Old Tu in Sai Gon
Copyright© 2026 by duhless_90
Chapter 19
Incest Sex Story: Chapter 19 - 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
Old Tu stood in the corner of the yard, silently looking at Van, his own daughter.
Even though it had been more than ten years since he had seen her, he recognized her right away. Van looked exactly like him: the crooked nose, the square chin, dark sunburned skin, a thick solid body. Not the pretty kind of girl. Only the height, around one meter sixty, was passable. Right now Van was standing washing dishes at the cement basin, her face lowered. From inside the house, the voice of her mother-in-law poured out in curses:
“All you know is eat, stay, and give birth. Housework, you’re lazy as a leper! Useless woman!”
Van’s fat husband was sitting right at the table, drinking liquor and playing cards, not even bothering to lift his head to look at his wife once.
After washing the dishes, Van silently carried the basket of clothes to the back of the house to hang them. She bent over and reached up toward the clothesline...
Suddenly a rough hand from behind grabbed her pants and yanked them hard down to her knees. Van’s dark cunt, full of curly black hair, was exposed under the sky. The faceless man standing behind her did not say a word. He pressed his cock straight in and shoved it to the root in one thrust.
“Ah...!”
Van only let out one short cry, then bit her lip tight, enduring it as the man fucked her from behind. Her body was rammed hard back and forth, both hands still trying to grip the clothesline.
Old Tu witnessed that scene and his eyes went blood red, blood rushing to his brain. He roared once, charged straight forward, wanting to tear apart the bastard fucking his daughter. But strangely, he could not move. The lower half of his body seemed stuck solid.
Old Tu looked down, and discovered in horror:
His big, veined cock was deep inside Van’s cunt, buried to the root. He was the bastard fucking his own daughter.
“Fuck!!!...”
Old Tu screamed in terror and jolted awake.
He shot upright on the bed, sweat pouring off him as if he had been drenched. His heart pounded, his breath ragged. He looked around once before realizing he was still lying in the familiar small room.
“Fuck ... what the hell kind of strange dream was that?”
Old Tu cursed, wiped the sweat from his forehead, then collapsed back onto the bed. He rubbed the cock that was still stiff from the dream just now. His empty eyes looked up at the ceiling, and he let out a heavy sigh.
“That Van really does look like me ... Her fate is too miserable...”
That morning, Hoang came just after Old Tu had finished his bowl of porridge.
The rental block was still damp with mist. The potted plants before the porch held water on their leaves, and the early sunlight was thin and pale, not enough to make anyone feel warm. Old Tu was sitting on his usual plastic chair, one hand rubbing his lower back, the other fumbling in his pocket for cigarettes, when Hoang stepped in.
The guy did not say much. He only took a small piece of paper from his shirt pocket, folded in half, and placed it on the table.
“Looks like this is the address of Sister Van that you were looking for.”
Old Tu froze.
The hand searching for cigarettes stopped halfway. His eyes looked at the paper, then at Hoang, as if he had not fully understood the sentence he had just heard.
“What did you say?”
“I said, looks like this is Sister Van’s address.”
“Looks like?”
“Yes. I don’t dare say it’s one hundred percent certain.”
Old Tu leaned forward and snatched up the paper. On it was the name of an apartment complex, the floor number, apartment code, the name of the person registered in the household or somehow related, something he could not read clearly. His eyes had already grown poor, and the small letters were a little blurred, but only seeing the word “Van” was enough to make his chest ache once.
“How is she now?” the old man asked in a rush. “How does she live? Is she miserable? Does that husband of hers beat her? Does she have any sickness? Is she short of money? Does she have children yet? Have you met her?”
Hoang looked at him.
“I haven’t met her directly.”
“Haven’t met her?”
“Yes. That’s why I said I’m not sure.”
“Then how do you know?”
“Someone traced the address. Name, age, year of birth, hometown, a few pieces of information match. But if you want to be sure, you should go there yourself and see.”
Old Tu sprang to his feet.
“Go right now.”
Hoang raised his brows slightly.
“It’s still early. And don’t go like you’re going to collect a debt.”
“Then how do I go?”
