Misc. Erotica The Astrologer and My Wife (COMPLETED)- By Novelist Casanova

[novelistcasanova]

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THE ASTROLOGER AND MY WIFE

By Novelist Casanova 

I am Shiva Shankar.
In Bangalore, that name meant something. I was a successful advocate — high-profile cases, politicians, businessmen, men who needed a lawyer who could walk into a security officer station and make the inspector stand up. Money had come. Then more money. A large house, cars, a name that juniors repeated in court corridors. I had built all of it myself.
My cousins had wanted the same life.

They used to sit in my house years ago and talk about becoming advocates like me, buying land like me, living like me. They copied my words, my clothes, even the way I spoke to people. But they did not have the stomach for the work. One by one they sold the properties their fathers had left them — first a site, then a house, then the last piece of land — just to keep up appearances. By the time they understood they would never become me, there was nothing left to sell.
Santosh was one of them.

He had been the loudest. Always talking about deals, always acting bigger than he was. Then came the accident on the Hosur road. A lorry hit their car from the side. Santosh’s chest was crushed. His broker Venkatesh was thrown out and almost cut in half. Both died on the spot. I had gone to Bangalore that morning, stood in the hospital, and looked at what was left of a cousin who had spent his whole life trying to become me and failed.

I came back with that image still in my head.
Successful. Wealthy. Respected.
The cousins who wanted to be like me had sold their properties. Santosh was dead.
I thought nothing could touch what I had built.
I was wrong.


Then there was Sudha.
I had married my wife when she was very young. There were fifteen years between us. When I first saw her, she was barely out of college — tall for a girl from her side, fair, with long thick black hair that fell down her back. She had large dark eyes, a straight sharp nose, and full lips. Even then my wife’s body had already taken the shape that would stay with me for the rest of my life — full, heavy breasts, a narrow waist, and wide hips that made every saree sit differently on her than on other women.
Years had only added to that.
After marriage and after our son, my wife’s breasts had grown heavier. Her hips had widened. Her waist had remained narrow. When my wife walked through our house in a saree, the cloth followed the exact line of her body. Men in the court compound, drivers, even my own juniors, looked at her longer than they should have. I used to feel proud of that. My wife was mine. I had taken her young, and I had kept her.
My wife knew how possessive I was.

Because of that, she made sure she wore her saree modestly whenever she stepped outside. The pallu was always properly over her chest. The blouse was never low. The petticoat sat high enough. She did not give other men an extra reason to stare. At home my wife was mine to pull onto my lap and undress. Outside she kept herself covered the way a respectable advocate’s wife should, because she knew I would not tolerate another man’s eyes staying on her body.
My wife was always clean and fresh.

She bathed twice a day. Her hair smelled of jasmine. Her body smelled of soap and a light oil she put after her bath. Even after cooking, even after a long day, my wife stayed neat — saree properly pinned, blouse clean, mangalsutra in place. She prayed every morning in front of the small pooja shelf. She kept a tilak on her forehead. She believed in God, in fasting, in temples, and in astrology. If someone mentioned a good time or a bad time, she listened. If an astrologer said something about Rajesh’s future, she took it seriously. That part of her was real. My wife was a religious woman.
I loved hugging my wife when she was naked.

After her bath, before she put on her nighty, I would pull her naked body against me with nothing between us. Her full, heavy breasts pressed into my chest. Her nipples rubbed against me. My arms went around her narrow waist and then lower, over the wide curve of her ass, holding both cheeks in my hands. Her stomach was soft against mine. Her pussy was warm against my thigh. I used to stay like that for a long time — just hugging my naked wife, smelling the soap on her, feeling every part of her naked body against me. That hug made me feel that my wife belonged only to me. No saree, no blouse, no panties. Just my wife, clean, fresh, and completely naked in my arms.
That was the best time for me to enjoy fucking my wife.
After the bath, when my wife was still naked and warm and smelling of soap, I would keep hugging her for a while and then take her to the bed. I would lay her down, spread her thighs, and push my cock into her clean pussy while her body was still wet from the bath. I used to fuck my wife slowly at first, feeling how soft and fresh she was, then harder, holding her heavy breasts, kissing her mouth, keeping her naked under me until I finished inside her. No saree in the way. No panties to pull aside. Just my naked wife, freshly bathed, taking my cock. That was the time I enjoyed my wife the most.
Whenever I was alone with my wife at home, I made her sit on my lap on the sofa in the living room while we watched TV.

