[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."

[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.

[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.

[ashuezy2]

Scene 9

He sucked softly at first. It wasn't rough. It was a gentle pull, like he was having a Chuski. Schhh-lup.

A wave of shyness hit me. This was too much. I was standing half-naked, letting a stranger drink from me.

I put my hands on his shoulders.

"No," I whispered, my voice trembling. "Remo... stop."

I pushed him away. Not hard, but enough to break the seal. Pop.

He stumbled back a step. He looked at me. He didn't look angry that I pushed him.
He looked like a predator enjoying the chase.

"Why shy, Madam? You are so sweet."

He didn't listen. He came back again. This time, he didn't suck. He used his tongue.
He leaned in and dragged his broad, rough tongue right across the sensitive tip of my nipple.

Lick.

I gasped. A jolt of electricity shot straight from my chest to my stomach.

"Please," I moaned, but I didn't push him this time.

He licked again, swirling his tongue around the large, nipple.

"I want it all," Remo murmured against my wet skin. "I want to make them hard as possible."

And they were. My nipples were getting harder and harder, standing up, begging for his mouth. I couldn't control myself.
I grabbed his hair, not to push him away, but to hold on as the pleasure took over. 

I opened my mouth to beg him to suck harder.
Then, a voice cut through the wood like a knife.

"Remo!"

It was Masterji. He was shouting from the cutting table, loud and impatient.

"Remo! Customer is waiting! Come here fast!"

We froze. Remo pulled back instantly, leaving a wet trail of saliva on my breast. He looked at the door, annoyed.
I stood there, panting, my chest heaving, my nipples wet and cold in the sudden air. I felt a crash of terror—what if Masterji opened the door? What if he saw us? But underneath the fear, there was a terrible, aching frustration. I didn't want him to stop.

My mind snapped back. The heat vanished, replaced by the cold air of the AC. I looked down.

The peach blouse—the reason for all this madness—was lying on the dirty floor in the dust.

"Stupid," I whispered to myself.

I bent down and picked it up. I brushed the dust off the silk. I felt dirty, but I had to know. I had to know if the "mould" was real or just a trick to touch me.

I pulled the blouse on. I fastened the hooks.
It fit perfectly.

It held my heavy "30H" chest firmly. It didn't pinch. It didn't slip. It gave me the shape I had always wanted. Remo was a genius. And he was a pervert.

===

I took it off quickly. I grabbed my old, safe bra. Snap. I put on my t-shirt. Then, the hoodie. I zipped it all the way up to my chin, hiding the wetness on my skin, hiding the perfect body he had just worshipped.
I unlocked the door. My legs felt like jelly. I walked out.

Masterji was busy cutting fabric. He didn't look up.
I walked towards the exit, clutching the bag with my new blouse. My face was burning.

Then, I saw him.

Remo was standing near the counter. He wasn't looking for me. He was already busy. There was another woman standing there—a lady in a blue kurta. She was laughing at something he said. He was leaning in close to her, using that same low, charming voice.

I stopped for a second.

Remo looked up. He saw me standing at the door, wrapped in my hoodie like a frightened child.
He didn't look guilty. He grinned. He looked at the woman next to him, then back at me.

He winked.

It was a slow, deliberate wink. It said: I know what you look like underneath. And I know you liked it.

I ran out. I took an auto-rickshaw home. I didn't speak to my mother. I went straight to my room and locked the door.
I lay in my bed in the dark. The ceiling fan spun above me. Whirrr-whirrr.
I tried to sleep, but my body wouldn't let me. Every time I closed my eyes, I was back in that wooden box.

I should be angry. I should tell someone. He touched me. He put his mouth on me.

But I wasn't angry. I shifted in the bed. My nipples were still hard, rubbing against the cotton of my t-shirt. They hurt. They missed the wet warmth of his tongue.

He said they were beautiful. He said I taste electric.

I touched my own chest in the dark. My hand felt cold compared to his. I remembered the sound—slurp—and the way his rough tongue dragged over my sensitive skin. I squeezed my eyes shut. I didn't want to be the invisible girl anymore. I wanted to go back to the shop. I wanted to know what would have happened if Masterji hadn't called him.

I fell asleep with my hand clutching my own breast, dreaming of the tailor who stole my shape.

[ashuezy2]

Scene 10

I woke up. The sheets were tangled around my legs. I felt a cold, sticky dampness in my underwear.
I had a "nightfall"—a wet dream. In my dream, Masterji hadn't called Remo. In my dream, Remo hadn't stopped licking. I had come in my sleep, my body reacting to the phantom touch of the tailor’s tongue.

I touched myself down there. I was still sensitive, swollen. I hurried to the shower, washing away the evidence, but I couldn't wash away the excitement.

I stood in front of the mirror. It was time.
I put on the peach saree. Then, the blouse.

Remo was a genius. The blouse fit like a second skin. It clasped tight around my ribcage. 

The "hidden band" he made pushed everything up. My heavy "30H" breasts were lifted high, creating a deep, dangerous cleavage that the saree pallu barely covered. My waist looked tiny, cinched in at 24 inches.
I didn't look like the hoodie girl. I looked like a "bomb."

I took an auto to South Campus. My heart was racing.
I reached the gates of Sri Venkateshwara College. Usually, I walked with my head down, clutching my bag to my chest. 



Today, I walked straight.
I stepped through the gate.
The noise stopped.

Groups of boys were hanging out near the parking lot. They were laughing and talking. Then, one saw me. He nudged his friend. Then the friend turned.
Heads were rolling towards me. Eyes were popping out.

It started with a whistle. Wheee-whit!
Then, the murmurs started.

"Oye, who is that?" "Is that Ananya? No way." "Look at the... assets."

I heard the "dirty dialogues." They weren't being polite.
"Check out the milk factory, bro," one guy whispered loud enough for me to hear. "Solid body," another groaned. "I want to bounce on that."

Usually, I would have died of shame. I would have run away. But today?

I smiled. A small, secret smile.
I liked it.
I walked past them, letting my hips sway. I felt the weight of my chest bouncing slightly with every step, contained but visible in the perfect blouse. I felt their hungry eyes sticking to my skin like Remo’s plaster cast.
I had seen my friends getting attention for years. I was always the sidekick. But today was my day. I was the main character, and every dirty look felt like applause.

===

Then I saw my group. They were all wearing kurtas and sarees, but when I approached, conversation stopped.
My best friend, Sonali, dropped her jaw. She grabbed my shoulders, staring at my chest, then my waist.

"Oh my god," Sonali screamed. "Hoodie girl is now a Hootie!"

