I feel the sharp pang of disappointment as I realize that my own psyche has left me stranded on the floor, bereft of the means and energy to scale the soaring walls of delight that I was so close to conquering moments ago. I weaken as the rush of passion ebbs and the soft focus of arousal fades, replaced by the harsh glare of the fluorescent bulb above me and the coarse rub of the nylon rug beneath me.

Also, I sadly conclude that my pubic artwork has fallen short of the erotic masterpiece I was aiming for. I sit embarrassed and exposed in front of the mirror, the missed hairs suddenly more prominent and seeming to grow like grass in time-lapse while I watch. I am concerned about what he will think and say when he comes back from his trip. By then, sharp little twigs will be sprouting throughout my nether region and I will be scratching myself to relieve the constant accompanying itch.

‘What were you thinking?’ I chastise myself and scowl at the cloak that my clit has nervously slunk back into. ‘Carpe diem indeed.’

With a start, I stand and stride to my room where I quickly open multiple drawers of my dresser and pick out the components of an outfit that will suffice for the rest of the afternoon. I step into a pair of opaque blue panties and am reminded by the grating fabric that my depilatory maneuvers were inadequate to the task. I place my breasts into the cups of a front-clasping matching bra and quickly evaluate the ensemble before sitting on the bed to pull my blue jeans up my legs and past my knees. Standing up, I wriggle the jeans over my thighs and then jump a little to secure them around my hips at which time I close the dull gold buttons that run up the front seam and serve as the first line of defense to my sex.

Quickly, I pull a gray sweatshirt stenciled with navy blue ‘Grand Canyon’ lettering over my head and wrench it down to my waist. I tug a pair of light wool socks over my feet and patter over to the hallway where my ten pairs of boots and sneakers lay randomly strewn across the floor of the closet. Pondering the sight, I reach down and rescue my favorite pale gray light hiking boots from the chaos, pull them on and lace them up. I grab my keys, strap on a waist purse, flick off the lights and walk out of the apartment. I listen for the reassuring click when I turn the two deadbolts after I close the door.

I walk to the elevator, my Vibram soles padding silently on the thin mottled blue runner that stretches along the middle of the scratched parquet floor of the hallway. I press the ‘down’ button and notice as it goes from white to red and then back to white when the ‘ping’ announcing the cab’s arrival breaks the musty quiet around me. Pausing for effect, the elevator doors finally glide open and I glance in and see three other people.

I make a quick assessment as I step into the cab and mutter a soft, ‘Hi’.

Two men and a woman. The men are friends. Not boyfriends, I don’t think. Buddies. Perhaps roommates. They are clearly going out to enjoy the afternoon. One is cute; tall with sharp Grecian facial features and dark tightly curled hair. He shoots me a look, instantly surveys me and with an appreciative smile returns my greeting with a soundless whisper.

The other man is less attractive. He is softer all over and has the look of a person who considers themself ordinary. He exudes a lack of self-confidence and does not even bother to regard me.

Do they know her? It is hard to say because they aren’t talking amongst each other.

But, if they don’t I bet they wish they did because she is stunning. Even my momentary glance is sufficient to see that she is beautiful: close-cropped blonde hair, high cheekbones, blue eyes, pouty lips and a killer body. She is a goddess and I hate her without knowing her. Yet, I am instantly attracted to her and though I have never been with a woman I feel an immediate and pleasantly familiar tingle in my breasts.

I swiftly realize that she actually is of this world. She is going to the laundry and I dully remember that I too need to spend some quality time in that room, wrapped in its mesmerizing bubble of heat while I listen to the monotonous whir that pervades the space. The thought depresses me.

I dutifully turn to face the door and raise my head to watch the numbers decline in time with the movement of the elevator. When we reach the ground floor I step out first and glance back and see the woman press the button to go to the basement as the two men step out after me. I hear one of them burst out in laughter and I wonder if there is something about me that has caused amusement. Am I trailing toilet paper from a shoe? Do I have a hole in my jeans? Does my ass look big?

I pick up my pace and move away from the guffawing behind me. I walk past the doorman who has moved to open the door, step out onto the sidewalk and walk away. I turn back and, with relief, see the men striding in the opposite direction.

Relaxing, I finally take in a deep breath and look up at the sky. Spring, with its mercurial temper, is here. The sun is fighting heavy clouds and the air is crisp yet heavy with moisture. I shiver. The day is undecided about its future and I know that I have risked being caught in a downpour if the grey marshmallows coalescing above the city begin to weep.

