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. Becausehedidn’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; hewantsme 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 aroutine. 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 hewillpunish 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 noteven 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 faceflaming red with the thought of his eyes on me.
Worse still, there’s a glistening of wetness.
