If you read the first Bedtime Stories, this is and isn’t more of the same. Yes, it is also NC 17; yes, it seriously deserves it; yes,the hot stuff is still solidly based in the characters’ mutual love and trust. However, no role playing this time. This time Clay and his lady are playing the most challenging roles of all—themselves—and dealing with what arises…in more ways than one…

Ya might wanna take a seat on the nearest ice floe for this one…heh, heh.

BEDTIME STORIES 2--SATIN’S EMBRACE

By DixieHellcat

It began, as had most of the adventures of my life, with a story.

My new novel project was an action-filled romance set in a Tolkienesque fantasy world. Writing a book means research; even if you’re making the whole universe up it still has to have roots in the world the reader knows. I love research, but now it meant having to stay home while Clay spent two weeks on the road promoting his latest album. Temporarily single, I threw myself into the work, so I wouldn’t think so much about coming home to an empty house and a longing voice on the other end of a phone.

I went to a Renaissance Faire to observe, talk to the performers and take notes. Medieval costuming always intrigued me, but as I focused more on their details I found them downright fascinating. The corsets were especially amusing, and amazing, especially when some of the female reenactors talked casually about wearing theirs more regularly than just at public appearances! After some coaxing, I followed them back into their dressing area, where I stripped down to my skivvies, pulled on a loaner camisole, and tried one on. It wasn’t fitted to me, but all the same the feeling was remarkable.

As a child I had a curvature of the spine. It was corrected, as much as possible, by spending three years in a back brace, a monstrosity that strapped around my torso and had metal bars and a collar that screwed around my neck to hold me rigid from chin to hips. The experience was decidedly unpleasant, but I did come out of it with better posture—and a figure to boot, which I had always attributed in part to the unyielding grip of the plastic bodice. Being laced into that borrowed corset for the first time brought back the best of that sense of physical support, only much more comfortably, surrounded now by soft cloth and springy strips of metal. It felt, surprisingly, great. I went home, nosed around on the net, and ordered one in my size (or rather, shockingly, four inches smaller, as the maker recommended!) to go with the Ren costume I was assembling. I wore the costume to a number of functions that fall and got a feel for what I was writing about, as well as some other unpredicted feelings. In particular, the corset and I hit it off, and I even found myself wearing it around the house sometimes. It felt good, and I felt I looked good in it, which for a formerly fat funny-looking kid like me was saying something.

Between the book and the faires I stayed busy. My books have always been my children, and will be till things settle down long enough for Clay and me to have some of our own; but things never take precedence over people to me, and all things were set aside every time the gorgeous man I married reappeared on the threshold of my world. He relished telling me about all the crazy people he met on the road, and listened with his usual intent as I shared my own tales, but there never seemed to be time enough to catch up completely. We never got our fill of each other before he was gone again, and we had to settle for cel pictures and naughty late-night phone calls.

Finally, though, after several weeks the furor began to calm and Clay came home to stay. For now, the rest of the album push could be done through satellite hookups, TV appearances and so on. The timing was perfect, with the holidays approaching. The weekend after Thanksgiving we were invited to a party by the Crosby family—they had remained fond of Clay ever since his computerized duet with Bing had revitalized the long-gone crooner’s career. Clay had to run out for a few minutes, so, in front of the antique full-length mirror in our bedroom, I checked my dress out. It was simple, black velvet with a full shortish skirt and scoop neck, and looked very nice; but suddenly I thought I wonder…

My corset lay in a box in the dresser. Like the dress its simplicity had appealed to me: smooth black satin, with matching panties. I wrapped it around me and buttoned up the old-fashioned busk in front. It came with garter straps, though I never needed them in my Ren garb; but now I snapped them on, found some sheer black stockings in my drawer, pulled them up and clipped them in place. Then I set about situating the laces—I still didn’t quite have the hang of it and usually had to drag a girlfriend to the ladies room or its equivalent as soon as I got to a faire to help me straighten them out. One set started at the top, the other at the bottom, and they met at the waist, making it hard to keep from mixing them up. After some fumbling, though, I thought I had it, and slipped my dress back on over it. Whoa! The dress looked fine before, but now—my midsection was flatter, my hips and booty nicely rounded, and with my breasts lifted I was giving up some major cleavage!

As I admired my unexpectedly attractive self, the front door slammed. “Ari—oh crap honey, I got stuck behind a wrecked truck, traffic for miles, sometimes I hate California—“ I panicked. There was no time to take the corset off. Then I looked in the mirror again, and my reflection seemed to say why worry? Work it, girl. Clay blew into the bedroom and grabbed for his shoes. “Ohh, we’re gonna be late, are you ready—“ He stopped cold, with one big foot in the air pulling on his shoe, when I turned to face him. “You look incredible.” I grinned in thanks and helped him with his bow tie, then found my shoes. So what if I couldn’t bend over very well? It’s better body mechanics to bend at the knees and hips anyhow. Clay shrugged on his tux jacket. “Okay, maybe we’ll make it—“ He put his hand on the small of my back and froze. So did I. “What the heck is that?”

Busted. “Oh, it’s, uh, a corset.”

“A what? I didn’t even know they made those anymore!”

“Yeah. It goes with my Ren outfit. It’s great for my back and makes my figure look good, so I wondered what it’d look like under real clothes—but now I don’t have time to change, so I’m stuck with it for the evening.” I made a full turn before him. “Fortunately I think it looks pretty good. What do you think?”

“Uh, yeah, it looks great.” That didn’t sound very sincere, and the odd look in his eyes made me doubt, but there was no time to worry about that either.

The party was enjoyable. My anxiety about wearing my corset to a ‘real life’ event quickly faded as the need to think a little more about my every action obliged me to move slower, and with a strange and pleasurable grace. The only dark note was the sense of Clay’s eyes on me all night. Normally that was not at all a disquieting sensation, but now he seemed to look at me with a slight frown I couldn’t figure out. “Okay, what is your problem?” I finally burst out when we got in the car to go home. “Are you mad at me about something? If so, spit it out.”

“Huh?” He looked genuinely baffled. “No, not at all.”

“Then why give me the evil eye all evening?” He frowned. “Yeah, like that. You keep staring at me and squinting.”

