04-03-2026, 01:47 AM
The Sangeet had left the house in a state of rhythmic exhaustion. It was 1:00 AM. In my room at the guest wing, the air conditioning hummed a low, monotonous tune, but my skin was still vibrating from the touch of her emerald silk.
I opened my laptop, the digital bridge appearing one last time. When the camera flickered on, Sowmya was already there. She had stripped off the heavy jewelry, but she was still wearing the deep green lehenga blouse, the gold strings across her back untied and hanging loose. She looked wrecked—beautifully, dangerously undone.
"I can't sleep, Vicky-chetta," she whispered, her voice a raspy thread that made the hair on my arms stand up. "Every time I close my eyes, I feel your hands on my waist. The bed feels like a desert."
I watched her through the screen, my grip tightening on the edge of the desk. "The beautician is coming at 4:30 AM, Sowmya. You need to rest. Tomorrow is the marathon."
She leaned closer to the camera, her eyes dark, liquid pools of defiance. She reached back, slowly sliding the gold strings of her blouse between her fingers. "I don't want rest. I want you. My room is at the end of the east corridor. Everyone is dead to the world from the arrack and the dancing. If you don't come... I’ll come to you."
The "Professor" in me tried to calculate the risk. The "Groom" in me had already kicked off his shoes.
The walk across the ancestral house was a masterclass in stealth. The floorboards groaned like ancient spirits under my weight. I moved through the shadows, my heart hammering against my ribs, a predator in a house full of sleeping kin.
When I reached the mahogany door at the end of the hall, it was already ajar. I slipped inside, the click of the lock sounding like a gunshot in the silence.
The room smelled of jasmine and the lingering musk of the Sangeet. Sowmya was standing by the window, the moonlight catching the mirrors on her skirt. She didn't say a word. She just walked into my arms, her body a feverish heat that ignored the air conditioning.
We didn't go to the bed immediately. I pinned her against the door, my hands sliding under the heavy emerald silk of her skirt. The friction was a roar in my ears.
"Two hours, Sowmya," I growled against her neck, my teeth grazing the sensitive cord of her throat. "Then I vanish."
"Then don't waste a second," she breathed, her fingers frantic as she tore at the buttons of my shirt.
I hoisted her up, her legs wrapping around my waist with a strength that surprised me. I was still in my trousers, the fabric a rough contrast to the silken heat of her inner thighs. I guided myself into her, a deep, territorial thrust that made her head fall back against the wood with a soft thud.
The sounds were a stifled symphony:
The wet, rhythmic slap-slap-slap of our bodies meeting.
Her muffled wails against my shoulder, her teeth sinking into my skin to keep from waking the aunts next door.
The frantic, heavy squelch of our union, amplified by the silence of the house.
I was relentless. I moved with a driving, primal rhythm, my hands gripping her "fine ass" to lift her higher, meeting every thrust with a savage intensity. When she hit her first climax, her whole body bucked, her internal walls clamping down on me in a series of violent, electric pulses. I followed her into the abyss, a low, guttural grunt escaping me as I filled her, our sweat-slicked bodies fusing in the dark.
We moved to the bed for the second hour. The urgency had faded into a deep, agonizingly slow hunger. I laid her down, the emerald lehenga discarded on the floor like a fallen banner.
I took my time. I traced every inch of her with my tongue—the "perky" swell of her breasts, the dip of her waist, the soft gold of her thighs. By the time I entered her again, she was a sobbing, writhing mess of need.
"Vickychetta... please... I can't... ahhh!"
I ignored her pleas, moving with a slow, grinding rotation that focused every nerve on the point where we were joined. I watched her face in the moonlight—her eyes rolled back, her mouth open in a silent scream. When the second wave hit us, it was a total sensory blackout. We collapsed together, the white sheets a chaotic map of our shared release.
The alarm on my watch vibrated against my wrist. 4:00 AM. The world of logic and protocol was returning.
I sat up, my muscles screaming with a satisfied ache. Sowmya was limp, her skin glowing with a pale, post-coital luminescence. I leaned down, kissing her swollen lips one last time.
"The beautician will be here in thirty minutes," I whispered.
She opened one eye, a tired, triumphant smirk touching her mouth. "Go, Professor. Before you get caught and the wedding becomes a funeral."
I gathered my clothes and slipped back into the hallway. The house was still silent, the first hint of grey light touching the windows. I reached my room and locked the door just as I heard the distant sound of a car pulling into the driveway—the makeup artist had arrived.
I sat on the edge of my bed, my heart finally slowing down. My skin still smelled of her. In five hours, I would stand before a thousand people and pretend I hadn't spent the night unmaking the bride.
