Adultery The Forbidden Relief – My Wife's Secret

[masud93]

Intezar khatam hi nahi ho raha hai

[M¡Lf€@TeR]

Thanks a lot for your feedback, I know you all are waiting for the climax, hell its just one of many many climaxes that's going to happen. However, since i see quite a few want Hindi in the conversation between Simran and Bhola, basically involving Bhola, i write my scripts in English and then take specific lines to be converted to Hindi. Please give me sometime, it wont make any sense to just including one scene and leave you guys unsatisfied for the night, i aim to make it more than you asked for, so that my readers are always satisfied and can come back for more and more. So i am about to reach an important end of a big scene, i am taking a bit of time. I apologize for the delay. If possible i will definitely upload today.

Take the time Take the time... make it to the scene end

[doodhwale_bhaiya]

Guys if the font is small use three dots on the top left etc to zoom depending on your device. If i make it bigger and its too much for someone then it will be difficult to make it smaller. However i will make one size bigger now. Update will be there today definitely. Hopefully you will like it.

[masud93]

Take the time Take the time... make it to the scene end

Baat to hai,,scene pura kar dena,,mera to soch ke hi khara ho raha hai

[masud93]

Guys if the font is small use three dots on the top left etc to zoom depending on your device. If i make it bigger and its too much for someone then it will be difficult to make it smaller. However i will make one size bigger now. Update will be there today definitely. Hopefully you will like it.

Bro,kitni der lage gi,abhi tak soya nahi,,agar in hour, to padhke hi sone jawonga,,bata dena please 
,,bahut din baad kyo story accha laga

[masud93]

??? hello bro

[doodhwale_bhaiya]

Chapter 2

 

The point of No Return

 
The rain had come down like the sky itself had split open. All night it poured—relentless, angry sheets of water that turned Chandigarh’s roads into black rivers. By 9:30 PM the Mohali service road was gone, flooded so deep that three cars had already been abandoned, water rising inside their cabins, headlights flickering out like dying stars. Ravi had tried—driven as far as he could—but the warnings from those who’d gone before him were clear: turn back or lose the car.
 
He pulled into the office parking lot, engine idling, phone pressed to his ear. The call connected after five rings.
 
Simran was on the sofa, and she pushed Bhola down to the floor and ran upstairs with the phone.
 
Simran’s voice came through—breathless, heavy. 
“Ravi… where are you?”
 
He could hear her panting faintly, as if she’d just run up stairs. 
“Jaan… I’m stuck at the office. Roads are completely clogged. Water everywhere. People are saying no one’s getting through tonight. I’ll try in the morning when it slows down.”
 
After some talk, she said: 
“Take care… don’t take any risk. Just stay safe.”
 
“I will. Love you.”
 
“Love you too.”
 
The call ended. Ravi stared at the rain hammering the windshield, unaware that on the other end, Simran had storms of her own to handle.
 
She’d been on the sofa and was on the verge of another orgasm, probably would have been the fourth or fifth for the evening, couldn’t track count anymore. The phone had rung right as she neared the edge; she’d snatched it up, breath ragged, trying to sound normal. When Ravi explained the flooded roads, she’d barely heard him—she had just controlled her own flood from happening between her thighs, juices coating her panty, soaking the sofa cushion beneath her ass, probably.
 
She ended the call, phone slipping from her hand.
 
She looked up.
 
The rain didn’t stop.
 
Neither did the storm inside her.
 
A lot had happened since the storm started in the evening.
 
Bhola had gone downstairs after the completing his task—his face still flushed, lips shiny with her milk, the taste lingering sweet and heavy on his tongue. After the call with Ravi, Simran sat on the bed for a long moment, body trembling from the aftershocks, breasts lighter but already beginning to refill, nipples raw and tingling. She looked at the door of the bedroom that goes downstairs.
 
Simran stood slowly, legs unsteady and walked to the bathroom. The nightie—loose, sky-blue silk—fell to mid-thigh, the thin straps barely holding on her shoulders, the neckline low enough to frame the deep valley between her swollen breasts. She didn’t bother closing the bathroom door fully; the house was empty except for Bhola, and after everything that had happened, modesty felt distant, almost pointless, at least for that moment.
 
She hiked the nightie up around her waist, hooked her thumbs into the waistband of her black lace panties, and slid them down her thighs—slowly, deliberately—letting the damp fabric peel away from her swollen pussy lips with a soft, sticky sound. The panties dropped to her ankles.
 
She positioned herself over the commode—thighs parting, ass hovering above the cool seat—and relaxed.
 
The warm piss rushed out in a strong, steady stream—hissing against the porcelain, the heat of it cascading down her sensitive folds, splashing over her swollen clit and dripping between her lips. The sensation was immediate, overwhelming—hot liquid flowing over already aroused flesh, teasing every nerve, making her gasp.
 
“Aaahhh…”
 
Her pussy clenched involuntarily around nothing, clit throbbing as the stream continued, warm and forceful. Goosebumps raced across her skin. The sound—sharp, intimate—echoed in the small space, blending with the rain outside, and suddenly she was back in the memory. The memory that was difficult to judge if it was real or just a dream of an unsteady sleep.
 
She remembered: Bhola beneath her… mouth on her nipple… sucking hard… milk flooding him… his huge cock pressing up against her…
 
Her hand drifted between her legs without conscious thought—fingers brushing her slick lips, circling her clit slowly as the piss tapered off. The warmth of her own stream, the memory of his mouth, the forbidden thrill of it all—it sent a fresh wave of heat through her.
 
He drank me… like it was the sweetest thing… Ravi couldn’t… but Bhola…
 
She shivered—fingers moving faster now—pussy clenching as another small orgasm threatened, building impossibly fast from nothing but thought and sensation. The rain outside pounded harder, thunder rumbling low, matching the pulse between her thighs.

