Misc. Erotica The Street Photographer and My wife (COMPLETED) - By Novelist Casanova

[novelistcasanova]

The Street Photographer and 

My wife 

By Novelist Casanova 

I am Rajesh. Most people still call me Rajesh anna or Rajesh sir. I run two small manufacturing units on the outskirts of Bangalore—one for packaging components, another supplying specialised fittings. The work is steady enough that money is no longer something we discuss every day. We live in a three-storey independent house in Koramangala, the kind with a small front garden, a covered car porch, and a terrace that still catches decent evening light. I bought it eight years ago. My wife chose the paint and the curtains. I only insisted on solid locks and a quiet street.
My wife Sudha and I have been married sixteen years. She stands five feet eight, with measurements that have stayed full even after three children—thirty-six inches at the bust, twenty-six at the waist, thirty-eight at the hips. She wears a 36D bra most days and medium hipster panties that sit low on those wide hips. She was twenty-two when we married; I was twenty-six. Her people are from outside Madurai, mine from near Salem. We met through a relative. The families got along. She still calls her mother every morning while cutting vegetables. She wears a saree at home every day—soft cotton or light chiffon, blouse properly stitched, petticoat tied low the way her mother taught her. Only at night does she change into a nighty. Under it she usually keeps a bra and panties. Some nights just the panties. A few nights nothing at all. When she has to step out to the nearby shop after the boys are back, she wears the bra, panties and petticoat under the nighty, then pulls a shawl tight across her chest before she leaves the gate.
Her face is the kind that stops people. Sharp, clear features, large dark eyes that look straight at you even when she is speaking softly, full lips that stay slightly parted when she is listening. Long black hair, usually in a thick braid or a loose bun when she cooks. Her body is heavy in the places three children have made heavier—full, high breasts that strain the blouse even when the pallu is drawn properly across them, a narrow waist that flares into wide, heavy hips and a soft, rounded stomach. When she walks through the house the saree moves with her, the fabric pulling across the lower curve of her breasts and the full swell of her hips. She does not try to hide any of it.
We have three sons. The eldest is fifteen, in tenth, quiet, already taller than her, serious about marks. The middle one is twelve, always hungry, always leaving his bag in the hall. The youngest is nine, still small enough to climb into her lap in the evening. All three go to the same college. Mornings are full of zipped bags, closed tiffin boxes, and her voice calling out about water bottles. By eight-fifteen they are gone. The driver handles the drop and pickup. After that the house goes quiet.
She never wanted a maid or a servant. Not even a watchman. She said the house was hers to look after and she would not have strangers moving through it. So she does everything herself. She cooks all three meals, washes the clothes, sweeps and mops the floors, waters the plants in the front garden and on the terrace, keeps the bathrooms clean, irons the boys’ uniforms, and still finds time to sit with the youngest in the evening. The only help she accepts is the driver for college. Everything else she handles alone, moving through the rooms in her saree, sleeves pushed up, pallu tucked at her waist while she works.
I leave early and return between six and seven. We eat together. She serves. The boys talk or argue. After dinner the older two go upstairs. The youngest stays a little longer. Then it is just the two of us in the living room or on the terrace. She asks if I ate lunch. I ask how her day went. Some nights she leans against me, the weight of her braid on my arm, the warmth of her body through the saree. Her hand rests on my thigh, ordinary. Sex happens late, after the boys sleep, usually in the dark, without much talking. It is not that we have stopped wanting each other. The days are simply full.
The house is large enough that each boy has his own room on the first floor. Our bedroom is at the end of the same corridor, attached bathroom, small balcony facing the back. Downstairs is the living room, dining, kitchen, and a spare room for relatives. Walls are soft cream. Sofas are deep. Evenings smell of the jasmine she keeps near the window and whatever she cooked. From outside it looks like any other Koramangala house—compound wall, metal gate, cars under the porch, plants she waters herself every morning. Inside it feels settled. Ordinary.


