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.

[V4poison]

Vinod came back the next morning just like he’d promised. He had the new washer, some plumber’s tape, and a shy smile that he tried to keep hidden by pretending to read messages on his phone. When Sharmi let him in, she wore a yellow T-shirt with faded blue track pants, her hair up in a loose bun. She looked like she had just rolled out of bed, but her eyes were sharp and awake.



He fixed the faucet in ten minutes. This time, no water sprayed out, and when he ran the tap, it made a clean, steady stream. He wiped his hands on the rag, put all the tools away, and then lingered a moment longer, as if waiting for a mark on his report card. His stomach twisted. He took a deep breath.



“Uh—Sharmi?” he said, voice so soft he almost missed it himself.



She turned from the cupboard where she was putting away the instant coffee jar. “Hmm?”



He looked at his shoes, then at her, then back at the shoes. “Could I… talk to you? I mean, about something.”



She leaned her hip against the counter. “Go ahead.”



Vinod’s hands shook as he reached into his pocket. He pulled out a small white envelope. It looked even smaller in the kitchen’s bright light, a strange object among the cups and spoons and old grocery lists on the fridge.



“I—I have something for you,” he said, holding it out. His hand hovered in the air.



Sharmi raised an eyebrow but took the envelope. She weighed it in her palm, then squinted at him. “What’s this?”



Vinod tried to swallow, but his throat was dry. “It’s… um, payment. For, uh, your time.”



Her eyebrow went even higher. “For my time? You just fixed my faucet. If anyone gets paid, it’s you.”



Vinod shook his head, his ears burning. “No, it’s not for the faucet. I mean, yes, I fixed it, but—I wanted to ask you something.” He looked at the floor, then at the envelope, then at her face, and then right back to the floor.



Sharmi didn’t open the envelope. She waited.



Vinod’s fingers tugged nervously at the hem of his shirt. “If you don’t mind,” he said, voice small, “I’d like to do more work around your house. Like chores. Or errands. Or whatever you need. But—” He sucked in a shaky breath. “i can even pay you. For letting me.”



For a long, silent second, neither of them spoke.



Sharmi stared at him, head tilted to the side. “You want to pay me,” she repeated, slow and careful, “so you can do my housework?”



He nodded, looking like a kid who’d brought home a dead lizard as a present.



“Why?”



Vinod’s fingers picked at a scab on his knuckle. “I like helping. I mean—I like helping you. It feels nice.” His voice started to go faster, like it was trying to run away. “It makes me happy, but if I just do things, maybe you’ll think I’m being creepy or weird, or maybe you’ll say I’m interfering. So if I pay, it’s like… it’s like I’m not being a bother, because you benefit too.”



He wasn’t sure what he’d said, but now it was all out there, fluttering between them.



Sharmi didn’t laugh. She didn’t even smile. She watched him like she was trying to solve a puzzle.



After a moment, she said, “What chores?”



Vinod looked up, surprised she hadn’t thrown him out. “Anything,” he said. “Sweeping, washing, watering your garden. I’m good with repairs. I can also—” He stopped, embarrassed. “—I can also organize things, if you want. Or fetch groceries. Or, uh, clean.”



Sharmi considered this, lips pursed. “So, you want to pay me to let you clean my house.”



“Yes.”



“How much?”



Vinod’s heart thudded. “Um. I put a thousand in the envelope. For a week.”



She opened it now and thumbed through the crisp hundreds. She didn’t look impressed or offended, just curious.



“What if I say no?” she asked.



Vinod’s mouth twisted. “That’s okay. I just—I wanted to try asking.”



She leaned against the sink, arms crossed, the envelope pressed to her chest. “Most people want to be paid to clean,” she said. “You’re the first who’s offered to pay.”



He nodded, feeling his face flame.



Sharmi was quiet for a few seconds, then said, “Why me?”



Vinod’s lips trembled, but he made himself speak. “You’re nice to me. Not just polite. You… notice things. And when you ask for help, even by accident, I feel useful.” His voice dropped even lower. “Sometimes I worry that if I don’t find ways to help, nobody will want me around.”



He hadn’t planned to say that last bit. It just slipped out. He stared at the floor, humiliated, waiting for the world to end.



But the world didn’t end.



Sharmi was still there, head tilted, studying him like he was a new type of insect. She glanced at the envelope, then at the faucet, then back at Vinod.



“Okay,” she said finally.



He looked up, not sure he’d heard right. “Okay?”



Sharmi tapped her fingers against the sink a few times before answering. “One week trial,” she said at last. She took the envelope, folded it, and tucked it into the deep pocket of her old blue track pants. “You sweep the porch, water the garden, and do laundry on Sundays.” She looked him up and down, measuring his nervous energy like it was another appliance to fix. “You do not come into the house unless you knock and wait for me to let you in. If you want to talk to me, you have to ask for permission first. Understood?”

Vinod’s reply was instant, urgent. “Yes. Absolutely. Thank you,” he stammered, glasses sliding halfway down his nose as he nodded too hard.

Sharmi uncrossed her arms and leaned closer, voice low but not unfriendly. “Why the rules?” she asked, looking at him with that steady, curious stare.

