Adultery The Forbidden Relief – My Wife's Secret

[Mohan88]

Brilliantly going.. rope in her friends too!
--- all by low class male/s

[Nobita]

Old man will come a bit late. There are a lot of young people that need some release..

It is going to be bhola

[M¡Lf€@TeR]

Its too good so far. V satisfying on the whole

[doodhwale_bhaiya]

Simran
 
Simran emerged from the bathroom in a daze, the sundress already feeling too constricting against her still-sensitive skin. She let it slip off her shoulders, pooling at her feet once more, leaving her completely bare—no bra, no panties, just the faint sheen of milk drying on her breasts and the slick warmth lingering between her thighs. She crashed onto the bed face-down, pulling the light cotton sheet over her body in a half-hearted attempt at modesty. Exhaustion claimed her almost instantly, the trance-like release pulling her into a deep, dreamless sleep.
 
Under the thin sheet, her figure was a study in erotic vulnerability—a voluptuous silhouette molded by the fabric like a sculptor’s dream. Her breasts, still full and slightly swollen from the milking, pressed heavily into the mattress, the sheet dipping into the deep valley of cleavage and clinging to the damp undersides where faint traces of milk had seeped. The curve of her back arched gently, leading to the dramatic flare of her hips, the heart-shaped ass rising like twin pillows beneath the cover—plump, inviting, the sheet riding up just enough to expose the lower curves and the shadowed cleft between them. Her long legs tangled loosely in the fabric, thighs parted slightly in sleep, revealing the bare, glistening folds that peeked from between. She looked like a goddess in repose—fertile, aroused, utterly unguarded—her body radiating a quiet heat that whispered of secrets awakening.
 
She slept soundly for the next four hours, the afternoon sun slanting through the curtains in golden stripes across the bed. When she woke, disoriented and blinking at the clock, surprise washed over her. How had she slept so deeply, so long? Her body felt heavy, languid, the ache in her chest dulled but not gone. She sat up slowly, the sheet slipping away, and decided impulsively to get ready—as though dressing for the outside world might ground her in normalcy.
 
She started with fresh panties—soft, high-waisted lace in nude that hugged her hips like a whisper, the fabric kissing the damp warmth between her thighs and accentuating the lush curve of her ass. Next came the bra, a supportive beige number with wide straps; she hooked it at the front, adjusting the cups to cradle her tender breasts, the padding absorbing any residual moisture while lifting them into perfect, rounded peaks. Over that went a simple white blouse, buttoned just low enough to hint at cleavage without scandal. She slipped into fitted black jeans that molded to her thighs and flared slightly at the ankles, the waistband cinching her narrow midriff and flaring out over her generous hips. A light cardigan in soft gray completed the look, dbangd casually over her shoulders. For makeup, she kept it minimal: a touch of kajal to rim her large eyes, making them pop with quiet intensity; nude gloss on her full lips, highlighting the natural pink pout; a spritz of rose attar at her neck and wrists. She twisted her long hair into a loose bun, a few tendrils escaping to frame her face.
 
But as she stood before the mirror, ready to step out—perhaps to drive aimlessly, perhaps to confide in Preeti—she hesitated. The leaking… it felt too raw, too intimate. Scandalous in its eroticism, like a secret her body had whispered only to her. The urge to tell someone bubbled up fiercely—Preeti, with her teasing “cow” jokes and doctor’s detachment, seemed the perfect confidante. Simran could almost hear herself spilling it: the milk, the squeezing, the shameful pleasure. But no—it was too early, too strange. What if it was nothing? What if it stopped? She shook her head, changed her mind, and stripped back down.
 
She pulled on her normal knee-length nighty instead—soft ivory cotton, sleeveless with lace at the neckline, skimming her curves without clinging, the hem brushing just above her knees. Comfortable, familiar, hiding the secrets beneath.
 
Ravi came home that evening to the usual quiet rhythm: dinner prepared by Bhola, Simran humming softly in the kitchen. She didn’t tell him—not yet. The words stuck in her throat, too confusing, too charged. The evening passed normally—conversations about his day, her work calls, a shared laugh over a TV show. They went to bed as always, his arm around her waist, her head on his chest, the ache in her breasts a silent companion as sleep claimed them.
 
The next morning brought the same insistent feeling—heaviness in her chest, a deep, throbbing fullness that begged for attention. Ravi had an early meeting; he kissed her goodbye after a quick breakfast of aloo parathas and coffee, oblivious to the storm brewing inside her. “See you evening, jaan,” he murmured, squeezing her hand.
 
The door clicked shut. Simran stood alone in the kitchen, hand pressing against her nighty over one breast. She knew what it was—the milk building again, her body demanding release. But she didn’t want to acknowledge it, didn’t want to name the way it made her feel alive in ways she hadn’t in months. Not yet.
 
 
Preeti
 
The afternoon sun filtered through the sheer curtains of Preeti and Shikha’s Sector 8 apartment, casting a warm, golden haze over the living room. Preeti sat on the edge of the cream leather sofa, her white doctor’s coat discarded on the armrest, now in a simple black tank top and yoga pants that hugged her athletic frame. Shikha paced slowly in front of her, her red silk robe tied loosely at the waist, revealing glimpses of the lacy bralette beneath. The air was thick with unspoken tension, the kind that had been building since their decision to pursue family planning had taken this unexpected turn.
 
“Preeti, this is a decision we need to take together,” Shikha said, stopping to face her wife, her voice steady but laced with vulnerability. “I know we need this—but are you sure about it? Really sure?”
 
Preeti leaned forward, elbows on her knees, her sharp cheekbones catching the light as she met Shikha’s gaze. She had always been the more decisive one, the doctor who dealt in facts and probabilities, but right now, her expression softened into something tender, almost protective. “Shikha, I understand your feelings in this context. Please tell me what is it that’s troubling you? Is it the process? The timeline? Or… something else?”
 
Shikha sighed, running a hand through her short, wavy hair, the platinum band on her finger glinting. She sank onto the sofa beside Preeti, their thighs brushing in that familiar way that always grounded her. “I know it’s new to us both, but Preeti, do you really want me to get pregnant this way? I never thought about it like that, you know? It was always just a fun thing—the teasing, the fantasies we shared in bed. Now it’s real. I know you’ve done all my tests, confirmed I’m ready… but does it need to be Arjun?”
 
Preeti reached out, taking Shikha’s hand in hers, interlacing their fingers. She squeezed gently, her thumb tracing slow circles on the back of Shikha’s palm—a habit from their early days, when everything felt uncertain. “Not at all,” she replied softly, her voice carrying the calm authority of her profession mixed with the intimacy of their marriage. “I’m not at all wanting Arjun to be the donor here if it makes you uncomfortable. But let’s talk it through. He tested fine—perfect health markers, no genetic red flags—and his profile came up in the donor database before we even thought about approaching him personally. It felt… serendipitous. Safer, knowing him. But if you’re afraid, or if it changes how you see us, we can forget about it right now. We can go back to anonymous donors, or surrogacy, or even pause everything and revisit later. This is about us, Shikha. Our family.”
 
Shikha leaned her head on Preeti’s shoulder, inhaling the faint scent of antiseptic and lavender that always clung to her after a clinic shift. “You make it sound so straightforward,” she murmured, a small smile tugging at her lips despite the knot in her chest. “I’m not afraid, exactly. It’s just… Arjun. We know him. He’s my old colleague, for god’s sake. Handsome, yes—tall, sharp jaw, that confident walk that turns heads. And god, his laugh at the club that night… But what if it complicates things? What if I look at the baby and see him? Or worse, what if you do?”
 
Preeti chuckled softly, pulling Shikha closer into a side embrace. “Baby, that’s exactly why I like the idea. No mysteries. We know he’s healthy, intelligent, kind. Remember how he handled that drunk guy at the club without breaking a sweat? Steady, reliable. And honestly…” She paused, her voice dropping to a playful whisper, lips brushing Shikha’s ear. “He’s a fine specimen. If we’re doing this, why not choose someone who’d give our kid those good genes? But seriously—if it feels wrong, we stop. I don’t want you carrying any doubt along with the baby.”
 
