Toy Box: Corsets

by Rob Knight, Sean Michael, Vic Winter

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  Torquere Press

  www.torquerepress.com

  Copyright ©2007 by Torquere Press

  First published in www.torquerepress.com, 2007

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  NOTICE: This work is copyrighted. It is licensed only for use by the original purchaser. Making copies of this work or distributing it to any unauthorized person by any means, including without limit email, floppy disk, file transfer, paper print out, or any other method constitutes a violation of International copyright law and subjects the violator to severe fines or imprisonment.

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  Table of Contents

  Definition and etymology—2

  The White Corset by Vic Winter—3

  Personal Fitting by Rob Knight—10

  Secret Skin by Sean Michael—19

  Contributors’ Bios—28

  Definition and Etymology

  Definition: A corset is a garment worn to mold and shape the torso into a desired shape for aesthetic or medical purposes (either for the duration of wearing it, or with a more lasting effect).

  Both men and women have worn—and still wear—corsets.

  Many garments sold as “corsets” during recent years are not technically corsets in the traditional sense. While modern “corsets” and “corset tops” often feature lacing and/or boning and generally mimic a historical style of corsets, they have very little if any effect on the shape of the wearer's body.

  In recent years, the term “corset” has also been borrowed by the fashion industry to refer to tops which, to varying degrees, mimic the look of traditional corsets without actually acting as one; such tops are frequently seen in stores which cater to fans of Gothic fashions. Many such tops feature lacing or boning and are fairly tight-fitting; however, genuine corsets are usually made by a corsetmaker and should ideally be fitted especially for the wearer.

  Source: en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Corset

  Etymology: Middle English, bodice, from Old French, diminutive of cors, body, from Latin corpus; see kwrep—in Indo-European roots.

  Source: www.thefreedictionary.com/corset

  The White Corset

  By Vic Winter

  Jeremiah Saunders was inspired.

  He crept down the stairs from his little apartment over the shop even though he was alone and there was no one to disturb. He was a quiet man, though, and had spent his whole life not being noticed, so it was a habit.

  He made his way to his workshop at the back of the store by feel, and turned the little light over his workbench on. Before sitting, he gathered the materials he needed: the new mother of pearl silk and the white lace, the shimmering aquamarine ribbon and several whalebone inserts. The white leather was already at the table, ready and waiting for him.

  Then he sat, his back bent over the worktable, his fingers gnarled and callused from years of use.

  Jeremiah wasn't particularly old, but he worked hard and always had. His father had always said—if you aren't beautiful, you have to work hard. No one would ever accuse Jeremiah of being beautiful. He wasn't ugly, but he was quite plain, with hair the color of coal, and eyes nearly as dark. His skin was dusky, almost olive, and certainly not the pale creamy color so much in favor right now. No, he was not beautiful, but he worked hard, and the corsets that came to life beneath his fingertips were themselves the very definition of beautiful.

  He worked all through night, not taking a single break—he was, after all, inspired.

  The white leather had arrived the week before; buttery smooth, it had called to his fingers and he'd stroked it again and again. Just before going to bed last night, he'd come back down and smoothed it over his work bench one last time. It was no wonder he'd dreamed of it.

  In his dream, the leather had been fashioned into a corset, not for a woman, but for a man. And the man who'd worn it ... he'd been muscled and smooth, with skin the color of dark chocolate. The contrast with the white corset, and the way it hugged the man's waist ... Jeremiah had woken hard and aching, but he hadn't taken himself in hand. Instead, he'd held the image tight in his mind so he wouldn't lose it, and come downstairs.

  He sharpened the scissors on the whetstone, the sound loud in the darkness, and cut carefully, but without measuring. One wrong move would have ruined the white leather, but the vision in his mind was strong and true and he trusted it, trusted in his hand to duplicate what he'd seen in the dream. He did the same with the silk and the ribbon, the whalebone insets cut down to fit the needs of the male corset.

