Waiting for Dawn

Waiting for Dawn

Waiting for Dawn – BuzzBaby

Her foot dangled over the edge of the bed, the sheet barely covering her heel. There was a small callous on the ball just below her big toe from too many days without shoes. Nightly massages with lotion and twice-monthly pedicures would make it disappear for a short time, but it always came back. He looked at it intently, one of many small imperfections that combined to make her perfect in his eyes.

In the still darkness of early morning he watched her sleep, the sheet that lay lightly across her rising and falling with the deep slow breaths of slumber. The creamy tone and smooth texture of the Egyptian cotton looked rough in comparison to her skin. Sliding it back to appreciate the full length of her nude form, he knew she would not wake, as the sheet was for the sake of her modesty, not warmth.

Her legs were full and firm, not the willowy twigs that held his attention in his youth. She hated shaving them and together they made it a shared ritual. A warm shower for two, followed by lathering her limbs and smoothing away all traces of hair with long smooth strokes of the blade. He knew every tanned inch of them. There was a crescent-shaped scar just below her left knee from falling off her bike at age eight. He could see two faint blue veins near the back of her right calf, but he never told her that they were getting darker as she aged. To him it didn’t matter. Even as she slept, he could not resist grazing his lips across the birthmark high on her left hip.

She always slept on her right side, with her left leg slightly bent and her left arm hugging the feather pillow. Without the sheet covering her, he could see that spot where her butt curved in to meet her legs. Tucked just out of sight, he knew that nestled between her legs was her magic place. Now smooth and bare from their ritual shaves, he remembered that first night that she now lovingly called the night she lost her virginity to his razor.

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After a long dinner with wine and much conversation, the topic turned to fantasy fulfillment. It took two bottles of a good Merlot to get her to ask him to shave her pussy. It took the third bottle to get her to go through with it once he agreed. The scissors he used to trim his moustache snipped away her deep brown carpet of curls. His warm breath blew away the stray clippings. Pale green gel turned to foam, lathering her mons and lips in preparation for the slow shaving that had filled her fantasies for years. A warm wet washcloth wiped away the last of the foam to allow clear passage for his tongue and lips as they caressed her throbbing clit.

Looking at her now, in the budding glow of the impending dawn, he became erect with the memories of that first night. Although it was hidden to him now, he knew morning would make that door open for him again.

The curve of her back was familiar to his touch. He had massaged it countless times, a calloused hand on the skin of an unwilling princess, kneading away her stress and rubbing in his affection. When they first met, he had to move a veil of hair to find her back but, like much of her emotional armor, the veil had fallen. She confessed that she dreamed of being shorn. Visions of her hair being cut filled her intimate moments alone. She cut her own hair from time to time in moments of sexual frustration and, sometimes, through self-hatred – a self-imposed punishment cut of sorts.

He didn’t believe it was punishment that she needed. It was love and caring. It was a gentle touch to bring out her sensuality where lust currently resided as her sexual protector. He would replace the lust with love and the veil with a bared spirit, open to the sun.

The first snip of the scissors started a transformation that was years in the making. Looking now at her bare back, he remembered the silky brown lock that hit just below the strap of her bra. He remembered how his hands trembled and his heart raced as he lifted it to be shorn.

The scissors closed around that lock a mere inch from her hairline at the base of her neck. With the severed lock still in his hand he bent down and kissed the bare spot. Her trembling stopped in that moment and she shook back the locks that remained, as if offering them for harvest. Obliging her unspoken request, he slowly snipped away lock after lock, roughing out a bob that hit just below her chin.

He held out his hand to her as she stood up from the stool and he directed her to the bathroom mirror, standing behind her and lowering his hand that had shielded her eyes from her own reflection. He watched her reaction in the mirror. First the slow side-to-side turn of her head, then her polished fingertips grazing the bluntly cut ends and finally, a little smile that to him said, cut off more.

He turned her away from the mirror and they shared a long soulful kiss. She slid her butt onto the vanity and wrapped her legs around his waist. He was only too ready to be taken in by her desire. Moving in and out of her, he watched the reflection of her new bob brushing her neck. He would bare her nape next.

That first cropping changed her. The ferocity in her attitude that showed from time to time was more subtle and saved for her professional life. She no longer held him at an emotional arm’s length. It was as if the hair had been a wall around her heart that the shearing removed. She was his to love and she was free to love him in return.

A month or so later, he took the bob off even with the middle of her ear and slightly elevated the line in back. He buzzed her nape with a #2 guard. Two days later she came home with a bare patch on the nape area behind her left ear. Tattooed there was a small red heart surrounding a tiny gold crown. “KC” was inked in the crown – her nickname for him.

The short bob was followed by an ultra-short pixie that she loved as much as the fact that he had given it to her. It covered the crown tattoo, but he knew he could uncover it whenever he wished with a quick stroke of the clippers. The world didn’t need to see a tattoo to know he was in her heart. They could see it in her eyes.

The morning sun was beginning to wash the room with a rosy glow as he looked down at her. She was beginning to stir, turning onto her back and slowly stretching like a cat. Smiling a sleepy smile, she raised her arms to him and he sank into them, caressing her silky brown pelt. He contemplated her face for a moment and kissed her. Then he wondered if, like her body, her scalp would be more smooth than the fine bed linens. By dusk he might know.

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