I’ve been desperate to see you and you’re hardly even inside the door before I’m on you, hands clasped around your neck, pulling you closer, trying to consume you with my kiss. Holding your face in my hands, I jerk your head awkwardly to the side to give me better access to your throat.
Brushing my lips against your jaw, my anxiousness dissolves into disappointment. It isn’t anger. I want you too fucking much to be angry, but it hurts that you haven’t done what little I asked of you. I had asked that you be clean-shaven and smooth for me. In the past, on mornings after we’ve played together, my own skin is left red and stinging after so much contact with yours.
I pull away easily and walk into the bedroom, knowing you will follow. Instead of directing you to the bed, I pull an office chair away from the desk and direct you to sit. From behind, I lightly scratch my fingernails across your rough cheek and it’s quiet enough in the room to hear the sandpapery noise it makes. I tug your shirt up over your head, lean over and unbuckle your belt, and turn my palms up. Understanding my wordless command, you slide your belt out of the loops and place it in my hands. Like a good boy, you cross your wrists behind the chair so I can bind them.
In the other room, I run the water as hot as it will go, soak a towel, and wring it out. I grab my bag of supplies and return to you. I press the towel to your face gently, with what I hope is absolute kindness in my eyes, and I am pleased to see the eagerness drain from yours. I’m not inclined to indulge your bratty masochistic desires at this particular moment. I just want you soft and smooth so I can kiss you for as long as I’d like.
You’re instructed to leave the towel where it is and I lay out my supplies–oil, two stiff brushes, cream, and a leather strop. I turn slightly towards you when I unfold the straight razor, but I can’t quite interpret your expression. Is it confusion? disappointment? nervousness?
I resist the urge to reassure you, to let you know that I’ve done this before, and I enjoy watching you tense up as I cross the room to get another hot towel. I place the second one much less carefully than I did the first and sit on the bed facing you to sharpen the blade.
Tying the cord below my knee, I cross my legs and pull the leather tight across my thigh. I drag the razor slowly and deliberately over the strop and you seem relax a little when you see that I don’t fumble with the blade. I rest it on your thigh and lather your face as if I’m applying makeup–swirl on one cheek, swirl on the other, little dabs at your chin and on your upper lip, and soft strokes down your neck.
Holding it between us, I test the blade on my thumb and I’m satisfied it’s sharp enough. You don’t resist when I grab a handful of your hair and jerk your head back. You offer me your throat, close your eyes, and wait.
Just before touching the blade to your skin, I hesitate.
If I nick you by accident, if I draw blood, I don’t know that I’ll be able to keep my lips from your throat. Eyes closed, chest bare, throat exposed–you are too delicious for words.