My name is Rajveer Singh. I’m a proud Punjabi from Bathinda, and at 30 years old, I’ve got that classic Sardar look—tall, broad-shouldered, with a well-groomed beard and a turban that turns heads. Standing at 6 feet, I keep my body in top shape with daily gym sessions and Punjabi wrestling drills. I run a successful logistics business, handling imports and exports across North India, which keeps my bank account healthy and my life exciting. And yeah, let’s just say I’m well-endowed—about 8 inches when it counts. This story is about how I turned a boring family wedding into the hottest night of my life, hooking up with a stunning divorced aunty who knew exactly what she wanted.
It all started in late November last year. The winters in Punjab were just kicking in, with that crisp chill in the air that makes everything feel alive. My cousin, Harman, called me up out of the blue. “Veere, you have to come to my sister’s wedding in Chandigarh. It’s going to be massive—full Punjabi style, with dhol, bhangra, and all the aunties gossiping.” I laughed it off at first. Bathinda to Chandigarh isn’t a short drive, about 3-4 hours on the highway, but Harman insisted. “Arre, high-class crowd aaunga, and who knows, you might find someone to spice up your single life.” He knew I was single after a messy breakup a few months back, and honestly, the idea of a break from work sounded good. So, I agreed.
I dressed to impress—a sharp black sherwani with golden embroidery, matching turban, and polished juttis. My SUV was loaded with gifts for the bride, and I hit the road early afternoon. The drive was smooth, blasting some old-school Punjabi tracks like “Mundian To Bach Ke” to keep the vibe high. As I crossed into Chandigarh, the city lights started twinkling, and I could feel the excitement building. Punjab weddings are legendary—food, music, and endless mingling. But little did I know, this one would be unforgettable for reasons beyond the baraat.
I arrived at the venue around evening—a grand banquet hall on the outskirts, decked out with fairy lights, massive tents, and a stage for the ceremonies. The place was buzzing with guests: uncles in suits sipping whiskey, aunties in glittering salwar kameez showing off their jewelry, and young folks dancing to the DJ’s beats. The air smelled of fresh jalebis, paneer tikka, and that unmistakable wedding perfume mix. I parked and called Harman. “Oye, I’m here. Where are you?”
He showed up in minutes, grinning ear to ear in his embroidered kurta. We hugged like brothers—Punjabi style, with back slaps and laughs. “Veere, welcome! Come, meet the family.” He dragged me inside, introducing me to his parents first. Uncle Ji was a retired army man, tall and stern, but he smiled warmly and blessed me. Aunty Ji hugged me like her own son, saying, “Beta, you’re looking so handsome. When are you getting married?” I chuckled and dodged the question, as usual.
Then Harman took me to meet the bride, his sister Simran. She was in a separate room, getting ready with her makeup artists and bridesmaids. Simran looked radiant in her red lehenga, heavy with gold work and diamonds. “Bhabhi, all the best! You’re glowing,” I said, handing her a gift envelope. She thanked me shyly. But as I was chatting, my eyes wandered across the room and locked onto her—a woman who stood out like a diamond in a coal mine.
She was in her early 40s, I guessed, but damn, she carried herself like a queen. Dressed in a sleek navy blue saree that hugged her curves perfectly, with a low-cut blouse showing just enough cleavage to tease. Her skin was fair and smooth, probably from all that Canadian skincare routine, and her long hair was tied in a elegant bun with a few strands framing her face. She had those piercing eyes, full lips painted red, and a figure that screamed “hourglass”—big boobs, slim waist, and hips that swayed when she moved. I couldn’t stop staring, scanning her from head to toe like she was the only person in the room.
She noticed. Our eyes met for a split second, and she gave a sly smile before looking away. My heart raced. Harman nudged me. “Oye, earth to Rajveer. What’s got your attention?” I snapped out of it. “Nothing, veere. Just admiring the decorations.” We left the room, but my mind was stuck on her.
Outside, the party was in full swing. People were on the dance floor, doing bhangra to “Dil Luteya.” I grabbed a drink—scotch on the rocks—and positioned myself near the bride’s room entrance, hoping she’d come out. Harman found me again. “Kidhar gum ho gaya? And why are you staring at that door like a hawk?”
I played it cool. “Just people-watching.” But he smirked. “That aunty, right? The one in blue? She’s my masi’s friend from Canada. Divorced, lives alone there. Super flirty, veere. I’ve seen her charm the pants off uncles at family gatherings. But she’s our relative’s guest, so I never tried. You should go for it—looks like she’s checking you out too.”
His words lit a fire in me. Divorced? Flirty? From Canada? Jackpot. I felt my confidence surge. Minutes later, she emerged from the room, chatting with another lady. She glanced my way, and I smiled. She headed to the food stalls, so I followed casually.
The stalls were loaded—chaat, golgappe, kebabs. She stopped at the coffee counter, ordering a cappuccino. I sidled up. “Sat Sri Akal, Aunty Ji.”
