Misc. Erotica Mom's Cricket Challenge with my Friends (COMPLETED) - By Novelist Casanova

[novelistcasanova]

Mom’s Cricket Challenge with My Friends

By Novelist Casanova

The city road outside buzzed with traffic, horns, and temple bells, but inside our newly constructed five-storey house, the air was filled with fresh paint, jasmine and marygold garlands, and the sweet scent of ghee lamps. It was the proud day of Gruhapravesham, and every corner of the home glowed with festivity.

Relatives crowded the spacious living room, their voices rising in laughter and blessings. Children ran across the marble floor, aunties adjusted sarees and gossiped, while the men admired the high ceilings and polished woodwork. The priest’s chanting rolled like a rhythm under the noise, his voice steady as he sprinkled holy water near the doorway.
The clatter of steel plates came from the kitchen, where women prepared sweets, the aroma of payasam drifting out. Joy shone on every face — it was the first celebration inside this new home, a moment of pride and togetherness for the entire family.
Among the crowd in the living room, Sudha My Mom moved gracefully, dbangd in a red silk saree with a matching red blouse. The shine of the silk caught the light of the ghee lamps, making her look radiant, every step of hers drawing attention.
The men at the ceremony could not resist ogling at her. Their eyes lingered shamelessly on her deep navel, exposed by the playful dbang of her saree. When she bent slightly to adjust the pleats, their stares followed her buttocks wrapped tightly in the saree. Her full Boobs in her red blouse, rising and falling as she moved, tempting every wandering gaze.
Even as the priest chanted and the family celebrated, my mom’s presence turned the mood hotter, her beauty stealing attention away from the rituals. Every whispered conversation among the men circled back to her — her waist, her navel, her Boobs, her buttocks — each part of her body hidden yet displayed in ways that kept their eyes restless.
When the rituals ended, the priest closed his book and blessed the family with a smile. Everyone clapped, relieved the sacred work was done and eager to move on to the feast. But before leaving, the priest stepped toward my mom, his eyes twinkling mischievously.
“May Goddess Lakshmi always stay in this home,” he said aloud, and then, in front of everyone, he wrapped his arms around my mom and hugged her tightly.
My mom’s red blouse crushed against his chest, her soft Boobs flattening into his embrace. His hands slid down her buttocks and lingered just above her buttocks, squeezing her closer than what was decent. My Mom’s waist disappeared inside his arms as he enjoyed the warmth of her body in full.
The room fell silent for a moment, the men staring in shock and jealousy. They watched the priest’s boldness — how he held My Mom, how he dared to feel her body in his arms. Their eyes burned with envy, their lips dry with longing.
Among them stood My Friend Deepak's Dad, his jaw tight, his eyes fixed on My Mom. Desire and jealousy mixed in him like fire. More than anyone else in that room, he wanted to be the one holding her, kissing her, tasting those lips that smiled nervously as the priest finally let her go.
Just as the first priest stepped away, another younger priest, emboldened by the festive cheer, came forward. His smile was wide, his eyes shameless as they roamed over my mom in her red silk saree and red blouse.
He folded his hands as if to bless her, but instead pulled her into a hug. His arms wrapped around her waist, pressing her tightly into him. My Mom gasped softly as she felt his obvious tent pressing against her through the layers of cloth.
The priest’s hands roamed boldly over her buttocks and grabbed my mom’s buttocks through the saree. He leaned closer, and kissed my mom’s cheek, lingering longer than it should have. My mom closed her eyes for a second, feeling the heat of his embrace, her Boobs crushed firmly against his chest.
The men standing around clenched their fists, burning with jealousy. Their eyes were fixed on the way the priest’s hands moved over her, the way his body rubbed shamelessly against her.
And among them, Deepak's Dad’s desire grew unbearable. His jaw tightened, his breath heavy, watching another man enjoy the closeness he craved. Jealousy mixed with a raw hunger, making him more restless, more determined.
