Ananya(Student) - How I gave my measurements to the tailor(4 videos) - Scene 8-GOLD!*

[ashuezy2]

[ashuezy2]

My name is Ananya. I go to college in South Campus, Delhi. Usually, you will only see me in loose hoodies and jeans. I hide inside my clothes. I like to be invisible.

But the college notice board changed everything: "Traditional Day – Compulsory Ethnic Wear."

My mother was happy. She pulled out a peach saree with a gold border. It was beautiful. But the blouse piece was just a square of fabric. I had to get it stitched. And I had a secret reason for always wearing hoodies. My body didn't make sense. I was small, but I was also... too much.

I stood outside "Renu Ladies Tailoring" in the busy market of Lajpat Nagar. The air smelled of frying samosas from the street and the dry, dusty smell of cut cloth from inside the shop.

I walked in. It was a small room lined with mirrors. Mannequins stared at me with headless necks. Masterji, an older man with glasses, was busy at a sewing machine. Grrr-tak-tak-tak.

"New blouse?" he asked without looking up.
I nodded, clutching the peach fabric. My palms were sweating.

A younger man stepped out from behind a curtain. This was Remo. He wasn't like Masterji. He had sharp eyes and a measuring tape dbangd around his neck like a snake.

"Come," Remo said. His voice was calm, but low. "Let's move to the corner. It is crowded here."
He led me to a small space behind a partition, away from the street view, but there were still people waiting outside. The space was tight.

He stood behind me first. I looked at him in the mirror. He lifted the yellow tape.


The metal tip of the tape measure was cold against my neck. It sent a shiver down my spine. Remo’s hands were warm. He didn't rush.

The rustle of the tape sliding through his fingers. Swish. The heavy breathing of the traffic outside seemed far away. Inside, it was just my own shallow breath.

He smelled of strong tea and fabric starch.

"Shoulder... fourteen," he muttered, writing in a small notebook.
He moved to my waist. He wrapped the tape tight. I held my breath.

"Waist... twenty-four," he said. He sounded surprised. "Very small."
Then, he moved up.

He brought the tape around my chest. He had to widen his arms to get around me. The tape pulled tight across the fullest part of my bust. I watched his eyes in the mirror. They widened.
He checked the number. He blinked. He loosened the tape and checked again.

Remo stopped writing. He let the tape hang loose. The silence in the corner was heavy.
"Madam," he whispered, stepping closer to my ear. "There is a problem."

My heart hammered against my ribs. "What?"
"I have seen many measurements," he said, his voice thick. "But I have never seen this. There is a huge difference. This is impossible."

He looked at my reflection, at the way my hoodie was stretched to its limit.
"How can someone have a twenty-four-inch waist and a 30H bust size?" he asked. He wasn't being polite anymore. He was staring.

He leaned in, his knuckles brushing against my side.

"Are you wearing anything else underneath?" he asked, his voice dropping to a raw whisper. "Or is this all... you?"

I couldn't speak. I just shook my head. The tape measure felt like a rope binding me. He knew my secret now.
The numbers were out in the open, and the air in the small corner became thick with a sudden, terrifying heat.

[ashuezy2]

Scene 2

Remo cleared his throat. He didn't write anything down. He held the tape in both hands "like a fragile ribbon that suddenly mattered too much."

He looked at the notebook. 

Then the tape. 

Then me.

It wasn't a dirty look. It wasn't the way boys looked at me in the canteen. It was genuine confusion. 

"Madam..." he said slowly. "This will not work with a normal pattern."

My stomach twisted into a knot.

"What do you mean?" I asked, my voice barely a whisper.
He exhaled sharply. He looked frustrated with himself, not me.

"These measurements don't match the standard sizes," he said. "Your body... it needs a custom design."

His voice was strict, professional. But the words hit me "like a spotlight in the room."

"Special shaping," he murmured, his eyes scanning my oversized chest. "The curves and bends are rare."

I felt naked. He wasn't judging me, but I was judging myself. I stared at the mirror. I saw the girl who always walked fast, hoping no one would notice the bounce, the weight, the "outline beneath" the clothes that I pretended wasn't there.

Remo snapped the tape back into a loop. Snap.

"Look," he said, leaning in so the other customers wouldn't hear. "I am not saying anything is wrong. But if the blouse is not stitched with the right support, it won't sit properly on your shoulder. It will keep slipping."

Support. Structure. Shape.

These weren't just tailoring words. They sounded like "armour I didn’t know I needed." For years, I had just tried to hide. He was talking about holding me up.

I swallowed hard. "Can it be done?"

Remo nodded. He didn't smile. He looked serious, like he was agreeing to build a bridge, not sew a top.
"Yes. But I will need to design it differently. A double-layer. A hidden band inside."

