Escapades Ch. 02

Winter 2011

In the months that followed my accidental slip into the dungeon, I lived my life and worked as usual. But my appetite had been whetted. I couldn't forget the excitement that accompanied my first strange side-step into the Montreal scene. I wrote and wrote, pouring out my longings at the keyboard. I indulged my fantasies in the privacy of my own bed through self-bondage and self-pleasure. I visited the websites of fetish fashion shops. My birthday was approaching and I was half-thinking of getting a corset custom-made for myself. I began to seek out places where I could have my measurements taken and a corset designed. I didn't know if I wanted to be touched enough for that, but at the same time, the idea of being fitted, laced up, and appraised by a professional held a deep appeal to me. As it happened, all roads once again lead to Montreal.

In January, a few days before my birthday, I went to visit Amie. My excuse for taking a spontaneous trip in the dull middle of winter was a work-related conference. But the real intent was to celebrate my birthday with my dear friend and, as always, to explore. Amie had been doing some looking around for me too. She found that the stars and dolls were gone from the entrance to the building we'd stumbled across the past summer, but there was a fetish fashion shop that might suit my interests, well established and yet hidden in plain sight. I couldn't have found it on my own, but Amie knew the way. She led me to the place. From there, I only had to follow my desire.

I was nervous as we took the Metro there on a cold, grey Monday morning. Leaving the apartment, I proclaimed to Amie: "Today, there's no shame. I am what I am, and I won't be ashamed of it." But I was trembling inside with that familiar mixture of embarrassment and excitement. 'A corset is just clothing,' I told myself firmly. 'There's no reason to get so flustered!' All the same, I felt that there was the potential for something more to happen, and it made me feel both shy and bold. As we passed under the icicle-fringed awnings that lined the slushy streets, I remember thinking: 'This is it.'

Never having been in a fetish shop, I was expecting something dark and in-your-face kinky, like a dungeon. Whips hanging from the walls, low lighting, latex everywhere, that kind of thing. Maybe there are fetish shops like that out there, but this one was surprisingly light and open. In fact, the front of the shop, where you go in directly from the street, was more like an upscale lingerie store. There were lots of bras and panties, along with some hose and corsets, but they weren't much edgier than you'd see in a Victoria's Secret store or a mainstream sex shop, at least to my eyes. I could vaguely see that the back of the long, narrow room held more interesting fare, but at first I hesitated to go too far. I was already feeling pretty silly for getting worked up the way I had.

About then, a tall, mature woman with salt-and-pepper hair who had been sweeping the floor pointedly asked if we needed any assistance.

"I don't, but Robin does." Amie promptly said.

I twitched to hear her use my name aloud, but there was no turning back at that point. Trying to keep my voice casual and polite, I said,

"Um, yeah. I've been thinking of getting a corset, and..."

I trailed off awkwardly. The shop-woman nodded briskly and escorted me towards the back. Amie circled and sat near the front, leaving me to my experience.

Once I spotted the corsets, I was enthralled. There were silk and leather ones, over- and underbust. Some were pretty in purple and pink, some in Oriental prints, some sleek and clean-lined. I stroked one lovely silky confection of red cherry blossoms on a black ground admiringly. My hands lingered, the backs of my fingers caressing it sensually...

And then the air pressure changed in the room. A gaze fell on me. As if he had planned his entrance just to catch me in the middle of my intimate caress, the man running the shop, the corset-maker himself, appeared from around the corner. He was older than me—maybe in his 40s, I guess—toned but not overly muscled, with the broad, powerful hands of a craftsman and an incisive gaze. I blushed again, but this time I found my voice.

"Hi. I'd like to get a corset, but I have such a small waist that I have trouble finding them off the rack. I think I'd like something professionally made and fitted to me, to my body..."

Dammit, I'd started strong, but somehow under the steady regard of his pale eyes, I trailed off again, feeling completely transparent.

"I can do that." He said quietly, with complete assurance. From that moment on, I was in his hands.

In his brisk professional manner, he explained that he could measure and fit me, then make the corset in any fabric I liked in a few days. I was secretly disappointed at the thought of having to wait, since it was my last day in Montreal, but I asked about distance ordering anyway. He said he could ship anywhere, so I agreed to let him take my measurements.

"Ok then, get naked," he quipped, his expression completely deadpan.

I giggled to show I knew it was a joke, but I actually couldn't tell if he was serious or not as he led me to a changing room. My skin was already tingling with the anticipation of being bared. I started to draw the curtain of the booth to hide myself modestly, but the corset-maker had other ideas. He stopped me with a gesture and beckoned me forward.

"Come to me." He said. "Lift your shirt."

His tone cut through me like a blade. It was not a request. It was a command. Very subtle, almost casual, and yet I felt the imperative as surely as if he had tugged a leash around my neck. He was a Dom, a good one, and I knew it from those very first words. I stepped forward and lifted my white sweater up over my belly while keeping my breasts covered. With strong, capable hands, the corset-maker ran a measuring tape around my waist. Was I shaking, or sheltering my breasts? I don't know, but he reassured me, saying,

"Don't worry, I do this all the time."

Then he selected a red silk corset with a subtle dragon pattern in red thread and asked me to put it on. I closed the curtain and fiddled with the corset, undoing its clasps. Once I got them undone, I realized I didn't know if I should actually strip to the skin or not. I stuck my head back out, and saw only the woman working at the cash.

