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Yet Another Story of Lingerie and Corsets
by Clair Aspen
I wander the streets of Paris searching out the locations of the shops
I am seeking. I glance sideways at their windows as I pass by,
remembering and examining the displays in my mind's eye. I stop to the
side of a shop, pretending I am looking in the window of the
boulangerie next door while glancing furtively to one side to examine
the items all stretched and pinned out on display. I explore the
streets in ever larger spirals around the cathedral. I peek down the
alleys looking for signs. Signs with roses or lace.
I screw up my courage. I walk past the store I have chosen. I turn
and I walk past again. I look in the window, examining the display. I
reach out my hand, open the door and enter.
A stranger.
The curtains in the dressing booths rustle. Backs stiffen. Heads
turn. I am stared at over cold shoulders.
Boxes hiding treasures line one wall. Tables drip with lace. Silks
hang in rows on their hangers. Posters hang from the cornice moldings.
I catch myself short. I turn quickly to the racks of hanging silks. I
notice the sizes in centimeters. I compute in my head. I think of my
love in the laces I will bring him from across the seas. I find my
courage again.
I reach the end of the rack. The woman waits for me there. She asks
if she can help. All that I learned in my language lessons flies from
my head. I gesture with my hands. I point at an old poster showing a
garment that is no longer made. The women giggles and shakes her head.
She asks me the size I am looking for and I tell her. In French,
German and English. I hope that I get it right in at least one
language. She nods her head. Then she turns to the wall of boxes and
takes one down from a top shelf. She pushes aside the silks on the
table and opens the box. She takes articles from the box. She sets
aside the black ones. She sets aside the white ones. She finds the
one she is looking for and spreads it on the table. An article all in
faded peach pinks. She looks up at me with a confident smile. To tell
me she can read my mind.
I look at the corset spread on the table. Satin is worked over the
outside. The stays are held in their pockets with tiny stitches. Lace
rises to gently brush against the breasts of my love. Lace falls from
the bottom to grace and frame the part of him that he keeps just for
me. I pick it up and feel the fine lining. I examine the silk bows
and flowers, the satin ribbons, the garters. The flat soft lace has
been threaded through the eyelet's at the back. Tied off at the bottom
with a bow. Two hanks of lace fall from the middle of the corset to
tighten it at the waist.
I look up at the woman and nod my head. She asks me if I want
stockings. I pause, ponder, and say "Non." She is not convinced. She
leads me across the store. She pulls a pair of stockings from their
wrapper. Lays one across my hand. It is so fine that it is almost not
there. It feels like a breath of wind on my hand. At its top it is
fine lace. I mumble "Ah oui, merci."
She opens a drawer. She rummages, mumbles to herself with satisfaction
and removes a pair of panties. She turns and hands them to me for
inspection. They are satin, in same shade of faded peach pink.
Beautifully patterned at the front. Held at the hips with bands of
puckered satin elastic. Lined in soft white cotton. I nod my head.
"Oui, merci."
She wraps my purchases in tissue paper. Places them in a box. I hand
her my credit card. She nods and takes it. Runs it through the
machine. I sign the receipt. I glance at the total and pretend not to
be taken aback. It is worth it. I leave the store with a triumphant
grin on my face. I look up at the cathedral spire and see it glowing
red above the town as it catches and radiates the last light of the
day. I can sense the sensual grin that has spread uncontrollably
across my face. I breathe the spring air and take it deep into my
lungs. In the hotel, I take my purchases from their wrappings and
place them under my pillow. I sleep with my hand under the pillow to
feel them. That night I dream of my love.
On the flight back home I dutifully list everything on the customs
card. I declare my purchases to the government with pride in my heart.
At the customs table the inspector looks at my card. Questions the
declared value. Asks me if I have done the conversion from francs
correctly. Tells me what the duty will be. Asks to see the
merchandise. I look at him. I say "It's lingerie. You want to see
lingerie?" He blushes. Takes a black magic marker and eradicates my
declaration from the back of the card. Tells me to leave. Fast. Get
out of his sight. He doesn't want my money.
The next day at home, I unpack. I lay the corset, the panties and the
stockings out upon the bed. I go the to living room and take my love
by the hand. Ask him to close his eyes and lead him into the bedroom.
He opens his eyes and laughs. "Where did you buy all that?" he asks.
