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...!

[novelistcasanova]

Arjun set my wife’s feet down and rose, brushing his knees. He kept his face easy, as if the last few minutes had been nothing more than foot pictures.

“Madam, if you stand and turn around, I can take the back view. It will balance the set.”
My wife was still flushed, breath not fully steady. She looked at me. I gave a small nod, face blank.
“Turn,” I said. “It is fine.”
She stood, the yellow chiffon saree falling back into place around her legs, and turned slowly until her back was to him. The yellow chiffon saree pulled tight across her ass from the movement, outlining the full, heavy curve clearly under the streetlight. Arjun raised the camera. His eyes stayed on her ass longer than the frame needed.
“A little arch in your lower back, madam. Yes. Hold.”
She adjusted. The yellow chiffon saree stretched smoother over her ass, the heavy shape rounding out. He took two shots from directly behind, then one from a slight angle. Between frames he glanced at me. I kept watching her back as though I saw only the pose. He seemed satisfied I remained unaware of how long his gaze lingered.
“The yellow chiffon saree follows your hips well, madam,” he said, voice polite. “It sits exactly where it should.”
Colour rose again on her neck. She kept her face turned away, one hand resting on the compound wall for balance, shoulders soft with leftover shyness from the tickling.
He lowered the camera an inch and spoke to me without turning his head, tone casual.
“Sir, the line is clean from here. The weight sits naturally.”
I felt my boner, which had never fully softened, thicken again at the clear shape of her ass under the yellow chiffon saree and at the way he was looking at it while pretending this was ordinary. I did not react. I only nodded once, playing the innocent husband who saw nothing except a photographer doing his work.
“Take what you need,” I said.
Arjun smiled, small and harmless, and raised the camera again to her back, while both of us stood there hard and neither of us admitted it.


Arjun stepped closer behind my wife, camera still in one hand.
“Madam, the yellow chiffon saree has folded at the side. I will only straighten it.”
My wife stood with her back to him, hands resting on the compound wall. She nodded, small, already trying to keep her breathing even.
“All right.”
He set the camera down on the wall and reached for the yellow chiffon saree at her hip. His fingers found the fold, then slid lower. Instead of only adjusting the dbang, his palm settled fully over the heavy curve of her ass and stayed there, squeezing once, slow and deliberate, through the yellow chiffon saree and the yellow petticoat beneath. My wife’s whole body went rigid. Her breath stopped for a second. She felt the grope clearly, but she forced herself not to jerk away at once. Her fingers tightened on the compound wall. She swallowed, shoulders locking as she tried to control the shock and keep her face from showing too much.
She turned her head slowly and looked straight at me, eyes wide but fighting to stay steady. Colour flooded her cheeks. For a moment she held still under his hand, willing herself not to react more than she already had. Then she shifted sideways in a controlled movement, breaking the contact, the yellow chiffon saree pulling tight as she turned half away from him.
“It is fine now,” she said, voice low and carefully even. “You can take the picture.”
Arjun stepped back smoothly, face innocent, as if his hand had only been correcting the fold. He picked up the camera again.
“Of course, madam. Hold that angle.”
He glanced at me, quick and careful, checking whether I had seen the squeeze or only the adjustment. I kept my expression empty, eyes on her back, giving him nothing. Inside, heat slammed low in my stomach. My boner, already thick, throbbed hard against my thigh at the memory of his palm covering her ass and at the way she had looked at me while trying so hard to control herself. I did not stop it. I only stood there, fully hard, playing the husband who had noticed nothing, while she held the new pose with her cheeks burning, breath shallow, and his handprint still warm on her ass under the yellow chiffon saree.


Arjun raised the camera as if the pose was settled, then lowered the camera again and stepped in behind my wife once more.
“Madam, one small correction at the back. The yellow petticoat is pulling.”
My wife’s shoulders tightened. My wife kept her hands on the compound wall and tried to steady her breathing.
“It is already fine,” my wife said, voice low and controlled.
Arjun did not stop. Arjun’s hands came to my wife’s hips, then slid fully over my wife’s ass. This time both of Arjun’s palms covered my wife’s ass, feeling the heavy curve of my wife’s ass through the yellow chiffon saree and the yellow petticoat, pressing and shaping the heavy curve of my wife’s ass as if Arjun were only smoothing the clothes. Arjun’s fingers found the edges of my wife’s white panties underneath and traced my wife’s white panties deliberately, slow, over the full width of my wife’s ass. My wife’s breath broke for a second before my wife forced it steady again. A shiver ran through my wife’s body that my wife fought to hide. Heat flooded my wife’s face. My wife was getting wet between her thighs; my wife felt the wetness, and my wife pressed her thighs together just enough to control it without making the movement obvious.
My wife turned her head just enough to look at Arjun, eyes dark but carefully neutral, and whispered so only Arjun could hear.
“That is enough.”
My wife’s voice was low, trying to sound final, but the unsteadiness underneath gave her away. My wife did not want Arjun to know how much the touch on my wife’s ass was affecting her. Arjun’s hands stayed on my wife’s ass a moment longer, squeezing the heavy curve of my wife’s ass once more through the layers, feeling the shape of my wife’s white panties under the yellow chiffon saree and yellow petticoat. Arjun leaned in, cheeky and quiet, reading the conflict in her.
“Only adjusting, madam.”
Arjun glanced at me over my wife’s shoulder, face carefully blank, still believing I saw nothing but a photographer fixing a dbang. I kept my expression empty. Inside, my boner throbbed hard and thick at the sight of Arjun’s hands covering the heavy curve of my wife’s ass and at the way my wife was whispering while trying so hard to hide how wet and affected she was. My wife stood there with her breathing shallow but controlled, cheeks burning, body held still under his palms so he would not feel her tremble.
Arjun finally stepped back, slow, and lifted the camera as if nothing had happened. My wife stayed facing the wall, fighting to keep her face and body composed, while both of us remained hard and the warmth of Arjun’s hands lingered on the heavy curve of my wife’s ass through the yellow chiffon saree.


