Adultery Radiance of Vanitha, Daughter-in-Law and Instagram Influencer

[Gopal Ratnam]

Selvam has no guilt of cheating his own son. Can't understand the mindset of these types of people.

[Urupudathavan]

Now waiting to see Latha and vanitha in bed with selvam while Ashok snoring next to them.

[Prabhas Rasigan]

Wonderful going

[Thalaidhoni]

Awesome dude

[adams_masala]

Thanks Everyone

[adams_masala]

Chapter 52: Selvam's Chest is Hairy

Scene 1

The morning started before the sun was up. Selvam heard the water heater click on, the soft slap of pool water against the tiles outside, and the muffled thump of footsteps on the kitchen floor. He rolled out of bed, careful not to let the mattress squeak, and pulled on the same cotton shorts he’d slept in. The house was cold and bright, light leaking in through the high windows and painting everything in gray.

He heard voices in the kitchen. The new house had thin walls and hard surfaces, every sound bouncing from room to room. Selvam paused in the hallway, listening.

Vanitha was at the counter, making coffee in the American drip machine. She stood on tiptoe, pushing a canister to the back of the shelf, her long hair bundled up in a messy bun. She wore loose gym shorts and a tank top, and her bare arms and shoulders shivered a little in the chill. Ashok sat at the counter, rubbing his eyes and scrolling through his phone, a look of deep concentration on his face.

They sounded happy. There was the clatter of mugs, the small thump of elbows on granite, and then Ashok’s voice, sleepy and soft, “I’m sorry about last night, ma.”

Vanitha paused, coffee scoop in hand. “Sorry for what?” she asked, not looking at him.

“For… you know.” Ashok gave a weak smile. “I tried to hold back, but you’re too good.”

Vanitha glanced over her shoulder, checking the hallway. “It’s okay, da. You didn’t finish inside. That’s what matters.”

Ashok’s smile faded. “I still feel bad. Sometimes I forget you don’t want to get pregnant, or have a baby the normal way. We have Latha for that.”

Vanitha laughed, quick and low. “I don’t want to mess up my stomach, that’s all. I like how it looks now. If I get pregnant, I lose everything.”

Ashok shook his head. “You’d still look perfect, even if you gained ten kilos.”

She poked him with the coffee scoop, a smudge of grounds on his forearm. “You say that now, but if I turned into a balloon, you’d run away to the gym forever.”

Ashok laughed, rubbing at the brown spot on his skin. “No way. You think too much.”

Vanitha leaned on the counter, staring straight at him. “Thanks for not cumming inside me.”

Ashok looked up at her, eyes wide. “I would never. You know that.”

They were silent for a second, just the hum of the fridge and the faint beep of someone’s phone in the background.

Selvam stood at the edge of the hallway, just out of sight, his body frozen in place. The words hit him hard, as if someone had flicked his ear. “Thanks for not cumming inside me.” He had never heard Vanitha say anything like that before. He knew, of course, that Ashok and Vanitha slept together—they were married, after all—but hearing it this way, so blunt and final, made his chest ache.

He let himself imagine it for a second: Vanitha on her back, Ashok on top of her, both of them panting and sweating in the dark. He pictured the way she’d arch her back, the way she might dig her nails into Ashok’s arms, the way her voice would break when she moaned. He hated the image, but it wouldn’t leave. It stayed, sticky and raw.

He thought about his own hands on her hips, the way she’d clenched around him, the way her hair had spread out over his pillow, the sound she made when he came inside her. The memory was perfect and sharp, and for a moment he felt a surge of pride… she hadn’t let Ashok finish inside, but she’d let Selvam. She’d wanted Selvam’s cum, wanted to feel it leak out and run down her thigh, wanted to carry his seed even if she never got pregnant from it.

He felt sick with himself, a twisted satisfaction fighting with the shame.

The kitchen went quiet. He heard Vanitha’s voice, softer now, “I just don’t want to take any chances. Not until the thing with Latha is settled.”

Ashok said, “It’s your body. You decide.”

Vanitha’s voice was clear and steady. “I don’t want to be like those other women. I don’t want to look like Amma did after she had three kids. I want to stay tight and slim. I want to wear sarees low and have everyone stare at my waist. That’s what I worked for. And it’s important for my career”

Ashok gave a small, proud laugh. “You will. Everyone will stare. And I know you will do great things with your saree boutique dream.”

Selvam didn’t know if he should enter the kitchen or go back to bed. He felt like an intruder, like a thief who’d been caught in the act. He hated Ashok in that moment… hated his easy confidence, his simple love for Vanitha, his total ignorance of what had happened in the house back in India. He hated Vanitha too, a little, for being so honest, for saying things he wished he could forget.

He tried to remember the last time he’d felt so alone.

After a while, he took a deep breath and stepped into the kitchen. He kept his eyes on the floor, but Vanitha saw him right away. She smiled, bright and fake, “Good morning, mama. Want coffee?”

He grunted. “Black, please.”

Ashok turned in his chair, giving Selvam a lazy wave. “Morning, Appa.”

Selvam nodded, moving to the far side of the island. He sat down, folding his arms over his bare chest, and stared at the granite. He could feel the heat of Vanitha’s body as she poured him coffee, the soft brush of her hand as she set the mug down.

Ashok talked about his plans for the day, some conference call and a trip to the gym, but Selvam barely heard him. He watched Vanitha move around the kitchen, every motion crisp and controlled. She was beautiful, even in the dim light. He couldn’t stop watching her.

She never looked back at him, not once.

Ashok finished his coffee and got up, stretching his arms over his head. “I’m going for a run,” he said, already heading to the stairs. “See you later, Vani.”

Vanitha nodded. “Have fun, da.”

When Ashok left, the kitchen went silent again. Selvam sipped his coffee, staring straight ahead. He wanted to say something, anything, but the words wouldn’t come.

Vanitha broke the silence. “Are you okay, mama?”

He forced a smile. “Fine, ma. Just tired.”

She tilted her head. “You don’t look fine.”

He shrugged. “I heard you two talking. I don’t want to cause trouble.”

She looked at him for a long time, her face unreadable. “You’re not causing trouble. Ashok doesn’t know. He never will.”

Selvam let the words sit. He tried to remember why he’d started this with Vanitha in the first place. Was it loneliness? Was it the thrill? Was it something more?

He thought about her in the bedroom, the way she’d smiled when he came inside her, the way she’d whispered his name in the dark. He wanted that again, wanted it more than anything. But now, seeing her here with Ashok, seeing her as a wife, he wondered if he’d made a mistake.

He didn’t answer. He just finished his coffee and stood up, the muscles in his arms tight and shaking. He left the kitchen without another word.

As he walked back to his room, he made a decision. He would stop. He would let her be a wife to his son. He would not touch her again.

He promised himself, but even as he made the promise, he knew he would break it.


Scene 2

Selvam stepped into the backyard, blinking at the brightness. The California air was clean and sharp, the sky already a hard blue. The pool water was cold, a thin fog drifting over the surface. The grass was damp but clipped short, the concrete deck clean and smooth under his bare feet.

Selvam started with push-ups, knuckles pressed into the mat, body moving with practiced ease. He counted each rep, breathing through his nose, refusing to rush. When he finished, he rolled onto his back and did sit-ups, fast and relentless, his abs flexing like ropes under the skin. He finished with squats and then a series of stretches, moving into poses he’d learned from a yoga teacher back in Chennai.

He felt Latha before he saw her. She came outside in a thin blue robe, her hair wet from the shower, a tray of juice and water balanced in both hands. She watched from the edge of the patio, lips slightly open, eyes wide as he finished a set of planks.

Selvam didn’t say anything. He just nodded, sweat already dripping from his nose.