I would pull my wife down onto me. Her wide ass settled over my cock through my pants. I lifted her saree and petticoat together up to her waist, then slid my hand inside her panties. My fingers would find her pussy at once — warm, soft, already beginning to wet. I rubbed her clit slowly at first, then pushed one finger inside her and opened her while the television kept playing in front of us.
“Shiva… not here…” my wife would whisper, but she never got off my lap.
I kept her there — her back against my chest, my hand inside her panties, two fingers now moving in and out of her pussy. I could feel how wet my wife was getting. The front of her panties would turn damp against my palm. I played with her clit in tight circles until her thighs started shaking on either side of my legs.
“Stay still. Watch the TV.”
She tried. Her breathing would break. Her full breasts would rise and fall under her blouse. I never stopped until I made my wife cum. I liked feeling her pussy clench hard around my fingers, liked the way she held my wrist and bit her lip so she would not moan too loud. I would keep my hand inside her panties even after she finished, feeling the wetness I had pulled out of her, sometimes lifting my fingers to look at how shiny they were before putting them back on her clit.
I did this whenever I wanted.

After Rajesh left for college, I would call my wife to the living room, make her sit on my lap on the sofa, lift her saree and petticoat, put my hand inside her panties, play with her pussy, and make her cum. After that I would often fuck my wife right there on the sofa — pulling her panties aside and pushing my cock into the same wet pussy my fingers had just opened. Her full breasts filled my hands. Her tight pussy took my cock the same way it had when she was newly married. I never got tired of it.
I was possessive.

I did not like other men standing too close to my wife. I did not like the way some of my clients smiled when she brought tea. I used to watch their eyes drop to her breasts and her hips, and I used to pull my wife closer in front of them on purpose — a hand on her waist, a look that told them she belonged to me. At night I would fuck my wife harder after those moments, reminding both of us that no one else would ever have her.
My wife was the kind of woman other men imagined and never got.

At home she was quiet, disciplined, respectful, clean, and religious. She touched my feet during festivals. She kept the house running. She still blushed when I made her sit on my lap on the sofa and put my hand inside her panties. To the outside world she was the respectable wife of Advocate Shiva Shankar. To me she was the girl I had married too young, whose body I used whenever I wanted.
Fifteen years younger.
Still the most beautiful woman I had ever put my hands on.
That was my wife.

My wife wanted our son to become a successful advocate like me.
From the day Rajesh started college, that was the only future she kept in her mind. She would sit with my son in the evenings and ask what he had studied that day. She made sure his notes were complete. If he had a presentation, she listened to him practise. If he needed books, she told me to buy them the same day. She did not want him to struggle the way some of my cousins had struggled. She wanted him to walk into court with the same confidence I had.

She loved my son in a way that showed in small things.
She woke up early and kept his breakfast ready before he left. She packed his bag. She reminded him about class timings. When he came home tired, she sat with him and let him talk. She never raised her voice at him. In her eyes, my son was not just our boy. He was the one who would one day carry my name forward.
She gave him every kind of education help she could.
Tuition when he needed it. Extra notes from seniors. Quiet in the house when he was studying. She even stopped the television in the living room if he said he had an important portion to finish. She believed that if he worked hard, God would help him, and that if we supported him completely, he would pass and become an advocate like his father.

My son had just written his final year exams.
The papers were over. The waiting had started. Every morning my wife asked if the results would come that day. Every evening she sat near the pooja shelf and prayed for him. She kept telling me that he had written well, that he would pass in all subjects, that soon he would enroll and stand beside me in court. The whole house was waiting for those results.
That was my wife’s biggest hope.
Not jewellery. Not more property. Not another car.
She wanted my son to become what I had become.
And she was ready to do anything for that.


