“Open your legs, please,” the voice is not unkind, but very firm, and the hands on my ankles are convincing proof that protesting is pointless.  Lying on my back, a bit befuddled, i am slow to obey, and the hands push my ankles up and back, which raises my knees to my chest and hands on the inside of my thighs, parting them, follwed by a slap, open-handed, but a stinging slap on the sensitive inner thigh.  i wiggle like i’m going to press my legs together, but that is not happening.

The slaps are repeated, shifting from one thigh to the other and i whimper. My efforts to escape only serve to raise my more sensitive pussy up, and with a smile, she brings her hand down hard directly on it several times.  “Do you think I’m doing this for my own pleasure?” she fusses.  “No.  I’m not.  Your Master asked for this.  He said he wanted your hair removed, underarms, legs AND cunt.  You’re lucky I’m good at it, some people would have you here for hours, ripping it out a bit at a time.”

As she speaks,  feel a warmth on my skin, which fades, and then a sharp pain – the wax is removed, the hair with it.  “OH!” i had not expected it to be like that.

“Hush,” she says.  “You do NOT want me to use the paint stick on that pussy, do you?  Cause I will, and I don’t think you’ll like it.”

No, of course i don’t want the paint stick, so she continues, laying swathes of warm wax on my skin then ripping them off, while i bite my lip and stifle my groans.  She doesn’t spare the sensitive skin between my ass cheeks, which is embarrassing, but not as painful as you might expect.

She sprays me lightly and rubs lotion over the swollen puffy skin.  “There,” she says.  “He’ll be pleased, I think.  Now get your ass up – on to the enema.”

“What? The what?  i didn’t – i don’t – did you say,” and i lower my voice, “enema?”

She laughs, helping me sit up on the table.  “Yes, of course.  He wants you clean for your first inspection, that’s just part of it.   Come on, off the table.”

i had thought i’d be eager to get down, but now i don’t ever want to leave.  She looks at me curiously.  “You’re not very well-trained, are you?”

“Well-trained?” and now i’m laughing, “i’m not trained at all.”

“Now that surprises me,” she says, looking at me through narrowed eyes.  “He rarely takes on a newbie, too much trouble.  But that explains a lot.  Come on, off the table.  “It’s too late to turn back, unless you want to leave completely.”

“Oh, no!” i am appalled at the idea, and almost jump down from the table.   “No, i’m here to be trained, i want to be trained.  i guess – i guess -” i look at the two men who have been guiding me through this – “i guess i’m ready for whatever comes next.”

i have never had an enema before – if i had known what it’s like to kneel, head pressed to the floor, ass raised, while liquid is pumped into you until you’re as full as you can imagine, and then to have to wait, and wait for what seems like forever, stomach protesting – well, i if i had known what’s it like, i wouldn’t have been so damn blithe about it.

Finally, they let me up and i stagger to the toilet, eternally grateful that they have left the room for this final part, allowing me to void in some privacy.  Finished at last, they retrieve me and sit me over the bidet.  i am not allowed to touch myself and they finish cleaning me.  It is the oddest sensation to have the two men touching me so intimately, using lotions and gentle massage to ensure i am clean and my skin is cared for.

They put me in the shower next, donning plastic covers for their own clothes, washing my hair and my body carefully.  Drying me.  All this time, they don’t speak to me, other than to tell me to turn or which body part they want.  They are polite and gentle, and i’m grateful.

The woman they hand me to next is neither polite nor gentle.  She dries my hair and styles it so it’s up, on top of my head, emphasizing my nakedness.  She sits me in a chair, still naked, while she does my make-up, which includes a bright red lipstick.   Then she makes me lie back while she colors my nipples and nether lips a matching color.

Finally, “Here,” she says to the two men, “She’s all yours.  I think she’s too quiet and passive, I think that’s gonna cause problems later.  Do I have switching rights?”

i have no idea what she means but the two men nod, solemnly at first, and then smiling, “Yes, you do,” says the one I think of as Friendly.

I apparently wrote this after a time in the waxing salon.  And I think I stopped because the enema was really too much.  I think I just didn’t know where to go next.  But I knew a blogger at the time whose husband/Master made her do enemas often and I was intrigued and appalled by the idea.