Adultery Vinod- A Financial Cuckold.

[V4poison]

The Sunday morning air was already thick when Vinod walked down the lane, envelope clutched tight in his left hand. His knuckles were white, and his right hand kept sliding up and down the outside of his pocket, smoothing imaginary wrinkles. Each step toward Sharmi’s gate made his heart pound a little harder, as if the muscles in his chest might snap from the effort.



He stopped three feet from the porch, shoes planted in a patch of sun-warmed dust. There was a new plastic doormat at the door, bright red with a gold “Welcome” printed in bold. Vinod shifted his weight, unwilling to stand on the mat, as if he might dirty it by accident. He wiped his hands on his pants, once, then again. The envelope was already slick with sweat.



He checked his phone. 7:04. The rule was 7:00 sharp, but better to be a little late than too early. He replayed the last week in his mind: the rise in payment, the memory of Sharmi’s calm, careful voice as she told him “The old envelopes get dirty.” His new envelope was fresh, crisp, even the glue on the flap was perfect.



He knocked. Once, then twice.



Inside, footsteps echoed down the hall, quick and light. Vinod looked down, then up, then forced himself to keep his eyes level as the door swung open.



Sharmi stood framed in the doorway. She wore a green silk salwar kameez, the fabric catching light in a hundred different ways. The dupatta lay soft on her shoulder, and her hair was up in a high ponytail, slick and glossy. She wore no bindi, but her eyes were lined with just a smudge of kohl. She looked taller today. Her chin was up, her gaze direct.



Vinod swallowed. “Good morning,” he managed.



Sharmi’s eyes flicked to the envelope. She didn’t say hello. Instead, she took it from his hand and set it aside on the shoe rack, not even looking at the bills inside.



“Come in,” she said, turning her back before he had time to respond.



The house smelled different today. There was sandalwood, as usual, but also the scent of something sharp and sweet—maybe mango pickle, maybe a new perfume. Vinod stepped inside, blinking to adjust to the soft yellow light.



He hovered by the entrance, unsure if he was meant to remove his shoes or wait for permission. Sharmi had already disappeared into the kitchen, her dupatta trailing behind like a green flag. He listened to the quiet sounds: the flick of a lighter, the clink of glass against tile.



He stood there until Sharmi reappeared. She had tied her dupatta tighter, and her sleeves were rolled up to the elbow. “Sit,” she said, gesturing to the sofa. Her voice was brisk, but not unkind.



Vinod perched on the edge, knees together, hands folded. He watched as Sharmi arranged some bottles on the coffee table. There was water, a tray with two glasses, and a dish of dry fruit. She set everything down with quick, sure motions.



He opened his mouth, then stopped. The rule was to wait for permission. He focused on the pattern of the sofa fabric, a looping brown vine on off-white, and tried not to look at her directly.



For a minute, Sharmi said nothing. She poured herself a glass of water, then one for Vinod, and set it in front of him. He waited until she nodded, then picked it up with both hands.



There was a sharp ring. The doorbell, louder than Vinod remembered. Sharmi’s expression changed, mouth curving into a real, wide smile. Her eyes shone with sudden excitement. She wiped her hands on her dupatta and moved to the door, hips swinging in a way that made the silk shimmer with each step.



Vinod watched, curiosity fighting with the hot knot of jealousy that twisted in his chest. He heard the scbang of the deadbolt, the squeak of the hinge, and then a new voice.



“Hey, Sharmi! Hope I’m not too early.”



It was a man’s voice. Confident. Smooth, with a faint trace of Chennai English.



Sharmi laughed, high and happy. “You’re right on time. Come in. It’s just getting started.”



Vinod twisted on the sofa, trying to see without looking obvious. The man at the door was tall—maybe six feet—and dressed in a white shirt with tiny blue stripes, open at the collar, and pressed dark pants. His hair was styled, not just combed. He had a trimmed beard and a gold watch on his wrist, which flashed as he shook Sharmi’s hand.



“Ravi,” Sharmi said, turning to Vinod. “This is my friend from work. Ravi, meet my neighbor, Vinod.”



