Fucking My Father-in-Law: Cuckold Husband & FIL DIL Taboo Novel – 14

The Client, The Wine, The Lap

Rohan had a late office thing. Or he said he did. The house did not argue.

Debashish stood in the hall with a jacket over his arm.

“Client dinner. Accounts. I need you there. Not for decoration. For the numbers he will try to bury in wine.”

Simran felt the words land in her spine.

She dressed with care. Black dress, elegant, professional. Neckline that said woman, not girl. Hair up. Small earrings. The kind of look that could sit at a rich table and still belong to a ledger.

In the mirror she did not look like a guest from Bangalore.

She looked like someone who walked beside power.

---

The restaurant was the kind of place that hid its prices inside low light and heavy glass.

Debashish’s hand rested at the small of her back for three seconds at the door. Three seconds was enough. She went in on the arm of a man the room already feared.

Pride warmed her throat.

The client was older money, shiny watch, a smile that had bought people before.

He looked at Simran and decided what she was.

“Ah. New secretary? Very charming. Sweetheart, just keep the folder ready and let the men talk, yes?”

Debashish did not raise his voice.

He dropped it.

The authoritative tone she loved. The one that split a lobby. The one that made trucks move.

“She is not a secretary.”

The client’s smile slipped.

“Simran is my business partner. My close friend. And, more important for you, the co-partner and new boss of the accounts department. She found the hole in your last four quarters before my managers did. The money she saved this company is larger than the compliment you just tried to give her. Speak to her as you speak to me. Or we end dinner at the water.”

Silence.

Then the client laughed too loudly and became polite.

Simran sat in the glow of it and almost could not pick up her glass.

---

He said partner.

The words kept turning in her like wine that had already arrived.

Not daughter-in-law. Not Rohan’s wife who packs boxes. Partner. Close friend. Boss of accounts.

Rohan loved her. That love was real. It brought water to the bed. It remembered her bad days. It lasted two minutes and said sorry.

Rohan never made her feel like this.

This was a different heat. Not only between her legs. In her chest. In her spine. In the place where a person keeps their name.

He defended me in front of money. He put my mind on the table like a weapon. The most powerful man I know just made a rich fool small for me.

She drank.

The wine was expensive and easy. It went down like permission.

A second glass. A third.

She talked margins with colour in her cheeks. She was sharp and a little loose. Debashish watched her over the rim of his own glass, proud and hungry in the same look. When she crossed her legs the dress climbed. He noticed. He still answered the client with a clean knife of a sentence.

God, look at him. Bald. Thick. Calm. He could buy this room. He is looking at me as if I am part of the empire.

Her panties grew wet in that slow, secret way wine likes to help.

I wish my husband made me feel like a queen of numbers, not only a kind girl in a guest room. I wish Rohan had this voice. This size. This way of saying mine when he means my mind and my body both.

She laughed at something the client said and felt Debashish’s knee beside hers, solid as furniture.

I could fall toward this. I am already falling. The pink hallway. The couch. The jar. And now this. He called me partner and my cunt answered yes.

She finished the third glass and let the waiter pour a fourth because the high was too good to put down.

Tonight I am not bored. Tonight I am not small. Tonight I belong at this table because he said so.

The client signed. Debashish did not thank him much.

On the way out, his hand found her back again.

She leaned into it, tipsy, shining.

---

The SUV took the dark roads home.

Simran sat in the front, buzzing, affectionate, a little drunk and very awake.

She reached over and covered his hand on the console.

His skin was warm. The hand that had hooked her bra. The hand that had held a water bottle under a table.

Then she moved.

Her palm left the console and settled in his lap.

Not grabbing. Resting. Claiming the heat under the fine cloth.

She stared at his profile. The hard nose. The mouth that had said partner. The throat.

He kept driving.

Amused. Tight.

“Why are you staring at me?”

She blushed like a schoolgirl and still did not take her hand away.

“I am thinking,” she said.

“Dangerous.”

“I think I should make you my husband.”

The car ran over a small bump. His thigh flexed under her hand.

He looked at her.

She laughed, bright, covering it.

“Joking. Partner joke. Wine joke.”

“Wine talks too much.”

“Wine tells the truth and then giggles.”

Her hand, traitor and friend, shifted.

She found him through the trousers.

Not hard. Not yet. Still bigger at rest than Rohan was at his most desperate. Thick. Heavy. A sleeping animal that made her mouth go soft. She thought it with filthy clarity while her fingers began a slow rub, up and down the length she could feel, mapping it.

Even quiet, he is more than my marriage. Even soft, he fills my hand. If this thing woke up now I would leave a wet mark on his seat.

Debashish exhaled through his nose.

He drove.

He let her.

