[doodhwale_bhaiya]

Tonight. I try to publish atleast once a day. Will pick up pace soon. Thanks for the wait.

[doodhwale_bhaiya]

What the Fuck!
 
Preeti smiled faintly, a little mysterious. 
“That’s the part we’re still figuring out. But it gave us permission, in a way. To think beyond clinics, beyond science alone. To consider… other ways.”
 
She lifted her glass. 
“To paths we didn’t know existed.”
 
They clinked, the sound soft but heavy with meaning, the night deepening around them.
 
Ravi looked up from his phone, brow furrowed, the blue light reflecting in his eyes. 
“What do you mean ‘figuring out’?”
 
Shikha leaned forward, her voice gentle but firm. 
“Since you guys are our very close friends… we thought we can at least tell you guys. But please don’t judge us.”
 
“We would be the last people to judge you guys”, Ravi said.
 
Preeti nodded, picking up the thread seamlessly. 
“The scripture my mother’s Baba gave her… it talked about ‘Niyoga’. It’s an ancient procedure—when a family needs to look beyond the usual to make a child. When one partner can’t, or circumstances force it, the text allows… an outside man to help. Just for the purpose of conception. No emotions, no relationship. Purely a service to continue the lineage.”
 
Ravi blinked, processing. 
“Okay… so what exactly is the matter here? You’re saying—”
 
Preeti cut in with a small smile, raising her hand. 
“How about you read about it on Google first? ‘Niyoga in Mahabharata’. It’ll be easier that way. Take your time.”
 
Ravi glanced at the three women—Simran’s curious eyes, Shikha’s calm gaze, Preeti’s knowing half-smile—then nodded. 
“Alright. Give me a minute.”
 
He opened his browser, fingers tapping quickly. The table fell into light chatter while he scrolled.
 
Simran sipped her vodka soda. “So… how’s the new project at work, Shikha?”
 
Shikha shrugged. “Same old. Client wants miracles in three days. I told him miracles cost extra.”
 
Preeti laughed. “Tell him to pay in advance. Miracles don’t come on credit.”
 
Meanwhile,
 
Ravi opened the first link—Wikipedia’s page on “Niyoga.” 
 
Niyoga was an ancient ***** practice described in the Mahabharata and other Dharmashastras. It permitted a woman to conceive a child with a man other than her husband under specific conditions: when the husband was dead, impotent, infertile, or unable to produce heirs. The purpose was strictly to continue the family lineage (vamsha). 
 
“Whoa… so this was a real thing? Not some myth?” Ravi’s thumb hovered while thinking. He scrolled further.
 
The man chosen for Niyoga was usually a sage, a brother-in-law (devar), or another man of high moral character. The act was considered a duty (dharma), not adultery. The child born belonged legally and socially to the husband, not the biological father. The biological father had no rights or claims over the child.
 
Ravi’s stomach tightened slightly. “No rights? So the man just… helps and disappears? That’s cold.” He kept reading.
 
Famous examples from the Mahabharata: 
 
After King Vichitravirya died childless, his mother Satyavati asked Sage Vyasa (her son from an earlier union) to impregnate her daughters-in-law Ambika and Ambalika. The children born—Dhritarashtra (blind) and Pandu (pale)—were raised as Kuru princes. 
 
Pandu, cursed to die if he consummated his marriage, allowed his wife Kunti to use mantras to invoke gods (a form of divine Niyoga) to bear the Pandavas.
 
“So this is deep. This was….I need another drink” He took a sip from his glass and continued reading. Ravi felt a strange mix of disbelief and reluctant respect. He opened a second link—a blog post summarizing the practice.
 
Niyoga was not about lust or pleasure. Rules were strict: 
No emotional attachment. 
The act was performed only until conception (sometimes limited to one child). 
The woman approached the man respectfully, often at night.
The man was there as a duty, not for gratification.
 
“Okaaaaay….This sounds like a drama. Anyways its not for me to judge.”
 
Ravi exhaled slowly. “Preeti and Shikha aren’t looking for a lover. They’re looking for… this. A solution. A way forward.”
 
He searched for modern interpretations and landed on a forum post.
 
Today, some scholars compare Niyoga to donor insemination or surrogacy, but with cultural and spiritual roots. It was society’s way of saying: family matters more than blood alone.
 
Ravi stared at the screen. Family matters more than blood. That hits hard.
 
He closed the browser, mind spinning. 
 
The ancient practice wasn’t scandalous back then—it was sacred. Practical. Necessary. And now, in 2026, two modern women were reaching back through time for the same reason: to build a family when science and nature hadn’t cooperated.
 
Fifteen minutes passed—small talk, laughter, the occasional glance at Ravi, whose face grew more serious with each scroll. Finally, he set his phone down, took a long sip of whiskey, and cleared his throat.
 
“I will be back from the loo”, Ravi got up and left. He washed his face multiple times to understand what was going on. All his trance had dissolved in thin air. This was some crazy shit going on here. He needs to control his words else he might upset very close friends.
 
Meanwhile at the Table.
 
“Simran, do you think he ran away?”, Preeti asked. Simran started laughing and said, “No, No. Are you crazy? It’s a bit too much for him to understand in one go. He will be back.”
 
“Who will be back?”, Ravi said.
 
Preeti was startled and said,” The waiter. We were looking for him for a drink.”
 
“Ohh there he is”, said Shikha and ordered her drink.
 
Preeti made a poker face at Simran and then raised her eyebrows smiling.
 
“Okay,” Ravi said slowly. “I’ve read. I understand your situation now. But… I just need to understand one thing.”
 
“ Who is going to go through with this?”
 
Preeti tilted her head. “Shikha.”
 
Ravi shook his head. “That’s not what I meant.”
 
After a few seconds…
 
Shikha met his eyes steadily. “You’ve met him today.”
 
Ravi cleared his throat again, louder this time, took another sip, then said the name quietly. 
“Arjun.”
 
Preeti nodded, calm. “But… I know what you’re asking. It’s not a relationship we’re looking for. We’re just looking for a service. A one-time act. Nothing more. No strings. He provides; we receive. That’s it.”
 
Ravi exhaled through his nose, processing. He looked uncomfortable, shifting in his seat.
 
Preeti softened her voice. 
“Ravi, listen. We’ve talked this through a hundred times. Arjun knows the boundaries. He’s agreed. We’re not asking him to be a father—just a donor in the oldest sense. And Shikha… she wants this. She wants to carry. We’re not reckless. We’re careful.”
 
Ravi rubbed his jaw, then looked at Simran. 
“I support you guys,” he said finally. “It takes a lot of courage to make a decision like this. Hopefully all will work out.”
 
Simran reached over and squeezed his hand under the table, grateful.
 
Preeti sighed, staring into her drink.
 
“That’s the only issue here. I don’t trust our generation. The scripture was written thousands of years ago. Men back then were… stronger. Pollution, stress, intoxicants, lifestyle—everything has made us weaker. Both males and females. We can’t help it. We were born in this age. We have to endure it.”
 
Ravi nodded slowly. 
“Don’t worry. I’m sure everything will work out.”
 
Preeti gave a small smile. 
“Yes. I’ll be there to supervise. Every step.”
 
Ravi raised an eyebrow, half-joking. 
“Can I watch too?”
 
Preeti, Shikha, and Simran answered in perfect unison: 
“Nooooo!”
 
The word rang out sharp and synchronized, followed by an explosion of laughter—loud, belly-deep, heads thrown back. Even Ravi cracked up, shaking his head as the tension melted away completely.
 
He raised his glass, still chuckling. 
“To making babies”, all repeated and cheered.

[doodhwale_bhaiya]

The drive back from Preeti and Shikha’s apartment was quiet at first, the city lights streaking past the windows in golden blurs. Ravi kept one hand on the wheel, the other resting on the gear shift, stealing occasional glances at Simran. She sat with her head against the window, emerald dress still hugging her curves, the faint scent of rose attar and club smoke clinging to her.
 
Finally, Ravi broke the silence. 
“Did you know about this Arjun thing before tonight?”
 
Simran turned to him, voice soft. 
“Not completely. They told both of us today only. I mean… I knew they were planning for a baby, but not the details. Not that it would be him. Not like this.”
 
Ravi nodded slowly, eyes on the road. 
“What do you think about it?”
 
Simran exhaled, fingers tracing the edge of her dress. 
“I don’t know. It’s… a lot. Brave, maybe. But complicated. What do you think?”
 
Ravi was quiet for a long moment, the hum of the engine filling the space. 
“I don’t know either. It’s definitely something to think about. It’s their life, their choice. Hopefully the baby will never ask for his or her father’s name. Because if they do… it’ll be a scandal. Especially once Arjun has his own family by then. A kid showing up years later saying ‘you’re my biological father’? That could blow everything up.”
 
Simran nodded, gaze distant. 
“Yes. They have to be careful. It’s a loose thread, definitely. But… what can they do? The amount of pain a woman goes through in IVF—the injections, the hormones, the waiting, the heartbreak when it fails… compared to that, maybe this is peanuts. Who knows? They might shift to another city later. Or the child might never want to know. No one knows the future.”
 
Ravi reached over, squeezing her hand briefly. 
“You’re right. No one knows.”
 
They fell silent again, the car gliding through the late-night Chandigarh streets until they pulled into their society gate. Ravi parked, killed the engine, and they walked upstairs in comfortable quiet.
 
Inside the flat, Ravi changed quickly—stripping off his shirt and trousers, pulling on soft grey track pants and an old T-shirt. He brushed his teeth, splashed water on his face, and slid under the covers, already half-asleep from the long evening.
 
Simran took longer. She moved through her night routine with deliberate slowness, as though needing the ritual to ground herself after the night’s revelations.
 
She started in the bathroom, standing under the warm shower for a few minutes—letting the water rinse away the club’s smoke, sweat, and the faint stickiness from earlier. Then came the cleansing milk: she pumped a generous amount into her palm, massaging it into her face in slow, circular motions—cheeks, forehead, chin, down her neck. The creamy liquid smelled faintly of rose and almond, melting into her skin, removing every trace of makeup until her face glowed clean and bare. She rinsed with cool water, patted dry, then applied a light night cream—fingers gliding over her cheekbones, under her eyes, across her collarbones, lingering at the tops of her breasts where the skin still felt tender.
 
She slipped out of the emerald dress, folding it carefully over the chair. Bra and panties came next—unhooked, peeled off, left in the hamper for Bhola tomorrow. Naked, she stood for a moment in front of the mirror, running her hands down her sides, over the soft swell of her belly, feeling the faint echo of fullness in her breasts. Then she reached for her favourite sleepwear: a pale blush-pink satin nightie, sleeveless, with delicate lace trim along the neckline and hem. It fell to mid-thigh, the slippery fabric whispering against her skin as she pulled it over her head. No bra, no panties—just the cool satin kissing her nipples and the curve of her ass, the hem brushing her thighs with every step.
 
She switched off the bathroom light, padded to the bed, and slipped under the sheet beside Ravi. He stirred, arm instinctively reaching for her waist, pulling her close. She curled into him, head on his chest, listening to his steady heartbeat.
 
The night settled over them—quiet, warm, and full of unspoken questions.

