Hot Secrets

Hot Secrets

Five
All-Female Short Stories

By
Gianna
Day

Hot Wax

Hot Rain

Hot Massage

Hot Sweat

Hot Yoga

Fever Streak Press, LLC

By
Gianna
Day

I’
ve
known Melanie for years, but our relationship always existed in the context of
aesthetician and client. She’
s my
waxer
. There’s nothing romantic or stimulating, to me, about hot wax. It hurts, but I suffer through it as a ritual of some weird sort of vanity. And when I’m freshly waxed, it turns my husband on.

The actual act of being waxed is vulnerable and embarrassing. That’
s why I always go
back to Melanie. She put
s
me at ease, let
s me know that there i
s nothing to
be embarrassed about when I’m
stretched out on the table before her, wearing nothing but a tank top, one leg slightly kicked out to give her access. And when she tell
s
me to turn over, when I stick m
y ass up in the air so she can
wax my rear, she ask
s
me about my kids and make
s polite conversation. She i
s an expert
at making me relax when every nerve in my body screams otherwise.

I think Melanie and I understand one another. I have a
husband,
she has an ex-husband. We both have two boys and we talk easily about the craziness of motherhood and life in general. She’s younger than me by a few years, in her
mid-
twenties. She’s slight with light brown hair, freckles and kind eyes.
I’ve always thought of her as shockingly pretty;
our conv
ersation often leaves me aghast
that her dirt
-
bag ex ever stepped out on her.

“How are you?” I ask.

“Great,” she answers. “Come on in.”

We long ago dispensed with the practice of Melanie leaving the room for a moment so that I can undress. She’s going to see it all, anyway. I kick off a pair of flip-flops, unbutton my jeans and slide them down and off with my g-string.

“You’re so Type A,” she says, laughing as I fold the clothes neatly and place them on a wicker bench.

“I know, I can’t help it.”
Left in nothing but a bra and black V-neck, I hop up onto the table and stretch out. It’s so comfortable and life has been so chaotic that I enjoy the simple moment’s rest, even if pain is around the corner.

“It’s good to be Type A,” she says as she lines up her tools of the trade. “No one else has to clean up after you.”

“That’s true.”

“We women have enough to deal with without one more person to clean up after,” she sighs. A lock of hair hangs down by her cheek as she sets to work.

I don’t wince anymore, at least not like I did the first few times. And Melanie is a pro. After each strip, she places her hand on the place she’s waxed. This is what professional aestheticians do. The pressure helps with the shock of pain.
She waxes my unruly nest into a petite little triangle. She’s fast, and I’m grateful.

“Okay, go ahead and flip over,” she says.

This is my least favorite part, but again, she’s fast. She waxes with efficiency and limits the pain.
My ass is done in no time.

“Turn back over.”

I return to my back so she can have one last look, trim any wayward hairs she may have missed. She puts a hand on my thigh.

“Pull this leg out just a bit.” I comply and cock my leg out to the side.
“Just one more little spot.”
She smears a tiny bit of wax at the very top of my slit, presses a waxing strip down, and rips it off. Maybe I wince more than usual. For
some reason, this moment catches
me off guard. She places her hand there, pressure to take away the pain. And her hand lingers.

“Any big plans this summer?” she asks.

“Not really.” Her hand is still there, cupping me as we make conversation. Normally, I stare at the ceiling. Now, my eyes find hers.
She must not realize how long her hand has been pressing on me. I look away, to her delicate collarbone and the pulse in her neck. Her hand remains. I meet her eyes again, so clear and blue and honest.

“Melanie?”

“It’s okay.”

She starts to pull her hand away, and for a second I think I’ve imagined something that wasn’t there, but then she places her hand just a bit higher, resting it below my navel, and she stretches out her thumb, nestling it at the top
of my clit. I haven’t imagined anything. Our eyes are solidl
y locked. I’m holding my breath
.

“It’s okay,” she says again.

I exhale. This isn’t happening. For a thousand reasons, this isn’t happening. I’m married, we’re straight, we’re soccer moms, she’s my
waxer
, she’s my friend. But then she asks me a question and I’ve always been a horrible liar.

“Does that feel good?”

I can’t say yes, because what I need to do is stop this. Her thumb is still in place and my body is beginning to ache for more of her touch. The room is silent. She’s posed a question, waiting for my answer, and I can’t do anything but tell her the truth.

“Yes,” I whisper.

She moves her thumb in slow circles.

