The Corset Killer
I’ve always been obsessed with beautiful underwear. I’ve never really had a reason to wear them because honestly, my panties were always the last thing on a man’s mind before we jumped between the sheets. At least they were always the last thing on my mind, as I often opt for “Granny panties.” (There was this one time when a guy asked if he could “keep” the ones he just pulled off of me. But that’s a different story for a different day.)
This story starts at Lane Bryant–a department store for plus size women. One day as I was cruising the aisles, I spotted a sexy, red, black and gold lace corset and panty set, and immediately, I needed to have it. There was this guy that I had been seeing for a few months and even though he and I had already been intimate, I wanted do something special for our four-month mark. I grabbed up the lacy lingerie set and bee-lined it to the register. I didn’t even try it on.
When I got home, I showered, made sure the mood was set in the apartment–candles, incense, Isley Brothers crooning from the speakers, I was ready to slip on the lingerie. I’d prepped my guy, telling him there would be a surprise waiting on him when he came over, so he was expecting some type of fanfare. Now if only I could slip the lingerie on!
Honey, when I tell you I was in the bathroom huffing and puffing–take that as an understatement. It was like I ran eight miles, Rocky Balboa’ed up a few flights of stairs, then tried to put a straight jacket on. Standing in the bathroom in only panties, while panting, I held the corset in one hand, almost defeated. I looked at myself in the mirror and said, “You can get this on. You will get this on.”
I tried to hook the seven hooks in the front and I succeeded. Now all I had to do was spin the corset around, the right way. I twisted and twisted until my boobs were perfectly perched in the cups and the hooks were centered in my back. Sweating, I decided another shower was out of the question, but I was definitely not as fresh as I was when I started. I thought about scrapping the entire lingerie plan, but I caught a glimpse of my reflection and I thought, “Damn! That’s hot.”
The lingerie plan was happening whether I was comfortable or not, whether or I could breathe–or not. I stabilized my breathing, got myself together and waited for my buzzer to ring, signifying that it was showtime. Unfortunately, I couldn’t sit because the boning from the corset dug into my gut, so I stood and sipped wine until the bottle was gone. Woops. Now I’m tipsy and my breathing is just a bit obstructed, but I can function. I kept telling my increasingly drunk self that it would be off in no time, and my lungs and rib cage, will forgive me.
The buzzer rang and he came upstairs. As soon as he saw me standing there in my makeshift coke bottle shape, tits up to my chin and lace dancing along my curves, a smile spread across his lips so wide, I thought his mouth would be stuck in a permanently pleased position. “You look good babe,” he said as he walked towards me with his hands out, ready to touch.
“Thank you,” I managed to say in a breathy (possibly deemed sexy) voice. We embraced, his hands roamed my body and I broke away. I then sat him down in the chair I designated as the best seat in the house. As Ronald Isley sang, “ooooooh baby, baby….” I let my hips sway to the groove. Tonight, I was going to dance for my boy. As my sways turned into body rolls, I kept feeling a sharp, stabbing pain. Determined to give him a sensual fantasy, I kept dancing. The show must go on, right?
The stabbing kept getting increasingly unbearable. Suddenly, I felt a jolt in my side, as if lightening crept into the room, crawled between my ribs and struck me. I wailed, “Ahhhhhhh!” and I almost hit the floor. He stood up, grabbed me and asked what happened. I was almost hyperventilating. “The cors…” I said reaching for my back and then my side. “Help me get it off!” I cried.
Fumbling with my back, his hands were clumsy as he tried to pry the clasps apart. He was finally able to get it open and I breathed a sigh of sweet relief. As I stood there corset on the floor, hand on my side, huffing and puffing, he stood confused. “What happened babe?”
“This stupid corset tried to kill me,” I kicked it. I looked down at it and saw that the boning was broken. Both ends of the broken piece were sticking me directly in the ribs and my dancing caused them to shimmy out of the secure spot they were in and continuously jab me in the side. As I sat on the floor beside the corset, laughter burst out of him, filling the room with his delight in my tragic attempt at sexy.
“Not funny,” I shot him an evil glance, still holding my side. I looked down at the broken corset and eventually joined him in the side-splitting (pun intended) laughter. Never again.
