It all started in the dusty lanes of our small town neighborhood, where the summer sun baked the concrete and friendships formed like unbreakable pacts sealed in sweat and scraped knees. I was Ankit, the quiet kid with a quick laugh, always the one organizing cricket matches in the empty lot behind the market. Ajay moved in next door when we were eight—lanky, with a mop of unruly black hair and a grin that screamed mischief. He was the storyteller, spinning wild tales of ghosts and adventures that kept us up past bedtime. Sanjay joined our trio a year later, the shortest but toughest, with parents who ran a corner shop; he was the one who taught us how to sneak candy bars without getting caught. We were inseparable from the start—three boys against the world, sharing lunches, secrets, and the kind of loyalty that only childhood forges.
School days blurred into a haze of uniforms, chalk dust, and stolen glances in class. By middle school, we were the trio everyone knew: Ankit the thinker, Ajay the charmer, Sanjay the daredevil. We’d huddle under the banyan tree during recess, trading comic books and whispering about the girls in our class—the way Priya’s skirt rode up when she ran, or how Neha’s bra strap peeked out during PT. Teenage years hit us like a storm; hormones raged as we navigated pimples, voice cracks, and the first awkward crushes. Ajay got his first kiss behind the school gym at fourteen, bragging about it for weeks, while Sanjay and I listened wide-eyed, our imaginations running wild. We’d bike home together, racing down the streets, hearts pounding not just from the speed but from the electric thrill of growing up.
Trust built slowly, brick by brick, through late-night sleepovers and shared confessions. At my house, where the air always smelled of Mummy’s cooking—spicy curries and fresh chapatis—we’d camp out in the living room, flashlights under blankets, admitting things we’d never say aloud elsewhere. Ajay opened up about his parents’ fights, how the yelling kept him awake; Sanjay shared the pressure of helping at the shop, dreaming of escaping the town. I confessed my fears of disappointing Papa, the weight of expectations in our liberal family. We vowed loyalty—no judgments, no betrayals. Those nights deepened our bond, turning friends into brothers, the kind who’d have each other’s backs through anything.
Then came the fantasies, creeping in like shadows at dusk. It started innocently enough: a dog-eared magazine Sanjay swiped from his uncle’s drawer, pages filled with airbrushed women in lacy nothing. We’d pass it around in hushed awe, fingers tracing curves, dicks stirring for the first time under the covers. By fifteen, we graduated to porn—grainy clips on Ajay’s old phone, hidden in browser histories. MILFs became our obsession: older women with knowing smiles, bodies lush and experienced, taking charge in ways that made our teenage minds explode. We’d watch together in stolen Mummyents, volume low, breaths syncing as the actresses moaned and writhed. Sex stories followed—MMS clips whispered about in school, blurry videos of local scandals that we hunted online, fueling late-night jerk sessions. Sanjay loved the raw, amateur stuff; Ajay craved the narratives, the build-up of seduction; I… I found myself fixating on the maternal figures, the forbidden allure of a woman who nurtured and dominated in equal measure. We’d swap fantasies afterward, voices thick: “Imagine if it was someone we knew,” Ajay would say, eyes gleaming. The trust let us go deeper—admitting kinks, sharing links, never shaming the darkness that stirred within.