Page 77 of Bonds of Shame, Bonds of Lust

Janice let out a sharp breath. "Well." A pause that lasted long enough to register. "That's interesting."

She laid down the next strip slower this time. Then pulled sharply. I writhed on the sheets, another broken sound escaping me.

Her fingers stroked my thigh, easy and grounding. "Do you want me to do your outer lips? It'll hurt worse than the rest."

No. Janice. No. I don't—Janice, this is—wait.

But the words didn't come out. The words stayed in the back of my throat where they always stayed. My hips answered for me, lifting just slightly off the bed. Slutty, needy. Who was I? I did want it. I wanted it badly.

I heard her exhale. Quiet. Pleased.

"Good girl," she praised.

The warm wax touched my swollen, slick lips. She could see. She could see everything. She could see how wet I was, how swollen, how completely past whatever line I was supposed to stay behind.

I loved it.

Janice spread the next strip slowly, pressing it down with her warm fingers, repeatedly, until the anticipation was torture. She waited, one second, two, three.

Then she ripped it off.

The pain broke across my raw skin. I shuddered hard, a sharp gasp escaping me as the burn bloomed and sank deeper.

"Well, that part is done," Janice almost whispered.

Relief and an almost crushing disappointment warred for attention. I closed my thighs and started to lower my legs, feeling exposed.

"Thanks," I began, breathy. The word felt absurd as I said it. Thanks, as if Janice had passed me the salt.

Janice's hands settled firmly on my knees.

"Open your legs, Lacey. I need to rub oil on it or it'll itch."

I could have rubbed the oil on myself. I knew that. But the thought barely formed before it dissolved. I said, haltingly, "Janice, I—I think I can do it—" But my legs fell back open almost by themselves. Her hands pushed them wider against negligible resistance.

Her warm, oiled fingers slid over my freshly waxed pubic bone, soothing my burning skin in slow, careful strokes. It felt so good I had to bite my lip to stay quiet. Then her fingers moved lower, gliding over my outer lips, up and down, slick and slow.

I tried not to move.

When her fingertip brushed lightly over my swollen clit, a pulse went through me. My hips twitched. She did it again, circling once, deliberate. Then her finger slid down and parted my wet lips, stroking between them.

Oh God, she fingered me.

"Janice," I breathed, my hand flying down to touch her wrist, not sure if I wanted to stop her or hold her there.

Janice didn't stop. She slid her finger deeper.

Then, after she'd slid it deeper, after the act was already underway and couldn't be undone, she looked up at me. Calm. Her finger still inside me.

My walls closed around her. I felt them do it.

She placed my hand back on the bed beside me. Firm. Without comment.

She curled her finger inside me, finding the place that waited to be found. Slow. Patient. The pressure was specific. Not the bright urgency Ricardo's hands had. The work of a practiced woman who'd been inside many women's bodies and had perfected what worked.

"There you are." Quiet. Not a question.

She leaned down. Her lips brushed the inside of my thigh first. Then higher. Then she kissed the freshly waxed skin at the top of my mound, the place still burning from the strips. The kiss caressed the burn and the burn answered. Same circuit the wax had found.