[doodhwale_bhaiya]

He latched on hard — wide, hungry, the way he always did. His lips sealed around the soft areola, tongue pressing against the thick nipple, and he sucked with long, deep pulls. Warm milk flooded his mouth immediately. He swallowed audibly and sucked again, harder, drawing thick streams from her. His free hand stayed on her waist, holding her in place while he drank. The wet, rhythmic sounds of his mouth working her breast filled the quiet kitchen.
 
Simran’s hands came up instinctively to his shoulders. Her breath caught. Milk continued to flow under the strong suction; she could feel the pressure in her breast easing with every deep pull. The thin thong between her legs was already growing damp. Upstairs her husband slept, stomach still unsettled. Down here her servant had her right breast fully exposed and buried in his mouth, drinking the milk she produced, exactly as he had done every day since the first time she let him.
 
Bhola did not stop. He kept sucking, slow and thorough, one hand still locked on her waist, the heavy soft flesh of her breast filling his mouth while the rest of her body stayed pressed against the kitchen counter, the tiny nightie half-pulled aside, the silver waist chain cool against her skin.
 
Bhola kept his mouth sealed tightly around Simran’s left breast, sucking in long, deep, rhythmic pulls. Thick streams of warm milk flooded his tongue with every draw. He swallowed audibly and immediately sucked again, harder, cheeks hollowing, the soft heavy flesh of her tit stretching toward his lips before springing back. Wet, filthy sounds filled the quiet kitchen — the soft *gluck… gluck…* of milk being taken, the quiet wetness of his mouth working her nipple.
 
His hands did not stay still.
 
While he drank, both large palms slid down over the short nightie and locked onto the full, soft globes of her ass. He grabbed them roughly, fingers sinking deep into the plush flesh, squeezing and spreading the cheeks, lifting them, releasing them only to grab again harder. The thin fabric of the nightie was pushed up by his hands until most of her ass was bare under his palms. He kneaded the warm, heavy flesh like dough, pulling the cheeks apart so the narrow strip of her thong was fully exposed between them, then letting them fall back together with a soft jiggle.
 
Simran’s breathing had grown heavier. Soft, involuntary moans leaked from her throat each time he sucked especially hard or squeezed her ass with particular force. Her hands rested on his shoulders for balance, fingers flexing against the muscle there.
 
One of Bhola’s hands slid lower, between her thighs from behind. His fingers found the thin, damp crotch of the thong and pressed against it, feeling the heat and the slight puffiness of her pussy lips through the scrap of fabric. He rubbed slowly, then hooked two fingers under the narrow elastic and began to tug the thong downward.
 
Simran’s moan broke off abruptly.
 
She bent forward a little at the waist, trying to stop the downward pull while his mouth was still locked on her breast.
 
“Nahi… Bhola… ruk… yeh theek nahi… Ravi yahan hai… yeh nightie itni chhoti hai… agar who dekh liya toh… meri sabkuch dikh jaayegi…”
“No… Bhola… stop… this is not right… Ravi is here… this nightie is so short… if he sees… my everything will be visible…”
 
Bhola did not release her nipple. He kept sucking, milk still flowing into his mouth, and used both hands to yank the thong the rest of the way down with one strong motion. The thin fabric stretched, then slid over the full curves of her hips and down her thighs. Because his mouth never left her breast, the force of the pull made Simran bend further forward. Her naked ass jutted out sharply toward him. Her heavy breasts hung downward, the left one still buried in his mouth, the right one swinging free. Milk leaked from the exposed right nipple and dripped onto the kitchen floor in slow white drops. The silver waist chain shifted against her soft stomach. The thong settled around her ankles in a small, damp heap.
 
She was completely bare under the tiny nightie now — ass exposed, pussy uncovered, only the short hem of the nightie providing the thinnest possible coverage if she stood straight.
 
The sound of footsteps on the stairs reached them at the same moment.
 
Both of them froze.
 