Ravi looked at Vinod with polite curiosity, eyes scanning his shirt, his shoes, and the way Vinod’s hands trembled around the water glass.



“Hello, Vinod,” Ravi said, smiling just enough to show perfect teeth. “Nice to meet you.”



Vinod felt his tongue stick to the roof of his mouth. “H-hi,” he said, voice thin.



Sharmi laughed again, soft and quick. She touched Ravi’s arm—just a light brush, but her fingers lingered longer than necessary. Ravi leaned in slightly, not enough to be rude, but enough that Sharmi’s perfume and his cologne blended in the air.



Vinod looked down at his knees, then at his hands, then at the glass. His face burned. He had never felt so invisible in his life.



Sharmi led Ravi to the sofa, seating him at the far end. She sat beside him, closer than Vinod thought polite, their knees almost touching. Ravi stretched his arm along the backrest, just behind Sharmi’s shoulders.



“So,” Ravi said, looking at Vinod, “are you also in IT?”



Vinod nodded, afraid to make eye contact. “Yes, I work… work from home.”



Ravi grinned. “Lucky! I have to go to the office every day. No pajamas for me, ha ha.”



Sharmi giggled, ducking her head in a way that made her ponytail swing.



Vinod’s palms were so wet that he left faint prints on the glass when he set it down. He tried to will himself smaller, to blend into the fabric.



The conversation moved fast. Ravi and Sharmi talked about office politics, about new hires, about something that happened at a recent team dinner. Sharmi’s laugh was louder, looser than usual. She poked Ravi’s arm with her finger when she disagreed with something, and once she even smacked the back of his hand with her palm.



Every time Sharmi touched Ravi, Vinod’s chest tightened. He didn’t know what he expected when he came today, but it wasn’t this. The man was a planet, and Vinod felt like a satellite, doomed to orbit and watch.



At one point, Ravi glanced at Vinod, then back at Sharmi. “You never told me you had such helpful neighbors. This one looks like he’d do your taxes for free.”



Sharmi laughed again, tossing her hair. “He probably would, if I asked.”



Vinod tried to laugh, but it came out a cough. His hands trembled so hard he had to press them between his knees.



Ravi poured himself some water and took a long sip, watching Vinod over the rim. “So what do you do for fun, Vinod?” he asked.



Vinod swallowed. “I… I like to read. And chess. Sometimes sudoku.”



Ravi nodded, as if confirming something. “Quiet type. Cool, cool.”



Sharmi shifted closer to Ravi, her thigh now pressed against his. She rested one elbow on her knee, the other hand cupping her chin as she watched Ravi talk. Once, she looked at Vinod and gave a small, almost secret smile.



Vinod wasn’t sure if it was meant to be kind, or cruel.



The three of them sat in a triangle of awkwardness, Sharmi and Ravi at ease, Vinod shrinking by the minute.



At last, Ravi checked his phone, then stood. “I have to make a call. I’ll be right back,” he said, heading for the balcony. His stride was easy, confident, like he owned the place.



When the door clicked shut, Sharmi turned to Vinod. Her eyes were sharp, but her voice was gentle.



“You did well today,” she said. “You remembered the time, and the envelope was clean. Next week, come at the same time, and wear a nice shirt.”



Vinod nodded, grateful for even that small crumb.



Sharmi glanced over her shoulder, then leaned in. Her voice dropped to a whisper. “Don’t let him scare you,” she said, smiling. “He’s just a boy, like you.”



She touched his hand—just a tap, but it made Vinod jump. Then she stood, smoothing her kameez, and went to join Ravi on the balcony.



Vinod listened to their voices, muted by the glass, the rise and fall of laughter and teasing. He stared at the water glass, at the faint outline of his own fingers on the rim. The silk on the sofa was still warm where Sharmi had sat.



He flexed his hands, then stilled them, feeling the tremor that wouldn’t go away.



Through the closed door, he watched Sharmi and Ravi. She touched Ravi’s arm again, this time holding on longer, her fingers tracing small circles on his sleeve. Ravi leaned into her, eyes closed for a second as if savoring the touch.



