My Cousin’s Bachelorette Dare

It was supposed to be just another summer wedding, noisy and crowded, filled with relatives and cousins I hadn’t seen in years. But things turned unexpectedly strange—yet strangely exciting—when my cousin Ritu grabbed my arm and pulled me into a room packed with giggling girls.

I had barely stepped into the family home when she said with a wicked grin, “You’re not escaping this. We’re down one bridesmaid—and you, my dear cousin, are going to be her.”

Before I could say anything, Nikita and Swati closed the door behind me. The room was filled with lehengas, bindis, jewellery, and laughter. “Come on, it'll be fun!” Ritu winked, her eyes sparkling. “Just for a few hours. You’re the perfect size. You’ll look adorable.”

I protested weakly, but Ritu already had a dupatta in hand, draping it playfully over my head. The girls clapped, teased, and pulled me toward the mirror. It was meant to be a joke—but they didn’t stop.

“We’re serious,” Nikita grinned. “We’re transforming you into Riya, our fourth bridesmaid. It’s our bachelorette pact.”

“But... I’m a guy—”

Swati cut in with a giggle, “Not for the next seven days you’re not.” Her eyes sparkled with mischief. “Don’t worry. We’ll take care of everything. You’ll be one of us.”

The next morning, the real transformation began.

Ritu handed me a soft pink nightgown and said, “First, we need to make you smooth. Everywhere.” I hesitated, and she gave a gentle but firm look. “It’s okay. Just trust us.” They used warm wax on my arms, legs, and chest, all while giggling and teasing me affectionately. The sting made me squirm, but they cooed and distracted me with stories about their college days and ex-boyfriends.

When I looked in the mirror after the waxing, my skin gleamed—softer and more feminine than I had ever seen. The girls rubbed sweet-smelling moisturiser into it while humming to romantic music. It wasn’t humiliating—it was strangely... comforting.

Then came the padded bra.

“This is your bustier,” Nikita announced dramatically, holding a lacy, deep maroon bra stuffed with soft silicone forms. “You’ll wear these under your sarees. Feel them. Realistic, right?”

When she helped clasp the bra on my newly hairless chest, the cool silicone settled heavily against my skin. The weight pulled on my shoulders, the underband hugging snugly under my ribs. My breath hitched.

“It’ll feel natural soon,” Swati said, adjusting the straps and lightly patting the forms. “Just wait until you walk around with these bouncing a little. Very ladylike.”

The girls helped me into a blouse and petticoat, then wrapped me in a peach silk saree with a subtle gold border. Their fingers were quick, precise. Ritu’s voice was gentle as she showed me how to stand while pleats were adjusted, how to hold the pallu delicately over my bust. “Back straight. Chin up. Like a graceful girl, Riya.”

Walking felt odd at first. The swish of the saree, the tug of the blouse across my chest, and the slight bounce of my fake breasts made every movement unfamiliar.

“You’re learning so fast,” Nikita cooed. “Tomorrow, we fix your hair.”

The next morning, I sat nervously while Swati opened a black box. Inside was a luscious, jet-black wig—long, thick, and slightly wavy. “This will be your hair for the next seven days,” she declared. “No taking off. We’re gluing it down with lace adhesive. You’ll wake up and sleep as Riya.”

As the cool glue touched my scalp and the wig cap was fitted, I shivered. They pressed the hairline down carefully, brushing the baby hairs gently. When I looked in the mirror, I gasped. Long strands framed my face, cascading past my shoulders. Swati gathered it back and tied it into a loose bun, leaving a few tendrils loose.

“I look... like a girl,” I whispered.

“You look beautiful,” Ritu corrected, hugging me from behind.

The training wasn’t just physical—it was behavioral. Over the next few days, the girls trained me in their bedroom like I was their younger sister. They giggled and gossiped late into the night. Ritu taught me how to walk with slight sways, how to flip my hair over my shoulder with a smile. Swati worked on my voice, encouraging me to speak softly, add a slight lilt. Nikita helped with my gestures, how to hold my chin while laughing, how to sit modestly with the pallu covering my chest.

Each outing was another challenge.

They took me shopping, letting me choose sarees and salwars. I tried them in the ladies’ trial room, my bangles clinking, breasts lightly swaying. When I stepped out, aunties smiled at me without suspicion. The girls whispered, “You’re blending in so well.”

