Geetanjali searched his eyes—fear, wonder, and something fierce and protective staring back at her.
"What do we do?" she asked, voice cracking.
Arahan cupped her face with both hands. "We'll think about it later. For now, don't tell Amma anything. We say it was just a minor stomach issue—some bad food from the mela. She'll accept that."
Geetanjali nodded slowly, swallowing the lump in her throat. When they returned home, she forced a weak smile for Amma.
"It was nothing serious, Amma. Just acidity… the doctor gave medicine. I'll be fine in a day or two."
Amma clucked her tongue, relieved but still watching her closely. "You rest now. No heavy work."
Geetanjali obeyed, retreating to her room while her mind spun in circles.
One day later, the impossible happened.
Anil Kumar, her husband, arrived unannounced.
He stepped off the evening bus from the city, suitcase in hand, face tired but smiling. "Surprise visit," he said, pulling her into a stiff hug. "I got a few days off. Wanted to see you… and celebrate the news."
Amma was overjoyed, tears, sweets, and endless questions about his job in the Gulf. Geetanjali smiled through it all, heart hammering.
That night she sent Arahan a single message:
Geetanjali: Anil is home. Don't come. Please.
Arahan replied instantly.
Arahan: Understood. Take care of yourself, Bhabhi. I'm here when you need me.
That night Anil fucked her.
It was familiar, mechanical, his body moving over hers in the dark, the same rhythm they'd had before he left. He came quickly, rolled off, kissed her forehead, and fell asleep.
Geetanjali stared at the ceiling, body unsatisfied, mind elsewhere. There was no fire, no ache that built and built until she shattered. No filthy whispers in her ear, no hands that knew exactly where to touch. Just… emptiness.
She turned away from her sleeping husband and pressed her thighs together, trying to ignore the hollow throb between them.
A few days passed in strained domesticity.
Anil was kind, brought her small gifts from the city, helped Amma with chores, but Geetanjali felt like she was acting in a play. Every time he touched her she compared it to Arahan: the weight of his body, the stretch of him, the way he made her feel claimed and wanted and filthy in the best way.
Then the nausea returned, worse this time.
She vomited in the morning, then again after lunch, even though she'd barely eaten. Anil grew worried, hovering, pressing a wet cloth to her forehead.
"Something's wrong," he said. "We should go to the doctor again."
Amma, watching from the doorway, spoke up.
"Anil beta, we don't have the bike anymore, yours got sold before you left. And you never learned to ride one properly. Call Arahan. He's a good boy, always helps. He'll take her safely."
Anil hesitated, then nodded. "Alright. Call him."
Arahan arrived within twenty minutes, polite and concerned in front of the family.
"Don't worry, Anil bhaiya. I'll take her to the clinic right now."
Geetanjali climbed onto the bike behind him, arms around his waist like always. The moment they were out of sight of the house, she pressed her cheek to his back and whispered,
"Not the clinic. Take me somewhere… private. I need you. Right now."
Arahan's knuckles whitened on the handlebars.
He turned the bike toward the quiet mango orchard on the village outskirts, the same place where he fucked many girls.
He parked behind the trees, tune off the engine.
The moment they stepped inside the dim, cool room, Geetanjali was on him.
She yanked his kurta open, nails raking his chest. "I can't stop thinking about you," she gasped. "Anil… he doesn't feel the same. I need you inside me. Please."
Arahan groaned, hands already shoving her saree up around her hips.
"Fuck, Bhabhi… you're soaked already."
He spun her around, bent her over the low wooden charpoy. Freed himself, rubbed the head along her dripping slit once, twice, then thrust in deep.
Geetanjali cried out, palms slapping the mattress.
"Yes—harder—fuck me like only you can—"
He gave it to her, deep, punishing strokes that made the charpoy creak and her breasts bounce under the blouse. One hand gripped her hip, the other reached around to rub her clit in tight circles.
"You're carrying my child," he growled against her ear, "and after today your husband will think it's his. Every time he touches you, you'll feel me instead. This pussy belongs to me now."