“Oh. I didn’t mean to. I just—keep looking at you, trying to figure out what this corset thing looks like. All I can picture is those awful things in Gone with the Wind, and they look like they’d hurt.”

“Is that all?” I was relieved. “You’ve been laying the Slimon Scowell look on me the whole time over that? You know me better than to think I’d ever wear anything that actually hurt!”

Clay laughed. “Yeah, well, I kept wondering, and watching you glide around. You looked so elegant …” After a moment, he added softly, “It’s been making me crazy all night.”

After hearing that, we couldn’t get home fast enough to suit me. “C’mon, I’ll show you. It’s no big deal, really.” In the bedroom I kicked off my shoes, unzipped my dress and let it drop.

Clay stood in silent amazement as I squatted to retrieve my dress and laid it over the chair by the door so I’d remember to take it to the dry cleaners. “Wow,” he said. “That’s a corset? It’s pretty. Really pretty. Let me see.” He ran his hands up my sides and over my stomach. “I remember Madonna used to wear one on stage, but hers had, like, snow-cone boobs.”

“Oh, you are so tactful.” With a giggle he nudged my shoulders to get me to turn. “The view won’t be as nice back there,” I warned him. “The laces are a mess. I was in a hurry, and I just don’t have the knack yet of doing them up myself.”

I felt his fingers trace the criss-crosses as they should go. “Yeah, it looks like somebody’s been playing cats cradle back here. It’s supposed to go like a shoe, isn’t it? I think I can fix it.”

“Don’t tell the SCA. Real medieval ones didn’t lace like that, but this one does. Let’s go over to the mirror. I can’t reach it, but if I can see it I can talk you through it.”

The sight in the glass compelled my attention: Clay in his tux, tie undone, and me looking like a saucy refugee from the Moulin Rouge. I couldn’t tear my gaze away from watching his big hands untangle the messy laces and bring them into order. “That looks right. Let’s see.” With one long strong pull, the entire corset drew in around me. I gasped in surprise as it tightened. “No, breathe out,” he ordered, and before I knew it I was complying, the circle narrowing as my lungs emptied. “Is that too tight?”

“No, no, it’s good.” I caught my breath and looked back over my shoulder to see Clay loop both sets of extra laces into a single floppy bow, then move his hands away a little as if to admire his work. I turned to the side and was dumbstruck. “My gosh, I’ve got J Lo’s butt now. And she’ll probably want it back.”

“Tough,” Clay snorted. “I’ve seen J Lo’s butt. It looks better on you.” He rested his hands on my hips, now even more prominent, and turned me to face the mirror fully. I had thought I looked pretty decent after my own awkward attempts to situate the corset properly, but this was unreal. My breasts sat high and proud, and my belly was board flat. Clay moved close behind me, caressing my ass and then wrapping his arms around my newly nipped-in waist. “You look amazing,” he breathed. “All night I’ve tried to imagine what you looked like in this, till I couldn’t stand it anymore. I couldn’t concentrate on anything else for wanting you. But I could never have imagined this. It’s as if you stepped out of a fantasy.”

Now I was more breathless from Clay’s attentions and my own mounting desire than from the restriction on my body. “Ooh, what kind of fantasy?” I turned in the circle of his arms and undid his tux shirt, stroking his chest through the undershirt beneath. “A naughty French maid-servant, perhaps?” I did a curtsy, my torso ramrod straight, and dipped so low I was at eye level with his crotch, which looked to be enjoying the show too. As I rose, I undid his pants. “Service, m’sieur?” His breaths were hard now, and as shallow as mine. I walked him back to sit on the edge of the bed. His reaction to this single item of clothing was more than I could have dreamt, and I was ecstatic to have stumbled upon something new we could enjoy together. Unable to bend and kneel, I held his hands for support and lowered myself to the floor. I ran my hands up and down his long legs, then took my time loving on his penis, kissing and licking and sucking and stroking, his sweet voice raised in moans of pleasure as musical to me as any hit record. When he lay sprawled across the bed, I gripped his thighs and stood, shed my panties and knelt over him. “Tell me again,” I urged and kissed him. “Was I really that pretty tonight?”

“Beautiful,” he rasped, grasping my hips, his green eyes aflame. “Regal, like a princess…you still are…love me, princess…yes…” He guided me to settle my throbbing crotch onto him, and the heat of him filling me stimulated me as never before. I felt slightly light-headed, and thought fleetingly how restricting air was said to intensify sexual sensations. Some people died chasing that pleasure, accidentally, desperate and lonely. It made me so thankful for what I had instead: a cute corset, and a handsome husband whose adoring eyes made me feel unabashedly sexy in it. I rode him to an incredible climax, mutually sweaty and messy and loud and all that good stuff that goes with really good sex. Then I flopped down beside him while he untied the laces and freed my body from its luscious confinement.

“Unbelievable,” Clay sighed as the warmth of his embrace around me replaced the cool of satin and steel.

+++

I wore the corset to a couple of other events in the weeks that followed, a premiere and an award show. Clay laced me in to an agreeable firmness beforehand, and the nights were all the more bracing for knowing how they would end: with a more snug lacing, followed by some highly pleasurable and sticky activities at home. Our love lives had never exactly needed help, but that little piece of black satin and spring steel had certainly added a touch of spice!

Clay had been offered a chance to host a live nationally televised special on Christmas Day, but that meant we had to spend Christmas in New York (which is, granted, far from the worst fate one could suffer). I hunted up a tiny soul-food kitchen in Harlem, and on Christmas Eve the proprietor himself, with the help of several of his squealing grandchildren, delivered a fully let-out home-cooked Southern dinner to our hotel. After we ate our fill and put the rest in the small fridge, we called my parents and Clay’s mom, then cuddled up for a while in the twinkle of the lights trickling in from the streets, missing our families but happy to be together.

