Total pages in book: 103
Estimated words: 94181 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 471(@200wpm)___ 377(@250wpm)___ 314(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 94181 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 471(@200wpm)___ 377(@250wpm)___ 314(@300wpm)
“I’m here to help with the corset. Arms up,” she said brightly, as if helping a half-naked girl into a discipline corset was the most natural thing in the world. She had the black satin draped over her forearm and was already unfastening the row of hook-and-eye closures at the back, her small fingers moving with the practiced efficiency of someone who’d done this dozens of times.
I raised my arms. The motion lifted my bare breasts, and I felt the cool studio air against my nipples—already tight, already responding to the anticipation of what was about to encase them. I had to look away from Amy’s cheerful, unselfconscious face because the casualness of her manner only amplified the humiliation of what was happening.
She wrapped the corset around my torso from behind, settling the bottom edge against my hips and positioning the structured half-cups beneath my breasts with a few deft adjustments. Her fingers were warm and matter-of-fact against my skin as she tugged the fabric into place, centering the boning along my ribs, making sure the lace panels sat symmetrically over the strips of bare skin they were designed to expose.
“Hold this here,” she said, pressing the front of the corset against my stomach. I gripped the satin with both hands while she moved behind me and began fastening the hooks, working from the bottom upward. Each closure drew the corset tighter around my midsection—a progressive, incremental compression that gathered force as she moved higher. I felt my waist narrow. I felt my posture change, my spine straightening involuntarily as the boning enforced an alignment that no amount of conscious effort could have replicated. The corset didn’t suggest good posture. It demanded it.
“Breathe out for me,” Amy said when she reached the hooks at the narrowest point, just below my ribs. I exhaled, and she fastened three closures in rapid succession, and the compression locked in with a finality that made me gasp on the inhale. The breath came back shorter than the one I’d released. The corset wasn’t cruel, exactly, but the restriction was unmistakable. I could breathe, but I couldn’t breathe deeply. I could expand my lungs, but only to the degree the boning permitted.
“Almost there,” Amy murmured. Her fingers climbed higher, and the last few hooks seated my breasts into the half-cups with a lift and a presentation that I felt before I could look down to see it. The cups pushed upward from beneath, shaping the soft weight of my breasts into something rounder, higher, more deliberately offered. The upper curves swelled above the satin edge like something rising, and I could feel the moment the textured lining of the cups made contact with my nipples.
The whisper of friction seemed so subtle it might have been imaginary, except that my nipples responded with an instantaneous, traitorous hardening that pressed them more firmly into the responsive fabric, which in turn increased the sensation, which in turn made them harder, and I understood with a lurch of my stomach that the feedback loop Melissa had described was already beginning its work.
“Perfect,” Amy said, and slipped back through the curtain as I looked at myself in the small mirror.
The girl who looked back bore no resemblance to the intern in polka dots who’d walked into Selecta’s lobby. She bore no resemblance to the Sunday-school girl in training panties, either, or even to the wanton creature in red lace who’d been carried across a studio and fucked until she screamed. This girl was something else. Something darker.
The black corset cinched my waist, flared my hips, and pushed my breasts up into pale, trembling offerings above the lace. The stockings sheathed my legs in a darkness that made the bare skin of my upper thighs glow by contrast. The tiny black panties were barely visible—just a narrow triangle of lace that covered the cleft of my pussy and disappeared between my legs, the silk ribbons at my hips like lines of calligraphy written on my body.
My nipples were already visibly hard through the lace panels. Between my legs, the responsive fabric had begun its quiet, relentless work, and I could feel the first bloom of wetness gathering—wetness that the panties would sense, that would activate more texture, that would produce more arousal, in an escalating spiral that had no natural endpoint except the one a man decided to provide.
I was quaking with nervousness and arousal when I stepped through the curtain and onto the den set.
Darlene was already positioned behind the main camera, her cropped silver hair catching the warm light as she made a final adjustment to the lens. A second camera on a dolly track sat at the edge of the set, operated by one of her technicians. Melissa stood at the monitors with her arms crossed, and when she saw me emerge, something passed across her face—a quick, involuntary intake of breath, a widening of her eyes—before she schooled her expression into professional approval.