As the second priest finally stepped back, a third one, older but bolder, came forward with a smirk. He didn’t even pretend to be formal. Without hesitation, he pulled My Mom straight into his complete embrace, his strong arms locking around her waist and dragging her body flush against his.
His dhoti betrayed him instantly — a hard boner pressing into My Mom’s stomach as he held her tightly. My Mom gasped, her Boobs crushed firmly into his chest, her buttocks squeezed against his grip.
Before anyone could react, the third priest tilted his head and kissed My Mom’s lips fully. His mouth lingered on hers, kissing her nicely, his tongue brushing her lips as she stood trapped in his arms.
The crowd went silent, eyes wide. Then whispers, then stares — every man in that living room froze in shock, their own cocks stiffening as they watched My Mom’s red blouse and red saree pressed indecently against the priest’s body.
One by one, they looked down in embarrassment — each of them hiding a boner inside their Dhotis, their jealousy boiling.
And among them, Deepak's Dad was on fire. His desire had reached its limit. His boner strained huge and hard, jealousy twisting inside him. He wanted My Mom so badly he could barely breathe, his eyes locked on her lips glistening from the priest’s kiss.
My Mom’s cheeks still burned from the shameless kiss the third priest had planted on her lips. The room was filled with murmurs, hungry eyes, and silent stares. She lowered her gaze, adjusting the pleats of her red silk saree, and excused herself softly, pretending to head upstairs to check the rooms.
As she climbed the staircase, her buttocks swayed in the tight dbang of the saree, every step making the men groan inwardly. Their eyes followed her until she disappeared around the corner.
Deepak's Dad could not hold back anymore. His huge boner throbbed beneath his Dhoti, his chest rising and falling with restless hunger. He slipped away from the crowd, his eyes burning with desire, and moved up the staircase quietly, following her.
Upstairs, the new bedroom still smelled of fresh paint and incense. My Mom stepped inside, closing the door halfway behind her. She leaned against the wall, touching her lips, still tingling from the priest’s bold kiss. Her Boobs rose and fell under the snug red blouse, her heart racing.
At that very moment, Deepak's Dad looked at me, “I am gonna fuck your mom” he said and went towards my mom’s Bedroom and pushed the door open and stepped in.



Six months ago…
I could still picture our old ground-floor house, tucked between towering high-rises in the heart of Chennai, Tamil Nadu. It felt cramped, suffocating sometimes, and yet that’s where life had been—until My Mom’s obsession with building a proper house became impossible to ignore.
From my side, I watched her pace the small living room, hands tightening in frustration, eyes flicking to imaginary corners, visualizing walls, windows, and a balcony bathed in sunlight. She looked so desperate, so determined, and I could feel her pulse quicken with every thought about the house.
I knew she wanted it badly. She dreamed of a home of her own, free from cramped spaces, noisy neighbors, and the weight of this crowded city pressing down on her. But I also knew the truth she barely admitted to anyone: she needed 30 lakhs to make it happen, and she didn’t have it.
Every evening, I watched her scribble plans, pace around the rooms, and mutter numbers under her breath. There was a fire in her eyes, a mix of anxiety and determination that made her magnetic. I felt both helpless and in awe. Her desire for that house wasn’t just about bricks and walls—it was about control, independence, and a dream she refused to let go of.
Even amidst the honking cars, the constant hum of life in Chennai, and the imposing high-rises that loomed over us, I could see her heart was entirely focused on that future home. And I couldn’t help but feel the tension in the air—her desperation, her longing, and my own desire to help her somehow.


She would often stand at the balcony in the evening, looking at the other houses, and tell me, “Varun, one day we’ll have five more floors on top of this house. I’ll make it the tallest one here.”
I would nod, but I knew what she didn’t say out loud — that building those five floors would need money, a lot of it, and she didn’t have it yet. Still, she dressed and carried herself like a queen among these rich families. Every morning she would step out in her saree, her buttocks swaying as she walked, her breasts filling her blouse perfectly, her navel showing when she adjusted her pallu.