[doodhwale_bhaiya]

 
The Sunday before the Monday
 
Ravi and Simran woke late—around 9:30, the Chandigarh sun already high and golden through the curtains. Simran stirred first, slipping out of bed quietly so as not to disturb Ravi. She padded to the bathroom, showered quickly under warm water that rinsed away the faint club haze from the night before, then went through her usual routine: cleansing milk, light moisturizer, a touch of kajal and nude gloss. She chose a simple, breezy white cotton maxi dress for the day—sleeveless, flowing to her ankles, the fabric soft against her skin, neckline modest but still hinting at the gentle swell of her breasts. Hair left loose in damp waves, she felt light, unhurried.
 
Ravi woke a little after ten, stretching lazily before freshening up—quick shower, shave, grey T-shirt and track pants. He came downstairs barefoot, hair still damp, to find Bhola already setting breakfast on the table: fresh aloo parathas, curd, mango pickle, and strong filter coffee. Simran was sipping hers at the dining table, legs tucked under her, smiling softly at the morning quiet.
 
The day unfolded slowly, gloriously empty. No plans, no errands, no urgency. They moved like people who had forgotten what rush felt like—lounging on the sofa with the TV on low, scrolling phones, occasionally laughing at nothing. Around 10 AM, Bhola approached Ravi in the living room, hands folded respectfully.
 
“Sahib… can I go to my house for some time? I’ll be back by evening.”
 
Ravi looked up, nodded without hesitation. 
“Of course, Bhola. Go. Take the scooty. Drive safe. Come back whenever you’re ready.”
 
Bhola bowed slightly—“Ji, Sahib”—and left quietly, the front door clicking shut behind him.
 
With Bhola gone, the house felt even more theirs. Ravi and Simran decided to spend the afternoon on the rooftop terrace—the shaded portion they loved, under the big neem tree with its wide canopy blocking the direct sun. They carried up two low folding chairs, a small cooler with ice, gin, tonic, lime, and a couple of glasses. The air was warm but bearable in the shade, a gentle breeze rustling the leaves overhead.
 
They mixed their drinks—gin and tonic with extra lime, the fizz sharp and refreshing—and settled in. Simran kicked off her sandals, curled her legs under her, the white maxi riding up just enough to bare her calves. Ravi stretched out beside her, one arm dbangd over the back of her chair, fingers occasionally brushing her shoulder. They talked in fragments—about the club last night, Preeti and Shikha’s plan, the strange ancient scripture—then lapsed into comfortable silence. The gin warmed them slowly, loosening limbs and thoughts. They napped a little, heads tilted back, sun filtering through the neem leaves in dappled patterns across their skin.
 
By the time Bhola returned—around 10 PM—the sky was dark, stars faint above the city glow. He came in quietly, carrying a small cloth bag (probably village gifts—pickles or sweets), gave them a respectful nod, and retreated to his room without disturbing them.
 
Ravi and Simran had already come downstairs. They shared a light dinner—leftover parathas warmed up, a quick salad—then went to bed early. Simran changed into her blush-pink satin nightie again, the cool fabric sliding over her sun-kissed skin. Ravi pulled on his usual track pants and T-shirt. They curled together under the sheet, her head on his chest, his arm around her waist.
 
It was a Sunday well spent—relaxed, doing practically nothing. Well Simran had to do her thing a bit, but nothing new there. Other than that, No drama, no revelations, just the simple luxury of a day that belonged only to them.

[doodhwale_bhaiya]

Oh Bhais ki Taang
 
Bhola reached Dholakpur by late afternoon, the village lanes dusty and familiar under the scooty’s tires. The moment he parked outside his brother Jay’s modest brick house, the door opened. Jay—broad-shouldered, a few years older, skin darkened by years in the fields—stepped out with a wide smile, clapping Bhola on the back. Behind him stood Komal, his wife, wiping her hands on the edge of her dupatta, eyes warm.
 
“Arre Bhola! Aa gaya tu? Chal, andar aa,” Jay said, pulling him into a rough hug.
(Bhola, you came? Come inside)
 
Inside, the house smelled of fresh rotis and ghee. Komal had already laid out lunch: sarson ka saag, makki di roti, dahi, and a bowl of homemade gur. They ate together at the low wooden chowki—quiet, comfortable, the kind of meal that needed few words. Jay asked about Chandigarh, about Sahib and Bhabhi, about the city’s endless noise. Bhola answered simply, smiling, keeping the details light.
 
After lunch, Jay yawned and retreated to the inner room for a rest—“Thak gaya hoon, thodi der so jaunga.” (I am tired now. Going to take rest for a while). Komal waited until his snores drifted out, then motioned Bhola to the small courtyard behind the house, where a neem tree cast dappled shade.
 
She sat on a charpoy, patting the space beside her. Bhola sat, suddenly aware of the weight of the conversation coming.
 
“Bata, Bhola… kaisi hai teri Simran Bhabhi?”
(Tell me Bhola, how is Simran?)
 
Bhola nodded slowly. 
“Sab theek hai, Bhabhi. Bahut behtar hai ab. Woh pehle jaisi hi ho gayi hai—hasti hai, khati hai, ghoomti hai. Energy wapas aa gayi hai.”
(She is fine Bhabhi, much better than before. Infact she is just like she used to be before the accident. Energetic and happy)
 
Komal studied his face, eyes sharp. 
“Ravi… kuch alag sa notice kiya? Koi farak?”
(Ravi… did you notice anything different?)
 
Bhola hesitated. His mind flashed to the laundry basket—the bra cups always damp these days, heavy with something milky; the panties stained with thick white streaks that weren’t just arousal. The scent when he lifted them—sweet, floral, human. His throat tightened. He wanted to tell her. But the words stuck. 
How could he say it? It felt… wrong. Too intimate. Too close to something he wasn’t supposed to notice.
 
He shook his head, voice low. 
“Nahi, Bhabhiji. Sab normal hai.”
(Nope. Everything seems normal)
 
Komal sighed, not unkindly, then leaned closer. 
“Ravi… sun. Ab main tujhe kuch bahut zaroori baat batati hoon. Dhyan se sunna.”
(Ravi… listen carefully, I am going to tell you something important.)
 
She paused, letting the courtyard quiet settle around them.
 
“Yeh powder jo maine tujhe diya tha… uska naam hai Jeevdhatu. Bahut purana hai yeh. Tere purvajon ne banaya tha—pehle gaayon ke liye. Gaay ko iska pani pilate the, toh woh bina garbhavastha ke bhi bahut zyada doodh deti thi, aur lamba time tak. Aajkal jo dairy farms gaayon ko injection lagate hain doodh ke liye… woh is Jeevdhatu ka hi modern roop hai. Par farak yeh hai—Jeevdhatu insaan ke liye bhi kaam karta hai.”
 
("This powder I gave you... it's called Jeev Dhatu. It's very old. Your ancestors made it—back then—for cows. Cows were fed water containing it, and they would produce a lot of milk even without getting pregnant, and for a long time. The dairy farms that inject cows these days for milk... that's the modern version of Jeev Dhatu. But the difference is—Jeev Dhatu works for humans too.")
 
Bhola’s eyes widened slightly.
 
Komal continued, voice steady. 
“Agar aurat ko yeh diya jaye, toh uske doodh ki kami nahi rahegi. Woh bahut zyada doodh degi—zaroorat se bhi zyada. Aur saath hi… woh aurat baccha banane ke liye zyada utsaahit ho jayegi. Uski sehat bhi bahut achhi ho jayegi—sharir majboot, energy full, man khush. Isiliye maine tujhe yeh Simran Bhabhi ke liye diya.”
 
("If a woman is given this, she won't have any shortage of milk. She'll produce a lot of milk—more than she needs. And also...she'll be more excited to have a baby. Her health will also improve—strong, energetic, and happy. That's why I gave it to you for Simran Bhabhi.")
 
She watched his face, reading every flicker.
 
“Ab bata, sach bata… kya tune kuch alag notice kiya usmein?”
(“Now tell me, tell me the truth… did you notice anything different in her?”)
 
Bhola swallowed. The images rushed back—the wet bras, the stained panties, the faint sweet smell that lingered on his fingers longer than it should. His cheeks warmed. He looked down at the ground, voice barely above a whisper.
 
“Haan, Bhabhiji… kuch alag hai.”
(Yes I did)
 
Komal nodded, not surprised. 
“Kya?”
(What)
 
Bhola hesitated one last time, then spoke—quiet, careful, almost ashamed. 
“Unke… bra hamesha geele rehte hain. Aur panty mein… safed daag. Bahut zyada. Jaise… doodh jaisa.”
("Her… bras are always wet. And her panties… have white spots. A lot. Like… milk.")
 
Bhola was surprised how he said all these to Komal. He was feeling shy.
 
Komal exhaled slowly, a small, satisfied smile touching her lips. 
“Haan. Yeh shuruaat hai. Jeevdhatu ka asar shuru ho gaya. Ab yeh rukega nahi. Aur yeh sirf doodh nahi… aur bhi cheezein badlegi. Bas tu dhyan rakhna. Jo maine kaha tha—kabhi kabhi zyada ho jata hai. Agar kuch ajeeb lagne lage, mujhe bata dena.”
 
("Yes. This is the beginning. The effect of life force has begun. It won't stop now. And it's not just milk... other things will change as well. Just be careful. As I said—sometimes it gets too much. If something starts to seem strange, let me know.")
 
Bhola nodded, heart pounding. 
“Ji, Bhabhiji.”
 
They sat in silence for a while, the neem leaves rustling overhead. The village felt smaller suddenly, the weight of the powder heavier in his mind.
 
Bhola shifted on the charpoy, the neem leaves rustling above them. His voice came out low, almost hesitant. 
“Bhabhiji… yeh sab hone ke baad aap kya ummeed karti hain? Simran Bhabhi mein kya changes aayenge?”
("Bhabhiji...what do you expect after all this? What changes will come in Simran Bhabhi?")
 
Komal looked toward the fields for a long moment, then back at him. 
“Woh baccha banane ki ichchha karegi. Bahut zyada. Uska sharir taiyaar ho jayega—doodh aayega, sharir garam rahega, man bechain rahega. Par…”
 
She paused, brows knitting slightly and thought to herself, “Yeh doodh abhi kyun aa raha hai? Is waqt toh nahi aana chahiye tha. Woh abhi pregnant bhi nahi hai.”
 
("She'll want to have a baby. Very much. Her body will be ready—the milk will come, her body will be warm, her mind will be restless. But…" She paused, brows knitting slightly and thought. "Why is the milk coming now? It shouldn't have come at this time. She's not even pregnant yet.")
 
She fell silent, thinking deeply, eyes distant. Then understanding dawned, slow and sharp.
She kept thinking, “Achha… samajh aaya,” she murmured, almost to herself. “Yeh bahut hi rare breed hai. Is tarah ki auratein pehle doodh banati hain, phir baccha banane ki talaash karti hain. Woh apna mate dhoondh rahi hai. Aur jo bhi uska doodh pi lega… woh uska mate ban jayega.”
 
(She kept thinking, “Oh… I get it,” she murmured, almost to herself. “This is a very rare breed. Women like these first produce milk, then look for a child. She is looking for her mate. And whoever drinks her milk… will become her mate.”)
 
Komal continued thinking to herself, “Main bhi aisi hoon. Lakhon mein ek aise hotein hain. Humari biology aisi hai—hum bahut zyada fertile hote hain, par humein bahut hi strong purush chahiye. Bahut hi virile. Jo humein poora kar sake. Main lucky thi… ki Jay aur Maan Singh ji (father-in-law) unn dino yaha the. Par ye sab abhi Bhola ko nehi bata sakte hai. Kisi aur din sahi.
 
