Fucking My Father-in-Law: Cuckold Husband & FIL DIL Taboo Novel – 10

Dinner, The Door, The Job

Rohan came home tired and smiling.

He dropped his bag by the guest-room door and held Simran as if Bangalore had come back with him for one minute.

“Something smells good,” he said.

“Food,” she said. “And news.”

They ate downstairs. Debashish had already taken a plate to his office. A polite absence. The long table felt almost like their old floor again, except the house around them was still too large.

Simran served Rohan extra. She talked with bright, careful excitement.

“Your father is not a small businessman. I saw the books. Warehouses. Trucks. Contracts. He built all of it himself. I found a tax line that was wrong. He called his manager in front of me and fixed it the same minute.”

Rohan’s face opened with pride.

“That is my wife,” he said. “I told you your brain would not sit still in this city.”

“He was impressed.”

“He should be.”

She showed him a card Debashish had given her after the mall, quiet, at the gate. No drama. For the house and for you. Do not ask me for cash like a visitor.

“Look. There is no limit on this. Your dad gave it to me.”

Rohan turned the card in his fingers. A little stunned. A little grateful.

“He is taking care of you. I should thank him.”

“I already did.”

She told him about the mall in clean pieces. Dresses. A shop. Papa carried the bags. She did not tell him about crotchless red lace. She did not tell him about assets that swung at a petrol pump. She did not tell him that his father’s money had bought the smallest, dirtiest thing in the bag.

Rohan squeezed her hand.

“I am glad you two are getting along. I was worried the house would feel cold.”

“It is not cold,” Simran said.

That, at least, was not a lie.

---

A week went by.

The house learned a new weather.

Morning tea. Her voice in the office doorway. His eyes on her mouth a second too long. The red lace living in a drawer under cotton that Rohan knew. Debashish passing her on the stairs and going silent, as if words had become unsafe.

Tension sat in the rooms like heat after rain.

Rohan saw none of it. He saw a wife who seemed less bored. He saw a father who asked about her day. He went to work and came back and kissed her temple.

Simran felt like a person living two lives in one dress.

---

Late afternoon. Rohan still at the office.

She went to change in the guest room. The door did not click shut. She left it cracked, a finger of hallway light on the floor, and told herself she was only being careless.

She took off the day’s top.

In the mirror she wore the new red bra and the tiny red panties. Lace. Almost nothing. The open idea of the mall was there even in the pair she had chosen for home: a thin strip, high on the hips, the round of her ass bare at the edges.

She looked into the glass.

Behind her own shoulder, in the slice of open door, Debashish was standing in the hallway.

Not walking. Standing.

His eyes were locked on the red between her legs.

Simran’s heart slammed.

A thrill ran down her spine, sharp and sweet. She did not close the door. She did not grab a towel. She hooked her thumbs into the sides of the panties.

She pulled them down.

The lace slid over her thighs and dropped.

She bent over slowly. Legs straight. Hands toward the floor, toward the fallen red. From the hallway the view was plain. Bare. Unmistakable. The full from-behind look of her pussy, open to the man who had paid for the cloth that now lay on the tiles.

She stayed there.

She took her time.

When she glanced at the mirror again, she saw more than his eyes.

His hand was on himself.

Over the trousers. Rubbing. Slow at first, then harder, as if the hallway had stolen his discipline. The shape under his palm was thick, long, still confusing. Even now she could not make the size stay still in her mind. The pump had shown a swing. His hand now showed a ridge that seemed too much for cloth. Her mouth went dry. Her body went wet.

She pretended she had not seen that either.

She picked up a shirt as if she were alone. She stepped out of the panties. She reached for jeans and took too long to pull them up, half-dressed, breasts still in red lace, the door still open.

His shadow jerked.

The rubbing stopped.

The hallway emptied.

He could not take it.

Simran stood in the quiet and felt a massive surge of power, so strong her knees shook. She had shown him everything. He had touched himself in his own house, for his son’s wife, and then he had run.

She closed the door at last.

She smiled at the mirror like a woman who had won a meeting.

---

That night Rohan wanted her.

Sweet. Grateful. His hands kind on her waist. He whispered that he had missed her, that the office was hard, that she felt like home.

He was inside her in the old way. Small. Eager. Love in every short thrust.

Two minutes.

He came with a broken breath against her neck.

“Sorry. I wanted to last. You felt so—”

“It is okay,” she said.

She lay on his chest, unsatisfied, listening to his heart slow down. Her body was still open from the afternoon, still remembering a different doorway.

After a while she spoke into his skin.

“I want to start working in the home office. With your dad. His accounts are large. I can help. I am bored, Rohan. If I sit beside him I will have work. I will have company. I will spend the day with someone who already treats me like a mind.”

Rohan kissed her hair at once.

“Yes. That is a great idea. Career. Purpose. And you will not be alone in this big house. My father is… he is good, isn’t he? I am glad you want his company.”

“I do.”

He fell asleep proud of himself for saying yes.

Simran lay in the dark and smiled at the ceiling.

