Fucking My Father-in-Law: Cuckold Husband & FIL DIL Taboo Novel – 12

The Screen And The House

Rohan did not sleep well.

The picture under the table sat behind his eyes like a lamp that would not switch off. His father’s head. His wife’s open knees. The wet, bare place that was supposed to belong only to him.

In the morning he kissed Simran’s hair and hated how hard he was while he did it.

“You okay?” she asked.

“Office,” he said. “Tired.”

He was not only tired.

He was confused.

---

At his IT desk the confusion became a search.

He told himself he was only trying to understand a feeling. That was the first lie. He typed with the careful slowness of a man who did not want his own hands to know what they were doing.

A husband sees his wife and his father.
Why am I hard.
Is this sick.

The internet did not gasp. The internet offered blogs. Videos. Stories of men who watched. Men who got small and excited. Men who called it a kink as if a word could make the table go away.

Rohan locked his cabin. Headphones in. Shoulders hunched.

He read.

A man writing about his wife in another man’s hands. A man saying the shock came first and the hunger came one breath later. Rohan felt seen in a way that made his stomach drop.

He pressed play on a video, volume almost nothing.

On the screen a woman lay back. A bigger man held her down. Rohan closed his eyes and did the cruel, easy trick.

He replaced the faces.

Simran’s soft, full curves. The chest Debashish had already stared at. The hips that filled a red dress. Pinned under thick hands. His father’s hands. Dark veins. The same hands that had ducked for a water bottle and found a wife.

Rohan’s small cock was out before he had agreed to it.

He stroked in the office chair like a thief.

He came into a tissue with his jaw locked, the blog still open, the imagined sound of a heavy body over his marriage.

Afterward he sat shaking.

This is wrong.

He wiped the history. He went to a meeting. He nodded at numbers.

At lunch he opened a different blog.

Daily became a secret job inside the job.

Each morning, after the stand-up call, he found twenty minutes. Articles. Clips. Comments from strangers who said I thought I would hate it and then described the same heat that had hit him under the table. He read until his eyes hurt. He watched until his zip hurt. He imagined Simran’s mouth open, Debashish’s shadow on her, the size difference that his body seemed to love and his pride did not.

He started keeping a second phone folder that was not a folder. Deleted. Re-downloaded. Deleted.

The more he watched, the more the dinner table felt like the first page of a book he was now finishing alone, in a locked cabin, with a tissue box.

---

At home he tried to be a detective and a good son at the same time.

He came early twice. He came late once on purpose. He walked softly in the hall.

What he saw did not match the videos.

Simran at the mahogany desk. Pen. Files. A deeper neck, yes, but her voice talking tax. Debashish pointing at a screen like a boss. Tea. A dry joke. The two of them looking like work.

When Rohan stood in the doorway they both looked up with clean faces.

“You are early,” Simran said, warm.

“The west sheet is done,” Debashish said. “Your wife has a sharp eye.”

Rohan smiled until his cheeks ached.

In bed he told himself the sentence that let him stay a decent man.

Father and daughter-in-law. Bonding. She was bored. I asked for this. I said she should spend time with him. This is family.

He almost believed it when the office door was open and the talk was only numbers.

He did not believe it at 2 a.m., when he turned to the wall and his mind put Simran’s bare pussy back under the table, an inch from his father’s mouth.

He touched himself then too, quiet, so she would not wake.

“Just a thought,” he whispered to the dark. “Only a thought.”

The thought had already grown legs.

---

One evening he found them on the terrace.

Tea. Distance. Debashish in a chair. Simran laughing at something small. From the stairs it looked innocent. College-easy. A young woman and an older man sharing a cup.

Rohan lifted a hand. “Don’t get up. I will change.”

In the bathroom he braced his palms on the sink and stared at his own thin face.

You saw what you saw.
They look normal.
You are the one with the blogs.

Both things could be true. That was the new horror.

He went downstairs again and became the smiling husband. He asked about files. He thanked his father. He watched Simran’s mouth and wondered, against his will, how that mouth would look saying Papa in a room with no tea.

At night she lay on his chest after the usual two minutes.

“You are quiet,” she said.

“Work.”

He wanted to ask: Did you open your knees on purpose?
He wanted to ask: Did he like it?
He wanted to ask: Would you do it again if I was not there?

He asked if she wanted water.

When she slept he took his phone under the sheet and opened a story he had already read twice. He put their names into it. He came in silence, biting the pillow, and in the morning he ate toast like a man who had not betrayed his own house with a screen.

The blogs called men like him many names.

