Old Tu in Sai Gon
Copyright© 2026 by duhless_90
Chapter 16
Incest Sex Story: Chapter 16 - At seventy-two, Old Tu leaves a forgotten village for Saigon after inheriting a rundown rental block. He comes looking for his lost children, but finds debt, lonely women, gangsters, shame, desire, and a city that will not let an old man stay dead inside.
Caution: This Incest Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa Mult Coercion Consensual Drunk/Drugged Hypnosis NonConsensual Rape Romantic Heterosexual Fiction Humor Rags To Riches Restart Tear Jerker Workplace Cheating Wife Watching Incest Father Daughter InLaws Humiliation Rough Spanking Group Sex Anal Sex Cream Pie Facial Masturbation Oral Sex Petting Squirting Voyeurism Public Sex Size Caution Revenge Slow Violence
The day Minh was brought back to the rental block, Hung stood in the hallway looking down, his face hard as stone.
He had not thought the youngest would really appear.
A car stopped in front of the gate. Nhung got out first, then Hoang, then Old Tu. Last was Minh, on crutches, one leg still braced and bandaged, his face a little pale after days in the hospital. Ngoc walked close beside him, holding a bag of medicine and a few sets of clothes. Vy followed behind, pulling a small suitcase. No noise, no show, but the whole rental block still naturally went quiet for a little while. People stood and watched. People whispered. Everyone knew Mr. Tu had just found another child.
Hung looked at that scene and something in his chest went cold.
So it was split in half?
That was his first thought.
Split the rental block in half. Split the land. Split the company. Split the part of life he had just managed to imagine as his. But right after that, Hung saw it was not half. Not that simple. Looking at the way Old Tu helped Minh down from the car, looking at that old shaking hand placed behind the youngest’s back, looking at the old man’s eyes, both aching and loving and almost wanting to take the rest of his life and spread it over Minh’s body, Hung understood this could be worse.
Maybe there would be no split.
Maybe everything would lean toward the youngest.
Goddamn it.
Hung stood behind the railing, his nails digging into the peeling paint. He saw Hoang standing beside Old Tu, saying something to the repairmen, pointing at the newly redone room on the ground floor. That room used to be two small rental rooms. Now the dividing wall had been knocked through, the walls repainted, the floor retiled, a wider door added so Minh could go in and out on crutches. A place brighter, cleaner, airier than anything Hung had ever been prepared.
He gave a thin laugh.
Life sure was funny.
He had lived properly for so many years, tried to work, tried to swallow humiliation, crawled around like a dog under other people’s feet. When he had a little power at the factory, it was snatched away. When he had a beautiful wife, he lost her too. Now even the pile of property he thought he was about to touch had some other bastard appear from nowhere to fight him for it.
In the end, why?
Why did life keep treating him like this?
What had he done more wrong than other people? Who was not greedy? Who did not want to lift his head? Who did not want money, land, people afraid of him? The only difference was when other people were greedy, it was called knowing how to strive. When he was greedy, it was called dirty. Other people robbed and became smart. He had barely reached out his hand before it got chopped off.
Who was going to give him decency then?
Hung asked himself that, then even he found it funny. Decency was for people with a portion. People with rice to eat, a house to live in, parents to love them, a chance to start again. As for a bastard like him, just touching the light and already being dragged down into mud, what was decency for? So people could step on him more easily?
Down in the yard, Old Tu helped Minh into the room.
Ngoc lowered her head and thanked the people helping carry things. Vy stood tucked beside her mother, eyes red but trying to smile. Hoang spoke softly to the workers, Nhung wrote a few things in her notebook. Everything looked like a family being assembled again after many years broken apart.
Only Hung felt himself being pushed outside.
The snake finally decided to crawl out of its hole.
It had waited. Had watched. Had thought the old bull would die on his own. Had thought a little medicine, a little desire, a little tiredness of old age would finish the work for it. But now the old bull did not die. He had even found his youngest son. He even had people caring for him, worrying over him, rebuilding the whole ground floor to welcome another family in.
Then the method had to change.
Hung watched Minh step with difficulty over the threshold, and in his eyes there was no longer only jealousy.
Something darker began to crawl up.
Now who would be the winner?
