My Confession: The Esthetician Who Made Me Lose Everything

That Thursday at five in the afternoon, I signed the confidentiality form without reading it. I had been putting off the appointment for three weeks, feeding myself on the idea every night before bed, slipping my hand under my panties while my husband snored beside me and imagining myself spread-legged on a treatment table, with a stranger bent between my thighs. Now that I was standing at the beauty center’s reception desk, all I wanted was either to run away or for them to call me in already.

The place looked like the antechamber of a five-star hotel. Gray polished-concrete floors, cream-colored walls, a jasmine candle burning on a shelf, and, in the background, ambient music that sounded like an expensive elevator. I was thirty-two, married, with two daughters, and for months I had been carrying the feeling that I’d forgotten my own cunt, that my body had become just another piece of furniture in the house.

—Camila, please follow me —the receptionist said. Her lips were painted a discreet red, and she walked as if she were floating—. Mateo will be seeing you today. He’s our specialist in intimate areas.

Specialist in intimate areas. I repeated it mentally as she led me down a dimly lit hallway. Everything in that place seemed designed to make you lower your guard and your panties.

The room was small. A treatment table with a white sheet, a warm light on the ceiling, a cart with instruments, and a chair in the corner. She left a cotton robe on the table and closed the door without making a sound.

I changed slowly. I looked at myself in the full-length mirror beside the door. The robe hung loosely on me and beneath it there was only my skin and the decision to get a full wax. You’re here because you wanted to be. Don’t back out. I sat on the edge of the table with my legs crossed, feeling my cunt already throbbing, hot and wet, waiting for something I still didn’t dare name.

Mateo came in without knocking. When he saw me cross my legs, he gave half a smile, as if he already knew how nervous I was—and how wet.

—Good afternoon, Camila —he said, extending his hand—. I’m Mateo. Is this your first time with hot wax?

—My first time in the intimate area —I answered, and felt stupid as soon as I closed my mouth.

He must have been around forty. Dark hair with a touch of gray at the temples, a clean-shaven jaw, large, clean hands. He wore a black short-sleeved shirt rolled up to the elbows. He smelled citrusy, not like cologne, more like expensive soap. He wasn’t the typical esthetician in a white coat with a catalog smile.

—We’ll take it one step at a time. You’re in charge; I’m here to assist. All right?

I nodded. He asked me to lie back and place my feet in the supports. I did. The robe opened completely, leaving everything exposed to him: my cunt, freshly shaved at home, my swollen lips, my thighs trembling with anticipation. He didn’t look away, but neither did he linger. His gaze was professional, technical. And yet I felt something in my belly contract, and a drop of wetness slide toward my ass.

***

—I’m going to apply a soothing cream before the wax —he explained—. I’ll tell you what I’m doing at every step. If anything makes you uncomfortable, tell me and we’ll stop.

His hands settled on my pubic mound with a firmness I hadn’t expected. The cream was cold. His fingers worked in slow circles, spreading it without unnecessary pressure, without caressing me. And yet every time he brushed the edge of my labia majora, I pressed my toes against the leather of the support.

—Breathe —he said without looking up—. If you tense up, it’ll hurt more.

I breathed. He smelled of lavender and something metallic I couldn’t identify. I closed my eyes.

—I’m starting the wax. It’s warm, not hot.

The first contact was a warm caress spreading across my entire mound. Next came a strip of cloth pressed down with his palm. Then the pull. I sucked in a sharp breath and opened my eyes.

—Good —he said. He wasn’t smiling. He was focused, reading my face as if it were a map.

He applied another layer. Another strip. Another pull. The pain was sharp and vanished within seconds. What didn’t vanish was the sensation that came afterward: a heat traveling down inside me and settling there, throbbing between my legs, an electric tingling rising from my clitoris to my tits. I had never associated pain with that before, and I didn’t know what to do with the information. I felt as if I were flooding myself completely, and that he could see everything.

—Some women become very sensitive with waxing —he commented as he prepared the next strip—. It’s chemical. The skin becomes inflamed and reacts however it can. Don’t be scared if your body surprises you.

—I’m not scared —I lied.

He worked patiently on the outer area. Then the sides. Every time he asked me to open a little wider, I obeyed without thinking. When did I learn to obey like this? The final pull was on the inside of my thigh. I arched involuntarily, and a gasp escaped me that sounded far too much like a moan.

—Done —he murmured—. It’s almost over.

He ran his hand over my freshly waxed skin to check his work. The tip of his finger crossed two centimeters it shouldn’t have crossed and stopped, right over my wet slit. He looked at me from below.

—You’re very wet, Camila.

