Well. That's... that's the lot of a slave. Devero inclines his head, and hustles to the washroom. He bathes himself quickly but thoroughly, sparing a moment to be thankful that he'd recently groomed himself, ah, intimately, and only has to worry about a quick scrub.

Finding Master waiting with clothes and scissors does nothing to assuage his anxiety. Regardless, he sits ramrod straight and still in the chair, submitting to the trim without complaint. His face is an impassive mask as he listens to Samir's instructions.

"Yes, Master," he says, the words barely squeaking out of his throat. He swallows hard and forces a deep breath before trying again: "Yes, Master. Understood."

That comes out steady-- a sign of his control over himself only, a thin veneer over his mounting fear.