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“Covers you for three months,” she said. “Fully funded by Selecta, of course.”
My cheeks went scalding hot, but I nodded quickly, and looked away so I wouldn’t have to see the needle. It took two seconds, and it felt like nothing more than the proverbial pinch nurses always tell you to expect. The idea that I was being readied to have my virginity claimed, however, lingered disturbingly as I waited, though, for the aesthetician to arrive.
Five minutes later another pretty young woman with a warm expression and a killer tan emerged from the door behind Fran’s desk. She fixed her eyes on me with a professional smile.
“Leah,” she said, “you can follow me.”
To my dismay, I found that my knees wobbled under me a bit as I stood. The day spa seemed perfectly normal, but the reason I had come made the experience—even here at the start—anything but. To do this, topreparemyself in this intimate way—it seemed to represent another, even more serious point of no return. Yes, of course, my hair would grow back down there. Something about physically altering the most private part of my body, though, seemed drastic.
It would represent, I couldn’t keep myself from thinking as I followed Patty through the door and into a hallway with doors closely spaced along both walls, a major plot moment in the ‘story.’ To bare myself down there advanced this embarrassing tale with what seemed like terrible swiftness.
How the virginal, midwestern Leah R became the kept woman… the toy… the fuck toy… of a wealthy West coast movie tycoon. How she had her pussy waxed for her sponsor’s pleasure. How he told her to buy pretty lingerie, so that he could enjoy looking at her virgin pussy through the film of her lacy new underwear. How she obeyed, even though she hadn’t even met him yet.
Patty opened a door on the right.
“You can go on in, Leah,” she said brusquely. “Go ahead and take off your romper and your panties and lie down on the table on your back. I’ll get my cart and be back in a minute.”
“Okay,” I said, hearing the shakiness in my voice. I went through the door and Patty closed it behind me. For a moment I stood and just looked stupidly at the padded massage table, as if there were something astonishing about this perfectly ordinary little room. My thoughts went back to Christian G, to the pictures, the private message, the lingerie. Rather than let my scalding face get any hotter, I started to take off my romper.
I didn’t look at the big mirror along one wall, but the treatment room was so small that I couldn’t help seeing myself out of the corner of my eye. I had put on clean panties, but they were exactly the same gray cotton as the ones I had worn during the photoshoot with Mary. I had to shake my head violently to clear it of the memory of Christian’s judgment of them.
Well, I thought as I stripped them down as quickly as I could,he still PM’d me, didn’t he? So they can’t bethatunattractive.
The thought stirred up another recollection, of something Mary the photographer had said: how platinum-level sponsors liked to see girls just starting out in SA with their pubic hair. My mouth twisted to the side as I pondered it. Did they—men like Christian G—feel the same way about unattractive panties?
Before and after.Another story, or maybe another aspect of the same story. A sponsor wanted to take an innocent young woman in hand… under his protection… under his wing, maybe.
No… not under his wing. Under his cock.
Frowning at the naughty thought, I dropped my panties on the chair in the corner, atop the romper. I started to clamber onto the table.
Under his cock. Under his firm hand. Under his pounding hips.
Did Christian G mean to tell his own version of my mortifying story—how a wealthy alpha claimed the virginity and the innocence of a hot, naughty girl? How he punished her and used her for his pleasure?
Or… how he took care of her and gave her everything she’d always wanted…
I could see only the ceiling tiles above me, but I had to shut my eyes as if I could somehow keep my imagination from picturing the scenes, alternately too embarrassing to think about and too rosy to believe in.
A knock sounded at the door and Patty opened it. I propped myself up on my elbows with a start and I had to suppress the urge to cover my pussy with my hands, as if I had stripped for no reason and the aesthetician would reprimand me for my shockingly inappropriate lack of decorum.
She pushed her cart in with a reassuring little smile, though, and quickly closed the door behind her.
“You have a date tonight, Leah?” she asked, her attention focused downward on the little pot that must have the hot wax inside it, stirring it with a wooden spatula.
CHAPTER9
Leah
“Yes,” I said, my eyes fixed on the rather hypnotic motion of the spatula.
“First one here in LA?” Patty followed up. She glanced up at me. “Go ahead and lie back. This won’t take long, I promise—and it won’t even hurt that much.”
Like Mary the photographer, Patty the aesthetician displayed a lot of skill in her job: her easy, conversational tone, which I knew she intended as a way to put me at ease, really did make me feel a sense of familiarity. Despite the newness of the process—and despite its inherently mortifying nature, which I thought I would probably never get over completely—my muscles relaxed enough for me to do as she had said. I lay back and felt relatively comfortable for a moment, looking up at the ceiling tiles once again.
That changed when I felt Patty put a warm, wet washcloth between my legs. I let out an ambiguous little whimper, partly out of surprise and embarrassment and partly out of involuntary pleasure at the sensation. I pushed myself up a little bit, to see her start to rub my pussy with the cloth.
“I’m just going to get your skin nice and clean and warm,” she explained in a gentle voice. “It’s good to get the follicles ready for the waxing and exfoliate your skin a bit. Just relax.”
