Adultery The Forbidden Relief – My Wife's Secret

[masud93]

Wish ke aagle update mein simran khool ke open hoke nude bhola ko doodh pilayegi,
Aue bhola aapne bhabhi ke baare mein kuch baat aayegi, mera ye khahish hai ke simran puri open ho jaye taake ayenda simram+ bhola ke darmiyan Encounter hone mein koyi dikkat na ho

[masud93]

Baki aapka imagination aur bhi accha hoga,,sirf mera point of view zaheer kya,thanks again

[doodhwale_bhaiya]

Raat abhi baki hai mere dost.

[masud93]

Raat bhi shuru hoyi hai,,party abhi baki hai,,
WOWW,wait karta hoon to,,, agar kuch minutes ya ghante ke andar de de to padh lonnga,,,

[masud93]

Raat abhi baki hai mere dost.

Kitni drr lagi gi bro,,

[doodhwale_bhaiya]

I meant ki post ka last line dekho. Baki update baad mein.

[masud93]

I meant ki post ka last line dekho. Baki update baad mein.

Now I understand, it's not our night, it's Simran+bhola night.

[Sage_69]

Bhola milked Simran, Simran should milk Bhola too.

[Siva40]

Superb

[masud93]

abb malish ki intezar hai bro

[masud93]

kya aaj update aayrga??

[doodhwale_bhaiya]

kya aaj update aayrga??

Apologies brother. I am away from my laptop and out of town. Just a few more days. Bumper update on weekend.

[masud93]

Apologies brother. I am away from my laptop and out of town. Just a few more days. Bumper update on weekend.

Ok bro,,waiting for BUMPER  update,,ye kayi din bahut mode off  mode off ja raha hai,aisa kuch dena jo MODE ON karde

[primeOne]

When will be the next update?

[doodhwale_bhaiya]

Tomorrow 1000%

[sour12]

waiting brother

[masud93]

Waiting bro

[doodhwale_bhaiya]

Mommy
 
 
Mumbai. Bandra West. A quiet little lane tucked off Turner Road, where real money stays hidden behind tall compound walls and massive wrought-iron gates.
 
The house screamed old money trying to look humble: three storeys, a flat roof terrace on top, whitewashed walls, arched windows, a tiny front lawn that always stayed a bit damp from the sea breeze. Ground floor had the massive drawing-dining room, a kitchen that carried the faint smell of ghee and elaichi even when the stove was cold, and a small servant quarter right at the back. Upstairs were three bedrooms — the master one facing the lane, two guest rooms — all opening onto a long balcony that caught the salty wind. The terrace had red tiles, a low pabangt, and a couple of old cane chairs where Nimrat liked to sit at night with a cigarette she never actually finished.
 
Inside the master bathroom — marble flooring, rain shower, huge oval mirror with a black iron frame — Nimrat stood completely naked.
 
She was 5'4" but owned every inch of the space like it belonged to her. Classic Jaatni-Punjaban build: broad shoulders, cinched waist, hips that flared out dramatically and refused to narrow again. Her breasts were big and heavy, sitting high and proud even at fifty — no droop, no excuses. Full, round mounds with dark areolas the size of old one-rupee coins, nipples thick and erect, the same dusky rose shade as her daughter's but far more experienced, clearly used to fingers, mouths, teeth. Her ass was pure sculpture — two firm, perfectly rounded globes that gave just the right jiggle when she walked, the deep crack between them always dark and tempting. Between her thighs she kept a thin, neat landing strip of black hair, trimmed but never shaved bare, framing those plump outer lips that looked constantly swollen, like they were forever ready and waiting for the next touch, tongue or thick cock.
 
 
Long burgundy hair fell past her waist in thick waves, wet from the shower she’d just taken, strands sticking to her back and shoulders. Her nails were polished jet black—fingers, toes—sharp enough to leave marks if she wanted. Skin was still fair, Punjabi fair, but tanned golden from years of Mumbai sun on the balcony. She looked like sex that never stopped. A widow on paper, but her body screamed it had been fucked daily once and still remembered every stroke. Genes like that don’t lie. Simran got her curves, her hunger, her leaking tits from this woman. Nimrat was the source.
 
She squeezed out a thick blob of that fancy jasmine-oud soap into her palm, the kind that costs more than most people's monthly grocery bill, and started working it in. Slow, deliberate circles first over her collarbones, feeling the suds build, then dragging her hands downward. She cupped both heavy tits from underneath, lifting their full weight like she was offering them up, thumbs grazing those thick nipples till they poked out stiff and dark against the white foam. Soap ran in shiny wet lines down the deep cleavage, bubbles clinging and popping in the cleft.
 
She gave each nipple a quick pinch, just enough to sting sweet, then let her palms slide south over the gentle curve of her belly, tracing the wide flare of her hips. One hand kept kneading the meat of her ass cheek, fingers digging in deep, squeezing till the skin flushed pink under the pressure.

[doodhwale_bhaiya]

The other hand slipped right between her thighs. Fingers nudged through that neat little strip of black hair, parting those swollen outer lips, spreading the slick soap along the length of her slit in long, unhurried strokes. Middle finger found her clit and started circling slow, pressing just right, while her hips gave tiny lazy rolls to meet the rhythm.
 
