The sangeet night was a riot of dance and song, the courtyard packed with relatives swaying to Bollywood hits and folk tunes. I wore a shimmering lehenga in deep crimson, the choli hugging my full tits, the skirt swirling around my hips as I danced with Abhishek. His hands on my waist were tentative at first, respectful, but as the night wore on and the wine flowed, his grip tightened, pulling me closer until I felt the subtle hardness of his cock against my thigh through the layers of fabric. “You look ravishing,” he murmured in my ear, his breath hot, sending a shiver to my pussy. I smiled coyly, grinding subtly against him in the crowd, my mind flashing to the sluts I’d become—fucked by directors on casting couches, their cocks slamming into me as I begged for roles. The family clapped and cheered, oblivious to the erotic undercurrent, my nipples hardening against the choli’s embroidery, my panties damp with anticipation. We performed a duet, his voice steady and warm, mine husky with unspoken lust, our eyes locking in a promise of the nights to come.
The haldi ceremony dawned bright and joyful, relatives smearing us with turmeric paste mixed with rosewater, the yellow-gold mixture slathered over my skin in playful handfuls. I sat on a low stool in a simple yellow sari, the fabric clinging to my curves as the paste dried, making my body feel alive, sensitized. Abhishek’s friends hoisted him up, laughing as they poured buckets over him, but when it was my turn, my sisters and cousins massaged the paste into my arms, legs, and neck, their touches innocent yet stirring memories of hands—many hands—exploring me in Mumbai’s orgies. The paste’s warmth seeped into my pores, making my pussy throb, imagining it as cum from multiple lovers coating my skin. Abhishek watched from across the way, his eyes darkening with desire, and later, in a stolen moment behind the house, he pulled me close, his fingers tracing the sticky residue on my collarbone. “I can’t wait to have you all to myself,” he whispered, his lips brushing my ear. I moaned softly, pressing my tits against him, my hand grazing his cock through his kurta, feeling it twitch. “Soon,” I promised, my voice laced with the slutty hunger I’d honed over years.
The wedding day itself was a masterpiece of tradition and emotion, a long, elaborate affair that stretched from dawn to midnight, every moment etched in sensory detail. I woke to the sound of mantras and the aroma of fresh flowers, my bridal lehenga—a masterpiece in red and gold silk, embroidered with zari threads that caught the light like stars—waiting for me. My makeup artist transformed me: kohl-lined eyes smoldering with mystery, lips painted a deep scarlet, my hair cascading in waves adorned with jasmine garlands. The choli was low-cut, accentuating the swell of my tits, the dupatta draped seductively over one shoulder. As I dressed, my body hummed with excitement—not just for the vows, but for the honeymoon fantasies already brewing. The baraat arrived with pomp, Abhishek on a white horse, dressed in a sherwani that hugged his broad shoulders, a sehra veiling his face. Drums thundered, fireworks lit the sky, and relatives danced in the streets, showering rose petals. My heart pounded as he dismounted, our eyes meeting through the crowd—his filled with awe, mine with a mix of tenderness and the slutty fire that never died.