The Scarlet Veil

The night before the wedding, Ranjeet sat alone in his private chambers, the heavy curtains drawn against the silver moonlight that tried to creep through the cracks. The only sound was the soft, rhythmic rustle of his palm sliding up and down his enormous shaft. It rose from his lap like a heated, veined pillar, glistening with the oil he had applied, twelve inches of thick, dusky flesh that pulsed with a heartbeat of its own. He did not hurry. He never hurried. Hurry was for lesser men, men who could not control their own lust. Ranjeet was not those men. He was a man who sculpted reality with the same deliberate patience a master craftsman used to carve a temple goddess from stone. And Priya beautiful, untouched, twenty-two-year-old Priya, who in less than thirty-six hours would be draped in red bridal silk and married to his youngest son Arjun was his masterpiece.