Adultery Phantom Thread

[IronQuill]

                                                                                                * This is a Horror Erotica with Supernatural elements *                                              

                                                

Threads that bite, threads that kiss,

Threads that hunger, threads of bliss.

Bride or widow, maid or wife,

All are woven into my life.

Every stitch a whispered moan,
Every hem a claim I own.

Wear my work, and feel the claim,

Flesh remembers my hidden flame.

Crimson, gold, my threads entwine,

Through the cloth, the body is mine.

Summary : In a sleepy Indian town, an old tailor has opened a shop .Very little is known of the tailor’s past. His bridal lehengas shimmer like those of the most famous designers, yet cost a fraction. Every bride who wears them looks divine, radiant, touched by something unreal. But behind the silk and sequins lies a darker weave.




___________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Characters :-

Raghunath Master : The Tailor

Tulip : Age 26 and she is getting married soon.

Kumar : Age 32. Tulip's future husband.

Priya : Age 24 . Tulip's sister

Ruchi : Age 28 . Cousin of Priya's friend.

Ramesh : New assistant of Masterji

Savita : Raghunath's first customer 

Arun : Savita's husband

[IronQuill]

The First Thread

Savita’s Diary — 3rd May,2003

Today Ma scolded me again for staring at those glossy bridal magazines. I know we cannot afford such dresses, but still… I dream. Arun is kind, steady, but he cannot see me the way those brides shine on these pages. Sometimes I wonder if I will ever glow like that.

This evening, while returning from College, I passed a new shop. "Raghunath Master — Bridal Tailors." The signboard is plain, hand-painted. An old man sat inside, stitching quietly, as though the whole world was his thread. He looked up and smiled when I peeked in. I don’t know why, but I stepped inside.

Savita’s Diary — 14th May

I tried on the half-made lehenga today. When Raghunath Master dbangd it around me, I felt… oh, I cannot write it! It was an eerie feeling. My whole body flushed, as though someone touched me everywhere at once. He said nothing, only smiled, his fingers moving with impossible delicacy. My breath caught when the fabric brushed my hip. For a moment, I thought he had caressed me,but his hands were nowhere near.



------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Arun’s Email to Ravi

Date: June 11, 2003

Subject: Just Married! Life Begins

Hey Ravi,

I hope this email finds you well. How is your life at New York? I missed having you at the wedding, man. it would have meant a lot to have you there. But I wanted to tell you how things went… it was absolutely perfect. Honestly, I’m still walking on air.

The wedding itself was something out of a dream. The mandap was decorated with marigolds and jasmine, every corner dbangd with bright silk and fairy lights. Savita looked… I don’t even have words. Her lehenga shimmered like morning sunlight, all gold embroidery and soft reds. She was radiant. I think everyone was struck silent the moment she walked in. I still remember the way her father gave her away, his eyes glistening and how she caught mine with that shy, nervous smile. I swear, Ravi, she looked like a princess from one of those films .

The ceremony went smoothly. The priests chanted, the fire crackled, and we circled the sacred flame, reciting our vows. I felt a strange surge of happiness, something I didn’t know I could feel in one moment. The crowd cheered as we finally became husband and wife. Our families were beaming, the band played, and the feast afterward… oh man, the food! I know you’d have loved the desserts.

Savita’s laughter… Ravi, it’s unforgettable. Every time she smiles, I feel like the luckiest man alive. We even strolled along the riverbank late at night. The lights were dancing on the water, and she squeezed my hand really tightly.ight. I could feel her warmth, her excitement. It’s like the whole city paused just for us.

I can’t wait for you to meet her when you come next. You’d love her. She is so kind, smart, and funny. We’re already planning a small honeymoon getaway, nothing fancy, just the two of us. I feel… complete, Ravi. Like everything I ever wanted has finally arrived.

Anyway, I just wanted you to know. I’ll send photos soon.

Talk soon,
Arun

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Ravi’s Email to Arun

Subject: You Guys Look Incredible

Hey Arun,

New York is a nonstop blur of skyscbangrs, late-night pizza, and the kind of chaos only the city that never sleeps can offer. Just got your email and the photos. Wow! You and Savita look absolutely stunning. I wish I could have been there to see it all in person; I can only imagine how magical it must have felt.I can tell how happy you are, Arun. You have that glow that only a new husband gets, like you are carrying around a secret joy in your chest. I am genuinely thrilled for you. It looks like everything went exactly as you dreamed. Savita seems so warm and radiant; I can see why you are head over heels.

Thanks for sharing the photos. Makes me really wish I could teleport over and meet her, maybe when I come to India next month. You better keep me updated on everything, honeymoon plans, little stories, even the boring stuff. I want to hear it all.

You two make a beautiful couple, truly. Sending big congrats again. Wishing you both endless happiness.

Cheers,
Ravi

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Arun’s Email to Ravi

Date: June 12, 2003

Subject: Settling In

Hey Ravi,

I hope you are doing well. Things have been wonderful here since the wedding . Savita and I are finally getting some quiet time after all the ceremonies and family gatherings. The house feels alive but peaceful, and every corner reminds me of that day.

Our first few days have been spent unpacking gifts, arranging flowers, and enjoying each other’s company. We took a short trip to a nearby hill station, nothing fancy, just a quiet retreat. It was lovely walking along the trails, sipping chai at little shops, and watching the sun set over the hills. Savita was radiant everywhere we went, laughing constantly, and I found myself grinning like a fool just watching her.

The evenings have been nice too. We cook together, play music, and sometimes watch old movies. It feels simple, but perfect. Sometimes I catch her looking at me with that shy, radiant smile, and I swear I feel like the luckiest man alive. The wedding really felt like the beginning of something extraordinary.

That said, Ravi, there is one small thing I noticed recently. It’s hard to describe, and I might just be imagining it, but occasionally Savita seems… different for a moment. A little flushed, a little distracted, as if something unseen has her attention. It’s fleeting, nothing serious, but noticeable. I guess it’s just the excitement of being newly married, or maybe I am reading too much into it.

Anyway, I wanted to share this with you. I hope to hear from you soon, and I can’t wait for you to finally meet her.

Take care,
Arun
__________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Savita’s Diary Date: June 18, 2003

I had the strangest of dreams today. The dream felt so real. I was exhausted this afternoon, so I closed my eyes for a brief nap while wearing my new salwar.

 The room was quiet, the sunlight warm on my skin. As I dozed, a strange sensation ran through me. It felt like hands moving lightly across my body, gentle and deliberate, yet no one was there.

 My heart raced, my skin felt alive in a way I could not explain. A tickle, almost a featherlight brush, began at my breasts, circling them slowly, as if cupping an invisible handful. 

Then, a more insistent pressure moved lower, tracing the curve beneath, sending shivers down my spine. The sensation intensified, moving to the sensitive skin of my armpit, a playful exploration that made me gasp softly. 

It was a phantom touch, teasing and arousing. My breath hitched as the focus shifted downwards, a delicate pressure against my lower back, circling my… my bottom. 
Then, a shocking, thrilling awareness bloomed between my legs. A gentle, persistent pressure, as if fingertips were brushing against me, exploring the very core of my being. It was intoxicating, confusing, and thrilling all at once, leaving me breathless and damp. 

When I woke, flushed and dazed, I felt a mix of guilt and fascination. I am married to Arun, and yet this strange, compelling awareness lingered, leaving me restless and aware of feelings I had never known. My body thrummed with a low, insistent ache.




Savita’s Diary

Date: June 19, 2003

I couldn’t sleep properly at last night. The memory of yesterday's…experience…kept replaying in my mind . Was it just playing in my mind? Or I was experiencing the same sensations during my sleep last night? I don't know.  Each caress, each shiver, the feeling of being utterly possessed by something unseen. It was wrong, so terribly wrong, and yet… a part of me craved it.

This morning, I tried to dismiss it as a dream, a figment of my overwrought imagination. But the lingering sensitivity, the heightened awareness of my own body, told me it was more than that.

I decided to wear the new salwar again today. A foolish decision, perhaps, a test of my own sanity. I told myself it was simply the most comfortable thing to wear on a hot day, but deep down, I knew I was curious, wanting to see if it would happen again.

Arun left for work as usual. As soon as I was alone, a familiar warmth began to spread through me. It started subtly, a light tingling on my skin, easily dismissed as the fabric against me. I began to do some chores.

But then, the sensation sharpened. The same phantom touch returned, initially light and teasing. It started at my neck, ghosting down my collarbone, a whisper of pressure that made me gasp. I stopped, frozen, clutching a dishrag in my hand.

The "hands" grew bolder. They traced the outline of my breasts, lingering on the nipples, making them tighten and ache. I closed my eyes, shame warring with an undeniable pleasure. My breath came in short, shallow gasps.

Lower and lower they went, down my stomach, the sensitive skin of my inner thighs. A delicious agony bloomed as the pressure intensified, finding the tender flesh between my legs. It was insistent, demanding, stroking with an invisible hand. My hips began to move involuntarily, a slow, rhythmic sway.

"No," I whispered, but the sound was lost in the rising tide of sensation. I pressed my knees together, trying to fight it, but it was no use. The phantom touch knew exactly what it was doing, where to caress, where to tease. I was lost, adrift in a sea of forbidden pleasure.

My breathing turned ragged, almost sobs. My body clenched, a building crescendo of sensation that threatened to overwhelm me. Guilt twisted in my stomach, a painful counterpoint to the exquisite pleasure. Arun… how could I be doing this?

And yet, I couldn't stop. The phantom touch was in control, leading me on a path of pure, unadulterated desire.

___________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Email 1: Arun to Professor Sharma

Date: 10th July , 2003

Subject: Congratulations on your new paper

Dear Professor Sharma,

I hope this message finds you well. I recently read about your latest publication in the Journal of Applied Psychology and wanted to congratulate you. Your work on cognitive behavioral interventions is remarkable, and it is inspiring to see your research continue to advance.

It feels strange to write and not have a campus around me. The wedding was three months ago now, and life has changed so much. I often think back to our classes and the lessons I learned from you.

Warm regards,
Arun

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Email 2: Professor Sharma to Arun

Date: July 11, 2003

Subject: Re: Congratulations on your new paper

Dear Arun,

Thank you for your kind note. It means a great deal to hear from former students, especially on such personal occasions. I am glad my work reaches interested minds like yours.

How have you been adjusting to married life? Savita is a wonderful addition to your life, I am sure.

Best regards,
Professor Sharma

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXx

Email 3: Arun to Professor Sharma

Date: July 12, 2003

Subject: Settling in

Dear Professor Sharma,

Life has been both joyful and exhausting. Savita and I are gradually settling into our routines, discovering small joys in the daily household. The home feels alive with our laughter, but I sometimes feel the responsibility of marriage weigh heavier than I expected.

Your presence at the wedding is still fresh in my memory. It was comforting to see a familiar face.

Warm regards,
Arun

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Email 4: Professor Sharma to Arun

Date: July 13, 2003

Subject: Re: Settling in

Dear Arun,

I am glad to hear that. These early months are always full of adjustments and surprises. Make sure you take time to enjoy each other’s company, even in the smallest ways.

Have you and Savita managed any little excursions or trips yet? Sometimes a brief change of scenery works wonders.

Best,
Professor Sharma

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Email 5: Arun to Professor Sharma

Date: June 19, 2003

Subject: Something concerning

Dear Professor Sharma,

I hesitate to trouble you, but I feel I should share something I have noticed. Savita has recently shown behaviors that seem unusual, almost as if something was hidden before our marriage. I cannot shake the thought that her family might have withheld information about a possible mental condition.

I am not sure what to make of it and would greatly value your advice.

Sincerely,
Arun

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Email 6: Professor Sharma to Arun

Date: June 19, 2003
Subject: Re: Something concerning

Dear Arun,

I appreciate your candor. Please provide some specific examples of these behaviors. It is difficult to comment without knowing what you have observed.

Best regards,
Professor Sharma

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Email 7: Arun to Professor Sharma

Date: June 20, 2003
Subject: Examples of the concerning behavior

Dear Professor Sharma,

Thank you for your reply. Yesterday morning I witnessed something that I cannot easily explain. I found Savita standing in front of the mirror, completely still, eyes glazed, as though in a trance. Her movements were slow and deliberate, almost hypnotic. It reminded me strangely of those perfume commercials, where a scent seems to overwhelm the senses, leaving the subject intoxicated.

