The rising Christmas Eve sun glints off the razor blade as I ease it across my stubbled cheek, the bathroom mirror confirming I need more sleep. The Jones’ do like to talk and the treacherous conditions from the fresh snowfall meant they'd stayed over at the cottage. Wine had flowed.
I rinse foam off the blade and as I run it up from my chin, the door flings open, startling me. The blade nicks.
“Oww!”
With one hand stemming the blood, I turn, embarrassingly in only Starry Night boxers.
Tilly Jones. Blonde. Beautiful. Red Naughty or Nice? nightshirt barely covering her lithe frame. Hand over her mouth in shock. “Oh, so sorry. Let me help.”
She races alongside me and fusses over my face, fetching antiseptic cream and a plaster from the cabinet to patch me while I try to ignore her girly scent and brush of her soft thighs against my leg hair.
“There,” she beams, stroking my injury. “All better. But.” Her fingertips play over the remaining stubble. “You can’t leave it like this. What will they all think tonight?”
She's right. I flick attention between myself and her freckled cheeks via the mirror, the innocence of those deep blues masking a wildness that shamefully ratchets my heart rate. “It's okay, thanks. I'll finish off.”
Her caress scuffs my jaw. “Please. It's my fault. Allow me.”
I stare at her. “No, it’s fine. I can… wait, how do… you’re only sixteen.”
Her expression twinkles, radiance incarnate. “I know how to handle a razor.”
I swallow. “I don't want to know.”
She flirtingly flutters her eyelashes. “Sure about that? I could, y’know, prove I’m up to it.” The minx steps away, drops her gaze and I follow it to where her fingertips skim the porcelain softness below the hemline that she cinches up a few millimetres.
“Matilda…”
My Sunday-name warning only seems to encourage her. The fabric rises as she crawls her fingers north and I know I should look away from the gradually diminishing shadow where her thighs join but I'm mesmerised as the base of her slit creeps into view. My breath hitches, pulse thundering at the hairless eighth wonder of the world. “My goodness.”
She lets go. “Satisfied?” Giggles when her eyes rake to my bulging boxers. “Silly question.”
I should put a stop to it but I'm powerless in her presence.
Reaching past me, she drains the bloody water and replaces it with fresh, rinsing the blade. Pumps a dot of shaving foam into her left palm and massages it into my half-shaven face, avoiding the plaster. Our eyes meet in the mirror.
With a shake of the razor, she guides it to my cheek and strokes, leaving another clean stripe. Rinse. Repeat.
Her proximity is tantalising, tiny breasts nudging my bicep, warmth radiating from the contact. She oozes vitality and beauty, long blonde hair dusting my forearm and making me shiver, excitement transferring to my treacherous cock that strains against the ineffective cotton.
Noticing, she smiles and guides me towards the toilet seat, planting herself on my lap, nightie riding up. The temperature of her bare mons sears my thigh until I realise it’s not just heat. Our gazes converge on the droplets that dapple my leg hairs and she bites her lip. “Oopsie. Guess I should confess.”
“Tilly. Don't.”
She pauses, puts the razor down on the basin. “Why not?” Her fingers trail up my pecs to rest under my nose and I stiffen further as the scent of her arousal drifts. She leans in and whispers, “Even good girls have needs.”
Picking up the razor again, she glides it down my throat as I lift my chin for her. I swallow, mouth dry, fingertips brushing her thighs.
Her voice quavers. “Touch me.”
I daren't, frozen like the winter wonderscape beyond the window until she skates fingertips down my bare chest and clasps my hand, cupping it to her wet sex.
Her eyes twinkle like the tree lights one floor below. The gasp she emits when my finger nudges her slit almost makes me spill my load. Silky wetness clings to my digit as I rake it up through her teenage cleft.
The blade strokes slow, her concentration split as my boldness builds, eyes locking when I crook my finger in her tight folds. Her jaw drops at my thumb seeking her clit, rolling over it.
She plops the razor behind her into the sink, breath stuttering, leaning back as I work digits beneath the hem of her nightie. Juices drip into my palm and I wiggle, working deeper, applying firmer strokes as she hisses, “Yess. God. Make me cum.” She tips her head back and groans, “More. Finish what I started. Pleeaasse.”
I pick up speed, thrumming her wet little button, loving how she fails to keep a lid on her emerging orgasm. Moans escape. The door’s not locked. Paranoid of discovery, I smother her mouth to catch her whimpers until she quakes in my grip, pussy rhythmically clenching around my invading fingers.
When her mewls recede, I pat her bald mound. Guilt and exhilaration intertwine as she recomposes herself and tenderly finishes shaving me, the water cooling my flushed cheeks.
She dabs my face with a towel and I catch her wrist, murmuring, “I know which list you're on.”
Her beam lights up. “Nice, obvs.”
I shake my head. “I ought to put you over my knee.”
Tilly grins, rises and spins away, lifting the back of her nightie and wiggling her flawless bare rump. She chews her lip. “Maybe tonight when everyone’s asleep you could teach me a lesson? And in return you can open a… special gift.” She half-turns, leans down and whispers, “Any way you like.”
I swat her bum. “Be gone. And thank you.” I indicate my face.
She flashes a radiant smile and trails a fingertip over my hard-on. “Merry Christmas, Father. I'll be in the front row at mass tonight, without my knickers.”
