Story – Hard Wax

 

For Marie who wanted it finished. 

 

[Recently I started sorting through files and folders stashed on an old hard drive. In a folder called “In Progress” I found this, a story I’d started roughly twenty years ago and, at first, could barely remember writing. I’ve got a hazy memory of starting it partly to explain on the newsgroup what a “Brazil wax” is (yes, it was that long ago) and the post somehow morphing into a fantasy/story.]

Every month I go see Laura, The Brazilian Princess (trust me, that nickname fits, being both her nationality and part of her profession) to get my “bits” waxed.

I don’t wax for Pablo; as far as I know he neither wants nor requires me to give my nether bits the Full Monty. I’m not sure he even cares. That might make it easier, but no, monthly waxing is my own choice, my own agony of tender embarrassment, done for my own vanity.

Brazilian bikini waxing done “Hollywood style” (the waxer that takes off *everything* –all the pubic hair, front, back, and (eek!) in between) hurts, not too much to bear, but plenty. First, the wax is hot, not too hot, not hot enough to burn, but *almost*. Hot enough to feel it might. I have to lie completely still while she’s spreading the sticky, honey-colored mix or it might go somewhere too painful to think about. Plus, my Catholic school-girl-self never gets used to spreading myself on the waxing table, exposing everything in every possible sense for the 10 to 15 minutes it takes Laura to rip my hair off. A gyno exam is a modest little *nothing* compared to a Brazilian.

Brazil waxing is also interactive, requiring active participation. Laura even pulls my bottom cheeks apart and waxes between them. Once the hair’s gone she gently, oh so gently, rubs sweet almond oil everywhere she’s defoliated, finally sprinkling my defoliated bits with baby powder.

Mmmm. Admittedly, that part’s pretty nice.

Since she charges $50 –$60 with the tip– cash only I figure she takes in at least $800 a day, easily. No wonder she only works three days a week. Laura’s the best Brazil waxer in Los Angeles and that matters. Getting a Brazilian is like open heart surgery. This is not a part of your body where you’d want to be a novice waxer’s “learning” or “practice” client. Not even in their first one hundred.

Dressing after, I *hate* pulling my panties back on. No matter how soft or light they are, the woven cotton feels rough against my newly-smooth, freshly-oiled skin. Sometimes I don’t, and stay freshly bare under my full cotton skirt. Wiggling against the pink fabric as I drive through the Santa Monica Mountains, I can feel how clean and bare I am. It feels completely delicious– “Too nice for boys,” a friend says.

When “down there” is so freshly smooth I long to be touched and admired, at the same time embarrassed, imagining my bits being inspected. [What would that even look like?] My embarrassment doesn’t decrease my desire. *Wanting* such a thing while knowing Pablo *knows* what I want adds to the embarrassment. I try holding still, but my body trembles like something deep inside my bones is vibrating out to my skin. My thoughts are dreamy, and unfocused.

Yes, they’re naughty girl thoughts even as I try to focus on driving. Somehow this is your fault. Or mine. Or something.

Enter my “hard wax” fantasy…

---

… I walk in from the car, the cool breeze brushing the skin beneath my skirt. It’s at least 25 degrees cooler here near the beach than in Encino where Laura has her studio. Closing the door gently, I greet Pablo, watching as he gets up from the computer, sets his adorable PowerBook aside, then calls me over. Looking into his eyes, I recall there are any number of ways I can be exposed. It feels like he can see through me. My brain floods with anticipation as I fear he sees my secret thoughts.

“How was it?” he asks, green eyes meeting and melting my brown.

“Okay,” my usual reply. No details. I mean, how can I talk about how I feel as I lie on the towel-covered table with Laura standing over me, my legs spread, quivering with embarrassed anticipation? Can I even explain how the wax feels as it gets spread over the most secret places, sticky and almost-but-not-quite-too-hot? Then the soothing, almost erotic feel of the muslin as it’s pressed into the wax? I can’t describe how I look, kneeling up on all fours, having my cheeks spread so she can wax the area right around my bottom hole.

Then the jolt of white pain as she rips away the muslin, taking away both wax and hair, leaving me smooth and shaking. The surge of sensations repeats as she smoothes wax onto a new spot. I can’t talk about it with anyone, even Pablo.

