Paul's Corset Story

My name is Paul and I seem always to have had a fascination with women's underwear, especially girdles, corsetry, bras, stockings, suspenders and so on.

As an 18-year old teenager, in 1969, the family went on holiday to the Norfolk Broads. On the way back, a detour was made to the Spirella factory at Letchworth, Hertfordshire. There were many women, men and children in the tour and I was fascinated to see the layout and the "museum" at the end of the visit. Many years later, at the age of about 45, I visited the closed factory and saw the "museum" again, which was very evocative. Only in recent years did I obtain a Spirella corset for myself, bought from eBay, and rather a speculation in size and fit. In fact the waist is fine but the hips are far too big. After all, men and women are quite different shapes.

I have in my collection two Camp fan-laced corsets. They can be made to fit very well because of the infinitely variable lacing. And the fact that my figure had modified over the decades to be rather more shapely than a typical man. I like very much the height and overall length of these corsets.

Everything I ever did as a young adult with women's underwear was secretive, even furtive and shameful. On one occasion, aged about 19 years I suppose, I stayed with an auntie (actually mum's cousin), a very glamorous lady, who never married after her fiancé was killed at Dunkirk. I always slept in her spare room, where her wardrobes and drawers were. I used to rifle through the drawers and soon discovered her corsetry.

Then I discovered in a drawer a swimming costume with a built-in corset. Because it was made of stretchy material and boned, it held me better than any item of her actual underwear had done. Doing up the zips was the most exciting thing in my life to that point. In those days my physical reaction was instant, and it happened then within a few seconds. There was a moment of panic when I had difficulty unzipping it, but it worked eventually and I carried the memory of the feeling for months afterwards. I can feel it now, to be honest, pressing on my waist and around my bottom.

Then, of course, one day it happened. I was staying with that auntie and she had gone out shopping. I dashed to her underwear drawer and took out a long white zippered girdle, with six suspenders. I found some black stockings also. Within a few minutes, I had pulled the girdle up my torso and managed to fasten the hooks and then the zipper. I bent and contorted to fasten the stockings and eventually was clad in the most complete underwear I have even seen.

I walked into her room, to look at myself in her long mirror. This was quite a long walk, at the far end of the upstairs landing; at the back of the house, when the spare room was at the front. I was delighted with the result although, to be honest, the girdle was not very tight on me and was a little loose around my bottom and hips. But the waist felt good and tight, and that was enough for me, for those moments. I began to walk back to the spare room, along the landing, and guess what: auntie opened the front door, stepped in and looked up at me at the top of the stairs, dressed in her corsetry.

Sheepishly, I dashed to my room and got undressed; placed the girdle and stockings back into their drawer, and got into my own clothes. I was in a mental turmoil how to manage the next few minutes, when auntie would want an explanation and probably get very angry. It wasn't like that at all.

I came out of my room and she was waiting.

"Paul, you silly boy; that girdle isn't right for you. Come in here and I'll find something that will hold you better."

She pushed me back into the room and went to her underwear drawers. She lifted out a different girdle, the same stockings and also a small-looking pair of knickers.

"Get undressed and let's get you fitted properly," she said.

As I was undressing, she continued, "Paul, I've known about you and the underwear for some years. You think it was your secret and it was except I knew and could see what you were doing at the other aunties' houses. Now let me show you how to be girdled properly."

Auntie slowly dressed me in the tightest, most restrictive girdle you can imagine. It was made the Spencer company, very high on my ribs and under my bottom; with bones and a row of buckled strap down the rigid front; and also a lacing arrangement at the back. She fitted it onto me as tight as it would go. She attached the stockings and finally pulled up the knickers; which weren't knickers at all. It was a tight little panty girdle which pressed my buttocks and my scrotum into my groin, so I looked more feminine than masculine. My penis and testicles simply disappeared inside my groin.

Auntie then ran her hands all over my figure from my chest down to my ankles and proclaimed herself satisfied.

"Now you see how a really tight girdle feels," she instructed me. And I ran my hands everywhere as well; marvelling at the control and the new figure these clothes had given me.

My very junior erection was pressing up inside me somewhere and I could feel the sensation; although there was no indication on the outside of the corsetry It was a defining moment..

For the next three years, whenever I visited that auntie, she dressed me in a different girdle or corset each time. And I stayed like that for the entire duration of my visit. There was no sexual activity or even erotic talk. Just an auntie and a nephew both dressed in the most restrictive underwear imaginable. It was exciting in a new way for me, of course I masturbated every night, and she washed the corsetry every morning.

