by Various
‘No, no, there’s no harm done, I hope!’ she beseeched. ‘I’m sorry. Let me tell you the truth and I hope you can forgive me. Please?’
I nodded and went to sit behind my desk, indicating that she should remain standing. When my mind was at rest, then so could her body be.
‘I … the thing is … I’ve spent months wondering how to set up a meeting like this. I’ve thought and thought about it, but I’m quite shy.’
She looked at me questioningly.
‘Go on,’ I said.
‘That man – Mr Fox, or whatever – is not my husband. He’s a friend of mine. He agreed to do this for me. The thing is, you’ve probably forgotten, but I came in once with a girlfriend. She wanted a rubber one. I just … I suppose I became a little bit obsessed with you. Your manner – it’s very mistressish, you know, and I really like that … I longed to come in and get fitted myself, but I was just too shy. I couldn’t face it. I fantasised about it all the time, though, and discussed it with my friends on the net until they got quite sick of hearing about it. It was me that emailed you about the corset design, thinking that, at least if I had the corset … but it wasn’t the same. I knew I had to come in myself, but there was no way I could ask for this on my own behalf. Ralph agreed to help me. I know him quite well, from the internet and a couple of parties. I was pretty sure I could trust him.’
She stopped for a second, her darkly lipsticked mouth half open, as if it had run out of steam.
‘You wanted me to dominate you while fitting a corset?’ I asked for clarification.
‘Oh yes. And afterwards, of course. But I do love corsets. The fabrics; the restraint; the frills and finishing touches. They are so erotic to me.’
I half smiled at her. ‘Well, I certainly agree with you there.’
I stood up and positioned myself in front of her. Even on her heels she was a few inches shorter than me. I wrenched up her chin and put my lips against her ear.
‘I don’t know your name, little girl, but I do know your game, and it’s an exceptionally dangerous one.’
She moaned, pushing her face against me, trying to divert my lips on to hers. I wouldn’t have it.
‘What about your friend Ralph? Do you want to involve him in this game now?’
‘I want him to watch. He wants to watch.’ She half sobbed, her body gyrating again in an effort to get some pleasure from its stubby intruders.
‘Where is he now?’
‘He said he’d wait by the stairs.’
‘Then you’d better go and fetch him.’
I released her chin and turned her towards the door, setting her on her way with a stinging slap to her bum.
Off she waddled, returning five minutes later with her mildly embarrassed-looking friend.
‘Ah, you’re back,’ I said. ‘I have a favour to ask of you. In my desk drawer you will find a selection of full-length dildoes. I would like you to replace those in Miss here’s harness with two larger examples. Then, while she is busy using her tongue to satisfy me, I want you to make sure that she is feeling the full benefit of the replacements. Do you think you can do that?’
‘I’m sure I can,’ he said smoothly, rummaging in the drawer while my little admirer stood trembling with arousal at the side of the desk.
‘Good. Bend over then, girl, and wait for him to saddle you up.’
I watched while the shorter objects were removed and long, thick rubber intruders took their place. She whimpered a little when the anal plug was halfway in, but Ralph was not one to allow that kind of thing to put him off, and he slid it slowly to the hilt, tightening the strap in place once more. Now she was barely able to walk at all, but, at my command, she knelt in front of me.
I leant back against the desk, steadying myself. I did not want that imposter Ralph to get a good eyeful of my cunt, so this would require some delicacy.
‘Now I want you to push my skirt up just enough so that your tongue is able to reach my quim. Can you do that?’
‘I’ll try, Ma’am,’ she said, pushing her head under the tweed and up to my stocking tops. I rarely wear knickers when I am corseted myself, so she had no obstructions to encounter. The rumpled skirt rested on top of her head, and there was no way Ralph could see anything forbidden to him.
‘Good girl,’ I crooned. ‘Now, Ralph, get down on your knees behind her and work that arse and pussy hard. Come on then, girl, get to it.’ I reached down and tweaked a clamped nipple; she squealed and her tongue darted out, hitting the spot perfectly.