[doodhwale_bhaiya]

Approximately two hours ago….
 
Song of Ice & Fire
 
Simran remained on all fours above Bhola, thighs trembling from the strain, black lace panties soaked and clinging to her swollen pussy lips, the strings digging into her hips as her lush ass hovered high. Her heavy breasts hung down like ripe offerings—left one leaking steadily in warm droplets that fell onto Bhola’s chest, right one still swollen and blocked, nipple red and angry from the earlier ordeal. The storm raged outside—rain hammering the roof, thunder shaking the walls—but inside, the air was thick with heat, vulnerability, and something far more dangerous.
 
Bhola knelt beneath her, ice cube coated in honey ready in his fingers. He applied it gently to the swollen right nipple—cool, sticky sweetness gliding over the sensitive peak.
 
“Aaahhh… Bhola… kya kar rahe ho?”
("Aaahhh... Bhola... what are you doing?")
Simran gasped, voice breathy, body jerking slightly at the cold shock.
 
Bhola’s cheeks darkened, voice low and hesitant.
 
“Sorry, Bhabhi… main bas thanda kar raha hoon… yeh… yeh jo… thanda karne se… doodh nikalega…”
(“Sorry, Bhabhi… I am just cooling it… this… this… cooling it… will release milk…”
He trailed off, shy, unable to say the word.)
 
Simran’s eyes widened, a flush creeping up her neck despite everything. 
 
“Kya thanda kar rahe ho?”
(“What are you cooling down?”)
 
Bhola swallowed, fingers still circling the ice gently. 
“Bhabhi… main… woh… nahi jaanta kaise bolo… aap samajh jaengi…”
(“Bhabhi… I… mean… I don’t know how to say it… you try to understand…”)
 
Simran almost laughed—nervous, breathless—pain and relief mixing with the absurdity. 
“kyaaaaa?”
 
Bhola’s voice dropped to a whisper, embarrassed. 
 
“Chuchi… aapki chuchi ko thanda kar raha hoon…”
(“Chuchi… I am cooling your chuchi…”)
 
Simran burst into a soft, incredulous laugh—cheeks burning crimson. 
“Chuchi?”
 
Bhola laughed too—shy, boyish—rubbing the back of his neck. 
 
“Haan… gaon mein aise hi bolte hain…”
(“Yes… that’s how they speak in villages…”)
 
The laughter broke the tension for a moment, human and light amid the storm.
 
Simran bit her lip, voice softer now, almost teasing through her shyness. 
“Breast… bolte hain breast.”
 
Bhola blinked. 
“Kya?”
 
She leaned closer, voice barely audible. 
“Just… boobs bolo, Bhola.”
 
He nodded slowly, cheeks dark. 
 
“Ji… Bhabhi… aapke boobs ko thanda kar raha hoon… phir jab main… muh mein loonga… garam ho jayenge… aur doodh nikal aayega.”
(“Yes… Bhabhi… I am cooling your boobs… then when I… take them in my mouth… they will become warm… and milk will come out.”)
 
Simran’s breath caught— “Ohhh…” —realization hitting. “You mean… nipple…”
 
She turned her face away instantly—shame flooding her, eyes squeezing shut, body trembling in the impossible position: on all fours above him, breasts dangling inches from his mouth, panties soaked, ass high, completely at his mercy.
 
The storm outside had become a living thing—rain lashing the windows in furious sheets, thunder cracking like the sky itself was tearing open, lightning flashing white-hot across the room in violent strobes. Inside, the bedroom was a world unto itself: dim, charged, the air thick with the scent of rain, milk, and raw desire.

[doodhwale_bhaiya]

Bhola lay flat on his back in the centre of the bed, kurta damp from the rain he’d run through earlier. Simran straddled him on all fours—knees planted on either side of his hips, palms braced beside his shoulders, her body arched above him like an offering. The black lace panties clung transparently to her swollen pussy lips, the strings digging into her hips as her lush, heart-shaped ass hovered high behind her, cheeks spread slightly by the position, the deep cleft glistening with her arousal.
 
Her huge, mango-shaped breasts hung down directly over his face—heavy, pendulous, swaying gently with every trembling breath. The left one leaked steadily, warm milk dripping in slow, creamy beads onto his chest; the right—still swollen and blocked—jutted forward, nipple dark pink and erect, begging for attention.
 
Bhola held the honey-coated ice cube between his fingers, bringing it slowly to her right nipple.
 
The first touch was shock-cold—ice kissing the hot, sensitive peak.
 
“Aaahhh!” Simran gasped sharply, body jerking, breasts jiggling wildly as goosebumps exploded across her skin.
 
Before she could recover, Bhola leaned up—mouth closing over the chilled nipple, tongue warm and wet, licking in slow, deliberate circles.
 
The contrast was devastating—cold melting into heat, ice into fire. An electric shock ripped through her entire body—nipple to clit in one blazing line. She shivered violently, back arching, a broken “Aaaahhh… ohhh…” spilling from her lips.
 
He applied the ice again—pressing it firmly, circling the areola—then licked once more, tongue flicking rapidly over the hardened peak. The nipple protruded impossibly now—thick, stiff, throbbing under his attention, milk finally beading at the tip.
 
He played with it shamelessly—ice… lick… ice… lick—alternating cold and warm, watching the nipple darken and swell further, her body trembling above him. He was also flickering the nipple to increase blood flow and that had its own tornado spinning.
 
Simran gripped the bedsheets tightly—knuckles white, moans rising in desperate gasps: 
“Aaahhh… aaahhh… Bhola… aaaahhh…” Simran was waiting for the inevitable now, her goosebumps were real now and was concentrating below her navel area, but Bhola just didn’t let her anticipate the moment.
 
