Taylor's Tailor Ch. 01

My second wife recently divorced me. She just didn’t want to be my wife anymore, she said. It wasn’t that we didn’t get along. We’d traveled and socialized a lot though we’d decided against having kids, since we’re both professional people. An earlier marriage had produced all the progeny I wanted. But, not having a family with this spouse probably had been a mistake, since I’m 40 and her biological clock at age 34 most likely had been ticking inexorably toward that fail-safe, go-no go, point that seems to occur in every woman’s reproductive life.

The thing that really hurt, since we were very compatible – sexual and otherwise – was that she’d gutted my business financially. She’d walked into the marriage with the princely sum of $200 in a savings account, twenty shares of over-priced stock in a private winery, and some junk furniture that was beneath the decorative taste of a college sophomore. But, I’d loved her, and had been forced to walk away after eight years, licking my wounds after her attorney garnered her $1.5 million in cash and real estate assets, mostly from my custom home design business. At least there was no alimony. I’d believed in justice before I’d experienced divorce courts and the lawyers who make their excellent livings therein.

So, I bought a bachelor house twenty-five miles away, moving into a post-WW II suburban neighborhood that was beginning to turn into a haven for divorced folk. The original homeowners in the area had either died or sold to young, 30 and 40-somethings before they moved into senior centers. I was one of the new buyers, but on my street there were four others, all of them female businesspeople. Across the street there was still a family of grandparents who had a couple of grandchildren living with them, because of the questionable mating habits of their “trailer trash” daughters who were fond of recreational drugs, according to the gossipy old widow next door. The rest, as I’ve said, were women, all undeniably attractive.

When I moved in, though, I didn’t fit the mold of the archetypal, horny, divorced man. The residual pain of the separation was still with me, and sex had taken a distant second or third place behind reviving my business from the financial hits it’d taken. This was a departure from my usual behavior, since I’d always been sexually active…rather anxious to push the edge of the matrimonial envelope when it came to infidelity. In any case, “dating” was not a word in my lexicon, since I bore a good bit of mistrust regarding close relationships. I had let down my guard once, just days after I moved in, when one of the disreputable daughters from across the street – the tall, blonde one – invited herself in and, after she’d snorted a line of her stash of cocaine on my glass coffee table, proceeded to blow me to a very satisfying orgasm. Since that occurrence I hadn’t seen her, though the widow next door told me that the police had picked her up one day and she was now languishing in a drug rehab center.

In any case, I was settling into my new neighborhood, busy with all the details of a new arrival’s life: where to have cars repaired, have dry cleaning done, whom to get as a dental hygienist, etc. Much information on these minutiae was given me at a party thrown for me by the divorced real estate agent – Carrie – living across the street and down a ways. She lives with her brother, a divorced, retired deputy sheriff, and is built like Dolly Parton. She’d invited all the single women in the area to the party, and I felt as if I were a slab of meat on display in a butcher shop, being picked at and stroked by hungry females who could hardly repress their fascination with all aspects of my past life. I’d had some experience with this mating ritual and, though sorely tempted, escaped unscathed with my abstemious virtue intact. Nevertheless, though, Carrie and her attractive army still find legion excuses to visit me at almost any hour that I’m home. But, one can eat only so many cookies, pies, and loaves of nut bread provided by even the most comely of ladies.

I’m 6’2” tall and weigh in at 200. I’m good looking, I’m told – in a WASP sort of way – and still have all my hair. But the pervasive sick feeling one has when going through a divorce has taken its toll, and I’ve lost 30 pounds over the past many months. As a result, my wardrobe hangs on me like a scarecrow. Rather than spend several grand to replace my suits, I decided to have them re-tailored to my slimmer frame. A woman at the party had provided me with the location of a dry cleaner who did alterations, so I took one of my suits along with some shirts that needed laundering. This was on a Thursday evening a little before six.

The shop was empty, save for a petite, youngish Chinese woman. She had short, thick hair, obviously carefully tended by a professional, and creamy, light skin that – on this night – contrasted attractively with the all-black turtleneck sweater and pants she wore. Though she was behind the counter, I noticed that her five-foot-tall body filled her clothing nicely. Her makeup was flawless on her unlined face, with lips highlighted by a dark, almost violet, color. She wore stylish, black-framed glasses that accented her nearly black, almond-shaped eyes, which were further enhanced by pearl-colored shadow. Uncharacteristically for an Asian, diamond jewelry studded her ears, a necklace around her neck, and several rings, one jade, on her fingers. The dry-cleaning business must be good, I thought. As I looked at her, I remembered one of the greatest and perhaps the saddest loves of my life, a stunning girl from Thailand who’d died tragically.