Arjun circled back to my wife’s front as if he still needed one last frame. He raised the camera, then lowered it again and reached for the yellow pallu.
“Madam, the yellow pallu has shifted across the yellow blouse. I will only set it straight.”
My wife’s arms stayed at her sides. She was still trying to keep her breathing even after what he had done to her ass. She gave a small nod, eyes fixed on a point past his shoulder.
“Quickly.”
Arjun’s hands went to the yellow pallu, then slipped underneath. Both palms covered my wife’s boobs over the yellow blouse, feeling the full, heavy weight of my wife’s boobs through the yellow blouse, squeezing slowly as if he were only adjusting the dbang. His thumbs pressed along the lower curve of my wife’s boobs. My wife’s breath stopped. Heat shot through her chest. She felt her nipples tighten under the yellow blouse and fought to keep her face blank, shoulders locked, refusing to arch or pull away at once.
She lasted three seconds. Then her hands came up and caught his wrists.
“Enough,” she said, voice low but clear. “That is enough.”
She pushed his hands away from her boobs and stepped back, the yellow chiffon saree pulling tight across her body. Colour burned high on her cheeks, but she kept her expression controlled, eyes steady on him so he would not see how hard her heart was beating or how sensitive her boobs felt under the yellow blouse.
Arjun let his hands drop at once, face shifting back to polite and harmless. He glanced at me, still checking that I looked unaware. I kept my expression empty, even as my boner throbbed hard at the sight of his palms covering my wife’s boobs and at the way she had forced herself to endure it before she stopped him.
“Of course, madam,” he said lightly. “We are done.”
My wife turned half away, one hand holding the yellow pallu tight across her chest, breathing carefully through her mouth while she tried to settle the ache in her boobs. I stood there fully hard, saying nothing, letting Arjun believe I had seen only an ordinary adjustment.


My wife turned away from both of us and began adjusting the yellow chiffon saree, pulling the yellow pallu properly across her chest and smoothing the yellow petticoat at her waist. She was getting ready to leave, head lowered, still trying to settle her breathing.
I looked at Arjun.
“Show me the pictures.”
He hesitated only a second, then turned the camera screen toward me and began scrolling slowly. Frame after frame of my wife’s face, her feet, the back pose. When a shot came up that sat too long on the full shape of her boobs under the yellow blouse, or framed the heavy curve of her ass too tightly through the yellow chiffon saree, I spoke.
“Delete that one.”
He deleted it without argument. Another. Then another. My wife glanced over once, saw only that we were reviewing, and went back to fixing her saree. With every deleted frame my cock stayed thick and half-hard inside my trousers, a steady, heavy pressure I could feel with every small shift of my weight.


Then the first panties picture appeared. The flash had caught her clearly: yellow chiffon saree and yellow petticoat pushed up her thighs, her white panties fully visible and stretched tight over her pussy, the white panties outlining every contour of her pussy, the edges of her white panties sitting high on her hips, her thighs parted just enough from the way he had lifted her feet. The second and third shots were the same, sharp and close. My cock surged fully hard at once, thickening fast and pushing painfully against the front of my trousers. A hot pulse ran through the length of it; I felt the head swell and a small leak of wetness at the tip. I had to lock my knees to stay still.
Arjun’s thumb stopped on the screen. His face changed.
“Sir… these… I am sorry. The flash went off while she was laughing. I did not mean—”
He looked unsettled, eyes flicking between the picture and my face. Another throb hit my cock, making it jerk inside my trousers. I kept my tone even, almost thoughtful, as if I were only studying the frame.
“The light is interesting here,” I said. “Unplanned, but the white panties are sitting exactly right. You can see the full shape they are holding. Most people would crop this. I would not.”
Arjun swallowed. His voice dropped.
“You can see… everything the white panties are covering, sir. The outline is very clear.”
“Yes.” I did not look away from the screen. My boner ached, heavy and leaking slowly. “That is why it works. The white panties are doing all the work in the frame. Nothing is hidden, yet nothing is fully shown. It is precise.”
He stared at the picture, then at me. His breathing had gone shallow.
“So… you want me to keep them?”
“Keep them,” I said, still calm. “They are the strongest frames in the set. Just do not show anyone. Not her, not anyone else. They stay private.”
“Sir…” He hesitated, thumb hovering over the delete button, then moved it away. “You are sure? They are… very revealing.”
“I am sure.” Another slow pulse moved through my cock. I felt the wetness spread against the inside of my trousers. “The way her white panties are stretched… it is honest. Delete the others if you want. Not these.”
He nodded once, slow, still watching my face for any crack. He found none. To him I was only an husband speaking about composition.
“All right, sir. They stay with me. No one else sees them.”
“Good.”
My cock throbbed hard, thick and untouched, another leak wetting me further. He locked the camera. My wife finished adjusting the yellow chiffon saree and turned toward us, unaware, the yellow pallu now properly set across her chest. Arjun slipped the camera into his bag. I stood there with my boner straining painfully against my trousers, face carefully blank, while the pictures of her white panties remained exactly where both of us had just agreed they should stay.
My wife stepped a little away to check her phone, still fixing the edge of the yellow pallu. I stayed beside Arjun, voice low.
“How did you get those frames of her white panties so cleanly?” I asked. “She did not know. I did not see you take them.”
Arjun’s shoulders tightened. He glanced toward my wife, then back at me, hesitant.
“Sir, it was an accident. The flash—”
“Be frank,” I said, calm. “I will not get mad. I only want to understand how the pictures came out that precise.”
He studied my face for a moment. When he saw no anger, only quiet interest, he exhaled and spoke more freely.
“She was laughing too hard, sir. Eyes closed, whole body moving because of the tickling. I lifted her feet higher on purpose. The yellow chiffon saree and the yellow petticoat slid up by themselves. Her white panties were already fully out. I switched the flash on and took the shots while she was still trying to pull her feet back. She never looked down. You were standing behind me. From your angle it only looked like I was photographing her feet.”
He kept his voice low, careful, but the detail was clear. My cock, already hard, throbbed sharply at the image of him deliberately raising her feet, watching the yellow chiffon saree and yellow petticoat ride up, and firing the flash on her white panties while she laughed with her eyes shut. A fresh leak of wetness spread inside my trousers. I had to keep my hands loose at my sides.
“So you saw her white panties the moment the clothes moved,” I said, tone still even, “and you took the pictures before either of us noticed.”
“Yes, sir.” He met my eyes. “I knew it was only a second. So I took them.”
Another heavy pulse moved through my boner. I nodded once, face unreadable, while the knowledge of exactly how he had captured her white panties settled hot and thick between my legs.


