She stepped even closer, close enough that he could probably smell the faint sweet scent of her leaking milk. Her voice dropped to almost a whisper, soft but insistent.
"Bhola, meri baat sun. Mujhe in sab ki parwah nahi hai. Mujhe bas is dard se pehle rahat chahiye, warna yeh aur badh jayega. Kal tune mujhe itni achhi tarah se khali kiya tha. Phir se halki feel hui thi main. Abhi mujhe wahi chahiye. Tere kamre mein. Darwaza band karke. Kisi ko pata nahi chalega. Main tujhpe bharosa karti hoon. Please."
("Bhola, listen to me. I don't care about any of that. I care about getting relieved before this pain gets worse. Yesterday you emptied me so well. I felt light again. I need that now. In your room. With the door locked. No one will know. I trust you. Please.")
He looked at her face for a long moment, searching her eyes. Then he gave a small, reluctant nod.
"Theek hai, Bhabhi. Lekin... ek kaam karne do pehle. Room thoda ready kar loon. Mattress pe chadar daal deta hoon, pillow theek karta hoon, fan full speed pe kar deta hoon. Aur thoda paani bhi rakh deta hoon. Aapko comfortable feel hona chahiye na."
("Okay, Bhabhi. But... let me do one thing first. Let me get the room a bit ready. I'll spread a bedsheet on the mattress, fix the pillow, turn the fan to full speed. And I'll keep some water nearby too. You should feel comfortable, right?")
Simran almost groaned in frustration, but she caught herself. Her breasts were throbbing so badly now she had to press one arm lightly across them to ease the pressure.
“Kitne der?”
("How long?")
she asked, trying not to sound desperate.
"Bas do minute, Bhabhi. Aap yahin wait karo. Main jaldi karta hoon."
("Just two minutes, Bhabhi. You wait right here. I'll be quick.")
He turned and walked quickly toward the back corridor, footsteps soft on the tiled floor. Simran stayed where she was, leaning against the wall, breathing shallow and fast. Every second felt like torture. Her nipples were so stiff they hurt, milk dripping steadily now, leaving cool wet trails down her belly under the nightie. Between her legs the tingling had turned into a constant, needy pulse. She squeezed her thighs together again, feeling the slick slide of her swollen lips.
He's making me wait, she thought, half annoyed, half unbearably turned on by his innocent consideration.
Two minutes. Two minutes and then I'll be in his room, on his bed, nightie pulled up, his mouth on me...
She closed her eyes for a second, trying to steady her breathing.
From the back corridor she heard faint sounds — the creak of his door opening, the rustle of a bedsheet being shaken out, the click of the fan switch, the soft thud of a pillow being fluffed.
Her devil was purring inside her head again.
Soon. Very soon. His bed. His smell. His mouth. And that huge thing you keep thinking about... pressing against you while he drinks.
Simran bit her lip hard and waited, thighs trembling, heart racing, already counting the seconds.
Simran stood there in the kitchen doorway, one hip leaning against the frame, trying to look calm while her whole body screamed for release. The blue nightie she had slipped into earlier was the kind of thing she usually wore only when she was alone, or when she wanted to feel a little sexy for herself. Knee-length, soft cotton so thin it was almost sheer in the morning light coming through the window. The fabric clung to every curve like it was painted on, especially where her milk had already leaked through and made two dark, wet patches right over her nipples. Those spots were growing slowly, the material turning almost transparent there, letting the dark circles of her areolas show through faintly if the light hit just right.
The straps were narrow, delicate little things, barely thicker than ribbons. They sat loose on her shoulders now, one of them having slipped halfway down her arm so the neckline dipped low on that side, exposing the full upper swell of her left breast. The heavy, milk-filled globe pushed against the thin cotton, making it stretch tight across the peak. Every time she breathed, the fabric shifted and rubbed over her stiff nipple, sending a fresh little jolt straight down to her clit.
No bra underneath, of course. She hadn't bothered with one since yesterday. Why would she? Her breasts were too full, too sensitive, and the nightie felt so much better sliding against bare skin. They sat high and proud even without support, round and swollen, the undersides curving out in that perfect heavy way that made the hem of the nightie ride up slightly whenever she moved. Right now they looked obscene in the best way, straining against the damp cotton, nipples poking out like thick little bullets, dark and obvious.
Down below she had on only the tiniest black thong. The kind with thin strings that disappeared between her plump ass cheeks, leaving both full, heart-shaped globes almost completely bare under the nightie. The front panel was barely there, just a scrap of lace that had long since soaked through. It was plastered to her swollen pussy lips now, outlining every fold, the wet fabric clinging so tightly you could see the shape of her engorged clit pressing against it. Every small shift of her thighs made the strings dig deeper into her skin, and the damp lace dragged over her sensitive slit, keeping her right on the edge.
She looked like pure sin standing there. Hair still messy from sleep, falling in loose waves over her shoulders. Cheeks flushed deep pink. Lips parted, breathing shallow and quick. The nightie hugged her waist, flared over her wide hips, and ended just above her knees, showing off the smooth, thick length of her thighs. Those thighs were trembling slightly, goosebumps visible on the skin whenever another cramp rolled through her belly.
She was a walking wet dream. Heavy tits leaking through thin blue cotton, hard nipples tenting the fabric, ass cheeks peeking out every time the hem lifted, and that tiny thong doing nothing to hide how wet and ready she was. The kind of look that would make any man lose his mind, and she knew it. Even if she was trying to pretend this was only about relief, her body was screaming something very different.
She pushed off the doorway, nightie swishing against her bare thighs, breasts swaying heavily with each step as she waited for Bhola to finish getting his room ready. Every movement made the wet patches on her chest grow a little bigger, made the thong pull tighter against her dripping pussy, made her look even hotter, even more desperate.
She was a vision of pure, barely-contained need, and she was seconds away from walking into Bhola's small back room and letting him take care of every aching inch of her.
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