Adultery Vinod- A Financial Cuckold.

[V4poison]

This is a story regarding findom and cuckolding. hope you guys like it. your comments will help me write more. 


By three in the afternoon, the sun had bullied every shadow out of the neighborhood. Even the dogs had retreated under scooters and the big neem tree next to the water tank. Vinod Krishnan squinted through his spectacles at the glinting road, fidgeting with the keys to his own rust-red Maruti. Then he saw her.

Sharmi Natarajan, his neighbor, stood just outside her gate. The blue metal was propped open with a broken brick. She wore a pink cotton kurti and simple leggings, hair tied into a thick plait that spilled down her back. The sight was not unusual—Sharmi came and went at odd hours, sometimes on her Scooty, sometimes in a battered auto-rickshaw. But today, both hands were full: one held a bulging blue shopping bag and the other gripped a white plastic sack stretched tight with vegetables and what looked like packets of milk.

Vinod’s heart squeezed a little. He had seen her every day since she moved in six months ago, but she’d never asked for help, not even the time she’d dropped a whole bag of onions on the porch and calmly gathered them one by one. She always seemed in a hurry, yet never flustered, never angry.

Vinod felt his tongue stick to the roof of his mouth. He cleared his throat and took a few brisk steps to the gate, sandals slapping the concrete. “Uh—do you, uh, do you want help?” he asked, already reaching out for the nearest bag.

Sharmi paused. Her dark eyes measured him in a way that made his ears burn. “It’s okay,” she said, lips barely curved. “It’s not very heavy.”

“It looks—uh, heavy,” Vinod said, managing a nervous laugh. He grabbed the white bag before she could stop him. It was heavier than he expected. As he hoisted it, the plastic handles stretched and bit into his palm.

Sharmi let go and brushed a stray hair from her cheek. “Thank you,” she said, in the same calm tone she used to tell off street hawkers or the boys who played cricket in the lane.

Vinod shuffled behind her, trying not to stare at her back. He focused on the white sack and kept his breathing quiet. They climbed three steps to her tiny porch. Sweat dripped from his forehead onto his glasses, leaving a blurry droplet on the lens. He wiped it with his sleeve, then nearly stumbled when the bag swung against his knee.

Sharmi unlocked the door and pushed it open. The room inside was cool and neat. Vinod noticed the scent: sandal soap, cut fruit, and faint incense. A small shrine glittered in the corner, just above a row of matching copper tumblers.

“Where should I—uh, where do you want the bags?” he asked, swallowing.

“Just leave them here,” Sharmi said. Her voice was soft but gave no room for argument.

Vinod set the blue bag down. When he tried to hand her the white one, the sweat on his palm made it slip. The bag thunked onto the tile, toppling a packet of tomatoes.

“Sorry!” he blurted, cheeks burning. He bent to pick up the tomatoes, fingers fumbling. One rolled under a chair and he had to crouch awkwardly to reach it.

Sharmi watched him, her face unreadable. “Don’t worry,” she said after a moment. “Thank you for helping.”

Vinod stood up too quickly and almost knocked over a side table. He backed away, bumping into the open door. “Anytime,” he stammered, voice too loud in the quiet house. “If you need anything, I’m right next door. I mean—if you ever need help. With anything.”

Sharmi smiled. Not big, but real. “I’ll remember,” she said.

Vinod nodded, turned, and caught his foot on the top step. He flailed for a second, regaining balance only by clutching the railing. His face was boiling. He mumbled, “Sorry, sorry,” and hurried down the steps, not looking back.

But as he reached his own porch, he felt her eyes on him. He risked a glance. Sharmi stood in the open doorway, arms folded, watching him with a small, amused tilt to her head. Then she turned and vanished into her house.

Vinod let himself inside, heart drumming. He shut the door softly, careful not to make a sound.


--------------------------------------------------------------------------------


After that first afternoon, Vinod found his days shaped by new, secret patterns. He still woke at sunrise for his daily walk, made instant coffee in his steel tumbler, and logged in to work by eight, just as the local boys began their morning cricket. But now, every hour orbited around Sharmi.

He learned to recognize the click of her sandals on the pavement, the brief sputter of her Scooty, the scbang of her gate. The first few times, he pretended it was all coincidence, but after a week even he couldn’t deny the truth.

Vinod watered her plants when she left for work. At six-thirty, Sharmi would roll out on her Scooty, helmet slung loosely under one arm. Sometimes she nodded at Vinod, who stood with a watering can poised above the lone hibiscus near his own porch. Sometimes she didn’t even look.

