This story is dedicated to Leslie, who has shown me not to be scared of what is truly my passion, and that hiding secrets can destroy them and leave in their place a hollow.
It is from the bottom of my heart, about loving women and everything they are and offer.
If you are offended by extreme dedication to women and the flow of a woman's sex, then be gone.
"Oh god, you cannot imagine how much that turns me on! Just that you wrote back, just that there is someone out there who knows what it is. I suppose the taboos surrounding periods are in part responsible, the mystery of woman hood.Then of course there is the act of submission, which seems from the taboos of what is conceived "dirty" of subjugating to that flow as an act of devotion, passion without boundary or border. The same is true of drinking pee - why isn't there a nice word for it? - and finally the taste and the feel of menses and of pee, splashing on me, covering me, like an essence of female, perhaps adding to the female part of me, soaking through my knickers and bra, making my hair stick to my face, making my stockings wet to the touch, saturating past these to my skin and into my being, and making me smell like a woman should. I read often about guys who get turned on by lesbianism, but if it does not sound odd, I really do feel that I am a lesbian in the way I need to love and worship women, although ironically not as an equal, or in the traditional male dominant role, but as a girl to a woman, learning and growing into a female self.Again, the irony is that covered in sweat and pee and menses, I want finally to make love with that woman, be truly locked to her, trying to make her come and cry out one more time, after hours of passion from my mouth, my hands, my stockinged heels caressing every patch of soft skin, from the nape of the neck, around your breasts, down your belly to your beautiful vagina, my tongue following behind, buy a time and distance measured only in your response, nibbling your nipples, again tracing a line to your thighs and then so slowly as to be imperceptible to you to make you come, and release all your liquid being over me, while I also get wet in my silky knickers, almost not caring if we make love at the end of it, just to hear you and watch you come on me, for you, at your command, but an unspoken instruction with the pace determined by how you cherish and gift me with your taste and juices..."
The Seamstress
It was a busy day in the city, and I felt as though every pair of eyes that even glanced its gaze over me knew where I was going and why.
Of course this was impossible, I had covered my tracks. Buying underwear was always difficult, and I would be forever mumbling to myself "Would she like this? Is this her size" hoping to convince the shoppers around me that I was buying clothes for a woman, not myself, oh mercy me no.
It probably was not that convincing, but I always shopped in town, rarely in the same store twice, and felt my secret was safe.
This was a little different. Corseterie has always had a real fascination for me, and like most tvs, I suppose the feel of tight restriction is a part of the thrill anytime - I always seemed to buy size 12, and I am really a 14!
Answering an advert in the Sunday Times I sent off "Cathys" measurements, and waited for a phone call to tell me that my order was in. I had chosen carefully a corset set with 6 suspenders, a push up bust, and knickers that laced into the bottom of the set, to keep me all tightly wrapped up - one set white, one set red, in satin and bone. I shivered involuntary as I turned the corner, into the street, and was almost shaking as I mounted the stairs to the third floor room.
"Can I Help" The most astonishing woman I had ever seen addressed me. Maybe 35, maybe 45, hard to tell under her make up, and difficult to gauge from her rather severe manner and dress. She was a little taller than me, maybe 6 foot? and statuesque, and stunning. If she had picked me up by the hair and put me in the broom cupboard for later, I could not have said a word, I would have just waited and waited until she decided to brush the floor with me.
My voice croaked a whisper
"I've come to collect an order? In the name of Cathy?"
"Oh yes"
"You got your measurements all wrong"
What the hell was I doing? How did she know the measurements were for me, and what did she mean, I checked and took such care and...
"Has she really got no bust at all - we can work wonders, but not miracles you know - I would like to know if she wants these really young man, or if you are buying them for some silly fantasy of yours, why do men insist on stockings and suspenders?"
"No, you don't understand - she really wants these - she err--"
What could I say? I could give myself away - or I could let her think I was some sort of lecherous man, dressing up his girlfriend for himself... I tried to think, but she would not let me. Her stern gaze told me to follow her...
"She really does like stockings" I tried to get out of the hole I was suddenly in, but I think dug myself deeper "She thinks they feel sexy - she never wears tights.." "Well she is a very sensible girl - much healthier that way, no air in tights, ruins the circulation. Now, we are not finished quite yet, I wanted to check those measurements before the final stitching - do you have them?" I turned out my wallet for the grubby precious scrap of paper, she watched me as if I was madness incarnate. I felt about 4 inches tall.
"And why do you carry her measurements around with you?"
I did not think that she really wanted an answer, and she snatched the paper out of my hand. I flinched as if she was going to hit me.
"Interesting..."
