Old Tu in Sai Gon
Copyright© 2026 by duhless_90
Chapter 21
Incest Sex Story: Chapter 21 - 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
From the day Mr. Quan moved in, the apartment suddenly became cramped and horribly stifling.
Before, it had still felt roomy. The three bedrooms were divided clearly enough: the main room for Van and Tung, the boy’s room, and Tung’s workroom. Everyone had their own place, at least on the surface.
But when too many people, along with too much past, were stuffed into one tight space, the walls began to lose their use.
Tung was the one who arranged it.
“Dad Van will sleep with the boy. Dad Tu can sleep temporarily in Van’s room. As for me, I work late, so I’ll spread a mattress on the sofa or sleep in the workroom.”
Tung spoke very calmly, very logically:
“Dad Tu is old. I don’t feel safe letting him sleep alone in the living room. If it gets cold at night, if his back hurts, if he has trouble breathing or falls, Van can still take care of him. And Dad Van is playful, too fond of running around. If he sleeps with his grandson, he’ll have to keep some order, come home early, and not wander all night. The boy will be happy with his grandfather beside him too.”
Tung was always thorough like that.
So thorough that no one had a reason to object.
But that same thoroughness pushed Old Tu into a small hell.
He had to sleep in the same room as Van.
The room was thick with the smell of woman. Expensive perfume, skin cream, panties just washed, hair just shampooed, the smell of a woman used to living well. Van’s wardrobe took up almost a whole wall. Dresses, lace underwear, handbags, lipstick, powder, perfume bottles. Everything shiny, fragrant under the yellow light.
Old Tu lay on the mattress spread on the floor, covered with a thin blanket, eyes wide open at the ceiling. He could not sleep.
Not because the bed was strange.
Because of Van.
He knew clearly Van was his own daughter. But he could not see her as the daughter from long ago anymore. The daughter from long ago was dark, thin, flat-nosed, square-chinned, running barefoot in the yard. The woman sleeping only a few meters from him now was too beautiful, too sexy, too much a woman.
Every night, if Van merely turned over, if he heard her breathing, heard cloth rubbing against skin, or caught the scent from her body drifting over, Old Tu’s cock would harden in shame.
He was ashamed, frightened, and hungry at the same time.
One evening, Van was getting ready to go to a wedding.
She stepped out of the bathroom wearing an extremely slutty black dress. The dress clung tight as if painted on her body, split deep from the neck down to the navel, exposing almost half of her round white breasts and the deep cleft between them. Slim waist, high round ass, the skirt short as hell. If she bent even a little, her panties would show.
Old Tu was sitting at the edge of the mattress folding clothes. When he looked up and saw her, his mouth fell open, eyes bulging.
“What the fuck are you wearing? You’re almost naked!”
Van turned to look at him through the mirror and laughed.
“I’m going to a wedding, Dad.”
“Wedding, my ass! Your tits are all out, your cleavage goes down to your belly, and half your ass is showing too. You look no different from a whore.”
Van laughed even louder, her voice sweet and teasing.
“Dad, you’re old. You’re behind the times. People dress like this now. It’s fashion. You have to have a good body to dare wear it. Ugly people wear it and get cursed to death.”
Old Tu gave a hard grunt and turned his face away, but he still could not stop himself from glancing.
Van turned her back and waved a hand.
“Zip me up, Dad. I can’t reach.”
Old Tu stiffened.
“Do it yourself.”
“I can’t reach...”
Van’s voice was a little spoiled, a little drawn out, both innocent and somehow very dirty.
Old Tu had no choice but to stand and step behind his daughter. From behind, he saw everything clearly: the unzipped dress, the smooth bare white back, the thin black lace panties sunk deep into the crack of her ass, the lace edges barely covering a tiny bit of cunt flesh.
Old Tu swallowed. His two hands trembled as he pulled the zipper.
The smell of warm skin, perfume, and woman after a shower rushed straight into his nose. His old cock went rigid in his pants, hard enough to hurt.
