🔥Rochelle's Wax🔥💦

💦 Thick, filthy, and full of vibes 💦

Rochelle was not built for modesty.

She was thick like yam dumpling, belly soft, thighs like thunder, ass so full it had its own postcode.

She was 32, unapologetically loud, and sweet-skin glowing. Long lashes. Gold anklet. Breast swinging like prayer bells. Her voice? Low, sultry, with the threat of violence or seduction depending on your vibe.

That Wednesday, she wasn’t in the mood for niceties.

Her ex had the nerve to propose to a girl who looked like undercooked flour dumpling — and post it. Publicly. After Rochelle had funded his car tax and eaten his ass twice.

So, she booked a wax.

Not for a date. Not for the gram.

For revenge. For release. For herself.

The salon was warm and quiet on a cute little Streatham side street.

Lo-fi reggae buzzed from an old speaker. The place smelt like citrus, steam, and something sinful under the surface.

The wax tech was called Nia.

Thick in all the right places.

Skin a shade of honey-drenched bronze.

Full lips, button nose, and locs piled high with one strand falling dead centre between her eyes.

Her voice? Velvet dragged through smoke.

“First time?” Nia asked, glancing at Rochelle’s hips as she lay down.

“Mi could lie and say yes,” Rochelle smirked, stripping off her leggings. “But dat would be wickedness.”

She wore no underwear.

Just skin. Slick and glistening.

Nia applied the first strip.

Hot. Then warm. Then rip.

Rochelle didn’t flinch.

She exhaled, her thighs parting instinctively as she lay back on the table, thick thighs splayed, belly rising and falling like waves.

“You’re not shy,” Nia said, breath catching.

“Shy don’t live in this pum-pum.”

Strip after strip, the wax disappeared, revealing bare, soft flesh. The heat wasn’t just from the product — it was from proximity. Tension. Want.

Nia's hands lingered longer. Her breath closer. Her fingers brushing where they didn’t need to brush.

Then came the inner thigh.

Nia’s palm pressed to steady the skin, and Rochelle shivered.

“You cold?” Nia asked, lips almost touching her.

“No. You mecking me hot.”

The room fell silent.

Just breath.

Then Rochelle sat up slowly, her chest inches from Nia’s.

“You ever taste something fresh after a wax?” she whispered.

Nia didn’t answer. She leaned in.

Their mouths met like they were starving, full, wet, deep kisses.

Rochelle pulled Nia's locs loose and twisted her hand in the roots, pulling her down.

Rochelle lay back again, legs wide, and Nia dropped to her knees between them, burying her face in Rochelle’s bare, swollen centre.

It was sloppy. Hungry. Nasty.

Nia licked upward, slow, then buried her tongue flat into the split, letting her nose press against the top of the clit. Rochelle groaned so deep it shook the table.

“Yes… right deh. Yesss, suck it jus’ so—”

Nia sucked, licked, circled. Rochelle was soaked. Dripping. Her thighs clenched, and Nia moaned into her pussy like it was the best meal of her life.

Then Rochelle pulled her up, dripping mouth and all.

“Sit on it.”

They kissed again, lips shining.

And then they tribbed.

Thick thigh against thick thigh.

Pussy lips meeting. Clits kissing. Skin slapping.

Slow. Then harder. Then wet, messy madness.

They held each other. Moaned into each other’s mouths.

Rochelle’s nails scratched Nia’s back. Nia’s hands gripped Rochelle’s hips.

The room smelt like sex and shea butter.

And when the orgasm came?

It ripped through them together. Shaking, panting, still grinding, bodies locked.

Afterwards, Rochelle lay flat, sweat between her breasts, glowing like resurrection.

“You alright?” Nia whispered, nibbling her shoulder.

“Mi waxed. Mi whined. Mi squirt. I’m more than alright.”

Nia giggled, kissing down her belly.

“You want post-wax oil?”

“Only if you rub it in with yuh pum-pum, babes.”