After Minh’s family moved in, the rental block had much fewer people. A few rented rooms were taken back and repaired into a wider living space. Some tenants complained, but Hoang handled it very neatly: returned the deposits, supported the last month extra, and if anyone needed a new place, Nhung introduced one. Everything was so smooth no one had a reason to make a big scene. The rental block became less noisy. The yard became wider. In the afternoon, sunlight fell onto the cement space in front of Minh’s room, pale and quiet like something that did not belong to this place.
At first Minh wanted to refuse.
He told Old Tu it was not needed. Said the old house was still livable. Said he would be on crutches a few months and then go back to work. Said he would trouble everyone. Said many sentences of a person used to not accepting anything from anyone so he would not owe them.
But Minh knew he could not anymore.
Money would not allow it.
Just the surgery, medicine, follow-up visits, fixation equipment, then the months he could not take delivery orders, all of it was like a big mouth opened before him. Ngoc had nothing left to sell. Vy had just started work, and her bank salary had not even warmed in her hand before it had to be split into all kinds of things. The pale green alley house was still there, but it was damp, cramped, and with Minh’s newly broken leg, each step inside it was torture.
Minh understood that most clearly one night in the hospital.
That day after surgery, he was more awake. The hospital handed out meals to the patients: one bowl of minced pork porridge with scallions. Minh listened to Ngoc urging him and tried to eat all the meat and porridge, leaving only a little porridge water. Ngoc told him to rest, she would clean up later. He closed his eyes and lay there, thinking she was still sitting beside him like every time.
But after a while, Minh opened his eyes and did not see Ngoc.
He pushed himself up, the pain from his leg pulling all the way up his spine. Minh clenched his teeth, followed the side of the bed, and limped outside. The hospital hallway at night was long and cold, the white lights making everyone’s skin pale. He was about to call her when he heard a scolding voice from the end of the hallway, near the restroom.
“Hey, you. Why don’t you go outside to eat? What are you standing here for?”
Minh stopped short.
He hid behind the corner of the wall.
Ngoc stood there, holding the hospital’s plastic bowl. In the bowl there was only a little of Minh’s leftover porridge, so thin it was almost only water. She lowered her head, flustered like someone caught red-handed doing something shameful.
The nurse frowned.
“If you want to eat, go to the canteen. This place isn’t for eating.”
Ngoc lowered her voice:
“I know. I’ll go right away.”
She turned away, one hand holding the bowl close against her chest. Her steps were slow. Her face was normal, but Minh saw that normalness, and that was what hurt. It was the normal look of someone used to enduring. Used to hunger.
Minh stood dead behind the corner.
He understood.
Old Tu handled the hospital fees. The surgery money. The medicine money. But he had not thought about giving living money to Ngoc. Not because he was cruel. Because he was clumsy. Because he was a man, all his life worrying about big sums and forgetting the small hungers. Vy went carefree to work at the bank, ate lunch there, came home at night and ate whatever there was. Minh was a patient, with a hospital meal. Old Tu returned to the rental block and ate rice with Mai.
Only Ngoc stood in the middle of all of it.
She did not have a single coin on her.
No money to buy porridge, no money to buy banh mi, no money to buy one decent bottle of water. She cared for Minh all day, stayed awake all night, then took his leftover bowl of porridge, the thing with only water left, and drank it for now to forget her hunger.
Minh wanted to step out.
But his leg hurt too much.
And his heart hurt more.
He returned to the bed before Ngoc saw him. Lay down, pulled the blanket up to his chest, eyes wide open staring at the white ceiling. Ngoc came back later, the bowl already washed clean. She sat down beside the bed and asked:
“Does it hurt?”
Minh shook his head.
He did not dare look at her.
That night, he did not sleep.
Ngoc’s hunger lay beside him more clearly than the surgical wound in his leg. He thought about all those years, how she had sold her house for him, thrown away her life for him, sat outside that frosted glass room for him, endured scratching and biting for him, endured other people’s words for him. Yet when he was in the hospital, he still let her go hungry. He still only thought that he did not want to trouble anyone, did not want to owe anyone, did not want to acknowledge his father, did not want to face things. All those “did not want” things, in the end, pressed down on Ngoc’s shoulders.
Minh found himself too selfish.