She leaned in, pouting her lips. "If I were a man, I would have kissed you right now!"

She tried to plant a kiss on my cheek, but I pushed her away, laughing. "Get away! I am not kissing you."

Then there was Ishita. The quiet one. She usually looked at books. Today, she was glancing at me. Her eyes traveled up to my face, then down to the deep cleavage the peach blouse created. She stared at the swell of my breasts, and suddenly, she blushed and looked away. She was shy. I realized then that my body didn't just affect men; it confused women too.

The boys in our group were useless. One of them actually dropped his books. Thud.
"You look like a movie star, Ananya," one stammered. "No, bro," another whispered, staring at my chest. "Supermodel."
I blushed all the way to my ears. We started taking selfies. I posed, arching my back slightly, letting the camera capture the perfect curve Remo had sculpted for me.

We moved to the canteen. The boys ran to get food—samosas, chai, anything to please me. I sat alone on the bench, waiting. The canteen was crowded.

Then, he appeared.
A guy I had seen around campus but never spoke to. He walked right up to my table. He didn't say hello. He dropped to his knees on the dirty canteen floor.

He was loud. "Listen to me!" he shouted.
The whole crowd gathered. A circle formed around us.

"You are an Apsara (Celestial Maiden)," he declared, his voice shaking with emotion. "I have never seen beauty like this."
He pulled a small box from his pocket. He opened it. A silver ring glinted in the light. He must have been watching me, preparing for this moment.

"I don't ask for love yet," he said, giving a big, Bollywood-style romantic speech about beauty and grace. "But I ask for your hand in friendship."

He took my hand. He brought it to his lips. He kissed my knuckles.
The crowd cheered. "Say yes! Say yes!"

I smiled. It was sweet. It was romantic. "Yes," I said. "I accept."
We exchanged phone numbers. My group was jealous. Sonali was rolling her eyes. I was famous.

But as I sat there, smiling at the boy with the silver ring, my mind drifted.
His kiss on my hand was dry. His speech was polite. The crowd was cheering for my face and my saree.
But my body? My body was screaming for something else.

I looked down at my chest. Under the silk, my nipples were chafing against the tight fabric.
The silver ring was nice. But it was nothing compared to what I felt yesterday.

I closed my eyes for a second, tuning out the noise of the canteen. I remembered the dark, dusty corner of the tailor shop. I remembered the smell of musk. I remembered Remo’s rough tongue dragging across my sensitive nipple. I remembered the wet, slurping sound as he sucked me.

This boy offered me friendship and silver. Remo offered me hunger and spit. And God help me, I knew which one I wanted more.

[ashuezy2]

Scene 11



It was Saturday, inside "Renu Ladies Tailoring". I wasn't wearing a hoodie today. I was wearing a tight kurta, emboldened by the attention I got yesterday. 


I stood at the counter. Masterji was busy with a customer. I asked for Remo. They pointed to the back, to the "other corner."

I walked towards him. He was standing by a worktable, his back to me.

"Remo," I said.
He turned around. He looked surprised to see me. He wiped his hands on a rag.

"Madam?" he said, polite and distant.
"The blouse," I started, my voice shaky. "It fit perfectly. I got a lot of attention in college yesterday. Thank you."
He nodded, turning back to his work. "Good. I told you I know my job."

I took a step closer. "But that is not why I came."
He stopped moving. He looked at me over his shoulder. I wanted his attention. I wanted him to look at me the way he did in the trial room, I wanted his passion.

He was however smoothing the edges with sandpaper.

"I am going to complete it," he said, touching the hard white nipple of the cast which he made from my chest. "I will put it in front of the shop. The perfect shape."

I laughed nervously. "Just don't write my name on it."
He looked at me intently. "What is your name?"

"Ananya," I whispered.

He tested the name on his tongue. "Ananya."

Then, his face changed. He looked guilty.
"Look, Ananya," he said, stepping back. "Forget about what happened in the changing room. I am not like that. I just... I got caught in your storm."

I frowned. "My storm? I am not a storm."
I stepped into his space. "It was my first time, Remo. I have never been touched like that."

He stared at me. The guilt vanished, replaced by that dark, hungry look I remembered.
"Then why are you here?" he asked softly. "You came back the next day. Now that you are here again, talking to me... it means you loved it."

He stepped closer, lowering his voice.

"You loved what I did. You loved the way I touched you."
I didn't answer. I couldn't deny it. My silence was the answer.

The air between us got heavy. I knew this wasn't just a one-time mistake. It was a lifestyle.
"Do you do that often?" I asked, my curiosity burning. "With women?"

Remo leaned against the table, crossing his arms. He looked at the curtained trial rooms.
"Women ask for things," he said simply. "They ask for younger men. Some have different fantasies. Some want roleplay."
He looked back at me. "Their husbands ignore them. They come here for a fitting, but they want to be touched. I just like to please them."

I swallowed hard. I thought about the silver ring the boy at college gave me. Then I looked at Remo’s hands—the hands that pleased lonely wives.

"And..." I asked, my voice trembling. "Do they pay you in return for spending time with them?"
Remo smiled. It was a slow, wicked smile.

Remo leaned back against the table, crossing his arms. He didn't deny it.

"Yes," he said, his voice low. "I get some tips. Money, gifts... other things."

I felt a sting of jealousy. "I asked him... and you thought I was like them? Just another bored woman?"
Remo shook his head. He stepped closer, invading my space again.

"No," he whispered. "When Masterji called me and I saw you the first time... standing there in that hoodie... I knew you wanted it. You were hiding, Ananya. But people who hide have the darkest secrets."

I understood his ways then. He was a wild one. He could smell desperation.
I took a breath. I had to know everything.

"What else do you do inside?" I asked, looking at the curtained trial rooms. "Just touch or...?"
Remo grinned. It was a dirty grin.

"Everything," he answered. "Hands. Mouth. Tongue. Sometimes, if the shop is empty or Masterji goes for chai... I lift their sarees and give them what they are missing at home. I fuck them right there against the mirror."
My mouth went dry. "And... do these women meet you outside as well?"

"Sometimes," Remo shrugged. "Hotels. Their cars. But mostly? They like it here. They like the risk. They like that their husband might be waiting in the car outside while I am deep inside them. The danger makes them wet."

He leaned in, his eyes locking onto mine.
"You tell me, Ananya," he challenged. "You are so curious. What do you want?"

I looked at him. I looked at his rough hands. "I don't know yet."
Then, the idea formed. The memory of the woman in the red saree from yesterday flashed in my mind.

