Date: Sat, 23 Nov 2024 00:23:00 -0800 From: Hey All Subject: French Boutique (lesbian, authoritarian) "French Boutique" by HeyAll Nifty can be supported here, every dollar counts. https://donate.nifty.org Substack -- writing insights, exclusives, customs, supports my work https://heyallstories.substack.com https://ko-fi.com/heyallstories xxx I spent the early part of my FBI career eating pussy for the city's most prominent business women. No one pressured me into doing it, but that was the assignment. Do I regret my involvement? No, in fact I often reminisce on those days. I'd never subject my current trainees to those types of activities but I can honestly say that it changed my life for the better. Here's what happened: The year was 2007 and I was surrounded by family at Quantico, Virginia for the ceremony. I became an FBI agent like my retired father. Where most graduates beamed with pride, I found myself being lukewarm over the whole thing. It was an undeniable achievement, my family was so proud, especially my dad, and I felt like I'd accomplished something by just being there. It gave me purpose. On the other hand, despite my belief in the justice system, dealing with hardened criminals for the rest of my life was questionable. Plus I'd been assigned to a field office on the other side of the country, away from family and friends, to a place known for freezing temperatures. Life's major twist came as I left the ceremony with my family. We were headed to my favorite pizza place when an FBI agent in a suit stopped us and wanted a moment of my time. Hard edged, straight faced. Agent Esparza was his name. The man who changed my life. In a private room he congratulated me for the tremendous accomplishment, which I could tell he was trying to butter me up, then he laid it on me. "This will be short. Do you want a counter-intelligence assignment at a fashion place? It'll bolster your career within the ranks. Interested? Yes or no?" I remember studying the lines on Agent Esparza's face. Nothing moved. Counter-intelligence? No wonder he was so strict, I remember thinking, because those guys don't mess around. I needed to answer right then and there, but all I could think about was my family waiting in the auditorium. "Dangerous?" I asked. "No." "What's the assignment about?" "You'll get briefed once you agree. I'm running the op. New York. Yes or no?" A month later I got a tiny apartment in Manhattan with cash to support myself. By early September the plan came to fruition and I'd gotten the job working for Madame Isabelle at the French boutique. It was a gorgeous place, a haven of luxury with a slice of European elegance. Everything there was imported from France, from big name designer brands to hand-tailored garments. I'd worked retail in my youth so passing Madame Isabelle's tests was easy. The interview process couldn't have gone smoother. I suppose that was the reason Agent Esparza chose me for that job, though he never outright said it, because I have skills that aren't taught at the academy. She was the target, by the way, suspected of -- wittingly or unwittingly -- operating a hub where `friendly' nations passed information amongst their spies. I was there to keep tabs. To dig deeper. I didn't have backup because it was a preliminary investigation. We also didn't have a warrant yet so wiretaps were out of the question. Once everything was set I hit the ground running. It was a typical 9-5 job, the kind you'd see at any clothing store, only with stricter standards and a demanding clientele. There were less than a dozen employees who rotated shifts and I eventually considered several of them to be friends. In many ways, that simple life was the life I'd always envisioned for myself, before joining law enforcement. Two months later, my life took a second twist. "Kimberly will be leaving us," Madame Isabelle said. "Are you comfortable in the dressing room?" It was closing time and she approached me by the register. What amazed me the most about Isabelle was that she had this uncanny ability to appear fresh at all times. Early in the morning, late in the day, time meant nothing to her. Her posture was always correct and her clothes were always pressed. No wrinkles or lines on her outfit. She always smelled of flowers. In her early 50's, she did everything possible to appear young. "Yeah, that'd be great. Wherever you need me." She lifted an eyebrow. "Have you worked in the dressing area before?" "No, Madame. I've always worked on the sales floor." She paused for a moment, studying me. "Do you feel comfortable providing... personal services to clients? It's a crucial aspect of the dressing room." "I'm totally comfortable with that. Actually, being hands-on with clients is what I love most." She kept her eyes focused, assessing my body language, and for a moment I wondered if she figured out that I was law enforcement. Her eyes roamed my body. Wondering if I'm wearing a listening device? No. She examined my body the way a talent scout would judge young models for desirability. "Your first dressing room shift will be on Monday," she said. "You'll need