Simran just stood there in the living room, heart pounding like a drum, staring at Bhola while he waited for her to say something. House was completely silent except for the fridge humming and some random creak upstairs where Ravi was knocked out cold.
Is this even safe?
That thought hit her hard first. Ravi sleeping right above them. But what if he suddenly woke up? What if he came down for water and caught them... Bhola's mouth back on her tits, sucking hard, milk spraying all over. The idea made her stomach twist, shame burning her face red.
But then another thought crept in, dirty and hot.
He's out Simran. Deep out. And I need this bad.
Her breasts were aching already, full and tight again, nipples hard and leaking small drops that were soaking spots on the nightie. Just imagining Bhola's mouth latching on, that strong pull, relief mixing with pure pleasure... her pussy clenched tight, fresh slick dripping between her thighs.
Fuck, I want it. Want his lips tugging hard, tongue flicking around, drinking every drop.
Yesterday's memory rushed back, his rough hands holding up her heavy tits, mouth sucking like a hungry man, her cumming just from that, pussy grinding nothing. Her clit was throbbing now, screaming for attention.
Simran stood there in the living room, heart thumping like crazy, staring at Bhola as he waited for her answer.
She bit her lower lip again, harder this time, teeth digging in until it stung just right. No one around. No one coming. Bhola was safe. He was always safe. And fuck, he had said it himself yesterday, voice all low and serious:
"Bhabhi, aapka doodh kitna meetha hai."
("Bhabhi, your milk is so sweet.")
That line alone sent a fresh wave of heat crashing down her belly, pooling right between her legs.
He would do it again. Take those heavy, aching breasts in his rough hands, lift them slow, latch on gentle at first, then pull harder, sucking deep until the milk flowed steady and her whole body lit up. She could already picture it: his lips sealed tight around one dark, puffy nipple, tongue flicking the tip while he drank, the other breast leaking slow streams down her skin because he couldn't catch it all. Her pussy would clench on nothing, dripping fresh slick down her inner thighs, soaking the lace even more until it stuck like a second skin to her swollen folds.
Her thighs squeezed together instinctively, the wet fabric rubbing right against her throbbing clit with every tiny shift. Sparks shot up her spine. She was so close already, teetering on that edge without a single finger on her. Just the thought of his mouth working her, draining her dry, making her tremble and gasp and come hard just from the suction alone. God, she needed that empty feeling again, that sweet relief mixed with filthy pleasure, her body shaking while he kept pulling, kept swallowing, kept making her leak everywhere.
Bhola just stood there, face blank and calm like always. No hunger in his eyes, no dirty grin, nothing that said he was getting off on this. Just pure duty. Like he was built for one job only: take care of Bhabhi, ease the ache, draw out the milk so she could breathe easier. If Sahib suddenly woke up and came down the stairs right now, caught Bhola's head buried in her chest, mouth full of her sweet milk, Ravi would probably freeze, confused as fuck, maybe yell, maybe cry. But that wasn't Bhola's problem. His problem was right here: her full, hurting breasts, the way they leaked through the nightie, the way she needed relief bad enough to let him do whatever it took.
He stepped closer, slow and careful, waiting for her nod.
Simran exhaled shaky.
“Thik hai…lekin thora shaant. Who upar so raha hai.”
("Okay... but quiet. Upstairs he's sleeping.")
Bhola nodded once.
"Ji, Bhabhi."
She turned toward the sofa—heart racing, pussy aching with every step, the decision made.
The forbidden pull stronger than ever.
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