05-01-2026, 01:11 AM
Months slipped by in a haze of Mumbai monsoons and family WhatsApp groups buzzing with baby names and ultrasound photos. Pallavi, now settled into married life in Delhi with Rohan, called Urvashi one humid afternoon while folding tiny onesies. Her voice was a playful mix of excitement and mock exasperation.
“Didi, guess what? I’m pregnant,” she announced, barely containing a giggle. “Totally accidental, I swear. We were on honeymoon in Goa, one too many cocktails, and Rohan… well, he forgot to pull out. One time, and boom—knocked up on the first try!”
Urvashi laughed warmly, cradling the phone against her shoulder as she stirred tea in her kitchen. “Accidental, huh? That’s what they all say. Congratulations, Pallu! Maa will be over the moon—another grandchild so soon after Rashi Bhabhi’s news.”
The family group exploded that evening. Photos of Pallavi’s barely-there bump, heart emojis from Amit and Shiva, and their mother tearfully declaring it a double blessing. Rashi, from her parents’ home in Lucknow where she had moved for the duration of her pregnancy, sent a string of celebration GIFs. No one questioned the timing; everyone simply rejoiced at the second baby on the way. But Pallavi knows who bred her.
Rashi’s pregnancy, however, was advancing noticeably. Her once-slim waist had softened into a gentle, rounded swell beneath her loose kurtas, and her cravings had become legendary—mango pickle at midnight, spicy chaat in the afternoons, and an inexplicable longing for the kind of raw, possessive touch she hadn’t felt since Dubai.
One sweltering Lucknow evening, unable to sleep, she texted Zaid.
**Rashi:** Come to Lucknow tomorrow. I need you. Don’t ask questions.
Zaid arrived the next afternoon on the earliest flight, checking into a quiet boutique hotel on the outskirts. Rashi slipped away from the house with the excuse of a prenatal check-up, her dupatta dbangd carefully over her five-month bump.
In the cool, dim hotel room, she let the dupatta fall. Zaid’s eyes darkened with hunger and reverence as he took in the changes—her fuller breasts straining against her blouse, the gentle curve of her belly, the glow on her milky skin.
“You’re even more beautiful like this,” he murmured, stepping close. He kissed her slowly, carefully, one hand cradling the back of her neck, the other resting lightly on her bump. Rashi sighed into his mouth, weeks of pent-up need flooding her.
They moved to the bed with unhurried tenderness. Zaid helped her out of her salwar kameez, kissing every new inch of skin he uncovered—her swollen breasts, the faint silver lines on her hips, the roundness of her stomach. When she lay on her side, he spooned behind her, his chest warm against her back, one arm sliding under her breasts to support them, the other guiding himself gently between her thighs.
He entered her slowly, inch by inch, letting her adjust to the fullness. Rashi moaned softly, her hand reaching back to grip his thigh. “Just like that… don’t stop,” she whispered. Zaid kept a steady, rolling rhythm—deep but gentle, his lips brushing her ear, telling her how perfect she felt, how he couldn’t stop thinking about her body changing like this.
Light dominance crept in: his hand sliding up to lightly pin her wrist against the pillow, his voice low and commanding. “You’re mine right now, Rashi. Every inch of you.” She came quietly the first time, trembling against him, then again when he reached around to circle her clit with careful fingers. He followed soon after, spilling inside her with a muffled groan against her shoulder, holding her close as they both caught their breath.
Afterward, he traced lazy circles on her bump. “Whose is it, really?” he asked softly, not accusing, just curious.
Rashi smiled faintly, eyes distant. “Doesn’t matter. The family thinks it’s Amit’s. That’s enough.” She kissed him once more before dressing and returning home, the ache finally eased.
Back in Mumbai, Urvashi’s routine with Zaid had only intensified. They met every Friday evening in his apartment—sometimes quick and desperate against the door, sometimes long and languid on his couch. Zaid had developed a new obsession: filling her completely, over and over, whispering filthy promises against her skin.
One Friday, she arrived in a simple black saree, the pallu slipping teasingly as she walked. Zaid didn’t bother with pleasantries—he pulled her inside, pinned her to the wall, and took her standing, her legs wrapped around his waist. Later on the bed, he flipped her onto all fours, gripping her hips as he drove into her from behind.
