Jane Under My Blade

Jane sat on the countertop of the vanity watching me shave—a proclivity she had developed in childhood from watching her father shave. She was wearing her tiny NASA teeshirt and cheeky, red boyshorts.

“I’m pretty sure there are men’s razors much more advanced and safer than that now,” she suggested, staring with dread at my straight-edged barber razor. She winced as I pulled my neck taut and slowly drew the edge along the unguarded skin below my jaw.

“Designer stubble takes diligent upkeep and the proper tools. I only do it to meet your oppressive standards for my appearance,” I teased.

I rinsed my face and wiped soap away. Jane picked up a washcloth and dabbed at a stray patch of foam.

“Would you let me use it on you?” I asked with a raised eyebrow, casually brandishing the menacing razor.

“I’m quite happy with my beard, but thank you,” she said, stroking her chin like a distinguished gentleman.

“I don’t mean your face, though it might be time for an eyebrow wax,” I ribbed, flanking her with my palms on the countertop. She extended her middle finger and used it to smooth each of her brows at me.

“I mean here,” I reached between her legs and caressed the delicate mesh of her underwear. “Sometimes I fantasize about it,” I said between kisses.

“Hmm,” she hesitated, “that one might be a dealbreaker.”

“Please? I’ll research it on wikiHow.”

“That’s assuring,” she balked. I laughed and she pushed me away, playfully.

“Tell ya what,” she wrapped her legs around my hips and pulled me back to her. “Practice shaving at least two other pussies today and I’ll consider it. I want photographic evidence.” Her deadpan humor melted my heart.

“Deal,” I said.

A few kisses culminated into an impassioned embrace. Her legs were still around me. My towel dropped to the floor and I pushed my erection against the wet crotch of her panties. I was about to pull them aside and fuck her when she roused from her lust and reminded me we both had work to do.

“No obeshhaju, chto jeto budet stoit’ tvoego vremeni,” I breathed along her neck. Jane fetishized my native tongue—I used it freely to make her putty in my hands.

“Save it for tonight, comrade,” she snarked, unaffected. Then she punctuated the end of the encounter with a sharp peck on my lips.

She hopped down from the countertop and pulled off her teeshirt, exposing her tight, rosy nipples and the alluring port-wine stain under her left breast. She turned on her heel and left me with my dick in my hand as she catwalked to the shower.

* * *

I came home that night, haggard from work but excited to see Jane. Throughout the day, my shaving fantasy had culminated into a fever pitch—I couldn’t stop picturing her spread wide and vulnerable for me. She greeted me in the kitchen and set two crystal tumblers on the granite island and filled each of them with a modest finger of whiskey. She sipped pensively.

“Did you get any practice today?” Jane asked me, suddenly breaking the silence with the disjointed question. She crossed her arms, pretending to be stern and accusatory as she waited for my response. I remembered her joke about shaving other women for practice.

“No,” I responded, ruefully. “Eto moye pervoye plavaniye.”

Jane set down her glass. She hiked her skirt and straddled me where I sat.

“What does that mean?”

“This will be my maiden voyage,” I translated, flashing her an impish smile.

* * *

We took a long shower together. I pawed at her impatiently, but Jane demurred, reminding me we had a task at hand. It was fucking torture sliding against her and watching her soap and exfoliate her wet skin.

After we dried off, I spread a towel on the vanity countertop and helped Jane hop up to sit on it. She leaned back on the mirror and spread her legs, teasing me as I filled the sink with hot water. I dropped a bottle of shaving oil into the sink to warm it.

“Wider,” I commanded, “tilt your pelvis.”

She obeyed with a crooked smile and slid down a little further, spreading.

I turned off the faucet and poured the warmed oil into my hand. Jane sighed lustily as I spread it on her outer lips and down past the opening of her pussy.

“Ochen’ poslushnaya, krasotka,” I said, casting an aphrodisiac spell over her with my Russian. Her eyes darkened with desire.

I picked up the heavy, stainless steel shaving implement and kissed her sweetly before stretching her skin taught and positioning the edge of the blade above the sparse growth of hair between her legs. She inhaled sharply with anxiety. I stopped dead.

“Do you trust me?” I asked without looking up.

“Yes,” she said softly. Her voice was devoid of bite. Beyond the cocoon of our partnership, Jane was the type of woman who was seemingly impenetrable. She kept an untouchable facade of trademark nonchalance. But now, under my blade, she was reverent and trusting. Defenseless and exposed. Faithful.

“Take a breath.”

She breathed deeply as I grazed the razor down her slippery labia. She tried not to shift as I pulled at her skin and shaved slow, careful strokes all the way down past the opening, stopping occasionally to rinse the razor. Her pussy looked new and pink and with each stroke. I was rock hard.

Jane moaned and pulsed her hips. She was turned on by the danger, the kink. I was turned on by the power, the control.

“Stay still,” I reminder her.

There was nothing remaining except a thin strip around the rim of her exposed, pink inner labia. She looked at me with hesitation and flushed cheeks.

“Do you know I will never, ever hurt or wrong you? You know you can trust me, no matter what?”

“I know,” her voice was small.

I spread another drop of shaving oil with my fingertip around the edge of her fragile opening. She stopped breathing as I spread her pussy tight and scraped the razor slowly down one side and then the other. I lingered for a moment, checking my work. I took two more tiny strokes at the bottom of each side.

I released her skin and rinsed her gently, patting her with a warm, wet towel. I smiled at my work.

“Touch it,” Jane said, breathily. She gushed wetness when I soothed her with oil and stroked her bare, sensitive pussy.

“That’s my girl. Khoroshaya devushka.”

Jane pulled me to the bed and pushed my head between her legs. I licked and sucked her shaved skin with featherlight pressure, teasing her. I stopped when she tried to grind her clit into my mouth.

“If you want me to make you come, you have to be a good girl. Don’t be greedy,” I reprimanded. She cried out in painful frustration, but capitulated.

I flicked my tongue lightly on her clit, torturously. She begged unintelligibly, straining not to thrust on me. I slid two fingers inside of her and made a beckoning motion, stimulating her g spot. Jane was so wound up, she exploded into a rare series of multiple orgasms for minutes, one after the other. I used my mouth and fingers to conjure the building waves as she kicked and shouted my name. My ego swelled, but I was getting lock jaw and my cock was dripping with pre-come.

When she finally descended from her marathon of rippling orgasms, her body went limp from exertion. I yanked her by the legs down the bed and entered her. I was immersed in a slippery flood of hot wetness and her soft, bare skin.

“Fuck, Jane. You feel so good,” I breathed.

I pushed her knee into her chest and pulled forceful thrusts. Jane was panting and moaning, still contracting inside from the orgasms. She roused and met my hips with hers, telling me how much she loved getting fucked after I made her come. I was overwhelmed with watershed ecstasy. The world disappeared and I thrust harder, grunting and roaring. She bit into my shoulder as I crushed her beneath my chest and shot into her.

I collapsed on her and she petted me gently before heaving me onto my side. I hugged around her and worshiped her in Russian, having completely lost my English. We couldn’t get up. We were about to fall asleep when she murmured, “thanks for the shave, what’s the tipping etiquette here?”

I laughed, face down and exhausted, into the pillow.