Without warning, this time he took the right nipple fully into his mouth—sucking hard, tongue swirling, cheeks hollowing as he drew with steady, insistent pulls.
 
The sensation shattered her.
 
Simran ground down involuntarily—one hard, desperate rub of her soaked pussy against the rigid bulge in his pants—and orgasmed instantly.
 
“AAAAHHHH… OH GOD…… aaaahhh!”
 
Her cry was raw, body convulsing as she squirted through the lace, hot fluid soaking them both. She shivered uncontrollably—thighs clamping around his waist like a vice, nails digging into the mattress, breasts jiggling wildly above his face.
 
A massive thunderclap exploded outside—shaking the house, rattling the windows—perfectly timed with her climax. Bhola thought the shivering was from the storm, not the orgasm ripping through her.
 
He held her steady—one strong hand splayed across her bare back, the other cupping her right breast, squeezing firmly to draw the milk as he continued suckling.
 
The combination—heavenly, forbidden—should have ended him long ago, but he drank deeply, milk finally flowing from the once-blocked nipple in warm, creamy streams.

[doodhwale_bhaiya]

Simran rode the waves—shivering, moaning, lost—body surrendered completely above him.
 
Bhola’s mouth released Simran’s right nipple with a soft, wet pop—milk still dribbling from the swollen tip in a thin, creamy stream. He looked up at her, eyes wide with quiet triumph.
 
“Bhabhi… aa raha hai… doodh aa raha hai…”
(“Bhabhi… it is coming… the milk is coming…”)
 
Simran barely heard him. She didn’t care. The orgasm from that single, desperate grind of her soaked pussy against his rock-hard crotch still rippled through her—waves crashing, body shivering uncontrollably, thighs clamped tight around his waist. She had felt it—unmistakably—the massive size of his cock beneath the pant, thick and long, throbbing against her slick folds through the fabric. It registered deep in her haze: huge, monstrous, pressing up against her like a promise she hadn’t asked for but couldn’t ignore.
 
All she managed was a soft, dreamy “Hmmm…”—eyes half-lidded, lips parted, lost in the aftershocks.
 
Bhola didn’t notice her state—he was too focused, too reverent. He dove back in, taking the right nipple fully into his mouth again—this time sucking harder, cheeks hollowing, tongue swirling in warm, wet circles around the sensitive peak. The pull was deep, insistent, but still the softest treatment her breasts had ever known—gentle yet greedy, like a man worshipping something sacred.
 
Milk flooded his mouth instantly—thick, warm, creamy—filling it faster than he could swallow. He drank—gulped greedily, throat working with each pull, the sweet, nutty taste coating his tongue, spilling slightly from the corners of his lips as he sucked harder.
 
slurp…slurp…slurp… the soft, rhythmic sounds of swallowing mixed with the wet suction on her nipple.
 
Simran was in heaven.
 
His mouth—hot, wet, relentless—drew the milk in steady, powerful streams, easing the blockage completely now. The relief was exquisite, bordering on ecstasy—each hard suck sending sparks straight to her core, her pussy clenching emptily, still throbbing from the earlier orgasm. She needed this—wanted this—like nothing before. The pain was going away, replaced by pure, throbbing pleasure.
 
Bhola’s right hand rested on her bare back—rubbing slow, soothing circles, palm warm against her skin, fingers occasionally brushing the curve of her spine. His left hand cupped her right breast—squeezing firmly from the base upward, like squeezing a ripe mango to draw every last drop of juice. And the juice came—endless, abundant—milk spraying into his mouth in thick pulses, no matter how much he drank. This mango was huge, eternal—swollen, overflowing, never shrinking, never emptying, a boundless source of creamy nectar.
 
Simran’s moans deepened— “Aaaahhh… mmmphhh… aaaahhh…” —soft gasps, surrendered, her body rocking gently above him.
 
Simran’s mouth stayed open—soft, round, trembling—as Bhola’s lips sealed tighter around her right nipple, sucking deeper, harder, the warm pull drawing milk in thick, steady streams that filled his mouth with every insistent tug.  “Aaahhhh…” the moan stretched longer, breathier, the deeper he went—her body responding instinctively, hips rolling forward in tiny, involuntary circles, her soaked lace panties grinding against the rigid bulge in his pants. Each subtle rub made his cock swell thicker, harder—the massive length throbbing beneath the fabric, pressing up against her slick folds, the friction sending sparks through her clit.
 
“Aaahhhh… aaaahhhh…” Her moans grew longer, more desperate, thighs clenching around his waist as the dual sensation—mouth on her nipple, pussy rubbing his hardness—built another orgasm fast and fierce inside her.
 
Bhola suddenly released the nipple with a wet pop—milk still dribbling from the tip, his lips shiny.  Simran made a loud gasp
 
“Bhabhi… doodh achha aa raha hai…”
(“Bhabhi… the milk flow is affff…”)
 
Simran couldn’t control herself. The words barely registered—her body acted on its own, lowering instinctively, pressing forward until her nipple slipped back into his open mouth mid-sentence.
 
Bhola’s eyes widened for a split second.
 
Simran realized what she’d done—heat flooding her face—and pulled back slightly, breath ragged.
 
“Bhabhi isse to doodh aaraha hai….lekin…”
(“Bhabhi, milk is coming from this…but…”)
 
Simran looked confused.
 
“Bhabhi, kya utna hi aaraha hai jitna dusre se nikalta hai?
(“Bhabhi, is it coming out as much as the other one?)
 
Simran wanted to understand the problem but didn’t know what to say.

[doodhwale_bhaiya]

Bhola looked up at her, voice soft.
“Check karu… dusri wali bhi?”
(“May I check… the other one too?”)
 
