Before Prisha's Wedding

Prisha, 18, is culturally bound to chastity before her arranged marriage. However, she learns those rules are outdated. A fling with a classmate is arranged!

Part One

I turned seven years old early in 1971. Not long after my birthday, a new girl arrived in my first-grade class. She was unlike anyone in the entire school.

Her name was Prisha Patel. She and her family were recent immigrants from India. Years later I found out that Canada’s 1971 national census showed that 97 percent of Canadians had European ancestry. Therefore, it was not too surprising that Prisha was the only non-white student not only in my class, but also in the entire school. During that night’s dinner conversation, I mentioned my new classmate to my parents and what made her stand out from everyone else.

“Gordon,” my mother said to me. (I knew we were going to have a serious chat because she only referred to me by my official first name on solemn occasions. Otherwise, she always called me Gordie.) “I think you should make an effort to be this girl’s friend. Imagine how lonely she must feel coming to a new school halfway through the school year and being the only person with a different skin color.”

“But Mom…Prisha is a girl!” I strongly objected.

“Yes, Gordon, you told me that already,” Mom continued. “That shouldn’t stop her from becoming your friend—and vice versa. When I was your age I had a big mixture of friends, both boys and girls. We got along just fine. In fact, I married one of them.”

Mom pointed to Dad who waved at me and smiled. Mom added, “Who knows who your father might be if we hadn’t first become friends in school all those years ago?”

“Maybe the milkman would be my father,” I promptly suggested. Because of my young age, I did not realize any of the sordid implications contained within my comment.

Dad nearly spit out the mouthful of food he was chewing and then began laughing loudly and uncontrollably. Even Mom started giggling. She composed herself and eventually said, “Good heavens, Gordon! What possessed you to say such a thing?”

I shrugged and explained, “Last week I was watching a comedy show on TV. One character told his brother that he didn’t look like any other family member because he figured the milkman was his father. The audience thought it was very funny. You two must have thought the same thing because you’re still laughing.”

Once my parents regained control of themselves, we reverted to the original topic of conversation—my befriending the Indian schoolgirl. Mom said, “I bet Prisha is very friendly and polite—I’ve never met an Indian person who wasn’t—and she would love to have you as a friend. Do it for me, please, Gordon.”

“Okay, Mom, if you insist,” I relented. “I’ll try to strike up a conversation with Prisha tomorrow morning in the schoolyard before class starts.”

I then noticed Dad staring at me intently. So did Mom.

“Dear, surely you can’t possibly object to Gordon being friends with an Indian girl, can you? Why are you staring at him that way?”

“Don’t be silly! Of course I have no objections,” he said. “Gordie can be friends with whomever he wants.”

“So why the long, piercing stare at him?” Mom asked.

“I’m just making sure of something,” Dad replied as he continued to scrutinize me. “Let’s see now…Gordie’s definitely got my chin and my nose. Yep, I’m his father—not the milkman.”

Part Two

The next morning, to keep my promise to Mom, I tracked down Prisha not too far from the door that everyone in Mrs. Phillips’ first-grade class used to enter and leave the school. She was standing by herself. She did look like a very lonely girl. For some odd reason, I felt nervous approaching her. I suppose it was because I didn’t regularly approach girls who weren’t my relatives to have a friendly chat.

She was looking in the other direction, so I gently tapped Prisha on her right shoulder. “Hi, my name is Gordie McNab,” I said. “I’m in Mrs. Phillips’ class, too. Would you like me to be your friend?”

Immediately, Prisha smiled and said, “Oh, yes, please! I don’t know anybody here, but I want to make friends with everyone in my class and in other classes, too.”

“Well, I guess I’m your first friend,” I stated. We shook hands to formally solidify that arrangement. She began to ask me all sorts of questions about the school and about living in Canada in general. I did my best to answer them all. Then the bell rang and we prepared to walk in the door. I was shocked to hear an older boy, whom I didn’t even know, ask me, “Why are you wasting your time talking to this foreigner?”

I immediately came to Prisha’s defense. I said that his comment was terribly rude and that Prisha was a very nice girl. I also added that if anyone made unkind remarks to her, he or she would have to deal with me. That was total bravado on my part. I had never been in a fight in my life, although I had watched a few boxing matches on Wide World of Sports with my father, so I knew a little bit about how to deliver punches and block those thrown by the other guy. Be that as it may, my bluff worked. The older boy just walked away, and a few other students patted me on the back.

