The Girl in the Lingerie Shop: A lesbian age gap erotic encounter

Exiting to a blast of fresh air, I pulled out the silk scarf I’d packed into a coat pocket and wrapped it around my neck to avoid the chill.

Traffic noise rumbled on the boulevard opposite me. Paris is a living, breathing city, one whose many sights sit within the real, daily life of the city. They perhaps are the lifeblood of the city; I like to see it that way, in any case.

The majestic Arc, a central hub of the city, stood impressively as I approached, watching over the vehicles traversing the huge roundabout that surrounded it, guarded it. One of the eight or so arteries flowing off of its roundabout is Les Champs-Élysées, straight on from my direction. The historic area of Paris for shopping, eating, and strolling was my destination for the afternoon, where I would happily while away the hours in the luxury clothing stores, shoe shops, and perfumeries, as well as my lingerie store of choice, Maison Isobel, to pick up something seductive for tonight.

For my client.

My name is Miri, and I’m an escort. Fortunately, a high-class one. I can earn over five thousand euros for a day & night with a client. Men or women, usually in the upper echelons of business, all eager for company, discussion, and … extras.

Sex for pay. Should I feel guilt? Or a petite portion of shame perhaps? I do not. The morning after my very first paid encounter at The Mayfair Rosepark, London—the luxury hotel I used to work at—I counted out the five hundred pounds I’d earned the previous night, and I felt no embarrassment.

Not then and never since. I love sex. With men and women. I’m fluid and I’m flexible, and I’m not ever going to apologize for who I am.

I’ve been enjoying the role for nearly a decade. It’s the only way I’m going to attain my dream house on Lake Como, Italy. I’m thirty-eight now, so I know my time at the top of the bill is limited. I probably only need another two or three years before I’ll be financially free.

With my day job as a flight attendant for the luxury charter firm RoyScot Air Services, I flew into Paris this morning, where I’d be meeting my hook-up this evening.

I had just about four hours till I was due to meet Benoît at The Four Seasons George V, which sat less than a mile down and just off the Champs-Élysées boulevard. If you take up escorting, you have to become comfortable entertaining yourself for hours at a time before your date. Clients can often call you at any time and delay your meeting, as was the case today. I learned the happiness (and safety) of my own company when I was homeless for a few years in London, so sitting in parks, cafés, or luxury hotels, waiting for a date is no hardship for me. I’ve loved reading since I was a child. Any genre, pretty much, as long as the protagonist has character. Pulling out my phone or tablet and reading for hours in beautiful surroundings, breaking to people-watch and just let the environment suffuse through me, is both a part and a perk of the job. Being an escort means being unhurried, being open to moments and environments.

Which rather makes the relaxed atmosphere of Paris ideal.

And shopping. It’s quite a plus in this job if you enjoy shopping. I met a woman once who said she didn’t really enjoy shopping for herself, how browsing through tops and skirts, checking out jeans, and spending an hour in Prada trying on shoes held no appeal.

Guess I’m different! Besides, you don’t have to buy—you just have to try! Should be some shop’s slogan, I reckon.

I walked the short distance around the external perimeter of the Arc onto the long tree-lined Avenue des Champs-Élysées, which stretched out in a perfect straight line for almost three miles, flowing down onto the huge Place de la Concorde. Bright sunshine reigned, so I pulled out my sunglasses from my bag.

I carry sunglasses at all times—branded ones. Okay, if there’s a monsoon, I leave them behind. But otherwise, they’re both functional and an important prop. Sunglasses help keep wrinkles at bay by reducing the time you spend squinting. At my age, I have to use any trick! Shades also make staff aware of your status. I’m not pretending I actually have status or class—no, escorting is a performance. The glasses are a prop to help fool others around you.

This afternoon, my choice of shades, with their overt and rather gaudy Chanel logo, would send the signal to those staffing the shops that I could be a serious customer, not just someone there to while away time. I’d get attention and be encouraged to try items on. I’d be offered un café or deux for my time and trouble being there.

