Erotic short. A butler laces up a gentleman’s corset.
Rated M, cis M/M, 900 words. More of Donald Howard and Victor Mead — corsetry, breathplay, gentle domming, praise kink, bondage, size kink, sweetness and tenderness.
These two originally appeared in:
https://johannestevans.medium.com/butler-vs-footman-3145043a09e0
“You really had this made for me?”
“Is that so surprising?”
“They didn’t raise an eyebrow at my measurements?” Don was facing away from Mead as Mead’s clever fingers made quick work of the fine ribbon lacing up the back of the thing, lacing together the two panels. Don rather felt as though he were being sewn up himself, with each loop Mead passed through with the ribbon, tightening the back of the corset.
“What about your measurements would raise an eyebrow?”
“Well,” said Don, and drew in a shuddering gasp as Mead tightened the corset right in, making him feel quite remarkably constricted, its structure squeezing in against his waist. “Don’t I have narrow hips? Not much of a bust?”
“That’s what the corset is for,” murmured Mead in his ear, his voice soft, his breath hot on the back of Don’s neck, and Don sighed: this was a mistake, because Mead took the opportunity to pull the corset closed all the way, and Don found when he was done that he couldn’t inflate his lungs all the way again. “Breathe easy, slow. You don’t have the same capacity you did.”
“My diaphragm can’t move as it did,” Don managed to say.
“Precisely,” said Mead, and settled his hands on Don’s waist. Over the silk and boning of the corset, Don could feel the warm weight of his hands, and for a few minutes he closed his eyes and leaned back against Mead’s big chest, inhaled in increments, as best he could, and then exhaled again.
The tightness was all encompassing, squeezing in against his waist, his belly, and all about his chest, and yet there was something profoundly exciting in the structure of the corset that had nothing to do with the difficulty of his next breaths — he didn’t think that his back had ever been so incredibly straight, his posture so perfect, and he rolled his shoulders slightly, relaxing into it.
“Ready to go tighter?” asked Mead.
Don laughed airily. Mead waited until he said, “Yes, Vic, go ahead,” before he pulled the ribbons tighter.
Don was breathing evenly, but he could feel the tightness, felt just the slightest bit light-headed from the relative lack of oxygen, and the first thing he noticed when Mead pulled him in front of the mirror was not himself, but the look on Mead’s face, the furrow of his brow, the serious set of his jaw, his lips.
Harrison had convinced him of the merits of this particular idea, the appeal in it, when Mead had resolutely refused to choke Don or let Harrison choke him, but that didn’t mean Mead wasn’t going to teach it with as much seriousness — far more seriousness — than it was due. Don hadn’t asked, but he knew Mead well enough to know that he had his pocket knife ready, that the reason they were using ribbon for the corset back instead of something with a bit more structure was so that if needs be, Mead could cut right through it in one smooth movement.
“I love you, Vic,” said Don dreamily, head feeling full of air for all that it was somewhat lacking at the moment, and Mead was so surprised that his lips fell open, his eyes widening, and a smile tugged at his mouth, his expression warming.
“Look,” said Mead softly, and put his hands around Don’s waist.
Don’s own mouth fell open, staring at where Mead’s hands rested over his hips — the difference wasn’t truly unbelievably extreme, but it was far more than he could have expected. He was a somewhat square man by nature: the corset had given him an actual waist, created a subtle hourglass of him where before he’d been a tall glass.
“Just think,” Mead whispered, “how it will feel when you sit down upon me. There’ll hardly be any room left.”
Don’s cock, hard in his underclothes, gave a powerful jolt, and as blood rushed downward with more speed than before, Don felt dizzier than ever and laughed faintly. He remembered the days, some years ago, where Mead was scandalised at the mere thought of grinding between Don’s arsecheeks, let alone piercing him open, and now he was going to stuff Don full of it even as Don strained at the tight corsetry bound about his waist.
“Kiss me first?” asked Don. “Won’t you?”
Mead’s hands stayed on his waist as Don kissed him, held him as gently and as tenderly as if Don really was an hourglass, as though he were a fragile thing liable to shatter in his hands, and every brush of Mead’s lips against his was a dream.
“Now,” said Mead seriously, stroking Don’s cheek with his knuckles, squeezing him about the already-squeezed waist with his other hand. “Might I have permission to ruin you, sir?”
“Consider me yours to ruin,” murmured Don, and marvelled at how, when Mead bent him over the table, his back was straight, his posture picture-perfect. He laughed against the wood.
“What is it?” asked Mead.
“It’s like you’re sculpting me,” he murmured. “Like you’re perfecting me with it.”
“You were perfect before,” said Mead, and Don sighed as his fingers slid under his waistband, and began to crook in.
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