Adultery The Forbidden Relief – My Wife's Secret

[doodhwale_bhaiya]

The Forbidden Relief – My Wife's Secret

Introduction / Author's Note

This is a dark, shamelessly explicit multi-chapter tale of a voluptuous, middle-class Indian wife in her early thirties — the kind of woman whose heavy breasts still turn heads at family functions, whose hips sway a little too much when she walks past the men in the mohalla, and whose innocent face hides a hunger that marriage and two years of trying for a baby could not satisfy.

What begins as the quiet desperation of a couple trying to conceive slowly unravels into something far more dangerous and depraved: secret messages, stolen glances, forbidden touches, and eventually complete surrender to the very things that should never be allowed inside a "good" ***** marriage.

Expect the following elements (in increasing order of taboo):

- intense breeding / impregnation kink  
- consensual cuckoldry that becomes less and less consensual for the husband  
- graphic adultery with multiple partners  
- significant age-gap play  
- extended family involvement (yes, that kind)  
- public risk, humiliation, dirty-talk heavy in Hindi/English mix  
- a slow, very detailed descent from reluctant wife → needy hotwife → something much darker

This story contains very strong themes of cheating, betrayal, emotional cruelty, incest, and non-monogamy portrayed without moral judgement or redemption arc. It is written purely for people who get aroused by the destruction of traditional Indian marital sanctity.

If any of the following bother you — save yourself now:  
- watching your wife moan for other men  
- the idea of another man's child growing inside your wife's belly  
- the word "jiju", "bhabhi", "devar", "mama" used in sexual contexts  
- very explicit descriptions of female arousal, bodily fluids, and smell fetish  
- a protagonist wife who eventually stops pretending she feels guilty

Everyone else… settle in, turn the lights low, and welcome to the story of how my beautiful, god-fearing, shaadi-shuda wife quietly became the most shameless slut in our bloodline.

You have been warned.

Comments, private messages and constructive criticism are always welcome.  
(Anonymous hate gets you blocked. Kinks get you bookmarked ?)

Enjoy… or at least enjoy squirming. ?

Chapter 1

Ravi

“So… evening plan?” she asked, voice soft, almost sleepy.

Ravi looked up. “Movie?”

She tilted her head, long black hair sliding over one shoulder. “Which one?”

“That new thriller everyone’s talking about. The one with the twist in the interval itself.”

Simran made a face. “Too many people will be there. Weekend crowd. And you know how I feel about the AC in those multiplexes… it always gives me a headache.”

He smiled. She was right. She always got cold easily, especially in her arms and the small of her back. He used to tease her that she was made for winter nights under thick rajai, not for summer cinema halls.

“Alright then,” he said, putting the phone down. “Home. Netflix. Couch. You in my lap. Blanket. No headache.”

Her lips curved, that slow, knowing smile that still managed to make his chest tighten.

“Deal,” she murmured, then added with mock sternness, “But you’re not allowed to fall asleep halfway like last time.”

“Promise.” He raised his right hand like a collegeboy.

The morning sun slanted through the sheer cream curtains of their Chandigarh flat, painting soft gold stripes across the dining table. Ravi sat with his phone in one hand, scrolling through office mails, while the other held the edge of the steel plate containing two hot aloo parathas, curd, and a small steel tumbler of strong filter coffee.

Across from him, Simran was still in her nightgown—a simple sky-blue cotton one that clung in places it shouldn’t have clung after two years of marriage. The neckline dipped just low enough that every time she leaned forward to serve him more achar, Ravi had to remind himself not to stare. Not that it helped. Her breasts, full and heavy, moved with a lazy weight that still made his throat dry even after all this time.

They finished breakfast in comfortable silence, the only sounds being the clink of spoons, the distant honking from the main road, and the soft rustle of her nightgown when she shifted in her chair.

When the plates were cleared, Ravi stood up, adjusted his tie, and walked around the table. Simran was already at the sink, rinsing the steel plates.

He came up behind her, arms sliding around her waist, chin resting on her shoulder. The familiar smell of her—coconut oil in her hair, faint rose attar, and something warmer, more intimate—hit him like always.

“Let me go,” she whispered, though she didn’t really move away.

“Why?” he murmured against her ear. “One kiss before I leave.”

“Bhola is here,” she said, voice dropping lower, a mix of embarrassment and something else.

Ravi glanced sideways. Bhola was in the living room, quietly wiping the centre table with a cloth, back turned toward them. He always seemed to know exactly when to make himself busy elsewhere.

“He’s part of the family now,” Ravi said, tightening his arms just a little. “Three years, Simran. He’s seen us fight, seen us make up, seen everything. Nothing new for him.”

She turned her face slightly, cheeks flushed. “Still…”

He kissed the side of her neck, just below the ear, the spot that always made her breath hitch. “Still what?”

She shivered. “You’re impossible.”

“And you love it.”

He let her go reluctantly, picked up his laptop bag, and gave her one last look—the kind that promised he’d be thinking about her all day.

“See you in the evening, Mrs. Sharma.”

“Drive safe, Mr. Sharma.”

He stepped out, locking the door behind him, and walked toward the lift.

The drive to the office was the usual Chandigarh chaos—SUVs trying to overtake from the left, two-wheelers weaving like angry hornets, traffic lights that nobody respected. But Ravi barely noticed.

His mind kept drifting back to Simran.

Five years of marriage. And still, the first time he saw her in that engagement photograph felt like yesterday.

He had been sitting in his parents’ drawing room, nervous, pretending to sip tea. Then she walked in—tall for a Punjabi girl, maybe 5’6”, fair skin glowing under the tube light, eyes large and kohl-rimmed, lips full and naturally pink. But it was her body that had struck him like a physical blow.

Voluptuous didn’t even begin to cover it.

Hourglass didn’t do justice either.

Her waist was surprisingly narrow, cinched like someone had drawn it with a careful hand, but her hips flared out generously, the kind of hips that made old aunties whisper “bahut achhi aayegi bahu” behind their pallus. And her breasts… God. Even in that modest salwar-kameez, they were impossible to ignore—full, round, heavy, sitting high on her chest the way only very young, very ripe ones do. When she bent slightly to touch his mother’s feet, the dupatta had slipped just enough for him to see the deep valley of cleavage, and he had felt something hot and shameful twist low in his belly.

“How did I get her?”, Ravi said to himself while driving.

He had been 31 then and she was 29. Successful in Corporate world, decent salary, own flat, own car. But in that moment, he felt like a nervous boy again.

Later, when they were alone for the first time (chaperoned by cousins sitting ten feet away), she had spoken in a soft voice about her job. Software engineer. Top performer in her team. Loved coding late nights. Hated small talk. And when she laughed at something he said, the sound was low, throaty, almost private.

That was the moment he knew he was already half in love. And half terrified.

Because a woman like that… men looked. Everywhere. Even now when she is 34.

In the office lift. At family functions. At the vegetable market. At the temple. They looked and they didn’t even try to hide it sometimes.

Her smile was blinding; it’s like how some females smile with red and pink gums visible and white teeth but its intoxicating.

Ravi wasn’t blind. He knew how lucky he was. He also knew how dangerous it could be.

He shook his head, changed gears, and took the left toward Sector 17.

His own life was good, objectively. Senior Project Manager now. Good team. Fat bonus last year. Flat in a premium society. Parents proud. Friends envious.

But the job pressure was mounting. Deadlines bleeding into weekends. Client calls at midnight. The constant need to prove he was still hungry, still sharp, even at 36.

And then there was the other thing.

The thing they didn’t talk about openly yet.

Two years of trying. No baby.

Doctors said everything was normal. Both. “Just relax,” they kept saying. “Stress is the biggest killer.”

Easy for them to say.

Simran wanted it badly. He could see it in the way her eyes softened when she saw babies in the park, the way she lingered near the kids’ section in malls, the way she sometimes touched her own stomach absentmindedly when she thought he wasn’t looking.

He wanted it too.

But lately, the wanting had started to feel like pressure. Like failure.

He turned into the office parking lot, found his usual spot, killed the engine, and sat there for a moment, hands still on the wheel.

He looked at his tiffin box and that’s when he thought of Bhola.

Bhola—full name Bhola Singh—was only 26. Ten years younger than him. From the same ancestral village in Punjab where Ravi’s father still owned land. When Ravi shifted to Chandigarh permanently after marriage, his mother had insisted: “Take the boy. He’s honest, hardworking. He’ll keep the house running while both of you are at office.”

Ravi had been reluctant at first. Initially they had a female live-in help, but after 2 years she got married and went away. Ravi also shifted to a better part of the city but help was difficult to find. So he remembered his mother talking about Bhola and he joined immediately when he asked his mother about it.

Quiet. Efficient. Never spoke unless spoken to. Cooked decent Punjabi food, cleaned better than most maids, even knew how to fix the geyser when it went off. He was tall, lean, dark-skinned, with the kind of wiry strength village boys carry from childhood—lifting sacks of wheat, cycling for miles, playing kabaddi.

In three years, Bhola had become invisible in the best way. Part of the furniture. Part of the rhythm of the house. Even Simran became now comfortable with Bhola. Trust, she trusts him and its important. Something which even Ravi doesn’t know or didn’t register is Bhola does every chore of the house, which includes doing their laundry too. Initially the previous female help used to do our laundry including our undergarments, but Bhola made everything so comfortable that we didn’t realise that he is not supposed to do the undergarments, especially of Simran. But none of us have ever registered it and for Bhola, who knows what.

A knock on the car window brought me back to this world and it was my friend and colleague. My day at office started.

 
Simran


After Ravi left for office, the flat settled into that familiar mid-morning quiet. Simran stood at the kitchen counter for a moment, wiping her hands on the edge of her sky-blue nightgown—the thin cotton one that had once been modest but now, after countless washes, had turned almost sheer in places. The deep V-neckline dipped low between her full breasts, and the hem barely skimmed mid-thigh whenever she moved. She hadn’t bothered with a bra underneath; the morning was still cool, and the soft fabric rubbed pleasantly against her nipples every time she reached for something.