He takes the corset and holds it to his body. Walks to the mirror to
see himself. He turns and says "You're silly!" He pulls off his socks
and shoes. Drops his pants. Unbuttons his shirt. Peels off his
underwear. He takes the corset and hands it to me. He stands in front
of me and waits. With trembling hands I unhook the busk. I swing the
corset around him and try to fasten it. I cannot. I spread the corset
on the bed and loosen the laces. I try again. This time I get the
busk hooked at the top. With both our hands we get the busk fastened.
He looks at me, gives me half a grin and shakes his head to tell me
"The things I do for you!"
He turns around to present me with the laces. I start to tighten them
from the top by grabbing the laces between the eyelet's, crossing them
and pulling down. I work the pulled lace to the middle and pull it out
at the waist. I pull the laces tight from the bottom, and again work
the pulled lace to the hanks at his waist. My love feels his body
becoming stiff and constrained. He feels what is happening to him with
him hands. He totters a little and holds his hand out to the dresser
to steady himself. cross the hanks at him waist and pull on them.
I say "I think I bought the wrong size. It is awfully tight. "
"It's supposed to be," he replies. "Isn't that what you want?"
I give the hanks a final tug. He gasps, catches himself and rises to
his tiptoes. I kneel in front of him and tie the hanks together in a
bow at his waist. I purse my lips and I kiss him. I place my hands at
his waist and wonder at his new hourglass dimensions.
He again looks at himself in the mirror. Then he crosses the room and
lays himself on the bed. He does it carefully, exploring how the
corset restrains his movements. He takes a stocking and holds it out
to me. He raises one leg and looks at me. I roll the stocking up and
slip it over his extended foot. I unroll it down his clean-shaven leg.
Pulling it gently over his skin. I come to his thigh. I arrange the
lace at the top of the stocking so that it caresses his thigh. I pull
on the garters. Carefully adjust their tension. Fasten the stocking
to the garters. He lowers his leg. Takes the other stocking. Holds
it out to me. Raises the other leg. I perform my ritual again. He
rolls himself of the bed. Takes the panties. Hands them to me. I
kneel at his feet. He steadies himself with one hand on my shoulder.
I present the panties to his feet and he steps into them as I present
the leg holes. I raise them to his hips and settle the elastic. I
hook my fingers under the front and run them down through the crotch
and to his buttocks to settle the panties around him.
He walks to the mirror. Stands up on his tip toes. Runs his hands
over his sides. Traces his new outline. Cups his new breasts. Turns
and examines himself in the mirror again. He slips on his heels. Puts
on his blouse. Comes to me so that I can do up the myriad small
buttons on the high frilled collar. He takes his dress and slips it
over his head. He settles it at his waist. I undo the dress and
adjust some mysterious inside buttons. Then I do the waist band up
again. He goes to the mirror and smoothes and settles his clothes just
by passing his hands over them. He strokes them into conformance. He
strokes to feel his body under his clothes. He strokes over the
corset, over the garters, over the tops of the stockings. He learns
about himself again.
We go to the vanity. He sits by the mirror. I open the drawer and
begin to select shades, colors, textures. I deftly apply foundation,
blush, liner and lipstick. Masculinity fades as the mask settles into
place. I remove the long auburn wig from its holder and fasten it on
his head. He looks at the mirror, then looks up at me with love in his
eyes.
"Come," he says, "we have a meeting to attend tonight, and I have to
make dinner first."
As I waltz around the kitchen, taking things from the 'fridge and
laying out plates and forks and knives, I notice how he leans over the
stove with a spoon to sample the contents of a far pot. He bends at
the hips. He moves one foot forward so that he can keep his balance.
He reflexively places an arm across his chest, as if he can prevent
himself from tipping over. We eat quietly. He takes only a small
portion, smaller than mine, and we finish quickly.
After dinner we drive off to the meeting. He sits beside me in the
car. I place my hand on his knee. He touches my arm and slides my
hand up and down his leg. He quivers under the touch; his manhood
begins to rise against the satin of the panties.
"I am ready for you," he says, "I always am, aren't I?"
We select a pair of seats in the back of the auditorium. With the
lights down I slip my hand again up his skirt and stroke his thighs. I
run my fingers under the straps of the garters and over the snaps where
they secure the tops of his stockings. As the meeting drags on, he
leans forward and says "Scratch my back, will you? The corset itches."
