Pleasure In Control

Chapter 1 (Monday)

I felt a warm glow of familiar pleasure as the Monday morning Eurostar train from Paris pulled effortlessly into the terminus at 9:50, 5 minutes early. It was going to be great to be back in London after so long, even if it was only for a couple of days. Things had been getting progressively worse between Claud and me as he became more and more overbearing, placing ever more absurd expectations on me. I dreaded sex with him to the point where eventually I couldn't even bear to let him touch me at all. It made my skin creep. I needed to get away to have time and space to myself and found the perfect opportunity, or shall I say, excuse. I had answered a job advertisement for a position where I could use my marketing skills and my qualification in textile design. But most important was the offer of paid return travel expenses and an overnight stay in London.

I grabbed my leather overnight bag from the luggage rack, brushing away the offer of help from the kindly gentleman sitting opposite. 'I don't need a man anymore' I confidently said to myself, shocked to realise that it was probably true. Stepping off the train with my new-found self-assurance I walked down the long platform with my head held high. At 5 feet 7 inches tall, with shoulder-length, naturally curly honey blonde hair, high cheekbones and a world of opportunities ahead of me, how could I fail? By the time I reached the ticket barrier I had already decided to stop by the fashion stores to buy a couple of items to better match my mood before I could approach the interview in the right frame of mind. Brussels is a fascinating city but in the 5 years I have lived there I have missed the high-quality clothing stores that I know so well in the main streets and small arcades of London's Bond Street area.

Emerging from the 'tube' station I strode to that landmark department store on Oxford Street, delighted to find it had been recently refurbished so that the centre of the store was filled with cool natural daylight, so important to show off the true colour and texture of the clothes. Now, what better to boost a girl's ego than a new bra? Heading to the large and comprehensively stocked lingerie department I became temporarily bewildered by the array of items on display. Here was everything any woman could need, from plain, functional but exceptionally well made everyday wear to the most glamorous and exquisitely fine silk and lace garments from the top designers.

I needed something that would not show under the plum-coloured knee-length dress I had brought with me and which would hold my breasts in place so as not do draw too much attention to themselves. Not that they need much control, as they are nicely firm and well proportioned. An English size 34C, they stand as prominent and high on my rib-cage as they did when I was at school and the other girls would cat-call and jibe out loud in the showers whilst secretly half-whispering comments of jealousy and admiration to each under their breath. Absent-mindedly my mind drifted back to those school days when I became deeply aware of my own body and the pleasure it gave me when I would stand admiring my blossoming teenage curves in the mirror. I would cup my breasts and feel their even, balanced weight on my hands, allowing my fingers to stray onto my dark nipples, the pleasure enhanced by the certain knowledge that I was breaking one of the boarding school's stuffy rules. Yes, there was even a rule that forbade the girls to even so much as to touch themselves, on the breasts or genitals except whilst washing or showering. How the school's founders ever planned to enforce such a rule I could not imagine, but judging from the moans coming from under the sheets at night, I was not the only one to break it. And we definitely were not allowed to touch each other, anywhere or any time.

My mind was brought sharply back to reality by the strong but polite voice of a store employee standing behind me. "Are you looking for anything in particular or would you like me to make a few suggestions?" Even if I had known what to say, I could not have spoken at that moment as I was totally enthralled by the short but striking woman I saw as I spun round. She was slim with jet-black hair in a precision-cut, short straight style. She wore a dark burgundy jacket buttoned high up to her neck, a matching calf-length skirt and black, high-quality shoes. My marketing experience told me first to read her name-badge: 'Kirsten – Personal Shopper', engraved on a platinum-coloured badge bearing a discreet but unfamiliar logo.

"I'm Julie and I need a nice bra to wear under a plummy-ish coloured sort of dress type of thing, nothing too racy, er ..., if you know what I mean". All of my new-found confidence had drained away as I looked into the clear, blue eyes of Kirsten - Personal Shopper. "I am sure I can find just what you need – follow me". The way she spoke made me feel so inadequate; so powerful yet polite. I wish I knew what assertiveness course she had attended.

Kirsten led me to a rail of mid-priced lingerie in plain colours and a variety of styles. Amongst them was a bra in the perfect colour, my size and in a cut that the label described as Balcony. "This looks OK", I said, feeling more relaxed now as Kirsten put me at ease with words of encouragement, speaking more softly with an underlying Irish accent. Without even asking, she picked up my overnight bag for me and led me to the luxuriously-appointed changing rooms. Expecting her to wait outside, I was surprised when Kirsten stepped into the large cubicle behind me and quietly closed, and locked, the door.

