She gives me a shopping list of picnicky things and asks if I could pick them up before she gets off work. Some of the list is girl stuff. I shop like a manly man – I get my stuff and go (plus one general issue confectionery).
She’s 31, works at a CAD station downtown, has lived all over the place and will probably up and move again some day. Sharp dresser, pretty like a girl. Real smart, real funny. Educated. We’ve been An Item for the past three years, although there was a cooling off period for a while in the middle. Met while we were temping at the same office; bonded over stealing the same office supplies... so very modern.
I pack it all up in my shoulder bag and bike over to her place.
She’s invited me to just come on in, but I don’t like that. I prefer to knock and wait – like we’re meeting for the first time every time. And why not? She greets me with a smile and a kiss, and I put the bag down on the couch so we can hug. How was your day? And how was your day? A nice little dance. I really love her a lot.
Come here and let me bathe you after your hot bike ride she says, guiding me to the bathroom. It’s not all that far to bike over, and I do it all the time... she’s got a little bit of that No Body Smell girl thing going on, so I follow. She says, I want to make you all clean – wait here for me. Where are you going, I ask with my eyes. And she says No, Wait Here with a hand on my shoulder.
She turns on the hot water. Take your clothes off. I comply. She drapes a towel around my neck. The sink is half full, and she retrieves a razor. Sit up straight, she says, and lathers my scruff with peachy smelling foam.
She dabs the towel on my chest and thighs when the bristled lather drips from her razor, and the rest gets rinsed in the sink with a swish. With a warm washcloth she wipes the rest of the shaving cream off my face. All better. She kisses me and my face feels especially tingly and clean.
She stands me up. We embrace with heavy kisses. She’s taller than I am – I think we both pretend that this “doesn’t matter,” but sometimes it makes us both a little uncomfortable. Right now, with me naked and her clothed and shoed, she’s noticeably taller... and I really like it.
She runs her hands along my back, takes handfuls of my ass and pulls me to her. I push one knee between her legs and she meets it with her thighs. She pulls back and caresses my chin and cheeks with her hand. Looking into my eyes with a smile, she repeats that she wants to make me clean – all clean for going to the beach. Before I can say anything, she takes my cock in her hand and leads me, silently, to the edge of the bathtub. With her other hand she pushes the shower curtain aside and then tells me to get in – no, sit here on the edge, here at the head of the tub. And before she lets me go, she gives my cock a little squeeze. I feel my heart shifting, opening up to her, not knowing what is to come and knowing I don’t need to know... that squeeze means she is Taking Care of Me.
I shiver and wait for her to come back. She tells me to close my eyes before she comes in, and with eyes closed she tells me to hold out my hands. No, together. No, like this, and she cups my hands together to pour something thick and cold in them. Now, open your eyes. My hands are full of... Pepto Bismal? I want you to rub this all over your legs for me, all the way from your ankles to your hips. I know it’s not a dyspeptic tincture that I hold but a depilatory.
I look into her eyes – for reassurance? – she gives me whatever it was I needed. I paint my legs with the stuff, starting at the ankles and working up. The first handful doesn’t even cover both my scrawny little shins, so she gives me more. Put it on thick, she says, and don’t miss anything... just don't get it on your dick! No argument there.
The stuff stinks -- stinks and it burns. Pretty much right away. I finish with my legs, by now spread apart as far as I could get them so as not to start dissolving the family jewels, and I hold my hands out in the air, looking for a washcloth.
But she had other ideas. Hold out your right hand, she says, and she fills it up with the stinkum. Now put it all over your left arm, all over the back of your hand and up your arm up to about right here, and she puts her finger mid-way up my bicep – right where the hair gets faint. Here I go. The operation is repeated in reverse. I use up the whole bottle. I can feel something very odd happening to my skin and hair.
She brings me a thin glass of cold water and holds it up to me. Did she mean to pour it just a little too quick so some of the... damn... some of the water drips down my face and onto my body? She’s pouting and laughing as I’m being digested by alien slime.
She sits on the toilet lid and we talk. Just a normal couple having a normal conversation. She is well pleased with herself for getting me into this situation.
She takes the washcloth and wets it with hot water and firmly wipes down my left calf. Either I’m on chemo or I’ve just been shorn... the hair comes out and clumps up on the cloth. I’m amazed and disturbed. Good kind of disturbed. She is good kind of happy and tells me to rinse off with the shower.