Later, at university, I would arrange to stand on the pavement opposite a corset shop names Waddilove's, and simply absorb all the styles and shapes of the goods in the two windows. My vision was perfect in those days and I could see details such as suspenders, zips and hooks from across the road; maybe 25 yards away. I was attracted particularly to a small display of three or four fan-laced corsets, to one side of the main window. I wondered what it would feel like to be "installed" in one of those, and the many laces gradually tightened by someone else. I wanted my abdomen to be concave inside those corsets.

In my last year at university, a new student joined the class for one year as a transfer from another institution. It turned out that his mother managed a shop near the cathedral in Manchester, and they lived in rooms over it. Guess what? It was a corset shop but he didn't tell everyone that. One weekend in Spring 1972, I stayed with him and his mother. There was no sign of a father. She worked all day Saturday but went to the cathedral on Sunday morning, from 10.30 to about 12.00. Her son and I went down to the shop and "investigated" the displays, and some of the drawer-stock. I can still remember the thrill of holding those girdles and corsets in my hands and rubbing them against my face absorbing the aroma and the feel. I told him I found them exciting and then a miracle happened.

He said "These are the throw-outs" and he pointed to a big cardboard box under the counter. It contained countless girdles and corsets which were removed from stock, for various reasons. I think they were shop soiled from display or from being tried on in the changing rooms. Anyway, he said, "Do you want one?" I didn't ask what normally happened to them, or if he would get into trouble, and I took two. One was a black Berlei high waist zippered girdle with four suspenders, and the other was a pink front-lace side-hook corset with many bones and six suspenders. I had the presence of mind to check the sizes and they were both waist 28 inches, which was less than mine I thought, but would give good compression. In fact, they were both too big on the hips but the waists did feel good.

I sneaked them both into my weekend bag and kept them secret for over 25 years. They got destroyed only in 1997, when my wife at the time got angry with me and burned almost everything that was mine. Books, clothes, documents, LPs, photos; you name it. She was really annoyed about something or other, it doesn't matter what, and we separated soon afterwards.

But back to my earlier days; shortly after the "Manchester cathedral experience" I had my first real sexual encounter. It was with an older lady, older than my auntie had been, I think. I was a postgrad student aged 23; a tenant in her house and one day she called me in a whisper to help her with a zipper that had caught in her skin. With my eyes closed, I slowly released the zipper and got it into place. I opened my eyes against her instruction and saw that she was wearing the most rigid underwear I'd seen on a woman. She lifted her hands to my face and asked me to hold her waist. I was excited already by the sight of her corseted body and she noticed the bulge in my groin.

Quite openly, she said to me, "Please make love to me, whilst I'm dressed like this. It keeps me in shape. Do you like it?"

"I certainly do," I admitted and allowed myself to be drawn my hand towards the double bed.

Then she looked deep into my eyes and said, "Don't make love to me. Give me a good shagging."

I was new to this activity and the language but I did my best and her corsetry helped immensely.

We did this shagging a number of times while I was a tenant and it encouraged me to consider even more a daily girdle and corset for myself. And I got better at it each time, shall we say.

Some years later, at about the time my wife destroyed my belongings, I was working in a Northern city and I knew about a corset shop with the name Madame Selma Pick. I was notified that the owner was about to sell the total stock and close her business. Of course, I watched that shop avidly for weeks until the sign went up "All Stock Must Go." I hastened there and spent nearly £500 on various items of corsetry and related items such as stockings, knickers, panty-girdles and even a couple of long bras that I thought might fit me. And thereby I restocked my underwear collection which lasted for many years ahead.

My second wife was an avid corseter. I shall tell her story another time but, suffice it to say, she could not orgasm unless laced to her absolute minimum waist. The pressure and the breathlessness, and the immobility were essential to her erotic response. She agreed for me to corset at the same time and we had some great times putting each other into corsets and then spending all our energy, for the whole night sometimes, rutting and exploring each other. We both liked anal and she could take my full hand in her vagina while I licked her clitoris; all the way to orgasm.

And so it has been with a small number of other women I've known. Man and woman both corseted or tightly girdled; and sometimes with other bondage such as leg-spreader, handcuffs attached to throat, roped-tied breasts, me in a scrotum ring or with a heavy weight pulling on my testicles. And throughout all this, the corsetry has been central.

I should make clear that I'm sexually straight and I like women very much. I've been married three times but I suppose that's no measure of success, is it? I have been corseting and girdling my figure every day since the age of about 25; that's over forty years. I agree with everything that has been said about men and corseting; we are just men who corset ourselves. We do it for pleasure, certainly; but also because it's a sort of compulsion - an addiction. If we're lucky, as I've been more than once, we find a woman who agrees and takes part with the same enthusiasm.