Old Tu in Sai Gon
Copyright© 2026 by duhless_90
Chapter 27
Incest Sex Story: Chapter 27 - 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
That night, Mai closed the heavy company door and pulled the padlock down.
The dry clash of metal rang out in the empty alley. Ten at night. The city was still bright in places with money. The poor places had started to go dark, like an old person pulling a blanket up to the chest. The drink stall at the head of the alley had already put away its chairs. A few motorbikes leaned against the wall under dust. The streetlight spilled a muddy yellow light over the asphalt, making everything look as if it had been old for a long time.
Mai walked slowly toward the rental block.
Mai and Old Tu. To call it love, no. But there was pity. There was care.
She had cared for him. She had seen him cry like an old child forgotten in the middle of life. And from that pity, on some crooked night, everything had gone too far.
As for Hoang, she did not know clearly.
At first it was fear. Then caution. Then, without her knowing when, Hoang had tied a thread close to her. Not a thread that bound her tight. If it had bound her tight, Mai would have cut it already. It only lay across the space between them, thin but tough: the story of a beggar child, the orphanage, the business, the shipments, the support fund, dirty money placed beside clean bowls of rice for children.
That thread was close and far at once.
It gave Mai the feeling she could step toward it, but still left enough distance that she would not panic and back away.
So Mai was troubled.
She could not name what she felt. At this age, sometimes naming a thing was more dangerous than letting it lie still. Once it had a name, a person had to answer for it.
Mai turned into the small road leading back to the rental block.
Then she saw someone sitting against an electric pole.
At first she thought it was a drunk. In Saigon, drunk men lying outside were not rare. But when she got closer, she realized it was a very young man. About nineteen or twenty. Tall, skinny, clothes dirty. Not torn up on purpose like beggars who wanted passersby to see. No upturned hat. No condensed-milk can. No cardboard sign with a few lines asking for money.
He only sat there.
Like some object someone had set down wrong at the foot of the pole and forgotten to take away.
If it had been the old Mai, maybe she would have walked straight past.
She would have told herself a person lying outside at ten at night was either drunk, or a scammer, or someone with too many problems. And other people’s problems had nothing to do with her. Her rental block was tiring enough. Her life was cramped enough. No one could save all the people sitting under electric poles in this city.
The old Mai was like that.
Not exactly cruel. Just selfish in the very ordinary way many people are. She had thought she was miserable, so she had no strength left to think about anyone else. She used to listen to other people talk while only waiting for her turn to speak. When someone mentioned a sadness, she would pull out one of her own and set it beside theirs, as if she had to prove she had hurt too, maybe hurt even worse. When someone talked about school days, she would cut in with a story from her own school days, or the story of some far-off friend, as long as the story in the end turned back toward her.
That was a kind of self-love. A wish to be cared about that forgot other people’s feelings.
Mai had once not cared how tired Hung was from work. Had not cared how her husband’s family lived. Had not cared where the money in the house came from, how each dong had been held back. She only thought of her own family, her own savings, her own loss and gain.
Then trouble came, one thing after another.
Bit by bit, Mai understood: listening was not waiting for your turn to talk. Listening was trying to put yourself in the life of the person in front of you, even for a little while. Trying to stand in their hunger, their fear, their shame. Trying to look at the world from the place where they were sitting.
At the foot of an electric pole.
Filthy.
Hungry.
And not knowing where he would sleep tonight.
Mai had already walked two steps past.
Then she stopped.
For some reason, she thought of Hoang. A child who, if no one had pulled him back at the right time, might have died in some street corner with nobody remembering his name.
Mai turned back.
The young man was still sitting there, head lowered a little, as if he was used to people looking at him and then walking away.
Mai asked:
“Who are you? Why are you lying here? I’ve never seen you before.”
He slowly lifted his head.
Under the yellow light, his face was deathly pale, his eyes sunken, his lips dry and cracked. He smacked his mouth once, as if there was no saliva left in it.
“I lived near the hospital.”
His voice was hoarse and small.
“Slept outside. But then I caught someone else’s sickness. The people around there were afraid I’d infect them, so they chased me away. I asked for work, but nobody would take me. I’m too hungry.”