(Komal continued thinking to herself, “I am like that too. There are one in a million like that. Our biology is like that—we are very fertile, but we need a very strong man. Very virile. One who can complete us. I was lucky… that Jai and Maan Singh ji (father-in-law) were here those days. But I can't tell all this to Bhola right now. Some other day.)
 
She looked at Bhola, eyes serious. She again started thinking,
“Agar Simran Bhabhi ko yeh ichchha hui aur Ravi Sahib mein woh taakat nahi rahi jo uske sharir ko satisfy kar sake… toh woh bahar dhoondhegi. Kisi aur ko. Aur phir yeh ghar toot jayega. Family khatam. To kya karein…kya karein”
 
(“If Simran Bhabhi desires this and Ravi Sahib doesn't have the strength to satisfy her body… then she will look outside. Someone else. And then this house will be torn apart. The family will be destroyed. So what should we do…what should we do?”)
 
Bhola could not understand what Komal was thinking.
 
Komal thought for a long time, fingers twisting the edge of her dupatta. Then she nodded, decision made. 
“Ek hi rasta hai jo kaam kar sakta hai.”
(There is only one way left.)
 
She stood, motioning him to follow her inside. In the small kitchen, she opened a steel dabba, took out a fresh pinch of the familiar light-brown powder—Jeevdhatu—and another smaller jar of a dark grey powder that smelled faintly of ash and earth.
 
“Sun, dhyan se,” she said, turning to him. “Simran Bhabhi ko aur saat din ka dose de—bilkul pehle jaisa. Aur saath hi… Ravi Sahib ko yeh naya powder de. Iska naam hai Ghrunaspad.”
 
(“Listen, be careful,” she said, turning to him. “Give Simran Bhabhi another seven-day dose—exactly the same as before. And also… give Ravi Sahib this new powder. It's called Ghrunaspad.”)
 
Bhola looked at the dark powder warily. 
“Yeh kya karega?”
(What does this do?)
 
Komal gave a small, knowing smile. 
“Yeh uski virility badhayega. Taakat, stamina, aur… woh cheez jo ek mard ko mard banati hai. Yeh purane zamane ka hai—sirf kuch hi logon ke paas hota hai. Ek chhota spoon doodh mein roz raat ko. Bas. Woh taiyaar ho jayenge jab Bhabhi unki taraf dekhegi.”
 
("It'll increase his virility. Strength, stamina, and… the things that make a man a man. This is old-fashioned—only a few people have it. A small spoonful in milk every night. That's it. He'll be ready when Bhabhi looks at him.")
 
She poured a tall glass of thick, sweet lassi—freshly churned—and stirred in a generous double dose of Jeevdhatu for Bhola himself, but Bhola didn’t see this.
 
“Tu bhi thak gaya hoga. Yeh le lassi pi.”
(You must be tired. Drink this lassi)
 
Bhola took the glass, drank it slowly. The lassi was cool and sweet.
 
Komal watched him finish, then handed him the small packet of Ghrunaspad, wrapped carefully in cloth.
 
“Yeh sambhal ke rakhna. Aur yaad rakhna—sab kuch dheere dheere hoga. Par hoga zaroor. Ja, ab ghar ja. Apne Sahib aur Bhabhi ka khayal rakh.”
 
("Take care of this. And remember—everything will happen slowly. But it will happen for sure. Go home now. Take care of your master and sister-in-law.")
 
Bhola bowed, took the scooty keys, and rode back toward Chandigarh under the darkening sky, thinking how lucky Simran Bhabhi is to be helped by Komal Bhabhi.
 
Komal sew a seed today which is going to bear fruit in future but for that they have to wait. Patiently. And what fruit it will bear that is also a matter to discuss. Perhaps in a weeks’ time.
 
Shikha and Preeti on the other hand were going to get into a crazy drama of Niyoga. That’s something that needs delicacy. What does even Arjun think about all these? Lot of drama about to unfold.

[doodhwale_bhaiya]

Hanging Tits of Babylon
 
Preeti and Shikha had tumbled onto the bed in a tangle of limbs and heat, clothes long discarded, bodies glistening with a thin sheen of sweat. Completely nude, skin flushed and feverish, they pressed their cores together in a frantic scissor—wet, swollen pussies grinding in slick, slippery rhythm.
 
“Aahhh… aahhh… aaaahhh…” Preeti’s moan rose sharp and needy, hips rolling forward to catch more friction against Shikha’s pulsing clit.
 
Shikha answered with a throaty “Aaah… aaah… fuck…” her own thighs trembling as she bucked up, the wet slap of their aroused flesh filling the room—slick, obscene, relentless.
 
But Preeti wasn’t satisfied, the ache inside her demanded more. She broke the scissor with a frustrated whimper, flipped around, and straddled Shikha’s face in reverse—69 position—her dripping cunt hovering inches above Shikha’s mouth while her own lips descended on Shikha’s beautiful, swollen pussy.
 
The first touch of tongue sent them both arching.
 
Preeti dragged the flat of her tongue slowly from Shikha’s dripping entrance up to her clit—long, deliberate lick—then sealed her lips around the throbbing bud and sucked hard.
 
“Mmmphhh… aaaahhh!” Shikha’s cry vibrated straight into Preeti’s core.
 
Shikha answered instantly, hands gripping Preeti’s ass cheeks, spreading them wider so she could bury her face. She lapped greedily at Preeti’s soaked folds—slurping the creamy nectar—then plunged her tongue inside, fucking her with quick, hungry thrusts while her nose nudged Preeti’s clit.
 
“Fuuuck… aahhh… yes yes yes…” Preeti moaned around Shikha’s clit, the vibration making Shikha’s hips jerk.
 
The room filled with wet, filthy sounds: 
Slurp… smack… ahhh… lick… mmmph… aaaah… suck… gluck… aaaahhh…
 
Preeti’s tongue circled Shikha’s clit in tight, fluttering spirals while two fingers slid inside her, curling against that spongy front wall—stroke, stroke, stroke—drawing out more slick honey.
 
Shikha’s answering moan was muffled against Preeti’s cunt: “Mmmphhh… aaaah… deeper…”
 
She sucked Preeti’s clit like a ripe berry, teeth grazing just enough to sting, then soothed it with broad, loving laps.
 
Their bodies rocked together—Preeti grinding down, Shikha pushing up—pussies smearing across tongues and chins, the wet squelch of fingers and tongues blending with their desperate moans.
 
Suddenly Shikha slid her body upward, inching toward Preeti’s face until those heavy, swaying tits hung directly above her open mouth.
 
Without a second’s hesitation she latched onto one dark, stiff nipple—suckling hard, cheeks hollowing—while her hand captured the other breast, kneading roughly, pinching the nipple between thumb and forefinger.
 
“Aaahhh… oh god… suck it… harder…” Preeti gasped, hips stuttering.
 
Shikha offered her own breasts upward in return. Preeti dove immediately—tongue flickering rapidly over one erect bud, then the other—wet, teasing lashes that sent electric jolts straight to Shikha’s clit.
 
Shikha’s pussy clenched hard around nothing; fresh gush of love juice coated Preeti’s chin and dripped down her neck.
 
“Aaaahhh… fuck… your tongue… aaaah…” Shikha whimpered around the nipple in her mouth, suckling greedily, teeth grazing the sensitive peak.
 
Preeti’s fingers plunged deeper—three now—curling, pumping, the wet squelch obscene as she fucked Shikha’s dripping cunt while her mouth worshipped those perfect tits.
 
The dual assault—tongue on clit, fingers inside, mouth on breasts—pushed Shikha over the edge first.
 
Her thighs clamped around Preeti’s head, back bowing off the bed, a raw, broken “AAAAAHHHHH… I’M COMING… aaaahhh!” tearing from her throat as she gushed hard against Preeti’s lips.
 
Preeti drank every drop, moaning into Shikha’s spasming pussy, her own climax triggered by the flood—hips grinding wildly against Shikha’s face as she shattered with a muffled scream.
 
“Aaahhh… yes… yes… aaaahhh!”
 
They collapsed together—sweaty, trembling, mouths still lazily licking the last traces of each other’s release—pussies twitching, breasts heaving, the room thick with the scent of sex and satisfaction.
 
Preeti’s tongue never stopped its relentless flickering—quick, feather-light lashes across Shikha’s swollen, hypersensitive nipples, each wet snap sending fresh jolts of electricity straight down to Shikha’s dripping pussy. The poor clit throbbed untouched, clenching around nothing, love juices leaking in slow, sticky trails down her inner thighs and pooling on the sheets.
 
“Aaahhh… mmmphhh… Preeti… fuck… your tongue…” Shikha’s voice cracked into a muffled moan, the sound vibrating deep inside Preeti’s heavy breast as she latched harder—like a starving cub attacking its mother’s udder for milk. She sucked greedily, cheeks hollowing, tongue swirling around the stiff peak while her hand milked the other tit roughly—squeezing the soft, full globe, thumb flicking the nipple in time with Preeti’s teasing licks.
 
Both mouths were stuffed full of breast—moans reduced to desperate, wet, vibrating hums trapped against skin: 
“Mmmphhh… aaaahhh… mmmfff… aaaahhh…”
 
The room echoed with slick suction and stifled cries, the obscene wet smacks of lips and tongues worshipping swollen flesh.
 
Shikha felt it first—the tell-tale flutter deep inside Preeti’s pussy, the tightening of her thighs, the sudden gush of fresh slick coating Shikha’s chin. Preeti was close—dangerously close.
 
Without warning, Shikha released the nipple with a wet pop and slid her body downward in one urgent, greedy motion, dragging her soaked pussy along Preeti’s torso until her mouth was once again sealed over Preeti’s throbbing cunt.
 
Preeti had no time to protest.
 
Shikha attacked—lips sealing around the engorged clit, sucking hard while her tongue plunged deep into Preeti’s spasming entrance, fucking her with fast, curling thrusts.
 
“Aaaahhh… Shikha… oh god… yes yes yes… right there… aaaahhh!” Preeti’s scream broke free as her hips bucked wildly.
 
Desperate to give back, Preeti dove forward—tongue spearing into Shikha’s sopping pussy, fucking her in frantic, sloppy strokes while her fingers spread Shikha’s lips wide, exposing every inch for her hungry mouth.
 
The dual assault shattered them both.
 
Shikha came first—back arching off the bed, thighs clamping around Preeti’s head like a vice, a raw, guttural “AAAAAHHHHH… I’M COMING… FUCK… aaaahhh!” tearing from her throat as she exploded.
 
A powerful gush of clear love juice sprayed across Preeti’s face—hot, wet ropes coating her cheeks, lips, chin, dripping into her hair and down her neck. Preeti tried to drink it all, mouth open wide, tongue lapping frantically at the pulsing entrance, but there was too much—Shikha kept coming, wave after wave, soaking Preeti’s face and hair in a glistening mess.
 
The sight—Preeti’s face drenched, hair plastered, eyes half-lidded with lust—pushed Preeti over the edge.
 
Her own orgasm crashed through her—pussy clenching hard around Shikha’s plunging tongue, hips grinding down in frantic circles as she screamed into Shikha’s cunt.
 
“AAAAAHHHH… YES… YES… COMING… aaaahhh!”
 
She squirted too—another hot flood coating Shikha’s face, running in rivulets down her cheeks, dripping from her chin onto the sheets. Both women rode the crest together—bodies shaking, moans muffled against each other’s spasming pussies, love juices mixing and dripping everywhere.
 