Then, he dropped the bomb.

"The pattern must be cut by Masterji himself," Remo said. "But first... I need to make a mould of the curves and bends. We can't just do this with numbers."

He turned to the mirror. He tapped the glass, pointing to the reflection of my chest where the numbers defied gravity.
"This shape... it is rare. But not impossible."

I didn't know whether to feel relieved or ashamed. For the first time, someone said it plainly. Not a whisper, not a joke, not a pitying glance. My body wasn't wrong. It just needed "different work."

I couldn't breathe. Remo saw my face go pale.

"Sit for a minute," he said gently. "I will go and prepare the mould."

He offered me a plastic stool. I sat down heavily.

Inside, the sewing machines buzzed like bees. Grrr-tak-tak. My hands trembled around the peach fabric bundle. The reality settled in. Tomorrow wasn't just a fitting. Tomorrow, I would have to wear this body—my body—without hiding.

No hoodies. No shadows. No invisibility.
The thought terrified me. But deep inside, a tiny spark—"tiny, but real"—felt like freedom.

[ashuezy2]

Scene 3

Remo returned with a box tucked under his arm.

It was a POP mould kit.
A real one—
the kind used by high-end designers to create perfectly contoured blouse structures for complex body shapes.

My breath caught.
He placed the items on a side table:

A roll of plastic sheet
A pair of tailor’s scissors
A large bowl
A packet labelled “Plaster of Paris – Fine Grade”
Soft cotton strips
A wooden stand shaped like a torso base
Remo looked at me, then at the items, then back at me.

“Don’t worry,” he said calmly.

“This mould is external. You will wear it. The POP will go over the skin.”

My mouth went dry. "Over... the skin?" I repeated.

Remo nodded. He didn't look at my face; he was busy pouring water into the bowl of white powder.

"To get the perfect support, I need the exact copy of the curve," he explained, stirring the mixture. It made a wet, squelching sound.

He wiped his hands on a rag. He walked over to the corner, he was waiting for me.

The air conditioner hummed above us.

"Please," Remo said, gesturing to the stool. "Stand here. You will need to remove the hoodie and the t-shirt and bra"

I stared at him. "Here?"

"Masterji is busy," he said softly. "No one is watching. I will turn around while you prepare."

He turned his back to me. He stood facing the wall, mixing the plaster.
I looked at the plastic sheet in his hand. It was clear cling wrap.

I took a deep breath. My hands were shaking. I grabbed the hem of my oversized hoodie. I pulled it up. It came off with a soft rustle. I dropped it on the chair.

Then, the t-shirt. I pulled it over my head.

Now, I stood there in just my jeans and my old, worn-out bra. The bra that was too small, the one that dug into my shoulders. My "24-inch waist" looked tiny compared to the heavy "30H" chest that spilled out of the cups.

"I am ready," I whispered.

"We need to remove the bra as well," Remo said, his voice flat and professional. "This mould is directly applied to the skin."

My hands froze on the straps. I looked at the wall, then at the mirror. I saw the girl who hid in hoodies. She looked terrified.

"Okay," I whispered.
I reached behind my back. My fingers fumbled with the hooks. There were three of them, straining against the fabric.

Snap. Snap. Snap.
The band gave way. The relief was instant, followed by a sudden, terrifying heaviness. I pulled the straps down my arms. The old bra fell to the floor.

Gravity took over. My breasts spilled out.

They were heavy. Without the bra to hold them, they dropped, soft and massive. They were "pale" because they never saw the sun. The nipples were large, brown, and already hardening from the cold air.

I crossed my arms over my chest instantly, trying to hide.

"Hands down, please," Remo said softly. He had turned around.

He wasn't looking at my face. He was looking at my chest. He took a breath. It was a sharp intake of air. Even for a tailor, the sight of a 24-inch waist holding up a 30H bust was a shock.

"I need to wrap you first," he said. "To protect the skin."
He picked up the roll of clear plastic. "Lift your arms."

[readersp]

Simply wow!!!

[ashuezy2]

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.

[ashuezy2]

Scene 5

I stared at the white plaster cast. It was a perfect replica. Every curve, the deep valley between my breasts, even the distinct, hard points of my nipples were visible in the space of the mould. It was my body, turned inside out and frozen in stone.

"Mannequin?" I whispered.

I looked at Remo’s face. He wasn't looking at me anymore. He was obsessed with the cast. He was stroking the smooth white surface where his hands had been just seconds ago. He had said he could create the "best mannequin in the world."

But I didn't volunteer for that.

A wave of cold heat washed over me. Was this a trick? Did they really need a mould for a blouse, or did he just want a copy of my body to keep? I felt "exploited." I felt like he had tricked me out of my clothes just to steal my shape.

