Sarah Teenage Beauty Therapist (Waxing Claire)

Fourteen year old Sarah has a weekend job at a beauty salon... The girl (Claire 18yo) from the shop next door is the last customer of the day.

It had been a very slow Saturday at the salon. Just Sarah perched on the reception stool, swinging her legs and occasionally tapping the counter to an imaginary rhythm. The clock ticked mercilessly toward closing time. There was only her and Tracey left. Anna the owner had left early, tossing Sarah the keys with a distracted, "Lock up, yeah?"

Sarah sighed, flipping through a glossy magazine and idly imagining herself in the skimpy outfits. She wished someone—anyone—would come in for a wax. It was her favorite part of the job: the way people squirmed, the little gasps they couldn't suppress, and most of all, seeing the forbidden glimpses of their bits.

The bell above the door jingled, and Claire stood there, leaning against the frame with one hip cocked, her long black hair slipping over her shoulder like spilled ink. She wore that smirk—that seemes almost a permanent fixture. "You got room to fit me in, or am I gonna have to beg?" Claire asked, voice low and teasing.

Claire managed the phone shop next door, a good job for an eighteen-year-old who liked to talk—and liked being looked at. Sarah had noticed, of course. Noticed how Claire’s flirted with almost everyone, and somehow seemed much older than she was. Maybe it was the way she walked—slow, deliberate, like she knew exactly where every pair of eyes was lingering.

Sarah’s magazine slipped from her fingers, pages fluttering shut. "Seen as it you," she said, grinning, "I think begging’s gonna be mandatory." The words tumbled out before she could stop them—bold, reckless, exactly the kind of thing Claire would’ve said. And Claire’s smirk widened, her dark eyes glinting under the salon’s soft pink lights.

"Fuck it!" Tracey suddenly barked from the back room, tossing her apron onto a hook. "Slowest day ever—I'm clocking out early. You good locking up, kiddo?"

Sarah barely had time to nod before Tracey vanished out the back door, leaving her alone with Claire—Claire, who was now stepping fully inside, letting the door swing shut behind.

"My fanny looks like a yeti's armpit," Claire declared, leaning against the reception desk with a sigh. Her fingers drummed impatiently on the countertop, nails chipped from where she'd been peeling stickers off returned phones all day. "You may need to use a lawnmower, Floodie."

Sarah snorted, hopping off the stool with exaggerated indignation. "Oi, I've got *standards*, you know. Even for trampy phone shop girls." She flicked the 'closed' sign with a satisfying snap and gestured toward the waxing room with a flourish. "After you, yeti."

Claire wasn't *actually* hairy—Sarah would bet money on that.

She watched Claire strut toward the waxing bed, hips swaying with theatrical exaggeration, and rolled her eyes.

Claire was *not* shy. She stepped into the waxing room like she owned it—and peeled off her skinny jeans without hesitation, tossing them over the chair with a practiced flick of her wrist. The white cotton thong she wore followed seconds later, landing somewhere near the sink. Claire didn’t even look down to check where it landed.

Claire’s bare skin was smooth, already mostly hairless—definitely not the yeti situation she’d joked about. Sarah busied herself with the wax warmer, stirring the molten pink goo. Claire hopped onto the table, lying back with her knees bent and parted shamelessly. Sarah could see *everything*—the soft pink folds, even her clit, protruding slightly. Claire didn’t cover herself, didn’t blush, just draped one arm lazily behind her head and grinned. "Paint me like one of your French girls, Jack." She joked.

Sarah rolled her eyes, but her cheeks burned. "Yeah, yeah, keep laughing." She scooped up a glob of wax and spread it in a neat stripe along Claire’s inner thigh, higher, higher—Claire’s breath hitched when the spatula grazed the very edge of her lips. Sarah grinned. "Oh, ticklish, are we?" She teased.

Claire exhaled sharply through her nose. "Fuck off," she muttered, but her thighs tensed, toes curling slightly against the paper-covered bed. Sarah pressed the strip down firmly—one quick tug—and Claire’s hips jerked off the table with a bitten-off yelp. "I swear you like hurting people," Claire groaned, but she was grinning, fingers twisting into the paper beneath her.

Sarah didn’t miss the way Claire’s lips glistened—just faintly—in the overhead lights. Not sweat. Not wax residue either. She tilted her head, feigning deep concentration as she smoothed another warm stripe lower, dangerously close to where Claire’s skin flushed pink and soft. The scent—subtle, musky—drifted up unmistakably now.