The orgasm lasted a full five minutes—long, rolling waves that left them trembling, gasping, thighs quivering. Finally, strength gone, they collapsed sideways—naked, sweat-slick, faces and hair drenched in each other’s release—chests heaving, legs still tangled, pussies twitching with aftershocks.
 
They lay there in the wrecked bed, breathing ragged, the room thick with the scent of sex and satisfaction, too spent to move, too blissed-out to speak.
 
Both women lay side by side on the rumpled sheets, bodies still humming from the aftershocks, skin slick and flushed. They turned toward each other lazily, lips meeting in soft, lingering kisses—slow, open-mouthed, tongues brushing in lazy circles before pulling back just enough to breathe and speak.
 
“You were so fucking good,” Preeti murmured against Shikha’s mouth, nipping her lower lip. “The way you sucked my clit… I almost blacked out.”
 
Shikha smiled, tracing lazy circles on Preeti’s breast with her fingertip. 
“You’re the one who tongue-fucked me like it was your last meal. I’m still shaking.”
 
They kissed again—deeper this time, a low “mmm” vibrating between them—then broke apart, foreheads touching.

[doodhwale_bhaiya]

The Sword is mightier than the Cat
 
Preeti’s hand drifted down Shikha’s stomach, fingers idly stroking the soft skin just above her mound. 
“I wanted to use that huge dildo in the drawer,” she whispered, voice husky with regret. “I pictured it—stretching you open, making you scream my name while I fucked you senseless. But you came so hard, so fast… it took over everything. I couldn’t even reach for it.”
 
Shikha laughed softly, pressing a kiss to Preeti’s temple. 
“Next time. Promise.”
 
Preeti’s smile faded slightly. She propped herself on one elbow, looking down at Shikha with sudden seriousness. 
“Shikha… when Arjun comes… don’t enjoy it too much, okay?”
 
Shikha’s brows lifted, then softened. She cupped Preeti’s cheek. 
“Baby… it’s not enjoyment. Not like this. Not like us. Arjun is just… a tool. A means to reach the destination. He’s not the aim. There’ll be no kissing, no licking, no worshipping. No one touches me like you do. No one ever will.”
 
Preeti exhaled shakily, nodding, but her eyes were distant.
 
She didn’t tell Shikha the real reason for the warning.
 
Because deep down—buried under layers of self-control and deliberate avoidance—Preeti still loved cock.
 
Not just any cock.
 
She loved the thick, veined, pulsing kind. The kind that throbbed visibly under the skin, veins bulging like ropes along the shaft, the head swollen and angry-purple, leaking a fat pearl of precum at the slit. She imagined Arjun’s—though she’d never seen it—picturing it in graphic, shameful detail: at least eight inches long, girthy enough that her fingers wouldn’t meet around it, the shaft heavy and slightly curved upward, perfect to hit that deep spot inside. She saw the thick base ringed with dark, coarse hair, balls full and hanging low, swaying as he thrust. She imagined the way it would feel sliding between her lips—hot, salty, stretching her jaw wide—then pushing past her gag reflex until her nose pressed against his pubic bone, throat convulsing around him while tears leaked from her eyes. She pictured the moment he’d pull out, strings of spit and precum connecting her swollen lips to the glistening head, only to slap that heavy cock against her cheek—once, twice—marking her before plunging back in.
 
The fantasy made her clit throb again, even after two shattering orgasms.
 
She hated how much she wanted it.
 
She had forced herself away from men for years because one look at a big, veined cock turned her into something feral—mindless, drooling, willing to beg on her knees just to feel it stretch her open, pound her until she couldn’t walk, until her pussy gaped and leaked his cum down her thighs. She had come to hate that version of herself—the slave to cock—and so she had locked that door.
 
But now, with Arjun so close to entering their lives, the door was creaking open again.
 
Preeti squeezed her thighs together, trying to ignore the fresh pulse of arousal between them.
 
She loved Shikha more than anything.
 
But gods help her… she still dreamed of cock.
 
Preeti lay there in the afterglow, her body still buzzing, but as Shikha shifted slowly above her—straddling her hips with deliberate grace—the embers reignited. Shikha’s hands cupped Preeti’s heavy, sweat-slick breasts, lifting their weight with a possessive squeeze, thumbs brushing the still-sensitive nipples. Without a word, Shikha lowered her mouth to one swollen peak, lips parting to take the dark, erect nipple inside—sucking gently at first, then harder, cheeks hollowing as her tongue swirled in wet, insistent circles.
 
“Mmm… aaahhh…” Preeti moaned, arching her back involuntarily, the sound escaping raw and needy. In her mind, the fantasy lingered—Arjun’s imagined cock, thick and veined, pulsing hot against her thigh, the girth stretching her open as she imagined sinking down onto it, inch by throbbing inch. But Shikha, oblivious, assumed the moans were for her—smiling against the skin as she sucked deeper, teeth grazing the nipple just enough to sting.
 
Encouraged, Shikha switched to the other breast, grabbing both now—squeezing the soft, full globes together like ripe fruit, her mouth alternating between them with hungry pulls. “You like that, baby? Moan for me…” she whispered, voice muffled against Preeti’s flesh.
 
Preeti’s hips bucked slightly— “Aahhh… yes… oh god…” —her pussy clenching around nothing, fresh arousal leaking down her thighs. The sucking sent jolts straight to her core, but the cock craving amplified it, making her clit throb with unmet need.
 
Shikha’s tongue started flickering now—quick, teasing lashes across the hardened nipples, alternating left and right in rapid succession. Flick… suck… flick… bite. Each snap of her tongue was like a spark, electric current racing down Preeti’s spine, pooling hot and wet between her legs. Preeti’s hands tangled in Shikha’s hair, pulling her closer— “Aaahhh… harder… aaaahhh…” —her body charging again, nipples aching deliciously under the assault, breasts heaving with every breath.
 
Sensing Preeti’s building desperation, Shikha slid one hand downward—fingers trailing over the soft plane of her stomach, dipping into the slick valley between her thighs. She parted Preeti’s swollen lips with two fingers, exposing the dripping entrance and throbbing clit, then plunged inside—two fingers at first, curling deep to hit that spongy front wall.
 
“Fuuuck… aaaahhh!” Preeti cried, hips grinding up to meet the thrusts.
 
Shikha kept sucking—mouth latched onto one tit, tongue flickering wildly over the nipple while her hand pumped steadily below: in… out… curl… twist. The wet squelch of fingers fucking Preeti’s soaked pussy filled the room—sloppy, obscene—mixed with Preeti’s escalating moans: “Aahhh… Shikha… deeper… aaaahhh… yesyesyes…”
 
Preeti’s orgasm built fast—coiled tight in her belly, radiating from her sucked nipples down to her fingered cunt. Shikha added a third finger, stretching her wide, thumb circling the clit in firm, slick pressure while her mouth pulled hard on the breast, teeth nipping the nipple just as the wave crested.
 
Preeti shattered—back bowing off the bed, pussy clamping down on Shikha’s fingers like a vice, a guttural “AAAAHHHH… COMING… aaaahhh!” ripping from her throat as she squirted in hot, pulsing jets, soaking Shikha’s hand and wrist, drenching the sheets beneath them.
 
Shikha didn’t stop—fingers slowing but still stroking through the spasms, mouth gently suckling the nipple until Preeti collapsed, trembling, spent once more.
 
Preeti lay sprawled on the bed, chest rising and falling in heavy, ragged breaths, skin flushed and glistening. 
“Aaahhh… please… stop… you’re killing me…” she gasped, half-laughing, half-pleading, one hand weakly pushing at Shikha’s shoulder.
 
Shikha lifted her head from Preeti’s breast with a wet pop, lips swollen and shiny. She crawled up slowly, pressing one last deep, languid kiss to Preeti’s mouth—tongues sliding, tasting each other—then pulled away with a soft “mmm” and rolled off the bed.
 
Preeti watched, dazed, as Shikha padded naked toward the bathroom. That magnificent ass—heart-shaped, plush, jiggling with every step—swung hypnotically, cheeks parting just enough to flash the shadowed cleft between them. Preeti sighed, low and reverent. 
“God… how are you so fucking sexy…”

[doodhwale_bhaiya]

Pirates of the Nymphomanian
 
She gave herself a minute to catch her breath, then followed. Inside the bathroom, they showered together—hands gentle now, soaping each other’s bodies with lazy caresses, rinsing away sweat and cum and the scent of their earlier frenzy. No more heat, just quiet intimacy: Shikha massaging shampoo into Preeti’s hair, Preeti running soapy palms over Shikha’s curves, both smiling softly under the warm spray.
 
They stepped out, dried each other with thick towels—patting breasts, bellies, thighs—then helped one another dress. Shikha slipped Preeti’s black lace panties up her legs, smoothing them over her still-sensitive mound; Preeti hooked Shikha’s bra, kissing the back of her neck as she fastened it. Simple dresses followed—comfortable, loose, perfect for dinner at home.
 
They ate in the kitchen—leftover butter chicken, naan, a cold raita—sitting close on the bar stools, knees brushing. Midway through the meal, Shikha set her fork down and looked at Preeti.
 
“Shall we meet Arjun tomorrow? Finalize a date?”
 
Preeti raised an eyebrow, swallowing a bite.
 
“I think we should plan around the 3rd,” Shikha continued. “That’s when I’ll start ovulating.”
 
Preeti stared at her for a second, then both women realized the absurdity of the casual tone—and burst into giggles.
 
“We’re actually scheduling this like a doctor’s appointment,” Preeti said, laughing harder.
 
Shikha wiped her eyes. “Ovulation day. Very romantic.”
 
They clinked their water glasses, still giggling, and finished dinner in warm, conspiratorial quiet.
 
Across town, in the quiet village of Dholakpur, the night was darker, heavier with the scent of earth and cattle.
 
Komal—stark naked except for a thin gold waist chain that glinted with every movement and delicate silver anklets that chimed softly—was riding her husband’s father Maan Singh with slow, deliberate rolls of her hips. Maan Singh lay flat on their simple wooden bed, hands gripping her wide hips, watching in awe as her slick, swollen pussy swallowed his thick, veined cock again and again—up and down, up and down, the wet, obscene squelch filling the small room.
 
Komal controlled the pace—slow, torturous, grinding deep each time she bottomed out, her heavy breasts swaying with the motion, nipples dark and stiff.
 
Maan Singh’s voice came rough, interrupted by low groans. 
“Aahhh… how’s Bhola… aaahhh… did you get a chance… to talk to him?”
 
Komal leaned forward, palms braced on his chest, rolling her hips in a slow circle that made him hiss. 
“Aaahhh… he’s fine… Babuji… mmmphhh… but his Bhabhi… aaaahhh… she’s going to be super fine… aaahhh… and going to produce more milk… than Sheetal…”
 
She smiled down at him wickedly—Sheetal being their prize cow, the one who gave the most milk in the whole village.
 
Maan Singh groaned louder, hands sliding up to cup her bouncing breasts. 
“Aaahhh… where? I don’t see any milk… mmmphhh…”
 
Komal gave his arm a playful slap, moaning as she sank down hard again. 
“Aaahhh… not this Bhabhi… aaahhh… his other Bhabhi… Simran… aaaahhh…”
 
Maan Singh laughed breathlessly, then pulled her down so her breasts hung in his face. He latched onto one stiff nipple, sucking hard— 
“Mmmphhh… where?” —his tongue flicking the peak.
 
