"Toh abhi kaisa rahega?" he asked, voice dropping to a husky whisper. "Kya aap chaahti ho?"
(“Then how about now?” he asked, voice dropping to a husky whisper. “Do you want to?”)
Simran was still trembling from the intensity of Bhola’s sucking when he suddenly pulled back, lips shiny and swollen, a thick string of her milk stretching between his mouth and her dark, glistening nipple. He looked up at her with dark, hungry eyes, breathing heavily.
“Abhi?” she whispered, voice shaky and surprised. “Kaise?”
(“Now?” she whispered, voice shaky and surprised. “How?”)
Bhola didn’t answer with words. He simply stood up, walked to the kitchen cabinet, and returned with a small, clean glass tumbler. He knelt down in front of her again, his expression calm but determined.
“Mujhe ise is glass mein lekar theek se nikaalne do, Bhabhi,” he said softly. “Is tarah aasaan hoga.”
(“Let me get it in this glass and draw it properly, Bhabhi,” he said softly. “It will be easier this way.”)
Simran’s eyes widened. “Nahin… nahin, rehne de, Bhola. Aise hi theek hai—”
(Simran’s eyes widened. “No… no, let it be, Bhola. It’s okay—”)
But he was already gently lifting her right breast with one hand, holding the glass just below the nipple with the other. He squeezed the heavy, swollen globe firmly from the base, rolling his fingers upward in a slow, milking motion. A thin, steady stream of warm milk began to flow from her nipple into the glass. It was slow at first, then slightly faster, the white liquid swirling at the bottom of the tumbler.
It was uncomfortable for both of them.
For Simran, the angle felt awkward and clinical. The pressure of his fingers squeezing her sensitive breast was strong, but it didn’t give her the deep, rhythmic suction she had grown addicted to. Her nipple felt stretched and pulled in a way that bordered on painful rather than pleasurable. Milk flowed, but not freely, and she could feel the remaining pressure still building inside the gland.
For Bhola, it was frustrating. He was used to the warm, living heat of her breast filling his mouth, the way her flesh yielded to his tongue and lips. The glass felt cold and impersonal. He kept squeezing, trying to coax more milk out, but the flow remained disappointingly slow.
Simran shifted on the sofa, biting her lip. “Bhola… yeh… yeh mushkil ho raha hai…”
(Simran shifted on the sofa, biting her lip. “Bhola… it’s not… it’s uncomfortable…”)
Before she could finish, the unmistakable sound of the bedroom door opening upstairs reached them.
Ravi’s footsteps started descending the stairs.
Both of them froze.
Panic exploded in Simran’s chest. She shoved Bhola’s hands away hard. The glass slipped from his grip, tilted, and spilled a large amount of her warm milk onto the sofa cushion and the floor with a soft splash.
“Shit—” she hissed under her breath.
She sat up straight instantly, yanking her shirt down and buttoning two buttons with trembling fingers, trying desperately to look normal. Milk was still dripping from her exposed nipples, soaking into the fabric.
Bhola reacted with lightning speed. He grabbed the spilled glass and the half-empty tea cup from the table in one smooth motion, pretending he was simply clearing the table. He crouched low behind the sofa, making it look like he was picking up something that had fallen.
The lighting in the living room was soft and dim — only one corner lamp was on — so when Ravi reached the bottom of the stairs and walked into the hall, he couldn’t see the glass properly or the small puddle of milk on the floor behind the sofa.
Ravi yawned, rubbing his eyes as he approached the kitchen area.
“Jaaga huwa hai?” he asked Bhola casually, not noticing anything unusual
(“You’re awake?” he asked Bhola casually, not noticing anything unusual.)
Bhola stood up smoothly, holding the glass and cup like he had been clearing the table the whole time.
“Ji Sahib,” he replied calmly. “Bhabhi ko chai chahiye thi.”
(“Yes Sahib,” he replied calmly. “Bhabhi wanted tea.”)
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