Fucking My Father-in-Law: Cuckold Husband & FIL DIL Taboo Novel – 15

The Bikini And The Wrong Keys

The day before the anniversary, the Salt Lake house was too quiet.

Simran was folding a shawl she did not need when the phone rang.

Rohan. Office noise behind him. Excited in that boyish way that still belonged to Bangalore.

“Listen. Tomorrow is ours, but I am not waiting. Tonight. Movie. Dinner. Wear something nice. I am taking my wife out.”

Simran sat down on the bed.

Thrilled hit first, clean and bright.

Then guilt, because the living-room kiss was still on her mouth if she thought too hard.

Then hope, greedy and grateful.

He is stepping up. He is reclaiming the evening. This is a sign. I can be a good wife tonight. I can put Papa in a box and go to a movie with the man I married.

She walked the room with the phone, smiling, eyes wet for no useful reason.

“Really?”

“Really. I miss taking you out. I miss you looking at me like I am the plan.”

She had been looking at someone else.

She hated that thought and held the promise harder.

“I will be ready.”

“I will call Papa so he does not wait dinner.”

After he hung up she pressed the phone to her chest.

One thousand small thoughts. The kiss. The wine. The hand in the lap. Rohan’s thin, loving body. A dark cinema. Popcorn. A chance to sew the marriage back to the centre.

She chose to believe the call was a rescue.

---

Rohan rang the home office.

Debashish listened, gracious, easy.

“Go. Enjoy. Do not rush back. The house will not fall.”

He masked the dip in his mood with a joke about young people and late meals.

When the call ended he looked at the empty chair where she usually sat with a file.

He booked himself a quiet night in his head. Meetings finished early. Beer. Silence. A man not touching a line.

---

Simran decided to surprise Rohan before the movie.

Not a long scene. A spark. Something hot at the door, maybe a quickie against the wall if he could last, then clothes, then the cinema.

She put on the tiny string bikini.

Two triangles for her breasts. A string at the hips. Most of her ass bare. Most of her chest a problem. In the mirror she looked like a holiday someone had not invited into a respectable house.

She giggled at herself.

Husband first tonight. Husband.

She waited in the living room.

Keys at thirty minutes early.

She jumped up, posed in the middle of the rug, hip out, fingers in her hair, smile ready for Rohan.

The door opened.

It was not Rohan.

Debashish.

Six-pack in one hand. Jacket open. Home early because he thought the lovers had already gone.

He stopped dead.

His daughter-in-law, nearly naked. Strings. Skin. The full, heavy shape of her breasts barely held. The bare curve of her hips. The little patch of cloth between her legs that was a joke of coverage.

Silence.

Then he blurted it.

“Bloody hell.”

---

Simran screamed without sound and covered what two hands could not cover.

“I thought— Rohan— surprise— movie— I am so— Papa, I am so sorry.”

Horrified. Blushing to her throat.

Debashish looked at the beer, then at her, then he started to laugh.

Deep. Real. A belly laugh that broke the panic like a stick.

“You built a whole welcome gate for the wrong man.”

“Please do not look.”

“Too late. The gate is open.”

She laughed despite the horror, shaking.

“I was going to tease him. Quick. Then change. Then the film.”

Debashish set the beer down, still grinning, eyes not behaving.

“Then model it. As a joke. Before you die of shame on my rug. Turn. Let the poor surprise finish its job.”

“Papa!”

“What? I am assessing whether my son is a lucky fool or just a fool. Professional opinion.”

She turned, nervous, still covering, then dropping her hands because covering was useless. The string went between her cheeks. He made a wounded sound that tried to be comedy.

“The back of this project needs more budget.”

“It is a bikini.”

“It is a rumour.”

She snorted, hiding her face.

He stepped closer.

His hands came up in a grabbing motion toward her breasts, big palms in the air, not touching.

“Oh, I am seeing double—oops.”

The joke of an accidental grab. Two handfuls he did not take.

Simran shrieked and laughed at the same time, horrified, delighted, the morning-after pact cracking like cheap paint.

