Sex With My Father-in-Law: The DIL and the Cuckold Husband
Alone With FIL: Terrace Talk, Daughter-in-Law Adjustment
Rohan left early.
The house made his leaving sound small. A car door. A gate. Then nothing.
Simran stood in the guest room in her own clothes and felt like a person who had been put on a shelf. In Bangalore she would have been on a bus by now. Or already at her desk. Or arguing with a client about a colour that was “almost right.” Here there was only a wide bed, a quiet garden, and a clock that seemed to walk more slowly on purpose.
One day later.
The massive house was clean in a way that did not need her. Floors shone. Curtains hung straight. Somewhere downstairs a staff member moved without noise. Simran made the bed even though it was already made. She folded a scarf that did not need folding. She opened her laptop, closed it, opened it again. There was no office waiting for her. There was no meeting. There was only time.
She wandered.
The hall was long. Family photographs sat in dark frames. A woman who must have been Rohan’s mother, young and bright, a mole near her mouth. A boy who must have been Rohan, thin even then, standing a little apart from the tall man beside him. Debashish in the photos was younger, not bald yet, already broad, already looking at the camera as if the camera should look away first.
Simran did not touch the frames.
She found the dining room from last night. Empty. She found a sitting room with books that had been read, not only displayed. History. Business. A few novels with worn edges. She found a window that looked onto a garden so neat it felt like a rule.
Then she found the home office.
The door was half open.
Debashish sat inside.
He was not “at rest.” Even sitting, he looked like work. A large wooden desk. Two screens. Papers in clean stacks. He wore a dark shirt today, open at the throat, sleeves fitted to those thick arms. Bald head bent over a page. Pen moving. Phone pressed to his ear.
“No,” he said to someone. Not angry. Final. “If they cannot meet the date, they do not get the next order. Do not make it soft.”
He listened. He wrote one line. He ended the call without extra words.
Simran stepped back before he could see her. Her heart was too fast for a hallway.
Later he left the house. The same black SUV. The same quiet authority. He did not look rushed. He did not look lost. He moved through his own gate like a man who owned not only the house but the hour.
She watched from an upstairs window and felt useless in a new way. He had a life that did not pause because two young people had arrived with suitcases. Rohan had an office now, new and nervous. She had a guest room and a long morning.
She missed her job so sharply it felt like hunger.
She missed the version of herself who was needed.
By afternoon the house had grown even quieter.
Simran took a book she did not read and went up to the terrace.
The terrace was wide and open. Pots of green. A view of trees and other roofs. The air was warm. Somewhere a crow argued with another crow. She sat on a chair and pulled her knees up, then put her feet down again because this did not feel like a house where you sat like a student.
Homesick.
The word was simple. The feeling was not. She missed the small kitchen. The rain on a cheap window. The neighbour’s cooker. She missed being tired from her own work, not tired from having nothing to do. She missed Rohan in the way you miss a person who is still yours, but who has walked into a city that makes him look younger.
She did not hear Debashish at first.
He was simply there, at the terrace door, a glass of water in one hand, as if he had known she would be in this exact chair.
Simran stood too quickly.
“I can go down,” she said. “I didn’t know you used this place.”
“Sit,” he said.
It was not unkind. It was the same voice from last night. Deep. Sure.
He pulled up the other chair. The chair looked smaller when he sat in it. His shoulders blocked part of the view. He set the water near her, not near himself.
For a moment he said nothing. He did not fill the air. He looked at the trees, then at her face, in that sharp, finished way that made her feel seen and exposed at the same time.
“Rohan went to the office,” he said.
“Yes.”
“And you are here walking through rooms.”
Heat rose in her cheeks. “I didn’t mean to disturb—”
“You are not a guest who must hide,” Debashish said. “This is a large house. People get lost in large houses. Not only in the halls.”
She did not know what to do with that.
He rested his forearms on his knees. Thick wrists. Calm hands. The shirt pulled across his chest when he leaned forward. She noticed. She hated that she noticed. She kept her eyes on the pot of leaves beside her foot.
“How are you really adjusting?” he asked.
Not is the room fine.
Not is the food fine.
The real question.
Simran’s throat tightened.
“I am fine.”
He waited. He was good at waiting. It was a kind of power.
“I am trying to be fine,” she said, smaller. “It is only the second day.”
“Second days are honest,” he said. “First days are shock. Second days are the empty space.”
She looked at him then.
“You left your work,” he said. “Not for a holiday. For his transfer. That is not a small thing. People like to call it support. Support still costs.”
No one had said it like that. Not Rohan, who was grateful and guilty. Not her old office, which had smiled and wished her luck. This man, who had not come to her wedding, who had said almost nothing on the phone, sat on a terrace and named the loss as if it were a fact on his desk.
“I liked being good at something that was mine,” she said. The words came out before she could make them prettier. “I liked coming home tired because I had done a day. Here I woke up and the bed was already perfect. I folded a scarf that did not need folding.”
A corner of his mouth moved. Not quite a smile.
“Discipline looks like coldness from outside,” he said. “The house runs because someone does not get bored with the same correct thing every morning. You are used to a different discipline. Your own. That is why this silence feels like an insult.”
She stared.
“I am not insulted.”
“You are unused,” he said. “That is different. Unused people either shrink or they start watching. You watch.”
The air thinned.
“I didn’t mean—”
“It is not a complaint.” His eyes were steady. “Most people who enter this house talk too much or look at the floor. You look at the room and then you look at the door. That is an adult habit. Not a daughter-in-law habit.”
The last line landed softly and did not leave.
He was not treating her like a shy bride who should learn the kitchen first. He was speaking to her as a woman who had given up a desk and a salary and a city.
“You will find work here if you want it,” he said. “Not tomorrow. After your feet know the floors. Do not let anyone, including my son, make your pause look like your whole life.”
Simran’s eyes stung. She blinked hard.
“Rohan is trying,” she said, loyal even now.
“I know what my son is,” Debashish said. No cruelty in it. No sugar either. “He is kind. Kind men sometimes do not see the bill someone else is paying.”
He stood. The chair scraped. He was suddenly all height and chest and bald light, and the terrace felt smaller.
“Stay up here as long as you want,” he said. “The house will not break because you sat in a chair.”
He left the water glass where it was.
At the door he added, without turning fully, “The book you took from the sitting room is a good one. You chose the worn copy. That was the right copy.”
Then he was gone.
Simran stayed until the glass was warm from the sun.
She went down the stairs slowly, like a person carrying a new thought that might spill.
In the guest room she sat on the bed. Rohan’s extra shirt hung on the chair, thin in the sleeves. She looked at it and then she looked at the closed door and she surprised herself by almost smiling.
She had expected a cold, traditional father. A man who would ask if she could cook and then stop seeing her.
What she had found on the terrace was worse and better.
A deeply perceptive man.
An interesting man.
A man who had seen the empty space in her second day and had pulled up a chair instead of walking past it.
She pressed her palms to her face.
The house was still too big.
Her job was still gone.
But the silence, for the first time, had a voice in it.
And the voice was his.
- 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