from the doorway, arms crossed, smiling.

It was intense, fueled by guilt and confusion, desperation and desire. Sara rode him like she hadn’t touched him in weeks, moaning into his mouth, her nails digging into his shoulders, her body grinding down on his in rhythmic fury.

But Chris couldn’t stop thinking about Riley.

Her hands. Her mouth. Her whispers.

Afterward, Sara lay sprawled across his chest, breathing softly, whispering that she loved him. Chris held her tight and closed his eyes, his stomach churning.

What the hell had he done?

A year had passed.

Chris and Riley never mentioned that night again. Not directly. But the silence said everything.

Neither of them had cut their hair since. Chris’s beard had grown in full. His hair was now thick again. Riley’s blonde locks hung well past her shoulders.

Sara never suspected a thing.

Until that weekend.

The Revival

The weekend silence hung in the air, heavy and sharp.

Chris sat at the kitchen table, fingers drumming nervously, watching dust float through the late afternoon sunbeams. Sara had left that morning for a three-day business trip. She’d kissed him on the forehead, told him to behave, and teased that maybe they’d shave his head again when she got back.

She had no idea.

No idea what had happened a year ago. No idea that her own sister had seduced him, shaved his head, and ridden him like she owned him. And no idea that the memory of that afternoon still burned behind Chris’s eyes.

He hadn’t so much as touched Riley since.

But the silence now… it was dangerous.

Riley entered without knocking, as usual. Her brown hair was flowing in waves past her shoulder blades. She wore a simple fitted tee, no bra beneath, and loose cotton shorts that hugged her hips just enough to make Chris’s pulse jump.

He didn’t say anything.

Neither did she.

Instead, she walked straight up to him and placed her fingers on his jaw, gently guiding his gaze up to meet hers.

“Look at all that hair,” she whispered, running her fingers into his thick mop. “And that beard… You’ve been letting it grow for her, haven’t you?”

Chris flinched. “Riley… don’t do this.”

She leaned in, lips almost grazing his. “A year, Chris. A year of pretending we didn’t fuck like animals. Of pretending I didn’t buzz you down and shave your scalp smooth while you moaned for me.”

He stood up abruptly, backing away.

“I said no. I’m not doing this again.”

But Riley only smiled — that same devilish, seductive curve of her lips that had started it all.

“I didn’t say you were going to do anything.” She turned and disappeared down the hallway, only to return seconds later dragging the stool.

Chris’s heart dropped.

Riley sat on it gracefully, brushed her long blonde hair over her shoulder, and spread her knees slightly. “You’re going to shave me. Right here. Right now.”

“No.”

“You will,” she whispered. “Because you want to. Because I know what you look like when you’re hard… and I can already see it.”

Chris clenched his jaw. “Sara—”

“Is gone. She won’t know. Just like last time.”

Silence.

Then: click. Riley handed him the clippers.

He stood frozen, the tool vibrating in his hand.

“Please,” she said, softer now, tilting her head back and exposing her neck. “Take it all off. Like before.”

He stepped behind her. Slowly. Hands shaking.

And then the clippers touched her scalp.

The sound roared to life. Blonde locks rained down as Chris pushed the clippers from Riley’s forehead to the crown. She gasped softly, arching her back slightly, nipples straining against her thin shirt.

“Yes…”

More hair fell. Chris couldn’t stop. Couldn’t think. He was on autopilot, watching her transform again — from smug seductress to shaved goddess.

When the clippers clicked off, Riley stood, bare feet brushing aside the piles of golden hair, eyes locked onto Chris with fire.

She peeled off her top slowly, then her shorts. Completely naked. Completely bald. And completely his.

“Fuck me,” she ordered. “Like you did that day. I want to feel it again. I want to own you again.”

Chris hesitated for only a second — just long enough for guilt to whisper.

And then she pounced.

They crashed into the bed, her body wrapping around his, nails clawing at his skin, her shaved head nuzzling into his neck. It was primal. Desperate. Addictive.

They barely made it under the sheets.

Their bodies moved like they had unfinished business — like six months of denial had erupted all at once. Moans echoed through the room, bodies collided with urgency, pleasure laced with fear and shame.

But then — the sound no one expected.

The front door opened.

Chris froze.

Riley didn’t.

The bedroom door creaked.

Chris sat up fast, heart pounding in his throat.

And there she was.

Sara.

Standing in the doorway. Her bag still in her hand.

She looked at Chris. Then at Riley — bald, naked, and panting beneath the sheets.

She blinked. Once.

Then calmly said, “I forgot my tablet.”

Silence.

No one moved.

Sara walked to the dresser, picked up the tablet, then glanced at Riley again.

“Fresh cut?” she said flatly. “It suits you.”

Chris tried to speak — to explain, to beg — but no words came.

Sara turned to him, expression unreadable. “Chris. Bathroom. Now. Alone.”

Then, before leaving, she turned to Riley and said with razor-sharp calm, “You need to get dressed. And go.”

Riley didn’t speak.

Chris followed Sara, legs like lead.

He didn’t know what was coming.