It wasn’t a reproach. Nor was it a question. It was an observation, spoken in the same voice he’d used to explain the wax. He slid his fingertip between my inner lips, unhurried, and withdrew it shining, a thick thread clinging to his finger. He raised it to face level to examine it in the light. I nearly died of embarrassment and arousal at the same time.

—I’m sorry —I whispered.

—Don’t be. —He straightened and removed his gloves, one after the other, without taking his eyes off me—. Do you want me to finish the session and let you go, or would you rather continue with the soothing massage? It’s optional. You decide.

I swallowed. The room was so quiet that I could hear the hum of the air conditioner. I felt the air on my bare skin, on my open cunt, on my stiff nipples already pushing against the robe. I thought of my husband, my sleeping daughters, the number of times I had dreamed of a moment exactly like this and woken up ashamed, my panties soaked.

—Let’s continue —I said.

***

He poured warm oil into his palm. He rubbed it between both hands to heat it. The first stroke went from my navel downward, without touching the center yet. The second traveled down the inside of my left thigh to my knee. The third did the same on the right. I heard my own breathing as if it belonged to someone else.

—Tell me if you want me to stop —he said.

—Don’t stop.

His oiled hand moved upward and circled the waxed area in increasingly tight circles. When he finally crossed the threshold, he did so with two flat fingers and just the right amount of pressure. He pressed gently between my labia majora, opened them, and traced them from top to bottom. He wasn’t looking for anything specific—not yet. He was mapping my cunt like someone surveying land before invading it.

—Look at me —he ordered.

I looked at him. His eyes were dark brown, almost black beneath that light. He held my gaze while opening my lips with two fingers, exposing my swollen clitoris and the entrance to my cunt, dripping with oil and my own juices. He lowered his face slowly and blew, barely, over my wet flesh. My whole body jerked.

—I want more —I said, my voice breaking on the last syllable.

He stuck out his tongue and gave me one long, flat lick, from the entrance to my cunt all the way to my clitoris. Just one. Then he pulled away to watch my face while I tried not to die. He did it again, this time finishing with the tip of his tongue moving in precise circles over the hood. I closed my thighs instinctively around his head, and he opened them again with his palms, holding them in the supports.

—Stay still —he murmured against my flesh—. Let me work.

He sucked my inner lips one by one, tugging gently with his teeth, sucking them as if they were nipples. Then he slid his whole tongue inside me, fucking me with it, moving in and out with a wet sound that made me blush all the way to my ears. He moved up to my clitoris, caught it between his lips, and sucked it patiently without letting go, while two of his fingers sank back into my cunt.

—Oh, fuck —I gasped—, fuck, fuck, don’t stop.

He curled his fingers upward and found a spot I barely knew and he seemed to know perfectly. He pressed. Released. Pressed again, following the rhythm of his mouth on my clitoris. My hips lifted a couple of inches on their own, and he pushed them back down against the table with his forearm. The combination of his mouth sucking above and his two fingers pounding inside me was methodical, almost clinical, and that was precisely why it dragged me toward orgasm faster than I wanted to admit. I bit my own arm to keep from screaming. When I came, I came all over, silently against the skin of my arm, my body arched over the table, my nails digging into the sheet, my cunt squeezing his fingers in spasms I couldn’t control.

Mateo didn’t move his mouth away. He licked me slowly while I came down, gathering every drop, waiting for the trembling to subside. Then, slowly, he withdrew his fingers and licked his lips without the slightest shame.

—Are you all right? —he asked, his chin shining.

—I’m fine.

—Do you want to stop here?

—No —I said, propping myself up on my elbows—. I want your cock.

***

I kissed him first. I leaned over and kissed him. It wasn’t a storybook kiss: it was clumsy and hungry, with teeth and ragged breathing, with the taste of my own cunt still on his tongue. It took him half a second to respond. When he did, he held the back of my neck with one hand that smelled of oil and me.

—Camila —he said, pulling his mouth back slightly—. If we continue, we continue for real. You won’t just be another client.

—I know. Fuck me now.

He locked the door. He switched off the overhead light, leaving only the lamp in the corner. He returned to the table, pulling his shirt over his head as he went. He had the torso of someone who took care of his body without obsessing over it: defined shoulders, a flat stomach, an old scar above his left hip.

He unbuckled his belt without hurrying. He lowered his pants and underwear in one motion. His cock sprang free, hard and thick, the vein standing out and the head gleaming with pre-cum. My mouth watered without permission.