By the end of the day, other kids had openly befriended Prisha. I discovered she lived just two blocks from my house, so I walked her home that day just to make sure the big kid didn’t bother her. Prisha wanted me to come inside and meet her family and stay for a while. I drew the line there. That sounded too much like a boyfriend/girlfriend thing. As a normal seven-year-old boy, I certainly didn’t want that! I politely declined the invitation and told her I’d see her at school tomorrow. As far as I was concerned, my good deed was done.

I walked the remaining two blocks to my house. When I entered it via the side door, Mom was talking on the telephone. She held the receiver in her left hand and waved to me with her right hand. “Oh, he just got home!” I heard my mother declare to the person she was conversing with. “I’ll put him on the line now.”

I had a puzzled look on my face. “It’s Prisha’s mother. She wants to speak to you!” Mom informed me with a proud smile. I picked up the phone and said hello.

“Is this Gordie McNab, the fine young gentlemen who helped my daughter today?” I was asked.

“Well…yes…I guess so,” I mumbled.

“I’m Prisha Patel’s mother,” the voice said. “Prisha told me how you wanted to be her friend and how you defended her against that other boy’s rude comments. She thinks the world of you—and so do I—and I haven’t met you yet. After school tomorrow, please come home with Prisha again and have some treats with her. You don’t have to ask your mother; she’s already said that would be fine.”

“Oh, alright then,” I said. “Thank you for the kind invitation.” Then I said goodbye an hung up.

Mom promptly gave me a long hug and a wet kiss on my cheek. “That’s my boy!” she proclaimed. “Not only did you make a new friend today, you did the right thing by standing up for her. Prisha told her mom what you said and did. She found our phone number in the directory. She wanted to thank you and tell me what a terrific son I have.”

I tried to tell Mom she was making too much of what happened, but she wasn’t having any of it. She insisted we ought to go to an office supply store and buy Prisha some pencils, erasers and markers for school as a thank-you gift for the invitation—which we did. The next day, just before class began, I handed them to her. Delighted, she gave me a quick hug. I surprisingly enjoyed it! “I shouldn’t have done that,” she informed me, “but I’m glad I did.”

As planned, Prisha and I walked together to her house when school ended. I asked Prisha what she meant when she said she shouldn’t have hugged me. I got an educational earful. According to the customs of her culture, she told me, boys and girls are not supposed to be affectionate with each other until they are married couples. Then she truly shocked me by saying she knew who she was going to marry because she had already been engaged—at age seven—for four months to an 11-year-old boy named Kabir she had never met!

That news stopped me dead in my tracks. Sensing my confusion, she explained the concept of arranged marriages using her case as an example: Prisha’s parents knew a family who had a son. Someday he would need a wife—and someday Prisha would need a husband. The two sets of parents formally agreed that Prisha would marry this boy sometime soon after her eighteenth birthday.

“He lives far away, somewhere near Winnipeg,” Prisha noted. “I don’t even know where Winnipeg is. Anyway, he’s supposed to be a nice boy. I trust my parents’ decision, so I am going to marry Kabir in about 11 years, and we’ll have lots of children together, I suppose.”

The whole idea was entirely new to me. I had always been told by my parents that someday I would magically fall in love with Miss Right—whomever that might be—and I would have to court her for a while to convince her to marry me. When I mentioned that to Prisha, she said that idea was foreign to her!

“Courtship is a waste of time and often does not work out. In my culture, your spouse is decided for you. You are supposed to develop love for your spouse over time after you are married. It has worked that way for centuries.”

That gave me food for thought—and I would discuss it at length with my parents because I found such an idea for getting a wife to be fascinating. I said, “Prisha, thanks a lot for the hug this morning—even though you broke your rules. I liked it very much! That’s funny because when Monica Harvey kept on hugging me in kindergarten last year, I thought it was icky. I really liked it when you hugged me, though.”

Part Three

That illicit hug was the only physical contact I had with Prisha Patel for more than a decade. We stayed good friends all the way through high school, but it was strictly platonic. There was no point in thinking it would be otherwise. The trouble was that every year I grew fonder and fonder of this wonderful girl who got better and better looking each month. She was fun to be around. She was smart and easygoing—and she was definitely a beautiful young female no matter what race you were.

Over the years, I heard a few of my male classmates say they found Prisha to be a very sexy lass and wondered what it would be like to be intimate with an Indian girl—especially one like Prisha. There was clearly an implication, because of my longtime and close friendship with her, that I had some carnal knowledge of Prisha that I might want to boast about and share with my buddies.