a little more training, then we'll take things slow and see how you perform." "Sounds great, thank you." Madame Isabelle, ever the perfectionist, trained me in the art of the dressing room. And I used the word `art' because that's how she described it. All clients must be treated like royalty, which was how she was taught as a young employee in France, where she'd served movie stars and politicians. She instructed me on how to speak, how to present clothing, and the proper way to dress women efficiently. It was also the start of my sexual odyssey. The second week of October we had a client named Tania Montgomery, who my boss stressed was an influential figure in the financial world. Early 60's, streaks of gray hair in between black, very sophisticated. With the emphasis my boss gave toward treating Tania like royalty, it made me wonder if she was a spy, but I dispelled that after meeting her. "I have new subordinates," Tania said. "They're around your age. I want them upgraded. Can you do that?" "Yes, I can handle anything." "Can you make them look like European socialites? Within reasonable budget, they still need to prove themselves." "I'll make them the hottest products in town, second only to you." She lifted an eyebrow. "Flattery will get you everywhere. Here's a $100 tip in advance, more if you do a good job." The associates were young -- two white girls, one hispanic -- and I could tell they were green to the industry by how sheepish they were around their boss. They were dressed for a typical office environment, wearing blouses and office skirts, but Tania Montgomery expected a higher standard. My colleagues gathered a selection of clothes and I worked my magic in the dressing room. Their body types were different and I fitted them with Chanel, Dior, and Saint Laurent. It was a learning experience. I'd never handled three clients together and they'd never had a group experience. That's what made it so fun. They were shy at first, undressing in a booth with the curtain pulled. It became apparent that open curtains would be the faster route. Every so often the tips of my fingers would brush against their skin, it was almost like they were leaning into me. As if our light banter created an atmosphere where touching was to be expected. When we finished, the girls had two bags full of clothes which totaled over $7,000 and they were thrilled. I ran their transaction and they used the company card. My co-workers were helping other customers, then I noticed Tania Montgomery leaving a backroom with my boss, both of them with a straight face. The girls thanked me again before heading off to lunch. Then I noticed my boss looking at me with a questioning expression on her face. "How did you do?" Isabelle asked. When I explained that handling three customers went surprisingly smooth, along with the ins and outs of the process, a strange sense of disappointment seemed to wash over her. It was like I missed the mark, even with the hefty bill. "Service is service," she said. "What do you mean?" "It means that perhaps I've misjudged you. Customers spend a lot of money here. The best female customers in the city. They expect the best service." "Oh, I thought I gave them the best..." "Magie avec ta bouche," she said. "Once you understand that phrase, you'll make the real tips. You're quite pretty. Women have been asking about you. That's why I put you in the dressing room today, as an examination." "I'm sorry if I let you down. It won't happen again." "We'll get to that later." I spent my lunch hour with a coworker, quietly wondering what Madame Isabelle meant, and the rest of the day was a standard affair, with business picking up when women got off their office hours. Evening when the boutique closed, she asked me to stay a while, and that was the moment when my life changed forever, when the door was locked and we were alone on the sales floor, standing face to face having an adult conversation. "We're going to be busy in the coming weeks," she said. "Between the winter collection and holiday season, and gift giving, prominent women that work in those buildings are going to spend a lot of cash here. They expect the best service, I enjoy giving it. Do you understand where this is going?" In retrospect, those three girls were expecting to get eaten out in the dressing room, which explained why they were so nice to me. "Yeah, it makes sense." "Service de chatte," she said. "Pussy service. Can you do that, my pretty thing?" I still remember how I felt, then being frozen in place for a good two or three seconds, before snapping out of it and attempting to respond. Madame Isabelle kept a straight face as if this were another business transaction, or a frank discussion between boss and employee. "Does everyone know about this?" "Only the ones who get invited to dressing room duty." "What made you ask me? I've only worked here for a short time." "As mentioned, a few clients have inquired about you. You're quite beautiful and have this confident energy about you. An inner-strength you project. Powerful women are drawn to that." Deep down, a part of me wanted to