When Mai heard the word sickness, the back of her neck went cold.
She unconsciously stepped back half a step.
“What sickness?”
He saw the movement.
Something familiar passed through his eyes. Not hurt feelings. More like he had known this would happen. He lifted the hem of his shirt.
Across his belly, hips, and part of his chest were red sores. Skin had peeled off in patches. Some spots had dried into scabs. Some still seeped fluid. Under the streetlight, those marks looked ugly and pitiful, as if his body had started rotting by itself after being forgotten too long.
Mai grimaced.
He quickly let the shirt fall.
“Don’t be scared, Sister,” he said fast, but his voice was still weak. “Probably just ordinary skin infection. Because I haven’t bathed in a long time. I don’t have money for medicine.”
Mai looked at him.
“What’s your name?”
“Quoc.”
“Where is your family?”
Quoc was quiet for a moment.
“My mother died in the hospital half a month ago.”
Mai said nothing.
“My father died long ago. My brother died a long time ago too.”
He said those words very evenly. Not like he was begging for pity. More like reading back a list he knew by heart. Mother dead. Father dead. Brother dead. The people in his family set down one by one, dry and hard, like old things that could no longer be used.
Mai asked:
“You don’t have any relatives or acquaintances left?”
Quoc lowered his head.
After a while, he said:
“I have one sister.”
Mai waited.
He lifted his face and looked at her. In those drained eyes, a very thin light suddenly appeared.
“The prettiest sister.”
“Where is she?”
Quoc looked aside.
“I don’t know.”
The night wind blew past, stirring the hem of his dirty shirt.
“Maybe she’s dead too.”
Mai looked at him.
At that moment, she saw a tear in those eyes that had almost been drained of life. It did not fall right away. It only gathered there, very small and bright under the yellow light, like one drop of water left in a dry well.
Mai believed him.
Not because the story made sense. Sad stories on the street could all be made up. But there was something about Quoc that did not feel like acting. He did not know how to add details, how to pull his voice, how to choose sentences to make people pity him. He only sat there, hungry, dirty, covered in sores, and said his prettiest sister was probably dead.
Mai breathed out.
“All right.”
Quoc looked at her as if he did not understand.
Mai said:
“Do you want noodles?”
He blinked.
“Yes?”
“I’ll cook you a bowl of noodles. The rental block has a shared bathroom. Go in and wash first. Tomorrow I’ll take you to get checked. At least you have to live first.”
Quoc kept looking at her.
Maybe it had been a long time since anyone had spoken to him in normal sentences like that. Do you want noodles? Go bathe. Tomorrow go to the doctor. Very small sentences. But for someone who had slept outside many nights, they were like a door opening.
He bowed his head very low.
“Thank you, Sister.”
“Can you stand?”
“Yes.”
Mai stepped to one side.
“Follow me in. I’ll walk ahead.”
Quoc braced his hands on the cement and clumsily crawled up. He was tall, but so thin that when he stood, he looked like a pole being blown by the wind. His legs trembled slightly. He had to hold the electric pole for a while before he could step forward.
Mai did not support him.
Not because she hated him. Because she was still afraid of the sores on his body. She knew that fear was not pretty, but she did not pretend she was nobler than it.
She only slowed down.
Slow enough for Quoc to keep up.
The Saigon night behind them was still bright in patches. Places with money still had music playing, liquor pouring, people laughing. And in this small alley, a woman walked ahead and a hungry sick young man walked behind, a few steps apart, quietly heading toward the rental block.
From far away, they looked like two unrelated shadows.
But in truth, from that moment, one more very thin thread had been tied to the old house.
Mai opened the gate of the rental block.
The iron gate gave a small dry old cry. In the night, that sound was clearer than in the daytime, as if the whole yard had been sleeping and someone shook it by the shoulder. Mai stepped in first. Quoc followed, still keeping a few steps of distance.
Down in the yard, two workers renting room number three were still awake. They squatted beside a low plastic table, each holding a steaming bowl of instant noodles. On the cement near their feet were a kettle of boiling water, several torn seasoning packets, and a bottle of chili sauce almost empty. The two must have just finished overtime. Their hair was still sticky with sweat, company shirts not yet changed, eyes red from lack of sleep.