Komal gasped, hips stuttering. 
“Aaahhh… she needed help… after the miscarriage… aaaahhh… so I gave Bhola… Jeevdhatu… to give her… mmmphhh…”
 
Maan Singh released the nipple with a wet pop, looking up at her. 
“Aaahhh… you mean… milk? But that’s so rare… aaaahhh…”
 
Komal nodded, grinding down deep again, her pussy clenching around him. 
“Aaahhh… exactly… yesterday he told me… aaaahhh… he saw signs… her bra was wet… and panty had white liquid… mmmphhh…”
 
His eyes darkened with lust and understanding. 
“Aaahhh… so it’s working…”
 
Komal smiled, leaning down to kiss him—slow, filthy, tongues sliding—before rising again, resuming her slow, deep ride. 
 
Komal was squatting over her father-in-law—on the low wooden bed, thighs spread wide, ankles planted firmly on either side of his hips. Her pussy hovered just above his thick, veined cock, glistening with arousal, lips parted like a hungry mouth opening to swallow him whole. Slowly, deliberately, she lowered herself—her slick folds engulfing the swollen head, then inch after inch of shaft disappearing inside her until her ass met his groin with a soft, wet slap.
 
The sight was hypnotic: her pussy gripping him tightly, stretching around his girth, then rising again—up and down, up and down—in a slow, sensual rhythm she controlled completely. Each descent made her heavy breasts swing forward, full and pendulous, nipples dark and stiff, brushing against Maan Singh’s chest before lifting again in lazy arcs. The pace was unhurried, almost teasing—her inner walls clenching around him on every upstroke, milking him without mercy.
 
Komal folded her legs tighter, bending forward until her breasts dangled directly over his face, swaying like ripe fruit. Maan Singh needed no invitation. He lifted his head, mouth opening wide to capture her right tit—taking as much of the soft, warm flesh inside as he could, lips sealing around the areola. His tongue immediately began encircling the stiff nipple in slow, wet spirals—round and round, flicking the tip on every pass.
 
“Aaahhh… Babuji…” Komal moaned, hips rolling in a deep grind.
 
Every five seconds or so, Maan Singh would pull back hard—tugging the breast toward him with suction until the nipple popped free with a loud, wet smack—then dive back in, sucking harder. Each pop sent a jolt through Komal; her ass cheeks slapped against his thighs in rhythm with the motion, the sound sharp and rhythmic: slap… pop… slap… pop…
 
She leaned lower, voice breathy between moans. 
“Aaahhh… Babuji… Simran… mmmphhh… I think she’s like me… aaaahhh… looking for a mate… hence producing milk first… aaahhh…”
 
Maan Singh released the nipple with another wet pop, eyes dark with lust. 
Komal said “Aaahhh… imagine if you hadn’t sucked my milk that day… mmmphhh… your Bahu wouldn’t be jumping on your cock right now…”
 
Komal smiled wickedly, then gasped as he grabbed her left breast and yanked it down—popping the nipple into his mouth with force, teeth grazing just enough to make her squirm in delicious pain.
 
“Aaahhh… yes… Babuji…” 
 
He pulled her face down by the neck, crashing their mouths together in a deep, filthy smooch—tongues sliding, teeth clashing, saliva mixing as he grabbed handfuls of her ass cheeks, spreading them wide. His hips began thrusting upward faster now—meeting her downward strokes with harder slaps, cock driving deep into her dripping pussy.
 
The kiss broke only when both needed air. Maan Singh panted against her lips. 
“Aaahhh… I was born to suck these tits…”
 
He seized both breasts—squeezing them together, burying his face between them—sucking one nipple, then the other, small bites punctuating each pull. Komal cried out—sharp, pained pleasure—her hips stuttering as she rode him harder, pussy clenching around his thick shaft.
 
“Aaahhh… Babuji… bite harder… aaaahhh!”
 
The room filled with wet sounds: slap of flesh, suck of mouth on breast, her moans rising higher and higher as he devoured her tits like a man starved.

[doodhwale_bhaiya]

Maan Singh’s mouth was latched onto Komal’s right breast, sucking with greedy pulls, tongue swirling around the stiff nipple while his hips drove upward in slow, deep thrusts. The wet sounds of their joining filled the room—slap… squelch… suck… moan…
 
Suddenly he released the tit with a loud, wet pop, the nipple glistening and red. He yanked her down by the neck, crashing their lips together in a messy, hungry smooch—tongues sliding, teeth clashing, saliva mixing as he tasted his own wife’s milk on her breath.
 
He broke the kiss just enough to growl against her lips, voice rough with lust. 
“Aaahhh… Komal… you are so tasty…”
 
Komal’s eyes fluttered, a shiver running through her. She dove back in, kissing him fiercely—deep, filthy, moaning into his mouth—then pulled away just enough to guide her left breast to his waiting lips.
 
She sank down hard on his cock, pussy clenching around his thick shaft, and whispered breathlessly, 
“Aaahhh… I have also given Jeevdhatu to Bhola… mmmphhh… and Ghrunaspad… to be given to her husband…”
 
Maan Singh’s eyes darkened. He popped the left nipple out with brutal force—teeth grazing, making Komal squirm and cry out in sharp pleasure-pain. He grabbed both breasts, squeezing them together until the nipples touched, then bit down on both at once—hard, possessive bites that made her back arch.
 
“Aaahhh… Babuji… aaaahhh… stop… patience… aaaahhh!” Komal whimpered, hips stuttering as pain and pleasure blurred.
 
Maan Singh released the bite just enough to speak, voice thick. 
“So your plan is to…”
 
Komal nodded frantically, riding him harder. 
“Aaahhh… yes, Babuji… aaaahhh…”
 
He thrust up viciously, hands gripping her ass cheeks, spreading them wide. 
“Do you also want Bhola to fuck you?”
 
Komal blushed crimson, even as her pussy clenched tighter around him. 
“Aaahhh… I am already over-subscribed by you… and your one son… aaaahhh… if both your sons start fucking me… I will perish…”
 
Maan Singh laughed low, dark, then pulled her down again, sucking both nipples in turn—small, sharp bites punctuating each pull. 
“Aaahhh… you are my family cow… mmmphhh… your hunger I know is unquenchable… but let him first get his thirst quenched… then you can have him…”
 
He drove deeper, hips snapping up faster. 
“Aaahhh… Bhola has the biggest cock of us… I hope you know that…”
 
Komal’s walls gripped him like a vise at those words—her body betraying her instant reaction. She cried out, hips grinding wildly.
 
Maan Singh felt it, grinned wickedly, and fucked her harder—long, punishing strokes that made her breasts bounce wildly.
 
Maan Singh’s thick cock plunged deep into Komal’s dripping pussy with a wet, obscene squelch—slap-slap-slap—each powerful thrust making her heavy breasts bounce wildly, nipples grazing his chest before he captured one in his hungry mouth again. 
“Aaahhh… Babuji… harder… aaaahhh!” Komal moaned, hips grinding down to meet him, her slick walls gripping him like a vice.
 
The room echoed with filthy sounds: the loud smack of flesh on flesh, the wet slurp of her pussy swallowing him to the hilt, her anklets jingling in frantic rhythm—chink-chink-chink—every time she rose and fell.
 
Maan Singh growled around her nipple, teeth grazing the stiff peak—pop—before sucking harder, the suction pulling a sharp “Aaaahhh!” from her throat.
 
He switched tits, popping the other nipple free with a wet smack, then bit down just enough to make her squirm—pain and pleasure blurring as her pussy clenched tighter. 
“Take it… aaaahhh… take every inch…” he grunted, hips snapping up faster—slap-slap-slap—cock pistoning deep, balls slapping against her ass with heavy thwacks. 
Komal cried out, voice breaking— “Aaahhh… yes… fill me… aaaahhh!” —her juices coating his shaft, dripping down to soak the sheets beneath them in a glistening mess.
 
The bed creaked under their wild rhythm, moans rising louder— “Aaaahhh… fuck… aaaahhh!” —until both shattered together in a shuddering, screaming climax, her pussy spasming around him as he flooded her depths with hot, thick ropes of cum.
 
“Aaahhh… have patience… you can have him… but let him mature first… aaaahhh… but I am surprised we got such a rare breed in Simran… find out if there are more women in her family… Bhola would need more than one cow… and even I plan to include one more cow in my stable…”
 
Komal’s eyes flared with heat at his words. She bent down, crashing her mouth against his in a desperate, sloppy smooch—tongues tangling, moans swallowed—then straightened up and started fucking him like a woman possessed.
 
Her hips slammed down—fast, brutal, pussy swallowing his cock to the hilt with every descent. The wet slap of flesh on flesh echoed louder—slap-slap-slap—her ass cheeks rippling with each impact, breasts bouncing wildly, nipples grazing his chest.
 
“Aaahhh… Babuji… aaaahhh… yes… give it to me… aaaahhh!”
 
Maan Singh gripped her waist, thrusting up to meet her, cock pistoning deep, hitting her cervix with every stroke. 
“Aaahhh… take it… take it all… aaaahhh!”
 
They came together—explosive, shattering.
 
Komal’s pussy clamped down like a fist, spasming wildly as she screamed, squirting hard around his cock, soaking his groin and the sheets beneath them. 
“AAAAAHHHH… BABUJI… COMING… aaaahhh!”
 
Maan Singh roared, hips bucking as he erupted inside her—thick ropes of cum flooding her depths, pulse after pulse, filling her until it leaked out around his shaft in creamy rivulets.
 
They collapsed—sweaty, trembling, hearts hammering—Komal sprawled across his chest, his cock still twitching inside her, both gasping for breath.
 
The room smelled of sex, sweat, and satisfaction.
 
Komal lay dbangd across Maan Singh’s chest, both of them still catching their breath, his cock softening slowly inside her. She traced lazy circles on his skin with her fingertip, then lifted her head, eyes glinting with mischief.
 
“You have fucked me so many times now, Babuji… I wonder if your son knows about it or not.”
 
Maan Singh chuckled low, hand sliding down to squeeze her ass cheek possessively. 
“Don’t worry about it. Jay knows his place. And even if he suspects… he won’t say a word.”
 
He ran his thumb along the curve of her hip, voice dropping. 
“I wonder, inspite of fucking you for so long… your pussy is still as tight as a virgin pussy. Gripping me like the first time every single day.”
 
Komal smiled wickedly, pressing a slow, open-mouthed kiss to his lips. 
“Aren’t you satisfied destroying my pussy every other day… that you now want my imaginary sister also?”
 
She reached down, wrapping her fingers around his spent cock—still thick even soft—and lifted it to her mouth, kissing the glistening head softly. 
“Don’t worry… we found another stock from the same breed. Hopefully Simran has a sister.”
 
Maan Singh’s eyes darkened with hunger. 
“Or mother.”
 
He grabbed both her breasts, squeezing them together, thumbs brushing the still-hard nipples. 
“Your breed doesn’t get saggy at all. Trust me and remember my words—when you reach 60, these will still look up, proud and full. The Jeevdhatu and your genes are a deadly combination.”
 
He turned her around roughly, positioning her on all fours, and delivered a sharp smack to her ass—loud, stinging, leaving a red handprint blooming on the creamy flesh. 
“Now go get ready. Jay would be back in an hour. Make a tea for me.”
 
Komal bit her lower lip, slipping a finger between her teeth in a playful, coy gesture, then stood—naked, glowing, ass swaying hypnotically as she walked away, anklets chiming softly with every step.
 
 





“Bhola… Bhola!”
 