“Sorry, guys,” I told them with a smile one Monday in the lunchroom. “You can suspect whatever you like, but I honestly don’t know any more than you do. Prisha is forbidden fruit to me and you because of her strict culture. However, I strongly suspect she is built basically the same way every female is—perhaps a little bit more so in certain places.”

Indeed, by the time of her eighteenth birthday in 1982, Prisha possessed a great figure. She was a busty 5’6” gal with an adorable derriere. Thus, the males in our high school could admire her as she approached and departed. A certain, lucky 22-year-old Indian fellow in Winnipeg would soon be getting a comely surprise package.

About a week before the school year ended, I encountered Prisha in the school library. Excluding the librarian and a lone student helper, we were the only ones there. I was just reading a few news magazines for something to do. Prisha was just there to return a romance novel she had borrowed. I invited her to sit down with me.

I thought I’d begin a friendly conversation with an innocuous question: “What are your plans for this summer?” I asked her.

“Gordie, as of two weeks ago, I’m 18 years old. I’ll be going to Winnipeg soon to get married on the second Saturday in July. Then I’ll stay there permanently with my new husband, Kabir.”

I should have realized that was the case, but I hadn’t thought about Prisha’s arranged marriage for a while. The thought of her being married shortly kind of threw me for a loop—and made me sad.

“I hope Kabir realizes how lucky he is to get you as a wife,” I began. “Prisha, I think you are terrific. It’s too bad that circumstances prevented us from being a couple. I’ve dated a few girls here at school. Nothing really materialized with those relationships, though.”

“See!” she exclaimed. “Maybe my culture has it right with arranged marriages. There are no disappointments or broken romances.”

“Could be,” I agreed. “Although none of them worked out, I did have a little bit of fun with one or two of them that you personally aren’t allowed to have. That’s one checkmark on my culture’s side.”

“If you consider female sexual promiscuity something favorable, I guess you are correct,” Patel zinged me. “I don’t. I wasn’t raised that way.”

I sighed and said, “Please don’t take this the wrong way, Prisha, but I fear you won’t be fulfilled or even happy in life just being a baby-making machine for your husband. You are such a bright girl. You truly could be anything you want to be in this country.”

We talked and talked until we were told the school library was closing in five minutes. As we prepared to leave, I told Prisha, “In case we don’t ever see each other again, it’s been a pleasure being your friend since the first grade.” Prisha cutely smiled and thanked me for the compliment. Then I sneakily added, “This might be against your culture, but it’s certainly part of mine!” Then I embraced her and kissed her on the cheek. “I’ve always wanted to do that,” I confessed. She was staring blankly at me as I strode out the door.

Part Four

I was surprised to get a phone call from Prisha at 10:45 that night. She told me in a hushed voice that she desperately needed to talk to me in person as soon as possible. I suggested that we could meet at the school library as it always opened 40 minutes before classes began. I told her I’d be sitting at the same table reading magazines if she wanted to have another chat. She did. I honestly wondered if she had backed out of her wedding. Prisha told me such a dramatic event was occasionally done, but it was considered a disgrace to the family if a son or daughter rejected a spouse in an arranged marriage. I lost a lot of sleep wondering what I might do if that was indeed the case.

I was only in the library for about a minute before I saw Prisha enter the door and march toward my table. She had a very serious and determined look in her eyes. She hadn’t even fully sat down when she started to speak.

“I have some startling news,” Prisha began.

“Has your marriage been called off?” I asked hopefully.

“No, of course not,” she quickly corrected me.

I was disappointed that I was wrong, but I did my best not to show it. I asked, “So what’s the big news you have, Prisha?”

She took a deep breath and then answered my question. “I was having a traditional wedding shower with my friends and relatives last night. One of them told me, quite up front, that time was rapidly running out for me to have a final fling with someone before I got married! I was shocked to hear that! In my culture I’m supposed to be a virgin until my wedding night. Some of the attendees openly laughed at me for saying that. My cousin Ananya, who is 20 and married, guffawed and said, 'No one follows that old-fashioned custom anymore. That idea went out with streetcars and silent movies. Even your husband won’t expect you to be untouched.' Everyone there seemed to agree with Ananya—even my mother and grandmother!”

I started to get what Prisha was driving at—and I liked the idea. However, I still feigned ignorance.

“So, Prisha, my friend, what do you intend to do?” I asked with a lot of enthusiasm.

“Tonight, I want to fuck the best friend I’ve ever had in my life,” she replied. “That would be you, Gordie, in case you didn’t know that!”

“Time and place please!” I replied.

