Page 20 of The Virgin Romance Novelist Chronicles
Wait . . . what?
Where was the bedside manner?
Why wasn’t she whispering sweet nothings to me, coaxing me into thinking this was the best idea I’d ever had?
Marta positioned herself, the tendons in her hand flexed as she gripped the strip of paper.Oh God. Oh God. Oh God.There were bars on the side of the table that my hands instinctively grabbed as I wondered what the hell was going to happen next.
And then Marta opened her mouth, “Three, two, one . . .”
Rip!
Fire shot straight up my spine as heavy black spots scattered over my vision, pain ricocheting over my skin like a maniacal pinball pouncing freely about.
I was pretty sure she just ruined me . . .
“My clit. You tore my clit off,” I screamed as my hands went to my crotch, frightened to find that the little nub was missing. But before I could conduct a proper search and rescue, my hands were ruthlessly swatted away by Marta, who placed another wax strip and then ripped it off in the matter of seconds.
My head flew back against the table, a searing shock of agony paraded down my leg.
Why? Why was this a service women paid for?
Hearing impaired from the thump of my heart in my throat, I could barely hear myself as I begged for her to stop, but the she-devil didn’t listen as she continued to rip hair after hair right out of me.
Rip . . . cry.
Rip . . . cry. . . laugh.
Laugh?
Through a blindfold of fingers, I eyed Marta and the cruel smile she wore. She was becoming amused with every tear, it was evident in the vicious gleam in her eye that spoke of tragedy being her joy.
She tossed pubic-covered wax strips to the side, and I searched them for signs of my lady folds. I swore to the heavens above they were glued to them, because I was almost one hundred percent positive they were no longer attached to my body.
“I’m bleeding, I know I am. Just tell me. Am I bleeding? Sometimes I have a hard time clotting. Does it look like that?”
“You’re fine,” Marta said matter-of-factly as she placed a strip right over my vagina. “Three . . .”
“No Marta, please, not there.”
“Two . . .”
“Marta, I thought we were friends. Leave the vagina alone.”
“One . . .”
“I’ll do anything you want.” Desperation laced my voice. “Just don’t . . .”
Rip!
“Captain Cunt Ripper,” I screamed as tears fell from my eyes. “You’re a cunt ripper,” I said, startling myself from the menacing tone in my voice. I looked at Marta to apologize but the she-devil just laughed. She laughed at me.
She was a barbarian.
A menace to society!
A salacious salon scoundrel that should be locked behind bars.
And, you know what? She brought out the potty mouth in me and I hated her for it. I hated Marta for turning me into a gut-ridden potty mouth. Never once did I ever say the C-word out loud, but with Marta at the helm of my vagina, sailing me through wave after wave of pure agony, inappropriate words just flowed right out of me.
