Adultery The Forbidden Relief – My Wife's Secret

[doodhwale_bhaiya]

He switched again. Released the left with a wet smack, a thin string of milk stretching between his tongue and her nipple before snapping. He immediately latched onto the right one, sucking even deeper this time, nose pressing into the soft flesh above the areola. His hands never stopped working. He pulled both nipples at once now, pinching them between thumb and forefinger, tugging them outward until they stretched long and thick, then letting them snap back with a little bounce. Each pop made her gasp louder, body jerking forward.
 
Milk kept coming, slower now but still steady. He alternated like that, mauling one tit with rough squeezes while he drank hard from the other, then switching. Pull, suck, release, pinch, tug, pop. The kitchen filled with the wet, rhythmic sounds of his mouth and the soft slap of skin against skin when he let a nipple spring free.
 
Simran's head dropped forward, forehead resting against the cool cabinet door. Her breathing came in ragged little pants. She could feel the emptiness spreading through her chest, the heavy ache fading with every hard pull, but the fire between her legs only grew worse. Her pussy throbbed untouched, slick running down her inner thighs, soaking the tiny thong until it felt like nothing at all.
 
Bhola kept going, relentless, hurried. He knew time was short. One last deep suck on the left, cheeks hollowing so hard his jaw flexed. He squeezed from the base upward in one long stroke, milking out the final thick spurt. Then the right. Same thing. Pull, suck, swallow, dry squeeze. Nothing came.
 
He finally lifted his head, lips shiny and swollen, chin glistening. Both her tits hung soft and spent, nipples red and glistening, no more milk beading at the tips.
 
Simran stayed frozen for a second, chest rising and falling fast, trying to catch her breath without making a sound. Bhola stepped back half a step, giving her space. He wiped his mouth with the back of his wrist, eyes flicking toward the stairs for the first time since he started.
 
She straightened slowly, hands shaking as she pulled the straps back up one by one. The nightie settled over her breasts again, the fabric clinging to the damp skin. She smoothed it down with trembling fingers, then turned to face him.
 
No words. Just a quick, flushed look that said everything.
 
Bhola gave a small nod, already stepping away toward the sink like nothing had happened.
 
Simran walked out of the kitchen on unsteady legs, nightie swishing, thighs slick, heart still hammering.
 
Upstairs Ravi was probably still dozing.
 
Down here, another line had been crossed in broad daylight. 
And she knew it wouldn't be the last.
 
Dream Girl
 
Simran climbed the stairs slowly, legs feeling heavy and loose like they'd forgotten how to work properly. Every step made her bare thighs brush together, the tiny black thong still soaked and clinging uncomfortably to her swollen pussy lips. Her tits, freshly emptied again in the kitchen, hung soft and sensitive under the thin blue nightie, nipples raw from all the pulling and sucking. The fabric rubbed them with every movement, sending little aftershocks straight down to her clit.
 
She pushed the bedroom door open quietly. Ravi was sprawled on his side, breathing deep and even, dead to the world. The curtains were half-drawn, letting in soft golden afternoon light that painted stripes across the bedsheet. She didn't bother changing. Just kicked off her slippers, lifted the edge of the blanket, and slid in beside him.
 
The mattress dipped under her weight. She curled onto her side facing away from him, nightie riding up her hips, ass cheeks half-exposed, the thong string lost somewhere between them. Her body felt used, wrung out, dripping with sex even though no cock had touched her. Since yesterday evening Bhola's mouth had been on her tits again and again, sucking, pulling, drinking her dry while she came and came and came. Nipple orgasms, grinding orgasms, helpless little shudders that rolled through her without mercy. She had lost count somewhere after the sixth or seventh one. Her pussy was sore, clit puffy and oversensitive, inner walls still fluttering from the last stolen kitchen session.
 
She was exhausted. Not sleepy-tired, but the deep, bone-weary fatigue that comes after your body has been forced to feel too much pleasure too fast. Her eyelids felt heavy. She let them close.
 
Sleep took her almost instantly.