Seeing Mai, one looked up.
“Sister Mai.”
The other also smiled:
“You just got back, Sister?”
Mai nodded.
“Yeah. You two eating late?”
“Yes, overtime made us hungry. Eat, then sleep.”
Since Mai had taken care of the rental block, the tenants had slowly grown used to her. If anything happened, they called Sister Mai. Broken light, call Sister Mai. Weak water, call Sister Mai. Lost key, call Sister Mai. At the end of the month, if they were short of money, they also looked for Sister Mai and spoke quietly. She was not easy, but she was fair. Not too sweet, but she knew how to listen. In poor places, just having someone keep clear books and not bully anyone was enough for people to appreciate.
Mai pointed to the plastic chair in the corner of the yard and said to Quoc:
“Sit there and wait for me.”
Quoc nodded.
“Yes.”
He sat down very lightly, hands on his knees, body curled a little. The dirty clothes clung to his skinny body. Under the yard light, the grime on his face showed more clearly. The two workers looked at him for a while, their eyes curious but not malicious.
One asked:
“Hey, where’d you come from?”
Quoc looked at him, then gave a faint smile.
No answer.
The other slurped a mouthful of noodles and asked again:
“Friend of Sister Mai?”
Quoc only smiled.
“Or a new tenant?”
Quoc lowered his head, the corner of his mouth still holding that thin smile.
The two workers looked at each other.
“Huh, asking and he doesn’t answer?”
Quoc stayed silent.
He did not look arrogant. Nor did he look like he was pretending to be mute. Only like a person used to things getting more troublesome once he opened his mouth, so it was best to smile. A small patient smile, so other people would stop asking.
The two workers waited a few more seconds, then got bored.
They bent back over their noodles, eating and hissing because of the spice.
Mai went upstairs to her room.
She opened the wardrobe and rummaged for an old set of clothes. Her hand stopped at the lowest drawer. Hung’s clothes lay there, folded neatly from long ago. A dark T-shirt with a stretched neck, a pair of knee-length shorts faded at the knees. The cloth was old, but clean.
Mai picked them up.
For a moment, she stood still. She thought of Hung, and the man who had once loved her gently when they were young, not the Hung who sold his wife to seek status. Some people, when alive, make you tired. When they are gone, they leave behind a hollow space you do not know whether to hate or pity.
Mai no longer understood clearly what she felt toward Hung.
Guilt. Anger. Pity. Strangeness. A little something like regret, but she did not know who the regret was for. For Hung, for herself, or for that married life they once had but never managed to shape properly.
She breathed lightly and carried the clothes down to the yard.
The two workers were still eating noodles. Seeing Mai come back, one jerked his chin toward Quoc.
“Sister Mai, who is that?”
Mai looked at Quoc.
He was still sitting quietly in the yard corner, head lowered a little, as if afraid he was taking someone else’s space.
Mai smiled.
“He’s my little brother.”
The two workers’ eyes widened.
“What kind of brother looks like you just picked him up from the mud?”
Mai made a fierce face and lifted the clothes in her hand as if threatening to hit him.
“Mind your food. Or I’ll give you a smack right now.”
The two laughed.
“Yes, we’ll eat.”
“Sister Mai is scary.”
“If you know I’m scary, stop being nosy.”
The mood in the rental yard softened a little because of those jokes. Quoc lifted his head to look at them, then lowered it again. The smile on his face flashed past very quickly, almost too fast for anyone to catch.
Mai gave him the clothes.
“Go bathe in the bathroom over there. The light switch is outside the door. There are some soap packets inside. Tear one open and use it. Put your old clothes separate. Don’t throw them around.”
Quoc took them with both hands.
“Yes.”
Mai looked at him a little longer. He hugged Hung’s clothes to his chest, lowered his head, and walked toward the shared bathroom. He was tall but swayed as he walked, like a pole drifting in the night wind.
The two young men watched Quoc carry the clothes into the bathroom, then one turned and asked:
“Really your brother?”
