tagBDSMA Masterful Makeover

A Masterful Makeover

byMsQuote©

It had been three weeks since George had asked me to get a Brazilian and my hair and whatever else I wanted done. I booked the day with Katherine, who did such a marvelous job on my hair and makeup the night George took me out to dinner and to the gallery.

In that time since, I thought a lot about the encounter we had with her when she fit me with that vibrating egg. It was all so hot with the way George asked her to slip it in to me while he watched. In many ways she was so open about being the kind of woman I wanted to be at times -- wild, crazy and totally unashamed and uncensored about her sexual self. The way she seemed to enjoy and knew what she was doing when she was stroking my slit, getting me moist deep inside, made me hope that it was something that could happen again except with me being able to explore her, as well.

She greeted me with a big sisterly hug when I came into the salon. I didn't even get a chance to tell her what I wanted to have done to my hair. She showed me a picture of what she thought would look good on me.

Actually, the picture wasn't her idea. She told me that George had given it to her.

"Hmm ... a tad bit controlling," I thought to myself and then knew I shouldn't be surprised.

Then again what he picked out was much sexier than I would have imagined for myself. It involved layering and shaping my just below the shoulder locks that I didn't do much with and giving it a darker, richer and shinier color.

I got a little nervous with all the treatments she was putting in my hair. For me, a trip to the salon once every six months was always just a simple trim and a blow dry. This had to be racking up quite the bill. Katherine assured me not to worry about it.

"George just wants to take care of you and spoil you," she said. "That's just the kind of guy he is."

Obviously, she and George knew each other, but I wasn't quite sure how. George and I never got around to discussing her. I had to ask.

"My friend Thomas and I are good friends with George," she said with a wink.

Of course we couldn't talk too openly about how they all knew each other, at least not like most women could talk about their husbands and boyfriends in a salon like where relationship chatter carried up to the high ceilings and bounced off the walls. However, she confided in the relative privacy of the wash station that Thomas was quite a bit older than her and was married. It was an arrangement she said worked out well for her. He paid for part of her rent so they'd have a place to play and she was free to spend her free time as she wanted.

I was curious to know how she spent her free time. Was it with other men? Was it with other women? Would she have an interest in spending some free time with me?

It wasn't just sex that piqued my curiosity with her. I had very few female friends and I was really enjoying the conversation we were having. Plus, it would be nice to have another sub to talk to as a mentor and to ask questions.

There was also something so comfortably intimate in the way she pampered me. I could feel my breathing slow and my body fall into a cuddled rest as the pads of her fingers rubbed into my scalp when she rinsed the color out of my hair. She drew long, slow strokes with her brush under the warm blast of air when she blew it out. It felt as if her fingers were reading my face like a slow, luxurious, long fuck scene in a braille erotic novel when she worked a moisturizing treatment on my skin and applied my makeup. She coddled and paid attention to muscles and joints I was never aware of in my fingers and toes, the palms of my hands, and the soles of my feet when she rubbed and massaged them during my manicure and pedicure. By the time she was done with my feet, I swore I was walking on a cloud ... all the way to the waxing room.

Privacy, at last. She said she'd be back in a few minutes after I removed my skirt and panties (I wasn't wearing any) and covered up with a towel. She was friendly yet professional about the time she spent with me. Of course she was. She had to be. This was her workplace, even if it involved her working on my pussy.

She came back into the room, turned down the lights, lit some warm-scented candles, and turned on some Zen-like mediation music. She said it would help relax me and take my mind off the pain. She also took a long silk scarf scented with a light floral perfume, covered my eyes, and tied it behind my head.

"This will help you keep your mind off what you might see and any pain you might anticipate," she whispered calm, low and slow. "And if you're as good of a submissive as George says you are, you just might enjoy this."

Enjoy getting waxed? I couldn't imagine that, but as she guided her hands along the sides of my torso, over my shoulders and down my arms, the rest of my body felt as if it had sunk into a billowy cloud. When she ran her hands up my calves and up my inner thighs, I wanted her fingers to tingle and tantalize the tender skin that surrounded the quivering opening between my legs. I was about to tell her how good her touch felt, but as soon as I opened my mouth, she put one of her fingers up to my lips as if to tell me not to say a word.