Recently one of my friends invited me and my wife for his sister’s wedding. We decided to attend.
I got ready first. I wore my black suit and a white shirt, fixed the collar, and sat on the edge of the bed waiting. From the bathroom I heard the shower stop. A few minutes later she came out with a white towel wrapped around her naked body. Water was still running down her shoulders and over the upper curve of her breasts. Her long black hair was wet and sticking to her neck. She looked fresh, clean, and soft in a way that immediately made my chest tighten.
She stood in front of the cupboard and opened it.
First she loosened the towel and let it fall to the floor.
For a few seconds my wife stood completely naked in front of me. Her full, heavy breasts were uncovered. Her nipples were still tight from the bath. Her narrow waist, her wide hips, her ass, her pussy — everything was open to my eyes. A strong wave of heat went through me. My cock hardened at once inside my pants, and for a moment I could only stare.
I got up from the bed, naughty and playful, already restless.
I pulled her against me and put both hands on her ass, squeezing her ass cheeks, hugging her body to mine so her pussy rested against my thigh. I kissed her mouth and did not let her go. She made a small surprised sound against my lips, then laughed softly under her breath.
My wife said,
“Shiva, no… we really have to leave now, we’ll get late for the wedding.”
I answered against her mouth,
“Stay like this for a little longer. You’re still naked and I can’t just look at you and walk out. Come to the bed.”
I kept hugging her and would not let her pick up her clothes. I kissed her neck, then the top of her breasts, while my cock stayed against her stomach through my pants. She shivered slightly when my mouth touched her neck, and her hands came up to my chest, half pushing, half hugging me back.
My wife said,
“After the reception, Shiva. I promise. If we start now we will definitely get late.”
I kept hugging her and said,
“Just a few minutes, please. I don’t think I can control myself after seeing you like this.”
I refused to let her dress. Every time she reached for her white panties, I pulled her back into my arms and hugged her again. She laughed again, a little breathless now, and tried to twist away, her wet hair brushing against my face.
My wife said,
“You’re being so naughty today. Leave me now, I have to get dressed properly.”
I hugged her waist and answered,
“No. After I fuck you. Just stay naked a little longer for me.”
She pulled harder this time and slipped out of my hands. I felt a sharp frustration as she escaped, and I tried to catch her again, but she had already picked up her white panties. She bent a little, stepped into her panties quickly, and pulled her panties up over her hips until her panties sat against her pussy. Then she took her white bra, slipped her arms through her bra straps, settled her bra cups over her full, heavy breasts, and fastened her bra hooks behind her back. I watched every movement, still hard, still unwilling to let the moment end.

Before she could pick up her red petticoat, I came up behind her.
I was fully hard and horny. I wrapped both arms around her from behind and hugged her tightly against my chest. My right hand went straight down, slid inside the front of her white panties, and closed over her pussy. My fingers spread over the soft, smooth lips of her pussy. There was no hair. Her pussy was completely clean shaved. The soft warmth of her pussy under my palm made my cock throb.
I spoke against her ear,
“So soft… completely clean and so smooth. I love the way you keep it.”
My wife blushed deeply. A faint pink rose on her cheeks and neck. She did not push my hand away at once. She stayed inside my hug, her back against my white shirt, breathing a little faster while my fingers kept gently holding her pussy inside her panties.
My wife said in a low, shy voice,
“I keep it like this just for you, so you can enjoy whenever you want.”
I could feel her stomach tighten under my arm as I kept my right hand inside her panties, cupping her clean-shaved pussy, and kissed the side of her neck. She tilted her head slightly, giving me more space without fully meaning to.
I asked her,
“How do you manage to keep it so smooth every single time?”
She turned her face a little toward me, still shy, still smiling, her eyes soft, and answered,
“I do it carefully after my bath, only for you. You really like it this way, don’t you?”
I said,
“I love it. More than you know.”
I slowly took my hand out of her panties, turned her around to face me, and hugged her fully. She was only in her white bra and white panties. Her full breasts pressed against my chest through the bra. My hands went around her bare waist and down over her ass as I hugged her tightly, my hard cock against her lower stomach through my pants. For a moment I just breathed her in — the soap on her shoulders, the jasmine in her hair, the warmth of her body against mine.
She hugged me back.

