Fucking My Father-in-Law: Cuckold Husband & FIL DIL Taboo Novel – 16

I woke for no useful reason.

A hot night. Beautiful in the cruel way Kolkata nights can be. A gentle breeze moved the curtain. Outside, something small cried in the trees, then stopped. The house was a big quiet animal.

I turned my head.

She was at the foot of my bed.

Simran.

Standing perfectly still in the moonlight, just watching me.

For one stupid second I thought I was still inside the dream I had been using my fist on. Then my heart kicked, hard, and I knew the dream had walked in on two feet.

“Simran.” My voice came out rough with sleep. “Are you all right?”

She did not speak.

She only smiled.

That smile was the pink hallway and the living-room tongue and the beer confession in one slow curve.

She took the hem of the oversized T-shirt in both hands.

She pulled it over her head.

The cloth whispered. Then it dropped to my floor.

She was completely naked.

Moon on her shoulders. Moon on the heavy fall of her breasts. Moon on the waist I had seen when she reached for a jar, on the hips that filled red jeans, on the bare, smooth pussy I had stared at under a dinner table. No string. No lace. No joke left to hide behind.

My son’s wife.

Standing in my bedroom with nothing on.

---

This is Rohan’s wife.

I said it in my head like a prayer that had already failed.

This is my son’s wife. I am her father-in-law. She is my daughter-in-law. These are the only clean sentences I own and they will not stay clean if I keep looking.

I kept looking.

God, she was beautiful.

Not in the polite way a man praises a girl at a wedding. Beautiful like a problem you cannot account. Full breasts, heavy, real, nipples tight in the breeze from my window. The underside curved into shadow. I had held one of those tits through a dress. Now there was no dress. Only skin. I could see the faint tremble of her breathing.

Rohan married this. Rohan flies to Bangalore and leaves this in my house. Rohan asked me to take care of her.

My cock was already thick under the sheet, traitor, rising toward the sight as if it had been waiting for the shirt to fall.

I am her father-in-law.

The words felt smaller than her body.

She is my daughter-in-law.

I had called her partner in front of a client. I had hooked her bra in a pink room. I had come on her image. She had watched. She had told me, hours ago, with beer on her mouth, that she wanted this cock. And I had run to this bed like a decent man.

Decent men do not get this view.

I stared at the dark circle of each nipple. I stared at the soft slope into her waist. I stared at the triangle of her pussy, shaved, the cleft a clean line in the moonlight, the same wet secret she had opened under the table while my boy reached for salt.

This is my son’s wife. She is so incredibly beautiful.

Again.

This is my son’s wife. She is so incredibly beautiful.

If I said it enough maybe the beauty would become a warning instead of a door.

It did not.

My mouth was dry. My hands wanted her hips. My mind put her on this mattress in one filthy picture: those breasts on my chest, that pussy splitting over the thing she had already rubbed in a car. I hated the picture. I also lived in it.

I am her father-in-law. She is my daughter-in-law.

A breeze moved the curtain. The wildlife outside made a small sound. She still did not speak. She only stood there, naked, smiling, letting me look until looking became a kind of touch.

The T-shirt on my floor looked like evidence.

Rohan was in another city.

Simran was in my moonlight.

And I understood, with a fear that felt like hunger, that if she took one step toward this bed I was not sure I had a second retreat left in me.

This is my son’s wife.

She is so incredibly beautiful.

I said it again.

The sheet tented.

She saw that too.

She still did not speak.

She crawled.

Slow. Hands and knees. Onto my mattress. Onto me.

The bed dipped. Her hair fell forward. Those heavy breasts hung and swayed as she moved up my body, naked in the moonlight, a smile still on her mouth. Her knees found either side of my hips. Heat. The brush of her inner thigh on my waist.

I heard my own whisper, stupid and true.

“Am I dreaming?”

She shook her head.

Then she took my wrists, took my large hands, and put them firmly on her bare ass.

Soft. Firm. Full. Both palms filled at once, the way they had wanted to fill themselves in the pink room, in the kitchen, in the living room. Skin. Nothing else. My son’s wife’s ass in my hands.

Control snapped like cheap thread.

She leaned down and kissed me.

Not a cheek. Not a closed mistake. Open. Wet. Passionate. Her tongue in my mouth again, and this time there was no wine to blame, only night and skin and the fact of her pussy hovering over the sheet.

I groaned into her.

I squeezed that tight ass hard. My mind reeled with the taboo, ugly and bright: this grip belonged to Rohan. These hips belonged to Rohan. I was doing what only my son should be doing, and my fingers were already spreading her cheeks as if I had a right.

