Unexpected
by MicaMeesha
Copyright© 2026 by MicaMeesha
Incest Sex Story: What strange few days! First I had an unexpected visit from my dad; he stayed a while. Then from my brother, he also stayed, and then Mum came with an unexpected request. Goodness, it took my breath away.
Caution: This Incest Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa Consensual Lesbian Heterosexual Fiction Incest Mother Brother Father Daughter .
Work had been a drag; the afternoon just seemed to last forever, but eventually it was time to leave. Luckily Fridays were an early mid-afternoon finish, and the bus was not too crowded, and I had a seat to myself. The rain had eased a little but still put a real dampener on my walk home from the bus stop, my umbrella not doing much against the swirling rain that seemed more horizontal than vertical, and I realised that it was probably only one degree above being snow rather than rain. At least I now had three days off, not due back in until Tuesday; it was my four-day week. I had one every month, and this was it. The weather could do what it liked; I didn’t care. Not till Tuesday anyway.
I unlocked and flicked the heating up; I only left it on tick-over when I was out, just to keep the frost out. My coat went on the back of a chair in front of the radiator; it would soon dry and could be hung up properly in the cupboard under the stairs. For now, it needed to get warm and to be rewarded for keeping my clothes dry on my journey home. As I looked in the fridge to decide what I would eat, my doorbell bonged. Odd, who could that be? Did the God Botherers come out on cold rainy winter evenings? I wondered.
I peeped through the sight glass; oh, it was Dad.
I opened the door and ushered him inside.
“Hello, Dad, come in quick before the cold comes in too.” I shut the door behind him and realised he had a bag with him.
“What are you doing here, Dad? I wasn’t expecting you. Have you had a row with Mum?” I asked, pointing at his bag.
“Hello, baby, no, nothing like that. Your mum has gone to see Gran and Uncle Sven down in Worcester and will be gone till Tuesday or even Wednesday, so, rather than be on my own, I thought I would pop and see you. If you had plans, that’s okay; I can always go back home.”
“Don’t be silly; if I had plans, which I don’t, I would change them. I only have one bed, though.”
“That’s fine; I’ll kip on the sofa. I am not much of a sleeper anyway.”
Mum and Dad live on the other side of town, having downsized to a modern new estate after I left, me being the last of the children to fledge. Their house now was a very modern three-bed in a small estate. I didn’t go and visit often enough; I knew that, but I did usually FaceTime them once a week for an update and general keep in touch. I’m not sure whether my brothers did or not; I just know I did. Dad said his new house was so well insulated it probably cost less to heat than my smaller, older place. He was probably right, but I couldn’t do anything about my housing situation, not unless I won the lottery, and as I didn’t play the lottery, winning it was unlikely.
We hugged, as you do, and I asked him if he wanted a cup of tea. He nodded, and I put the kettle on and grabbed a couple of mugs off the mug tree on the work surface. Milk out of the fridge – luckily I had some, I usually bought filtered milk, it lasted ages, and I had been known to sit down in the evening with a glass of milk and curl up in front of Netflix.
I made the tea and gave a mug to Dad and went and sat on my sofa; Dad sat next to me.
“So”, he said, “anyone special?”
“Nah, not at the moment. I am in no rush to fill my life with someone that has needs and wants additional to my own. If I meet someone and that happens, then it does; if not, then it is no drama.”
“Oh, okay. You know I have been with your mum for nigh on thirty years, and I still love to fill her needs and wants.”
“As long as she cleans your underpants,” I laughed.
“Yeah, there is that. That washing machine is a mystery; there are so many options and then there are so many types of stuff to put in it, powder, liquid, sheets, bio, non-bio, colour catchers and so on and so on.”
“You forgot the fabric softener,” I added with a smile.
“Exactly, and all I want is clean underwear. It is unfathomable; it really is. Your mother does it without even a thought.”
“Maybe, but you are the same with your work; you understand metals and how they interact, what makes them harder, what makes them softer, what materials you would use for an engine and what you wouldn’t. I don’t, and I doubt Mom does either. It’s horses for courses, Dad, horses for courses.”
“I suppose, but at the end of the day I just want clean pants.”
“True, but I guess you could go commando and not wear undies.”
“Good grief.”
We sat and drank our tea and talked about how Gran was getting older, now into her seventies, and even though Uncle Sven lived locally to her, the questions of how much longer she could continue to live on her own were being asked.