The next morning, when Old Tu entered the hospital, Minh called him over first.
Old Tu was holding a bag of fruit. As soon as he stepped in, he asked:
“Did it hurt last night, child?”
Minh looked at him.
Only after a long while did he say:
“Can I ask you for something, Dad?”
Old Tu froze.
It was the first time Minh had called him Dad.
Not very clearly. His voice was hoarse, low, almost breaking at the end of the sentence. But it was that word. Dad.
Old Tu held the bag of fruit, and his hand trembled.
“Yes. Of course. Say it.”
Minh lowered his eyes.
“I can’t work for a while. My family ... has no money left. Can I ask you to help me? Not only hospital money. Food money, medicine money, money for Ngoc, for Vy. Later when I can work again, I’ll pay you back slowly.”
Old Tu looked at his son.
His throat jammed shut.
He had waited for this sentence for a long time. Not waiting for his son to ask for money so he could feel he had power. Waiting for him to open one door. To accept that he still had a father. To let the old man make up a little, though he knew that little was nothing compared with the years Minh had lived by himself in the dark.
“Pay back what,” he said, his voice shaking. “You’re my son.”
Minh pressed his lips together.
“I’m sorry...”
“Back then Dad loved you most. Now Dad still loves you. You ending up like this isn’t your fault. You hear me?”
Minh closed his eyes.
One tear ran down his temple.
Old Tu lowered his head, his voice thick and hoarse:
“Dad will make it up. As much as I can. The rest, if life doesn’t let me make it up, then I’ll bear it.”
From that day, everything changed completely.
Ngoc no longer had to hide hunger. Vy had to run around less. Minh had medicine on time, decent meals, a car to take him to follow-up visits. And when the ground floor rooms were repaired, Old Tu brought Minh’s whole family back to the rental block like welcoming a lost part of his own body back.
The day Minh stepped into the new room, he stood for a very long time before the door.
The room was not large by rich people’s standards, but for his family, it was wide to the point of strange. There was a window. A low bed. A walkway wide enough for crutches. A small but clean separate kitchen. And in the inner corner, Hoang had also had them make an empty room, the walls padded soft, the door frosted glass, no sharp furniture. Minh looked at that room, his hand tightening around the crutch.
He understood.
Ngoc stood beside him, eyes red. Vy pulled the suitcase in and tried to smile, saying:
“New house, stepdad.”
Minh could not smile.
He turned to Old Tu.
“I’m ... troubling you too much, Dad.”
Old Tu snapped softly, but his eyes were wet:
“Trouble my ass. You’re home, so stay.”
Only that.
A crude sentence, but this time it sounded warm.
From the hallway above, Hung looked down.
He watched Minh being helped into the room. Watched Ngoc set the medicine bag on the table. Watched Vy hang clothes in the cabinet. Watched Old Tu standing in the doorway, his face both sad and happy. Watched Hoang calmly instruct someone to install another grab bar in the bathroom.
Hung clearly saw each piece of property in his head being transferred to another name, though not one ownership paper had changed.
One room lost.
Then two rooms.
Then monthly money.
Then Old Tu’s pity.
Then trust.
Then even the title of only son that he had just picked up.
The youngest returned with no noise, no fighting, no cursing. That was exactly why he was more dangerous. He only needed to lie there, hurting, pitiful, and Old Tu would dig out his own guts and hand them to him.
Hung gave a thin laugh.
He felt himself being robbed.
Robbed by a temporarily crippled bastard, an old woman, a bank girl, and that pale-faced Hoang always standing behind glass.
No.
It could not be like that.
If life would not let him be decent, then do not blame him for being evil.
Down in the yard, Old Tu helped Minh sit down on a chair. Mai came out from the kitchen and set a hot bowl of porridge on the table. She did not say much, only gently pushed the bowl toward Minh, then turned to Ngoc:
“You eat too, sister. I cooked a lot.”
.
.
.
Minh’s house blocked the front of Thao’s room.
No one said it was an arrangement, but Hung understood with one look. The newly repaired room for Minh, Ngoc, and Vy was on the ground floor, the door opening into the yard, just perfectly blocking the natural path Hung used to take to sneak over to Thao’s room on late evenings. If he wanted to go there, he had to go around, had to pass through Ngoc’s eyes, Vy’s eyes, Minh practicing walking on crutches, or worse, pass Old Tu’s hammock and the kitchen where Mai often stood.
