Still, I stuff down all my irritation and let the driver take me to a posh spa on Walton Street.
It’s not so bad to begin with. Callum really did book the works. The aestheticians soak my feet and paint my fingers and toes. They have me sit in a giant mud bath with a completely different sort of mud plastered all over my face. Then they put some conditioning wrap on my hair, and after that’s all had time to seep in, they wash it off, then oil me up like a Thanksgiving turkey. They cover me in hot stones, then take them off again and start rubbing and pummeling every inch of my body.
Since I don’t give a fig about being naked, this is my favorite part. I’ve got two ladies with their four hands all over me, rubbing and massaging and working out every last stress-induced muscle knot that’s burrowed its way into my neck, my back, even my arms and legs. Seeing as Callum is the one who initiated that stress in the first place, I guess it’s only fitting that he should pay to have it rubbed out again.
It’s so delightfully relaxing that I start to fall asleep, lulled by the women’s hands on my skin, and the faux ocean sounds being pumped through the speakers.
I wake up to blinding pain in the crotch region. The aesthetician stands over me, holding a waxing strip bearing the little hairs that used to be attached to my body.
“What the fuck?” I shriek.
“It can sting a little,” she says in a completely unsympathetic tone.
I look down at my lady bits, which are now completely bald on the left side.
“What the hell are you doing?” I shout at her.
“Your Brazilian,” she says, slapping another wax strip down on the right side.
“Hey!” I smack her hand away. “I don’t want a fucking Brazilian! I don’t want to be waxed at all.”
“Well, it was on the service list,” she picks up her clipboard and hands it to me, like that’s going to ease the burning fire on the newly bald and horribly sensitive parts of my groin.
“I didn’t set the damn service list!” I shout, tossing down the clipboard. “And I don’t want you practicing your torture techniques on my crotch.”
“The wax is already set,” she says, pointing to the strip she just slapped down. “It has to come off, one way or another.”
I try to pry up the edge of the cloth strip, but she’s right. It’s already good and adhered to what little hair I had left. The aesthetician looks down at me with zero sympathy in her cool blue eyes. I think these women get off on inflicting pain. I could easily see her swapping out her white smock for a leather corset and riding crop.
“Get it off, then,” I say grumpily.
With one quick jerk, the aesthetician rips off t
he strip, leaving another stripe of smooth pink skin.
I shriek and let out a string of expletives, some English and some Italian. The aesthetician doesn’t even flinch. I’m sure she’s heard it all.
“Alright, that’s enough!” I say.
“You can’t leave it like that,” she says, wrinkling her nose.
Cazzo! I’ve got about two-thirds of my pussy waxed, with little patches of hair in odd places. It does look fucking awful. I don’t care for Callum’s sake, but I don’t want to have to look at that for weeks until it grows out again.
I can’t fucking believe his nerve, booking a bikini wax along with everything else. He thinks he owns my pussy already? He thinks he gets to decide how it looks?
I should wait until he’s sleeping, then slap hot wax on his balls. Give him a taste of his own medicine.
Grimly, I say, “Fine. Finish it off.”
It takes three more strips and a whole lot more swearing to get off the remaining hair. When they’re finished, I’m completely bald, the cool air touching me as it never has before.
It’s fucking humiliating. It’s . . . whatever the feminine version of “emasculating” would be. I’m like Sampson. Callum stole my hair and stripped me of my power.
I’m going to get back at him for this, that conniving, perverted fuck. He thinks he can wax my pussy without consent? He doesn’t even know what he’s starting.
The aestheticians go back to massaging me, but I’m fucking fuming.
I’m already planning all the ways I’m going to make Callum’s life a living hell.