Bhola’s right hand cradled the heavy underside of her right breast, lifting it gently to make the nipple more accessible—palm supporting the swollen globe, fingers splayed wide. His left hand rested awkwardly on the sofa’s armrest, knuckles white from gripping the hard wooden handle to keep his balance. His neck was twisted sideways at an uncomfortable angle—head tilted to reach her hanging breast while she straddled him—muscles already starting to cramp, a dull ache building at the base of his skull. Nothing compared to what he was receiving—the heavenly flood of milk, the soft weight in his mouth, the quiet moans above him—but it was becoming difficult to continue.
He finally released the nipple with a loud, wet pop—like he did before, you know when Simran was straightening up when she was on all-fours—milk spraying in a final thin arc across his chin before the flow slowed to a drip.
“Aaahhhh…” Simran moaned long and low, body shuddering as the sudden release sent another ripple through her.
She looked down at him—eyes hazy, lips parted—seeing his flushed face framed between the deep valley of her breasts.
Bhola met her gaze, voice rough but gentle.
“Bhabhi… thoda position nahi ho pa raha… sorry…”
Simran’s breath hitched.
“Nahi nahi…” she whispered, unsure what to do, what to say. The awkwardness of the moment crashed over her—naked from the waist up, straddling him, breasts still leaking, his hardness throbbing beneath her soaked panties.
Bhola shifted beneath her, easing her weight off his lap.
“Main thoda aata hoon… aap yahin rukiye.”
He stood slowly—neck stiff, cock still tenting his pants noticeably—and stepped away, disappearing towards his room.
Simran remained on the sofa—far away distant lights of thundering visible from the open veranda, heart pounding with a mix of relief, embarrassment, and lingering need.
The rain continued outside.
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