[novelistcasanova]

He ignored my second refusal and continued what he had started.

With the pin already removed, he pulled the pallu of my yellow saree completely off my shoulder. I immediately reached up to stop him, catching the edge of the cloth.
“I said no,” I told him, voice firmer this time.
“I don’t want to try this saree. Leave it.”
He did not release the pallu. Instead he gently but steadily drew it downward, forcing my hand to follow for a second before I let go. His other hand was already at my waist, gathering the folds of the yellow saree. As he worked, the back of his hand pressed firmly into the soft underside of my left breast over the yellow blouse. The pressure lingered longer than any normal adjustment required.
“Just a moment, madam,” he said, still using that calm, professional tone as if this were routine.
“Once this is off, I will put the new one properly. You will see the difference.”
“I don’t want to see any difference,” I said, taking a half-step back.
My back met the edge of a shelf. There was nowhere else to go in the narrow space.
He followed the small movement without breaking his task. He shifted the yellow saree across my body to free the remaining pleats. This time his forearm dragged slowly across both of my breasts, the weight of his arm open and deliberate against the yellow blouse. My nipples tightened inside the white bra at the contact. A thin, unwanted pulse of heat moved downward. The unfinished ache left by my husband and Kumar stirred at once.
“Stop,” I said again, quieter but still clear.
“I told you I don’t want to wear it.”
He kept the same polite expression and simply continued. His fingers found the last tucked pleats at the waist of my white petticoat and pulled them free. With one final, smooth motion he drew the entire yellow saree away from my body and folded it over his arm. The sudden absence of the saree left me standing in only my yellow blouse, white petticoat and maroon panties.
The air on the first floor felt cooler against me. I crossed my arms automatically, then forced them back to my sides so I would not look more defensive than I already felt.
That was when I saw the clear, heavy bulge at the front of his pants. He was fully hard. The thick shape of his cock pushed openly against the cloth, impossible to miss. Yet his face and voice remained completely professional, as if the erection had nothing to do with what he had just done.
“Don’t do anything else,” I said, my voice tighter now.
“I mean it. I don’t want to try any saree.”
He looked at me for a moment longer than necessary. His eyes moved slowly over the shape of my heavy breasts under the yellow blouse, then down to the way the white petticoat sat on my hips and the faint outline of my maroon panties beneath it. The gaze was open, assessing, and still wrapped in that same calm shop-assistant manner.
Only after that did he turn, pick up the orange Kanchipuram saree, and speak again in the same even tone.
“Stand straight, madam. It will look very nice on you.”
I remained where I was, heart beating faster, the heat between my legs quietly waking, while the yellow saree lay folded over his arm and the clear outline of his hard cock showed exactly how little my refusals had affected him.


“The blouse needs to sit correctly, madam,” he said calmly, as if my last refusal had not been spoken.
“Let me check the inner fit so the new saree neckline comes clean.”
“No,” I said at once, stepping back until my shoulders touched the wooden shelf behind me.
“Do not touch the blouse. I already told you I don’t want any of this.”
He closed the small distance without raising his voice or changing expression. His fingers went straight to the front hooks of my yellow blouse. I caught both of his wrists, trying to push them away, but he simply waited with quiet patience until the strength in my grip loosened. Then he continued. He opened the first hook at the bottom. The yellow blouse parted slightly. He opened the next, and the next, working steadily upward. Each released hook made the yellow blouse fall further open. Cool air from the first floor touched the bare skin of my stomach, then the underband of my white bra, then the lower curve of the cups. When the last hook came free near my chest, the yellow blouse hung completely open on either side of my body. My heavy breasts, held only by the white bra, were fully exposed to him.
“Close it,” I said, my voice sharper now, both hands rising to cover myself.
“Now.”
I grabbed the two open edges of the yellow blouse and tried to pull them together so I could fasten the first hook myself. At the exact same moment his hands moved forward. Because the blouse was still wide open, both of his hands slipped inside the open yellow blouse before I could close the gap. His palms landed directly on my breasts over the white bra, trapped between the open blouse and my body. He grabbed them firmly. His fingers spread wide across the soft, full weight, sinking into the flesh through the white bra, and he gave a slow, deliberate squeeze. The pressure pushed my breasts upward and together. My nipples, already tight, pressed hard into the centre of his palms.
A shocked breath left my mouth. My own hands froze on the edges of the blouse and then fell away completely. Heat flooded my face, my neck, and the upper part of my chest. At the same time a sharp, heavy pulse of arousal shot straight down between my legs. The unfinished need left by my husband in the morning and by Kumar later in the day flared open at once, feeding greedily on the bold, trapped grip of his hands inside my open blouse.

He kept his hands there for one full second longer, squeezing once more, feeling the exact softness and weight of my breasts through the white bra, before he finally withdrew them. Then, instead of closing the blouse, he became cheekier. His fingers went first to the bra straps on my shoulders. He took each strap between his thumb and forefinger, sliding them slightly inward toward my neck and then back to their original place, testing the tension as if checking whether they needed tightening. Next he slipped the fingers of both hands under the underband of the white bra at the sides of my ribs. He lifted the band a little, resettled it lower, then higher again, adjusting the fit with small, precise movements while the backs of his fingers brushed the soft skin of my underbust.

Finally both of his palms returned to the cups. He reshaped them over my breasts, pressing upward from below, lifting the heavy weight, then smoothing the seams with his thumbs in slow outward strokes. All the while he spoke in the same calm, professional tone, as if he were simply helping a customer choose the right foundation garment.

“Regular Indian everyday bra… full coverage, non-padded, seamed cups, back hooks,” he said, still adjusting the cups with open, deliberate movements, thumbs brushing close to my tightened nipples.
“Best choice, madam. Gives proper support and a clean natural shape under the saree. The cups are sitting very well on you… see, when I lift them like this the neckline will fall perfectly. Excellent selection.”
Embarrassment burned hot across my entire face and down my neck. I could feel how hard my nipples had become inside the white bra under his adjusting hands, and I knew he could feel the exact stiffness against his thumbs. Between my legs the throb had grown heavier and more insistent. Fresh wetness was already gathering against the panel of my maroon panties, making them feel damp and close against my pussy.
“Stop adjusting it,” I whispered, the words far less steady than before.
“Just close the blouse.”
Only then did he reach out, take both open sides of the yellow blouse, and begin fastening the hooks himself from the bottom upward. Each time his fingers brushed the soft curve of my breasts while closing a hook, another small spark of heat moved through me. When the last hook near my chest was finally secured, he smoothed the yellow blouse over my breasts with both palms, pressing once more with open deliberation, feeling their shape one last time through the closed blouse, then stepped back.
The clear, heavy outline of his hard cock in his pants had not lessened at all. His face, however, remained polite and professional, as if everything he had just done was ordinary shop assistance.