This one is for a very special friend, and I hope she enjoys it.
All I need
I
know better than to disobey you. I would never willingly do anything to upset
you. I want to show you that I am a good slave, that I deserve to be on the
pedestal you put me on when you tell others about me. I’m very proud to be your
favorite, and I would never put that at risk.
So
I will be careful with this razor. I will be gentle as I slide it up the back
of your leg. I will stop frequently to rinse the blade in hot water, to make
sure that the caress is gentle. I will do everything I can to keep my hand
steady, to keep my work perfect. I do it for you. My mistress, my goddess, my
queen; I live to serve you, and I—I will—
It
tingles right now. It’s been tingling for a while. But soon it will start to
burn. Already I feel it heating up. If I leave it on too long, it’ll start to
warm up, then it will get hot, then it will burn. Eventually, it will even hurt
me. I know you’ll stop me before that; you want me to be safe. But if I’m not
finished by then, if I have to stop my work before it is done just to protect
my own skin; if that happens, then I’ve failed you.
I
could work faster. But if I go faster, if I take longer strokes with the razor
or skimp on the warm water to keep the movement smooth and comfortable for you,
then I might slip up. I might cause you a little bit of discomfort. I might cut
your beautiful skin, or give you razor burn. I can’t do that.
So
I will ignore the tingle. I will force myself not to shiver as the warm tingle
on my leg starts moving up. I know we put it on between my legs last for a
reason, and I know that the tingle tracing its way up there is just a happy
accident. But sooner or later, it’ll start to tingle there too. Will I laugh
the way I did when you first slid your single tail up my thigh, when the slip
of silk at the end somehow seemed to sneak inside me? Or will it just itch?
Will I wriggle around, trying to rub at it, only to have you scold me for
trying to play with myself when I should be focusing on you?
The
hair above your knees is so much finer. Slick, beautiful. Like you. I rub the
warm cream over your skin and start to slide the razor, down this time, and let
the blade do its work. That’s what you told me. You said it was sharp, and that
it wouldn’t take much pressure. All I had to do, really, was be careful.
Careful, precise, and quick. I remember the smirk when you said that.
I
could look up at you now. I’m sure you’re looking down at me with that sneer
that haunts my dreams, the one that sends a chill down my spine at the same
time it makes my skin flush in excitement. I could stare at that sneer for
hours, lost in the delicious cruelty of it, in the promises that weave with
threats in a dance most people wouldn’t understand.
But
I don’t have hours. It’s starting to burn at my ankles. Not bad, of course. Not
by any means. I’ve got a long time before that happens. We checked the bottle,
I did my research, and I know that I’d have to leave it on for a full ten
minutes to really start risking that sort of thing. And shaving your legs
shouldn’t take that long. I shave my own in about eight minutes, usually, and
there’s a lot of awkward moving around and getting the right angle. I don’t
have to worry about that with you. Here on my knees, I can get a lot of great
angles.
But
I can’t be too fast. Quick is good, but careless is bad. Careful and precise.
So it might take me eight minutes to do yours. Maybe even nine. I have to
finish before then.
I
can wipe off the blade on the wet towel as fast as I want. A quick swipe one
way, then the other, and I can get back to the careful and precise slide down
your wonderful legs. I can take a deep breath and stop myself from shaking. I
can focus.
I
have to focus. My legs are burning. I’m starting to itch down there. But it’ll
be worth it. When I finish, when we wash me clean, it’ll be worth it. I’ll be
almost hairless, as clean as a little girl. Smooth as a baby’s bottom. That
will be wonderful. And I can do it. I just have to stop paying attention to the
itching. I have to stop worrying that any of it got inside. If it did, I’d know
it by now, right? Yes, of course I would. I need to stop worrying.
Stop
shaking. Don’t twitch. Be careful. Very careful. Don’t even twitch when
cleaning the blade. Not even when running more warm water over your leg. Don’t
shiver, don’t shake. Just hold together.
I
have to be perfect. Not only do I have to live up to your lauding praise, I
have to make sure not to anger you. I want you to be proud of me, always proud.
Never disappointed. When you clutch my neck with one hand and slap me across
the face with the other, I want you to do it with a sadistic smile, not an
angry look. When you rest ice between my breasts and pour candle wax onto my
nipples, I want you to giggle at the noise I make, not frown. I don’t want you
to frown because of me. I only want you to smile.