She turned toward the living room. Bhola was still there, quietly dusting the TV unit, his back to her as always.

“Bhola,” she called softly.

He straightened immediately, turning with that respectful half-bow he always did. “Ji, Bhabhi?”

“Listen, I need some things from the market. One packet of that brown bread we like, fresh paneer, and… oh, and those small green chillies. The ones that are really hot.”

“Ji, Bhabhi. Anything else?”

“That’s all for now. And take the scooty, it’s faster.”

He nodded, picked up the small cloth bag from the hook near the door, and slipped out without another word.

Simran exhaled, feeling the sudden aloneness of the house. She padded barefoot to the master bedroom, the nightgown whispering against her thighs. The bathroom door was already ajar. She stepped inside, turned on the shower, and let the warm water cascade over her.

She loved this part of the morning—the steam, the scent of her jasmine body wash, the way the water made her heavy breasts glisten and bounce gently as she soaped herself. She lingered longer than usual today, fingers tracing lazy circles over her stomach, the place where she so desperately wanted something to grow. Two years. Nothing. She pushed the thought away, rinsed, and stepped out.

Towel wrapped around her voluptuous body (it barely covered from chest to upper thigh), she walked to the wardrobe. Today was a work-from-home day, but she still liked to look put-together for video calls. She chose a simple cream kurti with delicate gota-patti work—slightly fitted around her bust and waist, flaring softly over her hips—and paired it with a matching palazzo. Underneath went a soft beige bra (the one with the wide straps that gave her breasts the perfect lift without digging in) and matching high-waisted panties. She left her hair open, still damp, the long black waves falling past her waist. A touch of kajal, nude lipstick, and a light spritz of rose attar. Done.

She settled at her work desk in the corner of the bedroom, laptop open, headphones on. Simran was a Senior Social Media Intelligence Analyst for a big digital marketing and brand protection firm. Nothing too technical—no coding marathons anymore—but her job required her to live inside people’s online lives. She tracked conversations, mapped influencer networks, monitored brand sentiment across platforms, dug into fake profiles, troll farms, and sometimes even competitor leaks. Most days it was Facebook, Instagram, Twitter, Reddit, and the occasional dark-web forum crawl (with VPNs and all the legal disclaimers ticked). Today she had a new client brief: a luxury jewellery brand worried about counterfeit sellers on Facebook Marketplace.

She opened Facebook, logged into one of the dummy profiles her team maintained, and started scrolling through groups. That’s when something caught her eye.

Preeti.

Her childhood best friend, classmate from Class 8 to 12, the one who used to sneak her extra samosas during recess and copy her Hindi homework. Preeti’s profile picture was recent—her in a white doctor’s coat, stethoscope around her neck, smiling that same mischievous smile, but now with sharper cheekbones and a quiet confidence. Gynaecologist, it said in the bio. Dr. Preeti Malhotra, MBBS, MD (Obs & Gynae).

Simran’s heart did a funny little jump. They had each other’s numbers saved, but life had happened—marriage, jobs, cities, distance. Last proper conversation was maybe three years ago at a common college friend’s wedding.

She stared at the profile for a full minute, thumb hovering over the call button. Then she pressed it.

The phone rang… and rang… then went to voicemail.

Simran sighed, set the phone down, and went back to work.

Thirty minutes later, her phone lit up. Preeti’s name flashed.

She snatched it up on the second ring. “Preeti!”

“Simmi! Oh my god, sorry, I was in the middle of a scan. How are you, yaar? Where have you vanished?”

They talked like no time had passed—giggles, rapid-fire Punjabi mixed with English, teasing about old crushes, updates on parents, the usual. Then Preeti said, “Listen, I’m free after lunch today. CCD in Sector 35? The one near the lake. 2 o’clock?”

“Done,” Simran said instantly.

She worked for another hour, replying to emails, noting down a few suspicious Marketplace listings. Then a soft knock on the bedroom door.

“Bhabhi? Coffee.”

“Come in.”

Bhola entered with the tray—steel tumbler of filter coffee, two Marie biscuits on the side. He set it on the table beside her laptop.

“Thank you,” she murmured, already sipping.

He didn’t leave immediately. Instead, he glanced toward the laundry basket in the corner—overflowing as usual. Without a word, he picked it up, then walked past her into the attached bathroom. Simran heard the faint rustle of fabric, the soft clink of the metal basket. She knew exactly what he was collecting.

Her used panties from this morning. The ones she’d dropped on the bathroom floor after her shower. The bra she’d worn yesterday. All of it.

Bhola emerged a moment later, basket balanced on one hip, expression blank as ever. He gave her a small nod—“I’ll take care of the rest, Bhabhi”—and closed the door softly behind him.

Simran stared at the closed door for a few seconds, cheeks faintly warm. She took another sip of coffee. Nothing had ever been said. Nothing ever needed to be said. It had just… become normal.

After lunch—simple dal-chawal that Bhola had kept ready—she changed into a deep maroon Anarkali suit, the kind that hugged her curves in all the right places without being vulgar. Light makeup, hair tied in a loose bun, small gold jhumkas. She grabbed her purse, keys, and phone.

“Bhola, main nikal rahi hoon. Shaam ko late ho sakta hai.”

“Ji, Bhabhi. Drive safe.”

He held the gate open for her, watched as she reversed the Creta out of the parking, then closed it again.

CCD Sector 35 was buzzing when she arrived. She spotted Preeti immediately standing near the entrance in a crisp white shirt tucked into high-waisted black trousers, hair in a sleek ponytail, looking every inch the successful young doctor. And still devastatingly gorgeous.

“Simmiiii!”

“Preetuuuu!”

They crashed into each other like teenagers—squealing, hugging tight, jumping a little in place. Simran’s full breasts pressed against Preeti’s, their laughter loud and unselfconscious. Heads turned. A group of college girls at the next table stared openly, suddenly feeling very ordinary. Two men at the corner table shifted uncomfortably in their seats, pretending to look at their phones. The air around the two women crackled with effortless, mature sex appeal—curves, confidence, the kind of beauty that didn’t need filters.

They finally separated, breathless, and found a corner table.

Over iced lattes and cheesecake, they caught up properly.

Simran’s eyes fell on the simple platinum band on Preeti’s ring finger. She grinned wickedly. “So… how’s the hubby?”

Preeti rolled her eyes. “You know very well there is no hubby, idiot. I’m the hubby.”

Simran burst out laughing. “Still the same bossy Preeti. Poor girlfriend.”

“Girlfriend is very happy, thank you,” Preeti shot back with a smirk. Then her expression softened. “And you? How’s Ravi? Life? Plans?”

Simran hesitated, fingers tracing the rim of her glass. “We’re… trying. For a baby. Two years now.”

Preeti’s face changed—no pity, just understanding. “Hey. It’s okay. It happens. Stress, timing, sometimes just bad luck.”

“Yeah…”

Preeti reached across the table, squeezed her hand. “Listen. Do one thing. Come to my clinic tomorrow. No big deal, just a proper check-up. Hormones, ultrasound, the basics. Let me see if there’s anything small we can fix. I promise I’ll be gentle. Doctor’s promise.”

Simran looked at her oldest friend, felt a knot loosen somewhere in her chest.

“Okay,” she whispered. “Tomorrow.”

Preeti smiled. “Good girl.”

They ordered another round of coffee.

And somewhere in the background, Chandigarh kept moving, oblivious to the quiet shift that had just begun inside one woman’s life.

To be continued…

[doodhwale_bhaiya]

Ravi

The office day dragged longer than usual—another last-minute client escalation, a team huddle that turned into a two-hour debate—but by 7:30 PM, Ravi was finally pulling into the society gate. The lights in their flat were already on, warm yellow spilling through the curtains. He could almost smell the dinner Bhola would have prepared: probably something comforting like kadhai paneer and butter naan, Simran’s favourite on Fridays.

He stepped inside to the familiar sounds: clinking dishes in the kitchen, the low hum of the exhaust fan, Bhola’s quiet footsteps moving between rooms. Simran appeared from the hallway in a simple grey lounge set—soft cotton top and matching pyjamas that dbangd loosely over her curves. Her hair was still in the loose bun from earlier, a few strands escaping to frame her face.

“Finally,” she said, smiling that tired-but-happy smile. “Dinner’s almost ready.”

He dropped his bag, pulled her into a quick hug. She smelled of rose attar and the faint jasmine from her morning shower. “Missed you,” he murmured.

“Missed you more.”

Dinner was quiet and easy. Bhola served them silently, then cleared the table and retreated downstairs to his small room near the back entrance, where he usually spent evenings watching old Punjabi songs on his phone or ironing tomorrow’s clothes. Upstairs, Ravi and Simran moved to the living room couch, lights dimmed, the big TV on.

Simran had already chosen the movie—a light-hearted romantic comedy she’d been saving, full of those classic double-meaning dialogues that made her giggle like a collegegirl. They opened a bottle of red wine, poured into mismatched glasses, and settled in with a plate of cheese cubes, olives, and some leftover namkeen.

The movie was silly, predictable, perfect. Every time a cheeky line landed, Simran would nudge him with her elbow, eyes sparkling. “See? That’s exactly what you said to me on our first date.” Ravi would laugh, pull her closer, her head resting on his shoulder, her hand finding his under the blanket they’d thrown over their laps.

By the time the credits rolled, the wine had left them both warm and loose. The room felt smaller, softer. Ravi turned off the TV, the sudden quiet intimate.

He looked at her. She looked back.

Without a word, he leaned in and kissed her—slow, familiar, the way they’d kissed a thousand times before. Her lips parted, soft and yielding. His hand slid to her waist, pulling her gently onto his lap. She came willingly, straddling him, her fingers threading through his hair.

They moved to the bedroom like that—kissing, laughing softly, shedding clothes without hurry. The lovemaking was tender, unhurried, the kind that came from years of knowing each other’s rhythms. He held her close, whispered how beautiful she was, how much he loved her. She clung to him, breathing his name against his neck, their bodies moving together in the quiet dark until everything felt right and peaceful again.

