Adultery Vinod- A Financial Cuckold.

[V4poison]

Sunday morning, the first thing Vinod noticed was the plastic basket on Sharmi’s porch. It was huge and blue, with a crack near the handle that had been fixed with three layers of brown tape. The basket overflowed with clothes: t-shirts, jeans, two towels, and, right on top, a mess of bras and panties. Vinod’s chest squeezed. He looked away fast, focusing instead on the chipped tile beneath his feet, but his eyes darted back as if drawn by a magnet.



He clutched the weekly envelope in his left hand. His right hand trembled at his side. For two minutes, he stood at the bottom of the steps, telling himself to just ring the bell and look straight ahead. But the basket was right there, and the bras on top were bright pink and blue and black, tangled together like a dare.



He wiped his forehead and climbed the steps, feet heavy. He knocked, then waited, eyes fixed on the basket and then anywhere but the basket. Sharmi didn’t answer. He counted to twenty. Still nothing.



Vinod cleared his throat. “Permission to speak?” he said, voice just above a whisper. It felt silly to talk to an empty door, but he didn’t want to break the new rule.



The door creaked open, just a crack. Sharmi’s voice came from behind it, muffled. “Yes, Vinod?”



He leaned forward, but not too close. “Your…um, the laundry. It’s outside.”



The door swung wider. Sharmi stood there in a loose grey shirt and faded shorts, hair pulled into a messy ponytail. She blinked once, as if surprised to see him. “Oh,” she said, glancing at the basket like she was seeing it for the first time. “Thank you. Would you mind bringing it inside?”



Vinod hesitated, but nodded. “Of course.” He bent to grab the basket, but his fingers wouldn’t close around the handle. The whole pile jiggled, and a lacy red bra slid halfway over the edge.



Vinod’s ears burned. He tried to jam the bra back in, but his hand shook so bad he just made it worse. It dangled there, cups up, like it was looking at him. He forced himself to push it down with the flat of his palm and hefted the whole basket, heavy and warm from the sun.



Inside, the house smelled like sandalwood and last night’s rice. Sharmi had already turned away, heading for the kitchen.



“Should I, uh, put this by the machine?” Vinod called, voice breaking on the last word.



She looked over her shoulder. “Yes. Please start it, if you have time.”



He nodded, trying to look normal, and hurried to the laundry closet. The machine was small, but clean. Next to it, Sharmi kept a neat shelf of detergents, softeners, and little blue packets labeled “WHITENER” in bold letters. Above the shelf hung a poster: “CLEAN HANDS, CLEAN MIND.”



Vinod set the basket down and started sorting. He picked out towels first—safe, easy—and dropped them in the drum. Then t-shirts, then leggings. He worked slowly, afraid to touch anything delicate. But the basket was mostly bras and panties, a rainbow of soft, stretchy fabric. Some had little bows. Some were plain, but most looked new, with labels still half-attached.



His hands shook as he picked them up, careful not to stretch the straps or let anything fall. He tried not to look at them, but every time he touched one, he felt a jolt in his stomach. The air in the laundry room was thick, like he was breathing through wet cotton.



He remembered the rule: if you make a mistake, you have to do it all again. He read the labels on every bra—"Hand wash only," "Delicate cycle," "Cold water"—and triple-checked each setting on the machine.



He loaded the panties last, stacking them like they were fragile, breakable things. His hands trembled so much he almost dropped a tiny pink thong, but he caught it and stuffed it in the machine fast. His face felt like it was on fire.



He poured the detergent, double-checked the dial, then pressed the button. The machine whirred to life, a deep, steady rumble. Vinod closed the lid and leaned against the wall, breathing through his mouth.



The sound of water filling the drum was loud and endless. Vinod listened to it and tried not to think about the underwear spinning inside, or how it would look when it came out, wet and clinging to itself.



Sharmi called from the kitchen. “Vinod, can you bring me the money? On the table, please.”



He fumbled the envelope from his pocket and walked to the kitchen, eyes on the ground. He set the envelope on the edge of the table and stepped back. Sharmi stood at the stove, stirring a pan. She didn’t turn around, but said, “Thank you. Did you start the wash?”



Vinod cleared his throat. “Yes. I used delicate for the—uh—the delicates.”



“Good boy,” she said, the words so casual they stung. She kept stirring. “Don’t forget to hang them up when they’re done. Use the balcony, not the backyard.”



Vinod nodded. He waited a second, hoping for more instructions. There were none. He drifted back to the laundry closet, where the machine was still humming, and leaned against the doorframe, trying to calm his heart.



He stared at the poster above the detergent shelf: “CLEAN HANDS, CLEAN MIND.” He looked at his hands, which still shook, and wondered if they’d ever be clean enough.



