When I say that I’m an expert in women’s underwear, I can almost hear the giggles of my past girlfriends. But I really am – after taking degrees in textiles and fashion, and working my way upwards through the purchasing department of a well-known chain of stores, about seven years ago I went independent and launched my own specialist and high-class lingerie mail order business. It was just at the right time, when internet sales were really taking off, and I was relatively early in the field; my company is successful, with a name for quality and service, and a good niche in the market. Whilst most of our sales are from established lines and names, I am always keen to spot rising talent and that’s how I met – well, let’s call her Emma (I can’t give her real name, as she’s now becoming quite recognised as a designer).
The firm is not so large that I can’t take the important decisions myself – most of my staff deal with the routine business of keeping enough supply of stock, fulfilling orders and replying to customer queries, etc. So I still act as chief (well, only) buyer, and in that capacity I was first approached by Emma. She was 24, not very long since graduated from design school and looking to attract interest for her first proper collection; in truth, I was a little flattered when she contacted me by email, and said that my firm was the one she had thought of first. She attached a file of drawings of her designs and some photos of them, modelled by herself – and I thought both the garments and their creator looked rather delightful. So I replied pleasantly, although making no commitment, and invited her to come to my house the following Saturday at 2.00 p.m., so that we would have time free from the constant interruptions you get at the office for her to show me the actual garments. Emma was delighted – she hadn’t really expected get a positive response, and assured me that she would be there.
My earnings from the business have given me a very comfortable lifestyle, although a consequence of the long hours – especially when I started out on my own – is that I live alone. I have always been a lesbian, since being seduced by one of the volunteer leaders of my church youth group when I had just turned sixteen; in truth, I already knew that I was a girl-lover, and probably flirtatiously encouraged the young woman – she certainly encountered no resistance from her conquest! I had sex with her regularly but very discretely during the next two years, and then partly came out at college with a few affairs (one of them with a young faculty member). In my late twenties, I had a serious relationship with a woman I met through work, which lasted about six years – it ended hurtfully, with my lover leaving for someone I had thought was a mutual friend, but who turned out to have been fucking my girl for several months without my knowing. Since then, I had largely buried myself in work, and sexual pleasure had been an intermittent, all too infrequent, case of one-night stands, grabbed whenever the chance arose.
At this point, I was approaching 35 years old. I am quite tall at five foot eleven inches, with grey eyes and thick jet-black hair which is cut at shoulder-length and shaped neatly to frame my face. I am slim, still wearing the same 30B bra size that I did as a student all those years ago; my breasts are not large, but they have no sag. I keep very fit – there is an exercise room in my house, and my one unshakeable rule is to spend an hour on the various machines every night when I get home, working out the stresses and tensions of the day and the drive back on the busy freeway. I also swim twice every weekend, for at least an hour each time, at a nearby exclusive country club which I have joined. My legs are well-shaped and toned, and my ass is also pretty much as trim as it was fifteen years ago – I quite often notice people taking a second look as I stalk by.
After the business really took off, about four years ago I bought a lovely house in a verdant green suburban area on the southern edge of the city. It was built in the 1920s and has quite large grounds behind stone walls, with privacy ensured by the wrought-iron gates across the entry to the drive. I fell in love with it when I first saw it, although I hardly need its four bedrooms and three bathrooms! However, one of its finest features is the large living room, with a series of tall French windows that open out onto the paved stone terrace.
Punctual almost to the moment that the grandfather clock in the hall chimed two o’clock, the gate entry phone’s buzzer sounded. Emma had arrived, and after I released the gate control, she zipped up the gravel drive in a ten-year old, slightly battered, bright red Chevrolet Cavalier convertible, the roof down on this sunny afternoon. As I opened my front door, she popped out of the driver’s seat like a champagne cork, full of energy and zest, and almost breathlessly she grabbed a medium-sized bag in one hand, tucked a large portfolio under her arm, and bounded up the half-dozen steps into the shade of the white-pillared portico. I though that she had the most attractive glow of health, vitality and innocent eagerness, as she held out her free hand and gushed how pleased she was to meet me, how grateful she was that I was giving her this chance, that she knew how valuable my time must be, that she promised me that she wouldn’t be wasting it …
It was almost overwhelming, pouring out in a rush, with the winsome friskiness and uncalculated charm of a little puppy. I couldn’t help but be swept along, laughing and smiling in return as I assured her that it was no trouble, and that I was very interested to see her work – which was quite true, for it was evident that she a natural flair for both line and color.