Afterward, they lay tangled in the sheets, breathing steady. Ravi reached for the bedside table, lit a cigarette, and propped himself up against the headboard. The TV flickered back on—some late-night news channel droning about stock market dips and political headlines. He took a slow drag, exhaling toward the ceiling.

Simran slipped out of bed, pulled on her satin robe, and started her night routine: brushing her hair, applying night cream, the small rituals that always calmed her.

She came back to bed, sitting cross-legged beside him, robe loosely tied.

“I met Preeti today,” she said quietly.

Ravi frowned, trying to place the name. “Preeti…?”

“My college friend. The one from Class 10. The lesbian one. She’s a gynaecologist now.”

“Ohhh, right. Preeti Malhotra. The one who used to draw hearts on your notebook.” He smiled faintly. “How is she?”

“Good. Really good. We met at CCD. Caught up like nothing changed.” Simran paused, fingers tracing patterns on the bedsheet. “She’s married—well, to a woman. They want kids too.”

Ravi nodded, taking another drag.

“She joked… said we should hurry up and have a baby so they could adopt one from us.” Simran’s voice cracked just a little. “It was funny at the time. But then…”

The sadness settled over her like a shadow. Her eyes glistened.

Ravi stubbed out the cigarette quickly, turned off the TV, and shifted closer. He pulled her into his arms, her head against his chest.

“Hey,” he whispered. “It’s okay.”

“I know. It’s stupid. I just… two years, Ravi. And today, hearing her say it like that… it felt real again.”

He stroked her hair. “I get it.”

Simran swallowed. “She asked me to come to her clinic tomorrow. Just a basic check-up. Hormones, ultrasound, nothing major. She said she’ll see if there’s something small, we can figure out.”

Ravi nodded without hesitation. “Of course you should go. She’s a good doctor, and she knows you. Maybe she does know something we don’t already.” The reality dawned on him.

Simran looked up at him, hesitant. “Should I… tell her about your sperm count? The reports from last year?”

Ravi gave a small, wry smile. “There’s nothing to hide, jaan. What is there, is there. Tell her everything. Ask her if there’s any way forward. I’m not scared of the truth.”

“I just don’t want them to suggest all those procedures on me,” she said softly. “Injections, hormones, IVF… I don’t know if I’m ready for that.”

“I know,” he said, kissing her forehead. “And I won’t let anyone push you into anything you don’t want. We decide together. Always.”

She nodded, leaning into him more fully.

They stayed like that for a while, quiet. Then he reached over, switched off the bedside lamp, and pulled the blanket over both of them.

Simran curled against his side, her hand resting over his heart. Ravi wrapped an arm around her, feeling the steady rise and fall of her breathing.

Tomorrow would come soon enough—clinic, answers, maybe hope, maybe more questions.

For now, they slept.


Simran

“Babes, you are something magical. I have never seen such good numbers on a person till now. Fingers crossed.”

Simran sat up straighter on the examination table, the thin paper sheet crinkling under her thighs. Preeti was still looking at the ultrasound screen, then at the printed reports in her hand, eyes wide with genuine surprise and delight.

“You are healthy,” Preeti continued, turning to face her fully, “and you are fucking breedable.”

The word “breedable” landed like a spark. Simran felt a hot flush crawl up her neck, but it came with an involuntary squirm and a shy, delighted smile she couldn’t suppress. She reached out and lightly patted Preeti’s arm. “I am not a cow, you idiot.”

Preeti got up, made Preeti stand in front of the full-size mirror on the wall and stood behind her. Without warning, she grabbed Simran’s boobs from behind and lifted them up and shook them. Simran just opened her mouth in shock and Preeti grinned wickedly, leaning against the counter. “Babes, as far as I can see, you are a cow. An extremely healthy and breedable cow.”

They both burst out laughing—loud, unrestrained, the kind of belly laughs that echoed off the sterile white walls and made the nurse outside the door pause mid-step. Hardly anyone heard such sounds coming from a gynaecologist’s clinic.

Simran wiped at her eyes, still giggling. “You’re in your clinic, dumbo. Behave.”

Preeti checked her watch. “Listen, my break is coming up for lunch. No appointments till 3. Let’s get out of here, have lunch somewhere nice. I’ve seen what I needed to see. We can talk properly over food.”

Simran nodded, suddenly feeling lighter than she had in months. “Okay. Let me just change.”

She slipped back into the changing room and emerged a few minutes later looking every inch the woman who turned heads without trying.

She wore a short cream kurta—sleeveless, with a modest but deep round neckline that framed the deep valley between her full, heavy breasts. The fabric was soft cotton, slightly fitted through the bust and waist before flaring gently over her wide, generous hips. Paired with high-waisted dark blue jeans that hugged her thighs and accentuated the dramatic curve from her narrow waist to her lush backside. The mangalsutra rested between her cleavage like a quiet declaration, gold beads glinting against her fair skin. Her long black hair was left open in loose waves, still carrying the faint jasmine from her morning shampoo. Light makeup—just kajal to make her large eyes pop, a touch of nude gloss on her full lips—and that brilliant, blinding smile with the hint of pink gums that made strangers stare a second too long.

She looked gracious. Radiant. Dripping with the word fertile in every sway of her hips, every soft bounce as she walked. Even the receptionist gave her a double take as they left.

They chose a quiet, upscale restaurant in Sector 17—dim lighting, wooden tables, soft jazz in the background. Preeti ordered a Caesar salad and grilled fish; Simran went for butter chicken with butter naan and a side of paneer tikka. A bottle of sparkling water arrived first.

Once the waiter left, Preeti leaned forward, voice low and professional now.

“So, here’s the good news first,” she began. “Your ovaries are textbook perfect. Follicles are plenty, lining is thick and healthy, hormones are all in range—no PCOS, no thyroid issues, no endometriosis signs. You ovulate regularly. Honestly, Simmi, if timing and sperm were aligned perfectly, you should’ve conceived by now. Your body is ready. Very ready.”

Simran exhaled, fingers twisting the edge of her napkin. “And Ravi…?”

Preeti nodded. “I know about the sperm count from last year’s report you shared. It’s borderline low motility and morphology—not zero, but not ideal. Combined with your perfect parameters… it’s likely the main factor.”

Simran looked down.

Preeti reached across, touched her hand. “Options exist. First one is IUI—intrauterine insemination. We take Ravi’s sample, wash and concentrate the best swimmers, then place them directly inside your uterus right around ovulation. It’s simple, done in the clinic, no anaesthesia. Success rate per cycle is 10–20% for mild male factor cases like this. We can try 3–4 cycles.”

Simran bit her lip. “And if that doesn’t work?”

“Then IVF. In-vitro fertilization. We stimulate your ovaries a bit to get more eggs, retrieve them under sedation, fertilize with Ravi’s sperm in the lab—can even do ICSI where we pick the best single sperm and inject it directly into the egg. Then transfer one or two embryos back to you. It’s more involved—daily injections for 10–12 days, monitoring scans, egg retrieval procedure—but success rates jump to 40–50% per cycle for your age and profile.”

Simran’s face had paled. She stared at the tablecloth. “Injections… every day? And then the retrieval… they put a needle through…?”

“It’s under sedation, you’re asleep for the important part. But yes, it’s medical. It’s invasive. There are side effects—bloating, mood swings, risk of multiples if more than one embryo takes.”

Simran shook her head slowly. “Preeti… I won’t do these. I can’t. The thought of all that… poking, prodding, hormones messing with me… I just… I don’t want my body turned into a science project. Not yet. Maybe never.”

Preeti didn’t push. She simply nodded, expression soft. “Okay. We forget it for now. No pressure. You don’t have to decide anything today—or ever, if you don’t want to.”

Simran managed a small, grateful smile.

“Let’s order food first,” Preeti said, waving the waiter over again. “Eat. Breathe. We’ll figure the rest later.”

The butter chicken arrived steaming, fragrant with garam masala and cream. Simran tore off a piece of naan, dipped it, and took a bite. The warmth spread through her chest, grounding her.

Preeti watched her eat for a moment, then spoke quietly. “There are other ways, you know. Natural timing with supplements, lifestyle tweaks, even donor sperm if you both ever consider it. Or… adoption. But that’s a conversation for another day. Today, we just eat and be happy that your body is a goddamn miracle.”

Simran laughed softly, the tension easing. “You and your cow compliments.”

“Healthy, breedable cow,” Preeti corrected with a wink.

They clinked their glasses of sparkling water.

Outside, Chandigarh moved on—cars honking, people rushing—but inside that booth, two old friends sat in a pocket of understanding, no rush, no judgment.

Just food, laughter, and the quiet promise of whatever came next.


Preeti

The butter chicken was half-gone, the naan torn into perfect bite-sized pieces, when Simran set her spoon down and looked across the table.

“What about you guys? I mean, how are you and Shikha going to plan your future family?”

Preeti paused mid-chew, then gave a small, knowing smile. She swallowed, wiped her mouth with the napkin, and shrugged casually. “We have some plans. Nothing set in stone yet. Adoption is on the table, maybe surrogacy down the line if we feel like it. Shikha wants to carry one day, but we’re taking it slow. No rush.” She picked up another piece of naan. “We’re happy just being us for now.”

Simran nodded, then hesitated. “Preeti… you never asked about Ravi’s health. Not even once today.”

Preeti set the naan down, leaned back in her chair, and met Simran’s eyes steadily. Then she stood up abruptly—not in anger, but with that doctor energy that said she was about to make a point.

“Hey,” she said, voice firm but warm, “you know I’ve had dozens of cases exactly like yours. Borderline male factor, perfect female parameters, two-plus years of trying. I know the answer before I even ask the question. I saw the reports you forwarded last week. Low motility, morphology not great. But listen to me, Simmi—you guys cannot give up. Not yet. Not when your body is screaming ‘ready’ and his is just… lagging a little.”

Simran looked down at her plate, fingers twisting the edge of the tablecloth. “I know. We do try.”

