Corseted and Out of Control
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I first met Angelina when she was 20 and I was 10 years older. Her mother was Swiss and her father was English, like me. Everyone called her Angie.
She was fairly innocent in my view and didn’t even realize how attractive she was. A good figure, based on her height and her school athletics; combined with a pretty face and long brown hair. I was struck by her appearance and presence immediately and she seemed to enjoy being with me. Within a few weeks we were lovers and we enjoyed each other very much.
Basic sex, you understand; nothing complicated or even remotely perverted.
Now you need to know that I have a lifelong yearning for women in tight underwear; girdles, corsets, suspenders [garters to anyone in USA], stockings especially compression stockings, latex, leather and so on. It seemed to me that Angie was the perfect young woman for my likings, and so I bought her an hourglass corset with front clips fastening and back lacing; and some tight stockings. One evening, a few days later, as were making love, I said to her, “Will you wear something special for me, right now?”
“Course,” she replied, “Show me.”
I got out the corset and she felt at it and smoothed her hand over the fabric and the bones and the lacings. She was almost drooling with the feel and sight of it.
“Wow, I always wondered how this sort of thing would feel to wear,” she drooled, “Put it on me now.”
And so I did; and the effect was electric. Not only on her pretty figure but also on her sexuality. The corset was off-the-shelf and so not very extreme in its shape but it gave her a waist of 24-inches to go with her youthful 34B bust and 34 hips. She looked amazing and I spent that night deep inside her, clutching onto her new waist and dragging her around the bed as I took every pleasure I could.
The effect on her was even more remarkable. Angie held onto her own waist and felt at the new shape over her hips, and the smooth shape of her ribs. More than once, I saw her hold her flat belly with her left hand and press her right hand down between her labia, to caress and massage her clitoris. She came to orgasm many times that night and I realized she was taking as much pleasure from the tight corset as I was.
Little did I know that this was the beginning of a new experience for me but also the start of something a bit scary and eventually tragic. For me, that is; not her.
As the weeks went by, Angie asked me to get her tighter and more restrictive corsets, and I was happy to oblige.
Unless you’ve experienced the pleasure of entering a corseted woman, you’ll not understand. But the extra tension in her vagina, the internal pressure and the sensation of being up inside her organs, pressing on her colon and its — er — contents. All this is just wonderful and the most erotic of experiences for me; that I’ve struggled to find all my life.
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As a matter of information, you may not know about tightlaced corsets. They are not designed or made to be tight all over. Under the bust, they are made just to settle on the woman’s skin with maybe the same tension as a bra-strap. And over her hips or bottom or thighs [depending where it reaches] a corset is made just to fit nicely on the skin at that point. Only over the waist are they made to cause maximum constriction and reduction. If the desire is for an hourglass shape, then the corset hardly presses on her ribs at all but then dips sharply into her waist before spreading out again over her hip-bones. But if the desire is for a cone shape, then the corset will shape her lower ribs, especially the floating-ribs, and creates a straight line cone from under the bust into the waist. That kind of corset is more difficult to wear and takes many months and even years of training to be correctly shaped; and perhaps hardly ever truly comfortable.
Also, a proper corset is made with multiple layers of fabric with flexible steel bones in stitched pockets running from top edge to bottom edge; plus a rigid front busk-clip fastening that will keep the woman flat and firm from her cleavage to her groin. The purpose of the other steel bones is not to create the shape of her figure but to support the fabric; to prevent it from wrinkling. As a corset gets tighter, there is a tendency for the fabric to wrinkle and grip the wearer’s skin. It can cause blood blisters and tears that look like childbirth stretch marks. It is the steel bones, usually flexible spirals but also tandoğan escort flat steels, that prevent the fabric from wrinkling in this way. The tighter the corset, the more bones are required. A corset that reduces a woman’s waist by 2-inches may need eight or ten bones; but a reduction of 8-inches will need 20 or 24 bones; because of the potential skin-injury from the wrinkling of the fabric. I’ve measured and ordered all types of corsets for many women over many years.
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Although I bought Angie simple hourglass designs at the start, she quickly made it clear that she preferred the cone-shape and so I measured her, ordered them and fitted them onto her with increasing stringency as the months went by.
At each new corset, a little smaller in the waist and longer over her body, she would dash to unwrap it and stand with her back to me for the lacing. Almost every time, as the lace got tighter and her waist got smaller, she would lean forward with her hands on the bed, or on a chair, or a window-sill; and say to me, “Come into me now.”
This stopped being a request and sounded to me more of an instruction. Over time, her insistence became stronger as her waist became smaller.
I was happy with this situation, standing behind her and grasping her tiny waist and pushing my erection deep inside her; feeling the extra pressure increasing as the corsets got smaller.
Then one day we had a kind of accident. As I was lacing her into a 20-inch waist corset, she suddenly let out a little squeak and reached round to hold her own buttock open; not closed together.