But after she was gone, Vinod would tiptoe through her open gate, careful not to disturb the white jasmine blossoms that tangled around the fence. He’d make a round of her small garden: first the yellow roses, then the row of rosemary, finally the rectangle of red soil where she was trying (and failing) to grow brinjal. He watered each plant gently, using her own green plastic can, which he rinsed and placed exactly where he found it.

When he finished, he always checked the doorstep for mail or flyers. Once he found an envelope stamped URGENT in red. He wiped the dust off and set it neatly on the shoe rack by her door, right next to her faded purple sandals. Another time, a parcel had been left in the rain. He dried it carefully with his own towel before leaving it in the safety of her porch.

Sometimes, he swept her steps. He did this very early, when the lane was empty and the milkman hadn’t yet started his rounds. He liked the way the morning air smelled—cool, with a hint of old charcoal and coconut oil. The stiff plastic broom made soft whooshing sounds. He took care to gather every stray leaf, every bit of litter, arranging the steps into a small work of art.

He never expected thanks. But one day, as he bent to pick up a crumpled biscuit wrapper, a voice called from above: “Don’t you have your own housework to do?”

Vinod straightened, pulse kicking up. Sharmi stood on her balcony, hair loose and uncombed, coffee mug in one hand. She wore a plain blue kurta, no makeup, not even kajal. Yet she looked at him with the same quiet confidence, chin slightly up, not scolding, just amused.

Vinod stared at his feet. “Just thought I’d help,” he mumbled.

Her lips twitched. “I see. Next time, please wake me up. I’ll give you proper instructions.” She vanished inside, the screen door slamming behind her.

Vinod smiled to himself, then swept with even more care than before.

He started timing his walks to cross Sharmi’s path. He’d leave for the office at exactly 8:12, knowing she’d be locking her gate at 8:15. Sometimes she pretended not to see him, sometimes she gave a curt “Good morning.” Once, she even held the gate open so he could pass first.

That day, Vinod nearly tripped over his own shoe.

At night, Vinod sat in his room with the lights off and laptop open, but most of his attention was outside. Sharmi’s garden glowed under the yellow streetlight. She came out every evening with a watering can, dousing the thirsty basil and pulling dead leaves from the brinjal. Her movements were slow, efficient. She never wasted a single drop.

Sometimes she paused to stretch, arms lifted over her head. Sometimes she hummed to herself—snatches of old Hindi songs, never more than a few lines.

Vinod watched from behind his curtain. If she looked his way, he ducked or pretended to check his phone, heart pounding.

But on the sixth night, as he watched, she suddenly turned and stared straight at his window. He froze, holding his breath, convinced she could see him even in the dark. Then, slowly, she smiled—not the polite smile from before, but something wider, like a secret joke.

Vinod scrambled back from the window, knees smacking the chair, cheeks burning in the dark.

He spent the rest of the evening wondering if she’d really seen him—or if, maybe, she’d wanted him to.


--------------------------------------------------------------------------------


When Vinod was six, his mother Geeta had forbidden him from crossing the main road alone. She’d sit him down at the dinner table, always with too much food, and say, “Kanna, promise me. You will wait for the watchman, or you will call me, but never-never go by yourself. Promise?”

He always promised.

Even after he turned thirteen, she continued to cut his dosai into neat triangles, stacking them just so. She poured his milk and watched him drink it, even when he rolled his eyes.

Once, when he was twelve, she found him standing outside the compound talking to a neighbor girl from his class. Geeta had marched over, smile stretched too wide, and steered him back inside, one hand on his shoulder.

“That girl is from a very loud family,” she’d whispered, as if the girl could still hear. “Good boys do not waste time on silly girls. They get good marks and make their mothers happy.”

Vinod tried not to remember that moment, but it still stung.

When he was fifteen, he got his first computer, a battered HP that his mother disinfected with Dettol wipes before letting him touch. The internet was slow, but Geeta hovered anyway, watching his fingers on the keyboard, always peering over his shoulder.

“Don’t talk to strangers online,” she warned, lips pressed tight. “And don’t look at anything…funny.”

Vinod learned to keep his windows minimized, his browsing history clean. He stuck to collegework, programming contests, chess. Nothing “funny,” nothing loud.

He went to college in the city, but Geeta called twice a day. She reminded him to eat his fruits, to change his bedsheets, to avoid parties. Sometimes, if she sensed extra stress in his voice, she threatened to visit.

On his convocation day, Geeta arrived two hours early, carrying home-cooked lemon rice and a new shirt for him to wear under the gown. She hugged him too long, until his classmates started giggling.

