I stood on the escalator the other day behind a woman in slightly-too-tight clothes. Her bra straps dug into her shoulders and back, pressing against her flesh. Pinching at her skin. Highlighting the unquestionable solidity – the thereness of her. She was beautiful.
Tight clothes do incredible things. And I don’t mean ‘tight’ in a lycra-on-muscle, bodycon kind of way – where the clothes hug a smooth, unbroken line of toned flesh. Sure, there’s something lovely about a t-shirt that neatly clings to skin, but this is something different. This is about elastic digging into someone. It’s about the curves of their body being sharply cut by a waistband, or a bra strap, or a pair of knickers that cut deep as well as high on the thigh.
It works better for women, in my experience. Perhaps because we are offered more clothes with which to perform this trick: bras, cinch belts, suspender belts, as well as tight tops and dresses to show off what’s pressing against skin beneath. Or perhaps this isn’t an innate lust, which gives me shivers because of the sheer beauty of it. Maybe it’s an association I have by virtue of the fact that the first two girls I fucked wore deliciously tight clothes.
One of them did an exceptional job of this tight clothes thing. Everything about her was rounded and soft – from the Cheshire-cat grin she’d flash you if you bought shots to the thighs she’d expose when bent over to snort with laughter. Round face, round tits, round arse, round everything. The kind of person you’d call up if you’d been offered a duvet day and wanted someone to share it with – you could stare at each other with big, round eyes, then bury your faces in each other’s skin, and giggle under the blankets.
All of her clothes were tight. When she pressed up against me I could feel her tits straining against the cups of her bra. Could slide a finger underneath and reach the tightly-pressed flesh of the underside of one of her breasts. I used to run my hands over her tights and feel the tension in the fabric as it struggled to keep her in. Her knickers dug into her hips, giving me shivering pleasure each time I felt the hip dimple caused by the biting lace.
She didn’t dress herself so much as she tied herself into a neat present – like a squishy paper package tied up tightly with string.
Clothing as bondage.
She’s the primary reason why I hate loose knickers, and why I pull my belt a notch too tight sometimes, just for the fun of the way it feels. She’s why, although my t-shirts and shirts are loose-fitting, most of my bras are a comfortable notch too small – I like the sensation of satisfaction as my tits spill over the top. The lip of the cup pressing into my skin, making an extra lump of flesh that can be exposed and kissed by whoever is helping me strip.
It was a long time ago, but I can still remember every dip and detail of her, because of the tight clothes that framed her body so beautifully. Every swell of flesh.
At her shoulders the bra straps pulled tight, pushing her tits up and out. So you’d catch them from the bottom of your eyeline, jiggling when she laughed.
At her armpits, as the wire dug in and the flesh I wanted to bury my face in spilled over.
At her back, giving a neat valley for my fumbling fingers to follow when I went to unhook the clasp.
High on her waist, where too-tight tights bit into her pale stomach.
Lower, where her knickers sat, the ridge of flesh pushed out above her arse.
And lower still, at the top of her thighs, where she smelled so much like I did.