The Long Wait Behind the Sherwani

The hotel suite door hadn't even clicked shut before Uzma was pressed against the wall, Babar's mouth on hers, his hands gripping her waist through the heavy embroidered wedding dress. The fabric was beautiful — deep blue with silver threading — but it was in the way, and they both knew it.

"Took you long enough," Uzma murmured against his lips, her fingers already working at his sherwani buttons.

"I had to smile at three hundred people when all I wanted was to get you naked."

She laughed, low and warm, pulling him toward the bed by his collar. The suite was spacious — king bed, floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city, a balcony with two lounge chairs — but neither of them was looking at the view yet. Babar kicked off his shoes while Uzma reached behind her to undo the clasps of her outfit. The dress pooled at her feet, leaving her in a matching bra and panties — nude lace, barely there.

"Fuck," Babar said, stepping back just enough to look at her. She was tall — taller than him by a couple of inches — slim, brown-skinned, with small, firm breasts that the bra barely contained. Her body was lean and elegant, the kind of frame that looked incredible in nothing.

"Like what you see, husband?" she asked, tilting her head.

"I've been imagining it for months."

"Well, stop imagining."

Babar pulled his sherwani off and tossed it on the chair. His undershirt came next, revealing a broad, hairy chest and the soft round of his belly. A scar ran down the middle of his stomach — the pancreas surgery, a vertical line that traced from his sternum past his navel. Uzma's eyes followed it down to where his pants still hung on his hips.

"Off," she said, pointing.

He unbuttoned, unzipped, and pushed everything down — pants, underwear — stepping out of them and standing bare in front of her. His cock was already hard, jutting forward at a slight upward angle. Six inches, two inches around, clean-shaven around the shaft and balls but with a trimmed patch of dark hair just above the base, sitting below his belly like a deliberate centerpiece. His armpits were smooth, freshly shaved, and his balls hung heavy and smooth between his thighs.

Uzma looked down at him and smiled — that particular smile Babar had come to know, the one that was half admiration and half something else. Something evaluating.

"Come here," she said, and unhooked her bra.

Her breasts fell free — 32B, small and round with dark nipples that tightened immediately in the cool air. She slipped her panties down, and Babar got his first full look at her naked body. Slim hips, a neat strip of hair between her legs, long legs that seemed to go on forever.

They came together on the bed, and the first touch was electric. Her skin was warm everywhere, and Babar ran his hands up her sides, over her ribs, cupping her breasts while his thumbs traced circles around her nipples. She gasped softly, reaching down to wrap her fingers around his cock.

"Hard already," she said, stroking him slowly.

"Been hard since the nikah."

She laughed again and pushed him onto his back, climbing over him. Her tall frame straddled his belly, and she leaned forward to let her nipples drag across his chest hair. The sensation made Babar groan, his hips bucking up instinctively. She reached behind her and guided his cock to her entrance, already wet — soaking, actually — and sank down onto him in one smooth motion.

"Fuck, you feel good," Babar hissed, his hands gripping her hips.

"You feel good too," she said, though her tone had that playful edge again. She began to move, rolling her hips in slow, deliberate circles, her palms flat on his chest. Babar watched her — her eyes half-closed, her lips parted, her small breasts swaying gently with each movement. The scar on his stomach didn't seem to bother her at all; her right hand kept brushing across it like it was just another part of him.

He thrust up to meet her, and the rhythm built. Slow became fast. Gentle became hard. Uzma braced herself on the headboard and rode him harder, her ass slapping against his thighs, her breathing ragged.

"Yes — right there — keep going —"

Babar grabbed her waist and fucked up into her, matching her pace, his balls tightening already. She came first — her whole body stiffening, a sharp cry tearing from her throat, her pussy clenching around him in rhythmic pulses. The sensation pushed Babar over the edge, and he buried himself deep, groaning as he came inside her.

She collapsed forward onto his chest, both of them breathing hard.

"That was round one," Babar said, still inside her.

"I know. I'm not done with you."

They lay tangled for a few minutes, kissing lazily, hands wandering. Uzma played with the hair on his chest, twirling it around her fingers. Babar traced the line of her spine down to the small of her back. Within ten minutes, he was hard again — she felt it stirring against her thigh and looked down.

"Again already?"

"It's our wedding night. I'm not wasting it."

This time, he took her from behind — doggy style, her favorite. She got on her hands and knees, and Babar knelt behind her, gripping her slim hips, watching his cock disappear into her inch by inch. The sight was intoxicating. Her back was long and elegant, her waist narrow, her ass round and firm. He fucked her steadily, pulling almost all the way out before pushing back in, building a rhythm that made her moan into the pillow.