Geetanjali shattered almost immediately, clenching around him, sobbing his name as waves of pleasure ripped through her neglected body.
Arahan didn't stop. He flipped her onto her back, hooked her legs over his shoulders, and fucked her through the aftershocks, slow now, deep, making her feel every inch.
When he came, he buried himself to the hilt and flooded her again, groaning low against her neck.
They stayed like that, sweaty, tangled, breathing hard, until the shaking stopped.
Afterward he cleaned her gently with a cloth from the small bucket in the corner, kissed her stomach, then helped her rearrange the saree.
"We have to go back," he said quietly.
Geetanjali nodded, dazed and sated.
When they returned home, Anil and Amma were waiting anxiously.
Geetanjali held up the folded report—the same one from before.
"It's not sickness," she said, voice steady now. "I'm pregnant."
Anil's face lit up—pure joy, disbelief, pride.
"Really? Our child… finally!"
He pulled her into a hug.
Amma wept happy tears, touching her daughter-in-law's stomach reverently.
Geetanjali smiled, while Arahan stood at the doorway, expression polite and neutral.
Only Geetanjali saw the dark, possessive glint in his eyes when no one else was looking.
---
After the pregnancy news, the house filled with a rare, fragile joy.
Anil couldn't stop smiling—proud, almost boyish again after so many months away. He called relatives, shared sweets with neighbors, talked endlessly about names and the child's future. Amma lit extra diyas every evening, prayed longer at the small altar, touched Geetanjali's still-flat stomach like it was made of gold.
"God has heard y prayers," she kept saying, eyes shining. "My daughter-in-law is going to give us a grandchild at last."
Geetanjali played the part perfectly—blushing when Anil kissed her cheek in front of Amma, resting her hand on her belly when people congratulated her, accepting blessings with folded hands and downcast eyes.
But inside, the secret burned hotter than any flame.
For seven days she let the happiness wash over the house like monsoon rain—while quietly starving for the only touch that truly fed her.
Anil fucked her most nights—gentle, familiar, quick. She moaned softly for his sake, arched her back when expected, whispered "I love you" when he came inside her. But the moment he rolled off and began to snore, the ache returned: deeper, hungrier, unsatisfied. Her body remembered Arahan's weight, his rhythm, the filthy words that made her shatter. Anil's release felt like water; Arahan's felt like fire.
On the eighth morning she couldn't take it anymore.
She waited until Anil left for the market and Amma was busy with laundry.
Then she messaged Arahan.
Geetanjali: Doctor appointment at 11. Need a ride. Pick me up in 20 minutes.
Arahan: On my way, Bhabhi. Wear the blue saree. Nothing underneath.
She obeyed.
When he arrived she told Amma she was going for a routine check-up—"just to make sure everything is fine with the baby." Amma nodded approvingly, handed her a small cloth bag with dry fruits "for strength."
Arahan drove her first to the small clinic.
The doctor confirmed the pregnancy was progressing normally—eight weeks now, heartbeat strong on the little machine. She handed over the latest report with a smile.
"Everything looks perfect, Geetanjali ji. Take care, eat well, rest."
Geetanjali thanked her, folded the report carefully, and walked out to where Arahan waited on the bike.
She climbed behind him without a word.
He didn't head toward home.
He turned toward the mango orchard.
The moment they reached the small kaccha house hidden among the trees, Arahan cut the engine and pulled her inside.
No words.
He pushed her against the mud wall, hiked the blue saree to her waist, and dropped to his knees.
His mouth found her clit in seconds—sucking hard, tongue flicking relentlessly while two fingers plunged deep into her soaked pussy.
Geetanjali's head thumped back against the wall. Her fingers tangled in his hair.
"Arahan—fuck—yes—"
He ate her like a man starved—lapping up every drop of her arousal, curling his fingers against that spot inside her until she came with a choked cry, thighs shaking around his head.