Simran bit her lower lip hard—anticipation twisting in her belly, orgasm hovering so close she could taste it. She nodded—small, shy in front of Bhola’s innocence.
 
Bhola smiled faintly. 
“Ji…”
 
She stopped him suddenly, voice trembling but smiling.
 
“Ice… nahi lagega? Thanda karne ke liye?”
("Ice... wouldn't you apply ice? To cool it down?")
 
Bhola shook his head, eyes warm.
 
“Nahi, Bhabhi… woh blocked thi. ye theek hai. ohhhh, aap mazaak kar rahi hai”
("No, Bhabhi... it was blocked. this is fine….ohhh you are joking.")
 
Simran opened her mouth to explain—to beg for the cold, then the heat, the contrast that had shattered her before—but the words died as Bhola leaned in, mouth opening to take her left nipple.
 
Lightning flashed—thunder exploding like a bomb directly overhead, shaking the entire house.
 
Simran startled violently—body jerking forward—and fell onto him completely. Her gigantic breasts smashed against his face—soft, heavy, overwhelming—smothering him in warm, milky flesh. Milk leaked from both nipples now, coating his cheeks, his nose, dripping into his open mouth as he gasped in surprise.
 
“Aaaahhh… sorry… aaaahhh…” Simran moaned, trying to lift herself—but she collapsed further, breasts pressing harder, nipples sliding across his lips.
 
Bhola’s hands flew to her back—holding her steady, not pushing away—his mouth instinctively closing around one leaking nipple, sucking gently to calm her.
 
The storm had them both now trapped, tangled with no escape.
 
 
Simran hovered above Bhola in just her soaked black lace panties—the thin strings digging into her hips, the sheer front panel clinging transparently to her swollen pussy lips, outlining every slick fold as arousal leaked steadily down her inner thighs. Her body was a vision of surrendered fertility: thighs spread wide over his torso, ass cheeks plush and parted, heart-shaped perfection jiggling softly with every breath. But it was her breasts that commanded everything—heavy, mango-shaped globes hanging down like priceless gifts, nipples dark pink and erect, leaking warm milk in slow, creamy trails that dripped onto Bhola’s chest.
 
She was offering her most precious gifts, and Bhola welcomed them with open mouth—eyes half-closed in reverence, lips sealing around her left nipple, sucking with deep, rhythmic pulls that drew milk in thick, gushing streams.
 
Simran straightened up slowly—trying to catch her breath, body trembling from the building heat—but Bhola didn’t release. His mouth held firm, cheeks hollowing as he sucked harder. The nipple stretched long, then popped free with a loud, wet pop—like pulling a ripe lollipop from hungry lips—milk spraying in a fine arc across his face, glistening on his cheeks and chin.
 
“Aaahhhh…” Simran moaned long and low, the sudden release sending a fresh jolt through her core.
 
Bhola’s eyes opened—dark, hungry—milk dripping from his lips like he’d just tasted the sweetest ice cream.
 
Simran smiled—shaky, intoxicated—and lowered herself again, deliberately planting her left nipple back into his waiting mouth.
 
He latched instantly—sucking harder, tongue swirling greedily, milk flooding his mouth in warm, abundant waves. 
Gluck… gluck… gluck….Bhola sucked.
 
Simran’s second orgasm was building rapidly—hips pressing involuntarily against his crotch, her soaked panties rubbing the massive, rock-hard bulge beneath his pant. The heat was maddening—his cock throbbing thicker with every press of her hips, the lace barrier doing nothing to hide how huge he felt, pressing up against her clit.
 
“Aaahhhh… ohhh… aaaahhhh…” her moans deepened, body rocking faster.
 
Without warning, she pushed back—arching away—and the nipple popped free again with a sharp pop, milk spraying in a forceful arc across Bhola’s face, coating his cheeks, nose, and open mouth in creamy white.

[doodhwale_bhaiya]

Simran smiled—breathless, wicked—and brought the tit back immediately, guiding it to his lips.
 
Bhola’s eyes were closed now—lost in the taste, the warmth—unaware she’d done it intentionally, chasing the edge of her pleasure.
 
She let him suck again—deep, greedy pulls—for a long moment, milk flowing freely, his mouth warm and wet around her sensitive peak.
 
Then she pulled back once more—slow, deliberate—the nipple stretching long before popping free with another wet smack, milk spraying across his face in glistening ropes.
 
This time, Bhola’s hands moved—both rising to grab her breasts firmly, one in each palm, squeezing the heavy globes possessively, thumbs brushing the leaking nipples.
 
Simran hovered above him—panting, flushed, panties utterly ruined, pussy throbbing with need she could just no longer grind away.
 
Bhola’s mouth moved with quiet hunger—releasing the left nipple with a soft, wet pop, this time deliberately, milk still dribbling from the swollen peak in a thin, creamy trail. He shifted immediately to the right, lips sealing around the once-blocked nipple—now freed and leaking steadily—sucking with deeper, more insistent pulls. His strong hands which had already cupped both breasts from below, now squeezing them together, thumbs pressing into the soft undersides while his fingers kneaded upward in rhythmic waves, coaxing milk from both at once.
 
Simran’s body arched above him— “Aaaahhhh… ohhh… aaaahhhh…ummfff” —moans stretching longer, breathier, as warm milk gushed freely now from both nipples, spraying into his mouth in thick, pulsing streams.
 
He swallowed greedily—gluck… gluck… gluck—the sweet, creamy flood filling him, spilling slightly from the corners of his lips as he sucked harder, tongue swirling over the sensitive peaks in turn.
 
Her hips pushed up once involuntarily—pussy grinding against the massive hardness in his pants, the soaked lace panties now was under frontal attack, and desperately she rubbed her swollen clit against his throbbing length.
 