She broke the kiss, breathing against my lips.

Her hand pushed down my shorts.

She found me.

Massive. Rock-hard. Thick enough that her fingers could not close. She played with it, slow, filthy, sliding the loose skin, thumb on the wet head, measuring what she had watched me jerk in an office chair.

A sound left me that did not belong in a father’s bedroom.

She kissed my throat. My chest. She started down, mouth on my stomach, aiming for my groin, for that cock she was stroking like it already lived in her.

I grabbed her hand.

Stopped her.

My voice came out gravelly. Desperate. A man on the last inch of a roof.

“Simran… it is very dangerous.”

She looked up from my chest. Eyes dark. Mouth shining.

“Dad. You have to step in and make my day. I am alone on my anniversary. You have to fill your son’s wife’s pussy.”

The words hit my cock harder than her hand.

I was breathing like I had run.

I looked at her small frame over my body. The narrow waist. The young mouth. Then I looked at what she was holding. Heavy. Thick. A size that had made her stare from a doorway.

“Simran, please. Look at me. It will be very painful for you.”

She did not take her eyes off mine.

Lust had made them simple.

Her hand slid back around my cock anyway, squeezing, stroking once from root to head as if the warning were a compliment.

“No,” she said. “I want it. I can take the pain in me.”

The breeze moved the curtain.

Outside, the night kept its small wild sounds.

Inside, my daughter-in-law had my cock in her fist on my own bed, and the only thing left between dangerous and yes was the thin, shaking fact that I had not yet let go of her wrist.

Her hand stayed on me.

Dangerous. Painful. I can take it.

Then Simran slid down my body like the argument was over.

The shorts came with her. My cock sprang up, thick, dark, wet at the head, the same monster she had watched from a doorway. In the moonlight it looked worse. Longer. Heavier. A thing a decent house should not put in a daughter-in-law’s path.

She knelt between my thighs on my own bed.

I could tell she was really into it. Not performing for a mall joke. Hungry. Focused. Her heavy breasts hung as she bent. Her hair brushed my hips.

She had never taken anyone like this. I knew that from the way her eyes widened up close. Rohan was four inches. I was not. And my wife — God rest her — had never done this. Not like this. Not all the way. I had lived years thinking no mouth in this house would ever try.

Simran stuck out her tongue and licked from the base all the way to the head.

Hot breath. One long wet stripe. The sensation almost made me pass out. Heaven with a guilty name on it.

She repeated it. Again. Base to crown. Worship. Then all at once she opened and pushed down, taking me into that warm mouth until I was deep and she gagged, wet, sloppy. Spit ran. The sheet, my skin, the air — soaked. She pulled off with a string of saliva still connecting her lip to my cock.

“Daddy—”

“Simran.”

She went back.

First deep attempt. Halfway down that thick shaft. Her throat fluttered. She pulled back, gasped, eyes wet, and went again, slightly deeper. Only seconds to catch her breath. Perseverance. Will. A girl who had folded scarves in Bangalore now fighting a cock that had never been fully buried in a mouth.

Then she went for all of it.

She kept pushing. And pushing. My head hit the back of her throat and the shaft bent a little at the base — a sharp, strange discomfort inside the pleasure, too much angle, too much man. I hissed.

She did not stop.

Her nose pressed into my pelvis.

My balls rested on her chin.

She fucking did it.

I was shocked. Stunned in a way no client, no warehouse, no pink hallway had stunned me. I stared down at Rohan’s wife with my entire cock in her throat, her eyes streaming, her hands grabbing my ass as if to keep me there.

No one had done that.

Not ever.

She pulled off, coughing, smiling, spit on her tits, looking proud and wrecked.

“My job is not done,” I heard myself say, gravel, stupid with awe. “Simran—”

She wrapped her mouth around the head only and moved no further. Even that, she struggled. No complaints from me. She swished her tongue around the glans like she was born for that one spot. Lightning up my spine. Every throb pressed my head against the roof of her mouth.

She took it out and kissed it. Licked it. Worshipped it for what felt like a small eternity. Occasionally she stroked the wet length and looked up through her lashes.

Am I doing this right?

The look said it. The fist said it.

“You are doing it too right,” I muttered.

She held my hard dick in both hands, impressed, almost laughing.

“Dad. This is… this is not normal. I cannot even close my fingers.”

She stroked anyway. Then her mouth again. Sloppy. Gagging a little. The best blowjob I had had in ages — the best I had had in a life — because it was her, naked on my anniversary-empty sheets, taking what my own marriage had never taken.

She leaned back toward the headboard like a railing, grabbed my ass, and pulled.

Encouraging me to fuck her face.