  Gnarled and callused as they were, his fingers were nimble when it came to the creation of his corsets, magic working between his hands and the materials, and he never seemed to feel the passage of time when he worked, becoming so lost in the creation that all other concerns faded away.

  Jeremiah was still at it when the sun came up, shining through the store front windows and trying to reach him in the back of the shop where he hunched over his workbench. The sun made the silk and ribbon shine where it hit them, hinting at how the light would play with the corset when it was worn.

  He finished just before the store was due to open at nine, his fingers sliding over leather and silk, whalebone and ribbon. It all felt amazing beneath his coarse skin: amazing and delicate. He knew the silk and leather were far sturdier than they felt, that his rough skin wouldn't tear them.

  Running upstairs, he quickly changed into slacks and a work shirt before coming back down to unlock the front door, and turn on the lights: ready for customers. His hands ached now from the night's work, and they were clumsy as he put the new corset on a mannequin. He made them do the work, though, hanging the corset and tightening the long ribbons that tied it closed in the back, so that it was shown off to its best advantage.

  That done, he wrapped his hands in warm cloths, sighing with relief when the heat penetrated his skin and warmed muscles and bones, easing the pain. He made himself a bowl of broth, the hot soup warming his belly and easing his tiredness.

  The bell over the door jangled around ten and Jeremiah looked up to find Mrs. Havers, the buxom blonde one of his best customers, accompanied today by a friend as blonde and statuesque as she herself was.

  "Jeremiah, how are you, darling? You look positively worn. You work too hard, poor thing. But it's all worth it in the end—he does the most exquisite work, Anna. You must see the pieces he's made for me.” She prattled on about the ball she was planning and how her corset would shine. Jeremiah would have a dozen new customers after the ball, and many orders for custom pieces. Word of mouth was his best tool.

  Bowing his thank you for the compliments, he hurried to his workroom where he kept the commissioned pieces and came back with the two that she'd requested. They were elaborate aquamarine shiny things, with much ribbon and bows and glitter. And while he preferred the quieter beauty of the white corset he'd just made, these were some of his best work. The lady would look exquisite in them.

  She and her friend both squealed and raved, making him blush with their outrageous compliments. She went to the little changing room, and once she'd donned the corset, she opened the cream-colored curtain and Jeremiah tightened the corset for her, pulling the ribbons very tight. He was careful not to touch her pale skin with his rough fingers.

  Both corsets fit, and Mrs. Havers was most delighted. Jeremiah smiled and bobbed his head like one of those dolls, letting the gossip slide over his head as he carefully packaged the corsets up and put them into bags.

  After money had exchanged hands and Anna had her bags and was halfway out the door, Mrs. Havers kissed his cheek. “Thank you, Jeremiah. I know how much work goes into every corset you make and you truly do work magi
c. I'm going to be the absolute belle of the ball and it's due mainly to you."

  "Not only due to me, Madame."

  "Flatterer,” she accused.

  But he shook his head. “I am honored that my work has such a showcase. Truly.” And he did mean it. She was loud and gaudy, and quite beautiful. Much of his business had come on her recommendation alone.

  She kissed his cheek again and left, the perfumes of her and her friend lingering in the air, and he went to the back to open the door. The place needed airing out anyway and he far preferred the scents of leather and tools to clinging floweriness.

  When he returned to the front of the store there was someone standing before the mannequin displaying the new corset and he hurried over.

  "I'm sorry, that's not for...” He was stopped in his tracks as the man, for it was a man who was making such a close examination of the corset, turned. Skin the color of dark chocolate, the man had a bald head, and high cheekbones. His eyes were black coffee, hot and liquid, his lips thick, making Jeremiah want to reach out and touch to see if they were as soft as they appeared to be. He wore a simple linen suit the color of a powder blue sky, his shirt white like the clouds. A tie, slightly darker than the suit, had been loosened around his neck.

  It was the man from Jeremiah's dream, the one for whom he'd made the corset. Not someone similar, but the very man he'd pictured in his dream.

