Adultery The Forbidden Relief – My Wife's Secret

[doodhwale_bhaiya]

 
The Sunday before the Monday
 
Ravi and Simran woke late—around 9:30, the Chandigarh sun already high and golden through the curtains. Simran stirred first, slipping out of bed quietly so as not to disturb Ravi. She padded to the bathroom, showered quickly under warm water that rinsed away the faint club haze from the night before, then went through her usual routine: cleansing milk, light moisturizer, a touch of kajal and nude gloss. She chose a simple, breezy white cotton maxi dress for the day—sleeveless, flowing to her ankles, the fabric soft against her skin, neckline modest but still hinting at the gentle swell of her breasts. Hair left loose in damp waves, she felt light, unhurried.
 
Ravi woke a little after ten, stretching lazily before freshening up—quick shower, shave, grey T-shirt and track pants. He came downstairs barefoot, hair still damp, to find Bhola already setting breakfast on the table: fresh aloo parathas, curd, mango pickle, and strong filter coffee. Simran was sipping hers at the dining table, legs tucked under her, smiling softly at the morning quiet.
 
The day unfolded slowly, gloriously empty. No plans, no errands, no urgency. They moved like people who had forgotten what rush felt like—lounging on the sofa with the TV on low, scrolling phones, occasionally laughing at nothing. Around 10 AM, Bhola approached Ravi in the living room, hands folded respectfully.
 
“Sahib… can I go to my house for some time? I’ll be back by evening.”
 
Ravi looked up, nodded without hesitation. 
“Of course, Bhola. Go. Take the scooty. Drive safe. Come back whenever you’re ready.”
 
Bhola bowed slightly—“Ji, Sahib”—and left quietly, the front door clicking shut behind him.
 
With Bhola gone, the house felt even more theirs. Ravi and Simran decided to spend the afternoon on the rooftop terrace—the shaded portion they loved, under the big neem tree with its wide canopy blocking the direct sun. They carried up two low folding chairs, a small cooler with ice, gin, tonic, lime, and a couple of glasses. The air was warm but bearable in the shade, a gentle breeze rustling the leaves overhead.
 
They mixed their drinks—gin and tonic with extra lime, the fizz sharp and refreshing—and settled in. Simran kicked off her sandals, curled her legs under her, the white maxi riding up just enough to bare her calves. Ravi stretched out beside her, one arm dbangd over the back of her chair, fingers occasionally brushing her shoulder. They talked in fragments—about the club last night, Preeti and Shikha’s plan, the strange ancient scripture—then lapsed into comfortable silence. The gin warmed them slowly, loosening limbs and thoughts. They napped a little, heads tilted back, sun filtering through the neem leaves in dappled patterns across their skin.
 
By the time Bhola returned—around 10 PM—the sky was dark, stars faint above the city glow. He came in quietly, carrying a small cloth bag (probably village gifts—pickles or sweets), gave them a respectful nod, and retreated to his room without disturbing them.
 
Ravi and Simran had already come downstairs. They shared a light dinner—leftover parathas warmed up, a quick salad—then went to bed early. Simran changed into her blush-pink satin nightie again, the cool fabric sliding over her sun-kissed skin. Ravi pulled on his usual track pants and T-shirt. They curled together under the sheet, her head on his chest, his arm around her waist.
 
It was a Sunday well spent—relaxed, doing practically nothing. Well Simran had to do her thing a bit, but nothing new there. Other than that, No drama, no revelations, just the simple luxury of a day that belonged only to them.