"Sorry, I should have introduced myself. I'm Kirsten (I knew that) and I'm your personal shopper (I knew that too). If you would like to try on the bra, I will help you to adjust the straps for a prefect fit. I'm happy to bring other sizes for you to try. But more than that, I can advise you on the subtle differences between the styles and cuts, which items are most suitable under your clothes and which will give you the shape you want." Whew! This is exactly what I need. I love lingerie but I have always wondered at the range and complexity of bras, panties, basques, waspies, bodies and more that are available. Now I have an expert to help me. "But don't worry, I wont actually touch you – it's against the rules here." Hmm, where did I hear that before?

We moved into easy and relaxed conversation. Some of it small talk interspersed with much helpful advice. The plum bra fitted perfectly. It was made of a smooth, satin fabric, with narrow straps, lacy edging to the cups and perfectly-stitched details. I noticed it had unusual metal rings to adjust the straps. The under-wiring came up the centre between my boobs, holding them slightly apart, with a small metal stud in the centre in the shape of delicately pursed lips, shaped just as if they were blowing a kiss. Kirsten explained: "A Balcony bra lifts your breasts slightly and holds them, but does not push them together so you don't get a jaw-dropping cleavage. It's a bit like cupping your hands under them to feel their weight. You're lucky; your breasts are very firm for their size, so you don't need a lot of support. Look how they don't bulge over the edge of the bra-cups, they just continue to follow the shape and curve of the fabric."

"You could wear almost any style of bra, just according to your mood. A push-up lifts your breasts and pushes them together too. They are bought mostly by women with small, wide-spaced breasts who want to make the most of them. But a push-up would give you a very deep, fascinating cleavage. You would look stunning in an uplift ½ cup bra as the whole of the top surface of your smooth-skinned breast would be visible above the edge of the cups but you wouldn't 'spill' when you leant forward. You can get away with wearing wear soft, lace bras with no under-wiring as you don't need the support. Only a few makes come in your size as normally only smaller-breasted women like me can wear these."

To be honest I hadn't noticed Kirsten's figure, well concealed under her business-like suit. "So who actually employs you?" I quizzed. "I don't work for the store. I'm paid by Passionella, look, this is their logo on my badge". It was the same Blowing-Kiss design as the stud on the bra. "It's a bit of a con, as customers assume they are getting impartial advice but I'm here to push my products" Kirsten knew all about pushing all right. "You know your lingerie". "It's my job, and my passion too". She pursed her lips, as if to blow a kiss.

The more I spoke to Kirsten, the more I became fascinated by her. Open and friendly on the surface but I sensed a much deeper aspect to her personality and her interest in me that I could not fathom. I decided to buy the balcony bra. Kirsten brought two or three pairs of matching pants and I decided to buy both the 'sensible' deep-sided pair and the high-cut, narrow thong that barely covered my pubic hair and was virtually non-existent at the back. Strangely I was not embarrassed to undress in front of Kirsten. Maybe it was because I knew she would never touch me.

Kirsten led me to the pay-point where I paid cash in Euros. Kirsten noticed. "Using up your holiday money?" she enquired. "No, I live in France, with my boyfriend" Kirsten noticed a small tear well up in the corner of my eye. "Where are you staying whilst you are over here?" she delved deeper; I resented her intrusion into my personal life, and it showed. To relieve the tension, Kirsten suggested a coffee – "It's my break time now". We chatted endlessly about my new job opportunity and when I mentioned the name of the hotel I was booked into and that I needed to get across town in time to change, freshen up in time for the interview, Kirsten looked horrified. "You can't possibly get there in time – it's miles. Look, my apartment is just 3 blocks away, behind Portland Square. It's provided by Passionella and you are a customer. Here's the key. You can use the shower; there are fresh towels on the rail. There won't be anyone there and you'll be gone by the time I finish here. Just leave the key on the table – it's a spare."

Why did Kirsten trust me, a total stranger? How could I argue?

