Desi Honeymoon Sex Story: Udaipur First Night

The smell of mogra came first, sweet and heavy, rising off the ring of flowers scattered across the four poster bed. Anaya stood barefoot by the open balcony doors of their heritage hotel room in Udaipur, the night breeze off the lake cool against her hot cheeks, and thought this was exactly how a real desi honeymoon sex story was supposed to begin. Her red silk saree felt cool and slippery where her arms crossed over it, and somewhere far below on the dark water a boatman's oar made a soft splashing sound that she could hear between heartbeats.

She had imagined this night a hundred times and every version had been wrong. In her head it had been candlelight and roses and some perfect Bollywood slowness. In real life the air conditioning was humming too loud, the mogra was making her sneeze, and her new husband was standing behind her trying very hard to look like he was not staring at her back. She could feel his eyes anyway. The skin between her shoulder blades prickled.

"Vivaan," she said, without turning around. "If you keep standing there like a waiter, I will ask you for the dinner menu."

He laughed, that sudden surprised laugh she had fallen in love with on their third meeting, and the sound loosened something tight in her chest. "Sorry. I was just thinking the balcony looks nice."

"Liar," she said. "You were thinking about my blouse."

"That too," he admitted, and stepped closer. The balcony was narrow, just a curved stone railing with carved jaali panels, and below it the lake spread black and glittering with the hotel's lights reflected in long shivering ribbons. A cool gust lifted the loose end of her pallu and pressed it against his shirt. He put his hands on her waist over the silk and the warmth of his palms came straight through the thin fabric.

She leaned back against him, just a little, testing. His breath caught. "Easy," she whispered. "We have all night. We have the whole trip."

"I know," he said, and she could hear the smile in his voice fighting with the nerves. "I just keep thinking the room boy is going to knock with the complimentary sweets."

Anaya turned in his arms and looked up at him. The balcony light was dim and golden and it caught the edge of his jaw, the nervous flicker in his eyes. He was handsome in the rumpled way she liked, his kurta slightly creased from the wedding day that had finally ended three hours ago. "Then lock the door," she said, "and come back."

He went. She heard the latch click, the chain slide, and something in her stomach did a slow warm flip. When he came back she was still standing at the railing, and he stopped a step away like he was not sure of the choreography. Anaya reached out and took his hand and placed it flat on her waist again, over the silk, exactly where it had been.

"There," she said. "That is your spot now. Remember it."

Vivaan slid his other hand around her and pulled her gently back against his chest, and this time she let her whole weight rest on him. The saree's silk was cool where it touched her skin and warm where his hands were, and the contrast made her shiver in a way that had nothing to do with the lake breeze. His mouth found the side of her neck, just below her ear, and she tilted her head to give him room before she had even decided to.

"You smell like the flowers," he murmured against her skin.

"I smell like panic and hairspray," she said, but she was smiling so hard her face hurt. "Kiss me properly, Vivaan. We have been married for eleven hours."

The kiss started careful, almost formal, his lips brushing hers like he was afraid of smudging her lipstick. Anaya made a small impatient sound and bit his lower lip, not hard, and he laughed against her mouth and then there was nothing careful left in it. His tongue found hers and her knees went genuinely weak, and she grabbed the front of his kurta to steady herself while the mogra and the lake air and the taste of him swirled together.

When they broke apart she was breathing fast and he was looking at her like she had just performed a magic trick. "Inside," she said. "The neighbours do not need a show."

The room was all carved wood and brass lamps, the big bed dressed in cream and gold with the mogra ring in the center and marigold petals scattered around it. Someone had left a silver plate of sweets on the side table and a brass bowl of rose water. Vivaan stood in the middle of it looking adorably lost, his hands opening and closing at his sides.

Anaya walked to him slowly, letting the saree's pleats swing, and stopped close enough that her breasts brushed his chest through their clothes. "Do you know how to unwrap a saree?" she asked.

"In theory," he said. "The pallu comes first?"

"In theory," she echoed, and turned around, lifting her hair off her neck. The pin holding the pallu to her shoulder was tiny and gold and his fingers were shaking so much it took him three tries. She felt the fabric loosen and slide, the long drape of silk whispering down her arm and pooling at her feet in a red puddle.

He made a sound low in his throat. Anaya turned back to face him, standing now in just the blouse and the petticoat, six yards of silk gone, and watched his eyes travel down her body and back up. The blouse was deep red and low cut, her cleavage rising with every breath, and the petticoat clung to her hips and thighs.

"You are staring," she said softly.

"I am allowed," he said. "Wife."

The word sent a hot pulse straight down through her belly. She reached for the buttons of his kurta and worked them open one by one, her knuckles brushing his chest, feeling his heart hammering under the skin. When the kurta came off she ran her palms flat up over his stomach and chest, feeling the muscle there, the light hair, the way his breathing changed when her thumbs brushed his nipples.

"Your turn," she whispered, and sat down on the edge of the bed.

Vivaan knelt in front of her, which made her laugh until he took her hands and put them on his shoulders and the laughter died in her throat. His fingers went to the hooks of her blouse, five small hooks down her back, and he opened them with painful slowness, his mouth so close to her collarbone that she could feel his breath on her skin. The blouse fell open. He pushed it off her shoulders and she shrugged it away, and then she was bare to the waist, her breasts heavy and aching in the lamplight.

He just looked for a moment, and the looking was almost as good as the touching. Then his hands came up and cupped her, thumbs brushing over her nipples until they hardened, and Anaya gasped and arched into his palms. "Like that," she breathed. "Ha, exactly like that."

His mouth followed his hands. He took one nipple between his lips and sucked, and the pull of it went straight down between her legs in a hot line. She threaded her fingers into his hair and held him there, rocking slightly, while he lavished the other breast with the same wet attention, his tongue circling, his teeth grazing just enough to make her cry out.

