The afternoon light filtered through the dusty skylight as I stood on the small wooden stool, arms raised while Sophie pinned the hem of the vintage dress around my thighs. The fabric felt cool against my skin, a soft silk that clung in ways my usual work clothes never did. I had come to her tiny atelier in the Marais only to drop off a forgotten scarf from last week’s dinner party. Somehow I was now modelling for her latest creation.
“Turn slowly, Clara,” she murmured, her voice low and focused. Her fingers brushed the back of my knee and I felt a tiny shiver I tried to ignore. Sophie was the friend of a friend, a costume designer who worked from this converted attic studio filled with bolts of fabric, half-finished mannequins, and the faint scent of lavender and old wood. At thirty-two I thought I had outgrown blushing, yet here I was, heart beating faster than it should.
She stood up, stepping back to study the line of the dress. Her dark hair was twisted up with a pencil, a few strands loose against her neck. “It needs to sit lower on the hips. Let me adjust the straps.” Without waiting she reached behind me, unfastening the hidden hooks at the back. The bodice loosened and the silk slipped down my shoulders. I caught it against my chest, suddenly aware that I wore only a plain white bra beneath.
“It’s all right,” she said softly, as if reading my hesitation. “No one else is coming today. The door is locked.” Her hands were warm, professional, yet the way she smoothed the fabric over my waist made my breath catch. I let the dress fall to my waist. She slid the straps down my arms, then reached around to unclasp my bra with the same effortless motion she used on stubborn zippers.
My breasts spilled free. The cool air of the studio tightened my nipples instantly. I felt exposed, vulnerable, yet strangely thrilled. Sophie’s gaze lingered, appreciative rather than clinical. “You have beautiful breasts, Clara. This dress was made for someone who looks like you.” She cupped one gently, lifting it as though testing weight and shape, then did the same to the other. The touch sent heat straight between my legs. I should have stepped back. Instead I stood still, letting her fingers trace the curve underneath.
She stepped away only to return with a different piece, a sheer black corset laced with deep red ribbon. “Try this instead. The silk was wrong for your skin tone anyway.” Before I could protest she was wrapping it around my torso, pulling the laces tight. Each tug drew my waist in and pushed my breasts upward until they sat high and round, nipples peeking just above the edge. I looked down and barely recognised myself.
“Look in the mirror,” she whispered, guiding me toward the tall cheval glass leaning against the brick wall. I saw a woman with flushed cheeks, nipples stiff and visible, breathing a little too quickly. Sophie stood behind me, her hands on my hips. She slid the dress the rest of the way down until it pooled at my feet. My plain cotton knickers looked ridiculous next to the corset.
“Those have to go,” she said matter-of-factly. Her thumbs hooked into the waistband and she drew them down my legs without ceremony. I lifted one foot, then the other, stepping out. Now I was naked from the waist down, the corset framing my body like an invitation. Sophie’s breath warmed the back of my neck. “You shave sometimes, don’t you?” Her fingers trailed lightly over the soft hair on my mound. “It would look even prettier completely smooth.”
I swallowed hard. The suggestion should have embarrassed me more, yet the thought of being completely bare under her gaze made me wet. I nodded. She smiled, a small knowing smile, and reached for a pair of tiny scissors from her work table. Kneeling in front of me, she carefully trimmed the curls until only smooth skin remained. Then she took a small bottle of oil and rubbed it gently over my newly exposed lips. Her fingers parted me, gliding over my clit with deliberate slowness. A soft moan escaped my throat before I could stop it.
“Good girl,” she murmured. The praise sent another rush of heat through me. She rose again, pressing her body against my back. I could feel her breasts through her thin cotton shirt. Her hands returned to my chest, rolling my nipples between thumb and forefinger until they ached deliciously. One hand drifted lower, cupping my bare pussy, a finger slipping easily between my slick folds.
I watched everything in the mirror, mesmerised. The woman reflected there looked nothing like the reserved financial analyst who had walked in an hour earlier. She looked wanton, hips rocking against Sophie’s hand, lips parted, eyes heavy with lust. Sophie slid two fingers inside me, curling them just right. My knees weakened. She held me upright with her other arm around my waist, fucking me slowly with those clever fingers while her thumb circled my clit.
“I want to taste you,” she said against my ear. She turned me, guiding me to the wide velvet chaise draped with scarves. I lay back, corset still tight, breasts heaving. Sophie knelt between my spread thighs. She looked up at me once, eyes dark with desire, then lowered her mouth to my smooth, oiled sex. Her tongue was warm and confident, lapping at my entrance before flicking rapidly over my swollen clit. I gripped the velvet, hips rising to meet her.
She sucked gently, then harder, sliding her fingers back inside me. The wet sounds filled the quiet studio. I could feel my orgasm building, sharp and unstoppable. When it crashed over me I cried out, thighs trembling around her head. She kept licking through every spasm until I was gasping, spent and shining with sweat.
But Sophie wasn’t finished. She stood, unbuttoning her shirt to reveal small, perfect breasts with dark nipples. She pushed her loose trousers down, stepping out of them. No underwear. Her pussy was completely shaved, lips plump and glistening. She climbed onto the chaise, straddling my face. “Your turn, Clara. Show me how grateful you are.”
I had never done this with a woman, yet instinct took over. I grasped her firm bottom and pulled her down onto my mouth. She tasted sweet and salty, her scent intoxicating. I licked her eagerly, exploring every fold, sucking her clit the way she had done to me. Sophie moaned above me, grinding against my tongue. Her hands braced on the back of the chaise as she rode my face with increasing urgency.
I slid two fingers into her tight heat. She clenched around them, riding harder. Her breathing grew ragged. “Yes… just like that… don’t stop…” Her thighs began to shake. I sucked her clit firmly and curled my fingers inside her. She came with a sharp cry, flooding my mouth with her juices. I drank every drop, licking her clean as she shuddered through the aftershocks.
She collapsed beside me, both of us breathing hard. For long minutes we simply lay there, skin damp, bodies pressed together. Then Sophie reached for a delicate black thong from her collection and slipped it up my legs. The fabric nestled perfectly against my smooth pussy. She fastened a matching bra that barely contained my breasts, then stood back to admire me.
“Keep them,” she said, voice husky. “They were made for you.” I dressed slowly in my street clothes, the new lingerie hidden beneath like a delicious secret. When I left the attic studio the evening air felt different against my flushed skin. I could still taste her on my lips, still feel her fingers inside me. And I knew I would be back for another fitting very soon.