******************************************************

I let myself in and I stumbled into the hallway of Kirsten's studio apartment. It is beautiful and is decorated in a modern but comfortable style best described as Cosmopolitan European. The quality of furnishings is entirely consistent with the image its owner – one of Italy's most respected lingerie manufacturers. Kirsten has a large living/bedroom with a king-size bed at one side and a huge comfy-looking sofa under the tall window. There is a state of the art kitchen and I can just see through the partly-open door into her luxury bathroom. I threw my bag on the sofa and made myself a coffee. I stripped naked and dived into the power-shower, which had jets all around my body and made me tingle all over. Drying myself on the thick, soft towels, I felt wonderful. I slipped on my new Passionella bra and pants, choosing the thong - no risk of VPL – and felt on top of the world, except I realised that I desperately wanted to see Kirsten again. The apartment smells of her. It contains her things. I started to look around me and I peeked in her wardrobes. One contains a selection of lingerie, neatly arranged on hangers. Briefly I thumbed through them, noticing some that I didn't remember seeing in any shop. Then I chastised myself for being so rude as to look in someone else's wardrobe.

I looked at myself in the full-length mirror and liked what I saw. I twisted and turned to see myself from different angles and as I did so, the fabric of my new bra rubbed on my nipples. It fitted perfectly, nestling snugly under my boobs; they looked fantastic and I just had to feel them through the fabric. I turned sideways to see my profile and could clearly see my nipples in silhouette as they pushed through the taught bra. Normally I have large, round dark areole with small nipples sitting neatly in the centre. But when I'm aroused my nipples become long and large; they are parallel with slightly dimpled ends. The areole pucker up as the sensitive skin is pulled to attention. Just like now. I moved with a slow rhythm, enjoying the moment of seductive privacy and the image I saw in the mirror both surprised and pleased me. It pleased me a lot.

I started to become aware of the delicate, skimpily-cut panties between my legs. The side straps are as thin as the bra straps and have the same adjusting rings allowing me to set them high on my hips and pull the straps tight so there is no chance that the matching plum fabric covering my crotch can become loose. I pulled the adjusting straps a little tighter. And a little more. I liked these adjusting rings. Mmmm. The thin web of smooth satin material at the back of my new thong had now wedged itself deep within my bum-cheeks and had made its presence felt against my anus. I noticed that the smooth triangle of fabric at the front only just about covered my honey blonde pubic hair, which I keep neatly trimmed but which I never shave.

I moved a little more in front of the mirror, which reflected back an image of a woman I hardly recognised. My smooth skin was pulled very taught across my flat belly and it seemed to shine in the afternoon light streaming through the window. My waist looked narrower and leaner than ever, accentuated by the narrow straps of the thong, which I had now pulled up as high and tight as I could.

Maybe I should shorten the bra straps a little? Just a bit more lift won't do any harm and if it helps me at the interview ... I threw my arms back behind my head and stretched upwards, the tight bra pushing my boobs up and forward. They looked better than ever. The straps are widely-spaced; they follow a delicate line from my shoulders down the outsides of my proud boobs and are neatly stitched to the outer ends of the under-wiring. They are intended to hold up the bra not my luscious, firm tits and allow a full, uninterrupted view of their upward-facing curves.

As I continued to stretch upwards, the thong really didn't cover my pubes. How could this be – had it shrunk? I realised that my pussy lips were starting to part and my mound was swelling. The stretched fabric had pulled into a tiny fold as it moved into the space now opening up between my outer labia lips, which moved apart some more and gently moistened the material with my personal wetness. I felt wonderful, my throat was dry and I was breathing faster. But, as I posed in front of the mirror I realised that mine was not the only image I could see.

Lost in my own world I did not hear the apartment door open and I was not alone. Still dressed in her smart business-like suit, Kirsten - Personal Shopper - was now standing behind me, just as she did in the store. She apologised. "Don't let me stop you – I was enjoying the show. I should have made more noise when I came in." I grabbed the towel off the sofa and bashfully tried to cover myself. "Don't be so prudish. During my work I see so many naked bodies, but few of them are as lovely to look at as yours". I relaxed a little and caught my breath enough to down the rest of my coffee, which had gone cold by then.

Confused, I quizzed Kirsten. "I thought you said you finish a six-thirty and that I would be gone by the time you got home. It's only 5:15 now and I need to be at my interview soon." "Sorry, but I had reached my sales quota for the day, and I was feeling a little tired and, well, I rather wanted to see you again" came her reply. My heat beat increased just a little and my throat started to become dry again. "Don't get me wrong, actually I am quite pleased to see you too." In fact I had the feeling I was going to see rather a lot of Kirsten.

"What time is this interview anyway?" "Seven-thirty". "We have time to get freshened up then walk down to a bar I know, get a drink to boost your courage and you'll still be there on time. I'll get changed." Once more, Kirsten had taken charge and left me no option, but I didn't mind. Sounded good to me.

