By Kendra Holliday | April 26, 2015
It’s Sunday afternoon.
Matthew gets out of the shower, towels off, then hands me the shave cream to apply to his rough cheeks.
He takes a drink of whiskey from his crystal tumbler, then hands me the glass. I take a respectful sip, then hand it back.
With a sense of wonder, I slather the rich, white cream on his face, trying to cover every square inch of manly stubble.
I sit on the floor in the bathroom doorway and watch in awe as he shaves with a razor. When I was a little girl, I watched my daddy shave, and I feel the same abject devotion and fascination now.
He’s so big, strong, and manly. With the razor, he carves decency and civilization into his face, removing any traces of caveman and brute.
Then, with a flick of the razor in my direction, he indicates that I need to stand up and service him. I hop up and he hands me the blade and offers me one of his cheeks so I can act as quality control.
Tentatively and reverently, I drag the razor shyly down his cheek.
“Harder,” he commands, staring into space.
I obey, and my next swipe is more assured.
He offers me the other cheek.
Then he looks up.
I hold my breath as I run the razor down his bulging Adam’s apple. I might as well be sticking my finger up his ass. I treat him with utmost care and respect.
He drains his whiskey and hands me the glass with a nod, penetrating me with his steely blue eyes. “I need more.”
I scurry off to refill it for him as he rinses his face off with hot water. I exchange the amber firewater for a towel.
I take it and gingerly pat his handsome face dry, under his chin, around his nose, my lips parted with concentration. I want to serve him well.
Then he takes his razor and mimics the shaving ritual on my already ridiculously smooth cheeks and neck. He takes his big hand and tilts my face up and over.
“Be still,” he breathes, “I don’t want your blood on me. Yet.” I freeze. He runs the razor down my neck, down the most sensitive hinge of my throat.
Then he takes his aftershave cologne and pats it on himself, then anoints me with it, my face, my neck, my wrists….I am marked with his scent.
He strides into the bedroom, and I follow him.
He puts on a t-shirt and jeans. Aloof, he nods towards his belt on the bed. The same belt he used on me earlier.
I reach for it and ask him in a small voice which way it goes. He indicates to his left, and I snake it in between his belt loops. I work my way around his wide torso, and cinch it at his fly.
“I feel like I’m chaining down the beast,” I murmur.
Then he pulls a button down shirt off the hanger in the closet and hands it to me. He turns away from me and relaxes his arms so I can dress him.
I slip his shirt up his arms and around him, and my breath is lost in the whisper of cotton….
I feel like I am suiting the King up for battle.
Once he is dressed, my services are no longer needed, so he walks me to the door.
In a daze, I go to my car, get in, turn the key, and drive away.
He watches me intently from the doorway the entire time.