Fucking My Father-in-Law: Cuckold Husband & FIL DIL Taboo Novel – 13

Sunday On The Couch

Sunday evening made the Salt Lake house feel slower.

Rohan said he had a headache and went to the bedroom with his phone. He left the door a little open. He sat on the bed and pretended to scroll. The screen was only a shield. His ears were on the living room.

Downstairs, a movie played.

Simran and Debashish sat on the long sofa. Space between them at first. Tea gone cold. The kind of quiet that looks like family.

Simran yawned. She stretched until her blouse pulled tight across her chest.

“Papa, do you mind if I rest my head on your lap? My neck is killing me on these pillows.”

Innocent voice. Soft eyes.

Debashish hesitated one second too long.

“All right,” he said. The accommodating father-in-law. “Do not make it a habit.”

She lay down.

It was not only a head.

She settled her cheek on his thigh, close, closer, until her face pressed into the heavy place where a man hides himself. Warm cloth. The thick sleeping weight of him. Her breath went straight through the trousers onto his cock.

Her arm draped across his body. Her hand rested on his other thigh, high enough to be a problem.

Neither of them spoke.

The movie kept talking for them.

Debashish’s hand found her back because the moment asked for something fatherly and his body did not know how to be only that. Large, rough fingers. The ridges of her spine through thin cloth. He stroked slowly, absent at first, then not absent at all.

Every few minutes the hand slipped lower.

A brush along the curve of her ass. Accidental. Then again. The cotton of her home trousers. The round heat under it.

Simran shifted as if to get comfortable.

She smashed her breast into his thigh. Soft, full, deliberate. She did it again, smaller, like sleep. Under her cheek his cock was no longer sleeping. It thickened against her face in slow, helpless pulses. She felt the line of it. The heat. The size that still shocked her.

She was soaking wet.

The movie washed over them. Colour. Sound. No words of their own.

From the dark mouth of the hallway, Rohan watched.

He had left the bed. He stood where the wall turned, phone dead in his hand. He saw his wife’s head in his father’s lap. He saw the arm. He saw the big hand travelling her back and touching, again, the swell of her ass. He saw her nuzzle in, face pressed to that place, as if she were only tired.

His small cock rose so fast it hurt.

They look close. Bonding. A movie.

The justification was thin paper.

He did not stop watching.

---

The credits rolled.

Debashish cleared his throat.

“It is late. Go to bed.”

“Mm.”

To push herself up, Simran moved the hand that had been on his thigh.

Higher.

She planted her palm firmly on his upper thigh, right beside his crotch, and used his leg as leverage.

The heat under her hand was massive. Hard. A thick ridge radiating through the trousers, alive, furious, bigger than her spread fingers wanted to admit.

She pressed, just enough to stand.

Debashish jumped.

The whole sofa felt it.

His face flushed dark red. The powerful man from the glass office looked suddenly hunted.

“I—I need to use the washroom.”

He fled down the hall, almost clumsy, one hand near his belt as if he could hide a raging erection from a house that had already seen too much.

Rohan saw that too.

The jump. The flush. The way his father walked like a man carrying a secret the size of his own fist.

Rohan’s mouth was dry.

Is it real? That shape? Is it really that big?

---

Simran went upstairs.

She did not look at the bedroom first. She locked the bathroom.

Her panties were already a soaked ruin. She pushed her hand inside and found herself slick, swollen, shameless. She rubbed fast to the memory: his cock swelling under her cheek, his rough fingers on her ass, the hard heat under her palm when she stood, the way he ran.

She came violently, biting her own wrist, knees against the door.

She peeled the wet panties off, dropped them by the hamper, and went to bed breathless.

Power hummed in her like a second pulse.

She could move the most powerful man she knew with a neck ache and a hand on his thigh.

She lay in the dark and smiled at the ceiling.

---

Rohan waited until the hall was quiet.

He went into the bathroom “for water.”

The panties were on the tiles. Cotton. Dark at the centre. Still warm with her.

He understood in one ugly, electric second.

She had not only rested.

She had finished herself after.

He locked the door. He picked them up like a man picking up a live wire. The smell of her want hit him. He took his small, aching cock out and rubbed it against the wet cloth, fast, confused, whispering almost no sound.

She was on him.
He was hard.
Biggest—was it the biggest? Was that real?

He came into the soaked panties with a broken gasp, the question still not answered, only wetter.

He hid them again, badly.

He washed his hands like a criminal.

In the bedroom Simran’s breathing had gone slow. She looked like sleep. She was not only sleep. She was a woman who had just learned the exact shape of her own power.

Rohan lay down beside her and stared at the dark.

Downstairs a washroom door had already closed once tonight.

A father had hidden a cock that made a son’s whole marriage look small.

And the son, who had come on his wife’s panties, could not stop asking the same thing into the pillow:

Is it real?
Is my father really that big?

Weeks Of Almost

The next few weeks did not arrive as one big night.

They arrived as a habit.

Morning tea. Files. A joke that went one inch too far. A look that stayed one second too long. Friendship, real and warm, with a second pulse under it. Heavy. Sexual. Always there, even when the talk was only coffee.

