02-10-2026, 05:25 PM
(This post was last modified: 02-10-2026, 07:30 PM by shellyshalini. Edited 6 times in total. Edited 6 times in total.)
EPISODE 7: Testing the Limits- The Tailor Shop
It had been a few days since that stolen afternoon—days filled with stolen glances and whispered promises, but no real opportunity. Bikram was busy with rentals, and Rohan seemed to be home more often. I was beginning to ache with unfulfilled want, the memory of his fingers and tongue still fresh on my skin.
Then came the doorbell. It rang at eleven in the morning, sharp and unexpected. I was in my nightie, hair uncombed, lazily scrolling through my phone. I frowned. Rohan was at work. Who could it be?
I opened the door and my breath caught.
Bikram stood there, a tired smile on his face, his kurta dusted with grime. Before I could speak, he stepped inside and pulled me into his arms, crushing me against his chest. I let out a squeak of surprise, then melted into him, my arms wrapping around his neck.
“How?” I whispered into his shoulder.
“Car broke down,” he murmured against my hair. “Gave it to the garage. Already informed Rohan bhaiya. It’ll take the whole day to fix.”
He pulled back, his dark eyes burning into mine. “We have the whole day, jaan.”
My heart raced. I jumped up in excitement, wrapping my legs around his waist, and he laughed softly, carrying me inside. He set me down in the hallway and cupped my face.
“Listen,” he said, his voice low and commanding. “Today we’re not cooking. We’re going out. A restaurant, then a tailor shop. I want you ready in half an hour. Wear your sexiest dress. The one that makes me want to tear it off you.”
I nodded, trembling with excitement. He gave me a quick, hard kiss and pushed me toward the bathroom.
I bathed in record time, but when I tried to lock the door, Bikram’s hand stopped it. “No,” he said through the crack. “I want to watch.”
Heat flooded my cheeks, but I obeyed. I left the door ajar and let the water run over my body. I could feel his gaze on my wet skin, on the curve of my back, the swell of my breasts. I soaped slowly, deliberately, knowing he was watching. His breathing grew heavier, but he didn’t touch me. Just watched.
When I stepped out, I dried myself quickly and slipped into my orange sundress—the shortest one I owned, with a deep neckline that barely held my breasts. I added high-heeled sandals that made my legs look endless, and painted my lips a glossy red. When I walked into the living room, Bikram let out a low whistle.
“Sex bomb,” he said, pulling me close. “Chalo, let’s go before I change my mind and keep you here all day.”
We took an auto to a small restaurant a few blocks away. The moment we stepped inside, I froze. Behind the counter, clearing a table, was Chotu—the milk delivery boy. He was wearing a waiter’s apron, and when he saw me, his mouth fell open.
I felt a flutter of embarrassment and something else—a dark thrill. Bikram guided me to a corner table, his hand resting possessively on my lower back. Chotu approached, his eyes roaming over my bare legs, the curve of my cleavage.
“Didi… aap?” he stammered. “Driver ke saath? Aur itna sexy bann ke?”
Bikram just smiled, ordering two thalis. Chotu nodded, but his gaze kept dropping to my chest. I bit my lip, feeling a dampness bloom between my thighs.
Under the table, Bikram’s hand slid onto my thigh, his fingers crawling higher. I gasped softly, trying to keep my face neutral as he traced the edge of my panties. Chotu returned with our food, and I could barely eat—every time Bikram’s fingers pressed against my wetness, I lost my train of thought.
Chotu lingered, asking Bikram questions. “Kaise pataya isko, itni hot maal?” he whispered, thinking I couldn’t hear. “Humko bhi chance milega kya?”
Bikram chuckled, his fingers still moving inside me. I bit my lip so hard I tasted blood. When we finally left, I was aching, soaked, and utterly dizzy.
“What did you tell him?” I asked as we walked to the next auto.
“That maybe someday,” Bikram said with a wink. “If you behave.”
My stomach flipped.
We reached Queen Tailor Shop, a large establishment with four helpers busy at sewing machines. The main tailor, Jatin, was a wiry man with sharp eyes. He greeted Bikram like an old friend. “Aayi aapki maal? Bahut sundar hai.”
Bikram nodded. “Proper measurements chahiye. Tight fit, so her curves show.”
Jatin led me into a back room, a curtain drawn for privacy. Bikram followed. “Body-to-body measurement karna padega,” Jatin said, picking up a measuring tape. “Haan, sahi se lo,” Bikram replied.
My heart pounded as Jatin approached. He wrapped the tape around my waist first, his fingers brushing my ribs. Then my bust, the tape sliding under my breasts, his knuckles pressing against my nipples through the thin fabric. I shivered.
He measured my hips, his hands lingering on my bottom, fingers squeezing slightly. Then he knelt and ran the tape down my thigh, his thumb grazing my pussy through the cloth. I let out a tiny moan, and I saw his lips curl.
“bheegi hai,” he murmured, almost to himself.
Bikram stood watching, arms crossed, a dark smile on his face.
When the measurements were done, Jatin stood and wrote notes. “Three days,” he said. “Aap aa kar le jana.”
Bikram looked at me. “You’ll collect it, right?”
I nodded, understanding the unspoken promise—a reason to come back, alone, for another taste of Jatin’s hands.
The helpers stared at me as we left, their eyes hungry. I felt like a prized possession.
As we stepped out, Bikram pulled me close. “Now for the real surprise—You have to wait for few days more.”
My cheeks burned. “What if someone sees us here like this?”
“Then they see,” he said, his voice rough. “You’re mine, Shalini. And I want to keep you close always.”