Vinod’s hands were locked together in front of him, knuckles pressing white. He tried to keep his voice even. “Rules help. I don’t always know what’s okay or not. Sometimes I get things wrong.” He chewed his lip. “I’d rather you tell me exactly what you want. It’s easier to do a good job that way. I don’t want to… overstep.” He didn’t say it, but the word lingered between them: “again.”

Sharmi turned away, filled a glass of water, and drank half. She set the glass down and took a moment. Her reflection, sharp in the microwave’s chrome, seemed to be thinking too. “So, you want this to be like a job, but you pay me,” she said, just to hear it out loud.

Vinod’s face reddened, but he nodded. “Right. A job, but… the opposite. I mean, you’re the boss, but I pay you instead.”

Sharmi found herself smiling, the edges of her mouth curling despite herself. She didn’t know why it amused her, but it did. Maybe it was Vinod’s awkwardness, or the way he seemed both desperate and hopeful at the same time. Maybe it was because, for once, someone needed her in a very clear, practical way—and was even willing to pay for the privilege.

She took another look at the envelope in her pocket. “How did you decide on a thousand?” she asked.

Vinod hesitated. “I looked online. That’s what some cleaners get in a week, but I figured I should pay more since—since it’s not normal. The arrangement, I mean.” He wrung his hands. “If it’s not enough, I can add more.”

Sharmi’s eyebrows went up, but she didn’t say no. She just nodded, like she was filing the information away for later. “You might as well start tomorrow,” she said. “Just the porch and the garden at first. If you do a good job, we’ll see about the laundry.”

Vinod’s head bobbed again. “Thank you. I’ll do my best. I promise I’ll be early.”

Sharmi closed the cupboard and turned to leave. Before she did, she glanced back at Vinod, who was still standing by the sink, eyes wide and posture straight, like a soldier waiting for orders. She thought for a second, then added, “There’s a list of groceries on the fridge. If you want, you can pick them up on your way.”

He nodded, so eager now that his voice almost cracked. “Okay. Will do.”

Sharmi left the room, and Vinod stood there for a moment, heart hammering, not sure if he was supposed to go or wait for more instructions. When it was clear she wasn’t coming back, he shuffled out, his shoes making almost no noise on the tile.

Vinod felt his shoulders loosen, like he’d set down a heavy backpack. “I’ll be here early,” he promised.



“Not too early,” Sharmi said, a hint of smile in her voice. “I like to sleep in on Sundays.”



He smiled back, small but honest. “I’ll wait for your signal.”



Sharmi snorted. “You’re impossible.”



But she said it with a smile. Vinod walked out of her house feeling taller than he’d ever been.



As he stepped onto the street, he looked up at her window, half-expecting her to be there already. But the curtain was closed.



He grinned to himself and walked home, thinking about tomorrow.

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


After Vinod left, Sharmi stood in the kitchen for a long time, turning the envelope of money over in her hand. She didn’t open it at first. She just held it, feeling the smoothness of the paper and the way it barely weighed anything. She set it down on the counter, but then picked it up again, rolling it between her fingers. Finally, she slipped a nail under the flap and opened it.



The bills inside were neatly arranged. She counted them once, then again. A thousand rupees—ten blue notes, all crisp, barely folded. She tapped them against her palm, watching the way the edges lined up. It wasn’t much, but it was real. Money for nothing, or for something she hadn’t even decided she wanted yet.



She sat down at the kitchen table and looked out the window. The neighborhood was quiet except for the distant sound of a television, and the occasional street dog barking at shadows. Sharmi watched a moth beat itself against the porch light. She thought about Vinod: his anxious hands, his careful words, the way he looked almost relieved to hand her the envelope.



She poured herself another glass of water, then set the envelope beside it and stared at both for a while. She felt her heartbeat slow. She liked the envelope best when it was in her hand.



When the sun went down, she wandered into her bedroom and turned on her laptop. She sat cross-legged on the bed, screen casting blue light across her face and arms. She opened a search window and typed in: “paying for chores.”



The results were all wrong. Ads for maids, cleaning services, a few government job postings. She refined it: “paying neighbor to do chores.” Still nothing good. She changed the words again: “paying to do chores.” Closer. Some blog posts about obsessive cleaning and a single link to a forum titled “Financial Domination.”



She clicked.



The page loaded slow. It was mostly anonymous users, with pixelated avatars and usernames like “queenofcoins” and “debtdaddy.” She skimmed the posts, not understanding most of the slang, but catching enough to get the idea: some people wanted to pay to be told what to do. Some wanted to pay just for the chance to clean, or organize, or even just wait to be told what to do. There were rules. There were fees, tributes, punishments for breaking the rules. There were even lists of chores, spelled out like contracts.



Sharmi grinned. Not a big grin, just the small one she used when she solved a Sudoku puzzle in her head.



She opened a new tab and started a blank document. She typed: “Vinod Chore Rules.”



She listed them out, neat and simple, like the forum said.



- Must knock before entering



- Must ask permission to speak



- Must pay extra for personal items (laundry, bathroom cleaning, etc.)