Only that it was going to change everything.

Submission and Steel

Chris stood in the bathroom like a prisoner awaiting sentence. The silence was thick, heavier than words.

Sara shut the door behind her with a soft click. She didn’t raise her voice. She didn’t scream.

That terrified him more than anything.

She walked slowly toward him, eyes locked on his like she could see through the lies, the hesitation, the weakness.

“Sit on the stool,” she said, her tone cold and level.

Chris didn’t move.

“I said sit.”

He obeyed.

Sara opened the drawer beside the sink and pulled out the clippers. She turned them over in her hands, inspecting them like a weapon. When she flicked them on, the buzz filled the room like a war drum.

“You couldn’t resist her,” she said, circling behind him. “I could see it months ago. But I wanted to trust you.”

The clippers touched his scalp, and in one slow, steady stroke, she plowed a fresh path down the middle of his head.

“You let her do it again.”

Zzzrrrt.

Another stripe of hair gone.

“She’s always been like this. Manipulative. Jealous. She hated when I had something she didn’t. And now… now she got you.”

Zzzrrrt.

She sheared through his hair with methodical precision, never missing a beat.

Chris sat still, breathing shallow. Shame coated him like sweat.

“I love you,” Sara said, her voice quieter now, the edge softening but never breaking. “And I’m not going to leave you.”

The clippers turned off.

“But you’re going to earn that love back.”

Sara picked up a fresh razor and shaving cream, lathered her palms, and massaged the foam into his scalp with cold, firm hands.

“I want you smooth. Every day. Just like this. Every afternoon after work, you come in here and shave yourself. If I’m home, I’ll do it. If not, you do it yourself — and do it right.”

She took the razor to his skin, dragging it slowly, precisely across the curve of his skull.

“No hair. No beard. No eyebrows. You don’t get to hide behind anything.”

Chris swallowed hard. The scrape of the blade echoed in the silence. She wiped it clean. Again. And again.

When his head was gleaming, she moved to his beard. The clippers came alive once more.

Zrrt.
Off came the bulk.
Zrrrt.
The rest followed.
Then the razor again, across his jaw, his chin, his cheeks — until he was bare.

She stepped back, looked him over.

And then—without hesitation—she leaned down, held his head still, and brought the clippers to his brows.

“No.”

Chris’s voice cracked out of him instinctively. But it was weak. Unconvincing.

Sara didn’t flinch.

The buzz touched his left brow.

Zzzrrt.

Gone.

He exhaled through his nose, eyes fluttering shut.

The right one followed.

When she turned off the clippers again, the silence returned. She knelt in front of him, one hand under his chin, lifting his face to meet hers.

“You’re going to show me — every day — that you belong to me.”

Chris nodded slowly, his face raw, vulnerable, stripped of everything.

Sara leaned in and kissed his smooth scalp, slow and possessive.

“If I’m not home, you better send me pictures. Front. Side. Back. Smooth. Gleaming.”

She stood, wiping her hands on a towel, then dropped the clippers into the sink.

Chris sat still, shaved head glinting under the bathroom lights, no hair, no beard, no brows — exposed. Marked.

Owned.

Sara turned back, her tone soft but steely.

“You’re mine. And now, everyone will know it.”

Reclaimed

The silence in the bathroom pulsed like static.

Chris still sat on the stool, shaved smooth and exposed — his head, face, even his eyebrows gone, every inch of him stripped bare under Sara’s will. He didn’t move. He didn’t speak. He just breathed.

Sara stepped toward him again, her expression unreadable.

Then she slowly pulled off her top.

No words. No performance.

Just the quiet confidence of a woman who knew exactly who she was — and who he now belonged to.

Her bra followed, then her pants, until she stood fully nude in the soft bathroom light, hair falling past her shoulders, her body sculpted in tension and resolve.

She walked to the drawer, grabbed the clippers, and handed them to him.

Then she turned, walked to the center of the room, and sat on the stool.

Her bare thighs parted slightly. Her back straight. Her chin tilted up.

“Give me the same as Riley.”

Chris blinked. “What?”

“You heard me. Shave it all. Just like her. Just like you did the first time.”

He hesitated — then rose to his feet.

Hands trembling, he snapped the guardless clippers on. The buzz filled the space again, but this time it was different. Not seductive, not playful.

This buzz was final. Reclaiming.

He stepped behind her.

Placed the clippers at her forehead.

And pushed.

Zzzrrrt.

Dark brown locks tumbled forward, falling past her chest and landing on the floor between her feet. Her breathing hitched — not with fear, not with hesitation, but with release.

Another pass. More hair fell.

She closed her eyes and let him do it.

Chris worked steadily, strip by strip, exposing her scalp, erasing the softness, carving her into something sharp and savage.

By the time he finished buzzing the sides and crown, she looked like a different version of herself — primal, dominant, stripped bare and radiant.

She opened her eyes and turned her head slightly, her lips curved into a quiet smile.

“Now shave me smooth.”

Chris grabbed the gel, lathered his palms, and massaged it into her stubbled scalp with care. This wasn’t lust. This wasn’t a game.

