The pattern settled into something dangerously routine after that kitchen encounter.
Whenever the ache for Arahan became unbearable—after another night of Anil's gentle, unsatisfying thrusts, or simply from the way her body remembered every filthy detail of the orchard room—Geetanjali found the same excuse.
"Amma, Anil ji, I'm feeling a bit nauseous again. The doctor said to come if it happens more than once. I think I should go today."
Amma would immediately agree. "Yes, beti, go. Arahan will take you—he's so reliable."
Anil, often busy with phone calls to his office in the Gulf or errands in the market, rarely objected. "Be careful," he'd say, kissing her forehead before she left.
Arahan arrived within minutes—polite nod to the family, helmet in hand.
They went first to the clinic.
The doctor always smiled the same way: "All good, heartbeat strong, keep taking the supplements."
Geetanjali tucked the report away, climbed behind Arahan on the bike, and they turned toward the mango orchard.
In the small kaccha house among the trees, words were unnecessary. Arahan pushed her against the mud wall or bent her over the charpoy, fucked her until she came shaking—sometimes twice, sometimes three times—before filling her again. He always made sure she left dripping, marked, legs unsteady, saree smoothed back into place like nothing had happened.
Then he dropped her at the gate.
Most days he stepped inside the house afterward—always polite, always "just for a minute."
If Anil was awake and sitting in the main room or on the veranda, Arahan accepted the offered glass of water or tea, made small talk about studies or the weather, thanked them respectfully, and left through the front gate like any decent neighbor.
But if Anil was not at home—or if he was sleeping in the bedroom, door half-open, soft snores drifting out—Arahan followed Geetanjali straight to the kitchen.
The thin wooden door closed behind them.
No lock.
No need for words.
He'd press her against the counter or lift her onto it, yank the saree up, and thrust inside her again—hard, fast, filthy—while Amma fanned herself on the veranda charpoy or hummed a bhajan in the next room.
Geetanjali learned to bite her own arm to stay quiet, learned to come silently while Arahan whispered against her ear:
"Your husband is sleeping ten feet away and you're dripping on my cock again, Bhabhi. You love knowing I'm the one who really satisfies you."
And she did.
She came harder every time.
Until one afternoon.
Arahan dropped her at home after the usual "doctor visit." Anil was not there—he had gone to the nearby town for some paperwork and would be back late.
Amma was sitting in the main room, knitting, eyes sharp despite the afternoon heat.
Arahan stepped inside as always—polite smile, "Just dropping Geetanjali ji back safely."
Amma looked up from her needles.
"Arahan beta, sit for a minute. I want to talk to you."
Geetanjali froze in the doorway.
Arahan hesitated only a second—then sat on the chair, across from Amma, expression calm, respectful.
Geetanjali excused herself quietly—"I'll make tea"—and slipped into the kitchen.
Amma set her knitting aside and leaned forward slightly, her gaze steady but kind.
"Arahan beta, sit properly. How are your studies going these days? Exams are coming, no?"
Arahan settled into the chair across from her, posture straight, expression calm and respectful.
"Everything is going well, Amma," he answered smoothly. "I've been attending all my classes. The syllabus is heavy this semester, but I'm managing. Just two more months and then finals."
Amma nodded, satisfied with the answer, "That's good. You've always been a serious boy. Keep it up. Education is everything these days."
Geetanjali returned from the kitchen carrying a tray with three steaming glasses of tea. She placed one in front of Amma first, then one in front of Arahan, and finally kept one for herself.
Without a word she sat on the chair beside Arahan, close enough that their thighs brushed under the small table.
She kept her face neutral, eyes lowered toward her glass.
Arahan thanked her softly—"Thank you, Bhabhi"—and took a sip, all while his left hand remained innocently on the table, stirring his tea.
His right hand, however, had already slipped beneath the tablecloth.
His fingers found her knee first—warm, steady pressure. Geetanjali stiffened for half a second, then relaxed, letting her legs part just enough under the saree.
Amma continued talking, oblivious.
"You know, beta, Geetanjali is lucky to have a helpful neighbor like you. These days so many young boys don't care about anyone. You're different."
Arahan smiled politely.
"It's nothing, Amma. We're all like family here."
