The Waxing Before My Best Fuck

It wasn't for him. I repeated that to myself as I crossed narrow streets with my bag hanging from my shoulder and my skirt stuck to my thighs in the heat. It wasn't for some stranger from an app. It was for me, for the need to feel my body awake again after too long using it only to work, sleep, and pretend to keep my balance.

I was almost forty, had lived alone for years, and had learned to look like a perfectly organized woman. From the outside, my life was clean, functional, even desirable. Inside, I'd been going through an absurd drought for months—not between my legs, but in my head, in my hunger, in that animal part of me that sometimes shuts down when no one touches it.

I'd met him on an app two nights earlier. His real name doesn't matter; let's say his name was Bruno. He was younger than me, cheeky without going too far, with that blend of lightness and confidence that, at a certain age, stops looking immature and starts looking like a luxury.

He sent me a short voice message, the kind you listen to twice even if you don't want to admit it. He talked to me about bad movies, bars that closed late, and how much he liked women who knew exactly what they wanted. Then he added, with a low laugh: “And if you don't know, I also like figuring it out with my tongue.”

I laughed by myself in the kitchen. Then I got wet.

We arranged to meet that very night. I hadn't surrendered myself to anything spontaneous in so long that simply getting ready already had me worked up. I wanted to do everything right, or at least the way I used to: take a slow shower, moisturize my skin, choose pretty underwear even though no one might get to see it, and stop by a beauty salon because I suddenly thought that, if I was going to open my legs for someone again, I wanted to do it feeling immaculate.

The place was awful. Neither welcoming nor charmingly run-down. Just cheap and tired. At reception, a woman chewed gum without looking at me, and the air smelled of hairspray, reheated wax, and disinfectant. I almost turned around, but I'd already said yes to too many things to back out right then.

The girl who attended to me looked bored with the entire world. She pointed me toward a small cubicle, a narrow table, and a thin towel. “From the waist down,” she said, not a trace of care in her voice. She closed the door and left me alone.

I took off my underwear with an almost adolescent awkwardness. That was the worst part: feeling ridiculous in my own skin, as if I were rehearsing a version of myself that no longer belonged to me. I lay down, spread my legs just enough, and covered myself with the towel while the fan stirred hot, useless air.

When she came back, she said nothing. She dipped the spatula into the wax and began. The first yank drew a huff from me. The second made me clench my fists. By the third, my jaw was tight, my thighs rigid, and a tiny tear had sprung up from pure reflex, not sadness.

To endure it, I thought about Bruno's voice message. About the way he wrote “I'd eat you alive” as if it were a given. About his defined abs beneath a white T-shirt. About the look on his face if he lifted my skirt in a doorway and discovered that I had come prepared, hot, and willing.

The wax burned. The pulling hurt. And even so, something inside me grew wet at the thought of that night.

There was a moment when shame and desire became so thoroughly mixed that I felt a little dizzy. I was there, my pussy raw in front of a stranger with extremely long nails, thinking about the cock of a man I'd never touched. There was something humiliating about the scene. Also something brutally sincere.

When she finished, my groin was burning and my vulva throbbed as if it had been sanded. But I was already there, so I added a pedicure. I wanted to leave that place feeling finished, polished, ready. Maybe it was stupid, but at that moment I clung to it.

I sat down carefully, still sensitive, and as soon as the girl took hold of one of my feet, she noticed the trembling in my legs. She gave me a sideways smile. “You look nervous.”

I looked at her coldly. If she'd known how many fantasies, doubts, and how much heat had brought me to that chair, she wouldn't have smiled like that. Or maybe she would have. Maybe it would have amused her even more.

She went on painting my toenails an almost obscene pink and then, without looking up, said: “By the way, try not to have sex for the next forty-eight hours. You're very irritated. I'm telling you for your own good.”

I didn't know whether to insult her, laugh, or cry. I simply dressed slowly, walking with my legs apart and my pride dragging behind me. I walked out into the street with my pussy burning, my body charged with anticipation, and the feeling that I'd prepared a party for someone who hadn't arrived yet.

