Wax (a travel tale)

I took a girl to a shop specialising in depilation.

This is a story about something that happened in India, so I guess I should say that “girl” means a woman over 30 with social and economic power. When I was growing up, I was taught always to call any female person over 16 a “woman”. I did for a while, because I like girls and I like women, and for slightly different reasons I want both classes of person to be safe and happy. But as soon as I started fucking, women showed me that they were more pleased with me when I called them girls, whatever they might claim about their preference. (I mean in sexual contexts: not in academia, work, and so on.)

Anyway, this was an Indian girl, who was a woman with institutional power, in ordinary life. She’d shaved her pubic hair for me. So I pretended I was displeased with her efforts. I took her to a depilator, with my finger and thumb pinching her ear, and occasional whacks at her bottom. We taxied through the marketplace, with people looking in to see a girl with her hands on her head and her legs under a blanket. And a man’s hand under the blanket.

The woman who ran the shop knew why I insisted on staying to watch, and knew the girl on her back on the table, with her knees up and spread, was a girl under discipline. If anything it made her more ruthless. 

Afterwards my girl was pleasantly subdued. She said she felt very submissive and service-oriented, and very sensitive. I could make her moan just by blowing on her lips.

Later, I made her scream.  

And later still, talking about her day, she said the woman’s ministrations, waxing and pulling her, being watched by me, knowing that I’d smack her in front of this stranger if she wasn’t cooperative, made her feel “absolutely violated”. 

She said “absolutely violated” three times.

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