He decides to "adjust" your outfit

You stop asking him to wait, and you let the frame keep the count it already has, because fighting the straps only makes the probe hitch and Sela already told you that. The wine-red lifts and drops on the same breath as hers, and the blunt length of the shop-thing works in you in short thrusts that are not trying to be kind, only trying to make the gusset true for anyone on the pavement.

Hemm does not stay at the pin.

He talks while his hands move, which is how he does everything, and the first touch is a thumb at the neckline as if he is still selling cloth. Then the thumb is under the cloth, on Sela’s heavier breast that is yours now, and he weighs it the way he weighed the dummy, except the dummy did not make a sound. You do.

"Hold still," he says, not to your face. "If the bodice rides I have to recut, and I am not recutting a pair because you decided to be shy in my glass."

His other hand goes to the strap at your waist and uses it as a handle so he can turn you a finger-width toward the street, and the probe goes with you, deeper on that angle, until your mouth opens and the sound that comes out is hers. Sela glances over and then away, toward a spot on the glass that is not a man.

"Don’t look at them if it helps," she says, short. "Look at the pin. It passes."

It does not pass. Hemm’s chalk-hand finds the other breast and pinches until the nipple sits against the wine-red the way he wants it seen, and he laughs once, not kindly, when your hips try to lift off the probe and the frame puts you back down. A man on the pavement has stopped pretending to look at the rack. Another one joins him because the first one did. Hemm talks numbers at the glass without taking his hands off you.

"Two of her. Same chest. You buy the hem off either, I peel it and put the next sample on. You want to feel how the waist sits, you wait until I say you can come in."

He does not wait himself. His fingers leave the bodice and go down the front of the dress to where the probe is working, and he puts two of them alongside it, stretching you around shop-work and his hand at once, and the bad of that is not that it hurts so much as that it does not let you keep the finish as only the machine’s. You were going to come on the frame’s count. He steals the count and makes it his.

"I—" You start the sentence twice and lose it, volume dropping the way it does when you are caught. "I can’t if you—"

"You can. That is the point of a pair." He works his fingers in time with the probe and uses your breast as a grip when your knees dip, and Sela’s frame keeps rolling beside you so that when you shake she shakes a half-beat later, two of the same auburn head knocking the inner pane. The street can see your mouth. The street can see his wrist disappearing under the hem.

It builds whether you choose for it or not, increasing in intensity. You go over in front of the glass with his fingers in you and the probe filling what his fingers leave, and the sound you make is raw enough that Sela swears under her breath and flexes in her cuffs as if that will take some of it off you. Your cunt clamps the machine. Wet hits his knuckles and the inside of the wine-red, and your wrists pull the straps until the leather complains.

He does not stop.

That is the part you did not offer. He keeps the fingers moving through the shake and after it, talking hem and credit to the men while you hang on the straps and try to find a breath that is not hers and not a sob, and then he takes his wet hand out and wipes it on the underside of your breast as if that is a cloth. He opens his trousers with the other hand, steps up on a ladder pulled from beside the frames, and puts himself in the line of your tits where the neckline is already pulled, and he fucks the cleft of them against the glass while the probe is still going in you, using the pair as a stop on his morning.

"Don’t drop your chin," he says, almost mild. "If you drool on the sample I take it out of Marr’s day."

You hold your chin up because you do not have another move, and he finishes on the skin between your breasts with a short grunt that the nearest man hears. He tucks himself away before the spend can reach the wine-red’s neckline, and he uses the edge of his apron on you the way he would use a rag on a dummy. The probe keeps its count a little longer and then he kills both frames with his foot, Sela’s and yours together, so the street sees two of her slump on the same beat.

Sela’s voice comes tired and longer now that the machine is down.

"He does that when he thinks he has something he can sell twice. I am sorry. Next sample will be worse if you let him pick it."

Hemm is already pinning the neckline back as if his spend is not drying between your breasts, and the men on the pavement have not moved. Your legs are not good. The straps still have your wrists. The dress is still hers, and you are still her from the hair down, Charlie only behind the green eyes that are looking at two of the same flushed face in the inner glass.