My name is Vikram Patel and I am twenty-four years old, the younger devar in a large traditional Gujarati joint family living in a grand old haveli in the heart of Ahmedabad's old city pols. Our home is one of those majestic three-storey wooden mansions built by my great-grandfather during the textile boom — intricate teak carvings on every pillar depicting Krishna leela scenes, wide courtyards with a central tulsi vrindavan that maa waters every morning with gangajal from a silver lota, cool mosaic floors inlaid with colorful Italian tiles that feel soothing under bare feet during scorching summers, jharokhas with stained glass overlooking narrow lanes filled with the scent of fresh fafda from nearby stalls and the sound of dandiya practice during Navratri, and multiple bedrooms filled with the constant fragrance of maa's homemade undhiyu simmering slowly and the faint agarbatti smoke from evening aarti in the small mandir room where family deities smile benevolently on our secrets.
The haveli has hidden corners everywhere — narrow staircases leading to forgotten attics where old wedding trunks gather dust, a small library with yellowed account books from the family cloth business, and a rooftop terrace where we burst crackers during Diwali and fly kites during Uttarayan. The family is big and traditional — papa ji the patriarch with his white dhoti-kurta and gold chain, maa ji the heart who organizes every festival with military precision, uncles and aunties coming for every occasion, cousins like brothers and sisters. I am the only son of the youngest chacha, studying MBA in IIM Ahmedabad but coming home for every festival “family first beta”.
My elder brother — bhaiya — Raj bhaiya — is thirty, married two years ago to Neha bhabhi in a grand Gujarati wedding with garba all night and gold jewellery worth lakhs that made the entire pol talk for months. Neha bhabhi is twenty-seven, from a good Surat diamond family — innocent yet bold like a true Gujju girl, milky fair skin with a natural pink blush from shyness that makes her look like a freshly bloomed rose, long thick black hair with subtle waves that reached her lower back always in a loose braid adorned with fresh mogra gajra during festivals or open when oiling at night, large doe-shaped eyes that sparkled with laughter one moment and melted with unspoken longing the next, full juicy lips always with light pink gloss even at home, and a body that had blossomed into divine temptation — heavy full D-cup breasts that strained against her simple cotton sarees creating deep hypnotic cleavage that her pallu tried to hide but Diwali excitement made careless, narrow waist with a soft curve from the child she carried briefly last year but lost in early miscarriage (doctors said stress from bhaiya's new diamond export business), wide hips that swayed with graceful rhythm when she danced garba, and a perfectly round gaand that jiggled softly in her sarees like a silent invitation to sin.
The marriage was full of hope — bhabhi was the perfect bahu, helping maa ji in kitchen, managing house during bhaiya's frequent Dubai trips for business “diamond market bada hai wahan”. But the miscarriage broke her — she became quieter, eyes often red from crying alone, touching her flat belly with sadness when no one saw. Bhaiya became more busy — trips longer, calls shorter “business tension hai beta”. This Diwali 2025 he was in Antwerp “big deal” — promised to return before New Year but extended again. Bhabhi smiled for family but I saw her pain — late nights on phone in terrace whispering sweetly to someone, quick hiding when I approached.
I had always loved her more than bhabhi — jealous when boys in college looked at her photos, angry when family praised the marriage “perfect jodi”. During garba practices I danced closer than necessary, hands brushing her waist, eyes locking longer than brotherly. She blushed but never pulled away.
The discovery came on Diwali eve — family busy with rangoli and diya lighting, bhabhi in kitchen making mohanthal. I went to terrace for fresh air — heard her whispering on phone hidden behind water tank “haan jaanu… miss you… yahan sab busy Diwali mein… raat ko video call karna… mangalsutra ke neeche sirf tera naam hai ab”. My blood boiled — jealousy like fire. I waited till she finished, confronted quietly “bhabhi… kaun tha phone pe?”.
She froze, tears instant, pallu slipping showing deep cleavage with mangalsutra glinting between breasts. “Vikram… tu galat samjha… woh sirf friend hai… bhaiya door hai… akelapan mein…”. But her eyes betrayed — longing, guilt, fear. I pulled her close “bhabhi… main janta hoon… main bhi akela hoon… main bhi tujhe chahta hoon years se”. She sobbed in my arms “Vikram… yeh galat hai… family… bhaiya… but I can't stop feeling… tu mera real pyar hai”.
