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o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o
o  	The 'Bookshelf collection' offers a very wide variety of  o
o  stories. They have been submitted by people from all over the  o
o  world.  Also from alt.sex.stories (Newsgroups).   There is no  o
o  particular  order  other than offering them to you in  alpha-  o
o  betical directories.                                           o
o  	I don’t believe in categorizing things. "I don’t want to  o
o  be typed therefore I don’t type things myself."  I think it’s  o
o  a lot more fun to browse around and find  'little'  surprises  o
o  that you might not have even thought of looking for.           o
o   	Lest we forget!!!   This story was produced as adult en-  o
o tertainment and should not be read by minors.   Kristen         o
o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o

Cathedrals of Lace (MM)
by Mr. Grey
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
head.

    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
shelf.
 
    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.
 
--