The cycle finished an hour later. He opened the lid and was hit with a cloud of lavender-scented steam. He pulled out the towels first, then the t-shirts and jeans. The bras came out next, dripping and tangled. He separated them gently, one by one, and hung them on the balcony rail, making sure the straps wouldn’t stretch.



The panties were last. He dbangd them over the small plastic rack, spacing them so none would touch. As he worked, he heard the click of a camera shutter. He looked up. Sharmi stood behind the screen door, phone raised.



She grinned at him, eyes bright. “You’re very careful,” she said. “My mother would like you.”



Vinod didn’t know what to say. He nodded, blushing, and hung up the last piece. He wondered how many people would see him from the street. He wondered if he cared.



When he finished, he wiped his hands on his pants and closed the balcony door. He returned to the kitchen, where Sharmi sat with a cup of tea and her phone.



“All done?” she asked, not looking up from the screen.



He nodded.



“Good. You can go.”



Vinod stood for a moment, waiting to see if she would say more. She didn’t. He left, his hands still smelling of lavender and the faint chemical bite of bleach.



The whole walk home, he pictured the basket, the colors of the bras, the careful words on each label. He wondered if next week there would be more laundry, or less.



Either way, he’d be ready.





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The next Sunday, Vinod arrived even earlier. He loitered at the gate until Sharmi’s lights flicked on, then moved quickly to the porch. She had left the laundry basket again, but this time it was just a thin layer of clothes—and on top, a single black bra and matching panties, folded neatly as if waiting for him.



He swallowed. He’d dreamed about the basket all week. The sight made his mouth dry, but he picked it up and took it inside, heading straight for the washing closet.



He set the basket down and sorted the pieces: two T-shirts, a pair of leggings, and then the bra and panties. He hesitated, then reached for the bra, cradling it in his hands like a bird. He checked the tag—delicate wash, cold water only—then set it gently in the drum. He did the same for the panties, feeling the soft fabric stick to his sweaty palm.



He was halfway through pouring the detergent when Sharmi appeared in the doorway.



She leaned against the frame, arms crossed, one ankle hooked over the other. She watched him work for a moment, then said, “You’re being so careful with those. Have you ever touched a woman’s panties before, Vinod?”



He almost dropped the scoop. The detergent spilled onto the counter, a powdery blue mess. Vinod’s ears flamed. He stared at the washing machine, wishing he could crawl inside and vanish.



Sharmi smirked, eyes sharp. “I’m serious. Have you?”



He shook his head, voice stuck. “No, ma’am.”



She grinned wider, the corners of her mouth curling like a secret. “Didn’t think so.” She stepped closer, letting her shadow fall over him. “You’re so gentle. Like you’re scared they’ll bite.”



Vinod tried to focus on the wash cycle. He punched the button with a trembling finger and stared at the flashing LED. “I just—don’t want to ruin them,” he managed.



“They’re not made of glass, Vinod,” Sharmi said, voice slow. “You can touch them. It’s fine.”



She reached past him, picked up the black bra he’d left on the counter, and dangled it from her pinkie finger. “See? Nothing happens.” She flicked it at his chest, the soft cup bouncing off his shirt.



Vinod turned even redder. He stared at the floor, unable to breathe.



Sharmi set the bra back down. “Look at me,” she said, and when he didn’t, she repeated it: “Vinod. Look.”



He forced his gaze up. She was closer now, just a foot away, her eyes locked on his.



“Have you ever seen a real woman naked?” she asked, voice even softer, almost gentle.



Vinod shook his head again, faster. “No.”



Sharmi’s lips parted in a small “o,” and she let out a breathy little laugh. “Not even in a movie? Or on your phone?”



“I—I mean, maybe, but not in real life.” Vinod’s voice sounded tiny, far away.



She leaned even closer, her hair slipping over her shoulder. “Do you want to?” she asked, just above a whisper.



Vinod couldn’t move. His heart thudded so loud he was sure she could hear it.



Sharmi stepped back, smile widening. She picked up a T-shirt and tossed it into the basket, then turned and leaned against the counter. “It’s okay if you do,” she said. “Most boys do.”



Vinod’s hands shook so hard he had to jam them into his pockets. He glanced at her, then away, then at the washing machine, which was now humming softly.



Sharmi tilted her head, watching him like he was a puzzle she was about to solve.



“You can say it,” she said, voice gentle. “If you want something, you should ask.”



Vinod tried to speak, but his mouth was too dry. He swallowed twice, then forced out, “I—I do, I mean, I think so.”



Sharmi nodded, pleased. “Maybe you’ll get your wish. If you do a good job.”



She pushed off the counter, brushing past him so close he felt the heat of her body. “Finish folding those. Then come to the kitchen.”



He stood there for a minute, hands still in his pockets, staring at the black bra on the counter. His whole body buzzed with embarrassment and something else—excitement, maybe, or just pure terror.



