The nightie had twisted around her waist during all the squirming. Now it sat high on her hips, barely covering her panty. Her breasts—bare beneath the thin fabric—settled heavily on her chest, the dark wet patches over each nipple clearly visible, the stiff peaks tenting the cotton. Her face was flushed, lips parted, eyes half-lidded and dreamy, hair fanned across the pillow in dark waves.
She looked like sin wrapped in innocence.
Lying there on her back, thighs slightly parted, nightie rucked up, breasts rising and falling with each shaky breath, the soft curve of her belly exposed, the damp white panty clinging to her puffy lips—she was the picture of a woman who had just been expertly, innocently undone.
Bhola simply sat beside her hip, hands resting on his thighs, waiting for her to give the next instruction.
He had no idea that the woman in front of him was already halfway to another climax just from the massage.
And Simran—lost in a haze of oil-scented heat and lingering sensation—could barely remember why she was supposed to be pretending this was only about her back.
Bhola dipped his fingers back into the small bowl of warm oil, rubbing his palms together until they glistened. The scent bloomed again—sweet almond carrying vanilla’s creamy comfort, sandalwood’s deep woody embrace, ylang-ylang’s exotic floral kiss, clary sage’s clean herbal lift—all mingling into something that felt like a warm blanket being drawn over the mind.
He knelt behind her once more and gathered her hair gently in one hand, lifting it away from her neck like he was handling something fragile and precious. Then his oiled fingertips settled at her hairline and began the same slow circles he had used earlier, but softer now, more indulgent. Tiny spirals no bigger than a coin at first, then gradually widening until his whole palm was involved. He worked backward along the midline of her scalp, then fanned out to the sides, thumbs pressing lightly into the temples before sliding up to the crown. Each rotation pressed the oil deep into her roots, coating every strand near the scalp, and the fan overhead caught the volatile notes again, sending that delicious cold tingle racing across her head.
Simran sighed—a long, slow exhale that seemed to come from somewhere deep in her chest. Twenty minutes had passed since he first touched her, yet her body had already surrendered completely. The constant, hypnotic rhythm of his fingertips—press, circle, glide, repeat—had turned her skull into a pool of warm honey. Her eyelids grew impossibly heavy. Her breathing deepened until each inhale lifted her back in a gentle wave. The tension that had lived in her jaw, her neck, her shoulders for days melted away like wax under flame.
Bhola’s hands eventually drifted downward.
He worked the oil into the base of her skull first—thumbs pressing into those two small hollows just above the neck—then let his palms glide along the sides of her throat in long, soothing strokes. He didn’t rush. He never rushed. Every movement was measured, respectful, almost reverent. When his fingertips reached the tops of her tbangzius muscles he kneaded them slowly, rolling the tight cords between thumb and fingers until they gave way with a soft, audible sigh from Simran.
She was almost asleep now.
Her face had slackened into perfect relaxation—lips slightly parted, cheeks flushed with warmth and oil, long lashes resting on her skin. The nightie had slipped further down her shoulders during the scalp massage; one strap hung loose against her upper arm, the other still clinging stubbornly to the curve of her shoulder. Her breasts pressed into the mattress, creating generous soft swells that spilled slightly to the sides. The thin cotton was damp in two large patches over her nipples, the dark circles of her areolas faintly visible through the fabric where milk had leaked steadily during the massage.
She looked like a painting of surrender—milky skin glowing with oil, hair fanned across the pillow in dark waves, back arched just enough to accentuate the elegant dip of her waist and the lush rise of her hips. The nightie had ridden up again, the hem now bunched high on her thighs, exposing the full length of her creamy legs and the lower curves of her ass. Even in repose she radiated a quiet, devastating sensuality: soft yet strong, vulnerable yet powerful, utterly feminine.
Bhola paused.
His hands hovered above her shoulders for a long moment. Then, very slowly, he let his fingertips drift lower—along the upper swell of her breasts, stopping just at the edge of the deep cleavage visible from behind. For the briefest second his thumbs brushed the soft inner curves, feeling the heat and the faint dampness of leaking milk. He could feel how full she still was, how the weight of her breasts pulled downward against the mattress.
He retreated immediately.
He needed to suck her. He knew she needed it too. The massage had relaxed her body, but her breasts were still aching, still leaking. He couldn’t finish the back massage properly until he had emptied her first.
He moved down to her feet again.
His oiled palms wrapped around her right ankle, thumbs pressing into the sole, then gliding upward along the calf in long, soothing strokes. He worked the muscle slowly, methodically, then moved to the left leg. When he reached her knees he spent extra time—circling the kneecaps, pressing into the hollows behind them—until her legs felt loose and heavy.
Only then did he speak.
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