Adultery Vinod- A Financial Cuckold.

[V4poison]

Anjali had chosen the café, a tiny hole-in-the-wall on CP Ramaswamy Road with barely enough room for three tables. The walls were yellow and uneven, decorated with fake ivy and thumbtacked Polaroids of strangers making peace signs. The only music was the whirr of the ceiling fan, and the cinnamon smell that clung to the battered couch by the window. Sharmi found Anjali perched there, elbow on the armrest, eyes glued to her phone, and a lipstick-stained glass of iced latte sweating in front of her.



“Late again,” Anjali called, without looking up. “I was about to write your obituary.”



Sharmi dropped her bag on the sofa, plopping down beside her. “Only five minutes. Google Maps lied.”



“You could have run. Isn’t your new life giving you energy?” Anjali set the phone aside and took a loud, performative slurp of latte. “So, tell me! Was the tribute hike a success or not?”



Sharmi grinned. She leaned in, voice lowered, as if the nearby barista might be listening. “He paid. No protest. Not even a bargain.”



Anjali’s eyes widened. “How much now?”



“One thousand five hundred,” Sharmi whispered, pride leaking into every syllable.



Anjali laughed, loud and bright. “You could charge more, you know. Chennai boys are useless with their money.”



Sharmi shrugged, savoring the aftertaste. “I might, but this is already fifty percent more. Last time I increased it, he said nothing—just started bringing it in new envelopes.” She spun her glass by the rim. “He even calls them tributes now. It’s become a ritual for him. I just wish—” She stopped, not sure what came next.



Anjali filled the pause. “You wish he’d grovel more? Maybe clean your sandals with his tongue? Let’s be honest, you live for this.” She kicked Sharmi lightly under the table.



Sharmi blushed, but the admission was easy. “I do, actually.” She rolled her eyes. “My mother wants me to get married, settle down, be some HR wife. She brought a literal stack of groom profiles last week. I said I’d look, but…” She shrugged, trailing off.



Anjali’s voice went soft, teasing. “You could be a queen, you know. You already have a slave.” She flicked a napkin at Sharmi. “So what are you going to do with him next?”



Sharmi sipped her filter coffee, the bitter edge grounding her. “I don’t know,” she said, almost dreamily. “It’s funny, I think he’d do anything if I just made it a rule.”



Anjali smirked. “You have to escalate, obviously. Make him beg. Make him suffer.”



Sharmi tilted her head, pretending to consider. “I could ban him from talking unless I say so. Or make him bring groceries in person, even if he’s sick. Or…” She let the word hang, unsure what would top the last week.



Anjali leaned in, her smile a secret. “You want my real advice?”



“Always,” Sharmi said, meeting her gaze.



“Control more than just his money.” Anjali’s voice dropped, sly and almost wicked. “You want to really own him, try chastity.”



The word landed like a pebble in a still lake.



“Chastity?” Sharmi echoed, incredulous. “Like—belts? That’s medieval.”



Anjali grinned. “Not belts, you cavewoman. Devices. Cages. There’s a whole subculture online. Boys buy them, girls lock them, and nobody gets to come until you say so.” She let that image hang in the air, eyebrows arched. “You could literally hold the key to his dick. Isn’t that the purest domination?”



Sharmi laughed, the sound startlingly sharp in the tiny café, and immediately smothered it with her hand. She darted a glance at the barista, who’d looked up from his phone with mild annoyance, before leaning in conspiratorially. “You’re sick,” she said, but there was a quick, nervous energy to her fingers as they tapped and untapped the glass rim. Part of her wanted to dismiss Anjali’s crazy ideas with a playful insult, but the other part—the one that had been secretly thrilled by every escalation so far—couldn’t resist the dare. “He would never—” she began, then faltered, as a memory of Vinod’s long, hesitant silence on their last call flickered in her mind. He had sounded so desperate to please her that she almost felt sorry for him, but not quite.



Anjali’s eyes sparkled with the mischief of someone who’d just lobbed a smoke bomb into a crowded room. “You’d be surprised. Boys like him are basically begging to be locked up.” She unlocked her phone and began typing at a frantic pace, thumbs flying over the keyboard. “Seriously, there are entire websites about this. Forums, shopping sites, even blogs where people post their…progress.” She caught Sharmi’s eye and smirked. “You’d have all the power, Sharmi. Literally in your hands. Doesn’t that sound fun?”