She planned the first day of “work” the way some women plan a wedding.

What to wear. How much neck. Whether the red lace would sit under a decent shirt like a private joke. Whether she would drop a pen. Whether the door of that masculine room would stay open.

Downstairs, a man who had rubbed himself in a hallway was still awake.

She could feel it, even from here.

Tomorrow she would walk into his office as help.

And she already knew help was not the only thing she was going to be.

Monday In The Office

Monday morning smelled like ironed shirts and new purpose.

Rohan kissed Simran at the door, proud in a simple way.

“First official day. Show him what you can do. I will be late. Do not wait.”

“I will not wait,” she said.

When the gate closed, she went upstairs and opened the cupboard as if it were a meeting.

The red outfit was already waiting.

A sleeveless blouse the colour of fresh danger, cut low, the kind of neck that made two full breasts sit forward like they had been invited. Over it she draped a long red cloth with small white dots. The cloth hugged her waist, left a warm strip of skin at her midriff, and then fell in soft folds over her hips. Heavy silver at her throat. Bangles on her wrists. Hair loose over one shoulder.

In the mirror she did not look like a guest.

She looked like temptation that had learned how to walk into a room and still call itself work.

This is for files, she told her own smile.
The smile did not believe her.

---

The home office door was open.

Debashish sat at the large dark desk. Mahogany. Screens already alive. A stack of files placed on the side as if he had slept thinking about where she would sit. He wore a white shirt. Sleeves rolled once. Bald head bent. The gym waited in the corner like a second language.

He looked up.

For one second the professional mask slipped. His eyes took the red, the open blouse, the dotted cloth at her waist. Then he stood, polite, and became her boss.

“Good morning, Simran. Sit. These are last quarter’s margins. I want your eyes, not your nerves.”

“Good morning.”

She pulled a chair right next to his.

Not across. Next to.

The room changed.

His cologne was clean and low, wood and soap and heat. His large frame gave off warmth like a wall that had been in the sun. When he turned a page, his sleeve brushed her bangle. When she passed a sheet, the back of her fingers touched the back of his hand. Neither of them mentioned it. Both of them felt it.

He treated her like a senior accountant.

“This column is transport. This one is tax. If the number looks pretty, distrust it. Pretty numbers are often lazy.”

She worked.

She was good. That part was real. Her pen moved. Her mind caught two small lies in a vendor sheet and one honest mistake in a rate. Debashish watched the page, not only her chest, and that respect made the rest of the morning more dangerous. He was not only a man staring. He was a man who could see her brain and still have to fight the rest of her.

After an hour she dropped her pen.

It was not a perfect accident. It was good enough.

The pen rolled near his shoe.

She bent from the chair.

The blouse opened. The silver necklace swung forward. For a full breath her cleavage was a deep, close fact beside his knee. Warm skin. The inner curve. The shadow he had already failed to forget.

She picked up the pen.

When she sat back, she caught him.

Staring.

He looked away at once. Cleared his throat. Wrote a number that already existed on the page.

“The pen works,” she said softly.

“Good,” he said. “Use it on row twenty.”

His ears were faintly red. The mask was back. The mask was thinner.

---

Three hours went by in paper and almost-touches.

Simran stood.

“Tea.”

He nodded. “Ten minutes.”

She brought two cups into the office as she had once brought coffee. This time she belonged in the chair. This time the red cloth whispered when she sat.

They drank.

Debashish looked at the work she had finished. Then he looked at her.

His voice came out slightly rough.

“You are brilliant with these numbers, Simran. You bring a… very refreshing energy to this room. It has not felt like this in years.”

The compliment landed in two places. Her pride. Her skin.

“Thank you.”

“I mean the files,” he added, too late.

“I know what you mean,” she said, and smiled into her cup.

He almost smiled back. Then the professional man returned and pointed at a last folder.

“Tomorrow we do the west yard. Today you have already earned the chair.”

---

She packed her files at five.

Rohan was still at his IT job. The house was afternoon-quiet. Debashish stayed at the desk, already on a call, already moving trucks with his voice. He lifted a hand when she paused at the door. Not a touch. A good night made of manners.

Upstairs Simran set the folders down and sat on the bed in the red dotted cloth.

She had come in dressed to tempt him.

She was leaving with something she had not planned to carry.

They had talked for hours. Really talked. Margins. Lazy vendors. A city that cheated if you let it. He had been sharp. Fair. He had praised her mind before he had almost drowned in her blouse. He had looked away. He had cleared his throat. He had kept the room a workplace even while the air around their sleeves went warm.

A professional man.
A good man.
A father-in-law who had given her a chair and a real job.

And still she could feel the place where his arm had brushed hers.

She pressed her palm to that spot as if heat could be kept.

I started this to spend time with him, she thought.
I also did the work. Both things are true.

She unpinned the red cloth slowly.

Tomorrow there would be the west yard files.

Tomorrow she would sit next to him again.

She did not know yet which hunger would arrive first: the numbers, or the man who said the room had not felt like this in years.

She only knew she was already waiting for Monday to become Tuesday.

