A woman was in the tub.
She was on the edge— not in the water, but sitting on the rim. Her legs were spread. One foot was on the floor. The other was on the edge of the tub. Her skirt was hiked up— the fabric bunched at her waist. Her pussy was exposed.
It was hairy.
The hair was dark. Thick. It covered her mound, her lips, the crease of her thighs. It was wild— untrimmed, untamed, the hair of a woman who had never cared. But she was trimming it. The razor was in her hand. She was shaving— carefully, precisely, the blade gliding over the skin, removing the hair in long strokes. The hair fell onto the tile. The skin beneath was pale. Soft.
She was spreading her pussy with her other hand. Her fingers held the lips apart— the inner lips visible, pink, the skin smooth. She was shaving around them. Careful not to cut. The blade traced the curve of her labia. The hair fell away. The lips were exposed— bare, smooth, glistening with the water from the tub.
Raven looked.