whisper, `Yes, because I recently graduated from the fucking FBI academy,' but that's obviously out of the question, no matter how delicious. "I'm honestly not sure if I can do that. But I still want to work here. Is that okay?' "Have you ever eaten pussy, my dear?" she asked. "No. It's a fantasy, but no." "You don't have to do anything now, but have a look, then go home and think." Madame Isabelle undid her pants, and right there in the showroom, pulled the front of her pants down, along with her panties, to reveal a trimmed bush. Her back faced the store front so no one outside could see what she was showing me. With her fingers she brushed her pubic hair out of the way so that her clitoris and brown labia were visible. It was an offer, plain and simple, and her bluntness about showing her pussy was spellbinding. I didn't know how to process it. I just stared. And yes, through my nervousness, I was aroused. She pulled her panties up and fixed her pants. Thanked me. And said she'll see me tomorrow. The exposure was nothing to her, like another facet of job training. That night after dinner I called Agent Esparza and told him everything. I explained that we lacked credible leads, then the dressing room offer and pussy showing. The phone line went quiet for a moment, he often took a moment to think and this was, I'm sure, a surprising development he hadn't anticipated. Or maybe he knew all along? "Have you ever done anything like that before?" he asked. "No, I haven't. It's not what I signed up for, either." "Your hesitation is understandable," she said. "But given the circumstances, being flexible might be necessary for the success of this mission." I couldn't believe what I heard. Were we talking about the same thing? Seeking clarity was pointless, men like him are careful with words, they know exactly what they're saying. "Do you still think national security is at risk?" I asked. "Two known foreign spies, both women, had visited that boutique in the last month. Spies from different countries. Not adversarial countries, but it's something we should keep monitoring." "You should have told me that earlier. I'd like to know what I'm dealing with." "Look, I know it's daunting," he said. "But you're getting real experience." "Thank you." "And who knows, you might even like it." I wanted to punch his lights out. Even over the phone. Instead, as always, I thanked him again for the opportunity and I agreed to keep him informed about important updates. Was I going to use my body? At that point I honestly didn't know. We still didn't have a warrant and I was losing faith in the assignment. Quitting the job was a real possibility that night, and I don't mean the boutique, but my role as an FBI agent. I didn't deserve to be treated like that by anyone. Then I'd have to explain to my family why my `dream job' came to an abrupt end. At my age, back then, finding a career was everything, I wanted to do something meaningful with my youth. In all honesty, working at that boutique may have been a worthwhile career. Every day I got to meet interesting people and be around high fashion. But there's something in my blood, talking to me, luring me to the excitement. If I'm being true to myself it's the excitement. The thrill of the chase. Before the boutique opened the next morning I informed Madame Isabelle about my decision and she was delighted. We agreed to take things slow and she kept me in the showroom for the time being. At the end of the day, she handed me an old erotic novel, originally written in French, translated to English, something from the 1970's with a lesbian theme. I consumed that novel over the weekend and understood why she wanted me to read it, because the plot revolved around a small boutique in a quiet town, where the owner and employees ate the pussies of their best patrons. It was essentially a how-to manual on the act of oral lovemaking in the dressing room. Under normal circumstances I would have gotten off reading that novel, but the reality of actually doing that put a wet towel on my mood. As the season changed so did the clientele, as she had stated. More and more women were coming and buying gifts after getting off from work. There were things in particular I found interesting: 1) Office women in their 40's or 50's, sometimes 60's -- the managerial class -- came to buy lingerie or sensual undergarments. No shame whatsoever. They preferred sheer or items where labia or nipples were free. They'd have these wrapped with bow ties. Later I learned that these were gifts for younger women in their office. A way of showing appreciation to subordinates who were eating their pussies. Or vice versa. They were also eating young pussy from the women who worked for them. It was either a `thank you' or a show of dominance, having younger women discreetly wearing erotic undergarments to work. 2) They bought warmer wardrobe for the season, but this French boutique had clothes that were easy to slip off. Madame Isabelle explained to me that these managerial women often went braless or pantyless to work, and that these thick French garments made it possible