We stammered responses—Ajay mumbling “Just now, Aunty,” Sanjay nodding mutely, me croaking “Yeah, Mummy, we’re just gaming.” But our eyes betrayed us, darting to her body: the way the petticoat rode up slightly as she bent to adjust the bucket, flashing more thigh; the drip of water from the hem tracing down her leg; the subtle shift of her breasts as she straightened, arms crossing under them to push the cleavage higher. She chatted for those endless two-three minutes—asking if we wanted snacks, mangoes from the fridge, her tone normal but her gaze lingering a beat too long on each of us, especially me. “You look hot,” she said innocently, fanning herself, the word hanging heavy. “This heat is unbearable.” As she turned to leave, brushing past me close enough that her wet petticoat grazed my knee—cool and damp, sending a jolt straight to my cock—she smiled over her shoulder. “Let me change into something dry. Be good, okay?”
The door clicked shut. Silence crashed over us. Ajay exhaled shakily: “Dude… your Mummy’s… everything was showing.” Sanjay adjusted himself openly, grinning wolfishly. I couldn’t speak, my mind replaying the sight: her pussy outline, tits heaving, that knowing glint in her eyes. The air thickened with unspoken hunger, the porn forgotten but the fantasies forever changed.
Summer vacation gave us time we’d never had before—whole days with just the two of us moving through the big house like quiet planets orbiting the same sun. Papa was away again, phones buzzing with overseas deals, so the mornings belonged to Mummy’s yoga on the terrace and my pretended reading on the balcony. Afternoons turned into gentle routines: I’d find her in the kitchen or laundry room and offer help without being asked. She always accepted with a grateful smile that made something in my chest twist.
One afternoon the power failed, turning the kitchen into a steam bath. Mummy stood at the sink in her thin mango-colored housecoat, sleeves pushed high, hem brushing her knees. Sweat darkened the fabric along her spine; stray hairs clung to her neck. I dried dishes beside her, our elbows brushing now and then. She talked softly about small things—how the mangoes were sweeter this year, how proud she was of my exam results—while I tried not to notice the way the damp cotton outlined the curve of her back or the soft weight of her breasts shifting as she reached.
“You’ve become so helpful lately,” she said, glancing sideways with fond amusement. “Such a responsible young man.”
Heat flooded my face that had nothing to do with the weather. I knew she’d felt my eyes linger too long, knew she’d noticed how I invented reasons to stand closer than necessary. But she only handed me another plate, fingers brushing mine in the same gentle way they always had.
Later, on the terrace hanging laundry, a sudden gust wrapped a wet bedsheet around us both. For a heartbeat we were cocooned in cool, sun-scented cotton. Instinctively I steadied her waist; her body pressed briefly against mine—warm, soft, maternal. I felt myself harden against her hip and froze, mortified. She stilled too, then eased away with a light laugh.