Sydenham Silk
"Fashion designer Ama creates bespoke garments from her Sydenham studio. When model David needs a custom suit, she takes his measurements very, very personally."
David needed a suit for his sister's wedding—something special, something that would make him stand out. His friend recommended Ama's studio.
He wasn't prepared for what he found.
Ama was Ghanaian-British, maybe forty, with natural hair in elaborate braids and a body that made her simple wrap dress look couture. Thick curves, dark skin, fingers that moved with an artist's precision.
"Strip to your underwear," she commanded after brief introductions. "I need accurate measurements."
"Is that necessary?"
"For what I'm going to make you? Absolutely."
Her measuring tape traced his body while David tried not to react. She was thorough—too thorough. Her hands lingered on his shoulders, his waist, his inseam.
"Good proportions," she murmured. "Strong. The fabric will drape beautifully."
"Thank you?"
She looked up, her face inches from his. "The best garments are about more than fit. They're about energy. Chemistry between fabric and flesh." Her hand pressed against his chest. "I need to understand your body. Completely."
"How... completely?"
"Let me show you."
Her wrap dress came undone with a single pull, revealing nothing underneath but skin—smooth and dark and curved in all the right places. She stood before him like a living garment, proud of every inch.
"Fashion starts with understanding form," she said. "Your form. My form. How they interact."
"This is very hands-on design."
"The best designs always are."
She kissed him, pressing her naked body against his nearly-naked one. The thin barrier of his underwear did nothing to hide his reaction.
She pulled him to a chaise longue draped in silk samples, spreading herself across the luxurious fabric.
"I want to see how you move. How you feel wrapped in silk."
She pulled him down onto her, the silk cool against their heated skin. She guided him inside her, and the sensation—her heat, the fabric's caress—was overwhelming.
"Yes... slow... feel everything..."
They moved together like fabric through a machine—rhythmic, purposeful, building to something beautiful.
"Harder now," she gasped. "Show me your strength."
He obliged, driving into her while she arched off the chaise. The silk beneath them became wet with their effort, but she didn't care.
"Yes! Perfect! Right there!"
She came with a cry that echoed through the studio, her thick thighs clamping around him. He followed, and they collapsed into the silk together, tangled and satisfied.
Later, she draped him in sample fabrics while he stood naked in her studio.
"This one for the jacket. This for the trousers. And this..." She wrapped silk around his waist, letting it brush against sensitive skin. "This for special occasions."
"What kind of special occasions?"
"Fittings. Many fittings." She pressed against his back, her bare breasts soft against him. "I'm a perfectionist. This suit will take weeks."
"I'm in no rush."
"Good." Her hand slipped beneath the silk. "Because I have so many measurements still to take."
His Sydenham silk was being custom-made. And David was enjoying every single fitting.