English · Festival
today
The humid Mumbai evening air carried the distant beats of dhol and the joyful shouts of “Jai Mata Di” from the nearby pandal. Navratri had painted the city in colours of devotion and desire. I, Rohan, a quiet 22-year-old from a conservative middle-class building in Andheri, had always felt something missing until my neighbour, the broad-shouldered, silver-haired Rajesh Uncle, became something far more intimate.
He insisted I call him Daddy.
That night, after the first garba of the season, Daddy had taken me by the wrist the moment we stepped into his spacious 14th-floor flat overlooking the glittering Arabian Sea. The living room still smelled of agarbatti and the faint metallic tang of the brass dandiya sticks he had left on the table.
“Sit, Priya,” he said, using the name he had given me the first time he dressed me. “Daddy wants his Navratri daughter to look perfect.”
He placed an open laptop in front of me showing a YouTube tutorial on “Bridal Navratri Makeup – Heavy Kajal & Nose Ring Tutorial.” Beside it sat a large red velvet case. When he unzipped it, the gold handles of the drawers glittered under the soft yellow lights.
“Your own makeup kit, baby. Everything a good Gujarati girl needs for garba night.”
Inside were dozens of brushes, pots of liquid foundation in warm brown tones, kohl pencils, bright red and maroon lipsticks, and a whole drawer of shimmering eyeshadows in deep reds, golds and greens. Another drawer held blushes and three traditional metal hair curlers.
I giggled nervously. “Daddy, these look like the ones my dadi used…”
His voice turned firm. “You will use them, Priya. They will keep those soft strands away from your pretty face while you dance for me. Say it.”
“Yes, Daddy.”
He left me alone with the mirror and the tutorial. For forty-five minutes I practised. First a soft traditional look, then something darker, slutty. Heavy black kajal winged out dramatically, deep maroon lips, a shimmering gold bindi, and finally the most important piece: a heavy gold nath — a large nose ring with a delicate chain that hooked to my left ear. When I clipped it in place, the cool metal against my nostril made my cockette twitch inside the panties he had already made me wear.
I took photo after photo, each one more shameless than the last. By the final attempt I was whispering to myself like a lovesick girl:
“Look at you, Priya… dressed for Mataji and for Daddy’s cock at the same time. Trashy Navratri slut.”
I found him on the balcony, still in his white kurta, sipping whiskey. The moment my heels clicked on the marble he turned. His eyes widened.
I flung my arms out. “Ta-da, Daddy!”
The red and gold chaniya choli he had bought was deliberately too short. The choli was a low-cut blouse that barely contained the silicone breast forms he had slipped into my bra earlier; the lehenga was a micro-flare that ended high on my thighs, the embroidered border brushing the lower curve of my bubble butt. A thin gold kamarbandh sat low on my hips. The G-string underneath left almost nothing to the imagination. My nose ring glittered every time I breathed.
Daddy’s mouth curved into a filthy smile. “Fuck… my Priya looks like a temple dancer who opened her legs for every devotee. Come here.”
He pulled me inside, closed the sliding door, and the city noise faded. Only the soft loop of a recorded garba track played from his Bluetooth speaker — the same dhol rhythm that had pulsed through the pandal earlier.
“On your knees, Navratri slut.”
I dropped instantly. The lehenga rode up further. He opened his kurta pyjama and his thick, dark cock sprang free, already half-hard and smelling of musk and the faint scent of the sandalwood oil he used after showering.
“Open.”
I parted my glossy lips and took him in. The taste of him mixed with the metallic tang of the nose-ring chain that brushed against my cheek every time I bobbed. He held my hair, careful not to disturb the flowers and the gajra, and fucked my throat in slow, deep strokes while the garba music continued in the background.
“Good girl… take Daddy’s prasad properly. Deeper. Yes… choke on it for Mataji.”
Spit ran down my chin and onto the gold embroidery of the choli. Tears from the gagging made my kajal smear just enough to look even more ruined. When he pulled out, a thick string of saliva connected my lips to his cockhead.
He lifted me like I weighed nothing and bent me over the arm of the sofa. The short lehenga was flipped up completely. Cool air kissed my exposed cheeks. He pulled the G-string aside, spat on my hole, and pressed two thick fingers inside without warning.
“So tight for a girl who dances all night… but Daddy will open you properly.”
I moaned loud enough that the neighbours might have heard if the music hadn’t been playing. He worked me open with fingers and spit until I was dripping, then replaced them with the blunt head of his cock.
The first thrust made me cry out. He sank in slowly, inch by thick inch, until his hips were flush against my soft ass. The gold waist chain jingled with every movement. He started fucking me in the same rhythm as the dhol — deep, steady, then faster as the song crescendoed.
“Tell Daddy what you are.”
“I’m… ah… Priya… Daddy’s Navratri slut… his crossdressing daughter… please fuck my ass harder—”
He did. The sound of skin slapping skin mixed with the bells of my anklets and the distant fireworks outside. He reached around, pinched the silicone nipples through the thin choli, and growled into my ear.
“Tonight after the last aarti you will come back here still in this outfit. Nose ring stays on. Makeup stays ruined. And I will use both holes until you can’t walk to the next garba.”
He pulled out, flipped me onto my back on the sofa, and pushed back into my ass while I held my own legs open. The nose-ring chain bounced against my cheek with every thrust. I came first, untouched, cockette leaking into the G-string, body shaking. Daddy followed moments later, burying himself to the root and flooding my guts with thick, hot cum while the final notes of the garba track faded.
He stayed inside me, stroking my hair, kissing the sweat from my forehead.
“Happy Navratri, Priya,” he whispered. “Nine nights. Nine different outfits. And every single night you will end up like this — full of Daddy’s cum and still wearing Mataji’s colours.”
I could only smile through the haze, nose ring glinting, lipstick smeared, and whisper back:
“Yes, Daddy… Jai Mata Di.”