“We are a long way away, Dad,” I said. “Worcester is what, a three or four hour drive.”
“Yes, it is, and that is if the traffic is okay.”
“What about you and Mum? I mean, you are not getting any younger either.”
“Well, thank you, Mica. Are you trying to get me and your mum into a home so that you can have your inheritance?”
“Ha ha, mind you, that is a thought; the money would be useful, perhaps I could buy a car.”
He dug me in the ribs and then turned the dig to a tickle. “Not any time soon, girl; dream on.”
I managed to stop the painful laugh that Dad’s tickle gave me and turned to Dad again. “I was being serious, Dad; you do need to think about your long-term plans, and for Mum too, as one of you will die before the other and you will need plans in place.”
“Maybe, but we have life insurance, and that is as far as I want to go with this morbid subject.”
“Okay, Dad, but you started it talking about Gran. Anyway, I am fine. As long as I have a job, I am fine.”
“And if you lose your job?”
“I shall come home and take it in turns with Mum to wash your pants.”
“Good God.”
“And on that cheery note, I don’t really have anything in for tea. I wasn’t expecting anyone, and I usually get something on a Saturday.”
“Let’s go to the Indian round the corner; we can eat in, my treat.”
“Okay, yes, that’ll be nice. I will need to shower and stuff. I will go up first, and then you can use the bathroom whilst I am in my bedroom.”
“That’s a plan then,” Dad said.
I got up and went upstairs to my bedroom. There is a second room upstairs, but it is small and full of my junk, and I have never set it out as a bedroom. I have plans to set it up as a sewing room and to make my own clothes, but I just never got around to it; it is just a room full of boxes of stuff. I never envisioned anyone ever staying, apart perhaps from a boyfriend, and so didn’t need to think about a bed in there. Now the unexpected arrival of Dad had made me rethink things. A guest room might be worth thinking about; it would only need a small single bed, and there would still be room for my sewing machine. Hhmm.
In my room, I stripped, threw my discarded clothes onto the chair and went across the landing to the bathroom and ran the shower. I had my shower on needle. I loved how the tiny jets of water almost stung as they hit, and oftentimes I would spray my groin and gasp as the jets hit my nubbin. Not today, not with Dad downstairs; there are some gasps Dads do not need to hear. I had only washed my hair two days ago, so the plastic shower cap covered the hair, and I just washed the rest of me, quite thoroughly, and then a massive rinse as I got rid of all the suds.
Dripping dry I stood on the bathmat and patted myself with the towel to get the drops that didn’t drip away. Satisfied I was dry I called down to Dad that the bathroom was free and went back to my bedroom to dress.
What to wear. I looked in my wardrobe and decided that the blue satin dress would be perfect, dug out my blue bra and suspender belt and rummaged through my drawers to find a matching pair of decent stockings. No matter who I am going out with and to where, I like to dress up. No knickers, though; can’t abide them.
I adjusted my boobs into the cups of the bra and then stepped into the suspender belt. I sat on the edge of the bed and unrolled my stocking up my legs. Trying to keep the seam straight at the back, I managed to clip the stockings up, and then when I stood up and looked in the mirror, they looked good; they would go well with the kitten-heel blue pumps I would wear. I looked at myself in the mirror; not bad, not bad at all. I have a nice flat stomach, no girly bulge, apart from my mound, of course, and that was very nicely shaped with the slit of my crease going vertically down and disappearing underneath, a small dimple at the top just above where my nubbin hid awaiting discovery.
My inner petals just peeped through, and although I have never really fancied women, I thought my fanny looked fabulous. Just no one else currently admiring it, a shame, but then at least I didn’t have the baggage to contend with. I heard Dad leaving the bathroom and going downstairs, just catching a glimpse of him in my mirror as he walked past in his underpants. I chided myself; I had someone else in the house, and there I was, leaving my bedroom door open as I dressed. Unthinking, what if Dad had looked in and seen me?
I took the dress off its hanger and stepped into it, doing the zip up on the side to secure everything, and then dug my blue kittens out from the bottom of the wardrobe. I looked at myself in the mirror and nodded approval; I looked good. Of course, if I had been going on a date, then I would have worn my black six-inch heels, but I still looked good, and I reckoned I could turn heads if I wanted to.
