Adultery The Forbidden Relief – My Wife's Secret

[doodhwale_bhaiya]

Simran’s sobs quieted into shaky breaths, but fresh tears welled as she touched the swollen, red right nipple—still numb, still silent despite the heaviness. 
“Bhola… do something… please…”
 
Bhola’s voice was calm, steady. 
“Bhabhi… doodh nikaalna padega. Main pehle bhi kar chuka hoon. Fikar mat kijiye.”
("Bhabhi... I'll have to express the milk. I've done it before. Don't worry.")
 
Simran glanced at the discarded pump on the floor, voice trembling. 
“Breast pump use karein?”
(Should I try with a breast pump?)
 
Bhola shook his head firmly. 
 
“Nahi, Bhabhi. Woh phenk dijiye. Kabhi mat use kijiye. Main baad mein bataunga kyun. Abhi jaldi kuchh karna hai.”
("No, Bhabhi. Throw it away. Never use it again. I'll tell you why later. Right now, I have to do something quickly.")
 
He reached out—careful, respectful—and lifted her right breast gently in both hands, cradling the heavy, swollen globe from below. The skin was hot, taut, marked with faint red rings from the flange. He began pressing from both sides—thumbs on the outer curve, fingers kneading inward toward the areola, slow but firm.
 
Simran exclaimed—sharp, pained. 
“AAHHH… dard… Bhola… aaaahhh!”
 
Bhola didn’t stop, voice soothing. 
“Thoda sa seh lijiye, Bhabhi. Bas thodi der.”
("Bear with it a little, Bhabhi. Just a little while.")
 
He squeezed harder—kneading the breast like soft dough, fingers digging deep into the flesh, working from the base upward in rhythmic pulls. Milk ducts shifted under his touch, the pressure building then releasing in waves. Simran cried out—tears spilling again—as pain flared bright and hot.
 
“Aaahhh… ruk jao… aaaahhh… dard ho raha hai!”
(“Aaahhh… stop… aaahhh… it is hurting!”)
 
Bhola’s hands kept moving—relentless but careful—trying to force the blocked flow.
Bhola waited for sometime. Simran asked What happened?
 
He then said,
 
“Bhabhi… aise nahi ho raha. Aap dono haath aur dono ghutnon par aa jaiye. Gaon mein roz gaayon ko milk karte hain hum—gravity sabse zyada madad karta hai. Aap please aise ho jaiye.”
("Bhabhi... it's not working like that. Get on your hands and knees. We milk the cows in the village every day—gravity helps the most. Please get like that.")
 
He demonstrated quickly—on all fours, back arched slightly, head down. He didn’t say “like a cow”—but the position was unmistakable.
 
Simran hesitated—shame burning—but the pain won. She nodded through tears, shifting onto the bed. In just her black lace panties—soaked and clinging—she moved to all fours: hands and knees on the mattress, back arched, head lowered. Her gigantic ass pointed outward—plump, heart-shaped cheeks spread slightly by the position, lace strings disappearing between them, the sheer panel at the front moulded wetly to her swollen pussy lips. Her marvellous, mango-shaped tits hung down heavily beneath her—swinging gently with every breath, nipples dark and leaking faintly from the left, the right still blocked and throbbing.
 
Bhola got on his knees at the edge of the bed, level with her. 
“Bhabhi… bed ke kinare aa jaiye… thoda aur.”
(“Bhabhi… come to the edge of the bed… a little more.”)
 
Simran scooted forward—slowly, painfully—until her hanging breasts dangled just above his lap, milk from the left nipple dripping in slow, steady drops onto the bedsheet.
 
The storm raged on outside—rain hammering, thunder crashing—but inside, the air thickened with something new: vulnerability, trust, and the raw, unspoken intimacy of what was about to happen.