Adultery The Forbidden Relief – My Wife's Secret

[doodhwale_bhaiya]

“Kyun? Kya hoga isse? Tumne bataya hi nahi.”
("Why? What will happen with this? You didn't even tell me.")
 
Bhola set the pump down carefully on the table, voice low and earnest. 
 
“Agar main aaj nahi hota toh bahut dikkat hoti aapko. Aur upar se… yeh aapke nipples…”
("If I weren't here today, you would have a lot of trouble. And on top of that... these nipples of yours...")
 
He stammered, cheeks darkening.
 
“Nipples ko bahut chot pahunchata hai.”
(“This pump hurts the nipples a lot.”)
 
Simran felt the truth of it settle in her chest—the pain, the swelling, the terror of being stuck. She nodded slowly. 
 
“tumhe bahot pata hai inke bare mein”
(“You know a lot about these things…”)
 
Bhola met her eyes, no shame, only quiet knowledge. 
“Haan, Bhabhi. Maine gaayon ko bahut doodh nikala hai. Roz.”
 
Simran stopped him with a soft laugh—playful, teasing, to ease the tension. 
 
“Toh kya… main gaay hoon?”
(“So what… I am a cow?”)
 
Bhola’s eyes widened in panic.
 
“Nahi nahi, Bhabhi! Mera matlab woh nahi tha!”
("No, no, Bhabhi! That's not what I meant!")
 
She smiled, waving it off. 
 
“Theek hai… batao na. Kya matlab tha?”
("Okay... tell me. What did you mean?")
 
Bhola exhaled, relieved. 
 
“Bhabhi… meri Komal Bhabhi ne bataya. Jis tarah gaay ko machine se doodh nikalte hain toh doodh kam aata hai, aur haath se zyada nikaltaa hai… usi tarah breast pump use nahi karna chahiye. Kuchh auratein aayi thi unke paas advice ke liye—pregnancy problems, doodh ke liye—main wahaan tha, toh unhone samjhaya.”
 
("Bhabhi... my sister-in-law Komal told me. Just like a cow produces less milk when milked by a machine, and more by hand... similarly, one shouldn't use a breast pump. Some women came to her for advice—pregnancy problems, milk—I was there, so she explained.")
 
He paused, voice softer. 
 
“Hamare ghar mein… yeh sab peedhi dar peedhi se hota aya hai. Pregnancy issues, doodh ki problems—auratein door se aati hain. Mere Baba bahut madad karte hain. Meri Maa ko bahut knowledge thi… par woh ab nahi hain. Ab Komal Bhabhi sab manage karti hain—dawaaiyan, ilaaj.”
 
(“In our house… it has been happening from generations. Pregnancy issues, milk problems—women come from far away. My father helps a lot. My mother was very knowledgeable… but she is not there anymore. Now Komal Bhabhi manages everything—medicines, treatments.”)
 
Simran listened, curiosity deepening—the village secrets, the family tradition, the quiet expertise passed down like heirlooms.
 
Simran sat across from Bhola at the small kitchen table, the two glasses of ginger tea steaming between them. She wrapped her hands around the warm glass, the nightie’s thin straps slipping slightly on her shoulders, the cotton clinging to the faint damp patches over her breasts where milk continued its slow, stubborn movement. Her thighs pressed together under the table, the fresh black lace panties already damp again from the lingering heat of the evening talk.
 
She looked at him—really looked—his calm face, the imaginary faint milk moustache still glistening on his upper lip from earlier. The absurdity almost made her smile, but the question burned too hot.
 
“To main ab kya karu? Mujhmein bahot doodh ban raha hai…mujhe kasie aaram milega?”
(“So… what should I do?” she asked quietly. “I’m producing a lot more now. How do I… get relieved?”)