Stubble

The whirring of his electric shaver comes faintly through the closed door of our bedroom. If I close my eyes, I can imagine what he looks like when he’s doing it. Concentration on his face, a steady hand as he trims his stubble to his usual short, yet beautifully present length.

Facial hair has always done it for me. Not so much mustaches, but a good bit of stubble or even beard-age on a man. I don’t exactly remember how far back this one goes, but I do seem to remember it flaring up a few times during my years of watching ER.

Carter? Kovač? Benton? St. Doug Ross himself? All hotter with a little bit of beard going on. It was a kind of formal education in one of my most enduring turn-ons. And it’s an education that has left me with the perfect man to cater to that particular one.

I like his stubble. I’m a bit of a sucker for it, no matter how much or how little of it there is. It’s never a full thick beard, nor is it the polar opposite. It’s just right for me. I’m like Goldilocks with his facial hair. It’s a treat for me. A treat I love to stroke. A treat the feeling of which I like lingering around my lips after a kiss.

It tickles a bit, yes. But only a little bit. The good kind of tickle. The kind you remember with a grin. The kind you want to feel again, whether on your lips or on your cunt.

When he goes down on me, I don’t tend to mind it. Again, it’s just the littlest tickle.  He knows what he’s doing, and I know that I can in turn tell him if something’s not feeling right. Including the stubble. It works for us.

And I will always not mind it, because it’s part of him.

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