The men in these big houses noticed her. They watched from balconies, from gates, even from their parked cars. Some pretended to be busy when she passed, others stared openly. I’d caught more than one of them smiling to themselves after she was gone, as if imagining something they shouldn’t.
It wasn’t just the men. Even my friends, who came from these same wealthy families, came to my house more for her than for me. And birthdays… that was when they got their chance.
My mom always told me, “Varun, you should mingle with rich boys in your college. Connections matter more than marks. One day, they might help us.” She was serious about her dream of building those five floors, and I knew she saw wealthy friends as part of that plan.
That’s how Deepak and Karthik entered our lives. They were both sons of powerful politicians, used to money, cars, and influence. The first time they came home, I introduced them proudly.
“Mom, this is Deepak, and this is Karthik. They’re both from political families.”
The moment they saw her, their eyes changed. Deepak’s smile froze for a second as he stared at her breasts in her blouse. Karthik’s gaze dropped to her buttocks as she turned to bring tea from the kitchen. They weren’t subtle, and I could tell from that first meeting — they were already imagining her in ways they shouldn’t.
What surprised me was my mom’s reaction. Instead of shying away, she smiled warmly, talking to them, asking about their families, even placing her hand lightly on Karthik’s shoulder when she laughed. I could see the flicker in her eyes — she was pleased.
Later that night, as she folded clothes in the bedroom, she told me, “Good boys, Varun. Keep them close. Through friends like them, maybe one day we’ll have the money for our house.”
From that day, Deepak and Karthik started visiting often. And every time they came, they looked at her more boldly, their eyes moving from her waist to her chest, lingering on her cheek when she smiled. And I knew — it was only a matter of time before they found a reason to touch her.
One afternoon, Deepak came home with me after college. My mom was in the hall, wearing her yellow saree with a matching blouse, her pleats tight at the waist, her breasts filling out the blouse perfectly.
Deepak smiled at her. “Aunty, I should teach you how we greet people in our homes,” he said, stepping closer. Before she could respond, his hand was already on her waist, gripping her firmly and pulling her right up against him.
She gave a small gasp, surprised, but didn’t pull away.
“Like this,” he said, sliding his other arm around her back. “You stand close, hug… and the other person hugs back.”
Still holding her waist, he drew her into his chest. Her breasts pressed against him as his body met hers completely. Then he looked at her and said, “Now, you put your arms around my neck and hug me back.”
My mom hesitated for a second, then, thinking this must be some rich people’s way of greeting, she looped her arms around his neck.
“And now,” Deepak said, leaning in, “you kiss the cheek.”
Before she could react, he turned his face, and their cheeks brushed. He kissed her, slow and deliberate, right on her cheek. She felt it, I could tell, but she just smiled politely afterward, saying, “So this is how you greet in rich families?”
Deepak grinned. “Exactly, Aunty. You’ll get used to it.”
From that day, she never stopped him when he greeted her like that. She believed she was learning the ways of the wealthy, but I knew Deepak’s hands were enjoying far more than just a greeting.
A few days later, Karthik came over in the evening. My mom was in her pink saree with a matching blouse, bending slightly to arrange flowers in the vase. The movement made her buttocks push out behind her, and Karthik’s eyes locked there instantly.
Deepak had clearly told him about the “greeting.” The moment she straightened up, Karthik walked right to her with a confident smile.
“Aunty, I heard you’ve learned our way of greeting,” he said.
Before she could answer, his hand slid onto her waist and pulled her forward. She stumbled half a step, and her breasts met his chest directly.
“You have to hug me back,” Karthik said, his voice lower.
She nodded, still thinking this was just how the rich behaved, and put her arms around his neck. He gripped her buttocks over the saree with both hands, holding her tight against him.
Then, without waiting, he turned his head and kissed her cheek slowly, his lips pressing for more than a moment. His hands stayed on her buttocks until he finally let her go.
She gave a small, polite smile. “You boys are very affectionate,” she said.
Karthik chuckled. “Only with special people, Aunty.”
From then on, both Deepak and Karthik greeted her this way every time they came. She thought it was a harmless rich-people custom. I knew it was anything but.
