Mercedes has a corset. Quinn isn't sure how to function now that she has that fact in her brain.
Mercedes is unusually self-deprecating about it, waving her hand and mumbling something about a gig at a Renaissance Faire. Quinn figures that Kurt was behind this somewhere and says a silent message of thanks to the universe. The corset is made of dark brown leather, sturdy with bones or wires, and laces up the back.
"Put it on?" Quinn asks.
"It's supposed to go over a blouse," Mercedes replies.
"I'm sure you can wear it without one," she says. "We can get you a cover."
So Mercedes slips off her cotton sundress and her bra, pulls the corset into place, then turns so Quinn can pull the laces tight.
When Mercedes turns around Quinn forgets to breathe for a moment. The cups don't entirely cover Mercedes's breasts, but simply hold them up and out, so her dusky nipples are exposed. Her flesh has been redistributed in a way that makes Quinn even more aware of the generous spread of Mercedes's hips, accented with the yellow cotton of her panties. Quinn has looked at girls in lingerie before, and she's enjoyed Mercedes parading around in little scraps of lace, but now she suddenly gets it, gets what other people see when they stare at half-clothed objects of desire. It really is better than being naked.
Or maybe Quinn just likes leather, which isn't all that surprising.
Mercedes is looking Quinn in the eye, unashamed, but her usual bravado is gone. "You look like you want to eat me," she says.
"Actually," Quinn replies, smiling as she hooks her thumbs in the waistband of Mercedes's panties, "that sounds like a very good idea."