When I called her name, she reacted immediately, blinking rapidly, avoiding my eyes, and blushing as if caught doing something she should not. She stammered that she had felt dizzy from the sunlight and apologized for not being careful, saying she had merely been daydreaming.

I am deeply concerned about what might be causing such behavior. Could this indicate a psychological episode or an underlying condition? Your guidance would be invaluable.

Sincerely,
Arun




-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------



Savita’s Diary

Date: 3rd August, 2003

How could I let it happen again? Worse, how could I...enjoy it? The guilt is a heavy stone in my chest, crushing me. I barely spoke to Arun this evening. How could I look him in the eye, knowing what I’ve done, what I allow to be done to me?

This morning, I vowed to wear a different sari. A simple cotton one, old and worn, anything to avoid that cursed salwar. But the heat was oppressive, clinging to me like a shroud. And, if I am truly honest with myself, a seed of perverse curiosity had taken root. I wanted to know if it would happen again, if the phantom touch was specific to the salwar, or if… if I was simply losing my mind.

Foolishly, I put it on. Telling myself it was a scientific experiment, a test. God forgive me.

The sensation started almost immediately. A tremor, barely perceptible, deep within my core. This time, I didn't even try to fight it. I went to the mirror, drawn by a morbid fascination. I wanted to see what was happening to me, to witness the corruption of my own body.

As the phantom hands began their insidious work, I watched my reflection. My eyes, wide and dilated, reflecting a mixture of shame and desire. My lips, parted in a silent plea. My hands, clenching and unclenching at my sides.

The hands were everywhere, teasing, caressing, demanding. They lifted the salwar, baring my skin to the non-existent air. My breasts rose and fell with each ragged breath, the nipples hard and aching. The touch grew more intense, more intimate, focusing on the throbbing heat between my legs.

My head fell back against the cool glass of the mirror. My body writhed, a puppet dancing to a silent, sinful tune. And then, I saw it.

A fleeting glimpse in the periphery of my vision. A face, shrouded in mist, hovering behind my reflection. A man’s face, gaunt and lined, with eyes that seemed to burn with an unsettling intensity. For a split second, I thought it was Arun, but no… this face was older, weathered, familiar in a way I couldn’t quite grasp.

Raghunath Master. The realization hit me like a physical blow. My tailor. The man who crafted the salwar, the man whose hands had touched the fabric as he sewed it, was somehow here, in my room, touching me.

And then, I felt it. A warm breath on my neck, a whisper in my ear, too faint to understand, but laced with possessive intent. A pressure, light as a feather, on the nape of my neck, a lingering kiss that sent shivers down my spine.

I screamed, pulling away from the mirror, stumbling backwards. I spun around, frantically searching the room, but there was nothing. Only the lingering warmth on my neck, the phantom echo of a kiss, and the overwhelming stench of guilt.

I ripped the salwar off, throwing it to the floor as if it were a poisonous snake. I need to burn it. No, I need to figure out what is happening or else this will keep torturing me. I feel dirty, violated, but also…strangely, frighteningly aroused. I don’t understand any of this. I am terrified. I am going mad.

-----------------------------------

Savita’s Diary

Date: 4th August, 2003

This morning, I examined the new salwar with a wary eye. It looked innocent enough, a cheerful yellow cotton with delicate embroidery around the neckline. But yesterday’s experience cast a sinister light on its beauty. Could it be possible? Could a garment, sewn with thread and imbued with the will of its creator, possess such power? The thought was absurd, fantastical, yet the memory of that intense, disembodied touch felt undeniably real. I will burn it. I swear I will. I must.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Email 9: Arun to Professor Sharma

Date: August 4th, 2003

Subject: Another concerning incident

Dear Professor Sharma,

I am afraid I must report another incident that has left me deeply unsettled. Yesterday afternoon, my mother heard Savita screaming from our bedroom. She rushed in and found Savita in tears, holding a torn salwar in her hands. The garment had been ripped completely, and her fingers were raw from the force she had used.

At first, Savita refused to explain why she had done it. She simply cried, sobbing uncontrollably, unable to meet anyone’s eyes. After some time, she managed to stammer an explanation: she claimed that bugs, or even a scorpion, had been crawling inside the salwar. I cannot reconcile her explanation with what I saw. The intensity of her reaction, the violence of her actions, and the raw distress on her face seemed far beyond what could be caused by a mere insect.

I fear she may have undergone some sort of psychotic episode. Her behavior is alarming, and I am unsure how to approach it without causing further distress. I wanted to inform you, as I feel your advice could help me navigate this delicate situation.

Sincerely,
Arun
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Shivnagar Gazette

Date: 5th August , 2003

Headline: Midnight Robbery at Rathi Jewellery: Thieves Escape With Valuables

Byline: R. K. DAS

Shivnagar: Residents were shaken Thursday night after a daring robbery at Rathi Jewellery on Main Street. Around 11:30 p.m., masked intruders entered the store, fired shots, and escaped with jewellery and cash estimated at nearly 15 lakh rupees.

security officer confirmed that the operation was executed with alarming precision, leaving few immediate witnesses. “It was over before anyone could intervene,” a security officer spokesperson said, adding that investigations are ongoing.

Suresh Mehta, a night security guard of ATM nearby, said, “I heard shots and saw some movement in the shadows, but I couldn’t make out anyone clearly.”


Ramesh Verma, owner of the shop to the left of Rathi Jewellery who lives above his store, said, “I heard the shots, but I was too scared to check. I stayed inside and waited for the security officer to arrive.”

Raghunath Master, the tailor on the opposite side of Rathi Jewellery, added, “I heard loud noises too, but I didn’t dare step out. It was terrifying. When I looked later, the street was already cordoned off by security officer.”

Some locals reported unusual sightings near the scene during the robbery.

Arjun Singh, a milkman, “One of my cows was ill, so I was checking on her in the shed around 11:45 p.m. I saw a woman carrying a dress in one hand and what appeared to be a drum in the other. She disappeared into the woods before I could get closer. She seemed to be wearing a saree, but I couldn’t see her face.”

Dev Anand, a retired railway ticket checker who suffers from insomnia, offered a conflicting account. “I saw a woman as well, but she was not in a saree. She was wearing a nightie. Her face was hidden, and she vanished into the trees quickly,” he said.

security officer have noted the mysterious woman as a person of interest in the investigation. “We are looking into the sightings. It’s possible she was an accessory, though nothing is confirmed,” a spokesperson said.

Authorities urge anyone with information about the robbery or the unusual sightings to come forward.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------


Magnum Health & Lifestyle ,September edition – Page 42

Section: Sex Solutions with Dr. Meera Nair

Dr. Meera Nair, renowned sexual health specialist and columnist, has been the anchor of this advice page for over five years. Readers write in anonymously with their intimate questions, and she provides professional, discreet guidance. Her column is considered one of the most trusted in the magazine for candid and non-judgmental advice.

Letter from a Reader (Anonymous):
Dear Dr. Nair,

I am a newly married man .Recently I have noticed something unusual regarding my wife that troubles me. On a few occasions at night, while lying beside her in the dark, I have felt her body responding in ways that confuse me. It seems as though she is aroused, though I am not involved at all. She moves subtly, her reactions are intense, and it happens even when she is half-asleep or napping.

What troubles me most is the thought that I may not be able to satisfy her sexually. I worry that even when she is awake and we are together, I might be failing her, and that these involuntary reactions are a sign that she is seeking something I cannot provide. I feel frustrated and helpless, as I love her deeply but I cannot control or understand these experiences.

We’ve been married such a short time, and I thought I knew her, but the other night… well, I’m not sure what to make of it. I don’t want to overreact, but I also can’t shake this feeling that something is off.

I will tell you the most recent episode. My wife got herself a new nightie.On of those silky one, almost like a slip.She wore it to bed last night. We made sweet love and she seemed happy after that.I was already pretty tired, had a long day at work, and I drifted off pretty quickly.

I woke up a couple of hours later, and I was lying beside her. It was completely dark, so I couldn’t see anything, but I could hear her. She wasn’t asleep. She was… well, she was breathing heavily, almost like she was… aroused.

At first, I thought maybe she was dreaming, having some kind of… you know. But then I heard her whisper something. Just a little “no,” barely audible. And then she started moaning, very softly and said a prolonged hushed "yessss".

I was completely still, pretending to sleep. I didn't want to embarrass her if it was just a dream. But then... her hips started moving. A slow, rhythmic sway. Like she was pleasuring herself. My eyes were adjusted to the dark by then.

it was the strangest thing. I was lying right next to her, completely still, and she was getting… really into it. The moans got louder, more intense. Her breathing was ragged. I could feel the heat radiating from her body.

I was so confused and, honestly, a little turned on myself. I mean, lying next to your wife, hearing her like that… But the whole situation felt so… off. She didn’t know I was awake, and that made it feel wrong, like I was intruding on something private, something I shouldn’t be seeing… or rather, hearing.

The whole thing lasted for maybe ten -fifteen minutes. Then it stopped as abruptly as it started. She was silent again, her breathing gradually returning to normal. I stayed still, pretending to be asleep, until the morning.

This morning, she seemed perfectly normal. No sign of anything having happened. I tried to bring it up subtly, but she just changed the subject.
I am hesitant to discuss this with anyone I know personally. I hope you can help me understand whether these reactions are natural, and how I might ensure that she is happy and fulfilled.

—Concerned Husband

Dr. Meera Nair – Reply:

Dear Concerned Husband,

Thank you for your honest and thoughtful letter. What you’ve described is intense, involuntary arousal during sleep or a semi-conscious state. This phenomenon can arise from various factors and is frequently a normal physiological response.It does not necessarily indicate dissatisfaction with a partner.

Your feelings of frustration and worry are natural. The best approach is communication and mutual exploration. Encourage conversations with your wife about what she enjoys and what makes her feel fulfilled, without pressure or judgment. Focusing on intimacy beyond intercourse.Touch, connection, and understanding can strengthen both emotional and sexual bonds.

If these experiences continue to cause distress for either of you, consulting a sexual health specialist or therapist together may help you both navigate and understand them safely.

—Dr. Meera Nair

___________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

First Information Report (FIR)

security officer Station: Shivnagar Central

FIR No.: 117/2003

Date of Report: 15th September 2003

Time of Report: 08:55 AM

Complainant: Arun Kumar Singh
Address: 16, Laxmi Nagar, Shivnagar
Phone: [redacted]

Nature of Complaint: Breaking and Entering, Theft

Details of Incident:
The complainant, Arun Kumar Singh, reported that between the night of 14th September 2003 and the early hours of 15th September 2003, an unknown person unlawfully entered his residence at 16, Laxmi Nagar. The intruder specifically targeted items belonging to the complainant’s wife, Savita Singh, including clothing and personal wedding belongings, along with other valuables.

The stolen items reported include:

Bridal and formal clothing: one lehenga, two sarees, three salwar suits, and assorted dupattas.

Gold jewelry: one mangalsutra, two pairs of earrings, three bangles, and one gold chain.

Cash gifts and envelopes totaling approximately ₹45,000 received during the wedding.

Wedding keepsakes: embroidered handkerchiefs, a set of silver utensils gifted by relatives, and a decorative bridal clutch.

Personal diary of Savita Singh.

The complainant noted that the theft appears highly selective, targeting items used or worn during the wedding, suggesting prior knowledge of the household and its possessions. The incident was discovered early on 15th September 2003 when the complainant noticed multiple items missing and signs of disturbance in the house.

Description of Suspect:
The complainant did not see the intruder. He suspects that the thief may be familiar with the household due to the targeted nature of the stolen items.

Action Taken:

Complaint recorded under Sections 454 (Lurking House Trespass or House-breaking) and 380 (Theft in Dwelling House) of the Indian Penal Code.

Investigation initiated by Officer-in-Charge.

Neighbors advised to report any suspicious activity.

Signature of Complainant: Arun Kumar Singh
Signature of security officer Officer: [Officer Name]

__________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

The Times of India

Date: 17th October 2003

Headline: Newlywed Woman Disappears Without a Trace

Byline: Staff Reporter

Shivnagar: Savita Singh, 23, a newlywed resident of Laxmi Nagar, has mysteriously vanished, leaving family and local residents shocked. She was last seen leaving her home on the evening of 16th September and has not been heard from since.