Shikha lifted her head, searching Preeti’s eyes. There was no jealousy there, no hesitation—just love, fierce and unwavering. It was what had drawn her to Preeti in the first place: that unshakeable confidence in them. “You’re right,” she admitted finally, her tension easing into a reluctant grin. “I’m not afraid at all. It’s just nerves. The idea of carrying… of us becoming moms… it’s huge. Let’s talk about it more later. We will get late for the evening. Simran and Ravi are about to come and get us in an hour.”
 
Preeti nodded, pulling her in for a deep, lingering kiss—slow and reassuring, the kind that melted away the last traces of doubt. When they broke apart, she cupped Shikha’s face in her hands. “Shikha, I love you. And please don’t be bothered at all. I will take care of you—through every scan, every craving, every late-night worry. This is our journey. Arjun or not, anonymous or known… we’ll make it perfect.”
 
Shikha smiled fully now, leaning in for one more quick kiss. “I know you will. Now go change—we can’t show up to the club looking like we just rolled out of bed.”
 
Preeti laughed, standing and pulling Shikha up with her. “Speak for yourself. You in that robe? I’d cancel the whole night.”
 
As they headed to the bedroom to get ready, the decision hung in the air—not fully resolved, but closer, wrapped in the quiet strength of their bond. Tonight would be a distraction—friends, music, laughter. But later, in the quiet hours, they would circle back, mapping out the path to the family they both craved.
 
To be continued…

[doodhwale_bhaiya]

Gadhe ka Lund
 
Bhola: Let us understand this character a bit more with a magnifying glass because he is like a shadow in this house and is never registered as present but his absence is always felt because he is ensuring no one needs something in the house, especially Simran these days. Bhola’s village as already told before had a specific speciality of making a potent powder which when consumed actually increased the libido of male or female to a very high extent. To some people it also increases the productivity of semen thereby increasing the chances of pregnancy. In females, which is an even more complicated setup, as it can give birth to life, has a completely different effect. It rewires the brain to always want more copulation, thereby increasing chances of pregnancy, produces more glow to the body by increasing the breast size, attracting males, and also increases milk production to a very high extent to not only feed the baby but to feed her partner too who in turn on drinking that milk will have increased libido to have copulation and now you know the cycle is kind of never ending.
 
Now one day while Bhola was in his village home he observed, infact heard moans from his brother’s room, thereby peeping and seeing his Bhabhi having sex with his brother. Now all this is something natural, but what he observed was this engagement went on for quite sometime, to the extent that he was having sex for at least an hour before getting an orgasm. He tried to think what might be the reason for such a stamina but could never find his brother consuming anything special. Then one day he noticed his Komal Bhahi having a spoon of that powder by mixing it in the milk and then consuming it. But it was random or so he thought. It was not. Komal was having it for 7 days every three months. This was enough for the cycle of copulation, cucking milk and then again copulation again and again for atleast three months. Anyways, Bhola saw all this and that’s why he asked his Bhabhi about helping Simran and that’s why Komal helped him and since Simran had a miscarriage, Komal thought giving her the powder two times for 7 days each after a gap of two weeks will help Simran to get pregnant again. Instead it kick started the milk production first as her body was thinking her baby is already born as explained by Preeti also.
 
The twist in the drama is not over here for Bhola. Bhola had also consumed the powder for quite a few days while he was in his village but since he was not having a partner he didn’t get a chance to start the cycle. He was not into the “handsome” business and hence he more often than not spent that energy in doing rural strengthening exercises including a lot of village wresting etc for 2 years. But now he left all that. The twist is if a male does not involve himself with another female to dissipate that energy, he instead gains in strength of withholding orgasm, in addition his organ also considerably increases in length and girth. Ofcourse a man wont become an elephant, if you know what I mean, but he might actually turn into a donkey. But this sideeffect, if you want to call it a side effect, is not known to anyone, not even Bhola, because he never compared size of dicks with anyone and neither his sister in law because no one came to her alone to consume this. So this natural calamity will burst one day. Who knows when.
 
Now coming back to present day.
 
 
Bhola
 
Since the day Simran's accident had shattered the fragile peace of the house, Bhola had taken on even more without a word—cooking lighter meals to tempt her appetite, keeping the floors spotless to prevent any slips, even handling the most intimate chores that no one else seemed to notice or mind. The laundry had always been his domain, a quiet ritual that blurred the lines between servant and family. Simran's panties and bras were no exception; he gathered them from the bathroom floor or the hamper, soaked them gently in soapy water if needed, then fed them into the washing machine on the delicate cycle. Once clean and sun-dried on the discreet balcony line (hidden from neighbors' eyes), he folded them with careful precision—panties into neat squares, bras hooked and stacked—and placed them back in her undergarment drawer, nestled among the lace and cotton like secrets he was trusted to keep.
 
It had become the norm because it was convenient. Simran and Ravi were busy with their lives, their grief, their recoveries; who else would do it? Simran had felt a faint unease at first—years ago, when Bhola first took over after the old maid left—but it was already too late to change. Telling him now, after all this time, to stop drying her panties would feel scandalous, awkward. There was only one drying spot in the flat—the balcony—and separating her intimates would mean explaining, drawing attention to something that had slipped into silent acceptance. For Bhola, it wasn't perversion; it was connection. Touching the soft fabrics that had clung to her body felt like a quiet bond, a way to care for his Bhabhi without words. Scandalous to an outsider, perhaps—imagining a young village man handling the sheer lace thongs or the padded bras still warm from her skin—but for him, it was duty, devotion. Not yet anything more.
 
That afternoon, as he collected the discarded nightie, dry towel, and panties from the bathroom floor, he noticed the anomalies without judgment. The bra—still hooked and damp across the cups, as though soaked from the inside—lay abandoned near the sink. The panties were stained, not with the usual faint marks of daily wear, but something slicker, more pronounced, carrying a subtle, musky scent that lingered on his fingers. He didn't think much of it—what was it to him? Bhabhi's body, Bhabhi's secrets. He simply bundled them with the rest, carried the basket downstairs to the utility area, and started the wash.
 
But unconsciously, as the machine hummed to life, his mind drifted back to the powder. Incidentally, Komal also called at the same time. “Bhabhi namaste”.
 
"Bhola? Sab theek hai?"
 
"Ji, Bhabhiji," he replied quietly, glancing around to ensure the house was empty. "Bhola kaise hai teri Simran Bhabhi?”
 
“Ji, wo pehle se bahot khush hai, mujhe lagta hai aapki medicine kaam kar gayi.”
 
Komal was confused. She asked, eagerly, “Khush matlab? Dhang se bata na.”
 
“Matlab Bhabhi wo sabhi kaam mein man lagta hai unka, office ka kaam bhi kar rahi hai, Sahib ke saath bhi bahot sahi reh rahe hai”
 
Komal, wanted to know that whether Simran’s sex drive has increased or not, but she didn’t know how to ask. Still she said..
 
“Bhola, Simran Bhabhi ke chehre mein koi badlav aya hai?”
 
“Ji, wo kafi chamakti hai.”
 
Komal thought this glow is because of sex. She said, “Ok Bhola koi problem hota hai to batana mujhe. Aur baki kaisa hai tu?”
 
“Bhabhi sab bariya koi problem nehi, waise wo powder ke liye bahot bahot shukriya. Ghar mein matav ka mahaul tha, abhi sab thik ho gaya hai.”
 
She paused, then said, “Bhola, wo powder kuch nehi, bus logo mein ichcha honi chahiye, tujhe bhi kabhi mushkil ho to tub hi use aajmake dekh sakta hai. But waise wo mard ke liye zarurat nehi hai, sirf aurat ko hi dena chahiye. Waise lene ke liye koi bhi le sakta hai. But tujhe abhi nehi chahiye, samjha.” And smiled and the after sometime finished the call.
 
