She had orgasmed so many times today—four, maybe more—and why? The question swirled in her mind like the steam around her. Her body had never responded like this before—quick, intense, almost without touch. Just the thought of Bhola’s mouth on her nipples, the deep pull, the relief mixed with forbidden pleasure… it had pushed her over the edge again and again. She squeezed her breasts lightly— “Mmm…” —feeling the familiar fullness returning already, milk trickling despite the earlier session. They weren’t completely empty, not like the pump had made them. Bhola had taken care of them so nicely—gentle yet firm, reverent—but not exhaustive.
He should have sucked longer…
The thought slipped in unbidden, making her thighs clench, a fresh tingle sparking between them.
She remembered his warning—never use the pump again.
Why? If not the pump, then how?
Her fingers brushed her nipples absentmindedly under the shower.
Ravi couldn’t—hadn’t been able to stomach the taste. But Bhola… he’d drunk greedily, no hesitation, like it was the sweetest thing. Why didn’t it bother him? And if not the pump, not Ravi… who would do it for me?
The question lingered, pressing, dangerous.
I can’t let Bhola suckle me every time… can I?
She pushed the thought away—too much, too soon—but it clung like the water on her skin.
She turned off the shower, stepped out, and dried herself slowly—towel gliding over her curves, lingering on her breasts, her hips, between her thighs where she was still slick. She chose a fresh pair of black lace panties—high-cut, sheer, the fabric whispering up her legs, clinging to her pussy lips like a lover’s promise, strings settling into her ass cheeks. The same sky-blue nightie followed—sliding over her head, straps settling on her shoulders, cotton brushing her bare nipples softly.
Hair dried with the blower—long waves falling loose and glossy—she felt renewed, almost glowing.
She went downstairs, bare feet silent on the steps, nightie swishing against her thighs.
The rain showed no mercy—it hammered the roof and windows in relentless sheets, the kind of downpour that turned day into perpetual dusk, thunder rumbling low and constant like the sky’s own heartbeat. Simran sat on the sofa, legs tucked beneath her, the sky-blue nightie still clinging softly to her curves, faint damp patches lingering where milk had leaked earlier. The house felt cocooned—cut off from the world, intimate in its isolation.
She glanced at the clock: 7:30 PM.
Where’s Ravi?
The thought flickered—worry edging in. He should have been home by now. The roads must be flooded worse than yesterday. She reached for her phone to call, but paused as Bhola emerged from the hallway, wiping his hands on a towel, expression calm and concerned.
“Bhabhi… ab kaise feel kar rahi hain?”
(“Bhabhi… how are you feeling now?”)
The question was innocent, caring—but it hit her like a spark.
This man… minutes ago his mouth was on my breasts, sucking like a starving baby, drinking my milk… and now he’s asking like nothing happened.
A secret chuckle bubbled inside her—warm, wicked, a little disbelieving. The contrast was absurd, thrilling.
She smiled softly.
“Fine, Bhola. Bahut better.”
She forgot about Ravi for the moment—turned on the TV, flipping channels idly—but her mind wasn’t on the screen. It circled the impossible: how to talk to the man who had just rescued her nipple, sucked both her tits until she came twice, thrice, no idea how many times, treated them with a reverence that made her body sing… and now stood there like a dutiful servant.
He sucked them like a baby… but saved me too. That right nipple… it’s almost his now.
The thought made her chuckle inwardly again—shame and heat mixing in equal measure.
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