I run my nails across the slippery fabric of his blouse. I feel the
new spine that has been made for him by the herringbone pattern of the
tightly drawn laces at his back. I scratch him between the steel
boning that encases him and tapers him. He moves in his seat to bring
more of his body within the range of my scratching.
At the end of the meeting he goes on stage to work on some business.
He perches on the edge of the chair. His back is ramrod straight and
he holds his head up high. I look at the men on the stage looking at
him. I look into their eyes and through their eyes and feel their
mixed emotions toward him. I walk up on stage and he rises and kisses
me. I rise to my toes and he kisses me again, this time shooting his
tongue into my mouth. He tells all the men watching his that he is
mine. And he tells all the women who are now watching me that I alone
am his master.
We drive home. I drive. He sits next to me and again asks me to
scratch him.
"You really like me in a corset," he says. "What is it about corsets
that turns you on so much?"
"I really don't know," I reply. "My grandmother used to wear one. I
remember as a small girl sitting on her bed in the mornings, swinging
my legs and asking questions as young girls do while my Grandfather
laced her in. She kept it up until she died at the age of 80. People
who didn't know about it marveled at her figure, and would say 'I hope
I can look like you when I reach your age.' I remember that even
without her corset on she was statuesque."
"Ah, so you are trying to turn me into your grandmother," he says.
"That's quite a twist -- I hope I do look as good as her when I am 80."
"It's also that you do this for me, that you wear a corset to turn me
on," I reply. "You tell everybody that you are in submission. That
you have restrained yourself, that you will give up manhood itself for
me. Just like the high heels I have you wear. Doesn't your new
hourglass shape make you feel powerful? You carried yourself well. I
saw everybody looking at you when you were on the stage."
He grins. "Oh, you noticed too. John put his hand at my waist once
and then he drew it back fast. He was startled; from the rear, he
didn't know it was me. He just looked at me with a puzzled expression
and couldn't figure out what to say. I told him that you like it, and
I like it too, so I do it for us. I think that really got to him.
He's a dirty old man though, always out for a feel, only this time he
was surprised."
"Can you scratch just at the top again?" he asks. I scratch him, and
then I put my arm around him and pull him towards me. I kiss his hair
and lay my cheek on the top of his head and say "I love you. "He says
nothing, just puts his arms around me and hugs. I take one of his
breasts in my hand. I feel it held up and defined by the under writing
of the corset. I feel the starched lace of the cup covering the top of
the breast. The lace seems to hover just over his skin. I feel the
nipple through the satin of the lower cup and I take the nipple between
my thumb and forefinger and twirl it and pinch it. He squirms in his
seat and thrusts his body up against me. I lower my hand and feel the
front busk of the corset. I run my hand over the concavity of his
stomach. I feel the boning as it runs from his breasts down to his
waist. I feel how the waistband of his skirt hangs snugly like a glove
around his now slender waist. My hand moves down and follows the
boning as it flares over his hips. I stroke his thigh and feel the
straps of the garters, the garter clips and the lace band at the top of
his stockings.
"Do you know that you are in love with a fetishist?" I ask him.
"I know," he says.
"I love you the more because of it. Because I know your needs. You
tell me and show me what you want, and I am part of it. I know that I
can fulfill your desires. I feel secure."
"Give me your hand," he says.
He takes my hand and runs it up and down his body, across the busk. He
moves my hand to his new breasts and holds it there with both his
hands. "I love you," I say. And, somehow, it is not enough. The
feeling I have in my throat and in the pit of my stomach tells me how
much I care for him, and it is more than I can ever say.
I pull the car into the driveway. We get out of the car and enter the
house. He takes me by the hand and leads me to the bedroom. He
undresses me. I undress him. He again looks at himself in the mirror.
Runs his hands over his hourglass shape.
He tells me to sit on the edge of the bed. He sits beside me, facing
to my left. He says "Give me your hands." He takes my hands and almost
encircles his tiny waist with them. I feel the stiffness of the corset
again. I squeeze his waist some more. He moans and leans back against
me. He gently rubs the herringbone of the laces against my chest.
I bite the back of his neck, and he squirms. My breathing becomes
ragged. I find myself losing control. We fuse into one being. I
grasp his corseted form to me in a deep hug. I kiss the back of his
neck. I fondle his breasts.
As the passions subside the kisses become slow and gentle. I lick his
neck and shoulders with the rough part of my tongue. He giggles. I
start to unlace the corset. He takes my hands and stills them. He
says "I will always wear it. I will do this for you."