He has a jar of that powder now, initially he had just a pouch but after first week he had gone home again to get a jar of the same. Bhola already knew it does not matter if he consumes it, it has no effect on him, or so he thought.
 


Author
 
Now, I am sure you guys have definitely heard about the Adam and Eve story—how one bite from the Apple changed the future of humanity forever, unleashing knowledge, desire, and all the messy consequences that come with tasting the forbidden. Similarly, this was going to happen with this family and some more in the near future as well. The powder, like that fateful fruit, had been offered in innocence, but its effects were ripening fast—stirring hungers that couldn't be unbitten, unlocking doors that led to darker garden as you know how. When? Time will only decide. So sit tight and relax… and don't forget about keeping one hand free. You know why.
 
Btw just because you think you know what is in the script now, don’t underestimate my imagination. Its creepy and sick. It will give you what you want, but then you might never be able to come out of it.

[Givemeextra]

  . . . . .  . . .

Author
 
Btw just because you think you know what is in the script now, don’t underestimate my imagination. Its creepy and sick. It will give you what you want, but then you might never be able to come out of it.

Oh we are ready and waiting   .     Many Readers demand such writing skill levels 


One request - Could you kindly add English translation for sentences in hindi.

[doodhwale_bhaiya]

Oh we are ready and waiting   .     Many Readers demand such writing skill levels 


One request - Could you kindly add English translation for sentences in hindi.

I will do one thing. I will try to keep it mostly in English. I will make Hindi translations instead wherever required.

[chellaporukki]

Great start, no cuckold please

[Mohan88]

Bhai , update?

[doodhwale_bhaiya]

The Mangoes
 
The clock in the living room ticked toward 6 PM, the late afternoon light fading into a soft amber glow that seeped through the flat's windows. All day, Simran had danced around the insistent ache in her breasts—ignoring the heavy, unnatural tightness, the faint damp spots blooming on her nightie, telling herself it would pass like a fleeting cramp. But the evening loomed: the club meet with Preeti, Shikha, Ravi, and the others. The thought of sitting through drinks and laughter with this secret pressure building inside her was unbearable. What if it leaked through her dress? What if the pain sharpened mid-conversation? No—she had to deal with it now, before it betrayed her in public.
 
She slipped into the bathroom, heart pounding, and locked the door with a soft click. Her hands moved almost on their own, grasping the hem of her knee-length nightie and peeling it upward in one fluid, desperate motion. The fabric whispered against her skin as it lifted, exposing her bare thighs, the naked mound between them (still no panties from earlier), and finally her full, aching breasts spilling free as the nightie cleared her head and fell to the floor. She stood there for a moment, panting, completely nude except for the invisible sheen of arousal that had been simmering all day.
 
Her fingers fumbled with the bra clasp—hooked at the front for easy access—and snapped it open. The cups fell away like shed skin, releasing her breasts with a soft bounce. They looked obscene in the mirror: swollen beyond their usual lush fullness, veins faintly blue beneath the milky-white skin, areolas wide and darkened to a deep rose, nipples erect and throbbing like they were alive with their own pulse. Heavy, tight, unnatural—they hung like overripe fruit begging to be plucked, the undersides already glistening with a faint precursor of what was to come.
 
Simran cupped them immediately, one in each hand, lifting their weight with a gasp. The touch alone sent an electric shock racing through her nerves—sharp, jagged pleasure laced with pain that made her knees buckle slightly. She squeezed, tentative at first, fingers digging into the taut flesh. A squeal escaped her lips—high, involuntary, echoing off the tiles like a secret confession. But she didn't stop. Couldn't. She squeezed again, harder, thumbs pressing into the base while her palms compressed the fullness. The shockwave rippled deeper this time, coiling low in her belly, making her thighs clench against the growing slickness between them.
 
Three more squeezes—deliberate, rhythmic—and still no relief. No milk. Just building pressure, her nipples hardening further into tight, reddish peaks that ached for more. She shifted her grip, pinching one nipple between her index finger and thumb, pulling it outward with a firm tug. Pain bloomed—hot, exquisite—drawing another moan from her throat, low and throaty, her free hand clutching the sink for support. The pull stretched the sensitive bud, sending sparks straight to her core, her bare pussy clenching emptily as arousal dripped slowly down her inner thigh.
 
Desperation took over. She focused on her right breast first, using both hands: the left cupping and squeezing the heavy globe from below, lifting and compressing in slow, milking strokes, while the right pulled and twisted the nipple outward. Three attempts—each one building the tension like a coiled spring. Her moans grew louder, breathy, her hips rocking subtly as the pleasure-pain blurred into something intoxicating. Then, on the fourth, it broke: small drops beaded at the tip, pearlescent and warm, swelling until they trickled down her areola in lazy rivulets.
 
She squeezed more insistently now, fingers working in tandem—lift, compress, pull. The drops turned to a thin stream, then—suddenly—a forceful spray erupted, arcing through the air in a fine white mist that painted the mirror in splattered droplets. The sight was hypnotic: milk jetting from her nipple in pulsing bursts, warm and sweet-scented, streaking the glass like forbidden art. She moaned openly now, the sound raw and needy, her left hand abandoning the right breast to mirror the motion on the left—squeezing, pulling, coaxing.
 
Both nipples answered in unison: twin sprays shooting forward, crossing in the air before splattering the mirror, running down in creamy trails that fogged the reflection slightly. Her breasts softened under the assault, the tightness easing with each rhythmic pull, but the erotic charge only intensified. Milk coated her fingers, dripped from her undersides onto her bare thighs, mixing with the slick arousal now freely trailing down her legs. Her pussy throbbed, untouched but aching, the sprays syncing with the involuntary clenches of her core. She leaned forward, bracing one hand on the sink, the other alternating between breasts—squeeze - spray, squeeze -spray, squeeze - spray, moaning incessantly and lost in the trance of her body's betrayal.
 
Half an hour passed in this haze—her hands tireless at first, then aching from the effort, her breasts finally yielding to a softer fullness, still brimming but no longer painfully taut. The mirror was a mess of white streaks, the air thick with the floral sweetness of her milk. She released her breasts at last, palms sticky, nipples raw and glistening, her body trembling with exhaustion and unmet need. Relief washed over her, but so did fatigue—her hands needed rest, her boobs too, hanging heavy and spent, soft yet full of the milk that had only begun to reveal its demands.
 
After the exhaustive milking, Simran leaned against the sink, chest heaving, her body slick with a fine sheen of sweat and milk. The ache had subsided to a dull hum, but a new pressure stirred lower—a familiar urgency in her bladder, amplified by the erotic haze still clouding her mind. She hooked her thumbs into the waistband of her panties—already damp from the arousal that had built during the squeezing—and lowered them slowly, the fabric peeling away from her swollen, glistening lips with a soft, sticky sound. She stepped out of them, leaving them tangled at her ankles, and sat on the commode, thighs parted wide, the cool porcelain a stark contrast to the heat radiating from her core.
 
She relaxed, and the stream began—strong, steady, the sharp hiss of it echoing in the bowl like a forbidden whisper. Like the other day, the sound and sensation made her tingle: the warm rush cascading from her, the faint splash below, the way it vibrated through her sensitive folds. Goosebumps prickled across her skin, her nipples—still raw and leaking faintly—tightening again. She glanced down at her discarded panties on the floor and froze. The crotch was soaked, not just with the clear slickness of her arousal, but streaked with thicker, opaque white liquid.
 
Had she… squirted?
 
During the milking?
 
The realization hit like a wave—her body had betrayed her again, releasing not just milk but this creamy essence from deeper within, mingling with her piss's aftermath. Confusion swirled in her mind: what was happening to her? Lactation, squirting, this insatiable heat—her body was rewriting itself, awakening hungers she didn't recognize. But beneath the bewilderment, a dark thrill bloomed. She liked it. The scandal, the wetness, the raw femininity of it all—it made her feel alive, powerful, dangerously wanton.
 
