[doodhwale_bhaiya]

The Forbidden Relief – My Wife's Secret

Introduction / Author's Note

This is a dark, shamelessly explicit multi-chapter tale of a voluptuous, middle-class Indian wife in her early thirties — the kind of woman whose heavy breasts still turn heads at family functions, whose hips sway a little too much when she walks past the men in the mohalla, and whose innocent face hides a hunger that marriage and two years of trying for a baby could not satisfy.

What begins as the quiet desperation of a couple trying to conceive slowly unravels into something far more dangerous and depraved: secret messages, stolen glances, forbidden touches, and eventually complete surrender to the very things that should never be allowed inside a "good" ***** marriage.

Expect the following elements (in increasing order of taboo):

- intense breeding / impregnation kink  
- consensual cuckoldry that becomes less and less consensual for the husband  
- graphic adultery with multiple partners  
- significant age-gap play  
- extended family involvement (yes, that kind)  
- public risk, humiliation, dirty-talk heavy in Hindi/English mix  
- a slow, very detailed descent from reluctant wife → needy hotwife → something much darker

This story contains very strong themes of cheating, betrayal, emotional cruelty, incest, and non-monogamy portrayed without moral judgement or redemption arc. It is written purely for people who get aroused by the destruction of traditional Indian marital sanctity.

If any of the following bother you — save yourself now:  
- watching your wife moan for other men  
- the idea of another man's child growing inside your wife's belly  
- the word "jiju", "bhabhi", "devar", "mama" used in sexual contexts  
- very explicit descriptions of female arousal, bodily fluids, and smell fetish  
- a protagonist wife who eventually stops pretending she feels guilty

Everyone else… settle in, turn the lights low, and welcome to the story of how my beautiful, god-fearing, shaadi-shuda wife quietly became the most shameless slut in our bloodline.

You have been warned.

Comments, private messages and constructive criticism are always welcome.  
(Anonymous hate gets you blocked. Kinks get you bookmarked ?)

Enjoy… or at least enjoy squirming. ?

Chapter 1

Ravi

“So… evening plan?” she asked, voice soft, almost sleepy.

Ravi looked up. “Movie?”

She tilted her head, long black hair sliding over one shoulder. “Which one?”

“That new thriller everyone’s talking about. The one with the twist in the interval itself.”

Simran made a face. “Too many people will be there. Weekend crowd. And you know how I feel about the AC in those multiplexes… it always gives me a headache.”

He smiled. She was right. She always got cold easily, especially in her arms and the small of her back. He used to tease her that she was made for winter nights under thick rajai, not for summer cinema halls.

“Alright then,” he said, putting the phone down. “Home. Netflix. Couch. You in my lap. Blanket. No headache.”

Her lips curved, that slow, knowing smile that still managed to make his chest tighten.

“Deal,” she murmured, then added with mock sternness, “But you’re not allowed to fall asleep halfway like last time.”

“Promise.” He raised his right hand like a collegeboy.

The morning sun slanted through the sheer cream curtains of their Chandigarh flat, painting soft gold stripes across the dining table. Ravi sat with his phone in one hand, scrolling through office mails, while the other held the edge of the steel plate containing two hot aloo parathas, curd, and a small steel tumbler of strong filter coffee.

Across from him, Simran was still in her nightgown—a simple sky-blue cotton one that clung in places it shouldn’t have clung after two years of marriage. The neckline dipped just low enough that every time she leaned forward to serve him more achar, Ravi had to remind himself not to stare. Not that it helped. Her breasts, full and heavy, moved with a lazy weight that still made his throat dry even after all this time.

They finished breakfast in comfortable silence, the only sounds being the clink of spoons, the distant honking from the main road, and the soft rustle of her nightgown when she shifted in her chair.

When the plates were cleared, Ravi stood up, adjusted his tie, and walked around the table. Simran was already at the sink, rinsing the steel plates.

He came up behind her, arms sliding around her waist, chin resting on her shoulder. The familiar smell of her—coconut oil in her hair, faint rose attar, and something warmer, more intimate—hit him like always.

“Let me go,” she whispered, though she didn’t really move away.

“Why?” he murmured against her ear. “One kiss before I leave.”

“Bhola is here,” she said, voice dropping lower, a mix of embarrassment and something else.

Ravi glanced sideways. Bhola was in the living room, quietly wiping the centre table with a cloth, back turned toward them. He always seemed to know exactly when to make himself busy elsewhere.

“He’s part of the family now,” Ravi said, tightening his arms just a little. “Three years, Simran. He’s seen us fight, seen us make up, seen everything. Nothing new for him.”

She turned her face slightly, cheeks flushed. “Still…”

He kissed the side of her neck, just below the ear, the spot that always made her breath hitch. “Still what?”

She shivered. “You’re impossible.”

“And you love it.”

He let her go reluctantly, picked up his laptop bag, and gave her one last look—the kind that promised he’d be thinking about her all day.

“See you in the evening, Mrs. Sharma.”

“Drive safe, Mr. Sharma.”

He stepped out, locking the door behind him, and walked toward the lift.

The drive to the office was the usual Chandigarh chaos—SUVs trying to overtake from the left, two-wheelers weaving like angry hornets, traffic lights that nobody respected. But Ravi barely noticed.

His mind kept drifting back to Simran.

Five years of marriage. And still, the first time he saw her in that engagement photograph felt like yesterday.

He had been sitting in his parents’ drawing room, nervous, pretending to sip tea. Then she walked in—tall for a Punjabi girl, maybe 5’6”, fair skin glowing under the tube light, eyes large and kohl-rimmed, lips full and naturally pink. But it was her body that had struck him like a physical blow.

Voluptuous didn’t even begin to cover it.

Hourglass didn’t do justice either.

Her waist was surprisingly narrow, cinched like someone had drawn it with a careful hand, but her hips flared out generously, the kind of hips that made old aunties whisper “bahut achhi aayegi bahu” behind their pallus. And her breasts… God. Even in that modest salwar-kameez, they were impossible to ignore—full, round, heavy, sitting high on her chest the way only very young, very ripe ones do. When she bent slightly to touch his mother’s feet, the dupatta had slipped just enough for him to see the deep valley of cleavage, and he had felt something hot and shameful twist low in his belly.

“How did I get her?”, Ravi said to himself while driving.

He had been 31 then and she was 29. Successful in Corporate world, decent salary, own flat, own car. But in that moment, he felt like a nervous boy again.

Later, when they were alone for the first time (chaperoned by cousins sitting ten feet away), she had spoken in a soft voice about her job. Software engineer. Top performer in her team. Loved coding late nights. Hated small talk. And when she laughed at something he said, the sound was low, throaty, almost private.

That was the moment he knew he was already half in love. And half terrified.

Because a woman like that… men looked. Everywhere. Even now when she is 34.

In the office lift. At family functions. At the vegetable market. At the temple. They looked and they didn’t even try to hide it sometimes.

Her smile was blinding; it’s like how some females smile with red and pink gums visible and white teeth but its intoxicating.

Ravi wasn’t blind. He knew how lucky he was. He also knew how dangerous it could be.

He shook his head, changed gears, and took the left toward Sector 17.

His own life was good, objectively. Senior Project Manager now. Good team. Fat bonus last year. Flat in a premium society. Parents proud. Friends envious.

But the job pressure was mounting. Deadlines bleeding into weekends. Client calls at midnight. The constant need to prove he was still hungry, still sharp, even at 36.

And then there was the other thing.

The thing they didn’t talk about openly yet.

Two years of trying. No baby.

Doctors said everything was normal. Both. “Just relax,” they kept saying. “Stress is the biggest killer.”

Easy for them to say.

Simran wanted it badly. He could see it in the way her eyes softened when she saw babies in the park, the way she lingered near the kids’ section in malls, the way she sometimes touched her own stomach absentmindedly when she thought he wasn’t looking.

He wanted it too.

But lately, the wanting had started to feel like pressure. Like failure.

He turned into the office parking lot, found his usual spot, killed the engine, and sat there for a moment, hands still on the wheel.

He looked at his tiffin box and that’s when he thought of Bhola.

Bhola—full name Bhola Singh—was only 26. Ten years younger than him. From the same ancestral village in Punjab where Ravi’s father still owned land. When Ravi shifted to Chandigarh permanently after marriage, his mother had insisted: “Take the boy. He’s honest, hardworking. He’ll keep the house running while both of you are at office.”

Ravi had been reluctant at first. Initially they had a female live-in help, but after 2 years she got married and went away. Ravi also shifted to a better part of the city but help was difficult to find. So he remembered his mother talking about Bhola and he joined immediately when he asked his mother about it.

Quiet. Efficient. Never spoke unless spoken to. Cooked decent Punjabi food, cleaned better than most maids, even knew how to fix the geyser when it went off. He was tall, lean, dark-skinned, with the kind of wiry strength village boys carry from childhood—lifting sacks of wheat, cycling for miles, playing kabaddi.

In three years, Bhola had become invisible in the best way. Part of the furniture. Part of the rhythm of the house. Even Simran became now comfortable with Bhola. Trust, she trusts him and its important. Something which even Ravi doesn’t know or didn’t register is Bhola does every chore of the house, which includes doing their laundry too. Initially the previous female help used to do our laundry including our undergarments, but Bhola made everything so comfortable that we didn’t realise that he is not supposed to do the undergarments, especially of Simran. But none of us have ever registered it and for Bhola, who knows what.

A knock on the car window brought me back to this world and it was my friend and colleague. My day at office started.

 
Simran


After Ravi left for office, the flat settled into that familiar mid-morning quiet. Simran stood at the kitchen counter for a moment, wiping her hands on the edge of her sky-blue nightgown—the thin cotton one that had once been modest but now, after countless washes, had turned almost sheer in places. The deep V-neckline dipped low between her full breasts, and the hem barely skimmed mid-thigh whenever she moved. She hadn’t bothered with a bra underneath; the morning was still cool, and the soft fabric rubbed pleasantly against her nipples every time she reached for something.

She turned toward the living room. Bhola was still there, quietly dusting the TV unit, his back to her as always.

“Bhola,” she called softly.

He straightened immediately, turning with that respectful half-bow he always did. “Ji, Bhabhi?”

“Listen, I need some things from the market. One packet of that brown bread we like, fresh paneer, and… oh, and those small green chillies. The ones that are really hot.”

“Ji, Bhabhi. Anything else?”

“That’s all for now. And take the scooty, it’s faster.”

He nodded, picked up the small cloth bag from the hook near the door, and slipped out without another word.

Simran exhaled, feeling the sudden aloneness of the house. She padded barefoot to the master bedroom, the nightgown whispering against her thighs. The bathroom door was already ajar. She stepped inside, turned on the shower, and let the warm water cascade over her.

She loved this part of the morning—the steam, the scent of her jasmine body wash, the way the water made her heavy breasts glisten and bounce gently as she soaped herself. She lingered longer than usual today, fingers tracing lazy circles over her stomach, the place where she so desperately wanted something to grow. Two years. Nothing. She pushed the thought away, rinsed, and stepped out.

Towel wrapped around her voluptuous body (it barely covered from chest to upper thigh), she walked to the wardrobe. Today was a work-from-home day, but she still liked to look put-together for video calls. She chose a simple cream kurti with delicate gota-patti work—slightly fitted around her bust and waist, flaring softly over her hips—and paired it with a matching palazzo. Underneath went a soft beige bra (the one with the wide straps that gave her breasts the perfect lift without digging in) and matching high-waisted panties. She left her hair open, still damp, the long black waves falling past her waist. A touch of kajal, nude lipstick, and a light spritz of rose attar. Done.

She settled at her work desk in the corner of the bedroom, laptop open, headphones on. Simran was a Senior Social Media Intelligence Analyst for a big digital marketing and brand protection firm. Nothing too technical—no coding marathons anymore—but her job required her to live inside people’s online lives. She tracked conversations, mapped influencer networks, monitored brand sentiment across platforms, dug into fake profiles, troll farms, and sometimes even competitor leaks. Most days it was Facebook, Instagram, Twitter, Reddit, and the occasional dark-web forum crawl (with VPNs and all the legal disclaimers ticked). Today she had a new client brief: a luxury jewellery brand worried about counterfeit sellers on Facebook Marketplace.

She opened Facebook, logged into one of the dummy profiles her team maintained, and started scrolling through groups. That’s when something caught her eye.

Preeti.

Her childhood best friend, classmate from Class 8 to 12, the one who used to sneak her extra samosas during recess and copy her Hindi homework. Preeti’s profile picture was recent—her in a white doctor’s coat, stethoscope around her neck, smiling that same mischievous smile, but now with sharper cheekbones and a quiet confidence. Gynaecologist, it said in the bio. Dr. Preeti Malhotra, MBBS, MD (Obs & Gynae).

Simran’s heart did a funny little jump. They had each other’s numbers saved, but life had happened—marriage, jobs, cities, distance. Last proper conversation was maybe three years ago at a common college friend’s wedding.

She stared at the profile for a full minute, thumb hovering over the call button. Then she pressed it.

The phone rang… and rang… then went to voicemail.

Simran sighed, set the phone down, and went back to work.

Thirty minutes later, her phone lit up. Preeti’s name flashed.

She snatched it up on the second ring. “Preeti!”

“Simmi! Oh my god, sorry, I was in the middle of a scan. How are you, yaar? Where have you vanished?”

They talked like no time had passed—giggles, rapid-fire Punjabi mixed with English, teasing about old crushes, updates on parents, the usual. Then Preeti said, “Listen, I’m free after lunch today. CCD in Sector 35? The one near the lake. 2 o’clock?”

“Done,” Simran said instantly.

She worked for another hour, replying to emails, noting down a few suspicious Marketplace listings. Then a soft knock on the bedroom door.

“Bhabhi? Coffee.”

“Come in.”

Bhola entered with the tray—steel tumbler of filter coffee, two Marie biscuits on the side. He set it on the table beside her laptop.

“Thank you,” she murmured, already sipping.

He didn’t leave immediately. Instead, he glanced toward the laundry basket in the corner—overflowing as usual. Without a word, he picked it up, then walked past her into the attached bathroom. Simran heard the faint rustle of fabric, the soft clink of the metal basket. She knew exactly what he was collecting.

Her used panties from this morning. The ones she’d dropped on the bathroom floor after her shower. The bra she’d worn yesterday. All of it.

Bhola emerged a moment later, basket balanced on one hip, expression blank as ever. He gave her a small nod—“I’ll take care of the rest, Bhabhi”—and closed the door softly behind him.

Simran stared at the closed door for a few seconds, cheeks faintly warm. She took another sip of coffee. Nothing had ever been said. Nothing ever needed to be said. It had just… become normal.

After lunch—simple dal-chawal that Bhola had kept ready—she changed into a deep maroon Anarkali suit, the kind that hugged her curves in all the right places without being vulgar. Light makeup, hair tied in a loose bun, small gold jhumkas. She grabbed her purse, keys, and phone.

“Bhola, main nikal rahi hoon. Shaam ko late ho sakta hai.”

“Ji, Bhabhi. Drive safe.”

He held the gate open for her, watched as she reversed the Creta out of the parking, then closed it again.

CCD Sector 35 was buzzing when she arrived. She spotted Preeti immediately standing near the entrance in a crisp white shirt tucked into high-waisted black trousers, hair in a sleek ponytail, looking every inch the successful young doctor. And still devastatingly gorgeous.

“Simmiiii!”

“Preetuuuu!”

They crashed into each other like teenagers—squealing, hugging tight, jumping a little in place. Simran’s full breasts pressed against Preeti’s, their laughter loud and unselfconscious. Heads turned. A group of college girls at the next table stared openly, suddenly feeling very ordinary. Two men at the corner table shifted uncomfortably in their seats, pretending to look at their phones. The air around the two women crackled with effortless, mature sex appeal—curves, confidence, the kind of beauty that didn’t need filters.

They finally separated, breathless, and found a corner table.

Over iced lattes and cheesecake, they caught up properly.

Simran’s eyes fell on the simple platinum band on Preeti’s ring finger. She grinned wickedly. “So… how’s the hubby?”

Preeti rolled her eyes. “You know very well there is no hubby, idiot. I’m the hubby.”

Simran burst out laughing. “Still the same bossy Preeti. Poor girlfriend.”

“Girlfriend is very happy, thank you,” Preeti shot back with a smirk. Then her expression softened. “And you? How’s Ravi? Life? Plans?”

Simran hesitated, fingers tracing the rim of her glass. “We’re… trying. For a baby. Two years now.”

Preeti’s face changed—no pity, just understanding. “Hey. It’s okay. It happens. Stress, timing, sometimes just bad luck.”

