Chapter Nineteen #2
The neck-down comment is redundant. I know where he wants me to focus, and the rest of me is smooth anyway. I wax, I just don’t wax there.
Biting my lip, I take the first hair in the steel grip of the tweezers, and pluck.
It comes away easily, and I barely feel it. It’s not that I’m a masochist with a high pain tolerance, it’s that it doesn’t hurt. I thought it would—at least more than it did. So maybe I can do this.
But there’re a lot of hairs.
“Why don’t we make this fair,” I say, as I pluck the next. “How about you get another pair of tweezers and join me in this sadistic exercise?”
“How about you focus on what you need to be doing,” he murmurs, and turns his page.
Utter. Bastard.
In the interests of efficiency, I grip a dozen hairs for my next pull.
Ow.
That smarted.
I rub away the sting and glare at him again, but he’s studiously ignoring me. He’s well practiced at that.
“I have a razor in my suitcase.”
“…Which is where?” he asks, reminding me I didn’t bring it. Because he didn’t let me.
I try again. “They’ll have a shop here.”
“No clothes. You want to go shopping naked? Be my guest.”
“Alex… can we just talk about—”
He sighs in exasperation and finally looks up, his finger marking his place on the page. “You can procrastinate all you want, but every second you spend arguing is a second you aren’t plucking. The clock is running, Tink.”
Damn him. There’s no getting out of it.
Resigned, I get to work.
And this isn’t merely a punishment; he wants me to do this. He wants be bare, exposed to him.
It soon becomes apparent what the towel is for. Pluck. Wipe the hairs off on the towel. Pluck. Repeat.
The fire is warm, which is a bonus, and there’s a clock on the mantelpiece, taunting me with the slow passage of its hands.
The chair is too upright to be comfortable, but the towel is soft, cushioning my bare ass.
With my thighs together, the top half of my mound is reachable, and that’s where I focus.
It doesn’t take long to establish a routine. Gather several hairs, squeeze, and a sharp tug. Pulling slowly is more aggravating, a single hair at a time will take too long, while too many hurts too much.
It’s slow, boring, inefficient work, but I go as fast as I can. I’m under no illusions that he will punish me if I don’t get his twisted little task complete. And what punishment will it be? The belt? His cock in my ass?
Images fill my mind, because my hands are occupied but my brain is not. It gives me plenty of time to anticipate the rest of the evening’s activities.
On the one hand, I can’t help but feel this is a ridiculous punishment.
Despite sitting naked before him, the situation holds as much sexual allure as making someone trim their fingernails.
On the other, my thoughts don’t help, and as I continue, the tingle in my skin grows.
With every pluck, it’s getting more sensitized, and I’m yet to address anywhere particularly delicate. I still have that pleasure to come.
Alex continues to ignore me. The pages of his book turn at regular intervals, and from time to time, he takes a sip of whisky.
I try not to glance at the clock too often; the hands are moving faster than they should. I’m making good progress, but it still takes ages. It’s ten till eight by the time I’m done with all the areas I can easily see.
My mound is perfectly smooth, smoother even than when I wax it. I run my fingers over it, and it’s a little sensitive. Tingling, but not in a bad way.
Good news: it must be the majority of my hairs. Bad news: I now need to spread my legs.
Which I suppose doesn’t really matter, as he’s not even looking. How good is his book, that it’s more interesting to him than my humiliation? Not that I want his attention. Not right now, not here, not like this.
I sigh inwardly and part my knees, deliberately not watching him as I do so. I don’t want to see his eyes on me, not while I’m doing this. Selecting a half-dozen hairs on my left outer labia, I tug.
Okay, that’s a lot more sensitive.
Taking a breath, I select three or four for the next pull.
It takes me a while, but I work steadily, actually feeling some pride in my progress.
When I’m done, it looks far more attractive than the un-plucked one alongside, and I take a second to run my fingertip over it. It’s ever so silky to my touch.
I glance up to check the time, only to catch his eyes on me. Shit. How long has he been watching? Did he see me stroke myself? My cheeks burn with humiliation, and I bend back to my task.
Yet the damage is done; I know he’s watching me now. The lower I go, the more I need to spread my legs, and the more intimate the show I’m giving him.
It’s eleven minutes after eight. Forty-nine minutes remaining, and I still have my other side to go, then the pleasure of ever more sensitive areas.
My fingers are tired, my vision blurred from staring so closely. My back’s sore. An entire bikini area in ninety minutes? He’s a goddamn sadist is what he is.
I don’t have the time to dwell on it. Quickly, I work my way down the other side of my labia, my face flaming red with the thought of his eyes on me.
Worse still, there’s a glistening of wetness.
Why the hell am I aroused?
Maybe it’s the sensitivity of my skin, the tingle in my loins, or the way I need to touch myself. But I know the real answer: it’s the humiliation of him watching.
I finish my outer labia, and my breathing’s heavier, my vulva tingling all over. The sensation had initially been mild, but it is now quite intense. I’m perspiring, and it’s not the heat.