My wife stood a few steps away, head bent over her phone, one hand still smoothing the edge of her yellow pallu across her chest. The streetlight caught the soft movement of her yellow chiffon saree as she shifted her weight. I stayed beside Arjun, close enough that our voices would not carry, and kept my tone light, almost idle, as if the question had only just occurred to me.
“When her yellow chiffon saree and her yellow petticoat went up,” I said, “and her white panties were right there in front of you… did you enjoy seeing them?”
Arjun’s shoulders straightened at once. His fingers tightened around the camera strap. He answered the way a man answers when he is still trying to stay inside a professional line.
“Sir, I was only thinking about the frame. The light on the ground, the angle of her feet. Nothing else.”
I let the silence sit for a moment. My cock was already thick inside my trousers from the pictures we had just looked at; now it gave a slow, heavy throb at the careful way he was lying. I felt the head swell against the fabric, a small bead of wetness forming at the tip. I did not move my hands. I only looked at him, steady and calm.
“Be frank,” I said. “I asked because I want the real answer. I will not get angry.”
He held my eyes. I watched the moment the professional mask loosened. His throat moved as he swallowed. When he spoke again his voice had dropped, lower and less guarded.
“Yes, sir. I enjoyed it.” He paused, then continued, quieter. “Her white panties were stretched so tightly over her pussy. Every contour was clear. The way the white panties clung… I could see the full shape of her pussy underneath. I looked longer than I needed to. I looked properly before I even lifted the camera. And I liked what I saw.”
The words moved through me like heat. My cock surged harder, thickening fully, pushing out against the front of my trousers in a slow, insistent swell. A fresh pulse of wetness leaked from the tip and spread warm against my skin. My balls drew up tight. I felt the ache sharpen all the way into my lower stomach, a deep, throbbing pressure that made my breath want to catch. I did not let it. I kept my face empty, my posture loose, my hands resting still at my sides. Nothing in my expression changed.
“I see,” I said, tone still even, almost mild. “So you looked at her white panties properly. Before you pressed the shutter.”
“Yes, sir.” His voice was barely above a whisper now, honest. “I looked. I saw how her white panties were stretched over her pussy. And I liked it.”
Another heavy throb rolled through my boner, slower and thicker than the last. I felt the wetness grow, a small damp patch forming inside my trousers, but I gave him nothing. I only nodded once, face calm and unreadable, while the truth of how long he had stared at her white panties, and how much he had enjoyed the sight of her pussy outlined beneath them, sat hard and leaking and carefully hidden between my legs.

[novelistcasanova]

I did not step away. My wife was still occupied with her phone, the yellow chiffon saree shifting softly as she stood. I kept my voice low and even, the same calm tone, as if I were only curious about the technical side of the moment.

“You said you looked properly,” I said. “Her white panties stretched over her pussy, everything clear. How were you controlling yourself while you were looking?”
Arjun’s eyes flicked toward my wife, then back to me. His fingers flexed once on the camera strap. He hesitated, but the frankness I had asked for earlier was still in him.
“It was not easy, sir.” His voice stayed quiet. “Her feet were in my hands. She was laughing, eyes closed, body moving. And her white panties were right there, pulled tight, showing the full shape of her pussy. I could feel myself getting hard. I had to keep my face normal. I had to keep taking the pictures like it was only about her feet. If I had stared too long without the camera, she would have noticed. You would have noticed.”
I felt my cock throb hard at the admission, a thick, slow pulse that pushed it more firmly against the inside of my trousers. Fresh wetness leaked from the tip. The image of him kneeling there, holding her feet, staring at her white panties while forcing himself to look ordinary, sat hot in my stomach. I did not let any of it reach my face.
“So you were hard,” I said, still mild, “while you were looking at her white panties, and you still kept going.”
“Yes, sir.” He met my eyes. “I was hard the whole time. I controlled it by staying behind the camera. By making it look like work. But I was looking. And I did not want to stop looking.”
Another heavy ache moved through my boner. I nodded once, expression unchanged, hands still loose at my sides, while he stood there having just told me exactly how hard he had been, and how carefully he had hidden it, the entire time her white panties were exposed in front of him.


My wife shifted her weight a few steps away, still looking at her phone, the yellow chiffon saree moving gently around her legs. I stayed where I was, voice kept low and unhurried.
“What will you do with those pictures?” I asked. “The ones of her white panties.”
Arjun’s hand rested on his camera bag. He answered carefully, the safe version first.
“I will keep them, sir. Like you said. Private. No one else will see them.”
I looked at him without blinking.
“Be honest with me. Not the safe answer. What will you actually do with the pictures of her white panties?”
He was quiet for a moment. His eyes moved once toward my wife, then returned to mine. When he spoke, the caution had thinned.
“I will keep them on my phone, sir. I will look at them again. When I am alone.” His voice dropped further. “I will look at how her white panties were stretched over her pussy. How clear the shape was. And I will… use them. While I look.”
The admission landed heavy. My cock throbbed hard inside my trousers, a thick, deliberate pulse that made the leaking tip drag wetly against the fabric. Heat pooled low in my stomach. I saw, for a second, the exact image he would be staring at later—her white panties pulled tight, her pussy outlined beneath them—and felt another slow leak spread. Nothing showed on my face. I only nodded, once, calm.
“You will look at her white panties and touch yourself.”
“Yes, sir.” He did not look away. “That is what I will do.”
I let the silence hold. My boner ached, full and untouched, while he stood in front of me having just said, plainly, that he would use the pictures of my wife’s white panties when he was alone. I gave him no reaction beyond another small, unreadable nod.