The other laughed:
“Sister Mai, are you recruiting little brothers? Later I’ll come up to your room and be your little brother.”
Mai glared and raised a hand like she would hit him.
“You want to die?”
The two immediately ducked back down over their noodles, but their mouths still smiled.
Mai went into the kitchen.
Behind her, one of them quietly clicked his tongue.
“Damn, her body really is fine.”
The other lowered his voice and laughed dirty.
“Almost thirty already. That ass, slap it once and it’d feel good as hell.”
“Shut up. She hears you, she’ll beat your mother dead.”
“I’m saying it quiet.”
The two buried their heads in their noodles again, the slurping sounds rising in the late-night yard.
A while later, Quoc came out. The other two had gone upstairs.
He looked completely different. His hair was still wet, his face cleaner, his skin pale under the light. The sores were hidden under Hung’s loose shirt. But Quoc was taller than Hung, so the clothes became both loose and short. The shirt was baggy, but showed his navel. The shorts rode high, exposing two thin legs like dry sticks. Looking at him made a person pity him and want to laugh at the same time.
Mai carried out a bowl of noodles, saw him, and smiled faintly.
Quoc caught that smile and his face went red at once. He lowered his head, tugging at the hem of the shirt as if trying to hide his awkwardness.
Mai set the bowl of noodles on the table.
“Sit down and eat.”
Quoc sat.
The hot noodles steamed thickly. Mai had cooked two packets, adding a little vegetable, some leftover meat, and one egg. Quoc picked up the chopsticks and said softly:
“Thank you, Sister.”
“Eat.”
He started eating. At first he was slow, but after only a few mouthfuls he could not hold back anymore. He bent down, slurping, eating continuously as if afraid the bowl would vanish. The hot broth made his eyes redden. Sweat beaded on his forehead.
Mai sat across from him, chin propped on her hand, watching.
“Tastes all right?”
Quoc nodded, mouth still full of noodles.
“Yes.”
He ate a few more bites, then suddenly stopped.
Mai asked:
“What is it?”
Quoc looked at the bowl, his voice growing smaller:
“Since I was little ... you’re the person who has treated me best, second only to the prettiest sister.”
Mai was a little stunned, then nodded.
Quoc looked at her, seeming to think very seriously.
“Then ... can I call you second-prettiest sister?”
Mai burst out laughing.
“Only second?”
Quoc nodded honestly.
“Yes. Only second.”
Mai laughed a little more, then pointed at the bowl.
“Finish eating. There is an empty room upstairs. Tonight you can sleep there for now.”
Quoc froze.
He lifted his head and looked at Mai as if he did not believe he had heard right.
“I ... can sleep here, Sister?”
“What else? Kick you back outside after you eat?”
Quoc became flustered.
“I thought...”
Mai smiled lightly.
“If I kicked you out after feeding you, tomorrow I’d have to bring you in to bathe again, wouldn’t I?”
Quoc lowered his head, his words spilling out:
“Thank you, Sister. Thank you so much.”
“Enough thanking. Tomorrow I’ll ask the landlord. If he agrees, you can stay here. But don’t make trouble.”
Quoc nodded again and again.
“Yes. I won’t. I’ll do anything. Sweep the yard, wash dishes, move things ... anything.”
“Eat first.”
“Yes.”
Quoc bent over the bowl and kept eating.
This time he ate a little slower. But both his hands still held the bowl, as if afraid someone would change their mind and take it back.
.
.
.
The next morning, Old Tu woke because of noise outside in the yard.
It had been a long time since he had heard that sound. Not crying. Not fighting. Not people whispering after a death. It was the noise of living people: Vy talking fast, Mai answering, slippers dragging over tile, someone standing there hesitant as if not knowing whether he was allowed to be in the yard.
Old Tu lay on the bed a few more seconds.
Then he braced a hand and sat up.
His old back stabbed with pain. He rubbed his shoulder and stepped outside. Morning light slanted into the yard, making the usually gloomy rental block look a little less dead. In the middle of the yard, Vy stood beside Mai. Across from them was a boy around nineteen or twenty, skinny, gaunt, hair still a little damp, wearing Hung’s old clothes.