Her husband, Arun Kumar Singh, reported her disappearance to the Shivnagar Central security officer Station early this morning. security officer officials have confirmed that a missing person investigation has been initiated. Authorities are reviewing possible leads, questioning neighbors, and inspecting the area for any signs of foul play.

“This is an unusual case,” said an officer at the station. “There is no evidence of forced entry at the residence, and neighbors report no suspicious activity. All avenues are being explored, including the possibility of voluntary disappearance or third-party involvement.”

Local residents expressed concern and bewilderment at her sudden disappearance.
security officer have urged anyone with information regarding Savita Singh’s whereabouts to come forward. Meanwhile, her family remains anxious and is appealing for any leads that could help locate her.

Contact: Shivnagar Central security officer Station – Tel: [redacted]

__________________________________________________________________________________________

Shivnagar Gazette  – October 18, 2003

Headline: Newlywed Mystery: Husband’s Family Member Hints at Secret Lover?

Byline: Local Correspondent

Shivnagar : The recent disappearance of 23-year-old Savita Singh has left the town abuzz, and new, eyebrow-raising claims suggest the story may be more tangled than previously thought. While the security officer continue their search, a close relative of Arun Kumar Singh, the husband, has reportedly hinted at “strange and secretive behavior” by Savita since the wedding.

According to the source, who refused to be named,claimed that the husband told him a while ago "Brother, I must tell you something. Savita is changed since the wedding. At night she calls out a name which is not mine. When I touched her, she trembled as if someone else was already holding her. She slips away at night, claiming to pray or to air herself. Sometimes I wake and find her standing before the mirror in her bridal dress, cheeks flushed, eyes closed, lips whispering. Brother, I fear my wife belongs to another, but who, I cannot say.”

Adding fuel to the speculation is the recent burglary at the Singh residence, where bridal clothes, jewelry,diary and wedding gifts were stolen. Town gossip suggests a connection between the theft and Savita’s sudden disappearance, with some wondering if the items were stolen by a secret lover planning an elopement. Others question why anyone would steal the possessions if they were simply planning to run away with them.

While the security officer have yet to confirm any leads regarding a third party, locals are closely watching the case, and murmurs of intrigue and scandal fill the streets of Shivnagar.

The Gazette continues to follow this story and will provide updates as the investigation progresses.

__________________________________________________________________________________________________________

PRESENT DAY  : A New thread







Priya flopped onto the bed, holding a thin, crumpled newspaper. 

"Look at this, Didi," she said with a mischievous grin. "Your favorite Shivnagar Gazette. Grandpa’s the only person in the world still paying for it, and now I see why,they print ghost stories to keep themselves alive.'

Tulip was at her dressing table, trying on earrings for the wedding. "Not interested,” she muttered.

"Too late," Priya declared, snapping the paper open. "You have to hear this. It’s practically written for you." She cleared her throat in mock drama and began to read aloud:

"A chilling pattern haunts Shivnagar and its surrounding towns. Since June 2003, fifty-two newlywed women,aged twenty one to thirty,have disappeared within weeks or months of their weddings. security officer records across two decades show these vanishings, scattered across municipalities and 
connected to this area.

Tulip turned, frowning. 'That’s rubbish."

"Wait, it gets better!” Priya’s eyes danced as she scanned the lines.

"The first case on record was Savita Singh, age 23, married only three months before she was last seen on 16th October, 2003. In 2007, Anjali Yadav, a collegeteacher, 24, vanished from her husband’s home in Rajapur. In 2011, Leela Sharma, 21, a college student turned bride, disappeared during the festival season. The latest case is from February 2025—Meenakshi Verma, 25, newlywed from Shivnagar itself."

Tulip’s earrings slipped from her fingers. "That’s just… creepy."

Priya, enjoying herself, pressed on. "Sources claim that in very few cases, there were reports of the women acting strangely before their disappearance standing at mirrors for long stretches, acting absent minded, wandering at night, or claiming to hear voices. security officer never solved a single case. Families moved away in shame or silence."

Tulip hugged herself, suddenly aware of the quiet air in the room. "Enough, Priya."

But Priya wasn’t finished. She folded the paper dramatically and said, "So you see, Didi, if you go missing, you’ll just be number fifty-three on the Shivnagar list!" She giggled, then tossed the Gazette aside. "Seriously, don’t look so pale. This paper is desperate. No one reads vernacular rags anymore in the age of internet,except old people like Grandpa. They’ll print anything juicy to stay alive. Probably all nonsense, recycled ghost tales. Soon they’ll shut down anyway.”

Tulip tried to laugh, but the unease lingered. The bold black headline of the Gazette, half-crumpled on the floor, seemed to leer back at her.

[IronQuill]

It is Ramesh’s first week at Masterji’s shop. The small tailor shop sits quietly between a paan stall and a shuttered pharmacy, its wooden sign swinging slightly in the morning breeze.


Ramesh steps inside. The front desk is empty; Masterji is nowhere in sight. The faint clatter of a sewing machine hums from the back room. He knows Masterji must be there.

Ramesh’s fingers brush the polished counter as he moves forward, then he pushes open the narrow door leading to the back. The machine’s rhythm grows louder, steady, almost alive, and the rich scent of silk and thread drifts toward him. The room beyond is dim, but he can just make out the tall, hunched figure of Masterji bent over a piece of crimson fabric, hands moving with practiced precision.

Ramesh’s eyes sweep over the shelves of neatly folded fabrics, the threads glinting in the sunlight. The air smells faintly of cotton, silk, and machine oil. He notices how Masterji’s fingers brush the fabric with care, coaxing it, lifting it, letting it fall naturally.

Masterji glances up briefly, eyes sharp and bright, then returns to his work. Ramesh opens his mouth to speak, but Masterji already anticipates him somehow.

“Hush… don’t rush the silk… like some people, it has a temper,” Masterji says, his eyes never leaving the fabric.

Ramesh swallows, caught off guard. He steps back slightly, giving Masterji space, and watches as the needle pierces the deep crimson silk with a steady, almost musical rhythm.

“Must be careful with this edge,” Masterji murmurs softly, almost to the cloth itself. “It remembers everything.”

Ramesh swallows again and finally blurts out, “Masterji… what should I do first?”

Masterji glances at him briefly, then nods toward a stack of neatly folded silks. “Take these to the cutting table. Lay them out flat, smooth every fold.”

Ramesh steps forward and begins lifting the bolts of silk. The fabric is soft under his fingers, almost warm, and he can’t help but watch Masterji’s hands move with effortless precision over the crimson lehenga.

“Keep them in order,” Masterji adds without looking up. “Each one has its place. Don’t mix the shades.”

Ramesh nods, arranging the bolts as instructed. The hum of the sewing machine fills the room, steady and hypnotic, as he works.

They work until 11 a.m., then it’s time for chai. Ramesh steps out and walks to the nearby tea stall, ordering two cups. While Chotu prepares them, he wanders across to the paan stall. Babu, the wiry stall owner with stained teeth perpetually bared in a mischievous grin, eyes him hungrily.

Ramesh chuckles, swatting playfully. “Babu bhai, stop it! Masterji will hear you. And those are our customers,have some respect.”


Babu just winked, expertly folding a betel leaf. "Respect? For those apsaras who come to get their blouses stitched? Arre, Ramesh, you're young. You see the measurements Masterji takes, eh? That Rekha Rani, the one with the… cough, generous figure... he needs a ladder to measure her! And that tight salwar kameez she wore last week? Showed off her… gestures suggestively… assets quite nicely, wouldn't you say?"
 He popped the paan into his mouth, chewing with gusto. "And what about that young Meena, always fluttering her eyelashes and asking for the blouse to be just so? Hmmm, she knows exactly what she's doing, showing off her… makes a cupping motion with his hands… youthful charms."


Ramesh shifts  uncomfortably. He is getting used to Babu's crude jokes; it was just Babu being Babu. 

He tried to steer the conversation away. "Tea should be ready soon, Babu bhai. Looks like Chotu is bringing it over. You want one?"

Babu, unfazed, spat a stream of red juice into a nearby drain. "Nah, I'll stick to my paan for now. But let me tell you, Ramesh, Masterji is a lucky man. Surrounded by such… gestures again… inspiration all day long. Though, between you and me," he leaned closer, lowering his voice conspiratorially, "I wouldn't mind taking some measurements myself!" He punctuates the statement with a wet, smacking sound.

Ramesh feels trapped in the conversation, just wanting his tea and to get back to the shop. Before he can respond, Chotu arrives, balancing two steaming glasses. 

Relief washes over him. “Ah, perfect timing! Here, Chotu, let me take those.” 

He pays and turns to Babu, forcing a smile. “Gotta go, Babu bhai. See you later.”

He hurries back to the tailor shop with the two cups. In the back room, Raghunath Master stands in front of the mirror caressing the crimson lehenga.

A new one is bound. Her pulse beats in my cloth, her soul sewn into my seams. Tomorrow she will shine, and they will all come. The town does not yet know it, but every bride shall wear me. Every husband shall share his wife with my threads. I do not cut fabric. I carve vessels. A sleeve to cradle a wrist, a bodice to breathe upon her chest, a hem to kiss her ankles. They think they pay for silk, for zari, for the shimmer of borrowed luxury. But what they buy is entry. What they carry home is me. Last night, I listened as the new one sighed in her sleep. She whispered a name. Not his. Mine. With her lips, wrapped with the rustle of the garment, the creak of the threads tightening around her body. The husband turned beside her, ignorant. It was I who held her. The town believes the shop is a place of commerce. They do not see the loom behind the curtain. My clothes are only the messengers. It is me that devours. One by one, they shall come to me. One by one, I will bind them. They all will kneel for measurements, and I will measure their futures.

“Masterji… chai,” Ramesh calls, breaking him from his thoughts.

[IronQuill]

Priya sits cross-legged on the bed, scrolling through her phone, while Tulip leans against the dresser, fiddling with her bangles.


“Priya… I don’t know,” Tulip laments. “I keep looking at these designer lehengas online, and they’re gorgeous, like dreams. But the prices…” She trails off, biting her lip.

Priya glances up, smirking. “Dreams come at a price, Dee. You knew that the day you started pinning those Sabyasachi looks to your Pinterest board.”

Tulip flushes. “Don’t tease. I just… I can’t imagine walking into the wedding hall in anything less. But Dad will have a fit if he knows I’m even considering something that expensive. And Mom will just say, ‘What’s wrong with the local tailor? He stitched mine and it lasted a thousand years."

“But look at the zari work, the flare, the hand embroidery. Can you imagine walking into the hall in this?” Priya says, her eyes glued to the screen.

Tulip sinks onto the bed beside her, sighing. “Everyone will stop breathing.”

Priya sprawls on the bed with her plaits undone and rolls her eyes. “Everyone will stop breathing anyway. You’re the bride.”

Tulip gets up impatiently and paces the room, her dupatta slipping from one shoulder as she speaks in a rush. “Priya, I don’t care, I want a designer lehenga. Nothing else will do. I’ve seen the pictures, the embroidery, the way the skirts move. How can I wear something ordinary after that?”

Priya sits on the bed, chin propped on her hand, watching her elder sister spiral. She giggles. “So what’s your grand plan? You’ll sell your jewellery in secret?”

Tulip smirks, though worry lingers in her eyes. “Maybe I will. All I know is, I can’t settle. This is my wedding. I want to feel like I’m wearing my dream dress.”

Then Tulip flops back on the bed and clutches a bridal magazine. “Priya, if Dad refuses, I swear I’ll just run away and get married in jeans and a top. At least then no one will complain about the cost.”

Priya giggles, then suddenly pauses, her expression shifting. “Wait… Dee you just remind me of something.”

Tulip turns her head. “What?”

“Remember Rachna’s sister’s wedding last winter? The one in Jhansi where we stayed two nights?”

Tulip’s eyes light up. “Of course! Ruchi is glowing. Her lehenga is unreal. I thought it was straight out of Delhi Fashion Week.”