So Hung’s old path was cut off.
No noise.
No one forbade him.
No one stood out and said he could not go there anymore.
But the rental block naturally changed shape. Those rooms, doors, walkways, other people’s eyes, all of it came together into a soft fence. Soft but hard to cross. Hung realized he had been pushed out of even the places he had once thought were his.
The rental block now had far fewer people.
Lan and Quynh still lived upstairs. A few remaining rooms were shut tight, tenants going to work all day and coming home at night quietly, as if not wanting to get involved with the landlord’s family business. Most of the ground floor had become the living place of Old Tu’s large family. Old Tu’s room, Minh’s room, the shared kitchen cleaned up, the yard wider, the clothes-drying place neater. There was the extra knock-knock of crutches, Vy’s laughter, Ngoc calling Minh to take medicine, Mai carrying rice down and setting it on the table.
Old Tu and Mai were no longer as distant as before.
After the night he told the story of Minh, the silence between them changed color. They still kept measure, still did not stand too close when there was no need, still avoided touches that could pull them back toward the old place. But no longer in that way of dodging each other like dodging sin. When Mai saw him cough, she boiled leaf water. When Old Tu saw Mai carrying something heavy, he quietly stepped over to hold it for her, then set it down right away, not looking long. She called him “Dad” a little more naturally, no longer dry as biting into stone. His answer of “yeah” was softer too, like a person knowing he had been forgiven a part, though he would never dare ask for the whole.
They cared for each other in a way very poor in words.
A glass of orange juice placed on the table.
A bowl of porridge kept separate.
A dry towel handed over after an afternoon rain.
A sentence from the kitchen, “Dad, did you take your medicine yet?”
A hoarse voice in the yard, “Mai, leave that there, Dad will do it.”
All of it was small. But exactly because it was small, it could live. Things too big would frighten them. They had learned how dangerous standing near each other could be. Now they were learning how to care for each other at a distance safe enough, like two people sitting by a fire but neither daring to put a hand into that flame anymore.
Vy quickly made the house brighter.
She called Old Tu Grandpa from the first week after moving in.
The first time he heard it, Old Tu was drinking tea and nearly choked.
“Grandpa, can I borrow this chair?”
The old man lifted his head, eyes round.
“Who is your grandpa?”
Vy hugged the chair, smiling slyly, her dimples clear.
“Stepdad is your son. I call him stepdad. So what’s wrong with calling you Grandpa?”
Old Tu opened his mouth, then could not argue.
“This little girl...”
Vy giggled and carried the chair away, leaving Old Tu sitting there, his face wrinkled but his eyes softening. That word “Grandpa” made him embarrassed at first, then he got used to it. It pulled him into a new role he had never thought he still had the chance to receive: not only father, but grandfather. Even though the relationships in the house were tangled like an old bundle of electrical wires, Vy still had a way of calling everything in a voice so innocent that people did not have the heart to correct her.
Minh began physical therapy.
Every morning, Nhung arranged a car to take him to the hospital or rehab room. Some days Hoang had someone come to the house to guide him. Minh leaned on crutches, his leg still weak, his face always tight from pain but he did not complain. He practiced standing, bending and stretching, taking one short step at a time. Old Tu often sat beside him watching his son, both hands clenched together, and every time Minh grimaced, he grimaced too.
“If it hurts, rest a little,” the old man said.
Minh breathed out and shook his head.
“It’s all right.”
“All right what. Your face is white as paper.”
“I can stand it.”
The word “I” as a son was still rare, but each time Minh said it, Old Tu heard it like someone had placed a warm coal in his palm.
Ngoc also became better.
With money to eat and drink, time to sleep, and people sharing some of the work, she no longer had that gaunt shape from the first time Old Tu met her in the green house. Her skin was less gray, her eyes less sunken, her hair combed neater. Mai often pressed her to eat more, Vy bought milk, and whenever Old Tu saw her sitting too long, he said:
“Ngoc, go rest. Leave it. Someone will do it.”
At first Ngoc was not used to it.