"Is it possible that I can spend some time with you?" I asked.

Remo looked confused. "You mean here? I work here."

"Yes," I said, my voice gaining confidence. "I like it here. I can come after my college. I like what I saw yesterday... that 40-year-old woman in the changing room. The way he was touching her. The way she liked it."

Remo’s eyes widened. He licked his lips.

"Oh," he purred. "You like peeking, don't you? You like to watch."
He laughed softly. "I see what you want. You want to learn."
He nodded slowly. "Okay. Here is the deal. You come after college. I will tell you all about them. I will show you."

He didn't wait to seal the deal with a handshake. He moved his hand behind me.
He grabbed my ass.

He didn't just touch it. He squeezed the flesh of my buttock hard through my kurta. He pulled me against his hips.

"But I need a tip too," he growled.

I gasped, feeling his hardness press against my stomach.

"Not here," I whispered, pushing his chest. "Not in the open."
He let go, but his eyes promised that next time, he wouldn't stop.

My eyes then landed on a woman sitting on the bench near the entrance. She looked different. She was young, maybe twenty-two. She wore a heavy red silk suit. Her arms were stacked with chooda (red bridal bangles) that clinked every time she moved. Her sindoor was fresh and bright red in her hair partition. But she looked bored. She was scrolling through her phone, sighing.

"Tell me about her," I whispered to Remo, nodding towards the girl. "This young married one. I can see she is just married."

Remo wiped his hands on a rag and followed my gaze. He smirked.

"Ah," Remo said softly. "That is Meenal. Married three months ago. Rich husband in South Delhi."
"What is she doing here?" I asked. "She looks like she has everything."

Remo leaned in, his voice low and dirty. "She has gold. She has clothes. But she has a husband who works until midnight. She comes here complaining that her blouses are 'loose.' They are never loose. She just wants to feel hands on her body that aren't asleep."

I watched Meenal cross her legs. The silk rustled.
"Who takes care of her here?" I asked. "You?"

Remo nodded. "Usually me. She likes the... heavy touch. She likes to be told what to do."

I felt a spike of heat in my belly. It was the same feeling as when I watched the woman in the red saree.
"I want to see," I commanded. "I want to see you take care of her."

Remo looked at me. He saw the darkness in my eyes. He liked it.
"Okay," he whispered. "Go to the back. Behind the fabric rack, there is a gap in the partition wall of Trial Room 2."

He winked. "Go. I will take her in."

I slipped behind the heavy rolls of velvet fabric. I found the gap. It was a small hole drilled into the wood, hidden by a calendar on the outside, but clear from the dark back room.

I waited. My heart was pounding.
A minute later, the door to Trial Room 2 opened. Remo walked in, followed by Meenal.

The room was small. Meenal stood in the center. The chooda on her arms made a loud clack-clack sound.
"It is tight here, Bhaiya," she complained, pointing to her chest. But her voice wasn't angry. It was breathy.
"Let me check," Remo said.

He didn't ask permission. He walked behind her. He placed his hands on her waist.
Meenal stopped breathing. She didn't move away.
Remo’s hands moved up. He slid his palms over the silk of her kurta, tracing her ribs. He reached around and cupped her breasts from behind.

"Is it tight here?" he whispered into her ear.

Meenal dropped her head back against his shoulder. "Yes, oh yes." she moaned. "There too."

I watched through the peephole as Remo’s thumbs circled her nipples through the red silk. The new bride wasn't fighting him. She was grinding her hips back against him, desperate for the touch of the tailor while her red bridal bangles shook with pleasure.

[ashuezy2]

Scene 12

"It is biting me here, Bhaiya," she whined, pointing to the underwire of her blouse. "And the back... it feels too tight. I can't breathe."

Remo stepped closer. 
"Let me loosen it, remove it, I will fix it here." he whispered.

She pushed up the suit fabric, it was little tight but she managed to pull it above her head.

I gasped softly. Her back was completely bare now, a smooth expanse of pale, milky skin framed by the silky red suit. She wasn't wearing a bra underneath. The suit was built with cups—Remo’s specialty.

Meenal stood topless.

I gasped. she had a "big rack." Her breasts were massive, heavy, and pale. They swayed slightly with the movement, their weight pulling them down, soft and overwhelming. They were too big for her frame, a burden she carried alone.

"Better?" Remo asked, his voice vibrating against her neck.
"Mmm," Meenal hummed, closing her eyes. "But it still feels heavy in the front."

Remo didn't hesitate. He slid them around her ribcage, his palms pressing against her warm, bare skin.
He reached the front. He cupped her breasts.

I watched as his fingers dug into the soft flesh that was spilling out of the cups. Meenal dropped her head back onto his shoulder. She ground her hips back into his groin.

"Oh bhaiya, I want to feel you again inside me." she moaned.
Remo squeezed hard. He pinched her nipples, rolling his fingers over it. 

Meenal’s red bridal bangles shook as she reached back, grabbing Remo’s hair. She wasn't the shy new bride anymore. She was a woman getting exactly what she paid for.

"Take it off," she begged, panting. "Take the whole thing off and take me from behind. Fuck me !"

Remo smirked at her reflection. He looked right at the mirror, almost as if he knew I was watching from the other side.
"As you wish, Madam," he whispered.

Meenal let out a sound that was half-sob, half-moan. She leaned back against him, her head resting on his shoulder.
"Oh bhaiya," she whispered, her voice cracking. "It’s been so long."

"So long?" Remo asked, his thumbs circling her large, dark nipples. "You just got married, Madam."
Meenal shook her head violently, her bridal bangles clinking.

"He doesn't touch me. He comes home late. He sleeps. He treats me like a doll in a glass case. He doesn't know... he doesn't know how hungry I am."

She was starving. I could see it in the way she arched her back, offering herself to the tailor. She wasn't getting love at home, so she brought her "insatiable deep hunger" here, to a dusty shop in Lajpat Nagar.

"I know," Remo murmured into her ear. "You need to be eaten."
He squeezed her breasts hard. The flesh spilled over his fingers. He treated them like dough, kneading the frustration out of her.

Meenal turned in his arms. She faced him now, completely exposed. Her large breasts pressed against his chest. She grabbed his face with both hands.

"Do it," she hissed, her eyes wild and wet. "Fix me."
Remo lowered his head. He buried his face in her deep cleavage, inhaling the scent of her sweat and expensive perfume. He bit down gently on her soft skin, leaving a mark that her husband would never notice because he never looked.

I watched from the darkness. I realized then that the shop wasn't just about clothes. It was a kitchen for starving women, and Remo was the one serving food.

