The following is a work of fiction, and all of the people, places, vehicles and clothing contained within are also totally fictitious. Mostly.
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Lisa stepped from the shower, taking the plush red towel from the hook next to the door. She toweled her long black hair vigorously then dried herself slowly and wrapped the towel around her. Using a washcloth, she wiped the steam from the circular mirror above the sink and brushed out then blow-dried her hair.
She walked out into her spacious bedroom and began removing clothes from her closet, laying them out carefully on the bed. Next she took stockings, underwear, and accessories and laid them out on the corresponding outfits. Settling on the white skirt/jacket combo, she returned everything else to their proper places.
Lisa went back to the bathroom and carefully shaved her legs and underarms, then delicately shaved her pussy smooth. She walked into her salon and let the towel drop to the floor. She posed in front of the mirror, turning this way and that to make sure everything still looked as good as this morning. Her pedicured toes were painted dark red, matching her manicured nails. She had lovely, shapely legs without a ripple of cellulite and just enough muscle to give them better shape and definition. Her hips were full, 35 inches, and turning, she had to smile to herself at the perfect shape of her ass — not a bit of droop or sag. Turning again, she ran her hands over her flat stomach, up to her ribs, then over the roundness of her full breasts. She had been a perfect 36C ever since her surgery over a year before, and the constant dieting and body sculpting since then had also rewarded her with her goal of a 23-inch waist. She brought her hands to rest on each side of her long, slender neck, and looked closely at her face.
It was naturally heart-shaped, her lips were full and pouty — also natural. Her nose was thin and straight, with a perfect little button at the tip (her nose had cost $10,000). Her eyes were the purest ice blue, large and almond-shaped, with full thick lashes. Her face showed no lines or creases, and her complexion — and that of her entire body for that matter — was flawless and smooth. Lisa looked like a girl of 20, a full seven years younger than she actually was.
Lisa went back to the bedroom and put her arms through the straps of her black lace bra, pulling it taught and fastening it in the front. She then sat on the bed, and slipped her feet and legs into her sheer, black body stocking. She stood and pulled it up her body, putting her arms through the sleeves. She sat again and straightened and smoothed the silk/nylon material, making certain that the intricate patterns ran exactly where they were supposed. Next she stepped into her white skirt and pulled it up to her waist, zipped and buttoned it, then pulled it back down to rest on her hips. She put on the matching white belt, then slipped her arms into the white bolero jacket and shrugged it onto her shoulders.
Back in the salon, Lisa sat and applied her makeup, a little dark red lipstick and liner, delicate blue eye shadow, slight rouge for her cheeks. Then, after putting on two gold bracelets, a diamond pendant necklace, and diamond earrings, Lisa put the finishing touches on her hair, slipped on her knee-length black leather boots with the 3½" stiletto heels, grabbed her little white clutch purse and headed out for the evening.
Lisa pulled into the parking area of the little neighborhood auto repair shop and turned off the engine. Stretching in the leather interior of her midnight blue Alfa Romeo, she turned the mirror and took one last look at her makeup. She stepped out of her car and closed the door, then set the alarm. She looked around for the entrance, and then walked into the grungy little office, closing the door behind her.
Sitting behind the grease and oil-stained counter, was a short, fat man in his fifties, covered in grease. He wore a badly stained blue shirt (with a name tag reading “Al” in cursive), blue work pants and old worn shoes. His face was piggish and his cheeks were covered in rough black bristles. He had thick, wild eyebrows over his little round black eyes. His hair was short and black, and would have been non existent on the top save for the badly applied comb-over. Between his thick, fat fingers smoldered a cheap cigar.
“Whatchoo wan’? We cloosed,” he said in a thickly accented, gravely voice. His eyes crawled over every inch of Lisa’s body, and his lips parted to expose yellow and brown teeth. Tiny beads of sweat appeared suddenly on his forehead.
