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Archive-name: Samesex/

Archive-author: Mr. Grey

Archive-title: Cathedrals of Lace(revised)

                   Another Story of Lingere & Corsets

                       (originally by Mr. Grey)

              Substitution/bending/editing by Jenni Callahan


    I wander the streets of Paris searching out the locations of the shops

I am seeking.  I glance sideways at their windows as I pass by,

remembering and examining the displays in my mind's eye.  I stop to the

side of a shop, pretending I am looking in the window of the boulangerie

next door while glancing furtively to one side to examine the items all

stretched and pinned out on display.


    I explore the streets in ever larger spirals around the cathedral.  I

peek down the alleys looking for signs.  Signs with roses or lace.


    I screw up my courage.  I walk past the store I have chosen.  I turn

and I walk past again.  I look in the window, examining the display.


    I reach out my hand, open the door and enter.


    A stranger.  The curtains in the dressing booths rustle.  Backs

stiffen.  Heads turn.  I am stared at over cold shoulders.


    Boxes hiding treasures line one wall.  Tables drip with lace.  Silks

hang in rows on their hangers.  Posters hang from the cornice moldings.


    I catch myself short.  I turn quickly to the racks of hanging silks.


     I notice the sizes in centimetres.  I compute in my head.  I think of

my love in the laces I will bring him from across the seas.  I find my

courage again.

    I reach the end of the rack.  The woman waits for me there.  She asks

if she can help.  All that I learned in my language lessons flies from my


    I gesture with my hands.  I point at an old poster showing a garment

that is no longer made.  The women giggles and shakes her head.

    She asks me the size I am looking for and I tell her.  In French,

German and English.  I hope that I get it right in at least one language.

She nods her head.


    Then she turns to the wall of boxes and takes one down from a top



    She pushes aside the silks on the table and opens the box.  She takes

articles from the box.  She sets aside the black ones.  She sets aside the

white ones.


    She finds the one she is looking for and spreads it on the table.  An

article all in faded peach pinks.  She looks up at me with a confident

smile.  To tell me she can read my mind.


    I look at the corset spread on the table.  Satin is worked over the

outside.  The stays are held in their pockets with tiny stitches.  Lace

rises to gently brush against the breasts of my love.  Lace falls from the

bottom to grace and frame the part of him that he keeps just for me.


    I pick it up and feel the fine lining.  I examine the silk bows and

flowers, the satin ribbons, the garters.  The flat soft lace has been

threaded through the eyelets at the back.  Tied off at the bottom with a

bow.  Two hanks of lace fall from the middle of the corset to tighten it

at the waist.


    I look up at the woman and nod my head.


    She asks me if I want stockings.  I pause, ponder, and say "Non."

She is not convinced.  She leads me across the store.  She pulls a pair of

stockings from their wrapper.  Lays one across my hand.  It is so fine

that it is almost not there.  It feels like a breath of wind on my hand.

At its top it is fine lace.  I mumble "Ah oui, merci."


    She opens a drawer.  She rummages, mumbles to herself with

satisfaction and removes a pair of panties.  She turns and hands them to

me for inspection.  They are satin, in same shade of faded peach pink.

Beautifully patterned at the front.  Held at the hips with bands of

puckered satin elastic.  Lined in soft white cotton.  I nod my head.

"Oui, merci."


    She wraps my purchases in tissue paper.  Places them in a box.


    I hand her my credit card.  She nods and takes it.  Runs it through

the machine.  I sign the receipt.  I glance at the total and pretend not

to be taken aback.  It is worth it.


    I leave the store with a triumphant grin on my face.  I look up at the

cathedral spire and see it glowing red above the town as it catches and

re-radiates the last light of the day.  I can sense the sensual grin that

has spread uncontrollably across my face.  I breathe the spring air and

take it deep into my lungs.


    In the hotel, I take my purchases from their wrappings and place them

under my pillow.  I sleep with my hand under the pillow to feel them.

That night I dream of my love.


    On the flight back home I dutifully list everything on the customs

card -- I declare my purchases to the government with pride in my heart.


    At the customs table the inspector looks at my card.  Questions the

declared value.  Asks me if I have done the conversion from francs

correctly.  Tells me what the duty will be.  Asks to see the merchandise.

I look at him.  I say "It's lingerie.  You want to see lingerie?"  He

blushes.  Takes a black magic marker and eradicates my declaration from

the back of the card.  Tells me to leave.  Fast.  Get out of his sight.

He doesn't want my money.


    The next day at home, I unpack.  I lay the corset, the panties and the

stockings out upon the bed.  I go the to living room and take my love by

the hand.  Ask him to close his eyes and lead him into the bedroom.


    He opens his eyes and laughs.