"...She appears to be the same shape and height as you"
"Err - its just that" Her tome seemed to soften - not a lot, but a little.
"You would not be the first young man to visit me for corseterie young man. I have an excellent reputation, and can work wonders, as I say, when I know what material I am working with. Now, get undressed, and lets see what I have got - I will have to charge you extra for all this messing around, so let that be a lesson. Now, end of lecture young man, STRIP" she barked the last word like a hurled stone.
"No, that's not right! " She cut me short again, this time with a whisper "If we want to turn a strapping young man in to a strapped up young lady, then we have to start again. Take those things off and let me see you. And don't be embarrassed, I would be surprised if you did not have a lovely pair of knickers on, and I think I see the lines of a bra strap, so off we go"
I was embarrassed, but in a way more by the rather tatty state of my white cotton knickers, faded purple satin bra and laddered hold ups. She spotted these "Well again, these are terrible, clumsy, inelegant, and look at the red marks around your pretty thighs. You should shave those legs and look after them - into the bathroom, you will find a razor there - all over please, except for your private parts"
I cowed and turned, now naked except for my knickers, which did a poor show of holding in my penis which was fit to burst, into the bathroom. I chose a scented lotion and spent longer than I expected to in the small warm room shaving and rubbing oil into me legs and chest. The experience alone was most erotic, and I could not help spotting the front of my underwear, and wondered if I should quickly masturbate into a tissue to avoid any further mess when her voice called, a little impatiently
"Hurry up you silly little thing"
I wrapped myself in a towel and stepped out. She seemed angry again, and I wondered if she could read all my thoughts.
"Take that towel off - what are you hiding from me! Oh I see - you could not quite keep your hands to yourself could you? Well, that wont be the case much longer."
I let the towel slip, and pulled my knickers to the floor, still rather erect, and she spun me round and wrapped the top of the black corset around me. It fastened at the front, and as she put her hands around me from behind to do me up, I smelt a strange and sexy odour from her, that was familiar but I could not place.
As she pulled the leaves of the corset together from the bottom I felt myself being squeezed and pulled and pushed, and as she reached the top, I had two tiny but prominent breasts pushing together under the lace and satin panels.
She turned me round and threaded a leather lace into the eyes of the corset, again from the bottom, and the breath was crushed from me as I began to take a genuine hourglass shape like clay being moulded.
At the top she pushed one strong arm against me, and pulled what felt like the whole length clear of the last holes and quickly tied me into a position where I could simply stand and stare ahead, as out of breath as if I had run up stairs in a tower block.
Next came the stockings, which were sheer rich silk, with less elasticity than I was used to, but they fitted snugly without pinching or giving my legs anything but a sheer smooth feel.
Next the knickers - again from behind, I felt her attach something to the back of my corset, and she turned me round again and pulled them over me.
"These have the gusset set forward, as you can see, rather than in the crotch, so if you really cannot control yourself, it should not show through - of course I imagine that sometimes you will need a pad, so lets try that - "
She slipped a sanitary towel into the front, and with the lacing packaged me in as though she were stuffing a pillow - it was a little uncomfortable, but the restraint on my still hard and stiff penis was gorgeous - I looked down, and a smooth mound made it look like it had never been there.
Finally she took a pair of wide satin straps and attached them front and back to the top of the corset - I wondered why as the tight lacing seemed to hold me quite solidly, but as she tightened them, I felt myself being pulled up into a straight tall figure.
I looked in the mirror, and saw my shape - wide flaring thighs, smooth sheer legs like a dream, and a pinched waist leading to a tall proud breast...
"Now then - I rather think that was what you wanted all along - perhaps a few more adjustments..." as she pulled and tightened and stretched me, I again detected the rich musky odour, and felt entranced by this woman, almost hypnotised - there was still a stern note to her voice as she instructed and showed me ho to do up the various strings and clips myself. She stood back to admire her handiwork.
"Kneel down"
With some difficulty I tried to kneel, but eventually fell to my knees.
Immediately she was on me. My face was pushed into the folds of her skirt at her crotch, but I heeded her further unspoken instructions. I knew what she wanted.
I leant over, and started at her feet. I licked first her black patent leather pumps, and twirled my tongue up to the pint where her stockings began there, and felt the smooth material dry my tongue as I worked my way slowly, guided, no commended by her low voice to edge my way imperceptibly upwards. Already I could feel the enormous pressure in my wrapped and captured balls and penis, but I had no way of adjusting myself as I was holding onto her thighs for balance, and I enjoyed the delicious torture of restriction, not really wanting to spoil the moment with an interruption.
As I raised myself and climbed my way up, my mouth now dry, leaving a dark trail on her thighs of wetness, I smelt again the heady aroma. I headed for the dark envelope of her skirt, and as the folds engulfed me breathed in not air but her, and quickened my pace and progress.
