As rounds cycled, the air shifted—fun edging into naughty, confessions bubbling up like steam. Ajay dared me to confess my first kiss: a fumbling peck with a neighbor girl last year, details spilling out red-faced. Sanjay picked truth: “Ever jerked off thinking about someone in this room?” He grinned wolfishly—”Hell yeah, Aunty’s too hot not to.” Mummy laughed it off, cheeks pinking, but didn’t scold; instead, her eyes sparkled. “Boys will be boys.” Then her truth to Ajay: “What’s the naughtiest thing you’ve watched?” He stammered about MILF porn, avoiding her gaze, while Sanjay’s dare to me was to whisper a dirty secret in Mummy’s ear—I leaned close, scent of her jasmine flooding me, murmuring “I dream about you sometimes,” her breath catching softly, body tensing against mine.
The dares escalated softcore, tentative at first: Mummy dared Sanjay to give Ajay a back massage for a minute—hands kneading shoulders, groans exaggerated for laughs. Ajay dared Mummy to sit on my lap for the next round—her weight settling plush against me, ass cheeks soft and warm through the saree, my cock stirring instantly against her as she shifted innocently, chatting like nothing. Sanjay dared her to untie her hair and shake it out—strands cascading like black silk, framing her flushed face, the boys openly staring at the jiggle of her breasts. Confessions deepened: Mummy admitted, voice husky, “I sometimes miss the excitement of youth—your father’s away so much, I wonder about those wild nights again.” Her eyes met mine, a flicker there—vulnerable, curious—that made my heart slam.
By the third bottle of water emptied, the room thrummed with unspoken heat. Ajay cleared his throat. “Aunty, any rum in the house? Uncle’s stock, maybe? To loosen things up?” Mummy hesitated, then smiled slow and indulgent. “Why not? It’s a special night. But just a little—his whiskey cabinet’s unlocked. Pour carefully, boys.”
Glasses clinked, amber liquid burning down throats, loosening tongues and inhibitions further as the game resumed, the rain outside a rhythmic backdrop to the building storm within.
The whiskey burned sweet and smoky down our throats, loosening limbs and tongues alike. Glasses clinked, ice melting into amber pools, while the rain outside thickened into a steady roar. The living-room lamps cast golden pools over us—four bodies sprawled on cushions and rugs, saree silk and cotton shirts rumpled, the air heavy with alcohol, cake sugar, and something darker rising like steam.
Sanjay spun an empty bottle for the next dare. It landed on Mummy.
“Truth or dare, Aunty?” he asked, voice already husky.
She laughed, low and throaty, cheeks flushed from the rum. “Dare. Let’s keep it exciting.”
Ajay leaned forward, eyes gleaming. “Blindfold. We each touch your arm—one finger, nothing more—and you guess who it is.”
Mummy’s brows lifted, amused, but she didn’t hesitate. She untied her pallu, folded the red silk into a soft band, and tied it over her eyes herself. The motion made her blouse strain across her full breasts, nipples faintly visible through the thin fabric in the lamplight. She settled back on her heels, arms resting on her thighs, palms up in invitation. “Come on, then.”
We took turns.