Adultery The Forbidden Relief – My Wife's Secret

[doodhwale_bhaiya]

Lunch had been simple and quick. Ravi had eaten, praised the food, then gone upstairs again saying he wanted to lie down and read something for a bit. The moment his footsteps faded on the stairs, Bhola’s eyes met Simran’s across the dining table.
 
She was wearing a loose white T-shirt now, old and soft, no bra underneath. The neckline was wide enough that one shoulder kept slipping, and the hem barely reached the top of her thighs. She had paired it with a short cotton long skirt, but the T-shirt was the real invitation.
 
Bhola waited exactly thirty seconds after Ravi disappeared, then walked straight into the kitchen where she was rinsing plates at the sink.
 
He didn’t say a word.
 
He simply stepped behind her, reached around, and caught the hem of the T-shirt in both hands. In one smooth motion he lifted it up and over her head, but instead of taking it off completely, he pulled the fabric forward and dbangd it over his own head like a hood. Now his face was completely buried under the shirt, pressed directly against her bare tits.
 
Simran gasped, gripping the edge of the sink.
 
Bhola’s mouth found her right nipple instantly. He sucked hard, like a man who had been starving for hours, cheeks hollowing deep as he drew the milk out in thick, forceful jets. At the same time his hands came up under the shirt and squeezed both breasts together, pushing them into his face so he could alternate between them without even lifting his head. Milk sprayed against the roof of his mouth, overflowed, soaked the inside of the T-shirt, ran down her stomach in warm rivulets.
 
He was like a hungry bear lapping honey straight from the hive — messy, greedy, completely lost in the taste and the softness. He sucked one nipple deep, then switched to the other with a wet pop, tongue flicking, lips pulling, hands kneading and squeezing so hard her tits bulged between his fingers. Milk kept spilling, dripping down his chin, soaking the front of his kurta, pooling on the kitchen floor between her feet.
 
Simran’s knees almost gave out. She came midway through, hard and sudden, biting her own arm to stay quiet. Her pussy clenched violently, fresh slick gushing into her skirt, thighs trembling as the orgasm rolled through her in long, silent waves. Bhola didn’t notice. He just kept sucking, kept drinking, kept mauling her magnificent tits like he would never get enough.
 
The T-shirt stayed over his head the entire time, turning darker and wetter with every spurt of milk, his face hidden completely while he devoured her like an animal.
 
When he finally finished, both tits soft and empty, he slowly pulled the soaked T-shirt back down over her body, smoothing it over her flushed skin like he was dressing a goddess.
 
He stepped back, lips shiny, chin dripping, eyes dark with satisfaction.
 
Simran stood there panting, skirt soaked between her legs, T-shirt clinging wetly to her spent breasts.
 
She didn’t say a word.
 
Neither did he.