The Shave

"You may win through might, but I prevail through mastery--the kind that leaves you wondering if it was ever truly your idea to begin with" - Master Liz Well, this was new—and thrilling. So much so that I could hear the steady thrum of my own heartbeat, pulsing against my ribs. A rare thing, really. Excitement, intrigue—anything other than disdain or boredom.

Across from me, in the dim, seductive light of The Modern—one of my favorite haunts—sat Vincenzo. Though he had quickly, and almost shyly, asked me to call him Vince. An Italian-American accent in New York City was a relic, something I hadn’t heard since visiting friends in Staten Island a lifetime ago. He wasn’t my usual type, and I suspected I wasn’t his either. And yet, here we were, locked in conversation, drawn together by something unspoken, something magnetic.

“I want to surrender,” he admitted, voice low, as though confessing a sin. “To a woman who—” He exhaled, his gaze fixed on me. “A woman who could handle me.”

How quaint. He thought it was something I had to handle.

“My mother was half Spaniard,” he added, a little louder than I preferred. I countered his volume with a softer, almost whispered tone, effortlessly guiding him into my rhythm. And just like that, his voice followed mine, obedient without realizing it. A small, delicious victory.

He was trainable, at least.

“The best of us are born from the Mediterranean, I suppose,” I mused, tracing my finger along the rim of my glass.

He lacked the high-end polish that usually caught my eye—the icy blue or verdant green gaze of old money. But his eyes were something else entirely. The color of new honey, liquid gold beneath the ambient lighting, warm yet unreadable. His jawline was sharp, deliberate, and the way he slicked his dark hair back with gel hinted at a controlled chaos beneath. But it was the ink curling up his forearms that intrigued me most.

I had always loved tattoos, though I never marked my own skin. My rebellion had been piercings—eighteen of them, in fact, a teenage coronation of defiance. But tattoos? They meant permanence, a concept I had never been able to stomach. The idea of forever made my skin itch.

“You were right,” he said, shifting in his seat. “This place is incredible.”

I smiled, pleased. It was even more enjoyable watching him navigate the menu, the curiosity in his gaze as he asked about caviar, the precise temperature of the steak. There was something deeply arousing about a man so outwardly unapproachable, yet eager to please in my presence.

This was his first time. And we had chosen a very dangerous game.

He wanted helplessness. He wanted danger.

After watching, studying, analyzing him, I had offered him a shave game. A test of trust, of power—an unspoken challenge where the only thing sharper than the razor was the tension between us.

“So,” I drawled, sipping the Gaja I had chosen for us. “What is it you do these days?”

He took his time answering, savoring the wine. “Crypto.”

I shook my head, unimpressed.

“That’s my thing,” he admitted with a small smirk. “My family deals in real estate here in the city.”

I nodded but didn’t press further. I didn’t need details. The tailored suit—simple, impeccable—the weight of his watch, the quiet way he carried himself? It told me everything I needed to know.

Class isn’t something you can buy. But you can learn how to play the part.

His gaze flickered over me, appreciative, reverent. “You are stunning,” he said, voice weighted with sincerity. “I’m truly honored to be here tonight. But tell me…” He hesitated, his honeyed eyes darting toward the couple seated too close beside us. A flicker of nervous energy. “Why is it that someone so beautiful is also so intimidating?”

A smile curled at my lips, slow, knowing.

“Do you really enjoy having men on their knees?”

I tilted my head, studying him like an animal assessing its prey. Men like you never ask if I enjoy it. They assume. They fear. They hunger.

And yet, here he was—an exquisite contradiction.

His body, disciplined and sculpted, hinted at long, deliberate hours at the gym. His presence, weighty enough to turn heads, spoke of control, of a man used to being in charge. But even as he sat across from me, muscles taut, pulse steady, there was something else beneath it all.

Something restless.

Something waiting to break.

I considered him for a moment, leaning back in my seat, fingers tracing the delicate stem of my glass. Could I take him? If it came to a true contest of power—of physicality, of will—could I pin him beneath me, make him tremble, make him beg?

The thought alone sent a slow burn through my veins.

But it wasn’t just about muscle, wasn’t just about size. The power I wielded had nothing to do with brute strength. It was in the way I entered a room, the way I turned heads without effort, the way men—no matter how powerful—felt the irresistible pull of submission the moment I fixed my gaze on them.

Vince was no different.

And soon, he would realize just how deep that pull could go.

When dessert was served, Vince couldn’t resist. He placed a small, beautiful leather box on the table between us—worn with age, but rich in craftsmanship.

He had brought what I requested.

“This belonged to my grandfather,” he said, his voice lower now, almost reverent. “He brought it from Sicily.”

I let my fingers trail over the smooth surface before flipping it open. My bordeaux-colored nails gleamed under the restaurant’s dim glow, a stark contrast against the aged leather. Inside, resting in folds of dark velvet, was a straight razor—the blade a whisper of silver, sharp and well-maintained, the handle made of ivory with delicate engravings.

Vince stared at it, his honey-colored eyes darkening with something I could only describe as a rare vulnerability. It was subtle—the way his Adam’s apple bobbed, the way his breath momentarily stalled before he exhaled. For a man like him, whose presence alone could command a room, this was not an object. It was a relic, a piece of his history, a thread woven through his lineage. And he had placed it in my hands.

“There’s only one person I trust with that blade—Marino, my barber.” His lips curled slightly, but his gaze remained fixed on the razor. “I make sure I’m never his last client, despite wanting privacy. I don’t like a tired hand on my neck.”

I took a slow sip of my wine, feeling the sharp beat of my own heart in my chest. It had been some time since a man had intrigued me like this—not just with his submission, but with the slow, deliberate way he unspooled himself before me, revealing fragments of the man beneath the muscle, the suit, the name.

Vince was sporting a two-day stubble, rough against his otherwise polished appearance. I didn’t particularly care for beards—too abrasive against my lips, too unruly. But there was something primal about him like this, something untamed. Like a warrior. A man whose blood carried the legacy of the Mediterranean, sun-kissed and bred from the sea.

He lifted his glass toward me, the faintest glimmer of challenge beneath his deference.

“Tonight, it would be my honor if you were the last person to touch me with it, Master Liz.”

The words slithered across the space between us, pooling like warm honey.

A slow, deliberate smirk played at my lips. I tapped my glass against his, the soft chime between us like an unspoken promise.

“Besides,” he added, tilting his head slightly, “my father always said a man is never more obedient than when he has a blade to his throat.”

I chuckled softly, leaning in just enough for my perfume to reach him, intoxicating and deliberate. “He was old school,” I murmured, eyes locked onto his. “Blades are outdated. They use guns now.”

Vince smirked, but it faltered slightly when I reached forward and traced a single fingertip down the side of his neck, along the rough stubble, feeling the tension coil beneath his skin. His pulse betrayed him, thrumming quick beneath my touch.

His body might have been sculpted for combat, but here, in my presence, it was waiting for surrender.

He exhaled slowly, his gaze flickering from my lips to the blade I now held between my fingers.

“If I let you shave me, you know what it means?” he asked, his voice thick with something between anticipation and restraint.

I tilted my head, dragging my nail lightly over his wrist, watching the way his fingers twitched at the contact.

“I think you want me to find out,” I whispered.

Vince swallowed hard, and for the first time since I’d met him, he didn’t have a reply.

The night was far from over.

And he was already mine. Do you want to read the rest and the uncensored version? Head over to Master Liz's Patreon page. @noustheclub #noustheclub #noussociety 

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