tagLesbian SexLesbian MILF Seductress: Secret Santa

Lesbian MILF Seductress: Secret Santa

bysilkstockingslover©

Summary: 19-year-old Bree is Secret Santa to her favourite professor.

Note 1: This is a holiday 2014 Contest story.

Note 2: Thanks to Jedd for rejuvenating my Bree stories with ideas and for really co-writing this story.

Note 3: This story stands on its own, but if you want to read more BREE stories check out the following (listed in chronological, not date published, order):

Lesbian MILF Seductress: Pre-MILF (in senior year of high school)

Lesbian MILF Seductress: Mom (late in her senior year)

Lesbian MLF Seductress: Neighbor (late in her senior year)

Lesbian MILF Seductress: Chocolate (immediately following Neighbor)

Lesbian MILF Seductress: Secret Santa (during her first year of college)

Lesbian MILF Seductress: Bride (End of third year of college)

Lesbian MILF Seductress: In Flight (Summer job after college)

Thanks to: Robert and goamz86 for editing.

Lesbian MILF Seductress: Santa

The thrill of the chase is often the most exciting part of a seduction.

I mean, I have seduced straight girls or women in just minutes at times, occasionally in a couple of days and, on rare occasion it has taken weeks. Regardless of the amount of time invested, the most exciting time is watching the facial expression as she gives into the lust that consumes her. Watching her drop to her knees, lean forward and become my newest pet is the greatest aphrodisiac there is.

A rush of adrenaline courses through me, like an athlete who shoots the winning basket, as I score another submissive pet to my always growing collection.

Professor Yvette Garceau was special as she triggered a new lifelong goal of mine (get a pet from as many countries or different nationalities as possible). She was my English 110 professor and on a one year exchange from London, England. Well, London via Versailles, France. She had moved to England after getting married shortly after university. Ironically, she was an English instructor, and was very good at it, though with that French accent that so many English-speaking peoples found seductive. She was in her late forties, always dressed up in classy business attire, and always wore her hair up.

She was so proper that I knew by the end of September I wanted to seduce her. Her sexy French accented English really made me wet, plus she was beautiful although she didn't remotely try to showcase her beauty as her make-up was sparse and her hair, always up, made her look prudish.

With her being a professor, I didn't go for the aggressive approach I had with my teacher Ms. Morgan, my next neighbour -- or my first black pet. Instead, I took a long term approach. I participated in class and I sat in the first row, often in sexy, not slutty, outfits as I tried to read her, but also trying to make sure I made an impression.

Mom had taught me that an effective seductress blends beauty and fashion: sexy, not slutty; alluring, not desperate. She was a good teacher, and I had learned much from the extraordinary seductress that was my mother.

That meant blouses that showcased my breasts, skirts, nylons and heels. In the 21st century transformation from professional to comfortable fashion, I was one of the rare college girls who treated fashion as a statement of who I was as well as a tool for seduction.

Anyway, after three months of recon, I was ready to go full force on completing a seduction I had planted many seeds for, although none had yet grown to fruition.

Using Christmas as my set-up, I decided to play Secret Santa. For five days I would leave her a gift with a note and see how she reacted to each. A gift with a recommendation.

This was a lot more work than the aggressive full frontal attack I usually used. Yet, I was hopeful this would work. It would be my biggest test to date, though.

Of course, usually I was right; though this time I would have to say I was hopeful. Actually the not knowing was giving me a bigger rush than ever.

.....

Teaching in America wasn't much different than England, truth be told. Although, the longer I taught, regardless of where I taught, the students seemed to be getting lazier, academically weaker and more entitled every year.

Life was going as planned, one more week of lecturing, two weeks of final exams and then I was flying back home to spend the holidays with my daughter Samantha.

On Monday, as I got to my office after lecturing my freshman English class, by far my most painful to teach (the first semester for freshman is the weeding out stage), plus my other classes were my strengths (Shakespeare and World Literature) and found an envelope on my desk with my name on it.

Curious, I opened it. It was just a card with a note:

Appointment at 4:00 at Hair Haven

From your Secret Santa.