- Weekly tribute increases by 10%



- Can request special tasks for bonus payment



She paused after each rule, thinking about how Vinod would react to them. She imagined his face: nervous, but excited. She pictured him waiting at the gate, envelope in hand, shoes already dusted, hoping to be useful. It made her want to laugh, but not in a mean way.



She made a second list: “Possible Rewards.”



- Verbal praise (“Good job, Vinod”)



- Allow him to have tea together after chores are finished



- Let him organize a shelf in her kitchen



- Thank him with a smile



She considered punishments, too, but that made her laugh for real. What could she do—ban him from sweeping the porch? Maybe that would hurt more than anything.



Sharmi flipped to the forum again, scrolling through more posts. Some were funny, some a little sad, but all of them had the same undercurrent: someone wanted to control, and someone wanted to be controlled. In her house, she had always done everything for herself, just to prove she could. Now she was being paid to let someone else do it. The power shift felt new, but also comfortable, like a sari that fit just right.



She closed the browser. She wrote a few more lines in her notebook, listing possible tasks for the week: weeding the garden, cleaning the ceiling fan, replacing the broken drawer handle. She doodled a box for “bonus tasks,” then went back and underlined it twice.



She looked at the envelope again. It sat on the bedside table, a little slouched from being opened, but otherwise still perfect.



Sharmi picked it up and ran her finger along the edge. She wondered how much Vinod would pay, week after week. She wondered if he would ever quit, or if she would get bored first. She didn’t think she would.



After a while, she turned on her phone and scrolled to Anjali’s number. She hit call and waited.



Anjali answered on the third ring. “What’s up, darling? Still awake?”



“You won’t believe what happened today,” Sharmi said, voice bright. “Remember that shy neighbor I told you about? He just offered to pay me to let him do my chores.”



There was a pause, then a squeal. “What? Wait, what? Tell me everything. No details left out, okay?”



Sharmi laughed and started from the beginning. The yellow faucet, the envelope, the way Vinod’s hands shook. She told Anjali about the rules she was writing, the forum, the feeling of power. She listened to her friend gasp and giggle on the other end, and felt the smile on her own lips get bigger with every word.



By the time she hung up, the envelope was still in her hand.



She put it under her pillow and slept easy.

[V4poison]

The next Sunday, Vinod woke before sunrise. He lay on his narrow cot, staring at the white ceiling as the fan spun lazily above him, stirring the already-warm air. He tried to quiet his mind, but thoughts kept rushing in. What if she changed her mind? What if she told him to leave? Or, worse, what if she smiled at him with pity, and returned the envelope?



He dressed carefully: plain blue t-shirt, black track pants, and a pair of sandals he’d scrubbed the night before. He combed his hair, brushed his teeth until his gums tingled, and wiped his glasses three times on his old handkerchief. Then, with trembling hands, he took the envelope from his desk drawer and checked the bills once more. Ten new hundred-rupee notes, edges aligned, no creases.



At 6:58, Vinod stood outside Sharmi’s gate. He’d arrived too early. The air was thick with the smell of last night’s rain and the faint, sugary stink of gulmohar flowers from down the lane. He waited, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, eyes flicking up to the house every few seconds. His hands clutched the envelope so tight that the corners went soft.



At 7:05, a faint thud sounded from inside, followed by slow, purposeful footsteps. The main door opened. Sharmi stepped out, her hair still wet from the shower and falling over one shoulder. She wore a loose white kurta and black leggings. Her eyes met his, unreadable.



“Morning,” she said, voice flat.



“Good—good morning,” Vinod replied, forcing himself not to stammer.



Sharmi’s gaze moved to the envelope in his hand. She didn’t reach for it. Instead, she waited, silent, making him take the first step. Vinod swallowed and held the envelope out, both hands, arms extended like a gift to a goddess.



Sharmi took it. She didn’t thank him. She opened it in front of him, thumbed through the notes, then folded the envelope in half and slipped it into the pocket of her kurta. She glanced back at Vinod, expression blank.



“Come in,” she said, and turned away. Vinod followed, the familiar jolt of nerves shooting through his legs.



The porch was already swept. He’d done it yesterday, as practice. The red tiles gleamed, but a few yellow leaves had blown in overnight. He made a mental note to pick them up.



Inside, the living room was neat and smelled like sandalwood. Sharmi sat on the sofa, one knee crossed over the other, and waited for Vinod to stand in front of her. She gestured to a stool. He sat, perching on the edge, hands in his lap.



She pulled out a small spiral notebook, opened to a page covered in neat writing.



“Review,” Sharmi said. She pointed at the list. “Porch. You swept, but you didn’t clean under the shoe rack. The corner was dusty. See?” She raised her eyes to his.



Vinod nodded. “I’m sorry. I’ll do better.”



“Garden,” she continued. “You watered everything, but you missed the rosemary. It was drooping.”



Again, Vinod nodded. His heart raced, thumping hard in his chest. He wanted to explain, to say that the rosemary was behind the hibiscus and maybe he didn’t see it, but he knew it would sound like an excuse.



“Groceries,” she said, flipping the page. “You got everything except the right brand of rice. I only use India Gate Basmati. Please remember.”