Simran’s voice floated down from the bedroom. Bhola hurried upstairs, wiping his hands on the edge of his kurta. He found the door ajar; Simran stood frozen beside the open drawer where her panties and bras were neatly arranged—except one red thong was missing.

[doodhwale_bhaiya]

Komal on top of Maan Singh

[doodhwale_bhaiya]

Preeti

[doodhwale_bhaiya]

Its all just AI. She is in her home. Imagine.

[doodhwale_bhaiya]

There are so many permutations combinations possible in this story. I am having a good time creating ifs and buts. ?

[doodhwale_bhaiya]

Minute detailing aside , Its superb

Please do tell your fetish here. I will try my best to fit it somewhere today or later stage. As i already mentioned, there are too many combination of events possible here. Hence we will manage all fetishes.

[doodhwale_bhaiya]

Thanks for these words will try to start that too. Sorry for not posting yesterday. It sometimes takes a toll on you and I dont want to force myself to post it. Once i feel I am liking it i assume others will also like it. Obviously I cannot make everyone happy, but hopefully it turns out as I have imagined it. Will update today one more set in an hour.

[doodhwale_bhaiya]

Aap ki Paar ki Nazar aur Nirma Super
 
She startled when he appeared, cheeks flushing. 
“Ok… nothing,” she said quickly, waving him off.
 
Bhola turned to leave, but she called again—voice softer, hesitant. 
“Bhola… did you see my red coloured…”
 
She couldn’t finish. Her eyes dropped to the floor.
 
Bhola paused, confused, then understood. 
“Ji, Bhabhi… panty?”
 
Simran looked away, voice barely a whisper. 
“…yes.”
 
Bhola nodded calmly, walked to the balcony where clothes dried in the sun. Underneath a large towel hung to block direct light, he lifted it—revealing the red thong neatly dbangd beneath, protected from harsh rays.
 
He brought it back, holding it out respectfully.
 
Simran stared at it, then at him. 
“Why… under the towel?”
 
Bhola’s voice was quiet, matter-of-fact. 
“Bhabhi… these look very delicate. I thought if I keep it in direct sunlight, it will become very crispy… and will irritate your…”
 
He left the sentence open-ended, eyes respectfully lowered.
 
Simran’s breath caught. The word “irritate” lingered in her mind, followed by “your…”—implying her most intimate place. A sudden tingle bloomed between her thighs—sharp, unexpected, making her clit throb once. At the same moment, a single warm drop of milk beaded at her right nipple, soaking into the thin fabric of her kurti.
 
She felt it—wet, sticky—against her skin.
 
Bhola bowed slightly. 
“Anything else, Bhabhi?”
 
Simran swallowed, voice shaky. 
“No… thank you, Bhola.”
 
He left quietly.
 
She stood there alone, heart racing, hand unconsciously pressing against her breast where the milk had leaked—feeling the damp spot spread slowly.
 
Bhola stood just outside the bedroom door after handing Simran her red thong, heart thudding harder than it should. The moment he’d said the words—“it will become very crispy… and will irritate your…”—he felt heat crawl up his neck. He hadn’t meant to finish the sentence, hadn’t meant to let his mind even brush against the soft, hidden place between her thighs, but the implication had slipped out anyway. Now it hung between them like smoke. 
 
He walked down the corridor to his small room, closed the door softly, and leaned against it, breathing uneven. *Should I have said more?* The question clawed at him. *The bras always damp these days… heavy, soaked from the inside. The panties… thick white streaks, not just wetness, something richer, creamier. The sweet smell that clings to the lace when I lift them from the basket.
 
Komal’s voice echoed in his head: “Haan. Yeh shuruaat hai. Jeevdhatu ka asar shuru ho gaya. Ab yeh rukega nahi. Aur yeh sirf doodh nahi… aur bhi cheezein badlegi.” 
 
He pictured it—Simran Bhabhi producing milk, breasts swollen and leaking, Ravi Sahib eager, hungry, pulling her close every night. They would make love, make a baby, fill the house with cries of new life. The image was innocent at first—family, happiness—but then it twisted. Her moans, soft and needy. The way her body would arch. The wet sounds. Bhola’s cock stirred, thickening against his lungi, growing heavier with every heartbeat. He stared down at the obscene bulge, confused and ashamed. *Why now? Why her?* 
 
He tried to will it away—thought of cold water, village fields, temple prayers—but the hardness only swelled, the head pushing insistently against the thin cotton. He could feel the pulse in it, thick and demanding. His hand twitched, hovering near his waistband, but something deeper stopped him. A voice inside, not quite his own, whispered: *Not yet. Wait. Build.* 
 
Instead, he dropped to the floor. Palms flat, body rigid. One push-up. Two. Ten. The burn started in his shoulders, then his chest. Fifteen. Twenty. Sweat beaded on his forehead. Twenty-five. Thirty. Thirty-five. Thirty-Sixxx. Thirty-Seveen. Thirty- Eighttttt. Thirty-Nineeeee. Forty. He collapsed onto his stomach, breath ragged, arms trembling. The hardness hadn’t vanished—it still throbbed angrily beneath him, trapped against the cool floor—but the frantic need had dulled to a deep, steady ache. 
 
He rolled onto his back, staring at the ceiling fan spinning lazily above. He didn’t understand what he’d just done, why he’d pushed himself until his muscles screamed. But somewhere in the animal part of his brain, a quiet certainty took root: this was training. Not for war, not for work—for something primal. To last longer. To hold back. To become a man who could give without breaking, whose cock—already the largest in his bloodline—would grow thicker, veinier, more monstrous, tamed only by his own iron will. 
 
And one day, perhaps, unleashed on the right woman. Or may be create a harem of his own. Only time will tell.

[doodhwale_bhaiya]

Shaktimaan ki Choti Choti par Moti Baatein
 
In office, Ravi’s mind was also in a whirlwind. The previous evening’s conversation had left a quiet ember in Ravi’s mind. He hadn’t closed the browser tab after reading about Niyoga—Wikipedia, a couple of blogs, a forum thread comparing it to modern donor insemination. The laptop had gone to sleep with that page still open.
 
This morning, when he sat down at the study table after breakfast to check emails, the screen woke to the same tab. He stared at it for a second—Niyoga in bold letters, the Mahabharata examples, the rules about duty over desire—then shrugged and opened a new window for work. But the seed was planted.
 
Around 10:30, during a tea break, he returned. The house was quiet; Simran had stepped out early, Bhola was in the kitchen. Ravi clicked back into the tab almost without thinking.
 
He read again—slowly this time. The clinical tone of the articles, the ancient acceptance of a woman lying with another man for the sake of lineage, the way the biological father simply vanished from the picture. His mind wandered. *How would that even work today? A clinic? A private arrangement?*
 
One link led to another. A modern discussion forum popped up—real stories, anonymized, of couples using “traditional methods” when IVF failed. Then came the videos. YouTube had nothing explicit, but the algorithm knew what he was chasing. It pushed him toward adult sites, surrogacy testimonials, “real Indian cuckold” playlists. He clicked—curiosity, not intent. This is gentleman called dopamine effect. You keep on searching for pleasure centres and until that scratch is met, you will keep on searching. This search can become visual, audio and it can definitely become physical, but the worst of it remains……your imagination. Your imagination is the biggest trigger that can fuck you up. That’s how you can shag yourself to glory by just closing your eyes imagining the most erotic tingle that can be touched and its without any visual, audio or physical stimuli. Anyways lots of Biology in this. Lets get back to out dopamine thirsty husband here.
 
The first clip: a wife on her back, saree hiked up, brother-in-law between her legs, slow, deliberate thrusts while the husband watched from the corner, stroking himself. Moans in Hindi—“Aaahhh… devarji… aur zor se…”—mixed with the wet slap of skin. Ravi’s hand moved unconsciously over his pants, cock thickening against the fabric.
 
Another: father-in-law this time, gray-haired, powerful, pinning the young bahu against the wall, saree torn open, her breasts bouncing as he fucked her standing. “Babuji… aaaahhh… please…” The husband filming it, voice shaky with arousal.
 
Neighbor next—random, rough, the wife bent over the kitchen counter while her husband held her hair, encouraging. “Le le… pura andar le…”
 
Ravi’s breathing grew shallow. He stroked faster over the cloth, hips lifting slightly off the chair. Lust took over completely—he forgot Niyoga, forgot the ancient scripture, forgot why he’d started. All that remained was the screen, the moans, the sight of women being filled by men who weren’t their husbands.
 
“Aaahhh… ahhh… aaaahhh…” His own muffled moans escaped—low, desperate—hand squeezing his cock through the pants as he edged closer. The final clip pushed him over: a wife riding her devar reverse cowgirl, ass bouncing, breasts swinging, husband kneeling in front, sucking her nipples while she cried out in pleasure.
 
Ravi came hard—hot spurts soaking the inside of his pants, body jerking in the chair, a strangled “Aaaahhh…” slipping out as he rode the waves.
 
When it ended, silence crashed in. He stared at the frozen screen, cum cooling against his skin, shame and confusion flooding back.
 
What the fuck did I just do? This is called gentleman the death of dpopamine. The moment you have your itch scratched, you orgasm and then dopamine is no more needed by the body. You stop and feel it was such a waste of time. That’s why when you fuck someone purely because of lust and you know deep down that person can never be yours or is below your dignity, you feel you wasted your time fucking her. That’s what happens in a male’s brain. Female on the other hand has a different wiring inside their brain. They never feel satisfied. Their itch cannot be scratched by just physical intimacy. They need mental dialogue and support to continue in this. Why the fuck am I explaining all this?
 
Back to Ravi.
 
He cleaned up quickly—wiped himself, changed pants, closed every tab, cleared history. But the images lingered. The sounds. The idea of another man inside Simran. He tried to push it down, buried himself in work for the rest of the day, but the tingle stayed—low, permanent, like a wire now live inside him.
 
When he came home that evening, the flat was quiet. Simran wasn’t there.
 
He called her. 
“Jaan, where are you?”
 
“Shopping, Ravi. Needed a few things. I’ll be back soon.”
 
He exhaled, relieved she was okay, but the house felt too empty. He sat on the sofa, staring at nothing, the day’s events replaying in fragments—Niyoga, videos, his own hand, his own release.
 
The tingle didn’t fade.
 
It never would.

[doodhwale_bhaiya]

Shopping to bahana tha
 
The previous evening, after Ravi had asked about her whereabouts and she’d said “shopping,” Simran had felt the lie settle like a small stone in her stomach. It wasn’t entirely false—she had picked up a few things earlier—but the real reason she’d left the house was this meeting. Preeti and Shikha had insisted she join them for lunch with Arjun, and after their call, Simran couldn’t say no. They hadn’t spelled it out, but she understood the unspoken need: they wanted a third person at the table, someone close but outside the marriage, to look at the plan and quietly confirm it wasn’t madness. A silent witness, a friend’s steady gaze saying this is okay. For some reason, they wanted to keep it between the women for now. So the oxymoron here is you are going to get fucked by a man to get pregnant and being discussed among your girlfriends and the one man who is going to plant the seed, but you want to keep it among women for now.
 
So, she’d dressed simply—soft white cotton maxi, light makeup, hair loose—and left the house. So, when Ravi called to ask where she was, she had to lie.
 
The rooftop cafe felt almost too normal for what they were about to discuss: white umbrellas fluttering in the breeze, clink of ice in tall glasses, waiters gliding past with trays of bruschetta and cold coffee. Four people at a corner table—three stunning women and one tall, quietly handsome man—laughing over small talk like any group of friends on a lazy afternoon. No one glancing over would suspect the real agenda.
 