While he was pulling the zipper, Van lightly moved her ass back. That firm, round ass rubbed hard once against Old Tu’s standing cock.
Both of them froze dead.
The air in the room suddenly thickened.
Old Tu’s voice was hoarse. He tried to hold himself in.
“You ... you’re not wearing a bra, child? Your whole back is bare like that...”
Van laughed softly, her voice syrupy.
“A bra would look ugly, Dad. I used nipple covers. Don’t worry.”
After saying that, Van deliberately shook her ass twice, rubbing two more times against his stiff cock. Old Tu nearly lost his soul. His face went red, both hands shaking badly.
Van turned her head and looked at him over her shoulder, her eyes both playful and dirty.
“Dad, you’re seventy-two this year, right ... and your cock is still this strong and hard...”
Old Tu was so ashamed he wanted to crawl into the ground. He lowered his head and did not dare look at his daughter.
Van giggled. She pulled one side of the dress down, exposing a whole white breast, the nipple covered by a thin silicone patch.
“See? I did cover the nipple. Don’t look at me with such a pitiful face, Dad...”
She fixed the dress, sprayed on more perfume, then shook her ass toward the door. Her walk had become habit, ass swaying hard, as if provoking every gaze from behind.
Out in the living room, Mr. Quan was also getting ready to go out. He watched Van from behind, his eyes darkening with hunger.
“This girl ... if I could fuck her doggy from behind, both hands squeezing that high ass, stuffing my cock into her cunt, it would feel good as fuck...” Mr. Quan thought, lightly licking his lips.
In the bedroom, Old Tu sat alone.
The door was still open a crack. Van’s perfume still hung in the air. He looked at the mattress on the floor, looked at the big mirror, looked at the bottles on the dressing table, then lowered his head.
He felt old and dirty.
But maybe what scared him most was not the filth inside his own heart.
It was that this home, the place he had just thought was “good now,” was actually holding too many quietly rotten things.
And everyone inside it, one way or another, was pretending not to smell the rot.
Van really was the kind of person Tung had once described.
She lived carefree.
Or more accurately, she lived carelessly in the way of people who had been spoiled too long. It was not that she did not know other people hurt. She had just never had to look long at that hurt. Whenever something unpleasant appeared, someone always cleaned it away before it could dirty her shoes.
Long ago, Van had once been a mud-on-her-feet country girl too.
Dark skin, rough hands, sunburned hair, standing inside poverty like a tree growing beside a ditch. She had once known the price of a kilo of rice, known meals of rice with fish sauce, known the shame of poor people when others looked through the clothes they wore. But those memories had moved very far away. So far that sometimes she thought it was not her life, but an old movie she had watched as a child.
Tung had taken her out of that life.
At first with love.
Then with money.
Then with habit.
Tung bought her the apartment, the car, clothes, cosmetics, gym membership, spa visits, the small changes and then larger ones done to her face and body. He did it with the simple faith of a man: if he gave the woman he loved the best things, she would be happy. And if she was happy, this home would be happy.
But money sometimes could not save a person.
It only changed what they hungered for.
From hunger for rice to hunger for eyes.
From hunger for clothes to hunger for praise.
From hunger to live decently to hunger to be desired.
Around Van now there were only pretty words.
So beautiful.
So young.
Your body is so hot.
No one would think you already had a child.
Your husband must guard you carefully.
If I had met you earlier, you’d be dead with me.
Those words made her shy at first. Then made her happy. Then became a familiar sound, like the air conditioner in the bedroom. Without hearing it, she felt something missing.
Sometimes, Van handed out her beauty to a few young men following her, the ones that suited her taste. She did not call it betrayal. She did not call it love either. To her, it was like a workout, a good meal, buying a new bag. A small reward for herself after days that were too even.
That night, Van went to the wedding with her friends.
She appeared in the sparkling black dress, split deep from neck to navel, clearly showing the deep cleft of her breasts and the two round full mounds. The dress hugged her slim waist and high ass, the bottom short as hell. The moment she stepped into the hall, she pulled every eye.
“My god, Van, you’re so beautiful.”