Prisha laughed at my eagerness. She said, “Somehow, I knew you would be easy to convince, Gordie. I believe there’s a cozy little motel just a mile or two out of town where we can do what we should have been doing for years. I have access to a car. I’ll pick you up in front of the school at 7 p.m. tonight and we can go there. I’ll make the reservation, too.”

“Wow, I’m impressed, Prisha. You’ve put a lot of thought into this little fling in a very short time!” I said.

“To be honest,” she replied, “I’ve had this plan in the back of my head for a while. I had been planning to break my cultural custom and have a romp with you at about the age of 16. I planned all the details, but I chickened out. However, since I now know that virginity on my wedding night is apparently optional, I’m resurrecting those plans.”

“Great! I’m totally in favor of your plans, Prisha. This is all new to me. So how much will an hour at this motel cost me?”

Prisha unexpectedly laughed. “First off, we’ll be there for more than a mere hour. We’ll be there all night! We can check out in the morning and then come to class. Second, it won’t cost you a dime. My mother and grandmother are paying for it as sort of a wedding gift for me—one that the groom is never to know about.”

Now I started to laugh. “Your mother approves of this?” I asked incredulously.

“Yes, she does, Gordie,” Prisha insisted. “She’s liked you since you befriended me in the first grade. After the shower last night, she handed me a wad of cash and told me to spend tonight with you at that specific motel. Furthermore, she said I was to fuck you long and hard until you begged for mercy.”

I was silent for a moment. Then I said, “I always have liked your mother, Prisha. She’s a good egg.”

Part Five

As I walked home from school, I tried to come up with a plausible scenario where my parents wouldn’t care that I was staying out all night on a midweek evening. When I couldn’t create a decent lie, I told them the truth during dinner. My mother was rather horrified by Prisha’s plans, but my dad thought everything was great for me. I suspected he was jealous.

“Lucky you!” he said and slapped me on the back. “I’ve seen Prisha a few times lately. She’s developed into quite the dish. Gordie, enjoy what she has to offer…over and over again.”

Mom gave Dad a dirty look and reminded me that slightly more than 11 years ago I was reluctant to befriend the new girl in my first-grade class.

I was about to answer, but Dad beat me to it. “No girl in the first grade looks like Prisha does in the twelfth grade. Gordie, once you finish dinner, get in the shower, shave, and put on some sexy-smelling cologne. Be prepared for the greatest night in your life!”

Mom knew nothing she could possibly say would stop me from bedding the soon-to-be-married Prisha Patel, so she stopped trying.

Dad happily offered to drive me back to my high school where Prisha would pick me up at 7 p.m. I think Dad wanted to ogle what I was about to fondle.

Part Six

We got to the motel and discovered that Prisha’s reservation was for a room with both a king-size bed and a jacuzzi. We wasted no time in disrobing. I discovered Prisha was somehow even better built than I thought she was. Her breasts were especially magnificent. I became hard instantly—which worried Prisha a bit.

“Remember, Gordie,” she advised. “I’m new at this and you’re quite experienced. Have patience with me.”

“I’ll be gentle but not necessarily patient,” I responded without telling her that my vast sexual résumé consisted of two blowjobs and two fucks with a total of three high school girls. “You are unbelievably sexy, Prisha. I’m not waiting another second.”

I embraced Prisha and pushed her gently onto the center of the huge bed where I immediately targeted her ample breasts. I did everything known to mankind with them. Prisha must have liked the attention I gave them. Her nipples got hard within ten seconds and she made a purring sound like a cat while I enjoyed them thoroughly. At one point I just put my face between them and let Prisha squeeze them against my cheeks. It was heavenly. A few minutes later when I straddled her to fuck her tits, Prisha caught on to that particular sex act quickly but amusingly said, “I don’t think this is the correct way to make a baby, Gordie.”

“You’re right, my dear,” I told her. “But it’s certainly one of many correct ways to make Gordie’s dick happy.” I considered it just shy of a miracle that I didn’t fire a cum blast all over Prisha’s marvelous mounds.

Prisha, a true sexual novice, was content with me dictating what would happen and for how long. Because she was so accommodating, I rewarded her with several minutes of pussy licking. She really enjoyed that! When she slightly squirted, she declared, “Oh, I think that was an orgasm I just had. I’m really sorry about that, Gordie.”

I just laughed and sarcastically said, “Yeah, Prisha that was a terrible thing for me to do to please you. Shame on me! You can make it up to me by spreading those beautiful legs of yours as far apart as you can.” She did and I mounted her.