My wife remained a short distance away, thumb moving over her phone, unaware. I kept my voice low, the same steady tone I had used for the pictures.
“When you were behind her,” I said, “and your hands were on my wife’s ass… did you enjoy feeling my wife’s ass cheeks?”
Arjun’s posture shifted. He glanced toward my wife, then back at me. For a moment he stayed inside the careful answer.
“Sir, I was only adjusting her yellow chiffon saree and her yellow petticoat. The fold—”
“Be honest,” I said, quiet and even. “I will not get angry. Tell me properly.”
He exhaled. The hesitation left his face. His voice dropped.
“Yes, sir. I enjoyed it.” He spoke slowly, as if remembering the exact weight. “I put both hands on her ass. Her ass cheeks were full and heavy under her yellow chiffon saree and her yellow petticoat. I squeezed. I could feel how soft her ass cheeks were, and how they filled my hands. I pressed my fingers along the edges of her white panties underneath. I held her ass longer than I needed to. I liked the way her ass felt. I did not want to take my hands off.”
The detail moved straight through me. My cock throbbed hard, thickening further inside my trousers, a fresh surge of wetness leaking from the tip and spreading warm against my skin. I felt the ache settle deep in my balls. The memory of his palms covering my wife’s ass, and now the knowledge of exactly how much he had liked the feel of her ass cheeks, made the pressure worse. I did not shift. I did not let my breathing change. My face stayed calm and empty.
“So you felt my wife’s ass cheeks properly,” I said. “And you liked how heavy and soft they were.”
“Yes, sir.” He met my eyes. “I felt all of her ass. And I enjoyed every second of it.”
Another slow, heavy pulse rolled through my boner. I nodded once, expression unreadable, while the truth of how thoroughly he had groped and enjoyed my wife’s ass sat hot and leaking between my legs.
My wife was still a little apart from us, eyes on her phone, one hand resting lightly on her yellow pallu. I kept my voice low and even.
“When you were behind her,” I said, “and your hands went under her yellow pallu onto her yellow blouse… did you enjoy feeling my wife’s boobs?”
Arjun’s eyes flicked toward her, then returned to me. He started with the careful version.
“Sir, I was only setting her yellow pallu straight. It had shifted—”
“Be honest,” I said, quiet. “Same as before. I will not get angry.”
He was silent a moment. Then the restraint eased. His voice lowered.
“Yes, sir. I enjoyed it.” He spoke with the same slow detail. “I reached from behind and put both hands on her boobs over her yellow blouse. Her boobs were full and heavy. I could feel the weight of them in my palms. I squeezed. Her boobs filled my hands completely. I pressed my thumbs along the lower curve of her boobs. I could feel how soft they were under her yellow blouse. I held them longer than the adjustment needed. I liked the way her boobs felt. I did not want to let go.”
The words hit low and direct. My cock throbbed hard inside my trousers, swelling thicker, a fresh leak of wetness spreading from the tip. The ache deepened in my balls. I kept every reaction out of my face and out of my posture. My hands stayed loose. My expression did not change.
“So you felt my wife’s boobs properly,” I said. “And you liked how full and heavy they were.”
“Yes, sir.” He met my eyes. “I felt all of her boobs. And I enjoyed it.”
Another slow, heavy pulse moved through my boner. I nodded once, calm and unreadable, while the knowledge of how thoroughly he had groped and liked my wife’s boobs sat hard and leaking between my legs.


My wife looked up from her phone and touched my arm.
“We are getting late,” she said. “The biryani will be cold. The boys are waiting.”
She lifted her wrist and showed me the time on her watch. Arjun had already stepped closer. He held the camera out to me.
“Sir, one picture with madam before you go. Only one. I will stand with her.”
My wife shook her head, still showing the watch.
“It is already late.”
“Just one,” I said. My voice stayed even. “Then we leave.”
She looked at me, then gave a small, reluctant nod. Arjun moved to her side at once. He stood close, shoulder nearly touching hers, and smiled at her—easy, warm, a little cheeky. She managed a small smile in return for the frame. I raised the camera. They held still. I pressed the shutter.
The moment the click sounded, Arjun turned toward her.
“Thank you so much, madam,” he said, casual and light.
Before she could step away he pulled her fully into his arms. It was a complete embrace. His arms locked around her back, one hand settling low near her waist, the other higher between her shoulder blades, drawing her body flush against his. Her boobs pressed soft and full against his chest through her yellow blouse. Her hips met his. For a second she was held completely, the yellow chiffon saree crushed gently between them.
He leaned in and kissed her cheek. Not a quick brush. His mouth stayed on her cheek, warm and deliberate, lips parting just enough that she felt the soft inner edge of his mouth against her cheek. His breath touched her ear. My wife’s entire body went still. A small, involuntary shiver moved through her shoulders. Heat flooded her face. She felt the firm press of his chest against her boobs, the strength in his arms, and the lingering kiss on her cheek all at once. Her breath caught. For half a second her hands rested on his arms instead of pushing, fingers curling once as if her body had not yet decided.
Then she broke it. Her palms came up against his chest and she pushed, stepping back sharply, the yellow chiffon saree pulling tight across her boobs and hips as she moved. Colour burned high on her cheeks and down her neck. Her eyes were wide, lips slightly parted, chest rising faster under the yellow blouse. She came straight to me, one hand catching my sleeve, standing close enough that I could feel the quickness of her breathing.
I lowered the camera and gave it back to Arjun. He took it without comment, face still pleasant, as if the embrace and the kiss on her cheek had been nothing more than thanks.
“Send the pictures to this number,” I said, and told him my WhatsApp. “All of them.”
“Yes, sir. Tonight.”
My wife kept her hand on my sleeve, face still flushed, eyes lowered. I picked up the biryani bags. We walked out of the corner. The warmth of his mouth on her cheek and the brief, full press of her body against his stayed with both of us as we stepped back onto the main street.