“I’m sorry. It’s coming. I can’t stop it. Ooooh.”
And out of her bottom slowly emerged a long turd; continuous; not sloppy and not hard. Until about 18 inches of shit was hanging from her; squeezed out by the pressure inside her torso.
It dropped to the floor of her bedroom which, fortunately at that spot, was cream coloured marble tiles. It landed silently and the aroma filled the room.
Before I could do anything else, she started to empty her bladder also. Long squirts and gushes down her legs; mingling with the dung on the floor.
I grabbed a towel from the chair close by and wiped her around her bottom, her urethra and down her legs.
And then she surprised me again, “Leave that. Come and get me now.”
She climbed onto the bed still damp and smelling, and dragged my hand after her. And so we had sex with her contents, shall we say, on the floor at the side of the bed.
She moved around and handled me to ensure that I got into her rectum, and I ejaculated there.
Her orgasms were volcanic; stronger and longer-lasting than I had ever seen in any woman.
That process of lacing and emptying became a routine for her and for me. Not every time we were lacing her into a tight corset but fairly regular. She even got herself a wide plastic tray, about 2 feet square, on which she stood whenever she wanted that sensation. And I realized that she ate and drank specially beforehand, so that the poop would flow nicely.
Eventually, she [I say she, not we] perfected it so that she was able to produce a single long turd from her anus to the floor; almost 3 feet in length. It must have come from her rectum, sigmoid , both descending and transverse colons. Her excitement was uncontrollable and her subsequent orgasms increasingly massive and overwhelming. She subsided into a kind of trance whenever we did this together. Of course, I took the precaution after that first time to make sure I had condoms ready for the rectal-fucking. Can’t be too careful, don’t you agree?
There came a day when I thought things were getting out-of-hand and potentially dangerous. A new corset came, which she had ordered for herself. As I was putting in on her body, tightening the laces behind, I realized that this corset had a waist of not more than 14 or 15-inches.
“Angie, this is crazy. You can’t take this much reduction. It’ll injure you. I don’t want to make this tight on you.”
She lost her temper and spat out at me, “Just do it, Philip. It’s my body and my life. So lace everything out of me. ALL the shit out of me. You just make sure I’m empty and fuck me all night and all day.”
I was shocked by her expression and her words, and did as she said, with the corset tightened to rigidity but still not fully closed. I didn’t think then that any woman could possibly be laced into that türbanlı escort corset.
Her bowels emptied continuously for maybe 10 minutes, and her bladder as well, onto the square tray. She pressed on her own waist to make it smaller, and on her own hips as if to lift her body out of her pelvis.
She kept me with her for the whole night and the following day; she utterly corseted to immobility; drinking and eating nothing; expecting me to get my erection into her front and back whenever she asked for it.
By the end of 24 hours she was semi-conscious, totally empty and holding her own waist in her own fingers and thumbs.
I remember also that she was leaking from every opening including mouth, nose and ears. Mostly my juices but also her own, and bowel mucus and a lot of pee and snot, and a little vomit.
Such a mess on the bed and the corset.
She regarded the weekend as a great success. I was part scared and part triumphant.
Never to be forgotten.
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It occurred to me at that time that I had introduced her to hard corsets and she had gone over-the-top finally.
Sometimes, I also got the feeling that she was cheating on me. A few times, she cancelled our times together with excuses about family problems, work pressure, not feeling so good; you get the idea?
And a few times, her corsets had stains on them that I didn’t recognize.
On one particular occasion, I found a big butt-plug in her bathroom; cleaned and drying off. It was the type called Ace-of-Spades and about 3-inches across. I knew how difficult it was and is to insert this style of plug, unless a body is trained to it. I’d never known her use a butt-plug so either it belonged to some other person who used her bathroom for his or her erotic pleasures; or else she had someone else pushing that butt-plug into her without my knowledge.
But I was intoxicated with this woman and her sexuality. Nothing else mattered to me but being with her as much as possible and getting inside her tightlaced body. So I didn’t ask her about the plug.
Then came the time when all was made plain.
One day she called to say she couldn’t meet me that evening because she was having a little party with some friends.
I had a key to her flat and thought I’d go along with a present [bottle of champagne] to surprise them all.
When I got inside the flat, very quietly, the place was deserted but I heard sounds from the bedroom, so I slowly opened the door.
All I could see at first were two legs in fully fashioned stockings and high heels, sticking up towards the ceiling, and spread out. Broad straps around the ankles were attached to ropes up to some fastening in the ceiling, which I couldn’t see in the subdued lighting of the room. She was lying on a big green sheet on the floor of the room, seemingly with a mattress underneath it. Otherwise, everything else I could see was male bodies.