Then Clay surprised me by handing me a wrapped box. “I know we said we’d do gifts when we got home, but I really want you to open this tonight. I can’t wait to see you in it.” Well, that was enough to get my blood racing, and I tore into the package with all the verve of a kid greeting Santa. Inside was a magnificent purple brocade corset with half-bra cups trimmed in lace, and matching sheer stockings I could tell from one touch were silk. While I gaped, Clay handed me a second box, which contained a pair of sexy high heels with neat ankle straps, that matched the ensemble exactly. “Yes, I remember you don’t do heels, but I thought maybe you’d wear these sometime, just for me?”

“I think I could make that sacrifice,” I gulped. “This is—oh, it’s lovely, Clay!” I hugged him tight and gathered everything up. “Come help me try it on!” By the time I reached the bedroom door I was almost naked. Tossing my worn Independent tour shirt and my Scooby-Doo pajama bottoms across the bed, I dug into the box and frowned. “Hey, there’s no bottom to go with this.”

“Duh,” Clay snickered and knocked lightly on my head. “Hello? There’s a reason for that.”

The light went on. “Ah, all areas access. You wicked thing.” I wrapped the corset around me, hooked the front and pulled the stockings up. The shoes were a perfect fit, though I felt as if I were on stilts when I stood up. “Don’t expect me to run far in these,” I warned while Clay did up the laces and drew them in.

“I don’t. They’re for looking at, not hiking in.” Suiting his action to his words, he tied up the slack and stepped back, his gaze consuming what he beheld. The familiar hint of giddiness tingled through me, part constraint and part arousal, and I was glad I hadn’t pigged out at supper. “Stunning. Just as stunning as I envisioned.”

I giggled, then sobered when I studied my reflection more closely. “I guess I did go too wild with supper. I thought I’d lost a few pounds, but this isn’t closing at all like my old one. Maybe because it’s new?”

“Maybe because it’s a size smaller.”

“It’s—“ Startled, I looked up at Clay’s devilish half-smile. “Oh, you bad boy!” I flung a pillow at him, which he dodged, and then took off in pursuit, but made it only a few steps before I had to stop. “Oh, this—outfit is—definitely not—made for this—sort—of exercise—“ I puffed.

Clay caught my hands in his and brought me over to the bed. “You sure you’re okay?” he asked, sitting beside me. “Do I need to let it out? You don’t have to do this for me, you know.”

“Just give me a minute. It was the shoes as much as anything. They’re nonfunctional, like you said. No, I’m fine. The corset feels good, kind of like being hugged all the time. Breathing is different, but it’s…like being just the least bit tipsy, except it’s immediately reversible by taking it off, which is very cool.” I snuggled into his arms. “I’ll save this one for special occasions, and the old one for Ren wear—it’s more traditional anyway. Wish you could come to a faire, they’re a blast.”

“So do I, but I’m afraid if I showed up the 21^st century would intrude suddenly and rudely on their Middle Ages.” Sadly, I had to agree. “You’ll have to tell me about it.”

I did, and we talked and cuddled and kissed and caressed, till I ended up stretched out on the bed enjoying the view while Clay slid out of his T shirt and sweat pants. I sighed and wriggled in anticipation, and noticed something. “Hey, it’s looser when I’m lying down.” Probably the older corset slackened too when I lay down, but if so I hadn’t noticed, probably because on the previous occasions when I’d been flat on my back in a corset my mind was on other things, such as how badly I needed Clay inside me right then.

Naked, he hovered over me. “You want to do something about that?” I thought about it for a moment, but I enjoyed testing limits, especially here in the safest situation I knew. I nodded. “Turn over.” Face down, I felt Clay straddle my thighs, the warm fuzziness of his leg hair tickling my bare skin above the tops of my stockings, his penis lying like a snake at rest along the crack of my ass. He untied the bow of slack, fiddled for a moment with the lacings and then pulled. I actually rose off the bed from the strength of his hands, my own weight cooperating in the tightening of the corset’s hold on me. “Exhale,” he said, his tone that of a teacher reprimanding a slow student. His voice rolled over me like warm butterscotch, as smooth as the air flowing out of me with an aaahhh, and as inescapable as the uninterrupted constriction of my body. “How is that?” he asked as he tied the slack off.

“Just a minute,” I managed, and thankfully he did not push me. Instead, he gently massaged my thighs and butt, and let me lie and adjust to the new compression. Finally I shifted, and he moved so I could roll over. “I’m good,” I answered the unspoken question in his eyes. “This is amazing, Clay. Thank you.”

“Thank you,” he replied with a deep tender kiss. “Merry Christmas.” After another kiss he added, “I forgot to show you another feature of this little number.” He took hold of one lacy bra cup and pulled, and it came away with the distinctive skrriipp of velcro. The other followed suit, leaving a neat shelf to support my breasts but exposing them completely. “I custom ordered it. All areas access.”

I giggled again, and started to get up to check myself out in the mirror. “Wouldn’t people love to know just how bad you really are?”

Though he didn’t answer directly, he proved my point when he pulled me back down to the bed. He promptly took advantage of the opportunity presented, fondling my breasts and teasing my nipples while I moaned as vigorously as my squeezed-in lungs would allow. After more delicious kisses, my hands tangled in his soft red hair, Clay pulled away. Slowly he slid down me, drinking in the sight of my corseted body, till he pressed my thighs apart and turned his attention from my upper lips to my lower. I gasped and strained but just missed being able to reach him. In the throes of need I tried to sit up, but the corset held me flat. At my groan he looked up and smiled, clearly savoring his ability to whip me into a frenzy. I writhed and begged while his masterful mouth conquered me (not that I put up much of a fight). At last my pleas were answered when he rose and sank his shaft into my eager aching opening. “Come on, beautiful…my princess, you’re under me now…do it…when I say…come on…” I did, in a sheet-clutching earthquake of release that seemed to go on forever.

Aftershocks were still shaking me when he followed, He dropped beside me with a grunt of satisfaction. “So you figure you’ve ravished me sufficiently?” I panted.

“For now,” he drawled and loosened my corset laces; but instead of taking hold of the top back edge, to help me slip it off after I unhooked the front, he paused.

“Something wrong?”

“I…” His hands moved slowly across my encased back. “Can we just lie here for a few minutes? I want to hold you like this. Is it too uncomfortable for you?”