  "Not for what?” Even the man's voice was like chocolate, rich and smooth and Jeremiah could almost taste it.

  "For sale,” Jeremiah finished, rooted to the spot. He couldn't stop staring, and the rest of the shop had faded away. There was only the man and the corset, both together in front of him. It was prefect.

  "It isn't? That's too bad—the workmanship is exquisite. It would fetch a pretty penny. I myself would be willing to pay a lot for it. Can I convince you to change your mind?” The man flashed him a smile, teeth bright in the dark face, and if Jeremiah hadn't lusted over the man in his dream, which he had, he certainly would have lusted over the man in person, which he did.

  He shook his head. “No, I can't sell it. It was made for...” His voice faded away again.

  "Made for whom?” asked the man.

  Jeremiah couldn't stop the word from spilling out. “You."

  "Me?” The man laughed, the sound rich and deep.

  It made Jeremiah shiver and he went to the mannequin, working the ribbons to loosen the corset.

  "I thought you said it wasn't for sale.” The man was close, and Jeremiah could feel the heat from the strong body. He was thankful for the cool breeze from the back door on his cheeks.

  "Oh, it's not. It's yours though. I made it for you.” That was the simple truth of it. “I had a dream last night. And it woke me, so I came down and made the corset. It fits you I'm sure."

  Those dark eyes looked into his own, into him, holding him rooted to the spot. “You don't even know my name.” The words were softly spoken, almost teasing.

  "What is it?” Jeremiah asked, riveted to the spot.

  "Dulcimo.” Oh, that voice danced over the word, rolling it into a song.

  As if the single word released him from his spell, Jeremiah turned back to the mannequin. “Oh, that's lovely. Just like you.” Jeremiah caught the corset once it had been loosened, removing it from the mannequin and smoothing his fingers along the lovely leather before handing it over. “I'm Jeremiah. And this is yours."

  "I can't...” And yet Dulcimo took the corset from him, dark fingers exploring the workmanship.

  Jeremiah watched, imagining those fingers on his skin, imagining Dulcimo in the corset. “Of course you can."

  "I have to pay you something."

  "I would like to see you in it,” Jeremiah admitted.

  Those almost black eyes met his, and Dulcimo nodded. “Lock the front door."

  Jeremiah hurried to do as Dulcimo had asked, turning the sign so it read closed and locking the bolts. The sound of them clicking home was loud, so loud in his little shop. It wasn't even noon yet and he was closing, closing in order to see the beautiful black man wearing his corset.

  Swallowing, he tried to ignore the way his cock rose, putting a tent in his trousers. He hoped that Dulcimo would not be insulted to have such a salute directed at him, but just the memory of the dream would have been enough to make him hard. Having the corset and the man together in his shop was too much to ignore.

  Dulcimo had disappeared, as had his corset, and for a moment Jeremiah feared that they'd both disappeared out the back door, but movement by the change room assured him it was not so, the curtain that closed the tiny room from the shop moving.

  "I need your help, Jeremiah.” Oh, his name in those rich, velvety tones was enough to make his balls ache.

  "What can I do?” he asked.

  The curtain was pushed aside, and Jeremiah gasped at the sight that greeted him. Dulcimo was turned so Jeremiah had the back view. Utterly naked, but for the corset, that dark skin made the white corset shine. The ribbons had not been pulled tight yet, and already it framed Dulcimo's ass almost perfectly, the round globes high and beautiful.

  Stepping forward, Jeremiah began the long, arduous task of pulling the ribbons tight, working from the top and bottom to the middle. “Is it tight enough?” he asked once he had completed a half dozen tugs, which brought him a third of the way down the corset.

  "It's perfect, Jeremiah. It fits beautifully, as if it really was made for me."

  "But of course it was.” Smiling, Jeremiah continued to pull the ribbons tight.

  His fingers slid over silk and leather and skin, the heat of Dulcimo's body quickly warming the corset. He made it quite tight, pulling Dulcimo's waist in so the corset flared just over the top of the high, round buttocks. His fingers brushed the top of that amazing ass again and again as he pulled the last few times. Then he tied the ribbons tight, letting the excess hang over Dulcimo's ass. White on dark brown, the contrast shocking ... arousing.