Preeti sat back down, softer now. She leaned forward, elbows on the table, voice dropping to that intimate friend-tone she used only with people she trusted completely.

“How’s the sex life these days? Be honest.”

Simran’s cheeks flushed instantly. She glanced around the restaurant—nobody was listening, but still. She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, avoiding Preeti’s gaze. “Preeti…”

“It’s okay. Tell me. I’m not asking as a nosy friend. I’m asking as your doctor who needs the full picture.”

Simran exhaled slowly. “I’ve… had my share of sex. More than enough, honestly. But these days it’s… different. It’s more tensed. Like we’re both trying too hard. Every time we’re together, there’s this undercurrent—like we’re checking boxes instead of just… being. And sometimes I can see it in his eyes, this pressure. Like he feels he’s letting me down.”

Preeti nodded slowly, no judgment, just understanding. “That’s exactly what happens. The moment baby-making becomes the goal, the fun disappears. It turns into performance. And performance anxiety kills motility even more.”

She reached across and squeezed Simran’s hand. “Keep trying. Not mechanically—try to bring back the playfulness. Date nights without the ‘we have to do it tonight’ vibe. Maybe a weekend away. And I’ll give you some supplements for Ravi—good ones. CoQ10, zinc, L-carnitine, vitamin E, the combo that actually moves the needle in studies. Nothing miracle, but it helps in 30–40% of mild cases. Take them for three months, track ovulation properly, and let’s see. Sometimes that’s all it takes.”

Simran managed a small smile. “Okay. Supplements I can do. No needles, no clinics yet.”

“Exactly.” Preeti’s eyes lit up suddenly, mischievous again. “Hey, let’s meet up again tomorrow evening? Shikha and I are going to a club—nothing wild, just that new lounge in Sector 26. Good music, decent drinks, dark enough to dance without feeling watched. You and Ravi must join us. It’ll be fun. Take a break from all this baby stress. Just four friends, good vibes.”

Simran blinked, surprised, then laughed softly. “A club? Me and Ravi haven’t done that since… God, before we started trying.”

“Which is exactly why you should come. One night of zero pressure. Wear something sexy, dance with your husband, let him remember why he can’t keep his hands off you. Shikha and I will behave… mostly.”

Simran thought about it for a second—the idea of music, lights, Ravi’s hand on her waist, no calendars, no thermometers. It sounded… freeing.

“Sure,” she said, the smile growing. “Why not.”

Preeti grinned wide. “That’s my girl. I’ll text you the details. And Simmi?”

“Yeah?”

“Tomorrow, no talking about babies. Only dirty jokes, bad dancing, and maybe too many cocktails.”

They clinked their water glasses again, the sound light and promising.

Ravi

The evening sun had just dipped below the Chandigarh skyline when Ravi walked into the bedroom. Simran was already half-ready, standing in front of the mirror in her emerald green bodycon dress, adjusting one earring. She turned as soon as she saw him.

“So which club is it exactly?” Ravi asked, pulling off his tie and tossing it onto the bed. “Preeti messaged you the name, right?”

“Yes, that new lounge in Sector 26,” Simran replied, smiling brightly. “The one with the purple lights everyone’s posting about. I already told her we’re coming. No backing out now, okay?”

Ravi grinned and stepped closer. “I’m not backing out, jaanu. I’m actually looking forward to it. Just tell me—what did Preeti say during your check-up? Everything good with you? I am stupid, I am sure everything is perfectly fine.”

Simran walked over, placed both hands gently on his chest, and looked up at him. She kissed him once, softly, then again a little deeper. “Everything is perfect with me,” she said quietly. “And with you too. She said my reports are amazing—ovaries, hormones, everything textbook. She called me… breedable.” She laughed a little, cheeks turning pink.

Ravi raised an eyebrow, amused. “Breedable? That’s a new one.”

“Yeah, she was teasing. But seriously, she thinks we’re close. Just need a little help on your side.” She reached back to the dresser, picked up the small ziplock of supplement sachets, and pressed them into his hand. “These are for you. CoQ10, zinc, some vitamins. Take one every day with breakfast. She said it can improve motility in three months for a lot of guys.”

Ravi looked at the packets, then back at her. “I’ll start tomorrow morning. No problem. Anything that gives us a better shot, I’m all in.”

He pulled her into a proper hug. “You look really happy today. It’s nice to see.”

“I feel lighter,” she admitted. “Last night helped. And tonight… tonight is just for us. No calendars, no worries.”

They finished getting ready. Ravi put on his black slim-fit shirt, sleeves rolled up to show his forearms, dark trousers, and the silver chain Simran loved. He caught her staring in the mirror and winked.

Simran looked incredible. The emerald dress clung to her like a second skin—highlighting her full breasts, tiny waist, and those wide, swaying hips. The low back showed smooth skin, and when she moved, the fabric shifted just enough to remind anyone watching why heads turned wherever she went. She added strappy heels and left her hair loose in glossy waves.

“You’re dangerous tonight,” Ravi said, voice low.

She smiled that blinding smile of hers. “Good. I want you to remember why you married me.”

They picked up Preeti and Shikha from their apartment. Preeti looked sharp in black, Shikha striking in red.

Shikha opened her arms as soon as Simran stepped out of the car. “Finally! The famous Simran. Preeti never shuts up about you.”

Simran hugged her back warmly. “And you must be Shikha. Nice to meet you properly.”

Ravi shook Shikha’s hand. “Ravi. Good to finally put a face to the name.”

Shikha grinned. “You’re taller and handsome.” If Simran didn’t know better she would think, Shikha is hitting on Ravi in front of her. Simran said, “Preeti control your wife” And all laughed out.

At the club, the music hit them as soon as they walked in—deep bass, remixed Bollywood tracks, purple and blue lights pulsing across the dance floor. They grabbed a high table near the edge, ordered whiskey for the guys, vodka sodas for the girls, and a platter of starters.

Preeti raised her glass first. “To forgetting everything stressful for one night. Cheers!”

“Cheers,” everyone echoed.

Shikha leaned toward Ravi over the music. “Preeti says you’re always working late. Do you ever get a real break?”

Ravi shrugged with a small smile. “Trying to tonight. What about you? You used to do consulting too?”

“Yes, big corporate firm,” Shikha said. “Long hours, travel, suits. I quit two years ago. Now I do freelance strategy work. Much saner life.”

Simran nodded. “That sounds peaceful. I’m still in the social media grind—tracking trolls and fake accounts all day.”

Shikha laughed. “Better than spreadsheets, at least. Do you ever catch your own husband doing something stupid online?”

Simran glanced at Ravi playfully. “He knows better. One wrong like and I’d see it instantly.”

Ravi chuckled. “She’s scary when she wants to be.”

Preeti nudged Ravi. “Remember Rishab’s wedding reception? You tried that bhangra step and almost tripped over the carpet.”

Ravi groaned. “Why do you always bring that up?”

“Because it was hilarious,” Preeti said. “Simran, you saved him that night.”

Simran smiled. “He was cute. Very enthusiastic.”

They hit the dance floor for a while. Ravi pulled Simran close, hands on her waist, moving slowly to a softer track. She rested her head on his shoulder for a moment.

“This feels good,” she said softly, loud enough for only him.

“Yeah,” he replied. “It really does.”

Back at the table, a tall, handsome man approached—broad shoulders, sharp jaw, confident walk. He hugged Shikha first.

“Hey, Arjun,” Shikha said. “Long time.”

She turned to the group. “Everyone, this is Arjun. Old colleague from my consulting days.”

Arjun smiled politely. “Hi, Preeti. Good to see you.”

Then to Simran and Ravi: “Simran, right? And Ravi. Nice to meet you both.”

Ravi shook his hand—firm, professional. But he noticed Arjun’s eyes linger on Simran’s smile just a second too long. A small, familiar twinge of jealousy flickered in his chest, but he pushed it down. It was nothing.

They talked briefly over the loud music—mostly work stuff, the club vibe. Hard to hear everything.

Shikha asked, “Stay for dinner? We’re ordering soon.”

Arjun shook his head. “Wish I could. I’m with clients tonight.” He nodded toward a corner table where a well-dressed couple—late thirties or early forties—sat laughing over drinks. “Have to get back. Rain check?”

“Of course,” Shikha said.

He left with a quick wave.

Ravi watched him go, curious. “Old friend of yours?” he asked Shikha.

“Yeah, from way back,” she said. “Good guy. Does high-end consulting now—mostly with couples who own businesses.”

Ravi nodded, filing it away. Something about the whole thing felt… interesting. But he let it go.

Dinner arrived—grilled platter, pasta, more drinks. Conversation stayed light.

Preeti: “Next time we do dinner at our place. I’ll cook something decent.”

Simran: “Only if you promise not to set off the smoke alarm again.”

Everyone laughed.

Shikha to Ravi: “You’ve been quiet. You okay?”

Ravi smiled. “Just enjoying watching Simran have fun. It’s been a while.”

Simran squeezed his hand under the table.

Later, they dropped Preeti and Shikha home.

“Next weekend?” Preeti called from the gate.

“Definitely,” Simran replied.

Back in their flat, everything was quiet. Bhola had already turned in.

In the bedroom, Simran stood at the mirror in her slip, humming one of the club songs. She combed her long hair slowly, then applied her night cream—gentle circles on her cheeks, neck, collarbones. She looked peaceful, content.

Ravi watched from the bed, propped on one elbow. “You’re humming.”

She caught his eye in the mirror and smiled. “I know. I had such a good time tonight.”

“Me too,” he said. “You were glowing out there.”

She walked over, climbed into bed, and curled up against him. He wrapped his arms around her, pulling her close.

“Love you,” she whispered.

“Love you more,” he replied, kissing the top of her head.

They fell asleep tangled together—warm, happy, with the faint echo of music still in their ears.

To be continued… 

[Little finger]

Super story bro. Pls continue

[doodhwale_bhaiya]

The Forbidden Relief – My Wife's Secret

Chapter 2

 
Author’s Interlude
 
Before we plunge deeper into the slow unraveling of this seemingly perfect middle-class Punjabi household, let’s pause. Let’s pull back the lens just a little.
 
