“Balls,” you said.
“Genitals,” I teased.
“Say ‘balls,’ Henri,” you insisted, “or I’m putting this away.”
“Balls,” I repeated. I gave in to your threats too easily.
“Now say, ‘I want to shave Orlando’s big, hairy balls to make his cock look even bigger.’”
I shook my head, but it was impossible to refuse you. You took my silence as agreement, stripped off your bathing suit, and bounded out of bed to find a razor and some shaving cream from Xavier’s bathroom. After carefully laying out a towel and a bowl of warm water on the bedside table, you handed me the razor. It was a straight razor with a sharp and gleaming blade. Such an alluring instrument, how easily it could tear the skin.
“I want a close shave,” you said as if to further tempt me.
After a quick inspection, I determined your hair was too long for a razor. “We’ll have to start with scissors.”
After procuring the necessary tool, you spread your knees and propped yourself up on your elbows, watching as I carefully trimmed your pubic hair with a pair of scissors. Once the soft curls were shorn off, I lathered your skin with cream and used the straight edge to shave off your shorter hairs, careful to move yourballsout of harm’s way. Halfway through, you got an erection, and I had to ignore its persistent bobbing in order to focus on the task at hand. As I was shaving the fold between your thigh and the side of your groin, I nicked the surface of your skin. Droplets of blood beaded up on the cut. My tongue swiped across my lips, and I stole a glance at you. You seemed to know exactly what was going through my mind.
You sucked your bottom lip into your mouth and pulled your erection to the side to see it better. I calmed my body and fought the fever rising within me. The scent of your blood concentrated in my nostrils, tickling my nose hairs. My mouth watered and my pulse quickened.
You grabbed a moist towel and wiped away the remaining shaving cream, tinted pink by your blood.
“Let me help,” you said. You placed your hand over mine. I thought you were going to take away the razor, but instead, you guided my hand back to your groin and pressed down on the blade so the edge of it kissed your skin, going deeper this time. The cut bloomed as you slowly drew my hand away and the blade along with it.
“Take it, Henri,” you said and lay back against the pillows.
There was not much self-control left in me at that point. I tossed the blade aside and spread your leg at the knee, opening the cut a little more so that it bled freely. You were so flexible, you practically bent backwards as you arched toward me. I dropped my mouth to the crevice of your inner thigh and suckled at the blood that pooled from your wound. You hissed and squirmed on the bed, then fisted your erection, pleasuring yourself as I fed. Was it a pint or only a few mouthfuls that I siphoned from your sweet, rushing veins? In the throes of bloodlust, I could hardly tell the difference, so strong and all-consuming was my thirst.
Only when you cried out in ecstasy and ejaculated all over your chest did I come to my senses. I pinched the cut until the blood flow ebbed, then licked your surrounding skin clean. Your blood and semen mixed to form an erotic brew. I would have begged for more, but you’d already given me too much.
“Did you plan that?” I asked, receiving my answer in your guilty grin. The forethought you’d put into your little scheme spoke to the degree of your desire to please me.
“Looks like you’re not the only one with the power of seduction,” you said cheekily.
I rolled you onto your side and smacked your butt hard enough to leave a red outline of my hand.
“Ow,” you protested. “Don’t be mean.”
“Stay there. I’m going to get antiseptic. I don’t know what kind of bandage will hold in such a place.”
“Try a butterfly,” you said and lounged with your legs spread and a lazy, self-satisfied grin on your face.
Once I’d cleaned and properly dressed your cut, you asked me to finish the job.
“Absolutely not. A half-shaved cock and balls is what you get for tricking me like that.”
You giggled, practically delirious. I wondered if the giddiness was a side effect of blood loss. I hoped I hadn’t taken too much.
“What’s so funny?” I demanded, only mildly offended.
“You sound so proper when you say that. Like some British bloke, all poppycock and tomfoolery.”
I wrestled you into submission, which didn’t take much effort because you hardly put up a fight.
“Please finish shaving me before you go,” you begged. You wrapped your lithe limbs around my waist; your expression was dew-eyed and pouty. “Otherwise I’m going to have to ask Bruno to do it, and he’ll probably shave something stupid in there as a joke.”
Of course, I would finish it. Any excuse to touch you in such an intimate place, to claim ownership over your body. I would wash you, trim you, feed you, bleed you…
“I’ll finish, but I’m warning you, Orlando, my self-control is not without fail. These tricks could easily end badly.”
