Adultery The Forbidden Relief – My Wife's Secret

[doodhwale_bhaiya]

Simran sat very still on the sofa, legs tucked beneath her, the sky-blue nightie still clinging damply to her chest in faint, telltale patches. The TV murmured in the background, but neither of them paid it any attention. Her fingers twisted the hem of the fabric in her lap, cheeks still warm from the earlier moment. Bhola remained seated on the floor in front of her—cross-legged, calm, eyes lowered respectfully but not leaving her face.
 
After a long silence, Simran finally spoke—voice small, hesitant, almost a whisper. 
“So… what exactly is to be done now?”
 
Bhola looked up slowly, expression gentle, no judgment. 
“Bhabhi… main exactly yeh nahi bata sakta ki aapki situation kya hai. Mujhe thoda aur jaanna padega… kitna doodh ban raha hai. Matlab… kitna zyada.”
("Bhabhi... I can't tell you exactly what your situation is. I need to know a little more... how much milk you're producing. I mean... how much extra.")
 
Simran’s breath caught. Heat flooded her face instantly—embarrassment so sharp it stung. She looked away, toward the TV, fingers tightening on the hem until her knuckles paled. 
“How can I say this out loud? To him?”
 
Bhola waited—patient, never pushing—then spoke again, softer. 
“Bhabhi… chinta mat kijiye. Yeh bilkul normal hai. Yeh sirf yeh batata hai ki aap bahut healthy hain. Kuchh galat nahi ho raha.”
("Bhabhi... don't worry. This is completely normal. It just shows that you are very healthy. Nothing is wrong.")
 
Simran swallowed hard. Her throat felt tight. After several long seconds, she managed—barely audible: 
“It’s… a lot.”
 
Bhola nodded, as if that was exactly what he expected. 
“Kitna zyada, Bhabhi?”
(How much extra…Bhabhi?)
 
Silence again. Simran’s eyes dropped to her lap, cheeks burning hotter. She couldn’t say the words—couldn’t describe the soaked bras, the drenched nighties, the constant dripping that left her feeling like her body had turned traitor.
 
Bhola tried a different angle, voice still calm. 
“Theek hai… bataiye—kya dard hota hai?”
(“Okay… tell me—does it hurt?”)
 
Simran hesitated… then gave a tiny nod—eyes still averted.
 
Bhola continued gently. 
“Aur… leak bhi hota hai na?”
(“And… leaks also happen, right?”)
 
Simran didn’t answer—couldn’t. The discussion had become unbearably embarrassing. Her heart raced, palms damp, the wet spots on her nightie suddenly feeling like neon signs.
 
Bhola leaned forward slightly—not invading her space, just enough to be heard clearly. 
“Bhabhi… maine notice kiya hai. Par fikar mat kijiye. Yeh sab normal hai. Aap ab tak isko manage kaise kar rahi thi?”
("Bhabhi... I've noticed. But don't worry. This is all normal. How have you been managing this until now?")
 
Simran opened her mouth—tried to speak—but the words wouldn’t come. How could she explain squeezing herself in the bathroom, the pump, the desperate relief that still wasn’t enough? She shook her head faintly, eyes stinging.
 
Bhola waited, then asked quietly: 
“Khud se… nikalne ki koshish ki hai? Haath se?”
("Have you tried to get it out… by yourself? By hand?")
 
Simran’s eyes flicked up to his—wide, startled—then dropped again. She gave the smallest nod, barely perceptible.
 
Bhola nodded back, no surprise, no shame. 
“Yeh bilkul natural hai, Bhabhi. Ismein kuchh galat nahi. Kya araam milta hai usse?”
("It's perfectly natural, Bhabhi. There's nothing wrong with it. Does it provide relief?")
 
Simran exhaled shakily. 
“…No.”
 
Bhola tilted his head slightly. 
“Toh phir?”
(Then?)
 
Simran drew a deep, trembling breath—chest rising and falling, the damp patches on her nightie shifting with the movement. 
“It’s… all good now, Bhola. Don’t worry. It’s fine.”
 
She looked away again, ending the conversation the only way she knew how—by closing it.
 
Bhola didn’t push. He simply bowed his head slightly. 
“Ji, Bhabhi. Jab bhi zaroorat pade… main yahin hoon.”
("Yes, Bhabhi. Whenever you need me... I'm right here.")
 
He rose quietly and returned to the kitchen, leaving Simran alone on the sofa—heart still racing, cheeks still hot, the unspoken weight of her leaking breasts heavier than ever.