Thankfully, it is just a few blocks to my destination. I skitter down the street past the familiar shops, weaving my way through the mass of people who are going about their business. I reach the shop and peer inside to see that there are no other patrons in the small public space. I open the door and hear the jingle announcing my arrival to the proprietor who is hidden in a back room. I venture in and my nostrils are assaulted by the smell of acetone that permeates the close quarters of the shop.

“Just a second.” an accented voice calls out. As she steps into the front area of the store, the owner looks me over and says “I thought I put out ‘closed’ sign. I taking late lunch break.”

I think to myself that she is from Eastern Europe or Russia but I am not sure.

“I’m so sorry.” I reply. “I can come back later.”

“No, is okay. You stay. I turn sign now.” And she walks past me to the door and flips the worn cardboard sign from ‘open’ to ‘closed’ and, I notice, flips the lock on the door.

It is my turn to look at her. She is an attractive woman who I think is about the same age as me and is blessed with silky shoulder-length black hair that shines as though it were recently burnished. Her look is exotic; piercing gray eyes centered in sockets that approach oval and wide cheekbones that seem to stretch her round face. She is tall and her broad chest enables her to transport the ample pair of breasts that bounce beneath her loose t-shirt when she walks. She is wearing a short skirt with sheer leggings that accentuate her firm and muscular thighs. She has the appearance of an athlete and carries herself with authority.

“So,” she says turning to look at me, “How can I help you?”

I feel myself blush as I point to the sign with her services and say “I would like to get that.”

“Yes?” she questions. “Is first time?” she continues and I nod my assent realizing the rush of blood to my cheeks has not faded.

“Come to back.” she says and sweeps her arm towards the room that lies hidden behind some floor length curtains. “Look at book.”

I follow her to the cramped space behind the curtains and sit in the chair that rests besides the elevated leather and towel covered board that I will soon find myself on. She hands me a photo album and then stands back against the wall and begins to prepare the materials that she will need for the procedure.

I open the cover of the album and feel a trill of excitement run through my body. I do a quick flip through the pages astounded at the variety, the shapes, the sizes, the designs that stare back at me. I turn back to the first page as I feel myself moisten and realize my nipples have swelled.

Pussies. I am looking at a book of pussies. Adorning each one is a work of art minimally comprised of shaven and sculpted pubic hair. The variety astounds me. Of course, there are the designs I had expected to see, the familiar patterns ubiquitous in porn movies or occasionally glimpsed in the public shower at the gym. With a hand covering my open mouth, I read the titles beneath the photos: landing strip, triangle, flame, departing sea, rated x. I turn the pages and see arrows, lightning bolts, diamonds, beards, moustaches, cityscapes, faces, initials, chevrons and jeweled labia beneath thin lines of hair. The assortment seems endless.

I imagine myself sporting each design as I gaze at a photo. I am strutting into a room with just a t-shirt covering my jiggling breasts while my lithe legs draw attention to the small fluffy cone sprouting from the very top of my pussy. I am laying on my back looking down as a man’s tongue works its way along my thigh to the open pit that rests beneath the slim pointed arrow of closely cropped turf that points to my engorged button. I am lowering my totally naked twat onto the gleaming head of a massive erection that is swelling as my open lips begin to engulf it. I am trailing my fingers along the razor trimmed edge of an open half-moon that cloaks my mound as I squeeze the balls of a cock that I ride with my back to my lover.

“So, what will it be?” she asks interrupting the thoughts that have caused my breath to deepen and my senses to heighten. “Do you see something you like?”

“There are so many to choose from,” I reply amazed. “I thought I would just get everything taken off but now I’m not sure. Do you mind if I ask which one you have?”

She looks at me with raised eyebrows and a smirk and I feel sure that I am about to get a sharp rebuke and a lecture that I should mind my own business. But, instead, she continues to stare me straight in the eye as she walks over to me and stops. She is practically on top of me. I turn the book around to let her point out the design she sports.

“See for yourself,” she says and lifts the front of her skirt with her hands.

I almost drop the book of photos from the shock of her brazenness and I hear her give a snort of derision at my reaction. I struggle yet manage to maintain my composure and, realizing that she wears stockings and not leggings, stare at the manicured flesh that rests inches from my face, commanding my attention. As the jolt of surprise eases I am able to examine the display with an appreciative eye.

Tipped by black nails that are flecked with gold her ten slender fingers are holding the hem of her skirt bunched like a curtain above a landscape of skin and hair as meticulously worked and cared for as the trimmed shrubs of a royal castle.

