Among us, I was the lucky one—the rich kid in a town where most scraped by. Papa was a businessman, sharp-suited and always on calls, building a small empire of hardware stores that afforded us a big house with AC rooms and a garden. Mummy, Savitri, was a government bank manager, fit from her morning yoga and runs, her body toned and curvaceous in a way that turned heads. At thirty-eight, she looked a decade younger—smooth olive skin, long black hair often tied in a loose bun, full lips that curved into easy smiles. Our family was liberal: no strict curfews, open talks about life, even sex if it came up casually. Papa traveled often, leaving Mummy in charge, her authority soft but unyielding. I had the perks—a sleek laptop for “studies” (and our secret viewings), a bike that let me zip around town, picking up the guys for adventures. They envied it a bit, but it never divided us; instead, my house became our hub, the place where fantasies unfolded unchecked.
That summer vacation in tenth grade, with the heat wave turning everything languid and sticky, we gathered in my room like always. The fan whirred lazily overhead, doing little against the humidity that clung to our skin. Ajay lounged on the beanbag, controller in hand, trash-talking Sanjay who sat cross-legged on the floor, eyes glued to the screen. I perched on the bed, laptop balanced on my knees, guiding our multiplayer game through pixelated battles. We’d been at it for hours, laughter echoing, when Sanjay tossed his controller aside with a grin. “Fuck this, bros. Let’s watch some real action.” No arguments—we were all primed, the boredom of vacation begging for release.
I pulled up the site, fingers flying over keys, and we dove into the MILF category. Clips loaded: a busty stepMummy seducing her son’s friend, another with a teacher bending over a desk, moans filling the room through headphones we passed around. Twenty minutes in, dicks hard and straining, breaths shallow—the door to the attached bathroom swung open without warning.
Steam billowed out first, carrying the scent of jasmine soap and warm water. Mummy emerged, oblivious at first, a plastic bucket brimming with wet laundry clutched in her arms. She wore only her light-yellow petticoat, the thin cotton tied high around her full breasts, the knot straining against the weight. Water had soaked it translucent, plastering the fabric to her skin like a second layer. Her deep cleavage gleamed, droplets tracing paths down the valley between her heavy, swaying tits—nipples dark and erect, poking through the wet material. Lower, the petticoat clung obscenely to her wide hips, the curve of her ass cheeks outlined perfectly, the cleft between them shadowed and inviting. And there, between her thick thighs, the unmistakable mound of her pussy—lips plump and visible through the sheer cloth, a faint dark line of hair teasing above. Her bare feet left wet prints on the tile, calves flexing as she stepped forward.
She froze mid-stride, eyes widening for those agonizing two-three seconds—taking in the three of us, laptop slammed shut too late, our faces flushed, shorts tented unmistakably. A gasp escaped her lips, but then… nothing. No shriek, no rush to cover. Instead, she composed herself, a faint blush creeping up her neck as she set the bucket down with a soft thud beside the wardrobe. Water sloshed over the edge, splattering the floor. “Oh, boys,” she said, voice steady but laced with something husky, “when did you all get here? I didn’t hear you come in.”