Vinod felt small, and strange, and more alive than he had in months.



He wondered what would happen next week, and if the envelope would be enough.

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

Sharmi and Ravi came back from the balcony like nothing had happened. They laughed together, arms almost linked, as if Vinod wasn’t sitting right there in the living room. Sharmi led the way, her green kameez swishing with every step. Ravi followed, tossing his phone onto the coffee table and stretching his arms above his head. His shirt pulled tight over his chest and for a second, Vinod couldn’t look away.



Sharmi pointed to the couch. “Sit, na,” she said to Ravi, patting the cushion next to her.



Ravi dropped onto the sofa, sprawling out until his knee touched Sharmi’s. She scooted closer, closing the gap so their thighs pressed together. Vinod, who had been told to “sit” earlier, now stood awkwardly by the end table, unsure if he should move or wait for instructions. He tried to blend into the background, hoping neither of them would notice how he hovered, arms folded across his chest, as if holding himself together.



Sharmi poured Ravi a glass of water from the tray. She handed it to him with a little flourish, and when his fingers touched hers, she didn’t pull away right away. Their eyes met, and Ravi winked. Sharmi smiled and shook her head, like she was scolding him, but she didn’t move her leg from his.



Vinod’s mouth went dry. He swallowed, then cleared his throat, hoping someone would acknowledge him. They didn’t. Ravi sipped his water, smacked his lips, and then asked Sharmi, “So, you’re really joining the next project? You didn’t even warn me!”



Sharmi rolled her eyes. “HR made the announcement already. It’s not my fault you were busy doing…” She waved her hand in the air, “...whatever you do in your cubicle all day.”



Ravi grinned. “Day trading. I’ll teach you, for a price.”



Sharmi laughed, loud and bright. “Only if you promise not to get fired first.”



Their banter went back and forth, zipping along like a shuttlecock in a heated game. Vinod tried to follow, but every few lines they’d drop a name, a joke, or a story that made no sense to him. Once, Ravi leaned in and whispered something in Sharmi’s ear; she giggled, biting the edge of her finger to keep from laughing too loudly. Vinod’s stomach twisted.



He tried to participate. “Um, is the next project the payments system?” he asked, voice quiet.



Sharmi didn’t look at him. “Vinod, don’t interrupt when adults are talking,” she said, with the easy, offhand authority of a collegeteacher. She kept her eyes on Ravi, who grinned wider, his gaze flicking to Vinod just long enough to let him know the joke was on him.



Vinod felt the heat rise from his neck to his hairline. He dropped his eyes to the carpet, wishing the earth would swallow him up. He started to back away, desperate for a reason to leave.



But Sharmi had other ideas. She looked over, finally acknowledging him. “Since you’re here,” she said, tone businesslike, “you might as well make yourself useful. The house needs cleaning before our dinner tonight.”



Vinod stared, not sure if she was serious. Ravi looked up, the corners of his mouth curled in a not-unfriendly smirk.



Sharmi stood and strode to the hall closet. She returned with a blue plastic caddy filled with rags, a spray bottle, and a yellow sponge. She thrust it into Vinod’s arms. “Start with the shelves,” she said, pointing at the built-ins by the window. “They’re covered in dust. Ravi is allergic.”



Ravi made a show of sneezing. “Please, boss, save me from the dust mites.”



Vinod’s hands shook as he took the cleaning supplies. The caddy was heavier than he expected. Sharmi was still watching, her face unreadable, but her eyes sparkled with challenge. Ravi leaned back on the couch and crossed his ankles, casual as a king on his throne.



Vinod felt his cheeks burn. He wanted to protest, or at least fade into the background, but the rules were clear. He nodded and shuffled over to the shelf. With every step, he felt the eyes of Sharmi and Ravi on his back.



He sprayed the rag, then wiped the top of the shelf, careful not to knock over the glass figurines or the little army of framed photos. His motions were slow and precise. He could hear Sharmi and Ravi still talking—sometimes in English, sometimes in fast, laughing Tamil that he couldn’t quite catch.



He wiped, and dusted, and arranged the figurines in perfect little lines.