What a hungry little mouth she had, devouring my liquid heat, running the tip of her tongue around my clit in luxurious circles, waiting for it to swell to unbearable proportions before sliding her lips over and breathing on it, lapping at it, sucking on it. Tiny yelps issued from her throat, vibrating over my whole sex, in time with Ralph’s diligent pull-and-pushing on the deep-set dildoes.
‘You can’t imagine what you look like, can you, you little trollop? Kneeling here being fucked in both holes while you eat pussy as if your life depended on it. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a slut to compare with you. I’d love to introduce you to my friends.’
A long, starved moan buzzed between my thighs; I signalled Ralph to slow down. I didn’t want her coming just yet. Noticing the man’s bulging trousers, I gave him permission to masturbate, pulling her head closer to my crotch, mashing her mouth up against my clit, using my other hand to twiddle with her sore little nipples.
‘Next time you pull a stunt like this, young lady, I’ll spank your arse for you,’ I promised her. She sighed, her tongue in a frenzy now, her bottom wiggling furiously, while her whole body worked at relieving itself on the twin phalluses.
The three peaks came in rapid series, one rising as another fell. First Ralph roared and splashed his seed all over her bum and thighs, then, as it dripped downwards, she caught the perfect configuration of dildo and nerve ending and howled on to my clit, triggering my own explosion.
For a few minutes, the three of us were slumped together like felled skittles, panting and enjoying the stars that circled our heads.
Ralph was the first to tuck himself in and button himself up, leaving my naughty little customer to fall sideways. I wiped my thighs with a tissue and patted down my skirt, thinking that now was the time for private catalogue photography.
She was flushed and sweating, her mouth glistening with my spendings, her bottom and thighs sticky with Ralph’s spunk. Her cheeks were still rudely thrust apart by the large dildo, and the strap still cut into the middle of her cunt lips. Her nipples were more like cherry stones than cherries now and one high heeled shoe hung off her heel. She looked a mess; a gorgeous dirty feast of a mess.
‘We need photographs,’ I told Ralph, and he nodded.
Her name, it turned out, was Jess. Her modelling and catalogue work for me is much admired in corsetry circles these days. And if you gain my trust, and ask me very, very respectfully, I might just show you my private collection.
‘Advanced Corsetry’ is Justine Elyot’s first short story for Black Lace. Her collection, On Demand, is published in December 2009.
Men
Charlotte Stein
I’VE MADE THIS list for you, my love, because you always wanted to know and I never told you. I was afraid you would be jealous and secretly angry in that smiling way you had, and then even more time would have been shaved off the time we had together.
But I’ve made it for you now, in a fit of strange pique of the sort you were always fond of. The men I’ve had, and loved, and in the order they came about.
Number One:
He was a bartender in some town that had a name I couldn’t pronounce, and he had sleepy hooded eyes and was long and languid and sensual. His hair was as thick and glossy and as black as the ink I’m writing this with.
I was young and awkward and, when he said things to me like se me hace agua la cola, I didn’t understand and had to look the words up in my little Spanish to English dictionary. Mos
t of them didn’t make any sense once translated – the language was thick with euphemisms and veiled meanings – but some of them were fabulously disgusting. And then I would blush all over, inside the roots of my hair and to the soles of my shoes, to think of the lewd and naughty things he had made beautiful in another language. His accent turned all the words into sultry, feathery sorts of things that twisted me inside out.
The heat saturated everything. It slid down the walls and over our bodies and into our pores. It made us slippery against each other as though oiled. It made my hands glide over his glorious honey tea skin and meant that I had to discover him everywhere.
He was just as good, from tip to toe.
We made love too often for heat like that, but he was irresistible to me and I was irresistible to him, apparently. We became insatiable maniacs, drinking gallons of strangely named Latin American juices in between mostly slow, but sometimes frantic, stretches of sinful sex. Sinful because I had never heard of some of the things we did, and it certainly all seemed very wicked to me.