“Are you decent?” I called. “I am coming down.”
“Yes, baby, all decent and respectable,” he answered. I checked my room, worn clothes to one side on my chair and quilt pulled up over the bed. Yes, Dad could sleep in here. I didn’t plan on letting him have the sofa. No, I would sleep there; Dad would have my bed.
“My goodness,” Dad said as I came downstairs into the living room, “look at you; you look quite stunning. You remind me so much of your mum when she was your age.”
“Thank you, Dad, and you look good yourself.” He was wearing chinos, a roll-top sweater and a jacket. Very nineteen seventies, but still smart. He keeps himself trim, no large male belly on Dad, no, he worked out using the home gym he had in the garage, and I think Mum used it sometimes too.
“Is it still raining?” I asked. “Only I have a large umbrella somewhere.”
Dad opened the front door. “Yup, baby, it sure is.”
I looked around at the back of my clothes cupboard and found my large umbrella. It is a large golf umbrella that someone left on the bus, and I rescued it one rainy day. I don’t use it a lot; I prefer my collapsable handbag umbrella, but for tonight, for me and Dad, it would be perfect. I passed it to Dad, shut the cupboard and took my coat off the chair by the radiator and put it on. It is a large wrapover camel-coloured Vivian Westwood that I got for a steal of eBay, it keeps me dry and is quite stylish, and I love it.
Dad opened the front door and put up the umbrella. I grabbed my handbag and joined him under its protection as I closed and locked my front door. We walked out onto the road and then along the footpath, Dad on the roadside, ever the gentleman, and we made our way to the restaurant about fifteen minutes by foot.
At the restaurant, I opened the door and stepped inside. Dad shook and closed the umbrella and joined me inside. The greeter came across, “How may I help?” He asked in his slight Asian Yorkshire hybrid accent.
“Table for two, please,” Dad responded.
“Yes, yes,” the greeter replied, “Yes, I have a special table for you in the window, away from the door; you will find it most comfortable.”
He led the way to the corner of the restaurant to a table that was by the wall but also by the window; we would be secluded and away from the general hubbub and away from the draught of the front door every time it opened.
“May I take your coat, Madam?” The greeter asked, and I nodded and slipped it off my shoulders and passed it to him. He took our umbrella too and disappeared off through a two-way swing door.
I looked at the menu and decided I would have a lamb Rogan Josh. Dad was having a chicken Vindaloo, and we would have a sharing patter of starters. Dad ordered a bottle of white house to go with and a jug of water.
“So then, boyfriend, girlfriend, really, nothing even on the horizon with a telescope?”
“No, Dad,” I laughed, “not even with the Hubble telescope. I am just not looking.”
“What would you prefer, boy or girl?”
“I only have experience of boys, Dad, so probably I would lean that way, but I am not ruling anything in or out. If it happens, it will be whatever it will be.”
“How long since your last boyfriend?”
“Oh, I don’t know; it was Matthew, probably about nine months, something like that; it was around Easter that we split.”
“God, I couldn’t go that long without intimacy. Jeez, I mean, I would go mad.”
“Well, luckily you are married; all you have to do is not piss Mum off and you are golden. Me? I have to make do with my lucky rabbit, and that is it until Mr or Mrs Right happens along.”
At that point the server arrived with our starters, poppadums and pickles, and I have to say that the lamb chops looked fab as they sat with the other sides on the sizzling platter. Glistening with their coating and well cooked as they should be in an Indian restaurant. I grabbed one straight away; Dad took a seekh kebab and dropped it on his plate.
“Hot,” he gasped.
Well yes, good, they have just been cooked; they should be hot. Like all lamb chops served at an Indian, they were very well cooked, all the fat was crispy and they had that masala taste. Really good. We sat munching through our starters, taking one of everything each. The kebab was nice, but for me the lamb chop was best. I wasn’t so keen on the masala fish bites, but they were, I guess, okay.
“Lucky Rabbit?” Dad asked when we had finished our sharing platter.
“Yes, you know?”
“No, I actually have no clue what you are on about.”
“Oh Dad, I am sure Mum probably has one, you know, a vibrator. They sell them in Tesco these days.”
“A what?”
“Oh, Dad. A vibrator, usually about the size of a carrot, it vibrates and stimulates you; you can just use it on the outside, or you can insert it, and it vibrates.”
