Tailor Maid
- by Adrian Hunter



"Yes, monsieur, an impeccable choice."

She studied the shoe. Like she had a choice, the way her lover was holding it up practically against her nose.

The elongated heel was bad enough. But it was the way the jet-black chunk under the toes splayed out toward the bottom that made her insides churn like rocks in the dryer.

Kinda exactly like a horse's hoof.

This was definitely starting to look like a brilliant mistake.

Well, it's your own damned fault, she told herself, making him crawl around on the floor like that the other night, balls twined to his ankles, nipples clipped and lassoed to his wrists, weight dangling from his cock, and that plug...

But this, this was getting just a touch out of control.

She just knew he had been way too cheerful when he told her to strip the second she walked in the door after work.

He had directed her to stand in the center of the living room, directly underneath that accursed pulley, right next to their trusty spreader bars crossed in a lazy X on the floor, cuffs and padlocks open for business.

She should have been more curious when he put one of the skinny iron rods behind her back so her arms were stretched down and out instead of over her head. And she knew he preferred the heavy clamps when he wanted to make sure they didn't inadvertently slip off.

At first, her panties and bra had tasted vaguely sour against her tongue as the cotton absorbed the moisture in her taped-sealed mouth. Then she had sensed a distinctly metallic flavor when he gathered the hair on top of her head in his fist and tied it tight with a piece of thin rope. What was that R.E.M. line? "Aluminum…tastes like fear."

She had felt her hair rise toward the ceiling, then a sharp tug on her scalp when he knotted the cord to the chain connecting the clamps. Standing on her tiptoes helped ease the strain, but just a little.

"Motion is a luxury you cannot afford," he had said in that snooty pseudo-Brit accent he sometimes affected in moments like these.

And then came the knock on the door.

She couldn't believe he'd let a stranger see her like this, much less touch her.

"Do you know her size, monsieur?"

"7-1/2, but you'd best take a measurement."

The fussy little man knelt down, pulled out a measuring tape from his front pocket, and held it against her extended sole.

"Oui, you are correct, monsieur. I believe we have that size in stock right now."

"Excellent. And don't forget the second pair for her hands."

What?

The tailor, or whatever he called himself, pulled her fingers flat and stretched the marked yellow ribbon across her knuckles.

"Have you decided on the foundation garment? I would be happy to call my assistant to have more styles delivered if nothing you see meets your needs."

"No, I just want to think about these a little more, thanks."

He walked behind her where she figured the samples were laid out on the big couch.

"Monsieur, if I could be so brazen as to make a recommendation."

"Please."

She stood trembling as the two men talked in low voices behind her.

"The latex gives you more flexibility, sure, but le cuir, the leather, is much more, how do you say, traditional. And see how supple the panels are? With proper lacing, you can achieve the same effect against the skin as with le caoutchouc, the rubber, only much more classy."

"Yes, the boning around the waist is nice, too."

"Exactly, monsieur. And much easier to attach the rings for her harness and other accessories. Well worth the extra investment."

"All right, Joseph, you've sold me."

"Very, very good, monsieur. I am confident the garment will exceed your every expectation."

"At this price, I expect it to dance the macarena while reciting whole chapters of 'Tropic of Cancer.'"

They both laughed.

Okay, this time, he had gone way too far.

She had always known about his thing for ponygirls. He had threatened to train her for months, teasing her with tales of tails plugged into her tail and pretending to inspect her teeth.

Where did he find this guy?

She tried to catch the tailor's eye as he measured various circumferences around her head, but neither man paid her the slightest bit of attention as they discussed her imminent dressage.

"Pour sa bouche, une barre airain? Ou la peloute?"

"Both. And probably a pump, too."

"Et le masque pour les oeilleres?"

"Of course. Plus blinders to reduce her peripheral vision. Must keep her focused on her work."

He has completely lost his mind. How reassuring.

"Allow me to show you some ear styles for the top of the helmet."

They disappeared behind her again.

Ear styles?!?

She felt her nipples stretch excruciatingly as her heels sank toward the floor.

How long was this going to take anyway?

"Monsieur, are you sure about the cutouts for the chest and bottom?"

"Yes, and her pussy, too. I want all the white parts exposed."

The tailor chuckled dryly.

"Very good, monsieur."

It must have taken him a good half hour to finish recording every width, length and angle of her body in his small notebook while her so-called lover sat patiently in his armchair watching her fidget and bounce.

"I am finished, monsieur."

"When can we schedule a fitting?"

"I will return the day after tomorrow with a rough cut for your approval."

"That will be satisfactory."

The day after tomorrow?

"Do you have a suitable source for tack?"

"Actually, no. Can you make a recommendation?"

"But of course, monsieur."

They wandered out of her view again toward the front door. She heard them exchange good-byes, followed by the sound of the lock and the deadbolt clicking shut. Then, nothing.

She turned her head cautiously and scanned as much of the room as possible. Where did he go? What was he doing? Was he going to keep her tied up for the next two days? She hated it when he left her alone like this, trapped in her worst expectations.

She jiggled her padlocked wrists fitfully and thought about stirrups until she finally heard the door open.

"Some believe a foal is ready for bridle as soon as she's able to stand."

He moved into her field of vision holding a collection of leather straps in one hand and a riding crop in the other.

Just as long as he didn't expect her to whinny.



Copyright © by Adrian Hunter and Chelsea Shepard. All rights reserved. Posted here with permission on SirJeff's Ponygirls.
Do not repost nor repurpose without permission.

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