“Aaahhhh… Bhola… aaaahhhh…” her cries deepened, body trembling on the edge.
 
Thunder crashed outside—massive, earth-shaking, perfectly timed—as her orgasm exploded.
 
“AAAAHHHH…… AAAAHHHH…. AAAAHHHH!” she screamed, back bowing, pussy clenching hard as she squirted through the lace, hot fluid soaking them both. Milk sprayed from both nipples in forceful jets—coating Bhola’s face, his chest, dripping down his neck—as her body convulsed, thighs clamping around his waist, nails digging into the mattress.
 
The thunder rolled on, masking her cries, the storm and her climax merging into one violent release.
 
Simran was thrown back to present to the loud sound of the thunder near her bathroom window which broke the trance. She came concurrently thinking of the orgasm she hit when Bhola had pushed his monster just once.

[doodhwale_bhaiya]

Back to present….
 
 
Simran sat on the commode, thighs still parted, fingers buried deep inside her slick pussy—moving slowly at first, then faster, circling her throbbing clit as the memories flooded back unchecked. She hadn’t even realized she was doing it—lost in the replay of Bhola beneath her, his mouth on her nipples, the massive hardness pressing against her through his pants. The first orgasm had hit her so fast, so violently, from one simple grind and now again on his one touch she had another one—why? And that size… gods, the way it throbbed, thick and long, stretching the fabric… she’d never felt anything like it. She discarded the thought before it was about to grab her.
 
Breathless, she reached for the hand spray—angling the warm jet between her legs, letting it pulse against her swollen pussy lips, rinsing away the evidence of her arousal in soothing streams. The water teased her clit again—making her hips jerk once more—before she shut it off. She dried herself with a soft napkin—patting gently, almost caressingly, over the plump, flushed lips, the sensitive inner folds still tingling.
 
She pulled her panties back up.
 
Standing before the mirror, she looked at herself—braless under the open nightie, breasts heavy and full again. Comfortable today, yes—but refilling impossibly fast, the tankers brimming once more.
 
Fifteen minutes ago, when Ravi had called—stuck at the office, roads flooded, he wouldn’t make it home tonight—a secret happiness had bloomed inside her. She hadn’t questioned it then—just relief, she’d told herself. But now… why? Why had her heart lifted at the thought of an empty house, an empty bed?
 
She reached for her lip gloss—rarely used at home—applying it slowly, the pink tint making her full lips glisten. She ran fingers through her long black hair, smoothing it, letting it fall in soft waves. Small things—vanity she never bothered with alone.
 
Something had changed. Something happened.
 
Multiple orgasms in one milking session—that’s what had happened.
 
The powder. The touch. The forbidden relief.
 
She was different now.
 
And she didn’t want it to stop.
 
Simran descended the stairs slowly, each step deliberate, the sky-blue nightie brushing against her thighs like a lover’s whisper. She was glowing—skin luminous in the dim evening light, a soft flush lingering on her cheeks and chest from the storm’s aftermath and her own secret release. The hem of the nightie fluttered just above her knees, revealing flashes of her milky-white thighs—smooth, thick, impossibly soft, the kind that parted like cream under pressure. The incessant rain outside hammered the roof in a relentless rhythm, singing the same primal song that echoed deep in her body: want, need, relief.
 
Unconsciously, she craved it again—Bhola’s mouth on her breasts, sucking the milk free, easing the ache while igniting that ultimate, shattering joy. The thought wasn’t spoken, wasn’t planned; it lived in her skin, in the goosebumps that prickled across her arms and chest without warning, making her nipples tighten painfully against the thin cotton, a fresh bead of milk threatening to leak. Her pussy throbbed in response—slick, swollen lips rubbing together with every step, the lace panties soaked through, sending sparks up her spine. She felt unrealistically close to orgasm—teetering on the edge without a single touch.
 
Could thinking do this? Trigger it all?
 
The question flickered through her mind, weird and thrilling. Maybe it could. Maybe it already was.
 
She sat at the dinner table, legs crossed under her, the nightie riding higher on her thighs. Bhola emerged from the kitchen—no words needed. He understood. The air between them carried the weight of what had happened upstairs, unspoken but thick. He laid out dinner quietly—dal, rice, sabzi, roti—steam rising softly, the scent comforting and familiar.
 
Simran ate mechanically—fork to mouth, chew, swallow—but her mind was elsewhere. Flashes: Bhola’s mouth on her nipple, the warm pull, milk flowing, his hardness pressing up against her… The rain drummed harder outside, thunder rumbling low like a warning—or an invitation. Her breasts ached again already, full and heavy, nipples brushing the nightie with every breath. She shifted in her seat—thighs pressing together, pussy clenching—and felt the tingle build once more, goosebumps racing across her skin.
 
Bhola watched her quietly from the kitchen doorway—serving, waiting, understanding more than she realized.
 
Her mind wandered further, deeper, into places she hadn’t dared before.

[doodhwale_bhaiya]

She was again replaying in her mind what happened after…
 
 
Bhola’s mouth moved with reverent hunger—alternating between Simran’s left and right breasts, lips sealing around one stiff nipple, sucking hard, then switching to the other with a wet, greedy pull. Milk gushed freely now from both—thick, warm sprays that filled his mouth in energetic bursts, the sweet, creamy flood overwhelming his senses. He was having the time of his life—eyes half-closed, cheeks hollowing with each deep suck, tongue swirling around the dark, erect peaks as if devouring the most forbidden fruit. The sprays were powerful, almost forceful—hitting the back of his throat with every tug, making him swallow greedily, milk spilling from the corners of his lips in thin white trails down his chin.
 
