The car arrives promptly at 09.30 hours, as stated on the card she had opened when she rose that morning. Sara has her small handbag with her, a light coat, and nothing else. Dressed smartly in a blouse and knee length skirt she closes and locks the front door, making her way down the path on sensible 2 inch heels, sheer stockings swishing together as she approaches the sleek black Mercedes that awaits her. A liveried chauffeur steps from the car and opens the rear door as she approaches.

"Morning, ma'am." The tone is perfunctory, polite but detached, letting her know that he will not be conversing any further with her. She ignores him and slides into the sleek leather interior, the heady smell of luxury wrapping her tightly as the door closes, the world dimmed by the tinted windows. On the back seat is an envelope, plain white, good quality paper, and completely blank. She knows this is for her, and she opens it as the chauffeur starts the car and they glide away towards London.

The card inside the envelope feels rich in her hands, thick and strong, suitable for the issuing of instructions. On it is the first part of her instructions, typed in plain text and bold printed. "Remove your panties and place them on the seat next to you. Do not touch them again, no matter what happens to them." A warm thrill bubbles inside of her as she looks up, noticing that the screen between her and the driver is opaque, a sheet of anonymous black. She briefly wonders if this is for her own privacy or if it is to avoid upsetting the driver.

She slides her silky skirt up over her thighs and gently pulls her panties down, the pale silk slithering on her skin then her stockings as she lowers them to the floor of the car and steps out of them. She then places them tidily on the seat next to her, smoothing out the folds as she lays them flat, before gently rearranging her skirt down to her knees and placing the envelope in her handbag. She sits and waits, patiently, her hands folded in her lap as the shark like executive car insinuates itself into the traffic, ruthlessly taking her to her first appointment.

* * * * *

They pull over outside an anonymous building in Covent Garden, and she waits patiently as the chauffeur parks and lets her out of the car. Looking neither left nor right she calmly walks towards the door in front of her. A plain glass door with no writing on it, just a number, etched into its surface. Opening the door she is welcomed into a world of quiet and cool. A gentle aura of fragrance surrounds her and calms her as she approaches the chic white desk and the equally chic receptionist behind it.

"Hello, we were expecting you" the receptionist chirps as she rises to her feet. "This way, please." Her lithe, young wiggle leads the way through a maze of snow blindness inducing corridors to a pale green room, where she steps aside and allows Sara to pass through.

"Take your clothes off and lay on the bench, someone will be in to see you soon." And with that the door closes, the wiggle no doubt disappearing back to its desk as Sara looks around her. In one corner there is a folded screen, and in the centre of the room is what looks remarkably like the benches used for a gynecological examination, stirrups and all, which in its turn is next to the most fanciful and evil looking machine, with all manner of tubes and protrusions clipped to it. A little daunted now she opts to step behind the screen to undress, and folds it out to do so. But there it is. Another little envelope pinned neatly to the first panel that she folds out. She removes the pin and opens it, sliding the card out. "No modesty screens today. Get undressed and lay on the bench. You are to make no noise at all while you are here."

Her hands shake gently as she places the card back in its envelope, and the envelope in her handbag, which she then places on a solitary chair against the wall. She deftly unbuttons her blouse and slips it from her back, her bra follows, small breasts staying firm and pert as the fabric falls away, then her skirt, lowered carefully and she steps out of it, careful not to get it dirty on the floor. All of these she folds carefully and places on the chair. Then her suspender belt, unclasping the catches to one stocking so she can carefully roll the sheer fabric off her leg, then folding the gossamer gauze and adding it to the pile. Then the other leg, and finally the belt itself undone and laid with care. Her shoes she places neatly on the floor, under the chair.

The bench is warmer than she was anticipating, yet the leather still snags at her soft skin as she mounts it. It's tall, and she has to use a little step to get up there. As she lays back she notices the loops and chains on the side of the bench and her breath catches in her throat. She has no idea what will happen to her here, no concept of what this place is, she has never been here before or seen the receptionist anywhere else. This is all of his doing, and she knows that she will have to do as she is commanded, so she lays back, eyes wide, and blushes as she slides her legs up into the stirrups that wait for her. The cool air in the room brushes against her naked skin, finding moist patches and playing with them to send a shiver through her.

