22-08-2026, 06:47 PM
(This post was last modified: 22-08-2026, 06:57 PM by novelistcasanova. Edited 1 time in total. Edited 1 time in total.)
I stood there with the yellow blouse closed again, heart beating hard against my ribs, face hot with deep embarrassment, the heat between my legs quietly but steadily building, while he prepared to move to the next adjustment.
“The petticoat also needs to be even, madam,” he continued in the same calm, professional voice.
“Otherwise the saree fall will not come correctly.”
“No more,” I said, my voice already unsteady from everything he had done to the blouse.
“Do not touch the petticoat. This is enough.”
He ignored the protest completely. His fingers found the drawstring knot at my waist. He worked the knot loose with practised ease, the movement slow enough that the white petticoat began to shift and open. A small gap appeared just below the knot. Through that gap the maroon of my panties became clearly visible — the elastic waistband resting on my hips, the soft upper curve of my lower stomach, and the way the front panel of the maroon panties sat directly against the mound of my pussy. His eyes dropped and stayed there for a full second, taking in the exact colour and the intimate fit.
Instead of simply adjusting the length, he pulled the drawstring completely open. The white petticoat loosened around my waist and began to slip. Before I could grab it, he pushed both hands under the waistband and guided the white petticoat downward over my hips. The soft white petticoat slid along my thighs, over my knees, and finally dropped in a circle around my ankles. I was left standing on the quiet first floor in only my yellow blouse and my maroon panties.
Cool air touched the bare skin of my stomach, the full curve of my hips, and the upper part of my thighs. The maroon panties were now completely exposed — front, back, and sides.
“What are you doing?” I whispered, shock tightening every word.
“Pull the petticoat back up. Now.”
He did not reach for the white petticoat. He stepped half a pace closer, eyes moving openly over the maroon panties. He studied the way the front panel clung to my pussy, the high cut of the leg openings on my thighs, and the soft round shape of my ass at the back where the maroon panties stretched across both cheeks.
“Full-coverage hipster panties… soft cotton, everyday type,” he remarked in the same even, professional tone, as if still assessing a product on a shelf.
“Best choice again, madam. Sits nicely on the hips, covers everything properly, and will not create any lines under the saree. Very sensible and still comfortable. Excellent selection.”
Then his hands went to the waistband of my maroon panties.
“They have shifted a little from the petticoat coming down,” he said calmly.
“Let me just set them straight so the new saree sits clean.”
“Don’t—” I started, but his fingers were already inside the waistband of the maroon panties.
He began adjusting them with slow, deliberate movements. At the front he pulled the panel upward first, lifting it tightly against my pussy, then smoothed it back down with the full pressure of his palm. The heel of his hand pressed firmly against my clit through the damp maroon panties and stayed there a moment longer than any real adjustment required. At the sides he tugged the leg openings higher on my hips, his knuckles brushing the soft skin of my upper thighs and the crease where thigh met hip. At the back both hands cupped my ass cheeks over the maroon panties, lifting each cheek separately, squeezing lightly, then resettling the cloth as if removing invisible creases.
A sharp, helpless throb answered between my legs. Fresh wetness flooded the panel of the maroon panties under his hand, making the cotton cling even more tightly to my pussy lips. The unfinished ache left by my husband in the morning and by Kumar later in the day roared awake at once. My knees felt suddenly weak. I struggled to keep my breathing even and my hips still.
“Take your hands off,” I begged, the words coming out softer and more broken than I intended.
“Please… stop touching me there. Pull the petticoat back up.”
He became bolder instead of stopping. One hand stayed at the front, fingers pressing more firmly against the soaked panel of my maroon panties, tracing the exact shape of my pussy lips through the wet cotton, rubbing in a slow, almost thoughtful circle over my clit. The other hand remained on my ass, squeezing and lifting each cheek in turn, the fingers spreading to feel the full softness while he continued speaking in that same professional voice.
“See, madam… when the panties sit exactly like this, the saree will fall without any interruption. Very important for a clean dbang.”
“Stop…” I whispered again, my voice shaking now.
“I am telling you to stop. Take your hands away from me.”
My body was no longer fully obeying me. My hips gave the smallest, involuntary push against the hand at the front, seeking more of the pressure even while my mouth kept asking him to stop. The heat between my legs had grown heavy and insistent. Embarrassment burned hot across my face and down my neck, yet the arousal kept rising, fed by every bold adjustment of his fingers on my maroon panties and by the clear knowledge that he could feel how wet I had become.
He showed no sign of listening. His hands continued their slow, thorough work — smoothing the front panel, tugging the leg openings, pressing against my pussy, squeezing my ass cheeks — while the clear, heavy outline of his hard cock in his pants remained impossible to ignore. I stood there in only my yellow blouse and maroon panties, the white petticoat still pooled around my ankles, struggling to control the wet, restless need that was spreading quickly and shamelessly through my body.
