Fetish Friday #6: C is for Corset

Corsets are a popular fetish. Don't believe me? Type "corset" + "fetish" into your search engine and then stand back as 180,000 sites pop up in .26 seconds. One of my favorites, Fine Craft, Inc. has been proudly serving the fetish community for 50 years!

Not only do I own a slew of corsets—I've had the pleasure of being fitted for several. So the following description by wordsmith Donna George Storey tied me up tight the very first time I read the piece. Indulge yourself in this snippet. Just remember to breathe!

Fezziwig's Balls
by Donna George Storey

This October, when the leaves were just turning, Robert asked Claire to meet him after work at a certain address not far from the inn where they stayed the night of the ball. The sign above the old-fashioned doorbell was discreet: Madame Dominique, Corsetiere. However, the salon upstairs--where Robert sat waiting for her in a wingback chair, a glass of sherry in his hand—was a study in over-the-top bordello chic. The windows were hung with velvet draperies. The furnishings were rich mahogany, upholstered in baby blue satin. A freestanding oval mirror occupied the center of the room, flanked by two headless mannequins. The one on the right wore a modest cream-colored corset, the kind you see in BBC adaptations of Jane Austen novels. The other was the bad girl’s choice: black leather bristling with metal studs, the front deeply scalloped to expose the breasts. Claire had never seen a mannequin with nipples like that--deep pink, eternally erect, and shimmering faintly as if they’d just been licked.

A small, blonde woman of “a certain age” stepped out from the counter to greet her. Behind the cordial smile, Claire sensed calculation, as if Madame Dominique had already judged her waist size, how much she would spend and exactly what kind of kinky scenes she would act out later with her husband while wearing her new purchase.

“May I offer you a glass of sherry before we begin the fitting?” Madame asked.

Claire glanced at Robert, who gave a curt nod.

“Yes, thank you,” she murmured. She might not be as quick at reading people as Madame, but she knew her husband. He’d obviously promoted himself from last year’s stint as her footman to imperious lord and master.

No doubt he meant for her to be tipsy when she slipped behind the Chinese screen to change into the undergarments Madame provided. The pantalets were comfortable enough. The chemise, however, was stiff with starch, and it chafed Claire’s sensitive nipples. To her embarrassment, they poked up provocatively through the thin cloth, rather like the whorish mannequin’s. Instinctively, she crossed her arms over her chest as she stepped back out into the room.

Both heads turned toward her. Robert’s eyes glided down her body and then up again. Madame smiled and guided her over to the mirror, her hand warm hand against Claire’s back.

“We’ll begin the fitting now, so I must ask you to lower your arms, please, Mrs. Ryan. There’s no need to be shy,” she said in a soothing voice. “Mr. Ryan informed me you’ll be wearing this as the foundation for a ball gown from the mid-Victorian period, so of course I’ve selected the historically appropriate style.”

Claire glanced at the corset in Madame’s hands, a pale pink version of the one the “nice girl” mannequin was wearing. She felt a pang of disappointment. Part of her wanted to be the whore, wrapped tight in slick leather, tits exposed. On the other hand, the virgin-on-her-wedding-night scene proved well enough that playing the submissive wife brought its own satisfactions.

With a nervous smile, she lowered her arms. Madame wrapped the corset around Claire’s torso and quickly fastened the clasps in front. Then she circled behind to tighten the laces. With each tug, Claire felt her chest move forward and up in response. The corset seemed to embrace her, meld itself to her skin, squeezing her breath and her flesh vertically so that she felt inches taller.

She also felt an undeniable twinge of pleasure between her legs.

“It’s not too tight, is it?” Madame asked, her voice almost a whisper.

“No, it’s fine,” Claire responded, her own voice faint and breathless. For the first time she allowed herself to take in her full image in the mirror: the flushed cheeks, the pinched waist and voluptuous flaring of her hips, the shadow of dark hair between her legs through almost-translucent pantalets. Beside her in the mirror floated Robert’s face, his eyes glued to her perfect hourglass form.

“Lovely,” Madame breathed, resting her hands on Claire’s hips. “This suits you very well. Your figure is just full enough for a charming décolletage.”

As she spoke, Madame’s fingers glided upward over the boning of the corset. Claire held her breath. Surely the woman would not be so bold as to touch a customer’s breasts, if only to emphasize a compliment?

She had underestimated the corsetiere. For just an instant her fingers grazed Claire’s nipples, lightly, discreetly, before they pulled away.

Claire stiffened. She would have guessed the corset would provide a barrier to a stolen caress, but the satin—and the tightness—seemed to amplify the sensation. She glanced up and caught Madame’s gaze in the mirror. The woman had the brazenness to smile.

“This is just the thing for Fezziwig’s Ball, don’t you think?” Robert’s voice was husky. He cleared his throat. “Can you have the order ready by the middle of December?”

“Is this a Christmas present for your wife then? How charming,” Madame cooed.

Claire watched the Robert in the mirror incline his head stiffly. He was playing his part well --the tight-buttoned Victorian gentleman, giving nothing away--although all three of them knew that certain gifts can bring equal pleasure to the giver as well.

*****

Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale!

Also, if you wanted to be part of my purple parade, I will happily plant a few "late-blooming violets" today. Just send you .jpg to msalisontyler at yahoo dot com. Say by eight tonight.

XXX,
Alison

P.S. Don't forget to comment today—there will be buttons!