They come to my home

From our side of the college, Abhilash and Vamsi already had every recording. They had stood in the parking lot and spoken about my sister’s evening timing and the tree where my mother parked on Sundays. That night they came through the back door while the house was quiet.

I was still in my room when they walked in. Abhilash first, hoodie up, Vamsi behind him. “Mother’s room,” Abhilash said. I followed because arguing had never worked for anyone else. My sister was asleep down the hall. My mother was at her sister’s place until morning. They knew the timings better than I did.

Inside her room the family photos faced us from the wall and the dressing table—my mother in the red wedding saree, my sister in her first-year ID photo, the three of us smiling at the beach two years ago. Abhilash opened the almirah and pulled out what he wanted: the soft cotton nighties she wore after work, the pale yellow saree from last Sunday, two salwar sets still warm from the evening ironing, and the thin nightgown she kept on the side. He dropped them across the bed and on the pillows. Vamsi took the sister’s photo and the beach picture and stood them upright against the headboard.

“Sit on the floor,” Abhilash told me. “Watch everything. Don’t look away.”

They stood on either side of the bed. Both of them were already hard when they took their cocks out. Abhilash wrapped one nightie around his fist and started stroking slow, the fabric dragging over the head. Sweat already shone on his neck from the ride over. He looked at my mother’s wedding photo and smiled. “She sweats in these at night, doesn’t she?” He rubbed the cloth harder, then let it fall onto the pillow. Vamsi spread the yellow saree across both pillows and stroked himself against it, hips moving easy, clearly enjoying the feel. Precum darkened the silk. He glanced at the sister’s photo, then at me. “Keep your eyes open.”

They took their time. Abhilash picked up the thin nightgown, sniffed it once, and wrapped it around his cock while he jerked, sweat from his palm soaking into the cloth. Vamsi did the same with a salwar dupatta, rubbing it up and down, breathing deeper. They switched pieces—nightie to saree, saree to salwar—leaving wet streaks and sweat marks on every one. Abhilash held the sister’s framed photo close to his cock, stroking so the head brushed the glass over her face. “Same eyes,” he said, voice low and pleased. Cum beaded at the tip and dripped onto the frame. He set it back, angled toward me, and kept going.

Vamsi moved to the pillows. He pressed one nightie into the center of the pillow and fucked his fist against it, sweat running down his chest onto the bedsheet. “Evening pillows,” he muttered. “Still smell like her.” Abhilash laughed quietly and joined him, both of them stroking over the piled clothes and pillows now, hips rocking, enjoying every drag of fabric and every look at the photos. They made me watch their hands, the shine of precum, the way sweat made the cloth stick. Whenever my eyes dropped they told me to look at the pictures, look at where they were about to finish.

Abhilash came first. Thick pulses shot across the yellow saree, over the nightie, and onto the sister’s photo, streaking the glass and the wooden frame. He kept stroking through it, sighing, squeezing out the last drops onto the pillow. Vamsi followed right after, aiming at the beach picture and the second pillow, cum landing on my mother’s saree in the photo and soaking into the cotton nightgown. He wiped the head slowly on the salwar set, leaving it messy, then did it again on the edge of the sister’s frame. Both of them stood there a moment, breathing hard, sweating, looking satisfied at the mess.

That was when we heard it. My sister’s door opened down the hall. Soft footsteps. “Bhaiya? Everything okay?” Her voice was sleepy, close. Abhilash raised one finger to his lips, still smiling, cock half-hard and shining. Vamsi didn’t move. We stayed completely still. She waited a few seconds, then the footsteps retreated and her door clicked shut. Abhilash looked at the cum-streaked photos and the sweat-damp clothes on the bed. “Next time she walks in.” They zipped up, left every piece exactly where it was—dresses, pillows, frames all marked—and walked out through the back door without hurry.

I stayed on the floor. The room smelled of them and of sweat. The photos stared back with streaks across the faces. My sister’s door stayed closed.