THE HAPPY ENDING BIKINI WAXER

Several years ago, when I lived in Clinton, I had a client--I'll call her Vikki. Vikki came in every month or so for color and wax. She liked to keep her hair "up top" super blonde, and her hair "down below" freshly waxed. I'd call her attractive: she was slender and had obviously been a hottie in high school. But she had now begun showing signs of her age, and she seemed to be resisting as much as she could. She often wore tiny tight dresses that showed off her nice legs and as much cleavage as her breasts would allow. I never judged her, though. The salon was a place free of judgements.

There is a bond that forms between women, especially when it comes to brazilian waxes. I'd set Vikki's color with foil, and then we'd move back to the wax room. Vikki would lay back on the table and hitch up her mini-skirt. The first time it actually shocked me, because she wasn't wearing any panties. She explained that the procedure left her skin feeling a little raw and the cool breeze under her skirt helped sooth it.

Vikki parted her legs, and I began to spread the wax in a downward motion to match the direction of hair growth. Some salons use synthetic wax, but I always like the real stuff: bee's wax. It has a stronger grip, actually, and when it comes time to pull, I want to give my client's a clean strip. Normally, I only do a strip along each edge of the bikini line--that's the area that can get red and bumpy from a razor. But the hair that grows right along the vulva is often not as course, and can be kept clear with a simple razor. Vikki, however, wanted the full treatment. When the wax was set, but still pliable, I'd peel it off. Vikki would cry out in pain, but also with a sigh, as if she really liked the sensation.

When Vikki lay on the table, her legs spread, she alway wanted to talk about sex. She told me about her husband, and their sex life, and how he wasn't very good in bed. "He was mediocre when we started," said Vikki, "and got worse." She would tell me in vivid detail about his inability to please her sexually. There is something about the setting of a salon, and the relationship between hairdresser and client that is confessional. A priest is a figure of authority; an analyst is a clinical professional. But a hairdresser is the peer. Vikki could tell me anything, and I'd listen. I'm a good listener. It comes with the job.

Vikki said that since her husband never gave her oral sex, she stopped giving it to him. Their sex life had completely come to a stand-still. And, she said, her husband had been going to "massage" parlors. She'd found the credit card bills, and make a call to them, questioning the hundreds of dollars each week as fraud. They promised to investigate, and then told her the purchases checked out. Vikki looked up the business name and when she drove by, saw that it was clearly one of those places that offered a lot more than just a massage. "Too bad they don't have those sort of things for women," said Vikki. "It's not fair."

"It's not fair," I said. Agreeing with a customer was always the right answer.

The waxing took about 20 minutes. As I finished up, I'd wipe her with antiseptic to avoid infection, and then powder. She'd have her eyes half open, sort of glazed, and her mouth parted. She looked like she was really enjoying the sensation and she'd let little moans escape her lips. I could see her freshly bare vulva parted, swollen red, and wetness seeping from her and mixing with the powder. I knew that any unprofessional contact with a client could get me fired, and maybe even my license revoked. Still, I knew a woman's responses as I knew my own. Vikki would roll her hips just slightly to my brush strokes. She'd bite her lower lip with her teeth. I knew it was crossing a line, but I secretly enjoyed teasing her. I'd flick my powder brush over her newly bare skin and tell her, "It looks very nice."


After I was done, she'd run a finger down to inspect my work, and say things like, "Ohh, I just love the sensation of a fresh wax" or "oooh, so smooth."

"I need to wash up and get some things ready," I'd say as I gathered my things. "Why don't you meet me back at my station is a sec, ok?"

A few moments later, she'd return, her mini-skirt pulled back down, with a smile and a glow on her face. I could guess that she'd just rubbed out a quick climax in the waxing room. But hey, women came to the salon to relax and feel good about themselves. And as long as she tipped well, and kept coming back, it was all good with me.

I made good money at the salon, but as time went on, rent went up and student loans were coming due. I also had some credit card debt, and it seemed to get bigger each month. I thought about Vikki and her story of her husband, and his big spending at his weekly "massage."

I knew the reputation of massage parlors where businessmen would go on their lunch breaks. I knew the term, "happy endings." I knew women used the salon as their form of relaxation, like pedicures. Vikki used her waxing session to release a little pent up sexual energy. I wondered how far I dared go, if maybe I could help her a long a little? Give her a helping hand, so to speak, and a happy ending? If the massage parlors could triple their tips from leaving clients happy, what hard was there in helping one of my clients?

It would be potentially easy, I figured. Vikki didn't need to be a lesbian or even bisexual. It wasn't about her attraction to me, but simply, my ability to provide an orgasm for her. It seemed my brushing powder on her got her wet and all worked up for her private time. All I needed to do was keep going.

The next time Vikki lay on the table, her legs parted, I simply continued to dab powder, flicking her with the brush, lightly. As usual, her hips would subtlely push up to meet the flicks, her spine arch. Her hands grasp the table. I gently swirlled the brush around, lightly. How a woman likes to be touched. Like a tongue lapping. He clitoris had grown swollen. It stuck out, completely visible with only bare skin around it, like a small, shiny pink pearl.I pretended to let my hand "accidently" graze it. This sent a visible shiver up her back.

I knew I had her. Her eyes were mostly shut, glazed over. She wasn't looking at me at all. It was as if I wasn't even in the room. She was laying on her back, legs wide, her pussy soaking with her own excitement, her clit swollen and ready to be touched. This is the moment of making love when a guy will say something and ruin the mood. He'll ask something obvious and stupid like, "What do you want?"

He should know. She should see her body open, waiting, eager for the touch as Vikki was. I knew no words were needed. I simply continued to swirl the powder brush over Vikki's vulva, and gently touched her clit. A sigh escaped her lips, that I knew meant "yes, continue." With one finger, I began to rub her clit. Now that permission had been granted by both sides, her hips began to thrust upward. With on hand, I continued to rub her spot. With the other, I turned the powder brush in my hand. I didn't use the cheap plastic brushes--I took pride in my work and giving my clients the best. I had always preferred an old-fashioned boar's hair natural bristle brush with a wooden handle. The wooden handle made a nice small dildo that I knew, when pressed upon her opening, would combine the sensation of penetration and clitoral stimulation.

Her wet lips enfolded easily around the head of the brush handle. Just then she reached toward the brush. "Oh no!" I thought. I panicked. I'd gone too far. I'd pushed beyond external teasing to actual sexual penetration. I almost stuttered out my appology, but before I could, I realized her hand was simply guiding my brush lower. As she raised her hips higher off the table, she pointed the brush handle to her freshly waxed anus. Slick with her own juices, the top of it pressed into her flesh. She let out a load moan. "Oooh yeah," she sighed.

She was now wriggling on the table, her hands clutching the table, her hips thrusting upward, trying to take in more than the few inches of the brush handle. With my finger stimulating her clit and the pressure in her back, she began to shake. Her sharpe breath got shorter and shorter and higher and higher ptiched. The she seemed to tense completely, frozen, the expression on her face totally blank, as if seized by her orgasm. Then she collapsed, her whole body going slack. Her eyes still stared at the ceiling as her breath slowed.

I then quietly said what I had always said, "I need to wash up and get some things ready. Why don't you meet me back at my station is a sec, ok?"

Vikki returned a few moments later, as usual, with a glow and a smile. I finished up her color, cut, style, and set teh next appointment. Nothing was said about what had just happened; it was something two women understood. The tip was, as expected, generous. I smiled, thinking of her husband seeing the credit card bill and not being able to do a thing about it.