Latha set the tray on the table, then folded her arms across her chest. She wore the robe tight around her waist, but her calves were bare, the skin gold and smooth. She hovered, obviously wanting to talk but not sure how.

“You exercise every day, Uncle?” she asked, voice small.

“Every day,” Selvam said. He got up and wiped his face with the towel dbangd over a chair. “If I stop, my body gets stiff. I feel old.”

Latha laughed, surprised. “You don’t look old at all. Anna says you have more muscles than most college boys.”

Selvam shrugged. “It’s not for show, ma. I just don’t want to die early.”

Latha poured a glass of juice and handed it to him.

She watched him drink, her gaze fixed on his chest. “How do you get muscles like that, Uncle? Even Ashok Anna can’t do like you.”

He finished the juice and set the glass down. “Anna is lazy. He wants quick results. No shortcuts, only hard work.”

She giggled. “Maybe I will also start, if you teach me.”

Selvam laughed, then noticed her eyes, how they trailed down his body and lingered on his stomach.

He felt strange under her gaze. Not embarrassed, but not comfortable either.

Ashok appeared a minute later, still in his pajamas, hair messy, rubbing sleep from his eyes. He saw Latha and Selvam on the patio and grinned.

“Appa, showing off again?” he called, grabbing a glass from the tray.

Selvam rolled his eyes. “You should join instead of making jokes.”

Ashok shrugged, then flexed his bicep with a goofy face. “I get plenty of exercise at the office.”

Latha ignored the banter, her focus never leaving Selvam. “Uncle, you have so much hair?”

He looked at her, confused. “I do?”

She laughed. “yes, like a bear.”

Ashok snorted, “Hahaha, that’s true Appa.”

Selvam looked down. His chest and arms were covered in a dark fuzz, thicker now that he was older. His back had a line of hair down the spine, and his stomach had a trail running to his shorts.

Ashok said, “That’s the Indian in him. But if you want to look like an American, you have to get it waxed. It’s the rule here.”

Selvam scoffed. “No need for that. What’s wrong with hair?”

Latha made a face. “I don’t know, Uncle. I think it would look nice if it was smooth. Like a movie hero.”

Ashok grinned. “You should try it, Appa. Just once. See how you like it. All the guys at my gym do it.”

Selvam waved his hand. “I’m too old for these things. Waxing is for kids.”

At that moment, Vanitha came outside, holding her phone in one hand and squinting in the light. She wore tight black leggings and a sports bra, her waist bare and perfect, the gold chain at her navel flashing with every step.

She looked at Selvam, then at the others, and said, “What’s going on?”

Latha blurted out, “Uncle is too shy to get his chest waxed. Anna said it’s normal here.”

Vanitha’s face lit up. “That’s actually a good idea.” She set her phone on the table and walked over, circling Selvam like a judge at a contest. She ran a finger over his shoulder, then down his arm. “You would look ten years younger if you did it, mama. And it would show off all the work you put in.”

Selvam frowned. “Is it really necessary?”

Vanitha grinned. “I’ll take you to my friend’s place. She just opened a new salon near the strip mall. They do men’s waxing all the time. It’s quick, and it doesn’t hurt that much.”

Ashok laughed, clapping Selvam on the back. “Don’t be a chicken, Appa.”

Latha added, “Please, Uncle? I want to see what you look like without any hair.”

Selvam looked at them, three faces all smiling at him, none of them taking his side.

He shrugged. “If it makes you all happy, I’ll try. But only once.”

Vanitha’s eyes sparkled. “You won’t regret it, mama. I promise.”

Ashok said, “If he starts crying, film it for me.”

Latha giggled, her eyes bright with excitement.

Selvam shook his head, but he couldn’t help the small smile. It was stupid, but he liked how they all looked at him, like he was someone special. Even if it was just for a joke.

Vanitha picked up her phone and started texting. “We’ll go after lunch. Jenny has a slot open today.”

Selvam went back to his workout, but he could feel their eyes on him the whole time.

He tried not to think about what would happen next.


Scene 3

Vanitha drove like a local. She zipped the Prius out of their suburb, cut through a strip of traffic, and pulled into the parking lot outside the salon in under ten minutes. She sang along to the radio, tapping the wheel, never once showing any nerves about the appointment. Selvam sat beside her, arms folded, eyes locked on the row of shops ahead. He’d been in America for less than a week and already nothing made sense: the houses all looked the same, everyone was in a rush, and now he was about to let someone rip the hair off his body for no reason.

He tried to act casual as he followed Vanitha inside. The salon was bright, with spotless white floors and big, soft couches up front. There were potted plants, clean magazine racks, and a wall lined with bottles that looked more expensive than medicine. Behind the counter stood a young woman, short and pale, with a cloud of platinum-blonde hair and the biggest, bluest eyes Selvam had ever seen. She wore a skin-tight tank top and black leggings that hugged her figure, the curve of her backside round and high, even in flat shoes.

Vanitha walked right up to the desk. “Hi, Jenny! I brought you a challenge,” she said, pointing at Selvam.

Jenny grinned, showing off perfect white teeth. “Oh my god, you weren’t kidding! He’s like a real-life Hercules.” She looked him up and down, not hiding her interest. “I’ll grab your intake forms, okay? Have a seat.”

Selvam sat on the couch, feeling all six feet of him crumpled and awkward. Vanitha filled out his name and date of birth on the tablet, then swiped through a few screens before handing it to him for the signature.

Jenny came over with a clipboard. She crouched in front of Selvam, so her face was level with his knees, and tapped a few more questions into the form. “Any allergies? Any meds? Previous waxing experience?” Her voice was fast and clear, almost bored.

Selvam shook his head, then glanced at Vanitha for help.

“He’s a wax virgin,” Vanitha said, barely hiding her smile. “Do you think he can handle the manzilian?”

Jenny looked at Selvam, eyebrows raised. “You want the full package? Chest, abs, back, and down there?”

Selvam cleared his throat. “What is… manzilian?”

Jenny laughed, not cruel but very direct. “It’s like the Brazilian, but for men. I remove all the hair from your private parts. Around your penis, your balls, and the butt crack. Makes you feel like a whole new person, promise.” She winked at Vanitha, then back at him. “You okay with that?”

Selvam hesitated. “It’s normal here?”

Jenny nodded. “Very normal. Athletes, models, all kinds of guys do it. Plus, it’s cleaner. No more sweat trapped in the hair. You’ll love it.”

He looked at Vanitha, hoping for a way out, but she just smiled and said, “It’s fine, mama. If it’s too much, you can always stop.”

Selvam swallowed hard. “Okay,” he said, voice barely above a whisper.

Jenny’s eyes sparkled. “You’re gonna be my favorite client today.” She stood up, stretched, and led them to a private waxing room in the back. “Follow me, and let’s get you started.”

The room was bigger than Selvam expected, with a wide table in the center, shelves full of bottles and towels, and a faint, sweet smell he couldn’t place. Jenny handed him a disposable sheet and pointed at the table.

“Go ahead and take your shirt off, and drop your shorts down to your hips. You can cover yourself with this if you want.” She turned away to arrange her supplies, giving him a moment.

Selvam stripped off his t-shirt, then hesitated at the shorts. His cock and balls were heavy and thick, not just from age but from years of old-fashioned masculinity, and the hair made them look even larger. He tried to pull the shorts low without exposing everything, but it was useless. He lay down on the table and covered his groin with the sheet, hands folded over it like a shroud.

Jenny returned, hands gloved, cart in tow. She wore the same thin tank top and leggings, her arms slim and covered in faint freckles. Her ass looked even more prominent from this angle, and Selvam caught himself staring before quickly looking away.

“Ready?” Jenny asked.

He nodded, feeling his cheeks flush.