Hoang was silent a moment, then said:
“If you want to know the story clearly, you should act like an old man from the countryside coming up to visit his daughter.”
Old Tu stood stunned.
That sentence sounded both funny and reasonable.
An old man from the countryside coming up to visit his daughter.
Not a father looking for a lost child. Not a man carrying decades of guilt. Not an old man afraid his daughter had been trampled by life. Only an old man from the countryside, leaning on a cane or carrying a cloth bag, making the hard trip up to the city to visit his child.
Old Tu nodded slowly.
“Yeah. That’s right too.”
Hoang pushed the paper toward him.
“Just go. Look first. Don’t rush to ask too much.”
“You’re not going with me?”
“It’s not convenient.”
Old Tu looked at Hoang. The guy still stood there, clean, calm, like someone who had placed a chess piece on the board and then stepped out of the game.
“Fine,” the old man said. “I’ll go myself.”
That afternoon, Old Tu wore the oldest shirt he considered the most decent.
It was light blue, the collar already frayed, but still clean. He combed his hair, shaved roughly, then carefully tucked the paper into his breast pocket. Before leaving, he stood in front of the small mirror hanging beside the kitchen door for a while.
In the mirror was a thin old man, dark skin, sunken eyes, hair more than half white. That face, no matter how he looked at it, did not look like a person with a daughter living in a high-end apartment complex.
The old man let out a soft laugh.
“Maybe she won’t recognize me either.”
Then he went.
A motorbike taxi carried him through several large roads. The city in the afternoon was crowded and noisy, vehicles squeezing together under strips of late-day sun. Old Tu sat behind the driver, both hands gripping tight, the shirt pocket at his chest rising and falling with his breathing. Every now and then he reached up to touch the paper, as if afraid it would disappear.
The apartment complex appeared behind a row of neatly trimmed trees.
A large gate, a security booth, a shiny name board, flower beds watered carefully. Cars went in and out slowly. People wore nice clothes, walked dogs, pushed baby strollers, spoke softly as if they were in another world.
Old Tu stood before the gate and raised his head to look up at the tall buildings.
“Could it be that Van gets to live here?”
He said that very softly, not knowing who he was asking.
If that was true, then good.
Too good.
He had imagined many things. Imagined Van in a cramped house, scolded by her husband, looked down on by her mother-in-law, holding a child and crying in the kitchen. Imagined Van sick with no money for treatment. Imagined Van grown uglier, older, withered, living a whole life not daring to call her father.
But this place was not like what he had imagined.
It was clean. It was tall. It had security. Had elevators. Had ornamental plants. Had glass windows reflecting the evening clouds.
A person living here, at least, could not have been trampled down into the mud by life.
He had just stepped through the gate when the guard stopped him.
“Who are you looking for, sir?”
The old man was a little flustered and pulled the paper from his pocket.
“I’m looking for Van. Here, this is the address. This apartment.”
The guard took the paper and looked, then looked the old man from head to toe. The look was not exactly contempt, but enough to make Old Tu feel he was standing in the wrong place.
“Please wait a bit. We’ll call the family member down to receive you.”
“Yeah, yeah.”
The old man stood to one side.
The afternoon sun slanted through the gate, casting his shadow long over the clean shiny tiles. He suddenly saw that his two hands were too rough. Ugly nails, knuckles bulging, wrinkled skin. An old man like him standing here, if no acquaintance came down to receive him, was probably only someone lost.
A while later, the glass door inside opened.
A man stepped down.
He was around his early forties, a little thin, wearing glasses, hair cut neatly, a simple T-shirt and house pants. His face was gentle, even a little tired. Not like anything Old Tu had once imagined about his son-in-law. He had once thought Van’s husband must be the kind of bloated man, red-faced from liquor, loud voice, big belly, gold ring on his hand, or at least with something fierce about him.
But this man was not.
No liquor or gambling showed on his face. No overbearing air of a man used to ordering people around. He looked more like an office worker who had lost sleep than someone who could torment anyone.
The man looked at Old Tu for a few seconds, then his eyes widened.
“Oh ... Dad?”
Old Tu stood still.
“Dad Tu, is it really you?”