There is one more advantage to sunglasses: shades help you check out hot and chic girls without the need for much subtlety or pretense! Of all the things I’m admitting, I have no problem saying how much I love checking out the seductive shapes of women. It’s certainly another reason I love Paris so. Milan, too. Cities of fashion tend to demand their inhabitants be dressed well to accentuate their frames.

A young buck, probably not yet thirty, walked past, clad in near-tight dark-blue jeans and a simple white roll-neck top. So French. I caught a soft soupçon of his cologne, Polo or some such. He smiled as he passed me, and we both stole backward glances at each other as we walked on.

Not today, buddy.

No, today I was hoping for a seductive sapphic afternoon dalliance.

I window browsed a few shops on the way down to no. 30, but I wanted to get the only shopping I needed to do out of the way.

I love shopping for lingerie. (As far as I’m concerned, you can never have too much.) It’s the promise, the seduction, the fantasy. Actually, I’ve read that most women buy lingerie for themselves, for the feel of it, the essence of it. That’s partly the case for me too; I get to add in the lingering tease of lingerie. Escorting is very much about promise, about fantasy and seduction, especially with women clients. Before the payoff. For the class of clientele I date, the lingerie has to be the very best. And that meant Maison Isobel Paris.

I entered through its unassuming façade, stopping at the door to whip off my glasses in a small display of arrival. The store had only two other patrons, browsing an array of tempting nightdresses, as I entered. An assistant approached me.

“Bonjour, madame.”

“Bonjour. I’m not entirely sure what I’m looking for, so I’d like to look around a little?”

“Oui, yes, of course, please,” she said, eager to gratify. “Per’aps if madame can tell me the occasion …?”

“Madame could …” I let out a playful smile, “but perhaps madame shouldn’t.”

“Ah, I understand.” She winked and smiled. “Please, this way. I am Celeste.”

“Miri. Thank you, Celeste.”

“Miri … A lovely name … almost French.” Celeste had a lovely smile and, I noticed as I followed her, a petite and tight figure accentuated by the miniskirt she almost wore. I watched her slim thighs move enchantingly and wondered if she might be willing to help me try some things on. I’m fluid but would label myself bisexual, if asked. Experiences in boarding school dorms opened my mind many years ago. A sexual snack is nearly always fun—and when it’s with girls, it’s somehow more spicy. I’ve always looked to indulge when and where I can, since not enough of my clients are women, alas.

Christ, I was like a bitch on heat today. I’d need some kind of relief, or I’d be screwing the client for free tonight. And that would never do.

Since I didn’t know my client for this evening, I’d have to be fairly neutral in my choice of attire. A moment of decision struck me—not about the cute girl in front of me that I hoped to fuck, but about what I’d choose for tonight. I have a couple of regular clients that prefer the cliché of the baby doll, but that can come off a little cheap, a little like trying too hard. Others love the long slip or a long silk nightdress to wrap up their evening gift. But for a first-time client, you usually can’t go wrong with the classic slip, covering enough midriff and ending seductively about halfway down the thigh.

“I think, Celeste, maybe a slip …?”

“Ah, oui, c’est bon. You cannot go wrong with zis choice … if you know what you are doing …?”

The question hung in the air between us.

I nodded and smiled. “And you do, I hope?”

“You know what they say, Miri: l’espoir mène à la vie—hope leads to life.”

I’d never heard that, but I liked it. Words to live by, perhaps. “Let’s hope we find something I like.” My hand brushed hers ever so gently. “Something else I like …”

Celeste’s eyes were pools of alluring mid-blue. They shone as she looked up at me. She took my hand. “This way, Miri. We ’ave new stock. Quelle couleur?” She gestured to show me the color range: black, white, burgundy. Some ecru and pale blue.