I was rock-hard. Mindless. I held her hair and gave her shallow thrusts at first, then deeper when she moaned around me, filthy wet sounds filling my bedroom. Spit soaked the front of where my shorts had been. Her throat opened. Closed. Opened.

This is my son’s wife.
She has my cock in her throat.
She succeeded where no one succeeded.

I had to grip the sheet so I would not finish in the first minute like a boy.

She pulled off, gasping, chin shining, eyes dark.

“See,” she whispered. “I told you. I can take it.”

My voice barely worked.

“That was your mouth, Simran. The rest of you is tighter. It will still hurt.”

She kissed the head of my cock like a promise.

“Then hurt me on my anniversary, Dad.”

Outside, the breeze moved the curtain.

Inside, I was a father-in-law with a soaked cock and no clean sentence left.

The line was not a door anymore.

It was her mouth, open, waiting for the next push.

She did not go back to my mouth.

Simran climbed.

Cowgirl. Slow. Naked. Moon still on her shoulders. My cock stood up between us like a problem that had already been in her throat and now wanted the rest of her.

She took it in her fist. Wet from her spit. Wet from me. A thick shine of precum at the head, more every time her hand moved. She rubbed that slick over the crown, down the first heavy inches, making a mess on purpose.

“Dad,” she whispered. “Look at me.”

I looked.

Rohan’s wife. My daughter-in-law. Straddling my hips on my bed, lining that tight, shaved pussy up with a cock that had never been inside her.

She put the head against her.

Heat. Soft wet lips parting around something too wide. She sank.

One inch.

Her mouth opened.

Two.

A broken sound.

Three.

She stopped as if she had hit a wall inside her own body.

“Ah— wait— wait—”

Only three inches. The fat head and a little more, stretching her open in a burning circle. The rest of me stood outside her, thick, shining, obscene against her belly. She planted both hands on my chest. Her arms shook. Her tits hung over me, nipples tight. She folded down and kissed me with that three-inch stretch locked between us, moaning into my mouth.

“It is— Papa— it is too— I can feel you splitting—”

“I told you,” I said against her lips. “Pain.”

“I know. I know. Do not take it out.”

She stayed there. Kissing. Shaking. Her pussy fluttered around the part she had managed, tiny panicked squeezes, trying to understand a thickness Rohan had never given her. My hands held her waist and did not push. If I pushed now I would hurt her in a way that was not heat.

She lifted a fraction.

The three inches almost slipped free. She whimpered at the loss and sat again, same depth, same burn.

“Again,” she said.

She rose. Used the precum pouring out of me, mixed with her own wet, and stroked it onto my shaft until the whole upper half was slick. Then she aimed, breathed, and tried.

Three inches.

Four— almost— she cried out and stopped.

“Fuck. Dad. Your cock is— I cannot—”

“Then stop.”

“No.”

She kissed me harder, messy, her tongue still tasting like my skin. Her bare breasts smashed to my chest. That tiny stretch of pussy clung to me like a fist. I could feel how narrow she was. I could feel how wrong this was. I could feel how much I wanted the rest of it.

She whispered into my mouth.

“Your son’s wife has only three inches of you. Help me. Do not thrust. Just stay.”

I stayed.

The breeze moved the curtain. Somewhere a night bird spoke. My bedroom smelled of spit and sex and her hair.

She started to rock. Not up and down. Small. Circles. Teaching that tight ring how to be a mouth. Each circle pulled a moan out of her, high, then low, then bitten off.

“Nn— ah— it burns— it burns so good— Daddy—”

My name in that voice almost finished me. I locked my jaw. My hands slid up and filled themselves with her tits, heavy, soft, the same tits I had grabbed in the living room through a dress. Bare now. Mine to squeeze. I thumbed her nipples and she jerked, and the jerk took another half inch without her planning it.

“Ah!”

“Too much?”

“Keep— keep your hands there—”

She tried again.

Rose. Slick. Down.

Three.

Four.

She froze, eyes wide, looking into mine as if the number needed a witness.

“That is more,” she gasped. “Dad. That is more than Rohan. That is already more than Rohan and you are not even halfway.”

The taboo sat on my tongue. I did not spit it out. I squeezed her breasts and let her feel the comparison in her cunt.

She laughed once, broken, then moaned.

“Lube. More.”

She lifted off me completely. My cock slapped my stomach, shining. She spat on her palm, mixed it with the thick string of precum hanging from me, stroked, and put me back at her entrance like a job.

Very slowly.

The head.

The stretch.

The first inch she already knew.

The second.

The third.

She kept her eyes on mine and did not look away.

Fourth.