From the outside, Ravi and Simran Sharma’s life in their Chandigarh high-rise flat looks textbook enviable: dual incomes, tasteful furniture from Pepperfry and Urban Ladder, weekend brunches at Virgin Courtyard, annual Goa trips posted with just the right filter. The kind of couple that makes aunties sigh and say, “Kitna acha jodi hai, bilkul perfect.”
 
But no life survives a microscope without revealing its textures. Every marriage has its quiet fault lines—small, invisible until pressure is applied. And fertility pressure? That’s the kind of force that finds every crack and widens it, inch by delicious, shameful inch.
 
You already know Simran is beautiful. But let me paint her properly this time, because beauty like hers doesn’t just exist—it insists.
 
She stands 5’7” in bare feet—tall for a Punjabi woman, tall enough that her proportions don’t scream caricature the way shorter women with the same measurements sometimes do. Her body is 36-30-38, and yes, those are real numbers, not wishful fiction. The bust is full and round, a natural D-cup that sits high and proud even without a bra, the kind that makes even well-fitted kurtis look like they’re working overtime. The waist is genuinely narrow—30 inches of smooth, flat midriff that refuses to soften despite two years of marriage and endless plates of butter chicken. How? Because every single morning, rain or shine, she spends forty-five minutes on the treadmill in the corner of the guest room, followed by light dumbbells and planks. She does it quietly, earphones in, hair in a messy top-knot, wearing nothing but sports bra and leggings. The discipline shows: the stomach is taut, the faint vertical line down the centre visible when she stretches.
 
After every steamy shower, Simran emerges from the bathroom like a goddess stepping out of monsoon mist—skin flushed pink, steam still curling off her shoulders, the air thick with the scent of jasmine body wash and warm vanilla. She first wraps her knee-length black hair in a fluffy white towel, twisting it into a high, heavy bun that sits like a crown, a few damp tendrils escaping to cling to the milky curve of her neck. Then comes the ritual that turns even the most innocent bedroom mirror into a private theatre.
Naked except for that towel-turban, she stands in front of the full-length mirror in their bedroom, uncaps a large jar of rich, whipped body butter—something expensive, coconut and shea, scented faintly with rose and sandalwood—and begins the slow, deliberate massage. She starts at her collarbones, fingers gliding in wide, sensual circles, down the smooth plane of her flat stomach, over the gentle flare of hips, along the length of her long legs. But when she reaches her breasts—those perfect, full 36D globes—they become the undeniable focus.

She cups them generously, lifting their heavy weight before letting the lotion-slicked palms slide over the soft, milky undersides, then up and around. Her areolas are mature, wide, and a dusky pinkish-rose, framing nipples that harden instantly into tight, reddish buttons under the cool air and her own touch. As she massages in firm, upward strokes, they bounce—once, twice, three times—full, animated little jiggles that settle again pointing straight forward, as if staring directly at whoever might be lucky (or cursed) enough to watch. The motion is hypnotic, almost cartoonish in its perkiness, defying gravity for a heartbeat before surrendering to their natural, lush droop.
 
She moves lower next, parting her thighs just enough to smooth lotion over the neatly trimmed triangle of soft black hair—perfectly shaped, not a stray out of place, the delicate pink lips beneath glistening faintly from the shower and now from the sheer warmth of her skin, looking for all the world like a ripe, nectar-filled bloom waiting to be tasted. Her thick, naturally pouty lips (the kind that make men lose vocabulary) part slightly as she exhales, revealing the soft inner rose-petal pink of her mouth. A small diamond nose stud catches the light with every breath, and those large, kohl-rimmed eyes—dark, liquid, framed by long lashes—meet her own reflection with a quiet, private intensity, as though she knows exactly how devastating she is and chooses, every day, to pretend she doesn’t.
 
And then those hips. 38 inches of lush, womanly flare that turns every salwar into something hypnotic. When she walks, there’s a soft, natural roll—nothing exaggerated, nothing deliberate, just biology doing what it was designed to do. Her skin is that rare Punjabi milky-white, almost luminous, the kind that catches light and holds it. Even in the dullest tube-light, she glows. Soft, touchable, slightly dewy. The kind of skin that makes men think of cream, of milk, of things they shouldn’t say out loud.
 
So when Preeti—half-teasing, half-awestruck—called her a “healthy, breedable cow” during that clinic visit, it wasn’t just crude humour. It was medical admiration wrapped in dirty friendship. Because Simran’s body, at 34, is in peak fertility mode: wide childbearing hips, thick healthy lining, plump ovaries loaded with follicles, breasts that look heavy with promise even though they’ve never lactated. In gynaecology slang, “breedable” isn’t an insult—it’s a compliment. It means the hardware is flawless. All that’s missing is the right software.
 
And yet, in the privacy of her own home, Simran dresses like she has no idea how devastating she is.
 
At home she never wears anything cheap or trashy. No neon netted nighties from Sarojini Nagar, no two-piece satin sets that scream “trying too hard”. Instead, she chooses beautiful, expensive things—soft mulmul cotton nighties in pastel shades (ivory, blush, powder blue), knee-length or just an inch above, with delicate lace at the neckline and sleeves. Sometimes a full-sleeved maxi that flows like water when she moves. Sometimes a sleeveless shift that skims her curves and stops exactly where decency ends. Always modest in length, always elegant in cut.
 
But on Simran, modesty is a lie.
 
The fabric is thin enough that when she passes in front of a window, the light turns it translucent and you can trace the outline of her body like a secret. The necklines dip just low enough to show the upper swell of her breasts when she leans to pick something up. The waist cinches naturally, reminding you how small it is compared to everything else. And when she sits cross-legged on the sofa, the hem rides up her smooth thighs—not scandalously, but enough that you notice the milky skin, the faint stretch marks at the very top that only make her more human, more touchable.
 
Even if she threw a shawl over her shoulders and covered herself head to toe, it wouldn’t matter. The body underneath has already made its statement. Every sway, every breath, every casual bend says the same thing: fertile. Ripe. Waiting.
 
And through all of this walks Bhola.
 
Twenty-six years old. Quiet. Efficient. Always there, never in the way. He moves through their home like a shadow that cooks perfect sarson ka saag, presses Ravi’s shirts with military precision, and—without ever being asked—collects every single piece of intimate laundry. Simran’s lace bras, her damp morning panties, the nighties that carry her scent after a full day. He washes them by hand sometimes, when the machine feels too rough. No one has ever commented. No one has ever needed to.
 
He sees things. He hears things. He smells things.
 
And he says nothing.
 
For now.
 
Because this story isn’t in a hurry. We’re only at the beginning of the slide.
 
So sit back. Get comfortable. Maybe dim the lights. Keep one hand free—you know exactly why.
 
The textures are just starting to show.
 
To be continued…

[M¡Lf€@TeR]

Ultimate !!

[Rocky@handsome]

Fabulous

❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️

[doodhwale_bhaiya]

Simran
 
Two months had slipped by in quiet rhythm—supplements swallowed daily, ovulation tracked with renewed tenderness, lovemaking reclaimed from the calendar’s tyranny and returned to the slow burn of real desire. The flat felt lighter somehow, the air less thick with unspoken worry. And then, one ordinary Tuesday, everything shifted.
 
Simran’s call came at 4:17 PM while Ravi was still in a client review meeting. Her voice on the phone was soft, almost secretive, laced with something that made his pulse jump before she even spoke the words.
 
“Ravi, when are you coming home?”
 
“I’ll reach by 7, jaan. Tell me, anything important?”
 
“No no, you just come. And listen… okay, you come first.”
 
He pressed, half-laughing, half-alarmed. “Simran, what is it? Everything okay?”
 
She only repeated, gentle but firm, “Just come when you can.”
 
He didn’t wait. The meeting ended early, excuses made, laptop slammed shut. By 5:30 he was pushing through the society gate, heart hammering like a teenager sneaking home after curfew.
 
She was waiting in the living room, standing near the window in a simple cream cotton kurti and palazzo, hair loose and still damp from an afternoon shower, mangalsutra glinting against the soft swell of her chest. Her hands were clasped in front of her, fingers twisting nervously, but her eyes—those large, dark, liquid eyes—were shining.
 
Ravi dropped his bag by the door. “Jaan… what happened? You’re scaring me.”
 
She took one step toward him, then another, until she was close enough for him to smell the faint jasmine still clinging to her skin.
 
“Ravi,” she whispered, voice trembling with joy, “we are pregnant.”
 
The words landed like a thunderclap in the quiet room.
 
For a heartbeat he just stared, mouth open, brain catching up. Then the joy exploded out of him—raw, unrestrained, the kind of shout that comes when you win the biggest lottery of your life. He lunged forward, scooped her up into his arms like she weighed nothing, her surprised laugh bursting against his neck as he spun her once, twice. He kissed her face everywhere—forehead, cheeks, nose, lips, chin—muttering “Oh my god, oh my god” between each frantic press of his mouth.
 
Then reality crashed back. Pregnant. She was pregnant.
 
He set her down immediately, carefully, as though she were made of glass, guiding her to the edge of the bed. She sat, still glowing, still laughing softly at his panic. Ravi dropped to his knees in front of her, hands resting lightly on her thighs, looking up like a devotee at an altar.
 
“I’m so happy,” he said, voice cracking. “Jaan… I’m so, so happy.”
 
He leaned in, pressed his forehead to her stomach—still flat, still the same taut midriff he’d kissed a thousand times—and stayed there a moment, breathing her in, letting the miracle settle into his bones.
 
Then he stood, suddenly energized. “Bhola!” he called toward the hallway. “Bhola, Idhar aana!”
 
Bhola appeared almost instantly, wiping his hands on a kitchen towel, expression calm as ever.
 
“Ji, Sahib?”
 
“We’re going out. Right now. Get the car ready. We’re celebrating tonight.”
 
Bhola’s eyes flicked to Simran for a split second—something unreadable passing through them—then he nodded. “Ji, Sahib. Five minutes.”
 