Then she kissed me — desperate trembling lips tasting like salt from tears and mohanthal sweetness a kiss full of years of suppressed love and newly awakened desperate womanhood. I kissed back — jealous hungry as years of longing exploded claiming what was mine. Her tongue explored mine deeply with desperate need hands pulling my kurta off crying “I need you Vikram… need real love… need what phone lover can't give”. My hands went to her heavy saree pulled pallu away unhooked blouse exposed her red lace bra breasts spilling out heavy full dark nipples erect from cold night air and arousal. I took one in my mouth sucked hard tongue swirling biting gently while hand squeezed the other making her arch and moan mixed with sobs aaaahhhh Vikram choos le zor se choos apni bhabhi ke chuche… kitne din se kisi ne nahi chhua properly… make your jealous bhabhi feel wanted again… love me.
The taste of her skin — salty tears mixed with mogra gajra and her natural sweetness — the softness filling my mouth her sobs turning into moans of relief love and pain — it was overwhelmingly emotional and erotic every suck drawing out her grief and desire making her cry harder with pleasure “Vikram… I'm yours… only yours… forget him forget phone”. My other hand went under her heavy saree — no panty, choot already soaking wet geeli ho gayi thi from pent-up loneliness and this moment of jealous possession. I rubbed her clit making her buck her hips crying “zor se ragad Vikram bhabhi ki choot ragad zor se… fill the emptiness he left… give me real lund not virtual”. She came hard shaking violently squirting on my fingers for the first time tears streaming down her face aaaahhhhh jhad rahi hoon Vikram… love you… only you can make me whole… my true devar my real husband.
After that she pushed me against the water tank with trembling hands tears in eyes pulled my pajama down freed my lund stroked it slowly whispered kitna mota hai tera lund Vikram… bhabhi ne kabhi itna perfect nahi dekha… phone lover ka chhota tha… sirf tera chahiye ab… make me yours… claim me tonight. She took me in her mouth sucked slowly tongue swirling around the topi taking me deep gagging with emotion tears falling on my thighs until I came in her mouth hot thick spurts and she swallowed every drop licked her lips crying “tera maal kitna garam… kitna pyar bhara… mera hai sirf mera… give me your child Vikram… our secret”.
We did not stop there. I pulled her saree completely off ate her choot for the first time — tongue inside circling clit sucking hard fingers pumping deep while Diwali crackers burst below covering our moans. She came again shaking violently squirting on my face crying “Vikram… I needed this… needed you… you gave me real Diwali… love you more than life… my true devar”. Then she bent over the tank railing guided my lund inside her slowly taking me inch by inch tears streaming down her cheeks aaaahhhh kitna bada hai tera lund Vikram… dard ho raha hai par mazaa bhi… phaad do meri choot… fill me completely… make me yours forever. I thrust jealous hard doggy on the risky terrace family voices below watching her gaand jiggle while she sobbed “harder Vikram… punish me for phone lover… make the pain beautiful” crackers covering our moans. We changed positions missionary on the terrace floor with her legs over my shoulders deep hard thrusts but gentle when she cried reverse cowgirl so I could see her choot swallowing my lund completely with tears dripping on my chest mixing with sweat and cracker smoke. She came eight times clenching around me milking me crying “I love you Vikram… my true everything” before I exploded inside her garam garam maal daal de Vikram andar bhar de poora bhar de… make me pregnant with your jealous love… give me our secret child… our redemption our everything.
We lay there panting sweating mixed with cracker smoke and tears on the terrace floor her head on my chest sobbing softly “Vikram… yeh galat hai… bhaiya… family… but I can't stop… I love you since you grew up… real love… not that marriage… you are my soulmate my everything”. I held her tight kissed her tears whispered “Neha… I love you too… always have… this jealousy killed me seeing you with phone… now you're mine forever… I'll leave everything for you… we'll make our own life our child”. We cried together made love again slowly tenderly with deep eye contact whispering promises through tears “ek din bhaiya ko chod ke tere saath rehungi… sirf hum dono aur hamara baccha… our family born from true love our redemption”.