Arjun arrived last, sliding into the empty chair with an easy smile. 
“Sorry, traffic was a nightmare. Mohali side is a parking lot today.”
 
Preeti waved it off, already sipping her iced latte. 
“You’re good. We were just roasting the weather. This heat is criminal.”
 
Shikha leaned back, fanning herself dramatically with the menu. 
“I’m one degree away from melting into this chair. Simran, how are you even surviving in that dress?”
 
Simran laughed, smoothing the soft white cotton over her thigh. 
“Layers of denial and extra ice in my drink. Works wonders.”
 
They ordered quickly—bruschetta platter, more cold coffees, a lime soda for Arjun—and let the conversation drift. Easy, light, the kind of chatter that makes strangers feel like old friends.
 
But the air had weight.
 
Preeti finally set her glass down, the playful mask slipping just enough. 
“Okay… enough foreplay. Arjun. Are you still locked in for the 3rd? The timing is what we are looking at. The window’s perfect.”
 
Arjun didn’t flinch. He leaned forward slightly, elbows on the table, voice low but steady. 
“Yeah. I’ve blocked the whole week just in case. I’m good.”
 
Preeti nodded, relieved. 
“Perfect. I wanted to discuss a few things before we proceed, Arjun. You have agreed that if successful, you will never come forward for claiming to be the father here. It has to be a secret and it will be for the good of everyone. Especially the baby. Do you concur?”
 
“I do. I will stand by the words we agreed on. However, its something I want you guys also to promise to never speak of it again, since I also plan to have some plans of my own.”
 
Both Shikha and Preeti said in unison, “We wont”.
 
They looked at Simran, “I am not even here”.
 
“Any last questions? Things you want to clarify before we lock the date?”
 
Arjun glanced at each woman—Preeti’s calm confidence, Shikha’s quiet strength, Simran’s attentive silence—then spoke carefully. 
“A couple. Where are we doing this? Your place? Hotel? Somewhere else?”
 
Shikha answered without hesitation. 
“Our apartment. It’s private, familiar. Preeti will be there the entire time. No weird hotel vibes.”
 
Arjun nodded slowly. 
“Got it. And Shikha… level with me. Are you really comfortable with all of this? Me, the setup, the… mechanics? If there’s anything you want to change—how we do it, pace, position, whatever makes it less awkward for you—I need to hear it. This only works if you’re okay.”
 
Shikha met his eyes, unflinching. 
“I’m okay. We’ve talked this to death. I want to carry. That’s the goal. Everything else is just… logistics. Keep it simple, natural. Whatever gets us there.”
 
Preeti added, softer, “Arjun, please don’t drink at least two days before 3rd.”
 
Arjun exhaled, shoulders dropping a fraction. 
“Alright. That helps. I just needed to hear it straight from you. No pressure, no expectations beyond that one job. I’m here to help, not complicate.”
 
Simran, who’d been listening quietly, spoke up—gentle but clear. 
“You’ve all obviously thought this through. That’s what matters most. It shows.”
 
Arjun gave her a small, appreciative nod. 
“Thanks. Coming from someone not in the middle of it… means something.”
 
The absurdity of it all hovered just under the surface: a man calmly negotiating the terms of impregnating one woman while her wife sat beside her and their mutual friend listened like a silent referee. Yet in that open-air café, under the slow spin of ceiling fans, it somehow felt… almost reasonable.
 
The conversation had settled into a comfortable rhythm—small sips of cold coffee, the occasional laugh—when Simran leaned forward slightly, her voice light but curious.
 
“Arjun… Ravi mentioned he saw you here the other night. With your girlfriend. She looked nice from a distance. Do you two have plans for the future? And… is she on board with all this?”
 
Arjun’s easy smile faltered for half a second. He set his glass down carefully, fingers drumming once on the table before he answered.
 
“She doesn’t know about this plan,” he said quietly, eyes flicking between the three women. “And I never intend to tell her. Nothing serious has happened yet—but I do plan to marry her someday. Telling her something like this… it would be misunderstood. Complicated. She’d think it’s more than it is. Better to keep it separate.”
 
Simran nodded slowly, absorbing it. 
“I get that. It’s a lot to explain to someone outside this circle. It would anger her a lot.”
 
Before Arjun could respond, Simran’s gaze shifted past him. A woman in a navy blue kurti was approaching their table—pretty, mid-twenties, long hair in a loose braid, expression shifting from curious to confused to something sharper.
 
Simran murmured, “Speaking of anger… the girl behind you is coming this way. She doesn’t look happy.”
 
Arjun turned. His face drained of colour like someone had pulled a plug. 
“Ritika…”
 
Ritika stopped at the table, arms crossed. 
“Arjun. What are you doing here? You said you were going for a meeting. Who are they?”
 
Arjun opened his mouth, but no sound came out at first. His face was pure panic—eyes wide, mouth working silently like a fish on land.
 
A few seconds passed, Arjun was drowning in the pause and Preeti was seeing their plan is going in a drain. This was the girlfriend Arjun was talking about.
 
Preeti jumped in smoothly, smile bright and professional, as if this was the most normal interruption in the world.
 
“Hello! I’m Preeti Aggarwal, gynaecologist. And this is my friend Simran Kaur. We’re starting a small NGO focused on support for unmarried mothers—financial planning, medical aid, legal guidance. Mr. Arjun here is helping us sort out liquidity and funding models. He’s been kind enough to give us some time today.”
 
Simran picked up the thread without missing a beat, voice calm and technical. 
“We’re looking at micro-grant structures right now—tiered disbursements based on trimester milestones, tied to verified medical check-ups. Arjun was just walking us through cash-flow projections for the first year. It’s a bit dry, but important.”
 
Ritika’s suspicious frown softened a fraction. She looked from Preeti’s confident smile to Simran’s earnest expression, then back to Arjun, who was still frozen. Shikha was looking for a chair for Ritika.
 
Preeti gestured to the empty chair. 
“Please, join us. We were just wrapping up the numbers. Would you like a cold coffee? Or something else?”
 
Arjun finally found his voice, though it came out a little hoarse. 
“Ritika… this is Ritika. My fiancé.”
 
He cleared his throat, forcing a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. 
“Ritika, meet Preeti and Simran. They’re doing good work. And this is Shikha. Arjun bit his tongue. Why did he have to introduce Shikha separately.”
 
Ritika hesitated, then sat—still watching Arjun closely. 
“Fiancé,” she repeated, almost testing the word. “Nice to meet you.”
 
They ordered another round—cold coffee for Ritika, a fresh lime soda for the table. The conversation shifted to safer ground: NGO logistics, funding challenges, how hard it was to get donors for “unconventional” causes. Preeti and Simran kept it smooth—technical enough to sound legitimate, light enough to avoid suspicion.
 
After twenty minutes, Ritika softened a little more, even laughing at one of Preeti’s dry jokes about paperwork. But her eyes kept flicking to Arjun—questioning, not angry anymore, just… watchful.
 
Eventually, she stood. 
“I should get going. Nice meeting you all. Good luck with the NGO.”
 
Arjun stood too, kissing her cheek quickly. 
“I’ll call you later.”
 
Ritika nodded, gave a small wave, and left—heels clicking on the tiled floor.
 
The table exhaled collectively as soon as she was out of earshot.
 
Preeti leaned back. 
“That… was close.”
 
Shikha let out a shaky laugh. 
“Understatement of the year.”
 
Simran looked at Arjun, voice gentle. 
“You okay?”
 
Arjun rubbed his face with both hands. 
“Yeah. Just… didn’t expect her to show up. Thanks for the save.”
 
Preeti smiled wryly. 
“Anytime. Now… where were we?”

[doodhwale_bhaiya]

Ghapa Ghap
 
“Aaahhh…” Shikha moaned softly, eyes squeezing shut, back arching as he stretched her. 
“Mmmphhh… aaahhh…” The sound was muffled, shy, her hands gripping the sheets.
 
The bedroom was dimly lit—soft amber lamps casting long shadows across the king-sized bed, the air thick with the scent of jasmine incense and nervous anticipation. Shikha lay on her back, completely naked below the waist, a thin silk sheet discarded at her feet. Her legs were parted just enough, knees bent, thighs trembling slightly as she stared at the ceiling, cheeks flushed with a mix of shyness and heat. She couldn’t bring herself to look at Preeti, who sat on a velvet armchair beside the bed, watching quietly.
 
Preeti had chosen something deliberately provocative for the occasion—a sheer black lace babydoll that barely skimmed her thighs, the fabric translucent enough to reveal the dark peaks of her nipples and the shadow between her legs. Thin straps crossed her shoulders, and the low neckline plunged deep, showcasing the full, heavy swell of her breasts. She sat with legs crossed, one heel dangling from her foot, the picture of composed desire—but inside, heat pooled low in her belly, her pussy lips swelling against the damp lace of her thong every time she shifted.
 
Arjun stood at the foot of the bed in nothing but a tight white vest that clung to his chest, his 6-inch cock standing rigid—medium girth, straight and flushed, the head glistening with precum after the Viagra he’d popped an hour earlier. He’d taken it to last, to savour every second of this forbidden act, never dreaming it might turn into more. But now, kneeling between Shikha’s thighs, he felt like the star of his own private porn film—heaven on earth.
 
Arjun groaned low, watching in awe as his cock disappeared inside her—veins pulsing along the shaft, her pink folds stretching around his girth, clinging wetly as he pulled back and thrust again. 
Slap… squelch… slap… The wet sounds of their joining filled the room, her juices coating him, dripping down to his balls.
 
“Aaahhh… ohhh… aaaahhh…” Shikha’s moans grew breathier, hips lifting involuntarily to meet him, her pussy clenching around his steady thrusts.
 
Preeti watched from the chair, thighs crossing tighter— the pressure squeezing her swollen pussy lips together, sending a sharp jolt through her clit. She bit her lip, shifting again, the friction delicious but maddening, her thong soaked as arousal leaked freely.
 
Arjun leaned down, lost in the moment, trying to capture Shikha’s lips in a kiss—instinctive, hungry. But Shikha turned her face sideways, eyes fluttering open to meet Preeti’s gaze across the bed. The contact was electric—shy, vulnerable, pleading.
 
Preeti rose immediately, moving to the bedside. She cupped Shikha’s flushed face gently, thumbs stroking her cheeks, and pressed a soft kiss to her forehead. 
“Shh… I’m here,” she whispered.
 
Then smaller kisses—tender, reassuring—across Shikha’s eyelids, cheeks, the corner of her mouth, down the sensitive curve of her neck.
 
“Aaahhh… Preeti…” Shikha whimpered, moans deepening as Arjun continued thrusting—steady, deep strokes that made her breasts bounce softly.
 
Preeti’s lips lingered on Shikha’s neck, sucking lightly, while her hand trailed down to squeeze Shikha’s breast, thumb circling the nipple in time with Arjun’s rhythm.
 
The room filled with layered sounds: the wet slap of Arjun’s cock driving into Shikha’s pussy, her rising “Aaaahhh… mmmphhh… aaaahhh…”, Preeti’s soft murmurs against her skin.
 
Arjun watched it all—his dick sliding in and out, coated in her cream, Preeti’s mouth on Shikha’s neck—and felt like he’d died and gone to porn heaven, every second burning into his memory.
 
