The fitting

Tammy barely slept. When the alarm went off, her body felt like it had been wrung out, her nipples still tender from the clamps, her clit throbbing like it hadn’t stopped all night. She dressed mechanically, blouse buttoned to the throat, trousers neat, makeup applied with shaking hands. Her head pounded with dread.

By the time she reached the office, John was already waiting. He leaned against her desk, arms folded, his cold eyes fixed on her like she was nothing more than a task to be handled.

“Not acceptable,” he said, sweeping a look down her clothes. “Come.”

No explanation. Just a command.

The office went dead quiet as she rose, bag in hand. Jill raised her eyebrows, mouthing ooh la la as Tammy followed John out. The whispers stung her ears all the way down the hall, heat crawling up her neck.

A taxi was already waiting. John held the door open, and she climbed in without a word. The ride was silent, Glasgow rolling past outside, rain streaking the windows. Tammy couldn’t stop fidgeting, her thighs pressed tight together, palms slick.

They pulled up outside an old-fashioned gentleman’s tailor shop. The kind of place with dark wood panelling and a brass bell above the door. Inside, it smelled of wool and polish, racks of sharp suits lined up in military rows.

An older man looked up from behind the counter. White hair, neat moustache, pressed shirt. He smiled, kind, almost disarmingly so.

“John,” he said warmly, clasping his hand. “Been too long.”

“Bill,” John replied. “Still at it, I see.”

Bill’s eyes shifted to Tammy. He gave her a once-over, the smile never faltering. “And this must be the project.”

Tammy’s stomach dropped. Project?

“Through the back,” John said.

Bill nodded and led them down a narrow corridor, past bolts of fabric and sewing machines, to a heavy door. He unlocked it and pushed it open.

Tammy’s breath caught.

The back room was nothing like the shop. Here, the air was heavier, tinged with leather and musk. Racks lined the walls—not suits, but corsets, half-cut bras, stockings with seams, suspenders, garters. Shoes with heels high enough to break ankles. Mannequins stood in the corners dressed in lingerie that belonged on dirty postcards.

Her chest tightened.

Bill turned, his tone brisk but polite. “Clothes off. All of them. On the chair.”

Tammy’s mouth went dry. She looked at John, who only raised an eyebrow. Heat flooded her cheeks as she began unbuttoning her blouse, every nerve screaming with the knowledge of their eyes on her. Her trousers slid down her legs, her sensible underwear following.

She placed everything neatly on the chair and straightened, naked, skin prickling under the room’s cool air.

Bill’s gaze travelled over her slowly. “Hands behind your head.”

She obeyed, tits lifting, nipples tightening in the open air.

Bill stepped closer, a tape measure in hand, moving around her like she was a mannequin. Chest, waist, hips, thighs. His hands brushed her skin more than was strictly necessary, fingers dragging lightly against the swell of her breasts, the curve of her ass. Each touch sent unwanted sparks straight to her core.

Bill asked suddenly "can I" and Tammy realised that the question wasn't to her but to John, John nodded and Bill continued his hand slid lower and pushed into the folds of her pussy, she felt him trying to stretch her and her arousal grew.

“She’s still tight,” he murmured, almost to himself. Two fingers inside, curling, testing. Tammy gasped, her nipples hard as steal.

“Ginger,” Bill added with a faint smile, glancing at the tuft of hair between her thighs. “Natural. You’ve been dyeing your head hair, haven’t you?”

Tammy nodded frantically, voice weak. “For years.”

“No more,” John cut in, his tone brooking no argument.

Bill stroked the wiry curls with his free hand, studying them like a man appraising cloth. “Best to let it show. It suits her.”

Tammy wanted the floor to open up. Her body was on fire, pussy clenching around Bill’s fingers as if trying to hold him there. They spoke about her like she wasn’t even in the room. Like she was just a body to be catalogued, critiqued.

“Large breasts,” Bill said clinically, giving her left nipple a light pinch before jotting something down on a clipboard. Tammy nearly cried out. “Sensitive.”

John’s cold voice agreed. “She’ll need support. Half-cut. Display, but restraint.”

Bill withdrew his fingers, slick with her arousal, and wiped them on a cloth as though it were ink. “She’ll do nicely.”

He turned to the racks, selecting a corset of deep black satin, a half-cut bra that would bare the top swell of her tits, stockings with seams that promised every eye would follow her legs.

“Dress her,” John ordered.

Tammy slipped into the garments with trembling hands. The corset hugged her waist tight, pushing her tits up obscenely. The bra left her nipples straining against the fabric, half-exposed. The stockings gripped her thighs, the suspenders snapping into place with sharp clicks.

When she turned to face them, both men studied her in silence.

Bill nodded, satisfied. “Perfect.”

John’s lips curled faintly. “Better.”

When they returned to the office, heads turned. Conversations stuttered. Jill’s eyes went wide, her grin slow and filthy. Tammy’s skin burned under the stares, her arousal and shame tangled so tightly she could barely breathe.

And John walked beside her, calm and cold.