I lean back in the chair to gain perspective and discern the whimsical butterfly that has been created in that most sensitive of gardens.

At the very top of her hood are two tiny antennae of hair. Thin wisps that have been colored a pale brown, they feather out as they stretch away from her clit which itself is cast as the body of the insect. Reaching out from the middle of her bud to where a normal pubic triangle ends and then running down the sides of her prominent labia, just along the ridge of her lips, are thin lines of hair as black as the tresses that adorn her head. This clipped and almost imperceptible growth trails down into the dark reaches beneath her opening and disappears from my sight. Like a stencil, the lines form the outer edges of the wings of the insect.

Inside the boundaries is an expanse of bare flesh that has been permanently colored so that any man or woman who enjoys her pleasures will first encounter the cocoon of her thighs before she opens up into the creature and envelopes their face or body in the damp delight that stands slightly parted for my inspection.

For the second time in less than half an hour, I am entrapped by a female vision and this time watch intently as the woman sways and the wings seem to flutter before my eyes. The air has become thick and the room seems to have quieted and shrunk. As I lean in for a closer examination of the tattooed skin and shaped hair, drawn to her like a bee to pollen, she widens her stance, separating her lips which now hang loosely and complete the vision of the winged creature. Her odor reaches my nostrils which flare as I inhale deeply. Her scent propels me into a semi-conscious state and, mesmerized, I feel my tongue begin to protrude from between my moistened lips and my hand search for the denim covered heat sink between my legs.

The butterfly is coming closer as she leans and arches her back, pushing her colored sex towards my jutting tongue. I close my eyes and wait for her womanhood to be pressed against the saliva drenched tip of my tongue, wanting to taste her but not wanting to see because I am so terrified that I am aroused by the pussy of another female. I squeeze my thighs tightly around my own hand and I hear her laugh.

I open my eyes to see that she has lowered her skirt and denied me my first taste of the clear honey extruded from a womb. Her hands fly to my shoulders and hold me down when I try to stand and flee in mortal embarrassment. I am tortured yet again and my limbs ache, burdened by the denial of sensual pleasure that was building and I so expected to grasp. I silently moan and pinch the inside of my thigh to quell the unrest in my groin.

“Sorry Miss,” she teases. “You are here for waxing, yes? I must open shop soon.”

“Yes, of course,” I respond with mortified understanding and then make a lame attempt at conversation. “I love your design by the way, but wasn’t it painful to be tattooed down there?”

“Hurt like crazy,” she answers. “But worth it now I think, yes?” She smiles archly once again.

“It is quite beautiful, captivating really, well, obviously,” I say giving her a quick glance and shrinking further into my chair.

“Up on table and take off jeans,” she orders me getting down to business. “Which design do you want?”

I stand and as I kick off my boots and begin to unbutton my pants I try to clear my head and explain to her that I had made my own attempt at intimate grooming just a couple of hours ago and that, as a result, my options are somewhat limited and that what I think I really want is for her to take what I have done and make it look cleaner and feel smoother.

I have stripped off my pants and as I am hopping on the table I look down and see that my blue panties are visibly darker in one spot and that my excitement is once again on open display for her to see. She stares momentarily at the stain and I am humiliated by the betrayal of my body and wish that I had let well enough alone and never ventured into the cramped boutique.

“Let me take look,” she says huskily and reaches up to slip the panties off my hips, down my legs and past my feet.

I see her try to hide her actions when she presses her fingers into the dampness on my panties and then places them on the chair. She intently scrutinizes my pussy while nonchalantly placing her fingers to her nose and lips. She breathes me in and I want to grab her, to wrap my thighs around her face and conceal her eyes as I press my sodden well against her mouth.

I am leaning against a backrest trying not to watch as she carefully examines me. She is tormenting me with her actions that are purposely designed to both arouse and debase me. My eyes tear and I look at the walls when she moves my thighs apart and looks at my handiwork. As she gently lifts and bends my legs for optimal viewing I notice the breathtaking beauty in the posters of distant lands that adorn the room. I transport myself to a faraway place as she softly grazes her fingers on my labial lips, running them along the very edge of my cavity. I stare at the patchwork pillow design in front of me when she has me roll over and get on my knees so she can look between my cheeks and stroke the humid inside feigning the need to check on unwanted hair.

“Miss,” she says as I roll again, close my legs and prop myself up against the backrest. “You have done good start. I can quickly fix what you did or I can make some changes….”