The wedding was today. And I had already claimed the prize.
I opened my laptop, the digital bridge appearing one last time. When the camera flickered on, Sowmya was already there. She had stripped off the heavy jewelry, but she was still wearing the deep green lehenga blouse, the gold strings across her back untied and hanging loose. She looked wrecked—beautifully, dangerously undone.
"I can't sleep, Vicky-chetta," she whispered, her voice a raspy thread that made the hair on my arms stand up. "Every time I close my eyes, I feel your hands on my waist. The bed feels like a desert."
I watched her through the screen, my grip tightening on the edge of the desk. "The beautician is coming at 4:30 AM, Sowmya. You need to rest. Tomorrow is the marathon."
She leaned closer to the camera, her eyes dark, liquid pools of defiance. She reached back, slowly sliding the gold strings of her blouse between her fingers. "I don't want rest. I want you. My room is at the end of the east corridor. Everyone is dead to the world from the arrack and the dancing. If you don't come... I’ll come to you."
The "Professor" in me tried to calculate the risk. The "Groom" in me had already kicked off his shoes.
The walk across the ancestral house was a masterclass in stealth. The floorboards groaned like ancient spirits under my weight. I moved through the shadows, my heart hammering against my ribs, a predator in a house full of sleeping kin.
When I reached the mahogany door at the end of the hall, it was already ajar. I slipped inside, the click of the lock sounding like a gunshot in the silence.
The room smelled of jasmine and the lingering musk of the Sangeet. Sowmya was standing by the window, the moonlight catching the mirrors on her skirt. She didn't say a word. She just walked into my arms, her body a feverish heat that ignored the air conditioning.
We didn't go to the bed immediately. I pinned her against the door, my hands sliding under the heavy emerald silk of her skirt. The friction was a roar in my ears.
"Two hours, Sowmya," I growled against her neck, my teeth grazing the sensitive cord of her throat. "Then I vanish."
"Then don't waste a second," she breathed, her fingers frantic as she tore at the buttons of my shirt.
I hoisted her up, her legs wrapping around my waist with a strength that surprised me. I was still in my trousers, the fabric a rough contrast to the silken heat of her inner thighs. I guided myself into her, a deep, territorial thrust that made her head fall back against the wood with a soft thud.
The sounds were a stifled symphony:
The wet, rhythmic slap-slap-slap of our bodies meeting.
Her muffled wails against my shoulder, her teeth sinking into my skin to keep from waking the aunts next door.
The frantic, heavy squelch of our union, amplified by the silence of the house.
I was relentless. I moved with a driving, primal rhythm, my hands gripping her "fine ass" to lift her higher, meeting every thrust with a savage intensity. When she hit her first climax, her whole body bucked, her internal walls clamping down on me in a series of violent, electric pulses. I followed her into the abyss, a low, guttural grunt escaping me as I filled her, our sweat-slicked bodies fusing in the dark.
We moved to the bed for the second hour. The urgency had faded into a deep, agonizingly slow hunger. I laid her down, the emerald lehenga discarded on the floor like a fallen banner.
I took my time. I traced every inch of her with my tongue—the "perky" swell of her breasts, the dip of her waist, the soft gold of her thighs. By the time I entered her again, she was a sobbing, writhing mess of need.
"Vickychetta... please... I can't... ahhh!"
I ignored her pleas, moving with a slow, grinding rotation that focused every nerve on the point where we were joined. I watched her face in the moonlight—her eyes rolled back, her mouth open in a silent scream. When the second wave hit us, it was a total sensory blackout. We collapsed together, the white sheets a chaotic map of our shared release.
The alarm on my watch vibrated against my wrist. 4:00 AM. The world of logic and protocol was returning.
I sat up, my muscles screaming with a satisfied ache. Sowmya was limp, her skin glowing with a pale, post-coital luminescence. I leaned down, kissing her swollen lips one last time.
"The beautician will be here in thirty minutes," I whispered.
She opened one eye, a tired, triumphant smirk touching her mouth. "Go, Professor. Before you get caught and the wedding becomes a funeral."
I gathered my clothes and slipped back into the hallway. The house was still silent, the first hint of grey light touching the windows. I reached my room and locked the door just as I heard the distant sound of a car pulling into the driveway—the makeup artist had arrived.
I sat on the edge of my bed, my heart finally slowing down. My skin still smelled of her. In five hours, I would stand before a thousand people and pretend I hadn't spent the night unmaking the bride.
The wedding was today. And I had already claimed the prize.
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