Priya nods quickly, leaning in. “That’s what I thought too! But when I tell Rachna, she laughs and says, ‘Designer? Ha! It’s from some tailor in Shivnagar.
I didn't believe her at first, but she swears it. She says her jiju’s cousin gets everything made there too. Apparently this tailor makes bridal pieces that look like designer at a dirt cheap price.”

She continues ,“I’m not joking! Ask Rachna yourself. She says the stitching, the fit, the way the fabric shimmers. No one in the baraat guesses it isn’t designer. Even the photographers keep asking who the label is.”

Tulip presses her fingers to her lips, eyes narrowing in thought. “A tailor in Shivnagar…? And we’re right here. How have we never heard of him?”

Priya shrugs, a sly smile tugging at her mouth. “Maybe because we spend more time on Pinterest.”

Tulip’s excitement comes rushing back, brighter than before. “Then we’ll insist on going there. If he can make something like Ruchi wore…” She trails off, her voice full of awe. “Priya, maybe this could actually work.”

A week later, Tulip and Priya convince Rachna to take them to Ruchi’s house. The excuse is simple enough. Tulip wants to see the bridal outfit again, to judge if it truly holds up outside the glitter of the wedding night she keeps replaying in her mind.

Ruchi welcomes them warmly. Tea is poured, plates of mathri and kaju barfi laid out, and soon the living room fills with laughter and chatter.

“Ruchi,” Tulip says between sips, “I can’t stop thinking about your lehenga from the wedding. Honestly, it looks like it belongs to some top Delhi designer. You must tell me where it comes from.”

Ruchi laughs, her bangles clinking as she adjusts her dupatta. “Ah, that’s what everyone keeps asking. But no, no label, no showroom. Just a small shop in Shivnagar. The tailor is an old man who stitches it for me.”

She also reveals the making and material charges when asked.

Tulip and Priya’s jaws drop.

“No way.”

“Yes,” Ruchi says with pride. “Raghunath Master. People underestimate him because he doesn’t advertise, no glossy billboards. But once you wear his work, you understand. The fabric… it almost feels alive.” She smooths the folds of her dupatta absentmindedly.

Priya leans forward eagerly. “Alive? How so?”

Ruchi tilts her head, hesitating, then laughs it off. “Oh, maybe it’s just my nerves. But whenever I wear a dress made by Masterji, it feels like it’s embracing me. As though it’s made not just for my size, but for me. I feel beautiful in a way I never feel with other dresses.”

Tulip sighs dreamily. “That’s exactly what I want.”

As the laughter and chatter carry on, Tulip notices Ruchi fidgeting with her kurta. At first, it seems ordinary, just adjusting the dupatta, smoothing a crease. But she does it again, and again, as though her fingers can’t leave the fabric alone.

“This?” Ruchi smiles when Tulip comments on it. “Oh, yes, Masterji stitches this too. He says he has extra fabric from a bigger order and thinks it will suit me.” She runs her hand down the sleeve absentmindedly. “Honestly, I feel odd wearing anything else now. His dresses just… fit differently.”

Priya watches her more closely. Ruchi’s cheeks are flushed, though the afternoon isn’t particularly warm. Her voice carries a faint breathlessness when she speaks about the clothes, as though remembering something private, something scandalous. Every now and then, while pouring more tea, she stops mid-sentence and just stares at her reflection in the shiny steel tray. Then she shakes it off and laughs like it’s nothing.

“You girls should definitely go,” Ruchi says finally, her tone firm, almost insistent. “For your wedding, Tulip, there’s no one better. The way he takes measurements… it’s like he knows what you’ll look like before you even do. When I wear his dresses, it feels like…” She trails off, searching for words, her fingers tracing the embroidery at her neckline. “…like the dress is guiding me, not the other way around.”

Rachna chuckles lightly at her sister’s words. “Such dramatics. It’s only a tailor.”

But Tulip and Priya exchange a glance. Neither says it aloud, but both notice the same thing. Ruchi’s hand doesn’t stop stroking the fabric, as though she is soothing it, or it is soothing her.

[IronQuill]

Ramesh leans against the counter, pretending to arrange a tray of zippers when in truth his eyes follow the women who drift in and out of the workshop. The work feels boring at times but it has its perks.

Like the young college girl who comes in for blouse fittings. She always laughs too loudly at his silly jokes, and once, when Ramesh measured a sleeve for her, she teased, “Careful, Masterji, don’t stitch me tighter than my exam schedule.” Her wink lingered with him all day.

Or the married woman who drops by with her neighbor, carrying half-finished pieces tucked under her arm. She leans a little too close when showing where the seam needs fixing, her dupatta brushing his hand. “You have good eyes, Ramesh,” she says, smiling knowingly. He pretends to focus on the stitching, but her perfume clings to him long after she leaves.

Then there’s Mrs. Patel, the formidable matriarch of her family, who only speaks in commands and criticisms. Yet, even she offered a sliver of interest one day, commenting on the neatness of his work. “Your stitches are straighter than my son-in-law’s spine,” she’d declared, leaving Ramesh both amused and slightly intimidated.

He sighs, pushing the tray of zippers a little further down the counter. It’s not that he’s actively pursuing anything. It’s just... the workshop is a small oasis of connection.

A bell above the door jingles, announcing a new customer. Ramesh straightens up, ready with his smile. A woman enters, her eyes scanning the room with a practiced air of assessment. She is in her late thirties, a silk sari dbanging her with effortless grace. She doesn’t look like anyone who usually frequents a tailor shop.

“I have a rather delicate task,” she says, her voice a low, melodious hum. She approaches the counter and unfolds a piece of fabric, revealing a fragile, antique lace. “It’s torn. Can you repair it, Masterji? Without leaving a trace?”

The request is beyond Ramesh’s skill. Before he can reply, Raghunath Master steps forward.He takes the lace, his fingers tracing the delicate weave. He can feel the history woven into the fabric, the stories it could tell. He looks up at the woman, meeting her gaze. Her eyes are sharp, intelligent, and hold a depth that intrigues him.

“Definitely,” he says, his voice suddenly steadier. “But it will take time, and a lot of patience.”

The woman smiles, a genuine, warm smile that crinkles the corners of her eyes. “Time is something I have plenty of,” she replies. “Patience, perhaps a little less. But I trust you will do your best, Masterji?”

Raghunath nods. This isn’t just about stitching lace. This is about earning the trust of a woman who sees him as a craftsman capable of preserving something precious.

He feels the familiar, almost primal hum of attraction stir within him.The instinctive allure he feels towards women. The itch to test his power, to weave a spell of lust and surrender with the very threads he uses, rises in his chest. But then, he takes a breath, forcing it down.

He scans her again. The way her sari dbangs, the subtle intelligence in her eyes, the quiet confidence in her posture. Too sharp. Too aware. He couldn’t risk exposing his other self, the weaver of desires, with her. She’s a woman who would see through his illusions, question his motives, and unravel his carefully constructed façade. 

“I will treat it with the utmost care,” Raghunath says, his tone professional and devoid of the usual undercurrent. He feels a strange sense of relief washing over him as the temptation recedes. He actively suppresses the urge, and the clarity of his mind is almost startling now.

“May I ask your name, Masterji?” the woman asks, breaking his train of thought.

“Raghunath,” he replies. “And yours?”

“Anjali.” She pauses, then adds, “I’ll leave it in your capable hands, Raghunath ji. I’ll check in next week.” She leaves a small, intricately carved wooden box with him, presumably to store the lace.

He carefully examines the lace again, pulling out his magnifying glass. “I’ll need a few days,” he says. “I’ll call you when it’s ready.”

Beside him, Ramesh silently notes down the phone number and gives the woman a receipt before she leaves.

[IronQuill]

Raghunath tells Ramesh to mind the counter and retreats into the inner room. He closes the door, the noise of the shop dimming into a muffled hum.

 Alone, he exhales slowly, savoring the discipline he just showed. He could have chased after Anjali’s sharp smile, but he didn’t.He resisted the allure of seducing that aristocratic woman. That restraint feels like strength.


He drags his fingers through his hair. The strands are still mostly white, but here and there dark ones glimmer defiantly.

 He chuckles at the sight of them. When he first came to this town more than two decades ago, his body had been withered, his steps uncertain, his breath thin. A man in his eighties, already waiting for the end. Now, the mirror shows someone closer to his sixties.

His knee used to betray him with every change in weather, stiff and swollen.That old, gnawing ache, a constant companion through years of damp mornings, had simply evaporated after that particular night with the aspiring model..oh that was a night to remember.

He gives the theory a shot, stretching and bending his leg. Then, out of nowhere, he suddenly kicks his foot out, hitting the edge of a wooden table. The sudden jolt shook the room, reminding him of a strength he hadn't felt in ages. A boyish, almost impudent grin spread across his face, an expression utterly at odds with his supposed age.

Vitality hums through him. His chest feels broader, his breath fuller, his limbs eager for movement. Even his manhood stirs restlessly, it too has been gifted back its youth, demanding more, promising more. Yes, his strength was returning. His libido was getting healthier, his stamina increasing. He could fuck longer and harder now. The thought fills him with a private, almost greedy joy.

The reversal is working. Every encounter feeds him, peels away the years, polishes the dullness of old age into something sharp and alive.

The lines on his face seem a little less deep, the set of his jaw firmer. He allows himself a wider smile, a genuine expression of self-satisfaction.

The more he mates, the more potent the rejuvenation becomes. . With each encounter, each surrender of a woman to his... gift... his own clock turned backward, a subtle but undeniable reversal of time.

That's why he needs to be more careful regarding selection.No, women like Anjali, with her sharp mind and watchful eyes, is too risky. 

He needs willing participants, women who crave what he offers, who won't delve too deeply into the how or the why or the demure ones ...the lonely ones..the basket cases. And he, in turn, needs to be more discerning, to choose wisely, to cultivate this resurgence with care.

He picks up the antique lace, his fingers tracing its delicate patterns. He will mend it with meticulous care, earning Anjali’s trust, but keeping her at arm's length. For now, at least. The prize might be tempting. But the stakes are just too high. It is time to harvest the ripe fruit, and not to risk the fragile shoot.

Ramesh is usually professional with the women who come to the shop. He knows how to keep his eyes down, his voice steady, his hands precise. But then there are women like Tulip,those who just have this way of turning heads the moment they step into a room. Their beauty grabs attention, whether the guy likes it or not.



The bell above the door jingles and Tulip steps into the workshop, Priya following a half-step behind. The air smells faintly of starch and chalk dust, the steady hum of a sewing machine filling the background. Ramesh, who has been idly rearranging a tray of threads, looks up and freezes for a beat longer than he should.

Tulip adjusts the dupatta dbangd over her shoulder, her bangles chiming softly. She looks around the shop with the calm confidence of someone used to being admired without asking for it. Priya, always on the lookout, catches Ramesh stealing a glance that lasts just a bit too long. He quickly clears his throat and tries to act busy with a ledger like nothing happened.

They walk toward the counter. Ramesh straightens, fumbling with his measuring tape. His hands move, but not with their usual precision. He flips open a blank page, pen poised, though his eyes flick again toward Tulip, then away.

Priya leans closer to her sister, covering her smile with the edge of her palm. In a quick whisper only Tulip can hear, she teases, “He’s staring at you. Look at him...he’s nervous.”

Tulip glances up, pretending to study a display of sequins. Sure enough, Ramesh is sneaking another look. His jaw tightens, and he bends suddenly to pick up a pair of scissors, as if the world might collapse if he doesn’t.

The sisters exchange a look and stifle a giggle, their shoulders brushing as they try to hold it in. Priya’s eyes dance with mischief, Tulip’s cheeks flush with secret amusement. For them, it feels like a private joke unfolding in the middle of the shop.

Ramesh, still fiddling with his tape, finally musters, “So… fittings, yes? For the wedding?” His voice cracks just slightly at the end, betraying the effort it takes to sound professional.

Priya, unable to suppress her laughter, leans closer and gives her sister a quick, sneaky pinch at the waist, inviting her to gang up on this nervous guy in front of them. Tulip gasps softly, swatting at her hand, but Priya only grins wider.

Priya arches an eyebrow, her tone dripping with mock seriousness. “Oh? And how exactly did you guess that? Do we already look like we’re carrying a baraat in our handbags?”