"Umm," I murmured in embarrassment, "Is it alright if I...I mean, should I take my bra off too?"

"It's up to you. If you want to get a proper fit." She replied in a neutral tone.

"Ok," I agreed meekly.

So I closed the curtain again, took off my shirt and unclasped my bra. I folded both and laid them on a little bench. Looking at myself in the mirror, I couldn't help but notice that the little pink tips of my breasts were already swelling in the cool air. Yes, the cold, that was it. As quickly as I could, I pulled the corset around me and began closing the clasps up the front. Even though I hadn't unlaced it, I eventually got it completely done up.

My first view of myself in a corset was vivid, vibrant in red, but typical of my shopping experiences: it was too large, and gapped annoyingly at the incurve of the small of my back and at my small, high breasts. I stepped out to look in the larger mirrors outside the doors. I plucked and tugged at the corset, trying to adjust it to fit my frame. Seeing me struggling, the woman clerk stepped out from behind the cash. The corset-maker, it seemed, was on the phone, deep into an important and serious-sounding conversation. She asked me if she could help me, or if I wanted to wait for him.

"You can do it if you like," I said. 'A woman or a man,' I thought, 'I'm not choosy.'

The clerk, however, made a disapproving murmuring sound.

"Hrrmmm. Usually the ladies prefer to be fitted by him."

She went back to the counter to tell him something in a quick, low voice. I couldn't hear exactly what she asked, but I did hear one word carry clear: "Sir." She called him "Sir." My sense of the balance of power here tilted. He looked my way. Then, as if making a decision, he hastily wrapped up the phone call and came back over to me.

In fact, it was his masterful fitting that made all the difference that day. He inspected me in the red corset and pronounced that it didn't fit, not just in the bust as I thought but throughout the body. It was too big.

"We'll try a 20," he said, taking a slick, pure black corset from the rack.

I could tell right away that this one was tighter. Pull as I might, I couldn't get the silver clasps to close down my front. I could feel the minutes ticking by and the presence of the corset maker waiting for me just outside the curtain. Such a flimsy barrier of cloth between us, I thought, beginning to flush again. He could step in any moment and...

"How's it going?" His voice cut through my budding fantasies.

"I can't close it." I confessed.

"Let me see," he replied. There it was, that subtle imperative.

I stepped from the room holding the corset closed around my breasts by just one catch. My belly quivered as the cool air touched it, making me sharply aware of my nakedness.

"Come to me."

His tone guided me irresistibly forward.

I stepped before a three-way mirror, holding myself closed modestly. He began to loosen the laces at the back of the corset and told me to let go, not to worry. He let out the ties until I could do up all the clasps. Then he began to lace me in. I watched in the mirror as he pulled the laces tighter and tighter. Though the corset was snug to begin with, he tugged until it embraced me and made my breath catch.

"Alright?" he said brusquely. "Can you still breathe?"

"Yes, I'm fine!" I gasped.

What I actually wanted to say was "Oh, yes, Sir, please pull harder!" I was suddenly aware of myself getting very wet, my sex flushing open, hot and cool at the same time from the fluid on my thin panties. I had "accidentally on purpose" not worn a pantyliner, and now I could feel my juices soaking me. I couldn't believe it, but for the first time I was getting aroused by someone's touch. Actually, it wasn't so much the touch doing it as the power being exercised over my docile body.

Finally, he tied me off and ran his hands down my sides and belly to check the fit. With complete confidence, he reached into the bodice a tiny bit to press my breasts forward from the sides, to "get a little boob action going," he said. And then he stepped back and left me staring at myself in fascination, running my own hands down and around my slim, restrained body. The corset was much harder than I'd expected, like a blackbeetle's carapace. It made me look slender yet curvy. He said I had the hourglass figure for it: slim at the waist but with wide hips, and now, with the corset plumping me up, busty enough as well. I was dazzled.

He invited me over to see Amie. She smiled warmly and said I looked amazing. He said the fit was perfect and if I wanted, I could take the corset home with me that very day. We talked about the values of the first corset someone buys being a plain, versatile black. I agreed, thinking of all the uses I could put it to.

There was no question that I would buy the corset by then, so I asked him to show me how to lace it. He led me back to the mirror and had me position myself where I could see my back in the angled glass. Then he demonstrated unlacing and re-lacing it, doing it fast and deftly. In fact, he pulled the laces through so fast that they rubbed hot against my skin in a mild rope burn. I couldn't help feeling another wave of pleasure at the combination of near-pain and tension on the lines. I was already thinking, 'I can't believe this is making me so wet.' I admitted as much to Amie after I bought the corset and we made our way home.

"It felt good. It felt very good." I sighed.

"Naughty girl!" She winked.

I couldn't bring myself to say "wet" out loud, but I did say, "I can't believe how excited it made me, to be laced up."

So that's how I got my first corset, and also my first taste of being aroused by something someone else was doing to me: being laced, being docile, being touched and not flinching from it. I felt no attraction to the corset-maker himself, but what he was doing to me, how it made me look and feel, my own body's reactions in that situation...that did stir me. A lot. And that was only the beginning of what he would do to me in future trips to Montreal.