In the bustling heart of Mumbai, where the humid air carried the scent of street food vendors frying pakoras and the distant honks of auto-rickshaws blended with the festive chants from nearby temples, Raj and Priya's apartment on the 15th floor of a high-rise in Andheri overlooked the glittering skyline. It was Diwali eve, 2025, and the city was alive with the crackle of firecrackers, strings of fairy lights draping every balcony like golden vines, and the sweet aroma of mithai being prepared in kitchens below. Raj, a 30-year-old software engineer with a lean build, sharp jawline, and eyes that often hid his deepest insecurities behind thick-rimmed glasses, had been married to Priya for five years. Priya, his 28-year-old wife, was a vision of desi allure—voluptuous with full, heavy breasts that strained against her blouses, curvy hips that swayed hypnotically in her sarees, and long, black hair scented with jasmine flowers she pinned in during festivals. Her skin was a warm caramel tone, always glowing from the coconut oil she massaged in after baths, and her lips, painted a deep red, tasted like the rose-flavored paan she loved.
Their marriage had started as an arranged one, rooted in cultural Indian traditions where families matched horoscopes over chai and samosas. But over time, it had blossomed into a deep emotional couple romance, though lately, the spark had dimmed under the weight of Raj's long work hours and Priya's unspoken frustrations. Raj had always sensed Priya's hidden fire, the way her eyes lingered on muscular men in Bollywood films or how she blushed at whispers of taboo couple love kahani shared among her friends during kitty parties. He himself harbored secret fantasies, ones he buried deep—desires of watching her, his hot bhabhi (as he affectionately called her in private, evoking that intimate desi term for a seductive wife), explored by another, stirring a mix of jealousy and arousal he couldn't explain.
The festival atmosphere amplified everything. Their apartment was decorated with rangoli patterns at the door, made from vibrant powders that smelled earthy and fresh, and diyas flickered on the windowsills, casting dancing shadows across the walls. The air was thick with the incense of agarbatti, a sandalwood scent that mingled with the gunpowder tang from fireworks exploding outside. That evening, they had invited their neighbor, Vikram, a 32-year-old gym trainer with a chiseled body, tattooed arms, and a confident smirk that made women in the building whisper. Vikram had moved in six months ago, and innocent interactions had begun—Priya borrowing sugar from him, accidental touches when handing over Diwali sweets, shared glances across the elevator that lasted a second too long. Raj noticed it all, his heart racing not with anger, but with a curious thrill. Was this the cuckold dynamic he'd read about in hidden online forums, the power dynamics in relationship that turned taboo into ecstasy?
As the evening unfolded, the three sat on the living room floor cushions, surrounded by plates of gulab jamun dripping in syrup and chakli crunching under their fingers. The sounds of laughter echoed, punctuated by the boom of anar crackers from the street below. Priya wore a red silk saree that hugged her curves, the blouse low-cut enough to reveal the swell of her big breasts, adorned with a gold mangalsutra that dangled teasingly. Her hair, loose now, carried the floral perfume that made Raj's senses reel every time she leaned close. Vikram, in a casual kurta, complimented her openly, "Bhabhi ji, aap toh Diwali ki roshni se bhi zyada chamak rahi ho," his voice deep and resonant, sending a shiver through Priya that Raj caught from the corner of his eye.
The flirting escalated subtly. Priya's hand brushed Vikram's as she passed him a sweet, her fingers lingering, soft and warm. Raj felt a stir in his pants, a mix of guilt over societal norms that frowned on such desi couple chudai outside marriage, but overwhelming arousal. He excused himself to the kitchen, pretending to fetch more drinks, but instead hid behind the half-open door, his breath shallow as he watched. The voyeurism in affair began there, in the dim light of the diyas. Priya laughed at Vikram's joke, her head tilting back, exposing the curve of her neck where a bead of sweat glistened like a pearl. Vikram leaned in, his hand grazing her thigh under the pretense of adjusting a cushion. "Tumhari smile kitni killer hai, Priya," he murmured, dropping the formal 'bhabhi' for intimacy.