Meenal couldn't take it anymore. The teasing, the touching—it wasn't enough. She was starving, and she didn't want an appetizer. She wanted the whole meal.

She pulled away from Remo. She grabbed her heavy purse from the hook on the wall. Her hands were shaking so hard the bangles clattered like wind chimes.

She reached inside. She didn't pull out a tissue. She pulled out a bundle of cash.

She turned back to Remo. She shoved the money at his chest.

"Here is Rs 5000," she panted, her voice thick with desperation. "Take it."
Remo looked at the money, then at her face. He didn't smile. He took the cash. He folded it calmly and put it in his back pocket.

"Meenal..." he started.
She cut him off. She grabbed his belt buckle.

"Take off your pants," she commanded. "And do me now. I can't wait."

She fell to her knees in front of him. She looked up at him, her eyes wet and wild.
"And Remo," she whispered, a dirty, hungry look crossing her face. "I don't just want it normal."

She reached around and touched her own backside, pressing her hand on her butt.
"I want it in my ass too," she begged. "My husband never touches me there. Break me open, Remo. Please."

I gasped loud enough that I was scared they heard me. Anal? Here? In the shop?
Remo didn't blink. He looked down at the bride kneeling at his feet, begging for sodomy.
"Get up," he growled. "Turn around."

Meenal scrambled up. She turned her back to him. She leaned forward, placing her hands on the wall mirror. She arched her back deep, sticking her heavy hips out. She removed her Salwaar, lowering the silk from her waist.
She wasn't wearing panties.

Her round, pale ass was exposed, shaking slightly. She looked back over her shoulder, watching him unbuckle his belt.
"Do it," she hissed. "Fill me up."

I watched as Remo’s pants dropped. I saw him harden instantly. I saw Meenal spread her own cheeks with her hands, her red bridal bangles framing the pink hole she was offering him. I realized then that Remo wasn't lying. This wasn't romance. This was a raw, paid transaction of flesh and hunger.

Remo didn't use fancy oil. He didn't have time.
He spat into his palm. Phhh-tuh.

It was a raw, dirty sound. He rubbed his hands together, making them wet and slick.
"Ready?" he growled.

Meenal looked back over her shoulder, her hair wild, sweat running down her face. "Just put it in. Don't ask."
Remo reached down. He rubbed his spit onto her tight opening. Meenal flinched, then pushed her hips back into his hand, begging for more.

Remo gripped her hips. His fingers dug into her soft white flesh, leaving red marks instantly. He lined himself up.
He thrust forward.

Slap. The sound of skin hitting skin echoed in the small box.

"Ahhh!" Meenal screamed. It wasn't a scream of fear. It was a scream of shock and relief.
He didn't go slow. He pushed past the tight muscle. He buried himself deep inside her ass.
Meenal’s head dropped forward, hitting the mirror. Thud.

"Oh god," she moaned, her voice guttural. "It’s so big. It’s tearing me."

Remo found his rhythm. He pulled back almost all the way, then slammed back in.
Thrust. Slap. Thrust. Slap.

Meenal wasn't a passive doll. She fought back. She pushed her ass against him, meeting every thrust. Her heavy breasts swung underneath her, brushing against the dirty wall, but she didn't care.

The room was filled with noise. The clack-clack-clack of her red bridal bangles hitting the mirror as she braced herself. The filthy things she was whispering. "Harder... break it... ruin me."

I saw the way her skin rippled with the impact. I saw Remo’s dark hands contrasting against her pale hips. I saw the red saree shaking violently.

The smell of sex—sweat, spit, and musk—seeped through the crack in the wall, hitting me in the face.

I couldn't look away. I watched the way her body accepted him. I watched the way her husband’s money and her expensive clothes lay forgotten on the floor while the tailor owned her completely.

I moved my own hand down to my Kurta. I couldn't help it. Watching Meenal take him, watching her face twisted in pleasure in the mirror reflection... it was too much. I touched myself through the cottom, imagining it was me bent over that table, imagining it was me paying the price.

Meenal’s body jerked violently against the mirror. Her hands clawed at the glass.
"Remo... don't stop! Release it now!" she gasped, her voice breaking. "I'm coming!"

Remo ejaculated inside instantly. He finished inside her. He respected the command. Meenal slumped against the wall, her legs trembling, her breath coming in jagged sobs of pleasure.

Then, the tender moment. She turned around, her face flushed and sweaty. She grabbed Remo’s face and kissed him deep and hard on the mouth, tasting herself, tasting the act.

"Till next time," she whispered against his lips.

She fixed her suit quickly. She smoothed her hair. She put the mask of the "respectable wife" back on. She walked out of the trial room, her chooda clinking, leaving the scent of her desire behind.

Remo zipped up his pants. He buckled his belt calmly, "as if nothing happened." He wiped his forehead and walked out onto the shop floor.

[ashuezy2]

Scene 13 - Gold Scene

I stepped out from behind the velvet rolls. My legs felt weak.

Remo saw me. He walked straight to our corner. 
"Did you like it?" he asked, his voice rough.
I couldn't lie. I looked at his hands—the hands that had just broken that woman open.

"Yes," I breathed. "I loved it."

I felt a pang of jealousy again. Meenal was beautiful, rich, and desperate.
"Is she the best?" I asked, looking at the door where Meenal had exited. "Or... is there anyone special?"
Remo leaned against the table, looking me up and down.

"I am waiting for you to say yes, Ananya," he whispered. "You could be the best."
I blushed. I wanted him, but I was scared. "Wait for when the time is right," I said.
Remo laughed softly. "Fine. I will wait."

Then, his expression changed. He looked at the shop entrance.
"But," he murmured, checking his watch. "There is someone special. A regular. And she is coming in just now."

The glass door of the shop chimed. Ting.
I turned to look.

A woman walked in. She was wearing a simple cotton saree, elegant and understated. She carried a plastic bag of fabric. She looked tired but beautiful in that familiar, maternal way. She smiled at Masterji, then her eyes scanned the room looking for Remo.

My blood turned to ice.
It wasn't a stranger. It wasn't a politician's wife.

It was Sunita.
My mother.

The same mother who had been so happy about my traditional day. The same mother who I thought spent her afternoons at kitty parties.

She saw Remo and her face lit up with a smile I had never seen at home—a smile that was shy, eager, and hungry.
"Remo," she called out softly. "I brought the lining for the backless blouse."

I froze behind the fabric rack, my hand covering my mouth to stop the scream.