Simran was trying to recover from an orgasm from the deliberate pushing of Bhola’s crotch upwards. But Bhola’s sucking and that too switching tits made it impossible to control her breath.
 
“Aaahhhh… mmmphhh… aaaahhhh…” Simran’s moans spilled out—long, breathy, her body arching above him, breasts swaying heavily as he switched again and again.
 
Bhola finally slowed, releasing the right nipple with a soft, wet pop—milk still dribbling from the swollen tip. He looked up at her, face glistening, eyes curious and dazed from between the deep, forbidden valley of her breasts.
 
Simran’s eyes had been closed—lost in the trance—but she opened them slowly, looking down directly at him. Their gazes locked—his from below, framed by the lush globes hanging inches from his face, hers hazy with pleasure and something deeper.
 
She stared at his lips—shiny with her milk, parted slightly—and felt a fresh wave of heat flood her core.
“Kaise pata karu?”     
(How to find out?)
 
Simran asked “Kya?” She didn’t hear what Bhola explained and was looking at his milk spilling lips.
 
Bhola’s voice came low, almost confused. 
 
“Bhabhi… main samajh nahi pa raha…”
("Bhabhi... I am not able to understand...")
 
Simran’s breath hitched.
 
“Kya samajh nehi paa rahe ho?”
(What are you not able to understand?)
 
Bhola hesitated, then murmured.
“Bhabhi… main thak gaya hoon aise… ek second baith jaun?”
(“Bhabhi… I am tired like this… can I sit for a second?”)
 
Simran thought angrily, he is tired. He has sucking me lying down and I am on my all-fours and he is tired. But she smiled deeply and did what he wanted.
 
She pushed back gently—body sliding downward—and sat fully on his lap. Bhola sat up with her, hands instinctively steadying her hips.
 
The contact was immediate, electric.
 
Her drenched, panty-clad pussy settled directly onto the monster hidden beneath his pants—thick, rigid, impossibly huge, throbbing hot against her slick folds through the thin barriers of lace and cotton. The size registered instantly—massive, veiny, pulsing with need.
 
Simran jumped— “Aaahhh!” —a sharp gasp, body squirming as the girth pressed up against her clit, sending a jolt straight through her. She froze, embarrassed heat flooding her face, but didn’t move away—couldn’t. The hardness felt… overwhelming, perfect.
 
Bhola didn’t understand the sudden jump—ignored it, focused only on her comfort.
 
“Bhabhi… ek problem hai. Main samajh nahi pa raha… aapka right boob… left jaisa doodh de raha hai ya nahi?”
("Bhabhi... there's a problem. I can't understand... if your right boob is producing milk like your left?")
 
Simran’s mind spun—embarrassment, arousal, the massive cock throbbing beneath her—but the question pulled her back.

[doodhwale_bhaiya]

[doodhwale_bhaiya]

Bhola’s cock—thick, rigid, and impossibly hard from the Viagra-fueled storm inside him—poked insistently upward through his pants, the swollen head pressing directly against Simran’s drenched pussy lips through the thin barriers of lace and cotton. The contact was unmistakable—hot, throbbing, the girth stretching the fabric taut, nudging her swollen clit with every subtle shift. Simran felt it all—the size, the pulse, the way it filled the space between her thighs like it belonged there. But strangely, she sensed Bhola’s innocence: he genuinely didn’t know what he was doing, didn’t register the erotic charge, his mind fixed only on helping, on the milk, on duty. It was difficult to explain why—perhaps the village simplicity, the years of quiet service—but it was true. No leering, no intent. Just… there.
 
Simran swallowed hard, asked him to get back to the lying position as she is not able to sit properly.
 
She pushed gently on his chest, guiding him back to lying flat. Bhola complied without question, hands falling away as he settled beneath her. Her breasts jiggled heavily with the movement—full, leaking globes swinging forward, milk dripping in slow beads from both nipples, the motion so hypnotic, so perfectly erotic that any sane human being would have died from the sight: those magnificent, mango-shaped creations, ripe and overflowing, swaying like forbidden pendulums above his face.
 
Bhola lay down fully, voice calm. 
 
“Bhabhi… ek idea hai. Main right wala dabaunga, aap left wala. Is tarah aapko pata chal jayega sab theek hai ya nahi.”
("Bhabhi... I have an idea. I'll press the right one, and you press the left. That way you'll know if everything is okay.")
 
Simran shook her head, cheeks burning. 
 
“Nahi… main yeh nahi kar sakti. Tum please check karo… aur batao.”
("No... I can't do this. Please check... and tell me.")
 
Bhola nodded respectfully. 
“Theek hai, Bhabhi.”
 
He reached up—both large, strong hands cupping her breasts from the sides, lifting their heavy weight and bringing them together toward his mouth. The globes were so plump, so full of milk—not empty yet—that they resisted fully closing the gap, the inner curves pressing together in a deep, creamy valley, nipples pointing directly at his lips but separated by their sheer volume.
 
He pressed hard—squeezing from the outer edges inward, thumbs digging deep into the soft flesh, forcing the milk ducts to release.
 
Simran gasped— “Aaaahhhh…” —body jerking as twin streams sprayed toward his open mouth, warm and forceful.
 
Bhola leaned in, trying to catch as much as possible—lips parting wide, tongue flicking out to lap the creamy jets mid-air, swallowing greedily as milk splashed his face and chin.
 
“Aaahhhh… aaaahhhh…” Simran moaned again and again, the merciless pressure sending waves of intense relief laced with pleasure through her chest—each hard squeeze drawing more milk, more sensation, her nipples throbbing under the assault.
 
Bhola pressed relentlessly—hands kneading, squeezing, pulling the breasts together and apart—milk spraying in chaotic arcs, coating his mouth, his cheeks, dripping down his neck.
 