“Sorry,” Vinod whispered, voice shaky.



Sharmi closed the notebook. “You did well, but you need to be more careful. I expect improvement next week.”



Vinod’s face burned. But when Sharmi nodded, just once, a small movement that said “good enough,” he felt relief flood through him. He looked at her hands, then at her feet, then at her face. She was not smiling, but her eyes were a little softer.



“I will do better,” he said, meaning it.



Sharmi stood, walked past him, and paused in the hallway. “Laundry is in the basket by the bathroom,” she said. “Porch needs to be swept again. And water the plants. All of them.” She pointed at the notebook. “No mistakes.”



Vinod stood, legs shaking. “Yes. I’ll get started right now.”



He started for the porch, but turned back. “Do you want tea?” he asked, unsure if he was supposed to.



Sharmi considered this. “Yes. Two spoons of sugar, no milk.”



Vinod’s heart thudded. “I’ll bring it.”



He hurried to the kitchen, careful not to bang the kettle or drop any spoons. As he waited for the water to boil, he peeked into the garden. The rosemary plant did look wilted. He touched its leaves with gentle fingers, feeling a pulse of guilt and then a burst of determination. He would not make the same mistake twice.



Back in the living room, Sharmi accepted the tea without a word. She sipped, her eyes never leaving Vinod as he dusted the shelf under the window and picked up the stray leaves from the mat. Every time she looked at him, his heart beat faster.



He finished the chores, brought the laundry basket to the back verandah, and returned to find Sharmi still sitting on the sofa. She closed her notebook and stood.



“Next Sunday, same time,” she said. “If you want to do more, tell me before Saturday.”



Vinod nodded, dizzy with happiness. “Thank you,” he said, and almost added “ma’am” but caught himself.



Sharmi watched him for a moment, then walked him to the door. “Don’t forget the envelope,” she said. “Every week. In cash.”



He agreed, burning with embarrassment but also something like pride. He left her house feeling lighter, but also hungry for more—more tasks, more rules, more of her attention.



When he got home, he marked next Sunday on his calendar. Then he sat at his desk, staring at the clean white envelope he’d set aside for the next payment, and counted the days.


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

All week, Vinod counted down the days to Sunday. He finished every office task by Wednesday, did extra overtime, and lined up his own house so perfectly that even his mother would not find a single missed spot. By Saturday night, he could barely sleep.



Sunday morning, he stood at Sharmi’s gate at exactly 7:00 a.m., envelope in hand. The notes inside were fresh and flat. He rehearsed his lines: "Good morning. I’m ready. What would you like me to do today?" But when the door opened, the words got stuck in his throat.



Sharmi wore a dark blue T-shirt with faded jeans. Her hair was tied back in a neat ponytail. She took the envelope wordlessly, checked the contents, then tucked it into her back pocket. She didn’t bother to invite him in—just pointed at the garden.



"Start with the porch. There’s dust under the shoe rack again. Then sweep the side yard, and water every plant, not just the ones that look thirsty."



Vinod nodded and set to work. The broom was already leaning against the wall, as if she had known he’d come. He crouched and swept slowly, making sure to push every line of dirt into perfect rows. He got down on hands and knees to clean under the shoe rack, ignoring the sharp edge that bit into his thumb. Sweat dripped down his nose, making the tile slick.



From the living room window, Sharmi watched him work. She didn’t smile, but every few minutes she’d tap the glass to point out a missed corner, or a speck of leaf he’d overlooked. Vinod hurried to correct each mistake.



When the porch gleamed, Sharmi opened the front door and tossed a plastic dustpan at his feet. "Good. Now the shelves in the hall. Top to bottom. Take out everything and wipe it down. Don’t break anything."



Vinod scurried inside, hands still gritty from the broom. The hall was lined with open shelves: books, glass figurines, old family photos. He moved each item carefully, arranging them on the floor, then wiped the wood with a damp cloth. The higher shelves made his arms ache, but he didn’t slow down. He wanted to impress her, to show that he could keep up.



As he finished the bottom shelf, Sharmi appeared beside him, arms crossed. She looked at the items he’d lined up on the floor.



"Put them back the way you found them," she said, voice level. "If you move even one photo, I’ll know."



Vinod’s hands trembled as he replaced each item. The glass elephant, the fading picture of a boy on a tricycle, the tiny brass bell that left green dust on his fingers. He put the bell back twice, sure it was crooked the first time.



Sharmi inspected the shelf, running her finger along the wood. She nodded once, then moved on.



Next was laundry. She led him to the back veranda, where a plastic basket overflowed with clothes. There were towels, bedsheets, and a pile of her own clothes—t-shirts, jeans, and at the very bottom, a tangled mess of bras and underwear. Vinod’s mouth went dry.



"Fold everything. Sort by type. If you mix up the sets, you’ll do it all again," Sharmi said. She watched for a moment, then left him alone with the basket.



Vinod sat cross-legged on the floor, hands shaking. He started with the towels, smoothing each one and stacking them in neat piles. Then the bedsheets, which he folded along the seams like origami. When he reached Sharmi’s clothes, he tried not to think too hard, but every soft shirt and faded pair of leggings made his heart race.