All her life she had been used to carrying things herself. If there was shortage, endure. If it hurt, stay quiet. If tired, keep trying. Now when someone reminded her to rest, when someone placed a bowl of rice in front of her, she became flustered as if accepting a new debt. But then the human body also knew how to thank in its own way. She slept more. Ate better. Smiled with Vy a few times. One day she even sat with Mai picking vegetables in the yard, talking about little things like fish prices and meat prices, like two ordinary women in an ordinary house.
The money Hoang still sent Old Tu every month was enough.
One hundred and fifty million.
Regular as a machine.
Old Tu did not ask carefully where the money came from. Or maybe he did not want to ask. He only knew that now Minh had medicine, Ngoc had rice, Vy had money to go to work, Mai did not have to count every market dong, the house had people laughing, the yard had neighborhood children running through to ask for water, the afternoons had the smell of hot soup, the evenings had the small sound of the television. For an old man who had once thought he had only his hammock and a pile of meaningless money left, that life was almost complete.
Almost.
Because this rental block had never really known completeness.
It only knew how to cover cracks with yellow light and hot meals.
Upstairs, Lan was still stuck in Phong’s circle.
Phong treated her like a toy his hand had gotten used to. If he called, Lan came. When he got bored, he disappeared. A few sweet words and she softened again, though after every time she returned to her room, she sat a long time on the edge of the bed, looking at her slippers on the floor like looking at a stranger. She knew she was being used. Knew Phong’s promises were hollow. Knew each time he said “I love you,” there was too much lying inside it. But knowing did not mean escaping.
Some ropes did not need to be tied around the wrist.
They tied themselves to the fear of being left behind.
Lan had once dreamed of love, then that dream was trampled so flat she could no longer pick up its original shape. Yet she still went. Still answered the phone. Still stood before the mirror fixing her hair before seeing Phong, then despised herself the moment she closed the door of her room. Her life was like the stairs in the rental block: going up and down every day, seeming to move, but actually staying in one place.
Quynh still lived by Quynh’s work.
Every night, she put on makeup very carefully. Red lipstick, thick powder, curled hair, clothes just enough for customers to look and think they were buying a cheap dream. She performed her body for others to watch, smiled when she needed to smile, stayed silent when she needed to stay silent, turning herself into fake light under colored bulbs. People called her by many names, some decent, some dirty, but none of those names was really her.
Quynh carried a burden no one clearly knew.
Sometimes she sat outside in the hallway near dawn, taking off her high heels, rubbing her swollen ankles, eyes looking down at Old Tu’s lit-up yard. She watched Mai carrying a pot of porridge, watched Vy laugh, watched Ngoc hang towels, watched Minh practicing steps, watched a strange family that was still a family. In Quynh’s eyes then, it was not simple envy. It was deeper. As if she had once had something similar, or once lost someone, some debt, some name that she hid carefully under the lipstick and powder.
No one asked.
Quynh did not say either.
She was the kind of person who made the world think it knew everything about her because it had seen too much of her skin. But in truth, what she covered was the part no one had touched.
As for Thao, she stayed the same.
She was like an item passed from Thang’s hand to Hung’s hand. No love. No dream. Not even a clear hatred to lean on. Thao lived in the room in the back, the room now blocked by Minh’s family at the path, like an old object shoved deep into storage. Hung came over less often, not because he pitied her, but because it was hard to come. When he did get there, she had to take his anger, the kind of anger that was never born from her but always fell onto her body.
Thao no longer waited for anyone to save her.
People can only wait to be saved when they still believe they are worth saving. Thao had been passed from hand to hand long enough to see herself as a rag: dirty, then wrung out; torn, then thrown away; lying under someone’s foot and no one bent down to ask whether it had once been new cloth.
Sometimes she heard Vy’s laughter outside in the yard, heard Mai call Old Tu to eat, heard Ngoc tell Minh to take his medicine, and inside her opened a hollow space. Not sharp pain. Only empty. The emptiness of someone who knew out there was a thing called home, but she was only allowed to hear its sound echo through the wall.
So the rental block looked quieter, but it was not really quiet.
It only changed the way it made noise.