“Yeah…”

Preeti reached across the table, squeezed her hand. “Listen. Do one thing. Come to my clinic tomorrow. No big deal, just a proper check-up. Hormones, ultrasound, the basics. Let me see if there’s anything small we can fix. I promise I’ll be gentle. Doctor’s promise.”

Simran looked at her oldest friend, felt a knot loosen somewhere in her chest.

“Okay,” she whispered. “Tomorrow.”

Preeti smiled. “Good girl.”

They ordered another round of coffee.

And somewhere in the background, Chandigarh kept moving, oblivious to the quiet shift that had just begun inside one woman’s life.

To be continued…

[doodhwale_bhaiya]

Ravi

The office day dragged longer than usual—another last-minute client escalation, a team huddle that turned into a two-hour debate—but by 7:30 PM, Ravi was finally pulling into the society gate. The lights in their flat were already on, warm yellow spilling through the curtains. He could almost smell the dinner Bhola would have prepared: probably something comforting like kadhai paneer and butter naan, Simran’s favourite on Fridays.

He stepped inside to the familiar sounds: clinking dishes in the kitchen, the low hum of the exhaust fan, Bhola’s quiet footsteps moving between rooms. Simran appeared from the hallway in a simple grey lounge set—soft cotton top and matching pyjamas that dbangd loosely over her curves. Her hair was still in the loose bun from earlier, a few strands escaping to frame her face.

“Finally,” she said, smiling that tired-but-happy smile. “Dinner’s almost ready.”

He dropped his bag, pulled her into a quick hug. She smelled of rose attar and the faint jasmine from her morning shower. “Missed you,” he murmured.

“Missed you more.”

Dinner was quiet and easy. Bhola served them silently, then cleared the table and retreated downstairs to his small room near the back entrance, where he usually spent evenings watching old Punjabi songs on his phone or ironing tomorrow’s clothes. Upstairs, Ravi and Simran moved to the living room couch, lights dimmed, the big TV on.

Simran had already chosen the movie—a light-hearted romantic comedy she’d been saving, full of those classic double-meaning dialogues that made her giggle like a collegegirl. They opened a bottle of red wine, poured into mismatched glasses, and settled in with a plate of cheese cubes, olives, and some leftover namkeen.

The movie was silly, predictable, perfect. Every time a cheeky line landed, Simran would nudge him with her elbow, eyes sparkling. “See? That’s exactly what you said to me on our first date.” Ravi would laugh, pull her closer, her head resting on his shoulder, her hand finding his under the blanket they’d thrown over their laps.

By the time the credits rolled, the wine had left them both warm and loose. The room felt smaller, softer. Ravi turned off the TV, the sudden quiet intimate.

He looked at her. She looked back.

Without a word, he leaned in and kissed her—slow, familiar, the way they’d kissed a thousand times before. Her lips parted, soft and yielding. His hand slid to her waist, pulling her gently onto his lap. She came willingly, straddling him, her fingers threading through his hair.

They moved to the bedroom like that—kissing, laughing softly, shedding clothes without hurry. The lovemaking was tender, unhurried, the kind that came from years of knowing each other’s rhythms. He held her close, whispered how beautiful she was, how much he loved her. She clung to him, breathing his name against his neck, their bodies moving together in the quiet dark until everything felt right and peaceful again.

Afterward, they lay tangled in the sheets, breathing steady. Ravi reached for the bedside table, lit a cigarette, and propped himself up against the headboard. The TV flickered back on—some late-night news channel droning about stock market dips and political headlines. He took a slow drag, exhaling toward the ceiling.

Simran slipped out of bed, pulled on her satin robe, and started her night routine: brushing her hair, applying night cream, the small rituals that always calmed her.

She came back to bed, sitting cross-legged beside him, robe loosely tied.

“I met Preeti today,” she said quietly.

Ravi frowned, trying to place the name. “Preeti…?”

“My college friend. The one from Class 10. The lesbian one. She’s a gynaecologist now.”

“Ohhh, right. Preeti Malhotra. The one who used to draw hearts on your notebook.” He smiled faintly. “How is she?”

“Good. Really good. We met at CCD. Caught up like nothing changed.” Simran paused, fingers tracing patterns on the bedsheet. “She’s married—well, to a woman. They want kids too.”

Ravi nodded, taking another drag.

“She joked… said we should hurry up and have a baby so they could adopt one from us.” Simran’s voice cracked just a little. “It was funny at the time. But then…”

The sadness settled over her like a shadow. Her eyes glistened.

Ravi stubbed out the cigarette quickly, turned off the TV, and shifted closer. He pulled her into his arms, her head against his chest.

“Hey,” he whispered. “It’s okay.”

“I know. It’s stupid. I just… two years, Ravi. And today, hearing her say it like that… it felt real again.”

He stroked her hair. “I get it.”

Simran swallowed. “She asked me to come to her clinic tomorrow. Just a basic check-up. Hormones, ultrasound, nothing major. She said she’ll see if there’s something small, we can figure out.”

Ravi nodded without hesitation. “Of course you should go. She’s a good doctor, and she knows you. Maybe she does know something we don’t already.” The reality dawned on him.

Simran looked up at him, hesitant. “Should I… tell her about your sperm count? The reports from last year?”

Ravi gave a small, wry smile. “There’s nothing to hide, jaan. What is there, is there. Tell her everything. Ask her if there’s any way forward. I’m not scared of the truth.”

“I just don’t want them to suggest all those procedures on me,” she said softly. “Injections, hormones, IVF… I don’t know if I’m ready for that.”

“I know,” he said, kissing her forehead. “And I won’t let anyone push you into anything you don’t want. We decide together. Always.”

She nodded, leaning into him more fully.

They stayed like that for a while, quiet. Then he reached over, switched off the bedside lamp, and pulled the blanket over both of them.

Simran curled against his side, her hand resting over his heart. Ravi wrapped an arm around her, feeling the steady rise and fall of her breathing.

Tomorrow would come soon enough—clinic, answers, maybe hope, maybe more questions.

For now, they slept.


Simran

“Babes, you are something magical. I have never seen such good numbers on a person till now. Fingers crossed.”

Simran sat up straighter on the examination table, the thin paper sheet crinkling under her thighs. Preeti was still looking at the ultrasound screen, then at the printed reports in her hand, eyes wide with genuine surprise and delight.

“You are healthy,” Preeti continued, turning to face her fully, “and you are fucking breedable.”

The word “breedable” landed like a spark. Simran felt a hot flush crawl up her neck, but it came with an involuntary squirm and a shy, delighted smile she couldn’t suppress. She reached out and lightly patted Preeti’s arm. “I am not a cow, you idiot.”

Preeti got up, made Preeti stand in front of the full-size mirror on the wall and stood behind her. Without warning, she grabbed Simran’s boobs from behind and lifted them up and shook them. Simran just opened her mouth in shock and Preeti grinned wickedly, leaning against the counter. “Babes, as far as I can see, you are a cow. An extremely healthy and breedable cow.”

They both burst out laughing—loud, unrestrained, the kind of belly laughs that echoed off the sterile white walls and made the nurse outside the door pause mid-step. Hardly anyone heard such sounds coming from a gynaecologist’s clinic.

Simran wiped at her eyes, still giggling. “You’re in your clinic, dumbo. Behave.”

Preeti checked her watch. “Listen, my break is coming up for lunch. No appointments till 3. Let’s get out of here, have lunch somewhere nice. I’ve seen what I needed to see. We can talk properly over food.”

Simran nodded, suddenly feeling lighter than she had in months. “Okay. Let me just change.”

She slipped back into the changing room and emerged a few minutes later looking every inch the woman who turned heads without trying.

She wore a short cream kurta—sleeveless, with a modest but deep round neckline that framed the deep valley between her full, heavy breasts. The fabric was soft cotton, slightly fitted through the bust and waist before flaring gently over her wide, generous hips. Paired with high-waisted dark blue jeans that hugged her thighs and accentuated the dramatic curve from her narrow waist to her lush backside. The mangalsutra rested between her cleavage like a quiet declaration, gold beads glinting against her fair skin. Her long black hair was left open in loose waves, still carrying the faint jasmine from her morning shampoo. Light makeup—just kajal to make her large eyes pop, a touch of nude gloss on her full lips—and that brilliant, blinding smile with the hint of pink gums that made strangers stare a second too long.

She looked gracious. Radiant. Dripping with the word fertile in every sway of her hips, every soft bounce as she walked. Even the receptionist gave her a double take as they left.

They chose a quiet, upscale restaurant in Sector 17—dim lighting, wooden tables, soft jazz in the background. Preeti ordered a Caesar salad and grilled fish; Simran went for butter chicken with butter naan and a side of paneer tikka. A bottle of sparkling water arrived first.

Once the waiter left, Preeti leaned forward, voice low and professional now.

“So, here’s the good news first,” she began. “Your ovaries are textbook perfect. Follicles are plenty, lining is thick and healthy, hormones are all in range—no PCOS, no thyroid issues, no endometriosis signs. You ovulate regularly. Honestly, Simmi, if timing and sperm were aligned perfectly, you should’ve conceived by now. Your body is ready. Very ready.”

Simran exhaled, fingers twisting the edge of her napkin. “And Ravi…?”

Preeti nodded. “I know about the sperm count from last year’s report you shared. It’s borderline low motility and morphology—not zero, but not ideal. Combined with your perfect parameters… it’s likely the main factor.”

Simran looked down.

Preeti reached across, touched her hand. “Options exist. First one is IUI—intrauterine insemination. We take Ravi’s sample, wash and concentrate the best swimmers, then place them directly inside your uterus right around ovulation. It’s simple, done in the clinic, no anaesthesia. Success rate per cycle is 10–20% for mild male factor cases like this. We can try 3–4 cycles.”

Simran bit her lip. “And if that doesn’t work?”

“Then IVF. In-vitro fertilization. We stimulate your ovaries a bit to get more eggs, retrieve them under sedation, fertilize with Ravi’s sperm in the lab—can even do ICSI where we pick the best single sperm and inject it directly into the egg. Then transfer one or two embryos back to you. It’s more involved—daily injections for 10–12 days, monitoring scans, egg retrieval procedure—but success rates jump to 40–50% per cycle for your age and profile.”

Simran’s face had paled. She stared at the tablecloth. “Injections… every day? And then the retrieval… they put a needle through…?”

“It’s under sedation, you’re asleep for the important part. But yes, it’s medical. It’s invasive. There are side effects—bloating, mood swings, risk of multiples if more than one embryo takes.”

Simran shook her head slowly. “Preeti… I won’t do these. I can’t. The thought of all that… poking, prodding, hormones messing with me… I just… I don’t want my body turned into a science project. Not yet. Maybe never.”

Preeti didn’t push. She simply nodded, expression soft. “Okay. We forget it for now. No pressure. You don’t have to decide anything today—or ever, if you don’t want to.”

Simran managed a small, grateful smile.

“Let’s order food first,” Preeti said, waving the waiter over again. “Eat. Breathe. We’ll figure the rest later.”

The butter chicken arrived steaming, fragrant with garam masala and cream. Simran tore off a piece of naan, dipped it, and took a bite. The warmth spread through her chest, grounding her.

Preeti watched her eat for a moment, then spoke quietly. “There are other ways, you know. Natural timing with supplements, lifestyle tweaks, even donor sperm if you both ever consider it. Or… adoption. But that’s a conversation for another day. Today, we just eat and be happy that your body is a goddamn miracle.”

Simran laughed softly, the tension easing. “You and your cow compliments.”

“Healthy, breedable cow,” Preeti corrected with a wink.

They clinked their glasses of sparkling water.

Outside, Chandigarh moved on—cars honking, people rushing—but inside that booth, two old friends sat in a pocket of understanding, no rush, no judgment.

Just food, laughter, and the quiet promise of whatever came next.


Preeti

The butter chicken was half-gone, the naan torn into perfect bite-sized pieces, when Simran set her spoon down and looked across the table.

“What about you guys? I mean, how are you and Shikha going to plan your future family?”

Preeti paused mid-chew, then gave a small, knowing smile. She swallowed, wiped her mouth with the napkin, and shrugged casually. “We have some plans. Nothing set in stone yet. Adoption is on the table, maybe surrogacy down the line if we feel like it. Shikha wants to carry one day, but we’re taking it slow. No rush.” She picked up another piece of naan. “We’re happy just being us for now.”

Simran nodded, then hesitated. “Preeti… you never asked about Ravi’s health. Not even once today.”

Preeti set the naan down, leaned back in her chair, and met Simran’s eyes steadily. Then she stood up abruptly—not in anger, but with that doctor energy that said she was about to make a point.

“Hey,” she said, voice firm but warm, “you know I’ve had dozens of cases exactly like yours. Borderline male factor, perfect female parameters, two-plus years of trying. I know the answer before I even ask the question. I saw the reports you forwarded last week. Low motility, morphology not great. But listen to me, Simmi—you guys cannot give up. Not yet. Not when your body is screaming ‘ready’ and his is just… lagging a little.”

Simran looked down at her plate, fingers twisting the edge of the tablecloth. “I know. We do try.”

Preeti sat back down, softer now. She leaned forward, elbows on the table, voice dropping to that intimate friend-tone she used only with people she trusted completely.

“How’s the sex life these days? Be honest.”

Simran’s cheeks flushed instantly. She glanced around the restaurant—nobody was listening, but still. She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, avoiding Preeti’s gaze. “Preeti…”

“It’s okay. Tell me. I’m not asking as a nosy friend. I’m asking as your doctor who needs the full picture.”

Simran exhaled slowly. “I’ve… had my share of sex. More than enough, honestly. But these days it’s… different. It’s more tensed. Like we’re both trying too hard. Every time we’re together, there’s this undercurrent—like we’re checking boxes instead of just… being. And sometimes I can see it in his eyes, this pressure. Like he feels he’s letting me down.”

Preeti nodded slowly, no judgment, just understanding. “That’s exactly what happens. The moment baby-making becomes the goal, the fun disappears. It turns into performance. And performance anxiety kills motility even more.”

She reached across and squeezed Simran’s hand. “Keep trying. Not mechanically—try to bring back the playfulness. Date nights without the ‘we have to do it tonight’ vibe. Maybe a weekend away. And I’ll give you some supplements for Ravi—good ones. CoQ10, zinc, L-carnitine, vitamin E, the combo that actually moves the needle in studies. Nothing miracle, but it helps in 30–40% of mild cases. Take them for three months, track ovulation properly, and let’s see. Sometimes that’s all it takes.”

Simran managed a small smile. “Okay. Supplements I can do. No needles, no clinics yet.”

“Exactly.” Preeti’s eyes lit up suddenly, mischievous again. “Hey, let’s meet up again tomorrow evening? Shikha and I are going to a club—nothing wild, just that new lounge in Sector 26. Good music, decent drinks, dark enough to dance without feeling watched. You and Ravi must join us. It’ll be fun. Take a break from all this baby stress. Just four friends, good vibes.”

Simran blinked, surprised, then laughed softly. “A club? Me and Ravi haven’t done that since… God, before we started trying.”

“Which is exactly why you should come. One night of zero pressure. Wear something sexy, dance with your husband, let him remember why he can’t keep his hands off you. Shikha and I will behave… mostly.”

Simran thought about it for a second—the idea of music, lights, Ravi’s hand on her waist, no calendars, no thermometers. It sounded… freeing.

“Sure,” she said, the smile growing. “Why not.”

Preeti grinned wide. “That’s my girl. I’ll text you the details. And Simmi?”

“Yeah?”

“Tomorrow, no talking about babies. Only dirty jokes, bad dancing, and maybe too many cocktails.”

They clinked their water glasses again, the sound light and promising.

Ravi

The evening sun had just dipped below the Chandigarh skyline when Ravi walked into the bedroom. Simran was already half-ready, standing in front of the mirror in her emerald green bodycon dress, adjusting one earring. She turned as soon as she saw him.

“So which club is it exactly?” Ravi asked, pulling off his tie and tossing it onto the bed. “Preeti messaged you the name, right?”

“Yes, that new lounge in Sector 26,” Simran replied, smiling brightly. “The one with the purple lights everyone’s posting about. I already told her we’re coming. No backing out now, okay?”

Ravi grinned and stepped closer. “I’m not backing out, jaanu. I’m actually looking forward to it. Just tell me—what did Preeti say during your check-up? Everything good with you? I am stupid, I am sure everything is perfectly fine.”

Simran walked over, placed both hands gently on his chest, and looked up at him. She kissed him once, softly, then again a little deeper. “Everything is perfect with me,” she said quietly. “And with you too. She said my reports are amazing—ovaries, hormones, everything textbook. She called me… breedable.” She laughed a little, cheeks turning pink.