“Imagine it,” he growled against her ear, one hand sliding beneath to rub her clit. “My cum so deep inside you every week… one day it’ll take. You’ll carry my baby, Urvashi. Tell me you want it.”
She moaned, pushing back against him. “Yes… breed me, Zaid. Fill me up.” The dirty talk sent her over the edge twice before he finally let go, pumping another thick load deep inside her.
Afterward, lying tangled and sweaty, Urvashi began noticing small things—her breasts tender, a faint nausea in the mornings, cravings for sour tamarind. She dismissed them at first; they had been careful… mostly. But the symptoms persisted.
Exactly one month after Pallavi’s announcement, Urvashi sat on the edge of her bathtub staring at a third positive test. Three different brands, all showing the same unmistakable two lines. Her heart raced with a chaotic swirl of joy, fear, and guilty thrill.
She knew whose it was. Shiva hadn’t come inside her in months—he always pulled out, paranoid about planning. Zaid, on the other hand…
That evening, she cooked Shiva’s favorite rajma chawal, her hands trembling slightly. When he came home tired from work, she led him to the sofa, sat beside him, and placed the test in his palm.
“Shiva… I’m pregnant.”
His face transformed—shock melting into pure, disbelieving joy. He pulled her into his arms, tears in his eyes. “A baby? Our baby?” He kissed her forehead, her cheeks, laughing through happy sobs. “I can’t believe it!”
The family call that night was pandemonium. Their mother cried, father blessed them over speakerphone, Amit whooped, Rashi and Pallavi sent voice notes squealing about “three little cousins arriving together!” No one questioned the timing; they simply saw it as divine blessing—three daughters and daughters-in-law of the house pregnant within months of one another.
Urvashi smiled through the celebrations, her hand resting instinctively on her still-flat stomach. Later, alone in the bathroom, she texted Zaid a single photo of the positive test.
**Urvashi:** It took.
His reply came instantly: a string of heart-eyes emojis followed by, **Can’t wait to feel it grow because of me.**
She stared at the screen, a secret smile curving her lips. Three babies, three mothers, three different truths.
The family began planning joint baby showers, nursery themes, and hospital bookings, blissfully unaware of the delicious storms still brewing beneath the surface.
“Didi, guess what? I’m pregnant,” she announced, barely containing a giggle. “Totally accidental, I swear. We were on honeymoon in Goa, one too many cocktails, and Rohan… well, he forgot to pull out. One time, and boom—knocked up on the first try!”
Urvashi laughed warmly, cradling the phone against her shoulder as she stirred tea in her kitchen. “Accidental, huh? That’s what they all say. Congratulations, Pallu! Maa will be over the moon—another grandchild so soon after Rashi Bhabhi’s news.”
The family group exploded that evening. Photos of Pallavi’s barely-there bump, heart emojis from Amit and Shiva, and their mother tearfully declaring it a double blessing. Rashi, from her parents’ home in Lucknow where she had moved for the duration of her pregnancy, sent a string of celebration GIFs. No one questioned the timing; everyone simply rejoiced at the second baby on the way. But Pallavi knows who bred her.
Rashi’s pregnancy, however, was advancing noticeably. Her once-slim waist had softened into a gentle, rounded swell beneath her loose kurtas, and her cravings had become legendary—mango pickle at midnight, spicy chaat in the afternoons, and an inexplicable longing for the kind of raw, possessive touch she hadn’t felt since Dubai.
One sweltering Lucknow evening, unable to sleep, she texted Zaid.
**Rashi:** Come to Lucknow tomorrow. I need you. Don’t ask questions.
Zaid arrived the next afternoon on the earliest flight, checking into a quiet boutique hotel on the outskirts. Rashi slipped away from the house with the excuse of a prenatal check-up, her dupatta dbangd carefully over her five-month bump.
In the cool, dim hotel room, she let the dupatta fall. Zaid’s eyes darkened with hunger and reverence as he took in the changes—her fuller breasts straining against her blouse, the gentle curve of her belly, the glow on her milky skin.
“You’re even more beautiful like this,” he murmured, stepping close. He kissed her slowly, carefully, one hand cradling the back of her neck, the other resting lightly on her bump. Rashi sighed into his mouth, weeks of pent-up need flooding her.