It is only a couple of minutes before the door opens and a woman dressed all in white enters the room. She does not look at Sara; she does not speak to her. In her gloved hands she carries a small pot, which she places in a hole on the top of the fantabulous contraption near Sara's head. The woman is blonde, her hair piled up on top of her head in curls that tumble wantonly down again, making Sara want to tuck the hair back into the glittering clasp that holds the creamy tresses.

Opening a cupboard the woman gets out leather cuffs, two sets, and two leather straps with clips at each end. Without consultation of any sort she begins to strap Sara into the cuffs at wrist and ankle, the wrists going above Sara's head, and then she clips the cuffs to the bench, so Sara is restrained. One belt goes across Sara's pelvis, the other across her chest, above her breasts, pinning her firmly. At no time does the woman make eye contact, and Sara does not seek it.

Opening the pot that she has brought, the woman begins to stir the contents with a wooden spatula, similar to a tongue depressor. Sara can see little in her peripheral vision, but the mirror helpfully placed overhead lets her see herself completely exposed, legs spread wide, body available. She blushes at the sight and closes her eyes.

The warmth on her leg surprises her. It's gentle, yet enveloping, and she opens her eyes, trying to see what is happening. It's immediately followed by an extreme of pain, a sharp, stinging sensation as the wax is ripped away from her tender flesh, tearing hairs from her skin. As she realizes what is happening, Sara relaxes and the pain that was egged on by shock soon subsides. She's had her legs waxed before, so this is nothing new, just unexpected. She relaxes as her legs are waxed, parts of the bench being manipulated to allow access to all the skin. Her legs begin to tingle, feeling smooth yet irritated at the same time, and the cool breeze plays across the tender flesh to maximum effect, inducing stinging nettle tingling.

The woman moves onto Sara's arms. More painful, yet Sara knows this will be quick and easy, the woman clearly knows exactly what she's doing, so she bites her lip and waits for the flushes of hot and cold that go with the ripping out of hairs. Both arms done, Sara relaxes, closing her eyes, knowing that it is over, and she will soon be dressing again. She looks forward to the soothing creams that will now be applied.

Sara's eyes pop as she feels the wax land on her bikini line. She had forgotten about that. Well, summer is coming, and she knows how much he prefers her well trimmed and tidied, so the pain will be worth it. But the wax doesn't stop at the usual modest tidy up, it goes further, slackening Sara's jaw as it spreads over her entire pubic mound. She feels a hand laying on the fabric strip and knows that this is not going to be pleasant, but she remembers the command on the card and balls her hands into fists, squeezing her eyes tight shut as the rip comes, her gentlest flesh feeling like it's being torn from her body, her scream bottled in her chest as tears begin to well in her eyes. She prays for mercy from this woman, but there is to be none. The wax is back again.

This time it has the help of fingers, spreading her bottom, opening her lips and pulling flesh taught as every single possible place that a hair could grow around her sex is smothered in warm gloop and then patted down with a fabric strip before being harshly yanked away. Sweat has broken out all over Sara and she flushes from ice to sizzling hot as the sensations consume her, exploding inside her head as she tries so very hard not to make a sound, her body fighting the straps that restrain her so tightly. Then it's over. Those same fingers are now applying creams, massaging her skin, rubbing in the soothing ointments that will ensure she has no rash. Her breath returns to her body and she begins to relax as the immediacy of the pain subsides. Those fingers are working magic, easing muscles, cooling the heat, yet they're making their own heat, too, and moisture. The fingers feel free to roam over Sara's clit, flicking and rubbing, bringing her close to climax before sliding inside her, heading straight for her G spot and tipping her quickly into orgasm.

Sara gasps, her body shaking under this new onslaught as she cums, not noticing that creams are now applied to her legs and underarms, too, and that she has been freed from her restraints. As the blonde leaves the room she finally catches Sara's attention.