They chose a beautiful rooftop restaurant in Sector 17, the kind with fairy lights strung overhead, soft jazz floating on the evening breeze, and a view of the city lights twinkling below like scattered stars. They took a corner table, private enough for whispers, ordered champagne (non-alcoholic for her), butter chicken, garlic naan, and all her favorites. The waiter barely left before Simran started talking words tumbling out in a happy rush.
 
“We have to start planning everything,” she said, eyes bright. “First, the doctor—Preeti, obviously. Regular check-ups. I need to start folic acid if I haven’t already… oh, and no more late nights for you, Ravi. You have to sleep properly now. And the nursery—we can convert the guest room, paint it soft yellow maybe? Or green? Something calm. And names! We should start thinking about names. Boy or girl, doesn’t matter, but I want something strong, something beautiful…”
 
Ravi just watched her, chin on his hand, smiling like a fool. Every time she paused to breathe, he reached across and squeezed her fingers. “Whatever you want, jaan. All of it.”
 
Halfway through dessert she pulled out her phone, face flushed from the excitement and one sip too many of sparkling juice. “I have to call Preeti.”
 
Preeti picked up on the second ring. Simran didn’t even let her say hello.
 
“Preeti! We’re pregnant!”
 
A delighted shriek exploded from the speaker. “Simmi! Oh my god! When did you test? How many weeks? Tell me everything!”
 
They talked for ten minutes—Preeti demanding details, laughing, scolding gently. “Listen, both of you—don’t tell anyone for the next three months. First trimester is crucial. Keep it between us. I’ll see you in the clinic day after tomorrow, okay? And Simmi… I’m so fucking happy for you.”
 
They hung up, Simran’s eyes misty. Ravi raised his glass. “To us. To the little one.”
 
“To us,” she echoed. ”But we cant tell anyone. Preeti is right.”

Ravi agreed “Of course, there is enough time to tell everyone.”
 
They came home late, the city quiet around them. Bhola had already turned in, lights dimmed, the flat smelling faintly of the incense Simran always lit before bed.
 
In the bedroom, the mood shifted—slow, reverent, almost sacred.
 
They undressed each other without hurry. Ravi’s hands were careful now, tracing her collarbones, her waist, the still-flat plane of her stomach with something like awe. He kissed her there, long and lingering, murmuring against her skin, “Thank you… thank you for this.”
 
Simran pulled him up, kissed him deeply, tasting the champagne on his tongue. She guided him onto the bed, climbed over him, her long hair falling like a curtain around them. The lovemaking was tender, unhurried—slow rolls of hips, soft gasps, fingers laced together. He moved inside her with deliberate care, watching her face the whole time, whispering how beautiful she was, how perfect, how he couldn’t believe this was real. She clung to him, legs wrapped around his waist, breathing his name like a prayer as pleasure built in quiet waves.
 
When they came, it was together—soft, shuddering, intimate—her nails digging lightly into his back, his face buried in the crook of her neck.
 
Afterward, they lay tangled, her head on his chest, his hand resting protectively over her stomach. The room was dark except for the faint glow of the night-light.
 
Simran whispered, sleepy and content, “We did it, Ravi.”
 
He kissed the top of her head. “We did it.”
 
They fell asleep like that—warm, full, and—for the first time in years—completely at peace.

[doodhwale_bhaiya]

The next two months passed in a gentle, almost reverent hush. Preeti’s clinic became a second home—regular scans, blood work, heartbeat checks—all of it perfect. The little one was growing exactly as it should: strong heartbeat at 150 bpm, crown-rump length on target, no signs of concern. Preeti walked them through every precaution with her usual mix of clinical precision and big-sister warmth: no raw food, limited caffeine, prenatal yoga instead of treadmill, no heavy lifting, sex only if comfortable (and gentle), plenty of rest. Simran listened like a student, nodding, taking notes on her phone, her hand unconsciously resting over the faint, still-invisible swell beneath her kurtis.
 
Ravi transformed overnight into the most attentive husband imaginable. He started leaving office by 6 PM sharp—no more late-night calls, no more weekend escalations. He cooked breakfast on Sundays (slightly burnt parathas, but made with love), massaged her feet every evening while they watched TV, brought her fresh coconut water without being asked, even carried her purse when they went for walks in the society park. He spoke to her stomach in soft Punjabi whispers when he thought she was asleep—“Beta, Papa aa gaya hai”—and kissed the spot every night before turning off the light.
 
Bhola, too, shifted into something quieter, more watchful. He moved through the house like a guardian now—extra careful with the floors so she wouldn’t slip, always keeping the water filter full and chilled, preparing light, digestible meals (khichdi with ghee when she felt queasy, fresh fruit platters, almond milk instead of tea). He never said much, but his eyes followed her whenever she moved through the rooms, lingering just a second longer on the subtle curve of her belly. When she thanked him, he only bowed his head slightly—“Ji, Bhabhi, aap araam karo”—and went back to his work, folding her freshly washed nighties with a care that bordered on reverence.
 
Then came the day that broke everything.
 
Simran was driving back from yet another routine check-up at Preeti’s clinic, the radio playing softly, her mind floating on the high of another “all good” report. The traffic light turned green. She eased forward. A DTC bus, too fast, too close, clipped the rear side of her Creta. The impact spun the car, the airbag exploded in a deafening white cloud, and everything went black.
 
No visible wounds—no blood, no broken bones—but the force had been brutal. She was unconscious when the ambulance arrived. Paramedics rushed her to the nearest hospital, the same one where Preeti had privileges.
 
Since there was a file of Prescription of Preeti’s clinic, the doctors at the nearest hospital called Preeti. She in turn immediately called Ravi. Preeti reached first and checked Simran. Ravi got the call while in a meeting. He ran out without a word, phone still pressed to his ear, his face became white. Preeti met him in the corridor outside the emergency ward, already in scrubs, her face grim.
 
Ravi saw Preeti and she said dont worry she is fine. Dont panic. She asked him to wait outside as Simran was unconscious. She came outside after half an hour and saw Ravi pacing through the corridor.
 
She pulled him aside, away from the nurses.
 
“Ravi… Simran is fine, dont worry. She is just unconscious from the shock. She is about to wake up but listen, i need to tell you something. You are her biggest pillar now. You need to be the one who takes on the burden of this news.
 
Ravi.... the baby didn’t make it.”
 
The words landed like a physical blow. He stared at her, uncomprehending, then his knees buckled. He slid down the wall, head in his hands, and cried—deep, wrenching sobs that echoed in the sterile hallway. A grown man, Senior Project Manager, father-to-be, reduced to a child in seconds.
 
“She’s going to be devastated,” he choked out between gasps. “She wanted this so badly… Preeti, she’s going to break.”
 
Preeti knelt beside him, hand on his shoulder. “We’ll get through this. Together. But first you need to be strong. You cannot let her break down. Else you will lose her, she will be samlibe but her mind will be gone. Ravi, you need to decide how to act in front of her. I will give you a few minutes to go inside. But we will tell her depending on her mental make tomorrow.”
 
Simran woke the next morning to soft daylight filtering through hospital blinds. Ravi was on one side of the bed, eyes red and swollen. Preeti on the other, holding her hand.
 
She looked at their faces—saw the grief—and knew.
 
Her lips trembled. “No…” she whispered.
 
Then louder: “No… no… no… NO!”
 
The sobs tore out of her—raw, animal, unstoppable. She curled into herself, clutching the sheet over her stomach as though she could will the life back inside. Ravi tried to hold her; she pushed him away at first, then clung to him, crying into his shirt until it was soaked. Preeti stroked her hair, murmuring, “Baby, don’t worry… it will be fine… we’ll try again… you’re strong…”
 
Nothing helped. The grief was a storm that refused to pass.
 
It was nothing short of a miracle to make her stop crying and sobbing.
 
Ravi came outside the cabin and called Bhola and told him, “Bhola get some wearable pyjamas, tops, undergarments etc that Simran wears in house and don’t forget to get two sets at least. Her toothbrush etc too”.
 
Bhola came after sometime with everything he said. He was having mixed feeling taking out the small lacy panties and bras for Simran as they made him stay looking at the drawer full of her panties and Br for a bit longer than usual. Infact he never opened this drawer, he only took them out from drying in sun and then kept them on her bed and she kept them inside her drawer. But today he was all alone in the house asked to do this but then he was struck by lightening as to why he was here, her madam was in hospital, in an accident, in ICU probably. He kicked himself for thinking like that. After sometime he came to the hospital with the things. He was met by Ravi outside with Preeti talking and Ravi said, “Bhola goto her room in 69D and keep in her drawer. Don’t disturb her, she is sleeping”.
 
“Ji Sahib”. Bhola went to 69D and found Simran awake. Bhola was taken aback. She had some bruises on the side of her face but nothing much. But what shocked him was she was wearing a hospital dress, a filmsy blue coloured shirt and trouser. The problem was she was not wearing any bra and her nipples were poking out like crazy as the shirt was not her size. No one realised it except Bhola till now and his you know what, but Bhola got another kick on his stomach like before as to why he was here. Bhola started talking to her showing her what he got by letting her see inside the bag. She said to keep those things in the Almirah and Bhola after that sat in a chair next to her and started talking a bit as to how she is feeling now and getting angry at the Bus driver. But it was hard for Bhola to concentrate. This was the first time Bhola saw Simran braless and her huge boobs tight against the shirt and he could easily see her large button-like nipples poking out at him. Bhola digested the image and told Simran he will come again in the evening with something else as it was getting increasingly uncomfortable for him.
 
They brought her home three days later. The flat felt different—too quiet, too empty. Bhola stood at the door when they entered, head bowed, eyes downcast especially since his memory played the same images again and again. Perhaps once you see something in life which is life changing you can’t unsee it. Something inside him had changed. Simran asked, “Bhola, how are you?“ Bhola laughed and said, “I am good Bhabhi, tell me how are you feeling.” “I am fine, Thank you! “
 
He had cleaned everything spotless, lit a small diya in the puja corner, prepared her favorite light kheer. When Simran walked past him, he stepped aside respectfully, but his voice was softer than usual.
 
