Miss Bustier Novels & Stories

Brianna smiled widely while clapping. A black leather corset midi dress hugged her figure, emphasizing its hourglass shape. She pairs it with a huge black coat for now. She wore a pair of black stilettos, a layered choker on her neck and a pair of silver earrings. She couldn’t almost recognize herself, thanks to the bangs that hid her forehead and her straight black hair that hung by her shoulder, a darker turn from her naturally brown hair. Misty’s lip curved in a smile. “Make more money and don’t forget me,” Brianna whispered, and Misty handed a bunch of bills still with a smile.

Yes, Missy's boobs may have been fake, but they looked fantastic. Her bleached blonde hair fell to her shoulders, which worked well with her unblemished complexion which was tanned to a deep golden bronze from hours of worshiping the sun in a wide variety of skimpy bikinis. At the age of 24, she was what one might refer to as a trophy wife.

It got worse. Jasmine had once seen a picture of some ancient Mediterranean pottery where the women wore a type of short-sleeved bustier/vest that had boosted their breasts. The garments had been cut out around the breast itself, leaving the naked breast lifted up and exposed as if held in two cupped hands, rather like an offering. If she wasn’t holding an exact replica, it was dang close. “Wiley!” she roared, “Get your butt in here!” Wiley entered on the run. Jasmine held the offending garment up accusingly, and her friend blushed all the way to the roots of her hair. “Don’t blame me,” she said defensively. “They’re standard issue here.”