Written by greenhawk
14 Jan 2011
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14 minute read
...sliding into the bath, you instinctively, cuddle up, hugging your legs to your chest despite the warmth of the water. Looking out, you are drawn to Betty's purposeful movements, those heels, depthless black gloss, a beautiful obviously tailored pencil skirt, high waisted, to a soft ivory blouse. How did you not notice these things before, that her nails matched the red of her lips. She wanders to the kitchen, coming back with flutes, and a bottle of champagne, pouring you both a glass at the same time, skillfully stopping the bubbles as they convexed. Drink up , she purrs, don't worry, , it is all about you today, well almost, relax.
With half her drink disappeared, she retrieves a small case from the bedroom, opening it, and taking out some containers and soft cloths. Pushing you forward, pouring cold liquid over your back, shivers, then quickly you feel the washer slide hot water up over your back. Champagne, the hot bath, and her soft deliberate strokes up over your back, across your shoulders, washes some of your hugging resolve, arms falling down, neck bent forward, legs splaying. Stroke after stroke, you are lying back, with your front being washed, then a different cloth, softer, something different a fragrant liquid, and delicate washing of your face. Your hair next, almost purring inside, from the conditioning massage. Your hand is tugged, and opening your eyes, she wants you to stand, putting the flute back in your hand, topping it up, standing still over you, then the cloth sliding down over your breasts, circles around your abdomen, rivulet of waters following the inisde line of your hip. A hand pushing your legs slightly apart, thighs washed at the same time, then one soft cloth slides round to cover yoru bottom, the other pushing up between your legs, wider, changing yoru stance, making you cock your hips somewhat. You open your eyes, see thru the flute, sipping, the smile on her face. What is it, omg, she's enjoying my discomfort, not enjoying the act.
Hand proffered, you take it, stepping from the bath. Large soft white towels draped over you, gently rubbed down. A towel softly squeezing your hair, then wrapped round your head, "we'll do something about that later" whispered in your ear. Talc powder sprinkles down over your body, your arms raised instinctively. soft and dry, led to the kitchen, twirled and your bath attendant smiles. Placing a towel on the kitchen bench, in front of the window, she pats the towel. You oblige popping up on the bench, the sun wrapping you. She seats herself, upon the kitchen stool, putting a towel across her lap, stopping. She pours you another glass of champagne, drinking from your flute before passing it to you. Encircling your ankle with her hand, placing your foot on the towel across her lap. Deftly flicking the emery board across your nails, you are watching, sipping, admiring her content head space of practised skill. From beside you, she reaches for a bottle of polish, it is the same red, lustrous. Winking at you, "my favourite". One by one, natural pink disappears. She stands, sits beside you, a leg either side of you, the towel rested over her front leg, taking your hands, spreading them, feeling them, turning them over, then the emery board touches, flicks and shapes across your nails. Pausing to swap sides, wrapping her legs around, and over your thighs again, your other hand finished. She sits back down in front, places the towel over your thighs, it slips, sliding, she catches it by placing her hands on your knees, it runs over her wrists stopping, looking up and smiling she pushes her hands up the front of your thighs, bunching the towel up in the right place. Smiling at your warming thigh gasp. the towel smoothed out, your nails are coloured red.
Sun drenched, washed by another, pampered groomed by peer... standing , not a trace of bath body hugging left, glowing.
Walking to the room, side by side, she pausing to guide you through doorways. Sit here, she says, as she starts to open lil boxes and bags.
First to be open displayed, is a corset, black, but it's put down beside the larger bag, before you see more. Stockings, removed from a cotton bag, rolled and tied with a ribbon. unravelled, they are silk, defining black line running the back of them. Heels, arching high heel, amazingly beautiful looking, long heel 4" at least, hinting at a challenge, glossingly reflective, simple. The flat square box opened, three strings of pearls sit there, with tear drop pearls placed in the middle.