They moved to the bed with unhurried tenderness. Zaid helped her out of her salwar kameez, kissing every new inch of skin he uncovered—her swollen breasts, the faint silver lines on her hips, the roundness of her stomach. When she lay on her side, he spooned behind her, his chest warm against her back, one arm sliding under her breasts to support them, the other guiding himself gently between her thighs.
He entered her slowly, inch by inch, letting her adjust to the fullness. Rashi moaned softly, her hand reaching back to grip his thigh. “Just like that… don’t stop,” she whispered. Zaid kept a steady, rolling rhythm—deep but gentle, his lips brushing her ear, telling her how perfect she felt, how he couldn’t stop thinking about her body changing like this.
Light dominance crept in: his hand sliding up to lightly pin her wrist against the pillow, his voice low and commanding. “You’re mine right now, Rashi. Every inch of you.” She came quietly the first time, trembling against him, then again when he reached around to circle her clit with careful fingers. He followed soon after, spilling inside her with a muffled groan against her shoulder, holding her close as they both caught their breath.
Afterward, he traced lazy circles on her bump. “Whose is it, really?” he asked softly, not accusing, just curious.
Rashi smiled faintly, eyes distant. “Doesn’t matter. The family thinks it’s Amit’s. That’s enough.” She kissed him once more before dressing and returning home, the ache finally eased.
Back in Mumbai, Urvashi’s routine with Zaid had only intensified. They met every Friday evening in his apartment—sometimes quick and desperate against the door, sometimes long and languid on his couch. Zaid had developed a new obsession: filling her completely, over and over, whispering filthy promises against her skin.
One Friday, she arrived in a simple black saree, the pallu slipping teasingly as she walked. Zaid didn’t bother with pleasantries—he pulled her inside, pinned her to the wall, and took her standing, her legs wrapped around his waist. Later on the bed, he flipped her onto all fours, gripping her hips as he drove into her from behind.
“Imagine it,” he growled against her ear, one hand sliding beneath to rub her clit. “My cum so deep inside you every week… one day it’ll take. You’ll carry my baby, Urvashi. Tell me you want it.”
She moaned, pushing back against him. “Yes… breed me, Zaid. Fill me up.” The dirty talk sent her over the edge twice before he finally let go, pumping another thick load deep inside her.
Afterward, lying tangled and sweaty, Urvashi began noticing small things—her breasts tender, a faint nausea in the mornings, cravings for sour tamarind. She dismissed them at first; they had been careful… mostly. But the symptoms persisted.
Exactly one month after Pallavi’s announcement, Urvashi sat on the edge of her bathtub staring at a third positive test. Three different brands, all showing the same unmistakable two lines. Her heart raced with a chaotic swirl of joy, fear, and guilty thrill.
She knew whose it was. Shiva hadn’t come inside her in months—he always pulled out, paranoid about planning. Zaid, on the other hand…
That evening, she cooked Shiva’s favorite rajma chawal, her hands trembling slightly. When he came home tired from work, she led him to the sofa, sat beside him, and placed the test in his palm.
“Shiva… I’m pregnant.”
His face transformed—shock melting into pure, disbelieving joy. He pulled her into his arms, tears in his eyes. “A baby? Our baby?” He kissed her forehead, her cheeks, laughing through happy sobs. “I can’t believe it!”
The family call that night was pandemonium. Their mother cried, father blessed them over speakerphone, Amit whooped, Rashi and Pallavi sent voice notes squealing about “three little cousins arriving together!” No one questioned the timing; they simply saw it as divine blessing—three daughters and daughters-in-law of the house pregnant within months of one another.
Urvashi smiled through the celebrations, her hand resting instinctively on her still-flat stomach. Later, alone in the bathroom, she texted Zaid a single photo of the positive test.
**Urvashi:** It took.
His reply came instantly: a string of heart-eyes emojis followed by, **Can’t wait to feel it grow because of me.**
She stared at the screen, a secret smile curving her lips. Three babies, three mothers, three different truths.
The family began planning joint baby showers, nursery themes, and hospital bookings, blissfully unaware of the delicious storms still brewing beneath the surface.
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