“Tell me what you mean,” I say. Despite my shame and degradation she has succeeded in stirring me and I cannot resist the desire to prolong my time with her.

“Is better I show you, yes?” she responds and asks my permission by raising her eyebrows.

I nod my surrender and for the next five minutes she goes back to skimming her digits over and around my most delicate parts while talking about follicles and growth angles. She pulls my lips to show me where I have cut and where I have missed and how she will fix the problems I created. She explores the growth I left at the top of my pubis and discusses sculpting options and colors, hair thickness, layering, razor cuts, scissor cuts.

After assessing my body, my legs and my pubic area, she snaps a photo and, thrusting the pixilated vision of my sex in front of me, tells me that my small labia and clitoral hood both demand maximum exposure. She commands that I remove all but exactly two inches of an exceedingly fine line of hair that should emerge from the precise top of my valley and run towards my navel.

Helpless to disagree I weakly nod my acquiescence and throw an arm over my head as she begins. Tears drip from my eyes as the soft buzz of the grooming razor signals the clipping of the hair above my pussy and is followed first by the whispered brushing of the hot liquid onto my skin and then the angry rip of the gauze as she yanks the remnants of my once proud twists from the plots that surround my mons.

She takes a mirror and holds it between my legs.

“You like?” she asks. “Looks nice, yes? Sexy, yes?”

I stare at her handiwork. My privates have been jerked bare and with the exception of the vestigial line of down at the top of my snatch, my pussy and ass are as unadorned as a newborn’s.

I am beautiful but the burning irritation is exquisitely annoying to me and I rub my fingers around the smooth contours to massage away the inflammation.

“Pain will go away soon,” she says reassuringly. “I help with this.”

I watch as she dips two fingers into an open tin of white cream and observe as she places a dab of the calming salve onto my skin. Immediately I feel the shocking coolness of the balm begin to resolve the anguish of the violent ripping that I have endured.

“Wow,” I say thankfully, “That feels so nice.”

Silently she continues to work the ointment and my skin responds thirstily, absorbing the fresh liniment like a parched desert. Her fingers slip vigorously around my pubic area and she makes sure to reach deep between my legs and attend to every pore that was assaulted during the treatment.

I relax at her touch and she slides along the table so that she is standing next to my hips. I move a leg, bending it slightly at the knee and drawing it closer to my body, imperceptibly opening my slit. She slows her movement and continues by dipping just one finger into the cream and lightly rubbing the greasy concoction around the entrance of my gorge as she stares and bites her lower lip in captivated concentration.

I inhale sharply and her eyes widen as she smiles knowingly. She shifts her stance somewhat and I see that she has moved her legs apart and I think of the air beneath her skirt growing muggy from the moist heat I know is escaping her parted thighs.

I take a risk and breathlessly move a hand to reach for her leg and am rewarded when she sidles even closer to give me free access. As she ever so slightly begins to thrum my stiffened clit that stands naked and alone I reach into the clammy atmosphere under her kilt and desperately search for her unsealed entrance. When I find it I am rewarded with her moan and the slippery fluid that oozes from her and flows onto my inquisitive fingers.

For the first time I work two digits inside of another woman and watch as she bends her knees to drive my probes deeper into her sopping cavern. This brings her head down closer to my torso, lowers her mouth to my honey pot and brings her tongue out and prepares to lap the swollen protuberance that is my clit.

I am breathless with anticipation and work to keep my eyes open so I can watch as this stranger slakes her thirst from the well of my desire. She rotates her head to look at me and with a knowing smile she turns back to drink from the spring between my legs when the thick air is shattered by a violent ringing.

With a start she stands up straight and stares at me with a wide-eyed look of panicked dismay. She glances at her watch and swears.

“Is next appointment,” she laments. “I must answer door. Get dressed now please.”

“No, no, no.” I whine. “Please don’t answer. Maybe they will go away. Please.”

But I am too late and she exits the curtained area. In a fog I listen to her unlock the door and speak to her patron, explaining that she is running a few minutes late. As I finish buttoning my jeans I catch their chatter about the rain that has started to fall. And as I pull my boots onto my feet I hear her walk back to me.

I look up and see the same hunger in her eyes that I feel throughout my body. She strides over to me, takes my hand and thrusts it back between her legs pressing it against her butterfly. She writhes slightly, kisses my cheek and tells me to come back soon.

I stride out of the shop with my head down, not acknowledging or perceiving her next client, and step into the driving rain that is washing away the grime of the city.