With a come hither finger movement, you stand and move next to her. A tap of your leg, and you lift your foot, feeling something soft, luxurious brush your calf, the other leg tapped, it slides over it, sliding and shimmying up your legs, over your thighs, you look down, ivory, intricate, lace detailed french knickers encase you, a hand slides up each side of your bottom, cupping and positioning, perfectly fitting to your cheeks. Then the corset is raised in front of you, leather, holding its shape in space, lined inside, black ribbons hanging loose from it's back. Betty begins unhooking the eyelets from the front, you can not believe how many eyelets/hooks, the spacing of them. The metal unhooking is metronomic, enticing. Your arms start to part from your body, ever so slightly. The last hook done, she looks up smiles, a smile that says you both know what is to come, the process, the intimacy of fitting. Lift your arms . Taking a deep reflexive breath as the coolness of the corset is placed across your back, wrapping round your sides, coming together. Betty takes advantage of the exhalation, hooking a few of the middle hooks deftly, then reaching for a wooden handled tool, long slender metal, hooked. She starts either side of the already done up middle hooks, one up, one down, sliding the tool through the clasp, catching the hook, and pulling it into place. You think this is for show, till she gets further up and down, it is not yet ribboned, but tightening. The final hook done, she reaches round, loosening the ribbons near your top, sliding in her hand in to your front, cupping your breast, moulding it, positioning, standing back, looking, one final adjustment, then your other breast, the same gentle but rough positioning. You spare a glance down, your breasts pushed up, out, symmetrical, moving with each breath, the top of the corset, holding you halfway, nipples just buried, the hint of aerole. You can see now, how it will look, flaring out, fitted over your hips, with suspenders dangling. Placing a foot stool before you, and propping your foot on it, Betty carefully rolls a stocking up, then the other, placing them on the bed, within easy reach, you lift your foot, off balance with your torso now restricted, betty places your hand on her shoulder, waits for you to steady. Then starts rolling the stocking up your leg, slowly, surely, feeling the warmth of her hands through the material. Carefully placing your foot back down, you raise the other, placing both your hands on her shoulders now, looking down, watching this woman, dress your leg, your thoughts marrying with the feelings being sent up your leg.
Those elegant oh so high black heels are placed beside the foot stool. Betty looks at you, thinking, and says i think you should sit down for this, I will help you stand, ok.
Sitting back and resting a heel on the footstool, she cradles your heel, sliding the shoe on, extending your foot to cater for the style, with a slight tug, it slips over the extended angle of your heel. You pause for a moment, this fits too well, the underwear, the stockings...oh oh, D has been going through my wardrobe, shocked understanding.
The next shoe slides on easily, both of you knowing the minute turns and roles you play in the fitting now. Pushing the stool aside, Betty stands, reaches for both your hands, you grasp them, looking at each others eyes, standing, trepidation. You look nearly eye to eye with Betty now, she starts to relax her hold of your hands, letting you find the sweet spot of balance, finding the balance of corset and heels.
Now , it is time for a break, it is not long now before D arrives, and we still have a few things to do, not least is doing your ribbons. Come walk with me to the kitchen. You find your legs, gait, quickly, settling into subtle roll of the hips. In the kitchen you stand near the window looking out, more half glasses of champagne poured, your drink appears in front of you, you take it, and absent minded sip, as you stare out. Then a click, makes you turn. Betty has lit a cigarette, drawing deeply, smoke rolling lazy upwards in the sunlight, showing multitude of sun roads. You go to protest, and she places a finger on your lips, shaking her head, a lil chuckle. She stands closer to you, replacing her finger with the cigarette, holding to your lips as you draw back. Back and forth, you share the moment, none said. The moment finished, she finsishes her drink and walks you back to the bedroom.
Seated upon a dining table chair, legs finding comfort spread slightly, strutting to the floor. The towel wrapped round your head, removed, delicately wet hair, hands moving through it, guiding, lifting, hot air blowing over it, final touches laid to it, perfect hold, licks in place. Sliding her dress up, she sits astride you, the final touches ready, tools and jewels cradled in the crevice created by the meeting of two laps. Foundation applied, a considered look, a few more touches n dabs, you can tell she enjoys this, now hold still, her hand barely a centimetre above your cheek, fluid light movements to your eyelids, and lashes, then swapping hands the same dextrous touch to the other orbit. Lipstick in hand, her most treasured moment, for it says more then any other addition to the face. She tells you to smile, pout, open, running the nub over your lips. Finished with a click of the top being replaced. "Beautiful", a slight touch of her lips on yours, then a check to make sure, nothing has changed. "A gift, reminder", she says placing the polish and lipstick on your bedside table.
Standing before the mirror, her behind you, she places the box of pearls, and silver/pearl tear drops on the table, lifting one string out, seperating the clasp, and hanging it around your neck, finding the right spot, resting it, clasped once again. Holding the second string around, her eyes, trouble, hesitate for a moment. No, two will not work, do you justice, nor three, your neck, front just needs simple complementing, not busying. Placing it back in the box. The earrings hang wonderfully, perfect length.
