24-09-2025, 08:08 PM
(This post was last modified: 25-09-2025, 11:11 AM by IronQuill. Edited 3 times in total. Edited 3 times in total.)
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.
![[Image: download-36.png]](https://i.ibb.co/Zp5QpWvv/download-36.png)
![[Image: download-45.png]](https://i.ibb.co/Wpt1t7Wb/download-45.png)
"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.
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.
![[+]](https://xossipy.com/themes/sharepoint/collapse_collapsed.png)