23-03-2021, 08:07 PM
Nandini is…sensual. I don’t mean that in any kind of slutty way. We’ve been married for three years and we probably have less sex than most couples, because we both work so hard. What I mean is…she reacts a lot to touch. You know those women who need hours of foreplay to get them going? That’s not her. I only need to stroke her breasts, or her thighs, and she really responds—almost helplessly. It’s one of the many things I love about her.
When I broke the kiss, I could see a couple of local men sneering at us. I knew exactly what they were thinking, because I’d seen plenty of it when I first came to Vishakapatnam, four years before. They were thinking I was some rich Pakistani, and I was being conned by a gorgeous local girl, and that she’d let me spirit her off to America and fuck me in return for a green card, then dump me.
They didn’t know a damn thing. I mean, sure, those women existed. When I’d come out here, four years ago, working for a TV production company, I’d had plenty of them come onto me. Nandini was different. She had a degree in engineering—another reason she was such a good presenter in our documentaries—and when I met her, she was swiftly working her way up the ladder in the corporate video company she worked for. We’d met by chance at one of those “East meets West” media conventions, and within one evening we went from conference room to hotel bar to elevator to Nandini naked on my hotel bed, heels kicking in the air, as we fucked like I’d never fucked before. Six months, and I had her back in the Pakistan. Seven, and I’d quit my day job to shoot our videos full time.
I was the luckiest guy in the world. I had a gorgeous, sexy Northern Indian wife who was completely faithful to me, and a job I loved. After marriage I already thought of her as Pakistani. She had very little contact with her homeland—in fact, I was always surprised that she never seemed to want to email her old friends, or invite them to stay. She’d become the model Pakistani wife—even her accent had faded considerably. But right now, her heritage was a bonus. It was how we’d got this opportunity—a job that was going to make us a small fortune.
Nandini grabbed her suitcase—a small mountain of clothes, make-up and, of course, lots of pairs of heels to give her that delectable ass wiggle in front of the camera. I grabbed my flight case, checking that all the locks were still sealed. My camera rig is my baby. Ultra-portable but capable of shooting in Super-HD with high-quality sound, it’s what sets us apart from the amateurs. In contrast to Nandini , I had a couple of changes of clothes and that was it. She’s the one who needs to look good; I was in my usual hooded top and jeans.
Outside, a fancy black SUV with Indian army plates was waiting for us. It stuck out, next to all the aging Mercedes spitting smoke and the even older locally-made cars. The whole of Vishakapatnam was still crawling out of the Nehru Socialist era, its economy in tatters. Back in the old days, its position close to the South East Asia had meant that it had been an important Indian army port, and that’s where most of the money and jobs had come from. Now that we were all friends, the country had found itself with a massive Indian army fleet to maintain and no money coming in. Bad luck for them. Good luck for us—it was what had led to our trip.
When I broke the kiss, I could see a couple of local men sneering at us. I knew exactly what they were thinking, because I’d seen plenty of it when I first came to Vishakapatnam, four years before. They were thinking I was some rich Pakistani, and I was being conned by a gorgeous local girl, and that she’d let me spirit her off to America and fuck me in return for a green card, then dump me.
They didn’t know a damn thing. I mean, sure, those women existed. When I’d come out here, four years ago, working for a TV production company, I’d had plenty of them come onto me. Nandini was different. She had a degree in engineering—another reason she was such a good presenter in our documentaries—and when I met her, she was swiftly working her way up the ladder in the corporate video company she worked for. We’d met by chance at one of those “East meets West” media conventions, and within one evening we went from conference room to hotel bar to elevator to Nandini naked on my hotel bed, heels kicking in the air, as we fucked like I’d never fucked before. Six months, and I had her back in the Pakistan. Seven, and I’d quit my day job to shoot our videos full time.
I was the luckiest guy in the world. I had a gorgeous, sexy Northern Indian wife who was completely faithful to me, and a job I loved. After marriage I already thought of her as Pakistani. She had very little contact with her homeland—in fact, I was always surprised that she never seemed to want to email her old friends, or invite them to stay. She’d become the model Pakistani wife—even her accent had faded considerably. But right now, her heritage was a bonus. It was how we’d got this opportunity—a job that was going to make us a small fortune.
Nandini grabbed her suitcase—a small mountain of clothes, make-up and, of course, lots of pairs of heels to give her that delectable ass wiggle in front of the camera. I grabbed my flight case, checking that all the locks were still sealed. My camera rig is my baby. Ultra-portable but capable of shooting in Super-HD with high-quality sound, it’s what sets us apart from the amateurs. In contrast to Nandini , I had a couple of changes of clothes and that was it. She’s the one who needs to look good; I was in my usual hooded top and jeans.
Outside, a fancy black SUV with Indian army plates was waiting for us. It stuck out, next to all the aging Mercedes spitting smoke and the even older locally-made cars. The whole of Vishakapatnam was still crawling out of the Nehru Socialist era, its economy in tatters. Back in the old days, its position close to the South East Asia had meant that it had been an important Indian army port, and that’s where most of the money and jobs had come from. Now that we were all friends, the country had found itself with a massive Indian army fleet to maintain and no money coming in. Bad luck for them. Good luck for us—it was what had led to our trip.
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