Raj's heart pounded like the thunderous fireworks outside, masking any soft sounds. He should stop it, but his feet stayed rooted, his cock hardening at the sight. Priya's eyes met Vikram's, a shared glance heavy with unspoken desire. Then, the first kiss—Vikram cupped her face, his thumb tracing her red lips that tasted of sugar and spice, pulling her in. Their mouths met, soft at first, then hungry, tongues dancing in a wet, exploratory tangle. Priya moaned softly, a sound like silk tearing, her hands clutching his shoulders. The smell of her jasmine hair mixed with his musky cologne filled the room, intoxicating. Raj watched, his hand unconsciously palming himself through his pants, the emotional depth hitting him: this was his long-held fantasy, confessing itself in real time.
They broke apart when they heard Raj stirring, but the tension hung thick. Later, as the night deepened and fireworks lit the sky in bursts of red and gold, glittering festival lights reflecting off the glass balcony doors, Raj feigned a headache and retired to the bedroom, leaving the door ajar. He knew what might happen, and the guilt gnawed at him—Indian society with its emphasis on pativrata wives and dutiful husbands—but the love for Priya, the desire to see her unleashed, won. From the shadows, he peered into the living room, the sounds of moans beginning as Vikram pulled Priya onto his lap on the couch.
"Chodo mujhe, Vikram," Priya whispered in Hindi dirty talk, her voice husky, "Main tumhari hoon aaj raat." Vikram's hands roamed, undoing the pallu of her saree, revealing her lacy black bra that barely contained her voluptuous breasts. He squeezed them roughly, thumbs circling her hardening nipples through the fabric, eliciting gasps that echoed with the crackle of sparklers outside. The sensory rich desi sex unfolded: the touch of his calloused hands on her soft skin, leaving red marks; the smell of her arousal mixing with sweat and incense; the taste of her neck as he bit lightly, drawing a yelp.
Priya's saree pooled at her feet, her petticoat hiked up as Vikram's fingers slipped between her thighs, finding her wet pussy through her panties. "Kitni geeli ho tum, bhabhi," he growled, "Yeh choot mere liye hai." She arched, her curvy hips grinding against his hand, the sounds of her slickness audible over the festival chudai thrills of distant music. Raj, hidden, stroked himself slowly, the voyeurism fueling his erection. Vikram pushed her back onto the cushions, spreading her legs in missionary position first, his mouth diving to eat her pussy. His tongue lapped at her folds, tasting her salty sweetness, circling her clit until she squirted in her first orgasm, a gush that soaked the fabric, her moans masked by a loud burst of fireworks.
"Fuck me now," she begged in English mixed with Hindi, "Zor se chodo, faad de meri choot." Vikram obliged, his thick cock—larger than Raj's, Raj noted with a pang—thrusting into her in rough couple fucking. The slaps of skin on skin, her breasts bouncing with each pound, the domination play as he pulled her hair, tilting her head back. Priya's anklets tinkled rhythmically with the thrusts, a cultural detail that added to the taboo. They switched to doggy style, her ass high, Vikram slapping it red, the sting turning to pleasure as he rammed deeper. "Gand maro apni biwi ki," she cried, introducing anal, though Vikram hesitated at first.
He grabbed coconut oil from the kitchen counter—a staple in Indian homes for massages—and slicked his fingers, probing her tight ass. The pain to pleasure transition was vivid: Priya winced at the initial stretch, her fingers clutching the cushion, but soon moaned, "Haan, andar daalo, pati ji would love this." Raj's breath hitched; did she know he was watching? The emotional confession bubbled up in his mind—his fantasy of seeing her like this, defying cultural taboos. Vikram entered her ass slowly, the oil easing the way, building to faster thrusts in anal chudai story mode. Priya came again, squirting onto the floor, her body trembling.
They moved to cowgirl, Priya riding him reverse, her scented hair whipping as she bounced, breasts heaving. Vikram's hands gripped her hips, guiding the rhythm. Then spooning on the side, intimate and deep, his arm around her, pinching her nipples. Multiple chudai rounds ensued, each with creampie finishes—Vikram pulling out for oral first, Priya deepthroating him, gagging on his length, tasting his pre-cum salty and thick, before he flooded her mouth. But the finale: back in missionary, he pumped into her pussy, no condom, the pregnancy risk in sex heightening the thrill. "Bhar do mujhe, cum inside," she urged, and he did, hot spurts filling her, dripping out as she clenched in her third orgasm.
