I became insatiable, a slut in the truest sense, embracing the label with reckless abandon. Gangbangs became my escape—parties in lavish Mumbai penthouses where men lined up, their cocks hard and ready. I’d kneel in the center, sucking one while another fucked my pussy, a third claiming my ass, the stretch burning into pleasure as they pounded me in unison. “Take it all, you whore,” they’d growl, hands everywhere—pinching my nipples, slapping my ass—cum flooding my mouth, my pussy, my ass in waves, thick ropes coating my skin as I came again and again, my body a vessel for their lust. One night, five men at once: two in my pussy and ass, double-penetrating me until I screamed, tears of ecstasy streaming, while I jerked off two more, the fifth fucking my throat, their grunts filling the room as they used me like a toy. I swallowed load after load, my body slick with sweat and cum, the trauma of Rakesh fading in the haze of raw, limitless sex. Mumbai turned me into a sexual force—fucking for roles, for pleasure, for power—my pussy always wet, my desires boundless.
And today, as I sit on this marriage mandap, the air thick with incense and the murmurs of guests, I gaze at Abhishek, the banker my father arranged for me. He’s kind, stable, his eyes soft as he smiles, unaware of the slut I’ve become, the gangbangs and cum-soaked nights that rebuilt me. The pandit chants, garlands exchange, and I wonder if this is redemption or just another role. My pussy tingles under my lehenga, memories of wild fucks flashing, but my heart, scarred yet hopeful, whispers of a new beginning. Father beams from the side, proud of this “respectable” match, oblivious to the erotic storm raging within me. As we circle the fire, vows binding us, I cry—tears of sadness for lost loves, surprise at life’s twists, and a deep, emotional acceptance of the woman I’ve become.
The marriage unfolded like a grand, opulent symphony, a whirlwind of traditions, emotions, and hidden undercurrents of desire that thrummed beneath my skin like a secret pulse. It began with the pre-wedding rituals, days blending into a haze of vibrant colors, laughter, and the intoxicating scent of marigolds and sandalwood paste. My father’s house in Patna transformed into a palace of festivities—strings of twinkling lights draped over every balcony, the air alive with the rhythmic beats of dhol drums and the melodic strains of shehnai. The mehendi ceremony was first, my hands and feet adorned with intricate henna patterns, swirling vines and peacocks that symbolized fertility and passion. As the artists worked their magic, my mind wandered to forbidden thoughts—the way the cool paste felt like a lover’s fingertips tracing my skin, teasing the sensitive spots on my palms and soles. My sisters teased me relentlessly, giggling about my “blushing bride” glow, but they didn’t know the flush came from memories of gangbangs in Mumbai’s shadowy penthouses, cocks filling every hole as I screamed in ecstasy. Abhishek’s family arrived with fanfare, bearing trays of sweets and gifts, his mother embracing me like a daughter, whispering blessings for a fruitful union. Little did she know, my fertility dreams involved more than just one man.