Sharmi tried to look disinterested, but couldn’t help peering at the phone as Anjali angled it her way. The screen was a parade of objects that looked halfway between hospital equipment and sex toys. Some were thick and clear like candy dispensers, others metallic and imposing, and a few were so tiny and dainty they looked like jewelry for a Barbie doll. What united them was the tiny lock at the tip, each one a silent promise that whoever wore it was not in charge.



“Is this… real?” Sharmi whispered, unable to tear her gaze away from a chrome contraption with blue rubber bands and a heart-shaped padlock. “Like, people actually…wear these?”



“Read the reviews!” Anjali said, gleeful, as she scrolled through the listings. “Most of the buyers are guys, but the girls are the ones writing all the rules. There’s even a special category for ‘keyholders’—you set the password, decide when to unlock, and even get notifications if he tries to cheat.” She snorted. “It’s like being an HR manager, but for his dick.”



Sharmi stifled another giggle, then pressed her lips together, uncertain. “I’m not sure I want to be in charge of his penis. That sounds like a lot of…responsibility.”



Anjali rolled her eyes and sipped her latte. “You already are, darling. You just haven’t made it official.” She set the cup down and leaned in, her voice low and persuasive. “Think about it. He’s completely obsessed with you, he’s giving you money for nothing, and he spends all his time fantasizing about how to make you happy. You could make him do literally anything.”



Sharmi felt her cheeks turn warm, but her mind was running ahead, conjuring the logistics. Would she have to see Vinod in person to put the thing on him? Was he even the type who’d know how to order one? Would he cry, or would he beg, or both? The idea was so absurd—but also, disturbingly, not out of character. Vinod was the type who’d once offered to write her college papers just to “help out,” and blushed when she asked him to foot her phone bill. If she asked him to wear a cage, she honestly didn’t know what the answer would be.



The phone screen updated. Anjali had typed “chastity device” into Instagram, and now a wall of models—mostly Western, mostly men—showed off their locked crotches with a pride that bordered on religious. There were even memes: a pink cartoon padlock declaring “Keyholder’s Rights!” and a photo of a sobbing anime boy captioned, “Day 37: Mistress still hasn’t unlocked me.” Sharmi was half-revolted, half-hypnotized.



“Don’t you think it’s a little…much?” she said, turning away, but not before taking a mental screenshot of a glittery plastic cage that came with star-shaped stickers.



“Makes it more fun,” Anjali said. “It’s like a game. You just have to decide the rules.”



Sharmi shook her head, but with less conviction than before. She thought of her mother’s stack of groom profiles, the parade of awkward boys who’d tried too hard to impress her, all of them so rigid in their expectations: doctors, engineers, consultants, each promising stability and tradition. Vinod, for all his weirdness, was at least interesting. The idea of having that kind of effect on someone—of making him squirm with a single message—was intoxicating.



“What would I even say?” she muttered, almost to herself.



Anjali grinned, sensing victory. “Just tell him you read about it online and want to try. He’ll freak out, but he’ll say yes. These boys always do.” She finished her latte with a flourish, then leaned back, stretching like a cat. “You could even make him buy it himself. Or better, make him come to you and kneel while you lock it on him. Tell him it’s proof of his commitment, or whatever.”



Sharmi’s mind wandered through the possibilities. She imagined Vinod, face red and hands shaking, kneeling on the living room rug while the click of the tiny lock sounded between them. She pictured the aftermath: Vinod texting her at midnight, desperate and frustrated, begging for release; Sharmi coolly ignoring his pleas until she felt like granting mercy. The thought made her flush with a heady, unfamiliar pride.



“But what if he hates it?” she said, forcing herself back to reality.



“Then he’s not the right slave for you,” Anjali replied, half-joking, half-serious. “Don’t overthink it. You’re just exploring. Worst case, he freaks out and you get a good story for brunch.” She winked. “Best case, you get a boyfriend who never cheats and always pays his rent on time.”