Kirsten suggested I put on some make up so I made myself comfortable in front of her dressing table. Behind me, Kirsten started to undress from her working clothes, I could see her reflected in the dressing-table mirror and I moved a little to the left to get a better view. I was not sure if Kirsten knew I was watching her, but I was intrigued to know what she was wearing under her daywear and especially, what type of lingerie a Passionella employee wears. Kirsten unbuttoned her jacket from the top down. Was it my imagination, or was she releasing each gold button from its embroidered buttonhole slowly and deliberately, and was that a coy, sideways glance she threw from time to time, directed at me?

She let the front of her jacket fall open: I was surprised to see that she was not wearing a blouse or camisole underneath. She pushed her shoulders back and allowed the jacket to slip down her arms to reveal an exquisite lace-cup bra, which neatly but completely covered her breasts. It was a warm, cream colour and the lace was applied over matching satin so the bra cups were opaque. The straps were wide with lace trim and nestling between the cups was the now-familiar Passionella Blowing-Kiss logo. Without realising, I had swivelled myself around to face Kirsten but she did not object. Here I was sitting in her bedroom, watching my new friend undress with the style and confidence of a professional, totally captivated. I couldn't wait to see what else she was wearing and I didn't need to. Kirsten pulled the zip of her skirt and let it fall to the floor, revealing matching lacy panties and to my delight, not pantyhose but delicate ribbon suspenders in co-ordinating cream lace. Intriguingly, her suspenders had three straps each side; I had only ever seen designs with two. These in turn were stretched taught to hold up the sheer flesh-coloured lace-topped stockings that encased her firm, slim legs. At the end of each ribbon strap was a small catch to hold the top of the stockings, decorated with the Passionella Blowing-Kiss design.

Kirsten detached the clips one by one and gently pulled the ribbon straps from inside her lacy panties. To my great embarrassment, I realised that I was now sitting astride Kirsten's dressing-table stool and I was slowly but obviously tilting my pelvis back-and-forth, sliding my satin-encased pussy along the padded top of the stool. I was becoming turned on by the sight of a small and very attractive young woman, I guessed at 24 years old, undressing seductively in her own bedroom. As her finale, Kirsten turned her back to me, set her feet squarely on the plush carpeted floor about half a metre apart and leant forward. Keeping her legs straight, she bent low from her hips and scooped up her stockings. I absorbed the most evocative view of her legs, her still-covered bum cheeks and what lay between. It was stupendous and I ground my pussy into the padded stool. Kirsten must have noticed but said nothing; she stood upright and headed to the bathroom, calling back over her smooth shoulder. "Help yourself to make-up and perfume, I'll be ready in 10 minutes. Hurry up or you will mss your appointment". I watched as she walked out of view, placing one foot in front of the other and rocking her hips from side to side like a catwalk model.

I composed myself and opened my overnight bag. I slipped into the plum-coloured dress and changed my shoes, deciding I didn't need tights for an interview with a down-market flat-pack furniture retailer. I put on some perfume and waited, musing over the series of events unfolding. There was something about Kirsten that puzzled me. She seemed just too stylish, too confident and just too damn sexy to be a sales assistant in a shop.

Kirsten waltzed out of the bathroom, still wearing her luscious cream bra and panties. She grabbed some clothes from her range of wardrobes and slipped on a thick rib-knit sleeveless top with a high roll-neck, and a pair of fashionable trousers. In moments we were outside in the warm late-afternoon air heading for St. Christopher's Place. We sat at a table outside a small, friendly Belgian restaurant and Kirsten drew the attention of the waitress, just by being there. We ordered beers and water, and we talked. We laughed, we chatted and we questioned each other. I told Kirsten all about myself, my family, my education and my recent life in France and learnt almost nothing about her. The time with Kirsten passed quickly as I became more and more enthralled. I couldn't keep my eyes off her. Hers were always moving, darting from my lips to my own eyes and down to my body. If she thought I was losing concentration she would lightly touch my sleeved arm, but never my hand. For my part, I couldn't help but admire the way her ribbed top clung to her small but tight curves. Kirsten had seen me naked; now I badly needed to discover what her breasts looked like, freed from the constraints of her employer's products.

