“Hold still.” I like how you bite your lower lip, trying not to look, trying not to look away.

“I said, ‘HOLD STILL.’”

I like how the dreamy look disappears. You are all attention. “I am trying, Sir.”

“I know you are. But I do not want to bind you, so you must keep still, do you understand.” You nod your head.

“Good. Now spread those luscious thighs for me. Wider, please.”

Can you appreciate the joy that unfolds between your legs, before my eyes? I wonder. Your lips are slightly folded, to the left. Under my gaze they stir to life. Remarkable, lovely.

“Now,” I say, “comes the hard part. Be brave.”

“Yes.” You pause. “Sir.”

You cannot take your eyes off the tweezers in my hand. I click the tips together. Why, I wonder, does this frighten you more than, say, the strap I used just yesterday on this very same sweet pussy?

Or perhaps it is not fear you feel, but embarrassment. But if so, why? I have clamped these lips, penetrated them, pierced them, teased them , tasted them…

All this trembling, I think, for a simple depilitation.

I proceed with my task.

“Oh!” You turn your head.

“My poor dear, did that hurt?”

“Yes Sir.”

“I know. Can’t be helped…”

(But, you must be thinking, of course it can. A little lather, a razor, or even a waxing. Why this tedious [for me] torment [for you]?)

I have learned that quick pulls of a single follicle scarcely sting at all. So, naturally (for me), I tweeze several at a time, plucking them very slowly.

“Oh,” you say again.

“This was the custom in ancient Egypt,” I remark. “And of course, the odalisques in the harems of Baghdad, of Fez and Beirut…”

“Oh!” And you turn your body slightly, and your hand reaches down. That will not do. I fasten a belt around your middle, and tie your wrists over your head.

“Bad girl.” I consider my options. The flesh is weak, I conclude. Sometimes the will to please is not enough. So I press on. Pluck, pluck, pluck. Like logging a forest. I had allowed this thatch of hair to grow out, an amusing sort of pubic Van Dyke. Now it is time for the harvest.

“As I was saying,” I continue, “this was a monthly ritual for those pampered beauties. I do pamper you, do I not?”

“Yes, Sir, you pamper me.”

The delicate bare skin is now pink. Just a little longer…

The tiny hairs on the insides of the lips are the last. I am careful to pull every one.

Is that a tear in the corner of your eye?

“Done. “

How perfect.

“Open your eyes.” You obey. They narrow at the sight of the cotton ball, the rubbing alcohol.

“Please…”

I soak the cotton and apply the compress. You twist and jerk, your eyes wide open.

“Poor darling, it’s for your own good…”

And while you are shuddering, I press myself into you. All the way. You are dry at first, but a few strokes bring remarkable change.

“Oh,” you say again. Flesh against naked flesh. More naked than naked….

This is a closeness we have not had for some time. A kind of reunion, a return to innocence – or shall I say, to innocence ravished.

You cum for me so sweetly. I withdraw and look at you. You pudenda, alabaster, a work of art – nature’s and mine.

“In a month or so…” I promise.