That set of clothes made Old Tu stop.
He recognized it at once.
Some things you think have been put away at the bottom of a wardrobe, but once someone wears them, the absent person appears again in the yard.
Old Tu frowned.
“Who is this boy?”
As soon as Vy saw him, she ran over and held his arm. Then she suddenly remembered that night. She quickly let go.
“Grandpa.”
“Sister Mai brought someone back.”
Old Tu looked at Vy, then at Mai.
“Who is he?”
Mai stood still, her face a little tired from not sleeping much last night, but her eyes calm.
“He’s a homeless kid.”
Old Tu looked the boy over from head to toe.
His look was not fierce, but it was heavy. Quoc stood still, arms hanging at his sides, head lowered a little. He was taller than Hung. Hung’s clothes hung loose on him, the shoulders slipping, the pants now almost shorts. His face was cleaner than last night, but the look of hunger, cold, and sickness still clung to his skin.
Mai continued:
“I saw that he was pitiful. He has nowhere to go. Father, can you let him stay at our place for a while?”
That word Father made Old Tu pause.
It had been a long time since Mai and he had spoken like that. After too many things had happened in the rental block, there was a quiet distance between them. No one was clearly angry at anyone, but each person had retreated into a corner of their own. Now, hearing Mai open her mouth with a voice that was not cold, not far away, Old Tu suddenly felt a little glad inside. Only a small gladness, like an old man long unused to being asked to decide something in the house that had nothing to do with death.
He cleared his throat.
“Yeah ... yeah.”
Then he looked at Quoc.
“You got any family left?”
Quoc lifted his head a little.
He answered almost exactly what he had told Mai last night.
“No, sir.”
“Young and healthy. You can probably work, huh? I’ll let you stay here for a few days, then you find work and take care of yourself.”
“Yes.”
Old Tu looked at the young man, then at Mai.
“Where do we put him?”
Mai said:
“Minh’s old room is still empty. Maybe we let him stay up there.”
The name Minh fell very softly into the yard.
But Quoc moved slightly.
Very small.
Only his eyelid twitched, and his hand tightened a little before loosening again. No one noticed. Vy was thinking about something else. Mai was looking at Old Tu. Old Tu was busy avoiding the stab in his chest when he heard the name of the son who had vanished.
Minh’s old room.
That room had been closed since the day Minh left. There was not much inside now. A bed, a table, a few odds and ends no one had bothered to clear out. But in Old Tu’s heart, it was not just an empty room. It was like a hollow still holding the smell of a person, a place where if he opened the door, he could still imagine his son lying with his back to the wall, silent as always.
He breathed out.
“That’ll do.”
Then he looked at Quoc.
“Stay there for now.”
Vy tugged Old Tu’s hand and tried to make her voice brighter:
“Grandpa, you’re letting a strange boy into the house. Aren’t you scared he’ll steal your granddaughter?”
Old Tu burst out laughing.
That laugh rang through the yard, a little hoarse, a little old, but real. It had been a long time since this rental block had heard Old Tu laugh like that.
“You’re too quick. Who could steal you?”
Vy pouted.
“Who knows.”
Vy glanced at Quoc.
Quoc still lowered his head, embarrassed, not knowing whether he should laugh. In the end he smiled very faintly. A thin young smile appeared on his gaunt face like a small ray of sun in the wrong place.
.
.
.
That afternoon, Mai took Quoc to the hospital.
The dermatology hospital was crowded. Everyone sat at a distance from everyone else, as if illness had its own borders too. Quoc sat beside Mai, hands on his knees, head low. Hung’s old clothes were still loose and short on him, making him look lost and pitiful among the other sick people.
The doctor looked at the sores on Quoc’s body, asked a few questions, then prescribed medicine.
“Bacterial skin infection. It can spread, but it isn’t too dangerous. Keep clean. Don’t share towels. Wash his clothes separately. Apply medicine regularly and it will improve. If anyone in the house catches it, use this same ointment.”
Mai breathed easier after hearing that.
So it was mild.