Raj couldn't hold back; he emerged, his cock out, confessing, "I watched it all, Priya. It turned me on." The shock turned to acceptance, a light BDSM couple element as Priya dominated him verbally, "Ab tum chodo mujhe, cuckold pati." Raj joined, fucking her cum-filled pussy, the sloppy seconds arousing him further. Vikram watched now, the roles reversing slightly. Raj slapped her ass lightly, pulled her hair, whispering Hindi dirty talk, "Teri choot ab meri hai phir se." He creampied her too, the mix of semen a symbol of their new dynamic.
As the night waned, fireworks fading to smoke, they lay entangled on the couch, bodies slick with sweat, smells of sex and festival lingering. Emotional depth surfaced: Priya confessed her long-term couple affair fantasies, sparked by boredom; Raj admitted his cuckold desires, guilt over societal norms melting away in overwhelming love. Vikram became a regular, but it was consensual, adults only, strengthening their bond.
Months later, in the same apartment, Priya revealed her pregnancy—whose? It didn't matter; they embraced an open marriage, defying cultural taboos. Their passion endured, with weekend threesomes, urban apartment setting risks like balcony voyeurism where neighbors might glimpse through curtains. Raj reflected on how Diwali had ignited their taboo couple love kahani, turning innocent festival lights into shadows of ecstasy.
But their story didn't end there. Over the next year, as Priya's belly swelled, carrying the child that could be Raj's or Vikram's, they wove more intricate threads into their desi couple chudai life. During Holi, they experimented with color play, smearing vibrant gulal powders on each other's naked bodies, the reds and pinks staining skin as they fucked in the bathroom, water mixing with colors to create a sensory explosion. The taste of the sweet powders on her nipples, the feel of slippery hues under fingertips, added layers to their intimacy. Raj watched Vikram take her against the tiled wall, her moans echoing with the festival drums outside, guilt long gone, replaced by joy in shared pleasure.
In quieter moments, they explored light BDSM couple play more deeply. Priya tied Raj with her dupatta, the silk soft yet binding, teasing his cock with feathers from her festival decorations, edging him until he begged. "Ruko mat, bhabhi, mujhe release karo," he'd plead, but she'd dominate, riding him only when ready, her curvy hips controlling the pace. Vikram introduced toys—vibrators bought discreetly online—buzzing against her clit during oral sex couple sessions, making her squirt in arcs that soaked the bedsheets, scented with lavender oil they used for massages.
Cultural Indian traditions intertwined seamlessly. During Karva Chauth, Priya fasted for Raj's longevity, but broke it with a twist: after sighting the moon through the sieve, she knelt for deepthroat, swallowing his cum as her first 'meal,' the taste mingling with the sweetness of karva she ate afterward. The emotional couple romance deepened; confessions flowed over candlelit dinners, Raj admitting how watching her with Vikram made him feel alive, Priya sharing how it fulfilled her need for variety without diminishing her love for him.
Apartment gossip risks added thrill—whispers in the elevator about "that hot bhabhi with two men," but they laughed it off, turning potential scandal into fuel for more sessions. One night, during a power outage from monsoon rains, thunder rumbling like distant fireworks, they lit candles, the flickering light casting erotic shadows. Vikram oiled Priya's body, his hands gliding over her pregnant swell, the scent of almond oil heavy. Raj ate her pussy from behind as she bent over, tasting the mix of her juices and oil, while Vikram fucked her mouth. The storm masked her screams of multiple orgasms, squirting onto Raj's face, warm and musky.
Post-birth, their daughter brought a legacy, a symbol of their enduring passion. They named her Diya, after the festival lights that started it all. Vikram became 'uncle,' part of the family in secret ways. Their long-term couple affair evolved, with trips to Goa beaches where public risks like discreet handjobs under towels excited them. Raj's career flourished, the confidence from their dynamic spilling over. Priya, ever the voluptuous goddess, embraced her post-pregnancy body, her breasts fuller, milk leaking during sex, which they incorporated into play—Raj suckling gently, tasting the sweet cream.
Reflecting years later, as Diya grew, playing with rangoli during Diwali, Raj and Priya sat on the balcony, watching fireworks. "Hamari desi couple sex story kitni wild hai," Priya whispered, her hand in his. "Taboo fucking kahani, but it's ours." Their love defied norms, a testament to how sensory rich desi sex, from the touch of skin to the boom of crackers, could forge unbreakable bonds. They planned more—perhaps inviting another for group elements—but always consensual, always deepening their connection.
