Ajay first—his fingertip traced a slow line from her wrist to the soft inner elbow, breath ghosting hot over her skin. She shivered, lips parting on a soft exhale. “Ajay,” she guessed correctly, laughing when he groaned in mock defeat.
Sanjay next—bolder, circling the delicate vein at her wrist, then dragging his nail lightly up the sensitive underside of her forearm. Her breath hitched; gooseflesh rose along her skin. “Sanjay,” she whispered, voice a little rougher.
I went last. My finger trembled as I touched her—just the pad of my index tracing the warm crease inside her elbow, lingering, pressing gently into the pulse that fluttered there. I leaned in without thinking, breath fanning across her collarbone, inhaling jasmine and warm female skin. She stilled completely, a tiny, almost imperceptible sound escaping her throat.
“Ankit,” she said softly, accurately, and something electric snapped between us when she said my name in the dark.
The blindfold came off. Her eyes were brighter, pupils wide. The game rolled on.
Next dare landed on the boys. Mummy’s turn to deal it.
“Fair’s fair,” she said, sipping her whiskey, a mischievous smile playing at her lips. “All three of you—shirts and pants off. Boxers only. It’s too hot anyway.”
We stripped without protest, the rum making it easy. Shirts hit the floor, pants followed. Three young bodies in nothing but thin cotton boxers—Ajay lean and wiry, Sanjay stockier, me somewhere in between—cocks already half-hard from the earlier dares, tenting the fabric unmistakably. Mummy’s gaze traveled over us slowly, openly, with the frank appreciation of a woman who’d forgotten what it felt like to be looked at with hunger.
“My goodness,” she murmured, voice warm with rum and something deeper. “Such strong, handsome young men. Your fathers would be proud.” Her eyes lingered on my chest, my stomach, the bulge I couldn’t hide. “Ankit… you’ve grown into quite the man.”
Jealousy and triumph twisted inside me—her praise mine alone, yet spoken in front of them, making it sharper, more possessive.
Confessions spilled next, whiskey loosening tongues.
Sanjay’s truth: “Aunty, tell us about your first time.”
Mummy’s cheeks flushed deeper, but she didn’t deflect. She leaned back on her palms, saree slipping off one shoulder, exposing the strap of her blouse and the upper swell of her breast.
“I was nineteen,” she began quietly. “College hostel, second year. His name was Vikram—tall, motorcycle, terrible poetry.” A soft laugh. “We snuck to the terrace one monsoon night. He kissed me until I couldn’t breathe, hands under my salwar, fingers clumsy but desperate. I was terrified and aching all at once. Gave him my virginity against the water tank, rain soaking us both. It hurt… then it didn’t. I came twice before he did.” Her voice dropped, almost wistful. “Your father was my safe choice later. Vikram was wildfire.”
The room throbbed with silence and arousal. My cock strained painfully; Ajay and Sanjay shifted, adjusting themselves without shame.
Later, when the bottle spun to me, Mummy chose truth for me, but pulled me aside first—into the dim kitchen doorway, away from the others. Rain hammered the window above the sink.