“I think black … Oh, I like this,” I said, taking a gorgeous example off a hanger.

“Oui, the ‘Chantilly.’ Silk satin with French Chantilly lace.”

“Mmm, the lace is so delicate.” I looked at my hoped-for afternoon dalliance. “I do enjoy delicate, don’t you?”

“Mais oui. Et regarde … This is the most delicate lace. See the pure and feminine cut ’ere and the Chantilly insets at the back.” Her surprisingly long fingers gently traced the edges of the garment.

Christ, this little French vixen was a natural seductress. But she was so young.

“Celeste, my I ask … how old are you?”

She leaned in. “Old enough.”

My breath almost caught. “Then I should try it on for size and … e-ffic-acy …” I’d deliberately made the word sound like a fuck ici. It seemed to work as her eyes lit and gave me the cutest little demure beam.

“And, I think,” she said, pulling out another fine example, “also this, the ‘Calais,’ in chiffon with lace from Calais.”

I regarded the seductive see-through bodice. It had a less beautiful but more insolent sensuality to its design.

“It is more revealing, non?”

I smiled and said, “We should see … how well it slips on.”

“And off, Miri.”

She led me through the store and past the changing cabins, on and into a small room that served as a more secluded changing area.

Celeste turned the lock on the door behind us. “There. We will ’ave all the time we need … to decide.”

I cupped her cheek and bent down to kiss her. Her lips, smallish, met mine gently. I disengaged, and I could see the flash of disappointment flicker across her face. I’d gotten used to the tease.

“Don’t worry, chérie. I want to fully enjoy all the sensations of this shopping experience.”

She smiled, nervous, eager. Few women ever took the lead with me, though I’d be happy for them to.

I untied the belt of my coat and unbuttoned it. If this had been, shall we say “showtime,” I’d have let it fall to the floor, but I needed it un-creased. I watched Celeste’s eyes widen at the sight of a woman, still in her prime (I hoped), dressed in Coco’s finest, a style that indulged a woman’s thighs so appealingly and alluringly that it inspired a thousand hard-ons upon its launch all those decades ago. And, secretly, many wet panties, too.

I handed my coat to the petite woman stood in front of me. Celeste reached over and hung it.

I turned my back. “Would you mind …?”

I felt her soft, gentle touch unclasp the tiny hook with assurance and slowly pull the zip of my little black dress downward. Did I mention slowly?

A hand reached inside and touched the back of my waist. Her hand was warm and dry, indicating this little shop-girl had done this before.

Hallelujah.

Light fingertips brushed the curves of my hips as soft lips met my shoulder blades. I shivered in pleasure at what was to come.

As she butterfly kissed my shoulder blades, I considered her lack of height compared with mine would likely make my neck safe, but probably not my nipples.

God, I hoped not anyway.

I turned and lightly lifted her chin to bring my lips down on hers. Her mouth opened willingly, and I slipped my tongue in, barely, brushing the underside of her oh-so-soft and sweet lips. Her red lipstick was faintly cherry. My tongue brushed the line of her thin upper lip and within as hers ran delicately along my lower lip.

Our faint moans of increasing desire were synchronized. Our tongues joined the melody, in harmony wrapping themselves around to become almost one.

Celeste moaned again and began to hungrily eat at my mouth, and I let out a little “mmm” as this petite girl was now fully whetting my womanly appetite.

We broke off our kissing, eyes locked onto each other. Celeste smiled, almost coyly, which made my heart flutter at the cuteness.

I stepped out of my dress, and she hung it between my coat and the two items of lingerie.

I stood, clad only in my black underwear, stockings, and boots.

“Would madame care to try on the Calais?”

“Would mademoiselle like to see that?”

Celeste reached up and behind me, expertly unclasping my soft-cup, lacey and light bra. She slid it off of me, her eyes focusing on my freed breasts. “Mademoiselle would.” Her left hand held the bra on her index finger, her right hand gently outlined the contours of my left breast. “Very much.” She hung the bra on top of my dress.

