Tailor Fucks Neglected Wife
A neglected jeweler's wife gets fucked hard by her hot tailor during a private fitting.
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I stepped into Marco’s atelier just after four, the heavy oak door whispering shut behind me with a soft click that seemed to seal the outside world away. My husband, Victor, had texted an hour earlier—another late night at the vault, another dinner I would eat alone. The knowledge sat like a stone in my chest as I slipped off my coat and hung it on the brass hook. The shop smelled of warm wool, cedar, and the faint citrus of Marco’s cologne. It always did.
He emerged from the back room in a crisp white shirt rolled to his elbows, the fabric stretched across shoulders that had clearly been earned by something more strenuous than threading needles. At twenty-eight, Marco moved with the easy confidence of a man who knew exactly how to use his hands. Those hands had been brushing against me for a year now—measuring, pinning, adjusting—always professional, always stopping just short of the hunger I had begun to see flickering behind his dark eyes.
“Elena,” he said, voice low and warm. “Right on time. The silk charmeuse arrived yesterday. I think you’re going to like what I did with the neckline.”
I smiled, already reaching for the zipper at the side of my dress. “You always know what I like.”
The gown slid to the floor in a whisper of midnight-blue fabric. I stepped out of it wearing only the champagne lace bra and matching thong I had chosen that morning—chosen, I realized now, with him in mind. The mirror behind me showed the full picture: a 32-year-old woman with heavy breasts, a narrow waist, and hips that had filled out after years of comfortable neglect. My nipples were already tight against the lace.
Marco cleared his throat, but his gaze stayed on me. He picked up his measuring tape like it was a lifeline. “Shall we start with the waist?”
I lifted my arms. He stepped close enough that I could feel the heat of his body. The tape slid around my ribs, then lower. When it settled at the curve of my hips his fingers lingered, thumbs brushing the sensitive skin just above the lace. My breath caught.
“You’re trembling,” he murmured.
“It’s cold in here,” I lied.
His chuckle was soft, intimate. “Liar.”
The tape moved again, this time across my lower back. I felt the brush of his knuckles against the top of my ass and couldn’t stop the small shiver that ran through me. When I glanced at the mirror our eyes met—his dark and stormy, mine wide and unmistakably needy.
“You’re not wearing the necklace Victor made for you,” he observed, voice dropping another register.