during the season. Perfect for their office liaisons. And that was how I ate my first pussy. Her name was Signe Christensen and I remember everything like it happened yesterday. She was tall, elegant, with shoulder length blonde hair and piercing blue eyes. I could tell she was upper-management based on how she carried herself, like she was used to telling people what to do. That didn't bother me. I kind of respect that. She didn't smile at anyone except for my boss and they exchanged kisses on the cheek. I knew this woman was important because she didn't bother looking at anything on the racks, Madame Isabelle did that for her, while they carried a conversation in French. My boss picked two pairs of coats and wool sweaters and they went to the dressing room, then my boss came out and waved me over. "Ms. Christensen is one of our best patrons," Madame Isabelle said. "I've known her for years. She's a senior executive and she spends thousands of dollars in wardrobe for each season. Do you understand my point?" I nodded. "Service is service. I'll make sure she's properly fitted." "Wonderful. Enjoy the experience." Part of my soul left my body, part of me wanted to run, breaking cover and ending the FBI assignment. But another part of me was ignited. The part that wanted to delve deeper into the job -- both of them -- and see what I'm capable of. And if I'm honest, I was ignited down below more than anywhere else. I went to the dressing room having no idea what to expect. Maybe it was all a misunderstanding. Or maybe this prominent woman just wanted eye candy to look at while getting dressed. Signe Christensen stood nude in front of three full-length mirrors. She stood tall and proud, even barefoot, with her hands on her hips as she posed for her reflection, turning side to side. Her blue eyes were fixated on her midsection and she didn't even acknowledge me for almost a minute. "I've gained a few pounds," she said. "Might be time for a new trainer." "You look fantastic. Most women would kill to have your figure." "I didn't ask you. Outfit, please." She pointed to the clothing rack where my boss had picked out the coats and sweaters. My heart raced. As a veteran of working in clothing stores, I'd seen the occasional nipple here and there, but I'd never been around full nudity. Even when I brought the sweater to Signe she remained nude and lifted her arms so that it would slide in. She looked in the mirror, liking the loose fit and warm material, while her legs and pubic hairs were part of her reflection. "Not bad." We did the same thing with the other sweater, repeating the process of getting her nude and then trying on the next thing, only for her to model herself in front of the mirror. She never asked for my feedback. Women like her know exactly what they want, I was just service. I tried not to stare at her erect pink nipples during the process, but when we tried on the coats, it was nearly impossible. She preferred staying nude when trying on the coats and I had to stand in front of her and adjust the sleeves and ensure the fit was right. I buttoned the front when asked. I couldn't understand why she wanted to try the coats while nude, but later I'd come to learn that in the office, she liked being eaten out while sitting behind her desk and wearing nothing but the coat. The fabric added an extra layer of comfort from when her subordinates gave oral. For the second coat she gazed at herself in all three mirrors. Turning her body side to side. Her coat was open down the middle and I got flashes of pubic hairs whenever her body turned. I was aroused but the nervousness of what might happen next put a damper on things. "This one is divine," she said. "I'd have to agree. The color and size match your figure." "Correct. I hope you don't mind, but I like being pampered before spending money. Can you do that?" "I think so." "My understanding is that you're a novice." "Depending on what you want." "Eventually I want everything." Signe Christensen sat on a padded seat and I knew what had to be done. Her legs were open while the expensive coat gave her extra comfort. Her pussy was hairy and wet. My first time eating pussy was almost like a religious experience. A life changing experience. Not something I'd ever forget. My hands spread her inner-thighs, opening her entrance, because service is service. Tasting her was the most vivid part. It was warm, kind of sweet, thicker than I'd imagined it to be. Her hands stroked my hair while I worked and I kept thinking about if I should tell my superior -- the FBI agent -- that I gave oral sex to a business woman. When her orgasm hit I wanted to gag. She squirted. It ran down my chin. I swallowed. It was unforgettable. I saw the satisfied smile on her face. "You did so good," she said. "Now wrap these up. I'll pay at the counter." When she left the store half an hour later, Madame Isabelle knew that I did the job expected of me. Signe had that post-orgasmic glow, that pep in her step, and I had the look of shame. I remember feeling oddly proud that my boss trusted me with a top patron and I delivered the right