warm and gentle. I surrender to their
confident touches as their fingers span the distance between my breasts, trace
lines across my belly, use a measuring tape across my shoulders. The room is
nice and warm, the music soothing. With quick, light fingers, they feel the
tautness of my butt, skim the surface of my pubic hair, rub the tips of my
nipples, spread my butt cheeks. Why? Are they looking for moles or something?
One of them draws a line across my back. Then both of them
are making small marks on my skin with their special crayons. I feel a shiver
go through my middle. Leena’s hands are on my stomach. What is she doing?
Feeling the texture of my skin? Both of her little fingers are in my pubic
hair. Her face is tilted downward and I can only see the top of her head and
the cascade of her long reddish hair, but I can tell she is studying the
contours of my belly and hip bones. Her hands gently massage. Randall’s larger,
warmer hands encircle my breasts from behind. He lifts them gently. Is he
judging their elasticity? Deciding what type of paint to use? His thumbs rest
lightly on my nipples. Then he kisses my neck. Oh my. Oh. Oh. What is he
doing? I feel the heat of him behind me. I hold my breath. The two of them
move slowly, carefully, as if dealing with a baby animal. But their hands never
leave my body. Why aren’t they painting?
This is not what I expected. At all. I am standing perfectly
still, barely breathing.
“Are you okay?” asks Leena, her left hand on my inner thigh.
“Are you sure? We can stop.”
“No,” I breathe, “don’t stop.”
But it seems they’re done with the initial look-over. Their
hands fall from my body. They step back. I let out a long breath. Randall takes
my hand and helps me to lie down on the platform, which, to my delight, is
warmed from beneath.
“Getting hot in here,” says Randall. He peels off his
monogrammed Paintini Paradise sweater and tosses it into the other room. Leena
follows suit.
“Okay?” asks Leena.
“Yes.”
“We’re going to shave you now.”
I nod. I’m equal parts nervous and excited.
“I’m going to support you,” Leena says, sliding in behind
me, her legs on either side of my own, so I’m almost in her lap. When did she
take off her pants? Her shirt? I twist around, trying to get a better look, and
she allows me to gaze at her own Paintini, a marvel in scarlet lace. “Wow,” I
whisper. She scoots up close behind me, her breasts pressing on my back, a
naked woman who doesn’t look naked at all.
Randall looks at us and grins. “Couldn’t wait, could you?”
he says to Leena. It appears Randall couldn’t wait either. He’s naked as well.
He’s got his own Paintini, which I can’t take my eyes off—his penis is painted
to look like a banana . It’s absurd and shocking, dangling from his
crotch, where no banana should ever be. I can’t help but laugh. It doesn’t
occur to me to wonder why the two of them are naked—because they don’t look naked at all.
“Funny, huh?” he asks. “It was my own idea. Leena painted it
for me. Look!” He sets down the tray of shaving paraphernalia and poses in
front of me, banana-penis at my eye level. He helpfully moves it to the side so
that I can admire the rest of his artwork—tropical foliage for the banana to
nest in, a just-opened bird-of-paradise, and long thin vines dripping with dew
that reach around to his back and snake down his thighs. “It’s not meant to
look like a swimsuit,” he says, although I’ve already figured that out. What
ought to be horrible and pornographic is, on him, charming.
He lets his penis fall back into place. “Show’s over. Back
to work. Time to get you nice and smooth.” He kneels down on the platform in
front of my bent legs. He pulls the tray closer. I hear a metallic rattle. My
breath catches—I clench my knees together.
“You’re all right. Relax. Cuddle up to me. It’s what I’m
here for,” whispers Leena. I lean back and she
confident touches as their fingers span the distance between my breasts, trace
lines across my belly, use a measuring tape across my shoulders. The room is
nice and warm, the music soothing. With quick, light fingers, they feel the
tautness of my butt, skim the surface of my pubic hair, rub the tips of my
nipples, spread my butt cheeks. Why? Are they looking for moles or something?
One of them draws a line across my back. Then both of them
are making small marks on my skin with their special crayons. I feel a shiver
go through my middle. Leena’s hands are on my stomach. What is she doing?
Feeling the texture of my skin? Both of her little fingers are in my pubic
hair. Her face is tilted downward and I can only see the top of her head and
the cascade of her long reddish hair, but I can tell she is studying the
contours of my belly and hip bones. Her hands gently massage. Randall’s larger,
warmer hands encircle my breasts from behind. He lifts them gently. Is he
judging their elasticity? Deciding what type of paint to use? His thumbs rest
lightly on my nipples. Then he kisses my neck. Oh my. Oh. Oh. What is he
doing? I feel the heat of him behind me. I hold my breath. The two of them
move slowly, carefully, as if dealing with a baby animal. But their hands never
leave my body. Why aren’t they painting?
This is not what I expected. At all. I am standing perfectly
still, barely breathing.
“Are you okay?” asks Leena, her left hand on my inner thigh.
“Are you sure? We can stop.”
“No,” I breathe, “don’t stop.”
But it seems they’re done with the initial look-over. Their
hands fall from my body. They step back. I let out a long breath. Randall takes
my hand and helps me to lie down on the platform, which, to my delight, is
warmed from beneath.
“Getting hot in here,” says Randall. He peels off his
monogrammed Paintini Paradise sweater and tosses it into the other room. Leena
follows suit.
“Okay?” asks Leena.
“Yes.”
“We’re going to shave you now.”
I nod. I’m equal parts nervous and excited.
“I’m going to support you,” Leena says, sliding in behind
me, her legs on either side of my own, so I’m almost in her lap. When did she
take off her pants? Her shirt? I twist around, trying to get a better look, and
she allows me to gaze at her own Paintini, a marvel in scarlet lace. “Wow,” I
whisper. She scoots up close behind me, her breasts pressing on my back, a
naked woman who doesn’t look naked at all.
Randall looks at us and grins. “Couldn’t wait, could you?”
he says to Leena. It appears Randall couldn’t wait either. He’s naked as well.
He’s got his own Paintini, which I can’t take my eyes off—his penis is painted
to look like a banana . It’s absurd and shocking, dangling from his
crotch, where no banana should ever be. I can’t help but laugh. It doesn’t
occur to me to wonder why the two of them are naked—because they don’t look naked at all.
“Funny, huh?” he asks. “It was my own idea. Leena painted it
for me. Look!” He sets down the tray of shaving paraphernalia and poses in
front of me, banana-penis at my eye level. He helpfully moves it to the side so
that I can admire the rest of his artwork—tropical foliage for the banana to
nest in, a just-opened bird-of-paradise, and long thin vines dripping with dew
that reach around to his back and snake down his thighs. “It’s not meant to
look like a swimsuit,” he says, although I’ve already figured that out. What
ought to be horrible and pornographic is, on him, charming.
He lets his penis fall back into place. “Show’s over. Back
to work. Time to get you nice and smooth.” He kneels down on the platform in
front of my bent legs. He pulls the tray closer. I hear a metallic rattle. My
breath catches—I clench my knees together.
“You’re all right. Relax. Cuddle up to me. It’s what I’m
here for,” whispers Leena. I lean back and she
Similar Books
