Adultery The Forbidden Relief – My Wife's Secret

[doodhwale_bhaiya]

Rewinding just a few minutes back.
 
After Ravi left, Simran sat alone on the bed, the bitter rejection still stinging in the air. The ache in her breasts had returned almost immediately—deeper now, insistent, the milk refilling with frightening speed. She couldn’t wait until morning. She needed relief now.
 
She stood, walked to the bathroom, and locked the door behind her. The mirror showed her the truth: dress soaked through at the chest, nipples dark and prominent, breasts visibly heavier than yesterday. She peeled the dress off completely this time, letting it fall to the floor. Naked except for the thin lace panties—she faced the mirror and cupped her breasts from below.
 
The next fifteen minutes were desperate.
 
She squeezed—harder than before, fingers digging into the soft, swollen flesh, pulling downward in rhythmic, milking strokes. 
“Mmmphhh…” a soft, needy moan with the first press—milk spraying in thin arcs, splattering the mirror. 
“Aaahhh…” softer, breathier, as the pressure eased fractionally. 
“Mmmm…” almost a whimper on the third, droplets turning to steady streams running down her belly.
 
She worked faster—alternating breasts, thumbs pressing the nipples outward, coaxing thicker jets that painted the glass white. Her thighs pressed together involuntarily, pussy lips grinding through the lace, clit throbbing with every tug. Milk flowed freely now—warm, creamy, copious—dripping from her nipples even when she paused, coating her hands, running in rivulets down her curved undersides and over her ribs.
 
But it wasn’t enough. The tankers were too full, producing too fast. Relief came in waves, but the heaviness returned almost immediately. She leaned against the sink, panting, breasts still leaking steadily, mirror streaked and fogged.
 
“Tomorrow… I have to see Preeti. This is becoming a problem.”
 
They ate dinner quietly—dal-chawal, simple and warm—Bhola serving with his usual silence. Ravi was gentle, attentive, but the awkwardness from earlier lingered. They went to bed early, curling together under the sheet, his arm around her waist. Sleep came quickly for him; for her, it was fitful.
 
Next morning, after Ravi left for the office—kissing her forehead, murmuring “Love you, jaan”—Simran dressed carefully: loose kurti to hide any leaks, light palazzo pants, hair tied back. She drove to Preeti’s clinic, heart pounding with every bump in the road that jostled her tender breasts.
 
Preeti greeted her in the private examination room, door closed, blinds drawn. 
“Simmi… you sounded like you were in pain on the phone. What’s wrong?”
 
Simran hesitated, then lifted her kurti without a word—revealing her braless breasts, swollen and heavy, faint wet patches already forming on the fabric she’d just removed.
 
Preeti’s eyes widened. 
“You’re… producing milk?”
 
Simran nodded, voice small. 
“A lot. It hurts. Constantly.”
 
Preeti recovered quickly—professional mode kicking in. 
“Come, lie down. Let’s check properly. Top off.”
 
In the covered area, Simran removed her kurti completely, lying back on the examination table. Preeti gloved up, expression focused but gentle.
 
She palpated carefully—lifting each breast, checking for lumps, pressing gently around the areolas. No masses, no hardness—just extreme fullness, ducts engorged, skin taut. When she pressed lightly beneath one nipple, milk beaded instantly, then sprayed in a thin stream.
 
“God… you’re full,” Preeti murmured, surprised. “Really full. No lumps, no infection signs. But this volume… it’s not normal without pregnancy or stimulation.”
 
Simran bit her lip. 
“Now what?”
 
Preeti didn’t answer immediately, mind racing. She disposed of the gloves, washed her hands, thinking.
 
After a long pause, she asked, 
“What are you doing for relief right now?”
 
Simran flushed. 
“Squeezing… myself. In the bathroom. It helps for a bit, but it comes back fast.”
 
Preeti nodded slowly. 
“Yes… that’s the way for now. Manual expression.”
 
She reached into a cabinet and pulled out a clear plastic bottle with a soft silicone flange. 
“See this? It’s called a breast pump—manual milking bottle. You attach it here, squeeze the handle, and it creates suction. Much more efficient than hands. Empties deeper, faster. I’ll show you how.”
 
Simran stared at it—relief and embarrassment mixing.
 
Preeti smiled gently. 
“We’ll figure out why this is happening. But first… let’s make you comfortable.”