I took a shaky breath. The risk only made me hotter.
“Let’s go to home,” I whispered.
It had been a few days since that stolen afternoon—days filled with stolen glances and whispered promises, but no real opportunity. Bikram was busy with rentals, and Rohan seemed to be home more often. I was beginning to ache with unfulfilled want, the memory of his fingers and tongue still fresh on my skin.
Then came the doorbell. It rang at eleven in the morning, sharp and unexpected. I was in my nightie, hair uncombed, lazily scrolling through my phone. I frowned. Rohan was at work. Who could it be?
I opened the door and my breath caught.
Bikram stood there, a tired smile on his face, his kurta dusted with grime. Before I could speak, he stepped inside and pulled me into his arms, crushing me against his chest. I let out a squeak of surprise, then melted into him, my arms wrapping around his neck.
“How?” I whispered into his shoulder.
“Car broke down,” he murmured against my hair. “Gave it to the garage. Already informed Rohan bhaiya. It’ll take the whole day to fix.”
He pulled back, his dark eyes burning into mine. “We have the whole day, jaan.”
My heart raced. I jumped up in excitement, wrapping my legs around his waist, and he laughed softly, carrying me inside. He set me down in the hallway and cupped my face.
“Listen,” he said, his voice low and commanding. “Today we’re not cooking. We’re going out. A restaurant, then a tailor shop. I want you ready in half an hour. Wear your sexiest dress. The one that makes me want to tear it off you.”
I nodded, trembling with excitement. He gave me a quick, hard kiss and pushed me toward the bathroom.
I bathed in record time, but when I tried to lock the door, Bikram’s hand stopped it. “No,” he said through the crack. “I want to watch.”
Heat flooded my cheeks, but I obeyed. I left the door ajar and let the water run over my body. I could feel his gaze on my wet skin, on the curve of my back, the swell of my breasts. I soaped slowly, deliberately, knowing he was watching. His breathing grew heavier, but he didn’t touch me. Just watched.
When I stepped out, I dried myself quickly and slipped into my orange sundress—the shortest one I owned, with a deep neckline that barely held my breasts. I added high-heeled sandals that made my legs look endless, and painted my lips a glossy red. When I walked into the living room, Bikram let out a low whistle.
“Sex bomb,” he said, pulling me close. “Chalo, let’s go before I change my mind and keep you here all day.”
We took an auto to a small restaurant a few blocks away. The moment we stepped inside, I froze. Behind the counter, clearing a table, was Chotu—the milk delivery boy. He was wearing a waiter’s apron, and when he saw me, his mouth fell open.
I felt a flutter of embarrassment and something else—a dark thrill. Bikram guided me to a corner table, his hand resting possessively on my lower back. Chotu approached, his eyes roaming over my bare legs, the curve of my cleavage.
“Didi… aap?” he stammered. “Driver ke saath? Aur itna sexy bann ke?”
Bikram just smiled, ordering two thalis. Chotu nodded, but his gaze kept dropping to my chest. I bit my lip, feeling a dampness bloom between my thighs.
Under the table, Bikram’s hand slid onto my thigh, his fingers crawling higher. I gasped softly, trying to keep my face neutral as he traced the edge of my panties. Chotu returned with our food, and I could barely eat—every time Bikram’s fingers pressed against my wetness, I lost my train of thought.
Chotu lingered, asking Bikram questions. “Kaise pataya isko, itni hot maal?” he whispered, thinking I couldn’t hear. “Humko bhi chance milega kya?”
Bikram chuckled, his fingers still moving inside me. I bit my lip so hard I tasted blood. When we finally left, I was aching, soaked, and utterly dizzy.
“What did you tell him?” I asked as we walked to the next auto.
“That maybe someday,” Bikram said with a wink. “If you behave.”
My stomach flipped.
We reached Queen Tailor Shop, a large establishment with four helpers busy at sewing machines. The main tailor, Jatin, was a wiry man with sharp eyes. He greeted Bikram like an old friend. “Aayi aapki maal? Bahut sundar hai.”
Bikram nodded. “Proper measurements chahiye. Tight fit, so her curves show.”
Jatin led me into a back room, a curtain drawn for privacy. Bikram followed. “Body-to-body measurement karna padega,” Jatin said, picking up a measuring tape. “Haan, sahi se lo,” Bikram replied.
My heart pounded as Jatin approached. He wrapped the tape around my waist first, his fingers brushing my ribs. Then my bust, the tape sliding under my breasts, his knuckles pressing against my nipples through the thin fabric. I shivered.
He measured my hips, his hands lingering on my bottom, fingers squeezing slightly. Then he knelt and ran the tape down my thigh, his thumb grazing my pussy through the cloth. I let out a tiny moan, and I saw his lips curl.
“bheegi hai,” he murmured, almost to himself.
Bikram stood watching, arms crossed, a dark smile on his face.
When the measurements were done, Jatin stood and wrote notes. “Three days,” he said. “Aap aa kar le jana.”
Bikram looked at me. “You’ll collect it, right?”
I nodded, understanding the unspoken promise—a reason to come back, alone, for another taste of Jatin’s hands.
The helpers stared at me as we left, their eyes hungry. I felt like a prized possession.
As we stepped out, Bikram pulled me close. “Now for the real surprise—You have to wait for few days more.”
My cheeks burned. “What if someone sees us here like this?”
“Then they see,” he said, his voice rough. “You’re mine, Shalini. And I want to keep you close always.”
I took a shaky breath. The risk only made me hotter.
“Let’s go to home,” I whispered.
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