It's almost Christmas. For the next five days, you will receive a gift from me, your Secret Santa, each day. You are a beautiful woman, Professor Garceau. Yet, you hide it behind your very conservative attire and hair. Consider me your fairy godmother, your personal makeover trainer or your Secret Santa. Five days, five changes that will transform you from conservative wallflower to beautiful butterfly. It's time to release you from your cocoon.

I stared at the brief message and coupon and wondered who could be Secret Santa and why they would get me a hair coupon and appointment. Also, reading the note that went with it, only confused me more. It was kind of pretentious, kind of forward and yet knowing I could indeed use a salon visit, I decided to call and confirm while simultaneously trying to investigate who my Secret Santa was.

The call gave me no intel, but I did indeed have a four o'clock appointment and it was already paid for.

That day, the hairdresser, Kevin, a very friendly, very gay man suggested a whole new look pointing out I shouldn't hide my beautiful hair in a bun. A bun or ponytail way quicker than doing my hair every morning, I had gotten lazy as he pointed out.

I noticed that in addition to a couple other gay guys, the salon had several very attractive young ladies, all dressed to attract attention, probably to increase their tip potential. As Kevin was in the midst of shampooing my hair, one of these girls approached us, stating Kevin had a phone call. "Thanks Alicia, could you take over here?"

Alicia replied, "Well, you know I haven't completed certification yet."

Kevin dismissed that with an "It's Okay girl. It's just the shampoo. I'll be back in a jif", and sashayed off to get the phone.

"Well, I guess that's settled," Alicia opined and proceeded. I ignored her comments and her attempts at what she passed off as conversation. She was dressed in the fashion of the others, which is to say scantily. In her movements though, I would notice her pressing her thighs into my own legs and hips at times. At other times, she would rest her breasts upon my shoulders or even brush them against my head. Was this intentional? Surely not, as her fingers never left my head. But even this seemingly neutral act had a sensual feel to it. Why was I getting these hints of excitement from this girl? This had never happened before.

At that moment, Kevin returned. "Well that was odd," he said. "Whoever it was surely had me confused with someone else. She kept asking about our date. Obviously she was unaware of my preferences. Oh well, any problems Alicia?"

"Not at all," came from Alicia, "Mrs. Garceau seemed to be enjoying her shampoo. She felt like she was melting under my touch. I'll be happy when I receive my certification." Her words which could easily be innocent, seemed to have an undertone that wasn't. As if she was implying something sexual. I was surprised when my vagina tingled, a sensation I hadn't felt from being touched in a long time.

"Just be patient, it will be here before you know it, and you will have your own clients," he told Alicia as she left.

She seemed to be smiling directly at me as she walked off. Why did that leave me with a shiver, I wondered.

Kevin proceeded with my styling, and when he was done, I looked completely different, ten years younger and vibrant, something I hadn't really felt since my husband cheated on me two years ago, one of the reasons I had decided to do the one year exchange in America.

That night, I pondered who this Secret Santa could be.

.....

On Tuesday, I received a second envelope with another card inside.

Appointment at Body Elements

4:00 December 2nd.

A brief note was written at the bottom of the card.

Enjoy the makeover

From your Secret Santa

P.S.: your new hairdo makes you look even more radiant, and ten years younger.


I wondered who it could be. A couple professors had definitely showed some interest in me of late, but I hadn't reciprocated as I knew this was just a one year exchange (plus the divorce with my husband of fifteen years left me still very wary of men).

Curious again, I called the number on the card and asked, "Hi, I have a four o'clock appointment booked. Can you tell me what is booked?"

"Your name?" The woman asked.

"Yvette Garceau," I answered.

"Let me check," she said, putting me on hold.

A moment later, she answered, "Mrs. Garceau, you are scheduled for the five star package."

"Oh, okay," I said. "And what does that entail?"

"Everything," she answered. "Massage, pedicure, facial manicure and waxing."

"Oh," I said wondering who would buy me such a lavish gift. To clarify, "And it's already paid for."

"Yes, ma'am," she replied.

The idea of being pampered was appealing and I thanked her before hanging up.

I figured what the hell, I wasn't going to waste such a gift, my shoulders were indeed quite tight and I hadn't had a pedicure or manicure since before I left the old country. Although I did wonder about the waxing.

