My arranged marriage to Ajay Mehta was intended to heal longstanding rifts in our family. Growing up, I understood the importance of it, and resigned myself to a life without romance. Because Ajay’s father was an influential businessman, my own father’s fortunes changed considerably, so that at age eighteen I became the first girl from our village to make the journey from Uttar Pradesh to a US college. Now, four years later, I made the journey back with some dread.
Arriving home, my parents put on their bravest face. Of course they were delighted to see me but I could tell that something was wrong. Over breakfast they explained what had happened.
The sibling rivalry between Ajay and his brother Shikesh, which started innocently in their boyhood, had grown to something approaching all out war. Only their fearsome father’s determination to keep the family together had prevented violent consequence. I remembered Shikesh well. He was always jealous of his brother’s plans to wed me, and dolefully protested his love for me during our adolescence. Although flattered, I knew to turn him down. In the meantime, Shikesh had won the confidence of his father, and over the last two years, his cruel approach to doing business had led to a worsening of relations between our families. Their father (blinded in his youth) had insisted that the marriage proceed promptly – if he still approved of me. And that if he did not approve, my father was to repay the money “that you saw to swindle me out of”. It had been arranged that I was to visit his homestead, where elders (uncles and male cousins) would be on hand to advise him whether to proceed.
The meeting was to be the next day. I knew at once what the pretext would be. Although I’m a beautiful 23-year old, I’ve inherited my mother’s full-bodied form. By 40dd breasts press against my sari, and many friends have teased me (kindly) about the visible jiggle in ass when I wear dresses or saris. I went to bed with some trepidation that night, and set out for Ajay’s house the next day. Ajay was away on arranged business, ad when I arrived the atmosphere in the house was visibly tense. I was led curtly to a room, in which the men had been breakfasting. My future (hopefully) father-in-law sat sternly on an armchair in the middle of room.
“Come here girl,” he croaked, barely stirring in his seat. I walked to over to him, stopping in front of his chair. “Closer.” I shuffled forward to the front of his chair, stopping inches away from it. Two wrinkled hands raised from his lap, and I stooped my face towards his palms, so that he could “see” me.
I looked with some trepidation at his wizened face, his lips trembling slightly as his fingers traced the contours of my face. Feeling my the fullness of my lips (I bit my lip as a fingertip threatened to enter my mouth), prodding the soft fullness of my cheeks. I noticed a frown, as his touch found the underside of my chin. In disgust he pawed at the second chin that now covered what once was an elegant neck. “Chubby girl,” he coughed. There was muted laughter from the rest of the room and I slinked back in embarrassment.
He clapped sternly and I stooped towards him again. This time his hands moved down. His frown deepened, as he ran his palms over my breasts. His pace quickened as he traced their outlines through my sari, squeezing gently to assess their size. I could read his thoughts, as I’d realised that the moment His hands dropped to his lap in disappointment. “Too big. My son needs a princess, not this.” I felt a lot of shame, and turned to leave the room. Shikesh grabbed my firmly by the arm and brought me back to the front of the chair.
“Baba ji will tell you when to leave. You’ve brought enough trouble to your family, and you’re well advised not to make things worse.”
I stood before him again, trying to conceal my embarrassment from the rest of the room. Stealing a quick glance around, I noticed the gleeful excitement in the eyes of the men present. All were engrossed in my humiliation. The elders maintained the pretense of dignity as they looked on. Shikesh stuffed himself with potato curry, greedily eying my body in anticipation of further shame. I was struck by how thin his earlier outpourings of love, spoken with such conviction only a few years ago, were shown up by his repulsive delight in my pain.
“The bottom!” These words were spat so suddenly at me, that I was for a few seconds I was at a loss for response. “I’ve seen the top, now show me your bottom”. I was stunned, but Seeing the menace in the face of my could-be father in law, I decided to obey. Turning around slowly, I shivered slightly as I waited for his hands. I pushed my fat posterior toward him. Instead there was only more laughter. Daveen’s, one of the uncles in the family was stern-faced, pointing at my feet.
“He means the bottom of your body.” And then someone behind me offered “is this the refined language of an American college girl? The language of a whore.” In a more enlightened setting I’d protest the absurdity of their claim to proper usage, but I knew better and kept my mouth shut. Mr Mehta patted the arm of his chair, and I got the impression that I was meant to lift a foot onto it.
I now stood balanced uncomfortably, with one leg on the floor, and the other resting on the arm of his chair. Although I realised that he was blind, I felt ashamed of the view up my my sari which a sighted man would have enjoyed from his vantage point. Custom dictated that I wear no shoes about the house in the presence of elders. He expected my uncovered feet, and began to caress them immediately. He seemed interested in the grooming (could he feel the layered nail varnish, were the nails neatly clipped), and smiled faintly upon discovering the amulet I wore on my ankle.
