(Today's analysis is about this post from yesterday.)
The corset by itself is a hotness that I think many BDSM folk recognize. Constriction and adornment in a single strip of cloth, whalebone, and laces. Add in all the wonderful shame-laden mores of a bygone time where, as my character Emily Orn Wilkes (Victorian bride) puts it, the corset was like a woman's breastplate--a strong bulwark against dishonor--, and you have the most paradoxically sexy piece of lingerie ever imagined.
(As opposed, say, to my very favorite lingerie, the lace thong, which is I think much more straightforward--though in the color white, which is my favorite for it, it is obviously the play at innocence that adds that final frisson.)
The perfection of this photograph is clearly, then, in the way it elaborates the central element of the corset itself into a constellation that focuses the corset's essential BDSM hotness into a kind of searing flame of submission. Each of those six elements occurs on its own in countless photographs, but the achievement what I think of as breathtaking hotness seems to happen when a single trope (here, the corset) is elaborated, visually, into other supporting elements.
That elaboration, in turn, makes me want to elaborate myself, in my own familiar way: that is, narratively.
Why is she wearing the corset? Because her Master (the pearls and the notional age--judging from the back--of mid-20's to mid-30's make "husband" the natural choice for the role) commanded it, of course.
Why only the corset? Because her Master likes it that way, so that he can enjoy her, taking the long, dangling laces in his right hand, like reins.
Why are her hands bound and her head bowed? Because she's going to be punished.
Why the pearls? Because she went to a party where, of course, her offense was committed.
How did her hair get over her right shoulder? Master put it there. Why? So he could see her back while she had "penitent time."
Some girls might wonder why we cry when Antigone kills herself; I wonder why I can't keep my hand away from my lap when I think about why a girl in a corset's head is bowed. (OK, I wonder about both things, but this blog is dedicated to the pursuit of the latter question.)