Under the table, his hand slid higher—slow, deliberate—pushing the soft folds of her saree aside until his fingertips brushed bare skin. No petticoat. No panties. Just slick, swollen heat already waiting for him from the orchard earlier.
Geetanjali gripped her glass tighter, knuckles whitening.
His middle finger parted her folds and slipped inside—slow, deep, curling against that spot that made her inner walls flutter instantly.
Amma kept chatting.
"And how is your mother?"
Arahan's voice remained perfectly even.
"My mom is good, Amma."
He added a second finger—stretching her gently—while his thumb found her clit and began lazy, torturous circles.
Geetanjali bit the inside of her cheek so hard she tasted copper. Her thighs trembled under the table. She could feel herself dripping onto his palm, the soft wet sounds barely audible beneath Amma's voice.
Amma sipped her tea, eyes on her knitting again.
"That's good. Mothers worry too much. You tell her to take care."
"I will, Amma," Arahan replied, calm as ever.
He pumped his fingers slowly—once, twice—then faster, curling harder against her g-spot while his thumb pressed firm circles on her clit.
Geetanjali's breathing turned shallow. She stared into her tea, pretending to blow on it.
Then Arahan gave the smallest signal—a slight tilt of his head downward, eyes flicking toward the floor.
Geetanjali understood instantly.
She let her spoon slip from her fingers. It clattered to the floor under the table.
"What happened, beti?" Amma asked mildly.
"Nothing, Amma… just the spoon fell," Geetanjali said, voice slightly higher than normal.
She slid off the chair and disappeared under the table—saree pooling around her knees, face inches from Arahan's lap.
He shifted only enough to unzip silently, freeing his cock—already rock-hard, glistening from earlier.
Geetanjali took him into her mouth without hesitation—slow, deep, tongue swirling around the head while her hand cupped his balls.
Above the table, Arahan continued the conversation as if nothing was happening.
"Yes, Amma, I'll bring the notes next time if you want to see. My professor said the questions will mostly come from the last three chapters."
Amma hummed approvingly, needles clicking.
"Very good, beta. You're so responsible."
Under the table, Geetanjali sucked harder—hollowing her cheeks, taking him to the back of her throat, tears pricking her eyes from the angle and the risk.
Arahan's thigh tensed under her palm, but his voice never wavered.
Amma finished her tea, set the glass down, and stood slowly.
"I'll go lie down for a bit. The heat is too much today."
She shuffled toward her room.
The moment her door clicked shut, Arahan reached under the table, pulled Geetanjali up by the arms, and lifted her onto the same small kitchen table.
She gasped—half protest, half desperate need.
"Arahan—Amma might come back… Anil could return early—"
He didn't reply.
He simply spread her legs wide, hooked them over his shoulders, and thrust back into her pussy in one deep stroke.
Geetanjali bit her lip to stifle the moan.
He fucked her hard and fast—table creaking softly, her saree bunched around her waist, breasts bouncing under the blouse with every snap of his hips.
"You complain," he growled low against her ear, "but look how tightly you're gripping me. You love this, Bhabhi. You love knowing I'm fucking you on the same table where your saas just drank tea."
She came almost immediately—silent, violent, body arching off the wood, pussy spasming around him in rhythmic waves.
Arahan followed—burying himself deep and unloading another thick load inside her, groaning softly against her neck.
Only when she was dripping his cum onto the table did he finally pull out.
He helped her down gently, smoothed her saree with careful hands, kissed her forehead.
"Now go rest," he murmured. "I'll leave through the back."
Geetanjali nodded, dazed, legs trembling.
Arahan slipped out quietly.
She wiped the table quickly, arranged her saree, and stepped into the main room carrying the empty glasses as if nothing had happened.
Anil was still away.
Amma's door remained closed.
Geetanjali touched her stomach—where his child grew—and smiled into the quiet house.
---
Two months passed in a quiet, deceptive rhythm.
Anil's short visit stretched longer than planned—paperwork delays at his company—but finally the day came. His flight back to the Gulf was booked for the next evening. The house felt heavier, bittersweet. Amma cooked his favorite dishes one last time, tears in her eyes as she packed his suitcase with homemade pickles and dry snacks. Anil held Geetanjali's hand more often, kissed her forehead, spoke softly about how he'd send money for the baby's things, how he'd video-call every week.
