The next afternoon settled over the house like a heavy blanket, thick with a silence that was not peaceful but expectant. Sunlight cut through the living room window in a sharp, dusty diagonal, illuminating the motes dancing in the stagnant air. There they sat, the two of them: Babuji, my father-in-law, solid and imposing in his worn armchair, and my son, Rohit, small and oblivious, curled on the sofa. The television chattered away, some cartoon with garish colors and tinny laughter, a sound that felt insultingly trivial against the tension I could feel radiating from the other room.
I had made tea, brought it out on a tray. The moment I’d entered, Babuji’s eyes had left the screen. They didn’t travel to my face, not at first. They were a physical weight, a slow, deliberate survey that started at the crown of my head, travelled over the slope of my shoulders, lingered at the swell of my breasts beneath my simple cotton kameez, traced the dip of my waist, and rested, heavy and knowing, on the curve of my hips. It wasn’t a glance; it was a possession. A rough, mental touching. My skin prickled, first with a spike of indignation, then with a confusing, shameful heat. I’d placed the tea on the side table with a clatter that was too loud, mumbled something about work, and fled.
Now, in the supposed sanctuary of my bedroom, I couldn’t focus. The ledger open before me was a blur of numbers. My fingers, poised over the calculator, were cold and still. The memory of his gaze was a brand. I didn’t like this, I told myself firmly, the thought a brittle shield. It was intrusive, disrespectful. He was my father-in-law. My husband’s father. A man old enough to be my… but the completion of that thought faltered. Because woven through the dislike was another thread, thin but tenacious, humming with a dark electricity. Somewhere deep down, in a place I refused to acknowledge in daylight, it also felt… good. The sheer, audacious hunger of it. After years of being invisible to my husband, of being an appliance he used when drunk and forgot when sober, to be looked at with such raw, unapologetic want—it was a venomous nectar. I was a woman. Wasn’t this a proof, however twisted, of that fading fact?
A war raged silently within me. My mind, my dutiful bahu mind, wanted to barricade the door. But another part, a part that felt younger and starved, whispered traitorously. It wanted to go back out there. It wanted to sit on the stool near his chair, within reach. It wanted to give that hungry gaze something to feast upon. It fantasized about a pretext—a dropped pen, a question about the electricity bill—any flimsy reason that would allow him to lean close, his breath on my neck, his hand perhaps “accidentally” brushing my arm. I imagined him teasing me, his voice a low rumble, saying something about the heat, about my blouse being too thin. The fantasy made my breath catch. That secretly felt good to me.
But I was trapped here by my own propriety. How could I, Sushma, the model daughter-in-law, simply walk out and perch myself beside him? The absurdity of it coiled in my stomach. My mind wanted to go to Babuji. The thought was clear, shocking in its clarity. And with it came another memory, not from today but from yesterday, or the day before: a fleeting glimpse of him adjusting himself in his loose pyjamas, his hand cupping, rubbing a thick bulge. A strange sensation had arisen then, too—a liquid pull low in my own belly, a simultaneous revulsion and fascination. That ‘thick thing’ he concealed. My husband’s, when it could be roused at all, was a pathetic, sluggish worm. The contrast was obscenely vivid.
Just as the conflict within me reached a fever pitch, a sound pierced the heavy afternoon—the familiar, plaintive jingle of the ice-cream cart from the street below. A lifeline. A divine intervention. Rohit loved ice cream. I, too, enjoyed its fleeting sweetness, a small rebellion against the bitter taste of my days. And Babuji knew this. He stored such details, filed them away like tools.
I heard the cartoon sounds pause. Rohit’s voice, bright and eager, “Dada, ice cream!” And then, the voice I had been both dreading and longing for, called out, not towards the street, but towards the heart of the house, towards me.
“Sushma! Bahu, come, the ice-cream man is here. Rohit is also getting ice cream. You come and get some too.”