[ashuezy2]

Next scenes will be added after 50 likes. Please share feedback about the story as well. It will keep me motivated to post more.
Thanks.

[ashuezy2]

44 likes received, waiting for 6 more likes.

[ashuezy2]

Scene 14

She didn't look like my mother. Her shoulders were relaxed, her posture loose and inviting. She dropped the plastic bag of fabric on the counter, but she didn't ask about the lining.

"Is the room free?" she asked.
"For you? Always," Remo said.

Mom laughed. It was a dirty, wet laugh. She stepped into his space. She ran a finger down Remo's chest.

"I missed this," she whispered. "That blue blouse you made... I wore it to the kitty party. I was leaking the whole time thinking about what you did to me in Trial Room 1."

My stomach turned over. She was talking about my mother.
Remo smirked. "You ripped the hooks off that one, Sunita. You were too impatient."
"I was hungry," she moaned. "You made me wait too long."

Then, the conversation took a turn that made me dizzy.

"You are better than the others, Remo," she confessed, leaning her hip against the table.
Remo raised an eyebrow. "Others?"

She rolled her eyes, a gesture so casual it was terrifying. "That new boy you hired... Raju. He tries hard, but he is too fast. And Masterji... well, his hands are old. He shakes too much when he holds my chest."

I clamped my hand over my mouth. My mother hadn't just been with Remo. She had been with the helper. She had been with Masterji.

"But you..." she breathed, looking at Remo’s crotch. "You break me."

She didn't wait for him to touch her. She started touching herself.
Right there in the open shop. She pressed her hand between her legs, right over the folds of her cotton saree. She rubbed her mound vigorously.

"Oh god," she hissed, her eyes rolling back. "I'm so wet just looking at you."
She grabbed Remo’s hand and tried to pull it towards her saree.

"Please, Remo," she begged, her voice cracking. "Take me to the back. Put it in. I need it deep today. Don't make me use my fingers."

I watched my mother—the woman who scolded me for wearing short skirts—begging the tailor to fuck her, rubbing herself in public, admitting she had slept with the staff.

She looked at Remo. He was ready, standing there with that smirk, but it wasn't enough for her today. The memory of the "others" had unlocked something greedy inside her.

"Remo," she panted, licking her dry lips. "Is Raju free as well?"
Remo raised an eyebrow. "Raju? You said he was too fast."

Mom laughed, a low, dirty sound. "I don't care if he is fast. I need the weight. One man isn't enough right now."
She stepped closer, gripping Remo’s shirt.

"I can use him also," she whispered, her voice trembling with excitement. "Let's have a threesome today. I want to be stuffed from both sides."

Remo didn't judge her. He turned his head towards the back of the shop.
"Raju!" he shouted. "Raju!"

Raju appeared from the stockroom. He was young, maybe twenty-one, with messy hair and a nervous grin. He wiped his hands on his pants. He saw Mom standing there, flushed and begging. He didn't look surprised. He looked hungry.
"Namaste, Madam," Raju said, his eyes dropping straight to her heaving chest.

"Namaste, Raju," my mother purred. She reached out and grabbed his hand. She pulled him close.
"Come," she commanded both of them.

She didn't wait. She walked towards Trial Room 1—the big one. She dragged Raju with one hand and beckoned Remo with the other.

"I want you on my mouth," she told Remo. "And Raju... you take the back door. Or maybe the front. I don't care. Just fill me up."

I watched as my mother walked into the trial room, sandwiched between the two tailors. Raju was already unbuckling his belt as he walked. Remo looked back at my hiding spot one last time. He winked again.

The door clicked shut. Clack.

Then, the sounds began.

"Yes!" my mother screamed instantly. "Both of you! Grab them! Suck them!"

I heard the sound of fabric ripping. I heard the wet smack of skin on skin. I heard two male voices groaning and my mother’s voice rising above them in a crescendo of pure, unadulterated filth. 

I ran towards the opening. I didn't care if I made a sound. I dared myself to look. I had to know if the picture in my head matched the reality.

I found the small drill hole in the wood—the same one I used for Meenal. I pressed my eye against it.

It was exactly as it sounded.
My mother was bent over, her hands bracing against the side walls of the small cubicle. Her saree was bunched up around her waist, a colorful mess of cotton.

Raju was behind her. He wasn't gentle. He was gripping her wide hips with his hands, his knuckles white. He was driving into her with some speed.

Thup-thup-thup.

It was the wet, heavy sound of his groin slapping against her buttocks. He was pounding her. His young, eager body was slamming into my mother’s soft flesh, shaking her whole frame.

Remo stood in front of her. He wasn't watching; he was participating. He forced her to stand upright enough so he could access her chest. He had pulled her blouse completely down. Her heavy, mature breasts were bouncing with the force of Raju’s thrusts from behind.

Remo was holding them, squeezing the nipples hard, twisting them like dials on a radio.

And my mother... she wasn't crying. She was laughing. She was talking dirty to them, her voice unrecognizable.
"Yes, Raju! Break it!" she screamed, her head thrown back. "Don't stop! Fuck your Aunty like a dog!"
She looked at Remo, her eyes glazed.

"Look at him, Remo! He is destroying me!" she panted. "You taught him well! He is hitting the perfect spot!"

"Shut up and suck," Remo growled.

He unzipped his pants. He took out his hardness. It was thick and dark. He pressed it against her wet, open mouth.
"Take it, Sunita," he commanded. "Make yourself useful."

My mother opened her mouth wide. She took him in. She started sucking Remo while Raju hammered her from behind. She was completely filled—mouth, ass, and soul.

"Mmmph-guck," she gagged, but she didn't stop. She hummed with pleasure, vibrating between the two men, being passed around like a shared meal in the very shop where unknown to her I was watching, her own daughter.

I watched her tongue swirl around Remo’s tip. I watched her ass ripple with every impact from Raju. I felt a line cross in my mind. She wasn't my mother anymore. She was just a woman with a bottomless hunger, and I was the daughter who was realizing that hunger runs in the blood.

Raju groaned, his grip on her hips slipping. "Madam... I can't... I'm going to burst."

Remo stepped back from my mother’s mouth. He looked at Raju, then at Mom’s backside.
"Move, boy," Remo laughed. "Today is ass only, Sunita. Let the boy breathe.

Remo then put the entire penis in, it went in her ass, it was tight, he moved gently and then started pounding her ass."
"Your ass, Sunita. So many times I have put it in, yet this feel the best", Remo said.

Remo then grabbed Mom’s waist to steady her, but Raju pulled out too fast. He scrambled around to the front. He didn't have time to aim.

