He floated on a sea of
sensation, where none of it was discomfort.
It was gentle and soothing. Like
Limyé’s best trauma soothing, happiness building, astonishingly powerful
remedies.
Rutaçyen set the razor
down with a click. “There we are,” she
said softly, gently stroking the last of the foam and hair stubble off his
cheeks, smoothing a double handful of lotion across his cheeks and chin and
neck. “I’m all done with the facial
hair.” He heard her steps as she left
and he knew it must be Pelahir with his hands buried in his hair, easing his
scalp, rubbing in long, slow circles.
When… when had another pair of hands begun work, massaging his
feet? Oh, Gods, massaging his feet. He
cracked open his eyes just a a bit and then closed them again, practically
melting in the chair as Yolend’s astonishingly strong hands chased tension and
soreness out of his soles… and his toes.
He nearly groaned.
He found himself
remembering the dark and hideous dungeon when, in his world, he had Pelahir at
his mercy, a man who hated him with all his soul, who he’d broken and made his
slave. He did groan, his guts suddenly a
jumble of remembered lust and pain and desire and the darkling ecstasy of
perfect control of another human being.
He clenched his teeth, hardening under the towel thrown over his mid section, tensing
all over. “Shh. Now…” Pelahir’s voice
and Yolend’s together as they dug into suddenly painful spots on his head and
feet. He struggled to fight all four
hands on his body, confused and trying to tense, partially still relaxed and
couldn’t fight them. Relaxation flowed
up from his feet and down from his head, his neck and jaw loosening, his knees
relaxing, hips… oh. He could feel every
strand of the soft towel across his middle, the bathrobe fallen away, unbelted…
One of Pelahir’s hands
cupped the back of his head and gently pulled.
“..mmm not gon’ get taller,” Ahrimaz mumbled, smiling slightly, trying
desperately to distract from how hard his penis had gotten and how hot under
the terry cloth.
“I know,” Pel said and
his hands began rubbing his ears. Ears?
Oh… then down his neck, still sore from the sudden tension, soothing… Yolend
had… when had she lathered up more soap?
Both her hands were full of lather, working up from his ankles toward
his knees.
Both of them had their
hands full of lather, the citrus-scented soap, thick and creamy and their hands
were hot and moving lancorously in circles on his skin. His hands clenched on the arms of the chair
as he felt himself beginning to thrust up into the towel and he quivered all
over as he suppressed all the sexual feelings he could.
One hand… Pelahir’s
hand… left off rubbing foam over his skin and Ahrimaz’s eyes snapped open just
in time to see him lift the razor up in front of his face. “Relax, you,” Pel said softly and slowly
lowered the gleaming blade to his chest.
Ahrimaz froze, terrified, quivering with need and yes, he wanted to see
that thin line of blood on his chest.
But the Cylak didn’t
cut him, just shaved a single swipe, a scant palm width, bare pink skin cleaned
of foam and lotion and hair, just above the nubbly skin around a nipple. Then
he lifted it clear, wiped it clean, held it over Ahrimaz where he could see it
clearly.
Ahrimaz began to curse
him, “You…” and froze again, silenced, mouth open, with the flat of the razor
pressed lightly across his lips. He could feel the dangerously beautiful edge as his lips
quivered and at that moment Yolend’s hands finally worked their slow and
careful circles past his knees, and stopped, warm on his inner thighs. He couldn’t swallow, staring up into Pelahir’s
cool and interested eyes.
“You’ll relax,” the
Cylak said softly. He lifted the razor, that deadly edge, patted a newly smoothed
cheek with the blade. “And let us do as
we will.”
