Simran
It had been several weeks since the second cycle of the hidden powder in her nightly milk, and Simran had begun to feel like herself again—perhaps even more than herself. Energy returned in quiet waves, her laughter came easier, her body moved with a renewed, almost restless grace. But nature, once stirred, does not always announce its intentions politely.
One humid afternoon, the house was still. Ravi was at the office, Bhola had stepped out to the market for fresh vegetables. Simran had curled up for a rare midday nap in the bedroom, wearing nothing but a soft, knee-length mulmul nightie and her usual padded bra underneath—the one with the wide straps that kept her full breasts comfortably lifted even in sleep.
She turned in her sleep, shifting onto her side, and a sudden, sharp twinge shot through her chest—like a deep, internal pull. She woke with a small gasp, disoriented, one hand instinctively pressing between her heavy breasts. The pain wasn’t severe, but it was strange, unfamiliar, like her body was reminding her of something it had forgotten how to say.
She sat up slowly, nightie slipping off one shoulder, and padded barefoot to the attached bathroom. The cool marble floor grounded her as she sat on the commode. When she relaxed, the sound of her stream hitting the water echoed louder than usual in the quiet room—sharp, forceful, almost obscene. A shiver ran up her spine, goosebumps blooming across her arms and the back of her neck. She felt her cheeks flush. It was ridiculous—how could something so ordinary suddenly feel so… intimate, so exposed?
She finished, cleaned herself carefully with the hand jet, the warm water making her sigh despite herself, then dried with soft tissue. As she stood and tugged her flimsy cotton panty back up her thighs, she paused. Something felt off. Not down there—up higher.
She looked down.
Her nightie was dry. No sweat stains from the mild afternoon heat. Yet there was a faint, unmistakable dampness blooming across the front of her bra, right over the peaks of her breasts. Two small, dark circles had formed on the padded cups, growing slowly, like ink spreading on paper.
Simran frowned, confused. She reached up, cupped her breasts through the fabric—full, warm, heavier than usual—and felt the wetness seep into her palms. Her nipples, already prominent under the soft padding, were stiff, almost aching. The sensation sent another ripple through her.
Simran lifted the nightie above her head exposing her heart shaped buttocks protruding outward asking to be patted and let the nightie slip from her fingers deliberately, not a hurried escape, but a slow, conscious surrender. The soft mulmul fabric whispered down her body like a lover’s final caress, pooling at her feet in a pale puddle. She took off her bra and let it fall. She stood topless in the bathroom’s soft light, wearing only the thin, high-cut cotton panty that clung to her like a second skin.
The tiny garment did nothing to hide; it worshipped. The fabric stretched taut across the dramatic flare of her hips, the waistband biting gently into the creamy flesh just above her pubic bone, creating that perfect, shallow dip where belly met mound. From behind—if anyone had been there to see—the panty framed her ass like an offering: two gigantic, heart-shaped globes, impossibly round and full, the kind of ass that sways with every step and makes men forget their own names. The cotton rode high on the cheeks, exposing generous lower curves, the deep cleft between them shadowed and inviting, while the front panel clung damply to her swollen lips, outlining the plump, nectar-slick seam in obscene detail.
But it was her breasts that commanded the scene. Freed completely, they hung heavy and proud—full 36D orbs that defied gravity just enough to point forward. She stood like a fertility idol come to life: skin glowing with that post-powder luminosity, long black hair cascading wild over her shoulders, framing the deep valley between her leaking breasts. One hand rested on her hip, accentuating the dramatic hourglass—narrow waist flaring into lush hips and that dripping, heart-shaped ass—while the other hovered near her chest, fingers trembling as though unsure whether to catch the milk or coax more out.
The entire picture was shameless, primal, dripping of sex: a woman whose body had awakened against her will and now refused to be silenced. Milk leaking, pussy dampening the panty, ass framed like ripe fruit begging to be split open, breasts offered forward as though waiting for worship or violation.
She looked like sin made flesh—beautiful, fertile, and utterly, irrevocably aroused.
She looked at her mangoes in the mirror. They looked… different. Fuller. The skin tauter, veins faintly visible beneath the milky surface.
Without thinking, almost as though her hands belonged to someone else, she lifted them—offering them to her own reflection. The weight felt delicious in her palms. She squeezed gently, testing. Nothing.
She squeezed again, firmer this time, thumbs brushing the stiff peaks.
A bead of clear liquid appeared at the tip of one nipple—then the other.
