The Magic Corset

One of a quartet of stories I self-published a few years ago under the title

The Magic Corset

, but I think it will find a more appreciative readership here on

Literotica

...

*

They say you should start the new year the way you mean to live it, and I desperately needed to start my life anew. Almost a year had passed since the accident that had robbed me of my husband in the icy late-January winter. Since that fateful day I had slept in the spare room, venturing into our bedroom only to collect my clothes and make-up as needed. But a year of mourning was enough, and at last I determined to reclaim my life, to celebrate what we had had together but to move on in search of an almost forgotten happiness.

I missed him so much. There were still many nights where I cried myself to sleep, or woke in the morning from dreaming of him to the reality of his absence. Increasingly, though, and this was a source of some internal conflict, guilt warring with frustration to the point of panic, I was horny. I have always been highly sexed, and a whole year without it, with only the cold comfort of my vibrators, had stirred a ferocious hunger in me, set my imagination on overdrive.

My heart was still stuck on Alan - the mere thought of living with, and loving, someone else felt like a betrayal - but sex... Yes, I could do sex. Fucking, after all, was just fucking. Besides, my husband had always had this fantasy of me sleeping with other men. I had always thought him weird about that, but it was starting to feel an awful lot like permission.

Yet I couldn't do anything unfaithful to him so long as there was such a tangible presence in the house. Clearing the bedroom was the first step. On New Year's Eve I took a day off work and dedicated it to that heart-breaking task - and I almost couldn't do it. I lay on our bed sobbing for hours, clutching mementos of our too-short romance. But it was cathartic, and afterwards I grabbed a roll of black bin bags and stuffed one after another with shoes and clothes and toiletries - the smell of his aftershave reduced me to tears again, but that too went - and books and magazines.

By late afternoon it was all gone, all save the object on top of the tall wardrobe. I had no idea what it was, had no memory of it beyond a subliminal awareness that it had been there at least since the accident. It was wrapped in brown paper, though whether it was a parcel received or unsent I couldn't tell.

I brought a chair through to stand on, and lifted it down carefully. It was heavy! And it was addressed to me: Mrs Amy Simpson. A gift for me, no doubt. A surprise. I fought back a fresh assault of tears as I unwrapped it carefully, lovingly, laughing to find a gorgeous pair of black leather boots with high stiletto heels, zips and buckles, and laces all the way to above the knees. Total stripper wear, a bedroom fantasy. I could just imagine him searching the internet for hours to find the perfect fuck-me heels.

And there was more. Matching black leather gloves that stretched to the elbows. Sheer silk stockings that must have cost a fortune, and a black garter belt to go with them. And a leopard-skin corset that could almost be made of real leopard skin. The soft fur was beautiful - hypnotically so.

I had to try it on, and straight away. I stripped in record time and sat on the bed to work my legs into the stockings. They looked so delicate, but felt strong, and the smooth perfection of the material stoked the fire of my arousal, which had been simmering gently for weeks. Not bothering with knickers - I was just trying it on, after all - I fixed the garter belt around my waist, hooked the stockings to it, and twirled in front of the mirror. I'm not usually a stockings girl, but these were undeniably sexy. I was undeniably sexy.

But I wasn't ready yet. I felt incomplete. I laced myself into the corset, adjusting the fit carefully before tugging the laces tight. I watched myself do this in the mirror, daring myself to pull tighter than ever before, imagining Alan's hands pulling roughly at the laces. (This was not the first corset he had bought for me.) I had always complained, worried about the pressure and permanent damage, but without him, in memory of him, to please him, I pulled past the point of complaint.

The sight of my narrowed waist in the mirror, the corset a tight sleeve, my breasts projecting lewdly above, my nipples like bullets,... I had to touch myself, to slip a finger into the nest between my legs, into my so-very-wet centre. All I needed now was...

The boots fit perfectly, to my surprise. I always have difficulty finding shoes that fit. Suddenly I was tall. It's amazing how much six inches changes your perspective. I worked my arms into the long gloves to complete then outfit, then looked in the mirror, adopted a sultry expression, and said, "I would so fuck you right now." The absurdity of saying it out loud made me laugh again, but I was in love with the sexy outfit.