He folded the last of the clothes, fingers fumbling, then stacked them neatly in the basket. He took a deep breath, checked the mirror in the hallway to make sure he didn’t look too much like he was about to faint, and carried the basket to the kitchen.



Sharmi sat at the table, feet propped on the rung, scrolling on her phone. She didn’t look up when he entered, just pointed at the pile of plates in the sink. “You can do those, too.”



Vinod nodded and set the basket down. He washed the plates, hands moving on autopilot. He could feel Sharmi’s eyes on him, even when he turned his back. When he finished, he dried his hands on a towel, then waited for instructions.



Sharmi finally looked up from her phone. “You did better today,” she said. “Almost like you’re getting used to it.”



Vinod flushed again, but this time it didn’t feel so bad.



She stood, stretched her arms overhead, and yawned. “You can go,” she said. “I’ll call if I need anything else.”



Vinod nodded, but he didn’t move.



Sharmi paused, eyebrow raised. “Something else?”



He shook his head, but then, remembering her words, forced himself to speak. “Can I—do more? Next time?”



She smiled, a real one this time, soft around the eyes. “Yes, Vinod. You can do more.”



He turned to go, heart pounding. As he left, Sharmi called after him, “Don’t forget the basket next Sunday.”



He looked back, saw her still standing at the counter, arms crossed and watching him. He tried to smile, but it came out crooked.



He left the house buzzing, not sure if he was terrified or thrilled.



Probably both.





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After his chores, Vinod washed his hands twice. He dried them on the towel, counting to five each time so he wouldn’t leave any moisture behind. He checked the mirror in the hallway again, then headed for the kitchen when Sharmi called his name.



She sat at the table, a plate of crackers in front of her and her phone face-down beside it. The window was open, and the sunlight made stripes on the table. Vinod paused in the doorway, waiting.



Sharmi looked up, then gestured to the chair across from her. “Sit,” she said.



He obeyed, folding his hands on his lap.



Sharmi sipped her tea and watched him over the rim. “You’re doing very well,” she said, voice neutral. “Much better with the laundry today. Thank you.”



Vinod felt the praise like a warm flush on his neck. “Thank you,” he whispered.



Sharmi tapped the table with a single finger, making a soft tick-tick. “There’s something else,” she said. “About the chores. Especially the personal items.”



Vinod swallowed hard.



“I think,” Sharmi went on, “that part deserves special compensation. You know—payment for the extra trust. Don’t you agree?”



He nodded, not trusting himself to speak.



She tilted her head. “So, starting next week, the tribute will be fifteen hundred. That’s fair, isn’t it?”



Vinod’s heart dropped. Fifteen hundred was half his weekly food budget. He opened his mouth to protest, then shut it. He didn’t want to risk displeasing her.



“I—yes,” he said, voice thin. “That’s very fair. I’m sorry I didn’t offer it before.”



Sharmi watched him, searching his face. She almost smiled.



“You don’t have to apologize, Vinod,” she said. “You’re learning. That’s enough.” She took a cracker, broke it in half, and popped a piece in her mouth. “Just make sure the money is always on time. No delays, okay?”



He nodded again, more desperate than before.



She slid her phone to the side, then held out her hand, palm up. “This week’s payment?”



Vinod fumbled in his pocket and pulled out the white envelope. His fingers shook as he opened it and counted the notes, one by one, onto the table. He made sure the bills faced the same way, edges even, no creases.



Sharmi reached out and took the stack. She didn’t count it, just tucked it under her phone and went back to her tea.



For a minute, they sat in silence, the only sound the distant drone of a lawnmower and the clink of Sharmi’s spoon in the cup.



Vinod stared at the table, wondering if he should say something else. He wanted to ask what would happen if he ran out of money, if he missed a week, but he couldn’t bring himself to risk it.



Sharmi looked up at him, reading his thoughts. “Is it too much?” she asked, voice softer now.



He shook his head. “No. I’ll find a way.”



She gave a tiny nod, then stood, gathering her dishes. “Next Sunday, same time,” she said. “And bring the money in a new envelope. The old ones get dirty.”



He stood too, embarrassed. “Of course. I will.”



Sharmi rinsed her mug in the sink, then turned back to him. “You can go, Vinod. Thank you for your service.”



He didn’t know if she was joking. He mumbled “thank you” and let himself out.



Walking home, he did the math in his head, tallying the cost of groceries, the bus fare, his phone bill. He’d have to cut corners. Maybe eat less, or stop buying snacks at work. Maybe skip a haircut for a few months. But as he thought about the laundry, and the next week, and the way Sharmi had looked at him, he decided it was worth it.



He’d pay whatever she asked, as long as she kept letting him come back.



Vinod smiled, just a little, as he walked.



The envelope for next week was already waiting in his mind.