We collapsed in a tangled, sweaty heap—bodies limp, breaths ragged, skin sticky with sweat and cum. Gentle aftercare followed: soft kisses on her skin, wiping her tenderly with remaining dry cloth, cuddling close. “That was… beyond anything,” Mummy whispered, pulling us all into her embrace, eyes glowing with deep satisfaction and love. We murmured agreements—”Perfect… ours forever”—hearts synchronized in post-orgasmic bliss. Guilt absent, only profound fulfillment and closeness. All four of us, utterly spent and satisfied, lay there in the quiet afterglow, the distant wedding forgotten for a little longer.
We stayed there for a while longer, tangled in the warm, heavy afterglow—four bodies pressed close on the makeshift bed of sherwanis, breaths slowing in unison, skin cooling under the faint phone lights. Gentle hands traced lazy patterns: wiping sweat and traces of release with the remaining dry cloth, soft kisses on foreheads, necks, lips. Mummy—Kalpana—pulled us into her embrace one by one, murmuring tender words: “My beautiful boys… thank you for making me feel so alive, so loved.” We whispered back confessions of adoration, promises unspoken but felt deeply. No guilt in that moment—only profound closeness, satisfaction humming through every limb.
Eventually, reality crept in with the distant thump of dhol drums and faint calls of names from the wedding party. We helped each other clean properly—more buckets pumped, cool water rinsing away evidence, clothes shaken out and redonned hastily, though the sherwanis now carried wrinkles and faint scents we’d never forget. Mummy’s saree was salvaged as best we could—stains faded to shadows in the dark—her smile radiant as she adjusted her pallu. “No one will notice,” she said with a wink, though her eyes held a new, shared secret. We slipped out of the school campus quietly, rejoining the village lane as if nothing had changed, falling into the stream of late-arriving guests heading toward the bride’s house.
The baraat was in full swing when we arrived—floodlights blazing, dancers swirling in colorful chaos, Manoj on his horse beaming under the sehra. We merged seamlessly: Pawan and Himashu jumping into the dance circle with exaggerated energy, me joining the clapping line, Mummy blending with the women near the entrance, her laughter ringing out as relatives pulled her into hugs. Secret glances passed between us—loaded, knowing smiles that sent fresh shivers down my spine—but no words. The jaimala went smoothly, tears and cheers during the pheras, fireworks painting the sky. Dinner followed under a massive shamiana: piles of biryani, paneer curries, sweets sticky with ghee. We ate together at a crowded table, banter light and normal on the surface—jokes about the puncture, the late arrival—but underneath, electric awareness. Stolen touches under the table: a foot brushing a leg, fingers grazing when passing a bowl.
Exhaustion hit as the night wound down. Back at the dharmshala, we crashed in our assigned room—charpoys side by side, fans whirring lazily. Mummy in the ladies’ section nearby. Pawan, Himashu, and I lay in the dark, staring at the ceiling, but sleep came fast. No one spoke of it. Not a word. As if by silent pact, the classroom stayed locked in that shadowed corner—sacred, forbidden, never to be voiced.