Sharmi laughed again, but this time it was a softer, more genuine sound. She felt lighter, emboldened. The idea was wild, but the world hadn’t ended when she’d asked for money, or when she’d made him call the payments ‘tributes.’ Maybe this was just the next logical step.



“Okay,” she said, reaching for her phone. “Send me the link. I’ll think about it.”



Anjali beamed, victorious, and immediately started typing. “You won’t regret it. Trust me.”



As Sharmi saved the page to her bookmarks, she caught a glimpse of her reflection in the café window. She looked almost the same as always—hair slightly messy, glasses slipping down her nose—but the eyes were different: brighter, more daring. She wondered if her mother would recognize her now, or if even Vinod would.



The girls finished their drinks, trading stories about college and family and the weirdness of Chennai malls, but Sharmi’s mind kept circling back to the cage and the lock. When they finally parted ways at the street corner, Sharmi ducked into an auto and, before she could talk herself out of it, ordered a medium-sized, clear plastic chastity device to her office address.



She spent the rest of the evening imagining what she’d say to Vinod when it arrived.



Sharmi stared at the photos, mind racing. The thought of Vinod—so stiff and anxious, unable to argue, unable even to touch himself without her permission—was electric. She closed her eyes, picturing his face when she showed him the device, the way his voice always trembled when he said her name.



She opened her eyes. “You’re actually evil,” she told Anjali.



Anjali flicked her hair. “I just see potential. He’d never quit you, if you pushed him this far.”



Sharmi nodded, slow and thoughtful. “Maybe he’d hate it.”



“Only if you give him the option,” Anjali said, deadpan. “That’s the point. If you can make him wear this, you win. He can never leave.” Her lips curled. “And he’ll pay double, trust me.”



They sat for a few minutes, the idea settling between them like a dare.



Finally, Sharmi broke the silence. “You think I should do it?”



“I’d pay to see his reaction,” Anjali said, raising her glass. “You’re already the boss. Might as well take it to the finish line.”



Sharmi’s fingers tapped the glass, hard enough that the ice cubes rattled. “I’ll research it tonight,” she said, half to herself. She felt awake, alive, like her whole body was full of sparking wires. “Maybe you’re right. He’s already trained, just waiting for the next rule.”



Anjali smiled, softer this time. “You’re braver than me, darling. I’d have caved and married an engineer by now.”



Sharmi thought about her mother’s stack of groom photos, and about Vinod, kneeling to sweep the dust from her porch. “I don’t want a husband,” she said. “I want a worshipper.”



“Lucky for you,” Anjali said, “you have one.”



They clinked coffee glasses, the sound bright and clear. Outside, a scooter backfired and a street vendor shouted in the distance, but inside the café, nothing moved but the slow, sly smiles growing on both their faces.



Sharmi left the café an hour later, head spinning, heart thrumming in her chest. She walked back to the office with her phone already out, googling “chastity device discreet shipping” and “keyholder guide for beginners.”



She couldn’t wait to see what happened when she told Vinod the new rule. Even thinking about it made her fingers tremble. The power was addictive, more than any drug, and she wanted the next dose now.



By the time she reached her desk, she had bookmarked three sites, compared four models, and written a message to Vinod: “Next week, bring an extra thousand. You’ll find out why soon.”



She pictured his face as he read it, the nervous smile, the helpless agreement.



She pictured his hands—never again allowed to touch himself, unless she said so.



Sharmi closed her eyes, and grinned.
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Sharmi closed the door to her bedroom with a soft click, then locked it. Even though her parents were a city away, she moved out of habit, careful as a thief. She set her laptop on the bedsheet and plugged in the charger, then curled up cross-legged with her back against the headboard. Her thumb ran along the trackpad, but her attention flickered between the soft glow of the screen and the racing pulse at her throat.



She started with a search: “Chastity device discreet shipping India.” The results popped up instantly, a mix of adult toy shops, obscure Reddit threads, and a weirdly large number of YouTube reviews featuring giggling Westerners in suburban kitchens. Sharmi clicked through the first link, a bland-looking site in basic blue and grey, the only decoration a cartoon lock and key at the header.