"Tell me about this interview, who is it for". I gasped and looked at my watch. "I must go soon or I will be late". "Wait, tell me about it." "The vacancy is for a Mystery Shopper for a furniture company. They need someone to visit retailers posing as a bona fide customer to test the commitment, product knowledge and customer-care skills of the sales staff. Then they need written reports and …". "But Julie, I know that Passionella are considering introducing Mystery Shoppers. Surely, a woman with your interest in fine lingerie, your natural poise and your easy style would rather work for us than some back-street bookcase-maker? I can call my Sales Vice-President now and ask her if she has an opening for you." "I thought for a second and was just about to speak when Kirsten pulled from her bag the smallest, smartest mobile phone I had seen. She was through in a moment and talked animatedly. "That's arranged then. You need to be at Passionella HQ in Mayfair at 10:30 tomorrow. Here's the address, just see Rachel in reception, she'll be expecting you. You'll be interviewed and have the company philosophy and rules explained to you. There are no vacancies in France so you'll need to be based in England. When you accept the job offer you will make another appointment for full training." What could I say, of course this sounded much more appealing than chipboard cabinets. What was even more appealing was the way Kirsten had just taken over my life.

I called the hotel where I was supposed to be and cancelled my interview, only realising after I rang off that, in so doing, I had lost my room for the night too. I looked Kirsten in the eye and smiled the most endearing smile I could manage, my legs turning to jelly and a warm but nervous rush welling up inside me. "Kirsten, now I have no-where to go tonight. Can I sleep at your place?" It was unlike me to be so direct. "Of course, that sofa folds out to make a large and comfortable bed." Perfect, I hadn't intended sleeping in Kirsten's bed with her. "Oh, and I don't have any suitable clothes to wear, I was expecting to be going back to Paris tomorrow." "You can borrow some of my stuff. You'll find a stretchy top and some trousers that will fit you in my wardrobes. Borrow some pants, and a bra too – they all belong to the company – but you might struggle to find one your size" she said, flicking a knowing look at my full breasts.

The rest of the evening was free now so we ordered food and eventually headed back to her studio apartment at around 10:00. The atmosphere was highly charged as we entered the room but Kirsten immediately put me at ease. After one last coffee, we folded out the sofa bed and Kirsten produced crisp, clean sheets and a soft duvet. The reality dawned on me that now I was going to undress again, and I didn't feel in the least bit nervous. Kirsten had seen me naked in the store, but she had also seen me getting off on her reflection in the mirror. She offered to lend me a long nightshirt but I declined. I undressed quickly and climbed into bed, enjoying the feel of the clean linen on my naked skin. Honestly, it wouldn't have surprised me if Kirsten had climbed into the bed beside me, but instead, and to my relief, she flicked off the lights and headed to the bathroom.

My mind was racing as I thought about the day. I was unable to contemplate sleep as I thought about the lovely Kirsten undressing in her bathroom, and the warm, moist feeling between my legs. How I hoped that Kirsten would be naked when she walked the short distance to her own bed, so I could make out the shape of her breasts, illuminated by the orange glow of the streetlamps outside. Sadly, when she emerged, she was wearing a camisole and French-knickers set with lace trim and thin shoulder straps. As she turned to climb into her lonely bed, I could just make out the silhouette of her nipples pushing against the silk.

I desperately wanted to masturbate myself to sleep. I felt like I had never felt before and grappled with the dawning realisation that I could be a lesbian. My thoughts went back to school, to the shower rooms and to the old school rules. How could I rub my aching pussy with Kirsten in the same room? I lightly touched my protruding nipples and had to stifle a gasp as I realised how sensitive they had become. If I covered them with my hands, my warm touch intensifying the feelings. If I didn't, they rubbed tantalisingly against the soft fabric of the duvet with my every move. I moved my shaking hands slowly down my rib cage as it rose and fell with every breath, over my perfectly-formed navel (for which I must thank a caring and skilled midwife) and down my lower belly to the edge of my prominently rounded Mound of Venus. My blonde pubic hair was wet with my juices and had become slightly matted. I ran my fingers through it like a comb to free the curls but the feeling was too intense. My breathing had become fast and shallow and my throat was dry. Kirsten was sure to hear me.

Then I decided that I needed all my composure and concentration to face the next day and if I brought myself to orgasm it was sure to be deep, powerful, exhilarating and exhausting. I secretly knew that, sometimes, I enjoy a long teasing build-up, the slowly building anticipation and the self-denial being as enjoyable as the climax itself. The promise of what is to come being as good as the come itself. The satisfaction of knowing I have the self-control to overcome the quivering tension in my body and the aching in my cunt, and that I can resist the temptation to fuck myself to a shattering crescendo.

I moved my hands slowly to my sides and lay still, basking in the warmth of my new friend's spare bed.

In that blissful limbo between waking and sleep I thought I heard, from the other side of the room, a slow rhythmic rustling of bedclothes followed by a quiet, low moan. I drifted off to sleep.