From that Diwali night our secret life started — raw emotional all-consuming healing each other's deepest wounds with jealous forbidden passion that felt like destiny's gift from the ashes of a broken marriage. Official reason — bhabhi was “missing bhaiya during festival”. Real reason — loving each other in ways that would shatter the family if known. Parents thought we were “close like devar-bhabhi bonding”. We found ways — afternoon sessions when family napped after heavy Diwali food long terrace fucks when everyone busy with guests early morning quickies before anyone woke. Nights when family slept after crackers she would come to my room or call me to terrace crying “need you Vikram… can't sleep without you claiming me loving me”. We explored everything — slow heartbreaking love-making with tears deep kisses and I love yous that left us both sobbing with joy and pain rough jealous fucking with hair pulling biting slapping dirty confessions “chod mujhe jaise teri personal randi ho… make me forget phone lover”. She taught me how sensitive her body was — begging for doggy on terrace “zor se thok Vikram apni bhabhi ki gaand… show society who's real owner”. I learned how to make her come multiple times how to bite her nipples just hard enough to make her scream and cry with pleasure how to finger her gaand lightly teasing the tight hole while I licked her choot until she begged for more crying “take all of me Vikram… I'm yours body soul and married places”.
The risk grew insane but so did the emotion. Once during family dinner when everyone present she slipped her foot under the table rubbed my lund slowly while crying silently about bhaiya's latest call saying he might miss New Year too. The danger mixed with her tears made me come in my pajamas without being touched. Another time when family watching Diwali special on TV she pulled me into the storeroom locked the door lifted her nighty bent over the trunks let me fuck her hard fast sweets boxes falling to cover sounds while sobbing “Vikram… love you… can't hide anymore”. I came inside her in under three minutes cum dripping down her thighs as she fixed her nighty went back to watch TV tears still streaming.
Months passed the affair deepened into something beyond jealousy — soul-shattering love mixed with devastating guilt and desperate hope for a future together. She told me how empty her marriage was how bhaiya only cared about business how phone lover was escape but fake how my jealous love awakened her gave her reason to live again made her feel complete worthy of love and motherhood. I told her how jealous I was seeing her laugh with phone how I felt lost until this night how the guilt of betraying bhaiya family is killing me but her love is giving me life. We cried together every time after sex — holding each other whispering future dreams through tears “ek din bhaiya ko divorce de dungi… tere saath rehungi… hamara ghar hoga hamara baccha hoga… our family born from true jealous love our redemption”.
She started saying dangerous emotional things Vikram agar pregnant ho gayi toh… baccha hamara hoga… I'll keep it… raise it with you… tell everyone it's bhaiya's… but we'll know it's our jealous love child… our redemption our new life our everything. The thought broke me aroused me made me fill her with even more cum crying “yes Neha… give me our baby… proof of my possession”.
Now January 15 2026 bhaiya planning return after deal. Parents thrilled about “beta aayega”. No one suspects the depth of our soul-consuming love and the life growing inside her from our passion. Those months were ours — full life full nights no hiding complete surrender. No work some days no college for her. The terrace was ours. She wanted me to take her in every corner — courtyard during monsoon terrace during sunset parents’ room when they're away even the puja room during aarti whispering mantras while I fill her with our future. She wanted me to fill her every time no condom no pulling out. She has stopped pills completely — says “Vikram… pregnant hona chahti hoon… tera baccha meri kokh mein… our jealous love child… our redemption our future our everything”.
I know this is the ultimate sin. I know one day it will destroy everything — bhaiya’s marriage family honor maa’s trust my future her dignity. But when Neha calls me Vikram with tears in her eyes spreads her legs begs for my lund and our baby — I can’t stop. This sin this jealous love this addiction has become my oxygen my salvation my everything.
Tonight bhaiya returning tomorrow. Neha is waiting on terrace wearing her favorite red lace nighty door open eyes full of tears and promise hand on her belly feeling our beginning. I will go to her. I will kiss her tears away suck her nipples until she sobs with pleasure eat her choot until she squirts crying my name fuck her in every position fill her with my cum while she moans Vikram bhar de andar poora bhar de… make me pregnant with our jealous love child… our redemption our future our everything.