She caught her breath and her heart skipped a beat.
She squeezed harder, this time it was instinctive, fingers digging into the soft flesh. A thin jet of warm milk sprayed out, arcing through the air and splattering against the mirror in tiny white droplets. She startled so violently she almost stumbled backward, like a child seeing fireworks for the first time.
Heart hammering, she stared at the mirror—at the streaks slowly sliding down the glass, at her own wide-eyed reflection, at the twin droplets still beading on her nipples.
She didn’t let go.
She squeezed again. Nothing. Again. Nothing. Then again—harder, more deliberate—and another quick spurt shot out, painting fresh lines across the mirror.
The sound was soft, wet, obscene.
Simran’s knees trembled. Heat radiated from her face, her chest, her core. Between her thighs she felt a slick warmth that had nothing to do with the bathroom jet. Her breathing came shallow, ragged.
She didn’t know what this was—lactation without pregnancy? A cruel echo of what had been lost? Or something else entirely, something the powder had awakened that refused to sleep again?
Her nipples were still leaking in slow, rhythmic beads. Milk continued to weep from the reddened tips, thin white rivulets tracing lazy paths down the undersides, dripping in soft plops onto the marble. Each droplet caught the light, glistening like liquid pearls before falling. Her areolas were flushed dark rose, swollen and puckered, the tiny Montgomery glands standing out in erotic relief around the thick, erect nipples that throbbed visibly with her quickening pulse.
But she understood one thing with terrifying clarity:
This was the first time.
And like a boy who shaves his face for the very first time—once the blade touches skin, the beard comes back thicker, faster, darker. There is no going back to smooth, untouched cheeks. The body remembers the act. It learns. It insists.
Simran stood there, hands still cradling her leaking breasts, staring at the milky streaks on the mirror like they were a message written in a language she was only beginning to understand.
And somewhere deep inside her, a quiet, hungry part of her body whispered: Breedable….Cow.
Breedable What?
Simran came back to her senses. She was holding her breasts and rubbing them and standing topless in just a panty. She hurriedly wore her bra and nightie and came out of the bathroom, the mirror, if it was alive, felt like in 7th heaven slurping its tongue to taste the virgin milk on its face.
It had been several weeks since the second cycle of the hidden powder in her nightly milk, and Simran had begun to feel like herself again—perhaps even more than herself. Energy returned in quiet waves, her laughter came easier, her body moved with a renewed, almost restless grace. But nature, once stirred, does not always announce its intentions politely.
One humid afternoon, the house was still. Ravi was at the office, Bhola had stepped out to the market for fresh vegetables. Simran had curled up for a rare midday nap in the bedroom, wearing nothing but a soft, knee-length mulmul nightie and her usual padded bra underneath—the one with the wide straps that kept her full breasts comfortably lifted even in sleep.
She turned in her sleep, shifting onto her side, and a sudden, sharp twinge shot through her chest—like a deep, internal pull. She woke with a small gasp, disoriented, one hand instinctively pressing between her heavy breasts. The pain wasn’t severe, but it was strange, unfamiliar, like her body was reminding her of something it had forgotten how to say.
She sat up slowly, nightie slipping off one shoulder, and padded barefoot to the attached bathroom. The cool marble floor grounded her as she sat on the commode. When she relaxed, the sound of her stream hitting the water echoed louder than usual in the quiet room—sharp, forceful, almost obscene. A shiver ran up her spine, goosebumps blooming across her arms and the back of her neck. She felt her cheeks flush. It was ridiculous—how could something so ordinary suddenly feel so… intimate, so exposed?
She finished, cleaned herself carefully with the hand jet, the warm water making her sigh despite herself, then dried with soft tissue. As she stood and tugged her flimsy cotton panty back up her thighs, she paused. Something felt off. Not down there—up higher.
She looked down.
Her nightie was dry. No sweat stains from the mild afternoon heat. Yet there was a faint, unmistakable dampness blooming across the front of her bra, right over the peaks of her breasts. Two small, dark circles had formed on the padded cups, growing slowly, like ink spreading on paper.
Simran frowned, confused. She reached up, cupped her breasts through the fabric—full, warm, heavier than usual—and felt the wetness seep into her palms. Her nipples, already prominent under the soft padding, were stiff, almost aching. The sensation sent another ripple through her.
