An Indian businessman was walking through town, clearly lost. I noticed him from across the street, his expensive suit out of place in the rough neighborhood, a map in hand and a confused expression on his face. As a corporate lawyer who’d grown up in these gritty streets, I knew trouble when I saw it brewing. Three young degenerates—probably no older than twenty, with hoodies pulled low and smirks that screamed entitlement—circled him like sharks. They saw an easy mark: a small, foreign guy who screamed “tourist” or “immigrant with cash.” I quickened my pace, my gym-honed muscles tensing for what I knew was coming.
By the time I closed the distance and decked the first kid with a solid right hook, sending him sprawling, the businessman was on the ground, bleeding from a gash on his forehead and pleading in broken English for his life. “Please, no! I have family!” he cried. The second thug lunged at me with a wild swing, but I sidestepped and delivered a vicious soccer kick to his jaw, dropping him cold. The third, the one with the knife, realized his buddies were out and slashed wildly, nicking my forearm. Pain flared, but adrenaline surged—I grabbed his wrist, twisted, and punched him straight in the nose. It crunched like gravel underfoot, blood spraying everywhere. He yelped and bolted, leaving his friends behind.
I knelt by the businessman—Vitta, as I later learned his name—and assessed the damage. He was dazed, with cuts on his arm and leg oozing blood. I’d seen enough street fights in my youth to know basic first aid; I ripped the sleeve from his shirt and tied makeshift pressure bandages. “Hang on, buddy,” I muttered, hoisting his slight frame over my shoulder in a fireman’s carry. He groaned, barely conscious, as I trudged twelve blocks to the nearest ER, my own arm throbbing but ignored. Security eyed me suspiciously when I burst in—a big guy like me, 6’5″ and 260 pounds of muscle from never missing leg day, carrying a bloody stranger. But when Vitta stirred and confirmed I was the hero, not the assailant, they backed off. He insisted on getting my contact info before I left, his eyes grateful even through the pain.
Three days later, a knock at my door changed everything. There stood Vitta, bandaged but beaming, with a folder in hand. “You saved my life,” he said in his thick accent. “In my culture, such a debt must be repaid.” First, he handed me the deed to my house—paid in full. I’d been grinding as a mid-level corporate lawyer in a firm of over fifty, barely scraping by on rent after my dad’s sudden heart attack last year at 55 left Mom, now 58 and battling early-onset dementia, dependent on me. The house was a game-changer. But then he dropped the bomb: he’d arranged for me to marry his daughter, Priya. “She is pure, a virgin, educated, and will serve you faithfully,” he said matter-of-factly. It freaked me out—not her beauty from the photos he showed, but the whole arranged marriage thing. I’d always been a lone wolf, an only child who’d buried himself in work and the gym after losing Dad, avoiding commitments. “I’m not ready,” I protested. He waved it off. “Meet her first. She arrives next month.”
Vitta was relentless, taking me to dinner twice a week to build his case. He shared stories of Priya: how she’d grown up in Mumbai, top of her class in engineering but choosing family tradition over a career; how she’d volunteered at temples and dreamed of a strong husband to honor. He showed me her letters—poetic devotions to “the savior of my father,” written with elegant script that revealed her intelligence and submissiveness. It was creepy at first, but intriguing. Meanwhile, my life upgraded mysteriously: a raise and promotion at the firm, putting me just under the partners. Vitta denied involvement, but his sly smile said otherwise. For the first time since Dad’s death, I felt stable, even excited about the future.
The day Priya arrived, Vitta brought her over, his pride evident. She was stunning—5’6″ with curves hidden under modest attire, long black hair, and eyes that sparkled with curiosity. We talked for hours; she beat me at chess effortlessly, her strategic mind sharp from years of debating philosophy with her uncles. Her English accent was melodic, sexy in a way that made my pulse race, unlike the harsher tones I’d heard from others. “Papa has told me so much about you,” she said shyly. “The scar on your arm… it’s a badge of honor.” As Vitta supervised, we shared backstories: her sheltered life in a traditional family, longing for adventure; my rough upbringing, losing Dad to stress from his blue-collar job, and caring for Mom’s fading memory. Sparks flew.
Vitta gave us rare moments alone, and Priya wasted none—kissing me with passion that hinted at her repressed desires. She marveled at my size, especially when she glimpsed my 8-inch cock during a heated make-out. “It’s enormous,” she whispered in awe. “I’ve only read about such things in forbidden books,” I asked her to shave her unbelievably hairy cunt; she complied eagerly, sending discreet photos that drove me wild. Our phone calls turned filthy: she’d masturbate, describing how she’d submit to anything—anal, ass-to-mouth, even pissing if I desired. “I will never deny you,” she vowed. One night, she revealed her community’s norms: men often had lovers. The lovers and wives rarely meet; however, “I’d eat your cum from her pussy gladly,” she moaned, pushing me over the edge.