She had nothing on underneath, and after the change at the tops of her stockings, I followed the suspender straps to the inside of her crotch. Here the smell was overpowering, and it was humid like a jungle of woman, after a rainfall.
She was bare underneath, and my tongue reached to touch her sex, and I tasted the metallic harshness of blood. She was perhaps halfway through her period, and small stains inside her thighs told me she had not worn a pad for the day. I licked the patches, mixing the taste with my saliva to clean it thoroughly, before gently approaching the source of her sweet sex.
I slid my bottom lip against her labia gently, lapping the slight flow, which quickly mingled with other juices as she began to become aroused.
Still in my own groin a burning sensation was being built on by the pressure of the corseterie, and the exquisite pain of unreleased come boiling inside me.
In time I moved to her sweet bud of a clitoris, which seemed to swell like an opening flower, accepting me as that rose might a bee, hungry for pollen. Her own pollen, the stuff of sex, poured into my mouth with her mingled juices, and I felt her shake, but stay standing as a small orgasm came to her, from my tongue, through her body to her heart, and out again into her voice, which cried as she pushed down and then pulled up my shoulders, forcing me deeper into her vagina.
I stayed there, locked to her, lapping and gently kneading her sex for hours, until she came again and again, 3 or 4c times, each time a little more intense, each time having less chance to recover from the previous wave, and each time liberally lashing me with a waterfall of love and menses, which covered my face and hair, and almost stuck me to her.
Abruptly she pulled away, sat back in a wicker chair, and pulled me again into her crotch.
Now my hands were free, and for a moment I was tempted to begin to pleasure myself, but she had not told me to, in words or deeds, and so I became more and more involved with making her come with my mouth.
The sound of the traffic outside was forgotten, the discomfort of the hard floor stopped, ceased to exist, as all that existed was this woman, and what I could do for her.
With a great shout that seemed to build from nothing to a scream she came another spectacular time, and it felt as though I were underwater, our sweat and her flavour soaking me through, running onto my shoulders, drenching me and her petticoat which clung to my back.
She pushed herself out of the chair, not quite standing, instead falling on me, her mouth above mine, smiling with her eyes screwed shut before she kissed me deeply, so that we could share her taste again.
With one hand she undid the front of my knickers. I could feel a heavy weight, the now soaked pad, being lifted, and she brought it up to my face.
I greedily lapped at it, tasting now my own juices, and she discarded it, and began to position herself over my cock which felt bigger than anything I could imagine. She carefully placed all her weight on her vagina, along which my penis sat, pointing upwards at my chin. As she ground into me, her weight again took the breath from me, and all I could do was watch her come again on me, and watch as she began to pee on me. The golden river spread like a puddle on my slim belly, and as she pushed down on my shoulders and kissed me again, I felt my own come squirt in what should have been a fountain between us, instead seeping and slithering to fill the tiny spaces between our bellies. As she subsided, she again took her weight, and lowered herself onto my penis. In a slow, deliberate movement she fitted me into her like a key in a new lock, and leant back, again sending waves of agonising and exquisite pain through me as if my whole body were inside here being used and consumed for her pleasure.
I was unable to come because of the pressure of her on me, and she began to rock violently backwards and forwards on me as she approached a final spectacular orgasm - as she did, as her cries became quiet and urgent, the beautiful pain was suddenly and unexpectedly replaced like a feeling of being water reaching a waterfall, cascading loosely in drops and rivulets to crash again in a warm pool at the bottom as we came together.
She pushed her weight onto me, and cradled me, and I threw my arms around her as we fell into an erotic slumber.
I woke first, stiff and cold. She moaned, and rolled off me, but I could not resist, taking myself again between her thighs, and began again to taste and excite her in her sleep. By now, she had bled a little again, and I hungrily lapped up this along with my come and hers, before bringing her to a shuddering orgasm before covering her with a blanket, and taking my leave.
On the tube on the way home, my red corset in my bag, my black corset beneath my jeans and loose t shirt making me feel as though I could slip out of them at anytime if I moved to quickly, I watched the other passengers, knowing they could not know what I felt, what I was doing earlier, what I wanted, needed to be for that woman.
The seamstress.
This is the best story I think I have ever written - it really does contain everything that I want, that is important to me, and I have been through a lot of kinks and quite a few friends to admit and enjoy this. If you feel the same, if you want to chat, if you want to say anything at all, e-mail me. And don't worry, I am sure the next story will be the usual filth, perversion sucking and fantasy - or maybe I will make another monthly visit
Hugs cathykay69@hotmail.com