I stand and turn on the shower head. For Her Pleasure, we installed one of those shower massage things with the long hose – neat, neat, neat. The drain is clogged right away and it looks pretty nasty... was I really that hairy? Not all of the hair comes out, only... most of it... and I look like I’m on chemo for sure now, with three stripes of fur on my legs and one spot on the underside of my right arm. My skin feels really weird with no hair on it. Looks weird, too. Too pale even for a whitey white boy like me. What hath she wrought?
She enters, now dressed other than for work. As I was sloughing off what nature gave me, she was enshrining what nature gave her. A sexy black bra, and panties, heels, and around her neck a long, thin silver chain with a small silver key hanging between her breasts. All done? she asks. I’m standing in the shower feeling very aware of my upper thighs touching. She comes closer and examines me, all nursey like, and pouts and tsk tsks.
No, you’re not quite done yet. Who’s going to clean up all that hair, she asks me. I will, I say. Yes, you will.
I think I need a new razor she says – that one might be dull and we don’t want to cut you... by accident. I drip as I click in a new head to the razor. Now stand up straight. Put your arms up on the bar. Spread your legs apart.
I form an inverted Y, leaning forward a little. I’m hard, and she massages my balls for a moment like she’s sizing me up at market. She picks up the bottle and shakes it – silly boy, I knew you’d get the small size. She has another bottle, and pours a silver dollar’s worth onto her hands and rubs it on my chest and nipples and stomach, stopping just above the No Go Zone. She reaches behind me and – ah Jesus, I’m blushing – rubs some on my furry monkey ass.
She lathers my armpits and shaves them very slowly, an inch or half-inch at a time before rinsing the razor in the sink, all the while my nose filling with the horrid smell and me feeling cold and getting harder. She takes a good 10 minutes. When she’s done, there’s not a hair on or under my arms or on my legs. Now wash all that off, she says, and after you’ve washed my tub you can come out. A tippy-toe kiss and I am alone again.
A few spots of belly hair remain, and I shave them off. I just hope for the best on my behind... can’t feel anything, and I’ll be damned if I’m going to try and shave my own damn ass. I clean myself, and wash out the tub with water until it looks like there’s a dead tribble in the wastebasket.
I exit the bathroom into the somewhat warmer hallway. In here, darling, she says, summoning from the bedroom.
I stand just in the doorway and she gives me the once over but twice. She just looks at me... looks and looks, and I shift my weight from one foot to another. Go get up on the bed on all fours and let me look at you.
I crawl onto the bed, turn to her but she says no, turn around – face the other way. I doggie around the other way, and (to use the anthropological term) present. My breathing becomes deeper. I close my eyes. The cowl of subthink is drawing over my head again, and I shift my knees/ass in anticipation and to make myself appealing.
Does she like what she sees? Will she show me she likes what she sees? She looks at me and says – Close your eyes.
With every door that closes, another opens. I close my sight, but only feel more open for it. My face opens, my breathing opens, my heart opens – opens ready to receive. My hands are guided above my head, placed to hold my elbows so the back of my head is framed by my arms. A halo of flesh behind my bowed head, a pillow as she lays me down on my back.
I hear quiet footsteps, running water, footsteps and a presence on the bed between my legs. A warm, damp cloth covers my pubic area, moves under and around my cock. I feel her tug two fingers full of my pubic hair, snip, and release. Pull, snip, release. Again and again, so patient. She must touch my cock to work around it, but she is so very careful to never touch just under the head where I am most sensitive. It goes on and on, and for a moment I think of other things... but twice she pulls just too much or cuts just too close and the sharp, brief pain brings me back.
She washes me again, and this time it feels entirely different... I know from the tiny resistance travelling cockwards and the velcro sensation travelling countercockwards that most of my hair is gone. She is lathering me, again never quite travelling as far up my cock as I wish she would with the smooth wetness. Starting at the base of my now erect penis, she shaves me. My penis, my testicles, around one side of my pubic stubble and down the other. And when she is done, she takes me in one hand and kisses me under my glans, just once. I sigh.
She lies on top of me, and kisses my face, touches my eyes with her hands. I look up at her, and take her in my arms. You’re so good, she says. All for you, I say. I feel her clothes like I never have before. I am entirely naked to her.
She moves beside me and views her handiwork, her creation. Do you like it, I ask? Uh huh. She smiles. What does it make you think of, I ask; am I like a little boy now?
She looks at me seriously. She raises herself above me and takes me in her arms again, this time cradling me. I didn’t make you into a little boy, she says. I made you into an angel. My little angel.
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