Panic set in. I didn't wait for him to explain.

I snatched my bra from the chair. My hands were shaking so hard I could barely hold it. I pulled it on. The fabric felt rough against my skin, which was still sensitive and red from the chemical heat of the plaster.

Snap. I fastened the hooks. I hated this bra—it was too tight—but right now, it was a shield.

I grabbed my t-shirt. I pulled it over my head, not caring that the white plaster dust stained the cotton. Then, the hoodie. I zipped it up to my chin. I buried my body back inside the layers. I hid the "24-inch waist" and the "30H".


I stepped out from the corner. My legs were trembling, but my anger was stronger.
"Masterji!" I shouted.

The old man at the machine looked up, startled. The rhythmic grrr-tak-tak stopped.

Remo came out from the corner, still holding the cast carefully in both hands.
"What is going on?" I demanded, my voice cracking. "He said he’s making a mannequin. Is that what this was? A game?"

I pointed a shaking finger at Remo.
"I came here for a blouse, not to be... copied and exploited. He told me to remove my clothes. I was standing in the corner topless!"

I saw Remo clutch the cast tighter to his chest, protecting it. Masterji pushed his glasses up his nose, his eyes shifting from my angry face to the white shell in Remo's hands.

Masterji stood up. He looked calm, almost bored.

"Standard procedure, beti," Masterji said, waving a hand. "For heavy sizes, we need a dummy to dbang the fabric. Otherwise, the fitting fails. The weight pulls the fabric down. We need the... structure."

"He said 'mannequin in the world'," I snapped. "He was enjoying it too much."
I took a step closer to the counter. I leaned in, staring Masterji in the eye.

"I don't care about your dummies," I hissed. "I want my blouse. And I want it immediately."

Masterji looked at Remo, then at the clock. "It takes time..." Masterji started.

"No," I cut him off. "You have my measurement. You have... that thing. You start cutting now. I am not leaving until I see the fabric being cut."

I sat down on the wooden customer bench, crossing my arms tight over my chest. I felt violated, confused, and strangely electrified.
I watched Remo place the white shell of my breasts onto the work table. It sat there, stark white and perfectly shaped, nipples pointing up at the ceiling.

Remo looked at me, then at the cast. He touched it one last time. It wasn't a professional touch. It was a lingering caress. His finger traced the curve of the plaster breast, right over the nipple, before he finally picked up his scissors to cut my cloth.

[ashuezy2]

Scene 6 - Gold Scene

Finally, the machine stopped. Remo walked over to me. He held the finished blouse on a hanger. It was beautiful. It was shaped perfectly, stiff with the inner lining, curved to match the plaster shell they had taken from my body.

"It is ready," Remo said.

He wasn't looking at the floor anymore. He was looking right at my face. He was smiling. It wasn't a polite shopkeeper smile. It was the smile of someone who shared a dirty secret.

"Go," he said, pointing to the trial room—a small wooden cubicle with a curtain. "Try it. We need to check the fit."
I stood up, grabbing the hanger. "Fine."

Remo stepped closer. He lowered his voice so Masterji wouldn't hear (or maybe Masterji didn't care).
"You were very brave today," Remo whispered. "You are the first one to get your mould done."

I frowned. "The first?"

"Yes," he nodded. "But not the first to show us."
He leaned against a pile of fabric rolls. "Daily women come here in our shop. We see them. They all do it."
I froze. "What?"

"The aunties, the college girls," Remo said casually. "They come inside. They open their blouses. They let us measure them... skin to skin. They like it."

"I don't believe you," I snapped. My face felt hot. "That is not possible. This is a decent market. Ladies don't just... show their breasts to tailors."

Remo laughed softly. "You think you are the only one with a secret body? You think they don't want to be touched?"
"You are lying," I said. "You are just trying to make me feel better about your trick."

Remo didn't argue. He grabbed my arm gently.

"Come here," he whispered. "Don't stare. Just watch carefully."
He pulled me slightly to the side, near a rack of hanging suits. From here, I had a clear line of sight to the "other corner"—another measuring partition on the far side of the shop.

I looked.

There was a woman standing there. She was older, maybe 40. She was heavy, wearing a bright red saree. Another assistant—a young boy—was measuring her.

The curtain was open just a crack.

I watched. The woman wasn't shy. She was facing the boy. She unhooked her blouse. She didn't take it off; she just opened the front. It was hanging, all buttons were open.

She wasn't wearing a bra.

Her heavy breasts hung loose, resting on her stomach. The boy wasn't measuring her shoulders. He was holding the tape measure across her nipples. His hands brushed against her bare skin.

She didn't slap him. She didn't cover up. She was smiling. She lifted her arms, lifting her heavy chest for him, letting him see everything.