“What kind of body is that? Hot as hell.”
“Married with a kid and still like this. Who could stand it?”
“Tell us your secret.”
Van smiled.
She liked those sentences.
No need to pretend.
She liked the feeling of stepping into a room and making the room change temperature. Liked men’s eyes secretly stopping on her body. Liked other women praising her while quietly comparing themselves. Liked the thought that she had gone so far from that dark little girl years ago that no one could recognize her anymore.
During the party, when it was time for the little entertainment part, Van volunteered to sing.
She held the microphone and stood under the stage lights, lightly swaying her hips to the music. Her voice was not outstanding, but no one cared about her voice. They only looked at her body under the lights. Looked at the curve of her waist. Looked at the deep cleavage. Looked at her white thighs showing under the short skirt.
She sang an old love song, the kind everyone had heard but few remembered all the words to. Her eyes drifted down below. The tables, the glasses of liquor, the faces reddened by alcohol, the men in white shirts, the women laughing and talking, the bride and groom sitting beside each other in a tired happiness.
Some men’s eyes stayed on her longer than politeness allowed. Below the stage, plenty of men were hard inside their pants. Even the groom, the husband of her close friend, sat restless, his eyes stuck to Van, his hand clenched around his glass.
Van noticed.
She did not care whether any of those eyes belonged to her friend’s husband. At this age, she knew other people’s marriages were not much cleaner than hers. People only hid better, or had not been caught yet.
At about nine at night, the party ended.
Van walked out to the parking lot.
Night wind blew past, carrying the smell of food, perfume, cigarette smoke, and liquor still clinging to clothes. She sat in the car and shut the door. Inside the dark cabin, the noise of the restaurant was cut off at once. Only her breathing remained, and the light from the dashboard.
She could have gone home.
But the images from the wedding, men’s eyes, music, praises, all of it still clung to her skin like a layer of shining dust.
She felt hungry.
She did not know exactly for what.
Hungry to be looked at.
Hungry to be touched.
Hungry for someone to tell her she still made other people lose their calm.
Hungry to prove this body had not been turned by family life into a pretty object placed inside a glass cabinet.
Van took out her phone and texted the young personal trainer.
One short sentence.
“I’m near the gym. Meet for a bit?”
The reply came very fast.
“Come down to basement B2.”
Van drove to the commercial building where she usually worked out.
The parking basement at night was emptier than by day. White lights stretched in strips along the low ceiling. The sound of tires echoed coldly. She parked in the familiar corner, shut off the engine, and waited. In the rearview mirror, her face was still beautiful. Her lipstick had faded a little after the party, but it did not make her worse. On the contrary, it made her look a little more real.
A while later, the trainer appeared.
Young. Tall. Fit body. A T-shirt hugged his shoulders and chest. White smile, confident, a little bad. He opened the car door and sat in the passenger seat like someone who had done this many times.
“You look so beautiful.”
Van smiled.
“That’s all?”
He leaned toward her.
In the darkness of the parking basement, the two of them kissed.
The windows were shut tight. Outside, now and then, car lights swept past and vanished. Van closed her eyes and let the familiar feeling pull her away from the apartment, away from Tung, away from the child, away from the old father at home, away from everything that needed explaining. The kiss quickly became feverish. His hand slipped inside her dress, stroked her thigh, then went deeper, touching the panties already soaked through.
Van panted, her legs opening slightly, her voice whispering in her throat.
“You ... fuck me...”
They were kissing wildly, his hand already pulling Van’s panties down, when his phone rang loudly.
He glanced at the screen and frowned.
“Who is it?” Van asked.
“Boss.”
He answered.
Van sat still, watching the veins in his neck as he lowered his voice to explain. The person on the other end spoke very loudly. She could not hear the words clearly, but she heard the scolding tone. He said yes a few times, then hung up.
“Fuck,” he muttered.
“What?”
“I have to go up right now.”
“Now?”
“Yeah. I haven’t hit my numbers this month. Might get fired.”
Van exhaled.
