Sex With My Father-in-Law: The DIL and the Cuckold Husband
The next day Rohan left in a rush again.
Simran bathed slowly. Hot water. Soap. The quiet bathroom that still did not feel like hers. She stood in front of the mirror and looked at her body the way a person looks at a locked drawer. Full breasts. A narrow waist. Skin still warm from the shower. She put on a long blue top with small pale flowers and a deep neck. Over it she wrapped a matching scarf, covering herself the way a good daughter-in-law was supposed to look in a large house.
Bundled. Decent. Safe.
She went downstairs.
Debashish was in the living room. He had pulled a long table into the middle of the floor. Brown paper. Tape. Labels. A stack of small heavy boxes. High-value parcels for his business. His bald head was bent. His thick fingers moved with the same discipline he gave to phone calls.
“You look busy,” Simran said.
“I am always busy. Today the busy thing has paper.”
She smiled. “I can help. Packing goes faster with two people.”
He looked at her for a second, then nodded at the chair across from him. “If you label, I wrap. Your handwriting is cleaner than mine.”
They worked.
They talked for fifteen minutes about ordinary things. The driver. A book. Rohan’s first-week nerves. Debashish’s dry line about a client who sent ten messages to say nothing. Simran felt easy. Almost proud of how easy. The friendship from the ice cream car was still sitting between them, warm and allowed.
She reached across the table for a roll of tape.
The scarf slipped.
It did not fall like a drama in a film. It slid off her shoulders in one soft drop and gathered at her elbows. The deep neck of the blue top was suddenly open to the room. Both of her breasts, heavy and high, strained against the thin fabric. The gold edge of the neckline framed them. From his side of the table there was nothing left to imagine. The shape. The line. The warm shadow between.
She looked down.
She saw what he could see.
Then she looked at him.
Debashish was staring.
Not a blink. Not a polite turn of the head. A faint smile sat at the corner of his mouth, as if his face had told the truth before his manners could catch it. His eyes were dark and fixed on her chest. A man who moved trucks with one call could not move his gaze.
Simran did not pull the scarf up.
A hot rush of flattery hit her so hard she felt it in her teeth.
He is looking.
The thought was simple. The feeling was not.
He is looking at me. Not at a guest. Not at his son’s wife in a polite way. He is looking at my breasts as if they are the only thing in this big house that can stop him.
She should have been ashamed. That was the script. Cover. Laugh. Blame the scarf. Run upstairs and tell herself it was an accident.
She did not feel shame.
She felt chosen.
Rohan loves me. Rohan kisses me like I am precious glass. Rohan lasts two minutes and falls asleep on my shoulder. Rohan has never looked at me like this. Not once. Not in five years. Not even on our wedding night. His eyes go soft. These eyes do not go soft. These eyes eat.
Her heart kicked.
Look at him. Bald. Thick. Older. The man I was afraid of at the airport door. The man who said the house is big enough. He cannot take his eyes off me. He is trying. I can see him try. His throat moves. His hands have stopped wrapping. A multi-millionaire with a whole city in his phone, and my chest has made him stupid.
A butterfly turned in her stomach.
Lower, her body answered in a way that shocked her. Heat. A small pulse. The secret place between her legs waking up as if someone had called its name.
What is wrong with you?
The question arrived late and weak.
He is your father-in-law. You are his son’s wife. You slept beside Rohan last night. You held him. You said you were fine.
And still she did not lift the cloth.
I want him to see.
There it was. The true line. Not an accident anymore. A decision.
I will not dance. I will not lick my lips. I will not say a dirty word. I will stay here and work and talk and let him look. I will give him five minutes of my best thing, the thing I hide in this house, the thing that made me feel like a woman when Bangalore still had my name on a desk.
She remembered the terrace. The coffee in the office. The ice cream in the cold car. Respect. Friendship. And under all of that, this other animal, quiet until now.
He is enjoying it. He is a disciplined man and he is failing. That failure is for me. My breasts are too big for his good manners. He built an empire and he cannot handle a scarf falling down.
Flattery became power.
Power became a taste.
Rohan is in an office stressing about files. I am here. This man is here. And I am the thing he cannot finish wrapping.
She thought of his hands. How large they were on the tape. How they would look against blue cloth. She pushed that thought down and it came back wetter.
Five minutes. Only five. Then I cover. Then I am good again.
She picked up a label.
Her voice came out almost normal.
“This one is for the west warehouse or the city office?”
Debashish blinked, late. “West.”
“You wrote the code twice on the last one.”
“Did I.”
His eyes dropped again. He told them not to. They went anyway. The heavy curve at the neckline. The way her breath made the fabric rise. He wrapped a box too slowly. The tape stuck to itself. A man who did not fumble had fumbled.
Simran leaned forward to mark a name.
The neckline opened more.
She kept talking about the driver, about whether the parcels needed extra plastic in case of rain. Her tone was helpful. Friendly. The same woman from morning tea. Only her scarf was at her elbows and her chest was a gift she refused to take back.
One minute.
He shifted in the chair. His thighs were heavy. She did not look lower. She did not need to. The air had changed.
Two minutes.
“Your writing is better than accounts,” he said. His voice was deeper than before.
“I know.”
She smiled at the paper, not at him, and let him look.
Three minutes.
A drop of sweat moved between her breasts. She felt it. She knew he saw it. The butterfly in her stomach became a pull, low and shameless. Her nipples had tightened against the cloth. She could feel them. She hoped he could see the shape.
Four minutes.
Debashish cleared his throat. “The last three. Then we are done.”
“Yes.”
She reached again, slower than she needed to. Not a showgirl. A woman who had decided not to notice. His stare was a hand she could feel without being touched.
Five minutes.
The last label went on. The last box closed.
Simran stood.
She lifted the scarf and settled it over her shoulders as if she were only fixing a crease. Casual. Calm. As if his eyes had not been on her the whole time.
“All done,” she said. “Good afternoon.”
“Simran.”
She waited.
He said only, “Thank you for the help.”
The faint smile was gone. Something hotter sat in its place, locked down, not finished.
“You are welcome.”
She walked upstairs.
Her legs were not as steady as her voice.
The guest room door closed.
Simran leaned against it and shook.
Her heart hammered so hard she put a hand on her chest and felt the same flesh he had stared at. Power. Fear. A thrilling new sense that she could stop a large man without even touching him.
She crossed to the bed.
She did not plan it. Her hand was already under the long blue top, already past the cotton, already on the heat she had been pretending not to own. She rubbed, fast and secret, and the picture in her head was not her husband. It was a bald head bent across a table. Sharp eyes. That faint smile. The way he had failed to look away from his daughter-in-law’s breasts.
He enjoyed it. I enjoyed showing him. My best thing. Mine.
The pulse built. Her mouth opened on a silent sound.
Then sense cut through, late and sharp.
She pulled her hand away as if the bed had burned her.
“What are you doing?” she whispered to the empty room. “He is your father-in-law. You are his son’s wife.”
The words were easy English and hard truth.
She stood. She washed her hands. She fixed the scarf until nothing showed. In the mirror her face was flushed and alive in a way Rohan had not made it in a long time.
Downstairs, tape tore. A chair moved.
Simran sat on the edge of the bed and pressed her knees together.
The parcels were finished.
Something else had started.
- 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