Adultery The Forbidden Relief – My Wife's Secret

[doodhwale_bhaiya]

Upstairs, Simran opened her eyes to the soft alarm on her phone. Ravi was still deep under, one arm flung over the pillow, mouth slightly open. She slipped out of bed carefully, feet silent on the cool floor.
 
In the bathroom she showered fast, the warm water soothing the faint soreness in her breasts. They were full again already, heavy and tender, nipples stiffening the moment the spray hit them. She dried herself, standing naked in front of the mirror for a long moment, watching a tiny bead of milk form at the tip of her left nipple and slowly roll down the curve.
 
She wanted him to notice. Wanted him to struggle. Wanted to see how long he could hold back after she had denied him last night.
 
She chose something simple, something a wife would wear on a lazy Saturday morning with the servant around and her husband still asleep. A soft, faded pink kurti, old and comfortable, knee-length, with a modest round neck and three-quarter sleeves. The cotton was thin from years of washing, clinging just enough when she moved. She left the top two buttons open, nothing scandalous, but enough that when she leaned forward or reached up, the deep line between her breasts would show, the soft inner curves pressing together, the faint shadow of her dark nipples visible against the fabric.
 
No bra. She never wore one at home anymore.
 
Underneath she slipped on a fresh white cotton panty, high-cut, snug against her plump pussy lips. The crotch was already starting to cling from the low throb that hadn't left her since yesterday. She added a pair of loose cream palazzo pants, drawstring tied low on her hips, the waistband dipping just below her navel. The kurti hung over everything, soft and flowing, hiding the fact that she wore nothing else underneath except that tiny panty.
 
She looked in the mirror one last time. Decent. Homely. The kind of outfit any wife might wear while making morning chai or scrolling her phone. But the open buttons, the way the kurti shifted over her full tits with every breath, the faint damp spots that were already starting to appear over her nipples... that was for him.
 
She left her hair loose, slightly messy from sleep, and walked downstairs barefoot, the palazzo swishing softly around her legs.
 
Bhola was at the stove when she entered the kitchen. He turned, mug of chai already in hand.
 
"Chai, Bhabhi?" His voice was normal, polite, the same tone he used every morning.
 
She took the mug, fingers brushing his for half a second. "Haan. Thank you."
 
She leaned her hip against the counter opposite him, sipping slowly, letting the steam rise against her lips.
 
That was when it hit him.
 
The moment his eyes lifted from the pan and landed on her, the dream slammed back into his head like a door kicked open. Not the full hundreds of tits this time, but the feeling of it, the taste of milk flooding his mouth, the softness under his palms, the wet heat of her nipples stretching between his lips. And then the sharper memory: last night she hadn't come. No soft call, no quiet footsteps, no warm body pulling him close. She had gone to bed full. Aching. Without him.
 
His gaze dropped to her chest. The kurti was soft pink, thin, the top two buttons open. He could see the deep valley between her breasts, the way they rose and fell with each breath, the faint dark shadow of her nipples pressing against the cotton. And there, right over the left one, a small wet spot was forming, darkening the fabric in a perfect circle.
 
His throat closed. His cock thickened instantly, pushing hard against the pants, the head outlined clearly under the thin cotton. He shifted his stance, turning half toward the stove to hide it, but the ache was back, sharp and insistent, right at the root.
 
She's full again, he thought, heart thudding. I can see it. Leaking already. She needs me.
 
She had told him yesterday to take the first step when he could. When Sahib wasn't looking. To check, to relieve her. But now that the moment was here, his hands felt frozen. How? Just walk up to her, lift her kurti, latch on like some desperate animal while Sahib slept upstairs? What if she changed her mind? What if she pushed him away? What if Sahib came down right now?
 
His palms were suddenly sweaty on the spatula. He kept stirring the aloo sabzi, faster than necessary, eyes fixed on the pan.