A long, throaty sigh slipped out of her. The mirror was steaming up fast, turning everything hazy, but she didn't give a fuck. She knew exactly how she looked right now, legs parted a bit, one hand buried between her thighs, the other gripping her own ass like it owed her money.
 
Widow at fifty, body still screaming to be fucked every damn day, and not a single man in the house to do the job properly.
 
She picked up speed now, rubbing harder, hips bucking forward into her palm, those big tits swaying and bouncing with each thrust of her hand, soap suds dripping off the hard tips of her nipples and trailing down her stomach. Rain hammered the windows outside, Mumbai's endless wet season drumming like it wanted in, but the real storm was the one building low in her belly, same sharp, hungry ache she'd carried all the way from Chandigarh.
 
She bit her lower lip, eyes half-closed, chasing it.
 
 
 
Nimrat stood there in front of the full-length mirror in her master bedroom, the soft golden light spilling in from the balcony lamps, painting her skin in this warm, honeyed glow that made everything look even more sinful.
 
She was in one of those rare moods today, light and bubbly inside, the kind of happiness that hadn't touched her in months. Felt almost dangerous, like something was about to happen.
 
She'd just slipped into the saree she'd designed herself specially for this meeting: deep wine-red chiffon with thick black embroidery running along the border, the kind that catches every eye. The blouse was pure backless halter, tied behind her neck with thin strings, the sort of cut only a woman like her could carry off at fifty without looking desperate. The fabric was thin as hell, almost see-through when the light hit it right, and that deep U-neck plunged straight down between her heavy breasts, shoving them up high and mashing them together so the soft inner curves overflowed just a little. The dark edges of her areolas peeked teasingly at the very brink, one wrong move and they'd be out for the world to see.
 
She'd dbangd the pallu deliberately low on her hips, letting the pleats sit way below her navel, showing off that smooth, golden strip of toned midriff that still held tight after all these years. Every step she took, the pallu shifted just enough to let the heavy, rounded cheeks of her ass push against the chiffon, the deep cleft between them traced out clear as day through the thin material.
 
She turned sideways in the mirror, slow, taking it all in. That classic 38-32-40 hourglass still looked lethal on her 5'4" frame. Confident, sensual, the kind of woman who knew damn well the power she carried between her thighs and in the sway of her hips. Her long burgundy hair hung loose, thick waves tumbling all the way down her back, the ends brushing right over the top curve of her ass like they were teasing it too. Kohl-lined eyes smoldered back at her, dark and hungry, and those full lips were painted a glossy, deep red that screamed come-and-get-it.
 
A small, wicked smile curled those painted lips as she caught her own reflection.

[doodhwale_bhaiya]

Mrs. Meera Irani
 
The name alone sent a thrill through her.
 
Meera was the kind of woman who turned heads without even trying — married to one of Maharashtra's biggest political heavyweights, always splashed across Page 3 and Instagram reels for her killer looks, designer outfits, and that perfect mix of classy elegance and raw sex appeal. The kind of trophy wife who made other women jealous and men weak in the knees. And three days ago, out of fucking nowhere, she'd slid into Nimrat's WhatsApp with one short message.
 
"I need to meet you. Privately. I can help with the situation your boutique is facing. Let’s talk."
 
No hello, no bullshit small talk, no hint of what she wanted in return. Just straight to the point.
 
Nimrat's boutique was everything to her — the baby she'd built from scratch after her husband died, pouring her heart, her savings, her late-night sewing sessions into it. And now it was crumbling. Sudden GST raid, fake anonymous complaints piling up, court cases hanging like a sword over her head. One wrong move and the shop gets sealed, maybe even her dragged away in handcuffs. She'd been chain-smoking on the terrace every night, stomach in knots, wondering how the hell she'd fix this mess.
 
Then Meera's message popped up like some twisted lifeline.
 
Nimrat felt this weird rush hit her — pure gratitude crashing into something hotter, darker, electric. Like her body was waking up after years of being on autopilot. Gratitude mixed with suspicion, sure, but also this low throb of curiosity. What did a woman like Meera want from her? And what was she willing to give to save her shop?
 
She stood there in front of the mirror, giving the pallu one final tug, pulling it even lower on her hips so the edge sat just below her navel, that golden strip of skin on full display. The thin chiffon blouse stretched tight across her chest as she moved, the deep neckline doing its job perfectly — shoving those heavy breasts up high, the soft inner curves spilling out just enough to tease. She cupped them lightly from underneath, feeling their warm, full weight settle into her palms, watching how the hard nipples poked right through the sheer fabric like they were begging to be noticed.
 
A tiny, wicked smile curled her glossy red lips.
 
Whatever Meera wanted tonight, Nimrat was ready to play the game. And if it meant using every inch of this body that still turned heads at fifty, then so be it.
 
She sprayed one last mist of perfume between her cleavage, let her fingers trail down her midriff once, feeling the goosebumps rise, then turned toward the door.