Ravi raised an eyebrow, amused. “Breedable? That’s a new one.”

“Yeah, she was teasing. But seriously, she thinks we’re close. Just need a little help on your side.” She reached back to the dresser, picked up the small ziplock of supplement sachets, and pressed them into his hand. “These are for you. CoQ10, zinc, some vitamins. Take one every day with breakfast. She said it can improve motility in three months for a lot of guys.”

Ravi looked at the packets, then back at her. “I’ll start tomorrow morning. No problem. Anything that gives us a better shot, I’m all in.”

He pulled her into a proper hug. “You look really happy today. It’s nice to see.”

“I feel lighter,” she admitted. “Last night helped. And tonight… tonight is just for us. No calendars, no worries.”

They finished getting ready. Ravi put on his black slim-fit shirt, sleeves rolled up to show his forearms, dark trousers, and the silver chain Simran loved. He caught her staring in the mirror and winked.

Simran looked incredible. The emerald dress clung to her like a second skin—highlighting her full breasts, tiny waist, and those wide, swaying hips. The low back showed smooth skin, and when she moved, the fabric shifted just enough to remind anyone watching why heads turned wherever she went. She added strappy heels and left her hair loose in glossy waves.

“You’re dangerous tonight,” Ravi said, voice low.

She smiled that blinding smile of hers. “Good. I want you to remember why you married me.”

They picked up Preeti and Shikha from their apartment. Preeti looked sharp in black, Shikha striking in red.

Shikha opened her arms as soon as Simran stepped out of the car. “Finally! The famous Simran. Preeti never shuts up about you.”

Simran hugged her back warmly. “And you must be Shikha. Nice to meet you properly.”

Ravi shook Shikha’s hand. “Ravi. Good to finally put a face to the name.”

Shikha grinned. “You’re taller and handsome.” If Simran didn’t know better she would think, Shikha is hitting on Ravi in front of her. Simran said, “Preeti control your wife” And all laughed out.

At the club, the music hit them as soon as they walked in—deep bass, remixed Bollywood tracks, purple and blue lights pulsing across the dance floor. They grabbed a high table near the edge, ordered whiskey for the guys, vodka sodas for the girls, and a platter of starters.

Preeti raised her glass first. “To forgetting everything stressful for one night. Cheers!”

“Cheers,” everyone echoed.

Shikha leaned toward Ravi over the music. “Preeti says you’re always working late. Do you ever get a real break?”

Ravi shrugged with a small smile. “Trying to tonight. What about you? You used to do consulting too?”

“Yes, big corporate firm,” Shikha said. “Long hours, travel, suits. I quit two years ago. Now I do freelance strategy work. Much saner life.”

Simran nodded. “That sounds peaceful. I’m still in the social media grind—tracking trolls and fake accounts all day.”

Shikha laughed. “Better than spreadsheets, at least. Do you ever catch your own husband doing something stupid online?”

Simran glanced at Ravi playfully. “He knows better. One wrong like and I’d see it instantly.”

Ravi chuckled. “She’s scary when she wants to be.”

Preeti nudged Ravi. “Remember Rishab’s wedding reception? You tried that bhangra step and almost tripped over the carpet.”

Ravi groaned. “Why do you always bring that up?”

“Because it was hilarious,” Preeti said. “Simran, you saved him that night.”

Simran smiled. “He was cute. Very enthusiastic.”

They hit the dance floor for a while. Ravi pulled Simran close, hands on her waist, moving slowly to a softer track. She rested her head on his shoulder for a moment.

“This feels good,” she said softly, loud enough for only him.

“Yeah,” he replied. “It really does.”

Back at the table, a tall, handsome man approached—broad shoulders, sharp jaw, confident walk. He hugged Shikha first.

“Hey, Arjun,” Shikha said. “Long time.”

She turned to the group. “Everyone, this is Arjun. Old colleague from my consulting days.”

Arjun smiled politely. “Hi, Preeti. Good to see you.”

Then to Simran and Ravi: “Simran, right? And Ravi. Nice to meet you both.”

Ravi shook his hand—firm, professional. But he noticed Arjun’s eyes linger on Simran’s smile just a second too long. A small, familiar twinge of jealousy flickered in his chest, but he pushed it down. It was nothing.

They talked briefly over the loud music—mostly work stuff, the club vibe. Hard to hear everything.

Shikha asked, “Stay for dinner? We’re ordering soon.”

Arjun shook his head. “Wish I could. I’m with clients tonight.” He nodded toward a corner table where a well-dressed couple—late thirties or early forties—sat laughing over drinks. “Have to get back. Rain check?”

“Of course,” Shikha said.

He left with a quick wave.

Ravi watched him go, curious. “Old friend of yours?” he asked Shikha.

“Yeah, from way back,” she said. “Good guy. Does high-end consulting now—mostly with couples who own businesses.”

Ravi nodded, filing it away. Something about the whole thing felt… interesting. But he let it go.

Dinner arrived—grilled platter, pasta, more drinks. Conversation stayed light.

Preeti: “Next time we do dinner at our place. I’ll cook something decent.”

Simran: “Only if you promise not to set off the smoke alarm again.”

Everyone laughed.

Shikha to Ravi: “You’ve been quiet. You okay?”

Ravi smiled. “Just enjoying watching Simran have fun. It’s been a while.”

Simran squeezed his hand under the table.

Later, they dropped Preeti and Shikha home.

“Next weekend?” Preeti called from the gate.

“Definitely,” Simran replied.

Back in their flat, everything was quiet. Bhola had already turned in.

In the bedroom, Simran stood at the mirror in her slip, humming one of the club songs. She combed her long hair slowly, then applied her night cream—gentle circles on her cheeks, neck, collarbones. She looked peaceful, content.

Ravi watched from the bed, propped on one elbow. “You’re humming.”

She caught his eye in the mirror and smiled. “I know. I had such a good time tonight.”

“Me too,” he said. “You were glowing out there.”

She walked over, climbed into bed, and curled up against him. He wrapped his arms around her, pulling her close.

“Love you,” she whispered.

“Love you more,” he replied, kissing the top of her head.

They fell asleep tangled together—warm, happy, with the faint echo of music still in their ears.

To be continued… 

[doodhwale_bhaiya]

The Forbidden Relief – My Wife's Secret

Chapter 2

 
Author’s Interlude
 
Before we plunge deeper into the slow unraveling of this seemingly perfect middle-class Punjabi household, let’s pause. Let’s pull back the lens just a little.
 
From the outside, Ravi and Simran Sharma’s life in their Chandigarh high-rise flat looks textbook enviable: dual incomes, tasteful furniture from Pepperfry and Urban Ladder, weekend brunches at Virgin Courtyard, annual Goa trips posted with just the right filter. The kind of couple that makes aunties sigh and say, “Kitna acha jodi hai, bilkul perfect.”
 
But no life survives a microscope without revealing its textures. Every marriage has its quiet fault lines—small, invisible until pressure is applied. And fertility pressure? That’s the kind of force that finds every crack and widens it, inch by delicious, shameful inch.
 
You already know Simran is beautiful. But let me paint her properly this time, because beauty like hers doesn’t just exist—it insists.
 
She stands 5’7” in bare feet—tall for a Punjabi woman, tall enough that her proportions don’t scream caricature the way shorter women with the same measurements sometimes do. Her body is 36-30-38, and yes, those are real numbers, not wishful fiction. The bust is full and round, a natural D-cup that sits high and proud even without a bra, the kind that makes even well-fitted kurtis look like they’re working overtime. The waist is genuinely narrow—30 inches of smooth, flat midriff that refuses to soften despite two years of marriage and endless plates of butter chicken. How? Because every single morning, rain or shine, she spends forty-five minutes on the treadmill in the corner of the guest room, followed by light dumbbells and planks. She does it quietly, earphones in, hair in a messy top-knot, wearing nothing but sports bra and leggings. The discipline shows: the stomach is taut, the faint vertical line down the centre visible when she stretches.
 
After every steamy shower, Simran emerges from the bathroom like a goddess stepping out of monsoon mist—skin flushed pink, steam still curling off her shoulders, the air thick with the scent of jasmine body wash and warm vanilla. She first wraps her knee-length black hair in a fluffy white towel, twisting it into a high, heavy bun that sits like a crown, a few damp tendrils escaping to cling to the milky curve of her neck. Then comes the ritual that turns even the most innocent bedroom mirror into a private theatre.
Naked except for that towel-turban, she stands in front of the full-length mirror in their bedroom, uncaps a large jar of rich, whipped body butter—something expensive, coconut and shea, scented faintly with rose and sandalwood—and begins the slow, deliberate massage. She starts at her collarbones, fingers gliding in wide, sensual circles, down the smooth plane of her flat stomach, over the gentle flare of hips, along the length of her long legs. But when she reaches her breasts—those perfect, full 36D globes—they become the undeniable focus.

She cups them generously, lifting their heavy weight before letting the lotion-slicked palms slide over the soft, milky undersides, then up and around. Her areolas are mature, wide, and a dusky pinkish-rose, framing nipples that harden instantly into tight, reddish buttons under the cool air and her own touch. As she massages in firm, upward strokes, they bounce—once, twice, three times—full, animated little jiggles that settle again pointing straight forward, as if staring directly at whoever might be lucky (or cursed) enough to watch. The motion is hypnotic, almost cartoonish in its perkiness, defying gravity for a heartbeat before surrendering to their natural, lush droop.
 
She moves lower next, parting her thighs just enough to smooth lotion over the neatly trimmed triangle of soft black hair—perfectly shaped, not a stray out of place, the delicate pink lips beneath glistening faintly from the shower and now from the sheer warmth of her skin, looking for all the world like a ripe, nectar-filled bloom waiting to be tasted. Her thick, naturally pouty lips (the kind that make men lose vocabulary) part slightly as she exhales, revealing the soft inner rose-petal pink of her mouth. A small diamond nose stud catches the light with every breath, and those large, kohl-rimmed eyes—dark, liquid, framed by long lashes—meet her own reflection with a quiet, private intensity, as though she knows exactly how devastating she is and chooses, every day, to pretend she doesn’t.
 
And then those hips. 38 inches of lush, womanly flare that turns every salwar into something hypnotic. When she walks, there’s a soft, natural roll—nothing exaggerated, nothing deliberate, just biology doing what it was designed to do. Her skin is that rare Punjabi milky-white, almost luminous, the kind that catches light and holds it. Even in the dullest tube-light, she glows. Soft, touchable, slightly dewy. The kind of skin that makes men think of cream, of milk, of things they shouldn’t say out loud.
 
So when Preeti—half-teasing, half-awestruck—called her a “healthy, breedable cow” during that clinic visit, it wasn’t just crude humour. It was medical admiration wrapped in dirty friendship. Because Simran’s body, at 34, is in peak fertility mode: wide childbearing hips, thick healthy lining, plump ovaries loaded with follicles, breasts that look heavy with promise even though they’ve never lactated. In gynaecology slang, “breedable” isn’t an insult—it’s a compliment. It means the hardware is flawless. All that’s missing is the right software.
 
And yet, in the privacy of her own home, Simran dresses like she has no idea how devastating she is.
 
At home she never wears anything cheap or trashy. No neon netted nighties from Sarojini Nagar, no two-piece satin sets that scream “trying too hard”. Instead, she chooses beautiful, expensive things—soft mulmul cotton nighties in pastel shades (ivory, blush, powder blue), knee-length or just an inch above, with delicate lace at the neckline and sleeves. Sometimes a full-sleeved maxi that flows like water when she moves. Sometimes a sleeveless shift that skims her curves and stops exactly where decency ends. Always modest in length, always elegant in cut.
 
But on Simran, modesty is a lie.
 
The fabric is thin enough that when she passes in front of a window, the light turns it translucent and you can trace the outline of her body like a secret. The necklines dip just low enough to show the upper swell of her breasts when she leans to pick something up. The waist cinches naturally, reminding you how small it is compared to everything else. And when she sits cross-legged on the sofa, the hem rides up her smooth thighs—not scandalously, but enough that you notice the milky skin, the faint stretch marks at the very top that only make her more human, more touchable.
 
Even if she threw a shawl over her shoulders and covered herself head to toe, it wouldn’t matter. The body underneath has already made its statement. Every sway, every breath, every casual bend says the same thing: fertile. Ripe. Waiting.
 
And through all of this walks Bhola.
 
Twenty-six years old. Quiet. Efficient. Always there, never in the way. He moves through their home like a shadow that cooks perfect sarson ka saag, presses Ravi’s shirts with military precision, and—without ever being asked—collects every single piece of intimate laundry. Simran’s lace bras, her damp morning panties, the nighties that carry her scent after a full day. He washes them by hand sometimes, when the machine feels too rough. No one has ever commented. No one has ever needed to.
 
He sees things. He hears things. He smells things.
 
And he says nothing.
 
For now.
 
Because this story isn’t in a hurry. We’re only at the beginning of the slide.
 
So sit back. Get comfortable. Maybe dim the lights. Keep one hand free—you know exactly why.
 
The textures are just starting to show.
 
To be continued…

[doodhwale_bhaiya]

Simran
 
Two months had slipped by in quiet rhythm—supplements swallowed daily, ovulation tracked with renewed tenderness, lovemaking reclaimed from the calendar’s tyranny and returned to the slow burn of real desire. The flat felt lighter somehow, the air less thick with unspoken worry. And then, one ordinary Tuesday, everything shifted.
 
Simran’s call came at 4:17 PM while Ravi was still in a client review meeting. Her voice on the phone was soft, almost secretive, laced with something that made his pulse jump before she even spoke the words.
 
“Ravi, when are you coming home?”
 
“I’ll reach by 7, jaan. Tell me, anything important?”
 
“No no, you just come. And listen… okay, you come first.”
 
He pressed, half-laughing, half-alarmed. “Simran, what is it? Everything okay?”
 
She only repeated, gentle but firm, “Just come when you can.”
 
He didn’t wait. The meeting ended early, excuses made, laptop slammed shut. By 5:30 he was pushing through the society gate, heart hammering like a teenager sneaking home after curfew.
 
She was waiting in the living room, standing near the window in a simple cream cotton kurti and palazzo, hair loose and still damp from an afternoon shower, mangalsutra glinting against the soft swell of her chest. Her hands were clasped in front of her, fingers twisting nervously, but her eyes—those large, dark, liquid eyes—were shining.
 
Ravi dropped his bag by the door. “Jaan… what happened? You’re scaring me.”
 
She took one step toward him, then another, until she was close enough for him to smell the faint jasmine still clinging to her skin.
 
“Ravi,” she whispered, voice trembling with joy, “we are pregnant.”
 
The words landed like a thunderclap in the quiet room.
 
For a heartbeat he just stared, mouth open, brain catching up. Then the joy exploded out of him—raw, unrestrained, the kind of shout that comes when you win the biggest lottery of your life. He lunged forward, scooped her up into his arms like she weighed nothing, her surprised laugh bursting against his neck as he spun her once, twice. He kissed her face everywhere—forehead, cheeks, nose, lips, chin—muttering “Oh my god, oh my god” between each frantic press of his mouth.
 
Then reality crashed back. Pregnant. She was pregnant.
 
He set her down immediately, carefully, as though she were made of glass, guiding her to the edge of the bed. She sat, still glowing, still laughing softly at his panic. Ravi dropped to his knees in front of her, hands resting lightly on her thighs, looking up like a devotee at an altar.
 
“I’m so happy,” he said, voice cracking. “Jaan… I’m so, so happy.”
 
He leaned in, pressed his forehead to her stomach—still flat, still the same taut midriff he’d kissed a thousand times—and stayed there a moment, breathing her in, letting the miracle settle into his bones.
 
Then he stood, suddenly energized. “Bhola!” he called toward the hallway. “Bhola, Idhar aana!”
 
Bhola appeared almost instantly, wiping his hands on a kitchen towel, expression calm as ever.
 
“Ji, Sahib?”
 
“We’re going out. Right now. Get the car ready. We’re celebrating tonight.”
 
Bhola’s eyes flicked to Simran for a split second—something unreadable passing through them—then he nodded. “Ji, Sahib. Five minutes.”
 
They chose a beautiful rooftop restaurant in Sector 17, the kind with fairy lights strung overhead, soft jazz floating on the evening breeze, and a view of the city lights twinkling below like scattered stars. They took a corner table, private enough for whispers, ordered champagne (non-alcoholic for her), butter chicken, garlic naan, and all her favorites. The waiter barely left before Simran started talking words tumbling out in a happy rush.
 