Tomorrow morning she will act normal call me Vikram devar sweetly in front of everyone while my seed swims inside her creating our baby born from forbidden but purest jealous love.
This is our life now — daylight devar-bhabhi midnight soulmates. Guilt is there sharp like knife but love is bigger deeper more emotional. Love is there twisted forbidden but real pure aching eternal. And we can’t stop. We won’t stop.
The nights stretch on. The risks grow. The creampies continue. Every time I fill her I feel her tears on my chest her whispers of forever in my ear her body trembling with love fear and hope for our child. The thought of our secret baby growing inside her breaks me heals me binds me tighter to her. Neha has become my obsession my salvation my reason to breathe my eternal love my beautiful sin.
In the ancient pols of Ahmedabad where life moves with festivals and secrets hide behind carved doors we keep burning together — devar and bhabhi trapped in a love that should never exist but feels more real more emotional more everything than anything else in this world.
And so it continues — more afternoons more midnights more positions more whispered Vikram more creampies more tears more love wrapped in guilt wrapped in ecstasy wrapped in the unbreakable forbidden bond between a devar and his bhabhi — his healer his lover his everything.
The small everyday moments are what make this love so impossible to break. Every morning when she wakes up early helps with puja lights the diya offers flowers to Devi Maa with the same hands that held my lund hours ago guided me inside her milked my cum deep in her womb hoping for our child. She applies fresh sindoor (she never let it fade saying “ab tere pyar se patni feel karti hoon”) wears her simple cotton saree then comes to wake me with a soft hug from behind devar uth ja chai bana di hai tears in her eyes from overnight love and fear. The contrast is maddening — the same woman who sobbed “make me pregnant” the night before now looks like the perfect devoted bhabhi hand on her belly dreaming of our secret life. The guilt hits hardest in those moments I feel like dying sometimes but then she brushes her breast against my back while hugging or whispers dopahar ko sab so jayenge tab wait karna with tears and the guilt melts into desperate jealous love again.
We developed secret codes full of emotion. When she wears her red chiffon saree with deep neck blouse it means she wants slow love-making gentle kisses long foreplay with tears “love me like your wife”. When she wears black satin nighty it means she wants rough jealous passion slapping biting marking with sobs “punish me for phone lover”. When she leaves her bedroom door slightly open after bhaiya sleeps it means come now quick silent fuck with tears while he snores next room. The risk is insane — once bhaiya almost woke up when bhabhi sobbed a little too loud during a quick spooning fuck in her own bedroom I had to cover her mouth with my hand thrust slow and deep to shut her up while bhaiya turned over and went back to sleep. The fear the adrenaline the way her choot clenched harder in that moment mixed with her tears made us both come instantly crying silently in each other's arms.
During day time when family busy with guests we take bigger risks full of emotion. Once family went to temple for Diwali puja bhabhi pulled me to the terrace locked the door lifted her saree no panty underneath bent over the parapet guided me inside her from behind crying “Vikram… pol dekh rahi hai hamara pyar… eternal like our love”. I fucked her slow deep the city noise below covering our sobs while she bit her pallu to stay quiet tears falling on the floor mixing with cracker smoke. I came inside her in under six minutes cum dripping down her thighs while she fixed her saree kissed me crying “tera maal andar hai… feel kar rahi hoon… our baby starting… our eternal love”.
Another time when bhaiya was at business call bhabhi came to my room at noon wore nothing but her mangalsutra and sindoor lay naked on my bed spread her legs crying “Vikram abhi chod bhabhi ko din mein din mein chod… make love to me like I'm your wife… give me the child bhaiya couldn't”. I ate her choot for twenty minutes made her come twice then fucked her missionary slow deep while sunlight streamed through the window making her skin glow tears streaming down her face mixing with sweat. She came again clenching milking me before I filled her whispering Vikram bhabhi ke pet mein tera maal daal de… our jealous love child banega… our redemption.