The old man swallowed dryly.
“It’s me.”
The man immediately stepped closer, both hands a little awkward.
“My God, it really is Dad Tu. I ... I’m sorry, Dad. I haven’t gone back to Nghe An to visit you in so long, and made you come all the way up here by yourself like this.”
Old Tu looked at him.
“Hard to get in here, huh.”
Tung smiled gently.
“Yes, that’s the rule now. Strangers have to have a resident come down to receive them. Please understand, Dad.”
Hearing the way they addressed each other, the guard nodded and let them pass. Tung turned and said a few words, then led Old Tu inside.
The elevator smelled of floor cleaner and someone’s perfume from just now. Old Tu stood inside, looking at the red numbers jumping floor by floor. Tung stood beside him, glancing at him from time to time, as if still not believing the person before him was real.
“Why didn’t you call us before coming up, Dad?”
“I don’t have the number.”
“Yes ... that’s true.”
A small silence fell between the two of them.
Then Tung said:
“Are you healthy, Dad?”
“Still alive.”
Tung smiled sadly.
“Then that’s good.”
The elevator doors opened.
Tung led the old man through a clean corridor, yellow lights, apartment doors shut silent. At an apartment at the end of the row, he entered the passcode and opened the door.
“Come in, Dad.”
The apartment inside was quite spacious. One glance showed it had once been cared for. Wooden floor, large sofa, shoe cabinet, paintings on the wall, several expensive decorative pieces. But it was not new. It was not as tidy as Old Tu had imagined either. A few shirts were draped across the sofa. On the dining table was a half-drunk coffee glass. In the corner were children’s toys. A vacuum cleaner lay beside an outlet, its cord not wound back. The curtains were a little crooked. The wall had a few stained patches, as if it had not been repaired in a long time.
A house that could be lived in, had money, but had no hand that truly wanted to keep it orderly.
Tung smiled awkwardly.
“Please understand, Dad. I haven’t cleaned much lately.”
Old Tu did not care about that.
He stood in the middle of the living room, his eyes sweeping around once.
“Where’s Van?”
“My wife is probably at the gym and hasn’t come back yet.”
“Gym?”
“Yes.”
Old Tu sat down on the sofa. The soft cushion made him sink slightly, and he was not used to it.
“She lives well, huh.”
Tung smiled.
“Yes, it’s all right.”
Only the two words “all right,” but in his voice there was something thin and old, like a sheet of paper folded over and over many times.
Old Tu did not notice. Or he noticed but did not want to.
His heart at that moment had lightened a great deal. Van was not in a rat-hole house. Not being beaten by her husband in front of him. Not pale and sick. Not holding a child and hiding from debt. She lived in a high-end apartment, had a gentle husband, had a child, even went to the gym.
Then it was good.
Better than anything he had ever dared hope.
Tung took the chance to clean up the shirts on the sofa, gather the glasses on the table, arrange the toys. He was a little clumsy, but looked used to it. As he cleaned, he talked.
“When Dad was sick, my family also had things happen. My mother got sick.”
“What sickness?”
“Rectal cancer. It dragged on almost a year, then she passed.”
Old Tu looked up.
“Is that so?”
“Yes.”
Tung carried several glasses into the kitchen. The sound of running water rang for a while, then stopped.
“Back then everything was a mess. My mother had a pork stall in the market. Worked her whole life and only gathered a little property. After she died, the stall was abandoned too. The property was divided in half. Me and Van got one half, my father got one half. After that we bought this apartment and came here to live with the kid. My father lives somewhere else.”
“Is your father still alive?”
“Yes.”
“Living well?”
Tung wiped his hands and stepped out. He smiled, but that smile carried a little helplessness.
“To be honest, my father was very handsome when he was young. Maybe that was why my mother married him. But he doesn’t know how to do business. Doesn’t know how to keep money either. I hear that in the past ten years of fooling around, he has spent almost all of it.”
Old Tu sighed.
“A man who doesn’t know how to keep himself makes the whole family suffer.”
“Yes.” Tung nodded. “Now he wants to move back in with me.”
“What are you planning?”
“I don’t know yet.”