“You are shameless.”

“I am a widower with beer and a vision problem. Those two need separate files. Very full files.”

“Stop looking at the files.”

“Put covers on the files.”

“The covers are strings.”

“Then the accounts are public.” He tilted his head, playful, dangerous. “Rohan is going to a movie. The preview is already in my living room.”

“You said never again.”

“I said kissing. I did not sign a contract about standing. Standing is legal. Standing is killing me, but it is legal.”

She crossed her arms under her breasts and only made the problem higher.

“You are doing that on purpose,” he said.

“I am hiding.”

“That is not hiding. That is presenting the main course on a shelf.”

“Papa.”

“Go upstairs before I start taking minutes.”

The awkward secret-pact tension was gone.

What replaced it was worse and better. Comfort. Laughter. Playful, highly dangerous energy humming in the dim room between beer bottles and bare skin.

Simran backed toward the stairs, still laughing, still on fire.

“If Rohan asks—”

“I saw nothing. I am blind. I am old. I only came home to drink and not touch the furniture.”

“I am the furniture?”

“You are the renovation.”

She ran.

---

Upstairs she shut the door and leaned on it in the string bikini, heart hammering.

The oops joke replayed. His hands in the air. The size of those hands. How easily they would have filled themselves again.

Electric thrill. Guilt. Anniversary plans still waiting in the cupboard.

She pulled a dress over the bikini and left the strings on underneath, a private stupidity.

Downstairs a powerful man opened a beer with a smile that was not only friendly.

Rohan was on his way to take his wife to a movie.

The house had already shown the preview to the wrong audience.

And Simran, dressing fast, knew the pact in the kitchen had just been laughed into dust.

Bangalore And The Forty-Eight Hours

Thirty minutes later the front door opened on the right man.

Rohan looked defeated before he even set his bag down.

Simran stood in the hall in her date dress, ready, hopeful, the bikini still a secret under the cloth.

“You look beautiful,” he said, and the way he said it already contained an ending.

“What happened?”

He rubbed his face.

“Project emergency. Production failed. They want me in Bangalore first thing. Tomorrow morning flight. I cannot get out of it. Simran— I am so sorry. The movie. The dinner. The anniversary. I will make it up. I swear.”

The crushing blow landed in her stomach first.

Not only a film.

The rescue she had built all afternoon. The idea that Rohan was stepping up, taking her back, putting the living-room kiss in a box labelled wine.

Gone.

---

She sat on the stairs because her legs did not want the living room.

Devastated was too neat a word.

She had done her hair. She had chosen the dress as a promise. She had even put on the tiny bikini so she could give him a spark at the door and then be a good wife in a dark cinema. She had told herself the guilt could be paid down with popcorn and his hand in hers.

Now Bangalore was taking him.

Their old city. Their bubble. And he was going without her, for work, the same work that had thrown them into this house.

He kept talking. Sorry. Sorry. Team. Deadline. I hate this. You know I hate this.

She knew.

Knowing did not help.

He always has an emergency. He always means well. He always leaves me with the feeling and takes the flight.

Tears came and she pushed them back because she did not want to be the difficult wife. The push made her throat hurt.

“It is our anniversary week.”

“I know. I will video call. I will send something. When I come back we will do two nights.”

Two nights later was not tonight.

She thought of Debashish’s laugh over the bikini. The oops. The living-room tongue. If Rohan had come home on time she might have given that heat to her husband and closed the account.

Instead the account was staying open.

“Go pack,” she said, quiet. “I will still love you. I am just… disappointed.”

He hugged her. Thin arms. Kind. Not enough.

---

Dinner was quiet and a little depressing.

Three plates. Not much talk.

Debashish observed.

He saw Simran push rice and not eat it. He saw Rohan explain the same apology in new words. He saw the boy fail to comfort her, not from cruelty, from smallness. A hand on her shoulder. A joke that died. A promise with no body in it.

Debashish did not steal the moment.

He only watched his son miss the size of the wound.

“Travel safe,” he said.

