Adultery The Forbidden Relief – My Wife's Secret

[doodhwale_bhaiya]

The Forbidden Relief – My Wife's Secret

Chapter 2

 
Author’s Interlude
 
Before we plunge deeper into the slow unraveling of this seemingly perfect middle-class Punjabi household, let’s pause. Let’s pull back the lens just a little.
 
From the outside, Ravi and Simran Sharma’s life in their Chandigarh high-rise flat looks textbook enviable: dual incomes, tasteful furniture from Pepperfry and Urban Ladder, weekend brunches at Virgin Courtyard, annual Goa trips posted with just the right filter. The kind of couple that makes aunties sigh and say, “Kitna acha jodi hai, bilkul perfect.”
 
But no life survives a microscope without revealing its textures. Every marriage has its quiet fault lines—small, invisible until pressure is applied. And fertility pressure? That’s the kind of force that finds every crack and widens it, inch by delicious, shameful inch.
 
You already know Simran is beautiful. But let me paint her properly this time, because beauty like hers doesn’t just exist—it insists.
 
She stands 5’7” in bare feet—tall for a Punjabi woman, tall enough that her proportions don’t scream caricature the way shorter women with the same measurements sometimes do. Her body is 36-30-38, and yes, those are real numbers, not wishful fiction. The bust is full and round, a natural D-cup that sits high and proud even without a bra, the kind that makes even well-fitted kurtis look like they’re working overtime. The waist is genuinely narrow—30 inches of smooth, flat midriff that refuses to soften despite two years of marriage and endless plates of butter chicken. How? Because every single morning, rain or shine, she spends forty-five minutes on the treadmill in the corner of the guest room, followed by light dumbbells and planks. She does it quietly, earphones in, hair in a messy top-knot, wearing nothing but sports bra and leggings. The discipline shows: the stomach is taut, the faint vertical line down the centre visible when she stretches.
 
After every steamy shower, Simran emerges from the bathroom like a goddess stepping out of monsoon mist—skin flushed pink, steam still curling off her shoulders, the air thick with the scent of jasmine body wash and warm vanilla. She first wraps her knee-length black hair in a fluffy white towel, twisting it into a high, heavy bun that sits like a crown, a few damp tendrils escaping to cling to the milky curve of her neck. Then comes the ritual that turns even the most innocent bedroom mirror into a private theatre.
Naked except for that towel-turban, she stands in front of the full-length mirror in their bedroom, uncaps a large jar of rich, whipped body butter—something expensive, coconut and shea, scented faintly with rose and sandalwood—and begins the slow, deliberate massage. She starts at her collarbones, fingers gliding in wide, sensual circles, down the smooth plane of her flat stomach, over the gentle flare of hips, along the length of her long legs. But when she reaches her breasts—those perfect, full 36D globes—they become the undeniable focus.

She cups them generously, lifting their heavy weight before letting the lotion-slicked palms slide over the soft, milky undersides, then up and around. Her areolas are mature, wide, and a dusky pinkish-rose, framing nipples that harden instantly into tight, reddish buttons under the cool air and her own touch. As she massages in firm, upward strokes, they bounce—once, twice, three times—full, animated little jiggles that settle again pointing straight forward, as if staring directly at whoever might be lucky (or cursed) enough to watch. The motion is hypnotic, almost cartoonish in its perkiness, defying gravity for a heartbeat before surrendering to their natural, lush droop.
 
She moves lower next, parting her thighs just enough to smooth lotion over the neatly trimmed triangle of soft black hair—perfectly shaped, not a stray out of place, the delicate pink lips beneath glistening faintly from the shower and now from the sheer warmth of her skin, looking for all the world like a ripe, nectar-filled bloom waiting to be tasted. Her thick, naturally pouty lips (the kind that make men lose vocabulary) part slightly as she exhales, revealing the soft inner rose-petal pink of her mouth. A small diamond nose stud catches the light with every breath, and those large, kohl-rimmed eyes—dark, liquid, framed by long lashes—meet her own reflection with a quiet, private intensity, as though she knows exactly how devastating she is and chooses, every day, to pretend she doesn’t.
 
And then those hips. 38 inches of lush, womanly flare that turns every salwar into something hypnotic. When she walks, there’s a soft, natural roll—nothing exaggerated, nothing deliberate, just biology doing what it was designed to do. Her skin is that rare Punjabi milky-white, almost luminous, the kind that catches light and holds it. Even in the dullest tube-light, she glows. Soft, touchable, slightly dewy. The kind of skin that makes men think of cream, of milk, of things they shouldn’t say out loud.
 
So when Preeti—half-teasing, half-awestruck—called her a “healthy, breedable cow” during that clinic visit, it wasn’t just crude humour. It was medical admiration wrapped in dirty friendship. Because Simran’s body, at 34, is in peak fertility mode: wide childbearing hips, thick healthy lining, plump ovaries loaded with follicles, breasts that look heavy with promise even though they’ve never lactated. In gynaecology slang, “breedable” isn’t an insult—it’s a compliment. It means the hardware is flawless. All that’s missing is the right software.
 
And yet, in the privacy of her own home, Simran dresses like she has no idea how devastating she is.
 
At home she never wears anything cheap or trashy. No neon netted nighties from Sarojini Nagar, no two-piece satin sets that scream “trying too hard”. Instead, she chooses beautiful, expensive things—soft mulmul cotton nighties in pastel shades (ivory, blush, powder blue), knee-length or just an inch above, with delicate lace at the neckline and sleeves. Sometimes a full-sleeved maxi that flows like water when she moves. Sometimes a sleeveless shift that skims her curves and stops exactly where decency ends. Always modest in length, always elegant in cut.
 
But on Simran, modesty is a lie.
 
The fabric is thin enough that when she passes in front of a window, the light turns it translucent and you can trace the outline of her body like a secret. The necklines dip just low enough to show the upper swell of her breasts when she leans to pick something up. The waist cinches naturally, reminding you how small it is compared to everything else. And when she sits cross-legged on the sofa, the hem rides up her smooth thighs—not scandalously, but enough that you notice the milky skin, the faint stretch marks at the very top that only make her more human, more touchable.
 
Even if she threw a shawl over her shoulders and covered herself head to toe, it wouldn’t matter. The body underneath has already made its statement. Every sway, every breath, every casual bend says the same thing: fertile. Ripe. Waiting.
 
And through all of this walks Bhola.
 
Twenty-six years old. Quiet. Efficient. Always there, never in the way. He moves through their home like a shadow that cooks perfect sarson ka saag, presses Ravi’s shirts with military precision, and—without ever being asked—collects every single piece of intimate laundry. Simran’s lace bras, her damp morning panties, the nighties that carry her scent after a full day. He washes them by hand sometimes, when the machine feels too rough. No one has ever commented. No one has ever needed to.
 
He sees things. He hears things. He smells things.
 
And he says nothing.
 
For now.
 
Because this story isn’t in a hurry. We’re only at the beginning of the slide.
 
So sit back. Get comfortable. Maybe dim the lights. Keep one hand free—you know exactly why.
 
The textures are just starting to show.
 
To be continued…