"You know," Sarah murmured, pressing the strip down with deliberate slowness, "most people *actually* need hair to wax." Her thumb brushed Claire’s inner thigh, maybe a fraction too intimately. Claire’s breath hitched again—sharper this time. Sarah pretended not to notice. "But I guess some people just *like* the attention."
"I just hate being hairy," Claire said airily, but her voice wavered when Sarah tugged the strip free with a sharp rip. Claire’s hips jerked again, her knee knocking against Sarah’s arm. "Fuck—!"
"I'm the same" Sarah agreed, smoothing another stripe lower, right where Claire’s skin turned impossibly soft.
"Whatever, at fourteen how hairy can you be?" Claire asked, laughing breathlessly.
"Not *that* hairy" Sarah admitted, shrugging, "but I like being smooth."
Claire’s smirk flickered—something darker beneath it. "Yeah?" Her fingers twitched against the paper. "Seen as there's just us...can I do you?"
Sarah paused, spatula hovering mid-air. The salon was dead silent except for the hum of the wax warmer. Claire wasn’t joking. "You can give me a lesson" Claire said, grinning.

When sarah didn't answer right away, Claire shifted on the table, legs spreading wider—an unspoken challenge. Her fingers trailed down her own stomach, stopping just above that glistening pink. "Come on," she murmured, voice thick with amusement and something else. "Teach me."
Sarah wasn't sure whether Claire was actually flirting, or just being Claire—that infuriating, impossible-to-read version of herself that seemed to exist solely to wind people up. But her pulse hammered in her throat all the same.

The wax spatula clattered onto the tray. "Fine," Sarah muttered, "you're done." She reached for a clean towel, tossing it at Claire’s chest—missing on purpose so it landed right over her face. Claire yanked it away, laughing, but Sarah was already untying her own apron, fingers fumbling at the knot behind her neck.

Claire wrapped the towel around her waist—and hopped off the table. She scooped up her keys from the counter where she’d tossed them earlier, jingling them between her fingers. "Oi," she said, suddenly serious—or at least pretending to be—"that fire door back there. Is it alarmed?"

Sarah blinked. "Uh. No?" The door in question led to the tiny bricked yard sandwiched between Sax Beauty and Claire’s phone shop—a forgotten space littered with discarded product boxes and a single, sad plastic chair no one ever sat on. "Why?"

Claire didn’t answer. She nipped out the door and returned a minute later holding a joint, already lit, the tip glowing amber as she took a slow drag. The scent—earthy and sweet—curled through the aire. Claire stopped in the open doorway and exhaled out into the yard, then offered it to Sarah with a tilt of her head. "You ever tried, Floodie?"

Sarah hesitated, glancing at the wax still cooling on the tray, the abandoned spatula. Claire’s fingers brushed hers when she took the joint—deliberately, Sarah was sure. The smoke hit her lungs hot and thick, unfurling warmth low in her stomach. She coughed once, eyes watering, and Claire grinned, plucking it back from her fingers.

"Lightweight," Claire teased, but her voice was softer now. The girls sat on the back step, passing the joint between them, the late afternoon sun casting long shadows over the cracked bricks of the yard. Claire seemed totally unaffected, but Sarah’s head buzzed pleasantly, her limbs loose and warm.

"Come on then you, lets tame your beaver," Claire grinned, stubbing the joint out on the step beside her and nudging Sarah's knee with her own.

Sarah giggled—too loudly, her head swimming pleasantly—she scrambled to her feet, wobbling slightly before catching herself against the doorframe. The late afternoon sun painted everything golden, including Claire’s raised eyebrows as Sarah clumsily shimmied out of her skirt.

“Oh my god,” Claire snorted, staring down at Sarah's discarded knickers. “Fuckin’ *pandas*?” The cartoon bears grinned up at her from the crumpled fabric, their dumb little faces grinning. Sarah kicked them toward Claire, who caught them mid-air with one hand, dangling them from a single finger like evidence.
"Did mummy buy ‘em for you?” Claire teased, tossing them onto the chair where her own thong still lay abandoned. Sarah rolled her eyes—but her cheeks burned hotter than the wax pot. She scrambled onto the table, legs dangling over the edge, knees pressed together tight. Claire’s smirk softened slightly—just for a second—before she grabbed the wax spatula with exaggerated flourish.

“Right then, boss,” Claire murmured, swirling the pink goo in slow circles. “Tell me how to not turn your fanny into a melted Haribo.” Her free hand landed on Sarah’s inner thigh—not pushing, just *there*, warm and steady—and Sarah’s breath hitched.

Claire wasn’t wearing gloves. Sarah noticed too late—the sticky spatula grazed her skin, Claire’s bare thumb brushing higher, right where Sarah’s leg met the heat between her legs. The wax was too warm, almost scalding, but Claire’s fingers were hotter. “You—uh—” Sarah stammered, “gloves. You’re s’posed to—”

“Oops,” Claire murmured, not sounding sorry at all. Her thumb dragged a slow circle against Sarah’s inner thigh—not quite touching where she wanted, not quite pulling away. The wax spatula hovered, dripping pink onto the paper beneath them. Claire exhaled sharply through her nose, like she was the one being touched. “You’re so fucking soft,” she muttered, more to herself than to Sarah.