Simran lifted the nightie above her head exposing her heart shaped buttocks protruding outward asking to be patted and let the nightie slip from her fingers deliberately, not a hurried escape, but a slow, conscious surrender. The soft mulmul fabric whispered down her body like a lover’s final caress, pooling at her feet in a pale puddle. She took off her bra and let it fall. She stood topless in the bathroom’s soft light, wearing only the thin, high-cut cotton panty that clung to her like a second skin.
The tiny garment did nothing to hide; it worshipped. The fabric stretched taut across the dramatic flare of her hips, the waistband biting gently into the creamy flesh just above her pubic bone, creating that perfect, shallow dip where belly met mound. From behind—if anyone had been there to see—the panty framed her ass like an offering: two gigantic, heart-shaped globes, impossibly round and full, the kind of ass that sways with every step and makes men forget their own names. The cotton rode high on the cheeks, exposing generous lower curves, the deep cleft between them shadowed and inviting, while the front panel clung damply to her swollen lips, outlining the plump, nectar-slick seam in obscene detail.
But it was her breasts that commanded the scene. Freed completely, they hung heavy and proud—full 36D orbs that defied gravity just enough to point forward. She stood like a fertility idol come to life: skin glowing with that post-powder luminosity, long black hair cascading wild over her shoulders, framing the deep valley between her leaking breasts. One hand rested on her hip, accentuating the dramatic hourglass—narrow waist flaring into lush hips and that dripping, heart-shaped ass—while the other hovered near her chest, fingers trembling as though unsure whether to catch the milk or coax more out.
The entire picture was shameless, primal, dripping of sex: a woman whose body had awakened against her will and now refused to be silenced. Milk leaking, pussy dampening the panty, ass framed like ripe fruit begging to be split open, breasts offered forward as though waiting for worship or violation.
She looked like sin made flesh—beautiful, fertile, and utterly, irrevocably aroused.
She looked at her mangoes in the mirror. They looked… different. Fuller. The skin tauter, veins faintly visible beneath the milky surface.
Without thinking, almost as though her hands belonged to someone else, she lifted them—offering them to her own reflection. The weight felt delicious in her palms. She squeezed gently, testing. Nothing.
She squeezed again, firmer this time, thumbs brushing the stiff peaks.
A bead of clear liquid appeared at the tip of one nipple—then the other.
She caught her breath and her heart skipped a beat.
She squeezed harder, this time it was instinctive, fingers digging into the soft flesh. A thin jet of warm milk sprayed out, arcing through the air and splattering against the mirror in tiny white droplets. She startled so violently she almost stumbled backward, like a child seeing fireworks for the first time.
Heart hammering, she stared at the mirror—at the streaks slowly sliding down the glass, at her own wide-eyed reflection, at the twin droplets still beading on her nipples.
She didn’t let go.
She squeezed again. Nothing. Again. Nothing. Then again—harder, more deliberate—and another quick spurt shot out, painting fresh lines across the mirror.
The sound was soft, wet, obscene.
Simran’s knees trembled. Heat radiated from her face, her chest, her core. Between her thighs she felt a slick warmth that had nothing to do with the bathroom jet. Her breathing came shallow, ragged.
She didn’t know what this was—lactation without pregnancy? A cruel echo of what had been lost? Or something else entirely, something the powder had awakened that refused to sleep again?
Her nipples were still leaking in slow, rhythmic beads. Milk continued to weep from the reddened tips, thin white rivulets tracing lazy paths down the undersides, dripping in soft plops onto the marble. Each droplet caught the light, glistening like liquid pearls before falling. Her areolas were flushed dark rose, swollen and puckered, the tiny Montgomery glands standing out in erotic relief around the thick, erect nipples that throbbed visibly with her quickening pulse.
But she understood one thing with terrifying clarity:
This was the first time.
And like a boy who shaves his face for the very first time—once the blade touches skin, the beard comes back thicker, faster, darker. There is no going back to smooth, untouched cheeks. The body remembers the act. It learns. It insists.
Simran stood there, hands still cradling her leaking breasts, staring at the milky streaks on the mirror like they were a message written in a language she was only beginning to understand.
And somewhere deep inside her, a quiet, hungry part of her body whispered: Breedable….Cow.
Breedable What?
Simran came back to her senses. She was holding her breasts and rubbing them and standing topless in just a panty. She hurriedly wore her bra and nightie and came out of the bathroom, the mirror, if it was alive, felt like in 7th heaven slurping its tongue to taste the virgin milk on its face.
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