Manishas First Girdle

I first met Manisha Dudhe on the eve of her wedding, when she and her intended husband had met to perform pre-marriage puja with the village pujari; the Hindu priest. She was 19 and the man was a boy really, of barely 20, with the illustrious name of Shivaji. Dudhe became her married name and it was a cause for mirth since it means "milk" in the local dialect. The entire village of Talapuri in Maharashtra turned up to witness their prayers and to pass comment on their appearances. It was not an affluent or influential gathering, but full of pride and tradition. Men young and old watched her without touching, of course, and wondered about the milk that would come from her magnificent breasts in due course, and they envied the young Shivaji.

Manisha was a great beauty and a prized daughter in a community where sons are preferred before girls, even if they are worthless and stupid. But Manisha certainly was a great beauty and everyone said so. She was fairer in her complexion than anyone else in her family since Aji, her mother's mother, who died many years earlier. I remember thinking how fortunate her new husband would be to take to his bed such a beauty; and so innocent, to be taught the ways of love and affection if he had the wit and the knowledge himself. Which I doubted but wished them both well.

Ten years passed before I saw her again, and I heard meantime that Shivaji had died young, leaving her pregnant. I didn't know the details but there many sicknesses at that time, in that place, that could have claimed him. TB, typhoid and polio were endemic then and malaria, of course. So, one day, as I visited my friends again in the big bungalow at Talapuri, there she was in the lane with a child of about 9 years beside her. There was occasional work for her and others at the bungalow; mainly mending clothes and such things. My host and his wife gave work out of a sense of responsibility for their poorer neighbours, since he practiced as a chartered accountant in the nearest city and his wife was a publisher's illustrator. She ran her business by post in those days, and would do so via the Net today. But this was before the Net came into ordinary homes; when it was top secret in academic and military circles.

Manisha looked older but still outstandingly beautiful. Her features and her figure had hardly changed since she was the girl I remembered. If there was on feature of her appearance that always struck me first, it was her waist and the curve over her hips. And so it was still. Her saree tightened onto her figure in the local style, showed the very curve that drew my eyes so many years before. And her blouse [choli] showed off her tidy midriff, with none of the flabby spread of so many Indian women in their late 20s. She looked delectable and I began to imagine her with me, in my bed, doing the things I would show her, and with me pleasing her the best ways I could.

Nothing could happen for some weeks, since my hosts were always about the house and I did not wish to embarrass them by entertaining my own little predilections. But the day came when they were away for the week, and I was left alone with just the housekeeper and gardener during the day and the faithful golden Labrador bitch named Daisy at night. I determined to know Manisha then, if I could, and made quick plans. And so it happened.

At the end of a day, she was finishing her work in one of the rooms, re-sewing the linings to one of the curtains, which had become frayed during the periodic pest control spraying visitations. I watched her through a slightly-open door as she gathered her things together and stood up from the cross-legged position in which she had worked. She walked towards the door and I hid myself to one side of the frame. As she came through I spoke her name, softly, not as an instruction which she may have expected. She turned towards me and smiled, with her head on one side slightly, as if asking a silent question in the Indian way. I stretched out my right hand towards her and she looked at her own hands, wondering what I was reaching for. I took hold of the sewing box she had, and the little bundle of fabrics for patching, and took them away from her. She was so taken by surprise that she didn't try to stop me; she just looked straight at me with the same query on her face. I put the things to one side, on a small cupboard and she watched every movement.

Then I reached again and took hold of her left hand; a gesture not common in India even among married couples since the right hand is preferred for all contact. She tried momentarily to withdraw her hand but I held her firmly, and pulled her gently towards me. She made no sound; her eyes looked straight into mine; she let her hand come towards me and then her arm and then one small step. I knew the ice had been broken and I smiled gently and leaned my head to one side, as she had done, as if to say, "Yes? -- No? -- Maybe? -- come with me?" She smiled back and lowered her eyes at the same time, signalling her lack of readiness for the situation, and to show a proper modesty. By now she was close to me and I reached out my left hand to hold her waist and pull her towards me, again with only the gentlest pressure on her hip. She put her right hand on mine and thought she was about to lift it away from her, but she didn't. She held my hand in contact with the shapely right hip and waist, but still with eyes downcast, and smiling secretly to herself. Clearly, she knew what was happening and was content to let more happen in the near future.