I asked him what the word for wicked was in Spanish, and he said it was cachonda. He told me I was la zorra, and I would repeat the words back to him until he smiled that delicious smile that made those furrows pretending to be dimples plough their way through his cheeks.
He said that my voice sounded lovely when I spoke to him in his native language – though it wasn’t really his native language, just the language that his parents left to him, along with the bar – but that it only sounded lovely in a way that wasn’t Spanish at all. ‘You’ve made up a new language,’ he told me, ‘a new language with your crazy accent and your bizarre pronunciations,’ and it was funny because he was the one who made up a new language.
It was called how to be in bed with somebody.
He taught me that you’re supposed to take all of your clothes off when you’re in bed with somebody, and he did it by taking all of his clothes off first. He did it while I was getting something that seemed like lemonade, and as matter-of-factly as someone signing their name. I then drank the not-lemonade down as though it were vodka. It seemed as though something needed drinking, upon seeing a suddenly naked man.
I remember thinking: I can’t believe I’m about to have sex with this unimaginable man. Even though, in hindsight, the whole night had been leading up to having sex. Tequila shots and licking things off each other’s hands and the sucking of various fruits in dirty dirty ways. We’d practically kissed around a slice of something that might have been mango, and he had put his hand high up on my sticky-with-the-heat thigh, and looked at me with those hooded eyes.
What more did I want?
Nakedness, I wanted nakedness. I’m glad that it took nakedness. But then, of course, he insisted on my nakedness. He did it slyly, though, like a thief stealing my clothes. The first time I kept my dress on, and then the second time at some point in the middle of the darkest night, with rain slapping up against the shutters, he stole my blouse. And then in the morning, my skirt was unwound like peeling off a bandage to reveal the invisible girl underneath.
Though there was nothing invisible about me when I was with him. He made me feel viscerally, solidly real, made of flesh and bone and nerves. I could feel my whole body surrounding him and surrounded by him, and my self-consciousness fluttered away as though it had never existed. I barely even saw it go. He was bold and unabashed about his body; why should I have been any different?
I remember watching us in the spotted mirror on the wall: that long sloping line of his body; the curve of his back sliding into the delicious plump bow of his ass; and the way he curled his hips into me slowly, so slowly. The way my legs spread for him, with complete uncaring all-over-the-placeness.
He would come in late from the bar, creep up the rickety staircase in the rickety old building I lived in, and I would hide behind the door and then jump on him as he came into the bedroom. I would hook my legs around his waist and weigh him down like an anchor, down down down to the bed. He never said no, and was always strong enough not to be weighed down by me.
But somehow I dragged him on to the bed anyway.
He was the first man ever to go down on me, and he did it without a word. No asking, no hesitation, no warning. He did it as though making casual conversation, though admittedly the conversation was about sensuous sexual erotic things. And I can’t imagine how any casual conversation could really be about sensuous sexual erotic things: ‘So, you seen the weather in your pussy today? My cock says it feels like rain.’
I’m not sure it works. But his tongue worked very well against my clit. So did his kisses, which he placed all over my sex as though it was as pretty and kissable as my mouth. He said things to that effect, too, that translated badly. Though I was loathe to have him say them in English, because somehow it wasn’t as sexy.
He told me that I made him sink, and found little flowers on his way home that smelt of things strange and exotic, and put them in my hair. I still have those little flowers, dried and pressed in between the pages of books that we read together. I can still smell his strange cigarettes, making heavy mysterious clouds in the air. I can still feel his hands on me, drawing down over my hips and then between my legs, caressing my face while he caressed my pussy.
He had a thousand words for my naughty bits and they all made me so tense with excitement and arousal that I could just have come from hearing him say ‘I love being inside your pussy’ in a different language. I learnt words like ‘again’ and ‘hard’ and ‘soft’ and ‘wet’ quickly, and made him speak them to me more and more frequently because my body loved the exotic.