Rohan nodded, grateful for any adult sentence that was not blame.

Simran met Debashish’s eyes once across the table.

The look was not a plan.

It was a fact: she was hurting, and the other man in the room could see it.

---

They went to bed early because the flight was brutal and honest.

Rohan initiated sex the way he initiated sorry. Soft. Hopeful. Trying to paste the weekend back together with his body.

Standard Rohan.

Sweet. Apologetic. Inside her before she had even fallen all the way into wanting him. The small familiar stretch. The short rhythm. Love in his breath.

Two minutes would be generous.

Simran closed her eyes to focus on her husband.

Her mind did not obey.

---

Not this.

The thought was cruel. She held Rohan’s shoulders and tried to kill it.

This is Rohan. This is the boy from Koramangala. This is your marriage.

Under him, her body remembered another mouth.

The living room. Wine. Debashish’s tongue fighting hers. Saliva. The groan. The massive ridge jammed against her dress.

Rohan thrust and she felt four inches of kindness.

Behind her eyelids a different man hovered.

Bald. Heavy. Thick chest blocking the lamp. Those huge hands pinning her hips the way they had yanked her close at the door. The monster from the office chair, from the petrol pump, from her palm in the car, shoving into her in one slow, impossible claim.

His father. Not him. His father fucking his wife.

She bit her lip so she would not say a name.

Rohan whispered she felt good.

She was wet for the picture, not the pace.

She saw Debashish jerking in the home office, fist flying on that veined, dark cock, her image on the screen. She saw him come in thick ropes. She put that cock where Rohan was now, stretching her, ruining the two-minute math, filling the place that had been hungry for years.

Papa. Partner. The man who called me boss in front of money. The man who said oops and almost grabbed what he already grabbed in the dark.

Rohan’s breath broke. Almost there. Always almost immediately.

Simran slid her own hand between them, shameless, and rubbed her clit while her husband held her.

The climax she built was not his.

It was Debashish over her. Weight. Size. That tongue in her mouth while that cock opened her. The filthy sentence from a blog Rohan did not know she could have written: father-in-law using his son’s wife.

She finished in a sharp, secret clench, eyes wet, silent.

Rohan came a second later with a grateful gasp and kissed her forehead.

“I will make it up,” he murmured, already falling.

“I know.”

He slept like a man who had fixed something.

---

Simran lay awake in the dark.

The flight time sat on the nightstand.

Forty-eight hours.

Rohan gone to Bangalore.

Her, in this massive house, with the man she had just used to come.

Terrifying clarity.

No husband in the hall.
No date to hide behind.
Only Papa, the office, the kitchen, the sofa, and a pact that had already failed once.

She turned her face into the pillow.

She did not know if she wanted the forty-eight hours to be decent.

That was the most frightening part.

Tea, A Text, And The Thin Shirt

Rohan’s flight took the morning with it.

The Salt Lake house went quiet in a way that felt too wide. No bag by the door. No rushed kiss. Only the clock and the kettle.

Simran made tea because her hands needed a job.

In the home office, Debashish’s phone lit up.

A message from Rohan. Only to him.

Dad she is angry please take care of her. Thanks dad.

Debashish read it twice.

The boy in Bangalore, already gone, handing his wife across a screen like a parcel. Take care of her. As if care were simple. As if last night’s living room had not already put Debashish’s tongue in Simran’s mouth.

He locked the phone.

He walked to the kitchen.

Simran held out his cup.

“Tea,” she said. Then she shook her head. “No. I do not want to spend this ruined anniversary drinking tea. Drink with me. Properly. Not this.”

Debashish looked at the cup, then at her face. Surprise first. Then something warmer.

“You want beer at breakfast.”

“I want the day to feel like someone chose me.”

He set the tea down.

“All right. I will step in.”

He ordered expensive beer. The kind that came cold in a wooden crate, glass dark, labels that tried too hard. He added snacks without asking her, as if the house could still throw a small party for a woman whose husband had taken a flight.

“Go get ready,” he said. “I will put it on ice.”

