Panic hit like lightning. I lunged for the monitor’s power button, slamming it off just as the screen went dark. The room plunged into silence, save for our heavy breathing. And there she was, stepping out into the bedroom, steam wafting behind her like a veil.
Mummy—Kalpana—stood there, utterly unaware, her long black hair dripping rivulets down her back and shoulders. She was 35 then, in the prime of her life, balancing her role as a high school math teacher with homemaking duties that kept her fit and toned from constant activity. Yoga in the mornings, walking to the market, chasing after us kids—it all sculpted her into something straight out of those videos we’d just paused. But this was real. She had wrapped herself in nothing but a thin, light-yellow petticoat—the kind worn under sarees, cotton so fine it was almost sheer when wet. Water had soaked it through, making it cling to her skin like a translucent glove, molding to every contour of her body.
The fabric stuck transparently to her full breasts, the dark areolas and pointy brown nipples pressing against the material, visible in stark detail under the afternoon light streaming through the window. Droplets traced paths down her cleavage, pooling at the knotted waist where the petticoat hugged her hips. Lower still, the wet cloth outlined the gentle swell of her abdomen, the subtle curves of her thighs, and—most shockingly—the faint shadow of her pubic curls, a dark triangle pressed against the yellow. Her legs glistened with moisture, bare feet leaving damp prints on the floor as she shifted. She looked like a milf model from the screen, but alive, breathing, familiar—sexy in a way that hit us like a thunderbolt.
“Oh! Akshat, you didn’t tell me your friends were here,” she said, her voice light and surprised, but not alarmed. She made no move to cover up further, assuming perhaps that we were just kids, or maybe too flustered to react quickly. Instead, she stepped closer, towel in one hand, dabbing at her hair casually. “Pawan, Himashu—how are you boys? When did you come over? I thought you three were out playing.” Her tone was maternal, warm, the same one she used when quizzing us on homework or serving snacks. But we couldn’t focus on her words. Our eyes were glued—mine included, shame burning in my chest—to the sight before us: her body on full, unintended display. The petticoat rode up slightly as she moved, revealing more of her smooth thighs. Every breath she took made her chest rise and fall, the nipples hardening slightly in the cooler air of the room. The scent of her soap—jasmine and sandalwood—wafted over, mixing with the steam, making the moment even more intoxicating.
We stammered responses, our voices cracking. “Uh, fine, Aunty,” Pawan managed, his face turning beet red as he averted his eyes—then flicked them back. Himashu nodded dumbly, shifting on the bed to hide his discomfort. I mumbled something about “just got here,” my mind a whirlwind of confusion: this was my mom, but she looked… incredible. We all could do nothing but watch her, almost nude, the details etching themselves into our memories—the way the water beaded on her collarbone, the subtle sway of her hips as she turned to grab a dry towel from the rack nearby. She chatted on, comfortable in her own space: “Did you have lunch? I made aloo parathas—there’s plenty left. And Pawan, tell your mom I’ll send back that recipe book soon. Himashu, how’s your brother Manoj? I heard he’s doing well in school.”