This woman’s attractive appearance belied her brusque manner, however. As is the case with so many Chinese originating outside the U.S., she addressed me a bit loudly and in a clipped, no-nonsense, way. I knew she hadn’t been born here, since her speech was what Anglos call “broken” English. “Heavy starch, yeh?” she asked. “Dry clean suit?”

“Uh, no,” I corrected, “I’ve lost some weight and understand that you do alterations.”

“You wan’ try on?” she questioned. I nodded, and she pointed to the back, “Dressing room back there.”

I went to the little cubicle and changed into the baggy suit, emerging to almost run into her. “Had to lock front door,” she said, quickly. “After six,” she explained, as she pulled me in front of an enclosed three-way mirror to stand on a raised platform.

“Mm,” she said, “need lot o’ work!” as she placed some pins in her mouth. “Take off coat. Do pants first.” I disposed of the jacket, and she turned me around to face the mirror, sticking her small hand deeply into the back of my pants. I was wearing a polo shirt with the tail out, and her fingers had plunged into my boxers as well. They felt good as one brushed the top of my crack. “Oh, sorry,” she said, giggling, the first time she’d shown any semblance of levity. She pinned the back from the waistband to down, under the seat, then said, “Turn ‘roun’.”

This time she was more careful with her hands. She slowly placed them in the front and looked up, asking, “Tight enough?” then withdrew her hand to place it in my crotch, at the top of the inseam. My balls were resting on her two fingers, and she moved them slightly, softly inquiring, “You dress to right or left?”

Remembering that this meant, “Which pant leg does your package normally hang down?” I responded, “Uh, to the right,” and instantly felt myself getting erect, except that my cock was in my left pant leg.

“You sure?” she asked.

“Yes, normally,” I said, embarrassed, as I grew larger.

Barely perceptibly, she touched my growing member in my left leg with the back of her fingers and hesitated, blushing…uncharacteristic for an Asian, I thought. She then withdrew her hand and said, “Well, bettah put it there.” I did, thrusting a hand inside my pants and awkwardly pulling my cock from one leg to the other, which tented the front of my right leg since I was now fully hard. Squatting ass-on-heels, she leaned back and said, “Wait few minute. Then we pin.”

“Aaah…is this your shop?” I asked, desperate to distract her attention in the palpable silence.

“Yeh, I own,” she said. “All mine…no husban’,” she added, almost proudly.

“Widowed?” I asked.

“Huh?” she asked, not comprehending.

Trying again, I asked, “Husband dead?”

“No! Divorce!” she exclaimed, as though still as happy to be rid of him as she was on the first day.

“Oh,” I acknowledged.

“Yup…two daughter, in college,” she said.

“Really!” I said, shocked that this stunning woman was about my age, at her eldest. “I only have one daughter.”

“Oh, yeh? Big guy like you? Well, who need marriage, yeh?” she grinned, looking directly at me for the first time.

“Where’re you from?” I asked.

“Oh, Shanghai. Come here when 18…with husban’,” she confided. “Then he marry somebody else,” she almost cackled, showing some bitterness. “Judy my name. You?”

“Jack Taylor. Just moved here,” I said.

“Tay-luh…Tay-luh,” Judy repeated, as if committing it to memory. “Okay, Tay-luh, you ready now?” she asked, grinning again.

“Mmm, yeah, I’m…okay,” I said.

She touched my crotch at the inseam again and, feeling my flaccid penis in the right place, she breathed, “Ooh, yeh…you okay,” and finished her pinning of the crotch.

“Okay, Tay-luh, put on coat now,” Judy directed. I did so and she began smoothing it out over my shoulders, against my chest, and down over my hips. She buttoned it and turned me around, marking and pinning the gathered material in back. “Turn…please,” she requested, which I did. “Step down.” I stepped off the platform and she stood very near me, looking up into my eyes with her breasts against me, and stroking the material across my pecs and under my arms. As close as she was, I could smell her sweet, hot breath as she spoke softly, her eyes boring into me. “You like it tight heah?” she asked, “and heah?”

“Yeah…I like it tight,” I gasped, as my prick once again filled with blood.

“Well, bettah take off now. All finish!” she said, backing away and riveting her glance at my crotch. She almost pushed me into the dressing cublicle.

I heard her humming a tune as I changed clothes, then she asked, “When you want? I only here late Thursday.”

“Next Thursday’s fine. Are you here on weekends?” I asked.

