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Groups of teammates are easily identified this way making for colorful pelotons on the road. Our team sported matching shorts and shirts that were a combination of navy blue, red, white and yellow. Stamped with the year, our club name and a small sun sitting over a rider pedaling down a road, the outfit was simple, yet classy compared with many of the more garish uniforms worn by other teams. Almost 30 of us sat around a table waking up while we drank coffee and ate bagels, slurped cereal, gobbled egg and bacon sandwiches, peeled bananas, spooned yogurt and started squeezing carbohydrate gels into our mouths. We would not all ride together but we tried to at least begin the day as comrades. The pre-ride meal was always a careful balancing act between actually sating your hunger and ingesting the right amount and kinds of calories for the effort that lay ahead. Julie was nowhere to be seen. I asked Rachel where she was. “I have no idea” she spat. “What does it matter anyway, she. The combination of luxurious sensuality and shape-forming restriction was artistic to her. She appreciated it. Still, it was oppressive. She knew the constant compression would be torture sooner or later. Turning to examine the back, she felt a sudden flush of emotion: anger leading the way, closely followed by frustration and then a contrasting feeling of total lust. The laces were not visible. A locked flap covered them. A flexible rod was threaded through the flap sort of like a hinge pin. The small padlock was some kind of high security affair. The keyhole was obviously not typical and it was modern. She couldn’t get a really good look since she already was twisting her body to its limits to see that much. The waistband of the chastity belt was also closed over the corset. Even if she could unlock the corset flap, she wasn’t likely to get it open without first removing the belt. The corset wasn’t coming off anytime soon. She turned her attention to the belt. The forged and.
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