The registrar's office had been small and sunlit, almost ordinary. A wooden desk, a fan turning lazily overhead, two quiet witnesses from her team who smiled politely and left as soon as the certificate was stamped. She wore a simple maroon saree with delicate gold work; I wore cream kurta-pajama that matched. When the words "husband and wife" were spoken, she looked at me—not with ceremony, but with the same soft certainty she'd had the night she first called me her good boy. I squeezed her hand once. She squeezed back twice. That was our vow.
We didn't stay for photographs or tea. We drove home with the windows down, her left hand resting on my thigh the whole way, the new emerald ring catching every passing light. Neither of us spoke much. We didn't need to. The silence between us was full.
The house waited like it had been holding its breath.
We had prepared the living room together over the past few days—not as a performance, but as a private sanctuary. Fairy lights looped across the ceiling like captured stars. A low wooden platform in the center draped in deep red velvet and gold cloth. Fresh marigold garlands hung from doorways; jasmine petals scattered in soft spirals on the marble. Incense burned low—sandalwood and rose—mingling with the faint scent of her skin that already clung to every corner of the house. On a side table: sindoor, the mangalsutra chain we'd chosen together, a small brass pot of water, rose petals, and—tucked discreetly beneath silk—the soft leather cuffs we both loved, the black blindfold, the curved glass toy she always sighed for when I used it slowly.
She stepped out of the bedroom twenty minutes later, still in the saree, but the pallu had slipped lower, exposing the gentle swell of her breasts above the blouse. Her hair was loose now, the fresh sindoor line bright against the parting. No heavy makeup, no elaborate jewelry—just her, the ring, and the quiet glow of someone who had finally stopped hiding.
I waited near the mandap in just the kurta, pajama pants already gone, cock half-hard from the drive home and the weight of the word "wife" still settling in my chest.
She walked to me slowly, barefoot, petals sticking to her soles.
"Husband," she said softly, voice thick with everything we'd carried to reach this moment.
"Wife," I answered, stepping forward.
I cupped her face first—thumbs brushing her cheekbones—then kissed her slow and deep. No rush. No teeth. Just the kind of kiss that says "I see you, all of you, and I'm staying." She melted into it, hands sliding up my chest, fingers curling into the kurta fabric.
When we parted, I took her hand and led her onto the platform.
"Kneel with me," I murmured.
We knelt together—face to face—on the velvet. I lifted the mangalsutra from the table, warm from the room, and fastened it around her neck with careful fingers. The black beads and gold pendant settled against her skin like they'd always belonged there.
Then I reached for the sindoor again—dipped my finger, traced a fresh line over the one from the registrar's office, making it bolder, more deliberate.
"Mine," I whispered.
"Yours," she answered, eyes shining. "Always."
I kissed the sindoor line—soft, reverent—then guided her down onto her back on the velvet. The saree pooled around her like spilled wine. I peeled the blouse open slowly, kissing every inch of skin I uncovered: collarbone, the soft valley between her breasts, the faint stretch marks on her hips she used to try to hide from me.
When I reached her cunt, I didn't dive in. I kissed her there too—slow, open-mouthed, tongue tracing lazy circles around her clit until her thighs trembled and her breath came in soft, broken sighs.
"Color?" I asked against her skin.
"Green," she breathed. "Always green for you, my love."
I slid two fingers inside her—slow, curling—while my mouth stayed on her clit. She arched gently, hands threading through my hair, not pulling, just holding.
"Good boy," she whispered, voice cracking with tenderness. "Making Mommy feel so loved… so full…"
The words hit deep. I groaned against her, fingers curling harder, tongue flicking faster.
"Cum for me, Mommy," I murmured. "Cum knowing your husband worships you."
She did—quiet, rolling waves that made her whole body glow. Her cunt pulsed around my fingers in slow, perfect rhythm; I kept licking her through it until she was trembling and tugging me upward.
I moved over her, slid inside in one long, slow thrust—both of us gasping at the same moment.
We fucked like that—face to face, eyes locked, hands laced above her head—for what felt like forever. Slow builds, gentle thrusts, whispered confessions between breaths.
"I love you," I said against her lips.
"I love you," she answered, legs wrapping tighter. "My good boy… my husband… my everything…"
When she came again—soft, trembling, cunt fluttering around me—I followed, spilling deep inside her with a low groan that felt like a vow. We stayed joined, breathing together, foreheads pressed, rings glinting in the fairy light.
After a long while I eased out, gathered her close, pulled a soft blanket over us on the mandap itself. We lay tangled—sweat cooling, hearts slowing—petals stuck to our skin.
I kissed her temple, her sindoor line, the corner of her eye where a happy tear had dried.
"My wife," I whispered.
"My husband," she answered, smiling against my neck. "My safe place. My home."
We stayed like that until the incense burned low and the lights dimmed.
Later—after a warm shower where we washed each other gently, laughing when soap slipped, kissing under the water—we curled up in bed, her head on my chest, my fingers tracing lazy patterns on her back.
"Tomorrow," she murmured, "wake me with your mouth between my legs. Then fuck me slow while you call me Mommy and I call you my good boy. Then make me breakfast. Then do it all again."
I smiled into her hair.
"Every day," I promised. "Forever."
She lifted her head, eyes shining in the dark.
"Forever," she echoed.
And in that quiet, simple word—spoken between two people who had broken each other open and chosen to stay—we found the only ritual that ever really mattered.
The end.