Date: Sat, 20 Nov 1999 06:02:52 PST
From: cathy kay <cathykay69@hotmail.com>
Subject: The Seamstress

This story is dedicated to Leslie, who has shown me not to be scared of
what is truly my passion, and that hiding secrets can destroy them and
leave in their place a hollow.

It is from the bottom of my heart, about loving women and everything they
are and offer.

If you are offended by extreme dedication to women and the flow of a
woman's sex, then be gone.

"Oh god, you cannot imagine how much that turns me on!  Just that you
wrote back, just that there is someone out there who knows what it is. I
suppose the taboos surrounding periods are in part responsible, the mystery
of woman hood.Then of course there is the act of submission, which seems
from the taboos of what is conceived "dirty" of subjugating to that flow as
an act of devotion, passion without boundary or border. The same is true of
drinking pee - why isn't there a nice word for it? - and finally the taste
and the feel of menses and of pee, splashing on me, covering me, like an
essence of female, perhaps adding to the female part of me, soaking through
my knickers and bra, making my hair stick to my face, making my stockings
wet to the touch, saturating past these to my skin and into my being, and
making me smell like a woman should. I read often about guys who get turned
on by lesbianism, but if it does not sound odd, I really do feel that I am
a lesbian in the way I need to love and worship women, although ironically
not as an equal, or in the traditional male dominant role, but as a girl to
a woman, learning and growing into a female self.Again, the irony is that
covered in sweat and pee and menses, I want finally to make love with that
woman, be truly locked to her, trying to make her come and cry out one more
time, after hours of passion from my mouth, my hands, my stockinged heels
caressing every patch of soft skin, from the nape of the neck, around your
breasts, down your belly to your beautiful vagina, my tongue following
behind, buy a time and distance measured only in your response, nibbling
your nipples, again tracing a line to your thighs and then so slowly as to
be imperceptible to you to make you come, and release all your liquid being
over me, while I also get wet in my silky knickers, almost not caring if we
make love at the end of it, just to hear you and watch you come on me, for
you, at your command, but an unspoken instruction with the pace determined
by how you cherish and gift me with your taste and juices..."

			      The Seamstress

It was a busy day in the city, and I felt as though every pair of eyes that
even glanced its gaze over me knew where I was going and why.

Of course this was impossible, I had covered my tracks. Buying underwear
was always difficult, and I would be forever mumbling to myself "Would she
like this? Is this her size" hoping to convince the shoppers around me that
I was buying clothes for a woman, not myself, oh mercy me no.

It probably was not that convincing, but I always shopped in town, rarely
in the same store twice, and felt my secret was safe.

This was a little different.  Corseterie has always had a real fascination
for me, and like most tvs, I suppose the feel of tight restriction is a
part of the thrill anytime - I always seemed to buy size 12, and I am
really a 14!

Answering an advert in the Sunday Times I sent off "Cathys" measurements,
and waited for a phone call to tell me that my order was in. I had chosen
carefully a corset set with 6 suspenders, a push up bust, and knickers that
laced into the bottom of the set, to keep me all tightly wrapped up - one
set white, one set red, in satin and bone.  I shivered involuntary as I
turned the corner, into the street, and was almost shaking as I mounted the
stairs to the third floor room.

"Can I Help" The most astonishing woman I had ever seen addressed me. Maybe
35, maybe 45, hard to tell under her make up, and difficult to gauge from
her rather severe manner and dress. She was a little taller than me, maybe
6 foot? and statuesque, and stunning. If she had picked me up by the hair
and put me in the broom cupboard for later, I could not have said a word, I
would have just waited and waited until she decided to brush the floor with
me.

My voice croaked a whisper

"I've come to collect an order? In the name of Cathy?"

"Oh yes"

"You got your measurements all wrong"

What the hell was I doing? How did she know the measurements were for me,
and what did she mean, I checked and took such care and...

"Has she really got no bust at all - we can work wonders, but not miracles
you know - I would like to know if she wants these really young man, or if
you are buying them for some silly fantasy of yours, why do men insist on
stockings and suspenders?"

"No, you don't understand - she really wants these - she err--"

What could I say?  I could give myself away - or I could let her think I
was some sort of lecherous man, dressing up his girlfriend for himself...
I tried to think, but she would not let me. Her stern gaze told me to
follow her...

"She really does like stockings" I tried to get out of the hole I was
suddenly in, but I think dug myself deeper "She thinks they feel sexy - she
never wears tights.."  "Well she is a very sensible girl - much healthier
that way, no air in tights, ruins the circulation. Now, we are not finished
quite yet, I wanted to check those measurements before the final stitching
- do you have them?"  I turned out my wallet for the grubby precious scrap
of paper, she watched me as if I was madness incarnate. I felt about 4
inches tall.

"And why do you carry her measurements around with you?"

I did not think that she really wanted an answer, and she snatched the
paper out of my hand. I flinched as if she was going to hit me.

