#90 - Relax

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.”