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(This post was last modified: 5 hours ago by adams_masala. Edited 1 time in total. Edited 1 time in total.)
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.
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.
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