“Let’s start with the chest,” she said. She peeled back the sheet, leaving it covering only his groin, and examined his torso with clinical interest. “Damn, you’re built. You work out every day?”

Selvam nodded. “I used to be a trainer in India.”

Jenny ran her hand over his chest, feeling the contours. “I bet your wife loves this.” She met his eyes, then glanced at Vanitha, who had perched on a stool by the door, watching everything.

Jenny dipped a stick into the tub of hot wax. She blew on it, then spread a thin layer across Selvam’s left pec, just below the nipple. The sensation was warm, almost soothing. Then she pressed a strip of white cloth onto the wax, patted it down, and ripped it away in one quick motion.

Selvam winced, the pain sharp and bright. He grunted, but tried to stay still.

Jenny smiled. “See? Not so bad.” She kept working, strip after strip, moving across his chest, over his abs, down to the sides of his torso. Each time she pulled a strip, she smoothed her palm over the skin after, like she was petting a dog. It hurt, but less than he’d feared.

After a few minutes, Jenny admired her work. “So smooth already. You’re gonna look ten years younger, promise.”

Selvam glanced down. His chest was pink, but the muscle stood out even more without the hair.

Jenny moved to the lower abs. She lifted the edge of the sheet and eyed the hair that peeked from his waistband. “I’m gonna have to go lower, okay?”

Selvam nodded, not trusting himself to speak.

Jenny pulled the shorts lower, just enough to expose the full V of his pelvis. She worked fast, applying wax to the base of his cock, the tops of his thighs, and the ridge above his balls. The pain was sharper here, but her hands were skilled and quick, always soothing after every pull.

She stopped at the sheet, then looked at Vanitha. “Are we going full manzilian?”

Vanitha grinned. “Why not? He’s already halfway there.”

Jenny turned to Selvam. “Ready for the fun part?”

He hesitated, then nodded.

She folded back the sheet, exposing his groin. Selvam’s cock lay heavy, half-flaccid but thick and veined, a dark crown surrounded by a thatch of black hair. Jenny’s eyebrows rose, just a little, and she let out a low whistle.

“Wow,” she said, then caught herself and laughed. “Sorry. Not supposed to comment, but you’re seriously blessed.”

Selvam flushed even deeper. He looked at Vanitha, who just smirked and gave him a thumbs up.

Jenny worked in small sections, using a thinner stick for the delicate areas. She waxed the base of his cock, then gently lifted his shaft, laying it against his stomach to reach the skin underneath. She used her gloved fingers to stretch the skin taut, dabbing on the wax, then pressing the strip, and pulling fast. Each time, Selvam flinched, but Jenny was calm and steady.

“You okay?” she asked.

He nodded. “It’s fine,” he said through gritted teeth.

Jenny smiled, professional but warm. “You’re tougher than most guys. They scream when I get here.”

She moved down to his balls, cupping them gently in her hand. She spread them apart, stretching the skin, and applied the wax in a tiny patch. Selvam sucked in a breath, sweat popping on his forehead. The pain was sharper than anything before, but over quickly.

When she finished a section, she paused to check for strays, plucking a few with tweezers. Her fingers were quick and light, brushing over his cock and balls like it was nothing.

Selvam tried not to think about it, but as Jenny worked, his cock began to swell. He felt the blood rush, the heaviness building, and before he could stop it, he was halfway hard, the head glistening with a bead of clear fluid.

Jenny noticed, of course. She didn’t comment, but her cheeks went pink, and her voice softened.

“It’s normal,” she said, without looking at him. “It happens to everyone.”

She waxed the rest of the shaft, then wiped away the residue with a damp cloth. She was careful, but thorough, and her touch felt almost like a massage.

After the groin, she moved to his thighs, spreading them wide to reach the inner side. When she finished, she asked, “Can you roll onto your stomach, please?”

Selvam did as he was told, feeling his cock and balls swing between his legs, now totally hairless and exposed.

Jenny started on his back, moving from the shoulders down to the waist. She paused at his lower back, pressing her palm there to feel the muscle.

“Seriously, I’ve never seen anyone built like this,” she said, not hiding her admiration. “You could be a model.”

Selvam grunted, unsure how to respond.

Jenny finished his back, then moved to the buttocks. She waxed each cheek in quick, overlapping strips, then pressed a hand to each after, smoothing out the sting.

“Last part,” she said. “I need you to get on all fours for this.”

Selvam hesitated, mortified, but did as she asked. He felt totally exposed, his ass high, his cock hanging down and heavy. Jenny worked fast, applying wax to the crease, then ripping it away in two hard pulls. The pain was white-hot, but gone instantly.

She wiped the area with a cool towel, then patted him on the thigh. “All done. You did great.”

Selvam rolled onto his side, then sat up slowly. His skin felt raw and tight, but smooth. His cock was still thick and half-hard, the head almost purple.

Jenny handed him a hand mirror. “Take a look,” she said, grinning.

Selvam stared at his body. His chest and abs gleamed under the light, every muscle outlined. His groin was bare, the skin pink and smooth, his cock and balls looking even bigger without the hair.

He felt ridiculous and proud at the same time.

Jenny cleaned up the stray strips and snapped off her gloves. “You’re good to get dressed. Just use the aloe gel for a few days, and don’t work out too hard today, okay?”

Selvam nodded, unable to look her in the eye.

Jenny turned to Vanitha. “Come see your masterpiece.”

Vanitha walked in, her eyes running over Selvam’s body. She smiled, a real, bright smile, and said, “You look amazing, mama.”

Selvam pulled his shorts up, careful with the sensitive skin. He got dressed as fast as he could, then thanked Jenny with a stiff, awkward handshake.

Jenny laughed, holding his hand for a second longer than necessary. “Come back anytime, okay? You’re my best client.”

Vanitha paid at the counter, then led Selvam out to the car.

As they left, Selvam couldn’t help but look back at the salon, at Jenny’s blonde hair and sly smile. He’d never met anyone like her.

He felt like a new person, but also exactly the same.


Scene 4

Vanitha waited in the salon lobby, legs crossed, one heel bouncing as she scrolled through her phone. The place smelled like citrus and baby powder, and the receptionist kept glancing at her, clearly curious what a woman so beautiful was doing alone at a waxing parlor in the middle of a Tuesday afternoon.

When Selvam came out from the back, the first thing Vanitha noticed was how he walked. His posture was straighter, his steps lighter, almost as if someone had peeled off ten years of age along with all the hair. He wore the same shorts and a clean t-shirt, but the difference was obvious: his chest bulged under the fabric, and his arms looked like they belonged to a fitness influencer, not a retired bank clerk.

She stood up, putting away her phone. “Well, look at you,” she said, her voice full of mischief.

Selvam tried to play it cool. “It’s just a shave, ma. Not a miracle.”

Vanitha grinned, stepping close enough that her perfume mingled with the scent of aloe on his skin. She ran a finger over his bicep, then down to his forearm, making slow, tight circles. “You’re smoother already. I can tell even before touching.”

He blushed, glancing at the glass doors. “Vanitha, someone will see.”

She laughed, her teeth bright. “Let them see. You look like a movie hero, mama. All the women in there were staring. Even the blonde girl was impressed.”

He tried to scoff, but he liked hearing it.

On the walk to the car, Vanitha walked beside him, her hand slipped under his arm, gripping the warm, bare skin above his elbow. She stroked his tricep, the curve of his deltoid, then snaked her fingers under the sleeve and squeezed the flesh of his shoulder. Selvam could feel her nails scbanging, slow and deliberate. Every step made his heart beat faster.

When they reached the car, Vanitha opened the passenger door for him. He slid in, feeling strange and exposed in his new skin. She got in beside him, clicked the doors shut, and then instead of starting the car, she turned to face him, lips parted in a hungry, open smile.