“No, just daughter. Pick up shirts then?” she inquired.

“Okay, Judy.” I walked to the front door, which she unlocked.

“See you,” I said, “next Thursday, same time!”

“Okay, Tay-luh. Oh, gimme phone numbah,” she said. She wrote it down and waved, “Bye bye!”

Judy had really turned me on, I thought, as I drove home. For the first time in ages I’d gotten an erection just being near a woman. The fact that I’d always lusted after attractive Asian babes was beside the point. I wantedher. And, with 20 suits needing altering, I’d have plenty of time to scratch this ethnic itch.

I couldn’t wait until Thursday. Saturday morning I dropped by Judy’s shop and was waited on by a tall, voluptuous, twenty-ish, Chinese girl who obviously had been American born. “Are you Judy’s daughter?” I asked.

“Why yes,” she responded pleasantly, deepening her facial dimples as she smiled. “Do you know my Mom?” she asked, casting her long, raven hair back over one shoulder with a raking hand.

“Well, yeah. She owns the shop, right?” I said.

“Yes, but so few customers know her name. She generally is very aloof…by design,” she stated candidly, giving me an appraising look.

“We met just recently,” I confessed. “If you see her, tell her I said hi. Jack Taylor’s the name.”

“Of course I will, Mr. Taylor. I’ll see her tonight. I stay with her on weekends. During the week I live off-campus,” she said, quite openly.

“Mmm, my office is near the campus. What’s your name?” I asked, as another customer walked in.

“Call me Amber,” she purred, smiling to display a stunning array of white teeth.

“Okay, Amber. See you,” I said, walking out as she followed me with her eyes. Her mother certainly had bestowed some remarkable genes on this young creature, I mused.

****************

Thursday evening I was at Judy’s shop with another suit. It was about 6:10 and, after a departing customer had left, she locked the door. “Hi, Tay-luh!” she beamed. “I finish you suit!”

“Super!” I exulted. “Let’s try it on!” I said, as I followed her into the back.

“Heah you go,” she said, handing me the altered garments. “I clean for you, too!” she confessed.

Mmm, first class treatment, I thought, as I changed in the dressing cubicle. I heard her humming a tune again, then she asked from the other side of the curtain, “You know Dim Sum? You like eat?”

“I love Dim Sum!” I stated, truthfully.

“I heat for you,” she gasped, walking away as I emerged dressed in the suit. I’d worn a shirt and tie to see what the whole outfit would look like. It fit perfectly.

Judy came from where she’d microwaved a steaming plate of one of my favorite Chinese snacks. Tasting one, I said, “Mmmmm,” then smacked my lips, reaching for another Dim Sum.

“You like? I make!” she said, proudly. Then she stepped back to look at me.

“Delicious!” I said. “You having some?”

She shook her head, “I eat already,” regarding my clothing carefully, then said, “Oooh, Tay-luh, you look good,” making the last word sound like three syllables. Then she turned me bodily to look in the three-way mirror, her tiny form over a foot shorter than mine. “See how it fit heah…and heah…and heah!” she said, moving her hands softly all over my upper body. “Pants okay?” she asked, pulling off my coat and stroking my butt well into the crotch. “Okay heah?” she breathed softly, moving her hands across my front below the belt line and down my right leg. “Mmm, yeh. Good fit!”

This night Judy was clothed in a pearl gray crewneck sweater and tight gray wool pants, with her little round butt filling out the trousers in a delectable fashion. Then, noticing, she exclaimed, “Oh! You bring other suit! Wan’ try on?”

“Sure, Judy. I’ve finally found a good tailor…and a beautiful one, too!” I flirted, as I stepped into the cubicle to change. Pushing my luck, this time I left the curtain halfway open. “Uh, can you give me another Dim Sum?” I asked. Judy reached into the half open curtain with one in her dainty, manicured fingers – her slim, milky, hairless wrist ringed by three thin gold bracelets – and I engulfed the morsel by taking both of her fingers into my mouth to the ends and slowly sliding my lips off of them.

I heard her gasp behind the curtain, “Oh, Tay-luh…”. The sound of her voice was in such sensuous contrast to her normal clipped tone that I felt pulses in my groin as I was putting on my pants. Then she said, “My daughter, Am-buh, say she meet you Saturday. She say you very nice!”

“I found her very charming, and very sexy, too…just like her mother!” I pushed, hoping for a telling response as I emerged to step in front of the mirrors.