That was the filthy miracle of the dark cabin. He did not push her off. He did not lift her wrist. He stared at the road like a man thinking she is drunk tonight, this is the wine, I can allow a little and still be her father-in-law in the driveway.

“Simran.”

“Mm.”

“Your hand.”

“It is being friendly. Partners share space.”

“That is not space.”

She rubbed once more, slower, feeling him thicken a fraction against her palm, the first swell of trouble.

“It is a very large secret,” she whispered. “Bigger than the laundry.”

A sound left him. Almost a laugh. Almost a groan.

“You are drunk.”

“I am praised. Same thing tonight.”

The Salt Lake gates opened.

He pulled into the driveway and stopped.

Neither of them moved for a second.

Her hand was still in his lap. His cock was waking under it, heavy, thickening toward the monster she had watched in the office chair. The air in the car was thick enough to drink. Unspoken desire sat on the dashboard like a fourth passenger.

“We are home,” he said.

His voice was rough.

Simran took her hand back as if the joke had ended.

It had not ended.

She looked at the house where her husband would soon ask how dinner went.

“Partner,” she said, tasting the word.

Debashish opened his door.

“Go inside. Water. Sleep.”

“Yes, Papa.”

She said Papa like Daddy, and they both heard the pink hallway climb into the porch light.

They walked toward the mansion with a foot of clean air between them.

The air behind them, in the SUV, was still dirty with her palm.

The Living Room And The Taste

The front door closed on a quiet, dim living room.

One lamp. The long sofa. The house holding its breath because Rohan was not in it yet.

Simran turned to Debashish in the half-dark.

“Thank you,” she said. “For the table. For what you called me.”

She stepped in and hugged him.

Tight.

Her face pressed to his chest. Cotton and cologne and the hard warmth of a man who had spent the night making her large. She stayed there long enough to hear his heart. Then she lifted up and kissed his cheek. Soft. Grateful. A daughter-in-law’s kiss if you only counted the placement.

She pulled back a little.

She looked at his mouth.

And she forgot the list of names.

Not Papa.
Not father-in-law.
Not Rohan’s dad.

Only this man who had taken care of her. Work. Wine. A voice that cut a client down to size. A lap her hand already knew.

She kissed him on the lips.

Closed. Brief. A mistake that did not want to be a mistake.

The moment their mouths met, the dam went.

Debashish’s lips parted in shock.

Simran did not pull away. She set her mouth over his and slid her tongue inside, slow at first, then deep, probing toward his throat like she had been waiting weeks to enter him this way.

For one second he was dumbstruck.

Then the primal thing in him woke up and answered.

He groaned into her.

His tongue came out to fight hers. Wet. Hungry. No more theatre. Saliva exchanged in a messy, adult kiss, wine still on her, coffee and heat on him. The smell of his cologne wrapped around the smell of the restaurant. Their bodies crushed together. Her breasts flattened on his chest. His belt buckle pressed her belly.

His hands roamed her back, then gripped her hips and yanked her flush against him.

She felt it at once.

Massive. Straining. The full thick length of his cock trapped in his trousers, jammed against the softness between her legs. Even through cloth it was a shock. Hard. Heavy. Alive.

His fingers grazed the top of her ass, then filled themselves with it. One big hand taking the round of her bottom like it belonged on his palm. The other slid up her side and closed over her breast, her perfect tit heavy in his grip, nipple already tight under the dress.

Simran made a sound into his mouth.

Her own hand went down.

She rubbed him through the fine cloth. Base to head, as much as the trousers allowed. The size filled her fingers and kept going. She stroked that straining ridge while he squeezed her ass and her breast and kissed her as if the living room were a locked room in another country.

Tongues. Spit. The wet click of mouths that had stopped pretending.

She forgot the sofa. Forgot the lamp. Forgot the son who owned her last name. She crushed herself against his father and let him have her mouth like a first claim.

His thumb found her nipple through the dress and rubbed. Her knees went soft. She rubbed his cock harder, filthy and grateful, thinking this, this is the thing I watched come on my picture, this is what was under my cheek on Sunday.

They were submerged.

Then gravel crunched in the drive.

Tires.

Rohan’s car.

Reality snapped back like a rubber band.

They broke apart so fast the air hurt.

Chests heaving. Mouths shining. Her lipstick on him. His taste on her. The front of his trousers obscene. Her dress twisted where his hand had been.

Keys at the lock.

Simran’s voice came out thin.

“I am sorry. That was— I should not have. Inappropriate.”

Debashish looked at the floor.

He nodded once.

He did not speak.

He walked away down the dark hall, shoulders huge, a man carrying a hard cock and a line he had just crossed with his tongue.

The front door opened.

---

Rohan came in tired and smiling.

