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May’s White Whore
By Sergius
I
I had always thought that I was liberated. I grew up in New York City in the early twentieth
century. My mother and father ran a business that made "foundations". No, not building
foundations, but women's undergarments. My mother was very talented. Not only did many of
the city's upper class wear her undergarments, but many of the women who worked in
burlesque and other theatres sought her out to design and sew their costumes, what little there
was of them.
I grew up around girdles, garters belts, corsets, brassieres, and all of the other types of
undergarments. My mother designed the garments, and my father ran the shop. I could sew
before I could walk, and I inherited my mother's knack for designing "intimate apparel". Half a
dozen women sewed the attire. Although my father was good man to work for, he ran the shop
very strictly. For that reason, I did not realize that my father was very submissive to my mother
until I was in my late teens.
Since I grew up in our shop I was certainly not naive to the differences between men and
women, and what went on between them. I had meet many men over the years, dated a few for
extended periods, and even participated in some fairly heavy petting, but I had never "found
the right man" so at 23 I am still a virgin. I do have a beau that I am fairly serious about right
now.
My mother was a very good businesswoman, and although my folks were not rich, we never
hurt for money. Unfortunately, the stock market crash of '29 hit my parents very hard. The
bottom fell out of the undergarment business (no pun intended), and although mother had
invested wisely, they lost a great deal of money. By the end of the year the shop was closed.
Having to lay off all of their employees hurt mom very hard and she died in early January.
Her death broke dad's heart, and he was dead within another month. I couldn't stand living in
our huge house by myself, so I put it on the market. A saloon owner come bootlegger had been
one of my parent's favorite customers, and she bought the house from me for much more than
she had to.
That left me single, at the beginning of the depression, with enough money that I did not need
to work. I bought a small brownstone in Brooklyn and started making costumes and "custom"
undergarments for New York's elite.
Robert, my beau, taught at NYU. One evening he mentioned that he had been talking to one of
the fashion design instructors and that she had mentioned that she would like me to teach a
one day seminar on undergarment design and construction.
I found the idea of teaching very appealing, so I agreed immediately. I spent almost all of my
free time preparing for the class. I sewed up quite a few examples and prepared a variety of
works in progress.
When the day of the class arrived, I was nervous at first, but the twelve women who attended
the class were very interested in what I was teaching. I soon hit my stride and I was really
enjoying myself.
At various times during my lecture, I would have students stand and I would point out
examples of what I was talking about. About mid morning we were discussing the different
things one could do to enhance breast lines.
I asked a very beautiful Negro woman who was sitting in the front row to stand and face the
class. She was tall and slim, with coal black skin. Although she was wearing a sweater, I could
tell that the corset she was wearing gave her breasts a perfect, slightly elevated cone shape.
This observation would change my life forever.
I walked behind her and asked, "May I?" She turned and looked deeply into my eyes. Her eyes
sparkled with humor.
"Of course," she said.
I reached up and flattened her sweater against her chest, then I touched her breasts. I think I
actually covered my shock quite well. She was not wearing a corset – or even a brassiere. I
continued to clatter on about how well this particular corset shaped her breasts, all the while I
was holding them.
As I talked, I glanced at her and she was still looking into my eyes, but now the humor was
tinged with a touch of superiority. Her breasts felt like they would burn holes through my
hands. I had touched women's bosoms many times in my life while working, but for some
reason, my body was reacting very strangely to this beautiful woman's magnificent breasts. My
heart was racing, I was starting to sweat, and I was losing my concentration.
I let go of her and she sat back down. As I continued the lecture I tried to forget her and my
body started to return to normal. However, each time I glanced in her direction she would be
sitting there looking at me with a look in her eyes that told me that she knew exactly what had
happened to me. My eyes would lock with hers, and once again my body would start to react. I
did not understand what was going on inside of me.
I made it through the day, and many of the students hung around afterwards to talk and ask
questions. The feedback I received from the students was positive. The black girl however, left
immediately after the class, and I did not expect to see her again.
Robert took me out to dinner that night and, after escorting me home, he started necking.
However, all I could think of was that exquisite Negro woman. Soon I convinced him that I was
very tired and that I needed to get some sleep. He was disappointed but, after I agreed to have
both lunch and dinner with him the next day, he left me alone.
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