We walked back toward the parking side of the multiplex, the biryani bags warm against my leg. My wife stayed a half-step closer than usual. Her yellow chiffon saree shifted with each step, the pallu held tighter across her chest. For a minute she said nothing. Then her voice came, low and careful, eyes fixed on the pavement ahead.
“He was not professional.”
Her fingers tightened on the edge of her yellow pallu. Colour had returned to her cheeks.
“When he was behind me… he did not only adjust. His hands went over my ass. He felt my white panties through my yellow chiffon saree and my yellow petticoat. I could feel his fingers tracing the edges of my white panties. He squeezed my ass cheeks properly. He held them. It was not correcting a fold.”
She glanced at me, quick and uneasy, then looked forward again. Her shoulders had drawn in.
“And still from behind… his hands came around under my yellow pallu. He felt my boobs over my yellow blouse and my bra. Both hands. He squeezed my boobs from behind. I felt his palms on them, his thumbs moving. He held my boobs longer than any adjustment needs. Then the hug. The kiss on my cheek. That was naughty. He is a pervert.”
Her breath was a little shorter now. She waited for my answer, one hand still gripping the pallu.
I kept my voice calm, steady.
“He is a photographer. He was trying to get the best frames. The light, the angle, the way the saree and the blouse sit. That is his work. It is art. He takes it seriously.”
She turned her head fully toward me. Her eyes searched my face. The blush on her cheeks deepened.
“Did you feel bad? When he was doing all that to me?”
“Absolutely not.” The words came at once, even and sure. “I did not feel bad. He was working. He wanted the pictures to come out well. There is nothing to feel bad about.”
She studied me a second longer, lips pressed together, then looked ahead again. I continued, tone reasonable.
“He is somebody’s son. Young, trying to build something with his camera. We have sons of our own. If we help somebody else’s son when he is working hard, someday someone will help our sons the same way. That is how it works. He was polite. He asked. He stopped when you said enough. Even if his hands stayed a little longer on your ass or on your boobs from behind, it was for the shot. The pictures will be good because he cared about them.”
She was quiet. Her steps slowed. One hand rose and brushed the edge of her yellow pallu. When she spoke again her voice was softer.
“You really believe that? Even after I felt his hands on my white panties through the saree and petticoat? Even after he squeezed my boobs from behind over my blouse and bra?”
“Yes. Helping him today is no different from hoping someone helps our boys tomorrow. He is professional. A little bold, maybe, but professional. You yourself said he stopped when you told him enough.”


We reached the car. I unlocked it and opened the passenger door. She paused, then got in, her yellow chiffon saree settling around her legs. I placed the bags in the back and sat in the driver’s seat. For a moment neither of us spoke. The doors shut out the outside noise. I glanced at her, a small, naughty edge already in my voice.
“So… when his hands were on your ass and on your boobs like that… did he make you horny?”
Her head snapped toward me. Her eyes went wide, then narrowed at once. Colour rushed up her neck and across her cheeks.
“Rajesh!”
She reached over and slapped my arm, sharp but playful.
“What kind of question is that?”
I laughed under my breath. She slapped my arm again, then my shoulder, light and quick.
“Shut up! You are mad.”
“I am only asking,” I said, still smiling. “You were describing it in so much detail. His hands on your white panties, squeezing your boobs from behind… I thought maybe—”
“Thought what?” She hit my thigh this time, half-laughing, half-outraged. “You thought I got horny? From that photographer? Are you hearing yourself?”
She shook her head hard, but her mouth was fighting a smile. She slapped my arm once more, softer.
“You are impossible. Completely impossible. Drive the car before I hit you properly.”
“So that is a no?” I asked, teasing.
“It is a shut up and drive,” she said, turning toward the window, one hand covering her mouth. Her shoulders shook once. A small, embarrassed laugh escaped anyway. “God… what has got into you tonight?”
I started the engine. She kept her face turned away, cheeks still burning, but the smile stayed. The city lights began to move across the glass as I pulled out of the parking, the playful scolding and the unanswered question still warm between us in the car.

[novelistcasanova]

We reached home just after nine. The boys were already in the living room, half-watching television. My wife carried the biryani bags straight to the dining table and began serving. The three of them ate quickly, talking over one another about the evening. I sat with them for a while, then went upstairs.

My wife followed a few minutes later. She took her night shower, the bathroom door closing behind her. I changed into my soft T-shirt and my track pants and got into bed, phone in my hand. The room was quiet. I opened WhatsApp. Arjun’s message was already there—dozens of pictures, sent one after another.
I began scrolling. Her face under the streetlight. Her feet. The back pose with her yellow chiffon saree pulled tight across her ass. Then the ones of her white panties, bright with flash, stretched clear over her pussy. My cock thickened at once inside my track pants. I shifted the phone higher so the screen light would not show too much, and kept looking. Each frame of her white panties made me harder. I was fully hard by the time I heard the bathroom door open.
My wife came out in her white nighty. Her white nighty fell loosely to her knees. Her hair was damp and loose down her back. She stood near the dressing table and began her usual night routine—pumping lotion into her palms, rubbing it slowly up her arms, then over her neck and collarbones, then down her legs, one foot propped on the low stool. Her white nighty shifted with her movements. I watched her from the bed, phone still in my hand, cock throbbing hard against my thigh, and felt a sudden, bright lift in my chest.
When she finished she turned off the dressing-table light and came to the bed. I set the phone face-down and smiled at her, open and warm.
“Come,” I said, and lifted the sheet.
She paused, one knee already on the mattress, and looked at me. A small, surprised smile touched her mouth.
“You are in a very good mood,” she said.
“I am,” I answered, still smiling. “Come here.”
She slid in beside me. I pulled her close at once, one arm around her waist over her white nighty, happy and unguarded. She settled against me, her damp hair cool on my shoulder, and studied my face for a second longer.
“Something happened?” she asked, soft. “You are… very happy tonight.”
I only kissed her forehead and kept her against me, my hard cock pressed carefully to her hip through my track pants and her white nighty, while the pictures of her white panties stayed lit and waiting on the phone beside us.





My wife shifted closer under the sheet. Her damp hair brushed my neck. For a moment she only lay against me, quiet. Then her right hand moved. It slid down my stomach, slow, and slipped inside my track pants. Her fingers found my cock at once. She wrapped her hand around it and went still.
Her breath caught. She lifted her head and looked at me, eyes wide in the low light.
“Rajesh…” Her voice was soft, surprised. Her fingers tightened gently, feeling how hard and thick I was. “You are… fully hard.”
A small, teasing smile touched her mouth. She gave my cock one slow stroke inside my track pants, then another, her palm warm around the shaft.
“Why are you so horny today?” she asked, low and playful. “You have been smiling since we came upstairs. Is it because of that street photographer? All those pictures he took?”
She squeezed again, thumb brushing the leaking tip, and raised an eyebrow.
“Tell me. Did watching him photograph me put you in this mood? Or is it something else?”
Her hand stayed on my cock, stroking lightly, waiting. Her white nighty had ridden up her thigh where it pressed against me. I felt every movement of her fingers and the curious, amused look on her face, while the pictures of her white panties still waited on the phone beside the pillow.