Two Weeks And The Colour Red

The office became a habit.

Rohan left each morning with a proud kiss. Simran walked downstairs with a file and a plan. Debashish was already at the mahogany desk, already the boss, already the man.

Day by day the line between those two things grew thin.

---

Tuesday she wore a deeper neck.

Not a costume. A white shirt that opened one button lower than work required. When she leaned over a ledger, the shadow between her breasts became part of the page. Debashish explained a margin and lost the end of his own sentence.

“The rate is—” He stopped. Looked at the screen as if the screen had moved. “The rate is on the second sheet.”

His eyes had not been on the second sheet.

Thursday she wore a tighter skirt.

It held her hips and ended above her knee. When she crossed the room for a stapler, the cloth told the truth about her walk. He watched her legs the way he watched a late truck: unable to pretend he was not tracking it.

“Simran.”

“Yes?”

“The stapler is on the desk.”

“I know. I needed to stand.”

He did not answer that.

By the end of the first week his focus on spreadsheets came in pieces. He would work like iron for twenty minutes. Then her chest would pull him. Then her mouth when she bit a pen. Then her legs under the table. Then he would clear his throat and become her father-in-law again, handing her a file with a hand that was too careful not to touch.

---

A long afternoon. Numbers that made her neck stiff.

Simran lifted her arms over her head and stretched.

“Cramp,” she said.

She arched her back.

The stretch pushed her breasts forward against her blouse. High. Round. Offered to the room without a speech. The chair creaked. Debashish’s pen stopped in the middle of a six.

He stared.

Not a glance. A full second of a man forgetting he had built an empire.

She lowered her arms slowly.

“Better.”

“Good,” he said. The word was dry. “Do not… do that near the west ledger. The west ledger needs attention.”

“I will stretch near the east one.”

His mouth almost smiled. His eyes stayed low a moment longer than the joke.

---

Friday of the same week. No extra chair on her side. She did not wait for one.

She sat on the edge of his desk.

Close. The dotted wood under her thigh. Her skirt climbed when she settled, then climbed again when she swung one leg, idle, like a woman waiting for a page to print.

Inch by inch the hem rose.

Debashish leaned back as if distance could save him. It did not. From his leather chair her thigh was a long fact. The inner skin. The hint of the rest.

“There is a chair,” he said.

“This is faster. You can read over my knee.”

“That is not how accounts work.”

“It is how this account is working.”

She swung the leg once more and set the file on her lap. He took the file and their fingers met. Heat. He pulled back as if paper could burn.

“Week one is over,” he said, rough. “You have made this room difficult.”

“You hired me.”

“I remember.”

---

The praises changed shape.

In the first week he still hid inside cleverness.

“That colour suits your complexion perfectly.”

She was wearing soft peach then. A decent neck. He said it while looking at her face, and only after that at her throat.

By the second week the compliments came lower.

“You look incredibly elegant today, Simran. Rohan is a lucky man to come home to you.”

Elegant. Lucky. Home.

He said her husband’s name like a rope thrown into deep water. The rope did not pull him out. His eyes were on the way her blouse held her, on the mouth she painted a little more each morning, on the woman who now belonged to his daylight hours.

Simran thanked him like a good daughter-in-law.

Under the thanks, she stored the words.

He is not only praising the files anymore.

---

Rain came on a Thursday of the second week.

The garden went dark. The office lamps made a closed golden box. They were alone. Staff gone. Rohan still inside his IT building. The house sounded like water on stone.

Simran wore a dark red long top. Simple sleeves. A neck that knew what it was doing. Red against rain light. Red against her skin.

Debashish did not pretend to work.

He stared openly.

When he spoke, his voice dropped an octave.

“I told you at the petrol pump that red was dangerous on you. I was right.”

Simran smiled, soft and not soft.

“You like it, Papa?”

He leaned back in the leather chair. Eyes dark. A man who had stopped running from his own looking.

“I do. But you should wear a red saree next time. The traditional draping… it would frame your curves perfectly. I would very much like to see you in that.”

The rain filled the silence after.

It was not a passing suggestion.

It sat in the room like a heavy, dominant command. Wear it. For me. Let the cloth do what your skirts have started.

Simran’s heart pounded so hard she felt it in the silver at her wrist.

“A red one,” she said.

“Yes.”

“You want to see it here.”

His gaze travelled from her mouth to her chest to the place the drape would cling.

“I want to see it on you.”

She closed the folder with careful hands.

“Then I will find one.”

---

That night she lay beside a sleeping Rohan and stared at the dark.

Two weeks. A deeper neck. A tighter skirt. A stretch. A desk. Compliments that had left her brain and put their mouth on her body. And now this: a command dressed as taste.

She decided it at once.

She would buy the most sensual red saree she could find. Thin cloth. A blouse cut to be a problem. A drape that would frame every curve he had already been watching.

Not for a festival.

Not for her husband.

For the office.

For the man in the leather chair who had said I would very much like to see you in that as if the house were his, and she, in red, were the next file he intended to open.