Simran couldn’t hold any longer. The orgasm had been building again—fast, unstoppable—from the constant stimulation, the forbidden intimacy, the massive hardness still pressing against her pussy below.
 
“Aaaaaahhhh… aaaaaahhhh…” her moans turned desperate, body trembling.
 
She collapsed forward—face falling toward his, breasts smashing against his mouth as her strength gave out.

[doodhwale_bhaiya]

Bhola instinctively latched onto the right nipple again—sucking hard, tongue swirling—as milk sprayed forcefully inside his mouth in thick, warm gushes.
 
Simran’s orgasm exploded—body convulsing above him, pussy clenching hard against his crotch, squirting through the lace in hot pulses that soaked them both. She shivered violently— “Aaaaaahhhh… aaaaaahhhh…” —thighs clamping his waist, nails digging into his shoulders as wave after wave ripped through her.
 
Bhola gulped the milk—swallowing greedily, throat working with each pull—then released the nipple gently.
 
“Bhabhi…” he said after gulping, voice soft. “I think it’s fine now.”
 
Simran remained collapsed on him—panting, trembling, milk still leaking faintly from both nipples onto his chest—lost in the aftermath, body spent and humming.
 
Simran’s orgasm was deep—one that rolled through her like a slow, endless wave, pulling her under into a hazy trance where time blurred and the world narrowed to the throbbing aftershocks between her thighs and the warm, empty relief in her breasts. Her body trembled above Bhola for long seconds—breaths ragged, skin flushed and glistening—before she bent down slowly, almost reverently, and pressed a soft, lingering kiss to his forehead. The gesture was tender, grateful, her lips brushing his damp skin as milk still glistened on his chin.
 
She slid down from his lap carefully—legs unsteady, pussy lips slick and swollen, the soaked lace panties clinging transparently to her folds. She turned away from him, sitting on the edge of the bed with her back to him—still in only those drenched panties, ass cheeks plump and parted slightly, the strings digging into her hips. The position felt safer—less exposed—though her heart still raced.
 
Bhola sat up slowly, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, milk forming a faint, creamy mustache around his lips. 
 
“Bhabhi… main honey aur tel ka mixture bana deta hoon. Aap nipples par laga lijiye sone se pehle. Sab theek ho jayega.”
("Bhabhi... I'll make a mixture of honey and oil. Apply it to your nipples before bed. Everything will be fine.")
 
Simran nodded without turning, voice soft and distant. 
“Okay, Bhola…”
 
He stood, adjusting his pants over the still-hard bulge he didn’t fully register, and left the room quietly—footsteps fading down the stairs, the faint scent of milk and honey lingering on his skin.
 
Simran collapsed backward onto the bed with a long, exhausted sigh—arms spread wide, breasts heaving softly, nipples dark and glistening, milk still beading faintly at the tips.
 
What just happened?
 
The thought swirled lazily through her mind. The stuck pump, the pain, Bhola’s hands… his mouth… the relief, the pleasure, the forbidden heat. If he hadn’t helped, it could have been serious—an infection, worse. Gratitude mixed with confusion, shame, and something warmer she didn’t want to name.
 
She realized the lights were back—power restored sometime during the chaos, the room now softly lit. When had that happened? She had no idea.
 
She sat up slowly, glancing down at her drenched panties—heavy, sodden, the lace dark and clinging with her released juices. She hooked her thumbs into the strings, sliding them down her thighs to her ankles in one slow motion—the fabric peeling away from her swollen pussy lips with a soft, wet sound, the weight of her arousal making the panties sag heavily as they fell.
 
She stood, naked again, and padded to the bathroom—ready to freshen up, to wash away the evidence, though the memory—and the ache—would linger far longer.
 
Simran stood under the shower longer than necessary, letting the warm water cascade over her body like a cleansing ritual. The steam filled the bathroom, fogging the mirror, washing away the sticky remnants of milk, honey, and her own arousal from the wild afternoon. She closed her eyes, hands gliding over her skin—down her neck, across her collarbones, then cupping her heavy breasts. She lifted them gently, feeling their weight, the skin still sensitive and warm from Bhola’s touch. The nipples—dark pink, slightly swollen—stood erect under the water’s caress, milk beading anew at the tips before being rinsed away.

[doodhwale_bhaiya]

She had orgasmed so many times today—four, maybe more—and why? The question swirled in her mind like the steam around her. Her body had never responded like this before—quick, intense, almost without touch. Just the thought of Bhola’s mouth on her nipples, the deep pull, the relief mixed with forbidden pleasure… it had pushed her over the edge again and again. She squeezed her breasts lightly— “Mmm…” —feeling the familiar fullness returning already, milk trickling despite the earlier session. They weren’t completely empty, not like the pump had made them. Bhola had taken care of them so nicely—gentle yet firm, reverent—but not exhaustive.
 
He should have sucked longer…
 
The thought slipped in unbidden, making her thighs clench, a fresh tingle sparking between them.
 
She remembered his warning—never use the pump again.
 
Why? If not the pump, then how?
 
Her fingers brushed her nipples absentmindedly under the shower.
 
Ravi couldn’t—hadn’t been able to stomach the taste. But Bhola… he’d drunk greedily, no hesitation, like it was the sweetest thing. Why didn’t it bother him? And if not the pump, not Ravi… who would do it for me?
 
The question lingered, pressing, dangerous.
 
I can’t let Bhola suckle me every time… can I?
 
She pushed the thought away—too much, too soon—but it clung like the water on her skin.
 
She turned off the shower, stepped out, and dried herself slowly—towel gliding over her curves, lingering on her breasts, her hips, between her thighs where she was still slick. She chose a fresh pair of black lace panties—high-cut, sheer, the fabric whispering up her legs, clinging to her pussy lips like a lover’s promise, strings settling into her ass cheeks. The same sky-blue nightie followed—sliding over her head, straps settling on her shoulders, cotton brushing her bare nipples softly.
 
