True-ish story: The shy Indian bride and the white photographer

Some context: Sohini is about to get married. She’s getting dressed for the big day, and has just put on her “blouse.” In traditional Indian attire, the blouse is often basically just an ornate bra. It’s paired with another garment which is draped over the chest to hide the cleavage.

The blouse fabric was stiffer than Sohini expected, the gold-thread embroidery scratching faintly against her nipples as she adjusted the mirror’s angle. Her fingers hesitated near the plunging neckline—too much skin, too little coverage—but wedding tradition demanded this ornate glorified bra called a “blouse”. At least she’d have a cloth to drape over her chest when she went out and got married. Outside, the clock chimed, marking the hour before her groom would arrive. She exhaled, watching her perky and full c-cup breasts rise with the movement. The blouse was designed to cover the minimum amount required. It didn’t help that it didn’t seem to fit quite right. It warped and created pockets that flashed the cinnamon brown swells and curves beneath. But maybe that’s how it was supposed to be, Sohini mused, since no one would see the blouse’s neckline anyways, covered as it would be by the draping cloth.

Robert’s knuckles rapped the dressing room doorframe twice before he shouldered his way in, camera straps crisscrossing his chest like bandoliers. His gaze dropped instantly, lingering where the blouse gaped slightly at her sternum, revealing a shadowed dip between her breasts. Sohini’s hands flew up instinctively, fingers splaying over the plunging neckline. “You’re early,” she said, voice wavering. The words weren’t an accusation—just a fact, delivered with the polite confusion of someone who’d never seen a bridal “getting ready” photoshoot.

He didn’t apologize. Instead, Robert lifted his Nikon with practiced ease, the lens extending like a predator’s focus. “Gorgeous lighting in here,” he murmured, though his attention wasn’t on the window’s glow. The blouse shuddered with each breath she took, the edge of her dark cocoa left areola barely visible at the embroidered neckline of the blouse. Sohini shifted her weight, the silk of her petticoat whispering against her thighs. She felt uncomfortable, but didn’t know to demand he leave – after all, she was paying a pretty penny for this photographer.

“Do, um, do we want to do pictures now? For the pictures of me getting ready? Or should we wait later, um…when I’ve put more on?” Sohini asked hesitantly. Robert smiled a little too widely as he said, “no, this is good. We’ll get some really amazing shots of you getting ready. Then later we’ll do fully dressed shots. It’s what we usually do.”

Robert’s thumb hovered over the shutter button. His pulse thudded in his throat. The bride was a fucking dream—dark cinnamon brown skin flushed warm under the dressing room’s bulbs, her nervous fingers still tangled in the neckline she couldn’t quite fix. He zoomed in subtly, framing the shot just so: the way one nipple threatened to escape the embroidered edge if she moved wrong. “Relax,” he lied, smiling. “This is totally normal. Let’s do some shots of you putting on earrings.”

Sohini hesitated, then dropped her hands—slowly—to pick up a golden jhumka from the vanity. The earrings dangled between her fingers, catching light in delicate filigree patterns. “Just… like this?” she asked, tilting her head to fasten one. The movement pulled her blouse across her chest, warping the stiff and poorly fit fabric just enough to reveal the retroussè curve of her pert left breast. Robert snapped three shots in rapid succession, the camera’s shutter clicking like a hungry tongue. “Perfect,” he breathed. “Now the other one.”

She obeyed, unaware of how the angle exposed the faint sheen of sweat along her ample cleavage. The second earring trembled as she lifted it—Robert could see the tiny tremors in her wrist, the way her breath hitched when she caught his reflection watching her. His jeans grew uncomfortably tight. The blouse ended well above her navel, flaunting a toned, dark caramel waist. He adjusted the lens manually, focusing on the moment her tongue darted out to wet her lips in concentration.

The dresser’s edge dug into Sohini’s thigh as she leaned forward slightly, trying to see the earring’s clasp in the mirror. Robert shifted his stance, blocking the door with his body as he captured it all: the accidental gaping neckline, the way her nipples hardened under the scratchy embroidery, the flustered little gasp when she realized how much skin she was showing and still didn’t tell him to stop.

“Actually,” Robert said, voice smooth as silk, “there’s a shot I think would be perfect—all my clients love it. Could you write something for your groom? A note, maybe?” He gestured to the vanity’s writing station, already moving a chair out for her. Sohini blinked, then nodded—too trusting, too eager to please—and bent over the desk with pen in hand. The misshapen blouse bent and plunged obscenely as she leaned forward, her perky right breast swaying loose inside the warped cup like ripe fruit waiting to be plucked.

Robert’s pulse hammered in his throat as he framed the shot: her cleavage spilled forward like melted caramel, the gold embroidery barely containing the swell of her tits. He zoomed in until he could see every goosebump rising on her skin, the way her nipples pebbled against the fabric when his camera whirred too close. “Hold that pose,” he murmured, though she hadn’t been posing at all—just trembling, pen hovering over parchment, unaware of how her submission fueled his hunger.

The shutter clicked again, capturing the moment her tongue darted out nervously.