A young widow of means I am and I live a virtuous life. Except for one day every fortnight. On that day I do not get dressed at all, rather: I go about naked. No, not entirely. I do wear a blindfold.

I started this practice without warning, not even to myself, on a day like this. My husband was gone already, so it was just my dozen or so staff that had to contend with this.

I am 35 years old, childless and I have kept my figure well. My virtuous life consists of running my household, monitoring my accountants and bank managers - I am no fool!-, of charity work and entertaining or being entertained. Quite normal.

The relations with my staff are cordial, but not confidential. How they reacted to my folly I don't know, but I am not interested. They think me a good mistress and perhaps attribute it to my husband's demise or just upper-class eccentricity.

On the 'other day' then, I do really change from civilised to absolutely shameless, provocative, obscene. I can't explain why I do this, but I like it evidently. I may stop again when I least expect it.

I respect my mistress, but dread that Tuesday every fortnight when she decides to let it all go. We don't deserve this shame. She has never failed to do it since she started some two years ago, and is strictly regular. She had never explained herself and we have never questioned her nor complained. Among ourselves, we talk, but our lips are sealed to the outside world. Call it loyalty, call it a sensible way of keeping our jobs. Among us, there is a mixture of moods, ranging from people like me, who dread it, to the younger ones, who laugh about it a bit.

The centrepiece of the day is the depilation of her pubic hair. It is this that seems to have formed the motivation for the day. On an ominous day, while we were in the dining room, Madame said to me: 'Janet, I have decided that I want to do something about my hair,' and to my horror she bent over slightly, took hold of the hem of her skirt and lifted it up, right there in front of me.

She had taken her underwear off, so her pubic hair was in full view. 'I want you to wax me,' and she explained what she meant. I protested, but she would not hear of it. 'I don't have a better candidate, my dear Janet.' She restored her skirt and then collected the required materials and handed them to me. 'Let us go to my bedroom.' 'No...', I muttered. 'But why, my dear? Are you afraid of the intimacy?' She looked at me and I nodded. 'Why you? I should be the one. But I have the solution, if you insist. We shall do the job right here on the dining table and you shall ask all to attend. There shall be no intimacy to be afraid of.'

And so it happened that in front of all of us, without exception, she stepped out of her shoes and removed the belt of her dress. She then turned her back to us, zipped down and opened the dress. She let it slide from her shoulders and drop on the floor. 'Please, would you pick it up and hang it somewhere?' I complied, weak-kneed, and walked up. I bent over and picked up the dress. Thus I came very close to her naked buttocks and felt her warmth! (A surge of emotion...) The bra went the same way. I picked it up and put both articles on a chair beside me. (The shame...) I furtively glanced at my fellow staff members and saw that they were equally ashamed. (She was right. Sharing the shame helped.) She lay down on the great table with her legs over the side

I did the job, or, rather, we did, because she required another two of us to hold her hands when I tore the hairs out. At the end of this, she lay there a while, her highly placed vagina in full view, in two ways, as we stood there, uncertain what to do. She did finally get up from the table and simply wandered off without saying a word, naked, and did not get dressed again that day.

I was introduced about the mistress' antics a few days ago when I arrived. This will be my first witnessing. I am not sure if I mind. She is a pretty woman for her age. Standing around during the general assembly is the most awkward, so I am told by my fellow-younger colleagues. The rest of the day is just about the surprise of bumping into her nude here or there, but I can handle that.

At nine a.m. we gather in the dining room, which holds the great dining table on which the ritual chore is executed. The size of the room makes that there is ample space left for all of us and a whole lot more.

She is already there and there is music playing. Quiet dance music. She waltzes around the living room, still dressed, in a light skirt and blouse that moves, glides and flows with the music. She is enjoying herself and dances around in extended excursions to include all of the room. Her legs, her arms, her head, her hair, her whole body participates in the dance. Her long legs smooth, endless and shiny in their sheer stockings. Her arms, thin, with hands and fingers the last word in grace. Her shoulder-length hair sailing through the air. Her body, arching, stretching; her proud breasts showing the way. We are spellbound.

As time progresses, the music becomes ever louder, the rhythms ever faster. She changes character accordingly, becomes less ethereal, earthier. She continues to dance as she removes her stockings, blouse and skirt and flings them in a chair. She is a go-go girl now; she struts her stuff with vigour. She shakes her bottom; she sways her breasts; her hair flies and covers her face. I can see it in her eyes: her mind moves from the here and now and starts to lose its sense of the present.

When hardcore disco music is accompanying her, she is an animal. She has taken off her underwear and is naked. Sweat pours off her brow. Her whole body is glistening. She no longer moves around, but has settled some 10 feet away from me. She looks straight into my eyes. I am so close to her.

Her hands pass her every part of her body, kneading her breasts, tossing about her hair, slapping her buttocks. It is obscene indeed. I am embarrassed because I am in the company of my colleagues, many female, many elderly. Her hands move along the insides of her thighs. She squats down, legs wide open, unaware of anything but her own body. She leans back and is now supported on all fours, looking up. Her bare opening is in full view as she bobs up and down. Up and down, up and down, until the last drop of energy has fizzled away on exhaustion's hot plate. She makes it to the table, lies down and is gone.

I feel a push in the back and Janet walks up and hands me a pair of tweezers. Do I feel dizziness coming on? No, no, I can handle this. I walk over to the chair between the mistress' legs and sit down. I can smell her now. Does my hand shake as I move to pull out the few pubic hairs that have grown on either side of her lips?

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