Would he feel too sorry for me?

Or think I was naughty?

Or want to watch?

“It was okay. But I’m sort of tired now, you know? Maybe I’ll go take a nap?” My voice rises at the end. Why? How is this a question?

[Napping is good. And I love to doze to the sound of his fingers on the keyboard. Pablo hits the keys hard and fast with his two-finger typing. Being able to hear him as I drift off feels so, so, so *snug*. It’s a sound of safety and home. Reminds me that we’re finally not thousands and thousands of miles apart. I can’t ever forget that.]

The question. I’m seeking his approval. Permission even. Permission for what? Some distance? My retreat?

Or his attention.

He nods, but holds me a moment longer, hands tracing down my back, playfully cupping my bottom through the light cotton of my bright pink skirt. His hand pulls back and then cupps again, this time more firmly. With intent.

“What’s this?” he asks, his right hand patting my bottom a bit harder. *Almost* slapping.

I squirm a little, trying gently to move away, edge toward the bedroom. I always like him touching my bottom, but I don’t want to talk about my skirt or panties or any lack thereof. I want to lie down, bury myself under clean sheets.

“*You* should know–” I start to reply, but my usual minxishness fails me, my voice dropping to a whisper. I’m not strong and sassy or cute and bratty. At the moment I feel fragile and shaky. My *bits* are freshly waxed and so now I want to be held. I want to be snug. And, most of all, I want a nap.

I don’t want our coming conversation right now, though it’s sure to start playfully. It takes all my resolve not to whine or pull away — restraint I know I’ll ultimately get no credit for. Because eventually I *will* whine. I *will* try and pull away.

I will finally *cry*. Because in the end I always cry.

He doesn’t play, doesn’t lift that knowing eyebrow. He asks another question, his voice low.

“Tell me. Where are your panties, Mija?”

Such a naughty girl question! I inwardly flinch. Feel blood rise in my cheeks. I look down. And then look further down.

His hand strokes my bottom firmly through the thin skirt, his touch saying he knows I’m bare beneath the bright cotton. His hands are warm, and inviting. So easy to melt into.

My body begins to respond and I tremble even more, wanting…

…what?

I stare at the floor, as though my feet hold the answers. None are forthcoming — I’m on my own. When in doubt there’s always the truth.

“They’re, uh, in my backpack.”

“Since when?” Pablo’s right hand was still stroking, pushing the pink, gauzy skirt up, bit-by-tiny-bit.

Distracting.

“Oh, um…” Surely I need a nap. Whatever.

It’s not fair to ask me such probing questions. Can’t we defer this until I wake up? Probably not.

I sigh, just a little.

Just enough.

“Since Laura’s.”

His eyes widen, seem to bore into me. I swallow hard. Sighing was a mistake.

“Since I took them off at Laura’s.” The statement hangs between us before Pab continues his stroking and his questions.

“In your bag? The entire time? You didn’t put them back on after your waxing, did you Naughty Girl?”

Pablo’s voice takes on a note of shock as his right hand slips beneath my skirt and moves up my leg, as if he’s been forced to such extremes to confirm my unbelievable, naughty news.

I squirm and feel bad. Very Bad.

[Not very bad. Not really.]

“You left Laura’s studio, *drove* home, and then *walked* around outside wearing nothing beneath that skirt? That’s not something a good girl does. Not something you’d do. Is it?”

He pauses as his hand barely skims over the one place I wish it could pause.

[Oh my God, this is sooo not my scene. Not his scene. Where’s my school uniform, my heavy knickers anyway? What is happening?]

“I’m not even sure that’s *legal*. What if you’d been stopped by the police on your way home?”

His hand patted my bottom with soft spanks, as if in rhythm with his scolding.

I pull myself together and tried to explain. My panty-less state *really* isn’t so *very* bad. Not *really* This makes far too much of it.

“Wait, but I didn’t ‘walk around’ –only straight here from the parking structure into our apartment– it’s barely two hundred yards. And, you know, this skirt is *very* full and modest; it goes *almost* to my ankles.”

Warming to my subject, I am indignant on my behalf.