It was a Saturday. The boys had finished their tuition early and were already home, arguing over the television. I told my wife we should go out. Jailer 2 had released that week and the evening show still had seats. She changed into a yellow chiffon saree with a matching yellow blouse, the kind of soft fabric that catches light and moves when she walks. The pallu sat across her chest the way she always wears it, but the chiffon was thin enough that the shape of her body stayed clear underneath. She tied the petticoat low, the way she prefers, and came downstairs ready.
We reached the multiplex just after six. The lobby was crowded. As soon as we stepped inside I saw the way men turned. Not all at once, and not openly. A man near the ticket counter looked, then looked away, then looked again when he thought we had passed. Another standing by the snack counter let his eyes travel from her face down the length of the yellow saree and back up. They pretended they were checking the show timings or the menu boards. I kept my hand at the small of her back and walked her toward the escalator.
On the escalator the men behind us had a clear view. The chiffon pulled tight across her hips as she stood on the step above them. From that angle the full curve of her ass was visible under the saree, the fabric outlining the heavy shape and the way it moved when she shifted her weight. I heard one of them breathe out. Another said something low that I did not catch. My wife kept facing forward, one hand on the rail. I stared straight ahead and said nothing. Starting something in a multiplex full of people would only make it worse. We reached the top and I guided her left toward Screen 3.
Inside the theatre the lights were already dim. Our seats were in the middle of a row. We had to walk past people who were already sitting. As she moved sideways in front of them the yellow saree shifted and the men in the seats got a close, full view of her ass, the chiffon stretched across it, the heavy lower curve only a short distance from their faces. One man leaned back slightly. Another’s eyes stayed on her the whole way past. She kept her pallu in place with one hand and did not look down. I followed behind her, jaw tight, and we sat.
The movie ran. She watched it properly, laughing in the places everyone laughed, leaning a little toward me during the louder scenes. I watched the screen and also watched the men in the rows ahead and to the side. A few of them kept turning their heads. Not constantly. Just enough.
When the credits started we stayed in our seats until most people had left. Outside the multiplex the air was cooler. Instead of calling the driver straight away I said we could walk a little and pick up biryani for the boys. She agreed. We left the mall and turned toward the main road, the yellow chiffon still moving against her body under the streetlights, the evening crowd around us. The takeaway place was ten minutes on foot. We walked slowly.


The takeaway place was a small hotel on the main road, the kind with bright tube lights and a glass counter at the front. We stepped inside and the smell of biryani was strong. Two men were already waiting near the counter. Both of them looked up when my wife walked in. Their eyes stayed on her longer than they needed to. One of them let his gaze drop to the way the yellow chiffon pulled across her hips and the full curve of her ass as she stood beside me. The other kept glancing at the low neckline of the matching blouse where the pallu had slipped a little from the walk. They turned back to the counter when I looked at them, but not before I saw it.
I ignored it. Starting anything here would only delay us and the boys were waiting. I gave the order—three chicken biryanis, one mutton, extra raita—and paid. While the parcels were being packed my wife stood close to my side, one hand holding the edge of her pallu. The men kept finding reasons to look in our direction. I kept my eyes on the counter.
When the bags were ready I took them. We stepped back out onto the pavement. The street was busier now, people moving in both directions, bikes and cars passing. We had walked only a short distance when a young man crossed toward us. He looked to be in his late twenties, clean white shirt, camera bag slung across his body. He stopped a few feet in front of my wife and smiled.
“Sorry to stop you, madam,” he said. His voice was easy. “I’m Arjun. I do street photography. I only approach women whose faces already look like they belong in a frame.” He glanced at me once, polite. “Sir, would it be all right if I took a few pictures of madam? Just here, on the street. Nothing complicated.”
My wife looked at him, then at me. The yellow saree moved slightly in the evening breeze. She did not answer straight away. Arjun waited, still smiling, one hand resting on the strap of his camera.