"Interesting..."

"...She appears to be the same shape and height as you"

"Err - its just that" Her tome seemed to soften - not a lot, but a little.

"You would not be the first young man to visit me for corseterie young
man. I have an excellent reputation, and can work wonders, as I say, when I
know what material I am working with. Now, get undressed, and lets see what
I have got - I will have to charge you extra for all this messing around,
so let that be a lesson. Now, end of lecture young man, STRIP" she barked
the last word like a hurled stone.

"No, that's not right! " She cut me short again, this time with a
whisper "If we want to turn a strapping young man in to a strapped up young
lady, then we have to start again. Take those things off and let me see
you. And don't be embarrassed, I would be surprised if you did not have
a lovely pair of knickers on, and I think I see the lines of a bra strap,
so off we go"

I was embarrassed, but in a way more by the rather tatty state of my white
cotton knickers, faded purple satin bra and laddered hold ups. She spotted
these "Well again, these are terrible, clumsy, inelegant, and look at the
red marks around your pretty thighs. You should shave those legs and look
after them - into the bathroom, you will find a razor there - all over
please, except for your private parts"

I cowed and turned, now naked except for my knickers, which did a poor show
of holding in my penis which was fit to burst, into the bathroom. I chose a
scented lotion and spent longer than I expected to in the small warm room
shaving and rubbing oil into me legs and chest. The experience alone was
most erotic, and I could not help spotting the front of my underwear, and
wondered if I should quickly masturbate into a tissue to avoid any further
mess when her voice called, a little impatiently

"Hurry up you silly little thing"

I wrapped myself in a towel and stepped out. She seemed angry again, and I
wondered if she could read all my thoughts.

"Take that towel off - what are you hiding from me! Oh I see - you could
not quite keep your hands to yourself could you? Well, that wont be the
case much longer."

I let the towel slip, and pulled my knickers to the floor, still rather
erect, and she spun me round and wrapped the top of the black corset around
me. It fastened at the front, and as she put her hands around me from
behind to do me up, I smelt a strange and sexy odour from her, that was
familiar but I could not place.

As she pulled the leaves of the corset together from the bottom I felt
myself being squeezed and pulled and pushed, and as she reached the top, I
had two tiny but prominent breasts pushing together under the lace and
satin panels.

She turned me round and threaded a leather lace into the eyes of the
corset, again from the bottom, and the breath was crushed from me as I
began to take a genuine hourglass shape like clay being moulded.

At the top she pushed one strong arm against me, and pulled what felt like
the whole length clear of the last holes and quickly tied me into a
position where I could simply stand and stare ahead, as out of breath as if
I had run up stairs in a tower block.

Next came the stockings, which were sheer rich silk, with less elasticity
than I was used to, but they fitted snugly without pinching or giving my
legs anything but a sheer smooth feel.

Next the knickers - again from behind, I felt her attach something to the
back of my corset, and she turned me round again and pulled them over me.

"These have the gusset set forward, as you can see, rather than in
the crotch, so if you really cannot control yourself, it should not show
through - of course I imagine that sometimes you will need a pad, so lets
try that - "

She slipped a sanitary towel into the front, and with the lacing packaged
me in as though she were stuffing a pillow - it was a little uncomfortable,
but the restraint on my still hard and stiff penis was gorgeous - I looked
down, and a smooth mound made it look like it had never been there.

Finally she took a pair of wide satin straps and attached them front and
back to the top of the corset - I wondered why as the tight lacing seemed
to hold me quite solidly, but as she tightened them, I felt myself being
pulled up into a straight tall figure.

I looked in the mirror, and saw my shape - wide flaring thighs, smooth
sheer legs like a dream, and a pinched waist leading to a tall proud
breast...

"Now then - I rather think that was what you wanted all along - perhaps a
few more adjustments..." as she pulled and tightened and stretched me, I
again detected the rich musky odour, and felt entranced by this woman,
almost hypnotised - there was still a stern note to her voice as she
instructed and showed me ho to do up the various strings and clips myself.
She stood back to admire her handiwork.

"Kneel down"

With some difficulty I tried to kneel, but eventually fell to my knees.

Immediately she was on me. My face was pushed into the folds of her skirt
at her crotch, but I heeded her further unspoken instructions. I knew what
she wanted.

I leant over, and started at her feet. I licked first her black patent
leather pumps, and twirled my tongue up to the pint where her stockings
began there, and felt the smooth material dry my tongue as I worked my way
slowly, guided, no commended by her low voice to edge my way imperceptibly
upwards. Already I could feel the enormous pressure in my wrapped and
captured balls and penis, but I had no way of adjusting myself as I was
holding onto her thighs for balance, and I enjoyed the delicious torture of
restriction, not really wanting to spoil the moment with an interruption.