  "Oh...” He swallowed his whimper, and pulled his reaching hands back to his sides, curling his gnarled fingers in to keep from touching.

  "How does it look?” Dulcimo asked, head turning, trying to look down behind himself.

  "I have never seen anything so beautiful,” Jeremiah replied, voice husky, his need obvious to his own ears.

  And to Dulcimo's as well it would seem. He could see it in the smile he was given, in the way Dulcimo's eyes suddenly blazed with heat.

  "You should see it from the other side,” Dulcimo told him, turning slowly.

  Jeremiah held his breath, moaning at the sight that was before him. The corset started right below Dulcimo's dark, dark nipples, it hugged the man's body, cinching in tight around his waist and ending just above Dulcimo's bare pubic area. The man was shaved and Jeremiah's fingers had a new ache—they ached to touch the bare skin.

  Dulcimo's dark cock was thick, full, rising up to leave a single drop of pre-come on the white leather, dampening it. Moaning, Jeremiah went to his knees—how could he not when faced with such a vision? His dream had not done it justice, a poor representation of the reality.

  He didn't ask permission, he just wrapped his lips around the head of Dulcimo's cock, tongue flicking out to gather the liquid that pooled at the slit. The taste was heady, musky and strong and Jeremiah sucked harder, wanting more. Craving it.

  Long-fingered hands landed on his head, not pushing him away, but pulling him closer, encouraging him to bob his head and take more of Dulcimo in. He did so, mouth sliding on the thick flesh, his saliva making Dulcimo's cock shine. He could feel each of Dulcimo's fingers, not callused as his own were, just soft and sure and guiding him.

  His own hands slid around to grab the round ass, each cheek fitting into his palm. The hard muscles tightened, Dulcimo beginning to thrust, to push the dark prick into his throat time and again. He swallowed around the tip each time it came deep, and Dulcimo started making noises, wanton and desperate.

  Jeremiah bobbed his head faster
, and he hummed, the vibrations of the sound tickling his own lips and travelling along Dulcimo's prick.

  With a shout, Dulcimo thrust deep and came, seed spraying from the thick cock and rushing down Jeremiah's throat to fill his belly. It was his favorite sustenance. He could hear Dulcimo panting harshly above him, knew the corset was holding the man tight, that each breath wanted to be shallow.

  Jeremiah moaned softly, his mouth clinging as Dulcimo pulled his cock free. He looked up slowly, admiring his own craftsmanship, gasping at the stark contrast between the white and the dark skin, dampened and shining with sweat.

  Dulcimo's eyes met his warming him all the way through, and one of the hands on his head slid around to cup his cheek. “Did you really dream of me, lover?” Dulcimo asked.

  Jeremiah nodded. “Of course. You haunt my dreams every night."

  "And the corset? It was a dream as well?"

  "Yes, last night. I saw you in it as clearly you are standing here.” Though he still maintained that the reality outshone the dream tenfold.

  "You know you could get a lot of money for this.” Dulcimo touched the corset, hands sliding over leather and silk.

  His answer was immediate. “No, I made it for you."

  "But—"

  "No, buts. It is yours. Especially now that I have seen you in it, I cannot bear to think of it gracing any body but yours."

  Bending, Dulcimo brought their lips together and Jeremiah was moaning again, the deep, rich flavor of his lover sweet upon his tongue. “Come upstairs and let me love you properly, Jerry."

  "The shop...” he wanted to, so very badly, his whole body aching to do exactly that.

  "Will only be closed an hour or so. And I've been gone for nearly two weeks."

  "I know. I missed you so.” He hated when his lover was away, it reminded him too much of all the years he'd been alone.

  Dulcimo ran his hands down over the corset, tilting his hips this way and that—such a sensual man. “I know. I like the way you miss a body. Perhaps I should go away more often."