Adultery The Forbidden Relief – My Wife's Secret

[doodhwale_bhaiya]

Back to present….
 
 
Simran sat on the commode, thighs still parted, fingers buried deep inside her slick pussy—moving slowly at first, then faster, circling her throbbing clit as the memories flooded back unchecked. She hadn’t even realized she was doing it—lost in the replay of Bhola beneath her, his mouth on her nipples, the massive hardness pressing against her through his pants. The first orgasm had hit her so fast, so violently, from one simple grind and now again on his one touch she had another one—why? And that size… gods, the way it throbbed, thick and long, stretching the fabric… she’d never felt anything like it. She discarded the thought before it was about to grab her.
 
Breathless, she reached for the hand spray—angling the warm jet between her legs, letting it pulse against her swollen pussy lips, rinsing away the evidence of her arousal in soothing streams. The water teased her clit again—making her hips jerk once more—before she shut it off. She dried herself with a soft napkin—patting gently, almost caressingly, over the plump, flushed lips, the sensitive inner folds still tingling.
 
She pulled her panties back up.
 
Standing before the mirror, she looked at herself—braless under the open nightie, breasts heavy and full again. Comfortable today, yes—but refilling impossibly fast, the tankers brimming once more.
 
Fifteen minutes ago, when Ravi had called—stuck at the office, roads flooded, he wouldn’t make it home tonight—a secret happiness had bloomed inside her. She hadn’t questioned it then—just relief, she’d told herself. But now… why? Why had her heart lifted at the thought of an empty house, an empty bed?
 
She reached for her lip gloss—rarely used at home—applying it slowly, the pink tint making her full lips glisten. She ran fingers through her long black hair, smoothing it, letting it fall in soft waves. Small things—vanity she never bothered with alone.
 
Something had changed. Something happened.
 
Multiple orgasms in one milking session—that’s what had happened.
 
The powder. The touch. The forbidden relief.
 
She was different now.
 
And she didn’t want it to stop.
 
Simran descended the stairs slowly, each step deliberate, the sky-blue nightie brushing against her thighs like a lover’s whisper. She was glowing—skin luminous in the dim evening light, a soft flush lingering on her cheeks and chest from the storm’s aftermath and her own secret release. The hem of the nightie fluttered just above her knees, revealing flashes of her milky-white thighs—smooth, thick, impossibly soft, the kind that parted like cream under pressure. The incessant rain outside hammered the roof in a relentless rhythm, singing the same primal song that echoed deep in her body: want, need, relief.
 
Unconsciously, she craved it again—Bhola’s mouth on her breasts, sucking the milk free, easing the ache while igniting that ultimate, shattering joy. The thought wasn’t spoken, wasn’t planned; it lived in her skin, in the goosebumps that prickled across her arms and chest without warning, making her nipples tighten painfully against the thin cotton, a fresh bead of milk threatening to leak. Her pussy throbbed in response—slick, swollen lips rubbing together with every step, the lace panties soaked through, sending sparks up her spine. She felt unrealistically close to orgasm—teetering on the edge without a single touch.
 
Could thinking do this? Trigger it all?
 
The question flickered through her mind, weird and thrilling. Maybe it could. Maybe it already was.
 
She sat at the dinner table, legs crossed under her, the nightie riding higher on her thighs. Bhola emerged from the kitchen—no words needed. He understood. The air between them carried the weight of what had happened upstairs, unspoken but thick. He laid out dinner quietly—dal, rice, sabzi, roti—steam rising softly, the scent comforting and familiar.
 
Simran ate mechanically—fork to mouth, chew, swallow—but her mind was elsewhere. Flashes: Bhola’s mouth on her nipple, the warm pull, milk flowing, his hardness pressing up against her… The rain drummed harder outside, thunder rumbling low like a warning—or an invitation. Her breasts ached again already, full and heavy, nipples brushing the nightie with every breath. She shifted in her seat—thighs pressing together, pussy clenching—and felt the tingle build once more, goosebumps racing across her skin.
 
Bhola watched her quietly from the kitchen doorway—serving, waiting, understanding more than she realized.
 
Her mind wandered further, deeper, into places she hadn’t dared before.