Tulip tries to cover her laughter with her dupatta, but her eyes shine, betraying her. Priya presses on, wickedly playful. “Or maybe you’ve been secretly keeping track of the neighborhood brides? Careful, Didi, he might start predicting your mehendi design next!”

Tulip elbows her sister, both barely containing their giggles as Ramesh fumbles with the measuring tape, his ears turning a noticeable shade of red.

“Are you a mind reader, or are you just imagining us in bridal gowns all the time?” Tulip can't resist joining in.

“Perhaps he's been practicing his wedding vows in secret,” Priya teases, reverting to a mock serious tone.

“Or maybe he's just hoping one of us will need help choosing a groom,” Tulip quips.

Ramesh, usually unflappable, is momentarily at a loss. His hands grip the measuring tape tighter, as if trying to regain a bit of control.

“Well, um… it's just an assumption,”  His voice is steady, but the smallest quiver gives him away, making the sisters' grins widen.

Ramesh involuntarily shouts, “Masterji!” calling Raghunath, who is in the back room. It sounds more like a desperate cry for rescue from these two beautiful ladies, who are eating him alive with their dazzling laughs and teasing.

The curtain to the inner room rustles, and Raghunath steps into view. His tall, stooped frame, salt-and-pepper hair, and keen eyes make the sisters pause for a beat.

Tulip straightens, a spark of determination in her eyes. “Rachana and Ruchi sent us,” she informs immediately.

Raghunath arches a brow, his gaze sweeping over them. “Who?” he asks slowly, feigning ignorance, though his eyes flicker with curiosity. “I don’t seem to recall. Rachna? Ruchi?”

Priya quickly produces her phone, swiping through the gallery. “Here, Masterji. Ruchi’s wedding. Remember this lehenga?” She hands over a picture. Tulip leans forward, showing him a photo of Ruchi herself, resplendent in the bridal dress he made.

Raghunath studies the images carefully, fingers tracing the screen as if he can feel the fabric through the glass. His eyes narrow, and a slow smile spreads across his face. “Ah… now I remember,” he admits, dropping the pretense. “Of course… Ruchi. Yes, yes… the neckline, the pleats at the hem, the subtle thread embroidery across the bodice. It all comes back.”

Tulip’s heart skips a beat. “You made that? It looks like something straight off a designer runway. I want one like that, no, my choice. I’ve picked the designs myself.” She gestures to her phone, scrolling through the images she’s saved.

Raghunath leans closer, his eyes scanning each picture meticulously. “Ah… I see,” he murmurs. “The embroidery on the sleeves, the shimmer of the zari work. Notice how it catches light at every movement. The flare of the skirt must allow it to float but not collapse under its own weight. And the purple pleats. Yes, they must fall precisely here to accentuate the waistline without exaggerating the hips.”

Priya exchanges a glance with Tulip, impressed. “He really sees it,” she whispers.

Tulip grins, almost bouncing on the spot. “So… you can make it for me, right? I want the colors exactly like this, and the cut, and the sparkle, everything.”

Raghunath chuckles softly, a sound both warm and commanding. “Tulip, everything you desire, I can make it. But I warn you, it is not simply sewing. It is breathing life into the fabric, shaping it to you, not just the picture. You will feel it before anyone else sees it.”

The sisters beam, exchanging excited glances. Priya leans back, still grinning. “Looks like we found our magician, Didi. Ready to be spoiled?”

Tulip can barely contain herself. “Oh yes. Masterji, start planning. This is my dream dress. Make it perfect.”

Raghunath picks up the images again, studying the folds, the threadwork, the embroidery. “Perfect is not just copying,” he says. “It is understanding the wearer. And you, Tulip, are going to wear it like it was always meant for you.”

Tulip smiles, brimming with excitement. “Masterji, we trust you.”

Raghunath sets the images down, his eyes sharp, already mentally dissecting the designs. “Dreams are not stitched from paper alone. We’ll start with measurements and fabric choice. Every pleat, every shimmer will find its place, tailored to you.”

The sisters exchange another excited glance, already imagining the final creation. Priya whispers, “This is going to be fun.” Tulip simply smiles, eyes sparkling, ready for the first steps toward her perfect dress.

[IronQuill]

Ramesh's hands tremble slightly as he straightens the measuring tape, the metal edges cool against his skin. He tries to remind himself this is routine work.


Her salwar suit hugs curves that beg for attention, the fabric clinging to every sensual dip and swell. The soft folds of her kurta cling to her breasts, teasing the imagination with the promise of what lies beneath.

Ramesh's heart races, his throat dry, but he manages a steady tone. "Stand by the mirrored wall. Relax your arms by your sides."

The routine feels like a dance now, each motion charged with electricity. He approaches her, his gaze snagging on the pulse at her neck, her breaths lifting and falling with apparent calm. 

He begins at the shoulder, measuring the width with practiced ease. His fingers brush the line of her collar, tracing the edge with the pretense of precision. Tulip tilts her head slightly, revealing the tender curve of her throat. 

He goes through the motions because that is what he knows. The steps he follows are practical, almost mechanical. He measures with care.

He wraps the tape around the fullest part of her breasts, feeling the weight and warmth of her through the fabric. His fingers linger for a heartbeat too long, feeling the rise and fall with each breath. Her breath catches, a barely perceptible gasp that feels like a victory. He moves the tape to her underbust and waist, measuring where the fabric dips and tapers. Each number recorded feels like a secret shared.

Down to her hips, the measuring tape slides over the curve of her buttocks. Ramesh fights to keep his voice from betraying him. She shifts, her stance challenges him to maintain his professional veneer. His hands grip the tape, recording the alarming softness of her hip, recalling the curve of her ass that stretches the fabric taut. He can almost feel the heat of her skin through the layers.

He moves to her arms, the sweat at her armpits etching an intoxicating trail. The sleek skin of her forearms glistening slightly. Ramesh can almost sense the salt on his tongue, imagining what it would taste like, the primal allure of her bodily sweat. He wills himself to focus on the measurement, on the cuff of her sleeve, on anything to distract from the ache building within.

When he steps back, Ramesh's breath hitches. Tulip’s eyes capture his, a silent wordless exchange that speaks volumes. She licks her lips to moisture and that small, sensual gesture nearly unmanned him. His hands are slick with nervous sweat, but he writes down the measurements, each figure a testament to the electric moment that has just passed.

 He steps toward Masterji, handing over the data with a shaky smile.

Raghunath takes the notebook, his eyes scanning the numbers quickly. Then, without looking up, he lets his gaze sweep over Tulip, observing her stance, the curve of her waist, the fall of her shoulders, the tilt of her hips. His trained eyes notice the subtle discrepancies instantly. 

He recognizes exactly why the numbers are wrong. The closeness, the curves, the effortless beauty of Tulip,her presence made Ramesh fumble. The intimacy of measuring her, even in a professional context, left him disoriented, a simpleton in the face of what he could not contain.

He sets the notebook down and addresses Ramesh with calm authority. “These measurements… there seems to be a slight mistake,” he says gently, his voice patient and unhurried. “It is understandable. You are still learning, and this work requires precision that comes with experience.”

Ramesh flushes, feeling both embarrassed and relieved that Masterji is not scolding him.


Masterji turns to Tulip, offering a reassuring smile. “Do not worry. I will take the measurements myself. It is important that the fit is perfect, especially for a design such as this.”

With a deft motion, he clears a space at the cutting table, arranging his tools with meticulous care: tape measure, pencil, and ledger. Tulip stands before him, her fitted salwar suit emphasizing her curves, her posture a blend of serene confidence and poise.




"Please stand just as you naturally would," Masterji instructs, his tone steady yet gentle. 

"Breathe naturally, Dear, don't force any movement, especially don't lift your shoulders." His fingers, approached her with a practiced grace, mindful of the intimate task at hand.

But unlike with Ramesh, a ripple of unease spreads through her. There is something different about this old man,the air around him feels heavy, and it presses down on her in a way she cannot name.

Masterji gently places the tape right above Tulip's bust, sliding it under her arms and across her back. He makes sure it fit snugly but wasn't too tight. 

The tape brushes against her skin with a feather-light touch, tracing a delicate path just below her shoulder blades. He pauses, his eyes keenly focused on the digits. His voice, calm and assured, announces, "34 inches." He records the figure in the ledger, committing the first note of their collaboration to paper.

He begins measuring across her shoulders, fingers tracing the line of her collar with meticulous precision. When his eyes meet hers, they seem to see more than the surface, and a chill runs through her. 

The tape glides over the fullest part of her breasts, fitting snugly yet delicately, tracing the curves of her body beneath the fabric. She takes a deep breath, feeling a tight knot in her stomach. His gaze feels so intense, almost like it's a heavy weight that she just can't get rid of.

With careful precision, Masterji repositions the tape, this time to capture the fullest dimension. 

"Look straight ahead, Dear," he guides, his voice soothing. "Relax your muscles." As he measures, his fingers lightly brushed the fabric of her kurta.It was a fleeting, unplanned contact, overlooked as he focused intently on the numbers. "38 inches," he states, his pencil gliding across the page, chronicling the precise dimensions.

Next, Masterji navigates the tape beneath the bust, attentive to the contours of support and shaping. He makes this measurement with particular care, knowing it will inform the garment's structure. "30 inches," he declared, his pencil dancing across the page, capturing the delicate symmetry of her form.

Masterji meticulously outlines the distance from one apex to the other, delicately marking the fabric with gentle chalk dashes. Each number, each mark, feels like an acknowledgment of her presence and her form, and the intensity of his scrutiny leaves her feeling small and fragile. "7.5 inches," he whispers, his voice a soft acknowledgment of harmony.

The tape then journeyed from the base of her neck down to the defined hem, sketching the paths of future embroidery and pleats in Masterji's mind.

He runs his hand along her side to get a sense of the length from her neck to the hem. He pictures how the pleats and folds will hang and how the fabric will lay out. Tulip’s hands tighten at her sides, and a cold shiver runs through her. He notated these lengths with care, small chalk marks decorating the fabric like stars on a cloth canvas.

Masterji takes a good look at Tulip's arm, stretching it out just a bit to check the armhole and shoulder slope. He was calm and collected through it all. It was crucial, this movement, to allow for freedom and mobility. He envisions her wearing the garment, the way it would hug her. 

His fingers traced the shoulder seam, ensuring it would seamlessly follow her contours, guiding fabric to fashion. As he examines the armholes and shoulder slope, she can't help but feel the shift in atmosphere: he takes his time, moving with a deliberate precision that is both calculated and unnerving, sending a shiver down her spine. Each touch is careful, every glance calculated, and Tulip feels a strange, suffocating awareness of how thoroughly he sees her.

When he steps back, reading the measurements aloud, Tulip exhales, her relief tinged with an undercurrent of disquiet. She can’t help but notice how different Ramesh is. There's something about him, like he has this strong authority that just fills the space around him.

As he concluded, Masterji read his findings, "High bust 34, full bust 38, underbust 30, bust span 7.5, center front to waist 16." Tulip acknowledges his work with a soft, approving nod.

[IronQuill]

Kumar Menon is 32 years old, but already he looks older than his years. A faint shadow of sleeplessness clings to his eyes, the kind that no ironed shirt or carefully knotted tie could hide. In his neighbourhood, everyone still speaks of him with pride. His parents never tire of saying it. “Assistant Manager,” his father announces to nosy relatives, as if the words themselves could purchase respect. 

But Kumar knows the reality. The banking job that once promised dignity and security has become a noose. His mornings begin not with the sun but with his phone buzzing beside his pillow. WhatsApp messages from his regional manager, fresh with updated targets, reminders about insurance sales, instructions to push credit cards harder this week. By the time he reaches the branch, tie already tugging at his neck, his mind carries the weight of numbers he can never quite catch.

Once, not long ago, banking had been his dream. He remembers the pride in his father’s voice when he got promoted: Assistant Manager, probationary officer. Neighbours congratulated his family as though Kumar had won a medal for the whole street. Back then, he believed in the promise: job security, respect, a clean desk inside his cubicle keeping him safe from the afternoon heat.

But reality is different. Now, every day feels like a race he can’t win. By evening, he is still smiling at customers while his jaw aches. His reports pile higher, phone calls stretch later, and some nights he leaves the branch when the street outside is already taken over by dogs. At the branch, he balances between charming customers and bullying juniors into meeting quotas. Lunch breaks vanish into loan verifications or client meetings. His evenings extend past 9 p.m sometimes, often followed by calls with irate clients or late-night Zoom reviews with higher-ups.

