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.