Slowly, I walked backwards into the opposite room: my bedroom and she followed with her left hand in my right, and her right hand on my left, on her waist. We were only two or three inches apart. She matched my steps and slowly came into my room with eyes still down and still smiling mysteriously to herself, although I could see it for myself. Then the situation began to unfold as I had planned.

I undid the buttons of my shirt, and shook it off my shoulders. She raised her eyes and saw the hairs and the remains of my once-creditable muscular chest. She raised her eyes further and smiled directly into my mine. I reached out again and tugged a little on the shawl she wore over her shoulder, and she made the same gesture, shrugging it off to the marble floor. I undid my belt and the top restraining button of my cream trousers, but did not make a gesture to remove more clothes at this stage. I reached out to the four buttons fastening her choli, the short blouse with its little sleeves and bare midriff. She stopped my hand and, for a moment, I imagined she was about to cancel the whole event. But no; she raised her own hands, whilst still looking into my eyes, and undid all four buttons, before lowering her hands and leaving the choli open across her breasts. She wore no bra under the blouse, and I gently lifted it from her shoulders and let it drop down her arms slightly behind her body. I moved slowly round behind her and she realised for the first time that I had a mirror behind me, so that she was now looking directly at herself with bare breasts. Her eyes dropped again but she made no movement of escape or even of real awkwardness. From behind her, I reached to her head and gently held her hair, raising her eyes to look into the mirror, and smiled a very open and near-laugh into her reflection. He laughed a little feminine chuckle to me in return.

I reached through under her arms and held her breasts; one in each hand, like ripe melons but so soft and yielding. Then one hand relaxed its hold and went to my trousers. I let the zipper all the way down, so that my slacks fell to my ankles. I stepped out of them, still hiding behind her, and stood there with a raging erection in my black briefs, although she could not see all that. I fumbled with the front tie of her saree, hoping that it would come undone easily, but it was not to happen. She reached under the top edge and undid a pin, which let the front loop of cloth fall away. I was expecting a long swathe of fabric and slowly unwrapped it from around her, walking round to her front and then behind. A number of times I needed to do this until she stood there wearing only a pair of pale brown shorts. She raised her hands to cover her nipples from my gaze although we both knew it was a gesture of cultural modesty rather than a real attempt to hide herself from me.

Still slowly, I walked her towards my little bathroom until we both stood in the door and she could see my preparations. There was the bucket of warmed water with its handled scoop, a dish of soft soap, a number of hand towels, and a great big bath square as long and as wide as she was tall. The window fan was running and a cooler breeze was being drawn through my rooms. Taking the lead, I reached down and took off my briefs and moved towards the bucket. My erection stood out like a flag, indicating my desires and intentions. We smiled at each other and our eyes wrinkled in a grin of friendship as well as pleasure. I took a scoop of warm water and poured it down my front from chest to groin; and another from the middle of my back to my thighs. I dipped a finger full of the liquid soap and washed quickly all my lower regions and carefully between my legs and thighs. Cleanliness was going to be an important feature of our time together.

Reaching out my hand, I intended to motion her towards the water and her own washing, but I needn't have made any gesture. She stepped forward and took off her own shorts. She was so lovely. Her skin was a pale bronze, with small areas of olive shading around her groin, in the creases under breasts and under her arms. Her skin was like alabaster and she moved gracefully like a fashion model in Europe, but entirely natural and innocent of any tricks of such a trade. I passed her a scoop of water and she washed herself as I had done.