“We have to start planning everything,” she said, eyes bright. “First, the doctor—Preeti, obviously. Regular check-ups. I need to start folic acid if I haven’t already… oh, and no more late nights for you, Ravi. You have to sleep properly now. And the nursery—we can convert the guest room, paint it soft yellow maybe? Or green? Something calm. And names! We should start thinking about names. Boy or girl, doesn’t matter, but I want something strong, something beautiful…”
 
Ravi just watched her, chin on his hand, smiling like a fool. Every time she paused to breathe, he reached across and squeezed her fingers. “Whatever you want, jaan. All of it.”
 
Halfway through dessert she pulled out her phone, face flushed from the excitement and one sip too many of sparkling juice. “I have to call Preeti.”
 
Preeti picked up on the second ring. Simran didn’t even let her say hello.
 
“Preeti! We’re pregnant!”
 
A delighted shriek exploded from the speaker. “Simmi! Oh my god! When did you test? How many weeks? Tell me everything!”
 
They talked for ten minutes—Preeti demanding details, laughing, scolding gently. “Listen, both of you—don’t tell anyone for the next three months. First trimester is crucial. Keep it between us. I’ll see you in the clinic day after tomorrow, okay? And Simmi… I’m so fucking happy for you.”
 
They hung up, Simran’s eyes misty. Ravi raised his glass. “To us. To the little one.”
 
“To us,” she echoed. ”But we cant tell anyone. Preeti is right.”

Ravi agreed “Of course, there is enough time to tell everyone.”
 
They came home late, the city quiet around them. Bhola had already turned in, lights dimmed, the flat smelling faintly of the incense Simran always lit before bed.
 
In the bedroom, the mood shifted—slow, reverent, almost sacred.
 
They undressed each other without hurry. Ravi’s hands were careful now, tracing her collarbones, her waist, the still-flat plane of her stomach with something like awe. He kissed her there, long and lingering, murmuring against her skin, “Thank you… thank you for this.”
 
Simran pulled him up, kissed him deeply, tasting the champagne on his tongue. She guided him onto the bed, climbed over him, her long hair falling like a curtain around them. The lovemaking was tender, unhurried—slow rolls of hips, soft gasps, fingers laced together. He moved inside her with deliberate care, watching her face the whole time, whispering how beautiful she was, how perfect, how he couldn’t believe this was real. She clung to him, legs wrapped around his waist, breathing his name like a prayer as pleasure built in quiet waves.
 
When they came, it was together—soft, shuddering, intimate—her nails digging lightly into his back, his face buried in the crook of her neck.
 
Afterward, they lay tangled, her head on his chest, his hand resting protectively over her stomach. The room was dark except for the faint glow of the night-light.
 
Simran whispered, sleepy and content, “We did it, Ravi.”
 
He kissed the top of her head. “We did it.”
 
They fell asleep like that—warm, full, and—for the first time in years—completely at peace.

[doodhwale_bhaiya]

The next two months passed in a gentle, almost reverent hush. Preeti’s clinic became a second home—regular scans, blood work, heartbeat checks—all of it perfect. The little one was growing exactly as it should: strong heartbeat at 150 bpm, crown-rump length on target, no signs of concern. Preeti walked them through every precaution with her usual mix of clinical precision and big-sister warmth: no raw food, limited caffeine, prenatal yoga instead of treadmill, no heavy lifting, sex only if comfortable (and gentle), plenty of rest. Simran listened like a student, nodding, taking notes on her phone, her hand unconsciously resting over the faint, still-invisible swell beneath her kurtis.
 
Ravi transformed overnight into the most attentive husband imaginable. He started leaving office by 6 PM sharp—no more late-night calls, no more weekend escalations. He cooked breakfast on Sundays (slightly burnt parathas, but made with love), massaged her feet every evening while they watched TV, brought her fresh coconut water without being asked, even carried her purse when they went for walks in the society park. He spoke to her stomach in soft Punjabi whispers when he thought she was asleep—“Beta, Papa aa gaya hai”—and kissed the spot every night before turning off the light.
 
Bhola, too, shifted into something quieter, more watchful. He moved through the house like a guardian now—extra careful with the floors so she wouldn’t slip, always keeping the water filter full and chilled, preparing light, digestible meals (khichdi with ghee when she felt queasy, fresh fruit platters, almond milk instead of tea). He never said much, but his eyes followed her whenever she moved through the rooms, lingering just a second longer on the subtle curve of her belly. When she thanked him, he only bowed his head slightly—“Ji, Bhabhi, aap araam karo”—and went back to his work, folding her freshly washed nighties with a care that bordered on reverence.
 
Then came the day that broke everything.
 
Simran was driving back from yet another routine check-up at Preeti’s clinic, the radio playing softly, her mind floating on the high of another “all good” report. The traffic light turned green. She eased forward. A DTC bus, too fast, too close, clipped the rear side of her Creta. The impact spun the car, the airbag exploded in a deafening white cloud, and everything went black.
 
No visible wounds—no blood, no broken bones—but the force had been brutal. She was unconscious when the ambulance arrived. Paramedics rushed her to the nearest hospital, the same one where Preeti had privileges.
 
Since there was a file of Prescription of Preeti’s clinic, the doctors at the nearest hospital called Preeti. She in turn immediately called Ravi. Preeti reached first and checked Simran. Ravi got the call while in a meeting. He ran out without a word, phone still pressed to his ear, his face became white. Preeti met him in the corridor outside the emergency ward, already in scrubs, her face grim.
 
Ravi saw Preeti and she said dont worry she is fine. Dont panic. She asked him to wait outside as Simran was unconscious. She came outside after half an hour and saw Ravi pacing through the corridor.
 
She pulled him aside, away from the nurses.
 
“Ravi… Simran is fine, dont worry. She is just unconscious from the shock. She is about to wake up but listen, i need to tell you something. You are her biggest pillar now. You need to be the one who takes on the burden of this news.
 
Ravi.... the baby didn’t make it.”
 
The words landed like a physical blow. He stared at her, uncomprehending, then his knees buckled. He slid down the wall, head in his hands, and cried—deep, wrenching sobs that echoed in the sterile hallway. A grown man, Senior Project Manager, father-to-be, reduced to a child in seconds.
 
“She’s going to be devastated,” he choked out between gasps. “She wanted this so badly… Preeti, she’s going to break.”
 
Preeti knelt beside him, hand on his shoulder. “We’ll get through this. Together. But first you need to be strong. You cannot let her break down. Else you will lose her, she will be samlibe but her mind will be gone. Ravi, you need to decide how to act in front of her. I will give you a few minutes to go inside. But we will tell her depending on her mental make tomorrow.”
 
Simran woke the next morning to soft daylight filtering through hospital blinds. Ravi was on one side of the bed, eyes red and swollen. Preeti on the other, holding her hand.
 
She looked at their faces—saw the grief—and knew.
 
Her lips trembled. “No…” she whispered.
 
Then louder: “No… no… no… NO!”
 
The sobs tore out of her—raw, animal, unstoppable. She curled into herself, clutching the sheet over her stomach as though she could will the life back inside. Ravi tried to hold her; she pushed him away at first, then clung to him, crying into his shirt until it was soaked. Preeti stroked her hair, murmuring, “Baby, don’t worry… it will be fine… we’ll try again… you’re strong…”
 
Nothing helped. The grief was a storm that refused to pass.
 
It was nothing short of a miracle to make her stop crying and sobbing.
 
Ravi came outside the cabin and called Bhola and told him, “Bhola get some wearable pyjamas, tops, undergarments etc that Simran wears in house and don’t forget to get two sets at least. Her toothbrush etc too”.
 
Bhola came after sometime with everything he said. He was having mixed feeling taking out the small lacy panties and bras for Simran as they made him stay looking at the drawer full of her panties and Br for a bit longer than usual. Infact he never opened this drawer, he only took them out from drying in sun and then kept them on her bed and she kept them inside her drawer. But today he was all alone in the house asked to do this but then he was struck by lightening as to why he was here, her madam was in hospital, in an accident, in ICU probably. He kicked himself for thinking like that. After sometime he came to the hospital with the things. He was met by Ravi outside with Preeti talking and Ravi said, “Bhola goto her room in 69D and keep in her drawer. Don’t disturb her, she is sleeping”.
 
“Ji Sahib”. Bhola went to 69D and found Simran awake. Bhola was taken aback. She had some bruises on the side of her face but nothing much. But what shocked him was she was wearing a hospital dress, a filmsy blue coloured shirt and trouser. The problem was she was not wearing any bra and her nipples were poking out like crazy as the shirt was not her size. No one realised it except Bhola till now and his you know what, but Bhola got another kick on his stomach like before as to why he was here. Bhola started talking to her showing her what he got by letting her see inside the bag. She said to keep those things in the Almirah and Bhola after that sat in a chair next to her and started talking a bit as to how she is feeling now and getting angry at the Bus driver. But it was hard for Bhola to concentrate. This was the first time Bhola saw Simran braless and her huge boobs tight against the shirt and he could easily see her large button-like nipples poking out at him. Bhola digested the image and told Simran he will come again in the evening with something else as it was getting increasingly uncomfortable for him.
 
They brought her home three days later. The flat felt different—too quiet, too empty. Bhola stood at the door when they entered, head bowed, eyes downcast especially since his memory played the same images again and again. Perhaps once you see something in life which is life changing you can’t unsee it. Something inside him had changed. Simran asked, “Bhola, how are you?“ Bhola laughed and said, “I am good Bhabhi, tell me how are you feeling.” “I am fine, Thank you! “
 
He had cleaned everything spotless, lit a small diya in the puja corner, prepared her favorite light kheer. When Simran walked past him, he stepped aside respectfully, but his voice was softer than usual.
 
“Bhabhi… aap araam karo. Main sab sambhal loonga.”
 
He meant it. For the next week, Bhola became the silent pillar of the house—cooking, cleaning, running errands, never once complaining. Ravi stayed home too, working from the study, never more than a room away from her.
 
But Simran was fading. She barely ate, barely spoke, spent hours staring out the window or lying in bed with her hand on her stomach, tears slipping silently.
 
Ravi couldn’t watch it anymore.
 
One evening he sat beside her on the bed, took her hand.
 
“Jaan… let’s go away. Just us. Maldives. One week. No phones, no reminders. Just sea, sun, and you. We need to breathe. And you are not going to say No.”
 
He called Bhola and said, “Bhola humare suitcase pack kardo. Ek hafte ke liye. Bhabhi tumhe bata dengi kya kya leke jana hai, unko haath mat lagane dena.“ Simran protested that she can pack her own luggage, but Bhola also said “Nehi Bhabhi aap tension na lo, main pack kar deta hun. Aap dekhke bata dena.” None of them realized what they are going to do by this simple innocent but life altering activity. Starting from her beautiful dresses, down to her skimpiest panties, Bhola packed without any hue or cry. Hell, even he didn’t realise what he was doing. Although he thought for a second if that bikini top would hold her boobs in place but didn’t linger on it for more than a second.
 
After 1 hour, Bhola came down with her suitcase, kept it on the diwan next to the sofa and said, “Bhabhi aap check kar lijiye, main aapke aur Sahab ke liye chai banake lata hun” and he went away. Simran looked at the luggage and didn’t feel a thing, subconsciously she did feel some tingle somewhere but nothing more.”
 
She looked at him for a long moment, then nodded—small, exhausted, but willing.
 
They flew out five days later. A quiet resort on a private atoll—white sand, turquoise water, overwater villa. No crowds, no questions. They walked barefoot on the beach at sunrise, held hands under the stars, swam in the warm sea. Ravi never pushed; he just stayed close. Slowly, the salt air and the rhythm of the waves began to loosen the knot in her chest. She cried less. She smiled once—small, tentative—when a baby turtle crawled toward the ocean at dusk.
 
By the end of the week she was eating properly again, sleeping through the night, even laughing softly at his terrible dad jokes.
 
They came back quieter, but steadier.
 
The flat welcomed them with the same gentle normalcy. Bhola had kept everything perfect—fresh sheets, flowers in a vase, her favorite rose attar restocked. He didn’t ask questions, didn’t offer empty platitudes. He simply served dinner, cleared the table, and retreated.
 
Simran stood in the living room that first night back, looking around at the life they had built.
 
She turned to Ravi, eyes still shadowed but clearer.
 
“We’ll be okay,” she whispered.
 
He pulled her into his arms, kissed her forehead.
 
“We will.”
 
To be continued… ?

[doodhwale_bhaiya]

Bhola 

Three months had passed since the accident that stole their unborn child. The flat had settled into a fragile new normal—Ravi back at the office but always checking in, Simran slowly returning to her routines, the grief still there but no longer a constant storm. Bhola, however, had never stopped watching.
 
Bhola Singh was not from Chandigarh. He came from a small, dusty village called Dholakpur, tucked deep in the Malwa region of Punjab, about four hours’ drive from the city. It was one of those places that barely showed on Google Maps—narrow lanes of baked mud and brick houses, a single gurudwara at the centre, fields of wheat and mustard stretching out like a green sea in winter. The village had no mall, no cinema, no ATM. What it did have was something far older and far stranger: a quiet, generations-old reputation as a place where barrenness ended and wombs came alive.
 
People whispered about Dholakpur the way they whispered about secret pilgrimages. Women who had tried everything—doctors, temples, mantras—would arrive quietly with their mothers-in-law, sometimes even husbands trailing behind like guilty shadows. They came from nearby villages, from Bathinda, Moga, even as far as Ludhiana. They stayed in the homes of the few families known for “the knowledge,” ate simple food, listened to old women speak in low voices, and left with small cloth pouches of powders, roots, seeds, and handwritten slips of instructions. No one advertised it. No one charged money openly. It was all given as “blessing,” with the understanding that you would return one day with sweets and a newborn in your arms to show gratitude.
 
The secret wasn’t magic, or at least not the kind people imagined. It was a mix of ancient herbal knowledge passed down through certain families—things like ashwagandha, shatavari, safed musli, kaunch beej, and other roots and barks that modern science was only beginning to study. But more than the ingredients, it was the belief: the village elders said that grief and despair were the biggest poisons to a woman’s body. A sad womb stayed closed; a happy one opened like a flower. So, the powders weren’t just medicine—they were meant to lift the spirit first, to awaken hunger, desire, energy, the will to live and love again. Only then, the elders claimed, would the body remember how to create life.
 
Bhola belonged to one of those families. His mother had been the last of the women who prepared the mixtures; now his elder sister-in-law carried the knowledge. When Bhola had gone back to the village two weeks after the accident—telling Ravi and Simran he needed to see his ailing father—he hadn’t gone for rest. He had gone for answers.
 
He sat with his sister-in-law late at night in the small courtyard, the kerosene lamp flickering, while she listened to the story of the accident, the miscarriage, Simran’s silence and tears. She didn’t interrupt. When he finished, she simply nodded, went inside, and returned with a small steel dabba.
 
“Give her this,” she said. “One small spoon in warm milk every night for seven days. Then stop for two weeks. Then again for seven days. Nothing else—no doctor talk, no questions. Just milk and this.”
 
Bhola looked at the fine, light-brown powder inside—smelling faintly of earth and something sweet, like dried jaggery.
 
“What is it?” he asked quietly.
 
His sister-in-law smiled, small and knowing. “It wakes up what grief has put to sleep. It brings back the want to live. The want to be touched. The want to be a woman again. If her heart opens, the body follows.”
 
He asked, “Will it do what they want? Will it help her get happy? Explain me please.”
 
“Bhola don’t worry, it will be just fine. It will make her more, how do I explain…you will see. She will be fine. There is only one issue that sometimes happen but if that does happen you can tell me, I will explain you what to do. Btw no need to get ahead of ourselves. Just chill”
 
He took it without another word, tucked it into his shirt pocket, and returned to Chandigarh the next day.
 
Back in the flat, Bhola resumed his silent routines—cooking, cleaning, folding laundry. But now there was one extra task he performed alone, every evening.
 
Simran liked a glass of warm milk before bed—turmeric sometimes, just plain other nights. Bhola prepared it himself, stirring in a tiny spoon of the powder when no one was looking. It dissolved instantly, no taste, no colour change. He thought a lot if he should tell them what powder he is mixing, but he thought if he informs them then they won’t take it as it’s not exactly urban practice to follow rural practices such as this. So, he handed her the glass with his usual respectful “Ji, Bhabhi, doodh garam hai,” and watched from the corner of his eye as she drank it slowly, sometimes while reading on the couch, sometimes while staring out the window.
 
After the first seven days, the change was subtle at first, then undeniable.
 