“Sit, s’il vous plaît.”

I sat on the cushioned stool as Celeste began to unbutton her pink top. She needed no bra at her age and size to cushion her beautiful buds. She hung her top and slid the slip off the hanger.

“Madame likes?”

“Madame does …” I brought my face to her tiny breasts, the stool affording me the perfect vantage and position. I kissed her nipples, let my lips linger on each. “Madame likes very much, chérie.”

I was rapidly realizing this was the point of no return for my panties and that this session was going to cost me another hundred euros for a fresh pair.

Christ, I would gladly pay for this, though. I looked up at her and smiled.

Celeste took the Calais slip and paused. “Non,” she said, studying its see-through bodice. “Pour tois ce n’est pas bon.” She replaced it and took the Chantilly. “This one is for you, I think. Arms up, s’il vous plait.”

I raised my arms. Celeste placed the slip above my head and let it drop. I easily finessed myself into it.

This time Celeste gently lifted my chin. She looked down into my eyes and stooped to kiss me. “C’est bon, Miri. Très bon.”

I stood and pulled the slip down. Celeste was right: the feel and look of the garment were exquisite. It hugged my breasts, hung just loose enough around the midriff to create ripples on the material as I moved, breathed even, catching the light. She smoothed it out over my hips, letting her hand trace languidly across my abdomen as we studied my figure in the wall-to-wall mirror. The slip featured an asymmetrical hem. Lined with lace, the skirt was raised diagonally, riding up left my thigh toward my hip.

“It is beautiful, Miri,” Celeste pronounced.

She was right. It was seductive as hell.

“You are beautiful.” She snaked a hand up my back and moved to stand directly in front of me. Her right hand traced the outline of the lace on my thigh, her fingertips brushing my skin, making it tingle.

The lingerie, the girl, the mirror …

My breathing deepened as Celeste moved her hand down my thigh, swirling her fingers ever inward to finally touch the lace of my panties and beyond.

My obliging thighs parted slightly … opened enough …

I bent to kiss her, and as our lips met, two fingertips brushed over my sex. I moaned into her mouth as I sought out her tongue. I kissed her hungrily, my lips assaulting hers. Her fingers began to move up and down, stopping to swirl gently on my sweet spot.

Oh heaven! The sweetness of this girl …

Celeste broke our kiss to bend down and slide my panties down my legs. They fell to the floor and I stepped out of them.

“Now you, chérie.”

“If madame commands it.”

“Madame will even assist.” I unbuttoned the front of the cotton skirt; the three buttons popped one by one as I drank in her round eyes. Her skirt dropped to the floor to join my soaked panties. As she stepped over the mini, I saw the noticeable damp patch between her legs, deepening the dark gray of her tights.

I couldn’t ever recall wanting a girl more than at this very moment.

“Pull them down,” I instructed her. As she made to do so, I added, “Just above your knees, chérie.”

She hooked her long fingers into the waistband of her tights and, never taking her eyes off of mine, pushed them down seductively past her hips, slowly sliding and rolling the material down her trim, lithe thighs.

I knew from the dampness on the tights she was wearing no panties. I stared at the cutest, hairless virginal slit I’d ever laid eyes on. Beads of moisture glistened in the light as she shivered. I looked again into her eyes.

She smiled mischievously. “Our panty brand is over-rated.”

“I do like a girl in only tights. Open for me, chérie.” Celeste obliged. “Yes, that’s it, chérie. A little wider, stretch the tights.” Her sex glistened around her tiny slit, her clitoris sheathed. I’d see to that …

I stooped and brushed my hand against her sex and bent to kiss her. She arched her back to meet my mouth and drank me in, her arms snaking around my neck to pull me onto her even more. My fingers separated to feel her hairless lips. The wetness of her was delicious, the heat of her was delirious. I pushed past her outer defenses and gently moved my third finger up and down, gathering the juices she was freely giving.