“The petticoat also needs to be even, madam,” he continued in the same calm, professional voice.
“Otherwise the saree fall will not come correctly.”
“No more,” I said, my voice already unsteady from everything he had done to the blouse.
“Do not touch the petticoat. This is enough.”
He ignored the protest completely. His fingers found the drawstring knot at my waist. He worked the knot loose with practised ease, the movement slow enough that the white petticoat began to shift and open. A small gap appeared just below the knot. Through that gap the maroon of my panties became clearly visible — the elastic waistband resting on my hips, the soft upper curve of my lower stomach, and the way the front panel of the maroon panties sat directly against the mound of my pussy. His eyes dropped and stayed there for a full second, taking in the exact colour and the intimate fit.
Instead of simply adjusting the length, he pulled the drawstring completely open. The white petticoat loosened around my waist and began to slip. Before I could grab it, he pushed both hands under the waistband and guided the white petticoat downward over my hips. The soft white petticoat slid along my thighs, over my knees, and finally dropped in a circle around my ankles. I was left standing on the quiet first floor in only my yellow blouse and my maroon panties.
Cool air touched the bare skin of my stomach, the full curve of my hips, and the upper part of my thighs. The maroon panties were now completely exposed — front, back, and sides.
“What are you doing?” I whispered, shock tightening every word.
“Pull the petticoat back up. Now.”
He did not reach for the white petticoat. He stepped half a pace closer, eyes moving openly over the maroon panties. He studied the way the front panel clung to my pussy, the high cut of the leg openings on my thighs, and the soft round shape of my ass at the back where the maroon panties stretched across both cheeks.
“Full-coverage hipster panties… soft cotton, everyday type,” he remarked in the same even, professional tone, as if still assessing a product on a shelf.
“Best choice again, madam. Sits nicely on the hips, covers everything properly, and will not create any lines under the saree. Very sensible and still comfortable. Excellent selection.”
Then his hands went to the waistband of my maroon panties.
“They have shifted a little from the petticoat coming down,” he said calmly.
“Let me just set them straight so the new saree sits clean.”
“Don’t—” I started, but his fingers were already inside the waistband of the maroon panties.
He began adjusting them with slow, deliberate movements. At the front he pulled the panel upward first, lifting it tightly against my pussy, then smoothed it back down with the full pressure of his palm. The heel of his hand pressed firmly against my clit through the damp maroon panties and stayed there a moment longer than any real adjustment required. At the sides he tugged the leg openings higher on my hips, his knuckles brushing the soft skin of my upper thighs and the crease where thigh met hip. At the back both hands cupped my ass cheeks over the maroon panties, lifting each cheek separately, squeezing lightly, then resettling the cloth as if removing invisible creases.
A sharp, helpless throb answered between my legs. Fresh wetness flooded the panel of the maroon panties under his hand, making the cotton cling even more tightly to my pussy lips. The unfinished ache left by my husband in the morning and by Kumar later in the day roared awake at once. My knees felt suddenly weak. I struggled to keep my breathing even and my hips still.
“Take your hands off,” I begged, the words coming out softer and more broken than I intended.
“Please… stop touching me there. Pull the petticoat back up.”
He became bolder instead of stopping. One hand stayed at the front, fingers pressing more firmly against the soaked panel of my maroon panties, tracing the exact shape of my pussy lips through the wet cotton, rubbing in a slow, almost thoughtful circle over my clit. The other hand remained on my ass, squeezing and lifting each cheek in turn, the fingers spreading to feel the full softness while he continued speaking in that same professional voice.
“See, madam… when the panties sit exactly like this, the saree will fall without any interruption. Very important for a clean dbang.”
“Stop…” I whispered again, my voice shaking now.
“I am telling you to stop. Take your hands away from me.”
My body was no longer fully obeying me. My hips gave the smallest, involuntary push against the hand at the front, seeking more of the pressure even while my mouth kept asking him to stop. The heat between my legs had grown heavy and insistent. Embarrassment burned hot across my face and down my neck, yet the arousal kept rising, fed by every bold adjustment of his fingers on my maroon panties and by the clear knowledge that he could feel how wet I had become.
He showed no sign of listening. His hands continued their slow, thorough work — smoothing the front panel, tugging the leg openings, pressing against my pussy, squeezing my ass cheeks — while the clear, heavy outline of his hard cock in his pants remained impossible to ignore. I stood there in only my yellow blouse and maroon panties, the white petticoat still pooled around my ankles, struggling to control the wet, restless need that was spreading quickly and shamelessly through my body.
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