"Oh god!" Raju cried out.

He unloaded right onto her face. Thick white spurts landed on her cheek, her chin, and her eyelashes.
Mom didn't wipe it away. She didn't flinch. She smiled, her eyes closed. She leaned forward and cleaned his slowing erection with her tongue to catch the drops running down his penis.

"Good boy," she purred, tasting him. "You have a lot in you."
She didn't mind at all. She welcomed it like it was face cream for her.

Remo wasted no time. He spun her around for the next part, They moved like dancers who knew the steps perfectly.
"Turn," Remo commanded.

"Yes," Mom breathed, wiping her mouth. "Now you."
She looked at Remo’s growing erection.

"Put it in front now," she demanded.
She didn't mind that it was dirty. She didn't mind the mix of fluids. She liked it this way—raw and messy.
Remo lined himself up. He looked her in the eye.

"Are you ready, Sunita?" he asked, gripping her thigh.
Mom laughed, breathless. "You say Ready? Remo, but I have already climaxed multiple times. Just finish me."

Remo didn't wait. He thrusted inside her.
"Ahhh!" she screamed and he creamed, wrapping her legs around his waist.
He hammered into her, hard and fast. Raju watched from the corner, catching his breath, staring at the way Remo owned her.

"Mine," Remo growled.

He drove deep one last time and poured himself again inside her.
Mom’s eyes rolled back. Her legs gave out. They collapsed onto the pile of discarded clothes on the floor, with Remo still on top of her, breathing heavily into her neck.

They lay there for a minute in the silence of the shop. Then, Mom hugged Remo tight. She kissed his sweaty shoulder.
"I bought a gift for you," she whispered, stroking his hair. "It's inside the plastic bag at the counter. A new watch."
Remo chuckled, rolling off her. He lay on his back, staring at the ceiling.

"Sunita," he sighed. "You always bring these gifts for me and I keep saying to you... I don't want your husband's money. I just want this." He slapped her bare thigh playfully.

Mom propped herself up on one elbow. She looked at him with a sad, playful smile.
"Yet you share me with other staff," she countered, glancing at Raju. "Why don't you take me away with you? Save me from that boring house."

Remo smiled. He knew she was joking. They both knew she loved her rich life too much to leave, and she loved this dirty secret too much to stop.

"Then who would pay for the silk?" Remo teased.
He stood up. He grabbed a dry cloth from the shelf. He tossed it to her.

"Clean up," he said. "The next customer is waiting."
I watched my mother wipe herself down, her face glowing with a happiness I had never seen at home. I called her Slut without saying a word.

[ashuezy2]

Scene 15 - The aftermath

The door of Trial Room 1 opened slowly to the world inside the little shop. I froze behind the mirror, heart pounding so hard and I was not prepared for the way they emerged.

Mom stepped out first. She didn’t see me. Not even a flicker of recognition. Her eyes were somewhere far away, unfocused, like a woman walking out in a hurry. Her saree wasn’t sitting the way she had worn it earlier. The pallu had fallen out of place, and she pushed her pallu back onto her shoulder. Her hair, usually tight and disciplined, had loosened at the edges. She exhaled once a long quiet exhale and after that walked out of the shop with an unhurried confidence that did not belong to the mother I knew.

The bell tinkled softly as she vanished into the busy market. She did not look back. She did not see me standing there.

Raju came out next, head low, steps shaky. His shirt was wrinkled and he kept adjusting it like he wasn’t sure how it was supposed to sit anymore. He didn’t meet anyone’s eyes. He brushed past the counter and disappeared into the storeroom.

Remo came out last. He paused in the doorway, just a beat, but enough to reset the entire room. Then he straightened his shirt, rolled his shoulders back, and became Remo again — the tailor, the professional, the man who controlled rooms by controlling himself.

When he finally looked up, his gaze met me. Calm. Steady. Already expecting.

I stepped forward, throat tight, blood hot and cold at the same time. “What is going on here?” I asked, voice raw.

Remo didn’t pretend. He didn’t soften it. He didn’t dance around me. “What you saw,” he said quietly, “is a part of her life she doesn’t share with anyone.”

“Why does she even come here?” my voice was sharper now, cracking under betrayal.
“Because this is the one place,” Remo said, “where she remembers she’s a person… not a parent, not a wife, not someone’s responsibility. A person with her own past.”

“How long has she been coming?” The words fell out like I was afraid of the answer.
“Years,” he said plainly. “Since before you even started college.”

My breath hitched. I stepped closer, eyes burning. “How do you know all this, Remo? How? You’re not her friend. You’re just a tailor.”

Remo’s jaw tightened. “I know it,” he said, “because she told me. Directly. Not with stories but with the way she walked in here one day and said she needed something stitched ‘for herself, not for the house.’”

He continued, voice firm and honest: “She wasn’t always like this. She had a different life once. A freer one. She didn’t lose it, it was taken from her by time, duty, and circumstances you don’t know about.”
I blinked hard. “Why would she tell you?”

“Because I’m the kind of person people talk to when they’re tired of lying to themselves,” Remo said simply. “No judgment. No consequences. Just a place where they can breathe.”

He stepped back, giving me space to absorb it. “Adults have complicated lives,” he added in a low, steady voice. “Much more complicated than what you saw today. Don’t judge her from outside the story. One day… you’ll understand why people find places to keep their truth.”

The weight of his words settled over me like dust after a collapse. Mom was gone. Raju was hiding. Remo was unshakable. And I stood alone in the middle of the shop, holding a truth I had not asked for: I did not know my mother. Not even close. For the first time, the world felt bigger, darker, and painfully real — and the curtain of Trial Room 1 swayed gently behind Remo, carrying the ghost of a secret I could never unsee.

Remo watched me digest the truth. Then, slowly, his serious face changed. That dark, hungry smirk returned to his lips. He walked past me to the front of the shop.

Click. He locked the main glass door. Snap. He turned the "Closed" sign outward.
He walked back to me. He didn't stop at a polite distance. He stepped right into my personal space.

"But you didn't run away, Ananya," he whispered, his voice dropping an octave. "You watched. You put your eye to the hole."

He reached out and tucked a strand of hair behind my ear. His fingers were warm.
"You judged her," Remo murmured, trailing his finger down my neck. "But you were wet watching her. Weren't you?"

I shivered. "Remo... don't."
"Don't what?" he teased. "Don't tell you the truth? That is a wild woman, Ananya. She takes what she wants. She takes two men at once because one isn't enough to fill her."

