Adultery The Forbidden Relief – My Wife's Secret

[doodhwale_bhaiya]

The other hand slipped right between her thighs. Fingers nudged through that neat little strip of black hair, parting those swollen outer lips, spreading the slick soap along the length of her slit in long, unhurried strokes. Middle finger found her clit and started circling slow, pressing just right, while her hips gave tiny lazy rolls to meet the rhythm.
 
A long, throaty sigh slipped out of her. The mirror was steaming up fast, turning everything hazy, but she didn't give a fuck. She knew exactly how she looked right now, legs parted a bit, one hand buried between her thighs, the other gripping her own ass like it owed her money.
 
Widow at fifty, body still screaming to be fucked every damn day, and not a single man in the house to do the job properly.
 
She picked up speed now, rubbing harder, hips bucking forward into her palm, those big tits swaying and bouncing with each thrust of her hand, soap suds dripping off the hard tips of her nipples and trailing down her stomach. Rain hammered the windows outside, Mumbai's endless wet season drumming like it wanted in, but the real storm was the one building low in her belly, same sharp, hungry ache she'd carried all the way from Chandigarh.
 
She bit her lower lip, eyes half-closed, chasing it.
 
 
 
Nimrat stood there in front of the full-length mirror in her master bedroom, the soft golden light spilling in from the balcony lamps, painting her skin in this warm, honeyed glow that made everything look even more sinful.
 
She was in one of those rare moods today, light and bubbly inside, the kind of happiness that hadn't touched her in months. Felt almost dangerous, like something was about to happen.
 
She'd just slipped into the saree she'd designed herself specially for this meeting: deep wine-red chiffon with thick black embroidery running along the border, the kind that catches every eye. The blouse was pure backless halter, tied behind her neck with thin strings, the sort of cut only a woman like her could carry off at fifty without looking desperate. The fabric was thin as hell, almost see-through when the light hit it right, and that deep U-neck plunged straight down between her heavy breasts, shoving them up high and mashing them together so the soft inner curves overflowed just a little. The dark edges of her areolas peeked teasingly at the very brink, one wrong move and they'd be out for the world to see.
 
She'd dbangd the pallu deliberately low on her hips, letting the pleats sit way below her navel, showing off that smooth, golden strip of toned midriff that still held tight after all these years. Every step she took, the pallu shifted just enough to let the heavy, rounded cheeks of her ass push against the chiffon, the deep cleft between them traced out clear as day through the thin material.
 
She turned sideways in the mirror, slow, taking it all in. That classic 38-32-40 hourglass still looked lethal on her 5'4" frame. Confident, sensual, the kind of woman who knew damn well the power she carried between her thighs and in the sway of her hips. Her long burgundy hair hung loose, thick waves tumbling all the way down her back, the ends brushing right over the top curve of her ass like they were teasing it too. Kohl-lined eyes smoldered back at her, dark and hungry, and those full lips were painted a glossy, deep red that screamed come-and-get-it.
 
A small, wicked smile curled those painted lips as she caught her own reflection.