“You’re a worrywart,” I chuckled, “but I love you for it.” I took a reasonably deep breath and let it out. “Sure. I had to sleep in that damned brace for three and a half years, and it was worse because I could only lie on my back. I couldn’t stay on my side, and with the bars and the collar I couldn’t turn my head so I’d have suffocated on my stomach.” I rolled over to face him. “This is nothing by comparison. You may have noticed I never sleep on my back—I swore the day I got out of that thing I never would again. It served its purpose, though. I don’t know whatever became of it. My grandmother wanted to bronze it and put it in her garden and plant climbing vines over it. Yes, weirdness runs in my family. I think my dad took it to the dump, though.”

“Too bad,” Clay murmured. “I’d like to thank it. It helped give me you, after all.”

What a surprising and sweet way to look at it—but then I had thought the same before, how the hurt in Clay’s past had shaped him into the man I loved above all others. With a silent and happily exhausted prayer of thanks, I nestled into his arms, corset and all.

+++

After New Year’s, Clay had concerts booked throughout January. The bulk of the research for the new book was completed and the actual writing was racing. All the work left to do now was in my head and on paper, so I hit the road with him. Secretly I packed the little purple corset and its friends, and a few days out surprised him when I slipped into the hotel room’s bath and changed into it. Needless to say, he was thrilled, and only too happy to take the reins from my hands, so to speak, and finish what I had begun. I said the bulk of the research was done, not all of it. I mean, how could I write a romance with corsets in it if I didn’t know a little bit firsthand about romance and corsets? The next night I decided to wear it to the concert under my clothes, but we got a little distracted when Clay laced me in, and were almost late to the arena!

Unfortunately, somewhere along the way I encountered a nasty sinus infection. As miserable as I felt, I was all for soldiering on, but didn’t want to risk Clay catching it from me, not with one of the biggest gigs of his career coming up. Characteristically, Clay was more concerned about me than himself, and though he admitted he wanted me beside him he insisted I go home and recuperate. A few days in bed with some medicine, lots of juice, and several doses of spicy hot Chinese food had me feeling much better, good enough to dig out the old black corset and attend a medieval function or two. With practice I’d gotten more skilled at manipulating the laces, but it just wasn’t the same. The difference wasn’t just that the corset fit better with the help of Clay’s superior strength, and me not having to reach awkwardly behind me. It wasn’t even the supportive and strangely comforting sensation of being held more securely than I ever could have managed myself. The erotic component was firmly ensconced now, so much so that the simple act of pulling the purple corset from its box was enough to make me shiver with expectation. On its deepest planes, my body knew that when Clay took hold of those laces and drew them tight something wonderful was about to happen.

It was, therefore, with great eagerness on any number of levels that I looked forward to Clay’s return home in early February for that big gig—the Super Bowl. In an unprecedented coup, he was not only singing the national anthem but headlining the halftime show. Janet who? I scoffed. Wait till they see what a real entertainer can do. He would arrive just in time for the performance and we planned to meet at the stadium. I pondered what to wear, and came up with the most marvelously evil idea. A raid of the mall scored just the thing—black raw silk pants, harem style, and a jacket to match...and a lacy purple thong. I showered and shaved and exfoliated and plucked, powdered and lotioned and manicured and pedicured; then I pulled on the thong and pants, and reached for the purple corset. I wiggled and jiggled, did up the front, and slowly worked the laces into a decent state. No, it wasn’t as close as when Clay did it, but he’d get his chance at it later tonight. Till then it would serve to make men’s heads turn, I hoped, as some already did at the Ren functions: not because I was a novelist, or because I was married to a pop superstar, but because for the first time in my life I was a desirable woman to male-kind at large. Using corsets had improved my carriage even when I wasn’t wearing one, which was most of the time, but wearing one gave it something extra. The media had dubbed their darling Clay the new Prince of Pop, and in that corset I moved and felt like the princess he called me, the princess he deserved. I took one more look in the glass at myself, and could never have conceived of the fat dumpy girl I once was now looking like this, with a seductive nearly-hourglass figure! With a vision of Clay’s surprised and desirous face dancing in my head, I pulled on my jacket and buttoned it almost all the way up.

The VIP area at the stadium was a madhouse. I barely saw Clay long enough for a quick kiss before he was hustled off to prepare. His Star Spangled Banner was breathtaking, and afterwards I settled down to working the room, chatting celebs up about my books and their movies and Clay’s music and the Titans’ chances for next season. After a while it started to get warm, and I unbuttoned my jacket halfway. It was immeasurably entertaining to watch a Congressman or a CEO or a country singer/actor stare at my conspicuously noticeable breasts while simultaneously trying to process the fact that I was happily carrying on an intelligent conversation about the relative merits of the Super Bowl combatants’ defensive lines and place kickers. Is this what Clay’s been handling all these years, with the opposite sex throwing themselves at him? I cackled to myself.

I didn’t see Clay at all during the first half, which, like most Super Bowls, sucked when considered strictly as a football game. It was just as well I didn’t, though; I would have hated to distract him too much from his performance. I made my way to the sidelines as halftime came, and any concerns I secretly harbored about nervousness affecting Clay’s game evaporated in the first few seconds. He wore my favorite black leather pants, some boots I didn’t recognize, and his silk shirt that’s the exact eerie deep green his eyes turn when we make love; and he was superb. I yelled and whistled, and if I’d been corseted any tighter I might just have swooned. Wouldn’t that have looked great on page one of Monday’s LA Times? Toward the end of the show I unbuttoned my jacket completely, but wasn’t sure if Clay spotted it or not.

The after-party got rolling right after the second half of the game did. When I finally got bold enough to take my jacket off altogether, I created a bit of a stir. Women responded for the most part as I first had, amazed and amused; a few were appalled, and some frankly jealous. I even got dragged into the ladies room to drop trow and give an impromptu fashion show! Guys were sniffing around me like dogs. I was the belle of the ball, flashbulbs and all, and I loved it.

A few minutes later, I spied Clay across the room, leaning against a wall. I tossed my jacket on and hurried to him. “Oh gosh, I’m sorry, have you been waiting long?” I hugged him, then stood back to admire. “You were awesome out there, sweetie. Just awesome. Not as if you’re not awesome all the time.” I didn’t say a word about my outfit, just stood there and grinned at his model-gorgeous self and waited for him to say something about it.

