Taking on the effort to keep you bare and smooth, so there's always skin to skin contact with your lover.

The routine is so familiar. You lie relaxed, legs spread wide to permit him the obstructed room he needs. 

He massages you to a fine lather, his touch almost undetectable, the soap seeming to spread itself, and you begin to lose yourself to the sensation, it's still almost meditative.

Then you feel the first touch of the cold razor. It strokes across your taught skin with the merest resistance giving way to frictionless slide with each sweep.

As it works you begin to feel the usual warmth rising. The pleasure of the contact, intimate but still passionless as he pays unwavering attention to his task, playing against the risk, however slight, of an accidental nick.

He's slowing now, as he reaches more sensitive folds, moving for the optimum effect, and you're starting to react, feeling warmer now, tingling, beginning to swell and respond to his touch.

As he works you know your rising arousal must be obvious to him. As he applies such close scrutiny he must surely see that not all of the moisture has come from the basin.

You can feel it too, of course, with the growing yearning for a fleeting touch, perhaps just in passing of your clitoris, swollen now and electric-sensitised.

The touch comes. You jump and feel a sudden extra wetness.

He must be close to finishing now, he's rinsed the remaining soap away. You are certain, from your daily experience, that he is by now fully erect. The first time you scolded him for becoming personally involved in his work, but when you discovered how he looked and felt, his size and unwavering hardness, you extended your demand of him.

As he smells the fragrance of your excitement, you feel his breath on you, and you focus everything on the anticipation of the first touch of his tongue. 

It comes. As always, you jump. The light strokes of his tongue along your lips cause you to moisten further, replacing that which he has already tasted. 

You can now feel your pulse responding to his touch and the urgent demand building inside you.

At some unspoken moment, as you reach a silent, screaming peak of desire, with an athletic shift, he's positioned to have you. 

There's a touch, then his hardness urges into your softness. Did he move down and into you, did you rise up to him ? It doesn't matter. You are consumed by the exquisite stretch and sense of being filled.

You urge him into you as your concession turns to insistence, your insistence to outright demand. Now you must have him fuck you. He does not disappoint and you rise together, passionate and perspiring, sharing a perfect animal inner rhythm that builds you to a simutaneous crisis of exhaustion and summit of ecstasy. The erupting magma of your orgasm meets the burst inside you of his own in your shared fever, your coupling in the moment almost violent in its intensity. 

In perhaps the only corner of your mind not swept away, you think 'Oh, he's very, very good. I mustn't let him go.'

Afterwards as he cleans and tends to you in your afterglow, you recover your thoughts, and move on from your servant to the busy day ahead.  

Soon you thank your servant, who inclines his head with gratitude and departs, until his morning duty calls again.