I would never have dared to go outside wearing this, but my imagination was running riot. Walking down a crowded street, hands reaching out of nowhere to grab my breasts or feel my ass, fingers brushing my clit. Knowing that the wet folds of my pussy would be visible to roving eyes.

My fingers encouraged this fantasy, while with my other hand I alternated between my nipples, pinching hard until the pain made me gasp. After a minute, I abandoned the mirror, lay back on the bed and just concentrated on the building tension. I imagined Alan beside me, watching me, his fingers not mine stroking my clit, his lips sucking harshly at my nipples.

The corset forced my breathing to be shallow, and increasingly rapid as my climax approached, but its tight embrace was wonderful. I felt like a creature of sex, and wished Alan could see me now, dressed in his gift, fucking myself frantically with my leather-clad fingers, wetting the bed suddenly with a gush of fluid as I came, crying out incoherently, panting, convulsing.

It was the most intense orgasm I'd had recently, and I felt almost as if I'd just made love. As I lay there on the bed, luxuriating in self-satisfied post-orgasmic bliss, I fell asleep, and at some point I dreamed that Alan was making love to me, his hard cock filling me, but it got complicated the way dreams often do.

When I awoke at last, it was getting dark outside and the house was cold and gloomy. I was disorientated at first, cold and shivering and not entirely sure where I was, but the memories soon rushed in and I smiled. I was thirsty and needed a shower, and something to wear.

As I headed for the kitchen, switching lights and heating on as I went, I tried to unlace the corset, which felt tighter than I remembered it, but my fingers couldn't find the bow. Frustrated, I stood with my back to a mirror and peered backwards - and frowned in confusion. There was no bow. In fact, the lacing on the corset seemed to be entirely decorative. I couldn't find any seams or catches. I couldn't find any way to get out of the corset short of cutting through it with scissors - and I wasn't prepared to ruin this beautiful gift from my husband.

The boots and gloves proved no less resistant to removal, bows and zips gone and buckles and laces decorative. The stockings seemed locked to the garters, and the garter belt bonded to the corset. I couldn't understand it. It was as though someone had undressed me while I slept and then bound me in almost identical clothing. The thought of that gave me chills, but I didn't believe it. There was something magical about it, and I didn't believe in magic.

Feeling rather glum, I decided to ignore the question of clothing for the moment, wrapped myself in my dressing gown and headed for the kitchen. There I made a sandwich, only to realise I wasn't actually all that hungry, but I was thirsty enough to drink a whole pint of milk.

I sat there feeling angry and confused, and also too restless to sit for long. Soon I was pacing about the house searching for some solution to my predicament. In retrospect, the first symptoms of paralysis were apparent even then, an awkwardness of movement, a clumsiness that I attributed to the unaccustomed height of my heels, the inconvenience of the gloves and the constriction of the corset - and my strange clothes were enough of a worry without facing the possibility that a far more serious problem was gradually presenting.

Besides, if the heels made walking a challenge, and if the corset made breathing difficult, the smooth silk of the stockings rubbed my legs gently, seductively, excitingly, reminding me constantly that I was dressed for sex.

And I wanted it badly. And I didn't want fingers or vibrators. I was sick to death of self-pleasure. I didn't just want an orgasm, I wanted to be fucked, hard and long, and I didn't care by whom.

I swapped my dressing gown for a coat - a summer coat that didn't cover much more than my corset but was enough to avoid getting arrested - and phoned for a taxi to take me to the singles bar where Alan and I first met. It was in that momentary calm that I finally observed the strangeness of my movements, the reluctance of my body to relax.

I was posable! I could still move at will, there was nothing wrong with my senses, but unless I consciously moved, my body would maintain position. This should have worried me more, but again I didn't really believe it, dismissing it as my mind playing tricks on me, or as a side-effect of the corset's too-tight embrace affecting my circulation somehow.

In the taxi I was impatient to get there, impatient to feel flesh pressed against mine, warm, soft. Hard. I felt like a junkie, a sex addict itching for a fix. I was so agitated, so distracted, it was only when we arrived at the bar that I realised I'd spent the whole journey with my hand in my crotch, massaging my clit, the same hand that I had then used to hand cash to the driver.

