Mon Corset

August 11, 1788        
       
Mon Cher D.        
       
I love it when you buy me clothing. Fashions for me to wear, meant for you to then take off me. Fabrics fair and fine, brought from far away. Trussing me up the way that you desire. Making me into everything I should be, according to your design. You make my world somehow beautiful.        
       
That is especially true of this new corset you gave me. Thin and sheer, all in black. Fitted with stiff whale bone, to ensure it keeps me… perfect. Made my breasts spill over the top. My waist disappeared as the hourglass emerged ever timeless.        
       
All the while I controlled my breath. Watched my breasts rise, then fall. Savored the symmetry of my body molded to become your Pandora. No jewelry, no hairpins, only the strict corset. I was femininity now captured, adorned for your adoration.        
       
I watched you watching me. Tried to read your mind, the wicked poetry you recite only to yourself. The things you have taught me, will pale in what truth lies ahead. My fear had given way to curiosity, from curiosity to desire.        
       
“Turn around.” Your voice startled me out of my fancy. I turned slowly, as you taught me. “Now bend over,” you added. I lowered down until I was parallel to the floor. Geometry and symmetry, you taught me their beauty.        
       
You approached.        
       
I felt myself tense, then relaxed. Imagining the splendid picture I made. A work of art, made by the loving hands of the artistic. With your sometime harsh brush. What came next? I tried to guess, then took a breath.        
       
That is when you placed it there. An empty champagne flute, perfectly balanced on my derriere. Before I could react, you began filling it.        
       
“Dom Perignon,  Dix Sept Quatre Vingt Deux.” Six years ago, a splendid vintage. The chill of the champagne traveled down the crystal stem. I could feel it on my backside.        
       
You returned to your chaise.        
       
“What do you not want me to know.” The obligatory question had an air of urgency about it. I struggled to answer. My mind swirling between the tightness of the corset, the strenuous position, and your total domination at this moment. I was so vulnerable and yet…          
       
“I don’t know why you chose me… why me.” Tears popped from my eyes. Puddled on the floor beneath me.        
       
“It was you… who chose me.” I carefully wiped my nose, wary of the still balanced sparkling wine. “You have always been in control here…” You were right, with a mere word all of this would end. I would be free. I would return to the prison of my life, where others wrote the script.        
       
“I am beautiful…” My words came out part question, part answer. Then they hung there, dangling like my hair, my breasts. Old feelings of fleeing started to return. The longer you waited to reply, the worst these feelings got.        
       
“Oui, tu es belle,” tu, the familiar you. Not vous this time, the last appearance of formality gone. I smiled, then sniffled.        
       
“How do you do it?” I paused. “How to go outside of this room, then pretend to someone else. Be proper, keep up appearances. Pretend to be normal?” I heard you rise and come toward me. You picked up the flute, I heard you take a sip.        
       
“Be seated,” you seemed to dismiss my question. “Rise, turn and face me.” I complied. My eyes cast down at you highly polished boots. “Look into my eyes.” My gaze rose slowly. With that you promptly returned to your seat. Motioned for me to kneel. I returned to my place.        
       
I started to assume my submissive posture, the one you taught me. But you stopped me with a gesture. We sat like this for what seemed like hours. Eyes meeting eyes. I became self-conscious of my matted hair, my reddened eyes, tear soaked cheeks. Then I remember you had seen me far worse than this.        
       
“Women want to be desired,” you said to no one in particular. “We men long to desire.” You seem to mull over the words. Then satisfied with the logic, you continued. “Prize and conquest.” You sipped your champagne. I licked my salty lips.        
       
You reached into your pocket, pulled out a short silver chain. On the end of it I noticed two ornate clamps. You repeatedly open and closed on, as if to demonstrate. “Do you know what these are?”        
       
I shook my head yes. Instinctively placed my hands behind my head, leaned back. Fully presenting my breasts. They were blossoming in response to the change in mood.        
       
Conservation was over.