"Harder," she said, and he gave it to her harder — his belly pressing against her ass with each thrust, his balls swinging forward and slapping her clit. She reached down to touch herself, fingers working fast, and came again with a shuddering gasp. Babar followed seconds later, his second orgasm pulling everything out of him, leaving him breathless and trembling.

They separated and lay side by side, staring at the ceiling.

"I need a shower," Uzma said.

"Me too."

The shower was large — a glass-walled enclosure with a rainshower head. They washed each other lazily, Uzma running soap across his chest and belly and over the scar, Babar lathering her back and shoulders. The warm water felt like a reset. By the time they dried off and pulled on robes — his white, hers the hotel's plush grey — the energy between them had shifted from urgent to intimate.

Uzma made coffee using the suite's Nespresso machine — two cups, black, no sugar — and carried them out to the balcony. The night air was warm, and the city spread out below them in a grid of lights. She sat in one lounge chair and pulled her legs up, the robe falling open at the knees. Babar sat in the other, his robe untied, chest bare.

"This is nice," he said, sipping.

"It is." She looked at him over the rim of her cup. "So. That was fun."

"Understatement."

"You've got good stamina," she said, turning to face him more directly. "Two rounds, not much recovery time. That's impressive."

Babar smiled. "I try."

"No, I mean it. Arish — my ex — he could go multiple rounds too, but his recovery time was longer. You were ready again in what, ten minutes?"

"Something like that."

Uzma nodded, her eyes drifting down to where his robe was open. The fabric had parted enough that his cock was partially visible — soft now, resting against his thigh, the shaved skin smooth, the patch of hair above it catching the light from the room behind them.

"Can I ask you something?" she said.

"Anything."

"How do you feel about the fact that you're the smallest I've been with?"

Babar's cock twitched. Not visibly, not yet — but he felt it. A small jump somewhere deep in the root. He took a sip of coffee and set the cup down.

"Honestly? I like it."

"I know you do," Uzma said, smiling. "I can tell. Every time I bring it up, you get this look. Like you're excited and a little embarrassed at the same time."

"Maybe because I am."

"Tell me what you like about it."

He thought for a moment. "The comparison. Knowing the details. Hearing you talk about it like it's just a fact — that your ex was bigger, that I'm smaller. It does something to me."

Uzma set her own cup down and pulled her legs up onto the chair, getting comfortable. "Okay. Let's talk details then. Arish was nine inches. Three inches around. Thick, long, heavy — even when he was soft, it hung down like something substantial. The first time I saw it, I actually said 'oh wow' out loud."

Babar felt the twitch again, stronger this time. His cock was stirring, pushing against the robe fabric.

"You, on the other hand," Uzma continued, gesturing toward his lap, "are six inches. Two inches around. Smaller in both directions. Nice-looking — I like the grooming, by the way, the shaved shaft and balls with the patch on top is very porn-star — but objectively smaller."

"Objectively smaller," Babar repeated, and his voice had gone slightly rough.

"Yes. Your balls are nice, though. Full, good shape, smooth. Arish's were bigger, but yours sit nicely. They look tight."

Babar shifted in his chair. His cock was definitely hardening now — the robe had fallen further open, and the head was pushing up against the fabric, a visible ridge.

"And stamina-wise," Uzma went on, clearly enjoying herself, "you actually edge him out. He had more to work with, but you recover faster. Two rounds in under an hour — that's real. He needed at least twenty, twenty-five minutes between, and by the third round he was struggling. You seem like you could keep going."

"I could."

"Could you? Right now?"

She nodded toward his lap, where his cock was now fully hard again — six inches pointing straight up, the shaft smooth and shaved, the head flushed, the patch of hair above it dark and trimmed. It had happened without either of them touching it.

"Look at that," Uzma said, her voice dropping. "I've been talking about how your dick is smaller than my ex's, and you got rock hard from it."

"I know."

"That's filthy, Babar."

"I know."

She reached over and pulled his robe open completely, exposing him fully. His cock stood up from his body, the skin tight, a small bead of precum at the tip. She wrapped her fingers around it — her long, brown fingers barely meeting around the two-inch girth — and gave a slow, experimental stroke.

"Arish's I couldn't get my hand all the way around," she said, stroking him. "Three inches around is a lot. My fingers wouldn't touch. Yours, I can close completely."

Babar let out a breath. "Tell me more."

"When he fucked me, I felt it deep. Like, really deep. Sometimes it was too much — he'd hit my cervix and I'd have to tell him to back off. You don't have that problem. You fit comfortably. You hit the right spots without overwhelming me."