My wife’s hand stayed wrapped around my cock inside my track pants, stroking slow and light. She watched my face, the teasing smile still on her mouth, waiting.
I let out a quiet breath. My hips shifted once under her palm before I could stop them.
“Maybe,” I said, voice low. “The way he was looking at you… taking all those pictures. It stayed in my head.”
Her fingers tightened a little. She raised an eyebrow, amused and curious.
“So it did make you horny. Watching another man photograph your wife.”
She stroked me again, slower, thumb circling the wet tip.
“You were defending him so much in the car. Saying he was professional. Saying it was only art.” Her voice dropped, playful. “But now you are this hard… because of him?”
I met her eyes. My cock throbbed in her hand.
“I liked how you looked,” I said. “In her yellow chiffon saree. Under the streetlight. That is all.”
She laughed softly, not believing me completely, and gave my cock a firmer squeeze.
“Only that?” she whispered. “Or did you also like watching his hands on me?”
Her white nighty had ridden higher. Her bare thigh pressed warm against mine. She kept stroking, slow and deliberate, eyes on my face, clearly enjoying how hard I was and how carefully I was answering. The phone lay face-down beside the pillow, the pictures of her white panties still open on the screen, unseen by her.


My wife’s hand kept moving inside my track pants, slow strokes that made my cock throb against her palm. She shifted closer, her white nighty brushing my arm, and looked at me with that same teasing softness.
“You are not answering properly,” she said. Her thumb slid over the head again, spreading the wetness. “Did you like it when he touched me? When his hands were on my ass… and on my boobs?”
I swallowed. My hips lifted once into her hand before I stilled them.
“I liked watching you,” I said, voice rough. “How you stood. How the yellow chiffon saree looked on you. That is what stayed with me.”
She smiled, small and knowing, and tightened her grip.
“Liar.” The word was gentle. She stroked me from base to tip, unhurried. “You were hard in the car too. I felt it when I sat next to you. And now you are leaking in my hand… all because of those pictures and the way he looked at me.”
Her bare thigh pressed more firmly against mine. She leaned in and kissed the corner of my mouth, then whispered against my lips.
“Tell me the truth. Did it make you horny when he felt my boobs from behind? When he squeezed my ass over my white panties?”
My cock pulsed hard in her fist. I turned my head and caught her mouth in a deeper kiss, one hand sliding to her waist over her white nighty. She kissed me back, still stroking, still waiting for the answer I had not given her yet. The phone stayed dark beside us, but every frame of her white panties was sharp behind my eyes.


My wife’s mouth stayed soft against mine for a moment longer, then she pulled back just enough to look at me. Her hand never stopped. Inside my track pants her fingers kept that slow, steady stroke, slick now with how much I was leaking.
“You kissed me instead of answering,” she whispered. There was a smile in her voice, low and warm. “That usually means yes.”
I breathed out against her cheek. My cock throbbed hard in her grip.
“Yes,” I said, quiet. “It made me horny.”
Her stroking paused for half a second, then continued, firmer.
“Which part?”
“All of it.” My voice was rough. “Watching him look at you. Watching his hands on your ass over your yellow chiffon saree and your yellow petticoat. Watching him reach around and feel your boobs through your yellow blouse. Knowing he was touching you and you were trying to stay still… it made me hard.”
She let out a small, shaky breath. Her thighs pressed together under her white nighty. She stroked me again, slower, almost thoughtful, her eyes dark on my face.
“You really liked it,” she said. Not a question. Her thumb circled the wet head of my cock. “You liked another man feeling my body.”
“Yes.”
She kissed me once more, deeper this time, and shifted her body closer so her white nighty rode higher up her hip. Her hand stayed inside my track pants, working me with steady, wet strokes while her free hand came up to rest on my chest. The room was quiet except for our breathing and the soft sound of her palm moving on my cock. The phone lay forgotten beside the pillow, but the pictures of her white panties, and the memory of his hands on her, were still sharp between us.


My wife’s hand kept its slow rhythm inside my track pants. She watched my face while she stroked, her white nighty warm against my side. After a moment she spoke again, softer.
“When he had his hands on my ass… I felt you watching.” Her fingers tightened gently around my cock. “You did not stop him. You stood there. And now you are this hard in my hand.”
I turned my head and kissed her temple. My hips pressed up once into her palm.
“I could not look away,” I said. “The way your yellow chiffon saree pulled across your ass. The way you tried to control your breathing when he squeezed. I saw all of it.”
She let out a quiet breath. Her stroking slowed, almost teasing.
“And my boobs?” she asked. “When he reached from behind and held them over my yellow blouse… did you see how long he kept his hands there?”
“Yes.” My voice was low. “I saw. And I got harder.”
Her thumb slid over the leaking tip again. She shifted closer, one bare thigh sliding over mine under the sheet. Her white nighty had ridden up enough that I could feel the heat of her skin against my track pants.
“You are terrible,” she whispered, but she was smiling, small and flushed. She kissed me, open and slow, while her hand continued to work my cock with steady, wet strokes. “Lying in the car. Saying he was only professional. And all that time you were getting hard because he was touching me.”
I kissed her back, one hand moving to her waist, feeling the soft cotton of her white nighty under my palm. My cock throbbed thick and heavy in her fist. The room stayed quiet around us, only our breathing and the soft sound of her hand moving inside my track pants, both of us knowing exactly why I was so hard tonight.


My wife’s hand slowed inside my track pants. She kissed me once more, then drew back just enough to look at me, eyes dark and soft.
“Take this off,” she whispered.
Her fingers left my cock. She sat up and reached for the hem of my T-shirt. I raised my arms. She pulled the T-shirt over my head and dropped it beside the bed. Her palms came back to my chest, warm, then slid lower. She hooked her fingers into the waistband of my track pants and tugged. I lifted my hips. She drew my track pants and underwear down together, freeing my cock. It stood thick and hard against my stomach, wet at the tip. She looked at it for a moment, then wrapped her hand around it again, stroking once, slow.
I reached for her. My hands found the hem of her white nighty and began to lift. She raised her arms. The white nighty slid up her body and over her head. She was bare underneath. Her boobs settled free, full and heavy, nipples already tight. The white nighty fell to the floor. She stayed kneeling beside me for a second, hair damp on her shoulders, skin warm from the shower and the lotion, completely naked now.
I pulled her down against me. Her bare boobs pressed to my chest. My cock slid against her stomach. She made a small sound and kissed me, deeper, one hand still wrapped around my shaft, the other resting on my shoulder. The sheet had slipped to our waists. Her thigh hooked over mine. We kissed like that, slow and open, her naked body warm along mine, my hard cock throbbing in her hand, both of us finally undressed and close in the quiet room.


