Sur La Table

The lights are dim. Sandalwood candle-scent hangs in the air. Chet Baker plays quietly. Two highball glasses await the contents of a pitcher of Sazerac.

The table is set.

You knock gently and I open. You stand glorious and radiant in a black and white print silk wrap dress, black patent slingback pumps, and pearls. Your eyes light up as they meet mine.

"Hello," I say. And stroke your back gently as you walk in.

The glasses receive their drinks. You settle on the couch, ankles crossed properly. You sip, smile, beguile. We talk. Our eyes dance flirtatiously. Your smile warms me like the drink, and I soak in the joy of being close to you.

At the bottom of my glass, I look into your eyes and ask, "Have you followed my instructions?" Your cheeks flush, eyes glancing downward, and you smile self-consciously. No words are necessary. I smile back and take you hand.

We walk to the table, where rests a silver tray covered in white linen. I step into your body and wrap my arms around you, pressing my lips deeply against yours. Eyes close and now tongues dance as I taste the rye and bitters on your breath.

Entwined with you, I lean my head to your ear and whisper, "Sur la table, s'il vous plait."

I step back and you lean against the table's edge. With both hands I boost you up until you are seated on the highly polished mahogany. Your silk dress slides across its glossy surface as you get comfortable.

"Please lay down," I ask looking into your eyes. And you comply, slowly lowering your body. I step around and lean down to look at your face. Stroking your cheek gently I ask, "Do you trust me?" You nod in the affirmative.

"Good," I say and grab from beneath the table leather straps with padded cuffs to keep you in place. They're attached to the table legs for stability. I'm about to embark on a delicate operation, and you must remain still.

Your eyes flare with curiosity and a bit of panic as I lift the linen from the tray to reveal a stainless steel bowl filled with warm water, a large thick-walled porcelain mug, a bar of hard green soap that smells of eucalyptus, a brush with beige badger-hair bristles, more linen napkins, a tortoise comb, stainless steel scissors, and an ebony handled straight razor. I flick it open with a flourish, observe your widening stare, then grab the linen that had been covering the tray and tie it around your eyes.

Your breathing gets ragged, so I lean into your ear again and whisper, "Just breathe ... just breathe, girl." On your abdomen I place my hand to feel your respiration, which slows and regulates. "That's it ... very good, girl." I loosen the tie on your dress and slide the fabric across your waist.

Your body is revealed to me, warm and delicious. As requested, you wear a lacy black bra and no panties. For the last six week you have not shaved your mound, which is covered in a thicket of hair.

"Lift," I say and you arch your hips upward. From the tray I take two large linen cloths and place them under you. With gentle pressure to your abdomen I direct you to lay back down. With the comb I stroke the unruly strands to stand them up, and with the scissors snip off tufts that fall gently to the cloth underneath your hips. What had been a tangle of wiry hairs melts into a haze of stubble on your soft skin.

Your legs are parted enough to expose the cleft of your pussy, and in the half-light I see you have blossomed and opened, wet and wanting, as I started the process. "You'll like this next part," I say with a wry smile.

I immerse one of the napkins in the warm water and wring it out, repeating the steps until the cloth is saturated with heat. I place the towel on your mound and smooth it in place, folding in the corners to concentrate the residual heat into you. With the initial rush of heat you gasp, then the surprise subsides as the towel cools. But the heat and water are softening the hairs and skin underneath to make the blade glide across your sensitive skin.

To test just how pleasing this feels to you, I slip in a finger and rub the roof of your vagina gently. Your breathing speeds up and hips buck ... too much too soon. I withdraw the finger and gently pet the lips of your pussy which are wet with warm water and hot desire.

I fill the mug with warm water and use it to soften the bristles on the brush. The brush holds a lot of water, so it takes little effort to generate a thick, rich, fragrant lather from the soap. The air fills with eucalyptus, cool and energizing, as the froth overfills the mug and spills onto your thigh.

You moan.

Gently I slip the linen from your mound and slowly massage the soap into your skin with the brush. The bubbles overspread your pussy and slip down between your thighs to your lips and lower. The cloth beneath you soaks up the liquid.

Once there is enough lather, I place the brush and mug on the tray, and reach for the razor.

With a flick of my fingers the shiny blade emerges glinting in the candle-light. I place it open on your abdomen, and the cold raises goosepimples across your midriff. "Don't be afraid, girl. You are in good, steady hands." You sigh.

To ensure that every hair is soaped up, I massage the lather into your hair and skin. I cannot help but rub your clit gently as I do, and delight in your immediate reaction. With my right hand I grab the razor, and my left I smooth out the first area to be shaved.

You twitch with the first stroke, and I press my hand into your abdomen again. "Shhhhhhh ... be still, girl." You settle down and I start drawing off the soap, water, and hair in slippery rows, rinsing the blade in the steel bowl between strokes.

As your bare skin emerges, I remember how we met, our first kiss, the first time you placed yourself in my hands for pleasure. It was the last time I saw you as jittery as you are now ... but of course I'd never wielded a razor over you before. Your total trust honored and excited me as I finished the short, tender strokes on either side of your lips, radiating out to catch the hairs emerging in the hollows of your thighs. Your skin glowed and glistened with soap and your natural wetness.

With a flick I stowed the razor, then moved bowl filled with suds and hair back onto the tray. I took the last linen napkin and dabbed your skin dry, careful not to scratch you. To replenish your tender skin, I dripped some dense sandalwood oil onto my palms and placed my warm hands on your cold, bare pussy.

Through the thin fabric of your bra I could see your nipples standing hard as pearls. Your respiration had gone up and down during the shave, and as I pressed into you with my oiled hands, your breathing spiked again. I could feel the pent up orgasm coiled in you, and after a few strokes to distribute the oil, I stopped rubbing and waited for you to calm down.

I stood back to admire your beauty, and take a little pride in my handiwork. Not a trace of hair remained, and your pussy had blossomed fully, lips open and inviting, welcoming and wet.

I'm not sure what you thought would happen next, but you tried to sit up, perhaps to have me remove the blindfold and see what I'd done. But with your hands and legs bound to the table, you had little room to move. Your pussy was positioned at the very head of the table, where I sit to eat.

From the side of the room, I pulled up a chair, took off my suit jacket, undid my cufflinks and rolled up my sleeves. "This first course looks delicious," I chuckled, and lowed my lips to yours...