Hair dried with the blower—long waves falling loose and glossy—she felt renewed, almost glowing.
 
She went downstairs, bare feet silent on the steps, nightie swishing against her thighs.
 
The rain showed no mercy—it hammered the roof and windows in relentless sheets, the kind of downpour that turned day into perpetual dusk, thunder rumbling low and constant like the sky’s own heartbeat. Simran sat on the sofa, legs tucked beneath her, the sky-blue nightie still clinging softly to her curves, faint damp patches lingering where milk had leaked earlier. The house felt cocooned—cut off from the world, intimate in its isolation.
 
She glanced at the clock: 7:30 PM.
 
Where’s Ravi?
 
The thought flickered—worry edging in. He should have been home by now. The roads must be flooded worse than yesterday. She reached for her phone to call, but paused as Bhola emerged from the hallway, wiping his hands on a towel, expression calm and concerned.
 
“Bhabhi… ab kaise feel kar rahi hain?”
(“Bhabhi… how are you feeling now?”)
 
The question was innocent, caring—but it hit her like a spark.
 
This man… minutes ago his mouth was on my breasts, sucking like a starving baby, drinking my milk… and now he’s asking like nothing happened.
 
A secret chuckle bubbled inside her—warm, wicked, a little disbelieving. The contrast was absurd, thrilling.
 
She smiled softly. 
 
“Fine, Bhola. Bahut better.”
 
She forgot about Ravi for the moment—turned on the TV, flipping channels idly—but her mind wasn’t on the screen. It circled the impossible: how to talk to the man who had just rescued her nipple, sucked both her tits until she came twice, thrice, no idea how many times, treated them with a reverence that made her body sing… and now stood there like a dutiful servant.
 
He sucked them like a baby… but saved me too. That right nipple… it’s almost his now.
 
The thought made her chuckle inwardly again—shame and heat mixing in equal measure.

[masud93]

Many many Thanks,,, pic de dete to aur bhi maza aataa,,

[doodhwale_bhaiya]

Bhola lingered nearby. 
“Bhabhi… chai bana doon?”
(“Bhabhi… should I make tea?”)
 
Simran shook her head, standing. The nightie shifted with her—hem brushing her thighs, breasts swaying freely beneath the cotton. 
 
“Nahi… ruk. Main bana leti hoon.”
("No... wait. I'll make it.")
 
Bhola didn’t insist—he stepped back, watching quietly. He believed movement, normal tasks, would ground her, make her feel in control again.
 
Simran walked to the kitchen—bare feet soft on the floor. The rain sang its endless song outside, thunder rumbling low, the house wrapped in wet, electric quiet.
 
She didn’t know how to start the conversation.
 
But something told her it would start itself.
 
Simran stood at the kitchen counter. She reached for the kettle, filling it with water, then set out two steel glasses—deciding to make tea for both herself and Bhola. The simple act grounded her, a return to normalcy after the afternoon’s chaos.
 
Bhola appeared in the doorway, clothes bundle from earlier still in his arms.
 
“Bhabhi… main upar se kapde le aata hoon.”
(“Bhabhi… I will bring the clothes from upstairs.”)
 
Before Simran could respond—could say “Wait” or “No need”—he turned and headed upstairs, footsteps quick and purposeful.
 
She shrugged inwardly, continuing with the tea—adding crushed ginger, cardamom, tea leaves, letting it boil slowly, the warm, spicy aroma filling the kitchen and chasing away the lingering scent of milk and arousal.
 
Bhola returned minutes later, the soaked nightie and undergarments from earlier now bundled with fresh ones. Simran had just finished straining the tea—two glasses steaming on the counter.
 
But as he placed the bundle in the laundry basket nearby, his eyes caught it—the black lace panties from the bedroom floor, still drenched, heavy with her juices. He lifted them carefully—meant to sort the laundry—but paused. The aroma hit him: not the usual faint musk of daily wear, but something richer, headier—sweet, creamy, mixed with the unmistakable tang of deep arousal. For the first time, it wasn’t just laundry. It was… intoxicating. Something awesome, primal, a scent that made his breath catch, his cock twitch involuntarily in his pants. He brought it closer—subtle, hidden behind the bundle—and inhaled quietly, deeply.
 
Yeh… aaj alag hai. Bahut… alag hai.
 
He wanted to keep sniffing, bury his face in it, memorize it.
 
He controlled himself—barely—face warming, folding the panties quickly into the basket before she noticed.
 
He couldn’t find a bra upstairs again—assuming she was wearing one under the nightie, not thinking much of it—and brought down the discarded pump he’d spotted on the floor, holding it carefully like contraband.
 
Simran turned as he entered, smiling softly—two glasses of tea ready. 
 
“Chai taiyar hai.”
(Tea is ready.)
 
Bhola nodded, setting the pump aside out of her sight for now. 
“Ji, Bhabhi.”
 
The house smelled of rain and ginger tea, the storm outside finally easing into a steady patter.
 
Bhola stood near the sofa, holding the manual breast pump in one hand—the one she’d left upstairs—like it was something fragile and dangerous. His expression was serious, almost protective.
 
Simran paused at the bottom step, heart skipping. There it was—the opening she’d been searching for.
 
“Bhola… yeh kyun laaye ho?” she asked, voice light but curious.
(“Bhola… why have you brought this?”)
 
Bhola looked up immediately. 
“Bhabhi… ise kabhi mat use kijiye. Phenk dijiye.”
("Bhabhi... never use this. Throw it away.")
 
Simran tilted her head, stepping closer. Finally—the cue to talk.