It was a Saturday afternoon when both Deepak and Karthik came home with me. My mom was in a green saree with a matching blouse, standing in the doorway as we entered. The saree was wrapped snugly at her waist, her breasts full in the blouse, her buttocks shaped clearly under the pleats.
Deepak stepped forward first. “Aunty, we came to say hello.”
Without waiting, he put his hand on her waist, pulled her into him, and hugged her tight, his chest pressing her breasts firmly. His hands went down and held her buttocks through the saree, fingers spread as he kissed her cheek slowly.
He stepped aside, grinning, and Karthik immediately moved in. He repeated the same — one hand pulling her waist, the other gripping her buttocks, his body pressed to hers from chest to hips. She put her arms around his neck, thinking it was just a greeting, and he kissed her cheek, his lips lingering longer than Deepak’s.
When he let go, they both stood smiling at her. She smiled back, saying, “Both of you are so warm and friendly… no wonder rich people are close like this.”
Deepak and Karthik exchanged a look I understood perfectly — they knew she still thought it was just culture, but for them, it was far more.
Later that afternoon, we all sat in the hall with coffee. My mom was on the single sofa, Deepak and Karthik on the couch across from her.
Deepak took a sip, then said, “Aunty, in our circle, hugging isn’t just a greeting… it’s how we build real connection. Only if we hug each other, the bonding gets tighter.”
Karthik leaned forward, smiling. “And there’s another thing, Aunty… when you hug wealthy people, you attract wealth yourself. It’s like sharing good fortune.”
My mom tilted her head, curious. “So you mean… hugging rich people can bring luck?”
“Exactly,” Karthik said. “It’s a sign of closeness. The more you do it, the more people want to help you.”
I could see the thought settling in her mind. She smiled, nodding slowly. “That’s a nice belief… maybe I should start doing it more often.”
From the very next day, she didn’t wait for them to start. The moment Deepak or Karthik stepped into the house, she would walk straight to them, wrap her arms around their necks, and pull them into a tight hug. Her breasts pressed to them, their hands always sliding down to her buttocks, gripping her firmly as she held them close.
She would greet them like that every time, her cheek brushing theirs, sometimes kissing lightly without them even asking. She thought she was bringing wealth into the house. They knew they were getting exactly what they wanted.
One afternoon, my mom was at home watching cricket on TV. She was in her red saree with a matching blouse, sitting cross-legged on the sofa. The pallu was dbangd loosely, and her saree was tied low on her waist, leaving her deep navel in full view.
The doorbell rang. I opened it to see Deepak and Karthik standing there, smiling. Before I could say anything, my mom got up to greet them.
She walked straight to the door, wrapped her arms around Deepak’s neck, and pulled him into a tight hug. Her breasts pressed into his chest, and his hands slid down to her buttocks, gripping her firmly through the saree as they kissed each other’s cheek.
She turned to Karthik next, hugging him the same way — arms around his neck, breasts against him, his hands taking their place on her buttocks while he kissed her cheek slowly.
“Come in, boys,” she said warmly. They followed her to the sofa, sitting down on either side of her.
Deepak looked at the TV and asked, “Aunty, you like cricket?”
She smiled. “Of course. I used to play during my high college days. I was an all-rounder — batting and bowling.”
Karthik leaned closer, his eyes on her waist. “Really? Then we should take you to the ground sometime. You’ll love it.”
She laughed softly. “It’s been years, but maybe I still have a few shots left in me.”
The three of them kept talking cricket, but I could see Deepak and Karthik’s eyes drifting from the TV to her low-tied saree and the glimpse of her navel each time she moved.
As they kept talking about cricket, my mom suddenly smiled and said, “Wait here, I’ll show you something.” She went into her bedroom, and we followed.
She opened her cupboard and pulled out an old photo album. Sitting on the bed, she flipped it open to a page full of her high college cricket days. There she was — in a white shirt tucked into a pleated white skirt that stopped well above her knees, showing her toned thighs. In some pictures, she was holding a bat; in others, she was bowling, her skirt lifting slightly with the action.