results. I'll be honest, it gave me a crazy sense of validation. Once I was `established' for having certain skills, my dressing room duties became routine, and so did the envelopes of cash my boss would slip me at the end of those days. Requests from clients varied from person to person, but I noticed trends amongst them. Younger women tended to be shy and more submissive. Truthfully, most young women who went there didn't know the full extent of benefits they could receive. Some were lured by the marvelous designs on the front window, and many left after browsing and seeing the extravagant prices. Those `in-the-know' had been told by their mentors to visit that French boutique for a new experience. Some had everything paid for on the company dime or from their boss's pocket. They often had trembling hands in the dressing room. They were like young exhibitionists, wanting to be seen naked, then buying their clothes and leaving. Others wanted me to dress them, which I did, or asked to be touched, which I did. A few outright requested to have their nipples sucked or their pussies eaten. Fear would be in their voice, terrified that they'd made a mistake, that I'd kick them out and have them banished from the boutique, then informing their boss and they'd get fired from their job. To their delight, that never happened, and their pussies were served. Older women were the bread and butter. The lifeblood of that place. Over the course of a month, I observed almost a hundred business women actually making use of the dressing room perks. I didn't handle all of them, my co-workers did a lot, but I helped with the heavy lifting. Nipple sucking, pussy eating, body kisses. Patrons would leave with a glowy air about them. The main thing you need to know about older women is that they like to feel special. Staring into their eyes, telling them how beautiful they are, caressing their skin. It's part of the experience they want. Even the most prominent women in business needed their fix of affection in the dressing room. And I gave that to them. I remember feeling like the cycle was complete when Tania Montgomery returned to the boutique with her three young employees, who all landed full-time jobs working for her. Tania went into a back room to receive special service from my boss, while I once again tended to the three young women. Their demeanor was different. They dressed sharper and had more confidence. In addition to being diligent young financial workers, they also learned to be skilled pussy eaters. They waited in the dressing room with their hot coffee while I selected a wardrobe of coats and sweaters, hanging them on a rack and wheeling them to the private space. They were delighted to see me and I knew why. In the office they ate pussy. But in the boutique, my job was customer service. Unlike our first meeting, this time they had the courage to strip in front of each other, down to their bras and panties, barefoot on the carpet. I helped them dress and we talked like friends catching up. They modeled in front of the mirrors, giggled, taking advantage of the fact that everything would be paid for on the company dime. There was another perk they were interested in taking advantage of. "So... since we're spending a lot of money here... do we get anything?" The girls were wide-eyed at the prospect of service. One was fully dressed in a new coat, another was partially dressed, and one stood in her bra and panties. "Whatever you'd like," I said. "My job is to cater to your needs." Part of me hoped they wouldn't push any further, because being around the same age as them, and being new in our respective industries, I saw them as peers. In another life we could have all been friends, going to the mall together and grabbing lunch and sweet drinks. I guess they saw me as a friend also, but one who gave benefits. All three of them went bottomless sitting at different spots in the room. Two shared a couch while the other used a stool. It was my job to kneel for them and perform the task I was trained for. It was my first time handling more than one pussy at a time, which was a different kind of challenge. Each girl tasted different. Pussy is pussy, as I've come to learn, but the flavors are unique, which includes sweetness. When I put my tongue inside, I felt the difference in their tightness. When I made them cum, their bodies reacted differently, some trembled and breathed harder, one was more vocal with a relaxed body. Seeing them at the front desk and processing their payments was a different kind of awkward, as you can imagine. They were still acting friendly, but I became submissive to them since I had made them all cum together. Before finalizing the bill, they each bought erotic undergarments, like crotchless panties and see-through bras, and had them bowtie wrapped as gifts. For whom? I don't know. Maybe for other lovers they had or those in their office circle. I never saw them again, so that will always remain a mystery. Two nights later Agent Esparza showed up at my apartment. It was late in the night and I was dressed only in a large tshirt with nothing