The mandap was a floral wonderland, pillars wrapped in marigold garlands, the sacred fire crackling in the center. We sat side by side, the pandit’s chants weaving around us like a spell. The kanyadaan was emotional—my father placing my hand in Abhishek’s, tears in his eyes as he gave away his “little Sona,” unaware of the cocks I’d taken, the cum I’d swallowed in pursuit of my modeling dreams. Abhishek’s fingers intertwined with mine, warm and reassuring, and as we exchanged garlands, the crowd cheered, but I felt a secret thrill, my pussy clenching at the thought of consummating this union. The saat pheras were profound, each circle around the fire a vow: for health, prosperity, love, fidelity. With each step, Abhishek’s voice steady as he repeated the mantras, I whispered my own silent promises—of passion, of exploring boundaries, of the fantasies I’d kept hidden. He tied the mangalsutra around my neck, the black beads cool against my skin, and filled my parting with sindoor, his thumb lingering, sending a jolt to my core. We were pronounced man and wife, the air erupting in blessings and rice showers, my tears genuine—joy mixed with the sadness of past heartbreaks, the surprise of this new chapter.
The reception was a feast for the senses, a grand hall filled with tables groaning under biryani, paneer tikka, and sweets like rasmalai that melted on the tongue. Guests toasted us, speeches flowing with laughter and tears—my brother joking about my “wild spirit,” little knowing how true it was. Abhishek and I cut the cake, his hand over mine, feeding each other bites, our lips brushing in a chaste kiss that promised more. Later, as we danced our first waltz, his body pressed to mine, I felt his cock harden against my belly, his whisper hot: “Tonight, I make you mine.” I ground subtly against him, my pussy aching, whispering back, “Fuck me like you mean it.” The night ended in the suhaag raat room, petals scattered on the bed, but our consummation was tender at first—Abhishek undressing me slowly, his mouth on my tits, sucking my nipples until I moaned, his fingers exploring my wet pussy before he entered me, thrusting deep and steady, our bodies syncing in a rhythm of new love. He came inside me, hot and filling, and I orgasmed around him, my cries soft, my heart full. It was beautiful, but my slutty soul craved more—the wild, the forbidden.
Now, we’re off to Europe for our honeymoon, a two-week escape to Paris, Rome, and Amsterdam, the Eiffel Tower’s lights mirroring the spark in my eyes as we boarded the plane. Abhishek held my hand, excited for romance, but fate—or my insatiable desires—had other plans. On our first night in Paris, at a luxurious hotel overlooking the Seine, I met them: a group of five African guys, tall and sculpted like gods from my school-day porn fantasies, their dark skin gleaming under the lobby lights, laughter deep and resonant. They were travelers, explorers on a European adventure, and as we checked in, our eyes met—mine lingering on their broad shoulders, the bulge in their jeans hinting at massive cocks. “Bonjour, beautiful,” one said with a grin, his accent thick and seductive, as we rode the elevator together. I learned they were on our floor, rooms adjacent, a coincidence that sent a thrill to my pussy.