“Was that it?” I ask, starting to breathe again. That wasn’t so bad. After all the horror stories I’ve heard about waxing, I was expecting way worse, to be honest.
“No,” Red snaps.
The next thing I register is white-hot, searing pain. It’s accompanied by a horrifying ripping sound—I mean, I get the whole process in theory, but I didn’t expect it to sound like Velcro being torn open. Luckily, I’m so shocked by the stab of agony in my delicate flowery bits that I don’t remember to scream in pain. Tears sting the corners of my eyes, though, and my palms have four crescent moons dug into each one in red, where my nails cut my skin.
“That was,” Red says.
“Jesus,” I gasp, starting to sit up.
She shoves me back down onto the bench. “I did not finish. That was the first strip,” she clarifies.
Fuck my life.
Four more agonizing bouts of that, to clear all the hairs between my ass cheeks, down my thighs and across my faint happy trail. By the forth one, I’m not as shocked anymore, so I remember to yell.
“Sorry,” I mumble, after shouting at what felt like the top of my lungs. Definitely loud enough to hurt my throat.
“Don’t be,” Red replies gruffly. “It’s better to let it out.” She slaps my tender pussy with a huge glob of liquid heaven. I flinch from the slap, but relax at the cooling sensation of whatever magical moisturizer she’s applying. “Healthier to scream, I always say.”
“None of this seems particularly necessary for health,” I groan between clenched teeth, though the cream is starting to cool the burning sensation at last.
I’m starting to wonder if $500k is going to be worth all this after all. I mean, what’s next? A full-body scrub with sandpaper? Carving off any moles or blemishes? Boob implants? Who the hell knows where this all ends.
Though, I have to admit, when the Amazon leaves the room, indicating I can get dressed again, and I slide off the table to check myself out in the mirror, it does look very neat and tidy. I run a hand between my legs and marvel at the baby-smooth skin. It’s still bright red, angry from the wax, but the red is fading already thanks to the miracle lotion.
Without thinking about it, my fingers drift to my clit, massaging it gently. As they do, as I watch myself in the changing room of this fancy as hell salon, after being molested by a burly Irish woman, all I can think about is the way Pierce looked at me on camera yesterday. Those ice-blue eyes devouring every inch of me. His parted lips and the steel in his voice when he ordered me to stand up. To strip.
I remember him telling me what he wants to do to me. When I fuck you, I will make you come so hard you forget your name. I can hear his voice now, the surety in his gaze. That man gets what he wants. Always.
And what he wants right now is me . . .
My fingers stroke across my clit in a slow, circular rhythm. My lips part, and I gaze at myself, naked in the changing room mirror, trying to picture what Pierce sees. My pert breasts and my tight waist. I run my free hand over my hips, up my stomach to circle my nipples. With my other hand, I trace the lips of my pussy, feeling a drop of moisture there as I start to breathe faster.
I imagine him standing behind me, watching me touch myself. His hard eyes on my bare pussy. I picture him wrapping his arms around me from behind and stroking me, teasing me with his fingers. I close my eyes and my hand becomes his, toying with my clit, so close to touching the hard little sensitive spot at the tip, but never quite getting there. Dragging this out as long as he wants.
Pretty soon I’m sagging against the mirror, heart pounding as I finger myself harder, faster. My clit feels so sensitive, my pussy tight and wet with desire, every muscle in my body tensed in anticipation as I race toward a climax . . .
Clatter clatter.
The doorknob of the dressing room starts to turn and I gasp and leap away from the mirror to grab my clothes. I’m holding my jeans and shirt defensively in front of my body when the Irish Amazon re-enters, her small eyes squinting over at me.
“Sorry. Thought you’d be dressed by now.” She steps inside the room anyway, and I guess it doesn’t matter since she’s already seen my formerly hairy vagina. She sets two fat store boxes down on the bed, each one wrapped in gold ribbon and tied in a bow that Gram would’ve killed to be able to imitate for Christmas presents. “Forgot to pass these on earlier—these are for you. Also, there’s a car waiting out front when you’re ready.”