Even as she pissed, her eyes drifted to her right breast, hanging heavy and spent. A fresh drop of milk formed at the nipple's tip—pearlescent, trembling—swelling until it broke free and trailed down the curve. Without thinking, in a trance-like auto mode, her finger rose to catch it under the nipples, scooping the warm bead onto her fingertip. She brought it to her lips, tongue darting out in a natural reflex, tasting herself—sweet, faintly nutty, creamy like forbidden nectar. The flavour exploded on her tongue, sending a shiver through her entire body, her pussy clenching emptily as the last of her stream tapered off. She shuddered at the realization of what she'd done—tasting her own milk, like some primal ritual she hadn't been taught but knew instinctively. Her cheeks burned, but so did the fire between her legs.
 
She reached for the hand jet, angling the warm spray upward with deliberate slowness. The water hit her pussy lips first—plump, flushed, and parted slightly from the day's arousal—cascading over the sensitive folds in a teasing torrent. She adjusted the pressure, letting it pulse against her clit, the erotic cleansing making her gasp as it rinsed away the mingled slickness of milk residue, squirt, and piss. Her free hand parted her lips wider, fingers spreading the soft, velvety petals to expose the inner pink, the jet delving deeper, swirling around her entrance in rhythmic circles that mimicked a lover's tongue. The sensation was intoxicating—warm water licking at her most intimate crevices, flushing out the creamy evidence while stoking the heat again. What she wanted to do was to clean her pussy, instead she had something else in mind, which was not her fault at all. She lingered longer than necessary, hips tilting forward, a soft moan escaping as the spray teased her swollen nub, sending jolts of pleasure up her spine. Finally, satisfied and even wetter than before, she dried herself with a soft towel—patting gently, almost caressingly, over the smooth mound and down the slick inner thighs—then picked up her panty lying on the floor and pulled them back up, the damp fabric clinging possessively to her aroused lips, her pussy lips.
 
She hooked her bra back on, the cups cradling her softened breasts with a gentle hug, faint damp spots already forming again. But she didn't bother with the nightie or anything else. She stepped out of the bathroom in just her bra and panties—lacy, sheer, hugging her curves like a second skin—feeling bold, exposed, the flat's quiet air kissing her bare midriff and thighs. The scandal of it thrilled her; no one was home, but the risk lingered in her mind as she moved through the space, her body humming with unsatisfied need.
 
 
The Crowd
 
Let’s put some lineage to this sudden unstoppable erotica. Let’s see who these people are and what else must we know. So.
 
Before we dive deeper into the unravelling threads of this tale, let's pull back the curtain on the people orbiting Ravi and Simran's world. Every family has its hidden layers—beauty, loss, desires unspoken—and this one is no exception. These are the women who shape the edges of our story, each one a vision of erotic allure that lingers like perfume in a closed room.
 
Simran's younger sister, Jasleen, is just two years her junior, making her 32 now. Settled in Bangalore with her husband, a tech executive, she's childless by choice for the moment—focused on her career as a graphic designer in a bustling ad firm. Jasleen shares Simran's Punjabi glow but with a sharper, more athletic edge from her yoga obsession. At 5'5", she's slimmer than her sister, a 34-28-36 that moves with feline grace—firm breasts that strain against her fitted blouses, nipples often visible through thin fabrics in Bangalore's humid heat, and hips that sway like a slow invitation. Her skin is a warm honey tone, her long hair often tied in a messy ponytail that begs to be pulled, and her full lips curve into smiles that promise mischief. Erotic in her subtlety, Jasleen's body whispers of untapped fire—thighs toned from squats, ass pert and rounded like ripe peaches, the kind that jiggles just enough in yoga pants to turn heads at the gym.
 
Their mother, Nimrat, is the root of it all—a stunning widow at just 50, having married young and lost her husband to a sudden heart attack when the girls were teens. Now a successful fashion designer in Mumbai, she crafts elegant ethnic wear that hugs curves like a lover's hands. Nimrat is voluptuous in the way only maturity can sculpt: 5'4" with a 38-32-40 figure that defies her age, her heavy breasts still sitting high and proud, often spilling softly over low-neck blouses in her own designs, nipples dark and prominent under sheer sarees. Her skin is flawless, a creamy fairness that glows under Mumbai's lights, her waist cinched by years of discipline but flaring into wide, childbearing hips that sway with hypnotic rhythm. Erotically, she's a masterpiece—full lips painted red, eyes lined with kohl that smolder like embers, and an ass so lush and rounded it strains against her fitted skirts, drawing stares wherever she goes. Nimrat's body radiates experienced sensuality, the kind that makes men (and women) wonder what secrets her bedroom holds.
 
Ravi, on the other hand, carries the weight of loss like a quiet shadow. An orphan now—his parents passed away in a tragic car accident while he was on a short work stint in the US five years ago—he returned broken, burying himself in his career until Simran entered his life two years later. Marriage to her became his anchor; he needs her like air, his attachment fierce and unwavering. Ravi does everything for Simran—cooks her favorite meals on weekends, surprises her with rose attar, prioritizes her happiness over money, comfort, or even his own ambitions. He's wired that way now, his love a shield against the void his parents left. Nimrat and Jasleen adore him for it; they meet the couple only occasionally—festivals in Mumbai or quick Bangalore visits—but when they do, they shower him with affection, treating him like the son and brother they never had, grateful for how he cherishes Simran.
 
And why leave Preeti and Shikha out of this spotlight? These two are the wild cards, the friends who blur lines and ignite sparks. Preeti, the Chandigarh-born gynecologist, stands at an average 5'5"—not towering, not petite, but beautifully proportioned with a figure that's all about those unforgettable boobs. A 36-28-34 that turns heads without trying, her breasts are her crowning glory: full, round D-cups that sit high and jiggle softly with every step, often straining against her fitted tops or doctor's coat, nipples poking through like hidden invitations. Her skin is fair with a golden undertone, her face framed by a sleek ponytail, large eyes sparkling with mischief, and lips that curve into teasing smiles. Erotically, she's a temptress—curves that beg to be traced, an ass firm but secondary to the hypnotic bounce of her chest, and a bisexual fire she keeps mostly hidden, though her gaze lingers on women as much as men.
 
Shikha, her Delhi-raised wife and freelance strategist, matches her in height and beauty but flips the script with an ass that's pure sin. Also 5'5" with a 34-28-38 frame, her breasts are perky C-cups, but it's her lower half that steals the show: wide hips flaring into a gigantic, heart-shaped ass that's plush and jiggling, the kind that fills out jeans like they're painted on, cheeks so round and firm they sway with every stride. Her skin is a warm olive, her short hair tousled and sexy, eyes sharp and inviting, lips full and often bitten in thought. Erotically charged, Shikha's body screams indulgence—thighs thick and toned, ass begging for a slap or squeeze, and her open bisexuality adding that layer of bold desire. It's why she wants to carry their child now—to feel that fullness, that transformation, embracing her body's potential in ways Preeti fully supports.
 
This drama is going to impose a lot of changes in everyone's life—twisting bonds, awakening secrets, reshaping desires in ways no one sees coming. Especially yours, at least while you're reading it. So keep one hand free and read away.
 
 
Ladies First
 
Preeti and Shikha's realization of their shared attraction to women unfolded gradually, like a secret blooming in the quiet corners of their friendship-turned-romance. It started during their med college days in Chandigarh, where late-night study sessions in cramped hostels turned into confessions over cheap coffee. Preeti—always the bolder one—admitted first, only to herself: she'd had flings with boys in college, passionate but chaotic encounters that left her feeling unmoored. Sex with them made her lose herself in a bad way; the sight of a well-hung cock, its thick veins pulsing with life, the way it throbbed and stretched her, turned her into a slave to the raw, animalistic pull. It was crazy eroticism—the heat, the fullness, the way it commanded her body to arch and beg—but it scared her too, pulling her away from that path forever. She craved control, softness, the intimate dance of equals. Shikha was her first love. So when Shikha told her own stories that she'd dated men, enjoyed the thrill, but always felt a deeper pull toward women—the curve of a hip, the softness of lips, the way a woman's touch lingered like silk, Priya kept her crazy sexcapades to herself. Only Shikha had embraced her bisexuality openly from the start, while Preeti kept hers hidden until that night, their eyes meeting in a spark that changed everything.
 
