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Cathedrals of Lace
All stories on this web site are purely FICTIONAL. The people depicted within these stories only exist in someone's IMAGINATION. Any resemblence between anyone depicted in these stories and any real person, living or dead, is an incredible COINCIDENCE too bizarre to be believed. If you think that you or someone you know is depicted in one of these stories it's only because you're a twisted perverted little fucker who sees conspiracies and plots where none exist. You probably suspect that your own MOTHER had sex with ALIENS and COWS and stuff. Well, she didn't. It's all in your head. Now take your tranquilizers and RELAX.
Cathedrals of Lace
A Story of Lingere & Corsets
by
Mr. Grey
I wander the streets of Strassbourg, searching out the
locations of the shops I am seeking. I glance sideways at their
windows as I pass by, remembering and examining the displays in
my mind's eye. I stop to the side of a shop, pretending I am
looking in the window of the boulangerie next door while glancing
furtively to one side to examine the items all stretched and
pinned out on display.
I explore the streets in ever larger spirals around the
cathedral. I peek down the alleys looking for signs. Signs with
roses or lace.
I screw up my courage. I walk past the store I have chosen.
I turn and I walk past again. I look in the window, examining
the display.
I reach out my hand, open the door and enter.
A stranger. The curtains in the dressing booths rustle.
Backs stiffen. Heads turn. I am stared at over cold shoulders.
Boxes hiding treasures line one wall. Tables drip with lace.
Silks hang in rows on their hangers. Posters hang from the
cornice moldings.
I catch myself short. I turn quickly to the racks of hanging
silks.
I notice the sizes in cm. I compute in my head. I think of
my love in the laces I will bring her from across the seas. I
find my courage again.
I reach the end of the rack. The woman waits for me there.
She asks if she can help. All that I learned in my language
lessons flies from my head.
I gesture with my hands. I point at an old poster showing a
garment that is no longer made. The women giggles and shakes her
head.
She asks me the size I am looking for and I tell her. In
french, german and english. I hope that I get it right in at
least one language. She nods her head.
Then she turns to the wall of boxes and takes one down from a
top shelf.
She pushes aside the silks on the table and opens the box. She
takes articles from the box. She sets aside the black ones. She
sets aside the white ones.
She finds the one she is looking for and spreads it on the
table. An article all in faded peach pinks. She looks up at me
with a confident smile. To tell me she can read my mind.
I look at the corset spread on the table. Satin is worked
over the outside. The stays are held in their pockets with tiny
stitches. Lace rises to gently brush against the breasts of my
love. Lace falls from the bottom to grace and frame the part of
her that she keeps just for me.
I pick it up and feel the fine lining. I examine the silk
bows and flowers, the satin ribbons, the garters. The flat soft
lace has been threaded through the eyelets at the back. Tied off
at the bottom with a bow. Two hanks of lace fall from the middle
of the corset to tighten it at the waist.
I look up at the woman with a foolish grin and nod my head.
She asks me if I want stockings. I grunt "non" in my
embarrassment. She is not convinced. She leads me across the
store. She pulls a pair of stockings from their wrapper. Lays
one across my hand. It is so fine that it is almost not there.
It feels like a breath of wind on my hand. At its top it is fine
lace. I mumble "Ah oui, merci."
She opens a drawer. She rummages, mumbles to herself with
satisfaction and removes a pair of panties. She turns and hands
them to me for inspection. They are satin, in same shade of
faded peach pink. Beautifully patterned at the front. Held at
the hips with bands of puckered satin elastic. Lined in soft
white cotton. I nod my head. "Oui, merci."
She wraps my purchases in tissue paper. Places them in a box.
I hand her my credit card. She nods and takes it. Runs it
through the machine. I sign the receipt. I glance at the total
and pretend not to be taken aback.
I leave the store with a triumphant grin on my face. I look
up at the cathedral spire and see it glowing red above the town
as it catches and re-radiates the last light of the day. I can
sense the foolish grin that has spread uncontrollably across my
face. I breath the spring air and take it deep into my lungs.
I run through the intersections. I hold up my hand and stop
the crazed french traffic to cross the street.
In the hotel, I take my purchases from their wrappings and
place them under my pillow. I sleep with my hand under the
pillow to feel them. That night I dream of my love.
On the flight back home I dutifully list everything on the
customs card - I declare my purchases to the government with
pride in my heart.
At the customs table the inspector looks at my card.
Questions the declared value. Asks me if I have done the
conversion from francs correctly. Tells me what the duty will
be. Asks to see the merchandise. I look at him. I say "It's
lingerie. You want to see lingerie?" He blushes. Takes a black
magic marker and eradicates my declaration from the back of the
card. Tells me to leave. Fast. Get out of his sight. He
doesn't want my money.