I took her through to the living room, as she admired the elegance of the house along the way. There I opened a bottle of my favourite Moet & Chandon champagne, and we sipped from tall flute glasses as she set out her designs on the oval walnut table. I looked through them with unfeigned interest and appreciation, our heads close together and our hands frequently touching as one or other of us pointed out various details. Then she offered to show me some of them, modelling them herself, if I liked. I replied that I expected this, and had set up the adjacent dining room for her to change in, and that the downstairs bathroom was next to that if she needed it. She gave me a huge grin, scooped up her bag from where she had left it near the door, and trotted out.
I had cleared a wide floor area in the lounge, and sat on the long leather couch, sipping a glass of champagne and eagerly awaiting her catwalk show. Soon the parade began, and it was a breath-taking experience in every sense of the word. Her lingerie designs were both original and sexy, whilst still being classy in their cut, fabrics, patterns and details. I warmed even more to them, and not just because of the warmth growing between my legs – they were of real quality, and their designer clearly had potential. However, whilst my business brain was attracted by that, my hormones and my pussy were getting very excited by Emma herself. She was just as cute as a button in her bubbling enthusiasm and youthful vigour, and she had a very sweet body – as was becoming more and more apparent!
Whether by calculation or intuition, there was an artful progression to the parade of lingerie which I was shown. She began with the most modest and covering garments, starting with an elegant full-length nightgown in the coolest pink satin, slashed on the left side to above the knee so that her elegant legs were revealed with each stalking stride that she took. However, even this was a sexy affair, for above the sheer fall of its fabric, the neckline was low-cut and the material over the breasts was transparent enough to be tantalising.
The next item was a full-body corselette made in a tight clinging black stretch fabric, but for the cups over the breasts this had been replaced with a thin gauze mesh, as fine – and revealing – as the material of a stocking, but much stronger and more robust. I could hardly manage to keep from staring hungrily at the ripe young breasts which this displayed, and hoped that my blatant interest might be interpreted as professional admiration rather than – as it was – unbridled physical lust.
This was succeeded by a bustier in an unusual but effective combination of green and purple, with straps from the lower sides holding up matching green stockings, and she wore similarly matching long purple gloves which came above the elbow. The bustier pushed her tits up and nearly displayed their nipples (which were just obscured by the decorative frill at the top), and of course it did not cover the pussy area at all. Here she was wearing another piece in co-ordinated color and style: a minimalist thong panty with shoestring sides, tied together in a small bow at each hip. Oh, with just one tug on one little loop, it would fall away, drifting to the ground like an autumn leaf – it took almost more willpower than I could summon up not to lean forward as she skipped past me, give that one naughty pull, and savour the sight of her sweet naked pussy!
The next group to be shown all emphasised layers – but layers so soft, so thin, so insubstantial and so transparent that they were far more erotic when combined than any of them would be separately. This was no subliminal message – these confections screamed out to be undone, pulled open, even ripped away as the prelude to wild passionate fornication, and they were certainly communicating just fine to me. I particularly liked an expertly-cut thin pleated chiffon bodice in pale yellow, which draped alluringly over a half-cup underwired bra beneath, also yellow but two or three shades stronger. This and the Brazilian-style bikini panties below were quite modest in their cut and coverage – but actually not modest at all, being made of a sheer see-through mesh which was overlaid at only a few key points by a pretty floral pattern in crocheted lace.
There followed some retro-influenced matching sets which had hints of 1930s corseted restraint and 1950s glamour-doll flounce. There were also several teddies, stylish sheer camisole tops (one with a back that was just a few criss-cross straps – very original), French knickers and skirted panties, and a gorgeous fly-away front babydoll (with skimpy Chantilly tanga briefs underneath) – and she looked simply adorable in all of them.
The final sequences were bras and panties, sometimes accompanied by a suspender belt and stockings and sometimes by hold-ups or pretty, schoolgirlish knee-highs in white or sky blue. More and more of her body was progressively being revealed, the panties becoming scantier and the bras both smaller and more exotic – and erotic – in style. Amongst my favourites were a demi-cup underwired bra in black floral jacquard and lace, another halter-neck quarter cup bra, a tai brief in stretch crepe with a scalloped edge, and a dark purple thong in an intricate floral lace.
Finally, Emma announced her penultimate presentation, and I was almost speechless at the sight of her slim youthful body with its flowering bust exhibited in a peephole bra. This covered most of her breasts with fine decorated purple mesh, but left fully exposed an area of about one inch in diameter around the nipples, through which her cute little titties were poking out – and I noticed at once how pert and erect they were.