The underwear was the hardest. He picked up a lacy black bra, the strap slipping through his fingers. He folded it into a tight square, then placed it at the bottom of the stack. Each time he touched one of her panties, he blushed, hoping no one could see the heat rising in his face. But Sharmi was there at the kitchen window, arms folded, eyes locked on him.



She waited until he finished the entire basket. Then she came over, picked up a single bra from the pile, and held it up.



"You missed a stain," she said, matter-of-fact. "Do it again."



Vinod bowed his head. "I’m sorry. I’ll wash it right now."



He took the bra to the sink and scrubbed the spot with soap, rinsed, and wrung it out. His hands shook the whole time. When he finished, he returned to the basket, folded everything again, and arranged it even neater than before.



Sharmi checked every stack. This time, she found nothing wrong.



"You learn fast," she said. Her mouth twitched, almost a smile.



Vinod wanted to thank her, but he bit his tongue. He was not sure if he was allowed.



She sent him to the backyard next. There was a row of empty pots stacked against the wall and a scattering of torn wrappers and dried leaves in the dirt. Vinod spent an hour picking up every bit of trash, scbanging mud from the cracks, and arranging the pots in a perfect line. Sweat soaked his shirt and stung his eyes.



Halfway through, he heard Sharmi’s voice from behind.



"Why are you so careful?" she asked. She stood at the back steps, mug of coffee in hand.



Vinod turned, wiping his forehead with his sleeve. "I just—want to do it right. For you."



She sipped her coffee. "You don’t need to be perfect. But you should listen. If I say I want something, I want it done exactly that way. Not more, not less."



Vinod nodded, cheeks burning. "Yes. Understood."



She pointed at a single, crushed cigarette butt by the fence. "That too," she said, then walked away.



Vinod picked it up, pinched it between two fingers, and threw it into the trash. He double-checked the yard, then stood waiting, hands behind his back.



Sharmi came out a minute later. She looked over the work, then at Vinod. "Good," she said. "You’re done for now. You can wait on the porch if you want."



Vinod sat on the edge of the step, heart thudding. He stared at the lines of dirt between the tiles, thinking about Sharmi’s voice. He replayed every word she’d said. The only thing that mattered was that, for a moment, she had almost smiled.



When she called him back inside, he jumped up and hurried to the door. Sharmi was standing in the hallway, holding a grocery list.



"Can you get these tomorrow?" she asked. "If you forget anything, don’t come back next week."



He took the list, careful not to let his hand shake. "I’ll get everything," he promised.



Sharmi’s eyes lingered on him for a second. She didn’t say anything, but the look was enough.



Vinod left her house, head spinning. The smell of soap and wet earth clung to his hands. As he walked home, he found himself glancing down at his palms, half-expecting them to still be touching her clothes.



He couldn’t wait for next Sunday.





The next Sunday was hotter than usual. Vinod arrived at Sharmi’s gate at 6:55, sweat already dampening his shirt under the armpits. He waited, envelope in hand, until exactly seven, then knocked.



Sharmi opened the door after a few seconds. She wore a loose olive-green dress, hair pulled into a messy bun. She took the envelope, counted the money in front of him as always, then led him to the living room.



“Shelves again. You missed a streak on the glass last time,” she said.



Vinod got to work. He moved each figurine and photo with care, wiped the glass with a new cloth, then polished it dry. He checked each surface twice, afraid to leave even a smudge. Sharmi watched from the doorway, arms folded tight.



“Good,” she said, after a long silence. She moved on to the kitchen.



Vinod followed, head lowered. Sharmi pointed at the dining table, where a basket of laundry sat, waiting.



“Fold these,” she said. “Sort by type and color. Underwear goes at the bottom of the pile.”



Vinod nodded and sat cross-legged on the floor. He folded each towel, t-shirt, and sock with trembling fingers. The pile grew neat and straight. When he reached her underwear—soft, bright, smelling faintly of rose detergent—his hands shook so hard that one slipped and dropped a pair on the tile.



He scrambled to pick it up. Sharmi said nothing, but watched him with a calm, steady stare.



When the basket was empty, Vinod looked up at her, silently asking if it was good enough.



Sharmi walked over, lifted the stack, and inspected it from all angles. She ran her hand over the folded clothes, then set them back down. She picked up one of her bras, checked the lace for stains, and returned it to the bottom of the pile.



“Better,” she said. “You’re improving.”



Vinod felt his heart swell, even though the words were simple. He wanted to thank her, to say something, but held back.



Sharmi led him to the backyard. She pointed at the line of flower pots.



“Arrange them by height. No gaps,” she said.



Vinod worked in the sun, sweat running down his spine. He moved each pot, heavy and rough, scbanging the bottoms against the concrete until every rim lined up exactly. He checked the row three times, squatting at eye level to make sure it was perfect.



When he finished, Sharmi walked the length of the pots, arms behind her back like a teacher at inspection. She nodded, then turned to Vinod.



“That’s all,” she said. “You can go.”



Vinod felt a surge of relief and pride. He wanted to thank her, to ask if he’d see her next week, but as he opened his mouth, she raised her hand.