“How was dinner? You look nice. Come to bed.”

They went upstairs.

He kissed her. He tasted wine and did not know he was tasting his father under it.

The sex was the old sex.

Sweet. Short. His small cock pushing into her with love and hurry. Ninety seconds. Two minutes. The familiar rhythm. The familiar apology starting in his throat before he even finished.

Simran held him.

Her body was with Rohan.

Her head was not.

His mouth. God, his mouth.

She felt Rohan’s thin thrusts and counted, helpless, against the memory of a thick ridge grinding her dress. She was soaking, embarrassingly wet, and Rohan whispered that she felt amazing, proud, not knowing the wet was for another man’s tongue.

The saliva. The fight of it. He groaned. He grabbed my ass like he paid for it. My breast in that huge hand. I rubbed his cock in our living room. I put my tongue in Papa’s throat.

Guilt arrived in little sparks.

This is your husband. This is the boy who burned dinner in Bangalore. You love him.

The guilt did not dry her.

It made the secret filthier.

She came a little, a small stolen clench around Rohan, and in that clench she saw Debashish’s eyes in the dim lamp, dark, stunned, then hungry. Butterflies tore through her stomach. Strange. Wrong. Bright.

Rohan finished with a gasp and kissed her nose.

“I love you.”

“I love you,” she said, and it was still true, and it was no longer the only true thing.

He slept.

Simran stared at the ceiling with her lips still sensitive.

Confused.

Guilty.

Turned on so hard she had to press her thighs together under the sheet.

Downstairs a powerful man was awake in a house that now knew the taste of his son’s wife.

She touched her own mouth.

It still belonged, a little, to him.

The Night Hand And The Kitchen Lie

Debashish did not sleep.

He lay in his own dark room with the taste of her still in his mouth. Wine. Heat. A young woman’s tongue that had gone into him as if she had a right.

He pressed his fingers to his lips, then lower, as if his own hands could replay it.

Her breast.

God.

The weight of his daughter-in-law’s tit in his palm. Soft. Heavy. The nipple tight under the dress. He had squeezed it like a man who had already decided. And her ass. Full. Perfect. Filling his other hand while she crushed her body against his.

Her hand on his cock.

Soft. Sure. Rubbing him through the cloth until he was straining so hard it hurt.

He took himself out.

The thing she had stroked was thick in the dark, wet at the head, ugly with want. He wrapped his fist around it and worked it with no patience.

I think I will fuck my son’s wife.

The sentence came in his own voice. It should have stopped him. It made him stroke faster.

She is dangerous. She is attractive in a way that does not ask permission. She keeps walking up to the line with a smile. Father-in-law. Daughter-in-law. Friend. Partner. Daddy. She breaks the names on purpose.

He saw the living room lamp. Her mouth open. His tongue in her. The wet sound.

Rohan is asleep above this. My boy. And I am here pulling my cock to the memory of his wife’s tit in my hand.

A groan leaked out of him.

What should I do? Send her back to Bangalore? Lock the office? Be a decent man tomorrow?

He already knew he would make coffee.

He came hard, a thick pulse over his stomach, her name a breath he swallowed.

Simran.

He cleaned up like a criminal who still owned the house.

---

Morning.

Rohan left with a kiss on Simran’s hair and no idea his father’s taste had been in that hair’s shadow.

Simran went to the kitchen mortified.

Debashish was there. Shirt. Tea. The bald calm that had ruled a glass building.

“Papa.” Her voice was small. “About last night. I am so sorry. I was drunk. I should not have— I crossed. I am sorry. I am so—”

He laughed, soft, and cut the panic down.

“At least now I know how you see me.”

Her face went hot.

“You kissed me back!”

He smirked into his cup.

“Hey. I was drunk, and I am a widower. How could I ignore a beautiful woman?”

The joke was a rope thrown to both of them.

Simran smiled despite herself, still red.

“So that means you think I am sexy?”

Debashish held her gaze.

He smiled.

He did not say the word.

The silence said it louder.

Simran looked at the floor, then at him.

“I am sorry. It could not be helped.”

“No,” he said. “It could not.”

They stood in the kitchen with the almost-confession steaming between the cups.

“We brush it,” he said. “Under the rug. Our secret. It will never happen again.”

She nodded too quickly.

“Never. Friends. Work. That is all.”

“That is all.”

He drank.

She fled toward the stairs before the lie could change shape in her mouth.

---

Upstairs she closed the guest-room door and leaned on it.

A smile came anyway.

Wicked. Quiet. Sure.

Never again.

She knew, with absolute certainty, that it would happen again.

The rug was thin.

The secret was already walking around in two bodies.

And the man in the kitchen had not said sexy.

He had only smiled.

That smile was a door left open.