"Get dressed, your car is waiting." And the door closes.

* * * * *

It took Sara a good fifteen minutes to regain her composure, dress and leave the waxing salon. She hadn't been able to resist touching herself, checking the damaged area, and surprised to find that her touch instantly aroused herself again. It felt so smooth, so clean, her fingers felt like someone else's when she gently stroked the area. She was still flushed, but she was back in the car where the air conditioning had been thoughtfully raised to counter her flush.

It finally occurred to her to look at the seat next to her, and when she did so she found her panties gone.

* * * * *

Next stop was lunch, a treat for her at her favourite restaurant. Escorted swiftly and silently to her table she was unsurprised now to find an envelope waiting on her plate. She was, however, surprised by the table, which was on a raised dais in the centre of the restaurant. Feeling very conspicuous she opened the envelope and read the card. A flush immediately filled her face and she looked down, sure that everyone else would have read the words on the card. After a moment she looked around her, checking to see if anyone was watching, before she began to shuffle in her seat. First her hands went behind her, undoing the catch on her bra, then fled swiftly back to her lap, another flush taking over the work of the first one. The blouse that had been chosen for her that morning was quite sheer. Not completely see through, but enough that outlines could be ascertained, and the contrast of the lace on her bra against her skin was noticeable.

Swallowing she tucked her right thumb under her collar above her left shoulder and nudged the strap of her bra off. It immediately plummeted to her elbow and she pulled it over the elbow then over her hand, stuffing the fabric back into her blouse before anyone could see what she was doing. Another look round, no one seemed to be paying her any attention, and she took a sip of ice water to steady herself. Left thumb, right shoulder, and it was done. The bra was off and resting under the level of the table inside her blouse, her pert breasts now holding the fabric of her blouse out on erect nipples. Carefully un-tucking her blouse she pulled the flimsy garment free and stuffed it quickly in her handbag. She reached for the card and read again the words. "Whilst sitting at the table, remove your bra. You are not to wear it for the rest of the day. You are not to slouch at the table, but to sit with your shoulders back. A waiter will remove the garment from you to prevent temptation." The card slid easily back into its envelope and thence into her handbag, which she kept on her lap. Another sip of cold water and she finally sat completely upright, shoulders back, ankles crossed and tucked under the chair. Waiting.

A group of three waiters appeared, each carrying a plate covered by a metal dome. The first plate was laid before her and the waiter whisked away the cover to reveal a seafood salad. The second plate hovered before her and the waiter solemnly intoned

"Madam, I believe you have something for me." This was not a request, it was an instruction, and she blushed to her roots as she obeyed, balling her bra tight into her fist and placing in under the dome that lowered even as she released the fabric. Then the plate was removed and a third took its place. As the dome was raised high and the plate tilted slightly towards her Sara gasped. On the plate were two pegs made of highly polished chrome steel. She looked up at the waiter who merely moved the platter closer to her. Eyes downcast she slid her hand up and grasped the pegs firmly before slipping them straight into her handbag. The waiters left and she breathed a sigh of relief. Relief that was to be short lived. A waitress arrived with a glass of Champagne and yet another envelope. Sara was dreading the contents and nearly put it to one side, yet knew that she had to open it immediately or suffer the consequences.

The card shook in her hand as she read the text. "Well done, enjoy your meal and the one glass of Champagne, there will be fresh strawberries and cream for your dessert which you will eat using your fingers and no cutlery. When you are done the car will be waiting for you." Her tense muscles sagged, there was to be no more humiliation, no more embarrassment until she had finished her lunch, and she had the very fine compensations of an excellent lunch and a glass of her favourite Champagne to enjoy as well. The day was certainly an intriguing one.

* * * * *

By the time she had finished her lunch Sara had realized that the other diners were too self absorbed to notice her nudity, that only she knew she wore no panties, and that if anyone saw her nipples that strained against the blouse in the air conditioned air they were only appreciating them. The good food and the slight buzz of the Champagne buoyed her spirits as she left the restaurant and slid into the dark womb of the limousine.