She remembered that this month he had asked her for money. Not much compared with what she used to spend, but not little either. Normally, she only had to say one sentence to Tung and he would arrange it. Slow meant a day. Fast meant a few minutes. Tung was always like that. Sighed, stayed silent, then transferred.
But this time was different.
When Van said she wanted to buy two new jars of Chanel cream, Tung had stayed silent for a long time. Then he said:
“I don’t have money.”
A very strange sentence.
Very unpleasant.
Van had been angry at him for days.
Not because of money. Or she thought it was not because of money. She was angry because Tung broke a habit. An unspoken agreement between them. She needed, he gave. She wanted, he arranged. This life could operate because Tung always found a way to keep it operating.
This time he did not arrange it.
Van guessed something must be wrong, so she had to tell the trainer she could not help him this month.
The trainer opened the car door.
Van held his hand.
“Can’t you stay a little?”
He smiled, but this smile was not as soft as before.
“I can’t. A woman client is waiting.”
Van looked at him.
“Client?”
“Training client.”
The sentence was too light, too familiar. Both of them understood it might not only be a training client.
He bent down and kissed her quickly on the cheek.
“Don’t be mad. I’ll make it up tomorrow.”
“It’s always tomorrow.”
“Really.”
Then he left.
The car door closed.
Van sat alone in the basement.
She should have been angry at him. Angry because he left her halfway. Angry because he had other women. Angry because he needed her money but did not have enough patience to stay with her a few more minutes.
But strangely, she was not very angry at him.
He was young. Handsome. Strong. He had the kind of body that, every time Van saw it, made her feel younger too, more reckless, more alive. A person like that having a few women around him was understandable. She did not like it, but she understood.
The one she was angry at was Tung.
Tung was useless.
Could not even arrange a little money.
Van started the car.
The road home was emptier than when she had gone out. Her perfume still filled the car, but beneath it was a slow-burning irritation. She drove faster than usual. The city slid along both sides of the windows in long strips of light. She thought of the trainer, the unfinished kiss, his young hand, the feeling of being left there before she had time to be filled.
Then she thought of Tung.
His gentle face, his glasses, that sigh. His silence. The way he was becoming more and more like an old object in the house: still necessary, still there, but no longer making anyone want to touch it.
She felt uncomfortable.
And empty.
Van opened the door and stepped into the apartment.
In the living room there was only the pale blue light from the television. The volume was very low. On the screen, a host was smiling at someone on an old game show, but the laughter was squeezed through the bad speakers and sounded as if it came from another room.
Mr. Quan lay stretched out on the sofa.
One hand behind his head, the other holding the remote. He wore shorts, his upper body bare. Though almost sixty, his body still kept a few firm traces left from his youth. Not clean-handsome like those gym boys. Not young either. But he had the old style of a man who had once been used to women looking, who had once known he could make others soften with one look or one sentence in the right place.
Normally, Van would not care.
She hated Mr. Quan.
Hated the way he stepped into another person’s home as if it were his. Hated his half-joking, half-serious voice. Hated that old romantic air he still tried to keep. Most of all, she hated the memory from long ago, when she had first stepped into this family and he had looked at her with cold, indifferent eyes, almost contempt.
Back then she was ugly.
Dark. Thin. Country. Not worth a man like Mr. Quan looking at twice.
Van still remembered that look.
Some eyes do not need to say anything and still nail a person to one place for life.
But now it was different.
She was no longer that girl.
I’m not ugly, Van thought.
I’m beautiful.
The thought went through her very fast, like a small current of electricity. It was not gentle. It carried a little anger, a little wounded pride, a little hunger to be recognized. Tonight, she had just stepped out of a wedding where too many men’s eyes had stopped on her. She had just been left halfway in the parking basement, while the feeling inside her had not yet gone out. She had just been irritated by a young man, then made to miss him. And deeper than all of that, she was irritated at Tung. Irritated by his silence, his helpless look, that sentence “I don’t have money” breaking the order she was used to living in.
Van took off her shoes and set down her bag.
Mr. Quan turned his head to look at her.
