Paula the Perfect Pear Ch. 12

When I woke the next morning his side of the bed was empty. I started to roll over, aware of my sore ass and sore pussy when I felt an odd pressure between my legs. When I looked down I saw the two rings were now connected by the tiny padlock. And I had no key.

"Oh shit," was my first thought.

I rolled out of bed, a little gingerly, and went to look.

"Damn," I said out loud, "I look good."

And I did. The two gold rings and the tiny brass padlock made a sort of an arrow pointing at my sex. They showed up, very starkly, against the thick mat of my pubic hair. And I liked it.

So I went in search of nourishment.

On the Keurig machine, I found a Post-it note. "Off to get some background shots."

If he was taking pictures, there was no telling when he'd be back.

So I drank my coffee and called Her Place, a woman's spa I had been to a couple of times when I felt like splurging. Yes, they had an opening that morning so I made the appointment.

I felt naughty and excited all at once as I took a quick shower and headed for my appointment.

At Her Place I was greeted by one of those disgustingly healthy women you see in the gyms. You know, the kind who spend about three hours a day working out and weigh themselves every morning, fretting over a gained pound. We all know THAT kind.

But she was nice and professional. She took my credit card, had me sign a release, and handed me over to a blonde Amazon she introduced as Ingrid.

She put me in a sweatbox like you might have seen in some old black-and-white movie. Hell, I didn't know such things existed in reality.

The temperature in the box had to be about a hundred and thirty degrees and after a half hour, when she let me out, I figured my body temperature was probably around a hundred and two.

She walked me to a pool and pushed me in. I couldn't even scream. The freezing water made my entire body cramp and I sank, scared. Her fingers in my hair pulled me to the surface and I gasped for a breath. She held me like that, my face out of the water, allowing me to breathe while my body uncramped and I could at least start shivering.

After some time she drug me to the edge, helped me stand, and then walked me back to the sweat box where my body temperature was whipsawed back up. I felt lightheaded and a bit nauseous as my temperature returned to normal and passed through to fever level.

I was gasping again when she opened the cabinet and let me out.

She had a piece of paper in her hand, what I assumed was a work order, that she looked at carefully.

Then she said the first words she had spoken since I was handed off to her.

"Wow, you ARE a glutton for punishment, aren't you," she said, "Up on the table then."

I hopped up onto the massage table and laid flat, my face in the hole on the end, and started groaning as she began laying the hot stones up my spine before she began a full body massage. By the time she finished with me on my back and her working each finger individually I was limp. I felt like a sleeping cat as she said "Okay, you're sure about the body hair?"

"Yes," I managed, feeling languid, "Not a hair below my neck."

"Okay," she said, and patted my thigh to have me part my legs.

It felt sensual to the point of sexual as she gently packed very hot wet towels between my legs.

"It won't be so bad if we soften everything up," she said, "But I'm warning you, this is gonna hurt."

I had never been waxed before so I wasn't sure what to expect.

It felt good as she started smoothing the warm wax over my arms and then patting the cloth, it looked kind of like cheesecloth.

"I feel silly," I said, "It's not like I have a lot of body hair."

"Oh, honey," Ingrid said, "You'll be surprised. Not not as hairy as some but you ain't exactly Kojak either."

I giggled and then sort of hummed as she spread the wax over my shoulders and down my breasts. She would smooth the warm wax and then pat the cloth, all the while keeping up the sort of professional chatter you would expect from someone in her line of work.

And it was funny how she drew me out. I know, in my head, that she had practiced her technique. Hell, she had probably attended seminars about it. I giggled as I imagined a breakout session at the Convention of the Professional Masseuses Association headlined "Drawing Out the Reluctant Client."

But it worked.

I told her of David and how he could move things in me I hadn't realized were in me.

I told her of how I had always hated my pear-shaped body but how when David said I was beautiful I believed him for that instant.

She smiled, said, "Oh, honey, I'd kill for your pretty little titties" and then made me yell when she pulled the first strip of cloth from my shoulder down to my elbow.

"And," she added, giggling a little, "For those of you who don't think you have any body hair," and she held the strip of cloth in front of my face. I was amazed at how many fine, almost downy hairs there were in the pale pink wax.

We didn't do much chatting after that. The next half hour consisted of her yanking and me yelling.

She had my front done, all but that ridiculous thatch of my pubic hair, and then she went to work on it.