“Bhabhi… aap araam karo. Main sab sambhal loonga.”
 
He meant it. For the next week, Bhola became the silent pillar of the house—cooking, cleaning, running errands, never once complaining. Ravi stayed home too, working from the study, never more than a room away from her.
 
But Simran was fading. She barely ate, barely spoke, spent hours staring out the window or lying in bed with her hand on her stomach, tears slipping silently.
 
Ravi couldn’t watch it anymore.
 
One evening he sat beside her on the bed, took her hand.
 
“Jaan… let’s go away. Just us. Maldives. One week. No phones, no reminders. Just sea, sun, and you. We need to breathe. And you are not going to say No.”
 
He called Bhola and said, “Bhola humare suitcase pack kardo. Ek hafte ke liye. Bhabhi tumhe bata dengi kya kya leke jana hai, unko haath mat lagane dena.“ Simran protested that she can pack her own luggage, but Bhola also said “Nehi Bhabhi aap tension na lo, main pack kar deta hun. Aap dekhke bata dena.” None of them realized what they are going to do by this simple innocent but life altering activity. Starting from her beautiful dresses, down to her skimpiest panties, Bhola packed without any hue or cry. Hell, even he didn’t realise what he was doing. Although he thought for a second if that bikini top would hold her boobs in place but didn’t linger on it for more than a second.
 
After 1 hour, Bhola came down with her suitcase, kept it on the diwan next to the sofa and said, “Bhabhi aap check kar lijiye, main aapke aur Sahab ke liye chai banake lata hun” and he went away. Simran looked at the luggage and didn’t feel a thing, subconsciously she did feel some tingle somewhere but nothing more.”
 
She looked at him for a long moment, then nodded—small, exhausted, but willing.
 
They flew out five days later. A quiet resort on a private atoll—white sand, turquoise water, overwater villa. No crowds, no questions. They walked barefoot on the beach at sunrise, held hands under the stars, swam in the warm sea. Ravi never pushed; he just stayed close. Slowly, the salt air and the rhythm of the waves began to loosen the knot in her chest. She cried less. She smiled once—small, tentative—when a baby turtle crawled toward the ocean at dusk.
 
By the end of the week she was eating properly again, sleeping through the night, even laughing softly at his terrible dad jokes.
 
They came back quieter, but steadier.
 
The flat welcomed them with the same gentle normalcy. Bhola had kept everything perfect—fresh sheets, flowers in a vase, her favorite rose attar restocked. He didn’t ask questions, didn’t offer empty platitudes. He simply served dinner, cleared the table, and retreated.
 
Simran stood in the living room that first night back, looking around at the life they had built.
 
She turned to Ravi, eyes still shadowed but clearer.
 
“We’ll be okay,” she whispered.
 
He pulled her into his arms, kissed her forehead.
 
“We will.”
 
To be continued… ?

[Rocky@handsome]

Great going!! Keep it up Bro!!
❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️

[desihunter]

It's going to be a great story

[doodhwale_bhaiya]

Bhola 

Three months had passed since the accident that stole their unborn child. The flat had settled into a fragile new normal—Ravi back at the office but always checking in, Simran slowly returning to her routines, the grief still there but no longer a constant storm. Bhola, however, had never stopped watching.
 
Bhola Singh was not from Chandigarh. He came from a small, dusty village called Dholakpur, tucked deep in the Malwa region of Punjab, about four hours’ drive from the city. It was one of those places that barely showed on Google Maps—narrow lanes of baked mud and brick houses, a single gurudwara at the centre, fields of wheat and mustard stretching out like a green sea in winter. The village had no mall, no cinema, no ATM. What it did have was something far older and far stranger: a quiet, generations-old reputation as a place where barrenness ended and wombs came alive.
 
People whispered about Dholakpur the way they whispered about secret pilgrimages. Women who had tried everything—doctors, temples, mantras—would arrive quietly with their mothers-in-law, sometimes even husbands trailing behind like guilty shadows. They came from nearby villages, from Bathinda, Moga, even as far as Ludhiana. They stayed in the homes of the few families known for “the knowledge,” ate simple food, listened to old women speak in low voices, and left with small cloth pouches of powders, roots, seeds, and handwritten slips of instructions. No one advertised it. No one charged money openly. It was all given as “blessing,” with the understanding that you would return one day with sweets and a newborn in your arms to show gratitude.
 
The secret wasn’t magic, or at least not the kind people imagined. It was a mix of ancient herbal knowledge passed down through certain families—things like ashwagandha, shatavari, safed musli, kaunch beej, and other roots and barks that modern science was only beginning to study. But more than the ingredients, it was the belief: the village elders said that grief and despair were the biggest poisons to a woman’s body. A sad womb stayed closed; a happy one opened like a flower. So, the powders weren’t just medicine—they were meant to lift the spirit first, to awaken hunger, desire, energy, the will to live and love again. Only then, the elders claimed, would the body remember how to create life.
 
Bhola belonged to one of those families. His mother had been the last of the women who prepared the mixtures; now his elder sister-in-law carried the knowledge. When Bhola had gone back to the village two weeks after the accident—telling Ravi and Simran he needed to see his ailing father—he hadn’t gone for rest. He had gone for answers.
 
He sat with his sister-in-law late at night in the small courtyard, the kerosene lamp flickering, while she listened to the story of the accident, the miscarriage, Simran’s silence and tears. She didn’t interrupt. When he finished, she simply nodded, went inside, and returned with a small steel dabba.
 
“Give her this,” she said. “One small spoon in warm milk every night for seven days. Then stop for two weeks. Then again for seven days. Nothing else—no doctor talk, no questions. Just milk and this.”
 
Bhola looked at the fine, light-brown powder inside—smelling faintly of earth and something sweet, like dried jaggery.
 
“What is it?” he asked quietly.
 
His sister-in-law smiled, small and knowing. “It wakes up what grief has put to sleep. It brings back the want to live. The want to be touched. The want to be a woman again. If her heart opens, the body follows.”
 
He asked, “Will it do what they want? Will it help her get happy? Explain me please.”
 
“Bhola don’t worry, it will be just fine. It will make her more, how do I explain…you will see. She will be fine. There is only one issue that sometimes happen but if that does happen you can tell me, I will explain you what to do. Btw no need to get ahead of ourselves. Just chill”
 
He took it without another word, tucked it into his shirt pocket, and returned to Chandigarh the next day.
 
Back in the flat, Bhola resumed his silent routines—cooking, cleaning, folding laundry. But now there was one extra task he performed alone, every evening.
 
Simran liked a glass of warm milk before bed—turmeric sometimes, just plain other nights. Bhola prepared it himself, stirring in a tiny spoon of the powder when no one was looking. It dissolved instantly, no taste, no colour change. He thought a lot if he should tell them what powder he is mixing, but he thought if he informs them then they won’t take it as it’s not exactly urban practice to follow rural practices such as this. So, he handed her the glass with his usual respectful “Ji, Bhabhi, doodh garam hai,” and watched from the corner of his eye as she drank it slowly, sometimes while reading on the couch, sometimes while staring out the window.
 
After the first seven days, the change was subtle at first, then undeniable.
 
Simran’s skin began to glow again—not the forced brightness of makeup, but the deep, inner luminosity she used to have. She started humming in the kitchen while making tea. She laughed—really laughed—at one of Ravi’s silly jokes over dinner. She put on her treadmill again, not for long, but enough to feel her body moving. She answered work emails, joined video calls, even wore the soft, fitted kurtis she had avoided for months because they reminded her too much of the bump that never came.
 
She didn’t sulk anymore. The tears came less often, then not at all. She touched her stomach sometimes, but not with despair—with a quiet, almost curious gentleness, as though checking if the space was still hers.
 
Bhola noticed everything. He said nothing. He felt very happy that his contribution helped. Little did he know what dangerous effect it was having on her.
 
After the two-week break, he repeated the ritual. Another seven nights of milk laced with the powder. The results deepened. Simran started planning small things again rearranging the guest room, buying fresh flowers for the dining table, talking about weekend drives with Ravi. Her eyes sparkled when she spoke to Preeti on the phone, no longer avoiding the topic of babies but listening with something like hope.
 
Simran

A few days after the second course of the mysterious milk powder had ended, Simran felt ready enough to step back into the world of routine check-ups. She booked a simple follow-up with Preeti—not for any crisis, just the quiet need to hear that her body was still hers, still working, still healing. Ravi offered to come along, but she shook her head gently. “Just me this time, jaan. I’ll be fine.”
 
Preeti’s clinic felt familiar again: the soft hum of the AC, the faint antiseptic smell mixed with the rose incense Preeti always burned in the corner, the same examination table with its crinkly paper sheet. Simran changed into the gown, lay back, and let Preeti run through the basics—blood pressure, weight, a quick listen to her heart and lungs.
 
Preeti glanced at the chart, then at Simran, her expression softening into that familiar mix of doctor and best friend.
 
“Everything looks good, Simmi. BP is perfect, no anemia, thyroid steady. Your body’s doing exactly what it should after… what happened.” She paused, setting the stethoscope aside and pulling up a stool so they were eye-level. “But listen, because this came on so suddenly—the miscarriage, the trauma—your hormones are still catching up. The body doesn’t always get the memo right away that the pregnancy is over.”
 
Simran nodded slowly, fingers twisting the edge of the gown.
 
“So, you might still get those mood swings for a little while longer—random tears, feeling extra emotional, maybe even some cravings or aversions that feel like old pregnancy ghosts. And yeah…” Preeti gave a small, knowing smile, patting Simran’s thigh lightly. “Your body might hold on to a bit of extra weight for some time. Water retention, hormonal padding, all that jazz. Nothing to worry about, my healthy, breedable cow. It’ll sort itself out when your system realises it’s safe to let go.”
 
Simran stared for a second, then burst into laughter—real, surprised, bubbling-up-from-the-chest laughter that made her eyes water in a different way. “You’re impossible, you know that?”
 