He didn’t. In fact, he didn’t say anything at all, only looked me slowly up and down. Have I awed him into silence with my beauty? I laughed to myself, but didn’t laugh long. He just kept looking at me, without words or expression. “Let’s go,” he said finally.

Oh, he’s exhausted, poor thing. Naturally—after a month on the road and then rushing in here—and he’s no party animal anyhow. He might fall asleep the minute we got home. I was disappointed at the thought of delaying my plans for a wild night of passion, but only a little and only for a moment. I had Clay for life, and his wellbeing was more important to me than costumes and games. “Let’s,” I agreed readily, and we started for the parking lot. “This way we’ll beat the traffic too. Want me to drive? You look tired.” He shook his head, and again turned that unfathomable look on me. On second viewing, his face didn’t seem as blank with fatigue as it had at first; now it gave more the appearance of careful and rigorously controlled neutrality. Maybe he’s trying to restrain his excitement, be all cool and Hollywood and professional, till we get away from public eyes. If that were the case, though, our car apparently wasn’t private enough. Clay did not speak the whole way home, or look at me or even touch me, and his air of tension intimidated me into puzzled silence too.

When we pulled up to the house I sighed in relief, and then was perplexed anew when Clay got out of the car and strode to the door without as much as a look back. I’m not a diva who insists on having car doors opened for her, but I’d grown so used to his unfailing gentlemanly nature that the abrupt absence of it left me agape. My mouth didn’t close either, after the first words he spoke when we got inside were “Well, what’re you waiting for? Take off your clothes.” I nearly squealed. He couldn’t control his lust, that’s what it was! This was wonderful. I kicked off my shoes, and was out of the jacket and halfway to the bedroom when his next words stopped me cold. “That’s what you’ve been wanting to do with every man at that party tonight, wasn’t it?”

I could not have been more stunned if Clay had backhanded me across the living room. “Excuse me?!?” I yelped and spun on my heel.

He was hard on my tail, towering over me. “I’m not quite the naïve boy I once was, but I could still kick myself for taking this long to figure it out. I had to see you in action, I guess, before I could see the truth. The way you swanned around, leading those guys around by the nose, or more like by their—their—“ He flung out his arms, backing me into the bedroom. “You got tired of the nerd, huh? Needed some adventure. It started with that black corset, didn’t it? Was it really for you, or someone else?” He grabbed the waistband of my pants and jerked them down around my ankles, and I stumbled backwards and sat down hard on the bed. “Then I was dumb enough to buy into it, literally,” he snapped with an angry thrust of his hand at the purple corset, “to think I was being so loving, buying you more frilly sexy underthings—“

I was shaken, and then mad as hell. “Yeah, they’re sexy! And I feel sexy in them, and pretty. I have never felt pretty in my life. I always got by on smarts, not looks. Yeah, I was flirting, because I finally feel like I can flirt and not get laughed at!” I pulled my pants off and threw them down. “You tell me I’m pretty, but—but—you love me, or I thought you did, so of course you’d say that. I get so sick of hearing ‘ooh, that Clay Aiken, he’s so hot, what’s he doing with that frumpy woman?’ Maybe I shouldn’t want to hear or see that other men think I’m attractive, but I’m only human, and I do. I do want to hear it. I do want to see it. It’s nice. It makes me feel good. It makes me feel more like the woman you deserve.” Pain overwhelmed me, and I couldn’t even look up at him. “That’s all I wanted—and now I’ve ruined it all—I just wanted you to be proud to walk around with me on your arm—“ I hid my face in my hands as the tears started. I would’ve curled up in a ball, except the stupid corset got in the way. I groped for the hooks down its front. “I’ll get rid of them—if it’d help—if it’s not too late.“

“No.” The snarl was now a choked whisper. When Clay sat down beside me and gathered me into his arms I could feel him shaking. “I’m sorry, Arianne. I’m sorry. You were beautiful tonight, so beautiful I couldn’t fathom how you ended up stuck with me…all those men deserve a princess like you far more than some dumb geek from Carolina.“

“Stuck with you?” I sputtered and lifted my head. Now I could see what he had really been hiding behind that impassive mask: hurt and fear and the loneliness of the road. “You must not have looked in a mirror lately.” I sniffled and scrubbed at my nose. Clay pulled me into his lap, pressed his cheek to mine and rocked me gently. “I’m sorry, Clay. You always seem so strong and confident, I forget sometimes you were as much a nerd as me. And that doesn’t matter anyhow. I was so out of line. I’m a married woman, and I should never have flaunted myself that way.” I shifted to look up into his troubled face. “I could have every male in America howling at my door, but you’re the only one I want. I’ll pitch the corsets if you want. I will not let my pride jeopardize our love.”

“No,” he whispered again and held me close. “I want you to feel good about yourself. I love seeing you proud and sexy. I am proud of you…And you’re not frumpy, either, and anybody who says that better never say it where I can hear them!” His soft kisses cleared the tears from my face.

Both forgiven and forgiving, we sat and held each other for a good while. Clay quietly admitted how scared he had been tonight, rushed onto the stage, caged by the rigidity of a schedule someone else had devised and bound him into, afraid he’d falter in front of thousands in the stands and tens of millions on the other end of the TV cameras. I reassured him he’d been as dynamic and captivating as ever, and then to my utter mortification had to stifle a yawn. “Oh, now this is awful!” I wailed. Clay just laughed, and put his hand playfully across my mouth when I yawned again. “You haven’t even had a shower, have you? Go ahead and get in the bathroom.” I stretched, my arms reaching for the ceiling. “I’ll finish undressing and—“ The corset dropped around my trunk. “Wow! Did you see that? I know it’s not laced as well as when you do it, but—wow.” I extended both arms high above my head, and the garment loosened palpably. “Too bad I couldn’t stay in this position long enough for you to lace me up. I wonder how far it’d go.” I punched Clay playfully in the chest. “If you were a jock we might have a chin-up bar in a doorway around here that I could hang from.”