Well, first she took the hot towels off and flipped the little lock between the two rings he had given me, smiled, and said, "VERY sexy. I can see why you want this bush off. You can barely see the rings."

Then she began smoothing the warm wax and patting the cloth into place.

"Roll over and I'll do your back while this sets up," she said.

So I rolled and she started on my back.

Able to talk again I asked her about the men in her life, which drew a laugh.

"Honey, since I booted an abusive husband out of my house, and I do mean booted," she said, chuckling and patting the cloth into four more strips across my shoulder blades, "there ain't no men in my life."

She caressed my ass and said, "Now a sweet thing like this, though, could probably lead me astray."

I giggled, said, "Thank you, but I'm taken," and let her keep up with what she was doing.

When she spread my cheeks she touched my anus and said, "How about I bleach this honey. You're showing some staining and you might as well keep things pretty and pink for that man that has you so mooney-eyed."

"Sure," I said, and felt her spread my cheeks and prop them open. I couldn't see but it felt like she used a couple of separate pieces, I pictured wooden dowels in my mind, and they held me spread almost painfully.

The gel she spread around my asshole was cold and made the sensitive area tingle. When she penetrated a little with a finger there was a slight burning.

I felt ridiculous as I felt a blush spread across my face and down my chest.

Between the tingling and the burning, it was an uncomfortable few minutes as she spread the warm wax across my shoulders and down my back and the backs of my legs.

As the wax cooled and set, she washed my asshole some more. At first, I could smell something medicinal and assume it was a sort of neutralizer, Then there was a cool, wet washcloth finishing me.

"Clean and pink and tasty," she said, making me giggle.

She finished on my ass with wax and cloth before starting to peel my back.

After another few minutes of pain and yells she patted me on the back and said, "Rest a minute, Paula, We're down to the bad part now."

I had looked at my bush enough times to know what she meant. That thick fur ran well up the crack of my ass, my gluteal cleft if you're interested in the proper nomenclature, and down the tops of the inside of my thighs.

I rested, trying to relax.

"Deep breath," she said.

I sucked in a deep breath and she yanked the first strip.

"JESUS!" I yelled.

She giggled and said, "Lift your head, Paula."

So I did and she laid a very thick, very soft fluffy pillow under my face.

"Scream into this," she said, chuckling, "We don't want to scare off the rest of the customers.

I screamed a LOT over the next 15 minutes.

She pulled the strips off the crack of my ass and then used tweezers on the dozen or so remaining hairs, making me yelp with each sharp pinch.

It was when she had me roll over, though, that things got really bad.

Low on my belly wasn't too bad. Although "too" is a relative term. In that thick hair, she had laid narrow strips on the wax, limiting the damage from each pull. But, again, "limit" is a relative term.

When she pulled the first strip, the one just below my belly button, I screamed into the pillow. Jesus Christ, I was being scalped, or maybe pussied I guess. I can smile about it now but at the time I screamed, and it wasn't just a yell or a protest. It was a scream of pure pain.

And it got worse.

I was ready to give up when she got to my labia. The relatively insensitive skin low on my belly (and, again, "relative" is a relative term) was bad. That sensitive skin of my labia was terrible. And when she started on that already sensitive skin on the inside of my labia it was pure torture.

I wasn't just screaming into the pillow. I was crying.

Jesus, I was being scalped. NO! I was being flayed.

Finally, it was over and I lay there, gasping for breath, trying to get myself under control.

Another few minutes with the tweezers and about seven million yelps from me and she patted my cheek and said, "Okay, done now. Head into the salon."

I was glad I had worn a skirt. I don't think I could have stood slacks and jeans were just unthinkable. Hell, my panties were unthinkable, I just threw them into my purse along with the bra I had worn. My skin was so damn sensitive, the touch of air on my nipples had them so damn hard they hurt.

In the salon part of Her Place I had the full treatment. Some sort of mildly medicinal green glop was smeared on my face, my hands and feet were soaked in warm water, my hair was shampooed and rinsed, and then the real work began.

I went a shade redder with my hair and by the time Madge, the bull dyke hair stylist was done I had a fluffy cap that framed my face rather than the severe style I usually wore. By the time the staff declared me ready to face the world, my face was smooth, my makeup perfect, and my nails scarlet. Looking in that three-sided mirror that seems to magically let you see all the way around, I thought even my caboose looked pretty damn good.