underneath, my hair messy from getting out of bed. That didn't concern him the slightest. Unlike our previous interactions, he had a defeated look on his face when he closed the door. "I wanted to tell you this in person," he said. "We're pulling the plug. Higher-ups in Washington know about the spy ring and I was told to leave it alone. It's above my pay grade." That was the biggest gut punch of my life. "After all that sacrifice?" "Welcome to being an agent. Win some, lose some, you get paid either way." "Just like that?" "Like that. It's over." Everything felt like a blur, though I remember crying and him sitting next to me on the couch and consoling me, having no idea what was wrong. That was so on brand, I thought, because even though he put me in that position, he was baffled at my current state. When I calmed down I told him everything I'd done in the dressing room. Not in explicit detail, but I told him that I'd been on my knees for business women who walked through those doors. It shocked him, but not totally. He wasn't sure if I'd gone that far. But I did and it forever changed me. To this day, I don't think Agent Esparza knows that I still fantasize about it. I quit my boutique job the next afternoon. Although I didn't have to, and probably shouldn't have, I expressed my gratitude to Madame Isabelle for the grace she showed me, for teaching me and giving me valuable life experience. Without verbally saying it, I thanked her for the sexual experiences as well. That was during lunch break and she didn't show any emotion. I was nervous. Really nervous. For some reason my hands trembled and I had to clasp them together. Being face to face with a woman like her and explaining myself was daunting, but again, I felt I owed that to her. I didn't tell her that I was an FBI agent but I wondered if she was suspicious. "Come with me to the dressing room." I followed her and she made a stop at her office, grabbing a small box from the drawer of her desk, then we went to an open dressing room and she closed the door. Nerves got the better of me. It was a real possibility that she might try to kill me, that perhaps she'd suspected for a while, or an intelligence contact tipped her off. The opposite happened and she pinned me against the wall and got down on her knees. She got down in a dignified way, not wanting to be submissive, but nonetheless taking a submissive posture, and she ate me out. I could barely look at her while her tongue probed with force. Perhaps she did this on purpose, but I was facing the three full-length mirrors and watched myself being eaten. It was the first time I'd ever seen myself while getting a sexual act. When I came, she swallowed every drop, then she spun me around and did the same thing with my ass. Another first. Her tongue was once again a probing force and it felt so crude that I wanted to stop her. Her tongue swirled as she held my butt cheeks open. I learned what was inside that box she brought from her office. There was a waist-strap along with a 6-inch blue colored dildo. She pieced everything together like a secret agent assembling a gun. It was the reason she ate my ass. Lube. Women like Madame Isabelle don't just let valued employees leave on a whim, they have to exert their final level of control. And the truth was, we both got something out of that. I got a final experience at her hands. She got to finally have me, instead of loaning me out to other women. When the act was done, she calmly put everything back in the box and got dressed. She didn't say a word. It was like she was upset about losing me. As the workday closed and the employees left, Madame Isabelle touched my shoulder in the showroom area. She handed me a wrapped package with a bowtie on it. "You deserve this," she said. The box was the same size and shape as the strap-on box she used earlier. "Why are you giving it to me?" "I like the thought of you using it on yourself. In that same sensitive area of your body. And maybe, as your confidence grows, you'll use it on other women. I like paying it forward." When I got back to my apartment where all my stuff was packed, I opened her gift, and there it was, the object she used on me. Shiny and clean. Not the cheap stuff you'd find in a sleazy store, but something of value. My first reaction was to throw it away. But how could I? I ended up keeping it as a souvenir. So that's my story. The period which shaped my sexuality and career. My office is a few miles away from Quantico and I teach a surveillance course for trainees. As it turns out, Agent Esparza was right, the skills I learned were valuable to my career. Madame Isabelle was also right about something, I keep her gift box in the drawer of my desk. I use it on myself sometimes in my office, when the stress of an active investigation gets too high. I've developed a penchant for older women. There's someone who works a few floors above mine, a female agent in her late 50's who enjoys being strapped in the bathroom. If there's one thing I've learned, it's that older women need special care. The End thank you for reading https://x.com/HeyAllStories