We even went to a mehendi parlor. While their palms were decorated, Ritu asked the artist to do my feet. I hesitated, but Swati insisted. The cool mehendi on my ankles and toes, the anklets jingling softly as I walked back home, made me feel fragile and feminine.

One evening, Ritu called me to the terrace. She gently unpinned my bun and let my wig fall open, brushing it slowly with her fingers.

“Your hair... it suits you. You’ve become Riya so naturally. It’s like you were meant to be her.”

Her voice was soft. I didn’t know what to say. The cool breeze moved my hair around my face. I felt the gentle sway of my saree and the soft tug of my blouse.

I whispered, “I... like being her.”

Ritu smiled. “Then be her. For this wedding, and maybe more.”

That night, they planned my final look for the sangeet. Heavy silk saree. Long braid with flowers. Kamarbandh. Bangles all the way up my arms. “We’ll make you the prettiest bridesmaid. Even the groomsmen will blush.”

The days leading to the wedding were surreal. Every giggle, every braid, every bindi applied with care made me feel more like one of them. More like Riya.

And I was beginning to believe I really was.

The morning of the big transformation arrived earlier than I expected. Ritu knocked on my door just after sunrise, already dressed in a simple cotton kurti and leggings, her face glowing with excitement.

“Come on, Riya. Today’s the day you become fully, officially, one of us. We’ve booked the best parlor in town. You’re getting the works—face, body, hair, nails. Everything.”

I stood up nervously from the bed, my petticoat and blouse already laid out beside me. As I stepped into them, Ritu helped tuck my padded bra in place, adjusting the soft silicone to give the illusion of a perfect, natural curve. The fake bust bounced slightly with my movements, and I had to constantly adjust my posture to accommodate the unfamiliar weight. My saree for the parlor visit was a light lemon yellow chiffon with silver threadwork, breezy enough for the summer heat and elegant enough to turn heads.

Ritu tied my long wig into a loose side braid and gently applied a small bindi to my forehead.

“You don’t need to try to be Riya today,” she whispered. “You already are.”

The car ride to the parlor was oddly quiet, the girls occasionally bursting into giggles while I tried to calm my nerves. When we walked in, the staff greeted us warmly. No one raised an eyebrow at me—at Riya. I was just another girl preparing for a wedding.

The transformation began with a full-body massage, coconut-scented oils rubbed into my arms, legs, and back by expert hands. I had never experienced that kind of pampering before—my skin soaked it up, leaving me feeling light and fragrant.

Then came the threading and facial.

The beautician gently shaped my eyebrows, giving them a subtle arch that immediately feminized my face. She applied a fruit facial that left my skin glowing. Afterward, they waxed the fine hair on my face and arms again just to ensure no shadow or roughness remained.

“You have lovely skin,” the woman said, patting my cheek. “We just needed to bring it out.”

Next, a makeup artist with dramatic eyeliner and a confident smile took over. She applied a flawless base, contoured my face, blushed my cheeks, and painted my lips with a soft coral shade. As I looked in the mirror, I gasped.

I didn’t see a boy pretending to be a girl.

I saw Riya—radiant, graceful, and unmistakably feminine.

But the most dramatic moment came when they removed my wig and brought out something new—a professionally styled, full-lace, human-hair wig, darker and thicker than before. This one wasn’t going to be taken off each night. It was glued carefully to my scalp, the edges blended perfectly into my skin. The stylist spent an hour curling it into soft waves and then gently pinned half of it up, letting the rest cascade over my shoulders.

When they turned the chair and I saw the final look—perfect brows, glassy lips, long curly hair brushing my back, and glowing skin—I couldn’t speak.

I had never felt so beautiful. So seen.

Ritu came up behind me, hugging me tightly.

“I told you,” she whispered. “You’re one of us now.”

—

By the time we got home, it was already late afternoon. The mehendi function was being held that evening in the backyard under a bright pink shamiana. Strings of marigolds hung across the courtyard, and loud dhol music played as cousins and aunties swayed in bright lehengas.

I wore a light green lehenga with silver embroidery and a sleeveless blouse that showed off my waxed arms and fake bust. Ritu had selected matching green bangles and a delicate silver waist chain. My long curls were left loose, with jasmine strands pinned on one side.