Vanitha reached over and tugged at the neckline of his shirt. “Show me, mama,” she said, and before he could react, she pulled the shirt up and over his head. His chest was still pink from the waxing, but the muscles rippled under the skin, each line crisp and clean.

She traced a finger down the middle of his chest, past his sternum to the soft, hairless belly. “Oh my god,” she whispered, her eyes bright. “It’s like a statue.”

He tried to cover himself. “Don’t, ma,” he muttered, embarrassed. “It looks silly.”

She ignored him. She pressed her face to his chest, nuzzling against the smooth skin, then kissed just above his left nipple. Her lips lingered there, warm and soft, and then she bit, just hard enough to leave a mark.

Selvam sucked in a breath. His cock, already sensitive from the waxing, swelled against the inside of his shorts.

Vanitha pulled back, her mouth glistening. She stared at him, eyes sharp, voice low. “I want to see the rest. All of it. Jenny said you were the biggest she’s ever seen. Is that true?”

He looked away, mortified but hard as stone. “She’s just being polite.”

Vanitha shook her head. “No, mama. She wanted to fuck you. I could see it in her face.”

She reached down and cupped his balls through the thin fabric. “You feel so different. So smooth.” She massaged, rolling them gently in her palm. “I can’t wait to see how it looks when you fuck me later.”

He tried to protest, but she shushed him, her lips pressed to his ear. “You’re mine, mama. I’ll take care of you.”

She buttoned his shirt back up, slow and neat, then started the car. As they pulled out of the lot, her hand stayed on his thigh, squeezing every time she took a turn.

Selvam stared out the window, his thoughts a blur of shame, pride, and pure, helpless need.

He knew, in that moment, that he would never stop wanting her. No matter how hard he tried.

[adams_masala]

Fixing chapter sequence

[Thalaidhoni]

Will there be a threesome with vanitha and jenny for selvam. That would be very hot and two women will be fighting to hunt a real man.

[Thalaidhoni]

Vanitha said you are mine. This is more than just words. She seems to have become more obsessive. She lets selvam cum inside her but not allow Ashok. Is that because she think Selvam seeds are not potent enough to make her pregnant. This seems to be absurd

[adams_masala]

Vanitha said you are mine. This is more than just words. She seems to have become more obsessive. She lets selvam cum inside her but not allow Ashok. Is that because she think Selvam seeds are not potent enough to make her pregnant. This seems to be absurd

You need to read the whole story, so you don’t miss some details like this.

[adams_masala]

Chapter 53: Jenny Anderson

Scene 1

The sun was not up yet, but the sky outside Jenny’s window had gone from black to a soft, dusty gray. Her apartment sat on the third floor of a renovated walk-up in the Mission, and at this hour the only sounds were the hum of the refrigerator in the next room and the far-off clatter of a bus braking on Valencia Street. She stood in front of the full-length mirror by her closet, naked, arms loose at her sides, her hair still messy from sleep.

The floor was cold under her feet. She rocked from one heel to the other, feeling the wood creak, and studied herself the way she studied a client before a wax. Head to toe. No sentiment.

Her breasts were small and high, the kind that did not need support to sit up on their own. B-cups, just barely, with pink nipples that had already gone hard in the morning chill. She watched them tighten as she inhaled, the little bumps around the areolas rising, and she made a mental note that she had not gained or lost anything in the last month. Good. She turned a quarter to the right. Her stomach was flat, with a faint shadow of muscle running down the center. She pressed two fingers to it and felt the give. Still tight.

She turned a full ninety. Her ass looked back at her from the side of the mirror, round and high, no sag. That was the gymnastics. Twelve years of it, from the age of six until her senior year, and even now she could still hold a handstand against the wall for a full minute. Her thighs were strong and a little thick at the top where they met her hips, and when she squeezed them together she felt the small, firm muscle there flex. No tan lines. She had driven up to Baker Beach last weekend, found the stretch where the families did not go, and lay on a towel for three hours reading a paperback with nothing on but sunscreen. Her skin was even all over, pale but not white, a soft California gold. She liked it this way. She thought everyone should like it this way.

She turned back to face herself. Between her thighs, the little triangle of hair was neat and trimmed, almost a perfect shape. Platinum blonde, a shade lighter than what was on her head. She had shaped it two nights ago, standing in the shower with a small pair of scissors, and now she leaned in and checked the edges. Still clean.

She picked up the bottle of lotion from her dresser. It was a French brand, expensive, something one of her regulars had given her at Christmas. She squeezed a generous amount into her palm, rubbed her hands together to warm it, and started at her shoulders.

She worked methodically. Down the arms, into the crook of each elbow, across the forearms, between the fingers. She moved to her collarbone, then to her chest. She cupped each breast in her hand and rubbed the lotion in slow circles, starting at the base and moving up to the nipple. She did not linger, but she did not rush either. Her nipples hardened all the way, standing out like little pink pencil erasers, and she looked at them in the mirror with a small, amused smile. They did that fast. They always had.

She moved to her stomach, then her hips. She turned and did her back as far as she could reach, bending one arm behind her and then the other. Her ass got a full handful of lotion, each cheek worked in slow circles until the skin shone. Down the fronts of her thighs, then the backs. Her calves. The tops of her feet.

Then, finally, she slid her hand up between her legs and rubbed lotion into the soft skin at the very top of her inner thighs, right where the trimmed blonde patch started. She did not touch herself the way someone else might. She touched the way a professional touched a body. But she did let her fingers skim the little triangle, checking the length, feeling for anything uneven.

“Practice what you preach,” she said to the mirror, under her breath, and her mouth curved up at one corner.

She walked to the closet. The hardwood was warmer near the rug. She pulled open the doors and looked at the rows of hangers. Black slacks on the left, blouses on the right, everything grouped by color. She ran a hand along the silk.

Black slacks, the ones that tapered at the ankle and made her legs look even longer than they were. A cream silk blouse with small buttons down the front. She pulled them down, laid them on the bed, and stood for a second looking at them.

She put on the slacks first, stepping into them and zipping up the side. They fit her at the hip and left a little gap at the waist, the way well-cut slacks did. She took the blouse off the hanger and slid her arms in. The silk was cool against her skin, and she shivered for a second before buttoning it from the bottom up.

She looked in the mirror again. Her nipples pushed right through the silk. Two small, clear points, one on each side. She tilted her head, considered it, even turned to check the side view. The blouse was not tight. It was not sheer. But the silk was thin and her nipples were hard and that was that.

She let out a long breath through her nose.

“Professional,” she said, out loud this time, and went back to the dresser.

She pulled out a thin bra, the kind with almost no padding, nude colored. She did not like wearing one. She had not worn one in high college, had not worn one in beauty college, and she would rather not wear one at all. But there was a father-in-law of a friend on the books today, and a few male clients booked for the afternoon, and she had learned to read the room.

She unbuttoned the blouse, slipped the bra on, clipped it behind her, and buttoned everything back up. She looked again. The points were gone. Just the soft curve of her breasts, hinted at, not stated. That was the line she walked at work.

She brushed her hair, straight and shoulder length, the platinum catching the first real light coming in the window. She did her makeup quick and light, the way she had practiced a hundred times. A swipe of mascara, a little pink on her lips, a touch of bronzer along her cheekbones. Small pearl studs in her ears.

She grabbed her leather tote from the hook by the door, slid her feet into the flats she had left by the entrance the night before, and picked up her car keys.

She glanced over her shoulder once, at the empty bed, at the mirror, at the small apartment that was all hers. Then she shut the door behind her and went to work.


Scene 2

The drive from the Mission to Fremont took forty minutes on a good day, an hour if the Bay Bridge was being difficult. Jenny drove with one hand on the wheel and the other holding a paper cup of coffee, sunglasses on even though the sun was still low. She had made this drive five days a week for almost three years. She knew every bump in the 880, every place the radio cut out, every gas station where the bathroom was clean.