I went closer and saw all this:
– there was a mass of long suspender-straps – maybe 12 maybe more – holding the stockings very taut;
– her waist was held in a tiny corset that I hadn’t seen before, pulled so tight under her ribs she could easily have held her own body in her fingers and thumbs; she looked like an insect, a true wasp-waist;
– her breasts were bound up with ropes and formed two purple spheres on her chest;
– one guy was crouched between her legs and had his hand up her rectum as far as his wrist
– a second guy was kneeling over the first’s arm and was fucking her cunt like his life depended on it
– a third was kneeling at her head, with her neck stretched hard back and ploughing into her throat, with his balls in her mouth, pushing our her cheeks; he stayed down her throat only for a few seconds each time and then she took a big breath before he got into her again pressed his balls back into her mouth;
– a fourth was kneeling across her bent throat with his anus on her Adams-apple and shagging into the cleavage between the breast-globes, holding them both together to give him stimulation;
– her arms were both spread put with elbows on sheet on the floor and her forearms pointing to the ceiling; one was inside the rectum of a guy facing her, wanking to shoot across her belly; the other hand was in the bowels up to her elbow of a guy facing away from her and bouncing up and down, shooting his juices with every descent.
The six of them were totally absorbed in occupying her body and fucking her to Hell and back; or was it Heaven for her? She was breathing when she could and writhing with the movements on the ends of her arms. She was practically invisible apart from the stockinged-legs.
I didn’t know what to do and was backing away when one of the guys said to me, “No room for you, mate. Come back later and you can have what’s left over.”
I went in the kitchen and had a strong drink, with the door open and watching from that distance. About 15 minutes later the guys began to come and fill her, and the fisting guy pulled out of her with his hand and arm full of her shit.
The guy in her throat let out a roar like a lion as he shot his load down into her stomach. As he pulled out of her, she vomited her stomach-load forward over her bound-up purple breasts and down to her thighs.
The two guys on her arms both got off and emptied themselves; kneeling over her body to deposit on her mostly lube-gel but some shit and mucus as well.
Two other guys emptied their bladders onto her; spraying her from her throat to her knees.
And so they slowly moved away from her and I could see she was lying in a pond of sperms, shit, sweat, urine, her own vomit, and then she peed her entire bladder onto the sheet.
It was obvious that she was lying on a waterproof sheet and now lay in a pool of human fluids and solids, created by the depression she made in the mattress under the sheet.
Someone let her legs down from the ceiling ropes and she was spread-eagled on the sheet.
Her head was turned to one side, with her eyes closed and covered in human-stink slime, as was her hair. But she had a wide grin on her lips; she was revelling in the sensations and the knowledge of what had happened to her.
All the while, she held her own waist in her hands.
The room stank like an abattoir but I was hardly aware of it.
One of the guys came to me and said, “All yours mate; you can do anything with her. Really – anything. She’s amazing.”
But I could see this wasn’t my Angie any more. Not the young woman I’d introduced to corseting and hoped to train for my own pleasures.
She’d gone wild. She was out of control in her desires for perverted sex and to satisfy her own corset-fixation.
Someone untied the ropes on her breasts and Angie moved her shit-laden hands from her stinking slimy waist, and massaged them back to their normal colour and shape. All the while spreading the shit-pee-sperm mixture over her chest and throat.
Someone released her ankles from the ceiling hooks, she opened her legs and a mixture of white and cream-coloured sauce oozed out of her but from which hole I couldn’t tell. Her body was obviously completely full of these men’s juices, shit, lube-gel, pee and what else; and she was allowing it all to seep out of her.
Her stockings were wrecked, with the suspenders pulling great holes in them, and laddered all the way down to her toes.
The corset was wrecked. Sodden, stained, beyond cleaning.
My little Angie was a wreck also.
There was nothing left for me. Even my earlier erection had disappeared.
Someone wiped her eyes and she saw me and said simply, “Philip, I’ll call you.” Then she closed her eyes again and went back to grinning to herself.
A week later she told me we were finished, and thanked me for introducing her to hard corsets and other erotic pleasure. She said her life had moved on and she needed freedom to learn other ways and different experiences with new people.
Angie was the only woman I ever knew who took her corset fetish to such extremes; although I have introduced others to the experience and the pleasures. And it’s been my pleasure also, and my privilege.
I saw Angie only once after that, 14 years later. We bumped into each other in Schipol Airport. I was on my way back to London and she was going to Prague.
She was older but had a wonderful figure, still corseted I could tell when I hugged her and the same aura of sexuality.
I wanted to ask her a question, “I can feel that you’re still hard corseted but are you still taking six men at once; and letting them do everything they want with you?”
But I didn’t ask because I was afraid the answer would be “Yes.”
Also, I wanted to ask, “Why didn’t you do the fisting thing with me? You know I would have wanted it.”
But what was the point; it had all happened many years before and life moves on, as she herself had said.
That was Angelina. She affected my imagination ever since and I wish I could meet her now. I don’t think I’ll ever get over her.
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