The Eight O’Clock Client Changed Me Forever

At six in the evening, Marina called Andrés, her husband, to let him know she would be getting home later than usual that night. A new client had insisted on booking an appointment right at closing time, and she, against her better judgment, had agreed. The voice on the other end of the phone spoke impeccable Spanish, but with an enveloping, soft accent that betrayed a distant origin. Perhaps from North Africa. Perhaps from the south of France. Marina hadn’t been able to tell.

—Don’t wait for me for dinner —she told Andrés—. We’ll eat when I get there.

—Late again? —he asked, without reproach, only tired.

—The last one of the week. I promise.

She hung up and stared at the phone screen for a few seconds. The salon was calm. The regular clients had all come through earlier than usual, one after another, and by seven her hands were free. If the Frenchwoman, or whatever she was, had shown up then, Marina would already have been home. But the appointment was at ten to eight, and there was almost an hour to go.

Marina poured herself some tea and settled into the waiting-room armchair with the book in her hands. It was a novel that had been sweeping through that summer, a story of submission and desire that her sister-in-law had lent her with laughter and warnings. She had opened it out of curiosity and now couldn’t put it down. Those pages lit something in her she couldn’t name, a current that ran down through her belly every time the protagonist spoke in that slow, authoritative voice she imagined in her head.

She was five chapters in when the intercom buzzed.

It took her a moment to return to reality. When she did, she realized her nipples were outlined beneath the white fabric of her robe and that the black lace thong was clinging to her between her thighs. She muttered an oath under her breath. The voice on the intercom confirmed it: yes, it was her, she was already in the building lobby. Marina pressed the button and ran to the bathroom to splash cold water on her face, her neck, and between her breasts.

When the door to the salon opened, everything Marina had imagined fell short.

The woman was almost five foot nine. Her black, shiny hair was pulled back into a low ponytail, leaving her long dancer’s neck exposed. Her eyes were dark, huge, with a metallic glint that seemed to look straight inside. The cream silk blouse, unbuttoned just enough, revealed a neckline that made no promises but had presence. She was not a vulgar beauty. She was a studied, deliberate beauty, as if every gesture of hers had been rehearsed in front of a mirror for years.

—I’m Yasmine —she said, extending a hand with soft skin and long fingers—. I’m very sorry about the hour. My flight from Beirut was delayed.

Marina took a second too long to let go of it.

—Don’t worry. Come in, please. What exactly do you need?

—A full Brazilian wax. I have a commitment tonight and I need to be perfect.

The sentence hung there for a moment. Marina didn’t know whether it was the word “perfect” or the way Yasmine pronounced it, looking at her without blinking.

***

—Come through to the treatment room —Marina said, recovering her professional tone—. Take off everything from the waist down, lie on your back, cover yourself with the towel, and let me know when you’re ready.

While she prepared the wax and applicators on the counter, she saw in the mirror at the back how Yasmine removed her skirt with calculated slowness. There was no hurry in her movements. No shame, either. When she was left only in the silk blouse and a burgundy lace thong, she turned briefly toward the mirror, as if she knew perfectly well that Marina was watching her.

—Ready —she said from the treatment table.

Marina took a deep breath before going in. Yasmine was lying on her back, still wearing the blouse, open down to the navel. The towel barely covered her hips. Beneath it, a triangle of dark, carefully tended hair showed through, still thick. The scent of her perfume filled the room.

—I’m going to trim first —Marina explained, taking the scissors—. Then I’ll apply the wax. Let me know if anything bothers you.

—Nothing’s going to bother me —Yasmine replied, not moving a muscle in her face.

Marina worked in silence. The sound of the scissors was the only thing to be heard, apart from the client’s measured breathing. When she finished, she set the tool aside and picked up the wooden spatula to spread the hot wax over the mound of Venus. Yasmine let out a short, almost imperceptible sigh as soon as she felt the heat.

—Are you all right? —Marina asked out of habit.

—I’m more than all right.

The voice came out deep, low, almost a whisper. Marina felt the hair on her arm stand on end and prayed the client wouldn’t notice.

She applied the strip of cloth and, without warning, pulled. Yasmine let out a sound that was anything but professional. Marina froze with the strip in her hand.

—Keep going —the other woman said, opening her eyes for a moment to look at her—. Don’t stop because of that.

The second pull was longer, deeper. The reaction was, too. Marina was no longer able to pretend this was a normal session. Her own breathing had quickened, her thighs had pressed together instinctively beneath her robe. She could feel dampness growing between her legs with every movement of her hands over Yasmine’s skin.

***

—Now I need you to spread your legs —Marina said, her voice a little hoarse—. I have to work on the inner area.

Yasmine opened them without hesitation. Not timidly, not in resignation. She opened them like someone offering something she knew would be taken.

Marina looked at her for a second too long. The client’s vulva, now exposed, looked like a drawing. The inner lips peeked delicately between the outer ones, already glossy from Yasmine’s own wetness. The clitoris, small but clearly swollen, pulsed visibly under the salon’s white light.