Clay clutched his chest in mock pain, and then his gaze slipped past me. I looked the same direction, toward the bedroom door, but saw nothing of particular interest. Suddenly he moved me off his lap. Crouched on the floor, he opened the chest beside the bed where I stored craft supplies and rummaged through them. “It’s doable, you know, and without a chin-up bar.” He hauled out my half-finished macrame plant hanger…and then a long span of the stout, soft white rope I was using to make it slithered out. Clay coiled it around his fingers. “You won’t even have to hold on to anything.” He looked up at me with an evil look I knew well, a look that appeared only at the suggestion of a game that might end up with someone getting tied up.

Call it our little kink. We played it on occasion, with great verve and mutual satisfaction, and I rarely if ever turned down an opportunity to be on either end; but for the first time I hesitated. “Are you sure you’re not still angry?”

It was Clay’s turn to look as if he’d been slapped. He took a quick breath as if to speak, and then the wicked expectancy drained from his face, leaving it stricken. His eyes locked with mine, grew huge as if in horror, and half closed as he bit his suddenly tremulous lip. "Oh, no...”

“Clay?” I had expected reassurances, possibly a smart crack making light of his earlier outburst; certainly not this catastrophic reaction.

“Why can’t I control what I say?” His voice cracked, and words dropped out in broken pieces. “One fit of insecure, jealous temper…and I shatter something I loved…something I can never mend, that meant so much to me…your trust…” A tear slid down his cheek. He turned away and hung his head, and flung the rope to the floor.

“Whoa, hold your horses, Mr. Aiken, I said nothing of the sort!” I reached for his shoulder. “My trust in you hasn’t changed. I know you would never, ever hurt me intentionally. I’m just asking for both our sakes. We don’t need to put ourselves in a situation where something could happen that would upset us both. I mean, what if, oh, I dunno, you stepped on my toe or something? Then I’ve got a sore toe—but I know you, Clay, you’d torture yourself thinking it was your fault because you were mad.”

“I’m not mad,” he mumbled. “Never was, only scared of losing you. When I was onstage, and I saw you, you were practically glowing, and I thought how lucky I was, how blessed. Then I walked into that party, and you were laughing, charming, with all those rich, powerful, macho guys following you like puppies, and—my chest got all tight and I couldn’t breathe—I could see you, walking out on the arm of one, or two, or however many you chose…”

“Oh, so now you don’t trust me?” I demanded.

His head came up sharply, and his jaw dropped. “No, that’s not what I meant—it’s me, n—“

I cut him off short. “After God was good enough to give me a gift like you, and after I swore to Him and to you that I would love only you forever, you don’t trust me?”

“No, baby, no!” Clay’s wet eyes were almost frantic. I had a good rant going, and I could easily have driven him around the bend—if I had meant to.

“Okay, so you’re saying you acted the way you did, but it wasn’t because you didn’t—don’t—trust me?” He nodded vehemently. “You still trust me, you still love me?”

“Yes,” he nearly groaned.

“That’s my point. I acted wrong too, but I still trust you. I still love you.” With a little grunt I stretched my corseted midsection to its limits, picked up the end of the rope and laid it in his hand. “And there is no other person on the planet I can be this kind of naughty with.”

He had the nerve to look surprised when he looked down at the rope and up at me. Then that lascivious little grin tickled his cheeks again. He rose to his feet in one fluid motion that I always find so damned sexy. “Promise me something?”

“If you will me.”

“Anything. Name it.”

“You asked first, you go first.”

“Ladies first.”

“Argh.” I rolled my eyes. “Okay. Promise me that if I ever get too flirty for your comfort again, you will tell me right then. I couldn’t bear my thoughtlessness hurting you again. Seeing you cry and knowing it’s my fault…”

“Shh.” Clay touched his fingers to my lips again. “It wasn’t your fault—but yes, I promise.”

“Good. Don’t bottle it up and then go all redhead on me again.” We both giggled. “Your turn.”

“This is really stupid, but…” His hand brushed the lace trim across the top of the purple corset. “Don’t wear this in public again. The black one, yeah, that’s what you got it for, your faires and all, but I—I bought this one for us, sort of, and it felt really weird to see everybody looking at it. I know, it’s dumb of me, but—“

“No, it’s not.” I swallowed back new tears, jumped up and hugged him. “I’m so sorry. If I’d been thinking, I never would have. I didn’t consider that it would mean that much to you.”

“Well, I never said it, so I shouldn’t have assumed you’d read my mind.”

“I only do that sometimes.” Again he kissed my cheeks dry. “Read your mind, I mean. I promise, sweetheart, I promise.”

He squeezed me tight. “One more thing.”

“Ooh, you are just too demanding. Sounds like a song.”

With a snort he squatted again. This time he searched under the bed, and came out with the purple high heels. “I told you I’d ask you to wear these for me sometimes.”

“If your idea of this positioning is what I’m thinking, I can probably use the support.” I sat back down on the bed and slipped the shoes on, buckled the ankle straps and wiggled my toes, my insides just as wiggly with the thrill of the unknown. Then I looked up at Clay, exchanged a smile, and held my hands up to him.

He looped one end of the rope loosely around my wrists several times and knotted it, then stepped back and tugged at the other end. Obediently I rose and let him lead me across the bedroom, walking with care on the stilettos as if wading. Clay walked slowly backwards, clearly relishing the sight. I returned his gaze without fear, anticipation building in me like steam. When we reached the door he tossed his end over the top, reached around and pulled. Our house is old, with high ceilings and doorways. In a moment, I stood facing the fine old wood, poised on the tips of my toes—higher even than the shoes lifted me—with my arms at their uppermost limits. I craned my neck and saw him tie the rope off to the doorknob on the hallway side. “Watch your step,” he said and began to close the door. I followed it, with more tiny baby steps, till he shut and locked it.

I wriggled and the corset almost rattled around my stretched-out trunk. Behind me, Clay undid the laces. I rearranged myself and took a deep calming breath. As I felt him grip the laces, I pushed the air out of my lungs, hard and audibly, before he could demand it. “Ahh, good,” he murmured, “good girl, hold that…” He started to pull, and the corset to come together around me. Closer and closer it drew, and unbelievably, I felt the back edges meet. Clay flipped the laces in a half knot, but instead of finishing the bow, his hands reached around my sides. Curious, I peered down past my breasts, which felt as if they were about under my chin now, to see him bring the slack ends in front of me, switch hands and carry them back. I barely had time to yip in astonished realization before the circle of cords now wrapped around my waist contracted, cinching me in a fraction more. “I hope that’s all right,” he said as he tied them off.