Her arms went around my neck. She rested her face against my shoulder for a moment, and I felt her body soften against mine before she spoke near my ear.
My wife said,
“Wait until we come back home, hmm? I know you want me right now, but I’m not going anywhere. I’m yours. After the function, when we come back, you can take me properly. I’ll be here only for you.”
The softness in her voice settled something in me, but it also made me want her more. I hugged her tighter and said,
“Promise me.”
My wife whispered,
“I promise,”
and kissed the side of my neck once. The small kiss sent another rush of heat through me.
I did not leave it there.
I turned her around again, pulled her white panties down from behind over her ass and thighs, and gently bent her forward. She held the edge of the cupboard, her breath catching. Her round ass was fully in front of me. I spread her ass cheeks with both hands and looked at her asshole.
It was clean. Completely shaved. Soft and pink.
A thick, possessive hunger rose in me.
I leaned closer and sniffed her asshole.
The smell was clean and warm — a faint mix of fresh soap from her bath, the natural musk of her ass, and a soft, intimate scent that belonged only to her body. There was nothing dirty in it. It was private, feminine, and it went straight to my cock.
I said,
“Even here… so clean.”
I leaned in and kissed her asshole once, slow and deliberate, pressing my lips against the soft ring of her asshole. My wife shivered hard. Her thighs tensed. A small broken moan left her throat.
“Shiva… ahh…”
I kissed her asshole again, then parted my lips and tasted it.
My tongue pressed against the soft, clean surface of her asshole. The taste was mild and warm — clean skin, a light soapy freshness from her bath, and underneath it a soft, intimate musk that made my cock throb harder. I licked once more, slow and open-mouthed, tasting her asshole properly.
My wife’s reaction was immediate.
Her fingers gripped the cupboard tightly. Her ass cheeks clenched under my hands. Her thighs shook. Another moan, longer this time, slipped out of her mouth as she tried to keep her voice down.
“Shiva… please… ahh… what are you doing…”
I kept my mouth on her asshole a moment longer, tasting her again, and in that moment I decided clearly in my mind —
I have to enjoy my wife’s asshole.
Not just kiss it. Not just look at it. One day I would take it properly.
I kissed her asshole once more, then spoke against it.
“Let me fuck your ass tonight.”
My wife stayed bent over for a moment, breathing faster, her fingers still gripping the cupboard, her ass still slightly trembling from my mouth. Then she answered clearly and firmly, though her voice still carried the shyness and the heat of what I had just done.
“Not tonight, Shiva. Tonight you can take only my pussy when we come back home. My ass is not for today.”
The way she said it stayed in my mind. Tonight she was giving me her pussy. Her ass would come another day.
I pulled her white panties back up over her ass and hips. She was still blushing deeply when she picked up her red petticoat, her hands a little unsteady. She drew her petticoat up over her panties and tied the string at her waist. When she reached for her red blouse, I took it from the cupboard first and held it away from her, still not fully ready to let the moment end.
My wife looked at me and said,
“Shiva… please give me the blouse now.”
I smiled and answered,
“Wear it after we come back.”
She pulled the blouse from my hand with a small, flustered smile, put her blouse on over her bra, and checked the fit of her blouse around her breasts.
Finally she took out her red silk saree.
I stood close behind my wife while she tucked one end of her saree into her petticoat, made the pleats, and brought the pallu of her saree over her left shoulder. She pinned her pallu properly so that her pallu covered her chest. Her saree sat modestly on her body — her pallu in place, her blouse not low, her petticoat hidden underneath. Even then she looked stunning. Her saree followed the line of her full breasts, her narrow waist, and her wide hips. She put on her gold bangles, checked her mangalsutra, and turned towards me with the same small naughty smile, though her cheeks were still faintly pink.
My wife said,
“After the function, Shiva. Now come, let’s go before we get late.”
That was my wife.
Clean, fresh, modestly dressed in her red silk saree, her red blouse and her red petticoat, her white bra and her white panties underneath — ready to attend a wedding as the respectable wife of Advocate Shiva Shankar.
I had not been able to stop her from wearing her saree.
But even in that modest saree, I could not stop looking at my wife. The hunger was still sitting heavy in my body.
Tonight she had promised me her pussy.
And after tasting her asshole, I had already decided — one day I would enjoy my wife’s asshole completely.


