22-08-2026, 10:25 AM
Personally, I had only two small exceptions, and even those I never let go further than the moment itself.
The first was my tailor in the town.
I had gone alone for a new blouse. He was an older man who had stitched for many women from our village. He told me that for the best fit he needed to measure properly across the chest, not over the blouse. He spoke politely, like someone who only wanted the work to be perfect. I believed him. I unhooked the blouse and stood in only my bra. He brought the measuring tape around my body. His fingers pressed the tape under my breasts first, then higher, across the full curve of each breast. He adjusted the tape slowly, his knuckles pressing into the soft weight, his thumbs brushing over the place where my nipples sat inside the bra cups. He measured twice, then a third time, each time letting his hands stay longer, squeezing slightly as if to keep the tape in place. My breasts shifted under his hands. I felt the heat of his palms through the bra. I stood still and let him finish. When he finally took the tape away he looked at my chest for a moment longer than needed before telling me the measurements were done. I put my blouse back on, paid him, and left. I never told my husband what the tailor’s hands had done. The next time the blouse was ready, I made my husband go and collect it from him so I would not have to return to that shop alone. I never went back to that tailor by myself again. But that day I had let him feel my breasts under the excuse of a perfect fit.
The second exception happened the first time I went to buy panties in the town.
My husband had come with me, but he waited outside the small shop because the space inside was narrow and only for women. The shopkeeper was a middle-aged man with a quiet voice. He listened to the size I asked for, then said that for the perfect fit there were two options. I could remove the panties I was wearing and give them to him so he could match the exact size and cut. Or I could keep everything on and let him feel over my saree and petticoat — along the hips, across the ass, and between the thighs — so he could judge how the panties underneath sat. I was young then, newly married, and nervous in the small shop. I chose the second option because it felt less exposing than taking the panties off completely and handing them over.
He stepped closer. I stood still in my full saree. His hands came to my hips first, pressing over the saree, feeling the shape of the petticoat and the panties beneath. Then both hands moved around to my ass. He spread his palms over each ass cheek and pressed firmly through the saree and the petticoat, lifting slightly, feeling the full round shape of my ass and the way the panties sat underneath. His fingers slid down the centre, following the cleft of my ass through the layers, pressing the soft material of the saree and petticoat into the smooth skin there. He did it slowly, twice, as if checking the fit from every angle. One hand came lower between my thighs from behind, the fingers pressing through the saree and petticoat against the back of my pussy while he pretended to test how the panties fit along the leg opening. I felt the pressure clearly against my clean-shaved lips even through the clothes. My face grew hot. I stayed quiet and let him finish. When he stepped back he simply nodded and brought out the pairs he said would fit best. I bought two, walked out to my husband, and never spoke of what the shopkeeper’s hands had done over my saree and petticoat.
Those were the only times.
Other than the tailor’s hands on my breasts while measuring and the panties shopkeeper’s hands feeling up my ass and the back of my pussy over the saree and petticoat that first day, I had always been loyal to my husband. I never let another man take my clothes off completely. I never let another man put his cock inside me or in my mouth. The river shows, the town stares, the small kisses or hugs that sometimes happened outside — none of them crossed into what belonged only to my husband at home. My body, my clean-shaved pussy, my mouth, my full attention when the door was closed — those remained his. The two moments in the town stayed as small, secret exceptions I carried alone, and I never allowed anything like them to happen again.
The first was my tailor in the town.
I had gone alone for a new blouse. He was an older man who had stitched for many women from our village. He told me that for the best fit he needed to measure properly across the chest, not over the blouse. He spoke politely, like someone who only wanted the work to be perfect. I believed him. I unhooked the blouse and stood in only my bra. He brought the measuring tape around my body. His fingers pressed the tape under my breasts first, then higher, across the full curve of each breast. He adjusted the tape slowly, his knuckles pressing into the soft weight, his thumbs brushing over the place where my nipples sat inside the bra cups. He measured twice, then a third time, each time letting his hands stay longer, squeezing slightly as if to keep the tape in place. My breasts shifted under his hands. I felt the heat of his palms through the bra. I stood still and let him finish. When he finally took the tape away he looked at my chest for a moment longer than needed before telling me the measurements were done. I put my blouse back on, paid him, and left. I never told my husband what the tailor’s hands had done. The next time the blouse was ready, I made my husband go and collect it from him so I would not have to return to that shop alone. I never went back to that tailor by myself again. But that day I had let him feel my breasts under the excuse of a perfect fit.
The second exception happened the first time I went to buy panties in the town.
My husband had come with me, but he waited outside the small shop because the space inside was narrow and only for women. The shopkeeper was a middle-aged man with a quiet voice. He listened to the size I asked for, then said that for the perfect fit there were two options. I could remove the panties I was wearing and give them to him so he could match the exact size and cut. Or I could keep everything on and let him feel over my saree and petticoat — along the hips, across the ass, and between the thighs — so he could judge how the panties underneath sat. I was young then, newly married, and nervous in the small shop. I chose the second option because it felt less exposing than taking the panties off completely and handing them over.
He stepped closer. I stood still in my full saree. His hands came to my hips first, pressing over the saree, feeling the shape of the petticoat and the panties beneath. Then both hands moved around to my ass. He spread his palms over each ass cheek and pressed firmly through the saree and the petticoat, lifting slightly, feeling the full round shape of my ass and the way the panties sat underneath. His fingers slid down the centre, following the cleft of my ass through the layers, pressing the soft material of the saree and petticoat into the smooth skin there. He did it slowly, twice, as if checking the fit from every angle. One hand came lower between my thighs from behind, the fingers pressing through the saree and petticoat against the back of my pussy while he pretended to test how the panties fit along the leg opening. I felt the pressure clearly against my clean-shaved lips even through the clothes. My face grew hot. I stayed quiet and let him finish. When he stepped back he simply nodded and brought out the pairs he said would fit best. I bought two, walked out to my husband, and never spoke of what the shopkeeper’s hands had done over my saree and petticoat.
Those were the only times.
Other than the tailor’s hands on my breasts while measuring and the panties shopkeeper’s hands feeling up my ass and the back of my pussy over the saree and petticoat that first day, I had always been loyal to my husband. I never let another man take my clothes off completely. I never let another man put his cock inside me or in my mouth. The river shows, the town stares, the small kisses or hugs that sometimes happened outside — none of them crossed into what belonged only to my husband at home. My body, my clean-shaved pussy, my mouth, my full attention when the door was closed — those remained his. The two moments in the town stayed as small, secret exceptions I carried alone, and I never allowed anything like them to happen again.
![[+]](https://xossipy.com/themes/sharepoint/collapse_collapsed.png)