Simran’s skin began to glow again—not the forced brightness of makeup, but the deep, inner luminosity she used to have. She started humming in the kitchen while making tea. She laughed—really laughed—at one of Ravi’s silly jokes over dinner. She put on her treadmill again, not for long, but enough to feel her body moving. She answered work emails, joined video calls, even wore the soft, fitted kurtis she had avoided for months because they reminded her too much of the bump that never came.
 
She didn’t sulk anymore. The tears came less often, then not at all. She touched her stomach sometimes, but not with despair—with a quiet, almost curious gentleness, as though checking if the space was still hers.
 
Bhola noticed everything. He said nothing. He felt very happy that his contribution helped. Little did he know what dangerous effect it was having on her.
 
After the two-week break, he repeated the ritual. Another seven nights of milk laced with the powder. The results deepened. Simran started planning small things again rearranging the guest room, buying fresh flowers for the dining table, talking about weekend drives with Ravi. Her eyes sparkled when she spoke to Preeti on the phone, no longer avoiding the topic of babies but listening with something like hope.
 
Simran

A few days after the second course of the mysterious milk powder had ended, Simran felt ready enough to step back into the world of routine check-ups. She booked a simple follow-up with Preeti—not for any crisis, just the quiet need to hear that her body was still hers, still working, still healing. Ravi offered to come along, but she shook her head gently. “Just me this time, jaan. I’ll be fine.”
 
Preeti’s clinic felt familiar again: the soft hum of the AC, the faint antiseptic smell mixed with the rose incense Preeti always burned in the corner, the same examination table with its crinkly paper sheet. Simran changed into the gown, lay back, and let Preeti run through the basics—blood pressure, weight, a quick listen to her heart and lungs.
 
Preeti glanced at the chart, then at Simran, her expression softening into that familiar mix of doctor and best friend.
 
“Everything looks good, Simmi. BP is perfect, no anemia, thyroid steady. Your body’s doing exactly what it should after… what happened.” She paused, setting the stethoscope aside and pulling up a stool so they were eye-level. “But listen, because this came on so suddenly—the miscarriage, the trauma—your hormones are still catching up. The body doesn’t always get the memo right away that the pregnancy is over.”
 
Simran nodded slowly, fingers twisting the edge of the gown.
 
“So, you might still get those mood swings for a little while longer—random tears, feeling extra emotional, maybe even some cravings or aversions that feel like old pregnancy ghosts. And yeah…” Preeti gave a small, knowing smile, patting Simran’s thigh lightly. “Your body might hold on to a bit of extra weight for some time. Water retention, hormonal padding, all that jazz. Nothing to worry about, my healthy, breedable cow. It’ll sort itself out when your system realises it’s safe to let go.”
 
Simran stared for a second, then burst into laughter—real, surprised, bubbling-up-from-the-chest laughter that made her eyes water in a different way. “You’re impossible, you know that?”
 
Preeti grinned wide, mischievous as ever. “What? I’m just stating medical facts. You’re still a gorgeous, fertile goddess. A few extra kilos and some rogue hormones don’t change that. Your cow status remains premium grade.”
 
Simran laughed harder, reaching out to swat Preeti’s arm playfully. “Stop calling me a cow!”
 
“Never,” Preeti shot back, winking. “Now go home, tell that husband of yours you’re officially cleared for normal life, and keep doing exactly what you are doing, because something is clearly keeping your energy high and its very good. It’s clearly working wonders.”
 
Simran’s laughter faded into a soft, grateful smile. She slid off the table, hugged Preeti tightly, and whispered, “Thank you.”
 
Preeti hugged back, fierce and warm. “Anytime, babes. Now get out of here before I start measuring your hips again.”
 
As Simran buttoned her kurti and reached for her dupatta, the conversation drifted back to lighter, more personal territory. She glanced at Preeti, who was updating her chart, and asked casually, “By the way… how are things with you and Shikha? Any progress on the family planning front?”
 
Preeti paused, pen hovering over the paper. She set it down, leaned back against the counter, and gave Simran a long, thoughtful look—as though weighing whether this was the right moment to share something heavy. Then she smiled, a little wickedly, deciding the news might be the perfect raunchy distraction after everything Simran had been through.
 
“Do you remember Arjun?” Preeti asked.
 
Simran’s brows lifted. “The tall guy from the club that night? Shikha’s old colleague?”
 
“Exactly.” Preeti crossed her arms, voice dropping to that conspiratorial tone she saved for the juiciest bits. “After a lot of thinking, we decided to go with donor sperm. Shikha wants to carry the child herself—she’s been clear about that from the start.”
 
Simran blinked, surprised. “But… usually donor info is kept completely anonymous, right? Like, no names, no faces.”
 
Preeti nodded, then shrugged with a small, knowing grin. “Yes, usually. But we thought… why not know the person? It feels safer. We know his health history, his genetics, his habits. No surprises later. And honestly?” She leaned in closer, eyes sparkling. “Arjun is a fine specimen.”
 
The word “specimen” hung in the air like a spark—clinical yet filthy, teasing yet deliberate. Simran felt it lodge somewhere low in her belly, warm and unexpected. Her mouth opened to ask more—how long had they been planning this? Was Arjun actually involved, or just the donor? Did Shikha… know him that way?—but before she could form the question, a sharp knock interrupted.
 
The nurse poked her head in. “Preeti ma’am, Mrs. Aggarwal is here. She’s in pain—looks urgent.”
 
Preeti sighed, straightening up. “Duty calls.” She turned back to Simran, squeezing her shoulder. “We’ll talk more this weekend. We’re hitting the Club again—same group, same vibe. I’ll fill you in more then. Promise.”
 
Simran managed a small, intrigued laugh despite the interruption. “You better.”
 
Preeti winked as she headed for the door. “Wouldn’t dream of leaving my favorite cow hanging.”
 
Simran watched her go, the word “specimen” still echoing quietly in her mind, stirring something she hadn’t felt in months—curiosity, heat, a faint, forbidden flicker of want.
 
Simran left the clinic lighter than when she’d arrived, the words still echoing gently in her mind—no permanent damage, just time. Her body was confused, but it was trying. And somehow, that felt like enough.

[doodhwale_bhaiya]

Simran

It had been several weeks since the second cycle of the hidden powder in her nightly milk, and Simran had begun to feel like herself again—perhaps even more than herself. Energy returned in quiet waves, her laughter came easier, her body moved with a renewed, almost restless grace. But nature, once stirred, does not always announce its intentions politely.
 
One humid afternoon, the house was still. Ravi was at the office, Bhola had stepped out to the market for fresh vegetables. Simran had curled up for a rare midday nap in the bedroom, wearing nothing but a soft, knee-length mulmul nightie and her usual padded bra underneath—the one with the wide straps that kept her full breasts comfortably lifted even in sleep.
 
She turned in her sleep, shifting onto her side, and a sudden, sharp twinge shot through her chest—like a deep, internal pull. She woke with a small gasp, disoriented, one hand instinctively pressing between her heavy breasts. The pain wasn’t severe, but it was strange, unfamiliar, like her body was reminding her of something it had forgotten how to say.
 
She sat up slowly, nightie slipping off one shoulder, and padded barefoot to the attached bathroom. The cool marble floor grounded her as she sat on the commode. When she relaxed, the sound of her stream hitting the water echoed louder than usual in the quiet room—sharp, forceful, almost obscene. A shiver ran up her spine, goosebumps blooming across her arms and the back of her neck. She felt her cheeks flush. It was ridiculous—how could something so ordinary suddenly feel so… intimate, so exposed?
 
She finished, cleaned herself carefully with the hand jet, the warm water making her sigh despite herself, then dried with soft tissue. As she stood and tugged her flimsy cotton panty back up her thighs, she paused. Something felt off. Not down there—up higher.
 
She looked down.
 
Her nightie was dry. No sweat stains from the mild afternoon heat. Yet there was a faint, unmistakable dampness blooming across the front of her bra, right over the peaks of her breasts. Two small, dark circles had formed on the padded cups, growing slowly, like ink spreading on paper.
 
Simran frowned, confused. She reached up, cupped her breasts through the fabric—full, warm, heavier than usual—and felt the wetness seep into her palms. Her nipples, already prominent under the soft padding, were stiff, almost aching. The sensation sent another ripple through her.
 
Simran lifted the nightie above her head exposing her heart shaped buttocks protruding outward asking to be patted and let the nightie slip from her fingers deliberately, not a hurried escape, but a slow, conscious surrender. The soft mulmul fabric whispered down her body like a lover’s final caress, pooling at her feet in a pale puddle. She took off her bra and let it fall. She stood topless in the bathroom’s soft light, wearing only the thin, high-cut cotton panty that clung to her like a second skin.
 
The tiny garment did nothing to hide; it worshipped. The fabric stretched taut across the dramatic flare of her hips, the waistband biting gently into the creamy flesh just above her pubic bone, creating that perfect, shallow dip where belly met mound. From behind—if anyone had been there to see—the panty framed her ass like an offering: two gigantic, heart-shaped globes, impossibly round and full, the kind of ass that sways with every step and makes men forget their own names. The cotton rode high on the cheeks, exposing generous lower curves, the deep cleft between them shadowed and inviting, while the front panel clung damply to her swollen lips, outlining the plump, nectar-slick seam in obscene detail.
 
But it was her breasts that commanded the scene. Freed completely, they hung heavy and proud—full 36D orbs that defied gravity just enough to point forward. She stood like a fertility idol come to life: skin glowing with that post-powder luminosity, long black hair cascading wild over her shoulders, framing the deep valley between her leaking breasts. One hand rested on her hip, accentuating the dramatic hourglass—narrow waist flaring into lush hips and that dripping, heart-shaped ass—while the other hovered near her chest, fingers trembling as though unsure whether to catch the milk or coax more out.
 
The entire picture was shameless, primal, dripping of sex: a woman whose body had awakened against her will and now refused to be silenced. Milk leaking, pussy dampening the panty, ass framed like ripe fruit begging to be split open, breasts offered forward as though waiting for worship or violation.
 
She looked like sin made flesh—beautiful, fertile, and utterly, irrevocably aroused.
 
She looked at her mangoes in the mirror. They looked… different. Fuller. The skin tauter, veins faintly visible beneath the milky surface.
 
Without thinking, almost as though her hands belonged to someone else, she lifted them—offering them to her own reflection. The weight felt delicious in her palms. She squeezed gently, testing. Nothing.
 
She squeezed again, firmer this time, thumbs brushing the stiff peaks.
 
A bead of clear liquid appeared at the tip of one nipple—then the other.
 
She caught her breath and her heart skipped a beat.
 
She squeezed harder, this time it was instinctive, fingers digging into the soft flesh. A thin jet of warm milk sprayed out, arcing through the air and splattering against the mirror in tiny white droplets. She startled so violently she almost stumbled backward, like a child seeing fireworks for the first time.
 
Heart hammering, she stared at the mirror—at the streaks slowly sliding down the glass, at her own wide-eyed reflection, at the twin droplets still beading on her nipples.
 
She didn’t let go.
 
She squeezed again. Nothing. Again. Nothing. Then again—harder, more deliberate—and another quick spurt shot out, painting fresh lines across the mirror.
 
The sound was soft, wet, obscene.
 
Simran’s knees trembled. Heat radiated from her face, her chest, her core. Between her thighs she felt a slick warmth that had nothing to do with the bathroom jet. Her breathing came shallow, ragged.
 
She didn’t know what this was—lactation without pregnancy? A cruel echo of what had been lost? Or something else entirely, something the powder had awakened that refused to sleep again?
 
Her nipples were still leaking in slow, rhythmic beads. Milk continued to weep from the reddened tips, thin white rivulets tracing lazy paths down the undersides, dripping in soft plops onto the marble. Each droplet caught the light, glistening like liquid pearls before falling. Her areolas were flushed dark rose, swollen and puckered, the tiny Montgomery glands standing out in erotic relief around the thick, erect nipples that throbbed visibly with her quickening pulse.
 
But she understood one thing with terrifying clarity:
 
This was the first time.
 
And like a boy who shaves his face for the very first time—once the blade touches skin, the beard comes back thicker, faster, darker. There is no going back to smooth, untouched cheeks. The body remembers the act. It learns. It insists.
 
Simran stood there, hands still cradling her leaking breasts, staring at the milky streaks on the mirror like they were a message written in a language she was only beginning to understand.
 
And somewhere deep inside her, a quiet, hungry part of her body whispered: Breedable….Cow.
 
Breedable What?

Simran came back to her senses. She was holding her breasts and rubbing them and standing topless in just a panty. She hurriedly wore her bra and nightie and came out of the bathroom, the mirror, if it was alive, felt like in 7th heaven slurping its tongue to taste the virgin milk on its face.

[doodhwale_bhaiya]

 
Our Simran

[doodhwale_bhaiya]

Next update tonight. 

But before that I want to know how you guys and gurls feel about the situation now.

[doodhwale_bhaiya]

Everything is good till now but please dont make it a incest story. Adultery and cuckold theme is good.

For incest you need blood relation. I doubt that is going to happen here. Just wait out till i get the next update please. Thanks for comments.

[doodhwale_bhaiya]

Very good story bro ...please let her have sex with the old men

Old man will come a bit late. There are a lot of young people that need some release..

[doodhwale_bhaiya]

Simran
 
Simran emerged from the bathroom in a daze, the sundress already feeling too constricting against her still-sensitive skin. She let it slip off her shoulders, pooling at her feet once more, leaving her completely bare—no bra, no panties, just the faint sheen of milk drying on her breasts and the slick warmth lingering between her thighs. She crashed onto the bed face-down, pulling the light cotton sheet over her body in a half-hearted attempt at modesty. Exhaustion claimed her almost instantly, the trance-like release pulling her into a deep, dreamless sleep.
 
Under the thin sheet, her figure was a study in erotic vulnerability—a voluptuous silhouette molded by the fabric like a sculptor’s dream. Her breasts, still full and slightly swollen from the milking, pressed heavily into the mattress, the sheet dipping into the deep valley of cleavage and clinging to the damp undersides where faint traces of milk had seeped. The curve of her back arched gently, leading to the dramatic flare of her hips, the heart-shaped ass rising like twin pillows beneath the cover—plump, inviting, the sheet riding up just enough to expose the lower curves and the shadowed cleft between them. Her long legs tangled loosely in the fabric, thighs parted slightly in sleep, revealing the bare, glistening folds that peeked from between. She looked like a goddess in repose—fertile, aroused, utterly unguarded—her body radiating a quiet heat that whispered of secrets awakening.
 
She slept soundly for the next four hours, the afternoon sun slanting through the curtains in golden stripes across the bed. When she woke, disoriented and blinking at the clock, surprise washed over her. How had she slept so deeply, so long? Her body felt heavy, languid, the ache in her chest dulled but not gone. She sat up slowly, the sheet slipping away, and decided impulsively to get ready—as though dressing for the outside world might ground her in normalcy.
 
She started with fresh panties—soft, high-waisted lace in nude that hugged her hips like a whisper, the fabric kissing the damp warmth between her thighs and accentuating the lush curve of her ass. Next came the bra, a supportive beige number with wide straps; she hooked it at the front, adjusting the cups to cradle her tender breasts, the padding absorbing any residual moisture while lifting them into perfect, rounded peaks. Over that went a simple white blouse, buttoned just low enough to hint at cleavage without scandal. She slipped into fitted black jeans that molded to her thighs and flared slightly at the ankles, the waistband cinching her narrow midriff and flaring out over her generous hips. A light cardigan in soft gray completed the look, dbangd casually over her shoulders. For makeup, she kept it minimal: a touch of kajal to rim her large eyes, making them pop with quiet intensity; nude gloss on her full lips, highlighting the natural pink pout; a spritz of rose attar at her neck and wrists. She twisted her long hair into a loose bun, a few tendrils escaping to frame her face.
 
But as she stood before the mirror, ready to step out—perhaps to drive aimlessly, perhaps to confide in Preeti—she hesitated. The leaking… it felt too raw, too intimate. Scandalous in its eroticism, like a secret her body had whispered only to her. The urge to tell someone bubbled up fiercely—Preeti, with her teasing “cow” jokes and doctor’s detachment, seemed the perfect confidante. Simran could almost hear herself spilling it: the milk, the squeezing, the shameful pleasure. But no—it was too early, too strange. What if it was nothing? What if it stopped? She shook her head, changed her mind, and stripped back down.
 
She pulled on her normal knee-length nighty instead—soft ivory cotton, sleeveless with lace at the neckline, skimming her curves without clinging, the hem brushing just above her knees. Comfortable, familiar, hiding the secrets beneath.
 