He grabbed my waist. He pulled me hard against his body. I could feel the heat radiating off him—the heat generated by my mother.

"Are you like her?" he asked, looking deep into my eyes. "Do you have that same fire inside? That same dirty hunger?"
I tried to push him away, but my hands just rested on his chest. I could smell it on him. Musk. Sweat. Sex. It was intoxicating.

"I... I am not like her," I stammered.
"Liar," Remo growled playfully.

He lifted his hand. He brought it to my face. He rubbed his thumb over my lower lip.
"Smell," he commanded.

I inhaled. His skin smelled of her. It smelled of the fluids I had seen flying in that room. It was disgusting, and yet, my body reacted violently. My knees went weak.

"You want to know what she tasted?" Remo asked.
He didn't wait. He crushed his mouth against mine.

It wasn't a gentle kiss. It was possessive. He forced my lips open. His tongue invaded my mouth, tasting of the shop, tasting of the secret acts he had just performed.

I moaned into his mouth. I didn't fight. I grabbed his hair. I kissed him back, desperate to taste the same pleasure that had made my mother scream.

He pulled back, breathless. He grabbed my ass with both hands, squeezing the flesh hard through my kurta.
"You feel just as soft as her," he whispered in my ear. "But tighter. Much tighter."

He ground his hips against mine. I felt his erection—the same one that had just been inside my mother—pressing against my stomach.

"Let's see if you can scream louder than her," he challenged, biting my neck. "Trial Room 1 is still warm, Ananya. It’s waiting for you."

I looked at the curtain where my mother had just been ruined. Then I looked at Remo.
"Show me," I whispered. "Show me everything you did to her."

Remo watched me with that dark, knowing smile. He didn't know Sunita was my mother. He just thought I was a curious girl fascinated by an older woman’s depravity.

"Go on," he whispered, pointing to the cubicle. "You wanted to see everything? Go inside. It’s still warm."

I stepped forward. My legs felt heavy. I pushed aside and walked into Trial Room 1.
The heat hit me instantly. It wasn't just the lack of ventilation. It was the residual body heat of three people who had been thrashing against each other for twenty minutes. It felt suffocating, like stepping into a used mouth.

I looked down.
The floor was a disaster. The dust was disturbed, scuffed by shoes and knees. But it was the wetness that made my stomach turn.

There were droplets of white fluid on the wooden floorboards—spilled seed that hadn't made it inside. A damp, dark patch stained the wood where my mother had collapsed.
I looked at the mirror.

It was fogged up with condensation and sweat. But lower down, at hip height, there were smudges. Oily streaks where skin had pressed against glass. And there, right in the center, was a smear of white residue—the aftermath of Raju’s finish on her face, wiped off and flung aside.

I stared at a discarded tissue in the corner, crumpled and soaked.
Remo leaned in from the doorway, misinterpreting my silence.

"She is a wild one, that Sunita," he chuckled, admiring the mess. "She took everything we had and still walked out walking straight."

He was comparing me to her. He thought it was an aspirational game. He didn't know that the "wild one" was the woman who packed my lunchbox. He didn't know that the fluids on the floor belonged to the woman who tucked me in at night.

It was too much. The visual of the white stains, the smell of the sex, the echo of her screams that still seemed to bounce off the walls—it crashed down on me.

I couldn't breathe. The arousal died, replaced by a violent wave of nausea.
"I... I can't," I choked out.

Remo reached for me, thinking I was just overwhelmed by the scent. "It’s okay, Ananya. It’s just the smell of—"
"No!" I screamed.

I shoved past him. I didn't look back at the mirror. I didn't look at Remo’s confused face. I ran.

I burst out of the trial room, stumbled through the shop, and pushed open the glass door.

The bell jingled cheerfully behind me as I fled into the noisy, dusty street, gasping for air that didn't smell like my mother’s sins.

[ashuezy2]

Scene 16 - Home

When I reached home that evening, the house felt strange, like someone had turned down the volume on the world. The lights were on, the smell of tadka (spices) was in the air, everything looked normal… but nothing felt normal.

My mother, Sunita, was in the kitchen cutting vegetables.

She didn’t hear me enter at first. Her movements were slow and careful, almost too careful. I stood in the doorway, clutching my bag, just watching her.

She finally looked up and smiled—the kind of warm, safe smile she used when she didn’t want anyone to worry.
"You’re home, beta," she said gently. "How was your day?"

I looked at her face. It was scrubbed clean. There was no trace of the makeup she might have worn, and definitely no trace of the thick white fluid I had seen Raju splash all over her an hour ago.

But I saw it. In my mind, her face was still overlaid with that image—her eyes closed, her tongue out, licking the helper’s seed off her own skin.
"Fine," I answered. My voice sounded small even to myself.

She wiped her hands on a towel and walked over to me. She looked concerned.
"You look so tired, Anu," she said softly. She reached out and placed her palm on my forehead, checking for a fever. "Is it the presentation? You were so worried about it yesterday. Did the professor say anything?"
I flinched inside, but I didn't pull away. Her hand was warm. It was the hand of my mother who stayed up late to help me with projects.

But my mind screamed. That hand. That was the same hand I watched wrapping around Remo’s thick erection. That was the hand that had rubbed her own wetness in the middle of the shop.
"No, Mom," I lied, looking at her wrist. "The presentation was good. I just... I have a headache."
"Go wash up," she said, stroking my hair. "I made your favorite Bhindi (Okra). It will make you feel better."

I sat at the dining table, watching her move back to the stove.
She turned her back to me to stir the pot. She was wearing a simple house saree now. It was dbangd loosely over her hips.
I couldn't help it. I stared at her backside.

I remembered the sound. Thup-thup-thup. I remembered the way her ass had shaken as Raju pounded her from behind. I remembered how she had spread her own cheeks in the mirror for Remo.
Now, she looked like a saint. But I knew that under that cotton petticoat, her skin was probably red and raw from the slapping. I knew her muscles were trembling not from age, but from the aftershocks of being filled by two men at once.

During dinner, Mom served food like she always did—same recipes, same jokes.
"Did you talk to Sonali?" she asked casually, putting a roti on my plate. "Is she still fighting with her boyfriend?"
"Yes," I mumbled. "They broke up again."

She shook her head, smiling. "Young love. So much drama."

I watched her hand as she poured water into my glass. It was shaking. Just a little. A tiny tremor.
She caught me looking. She quickly put the jug down and hid her hand in her lap. She took a deep breath, her chest rising—the same chest I had seen heaving and bare, squeezed by Remo’s dark hands.

