Yet Another Clothing Store...

Lira adjusted the neatly folded stack of silk scarves on the polished wooden counter. The boutique, Marquis & Sons Tailors, was quiet today, and she welcomed the slow pace even if it left her mind free to wander.

She suppressed a sigh, shifting uncomfortably in her restrictive bodice for what felt like the tenth time that hour. The heavy fabric clung to her skin beneath layers of underskirts and lace, and the stiff cups of her bra felt like prison bars pressing painfully into her soft flesh. She shot an irritated glance toward the street outside, watching enviously as a noblewoman passed by, proudly naked, breasts bouncing freely with every graceful step.

She envied the better born women who drifted naked through High Town, their breasts proudly bared to the sunlight, their hips swaying freely. How wonderful it must be, she thought sourly, to be freed from such suffocating clothing. She sighed, glancing wistfully toward the bright street outside.

"Must be nice," she muttered under her breath. Being a commoner meant covering up every inch that the nobles considered unworthy. Her curvy body was apparently something shameful, something only fit for labor, not admiration.

The door chimed softly as it swung open, and Lira straightened immediately, slipping effortlessly into her practiced smile.

Lira had perfected her smile years ago: bright, gregarious, and unfailingly polite. Customers expected cheerful servility, and she had become a master of masking the cynical disdain lurking beneath.

The young man who entered was plainly common, no noble bearing, dressed like a sailor or perhaps even a pirate, but her attention drifted past him as naturally as breathing. His clothing was entirely forgettable, a drab ensemble she could barely recall even as she looked at him.

It wasn't until he approached the counter that she really noticed him, and even then only when he asked, with genuine curiosity, "I was just wondering. Why do you all make clothes if no one actually wears them?”

Lira tilted her head slightly, her smile turning bemused, as if he’d just asked why people needed to breathe.

“Well, because the nobles need them, of course,” she said matter-of-factly, motioning toward a half-finished ball gown on a mannequin, its silver embroidery catching the light beautifully.

“But they don’t actually wear them,” he pointed out.

She nodded, unfazed. “Naturally. High Town’s nobility must always maintain an air of sophistication, and that includes how they present themselves. Even if they don't physically wear the clothing, they must commission and memorize it. It's crucial to their social standing.”

"Huh? How does that work?" he asked while reaching out, lifting the front of her simple linen dress to her waist. Lira didn't react, maintaining her warm, professional demeanor even as his fingertips traced lightly over the waistband of her panties and slipped inside. She felt a thrill of warmth surge through her as his fingers explored her pussy casually.

“Well.” she replied, leaning forward conspiratorially, which inadvertently deepened the cleavage strained within her tight dress and rigid bra. “You see, the nobles play a little competition among themselves. They commission these extravagant clothes and commit them entirely to memory. Then, when they meet at events, they describe what they're supposedly wearing, down to every last stitch. It's a contest of imagination, memory, and detail.”

Her breath caught ever so slightly, but her voice remained steady. “The garments help them engage in their social games. If a noble were to misremember another noble's outfit, it would be a terrible insult, truly catastrophic for their reputation.”

He chuckled, his thumb brushing teasingly against her swollen clit as he slid a finger deeper inside her. Her thighs trembled gently, but she kept her composure admirably, even shifting slightly toward his touch.

"Seems like a lot of wasted money," he remarked, casually pumping his fingers, feeling her slick warmth coat his digits.

Lira's eyelashes fluttered briefly as she glanced down, intending merely to adjust her stance, but her gaze caught on the substantial bulge pressing against his ill-fitted trousers. Her heart skipped, and a deep, involuntary ache bloomed low in her core. She was a professional, yes, but she was also human and she had never seen a man so impressively endowed.

Not merely large, but thick and substantial; his trousers strained visibly to contain him. Her trained eye immediately knew no tailor had measured this man, an oversight bordering on scandalous.

"It's simply the way of things," she said softly, her voice huskier now. "The garments have no practical use after memorization. They're discarded to Grey Terminal, the poor wear them."

He withdrew his fingers leisurely, holding them before her lips, slick and glistening.

“It’s normal,” he said smoothly, grinning, “that when a man finger-fucks a woman, she sucks his fingers clean afterward.”

Lira didn’t hesitate. Her lips parted obediently, and she took his fingers into her mouth, tongue swirling softly as she licked them clean, savoring her own taste naturally. When she finished, she smoothed her skirt down with practiced ease, her gaze returning pointedly to the inadequately tailored pants.

"My, my,” she said playfully, tilting her head slightly, her eyes sparkling with mischief. “You really are new to High Town, aren’t you, sir?”

Tsujo arched a brow, still smiling. “What gave it away?”

Lira tapped a delicate finger against his waistband, her knuckle brushing deliberately over the thick, unmistakable bulge beneath. “I couldn’t help but notice your trousers aren't properly tailored. That’s a terrible oversight. A man of your...stature deserves a proper fitting.”

She leaned forward slightly, voice dropping into a teasing murmur. “If you’d like, I could take your measurements myself. Completely complimentary, of course.”

He grinned broadly, understanding her meaning perfectly. “Well, I suppose that’s an offer I can't refuse, isn’t it?”

Lira smiled warmly, guiding him toward the back fitting room. Her pulse quickened with anticipation, her irritation over clothing momentarily forgotten, replaced instead with excitement at the thought of finally encountering a man whose measurements promised more than mere fabric adjustments.

Master Marquis had merely stepped into the back of the shop to retrieve a fresh roll of imported velvet, but as soon as he crossed the threshold, he was greeted with an unexpected sight.

One of his shopgirls was currently bent over a wooden trunk, her simple dress flipped up over her back, exposing her pale, round commoner’s bottom.

And behind her, plunging into her with the **** of a man possessed, was a plain-looking fellow with a cock the size of a goddamn baguette.

Master Marquis froze, his sharp tailor’s eyes immediately taking in the details, the girl’s flushed face, her fingers clutching at the edge of the trunk, the thick, veiny monstrosity pistoning in and out of her slick, stretched entrance.

For a brief, mortifying moment, he felt a stirring in his loins, a warmth creeping into his withered old prick, and he quickly shifted his weight, clearing his throat sharply to dispel any further reaction.

The shopgirl startled, yelping in surprise, her cheeks already burning red, though whether from exertion or embarrassment, it was impossible to tell.

“I- I’m still measuring him, Master Marquis!” she blurted out, her voice breathless and trembling as she braced herself against another particularly deep thrust. “Just, ah, ensuring his inseam accommodates his, er… exceptional endowment!”

The plain fellow, still grinning like a man enjoying a fine meal, gave a particularly slow, deliberate stroke, his massive cock visibly flexing inside her, making her tremble with a helpless little whimper.

Master Marquis grimaced, quickly turning on his heel.

“Well, yes, very good then,” he muttered, adjusting the drape of his arm across his midsection, subtly hiding the mild twitch of inappropriate interest his old body had briefly entertained. “Carry on.”

And with that, he departed with haste, ignoring the wet, rhythmic sounds still echoing from the back room, and willing his traitorous flesh to behave.

It was, after all, the height of uncouth to grow erect in public outside of special occasions like a wedding or a funeral.