Let’s get one thing straight: I needed a word like “girdle.” It was bold and straightforward; I had no time for delicate terms like “shapewear,” “slimproved,” or “body briefer.” With merely three hours to shed 20 pounds before a special dinner, these pantyhose were my last resort.
I took a gamble on the size, made my purchase, and dashed home. Upon tearing open the package, the pantyhose tumbled to the floor—then all the way down the hall. They were a staggering 8 feet long, with the girdle portion alone measuring 4 feet. A quick glance at the packaging reassured me that I had indeed selected the right size, and there was no hint of the word “irregular.” If I hadn’t been racing against the clock, I might have laughed out loud. These stockings seemed tailored for a giant, and only someone like Twiggy on a diuretic would have a chance of fitting into them. Even with a determined tug at the waistband, I was sweating bullets, terrified I wouldn’t manage to squeeze a single leg—let alone both, with thighs and a stomach—into these contraptions.
I plopped down on the edge of my bed and took a steadying breath. This had to go perfectly the first time. Once these beasts were on, I was pretty sure that scissors would be the only escape route.
Flipping the package over, I scrutinized the illustration on the back. It depicted a silhouette wearing the pantyhose, and I noted that the waistband wasn’t designed to rest at the waist—rather, it was intended to cling just beneath the breasts. This raised a question: would all the unwanted rolls of flesh beneath my waistline be pushed up, resulting in an unintentional enhancement? Whether accidental or intentional, I was intrigued! A tingle of anticipation began to build.
I won’t bore you with the nitty-gritty, but let’s just say there was a lot of swearing, hopping, sweating, and yanking involved. It was nothing short of miraculous when the girdle finally enveloped my midsection. I had thought I’d appreciate my newfound svelteness, but the pain obscured any joy. Suddenly, I was tingling again, but this time from lack of circulation. Breathing became a challenge; short breaths would have to suffice.
Time was of the essence. I had to accept the fact that the crotch was now sagging a good two inches lower than nature intended. Short strides were the order of the day.
I grabbed my dress and wiggled into it. Upon arriving at the restaurant, I carefully slid out of the car.
Short steps, shallow breaths, flat stomach, enhanced bosom.
As I approached the entrance, a pleasant scent of freshly cut grass wafted by. I pinched my nose, sensing a sneeze brewing. But it was too late. Robust sneezes erupted, and the waistband was no match for the third sneeze—it folded in on itself like a Swiss roll. Gravity took over, and my stomach sprang free, cascading over the top.
Finally, I took my first deep breath in what felt like an eternity. Undeterred, I shuffled to the door.
Short steps, deep breaths, liberated tummy, and flat breasts.
In Conclusion
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