She was still high from it. She was trying to act normal, but her body was still vibrating from the orgasm.

Then, the front door opened.
"I'm home!" a cheerful voice called out.
My father, Rajesh, walked in. He was a tall man, wearing a formal office shirt, looking tired but happy. He carried a box of sweets.

Mom stood up immediately. The wild woman from the shop vanished completely, replaced by the perfect wife.
"You are late today," she said softly.

Papa walked over and hugged her. He kissed her forehead gently—a dry, respectful peck.
"Sorry, traffic was bad," he said, smiling at her with pure adoration. "But I brought Rasgulla. I know you like it."

He looked at her like she was a glass doll. He treated her like a Devi (Goddess). He didn't grab her waist. He didn't slap her ass. He didn't look at her with hunger. He looked at her with respect.

I watched them. Papa sat down, telling her about his boring day at the bank. He held her hand gently on the table.
And suddenly, I understood.

He was too good. He was safe. He gave her security, money, and respect. But he didn't see her. He didn't see the woman who needed to be choked, slapped, and used. He didn't have the darkness she needed.
That’s why she went to the shop. She didn't go for the clothes. She went because Remo and Raju treated her like a piece of meat, and deep down, my mother needed to be devoured to feel alive.

The house felt too quiet. My father ate his sweet, thinking he was the luckiest man in the world, while his wife sat next to him, smelling of soap but still wet with the secret life he would never understand.

[ashuezy2]

Scene 17

I couldn’t sleep that night. My bed felt too soft, the ceiling fan too loud. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw the flashing images of my mother in the tailor shop—her head thrown back, her mouth open, Remo’s hand on her throat.
The dinner conversation played on a loop in my head.

I was thirsty. So, I got up around 2:00 AM to get water from the kitchen. The hallway glowed faintly under a zero-watt bulb. The house was silent… or so I believed.

As I passed my parents' bedroom door, I heard it. It wasn't a snore. It wasn't the rustle of sheets.
"Stay down," a voice hissed.

I froze. It was my mother’s voice. But it wasn't the soft, maternal voice she used at dinner. It was the voice she had used in the shop—commanding, raw, powerful. But this time, she wasn't begging. She was ordering.
Then I heard a man groan. "Ohhhhh... God..." It sounded like a sound of pain mixed with intense, suffocating pleasure. It was my father.

My heart hammered against my ribs. I should have kept walking. I should have run to the kitchen. But the demon that woke up in me at the tailor shop was awake now. I needed to see.

I crept closer. The door wasn't clicked shut. It was slightly ajar, just a crack. I pressed my fingers against the wood and pushed. Just a millimetre. Just enough to see into the slice of dim orange light coming from their bedside lamp.
I clamped my hand over my mouth to stop the scream.

My father was on the bed, but he wasn't on top. He was on his hands and knees, his head buried in the pillows, his back arched, his white buttocks exposed to the air. He was completely naked.
And standing behind him was my mother. She was naked too, her body glowing in the dim light. But she was wearing something else. A black leather harness strapped tight around her wide hips. And sticking out from it was a thick, dark purple dildo.

My mother didn't just shove it in. She picked up a bottle from the nightstand. She poured oil into her palm.

Squelch.

She rubbed the oil onto the synthetic cock, making it glisten in the orange light. Then, she reached down and rubbed the oil onto my father’s hole. She circled it sensually, teasing him.

"Relax, Rajesh," she commanded, her voice clinical and cold. "Open up for me."
"Aaahhh... yes... Sunita..." my father whimpered into the sheets.

She gripped my father’s hips—just like Raju had gripped hers earlier.
"Take it, Rajesh," she whispered, her voice low and dangerous. "Take it in your ass!"

She thrust forward. Slap. The harness hit his cheeks. She drove the strap-on deep into my father.
"Ohhh! F-fuck!" my father let out a long, broken moan. "Oh God... Sunita... yes!"

He wasn't fighting her. He wasn't just tolerating it. He was pushing back against her, desperate for it. He wasn't the strong, protective husband in that moment. He was submissive. He was hers to use.
My mother moved her hips with a rhythm that was terrifyingly confident. She dominated him. She looked down at his back with a look of pure ownership.

"You love this, don't you?" she taunted him, pulling back and slamming in again. Schlick. Slap.
"Yes!" my father gasped, his knuckles gripping the sheets. "I love it. Please... harder!"
She raised her hand and brought it down hard on his bare ass. Thwack! "Aaahhh!" he screamed in pleasure. Thwack! "Good boy," she purred. "Take every inch."

"I'm close," he gasped. "Sunita... please."
"Turn over," she ordered sharply.
She pulled out. Pop.

My father scrambled to turn onto his back. He looked pathetic and desperate, his erection standing straight up, red and angry.
My mother moved between his legs. She grabbed his ankles. She lifted his legs high in the air, pinning his knees to his chest. It was a humiliating position. He was wide open to her, splayed out like a broken doll.
"Look at you," she whispered, looking down at him with a mix of pity and power. "You need this, don't you? You can't feel anything unless I break you open."

"Yes," he sobbed, his eyes squeezed shut, his legs trembling in her grip. "It’s the only way. Please."
She didn't use her mouth. She didn't use her body. She reached out with her hand. She gripped his penis. She started jerking him off, using a rough, milking motion.

"Come on," she said, pumping her hand. "Give it to me."
My father arched his back violently. He let out a long, high-pitched cry. "Thank you! Thank you, Sunita! Aaahhhhh!"
He erupted. He shot all over his own chest and stomach. My mother watched him cum with zero emotion. She didn't smile. She didn't kiss him. She just held his legs until he stopped twitching.

I stumbled back from the door, my head spinning. I leaned against the wall in the dark hallway, trying to breathe.
Everything suddenly made sense in a twisted, sickening way.
My father didn't treat her like a Goddess because he was boring. He treated her like a Goddess because he worshipped her. He gave her all the power. In their bedroom, she was the King, and he was the servant. She controlled him. She pegged him. She owned him.

And that was the problem.
At home, she had too much power. She was in charge. She was the Don.
That’s why she went to Remo. That’s why she let Raju use her. She didn't go to the shop to be worshipped. She went there to be degraded. She went there to lose the control she had to maintain at home. She needed to be the one on her knees, the one being slapped, the one being used, because everywhere else—even in her own marriage—she was the one holding the whip.

I looked at the closed door one last time, hearing my mother’s grunts of exertion and my father’s whimpers of submission fading into the silence. I realized then that my family was a house of mirrors, and everyone was wearing a mask. And now, I had to decide which mask I was going to wear.