My wife gave a small, polite smile and shook her head.
“No, thank you,” she said. Her voice was soft. “We are just going home. The children are waiting.”
She shifted the pallu a little higher across her chest and took half a step toward me, ready to walk. I moved with her. Arjun did not step aside. He stayed where he was, still smiling, both hands now resting lightly on the camera strap.
“I understand, madam,” he said. “But faces like yours are rare on this street. Most people walk past and never notice. I notice. The way the light is falling on you right now… it would be a waste not to take even two pictures.”
My wife glanced at me. Her eyes stayed on my face for a second longer than usual. The yellow chiffon moved against her arm in the breeze. I could see she wanted me to end it.
Arjun looked at me as well.
“Sir, I am not asking for anything long. Just a few frames here, under the streetlight. Madam will not even have to pose much. I will make sure everything stays respectful. You can stand right beside her the whole time.”
He took one small step closer, not blocking us, but close enough that we had to stop again. His eyes moved over my wife’s face, then down the length of the yellow saree and back up, slow and open.
“Madam has the kind of beauty that looks even better when it is kept simple,” he said. “No heavy makeup, no studio lights. Just this. People will remember a photograph like that.”
My wife’s fingers tightened on the edge of her pallu. She looked at me again, waiting. I stayed quiet. The biryani bags were warm against my leg. Arjun waited too, still smiling, still not moving out of the way.


We stood there on the pavement, the three of us. My wife’s hand was still on the edge of her pallu. Mine was on the handles of the biryani bags. Neither of us spoke.
I could feel her waiting for me to say no. At the same time I could feel something else in the way she kept looking at me—half expecting me to decide, half unsure herself. The yellow chiffon was clinging a little from the walk. Under the streetlight the shape of her body was clear: the full weight of her breasts under the matching blouse, the way the saree sat low on her hips, the heavy curve of her ass when she shifted her weight from one foot to the other. Arjun was watching all of it without hiding it.
“Madam,” he said again, softer this time. “I can see you are thinking. That is all right. Most women say no at first. Then they see the pictures and they understand.” He looked at me. “Sir, you can check my phone if you want. I will show you the kind of photographs I take. Nothing cheap. Only what is already beautiful.”
My wife’s eyes stayed on my face. I could see she was of two minds. Part of her wanted to walk away. Part of her was listening to the way he spoke, the way he kept calling her beautiful without raising his voice. I was of two minds as well. I wanted to tell him to leave. At the same time I was standing there watching another man look at my wife the way he was looking at her, and I had not yet told him to stop.
Arjun waited. He did not step closer. He only kept his eyes on her face, then let them drop once more to the place where the yellow blouse met the saree at her waist.
“Just two pictures, madam,” he said. “Right here. Then you can go home to your children.”
My wife looked at me again. Her lips were slightly parted. She did not say yes. She did not say no. The evening traffic moved past us. None of us moved.


Arjun took his phone out slowly, the way someone does when they do not want to startle. He unlocked it and turned the screen toward me first.
“Sir, you can see,” he said. “These are the women I have photographed on the street. All of them said no at first. All of them are still on my page because the pictures stayed clean.”
I looked. The photos were of women in sarees, some laughing, some looking away, light falling on their faces and on the dbang of fabric across their bodies. Nothing explicit. Just the same kind of attention he was giving my wife now. My wife leaned a little closer to see as well. Her shoulder touched my arm. I could smell the faint jasmine from her hair.
“Madam,” Arjun said, looking at her again, “I will not ask you to do anything you are not comfortable with. You can keep the pallu exactly where it is. Sir can stand right next to you. Two frames. That is all.”
She looked at me. Her eyes were still unsure, but they were no longer only asking me to say no. I felt the weight of the biryani bags in my hand and the warmth of her body beside me. The men at the hotel had looked at her. The men in the theatre had looked at her. This one was asking, and he was asking politely, and he was still standing there waiting for an answer.
I heard myself speak.
“Two pictures,” I said. My voice came out lower than I expected. “Here only. Then we go.”
My wife’s fingers loosened slightly on the pallu. She did not smile, but she did not step away either. Arjun’s smile widened just a little. He glanced once at the people still moving along the pavement, then back at us. It was just past seven. The streetlights were fully on. Shops were still open, but the crowd had thinned.
“Sir, madam,” he said, lowering his voice, “there are still people here. They will keep looking. There is a corner just behind that compound wall—no one uses it at this time. It will be empty. Better light, no one walking past. Two pictures only. Then you can take the food home.”
He pointed with his chin toward a narrow gap between two buildings, mostly in shadow. My wife looked at me again. I nodded once. Arjun stepped aside and waited for us to move first.


