We had exchanged pictures. I was initially a little disappointed. A middle aged, sallow skinned, slightly portly man with thinning dirty blond hair in an Adidas track suit. I thought he looked nothing like what I imagined and I could not picture myself with someone like him. So…NORMAL! How could someone that looked like that be interested in all of the things we talked about? Then I caught myself and couldn’t believe my attitude. Up to that point I loved talking to him and what did looks matter? I have never enjoyed the reality that people mostly judge me by the way I look, but I think that is true of humanity in general. I remembered something my mother said about her brother. She said that people who were hung up on looks missed out on so much beauty. Imagine all the wonderful people her brother would miss out on because he had such a narrow view of what his partner should look like. And of course, my "type" always seemed to leave me...well, they just didn't usually work out. The best relationship I've ever had in my life was with a man who was not my type. I won't say that memories of my first man, who I will call Dr. T, didn't infringe on my perception of Mr. K. There was much about Mr. K that reminded me of Dr. T, who died and is now on a pedestal and will forever be the bar by which all other men will be compared. Sad, but true. I totally admit it. But I should save Dr. T for another post. Mr. K was a man who seemed to be my perfect companion, with so many shared interests, a man who was not intimidated by the craziness of my life, who seemed so in tune with me that I could swear we could be long lost twins. We were polar opposites, but in a complimentary way: I loved to accentuate my femininity, he loved a very feminine woman, I loved a man who was not afraid to take control, he is an admitted control beast, I am walking chaos, he loves to put things in order…and so on and so forth. This man thought I was worth the time and trouble to bring me half way across the globe just to meet me, I would be CRAZY not to give this a chance! Right? I arrived in London amidst some strange circumstances…which is just the usual in my life…I was stuck in the plane sitting on the tarmac at Gatwick for about 3 hours and they wouldn’t say what was happening. Turns out they were evacuating the airport because 12 guys armed with liquid explosives bound for the U.S. had been caught in London. Meanwhile, my makeup was melting and the illusion of perfection after an international flight was fading fast. Finally we were let off the plane to an eerily empty international airport. I could hear my footsteps echo…so strange. Finally as I approached baggage I got my first glimpse of Mr. K in real life. When he smiled at me I was dumbstruck. His photo had not done him justice. He was tall, tan, blond and beautiful. I was terribly nervous that he would be disappointed that I didn’t look better than my photos, and I said as much. He simply said that he liked what he was looking at and that was that. He took me to a beautiful Victorian bed and breakfast that he had reserved and we decided that I could freshen up before we went out for dinner and a bit of exploring. It is such a strange feeling having talked to someone for so long and never having met them face to face. It wasn’t like meeting for the first time; it was like resuming the conversation we’d been having over the last 5 months. When I look back on it now, I can’t believe I let someone be so forward with me, and knowing Mr. K now, I can’t believe HE was so forward with me. When I went to take a shower, he just came right in the bathroom, undressed me, walked me into the shower and proceeded to wash me as if I was already his. When I remembered this aloud to him years later, he just said, “well, weren’t you?”
I had never experienced anything like this before. Having a man wash my hair, my body, everything…it was like he was casting a spell with each trace of his fingers. Believe it or not, there was nothing lewd or dirty about this. He was almost reverential in the way he took care of me. No one had ever paid me this kind of attention; I was completely enchanted. After being washed and dried, he did something that pretty much sealed the deal for me: he laid his body over mine and smiled like a cat playing with a mouse. He pressed all of his weight into me and I felt the delicious feeling of being so compressed. In years past I had to devise ways to get a man to do this, as it is a weird little kink of mine…but Mr. K did it without my even asking, and that smile! He told me that I “tolerated it well” and I just kept wondering how he knew I had wanted him to do that. If anyone out there in computer-land knows if there is a name for the desire to be compressed under the weight of someone else, please do tell…I don’t remember exactly what happened next but it went something like, I wanted him very badly and he wanted me in a corset very badly.
So I was denied any further physical pleasure until I was properly corsetted. He examined the various corsets I had brought with me and chose one for me to wear. We stood in front of a mirror and while he stood behind me, he wrapped the corset around my body, hooking the busk in a way that only inflamed me further. He then began the slow process of tightening the laces. I could see his face behind me in the mirror and he was clearly enjoying the moment as much as I was. For those who don’t wear corsets, or have never had a partner lace you in, I can’t even begin to describe the erotic feeling of being slowly tightened by him, and the feeling of his hands over my tight corsetted waist. And like the famous
Mr. Pearl said, he tied the bow and I was his.
