“I hope you’re ready for a special night. Get all *my* holes ready for me.”
“Yea. Yea,” she texted back, tacking on an eye roll emoji for good measure. As my first post-COVID business trip dragged on, Layla’s brattiness strengthened. “Not sure my holes will remember you, you’ve been gone so long!”
“Is that so?” I replied, already formulating my plan for my return.
I missed her and she, me. But distance is a brat’s great source of strength, emboldening their will.
But Daddy’s coming home.
“I’ll pick you up on my way home from the airport. Wear a nice dress and heels. I’ve got a lovely evening planned for us,” I texted from the airport lounge, as I whipped out my laptop to sculpt the evening with a flurry of scheduling.
“Oh Ok Daddy, I’ll just have to cancel all my other dates!”
She’s *soo* funny.
Yet she complied, opening the door in a flattering, low cut red dress and matching heels, jumping into my arms to greet me.
My arms wrapped around her, sliding under her ass and feeling no panties underneath. My favorite. Such a good girl.
And yet a brat.
“You look marvelous. If I didn’t have such an enticing evening planned, I’d fuck the sass right out of you until bits of me were dripping down to your ankles.”
Layla blushed. She always loved dirty talk, though it caused her skin to burn with embarrassment and a heat to stir in her lower stomach.
We darted to the car and I drove with my hand on its natural resting place: her bare, left thigh. Such subtle signs of possession are my favorite.
We parked outside her favorite restaurant: Antonia’s. With the world’s best eggplant rollatini.
“Oh, Daddy!!!” she squealed, shuffling her feet more quickly until I gently yanked her wrist, pulling her closer to me.
“Keep walking.”
She looked puzzled, until we arrived at the salon.
“Daddy, don’t you like my nails? I got them done yesterday. I don’t under…–look! The sign says *Closed*. I…”
“Yes,’ I interrupted her as we walked in. “I like your nails.”
The salon employee rose to greet us as we enter. A warm Korean woman in her 60s, she smiled and gestured for us to approach.
“Good evening. Come in.”
“Thank you so much for accommodating us after your traditional business hours,” I say, my hand on Layla’s back, purposely ignoring (and secretly loving) her flummoxed look.
“Nice to see you, Layla. Come right this way.”
Sure, they’d done Layla’s nails before, but this was different. The salon was quiet. It *should* have been closed.
“Our best wax technician, just like he requested, will be right in. Please make yourself comfortable.”
Layla’s heart sank to her stomach. She was expecting a dinner date. Perhaps some shopping. She was *not* expecting a trip to the salon, let alone a Brazilian wax. She suddenly felt extremely self conscious about her ladyparts, which admittedly, she had neglected a bit while I was traveling.
I sat in the lobby waiting room; the wax technician entered. She showed Layla to the table and said she’d step out until Layla was ready. Normally, women have to disrobe, removing their pants and underwear.
Realizing she was in a dress and no panties, Layla gulped, a mix of nerves and arousal pulsing through her body at the thought of Daddy having planned such an intimate experience for her most private area.
“I…um….I’m ready now.”
Layla slipped out of her heels and mounted the table, lifting up her dress to expose her womanhood to the technician, a quiet but affable woman with soft hands. She began to wipe down Layla with a soft towelette to cleanse her. She moaned softly. It was more attention than her pussy had gotten in a week, since I had left for my trip and touching herself without my permission is verboten.
Layla snapped up at the pulsing she felt in her wrist. It was her Apple Watch. A text.
“After tonight, your pussy will never forget me.”
Layla gasped, but tried to disguise it as a cough. The wax technician looked up. Layla was sure she couldn’t possibly have read the text. But it embarrassed her further.
Her considerable lips starting to glisten a tad, Layla shifted in place. She normally shaved her bits to my liking. It had been years since she’d been waxed. Because she had a particular problem.
Layla was a painslut. And the waxing, well…
The technician applied the first bit of wax up by her pubic bone. She tore the paper off quickly, catching Layla by surprise. The sensation delighted her, especially so knowing I had masterminded the entire thing.
Wax. Tear. Wax. Tear.
Bit by bit, Layla’s entire nether regions were becoming beautifully bald. And exceedingly wet. It hurt so fucking good. She began to drift into an odd sort of subspace when her wrist pinged again.
“I can smell your pussy from the lobby.”
“Ohhhh” Layla moaned. The technician had only applied wax. And nowhere near her most sensitive areas. Still, she apologized to Layla, assuming she had inflicted pain. Layla’s heart raced.
The technician continued until Layla was nearly pristine. She nudged a pillow under Layla’s lower back, and guided her legs back toward her, to work down beneath her pussy. Places where Layla didn’t even realize she had hair. It was awkward–both holes on full display as she basically held the insides of her own knees, pulling her legs up toward her chest to expose herself more completely.
“Right here.”
The front desk employee opened the door, pointing me in the direction of the session. I nodded and grinned.
“Thank you.”
Turning my attention to Layla, I announced my presence with a polite missive.
“Don’t mind me. I’ll just be watching. And I’d like to give the finished product my seal of approval.”
*Oh God* Layla thought. Daddy was staring at her holes. Some strange woman was perfecting them. For Daddy. This was all for Daddy. She was mortified. And incredibly aroused.
The technician continued. I stood over her shoulder, studying Layla’s pussy, which was swollen and red all around.
“It might hurt in the morning,” the technician said to Layla.
“I know,” I interjected in a wicked tone, answering a comment intended for the person *actually being waxed*. Not the one who might mercilessly pound her sensitive slit.
Moments later, she was finished. She stood up, her diminutive body looking up to me for my implicit approval.
I nodded.
“The best I’ve ever seen,” I said, purposely ambiguous. The best waxing? The best pussy? The best of each?
Layla wanted to shove her hands between her thighs and rub her clit then and there like the naughty little slut Daddy had helped her realize she is. It had been so long. And the waxing hurt so good. And Daddy arranged it all. Fuck.
The technician imparted her post-waxing wisdom as Layla stood up from the table.
“Now, no tanning for 24-48 hours. No shaving. And no sexual intercourse.”
I nodded.
“You got it. I’ll take *very* good care of her.”
On our way out, Layla resumed her bratting, though this time it was more subdued. Fuled in part by her rampant arousal.
“You heard her–no sex for 24 hours. Sorry, Daddy!”
I stopped, in the middle of the sidewalk, steps outside of our late dinner reservation. I brought my hand to her gullet and caressed it softly.
“You *do* have another hole, young lady. And I’ll make sure that one doesn’t forget me either.”
Source: reddit.com/r/sexystories/comments/nntxe6/wax_for_the_brat_mdomteasingpublicpainhumiliation