His eyes passed over her very quickly, then stopped on her face. Not obvious. Not grabbing. But not indifferent either.
Van stepped into the living room.
“Dad, you’re not asleep yet?”
Mr. Quan curled his mouth in a smile.
“Old already. Don’t sleep much.”
“Where’s the boy?”
“Asleep.”
“Dad Tu?”
“Probably asleep too.”
Van glanced toward the bedroom hallway.
“And Tung?”
Mr. Quan lifted his chin toward the workroom.
“He’s meditating in there.”
Van frowned.
“Meditating?”
“Yeah. Sitting still in front of the computer. Don’t know if he’s working or staring into nothing.”
Van let out a dry laugh.
“Meditating all the time and still no money.”
The sentence dropped lightly into the living room, but it was enough to change the color of the air.
Mr. Quan, who had been lying down, suddenly pushed himself up.
He looked at Van.
This time, he did not look at her dress first. Did not look at the skin exposed under the light. Did not look at the things a clumsy man would look at right away.
He looked into her eyes.
And that was enough for him to understand.
Van was irritated.
Excited.
Left unfinished.
Needing somewhere to pour the hot and tangled feeling inside her, but not wanting to name it. She was not drunk. She was not out of control either. That was exactly why it was dangerous. A sober woman who still lets impulse stand close to her can step across a boundary more easily than a drunk one.
Mr. Quan recognized it with the instinct of an old woman hunter.
He had seen this kind of eyes many times in his life.
In women who had just fought with their husbands.
In young wives forgotten too long.
In people who thought they were looking for a glass of wine, but were really looking for someone to confirm they were still worth wanting.
Van turned and went into the kitchen.
She opened the refrigerator to find a bottle of water. The white light inside shone on her face, making her skin look even brighter. She bent down and searched among a few boxes of fruit, some water bottles, and a few leftovers. The tight black dress moved with her body.
Mr. Quan stood.
He walked toward the kitchen slowly, not making much sound. When he came close, he stopped behind her at a distance just far enough not to touch, but close enough for Van to feel his presence.
“Went to a wedding?”
Van did not turn around.
“Yeah.”
“Doesn’t look like you had fun.”
“It was normal.”
“Normal with that face?”
Van took the water bottle out and closed the fridge door.
She straightened, but did not turn around right away.
“You watch too closely, Dad.”
Mr. Quan laughed.
“I’m old. If I can’t do much, I can still watch.”
Van turned around.
The distance between them was closer than she thought.
Mr. Quan stood there, upper body bare, loose shorts, casual in a way that was almost provocative. Not the clumsy kind of showing off. It was the confidence of a man who had once known what his body could do, and though time had taken many things, it had not taken everything.
Van looked at him.
One beat.
Then another.
She remembered his eyes many years ago. Those eyes looking at her like she was an ordinary thing his son had accidentally brought home. She remembered the shame then, though he had not said anything. Remembered how she had once lowered her head, once seen herself as rough, dark, unworthy of that house, unworthy of those people.
Now he was looking at her differently.
Very differently.
That made a dark pleasure rise inside Van.
Not because she liked Mr. Quan.
Not exactly.
Because she liked the reversal.
Liked that the person who once looked down on her now had to look at her as a woman. Liked the feeling that she could make him lose his calm, or at least make him pretend to be calm.
Mr. Quan asked:
“Want to drink a little?”
Van looked at him.
In her eyes there was irritation, challenge, and emptiness that had not been filled.
“Drinking at this hour?”
“This is the hour to drink.”
“You’re not afraid of a headache tomorrow?”
“A headache is better than not sleeping.”
Van was quiet.
Outside the workroom, behind the half-closed door, Tung might still be sitting in front of the screen. Maybe he was looking at charts, accounts, or some meaningless blank space in his life. In the bedroom, Old Tu and the boy were asleep. The apartment was quiet, the air conditioner running steadily, the city lit outside the glass.
Everything still seemed normal.
That normal look was exactly what made Van want to break it a little.
She twisted the cap off the water bottle and took a sip.