One rainy evening in their final year, after the last gruelling exam, they crashed in Shikha's room, tipsy on smuggled rum and exhaustion. The alcohol played cupid. The air was thick with unspoken tension; It was thundering and raining heavily like pussies….i mean cats and dogs. Shikha leaned in first, her full lips brushing Preeti's in a tentative kiss that deepened into hunger. They undressed slowly, hands exploring—Shikha's fingers tracing the generous swell of Preeti's breasts, thumbs circling the hard nipples until Preeti moaned, arching into the touch. Shikha's ass, that magnificent heart-shaped wonder, pressed back against Preeti's thigh as they tangled on the bed, her skin warm olive against Preeti's fair glow. Preeti's mouth found Shikha's neck, sucking gently, then trailed down to her perky C-cups, tongue flicking the dark nipples until they pebbled hard. Shikha gasped, her hand sliding between Preeti's legs, fingers dipping into the slick heat, circling the swollen clit with expert pressure. They ground together, bodies slick with sweat, Preeti's voluptuous boobs bouncing softly against Shikha's chest as they scissored—wet folds sliding in rhythmic friction, moans building to a crescendo.
 
But the real fire ignited when Shikha pulled out a hidden dildo from her drawer—a thick, veined silicone toy, realistic and imposing. Preeti's eyes widened, that old slave-like pull stirring as Shikha teased her entrance with it. A few strokes in—deep, filling thrusts that stretched her walls and hit that sweet spot— and Preeti lost it, her body bucking wildly, moans turning to cries as the veins mimicked the real thing, pulsing against her inner ridges. She came hard, squirting in a gush that soaked the sheets, but the intensity terrified her—too much like the men who'd made her feel out of control. She pulled away abruptly, panting, "No more… not for me." Then, flipping the script, she grabbed the dildo and turned on Shikha like a woman possessed—strapping it on with trembling hands, pushing Shikha onto her back, and plunging in deep. Shikha's lush ass lifted to meet each thrust, her cheeks jiggling with the force, moans filling the room as Preeti fucked her crazy—hard, relentless strokes that made Shikha's pussy clench and cream around the toy, her hands clawing at Preeti's bouncing breasts. They came together in a shuddering wave, collapsing in a tangle of limbs, the dildo forgotten as they kissed softly, sealing their bond in sweat and whispers. From that night, Preeti knew women were her safe harbour, but the fire of that "crazy eroticism" still simmered, waiting for the right storm to unleash it.
 
So now let’s get back to present day. The evening when both couples were to meet at the club again.

[Givemeextra]

The Mangoes
 
The clock in the living room ticked toward 6 PM, the late afternoon light fading into a soft amber glow that seeped through the flat's windows. All day, Simran had danced around the insistent ache in her breasts—ignoring the heavy, unnatural tightness, the faint damp spots blooming on her nightie, telling herself it would pass like a fleeting cramp. But the evening loomed: the club meet with Preeti, Shikha, Ravi, and the others. The thought of sitting through drinks and laughter with this secret pressure building inside her was unbearable. What if it leaked through her dress? What if the pain sharpened mid-conversation? No—she had to deal with it now, before it betrayed her in public.

The episode under title The Mangoes was so beautifully written. When reading it, it was as if we were standing there seeing the things happening
Wow, what an update. Congrats.
Hope to read more very soon -> so many hot body women in family , so many combinations among themselves possible    

[M¡Lf€@TeR]

Yah man , More yummy pussiz ! Lucky bhola.
& @doodhwale overall ur imagination is all encompassing man. , real lyf events , moods ..

[doodhwale_bhaiya]

Beauty and her Breasts
 
Simran’s voice came muffled through the bathroom door, a little breathless, a little rushed. 
“I need some more time. You go ahead and watch something.”
 
Ravi paused in the bedroom, halfway into his black shirt, and shrugged with a small smile. “Okay, jaan. No hurry.” He settled on the bed, phone in hand, scrolling mindlessly while the sound of running water filled the flat.
 
Inside the bathroom, there was no calm. Simran was frantic—heart racing, breasts aching with fresh fullness after the long day of avoidance. She had to finish this before the club, before anyone noticed the damp patches or the way she winced when she moved. The steam shower had already begun, hot water cascading over her naked body in thick clouds, fogging the mirror, turning the small space into a humid cocoon. She stood under the spray, letting it pound against her swollen breasts, nipples tightening instantly as the heat soaked into the taut skin. The steam wrapped around her like a lover’s breath, making her skin flush pink, droplets tracing slow paths down her heavy curves, pooling in the deep valley of her cleavage before dripping off the undersides.
 
She didn’t waste time. Hands flew to her breasts—cupping, lifting, squeezing in quick, desperate strokes. Milk came faster this time, spurred by the heat and urgency: thin jets spraying against the tiled wall, running down in creamy rivulets that mixed with the shower water and swirled toward the drain. She moaned softly, the sound swallowed by the steam, her hips rocking as the release sent shivers straight to her core. Three minutes of frantic milking—pull, spray, moan—until the pressure eased, her breasts softening, nipples still leaking but no longer painfully full. She rinsed quickly, soaping her body with jasmine body wash, fingers lingering between her thighs where the earlier arousal still clung.
 
She stepped out dripping, wrapped a large white towel around her torso—barely covering from chest to upper thigh—and grabbed the hairdryer. Bent over the sink, she dried her long black hair in hurried blasts, waves falling glossy and full past her waist, framing her flushed face. Makeup next: kajal to rim her large eyes, nude gloss on her full lips, a touch of highlighter on her cheekbones. She glowed—skin luminous from the steam, breasts still tender and slightly swollen beneath the towel, ass cheeks peeking below the hem as she moved.
 
In the bedroom, she dropped the towel, letting it pool at her feet. Naked for a heartbeat, she slipped into her chosen dress: a deep emerald green bodycon midi that hugged every curve like liquid silk. The fabric clung to her full breasts, the neckline plunging just enough to show the tops of her cleavage, the hem stopping mid-thigh to reveal toned legs. No bra tonight—the dress had built-in support, and the faint outline of her nipples pressed against the material, a secret thrill. High-waisted black lace panties underneath, sheer enough to feel scandalous. Strappy black heels, a delicate gold chain around her neck, and her mangalsutra nestled between her breasts. She looked dangerous—voluptuous, radiant, every sway of her hips a promise.
 
Ravi looked up from his phone as she stepped out. His breath caught. 
“Jaan… you look…” 
She smiled, that blinding, pink-gum smile. “Let’s go.”
 
They drove to Preeti and Shikha’s apartment in Sector 8, the city lights streaking past. Ravi kept stealing glances—her dress riding up slightly on her thighs, the way her breasts moved with every bump in the road. Preeti and Shikha were waiting outside when they pulled up.
 
Preeti wore a sleek black off-shoulder mini dress that showcased her signature assets: those full, bouncing 36D breasts pushed high by the fitted bodice, cleavage deep and inviting, nipples faintly outlined under the thin fabric. Her legs looked endless in strappy silver heels, hair in a high ponytail that swung with every step.
 
Shikha, beside her, was pure fire in a crimson red bodycon dress that clung to her 38-inch hips and that legendary heart-shaped ass—cheeks so round and firm they strained the fabric, jiggling softly as she walked toward the car. The dress dipped low in the back, exposing smooth olive skin, and her short hair was tousled, lips painted bold red.
 
They piled in—Preeti in the front with Ravi, Shikha in the back with Simran—laughter and perfume filling the car as they headed to the club.
 