I made it to the appointment on time, where I learned the five star package was rather intense. It lasted over three hours and beside a full body massage, pedicure, and manicure, I got a Brazillian, which at first I refused, but the very nice Asian woman, who barely spoke English, ignored my protests. She actually moved fairly quickly, but efficiently in removing any vestige of my pubic hair. In fact, it was very nearly pain free. I, however, found myself becoming surprisingly aroused at this woman working over my most private of parts. It didn't appear intentional, but it seemed unavoidable, given the nature of her task, that she would on occasion drag a thumb across my clitoris, or have a finger slip ever so slightly between my labia. I was shocked at the effect this seemingly innocuous action had upon me. Of course, I also had three glasses of wine and chocolate covered strawberries which may have contributed to the feeling, for the most part, of being decadent and rich...and aroused.

As my vagina was waxed to be as bare as the day I was born, my head spun with who possibly could have bought such a gift for me. For one, this was expensive; for two, it was completely pretentious; for three, what was the end game for this Secret Santa?

.....

The next day when I arrived, there was a small box on the desk.

I couldn't explain it, but although I knew I shouldn't be excited and intrigued (this had stalker written all over it, or big time creep), this was all very exciting and strangely romantic.

I opened the box and saw a few pairs of nylons which I thought strange.

Professor Garceau

I hope you enjoyed last night's pampering.

I assume that the nylons you wear in your conservative professor attire every day are pantyhose. Starting today you WILL wear thigh high stockings every day!

Secret Santa

After two days of pretentious presumptuous gifts, this one was even more pretentious and more presumptuous than the first two. Yet, I couldn't deny that I was curious who was sending me these gifts. Although I had assumed it was one of my male colleagues, it suddenly occurred to me that the writing on the notes was definitely feminine. Going back to the past two notes, they were also the exact same feminine handwriting. Was my Secret Santa a female? Was a woman interested in me? I didn't have time to really consider this as I had a class to prep for.

I tried to focus on finishing my lecture, but I kept going back to the letter. Unlike the first two, this note was more direct. He or she was not generously giving me a gift and suggesting I wear the thigh high stockings, no he or she was telling me to wear them. Part of me was offended by such an expectation, while another part of me was undeniably intrigued and slightly turned on. I loved men who knew what they wanted, yet those relationships always ended up all sex and no relationship. That said, I was in America and some hot sex didn't sound so bad without the whole relationship crap. My cunt was figuratively building cobwebs of neglect. Yet, what if it was a female?

I was just thinking of this when there was a knock on my door. I moved the open box behind my desk before calling, "Come in."

A girl I recognized from my freshman class walked in, dressed in a plaid skirt, white blouse and, ironically, thigh high stockings, the skirt so short the top of the lace top stockings were clearly visible. "Hi, Professor Garceau," she said with a smile.

"Yes," I nodded.

"My name is Bree and I have a message for you," she said.

"What is it?" I asked.

"Wear the thigh highs," she ordered, not the words I was expecting to hear.

"Pardon?" I questioned.

"I'm supposed to make sure you put on the thigh highs," she explained, looking me in the eye.

"Pardon?" I repeated, shocked by her words. I then asked, "By who?"

"Our Mistress," she answered.

I was surprised by both words: 'our' and 'Mistress'. After a pause, I asked, almost feeling as if I was on a twisted version of candid camera, "What do you mean?"

She explained, "Mistress has set her eyes on you next."

"Who is she?" I asked again.

"You will learn soon enough," she answered, ominously.

"I think I wish to learn now," I stated with authority.

"You are not ready to learn now. We think we know what we wish and when to know it, but that is not for us to decide. It is for our mistress to decide. Trust me, I speak from first-hand knowledge," the young lady replied as if reading me a fortune cookie.

"I have no use for your first-hand knowledge Bree," I said with increasing frustration. "And what are these things anyway?" I asked, holding up the hosiery.

"Those are Wellingtons. You cannot find a better pair of stockings. And they are thigh highs, which our mistress finds sexier, and gives much better access," the girl explained.