I texted Bruno when I got home. I was cautious, even dignified. “If you don't mind, tomorrow or the day after would be better. I'm a little sensitive.”

He took a while to answer. Too long. When he did, it was with a curt, lazy sentence that smelled of disinterest. “Another plan came up. Some other day.”

That “some other day” lasted exactly until he blocked me.

I discovered it two nights later, when I tried to open his profile and it was gone. No picture. No chat. No trace. As if I hadn't torn half my dignity off on a table for an encounter that had never existed. As if all that desire hadn't stayed piled up in my body like a fever with no outlet.

I was furious. With him, obviously. But mostly with myself. For letting myself get my hopes up, for wanting to please, for still reacting like an idiot to a pretty voice message and a promise of young cock.

That night I paced around the penthouse barefoot, wearing a loose T-shirt and nothing underneath. The fan barely moved the air. The irritation had eased a little, just enough for my body to start asking again for what I hadn't been able to give it for two days. I wanted to touch myself and was afraid it might still hurt. I wanted to come out of anger more than tenderness.

And then I thought of Simón.

My ex.

We hadn't seen each other in months. The relationship had ended without shouting or drama, which sometimes hurts more because it leaves no clear enemy. We got along well at a distance. Too well, perhaps. He knew my body like no one else; I knew the way he breathed just before he came, his habit of squeezing my hip when he wanted deeper, the shameless way he would go down and eat my pussy as if it were an unfinished task.

I don't know whether I called him out of loneliness, horniness, or wounded pride. Maybe all three. I sent him a message: “Are you awake?”

He answered in under a minute. “Yes.”

That was enough for me to continue. “I need to see you.”

There was a short pause, and then his reply came. “I'm coming.”

***

He took half an hour. During that time, I didn't put on makeup or try to look like a better version of anything. I just washed my face, drank some water, and sat on the edge of the sofa with my legs spread, aware of the heat between them and the quick pulse in my neck.

When he rang the bell, he came upstairs with the same calmness as always. When I opened the door, he looked at me for a long second, taking me in from head to toe. He was wearing a dark shirt with the sleeves rolled up and smelled of the warm evening air. I was barefoot, wearing that old T-shirt that only half-covered my ass.

“You look like you're about to do something stupid,” he said as he came in.

“I probably already did two days ago.”

He put his keys on the table and waited. That was so like him: not invading, but not backing away either. “Tell me.”

I summed it up without embellishing. The app. The date. The waxing. The forty-eight hours of abstinence ordered by a stranger. The no-show. The blocking. As I spoke, I started getting turned on again, but this time with shame and anger. He listened in silence, wearing that half-smile that wasn't mockery, but recognition.

When I finished, he shook his head. “You got yourself all done up for an asshole who didn't even have the balls to tell you to your face.”

“Basically.”

He took a step closer. “And now you're calling me because you're still horny.”

I looked at him without hiding anything. “Yes.”

“And are you still sensitive?”

I swallowed. “Yes.”

He barely smiled. “Then we'll have to do it properly.”

He didn't kiss me right away. First he brushed a strand of hair away from my face and held my jaw in his hand. That gesture, more than any words, was what finally broke my resistance. He kissed me slowly, opening my mouth with patience, letting me taste the air before sliding his tongue in. I grabbed his shirt and pulled him closer.

The kiss heated up within seconds. I bit his lip. He grabbed my ass beneath my T-shirt and squeezed hard. I moaned against his mouth because at last someone was there with me, taking charge of that accumulated desire that had been hammering at my body for days.

“Tell me how you are,” he murmured in my ear.

“Hot. Pissed off. And wanting you to get this off me.”

He lifted my T-shirt to my breasts and left me naked. I wasn't wearing a bra. His gaze made me feel truly seen, not assessed, not compared. He sucked one nipple with a slow, firm pull while his other hand massaged my waist. I threw my head back and felt a clean lash of pleasure, the kind that makes you think less and breathe more.

