Not long ago Miss Ling made arrangements for her younger daughter (age 14) to have her very first pedicure, then informed me that I would be accompanying them to the nearby spa, which offers pedicures and manicures, facials and massage, in addition to waxing. While Miss A was having her feet soaked, Miss Ling began a rapid-fire exchange with several of the spa ladies, including the owner, a very elegant and well-dressed woman in high, high heels. All this talk was in their native tongue, which of course I could not understand.
I did, however, manage to catch one word—“Brazilian.” So it was not a total surprise when Miss Ling turned to explain me that they’d been discussing waxing. Not just for herself, mind you, but for me, as well.
"They will do you,” she said, “for—” And she quoted a local price that equaled about $18. That was a bargain price, Miss Ling said, because she’d explained to the women that I had only light hair growth in my genital area, while hers was much heavier. The higher price for her waxing would be determined once they saw what it looks like. She had told the women that she wanted this done to give us both a fresh look for our wedding. “Of course, I told them that you are always happy to go along with whatever I say, so please turn to the ladies now and bow and nod your head several times.”
I did as told, and the spa ladies all had a good laugh over this.
So, while Miss A’s pedicure was still going on, I followed my ruling wife-to-be into the adjoining waxing room. Miss Ling ordered me to remove my pants and underwear and lie on the table, which was pointed directly toward the door. The door was still open at that point, and there was one other customer just outside, a young woman getting a facial, who obviously could hear everything we were saying—and see inside by simply turning her head.
Off came my pants and underwear, in front of Miss Ling and the waxing technician, an attractive and courteous woman about forty, who was also one of the spa pedicurists. This woman now placed a modesty towel over me before she going over to close the door, but a moment later the towel was whisked away so she could begin working on me.
Miss Ling remained, both to watch and offer occasional assistance, and she and the waxing woman chatted continually. As the woman began trimming my genital hair with scissors, Miss Ling turned to me and said the technician had been asking about my previous waxing experience. Miss Ling had explained that she’d had me waxed once before, during our early courtship, but now that our wedding was coming up, she wanted me done again.
“He will look and feel more naked this way,” she told the technician, “and more under my control.” Miss Ling said she told the woman that I was the type of man who deeply respected women and preferred to be with a type of woman who could exercise firm control. Apparently the technician very much enjoyed hearing all about who was boss and who obeyed in our relationship.
Several times during this conversation, the woman glanced over at me, but never spoke directly to me, only to Miss Ling. Apparently she told Miss Ling that it seemed very obvious that I was a subordinate, and Miss Ling agreed that was very much the case.
Another time during the session the technician left the room, and this time left the door slightly ajar—and didn’t even bother to cover me. Before she returned and closed the door again, two staffers passed by and looked in to see me lying naked with my legs spread.
I must say the technician was an expert waxer. She had no shyness about handling my penis or testicles (though Miss Ling did help out by stretching my testicles when the time came for them to be waxed). After a while, apparently satisfied that I was in capable hands, Miss Ling left to see how her daughter was doing with her pedicure, then returned when it was time to wax the area between the testicles and anus.
Miss Ling then asked the woman if she wanted my legs raised over my head to make the area more accessible. But as the technician said that wasn’t necessary, as she had already instructed me to lift my buttocks off the table and to spread my legs wide. I did, however, get the impression that the woman appreciated the directness of Miss Ling’s question. It showed that Miss Ling definitely wanted all my hair removed. (I learned later that while some local women like to have this area waxed, mostly it’s foreigners who do it. Except for local “ladyboys,” who also have it done frequently.)
All in all, Miss Ling seemed very comfortable allowing the female technician to take control of my private parts for a good half-hour. Once the procedure was finally done, the technician rubbed in a solution to clean the just-waxed areas and another cream to reduce itching. (It worked, as I have had none since.) At this point the woman indicated to Miss Ling that I was finished and could get dressed.
As I started to obey, Miss Ling gave me a sharp look and told me to remain where I was, fully exposed. Then she turned back to the woman and they spoke for several minutes. The woman smiled, then laughed, and finally covered her mouth shyly at what Miss Ling was saying.
Finally Miss Ling turned back to me and told me it was “time to properly thank your Waxer.” I nodded, and bowed formally to the woman, expressing my thanks. Miss Ling shook her head and repeated the word “properly!” in a louder voice, pointing to the floor. So I kneeled at the woman's feet, bowed and thanked her. Again Miss Ling repeated the word “properly!” The woman was just standing still and smiling and watching me as I looked up to Miss Ling. Then I lowered my face to the woman’s pretty, well-pedicured bare feet and kissed both fervently and once more muttered my thanks.
This time Miss Ling approved and instructed me to get dressed. But she admonished me and said that next time I must obey immediately. “Yes,” I answered, “I will obey and I am sorry.” But my apology and promise was not sufficient. Miss Ling informed me I would be punished when we got home.
I think the technician, who was closely observing this, had a pretty good idea of what was going on. But just to be sure, Miss Ling now turned and translated my scolding to her, word for word. The technician nodded and smiled, then smiled at me and pointed to her own feet and politely thanked me for my special thanks.
It was Miss Ling’s turn to be waxed now. She asked me if I wanted to stay and watch, and of course I said “yes!” Actually, I was extremely excited by this prospect, and Miss Ling could see that, I’m sure.
As Miss Ling had mentioned earlier, her own genital hair growth was much more luxuriant than mine, so there was a lot of scissor work to start with. Miss Ling informed the technician that a previous treatment had caused itching in her vagina, and so the area was examined and the problem discussed in detail. This was all pretty hot from my standpoint. Although I couldn’t understand the actual discussion, I could make a pretty educated guess when my lovely bride-to-be spread her lower lips to show the girl precisely where the problem was.
After a while, despite my obvious preference to stay, I was dismissed from the room and told to wait outside and sit next to Miss A and observe how her pedicurist was doing her job. As I left, I heard both females laughing at another comment Miss Ling had just made, obviously relating to me.
Finally Miss Ling came out, announcing that her waxing had cost twenty-five percent more than had mine. Later, after I had paid for both waxings and for Miss A’s pedicure, plus generous tips all around, Miss Ling told me that the technician who’d worked on us was an employee of the shop, but was soon hoping to leave and open her own studio. She and Miss Ling had exchanged phone numbers in order to keep in touch. The idea, Miss Ling told me, was that a waxing every few months would have less complications and aftereffects.
In the lobby, as we waited to go home, Miss A got an earful of information from her mother about my waxing experience, and about my proper and respectful demeanor in the presence of the other women.
Quite an exciting day, all around!