She grinds on my face, cumming all over my face. As she releases my head, I sit back and she says, “Your turn, but on the bed. You go lay down on a ...owel, I’ll be right out.” She fills the ice bucket with warm water and wets a rag, bringing it into the bedroom. She goes back and comes out with shaving cream and a new razor. She spreads my legs apart and says, “Oh, look, just a little bit of stubble on your pussy. You shaved before you came down here, didn’t you?” I say, “Yeah, the day before I. She probably saw a photo, a post, some sort of trigger. Or she could have just been thinking about high school, about him, about all the different ways he touched her, about all the pain he’s caused her, about all the pain that is still here, years later. About the pain she fears may never go away. She’s shaking in my arms and I’m all that’s holding her steady. Here, held so tight, she is able to let go. She is able to not be as strong as she always is. She is able to cry without having to. More

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