Celeste moaned and broke our kiss, threw her head back. “Ah, Miri!”

“C’est bon, chérie? I asked her, breathing heavily now.

“Ah! Oui, oui … ! C’est bon, madame.”

I traced my finger up and circled her nub. Again she moaned at this new sensation. I swirled my finger and circled her clitoris, willing her erogenous nerve endings to fire. They sparked her clit into firmness, and she clamped onto my left breast, swirling her tongue all over and around my nipple, letting out cute little whimpers as she did.

I gasped and held her head tightly to me as I moved my finger back down her slit and up again to her clit. And down and up once more to coat it with her juices, whereupon I began to rub her with more intensity. And ever more.

She whimpered, she moaned, she feasted on my nipples, nibbled them, sucked them. First one, before she gave the same glorious attention to the other. And back again.

Her whimpers increased in volume, became muffled moans as I fingered her clit, occasionally dropping for more lubrication and returning with the same fury, causing her to gasp.

As she did, I pushed a finger inside her. God, she was so tight. She’d need only a single finger. I pulled out and pushed in again, halfway now.

Celeste moaned as I pushed my finger in all the way and began fucking her. Slowly at first, causing her to whimper lightly, then increasing in fervor. I pushed her against the mirror, and she gasped as her pert ass met its coolness. That and my finger plunging back into her gorgeous oh-so-tight little cunt. I placed my arm underneath one of hers to hold her up and pressed myself up against her, letting the nipples of her petite, pert breasts feel the silk of my slip. Her eyes locked onto mine before I bent to kiss her. She whimpered and moaned into my mouth, her tongue lashing and thrashing around mine. Then her tongue froze, and her whimpers became moans, real moans now.

“Mmmm … mmmmmmm!”

She was on the edge. I pulled my mouth away, and Celeste gasped.

“Ah …! Ah …! Mi—ah! Oui, ouii, ouiiiiii!”

She arched her back and gave a silent scream of climax, her body rigid as I fingered her glittering, sopping cunt. As she gasped her final release, I ceased my motion and let her recover her breath.

She sank to the stool. “Oh, Miri,” she breathed. “Th-that was … That was … dieu …”

“Did mademoiselle enjoy?”

Still catching her breath, she nodded with the enthusiasm of a child offered ice cream. “Did madam enjoy?” she said at last. She suddenly noticed me and what I was now doing to myself. “Oh, Miri, oui, oui. Play with yourself.”

I slowed and stopped.

“Non! Miri, please. Finger yourself. Show me how you like it.”

I was already nearly as wet as Celeste had been, so my fingers moved freely around my lips and up to my clitoris. I gave a soft sigh as I circled and began to knead and rub it, looking at the girl’s eyes locked onto my sex and my motions. Her hand fell to her tight little slit, which she brushed softly, making her breathing ragged again.

Oh to be young.

I sighed a deep “Mmm …” as my fingers began to find their rhythm, their optimum intensity, around and around … down my slit, up my slit. Down and up and around, furiously now, my clit. I watched Celeste watch me, her knowing full well this would heighten my arousal.

She licked a finger and pressed it against my slit. Coyly, she looked up at me, asking approval, seeking permission. I could have come right then.

“Yes!” I chirped, and in two seconds I was penetrated.

The walls of my cunt clamped around her finger as she moved it in and out, so agonizingly tenderly. My core ached for release, but I willed it to last out a little longer as I locked eyes onto Celeste. And in that moment my dam burst!

I shook as I came on the finger and beyond of this petite, ravenous girl. A second wave came and lapped against her hand as I gasped and shivered.

I slowly wound down my rubbing, and my grateful, engorged clit was finally granted release from the incessant, urgent fingering I’d given it.