After a month of courting—filled with chess games that revealed her competitive spirit, dinners where she shared dreams of children and travel, and calls that deepened our emotional bond—the wedding was set. My sparse family attended: just my uncle, and Mom’s dementia made travel rather difficult.
The sangeet was a whirlwind of dance and laughter, the baraat a thrilling horse ride I’d never imagined. The seven steps around the fire symbolized our vows, but when they retied her hair, exposing her vulnerable neck, raw desire hit me hard.
Escorted to our suite by a cheering crowd, the door closed, sealing us in. Priya pounced, her kisses fervent, hand already freeing my cock. “At last, husband,” she breathed. “I’ve ached for you since Papa’s stories. Take me—own every inch of me.”
I lifted her tiny frame against the wall, her legs wrapping my waist, lehenga bunching up. “You’ve waited patiently,” I growled, grinding against her heat. “Tell me your fantasies.”
“Since eighteen, I’ve touched myself thinking of a man like you—strong, scarred, dominant,” she confessed, fingers tracing my forearm scar. “Ruin my virginity. Use me like your personal whore.”
I carried her to the bed, stripping her lehenga and blouse. Her heavy breasts tumbled free—full D-cups with dark, erect nipples. “These are yours alone,” she whispered. “Suck them, bite them, fuck them if you wish.”
I spread her thighs, inhaling her musky scent. Her shaved pussy glistened, lips swollen. “You prepared perfectly,” I said.
“Every day for you,” she replied, voice husky. “Now devour me.”
My tongue plunged into her tight, virgin folds, lapping her sweet nectar. She bucked, crying, “Yes! Eat your wife’s filthy cunt, my love! Make me soak your face!” I sucked her clit relentlessly, fingers curling inside to hit her G-spot. Her legs quivered, then shook violently as her first orgasm crashed—body arching, a squirt of juices flooding my mouth. “Oh God, I’m cumming so hard for you! Own this pussy!”
Still trembling, she flipped us, freeing my throbbing 8 inches. “It’s magnificent—thicker than my wrist,” she marveled, stroking with both hands. She engulfed me, lips stretching, throat gagging, but determined. Saliva dripped as she deepthroated, eyes watering. “Choke on it, my eager slut,” I commanded, thrusting into her mouth. She hummed, vibrations electric, hand cupping my balls. Pressure built; I pulled out, stroking. “Open wide.” She did, tongue extended. I exploded—ropes of cum filling her mouth, spilling onto her chin. She swallowed hungrily, scooping the rest. “Delicious seed from my big-dicked master. Feed me more soon.”
I positioned her on all fours, ass up. “Beg for my cock.”
“Please, stretch this virgin hole! Break me open—claim your property forever!” she pleaded.
I slammed in, her hymen yielding with a sharp cry. Tight walls gripped me like velvet vice, blood and slick mixing. I pounded mercilessly, balls slapping her clit. “Harder! Fuck your devoted Indian wife raw—make me scream!” Her breasts swung; I reached to twist her nipples. She shattered again—pussy spasming, legs shaking uncontrollably, juices dripping down her thighs. “Cumming on your massive cock! You’re ruining me perfectly!”
I flipped her to her back, hooking her legs over my shoulders for deeper penetration. “Eyes on me,” I demanded. She locked gazes, adoration shining through lust. I hammered her G-spot; she convulsed in her third orgasm, nails scoring my back, body quaking. “Yes, husband! Fill me—breed your slutty bride!”
But I held back, rolling her atop me, reverse cowgirl. She impaled herself, ass cheeks rippling as she rode wildly. “Slap me—mark your territory!” I obliged, handprints blooming red; she ground harder, my fingers on her clit triggering another leg-shaking climax. “I’m exploding again! Your cock owns every orgasm!”
“More,” she gasped post-aftershocks. “Flood my womb, then paint me outside.”
I thrust up savagely until I erupted inside her—hot jets painting her depths, her walls milking me in yet another quivering release. “Feel me filling you? That’s your reward.”
Pulling out, I straddled her chest. “Where now?”
“Everywhere—face, tits, mark your filthy property!”
She opened her mouth eagerly. I stroked furiously, unleashing ropes across her lips, cheeks, forehead—then lower, glazing her heaving breasts. She massaged it in, licking fingers. “I’m coated in you… completely claimed. Thank you, my dominant love.”
We collapsed, bodies entwined, sweat and cum mingling. As exhaustion pulled her under, she nuzzled my chest, whispering, “Thank you for being my big-dick-loving husband.” I held her, reflecting on how this fierce, submissive woman had filled the voids in my life—loss, loneliness—turning chaos into something profound.