I could feel the heavy fluffiness of a warm, damp washcloth being cupped and massage over my pussy. A few times she squeezed the swelling flesh between the tops of my legs a bit too much to be just cleansing my skin, but the soft "boom, rat-a-tat-tat" rhythm of the drums that played on the CD player made me forget about any fear and inhibitions about a woman touching me in a way she shouldn't have only steps outside a salon packed with people. I just wanted to enjoy what felt good.

The first brush of the warm wax she spread along the right side of my stubbly area felt warm and comforting until she quickly pressed a piece of paper upon it and tore it off my skin against the grain of my hair.

I almost let out of sharp yelp until I felt a finger slide up my slit and barely circle the tip of my clit. As soon as I stiffened to ward off the pain, I could feel a tiny rush of slick moisture rub onto the touch of the pad of her finger. I let out a long breath and felt my body relax. Instinctively, my legs spread open and my left knee bent upward until her finger pulled away from my inner lips and a hand brought my leg flat on the table.

I got the message. It wasn't time to play; it was time to be played with.

The second brush of wax went on much more enjoyably, mostly because I knew what to expect, even when she ripped the paper right off my skin. This time, her finger slid deeper into my slit, which was seeping more of my warm stickiness. As her finger started to circle itself deeper inside of me, I failed to get anxious about the hot wax she brushed over the first of my outer lips. As far as I was concerned, she could have spilled boiling oil over it, and I would have never noticed. My mind was totally fixated on the way her finger took time to feel every contour of my slippery inner walls. When she tore the third strip of paper off my skin, I didn't feel pain at all. I felt an orgasmic twinge last only as long as it took to rip the tiny hairs to be ripped out of their pores. I wanted more. I begged.

"Do I need to put a ball gag on you, because I brought that, too," she said.

George must have told her how much I hated the ball gag by the almost sinister, taunting tone in her voice. I just shook my head, "No."

The wax went on again, and this time she thrust her finger deep and hard inside of me when she pulled the paper off. My hips buckled up. I wanted to scream but I barely let out muffled a moan. I was barely aware that she made the wax and pull routine a fifth, sixth and final time. All I could concentrate on were the jolts and squirts from deep inside of me when I should have been feeling the pores of my skin being violated.

She kept jolting her finger deep inside until I came. I wanted to twist on the narrow paper-sheeted padded table, but knew I couldn't because I was told I couldn't and knew I would likely slip off the table and fall to the floor. I wanted to cry out loud, but I would likely be heard by whoever would be outside the door, not to mention the fear of the ball gag. I climaxed heavily but silently in rapid clipped gasps. As my breathing slowed and deepened, I could feel Katherine rubbing a warm, damp washcloth over my tender skin, which was starting to feel sensitive and raw to her touch. She took her time circling a cool gel on the skin, which cooled and soothed it. Her fingers took their time circling my skin until I was completely relaxed and aware of the "boom, rat-a-tat-tat" beat of the music that she turned on earlier.

Katherine pulled me up to sit and untied the scarf from behind my head. To see her smile as the first thing I saw made me want to kiss her. Instead, she backed up about a foot away from me and asked, "So how was it?" as if she had done something as benign as plucking a few eyebrow hairs.

I told her it was amazing. I told her that I was confused and excited that I could experience so much pleasure when I expected pain. She gave herself a congratulatory smile and said that she had learned a lot about sensory play from Thomas, who she called, "a master of the art."

After I got dressed and came out of the room, George was waiting for me in the lobby. I hadn't expected to see him right away that day, but he said he decided to come to the salon to pay the bill in person and that he couldn't wait to see my transformation.

I caught a glimpse of myself in a mirror of the lobby. My dark wavy hair that I always thought had a natural style of its own seemed as if it belonged to a movie star on a red carpet. It had panache. It had sheen. It commanded attention. I wasn't used to seeing this kind of glow on my skin, and I wasn't used to seeing my fingers look so long and finished. Aside from having them shaped, all I had put on them was a barely pink translucent gloss that George picked out ahead of time. I almost didn't recognize myself.

