Adultery The Forbidden Relief – My Wife's Secret

[doodhwale_bhaiya]

Ravi

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

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

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

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

“Missed you more.”

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

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

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

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

He looked at her. She looked back.

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

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

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

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

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

“I met Preeti today,” she said quietly.

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

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

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

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

Ravi nodded, taking another drag.

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

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

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

“Hey,” he whispered. “It’s okay.”

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

He stroked her hair. “I get it.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

She nodded, leaning into him more fully.

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

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

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

For now, they slept.


Simran

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Simran looked down.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Simran managed a small, grateful smile.

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

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

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

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

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

They clinked their glasses of sparkling water.

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

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


Preeti

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yeah?”

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

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

Ravi

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Cheers,” everyone echoed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yeah,” he replied. “It really does.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Of course,” Shikha said.

He left with a quick wave.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Everyone laughed.

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

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

Simran squeezed his hand under the table.

Later, they dropped Preeti and Shikha home.

“Next weekend?” Preeti called from the gate.

“Definitely,” Simran replied.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Love you,” she whispered.

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

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

To be continued…