I hooked up with a stranger and he cinched me into his corset till I came.

I'd matched with him on that app late Friday night, the one where nobody asks for your life story. His profile pic was just a shadowed torso, pale skin stretched over ribs that looked too defined, like he'd been poured into something stiff. "Corset guy," his bio said. "Tight lacing. You in?" My thumb hovered, then swiped right. Why not? I'd been scrolling for hours, horny and bored, fingers slick from absentminded circling. His message popped up five minutes later: "Door's unlocked. 1427 Elm. Come as you are."

I pulled up in my beat-up Civic twenty minutes later, heart thumping like I'd chugged three espressos. Elm Street was quiet, old brick apartments with fire escapes dangling like metal skeletons. Number 1427. I smoothed my tank top, tugged at my jeans. Twenty-five, single, no strings. This was dumb, yeah, but the good kind. I knocked anyway.

Door creaked open. There he was. Tall, maybe six-two, with messy black hair falling into hazel eyes. Mid-thirties? Lean as fuck, wearing nothing but black boxer briefs that hugged his hips. And yeah, the corset—already half-laced up his back, black satin gleaming under the hallway light. "You're quick," he said, voice low and gravelly, smirking like he knew I'd show.

"Traffic was light." I stepped in, door clicking shut behind me. Place smelled like cedar and leather, dim lamps casting long shadows. No tour, no small talk. He grabbed my hand, pulled me to the bedroom. King bed, black sheets rumpled. Mirror on the closet door, full-length. A table nearby with bottles of lube, condoms, and what looked like spare laces.

"I'm Alex," he said, turning so I saw the corset fully. It cinched his waist brutal, ribs flaring out above, hips narrow below. "You ever been laced?"

I shook my head, pulse racing. "No. Watched porn, though."

He chuckled, dark and easy. "Good. Makes it hotter." His hands were on me then, rough palms sliding under my tank, thumbs brushing my nipples through the bra. I gasped, arching into it. He smelled like soap and smoke, faint stubble scraping my neck as he kissed there, biting light. Jeans hit the floor fast. My panties next, soaked already. He spun me, pressed my back to his front, corset boning digging into my spine like a promise.

"Arms up," he murmured. I obeyed. He yanked my tank off, unclasped the bra. Cool air hit my tits, nipples peaking hard. His fingers traced my waist, measuring. "Perfect. Gonna make you tiny."

The corset was off him in seconds, laces whipping free. Heavy thing, all steel bones and slick fabric. He shook it out, draped it over my shoulders. Front busk clacked shut easy, hooks snapping from cleavage to crotch. It cupped my breasts, pushing them up obscene, satin cool against skin. "Breathe in," he ordered. I did, lungs filling. Then his hands were at my back, tugging the laces. One pull. Slack gone. Two pulls. Waist compressing. I wheezed a laugh, half-pain, half-thrill.

"Tighter?" His breath hot on my ear.

"Fuck yes."

He yanked harder, methodic, skipping eyelets to cinch the middle first. My ribs creaked, breath shortening to pants. Mirror showed it—my waist shrinking, tits spilling higher, ass flaring out below. Pressure built everywhere, like a full-body squeeze, cunt throbbing in rhythm. "God, look at you," he growled, fingers digging into my hips. Another pull, brutal. I moaned, knees buckling. His arm banded my middle, holding me up.

"Stay with me." Lace threaded higher now, pulling my shoulders back, posture forced straight. Every tug sent sparks straight to my clit, fabric rasping skin. Sweat beaded between my breasts, dripping slow. His cock pressed against my ass through his briefs, thick and leaking pre-cum, smearing wet on the corset edge. I ground back, needy.

"Almost there." Final crisscross, top to bottom. He knotted it off, stepped back. I stared in the mirror. Waist gone, down to twenty-two inches maybe, body remade hourglass. Breathing shallow, tits heaving with each gasp. Pressure constant, internal, squeezing my guts, my ovaries, everything pulsing toward my core.

"Touch yourself," he said, voice wrecked.

I did. Fingers slipped between my thighs, slick folds parting easy. Clit swollen, begging. One circle, and I bucked, corset biting in deeper. "Alex—fuck—"

"On the bed. Now." He shoved me forward, gentle but firm. I crawled, corset restricting every twist, heightening it. Ass up, face down on black sheets. He stripped his briefs, cock springing free—long, veined, head purple and glistening. Grabbed lube, slicked himself. No condom? We hadn't talked. But I nodded when his eyes met mine, desperate. "Want it raw."

He mounted from behind, knees spreading mine. Cockhead nudged my entrance, fat and insistent. Corset amplified everything—couldn't expand, so every inch stretched me tighter. He thrust in slow, groan ripping from his throat. "So fucking tight. Jesus." I clenched around him, walls gripping like a vice. The squeeze from the corset made my cunt vise-like, milking him already.

Pace built quick. Slaps of skin, wet squelches. His hands gripped the corset's sides, using it like handles, yanking me back onto him. Each thrust jolted the boning, ribs compressing further, breath stolen. "Feel that?" he panted, one hand snaking under to pinch my clit. "Gonna make you cum like this."

I was close. Pressure everywhere converged—corset crushing my waist, cock spearing deep, fingers rolling my nub. Smell of sweat and sex thick, his balls slapping my thighs. "Harder," I gasped. He obliged, hips snapping brutal. Corset edges chafed raw, pain blurring to pleasure. My toes curled, thighs quaking.

Then he cinched it. Mid-thrust, his free hand found the loose lace end—I hadn't noticed he'd left it dangling. Tug. Waist narrowed again, sudden vise on my insides. Thrust. Another yank, tighter, boning digging ribs. I screamed, orgasm ripping through. Cunt spasming wild around his cock, waves crashing from the impossible squeeze. No air, just white-hot release, squirting messy on his thighs. He fucked me through it, growling low, not stopping.

"Shit—yes—" My vision spotted, body locked rigid in the corset, climax dragging endless. Fingers clawed sheets, tits mashed flat against the bed.

He pulled out sudden, flipped me—somehow, with the corset rigid. On my back now, legs splayed. He straddled my waist, careful not to crush, cock fisted fast. Two strokes, and he came, ropes splattering my corset-clad tits, hot and thick, pooling in the satin dips. Grunted my name—wait, had I told him? Didn't matter. He smeared it with his thumb, marking me.

We panted there, him hovering, me pinned and spent. Corset still locked, cum cooling sticky. He leaned down, kissed sloppy, tasting salt. "Fucking incredible."

Minutes later, he unlaced me slow, fingers deft. Waist bloomed back, lungs gulping air. I peeled it off, skin red and marked, corset-shaped imprints like a tattoo. Dressed shaky, exchanged numbers half-assed. "Next time," he said at the door, smirking.

I drove home buzzing, sore in the best way. Showered off the sweat and cum, crashed hard. Woke Saturday to my phone lighting up. Texts from him: "Had fun. You're a natural." Then a pic—not of me, thank god, just the cum-stained corset, tossed on his bed. "Wear this next time?"

Smiled, typing back. But then I scrolled his profile again, the one from the app. Bio still said "Corset guy." But the pics... wait. That shadowed torso from his main photo? The one that hooked me? It was me. Last year, at that fetish con in the city. I'd posted anonymously online, waist cinched to twenty-one in a rental corset, tits popped just like that. Someone snapped it candid, and it went viral in the kink forums.

He'd known who I was the whole time. Stalker? No, just a fan who'd lured his corset muse right to his door. I shivered, cunt twitching again. Should I block him? Nah. Next time, I'd lace him tighter.