George seemed fixated on me with a sly smile that was stuck on his face as much as whatever deep thought that kept him from saying anything. "Lovely," was all he said until he asked if I was free for the rest of the day.

"Since we're downtown, I thought we could spend the rest of the afternoon shopping," he said.

"Window shopping for me," I said. "I got hit with the water bill and my car insurance bill this month."

"I'll do better than that," he said with a smile. "When I told you that I wanted you to dress a certain way, I didn't expect you to bankroll my wish and whim. Besides, half the fun will be picking out what I'd like to see on you."

First the salon day, and now clothes shopping on him? I wasn't quite sure how to take this. It was much too generous of an offer even though he always seemed to take delight in spoiling me and treating me better than I ever treated myself.

"Oh, what the hell?" I said to myself.

This was every woman's dream, like Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman.

He grabbed me by the hand and marched me over to the first store. He insisted that I needed some suits and skirts and dresses for work.

When I came out in the first suit he picked out in a navy summer wool, I was surprised at the figure I had. I never thought a more expensive suit could make me look so much better. Even George looked me over up and down in a brand new way and ran his hand over the seams of the jacket that followed the curve over the small of my back to just above my ass.

"Suits command the respect you deserve from your staff and from your managers," he said in a low and husky tone only I could hear. "But when I show up and take you into the back stairwell for a quickie, only I know that underneath that you're wearing a tightly tied lacy corset with those plump breasts billowing over that boning just for my pleasure. Right, my kitten?"

He tipped my chin up with his thumb and commanded my attention with his eyes. There was no opportunity to look away in my discomfort of slight embarrassment. I've never let my sexual fantasies enter my head space at work, but thinking he might demand that I dress like his personal slut underneath the veneer of professionalism ... a rather stylish professionalism that would be rather conspicuous in the newsroom? The thought that he could bring that kind of sexual tension at work made me as nervous as it excited me. That thought and at knowing that we were having this conversation in the middle of a clothing store made me shake and tremble a bit before I could quietly say, "Yes, sir."

He undid the top button of the white V-neck blouse and gave me a discreet and playful smack on my ass before sending me on my way back to the fitting room. I gave him a smile and spun around in a pair of pumps that I borrowed from the shoe department and sashayed away, thinking about what it would be like to steal a few moments away at work like that.

He also had me try on a white silky wrap front top and a black and white polka dot skirt that flowed and flounced with every step I took. It looked good on me. It even made me walk with a bit of a sashay.

"Hmm ..." he mused when I stepped out to show him. "This has some possibilities. This looks so sweet and demure for daytime, and no one in the newsroom would ever expect what kinds of plans I'd have for you later in the evening. Wear this on Monday."

I wondered what plans he had in mind. He didn't elaborate. I knew better than to ask. He wouldn't tell me, but half the fun was not knowing.

He picked out a few more things before we headed out to the lingerie shop.

This was not the typical lingerie mall store that was swathed in brash and in-your-face pink. It was how a boudoir looks when it grows up ... gilded chandeliers and drawer pulls on art moderne-styled dresser drawers. The lighting was soft with an almost golden glow. The sounds of Edith Piaf and Nina Simone hummed in the background like a muted soundtrack of a movie scene that was not my life. It was all as exquisite as the lacy, silky and sheer gossamer fabrics that hung from the hangers and displays.

A proper, marmish late-middle-aged woman with a chignon, readers that slipped halfway down her nose, and a measuring tape that hung around the neck of her respectable swing dress came out from behind the counter to greet us. George immediately asked her to measure me for a fitting. She gave him a look as if he wanted him to leave when he walked into the fitting area with us, but he said, "It's not as if I haven't seen her before."

She allowed him in, but she didn't look too crazy or comfortable about it. Neither was I, at least half of me wasn't. The other half of me wanted to giggle at the way he got his way, and especially when she addressed him as "Sir."

The woman wrapped the tape measure around my rib cage and over my breasts and said I was a 34D. George said she wanted her to bring in suitable bras, corsets and matching garter belts in lace, leather and latex. "Nothing practical," he added. "I want her sexuality to ooze out of anything she puts on."

