I slid down the bedpost silently, legs shaking, cash clutched forgotten in my fist. Downstairs, the delivery guy grumbled about the wait, but I barely heard him. The image of her—wet, glowing, untouchable—seared into my brain, a kink awakened that would haunt my nights, blending love and lust into an unbreakable chain.
The evening descended like a warm veil, the sky outside bruising purple as Ajay and Sanjay showed up at the door, cricket bats slung over shoulders, grins wide and sweaty from the day’s idle heat. “Bro, ready to crush some games?” Sanjay called, already barging into my room like it was his own. We hunkered down around the laptop, controllers slick in our palms, diving into pixelated worlds where victories came easy and distractions were few. Laughter echoed—Ajay’s sharp cackles when he scored a kill, Sanjay’s curses when he died—but beneath it, my mind replayed the ventilator view: Mummy’s water-slicked curves, the forbidden gleam of her skin, a loop that made my shorts feel too tight even now.
After an hour, we spilled out to the empty lot for cricket, the sun’s last rays baking the dirt pitch. Bats cracked against balls, dust kicking up in clouds that clung to our shirts, but my swings were half-hearted, thoughts drifting to the way her breasts had swayed under the shower’s caress. We returned flushed and famished, collapsing in the living room for snacks—crispy pakoras and cold lemonade Mummy had left on the table, her note saying she’d be back soon. As if summoned, she appeared from the kitchen, radiant in a sleeveless nighty that skimmed her body like a lover’s whisper: soft lavender cotton, thin straps over her shoulders, hem fluttering mid-thigh. No bra—the full, natural weight of her breasts shifted freely with each step, nipples faint shadows pressing against the fabric when she bent to refill our glasses. And god, her ass: round and plush, swinging hypnotically as she moved, the material clinging just enough to suggest no panties beneath, the subtle jiggle a siren’s call that made my throat dry.
“Boys, don’t even think of leaving,” she said with that warm, maternal laugh, hand on Ajay’s shoulder as she steered him back to the sofa. “Stay for dinner—I’ve made aloo gobi and fresh rotis. It’s no trouble.” Her voice was light, oblivious to the way our eyes tracked her: Ajay’s gaze dropping to her cleavage as she leaned over the table, Sanjay’s hand twitching toward his crotch under the pretense of adjusting his shorts. I saw it all—their stolen glances, the subtle shifts in posture to hide growing bulges, Sanjay’s fingers grazing his zipper when she turned away, Ajay’s Adam’s apple bobbing as her ass flexed while she set plates. Jealousy twisted in my gut, sharp and hot: they were feasting on her visually, imagining what I’d already glimpsed, but she was mine—my secret, my torment. Dinner unfolded in a haze of aromas—spicy cauliflower, buttery bread—Mummy joining us at the table, her thigh brushing mine accidentally under the cloth, sending sparks up my leg. She chatted easily about school and cricket, her breasts rising with each laugh, the nighty gaping slightly at the armholes to reveal the soft side-swell of flesh. The friends ate ravenously, eyes darting, cocks no doubt throbbing like mine; I caught Sanjay palming himself discreetly, a quick squeeze when she stood to clear dishes, her ass cheeks outlined perfectly in the thin fabric.