I’d been wondering for a while whether I might be a masochist before the first time I got my cunt waxed. It was about five minutes into the process of getting my cunt waxed that I decided.
It was a Saturday afternoon in early July. The treatment room was up a narrow flight of stairs: small, clinically lit and seperated from the rest of the salon by a partition rather than solid walls. There was a waiting area with a line of plastic chairs just outside the room, and it seemed to me it would be very easy for anyone waiting to hear whatever was going on inside, which I found mildly odd but didn’t think about for too long.
I was there because a man I would never meet had told me to remove my pubic hair. I was there because I’d been told to do it, but I was glad of the order- I knew from previous experience that shaving was demanding of time and energy and that the results were never quite as thoroughly bare for as long as hot wax would ensure. Too broke to afford waxing up until that point, and never unfond of my bush, I was glad I had a reason to pursue a new experience that I might otherwise have put off forever as being not quite the sort of thing I did. But then, obeying a man 3000 miles away when he told me I should depilate my cunt was not the kind of thing I did either, and life is all about new experiences. YOLO, right?
I sat on the edge of the treatment couch and pulled off my tights and knickers and rolled them into a modest little ball which I rested on top of my shoes. For a minute or so I watched the beautician’s slight, cotton- clad back as she switched the wax heater on and unwrapped spatulas. She turned round, her over- made up face blankly optimistic, and gestured for me to lie back. I had trimmed my bush, but I hadn’t really known how much to tidy it up, and if I hadn’t told her it was my first time she might have guessed, I suppose, from the overexuberance of furze betweeen my legs. But I had given her warning so she knew to explain the procedure: that she’d be starting with the mons, the least painful area. And it was easier to handle, that part, once the strangeness of lying legs splayed in front of a stranger had abated- a sensation familiar from gynae visits, but not that familiar as to be comfortable, and yet still not unpleasant.
It hurt. Of course it hurt. She would place the strip, and there would be a brief and comforting feeling of warmth from the wax and then the flat of her hand before she ripped the strip towards her, pressing her palm against the newly naked skin, pressing the streak of pain away. She’d apologise profusely when I winced or snapped my thighs shut in shock, truly sorry to be hurting me, and I felt the need to reassure her- it was fine! It wasn’t that bad! Really!
But it seemed that my cunt was more than usually sensitive, and she was concerned that I must be in unusual levels of discomfort. Examining the waxed areas, the newly- revealed and reddened swell of my mound and inner thighs, delicately moving my labia aside with her immaculately manicured fingertips, one and then the other, she lamented how sensitive my skin must be for it to be reacting this way, so angrily red and with tiny little spots of blood. Maybe it would be easier next time; not so sore, as I got used to it.
As I watched this woman doing her job with the utmost skill and attention, I already knew what I could never say out loud, not to her, anyway: I didn’t want to get used to it. As she apologetically asked me to lift my legs high enough that she could do the most awkward part- ‘now- I’m so sorry- now I have to do the butt’- she laughed. We laughed together, conspiratorially joined in the indignity of it all, of the exposure of the most absolutely private part of my anatomy to her gaze and gloved fingers. I stared at the light fittings, and gripped my legs behind the lower thigh, and giggled. And then, after that same warm pressure of wax and palm and flash of pain, we were done, to the obvious relief of at least one of us.
I let her dab the remnants of wax away, took her advice about aftercare, and got the bus home, my head full of urgent, bemused questions of why women who didn’t enjoy pain and indignity would subject themselves to the whole process. I was three weeks in to my first ever fumbling experiments with D/s, all of it done online, and I didn’t even have the experience to know for sure yet that I was a woman who enjoyed pain and indignity, but my experience in the beauty salon was suggesting things very strongly. At home I stood in front of the mirror, pulled down my panties and examined my newly bare pudenda; pink and puffy still, offended and vulnerable looking. It looked cute but weird and I wasn’t quite sure how into it I was, aesthetically. Still, I’d done as I was told. And I came to enjoy its bareness- the increased sensitivity, the openness, the directness of hot water hitting flesh under a showerhead.