    "Where did you buy all that?" he asks.  He takes the corset and holds

it to his body.  Walks to the mirror to see himself.  He turns and says

"You're silly!"


    He pulls off his socks and shoes.  Drops his pants.  Unbuttons his

shirt.  Peels off his underwear.


    He takes the corset and hands it to me.  He stands in front of me and

waits.  With trembling hands I unhook the busk.  I swing the corset around

him and try to fasten it.  I can not.


    I spread the corset on the bed and loosen the laces.  I try again.

This time I get the busk hooked at the top.  With both our hands we get

the busk fastened.  He looks at me, gives me half a grin and shakes his

head to tell me "The things I do for you!"


    He turns around to present me with the laces.  I start to tighten them

from the top by grabbing the laces between the eyelets, crossing them and

pulling down.  I work the pulled lace to the middle and pull it out at the

waist.  I pull the laces tight from the bottom, and again work the pulled

lace to the hanks at his waist.


    My love feels his body becoming stiff and constrained.  He feels what

is happening to him with him hands.  He totters a little and holds his

hand out to the dresser to steady himself.


    I cross the hanks at him waist and pull on them.  I say "I think I

bought the wrong size.  It is awfully tight.  "


    "It's supposed to be," he replies.  "Isn't that what you want?"


    I give the hanks a final tug.  He gasps, catches himself and rises to

his tiptoes.  I kneel in front of him and tie the hanks together in a bow

at his waist.  I purse my lips and I kiss him.  I place my hands at his

waist and wonder at his new hourglass dimensions.


    He again looks at himself in the mirror.  Then he crosses the room and

lays himself on the bed.  He does it carefully, exploring how the corset

restrains his movements.


    He takes a stocking and holds it out to me.  He raises one leg and

looks at me.


    I roll the stocking up and slip it over his extended foot.  I unroll

it down his clean-shaven leg.  Pulling it gently over his skin.  I come to

his thigh.  I arrange the lace at the top of the stocking so that it

caresses his thigh.  I pull on the garters.  Carefully adjust their

tension.  Fasten the stocking to the garters.


    He lowers his leg.  Takes the other stocking.  Holds it out to me.

Raises the other leg.


    I perform my ritual again.


    He rolls himself of the bed.  Takes the panties.  Hands them to me.  I

kneel at his feet.  He steadies himself with one hand on my shoulder.  I

present the panties to his feet and he steps into them as I present the

leg holes.  I raise them to his hips and settle the elastic.  I hook my

fingers under the front and run them down through the crotch and to his

buttocks to settle the panties around him.

    He walks to the mirror.  Stands up on his tip toes.  Runs his hands

over his sides.  Traces his new outline.  Cups his new breasts.  Turns and

examines himself in the mirror again.


    He slips on his heels.  Puts on his blouse.  Comes to me so that I can

do up the myriad small buttons on the high frilled collar.


    He takes his dress and slips it over his head.  He settles it at his

waist.  I undo the dress and adjust some mysterious inside buttons.  Then

I do the waist band up again.  He goes to the mirror and smooths and

settles his clothes just by passing his hands over them.  He strokes them

into conformance.  He strokes to feel his body under his clothes.  He

strokes over the corset, over the garters, over the tops of the stockings.

He learns about himself again.

    We go to the vanity.  He sits by the mirror.  I open the drawer and begin

to select shades, colors, textures.  I deftly apply foundation, blush,

liner and lipstick.  Masculinity fades as the mask settles into place.

I remove the long auburn wig from its holder and fasten it on his head.

He looks at the mirror, then looks up at me with love in his eyes.


    "Come," he says, "we have a meeting to attend tonight, and I have to

make dinner first."


    As I waltz around the kitchen, taking things from the 'fridge and

laying out plates and forks and knives, I notice how he leans over the

stove with a spoon to sample the contents of a far pot.  He bends at the

hips.  He moves one foot forward so that he can keep his balance.  He

reflexively places an arm across his chest, as if he can prevent himself

from tipping over.


    We eat quietly.  He takes only a small portion, smaller than mine, and

we finish quickly.


    After dinner we drive off to the meeting.  He sits beside me in the

car.  I place my hand on his knee.  He touches my arm and slides my hand

up and down his leg.  He quivers under the touch; his manhood begins to

rise against the satin of the panties.


    "I am ready for you," he says, "I always am, aren't I?"


    We select a pair of seats in the back of the auditorium.  With the

lights down I slip my hand again up his skirt and stroke his thighs.  I

run my fingers under the straps of the garters and over the snaps where

they secure the tops of his stockings.  As the meeting drags on, he leans

forward and says "Scratch my back, will you?  The corset itches."