She thought about the salon as she drove. When she had signed the lease, she had been twenty-one, fresh out of beauty college, with a loan from her grandmother and a name she had sketched on the back of a napkin. Teddy Bare Waxing. Her mother had told her it was a stupid name. Her best friend had told her she was going to go broke in six months. Neither of them had been right. The trick, she had figured out fast, was that people did not go to a waxing place for the wax. They went for the feeling of being taken care of. They went for a room that did not smell like a doctor’s office. They went for someone who would not make them feel small for being naked. She had built the whole business around that, and it had worked. She had two other techs now, a receptionist, a waitlist on Saturdays.

She pulled into the strip mall lot just before eight and parked in the spot marked JENNY in faded white paint. She unlocked the back door, flipped on the lights, turned on the diffusers, started the music low. Lavender and eucalyptus. Piano, no lyrics.

She went to the front desk and opened the appointment book. She still kept a paper one, even though everything was also in the system. There was something about seeing the names written out in ink.

Her finger stopped on the nine-thirty slot.

Vanitha Sivakumar. And next to it, in her own handwriting from yesterday, father-in-law’s first American makeover — manzilian package + chest + back.

Jenny smiled.

She had met Vanitha almost a year ago now, back when Vanitha had walked into the salon with a list of questions about Brazilian waxes and a phone full of reels she wanted to start shooting. Jenny had not known anything about Instagram saree content at the time. Vanitha had explained it to her while lying on the table in her underwear, both of them laughing at the camera angles Vanitha was trying to plan. By the end of the appointment they had exchanged numbers. A week later Vanitha had brought her a box of Indian sweets. A month after that, Jenny was getting tagged in Vanitha’s posts and suddenly had three new South Asian clients a week.

Vanitha had texted her last night. Bringing my father-in-law in. He’s never had anything done. Be gentle. He’s a good man.

Jenny had texted back a winking emoji and the thumbs up.

The bell over the door chimed at nine twenty-eight. Jenny looked up from the computer and smiled right away.

Vanitha came in first. She wore dark jeans and a simple cream top, no saree today, but she still had the gold at her ears and the mangalsutra at her throat, and her hair fell in one long, glossy rope over her shoulder. She looked like she had stepped out of an ad for something expensive.

“Hi, honey,” Jenny said, coming around the desk.

They hugged, quick and warm, and Vanitha pulled back and pointed behind her with her thumb.

“This is Selvam, my father-in-law. Mama, this is my friend Jenny.”

The man standing by the door was tall, taller than Jenny had expected, and his shoulders filled out the cotton shirt he wore in a way that made her look twice. He was older, but not in the soft way most men his age were older. He was lean. His forearms had the kind of veins that only came from real work. His hair was salt and pepper, thick, and his jaw was set tight. He looked like he did not want to be there.

Jenny put on her best professional smile and stepped forward, hand out.

“It’s so nice to meet you, Selvam. I’m Jenny.”

Selvam took her hand. His grip was firm, polite, quick. He pulled his hand back like he was not sure what the rules were.

“Nice to meet you, ma’am,” he said.

“Oh, god, no ma’am,” Jenny said, laughing. “Just Jenny. Come on in. Sit anywhere.”

Selvam sat on the edge of the couch, knees together, hands folded on top of them. He looked at the floor. Then at the wall. Then, for one quick second, at Jenny.

He had not meant to look. He had told himself on the drive over that he would keep his eyes down and his mouth shut and get this over with. But the shop was smaller than he had pictured, and the girl was closer than he had pictured, and she was nothing like any woman he had ever stood next to in his life.

Her hair was almost gold. That was the first thing. Blonde the way he had seen blonde in movies, something almost golden, like the inside of a shell. Her eyes were blue. Not a polite blue. A real, bright blue, the kind of blue he had only ever seen in pictures. Her skin was so fair he could see the faint pink of her cheeks where the blood moved under it. She was small, maybe a head shorter than him, but her body was tight and strong and she moved like she knew exactly where her feet were. Her slacks fit close at the hip. The silk blouse shifted when she breathed. He looked away so fast it made his neck hurt.

His heart was moving fast. A warm feeling was crawling up the back of his neck and into his ears. He had never been this close to a white woman in his life. Not once. He had seen them on planes, in airports, across parking lots. He had never been in a room with one, never shaken one’s hand, never been about to ... his mind stuck on the word ... never been about to take his shorts off for one.

He swallowed hard.

Jenny noticed. Of course she noticed. She had seen that look on men for a decade now. The quick flick of the eyes. The sudden interest in the floor. She did not make a thing of it. She just smiled a little to herself and sat down across from him, knees together, hands on her lap, and got into the part of the job she was good at.

“Okay, Selvam. Vanitha told me we’re doing the manzilian package today, plus chest and back. Have you had any kind of waxing before?”

He shook his head. “No.”

“Totally fine. First time for everything, right?” She kept her voice easy. “Let me walk you through it so you know exactly what’s going to happen. No surprises. That’s my rule.”

He nodded.

“So the package is everything from your chest down. We’ll do your chest, your stomach, your back. Then for the lower half we wax the pubic area. That means the hair at the base of your penis, all the way down the shaft, and your balls. Then we do the butt crack. The whole thing, front and back.”

She said it the same way she would have said we do the chest and stomach, because at work those words were just words. Selvam, on the couch, felt his ears go hot. He shifted. His hands gripped a little tighter on his knees. Penis. Shaft. Balls. Butt crack. In the clean clear voice of a young blonde girl sitting three feet away from him.

He nodded without looking up.

“It takes about an hour and a half,” Jenny went on. “I’ll explain each step as we go. If you need me to stop at any point, just say stop. Easy as that. Sound good?”

“Sound good,” Selvam said.

Jenny smiled.

Vanitha, sitting next to him on the couch, squeezed his shoulder once. The kind of squeeze that said, I know, you’re okay.

Jenny stood up and smoothed her slacks.

“Alright. Let’s get you set up.”


Scene 3

Jenny paused at the doorway to the back hall and turned, one hand on the frame.

“Quick thing,” she said. Her voice dropped a little, more private now. “Some of my male clients like it if their wife or a family member comes back and stays in the room. Some prefer privacy. It’s totally up to you, Selvam. Would you like Vanitha to wait out here, or come back with us?”

Selvam opened his mouth. He did not know what the right answer was. Part of him wanted Vanitha back there with him, because she was the only familiar thing in this whole building. Part of him, a louder part, did not want Vanitha back there, because having her watch a young white girl wax the hair from around his cock was more than his heart could hold at once.

Before he could answer, Vanitha answered for him.

“I’ll step out, mama,” she said. She stood up and touched the back of his hand. “You don’t need me hovering. I’m going to run some errands. I’ll be back in a few hours, okay? Jenny will take good care of you.”

He looked at her. She was already reaching for her bag.

“Okay,” he said.

Vanitha leaned in and kissed his cheek, the quick daughter-in-law kind of kiss that anyone watching would read as nothing at all. Her lips brushed his jaw and were gone.

“Be nice to him, Jenny,” she said.

“Promise,” Jenny said.

The bell over the door chimed, and Vanitha was gone. The salon suddenly felt a lot smaller.

“Alright,” Jenny said, tilting her head toward the hall. “This way.”

Selvam stood up. His legs felt stiff. He followed her.

She walked ahead of him down the short hallway, and he tried very hard not to look at her, and he looked at her anyway. He could not help it. The black slacks fit her across the hips and came in at the waist, and above the waistband the silk of her blouse moved with each step. Her ass was small and high and round, and it shifted under the fabric in a way that seemed almost rude for how early in the morning it was. Her shoulders were narrow. Her hair swung just above them. He dragged his eyes up to the ceiling. He looked at a framed photo on the wall. He looked at his own feet.