I climbed down from the table and knelt on the floor before he could say anything. I took his cock in both hands, testing its weight, and put it in my mouth as far as I could. Salty, hot, alive. My tongue worked the crown while my right hand moved up and down the rest, squeezing. He exhaled through his nose and buried his fingers in my hair, not pushing, just holding me.

—That’s it —he murmured—. That’s it, fuck.

I pulled it out with an obscene pop and licked its entire length, from bottom to top, stopping to suck his balls one by one. Then I swallowed him again, this time deeper, until my eyes watered and I arched my throat, trying to take all of him. He endured three, four, five thrusts into my mouth before pulling my head away by the hair.

—Stop. I’ll come if you keep going.

He helped me to my feet. He kissed me again, this time swallowing the taste he himself had left on my tongue. He pressed me against the wall. The tiles were cold against my back. His hand plunged between my legs for a moment, checking with two fingers that I was still dripping, then pulled them out shining and wiped them across my lips so I could suck them clean. I sucked them.

—Turn around —he ordered.

I placed my hands on the wall, arched my back, and stuck out my ass. I felt his chest against my back, his breath in my ear, his left hand parting my thigh. He ran the head of his cock along my entire wet slit, up and down, coating himself. He placed it at the entrance. He pushed slowly, without hurry, letting me feel every inch entering me. I pressed my forehead against the tiles and held my breath as he opened me from within.

—Breathe —he repeated, just as he had with the wax—. If you tense up, it’ll hurt.

I breathed. When he was all the way in, he stayed still for three seconds, his hands on my hips, letting my cunt grow accustomed to having him inside. Then he began to move. He pulled his cock almost all the way out and drove it back in with a single thrust, striking deep with a wet slap of flesh that could be heard throughout the room. His hand traveled up my stomach to one of my breasts and pinched my nipple. The other moved down until it found my clitoris again. He moved inside me the way he had worked with the wax: methodically, attentively, without putting on a show. And that was exactly what was destroying me.

—Harder —I begged—. Break me.

He sped up. His thrusts became more brutal, deeper, his hips slapping against my ass with a wet smack. I pushed backward to meet him, fucking him too, gripping the wall so I wouldn’t fall.

—Look at yourself —he whispered, turning my face slightly toward the mirror on the side wall.

I saw myself. I saw myself with my mouth open, my hair stuck to my temples, my eyes shining, my tits hanging and shaking with every thrust. I saw a man who wasn’t my husband entering me from behind, his cock shining with my fluids as it moved in and out of a mother’s cunt, biting my shoulder. And I smiled, something it would take me many days to forgive myself for.

—There —I said—. Right there. Fuck me there, don’t stop.

His free hand closed around my hip, his fingers digging in. The other continued playing in a precise circle over my clitoris, pressing harder and harder as he accelerated his thrusts. I came for the second time with a jolt that nearly sent me to the floor, squeezing his cock with my cunt in long spasms, moaning against the tiles.

He held me. He pulled out with an obscene sound, turned me around, lifted me by the waist, and sat me on the treatment table. He shoved my legs open, positioned himself between them, and slammed back inside me. He wanted to see me. I wanted him to see me.

I gripped his shoulders and wrapped my legs around his waist. He fucked me standing up, looking into my eyes, his hands on my ass, pressing me against his body with every thrust. He bent down and sucked one nipple, then the other, without stopping his movements inside me. I bit his neck. I begged him to fuck me harder. I whispered filthy things in his ear that I hadn’t believed myself capable of saying. I told him to come inside me. I told him to come wherever he wanted. I told him anything, as long as he didn’t stop.

—Outside —he gasped—. I can’t come inside.

—Outside —I repeated.

He pulled his cock out at the last second, gripped himself with his hand, and came in spurts over my stomach, between my tits, and up to my neck. A groan clenched between his teeth. Warm semen ran down my sides. He stayed like that for a few seconds, his forehead resting against mine, breathing as if he’d been running, his cock still dripping over my freshly waxed mound.

Then he went to the cart, soaked a cloth in warm water, and cleaned me with the same delicacy with which he had applied the cream at the beginning. He cleaned my stomach, between my tits, my neck. He opened my legs again and carefully cleaned my cunt with different cloths, never taking his eyes off me.

***

I dressed in silence. So did he. We didn’t say anything until I had my purse in my hand and the door was half open.

—Camila.

—Yes?

—Do you want to book your next session?

I thought about it for three seconds. I thought of my husband. I thought of the girls. I thought of the woman I had been that very morning, having breakfast with them, and the woman who was about to cross the beauty center’s hallway with her legs still trembling and her panties stuck to her swollen cunt.

—Yes —I said—. Book it.

And I walked out into the street as if nothing had happened, even though I knew something inside me had just split in two.