“Good God. I have never heard of such a thing; in my day girls just made use of their fingers.”
“Progress, Dad, a vibrator is much, much better. I would be very surprised if Mum didn’t have one. Probably a good idea not to ask her or go looking; we girls do need some secrets.”
Dad gave me one of those looks that Dads sometimes give, and I think he was about to say something, but our table was cleared, and then our mains arrived. I was looking forward to my Rogan Josh, and Dad’s Vindaloo was positively glistening with the spice on it. A bowl of plain rice and another of pilau arrived, and a second bottle of wine; we seemed to have finished the first one without noticing.
I took a piece of my lamb and tasted it. Perfect, spicy enough to wake my mouth up, but not so hot as to kill my taste buds. I could never do a Vindaloo; a Madras was as hot as I would go. I portioned some rice onto my plate and added some of my Rogan Josh and dug in. Dad did the same with his and took a mouthful and gasped.
“Shit, they do their vindaloo hotter than at my local Indian,” he said as he poured a glass of wine down his throat.
“Ask them for some yoghurt, Dad; that’ll cool it down a bit spice wise.”
Dad waved his hand and called the waiter over.
“I am so sorry; this is hotter than I am used to. Can I have some yoghurt to calm it down a bit?”
“Yes, sir, of course, sir, please wait one minute.” He picked up Dad’s vindaloo and took it back to the kitchen and was gone a few minutes before returning.
“Here, sir, try this; it is a little cooler for you. I am sorry, we make all our curries to the traditional methods, and this may be different from what you are used to. Please try again.”
“Thank you,” Dad said and took another piece of chicken. “Ah, yes, that is much better, thank you.”
“No worries, sir,” and the waiter was gone, leaving Dad to his calmer, cooler ‘not quite’ Vindaloo.
I was enjoying my Rogan and was scooping up the sauce with my paratha; Dad was now eating his with only a slight grimace across his face. I was doing my best not to smile; no way I would ever go for anything that was rated three chillies, way too hot for my Western palate. All too soon we finished, and we declined a dessert, the shared starters and the curries and rice, along with two bottles of wine, and various poppadums and parathas and naans had been more than enough for us.
Dad settled the bill, and my coat and umbrella were returned, the waiter holding my coat as I slipped my arms in and did it up. It had stopped raining a while ago, and so we kept the umbrella down and walked back arm in arm, a little unsteadily, it must be said. We were probably about halfway home when the heavens suddenly opened. We were right next to Wharf Passage, a narrow entry that goes from the road down to the river Aire. I hate going down there in the dark; the sound of the river scares me, but Dad grabbed my arm and bundled me into the passage before we both got soaked.
I was shivering, not with cold, but with the sound of the water at the end of a dark and unlit passage. I think Dad realised and he put his arms around me and hugged me to him. I relaxed into his arms and then leant back a little and undid my coat, wrapping around us both before Dad pulled me back close. Cars went past on the street, but there were no pedestrians, and no one was likely to come down the passage; the wharf by the river was closed in the evenings.
As Dad pulled me in, I felt his dick stir in his trousers. Oh, Dad, really? It did excite me a little; perhaps it was the wine or the fear of the water, I don’t know, but I found myself aroused at having seemingly turned my dad on. I shouldn’t really, but it seemed I had. His dick lurched and pressed against my stomach. Dad’s hands went down and gripped my buttocks, my dress riding up and Dad’s hands against the naked flesh of my bottom.
I think as Dad realised he was holding bare skin, his dick lurched even more, and he bent down, his lips brushed against mine, I responded, wiping my tongue across his mouth as his hands slipped deep between my buttocks, widening me, parting my legs, my fanny ablaze with arousal, my mind in a turmoil. Dad’s tongue pressed against mine, and as he found the inside of my mouth, he gasped, and his dick twitched once more.
I pressed my hand against his fly and felt his hard bulge. I used no words, but I undid his zip and then the button at this waist, pulling his trousers open, and I reached inside his underpants and found his dick, hard, throbbing and twitching in my hand. It was a good size; I could tell that even without seeing it. I rolled his foreskin down over his shaft and rubbed my thumb over his glans, Dad’s legs sagging and gasps echoing down the passageway.