“Ye
s,” I repeat. “That feels good. But we should stop.” There’s no conviction in my voice and I don’t know why. I shouldn’t be wavering in the situation. This isn’t me or us or
allowed
.

“Maybe we should stop,” she says softly, “but do you
want
to stop?”

“No,” I admit. “But…” I can’t think of what to say. Words and rational thought have been trumped by a sexual impulse I didn’t know I had.

Her right hand stays, her thumb moving diligently, rhythmically. With her left hand she strokes the inside of my thigh, slow and gentle. This hand
moves up and starts to caress the
freshly waxed lips
of my vagina
. Delicate fingertips trace up and down on either side of my cunt.
It’s a soft tickle, the tingle of want mixed with vulnerability.

“Melanie,” I say. My eyes are closed now, my body conflicted. She hears this in my voice.

“It’s okay,” she says. “It’s just sex.” I open my eyes to look at her. She says it again. “It’s just sex.”

These words change the conflict in my mind, perhaps because I want them to. Suddenly I see the situation not in terms of right or wrong. Questions of loyalty, sexuality and appropriateness disappear, because Melanie’s hands on me are now nothing more than two people enjoying the simple act of touch. My head is light and I’m
not sure if my thoughts have touched on truth or if I’m rationalizing the situation. It occurs to me that it doesn’t matter.

“It’s just sex,”
she says again
. With this repeated phrase
I let myself go completely and open my legs wider for her. She takes a hand away and I’m afraid for a moment that she’s going to stop, but she repositions herself closer in to my body and lowers her head, first pausing in between my knees where she stops to lick tiny circles on the inside of one thigh, then the other. I’m
perfectly exposed and as she moves her head from one thigh to the other, her silky brown hair brushes against me. A chill rushes up my arms and
back,
the nerves in my pussy feel suddenly hyper-sensitive, searching and needi
ng more contact. I’m
wet and the air feels cool on my skin where moisture appears.

Melanie moves in deeper and brings her mouth to hover just an inch away from my clit. I can feel her breath
warming the chill of a moment before
.
Her tongue starts licking outside, so light it’s almost a tickle. I’m gripping the sides of
the table, here in this spa, this place of business, where I can hear women chatting with stylists in a room only feet away. On the floor above us, masseuses work deep tissue and for the first time I question all that goes on there. Melanie adds a little pressure to her tongue, but still hovers on the periphery of where my body begs to be touched. She’s t
easing the climax out of me
.
There’s an ecstasy not just in her touch, but in her pace. Her rhythm is slow and deliberate, her every action telling me that there is no cause for rush or worry or apprehension.
Then she move
s her tongue inside me and up, sucking where her thumb massaged me moments before.
The sight of a woman between my legs is unchartered territory for me, the thrill of a first roller coaster ride, or more appropriately, a first kiss.
I’m trying not to grind my crotch down into her face, holding myself back from grabbing her head and pushing it hard against me.
Her tongue moves strong
on
me
now, while she slips three fingers inside me.
She moves deliberately, how she knows a woman should be touched. It’s too much and not enough all at once. There’s
a lightness
in my chest and I whisper a series of yesses.
I can feel it building, like a light that’s growing inside me. As the force of it grows stronger, the light becomes so hot that I’m burning inside, but Melanie continues on the slow, metered rhythm. It’s the pace of her fingers and tongue moving together that brings me to come with another series of yesses, this time only a whisper of words because my lungs feel hollow, all of
my
energy focused on the few parts of Melanie that are touching the one part of me.
My
cunt spasms and pulses with such force that I have to remind myself to breathe.
With eyes clenched I see an explosion of light behind my eyelids. I can’t help but press myself into her fingers and mouth at the height of my climax, feeling like my body has the strength of the ocean. She laps at me in waves as I shudder, now with lesser force each time.
I come down to a calm and Melanie retreats the way she came in, removing her fingers, retracting her tongue, breathing against me for a moment and watching me.

She backs a step away from the table and I raise myself up, still slightly high from my orgasm.
Melanie dabs at the corners of her mouth, as if just having sipped from a cool glass of water. She busies herself as she does when she finishes waxing me, and I sense she expects me to dress,
then
we’ll say our goodbyes. But I don’t dress, I don’t move, at first.
I stand a foot a
way from her and our eyes lock. Surveying her from head to toe,
and
then settling again on those honest blue eyes, I realize with fresh shock that I have desire for her. Not simply to be touched by her, but to touch
her
, and more so, to
fuck her.
She
looks sad for a moment, but it’s a sadness tempered by relief as I move toward her. We both realize that I’m not ready to leave, not yet.