She scrolled the home page, then clicked on “Male Devices.” There were dozens. Some were plastic, some steel, some transparent like water bottles. The shapes were more alien than erotic—half the models looked like small vacuum cleaner parts, or the inside of a dentist’s tool tray. Each came with a set of rings, a complicated locking mechanism, and warnings about “proper hygiene” and “safe duration.”



Sharmi skimmed the product descriptions, occasionally stopping to zoom in on a photo. One device boasted “lightweight, medical-grade polycarbonate” and “suitable for beginners,” while another had a gleaming chrome finish and a five-star rating for “impossible to escape.” Sharmi’s mouth twisted into a smile as she read the reviewer comments:



“My wife locked me up for a week, and I only got out when she forgot the key in her purse.”



“It pinches if you get hard, but I guess that’s the point lol.”



“Very comfortable. You forget you’re wearing it (almost). Highly recommend for any keyholder.”



She selected three options, adding each to her “Compare” tab: one basic clear plastic cage, one with a pink finish (“for fun and femininity!”), and a third with a Bluetooth remote lock. She laughed, picturing Vinod’s face if she forced him to sync his penis to an app. The idea felt both insane and perfect.



Sharmi clicked between the models, weighing the pros and cons. The pink one was funny, but it looked cheap, and the last thing she wanted was a “security failure” at the wrong moment. The Bluetooth was cool, but too complicated—she wanted full, physical control. The basic clear plastic cage, with its simple brass padlock and easy-clean design, was the winner. It was discreet, according to the reviews, and came with a velvet pouch and spare keys.



She bit her lip, scrolling through the size guide. There were diagrams, each more graphic than the last, but the instructions were written in cheerful, technical language: “Measure the flaccid penis length. Do not round up. If unsure, choose a smaller size for maximum security.” Sharmi eyed the screen, trying to guess what Vinod’s numbers would be. She settled on “medium,” partly to avoid hurting him, mostly because it was the safest bet.



The site offered an “express shipping” option for an extra three hundred rupees. Sharmi selected it without hesitation. She filled in the billing details, double-checking the address and the “Plain brown box, no sender info” checkmark. Her heart beat faster as she reviewed the order summary: “Chastity Cage, Medium, Clear Polycarbonate, 1,499 INR, Express Shipping.”



She hovered over the “Pay Now” button, then pressed it. The confirmation screen popped up instantly, promising a tracking code within twenty-four hours.



She sat back, exhaling slowly, the adrenaline still fizzing in her arms and legs. For a minute, she wondered if she had gone too far. But then she pictured Vinod—silent, obedient, locked up for her pleasure and nobody else’s—and the shame melted into a hot, giddy delight.



She checked the time: 11:37 p.m.



She opened WhatsApp and typed:



“I have a special surprise for you. Come over tomorrow evening at 7.”



She hesitated, then added a devil emoji.



Vinod read the message almost instantly. Three blinking dots appeared, then a single reply:



“Yes ma’am. I’ll be there.”



Sharmi smiled, wider than she had all day. She closed her laptop, slipped it under the pillow, and turned out the light.



Tomorrow couldn’t come fast enough.

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Vinod arrived at 6:55, even though Sharmi’s text had specified 7:00 p.m. sharp. He loitered on the landing, sweating through a checkered blue shirt he’d ironed twice, and wiped his palms again and again on the back of his jeans. He’d replayed her message in his mind a hundred times: “I have a special surprise for you. Come over tomorrow evening at 7.” The devil emoji at the end gave him shivers, even now.



He pressed the bell with his knuckle. It buzzed, and his stomach did a slow somersault.



The lock clicked. Sharmi swung open the door in a loose white T-shirt and tiny black shorts, hair pulled into a ponytail so tight her cheekbones looked sharp enough to slice paper. She smiled, all teeth and calculation. “Right on time,” she said, voice warm enough to mask the command underneath.



Vinod stepped in, careful to leave his shoes exactly parallel to the wall. The apartment smelled like incense and lemon cleaner. He looked for hints about the “special surprise,” but nothing had changed since last week—the same glass-topped table, the same dusty bookshelf, the same potted snake plant wilting in the corner.