As I raised myself and climbed my way up, my mouth now dry, leaving a dark
trail on her thighs of wetness, I smelt again the heady aroma. I headed for
the dark envelope of her skirt, and as the folds engulfed me breathed in
not air but her, and quickened my pace and progress.

She had nothing on underneath, and after the change at the tops of
her stockings, I followed the suspender straps to the inside of her
crotch. Here the smell was overpowering, and it was humid like a jungle of
woman, after a rainfall.

She was bare underneath, and my tongue reached to touch her sex, and I
tasted the metallic harshness of blood. She was perhaps halfway through her
period, and small stains inside her thighs told me she had not worn a pad
for the day. I licked the patches, mixing the taste with my saliva to clean
it thoroughly, before gently approaching the source of her sweet sex.

I slid my bottom lip against her labia gently, lapping the slight flow,
which quickly mingled with other juices as she began to become aroused.

Still in my own groin a burning sensation was being built on by the
pressure of the corseterie, and the exquisite pain of unreleased come
boiling inside me.

In time I moved to her sweet bud of a clitoris, which seemed to swell like
an opening flower, accepting me as that rose might a bee, hungry for
pollen. Her own pollen, the stuff of sex, poured into my mouth with her
mingled juices, and I felt her shake, but stay standing as a small orgasm
came to her, from my tongue, through her body to her heart, and out again
into her voice, which cried as she pushed down and then pulled up my
shoulders, forcing me deeper into her vagina.

I stayed there, locked to her, lapping and gently kneading her sex for
hours, until she came again and again, 3 or 4c times, each time a little
more intense, each time having less chance to recover from the previous
wave, and each time liberally lashing me with a waterfall of love and
menses, which covered my face and hair, and almost stuck me to her.

Abruptly she pulled away, sat back in a wicker chair, and pulled me again
into her crotch.

Now my hands were free, and for a moment I was tempted to begin to pleasure
myself, but she had not told me to, in words or deeds, and so I became more
and more involved with making her come with my mouth.

The sound of the traffic outside was forgotten, the discomfort of the hard
floor stopped, ceased to exist, as all that existed was this woman, and
what I could do for her.

With a great shout that seemed to build from nothing to a scream she came
another spectacular time, and it felt as though I were underwater, our
sweat and her flavour soaking me through, running onto my shoulders,
drenching me and her petticoat which clung to my back.

She pushed herself out of the chair, not quite standing, instead falling on
me, her mouth above mine, smiling with her eyes screwed shut before she
kissed me deeply, so that we could share her taste again.

With one hand she undid the front of my knickers. I could feel a heavy
weight, the now soaked pad, being lifted, and she brought it up to my face.

I greedily lapped at it, tasting now my own juices, and she discarded it,
and began to position herself over my cock which felt bigger than anything
I could imagine. She carefully placed all her weight on her vagina, along
which my penis sat, pointing upwards at my chin. As she ground into me, her
weight again took the breath from me, and all I could do was watch her come
again on me, and watch as she began to pee on me. The golden river spread
like a puddle on my slim belly, and as she pushed down on my shoulders and
kissed me again, I felt my own come squirt in what should have been a
fountain between us, instead seeping and slithering to fill the tiny spaces
between our bellies.  As she subsided, she again took her weight, and
lowered herself onto my penis. In a slow, deliberate movement she fitted me
into her like a key in a new lock, and leant back, again sending waves of
agonising and exquisite pain through me as if my whole body were inside
here being used and consumed for her pleasure.

I was unable to come because of the pressure of her on me, and she began to
rock violently backwards and forwards on me as she approached a final
spectacular orgasm - as she did, as her cries became quiet and urgent, the
beautiful pain was suddenly and unexpectedly replaced like a feeling of
being water reaching a waterfall, cascading loosely in drops and rivulets
to crash again in a warm pool at the bottom as we came together.

She pushed her weight onto me, and cradled me, and I threw my arms around
her as we fell into an erotic slumber.

I woke first, stiff and cold. She moaned, and rolled off me, but I could
not resist, taking myself again between her thighs, and began again to
taste and excite her in her sleep. By now, she had bled a little again, and
I hungrily lapped up this along with my come and hers, before bringing her
to a shuddering orgasm before covering her with a blanket, and taking my
leave.

On the tube on the way home, my red corset in my bag, my black corset
beneath my jeans and loose t shirt making me feel as though I could slip
out of them at anytime if I moved to quickly, I watched the other
passengers, knowing they could not know what I felt, what I was doing
earlier, what I wanted, needed to be for that woman.

The seamstress.

This is the best story I think I have ever written - it really does contain
everything that I want, that is important to me, and I have been through a
lot of kinks and quite a few friends to admit and enjoy this. If you feel
the same, if you want to chat, if you want to say anything at all, e-mail
me. And don't worry, I am sure the next story will be the usual filth,
perversion sucking and fantasy - or maybe I will make another monthly visit

Hugs
cathykay69@hotmail.com