"What do you mean better access?" I questioned, even though I should have just ended the conversation.

"You will learn soon enough. Would you just feel them? I promise they feel better than any you have worn. They are so soft, and feel almost like an extension of your skin," the college girl continued, putting her leg on a chair and offering her leg to me.

Although her leg looked incredibly sexy in the sheer nylons I didn't touch hers, instead I decided to acquiesce, if for no other reason than to satisfy my own curiosity, and perhaps get some answers. As I ran them through my fingers, they truly did feel exquisite. I had never felt stockings so soft.

The girl must have noticed the look on my face. "See, I told you. You've never felt the like, right? You really should put them on. I'll assist if you wish. Mrs. Garceau," she said, moving toward me.

"I have no need of any assistance" I began, as she grabbed the stockings from my hand, walked around to my side of the desk, rolled back my chair and dropped to her knees.

I was dumbfounded, and struggling to speak. Finally, I stated, "Please, stop."

She ignored my protest, instead responding, "Just relax, Professor."

I watched as if from a transient plane, as if this was happening only in another dimension.

She removed my shoes and ordered, "Please stand up, Professor."

Oddly, I did, feeling the strange urges of the past two days come flooding back. My pussy twitched and leaked lightly into my panties when the young woman reached up, grabbed the top of my hosiery and tugged them down. I mindlessly lifted up my feet so she could take the nylons completely off me.

What was happening? I had never given the first thought to another female sexually. Not even in the 'experimental' days so many seemed to have in college. Yet, the feelings I was having were undeniable .

As the hose were pulled from my feet, the girl held the crotch panel to her nose and inhaled deeply. "Mmmmmm," she moaned.

"What on earth are you doing?" I questioned, even though my mind was muddled by what I had already allowed.

"Oh, I am sorry I was distracted from my task, but the bouquet was irresistible, much like a fine wine. Being French, I imagine you know all about fine wines, though you have never tasted anything like what you will soon taste," the pretty girl replied, from her knees.

I was completely overwhelmed by the whole situation, yet I felt a strange need to obey, to allow this student to touch me. I watched, both mortified by my weakness and turned on by her touch as she slid the soft silk stocking up my leg. She was right. The stockings felt divine. I had always worn them as a symbol of aristocracy, not because I liked wearing them. These, though, instantly made me feel sexy.

After both stockings were pulled to mid-thigh, she started stroking my legs, coming ever so slowly, but certainly, to the tops. I should have stopped her, yet her touch was so tender, so gentle, that I was completely at her whim. It had been so long since any real form of intimacy that this strange moment pulled me in easily. As her fingers finally encountered bare skin though, she abruptly stopped.

"You will need to wear these from this day forward. Our mistress expects it. I must go now, but believe me, she will know if you disobey," the coed ordered.

With that, she got up from her position on the floor, encasing me in the stockings, and without further words, exited my classroom. I was rattled and confused. While I had no intentions of obeying any hidden 'mistress', the stockings did indeed feel wonderful, making me again feel decadent and rich. I saw no harm in wearing them, and as there were a dozen pair of various shades, I could wear them every day. No point in ignoring such a wonderful gift.

That night, still in the expensive thigh high stockings, I pulled my laptop out and went to a website I read on occasion when my pussy needed attention. The site, Literotica, was an erotic writing site that had stories in many different themes. Usually, I read stories of gangbangs, blackmail or female submission as I got turned on most by the idea of forced submission...just letting go and obeying, just letting go and allowing my body to lead and not my mind. To be seen as a sexy slut and not a professional professor.

This time, I searched lesbian stories with search tags of submission, domination and so forth. I read a few stories, mostly younger girls domming older woman, my mind wandering to the thought of that coed yesterday forcing me onto my knees. I wondered, for the first time, what a woman's vagina would taste like. I closed my eyes and allowed today's strange encounter to play out except in my caveat, the gorgeous coed made me her submissive pet, like I had allowed a few men to do in the past.

My orgasm came quickly and hard as I envisioned being a submissive lesbian. Once the orgasm ended and my mind regained control over my body, I cursed my weakness, promising myself I wouldn't allow myself to get into such a predicament again.

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