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It seemed like I went from little boy bald to a full blown patch of kinky hair that I thought looked gross. While in the basement shower room one day I noticed my mother’s blade razor on a little shelf. I knew she shaved her legs with it because she would say, “better shave my legs before I look like a gorilla.”The warm water streamed over me and without thinking about the consequences I grabbed it and soaped up that hairy patch. I had never used a razor but knew the blades were very sharp so carefully pulled it across the course hair above my cock. The first pass across the patch skimmed the hair off leaving a bald strip of pink skin. I looked at the razor and it was plugged up with the hair so I picked it out and continued.As I continued my cock rose to the occasion and started throbbing as I became bald again. I ran my hand over the bare skin and it felt so soft and silky with the soap and water. And I ran my hand down and slicked my cock with the soap. I felt something like an. Even the grit under the soles of her feet. Freeman waited. Doing his duty without a word. Despite his annoying boy scout manners and sense of responsibility, she was glad he was still there. “Somebody waiting for you at home?” “Ma’am, you really ought to just get in the car and go home. The longer you stay out here in the open the more you risk someone coming along and recognizing you.” Considering the hour and neighborhood, the possibility seemed monumentally remote. Right now it was all about winding down, and the last place she wanted to go was home. She wasn’t even sure where that was anymore. She touched her bare thighs, lightly raking her fingers upward, lifting the short hem of her aqua party dress above her hips. One hand moved over the shape of her pussy in those still fresh panties. The dull ache of the pounding she’d had felt sublime. Better than the pounding itself, but the pounding was the only way she knew to get there. It reminded her she was alive. It was better.
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Buff? Tan? Tawny? It was the color of a cardboard box, of freshly sawn cherry wood or toast done on the number three setting, of pancakes glazed with a touch of syrup. It was the delicious color of cream custard and tea with milk. It was the color of the cashmere throw that even now wound between the two of them. He had never seen her in pink before and was still unsure if it suited her until he saw her nails. They were fanned out over Mei’s forearm as if on display, four soft pink shells at the ends of slender fingers. The tips, he noticed, were of a lighter shade, almost white and the enamel was flawless, like the paint job on a sports car. ‘What does pink mean?’ he found himself wondering as he measured the beauty of those digits. ‘Pink. It’s a young girl’s favorite color. It’s fun in a frivolous, girl kinda way, but why? What does a girl say when she’s in pink?’ His mind drifted as he shifted his eyes to nibble on the image of exposed breast flesh shrouded by her pretty pink.

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