Ravi came home that evening to the usual quiet rhythm: dinner prepared by Bhola, Simran humming softly in the kitchen. She didn’t tell him—not yet. The words stuck in her throat, too confusing, too charged. The evening passed normally—conversations about his day, her work calls, a shared laugh over a TV show. They went to bed as always, his arm around her waist, her head on his chest, the ache in her breasts a silent companion as sleep claimed them.
 
The next morning brought the same insistent feeling—heaviness in her chest, a deep, throbbing fullness that begged for attention. Ravi had an early meeting; he kissed her goodbye after a quick breakfast of aloo parathas and coffee, oblivious to the storm brewing inside her. “See you evening, jaan,” he murmured, squeezing her hand.
 
The door clicked shut. Simran stood alone in the kitchen, hand pressing against her nighty over one breast. She knew what it was—the milk building again, her body demanding release. But she didn’t want to acknowledge it, didn’t want to name the way it made her feel alive in ways she hadn’t in months. Not yet.
 
 
Preeti
 
The afternoon sun filtered through the sheer curtains of Preeti and Shikha’s Sector 8 apartment, casting a warm, golden haze over the living room. Preeti sat on the edge of the cream leather sofa, her white doctor’s coat discarded on the armrest, now in a simple black tank top and yoga pants that hugged her athletic frame. Shikha paced slowly in front of her, her red silk robe tied loosely at the waist, revealing glimpses of the lacy bralette beneath. The air was thick with unspoken tension, the kind that had been building since their decision to pursue family planning had taken this unexpected turn.
 
“Preeti, this is a decision we need to take together,” Shikha said, stopping to face her wife, her voice steady but laced with vulnerability. “I know we need this—but are you sure about it? Really sure?”
 
Preeti leaned forward, elbows on her knees, her sharp cheekbones catching the light as she met Shikha’s gaze. She had always been the more decisive one, the doctor who dealt in facts and probabilities, but right now, her expression softened into something tender, almost protective. “Shikha, I understand your feelings in this context. Please tell me what is it that’s troubling you? Is it the process? The timeline? Or… something else?”
 
Shikha sighed, running a hand through her short, wavy hair, the platinum band on her finger glinting. She sank onto the sofa beside Preeti, their thighs brushing in that familiar way that always grounded her. “I know it’s new to us both, but Preeti, do you really want me to get pregnant this way? I never thought about it like that, you know? It was always just a fun thing—the teasing, the fantasies we shared in bed. Now it’s real. I know you’ve done all my tests, confirmed I’m ready… but does it need to be Arjun?”
 
Preeti reached out, taking Shikha’s hand in hers, interlacing their fingers. She squeezed gently, her thumb tracing slow circles on the back of Shikha’s palm—a habit from their early days, when everything felt uncertain. “Not at all,” she replied softly, her voice carrying the calm authority of her profession mixed with the intimacy of their marriage. “I’m not at all wanting Arjun to be the donor here if it makes you uncomfortable. But let’s talk it through. He tested fine—perfect health markers, no genetic red flags—and his profile came up in the donor database before we even thought about approaching him personally. It felt… serendipitous. Safer, knowing him. But if you’re afraid, or if it changes how you see us, we can forget about it right now. We can go back to anonymous donors, or surrogacy, or even pause everything and revisit later. This is about us, Shikha. Our family.”
 
Shikha leaned her head on Preeti’s shoulder, inhaling the faint scent of antiseptic and lavender that always clung to her after a clinic shift. “You make it sound so straightforward,” she murmured, a small smile tugging at her lips despite the knot in her chest. “I’m not afraid, exactly. It’s just… Arjun. We know him. He’s my old colleague, for god’s sake. Handsome, yes—tall, sharp jaw, that confident walk that turns heads. And god, his laugh at the club that night… But what if it complicates things? What if I look at the baby and see him? Or worse, what if you do?”
 
Preeti chuckled softly, pulling Shikha closer into a side embrace. “Baby, that’s exactly why I like the idea. No mysteries. We know he’s healthy, intelligent, kind. Remember how he handled that drunk guy at the club without breaking a sweat? Steady, reliable. And honestly…” She paused, her voice dropping to a playful whisper, lips brushing Shikha’s ear. “He’s a fine specimen. If we’re doing this, why not choose someone who’d give our kid those good genes? But seriously—if it feels wrong, we stop. I don’t want you carrying any doubt along with the baby.”
 
Shikha lifted her head, searching Preeti’s eyes. There was no jealousy there, no hesitation—just love, fierce and unwavering. It was what had drawn her to Preeti in the first place: that unshakeable confidence in them. “You’re right,” she admitted finally, her tension easing into a reluctant grin. “I’m not afraid at all. It’s just nerves. The idea of carrying… of us becoming moms… it’s huge. Let’s talk about it more later. We will get late for the evening. Simran and Ravi are about to come and get us in an hour.”
 
Preeti nodded, pulling her in for a deep, lingering kiss—slow and reassuring, the kind that melted away the last traces of doubt. When they broke apart, she cupped Shikha’s face in her hands. “Shikha, I love you. And please don’t be bothered at all. I will take care of you—through every scan, every craving, every late-night worry. This is our journey. Arjun or not, anonymous or known… we’ll make it perfect.”
 
Shikha smiled fully now, leaning in for one more quick kiss. “I know you will. Now go change—we can’t show up to the club looking like we just rolled out of bed.”
 
Preeti laughed, standing and pulling Shikha up with her. “Speak for yourself. You in that robe? I’d cancel the whole night.”
 
As they headed to the bedroom to get ready, the decision hung in the air—not fully resolved, but closer, wrapped in the quiet strength of their bond. Tonight would be a distraction—friends, music, laughter. But later, in the quiet hours, they would circle back, mapping out the path to the family they both craved.
 
To be continued…

[doodhwale_bhaiya]

Gadhe ka Lund
 
Bhola: Let us understand this character a bit more with a magnifying glass because he is like a shadow in this house and is never registered as present but his absence is always felt because he is ensuring no one needs something in the house, especially Simran these days. Bhola’s village as already told before had a specific speciality of making a potent powder which when consumed actually increased the libido of male or female to a very high extent. To some people it also increases the productivity of semen thereby increasing the chances of pregnancy. In females, which is an even more complicated setup, as it can give birth to life, has a completely different effect. It rewires the brain to always want more copulation, thereby increasing chances of pregnancy, produces more glow to the body by increasing the breast size, attracting males, and also increases milk production to a very high extent to not only feed the baby but to feed her partner too who in turn on drinking that milk will have increased libido to have copulation and now you know the cycle is kind of never ending.
 
Now one day while Bhola was in his village home he observed, infact heard moans from his brother’s room, thereby peeping and seeing his Bhabhi having sex with his brother. Now all this is something natural, but what he observed was this engagement went on for quite sometime, to the extent that he was having sex for at least an hour before getting an orgasm. He tried to think what might be the reason for such a stamina but could never find his brother consuming anything special. Then one day he noticed his Komal Bhahi having a spoon of that powder by mixing it in the milk and then consuming it. But it was random or so he thought. It was not. Komal was having it for 7 days every three months. This was enough for the cycle of copulation, cucking milk and then again copulation again and again for atleast three months. Anyways, Bhola saw all this and that’s why he asked his Bhabhi about helping Simran and that’s why Komal helped him and since Simran had a miscarriage, Komal thought giving her the powder two times for 7 days each after a gap of two weeks will help Simran to get pregnant again. Instead it kick started the milk production first as her body was thinking her baby is already born as explained by Preeti also.
 
The twist in the drama is not over here for Bhola. Bhola had also consumed the powder for quite a few days while he was in his village but since he was not having a partner he didn’t get a chance to start the cycle. He was not into the “handsome” business and hence he more often than not spent that energy in doing rural strengthening exercises including a lot of village wresting etc for 2 years. But now he left all that. The twist is if a male does not involve himself with another female to dissipate that energy, he instead gains in strength of withholding orgasm, in addition his organ also considerably increases in length and girth. Ofcourse a man wont become an elephant, if you know what I mean, but he might actually turn into a donkey. But this sideeffect, if you want to call it a side effect, is not known to anyone, not even Bhola, because he never compared size of dicks with anyone and neither his sister in law because no one came to her alone to consume this. So this natural calamity will burst one day. Who knows when.
 
Now coming back to present day.
 
 
Bhola
 
Since the day Simran's accident had shattered the fragile peace of the house, Bhola had taken on even more without a word—cooking lighter meals to tempt her appetite, keeping the floors spotless to prevent any slips, even handling the most intimate chores that no one else seemed to notice or mind. The laundry had always been his domain, a quiet ritual that blurred the lines between servant and family. Simran's panties and bras were no exception; he gathered them from the bathroom floor or the hamper, soaked them gently in soapy water if needed, then fed them into the washing machine on the delicate cycle. Once clean and sun-dried on the discreet balcony line (hidden from neighbors' eyes), he folded them with careful precision—panties into neat squares, bras hooked and stacked—and placed them back in her undergarment drawer, nestled among the lace and cotton like secrets he was trusted to keep.
 
It had become the norm because it was convenient. Simran and Ravi were busy with their lives, their grief, their recoveries; who else would do it? Simran had felt a faint unease at first—years ago, when Bhola first took over after the old maid left—but it was already too late to change. Telling him now, after all this time, to stop drying her panties would feel scandalous, awkward. There was only one drying spot in the flat—the balcony—and separating her intimates would mean explaining, drawing attention to something that had slipped into silent acceptance. For Bhola, it wasn't perversion; it was connection. Touching the soft fabrics that had clung to her body felt like a quiet bond, a way to care for his Bhabhi without words. Scandalous to an outsider, perhaps—imagining a young village man handling the sheer lace thongs or the padded bras still warm from her skin—but for him, it was duty, devotion. Not yet anything more.
 
That afternoon, as he collected the discarded nightie, dry towel, and panties from the bathroom floor, he noticed the anomalies without judgment. The bra—still hooked and damp across the cups, as though soaked from the inside—lay abandoned near the sink. The panties were stained, not with the usual faint marks of daily wear, but something slicker, more pronounced, carrying a subtle, musky scent that lingered on his fingers. He didn't think much of it—what was it to him? Bhabhi's body, Bhabhi's secrets. He simply bundled them with the rest, carried the basket downstairs to the utility area, and started the wash.
 
But unconsciously, as the machine hummed to life, his mind drifted back to the powder. Incidentally, Komal also called at the same time. “Bhabhi namaste”.
 
"Bhola? Sab theek hai?"
 
"Ji, Bhabhiji," he replied quietly, glancing around to ensure the house was empty. "Bhola kaise hai teri Simran Bhabhi?”
 
“Ji, wo pehle se bahot khush hai, mujhe lagta hai aapki medicine kaam kar gayi.”
 
Komal was confused. She asked, eagerly, “Khush matlab? Dhang se bata na.”
 
“Matlab Bhabhi wo sabhi kaam mein man lagta hai unka, office ka kaam bhi kar rahi hai, Sahib ke saath bhi bahot sahi reh rahe hai”
 
Komal, wanted to know that whether Simran’s sex drive has increased or not, but she didn’t know how to ask. Still she said..
 
“Bhola, Simran Bhabhi ke chehre mein koi badlav aya hai?”
 
“Ji, wo kafi chamakti hai.”
 
Komal thought this glow is because of sex. She said, “Ok Bhola koi problem hota hai to batana mujhe. Aur baki kaisa hai tu?”
 
“Bhabhi sab bariya koi problem nehi, waise wo powder ke liye bahot bahot shukriya. Ghar mein matav ka mahaul tha, abhi sab thik ho gaya hai.”
 
She paused, then said, “Bhola, wo powder kuch nehi, bus logo mein ichcha honi chahiye, tujhe bhi kabhi mushkil ho to tub hi use aajmake dekh sakta hai. But waise wo mard ke liye zarurat nehi hai, sirf aurat ko hi dena chahiye. Waise lene ke liye koi bhi le sakta hai. But tujhe abhi nehi chahiye, samjha.” And smiled and the after sometime finished the call.
 
He has a jar of that powder now, initially he had just a pouch but after first week he had gone home again to get a jar of the same. Bhola already knew it does not matter if he consumes it, it has no effect on him, or so he thought.
 


Author
 
Now, I am sure you guys have definitely heard about the Adam and Eve story—how one bite from the Apple changed the future of humanity forever, unleashing knowledge, desire, and all the messy consequences that come with tasting the forbidden. Similarly, this was going to happen with this family and some more in the near future as well. The powder, like that fateful fruit, had been offered in innocence, but its effects were ripening fast—stirring hungers that couldn't be unbitten, unlocking doors that led to darker garden as you know how. When? Time will only decide. So sit tight and relax… and don't forget about keeping one hand free. You know why.
 
Btw just because you think you know what is in the script now, don’t underestimate my imagination. Its creepy and sick. It will give you what you want, but then you might never be able to come out of it.

[doodhwale_bhaiya]

Oh we are ready and waiting   .     Many Readers demand such writing skill levels 


One request - Could you kindly add English translation for sentences in hindi.

I will do one thing. I will try to keep it mostly in English. I will make Hindi translations instead wherever required.

[doodhwale_bhaiya]

The Mangoes
 
The clock in the living room ticked toward 6 PM, the late afternoon light fading into a soft amber glow that seeped through the flat's windows. All day, Simran had danced around the insistent ache in her breasts—ignoring the heavy, unnatural tightness, the faint damp spots blooming on her nightie, telling herself it would pass like a fleeting cramp. But the evening loomed: the club meet with Preeti, Shikha, Ravi, and the others. The thought of sitting through drinks and laughter with this secret pressure building inside her was unbearable. What if it leaked through her dress? What if the pain sharpened mid-conversation? No—she had to deal with it now, before it betrayed her in public.
 
She slipped into the bathroom, heart pounding, and locked the door with a soft click. Her hands moved almost on their own, grasping the hem of her knee-length nightie and peeling it upward in one fluid, desperate motion. The fabric whispered against her skin as it lifted, exposing her bare thighs, the naked mound between them (still no panties from earlier), and finally her full, aching breasts spilling free as the nightie cleared her head and fell to the floor. She stood there for a moment, panting, completely nude except for the invisible sheen of arousal that had been simmering all day.
 
Her fingers fumbled with the bra clasp—hooked at the front for easy access—and snapped it open. The cups fell away like shed skin, releasing her breasts with a soft bounce. They looked obscene in the mirror: swollen beyond their usual lush fullness, veins faintly blue beneath the milky-white skin, areolas wide and darkened to a deep rose, nipples erect and throbbing like they were alive with their own pulse. Heavy, tight, unnatural—they hung like overripe fruit begging to be plucked, the undersides already glistening with a faint precursor of what was to come.
 
Simran cupped them immediately, one in each hand, lifting their weight with a gasp. The touch alone sent an electric shock racing through her nerves—sharp, jagged pleasure laced with pain that made her knees buckle slightly. She squeezed, tentative at first, fingers digging into the taut flesh. A squeal escaped her lips—high, involuntary, echoing off the tiles like a secret confession. But she didn't stop. Couldn't. She squeezed again, harder, thumbs pressing into the base while her palms compressed the fullness. The shockwave rippled deeper this time, coiling low in her belly, making her thighs clench against the growing slickness between them.
 
Three more squeezes—deliberate, rhythmic—and still no relief. No milk. Just building pressure, her nipples hardening further into tight, reddish peaks that ached for more. She shifted her grip, pinching one nipple between her index finger and thumb, pulling it outward with a firm tug. Pain bloomed—hot, exquisite—drawing another moan from her throat, low and throaty, her free hand clutching the sink for support. The pull stretched the sensitive bud, sending sparks straight to her core, her bare pussy clenching emptily as arousal dripped slowly down her inner thigh.
 
Desperation took over. She focused on her right breast first, using both hands: the left cupping and squeezing the heavy globe from below, lifting and compressing in slow, milking strokes, while the right pulled and twisted the nipple outward. Three attempts—each one building the tension like a coiled spring. Her moans grew louder, breathy, her hips rocking subtly as the pleasure-pain blurred into something intoxicating. Then, on the fourth, it broke: small drops beaded at the tip, pearlescent and warm, swelling until they trickled down her areola in lazy rivulets.
 
She squeezed more insistently now, fingers working in tandem—lift, compress, pull. The drops turned to a thin stream, then—suddenly—a forceful spray erupted, arcing through the air in a fine white mist that painted the mirror in splattered droplets. The sight was hypnotic: milk jetting from her nipple in pulsing bursts, warm and sweet-scented, streaking the glass like forbidden art. She moaned openly now, the sound raw and needy, her left hand abandoning the right breast to mirror the motion on the left—squeezing, pulling, coaxing.
 