Sharmi closed the door, then moved past him, motioning for him to follow. “Living room,” she said. “Sit.”



Vinod perched on the very edge of the sofa, hands folded so tight his knuckles ached. Sharmi sat across from him in the armchair, crossing her legs with a little toss. She eyed him for a moment, then reached behind the cushion and produced a small brown box. It was plain, taped at the seams, no label visible. She placed it on the coffee table, then rested her chin on her hand.



“This is for you,” she said. “Open it.”



Vinod’s hands shook as he peeled off the tape. Inside, nestled in a bed of bubble wrap, was a clear plastic contraption with a brass lock and a tiny, gold-colored key. The device looked almost medical—two interlocking cages, a hinge, and a handful of small rings in a Ziploc bag. At first, he didn’t understand.



He looked up. Sharmi’s eyes were wide, fixed on his face. “Well?” she prompted.



Vinod blinked. “What is it?”



Sharmi smiled, slow and satisfied. “A chastity cage,” she said, as if announcing a dessert course. “You’ll wear it for me. And I’ll keep the key.”



Vinod stared at the device, then at her, then back again. His ears went hot. “You want me to…” He trailed off, unsure how to finish.



“Wear it,” she said. “All week, unless I say otherwise.” She leaned forward, elbows on her knees, her voice going velvet-soft. “It’s the ultimate rule, Vinod. No touching. No cumming. Not even by accident.” She raised an eyebrow. “That’s what you wanted, right? To give me control?”



Vinod swallowed. His mouth was dry as flour. He tried to speak, but all that came out was a shaky exhale.



Sharmi reached over and tapped the box. “There’s instructions. You put it on in the bathroom, then come show me.” She laced her fingers together and rested her chin on top, the way a principal waits for a student to confess. “If you’re too scared, you can leave now. I’ll never ask you for another tribute. You’ll never have to see me again.”



She paused. “But if you want to prove you’re mine, you’ll do it.”



Vinod’s hands trembled as he lifted the cage out of the box. It was lighter than he expected, but the inside was lined with small ridges that looked… functional. He flipped through the instruction card. The drawings made his face flame even brighter.



He looked up at Sharmi, desperate for permission to speak. She nodded, just once.



“Does it hurt?” he managed, voice barely audible.



Sharmi shrugged. “Only if you get hard. But that’s the point. It’s supposed to remind you who you belong to.” Her smile was both cruel and kind. “Don’t worry. If it’s too much, you can tell me. But you don’t get to decide when it comes off.”



Vinod’s chest rose and fell in quick, shallow breaths. For a moment, he imagined running out of the apartment, never coming back. But the part of him that had always loved her rules, her punishments, her gentle cruelty, was louder.



He nodded, slow, almost reverent. “I’ll do it,” he said.



“Good boy,” Sharmi replied, her voice low and honey-thick. She stood and handed him the box. “Go on. I want to see how it looks.”



Vinod took the box and padded to the bathroom, his legs wobbly. The bathroom was spotless, smelling of rose soap and bleach. He set the box on the counter, peeled off his jeans, and read the instructions three times before daring to try. His hands shook so badly he fumbled the first ring. After two false starts, he managed to assemble the device and fit himself inside.



It was snug, barely there, but the moment he clicked the lock shut it felt final—like a collar, but worse. He tucked himself back into his pants, hands shaking, and carried the key out in his palm.



Sharmi was waiting in the hallway, arms folded. “Show me,” she said, and Vinod obeyed, opening his hand to reveal the tiny golden key.



She plucked it from his palm and dangled it from her finger, admiring the way it caught the light.



“From now on,” she said, “you’re locked. You only get release when I say.” She slipped the key into her pocket, then patted his cheek. “If you ever break a rule, it stays on for another week. Understood?”



Vinod nodded, dizzy with embarrassment and arousal.



“Good,” Sharmi said. “Now go wash the dishes.”



Vinod moved to the kitchen, every step tight with the device’s presence. He filled the sink, careful not to splash. Behind him, Sharmi settled into the sofa, scrolling her phone, the key safe in her pocket.