He took care to identify the miniature deities adorning it. I thought that things were improving for me, but his hand caught hold of the flesh above my ankles. When I say that I’m a little plump, this doesn’t just apply to the area around my waist. My calves are pretty ample, and the hairs that bristle to the touch give a taste of what lies further up. The room fell silent as his hands snaked up my shin – still with that pained silence on his face. The impulse to escape seized me once again. I stole a glance around the room, where the other men looked on with cheerful anticipation. I noticed with dismay that Shikesh had stopped chewing, and was now stroking a bulge clearly visible through his loose-fitting doti.
At this point Mr. Mehta pushed me away roughly. He rose, reached for his cane, and found his way out of the room without a word. The tears streamed down my cheeks as I realised that things were over. My family would have to bear the consequence of my descent into obesity. Choking back the tears, I walked towards the door.
“Where do you think you’re going?” Shikesh stared meanly at me. “In your American slut-college, do you pass your exams by leaving midway?” There was a roar of laughter.
“But Baba ji has left…” I began to protest.
“Well, thankfully you are not Baba ji – resume your position.” Weighing the gravity of my situation I knew better than to resist. Shikesh took up the seat vacated by his father, and with much shame I obeyed his instruction to place my foot where it had been. His eyes darted at the flesh exposed by my opened sari. Fortunately, my fleshy thighs pressed together, preventing a view of my pantied crotch.
“An ocean of cellulite” he mused. More laughter. “Oh stop the crocodile nonsense!” he snapped unsympathetically as the tears streamed down my cheeks.
By now he was pleasing himself, stroking my calf with his right hand. His left hand moved to his crotch, as his fingers reached upwards to my thighs. In spite of his meanness, there was something loving about the rhythm of his caress. As he gently pawed my dimply, bulging thighs I tried in vain to shift my thoughts elsewhere.
“Time to part the oceans”, he sneered. At this he pushed my raised knee to the side, urging me to spread before him. To my further shame, I recalled that I’d decided to spoil myself that morning, by wearing my favourite white lace thong. Although the string was extra long, to reach all the way around my ample bum, the edges of my unshaven pussy oozed out from the sides of the gusset. “Uncut?! What’s your idea of wifely hygiene? Look at this – it’s unbelievable.”
At this point the others came around, feigning indignation at the sight before them. “Horrible”, “a shame”, were some of their remarks. Despite their supposed disgust, they were stroking themselves shamelessly, their gazes fixed on my thighs and panties. “Look, it goes further”, commented one of the older uncles, pointing to the wisps of hair that snaked out the top of my panties. At this Shikesh roughly yanked open my sari, exposing my pot-bellied womb.
“What a cow”, protested one of the emboldened uncles, who groped at the bulges on my waist. Soon his hands were followed by others, pretending the same concern. Shikesh went further – “I sure hope this is unused”, he demanded, tapping at my pantied cunt.
“Better inspect, Shikesh ji. No way your brother is deserving of a whore.”
Because the tears had welled in my eyes, I couldn’t identify the font of this “wise” advice, which Shikesh wasted no time implementing. Roughly yanking my panties aside, he exposed my pussy to his relatives.
“Big lips”, one murmured.
“Well, she’s a big girl.” Out of deference to my husband-to-be, Shikesh took care not to enter, as he prodded about, ostensibly testing for tell-tale signs of prior penetration. Some of the others took courage from this. I felt hands on my bum.
“Oh, you need two to hold onto this.”
“Ajay will have his hands full”, they joked, as they massaged and squeezed the roundness of my bum. Although nobody bothered explaining the “reasons” for this violation, one of the more rigorous members had the presence of mind to lift my sari, giving him a clear feel of the dimpled fat on my bum. As he tugged rhythmically on the g-string cleaved between my meaty butt cheeks, the fabric rubbed against my clit, tempting me into arousal, despite my shame.
Meanwhile, Shikesh had not removed his hand from his crotch, and continued to stroke the front of me with his other hand. Naturally, I moistened, as I bit my lip in shame. When his hand was roughly covered with my free-flowing pussy juice, he smeared it on the underside of my bum, smiling at me for the first time. I cringe as I recall the hands that pawed at my breasts. Prodding away, they delighted at the firmness, and tweaked my (shamefully) stiffening nipples. One of the men left early, excusing himself as he planted a sloppy kiss on my lips, deftly darting the tip of his tongue into my mouth. He squeezed my bum by way of goodbye.
In a matter of very little time, some cocks were out, and my molestation was shamelessly exploited for the benefit of those present. I was made to endure the discomfort of my position, and the hands wandering all over my body, until the last one of them had jerked himself to a climax. They left the room individually, until I was alone with Shikesh. “My brother, will be the first to enjoy you. I am sure you will make a good bride.”