So far, everything I had planned had worked out just fine, and she seemed not to be surprised at all; and certainly not alarmed by my actions. I had a feeling that the next stage might give her some pause for thought, or even a moment of panic, but determined to go on regardless. I have for many years harboured a distinct yearning for women dressed in very firm underwear, such as corsetry, leather and thick rubber. I have been fortunate enough to experience all my yearnings at one time or another, and this day I had a special desire in mind. My erection was maintained by the plan and I looked forward to the moment when all my desire could be satisfied with this beautiful Indian lady.

As we dried ourselves, I led her wrapped in the big square towel towards my double bed. She walked confidently and easily in my gentle embrace and I helped her complete the drying of her delightful body. I took the towel from her and draped it over a chair, and led her to the bedside. She began to bend as if to climb into the bed but I held both her hands and placed them over her eyes. I pressed them slightly to her face, as if to signify, "Keep your eyes closed." I said softly, "Ho-na?" and she replied, "Ho", meaning "Yes." She kept her eyes covered.

I reached under the thin bed cover and took out the four items in which I intended to dress her this evening, before taking my pleasure with her. The first was a white long bra which I hoped would be the correct size at 36D: a Triumph Doreen Midi. I stood behind her and took one hand down from her eyes, leaving the other doing its job of keeping them shut. I passed the bra over her arm and lifted it into place under one breast. Then I replaced that hand and took the other. She was quicker than I thought and readily helped me get the bra into place, containing both breasts and nicely nestled into her ribs. At that point, I think her experience of lingerie ran out. She had never even seen such a bra, I don't think. Slowly I fastened the eight hooks at the back and then adjusted it into place to hold her breasts and to press nicely down into her waist. It was not the cuff-waist style, but the slightly shorter one and it fitted her height perfectly. And the cups fitted better than I could have planned even if I had measured her first. I pressed the hands to her face again and said, "Ho?". She replied the same and her eyes remained covered.

Next, I thought this item may raise more of a problem with her and took it in my hands with some anxiety. It was a classic vintage girdle made by the English Twilfit company; style CT45. It was white, high waisted, a sarong style cross-over at the bottom front edge, a zip fastener over a row of hooks on the left hip, and six suspenders. It was boned at the front, over the abdomen, at the sides from the hip bones upwards, and at the centre back to prevent it rolling over. The front panel with three bones was quite rigid and I knew it would hold her firmly in place, whatever I managed with her in movements and positions.

I knelt down in front of her and lifted one foot, just an inch or two from the cool marble floor, and slip the girdle under it, and lifted it slightly up her calf. Then I replace that foot on the floor and tapped the other. She seemed to sense what to do, and raise it a little, but not enough now that the girdle was somewhat higher than for the first foot. I took one hand from her eyes and placed it on my shoulder as I was kneeling, to steady her as I lifted the second foot a little further. Thus the girdle was loosely placed on both her calves and I contemplated how to lift it into place, before doing up the hooks and closing the zipper.

Kneeling up in front of her, I took hold of the girdle either side of the waist and slowly moved it up her legs, and onto her thighs. She made a little mewing sound and I could tell that this was new to her and was a surprise, but I persevered with my pulling and a little tugging. It was going to be a tight fit on her, I could tell. This girdle was the smallest made in the CT45 range, with a waist of 26 inches, and I had no idea what her waist actually measured. She made the mewing sound again and I looked up at her face. She was peering down at me and the girdle through her open fingers. I smiled and she just looked at me. Her expression said, "What are you doing to me?" I took one hand and kissed it gently on the palm. She smiled. I brought both her hands down to the front edge of the girdle and took myself to the back. Taking the rear part of the top edge, I started to pull upwards and she did so at the front without my urging her. Slowly the girdle moved into position on her abdomen, with the front suspenders correctly placed, and the zip fastener wide open, waiting for me to do up the hooks and eyes. I could tell from her expression again that she was surprised and becoming a little doubtful as she realised that this garment had yet to be closed onto her figure.