He scrubbed plates, his heart thudding out a new rhythm—one that matched the lock, the rules, and the silent promise he’d made.



This was forever, or as close as he’d ever get.


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Vinod woke up to the feeling of the plastic ring pinching at the base of his cock. He groaned, rolled to his side, and spent a full minute trying to will away the morning wood that now had nowhere to go. The cage did not budge. The ache throbbed in dull pulses, and he was already sweating by the time he shuffled to the bathroom.



He pissed with difficulty, aiming the stream through the tiny slot at the end of the tube. Cleaning was a nightmare, but he managed, using a hand mirror and a q-tip as described in the device’s “Hygiene Guide.” When he finally got dressed, the pressure of his briefs and jeans was different. Every step, every bend, reminded him what he’d agreed to.



By the time he reached the office, the ache had become a second heartbeat.



He spent the first hour of the workday shifting in his chair, never finding a comfortable angle. When he leaned forward, the edge of the cage pinched his skin; when he slouched, it tugged at his balls and sent a shockwave of heat up his spine. His mind was less on the bug report than on the gold key now hanging from a chain around Sharmi’s neck. He imagined her tapping it against her teeth, daring him to ask for mercy.



At 10:13 a.m., his phone buzzed.



Sharmi: “Hope you’re working hard :)”



He replied with a thumbs-up, not trusting himself to say more. She immediately sent another message:



“Thinking of you locked up tight. Don’t try anything naughty ;)”



Vinod swallowed, his face burning. He glanced at his colleagues—three men and one woman, all oblivious. The idea that none of them would ever guess what he was hiding under his trousers both mortified and thrilled him. He typed out, “Yes ma’am,” and pressed send.



At lunch, he barely tasted his food. The canteen’s masala dosa might as well have been cardboard. His friend Kishore asked, “Everything okay, man? You look like you’re sitting on a cactus.”



Vinod forced a laugh. “Just didn’t sleep much last night. Deployment stress.”



Kishore bought it, but the girl from HR kept looking at him, brow wrinkled in suspicion.



By 3:00 p.m., Vinod had made five unnecessary trips to the bathroom. He checked for chafing, for escape, for any sign that his body might reject the device. There was none. Each inspection ended with him staring at his own caged penis, wondering how long he could last before begging Sharmi for release.



At 4:46, another message.



Sharmi: “How does it feel knowing I control your pleasure?”



He didn’t answer. He was too busy picturing her at home, maybe on her bed, spinning the key on her finger, deciding if he deserved to come this week or the next or never.



He left the office at 6:00, walking home in the orange streetlight. The cage made him move slower, but he was afraid to rush—afraid it might dig in and leave a mark. He kept his head down the whole way.



When he reached his apartment, the phone buzzed again.



Sharmi: “Come tomorrow at 8. Bring cash.”



Vinod replied instantly: “Yes ma’am.”



He ate a sad microwaved paratha for dinner, then took a shower, spending a full half-hour on the rituals of washing and drying and making sure nothing got trapped in the device. The plastic was already starting to smell faintly of sweat and soap, but he didn’t dare take it off. Not unless she told him.



At 8:30, his mother called.



“Vinod, kanna, are you eating well? You sound tired,” she said, the words wrapping around him like a blanket he’d long outgrown.



“I’m fine, Ma,” he lied. “Just work.”



She pressed on. “You sound breathless. You’re not sick, no?”



“Just a long day. I’m okay. Don’t worry.”



But she was silent for a moment, and Vinod imagined her frown, the one that meant she wasn’t fooled. “You’ll come home for Pongal?” she asked.



He nodded, forgetting she couldn’t see. “Yes. Of course.”



She made him promise, twice, before hanging up. He let the phone rest against his cheek, feeling both relief and guilt.



Afterward, he lay on his back in bed, staring at the ceiling, hand unconsciously drifting down to the plastic curve locked around his cock. The ache was still there—part pain, part pleasure. He wondered what would happen if he just broke the lock, if he called Sharmi and told her he couldn’t do it.



But he already knew the answer. The thought of her smile—disappointed, amused, victorious—made the ache even sharper.



He drifted to sleep with the cage tight around him and the image of her, holding the key, burned into the backs of his eyelids.