At around 6 PM I took my wife in my car.
She sat beside me in her red silk saree, red blouse and red petticoat, her pallu properly over her chest. The smell of jasmine from her hair filled the car. I kept looking at her while driving. The same body I had just hugged, the same pussy I had held inside her panties, the same asshole I had kissed and tasted, was now sitting modestly next to me, dressed for a wedding.
I was still horny.
Every few seconds my eyes left the road and went to her. Her full breasts under the red blouse. Her narrow waist. Her wide hips under the red silk saree. And again and again my mind went back to her asshole — clean, shaved, soft, the smell of soap and warm musk, the taste of it on my tongue. My cock stayed hard inside my pants.
My wife noticed.
“Shiva, focus on the road,” she said softly. “You’ll meet with an accident if you keep looking at me like that.”
I slowed the car a little at a signal, turned my face toward her, and held her jaw gently with my left hand. My thumb brushed her cheek.
“I love you,” I said.
Her eyes softened at once. She smiled, a little shy, a little loving. Then she reached across with her left hand and closed her fingers over my cock through my pants. She held it firmly, feeling how hard I was, and spoke in a low voice.
“Don’t worry. After the wedding we will go home. I’ll take care of it. You know I will.”
She leaned in and kissed my cheek once, soft and warm, while her hand still rested over my cock. Then she slowly took her hand back and sat properly again, adjusting her pallu.
I turned back to the road, still hard, still thinking of her asshole, but the promise of later sat in my mind as we continued toward the hall.
When we reached, the reception had already started.
My friend came forward and welcomed us with a wide smile. He took us toward the stage where the bride and groom were standing and introduced us to them. A photographer began taking pictures of us with the wedding couple. My wife stood beside me, smiling politely, her hands folded in front of her, still looking clean, fresh, and modest in her red silk saree.
That was when I noticed the videographer.
He was not covering the couple the way he should have. His camera kept turning toward my wife. On the large screen behind the stage, her face appeared first. Then the camera slowly moved down — over her neck, over the way her red blouse sat on her full breasts, over her narrow waist, over the curve of her hips under the red silk saree. He was zooming in on every part of my wife’s body.
Everyone in the hall could see it.
It was only a small gathering, but they were all high-profile people — businessmen, advocates, a couple of politicians, families with money. I saw men looking at the screen. Some smiled. Some kept staring. They were openly enjoying the way my wife looked on the big display while she stood there innocently posing for the photographer with me and the wedding couple, not understanding what the videographer was doing.
A hot anger rose in my chest.

Jealousy followed it at once.
I did not show it on my face. I kept standing straight in my black suit, smiling for the still photographs, but inside I was burning. My wife’s body — the same body that belonged only to me, the same pussy and ass I had touched less than an hour ago — was being shown to every man in that hall without her even realising it.
When the pictures were done, we started leaving the stage.
I shook hands with the groom and then with the bride. My wife also stepped forward to wish them. She smiled politely and raised her hand for a simple handshake with the groom.

What happened next shocked me.
The groom looked at my wife, and for a clear second his eyes changed. He was completely horny. Instead of a normal handshake, he suddenly wrapped both arms around my wife’s waist and pulled her into a complete embrace. His chest pressed hard against her full breasts through her red blouse and red silk saree. His arms locked around her waist tightly. I could see the lust on his face as he held her.
While hugging her, he said near her ear,
“Thank you so much for coming… it means a lot.”
His voice was thick. He kept my wife in his complete embrace a moment longer than anyone should have allowed, openly enjoying the feel of her body against him.
My wife hugged him back.
She did not suspect anything. The groom was only as old as her younger brother, and to her it felt like a normal, respectful greeting at a wedding. She placed her arms around him politely and hugged him in return, still smiling innocently, not realising that he was holding her out of pure lust.
Even the bride froze.

I saw the bride’s face change at once — shock first, then jealousy. Her eyes filled and she looked as if she was about to cry.
After a few seconds my wife broke the embrace, stepped back, and lowered her eyes with a small, polite smile. Without thinking anything wrong, she turned and began following me down from the stage.

As my wife stepped down the stage steps, the red silk saree moved with her hips. From behind, the shape of her ass was clear under the saree, and her pantyline sat visibly over each ass cheek on the saree with every step.
My friend was standing near the steps. His eyes went straight to my wife’s ass. He openly ogled the curve of her ass and her pantyline over her ass cheeks on the saree, not even trying to hide it.
The videographer noticed too.

His camera dropped lower and focused fully on my wife’s ass as she went down the steps. On the huge screen behind the stage, her ass filled the frame — the round shape under the red silk saree, her pantyline sitting clearly over each ass cheek on the saree with every step. All the men in the hall were watching the screen. I saw several of them shift in their seats. Some had clear boners pushing against their pants. A few men in dhotis adjusted themselves, their cocks hard while they stared at my wife’s ass and her pantyline on the big screen.
My wife kept walking down innocently, still thinking the groom’s hug had only been a normal wedding greeting, not knowing that every man in that hall was looking at her ass.
I walked ahead of her, my jaw tight.
Outside I still looked calm.
Inside I was angry, jealous, and fully aware that other men had already started looking at my wife the way only I was supposed to look at her.