“Half an hour left,” he says helpfully.
And I still have my inner labia to go, as well as around my clit. I’m not looking forward to that, not one little bit.
Because I’m not a masochist.
Taking a steadying breath, conscious of his eyes on me even though I avert my own, I slowly spread my folds. Now I’m more than a little wet, and I’m opening myself for him. Just like he told me to do when he made me suck his cock.
Images merge with sensation, and a whimper slips out. If he wasn’t looking at me before, he is now. I grasp three hairs and pluck.
Shit.
So this area is more sensitive.
I raise my eyes to his. I’m not sure why; a plea for clemency, perhaps. There’s nothing in his gaze but studied disinterest, like I’m distracting him from his damn book. I hate that I wanted something different.
There’s no point saying anything; I know he won’t relent.
I look away first.
My views on this punishment have shifted. My thighs are wide apart, my feet braced on my toes. Each hair I pull requires me to spread myself for him, showing him my pink, wet core. It’s like I’m asking him to look at me, every time.
It’s worse than just being naked. It’s indecent, obscene. Abasement.
And if that’s not bad enough, some combination of exposure, his sadistic voyeurism, and my humiliation are having a deep impact on me. My arousal is flowing freely, and my face is flushed with shame.
I know the bastard is enjoying himself. At my expense.
How can he sit there so calmly, his face impassive, as I spread myself again and again, fingers slick with my own wetness?
My vulva is throbbing now, and that doesn’t help. Everywhere I touch is sensitive and swollen, partly from arousal and partly from plucking every hair from the whole area.
“Fifteen minutes,” he murmurs; I don’t look at the clock to verify. “And Tink, don’t forget: all the hairs. Including the ones below you.”
Fuck!
The stakes have just risen. Now I have to finish off my inner labia, my clit, and everything around my perineum. How could I have forgotten that?
I pull the last hairs from my labia in quick succession, biting my lip, tears in my eyes. Without stopping, I widely part myself, knowing he’s watching, and tug the hairs around my clit.
There aren’t many of them, thank God, but each one draws a whimper from me. I hoped the pain would quench my arousal, but it doesn’t seem to make any difference. Is he right? Do I have some masochistic tendencies? It’s not like I orgasm when I stub my toe.
It’s not just the pain. Touching myself like this, spreading myself, my skin tingling, smooth and sensitive. It’s fresh, it’s exciting. It’s so not what I need right now.
If I was doing this in the bathroom somewhere, all by myself, it would be different. But I’m not. I’m doing it while he watches, taking pleasure in my discomfort, like the sadistic asshole he is.
And that makes all the difference in the world.
I’m quite certain I haven’t stopped blushing since I started this ordeal. Or at least since I caught him watching me.
Is it possible to orgasm from tweezing? Surely not, but damn my pussy’s throbbing, and each pulse sends tingles through me.
At last, at long last, my vulva is smooth, silky and glistening. Some few hairs from the area beneath poke up, and they’re an eyesore, untidy in comparison.
How much time do I have left? I dare not waste any of it by checking.
And now I have to expose myself further, to reach those hairs beneath.
I’d never been more wrong when I na?vely thought this wasn’t an effective punishment. I’m no longer sure I wouldn’t have been better off taking his belt across my ass. The pain would be worse, but the humiliation… that’s something else.
Taking a deep, steadying breath, I lift my feet and place them on the corners of the chair, my knees parted to reach between them, my pelvis tilted upward. It is, without doubt, the most revealing, intimate and obscene position I’ve ever taken before another living soul.
I carefully feel below my vulva with my fingers, pulling each hair I find in quick succession.
Alex helps, in his own way, by steadily drumming his fingertips on the cover of his book. He’s not reading anymore; I know where his eyes are.
Sorry to be so distracting.
My breathing is ragged. A rivulet of sweat slips down between my breasts. The whole of my pussy throbs, my thighs slick. If I could die from shame, it would be a welcome escape.
“One minute.”
I pluck the last few hairs I can find and rapidly run my fingers over myself, checking I haven’t missed any. I find one, then another. A third. I pluck each swiftly, and check again.
Wherever my fingers touch I find nothing but sensitive, smooth, slick skin.
“Time.”
My feet slip off the corners of the chair and I drop the tweezers. I press my thighs together, hiding myself, covering my swollen, throbbing sex, and grip the sides of the chair, trying to catch my breath. I can’t bring myself to look at him.
“Well done, Tink.” His voice is steady.
“Thank you.” Mine is not; it’s barely a whisper.
“Take a moment to compose yourself.” He rises, fetching a glass and a bottle of water, pouring it for me and handing it to me. “You should hydrate.”
I will, in a minute. I can’t move right now. I just hold the glass, resting its cold base on my burning thigh.
“Then if you’ll kindly lie down on the bed, I’ll examine you to see if you were successful.”
In consternation, my eyes flick up. He’s watching me, perfectly serious, perfectly composed.
He’s going to check me. And if he finds a single hair?
Fuck.