A man walked in. An object walked out.
The shop wasn’t your average tailor. It was tucked away in the courtyard of an old stone building, with no sign on the door. You only got an appointment if someone vouched for you. I was vouched for by an old business partner whose suits always fit so perfectly it was almost unnatural.
“Madame H. takes care of me,” was all he’d said with a smirk.
The place smelled of aged wood, expensive wool, and sex. That heavy, animal scent that hangs in a room long after the act is over. And it was dead silent.
Then she emerged.
Madame H. was in her sixties, maybe older. She had the posture of a Prussian general and steel-grey hair pulled into a bun sharp enough to take out an eye. Her gaze stripped me naked right there in the entryway. It didn’t just see through me; it rummaged around in my soul and chuckled at what it found.
“Ah, yes. The boy,” she said, her voice low and bored.
Me, a thirty-something success story who fucked who he wanted and commanded entire teams, was suddenly just the boy.
And it hit me. Fuck, that felt good.
“I’m here for a suit,” I managed, trying to sound firm.
A derisive smile touched her lips. “That’s what they all say.”
Undress.
It wasn’t a request. With my jacket and shirt off, she circled me, her eyes assessing every flaw.
“Faster. I don’t have all day to watch you play at being a coat rack. Trousers.”
With my trousers pooled around my ankles, I stood there in my boxers.
“Is there a problem? Are you hiding something?” she asked, snapping her fingers. “Everything. Now.”
My heart hammered against my ribs. I stripped off the rest. I stood there, completely naked, as she stepped in front of me. Her fingers were cool as they gripped my chin and forced my head up.
“Look at me.”
I did. And as I did, I felt the blood rush to my cock. It began to rise, shamelessly, for all to see.
“Oh, look at that,” she said, her voice soft with mockery. “Your body is more honest than you are. It knows its place.”
Her hand left my chin, tracing a line down my chest and stomach until her fingers wrapped around my hardening cock. The grip was firm, clinical, possessive. As if she were weighing livestock.
“I’m sorry,” I wheezed.
Quiet.
“You don’t apologize for your nature. You will, however, learn to control it.”
She let go and pushed me toward a platform in the middle of the room. “Up. You are my mannequin. You do not speak. You do not move. You do not breathe unless I tell you to. Understood?”
I nodded.
She began to work, draping fabric around me. The pins were sharp, and she used them with rough precision. I felt a prick on my ass, another on my thigh. Each small sting was an electric jolt that only made my erection harder.
And then the front door clicked open.
“Madame H.? I’m here for my fitting.”
TERROR. Pure, ice-cold terror flooded my veins.
“Come in, darling!” Madame H. called out cheerfully. A young woman, maybe early thirties, walked in. She saw me instantly, and a look of sheer amusement spread across her face. She’d clearly seen this before.
“A new model?” the woman asked.
“A new toy,” Madame H. corrected, slapping my ass with an open palm. The sound echoed in the silent room. I bit my lip so hard I tasted blood. “A bit stiff, and as you can see, it’s leaking. Poorly maintained.”
The woman laughed. It was a clear, utterly cruel sound. She walked over and looked me up and down.
“May I touch?”
“Be my guest. Check the material for durability.”
The woman’s fingers, warm and soft, landed on my chest and slid down my stomach. They circled my nipples, pinching lightly. Then her hand moved lower, and she ran a finger through the bead of pre-cum at the tip of my cock. She looked me straight in the eye, raised the finger to her lips, and tasted it.
“Sweet,” she reported to Madame H.
That was it. My control shattered. I came. Not quietly, but convulsively, my whole body spasming. It was an orgasm of pure humiliation and total submission that shot out of me and splashed onto the polished floor.
Madame H. and the woman watched the display calmly. When the tremors subsided, Madame H. fixed me with an icy stare.
“Messy boy.”
On the floor.
“Lick it clean. Every last drop. I want to hear your tongue working that wood until it shines.”
The woman watched for a moment as I, on trembling legs, got down on all fours. Then she turned and disappeared into the back room. It was just me, the cold floor, and the taste of my own shame.
When I was finished, Madame H. nudged me with the toe of her shoe.
“Up. The floor is clean. Now your mouth.” She handed me a silk handkerchief.
She scribbled in her notebook. “Your suit will be ready in two weeks. The invoice will follow.”
As I was dressing, I saw the invoice on her desk. Below the cost of materials and labor, there was a single additional line item:
Special Cleaning (biological spillage): €500
I knew I would pay it without question.
And I would beg to come back.