Yet, even in routine days, passion simmered. Mornings began with spooning chudai, Raj entering her from behind, slow and deep, her moans soft against the pillow. Evenings, after work, Vikram joined for domination play, blindfolding Priya with her saree, heightening senses: the whisper of fabric, the sting of slaps on her ass, the taste of cum from dual creampies. The urban setting amplified it—balcony sex during festivals, bodies pressed against railings, city lights below like stars.
Their marriage had started as an arranged one, rooted in cultural Indian traditions where families matched horoscopes over chai and samosas. But over time, it had blossomed into a deep emotional couple romance, though lately, the spark had dimmed under the weight of Raj's long work hours and Priya's unspoken frustrations. Raj had always sensed Priya's hidden fire, the way her eyes lingered on muscular men in Bollywood films or how she blushed at whispers of taboo couple love kahani shared among her friends during kitty parties. He himself harbored secret fantasies, ones he buried deep—desires of watching her, his hot bhabhi (as he affectionately called her in private, evoking that intimate desi term for a seductive wife), explored by another, stirring a mix of jealousy and arousal he couldn't explain.
The festival atmosphere amplified everything. Their apartment was decorated with rangoli patterns at the door, made from vibrant powders that smelled earthy and fresh, and diyas flickered on the windowsills, casting dancing shadows across the walls. The air was thick with the incense of agarbatti, a sandalwood scent that mingled with the gunpowder tang from fireworks exploding outside. That evening, they had invited their neighbor, Vikram, a 32-year-old gym trainer with a chiseled body, tattooed arms, and a confident smirk that made women in the building whisper. Vikram had moved in six months ago, and innocent interactions had begun—Priya borrowing sugar from him, accidental touches when handing over Diwali sweets, shared glances across the elevator that lasted a second too long. Raj noticed it all, his heart racing not with anger, but with a curious thrill. Was this the cuckold dynamic he'd read about in hidden online forums, the power dynamics in relationship that turned taboo into ecstasy?
As the evening unfolded, the three sat on the living room floor cushions, surrounded by plates of gulab jamun dripping in syrup and chakli crunching under their fingers. The sounds of laughter echoed, punctuated by the boom of anar crackers from the street below. Priya wore a red silk saree that hugged her curves, the blouse low-cut enough to reveal the swell of her big breasts, adorned with a gold mangalsutra that dangled teasingly. Her hair, loose now, carried the floral perfume that made Raj's senses reel every time she leaned close. Vikram, in a casual kurta, complimented her openly, "Bhabhi ji, aap toh Diwali ki roshni se bhi zyada chamak rahi ho," his voice deep and resonant, sending a shiver through Priya that Raj caught from the corner of his eye.
The flirting escalated subtly. Priya's hand brushed Vikram's as she passed him a sweet, her fingers lingering, soft and warm. Raj felt a stir in his pants, a mix of guilt over societal norms that frowned on such desi couple chudai outside marriage, but overwhelming arousal. He excused himself to the kitchen, pretending to fetch more drinks, but instead hid behind the half-open door, his breath shallow as he watched. The voyeurism in affair began there, in the dim light of the diyas. Priya laughed at Vikram's joke, her head tilting back, exposing the curve of her neck where a bead of sweat glistened like a pearl. Vikram leaned in, his hand grazing her thigh under the pretense of adjusting a cushion. "Tumhari smile kitni killer hai, Priya," he murmured, dropping the formal 'bhabhi' for intimacy.
Raj's heart pounded like the thunderous fireworks outside, masking any soft sounds. He should stop it, but his feet stayed rooted, his cock hardening at the sight. Priya's eyes met Vikram's, a shared glance heavy with unspoken desire. Then, the first kiss—Vikram cupped her face, his thumb tracing her red lips that tasted of sugar and spice, pulling her in. Their mouths met, soft at first, then hungry, tongues dancing in a wet, exploratory tangle. Priya moaned softly, a sound like silk tearing, her hands clutching his shoulders. The smell of her jasmine hair mixed with his musky cologne filled the room, intoxicating. Raj watched, his hand unconsciously palming himself through his pants, the emotional depth hitting him: this was his long-held fantasy, confessing itself in real time.
