Adultery The Forbidden Relief – My Wife's Secret

[doodhwale_bhaiya]

Piyo glass full Doodh
 
Simran drove away from the clinic in a daze—relief still humming through her body from the pumping session, breasts lighter than they’d been in days, the ache dulled to a manageable throb. The two full bottles sat carefully in a cloth bag on the passenger seat, wrapped in tissue. She felt almost normal again.
 
Then it hit her.
 
The breast pump.
 
She’d left it on Preeti’s counter.
 
“Shit…” she muttered, glancing at the bag—only the bottles, no pump. She pulled over quickly, heart sinking, and opened Amazon on her phone. Search: breast pump. Every listing—manual, electric, branded, generic—showed delivery in 2-3 days minimum. Reviews were a mess: “Suction too weak,” “Breaks after a week,” “Painful to use,” “Not worth the money.” One review stood out: *Better to buy from a local medical store. They stock decent ones and you get it instantly. Online ones are mostly fake.*
 
Instantly. She needed it today—not in two days when the heaviness would return full force.
 
She spotted a medical shop on the main road—small, brightly lit, signboard reading “Chandigarh Medicos.” She parked the Creta outside, grabbed her purse, and walked in—trying to look casual, though her kurti still bore faint damp patches from earlier leaks, hidden under a light dupatta.
 
Inside, the shop was busy but not crowded. Two counters: a young boy (early twenties, thin mustache, white coat) on one side, an older woman in a saree on the other. Three customers waited—all men, easily over 40, one in a turban, another in a crisp shirt, the third leaning on a cane. They glanced at her as she entered—curious, lingering looks at the beautiful woman in the fitted kurti that hugged her curves despite its modesty.
 
The boy finished with a customer and turned to her, smiling professionally. 
“Ji, ma’am? Kya chahiye?”
 
The woman was still busy, packing medicines for the turbaned man. No chance to switch counters. Simran’s throat tightened. Heat flooded her cheeks. The words stuck.
 
She swallowed, voice coming out softer than intended. 
“Breast… pump.”
 
The boy blinked, processing. 
“Breast pump? Ji… manual ya electric?”
 
Behind her, the two waiting men turned fully now—eyes widening slightly, as if they’d never heard the term spoken aloud by a woman like her. One adjusted his glasses, staring openly at her chest where the kurti clung faintly from earlier dampness. The other shifted his weight, gaze lingering on the swell of her hips.
 
Simran felt their stares like fingers—hot, invasive. Her nipples tightened involuntarily under the fabric, a fresh bead of milk threatening to form. The tingle returned, low and treacherous, mixing embarrassment with that dark, unwelcome heat.
 
The boy recovered, nodding quickly. 
“Ji, manual hai. Good brand. Ek minute.”
 
He turned to fetch it from the shelf, but the moment stretched—Simran standing there, flushed, the center of silent male attention, the words “breast pump” still echoing in the small shop.
 
Simran stood frozen at the counter, cheeks burning under the weight of every stare in the small medical shop. The boy—eager, young, oblivious—waited expectantly for her answer, while the three older men behind her shifted subtly, eyes fixed on her chest where the decently tight kurti clung to her swollen, braless breasts. The fabric stretched across the heavy curves, outlining the prominent nipples that had hardened from the cool AC and her own nervous heat. She couldn’t hide them—arms at her sides only accentuated the dramatic swell, the deep valley visible at the neckline.
 
Desperate times, desperate measures.
 
The boy smiled helpfully. 
“Manual wala simple hai, madam—no warranty needed. But electric wala better hai—one year warranty, aur cord bhi lamba hai. Aap baith ke TV dekhte reh sakti hain, switch on karke… woh milk nikalega aaram se.”
 
He said it innocently—clinical—but the words landed like sparks. The men behind her leaned in slightly, listening carefully, gazes dropping shamelessly to her gigantic, beautiful boobs—round, full, straining the kurti as if begging for the very relief he described.
 
Simran’s throat tightened. Heat flooded her core, a treacherous tingle making her thighs press together. 
“Electric… dedo, bhaiya,” she managed, voice barely above a whisper.
 
The boy beamed, reaching under the counter for the box. He pulled out the warranty card immediately. 
“Madam, yeh warranty ke liye—name, address, mobile number likh dijiye please.”
 
The card stared up at her. Personal details. In front of these men. The thought of her name linked to “breast pump” in their register made her stomach flip.
 
She shook her head quickly, panic rising. 
“Nahi… do one thing… manual hi de do.”
 
The boy blinked, but switched boxes without question—handing her the simpler manual pump in a plain packet. She paid hurriedly—cash, no card, no more questions—and clutched the bag to her chest, the pressure against her tender breasts sending a fresh throb through her.
 
She turned and fled—almost running—out of the shop, kurti bouncing with her steps, her heavy boobs jiggling happily beneath the fabric, as if celebrating the promise of relief to come.
 
In the car, she leaned back against the seat, breathing hard, the bag on her lap.
 
The pump waited.
 
Her breasts ached in anticipation.