Sarah’s pulse thrummed under Claire’s fingers. The towel around Claire’s hips had slipped—just enough that Sarah could see the smooth, bare skin where the wax had done its work. Claire leaned in, the spatula finally pressing against Sarah’s skin in a thin, molten stripe. Sarah hissed, toes curling against the table’s edge. Claire’s free hand slid higher, palm warm and firm against Sarah’s thigh, holding her in place. “Don’t squirm,” Claire chided, but her voice was rough, uneven. “Or I’ll fuck it up.”

The wax cooled too fast—Sarah could feel it tightening against her skin—but Claire’s thumb was still tracing idle circles just inches from where Sarah *really* wanted to be touched. Claire’s lips parted slightly, her gaze flickering down between Sarah’s legs before darting back up to meet her eyes.

“Gonna pull it now,” Claire murmured—not a warning, just a statement—and Sarah barely had time to nod before Claire’s fingers gripped the edge of the strip.

*Rip.*

Sarah gasped—sharp, sudden—her hips jerking off the table as Claire tore the wax strip away in one swift motion. The sting bloomed hot and bright, but beneath it, something else pulsed, low and insistent. Claire’s fingers dug into her thigh, holding her down as she exhaled a shaky laugh.

"Fuck, Floodie," Claire murmured, her voice gone husky. She let the used strip flutter to the floor, her thumb now tracing the freshly bare skin, reddened and sensitive. "You’ve got such a pretty fanny. The way your lips mear perfectly—" Her fingers strayed closer, brushing the very edge of Sarah’s slit. Just once. Just enough to make Sarah’s breath hitch. Claire looked her dead in the eye, smirk gone—replaced by something hungrier. "Do you want me to stop?"

Sarah couldn’t speak. Her pulse hammered in her throat, her skin prickling under Claire’s touch. She shook her head—too fast—and Claire’s fingers pressed in, slow and deliberate, sliding between Sarah’s folds. The gasp Sarah let out was embarrassingly loud, Claire grinned at her and winked before pressing deeper, fingers slick and warm.

Everything felt hazy—the weed, the heat of Claire’s body leaning over her, the way Claire’s arm brushed against hers as she worked her fingers in deeper. Sarah’s hips lifted instinctively, chasing the pressure, and Claire’s breath hitched. “Fuck, you’re wet already,” she murmured, almost surprised, as if she hadn’t expected Sarah to be *this* into it. Her fingers curled, rubbing slow circles against Sarah.

Sarah’s hands scrabbled at the paper beneath her, tearing it in places as she tried to anchor herself. Claire was gentle but firm—her strokes were needy and impatient, like she couldn’t decide whether she wanted to tease or just take. The wax spatula lay forgotten on the tray, cooling into a useless pink blob. Claire’s other hand slid up Sarah’s thigh, nails digging in just enough to leave marks. “You’re so fucking pretty,” Claire muttered, almost to herself, her dark eyes flicking between Sarah’s face and where her fingers disappeared between her legs.

Claire pulled back suddenly—just enough to make Sarah whimper—then snatched her wrist, yanking her off the waxing bed with a grin. "Come *on*," she breathed, dragging Sarah stumbling through the doorway into the main salon. The sudden shift left Sarah dizzy—weed and want buzzing under her skin—as Claire spun her toward the nearest stylist’s chair and shoved her down hard enough to make the hydraulic base hiss.

"Claire, what if someone looks in?" Sarah gasped, but her legs fell open anyway, bare thighs pressing against the cool leather of the chair.
Claire just shrugged and dropped to her knees between them, fingers hooking under Sarah’s knees to drag her forward. "I guess they'll see us," Claire murmured, breath hot against Sarah’s inner thigh. "Lucky them."

Then she leaned in—not teasing, no hesitation—and licked a slow, wet stripe from Sarah’s entrance to her clit. Sarah yelped, hands flying to Claire’s hair, fingers twisting in the sleek black strands. Claire didn’t pause, didn’t tease—just licked into her like she was starving for it, tongue broad and warm against Sarah’s clit. The suddenness of it punched the air from Sarah’s lungs—one moment Claire was smirking up at her, the next her tongue was pressing deep, curling just right, making Sarah’s hips jerk helplessly.

Everything felt amplified—the weed humming under her skin, the wet heat of Claire’s mouth, the way her fingers dug into Sarah’s thighs like she was afraid she might float away. Claire groaned against her, the vibration sending a shockwave straight to Sarah’s core. “Fuck,” Claire muttered, pulling back just enough to speak, her chin glistening. “You taste—” Her breath hitched, like she couldn’t find the words, before diving back in, tongue flicking faster now, hungry.