It was a command wrapped in casual generosity. But the way he said my name—Sushma—it wasn’t a summons for a servant. It was a call to a conspirator. My heart, foolish traitor, leapt. I was happier hearing Babuji's voice than about the ice cream. The brittle shield of disapproval shattered. I smoothed my kameez, tucked a stray strand of hair behind my ear, and went out, my pulse a frantic drum against my throat.
He was already at the door, dealing with the vendor. Rohit clutched a kulfi, his entire world condensed to that milky rectangle, and scampered back to the television. Babuji turned, holding a cup of ice cream and a long, thick Chocobar. The sight of it, so blatantly phallic in his large hand, sent a fresh jolt through me.
He handed me the cup. I took it, my fingers brushing his. The contact was electric.
“Bahu! What have you taken?” he said, his voice a parody of disappointment. “I wanted to give you a big Chocobar to eat. This ice cream is what I like.”
And as he said ‘Chocobar’, his eyes, those dark, knowing pools, locked onto mine. Not glancing away, not pretending. And his other hand, the one not holding the frozen treat, drifted to the front of his kurta. He began to rub, slowly, deliberately, the heel of his palm pressing against the fabric of his pyjamas. There was no cartoon on earth that could mask the intent of that gesture. The material tented, outlining a definite, rising stiffness. His ‘thing’ had started to stand up just looking at me.
The air was sucked from the room. I understood, with a clarity that burned, which ‘Chocobar’ Babuji was talking about giving me. A heat flooded my face, a shame so profound it felt like a blush of arousal. I looked down at my cup, at the vanilla mush already beginning to melt. I couldn’t speak. Words were beyond me.
Babuji, of course, was not one to stay quiet in the face of such fruitful silence. He took a step closer. The scent of him—old spice, sweat, and something uniquely, aggressively male—wrapped around me.
“Sushma!” he said, his voice dropping, becoming confiding, obscene. “I want to give you a big Chocobar to suck. Women like Chocobar more than kulfi or ice cream.” He leaned in infinitesimally. “I used to give your mother-in-law a Chocobar to suck every day, and she would take it with great pleasure. She couldn’t go a single day without it.” His eyes bored into me, ensuring I was tracking the metaphor. “Your mother-in-law wouldn’t sleep until she had taken the entire Chocobar completely into her mouth and sucked it. You leave this ice cream and try sucking a Chocobar once.”
The mischief in his eyes was devilish. The rubbing of his crotch was now a slow, persistent massage. He was offering me a history, a legacy of carnal knowledge. He was telling me I was now the woman of this house, in every sense. And the most terrifying part? The low, secret part of me was thrumming in agreement. My nipples tightened painfully against my choli. A dampness, unmistakable and treacherous, began to seep into the gusset of my salwar. This old man, given the slightest chance, starts with double-meaning talk, and look at his thing, how it immediately stiffens. A stark, humiliating comparison rose: My alcoholic husband's thing used to take so long to get hard, and even then, it was a half-hearted affair. Babuji’s was a live thing, demanding and immediate, straining against its cotton cage just from words and looks.
But what answer could I give? To acknowledge it was to leap into an abyss. Yet, the pull was magnetic. The ice cream in my hand was forgotten. A daring, reckless spirit took hold of me. Wanting to tease a little and have some fun myself, to step to the edge of that abyss and peer over, I found my voice. It came out softer, lighter than I intended, laced with a coquettishness I didn’t know I possessed.
“Babuji! Your son never gives me a Chocobar.” I let the accusation hang, watching his eyes flare. “Sometimes he gives me a Chocobar to suck, but the small one melts in my mouth in 2 minutes. No fun at all.” I took a tiny breath, feeling powerful and terrified. “Didn’t Mother-in-law like ice cream? That you gave her Chocobar?”
The shift was seismic. The mischievous glint in my own eyes, the slight tilt of my head, the way I held his gaze—it was all the permission he needed. He understood I was not angry. I was playing. Rohit was a distant murmur, lost in his sugary world. The stage was ours.
