When i first proposed the idea to her that she swathe her torso in a custom-designed corset, she balked at the idea. She was accustomed to wearing jeans, tennis shoes and t-shirts that had the random logo of any number of indy rock bands she was listening to. She was absolutely cute in whatever she wore, but for my tastes, the look had to go.
I gave her the task of creating a complete catalogue of her wardrobe, down to her detailing the description of every single one of her 75+ pair of panties. After reviewing the list she gave me, i came back to her with a truncated collection of clothes that consisted of those she would be allowed to keep, and those she would be altruistically donating to the local Salvation Army. Her first comment upon receiving the list, i believe, took the tone of, "Are you fucking kidding?"
I wasn't. I knew exactly what i wanted. Obviously, pants were a thing of the past. But so too were 80% of her shoes. Even then, the hardest part to let go of were her t-shirts. She'd collected these silk-screened flimsies for years. They represented fond memories, proud achievements and bold statements of her adolescent development. I respected this. I truly did. But nonetheless, they had to go. They wouldn't work with what i had in mind.
"And why exactly would they not work?"
"T-shirts do not go with corsets."
I've had the pleasure of being a witness to a handful of girls donning a corset for the first time. I don't mean to simplify or diminish these experiences by suggesting that each girl's reaction was exactly the same, but, essentially, they were. They melted when they saw the final product after all of the tugging and tightening. Their hands went immediately to their new, contorted waist, as they stared at themselves in the mirror, striking a pose of heroically-charged sexuality. From this reaction, i hold the blunt-headed notion that all girls should wear corsets, understanding that it would not be just for their romantic counterparts.
I took my girl to the local fetish shop, which happened to stock a grand assortment of different sized, off-the-rack corsets (what, you don't have this in your town?). The rule of thumb with tightlacing is that you need to select one that is 4" smaller than your natural waist. As she was already teeny, the options in the 23"-sized constricters weren't all that enormous. We selected two very beautiful protoypes: a gorgeous 'Tiffany blue' LoveSick basque, and a red silk brocade Shane Aaron underbust. The clerk who was assisting, took us into the biggest dressing room i'd ever been in, and proceeded to ask my girl to disrobe. A normally modest filly, my girl quickly abandoned her clothes and let this complete stranger strap the rigid garment to her topless frame. In ten minutes, all of the soliciting i'd been doing in favor of corsets became useless. She saw and felt all she needed in order to help her with her decision. We ended up settling on the Shane Aaron design, but as is the case with tightlacing, we had to submit her measurements and select the fabric quality and color to the corsetiere (who resided in Las Vegas at the time), who would, in 6 weeks, handcraft a custom-made article of lingerie suitable for 23 hours of daily wear.
We are now approaching 3 years of my girl's waist training. We have, in that time, fine-tuned her regiment to where she is laced 8-10 hours a day (except when the humidity exceeds 70% and the air temp rises above 75 degrees F), reduces to a flattering 22" wasped shape, and have amassed a collection of 5 personalized garments she alternates between.
The thing that grabs me, despite years of coveting the corsetted female form, and accomodating its "normalcy" over the past few years, i never tire of the daily regiment of tightlacing. My girl has learned how to lace herself (a product of our living apart while corset training), but on certain days, either because a snag has developed in the mechanics, or because she just wants to be charitable, she will ask for my assistance. Turning her back to me, she will raise her hands and lean against a wall or doorframe, and without fail, as i tug and tug, i'm never able to walk away without a prominent statement of my arousal saluting this facet of our relationship.