Arjun led us into the narrow cut between the buildings. The corner sat half in shadow, lit only by the spill of one streetlight. It was a little after seven. The main road noise dropped away behind the compound wall. No one else was there.
He stopped and turned to my wife.
“Madam, stand just here,” he said, voice low and even. “Face me. Sir can stay wherever he is comfortable.”
I remained a step behind him, the biryani bags warm against my leg. That was when I saw where his eyes went. As she turned, the yellow chiffon shifted and settled. His gaze dropped and stayed on the full, heavy curve of her ass. The thin fabric had pulled tight from the walk; under the streetlight it outlined every contour, the way the weight of her hips filled the saree. He did not look away quickly. Only after a moment did he lift the camera.
“A little to your left, madam. Weight on one hip. Yes… exactly like that.”
She shifted. The chiffon tightened further across her hips and ass, the dbang pulling into a clean line over the heavy lower curve. Arjun raised the camera and began shooting from the front. I stood directly behind him and watched the screen on the back of the body. He zoomed in slowly until her face filled the frame—the sharp cheekbones, the large dark eyes, the full lips slightly parted. Then he eased the zoom out again, catching the yellow blouse, the soft weight of her breasts under the pallu, the narrow waist, the flare of her hips beneath the chiffon. He zoomed in once more, tighter, on the place where the matching blouse met the saree at her chest. The fabric was thin. The shape underneath was unmistakable.
He kept working the lens—slow zoom in, hold, slow zoom out, small adjustment. Each time the frame travelled over her body I felt it low in my stomach. My wife stood still, following only the small instructions he gave, the yellow saree moving only when he asked her to turn a fraction.
After a few frames he lowered the camera slightly and turned his head toward me, close enough that his voice would not carry.
“Sir,” he said quietly, almost respectful, “your wife is genuinely beautiful. And… she is very hot as well. The kind of beauty that does not need anything added. It is already there.”
He said it without a smile, without leaning in further, as if he were simply stating something obvious. Then he turned back to the camera and raised it again. I stayed where I was. The words sat in my chest. My cock hardened fully inside my trousers, a thick, steady pressure I could no longer ignore. I did not move. I only watched him continue to photograph her under the single streetlight, the corner still empty around us.


Arjun raised the camera again and kept the frame tight on her face.
“Madam, look just past my shoulder,” he said. “Yes. Hold that. Your eyes are doing everything.”
He took three frames in silence. Then he lowered the camera an inch.
“The light likes your face, madam. It sits properly on you. Most people have to work for this. You do not.”
My wife’s mouth curved, small and involuntary. Colour rose under her cheeks. She dropped her gaze for a second, then lifted it again when he asked, the shyness clear in the way her lashes moved. The yellow pallu stayed where it was across her chest. She looked pleased and embarrassed at the same time.
He shot again, slower now, only her face. Between frames he turned his head slightly toward me, voice kept low enough that it stayed between us.
“Sir… the way her lips stay parted like that. Even when she is not speaking. It is difficult to look only at the eyes.”
He said it evenly, almost thoughtfully, then turned back to her.
“Chin a little higher, madam. Perfect.”
Another soft click. He glanced at me once more while the camera was still at his eye.
“There is something in her face that keeps pulling the frame lower, sir. Even when I am only shooting here. It is… insistent.”
My wife heard only the compliments. She blushed deeper, a faint smile staying at the corner of her mouth, shoulders relaxing under the chiffon. I stood behind him with the bags in my hand and felt my cock thicken again, heavy and unmistakable against my thigh. He kept the lens on her face, taking picture after picture, while the things he whispered sat between us in the quiet corner.