“You are my only gem, kanna,” she said. “Never forget.”

He never did.

Now, years later, every time he stepped outside, Vinod heard his mother’s voice in his head, telling him to stay safe, to avoid trouble, to keep quiet and blend in.

Especially around women.

“Be respectful. Never bother them. Don’t stare. Don’t be rude.”

But what if you wanted them to notice you? What if you needed them to?

Vinod had no answer.

He finished his own dinner in silence, stacked his plate on the sink, and called his mother before bed, like always. When she asked about his day, he said, “Just work and the usual,” skipping over everything else. She told him to get good sleep and not to worry so much.

He promised he wouldn’t.

He never did.


--------------------------------------------------------------------------------


On Saturday morning, the sun poured gold through the banyan leaves at the old city park, but Sharmi and Anjali found a patch of forgiving shade. They took up their usual seat on the cement bench near the chai cart, steam rising from their shared paper cups.

“You know who I saw again?” Anjali started, eyes glinting. “The mad flower-seller from Besant Nagar. He still hasn’t washed that bandana.”

Sharmi smirked. “Why should he? It’s tradition.”

“His tradition is smelling like a goat.” Anjali sipped her chai, then nudged Sharmi’s elbow. “Your turn. What did our Queen of Solitude do this week?”

“Painted the kitchen. Scbangd my knuckles, but it looks good.” Sharmi flicked a crumb off her jeans. “Almost gave up and called Appa’s guy, but… no. Better to do it yourself.”

Anjali arched an eyebrow. “So stubborn. How will you ever get married if you don’t let men rescue you?”

Sharmi rolled her eyes. “Maybe I’ll find one who likes being rescued instead.”

“That’s not a husband, that’s a pet,” Anjali shot back. She tossed her head, black hair catching in the breeze. “Any drama in the neighborhood?”

Sharmi hesitated, then said, “There’s this guy next door. He’s… helpful.”

Anjali snorted. “How helpful?”

Sharmi traced a finger along the chai cup rim. “He’s always around. Watering my plants, picking up post, once he even swept my steps before I woke up. Very silent type. The first week I thought he was a ghost.”

“Maybe he’s in love with you,” Anjali teased, voice softening. “You know how Tamil boys are. They’d rather die than say one direct thing.”

“He barely looks at me. He goes pink if I say thank you.” Sharmi’s lips twitched. “His mother must have raised him with a guilt stick.”

Anjali cackled, then sobered. “Is he cute?”

Sharmi gave a noncommittal shrug, then relented: “He’s okay. Like a man who fundamentals his spice rack but might snap if you move his stapler.”

Anjali took a dramatic sip. “That’s dangerously sexy. Maybe you’ll wake up to find your house repainted and a love letter in the mailbox.”

“Maybe he’ll break in and arrange my fridge,” Sharmi countered, grinning.

They sat in comfortable silence for a few moments, letting the city sounds wash over them—the rattle of tea glasses, a distant whistle from the cricket pitch, the rustle of banyan roots overhead.

Anjali said, “Your Appa called me yesterday. He wants me to check on you. He thinks you’re not eating enough.”

“I know. He sent two dabbas of biryani through the maid. And a three-page note.” Sharmi rolled her eyes again, but with affection. “He means well. Just wishes I was… softer, I guess.”

Anjali gave her a sly look. “Heard you fixed the leaky tap on your own, too.”

Sharmi beamed. “YouTube. And a wrench. Took two hours but no more drip. Appa would have hired a whole army for that.”

Anjali leaned back, looking up through the twisting limbs above. “You always were like this. Never wanted anyone to carry your bag. Never let boys copy your homework.”

“Why would I let them? I earned that work,” Sharmi said, and for a moment, her jaw set like granite.

Anjali laughed. “You’re impossible.”

“Maybe,” Sharmi admitted. “But I’m happy.”

The wind picked up, shaking the dust off the banyan. Sharmi sipped her chai, staring at the ant trail crossing the bench leg.

“You think I should let him help?” she asked, not looking up.

Anjali gave a slow, thoughtful nod. “Maybe once. See what happens.”

Sharmi smiled, a rare, crooked one. “Maybe I will.”

They finished their chai in silence, both lost in their own thoughts.

At the edge of the park, a pair of pigeons squabbled over a fallen vada, neither willing to back down. Anjali nudged Sharmi and pointed with her chin. “That’s going to be you and the helpful neighbor one day.”

Sharmi laughed, voice ringing out clear. “I hope I win.”

She probably would.



