THE UNDERWEAR BUYER

copyright: Lesley Tara, 2009


When I say that I’m an expert in women’s underwear, I can almost hear the giggles of my past girlfriends. But I really am – after taking degrees in textiles and fashion, and working my way upwards through the purchasing department of a well-known chain of stores, about seven years ago I went independent and launched my own specialist and high-class lingerie mail order business. It was just at the right time, when internet sales were really taking off, and I was relatively early in the field; my company is successful, with a name for quality and service, and a good niche in the market. Whilst most of our sales are from established lines and names, I am always keen to spot rising talent and that’s how I met – well, let’s call her Emma (I can’t give her real name, as she’s now becoming quite recognised as a designer).

The firm is not so large that I can’t take the important decisions myself – most of my staff deal with the routine business of keeping enough supply of stock, fulfilling orders and replying to customer queries, etc. So I still act as chief (well, only) buyer, and in that capacity I was first approached by Emma. She was 24, not very long since graduated from design school and looking to attract interest for her first proper collection; in truth, I was a little flattered when she contacted me by email, and said that my firm was the one she had thought of first. She attached a file of drawings of her designs and some photos of them, modelled by herself – and I thought both the garments and their creator looked rather delightful. So I replied pleasantly, although making no commitment, and invited her to come to my house the following Saturday at 2.00 p.m., so that we would have time free from the constant interruptions you get at the office for her to show me the actual garments. Emma was delighted – she hadn’t really expected get a positive response, and assured me that she would be there.

My earnings from the business have given me a very comfortable lifestyle, although a consequence of the long hours – especially when I started out on my own – is that I live alone. I have always been a lesbian, since being seduced by one of the volunteer leaders of my church youth group when I had just turned sixteen; in truth, I already knew that I was a girl-lover, and probably flirtatiously encouraged the young woman – she certainly encountered no resistance from her conquest! I had sex with her regularly but very discretely during the next two years, and then partly came out at college with a few affairs (one of them with a young faculty member). In my late twenties, I had a serious relationship with a woman I met through work, which lasted about six years – it ended hurtfully, with my lover leaving for someone I had thought was a mutual friend, but who turned out to have been fucking my girl for several months without my knowing. Since then, I had largely buried myself in work, and sexual pleasure had been an intermittent, all too infrequent, case of one-night stands, grabbed whenever the chance arose.

At this point, I was approaching 35 years old. I am quite tall at five foot eleven inches, with grey eyes and thick jet-black hair which is cut at shoulder-length and shaped neatly to frame my face. I am slim, still wearing the same 30B bra size that I did as a student all those years ago; my breasts are not large, but they have no sag. I keep very fit – there is an exercise room in my house, and my one unshakeable rule is to spend an hour on the various machines every night when I get home, working out the stresses and tensions of the day and the drive back on the busy freeway. I also swim twice every weekend, for at least an hour each time, at a nearby exclusive country club which I have joined. My legs are well-shaped and toned, and my ass is also pretty much as trim as it was fifteen years ago – I quite often notice people taking a second look as I stalk by.

After the business really took off, about four years ago I bought a lovely house in a verdant green suburban area on the southern edge of the city. It was built in the 1920s and has quite large grounds behind stone walls, with privacy ensured by the wrought-iron gates across the entry to the drive. I fell in love with it when I first saw it, although I hardly need its four bedrooms and three bathrooms! However, one of its finest features is the large living room, with a series of tall French windows that open out onto the paved stone terrace.

Punctual almost to the moment that the grandfather clock in the hall chimed two o’clock, the gate entry phone’s buzzer sounded. Emma had arrived, and after I released the gate control, she zipped up the gravel drive in a ten-year old, slightly battered, bright red Chevrolet Cavalier convertible, the roof down on this sunny afternoon. As I opened my front door, she popped out of the driver’s seat like a champagne cork, full of energy and zest, and almost breathlessly she grabbed a medium-sized bag in one hand, tucked a large portfolio under her arm, and bounded up the half-dozen steps into the shade of the white-pillared portico. I though that she had the most attractive glow of health, vitality and innocent eagerness, as she held out her free hand and gushed how pleased she was to meet me, how grateful she was that I was giving her this chance, that she knew how valuable my time must be, that she promised me that she wouldn’t be wasting it …

It was almost overwhelming, pouring out in a rush, with the winsome friskiness and uncalculated charm of a little puppy. I couldn’t help but be swept along, laughing and smiling in return as I assured her that it was no trouble, and that I was very interested to see her work – which was quite true, for it was evident that she a natural flair for both line and color.

I took her through to the living room, as she admired the elegance of the house along the way. There I opened a bottle of my favourite Moet & Chandon champagne, and we sipped from tall flute glasses as she set out her designs on the oval walnut table. I looked through them with unfeigned interest and appreciation, our heads close together and our hands frequently touching as one or other of us pointed out various details. Then she offered to show me some of them, modelling them herself, if I liked. I replied that I expected this, and had set up the adjacent dining room for her to change in, and that the downstairs bathroom was next to that if she needed it. She gave me a huge grin, scooped up her bag from where she had left it near the door, and trotted out.

I had cleared a wide floor area in the lounge, and sat on the long leather couch, sipping a glass of champagne and eagerly awaiting her catwalk show. Soon the parade began, and it was a breath-taking experience in every sense of the word. Her lingerie designs were both original and sexy, whilst still being classy in their cut, fabrics, patterns and details. I warmed even more to them, and not just because of the warmth growing between my legs – they were of real quality, and their designer clearly had potential. However, whilst my business brain was attracted by that, my hormones and my pussy were getting very excited by Emma herself.