Once, as he reached to dust a high corner, Ravi called out, “Careful there, Vinod! Don’t fall and break your neck. Sharmi’s liability policy doesn’t cover neighbors.”



Sharmi snorted. “If he breaks anything, he’ll have to clean it up himself.”



Vinod’s face flamed brighter. He pressed the rag into the wood so hard his knuckles ached.



The work took longer than it should have, but he did it perfectly. He lined up every book, every photo, every trinket until it looked like a catalog display. When he finished, he turned and waited, holding the caddy in both hands.



Sharmi glanced over, then inspected the shelves with a slow, deliberate sweep of her eyes. “Not bad,” she said. “But you missed the spiderwebs near the ceiling.”



Ravi clicked his tongue. “Tsk, tsk. Rookie mistake, buddy.”



Vinod’s breath caught. “Sorry,” he muttered, already searching for the duster.



Sharmi handed him the long-handled broom. “It’s not hard,” she said, “just take your time.”



He took it, and as he reached overhead, he felt the hem of his shirt riding up, exposing a thin stripe of skin at his hip. He quickly tugged it down, but not before he noticed Sharmi’s gaze on him, sharp and assessing.



Ravi seemed to notice, too. He smirked, then turned to Sharmi. “I see why you keep him around.”



Sharmi didn’t answer, but her mouth curved.



Vinod cleared the cobwebs, swept the corners, and then asked, “Should I… vacuum?”



Sharmi shrugged. “If you want to be thorough, yes.”



She pointed at the closet. “Vacuum is there. Cord’s a little short, so you’ll have to move furniture.”



Vinod nodded and got to work. As he plugged in the vacuum and pushed it across the carpet, he could hear the hum of conversation behind him. Sometimes Ravi lowered his voice to a whisper, but every so often, Sharmi’s laughter rang out, bright and clear. Once, she laughed so hard she clapped her hand over Ravi’s mouth, then leaned her head onto his shoulder, shaking with delight.



The noise of the vacuum drowned out the words, but not the feeling.



Vinod moved slowly, making straight lines across the carpet, careful not to bump the coffee table or the feet of the people on the couch. Ravi didn’t move, even when Vinod had to angle the vacuum right next to his shoes. Sharmi grinned at him, daring him to object.



When he finished, he wrapped the cord, wiped his hands on his shirt, and stood at attention, waiting for the next order.



Sharmi eyed the room, then nodded. “Good. That’s enough for now.”



She turned to Ravi. “Should we let him stay for dinner, or send him home to study?”



Ravi shrugged, as if the answer didn’t matter. “Whatever you want, Sharmi.”



She looked at Vinod, tilting her head. “You want to join us, or are you busy with your puzzles?”



Vinod hesitated, unsure what answer she wanted.



“I—I can stay,” he said, voice barely above a whisper.



Sharmi smiled, just a little. “Fine. Go wash your hands. We’ll eat soon.”



Vinod nodded and scurried to the bathroom, his heart thudding so hard he thought it might burst.



He turned on the tap and let the cold water run over his hands. He stared at his reflection in the mirror. His face was bright red, beads of sweat on his upper lip. He felt humiliated, exposed, but beneath it all there was something else—a strange, hot excitement that made his pulse race.



He dried his hands and went back to the living room.



Sharmi and Ravi sat close, their heads together, talking softly. Vinod hovered at the edge of the room, waiting for instructions, his stomach twisting in knots of shame and something like anticipation.



He watched as Sharmi’s hand rested on Ravi’s thigh, her thumb drawing slow, lazy circles through the fabric of his pants.



Ravi saw Vinod, and smiled, not unkindly. “You really are the perfect neighbor,” he said.



Vinod tried to smile back, but his lips wouldn’t work.



He stood there, silent, waiting to be told what to do.



It felt, in a strange way, exactly right.

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

Vinod worked his way through the rest of Sharmi’s house, cleaning as he had been told. Every motion felt watched, every spray of glass cleaner judged by the eyes behind him. He could hear Sharmi and Ravi in the living room, talking in low, conspiratorial voices. Sometimes, when he paused to listen, he caught a word or two—something about "the next phase," or "when we’re alone later," or just Sharmi’s laugh, clear as glass.