And then there is Tulip. His fiancée. The one bright part of his future, the promise that something beautiful is waiting beyond the bank walls. Kumar thinks of her often when the work grinds him down. Her laughter quick and unrestrained, her presence filling a room before she even speaks. And her body, how could he not think of it? The long sweep of her legs, the tilt of her hips, the curve of her breasts pressing against fabric as if daring the world to look. 

Sometimes he lies in bed at night, eyes shut, replaying the way her dupatta slips when she bends to pour tea, the subtle sway of her waist when she walks beside him. Desire for her burns like a secret he carries in his chest, raw and insistent. He knows she is far too gorgeous for him, yet she is promised to be his. That thought alone, Tulip sensual and untamed, soon to share his bed, makes him feel like the luckiest man alive.

Their courtship has been stolen from them, reduced to hurried phone calls, conversations cut short by the ping of another WhatsApp message. Sometimes he fears she will notice the truth he hides: that this job has carved hollows in him, left him thinner in spirit than he was just a few years ago.

When someone asks, “When’s the wedding, Kumar?” he smiles dutifully. But when he lies awake at night in his rented flat, staring at the fan whirring above him, it isn’t only the exhaustion that keeps him restless. It is Tulip’s image, her body etched into his mind, and the gnawing doubt of whether her laughter, her desire, her very essence can really survive the life that is consuming him.
________________________________________________________________________

Kumar is sitting across a client in a modest living room at the client's house, a stack of brochures neatly arranged on the table. The client, a middle-aged man with a hesitant expression, is trying to understand what ULIP is . Poor fellow only wanted to open an account!! Kumar was giving his rehearsed answers and his phone buzzes insistently in his pocket. He glances at the screen. Tulip.

He swipes it open, reading her bubbly text: *“Done with my lehenga, coming to Baskin Robbins! Priya is tagging along. Can’t wait to see you! ??”*
Shoot!! He forgot all about their meet-up plan.
Kumar feels a jolt of warmth, a rush that makes the meticulously prepared talking points blur into insignificance. He taps back, deliberately vague: *“Sounds good, see you soon.”*

He glances at the client, a mild panic rising. The man is clearly expecting a persuasive sales pitch, but Kumar knows his mind won’t be on the insurance plan, not today. He pushes the brochures aside. “We can go over the details later,” he says smoothly, masking his internal rebellion.

By the time he steps out of the client’s home, he’s on his bike, engine humming beneath him. Every turn, every acceleration is driven by anticipation of meeting Tulip.
Outside the ice cream parlour, Tulip is already animated, waving when she spots the approaching bike. Priya nudges her sister playfully, teasing, “Look who finally remembered! My jiju rushing to save your ice cream date.”

Tulip giggles, bouncing on her heels. “He always makes it in time, Priya. Don’t worry, I knew he’d come.” Her voice is light, melodic, brimming with love, and Kumar’s chest swells as he parks the bike.

He steps up beside them, sliding the helmet off, and greets her with a grin. “Hey, you two,” he says, casual, but his eyes are fixed on Tulip, drinking in her happiness.

Priya smirks knowingly. “So, Mister Assistant Manager, how does it feel to finally see your bride-to-be without spreadsheets and insurance forms between you?”

Tulip elbows Priya playfully, still laughing. “Kumar, ignore her. She is being bratty."

Kumar laughs, brushing an errant strand of hair from Tulip’s face. “You always are,” he says softly, pulling her gently into a quick hug before she can tease him back. 

Priya pretends to swoon dramatically. “Ah, the perfect couple! This wedding is going to be one for the books. Dee, keep him in check!”

Tulip laughs, leaning into Kumar as they step inside for ice cream. “I will. Don’t worry,” she says to him, eyes sparkling.

Kumar shakes his head, grinning. “let's go inside,” he says. Inside, he’s thinking that nothing in the world could pull him away from this moment. No client, no targets, nothing. Just her.

Inside the ice-cream shop, the air is sweet and cool, humming with soft music and the chatter of evening customers.

 Tulip loops her arm through Kumar’s, tugging him toward the counter with a little skip in her step, while Priya trails behind, smirking at the display of affection.

Kumar clears his throat “Ladies, what’s the order today? The usual?”

Tulip answers without hesitation, “Chocolate chip cookie .”

Priya adds, “And for me, Jamoca Almond Fudge, obviously. Don’t act like you don’t remember.”

Kumar smiles. “Right, right. Chocolate chip cookie for my Lady, Jamoca Almond Fudge for the critic.”

Priya raises an eyebrow. “Critic?”

“Of me,” Kumar says with a laugh. “Always of me.”

He scans the tubs behind the glass, the riot of colors and names, and pauses. “You know what… I’m trying something new today.” He points at a tub swirling with ribbons of purple and raisins within it. “Black currant . Why not?”

Priya gasps in mock-dramatic fashion. “Oh no! Did you hear that, Dee? Jiju is changing his usual flavour...no cotton candy today. Today it’s black currant , tomorrow Belgian bliss ,and then Vanilla affair ..then who knows?” 

She leans close, stage whispering, “The way he is changing his flavour,Dee ...jiju may end up with two-three side chicks.”

Tulip lets out a scandalized laugh, cheeks flushing pink. “Priya!”

Kumar nearly chokes, his ears going red. “What? No! Absolutely not!”

Priya claps her hands, delighted at his fluster. “See? I only teased, but he’s already defending himself like he’s guilty.”

Tulip giggles and sides with her sister, eyes twinkling. “Mmm, she might be right. Maybe he’ll get tired of chocolate chip cookie dough & cotton candy… tired of me.” She lowers her voice playfully, glancing at Kumar through her lashes. “Will you, Kumar?”

He shakes his head furiously, leaning forward, his voice a low rumble meant only for her. “Never. You’re all I’ll ever want.”

Priya groans theatrically. “Ugh, too sweet. I will need an extra scoop to wash this syrup off.”

They take their ice-creams to a booth . Tulip curls into the seat beside Kumar, while Priya flops across from them, legs crossed casually.

Tulip licks her ice cream with lazy delight, not self-conscious at all, but Kumar’s gaze keeps flicking down to her mouth. The way her lips close over the edge of the scoop, the glisten left behind before her tongue darts to catch a drip. She hums in contentment, a little sound that makes the hairs on the back of his neck rise.

Priya notices his stolen glances and smirks. “Careful, jiju. If you stare at her like that in public, people will know exactly what you’re thinking.”

Tulip gasps softly, half-embarrassed, half-delighted, and swats Priya’s arm across the table. “Stop it!”

Kumar clears his throat, forcing his gaze back to his own cone. “I’m just making sure she doesn’t drip chocolate on her dress,” he says, too earnest to be convincing.

“Uh-huh,” Priya drawls, rolling her eyes. “Protective husband mode already. But seriously, Dee, see how he tries new flavours but pretends he’ll stick with only you?” She winks at Kumar.

Tulip leans against him, her shoulder brushing his, warmth seeping into him. “He’ll stick with me. I know it.” She looks up at him, smiling wide, and for a moment the teasing fades into something real, soft and intimate.

Kumar feels the knot of work stress loosen, feels himself anchored by her presence. In that tiny booth, with ice cream melting faster than they can eat, he knows he’d abandon a thousand clients just to sit here and watch her laugh, watch her lick chocolate from her lips, watch her glow in ways she doesn’t even realize.

[xossissippi]

Amazing Start Dear!

Expecting great things from you! Love the name IronQuill.

All the very best!

[IronQuill]

After Tulip leaves Masterji's Shop

Masterji watched them go, the little bell above the door jingling a cheerful farewell. The air in the shop seemed to settle, the energy of their vibrant visit receding like a tide. Priya’s laughter echoed faintly in his mind, a fleeting, sharp sound. But it was Tulip’s image that remained, etched behind his eyes. The curve of her shoulder, the delicate line of her throat, the way the fabric had yielded to her form as he measured her. She was perfect. A vessel of exquisite potential.
Ramesh was still staring at the door, a lovestruck, foolish grin plastered on his face. Masterji clicked his tongue, a sound that was both sharp and weary.
"The measuring tape is for measuring, Ramesh," he said, his voice flat. "Not for dreaming. Put the ledger away."
Ramesh jumped, as if struck. He fumbled with the notebook, his cheeks flushing. "Yes, Masterji. Sorry, Masterji."

As Ramesh busied himself with tidying the counter, his movements jerky and clumsy, Masterji retreated into the back room. The scent of silk and starch was stronger here, a familiar perfume. He sank onto his low stool, the wood groaning under his weight. For a long moment, he did not move. He simply closed his eyes, calling the memory of Tulip to the forefront of his mind.

He recalled the precise numbers he had written down, but they were merely code. What he truly remembered was the warmth radiating from her skin, the faint, clean scent of jasmine in her hair, the way her breath had hitched when the tape tightened around her bust. She had been nervous, her body held with a taut wire of self-consciousness. That was good. The nervous ones were always the most sensitive.

Threads would bind them, yes. But they would first tease. They would first teach.
He envisioned the future Lehenga. Not just the design she had shown him on her phone – that was mere child's play, a flat, lifeless imitation. He saw it in its true form. A crimson so deep it looked black in shadow, threaded with gold that was not thread at all, but filaments of harvested sunbeams. The bodice would be a cage of exquisite torment, stitched to cling, to remind her of every breath, every heartbeat. The pleats at the waist would be engineered to flare with a dance of seven veils, hiding and revealing with every step she took.

But this Lehenga was not for her. Not yet. This was a hunt. And every good hunter knew you did not attack the prize with your bare hands. You crafted the perfect weapon first. And he had the raw material waiting for him.

His thoughts drifted from Tulip’s unspoiled canvas to another body. One he had already been painting on for months. Ruchi.
A slow smile spread across his lips. To feed on one while preparing another… there was a sublime artistry to it. He siphoned life from Ruchi, not to restore his own fading youth, but to pour it into the threads that would claim Tulip. Ruchi’s late-night shivers, her soft, confused whimpers, her body's betraying arches against unseen lips… all of it was grist for the mill. Her quiet desperation was the dye that would give Tulip’s Lehenga its impossible, blood-deep color.
He rose from his stool, a deliberate grace returning to his limbs. The mundane business of the day could wait. Tonight was for communion. Tonight, he would visit Ruchi and draw another draught of surrender from her willing, if unknowing, flesh.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------


Ruchi’s house was quiet, bathed in the humid blue of the moon. Her husband was away on another of his endless business trips, a fact that had become a blessedly regular occurrence. The only movement in the street was the lazy circling of a stray dog.
Inside, Ruchi slept. She was not, however, at peace. She was tangled in her sheets, her brow furrowed. It had been like this for weeks. A persistent, thrumming arousal that lived beneath her skin, a ghostly touch that visited her in the liminal space between waking and sleeping. At first, she had fought it, whispering prayers until her throat was raw. Now… now she simply lay there and waited for it, a shameful mixture of terror and anticipation coiling in her stomach.
She was wearing one of his gifts tonight. A simple, pale-blue cotton nightgown, so light it felt like a whisper against her skin. As always when she wore it, the familiar sensation began to stir. It started as a soft hum, a vibration that seemed to emanate from the fabric itself. Then came the touch.

A single, spectral fingertip traced the line of her jaw. Her breath hitched. It was ridiculous. Impossible. But it was happening. The touch moved down her throat, a slow, possessive caress that made the pulse there flutter wildly. The phantom hand cupped the base of her neck, a proprietary gesture that was both terrifying and strangely intimate. Ruchi’s own hands clutched the bedsheets, her knuckles white.