Their next stop was an hotel, a very plush one at that, right on Park Lane, and she was immediately escorted to a suite with a perfect view over London and the park. Sara was beginning to enjoy herself, relishing these rare tastes of luxury as she stepped out of her shoes and her toes curled into the deep carpet. An envelope lay on the bed, this one a bit thicker than the others, and she quickly tore it open and removed two cards.

"You are to shower and wash your hair. A hairdresser, manicurist and make up artist will knock on the door at precisely 16.00 hours. After they have finished with you, you may read the second card. Do not read the second card until then. Do not open the closet. Do not open the window. Do not use the phone. Do not attempt to communicate with anyone who enters the room. Open the room to all who knock at the door. "

Well, that was very precise. Feeling a touch rebellious Sara walked to the closet, only to notice when she grasped the handle that there was a little tag on there. The tag was numbered, and in its own fragile way it ensured that she could not open the door without it being known, as it would break off from the other handle should the doors be pulled back.

Well, she thought, perhaps not knowing for now won't kill me, and I could certainly use that shower. She made her way into the marble bathroom with its huge Jacuzzis bath, double basins, bidet and toilet set and a wonderfully ornate shower full of body jets and steam nozzles. Recognizing the obvious torture her Dom intended for her at this point she allowed her clothes to fall to the floor about her as she stepped into the enclosure and turned the taps. She spent ages in there, trying all the settings, even the sauna, using all the wonderfully exotic toiletries that had been placed there for her use, and completely indulging herself. She stayed so long that she almost missed the first knock on the door.

True to instruction, the hairdresser, manicurist and make up artist all arrived in turn, each tending to her, dressing her hair perfectly, filing and painting finger and toe nails to glorious effect and skillfully applying make up so that when they left and Sara looked in the mirror she didn't recognize this graceful beauty that looked back at her. Her hand lifted to touch her face, to confirm that it was her, and she saw her slender finger now tipped with an almond of scarlet that shone like glass. She'd never felt so beautiful in her whole life, not when she married, not when her children were born, never. A sob rose in her throat and she fought it, not willing to sacrifice her mascara to sentimentality. But she couldn't stop looking at herself. Eventually she moved from the small mirror over the dressing table to the cheval mirror opposite the bed and she dropped the plush robe that wrapped her to the floor in an unceremonious heap.

Sara hadn't looked at herself for a long time. She hadn't wanted anyone else to look at her, either. She had been too busy, too caked in playdough and baby food. Too busy on school runs and making tea for small mouths that seemed to spill more than they consumed. Too tired at night to do more than stand briefly under the shower and hide her body again in a drab nightgown before falling into bed. But she looked now, and she felt her youth return.

She ran those scarlet tipped fingers over herself, noticing how the stretch marks had finally faded, that the muscles had tightened again over her frame as she'd been chasing toddlers in the park, that some how, while she wasn't looking, someone had erased the intervening years, the stresses and pains, the bulges and creases and given her back her beautiful body. It was no longer youthful, that she knew, it had obviously changed, more curved here, less flat there, but now it was the body of a woman not a girl. There was no innocence there, it was ripe and fecund, her sexuality wrapped itself around her like the snake in the Garden of Eden and her eyes gleamed with joy and pride. She recalled his words on their anniversary, how she was told that he had been neglecting her, that she was more than a wife and mother, that she was his submissive and that he was going to reclaim her. She hadn't felt it at the time, but now, looking at herself in the mirror, she believed him. The second card eventually summoned her back to the bed and she carefully read it and smiled.

* * * * *

The limousine disgorged her as close as possible to the base of the London Eye and she was eagerly escorted into one of the large pods for her husbands cocktail party. This was a works affair, so she didn't know any of the faces there, but they all turned to look as she stood in the doorway, the sheer grey silk sheath turning her body into a perfect steel sculpture, sucking onto her every curve, revealing not a stitch underneath. There was no shame this time, she stood there proudly, nipples erect as she scanned the pod seeking out her husbands gleaming gaze. He smiled at her, pleased with how she looked, and came forward to escort her inside.

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