Adultery The Forbidden Relief – My Wife's Secret

[doodhwale_bhaiya]

The Forbidden Relief – My Wife's Secret

Introduction / Author's Note

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You have been warned.

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

Enjoy… or at least enjoy squirming. ?

Chapter 1

Ravi

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

Ravi looked up. “Movie?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She shivered. “You’re impossible.”

“And you love it.”

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

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

“Drive safe, Mr. Sharma.”

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

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

His mind kept drifting back to Simran.

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

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

Voluptuous didn’t even begin to cover it.

Hourglass didn’t do justice either.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then there was the other thing.

The thing they didn’t talk about openly yet.

Two years of trying. No baby.

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

Easy for them to say.

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

He wanted it too.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 
Simran


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

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

“Bhola,” she called softly.

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

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

“Ji, Bhabhi. Anything else?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Preeti.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Done,” Simran said instantly.

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

“Bhabhi? Coffee.”

“Come in.”

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

“Thank you,” she murmured, already sipping.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Ji, Bhabhi. Drive safe.”

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

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

“Simmiiii!”

“Preetuuuu!”

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

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

Over iced lattes and cheesecake, they caught up properly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yeah…”

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

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

“Okay,” she whispered. “Tomorrow.”

Preeti smiled. “Good girl.”

They ordered another round of coffee.

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

To be continued…