The emotional layers are just as intense as the erotic ones. Some nights after sex she breaks down completely in my arms saying Vikram mujhe bohot guilty feel hota hai bhaiya ke saath yeh kar rahi hoon… family ko dhokha… but I can't live this empty life anymore… you gave me love… real jealous passionate love… the child bhaiya couldn't give you can… you're my true devar my redemption my everything. I hold her tight kiss her tears tell her I feel the same guilt every day — betraying bhaiya risking everything — but she's my reason to live… I'll fight the world for her and our baby. We cry together planning escape — her telling bhaiya she wants separate life when he returns or me getting job in another city so we can start new life raising our child in secret. She has stopped pills completely — says “Vikram… pregnant hona chahti hoon… tera baccha meri zindagi ka matlab… even if we hide it… it'll be our secret jealous love child… our redemption our future”.
The haveli has hidden corners everywhere — narrow staircases leading to forgotten attics where old wedding trunks gather dust, a small library with yellowed account books from the family cloth business, and a rooftop terrace where we burst crackers during Diwali and fly kites during Uttarayan. The family is big and traditional — papa ji the patriarch with his white dhoti-kurta and gold chain, maa ji the heart who organizes every festival with military precision, uncles and aunties coming for every occasion, cousins like brothers and sisters. I am the only son of the youngest chacha, studying MBA in IIM Ahmedabad but coming home for every festival “family first beta”.
My elder brother — bhaiya — Raj bhaiya — is thirty, married two years ago to Neha bhabhi in a grand Gujarati wedding with garba all night and gold jewellery worth lakhs that made the entire pol talk for months. Neha bhabhi is twenty-seven, from a good Surat diamond family — innocent yet bold like a true Gujju girl, milky fair skin with a natural pink blush from shyness that makes her look like a freshly bloomed rose, long thick black hair with subtle waves that reached her lower back always in a loose braid adorned with fresh mogra gajra during festivals or open when oiling at night, large doe-shaped eyes that sparkled with laughter one moment and melted with unspoken longing the next, full juicy lips always with light pink gloss even at home, and a body that had blossomed into divine temptation — heavy full D-cup breasts that strained against her simple cotton sarees creating deep hypnotic cleavage that her pallu tried to hide but Diwali excitement made careless, narrow waist with a soft curve from the child she carried briefly last year but lost in early miscarriage (doctors said stress from bhaiya's new diamond export business), wide hips that swayed with graceful rhythm when she danced garba, and a perfectly round gaand that jiggled softly in her sarees like a silent invitation to sin.
The marriage was full of hope — bhabhi was the perfect bahu, helping maa ji in kitchen, managing house during bhaiya's frequent Dubai trips for business “diamond market bada hai wahan”. But the miscarriage broke her — she became quieter, eyes often red from crying alone, touching her flat belly with sadness when no one saw. Bhaiya became more busy — trips longer, calls shorter “business tension hai beta”. This Diwali 2025 he was in Antwerp “big deal” — promised to return before New Year but extended again. Bhabhi smiled for family but I saw her pain — late nights on phone in terrace whispering sweetly to someone, quick hiding when I approached.
I had always loved her more than bhabhi — jealous when boys in college looked at her photos, angry when family praised the marriage “perfect jodi”. During garba practices I danced closer than necessary, hands brushing her waist, eyes locking longer than brotherly. She blushed but never pulled away.
The discovery came on Diwali eve — family busy with rangoli and diya lighting, bhabhi in kitchen making mohanthal. I went to terrace for fresh air — heard her whispering on phone hidden behind water tank “haan jaanu… miss you… yahan sab busy Diwali mein… raat ko video call karna… mangalsutra ke neeche sirf tera naam hai ab”. My blood boiled — jealousy like fire. I waited till she finished, confronted quietly “bhabhi… kaun tha phone pe?”.
She froze, tears instant, pallu slipping showing deep cleavage with mangalsutra glinting between breasts. “Vikram… tu galat samjha… woh sirf friend hai… bhaiya door hai… akelapan mein…”. But her eyes betrayed — longing, guilt, fear. I pulled her close “bhabhi… main janta hoon… main bhi akela hoon… main bhi tujhe chahta hoon years se”. She sobbed in my arms “Vikram… yeh galat hai… family… bhaiya… but I can't stop feeling… tu mera real pyar hai”.