Only then did he stand.
He spun her around, bent her over the charpoy, and thrust into her pussy in one brutal stroke.
She screamed into her own arm—muffled, desperate—as he fucked her hard and fast, hips slapping against her ass, one hand reaching around to rub her oversensitive clit.
"You carried my child for eight weeks," he growled against her ear, "and your husband thinks it's his. Every time he touches you, you feel empty. Say it."
"I feel empty," she gasped, pushing back against him. "Only you… only you satisfy me… fuck—harder—"
He gave it to her—deep, punishing strokes until she came again, clenching so hard around him that he followed, flooding her with hot pulses while groaning her name like a prayer.
They stayed locked together for long minutes—sweaty, panting, his hand gentle now on her stomach.
When they finally separated, he cleaned her with the same care as always, helped her rearrange the saree, kissed her forehead.
"Home now," he murmured. "Act normal."
He dropped her at the gate like any helpful neighbor.
Geetanjali walked inside—report in hand, legs still trembling, pussy still leaking his cum down her thighs beneath the saree.
Anil was napping in the bedroom, door half-open, soft snores drifting out.
Amma sat on the veranda charpoy, fanning herself with a palm leaf, eyes half-closed in the afternoon heat. She glanced up briefly, gave a small nod of recognition, then returned to her quiet rest.
Geetanjali didn't acknowledge the look.
She walked straight toward the kitchen, hips swaying slightly under the blue saree, knowing Arahan hadn't left yet.
He followed her inside—silent, predatory.
The kitchen door closed softly behind them. No lock—just the thin wooden panel separating them from the rest of the house.
Geetanjali moved toward the stove, reaching for the kettle as if tea was actually going to happen. Her hands trembled—not from fear, but from the fresh, gnawing hunger that Anil's nap had done nothing to sate.
She didn't get far.
Arahan stepped up behind her in one silent motion. His chest pressed to her back, one arm snaked around her waist, pulling her flush against him. His other hand clamped over her mouth—firm but not cruel—muffling the sharp gasp that escaped her.
"Shhh," he breathed hot against her ear. "Not a sound."
Before she could even try to protest or slow him down, his free hand yanked the front pleats of her saree up to her waist in one rough tug. No petticoat underneath—just bare skin, already slick and swollen again from the orchard and the teasing ride home. He freed his cock with practiced speed—still half-hard from earlier, thickening rapidly as he pressed it against her dripping entrance.
Geetanjali whimpered against his palm, pushing back instinctively.
Arahan thrust in—slow this time, savoring the way her pussy fluttered around him, still sensitive and full of his earlier load.
"Listen to your husband snoring," he whispered, voice dark and filthy. "And here you are… letting me fuck you again in your own kitchen. You're carrying my baby, Bhabhi… and you still can't get enough of this cock."
He started moving—long, deep rolls of his hips that made the counter creak softly. One hand stayed over her mouth; the other slid between her legs, fingers finding her clit and rubbing in tight, relentless circles.
Geetanjali's eyes fluttered shut. Her body surrendered completely—hips rocking back to meet every thrust, muffled moans vibrating against his hand.
Outside, Amma's fan kept its slow rhythm.
Inside, the only sounds were the wet slide of his cock in her pussy and their shared, ragged breathing.
Arahan fucked her until she came again—silent this time, body convulsing in his arms, pussy milking him in tight spasms.
He followed right after—burying himself deep and spilling another load inside her, groaning low against her neck.
When it was over, he held her steady until her legs stopped shaking.
Then he kissed the shell of her ear.
"Clean up," he whispered. "I'll wait by the gate. Act normal."
He slipped out first—quiet as a shadow.
Geetanjali braced herself against the counter, breathing hard, cum leaking down her thigh again.
She wiped herself quickly, smoothed the saree, and stepped out carrying the kettle as if nothing had happened.
Amma glanced up once more.
"Tea ready?" she asked mildly.
Geetanjali smiled—soft, secret.
"Almost, Amma."