Before, it made noise with curses, arguments, vehicles going in and out, Hung drunk, Old Tu coughing, tenants crowding together. Now it made noise with silences. Mai’s silence when she passed Old Tu’s room. Minh’s silence before the word “Dad.” Ngoc’s silence whenever someone mentioned the past. Lan’s silence after Phong’s call. Quynh’s silence while removing makeup. Thao’s silence when she heard Hung’s steps outside the door.
And in the middle of all of it, Hung stood like an extra shadow.
He looked at Minh’s family every day.
Looked at Old Tu laughing with Vy.
Looked at Mai setting a bowl of rice before Ngoc.
Looked at Hoang sometimes dropping by, not saying much, only checking a few things then leaving, but whatever he touched ran according to his order.
Hung felt himself surrounded.
Not by knives.
By rice.
By medicine.
By family feeling.
By care that he had no portion of.
The snake had crawled out of its hole, but before it was no longer one lonely old bull. Before it was a lit-up yard, a family just patched back together with money, blood, guilt, and pity.
If it wanted to bite, it had to choose very carefully.
Because if it bit the wrong person, the whole nest would turn and look at it.
.
.
.
A month slowly passed, and everyone had begun to get used to the new rhythm of life.
Minh refused to stay home.
He said at least he did not want to become anyone’s burden anymore. Everyone had suffered enough because of him. He did not want to open his eyes each morning and see others looking at him with pity, and even less did he want to spend his whole life lying in a clean room, drinking medicine, eating rice others cooked, then at night hearing Ngoc sigh in the kitchen.
So Minh put on his shirt again and went out to run deliveries.
His leg was not truly strong yet. Each time he got on and off the bike, his face still tightened with pain. But Minh tried to hide it. He had been used to hiding for a long time. Hiding pain, hiding fear, hiding even the humiliating feeling when a twenty-seven-year-old man still had to reach out his hand and ask for medicine money.
Ngoc was no longer as withered as before.
Since returning to the rental block, she ate more regularly and slept more. In the morning she got up to cook rice, sweep the house, hang clothes, then do a few light movements with Old Tu on the ground floor. Tieu My now no longer had to take him far away. Every late afternoon she came to the rental neighborhood, spread mats right in the front yard, and made Old Tu lift his arms, rotate his shoulders, bend his legs.
Old Tu exercised while complaining.
“I’m old already. Why exercise and get tired?”
Tieu My laughed khih.
“Because you’re old, Uncle. If you don’t exercise, later you lie in one place. Who will carry you?”
Old Tu glanced at Ngoc.
“Someone will carry me.”
Ngoc was picking vegetables in the kitchen. Hearing that, she lowered her face and scolded softly:
“You keep talking nonsense.”
But on her face there was no longer the murky gray of the hardest days. Her skin had a little pink in it. Her hair was combed neatly. Her clothes were still old, but clean, smelling of sun. People in the rental block looked at Ngoc and sometimes seemed to see again some loyal, beautiful figure that life had buried for too long.
The collection of rent was also handed over to her.
Fifteen rooms left.
Not as many as before anymore, but enough to pay for rice, electricity, water, and petty medicine in the house. Ngoc held a small notebook, writing down each room, each payment date, each missing amount. She worked carefully, did not raise her voice at anyone, did not flatter either. The tenants were used to disorder, but when they met Ngoc, everyone naturally became less stubborn.
Vy still went to work at the bank. In the morning she wore a shirt, office skirt, green bow tied at her collar, and did not come home until evening. She was skillful with words and knew how to smile at the right time, so meeting credit targets was not too hard. People heard Nhung had helped her ask to transfer to a branch closer to home, so she would not have to travel far at night.
The ground-floor house was more crowded than before.
There was Minh, Ngoc, Vy.
There was Old Tu.
There was Tieu My sometimes coming and going.
There was Mai and Hung.
At first Hung was silent.
He was silent not because he knew how to behave. He was silent like a hungry dog lying under the table, eyes still looking up at the tray of food. Since Minh appeared, since Ngoc was assigned to collect rent, inside Hung something seemed to have been snatched away.
Before that, he had thought very simply.
Old Tu was his father.
The rental block belonged to Old Tu.
The fruit juice company was in Old Tu’s name.
So sooner or later everything had to come to him.
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