Plie for me please!

Plie for me please!

So once a month I go to this beautiful lady, who we will call Mrs. Pubescaper.  Pretty and blond is all I notice.  She is very focused and takes long pauses in between our short conversations.

Like today, she says in her usual monotone voice with a dry laugh,”it’s funny you say that.”  To which I quickly reply “What? You mean my eating habit of tuna and crackers?”  Since she had taken such a long pause, I had completely forgotten what part of the conversation she was replying to.  A long five minutes later after pulling three more strips from my redden skin, she replies, “No about the prisoners eating better than you.”  Ahh, I thought, you are ten lines behind in this dialogue.

I guess I should be happy that she is so focused on her job, chooses to be less chatty and concentrate on what she’s doing.  After all, taking care of my lady pubes is a complicated procedure.

I call myself a hairy berry, because as you may have guessed, I’m fuzzy like a Care Bear!

Our monthly visits consist of hot wax, strips and meditation music.

By now, I have memorized which parts hurt the most so that I start flinching as soon as her hands move there before the strip is pulled.

When she sees me shirk prematurely, she does another one of her long pauses and changes her timing.   I guess she doesn’t want me to miss out on experiencing the real flinch with pain and all.

Although I am accustomed to being in the plied position, it still does not make it any easier.  As usual, my thighs are super tight, and I am uncomfortably embarrassed to have all my lady bits out and spread like a cheese platter.  I tell you, it’s a humbling experience!

Then off to the next position we go!  She tells me to “rock into a ball” as if things were not embarrassing enough.  Now she can concentrate on my ‘chocolate starfish’ pubes.

Never one to miss any detail Mrs. Pubescaper finishes off with the great pointy tweezers.  She’s so precise and her face so close to my vagina that I sometimes wonder what she’s thinking.

Most important I always pray that she NEVER pulls the skin.  When this has happened, it’s the ultimate OUCH! moment.

As always my mind goes in a million and one directions when I’m laying on my back with my vagina out.

I wonder, what would happen if I farted? Would she pretend like it didn’t happen and continued with her polite silence and intermittent conversation?  Would her eyebrows flutter from the wind of my flatulence?  Would she pretend like she didn’t smell it?

Thinking about it I should be grateful she doesn’t talk.  I prefer Mrs. Pubescaper to have a laser-like focus on my vagina than to be cut and traumatized by a Chatty Kathy, who can’t control her hand-eye coordination.

Until next month Mrs. Pubescaper! Tootles!

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