It was the summer I turned twenty. Slim, pretty, shoulder-length brown hair. Modest family, no vacations. Needed cash for med school. Landed a summer gig at a luxury boutique near Place Vendôme, Paris. Strict hierarchy. Always ‘Yes, Sir’ or ‘Yes, Ma’am’ to bosses and clients.
My direct boss: handsome, forty, twice my age. Nice to me, probably married. Caught his eyes lingering. Felt the spark. Craved him, knowing it’d be fleeting. Store buzzed. Cash register beeps. Perfume spritzes mixing with fresh coffee from the break room upstairs. Never alone up there. He stayed pro. I played coy.
The Ambiance: Tension Builds Between Shelves
Basement below: storage cave. Boxes, supplies. Long spiral staircase between shop and depths. Creaky steps echoed loud. One day, he orders: ‘Go inventory downstairs.’ ‘Yes, Sir.’ Alone, on a small ladder. Stretching for boxes. Black skirt uniform rides up. Legs exposed. Footsteps descend. Spiral groans. It’s him. Checking in.
Face level with my calves, ass. Should’ve climbed down. Didn’t. Provoked. He grips ankles to ‘steady’ me. Warm hands clamp. Shock jolts straight to my core. I freeze, pretend to work. ‘You have magnificent legs, Miss,’ he murmurs low. ‘Thank you, Sir.’ Fingers slide up, calves to knees. Minute drags. Heat builds. Coffee scent wafts down, blends with his cologne.
‘Your ass is superb too, Miss.’ ‘Thank you, Sir.’ Palms cup cheeks. Bold now. I stay perched. Pulse races. Then hand slips under skirt, inner thigh. Legs quiver. Risk falling. He senses. ‘Better come down, Miss.’ I descend. He stares. ‘Back to work. Don’t get distracted.’ ‘Yes, Sir.’ Stunned. Wet. Frustrated. He bolts upstairs. Staircase creaks away.
Days pass. Distant in shop. Afternoon lull, low clients. Printer hums faintly above. ‘New stock downstairs. Sort it.’ ‘Yes, Sir.’ Half-hour in, bending over boxes. He descends again. Creaks announce him. I lean forward. He presses behind. Hand on ass. ‘Still so pleasing, Miss.’ No reply. Let him grope. Skirt lifts slow. No resistance. Panties, stockings down. Fingers find my soaked pussy. Expert strokes. I drip. Gasp. Hips buck. He makes me cum hard. Shudders rack me. ‘Next time, you handle your boss, Miss.’ ‘Of course, Sir.’ He leaves. Stairs echo.
The Explosion: Raw Commands in the Shadows
Next day. Same drill. ‘Downstairs.’ Neutral face, no alert to other girls. Hour later, footsteps. Lose focus. He grabs me. Pulls close. Hands under sweater, free tits from bra. Pinches nipples. Knee wedges thighs. I grind on it. ‘Like obedient girls, Miss?’ ‘Yes, Sir.’ ‘Kneel.’ Cock out. Stroke it. He presses head down. Deep throat. Swallow every drop. Clean with tongue.
Routine sets. One-two times weekly. Client lulls. ‘Cave duty.’ I wait. He comes. Orders fly. ‘Lift skirt. Show tits. Suck me.’ ‘Yes, Sir. Right away, Sir.’ Fucks my mouth, fingers, stands me against wall or table. Passive. Obeying thrills. Never initiate.
One kneel-fold clothes. Arch back, ass out. Tease. He scolds: ‘Slutty wiggling, Miss.’ Smacks ass. Surprise stings. Smile invites. Harder slaps. Skirt up. Panties bare. Fingers trace slit per smack. Minutes of fire. Love it.
Another: ‘Bare bottom.’ Over knees. Real spanking. Hand gags mouth. Muffled cries. Humiliated bliss. Ass burns. Wet mess after. Jerk off later replaying.
Summer ends. No outside meets. No bed fucks. Pure raw dominance. Discovered submission kink. Silence fueled it. No tenderness. Just orders, obedience. Quit. Never saw him. Still chase that rush.