Kitty Su, a premium Club of Chandigarh, was alive when they arrived—purple and blue lights pulsing, deep bass thumping through the walls. They found their usual high table near the dance floor, ordered drinks: whiskey neat for Ravi, vodka sodas for the girls, a platter of starters to share.
 
Simran settled into her seat, the emerald dress riding up her thighs, breasts rising and falling with each breath. She felt the faint dampness in her bra again—already?—but pushed it aside, raising her glass with the others.
 
“To new nights,” Preeti toasted, eyes sparkling with mischief.

[doodhwale_bhaiya]

Kitty Su
 
The club was in full swing—remixed Bollywood beats thumping through the floor, purple lights sweeping across the dance floor, the air thick with perfume, whiskey, and laughter. Their high table near the edge felt like a private island in the chaos. Glasses clinked as the waiter set down the drinks: whiskey neat for Ravi, vodka sodas for the girls, a platter of crispy chilli chicken and garlic bread in the centre.
 
Preeti leaned forward first, her black off-shoulder dress slipping just enough to show more of her deep cleavage as she rested her elbows on the table. She fixed Ravi with a mischievous grin.
 
“Ravi,” she said, voice low enough to cut through the music, “you know that guy at the bar? The one in the grey shirt? He’s been eyeing your wife for the last ten minutes straight.”
 
Ravi followed her gaze—sure enough, a tall man in his late thirties was glancing over, eyes lingering on Simran’s emerald dress where it hugged her curves. Ravi chuckled, shaking his head. “Preeti, you’re trouble.”
 
Preeti laughed, raising her glass. “Relax, I’m joking. He’s probably just wondering how to survive the night without staring too obviously.” She winked at Simran. “But honestly, jaanu, everyone is eyeing you tonight. That dress? Deadly. Don’t worry, Ravi—you’re the lucky one who gets to take her home.”
 
Simran flushed, smiling behind her glass. “Stop it, Preeti. You’re worse than the aunties at family functions.”
 
Shikha leaned in from Ravi’s other side, her crimson dress shifting over her lush hips as she crossed her legs. “She’s right, though,” she said, voice playful. “Even I’m eyeing Simran. That glow? That body? How is it fair?”
 
Preeti reached over and gave Shikha’s arm a light, teasing pat. “Down, girl. She’s taken. And married. And mine to tease first.”
 
Everyone burst out laughing—Ravi’s deep chuckle mixing with the girls’ bright peals, the tension dissolving into easy warmth.
 
Ravi took a sip of whiskey, grinning. “You three together are dangerous. I should’ve known better than to let you all sit at the same table.”
 
Preeti rolled her eyes dramatically. “Please. You love it. Speaking of dangerous… tell me, Ravi, how’s the new client project going? You were complaining last week about the midnight calls again.”
 
Ravi groaned, leaning back. “Don’t remind me. Last Tuesday, the client from Dubai called at 2 AM because he wanted to change the entire dashboard layout. I told him, ‘Sir, it’s 2 AM here.’ He said, ‘Perfect time for creativity.’ I nearly threw my phone out the window.”
 
Shikha laughed, shaking her head. “Classic. Freelance life is bad enough, but at least I can say no. Last month I had a client who wanted a full rebrand in three days. I told him, ‘Sure, but it’ll cost you my sanity and an extra 50%.’ He agreed. Men and deadlines, I swear.”
 
Simran smiled softly, swirling her drink. “You’re all braver than me. My team is still fighting over one Instagram post caption. They debated ‘vibe check’ vs ‘energy check’ for twenty minutes yesterday. I just muted the group and went for a walk.”
 
Preeti snorted. “That’s why you’re the smart one. Let them fight. You just keep looking this good while they argue.”
 
Ravi reached over, squeezing Simran’s hand under the table. “She’s right. You’ve been glowing lately, jaan. Whatever you’re doing… keep doing it.”
 
Simran’s smile faltered for half a second—the memory of the bathroom, the milk, the taste on her tongue—but she covered it quickly, squeezing his hand back. “Just happy, I guess.”
 
Shikha raised her glass again. “To happy. And to nights like this—where we can forget deadlines, clients, and everything else.”
 
They clinked once more, the music swelling around them, the night young and full of unspoken possibilities.

[doodhwale_bhaiya]

The Elephant in the Room
 
The vodka soda had gone straight to Simran’s bladder. She leaned toward Shikha, voice low over the thumping music. 
“Need to pee. Coming?”
 
Shikha nodded, sliding off her stool with a grin. “Always babes.” 
The two women slipped away from the table, weaving through the crowd toward the ladies’ room at the back of the club.
 
Ravi watched them go, then turned to Preeti, who was nursing her drink, eyes scanning the dance floor. 
“How is she holding up, really?” he asked quietly. “Simran. After… everything.”
 
Preeti set her glass down, expression softening. “She’s much better, Ravi. You can see it—the glow, the energy. That Maldives trip did wonders. The salt air, the distance… it gave her space to breathe.”
 
Ravi nodded, staring at the spot where Simran had disappeared. “Yeah. She’s laughing more. Sleeping better. But sometimes I catch her staring at nothing, hand on her stomach. Like she’s remembering.”
 
Preeti reached over, touching his arm gently. “Don’t bring up the baby just yet. Not even casually. She’ll ask you when she’s ready. Trust her timing. Pushing now will only make the wound reopen.”
 
Ravi exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck. “I know. I just… want to give her everything. Make it right.”
 
Preeti smiled, small and knowing. “You already are.”
 
A beat of silence passed between them, the bass vibrating through the table. Then Ravi tilted his head. “And you guys? You and Shikha. Any plans on the family front?”
 
Preeti hesitated—her fingers tightening around her glass for a second—then she let out a soft breath. 
“We’ve… planned for a baby,” she said carefully. “Shikha wants to carry. She’s been clear about that from the start.”
 
Ravi’s brows lifted. “That’s… big. Congratulations. How are you—”
 
Before he could finish, Simran and Shikha returned, weaving back through the crowd, faces flushed from the walk and the heat. They slid into their seats, giggling about something.
 
Simran leaned in, eyes wide with excitement. “You won’t believe what we just heard in the washroom. Two girls were whispering—Shahid Kapoor and Kiara Advani are here tonight. In hoodies, trying to go incognito so no one spots them.”
 
Shikha nodded, laughing. “They were in the corner stall, literally saying, ‘Hood up, heads down, no selfies.’ Apparently they’re here for a quiet night out.”
 
Preeti’s eyes lit up. “No way. Shahid and Kiara? Here?”
 
Ravi chuckled. “Bollywood royalty slumming it in Sector 26?”
 
Simran turned to him, playful but serious. “Ravi… can you find out if we can meet them? Just say hi? Please?”
 
Ravi raised an eyebrow, amused. “You want me to go play detective in a club full of drunk people, looking for two celebrities in hoodies?”
 
Simran pouted, batting her lashes. “Pretty please? It’ll be fun. And you’re tall—you can see over everyone.”
 
Ravi sighed dramatically, but the corner of his mouth twitched. “Fine. Let me see what’s going on.”
 
He stood, adjusting his shirt, and disappeared into the pulsing crowd, leaving the three women at the table exchanging excited glances.

[doodhwale_bhaiya]

 
Girls Talk….a lot
 
The moment Ravi disappeared into the crowd, Simran leaned across the table toward Preeti, eyes bright with curiosity and a hint of mischief. 
 
“Preeti,” she said, voice low but urgent, “Shikha tells me you guys have planned for Arjun to be the donor.”
 
Preeti’s eyes widened, then narrowed playfully as she caught on. She set her vodka soda down with a soft clink. 
 
“So that’s why you forced that innocent man on a goose chase? Is there even Shahid Kapoor here?” she asked, half-shocked, half-amused, a wide smile breaking across her face.
 
Simran bit her lip, trying (and failing) to look innocent. “Of course… not. We wanted to discuss before we tell Ravi. You know, with the men around.”
 