Tung sat down in the chair across from Old Tu. He took off his glasses and used the hem of his shirt to wipe the lenses even though they were not dirty.
Old Tu looked at him more carefully.
“And you? How’s work?”
Tung put the glasses back on.
“Yes ... passable.”
“What does passable mean?”
“It has ups and downs. Business is business, Dad.”
Old Tu nodded. He did not understand city people’s business. To him, if there was a house like this, a car, a child going to school, a wife going to the gym, then that meant doing well. As for how well was made, he did not know.
Right then, the sound of a key came from outside the door.
The lock turned with a small sound.
The door opened.
A woman stepped in, taking off her mask as she said:
“Have you gone to pick up our son yet? It’s already four-thirty.”
Tung turned back.
“I’m going now.”
The woman bent down to remove her shoes, her movements quick and familiar. She wore a fitted workout outfit, with a thin jacket outside. Her hair was tied high. The smell of perfume and the smell of a body after exercise mixed together, sweet and sharp, spreading very quickly through the living room.
Tung smiled.
“Ah, we have an honored guest today.”
“Who?”
“Look.”
Only then did the woman lift her head and look toward the sofa.
Old Tu was sitting there.
The two of them looked at each other.
In that moment, he seemed frozen.
The woman standing at the door was not the Van he remembered. His daughter in the old days had dark sunburned skin, was a little fat, square chin, broad nose, looked exactly like him. And the woman before him now had a sharp V-line face, large double-lidded eyes, a high straight nose, smooth rosy white skin.
Her body stunned him even more. Her round full tits pushed clearly under the tight white crop top. Her waist was narrow to the point of being hard to believe, hips wide, ass round and lifted in a seductive curve. The tight gym outfit made the lines of her body show plainly.
Old Tu stiffened.
This was not Van. Could not be Van.
But that woman looked at him, eyes widening, then cried out with emotion:
“Dad...!”
She rushed over, ran straight into Old Tu’s arms, and hugged him tight.
“Dad! My God, Dad ... why did you come up without telling me first?”
Van hugged him tightly, her body soft, fragrant with perfume mixed with sweat after the gym. Her full tits pressed hard against his chest. Old Tu sat stiff as wood, both hands raised, not knowing where to put them. His cock suddenly grew violently hard in his pants, and he had to press his thighs tight together so it would not stab straight up against Van’s belly.
He was afraid.
Terribly afraid.
The smell of her fair, soft, warm flesh made him shiver. This was his own daughter, so why did his body betray him to this degree?
Van still hugged him, tears falling, her voice trembling with both joy and hurt:
“The day my mother-in-law died, I was in such a mess, Dad ... After that I heard that you had died too, so I didn’t dare go back to the hometown. I even made an altar for you over in that corner ... I thought you were gone...”
Old Tu could not say anything. He was meeting a ghost.
He looked closely at the face pressed near him. Even though she called him “Dad,” even though the tears were real, even though the voice still carried a little familiar Nghe An sound, this woman was completely unlike the Van he remembered.
Old Tu swallowed, his voice hoarse:
“You ... you’re really Van? Why ... why don’t you look like me at all?”
Van let go of him a little, wiped her tears, then smiled. That smile was very pretty, very modern, very different from the gummy smile of the girl back then.
“I had it fixed, Dad.”
Old Tu stared blankly:
“Fixed ... fixed what?”
“I redid my face and body, Dad. Nose, eyes, chin, waist, chest ... I did all of it. Do you think it’s pretty?”
Old Tu looked at his daughter, mouth open for a while before he could speak:
“Yeah ... yeah ... well ... pretty.”
Van smiled brighter, both hands still gripping his hands. She did not know that right now Old Tu’s cock was hard to the point of pain, and he had to press his trembling thighs together to keep it from rising obviously in front of his daughter.
Right then, Tung stood up and smiled gently:
“Dad, stay and talk with her. I’ll go pick up the kid and come back. You two haven’t met in so long, you must have a lot to say.”
Tung took the car keys, put on his shoes, then turned back to add:
“Dad, stay and have dinner with us tonight.”
The door closed.
In the large apartment, only Old Tu and Van remained.
