escape artist

Previous: Flighty

After so much distance, the sensation of her touch became new again.

“I need to get out of this thing”

She knew I was wearing it. When she embraced me earlier, she’d drawn her left hand from the bottom hook all the way up to the top where my charms were making an escape attempt.

I started to tug at the lowest button, but I was reminded of the whole reason why I had worn it in the first place. Here we were, pulled over on the side of the freeway at 11pm, me in a corset, sitting in a Jetta next to a very distracted girlfriend. So, I did what any self-respecting femme (read: undersexed, overdressed) bottom would do. I parted my lips a little bit, exhaled and caught her eyes.

I have this thing I do with my eyes. Surely you know what it is. You know how to read it. It’s a look that says “here it is, come and get it”. No speech, not even lips moving – it has nothing to do with verbal language.

And it worked. Of course it worked. Like it has worked every time. The buttons were an afterthought by the time we had wrestled me out of the long sleeves and managed to fiddle with the lever to lean my seat back. Lying down, I could actually breathe a little easier – imagine that! She kissed my lips briefly, but we were both more concerned about undoing the hooks and letting the prisoners out of their lacy cell.

Just because I’m the bottom doesn’t mean I’m powerless.

But I was expecting the corset to come off just as quickly as the shirt.

I was mistaken.

Next: Fastened by Hook and Eye

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