—Apply the wax —said Yasmine, without opening her eyes.

Marina obeyed. When the esthetician’s fingers brushed the inner fold of the thigh, she felt the other woman press her lips together and inhale sharply. She spread the wax over the outer lips, asked her to protect herself with her hand, and pulled. Yasmine answered with a sound without restraint, as if she were actually enjoying the pain.

Marina set the strip on the table and stood still, her fingers just a centimeter from the client’s bare skin.

—Finish —murmured Yasmine.

Marina ran her fingers along the inner thigh, slowly, in a caress that had nothing professional left in it. Yasmine caught her wrist with gentle firmness and guided her hand upward, until her fingers were resting just at the entrance to her sex. Marina closed her eyes.

—If you don’t want to —Yasmine said—, stop now.

But Marina didn’t stop.

She leaned over the treatment table and placed the first kiss on the inner thigh, near, very near, but not there yet. Yasmine let out a deep breath, put a hand on the back of Marina’s neck, and pushed her very slowly toward where she wanted her. When Marina’s tongue made the first contact, both of them felt the shiver at the same time.

***

Marina had never been with a woman. She had never even seriously thought about it. She had read about it in novels, imagined it sometimes before falling asleep, but always as something distant, one of those things people promise themselves they’ll try someday and never do.

And now, with her face buried between a stranger’s thighs, she discovered that she knew perfectly well what to do. Her tongue moved on its own, slow and steady, tracing the perineum first, then slowly moving up over the lips, pausing at the clitoris to envelop it completely and then release it again. Yasmine propped herself up on her elbows to watch her. She ran her free hand through her hair, stroked her neck, set the rhythm without forcing it.

—Slowly —she whispered—. Don’t rush.

Marina obeyed. She traced every centimeter as if she had hours, as if all the time in the world fit inside that room smelling of hot wax and unfamiliar perfume. When Yasmine began to tremble, Marina felt it in her thighs before she heard it. Her legs tightened, her feet stretched, her fingers clutched the edge of the table. She gave a hoarse, deep cry, and then a whisper in French that Marina didn’t fully understand.

—La petite mort —Yasmine translated a moment later, still out of breath—. That’s what we call it.

Marina slowly sat up, her lips still shining. Yasmine sat on the treatment table, wrapped both hands around her neck, and kissed her. It was a long kiss, unhurried, in which the other woman tasted her own flavor in Marina’s mouth without the slightest shame.

—Now it’s my turn —she said.

Button by button, she unfastened Marina’s white robe. Marina felt the cold air of the salon touch her skin and got goosebumps all over. Underneath she wasn’t wearing a bra, only the black lace thong that was now completely soaked. Yasmine looked at her for a moment without touching her.

—You’re beautiful —she said, and said it without flirtation, like someone stating a fact.

She led Marina by the wrist to the black leather sofa in the waiting room. She sat her down. She knelt between her knees. She removed the thong with two fingers, slowly, sliding it down her legs until it lay on the floor.

***

Marina sank back against the sofa and closed her eyes. Yasmine’s tongue was different from hers: more assured, more experienced, more calculated. She knew exactly when to press and when to withdraw, when to lick deeply and when to barely graze. Marina felt a sound escape her that she had never made, not even with Andrés at their best.

—Don’t hold back —said Yasmine, lifting her head for a second—. Not here.

Marina stopped holding back. She clutched the other woman’s black hair, moved her hips to set the rhythm, begged wordlessly for her not to stop. When she came, she came with a cry that hung in that empty salon for several seconds.

Yasmine sat up. She sat down beside her on the sofa. She took Marina’s legs and crossed them with her own, leaving the two sexs facing each other. It was a position Marina didn’t know, but the body understood immediately.

They rubbed slowly at first, then with more insistence. Yasmine set the pace, just as she had for everything else. Marina stared into her eyes without blinking. When she came a second time, she did it clinging to Yasmine’s hands, feeling the other woman come too, almost at the same time, swallowing the cry in her mouth with a kiss.

***

When it was all over, they stayed on the sofa for a while, catching their breath. Yasmine was looking at her with the hint of a smile, as if she knew something Marina still hadn’t fully processed.

They dressed in silence. They fixed their hair in front of the mirror at the back. When it came time to pay, Marina shook her head.

—No —she said—. Not tonight.

Yasmine didn’t insist. She left a long kiss at the corner of Marina’s lips and walked to the door without looking back. Marina heard the click of the building entrance locking below and remained alone in the middle of the salon, with the scent of perfume still floating in the air.

***

When she got home, Andrés was asleep on the sofa with the television on. Marina stroked his head to wake him. They ate in silence. Then, in bed, they made love as always, with the same tenderness of the last ten years.

But something had changed.

She couldn’t say exactly what. Only that while Andrés moved over her, Marina closed her eyes and saw an unfamiliar mouth, a tongue that moved slowly, dark eyes looking up at her without blinking.

And she knew, without needing to think about it too much, that nothing would ever taste the same again.