The sensation was incredible, my body held fast as though in a luxurious vise. I leaned against the door, dizzy with the tightness and the emotions of the night, and felt Clay step back and inhale sharply—plainly he liked what he saw. His hands settled on my butt. How plump and round must it look beneath my now impossibly small (well, small for me!) waist? I couldn’t wait to see. “No other man will ever see you like this, will he?” he purred, palms pressing and kneading my flesh. I shook my head. “Will he?”

The sudden sharp snap of his voice, not to mention the light smack of his hands on my ass, commanded reply. “No,” I gulped.

“Ever?”

“Ever.” I said I only read his mind sometimes, and this time insight arrived too late to save me. Clay obviously intended to stake his claim to me again as his own. It shouldn’t really have been a surprise. After the shameful way I had treated him tonight, I couldn’t blame him, and I certainly would not refuse him. I had not lied; I did not fear him. My already short breaths quickened more with excitation.

His fingers hooked in the sides of the thong I had bought and jerked at it. Elastic snapped and fabric ripped. “You won’t be needing this anymore, then. No need to cover anything there.” When he’d bought the corset without panties I should have gotten the clue he didn’t mean for anyone but him to see me in it. I scolded myself for my stupidity, but the self-reprimand was blown away, along with most of my capacity for rational thought, when one big hand spread across my belly and pulled me back a staggering step. The ropes that had been so amusingly loose suddenly went taut around my wrists. Clay’s free hand slid down my hip, and around, and then up between my legs, to find the wetness growing there. “Mmm, and what about this?” His long fingers probed inside me, and I moaned softly. “Would you give this to any other man?”

“No…” I got the barest sound out on a shallow puff of air.

“I can’t hear you, Arianne. Speak up!” He pressed his body to mine. The supple leather of his pants felt smooth and warm through my silk stockings. He rolled his hips across my ass, slowly, and his crotch prodded hard and urgent against me. He wanted to hear it; no, more, he needed to hear it, and with all the raw passion only he could call forth from me. “Would you?”

“No!” I gasped.

With two swift rips Clay tore the cups from the corset and went after my breasts. My legs quivered uncontrollably, so weak I was almost glad for the bonds that helped hold me upright. He knows my body as well as his own, knows exactly where and how to touch me to reduce me to a trembling bundle of enflamed nerve endings, burning to ashes in his grasp. I thrust my crotch at his hand and fought the ropes, straining to lower myself enough to get more of him in me. His hand moved out of me and completely out of my reach, and his laugh at my frustrated mewl was almost sinister. “Wanton wench,” he growled, his breath scorching my ear. His fingers returned, just near enough to taunt my swollen clit and lower lips with feather-light strokes. My legs parted of their own accord, and he laughed again at my renewed moans. “Good corset-wearing medieval word, isn’t it? Wench. Would you go this wild for another man, wench?”

I could barely whimper now. “Nooo…”

“Can any other man make you feel this way?”

“No—no—“ Helpless to reach for him, I tipped my head back and rubbed it on his shoulder. My love gave him an exquisite power over me, and I yielded to it now in ecstasy, craving him with all my being, needing him more than air. “Only you, Clay—God, I love you—“

He gripped my hips and spun me around. The abrupt whirl, on top of everything else my body was enduring, left me reeling and disoriented for an instant, until my dazed eyes focused on Clay. His face was flushed, his eyes dark with hunger. We crashed into the door, his pelvis grinding into mine, and I opened my legs farther to welcome his need. His hands almost encircled my tightly cinched waist, and his mouth roved from my face to my neck to my breasts. “I love you, I love you,” he whispered hoarsely between kisses, before his lips took control of mine again, our tongues chasing each other around the warm moist cavern of our joined mouths.

From my waist his hands slipped up my sides and arms, and began to untie my wrists. “Ohh, catch me!” I cried in sudden panic. As the ropes came free I threw my weight forward, grabbed his neck and held on for dear life.

Clay gasped as my knees buckled, and he lowered us both to the floor. “Ari—baby, are you okay—oh Lord, you were right, we shouldn’t have done this!” He wrapped his arms around me, fumbling blindly for my corset laces.

“No, I’m fine, I—just—“ I pulled away and rested my back against the door. “You put on a corset and spike heels and then get tied up and teased within an inch of your life, and let’s see how stable you are!”

The hands that had tormented me seconds before now took my face in a tender cup. “I’d better not,” he replied after long looks and kisses satisfied him I really was okay. “You look much better in it.”

I managed a breathless giggle. “Don’t unlace it yet. I want to see.”

“You’re beautiful.” He caressed my breasts gently, yet even that was enough to fan the flames of my desire back to roaring life. “Not just like this. The person you are is beautiful. Never believe otherwise. And never give that to another. Please.”

The plea in his voice, the hint of a tremor in his fingers on my skin, reminded me that his love for me gave me power over him as well, power to heal or to destroy. I could never again allow myself to abuse that power, or him, the way I had tonight. Deliberately, I started to unbutton his shirt, and as if to turn up the heat past ‘unbearable’, I found nothing except cinnamon-furred chest beneath. “I, well, I kinda like how the silk feels,” he confessed at my exclamation of delight, and actually blushed.

I could not imagine loving another human being as much as I loved Clay at that moment. A potent and forceful man, a shy young boy: where else could I find such totality in one wonderful package? “I’m not going anywhere,” I whispered. “Please don’t think that of me. I can’t stand it. Besides, how could I give to someone else what isn’t mine to give anymore?” I tickled his chest and ribs and belly with the backs of my fingernails, and watched the flush spread from his fair cheeks; then I held his eyes with mine, and softly sang, “I don’t want nobody else…can’t you see that my body is aching, I’m hopelessly taken…by you…”

At the sound of his words from my throat Clay’s whole face trembled, as if he couldn’t decide whether to laugh or cry. I sort of negated both when I bunched my hands in the open sides of his shirt and pulled him to me to kiss him as hard as he had me. “Think we can make it to the bed?” he panted when I finally released his mouth and reached for his fly.

