Bhola stood in the kitchen after the massage, a quiet happiness settling over him like warm sunlight. No shyness, no guilt—just satisfaction. Bhabhi had relaxed under his hands again, her soft sighs and the way her body had melted into the sofa telling him everything. “The powder is working, Komal Bhabhi is a genius” he thought.
He didn’t think much, it was time for her milk. So he prepared her glass of milk with a spoonful of the powder.
Bhola carried Simran’s glass upstairs, erection still straining hard against his pant. He didn’t feel shame or embarrassment—because his mind was somewhere else. The hardness poked outward noticeably, the outline clear through the thin fabric, but he didn’t register enough.
He knocked softly on the bedroom door. It opened slightly—unlocked, as always—and he stepped in, placing the glass on the bedside table.
“Bhabhi… doodh rakh diya hai,” he called toward the closed bathroom door.
("Bhabhi... I have kept the milk,")
From inside the bathroom came the sound of running water—Simran, relaxed now after her desperate fingering in the shower, body humming with post-orgasm calm. She had finished rinsing, water still dripping from her skin, and heard his voice.
Surprisingly, she didn’t panic. Something in her—perhaps the lingering haze, perhaps the strange new comfort she felt around him—made her respond without overthinking.
“Bhola… wait. Mere kapde le jao.”
("Bhola... wait. Take my clothes.")
She opened the bathroom door just a crack—barely enough for her arm—and hid most of her body behind it, only her shoulder and one hand visible. Naked and still damp, she passed out the soaked sky-blue nightie, fabric heavy with milk and water.
Bhola took it carefully, fingers brushing hers for a split second. He waited—expecting the bra, the panties, like always.
Inside, Simran hesitated. Then she reached down, picked up her discarded bra from the floor—still damp from earlier leaks—and handed it through the gap.
Bhola took it, still waiting.
She realized—she had nothing more to give, she was not wearing any panty or bra today.
He paused one last time.
“Bhabhi… aur kuch hai?.”
(“Bhabhi… is there anything else?”)
Simran looked and saw there was infact no towel in the bathroom. So said no.
Only then did Bhola step back. Through the narrow gap, he caught a fleeting glimpse in the bathroom mirror—the reflection of her bare back, long black hair cascading down, the dramatic curve of her spine leading to the shadowed swell of her ass cheeks. Water droplets still clung to her skin, glistening like tiny diamonds, but the mirror didn’t show the full heart-shaped perfection of her dripping ass. He looked down quickly, cheeks warm, and retreated downstairs without another word.
Simran closed the door softly, locking it this time. She stood naked in the steamy bathroom, breathing hard—realizing with a jolt that she had no towel now. Water dripped from her hair, her breasts, her thighs—milk still leaking faintly from her nipples, arousal still slick between her legs.
She looked at her reflection—flushed, glowing, body humming—and felt the strange mix of embarrassment and quiet thrill all over again.
No towel.
No clothes.
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