She turned, her eyes twinkling. “Sat Sri Akal. And you are?”
“Rajveer Singh, from Bathinda. Harman’s cousin.” I extended my hand, but she just nodded politely.
“Ah, nice to meet you. I’m Kavita Kaur. From Toronto.” Her voice was smooth, with a slight Canadian accent that made her sound exotic.
“You’re looking stunning tonight, Aunty Ji. That saree is fire.”
She blushed a little but played along. “Flattery already? You Punjabis are quick.”
“Only when it’s true,” I shot back. “So, what brings you from Canada to this wedding?”
“Family ties. Simran’s my niece’s friend. Plus, I miss Punjabi weddings—the food, the chaos.” She sipped her coffee, eyeing me up and down. “And you? Single, I assume?”
I laughed. “How’d you guess? No ring, no drama.”
We chatted easily. I learned she was 42, divorced for five years after her husband cheated. She had a daughter in her 20s, married and living in the US. Kavita worked in real estate back in Toronto, which explained her polished vibe. No boyfriend, she said, but her wink suggested otherwise. “Life’s too short for boring men,” she added.
I teased her. “So, no one here caught your eye yet?”
She leaned in closer, her perfume intoxicating. “Maybe one Sardar has.” My pulse quickened. The flirtation was electric.
As the night progressed, the wedding rituals started—the ring ceremony, speeches. But I couldn’t focus. Kavita and I kept stealing glances. During the dinner buffet, I found her again. “Aunty Ji, care to join me for some butter chicken?”
She smiled. “Only if you promise to stop calling me Aunty. Makes me feel old. Call me Kavita.”
“Deal, Kavita.” We sat at a table, plates piled high. Conversation flowed—about Canada winters vs. Punjab summers, her travels, my business. She laughed at my jokes, touching my arm occasionally. The chemistry was undeniable.
Around midnight, as the party wound down, Harman whispered, “Go for it, veere. She’s staying at the hotel next door.” I nodded. Approaching her as she said goodbyes, I said, “Kavita, fancy a nightcap? My treat.”
She raised an eyebrow. “Bold, aren’t you? But sure. My room’s at the Taj. Follow me.”
My heart pounded as we drove separately to the hotel. In the elevator, the tension was thick. As soon as her room door clicked shut, we were on each other. I pulled her close, our lips crashing in a hungry kiss. Her mouth was soft, tasting of coffee and desire. My hands roamed her back, unhooking her saree pallu.
She moaned softly, pressing against me. “Rajveer, you’re trouble.” I kissed her neck, trailing down to her cleavage. Her skin was warm, silky. I unbuttoned her blouse, revealing lacy black bra cupping her full, 36D breasts. They were perfect—firm yet soft, nipples hardening under my touch.
I lifted her onto the bed, saree pooling around her. She tugged at my sherwani, stripping me down. “God, you’re built,” she whispered, running hands over my chest. Her fingers found my belt, unzipping me. My cock sprang free, hard and throbbing. She gasped. “Impressive.”
She took me in her mouth, swirling her tongue expertly. The sensation was mind-blowing—wet, warm, with just the right suction. I groaned, fingers in her hair. After a few minutes, I flipped her over, pulling off her petticoat and panties. Her pussy was shaved, glistening with arousal. I dove in, licking her clit, tasting her sweetness. She bucked against my face, moaning loudly. “Yes, right there!”
We shifted to 69, her sucking me while I ate her out. Her juices flowed, coating my chin. She came first, shuddering with a cry. “Oh fuck, Rajveer!”
I couldn’t wait. Rolling on a condom from my wallet, I entered her in missionary. She was tight, wrapping legs around me. “Harder,” she demanded. I thrust deep, our bodies slapping together. Her pussy clenched, wet sounds filling the room. She scratched my back, urging me on. “Chod mujhe, Sardar Ji! Fad de meri choot!”
After 15 minutes, she orgasmed again, her walls pulsing. I pulled out, flipping her to doggy. Gripping her hips, I pounded relentlessly. Her ass jiggled with each thrust. “Your cock feels so good,” she panted.
I lasted another 10 minutes before pulling out, cumming on her back in hot spurts. We collapsed, sweaty and satisfied.
But that was just round one. The night was young. We showered together, soaping each other up, leading to more foreplay. Round two: She rode me cowgirl style, bouncing on my dick, boobs jiggling. I sucked her nipples, pinching them till she screamed in pleasure.
Next morning, after breakfast in bed, we went at it again. Standing against the wall, then bent over the desk. She was insatiable, dirty-talking in Punjabi and English. “Tera lund itna mota hai, baby. Aur zor se!”
By afternoon, we’d done it four times. Exhausted but grinning, we parted ways. “Come visit Toronto,” she said with a kiss.
That wedding changed everything. Kavita and I still chat, planning a reunion. Punjab to Canada—distance means nothing when the connection’s this hot.
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