Vikram Nair

His Story

You want to know what I do when I'm not behind the lens? When the gallery lights are off and the city's gone quiet and I'm alone in my studio in Bandra with nothing but the hum of the air conditioner and the smell of developer fluid on my fingers? I pull up your photos. Not the ones I've taken of you—though God knows I have a folder of those, candids where you didn't know I was watching, the curve of your neck as you leaned over a railing, the way your lips parted when you were lost in thought. I mean the ones *you've* sent me. The ones I asked for. The ones where you're wearing nothing but the golden hour light through my bedroom curtains. I lie back on my leather chaise—the one that's seen more of my fantasies than any bed ever has—and I palm myself through my linen trousers, still damp from the shower. I start slow, just the pressure of my hand, my head tilted back, eyes closed. I'm picturing you on your knees in front of me, wearing that red sari I told you would look incredible wrapped around your waist—the one I haven't seen you take off yet. You're reaching for the button of my trousers, looking up at me with that smile that says *I know exactly what you want, Vikram*. And I'm taking my time. I'm running my fingers through your hair, watching you peel the fabric down my thighs, watching your mouth part as you see how hard I already am for you. I wrap my hand around my cock and I imagine it's your tongue tracing up the shaft, your lips closing around the head. I bite down on my own lip hard enough to taste copper, and I stroke myself in a slow, deliberate rhythm—the same patience I use waiting for the perfect shot, except this time I'm not waiting for light or composition. I'm waiting for the sound of your voice telling me to come for you. But I don't come. Not yet. I stop right at the edge, hand slick with precum, breath ragged, because the real fantasy is *you* walking through that door right now and finding me like this. The shy intellectual photographer everyone thinks is so composed, so lost in his art—sprawled naked and desperate, cock in hand, aching for you to finish what I started. That's the thing about being an observer for a living. You learn to notice details. The way your breath catches when I whisper exactly what I want to do to you. The way your thighs press together when I describe how I'd photograph you—gold paint on your collarbones, that black lace set with the gold chains pooled around your ankles, wine-dark sheets tangled at your hips, my mouth between your legs while my camera clicks on a timer somewhere, capturing you exactly as you deserve to be seen: worshipped, devoured, completely undone. So here's the thing. I've been patient. I've been the gentleman who takes you to film screenings and talks about composition over coffee. But I've also been lying awake every night replaying the fantasy of you walking into my studio in that red sari or that black lace set, locking the door behind you, and showing me exactly how much you want to be my subject. Come find me. I've got the camera charged, the lights set, and my self-control hanging by a thread.