The next day at home, I unpack. I lay the corset, the panties
and the stockings out upon the bed. I go the to living room and
take my love by the hand. Ask her to close her eyes and lead her
into the bedroom.
She opens her eyes and laughs.
"Where did you buy all that?" she asks. She takes the corset
and holds it to her body. Walks to the mirror to see herself.
She turns and says "You're silly!"
She pulls off her heals. Drops her skirt. Undoes her blouse.
Peals off her underwear.
She takes the corset and hands it to me. She stands in front
of me and waits.
With trembling hands I unhook the busk. I swing the corset
around her and try to fasten it. I can not.
I spread the corset on the bed and loosen the laces. I try
again. This time I get the busk hooked at the top. With both
our hands we get the busk fastened. She looks at me, gives me
half a grin and shakes her head to tell me "The things I do for
you!"
She turns around to present me with the laces. I start to
tighten them from the top by grabbing the laces between the
eyelets, crossing them and pulling down. I work the pulled lace
to the middle and pull it out at the waist. I pull the laces
tight from the bottom, and again work the pulled lace to the
hanks at her waist.
My love feels her body becoming stiff and constrained. She
feels what is happening to her with her hands. She totters a
little and holds her hand out to the dresser to steady herself.
I cross the hanks at her waist and pull on them. I say "I
think I bought the wrong size. It is awfully tight."
"It's supposed to be" she replies. "Isn't that what you
want?"
I give the hanks a final tug. She gasps, catches herself and
rises to her tiptoes. I kneel in front of her and tie the hanks
together in a bow at her waist. I lower my lips and I kiss her.
I place my hands at her waist and realize I can almost encircle
it.
She again looks at herself in the mirror. Then she crosses
the room and lays herself on the bed. She does it carefully,
exploring how the corset restrains her movements.
She takes a stocking and holds it out to me. She raises one
leg and looks at me.
I roll the stocking up and slip it over her extended foot. I
unroll it down her leg. Pulling it gently over her skin. I come
to her thigh. I arrange the lace at the top of the stocking so
that it caresses her thigh. I pull on the garters. Carefully
adjust their tension. Fasten the stocking to the garters.
She lowers her leg. Takes the other stocking. Holds it out to
me. Raises the other leg.
I perform my ritual again.
She rolls herself of the bed. Takes the panties. Hands them
to me. I kneel at her feet. She steadies herself with one hand
on my shoulder. I present the panties to her and she steps into
them as I present the leg holes. I raise them to her hips and
settle the elastic. I hook my fingers under the front and run
them down through the crotch and to her buttocks to settle the
panties around her.
She walks to the mirror. Stands up on her tip toes. Runs her
hands over her sides. Traces her new outline. Cups her breasts.
Turns and examines herself in the mirror again.
She slips on her heels. Puts on her blouse. Comes to me so
that I can do up the myriad small buttons on the high frilled
collar.
She takes her dress and slips it over her head. She settles
it at her waist. She undoes the dress and adjusts some
mysterious inside buttons. Then does the waist band up again.
Goes to the mirror and smooths and settles her clothes just by
passing her hands over them. She strokes them into conformance.
She strokes to feel her body under her clothes. She strokes over
the corset, over the garters, over the tops of the stockings.
She learns about herself again.
"Come," she says, "we have a meeting to attend tonight, and I
have to make dinner first."
As I waltz around the kitchen, taking things from the 'fridge
and laying out plates and forks and knives, I notice how she
leans over the stove with a spoon to sample the contents of a far
pot. She bends at the hips. She moves one foot forward so that
she can keep her balance. She reflexively places an arm across
her chest, as if she can prevent herself from tipping over.
After dinner I clean up the dishes and she says "I have to run
up and change." I catch myself short and look at her. "Don't
worry, I am not taking it off."
After dinner we drive off to the meeting. She sits beside me
in the car. I place my hand on her knee. She shifts in her seat
and spreads her legs apart slightly. She touches my arm and
slides my hand up her leg. I slip the small finger of my hand
under the crotch of her panties. I run my finder over the soft
hair. I slip my finger down and part her lips. My finger is
greeted with wetness.
"I am ready for you," she says, "I always am, aren't I?"
We select a pair of seats in the back of the auditorium. With
the lights down I slip my hand up her skirt and stroke her
thighs. I run my fingers under the straps of the garters and
over the snaps where they secure the tops of her stockings. As
the meeting drags on, she leans forward and says "Scratch my
back, will you? The corset itches."
I run my nails across the slippery fabric of her blouse. I
feel the new spine that has been made for her by the herringbone
pattern of the tightly drawn laces at her back. I scratch her
between the steel boning that encases her and tapers her. She
moves in her seat to bring more of her body within the range of
my scratching.