She took the prescription and brought Quoc to the counter to buy the medicine. Quoc stood beside her, sometimes glancing at the money Mai paid, his face so guilty it almost looked painful.
She looked at him and laughed softly.
Quoc looked at her.
“Why are you laughing, Sister?”
“Nothing.”
“Are you laughing at me?”
“Yeah. Laughing about your second-prettiest sister line.”
Quoc blushed a little.
“But it’s true.”
Mai looked at him, her eyes softening.
“Fine. Second-prettiest sister it is.”
Mentioning the words little brother always stirred something inside Mai.
Only a small ripple, but it lay very deep. Usually no one touched it. Even Mai rarely thought about it. But it was still there, like an old splinter in the flesh, no longer stabbing the way it did at first, but still making a person uncomfortable when accidentally touched.
When Mai was ten, her parents finally had a son.
Back then Mai was very happy. She remembered standing outside the delivery room, both hands gripping the edge of a chair, stretching her neck to look at the red little baby wrapped in a towel. He was tiny, eyes squeezed shut, mouth moving like a little fish. Mai felt her heart soften. She thought from now on she had a younger brother. A baby brother. Someone for her to hold, to play with, to show off to the neighborhood kids that her family had a baby too.
She had loved him a lot.
But in the house, the love of a ten-year-old girl was worth less than the fear of a mother who had just given birth to a son.
Mai held the baby a little crooked. Her mother snatched him away.
“What kind of holding is that? You want to drop him?”
Mai mixed bathwater a little warm. Her mother dipped a hand in and scolded:
“Why did you make the water so hot? You trying to hurt him or what?”
Mai fed him slowly. Her mother frowned.
“You can’t even feed him properly.”
At first, each sentence only made Mai afraid. Then it made her sad. Then, over time, it made her step back.
Meals in the house changed too. The best piece of meat went into her brother’s bowl. Fried egg was cut so the soft part went to him. Fish meant the middle piece. Hot soup was blown cool first. The whole house turned around his crying, his coughing, his laughter. Mai still sat there, still ate rice, still went to school, still slept in that house, but she began to feel she had been pushed to some edge of the table.
No one chased her away.
But she became extra.
Her younger brother grew up inside that priority. He was not cruel. A child served from the start thinks it is natural for other people to serve him. When he was thirsty, he lifted the cup.
“Get water.”
Mai had to get it.
When he wanted a toy, he called.
“Sister, find it for me.”
Mai had to find it.
He did not look at her as a sister. He looked at her as part of the house. Like the chair, the cup, the face towel, the light bulb. Always there, always supposed to work, always supposed to answer when he needed.
Mai had once loved her brother.
But her mother’s attitude had pushed that brother away from her. Love did not die at once. It dried little by little. Dried like a plant set in a dark corner, still with leaves every day, but unable to grow.
So Mai had never really had a younger brother in the true sense.
She had someone of the same blood. Had a child she had once held, once fed, once slept under the same roof with. But the feeling of being a sister, of loving someone smaller without being scolded, caring for him without being suspected, giving without feeling used, Mai had never had fully.
A woman, when all is said, also wants to love and take care of something. It is not always man-and-woman love. Not always lust, bedsheets, touches that make a person both need and fear. Sometimes a woman only needs someone to cook porridge for, buy medicine for, remind to bathe, wash towels separately, and then feel she is still useful in this life.
With Old Tu, Mai had once feared that kind of care would slide into another place. Feared dependence becoming desire. Feared pity being misunderstood by a man. Feared even she herself could not tell what was care, what was pity, what was some blurry feeling that could ruin everything.
But with Quoc, it was different.
Very quickly, almost naturally, Mai took him as her own little brother.
Mai put the medicine in the bag and said:
“Now eat properly and take care of yourself. When you’re a bit stronger, I’ll take you to find work. You’re young. You have hands and feet. You can work.”
Quoc lowered his head.
“Yes.”
“And stop thanking me all the time.”
He was quiet for a while, then still said very softly:
“Yes ... thank you, Sister.”
Mai looked at him and laughed.
“Stubborn.”
On the way back, Quoc sat behind Mai on the motorbike.