Van still sat close beside him, both hands holding his, eyes bright with tears. She smelled wonderful, soft, and beautiful in a strange way.
Old Tu sat still, his back trembling slightly. In his head at that moment, only one sentence kept repeating:
This is my daughter ... This is my daughter...
But the cock in his pants was still stiff, burning hot, refusing to listen.
Old Tu stayed at Van’s house for several days.
At first he had intended only to stop by and look at his daughter a little, know she was still alive, know she was not miserable, then go back. But Van begged him. Tung also begged. The grandson kept running around the living room, asking whether Grandpa would stay overnight, whether people in the countryside could catch snakes, whether he knew how to play games, whether he had ever fought anyone.
Old Tu looked at the boy for a long while.
He was ten years old. Small body, quick arms and legs, bright eyes, mouth talking nonstop. He talked about games, about monsters, about battles on the phone, about a classmate punished by the teacher, about how he had once almost won some ranked match that Old Tu did not understand at all.
The old man only knew how to say “yeah,” “is that so,” “that fierce,” “then what happened?”
But he still sat and listened.
Because on the boy’s face there were a few features that looked like him. The forehead, the chin, especially when he frowned in thought. A proper grandson. His blood. A branch growing out in the place where he had thought the roots of his family had all rotted away.
The boy loved to play and did not need Old Tu to take care of him much. After school he threw down his schoolbag, opened his tablet, and played while talking. Sometimes Van scolded him, and he went quiet for a few minutes, then started talking again. Old Tu did not know the things he talked about, but hearing his voice in the house made the old man happy.
A very strange kind of happiness.
Not noisy. Not enough to make him laugh loudly. Only like a small coal still red under the ash, smoldering and warming an old person’s hands.
During the day, Tung went to work.
Old Tu asked Van:
“What does Tung do now?”
Van was standing in the kitchen, cutting fruit. She wore soft house clothes, hair clipped high, a bright bracelet around her wrist. Hearing him ask, she paused slightly, then smiled.
“I don’t really know either, Dad.”
“How don’t you know?”
“He does a lot of things. Investments, companies, projects, something like that. I hear it and don’t understand.”
“Husband and wife, but you don’t know what your husband does?”
Van put a piece of apple on the plate and smiled lightly.
“Every month he still gives me enough money. That’s enough. What else is needed, Dad?”
Old Tu fell silent.
That sentence sounded very normal. In fact, from one angle, it even made sense. Men earned money, women handled the house and children. Money enough, house enough, child educated enough, then why ask so much?
But Old Tu still felt something was not right.
Not right because Van said that sentence too lightly. As if Tung was not her husband, but a money-transfer machine placed somewhere out in life. Each month it issued money. As for what ran inside it, how worn it was, what parts were broken, she did not need to know.
Van stayed home with him. She cooked, cut fruit, made drinks, ordered food. She also talked cheerfully, asked how he lived down there, whether he was healthy, whether his back still hurt, how the people in the house were. But every question she asked was like someone skimming a hand across the water. Touching, then drifting away. No sentence sank down deep.
Around noon or afternoon, she changed clothes to go exercise.
Sometimes she went for one hour. Sometimes two or three. Some days she said gym, some days spa, some days meeting friends. Old Tu did not ask much. He was a guest in this house, even if in name he was her father.
At those times, the old man stayed home alone.
The apartment was spacious, quiet, the air conditioner running steadily. From the balcony looking down, the city looked like a board full of small squares. Vehicles moved along the roads, pedestrians tiny as dust. The old man sat on the sofa, listening to the wall clock, the air conditioner, the elevator outside the corridor, then asked himself:
Is modern life like this?
The wife does not know what the husband does. The husband goes to work all day, comes home and still smiles. The child studies at a good school, talks more about games than about his parents. The house has money, but is messy. People live together in one apartment, but each person has a separate world locked by a password.
In the countryside, poverty meant suffering from hunger.
Here, with enough of everything, there was still another kind of suffering.
A cleaner kind of suffering, more fragrant, harder to name.