At the end of the meeting she goes on stage to work on some
business. She perches on the edge of the chair. Her back is
ram-rod straight and she holds her head up high. I look at the
men on the stage looking at her. I look into their eyes and
through their eyes and feel their lust for her.
I walk up on stage and she rises and kisses me. She rises on
her toes and kisses me again, this time shooting her tongue into
my mouth. She tells all the men watching her that she is for me.
And she tells all the women who are now watching me that I belong
to her.
We drive home. I drive. She sits next to me and again asks me
to scratch her.
"You really like me in a corset," she says. "What is it about
corsets that men like so much?"
"I really don't know," I reply. "My grandmother used to wear
one. I remember as a small boy sitting on her bed in the
mornings, swinging my legs and asking questions as young boys do
while my Grandfather laced her in. She kept it up until she died
at the age of 80. People who didn't know about it marveled at
her figure, and would say 'I hope I can look like you when I
reach your age.' I remember that even without her corset on she
was statuesque."
"Ah, so you are trying to turn me into your grandmother," she
says. "That's a new twist on Oedipus -- skip a generation to add
some variety."
"It's also that you do this for me, that you wear a corset to
turn me on," I reply. "You tell everybody that you are in
submission. That you have restrained yourself. Its a bit like
the high heels you always wear."
"Oh," she says. "I wear heels because I like them. They make
me feel good, nice, powerful, men like them, although it is nice
to take them off sometimes."
"Doesn't the corset make you feel powerful?" I ask. "I saw
everybody looking at you when you were on the stage."
"Oh, you noticed. John put his hand at my waist once and then
he drew it back fast. He was startled. He just looked at me
with a puzzled expression and couldn't figure out what to say. I
told him that you like it, and I do it for you. I think that
really got to him. He's a dirty old man though, he's always out
for a feel."
"Do you want me to have a talk with him?" I asked. "I would
be delighted to tell him to leave you alone. I mean, what's the
point of being a big dumb male if you can't do big dumb male
things now and then."
"You don't have to be a bully," she replied. "John is
intimidated by you already. After tonight I think he is probably
terrified."
"Why?" I ask.
"It's a big dumb male thing, so why don't you figure it out.
Now, scratch me a bit lower."
I scratch her, and then I put my arm around her and pull her
towards me. I kiss her hair and lay my cheek on the top of her
head and say "I love you."
She says nothing, just puts her arms around me and hugs. I
take her breast in my hand. I feel it held up and defined by the
underwiring of the corset. I feel the starched lace of the cup
covering the top of the breast. The lace seems to hover just
over her skin. I feel the nipple through the satin of the lower
cup and I take the nipple between my thumb and forefinger and
twirl it and pinch it. She squirms in her seat and thrusts her
body up against me.
I lower my hand and feel the front busk of the corset. I run
my hand over the concavity of her stomach. I feel the boning as
it runs from her breasts down to her waist. I feel how the
waistband of her skirt hangs loosely like a hoop around her now
slender waist. My hand moves down and follows the boning as it
flairs over her hips. I stroke her thigh and feel the straps of
the garters, the garter clips and the lace band at the top of her
stockings.
"Do you know that you are in love with a fetishist?" I ask
her.
"I know," she says. "I love you the more because of it.
Because I know your needs. You tell me and show me what you
want, and I am part of it. I know that I can fulfil your
desires. I feel secure."
"Give me your hand," she says. She takes my hand and runs it
up and down her body, across the busk. She moves my hand to her
breast and holds it there with both her hands.
"I love you," I say. And, somehow, it is not enough. The
feeling I have in my throat and in the pit of my stomach tells me
how much I care for her, and it is more than I can ever say.
I pull the car into the driveway. We get out of the car and
enter the house. She takes me by the hand and leads me to the
bedroom. She undresses me. I undress her. She again looks at
herself in the mirror. Runs her hands over her hourglass shape.
She tells me to sit on the edge of the bed. She sits on my
lap, facing away from me. She says "Give my your hands." She
takes my hands and encircles her tiny waist with them. I feel
the stiffness of the corset again. I squeeze her waist some
more. She groans and leans back against me. She rubs the
herringbone of the laces into my chest. She reaches down and
places me in her.
I bite the back of her neck, and she squirms. He breathing
becomes ragged. I find myself losing control. We fuse into one
being.
I grasp her corseted form to me in a bear hug. I kiss the
back of her neck. I grab her breasts.
As the passions subsides the kisses become slow and gentle. I
lick her neck and shoulders with the rough part of my tongue.
She giggles.
I start to unlace the corset. She takes my hands and stills
them. She says "I will always wear it. I will do this for you."
And I am left speechless.
Mr. Grey -- overwhelmed by love
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