Soft Femboy in Making

Two evenings later Priya is out again — with him. Arjun and Vikram are both in the living room. You are still in the short black spaghetti dress, the neckline low enough that the soft upper curves of your small breasts are clearly visible.
Vikram is the one who brings it up first.
“I keep thinking about you in traditional clothes,” he says, eyes moving slowly over your body. “Not the usual kind. Half-sarees. Short blouses. The kind that sit tight and show a little stomach… and make those soft breasts look even prettier.”
Arjun nods, his gaze lingering on your chest.
“A well-stitched blouse on a body like yours would look dangerous. Tight across the back, sleeves short, neckline just low enough. The kind of blouse that makes it obvious you’re not a regular husband anymore.” His voice drops. “I want to see that. You walking into a room in a half-saree with a sexy blouse, looking soft and a little shy while we stare.”
Your face heats up immediately.
“…You’re both serious about that.”
“Very,” Vikram answers. “And the best part would be knowing you had to go get them stitched yourself. Standing in a tailor shop, getting measured for blouses that are clearly meant for a pretty boy with small breasts and a narrow waist.”
The idea settles in your stomach like hot embarrassment.

The next afternoon Priya gives you the address of a small tailor shop in Richardson, the kind that mostly does work for Telugu women. She hands you a small paper bag containing two of her own older blouses as “reference style” and a note with the exact measurements she wants for you.
“Tell him they’re for you,” she says simply. “Don’t pretend otherwise. I already called and said my husband would be coming for his own blouses.”
Your stomach drops. “Priya—”
She only smiles and adjusts the soft crop top you are wearing so the small shape of your chest is a little more obvious.
“Go.”

The shop is narrow and smells of fabric and starch. An older male tailor sits behind a low table, measuring tape around his neck. He looks up when the bell rings — and then he really looks.
His eyes move over your longer hair, the soft crop top that clings to your small breasts, the narrow waist, the way you stand a little awkwardly. Something shifts in his expression. Interest. Recognition. A quiet, hungry curiosity that feels far too personal.
“You’re the one Priya called about,” he says. His voice is calm, but his eyes keep returning to your chest. “She said her husband needs blouses. Sexy ones. Tight fit.”
You force the words out, face already burning.
“…Yes. For me.”
The tailor stands and walks around the table slowly. He is not crude about it, but he does not hide the way he studies you either.
“First time I’ve had a husband come in for his own blouses,” he says, almost conversational. “Usually it’s only the wives. But you…” His eyes drop again to the soft shape under your top. “You already look like the kind of boy who should be wearing them. Soft face. Little chest. Nice waist. I’ve seen a lot of things online… but seeing a real femboy standing in my shop, asking for sexy blouses, is different.”
Humiliation washes through you, sharp and hot.
He takes the measuring tape and steps closer.
“Arms up.”
You obey. The tape slides under your arms, across your chest, around the fullest part of your small breasts. His fingers brush the soft flesh more than necessary while he notes the numbers. Then the waist. Then higher again, adjusting the tape so it sits right under the curve of your chest.
“These will look good on you,” he murmurs, voice lower now. “Tight across the back, short sleeves, neckline that shows a little of that soft cleavage you’re already growing. I’ve stitched hundreds of blouses for women… but stitching the same sexy style for a pretty husband feels special. Makes me feel like I’m part of something.”
You stare at a point on the wall, face burning.
“…You’re enjoying this too much.”
The tailor gives a small, knowing smile as he writes the final measurements.
“I’ve watched a lot of trans and femboy content for years. Always liked the soft ones. The ones with small breasts and shy faces who still let themselves be dressed up. Standing here measuring you for the same kind of blouses I make for wives… it’s the first time the fantasy is real. You’re the first femboy I’ve ever stitched for.” His voice drops further. “That makes me a little proud, if I’m honest. And a little greedy. I already want to see how the finished blouses sit on you.”
He finishes the notes and looks at you directly.
“Come back in five days for the trial. Wear something soft under your shirt so I can check the fit properly. And don’t be surprised if I take my time adjusting the bust and waist. I want them perfect on a body like yours.”
You leave the shop with burning cheeks and the paper receipt clutched in your hand, the tailor’s eyes still on your back.