The Ritual

We have known each other so long that now, the preparation is part of the gift both to you and to me.

I know I need to be perfect when you arrive, to have everything in its place and just as you would like it. I place everything on the table - clothespins, twine, duct tape, scissors, lighter, candles, and the various and sundry of items you have listed for me. I check my list, crossing off each item as I place it down.

When they are all down, I begin re-arranging, trying to make sure that it pleases my eyes and your intrigue. When I am settled, I can take my time preparing myself without anxiety.

I step into the shower, making sure that I have everything I will need at my disposal. The soap stands next to the shampoo next to the conditioner next to a new razor, next to a small parade of items that both allow me to take my time, and to feel that every moment has meaning.

As the water strokes my body from tip to toes, everything - my shame, my daily concerns, my identity as anything other than object or toy - washes down the drain with the coat of exhaustion that everyone in New York City seems to be cloaked in. I feel like a monk ready to put on red robes.

I begin with my cunt. I have not seen you in a small eon and I have grown a sweet little patch of hair where you like smooth, bare skin. I run my fingers through it once more, stroking the soft thatch, both smiling at its presence and mourning its loss. But it is a sacrifice and I will give it to you. I have come to so associate bare pussies with rampant fucking that this coverlet feels youthful and sweet and innocent in a way I have not been in years.

 I begin by taking a pair of narrow, long scissors and trim the hair down, tiny trim by tiny trim. My fingers are already becoming pruned as I take time in the process, watching as a palpable symbol of my virtue slip into the drain. It is the first feeling of cold, slicing metal to skin, and I am steadied as I drag it up and snip over and over until I see the lips of my cunt, prepared, being readied to be exposed fully.

But first. I prop my leg up on the ledge of the bathtub, pointing my toes, flexing, letting my fingers run over of the wet, glistening indent of my calf muscle and then thigh. I lather it slowly, working the muscles, massaging them, relaxing them as I tense them over and over. The razor slides easily over every inch. I take the longest time on my knee, stroking the skin after each line of perfect white flesh is created and expanded. I run fingers and palms and hands over the skin, making sure I have not missed a single inch or hair and then begin the process all over again on the other leg.

I wash my hair, taking my time to lather. The shampoo bubbles and coats and thickens so fast it feels like it's coming to life. There is nothing about this that is anything less than lush. It blooms in my hair, creating a halo that dissolves in its own wake. I coat my hair (thick hair with a mind of its own, but still well-behaved, just like I hope to be) in conditioner, and it's lavish and robust. My hair is hooded in sweet oils and smells and I am ready to take the last step before I leave the shower.

Lathering the lips of one's pussy is always a curious experience. It is anxious, it is exciting, it is cold and warm, and tactile and intricate. Dragging the cold blade of a razor is all of those, purified, together. The blade runs in different directions, leaving smooth, uncloaked skin in behind.  Each stroke is exact. Each stroke could bring a nick and blood, and sully the clear perfection of a steady hand. But as the white lather leaves, and my cunt is exposed, I begin to breath a little steadier, until I am satisfied that you will be satisfied.

I rinse off, feeling one more step towards prepared. black liquid liner over each lid, closing my eyes and simply waiting before they flutter open. I sweep on light, soft golds and peaches onto my lids, taking care to make sure no dust falls onto my cheeks. I stroke mascara over each lash, pulling them longer with every swipe, lengthening and thickening until I bat them and they swim through the air. I flutter them, dusting off below my eyes, making sure each line is perfect, each angle is right, each curve is delectable.

In the final step, I know I could not be more prepared for your knock at the door. I slip on each high heel, taking time to squeeze and flex my toes until I am ready to wear them for hours. Each ankle and wrist is cuffed and buckled in and my ankles are clipped. I stand, looking back and forth at the clock. I breathe once, long and deep. The air chills my throat and lungs. My fingers twitch with anticipation. My cunt throbs with it. I am ready, knowing only that what is coming will be a storm and I will be left, in a few hours, used and taken and exposed and open and aching and fucked and messy and covered and lost in a swirl of endorphins.

And then you knock.