Deepak’s eyes stayed fixed on her legs in those pictures. “Aunty… you were so hot in that skirt,” he said without hesitation.
Karthik leaned closer to look at the photos, grinning. “If you looked like this in college, no wonder everyone wanted to be on your team.”
My mom blushed, looking down for a moment before smiling shyly. “Aiyo… those were innocent college days.”
Deepak shook his head. “Innocent or not, Aunty, you’d still turn every head if you wore this today.”
She laughed softly, but I could see the pink on her cheeks. She closed the album slowly, almost as if she knew those pictures had just added fuel to something already burning in their minds.
She would often stand at the balcony in the evening, looking at the other houses, and tell me, “Varun, one day we’ll have five more floors on top of this house. I’ll make it the tallest one here.”
I would nod, but I knew what she didn’t say out loud — that building those five floors would need money, a lot of it, and she didn’t have it yet. Still, she dressed and carried herself like a queen among these rich families. Every morning she would step out in her saree, her buttocks swaying as she walked, her breasts filling her blouse perfectly, her navel showing when she adjusted her pallu.
The men in these big houses noticed her. They watched from balconies, from gates, even from their parked cars. Some pretended to be busy when she passed, others stared openly. I’d caught more than one of them smiling to themselves after she was gone, as if imagining something they shouldn’t.
It wasn’t just the men. Even my friends, who came from these same wealthy families, came to my house more for her than for me. And birthdays… that was when they got their chance.
My mom always told me, “Varun, you should mingle with rich boys in your college. Connections matter more than marks. One day, they might help us.” She was serious about her dream of building those five floors, and I knew she saw wealthy friends as part of that plan.
That’s how Deepak and Karthik entered our lives. They were both sons of powerful politicians, used to money, cars, and influence. The first time they came home, I introduced them proudly.
“Mom, this is Deepak, and this is Karthik. They’re both from political families.”
The moment they saw her, their eyes changed. Deepak’s smile froze for a second as he stared at her breasts in her blouse. Karthik’s gaze dropped to her buttocks as she turned to bring tea from the kitchen. They weren’t subtle, and I could tell from that first meeting — they were already imagining her in ways they shouldn’t.
What surprised me was my mom’s reaction. Instead of shying away, she smiled warmly, talking to them, asking about their families, even placing her hand lightly on Karthik’s shoulder when she laughed. I could see the flicker in her eyes — she was pleased.
Later that night, as she folded clothes in the bedroom, she told me, “Good boys, Varun. Keep them close. Through friends like them, maybe one day we’ll have the money for our house.”
From that day, Deepak and Karthik started visiting often. And every time they came, they looked at her more boldly, their eyes moving from her waist to her chest, lingering on her cheek when she smiled. And I knew — it was only a matter of time before they found a reason to touch her.
One afternoon, Deepak came home with me after college. My mom was in the hall, wearing her yellow saree with a matching blouse, her pleats tight at the waist, her breasts filling out the blouse perfectly.
Deepak smiled at her. “Aunty, I should teach you how we greet people in our homes,” he said, stepping closer. Before she could respond, his hand was already on her waist, gripping her firmly and pulling her right up against him.
She gave a small gasp, surprised, but didn’t pull away.
“Like this,” he said, sliding his other arm around her back. “You stand close, hug… and the other person hugs back.”
Still holding her waist, he drew her into his chest. Her breasts pressed against him as his body met hers completely. Then he looked at her and said, “Now, you put your arms around my neck and hug me back.”
My mom hesitated for a second, then, thinking this must be some rich people’s way of greeting, she looped her arms around his neck.
“And now,” Deepak said, leaning in, “you kiss the cheek.”
Before she could react, he turned his face, and their cheeks brushed. He kissed her, slow and deliberate, right on her cheek. She felt it, I could tell, but she just smiled politely afterward, saying, “So this is how you greet in rich families?”
Deepak grinned. “Exactly, Aunty. You’ll get used to it.”