My wife’s bare body pressed closer. Her hand kept its slow stroke on my cock while we kissed. I slid one palm down her back, over the curve of her ass, and pulled her tighter against me. Her boobs flattened softly against my chest. She made a low sound into my mouth and shifted her hips, rubbing herself once against my thigh.
I broke the kiss and looked at her. Her lips were wet, eyes half-open.
“Come here,” I said, voice rough.
I rolled her gently onto her back. She went willingly, hair spreading on the pillow, her white nighty already forgotten on the floor. I moved over her. My cock slipped from her hand and rested heavy against her lower stomach. She looked up at me, breathing faster, one hand coming to my shoulder, the other sliding down my side.
I kissed her again, slower, then moved my mouth to her neck. She tilted her head, a small shiver running through her. My hand found her boob, cupping the full weight, thumb brushing her nipple. She arched slightly into the touch and whispered my name.
Her thighs parted under me. I settled between them, the head of my cock brushing the heat between her legs. She was already wet. I stayed there, kissing her mouth, her jaw, the top of her boob, letting her feel how hard I was against her without pushing in yet. Her fingers tightened on my shoulder. Her other hand came down and guided me, holding my cock and rubbing the tip slowly along her pussy.
“Rajesh…” she breathed.
I looked at her face. She was flushed, lips parted, eyes on mine. I pushed forward, just the head, and felt her open around me. She gasped softly, hips lifting to take more. I sank in deeper, inch by inch, until I was fully inside her. She wrapped her legs around my waist, arms around my neck, and held me there, both of us still for a moment, breathing, joined, the memory of the evening still sharp between us in the quiet room.


I stayed deep inside her for a long moment, not moving. My wife’s arms were tight around my neck. Her legs locked at my lower back. I could feel every small shift of her body, the wet heat of her pussy gripping my cock, the soft press of her boobs against my chest.
She opened her eyes and looked at me. Her breathing was unsteady.
“You are so hard tonight,” she whispered.
I drew back slowly, almost all the way, then pushed in again, deep and unhurried. She gasped, fingers tightening on my shoulders. I did it again. Slow. Full. Each stroke let me feel how wet she was, how her pussy clung when I pulled back and opened when I sank in.
“Because of you,” I said against her mouth. “Because of how you looked today.”
She kissed me, open and needy. Her hips began to meet mine, small lifting movements that took me deeper. I kept the pace slow, grinding when I was all the way inside, letting her feel the thick press of my cock. One of my hands slid under her ass and held her there. She moaned softly into the kiss.
“Tell me,” she breathed between kisses. “What you were thinking… when he was touching me.”
I thrust a little deeper, slower. My mouth moved to her ear.
“I was thinking how full your ass felt in his hands. How your boobs looked when he reached around and held them. How hard it made me… watching you try to stay still while he touched you.”
She shivered under me. Her pussy tightened around my cock. Her nails pressed into my back.
“Rajesh…”
I kept moving inside her, long and deep, kissing her neck, her mouth, her shoulder, while she held me closer and the slow rhythm of our bodies filled the quiet room.

[novelistcasanova]

I kept the rhythm slow and deep. Each time I sank fully into her, my wife’s breath caught and her hips rose to meet me. Her pussy was slick and tight around my cock. I could feel every small flutter of her body.

She turned her face into my neck. Her voice came out soft and broken.
“Did you… want him to keep touching me?”
I thrust in again, grinding deep, and stayed there. My hand under her ass pulled her closer.
“Yes.” The word was low against her ear. “When his hands were on your ass, squeezing your ass cheeks through your yellow chiffon saree… I wanted him to keep going. When he reached around and held your boobs… I stood there hard, watching.”
She moaned, quiet and helpless. Her legs tightened around my waist. I began to move again, still slow, pulling almost all the way out so she felt every inch, then filling her completely.
“And the pictures of your white panties,” I whispered. “When I saw them on the phone… how they were stretched over your pussy… I got even harder.”
Her nails dug into my back. She was trembling now, hips rolling up to take me deeper with every stroke.
“Rajesh… I am close…”
I kissed her mouth, open and hungry, and kept the same deep, unhurried pace. One hand stayed under her ass, holding her to me. The other cradled the back of her head. She clung to me, breathing fast, her pussy gripping my cock tighter and tighter as I moved inside her, both of us lost in the slow heat and the things I had just admitted.


