This is the sordid tale of how I, a successful, married woman, became a slave to a 19 year old girl. I'm 32 and own my own business, an upscale boutique catering to the wealthy and upper class, the type of women who are interested in the latest styles and not very concerned about the price. Coming from a lower middle class background I often found myself quite in awe of the aristocratic ladies who frequented my store.
With hard work and a lot of long hours my business was having a couple of years of flourishing results and I was finally making more money than my husband—a lot more money. As I studied the trends it became apparent over time that a large portion of the growth came from intimate apparel, particularly some of the more exotic outfits, or should I say erotic, an area I really enjoyed buying. Recognizing the trend, I concentrated on finding the best, the most expensive and sometimes kinkiest lingerie. After a while I added a leather section which included a few innocent whips, some cuffs and a dildo or two, hidden in the back section so as not to disturb the more conservative clients. We became a sort of deluxe Frederick of Hollywood.
Married for a number of years my husband and I had fallen into the usual rut, at least concerning sex. Once a week, in a good month, he would jump me at night, generally Saturday after a few drinks, and with breath the scent of beer have his way with me. After a few unexciting minutes he would finish with a pathetic grunt and then roll off to fell into a deep and cacophonic sleep. Satisfying me was not high on his list of priorities, so if still horny, I would take a long shower, using devices I had found over the years to get myself off.
Although I flirted with a girl in college, a different story I might tell some day involving pledging to a sorority and my experiences with a haughty pledge mistress and my knees being sore all year, I never considered myself gay or even prone to lesbian tendencies. But surrounded by beauties every day while they tried on some of the most revealing and sensual outfits I was beginning to question my sexual leanings. Every night it seemed I had the strangest fantasies involving long-legged women clad in silk and satin, or leather and corsets. Often I would wake up just as my mouth wandered ever so close to some rich bitch's crotch.
As the months rolled on I became more and more flustered when helping beautiful clients try things on, too aware of the flawless skin as I smoothed soft fabrics across thighs, or stomachs. My eyes seemed to always zero in on the sexy curves and the naughty places between the legs wondering what it would be like to touch, smell, or taste each area. A woman bending over to pick up the next article while only dressed in panties would send a sudden flash of lust through my loins and cause me to disappear into my office to cool down. One day, after an encounter with an unusually sensuous lady in intimate surroundings and close personal contact I rushed home and initiated sex with my increasingly less desirable husband. Almost tossing him on the bed I pushed his face to my crotch, something he hadn't done in years, and while he feasted away I fantasized about the woman in the shop, directing my pitiful hubby's mouth and tongue to places I wanted licked. His rough attempts resulted in a greater degree of frustration as my mate was totally unable to satisfy the hunger that existed deep within my perverted desires. The orgasm, while temporarily satisfying, did nothing to stop these increasingly building yearnings of lust for these beautiful women. His scratchy face was a poor substitute for the smooth skin of the women I lusted after. His hairy body, his slightly bulging stomach—all of him soon became repulsive to me in comparison to the satiny bodies of my customers.
One day, my favorite (as far as fantasies go) customer came in, Mrs. Johnson. A statuesque brunette, about 5' 9", her hair curls just above her shoulders. Eyes as green as emeralds, her face has a majesty about it, as if she was bred for royalty. Her carriage is imperial, as though she knows she deserves to be treated as a goddess. Her body is curvy, full and gorgeous, somewhere between Kim Basinger and Mariah Carey and it begs to be worshipped.
Obviously rich, she always purchased whatever she wanted, never asking prices, just handing me a platinum credit card. As far as I know there is no limit on the card. Today she seemed interested in negligees, panties and bras. Pretending I was taking inventory nearby, I watched as she chatted with my salesgirl, Linda.
To my surprise and delight, Mrs. Johnson seemed interested in fabrics in the color black, the color denoting sexiness and wickedness, at least in my depraved mind. Pointing at a few articles, she mentioned she needed personal attention. Her eyes shifted to mine before retiring to the dressing room. When she looked at me I felt a tremor in my loins and my knees weaken. The way her eyes glimmered it was as if she knew all my inner secrets. Suddenly, I found it difficult to breathe.