His heart was loud in his ears.

She opened a door at the end of the hall.

“Here we are.”

The room was smaller than he had expected, and cleaner than he had expected. White walls. Soft yellow light from two lamps in the corners, no harsh overhead glare. A long padded table in the middle, covered with a fresh white sheet, a folded towel at one end. A rolling cart next to it with a pot of something warm, a stack of strips, and a line of small bottles. The air smelled faintly of lavender and something sweeter underneath, like honey. A small speaker on the shelf was playing the same piano from out front, soft enough that it was almost just a hum.

Jenny stepped inside and gestured to the table.

“So, the way this works. I’m going to step out for a minute and let you get ready. When I come back, we’ll start with the chest and the back, the easier stuff, and work our way down. Sound good?”

“Sound good,” he said again. It was the only thing his mouth seemed to know how to say.

She moved to the cart and picked up a folded square of soft white cotton. She turned and held it out to him.

“Okay. So when I leave, you’re going to take off your shirt and your shorts. Underwear too. Everything off. You can use this sheet to cover yourself from the waist down while I’m doing the top half. We’ll work the sheet around as we go, so you’re never more exposed than you need to be. Does that make sense?”

He nodded. He took the folded cotton from her. His fingers almost brushed hers and he pulled his hand back a little too fast.

Jenny did not seem to notice. Or if she did, she did not let it show.

“Great.” She checked the pot on the cart, gave the wax a stir with a wooden stick, then looked back at him with a warm, easy smile. “I‘ll knock before I come back in. Take your time.”

She stepped out and closed the door with a soft click.

Selvam stood in the middle of the room for a second, just breathing.

He looked at the folded sheet in his hand.

He looked at the table.

He looked at the door she had just closed.

A young white woman, the same woman his eyes kept going back to, was on the other side of that door. In a minute she was going to come back in here, and he was going to be lying on this table with the sheet over him, and she was going to lift the sheet, and she was going to see his cock. She was going to put her hands on his cock. She was going to pour warm wax on it and on his balls, and she was going to press strips of cloth over it, and she was going to pull the hair off, and she was going to do it with the same calm voice she had used to say the word shaft out there in the lobby, as if it were nothing.

He had never, in forty-eight years on this earth, been in a situation anything like this.

A thick warmth was moving through him now. Not the clean warmth of exercise. Something slower. It had started at the back of his neck when he had first shaken her hand and now it was in his chest, in his stomach, and lower. He could feel his heart in his throat. He could feel it in his wrists.


He told himself, sternly, the way he used to tell himself when he was a younger man lifting heavier than he should, to get a grip. He was a grown man. This was a job. The girl was a professional. She did this every day. She had probably seen a hundred men today already. She did not care about him. She did not see him the way he was seeing her. He was one client in a long line of clients, and when she pulled the wax off his balls she would be thinking about her lunch.

He told himself all of this. None of it slowed his heart.

He began to unbutton his shirt. His fingers were clumsy. He got the buttons wrong on the second one and had to redo it.

He pulled the shirt off and folded it, because folding it gave him something to do. He set it on the chair in the corner. He hooked his thumbs into his shorts and pushed them down, stepped out of them, folded them too. His underwear went on top. He stood there for a second, naked, in the soft yellow light, with the smell of lavender around him, and he felt absurd and enormous and small all at the same time.

He climbed onto the table. The padding was warm. He unfolded the sheet and laid it across his hips, covering himself from belly button to thigh. He lay back. He stared at the ceiling. The ceiling had one small water stain in the corner.

He closed his eyes.

He waited for the knock.

[Thalaidhoni]

I wish jenny gets impregnated by selvam and delivers an indian baby.

[Ananthukutty]

Awesome one.

This old bastard is really lucky enough as he gets different colors and size of woman. I envy.

Vanitha gives him more experience and make him thankful to her and at the same time use him like a sex toy for her heavy sexual needs.

[adams_masala]

Chapter 54: Selvam gets his balls waxed

Scene 1

Three sharp knocks on the door. Selvam’s whole body jumped on the table.

“Coming in,” Jenny called, and the handle turned before he could answer.

She stepped in with a small rolling tray balanced in her hands, nudging the door shut with her hip. The black slacks moved when she moved. The silk blouse moved when she breathed. Selvam looked at the ceiling and at the water stain and at the lamp and anywhere but at her.

“You doing okay?” she asked.

“Fine,” he said.

“Great.” She set the tray down on the cart and snapped on a pair of thin blue gloves. The latex made a small dry sound against her wrists. “So I’m going to start with your chest and work down to your stomach, then have you flip for your back. All the easy stuff first. Then we’ll do the lower half last. Cool?”

“Cool,” he said, because that was the word she had used.

She smiled at that. He saw it out of the corner of his eye. A small quick smile at the side of her mouth, like he was cute. He felt his ears get hot.

She came up to the side of the table. She was very close now. He could smell the lotion on her arms, something like vanilla and something else, cleaner. Her hair hung forward over her shoulder, pale gold in the soft light, and he could see a few small freckles on her collarbone where the top button of the blouse had come undone or had never been buttoned in the first place. He did not know which. He looked at the ceiling again.

Jenny leaned over the pot of wax and gave it a slow stir with a wooden stick. Her forearm flexed. Her breast pressed against the silk of her blouse when she reached, and the shape of it was right there, small and high and firm, two feet from his face. His heart was loud. He counted the panels of the ceiling. Six panels. Six by eight. Forty-eight.

“Small warning,” she said, lifting the stick out and testing the wax against the inside of her wrist, “it’s going to feel warm when it goes on. Not hot. Just warm. Tell me if it ever feels too hot. Everyone’s skin is different.”

“Okay.”

She painted a stripe of wax across the top of his chest, just below the collarbone. It was warm. Warmer than he expected. She pressed a cloth strip over it with the flat of her hand, smoothed it twice, held the skin taut just above it.

“Big breath in,” she said.

He breathed in.

“Out.”

She ripped. He grunted. The sting was bright and fast, like a slap with teeth.

“Good job.” She was already pressing her palm to the skin, rubbing in a slow circle to pull the heat out. “See? Not so bad.”

It was bad. But he did not want to say so. He nodded at the ceiling.

She worked across his chest in small sections, left to right, then back the other way. Wax, strip, press, pull, palm. Wax, strip, press, pull, palm. The rhythm of it was almost soothing between the rips. Each time she pulled, Selvam flinched, and each time she pressed her palm down after, her hand was warm through the glove and she let it stay for a second longer than he thought she needed to.

He had never in his life been touched by a white woman. Not once. The word kept coming back to him. White. Blonde. White. He kept it in his head like a foreign thing. She was so close. She was so fair. Her hair was almost golden when the light hit it. Her eyes, when they flicked up to check the next patch of skin, were the blue of something in a magazine. Her lips were pink without any paint on them, and she bit the corner of the lower one while she concentrated.

He could feel the warmth moving through his chest. It was not from the wax. It was the same warmth from the lobby, the warmth that had climbed up his neck when she shook his hand. It had gone lower now. It was sitting low in his stomach, and he could feel it pulse with his heart. He told himself to stop. He told himself she was a child, practically. He told himself she was doing her job. None of it worked. His body had decided something and his body was not asking him.

Jenny, for her part, was doing what she always did. She was thinking about the next patch. She was thinking about the angle of the strip. She was thinking about keeping the pressure even. But she had started to notice, somewhere around the third pull, that the chest under her hands was not the chest she usually worked on.