A wide, delighted smile broke across Babuji’s face. He chuckled, a low, raspy sound. “Oh beti! Your mother-in-law only liked Chocobar. And I didn’t give her a small one, but a good one,” he raised his hand, the Chocobar momentarily forgotten, and made a crude, measuring gesture in the air, “at least 8 inches long and 4 inches thick.” My eyes widened involuntarily, flying to the suggestive bulge in his pyjamas. He saw it and his smile turned triumphant. “Your mother-in-law would suck it with great pleasure; she would take the whole Chocobar in her mouth. To suck such a thick Chocobar, she had to open her mouth wide.” He demonstrated, opening his own mouth in an exaggerated ‘O’, his tongue visible. “She would suck vigorously for at least 20 minutes, only then would the Chocobar melt in her mouth and release its juice.”
The description was vulgar, vividly pictorial. My husband’s was barely 5 inches and not that thick either. From Babuji rubbing his thing, I had an idea it was bigger, but 8 inches? 4 thick? A shock ran through me, part disbelief, part awe, part a hungry curiosity that made my inner muscles clench. The words slipped out, breathless and unguarded, “Babuji, that big? Oh God. How could Mother-in-law take such a big Chocobar in her mouth? And she sucked for 20 minutes, she must have enjoyed it a lot. You’re lying.”
I had called him a liar. I had engaged. The boundary between father-in-law and daughter-in-law was now a smudge on the floor.
Seeing me open up, Babuji’s happiness was palpable. He was a hunter who saw the prey step willingly into the clearing. “Look. Would I lie to you?” he said, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial murmur. “Whenever you want, I’ll let you suck a Chocobar too. You just say yes once. Your mother-in-law really liked Chocobar; you’ll like it a lot too.” Then he added, as if an afterthought, but his eyes were sharp, “When your mother-in-law sucked the Chocobar, I would lick ice cream.”
The switch. The reciprocal act. My ‘ice cream’. The dampness between my legs became a conscious trickle. The metaphor was no longer a game; it was a blueprint. The air grew thick, intoxicating. I was speaking more openly now, drawn into his vulgar orbit.
“You like ice cream? Babuji?” I asked, my voice barely a whisper. I took a small, involuntary step back, not in retreat, but as if to give him a better view, to adjust the tension between us.
Babuji’s gaze was relentless. He looked into my eyes and continued that maddening, rhythmic scratching of his hardened flesh through the cloth. “Yes, bahu! I used to lick ice cream.” He painted the picture, his words deliberate and slow. “Many times, first your mother-in-law would suck the Chocobar, and then I would lick the ice cream. And sometimes we did it together—meaning, while she was sucking the Chocobar, I would lick the ice cream.” He paused, letting the image of that sixty-nine of metaphors sear itself into my brain. “I would always put my whole tongue inside the ice cream to lick it. The fun of licking ice cream is when you put your whole tongue inside it and lick it really well.” His own tongue darted out, wetting his lips, a grotesque and thrilling demonstration. “Often, my mouth, nose, and lips would be filled with the juice of the ice cream, but I would lick the ice cream really well. Seeing my wet mouth, your mother-in-law would laugh, but she also liked my licking the ice cream very much. I would keep licking the ice cream until it was all finished.”
He leaned forward, the final thrust of his verbal seduction. “Your husband must also eat ice cream like that, right?”
The question was a dagger, cloaked in false innocence. It laid bare the barrenness of my marriage. The conversation had become very intoxicating and sexy. My pussy was dripping. It felt like the fluid from my pussy was flowing down my inner thighs, a warm, shameful river. I had to press my legs together subtly to contain the sensation. A desperate, aching need bloomed low in my belly. It felt like scratching my pussy hard, cramming my fingers inside to quell the emptiness, but Father-in-law was standing right there, his own need proudly displayed.
We were not children. The pretense was gossamer-thin, but we clung to it, for to tear it would mean facing the raw, illicit truth. Now he had openly asked me about licking my pussy, so I also told him my sorrow, the core of my loneliness: “Babuji! What can I say, your son doesn’t like licking ice cream at all. The way you’re describing, he has never eaten ice cream like that.”
