The Diwali night shimmered like a fever dream: strings of fairy lights dripping gold over every balcony, the air thick with ghee-sweet motichoor laddoo, marigold garlands, and the crackle of anaar crackers.
In the heart of the Indore society, Anjali bhabhi stood on her third-floor terrace, a sheer mustard-yellow chanderi saree clinging to her curves like liquid sunlight. Her husband, Manoj bhai, was downstairs—busy lighting the society’s main rangoli with diyas, phone in one hand, matchbox in the other, completely blind to the spark igniting above.
Anjali’s kohl-lined eyes were locked on Arjun.
Nineteen. Cricket-honed from the local gully team. White kurta unbuttoned to the navel, dhoti slung low on narrow hips, a diya in one hand, a packet of phuljharis in the other. He moved through the crowd like a flame seeking oxygen, every step bringing him closer to the stairwell.
First spark: a shared glance over the railing.
Second: her fingers brushing his as she passed him a sparkler.
Third: a whispered “Rooftop. Abhi.”
The rooftop was a secret world—clotheslines heavy with drying kurtas, water tanks casting long shadows, the muffled dhamaal of “Aayi hai Diwali” seeping up from below. A single string of fairy lights flickered overhead, painting them in gold and shadow.
Anjali pushed Arjun against the cool concrete wall, the rough surface scraping his back.
“Manoj bhai neeche rangoli bana rahe hain,” she breathed, lips grazing his ear. “Aur main… main jal rahi hoon.”
She yanked her saree pallu aside—no blouse, no bra, just the heavy weight of her breasts, nipples dark and tight. Arjun’s dhoti tented instantly.
“Bhabhi…”
“Chup.” She dropped to her knees on the gritty terrace floor, chanderi saree pooling like molten metal. One tug and his dhoti fell. His cock sprang free—thick, flushed, a bead of precum trembling at the slit.
Anjali licked it off, slow, savoring the salt. “Dekh, kitna mota hai tera lund. Manoj bhai ka toh aadha bhi nahi.” She swallowed him to the root, throat working, gagging softly. Saliva poured down her chin, staining the chanderi silk. Arjun’s head thunked against the wall, fingers tangling in her oiled hair.
She pulled off with a wet pop. “Ab meri chut ka number.”
Anjali stood, turned, and bent over the low parapet—ass high, saree bunched at her waist, no petticoat, no panties. The scent of her arousal cut through the agarbatti smoke. Arjun fell to his knees like a worshipper.
He spread her cheeks with trembling hands. Her pussy was swollen, slick, the lips parted and glistening. He dragged his tongue up her slit in one slow, flat lick—ghee, marigold, pure Anjali. She shuddered, pushing back.
“Haan, aise hi. Kha meri chut ko.”
Arjun obeyed. He licked her like a starving man—long, deep strokes from clit to entrance, then short, rapid flicks that made her thighs quake. He sucked her clit into his mouth, humming, the vibration making her sob. When he speared his tongue inside her, fucking her with it, she came—hard, sudden, gushing into his mouth. He drank her down, licking her through the aftershocks until she was limp and trembling.
But Anjali wasn’t done.
She turned, eyes wild. “Ab meri gaand.”
Arjun froze.
She reached back, spreading herself wider. Her tight, pink asshole winked at him, already slick from her juices. “Daal apni ungli. Phir lund.”
He spat on his fingers, working one into her ass—slow, careful. Anjali moaned, pushing back. “Aur. Do.” A second finger joined, scissoring, stretching. When she was ready, she guided his cock to her rear entrance.
“Dheere… phir zor se.”
The head breached her—burning, impossibly tight. Anjali’s breath hitched, then she slammed back, taking him to the hilt. The stretch was exquisite agony. Arjun groaned, hands bruising her hips.
“Chod mujhe,” she hissed. “Meri gaand phaad do.”
He did. Slow at first, savoring the clutch of her ass, then harder, faster, the parapet wall scraping her nipples with every thrust. Anjali reached between her legs, rubbing her clit in frantic circles. The Diwali music below masked her cries—“Haan, Arjun! Zor se!”
She came again, ass clenching around him like a fist, pussy squirting onto the terrace floor. Arjun followed, pulling out at the last second to paint her lower back and ass in thick, hot ropes—white against chanderi, like fresh mithai glaze.
They stayed locked, panting, the scent of sex and phuljharis thick in the air.
Anjali straightened her saree, wiped her mouth, and slipped a cum-slick finger between her lips. “Kal phir. Same rooftop. Same time.”
Arjun nodded, dhoti back in place, heart hammering.
Downstairs, Manoj bhai’s voice boomed over the mic: “Laxmi puja in five minutes!”
Anjali rejoined the crowd, chanderi saree glowing, hips swaying like nothing had happened.
But her thighs were sticky, her ass throbbing, and the taste of Arjun still lingered on her tongue.
The diyas flickered on.
And so would they.