So
I focus. So I concentrate. So I move the blade slowly along your skin, and rub
my other hand along behind it, soothing and checking to make sure I didn’t miss
a spot. Let my legs burn. Let my special place tingle. I don’t care. I have to
do my duty. I have to be a good slave.
What
would you say if you could read my mind? Would you chastise me for refusing to
use … that word? Would you tell me that there are so many words for that place,
so many beautiful ways to describe it, and that it deserves to be treated with respect?
Would you tell me that refusing to name it detracted from its beauty? From my beauty?
I’d
tell you that I don’t need to be beautiful. That I don’t even want to be beautiful. And you’d tell me
that I am. You’d tell me how much you love my body, how much you love the hair
on my head. You’d tell me that I was gorgeous. I’d believe you, of course; you
are my mistress, my master, my owner, my goddess, my one and my only. I would
believe you if you told me the sky was neon yellow. But still, I don’t have to
be pretty. All I have to be, all I want to be, is yours.
I
want to be yours in every part of me. And I don’t need to call that part
anything special. I don’t need to be anything special. When you spank me there,
when your finger slips inside just a little before pulling back and hitting me
again, I don’t need to call that space anything. It’s just me, my innermost,
the part of my body that no one but you can touch. The part that is never, that
was never, and that never will be penetrated by anything but your fingers, your
hands, and your will. Do I need to use a crass word to describe it?
I
wipe sweat from my forehead and focus on your leg, on the little bit of skin
that isn’t shaved clean yet. Focus on that, not on the burning. Not on the
flush of my skin. Not on the thoughts of you invading my body. I will focus on
your legs, your skin. I won’t look at your beautiful, perfect, perky ass. I won’t
think about the way it feels against my face. I won’t think about how little I
care about breathing when you’re there on top of me. I won’t think about laying
on my back, or about being tied down, or about the way you use my tongue and my
lips without concern. I won’t think about how long you’ll stay there. I will
focus on your legs.
Focus
on what I’m doing. You’ve taught me that well. Ignore the burn on my legs just
like I ignore the panic when you stay on my face for more than a few seconds at
a time, when you grind yourself against me. I can ignore my body demanding
oxygen, freaking out long before it ever gets dangerous. I can just remind
myself that you would never let anything happen to me. You love me. You will
protect me, keep me safe. You’ll pay attention to my body even when I don’t. So
I can ignore the need to breathe. I can ignore the pain of my legs, the feeling
like my skin is starting to sizzle. I can ignore that and focus on these last
few streaks of cream on your leg, on these last few strokes of the blade.
I
can finish my work and make sure it’s perfect, can run my hands down your legs,
trace the ink with my fingers along your thigh and then along your calf. I can
rub the tattoo on your foot, and kiss the curling ink on your toes when I
finish. I can do all that without shaking. Without whimpering. I can do it all
without complaint.
And
when I do, when you inspect yourself, I can stand in front of you without much
shivering. I can keep my eyes carefully downcast as you inspect my work, and
clench my teeth and my fists against the pain. You know me. You know the time.
You might make it stretch a bit, but never enough to be dangerous. Just enough
for a little bit of torture. A little bit of pain. Enough for me to be, maybe,
just a little bit extra sensitive tonight.
Finally
satisfied with what you see, you look at me with the curves of your lips turned
upwards, with a smile that promises to take away the pain, and to replace it
with new pain. I can take a shuddering breath. I can thank you effusively when
you allow me to get into the shower and wash myself clean. I can stand in the water
and let out a sigh of relief as the burning goes away, washed off me like the
hair that circles the drain.
I
know you’ll be waiting for me when I’m done. I know you’ll be standing outside
the shower, probably tapping your foot impatiently. And I’ll apologize. I’ll
drop to my knees and I’ll kiss your feet. You’ll lean back against the sink as
I move my lips and my tongue up your smooth legs. You’ll run your fingers
through my hair as I serve my greatest purpose. I will make you moan and scream
in pleasure, just as you will make me scream and whimper in pain.
I
will do all this for you, love. All this and so much more.
I
am yours. It is all I want to be. All I need to be.
I
will do it all, take it all, suffer at your behest or at your whim or at your
hand. I will be your slave, and I will strive to reach an impossible standard.
I will keep pushing myself, always reaching to be better. For you. For your
words.
I
will do anything to hear you say those words. Those two magical words, the ones
that send shivers down my spine and blood to my… blood to my special parts. The
words that give me a high like an orgasm, that send me on waves of pleasure.
Two words that I never thought would be so important.
“Good
girl.”
That’s
all I want.
All
I need.
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