Elsewhere, in his silent room above the shop, Masterji sat perfectly still. He wasn’t in the shop. A part of his consciousness, dark as the space between stars, had unfurled and stretched across the sleeping town. It was a skill honed over decades, a thread of will cast out to hook into his waiting fabric. He didn’t need to be there physically. His clothes were his hands. His threads were his nerves.
He felt Ruchi’s soft skin through the nightgown as if he were touching it himself. He felt her terror. He also felt her liquid excitement blooming beneath it. It was a feast. He focused his intent, pushing more of his essence into the garment.
Back in her bed, the touch grew bolder. A second hand joined the first, and they began to smooth down the sides of her body, following the curve of her ribs. The sheer cotton of the nightgown seemed to become alive, tightening and loosening in waves, a massage designed by a master of pleasure. It molded to her breasts, the fabric pressing against her stiffening nipples with a torturous, delicious pressure. A soft moan escaped Ruchi’s lips, a sound she choked off immediately, her shame rising like bile. Her husband's face flashed in her mind – kind, dependable, utterly ignorant. The guilt was a sour tang, but it was no match for the overwhelming tide of sensation.
Masterji smiled in his darkened room. The struggle was the sweetest part. The crackle of resistance only made the final surrender more potent. He willed the threads of the gown’s hem to uncoil.
Ruchi felt it. A slithering sensation against her calf, then her inner thigh. The hem of the nightgown was lifting itself, inch by agonizing inch, its edge tracing a hot line upwards. It felt like a thousand tiny tongues licking at her skin. She squeezed her eyes shut, willing it to stop, even as her hips began to shift involuntarily on the mattress.

The nightgown had a mind of its own. One sleeve tightened around her wrist while the other slid its way up her arm, the fabric whispering against her skin like a lover's promises. A pressure, light and warm, materialized on her stomach, circles of slow, deliberate motion that made her abdomen quiver. It was as if invisible palms were learning every contour of her body, memorizing the map of her arousal.
Her breathing was ragged now, shallow pants that filled the silent room. Her inner thighs felt slick with a heat that had nothing to do with the humid night air. The phantom touch found this moisture and played with it, teasingly tracing the edge of her soaked undergarment, dipping just slightly beneath the elastic without ever quite making contact where she desperately needed it most.

"Not… please," Ruchi whispered to the empty room, though the plea was lost, muffled by the roaring in her own ears. Her resistance was a fragile thing, tearing apart with every ghostly caress.

In his shop, Masterji’s hand curled into a fist. He could taste it now – her essence, thick and sweet on the edge of his senses. He wasn't just Raghunath Master, an old tailor. He was the loom. She was the thread. And he was about to pull her taut.
With a final, merciless surge of his will, the living fabric struck.

The part of the nightgown covering her sex abruptly molded itself against her, the cloth becoming both impossibly soft and unyieldingly firm. It pressed directly onto the swollen, sensitive nub of her clitoris, vibrating with a low, deep hum that resonated through her entire pelvis. At the same instant, another pressure, cool and smooth as polished stone, probed her entrance, not entering, but promising, circling with an expertise that shattered her last vestige of control.



A strangled cry tore from Ruchi’s throat. Her back arched off the bed, a bowstring drawn to its breaking point. The phantom hands held her there, the nightgown a second skin driving her wild. The world dissolved into blinding light and a wave of sensation so profound it felt like dying. Spasms wracked her body, violent shudders as she came with a force she had never experienced with her own two hands. She clutched at the sheets, at the air, at nothing, a shipwrecked woman tossed in a sea of bliss.

Masterji’s eyes flew open in the darkness. He gasped, a raw, ragged sound, his body arching in mimicry of hers. He felt the psychic shockwave of her climax as it broke over him—a torrent of life essence, pure, unadulterated fear and surrender flooding his consciousness. It surged into him, a cool, revitalizing river that washed away the grime of years. The phantom ache in his knee vanished completely. The tired brittleness in his bones dissolved, replaced by a deep, marrow-deep vitality. He could feel the cells in his body rearranging themselves, the subtle iron-filings of decay being pulled out and replaced with something new, something potent. He ran a hand over his forearm; the skin felt thicker, younger, dusted with a few stray dark hairs where there had been only pale parchment before.

He slowly unclenched his fist. His breathing was deep and even again. On Ruchi’s side of town, the energy receded. The nightgown became just a nightgown once more – limp cotton, damp with sweat and other things. Ruchi collapsed onto the bed, her limbs like water, a single tear tracing a path from the corner of her eye to her temple. The shame was a settling fog in her post-orgasmic haze, heavy and suffocating. Yet intermingled with it was a horrifying, undeniable spark of gratitude. Thank you, a traitorous voice whispered in the deepest, most exhausted part of her soul. But in the tailor’s quiet room above the sleeping town, there was no shame. There was only satisfaction.

The essence had been powerful, but he knew it needed to be cured, ripened like fruit on the vine before it could be woven. It needed to be steeped in longing and tinged with despair. His attention, satiated from Ruchi’s immediate harvest, now flickered back to the main prize. Tulip.
He rose and moved not to his bed, but to a heavy, locked cedar chest against the far wall. The key was on a worn leather thong around his neck, warm from his skin. He turned it in the lock; the ancient wood groaned as it opened. Inside, nestled on beds of dried yellow flowers and crimson silk, lay spools that had no place in any mortal market.

One was wound with what looked like pure liquid starlight, glinting with an impossible silver light. Another shimmered with the golden red of a dying sun, radiating a faint heat even through the fabric. A third was threaded through with midnight black strands that seemed to drink the very light from the room. These were his threads, spun from despair and joy, from moonbeams and stolen secrets, nurtured over decades.

But for Tulip’s Lehenga, he would not use old thread. It called for a new weave, one that hungered with a specific appetite. He needed a foundational thread that was not merely an accessory to magic, but the core of its appetitive sentience. For this, he needed the very essence of Ruchi’s addiction. Her will to resist had been broken not just by his phantom touch, but by her own mind’s traitorous yearning for it. That addiction, that paradoxical desire for the very thing that corrupted her, was the purest source material.

He retrieved a small, empty spindle of sandalwood, smooth and cool to the touch. Then he went back to his stool, sat, and closed his eyes once more. He did not send his consciousness out this time; he drew it in. He gathered the leftover energy from Ruchi’s climax that still thrummed in his own system, the psychic residue of her surrender. He focused on it, separating the coarse terror from the fine-grained need. He found the memory of her whispered "please," which had meant both "stop" and "don't you dare stop."

He began to spin.

No thread materialized in his fingers. This was a deeper act of creation. He spun from memory and intent, twisting the very idea of her longing into a single, ethereal filament. He drew out the frustration of her lonely nights, the shame of her secret orgasms, the aching emptiness that followed every ghostly touch. He poured it all into the spindle. A slow, hypnotic rhythm took him, his breathing deepening, his head nodding. It was exhausting, profound work, like giving birth to a ghost.

After an hour, he stopped, panting. On the sandalwood spindle was a single thread. It was so fine it was nearly invisible, and it seemed to have no color at all. Yet when he tilted it in the moonlight coming through the window, it captured the light not with a sparkle, but with a deep, pearlescent shimmer, like a slick of oil on water. It radiated a subtle, compelling cold. He held it up to his nose; it smelled faintly of rain on dry earth, a smell that spoke of both parched thirst and quenching release.

This was the Seed Thread. The engine of desire. It would be the first stitch laid into Tulip’s wedding Lehenga, the invisible core around which all the magic would weave itself. He placed the spindle carefully on the high shelf, next to a small brass lamp. This was not just a thread; it was a stored charge. An addict's soul, waiting to be grafted onto a new, more magnificent host. Tomorrow, he would begin.

[IronQuill]

A few days later


Tulip tossed her phone onto the bed with a flourish, bouncing on the mattress. Priya watched her from the desk, raising an eyebrow. "So? Did he respond to your ten thousand exclamation points?"
"Yes!" Tulip sang out, grinning. "He sent back one. A single thumb-up emoji."
Priya snorted. "How romantic is my new jiju. Truly a poet."

"Oh, stop it," Tulip laughed, rolling onto her stomach and propping her chin in her hands. "He's busy. And he said yes! He's coming for dinner on Friday. Finally, an evening without his manager breathing down his neck."

It had been two weeks since the fitting at Masterji’s shop. Two weeks of stolen texts, one hurried coffee date cut short by an 'urgent client call,' and dozens of magazine pictures Tulip sent Kumar of her chosen Lehenga designs. He always replied, but his enthusiasm felt… filtered. Through the screen.

That evening, the house was filled with the nervous energy of expectation. Tulip had spent an hour getting ready, changing her outfit three times before settling on a simple sage-green salwar kameez that made her eyes sparkle. She practiced her smile in the mirror, a gesture that felt both ridiculously juvenile and absolutely necessary.

When the doorbell rang, a frantic energy erupted. Priya shouted, "I'll get it!", her voice full of mischief, already halfway down the stairs. Tulip followed more slowly, her heart doing a strange little skip-and-jump rhythm against her ribs.

Kumar was standing in the doorway, the glow of the porch light catching the exhaustion on his face, but his smile when he saw her was genuine. He held up a small, slightly wilted box of mithai. "Traffic was murder," he said, an apology already in his tone.

Tulip rushed forward, taking the box from him and linking her arm through his. "We don't care about traffic," she declared, pulling him inside. The warmth of his hand on her back felt as real as his presence.

Dinner was a comfortable affair, their families mingling with easy familiarity. But all Tulip could feel was the magnetic pull of the man beside her. Every time his arm brushed hers as he reached for the dal, her skin tingled. He'd catch her eye and give her a small, tired smile that made her want to pull him away from everyone, find a quiet corner, and just… be.

Later, they managed to claim a sliver of privacy on the small balcony overlooking the garden. The air was thick with the scent of night-blooming jasmine. Kumar leaned against the railing, a deep sigh deflating his shoulders.

"Long day?" Tulip asked softly, coming to stand beside him. She didn't touch him, but she stood close enough to feel the heat emanating from his body.
"The longest," he murmured, running a hand through his hair. "They've pushed up our quarterly targets by fifteen percent. Fif percent! I spent half the day calling people who are already struggling to pay their EMIs, trying to sell them more insurance. It feels… wrong."

Tulip's heart ached for him. This wasn't the Assistant Manager her parents bragged about; this was a man being slowly ground down by a machine that didn't care. "Kumar… you can't let them do this to you."

He turned to look at her then, really look at her, and for the first time that evening, the exhaustion was replaced by something else. A raw hunger. "It's easier said than done. But when I'm here…" He reached out, his thumb gently stroking the apple of her cheek. His fingers were warm, calloused from handling bank drafts. "This is the only part that feels real."

The small spark ignited into a flame. She leaned into his touch, her own hand coming up to cover his. "Show me," she whispered, the words barely audible.

Kumar's gaze dropped to her lips. The world around them, the house full of people, the quiet garden below—it all faded into a soft-focus blur. He lowered his head, agonizingly slowly, and kissed her.

It wasn't a chaste peck. It was a deep, searching kiss that tasted of his fatigue and her longing. His lips were firm, demanding, and when hers parted, his tongue swept in, claiming her mouth with a possessiveness that stole her breath. The stubble on his chin scbangd against her skin, a delicious friction that sent jolts straight down her spine. It was the first real kiss in weeks, and it felt like drinking water after a month in the desert.

One of his hands slid from her cheek to the nape of her neck, his fingers tangling in her hair, holding her captive. His other hand found her waist, pulling her flush against him. The thin fabric of their clothes was no barrier. She could feel the hard planes of his chest, the solid muscle of his thighs, and most intoxicatingly, the undeniable evidence of his desire pressing against her belly. A soft sound escaped her, a whimper of pure need.

Priya's voice, shrill and theatrical, floated out from the dining room. "Dee! Where are you? Mom wants to serve the gulab jamun!"

Tulip jerked back as if shocked, her face flaming. Kumar cursed under his breath, dropping his forehead against hers. The spell was broken.

"One second," Tulip called out, her voice shaky. She took a ragged breath and looked at Kumar. His eyes were dark, burning with an unslaked fire.

"Stay," he whispered, his hand still tightening possessively on her waist. "Just for five more minutes."

Tulip wanted to. God, how she wanted to. "I can't," she breathed. "They'll come looking."

Tulip left her fiancé and met Priya inside.

"It's Ramesh," she said, handing the phone to Tulip. "From Masterji's shop."

Tulip sat up, taking the phone. "Ramesh? What could he possibly want?" she wondered aloud before pressing the phone to her ear.
"Hello?"
"Tulip-ji? It's Ramesh," came the slightly flustered voice on the other end.

"Hi Ramesh. Is everything okay?"