Her thighs shook.

Fifth.

A long, wrecked moan poured out of her. Tears stood in her eyes and did not fall from sadness.

“Adjust,” I said. “Do not drop.”

“I am— I am giving my body a minute— your cock is in me, Dad— your cock is in your son’s wife—”

She sat there, impaled halfway, and let the minute happen.

I felt every flutter. Every tiny pulse of her pussy trying to decide if it would live. I lifted my body off the pillows, found her mouth, and kissed her while I squeezed her tits and made the smallest movement inside her. Not a thrust. A flex. A grind so slight it was only breath.

She moaned into the kiss.

“Oh— oh God— do that— small— small—”

I did that.

Small.

Her walls dragged on the thick vein along my shaft. Wet sounds, slow, filthy, filled the room. She came the first time without being fully filled.

It took her by surprise.

Her head fell back. Her mouth opened on a raw cry. Her pussy clamped down on the five inches she had taken and tried to milk a cock that was still half outside. She shook. Her nails bit my chest. Milk-warm wetness spilled around my root.

“I— I came— I came on you— Dad—”

She collapsed forward onto my body, still speared, tits flat on my chest, mouth on my throat, panting like she had run.

I held her ass and did not move.

“Rest.”

“One minute. Then more.”

The minute was not a minute. It was her heartbeat against mine. Rohan’s wife using my body as a bed. My cock throbbing inside his marriage.

She sat up again, eyes dark, and began to take more.

Slow.

Slow.

The stretch turned her moans into a chain.

“Ah— ah— Papa— it is going in— it is going— nnnh—”

Six.

She almost panicked. I gripped her hips and stopped her drop.

“Look at me.”

She looked.

“Breathe.”

She breathed.

She sank.

Seven.

A sob of pleasure. Her stomach jumped. I could see the faint press of myself under the soft skin above her mound, a dirty outline. I put my palm there, not pushing, just feeling the fact.

“That is me.”

“I know— I can feel you in my throat from below— I cannot—”

She came the second time on that depth.

Harder.

Her whole body locked. A long broken Daddy tore out of her. Her pussy seized in waves, soaking my stomach, my balls, the sheet. She tried to fold onto me and I sat up to meet her, mouth on hers, hands full of her breasts, small grinding movements through her climax so she would feel every thick inch she had earned.

She bit my lip.

“Rest— rest on you—”

She draped herself over me again. Full body. Sweat. Her cheek on my bald head, then my mouth. My cock still buried deep, twitching. I stroked her back the way I had on the movie sofa, only now there was no film, no son in the hallway. Only skin.

“You have more,” she whispered, wrecked and greedy. “I felt it. There is more.”

“You will be sore tomorrow.”

“I want to be sore on my anniversary.”

She pushed herself up. Set her hands on my chest. Looked into my eyes. And took the rest.

Not in one drop.

In ugly, brave little surrenders.

An inch.

A moan.

A pause.

An inch.

When her ass finally met my hips, when there was no cock left outside her, she made a sound I will take to my grave. Full. Stuffed. Her tight pussy stretched around the root, lips pale where they gripped me. My balls against her skin.

“All— all of you— Dad— you filled your son’s wife— you filled me—”

I crushed her breasts in my hands and lifted my mouth to hers.

Small movements.

Only that.

The grind of a man who knew if he fucked her hard now he would break the night into screaming.

She moaned without stopping.

A thread of noise. Ah. Nn. Papa. Daddy. There. There. Do not pull out.

The third climax built slower and wrecked her more.

I felt it start in the tremble of her thighs. I squeezed her tits, thumbs on nipples, and kept the tiny roll of my hips, the thick drag in and out of a space that had never been this open. She stared at me the whole time, eyes wet, mouth open.

“I am— I am going to— on your cock— I am coming on my father-in-law’s cock—”

She broke.

The third one emptied her.

Her body went loose and violent at once. She cried out into my mouth. Her pussy locked, pulsed, flooded. I held her through it, still buried to the hilt, still not finishing, because if I came now I would pour everything into Rohan’s wife and the last clean line in my head would drown.

She fell onto me.

All her weight. All her heat. Her breasts crushed to my chest. Her face in my neck. My cock still inside her, huge, soaked, held.

She rested there like the argument had ended.

“Do not leave me,” she mumbled. “Stay in. I need my body to learn you.”

I wrapped my arms around my son’s wife and stared at the dark ceiling.

The wildlife went on outside.

Inside, Simran’s heartbeat hammered against the man who was supposed to only make her tea.

I was still hard.

She was still full.

And the night was not finished.

It had only taught her how to sit on what she had asked for.