My friend guided us toward the dinner area in the basement.
We went down the steps and entered the basement dining hall. The buffet was arranged along one side. High-profile guests were already standing in small groups with plates in their hands. My friend walked ahead of us, but I noticed at once that he was paying more attention to my wife than to me. His eyes kept going to her face, then down over her red silk saree, then back to her face again as he spoke.
“Please, both of you take dinner. Everything is fresh.”
We joined the buffet line.
Even the serving men behind the counters were ogling my wife. Their eyes moved over her full breasts under the red blouse, her waist, and the way the red silk saree sat on her hips. They were supposed to be serving food, but most of them were looking at her more than at the plates.
We reached the dessert section.
One man was serving gulab jamun. He looked at my wife longer than the others. When she stopped in front of him, he picked up one soft gulab jamun with a spoon and held it out toward her with a smile.
“Madam, please taste this and tell me how it is.”
My wife, still polite and innocent, asked,
“Can you give me a spoon?”
He shook his head and said,
“No need for spoon, madam. Take it in your hand only. It tastes better that way.”
My wife hesitated for a second, then took the gulab jamun in her fingers. She brought it to her mouth and took a small bite.
That was when the videographer came down to the basement.
He had left the stage area above and followed us down with his camera. He moved closer and raised it straight toward my wife’s face. On the huge screen connected in the basement hall, her mouth filled the frame — her soft lips closing around the gulab jamun, her white teeth taking a bite, the sweet syrup touching her tongue, the way her mouth moved as she chewed. He kept the camera locked on her lips, her teeth, and the half-eaten gulab jamun inside her mouth.

Around twenty men in the basement hall turned to the big screen.
They stopped talking and watched. Some smiled. Some just stared. A few older men stood with their mouths slightly open, actual drool collecting at the corners of their lips as they watched my wife’s mouth on the screen — her lips, her teeth, the gulab jamun, and the soft movement of her chewing. They were openly enjoying the sight like a feast.
My wife still did not understand.
She swallowed and answered the serving man with a soft smile,
“It’s good.”
He immediately held out a paper towel toward her. While she took the paper towel to wipe her fingers, he took back the half-bitten gulab jamun from her hand and quickly placed a fresh whole one on her plate. My wife thanked him and moved ahead with her plate, still not suspecting anything — not the serving man, not the videographer who had come down to the basement for her, not the men watching her mouth on the big screen.
I was standing right behind her, getting my own plate served.
The moment my wife walked away, the same man looked down at the half-bitten gulab jamun in his hand — the exact portion where her mouth had touched. He put that same bitten piece into his own mouth, closed his eyes, and chewed slowly, openly enjoying the taste of my wife’s saliva mixed with the sweet syrup.
I saw everything.

A sharp anger rose in my chest again. First the videographer on stage. Then the groom. Then her ass on the big screen. Now even in the basement her mouth was being fed to every man in that hall, and a serving man was tasting her saliva.
I took my plate and followed her without saying a word, my jaw tight, while that man still stood there with a small satisfied smile on his face.


We sat down with our plates and had dinner.
My wife ate quietly, still polite, still unaware of how many eyes had already been on her that evening. I sat beside her, but the food had no taste. The videographer, the groom’s hug, her pantyline on the screen, the serving man tasting her saliva — all of it kept turning in my head.
After dinner we went for ice cream.
We were standing near the dessert corner with cups in our hands when four men began to gather around us. They did not arrive together. One came first. Then another. Then the third and fourth joined, until the four of them had slowly closed in. All high-profile guests — money, position, clean clothes, careful smiles. But I could read them at once. They were horny.