Shikha laughed softly, leaning back in her seat, crimson dress shifting over her hips. “Exactly. Some conversations need girl time first.”
 
Preeti shook her head, still grinning. “You two are evil. I just told Ravi we were planning for a baby, and he was probably about to ask ‘how’ when you both sent him on a celebrity hunt. Poor man’s out there looking for hoodies and dimples.”
 
Simran giggled, then sobered slightly, leaning in closer. “Preeti… now tell me what you’ve thought. Arjun, huh?”
 
Preeti exhaled, glancing between the two women before settling her gaze on Simran. She took a small sip of her drink, buying a second to organize her thoughts, then spoke quietly but clearly, voice cutting through the club’s background hum.
 
“Okay. Look… we didn’t decide this overnight. It’s been months of talking, crying, laughing, everything. Shikha wants to carry—she’s always been clear about that. And I support her completely. We looked at anonymous donors first—profiles, health records, the whole medical checklist. But the more we read, the more it felt… cold. Like picking a stranger’s DNA from a catalogue.”
 
She paused, letting that sink in.
 
“Then Arjun came up. Not randomly—he’s been in our orbit for years. Shikha’s old colleague, remember? We’ve known him socially, professionally. He’s from Ludhiana originally, good Punjabi family, clean background. No red flags in his health history—tested clean for everything, genetic screening perfect, sperm count and motility excellent. Physically? He’s tall, strong, good bone structure, sharp features. No major illnesses in the family line. And emotionally… he’s steady. Kind. The kind of man who remembers birthdays and helps without being asked.”
 
Preeti’s voice softened, but her eyes stayed steady.
 
“We talked to him—openly. Told him exactly what we wanted: donor sperm, no strings, no involvement beyond that. He thought about it for weeks, asked questions, got his own tests done again just to be sure. He agreed because he wants to help friends start a family. Nothing more. No rights, no contact, no drama. It’s all legal paperwork, signed and sealed.”
 
Shikha nodded, adding quietly, “We trust him. That matters more than any anonymous profile.”
 
Simran listened, fingers tracing the rim of her glass. “And you’re okay with it, Preeti? Knowing the baby will have… him in the genes?”
 
Preeti smiled, small and sure. “More than okay. It feels right. Safer. And honestly? If our kid gets even half of his height and half of Shikha’s smile, we’re winning.”
 
The three women sat in a pocket of quiet amid the club’s chaos, the weight of the conversation settling comfortably between them.
 
Simran exhaled, a soft smile curving her lips. “You two… you’re really doing this.”
 
Preeti raised her glass. “We are.”
 
Shikha clinked hers against it. “And when Ravi gets back, we’ll tell him properly. Together.”

Simran leaned even closer across the table, her emerald dress shifting slightly, voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. 
“Preeti… how is it going to happen? Like… practically?”
 
Preeti’s eyes sparkled with wicked amusement. She took a slow sip of her vodka soda, letting the question hang for a dramatic second before answering. 
“Simmu, you horny little slut. You want to know every dirty detail, don’t you?” 
 
Simran’s cheeks flushed instantly, but she didn’t back down, biting her lip with a shy grin. 
 
Preeti laughed softly, then tilted her head toward Shikha. “Ask her. She’ll explain. It’s her body, her choice.”
 
Shikha smiled, calm and confident, leaning back so her crimson dress pulled tight across her lush hips. She spoke in a low, steady voice, eyes locked on Simran’s. 
 
“It’s simple, really. Arjun will come to our house one evening. Preeti will be there too—of course. We’ll keep it clinical, comfortable. No drama, no romance. Just… the act. He’ll provide the sample in the usual way, we’ll use a syringe or turkey baster for insemination. Timing it with my ovulation window. That’s it. Clean, quick, done.”
 
Simran’s breath caught. Her eyes widened, a mix of shock and fascination flickering across her face. 
“Can I… also see?” 
 
Preeti and Shikha answered in perfect unison, voices overlapping with mock sternness: 
“No.” 
 
The word came out so fast and firm that all three women burst into laughter—bright, unrestrained, heads thrown back. Simran covered her mouth, giggling helplessly, the tension breaking like a wave. 

[doodhwale_bhaiya]

Ravi goes to college

Just then, Ravi reappeared through the crowd, brushing imaginary dust off his sleeves. 
“No Shahid Kapoor,” he announced, sliding back into his seat. “No Kiara either. Hoodies, yes. Celebrities, no. But… I did spot Arjun. He’s here with his girlfriend. They’re sitting separately at a corner table—probably trying to keep a low profile too. I didn’t invite him over. Didn’t want to interrupt.” 
 
He looked around at the three women, eyebrows raised. 
“Should I go get him? Bring him to the table?”
 
Preeti, Shikha, and Simran answered in perfect unison again: 
“No.” 
 
The word landed like a gunshot—sharp, immediate, unanimous. 
 
Ravi blinked, surprised, mouth half-open. He looked from one face to the other, reading the sudden shift in the air. Then he just smiled—slow, knowing, a little amused—and settled back into his chair without another word, picking up his whiskey. 

Ravi’s eyes narrowed playfully as he looked around the table, catching the tail end of the laughter that had erupted when all three women said “No” in perfect unison. 
 
“No, that too in unison!” he said, leaning forward with a mock-serious expression. “Something is cooking here. Tell me.”
 
Preeti exchanged quick glances with Shikha and Simran, then turned to Ravi with an innocent shrug. 
“We were just… girl talk. You were about to ask something earlier, right? Before these two sent you on a wild goose chase for imaginary celebrities.”
 
Ravi chuckled, shaking his head. “Yeah, I was. I wanted to know how you two are actually planning to do this family thing. You said Shikha wants to carry, but… how?”
 
Preeti sighed dramatically, glancing at the almost-empty glasses on the table. 
“It’s a long story, Ravi. And stories like this need more drinks.”
 
She raised her hand, catching the waiter’s eye. 
“Another round—whiskey neat for him, vodka sodas for us. And some more chilli chicken, please. Extra spicy.”
 
The waiter nodded and vanished into the crowd. Preeti waited until he was out of earshot, then leaned in, voice dropping to that intimate, storytelling tone she used when sharing clinic secrets.

“Okay… it all started with my mother,” she began. “She’s known about me—about my choice—for years. She never said much, but I could feel her worry. After Shikha and I got married, she finally asked one day, straight-up: ‘How will you live a life without a baby?’ She wasn’t judging. She was scared. She assumed both of us only liked women, and she couldn’t imagine how that would work with motherhood.”
 
Shikha nodded quietly, fingers tracing the rim of her glass.
 
“I told her not to worry, we will have a baby. Shikha and I decided to actually be a mother to our baby. We don’t intend to adopt.” Preeti continued. “I’m a gynaecologist—I know the science inside out.”
 
But my mother wasn’t convinced. She kept saying, ‘I sometimes feel… if you or Shikha have to go through all those procedures, injections, clinics… it’s too much.’ When I told Shikha about the conversation, she started thinking the same thing. We both did.”
 
Preeti paused as the waiter returned, setting down fresh drinks and a steaming plate of chilli chicken. The spicy aroma filled the air. She waited until he left again before continuing.
 
“Then, by sheer luck, my mother went to her ancestral village. She spoke to her Baba—the old sage everyone in the family still consults. She told him everything: about me, about Shikha, about wanting a child. Surprisingly… he didn’t say a single bad thing about me being a lesbian. Not one word of judgment. Instead, he consoled her. He told her not to worry, that love is love, and children come through many paths.”
 
Preeti reached for her fresh drink, taking a slow sip before going on.
 
“He gave her a scripture from the Mahabharata—just an extract. He said, ‘Read this. Understand this. And if it’s possible for them, try to follow it.’ My mother came back… different. Calmer. She didn’t push anymore. She just hugged me and said, ‘Do what feels right. The gods will guide you.’”
 