---

In the guest room Simran opened the cupboard and stopped hiding.

No bra.

No panties.

A thin, oversized T-shirt, almost transparent in the window light. It hung off one shoulder. Her breasts showed through the cloth in full, soft, shameless shape. Nipples dark against the white. The hem sat mid-thigh. When she walked, nothing under it moved except her.

She looked in the mirror.

Rohan said take care of her.
Debashish is going to see what care walked downstairs.

She went.

---

The living room became their island.

Two glasses. Cold bottles. A plate of salty things. The television open on YouTube because a movie felt too much like the date that had died.

Debashish had taken the big chair, then moved to the sofa when she sat there first. Not touching. Close enough that the shirt would do the talking if he looked.

He looked.

He tried not to make a speech about it.

“That is not tea clothing,” he said.

“Tea clothing left with the flight.”

He opened a bottle. The cap snapped. He poured for her first.

“To a bad anniversary becoming a better afternoon.”

They drank.

The awkwardness from the kitchen pact — never again, our secret — loosened with the first laugh. A clip of a chef ruining a cake. Simran snorted beer and covered her mouth. Debashish’s low laugh filled the room. The kiss was still a fact in the house. It was not sitting on their chests like a stone anymore.

They talked the way they talked over files, only looser.

Cities. Stupid clients. Bangalore rain. Kolkata heat. A video of a dog stealing bread. Simran wiped her eyes.

“Rohan would have paused this to explain the joke,” she said.

“Rohan is on a plane,” Debashish said. “We do not have to pause.”

She tucked her legs under her. The shirt climbed. For a second the shadow between her thighs was only shadow and suggestion. He drank instead of speaking.

Rohan’s text sat in Debashish’s pocket like a third person.

Take care of her.

He was taking care of her with imported beer and a playlist of nonsense. He was also taking care of his own eyes, which kept falling to the points of her breasts under cheap thin cotton.

“You are staring at the shirt,” Simran said, not angry.

“The shirt is doing a presentation.”

“You are the boss. You can look at presentations.”

“I am also—” He stopped, then used the true words because the day was already dishonest enough. “I am Rohan’s father. You are Rohan’s wife. That shirt does not care.”

“The shirt is on my anniversary,” she said. “The shirt is unemployed.”

He laughed again. The sound made her shoulders drop.

They ate. They opened a second bottle. A third for the table, not yet for the head. YouTube kept throwing them cheap joy. A man falling off a treadmill. A baby laughing at paper. Simran leaned on the sofa back and the T-shirt went transparent against the lamp.

Debashish’s voice stayed easy.

“If Rohan asks what we did, we watched dogs steal bread.”

“If Rohan asks what I wore, you saw nothing.”

“I am blind. I said that already. About a bikini.”

“This is worse than the bikini.”

“Yes,” he said, honest. “This is worse. The bikini had strings. This has air.”

She smiled into her glass.

Bonding, real and warm, filled the next hour. Not only heat. The thing that had started on the terrace with a chair. Jokes. Easy silence. His dry lines. Her fire. The kiss-shame washed out by beer and videos and the strange peace of two people left behind by the same flight.

At one point her foot touched his calf and neither moved it.

“He texted you,” she said suddenly.

Debashish did not lie.

“He asked me to take care of you. He said you were angry.”

Simran’s mouth twisted.

“I was angry. I am also here. Drinking with Debashish. Wearing almost nothing. That is a strange kind of care.”

“I can go back to tea.”

“Do not you dare.”

He nodded once.

The crate of expensive beer caught the light.

On the screen, someone else’s life played for free.

In the living room, Rohan’s wife and Rohan’s father sat in a house that had been told, by the son himself, to keep her safe.

Safety, that afternoon, looked like laughter.

It also looked like a transparent shirt and no cloth underneath.

Simran reached for another snack and the hem lifted.

Debashish looked at the television as if the television had become very important.

The afternoon was only beginning.

Forty-eight hours was still a long number.

And the tea had gone cold in the kitchen, forgotten, like the promise of a movie date.

