Hair Removal Chapter (Chapter1)
Friends call me A-Kun, 31 years old, with a dragon tattoo on my arm—that’s a mark left from my middle school days hanging out at the temple entrance. After leaving that rebellious phase, I used to regret the tattoo, but it later became my icebreaker for making friends. Whether guys or girls, when we first meet, we can always start chatting from this arm of mine.
My micro-bi story began like this. One day I was drawn in by a hair removal ad online. The girl in the ad was really cute, and the slogan read: “No more letting your mighty asset hide in the bushes.” Clicking into the ad instantly reminded me of Linlin, the girl who gave me a blowjob at the club last time—the awkward moment when she was sucking me off, sometimes getting hair in her mouth and picking it off her tongue with her hand, sometimes pulling on hair and making me yelp in pain mid-pleasure. Linlin kept apologizing to me nonstop.
The ad copy hit my pain point exactly. So I headed to the studio. The waxing technician was a sweet girl named Qiaoqiao. Inside the studio, the air was filled with a sickly-sweet lavender scent intertwined with the caramel aroma of warming wax beans, creating a thick, ambiguous atmosphere. I lay back on the soft treatment bed, feeling the cool breeze from the air conditioning on my skin, yet unable to suppress the inexplicable heat rising from deep inside.
Qiaoqiao leaned down gently, a few strands of her hair brushing against her exposed waist, sending a feather-light tickle across my senses. She wore latex gloves as thin as a cicada’s wing, her fingertips gliding almost imperceptibly along my inner thighs, as if surveying territory or soothing the tense, twitching muscles.
Qiaoqiao picked up the wooden spatula coated with warm wax, moving with elegant slowness as if performing a sacred ritual. When the thick warmth touched my skin, I couldn’t help but flinch, followed by a strange pleasure of being enveloped in warmth. Qiaoqiao leaned close to my ear and told me to relax and enjoy the temperature. Her voice was sweet yet magnetic, especially seductive in the quiet space. She covered the waxed area with her palm; through the glove, I could clearly feel the curve of her palm and the perfect amount of pressure.
When the wax cooled and set, the air seemed to freeze. Qiaoqiao’s slender fingers gently pinched the edge. I held my breath, all my senses focused on that small patch of taut skin.
With a sharp “rip—”, a brief but intense sting shot like electricity through my spine, making me clutch the bedsheets instantly. Before the pain faded, Qiaoqiao’s warm palm quickly pressed down, firmly massaging the sensitive red mark, trying to soothe the throbbing with her body heat.
This cycle of pain and comfort left my mind in a dazed state of excitement, completely at her mercy as she moved across my body.
Gradually, I got used to Qiaoqiao’s technique and started booking regular appointments at the studio every two months.
Not sure if it was my imagination, but I always felt Qiaoqiao was walking a dangerous line during the waxing, never quite crossing it. Until one time, while waiting outside the studio, I noticed the door to what looked like a break room was slightly ajar, and I could vaguely hear the waxing technicians chatting inside.
“Hey, no way! That’s too risky!” said a female voice.
“Oh come on! I just couldn’t help it! It was so big and delicious, so I just went down on it. Don’t tell me you wouldn’t?” said a male voice excitedly.
“Of course I would! But we’re in a legitimate profession, this doesn’t seem right!” said the female voice.