I never thought my life would unravel like this. My name is Arun, a 24-year-old software engineer in Chennai, but for the last two weeks, I’ve been “Priya,” the blushing Tamil Brahmin bride-to-be.
It started when my older sister Kavya eloped with her boyfriend two days before the muhurtham. Our conservative family was in panic—years of horoscope matching, gold, and izzat at stake. The groom’s side, from a wealthy Madurai Iyer family, had already arrived. In desperation, Amma dressed me in one of Kavya’s spare Kanjeevaram sarees for the last-minute “photo session” to buy time. I’m slim, smooth-skinned from years of secret shaving, and we share the same sharp features. With heavy makeup, a wig of long jasmine-scented hair, padded blouse, and layers of petticoats, even I didn’t recognize myself in the mirror.
The photographer never noticed. Neither did the groom’s parents. “What a beautiful, traditional bride!” they gushed, clicking away as I stood demurely beside Vikram, the groom. He was tall, broad-shouldered, with kind eyes behind his spectacles and a deep voice that made my stomach flutter even then. I tried to stay silent, but they kept asking me questions. My soft, nervous replies only sealed it. By evening, the pretense had snowballed. Kavya’s phone was off, and canceling now would mean total family ruin.
So I became Priya for the pre-wedding functions.
The first night was the haldi ceremony. I was draped in a yellow silk saree, my body glistening with turmeric paste applied by giggling aunts. Vikram’s fingers brushed mine as we fed each other sweets. His touch lingered. That night, after everyone slept, he knocked softly on the door of the room they’d given “me.”
“Priya… I feel like I’ve known you forever,” he whispered, stepping inside. The room smelled of fresh mogra flowers and sandalwood. Before I could protest, his lips were on mine. I froze, then melted. His tongue pushed past my painted lips as his hands roamed over the smooth silk covering my fake breasts. I could feel his hardness pressing against my thigh through his veshti.
I should have stopped him. Instead, I whispered in my softest voice, “Slowly, please…”
He unwrapped my saree like a gift, pallu falling away to reveal the tight blouse straining over silicone inserts and my smooth, hairless chest. When he cupped my padded breasts and pinched the nipples through the fabric, I moaned—high and feminine. He pushed me onto the bed, hiking up the petticoat. My cock was rock-hard under the tight panty, leaking. He didn’t notice at first, too busy kissing down my belly.
Then his hand slipped between my thighs. He felt it.
For a terrifying second, everything stopped. His eyes widened. I whimpered, “Vikram… I’m sorry… I’m not—”
But instead of anger, a hungry groan escaped him. “Fuck… you’re even more beautiful like this.” He pulled my panty aside and took my cock into his mouth, sucking greedily while his fingers teased my ass. I cried out, gripping his hair as waves of forbidden pleasure hit me. He was skilled, swirling his tongue around the head, taking me deep until my hips bucked.
I came hard down his throat, shuddering in the saree. He stood, shedding his clothes, his thick, veined cock throbbing. “Turn over, Priya.”
I obeyed, on all fours, petticoat bunched around my waist. He spat on my hole and pushed in slowly, stretching me. The pain mixed with ecstasy as he filled me completely. “So tight… my perfect bride,” he growled, thrusting deeper. The sound of his hips slapping against my smooth ass, the jingle of my bangles, my muffled moans into the pillow—it was overwhelming. He reached around and stroked me in rhythm until we both exploded. His hot cum flooded my insides as I spurted onto the sheets.
We lay tangled afterward, his fingers tracing my mangalsutra. “I don’t care who you really are,” he murmured. “This feels right.”
The next days were torture and bliss. During the sangeet, I danced in a half-saree, hips swaying, while Vikram watched with raw lust. At the temple visit, he fingered me discreetly behind a pillar, my saree pallu hiding his hand as I bit my lip to stay quiet. Every night he took me—sometimes gentle and loving, sometimes rough, pinning me down and fucking me senseless while I begged in a girlish voice.
One night before the final function, he made me ride him. I straddled his lap in nothing but jewelry and open blouse, my cock bouncing as I sank onto his thick shaft. “Ride your husband, Priya,” he commanded. I bounced frantically, breasts jiggling, until he gripped my hips and thrust up brutally, filling me again and again. I came untouched, painting his chest, while he pumped me full of cum.
I’m falling in love with him. The real Priya is gone, but I don’t want this to end. Tomorrow is the wedding. I don’t know if I’ll say “I do” as Arun or keep being his perfect Tamil bride forever.
But tonight, he’s coming to my room again… and I’m already wet for him.
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