“Wait,” Sharmi said. Her eyes pinned him in place. “From now on, you must ask permission before you speak to me. Understand?”



Vinod’s mouth went dry. For a second, he didn’t move. Then he nodded, quick and eager.



“Yes,” he said, then remembered. “May I say yes?”



Sharmi smiled, just a twitch at the corner of her mouth. “You may.”



Vinod’s whole body buzzed. “Yes, ma’am.”



She nodded, pleased. “See you next week. Bring the envelope.”



He turned to go, dizzy with the new rule. At the gate, he paused, waiting for her to say something else. But Sharmi just stood there, door open, watching him with that same calm authority.



As he walked home, Vinod replayed every second in his head. The chores. Her voice. The new rule. His hands still smelled of soap and her detergent, and every step felt lighter than the last.



He couldn’t wait to pay again, and again, and again.

[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.





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



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.





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



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.

[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.

[V4poison]

hope you guys like it.... comment for more......

[milfomaniak]

You wrote like a english literature type english. I like it. I like erotic literature slowly developed story. You just wrote an erotica on my fav genre.

I am wondering if it is fantasy or real life incident. But excellent plot. new thoughts. I like your style.

But you could describe more about Sharmi's figure and character. You could inginte the suspicion like male underwear in her laundry basket before Ravi came in her house. Vinod afraid ask about it and thinking about it a lot. The more vinod will suspect and sharmi will fool him the more story will get exciting, hot.

Now I don't know what is Sharmi's planning when he called her office frnd or he is a boyfriend? Make sharmi a cunning, smart lady at the same time very horny for Ravi.

Make more rules.

Make a situation where Ravi will fall on trap and even if he wants to get out of this stuation he cannot go back anymore.

Let me know if I can share my thoughts which you may like to add. Otherwise you are going good.

[V4poison]

You wrote like a english literature type english. I like it. I like erotic literature slowly developed story. You just wrote an erotica on my fav genre.

I am wondering if it is fantasy or real life incident. But excellent plot. new thoughts. I like your style.

But you could describe more about Sharmi's figure and character. You could inginte the suspicion like male underwear in her laundry basket before Ravi came in her house. Vinod afraid ask about it and thinking about it a lot. The more vinod will suspect and sharmi will fool him the more story will get exciting, hot.

Now I don't know what is Sharmi's planning when he called her office frnd or he is a boyfriend? Make sharmi a cunning, smart lady at the same time very horny for Ravi.

Make more rules.

Make a situation where Ravi will fall on trap and even if he wants to get out of this stuation he cannot go back anymore.

Let me know if I can share my thoughts which you may like to add. Otherwise you are going good.

hi thanks for your valuable comment.
i purposefully left sharmi's description so that the readers can imagine their own features of sharmi.
and regarding the characterization, sharmi is an adventurous women and is now exploring the opportunities that are laid before her through ravi and vinod. ravi being a strong alpha male and vinod is a simp.  
will try to include the scenarios that you wished. 
i would like to keep this as realistic as possible though it will be difficult as this is more like an fantasy story.

[V4poison]

Kishore had chosen the corner table for a reason: it was just far enough from the kitchen that you could hear each other over the hiss of the coffee machine, but close enough to smell the fresh batter on the dosa pan. He checked his watch again. 1:19 p.m. Two minutes late. He stirred the sambar with the back of his spoon and watched the entrance, a soft frown pinching the bridge of his nose.



Vinod entered five minutes later, shoulders hunched, hands clutching his backpack straps so hard his knuckles were white. His glasses were smudged, and his hair was still damp at the edges, like he’d showered in a hurry but not dried off. The shadows under his eyes were new—deep half-moons that made his whole face look older, or maybe just beaten down.



“Sorry,” Vinod said, sliding into the plastic chair. He put his bag on his lap instead of the floor, and when the waiter came, he shook his head without even glancing at the menu. “Just water, please.”



Kishore gestured at the masala dosa already waiting for him. “Order something,” he said, voice gentle. “It’s my treat. Come on, man.”



Vinod shook his head. “Not hungry. Had lunch at home.”



Kishore didn’t argue. He just waited, using the edge of his dosa to scoop up potato filling, then swallowing it without tasting. He’d known Vinod since college—knew how he could talk for hours about Linux kernels but would clam up at the smallest personal question. Kishore prided himself on being the “fixer” in their friend group, the one who’d sit with you outside the exam hall or loan you ten thousand rupees when your internship fell through.



But the last few weeks, Vinod had been a different animal. He came late, left early, and never replied to group messages. Kishore had started inviting him to lunch just to get a read.



They ate in silence for a bit. Vinod tapped at his phone under the table, thumb flicking over the screen in frantic, tiny movements. Once, he slipped the phone out, checked a notification, then set it face-down on the table as if ashamed.



Kishore watched all of it, saying nothing until Vinod started fishing in his bag. Vinod pulled out a small envelope and a crumple of cash, counting the bills with both hands hidden beneath the surface of the table.



Kishore put down his spoon and leaned in. “You’ve been skipping meals for weeks now. What’s going on?”