When he woke up, it was worse. He didn’t want it to end.


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Vinod arrived at Sharmi’s at 7:01 p.m. on the dot, heart beating so hard he thought she might hear it through the door. He wore a washed-out green T-shirt and old joggers, the soft waistband a relief against the unyielding plastic of his cage. He rang the bell and waited, shifting from foot to foot, doing mental calculations to make sure he’d brought the exact sum of cash in his envelope.



Sharmi opened the door with a flourish. She wore a navy blue tank and loose gym shorts, her skin glowing, a little damp, as if she’d just finished a workout. Her hair was up, but a few wisps clung to her forehead. She grinned, all teeth. “Hi, Vinod. How was your day in your new accessory?”



Vinod blushed so hard he nearly missed her next words.



“Come in,” she said, already turning away. “Take off your shoes and put the money on the table.”



He did as he was told. Her apartment looked brighter today, like she’d left every light on just to make sure he could see every inch of dust he’d missed last time. On the counter was a handwritten list, two pages long, in her careful, looping script.



He set the envelope on the table, then stood at attention, hands behind his back.



Sharmi picked up the list and held it out to him. “I want everything spotless. Dishes, vacuuming, bathroom, the works. And I want my closet reorganized. Last time you put my leggings in the wrong drawer. Don’t do that again.”



Vinod nodded, eyes lowered.



She leaned against the counter, arms folded, watching him squirm. “And remember, no breaks unless I say. Bathroom only if you ask first.” She tapped the list. “Should take you about two hours. If you finish early, I’ll find something else.”



He nodded again, taking the list. The first item was “Dishes – every cup and plate. Use the brush. No lipstick stains allowed.” He started with the sink, filling it with warm water and unscented detergent.



As he worked, Sharmi wandered through the kitchen, occasionally brushing past him to grab a snack or refill her water bottle. Once, as she reached for a box of granola bars, her bare arm grazed his. Vinod’s body went rigid, the sudden pulse of arousal trapped and then snuffed by the unyielding cage. He sucked in a breath, trying to steady himself, but she noticed.



“Is it uncomfortable?” she asked, tilting her head.



Vinod swallowed. “A little,” he admitted.



She laughed. “Get used to it. You’re going to be wearing it a long time.”



He scrubbed faster, making sure every glass was spotless. When he finished, he moved on to vacuuming, careful to go under the sofa and behind the TV stand. As he dragged the canister across the hall, Sharmi sat on the living room couch, scrolling her phone and sipping a lime soda. She didn’t speak, just watched him with half-lidded eyes.



Halfway through vacuuming, she called out, “Come here, Vinod.”



He turned off the vacuum and approached, hands clasped. She patted the cushion next to her. “Sit.”



He perched on the very edge.



She turned her phone toward him. On the screen was a shirtless man, muscles flexed, smiling at the camera. “This guy messaged me today,” Sharmi said. “Should I go out with him?”



Vinod’s mouth went dry. He nodded, because it seemed like the right answer.



She showed him another. “This one’s in Dubai. Makes more money than you, for sure.” She grinned, then flicked her finger, scrolling through a half dozen more. Each one was handsome, confident, everything Vinod wasn’t.



“Which do you think is hottest?” she asked, voice teasing.



Vinod stared at his knees. “I don’t know,” he said.



She laughed, bright and sharp. “Doesn’t matter. these were the profiles my mother sent for my marriage alliance.”



The rest of the evening was a blur of tasks: scrubbing the bathroom tiles until his knuckles hurt, wiping fingerprints from the mirrors, folding laundry with hands that shook every time he touched one of Sharmi’s soft bras or lacy panties. He tried not to think about what would happen if she decided to “punish” him with another week of the cage.



When he finished the list, Sharmi summoned him back to the living room. She wore a long T-shirt now, bare legs curled under her on the sofa.



She pointed to the table. “Did you bring the money?”



He nodded, motioning to the envelope.



She picked it up and counted the notes one by one, licking her finger every few bills. “One thousand five hundred,” she said. “Perfect.” She tucked the money into a drawer, then looked at him, head tilted.



“Did you do everything on the list?” she asked.