Worse than that, my need for sex was such that, for a moment, I considered even the driver. Overweight and in his fifties, and with a gleam of lust and lechery in his judgemental eyes, if he had actually dared to take from me more than the fare, I would have given willingly.

Likewise the bouncers at the door, sharp in their suits, superbly muscled. I wondered, as I passed between them, what it would be like to be squeezed between them, to be helpless in their hands as they penetrated fore and aft with their masts. They wouldn't even need to undress me. The cool night air was teasingly sharp against the wet bareness of my thighs and pussy. But they too missed their chance.

I went straight to the dance floor, scanning the crowd there as I moved to the beat, as I swayed my hips, as I brushed casually against this man, or that, as I searched their eyes for - I don't know what exactly. More than the heat of lust. A determination to possess me completely, to use me for the slut I was, to use me for all I was worth.

I was out of control, acting so uncharacteristically, but all I could think about was finding a man - and then I did. He was nothing special to look at, he was quite unremarkable, ordinary, no athlete, no rock star. He was neatly dressed, but not rich. A dull red button-up shirt and jeans. Short, dark hair and blue eyes. But the expression in those eyes as he examined me was possessive and absolute and I knew immediately I had found what I was looking for.

We met in the middle of the dance floor. He grabbed my ass to pull me close, I pulled his head down until our lips pressed in an urgent kiss, tongues locked in a fencing match. His hand drifted cautiously to my front, and I encouraged its exploration, moaning with pleasure as his fingers discovered me.

"I want you," I shouted, my mouth close to his ear. The music was loud, throbbing, pulsing. "Now!"

He grinned, and wrapping a hand about my wrist he tugged me after him, out of the bar to the taxi rank. It was properly dark but still early, and there was no wait. Less than ten minutes since I had arrived, and now I was leaving. This taxi was bigger, with plastic faux-leather seats that were cold against the bare skin of my thighs. I had intended to adjust my coat as a barrier against that, but my paralysis had worsened suddenly.

I fell onto the seat, legs parted, treating the taxi driver to a clear view of my glistening bush and the wet pussy nestled within. My lover - Bob, though I didn't learn his name until the following day - grinned again when he turned and saw me flashing the driver. I was trying desperately to move, to close my legs, and was close to panic when at last my body seemed to wake again.

It was only a few seconds, a few terrifying heartbeats, but it was enough time for the taxi to set off for the address Bob had given, and for Bob to open my coat. With a sigh of pleasure he dived down to suck my left nipple, his hand once again exploring my pussy. My terror was quickly forgotten as his fingers teased my clit. I made a mental note to see the doctor as soon as possible - it could wait. I had more urgent needs.

The short journey, the climb up the stairs to his apartment, kissing in the hallway, stripping him of his clothes, all these things are something of a blur. I was lost in my hunger for him. I hadn't had sex in a year and all that frustration seemed focused on this moment. I remember clearly the moment I saw his cock at last, erect, beautiful, long and thick, everything I could ask for. I knelt and took it in my mouth, making love to it with lips and tongue, and cheeks, working it gradually deeper into my throat. Alan had always joked that he married me for my deep throat skill, which usually earned him a punch on the arm.

Bob led me to his bed and pushed me onto it. I spread my legs wide in invitation - or tried to. The move was only half completed. My legs ignored my attempts to move them, although the rest of me still responded.

"Fuck!" I hissed, frustrated that this problem was getting in the way of sex.

Bob took it as a command. "Yes, Ma'am," he said, grinning, and spread my legs for me.

His cock was unsheathed. I thought of asking him to get a condom, but in the delay of putting it on he would surely notice my weird paralysis, and I wanted sex, not a long and confusing conversation. Besides, sex is better without.

It hurt as he stretched me. He was big, and it was ages since I had had a cock in there. But I was very wet, and the pain dissipated quickly. "Oh fuck yes," I cried as his entire length thrust into me at last. I tried to adjust position, and tried to move my hips in time with his thrusting, but the paralysis was spreading.

He paused suddenly. "You can move, you know."

"Actually I can't," I whispered, not even able to speak properly. "Please, just fuck me and I'll explain after."