Rohan called himself confused.

Confusion, he learned, could still keep a calendar. It could still go to an IT job. It could still kiss a wife at the door and watch her walk toward a home office with a file in her hand.

It could also sit in a cabin and press play.

And every time the woman on the video arched her back, he saw red cloth, a bald head, and the wife he loved opening like a secret he was now paying to watch, even when he was not in the room.

I hate shopping. I have always hated it.

When Simran asked me to take her to the mall after office hours, I still said yes. Rohan was stuck at work again. She said it like a small thing. It was not a small thing. Nothing with her had been a small thing since the scarf, the red dress, the glass office, the dinner table.

Seven days after that dinner, I drove her to a luxury mall in Kolkata and told myself I was only a father-in-law with a card.

I am a good liar in business.
I am a bad liar in a mall.

She wanted every store. I walked behind her with my hands in my pockets so I would not put them where they wanted to go. Her red jeans hugged the full, round curve of her hips. Each step made that ass move under tight cloth. I watched it. I hated that I watched it. I watched it anyway.

The last shop was a big name. High prices. Late hour. The floor was almost dead. Soft music. Empty rails. No crowd to save me.

She went straight to the lingerie.

Before I could turn my head she had more than five handfuls of sheer lace bras. Every colour. Thin cups. Straps like suggestions. She marched toward the fitting rooms.

I stopped at the edge, where a man is supposed to wait.

The corridor was pink. Walls pink. Doors pink. A place built to tell men you do not belong here.

No attendant.

Simran opened a door and looked back.

She waved me in.

I froze. I caught her eye and mouthed it.

Are you nuts?

She stood in the doorway and pushed out that pouty bottom lip. Her dark eyes went wide and wicked and soft at the same time.

“Please?” The whisper carried in the empty shop. “I always struggle with the fasteners.”

I looked at the store. Deserted. I looked down the pink hallway. Empty.

I cleared my throat.

“Hello? Anyone here?”

No answer. Only the mall music, sweet and stupid.

My pulse started to thud in my ears like a drum in a closed room.

I walked down the pink hallway.

I stepped into the small fitting room.

I pulled the door shut.

“Thanks, Daddy.”

The word hit me in the cock before it hit my mind.

She gave me a brilliant, filthy little smile. Then she turned her back, grabbed the hem of her shirt, and pulled it over her head. The shirt landed on the bench.

Daily bra. Plain. She had said she struggled with fasteners. Her hands reached back and opened it with easy, practiced fingers. No struggle. A lie wearing perfume.

The bra slid off her shoulders. She tossed it aside.

For one raw second I had her bare back, the side-swell of her breast when she moved, the warm living fact of her half-nude in a pink box with me.

She picked up a new expensive bra. Slipped her arms through the straps. Held the cups to her chest. Still facing away.

“Can you help me, Daddy?”

She glanced over her shoulder.

That back. Smooth. Slender through the waist, then the flare of a woman. Just above the waistband of the tight red jeans, a thin line of red lace panties peeked out. The same family of red I had already paid for. The same red I had already come on, on a screen, in my own office.

She faced the mirror again.

Both arms up.

She gathered that thick dark hair into a messy ponytail, off her neck, off the strap, offering me the hook and the spine and the pose.

Any man knows what that movement does.

A beautiful girl lifting her arms, pulling her hair up, half naked, asking you to touch the cloth that is holding her breasts.

The male brain does not go to fasteners first.

Mine went to her knees on the carpet. Mouth open. That naughty Daddy still wet on her tongue. My cock down her throat in a pink room while the mall music played.

Blood rushed south so hard I felt dizzy. I swelled thick and heavy against my zip, a full, aching ridge, the same monster she had already seen swing at a petrol pump. If she stepped back one inch she would have felt it against those red jeans.

I snapped myself, badly, toward the job.

I stepped forward.

My hands looked huge against the tiny hook.

I fastened the bra.

My knuckles brushed the warm skin of her spine. Heat. Softness. A shock up my arm. It took everything I had not to slide those hands around her stomach, pull her back, and grind that raging erection into the curve of her ass.

She kept her hair up.

She tilted her head and found me in the mirror.

Triumph. Open. She knew.

“Thanks, Daddy.”

God, I wanted to fuck her in that box.

Push her into the pink wall. Yank the red jeans to her knees. Pull the lace aside. Bury every thick inch into my son’s wife until she could not make jokes. Until Daddy became a sound she could not control.

I love her fire. I love the brazen way she makes a trap and then smiles inside it.

I clenched my jaw.