Then she set the bottle down on the kitchen counter.
A small thought appeared in her head, sharp and almost childish.
Fine.
Let’s see who gets more uncomfortable.
The two of them drank a few glasses in silence.
The wine was not very good. A bottle left too long in the cabinet, probably bought by Tung for some occasion and then forgotten. But on nights like this, people did not drink because of taste. They drank because they needed something to run down the throat, to slow the thoughts crashing into one another in the head.
Van sat on the edge of the sofa, legs crossed, the wineglass loose in her hand. The black dress still glittered under the living room light. Everything on her seemed to be glowing: skin, hair, wrist, shoulder, lips pale from lipstick after a long night.
Mr. Quan sat opposite her, upper body bare, one hand holding a glass, the other resting on the arm of the chair. He was not in a hurry. He did not look at her crudely. That lack of hurry made the air between them heavier.
In the workroom, the door was still half-closed.
There was no sound from Tung.
The boy was asleep.
Old Tu was asleep too.
The whole apartment seemed cut off from the city, hanging in a thin patch of darkness, with only the faint sound of ice melting in a glass.
After a long while, Mr. Quan broke the silence.
“You’re still angry at me?”
Van lifted her eyes.
“Angry about what?”
Mr. Quan smiled.
“You are.”
“You think too much.”
“No. I remember.”
He set his glass down on the table slowly, like a man setting down a chess piece.
“Ever since that day you peeked at me making love, you’ve avoided me completely.”
Van’s face heated at once.
She turned away.
“No such thing.”
“There was.”
Mr. Quan’s voice was light, but certain.
Van tightened her hand around the wineglass.
“You’re talking nonsense.”
“Not nonsense.” He looked straight at her. “I understand your eyes.”
That sentence made Van uncomfortable.
Not because she was being accused. Because that memory really existed.
Many years before, when she was still the new daughter-in-law who had stepped into her husband’s home, country, dark, awkward in everything, there had been one time when she accidentally saw Mr. Quan with another woman. Not for long. Only a glimpse. A door not fully shut. A choked laugh. A piece of strange flesh under yellow light.
She had stood frozen.
Not because of morality.
Not exactly.
Because it was the first time she had seen a man become completely different when he was with a woman. Mr. Quan then was not like her father-in-law. Not like the man who sat at meals, spoke slowly, and smiled with relatives. He was like a beautiful animal, knowing exactly what he was doing and what the woman wanted.
After that, she avoided him.
She told herself it was because she despised him.
Because she was disgusted.
Because she pitied her mother-in-law.
But maybe it was not only that.
There are things people want to forget, and the more they want to forget, the more it proves those things once touched a very deep place.
Mr. Quan leaned back in his chair.
“You looked at me then like you were looking at something you shouldn’t. But you didn’t turn away right away either.”
Van set the glass down hard on the table.
“You’re drunk.”
“Not yet.”
“Stop talking.”
“Why not?” He laughed. “It’s old business.”
Mr. Quan looked at her, no longer hiding the sharpness in his eyes.
“Look at me. Back then I was handsome, had style. Now I’m old, but probably not too bad yet. There are plenty of women out there who want a man who knows how to pamper them, knows how to talk, knows how to make them feel they are still women. If we can help them, why not?”
Van gave a dry laugh.
“You call that helping?”
“Some people need money. Some people need to hear one decent sentence. Some people need to forget their husband for an hour. Some people need to know their body isn’t dead. Everyone needs something different.”
“And Mom?”
Mr. Quan was quiet for a few seconds.
Then he said:
“Your mother knew.”
Van looked at him.
“Knew?”
“Knew I was that kind of man.”
“And she accepted it?”
“She got angry. It wasn’t that she didn’t get angry.” Mr. Quan looked down into the glass. “But she understood one thing. As long as I still came home. As long as I still cared, still shared, still stayed in that house.”
Van said nothing.
Suddenly she found it funny.
A very male kind of reasoning. Hurt someone, then call your return a favor. Betray, then say as long as you stay, everything can still be forgiven.