--------------------------------------------------------------------------------


The street had cooled, the air smelling faintly of rain even though the sky was all dry cloud. Vinod walked past Sharmi’s house with his laptop bag on one shoulder, his mind on leftover sambar and a half-written bug report. Then he heard it—a muffled crash, a curse, and the metallic clatter of a pipe against tile.

He slowed. Sharmi’s window was half-open, the orange glow of her hall light slanting onto the porch. He heard her voice, sharper than usual: “Useless thing! Stupid faucet! Now I have to call a plumber and waste money.” Another bang, softer this time, followed by a long, tired sigh.

Vinod stopped at the gate, fingers tracing the old paint flakes. He should have kept walking, but something held him there—a tug, a memory of her smile, maybe the echo of Anjali’s words from the park. He stood for a full minute, bouncing slightly on his toes, before he forced himself to step inside.

He rehearsed lines in his head as he climbed the steps. “If you need help, I can try.” Or maybe, “Plumbing is my hobby.” Both sounded ridiculous. He nearly turned around twice.

At her door, he wiped his palms on his shirt and knocked. The sound was too soft. He knocked again, louder, the heartbeat in his ears almost drowning it out.

The lock clicked. The door opened a careful inch. Sharmi peered out, hair loose, face free of the usual calm armor.

“Hi,” Vinod said, voice catching.

She blinked, then opened the door wider. “Oh. Hi. Is something wrong?”

Vinod shook his head, realized he looked like a bobblehead, and stopped. “I heard… I mean, I was walking by, and it sounded like—maybe you needed help?”

Her eyes narrowed, not unkindly, just measuring. “Did you hear everything?”

He hesitated. “Just the faucet.”

She looked down at her hands, then stepped aside. “Come in. Unless you’re busy.”

He nearly stumbled on the threshold, catching himself on the doorframe. “I’m not busy,” he said. “I’m actually… good with repairs.”

Sharmi led him to the kitchen. The leaky faucet dripped onto a rag in the sink, the metallic smell of water filling the room. A set of pliers and a bent spoon lay next to it, like tiny, defeated soldiers.

“I tried,” Sharmi said, more to herself than to him.

Vinod rolled up his sleeves and examined the faucet. He felt her watching him, weighing every move, but he tried to focus on the job.

He twisted the tap, tested the joint, unscrewed the collar. A spray of cold water hit his wrist, making him jump. He glanced at Sharmi, expecting laughter, but instead she just tilted her head, curious.

“Sorry,” Vinod muttered, then steadied his hands and worked faster.

In three minutes, he had the tap disassembled. In five, he found the problem—a cracked washer. “Do you have any rubber bands?” he asked.

Sharmi rifled through a drawer, pulling out a rainbow handful. Vinod picked two, cut them with scissors, and jerry-rigged a new seal.

He reassembled the faucet, turned the knob, and waited. No drip.

Sharmi leaned in, eyebrow raised. “That’s it?”

Vinod nodded. “Temporary fix. I can get a new washer tomorrow.”

She smiled, slow and honest. “You saved my dinner. Thank you.”

Vinod blushed, picking at his thumb. “It’s nothing. My mother made me learn all this stuff.”

“Your mother trained you well,” Sharmi said, and for the first time, the words sounded like a compliment, not a warning.

They stood in silence, the only sound the hum of the fridge and the far-off voice of the news anchor from someone’s TV.

After a while, Sharmi said, “Would you like tea? It’s too late for coffee.”

Vinod’s voice barely cleared his throat. “Yes. Please.”

She put water on to boil, then leaned against the counter, arms crossed. “You always hear everything on this street?”

He shrugged, then smiled a little. “Just your voice carries.”

Sharmi laughed, and the sound filled the room. “Next time, knock sooner. Save me from myself.”

Vinod nodded, feeling lighter than he had in months. “Okay.”

When the tea was ready, Sharmi poured two cups and handed one to him. “I should pay you,” she said.

He shook his head. “No need. I like helping.”

She studied him over the rim of her cup. “You’re not what I expected.”

“Neither are you,” Vinod said, surprising himself.

Sharmi grinned, the challenge flashing in her eyes. “Good.”

They drank tea in the quiet kitchen, neither in a rush to break the silence.

When Vinod left, an hour later, Sharmi walked him to the door. She didn’t thank him again, just gave a small, satisfied nod. As he stepped out onto the porch, she said, “See you tomorrow, neighbor.”

He turned. “I’ll bring the washer.”

She smiled. “I know you will.”

Vinod walked home through the warm, dark street, lighter than air.

He didn’t look back, but he could feel her watching, just as he’d always watched her.

This time, it felt different.

This time, he belonged.