Bhola kept going until both breasts were finally soft and empty. With one last, powerful pull on her left nipple, he released it with a loud, wet POP. The heavy breast settled back down, jiggling softly against her chest, nipple red, swollen, and glistening.
He sat back on his heels, breathing hard, lips and chin shiny with her milk.
Simran lay there panting, shirt open, body limp and trembling, mind spinning with the aftershocks of what had just happened.
Bhola wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and looked at her with quiet satisfaction.
“Bhabhi… ab main tel aur shahad lagaunga taaki yeh naram rahein…”
(“Bhabhi… now I will apply the oil and honey so they stay soft…”)
He reached for the bowl, but Simran’s mind was still lost in the heat, the taste, the forbidden intimacy of drinking her own milk from his mouth.
She didn’t know how much longer she could keep pretending this was only about relief.
And Bhola, sweet and innocent as ever, had no idea he had just pushed her even deeper into the fire.
Bhola rose quietly from his place at her side and moved behind her head, which rested on the pillow. He knelt in the classic vajrasana posture—knees folded, shins flat against the mattress—but he spread his knees wide apart so that his hips hovered directly above the crown of her head. If he had been naked, the thick, heavy length of his cock would have hung forward, brushing her forehead with every small shift of his weight. Even through the thin cotton of his pants the outline was unmistakable: long, fat, and already half-engorged, the fabric stretched taut along the shaft and tented forward so that the swollen head pressed visibly against the material whenever he leaned.
He poured another generous palmful of the warm oil mixture, rubbing his hands together until they shone. The scent rolled outward again—rich vanilla and creamy sandalwood wrapping around the sharper floral bite of ylang-ylang and the clean, almost menthol edge of clary sage. It filled the small room like incense.
He started high.
Both oiled palms settled just below her breasts, fingers splayed wide across the soft under-curve. He lifted gently at first—only enough to take the weight off the mattress—then slid upward in one long, slow sweep, thumbs tracing the outer edges of her areolas without quite touching them. The motion was reverent, almost ceremonial. Her breasts rose and fell with her quickening breath; the nightie had already ridden up so high that the fabric now sat bunched at her waist like a forgotten belt. Her nipples stood out stiff and dark against the thin cotton, two damp circles spreading wider with every heartbeat.
The upward stroke wasn’t enough.
Bhola frowned softly to himself, logical as ever.
“Bhabhi… agar aap thoda sa upar baith jaayen, to main behtar massage kar paunga.”
(“Bhabhi… if you can kindly sit up a little, I will be able to massage better.”)
His voice was quiet, polite, completely innocent.
Simran obeyed without thinking. She pushed herself up on her elbows, then higher, until she was sitting with her back straight and her legs still extended along the mattress. The nightie fell away completely from her torso now, hanging loose around her hips like a discarded robe. Her breasts hung free—full, round, impossibly heavy—swaying gently with the change in position. Milk beaded at both nipples and slowly rolled down the undersides in shining trails.
Bhola shifted forward on his knees, closing the gap until his chest almost touched her back. He reached around from behind, both arms encircling her, and cupped the undersides of her breasts in his large palms. He lifted them slowly, taking their full weight, thumbs resting just below the dark areolas.
Simran gasped—“Aaahhh…”—the sound slipping out before she could catch it.
The sudden lift made her nipples point forward and upward; fresh milk welled instantly at the tips. Bhola brought his body closer still. The rigid length of his cock—now fully erect and straining against his pants—pressed hot and heavy against the small of her back. The contact was electric. Simran jumped in surprise, a small startled yelp escaping her lips as the thick, burning hardness nudged the base of her spine.
Bhola froze for half a second—confused, unsure whether he had hurt her—then relaxed again, assuming it was only the surprise. He released her breasts and let them drop.
They settled with a soft, liquid bounce—perfect teardrop shapes jiggling once, twice, before coming to rest high on her chest. The sight was hypnotic: creamy skin glowing with oil, wide rosewood areolas textured and puffy, thick nipples erect and dripping, the gentle sway as gravity reclaimed them.
He cupped them again immediately from below, lifting once more, this time bouncing them lightly in his palms—up… down… up… down—like he was weighing ripe fruit, feeling how they yielded and sprang back. Each small bounce sent a fresh ripple through Simran’s body. Her pussy clenched rhythmically; she could feel the wetness spreading, soaking the crotch of her panty until it clung transparently to her swollen lips.
Bhola kept playing—lift, gentle bounce, release, lift again—his thumbs occasionally brushing the undersides of her areolas, spreading the leaking milk in slow, slippery circles. He wasn’t trying to arouse her; he was simply fascinated by the softness, the weight, the way they moved. To him this was still part of the massage: keeping the tissue supple, encouraging circulation.
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