She’s my cousin from my mother’s side — my maasi’s daughter. Every summer the family used to gather at my nani’s place in the hometown. From childhood we were always around each other — same group of cousins, hanging out on the terrace at night, going to the market, talking late after everyone else slept.
There was always a quiet attraction between us. Looks that lasted a second longer, accidental touches that didn’t feel accidental, a certain silence when we were alone. We both felt it, but nothing ever happened. Family boundaries kept it that way for years.
Then the summer I turned 19 and she was 23, it finally broke. One night after the house had gone to sleep we were talking in the guest room like usual. The conversation shifted, the space between us closed, and she kissed me. It wasn’t planned. That night we had sex for the first time.
After that it became regular. Every time I came back to the hometown we found a way. Five years went by like that. No one ever found out.
After five years she was 28 and getting married. The wedding was happening in the same hometown, at my nani’s place. I reached a couple of days early. The house was packed with relatives from both sides. She was always surrounded — aunties fixing her jewellery, friends around her constantly, endless rituals and preparations. We saw each other a few times across the rooms, but there was no chance to be alone. Not even for a proper conversation.
On the wedding day we were all waiting in the banquet for the baraat to enter. The dhol had already started outside. Everyone was standing near the entrance, talking, checking their phones, waiting for the groom’s side to come in. Then the baraat reached. The noise increased — dancing, shouting, the usual chaos. Within minutes almost everyone moved downstairs and outside to receive them.
My phone vibrated.
“Come upstairs. Alone. Now.”
I went. The door of her room was slightly open. I locked it behind me.
She stood in the middle of the room in full bridal clothes — heavy red lehenga with thick gold work, blouse fitted tight across her chest, full jewellery, maang tikka, flowers pinned in her hair, dark lipstick. She looked every bit the bride. The way her eyes met mine was the same as those nights we used to lock doors.
She spoke quietly. “I sent the girls away. Told them I needed a few minutes alone before the pheras.”
She stepped closer. “You can’t touch me today. My makeup, my jewellery, everything is set. But I wanted to make you cum one last time before I go down for my entry.”
I was already hard. Had been from the moment the message came.
She didn’t hug me. Didn’t let my hands go anywhere near her. She just opened my sherwani, pulled my cock out and wrapped her warm hand around it. Her palm and fingers were covered in fresh mehndi — deep red patterns running up to her wrists, and somewhere in the design her husband’s name must have been written. The same hands that had touched me for five years were now marked for another man.
She started slow, stroking from base to tip, her thumb spreading the precum that was already leaking, making the slide wet and smooth. Every time she reached the head she gave a slight squeeze and twist. Her bangles chimed softly with every movement.
I kept one hand flat against the wall so I wouldn’t reach for her. My hips still pushed into her fist. Low moans kept escaping my throat no matter how hard I tried to stay quiet. The only sounds in the room were those soft moans and the steady, wet rhythm of her bangles and her hand working me. Downstairs the baraat noise continued, but up here it felt like nothing else existed.
She tightened her grip and went a little faster, using more of the precum. The wet sound of her hand moving over my cock mixed with the light clink of her bangles.
“I used to take this inside me whenever we got even ten minutes alone,” she said in a low voice. “Now I can’t even let you put your hands on me. But I can still milk it out of you. I want to feel every drop on my fingers.”
She leaned in just enough that I could feel her breath near my neck without her body touching mine.
“Don’t hold back. I want to see you cum. Right now. While I’m dressed like this. While everyone is downstairs. Cum for me.”
That finished me. Looking at her in full bridal clothes, her mehndi-covered hand coated and working me with that exact pressure, the risk of someone walking up any second — I came hard. Thick pulses spilled over her fingers and onto the red silk of her lehenga. She didn’t stop. She kept stroking through it, slower but firm, pulling every last drop out until my legs were shaking and I was oversensitive.
Only then she stopped. She looked at the mess on her hand for a second, then at me. Something heavy sat in her eyes. She leaned in and gave the lightest kiss on the corner of my mouth — just a soft brush of her lips — and pulled back.
“Go before someone comes,” she said.
I cleaned up, fixed my clothes and left. Behind me I heard her lehenga move as she turned back to the mirror, getting ready to go downstairs for the pheras.
Years of that quiet attraction, five years of secret sex every time we met at my mother’s side hometown, and it ended like that — her in bridal clothes, only her mehndi-covered hand on me, me finishing without touching her, and that almost-nothing kiss at the end.