An excerpt from L’image (something I’ve been reading since the kids are back in school — hey, this vintage smut’s only $1!):
One afternoon that week her mistress even let me have her all to myself: I was to take her shopping for various items of lingerie which I was charged with selecting for her.
Claire preferred narrow lace waistbands and stockings with embroidered tops. As for brassieres, she would only tolerate the skimpiest models which support the breast from underneath without covering it entirely, leaving bare as much of the nipple as possible. Since Anne was not supposed to wear either panties or a slip, we were limited to these three articles.
I thought at once that the fun would lie in the trying on of these garments. But when I noticed in the window of a store on the Faubourg Saint Honore the charming features of a salesgirl, it came to me that such a ceremony could be far more lively than I’d imagined. Having learned from Claire that Anne had been savagely beaten that morning (for a very minor mistake, by the way) I could already picture her shame in front of the astonished fitters whom I would call, on purpose, for a consultation.
Claire had given me no further instructions, so the whole thing was up to me. If she preferred not to come with us it must be that she didn’t want to complicate matters: a couple always seems less suspicious and naturally is more self-assured. All we needed was an amenable salesgirl: young and pretty as they often are in the better stores, and not too easily shocked. She should not, however, bring an overactive complicity to her services, but should simply be a witness, understanding yet discreet.
This one seemed to fit the bill. The store was quiet and luxurious, and displayed many delectable models. The young woman who was waiting for some customers behind a showcase of pink slips on hangers must have been twenty-five or thirty. She was a brunette, and had a nice figure. Seeing me looking at her, she gave a little smile of encouragement: it is always wise to encourage a man who wants to buy feminine underthings. We went in.
The pretty salesgirl turned to my companion to ask what we wanted, but it was I who answered, pointing to a white nylon garter belt that was shown in the window. Anne, as usual, held her tongue and lowered her eyes.
The item was therefore presented to me for inspection, along with several other similar models. I gave my opinion on certain details of their respective lines, making clear which ones I thought were most suitable, and stressing the necessity for wide openings both in front and in back. The salesgirl smiled understandingly, and then went on to discuss the quality of the various garments.
Our conversation was perfectly natural and pleasant. She didn’t seem to wonder too much about the self-effacing behavior of my companion.
“This,” I said, “is in a sense the most amusing one. But it comes down a little too far: I’m afraid it won’t completely uncover the triangle, you know, at the lower part of the stomach.”
The woman looked at me. Then she glanced at Anne and looked back at me.
“That is a drawback, wouldn’t you say?” I added.
“It’s really very comfortable to wear, sir.”
“I don’t mean to wear, of course. I mean it might interfere with the view… and with the hands, as well.”
This time her smile was much less professional. She even blushed a little. I turned to Anne and said:
“I think you’d better try it on.”
Anne answered, “Yes, if that is your wish,” but a little too softly, and I’m not sure if the girl understood the implications of the phrase.
I said that we would take the opportunity to try on, at the same time, a matching bra, and I described the sort of thing I was looking for. The salesgirl unhesitatingly brought out the most indecent things she had.
Having made my selection, on the pretext of wanting to show her the garter belt with the ruffle that Anne was wearing, I calmly lifted Anne’s dress up above her thighs:
“This is what I mean, you see…”
The pretty salesgirl stared at me in amazement, finally, and then turned her glance to the smooth, firm flesh I was showing her.
“Yes, I see,” she answered simply.
I asked Anne to hold up her dress herself while I explained the intricacies of lace ruffles hiding the elastic, using both hands to stretch them out in my demonstration.
“Pull your dress up higher,” I told her, “and come closer to the light.”
She obeyed me immediately. The girl, who had been leaning over to watch, had plenty of time to note that her young client wore no panties. She must even have been able to smell the penetrating perfume Claire made Anne put on her blonde pubic hair.