The Confession And The Hug

The third beer made Simran’s mouth honest.

YouTube was still playing something stupid. Neither of them was watching it.

She turned on the sofa, tucked one bare leg under the thin shirt, and poked Debashish in the chest. Once. Twice. Her finger sank into hard muscle.

“Daddy.”

He looked at her finger, not her face.

“Do not start.”

“I already started.” Another poke, lower, over his heart. “How do you really feel about me? Not partner. Not accounts. Me.”

Debashish’s jaw tightened. The powerful man who shouted at warehouses went shy like a boy. He looked at the dark television.

“You work well. You are good in the office.”

“That is a file answer.” She poked again. “Look at me.”

He did not.

She pushed harder. Climbed a little closer on the cushions. The oversized shirt slid off one shoulder. Her bare breast almost left the cloth.

“Papa. I am sitting here with no bra and no panties, drinking your expensive beer, and you are giving me a performance review. How do you feel about me?”

A long breath.

“You are very attractive,” he said, still sideways. “You are a very hot woman. That is the truth. It is also a problem.”

Simran’s smile went sharp.

“Dirtier.”

“Simran—”

“Dirtier, Daddy. You have had your tongue in my mouth. Your hand on my tit. My palm on your cock. Do not go back to attractive like a schoolteacher.”

He hesitated. Traditional guilt sat up in him, old and heavy. Son. Daughter-in-law. House. Name.

So she unloaded first.

“I watched you,” she said, voice low, filthy, steady. “In the home office. The door was open. Your trousers were open. You had that thick cock in your fist and my chest on your screen. You were jerking so hard your balls were slapping your hand. You said my name when you came. You shot all over the desk. All over me.”

Debashish went still.

“I stood there with my pussy dripping. I could not look away. Last night Rohan was inside me for two minutes and I closed my eyes and I did not see Rohan. I saw you. I saw that cock. I felt your tongue from the living room. I rubbed myself and I came thinking about my father-in-law fucking me. I want you. I want your hands. I want that big cock. I think about it constantly. That is how I feel. Now you.”

The room had no joke left in it.

Debashish looked shocked in a deep, genuine way. Not play. Not the oops laugh. A man hit by a truck he had been driving himself.

He stood.

The front of his trousers could not hide what her words had done. The thick line of his cock was obvious. He still stepped back.

“I should sleep.” Quiet. Tight. “This is… I am your father-in-law. You are Rohan’s wife. I should go to bed.”

Simran did not get angry.

She stood too. The shirt hung, transparent, her nipples dark and tight, the bare mound of her pussy only a shadow away from the hem.

She put her arms around him.

A long, close, full-body hug.

No space.

Her bare breasts mashed against his chest through the thin cotton, soft and hot, nipples dragging on his shirt. Her stomach to his belt. Her hip to the hard, heavy shape of his cock. She let him feel all of it. She did not grind like a show. She just held, full and shameless, so his body would remember the truth when his guilt started making speeches.

“You do not have to do anything you are uncomfortable with,” she said into his chest. “Papa. Daddy. I said what I said. You can walk. I will not be angry.”

His hands hovered, then settled on her back. Large. Shaking once.

He breathed her hair.

Then he let go.

“Good night.”

He walked down the hall like a man escaping a fire he had helped light.

The bedroom door shut.

---

Debashish sat on the edge of his bed with his heart hammering so hard he felt it in his throat.

She watched me jerk.
She wants my cock.
Rohan asked me to take care of her.

He lay back. The ceiling did not help. His cock stayed thick and aching against his stomach when he shoved his trousers down. He did not even pretend he would sleep first.

In the living room Simran curled on the sofa in the same thin shirt, beer warming in the glass.

She smiled to herself.

He had run.

He had also hugged her back.

And she knew, with the same certainty she had known after the kitchen lie, that Debashish was lying in that bed in the dark thinking about her pussy, her tits, her mouth saying I want you.

Forty-eight hours.

One confession.

The line was not a line anymore.

It was a door he had closed with his hand still shaking.