"Is that a compliment or a critique?"

"Both." She smiled and squeezed his shaft, running her thumb over the head, spreading the precum. "It feels good. Different good. You make up for size with effort. And stamina — like I said, that's your edge."

Babar groaned softly as she stroked him, slow and deliberate, her grip firm. She was looking at his cock with the kind of focused attention that made his stomach tighten — like she was studying it, measuring it with her eyes, cataloguing every detail.

"Your head is proportionally bigger than his," she said. "Relative to the shaft, I mean. It's a nice shape — flares out nicely. His was more uniform, same thickness all the way up. Yours has more character."

"Character," Babar laughed, breathless.

"Every cock has character. Yours just has a different kind." She twisted her wrist on the upstroke, and Babar's hips jerked. "His was impressive. Like, stop-and-stare impressive. But yours — yours is fun. I can do more with it. I can take all of it in my mouth without my jaw locking up. I can ride it hard without it hurting. There's something to be said for that."

"But you still miss the size."

Uzma paused her stroking for a moment, thinking. "Miss is a strong word. I appreciate it. I remember it. When I'm being honest — like right now — yes, the size was a thrill. There's something primal about a big dick that just hits different. But I married you, not him. And this —" she squeezed his cock again, "— this is what I want. Plus, you clearly get off on me telling you it's not the biggest I've had, which is honestly the best of both worlds."

Babar exhaled a laugh that turned into a groan as she picked up the pace, her hand moving faster now, slick with precum. His hips were rolling slightly, pushing into her grip.

"Tell me about his balls," he said.

"His balls were big. Heavy. Like two golf balls in a loose sac. Yours are more like — large marbles? Compact. Tighter to your body. His swung a lot when he fucked me. Yours stay up close, which I actually like. They look neat. Well-groomed."

"You've been comparing us this whole time, haven't you?"

"Of course I have. Every woman does. The difference is I'm honest about it, and you're enough of a freak to want to hear it." She grinned. "That's why we work."

Babar was close now — she could feel it in the way his cock had gotten even harder, the way his breathing had gone shallow and fast. She kept stroking, keeping the rhythm steady, her fingers tight around his shaft.

"How many times did you cum with him in one night?" Babar asked through gritted teeth.

"His record was three. One regular, one after twenty minutes, one in the morning. But that last one took forever — he was basically forcing it by the end."

"And me?"

"Two so far. You're about to be three."

"From a handjob."

"From a handjob where I told you your dick is smaller than my ex's. Let's be accurate."

Babar groaned loudly, his head falling back against the chair. His cock was throbbing in her hand, the head swollen and dark, precum running down over her fingers.

"Close," he managed.

"I can tell. Come on — give me a third one. Show me that stamina." She stroked faster, her wrist working, her grip just tight enough. "Come on, Babar. Three loads for your wife on your wedding night. Not bad for a six-inch cock."

That did it. Babar's hips bucked up hard, his thighs tensing, and Uzma quickly aimed his cock toward her chest, pulling her robe open with her free hand. The first stripe of cum hit her left breast, hot and thick. The second landed across her sternum. The third — weaker but still substantial — pooled on her right breast, running down over her nipple.

Babar groaned through the whole thing, his body shaking, his hands gripping the armrests of the chair. When it was over, he slumped back, chest heaving, cock softening in Uzma's cum-slick hand.

She looked down at her chest, at the streaks of white on her brown skin, and laughed.

"Three times," she said. "Arish never managed three in one night."

"Stamina," Babar said, still catching his breath. "My secret weapon."

"Your only weapon, given the size."

He laughed — a real, full laugh that made his belly shake. "You're going to be doing this for the rest of our lives, aren't you?"

"Every single day. Probably multiple times a day. You married a size queen with a big mouth, Babar. That's your problem now."

He looked at her — cum on her tits, coffee getting cold, city lights behind her, that wicked grin on her face — and felt something that had nothing to do with his cock.

"Best problem I've ever had," he said.

Uzma wiped her chest with the robe and picked up her coffee again, taking a long sip. "Your dick might be six inches, but your stamina is a solid nine."

"Did you just rate my stamina higher than his cock?"

"I did. And I'd do it again."

Babar smiled, reached over, and took her hand. She laced her fingers through his, and they sat there on the balcony — naked, spent, coffee in hand — watching the city blink below them.

"So," Uzma said after a comfortable silence. "Round four in the morning?"

"You're going to kill me."

"Small price to pay."

He squeezed her hand and didn't argue.