All Change for Amy

It was two days before the next text, two days of agonizing silence that Amy filled with a nervous, domestic energy. She cleaned the house from top to bottom, she cooked Jack's favorite meals, and she tried to be the perfect wife, all the while feeling like an imposter in her own life. The silence was broken by the familiar, unwelcome sound of the courier's van. Another parcel. She carried it inside, her hands trembling with a mixture of dread and anticipation.

Inside was a new uniform. It was a tightly corseted maid's costume made of gleaming black rubber, with a white rubber apron and frilly cuffs. It came with white rubber suspenders and a pair of sheer, seamed white stockings. There was also a selection of makeup, the shades darker and deeper than before—charcoal grey eyeshadow, blood-red lipstick, a heavy black mascara. New shoes, just like the old ones, were higher than anything Amy had ever worn, a vertiginous spike of patent leather.

At the bottom of the box was a small card with an address and a time. It was for tomorrow, 5 p.m. Panic set in, cold and sharp. What would she tell Jack? Then, like a ray of light, the memory struck her. Tomorrow is his monthly poker night. He wouldn't be back before eleven, often later. She sighed with a relief so profound it made her feel weak.

The next day, she prepared with a ritualistic focus. She pulled on the rubber outfit, the material clinging to her skin, the corset cinching her waist and pushing her breasts up until they threatened to spill over the top. The bottom was flouncy and ridiculously short, barely covering the tops of her stockings. There were no panties, she assumed by design. She looked at the makeup, the colors dark and much more sultry than anything she would ever have chosen. She applied them carefully, using a photograph as a guide, transforming her face into a mask of seductive submission. She finished by placing the frilly white cap on her head. She looked like a caricature, a fantasy from a gentleman's magazine, but she felt a thrill of pure excitement, wondering what her mistress had in mind for her next.

She had earlier parked her car strategically in her own driveway, as close to the back door as she could, so she could slip in without too much exposure. No coat had been mentioned, so she thought she had better not wear one. The address was a small cottage in the countryside just outside the village of Wouldham, set back from the road. It had a tree-lined driveway, and she pulled in, seeing two cars already parked there: Geraldine's and another, a sleek, powerful-looking saloon. Her phone pinged, a text from Geraldine. "Sluts use the back door."

A thrill jumped through her. She climbed out of her car, the cool evening air blowing up her short skirt between her legs, a constant, teasing reminder of her exposure. She knocked on the back door, and Geraldine opened it. She was examined thoroughly, Geraldine's eyes critical as they swept over her from head to toe. "At last," she said, a note of satisfaction in her voice. "You've done as you were told." She was told to put her hands behind her back, and leather cuffs locked them in place. Then Geraldine told her to bend down, and she put a wide leather collar around her neck. It had a leash attached. And Geraldine pulled her through the kitchen of the cottage to a deceptively arge lounge.