Geetanjali smiled through it all, hand resting on the small but unmistakable swell of her belly—now clearly visible under her sarees. But beneath the surface, guilt gnawed at her.
That night, after Amma retired early, Geetanjali lay beside Anil in the dim bedroom. The fan spun lazily overhead. She turned toward him, placed a hand on his chest.
"Anil ji…" she whispered. "Before you go… I want to give you something special tonight."
He looked at her, surprised but curious.
"What is it?"
She swallowed, cheeks warming. "My… my ass. I've never given it to anyone before. Tonight… I want to give it to you."
Anil's eyes darkened with sudden hunger. He had never asked—never even hinted—but the offer lit something primal in him.
"Are you sure?" he asked, voice rough.
She nodded. "I want to feel close to you… before you leave for so long."
He didn't need more convincing.
He prepared her gently—oil from the small bottle on the dresser, slow fingers stretching her until she was whimpering, then more. When he finally pressed inside—slow, careful, inch by careful inch—Anil groaned like a man discovering something sacred.
Geetanjali gasped at the burn, the fullness, but she pushed back against him, whispering, "Don't stop… please…"
Anil lost himself that night. He fucked her ass with a reverence and intensity she hadn't seen in years—long, deep strokes, hands gripping her hips, whispering how tight she was, how perfect, how much he'd miss her.
She came twice—once from his fingers on her clit while he was buried deep, once from the sheer overwhelming sensation of being claimed in a new way. When he finished, flooding her with a low, broken groan, he held her afterward like she was the most precious thing in the world.
For the first time in months, Anil's touch satisfied her—at least partially. It wasn't Arahan's filthy possession, but it was real, loving, and it eased some of the guilt twisting inside her.
The next morning, in broad daylight, Anil grew bolder.
Amma was in the veranda, fanning herself and sorting vegetables for lunch. Anil pulled Geetanjali into the bedroom—door half-open, no pretense. He stripped her saree with impatient hands, pushed her onto the bed on all fours, and took her again—pussy this time, hard and fast, whispering how beautiful she looked pregnant with "his" child. Geetanjali moaned softly, back arching, enjoying the roughness, the possessiveness—even if it still didn't reach the dark, shattering places Arahan touched.
Amma passed the doorway once—saw her son bent over his wife, heard the rhythmic slap of skin, the low groans. She paused for only a second, then continued walking toward the kitchen without a word.
She knew Anil was leaving tomorrow.
She knew it would be years before he returned.
She chose silence, letting her son have this last moment of claiming what was his.
Thevnext evening Anil left—hugging Geetanjali tightly, kissing her belly, promising to call every Sunday.
The house grew quieter.
Geetanjali's days filled with rest, light chores, Amma's gentle fussing over her diet and naps.
Geetanjali's baby bump grew steadily—round, firm, impossible to hide now. Arahan stopped fucking her the moment it became visible.
Instead he visited, bringing fruits, vegetables, packets of vitamins "for the baby," always respectful in front of Amma. He helped carry water pots, fixed the leaking tap, sat with Amma discussing village news while Geetanjali rested.
In Amma's eyes, Arahan transformed, from "helpful neighbor boy" to something closer to family.
One afternoon, while Geetanjali rested inside and Anil was out buying train tickets, Amma sat beside Arahan on the veranda charpoy.
"You've been so good to us, beta," she said quietly. "Geetanjali is lucky. I wish… I wish I had a daughter. Or that I could have fixed your marriage with someone like her."
Arahan smiled politely. "Amma, you already treat me like a son."
Amma sighed, looking toward the house.
"Do you have any cousin sister, beta? Someone nice, who needs a good boy like you?"
Geetanjali, overhearing from the doorway, stepped out before Arahan could answer.
"No, Amma," she said softly. "No one like that."
Amma looked between them, but said nothing more.
Arahan left soon after, promising to come back the next day "to help with the heavy bags before Anil ji's departure."
And life moved forward—normal on the surface, secrets buried deep.
Geetanjali touched her growing belly every night, feeling the small kicks, and whispered to the child inside:
"Your father is here… even if no one knows."