After a moment he shrugged and resumed, and there was nothing I could do except breathe. I was completely helpless, completely at his mercy. As long as he kept fucking me I didn't care. From time to time he changed position, holding my boots either side of his neck, or taking me doggy style, or pulling my mouth onto his cock and fucking my throat gently, and I knew it was only a matter of time before he got to my ass. I'd never had anal sex before, but there was nothing I could do to stop him taking me there.

But he didn't. He returned to missionary position and fucked me with long, slow thrusts, his face contorting in exquisite pain as his cock swelled and pulsed inside me, filling me with his cum.

I was nowhere near my own climax. My body was alive with need, but I could do nothing about it. I wanted to beg him not to stop. I wanted to beg him to keep fucking me all night, use me every way he wished, only not to stop. But he was no longer hard, and he eased out of me.

Instead, he played with me, posing me, putting me in strange and lewd positions. After an hour of this, oblivious to my unvoiced screams of frustration, he sat me down at a table and took a chair opposite. "I have no idea who you are or what to do with you," he said. "I should take you to the hospital, I guess. But I can't help feeling that you are mine, that you are a gift sent to me." He paused, deep in thought for a minute. "And I think I'll keep you." He smiled brightly. "The best sex toy ever."

As Bob picked me up and carried me back to bed, I wondered if this was the fate my husband had planned for me. Still, I decided that as long as there was plenty of sex, I could be happy as the best sex toy ever.

Bob lay me on his bed, spreading my arms and legs out wide, my knees bent, then wedged a cushion under my bum. Part of me was embarrassed that I was so open to him, that he could play with me like a doll - a living, breathing sex doll - that he could pose me and penetrate me however he liked. Mostly I was impatient for him to just position me and get busy. I needed satisfaction, and he wasn't touching me where I needed to be touched.

Part of me was embarrassed that the evidence of our recent coupling and my unrelenting arousal was now presented so openly between my splayed legs. My pussy and thighs were wet not only from my own copious juices but also from his cum. This man who I had just picked up in a bar, whose name I didn't know yet. I felt like such a dirty slut.

Part of me was kicking myself for not going to the hospital at the first signs of paralysis. Deep down, though, I believed it was the corset - the beautiful, magical corset - that was doing this to me, fuelling my sexual hunger and robbing me of any control over my body. If only I had taken scissors to it before it was too late.

Our earlier fucking had been rough and urgent, very focussed on his cock, whether in my pussy or in my mouth. Now he was taking his time. He had had his orgasm, and I wasn't going anywhere. I was all his to do with what he liked. I had some control over my eyes - I could blink, and look around and focus - and my breathing, and I had tried using that to communicate but he had shaken his head and told me to stop. I was his completely. His toy.

Which I wouldn't mind, if only he would fill me with his cock and fuck me to my climax. Instead he knelt beside me and kissed my left breast, away from the nipple, then licked and kissed his way around it. I wanted to scream. He was going to torture me with foreplay. He moved across to my right breast and teased me there too, until actual tears of frustration filled my eyes. I blinked them away and they rolled down towards my ears.

At last, as if taking pity on me, he sucked on my nipples, licking and biting them gently. It did nothing to cool the raging fire in my loins, and I wished he'd dare to bite a little harder, but it was bliss. Relative bliss, at least. There was a wonderful liberation in being unable to move. I didn't have to think about what to do or how to move to please him. I didn't have worry that I was being selfish in choosing this position or that, or being too prudish to give him what he wanted.

And he wasn't my husband. He was a stranger I had thrown myself at, only to turn into a living sex doll. I had only spoken a few words to him, and those had been an encouragement to fuck me. Our relationship, if you could call it that, was based entirely on sex. With my husband there would have the headache of love and betrayal - concern over my condition (anxious waiting and examination in hospitals), or the discovery that he was the one responsible for my mysterious transformation. Would I have been able to relax and enjoy Alan's control of my body, knowing that he was the one who had taken it from me?

Bob's fingers caressed me through the sheer silk of my stockings, and I strained uselessly to reach down and drag his hand to my pussy, his fingers to my pulsing, aching clit. His gentle torture, which was lasting so much longer than any passionate love-making with my husband had, elevated me almost to an ethereal plane of ecstatic need. When he pulled away from me I wanted to cry, although whether from relief or loss I couldn't have said.