They broke apart when they heard Raj stirring, but the tension hung thick. Later, as the night deepened and fireworks lit the sky in bursts of red and gold, glittering festival lights reflecting off the glass balcony doors, Raj feigned a headache and retired to the bedroom, leaving the door ajar. He knew what might happen, and the guilt gnawed at him—Indian society with its emphasis on pativrata wives and dutiful husbands—but the love for Priya, the desire to see her unleashed, won. From the shadows, he peered into the living room, the sounds of moans beginning as Vikram pulled Priya onto his lap on the couch.
"Chodo mujhe, Vikram," Priya whispered in Hindi dirty talk, her voice husky, "Main tumhari hoon aaj raat." Vikram's hands roamed, undoing the pallu of her saree, revealing her lacy black bra that barely contained her voluptuous breasts. He squeezed them roughly, thumbs circling her hardening nipples through the fabric, eliciting gasps that echoed with the crackle of sparklers outside. The sensory rich desi sex unfolded: the touch of his calloused hands on her soft skin, leaving red marks; the smell of her arousal mixing with sweat and incense; the taste of her neck as he bit lightly, drawing a yelp.
Priya's saree pooled at her feet, her petticoat hiked up as Vikram's fingers slipped between her thighs, finding her wet pussy through her panties. "Kitni geeli ho tum, bhabhi," he growled, "Yeh choot mere liye hai." She arched, her curvy hips grinding against his hand, the sounds of her slickness audible over the festival chudai thrills of distant music. Raj, hidden, stroked himself slowly, the voyeurism fueling his erection. Vikram pushed her back onto the cushions, spreading her legs in missionary position first, his mouth diving to eat her pussy. His tongue lapped at her folds, tasting her salty sweetness, circling her clit until she squirted in her first orgasm, a gush that soaked the fabric, her moans masked by a loud burst of fireworks.
"Fuck me now," she begged in English mixed with Hindi, "Zor se chodo, faad de meri choot." Vikram obliged, his thick cock—larger than Raj's, Raj noted with a pang—thrusting into her in rough couple fucking. The slaps of skin on skin, her breasts bouncing with each pound, the domination play as he pulled her hair, tilting her head back. Priya's anklets tinkled rhythmically with the thrusts, a cultural detail that added to the taboo. They switched to doggy style, her ass high, Vikram slapping it red, the sting turning to pleasure as he rammed deeper. "Gand maro apni biwi ki," she cried, introducing anal, though Vikram hesitated at first.
He grabbed coconut oil from the kitchen counter—a staple in Indian homes for massages—and slicked his fingers, probing her tight ass. The pain to pleasure transition was vivid: Priya winced at the initial stretch, her fingers clutching the cushion, but soon moaned, "Haan, andar daalo, pati ji would love this." Raj's breath hitched; did she know he was watching? The emotional confession bubbled up in his mind—his fantasy of seeing her like this, defying cultural taboos. Vikram entered her ass slowly, the oil easing the way, building to faster thrusts in anal chudai story mode. Priya came again, squirting onto the floor, her body trembling.
They moved to cowgirl, Priya riding him reverse, her scented hair whipping as she bounced, breasts heaving. Vikram's hands gripped her hips, guiding the rhythm. Then spooning on the side, intimate and deep, his arm around her, pinching her nipples. Multiple chudai rounds ensued, each with creampie finishes—Vikram pulling out for oral first, Priya deepthroating him, gagging on his length, tasting his pre-cum salty and thick, before he flooded her mouth. But the finale: back in missionary, he pumped into her pussy, no condom, the pregnancy risk in sex heightening the thrill. "Bhar do mujhe, cum inside," she urged, and he did, hot spurts filling her, dripping out as she clenched in her third orgasm.
Raj couldn't hold back; he emerged, his cock out, confessing, "I watched it all, Priya. It turned me on." The shock turned to acceptance, a light BDSM couple element as Priya dominated him verbally, "Ab tum chodo mujhe, cuckold pati." Raj joined, fucking her cum-filled pussy, the sloppy seconds arousing him further. Vikram watched now, the roles reversing slightly. Raj slapped her ass lightly, pulled her hair, whispering Hindi dirty talk, "Teri choot ab meri hai phir se." He creampied her too, the mix of semen a symbol of their new dynamic.
