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 tothat,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’trelent.
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:allthe 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. Withoutstopping, 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’ssonot 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 whilehewatches, 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, butdamnmy 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.