Blushing, I quickly turned away, completely torn by two separate desires. Part of me wanted nothing more than to be by her side, or more appropriately at her feet, serving her however she needed. The other part of me, the sensible, good-citizen part, was very frightened by this urgent lust.
My salesgirl was busily gathering sample merchandise when I made my decision.
Linda is a big girl, not fat but thick boned and fleshy. She has an attractive face if not a bit on the nasty side. She's the kind who when angry, looks mean. Truth be told, I was a little afraid of her and it was more than just physical fear, although I wouldn't stand a chance against her if she ever decided to confront her. Up to this point she had never loosened that anger on me.
Taking the clothes from her arms I informed her that since the lady was one of our most valued customers I, as the owner, would take care of her. A flash of anger crossed her face and for a moment I was afraid she might lash out and actually hit me.
Freezing, I felt helpless, like a child caught with her hand in the cookie jar. Then she studied my face as if seeing something for the first time. Her eyes pierced mine with the same intensity as the beauty in the dressing room and she stood up to me, her boss.
"Alright, you can help her, but I get the commission." It wasn't a question, it was a demand. Flushing slightly, aware that the dynamics between us had shifted, I nodded and with the merchandise in hand scurried after my Queen.
Our dressing rooms were my pride and joy. To say they were deluxe did them little justice. Sparing no expense, I made them as plush, exotic and comfortable as I could, decorating the walls with huge, well-lighted mirrors and sensual pictures, filling the space with sofas and chairs that sat on a thick, expensive carpet. My intention was to create the feel of luxury, like the customer was visiting a royal dressing room and not a small changing room. I wanted them to want to come to my quaint store if only to spend time in the deluxe conditions.
Seated in front of the vanity, her back to me was Mrs. Johnson. As I entered, her eyes caught mine in the mirror reflection. She was applying a deep shade of red to her sensual and full lips. My tongue flicked the edge of my upper lip and I blushed.
There was something of a challenge in her gaze, as if she was judging me, wondering if I was worthy of her. My heart fluttered and I wondered too.
Like a deer caught in the headlights, I froze. My pulse rate increased, and the tingling between my legs intensified to the point where I thought I might leak.
The afternoon became the highlight of my pitiful life. She teased me for over two hours as I helped her try on article after article, modeling each to get my eager approval. Within minutes I was in love.
The close contact, the occasional touches as I helped her into and out of different pieces of sexy and sensual outfits drove me crazy with emotions I had never felt before. Lust doesn't begin to describe the sensations shooting through my veins like a powerful and very addictive drug.
From the first moment my fingers touched her skin I was hooked. The feel of her perfect skin sent jolts of rapture throughout my entire body. Her perfume was intoxicating. Her womanly scents were addictive. I was in a constant state of arousal.
The relationship was entirely one-sided however. Ignoring my state of desire she spent the entire time treating me like a servant, growing bolder and bolder as she had me snap the nylons on the garter belt, then while on my knees, straighten out the smooth stocking. Somehow, her demands and my willingness to comply felt ever so appropriate.
As I fastened the nylons on her precious legs I found my face inches away from her mound. At first I merely peeked at it. Soon, my eyes studied the way it bulged slightly in the panties. At the bottom, by the thighs, I noticed a few hairs sticking out and I wanted nothing more than to ease them back inside, using only the tip of my tongue. A sensual aroma emitted from her fount and the scent was overpowering, causing a short circuit in my subservient mind. My breaths were coming in short pants and without thinking my mouth drew closer to the silky fabric and the treasure it hid.
A condescending chuckle brought me to my senses and I stopped before I made a complete fool of myself.
It became obvious, even to my befuddled brain, that I had never felt so turned on. My knees ached but I remained there, beneath her, while I caressed her long, beautiful legs, my soft touches demonstrating a devotion I have never felt before. Wanting to remain at my place at her feet, my face inches from her sweet womanhood, I slowly edged around behind her to come face to face with the most perfect derriere I have ever seen. It took all my strength not to smother her gorgeous rear end with worshipful kisses, yet somehow I resisted the primal urge.
Throughout the blessed ordeal I got the impression she knew exactly what she was doing to me. I also got the impression she knew exactly what I wanted to do to her.