Most of her male clients were soft in the middle. Most of them had a little give under the wax. This one did not. Under the dark hair his skin was tight over real muscle, the kind you got from years of lifting, not weeks. His pec was a solid shelf under her palm. When she pressed the strip down she could feel the ridge of it. When she smoothed her hand across after the pull, the skin came up pink and she could see, suddenly, the cut line of the muscle showing through, sharper with every inch she cleared.

She kept her face still. She had been doing this long enough to keep her face still.

But when she moved to the other side and stretched across his body to reach it, she caught herself noticing the shape of his arm where it rested at his side. The bicep was round and high, corded with veins. His forearm was a rope. His shoulders were wide enough that she had to really reach. She was short and he was long and when she leaned across him her blouse brushed the top of his stomach. She felt the tiny drag of silk on skin. He went stiff under her. Not just his chest. All of him.

She pulled back a half inch.

“Sorry,” she said, automatic. “Almost done with this side.”

“Fine,” he said. His voice had gone low.

She worked down to his stomach. Strip by strip, the hair came off, and with it came the shape of him. The trail of dark fuzz at the center peeled back and underneath was the cut of the muscle she had been feeling through the glove. One square. Two. Three on each side, maybe four if she kept going a little lower, and she would keep going a little lower. His abs were real. Not gym-sculpted real. Working-man real. She had not seen a stomach like this on a forty-eight-year-old, ever.

Her breath came a little short in her chest. She paid attention to it. She made it even again.

She rubbed aloe into the skin with two fingers. The gel was cool and her fingers slipped in it, and she moved them in small circles down from his sternum, over the top ridge of abdomen, over the second, over the third, and the towel at his hips moved a little when she got close to the edge of it because his breathing had gotten deeper. She saw the towel move. She did not say anything. She smoothed one more circle of gel in, right at the line where skin met white cotton, and then she lifted her hand.

“Flip for me,” she said, brisk, and her voice was almost normal. “Back next.”

Selvam rolled. He was grateful for the moment his face was in the padding, where she could not see it.


Scene 2

She worked his back in silence, mostly. A few small comments, a warning before each pull, but none of the chatty patter she had used on the chest. His back was a map of muscle too. Lats that flared out from his spine, a thick band of tbangzius, a small dimple at the base above his shorts line where the white sheet crossed over him. She waxed a Y shape from his shoulders down to his hips and when it was done she stood back for half a second and just looked at him.

Then she caught herself looking.

“Okay, Selvam,” she said. “Flip for me one more time, face up.”

He rolled over, slow. The white sheet stayed mostly where it had been, bunched at his hips and thighs, covering him from the top of the groin to mid-thigh. His chest and stomach, now bare and pink, rose and fell with a quick little rhythm he could not seem to slow down.

Jenny stepped to the side of the table and took a breath. A small one, through her nose. He did not see it.

“So we’re at the part where we go lower,” she said. Her voice was professional. It was the voice. “I’m going to fold the sheet back. You’ll be exposed for the rest of the session. If at any point you need me to stop, or cover you up, or take a break, you just say so. Okay?”

“Okay,” he said.

Her fingers found the top edge of the white cotton. She folded it back in one neat motion, down to the tops of his thighs, and laid it there.

She did not mean to pause. She paused.

His cock lay across the top of his thigh, thick and heavy, not all the way hard but not soft either. The head was wide and the shaft was long and there was a clear vein running the length of the top of it, and it was dark against the pale skin of his hip where the hair used to be at the base. His balls were heavy and low, the sack loose. He was bigger than she had pictured. She had not been picturing. She was not supposed to be picturing. But now she had seen and she could not unsee.

Her eyes went up to his face, out of habit. He was looking at the ceiling. His jaw was tight.

“Okay,” she said to herself. She said it under her breath and he thought she was saying it to him. “Going to start at the base. Fair warning, the skin down here is more sensitive. Going to go slower and use smaller strips.”

“Okay,” Selvam said.

She dipped the stick. She painted a small stripe of warm wax at the very base of his cock, where the shaft met the pubic bone. To do it she had to hold the shaft out of the way. She took him in her left hand, and lifted him gently up and to the side, laying him along the line of his hip bone.

His cock was warm through the thin latex. Heavy. Heavier than most. She felt the pulse in the vein on the top of it beat once under her thumb.

She pressed the strip. Smoothed it. Held the skin tight with two fingers of her right hand. Pulled.

He hissed through his teeth.

“Sorry,” she said, automatic, and rubbed her palm in a small circle at the base of him. Her palm was half on skin and half on the underside of his shaft where she was still holding him out of the way, and she did not move her hand away right away. She smoothed the circle twice. Three times.

Under her hand, his cock twitched.

It was a small twitch. A single pulse. She felt it clearly.

Her cheeks went warm. She watched the pink climb up her own chest in the reflection of the little mirror on the cart and she did not look at it for long.

“Totally normal,” she said, and she said it before he had said anything, which she realized a second later. “Just, the body does what it does. Ignore it.”

“I’m sorry,” Selvam said, in the tone of a man who could not ignore it.

She kept working. A strip to the left of the base. A strip to the right. Each time she had to hold his cock out of the way, and each time she lifted him, he was a little heavier. A little warmer. A little firmer.

By the fifth strip she was not lifting a soft cock. She was lifting a hardening one. She could feel the muscle of it, the way it was starting to fill in her palm, the way the vein on top was pushing up harder against the glove. His shaft was thickening. She had a hand around him and she could feel the girth of him growing in her grip, inch by inch, with every strip she pulled. His cock was no longer just twitching… it stood up, thick and proud, the head flushed a deep, hungry red, a bead of precum gleaming at the tip. Jenny’s eyes darted to it, unable to look away. Her mouth went dry.

Jenny had waxed hundreds of men. Most of them got hard at some point. It was nothing. It was a thing that happened, like a knee jerk. She had a whole calm patter for it. She told them it was normal and they laughed and it was over.

This was not like that.

This cock was not like that.

She became aware, very suddenly, that her own nipples had gone hard under the thin bra. She felt them tight against the nude fabric. She was glad she had worn it. She was also, for one short second, sorry she had.

“This happens all the time,” she said, and her voice came out a little higher than she wanted. She cleared her throat. “Just means the nerves are awake. Which is actually a good sign, it means I‘m not being too rough. So.”

“So,” Selvam said.

She worked on, down the shaft. She had to handle him more now, not less. To wax the sides of the shaft she had to hold him straight up against his stomach with her left hand while she applied strips with her right. Her fingers closed around his girth and she could not quite close them all the way around. She noticed. She did not say she noticed. She noticed.

He was fully hard now. Standing up thick and long in her hand, the head dark and shining where a small bead of clear fluid had gathered at the slit. She was careful not to look at it. She looked at it.

She let his shaft rest in her palm a fraction longer than necessary, feeling the hot, heavy weight of him. The thickness was undeniable… her thumb and fingers couldn’t quite meet. She stroked her thumb unconsciously over the sensitive underside, feeling the pulse of blood and the hardening swell. Her own pulse hammered in her ears.

“Okay,” she said softly, mostly to herself. “Moving to the sack.”

She let his shaft go, gently, and it stayed standing, bobbing once against his belly. She cupped his balls in her left hand, the way she had done on a hundred other men, and she stretched the skin of the sack taut between her thumb and fingers. He was heavy there too. Everything about him was heavy. She painted wax over the stretched skin in a careful sweep, pressed the small strip on, held it, ripped.

He grunted. His stomach muscles jumped. She felt his cock twitch up and hit against the back of her wrist.

“Good,” she said. “You’re good. Almost done with this side.”

She worked each ball. Stretch, paint, press, pull, palm. Her hand kept the weight of him. She kept her face calm. Inside her head, a different voice had started up, one she did not usually hear at work. It was saying, privately, in her own voice, god, he’s hung. It was saying, thick. It was saying, heavy. It was saying, he’s older than my father and he’s in better shape than every guy I’ve ever dated. The voice was not loud. She ignored it. She ignored it the way she had told him to ignore his hard-on, and like his, it did not ignore back.