"Vivaan," she said, and it came out half plea and half command. "The petticoat. Please."

He found the drawstring at her waist and tugged it loose, and the petticoat slithered down her hips and off, leaving her in only a scrap of black lace panty. His hands slid up her thighs, spreading them gently, and his mouth trailed kisses along the insides, higher and higher, until his breath was hot against the lace.

Anaya's fingers tightened in his hair. "Do not tease me on our first night," she warned, her voice unsteady. "I will genuinely kill you."

He hooked his fingers in the sides of her panty and drew it slowly down her legs, and she lifted her hips to help him, and then she was completely naked on the edge of the bed with her husband kneeling between her thighs and the lake breeze still drifting in through the balcony doors. She felt the cool air on her wet skin and shivered, and Vivaan leaned in and kissed the inside of her knee, then higher, then his mouth was on her.

The first touch of his tongue on her chut made her whole body jerk. He was clumsy and eager and perfect, licking and sucking with no technique at all and all the hunger in the world, and Anaya fell back onto her elbows with a moan that surprised her with its loudness. "Oh god," she gasped. "Oh god, Vivaan, yes."

He found her clit and worried it gently with his lips and tongue, and the pleasure built fast and bright, her hips starting to move on their own, grinding softly against his mouth. His hands gripped her thighs to hold her steady, and when his tongue pushed inside her she cried out and came in a sudden hot rush, her back arching off the bed, her fingers clutching at the sheets.

She lay there panting while he kissed his way back up her body, and she could taste herself on his mouth when he kissed her, salty and sweet. "My turn," she said, and pushed him back onto the bed.

Vivaan lay back among the scattered mogra, his trousers tented hard, and watched her with dark hungry eyes as she unbuckled his belt. She had never done this before, had only read about it and wondered, and her hands were not quite steady as she freed his lund. It sprang up thick and flushed, and she wrapped her fingers around it and felt it throb in her grip.

"Like this?" she asked, stroking slowly.

"Anaya," he groaned, his hips lifting off the bed. "Just like that. God."

She bent her head and took the tip into her mouth, and the taste of him, salt and skin, made her moan around him. She sucked gently, her tongue swirling, taking him deeper inch by inch while her hand worked what her mouth could not reach. His fingers tangled in her hair, not pushing, just holding on, and his breathing went ragged and broken.

"Wait," he gasped suddenly, pulling her up. "Wait, if you keep doing that I am going to finish in your mouth on our first night and I have plans."

She laughed, breathless and bold, and straddled his lap, her wetness sliding against his stomach. "What plans?"

He rolled them over in one smooth motion and she was under him, the mogra crushed sweet beneath her back, his body heavy and hot on hers. He kissed her deeply, his lund hard against her thigh, and she wrapped her legs around his waist and pulled him closer, feeling the blunt head of him pressing at her entrance.

"Are you sure?" he whispered, his forehead against hers, and the tenderness in his voice nearly undid her.

Anaya looked up into his eyes and guided him with her hand. "I have been sure since the third meeting," she said. "Slowly."

He pushed in slowly, and there was a sharp stretching burn that made her gasp and clutch his shoulders. He stopped instantly, kissing her face, her throat, whispering apologies, and she held him still inside her until the burn softened into a deep fullness. Then she moved her hips, just a fraction, and nodded.

"Now," she breathed. "Move now."

He began to thrust in long slow strokes, and each one sent pleasure unfurling through her in warm waves. His lund filled her completely, stretching her, and she could feel every inch of him sliding in and out. She wrapped her arms around his neck and her legs tighter around his waist, pulling him deeper, and their bodies moved together in a rhythm that felt ancient and brand new at once.

The sounds filled the room, skin on skin, her soft cries, his groans, the bed creaking under them. "Harder," she whispered, surprising herself, and he obeyed, driving into her with more force, the headboard knocking softly against the carved wall. Her chut clenched around him, wet and tight, and she felt the familiar bright pressure building again, higher this time, deeper.

"I want to be on top," she said suddenly, and before he could answer she pushed at his chest and he rolled onto his back, laughing breathlessly, and she climbed astride him like she had been doing it all her life.

She sank down onto him and the angle was impossibly good, his lund pressing against some spot inside her that made her see stars. She rode him slowly at first, grinding her hips, her hands flat on his chest, her hair falling forward over her shoulders. Then faster, bouncing, taking him deep, her breasts swaying with the motion while he gripped her hips and thrust up to meet her.

"You are incredible," he groaned, his eyes locked on hers. "Anaya, I am going to, I cannot hold it."

"Then do not," she gasped, her thighs burning, the pleasure cresting. "Come with me. Now."

Her climax hit like a wave breaking, her whole body seizing around him, and she cried out his name as he thrust up hard one last time and poured himself into her with a shuddering groan. They clung to each other through the aftershocks, her face buried in his neck, his arms wrapped tight around her back, both of them shaking.

For a long while the only sounds were their breathing and the lake water lapping somewhere below and the distant hum of the city. Anaya lay sprawled across his chest, feeling his heart slow under her cheek, the crushed mogra still sweet in the air, their sweat cooling on her skin. His fingers drew lazy circles on her bare back.

"So," he said eventually, into the top of her head. "That was our first night."

"That was round one," she corrected, and propped herself up on her elbow to look at him. His eyes widened in delighted alarm. "There is a whole plate of complimentary sweets getting cold on the table, and then I want the balcony again. With you. No kurta."

Vivaan laughed, the sound bright and happy and completely unselfconscious now, and pulled her down for a kiss that tasted of salt and flowers and the whole long sweet night still ahead of them. "Whatever the new bride wants," he murmured against her lips. "It is her honeymoon."