My penis entered her pussy slowly and gently, but before long I was giving Prisha a long and hard fuck. I remembered what Prisha had told me in the library. “This is what your mother wanted you to do with me,” I reminded her.

“I’m enjoying your dick, Gordie. Keep doing it,” she said.

I increased the speed of my thrusts. An ejaculation was near.

“Are you going to come inside my vagina, Gordie?” she asked.

I stopped the fucking for a moment and said, “Yeah…are you okay with that?”

“Oh, sure. I just wanted to keep track of what was happening. It’s all great fun to me.”

About a dozen thrusts later, nature took its course. I launched several ropes of hot semen into my longtime friend’s vagina. We both groaned with delight. I kept thrusting long after the last drip was deposited.

“Are you trying to impregnate me, Gordie,” Prisha asked. I couldn’t tell if she was annoyed or thrilled, but I gave her an honest answer.

“Yes, I am—without a doubt,” I said.

“Oh, okay!” she said before kissing me on the cheek. “I suppose whatever happens is what happens.”

One fuck was certainly not going to be sufficient for me that night. After a short recuperation period, I positioned Prisha on her hands and knees at the end of the bed with her tremendously attractive bum slightly elevated. I stood up and gave her a serious fucking from behind. This one was mostly for my pleasure, although Prisha told me afterwards that she liked that sexual position the best. I love the sound of my crotch slapping against Prisha’s butt cheeks as my dick penetrated her deeply. Ten minutes of intensive screwing resulted in another ejaculation from me that was, all things considered, another decent load of cum safely deposited where it was designed to go
.
Once I figured out how to operate the jacuzzi, we took a much-needed respite from intercourse. We climbed into it, snuggled together and spent more than an hour kissing, hugging, and reminiscing in the warm water about our shared past. I told Prisha it was a damn shame that I couldn’t marry her and fondle her beautiful tits for the next 70 years. She flattered me by saying she wished she could be impaled on my “strong and healthy penis” for the same length of time. As we chatted leisurely, we groped each other lovingly.

Sometime near midnight Prisha announced she was ready for more fucking if I was. I said I was happy to oblige. “I want to do what my mother said I ought to do to you: Fuck you until you beg for mercy. Any ideas how I can achieve that, Gordie?” Being the helpful type, I suggested I lie flat on my back while she rode me to a third orgasm.

Prisha happily did her best, despite having no experience whatsoever. I was happily inside Prisha’s beautiful pussy and enjoying her bounce around, her tits jiggling merrily along. I instructed her to lean forward so I could suck on them again—I never tired of it. When I told her to gyrate on my dick, I lasted about 30 seconds before exhausting myself with another gift of jism. We both fell asleep with Prisha on top of me. At some point in the middle of the night, she must have pulled herself off my penis, but I was dead to the world and didn’t remember that happening.

We were both wide awake as 6 a.m. neared. We sexily showered together, during which time I introduced Prisha to the fine art of fellatio. I had no ammo left in my pistol, but I enjoyed the sensation of her lips sucking on my dick, nevertheless. We reluctantly got dressed and checked out of the motel slightly before 7 a.m. Dad had been correct: It had been the greatest night of my life.

It was early enough for me to treat Prisha to breakfast before we headed to one of our last days at high school. I told her that last night had been an utterly fantastic sexual experience that I could not possibly forget if I lived to be a centenarian.

“Do you think I’ll ever forget it?” she sweetly asked me. It was obviously a rhetorical question. Prisha kissed me on the lips for a few seconds. “Unfortunately, Gordie, that kiss concludes our intimacy forever. I now belong to my fiancé and soon-to-be-husband, body and soul.”

“I don’t want your soul, Prisha; I want your body!” I jokingly replied. When I tried to embrace her, she strongly pushed me away.

“I’m serious, Gordie,” she told me.

“Yep, so I see,” I said sadly. Prisha’s wedding in Winnipeg was a mere nine days away.

A few minutes of silence passed between us before Prisha said to me, “Gordie, it is quite common in arranged marriages for the first child to be born exactly nine months following the wedding day—or very close to that date. I could easily be a first-time mother this time next year. Imagine that!”

“After what we did last night, you might be giving birth less than nine months after your wedding night,” I cautiously suggested.

“That wouldn’t surprise me at all. Not one bit,” Prisha conceded. “Gordie, what do I tell Kabir if the child I give birth to has considerably lighter skin than both he and I do?”

“Leave me out of it, please,” I requested. “Tell him you fucked the milkman.”