Adultery The Forbidden Relief – My Wife's Secret

[doodhwale_bhaiya]

He had no idea that the woman lying in front of him was barely holding on.
 
And Simran had no idea how much longer she could keep pretending this was only a massage.
 
Bhola’s hands were like hot coals pressed against living silk.
 
The oil had warmed between his palms until it felt like liquid fire, not burning but radiating a deep, penetrating heat that sank straight into Simran’s skin the instant he touched her. He had deliberately kept his strokes confined to the exposed parts—calves, the backs of her knees, the lower hamstrings—because the nightie still covered most of her thighs and he was too practical, too respectful of her clothes, to let oil ruin the fabric beyond the inevitable small stains that would appear at the hem.
 
Those hems were already creeping higher with every tiny shift of her hips, the soft sky-blue cotton now bunched just below the fullest part of her buttocks. The view was devastating.
 
Her thighs were exquisite marshmallows—plump yet firm, the kind of generous softness that looks pillowy but feels like warm satin stretched over subtle muscle. The milky-white skin glowed under the thin sheen of oil, completely unmarked, no blemish, no vein, no hint of imperfection. Each time Bhola’s thumbs swept upward along the inner line of her hamstrings the flesh yielded like fresh dough, then sprang back with a gentle jiggle that made Simran’s breath hitch every single time.
 
He was logical. Methodical. He would never dream of sliding oil-soaked fingers under the nightie just to “reach better.” That would spoil the cloth. Instead he wiped his hands thoroughly on a small towel, leaving them still warm but no longer slippery enough to stain, and placed both palms squarely on the twin globes of her ass.
 
The first squeeze was clinical—testing tension, searching for tightness.
 
Simran jumped.
 
Not a small twitch. A full-body jolt that lifted her hips an inch off the mattress and made her giggle-shriek into the pillow.
 
Bhola’s hands froze.
 
“Bhabhi…?”
 
She buried her face deeper, shoulders shaking with muffled laughter and something hotter.
 
“Yeh gudgudi ho raha hai… aur… aur yeh sensitive hai…”
(“It tickles… and… and it’s sensitive…”)
 
He waited exactly two seconds—long enough for her to settle—then pressed again, slower this time. His large palms covered each cheek completely, fingers splayed wide. He kneaded with the same steady rhythm he had used on her back: press, circle, lift, release. The flesh gave under his grip like warm bread dough, then bounced back with a soft, liquid jiggle that made the nightie flutter. Every squeeze pushed a fresh wave of heat straight to her clit. Her pussy clenched rhythmically, the soaked panty now visibly darkened at the crotch even though he couldn’t see it.
 
Simran couldn’t stay still.
 
She squirmed, hips rocking side to side in tiny helpless circles, giggling and gasping at the same time. It was absurdly funny—the ticklish overload mixed with the growing, liquid ache between her legs—and unbearably erotic. Her ass cheeks kept spreading slightly with each deep knead, the nightie riding higher until the lower curve of both globes was fully exposed, the deep shadowed cleft just visible where the panty disappeared. The white cotton was wedged tight between her cheeks, outlining the plump outer lips of her pussy from behind.
 
Bhola remained perfectly innocent.
 
To him this was still therapy. He could feel how soft she was—how the flesh yielded and sprang back, how the muscles underneath were finally starting to relax—but he didn’t linger. He didn’t grope. He didn’t let his thumbs drift toward the cleft or the damp heat he couldn’t see but could probably smell by now. He simply worked the glutes with professional focus: press, circle, lift, release. Press, circle, lift, release. Over and over until the playful kicking slowly subsided into long, shuddering sighs.
 
When the last knot of tension in her buttocks finally gave way under his thumbs, he eased off.
 
Both hands rested flat on her cheeks for a final ten seconds—warm, steady, grounding—then lifted away.
 
Simran lay there panting softly into the pillow, body loose and tingling, ass still tingling from his touch, pussy dripping steadily into the ruined panty.
 
Bhola wiped his hands once more on the towel and asked in his usual gentle tone:
 
“Ab thoda achcha mehsoos ho raha hai, Bhabhi?”
(“Are you feeling a bit better now, Bhabhi?”)
 
Simran took several slow breaths before she could answer. Her voice came out thick, drowsy, almost drunk with sensation.
 
“Main… mujhe bahut accha lag raha hai.”
“I’m… feeling a lot better.”
 
Bhola nodded, satisfied.
 
“Phir please palat jaiye. Peeth ke bal let jaiye.”
(“Then please turn around. Lie on your back.”)
 
She obeyed slowly, rolling over with a soft rustle of cotton.