Then she kissed me — desperate trembling lips tasting like salt from tears and mohanthal sweetness a kiss full of years of suppressed love and newly awakened desperate womanhood. I kissed back — jealous hungry as years of longing exploded claiming what was mine. Her tongue explored mine deeply with desperate need hands pulling my kurta off crying “I need you Vikram… need real love… need what phone lover can't give”. My hands went to her heavy saree pulled pallu away unhooked blouse exposed her red lace bra breasts spilling out heavy full dark nipples erect from cold night air and arousal. I took one in my mouth sucked hard tongue swirling biting gently while hand squeezed the other making her arch and moan mixed with sobs aaaahhhh Vikram choos le zor se choos apni bhabhi ke chuche… kitne din se kisi ne nahi chhua properly… make your jealous bhabhi feel wanted again… love me.
The taste of her skin — salty tears mixed with mogra gajra and her natural sweetness — the softness filling my mouth her sobs turning into moans of relief love and pain — it was overwhelmingly emotional and erotic every suck drawing out her grief and desire making her cry harder with pleasure “Vikram… I'm yours… only yours… forget him forget phone”. My other hand went under her heavy saree — no panty, choot already soaking wet geeli ho gayi thi from pent-up loneliness and this moment of jealous possession. I rubbed her clit making her buck her hips crying “zor se ragad Vikram bhabhi ki choot ragad zor se… fill the emptiness he left… give me real lund not virtual”. She came hard shaking violently squirting on my fingers for the first time tears streaming down her face aaaahhhhh jhad rahi hoon Vikram… love you… only you can make me whole… my true devar my real husband.
After that she pushed me against the water tank with trembling hands tears in eyes pulled my pajama down freed my lund stroked it slowly whispered kitna mota hai tera lund Vikram… bhabhi ne kabhi itna perfect nahi dekha… phone lover ka chhota tha… sirf tera chahiye ab… make me yours… claim me tonight. She took me in her mouth sucked slowly tongue swirling around the topi taking me deep gagging with emotion tears falling on my thighs until I came in her mouth hot thick spurts and she swallowed every drop licked her lips crying “tera maal kitna garam… kitna pyar bhara… mera hai sirf mera… give me your child Vikram… our secret”.
We did not stop there. I pulled her saree completely off ate her choot for the first time — tongue inside circling clit sucking hard fingers pumping deep while Diwali crackers burst below covering our moans. She came again shaking violently squirting on my face crying “Vikram… I needed this… needed you… you gave me real Diwali… love you more than life… my true devar”. Then she bent over the tank railing guided my lund inside her slowly taking me inch by inch tears streaming down her cheeks aaaahhhh kitna bada hai tera lund Vikram… dard ho raha hai par mazaa bhi… phaad do meri choot… fill me completely… make me yours forever. I thrust jealous hard doggy on the risky terrace family voices below watching her gaand jiggle while she sobbed “harder Vikram… punish me for phone lover… make the pain beautiful” crackers covering our moans. We changed positions missionary on the terrace floor with her legs over my shoulders deep hard thrusts but gentle when she cried reverse cowgirl so I could see her choot swallowing my lund completely with tears dripping on my chest mixing with sweat and cracker smoke. She came eight times clenching around me milking me crying “I love you Vikram… my true everything” before I exploded inside her garam garam maal daal de Vikram andar bhar de poora bhar de… make me pregnant with your jealous love… give me our secret child… our redemption our everything.
We lay there panting sweating mixed with cracker smoke and tears on the terrace floor her head on my chest sobbing softly “Vikram… yeh galat hai… bhaiya… family… but I can't stop… I love you since you grew up… real love… not that marriage… you are my soulmate my everything”. I held her tight kissed her tears whispered “Neha… I love you too… always have… this jealousy killed me seeing you with phone… now you're mine forever… I'll leave everything for you… we'll make our own life our child”. We cried together made love again slowly tenderly with deep eye contact whispering promises through tears “ek din bhaiya ko chod ke tere saath rehungi… sirf hum dono aur hamara baccha… our family born from true love our redemption”.