Both nipples answered in unison: twin sprays shooting forward, crossing in the air before splattering the mirror, running down in creamy trails that fogged the reflection slightly. Her breasts softened under the assault, the tightness easing with each rhythmic pull, but the erotic charge only intensified. Milk coated her fingers, dripped from her undersides onto her bare thighs, mixing with the slick arousal now freely trailing down her legs. Her pussy throbbed, untouched but aching, the sprays syncing with the involuntary clenches of her core. She leaned forward, bracing one hand on the sink, the other alternating between breasts—squeeze - spray, squeeze -spray, squeeze - spray, moaning incessantly and lost in the trance of her body's betrayal.
 
Half an hour passed in this haze—her hands tireless at first, then aching from the effort, her breasts finally yielding to a softer fullness, still brimming but no longer painfully taut. The mirror was a mess of white streaks, the air thick with the floral sweetness of her milk. She released her breasts at last, palms sticky, nipples raw and glistening, her body trembling with exhaustion and unmet need. Relief washed over her, but so did fatigue—her hands needed rest, her boobs too, hanging heavy and spent, soft yet full of the milk that had only begun to reveal its demands.
 
After the exhaustive milking, Simran leaned against the sink, chest heaving, her body slick with a fine sheen of sweat and milk. The ache had subsided to a dull hum, but a new pressure stirred lower—a familiar urgency in her bladder, amplified by the erotic haze still clouding her mind. She hooked her thumbs into the waistband of her panties—already damp from the arousal that had built during the squeezing—and lowered them slowly, the fabric peeling away from her swollen, glistening lips with a soft, sticky sound. She stepped out of them, leaving them tangled at her ankles, and sat on the commode, thighs parted wide, the cool porcelain a stark contrast to the heat radiating from her core.
 
She relaxed, and the stream began—strong, steady, the sharp hiss of it echoing in the bowl like a forbidden whisper. Like the other day, the sound and sensation made her tingle: the warm rush cascading from her, the faint splash below, the way it vibrated through her sensitive folds. Goosebumps prickled across her skin, her nipples—still raw and leaking faintly—tightening again. She glanced down at her discarded panties on the floor and froze. The crotch was soaked, not just with the clear slickness of her arousal, but streaked with thicker, opaque white liquid.
 
Had she… squirted?
 
During the milking?
 
The realization hit like a wave—her body had betrayed her again, releasing not just milk but this creamy essence from deeper within, mingling with her piss's aftermath. Confusion swirled in her mind: what was happening to her? Lactation, squirting, this insatiable heat—her body was rewriting itself, awakening hungers she didn't recognize. But beneath the bewilderment, a dark thrill bloomed. She liked it. The scandal, the wetness, the raw femininity of it all—it made her feel alive, powerful, dangerously wanton.
 
Even as she pissed, her eyes drifted to her right breast, hanging heavy and spent. A fresh drop of milk formed at the nipple's tip—pearlescent, trembling—swelling until it broke free and trailed down the curve. Without thinking, in a trance-like auto mode, her finger rose to catch it under the nipples, scooping the warm bead onto her fingertip. She brought it to her lips, tongue darting out in a natural reflex, tasting herself—sweet, faintly nutty, creamy like forbidden nectar. The flavour exploded on her tongue, sending a shiver through her entire body, her pussy clenching emptily as the last of her stream tapered off. She shuddered at the realization of what she'd done—tasting her own milk, like some primal ritual she hadn't been taught but knew instinctively. Her cheeks burned, but so did the fire between her legs.
 
She reached for the hand jet, angling the warm spray upward with deliberate slowness. The water hit her pussy lips first—plump, flushed, and parted slightly from the day's arousal—cascading over the sensitive folds in a teasing torrent. She adjusted the pressure, letting it pulse against her clit, the erotic cleansing making her gasp as it rinsed away the mingled slickness of milk residue, squirt, and piss. Her free hand parted her lips wider, fingers spreading the soft, velvety petals to expose the inner pink, the jet delving deeper, swirling around her entrance in rhythmic circles that mimicked a lover's tongue. The sensation was intoxicating—warm water licking at her most intimate crevices, flushing out the creamy evidence while stoking the heat again. What she wanted to do was to clean her pussy, instead she had something else in mind, which was not her fault at all. She lingered longer than necessary, hips tilting forward, a soft moan escaping as the spray teased her swollen nub, sending jolts of pleasure up her spine. Finally, satisfied and even wetter than before, she dried herself with a soft towel—patting gently, almost caressingly, over the smooth mound and down the slick inner thighs—then picked up her panty lying on the floor and pulled them back up, the damp fabric clinging possessively to her aroused lips, her pussy lips.
 
She hooked her bra back on, the cups cradling her softened breasts with a gentle hug, faint damp spots already forming again. But she didn't bother with the nightie or anything else. She stepped out of the bathroom in just her bra and panties—lacy, sheer, hugging her curves like a second skin—feeling bold, exposed, the flat's quiet air kissing her bare midriff and thighs. The scandal of it thrilled her; no one was home, but the risk lingered in her mind as she moved through the space, her body humming with unsatisfied need.
 
 
The Crowd
 
Let’s put some lineage to this sudden unstoppable erotica. Let’s see who these people are and what else must we know. So.
 
Before we dive deeper into the unravelling threads of this tale, let's pull back the curtain on the people orbiting Ravi and Simran's world. Every family has its hidden layers—beauty, loss, desires unspoken—and this one is no exception. These are the women who shape the edges of our story, each one a vision of erotic allure that lingers like perfume in a closed room.
 
Simran's younger sister, Jasleen, is just two years her junior, making her 32 now. Settled in Bangalore with her husband, a tech executive, she's childless by choice for the moment—focused on her career as a graphic designer in a bustling ad firm. Jasleen shares Simran's Punjabi glow but with a sharper, more athletic edge from her yoga obsession. At 5'5", she's slimmer than her sister, a 34-28-36 that moves with feline grace—firm breasts that strain against her fitted blouses, nipples often visible through thin fabrics in Bangalore's humid heat, and hips that sway like a slow invitation. Her skin is a warm honey tone, her long hair often tied in a messy ponytail that begs to be pulled, and her full lips curve into smiles that promise mischief. Erotic in her subtlety, Jasleen's body whispers of untapped fire—thighs toned from squats, ass pert and rounded like ripe peaches, the kind that jiggles just enough in yoga pants to turn heads at the gym.
 
Their mother, Nimrat, is the root of it all—a stunning widow at just 50, having married young and lost her husband to a sudden heart attack when the girls were teens. Now a successful fashion designer in Mumbai, she crafts elegant ethnic wear that hugs curves like a lover's hands. Nimrat is voluptuous in the way only maturity can sculpt: 5'4" with a 38-32-40 figure that defies her age, her heavy breasts still sitting high and proud, often spilling softly over low-neck blouses in her own designs, nipples dark and prominent under sheer sarees. Her skin is flawless, a creamy fairness that glows under Mumbai's lights, her waist cinched by years of discipline but flaring into wide, childbearing hips that sway with hypnotic rhythm. Erotically, she's a masterpiece—full lips painted red, eyes lined with kohl that smolder like embers, and an ass so lush and rounded it strains against her fitted skirts, drawing stares wherever she goes. Nimrat's body radiates experienced sensuality, the kind that makes men (and women) wonder what secrets her bedroom holds.
 
Ravi, on the other hand, carries the weight of loss like a quiet shadow. An orphan now—his parents passed away in a tragic car accident while he was on a short work stint in the US five years ago—he returned broken, burying himself in his career until Simran entered his life two years later. Marriage to her became his anchor; he needs her like air, his attachment fierce and unwavering. Ravi does everything for Simran—cooks her favorite meals on weekends, surprises her with rose attar, prioritizes her happiness over money, comfort, or even his own ambitions. He's wired that way now, his love a shield against the void his parents left. Nimrat and Jasleen adore him for it; they meet the couple only occasionally—festivals in Mumbai or quick Bangalore visits—but when they do, they shower him with affection, treating him like the son and brother they never had, grateful for how he cherishes Simran.
 
And why leave Preeti and Shikha out of this spotlight? These two are the wild cards, the friends who blur lines and ignite sparks. Preeti, the Chandigarh-born gynecologist, stands at an average 5'5"—not towering, not petite, but beautifully proportioned with a figure that's all about those unforgettable boobs. A 36-28-34 that turns heads without trying, her breasts are her crowning glory: full, round D-cups that sit high and jiggle softly with every step, often straining against her fitted tops or doctor's coat, nipples poking through like hidden invitations. Her skin is fair with a golden undertone, her face framed by a sleek ponytail, large eyes sparkling with mischief, and lips that curve into teasing smiles. Erotically, she's a temptress—curves that beg to be traced, an ass firm but secondary to the hypnotic bounce of her chest, and a bisexual fire she keeps mostly hidden, though her gaze lingers on women as much as men.
 
Shikha, her Delhi-raised wife and freelance strategist, matches her in height and beauty but flips the script with an ass that's pure sin. Also 5'5" with a 34-28-38 frame, her breasts are perky C-cups, but it's her lower half that steals the show: wide hips flaring into a gigantic, heart-shaped ass that's plush and jiggling, the kind that fills out jeans like they're painted on, cheeks so round and firm they sway with every stride. Her skin is a warm olive, her short hair tousled and sexy, eyes sharp and inviting, lips full and often bitten in thought. Erotically charged, Shikha's body screams indulgence—thighs thick and toned, ass begging for a slap or squeeze, and her open bisexuality adding that layer of bold desire. It's why she wants to carry their child now—to feel that fullness, that transformation, embracing her body's potential in ways Preeti fully supports.
 
This drama is going to impose a lot of changes in everyone's life—twisting bonds, awakening secrets, reshaping desires in ways no one sees coming. Especially yours, at least while you're reading it. So keep one hand free and read away.
 
 
Ladies First
 
Preeti and Shikha's realization of their shared attraction to women unfolded gradually, like a secret blooming in the quiet corners of their friendship-turned-romance. It started during their med college days in Chandigarh, where late-night study sessions in cramped hostels turned into confessions over cheap coffee. Preeti—always the bolder one—admitted first, only to herself: she'd had flings with boys in college, passionate but chaotic encounters that left her feeling unmoored. Sex with them made her lose herself in a bad way; the sight of a well-hung cock, its thick veins pulsing with life, the way it throbbed and stretched her, turned her into a slave to the raw, animalistic pull. It was crazy eroticism—the heat, the fullness, the way it commanded her body to arch and beg—but it scared her too, pulling her away from that path forever. She craved control, softness, the intimate dance of equals. Shikha was her first love. So when Shikha told her own stories that she'd dated men, enjoyed the thrill, but always felt a deeper pull toward women—the curve of a hip, the softness of lips, the way a woman's touch lingered like silk, Priya kept her crazy sexcapades to herself. Only Shikha had embraced her bisexuality openly from the start, while Preeti kept hers hidden until that night, their eyes meeting in a spark that changed everything.
 
One rainy evening in their final year, after the last gruelling exam, they crashed in Shikha's room, tipsy on smuggled rum and exhaustion. The alcohol played cupid. The air was thick with unspoken tension; It was thundering and raining heavily like pussies….i mean cats and dogs. Shikha leaned in first, her full lips brushing Preeti's in a tentative kiss that deepened into hunger. They undressed slowly, hands exploring—Shikha's fingers tracing the generous swell of Preeti's breasts, thumbs circling the hard nipples until Preeti moaned, arching into the touch. Shikha's ass, that magnificent heart-shaped wonder, pressed back against Preeti's thigh as they tangled on the bed, her skin warm olive against Preeti's fair glow. Preeti's mouth found Shikha's neck, sucking gently, then trailed down to her perky C-cups, tongue flicking the dark nipples until they pebbled hard. Shikha gasped, her hand sliding between Preeti's legs, fingers dipping into the slick heat, circling the swollen clit with expert pressure. They ground together, bodies slick with sweat, Preeti's voluptuous boobs bouncing softly against Shikha's chest as they scissored—wet folds sliding in rhythmic friction, moans building to a crescendo.
 
But the real fire ignited when Shikha pulled out a hidden dildo from her drawer—a thick, veined silicone toy, realistic and imposing. Preeti's eyes widened, that old slave-like pull stirring as Shikha teased her entrance with it. A few strokes in—deep, filling thrusts that stretched her walls and hit that sweet spot— and Preeti lost it, her body bucking wildly, moans turning to cries as the veins mimicked the real thing, pulsing against her inner ridges. She came hard, squirting in a gush that soaked the sheets, but the intensity terrified her—too much like the men who'd made her feel out of control. She pulled away abruptly, panting, "No more… not for me." Then, flipping the script, she grabbed the dildo and turned on Shikha like a woman possessed—strapping it on with trembling hands, pushing Shikha onto her back, and plunging in deep. Shikha's lush ass lifted to meet each thrust, her cheeks jiggling with the force, moans filling the room as Preeti fucked her crazy—hard, relentless strokes that made Shikha's pussy clench and cream around the toy, her hands clawing at Preeti's bouncing breasts. They came together in a shuddering wave, collapsing in a tangle of limbs, the dildo forgotten as they kissed softly, sealing their bond in sweat and whispers. From that night, Preeti knew women were her safe harbour, but the fire of that "crazy eroticism" still simmered, waiting for the right storm to unleash it.
 
So now let’s get back to present day. The evening when both couples were to meet at the club again.

[doodhwale_bhaiya]

Beauty and her Breasts
 
Simran’s voice came muffled through the bathroom door, a little breathless, a little rushed. 
“I need some more time. You go ahead and watch something.”
 
Ravi paused in the bedroom, halfway into his black shirt, and shrugged with a small smile. “Okay, jaan. No hurry.” He settled on the bed, phone in hand, scrolling mindlessly while the sound of running water filled the flat.
 
Inside the bathroom, there was no calm. Simran was frantic—heart racing, breasts aching with fresh fullness after the long day of avoidance. She had to finish this before the club, before anyone noticed the damp patches or the way she winced when she moved. The steam shower had already begun, hot water cascading over her naked body in thick clouds, fogging the mirror, turning the small space into a humid cocoon. She stood under the spray, letting it pound against her swollen breasts, nipples tightening instantly as the heat soaked into the taut skin. The steam wrapped around her like a lover’s breath, making her skin flush pink, droplets tracing slow paths down her heavy curves, pooling in the deep valley of her cleavage before dripping off the undersides.
 
She didn’t waste time. Hands flew to her breasts—cupping, lifting, squeezing in quick, desperate strokes. Milk came faster this time, spurred by the heat and urgency: thin jets spraying against the tiled wall, running down in creamy rivulets that mixed with the shower water and swirled toward the drain. She moaned softly, the sound swallowed by the steam, her hips rocking as the release sent shivers straight to her core. Three minutes of frantic milking—pull, spray, moan—until the pressure eased, her breasts softening, nipples still leaking but no longer painfully full. She rinsed quickly, soaping her body with jasmine body wash, fingers lingering between her thighs where the earlier arousal still clung.
 
She stepped out dripping, wrapped a large white towel around her torso—barely covering from chest to upper thigh—and grabbed the hairdryer. Bent over the sink, she dried her long black hair in hurried blasts, waves falling glossy and full past her waist, framing her flushed face. Makeup next: kajal to rim her large eyes, nude gloss on her full lips, a touch of highlighter on her cheekbones. She glowed—skin luminous from the steam, breasts still tender and slightly swollen beneath the towel, ass cheeks peeking below the hem as she moved.
 
In the bedroom, she dropped the towel, letting it pool at her feet. Naked for a heartbeat, she slipped into her chosen dress: a deep emerald green bodycon midi that hugged every curve like liquid silk. The fabric clung to her full breasts, the neckline plunging just enough to show the tops of her cleavage, the hem stopping mid-thigh to reveal toned legs. No bra tonight—the dress had built-in support, and the faint outline of her nipples pressed against the material, a secret thrill. High-waisted black lace panties underneath, sheer enough to feel scandalous. Strappy black heels, a delicate gold chain around her neck, and her mangalsutra nestled between her breasts. She looked dangerous—voluptuous, radiant, every sway of her hips a promise.
 
Ravi looked up from his phone as she stepped out. His breath caught. 
“Jaan… you look…” 
She smiled, that blinding, pink-gum smile. “Let’s go.”
 
They drove to Preeti and Shikha’s apartment in Sector 8, the city lights streaking past. Ravi kept stealing glances—her dress riding up slightly on her thighs, the way her breasts moved with every bump in the road. Preeti and Shikha were waiting outside when they pulled up.
 
