Finally!!
Someone else who gets all excited and tingly when having a waxing session!! I often go to have my legs and bikini waxed and this is always carried out by really sweet, beautiful girls with perfect make-up and you can see that everything on them is so well taken care of, like waxed arms so you cant help but think that the rest of the body must be quite like that as well. Bald and soft.. I guess after the end of their shifts in the night they treat each other or so… So whatever… when lying down on that “bed thing” half naked and I smell the soapy-parfumed air, feeling their hands run up and down my legs, inside my thighs, turning me over, pulling my skin and then gently massaging me first with a special antibacterial cream to avoid skin irritation then with a scented oil… i just feel… I just feel a hard knot in my underbelly, ready to explode, like some seconds before coming.
Once or twice when their schedule is really heavy near summer I was treated by two girls, one on each one of my legs simultaneously…. I just CANNOT express the feeling seeing them down there taking care of me, all of us involved into something really personal…I am the only girl I know, and my friends think I am totally nuts that says “I love being waxed”. I actually went as far as saying I would love to be something like… that long insect with the too many legs that in my parts of the world we say it has “40 legs” so I could have them all waxed and maximize the wonderful sensation…. So finally.. maybe I am nuts after all…. The pain is minimal compared to the feelings I get. So if you girls dont have a particular skin problem or extreme pain fear I woud definitely suggest doing that in a nice environment, even once in your lives. No… actually more than once.. The first time usually hurts more than the next times…
” Here’s my Story :
don’t know if this post belongs in this category or another, but it is a true story I recently wrote about a bikini wax I had. Since it’s funny and sexy, I thought I’d share it. I’d love to hear what people think about it!I always look forward to going to the local spa, even when I shouldn’t.It’s a time honored female tradition — going to the local day spa andspending gobs of money to allow complete strangers to poke, prod, massage, coerce and cajole your resistant body into doing things yourbody isn’t inclined to do without assistance. Add in the guarantee of at least partial nudity (yours, not theirs), as well as all of thelotions, perfumes, candles, books, nailpolishes and other dreams thatare for sale in the lobby and what’s not to like?So it was without trepidation that I snagged a parking spot two blocksaway and wandered into the salon, shielding my eyes from the glare offthe plate glass storefront windows.
I was early by fifteen minutes,just enough time to get some serious shopping in before it was time tomeet the business end of a popsicle stick. Who am I kidding? I wasearly because I’m early everywhere. I’m the only woman I know whoconstantly carries a book in her purse, just so she’ll have somethingto do whenever she inevitably gets to her destination early (mostpeople would find someone to talk to, but I’m not that kind of girl,either).I checked in with the Spa desk (what I would’ve given for a true “spa”treatment) and turned around to look at a row of greeting cards fordogs. Clearly not my first choice for shopping entertainment, but itwas right there. After a minute, a cute girl with sandy blonde hairand piecey bangs that occasionally dropped in her face walked up tome. “Hi Jennifer”, she said with a thick yet untraceable accent, “I’mwaiting for my 2:45 eyebrow appointment to show up, and then we can goupstairs for your bikini wax.” “Okay” I replied, scanning herhip-hugger jeans and layered pink and white t-shirts.I’m one of the most uncultured people I know when it comes to affairsof an international scope (if Austin Powers asked me to be hisassistant and be an International Woman of Mystery, Austin would befucked) so I was truly at a loss as to where she might’ve come from.After quickly ruling out all of the suburbs that abut the mall, Idecided her accent sounded like a strange blend of Russian and French.
Seeing that I was unlikely to make any further headway on the issue,I turned my attention to the wall of OPI nailpolishes and began theother time honored female tradition of flipping each bottle upsidedown to read the name of the color (my favorite color name being I’mNot Really A Waitress).After about five minutes of polish flipping, she walked back over tome, slipped her hand lightly behind my back and said, “Are you readyto go upstairs?” I swallowed hard and said, “Sure. Let’s go.”Once upstairs, in a room decorated in wood the color of cappucino andwith music playing in the background that is supposed to be soothingbut belongs in a dentist’s office waiting room, I set down my purse.She started getting her instruments together, then turned to me andsaid, “I’m going to set this up.