Arjun lowered the camera a fraction and let the frame open. His shoulders stayed loose, the camera steady in both hands.
“Madam, stay exactly as you are. I am only coming a little lower.”
My wife’s breath caught, just once. She held still, chin lifted the way he had asked earlier, the yellow pallu resting across her chest. The lens moved from her face to the line of her throat, then to the place where the yellow pallu crossed the matching yellow blouse. He took two frames. Under the streetlight the full, high shape beneath the yellow blouse was clear.
He lowered the camera an inch. His eyes stayed on her.
“Madam,” he said, voice gentle, “the way the yellow blouse sits on you… it is difficult to look away. You carry it so well.”
Colour rose fast under her cheeks. She looked down, lashes lowering, one hand rising to touch the edge of the pallu as if she needed something to hold. A small, shy smile pulled at her mouth before she could stop it.
“It is just an ordinary blouse,” she said softly, the words almost lost.
Arjun’s head tilted, only slightly. He did not smile.
“Not on you, madam,” he answered. “Ordinary does not look like this.”
Her fingers tightened on the pallu, then released. She let it fall back into place, shoulders softening, the blush still high and warm across her face. She kept her eyes lowered a moment longer than necessary.
He raised the camera again and shot, slower this time. Between frames he turned his head toward me. His voice stayed low, meant only for the space between us.
“Sir… even with the pallu where it is, the shape underneath the yellow blouse is very clear. It keeps pulling the eye.”
I felt the words land low in my stomach. My cock thickened fully against my thigh, heavy and sudden. I did not shift my weight. I only watched the screen on the back of his camera.
He turned back to her, calm.
“A little closer to the light, madam. Yes. Just like that.”
My wife took a small step. The yellow chiffon saree moved with her. She glanced at him, uncertain, then at the ground.
“Is this all right?” she asked, voice small.
“Perfect, madam.”
He pressed the shutter. While the lens was still on her he glanced at me again, the corner of his mouth unchanged.
“There is a heaviness there, sir, where the yellow blouse holds. Once the frame goes to that place, it does not want to leave.”
Heat moved through me. My pulse was loud in my ears. My wife heard only the praise. She blushed deeper, eyes staying down, one hand resting lightly against her own waist as if to steady herself. The yellow chiffon saree shifted with her breathing. I stood behind him with the bags forgotten in my hand, cock hard and aching, while he continued to photograph her under the single streetlight.


Arjun lowered the camera until the frame sat at her waist.
“Madam, turn a little to the side for me. Slowly.”
My wife hesitated. Her fingers tightened once on the edge of the yellow pallu, then she turned, the movement careful. The yellow chiffon saree pulled across her hips as she moved, the dbang tightening over the full, heavy curve of her ass. Under the streetlight the shape was clear, the saree outlining the weight and the way it settled when she stopped.
He watched the line of her body for a moment before he raised the camera again.
“Yes. Hold there. The way the yellow chiffon saree sits on your hips… it follows you properly.”
Colour climbed her neck. She kept her eyes on the compound wall, shoulders drawn in, one hand still holding the pallu against her chest as if she needed the anchor.
“Is the pallu all right like this?” she asked, voice low.
“It is perfect, madam. Do not change anything.”
He took two frames from the side, then one from a three-quarter angle. Between shots he turned his head toward me, voice kept quiet.
“Sir… the weight at her hips. Even through the yellow chiffon saree you can see how it moves when she shifts. It is difficult to keep the frame only on the waist.”
Heat settled low in my stomach. My cock, already hard, throbbed once against my thigh. I stayed still behind him and watched the screen.
Arjun faced her again.
“A small step forward, madam. Weight on your back foot.”
She stepped. The yellow chiffon saree tightened further across her ass, the heavy curve rounding clearly under the dbang. She glanced at him, shy, then looked down.
“Like this?”
“Exactly like that.”
He pressed the shutter. While the camera was still at his eye he spoke to me again, almost under his breath.
“There is a fullness there, sir, where the yellow chiffon saree pulls across her. Once you notice it, the rest of the frame becomes secondary.”
My wife heard none of it. She stood with her eyes lowered, blush deep across her cheeks, the yellow pallu clutched lightly in one hand, body held in the pose he had asked for. I felt the ache in my cock grow sharper, pulse loud, while he continued to photograph the lower half of her under the single streetlight.