When the last strip came off the sack, she set the stick down and picked up the tweezers.

“Just a few strays,” she said.

She leaned in close, her breath hot against his skin. With one hand she gripped his shaft, her fingers unable to fully close around his girth, and lifted it against his belly. His cock throbbed against her palm, the veins pulsing visibly beneath the stretched skin. Each time she caught a tiny hair with the tweezers and tugged, his cock jumped in her grip, the swollen head leaking a clear bead of precum that rolled slowly down the underside. Every time his cock jumped, her thumb pressed harder against the sensitive spot just below the head, circling it almost unconsciously. She squeezed him, feeling the hard flesh yield just slightly under her fingers, with each pluck of the tweezers he throbbed and twitched.

Her nipples pressed hard against her bra, so sensitive now she could almost feel the lace scbanging. She clenched her thighs subtly, a distracting ache building between her legs as she watched his cock pulse in her hand. Every pluck of the tweezers made him grunt and throb, and she had to fight the urge to stroke him, to see how much thicker he’d grow in her grip.

Her face was fully pink now. She could feel it in her cheeks and in her ears.

“All strays gone,” she said, finally, and made herself set his shaft down gently against his stomach. It twitched once when she let go, slapping lightly against his skin.

She wiped her gloved fingers on a towel. She did not look up at him.


Scene 3

“Okay, last part,” Jenny said. She sounded almost normal again. Almost. “I need you on all fours for this. Hands and knees on the table. We’ll do the back of your thighs and then the crack last, and then we’re all done.”

Selvam sat up. His cock stood up off his lap, hard and shining, and he had no way to cover it and no sheet left to cover it with. He did not look at her. He rolled forward onto his hands and knees, the padded table creaking under his weight, and he dropped his head between his shoulders and waited.

Jenny did not say anything for a second.

She was looking at his back. The long muscled slope of it, the taper of his waist, the hard round curve of his ass now up in the air in front of her, pale compared to the rest of him because he must have worn shorts in the sun. His balls hung heavy between his thighs. His cock hung down from his body, still fully hard, the head almost touching the table.

She took a breath through her nose.

“Back of the thighs first,” she said.

She worked there for a few minutes, fast strips, quick pulls, and he flinched but did not complain. Her hand kept coming back to smooth aloe into the pink skin. The backs of his thighs were thick and tight. Like the rest of him.

“Okay,” she said. “Crack. Last bit. You can rest your head on your arms if it’s more comfortable.”

He folded his arms under his forehead. His back arched a little lower. His ass went a little higher in the air. He felt like a horse at the vet. He felt like an idiot. He felt, under all of that, unbearably warm.

Jenny put one gloved hand flat on the top of his right cheek and she used the other to gently pull it to the side. Her thumb came very close to the center. She kept her breathing slow. She dipped the stick in the warm pot with her other hand, and when she brought it back she had to reach between his cheeks to paint a careful stripe of wax down the line.

Her knuckle brushed the small puckered skin at the center. She felt it pull tight under her hand.

“Easy,” she said softly.

Selvam breathed out, long, through his mouth into the crook of his arm. He did not trust himself to say anything.

She pressed the small strip. Held his cheek aside. Pulled.

He made a sound, low, into his arms. Not quite a word.

“Sorry, sorry.” She smoothed her palm across the skin in a slow circle. Her fingers kept brushing places they should not have been able to brush, because of the angle, because there was nowhere else for them to go. She told herself that. “One more. Last one.”

She painted the second stripe. Pressed. Pulled.

He jerked. She steadied him with her other hand on the small of his back.

“Done,” she said. “That’s it. You did so good. You can come down.”

He did not come down right away. He needed a second. His cock was still hard underneath him, and he did not want her to see it again when he sat up, even though she had just seen everything he had, had seen parts of him his own wife had never seen, had held him in her hand for longer than was strictly necessary.

Finally he lowered himself. He sat up slow, keeping one leg bent in front of the other, and she had already turned to the cart, giving him a small grace, pretending to organize things.

She came back with a warm wet cloth.

“Going to wipe you down, get rid of any wax residue,” she said. “Then I’ll put some oil on, helps with the sting.”

“Okay,” he said, voice rough.

She ran the cloth over his chest, his stomach, down the insides of his thighs. She was careful. She was thorough. Her hand moved around his cock without touching it, which somehow was worse than if she had touched it. She wiped the tops of his thighs, the crease where his hip met his leg. She had him lift one knee, then the other.

Then she poured oil into her palms and warmed it between her hands and began to work it into his skin. Long slow strokes, up his belly to his chest, across the wide pecs, down the arms. The oil made his skin shine. In the soft yellow light, with no hair anywhere on his torso now, he looked like a statue. Every cut of muscle stood out clean. His abs caught the light in six separate shadows. She rubbed the oil in over each one. Her hand stayed longer than it needed to at the bottom square, above the line where the shaved skin began.

She felt, under her palm, his stomach rise and fall fast. Not from pain.

“You look amazing,” she said. It came out quiet. It came out before she could stop it.

He met her eyes for the first time since she had walked in the room.

She looked back. She did not look away this time. Her cheeks were pink, her lips slightly parted, her blonde hair falling forward along the curve of her jaw. One small strand was stuck to her lip gloss and she did not move it.

She was the first to break it. She turned to the cart, picked up her appointment book, flipped it open, and clicked a pen out of her pocket.

“So. Aftercare.” Her voice had gone back to the professional one, sort of. It was a little thinner than before. “Your skin is going to be sensitive for the next twenty-four hours. No hot showers, no heavy workouts today, no sun. Use the aloe I’m going to send home with you, twice a day.”

He nodded, sitting up now with the sheet pulled back across his lap.

She looked up at him now, her eyes lingering just a moment longer than before—darting down, almost involuntarily, across his freshly bare chest, then lower, pausing for the briefest heartbeat at the sheet dbangd over his lap. When her gaze met his again, the hint of a blush crept higher on her cheeks. She wondered if she’ll ever be able to see his cock again.

“One more thing.” She did not look up from the book. She wrote a time down in ink. “I’ve got an opening tomorrow morning. Ten o’clock. Full body massage. A lot of guys come back the day after a first wax because the skin gets a little tender and a good massage really helps settle it down. I do it myself, it’s part of the aftercare package for new clients.”

She tapped the pen once against the paper.

She looked up.

“Would you like me to book you in?”

Selvam looked at her. The blue eyes. The golden hair. The pink in her cheeks that had not gone down. The small smile at the corner of her mouth that was not quite professional, not anymore.

His heart was going so loud he thought she must be able to hear it across the room.

“Yes,” he said. “Book me.”

Jenny smiled. It was a real smile this time. She wrote his name in neat letters next to the ten o’clock line.

“Great,” she said softly. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Selvam.”

She closed the book.

[Ahimsai Arasan]

Let selvam color his hair and take a retro look. wear western outfits and take a bike/car and go on a long ride with vanitha and fuck her in open, inside car and on bonnet and dance with her in club.

In spite of taking the seeds of selvam inside her, she did not have any fear of getting pregnant is something confusing the readers. At the same time she does not want her husband to release inside her. Is this because she wants to give selvam more than her husband.

She seems to fake orgasms with husband and think about selvam at that time and do the comparisons. Does she really love Ashok?

What it makes her to still continue to live with Ashok. Does she think only then she can keep the affair alive?

[Bigil]

super update

[veeravaibhav]

Nice update

You can add some AI pics to make it more hotty.

[adams_masala]

Thanks!!

[Chitrarassu]

Hot build up with Jenny Anderson. Will there be a one night stand.