The Navratri night throbbed like a living heartbeat: dandiya sticks cracking, garba circles swirling under marigold-lit canopies, the air heavy with rose attar, sweat, and the relentless dhak-dhak of dhol.
In the heart of the Ahmedabad society ground, Priya bhabhi danced in a blood-red bandhani chaniya choli, mirror-work flashing like fire with every spin. Her husband, Amit bhai, was busy on the stage—organizing prizes, microphone in hand, completely blind to the storm brewing in the crowd.
Priya’s kohl-lined eyes, however, were locked on Karan.
Nineteen. Cricket-toned. White kurta unbuttoned to the sternum, dhoti slung low on narrow hips. He moved like liquid sin in 6/8 time, dandiya sticks flicking in perfect rhythm, but every twirl brought him closer to Priya’s circle.
First graze: her hip brushing his.
Second: her fingers grazing the inside of his wrist.
Third: a whispered “Storage tent. Abhi.”
The tent was a dark, canvas cave behind the stage—stacked chairs, spare speakers, the muffled roar of garba seeping through like distant thunder. A single LED bulb swung overhead, painting them in gold and shadow.
Priya shoved Karan against a stack of plastic chairs, legs scraping concrete.
“Amit bhai stage pe hain,” she breathed, lips grazing his ear. “Aur main… main bheegi padi hoon.”
She yanked her chaniya up to her waist—no petticoat, no panties, just the slick, swollen heat of her bare pussy glistening in the dim light. Karan’s dhoti tented instantly.
“Bhabhi…”
“Chup.” She dropped to her knees, mirrors on her blouse clinking softly. One tug and his dhoti pooled at his ankles. His cock sprang free—thick, flushed, a fat drop of precum trembling at the slit.
Priya licked it off, slow, savoring the salt. “Dekh, kitna mota hai tera lund. Amit bhai ka toh aadha bhi nahi.” She swallowed him to the root, throat working, gagging softly. Saliva poured down her chin, soaking the embroidered neckline of her choli. Karan’s head thunked against the speaker, fingers tangling in her oiled hair.
She pulled off with a wet pop. “Ab meri chut ka number.”
Priya stood, turned, and bent over a folded table—ass high, chaniya bunched at her waist. The scent of her arousal was sharp, intoxicating. Karan 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, rosewater, pure Priya. She shuddered, pushing back.
“Haan, aise hi. Kha meri chut ko.”
Karan 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 Priya wasn’t done.
She turned, eyes wild. “Ab meri gaand.”
Karan 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. Priya 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. Priya’s breath hitched, then she slammed back, taking him to the hilt. The stretch was exquisite agony. Karan 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 table creaking beneath them. Priya reached between her legs, rubbing her clit in frantic circles. The garba music outside masked her cries—“Haan, Karan! Zor se!”
She came again, ass clenching around him like a fist, pussy squirting onto the concrete. Karan 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.
Priya straightened her chaniya, wiped her mouth, and slipped a cum-slick finger between her lips. “Kal phir. Same tent. Same time.”
Karan nodded, dhoti back in place, heart hammering.
Outside, Amit bhai’s voice boomed over the mic: “Next round, everyone!”
Priya rejoined the circle, mirrors flashing, hips swaying like nothing had happened.
But her thighs were sticky, her ass throbbing, and the taste of Karan still lingered on her tongue.
The garba spun on.
And so would they.