As the outfits became skimpier and more overtly sexual, the whole show acted like an extended form of strip-tease – and it had just such a tantalising effect on my body. My tits were stiff and almost aching, as my slightest movement rubbed my sensitised nipples against the inside of my bra cups, my heart was beating faster and I felt a little sweaty, and my cunt was positively drooling – only the remnant of my sense of dignity prevented my mouth from doing the same.
Emma was a delectable sight, however much – or little – she was wearing. She was a little shorter than me, about five feet seven or eight inches, but any disadvantage in height was more than compensated for by her extra inches around the bust. I had seen that she had a curvaceous feminine figure from the moment that she had skipped up the steps of my house, wearing a flouncy white mini-skirt and an emerald green halterneck top in which her breasts jiggled as she moved. They were beautifully curved globes, their fullness in exquisite proportion to her slender build and flat firm stomach; I learned later that she still took a 28-inch band size, in which she needed an E cup! Cute as her figure was, with a firm tight ass that set off and enhanced her bust, it was her pretty face which drew me more than anything, with its striking blue-grey eyes, perky mouth and overall pixie-like quality. Her hair, originally light brown (as it showed at the temples), had been dyed a natural blonde colour reminiscent of the richness of a summer cornfield; it was cut short in feathery layers to just below the ears, in a gamine style that signalled ‘I can be as wild as the naughtiest boy – but still as soft and feminine as the cutest girl’.
At last, Emma stood before me, having provocatively flounced in wearing her final coup de grace: a pair of barely-existent string panties made from two tiny triangular wisps of scarlet semi-transparent gauze, laced up at each hip by a thin ribbon, and a matching open-shelf bra which consisted of a band of fabric below her breasts with just the very bottom outline of the bra cups – the effect being to give a modest amount of uplift, whilst exhibiting a thoroughly immodest 90% of her breasts, with her rosy nipples fully on display. I noted their stiff pinkness, but realised that her state of excitement might be due to exhibiting her work rather than her body, and for the career opportunity which this demonstration represented. I started to clap my hands, nodding and smiling.
‘Wow!’ I said, ‘that was quite a show – I can tell you that you’ve really made an impression on me.’ And she had – professionally and sexually, as the sopping gusset of my panties affirmed.
‘However,’ I continued, ‘whilst I am very definitely interested, [oh, yeah!, I thought at this point, am I fucking interested – and interested in fucking!] there is one more crucial test.’ I explained that looks was one thing, but the actual feel of wearing a garment was the only reliable way to be sure about it, and that I always tried everything out myself before making any final decision. Emma was still over the moon at my initial reaction, and was not at all dismayed.
‘That’s wonderful,’ she replied at once; ‘I can leave them with you, or’ – and at this point she looked at me with a mischievous grin – ‘would you like to try them right now, and I could stay and help you?’
How is any red-blooded woman to refuse an offer like that? I still wasn’t quite sure if she was flirting with me, or how she might respond to sexual advances from another female – and one about ten years older than her, as well. But I certainly intended to test the water further, and this would give more opportunities. Interestingly, Emma seemed keen to go right ahead, and did not bother to do more than throw a silky, open-fronted loose kimono wrap (one of her earlier items) over the nearly non-existent lingerie that she was wearing.
She helped me to undress, admiring my figure and saying that I looked so strong and commanding. I am sure that she must have seen the state of my panties, although I turned away to strip them off quickly, and she probably smelt the aroma of my arousal as well. Emma’s hands lingered longer than really necessary when helping me into the various teddies, bustiers, bras and panties, almost stroking my breasts and smoothing along my inner thighs.
At last, I could stand the suspense no longer, for wearing the beautiful garments, made more erotic by the fact that they had been on Emma’s sweet body only minutes earlier and still had her womanly scent, was really turning me on. As she stood in front of me, straightening the straps of a lacy confection of a bra, I reached for her shoulders and drew her close. I paused for two or three heartbeats, giving her the chance to pull back if she did not want this – it would not have gone too far, and could still be dismissed as nothing at all, just needing to steady my balance or something similar, and so would not ruin the business and professional relationship which was certainly also on my agenda. Far from objecting, she swallowed once and gazed directly into my eyes, and then she put her hands around my waist, resting seductively on my upper buttocks, and pressed our warm breasts and stomachs together. Her lips slightly parted, and I kissed her – which turned into a long, sensual smooch, our tongues meeting as our hands started to explore each others’ bodies. At the end of the kiss, she stepped back very slightly in order to reach around behind me and unclasp the bra. My breasts swung free, and she stooped to take each in turn into her mouth, teasing and nibbling on the nipples.