Simran’s eyes went wide. She shoved hard against Bhola’s shoulders, breaking the seal of his mouth on her breast with a wet *pop*. A thin string of milk connected his lower lip to her shiny nipple for a second before breaking. She frantically stuffed the heavy, wet breast back inside the neckline of the nightie, the fabric immediately darkening with residual milk. The thong was still tangled around her ankles. She stepped out of it in one quick, clumsy motion, nearly losing her balance. Bhola’s hand shot out, snatched the small scrap of damp fabric from the floor, and shoved it deep into his pocket just as Ravi’s feet appeared on the lower stairs.
 
Ravi came into the living room rubbing his face, still looking tired but better than the night before. He glanced toward the kitchen where his wife and the servant stood a little too close together.
 
“Give me lemon tea,” he said, already moving toward the sofa. “Stomach still feels a little heavy.”
 
Simran’s voice came out higher than normal.
 
“Haan… abhi banati hoon.”
“Yes… I’m making it right now.”
 
Ravi dropped onto the sofa with his back mostly toward the kitchen, pulled out his phone, and began scrolling.
 
The moment his attention was elsewhere, Bhola moved.
 
He stepped in directly behind Simran, close enough that the hard ridge of his cock pressed against the soft curve of her ass through his pants. One large hand slid under the short hem of the nightie from behind. His middle finger found the bare, still-wet entrance of her pussy — no panty left to stop him — and pushed inside in one smooth, firm stroke.
 
Simran rose onto her toes with a sharp, choked gasp. Her hands flew to the edge of the counter. Her pussy clenched hard around the sudden thick finger. Fresh wetness coated Bhola’s knuckle as he slowly curled the finger inside her, rubbing the sensitive front wall while his other hand stayed on her hip, holding her in place.
 
He leaned in until his mouth was against her ear, voice barely a breath.
 
He was enjoying his Bhabhi to the fullest — her breast still wet with his saliva and her milk, her thong hidden in his pocket, her bare pussy gripping his finger, and her husband sitting only a few metres away on the sofa, completely unaware.
 
Simran’s whisper was sharp and urgent, barely audible over the soft sounds of the kitchen.
 
“Hath hata… abhi… Ravi yahan baitha hai…”
“Remove your hand… right now… Ravi is sitting here…”
 
She twisted her hips, trying to push Bhola’s thick middle finger out of her bare pussy. Her hand reached back and closed around his wrist, tugging, but he only curled the finger deeper, rubbing slowly against the sensitive front wall. A fresh wave of wetness coated his knuckle. The short nightie was bunched at her waist on one side; the other side had slipped lower. Her naked ass was fully exposed to him from behind while her husband sat only a few metres away on the sofa, scrolling through his phone.
 
Bhola leaned in until his mouth was against the side of her neck, voice a low, filthy murmur.
 
“Bhabhi… aap chai banao… aur main aapke doodh ko suck karta hoon. Warna aaj time nahi milega. Chuchiyan bhari hui hain… nikalne do.”
“Bhabhi… you make the tea… and I’ll suck your milk. Otherwise there won’t be time today. Boobs are full… let me take it out.”
 
His free hand came up and tried to cup her left breast over the thin nightie, squeezing the heavy, milk-filled globe through the fabric. The dark nipple was already stiff and damp against his palm. Simran twisted harder and slapped his hand away with a sharp, quiet *thwack*.
 
“Mat chhoo… abhi nahi. Ravi yahan hai. Thodi sharam kar. Hath hata.”
“Don’t touch… not now. Ravi is here. Have some shame. Remove your hand.”
 
She forced her attention back to the stove, hands shaking as she prepared the lemon tea. The kettle was already hot. She squeezed lemon, added a little sugar and salt, stirred. The entire time Bhola stayed pressed against her back, his thick finger moving inside her in slow, deliberate strokes — in, curl, out, in again — never fast enough to make wet sounds that might carry, but deep enough that her knees kept threatening to buckle. Every time she reached for a cup or the tray his finger pushed a little harder, stretching her open, reminding her she was completely bare under the tiny nightie and that her thong was still in his pocket.