Yesterday, 03:37 AM
Scene 4
"Now the mould," Remo murmured.
I was completely topless in the corner of the Tailor shop. My heavy chest, free from the tight bra, swung loose. The weight pulled at my back. I crossed my arms to cover myself.
I looked back, there were few people looking at me, I am sure they must have seen me. I had to get my blouse finished by today.
He dipped a cotton strip into the white, milky paste. It dripped. Drip. Drip.
"It will be cold," he warned.
He stepped in front of me. He didn't use a tool. He used his hands.
He laid the wet, heavy strip right under my left breast over the plastic wrap.
Squelch.
I gasped. It was freezing cold. It felt slimy.
He didn't stop. He dipped another strip. He laid it over the top of my breast. Then another. He was covering me in wet plaster.
But he had to shape it.
"Please finish this quickly," I gasped, staring behind. "People are watching."
"I am doing it as fast as I can," Remo said, his breath hitting my wet chest.
He put his hands on the wet strips. He cupped my breast through the plaster. He pressed firmly, moulding the wet cotton to the curve of my flesh. He squeezed the "heavy" weight of it, pushing it up to get the right shape.
"Hold still," he whispered, his face inches from my chest as he smoothed the plaster over my nipple.
Remo didn't step back. He kept his hands on the drying shell, checking the firmness. He ran his palms over the white, hard curves of my breasts, feeling the heat radiate through the cast.
He looked me in the eyes for the first time. His pupils were dilated.
"I have my perfect statue," he whispered, tracing the hard outline of the nipple through the plaster. "Now I can create the best mannequin in the world."
The plaster turned rock hard. I was a prisoner inside my own shape. Remo tapped the shell with his fingernail. Tink. Tink.
"It is done," he said.
He found the edge of the plastic near my ribs. He pulled.
Suction.
With a loud, wet sucking sound, the heavy white cast pulled away from my body.
Remo held the cast in his hands like a holy bowl. He looked into the hollow inside—the perfect negative space of my breasts, captured forever in white stone. He smiled, and for a second, I felt like he had stolen a piece of my soul along with my shape.
I was confused what the hell was going on ? Was this all for a mannequin ? But I didn't volunteer.
"Now the mould," Remo murmured.
I was completely topless in the corner of the Tailor shop. My heavy chest, free from the tight bra, swung loose. The weight pulled at my back. I crossed my arms to cover myself.
I looked back, there were few people looking at me, I am sure they must have seen me. I had to get my blouse finished by today.
He dipped a cotton strip into the white, milky paste. It dripped. Drip. Drip.
"It will be cold," he warned.
He stepped in front of me. He didn't use a tool. He used his hands.
He laid the wet, heavy strip right under my left breast over the plastic wrap.
Squelch.
I gasped. It was freezing cold. It felt slimy.
He didn't stop. He dipped another strip. He laid it over the top of my breast. Then another. He was covering me in wet plaster.
But he had to shape it.
"Please finish this quickly," I gasped, staring behind. "People are watching."
"I am doing it as fast as I can," Remo said, his breath hitting my wet chest.
He put his hands on the wet strips. He cupped my breast through the plaster. He pressed firmly, moulding the wet cotton to the curve of my flesh. He squeezed the "heavy" weight of it, pushing it up to get the right shape.
"Hold still," he whispered, his face inches from my chest as he smoothed the plaster over my nipple.
Remo didn't step back. He kept his hands on the drying shell, checking the firmness. He ran his palms over the white, hard curves of my breasts, feeling the heat radiate through the cast.
He looked me in the eyes for the first time. His pupils were dilated.
"I have my perfect statue," he whispered, tracing the hard outline of the nipple through the plaster. "Now I can create the best mannequin in the world."
The plaster turned rock hard. I was a prisoner inside my own shape. Remo tapped the shell with his fingernail. Tink. Tink.
"It is done," he said.
He found the edge of the plastic near my ribs. He pulled.
Suction.
With a loud, wet sucking sound, the heavy white cast pulled away from my body.
Remo held the cast in his hands like a holy bowl. He looked into the hollow inside—the perfect negative space of my breasts, captured forever in white stone. He smiled, and for a second, I felt like he had stolen a piece of my soul along with my shape.
I was confused what the hell was going on ? Was this all for a mannequin ? But I didn't volunteer.
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