I was in heaven, floating on cloud nine in my mingled relief, happiness and pure raging lust. Emma removed the pair of matching French knickers that I had been trying on, leaving me naked apart from my heels and black hold-ups. Then she pushed me backwards to sprawl on the couch, spreading my legs apart as I watched her kneel down between my thighs. Her mouth swooped down like a dive-bomber, and with an equally explosive result. Barely had her tongue pushed its way between my labia, than I felt myself on the verge of coming. I tried to say something like ‘No – wait!’, but I doubt that she heard it or that I really meant it. Her tongue was very dextrous, long and quite firm, and when it found my clit I was completely lost. My hips bucked up and down, almost overbalancing her until she wrapped her arms tightly around my legs. I made inarticulate noises, as I was overcome by the best and longest orgasm I had experienced in about a decade. As my shudders died down to stillness, Emma’s head came up like a diver seeking air, and she regarded me with puckering lips and a lascivious smile.
‘Good?’ she asked me, quite simply. I couldn’t trust my brain to formulate words at all, so I just mutely nodded in reply. Then I shook off my momentary torpor, feeling like an electric motor when someone swaps an old run-down battery for a new one. I reached for her, cupping the breasts that were so invitingly displayed in her naughtiest creation. I unbuckled it at her back, and caressed her naked mounds more vigorously for a while. Then I slipped my fingers down across her stomach and slid them inside her flimsy panties, touching her pussy for the very first time and feeling its shaved smoothness and the wetness seeping from her cleft. I withdrew my fingers and, as she watched me with a round-eyed curiosity which I certainly did not mistake for innocence, I inhaled her aroma and licked the taste of her juices from my fingertips. Holding her steady in my gaze, I reached simultaneously to each of her hips, gripped the neat little bow of the ribbon ties, and then with a swift jerk pulled them both apart. She gave a soft sigh as the tiny garment fell away from her flesh and fluttered to the ground, leaving her on an equal basis with me – just hold-ups (though hers were a creamy white) and high heels.
As I drank in the sight of her exposed and slightly puffy labial lips, I suddenly knew exactly how I wanted to take her, what I wanted to do. I ordered her to kneel on her hands and knees in the middle of the carpet, and stay there. Perkily obedient, she took up the pose and looked at me over her shoulder, her eyes going round when I pulled a large strap-on out of nearby drawer, buckled it around me and then stepped up behind her. She was almost shaking with excitement as I sank to my knees, the knob of the dildo level with her ass and just a few inches from her holes. I ran my fingernails down each side of her back, from the top of her shoulder-blades down to cup around her buttocks and then zeroing in on her vagina. When they simultaneously reached her slit, I used my fingertips to prize it further open, causing her to curve her back and widen her stance, pushing her sweet butt further up and open. She was so sopping wet and loose that I knew no lube was needed on the dildo, and I gripped her at the hips and sank it all the way into her with a long, slow, steady push, leaning my weight behind it as it penetrated her for most of its eight-inch length.
The withdrawal stroke aroused her even more – it nearly always is more sensuous – and she began almost whimpering, then changed it to a grunt as I drove forwards again, this time impaling her all the way to the backplate on which the plastic cock was mounted. She writhed slightly from side to side when it was almost all the way home, easing it in for the final inch or so. Another firm stroke in and out loosened her further, and established to my mind that she could take the full length without any injury. I began increasing the pace and forcefulness of the shaftings, but always tantalisingly slower on the outward pull than the inwards ram. Sweat glistened on both our bodies, and I took a second to reposition myself so that I could flex my hips and pelvis to their full extent. At that moment Emma looked back at me again, licked her lips and with a saucy grin declared:
‘Ride me, cowgirl – ride me over the fence!’
Now I went up another couple of gears, faster and harder, the faceplate of the strap-on making repeated wet slapping sounds as it smacked against her sweaty skin, each impact accompanied by a grunting moan from Emma. Her breathing became rapid, and she began to give a series of high-pitched cries. I shifted my right hand from her hip to grip her hair, yanking her head back and up, arching her back to get the maximum resistance to my thrusts. This also had the effect of pulling her tits up into easy reach, and my left hand exchanged its grip on her side for something softer and more enticing – squeezing Emma’s left breast.
‘Ride me! Ride me!!’ she screamed again, and then as her climax overwhelmed her, she shouted: ‘Fuck me – oooohh! Fuck me – aaarrgh! Oh!! Yes – I’m gonna cum, I’m gonna CUM!!’
I sort of lost control as well, carried away in the raw sensuality of the moment, triumphant in my command over her, my control of her body. I was playing her like a virtuoso violin, sawing backwards and forwards – not a bad metaphor, really, as her yowls were starting to sound like an out-of-tune fiddle. I don’t normally use bad language, in fact I was once criticised for being over-decorous during love-making – but not this time. I growled at her, in time with each inwards thrust:
‘Come for me, you bitch! Come for me, you slut! I’m gonna fuck you hard! I’m gonna fuck your brains out!!’
