Challenge 68

Jordan Bell

Challenge 68

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Shaving Games

Jordan Bell

Lights from the vanity glittered along the razor’s four inches of polished steel as I inspected it. I wiped the steam off of the large plate glass mirror in front of me and brushed shaving cream onto my face, forming a thick lather.

Holding the blade at a twenty degree angle, the razor made a distinct sound as it sheered away stubble, gliding along my skin. I rinsed and repeated the process. My focus was entirely on the edge of the razor and its path along my face as I continued the shave with careful precision.

An influx of cool air into the steamy warmth of the bathroom sent a chill across my bare backside. The bathroom door had been opened behind me.

“Forget something?” I asked.

The deadly edge of the razor worked downward in another set of careful strokes.

I thought of my lover’s lace panties hanging on the brass lamp next to the bed and said, “I was hoping to keep those as reminder of last night.”

There came an unfamiliar scoff. I raised my eyes from shaving and looked into the mirror’s reflection. Standing behind me was a woman with steel-gray eyes and long black hair.

“Who the–” I began, and started to turn.

The woman slammed into me from behind, halting my turn. Her arm flashed around and snatched the razor from my hand and drew it close to my throat.

“Careful,” she whispered into my ear in a husky, seductive voice. “I’d hate to have to cut you and ruin a perfectly delicious evening.”

Our eyes met in the mirror.

“Who are you,” I asked, my tone calm.

“Let’s play a game Phil,” she said.

“First tell me–”

The blade bit into my neck just below my jaw.

“The rules? Ro-sham-bo, Phil.” She mocked disappointment, “I thought everyone knew how to play that.”

“Best out of three?” I asked.

She eased up with the razor and grinned. In the reflection, her free hand came up and made a fist next to my left ear. I brought my fist up next to hers.

“On three, “she said.

I nodded and we pumped our fists, one, two, and… I kept a fist while she had made her hand into a flat plane. She cooed delight.

We pumped fists again. I made another rock. She made scissors.

“Aw,” she purred. “You tied me.”

I had no intention of finishing the game and planted my right foot in preparation of the final round. We pumped fists for the last time.

My hand was paper, hers were scissors yet again. She laughed wickedly.

Her victory was short lived. My free hand snatched the wrist holding the razor, as my other reached back, grabbing her by the hair. I threw my weight forward, bringing her over and across my hip, slamming her onto the countertop.

She looked up at me eyes wide, her chest heaving beneath her low cut silk blouse.

“Now, who the hell are you,” I demanded.

Laughter came from the out in the suite.

“Chill out Phil. She’s with me, “my lover said. “Don’t spoil the fun.”

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