A sudden, forceful spray of warm milk shot from both nipples, splattering the mirror in thin white arcs that slowly trickled downward like forbidden tears. Simran stood completely nude except for her delicate white lace panties—barely there, a whisper of fabric that rode high on her hips, the thin strings disappearing between the lush, heart-shaped globes of her ass. The lace cupped only the lower curves, leaving the upper swells exposed and jiggling softly with every breath, accentuating rather than hiding the perfect, creamy roundness that begged to be spread and gripped.
Her hands cradled her heavy breasts from below, lifting and pointing them straight at the mirror like dual cannons ready for target practice—the full, juicy globes resembling enormous Alphonso mangoes, ripe and swollen, skin taut and luminous, capped with stiff pink nipples already beading anew. Her legs pressed tightly together, thighs grinding involuntarily, the slick lips of her pussy rubbing against each other through the soaked lace with every subtle shift.
She bit her full lower lip hard, eyes half-lidded in the mirror, watching herself as she squeezed—first gentle, then firmer.
“Aaahhh…” a soft, breathy moan escaped with the first press, milk trickling in thin streams.
“Mmmphhh…” softer the second, a warm spurt painting fresh streaks.
“Mmmm…” even quieter, almost a whimper, as the pressure eased and pleasure bloomed.
“Ahhh…” barely audible now, her right leg bending forward onto her toes without thought—calf flexing, thigh tensing—brushing the lace against her swollen clit in a teasing grind that made her pussy clench and leak anew.
Everything involuntary—body moving on ancient instinct, relieving the deep, throbbing heaviness in those soft, juicy mango-breasts while her hips rocked subtly, chasing friction she hadn’t asked for.
The mirror grew whiter—streaked, fogged, painted in creamy white ribbons that ran in slow rivulets, her reflection a flushed, erotic vision of surrender behind the milky veil.
Bhola stood in the kitchen, stirring the warm milk slowly, the steel glass fogging slightly in his hand. One full spoon of Jeevdhatu dissolved completely—no trace, no taste. Already she’s leaking like a tapped well, what more do they want? Komal’s words echoed—more milk, more desire, more readiness—but the changes were already so stark. Still, orders were orders. He carried the glass upstairs.
The bedroom door stood ajar. He stepped in quietly, set the glass on the bedside table, and turned toward the attached bathroom to collect the laundry basket. The bathroom door was closed. He reached to push it open—and froze.
A soft, breathy moan drifted through the crack.
“Mmmphhh…”
Bhola’s heart slammed against his ribs. Fear flashed—Bhabhi is inside?
Time stopped.
Simran stood in the centre of the bathroom, bathed in the soft afternoon light filtering through the frosted window. Completely topless, wearing only those delicate white lace panties.
Both her hands cradled her heavy breasts from below, lifting and squeezing them toward the mirror—pink nipples erect and leaking, pointed like weapons in target practice. Her legs pressed tightly together, thighs grinding subtly, pussy lips rubbing through the soaked lace. Her full lips were caught between her teeth, eyes half-lidded in the mirror’s reflection.
The door’s sudden push caught her mid-squeeze.
She froze—like a deer in headlights—eyes wide, body rigid, milk still beading at her nipples.
Bhola froze too—hand on the door, mouth open, breath caught.
Three seconds. Four. Neither moved.
Then Bhola’s survival instinct kicked in. He stepped back, the door was already locked, and he retreated downstairs on silent feet, heart pounding so loud he was sure the whole house could hear.
The near-discovery—the shock of almost being caught, Bhola’s dark eyes on her bare, leaking breasts—ignited something feral. Heat exploded through her body, tenfold hotter than before. Her pussy clenched hard, clit throbbing against the lace, arousal flooding in a sudden, overwhelming rush.
She didn’t touch herself below. She didn’t need to.
Her hands—still cradling her breasts—squeezed again, harder.
“Aaahhh…” a soft, trembling moan.
A massive spray erupted from both nipples—thick, forceful jets of warm milk shooting forward, splattering the mirror in heavy white ropes, volume far greater than before, running in creamy rivers down the glass.
Her legs scissored involuntarily—thighs rubbing, knees buckling as the orgasm crashed through her without warning.
“Mmmphhh… aaaahhh…” muffled cries escaped, body shaking.
She kept squeezing—rhythmic, relentless—hands never leaving her breasts, milking herself through the waves. Milk sprayed again and again—voluminous, endless—painting the mirror white, dripping to the floor in puddles. Her pussy spasmed, squirting clear fluid into her panties, soaking the lace completely, trickling down her thighs.
“Aaahhh… ohhh… mmmphhh…” softer moans now, legs trembling, knees almost giving out as she leaned against the sink for support.
The orgasm rolled on—long, intense, body convulsing in pure, untouched ecstasy—until finally, after what felt like eternity, it subsided.
Her hands slowed, breasts softer now, nipples raw and still dripping faintly. She was exhausted—arms aching, body limp, panties ruined, mirror a milky mess.
She slid down to sit on the cool tile floor, back against the cabinet, breathing ragged.
The glass of milk waited on the bedside table outside—untouched, innocent.
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