I would like to acknowledge the maker of this corset. Please help me with a reference, if you recognise it.

Oh, here they are again. I vividly remember. We do receive strange customers and I don't make a habit of studying them, but I remember this lady and her companion. Let me think... what was the relationship between these two women? The lady had designs. The young woman was shocked, yet spellbound, but at the end had seen through the worst. It takes every kind of people to make the world go round. What do I know! My role in the proceedings? I did have one. I was embarrassed myself, I have to admit, but I think I was to be the catalyst for the young woman's embarrassment. To be truly embarrassed is to be embarrassed in public. Me.

Why was I embarrassed? I do see nude women of every ilk. Some nice and fat, some hideously so, others are skin and bone. I see young ugly women and old beauties. I see pierced and tattooed ones - amazing what some lady-like women get up to. There are also the prettiest faces connected with horrendous skin afflictions. Then there was this lady with those welts on her body... I will admit I was shocked. This man-made ugliness had quite the worst impact, as she at least appeared to have consented to it. Still, in the final analysis the lady was not a freak. Nice enough and a real lady. To me the real her was when she entered the shop, done up and dressed.

In hindsight the most disturbing fact was that I was used as an accomplice in a game I know nothing about.

The exposure in the shop? Surprising, but not at all shocking. It was somewhat amusing, actually. She was lucky she chose me, because my older colleagues would have asked her to leave. Quite right, as the business hinges on discreteness, not only of the personnel but likewise of the customers. But as few customers were around and she did not exactly loudly assert herself I let it go by. And she bought the goods.

And now returns, with her younger companion. But there is something different, isn't there? What could it be? Her companion now appears to be on equal par. Whatever their relation will have been, they now seem to be, well... friends. The lady is as composed and representative as she was before. Her companion now confidently strides alongside the lady instead of trailing her. She is very attractive. She wears a simple loose white blouse on an off-white leather skirt, to the lady's black two-piece suit with white trim.

They remember me; they walk straight in my direction. I smile mildly and wait for them.

'Good afternoon, ladies, can I be of service to you?'

The lady smiles. 'Please. You may serve us expertly like you did before. I am confident you remember. This time our purchase concerns a gift by me to my friend. I would like to treat her to a corset.'

'Very well, ladies. I can help you with one. We have always been well-stocked, but recently a very attractive range of models has come on the market. I imagine you have some specific requirements?'

'You know us well. We do. My friend's breasts are firm enough to allow her a quartercup underbust. In that way, she would have the optimum between exposure and support. For colour, a bold red would have our preference.'

Like before, it is the lady who does the talking, but this time her friend looks directly at me and no doubt agrees with her.

'Madame, I am confident that we can comply.'

I go to our stocks and find a suitable model in satin, complete with a set of six suspenders. Daring in every respect. Why not? Her friend can get away with it, no doubt.

This turns out to be true. They call me in the dressing room for a second opinion and some help with completing the lacing. It suits her beautifully. Her breasts are supported, yet prominently displayed. Her pubic hair is just visible. Her constrained waist emphasises her hips and upper torso. The view of the white upper thighs above the tan stockings and her pale chest nicely offset by the red corset make her look delicate, yet sexy. Her chest displays a faint trace of a scar, which I hesitate to admit accentuates this delicateness.

I compliment them on the fit and the deal is done.

They elect for her to keep it on and I assist them. I then leave to allow her to dress.

When they reappear before me, the white blouse does not hide the red corset and neither the shapes of her breasts. Restrained obscenity. Very assertive.

They smile at me and bid their farewells. Then they boldly stride out of the shop.

Girlfriend:

She has befriended her Mistress. She has explained all, or, at any rate, a lot. Explained, but it is all hard to believe, let alone understand. How Madame gladly showed her hurt body. How she dined with Madame and Monsieur after that exceptional fun afternoon when we shopped for clothes, how Madame appeared and above all, what she herself felt compelled to do. Then finally how she found Madame in a sorry state, how they confronted Monsieur and overcame! She showed me her own welt. If one does not become friends after a shared ordeal like that, one never will.

I have been to Madame's house a few times for diner or drinks, together with her. From those visits, it is clear that they read each other extremely well. When we sat in the lounge for drinks, they invariably sat together on the sofa, side by side, and from the warm smiles they exchanged and the way they address each other, it is clear that they are intimate friends. Could they be lovers? I have actually asked her, but she laughed and evaded they issue. They do not demonstrate the physical contact that lovers would, touching one's arms in passing, or the shoulder or back. On the occasions of the visits, they have kissed each other fondly upon arrival and departure, like intimate friends do. Who knows what their relationship is? I shouldn't care too much. She still has time for me and is very happy.

Madame may not know that I know, but I think she does. She is wise.

To be a Master. I thought I knew that art well. My wife knew the art of submission well. And it was perfect for so many years. She was perfect. She, the submissive, was so perfectly and completely devoted to me. And I was hooked, like a junky, to that devotion.

We learned together. Did she believe I know what I was doing, the first time I put the collar around her neck, and closed and locked it? Her look, before I ordered her to lower her gaze, was that of utter devotion.

I was hooked to that devotion. It was unbearable. And I needed a bigger dose every day. The Master the dependent. Then I overdosed.

The last time I looked in her eye, before she demanded I would go, I still saw the devotion flicker, before her gaze hardened for good.

Now I have nothing.

We are still married, but I haven't seen her in months. I do not dare for fear of another overdose. I know I ought to go and talk to her. Her damned perfection may be capable of forgiveness for my excessive act of violence. It is unbearable. I cannot do it.

If I could, I would not dare for fear of a further overdose. That dose may kill.

What went before

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