“I mean, it’s not like I went to the *park* or something. Sheesh!”

I feel the injustice even as I imagine myself in a park, swinging, feeling the rush of air under my skirt.

Pablo’s hand is still more insistent, pats now harder, becoming stinging spanks

“Ouch!”

“You threw away a Coffee Bean cup a moment ago. So you went *there*.”

Damn! I forgot. It’s barely a stop though.

I could claim I’d gone on my way to Laura’s. Except I can’t lie. Not like that.

Pablo’s voice drifts back into my consciousness. What is he saying? *Focus,* I tell myself.

“That’s a very light skirt you’re wearing; it’s almost see-through.”

[Reader, it’s not.]

“*And*,” he continues, “it’s *very* full. It could blow up past your waist. Then everyone would see you wore nothing underneath. Is that what you want? For people to see your bare bottom, young lady? That *could* be arranged.”

That last sentence is said quietly, almost as if he’s talking to himself.

Then, as though he’s made his case and now it’s my turn:

“Now. Tell me *why* you’re not wearing panties.”

The “pats” are getting a bit harder. He finishes rucking my skirt, tucking it into the waistband. I squirm a little, his hand warm against my skin. He holds me fast so it’s impossible to move.

I explain. Or try.

“My panties, the cotton is rough and I’m *tender* after Laura finishes. My skirt feels cooler without them…”

My voice had trailed off as turns me so he can begin tucking in the front. I instinctively hold it down, but a hard slap on my bare thigh stops my tugging. He tucks the front up too.

This is somehow more exposing than taking it off.

“So it’s not because you’re a naughty, wanton girl. I’m not going to find that you’ve been thinking naughty thoughts, am I?”

His fingers trace the soft skin of my tightly closed thighs.

Will he? I close my eyes. No. I don’t think so. I *hadn’t* been. I mean, the sort of “walking around” schoolgirl spanking thoughts that I can’t control. They’re always in there somewhere, so they don’t count. I can’t be punished for those, can I?

I gasp. His fingers gently skim the soft bare skin of my mound where I’m tender, skin impossibly sensitive.

Pablo pats, almost smacks, the flesh sharply. Not quite a spank, but close. I whimper softly.

“You weren’t trying to keep your panties from getting damp, were you Mija?”

His hand is less gentle now. It’s insistent. I fear he’s going to demand I open my legs any moment and wave after wave of embarrassment washes over me at the thought of being *checked* for dampness. Something like this is hard enough in the dark, in bed. But our living room is light. I can’t remember if the shades are open, can’t turn to see. Someone could be watching.

I don’t mention the windows, knowing he won’t care. I’m not sure if he wants people to see (he always says “no”) but he never seems bothered by the possibility.

Not bothered like I am anyway.

“No. No sir.” Honestly, I hadn’t *thought* about it, at least not until *now*. I was pretty sure I wasn’t, umm, wet.

“You weren’t thinking naughty thoughts, Mija?”

I shake my head, even as his fingers circle, my knees suddenly weak. I wasn’t wet until *this* started. The question is so unfair.

His left hand touches my knees. I open them without thinking — several hairbrush spankings on my inner thighs had taught me *that* much obedience. His hand’s firm insistence makes me tremble.

And then his right-hand touches me *there*, pushing inside the newly-waxed skin. I close my eyes, trying not to feel anything, torn between my embarrassment and desire.

“What’s this then?” His hand moves again, goes *inside, makes squishy, *wet* noises. Could this room be any brighter? I will the earth to open up and swallow me. Nothing could be more embarrassing.

“Umm…”

“That isn’t something that happens to good girls.”

[But isn’t it?]

“Tell me what you’re thinking about, Mija. What’s made you all wet.”

Ye gods! I tremble, eyes closed. I feel weak.

What am I thinking about anyway? His hand continues insistent and distracting.

“About being naughty.”

[Really? News to me. Or maybe I’m always thinking about it. Probably.]

My eyes open.

He smiles and looks down at me, hand still circling. Nudging deeper.

I’m dizzy, leaning my body into him.

“And?”

“…about what a naughty girl I am…”

---

**Let us close the curtains and let our imaginations finish the narrative.**

[Because I can’t! I just can’t!]