Touching your sholders, helping you raise, leading you to the wall, holding your shoulders looking at you, she smiles and says, "it's not personal, darling, but needs to be done properly", hint of an evil chuckle mixes with the final words. Now place your hands on the wall, get as close as you can. She spins you toward the wall, and immediately you rustle of material running through holes...
The sound of material running through, is getting sharper, shorter and louder. Firmness is coming, with each one tightened, you are sure timed with your breath. Then a whisper in your ear, Hold steady, . A firm pressure placed in the small of your back, harder, it is her knee, holding you, countering the strength she is pulling through the holes. surely she must be done soon, but you feel adjustments happening, near the middle of your back, not even half way. From your angled lean to the wall, looking down over your breasts, you can see your waist disappear under your rib cage, your hips developing a flattening top to them, the curve distinct from ribs to waist hips, breathless smile. The pressure in your back changes, she must have changed legs, and it is now much higher, you wonder how she is able to do this in those heels, still not as high as the ones you are mastering with love and appreciation. The last is tied, you hear a testing plucking of a finger running down the back. , time to move away from the wall, turn, come here, walk.
you push away, standing, looking into the mirror, your Corsetter beside you. A moment of silence as you both admire the art, the shape, the curve, how everything fits, complements each other piece of the journey. Betty hands you a glass of champagne, you savour small sips, swallows, and watch stretched, standing tall, as Betty packs all away, back into her bag, leaving a roll of velvet, tied with soft braid. Putting the pearl box away, then stopping, looking back at you, taking them out, laying them beside the velvet roll. There is a knock at the door, catching you mid sip, Betty doesn't miss a beat, smooth fluid movements packing things away, complete. Without looking up, "Thank you , I've had such a wonderful day. You look stunning, absolutely beautiful, exuding quintessential woman". You watch, hear her, take her bag to the front door, the sound of a door opening.
Standing, waiting. Two sets of footsteps, one heels, the other, the slight smacking of a man's wooden soled dress shoes on floorboards.
Betty appears in the doorway, moves to the bed, taking the pearls from their case. You are looking from doorway to her, rests the pearls unclasped hanging over your shoulder, the bottom of one tingling between your breasts, nestled, rolling slightly with your breath. She reaches round, caressing your wrists, pulling them back behind you, crossing them over, behind, at the rise of your bottom. Hold there, . One string disappears, sliding round your wrists, wrapping, balls pressing, the clasp tightened. The last string is pulled back over your shoulder, the kiss between your breasts, teased and lingered, and as it slides up. Twisted, married with its partner, firming the meeting of your wrists. Your hands let go, resting against, a test, struggle, finding the strength of the intertwining. Turned to face the doorway, from the corner of vision, you see Betty pick the velvet roll up, walk, to you. Standing, with an excited sigh or beautiful realisation, she unravels the velvet, holding in her hand a black riding crop, leather wrapped handle.
, open your mouth. Lips parting, hesitant. The unknown. Carefully placing the crop perfectly in your mouth, centred, fondly pushing your mouth shut. Enjoy , don't move, he'll be here soon.
Your eyes focused in close on Betty sense movement, and flick up. Seeing me in the lounge room, taking off my suit jacket, showing the vest to a three piece, sharkskin grey. I sense your gaze, my eyes come up, smiling, as I roll the sleeves up of my shirt.
Our view obscured as Betty leaves, stopping next to me, an acquaintance cheek kiss swapped, eyes found yours again, staying with them. You overhear broken sentences, chopped words. Beautiful... lovely day... exquisite... thank you Betty... my pleasure... Wonderig what the content, meaning, of all those missed words was.
My hand in the small of her back, guiding her to the door, sounds of the door closing, and those shoes on the floor boards again, my frame filling the doorway, pausing, you watch my eyes run over your body, coming back to certain spots, lingering upon your face, Your feet in those heels, your calves elongated, appreciation of the lace upon your thighs, those hips, your hips, a slight lean of my head to see more of the curve of your bottom, your hips, the contrast of the leather to your french underwear, stockings. the curve of your neck to shoulders, accentuated by your arms pulled behind... mmmm your eyes again, your lips, audrey hair.
Walking over, placing my hand on the crop, waiting for your lips to release, leaning in, whispering Hello -san, a soft kiss following, my eyes open, hands reaching round behind, pulling your elbows up a bit, sliding the crop in the crook of your elbows, nestled against your back, making your arms tighter, pulling down more, my hands come back to your face cradling it, kissing you, holding you.