You can just slip off your jeans andlie down on the table.” This is the point where most spa technicians(or whatever they’re called) would leave the room to give the wax-ee alittle privacy while dropping trou. Not her. The cuteRussian/French/from-somewhere-other-than-The-Gap girl turned backaround and started gathering her popsicle sticks and the strips ofpaper she’d soon be using. Ooookay. This is one dedicated woman. Ilike that. She’s not one to waste billable, er, productive time.Let’s get down to business.With jeans strewn over the wooden chair by the door, I nervouslypulled down my t-shirt a bit more and climbed onto the table. I lieddown flat on my back and she turned around, placing thecrockpot-shaped wax warmer between my legs near my feet. We made somesmall talk and then she walked over closer to my head and grabbed bothof my hands in hers. I felt like a teenager who was learning todrive. I’d seen someone else do it before, but when I had to put myhands on the instruments and steer, things got a little shaky.
She confidently placed my hands on my body — one on my thigh and one onmy stomach, and instructed me to pull the skin taut so the wax wouldbe smoother and closer. *sigh* Okay, this I can handle.We continued talking, which was far and away the easiest part. I couldn’t really see what she was doing, especially now that my hands were conviently in the way, so I watched her. She hunched over my leg, face in my crotch, scanning the terrain. Her bangs flopped inher face a few times, and she impatiently brushed them away andfocused on her work. She would occasionally look at me and smile,making my stomach not so much turn flip flops as slide sideways.
We kept talking until I came to the conclusion that I’d never become the International Woman of Mystery if I didn’t ask questions and learn things about other cultures. So I asked the one deep, profound question I could think of: “Where are you from?” “Oh, I’m from Brazil”, she replied.Of course you are. Through the course of the waxing, I alternated between pleasure and slight discomfort. She would take her soft, thin fingers and slidethem over my inner thighs to smooth out the skin so it was flat, and Ifelt tingly. A few seconds later, I’d feel a little warmth and then rrrrippppp. Ow. Seconds later, I’d feel the same soft fingers exploring between my legs, pulling my labia apart (is she looking? I wondered. Could she tell if I’m soaking wet? Would she care?), and then, rrrriipppppp. Seconds later, I could feel one of her fingers resting lengthwise down my labia, holding it in place, and all I could think was, “As God as my witness, if she moves her fingers one inch to the left I will double her salary” and then, rrripppp. *sigh* By this point, we were in the home stretch. She had waxed everything there was to wax in my far nether regions, leaving me almost bald,with a thin strip of hair in the middle. She then moved her hands upmy body and lightly tugged at the top of my g-string. She pulled it down a bit and asked, “How far do you want me to go?”, meaning she wanted to know how much I wanted her to wax across the top of my bikini line. All I could think was, “You’re the Brazilian, babe. You tell me”, but what I ended up saying was, “Oh, I’ll leave that up to you. You’re the expert.” She cocked her head, looked at the entire area for a moment, and with one hand on each strap of my g-string,pulled it all the way down, exposing everything I had to offer. This was new for me. Granted, the last time I had a bikini wax I ended up being waxed by a gay man who did nothing but complain about how much he hated giving bikini waxes the whole time, so this was a different ball game. Nevertheless, I wasn’t expecting to be stripped down and hand sanded. Five minutes later, we were done. I really wasn’t sure if I should give her a tip or light a cigarette, so I put on my jeans. She put away all of her equipment and fished out one of her business cards.She checked my information to make sure it was up to date and handed me her card saying, “The next time you need services, please call me.”Oh don’t worry, sweetie. I’ll call. ”
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