And I am left speechless.
by Clair Aspen
I wander the streets of Paris searching out the locations of the shops
I am seeking. I glance sideways at their windows as I pass by,
remembering and examining the displays in my mind's eye. I stop to the
side of a shop, pretending I am looking in the window of the
boulangerie next door while glancing furtively to one side to examine
the items all stretched and pinned out on display. I explore the
streets in ever larger spirals around the cathedral. I peek down the
alleys looking for signs. Signs with roses or lace.
I screw up my courage. I walk past the store I have chosen. I turn
and I walk past again. I look in the window, examining the display. I
reach out my hand, open the door and enter.
A stranger.
The curtains in the dressing booths rustle. Backs stiffen. Heads
turn. I am stared at over cold shoulders.
Boxes hiding treasures line one wall. Tables drip with lace. Silks
hang in rows on their hangers. Posters hang from the cornice moldings.
I catch myself short. I turn quickly to the racks of hanging silks. I
notice the sizes in centimeters. I compute in my head. I think of my
love in the laces I will bring him from across the seas. I find my
courage again.
I reach the end of the rack. The woman waits for me there. She asks
if she can help. All that I learned in my language lessons flies from
my head. I gesture with my hands. I point at an old poster showing a
garment that is no longer made. The women giggles and shakes her head.
She asks me the size I am looking for and I tell her. In French,
German and English. I hope that I get it right in at least one
language. She nods her head. Then she turns to the wall of boxes and
takes one down from a top shelf. She pushes aside the silks on the
table and opens the box. She takes articles from the box. She sets
aside the black ones. She sets aside the white ones. She finds the
one she is looking for and spreads it on the table. An article all in
faded peach pinks. She looks up at me with a confident smile. To tell
me she can read my mind.
I look at the corset spread on the table. Satin is worked over the
outside. The stays are held in their pockets with tiny stitches. Lace
rises to gently brush against the breasts of my love. Lace falls from
the bottom to grace and frame the part of him that he keeps just for
me. I pick it up and feel the fine lining. I examine the silk bows
and flowers, the satin ribbons, the garters. The flat soft lace has
been threaded through the eyelet's at the back. Tied off at the bottom
with a bow. Two hanks of lace fall from the middle of the corset to
tighten it at the waist.
I look up at the woman and nod my head. She asks me if I want
stockings. I pause, ponder, and say "Non." She is not convinced. She
leads me across the store. She pulls a pair of stockings from their
wrapper. Lays one across my hand. It is so fine that it is almost not
there. It feels like a breath of wind on my hand. At its top it is
fine lace. I mumble "Ah oui, merci."
She opens a drawer. She rummages, mumbles to herself with satisfaction
and removes a pair of panties. She turns and hands them to me for
inspection. They are satin, in same shade of faded peach pink.
Beautifully patterned at the front. Held at the hips with bands of
puckered satin elastic. Lined in soft white cotton. I nod my head.
"Oui, merci."
She wraps my purchases in tissue paper. Places them in a box. I hand
her my credit card. She nods and takes it. Runs it through the
machine. I sign the receipt. I glance at the total and pretend not to
be taken aback. It is worth it. I leave the store with a triumphant
grin on my face. I look up at the cathedral spire and see it glowing
red above the town as it catches and radiates the last light of the
day. I can sense the sensual grin that has spread uncontrollably
across my face. I breathe the spring air and take it deep into my
lungs. In the hotel, I take my purchases from their wrappings and
place them under my pillow. I sleep with my hand under the pillow to
feel them. That night I dream of my love.
On the flight back home I dutifully list everything on the customs
card. I declare my purchases to the government with pride in my heart.
At the customs table the inspector looks at my card. Questions the
declared value. Asks me if I have done the conversion from francs
correctly. Tells me what the duty will be. Asks to see the
merchandise. I look at him. I say "It's lingerie. You want to see
lingerie?" He blushes. Takes a black magic marker and eradicates my
declaration from the back of the card. Tells me to leave. Fast. Get
out of his sight. He doesn't want my money.
The next day at home, I unpack. I lay the corset, the panties and the
stockings out upon the bed. I go the to living room and take my love
by the hand. Ask him to close his eyes and lead him into the bedroom.
He opens his eyes and laughs. "Where did you buy all that?" he asks.