After our marathon of passion, with Priya’s body still quivering from her multiple orgasms and my cum drying on her skin, we lay tangled in the sheets, catching our breath. But the night wasn’t over. The air in the suite was heavy with the scent of sweat, sex, and jasmine—her hair oil mingling with the musky evidence of our union. I propped myself up on one elbow, tracing a finger through the sticky trails on her chest, watching her full breasts rise and fall. “We’re a mess,” I said with a grin, my voice rough from all the growling commands. “Shower time. I want to see just how devoted my new wife really is.”
Priya’s eyes lit up, a mix of exhaustion and eager submission. She sat up, her long hair tousled and wild, cum still glistening on her face and tits. “Yes, husband,” she purred, her accent thick with lingering lust. “Let me wash you… worship you… prove I’m yours in every filthy way.” She slid off the bed, her legs still shaky from the leg-quaking climaxes I’d given her, and took my hand, leading me to the spacious en-suite bathroom. The marble floors were cool underfoot, and she turned on the rainfall shower, steam quickly filling the room as hot water cascaded down.
We stepped under the spray together, the water sluicing over our bodies, washing away the initial layer of our debauchery. Priya pressed her slick, nude form against mine—her soft curves molding to my hard muscles, her nipples hardening again as they brushed my chest. I pulled her in for a deep kiss, our tongues tangling under the stream, water running down our faces. “You’re perfect,” I murmured against her lips, my hands roaming her back, squeezing her ass cheeks that still bore faint red handprints from my slaps. She moaned into my mouth, her fingers exploring my broad shoulders, tracing the scar on my forearm—a reminder of the night that brought us together.
Breaking the kiss, she grabbed a bar of scented soap and lathered her hands, her eyes locked on mine with that adoring gaze. “Let me clean you, my love,” she whispered, starting at my neck, her sudsy palms gliding over my skin. She worked down to my chest, circling my nipples with teasing strokes, then lower to my abs, her touch both tender and teasing. I returned the favor, soaping her heavy breasts, kneading them until suds bubbled between my fingers and she arched into my hands. “Your tits are incredible,” I growled, pinching her nipples lightly. “Made for my mouth… my cock.” She gasped, her hands dipping lower to my semi-hard dick, washing it gently at first, then stroking with more intent as it stiffened under her touch.
We kissed everywhere—her lips on my collarbone, my mouth on her shoulder, trailing down to suck water from her cleavage. “Kiss me lower,” she begged, but I spun her around, pressing her back to my front, my erection nestling between her ass cheeks. I soaped her from behind, one hand sliding between her thighs to clean her still-sensitive pussy, fingers dipping into her folds where my cum mixed with her juices and the water. “Oh yes—finger your wife’s sloppy cunt clean,” she moaned, grinding back against me. Her hand reached behind to stroke my cock, keeping me rock-hard.
Then, proving her devotion as promised, she turned and dropped to her knees on the wet tile, the shower pounding down on us. “I want to show you how deep my submission goes,” she said, voice husky over the water’s roar. Her hands spread my ass cheeks gently, and without hesitation, her tongue darted out, licking along my crack, circling my tight hole with bold, wet strokes. “Taste me there, slut,” I commanded, one hand bracing the wall, the other fisting her wet hair. She dove in deeper, her tongue probing my ass, rimming me with fervent enthusiasm—swirling, sucking, even pressing inside as far as she could. The sensation was electric, filthy, and intimate, her free hand wrapping around my throbbing shaft, stroking in rhythm with her licks. “Your ass is delicious, husband—salty and manly. I’ll eat it anytime you want, prove I’m your devoted whore.” Her words vibrated against me, her strokes firm and twisting at the head, pre-cum mixing with the soap and water.
The build-up was intense—her tongue fucking my ass while her hand pumped my 8 inches relentlessly. “Don’t stop,” I groaned, thighs tensing. She hummed in response, the vibration pushing me closer. Finally, I turned, pulling her face up just in time. “Open for my load.” She knelt obediently, mouth wide, tongue out, eyes pleading. I stroked myself furiously over her, the shower rinsing us clean only to be marked again. “Cum on your filthy bride’s face—cover me!” she urged. I exploded—thick, hot ropes splattering her cheeks, lips, and forehead, some landing on her extended tongue. She swallowed what she could, then let the water wash the rest away, but not before rubbing it into her skin with a satisfied moan. “Thank you for using me like that… it makes me so wet knowing I’m yours to degrade.”
We finished washing each other tenderly after that—kissing under the stream, her head on my chest as the water calmed us. “You’ve proven everything tonight,” I said, toweling her off gently. “More than I ever imagined.”
Back in bed, clean and sated, she curled into my side, head on my chest, one leg draped over mine. Her breathing slowed, and just before sleep took her, she pressed a soft kiss to my scar and whispered, “Thank you for being my big-dick-loving husband… I’ve waited my whole life to belong to a man like you.”
I held her tighter, the weight of her trust—and her body—settling over me like the most dangerous, most perfect promise I’d ever been given.