Dad picked me up and pressed me against the wall and then slid me back down, his dick in my valley and then inside me. I gasped, I sighed, and Dad began lifting me up and down on his dick, shagging me in the darkness of a quiet alleyway off the High Street. My thoughts were gone, I knew it was wrong, but I didn’t care, I needed this, and I hadn’t realised it.
I put my hand on Dad’s face and spoke quietly.
“Dad, stop. Let’s go home where it is warm and comfortable and we can do this properly.” Dad lifted me up; I felt regret as my fanny emptied, his dick voiding me, leaving me open to the cold weather.
I closed my coat, Dad poked the umbrella out of the passageway and opened it, and we both hugged under its protection before hurrying home, hurrying with a new purpose. The key wouldn’t go in the lock, but eventually I calmed my hand, and the door was unlocked. Dad put the umbrella down and followed me in. I took my coat off, and Dad took off his jacket; his zip was still undone, but he had redone his button to stop his trousers from falling down.
“Come on,” I said, slipping my pumps off, as Dad kicked off his shoes, and we went up to my bedroom. I put on a small sidelight at the side of my bed and undid the zip at the side of my dress, stepping out of it and putting it on my chair. With my hands behind my back, I undid and shrugged off my bra, my DD bust now free and staring at Dad. I leant down to undo my stockings.
“No baby, leave them,” Dad said as he pulled down his underpants and stood naked. In front of me, his dick jutting forward, ready for my ministrations. I pulled the quilt back and got onto the bed, Dad joining me and rolling over to kiss me, his dick pressing into my hip as we embraced.
I gave no thought to the fact that my lover to be was my dad; I just wanted, no, needed, this, and it was going to happen. I leant down and found his dick, rolling his foreskin back to reveal his glans. I opened my mouth and took him inside, my tongue working his glans, pushing at the little hole at the end, my other hand massaging his balls. Dad was gasping as I worked his dick in my throat. He was long and a little too wide to go down my throat, but that was okay; I shagged him with my mouth anyway.
Dad pushed me away and onto my back, and he straddled my chest, his balls momentarily dangling onto my boobs, and then he dipped forward, and his tongue slipped between my petals, hot on my valley floor, his fingers teasing my outer petals apart and then circling my entrance, pressing into my opening. Teeth nibbled my nubbin, and I gasped loudly, my breath held in my throat, and my back arched as my arousal overtook me.
My electrics exploded throughout my body. I had never orgasmed so quickly in my life, and I screamed my release into the crack of his arse, panting, jerking, twitching, almost convulsing as I collapsed back on the bed a soaking mess.
Dad turned around and kissed me, his lips covered with the wetness of my arousal, sliding across mine, his tongue giving me a taste of my own juices. He covered me, and his dick once more found my valley. I reached down and guided him to my entrance and pushed up slightly, Dad pushing back and penetrating me with ease.
His dick slipped in, his foreskin sliding inside me, the rim of his glans sliding across all my small internal bumps and ripples, each one raising my arousal, each one causing me to gasp or sigh, my hands on his back, digging into his shoulder blades, my legs wide apart, my hips as open as I could make them.
Dad bottomed out inside me, his dick pressing hard at my depth; my fanny was opened as wide as ever, me clamping, squeezing his dick as he filled me. He began to move, easing back a little, and then pushing in, me hating the emptiness as he left, loving the slap against the fleshy bulge of my mons as he pushed back in, causing me to gasp, my breath lost somewhere in my chest.
I wrapped my stocking-clad legs around his buttocks, pushing back as he pulled back, slap, slap in the room as my gasps echoed them, the sound of shagging.
“God, I love a woman in stockings,” he gasped as he thrust once more inside me. I was lost for words; my breath stuck somewhere between my starters and my main course. Faster Dad moved, harder he pressed, my body seemingly having forgotten what a good shag feels like, memories returning, memories of feelings and sensations, rather than people.
“I’m gunna cum,” Dad gasped and pushed inside me, pressing harder and deeper, and I felt his spurts as he filled my fanny and flooded my womb, my pressures overloading, my electrics splurging, my body overwhelmed once more as I gasped and screamed my orgasm and collapsed beneath Dad, my legs falling to the side, my hips painful, my hands sliding away from his shoulders as I lay gasping, having been shagged when I had not expected even a finger, never mind a hard dick.
Dad rolled me to his side, his arms around me, and pulled the quilt over us before turning off the side light. The room was plunged into darkness, and I fell asleep, not caring what the morning would bring.