From that day, she never stopped him when he greeted her like that. She believed she was learning the ways of the wealthy, but I knew Deepak’s hands were enjoying far more than just a greeting.
A few days later, Karthik came over in the evening. My mom was in her pink saree with a matching blouse, bending slightly to arrange flowers in the vase. The movement made her buttocks push out behind her, and Karthik’s eyes locked there instantly.
Deepak had clearly told him about the “greeting.” The moment she straightened up, Karthik walked right to her with a confident smile.
“Aunty, I heard you’ve learned our way of greeting,” he said.
Before she could answer, his hand slid onto her waist and pulled her forward. She stumbled half a step, and her breasts met his chest directly.
“You have to hug me back,” Karthik said, his voice lower.
She nodded, still thinking this was just how the rich behaved, and put her arms around his neck. He gripped her buttocks over the saree with both hands, holding her tight against him.
Then, without waiting, he turned his head and kissed her cheek slowly, his lips pressing for more than a moment. His hands stayed on her buttocks until he finally let her go.
She gave a small, polite smile. “You boys are very affectionate,” she said.
Karthik chuckled. “Only with special people, Aunty.”
From then on, both Deepak and Karthik greeted her this way every time they came. She thought it was a harmless rich-people custom. I knew it was anything but.
It was a Saturday afternoon when both Deepak and Karthik came home with me. My mom was in a green saree with a matching blouse, standing in the doorway as we entered. The saree was wrapped snugly at her waist, her breasts full in the blouse, her buttocks shaped clearly under the pleats.
Deepak stepped forward first. “Aunty, we came to say hello.”
Without waiting, he put his hand on her waist, pulled her into him, and hugged her tight, his chest pressing her breasts firmly. His hands went down and held her buttocks through the saree, fingers spread as he kissed her cheek slowly.
He stepped aside, grinning, and Karthik immediately moved in. He repeated the same — one hand pulling her waist, the other gripping her buttocks, his body pressed to hers from chest to hips. She put her arms around his neck, thinking it was just a greeting, and he kissed her cheek, his lips lingering longer than Deepak’s.
When he let go, they both stood smiling at her. She smiled back, saying, “Both of you are so warm and friendly… no wonder rich people are close like this.”
Deepak and Karthik exchanged a look I understood perfectly — they knew she still thought it was just culture, but for them, it was far more.
Later that afternoon, we all sat in the hall with coffee. My mom was on the single sofa, Deepak and Karthik on the couch across from her.
Deepak took a sip, then said, “Aunty, in our circle, hugging isn’t just a greeting… it’s how we build real connection. Only if we hug each other, the bonding gets tighter.”
Karthik leaned forward, smiling. “And there’s another thing, Aunty… when you hug wealthy people, you attract wealth yourself. It’s like sharing good fortune.”
My mom tilted her head, curious. “So you mean… hugging rich people can bring luck?”
“Exactly,” Karthik said. “It’s a sign of closeness. The more you do it, the more people want to help you.”
I could see the thought settling in her mind. She smiled, nodding slowly. “That’s a nice belief… maybe I should start doing it more often.”
From the very next day, she didn’t wait for them to start. The moment Deepak or Karthik stepped into the house, she would walk straight to them, wrap her arms around their necks, and pull them into a tight hug. Her breasts pressed to them, their hands always sliding down to her buttocks, gripping her firmly as she held them close.
She would greet them like that every time, her cheek brushing theirs, sometimes kissing lightly without them even asking. She thought she was bringing wealth into the house. They knew they were getting exactly what they wanted.
One afternoon, my mom was at home watching cricket on TV. She was in her red saree with a matching blouse, sitting cross-legged on the sofa. The pallu was dbangd loosely, and her saree was tied low on her waist, leaving her deep navel in full view.
The doorbell rang. I opened it to see Deepak and Karthik standing there, smiling. Before I could say anything, my mom got up to greet them.
She walked straight to the door, wrapped her arms around Deepak’s neck, and pulled him into a tight hug. Her breasts pressed into his chest, and his hands slid down to her buttocks, gripping her firmly through the saree as they kissed each other’s cheek.
