Page 42 of Trained at the Office
“I’m taking this away from you, Anne,” he said, his voice low and unhurried, pitched for me and for the microphones simultaneously. “This little bit of modesty you’ve been hiding behind. Every time you looked down in the shower and saw this hair, some part of you felt like a woman. Like a grown woman with the right to decide who sees what’s between her legs and who doesn’t.” He set the scissors aside and reached for the shaving cream. The can hissed as he dispensed a cloud of white foam into his palm. “That right belongs to me now.”
His hand spread the warm foam across my trimmed mound, and the sensation—his broad palm, slick and warm, gliding over the most sensitive skin on my body—made me whimper. My hips tried to tilt forward, seeking more pressure, and he pressed me back against the towel with his free hand on my lower belly.
“Stay still,” he commanded. “A girl who squirms while her suitor is shaving her cunt is going to get cut, and I don’t want to cut you. I want to make you smooth.”
He picked up the razor. I watched the blade catch the light—a small, bright flash that seemed to carry the weight of everything that was about to change—and then he brought it to my skin.
The first stroke of the razor moved through the remaining stubble with a whisper that I felt more than heard, and in its wake I sensed the air, immediate and undeniable. Cool studio air touching skin that felt like it had never been touched by air before. Skin that had been covered since puberty, protected, hidden, and was now being systematically revealed by a man’s steady hand.
“Oh, that’s gorgeous,” Melissa breathed from behind the monitors. “The way the skin is appearing—Darlene, are you getting the close-up of her cunt?”
“I’m getting everything,” Darlene said, as she always did. Then she added, in an uncharacteristically admiring tone, “It’s a very pretty cunt, isn’t it?” and I had to choke down a sob as heat flared through my whole body at the casual way they discussed my body.
Master Paul worked with meticulous care. He rinsed the razor in the basin of warm water after each stroke, and in my mind’s eye I could see the fine blonde hair swirling in the water, separating from the blade and drifting. Each pass of the razor, I knew, revealed more of me—the pale, delicate skin of my mound emerging from beneath the foam like something being uncovered, excavated, brought to light.
“Look at this sweet cunt,” Master Paul said, and the word in his mouth, spoken while he shaved me with the tenderness and expertise of a man handling something precious, made my vision blur with fresh tears. “Nice and tight. Look how pretty my girl is under here.”
CHAPTER 24
Anne
Master Paul’s thumb followed the path the razor had just cleared, stroking across the newly bare skin with a slow, testing pressure that made my entire body shudder. The pad of his thumb moved over my mound in a single, proprietary sweep—feeling the smoothness, checking his work, and simultaneously claiming the territory he’d just uncovered.
The sensation was unlike anything I’d ever experienced. Without the hair, every nerve ending on that skin seemed to have been switched on for the first time, and the warmth of his thumb against the bare, freshly shaved flesh sent a current of feeling so intense through my hips that they lifted off the towel despite every effort to hold still.
“Smooth,” he said quietly. His thumb traced the outer edge of my left pussy lip, following the crease where the shaved skin met the delicate inner flesh, and I whimpered. “Perfectly smooth. That’s how a girl’s cunt should feel when it belongs to her suitor.”
He rinsed the razor one final time and set it in the basin. He wiped the remaining traces of foam from my skin with a warm, damp cloth, and the gentleness of the motion—the careful, almost tender way he cleaned me—made my eyes sting with a confusion of gratitude and shame and need so tangled I couldn’t have separated the strands if my life depended on it.
Then he stood. He looked down at me—spread open on the white towel, bare between my thighs for the first time in my adult life, my welted bottom throbbing against the tile floor beneath the towel, my face streaked with tears and flushed the color of the lingerie draped over the counter.
His eyes moved from my newly shaved pussy to the red lace.
“Melissa. Darlene.” His voice carried across the set with the unhurried authority of a man who expected the world to arrange itself around his decisions. “Scene change. I’m going to fuck her in the red lingerie, on the bedroom set.”
The words seemed to explode inside my chest. My hands, which had been lying at my sides on the towel, flew to my stomach and pressed there, as if I could hold down the violent lurch of my insides. My freshly bared pussy clenched—I felt it with a vividness that the shaving had made almost unbearable, every micro-contraction registering against bare, hypersensitive skin with nothing to muffle it.
“Oh, hell, yes,” Melissa said from somewhere beyond the lights. Her voice carried the particular fervor of a woman whose creative instincts had just been handed a gift. “Yes, absolutely. Darlene, can you move to the bedroom set in five? We need the bed.”
“I can move in three,” Darlene said. I heard the rapid shuffle of equipment cases and the click of light stands being collapsed. “Get the C-camera on the dolly. I want full coverage.”
Master Paul crouched beside me. His hand found my chin and tilted my face toward his, and the look he gave me—dark, focused, suffused with a hunger that he wasn’t bothering to conceal—made my breath stop in my throat.
“You’re going to put on the lingerie,” he said. “Right here in the bathroom. I’ll be back for you in a few minutes.”
He stood and walked off the bathroom set without looking behind him. I heard his footsteps recede across the studio floor. He spoke to Darlene in a low, efficient murmur about camera angles and lighting adjustments, then there was silence on the white tile around me. I was alone with the lingerie, my hammering heart, and the slick, bare, aching center of myself.
I sat up. The movement made my welted bottom press against the floor through the towel and I hissed, my eyes squeezing shut against the fresh wave of stinging heat. My hands shook as I reached for the red lace on the counter.
I started with the garter belt. The crimson satin was cool against my fingers, the fabric so fine it seemed like it might dissolve at my touch. I wrapped it around my waist and fastened the tiny hooks at the back, my fingers fumbling, missing twice before the clasps caught. The belt sat snug against my hips, the four dangling straps hanging down my bare thighs like thin red lines drawn on my skin.
The bra came next. I slid my arms through the straps and reached behind to fasten it, and when I looked down at myself the breath left my body. The sheer crimson lace lay against mybreasts like a whisper, and through the intricate pattern my nipples were visible—pink and hard and straining against the delicate web of thread, the scalloped edges cutting across them exactly as I’d feared, framing rather than covering, presenting them as if the bra’s entire purpose was to saylook here.
Then, the panties. The narrow triangle of red lace. I stepped into them and drew them up my legs, and when the fabric settled against my freshly shaved pussy, the sensation made a sound escape me—a soft, involuntary moan that I couldn’t have suppressed if someone had offered me a million dollars. The lace sat directly against bare skin. No hair between my flesh and the delicate thread. Every fiber of the pattern pressed against nerve endings that had been hidden for years and were now screaming with new awareness, and the feeling was so acute, so intimate, that my knees nearly buckled.
Finally I pulled on the matching nylons, shivering as I rolled them up my calves, then over my knees and up my thighs. Again, I felt contained, but in a very different way from the containment of the training underwear. Trying not to think about what would soon happen, in the bedroom, I fastened the suspenders to the tops of the stockings.
I stood on the white tile of the bathroom set in the red lingerie and looked at myself in the large mirror above the sink.