Sarah’s fingers tightened in Claire’s hair, hips lifting off the chair in silent pleading. She was close—so close—when Claire suddenly pulled away with a wet pop, leaving Sarah gasping at the loss. Before she could protest, Claire was on her feet, snatching a hairbrush from the nearest station. The bristles glinted under the salon lights as Claire twirled it between her fingers, considering.

Then grinned—slow, wicked—and dragged the handle of the brush down Sarah’s inner thigh, the smooth plastic cool against her feverish skin. “A teenage girls best friend"

Sarah's breath hitched. Claire's fingers curled around the brush, knuckles brushing Sarah's slick folds—deliberate, teasing. The plastic pressed against her clit, blunt and unyielding, and Sarah's hips jerked with a gasp. Claire's free hand clamped down on her hip, pinning her to the chair as she dragged the brush in slow, torturous circles.

"Claire—fuck—" Sarah whimpered, fingers clawing at the armrests. Claire's tongue flicked out, catching the underside of her clit just as she twisted the brush deeper. Sarah's vision whited out for a split second, her whole body tensing like a wire pulled too tight. The pressure was everywhere—Claire's mouth hot and relentless, the brush fucking into her with rough, perfect precision.

Claire's tongue tracing tight circles while the brush handle stretched her open—*this* was nothing like her own fingers. Sarah's hips bucked wildly, the chair creaking dangerously beneath her as Claire sucked her clit hard enough to make stars burst behind her eyelids. The brush twisted deeper, pressing against some sweet, secret spot that made her thighs shake like she'd been plugged into a live wire.

Sarah orgasm hit like a freight train—sudden, violent, tearing a scream from her throat. Her thighs clamped around Claire’s head, heels digging into the small of Claire’s back as she convulsed, her entire body seizing with pleasure so sharp it bordered on pain.

Claire pulled back just enough to let Sarah breathe—chin glistening, lips swollen—and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. She was laughing, breathless and smug, then she grabbed Sarah’s face and kissed her *hard*.
"Fuck I've been wanting to do that for months." Claire muttered, breaking away for just a second—just long enough for Sarah to gasp—before crashing their mouths together again. Sarah tasted herself on Claire’s tongue, bitter and sweet, and whimpered into the kiss. Claire’s fingers tangled in her curls, tugging just enough to make her arch—then suddenly *stopped*, pulling back with a wicked grin.
"My turn," Claire breathed, yanking Sarah off the chair by the wrist. She kicked the towel from her waist and hopped into the the chair, hooking her legs over the armrests and spreading herself shamelessly. "Come *here*."
Sarah hesitated—just for a second—before kneeling between Claire’s thighs. The scent of Claire’s arousal hit her first—musky and thick—before she saw how *wet* she was, glistening under the salon’s bright lights. Sarah’s pulse hammered in her throat. She’d never done this before—never even *thought* about it—but Claire’s fingers were already in her hair, guiding her forward.
"Suck my clit" Claire murmured, hips lifting impatiently.
Sarah exhaled shakily—then leaned in, pressing her tongue flat against Claire’s slit in one tentative stroke. Claire *groaned*, thighs tightening around Sarah’s head, fingers twisting in her curls. "Jesus *Christ*—" Claire gasped, hips jerking. "Like *this*—" She guided Sarah’s mouth higher, pressing Sarah’s tongue *right* against her swollen clit.
Claire’s moan—low and ragged—sent a jolt of heat straight to her core. She *liked* that sound. Liked making Claire making it. So she did it again—firmer this time—and Claire’s back arched off the chair with a broken cry.
Sarah’s fingers dug into Claire’s thighs, nails leaving crescents in the soft skin as she *licked*—tentative at first, then hungry. Claire’s hips rolled against her mouth, grinding in rough, desperate circles. "Fuck—*yes*—" Claire gasped.
"Yes, Floodie—just like that—" Claire’s voice cracked as Sarah sucked her clit between her lips, flicking her tongue in tight, fast circles. Claire’s thighs trembled, her breath coming in ragged gasps. "I’m gonna—*fuck*—" Her whole body tensed—then *snapped*, her orgasm slamming into her with a cry so loud it echoed off the salon walls.
Sarah didn’t pull away—not even when Claire’s thighs clamped around her head, her hips jerking wildly. She kept *licking*, slower now, gentler, until Claire whimpered and shoved her back with trembling hands.
"Fuck," Claire panted, slumping bonelessly into the chair. Her chest rose and fell rapidly, sweat gleaming on her collarbones. She grinned—dazed and triumphant—and tugged Sarah up by the hair for a messy, open-mouthed kiss. "You’re *good* at that," she murmured against Sarah’s lips.
Sarah flushed—pleasure and pride twisting hot in her stomach—but before she could respond, the front door rattled. The girls looked at each other then bolted—scrambling for the back room—laughing breathlessly as they snatched up discarded clothes.