It was early afternoon before I got home. My skin was sensitive from the waxing and my asshole itched from the bleach. I felt sexy and pretty, and was surprised to realize that I felt sexy and pretty. I giggled at the thought that maybe, just maybe, the ugly duckling actually WAS a graceful swan.

In the house, I peeked into the spare bedroom//office/home studio and David was busy on his fancy MacBook Pro, doing something with a darkroom program. He was leaning forward slightly, concentrating. I loved watching him when he was working like that. He looked like a high school student studying for an exam, his face close to the screen, his hand on the computer's mouse busy, kind of muttering to himself as he did things.

"No," he said so softly I could barely hear, "a bit more green I think," and he did something with the cursor and the image on the screen changed subtly.

"You are SO good at that," I said and he jumped a little.

"And you are SO sneaky," he said, turning, "Where have you been?"

"Preparing a surprise for you," I said, giggling.

"Ohhhhhhhh," he said, the vowel drawn out.

"Finish what you're doing," I said, "I'll be right back."

He reached for me but I giggled and went to our bedroom.

In the bedroom, I stripped my clothes off and then got into my "special" drawer. I found the filmy red thing I bought four years ago and never had the courage, or the opportunity to wear.

I worked the red Teddy on. Well, sort of a teddy except there was no crotch panel and it was cut to leave my breasts exposed. There were suspenders for nylons and very thin spaghetti straps. I worked the nylons I had purchased to go with it on, enjoying the feeling of the sheer material on my freshly hairless skin, and hooked them carefully to the suspenders before standing and twisting in that way only a woman can pull off to make sure my seams were ruler-straight.

Satisfied, I stepped into the high-heeled mules, sort of sandals with big fluffy red balls on the strap across the arch of my foot, and then worked my arms into the peignoir that completed the outfit. The material was so sheer you could read a newspaper through it and so light that the whole garment didn't seem to weigh an ounce.

I tied the red bow at my throat and went to the mirror.

"Fuck," I breathed softly.

I was sex incarnate. Jesus, I was all women, all femininity, completely covered and absolutely naked. I exuded sex as I never had before, and I liked it.

Shit, I LOVED it.

I ran my fingers through my hair in that way I had seen Arlene pull off so many times, my left hand brushing back the hair on the right side of my head and then my right hand doing the same on the left. As I moved the peignoir would open, showing my newly smooth, and very pink, pussy.

I looked GOOD.

I made my way into the office where David was busy again, working his magic on the computer.

I struck what I thought was a sexy pose, leaned against the doorframe, my left arm straight up, my right casually at my side, the peignoir slightly open, and cleared my throat with a soft, "Ahem."

He turned, looked, grinned, stood, and said, "Do NOT move."

He grabbed that fancy camera I bought him, did something with one of those memory card things, and then started pointing it at me and clicking away. I always giggled because there was this sound like my old Pentax single lens reflex camera made, very mechanical as mirrors moved and returned to their original location. This new camera was digital and the sound was from a tiny speaker.

And I loved it.

For the next hour, he directed me as he took hundreds, hell, maybe thousands of pictures.

He had me in the front room, "lounging" on the couch, then on the rug on my back and my belly and my knees.

He had me in the kitchen, "cooking," "doing the dishes," "cleaning the floor on all fours."

He had me outside, "tending" to the pool, and "lounging" on the deck.

We wound up in the bedroom where he had me using my vibrator and caught my "cumface," as the vibrator did its work.

I felt pretty. I felt sexy. I felt so perfectly female, so utterly feminine, when he said I was beautiful I believed him.

When he went into the bathroom and came back with my loofah, I wasn't surprised. I was attention-drunk and wanted more. I parted my legs, offering my smooth mons and lips to him, and reveled in the sensation as the stiff bristles of the loofah gently abraded the skin, already sensitive from the waxing.

He used his thumb to lift my clitoral hood, a heavy pad of fat the way my body is made, and used the loofah on my clitoris where it was a hard button, making me cry out as the ecstasy/agony hit new levels.

When he finally stripped and climbed into bed and into me in one quick movement I exploded. The exfoliated skin of my sex was SO sensitive I couldn't breathe. Literally couldn't breathe. I could only catch quick little pants of breath.

I was cumming in waves, crying out his name, screaming, "YES" and "THERE" and other nonsense.

Finally, I came in one last explosion of pleasure and pain, the abraded skin was hurting but the sensations were bliss, and just collapsed, too exhausted to move as he thrust his own completion.

He might have said, "I love you."

He might have called me a fucking whore.

I don't know. I was asleep.