Preeti grinned wide, mischievous as ever. “What? I’m just stating medical facts. You’re still a gorgeous, fertile goddess. A few extra kilos and some rogue hormones don’t change that. Your cow status remains premium grade.”
 
Simran laughed harder, reaching out to swat Preeti’s arm playfully. “Stop calling me a cow!”
 
“Never,” Preeti shot back, winking. “Now go home, tell that husband of yours you’re officially cleared for normal life, and keep doing exactly what you are doing, because something is clearly keeping your energy high and its very good. It’s clearly working wonders.”
 
Simran’s laughter faded into a soft, grateful smile. She slid off the table, hugged Preeti tightly, and whispered, “Thank you.”
 
Preeti hugged back, fierce and warm. “Anytime, babes. Now get out of here before I start measuring your hips again.”
 
As Simran buttoned her kurti and reached for her dupatta, the conversation drifted back to lighter, more personal territory. She glanced at Preeti, who was updating her chart, and asked casually, “By the way… how are things with you and Shikha? Any progress on the family planning front?”
 
Preeti paused, pen hovering over the paper. She set it down, leaned back against the counter, and gave Simran a long, thoughtful look—as though weighing whether this was the right moment to share something heavy. Then she smiled, a little wickedly, deciding the news might be the perfect raunchy distraction after everything Simran had been through.
 
“Do you remember Arjun?” Preeti asked.
 
Simran’s brows lifted. “The tall guy from the club that night? Shikha’s old colleague?”
 
“Exactly.” Preeti crossed her arms, voice dropping to that conspiratorial tone she saved for the juiciest bits. “After a lot of thinking, we decided to go with donor sperm. Shikha wants to carry the child herself—she’s been clear about that from the start.”
 
Simran blinked, surprised. “But… usually donor info is kept completely anonymous, right? Like, no names, no faces.”
 
Preeti nodded, then shrugged with a small, knowing grin. “Yes, usually. But we thought… why not know the person? It feels safer. We know his health history, his genetics, his habits. No surprises later. And honestly?” She leaned in closer, eyes sparkling. “Arjun is a fine specimen.”
 
The word “specimen” hung in the air like a spark—clinical yet filthy, teasing yet deliberate. Simran felt it lodge somewhere low in her belly, warm and unexpected. Her mouth opened to ask more—how long had they been planning this? Was Arjun actually involved, or just the donor? Did Shikha… know him that way?—but before she could form the question, a sharp knock interrupted.
 
The nurse poked her head in. “Preeti ma’am, Mrs. Aggarwal is here. She’s in pain—looks urgent.”
 
Preeti sighed, straightening up. “Duty calls.” She turned back to Simran, squeezing her shoulder. “We’ll talk more this weekend. We’re hitting the Club again—same group, same vibe. I’ll fill you in more then. Promise.”
 
Simran managed a small, intrigued laugh despite the interruption. “You better.”
 
Preeti winked as she headed for the door. “Wouldn’t dream of leaving my favorite cow hanging.”
 
Simran watched her go, the word “specimen” still echoing quietly in her mind, stirring something she hadn’t felt in months—curiosity, heat, a faint, forbidden flicker of want.
 
Simran left the clinic lighter than when she’d arrived, the words still echoing gently in her mind—no permanent damage, just time. Her body was confused, but it was trying. And somehow, that felt like enough.

[doodhwale_bhaiya]

Simran

It had been several weeks since the second cycle of the hidden powder in her nightly milk, and Simran had begun to feel like herself again—perhaps even more than herself. Energy returned in quiet waves, her laughter came easier, her body moved with a renewed, almost restless grace. But nature, once stirred, does not always announce its intentions politely.
 
One humid afternoon, the house was still. Ravi was at the office, Bhola had stepped out to the market for fresh vegetables. Simran had curled up for a rare midday nap in the bedroom, wearing nothing but a soft, knee-length mulmul nightie and her usual padded bra underneath—the one with the wide straps that kept her full breasts comfortably lifted even in sleep.
 
She turned in her sleep, shifting onto her side, and a sudden, sharp twinge shot through her chest—like a deep, internal pull. She woke with a small gasp, disoriented, one hand instinctively pressing between her heavy breasts. The pain wasn’t severe, but it was strange, unfamiliar, like her body was reminding her of something it had forgotten how to say.
 
She sat up slowly, nightie slipping off one shoulder, and padded barefoot to the attached bathroom. The cool marble floor grounded her as she sat on the commode. When she relaxed, the sound of her stream hitting the water echoed louder than usual in the quiet room—sharp, forceful, almost obscene. A shiver ran up her spine, goosebumps blooming across her arms and the back of her neck. She felt her cheeks flush. It was ridiculous—how could something so ordinary suddenly feel so… intimate, so exposed?
 
She finished, cleaned herself carefully with the hand jet, the warm water making her sigh despite herself, then dried with soft tissue. As she stood and tugged her flimsy cotton panty back up her thighs, she paused. Something felt off. Not down there—up higher.
 
She looked down.
 
Her nightie was dry. No sweat stains from the mild afternoon heat. Yet there was a faint, unmistakable dampness blooming across the front of her bra, right over the peaks of her breasts. Two small, dark circles had formed on the padded cups, growing slowly, like ink spreading on paper.
 
Simran frowned, confused. She reached up, cupped her breasts through the fabric—full, warm, heavier than usual—and felt the wetness seep into her palms. Her nipples, already prominent under the soft padding, were stiff, almost aching. The sensation sent another ripple through her.
 
Simran lifted the nightie above her head exposing her heart shaped buttocks protruding outward asking to be patted and let the nightie slip from her fingers deliberately, not a hurried escape, but a slow, conscious surrender. The soft mulmul fabric whispered down her body like a lover’s final caress, pooling at her feet in a pale puddle. She took off her bra and let it fall. She stood topless in the bathroom’s soft light, wearing only the thin, high-cut cotton panty that clung to her like a second skin.
 
The tiny garment did nothing to hide; it worshipped. The fabric stretched taut across the dramatic flare of her hips, the waistband biting gently into the creamy flesh just above her pubic bone, creating that perfect, shallow dip where belly met mound. From behind—if anyone had been there to see—the panty framed her ass like an offering: two gigantic, heart-shaped globes, impossibly round and full, the kind of ass that sways with every step and makes men forget their own names. The cotton rode high on the cheeks, exposing generous lower curves, the deep cleft between them shadowed and inviting, while the front panel clung damply to her swollen lips, outlining the plump, nectar-slick seam in obscene detail.
 
But it was her breasts that commanded the scene. Freed completely, they hung heavy and proud—full 36D orbs that defied gravity just enough to point forward. She stood like a fertility idol come to life: skin glowing with that post-powder luminosity, long black hair cascading wild over her shoulders, framing the deep valley between her leaking breasts. One hand rested on her hip, accentuating the dramatic hourglass—narrow waist flaring into lush hips and that dripping, heart-shaped ass—while the other hovered near her chest, fingers trembling as though unsure whether to catch the milk or coax more out.
 
The entire picture was shameless, primal, dripping of sex: a woman whose body had awakened against her will and now refused to be silenced. Milk leaking, pussy dampening the panty, ass framed like ripe fruit begging to be split open, breasts offered forward as though waiting for worship or violation.
 
She looked like sin made flesh—beautiful, fertile, and utterly, irrevocably aroused.
 
She looked at her mangoes in the mirror. They looked… different. Fuller. The skin tauter, veins faintly visible beneath the milky surface.
 
Without thinking, almost as though her hands belonged to someone else, she lifted them—offering them to her own reflection. The weight felt delicious in her palms. She squeezed gently, testing. Nothing.
 
She squeezed again, firmer this time, thumbs brushing the stiff peaks.
 
A bead of clear liquid appeared at the tip of one nipple—then the other.
 
She caught her breath and her heart skipped a beat.
 
She squeezed harder, this time it was instinctive, fingers digging into the soft flesh. A thin jet of warm milk sprayed out, arcing through the air and splattering against the mirror in tiny white droplets. She startled so violently she almost stumbled backward, like a child seeing fireworks for the first time.
 
Heart hammering, she stared at the mirror—at the streaks slowly sliding down the glass, at her own wide-eyed reflection, at the twin droplets still beading on her nipples.
 
She didn’t let go.
 
She squeezed again. Nothing. Again. Nothing. Then again—harder, more deliberate—and another quick spurt shot out, painting fresh lines across the mirror.
 
The sound was soft, wet, obscene.
 
Simran’s knees trembled. Heat radiated from her face, her chest, her core. Between her thighs she felt a slick warmth that had nothing to do with the bathroom jet. Her breathing came shallow, ragged.
 
She didn’t know what this was—lactation without pregnancy? A cruel echo of what had been lost? Or something else entirely, something the powder had awakened that refused to sleep again?
 
Her nipples were still leaking in slow, rhythmic beads. Milk continued to weep from the reddened tips, thin white rivulets tracing lazy paths down the undersides, dripping in soft plops onto the marble. Each droplet caught the light, glistening like liquid pearls before falling. Her areolas were flushed dark rose, swollen and puckered, the tiny Montgomery glands standing out in erotic relief around the thick, erect nipples that throbbed visibly with her quickening pulse.
 
But she understood one thing with terrifying clarity:
 
This was the first time.
 
And like a boy who shaves his face for the very first time—once the blade touches skin, the beard comes back thicker, faster, darker. There is no going back to smooth, untouched cheeks. The body remembers the act. It learns. It insists.
 
Simran stood there, hands still cradling her leaking breasts, staring at the milky streaks on the mirror like they were a message written in a language she was only beginning to understand.
 
And somewhere deep inside her, a quiet, hungry part of her body whispered: Breedable….Cow.
 
Breedable What?

Simran came back to her senses. She was holding her breasts and rubbing them and standing topless in just a panty. She hurriedly wore her bra and nightie and came out of the bathroom, the mirror, if it was alive, felt like in 7th heaven slurping its tongue to taste the virgin milk on its face.

[doodhwale_bhaiya]

 
Our Simran