This was an act of submission — a gesture of trust.

The razor glided over her skin, slow and deliberate. She sighed, leaning back slightly, letting him guide the blade across every curve and angle of her skull. His fingers trembled over her ear, her nape, her crown.

Each stroke wiped away the last remnants of her old self — and the last traces of Riley’s shadow.

When he was done, he wiped her clean with a towel.

She stood up slowly.

Completely bald. Completely bare.

And breathtaking.

“Look at me,” she commanded.

He did.

“This,” she said, running her fingers over her smooth scalp, “is ours. Not hers.”

And then, without warning, she shoved him back against the wall.

Chris stumbled, catching himself against the tile — and then she was on him.

Her body crashed into his, kissing him hard, fiercely, her mouth hot and possessive. Her hands raked down his chest, her breath ragged.

She grabbed his cock and stroked it with intent. “You’re going to fuck me. Right here. Right now. And this time, you don’t close your eyes. You don’t drift off thinking of her.”

Chris moaned as she wrapped her hand around the back of his smooth head and pulled him into her mouth — biting his bottom lip, sucking it with hunger.

“You belong to me,” she whispered. “Say it.”

“I—I belong to you.”

She shoved him down onto the cool tile floor, straddled him, and sank down in one raw, fluid motion.

He gasped, hands flying to her hips, but she grabbed his wrists and pinned them above his head.

“No,” she growled. “You don’t get to hold me. I ride you. I take what’s mine.”

Her hips moved like a storm — fast, merciless, building wave after wave of pleasure. Her smooth head nuzzled into his chest, her moans thick and unfiltered.

Every bounce, every thrust, was a message: I’m in control now.

And Chris — helpless, owned, worshiping every second — came undone beneath her.

Routine and Reward

The clock struck 5:15 PM.

Chris had been watching it for the last half hour, stomach tight with anticipation, the faint scent of minty shaving cream already in the air. The bathroom lights were on. The towel was draped across the stool. A fresh razor sat beside the sink. The shaving cream bottle stood upright, uncapped and ready.

Everything was in place.

Exactly how Sara wanted it.

He stood in front of the mirror, already stripped bare, his smooth scalp still gleaming from the full headshave she’d given him the night before. No beard, no eyebrows, no hiding. He’d checked himself from every angle, made sure his skin was flawless. Presentable. Owned.

The bathroom door creaked open.

Sara entered slowly, a towel wrapped around her from the shower, her bare shoulders still damp. Her bald scalp shimmered under the lights — regal, radiant, sharp. She eyed the setup, then Chris, standing at attention like an obedient pet.

A sly smile curved her lips. “You remembered.”

Chris nodded. “Yes, ma’am.”

Sara dropped the towel. Her body was flawless. Commanding. And that bald head of hers made her even more devastating. She walked over to him, brushing her fingers down his chest, then cupped his jaw.

“Sit.”

He sat on the stool instantly.

Sara grabbed the shaving cream and lathered her palms slowly, deliberately, while Chris watched her through the mirror — arousal already pulsing through him at the simple ritual.

Her fingers touched his scalp, massaging the cool cream in soft, deliberate circles. She worked the foam around his ears, down the back of his neck, humming softly to herself as she coated him in her approval.

Then came the razor.

She dragged it across his scalp with sensual control, her fingers firm, the blade whispering with every stroke. It wasn’t about cutting hair anymore — it was about obedience. About devotion.

He closed his eyes as she finished, wiping his head clean with a warm towel. Every inch of him gleamed. And he knew it.

Sara stepped back to admire her work, then climbed into his lap, straddling him without a word.

Her nails scraped across his bare scalp. “You’ve been a good boy today.”

Chris breathed out, dizzy from her scent, her skin, her heat. “I wanted to be.”

She rocked her hips gently over him, her warmth grinding against his length until he groaned softly.

Sara leaned in, lips brushing his ear. “Then I’m going to ride you. And I’m going to take my time.”

He didn’t move. Didn’t dare.

Her hand wrapped around his cock, guiding it slowly into her, inch by aching inch. She moaned, settling onto him completely, and began to roll her hips in a slow, teasing rhythm.

Her hands gripped his smooth head as she fucked him — not wildly, but deliberately. Measured. Controlled. The way she wanted it. Because this was her show.

Chris tilted his head back, panting, letting her use him, his body trembling with need. She reached down and pressed two fingers to his lips.

“No coming until I say.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he whispered.

She rode him harder now, her thighs tightening, her breath coming in hot gasps, her bald head pressed to his as she ground her pleasure out of him.

Every thrust was a reminder: You belong to me. This is your new normal.

And Chris loved every second of it.

As she neared the edge, she leaned back slightly, staring at him with a smirk.

“If you’re a good boy tomorrow,” she panted, voice dripping with fire, “maybe I’ll let you shave me again.”

Chris nearly came at the thought.

But he held it.

Because now he knew the rules.

This wasn’t about guilt or punishment anymore.

This was about submission, devotion, and raw, unapologetic pleasure.

And this was just the beginning.