He dropped to his knees without any theatrics. He kissed my belly, my hip, the upper part of my thigh. When he was about to move my legs apart, I stopped him with a hand on his shoulder. “I'm still sensitive.”

He looked up. “I'm not going to hurt you.”

He carefully parted my thighs and looked at the freshly waxed skin, still a little red. Even the air brushing against me down there felt like too much. I felt a flicker of shame at exposing myself like that, so groomed for someone else and ending up in front of him, my ex, the man who knew best how to read me.

“Look at me,” he said.

I did.

Then he ran his tongue barely along the inside of my thigh, far from the center, just enough to make me tremble. Another brush. Then another, closer. I gripped the back of the sofa and spread my legs wider on instinct. I was already wet despite the irritation, and that embarrassed me for a second until he smiled.

“So this really was an emergency.”

“Shut up and keep going.”

He chuckled under his breath and finally licked my pussy. He didn't plunge in or crush me clumsily. He began gently, from bottom to top, gathering my wetness with the flat of his tongue. I let out a rough moan. The combination of sensitivity and pleasure was almost too much, as if every nerve ending had been left exposed.

He opened my lips with his fingers and sucked my clitoris carefully, alternating short sucks with slow licks. I writhed. “Fuck... like that...”

“That's what I thought,” he murmured without pulling away.

He kept eating me with the obscene experience of someone who remembered exactly where to insist. Whenever he noticed a spot making me too tense, he eased off. Then he returned. He slipped one finger in very slowly, lubricating it with my own arousal before pushing it inside. I felt it enter and had to exhale hard, but it didn't hurt; on the contrary, my body seemed finally to open.

“Is that good?”

“Yes. Put another one in me.”

He did. His two fingers entered slowly and then began moving with a firm rhythm, curling against that inner wall that makes me see white when someone gets it right. His mouth was still on my clitoris, and the combination left my legs powerless.

“I'm going to make you come right here,” he said.

“Do it.”

It didn't take long. I'd been charged up for days, frustrated, hungry, receptive. When he pressed a little harder with his tongue and kept his fingers pounding exactly where they should, I came trembling, with an open, indecent moan, clutching the sofa as if I were going to fall. He didn't stop until I had finished shaking all over.

He came up, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and kissed me. He gave me the taste of myself, and that turned me on even more. I wasn't thinking about Bruno anymore, or the app, or the humiliation. Only about the hard cock I could feel against my thigh and my fierce desire to get it inside me.

I tore open his shirt buttons. “I want you fucking me now.”

“So polite when they reject you, huh?”

I shot him a sharp look. “Don't fuck with me.”

He smiled, lowered his trousers and underwear. His cock sprang out hard, thick, familiar in a way that made me even wetter. I grabbed it and stroked it a couple of times, feeling its weight and heat in my hand. I lowered my head and took it into my mouth without ceremony.

He let out a breath through his nose and held my hair. I sucked slowly at first, making the tip thoroughly wet, tracing it with my tongue, swallowing it little by little as far as I could without gagging. Then I sped up. I like sucking cock hungrily when I'm truly turned on, and that night I was. I jerked him in time with my mouth, moving up and down and listening as his breathing began to break apart.

“Fuck... at this rate, you won't last five minutes.”

I pulled off for a second and looked at him. “I don't want you to last. I want you to fuck me.”

He gently pushed me down onto the sofa. He lifted my legs and spread them apart. He positioned himself between my thighs and rubbed his cock against my entrance, smearing it with everything I already had spilling out. The friction drew an impatient moan from me.

“Get inside already.”

“Slowly,” he said. “You're sensitive.”

Even so, when he pushed, he did it firmly. I felt the head force its way open, then the thickness, then all of him entering to the hilt in a single controlled thrust that left me gasping. The pleasure came with a small edge of pain from the irritation, but it was the kind of sensation that drove me crazy: intense, concrete, alive.

