His thumbs pressed into the long muscles flanking her vertebrae, gliding downward in slow, firm strokes. Each pass felt like a live wire being dragged along her spine. The nerves there woke up one by one, sending sharp, electric tingles racing outward: up into her shoulders, down into her lower back, then—inevitably—straight between her legs. Her clit gave a sudden, helpless throb. Her pussy clenched around nothing. A fresh bead of slick welled up and immediately soaked into the crotch of her white panty.
She shifted—small, involuntary wiggles of her hips, trying to ease the sudden buzz between her thighs. The movement only made it worse. The nightie’s soft cotton dragged across her already sensitive nipples; the slight friction turned them into hard, aching points that leaked tiny drops of milk into the fabric.
Bhola’s hands paused.
“Bhabhi…” His voice was gentle, almost apologetic. “Nightie beech mein aa rahi hai. Khaas kar bra. Is tarah se aapki peeth ko theek se massage karna mushkil hoga.”
(“Bhabhi…” His voice was gentle, almost apologetic. “The nightie is coming in between. Especially the bra. It will be difficult to massage your back properly like this.”)
He said bra like it was some normal garment like a towel.
Simran’s breath caught. She knew exactly what he meant. The thin cotton was bunched and folded in places, blocking his palms from reaching the full length of her spine, the dip of her lower back, the upper swell of her ass cheeks.
She didn’t answer with words.
She just let out a small, shaky “Hmm…” — half acknowledgment, half surrender.
Bhola’s fingers moved to the centre of her back. He found the clasp of her bra through the nightie fabric—three small hooks. With the same calm, careful touch he used when handling anything delicate, he slipped two fingers under the hem of the nightie and unhooked them one by one.
Click… click… click.
The bra loosened instantly.
Simran gasped—sharp, surprised, almost scandalised. Her servant had just unclasped her bra. The sound of the hooks coming undone felt louder than it should have in the quiet room.
Bhola spoke softly, right beside her ear.
“Aapko zyada hilna nahi hai, Bhabhi. Bas apne haathon ko seedha karke thoda sa upar dhakel dijiye taaki main bra ko nikaal sakoon.”
(“You don’t have to move much, Bhabhi. Just make your arms straight and push up a little so I can pull the bra out.”)
Simran’s mind blanked for a second. Then—almost on autopilot—her arms straightened along her sides. She lifted her upper body just enough, chest rising off the mattress. Her heavy breasts shifted forward, hanging full and pendulous beneath her, nipples brushing the sheet.
Bhola reached inside the front of her nightie with both hands.
His warm palms slid under the loose fabric, fingers finding the loosened bra cups. He pinched the centre gore between thumb and forefinger and tugged downward slowly. The bra resisted for a moment—cups clinging to the undersides of her breasts—then gave way. One strap slipped off her right shoulder, then the left. He lifted each of her arms in turn—just a few inches—sliding the straps free, then pulled the entire bra out from under her nightie in one smooth motion.
The bra landed on the side table with a soft thump.
Simran lowered herself back down.
Her tits settled against the mattress, now completely bare beneath the thin nightie. The fabric was so light that it did almost nothing to hide them—the full, rounded shapes pressed into the sheet, nipples stiff and dark, already leaking tiny wet circles into the cotton. The nightie clung softly to her curves, outlining every detail: the generous swell of her breasts, the gentle dip of her waist, the lush flare of her hips, the plump heart-shape of her ass.
She lay there, breathing shallow and quick, feeling shockingly exposed even though the nightie still technically covered her.
“Bhola… jaldi karo,” she whispered, voice tight. “Leak ho raha hai…”
Bhola didn’t answer with words.
He reached inside the front of her nightie again—this time with both hands. His warm palms closed around her bare breasts from below, lifting them slightly off the mattress. His thumbs brushed the undersides, then slid upward until the pads of his thumbs found her leaking nipples.
He flicked them once—light, testing—and felt the warm milk immediately bead and drip onto his fingers.
A soft, involuntary moan slipped from Simran’s throat.
“Haan, Bhabhi… doodh tapak raha hai,” he murmured, voice low and reverent. “Fikar mat kijiye. Main aapke chuchiyon ko choos choos kar saara doodh jaldi pee jaunga… massage khatam hone ke baad.”
(“Yes, Bhabhi… milk is leaking,” he murmured, voice low and reverent. “Don’t worry. I will suck your boobs and drink all the milk soon… after I finish with the massage.”)
The words landed like a match on dry tinder.
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