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A New York Escorts Confessions

“I tailor too.”

“Oh good. Maro. I’m going to pick up my dress that Stan fixed okay? Um… I pick up dress, yes?”

“Dress. Okay.”

We began to go through the clothes hanging on Stan’s rack. Ocassionally our hands would brush and I found myself shivering involuntarily. Finally we found it.

“I go try on, okay?”

Well, he sure seemed to know what that meant.

I went into the dressing room, pulled back the drape and stripped down to my baby blue lace thong. I stood there for a second, willing him to burst in and find me like that. I could hear his breath outside and imagined that he could see the curve of my breasts through the curtain. The air was electric, pregnant. When nothing happened after a minute, I began to put on the dress. Correction — tried to put on the dress. First, I stepped in and tried to pull it up over my hips. It wouldn’t go. Then, I tried to put it over my head, but couldn’t get it past my shoulders. Damn. Shoot. What was wrong?!

I poked my head out of the stall. “Um, Maro? I put on over my head or up from the floor?”

He stared at my naked shoulder. And stared. It was enticing, but after all this was The Dress. And something was wrong. Very very wrong.

Had Stan cut away fabric to make it fit again? Could it actually be — gulp — ruined? No way. wasn’t going to happen on my watch.

I went back into the stall and pulled the dress with all my might over my shoulders. Nobody was going to get between me and the perfect dress. Nobody. I pulled and swiveled until the bust line was perched mid-nipple. My breasts heaved like I was in some kind of over-heated Victorian romance novel. One more shove and I’d be home.

Unfortunately I was one shove too short. The dress simply wouldn’t budge a milimeter more. I tried to pull in the other direction but it was stuck that way too. Shoot!

“Alexa okay, yes?”

Okay? No okay! The perfect dress was now a perfect straight-jacket!

And then I remembered. Maro was a tailor…

I came out of the stall with my arm draped over my exposed breasts. “Too small,” I said. “Stuck. See?”

He stood there forever looking at me. Our eyes met. Slowly I dropped my arm. I could feel my chest moving up and down with my breaths. They were getting quicker and quicker.

“… I fix”

Slowly he moved to the sewing box and got out a razor. I drew in my breath. “Oh no! You’re not going to—”

“I no hurt”

He came over towering above me. His breath moved the hairs on my arm.

“Only here, yes?”

He lifted my arm up above my head and ran his fingers tentatively along the seam.

“How it called?”

“Seam,” I said.

“Yes, seam.”

Slowly he began to run the razor where his fingers had been before. As he worked his way down his hand grazed the top of my breast. He quickly withdrew his hand. I didn’t move, didn’t breathe and kept my eyes on him. After a moment he put his hand lightly back where it had been. I could feel him getting hard against my rib cage. He continued moving the razor down then moved his hand inside the dress to my nipple and rubbed it between his fingers. The fabric began to relax. He held it in place then moved across me to get to the other side, sweeping his chest over mine. I breathed him in, closed my eyes. The only sound was our breaths and the delicate rip rip of the razor. The dress dropped to the floor. Maro held the razor and stared. He began to walk towards me. Slowly he grasped the top of my thong and pulled up ever so slightly on it. I gasped. Then he took the razor to my panties and worked his way down. Rip Rip. I could feel myself being exposed, feel his breath as he kneeled down to work. The thong rolled down my thighs. I could feel the cool metal of the razor against my pubic hair. Then wet. Oh dear God. His young mouth against my lips. I grasped his shoulders and pulled myself into him. Dear God! Dear God — wait a second. Was he underage? Where the hell was his wallet?

“Maro. Do you… oh… I need… oh oh… driver’s licens —”

Oh God. Who even cared if he might be jailbate? He felt too good.

I climaxed hard and fell into him. He wrapped his arms around my legs and grabbed my backside. Before I could even exhale, we heard the outside door open.

“Maro!”

I ducked into the dressing room just as Stan burst through the door. Maro immediately began talking to him in Croatian, in what I could only guess was a story of distraction. All I caught was Maro saying he had to go to his other job bartending somewhere. Thank God he wasn’t underage! I got dressed as quickly as possible not knowing if my shirt was even on right side out and high-tailed it out of there.

A week later I willed myself to go back to Stan’s to pick up the dress. Who knew the walk of shame would involve going to the tailor? When I arrived, sweet Maro was nowhere to be seen, and Stan, as always, was at his machine. He greeted me as usual with a kiss on each cheek and told me he was sorry that the dress had been too small. He promised that this time it would fit perfectly.

And it did. And my repatched thong didn’t look too bad either.