Sex With My Father-in-Law: The DIL and the Cuckold Husband
The Red Dress And The Assets
The next morning the guest room was full of quiet light.
Rohan had already gone. A note on the table. Late again. Eat without me. Love.
Simran sat with a book she was not reading. Then she stood and faced the long mirror.
She looked at herself for a long time.
Yesterday a scarf had fallen and a powerful man had failed to look away. Today she did not want an accident. Today she wanted a choice.
She opened the cupboard.
The red dress was tight. Sleeveless. A square neck that lifted her breasts and made a deep, clean line between them. The cloth held her waist and then swelled over the round, full shape of her bottom. When she turned, the dress moved with her. Nothing extra. Nothing shy.
She put on lipstick. She let her hair down. She looked like a woman going nowhere and dressed for someone.
You are getting ready for your father-in-law.
The thought should have stopped her.
It dressed her instead.
She walked into the kitchen.
Debashish was in the living room with a newspaper. Coffee. Morning calm. Then she crossed the open space between the rooms and the newspaper became a prop.
He tried to read.
His eyes left the page.
The red dress pulled him like a magnet. First the chest, high and pushed up, the kind of cleavage that made a deep neck look like an invitation. Then the walk. Then the back. Her bottom filled the dress in two round, heavy curves. He looked. He looked away. He looked again.
Simran opened the fridge.
She knew where the fruit was. She still bent from the waist.
The red cloth stretched tight across her ass. She stayed there a second longer than she needed, hand on a cold bottle, heart loud.
When she stood and turned, she caught him.
Debashish’s face went hot. A man who gave orders to a city looked suddenly like a boy caught at a window. He lifted the paper too high. He cleared his throat. The embarrassment was plain and helpless.
That look gave her more power than the scarf had.
He cannot help it. My chest. My ass. Magnets. He is ashamed that he is a magnet too.
“Good morning,” she said.
“Morning.” His voice was rough. “The dress is… bright.”
“It is only a dress.”
“It is not only a dress.”
He said it before he could stop himself. Then he hid behind the paper again. Simran smiled at the bottle of juice and felt the same low pull from yesterday, warmer now, proud.
They ate a little. They spoke a little. His eyes kept failing. Every time she reached for bread, the neckline offered him more. Every time she stood, the red skirt drew a map of her hips. He looked embarrassed each time she caught him, and the embarrassment made her generous. She did not scold. She let him suffer.
Rohan called after lunch, already tired.
“I cannot leave. Two meetings. Don’t wait. I am sorry.”
“It is fine,” Simran said. She was looking at Debashish when she said it. “I needed to go to the mall anyway.”
She put the phone down.
“Will you take me?” she asked. Simple. Soft. “My husband is stuck. I do not know the roads well yet.”
Debashish stood too quickly for a calm man.
“Yes. Get your bag.”
Eager. He tried to hide it. He failed the same way he failed with the newspaper.
The SUV stopped at a petrol pump.
“Fuel,” he said. “And you need water. Stay. The air is on.”
He went to a small shop beside the pumps.
Simran watched him walk back.
Sun on his bald head. Broad chest under a clean shirt. Tailored trousers sitting neat on thick legs.
Then she saw it.
With each step, a heavy outline swung against the cloth. Long. Thick. Unmistakable. Not a trick of a fold. A man’s cock, massive even at rest, moving because his body was that big and that alive.
Her mouth opened.
She tried to look at the pumps. At a man counting cash. At her own knees.
Her eyes went back.
So big. How does a person carry that and still look calm?
Curiosity and heat mixed into a smile she could not swallow. She bit her lip and kept smiling anyway, wicked and bright.
The car door opened.
Debashish caught her stare at once. Her gaze was not on his face. It was lower.
He cleared his throat. Embarrassment and something like pride arrived together.
“It is a dangerous thing,” he said, low, “to evaluate your father-in-law’s… assets, Simran.”
She lifted her eyes. The smile stayed.
“Only fair, Papa. You spent all morning evaluating mine in the kitchen.”
His neck flushed.
He started the car, then did not put it in gear.
“In my defence,” he said, dry as tea, “the kitchen was a difficult room today. The fridge was in front of you. The view from behind was… well built.”
“You mean my ass.”
He gave a short laugh that sounded shocked at itself. “I mean my son is a lucky man. He married a woman whose dress does the talking. The top half also holds a meeting. Two of them. Very full agenda.”
Simran’s face burned in a pleasant way.
“So you were reading my minutes.”
“I was failing not to.” He glanced at her chest and then forced his eyes to the road. “A weak intention and a red dress should not sit in the same house. You came downstairs knowing the newspaper would lose.”
“You looked anyway.”
“Yes.” No lie. “A father-in-law should have better manners. Your breasts do not care about manners. They sit there like they pay the rent.”
She laughed, bold now.
“Then we are even. I looked at your asset. It also pays the rent. It does not sit quietly.”
His hands tightened on the wheel.
“Careful.”
“It was swinging, Papa. I am not blind. I wanted a picture for later. Only in my head. A small nap of a thought.”
She said nap like a joke. The joke still had teeth. She wanted, in the joke, to take that heavy shape into a private hour and study it. She hid the want inside a smile.
Debashish stared through the windscreen.
“You cannot nap on a thought like that in my car.”
“Then do not walk like that in those trousers.”
“Then do not bend like that in that dress.”
They were both smiling. The smiles were not safe.
He put the car in gear. The pump fell behind them. The road to the mall opened.
His neck was still red. The thick outline had not gone quiet; sitting only made the trousers tell a clearer story. Simran crossed her legs and felt her own body answer, wet and secret under red cloth.
Neither of them spoke for a whole minute.
The air in the car was thick.
Debashish gripped the steering wheel as if the wheel might try to leave.
“Mall,” he said.
“Mall,” she said.
They drove toward the shops like two people going to buy ordinary things.
Nothing about the red dress, or the swing in his trousers, or the word assets was ordinary anymore.
- Part 1: Fucking My Father-in-Law: Cuckold Husband & FIL DIL Taboo Novel – 1
- Part 2: Fucking My Father-in-Law: Cuckold Husband & FIL DIL Taboo Novel – 2
- Part 3: Fucking My Father-in-Law: Cuckold Husband & FIL DIL Taboo Novel – 3
- Part 4: Fucking My Father-in-Law: Cuckold Husband & FIL DIL Taboo Novel – 4
- Part 5: Fucking My Father-in-Law: Cuckold Husband & FIL DIL Taboo Novel – 5
- Part 6: Fucking My Father-in-Law: Cuckold Husband & FIL DIL Taboo Novel – 8
- Part 7: Fucking My Father-in-Law: Cuckold Husband & FIL DIL Taboo Novel – 7
- Part 8: Fucking My Father-in-Law: Cuckold Husband & FIL DIL Taboo Novel – 6
- Part 9: Fucking My Father-in-Law: Cuckold Husband & FIL DIL Taboo Novel – 10
- Part 10: Fucking My Father-in-Law: Cuckold Husband & FIL DIL Taboo Novel – 11