Ozon?u Chronicles: The things we address, when we undress

My toes curl instinctively, gripping the edge of the bed, my screams and moans threatening to carry across the street. A cool breeze brushes my skin, making everything feel unreal. I did agree to this didn’t I?

She gets on top, positioning herself between my legs. “This will give me easier access,” she says. I love how soft her voice is, and my toes curl even tighter. Embarrassment flushes through me. “I’m... I’m a screamer,” I admit.

She smiles, a soft, knowing curve of her lips. “Scream all you want. I will be gentle.”

Then it hits. Hot, molten liquid against my skin. I brace myself instinctively, and just as quickly, she pulls the wax away. Pain slices through me, sharp and immediate.

“Why did I agree to a Hollywood wax?” I gasp, half in regret, half in disbelief.

Uendjii, the guy who paid for this, is out of town. He said he likes the bush, but I insisted I like to do this for myself. I wanted to know what waxing feels like.

It’s all relatively new with him.

The lady leans in, her eyes are kind, her tone calm but firm. “The lips are the most painful,” she warns as she gestures for me to part myself. My breath stalls, heat blooms where her gloved hand spreads me, and I close my eyes, bracing for the sting.

The molten wax touches and I try to keep the muffled screams of pain confined to the room.

And just like that I’m back with Uendjii, using a memory to forget the pain, remembering his mouth on the very lips now seared in pain, how his breath was warm, how he kept on going until I couldn\'t take any more. My heart skips a beat thinking about him.

He teased me after, laughing that he’d been pulling hair out of his mouth for days. I’d been embarrassed, but he was tender about it; romantic in a way I never expected. For all his uptight talk of Omurumendu and what men should or shouldn’t do, he surprised me again and again.

Another rip. My screams echoes the memory, the contradiction of pain and pleasure bleeding together.

He’s an executive at a mining firm, often away on site, but I can’t complain. When we first met, he took me to an auction and bought a bull, something to brag about. “The kafather is Tog Herero,” Izzy teased, poking fun at him.

Izzy, more than just a friend, is family. I later discovered we’re cousins, and she insists I always call her family. She once joked that my ‘kafather’ “eats a pig’s ear,” a cryptic tease hinting at certain inclinations with the other team. She would laugh, but rumors like these swirl endlessly at Tjetjita’s place, targeting men considered successful in the community.

“Turn around,” the waxing lady murmurs now, wiping me clean. My buttocks are up in the air as she tells me to spread them apart. Another pour, but not as painful. “This is the easy part,” she states, I sigh in relief glad this is almost over.

And there, raw and exposed, I remember the way he looked at me one night in bed, the weight of his voice when he asked: “Can I f*ck you in the @ss?”

*Ozon?u Chronicles uncovers the secrets that never see daylight. Each story is fiction. Yet, as you read, you may sense that reality has already whispered its own version. For readers 18 and older.