Arjun stayed in the same position—kneeling between Shikha’s spread thighs, vest clinging to his sweat-damp chest—as he began to thrust deeper, his cock sliding in and out of her slick heat with steady, deliberate strokes. The Viagra had done its work: he was rock-hard, veins pulsing along the medium girth, the head flaring slightly with every push, stretching her walls just enough to make her gasp. He watched, mesmerized, as his shaft disappeared inside her—glistening with her juices, pulling out shiny and wet before plunging back in with a soft, obscene squelch.
 
“Aaahhh… mmmphhh… aaaahhh…” Shikha’s moans spilled out, muffled at first, her face turned away in shyness, eyes squeezed shut. But with each thrust—slow, deep, grinding—the sounds grew louder, breathier. “Aaahhh… ohhh… aaaahhh…” Her hips lifted to meet him involuntarily, pussy clenching around his cock, drawing him deeper.
 
Preeti sat close on the edge of the bed now, her sheer black lace babydoll riding up her thighs, revealing the damp patch on her thong. She held Shikha’s face gently between her palms, thumbs stroking her flushed cheeks, then took one of Shikha’s hands in hers—fingers interlaced, squeezing reassuringly. “I’m right here, baby… breathe… you’re doing so good…” she whispered, leaning in to press soft kisses along Shikha’s temple, her jaw, the curve of her neck.
 
But Shikha’s moans—raw, rising, uninhibited—were unraveling Preeti. Each “Aaaahhh… deeper… aaaahhh…” sent a fresh wave of heat through her core. Her pussy throbbed, lips swelling against the soaked lace, clit aching for friction. She crossed and uncrossed her legs subtly, thighs pressing together to squeeze her slick folds, the pressure sending sparks up her spine—but it only made her wetter, hotter, more nervous. She’s enjoying it… too much? The thought twisted in her gut—jealousy? Arousal? Both?—as Shikha’s cries filled the room: “Aaahhh… yes… aaaahhh… like that…”
 
Arjun groaned low, pace quickening slightly—thrusts deeper, hips snapping forward with wet slaps against Shikha’s ass. His cock dragged along her inner walls, the ridge of his head catching that sensitive spot inside her, making her back arch off the bed. “Fuck… you’re so tight… aaaahhh…” he muttered, hands gripping her thighs, spreading her wider.
 
Shikha’s free hand clutched the sheets, moans turning desperate— “Aaaahhh… Arjun… aaaahhh… oh god…” —her pussy fluttering around him, juices coating his shaft, dripping down to his balls with every withdrawal.
 
Preeti’s breath hitched. She leaned closer, forehead pressed to Shikha’s, holding her hand tighter. “Look at me… I’ve got you…” But inside, her own arousal was spiralling—nipples hard against the lace, pussy clenching emptily, the scent of sex thick in the air making her dizzy. Shikha’s moans weren’t just pleasure—they were surrender—and it was driving Preeti wild with a nervous, aching need she couldn’t name.
 
Arjun bent lower, thrusting steadily—slap… squelch… slap—lost in the tight, wet heat gripping him, the sight of Shikha’s body taking him, Preeti’s lace-clad curves so close…
 
The room pulsed with their combined sounds—moans, wet flesh, heavy breaths—building toward something inevitable.
 
Preeti’s hands, steady until now, finally gave in to the heat coursing through her. She slid them up Shikha’s sides, under the thin silky top—braless, as always at home—until her palms cupped the full, warm weight of Shikha’s breasts. The fabric was slippery, almost non-existent, and Preeti’s fingers found the stiff nipples instantly, pinching them gently at first, then rolling them between thumb and forefinger with deliberate pressure.
 
Shikha broke the kiss with a sharp gasp— “Aaaahhh… Preeti…” —her back arching, pushing her breasts harder into Preeti’s hands. The pinch sharpened, twisting just enough to sting, and Shikha’s moan deepened— “Mmmphhh… aaaahhh… yes…”
 
Preeti captured her mouth again, kissing her fiercely—tongues sliding, wet and hungry—while her fingers worked the nipples in rhythmic tugs, pulling them outward, releasing, pinching again. Shikha’s body trembled between them, caught in the dual assault.
 
Arjun, still buried deep inside Shikha, slowed his pace—almost stopping—to take in the sight. His eyes widened, breath catching. *This is actually happening… Preeti—gorgeous Preeti—pinching and twisting Shikha’s nipples while devouring her mouth, Shikha’s moans pouring straight into the kiss. At that moment he wanted to switch to Preeti, get her on her fours and started ploughing, but somehow today devil didn’t show its true form and Arjun managed to do what he was supposed to do. The Viagra-fuelled hardness inside him throbbed harder at the erotic overload. He couldn’t believe it—his fantasy almost made real, right in front of him.
 
He adjusted his grip on Shikha’s thighs, spreading her wider, and began longer, slower strokes—pulling almost all the way out until just the head remained, then sliding back into the hilt in one smooth, deep glide. The wet drag of her walls around his shaft was exquisite—tight, slick, clenching with every pinch Preeti delivered above.
 
Slap… squelch… long withdrawal… deep thrust… slap…
 
“Aaahhh… ohhh… aaaahhh…” Shikha’s moans grew louder, muffled against Preeti’s lips, her pussy fluttering around Arjun’s cock as the dual sensations—nipples tortured, cunt filled—pushed her higher.
 
Preeti broke the kiss just enough to whisper against Shikha’s mouth, voice husky, “You’re taking him so well… look at you… aaaahhh…” Her own arousal dripped down her thighs, thong soaked, but she stayed focused—pinching harder, rolling the nipples until they were dark and throbbing.
 
Arjun’s strokes lengthened even more—agonizingly slow, savoring every inch—watching his cock disappear into Shikha’s glistening pussy, coated in her cream, while Preeti’s hands worked her breasts above. The room filled with layered sounds: wet squelch of penetration, soft slap of skin, Shikha’s rising “Aaaahhh… mmmphhh… aaaahhh…”, Preeti’s heavy breathing.

[doodhwale_bhaiya]

Ravi’s office door clicked shut behind him, the lock sliding home with a soft, final snick. The room was quiet except for the low hum of the AC and the distant murmur of colleagues outside. He’d meant to check emails during the lunch break, but the lingering tingle from that morning’s accidental dive into Niyoga porn had followed him all day—like an itch he couldn’t scratch in public.
 
He sat at his desk, pulled the blinds halfway, and opened an incognito tab. One search led to another—ancient practices, modern interpretations, then darker corners of the web. A thumbnail caught his eye, “Frustrated Wife Takes Father-in-Law’s Seed to Get Pregnant.” He clicked before he could think twice.
 
The video loaded. A young wife, beautiful and desperate, peeks through a cracked door late at night—watching her father-in-law, a powerful older man, fuck her mother-in-law with raw, relentless strokes. The mother-in-law’s moans fill the scene—deep, satisfied. The wife’s hand slips between her legs as she watches, eyes wide, biting her lip.
 
Next day: seduction. The wife corners the father-in-law in the kitchen, dress slipping off her shoulder, pressing her body against him. He resists at first—then gives in. The scene cuts to the bedroom: her on all fours, him behind, thick cock slamming into her from behind, her breasts swinging, crying out in Hindi-subtitled ecstasy— “Papa-ji… aaaahhh… give me your seed… make me pregnant…”
 
Ravi’s hand was already in his pants, gripping his hardening cock. He locked the door fully, leaned back in his chair, volume low but enough to hear the wet slaps and moans.
 
“Ummfff… fuck…” he muttered, stroking slowly at first, eyes glued to the screen as the father-in-law flipped the wife onto her back, spreading her legs wide, pounding deep while she begged for his cum.
 
“Mmmphhh… aaaahhh…” Ravi’s moans came muffled, hand pumping faster, pre-cum slicking his palm. The idea exploded in his mind—this exists? A wife fucking her father-in-law to get pregnant? Because her husband can’t? It was filthy, wrong, perfect. His cock throbbed—veins pulsing, head swollen—as he imagined it: Simran, desperate, turning to… someone stronger. Someone who could fill her the way he couldn’t.
 
“Ummfff… yes… aaaahhh…” His strokes quickened, hips lifting off the chair, the video’s moans syncing with his own—wet sounds from the screen, his hand slapping softly against his pants. The father-in-law growled, thrusting harder, the wife screaming as he flooded her.
 
 
Arjun couldn’t help himself. The sight of Preeti and Shikha kissing—soft at first, then deeper, tongues sliding hungrily—ignited something wicked in him. Every time their lips met, he timed a single, hard thrust—driving his iron-hard cock deep into Shikha’s slick pussy with a forceful shove that jolted her body forward.
 
The first time, their kiss broke with a wet gasp—Shikha’s moan spilling out as her head snapped back. 
“Aaahhh…”
 
Preeti laughed softly against her mouth, pulling her back in. They kissed again—deeper, messier—and Arjun struck once more, slamming home.
 
Initially, the women didn’t mind; it added a thrilling edge, Shikha’s moans vibrating into Preeti’s mouth with every disruption. But as Arjun kept it up—slow withdrawal, then one brutal, hips-snapping thrust—the interruptions grew deliberate, teasing. Shikha and Preeti exchanged a glance, eyes sparkling with mischief. Revenge.
 
This time, they locked in—hands cupping each other’s faces tightly, fingers digging into cheeks, mouths fused in a fierce, unbreakable smooch. Tongues battled, wet and desperate, lips sealed so completely no thrust could separate them.
 
Arjun grinned darkly and shoved harder—cock slamming balls-deep in one powerful stroke.
 
“UUUNNNGGGHHH!” Shikha’s moan exploded into Preeti’s mouth—a deep, guttural, animal sound that vibrated through both women, her pussy clenching hard around Arjun’s shaft.
 
The kiss held.
 
Arjun tried again—harder still, hips snapping forward with a loud, wet slap.
 
“Fuuuck… aaaahhh…” he grunted involuntarily, the tight heat gripping him almost too much.
 
Shikha answered with another raw “UUUNNNGGGHHH!”—muffled but powerful, her body shuddering as the thrust drove her forward, but the kiss never broke.
 
Preeti was getting worked up now—her breath ragged against Shikha’s lips, thighs squeezing together under the lace babydoll, pussy throbbing with neglected need as the ritual continued: slow pull-out… long pause… then one vicious, deep shove that made Shikha’s whole-body jolt.
 
Thrust after thrust—slow, deliberate, punishing—the room filled with wet slaps, muffled moans, and the obscene squelch of Shikha’s soaked pussy taking him again and again.
 
Preeti’s control snapped. Still locked in the fierce smooch, her hands slid down, grabbing the hem of Shikha’s silky top and yanking it upward—exposing her full, bouncing breasts completely, nipples dark and stiff from earlier attention.
 
Arjun’s eyes flashed. He bent forward immediately—still thrusting in that slow-hard rhythm—and clamped his mouth over Shikha’s left tit, sucking hard, tongue swirling around the sensitive peak.
 
Shikha’s hands flew to his arms—gripping tight, nails digging in—as her moans deepened into the kiss: “Mmmphhh… aaaahhh…”
 
The scene was pure heaven: two women locked in a desperate, wet smooch—tongues sliding, lips sealed—while Arjun drove his Viagra-hard cock into Shikha’s clenching pussy in slow, brutal strokes, mouth latched onto her left nipple, sucking and biting with greedy pulls.
 
It should have destroyed him—overstimulated, overwhelmed—but the blue pill held him steady, letting him savour every second of the filthy, perfect combination.