Because I can't watch this. Can't process it. Can't reconcile what's happening with who I'm supposed to be.
Good girls don't get wet when strangers shave their pussy.
Good girls don't arch into the touch when fingers pinch their nipples.
Good girls don't?—
"He's watching you right now, beautiful."
My eyes snap open.
The tall one is looking down at me, his fingers still working through my wet hair. "Your masked man. He's watching. Put on a good show for him."
Oh god.
The razor glides along my bikini line. Smooth, efficient, careful. The blond one works with clinical precision, one hand spreading my skin taut while the other guides the blade.
I feel every stroke.
Every deliberate scrape of metal against my most vulnerable places.
"He told us you write stories like this," the tall one continues, his voice low and intimate. "Pretend you're her. Pretend you're Jasmine inMine, All Mine."
My breath catches.
He's right.
Ididwrite about this.
Not this exact contraption—god, nothing this elaborate—but the fantasy was the same. Jasmine in her master's bathing chamber. Black stone tub. Three male servants preparing her for inspection. Shaving her, oiling her, making her perfect while her master watched from behind a screen.
He's still doing it.
The masked man is still tailoring my experience using my own words. My own darkest fantasies.
Really, really intense experiences—but familiar. Things I've written about. Things I've already processed and survived on the page.
He's giving me a reference point.
And somehow... somehow that makes it less terrifying.
Heseesme.
Not just my body. Not just my willingness to be here.
He sees thewriter. The woman who processes life through fiction. Who needs narrative structure to make sense of chaos.
"Good girl," the blond one murmurs. "So good for us."
His hand spreads more shaving cream. Lower this time. Between my pussy lips.
I whimper.
Because he's touching me there. Deliberately. His fingers work the cream along my labia, making sure every inch is covered, and I can feel myself getting wetter, feel my clit throbbing, feel my pussy clenching on nothing.
"Enjoy it," the tall one whispers near my ear. "He wants you to enjoy this."
The razor glides along my outer lips. Slow. Careful. The blond one's other hand cups my ass, tilting my hips for better access.