I gasped and pulled back. Remo blocked my view.
"See?" Remo whispered, his breath hot on my ear. "She comes every week. She doesn't need a blouse. She needs the attention."

I stared at Remo. My world tilted. The shop wasn't just a tailor shop. It was a place where women came to be seen, to be touched, to be open. And I was just the newest member of the club.

[tomdickharry2024]

Superb short story and the perfect videos to add spice! Thanks ashuezy2 !

[ashuezy2]

Scene 7

I walked into the trial room. My head was spinning. I kept seeing the image of the woman in the red saree, smiling while the boy touched her. I realized the anger I felt earlier wasn't anger. It was jealousy.

I locked the door—or I thought I did. The latch was loose.
I turned to the mirror. My hands were shaking. I needed to see if the blouse fit, or maybe I just needed to be naked again.

I grabbed the hem of my hoodie. I pulled it off. I pulled off my t-shirt. I reached behind and unhooked the tight bra I hated. I let it fall.


I stood there, topless again. My heavy breasts swung free, "pale" and "swollen" in the dim yellow light. I looked at myself. I looked like the woman outside.

The door handle turned.
I didn't scream. I didn't cover up.
Remo slipped inside. He closed the door behind him and slid the bolt shut. This time, it locked tight. Click.
He stood behind me. I watched him in the mirror. He wasn't holding the measuring tape. He wasn't holding the blouse. His hands were empty and ready.

"You need help, Madam," Remo whispered. His voice was deep, vibrating against my bare back.
He stepped closer. He didn't ask. He placed his hands on my bare shoulders. His hands were rough and hot.
"You are too stiff," he said. He dug his thumbs into my muscles.

I tried to breathe, but the air was sucked out of the room. He was "dominating" me. He was standing so close I could feel the heat of his chest against my bare back. He was "overpowering me with his manliness."

His hands moved down. They slid from my shoulders to my upper arms. He gripped me hard. It wasn't a gentle touch. It was ownership.

He smelled of raw musk and tobacco. It was a strong, manly smell that drowned out the dusty shop air.

In the mirror, I saw his dark hands against my white skin. I saw my nipples harden instantly, betraying me.

"You have an amazing body," Remo growled near my ear. "Don't let it go to waste."
He reached for the new peach blouse hanging on the hook—the one we had spent an hour making a mould for. The one I had fought for.

He looked at it. Then he looked at my naked chest.
He threw the blouse on the floor.

It landed in the dust. The beautiful silk, the perfect fit—he didn't care about it. He didn't want me to cover up.
"We don't need that," he said.

He spun me around. I faced him. I was completely exposed to him in the tiny box.
I looked at his hungry eyes. I thought about the woman outside. I realized I didn't want to leave.

"I am ready," I whispered.

I was already into the game. I didn't want to be the girl in the hoodie anymore. I wanted to be the next woman in the corner, smiling while he touched me.

[ashuezy2]

Scene 8

I stood frozen under the yellow bulb. I felt the weight of his gaze physically pressing against my skin.

I felt he wanted to touch me.
It was terrifying because I was a fraud. I walked around college with my big hoodies, and people assumed things, but the truth was simple: I had never been seen. I had never been touched. No boy had ever unhooked my bra. No hand had ever held this weight.

He moved closer. He didn't grab me yet. He invaded my personal space until his chest was inches from my bare breasts.
He looked down. He wasn't looking at my face. He was studying the anatomy of my chest with a mix of shock and hunger.
"I have never seen breasts like yours," he whispered, his voice rough like gravel.

He reached out. He didn't hold the breast. He touched the tip.
My nipples were hard, reacting to the danger. They stood up tall and dark against my pale skin.
His thumb brushed the very peak. It was electric.

"And nipples so perky and so full," he murmured, shaking his head. "It is like there are no areolas... there is only nipple that has grown."

He was right. My nipples were unusually large, swollen and prominent, dominating the dark skin around them. They looked like berries waiting to be picked.

He looked up into my eyes. His pupils were blown wide, black holes swallowing the light.
"I bet it tastes 100 times better," he said.

He didn't wait for me to agree. He didn't wait for me to breathe.
He leaned down.
He opened his mouth. He didn't kiss my lips. He captured the large, hard nipple between his lips.

Slurp.

The wet sound echoed in the tiny wooden box. He sucked hard, pulling the sensitive flesh deep into his mouth, tasting the anomaly he had found.

My knees gave way. I grabbed his back to stop myself from falling. I dug my fingers into his shirt. I wasn't the invisible girl in the hoodie anymore. I was the girl moaning in the trial room while the tailor tasted her secret.

[readersp]

Incredibly exciting!!! Marvellous writing!!!