As I stepped into the courtyard, all eyes turned.

There was a pause—just a heartbeat of silence—and then the compliments began.

“Riya, you look stunning!”

“Where did you get this lehenga?”

“I didn’t even recognize you!”

Uncles nodded politely, aunties gave approving smiles, and the younger boys stole glances when they thought I wasn’t looking. The girls surrounded me, pulling me toward the mehendi artist, who smiled and took my hands as though I were just another bride’s friend.

She started with delicate paisley patterns on my palms, slowly moving up to my wrists. I sat cross-legged on a cushion, the scent of henna thick in the air, as laughter and teasing echoed around me. Nikita and Swati chatted about lipsticks, heels, and boy trouble while we sipped on rose sherbet.

“Riya,” Swati whispered, “don’t move. We’re going to do your feet too.”

Before I could protest, two of the girls gently lifted the hem of my lehenga. The artist knelt at my feet, drawing intricate designs along my toes and ankles. The cool touch of the paste and the soft touch of their hands made me feel delicate, precious, like I was being celebrated.

Later that night, I sat with my hands and feet stretched out to dry. My long curls kept falling across my face, and Ritu came behind me to gently braid them into a soft fishtail.

“You know,” she said softly, “no one here doubts who you are. Not anymore.”

That night, as I lay in bed in a soft pink nightgown, my hands still stained with henna, hair loose on the pillow, I stared at the ceiling and felt a deep peace.

I was no longer playing a role.

I was Riya.

The morning of the sangeet was filled with a strange excitement. I woke up to the gentle weight of my hair on my shoulder, the scent of jasmine from the leftover braid still faint in the air. When I stretched and walked to the mirror, my long curled locks flowed softly over my nightgown, brushing my back like silk.

“Time to glam up again, madam,” Ritu teased as she entered the room, tossing a sparkling golden blouse and a deep wine-colored lehenga onto the bed. “Today you’re not just Riya, you’re the showstopper.”

The blouse was sleeveless, with deep-cut sides and a mirror-work front that shimmered with every turn. The lehenga swirled richly, embroidered with golden paisley motifs. As I slipped the heavy outfit on, I felt the cool silk hug my waist. The padded bra underneath pushed my bust upward, giving a shapely curve that looked entirely natural in the mirror.

Ritu pulled me in front of the dressing table again. Today’s makeup was bold—smoky eyes, winged liner, glossy deep-rose lipstick, and gold highlighter on the cheekbones. Then came the jewelry: a broad choker with rubies and pearls, jhumkas that brushed my neck, and a large nath clipped carefully to my nose with a chain looping into my earring.

For the hairstyle, she parted my long glued-on hair in the middle, straightened it fully, and then wrapped it into a sleek, high bun decorated with a fan of gajra. As she fixed the last pin, I turned slightly and caught my own reflection.

I looked like a bride already.

By late evening, the sangeet began under a canopy of lights. The garden was decorated like a movie set, with hanging lanterns, fairy lights draped on trees, and colorful cushions for guests. Everyone was dressed in their best. As we walked in, arms linked, a few women even gasped.

“Who is she?” whispered an aunty nearby. “Such poise! Like a movie heroine.”

The girls dragged me onto the dance floor, where Bollywood music blared. We danced in a circle, spinning and swaying, my long skirt twirling around my legs, earrings jingling, the bun on my head bouncing slightly with each turn. My shoulders sparkled under the lights, and I was acutely aware of how every step made me feel more alive.

Later, I sat with the other girls as we watched the bride’s cousins perform. One of them winked at me, clearly thinking I was a guest from the bride’s side.

“You stole the show, Riya,” Swati whispered. “Half the boys are asking about you.”

I blushed and laughed, tucking a loose strand of hair behind my ear, pretending not to notice how naturally feminine the gesture had become.

That night, as Ritu and I removed my jewelry, she touched my shoulder gently.

“You realize,” she said softly, “this isn’t pretending anymore. You’ve become her.”

“I know,” I whispered. “And I don’t want to stop.”

—

The wedding day dawned early, and the house buzzed with energy. Drums, priests chanting, cousins running around with flower baskets—it was a full Indian shaadi.