‘You’re just fetishising the foreign,’ he told me, with those scything dimples in his cheeks, and I laughed at him, calling him my Latino love god, my samba-dancing, passion-obsessed smoulderer. That he couldn’t dance and didn’t really know much about being Mexican beyond the language made it funnier, and sexier, and sweeter: we were both fumbling in the dark towards ourselves.
I liked it when he was mysterious and written in a different language, but I liked it better when he was him.
Number Two:
Oh yes, Number Two was The Fireman.
Number Two was tall and as big as a horse and delightfully rumpled, perpetually like he’d just got out of bed because, well, he had.
I used to make him wear nothing but those big trousers they have with the braces, and strip for me real slow so I could lick with my eyes the tattoos on his arms, and the long stripe of his back and that lovely crisp hair on his lovely big chest.
He wasn’t macho at all in the bedroom, and was only too happy to be my little plaything, my stripper whose shtick was being a fireman. We saw a guy do something very similar at Hot Dudes, giggling and drinking sweet cocktails – he wasn’t threatened.
‘I’m the real deal, baby,’ he whispered in my ear. ‘I’m gonna rescue you from all that burning up you’ve been doing.’
But he just made me burn higher, and harder. Where One had taught me to be uninhibited without words, Two taught me how to tell him what I wanted. All my secret fires just waiting for him to put them out.
He seemed like the sort of man who should have been straight down the line and simple, but he was only too happy to be in spirals and complicated.
I would put on his trousers, with the braces that went perfectly over my breasts like restraints – like some sort of crazy bondage girl – and save him from trees and burning buildings and from being trapped inside his clothes. I liked best to put him in peril, and upon rescuing him from the burning building – or ‘wardrobe’ – I would take a big pair of important-looking scissors and slide them under whatever tight clothing he happened to be wearing.
He liked the cold against his skin, just slipping beneath the elastic of those tiny Spiderman underpants he had. I liked the visual of the silver against the taut muscles of his upper arms. He would giggle in that gruff dirty way he had, and squirm impatiently, and sigh when I told him that, in order to heal th
e terrible burns he’d endured, I’d have to lick him everywhere.
I would put an ice cube in my mouth to make it extra cold, and when I lapped at all his hot places he’d tell me how much he loved my little icy tongue. There were places he couldn’t stand for me to tickle wetly, but he’d stand it anyway because he loved trying to bear it. I would lick his sensitive nipples until he shivered and then I’d bite, and then lick, and then bite, until he croaked out for me: ‘Oh, you slay me, you crazy wicked girl. You really do me over, I swear.’
I kept his big boots on when I fucked him.
He’d keep them on too, for me. Sometimes he would come home, half in his uniform looking like a cartoon hero from a kids’ TV show, still soot-streaked in places so that he left little track marks all over me. He painted patterns on my belly, little sun spokes around my belly button, clouds on my breasts. Flames all over me.
‘Oh, you’re on fire,’ he’d say. ‘Quick, I’d better put you out.’
And then he would blow on me; he’d lick his fingers and wet my nipples and blow on them, or blow on my clit, or the sensitive places like my inner elbow or the line between my thigh and my pussy. Or, if we were in the shower, he’d tell me that he should get the hose, and the hose – or ‘shower head’ – would find its way between my legs to douse the flames. Little needles of sensation all over my clit until I was nice and creamy – even through the water of the shower – so that he could lift me up and fuck me against the slick, tiled wall.
He liked to get me so slippery, and so swollen, that, when he finally decided to fuck me, the feel of his cock shoving into my cunt would make me moan loud and long, even if friends were staying over, or his elderly aunt was in the next room.
‘Shhhh,’ he’d say, ‘shhhh,’ but he’d be laughing as he said it.
He was a real giggler, my fireman. He giggled when I slid down the pole at his station in just my underwear, and when I leaned against the truck and said: ‘Come and put my fire out, Fireman. I’m burning up, baby, and only you can cool me off.’
