‘Now, let’s see what we can do about that, shall we?’
The hand between your legs begins to move in small, careful circles, the pad of his index finger studious and maddening in how it never quite lands on your throbbing clitoris. Around it, towards it, and each stroke is as deft and light as a breath. The fingertip grazes the tender, aching flesh and you take in deep breaths, looking up at the black ceiling, letting the light blind you with it. The sweet fury of his touch, at Sir’s behest starts to send currents of delicious, incendiary potential down your thighs, nearly fibrillating with the intensity of it. The detached, distracted motion develops before he removes his fingers from between your legs and you find yourself sopping wet. He picks up the sponge again and rinses you off, beneath a deluge of warm, scented water.
‘Would you like me to shave her?’ the guard asks.
He looks at you, the guard, and gives a gentle, almost reassuring smile.
‘Yes, I think that’s a fine idea.’
He walks away from you, his hand grazing along the inside of your thigh a moment too long before he departs. He offers a look of comfort, which is comforting in and of itself, yet has an air of rebellion and discontent to it, here in this place.
He returns with a straight razor, a bowl and a badger hair brush. He places the brush in the bowl and whisks it with a careful turn of his wrist. When he lifts it, thick clots of creamy suds drip lazily off the brush and he applies the lather in slow, careful circles to your groin. The lather is warm, almost luxurious and he ensures that you experience a heavy, damp layer of the shaving cream against your skin. He replaces the brush in the bowl and opens the razor, its edge gleaming in the light. You bite your lip, concerned of the edge against your delicate, throbbing flesh. He leans over and touches your forearm.
‘You can relax. I’ll take care of you.’
The assurance in his words, calm enough to almost be off-hand lowers your heart rate and he uses his left hand to pull the skin taut and lowers the razor to your groin. His strokes are sure and you register the edge of the blade in the abstract. He does not look from his work. He looks into your eyes only when he rinses the flecks of hair and foam from the blade or applies another layer of foam. He works in a breathy silence, and when he brings a soft sponge and wipes everything away, the delicate unshaven skin tingles where it makes contact with the air. You want to crane your head to look but the sensation tells you everything you need to know.
From the darkness, Sir’s voice rings out.
‘Impeccable work, as always.’
The guard gives a nod and wheels the table away. He leaves you a long, lingering look and then disappears into the darkness.
‘You really are quite exquisite between your legs. I almost want to come over and spank it.’
You take in a sharp breath and hear the clop of heels as he walks around.
‘But I can wait for that.’
He claps his hands together.
‘Excellent, I think we can proceed to the next stage now. I will have someone take you along and we will meet again.’
He falls silent and another pair of guards come in and wheel you away. Down a corridor, then their gloved hands loosening your restraints. No one speaks and you are helped up with the care shown an invalid and handed a white gown made from cotton, longer than the hospital johnny you wore initially. On the left breast is sewn a badge with a single number 8.
You are escorted into a larger chamber, where the women and men you were processed with, stand in loose, casual groups. Your heart is pounding in your chest and your knees are weak with adrenaline and excitement. Then you walk in.