    I run my nails across the slippery fabric of his blouse.  I feel the

new spine that has been made for him by the herringbone pattern of the

tightly drawn laces at his back.  I scratch him between the steel boning

that encases him and tapers him.  He moves in his seat to bring more of

his body within the range of my scratching.


    At the end of the meeting he goes on stage to work on some business.

He perches on the edge of the chair.  His back is ram-rod straight and he

holds his head up high.  I look at the men on the stage looking at him.  I

look into their eyes and through their eyes and feel their mixed emotions

toward him.


    I walk up on stage and he rises and kisses me.  I rise to my toes and

he kisses me again, this time shooting his tongue into my mouth.  He tells

all the men watching his that he is mine.  And he tells all the women who

are now watching me that I alone am his master.


    We drive home.  I drive.  He sits next to me and again asks me to

scratch him.


    "You really like me in a corset," he says.  "What is it about corsets

that turns you on so much?"


    "I really don't know," I reply.  "My grandmother used to wear one.  I

remember as a small girl sitting on her bed in the mornings, swinging my

legs and asking questions as young girls do while my Grandfather laced her

in.  She kept it up until she died at the age of 80.  People who didn't

know about it marveled at her figure, and would say 'I hope I can look

like you when I reach your age.'  I remember that even without her corset

on she was statuesque."

    "Ah, so you are trying to turn me into your grandmother," he says.

"That's quite a twist -- I hope I do look as good as her when I am 80."


    "It's also that you do this for me, that you wear a corset to turn me

on," I reply.  "You tell everybody that you are in submission.  That you

have restrained yourself, that you will give up manhood itself for me.

Just like the high heels I have you wear."


    "Doesn't your new hourglass shape make you feel powerful?" I ask.

"You carried yourself well.  I saw everybody looking at you when you were

on the stage."


    He grins.  "Oh, you noticed too.  John put his hand at my waist once

and then he drew it back fast.  He was startled; from the rear, he didn't

know it was me.  He just looked at me with a puzzled expression and

couldn't figure out what to say.  I told him that you like it, and I like

it too, so I do it for us.  I think that really got to him.  He's a dirty

old man though, always out for a feel, only this time he was surprised."

    "Can you scratch just at the top again?" he asks.


    I scratch him, and then I put my arm around him and pull him towards

me.  I kiss his hair and lay my cheek on the top of his head and say "I

love you."

    He says nothing, just puts his arms around me and hugs.  I take one of

his breasts in my hand.  I feel it held up and defined by the underwiring

of the corset.  I feel the starched lace of the cup covering the top of

the breast.  The lace seems to hover just over his skin.  I feel the

nipple through the satin of the lower cup and I take the nipple between my

thumb and forefinger and twirl it and pinch it.  He squirms in his seat

and thrusts his body up against me.

    I lower my hand and feel the front busk of the corset.  I run my hand

over the concavity of his stomach.  I feel the boning as it runs from his

breasts down to his waist.  I feel how the waistband of his skirt hangs

snugly like a glove around his now slender waist.  My hand moves down and

follows the boning as it flairs over his hips.  I stroke his thigh and

feel the straps of the garters, the garter clips and the lace band at the

top of his stockings.


    "Do you know that you are in love with a fetishist?" I ask him.

    "I know," he says.  "I love you the more because of it.  Because I

know your needs.  You tell me and show me what you want, and I am part of

it.  I know that I can fulfill your desires.  I feel secure."


    "Give me your hand," he says.  He takes my hand and runs it up and

down his body, across the busk.  He moves my hand to his new breasts and

holds it there with both his hands.


    "I love you," I say.  And, somehow, it is not enough.  The feeling I

have in my throat and in the pit of my stomach tells me how much I care

for him, and it is more than I can ever say.


    I pull the car into the driveway.  We get out of the car and enter the

house.  He takes me by the hand and leads me to the bedroom.  He undresses

me.  I undress him.  He again looks at himself in the mirror.  Runs his

hands over his hourglass shape.


    He tells me to sit on the edge of the bed.  He sits beside me, facing

to my left.  He says "Give me your hands."  He takes my hands and almost

encircles his tiny waist with them.  I feel the stiffness of the corset

again.  I squeeze his waist some more.  He moans and leans back against

me.  He gently rubs the herringbone of the laces against my chest.


    I bite the back of his neck, and he squirms.  My breathing becomes

ragged.  I find myself losing control.  We fuse into one being.


    I grasp his corseted form to me in a deep hug.  I kiss the back of his

neck.  I fondle his breasts.


    As the passions subside the kisses become slow and gentle.  I lick his

neck and shoulders with the rough part of my tongue.  He giggles.


    I start to unlace the corset.  He takes my hands and stills them.  He

says "I will always wear it.  I will do this for you."


    And I am left speechless.



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