She is Rohan’s wife.
She is my son’s wife.
This room is not allowed to win.

I stepped back too fast.

I got out.

I stood in the pink hallway like a man who had touched a live wire and then pretended it was a clasp.

Inside, cloth whispered. A lock of hair. Another bra.

My heart hammered against my ribs.

I waited.

I did not go back in.

I wanted to.

That was the truth I would take home to Salt Lake, to a dinner table, to a son who still thought I was only teaching her files.

Thanks, Daddy.

The pink hallway kept the rest.

8:00 p.m.

The SUV knew the way back to Salt Lake. My hands did not.

I gripped the leather wheel until my knuckles went white. The pink hallway was still in the car with us. Her bare back. The red lace above those jeans. Thanks, Daddy. My cock had only just started to behave, and even that was a lie I was telling the traffic.

Simran sat in the front, beside me. Close enough that her perfume had chosen my side of the cabin.

“Do you have any idea how inappropriate that was?” I used my best mock-angry father voice. Deep. Stern. A little theatre. “Calling me that in a public store. Making me walk into a pink hallway like a fool.”

She was not fazed.

She laughed. Bright. Melodic. The sound filled the luxury cabin and made the scolding feel like paper.

“Oh, please, Papa. You checked the hallway twice before you came in. You were not that upset.”

“It is highly improper.”

The corner of my mouth twitched. Traitor.

“You are just mad because you blushed,” she said.

Then she reached over and punched my shoulder, light, playful—

—and leaned with it.

Her breast pressed warm and heavy against my arm. Soft. Full. No accident in the pressure. The blouse from after the fitting room was modest compared to the pink box, and it still gave me the shape of her. One second of that weight on my sleeve and the fitting-room swelling tried to come back to work.

I kept the wheel straight.

“Simran.”

“What? It was a punch. Friends punch.”

“Friends do not ask friends to hook a bra in a women’s corridor.”

“Friends with secrets do,” she said. Sweet. Filthy under the sweet. “Daddy.”

“Do not.”

“You came when I said please. That is also a secret.” She sat back, then not fully. Her knee pointed toward me. “Relax. We are friends. I have some secrets of yours too.”

I glanced at her.

“Is that a threat?”

“It is a collection.” She ticked them on her fingers, grinning. “You stare at red. You cannot count petrol-pump steps without a problem in your trousers. You blush like a schoolboy when a woman says assets. And tonight your hands shook on a tiny hook. For a man who moves trucks, Papa, your fingers were very honest.”

A short bark of laughter got out of me. Real.

“You are dangerous.”

“You paid for the danger. Card. No limit.”

“That card was for the house.”

“The house does not wear lace.”

I shook my head, still smiling, still hard enough that I was grateful for the dark.

“If anyone had walked in—”

“I would have said my poor old father-in-law is helping with a stuck clasp. You would have looked very noble. Very helpful. Very… raised.”

“Careful.”

“Or what? You will scold me again? Your scold is cute. It has no teeth.” She leaned, and the breast came back for a second kiss against my arm. “If you wanted teeth, you would have left me in that room alone.”

The heavy sexual tension from the fitting room loosened, not gone, just changing clothes. It became jokes. Easy smiles. Sarcasm going back and forth like we had been doing this for years instead of weeks.

“Next time I will send Rohan,” I said.

“Rohan cannot reach the top hook without a stool,” she said, then covered her mouth, eyes wicked. “Sorry. Friendship secret number five.”

“That was cruel.”

“That was accurate. You like accurate. You told me so over tea.”

I laughed again. The mansion gates opened. The porch lights came on. I pulled into the driveway and looked at her while the engine settled.

She was still laughing. Hair a little messy from the ponytail she had held up for me. Mouth bright. My son’s wife. My daytime partner. The girl who had called me Daddy under pink light and then punched my arm with her chest.

The dangerous lust stayed in the background, burning quiet, like coal under a closed lid.

On top of it, something else had grown tenfold.

Friendship. A deep, crackling connection. The kind that makes a man talk too long in a parked car.

I did not know how much longer I could keep the lid on.

How much longer I could not cross the line and take my son’s wife the way my body had already taken her in that fitting room, in my head, against a pink wall.

She opened her door.

“Good night, Papa.”

“Good night, Simran.”

She glanced at my hands on the wheel.

“Your knuckles are still white.”

“Driveways are slippery.”

“Sure they are,” she said, and went up the steps with that walk that had started the whole evening.

I sat one more minute in the SUV.

Then I followed her into the house, a friend, a father, and a man who was running out of names for what he wanted.