The White Album

There's nothing quite like the feel of hot wax over skin. Like a too warm hand sliding over and branding the flesh. The almost, but not quite, uncomfortable heat spreading into the dermis and tickling along nerve fibres. The flash of pain before the blood floods and then the sensuality of feeling air against perfectly bare, primed skin. By the time I'm done, and the oil has been massaged into my sensitised skin I am barely conscious.

I took my new shiny legs to the hairdresser straight after my appointment and was treated straight up to a neck and scalp massage. Head massages are very tricky, do them wrong and it will feel like spiders crawling over your scalp, but do them right and I will melt off the chair into a puddle of goo on the floor. Already in sensual heaven I nearly fell into sleep when she washed my hair, the combination of warm water over my kneaded scalp and the aromatherapy hair cosmetics made my eyes slide out of focus.

Swishing my blowdried hair to release its fragrance I wandered around the shops looking for the last few Christmas presents and was drawn into the shops that sell fragrant lotions and potions, concocting my own scent out of the rich citrusy Christmas flavours which I smoothed into my skin deriving far too much pleasure for a suburban shopping trip.

I'm such a sensory seeker. Even now, at home on my couch, I can't help but slide my legs along the leather just to fully appreciate how good bare legs feel. I am fighting the urge to run my tongue along my forearm to follow the trail of edible scent and I keep involuntarily burying my face in the soft silkiness of my scarf.

I can't wait until Bingley gets home, I need to work off some of this energy.