My wife’s breathing turned ragged. Her hips kept rising to meet every slow thrust, taking my cock deeper each time. I stayed buried in her and ground forward, feeling her pussy flutter and tighten around me.
“Let go,” I whispered against her mouth. “I have you.”
She nodded, eyes half-closed, and clung harder. I kept the same deep, steady rhythm—pulling back until only the head remained inside her, then sinking all the way in, slow and full. Her thighs trembled against my sides. A soft, broken sound left her throat.
“Rajesh… don’t stop…”
I didn’t. I kissed her through it, one hand still cupping her ass, holding her open to me. Her pussy clenched hard around my cock. She came with a low, shaking moan, her whole body tightening, nails pressing into my back, hips jerking up as the orgasm rolled through her. I stayed deep, moving only in small, gentle thrusts, letting her ride it out against me.
When the peak eased she went soft under me, breathing fast, arms still locked around my neck. I kissed her cheek, her lips, her closed eyelids. My cock was still hard and throbbing inside her, wet with her.
She opened her eyes slowly and looked at me, flushed and dazed.
“You didn’t finish,” she whispered.
“Not yet.” I rocked into her once, deep and slow. “I want to stay inside you a little longer.”
She smiled, small and spent, and pulled me down for another kiss. Her legs stayed wrapped around me. I began to move again, unhurried, still hard, still deep, the quiet of the room around us and the heat of her body holding me exactly where I wanted to be.
I stayed deep inside her and began to move again, slower than before. My wife’s body was soft and open under me, still trembling with the last of her orgasm. Each gentle thrust drew a small, pleased sound from her throat. She kept her arms around my neck and her legs loosely hooked at my back, holding me close.
“You feel so good,” she whispered against my mouth. “Still so hard…”
I kissed her, long and unhurried, and rolled my hips in a deep, grinding stroke. My cock slid through the wet heat of her pussy, thick and sensitive. I could feel every flutter of her body around me.
“I don’t want to rush,” I said, voice low. “I want to feel you like this.”
She nodded, eyes soft, and tightened her legs a little, pulling me deeper. I kept the pace slow—long withdrawals, full, heavy returns—watching her face each time I filled her. Her boobs moved gently with the motion. Her hands wandered over my back, my shoulders, sometimes gripping when I sank all the way in.
After a while I shifted, sitting back on my heels and drawing her with me so she straddled my lap. She sank down onto my cock with a quiet gasp, arms looping around my neck, her white nighty long forgotten on the floor. I held her ass in both hands and guided her, letting her ride me at the same unhurried rhythm. She rocked slowly, forehead resting against mine, breathing with me.
“Like this?” she asked, soft.
“Yes.”
We stayed that way, kissing, moving together in the quiet room, my cock buried deep inside her, both of us warm and close, in no hurry for it to end.
My wife rocked on my lap, slow and deep. Her arms stayed looped around my neck. Each time she sank down, my cock filled her completely and she let out a small, shaky breath against my mouth. I held her ass in both hands, guiding the rhythm, feeling the soft weight of her settle onto me again and again.
“You are still so hard,” she whispered. Her forehead rested against mine. “I can feel every bit of you.”
I kissed her, open and gentle, and thrust up once to meet her. She moaned softly into the kiss. Her boobs pressed warm against my chest. I slid one hand up her back, keeping her close, while the other stayed on her ass, helping her move.
“I like watching you like this,” I said, voice low. “Taking me. Slow.”
She smiled against my lips and rolled her hips a little deeper. Her pussy gripped me, wet and tight. We stayed in that unhurried pace—her rising and sinking, me holding her, both of us breathing together. The room was quiet except for the soft sounds of our bodies and the occasional whisper of her white nighty still lying forgotten on the floor.
After a while she tightened her arms and spoke, almost shy.
“Do you want to finish inside me?”
I looked at her, still moving with her, still hard.
“Yes.”
She nodded, flushed and soft, and kissed me again. I held her ass more firmly and began to meet her movements with deeper, slower thrusts from below, staying buried in her, letting the heat build between us without rushing, both of us close and warm in the dim room.


I held her ass more firmly and thrust up into her, slow and deep. My wife sank down to meet me each time, her arms tight around my neck. Her breathing turned shaky.
“Ahh… Rajesh…” she moaned softly against my mouth. “You are so deep…”
The wet grip of her pussy around my cock grew tighter. I could feel the heat building low in my stomach, heavy and close.
“I am getting there,” I whispered, voice rough. A low groan left me. “Mmmh… fuck…”
She nodded, forehead still against mine, and rolled her hips a little faster, still gentle. Her boobs pressed soft against my chest.
“Yes… ahh… don’t stop…” she breathed. “I can feel you… mmmh…”
I kissed her, open and needy. My cock throbbed hard inside her.
“Stay just like this,” I groaned. “Ahh… I’m close… don’t stop…”
“Mmmh—yes… cum inside me…” she moaned, voice breaking. “Ahh… Rajesh…”
I thrust up harder once, then again, burying myself fully. A deep groan tore out of me.
“Ahh—fuck… I’m cumming… ahhh…”
I came deep inside her, pulsing thick and hot. My hips jerked up as I filled her.
“Mmmh—ahhh… yes…” she moaned with me, arms locked tight, pussy clenching softly around my cock. “I feel it… ahh… you’re cumming inside me…”
“Ahhh… fuck… so good…” I groaned against her mouth, still pulsing. “Mmmh…”
When the last pulse faded I stayed buried in her, breathing hard, forehead against hers. She kissed me, slow and sweet, small soft sounds still leaving her throat. We remained like that in the quiet room, still joined, warm and close, my cock softening gradually inside her while she rested against me, both of us quiet and spent.

[novelistcasanova]

We stayed joined a little longer, my softening cock still inside her, her arms loose around my neck. The room was quiet. My wife’s breathing had slowed, but she did not relax fully. She kept her forehead against mine, then pulled back just enough to look at me. Her eyes were soft, but troubled.

“I feel guilty,” she said, plain and quiet. “Really guilty. I let him touch me. I felt his hands on my ass… on my boobs. I stood there and let it happen. And then I came home and told you every detail… and you got so hard from it. We just… we just did this because of him. That feels wrong.”
Her voice wavered. She looked down, one hand resting uncertainly on my chest.
“I enjoyed how much you wanted me. I am happy we are close like this. But the reason… it makes me feel dirty. Like I did something I should not have done, and then used it to make my husband fuck me.”
I was quiet for a moment. My hand kept moving slowly on her back, but the guilt was sharp in my own chest too.
“I feel it as well,” I said. “I watched another man touch my wife. I let him. I got hard while he squeezed your ass and your boobs. I looked at pictures of your white panties and wanted you because of them. And then I came inside you thinking about all of it. That is not right. I should have stopped him. I should not have enjoyed it. I feel guilty for that. Guilty that I needed you this badly because of him.”
She nodded, eyes wet at the corners, and rested her head on my shoulder. Her body stayed against mine, still holding me inside her, but the happiness was quieter now, weighed down.
“So we are both happy… and both guilty,” she whispered. “I don’t know what to do with that.”
“Neither do I,” I said.
We stayed like that in the dark, naked and still joined, the warmth of each other real, the guilt heavier and clearer between us than the pleasure had been. Neither of us moved to pull away.
We stayed like that a while longer, still joined, her head on my shoulder, my hand resting on her back. Neither of us spoke again. The guilt sat between us, quiet and heavy, but so did the simple fact of her body against mine, warm and familiar.
Eventually she shifted. My cock slipped from her. She did not move far. She only turned onto her side and drew the sheet over us both, then settled back against me, her bare back to my chest. I put my arm around her waist and hugged her close. She covered my hand with hers.
Outside, the house remained silent. The phone lay dark on the bedside table. The pictures, the corner, the photographer’s hands, the things we had said—all of it stayed in the room with us, unspoken now.
She let out a long, soft breath.
“Good night,” she whispered.
“Good night.”
I hugged her. She hugged my arm against her. We lay awake a little longer in the dark, guilty and close, until sleep finally came for both of us.

---

The End

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Novelist Casanova