Today, my outfit was the most elaborate yet: a deep red silk saree with heavy gold zari work, paired with a three-quarter sleeve blouse. The petticoat hugged my hips, and the saree was pleated tightly to give me a defined waistline. I wore an extra pair of foam hip pads under it, just to give a fuller look under the rich drape.

Ritu and Nikita took turns doing my bridal-style makeup—flawless skin, deep red lipstick, and long lashes. The jewelry today was regal: a maang tikka across my forehead, a long haar down to my chest, anklets that chimed as I walked, and bangles covering both arms.

My hairstyle took almost an hour. They straightened the glued wig again and began braiding it from high up, adding real jasmine strands and golden beads through the length. By the end, the braid reached past my lower back. It was thick, heavy, and full of scent. When I walked, I could feel it swaying gently behind me.

“You look like you’ve been a woman forever,” one of the cousins murmured in admiration. “That braid alone could break a few hearts.”

As I stepped into the wedding hall, the whispers began.

“She’s so graceful…”

“Is she related to the bride?”

“She walks like a real dulhan.”

I held a silver thali and walked behind the bride, smiling gently, taking part in the rituals. No one doubted me. Not one soul questioned if I was Riya or someone else.

During the dinner, I was seated with the bride’s family. One older woman, a distant aunt, patted my hand.

“May your day come soon too,” she said warmly. “You’ll make a stunning bride.”

My cheeks burned with pride.

Later that night, after all the rituals were over and the crowd thinned, I finally changed into a softer saree—a baby pink one with a simple zari border—and let my hair down. The braid undone, my long, straight hair fell like a black waterfall down my back. I stood on the terrace for a while, the breeze gently lifting the ends, playing with my earrings.

Ritu joined me, slipping her arm through mine.

“So, Riya,” she said softly, “what now?”

I smiled at her, feeling the night air on my skin, the saree’s border brushing my feet, the scent of jasmine still in my hair.

“I don’t think I want to go back.”

She turned and saw Aman walking toward her. He wasn’t overdressed—just a simple kurta and a quiet confidence. His eyes were clearly on her, and for a moment she felt her cheeks warm. She wasn’t used to being looked at like that. Not before all this. But now, standing in a saree that hugged her gently, with her long hair open and falling past her waist, bangles sliding up and down her wrists with every little movement—she felt the difference. She felt like a woman.

“I’ve been looking for you since dinner,” Aman said, stopping beside her, not too close but closer than just polite.

Riya gave a small smile, not sure what to say. Her fingers played with the edge of her pallu without thinking. “I just needed a break. It's been a long day.”

“You looked… incredible today,” he said, eyes still on her face. “Not just today, actually. Every time I saw you during the wedding. You stood out.”

She looked away for a second, a little flustered. “Thanks,” she said softly, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.

A gust of wind moved through just then, and her loose hair blew slightly, brushing against her face and his arm. She tried to fix it, but a few strands stuck to her lip gloss. He instinctively reached out, brushing them aside gently with his fingers. The touch was light, but it made her heart skip a beat.

“Sorry,” he said, letting his hand fall back. “It just… felt like the right moment.”

She didn’t move back. Something about his presence didn’t feel threatening. If anything, it felt grounding. Like someone was truly seeing her.

“Your hair’s beautiful like this,” he said. “Long, open… it suits you. I saw it braided the other day too, but this—” He paused, as if choosing his words. “This feels like you.”

Her fingers instinctively ran through the back of her hair, feeling the weight of it, the way it brushed against her back, the softness against her arms. “Thanks,” she said, this time with more confidence.

Aman stepped a bit closer. “Can I ask you something strange?”

She gave a small shrug, her bangles clinking. “Sure.”

“Have you always been this graceful? Like… you move differently. You sit, talk, smile like…” He stopped. “Sorry, that sounded weird.”

Riya laughed, just a little. “No, I get it. I wasn’t always like this. But I guess… somewhere in this whole journey, it became real.”

He looked at her for a long moment, then said quietly, “It’s real to me too.”

Their eyes met. Something hung in the air—something that neither of them tried to explain. He stepped in and gently held her hand. She let him. The glass bangles pressed between their fingers. She could feel his thumb softly tracing her knuckles. Her heart was racing, but she didn’t pull away.

