Adultery The Forbidden Relief – My Wife's Secret

[doodhwale_bhaiya]

 
Simran sat trembling on the edge of the bed, tears streaming down her flushed cheeks, the stuck pump clamped mercilessly to her right nipple—stretching it long and red inside the silicone flange, milk still trickling but the suction now a burning, numbing agony. The storm raged outside—rain lashing the windows in sheets, thunder shaking the walls—but inside, her world had narrowed to pain and desperate vulnerability.
 
Bhola knelt in front of her, voice steady despite the chaos. 
 
“Bhabhi… apna left haath hataiye. Sirf right haath se bottle pakadiye. Main nikaal doonga.”
("Bhabhi... remove your left hand. Just hold the bottle with your right. I'll take it out.")
 
Simran hesitated—arm still clutched protectively across her chest—but the pain overrode everything. She nodded shakily, removing her left arm, exposing both breasts fully. Her hand gripped the bottle tighter with the right.
 
Bhola leaned closer, eyes focused only on the pump. 
 
“Main side se dabaunga… thoda space banega, hawa jayegi andar, aur woh nikal jayega. Par mujhe pata nahi exactly kis side se space ban sakta hai…”
("I'll press from the side... a little space will be created, air will go in, and he will come out. But I don't know exactly which side can create the space...")
 
Mid-explanation, Simran interrupted—voice cracking, desperate. 
“Bas… chup karo… kuchh karo!”
(“Enough… shut up… do something!”)
 
Bhola didn’t flinch. With both hands—large, calloused, careful—he began probing the sides of her majestic right breast. He started from the outer curve, thumbs pressing gently into the soft, swollen flesh—testing, searching for give. The skin yielded under his touch, warm and taut, milk ducts shifting beneath.
 
Simran whimpered— “Aahhh…” —tears falling faster, but she didn’t pull away.
 
His fingers moved inward slowly—circling, pressing deeper toward the areola, kneading the full globe with firm, deliberate pressure. Each press released a small spurt of milk into the bottle—warm, creamy streams easing a fraction of tension—but not enough. The clamped area had gone almost numb, sensation dulled to a distant throb; she couldn’t even feel the new milk flowing.
 
Bhola didn’t stop—hands working methodically, probing every angle, thumbs sliding under the flange’s edge, testing for the spot where air could slip in. Simran kept crying—soft, broken sobs—tears rolling down her cheeks, dripping onto her bare chest and mixing with the leaking milk from her untouched left breast.
 
Finally—his thumbs pressed the upper curve just right, compressing the flesh beneath the flange. Space opened. Air rushed in with a soft hiss.
 
The suction released.
 
Simran gasped— “Aaahhh!” —a mix of pain and sudden relief as the nipple snapped back, red and throbbing.
 
Bhola removed the pump slowly—careful, gentle—milk still dripping from the tip as the flange peeled away. The bottle was nearly full, creamy white liquid swirling inside.
 
Simran collapsed back against the pillows, sobbing quietly—relief flooding her, body shaking from the ordeal.
 
Bhola set the pump aside, voice low. 
“Bhabhi… theek hai ab?”
(“Bhabhi… are you okay now?”)
 
She nodded weakly, tears still falling, one arm crossing her chest again—not from modesty now, but lingering pain.
 
The storm raged on outside—but inside, the crisis had passed.
 
Or did it?