“Nope,” I declared and pulled him on top of me. He slid right inside me, and I sighed at the sweet comfort of it as we moved together. After only a few moments, though, the steadily building drive of his hips hesitated. “What?” I gasped.

Now his face was tense. “Trying to hold on…don’t want to leave you behind…”

The very thought of him fighting his own release in order to please me sent me totally over the edge. “You’re not!” I groaned. “Oh, come on, Clay, come on!” I clutched at him as climax spilled over me. He thrust hard, once, again, and then he was there too, and we cried out and held to each other as the fire consumed us both.

I floated on a warm sea of satiation for a while after. I felt Clay move, and something soft settled over me. When I coaxed my eyes to open, I found the quilt that normally hangs over the stand against the wall, and Clay’s arms, both folded around me. It was almost perfect, except that as my body recovered from its aroused state the super-snug corset was getting rather uncomfortable. I rolled onto my side. Clay’s shirt was soaked through with sweat—of course, he was dressed more heavily than I. I kissed his damp cheek, and his eyelids fluttered up. “I need to get out of this thing,” I told him softly, “but I really want to see myself first. Help me?” He clambered to his feet, helped me up on my stilts, and held me while I tottered over to the mirror. The woman who met me there was a sight to behold, narrow-waisted and voluptuous. “How strange. It really doesn’t look like me.”

“It is you.” Clay had not relinquished his hold around me, as if through my skin he could feel how my innards were still quaking. “Maybe it’s a part of you you didn’t know was there, but you should welcome her.”

“Look who’s talking. Have you ever really grasped how fine you are?”

He ignored me. “She is you. The wench in every woman. Only this wench is all mine, and I love her.” He planted warm little kisses all along my shoulders while he undid the corset laces. I unhooked the front and the stockings, and slipped out with a grateful sigh—and a grimace when the slight fatty pudge of my belly sprang out to greet me. Clay saw the face I made, and before I could say another word he caressed my stomach, bent low and kissed it. “That’s you too. So I love it too.” He sat me on the bed and knelt to remove my shoes and stockings, then he left his clothes on the floor and slid under the covers beside me. He kissed and nibbled and stroked all over me, all the while telling me why he loved every part, even my big thighs and crooked teeth. I almost cried, and then returned the favor. I explored every inch of his marvelous frame and whispered aloud, so he could hear them, the prayers I said silently every night: prayers of thanks for his red hair and freckles and ears and feet and all those things he hates about himself and can’t understand why I love. They make up the whole of him, the one who holds my heart, the other half of my soul, the priceless gift given to me, the man I plan to love for all eternity. We got around to making love again, eventually, and it was long and slow and tender and everything that the term, taken literally, implies.

Finally satisfied, at least for now, we decided we really should get some sleep. If he loves me as much as I love him, I thought as I nodded off, then I am truly blessed.

+++

The next morning, while I was tossing together some breakfast, Clay walked into the kitchen with his phone pressed to his ear. “Yes, sir, thank you…I hope so too…Bye.” He looked at me, pulling biscuits out of the oven. ”Have you seen the morning paper yet?”

The coolness of his tone sent a chill down my back. “No.” To be honest I was avoiding it. What if one or more of those flashbulbs I had so foolishly basked in the night before had been paparazzi? The tabloids had worn themselves out searching for some hint of scandal they could attach Clay’s name to. What would they do with pictures of his wife out in public behaving like a—a wanton wench? “Why?”

“Seems some hot photos of you and your corset have hit the wire.”

I dropped the pan with a clatter I barely heard. “Oh—ohh, dear Lord—“ Horror crushed my chest, and I nearly went to the floor with the biscuits. “Clay…Clay, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry…” His arms went around me, and I looked up, too devastated even to weep, to see him grinning. “What are you so cheerful about?”

“That was Clive Davis on the phone, and he was laughing his butt off. He said, and I quote, ‘congratulations, young man, I think we just found that edge I’ve been harping about’. Not that I need an edge, apparently, from the way things have been going, but it can’t hurt to remind people I have a gorgeous wench of a wife who looks anything but neglected! The pictures are great, I hear. USA Today wants to interview you. Oh, and Mrs. Davis wanted to know where you got the corset—“

“What?!?”

“—so I was happy to tell her I bought it for you and gave her the web site address.” Clay’s green eyes danced with mischief, and my sobs melted into laughter. His embrace was tighter than any corset, and infinitely more satisfying.

My editor called me later that day, after seeing the pictures (we found them in the paper, and even I had to admit that as unphotogenic as I consider myself, they were pretty good). She told me the publisher would love for me to do a photo shoot in the corset for the back cover of the new printing of my current book. I tactfully explained that that particular garment had retired from public life, but I had another; or if black didn’t suit them, I’d be more than happy to shop for one that did. (As if I need an excuse to shop.)

A quick check of the internet showed my fans to be highly amused, and Clay’s to be hog wild. Clay Nation was bubbling over, and the reviews were almost universally positive. His Lecherous Broads, who claim purple as their color, had always accepted me, but now they officially embraced me as one of their own.

The next day I did the USA Today interview, in the black corset and a long skirt I’d bought to match. I talked about my books, the Ren culture, and how I had become interested in the subject. I talked too about the experience, trying a corset, buying one, wearing one. The reporter kept asking about Clay, of course, and about his wholesome image. “So what’s unwholesome about a happy marriage?” I asked, all innocence and wide eyes. She persisted; I guess she thought either we had something ultra-perverted going on, or I was trying to ruin him. What was his take on all this? she asked. “Well,” I said with a smile, “I certainly appreciate that it’s much easier to wear a corset with help…not to mention much, much more fun.”

Thanks to all the Broads who allowed me to pick their brains for this story; with special thanks to Lila, corset consultant extraordinaire. And many large hugs to Cella, Queen of the Driveway! 

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Posted 9.24.04

You can contact the author with your comments at theleewit@mindspring.com.