Moving to her left side, I started to hook up the gap. The first hook took a little stretching of the girdle to make the closure. The second took more pressure, and the last one required me to pull very hard so that her body shook with the sudden force. But then the hooks were complete and I moved the zipper up into place, covering them all and giving her the perfect waistline and hip outline. This young woman had the figure of a 1950s film star in the person of a simple and untutored girl of the jungle, with a sex appeal hardly any film star could imagine.

The suspenders were sticking out from the bottom edge of the girdle, and I checked again that their positions were right. I also noticed how the edge just tucked under her bottom at the back and left her little furry mound visible at the front. Those Twilfit people certainly knew how to make alluring foundation wear. I reached for the remaining items of my collection: a pair of firm support Lycra stockings by Aristoc - the very latest style and material at the time, and very supportive. Again the size was a guess and I seemed to have been lucky. To get these onto her, I led her to the bed and sat her down on the edge. Se realised for the first time how the girdle was going to control her figure during our time together. Sitting in it was not just a matter of sitting down; she had to adjust her stance a little and also part her legs because of the pressure on her groin and bottom, pressing them both together. As quickly as I could, I brought both stockings up to her knees and onto her thighs before standing her up and completing the outfit. She was now breathing heavily and pressed her hands on her ribs, into her waist, over her abdomen and down her thighs, and over her bottom. She was utterly contained in this corsetry, and her face showed a mixture of surprise, anxiety and also pleasure.

I took her over to the long mirror and showed her to herself. She smiled and ran her hands all over her newly shaped and controlled figure. Especially, she let her hands linger over her flat tummy and around her tightened waist. She even made the typical tight-waist gesture of holding her waist between finger and thumb on each hand to see how far round she could reach. Her smile got wider and she made a little "Mmm" sound. She looked amazing and I joined her with my own hands, feeling her body through the corsetry. Tracing the outlines and the positions of the bones; feeling at the tightness over her ribs and under her bottom. My fingers and palms lingered over her flattened abdomen and onto her little mound, and then resumed my overall investigation of the smoothness, the firmness, and the control that I could feel over every millimetre of her body.

Taking her to the bed, I helped her lie down on her back and joined her there. I kissed her shoulder and then her cheek and then fully on her lips. She seemed unused to this show of affection and clearly had little experience of kissing a man for pleasure. But she warmed to it and within a minute had her lips widely parted as I explored her mouth with my tongue, and we played a little game with touching tongues and parting and then touching again.

Reaching down, I parted her legs a little more and reached for her labia with my middle finger. She was wet; she was pouring with moisture; her lips and her vagina were slippery to my touch and I played on her clitoris for a few moments. She mewed again and closed her eyes, so I decided to please her in this way for as long as I could. I played on her with my hand and placed a finger inside her from time to time, gauging the effect and trying to discover what she would like for her pleasure. I soon realised that she wanted constant clitoral stimulation, but not too fast and not with pressure, and occasional dipping into the wet pool of her labia and vagina. I think this process took ten minutes until I was sure of the rhythm and she began to respond; which she did with a huge sigh and a whimper. She closed her legs around my hand and I left it there without movement until she relaxed and let it fall out, so to speak.

She looked up at me and touched my face. I kissed her mouth again and she clung to me with both arms around my head. After a short time she relaxed further and lay back with her eyes closed. Now it was my turn. I ran my hands up and down her corsetry again, feeling at the seams, the bones over her abdomen, the taut bottom edge between the front suspenders, the flat firmness over her midriff and waist. Above her waist she was doubly held by the long bra as well as the girdle over it. She was quite rigid below her breasts and down into her waist. I parted her legs a little and slowly moved myself until I was lying partly on her, and resting on one elbow on the bed beside her. I kissed her shoulders and felt the Doreen straps, the little adjusting buckles and the seams running over the cups and down under the girdle. I could still feel them on my lips even thought they were held firmly under the Twilfit. The corsetry felt wonderful and her firm, contained little body inside held such promise for me. In my mind, I had a plan for my pleasure which I knew may alarm her but I pressed on anyway.