Total pages in book: 103
Estimated words: 94181 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 471(@200wpm)___ 377(@250wpm)___ 314(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 94181 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 471(@200wpm)___ 377(@250wpm)___ 314(@300wpm)
“Sit down,” Master Paul said, laying a fluffy white towel on the tiled floor. He draped the red lingerie over the edge of the counter, positioning it so that I would be able to see it throughout what was about to happen. A reminder, a promise, and a destination.
I sat. The towel itself felt soft against my welted bottom, but the pressure of my weight on the floor beneath made me hiss through my teeth. My thighs pressed together instinctively, and Master Paul’s hand landed on my left knee with a firmness that made my stomach flip.
“Lie back and open up,” he said. “Spread your legs. Knees apart. I need to see what I’m working with.”
I lay back on the towel and, blushing furiously, I spread my knees. The motion felt like the physical equivalent of the confessions he kept pulling from me—each one wider, each one deeper, each one exposing something I’d thought I could keep.
My pubic hair, the modest blonde triangle I’d combed through in the dark last night, was visible now in the studio’s unforgiving light; I could just make it out as I gazed down my supine body. The hair was fine and pale, and it covered my mound and the tops of my outer lips in a soft, curling veil that was the last—the very last—natural covering I possessed.
Master Paul crouched in front of me. His face was level with my lap, his brown eyes focused between my thighs with the same sort of attention a surgeon might bring to a medical procedure. But there was nothing clinical about the way my master looked at me. His gaze moved through my pubic hair the way his hands had moved through the baby doll yesterday—cataloguing, assessing, already seeing what would be revealed when the covering was removed.
He picked up the small scissors.
“First,” he said, “we trim. Then we shave. Hold still.”
The scissors made a quiet, precise snicking sound as they cut. I could just make out the tufts of pale blonde hair falling away from my body and drifting downward, landing on the white towel he’d spread me out on. More urgently, I could hear the scissors, and each snip felt like a small, irrevocable subtraction. Less of me. Less coverage. Less of the barrier Penelope had described—that last hiding place, that final little way of saying this part of me is still mine.
“Melissa,” Darlene murmured from somewhere behind the lights, “come look at the monitor. His face while he’s cutting—the concentration—it’s incredible.”
“I see it,” Melissa said. “Paul, this is so hot. Can you talk to her while you do it? Tell her why you’re doing this. Tell her what she’s going to look like when you’re done. Be possessive. Be dominant. Own every second of this.”
Master Paul didn’t look up from between my thighs. The scissors continued their methodical work, trimming the hair shorter and shorter, revealing more of the pale skin beneath with each pass.
“I’m taking this away from you, Anne,” he said, his voice low and unhurried, pitched for me and for the microphones simultaneously. “This little bit of modesty you’ve been hiding behind. Every time you looked down in the shower and saw this hair, some part of you felt like a woman. Like a grown woman with the right to decide who sees what’s between her legs and who doesn’t.” He set the scissors aside and reached for the shaving cream. The can hissed as he dispensed a cloud of white foam into his palm. “That right belongs to me now.”
His hand spread the warm foam across my trimmed mound, and the sensation—his broad palm, slick and warm, gliding over the most sensitive skin on my body—made me whimper. My hips tried to tilt forward, seeking more pressure, and he pressed me back against the towel with his free hand on my lower belly.
“Stay still,” he commanded. “A girl who squirms while her suitor is shaving her cunt is going to get cut, and I don’t want to cut you. I want to make you smooth.”
He picked up the razor. I watched the blade catch the light—a small, bright flash that seemed to carry the weight of everything that was about to change—and then he brought it to my skin.
The first stroke of the razor moved through the remaining stubble with a whisper that I felt more than heard, and in its wake I sensed the air, immediate and undeniable. Cool studio air touching skin that felt like it had never been touched by air before. Skin that had been covered since puberty, protected, hidden, and was now being systematically revealed by a man’s steady hand.
“Oh, that’s gorgeous,” Melissa breathed from behind the monitors. “The way the skin is appearing—Darlene, are you getting the close-up of her cunt?”
“I’m getting everything,” Darlene said, as she always did. Then she added, in an uncharacteristically admiring tone, “It’s a very pretty cunt, isn’t it?” and I had to choke down a sob as heat flared through my whole body at the casual way they discussed my body.