He dusted the side tables, moving in slow, deliberate lines, taking care not to miss a single speck. His mind replayed the way Sharmi had cut him down in front of Ravi, how she’d handed him the cleaning caddy like a leash, how Ravi’s smirk followed him every time he looked up. His cheeks still burned.



As he knelt to wipe the baseboards, Vinod glanced back at the living room. Sharmi and Ravi had changed positions; now Sharmi had her legs curled up on the sofa, head propped on her hand, while Ravi sat cross-legged on the rug, closer than before. Their conversation had gone quiet, the kind of quiet that makes a person want to strain and listen.



He heard the words "after dinner," and then, in Sharmi’s lower register, "I want to show you something." Ravi grinned, not even trying to hide the gleam in his eyes. Sharmi flicked her gaze to Vinod and then back to Ravi, lips curling in a way that made it clear he was the only one who mattered.



Vinod went to the kitchen, wiped the countertops, stacked the tea cups, and made sure the handles all faced the same way. When he returned, Sharmi and Ravi were huddled over a phone, laughing at something on the screen. Ravi’s hand rested on Sharmi’s knee, casual and sure, and Sharmi’s fingers drummed lightly on his knuckles.



He finished vacuuming the hall, then stood at attention, waiting for Sharmi to check his work.



She didn’t hurry. She took a slow sip of water, set her glass down, and wandered over to the shelves by the window, where Vinod had started his chores. Ravi followed, hands in his pockets, head cocked to one side.



Sharmi ran a finger along the top of a picture frame, then held it up. The tip was grey with dust. "You missed a spot," she said, not angry, just matter-of-fact.



Vinod felt the bottom drop out of his stomach. "I’m sorry," he said. "I’ll redo it right now."



She pointed at another shelf, this one with a faint streak where he hadn’t buffed the spray enough. "Here, too. You’ll need to do better than that if you want to keep coming here."



Ravi whistled. "Tough standards," he said, but the smile on his face was half-mocking, half-impressed.



Vinod grabbed the rag and polished the frame again. He did the shelf, then all the others, careful to check with his own finger before moving on.



As he worked, he heard Sharmi whisper something to Ravi—too low for Vinod to make out—but whatever she said, it made Ravi burst into laughter, the sound ringing through the house. Sharmi laughed, too, softer, then let her hand drift down to rest on Ravi’s thigh.



Vinod could feel his pulse in his temples. Every time he looked at them, they were closer, more intimate, more wrapped up in each other. He kept polishing, desperate to finish before he embarrassed himself further.



When at last the shelves were spotless, he put the rag back in the caddy and turned, hands clasped together in front of him.



Sharmi and Ravi were standing now, arms around each other’s waists, talking in low voices. Sharmi saw Vinod, gave him a once-over, and nodded.



"That’s enough for now," she said. "You can go. We need privacy to prepare for our evening."



Vinod nodded, though it felt like a punch. He stood there, frozen, unable to look away as Sharmi and Ravi moved together toward the hallway, their bodies brushing at every step.



As he edged toward the door, he risked a final glance back. Sharmi had already turned her attention fully to Ravi. She leaned against him, her hand spread wide on his chest, and whispered something into his ear.



Ravi laughed, his arm around her shoulders, fingers splayed in her hair.



Vinod fumbled with the doorknob, shoes scbanging on the mat, and let himself out into the dusk. The door closed behind him with a soft, final click.



He stood on the porch for a minute, just breathing. His hands still smelled of lemon cleaner, and he could feel the sweat cooling on his back. Every muscle in his body ached, but his mind was awake, buzzing with a thousand tiny humiliations.



He looked back at the house. Through the window, he could see the blur of two bodies, pressed close in the yellow light.



Vinod’s heart thudded, and he wondered how much he’d have to pay next time, and what new rules Sharmi would make.



He’d follow them, all of them. He already knew it.



He walked home, the image of Sharmi’s hand on Ravi’s chest burning behind his eyelids. He didn’t want to forget it, ever.