Vinod looked up, startled. The envelope disappeared into his bag. “Nothing,” he said, voice thin. “Just—saving up. For a new computer. Prices are crazy these days.”



Kishore didn’t buy it. “You’re not eating, you look like you haven’t slept in a month, and you’re counting money like you’re about to pay off a kidnapper.” He smiled a little, trying to make it a joke. “Tell me. What’s really going on?”



Vinod shrugged. “Work is busy. My team’s launching a new feature—lots of overtime.”



Kishore nodded, but kept his eyes on Vinod’s hands, which were now locked together and shaking a little. “I talked to Ramya from HR,” Kishore said, voice lower. “She says you’ve been taking unpaid leave. Said you’re working some night jobs, too. And—” He paused, choosing the next words carefully. “I know you borrowed money from Aravind, but you never told me why.”



Vinod went still, only his eyes darting left and right. “It’s nothing,” he whispered. “Just a rough patch.”



Kishore set his spoon down, wiped his hands on a napkin, and leaned across the table so close that Vinod had to look at him. “Is this about that neighbor woman? Sharmi?”



For a second, it looked like Vinod might bolt. His whole body tensed, lips pressed tight, and his right hand closed so hard on the edge of the table that his fingers went white.



Then he relaxed, but only a little. “No,” he lied, voice shaky. “She’s fine. I mean, we talk sometimes, but that’s it.”



Kishore didn’t buy it. “Aravind said you asked for money with no explanation, just ‘please, it’s urgent, I’ll pay you back.’ You started doing odd jobs, walking dogs, even. You’re sending cash transfers to someone every Sunday. And the last time I checked, you don’t even like dogs.”



Vinod’s eyes flicked to the clock, then the door, then back to his hands. “You wouldn’t understand,” he said, so quietly Kishore had to lean in further.



“Try me,” Kishore said. “We’ve been friends since college. Whatever this is, I can help.”



Vinod’s reply was a faint, hopeless laugh. “Nobody can help.”



Kishore reached out, his fingers resting on the back of Vinod’s hand. “Listen, if she’s blackmailing you, or—”



Vinod jerked his hand away so fast he knocked over the water glass. It rolled, splashing cold water all over the table and soaking both their sleeves. The waiter rushed over with napkins, but Vinod waved him away, face red, eyes locked on the wet plastic tabletop.



“I have to go,” Vinod said. He stood up so quickly his chair squeaked. “There’s a deployment at two. I’ll call you later.”



Kishore tried to catch his arm, but Vinod was already backing away, grabbing his backpack and fumbling the envelope into it. “Vinod—” Kishore said, but the word died in his throat.



Vinod turned and hurried out of the café, pushing past the glass door into the bright, punishing sunlight. Kishore watched him go, the trail of water on the floor marking each hasty step.



He sat back down and stared at the empty chair. For a long time, he didn’t touch his food. He just watched the sunlit air above the table, as if hoping the answers would float up from the puddle still glistening on the plastic.



Kishore picked up his phone and scrolled to Vinod’s number, but didn’t dial. He wanted to text, to reach out, but the words felt hollow. He set the phone aside, finished his dosa in silence, and paid for both meals.



As he left the café, he glanced back at the water stain on the table. It was already drying, but the outline was still there—a faint, desperate mark, refusing to fade.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Sharmi vacuumed the living room twice before her mother arrived, not because the carpet needed it, but because the hum of the machine drowned out the words replaying in her head. She dusted the TV, wiped the coffee table, arranged the stack of magazines just so—Vogue, The Atlantic, an old Economist from before the pandemic. No “Women’s Era,” no devotional calendar. She checked her reflection in the stainless-steel fridge, straightened her hair, and practiced smiling without showing her teeth.



The doorbell rang at 4:02 p.m., which meant her mother had waited two full minutes in the street to avoid seeming eager. Sharmi opened the door and let Nalini in, taking the inevitable once-over with a practiced blankness. Nalini wore a pale blue cotton sari and pearl earrings, hair tied tight at the base of her neck. The faint scent of Pond’s powder drifted in as she stepped over the threshold.



“Nice,” Nalini said, lips pursed as she surveyed the entryway. “Very modern.”



“Thank you, Amma,” Sharmi said, stepping aside. She closed the door and led the way to the living room, where the table was already set with two plain white mugs and a plate of Britannia Marie biscuits. Nalini’s eyes flicked from the mugs to the magazines to the clean, unadorned walls.



“No rangoli?” she asked, glancing at the porch through the window.



“I haven’t learned,” Sharmi lied.



Nalini clucked her tongue. “You should. Even Priya knows how to draw them now.”



Sharmi poured tea from the metal pot, careful not to spill. The mugs were from IKEA—no saucers, no gold rim, just plain, solid white. She handed a mug to her mother, who took it with two fingers and set it down immediately.



“So. How is the work-from-home life?” Nalini asked, sitting on the edge of the couch like a visiting inspector.



Sharmi sat across from her, crossing one leg over the other. “Fine. Quiet. I get a lot done.”



Nalini picked up her mug, frowned at its lack of weight, then set it back down. “I heard from your father that you’re not accepting the TCS offer.”