He takes the corset and holds it to his body. Walks to the mirror to
see himself. He turns and says "You're silly!" He pulls off his socks
and shoes. Drops his pants. Unbuttons his shirt. Peels off his
underwear. He takes the corset and hands it to me. He stands in front
of me and waits. With trembling hands I unhook the busk. I swing the
corset around him and try to fasten it. I cannot. I spread the corset
on the bed and loosen the laces. I try again. This time I get the
busk hooked at the top. With both our hands we get the busk fastened.
He looks at me, gives me half a grin and shakes his head to tell me
"The things I do for you!"
He turns around to present me with the laces. I start to tighten them
from the top by grabbing the laces between the eyelet's, crossing them
and pulling down. I work the pulled lace to the middle and pull it out
at the waist. I pull the laces tight from the bottom, and again work
the pulled lace to the hanks at his waist. My love feels his body
becoming stiff and constrained. He feels what is happening to him with
him hands. He totters a little and holds his hand out to the dresser
to steady himself. cross the hanks at him waist and pull on them.
I say "I think I bought the wrong size. It is awfully tight. "
"It's supposed to be," he replies. "Isn't that what you want?"
I give the hanks a final tug. He gasps, catches himself and rises to
his tiptoes. I kneel in front of him and tie the hanks together in a
bow at his waist. I purse my lips and I kiss him. I place my hands at
his waist and wonder at his new hourglass dimensions.
He again looks at himself in the mirror. Then he crosses the room and
lays himself on the bed. He does it carefully, exploring how the
corset restrains his movements. He takes a stocking and holds it out
to me. He raises one leg and looks at me. I roll the stocking up and
slip it over his extended foot. I unroll it down his clean-shaven leg.
Pulling it gently over his skin. I come to his thigh. I arrange the
lace at the top of the stocking so that it caresses his thigh. I pull
on the garters. Carefully adjust their tension. Fasten the stocking
to the garters. He lowers his leg. Takes the other stocking. Holds
it out to me. Raises the other leg. I perform my ritual again. He
rolls himself of the bed. Takes the panties. Hands them to me. I
kneel at his feet. He steadies himself with one hand on my shoulder.
I present the panties to his feet and he steps into them as I present
the leg holes. I raise them to his hips and settle the elastic. I
hook my fingers under the front and run them down through the crotch
and to his buttocks to settle the panties around him.
He walks to the mirror. Stands up on his tip toes. Runs his hands
over his sides. Traces his new outline. Cups his new breasts. Turns
and examines himself in the mirror again. He slips on his heels. Puts
on his blouse. Comes to me so that I can do up the myriad small
buttons on the high frilled collar. He takes his dress and slips it
over his head. He settles it at his waist. I undo the dress and
adjust some mysterious inside buttons. Then I do the waist band up
again. He goes to the mirror and smoothes and settles his clothes just
by passing his hands over them. He strokes them into conformance. He
strokes to feel his body under his clothes. He strokes over the
corset, over the garters, over the tops of the stockings. He learns
about himself again.
We go to the vanity. He sits by the mirror. I open the drawer and
begin to select shades, colors, textures. I deftly apply foundation,
blush, liner and lipstick. Masculinity fades as the mask settles into
place. I remove the long auburn wig from its holder and fasten it on
his head. He looks at the mirror, then looks up at me with love in his
eyes.
"Come," he says, "we have a meeting to attend tonight, and I have to
make dinner first."
As I waltz around the kitchen, taking things from the 'fridge and
laying out plates and forks and knives, I notice how he leans over the
stove with a spoon to sample the contents of a far pot. He bends at
the hips. He moves one foot forward so that he can keep his balance.
He reflexively places an arm across his chest, as if he can prevent
himself from tipping over. We eat quietly. He takes only a small
portion, smaller than mine, and we finish quickly.
After dinner we drive off to the meeting. He sits beside me in the
car. I place my hand on his knee. He touches my arm and slides my
hand up and down his leg. He quivers under the touch; his manhood
begins to rise against the satin of the panties.
"I am ready for you," he says, "I always am, aren't I?"
We select a pair of seats in the back of the auditorium. With the
lights down I slip my hand again up his skirt and stroke his thighs. I
run my fingers under the straps of the garters and over the snaps where
they secure the tops of his stockings. As the meeting drags on, he
leans forward and says "Scratch my back, will you? The corset itches."
I run my nails across the slippery fabric of his blouse. I feel the
new spine that has been made for him by the herringbone pattern of the
tightly drawn laces at his back. I scratch him between the steel
boning that encases him and tapers him. He moves in his seat to bring
more of his body within the range of my scratching.