“Yes, ma’am.”



She stood, walked over, and ran a finger along the back of his hand. “Let me check.” She made him follow her to each room, inspecting every corner. She found one streak on the bathroom mirror and made him redo it, watching as he buffed it to a shine.



When she was finally satisfied, she smiled, softer this time. “Good boy,” she said, then patted his cheek, the touch both gentle and dismissive. “You can go. Same time tomorrow. And don’t even think about trying to remove that cage—I’ll know.”



Vinod nodded, throat dry.



Sharmi walked him to the door, holding it open as he put on his shoes. Just before he left, she leaned in close, her voice low.



“If you’re ever tempted to cheat,” she whispered, “just remember—nobody else will ever want you like this.”



He nodded again, dizzy with gratitude and shame.



When he got home, he stripped and stared at himself in the mirror: the pink indent of the ring around his cock, the faint outline beneath his briefs, the flush on his cheeks. He had never felt so helpless, or so alive.



He fell asleep thinking about the list she would make him do tomorrow, and the week after, and the week after that.



And what it would take to finally earn the key.

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



Sharmi lay on her back in bed, one leg thrown over the rumpled sheet, phone pressed to her cheek. The lights were out, but the room was alive with the faint white-blue glow of the screen. Anjali answered on the first ring.



“I was waiting for you to call,” Anjali whispered. “Tell me everything.”



Sharmi giggled, muffling the sound against her pillow. “You should have seen his face when I handed him the box. He turned the color of a traffic light.”



Anjali snorted. “Did he actually put it on?”



“Without a word. Went to the bathroom, locked it on, came out with the instructions still in his hand. He looked like he was about to faint, but he did it.” Sharmi rolled onto her stomach, fingers knotting in the sheet. “I told him, ‘This is permanent until I say.’ He almost melted.”



There was a pause, then Anjali said, “Fuck, Sharmi. I never thought he’d actually let you do it. What about at work? Didn’t he chicken out?”



Sharmi grinned. “Nope. He went to the office today, wore it all day. Messaged me every hour. I told him if he cheats, I’ll double the lockup.” She could hear Anjali’s smirk, even across the phone line.



“He’s so pathetic,” Anjali said, in the way only a best friend could. “What did you make him do when he came over tonight?”



“Chores, obviously. I gave him the longest list ever. I even made him reorganize my closet by color. Every time I walked past, I could see him go tense. It’s like the cage is a remote control.” Sharmi laughed, then dropped her voice. “I showed him pictures of hot boys messaging me. He went so quiet, I thought he’d cry.”



Anjali cackled, almost choking. “You are the actual devil. What if he tries to pick the lock?”



“I warned him,” Sharmi said. “If he ever touches it without permission, I’ll break up with him and make him beg to come back. He believes me.”



There was a soft, delighted sigh on the other end. “What are you going to do next? You’ve basically tamed him.”



Sharmi closed her eyes, letting the idea settle. “I don’t know. Maybe I’ll have him watch me get ready for a date. Or make him wait on the balcony while I’m with someone else. The mental torture would be delicious.”



Anjali purred, “You should record his reaction. It’s not fair to keep all this to yourself.”



Sharmi bit her lip, smiling in the dark. “You know what’s the best part? I thought it would get boring, but the more I push, the more he wants it. I raised his tribute and he didn’t even blink. I could probably triple it.”



“Do it,” Anjali said, and they both burst into laughter.



After a minute, Sharmi said, “I promise, I’ll keep you updated. This is the most fun I’ve had in… years?”



“Don’t stop now,” Anjali replied. “I want every detail.”



They talked for a while longer—about work, about their mothers, about the wedding invitations piling up in their inboxes. But Sharmi’s mind kept drifting to Vinod, locked and obedient, counting down the hours until he could kneel at her feet again.



After the call, she lay in bed, phone still glowing in her palm. She imagined the future: new punishments, new rules, new games. Each one made her pulse quicken.



She couldn’t wait to see how far she could go.



She closed her eyes, the curve of the key heavy and perfect against her breast.



Tomorrow, she’d invent a new rule. And the day after, another.



For the first time in her life, Sharmi felt truly free.