One of them took the lead and kept my wife busy with quiet conversation.
He stood a little closer than necessary and spoke softly, asking about the saree, about whether she attended such functions often, about how long we had been married, about whether she liked Bangalore. My wife answered each question with simple honesty, smiling politely, seeing nothing wrong in his tone.
While he held her attention, the other three looked at her freely.
Their eyes moved without hurry — from her face to her neck, from her neck to her full breasts under the red blouse, then down over her waist and the fall of the red silk saree on her hips. They took her in from head to down as if she was standing there only for them.
“You look very graceful in this saree,” the first man said. “Do you always dress like this for weddings?”
“Thank you. This is just a normal saree,” my wife replied.
While she spoke, the second man’s gaze stayed on her chest. The third studied her waist. The fourth watched her hips.
“Your husband is well known, of course,” the first man continued. “But anyone would notice you in a hall like this.”
“You are being too kind,” my wife said softly.
Again the other three used the moment. Their eyes travelled over her breasts, her stomach, her hips, and the soft dbang of her saree without the slightest attempt to hide it.
I stood beside her and answered for both of us, polite on the surface, burning underneath.
“We don’t come to many functions. Work keeps us busy.”
“She prefers staying simple. That is her nature.”
“We came only for the function. After this we will be heading home.”
The first man kept the conversation going. The other three kept looking. My wife remained untouched by any of it, still eating her ice cream, still believing these were only well-mannered guests.

Behind her, the catering boys had stopped pretending to work.
Several of them were staring at her ass. The red silk saree showed the round shape of it clearly from behind, and her pantyline sat visibly over each ass cheek on the saree. One boy had gone further. He stood half-hidden behind a wide pillar in the corner of the basement, hand inside his pants, jerking off while his eyes stayed fixed on my wife’s ass and pantyline.

The videographer was still in the basement.
He moved behind her and raised his camera to her back. On the huge screen, her ass filled the frame — the curve under the red silk saree, the pantyline sitting clearly over each ass cheek. The image stayed there long enough for every man in the hall to take it in.
I saw all of it at once.
The man keeping her busy with soft questions. The other three undressing her with their eyes. The catering boys staring. The boy behind the pillar using her body for his own pleasure. The videographer feeding her ass to the entire hall.
Anger and jealousy sat heavy in my chest.
Outside, I remained calm and answered with proper words.
Inside, I was on fire — watching strangers enjoy my wife from every side while she stood there with her ice cream, still not suspecting a single thing.


I was burning inside.
I had seen enough for one evening — the videographer, the groom, the men around the buffet, the catering boy behind the pillar, the big screen filled with my wife’s body. I took my wife’s hand and began walking her out of the basement hall toward the car. I wanted to take her home before anything else happened.
Outside, the ground was almost empty.
Only a few serial sets and decorative lights were still on. The music from inside sounded distant. Our car was parked a little away under one of the lights. We reached it, and I opened the door for my wife.
That was when my friend came running.
“Shiva… wait. You both forgot the souvenirs.”
He came up to us holding the return gifts. I took two from his hands, one for me and one for my wife, and thanked him.
He shook my hand first.
“Thank you for coming, Shiva. It meant a lot.”
Then he turned toward my wife.
Instead of a simple thank you, he stepped in and hugged her.
My wife did not suspect him. She thought it was only a polite goodbye after the wedding, so she hugged him back.
The moment her body came against him, I saw the change in his face.
He was horny. Fully turned on. His eyes darkened for a second as her full breasts pressed into his chest through her red blouse and red silk saree. His breathing changed. But he still spoke like a perfect gentleman.
Over her shoulder he looked at me and said in a warm, grateful voice,
“The bride and groom are truly blessed. Guests like you make the whole function complete. Thank you for coming, sister.”
While saying those polite words, his hands moved lower.
Both of his palms settled on my wife’s ass cheeks over her red silk saree. He grabbed them openly, squeezing and feeling the shape of her ass, and through the saree he pressed enough to feel her panties over each ass cheek. His fingers moved once, cheeky and deliberate, enjoying the soft curve under his hands while his body stayed pressed against hers. He was clearly hard with lust, yet his face and voice remained soft and respectful, as if he was only thanking a guest.
My wife felt his hands on her ass at once.
Her body stiffened. The polite smile left her face. She shifted uncomfortably in his arms and then quickly took his hands off her ass, stepping back with a startled, embarrassed look.

For a second no one spoke.
I stood there holding the souvenirs, jaw tight, watching the man who had called me friend get turned on while hugging my wife, feel up her ass and panties over her saree, and still pretend to be a gentleman right in front of me.
Outside I still did not raise my voice.
Inside the anger that had been building all evening rose even higher.

To Be Continued..!