OK, I got a corset from Boux Avenue. It was on sale. I’m so cheap, and the sale was outstanding. Side-note: shipping was inexpensive, and very, very fast. Getting a package with a custom label is so very satisfying. So I snagged this corset, but I didn’t know when I’d ever use it.
Then the calendar turned, Valentine’s Day was fast approaching, and I hear a corset opportunity knocking. I’m writing a Valentine’s Day story – mythological smut – and I’ll need to make a cover. EPIPHANY. I can wear the corset for the cover. It’s a WIN WIN.
And the plan was set.
But my planning sucks. My wonderful idea was for a reclining pose, like the lovely woman in the Boux Ad above. Easy peasy, huh? I’d wear the corset, some stockings, heels, panties. PERFECT.
But it’s a rush job. I wanted the sun, and that made time a limited quantity. I had to go, go, go, like I was racing against Dracula rising. Make-up? Who needs it? Hair? That’s what buns are for. I’m rolling, then… the corset.
It’s already washed – yay me – and waiting. But it has those little garter strap thingies (a technical term), and they were all tangled together on the hanger in a Gordian knot. I managed that, but then there was the actual corset. It needed ironing. How do you iron a corset? It didn’t matter, because the sun was going down. I was losing my natural light. I didn’t have time to worry about it.
So, all I need to do is throw on the corset, right? Well…
That’s me stuck in the corset, like in a straight jacket. It was a fight, and the corset won. I tried again. It took me three tries to actually get the corset on, and then there was the struggle to get my breasts in the cups, which wasn’t easy. Here’s a truth: I like the idea of bras, but I don’t wear them, never. But the trouble wasn’t the corset’s fault. It was all me. I’m a klutz.
Once it was actually on, I had some assistance with the tying. My amused documentarian pulled it tight, and I discovered I could have never been Emma – curse you, Jane Austen. That thing kept me from breathing. I didn’t like it. So it had to be untied so I could bend over, breath in, and try and make it loose enough to suck air.
But after all the fuss, I managed to get all dressed, and actually took some pictures. HA!
This pic was OK, but don’t stare too hard at the garter thingies, or my pitiful rose buds. Rose bud is not being used as a euphemism for clitoris
on this occasion, though, I’m sad to admit, I’ve done it many times in stories. I’m so sorry, literary gods. Don’t curse me.
There’ll be some more photos on my Tumblr: http://mistymacallister.tumblr.com. Those will be the cheesy bum photos.