Not arousal-sounds. Not protest-sounds. Something between the two that had no adequate category, the sounds of a body receiving focused attention it had no prior experience of receiving and not knowing what register to process it in.
He finished.
Rinsed the blade.
Looked at his work.
She was — clean. The skin of her pussy smooth and bare and slightly pink from the blade's attention, the full puffy outline of her labia visible now without the cover of the hair, the cleft between them barely parted, the whole of it exposed and new-looking against the surrounding pale skin.
He set the razor down on the tub edge.
She heard it set down.
Her hands moved slightly from her face — just enough to see through the gap of her fingers.
He picked the razor back up and held it out toward her.
She blinked.