When she stiffened and then shook spasmodically in the grip of a wave of explosive orgasms, it was too much to resist. The dildo still deeply penetrating her, I climaxed myself and then slumped forwards to lie limply across her back, my breasts pressed into the base of her shoulder blades.
‘Oh, stars and angels,’ I moaned, ‘that was so good – so good.’
Sensing somehow that Emma was about to collapse under the dual impact of my weight and her own devastating orgasms, I levered myself off and pulled the dildo out, eliciting one last tremor from the young woman. She rolled onto her back and lay there, panting, with her legs spread carelessly open. I quickly shucked off the strap-on and lay down on my side next to her, propping my head up on one elbow whilst my other hand, almost absent-mindedly, found its way to her pussy and began very gently to stroke it. Emma looked up at me in undisguised admiration.
‘I always thought you would be hot stuff’, she said softly, ‘but that was unbelievable – I’ve never had sex like that before, not ever, not that shook me so deep down and took me so high when I came.’
I smiled warmly, because there was no doubting the sincerity with which she said this – and, truly, although the last decade had been a bit of a desert, I had slept with enough women over the last twenty years to be able to recognise a five-star fuck and, on that scale, this had rated more like ten stars.
I bent over and began licking and sucking on her breasts, attending to each for a few moments and then returning to the other. I nibbled on her teats, and she stirred restlessly as my other hand at her crotch began to push more demandingly into her, first one finger halfway, then two, then both of them all the way. I found her engorged clitoris, and to the accompaniment of her renewed panting for breath, I massaged it until she came again.
I still hadn’t satiated my lust for this gorgeous, vibrant young woman. I spread her limp legs still wider apart and crouched between them, bringing my mouth directly to bear on her vagina. I’ve often been told that my pussy-eating technique is one of the best, and I certainly didn’t hear any complaints from this customer. After a while, I did start to hear some very strange noises – but there was no doubt that they were of approval and enjoyment. I carefully brought her up to another orgasm, and in the final moments drove her wild by pressing my fingertips into the rim of her anal passage, probing and teasing it whilst lashing my tongue around the full extent of her vagina and sucking hard on the nub of her clit.
After her climax, we lay together more quietly; this time I was sprawled on my back, and she looked down at me, running her index finger in circles around my stomach, and then every so often detouring around or over one of my breasts. I told her then that I had meant everything that I had said about the quality of her work, her future potential as a designer, and my interest in a marketing deal – perhaps even an exclusive one during these first years, as she became established.
‘I know you did,’ she replied quietly, ‘but I was hoping you would want me as well.’ She told me that she had met me briefly when I was the guest speaker at a seminar on her degree course three years previously (I had forgotten this entirely), that she had been strongly attracted to me then, and she had thought of me quite often since. Emma confessed that her taste was for older, confident, capable women who still looked hot and dressed in style, and she thought that I was the leader of the pack!
Well – such flattery! But it was artlessly, almost naively, delivered, and it had a ring of truth about it. There was only one way to reward that, and I invited her to stay over the whole week-end. She gave another of her magical, electrifying grins – I was getting very fond of them – and said that she thought I’d never ask, she had her suitcase ready in the trunk of her car. She coyly admitted that if I had seemed interested but too shy or cautious to make a pass at her, she had planned to stage a car ‘breakdown’ that would lead to the offer of over-night accommodation, and then make herself even more flagrantly seducible!
So Emma unpacked in the second largest double-bedroom, after which we took a long playful bath and shower together in my vast and truly well-equipped main bathroom – it was one area where I had stinted myself for nothing – and then we made ourselves a dinner of tuna, chopped peppers, sun-dried tomatoes and sweetcorn on pasta with a mild lime chilli sauce, followed by a tossed green salad, and washed down with several glasses of fine Burgundy red wine. After that, I took her by the hand and led her up to my own room, where we slowly disrobed each other and began a long night of mutual pleasure with a languorous, slow-building 69. The weekend turned into a week, and – well – we’ve been living together ever since, for nearly two years now, although we don’t advertise the fact; whilst she works from my (although now I tend to say, ‘our’) house, all of her post goes to a mailbox address, and when she calls at my office or our paths cross at industry fairs and social events, we act in a friendly but strictly professionally way. And then, we go home and fuck each other like rabbits!
If you enjoyed this, check out my other stories … you might like them too … (to find them, follow the author link at the top of this story)