At the end of the meeting he goes on stage to work on some business.
He perches on the edge of the chair. His back is ramrod straight and
he holds his head up high. I look at the men on the stage looking at
him. I look into their eyes and through their eyes and feel their
mixed emotions toward him. I walk up on stage and he rises and kisses
me. I rise to my toes and he kisses me again, this time shooting his
tongue into my mouth. He tells all the men watching his that he is
mine. And he tells all the women who are now watching me that I alone
am his master.
We drive home. I drive. He sits next to me and again asks me to
scratch him.
"You really like me in a corset," he says. "What is it about corsets
that turns you on so much?"
"I really don't know," I reply. "My grandmother used to wear one. I
remember as a small girl sitting on her bed in the mornings, swinging
my legs and asking questions as young girls do while my Grandfather
laced her in. She kept it up until she died at the age of 80. People
who didn't know about it marveled at her figure, and would say 'I hope
I can look like you when I reach your age.' I remember that even
without her corset on she was statuesque."
"Ah, so you are trying to turn me into your grandmother," he says.
"That's quite a twist -- I hope I do look as good as her when I am 80."
"It's also that you do this for me, that you wear a corset to turn me
on," I reply. "You tell everybody that you are in submission. That
you have restrained yourself, that you will give up manhood itself for
me. Just like the high heels I have you wear. Doesn't your new
hourglass shape make you feel powerful? You carried yourself well. I
saw everybody looking at you when you were on the stage."
He grins. "Oh, you noticed too. John put his hand at my waist once
and then he drew it back fast. He was startled; from the rear, he
didn't know it was me. He just looked at me with a puzzled expression
and couldn't figure out what to say. I told him that you like it, and
I like it too, so I do it for us. I think that really got to him.
He's a dirty old man though, always out for a feel, only this time he
was surprised."
"Can you scratch just at the top again?" he asks. I scratch him, and
then I put my arm around him and pull him towards me. I kiss his hair
and lay my cheek on the top of his head and say "I love you. "He says
nothing, just puts his arms around me and hugs. I take one of his
breasts in my hand. I feel it held up and defined by the under writing
of the corset. I feel the starched lace of the cup covering the top of
the breast. The lace seems to hover just over his skin. I feel the
nipple through the satin of the lower cup and I take the nipple between
my thumb and forefinger and twirl it and pinch it. He squirms in his
seat and thrusts his body up against me. I lower my hand and feel the
front busk of the corset. I run my hand over the concavity of his
stomach. I feel the boning as it runs from his breasts down to his
waist. I feel how the waistband of his skirt hangs snugly like a glove
around his now slender waist. My hand moves down and follows the
boning as it flares over his hips. I stroke his thigh and feel the
straps of the garters, the garter clips and the lace band at the top of
his stockings.
"Do you know that you are in love with a fetishist?" I ask him.
"I know," he says.
"I love you the more because of it. Because I know your needs. You
tell me and show me what you want, and I am part of it. I know that I
can fulfill your desires. I feel secure."
"Give me your hand," he says.
He takes my hand and runs it up and down his body, across the busk. He
moves my hand to his new breasts and holds it there with both his
hands. "I love you," I say. And, somehow, it is not enough. The
feeling I have in my throat and in the pit of my stomach tells me how
much I care for him, and it is more than I can ever say.
I pull the car into the driveway. We get out of the car and enter the
house. He takes me by the hand and leads me to the bedroom. He
undresses me. I undress him. He again looks at himself in the mirror.
Runs his hands over his hourglass shape.
He tells me to sit on the edge of the bed. He sits beside me, facing
to my left. He says "Give me your hands." He takes my hands and almost
encircles his tiny waist with them. I feel the stiffness of the corset
again. I squeeze his waist some more. He moans and leans back against
me. He gently rubs the herringbone of the laces against my chest.
I bite the back of his neck, and he squirms. My breathing becomes
ragged. I find myself losing control. We fuse into one being. I
grasp his corseted form to me in a deep hug. I kiss the back of his
neck. I fondle his breasts.
As the passions subside the kisses become slow and gentle. I lick his
neck and shoulders with the rough part of my tongue. He giggles. I
start to unlace the corset. He takes my hands and stills them. He
says "I will always wear it. I will do this for you."
And I am left speechless.