A flash of genuine anger, or a superb performance of it, crossed Babuji’s face. “He’s crazy, that badmaash,” he hissed. “Licking ice cream is his duty.” Then his expression softened, turned into a promise. “If I were in his place, I would give you a Chocobar to suck every day and lick ice cream to my heart’s content every day.” He took the final, irrevocable step. “No problem, if you want, I can fulfill this lack for you.”
There it was. The offer, stripped of all metaphor. The proposition. Suck my dick. Let me eat your pussy.
A wave of such intense shyness and heat washed over me I thought I might faint. My knees felt weak. What could I say even if I wanted to? To speak agreement was impossible. To refuse was unthinkable—it would end this dizzying, addictive game, would return me to the grey silence of my life.
So I spoke with action. My body decided before my mind could protest.
I looked from his face, to the Chocobar in his left hand, to the cup of vanilla ice cream in my own. A silent transaction. Without a word, I reached out and took the Chocobar from his loose grasp. My fingers closed around the cold, solid length of it. I didn’t look at him as I raised it to my lips. I opened my mouth, took the rounded tip inside, and began to suck. Slowly. Deliberately. My eyes fluttered closed for a second, then opened, meeting his over the brown shaft. At the same time, I held out my cup of ice cream to him.
The moment hung, suspended. When Babuji saw me sucking the Chocobar, a gleam of pure, unadulterated victory appeared on his face. It was more than happiness; it was conquest. He understood that with this gesture, his daughter-in-law had agreed. The contract was sealed in melted sugar and silent consent.
He moved swiftly. He took the proffered cup, his fingers brushing mine, a final electric exchange. He peeled back the lid, and without hesitation, he shoved his whole tongue into the soft, white mound. Not a delicate lick. A deep, penetrating plunge. He swirled his tongue around, burying his nose in the cup, making loud, slurping, utterly obscene sounds of enjoyment. While licking the ice cream, his eyes never left my face. They were dark pits of intent, explaining, promising, showing me exactly how he intended to put his whole tongue inside my pussy and lick it like that.
The visual was too much. The reality of what I had just agreed to crashed down on me. My face turned scarlet, a burn that spread down my neck and across my chest. The Chocobar in my mouth suddenly felt like a foreign object, a stark symbol of my depravity. I couldn’t stand in front of him anymore, under the weight of that knowing, feasting gaze.
I pulled the Chocobar from my lips with a soft, wet pop. A silent, tremulous smile touched my lips—an acknowledgement, a surrender, a promise. Then I turned and, with as much dignity as I could muster, which was none, I ran. I fled from the living room, down the short hallway, into my bedroom. I pushed the door closed and leaned against it, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird.
My whole body was trembling, not with fear, but with a lust so acute it was a physical pain. My breath came in ragged, heaving gasps. I could still feel the ghost of his eyes on my skin, the phantom pressure of that Chocobar on my tongue, the sound of his tongue ravishing that cup of ice cream. The dampness between my legs was a soaked betrayal. I slid down the length of the door until I was sitting on the cool floor, knees drawn up, forehead resting on them. I sat there for a long, long time, listening to the distant cartoon sounds, waiting for the tremors to subside, for the heat to recede.
It didn’t. It simmered, a low, constant fever.
After what felt like an eternity, I composed myself enough to rise on shaky legs and lie down on my bed. The afternoon light faded into dusk, and dusk into night. I didn’t sleep. I stared at the ceiling, the events of the afternoon playing on a relentless loop behind my eyes. The feel of the cold chocolate, the sight of his tongue, the crude, thrilling measurements in the air.
All night, I kept dreaming of Babuji. Not dreams of sleep, but waking visions. Dreams of his large, rough hands. Dreams of that ‘big Chocobar’ he’d promised, not of frozen milk and cocoa, but of heated flesh and pounding blood. Dreams of his mouth, his whole tongue, fulfilling its explicit promise. The house was quiet, my son asleep, my husband absent in every way that mattered. And in the dark, with the memory of his victorious gleam etched into my soul, I finally allowed my own hand to travel, to trace the path his eyes had taken, to scratch the itch he had so masterfully ignited. The night was long, and it belonged entirely to him.