“Fuck...” I breathed.

He stayed still for a second, buried inside me. “Tell me if I should stop.”

I dug my nails into his forearm. “Don't you dare.”

He began to move. At first, short strokes, testing angles, letting me get used to being filled. Then deeper, more confidently. Each thrust made me bounce against the back of the sofa. It creaked. I spread my legs wider to take him better, feeling his cock slide inside me, withdraw almost to the tip, and plunge back in with a wet smack that began to echo through the living room.

“This is how I wanted you,” he murmured. “Open and begging me for more.”

“Then give it to me.”

He grabbed my thighs and sped up. His pelvis slammed against my ass with a dry, delicious force. I felt him stirring me inside, each penetration brushing the exact spot that made me arch my back. I wasn't moaning prettily anymore; I was panting, swearing, begging him to go deeper and faster like a woman who had accumulated days of hunger.

“Fuck me for real, Simón.”

That turned him on. He lifted me from the sofa and turned me around. I ended up bent over the back, my chest pressed against it and my ass toward him. I heard him spit into his hand and massage my entrance before putting it back inside me. He entered all the way again, and in that position the impact tore a louder cry from me.

“That's it now,” he said through clenched teeth.

He fucked me hard. Without stopping. Holding my hip, setting the pace with long, powerful thrusts that made my thighs slap together. I clung to the sofa while he opened me wider with every push. My skin was sensitive, yes, but my arousal was also blazing, my pussy squeezing his cock as if it wanted to milk his come from him.

“You have no idea how badly I wanted this,” I told him, almost voiceless.

“I do know. You called me trembling.”

I reached one hand between my legs and began rubbing my clitoris. The combination of his cock driving in and out at that brutal rhythm and my fingers working above took me to the edge again within seconds. He noticed from the way I began squeezing him.

“Are you going to come again?”

“Yes... yes... don't stop.”

He leaned over my back, bit my shoulder, and moved my hand away. Then he rubbed me himself, fast and precise, while he kept fucking me without losing the rhythm. That obscene coordination, that way of knowing my body without asking, was what completely undid me.

I came with my legs trembling, my pussy contracting around his cock and a hoarse moan that ended in panting. He swore, gave me a few more deep thrusts, increasingly disordered, and I knew he was close.

He turned me around again so he could look at my face. He was still inside me, sweaty, his jaw tense. “I want to come looking at you.”

I wrapped my legs around him. “Do it.”

He penetrated me with four more dry, complete thrusts, and on the last one he stayed buried to the hilt while he came. I felt him pulse inside me, hot and intense, and the sensation drew a small, satisfied, almost animal moan from me. He closed his eyes for a second and rested his forehead against mine as he finished emptying himself.

We stayed like that, breathing hard. No romance from an advertisement. Just damp skin, weak legs, and a strange, compact peace.

When he pulled out of me, I felt a warm, real emptiness. He collapsed beside me on the sofa. My body was limp, my vulva throbbing, my chest much calmer. There was no humiliation anymore. No blocking. No waiting.

He looked at the ceiling and gave a low laugh. “So the forty-eight hours were more of a guideline.”

I laughed for the first time in days. “Apparently.”

There was a comfortable silence. Then he brushed the back of his fingers over my thigh. “Next time some idiot leaves you like that, don't give him the fantasy. Call me first.”

I thought about it for a second. “Next time, I'd rather not wait until someone leaves me like that.”

He turned his head toward me. “That sounds like you've learned something.”

“It sounds like I'm not waxing myself for some stranger who has no idea what he's missing.”

He smiled. I closed my eyes and let myself sink into the sofa, with the fan turning slowly above us. That night wasn't for him, the guy from the app. Nor for the absurd image I'd built in my head. It was for me, in the end. To reclaim my body, my desire, and that part of me that still knows how to ask for pleasure when it needs it.

And above all, to remember something simple: misdirected desire makes you angry, but desire properly collected can be felt even in the way you sleep afterward.