Arjun lowered the camera and stepped closer.
“Madam, the pallu has slipped a little at the waist. May I?”
My wife’s hand moved at once to the yellow chiffon saree, fingers catching the edge.
“I can do it,” she said quickly, voice small. Colour was already high on her cheeks.
He stopped, hands open, not touching her yet.
“Of course, madam. Only if you are comfortable.”
She tried to tug the pallu lower, but the knot at her waist had loosened during the turns. When she pulled, the yellow chiffon saree shifted instead of covering, and the soft dip of her navel came into view above the petticoat. She froze. Her other hand rose fast to cover it, palm flat against her stomach, eyes dropping.
“It is fine,” she murmured. “I will fix it.”
Arjun stayed where he was, camera lowered. He looked at me once, brief, then back at her.
I felt the sudden tightness low in my body. My cock, still hard from the earlier frames, pulsed hard against my thigh. The sight of her navel, the way she tried to hide it, the shy hunch of her shoulders under the yellow blouse—all of it landed at once. I heard myself speak before I had decided to.
“Leave it,” I said. My voice came out lower than I expected. “It is all right. Let him see.”
My wife’s eyes lifted to mine, startled. Her hand stayed over her navel, fingers pressed tight. The blush had spread down her neck. She did not move the hand away. Arjun waited, silent, the streetlight catching the small exposed curve of her stomach between her palm and the yellow chiffon saree. I stood behind him with my pulse loud in my ears, cock aching, and did not take the words back.


Arjun took one careful step closer. His voice stayed low.
“Madam, the knot has come loose. If I only straighten the yellow chiffon saree at the waist, the pallu will sit properly again.”
My wife’s hand was still pressed over her navel. She shook her head, small and quick.
“No. I can manage.”
Her shoulders had drawn in. The blush on her cheeks had not faded. She kept her eyes on the ground between them.
Arjun looked at me. He did not reach for her yet.
I felt the heat low in my stomach sharpen. My cock throbbed once, heavy against my thigh. The sight of her standing there, palm covering the exposed navel, yellow blouse rising and falling with her breath, made the words come easily.
“Let him,” I said. “It will only take a second. Then we can finish.”
My wife’s eyes lifted to mine. There was surprise in them, and something uncertain. Her fingers tightened against her stomach.
“Rajesh…” she said, barely above a whisper.
“It is fine,” I told her. My voice was steady. “He is only adjusting the saree.”
She held my gaze a moment longer, then looked down again. Her hand stayed where it was, but she did not step back. Arjun waited one more second. When neither of us stopped him, he reached out. His fingers found the loosened knot at her waist, just above the petticoat. He worked slowly, straightening the yellow chiffon saree, his knuckles brushing the soft curve of her waist as he reset the dbang. My wife’s breath caught. She kept her palm over her navel, body held very still, while his hands moved against her. I stood behind him and watched, cock hard and aching, pulse loud in my ears.


Arjun finished resetting the knot and stepped back. His eyes travelled down the length of the yellow chiffon saree and stopped at her feet.
“Madam, the light is catching the ground well. May I take two frames from lower? Only your feet and the hem.”
My wife shifted her weight. The yellow chiffon saree brushed her ankles. She was wearing simple flat sandals; her toes were visible, neatly shaped, the skin smooth from the evening air.
“My feet?” she asked, uncertain. Colour was still high on her cheeks from earlier. “They are not… anything special.”
“They are part of the picture, madam,” Arjun said. “The way you stand. It completes the frame.”
He looked at me. I felt a different heat move through me, lower and sharper. My cock, already hard, pulsed as I watched her feet shift again on the concrete, the small movement of her toes inside the sandals, the delicate arch visible when she lifted one heel slightly.
“Show him,” I said. My voice came out quieter than I meant. “Just stand as you are.”
My wife glanced at me, then down at her own feet. She did not argue. She only straightened a little, the yellow chiffon saree falling clean to her ankles.
Arjun crouched slowly, camera raised. From that angle the frame caught the hem of the yellow chiffon saree, the line of her ankles, the shape of her feet in the sandals. He took one shot. Then another. While he adjusted the lens he spoke without looking up.
“Sir… the way her toes press when she balances. Even in ordinary sandals. It is… precise.”
He said it low, almost to himself. My wife heard only the shutter. She kept her eyes lowered, one hand still resting near her waist where he had touched her, blush deep. I stood above them both and watched her feet in the frame, the small tension in her arches, the soft press of each toe, and felt my cock throb hard against my thigh, thick and insistent, while the streetlight held the three of us in the empty corner.


