Wet and Waiting at the Tailor’s

I'd been meaning to get a few dresses tailored for weeks, but my usual dry cleaner's seamstress was away, and those services wouldn't be available for some time. The owner recommended a nearby tailor. He mostly specialized in men's clothing, but my alterations were straightforward enough. I figured it was worth a try.

The shop was easy to miss, tucked between a vape shop and a convenience store, with a plain, uninviting sign above the door. But inside, it was unexpectedly alive and welcoming. A soft hum of conversation filled the air. Several small changing rooms lined the side wall, and at the center of it all was an older gentleman, precise and graceful, floating from client to client with pins in his mouth and a tape measure coiled around his neck. He had the presence of someone who'd spent a lifetime mastering his craft.

He caught sight of me and approached quickly, his posture impeccable. Polite, charming, and just the right kind of old-fashioned. he addressed me as "Miss" and "Dear," asking if I'd feel more comfortable using one of the back rooms, more private, away from the others. I smiled, amused and flattered. "Whatever works for you," I replied, enjoying the authority in his voice.

He led me to the back, offered me water, and asked for a few minutes to finish with his other clients. I didn't mind. In fact, I appreciated his attentiveness.

I stepped into the snug little fitting room and slipped into the first dress needing adjustments. As I sat on the small stool, legs crossed and exposed under the light fabric, I listened to the quiet bustle outside. Ten minutes passed... and my mind began to wander.

If you've read my previous confessions, you know I can't resist a chance to indulge in a little public mischief. And this was too perfect: secluded, quiet, the distant murmur of voices keeping me deliciously on edge. My pulse quickened as I cracked the door open just a sliver and perched myself carefully. I opened my phone and browsed my favorite filth, stories that always stirred something deep in me. It didn't take long for that familiar ache to settle between my legs.

I hiked the dress up and felt the heat rising from my damp panties. I pressed my fingers against the cotton, teasing my clit in slow, agonizing circles. Every sensation was amplified by the tension of not knowing when he might return. My breath was shallow and fast as I slipped my panties aside, exposing the swollen pink lips of my pussy to the air. I dragged a finger through the wetness and brought it to my mouth, savoring my own nectar

My body shivered with arousal as I slipped my panties off and spread my legs wider, fingers working rhythmically against my clit. My free hand slipped under the neckline of the dress to pinch and pull at my nipples. A low, breathy moan escaped my lops. I was lost in the pleasure, rocking my hips as the pressure built inside.

i decided i needed to take it further. i edged the door open a bit more and propped one leg up on the wall, giving anyone who might pass a snall, but filthy view. I plunged two fingers inside my sopping wet cunt. The sounds of my wetness echoing in the tiny room. I bit my lip, hips bucking against my own hand, whispering filth to myself: "Yes, fuck that pussy, you dirty fucking little slut..."

Then... his voice... calm, steady, from just outside. "I'm just wrapping up, Miss. Won't be much longer."

Fuck. My heart raced, but I didn't stop. I couldn't. The risk, the raw need, the ache in my cunt, it was too much. I pumped harder, faster, rubbing my clit with intensity. My juices dripped down onto the stool, my thighs trembling.

"I'm close... so fucking close," I whispered, just as a soft knock interrupted me.

"Are you alright, dear? Ready to come out?"

Oh god. Had he seen? Did he know? I frantically pulled my dress down, heart pounding, hair tossled, breath shallow. "Yes! One second!" I called out, struggling to gather myself.

When I stepped out, I caught him glancing into the fitting room behind me. I followed his eyes and froze. My panties were on the floor, plain as day. I flushed hard. But he said nothing.

I climbed onto the pedestal, letting him work. He adjusted the hem, pinning and measuring like a professional, but I could feel the tension between us. My slick, bare pussy was mere inches from his face. Could he smell my arousal? Did he notice my thighs trembling under the fabric?

We moved through each piece I'd brought, my desire only deepening with every touch of his fingers near my hips, every accidental brush of fabric against my bare sex. I was soaked again, throbbing, consumed by the fantasy of him knowing, of him secretly enjoying the view.

When the session ended, I told him I'd change and meet him at the front. Back in the fitting room, I didn't hesitate. I threw the door mostly shut and dropped to the stool. One leg up, leaning against the wall, I shoved two fingers deep inside myself, curling them up against my sweet spot. My body writhed, riding my hand like it was the thick cock I craved.

"Fucking cum, you filthy bitch," I moaned into the crook of my arm, teeth biting down to stay quiet. "Don't fucking stop you dirty slut!"

The orgasm hit hard. Mu knees buckled, my pussy clenching around my fingers as I soaked my hand. My vision blurred for a moment. I collapsed, gasping, heart racing.

After catching my breath, I cleaned up, changed back into my street clothes, and walked to the front. He was there, smiling warmly. "All set, Miss."

Did he know? Had he seen? God, I hoped so.

I paid my deposit, thanked him for his help, and left the shop with my panties stuffed in my handbag and a swollen, wet, satisfied pussy.