Celeste rose and placed her arms around my waist. We kissed again. I’d never enjoyed kissing a girl more. But then I’d never fucked a girl in a shop before.

I knew I would again.

Celeste dropped a hand to my nipple. It was suddenly alert again as she brushed it and softly teased it. I deepened our kiss, this time not a frantic one but an intense one, nonetheless. It was a kiss that acknowledged this encounter—our time together here and now—was something special, something neither of us had ever quite experienced before.

She broke the kiss to look into my eyes and stroke my cheek before her sweet lips rejoined mine in companionship.

I sighed into her mouth, making the intensity of the kiss grow, and already my sex wanted more.

“Lick me, chérie?”

“Only if madame really wants it.”

“Madame really wants it, chérie! Lick me, Celeste. Tongue me, baby!” I pleaded.

“Oh, Miri. Oh god, yes! Sit …”

I sat on the stool, shuffled down to give this little goddess full access, lifted the slip, and opened my silk-clad, gartered, and booted legs.

Celeste sank to her knees and dove in, her lips covering and kissing my sex furiously.

I was so fucking wet!

She sucked on and lapped at my cunt, demanding the juices, urging the damn to break as her hot tongue wormed its way inside my very soul. I clasped her head and held her tightly.

Her hands slid over and down from my thighs. Which could only mean one thing, couldn’t it? Please let it mean she was going to fuck me again …

Fingers pressed up against my hole, wiggling, stroking, and insisting on entry.

“Yes!” I gasped. “Fuck me, chérie—give it to me hard, baby!”

My cunt clamped around her fingers as they entered me. They moved in unison, like a neat cock, in and out. Deeper and deeper. More insistent, faster and faster.

Celeste looked up at me and smiled before diving back in to break my dam once and for all. Her mouth covered my clitoris, fully engorged and super-sensitive, and her poker-hot tongue attacked it from all sides, over and around, swirling and swirling, breaking to kiss and suck it as her fingers furiously pumped my cunt, stoking me to distraction.

The intensity of the fucking built and built, and I whimpered and moaned at my little chérie. “Yes, chérie, yes! That’s it, baby. Lick it! Liiiiick iiiit!!”

Celeste’s head bobbed, her mouth licking and lapping at my cunt, desperate to take everything, frantic to consume me. Her fingers fucked and fucked me more in rapid rhythm.

“Yes! Yes! Madame is sooo close! Ye-mmm!” I gasped as I was about to careen into the wall and gush over. “Mm … mmm … Yes, chérie, ye—oh baby, ooooooooh …”

I bucked my hips as I came, as I gasped, as I pushed the girl’s head and tongue as hard as I could against me.

I bucked again as another wave hit me. I rode it all the way …

I sighed as I began to come down, catching my breath.

Celeste gently withdrew her fingers, and her tongue relaxed, letting her lips take over with soft kisses around my puffed lips.

I sank further down the stool and gasped for breath, clutching at the air in the cabin for dear life.

Celeste stood and gently fingered herself. She leaned down to me and kissed me.

“Did madame enjoy that?” she asked, the coy, cute innocence restored.

“Oh chérie, madame really fucking did.”

***

Four hundred euros later, my slip for the evening was wrapped in soft paper tissue and was nestled in my bag. I wore the fresh panties, of course. Bless Celeste, she’d even rung up the sale using her own staff discount.

I walked down the boulevard, fresh as a daisy. A ravenous one—for food, I mean—thoughts of Celeste’s lips still freshly imprinted on my mind. I’d hoped she might be free for lunch, maybe a second round. Still, while I was leaving Paris in the morning, I’d be back here soon enough.

Like I said, you can never have enough lingerie.

 

***

 

This short story is adapted from a chapter in “The Paris Hook-Up,” the first of three novellas in The Seductive Escort Series publishing spring 2022 on Kindle and Kindle Unlimited and featuring steamy MF and FF scenes. Search Tierney Moore on Amazon for her erotic writing.