The flickering lamps cast golden shadows across the worshipping room as I, a 20-year-old with full breasts heavy with milk, performed the Aarti, my voice steady in prayer. My Thakurda, the 80-year-old patriarch, watched from the corner, his eyes sharp. "You sway like the flames themselves, child," he said with a wry grin. "But that milk of yours is no offering to the gods—it's tempting an old man like me."
I turned, arching a brow, refusing to shrink. "Thakurda, at your age, you should be chanting, not staring. Or are you just horny from the incense?" My pussy grew wet under my sari, dripping with unexpected heat as tension crackled between us.
He stepped closer, voice low and witty. "Witty as ever. But I see you panting already—your ass sways for more than the bells." I laughed, strong and unyielding, pressing my big breasts against him. "Then prove it, old man. Show me that cock before I change my mind."
His hands found my curves, and I took control, dropping to give him a teasing blowjob, my tongue swirling as his cock grew hard in my mouth. Sweat beaded on our skin; I was horny, my pussy dripping as I stood and straddled him on the prayer mat.
"Ride me like the goddess you are," he groaned. I lowered onto his hard cock, my wet pussy clenching tight, milk leaking from my breasts as I moved with power. We panted, bodies slapping, until he came deep inside me, cum mixing with my own release while I milked every drop.
Gasping, sweating, I dismounted with a satisfied smirk, the Aarti lamp still burning. "This temple just got a new ritual, Thakurda—but next time, bring more than prayers."
Little did I know, our sacred nights had only just begun.
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