Breakfast was fast — hot aloo parathas, curd, mango pickle on the side. Ravi ate like he hadn’t seen food in two days, barely saying two words. Simran kept watching him from the corner of her eye, heart doing these small weird flips. He was finally home. Safe. But something inside her felt… off. Different.
He finished, rubbed his eyes hard. “I barely slept yaar. That couch was pure torture. Mind if I just crash for a while?”
“Of course,” Simran said softly. She went up with him, pulled the blinds down, tucked the blanket properly around him. He was gone in under five minutes, breathing deep and slow like a man who hadn’t slept properly in ages.
Bhola had already mixed another glass of the same Ghrunaspad. He carried it upstairs quietly.
“Sahib… yeh pehle pi lijiye. Bahut achhi neend aayegi.”
("Sahib... drink this first. You'll sleep very well.")
Ravi mumbled something sleepy, drank half of it with eyes half-closed, and just sank deeper into the bed like a dead man.
Simran came back downstairs. Bhola was busy wiping the dining table. She dropped on the sofa, switched on the TV but kept volume low. Some stupid morning show was blaring — news, ads, random bakwas, nothing she was actually watching.
Bhola looked over at her.
“Bhabhi… lunch ke liye kya banaun?”
(“Bhabhi… what should I make for lunch?”)
She turned and really looked at him. He was acting so normal, so calm, like nothing had happened yesterday. Like he hadn’t been sucking milk from her tits till she came twice. The moment that thought hit her, her thighs pressed together tight under the kurti.
She cleared her throat.
“Chicken…but use pehle….”
(“Chicken… maybe. But before that…”)
She stopped. Didn’t say anything more.
Bhola just waited. Patient as always. Never in a hurry, that bastard.
Simran’s left breast was throbbing badly now — ignored too long, full and heavy again. The right one was still sore from all that pump drama, but both felt tight and swollen. She shifted on the sofa and immediately felt the lace panties rubbing against her wet lips. Already damp. Again.
She looked at him properly this time.
“Bhola… kya tumne sach mein wo pump phek diya?”
(“Bhola… did you really throw away the pump?”)
He nodded slowly.
“Ji. Aapko chot lagi thi. Woh khatarnak hai.”
("Yes. You were hurt. That's dangerous.")
She bit her lower lip hard.
“Then… how?”
Bhola didn’t reply immediately. Just kept looking at her, calm, steady, no pressure at all.
Simran’s heart started beating faster. The house was dead quiet except for the TV noise in the background and the slow drip-drip of rainwater from the roof outside.
She spoke again, voice almost a whisper.
“Who…who dard ho raha hai phirse”
(“It’s paining again.”)
Bhola took one step closer, real slow and careful.
“Bhabhi… main madad kar sakta hoon. Jaise kal.”
("Bhabhi... I can help. Like yesterday.")
Simran’s breath caught in her throat.
“Ravi hai yahan. Upar so raha hai.”
(“Ravi is here. Sleeping upstairs.”)
Bhola just nodded.
![[+]](https://xossipy.com/themes/sharepoint/collapse_collapsed.png)