Rohan saw the friendship.

He told himself that was all he was seeing.

---

Late afternoon. The kitchen smelled of tea and warm steel.

Simran stood on her toes in front of the high cupboard. She knew Debashish was behind her. She had asked him a question from the doorway on purpose and then walked to the jar she could have moved a chair for.

She stretched.

The shirt rode up. Bare waist. The soft dip of her lower back. The two dimples above her trousers. She held the pose until the cloth would not pretend anymore.

“I cannot reach,” she pouted, without turning. “I guess I need a tall, strong man to handle things for me.”

Debashish stepped in.

His chest brushed her back. Heat. Cologne. The solid wall of him. He was so close that if she breathed in too hard her ass would have met the front of his trousers. His arm went up over her shoulder. The jar came down.

Neither of them moved away at once.

The air between her spine and his shirt was suffocating.

“You can reach a ledger on a high shelf in my office,” he said, low, near her hair.

“Ledgers do not live in this cupboard.”

“This cupboard is lucky.”

She took the jar. Her fingers touched his.

“Thank you, Papa. It is good to have someone who can handle the heavy work.”

He stepped back as if the tap had burned him.

“Put a stool in here,” he said.

“Why? Then I would not need you.”

He left with the newspaper he had not been reading.

Simran stood in the kitchen and felt the ghost of his chest on her back for the rest of the hour.

---

Sunday. Living room light.

Debashish read. Or performed reading.

Simran sat on the floor with a basket, sorting the house into piles. His. Rohan’s. Hers.

She held up a pair of Debashish’s boxer briefs.

Large. Wide. Dark. The kind of cloth that had to be cut for a heavy man and a heavier secret.

In the other hand, Rohan’s briefs. Narrow. Almost neat. Almost boyish in the comparison she was making on purpose.

She looked at Debashish and smirked.

“Papa, washing your clothes takes up half the machine. It just requires so much fabric compared to Rohan’s.”

The newspaper jumped.

Debashish coughed. Behind the page his mouth betrayed him. A smirk. Ego, thick and pleased, filling his chest like a second breath.

“Machines do not need a commentary,” he said.

“Machines notice volume,” she said. “I only report.”

“Report less.”

“Should I wash them in a separate load? For the oversized items?”

He lowered the paper just enough for his eyes.

“You are enjoying this.”

“I am doing laundry. Laundry is honest. Some things need more room. Some things get lost in the corner of the drum.”

Rohan’s small pair hung from her finger like a punchline.

Debashish hid again.

“Put them in the machine and stop taking inventory of the men in this house.”

“Too late,” Simran said, sweet. “The inventory is already in my head.”

She dropped his large briefs in first.

The machine accepted the joke with a dull, wet sound.

---

Every weekday morning, the same crime in a cup.

Simran brought Debashish his coffee at the dining table . She did not stand at a polite distance. She leaned.

The blouse opened. Her cleavage came down to the height of his face. Inches. Warm skin. The inner curve. Steam from the cup and steam from her.

“Careful,” he would say. “It is hot.”

“Strong brew today,” she would answer. “You look like you need it.”

“I look like I slept.”

“You look like you need extra milk.”

His eyes, against orders, went to the place the blouse offered.

“Too much milk makes a man slow.”

“Too little makes a man bitter,” she said. “I added more. You can handle a full cup.”

“Simran.”

“Yes, Papa?”

“The coffee has a saucer. Use it. Do not use… geography.”

She set the cup down anyway, still bent.

“Geography is half the job. You said pretty numbers are lazy. Pretty cups can still be strong.”

He drank to hide his mouth.

“It is good.”

“I know.”

By the third week the jokes had a rhythm, like a private language. Hot. Strong. Full. Handle. Reach. Fabric. None of the words were innocent if you held them up to the light. They never said the real words at breakfast. They did not need to.

Rohan, on the mornings he left late, heard laughter and thought: Good. She is happy.

---

One Thursday he came downstairs earlier than he said he would.

He stopped on the last step.

They were at the table with two cups. Debashish said something dry. Simran tipped her head back and laughed with her whole throat. Debashish’s stern face broke, just for her, into a look Rohan had not been given since he was a boy, if he had ever been given it at all.

They looked like a long-married couple sharing the first hour of a house.

Not touching.

Worse than touching.

Easy.

Rohan felt a deep, quiet satisfaction move through him, strange and warm.

This is what I wanted. She is not bored. He is not a stranger. They get along.

Under the satisfaction, the other thing licked at him: the blogs, the table, the wet panties, the question of size.

He smiled anyway.

“Do not stop,” he said from the stairs. “I am only taking a banana.”

Simran waved, glowing.

Debashish nodded, father and boss and the man who had stood behind her for a jar.

Rohan left for the office with that picture in his chest.

At his desk, later, he would open a hidden tab.

At breakfast, they would pour another strong cup.

The weeks kept stacking.

Friendship on top.

Heat underneath.

And the line they had not crossed was getting as thin as the joke about milk.