We had exchanged pictures. I was initially a little disappointed. A middle aged, sallow skinned, slightly portly man with thinning dirty blond hair in an Adidas track suit. I thought he looked nothing like what I imagined and I could not picture myself with someone like him. So…NORMAL! How could someone that looked like that be interested in all of the things we talked about? Then I caught myself and couldn’t believe my attitude. Up to that point I loved talking to him and what did looks matter? I have never enjoyed the reality that people mostly judge me by the way I look, but I think that is true of humanity in general. I remembered something my mother said about her brother. She said that people who were hung up on looks missed out on so much beauty. Imagine all the wonderful people her brother would miss out on because he had such a narrow view of what his partner should look like. And of course, my "type" always seemed to leave me...well, they just didn't usually work out. The best relationship I've ever had in my life was with a man who was not my type. I won't say that memories of my first man, who I will call Dr. T, didn't infringe on my perception of Mr. K. There was much about Mr. K that reminded me of Dr. T, who died and is now on a pedestal and will forever be the bar by which all other men will be compared. Sad, but true. I totally admit it. But I should save Dr. T for another post. Mr. K was a man who seemed to be my perfect companion, with so many shared interests, a man who was not intimidated by the craziness of my life, who seemed so in tune with me that I could swear we could be long lost twins. We were polar opposites, but in a complimentary way: I loved to accentuate my femininity, he loved a very feminine woman, I loved a man who was not afraid to take control, he is an admitted control beast, I am walking chaos, he loves to put things in order…and so on and so forth. This man thought I was worth the time and trouble to bring me half way across the globe just to meet me, I would be CRAZY not to give this a chance! Right? I arrived in London amidst some strange circumstances…which is just the usual in my life…I was stuck in the plane sitting on the tarmac at Gatwick for about 3 hours and they wouldn’t say what was happening. Turns out they were evacuating the airport because 12 guys armed with liquid explosives bound for the U.S. had been caught in London. Meanwhile, my makeup was melting and the illusion of perfection after an international flight was fading fast. Finally we were let off the plane to an eerily empty international airport. I could hear my footsteps echo…so strange. Finally as I approached baggage I got my first glimpse of Mr. K in real life. When he smiled at me I was dumbstruck. His photo had not done him justice. He was tall, tan, blond and beautiful. I was terribly nervous that he would be disappointed that I didn’t look better than my photos, and I said as much. He simply said that he liked what he was looking at and that was that. He took me to a beautiful Victorian bed and breakfast that he had reserved and we decided that I could freshen up before we went out for dinner and a bit of exploring. It is such a strange feeling having talked to someone for so long and never having met them face to face. It wasn’t like meeting for the first time; it was like resuming the conversation we’d been having over the last 5 months. When I look back on it now, I can’t believe I let someone be so forward with me, and knowing Mr. K now, I can’t believe HE was so forward with me. When I went to take a shower, he just came right in the bathroom, undressed me, walked me into the shower and proceeded to wash me as if I was already his. When I remembered this aloud to him years later, he just said, “well, weren’t you?” 
I had never experienced anything like this before. Having a man wash my hair, my body, everything…it was like he was casting a spell with each trace of his fingers. Believe it or not, there was nothing lewd or dirty about this. He was almost reverential in the way he took care of me. No one had ever paid me this kind of attention; I was completely enchanted. After being washed and dried, he did something that pretty much sealed the deal for me: he laid his body over mine and smiled like a cat playing with a mouse. He pressed all of his weight into me and I felt the delicious feeling of being so compressed. In years past I had to devise ways to get a man to do this, as it is a weird little kink of mine…but Mr. K did it without my even asking, and that smile! He told me that I “tolerated it well” and I just kept wondering how he knew I had wanted him to do that. If anyone out there in computer-land knows if there is a name for the desire to be compressed under the weight of someone else, please do tell…I don’t remember exactly what happened next but it went something like, I wanted him very badly and he wanted me in a corset very badly. 
So I was denied any further physical pleasure until I was properly corsetted. He examined the various corsets I had brought with me and chose one for me to wear. We stood in front of a mirror and while he stood behind me, he wrapped the corset around my body, hooking the busk in a way that only inflamed me further. He then began the slow process of tightening the laces. I could see his face behind me in the mirror and he was clearly enjoying the moment as much as I was. For those who don’t wear corsets, or have never had a partner lace you in, I can’t even begin to describe the erotic feeling of being slowly tightened by him, and the feeling of his hands over my tight corsetted waist. And like the famous Mr. Pearl said, he tied the bow and I was his.