From that Diwali night our secret life started — raw emotional all-consuming healing each other's deepest wounds with jealous forbidden passion that felt like destiny's gift from the ashes of a broken marriage. Official reason — bhabhi was “missing bhaiya during festival”. Real reason — loving each other in ways that would shatter the family if known. Parents thought we were “close like devar-bhabhi bonding”. We found ways — afternoon sessions when family napped after heavy Diwali food long terrace fucks when everyone busy with guests early morning quickies before anyone woke. Nights when family slept after crackers she would come to my room or call me to terrace crying “need you Vikram… can't sleep without you claiming me loving me”. We explored everything — slow heartbreaking love-making with tears deep kisses and I love yous that left us both sobbing with joy and pain rough jealous fucking with hair pulling biting slapping dirty confessions “chod mujhe jaise teri personal randi ho… make me forget phone lover”. She taught me how sensitive her body was — begging for doggy on terrace “zor se thok Vikram apni bhabhi ki gaand… show society who's real owner”. I learned how to make her come multiple times how to bite her nipples just hard enough to make her scream and cry with pleasure how to finger her gaand lightly teasing the tight hole while I licked her choot until she begged for more crying “take all of me Vikram… I'm yours body soul and married places”.
The risk grew insane but so did the emotion. Once during family dinner when everyone present she slipped her foot under the table rubbed my lund slowly while crying silently about bhaiya's latest call saying he might miss New Year too. The danger mixed with her tears made me come in my pajamas without being touched. Another time when family watching Diwali special on TV she pulled me into the storeroom locked the door lifted her nighty bent over the trunks let me fuck her hard fast sweets boxes falling to cover sounds while sobbing “Vikram… love you… can't hide anymore”. I came inside her in under three minutes cum dripping down her thighs as she fixed her nighty went back to watch TV tears still streaming.
Months passed the affair deepened into something beyond jealousy — soul-shattering love mixed with devastating guilt and desperate hope for a future together. She told me how empty her marriage was how bhaiya only cared about business how phone lover was escape but fake how my jealous love awakened her gave her reason to live again made her feel complete worthy of love and motherhood. I told her how jealous I was seeing her laugh with phone how I felt lost until this night how the guilt of betraying bhaiya family is killing me but her love is giving me life. We cried together every time after sex — holding each other whispering future dreams through tears “ek din bhaiya ko divorce de dungi… tere saath rehungi… hamara ghar hoga hamara baccha hoga… our family born from true jealous love our redemption”.
She started saying dangerous emotional things Vikram agar pregnant ho gayi toh… baccha hamara hoga… I'll keep it… raise it with you… tell everyone it's bhaiya's… but we'll know it's our jealous love child… our redemption our new life our everything. The thought broke me aroused me made me fill her with even more cum crying “yes Neha… give me our baby… proof of my possession”.
Now January 15 2026 bhaiya planning return after deal. Parents thrilled about “beta aayega”. No one suspects the depth of our soul-consuming love and the life growing inside her from our passion. Those months were ours — full life full nights no hiding complete surrender. No work some days no college for her. The terrace was ours. She wanted me to take her in every corner — courtyard during monsoon terrace during sunset parents’ room when they're away even the puja room during aarti whispering mantras while I fill her with our future. She wanted me to fill her every time no condom no pulling out. She has stopped pills completely — says “Vikram… pregnant hona chahti hoon… tera baccha meri kokh mein… our jealous love child… our redemption our future our everything”.
I know this is the ultimate sin. I know one day it will destroy everything — bhaiya’s marriage family honor maa’s trust my future her dignity. But when Neha calls me Vikram with tears in her eyes spreads her legs begs for my lund and our baby — I can’t stop. This sin this jealous love this addiction has become my oxygen my salvation my everything.
Tonight bhaiya returning tomorrow. Neha is waiting on terrace wearing her favorite red lace nighty door open eyes full of tears and promise hand on her belly feeling our beginning. I will go to her. I will kiss her tears away suck her nipples until she sobs with pleasure eat her choot until she squirts crying my name fuck her in every position fill her with my cum while she moans Vikram bhar de andar poora bhar de… make me pregnant with our jealous love child… our redemption our future our everything.
Tomorrow morning she will act normal call me Vikram devar sweetly in front of everyone while my seed swims inside her creating our baby born from forbidden but purest jealous love.
This is our life now — daylight devar-bhabhi midnight soulmates. Guilt is there sharp like knife but love is bigger deeper more emotional. Love is there twisted forbidden but real pure aching eternal. And we can’t stop. We won’t stop.