It grew back and I’ve not had my cunt waxed since. Every partner I’ve had since then has been older than that first Dom, less fixated- as (anecdotally speaking) people of his generation seem to be- on the idea that a hairy vulva is in some way bewildering or an affront. Having said that, a few of the more sadistic Dominants of my acquaintance who have been actively against waxing for aesthetic reasons at the beginning of a conversation have found themselves rapidly convinced when the process is described with enough enthusiasm, to a degree that makes me laugh.
But would I call being waxed a full- on kink? I would, but I worry. I worry that I’ve sexualised the process to such a degree that I might enjoy it too visibly in front of someone who wasn’t consenting to my kink, and that’s a massive no- no. So instead I dream. I dream about a salon exactly the same in design- the partition seperating the room off from a lobby full of customers sitting on chairs reading magazines and awaiting their own treatments. The bed is the same, the walls covered in promotional posters for liposuction and Botox are the same, but I swap the apologetic young Eastern European beautician for a stern man in whites, my age or a little older, his shoulders broad and brisk as he stands readying the wax.
From the start the appointment is darkly different in tone. He is unconcerned about whether this is my first time, makes no effort to ameliorate the pain I feel with soft palm presses and wristflicking removal of the wax sheets, and is unmoved by my agonised yelps. He doesn’t gently push my thighs apart with the back of his hand but slaps them open angrily, and when instinct clamshells my legs shut with the tearing of each wax strip he slaps harder, adding a delicious layer of pain to the urgent sting spreading over my mound, my labia, the delicate tissue where thigh meets lip.
And there is something in his eyes as he works, as he combs his fingers through the remaining hair- he wants it gone. He wants it gone because it is offensive to him. Only dirty women have public hair, slovenly women, slutty women. I do not in reality believe that public hair is disgusting, but this beauty salon is in Oppositeland, where every potential source of shame is converted to a Goldmine, and as he presses and rips and mutters admonishments about my disgusting animal bush I feel my cunt pulse with a delicious mixture of pain, protest and receptivity.
I try to smile bravely but as he works I am incapable of silencing my yelps and he looks at me, shaking his head at how pathetic I am, naked from the waist down, cunt glowing pinkish- red and open to his gaze. And then he is finished: he turns away, back to the counter with the wax boiler and the cardboard box of latex gloves.
He hasn’t said to get dressed, so I lie where I am, legs still spread, feeling the breeze cooling where it’s warmest. I run an experimental finger over my sore little cunt, smooth but stinging, hear the snap of a new pair of gloves being pulled on. He stands over me, reaches between my legs, cupping my mound in his latex gloved hand, and for a moment there is a question in his eyes. I know what he’s asking and nod yes, and suddenly my cunt is full of his fingers, first two and then three. There is an ache to add to the sting and I moan as he twists his fingers inside me, pushing deeper, slapping my thighs open again with the flat of his hand and not stopping just because I obey. He slaps with one hand and twists with the other until I writhe, my cries loud enough that I hear the receptionist outside having raise her voice to call the next customer.
‘Noisy little slut. Who said you could make those stupid noises?’ he mutters, and pulls his hand free of me with a flourish. As he moves closer to the edge of the bed his groin is level with my face. In two swift, practiced movements he unzips his trousers and pulls the waistband of his underwear down to reveal his cock, standing flush against the swell of his belly. He slaps my mouth open with the flat of his hand and bends at the knee to position himself between my lips, and as I moan and lick and nuzzle I hear the receptionist’s voice, high- pitched and sing- song.
‘He’s with a client at the moment but he should be free in five minutes or so. If you’d like to sit and wait he’ll be with you soon as he’s done. The usual?’
His hands reach for the back of my head as he thrusts over the slickness of my tongue, and I imagine his next client, sitting and flicking through a magazine, crossing her legs as she tries not to hear the noises coming from the treatment room, the gagging and the moans and the echoing slaps of his palm landing on my bare, burning cunt.