Arjun rose from his crouch and glanced at the low compound wall beside them.
“Madam, if you sit here for a moment, the angle will be cleaner. Only for the feet.”
My wife looked at the wall, then at me. Her hand was still near her waist. The blush had not left her cheeks.
“Sit?” she asked, uncertain.
“It will only take a minute, madam.”
Heat sat low in my stomach. My cock throbbed once, heavy and thick against my thigh. I wanted to see it.
“Sit,” I said. “It is fine.”
She held my eyes a second longer, then moved to the wall and lowered herself onto it. The yellow chiffon saree pooled around her legs. Arjun knelt in front of her.
“May I, madam?” he asked, fingers already near the strap of one sandal.
She nodded, small. He slipped the first sandal off, then the second, and set them aside. Her bare feet rested on the concrete, toes slightly curled. He set the camera down and took her right foot in both hands, one palm under the arch, the other covering the top.
His thumb moved slowly along the underside of her toes, then pressed into the soft ball of her foot. My wife jerked.
“It tickles,” she said, breath catching. She tried to pull back, but his hold stayed gentle and firm. A surprised laugh escaped her, high and embarrassed. Her shoulders shook. “Please—don’t.”
“Only a moment, madam,” Arjun said. His fingers traced the length of her sole, slow, feeling the arch, the sensitive centre. She twisted on the wall, yellow chiffon saree shifting, one hand bracing behind her. Another helpless laugh broke from her as his thumb stroked the inner arch.
“Sir,” he said quietly, still looking at her foot, “she is very sensitive here. The way her toes curl when I touch the centre…”
I watched his hands move over her bare foot, the way her toes flexed and pointed, the soft give of her sole under his fingers. My cock ached hard, pulsing with every small sound she made. I did not tell him to stop.
“Continue,” I said. My voice was low. “She will manage.”
My wife looked at me, eyes wide, cheeks burning, still laughing breathlessly as his fingers kept moving over her foot. She did not pull away again. I stood there, hard and throbbing, fully on his side, while he held her foot and felt every ticklish inch of it under the streetlight.


Arjun’s thumb pressed deeper into the centre of her sole. My wife’s foot jerked hard in his hands.
“Ah—stop, it tickles too much,” she gasped, laughing and trying to twist away at the same time. Her toes curled tight, then spread again when he stroked the sensitive arch in a slow circle. The yellow chiffon saree had ridden up her calves. Both her hands were braced on the compound wall now, shoulders shaking with the helpless sounds she made.
He did not let go. His other hand came up and held her ankle, steadying her, while his fingers kept moving—tracing each toe, pressing the ball of her foot, sliding along the soft underside. I watched the way her foot flexed and pointed in his grip, the small tremors running through her leg. My cock throbbed hard, thick and aching, trapped against my thigh. Every breathless laugh from her went straight to it.
Arjun’s breathing had changed. He was still kneeling, but his shoulders were tighter. When he shifted to reach her other foot I saw the clear ridge of his cock pressed against the front of his trousers. He lifted her left foot, brought it closer, and ran his thumb firmly up the sole.
“Madam… your feet are very soft,” he said, voice lower than before. “And very sensitive.”
She made a small, broken sound and tried to pull back again. He held her ankle and kept stroking, slower now, feeling the whole length of her sole, the spaces between her toes. His eyes stayed on her foot. The bulge in his trousers was unmistakable.
“Sir,” he said without looking up, almost rough, “the way she reacts… it is difficult to stop.”
Heat flooded me. I was fully hard, cock pulsing with every movement of his hands on her. I wanted him to keep going.
“Don’t stop,” I said. My voice came out thick. “Take the pictures. Feel them properly.”
My wife looked at me, eyes wet from laughing, cheeks deep red, chest rising fast under the yellow blouse. She did not speak. Arjun’s fingers tightened on her foot, stroking harder along the arch, and I stood there watching both of us get harder while he held her bare feet in his hands under the streetlight.


