Navratri Awakening

Night three arrived with the white outfit.
Daddy had laid it out on his bed before I even reached his flat: a pure white chaniya choli embroidered with silver thread, the blouse so tight the silicone breasts strained against the fabric, the lehenga barely covering the upper curve of my ass. A fresh white gajra, silver bangles, and the same heavy gold nath that never left my nose.
After the aarti he didn’t waste time. The moment we were inside he pushed me to my knees on the living-room carpet.
“White for purity,” he said, already stroking his thick cock. “Tonight you will drink every drop like a good, pure daughter.”
I opened wide. He fed himself into my mouth slowly at first, then harder, the silver embroidery of the choli glittering under the lights as my head bobbed. Spit ran down my chin and soaked the front of the blouse. The nose-ring chain clicked softly against my teeth every time he thrust deep. When he came he held my head still and flooded my throat, forcing me to swallow while the distant dhol still echoed from the street below.
He didn’t let me rest. He pulled me up, bent me over the dining table, flipped the short white lehenga onto my back and pushed straight into my already-used hole. The lube from the previous nights still made the entry easy, but the stretch burned in the best way. He fucked me hard and deep, one hand gripping my hip, the other reaching around to pinch the silicone nipples through the thin white fabric.
“Tell Daddy whose ass this is.”
“Daddy’s… only Daddy’s… ah—fuck—”
He came inside me again, grinding deep, filling me until I felt the warm leak start to drip down my inner thighs even before he pulled out.
Night four was black and silver.
The choli was almost sheer, the lehenga a tiny flare of black silk with silver gota. Daddy made me keep the G-string on while he fucked my throat on the balcony, the city lights of Mumbai glittering behind us, the sea breeze cooling the spit that ran down my chest. Then he bent me over the railing, the short lehenga flipped up, and took my ass under the open sky while the last rounds of garba still played far below. My moans mixed with the distant music. When he finished he made me stand there, cum slowly leaking out, while he photographed me with the phone — nose ring gleaming, black kajal ruined, white streaks on the dark fabric of the lehenga.
Night five, six and seven blurred together in a haze of colour and cock.
One night he made me wear a bright yellow chaniya and ride him on the sofa, my hands on his chest, the nose-ring chain swinging as I bounced on his thick length. Another night he kept me on all fours on the bed for almost an hour, alternating between fucking my throat and my ass until both were sore and overflowing. He started leaving small marks — love bites on the soft skin of my inner thighs, finger-shaped bruises on my hips — hidden under the lehenga but still there for him to see when he undressed me.
By the eighth night the pink outfit was so short that every step made the G-string visible. Daddy didn’t even let me finish the last garba. He pulled me away early, almost dragged me into the lift, and the moment the doors closed he pushed me to my knees between the mirrored walls. I sucked him with the emergency light glowing red above us, the nose ring tapping against his shaft, until the lift reached the 14th floor. Inside the flat he bent me over the kitchen counter and fucked my ass while the leftover prasad from the pandal still sat in a steel plate nearby. He came so deep I felt it in my stomach.
On the final night — the ninth — he chose deep maroon and gold, the colour of the last day of Navratri.
After the final aarti he brought me home, lit a single diya, and made me kneel in front of it while still fully dressed.
“Tonight you thank Mataji for giving you to Daddy,” he said softly.
I opened my mouth. He fed me his cock slowly, almost reverently at first, then harder, using my throat until tears ran and the kajal streaked down my cheeks. When he pulled out he lifted me onto the bed, spread my legs wide, and pushed into my well-used hole in one smooth thrust. He fucked me face-to-face this time, watching every expression, the heavy nath bouncing with each deep stroke.
“Nine nights,” he growled. “Nine outfits. Nine loads in this greedy little sissy ass. And this is only the beginning, Priya.”
I came first, cockette untouched, body shaking, the maroon lehenga bunched around my waist. Daddy followed with a long, low groan, flooding me one last time, holding himself deep until every pulse finished.
He stayed inside me, forehead against mine, breathing hard.
“Navratri is over,” he whispered. “But you are still my daughter. Tomorrow you will come back in normal clothes… and we will start choosing the outfits for Diwali.”
I smiled through the haze, lips swollen, nose ring still perfectly in place, cum already beginning to leak out of me onto the sheets.
“Yes, Daddy,” I whispered. “I’m yours.”
Outside, the final fireworks of Navratri lit up the Mumbai sky. Inside, the diya flickered, and Daddy’s heavy hand rested possessively on my soft, thoroughly claimed ass.