“Oh, Tay-luh, you bad! You say that to all women,” she giggled, grabbing my hand. “Not need step today,” she said, keeping me from stepping on the platform. “This good height. Pull out shirt please,” she said, as she yanked out my shirttail. “Turn,” she said, repeating the process of the week before. Then she stuck her fingers down past the waistband in back, holding up my shirt and pulling out the pants – and my boxers – so that I felt cool air on my ass. “Mmm, lotta’ room here,” she murmured, and stuck her hand down into the gap, palm first! Her soft fingers stroked my cheeks up the crack, with one of them brushing past my rectum. I turned my head around to see her withdrawing that finger from her face – having smelled or licked it – to which she reacted: “Need take pants more in back here!” and, kneeling, started marking and pinning them down to the crotch.

I was getting hard again – daydreaming about this yummy Oriental doll – and, as luck would have it, my erection was forming in my left pant leg! I turned around at her request and she asked, knowingly, “Dress to right, yeh?” I nodded as she reached for my crotch to discover I was growing visibly in the left leg. “Well…Tay-luh…” she said as she looked up at me, her eyes softening.

Neither of us spoke for several seconds as we probed one another’s eyes. “You…do…it,” I ventured, breathing heavily.

She hesitated, looked up at me – the only sound in the room being my breathing – and whispered, “Okay…Tay-luh.” She reached slowly for my zipper and drew it down. I noticed her chest rising and falling rapidly and now heard her breath passing quickly from her mouth as she nervously licked her lips. At the first touch of her hand on me I moaned, and she did too, echoing my rising excitement. Very daintily, and with extreme gentleness, she pulled my near-erect dick out of my fly and moaned again, saying something in Cantonese, though I distinctly heard the wordmang. From my brief tour with an intelligence agency in Asia, I remembered that this means “snake.” She canted her head to one side, as if to study it more closely, then began to slowly caress me from my fly out over my circumcised glans. She mewled in her throat as the cock grew larger in her grasp, and exhaled “Nnggah!” when I unbuttoned my trousers and they pooled to the floor. She then peeled my boxers down and I was there for her in all my glory, pulsing as each heartbeat caused the head to expand and contract in direct challenge to her mouth. “Oh, Tay-luh…oh…you have bigmang!” she marveled, twisting her tiny hand around me and sliding it to and fro with a languorous motion.

Judy scooted toward me on the carpeted floor, humming in her throat, then looked up at me and took off her glasses, laying them beside her. She looked no older than her daughter! I thought lustily, as I flicked my hips forward once or twice. Not breaking eye contact with me, she then stuck out her tongue to lave me agonizingly slowly around the corona. I was amazed at the length of her tongue, and its muscularity, as she circled it continuously around my angry, red knob. Then, moaning, she eased her mouth onto me and closed her almond eyes. She pushed her mouth toward my pelvis until I struck the top of her throat. She then opened her eyes and, concentrating and breathing deeply, opened her gullet to gradually take me in. She pulled off again and took a very deep breath, then pushed onto me until her small nose was buried in my pubic hair.

I was astounded. I’d not been fellated like this since…since…I’d forgotten, but my selective memory told me it was with an Asian woman, somewhere in the depths of the Bangkok red light district. Judy then set up a regular rhythm, pulling out so that her lips grazed the head, then pushing back on with her jaw hideously distended to engulf my eight inch prong.

I had to taste this wanton little woman. Pulling her to her feet, which broke her oral grasp on my dick, I kissed her sweet mouth, breathing in her flowery vapors, and her long tongue probed me as she moaned deeply in her throat. Leaning back and gasping, she uttered, “Ohhh, Tay-luhhh. Got to turn off light!” and grabbed her glasses to disappear somewhere and plunge the shop into near darkness. The only visibility was provided by a large, red, flashing neon sign that said “Shirts Laundered - $1.00.”

Judy was back in a flash, and once again grabbed for my cock. She released it as I pulled off her sweater – relinquished over upraised arms – and unzipped her pants in back, sliding them to the floor. The exquisite, buttery skin on her small, perfect body alternately shone a milky pink and ivory white as the red light flashed on and off, as I appraised her luscious form with my eyes and hands. She’d removed her glasses again and unfastened her black bra in back, which released her round breasts to my admiring gaze; about 32-B, I thought. For a woman my age who’d had two kids, her tits were stunning, with very little sag. I pulled her to me and her dark, protruding nipples dimpled my body just below the pecs. I peeled her black, lacey panties down over her curvy thighs and marveled at the satiny feel of her smoothly muscled calves that ended in archetypal small ankles and feet.