Arjun lifted my wife’s right foot higher, both hands under her sole. My wife yelped and laughed hard, squirming on the compound wall, too busy fighting the tickle to notice anything else. Her toes curled tight against his palms.
“Don’t— it tickles, please— stop—”
He laughed, low and cheeky, thumbs stroking firmly up the centre of her sole. While she twisted and laughed with her eyes half-closed, he reached over with his free hand, switched the camera flash on, and angled the camera down. The yellow chiffon saree and the yellow petticoat had ridden up her thighs. Her white panties were fully visible between her thighs, stretched over her pussy. The flash fired once. She was still laughing and trying to yank her foot back; she never saw where the camera was pointed.
“Arjun— ah— it tickles too much—”
“Almost done, madam,” he said, grinning, and took a second shot. Only after the second flash did she shove the yellow chiffon saree and yellow petticoat down over her lap with both hands. By then the pictures were already taken. She had been too lost in the tickling to realise what he had photographed.
His boner pressed thick and obvious against his trousers. My own boner throbbed hard at the clear sight of her white panties and at the knowledge that she had no idea. He lowered her foot only a little, still holding it, and went back to stroking her sole so she stayed distracted and laughing.
“Sorry, madam,” he said lightly. “Your feet are very ticklish.”
“Sir,” he added, glancing at me, voice low, “those two came out clear. She did not see.”
My wife sat there blushing to her neck, breathless from laughing, both hands clutching the yellow chiffon saree and yellow petticoat tight over her lap. She thought he had only been photographing her feet. I stood with my boner aching, fully hard, watching him hold her bare foot, knowing the pictures of her white panties were already in his camera and that she would never know.


Arjun grew bolder, but he did it carefully. He gathered both of my wife’s bare feet in his hands and lifted them together, thumbs already pressing into the soft centres of her soles. My wife’s laughter broke out sharp and helpless. Her body twisted on the compound wall, shoulders shaking, eyes squeezed shut against the tickling. She had no attention left for anything else.
“Arjun— both— please, it tickles too much—” she gasped, voice cracking into another laugh. Her toes curled hard, then flexed open again under his thumbs.
“Only a few more, madam. Keep them still if you can.”
While she laughed with her eyes closed, he kept one hand working steadily over both her soles and let the other hand drift. The yellow chiffon saree and the yellow petticoat had ridden up her thighs from all her squirming. Her white panties lay fully exposed between her thighs, stretched smooth over her pussy. He switched the flash on without a word and angled the camera down. Three bright bursts lit her white panties in quick succession. She never opened her eyes. Every flash, to her, was still only for her feet.
He glanced at me once, fast and measuring. I kept my face empty, eyes on her feet as if that were all I saw. Something in his expression settled. A small, cunning smile touched the corner of his mouth. He believed I had noticed nothing. He took one last frame of her white panties, then immediately returned both hands to her soles, stroking harder so her laughter covered everything.
His boner strained thick and obvious against his trousers. Mine throbbed in answer, heavy and aching, but I did not shift my stance or let my breathing change. I gave him no sign.
“Sorry, madam,” he said, light and cheeky, still smiling. “Your feet refuse to stay quiet.”
He looked at me with an easy, harmless face.
“Sir, the foot pictures are done. She laughed the whole time, but I managed to get them.”
My wife sat flushed to her neck, breathless, both hands clutching the yellow chiffon saree and yellow petticoat tight over her lap. She thought he had only photographed her feet. Arjun watched me for any crack in the innocence I was showing him. I gave him none. I stood there fully hard, letting him believe he had taken those pictures of her white panties without anyone knowing, while the truth sat hot and secret between my legs and his camera.


To Be Continued...!