Sharmi nodded. “I told him already. I’m consulting for two US startups. More pay, less politics.”



Nalini’s jaw tightened. “It’s not permanent. No benefits. Who will give you leave when you have a baby? Or when your child is sick?”



Sharmi sipped her tea. “I don’t have a child.”



“Not yet,” Nalini said. She snapped open her purse and pulled out a stack of glossy color photographs, bound with a thin pink ribbon. She untied it with a practiced motion, as if she’d done this a hundred times.



“Your cousin Priya just got engaged,” Nalini began, thumbing through the top photo. “Doctor, settled in Hyderabad. Her parents are so proud.”



Sharmi smiled. “I know. She posts every meal on Instagram.”



Nalini paused, lips tight. “Sharmi, please don’t talk back. Your father is worried. He thinks you don’t respect the family.”



Sharmi kept her smile in place, but her left hand gripped the mug tighter.



“I brought some good proposals,” Nalini went on. She slid the stack of photos across the table. “All respectable families. We can arrange a video call, if you like.”



Sharmi glanced at the stack but didn’t touch it. The men in the photos looked like variations on a theme: white shirt, serious face, a faint hint of desperation behind the smiles. She wondered what their mothers had told them.



Nalini took a Marie biscuit, breaking it with a sharp snap. “It’s time, Sharmi. You’re not getting any younger. I can’t defend your choices forever.”



Sharmi’s knuckles turned white around the mug. “I’m not asking you to.”



Nalini shook her head. “You don’t understand. People talk. They see you living alone, no steady job, no husband. They ask questions. It’s not safe.”



Sharmi wanted to say, “Let them ask,” but instead she looked at the mug and nodded.



“Your cousin Priya is two years younger, and already—”



“Engaged to a doctor in Hyderabad,” Sharmi finished, too quickly.



Nalini sighed, a long, theatrical exhale. She leaned forward, voice softer now. “Sharmi, beta, you are clever. But the world is cruel to clever girls. They will only hurt you. Let us help. Please consider these matches.”



Sharmi’s eyes stung, but she smiled anyway. “Okay, Amma. I’ll look at them.”



Nalini relaxed, her shoulders dropping a fraction. “Good. Your father will be happy to hear that.”



They drank their tea in silence. Nalini nibbled another biscuit, dusted crumbs off her sari, and scanned the room again.



“Why don’t you have any family pictures?” she asked.



Sharmi shrugged. “Didn’t want to put holes in the walls.”



Nalini shook her head, half in pity, half in judgment. “Your grandfather would faint if he saw this. A home with no God photos, no family history—just these magazines and books.”



Sharmi looked at the magazines, wondering if she should hide them next time.



“I have to go,” Nalini said, rising suddenly. “There’s a temple event at five.”



Sharmi stood. “Do you want to take some tea for Appa?”



Nalini hesitated, then nodded. “Yes. He likes it strong.”



Sharmi poured the tea into a travel mug, wrapped the handle with a napkin, and handed it to her mother. Their fingers touched for half a second—Nalini’s skin cool, dry, steady.



“Call me,” Nalini said at the door. “Let me know if you choose anyone.”



“I will,” Sharmi promised.



She watched her mother walk down the driveway, sari swishing, head held high. Only when the car pulled away did Sharmi let her smile drop.



She walked back to the living room, sat down, and exhaled through her nose. She closed her eyes, letting the leftover heat from her mother’s presence settle into the cushions. She waited for her heart to slow, then reached for her phone.



She opened her notebook—an old college diary, the kind with plastic tabs and ruled pages. The cover read “Rules,” written in blue ballpoint. The first page was filled with bullet points: “No calls after 9 p.m.,” “Always knock before entering,” “Payments every Sunday.” She flipped to the next blank space and wrote: “50% increase in weekly tribute. Effective immediately.”



She pressed her pen so hard the tip nearly broke through the paper.



Then she called Vinod.



He answered on the second ring. His voice was thinner than she remembered, like it was coming from far away.



“Yes, Sharmi?”



She spoke quickly, before she could lose her nerve. “Starting this week, I need more. Fifty percent extra. Non-negotiable.”



Vinod didn’t speak right away. She heard a tremor in the line, maybe a breath or a sob, but it was gone before she could be sure.



“I—I can try,” he said. “But I don’t know—”



She cut him off. “You only get to talk when you pay extra now. That’s the new rule.”



A long, heavy silence. Then a soft: “Yes. I understand.”



She hung up and set the phone on the table. Her pulse was steady now, her jaw relaxed.



Sharmi looked at the white mug in her hand. The rim was chipped. She liked it that way.



She closed the notebook, set it on the pile of magazines, and let herself smile. Not for her mother, not for anyone else. Just for herself, and the way the world kept spinning, even as the rules changed underneath it.

[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.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------


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.

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


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.


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

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.


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


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.

[Rizzi1198]

Nice story good build up

[milfomaniak]

I think its very early to introduce dick cage. I don't know what's your plan but going good. the way you are going there is no suspense for readers.

let's see what happens next...

[Opp69]

nice starting, looking for update.