The nights stretch on. The risks grow. The creampies continue. Every time I fill her I feel her tears on my chest her whispers of forever in my ear her body trembling with love fear and hope for our child. The thought of our secret baby growing inside her breaks me heals me binds me tighter to her. Neha has become my obsession my salvation my reason to breathe my eternal love my beautiful sin.
In the ancient pols of Ahmedabad where life moves with festivals and secrets hide behind carved doors we keep burning together — devar and bhabhi trapped in a love that should never exist but feels more real more emotional more everything than anything else in this world.
And so it continues — more afternoons more midnights more positions more whispered Vikram more creampies more tears more love wrapped in guilt wrapped in ecstasy wrapped in the unbreakable forbidden bond between a devar and his bhabhi — his healer his lover his everything.
The small everyday moments are what make this love so impossible to break. Every morning when she wakes up early helps with puja lights the diya offers flowers to Devi Maa with the same hands that held my lund hours ago guided me inside her milked my cum deep in her womb hoping for our child. She applies fresh sindoor (she never let it fade saying “ab tere pyar se patni feel karti hoon”) wears her simple cotton saree then comes to wake me with a soft hug from behind devar uth ja chai bana di hai tears in her eyes from overnight love and fear. The contrast is maddening — the same woman who sobbed “make me pregnant” the night before now looks like the perfect devoted bhabhi hand on her belly dreaming of our secret life. The guilt hits hardest in those moments I feel like dying sometimes but then she brushes her breast against my back while hugging or whispers dopahar ko sab so jayenge tab wait karna with tears and the guilt melts into desperate jealous love again.
We developed secret codes full of emotion. When she wears her red chiffon saree with deep neck blouse it means she wants slow love-making gentle kisses long foreplay with tears “love me like your wife”. When she wears black satin nighty it means she wants rough jealous passion slapping biting marking with sobs “punish me for phone lover”. When she leaves her bedroom door slightly open after bhaiya sleeps it means come now quick silent fuck with tears while he snores next room. The risk is insane — once bhaiya almost woke up when bhabhi sobbed a little too loud during a quick spooning fuck in her own bedroom I had to cover her mouth with my hand thrust slow and deep to shut her up while bhaiya turned over and went back to sleep. The fear the adrenaline the way her choot clenched harder in that moment mixed with her tears made us both come instantly crying silently in each other's arms.
During day time when family busy with guests we take bigger risks full of emotion. Once family went to temple for Diwali puja bhabhi pulled me to the terrace locked the door lifted her saree no panty underneath bent over the parapet guided me inside her from behind crying “Vikram… pol dekh rahi hai hamara pyar… eternal like our love”. I fucked her slow deep the city noise below covering our sobs while she bit her pallu to stay quiet tears falling on the floor mixing with cracker smoke. I came inside her in under six minutes cum dripping down her thighs while she fixed her saree kissed me crying “tera maal andar hai… feel kar rahi hoon… our baby starting… our eternal love”.
Another time when bhaiya was at business call bhabhi came to my room at noon wore nothing but her mangalsutra and sindoor lay naked on my bed spread her legs crying “Vikram abhi chod bhabhi ko din mein din mein chod… make love to me like I'm your wife… give me the child bhaiya couldn't”. I ate her choot for twenty minutes made her come twice then fucked her missionary slow deep while sunlight streamed through the window making her skin glow tears streaming down her face mixing with sweat. She came again clenching milking me before I filled her whispering Vikram bhabhi ke pet mein tera maal daal de… our jealous love child banega… our redemption.
The emotional layers are just as intense as the erotic ones. Some nights after sex she breaks down completely in my arms saying Vikram mujhe bohot guilty feel hota hai bhaiya ke saath yeh kar rahi hoon… family ko dhokha… but I can't live this empty life anymore… you gave me love… real jealous passionate love… the child bhaiya couldn't give you can… you're my true devar my redemption my everything. I hold her tight kiss her tears tell her I feel the same guilt every day — betraying bhaiya risking everything — but she's my reason to live… I'll fight the world for her and our baby. We cry together planning escape — her telling bhaiya she wants separate life when he returns or me getting job in another city so we can start new life raising our child in secret. She has stopped pills completely — says “Vikram… pregnant hona chahti hoon… tera baccha meri zindagi ka matlab… even if we hide it… it'll be our secret jealous love child… our redemption our future”.