Preeti wore a sleek black off-shoulder mini dress that showcased her signature assets: those full, bouncing 36D breasts pushed high by the fitted bodice, cleavage deep and inviting, nipples faintly outlined under the thin fabric. Her legs looked endless in strappy silver heels, hair in a high ponytail that swung with every step.
 
Shikha, beside her, was pure fire in a crimson red bodycon dress that clung to her 38-inch hips and that legendary heart-shaped ass—cheeks so round and firm they strained the fabric, jiggling softly as she walked toward the car. The dress dipped low in the back, exposing smooth olive skin, and her short hair was tousled, lips painted bold red.
 
They piled in—Preeti in the front with Ravi, Shikha in the back with Simran—laughter and perfume filling the car as they headed to the club.
 
Kitty Su, a premium Club of Chandigarh, was alive when they arrived—purple and blue lights pulsing, deep bass thumping through the walls. They found their usual high table near the dance floor, ordered drinks: whiskey neat for Ravi, vodka sodas for the girls, a platter of starters to share.
 
Simran settled into her seat, the emerald dress riding up her thighs, breasts rising and falling with each breath. She felt the faint dampness in her bra again—already?—but pushed it aside, raising her glass with the others.
 
“To new nights,” Preeti toasted, eyes sparkling with mischief.

[doodhwale_bhaiya]

Kitty Su
 
The club was in full swing—remixed Bollywood beats thumping through the floor, purple lights sweeping across the dance floor, the air thick with perfume, whiskey, and laughter. Their high table near the edge felt like a private island in the chaos. Glasses clinked as the waiter set down the drinks: whiskey neat for Ravi, vodka sodas for the girls, a platter of crispy chilli chicken and garlic bread in the centre.
 
Preeti leaned forward first, her black off-shoulder dress slipping just enough to show more of her deep cleavage as she rested her elbows on the table. She fixed Ravi with a mischievous grin.
 
“Ravi,” she said, voice low enough to cut through the music, “you know that guy at the bar? The one in the grey shirt? He’s been eyeing your wife for the last ten minutes straight.”
 
Ravi followed her gaze—sure enough, a tall man in his late thirties was glancing over, eyes lingering on Simran’s emerald dress where it hugged her curves. Ravi chuckled, shaking his head. “Preeti, you’re trouble.”
 
Preeti laughed, raising her glass. “Relax, I’m joking. He’s probably just wondering how to survive the night without staring too obviously.” She winked at Simran. “But honestly, jaanu, everyone is eyeing you tonight. That dress? Deadly. Don’t worry, Ravi—you’re the lucky one who gets to take her home.”
 
Simran flushed, smiling behind her glass. “Stop it, Preeti. You’re worse than the aunties at family functions.”
 
Shikha leaned in from Ravi’s other side, her crimson dress shifting over her lush hips as she crossed her legs. “She’s right, though,” she said, voice playful. “Even I’m eyeing Simran. That glow? That body? How is it fair?”
 
Preeti reached over and gave Shikha’s arm a light, teasing pat. “Down, girl. She’s taken. And married. And mine to tease first.”
 
Everyone burst out laughing—Ravi’s deep chuckle mixing with the girls’ bright peals, the tension dissolving into easy warmth.
 
Ravi took a sip of whiskey, grinning. “You three together are dangerous. I should’ve known better than to let you all sit at the same table.”
 
Preeti rolled her eyes dramatically. “Please. You love it. Speaking of dangerous… tell me, Ravi, how’s the new client project going? You were complaining last week about the midnight calls again.”
 
Ravi groaned, leaning back. “Don’t remind me. Last Tuesday, the client from Dubai called at 2 AM because he wanted to change the entire dashboard layout. I told him, ‘Sir, it’s 2 AM here.’ He said, ‘Perfect time for creativity.’ I nearly threw my phone out the window.”
 
Shikha laughed, shaking her head. “Classic. Freelance life is bad enough, but at least I can say no. Last month I had a client who wanted a full rebrand in three days. I told him, ‘Sure, but it’ll cost you my sanity and an extra 50%.’ He agreed. Men and deadlines, I swear.”
 
Simran smiled softly, swirling her drink. “You’re all braver than me. My team is still fighting over one Instagram post caption. They debated ‘vibe check’ vs ‘energy check’ for twenty minutes yesterday. I just muted the group and went for a walk.”
 
Preeti snorted. “That’s why you’re the smart one. Let them fight. You just keep looking this good while they argue.”
 
Ravi reached over, squeezing Simran’s hand under the table. “She’s right. You’ve been glowing lately, jaan. Whatever you’re doing… keep doing it.”
 
Simran’s smile faltered for half a second—the memory of the bathroom, the milk, the taste on her tongue—but she covered it quickly, squeezing his hand back. “Just happy, I guess.”
 
Shikha raised her glass again. “To happy. And to nights like this—where we can forget deadlines, clients, and everything else.”
 
They clinked once more, the music swelling around them, the night young and full of unspoken possibilities.

[doodhwale_bhaiya]

The Elephant in the Room
 
The vodka soda had gone straight to Simran’s bladder. She leaned toward Shikha, voice low over the thumping music. 
“Need to pee. Coming?”
 
Shikha nodded, sliding off her stool with a grin. “Always babes.” 
The two women slipped away from the table, weaving through the crowd toward the ladies’ room at the back of the club.
 
Ravi watched them go, then turned to Preeti, who was nursing her drink, eyes scanning the dance floor. 
“How is she holding up, really?” he asked quietly. “Simran. After… everything.”
 
Preeti set her glass down, expression softening. “She’s much better, Ravi. You can see it—the glow, the energy. That Maldives trip did wonders. The salt air, the distance… it gave her space to breathe.”
 
Ravi nodded, staring at the spot where Simran had disappeared. “Yeah. She’s laughing more. Sleeping better. But sometimes I catch her staring at nothing, hand on her stomach. Like she’s remembering.”
 
Preeti reached over, touching his arm gently. “Don’t bring up the baby just yet. Not even casually. She’ll ask you when she’s ready. Trust her timing. Pushing now will only make the wound reopen.”
 
Ravi exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck. “I know. I just… want to give her everything. Make it right.”
 
Preeti smiled, small and knowing. “You already are.”
 
A beat of silence passed between them, the bass vibrating through the table. Then Ravi tilted his head. “And you guys? You and Shikha. Any plans on the family front?”
 
Preeti hesitated—her fingers tightening around her glass for a second—then she let out a soft breath. 
“We’ve… planned for a baby,” she said carefully. “Shikha wants to carry. She’s been clear about that from the start.”
 
Ravi’s brows lifted. “That’s… big. Congratulations. How are you—”
 
Before he could finish, Simran and Shikha returned, weaving back through the crowd, faces flushed from the walk and the heat. They slid into their seats, giggling about something.
 
Simran leaned in, eyes wide with excitement. “You won’t believe what we just heard in the washroom. Two girls were whispering—Shahid Kapoor and Kiara Advani are here tonight. In hoodies, trying to go incognito so no one spots them.”
 
Shikha nodded, laughing. “They were in the corner stall, literally saying, ‘Hood up, heads down, no selfies.’ Apparently they’re here for a quiet night out.”
 
Preeti’s eyes lit up. “No way. Shahid and Kiara? Here?”
 
Ravi chuckled. “Bollywood royalty slumming it in Sector 26?”
 
Simran turned to him, playful but serious. “Ravi… can you find out if we can meet them? Just say hi? Please?”
 
Ravi raised an eyebrow, amused. “You want me to go play detective in a club full of drunk people, looking for two celebrities in hoodies?”
 
Simran pouted, batting her lashes. “Pretty please? It’ll be fun. And you’re tall—you can see over everyone.”
 
Ravi sighed dramatically, but the corner of his mouth twitched. “Fine. Let me see what’s going on.”
 
He stood, adjusting his shirt, and disappeared into the pulsing crowd, leaving the three women at the table exchanging excited glances.

[doodhwale_bhaiya]

 
Girls Talk….a lot
 
The moment Ravi disappeared into the crowd, Simran leaned across the table toward Preeti, eyes bright with curiosity and a hint of mischief. 
 
“Preeti,” she said, voice low but urgent, “Shikha tells me you guys have planned for Arjun to be the donor.”
 
Preeti’s eyes widened, then narrowed playfully as she caught on. She set her vodka soda down with a soft clink. 
 
“So that’s why you forced that innocent man on a goose chase? Is there even Shahid Kapoor here?” she asked, half-shocked, half-amused, a wide smile breaking across her face.
 
Simran bit her lip, trying (and failing) to look innocent. “Of course… not. We wanted to discuss before we tell Ravi. You know, with the men around.”
 
Shikha laughed softly, leaning back in her seat, crimson dress shifting over her hips. “Exactly. Some conversations need girl time first.”
 
Preeti shook her head, still grinning. “You two are evil. I just told Ravi we were planning for a baby, and he was probably about to ask ‘how’ when you both sent him on a celebrity hunt. Poor man’s out there looking for hoodies and dimples.”
 
Simran giggled, then sobered slightly, leaning in closer. “Preeti… now tell me what you’ve thought. Arjun, huh?”
 
Preeti exhaled, glancing between the two women before settling her gaze on Simran. She took a small sip of her drink, buying a second to organize her thoughts, then spoke quietly but clearly, voice cutting through the club’s background hum.
 
“Okay. Look… we didn’t decide this overnight. It’s been months of talking, crying, laughing, everything. Shikha wants to carry—she’s always been clear about that. And I support her completely. We looked at anonymous donors first—profiles, health records, the whole medical checklist. But the more we read, the more it felt… cold. Like picking a stranger’s DNA from a catalogue.”
 
She paused, letting that sink in.
 
“Then Arjun came up. Not randomly—he’s been in our orbit for years. Shikha’s old colleague, remember? We’ve known him socially, professionally. He’s from Ludhiana originally, good Punjabi family, clean background. No red flags in his health history—tested clean for everything, genetic screening perfect, sperm count and motility excellent. Physically? He’s tall, strong, good bone structure, sharp features. No major illnesses in the family line. And emotionally… he’s steady. Kind. The kind of man who remembers birthdays and helps without being asked.”
 
Preeti’s voice softened, but her eyes stayed steady.
 
“We talked to him—openly. Told him exactly what we wanted: donor sperm, no strings, no involvement beyond that. He thought about it for weeks, asked questions, got his own tests done again just to be sure. He agreed because he wants to help friends start a family. Nothing more. No rights, no contact, no drama. It’s all legal paperwork, signed and sealed.”
 
Shikha nodded, adding quietly, “We trust him. That matters more than any anonymous profile.”
 
Simran listened, fingers tracing the rim of her glass. “And you’re okay with it, Preeti? Knowing the baby will have… him in the genes?”
 
Preeti smiled, small and sure. “More than okay. It feels right. Safer. And honestly? If our kid gets even half of his height and half of Shikha’s smile, we’re winning.”
 
The three women sat in a pocket of quiet amid the club’s chaos, the weight of the conversation settling comfortably between them.
 
Simran exhaled, a soft smile curving her lips. “You two… you’re really doing this.”
 
Preeti raised her glass. “We are.”
 
Shikha clinked hers against it. “And when Ravi gets back, we’ll tell him properly. Together.”

Simran leaned even closer across the table, her emerald dress shifting slightly, voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. 
“Preeti… how is it going to happen? Like… practically?”
 
Preeti’s eyes sparkled with wicked amusement. She took a slow sip of her vodka soda, letting the question hang for a dramatic second before answering. 
“Simmu, you horny little slut. You want to know every dirty detail, don’t you?” 
 
Simran’s cheeks flushed instantly, but she didn’t back down, biting her lip with a shy grin. 
 
Preeti laughed softly, then tilted her head toward Shikha. “Ask her. She’ll explain. It’s her body, her choice.”
 
Shikha smiled, calm and confident, leaning back so her crimson dress pulled tight across her lush hips. She spoke in a low, steady voice, eyes locked on Simran’s. 
 
“It’s simple, really. Arjun will come to our house one evening. Preeti will be there too—of course. We’ll keep it clinical, comfortable. No drama, no romance. Just… the act. He’ll provide the sample in the usual way, we’ll use a syringe or turkey baster for insemination. Timing it with my ovulation window. That’s it. Clean, quick, done.”
 
Simran’s breath caught. Her eyes widened, a mix of shock and fascination flickering across her face. 
“Can I… also see?” 
 
Preeti and Shikha answered in perfect unison, voices overlapping with mock sternness: 
“No.” 
 
The word came out so fast and firm that all three women burst into laughter—bright, unrestrained, heads thrown back. Simran covered her mouth, giggling helplessly, the tension breaking like a wave. 

[doodhwale_bhaiya]

Ravi goes to college

Just then, Ravi reappeared through the crowd, brushing imaginary dust off his sleeves. 
“No Shahid Kapoor,” he announced, sliding back into his seat. “No Kiara either. Hoodies, yes. Celebrities, no. But… I did spot Arjun. He’s here with his girlfriend. They’re sitting separately at a corner table—probably trying to keep a low profile too. I didn’t invite him over. Didn’t want to interrupt.” 
 
He looked around at the three women, eyebrows raised. 
“Should I go get him? Bring him to the table?”
 
Preeti, Shikha, and Simran answered in perfect unison again: 
“No.” 
 
The word landed like a gunshot—sharp, immediate, unanimous. 
 
Ravi blinked, surprised, mouth half-open. He looked from one face to the other, reading the sudden shift in the air. Then he just smiled—slow, knowing, a little amused—and settled back into his chair without another word, picking up his whiskey. 

Ravi’s eyes narrowed playfully as he looked around the table, catching the tail end of the laughter that had erupted when all three women said “No” in perfect unison. 
 
“No, that too in unison!” he said, leaning forward with a mock-serious expression. “Something is cooking here. Tell me.”
 
Preeti exchanged quick glances with Shikha and Simran, then turned to Ravi with an innocent shrug. 
“We were just… girl talk. You were about to ask something earlier, right? Before these two sent you on a wild goose chase for imaginary celebrities.”
 
Ravi chuckled, shaking his head. “Yeah, I was. I wanted to know how you two are actually planning to do this family thing. You said Shikha wants to carry, but… how?”
 
Preeti sighed dramatically, glancing at the almost-empty glasses on the table. 
“It’s a long story, Ravi. And stories like this need more drinks.”
 
She raised her hand, catching the waiter’s eye. 
“Another round—whiskey neat for him, vodka sodas for us. And some more chilli chicken, please. Extra spicy.”
 
The waiter nodded and vanished into the crowd. Preeti waited until he was out of earshot, then leaned in, voice dropping to that intimate, storytelling tone she used when sharing clinic secrets.

“Okay… it all started with my mother,” she began. “She’s known about me—about my choice—for years. She never said much, but I could feel her worry. After Shikha and I got married, she finally asked one day, straight-up: ‘How will you live a life without a baby?’ She wasn’t judging. She was scared. She assumed both of us only liked women, and she couldn’t imagine how that would work with motherhood.”
 
Shikha nodded quietly, fingers tracing the rim of her glass.
 
“I told her not to worry, we will have a baby. Shikha and I decided to actually be a mother to our baby. We don’t intend to adopt.” Preeti continued. “I’m a gynaecologist—I know the science inside out.”
 
But my mother wasn’t convinced. She kept saying, ‘I sometimes feel… if you or Shikha have to go through all those procedures, injections, clinics… it’s too much.’ When I told Shikha about the conversation, she started thinking the same thing. We both did.”
 
Preeti paused as the waiter returned, setting down fresh drinks and a steaming plate of chilli chicken. The spicy aroma filled the air. She waited until he left again before continuing.
 
“Then, by sheer luck, my mother went to her ancestral village. She spoke to her Baba—the old sage everyone in the family still consults. She told him everything: about me, about Shikha, about wanting a child. Surprisingly… he didn’t say a single bad thing about me being a lesbian. Not one word of judgment. Instead, he consoled her. He told her not to worry, that love is love, and children come through many paths.”
 
Preeti reached for her fresh drink, taking a slow sip before going on.
 
“He gave her a scripture from the Mahabharata—just an extract. He said, ‘Read this. Understand this. And if it’s possible for them, try to follow it.’ My mother came back… different. Calmer. She didn’t push anymore. She just hugged me and said, ‘Do what feels right. The gods will guide you.’”
 
The table fell quiet for a moment, the thumping music a distant heartbeat.
 
Ravi looked at Preeti, then at Shikha, then back again. 
“So… what was the extract? What did it say?”