She turned to Karthik next, hugging him the same way — arms around his neck, breasts against him, his hands taking their place on her buttocks while he kissed her cheek slowly.
“Come in, boys,” she said warmly. They followed her to the sofa, sitting down on either side of her.
Deepak looked at the TV and asked, “Aunty, you like cricket?”
She smiled. “Of course. I used to play during my high college days. I was an all-rounder — batting and bowling.”
Karthik leaned closer, his eyes on her waist. “Really? Then we should take you to the ground sometime. You’ll love it.”
She laughed softly. “It’s been years, but maybe I still have a few shots left in me.”
The three of them kept talking cricket, but I could see Deepak and Karthik’s eyes drifting from the TV to her low-tied saree and the glimpse of her navel each time she moved.
As they kept talking about cricket, my mom suddenly smiled and said, “Wait here, I’ll show you something.” She went into her bedroom, and we followed.
She opened her cupboard and pulled out an old photo album. Sitting on the bed, she flipped it open to a page full of her high college cricket days. There she was — in a white shirt tucked into a pleated white skirt that stopped well above her knees, showing her toned thighs. In some pictures, she was holding a bat; in others, she was bowling, her skirt lifting slightly with the action.
Deepak’s eyes stayed fixed on her legs in those pictures. “Aunty… you were so hot in that skirt,” he said without hesitation.
Karthik leaned closer to look at the photos, grinning. “If you looked like this in college, no wonder everyone wanted to be on your team.”
My mom blushed, looking down for a moment before smiling shyly. “Aiyo… those were innocent college days.”
Deepak shook his head. “Innocent or not, Aunty, you’d still turn every head if you wore this today.”
She laughed softly, but I could see the pink on her cheeks. She closed the album slowly, almost as if she knew those pictures had just added fuel to something already burning in their minds.

Deepak was still smiling at my mom when he said, “Aunty, you know… we’ve got something you might like. We have our own Cricket Ground, almost a Cricket Stadium with all the Facilities. Why don’t you come see it sometime? I can also show you around my house.”

Karthik immediately added, “Yes, Aunty, it’ll be fun. You’ll love it.”
My mom tilted her head, smiling politely. “Hmm… cricket ground? That sounds interesting.”
Deepak leaned forward. “Then come today itself, Aunty. No excuses.”
She looked at me. “Varun, shall we?”
I shrugged, pretending casual, but inside I was curious. “Okay, let’s go.”
“Then done,” Deepak said quickly, before she could change her mind.
My mom nodded. “Alright, but let us go change first. It’s too hot for these clothes.”
We went towards her bedroom while Deepak and Karthik stayed in the living room, still holding the photo album. I could hear them murmuring as they looked again at her old college cricket pictures.
“Look at her legs here, da… so toned,” Deepak whispered.
Karthik chuckled. “Even now they look the same… maybe even better.”
From the bedroom door, I glanced back and saw both of them staring at one particular picture of her bowling in the pleated white skirt, their eyes clearly following her thighs.
My mom, unaware — or maybe pretending not to notice — opened her cupboard again, pulling out a saree to change into.
I stood by the cupboard, watching Mom scan through her sarees. She looked over at me, her lips curving in a small smile. "What should I wear today?" she asked, as if the choice was mine alone.
My fingers drifted over the colors until they stopped at the Yellow Chiffon saree. "This one will look perfect on you," I said, already imagining how it would cling to her.
She took it from me with a soft smile. "Yellow chiffon? Hmm… okay," she replied, then reached into the shelf for a matching yellow blouse and yellow petticoat.
When she walked over to the bed to lay them out, my eyes followed every step. Her buttocks moved with a subtle sway, perfectly shaped, and the gentle arch of her waist drew my gaze down to her deep navel. As she bent forward, her breasts pressed against her blouse, the fabric pulling tight over them, teasing me with every breath she took.
She glanced over her shoulder, catching me staring. "Thank you, Varun," she said softly, her cheeks taking on a faint pink glow that made her look even more irresistible.


To Be Continued