One time, Old Tu saw Van sitting at the dining table texting someone. She lowered her head, the corner of her mouth curving up. Not a polite smile, and not a smile for her husband or child either. It was the kind of smile a woman had when she felt she was still desired.
The old man saw it, but pretended not to.
Another time, Van’s phone rang. She looked at the screen, paused slightly, then took the phone near the balcony. Her voice lowered, much softer.
“Wait a bit. Big Sister is coming soon.”
After saying that, she turned back in, her face normal as if nothing had happened.
“Dad, I’m going to exercise a little. If you need anything, just turn on the TV.”
Old Tu nodded.
“Yeah.”
The door closed.
Van’s perfume remained in the room for a long while before fading.
The old man sat still on the sofa, both hands on his knees. Inside him was a feeling that was very uncomfortable. Not exactly anger. Not exactly sadness either. It was like the feeling when a person sees a crack in someone else’s wall. You have no right to repair it, and no right to knock it down, but after seeing it, you can no longer pretend the wall is whole.
One afternoon, Old Tu invited Tung downstairs for coffee.
The shop was right at the foot of the apartment complex. The tables and chairs were clean, the air conditioner colder than necessary. People sat working on laptops, speaking softly on phones. Old Tu sat in a corner, both hands around a glass of black coffee, feeling as out of place as an old wooden chair set by mistake in a glass room.
Tung arrived later. He wore a dress shirt and slacks, his face still gentle and tired. He ordered a glass of bac xiu, then sat across from the old man.
“Did you want to talk to me about something, Dad?”
Old Tu looked at him for a while.
Tung did not urge him. He only sat still, both hands on the table, thumbs lightly rubbing against each other.
Old Tu coughed lightly.
“Dad wants to ask you something.”
“Yes.”
“Van is my daughter. But I’ll speak straight.”
Tung lifted his head.
Old Tu spoke slowly:
“I think it looks like she has a man outside.”
The air between the two of them stopped.
A staff member walked past, placed the wrong drink on the table beside them, then apologized. The coffee grinder sounded at the counter. Outside the glass, vehicles drifted through the afternoon sun.
Tung did not startle. Did not frown. Did not ask why Dad said that. He only looked at Old Tu, then smiled very softly.
That smile was what made Old Tu feel cold.
In that moment, he suddenly realized Tung’s eyes resembled someone.
Hoang.
Not in shape. But in the way those eyes did not reveal much emotion. The person facing them did not know what was being thought inside. Or maybe inside had already dried out so much there was nothing left to read.
Tung lowered his head and stirred the bac xiu.
“It’s not that I don’t know, Dad.”
Old Tu was silent.
“I’ve known for a long time.”
The small spoon touched the side of the glass, making a very soft clinking sound.
Old Tu looked at him.
“You’re not doing anything?”
Tung lifted his head.
“To get what, Dad?”
The old man could not answer.
Tung smiled once more. The smile was not bitter. Nor weak. It was only tired.
“That PT guy isn’t Van’s first.”
Old Tu tightened his hands around the coffee glass.
“I know all of it,” Tung said. “Have known for a long time. At first I was angry too. Jealous too. Thought I had to make a big deal of it. But then I thought, what do I get if I make it big? Divorce? Fighting? Letting my son know? Letting both families know? Letting neighbors, friends, my son’s school know?”
He stopped.
“If I make it big, this family will have nothing left, Dad. Everything will vanish.”
Old Tu lowered his head.
The coffee in the glass had cooled. On the black surface was a small ring of light reflected from the bulb on the ceiling.
“But living like that...” the old man said, his voice going hoarse. “Living like that, what kind of life is that?”
Tung looked out through the glass door.
“I used to ask that too.”
“Then how did you answer?”
“I couldn’t.”
He reached up to adjust his glasses.
“There are things when they’re still whole, you think they’re real. By the time you know they’re cracked, you can’t bear to smash them. Because after smashing them, you’re not sure you can build another one. And the person crushed under the ruins might be the child.”
Old Tu remembered the ten-year-old grandson. Remembered him playing games while talking nonstop. Remembered the forehead that looked like his, the quick mouth, the way he called “Grandpa” so naturally, as if there had never been decades of being lost between them.