My entry for the Literotica 750 Word Project 2021.
When my parents told me the name of the man I was to marry, I felt some trepidation. My older sister had some years earlier left the country to avoid an arranged marriage and I did not want to be paired off with someone I was unable to get on with. That I might actually be able to love them would be such a bonus it really wasn't worth thinking about. So, I looked up his name and city on the internet and started after a week or two of research contacting him using social media.
It turned out he was a painter and I really liked some of his work and after a while we clicked. Needless to say, I didn't inform my parents of our contact. That would have been against all the protocols and traditions and potentially could ruin dowry negotiations.
I even sent him pictures of me wearing nothing but my underwear. Nothing too revealing by Western standards but in our society, scandalous. His appreciation of my body made me all tingly inside as I thought of being with him dressed like that.
It was two years later, not long after my twenty-first birthday that I finally got on a plane to meet him, escorted by my parents. A man in a chauffeur's uniform approached me once we reached the outside and I was surprised to see my sister come up and talk to my parents as I was whisked away. I noticed that my parents looked decidedly upset if not downright angry but didn't have time to stop and find out why.
My sister, Fatima (her middle name as full details of our identities would bring great shame on my family) who had been my one confidante throughout my clandestine contact with my fiancée. We had a meal together where he was every bit as witty and charming as he had been on line. Following this he had a meeting with his agent which gave me a chance to call my sister who demanded to know how things were going. I asked after my parents but she was vague and told me they were old enough to look after themselves and would be fine, eventually.
It was not till the following evening that I spoke to my sister again and I told her all about our adventures.
"I initially felt hurt when he said he was wrong about my beauty when he commented on the pictures I sent him on Whatsapp. But he went on to say that the words he used didn't do me justice now he could see me in real life. I danced for him. (North African dancing is normally done by women on their own. It is a cousin too the Egyptian belly dancing which is done for men's entertainment and is much more sexualised.) Naked! I think he gave me more orgasms than I have had in my life before I met him. Even counting the ones I had when you showed me what to do after dance class that time." My sister giggled. I hadn't known before that how good my body could feel but there was something more in her laughter than memories of teaching me to masturbate.
"What is it my sister?"
"You still don't know do you?"
"He isn't the man our parents want you to marry."
"What do you mean?" I found my sister's statement unbelievable.
"Did you really think our parents would want you to marry an artist, albeit a rich one worth over twenty million dollars. They wanted you to marry a man who owns lots of oil wells with the same name. As an art dealer, I have even arranged for him to buy one of your man's paintings. The man our parents wanted you to wed is worth billions rather than millions." My silence must have been deafening. "They will come round. Millions will be good enough for their daughter."
Two years down the line, eighteen months after we married that after midnight in a private session I was walking around a Paris art Gallery and we stopped in front of a canvas four foot by nine.
"I don't think we should tell our parents about this picture." My sister giggled. It was a vulva, glistening with desire, the lips and clitoris engorged with blood. Every fold with its individual shade of pink and each black pubic hair clearly painted with photographic clarity.
"I do look good, Don't I."