The table fell quiet for a moment, the thumping music a distant heartbeat.
 
Ravi looked at Preeti, then at Shikha, then back again. 
“So… what was the extract? What did it say?”

[Mrchu*]

Superb build up boss but u could bring it in parts. Part 1 with just 3 friends . Next part involves family members etc .Like this. Anyway If u can handle then great but then pls try not to leave it unfinished .

[doodhwale_bhaiya]

Tonight. I try to publish atleast once a day. Will pick up pace soon. Thanks for the wait.

[doodhwale_bhaiya]

What the Fuck!
 
Preeti smiled faintly, a little mysterious. 
“That’s the part we’re still figuring out. But it gave us permission, in a way. To think beyond clinics, beyond science alone. To consider… other ways.”
 
She lifted her glass. 
“To paths we didn’t know existed.”
 
They clinked, the sound soft but heavy with meaning, the night deepening around them.
 
Ravi looked up from his phone, brow furrowed, the blue light reflecting in his eyes. 
“What do you mean ‘figuring out’?”
 
Shikha leaned forward, her voice gentle but firm. 
“Since you guys are our very close friends… we thought we can at least tell you guys. But please don’t judge us.”
 
“We would be the last people to judge you guys”, Ravi said.
 
Preeti nodded, picking up the thread seamlessly. 
“The scripture my mother’s Baba gave her… it talked about ‘Niyoga’. It’s an ancient procedure—when a family needs to look beyond the usual to make a child. When one partner can’t, or circumstances force it, the text allows… an outside man to help. Just for the purpose of conception. No emotions, no relationship. Purely a service to continue the lineage.”
 
Ravi blinked, processing. 
“Okay… so what exactly is the matter here? You’re saying—”
 
Preeti cut in with a small smile, raising her hand. 
“How about you read about it on Google first? ‘Niyoga in Mahabharata’. It’ll be easier that way. Take your time.”
 
Ravi glanced at the three women—Simran’s curious eyes, Shikha’s calm gaze, Preeti’s knowing half-smile—then nodded. 
“Alright. Give me a minute.”
 
He opened his browser, fingers tapping quickly. The table fell into light chatter while he scrolled.
 
Simran sipped her vodka soda. “So… how’s the new project at work, Shikha?”
 
Shikha shrugged. “Same old. Client wants miracles in three days. I told him miracles cost extra.”
 
Preeti laughed. “Tell him to pay in advance. Miracles don’t come on credit.”
 
Meanwhile,
 
Ravi opened the first link—Wikipedia’s page on “Niyoga.” 
 
Niyoga was an ancient ***** practice described in the Mahabharata and other Dharmashastras. It permitted a woman to conceive a child with a man other than her husband under specific conditions: when the husband was dead, impotent, infertile, or unable to produce heirs. The purpose was strictly to continue the family lineage (vamsha). 
 
“Whoa… so this was a real thing? Not some myth?” Ravi’s thumb hovered while thinking. He scrolled further.
 
The man chosen for Niyoga was usually a sage, a brother-in-law (devar), or another man of high moral character. The act was considered a duty (dharma), not adultery. The child born belonged legally and socially to the husband, not the biological father. The biological father had no rights or claims over the child.
 
Ravi’s stomach tightened slightly. “No rights? So the man just… helps and disappears? That’s cold.” He kept reading.
 
Famous examples from the Mahabharata: 
 
After King Vichitravirya died childless, his mother Satyavati asked Sage Vyasa (her son from an earlier union) to impregnate her daughters-in-law Ambika and Ambalika. The children born—Dhritarashtra (blind) and Pandu (pale)—were raised as Kuru princes. 
 
Pandu, cursed to die if he consummated his marriage, allowed his wife Kunti to use mantras to invoke gods (a form of divine Niyoga) to bear the Pandavas.
 
“So this is deep. This was….I need another drink” He took a sip from his glass and continued reading. Ravi felt a strange mix of disbelief and reluctant respect. He opened a second link—a blog post summarizing the practice.
 
Niyoga was not about lust or pleasure. Rules were strict: 
No emotional attachment. 
The act was performed only until conception (sometimes limited to one child). 
The woman approached the man respectfully, often at night.
The man was there as a duty, not for gratification.
 
“Okaaaaay….This sounds like a drama. Anyways its not for me to judge.”
 
Ravi exhaled slowly. “Preeti and Shikha aren’t looking for a lover. They’re looking for… this. A solution. A way forward.”
 
He searched for modern interpretations and landed on a forum post.
 
Today, some scholars compare Niyoga to donor insemination or surrogacy, but with cultural and spiritual roots. It was society’s way of saying: family matters more than blood alone.
 
Ravi stared at the screen. Family matters more than blood. That hits hard.
 
He closed the browser, mind spinning. 
 
The ancient practice wasn’t scandalous back then—it was sacred. Practical. Necessary. And now, in 2026, two modern women were reaching back through time for the same reason: to build a family when science and nature hadn’t cooperated.
 
Fifteen minutes passed—small talk, laughter, the occasional glance at Ravi, whose face grew more serious with each scroll. Finally, he set his phone down, took a long sip of whiskey, and cleared his throat.
 
“I will be back from the loo”, Ravi got up and left. He washed his face multiple times to understand what was going on. All his trance had dissolved in thin air. This was some crazy shit going on here. He needs to control his words else he might upset very close friends.
 
Meanwhile at the Table.
 
“Simran, do you think he ran away?”, Preeti asked. Simran started laughing and said, “No, No. Are you crazy? It’s a bit too much for him to understand in one go. He will be back.”
 
“Who will be back?”, Ravi said.
 
Preeti was startled and said,” The waiter. We were looking for him for a drink.”
 
“Ohh there he is”, said Shikha and ordered her drink.
 
Preeti made a poker face at Simran and then raised her eyebrows smiling.
 
“Okay,” Ravi said slowly. “I’ve read. I understand your situation now. But… I just need to understand one thing.”
 
“ Who is going to go through with this?”
 
Preeti tilted her head. “Shikha.”
 
Ravi shook his head. “That’s not what I meant.”
 
After a few seconds…
 
Shikha met his eyes steadily. “You’ve met him today.”
 
Ravi cleared his throat again, louder this time, took another sip, then said the name quietly. 
“Arjun.”
 
Preeti nodded, calm. “But… I know what you’re asking. It’s not a relationship we’re looking for. We’re just looking for a service. A one-time act. Nothing more. No strings. He provides; we receive. That’s it.”
 
Ravi exhaled through his nose, processing. He looked uncomfortable, shifting in his seat.
 
Preeti softened her voice. 
“Ravi, listen. We’ve talked this through a hundred times. Arjun knows the boundaries. He’s agreed. We’re not asking him to be a father—just a donor in the oldest sense. And Shikha… she wants this. She wants to carry. We’re not reckless. We’re careful.”
 
Ravi rubbed his jaw, then looked at Simran. 
“I support you guys,” he said finally. “It takes a lot of courage to make a decision like this. Hopefully all will work out.”
 
Simran reached over and squeezed his hand under the table, grateful.
 
Preeti sighed, staring into her drink.
 
“That’s the only issue here. I don’t trust our generation. The scripture was written thousands of years ago. Men back then were… stronger. Pollution, stress, intoxicants, lifestyle—everything has made us weaker. Both males and females. We can’t help it. We were born in this age. We have to endure it.”
 
Ravi nodded slowly. 
“Don’t worry. I’m sure everything will work out.”
 
Preeti gave a small smile. 
“Yes. I’ll be there to supervise. Every step.”
 
Ravi raised an eyebrow, half-joking. 
“Can I watch too?”
 
Preeti, Shikha, and Simran answered in perfect unison: 
“Nooooo!”
 
The word rang out sharp and synchronized, followed by an explosion of laughter—loud, belly-deep, heads thrown back. Even Ravi cracked up, shaking his head as the tension melted away completely.
 
He raised his glass, still chuckling. 
“To making babies”, all repeated and cheered.