"Matching panties, too?" she asked uncomfortably.

"They won't be necessary," he said sternly.

I stood in the room in just my bra and skirt assuming that he'd eventually leave. He didn't. He could see the discomfort in my face.

"You don't like that I'm in here, do you?" he said.

I paused before answering honestly, "No, I don't, sir."

"You don't think I should be here to choose what I'd like to see you in?" he asked.

"I suppose that's your prerogative, sir," I responded.

He gave me a leer as if he couldn't be more delighted before the saleswoman came back in the room with an armful of underpinnings.

George rummaged through the woman's selections murmuring, "Yes," "No," "Let's give this a try," while depositing each garment in their respective piles. He handed the "No" pile back to the woman before sending her out of the room.

His first pick was an all-white lace demi bra and matching garter belt. I turned around and faced a wall without a mirror to slip off my pink satin bra that looked woefully worn compared to the things I had to try on. When I put the new bra on I was surprised how full and lifted my breasts looked in a well-made properly fitted bra and secretly admired how the lace barely covered the dark shadows and the rigid outlines of my areolas and hardening nipples. My breasts felt and looked fuller and plumper than I was ever aware they were. I kept my skirt on until after I hoisted up the garter belt and attached the stockings to the clips. Shyly, I pushed the skirt down past my hips and let it fall to the floor before I turned around to show him the full view.

He walked around inspecting every inch of me, and then told me to shift my shoulders back, clasp my hands behind my back, and point my toes at twelve and two. My breast stood out even more. My waist felt as if it was cinching in. He lifted my chin up with the lightest touch of his finger before he backed away.

"When I say, 'Present yourself,' this is how I want you to stand," he said. "You look so regal this way."

He went back to silently checking me out. I couldn't tell by his expression whether he liked what he saw on me until he said, "Normally, I wouldn't want you in all white. I'd feel as if I was violating a little girl on her First Communion day, but I couldn't resist the opportunity to see you like this with your freshly-waxed pussy. Tell me my kitten, how does it feel?"

I brought one hand around to go over Katherine's handiwork. I didn't want to complain that it still felt tender to the touch. My skin still looked a bit pinkish. But aside from the pain, I told him, "It's incredibly soft ... smooth ... It feels like brand-new skin."

When my fingers slipped down to my inner lips, I felt as if I were discovering that naughty sensation for the very first time. I closed my eyes, barely let out a sigh, but knew I really shouldn't dare myself any farther.

George wouldn't let me. He handed me the next ensemble, satiny padded black bra with a touch of lace trim, and a padded red torpedo bustier after that. I didn't get a chance to finish attaching the stockings to the straps when he backed me up against the wall, put my hands above my head, and asked, "You'd like me to fuck you while you're wearing that, wouldn't you?"

His deeper than usual, almost menacing voice, prompted me to say, "I want you to fuck me right now, sir," as if that response came out of my mouth on auto pilot. I didn't thinking of finding the right and proper words to respond.

I had a feeling for just half a moment that he wanted to act on that thought until I heard him take a deep breath before he backed away.

"There's more," he said, dangling a black leather corset before me.

It was beautiful. Rock star beautiful. This wasn't leather that felt like butter; it felt like melted butter. It felt as if it was caressing my skin when I put it on that I hardly notice how much the boning and the clasps were cinching in my torso and waist. It cupped my breasts as if they were in large bursting tulip blossoms. I couldn't help to vogue in front of the mirror.

George stood at the other side of the room with a content smile and said, "You like?"

How could he not see that I did.

"You'll have to earn it," he said. "Get on your hands and knees."

I saw the game coming even if I didn't know what the objective or the rules were. I could hear it in his voice ... cold, stern and demanding. I did what I was told and looked to him for the next directions.

He pointed to the floor in front of him and said, "Crawl."

I came to him slowly palm by palm, knee by knee, with my soft skin brushing up against the slight roughness of the carpet beneath me, keeping my eyes fixated on him without blinking the entire time. When I came to his feet, I assumed the position without being told: kneeling with my hands clasped behind my back. He gave me a closed-lip smile, unzipped his shorts, and let his hardened cock fall out.

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