It was another early Friday finish, and I was sitting on the bus watching the snow as it fell, settling on the paths, but the roads had been gritted by the council, so they were still slushy and snow-free. Off the bus the paths were treacherous, and it was a slow, very careful walk home. Once home I shook the snow from my Vivian Westwood coat and put it across a chair in front of the radiator to dry.
I couldn’t be bothered to even think about dinner yet and just flicked the kettle on to make a mug of tea; the door knocked. Looking through the spyhole, I could see it was Leo, my youngest brother, the youngest but still older than me; I was the actual youngest of the four siblings. I opened the door.
“Come on in, quick before you let all the heat out.” I said, almost dragging him inside.
“Hi Sis,” he said, “sorry to intrude unannounced.”
Intruding unannounced seemed to be the way forward at my house; last week it had been Dad because Mum had gone down to see Gran in Worcester.
“Not a problem, Bro. What’s up, or is this just a social?”
“I have split up with Sally; actually, she has split up with me and gone back to her parents.”
“Oh, okay, I don’t know what to say about that. How are you feeling?”
“Okay, we split because she wanted kids and I am not ready yet, so she said that was the end, packed her clothes and went. I couldn’t talk to Dmitri or Mik; they never liked Sally.”
Dmitri and Mik are my two other brothers, both married and, as far as I know, still in the early flushes of marital bliss.
“I guess she decided her biological clock was ticking too fast. Shame, for you I mean.”
“Well, I thought we were okay. I mean, we never argued; Mum always said never part on an argument, whether it is physical leaving or leaving by going to sleep, and I thought the easiest way to ensure that was simply not to argue. So I didn’t.”
God, I would find that annoying if I was with someone and they refused to argue with me. Sometimes you just have to clear the air, but well, I am not with anyone, so I have no one to argue with, except that blond in the bathroom mirror, and I always win against her.
“Okay, Leo, well, grab a seat. I am just making a mug of tea? D’ya want one?” “Please, just milk.”
I had to put a little more water in the kettle and reboil it; these days I try to only heat what would be used at the time. If I am home for the day, I often fill a thermos flask with hot water and use that to make tea, saving me from keeping reboiling the kettle.
I made two teas and sat on my sofa with Leo.
“So, what is next? Does she have any equity in the flat?”
“No, I had bought that before we got together, and she moved in. Anyway, the mortgage company owns nearly all of it, and it is only in my name. If she asks for anything, furniture-wise, I would probably let her have it, just for a quiet life.”
“It is sad, but that is a key thing for you guys to be at odds over, so, yeah, the split is probably for the best.”
“I know, but I didn’t want to be alone.”
“So Bro, ask yourself this: are you sad because you miss her, or because you are alone? The answer to that will pretty much tell you everything you need to know.”
“I know, you’re right, but I am still sad, you know.”
“Yeah, I know.”
“Do you want to go out and eat? Sharesies?”
So, he isn’t even going to buy his sister her tea; such a skinflint. “Yeah, there’s an Indian and a Chinese nearby. I did the Indian last week, so I would prefer the Chinese for a change, you know?”
“Cool, Chinese is fine by me. Walkable?”
“Yeah, fifteen minutes tops; it is on the High Street.”
“Right, grab your coat and some boots; that snow was coming down thick and was showing no signs of letting up.”
I grabbed my winter boots from under the stairs and wrapped my Vivian Westwood around me. I was still in my workwear, and that was decent, and I really didn’t want to dress up like I had done for Dad a week ago. I just didn’t.
Leo put his coat on, and we headed off. There was no point in taking an umbrella, not for snow. Snow just lies on the umbrella and makes it heavy, and snow isn’t wet the way rain is, so you can just keep brushing it off.
We set off through what was almost a blizzard; the snow was settling on the roads too now, the earlier grit no longer having an effect. There was over an inch on the footpaths and people’s drives and gardens; it looked as if we were set for the night. Leo would do well to get home later.
The Chinese was virtually empty; I guessed only idiots were venturing out. We ordered some Chinese beers for whilst we were waiting, and then we ordered chow mein, sweet and sour chicken, crispy chilli beef and Chinese chicken curry, and some prawn crackers, some fried rice and some plain rice. I also asked for a fork each; I am pretty useless with chopsticks.
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