He looked down at her lips, then back up into her eyes. “Tell me to stop, if this isn’t okay.”

She didn’t say anything.

He leaned in slowly and kissed her.

It was soft at first—just the warmth of lips. But then it deepened. She felt his hand gently hold the side of her head, fingers lightly tangled in her hair. Her own hands slowly found his shoulders. The kiss wasn’t rushed—it was curious, long, and… overwhelming.

She could feel her body melt a little. Like she didn’t have to do or be anything else in that moment.

When they finally pulled back, she stayed close, resting her forehead on his chest. Her heart was pounding.

He didn’t say anything. He just wrapped his arms around her, holding her close as her long hair wrapped around them both like a soft curtain.

After a while, he whispered, “I’ve wanted to do that since the mehendi night.”

She smiled against his chest. “Then why did you wait so long?”

He chuckled softly. “Because you looked too perfect to touch.”

She looked up and rolled her eyes at him, but her smile didn’t fade. For the first time, she wasn’t thinking about what she used to be. Just who she was now.

And with the moonlight catching in her hair and his arms still holding her, she felt truly seen. Truly desired. Truly… herself.

Aman slowly stood up from the lounge, and without a word, offered his hand to Riya. She looked up at him, her bangles jingling softly as she placed her hand in his. He pulled her up gently, and they walked into the dimly lit guest room of the wedding house. It was quiet there—soft yellow lights, scattered rose petals on the bed from the morning’s rituals, and her pink saree trailing behind her as she walked in.

She stood awkwardly at the edge of the bed, her back still tingling where his palm had rested. Her long open hair brushed against her bare back, tickling her as she turned slightly. Aman walked over slowly and stood behind her. With gentle fingers, he swept her hair to one side, letting it fall over her chest like a soft veil. His touch was slow and respectful, but she still felt a rush as his fingers accidentally grazed her shoulder.

“May I?” he whispered, motioning toward the blouse’s tie at the back, thinking she might want to relax.

She gave a small nod, heart beating faster. His fingers moved carefully, untangling the threads. The blouse loosened slightly, and she let out a slow breath. Aman placed his hands softly on her arms, then wrapped them around her from behind, hugging her against his chest. She could feel the rise and fall of his breath, steady and comforting, as he rested his chin gently on her shoulder.

They stood like that for a while—just holding each other. No rush, no urgency. Only warmth.

“I can hear your heart,” she said softly, her voice barely above a whisper.

“It’s talking to yours,” he murmured back.

She turned around slowly in his arms. He looked at her, tucking a few strands of hair behind her ear. His hand then caressed her cheek gently, his thumb tracing the edge of her lower lip. She leaned into his touch instinctively. His other hand came to rest on her waist, pulling her just a little closer.

Their lips met again—this time slower, more lingering. Her arms circled around his neck, pulling him close, her body pressing softly against his. Their kiss deepened gradually, full of tenderness and trust. She could feel the strength in his arms, the safety in his touch. His fingers slid along her back slowly, his hands now resting at the small of her back as he lifted her slightly, making her giggle as she clung to him tighter.

They collapsed gently onto the bed together, side by side. She lay in his arms, curled up like a cat. One of her legs tangled over his, her saree spread around them like a soft cocoon. His hand rested on her hip, moving slowly in comforting circles. She ran her fingers over his chest, feeling the steady rise and fall, the softness of his breath against her forehead.

Their bodies fit together naturally—like pieces of a puzzle that had waited too long to connect. He stroked her back through the soft pallu, and she shivered slightly at the sensation, but didn’t move away. She felt precious, cherished. Not just for how she looked—but for how she made him feel.

He kissed her forehead once, then her cheek, then the tip of her nose. She laughed softly again, her fingers playing with his shirt buttons now. Their faces were so close—eyes looking into each other, reading more than words ever could.

That night, they didn’t sleep much. We ended up having most wonerful sexusl experience i would ver had. We couldn’t stop touching, holding, exploring each other's body. His hand in her hair, squeezing breasts and my body. hers curled around his wrist. kisses all over body and sweet pain that will last.

She had never imagined that someone could make her feel women in her skin. As Riya. As herself.

And in his arms, she didn’t just feel like a bride. She felt loved being women