The Holi morning exploded in color and chaos: pichkaris spraying neon pinks and greens, bhang-laced thandai flowing, dholaks pounding like heartbeats.
In the sprawling courtyard of the Surat society, Sneha bhabhi danced barefoot in a soaked white cotton kurti and ghagra, the fabric plastered to every curve, nipples dark and hard beneath. Her husband, Rajesh bhai, was busy on the DJ console—mixing Bollywood remixes, drenched in gulal, utterly blind to the storm brewing in the crowd.
Sneha’s kohl-smudged eyes were locked on Aryan.
Nineteen. Cricket-sculpted. White kurta half-unbuttoned, dhoti riding low on narrow hips, gulal streaking his chest like war paint. He moved through the crowd like liquid fire, pichkari in one hand, a packet of red abeer in the other. Every splash brought him closer to Sneha’s circle.
First splash: a jet of pink water across her breasts.
Second: his fingers smearing green abeer down her neck, lingering at the hollow of her throat.
Third: a whispered “Store-room. Abhi.”
The store-room was a dim, paint-splattered cave behind the stage—buckets of dry colors, spare pichkaris, the muffled roar of Holi seeping through like distant thunder. A single bulb flickered overhead, casting them in shifting rainbows.
Sneha shoved Aryan against a stack of plastic drums, the metal clanging.
“Rajesh bhai DJ pe hain,” she breathed, lips grazing his ear. “Aur main… main bheegi padi hoon.”
She yanked her ghagra up to her waist—no petticoat, no panties, just the slick, swollen heat of her bare pussy glistening with water and want. Aryan’s dhoti tented instantly.
“Bhabhi…”
“Chup.” She dropped to her knees, colors streaking her cheeks. One tug and his dhoti pooled at his ankles. His cock sprang free—thick, flushed, a fat drop of precum trembling at the slit.
Sneha licked it off, slow, savoring the salt. “Dekh, kitna mota hai tera lund. Rajesh bhai ka toh aadha bhi nahi.” She swallowed him to the root, throat working, gagging softly. Saliva poured down her chin, mixing with gulal, staining her soaked kurti. Aryan’s head thunked against the drum, fingers tangling in her wet hair.
She pulled off with a wet pop. “Ab meri chut ka number.”
Sneha stood, turned, and bent over a pile of color buckets—ass high, ghagra bunched at her waist. The scent of her arousal cut through the abeer and bhang. Aryan fell to his knees like a devotee.
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—salt, bhang, pure Sneha. She shuddered, pushing back.
“Haan, aise hi. Kha meri chut ko.”
Aryan 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 Sneha wasn’t done.
She turned, eyes wild. “Ab meri gaand.”
Aryan 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. Sneha 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. Sneha’s breath hitched, then she slammed back, taking him to the hilt. The stretch was exquisite agony. Aryan 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 buckets rattling beneath them. Sneha reached between her legs, rubbing her clit in frantic circles. The Holi music outside masked her cries—“Haan, Aryan! Zor se!”
She came again, ass clenching around him like a fist, pussy squirting onto the concrete. Aryan followed, pulling out at the last second to paint her lower back and ass in thick, hot ropes.
They stayed locked, panting, the scent of sex and marigold thick in the air.
Sneha straightened her ghagra, wiped her mouth, and slipped a cum-slick finger between her lips. “Kal phir. Same store-room. Same time.”
Aryan nodded, dhoti back in place, heart hammering.
Outside, Rajesh bhai’s voice boomed over the speakers: “Next round, everyone!”
Sneha rejoined the circle, colors flashing, hips swaying like nothing had happened.
But her thighs were sticky, her ass throbbing, and the taste of Aryan still lingered on her tongue.
The Holi colors flew on.
And so would they.