"Yes, yes, everything is fine," he quickly reassured her. "Actually... Masterji was just reviewing your measurements and design notes. He says he needs to make some early adjustments to the foundation of the Lehenga. Would you be able to come in for a preliminary fitting tomorrow morning? He's very particular about getting these initial details right."

Tulip's excitement quickly overrode any inconvenience. "Tomorrow afternoon? Of course! What time should I come?"

Ramesh audibly let out a breath of relief. "Thank you, Tulip-ji. Any time after 3 o'clock would be perfect. Masterji will be waiting."

As she ended the call and handed the phone back to Priya, Tulip was practically glowing. "Tomorrow! They need me for an early trial of my Lehenga!"

Priya clapped her hands excitedly. "That means progress! The wedding Lehenga project is officially underway!"
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The shop is warmer than she remembers, air thick with the rich, comforting scent of steamed fabric and hot metal. Raghunath Master stands near the cutting table, while Ramesh hovers in the background, his eyes flickering towards her every few seconds before darting away, a faint blush creeping up his neck.

But Tulip doesn't see Ramesh. Her gaze is locked on the garment hanging from a polished wooden mannequin.

It is just the beginning. It's not yet a Lehenga; it's more like the bones of one—a heavy silk skirt, partially sewn, and the structural form of a choli. The color, however, is breathtaking. It’s a crimson so deep and rich it seems to pulse with its own life, like fresh blood warmed by passion. Woven through it are threads of pure gold that catch the afternoon light slanting through the window and send fractured rays back into the room, making the fabric seem to dance with inner fire.

"It's… unbelievable," she whispers.

"A promise must have weight, even in its infancy," Masterji says, his voice a low rumble. "Now, you must wear it. It cannot learn your body from a distance. You must introduce it."

He and Ramesh lift the heavy silk creation from the mannequin with reverent care. The choli is cool against her fingertips as they hand it to her. She retreats behind the old privacy screen, the sound of their respectful silence filling the small space.

Behind the privacy screen, Tulip stands before the small, slightly wavy mirror. Her reflection looks back, hesitant yet mesmerized. The choli is indeed stunning. Its aristocratic cut with a modest, high neckline offers a sense of regality, while the intricate gold embroidery across the bodice whispers tales of ancient royalty rather than being overt. It fits like a second skin, tracing the elegant curve of her collarbones and the defined slope of her shoulders without revealing too much. The craftsmanship is evident in the way the fabric dbangs, designed to support and enhance without constriction.

Her eyes flicker downwards. The silk lehenga, though unfinished, pools around her feet in a cascade of rich crimson. The fabric holds a stiffness that promises grand pleats, and the golden threads woven throughout catch the light within the curtained area, creating a soft, internal glow. It is opulent yet reserved, projecting an image of quiet grandeur.

She turns slightly, checking the back. There are no sleeves yet, and the back dips modestly, stopping well above her waist, designed perhaps to tie with delicate fabric-covered buttons – far more graceful than exposed skin. It's regal, not vulgar. She carefully lifts the heavy skirt, feeling its substantial weight, the silk cool and smooth against her palms. She admires how the structure already flares at her hips in a controlled silhouette. This is a foundation she can build on. She clicks a mirror-shot and sends it to Priya and their mom.





Taking a deep breath, she meticulously unpins and removes the precious pieces, folding them reverently before pulling her own simple salwar kameez back on. After smoothing down her hair and ensuring she is presentable, she steps out from behind the screen.

"The choli feels... very structured," she begins immediately, her voice holding professional interest as she approaches Masterji. "The fit on the shoulders and chest seems correct." Her gaze finds his, seeking a craftsman's connection rather than a critique from a customer. "And the color of the silk is even more beautiful close up." She leaves it there, her unspoken question hanging in the air: Is this masterpiece progressing according to his grand vision? Is she, the canvas, holding up her part of this intricate bargain?

Masterji nods slowly, a flicker of satisfaction in his otherwise placid eyes. "Proper structure must come first. Without it, passion cannot bloom properly.He holds out his hand, a signal for the discarded choli.

Ramesh scurries forward, taking the lehenga skirt with a touch that borders on worshipful. Tulip hands the choli to Masterji. Their fingers brush for the briefest moment – his dry and papery, hers warm and alive. She feels a jolt, not of electricity, but of… age. A strange, profound coldness emanates from him that seems to seep into her bones for an instant. It is the same feeling she felt the other day.

Masterji holds the choli up, pinching the fabric under each arm. "The armholes," he murmurs, more to himself than to her. "Too tight for freedom of movement. Too loose and they betray their purpose. It is always so." He produces a piece of tailor’s chalk and makes two small, decisive marks under the arms.

"Let us test it," he says, turning to her. The glint in his eye is sharp, assessing.

Ramesh is already there, holding the choli open for her. she turns her back to them. Ramesh helps her slip her arms into the sleeves over her salwar .



 Masterji steps in close, his face near her shoulder. She can feel his breath, cool and smelling faintly of cloves and something metallic.


His hands, cool and precise, reach under her arms to pinch the marked fabric. His knuckles brush against the soft, sensitive skin just beneath her armpit and along the side of her breast. Tulip flinches, a reflexive gasp escaping her lips before she can stop it. Her skin erupts in goosebumps.

"Does it scbang?" Masterji asks, his voice utterly calm, as if her reaction was a simple data point. He applies more pressure with his thumb, directly on the ticklish flesh where arm meets torso. This time, she shudders, a full-body tremor that has nothing to do with cold. It feels… intimate. Violatingly so. He's just checking fit, she tells herself frantically. Just a tailor doing his job. But his touch feels too deliberate, too knowing.

"I… I'm not sure," she stammers, hating the tremble in her voice. "It just feels… strange."

"Hmm." The sound is a non-committal hum that resonates unnervingly close to her ear. He withdraws his hands and steps back. Her armpits and the side of her breasts still tingle where he touched her, as if his presence lingered in the air. "Perhaps the tightness restricts more than just movement."

Ramesh stays perfectly still, but Tulip can feel his gaze burning into her reflection in the big mirror at the end of the room. He's watching. They're both watching.

To steady her nerves, Tulip looks at the skirt lying on the table. "The pleating for the ghera," she says, grasping at anything remotely professional. "How many are you planning?"

Masterji follows her gaze. "Not yet," he says, dismissing the question with an airy wave of his hand. "The ghera is a poem written after music is composed. First, we must be certain the base is flawless." He turns his attention back to her, his eyes seeming to strip away the simple salwar kameez and see her with a kind of x-ray vision that makes her throat dry.

He lifts the lehenga skirt, the heavy crimson silk pooling in his arms like a wound. He doesn't ask Ramesh for help. He approaches her slowly. "To flow correctly, a Lehenga must have its center," he explains, his voice dropping into that hypnotic, instructional tone. "It must know where you end and where the world begins."
He dbangs it directly around her waist. The fabric whispers as he circles her, the heavy silk settling against her with startling warmth. He kneels slightly to fix the folds, his face far too close to her stomach and hips.

He takes the edges of the skirt and slowly, methodically, wraps them around her waist and hips, pinning them into place. His hands are everywhere, his knuckles brushing against the curve of her belly, tracing the line of her hipbone. He presses his palm flat against her stomach to smooth a fold, his other hand securing a pin. The contact sears through the cotton, claiming ownership.

"The dbang is not just about fabric," he murmurs, his face so close to her waist that she can feel the displacement of air as he speaks. "It is about harnessing a woman's energy." He tugs at the silk, settling it deeper into the hollows beneath her hip bones.

With one hand still resting possessively on her stomach, just below her navel, he brings his other hand up and lets it rest, light as a bird, on her upper thigh, right over the salwar. "Now, feel the anchor," he whispers. His thumb begins to move, a small, maddening circle over the sensitive muscle. It isn't an inappropriate touch, not really. A tailor must observe the body in motion. But the way he does it feels like a lesson she never asked to learn.

"Here," his voice drops even lower, a conspiratorial rasp that buzzes through her bones. "Stand perfectly still."

His fingers tighten fractionally on her leg as he uses his other hand to adjust one of the safety pins securing the heavy skirt to her waistband. The hand resting on her thigh is hard to ignore. It's both comforting and stirring, sending wild tingles from her skin straight to her brain and deep down where it counts.
(Now Masterji will conclude this and offer her beautiful handkerchief. Tulip will not accept it first but Masterji will insist. telling her that he had some spare and he made it for him etec etc.. some realistic bullshit to fool her. the point is to make Tulip carry the handerschief with her, so that he can be with her.)

"Now," he says, his voice calm again, taking a half step back. The removal of his proximity is both a relief and an aching loss. "It breathes with you." He walks around her one last time, his critical eye surveying the dbang, the fit, the fall. He kneels one final time to adjust the hem where it pools around her ankles.
As he rises, he catches her eye in the mirror. There is an unnerving stillness in his gaze, a pride that seems more profound than mere professional satisfaction. He looks as if he’s not just crafted a garment, but has tuned a delicate instrument to a specific note.

"Remove it," he says quietly. "I got what I needed to know"

Ramesh scurries forward to help her undo the pins and ease the heavy silk from her body. As Tulip shrugs the choli off over her salwar, she fumbles with the catch, her fingers feeling thick and clumsy. A strange languor has settled over her, a deep weariness mixed with a faint, pulsating thrum of awareness where his hands touched her.

She puts the soft pink cotton of her own kameez back on, but it feels wrong. Coarse. Ignorant.

As she's smoothing down her sleeves, Masterji is at his small desk, rifling through a drawer. He pulls something out. It’s a handkerchief, but nothing like the plain cotton squares she usually uses. This is a thing of impossible softness, made of a fabric so fine it looks like woven spider silk. It's the same shade of crimson as the Lehenga, and embroidered in one corner, using a thread so fine it's almost invisible, is a single, golden tulip.

"For you," he says, stepping forward and holding it out. The tulip seems to shimmer in the dim light of the shop.

"Oh… no, I couldn't," Tulim ssmiles broadly taken aback. It's clearly too fine, too personal. A gift before the main product is even finished feels transactional in a way she dislikes. "That's too generous, Masterji."

He doesn't withdraw his hand. His expression doesn't change, but his eyes fix on her with an intensity that makes it impossible to look away. "It is not a gift, child," he corrects her, his voice patient but firm. "It is a trial piece."

She frowns in confusion. "A trial piece? For… what?"

"For the feel. For the touch," he explains, as if it's the most obvious thing in the world. "This is a remnant from the fabric bolt. You must become accustomed to its nature. Lehengas are not just worn; they are lived with. The body must recognize its dbang, its weight, its scent, before it is asked to carry the full glory of the design. Keep it. Carry it in your purse. Let it touch your skin. Your hands will teach it your secrets." This little scrap of magic feels like a cold, smooth stone being pressed into her palm. The lies are so beautifully crafted, so reasonable.

"Your sister touches her dupatta obsessively," Masterji adds with an unsettling accuracy that makes her head snap up. "She caresses her salwar. Ruchi says the clothes guide her. My clothes are not mere cloth. They are companions for a lifetime."

"Ruchi isn't my sister..she is my....." but Tulip's word dries as she remembers Ruchi was talking the same way the other day when they visited her and Rachna had dismissed it as dramatics. Now, hearing Masterji echo that sentiment so precisely, a shiver runs down her spine. He doesn't just make clothes. He studies the women who wear them with an unnerving, almost preternatural perception.

"Keep it," he repeats, his tone a soft but unyielding command. His gaze is like physical weight. The little handkerchief in his hand seems to pulse with a faint, inner heat. There is no refusing him. To refuse would feel like rejecting the Lehenga itself.

Slowly, reluctantly, she reaches out. Her fingers brush his again, that strange, electric jolt of old and young making her twitch. She takes the handkerchief. It is impossibly soft in her palm, impossibly light, yet its presence feels significant. The golden tulip is a perfect, tiny replica of herself.

It feels wrong to put this opulent thing into her simple everyday purse, which now looks cheap and childish beside such elegance. But she folds it carefully and does just that. The silk brushes against her keys and her phone, a reminder of the world she's just touched.

"You will get used to its scent," Masterji says with a smile. It is the first truly warm smile she has seen from him, and it does nothing to ease the cold knot in her stomach. "Come back next week. The embroidery on the choli will be started."