As the night waned, fireworks fading to smoke, they lay entangled on the couch, bodies slick with sweat, smells of sex and festival lingering. Emotional depth surfaced: Priya confessed her long-term couple affair fantasies, sparked by boredom; Raj admitted his cuckold desires, guilt over societal norms melting away in overwhelming love. Vikram became a regular, but it was consensual, adults only, strengthening their bond.
Months later, in the same apartment, Priya revealed her pregnancy—whose? It didn't matter; they embraced an open marriage, defying cultural taboos. Their passion endured, with weekend threesomes, urban apartment setting risks like balcony voyeurism where neighbors might glimpse through curtains. Raj reflected on how Diwali had ignited their taboo couple love kahani, turning innocent festival lights into shadows of ecstasy.
But their story didn't end there. Over the next year, as Priya's belly swelled, carrying the child that could be Raj's or Vikram's, they wove more intricate threads into their desi couple chudai life. During Holi, they experimented with color play, smearing vibrant gulal powders on each other's naked bodies, the reds and pinks staining skin as they fucked in the bathroom, water mixing with colors to create a sensory explosion. The taste of the sweet powders on her nipples, the feel of slippery hues under fingertips, added layers to their intimacy. Raj watched Vikram take her against the tiled wall, her moans echoing with the festival drums outside, guilt long gone, replaced by joy in shared pleasure.
In quieter moments, they explored light BDSM couple play more deeply. Priya tied Raj with her dupatta, the silk soft yet binding, teasing his cock with feathers from her festival decorations, edging him until he begged. "Ruko mat, bhabhi, mujhe release karo," he'd plead, but she'd dominate, riding him only when ready, her curvy hips controlling the pace. Vikram introduced toys—vibrators bought discreetly online—buzzing against her clit during oral sex couple sessions, making her squirt in arcs that soaked the bedsheets, scented with lavender oil they used for massages.
Cultural Indian traditions intertwined seamlessly. During Karva Chauth, Priya fasted for Raj's longevity, but broke it with a twist: after sighting the moon through the sieve, she knelt for deepthroat, swallowing his cum as her first 'meal,' the taste mingling with the sweetness of karva she ate afterward. The emotional couple romance deepened; confessions flowed over candlelit dinners, Raj admitting how watching her with Vikram made him feel alive, Priya sharing how it fulfilled her need for variety without diminishing her love for him.
Apartment gossip risks added thrill—whispers in the elevator about "that hot bhabhi with two men," but they laughed it off, turning potential scandal into fuel for more sessions. One night, during a power outage from monsoon rains, thunder rumbling like distant fireworks, they lit candles, the flickering light casting erotic shadows. Vikram oiled Priya's body, his hands gliding over her pregnant swell, the scent of almond oil heavy. Raj ate her pussy from behind as she bent over, tasting the mix of her juices and oil, while Vikram fucked her mouth. The storm masked her screams of multiple orgasms, squirting onto Raj's face, warm and musky.
Post-birth, their daughter brought a legacy, a symbol of their enduring passion. They named her Diya, after the festival lights that started it all. Vikram became 'uncle,' part of the family in secret ways. Their long-term couple affair evolved, with trips to Goa beaches where public risks like discreet handjobs under towels excited them. Raj's career flourished, the confidence from their dynamic spilling over. Priya, ever the voluptuous goddess, embraced her post-pregnancy body, her breasts fuller, milk leaking during sex, which they incorporated into play—Raj suckling gently, tasting the sweet cream.
Reflecting years later, as Diya grew, playing with rangoli during Diwali, Raj and Priya sat on the balcony, watching fireworks. "Hamari desi couple sex story kitni wild hai," Priya whispered, her hand in his. "Taboo fucking kahani, but it's ours." Their love defied norms, a testament to how sensory rich desi sex, from the touch of skin to the boom of crackers, could forge unbreakable bonds. They planned more—perhaps inviting another for group elements—but always consensual, always deepening their connection.
Yet, even in routine days, passion simmered. Mornings began with spooning chudai, Raj entering her from behind, slow and deep, her moans soft against the pillow. Evenings, after work, Vikram joined for domination play, blindfolding Priya with her saree, heightening senses: the whisper of fabric, the sting of slaps on her ass, the taste of cum from dual creampies. The urban setting amplified it—balcony sex during festivals, bodies pressed against railings, city lights below like stars.