Chapter 14: Rashmi's Penthouse Submission
The message from Rashmi came an hour after he left Pinki’s, a single line on the encrypted app: The package is at the concierge. 8PM.
Samarth spent the afternoon at the gym, pushing his body through a punishing routine of heavy weights, the burn in his muscles a simple, honest counterpoint to the tangled webs he navigated. He thought of Meena’s frightened eyes, of Pinki’s calculating smile. He let the iron absorb it all.
At 7:55, he stood outside the sleek glass tower in the business district, a world away from the gated community’s sleepy lanes. The air here smelled of rain on hot asphalt and money. The concierge, a man in a tailored uniform, handed him a small envelope without a word. Inside was a single keycard. No apartment number. It would only work for one floor.
The private elevator was silent, walls mirrored. He watched his own reflection—a man in dark jeans and a simple black tee, a gym bag slung over his shoulder. He looked like he belonged in the service entrance, not heading to a penthouse. That was the point, he supposed.
The doors opened directly into a foyer. The penthouse was a study in minimalism: pale marble, vast windows showing a glittering cityscape, furniture that looked like art. The only warmth came from the scent of jasmine, real this time, from a bowl of floating flowers on a side table.
Rashmi stood by the window, her silhouette sharp against the lights. She was still in her work clothes—a tailored navy blazer and skirt, heels that probably cost more than his motorcycle. Her hair was a perfect, dark twist. She didn’t turn.
“Lock the door,” she said. Her voice was cool, the same tone she likely used to dismiss underperformers.
He slid the deadbolt. The sound was final.
“Pinki said you enjoy… directing the performance.” She finally turned. Her makeup was flawless, but up close, he could see the tension at the corners of her eyes, a slight tremor in the hand that held a crystal glass of water. No alcohol. “I don’t direct. I set parameters.”
She walked to a modernist sofa and placed her glass on a coaster with precise care. From a lacquered box, she drew out two long silk scarves, the color of cream. She held them out.
“The bedposts are reinforced.”
He took the scarves. The silk was cool, slippery.
“I will blindfold myself. You will remove my clothes. Not with your hands. Use your teeth. Use whatever you need to, but not your hands.” She enunciated each word, a contract being laid out. “Then you will use your mouth on me. Until I am incoherent. Then, and only then, will you fuck me. Is that within your… skill set?”
He met her gaze. This was her domain, her control. But the request, the specific denial of his hands, was a surrender disguised as a command. “Yes.”
A flicker in her eyes. Relief, maybe. Or fear. She led him to the bedroom. It was as stark as the living room, dominated by a wide platform bed with four solid pillars. She handed him a black sleep mask, then turned her back, presenting the elegant twist of her hair.
He approached. Up close, he caught the faint scent of her perfume over the jasmine—something expensive and glacial. He removed the pins, one by one, letting her hair fall down her back in a dark wave. Her shoulders tightened. He unzipped the skirt, let it pool at her feet. The blazer followed. She stood in a lace-trimmed satin camisole and half-slip, stockings held by a garter belt. She was, as Pinki had noted, spectacularly full-figured. The cultured banker’s armor was now just delicate lingerie.
She took the blindfold and tied it securely over her own eyes before lying back on the duvet, positioning her wrists near the posts. A silent offering.
He tied the scarves. Not too tight, but firm, with knots that wouldn’t slip. The silk whispered against her skin, against the polished wood. With her vision gone, her other senses sharpened. He saw her chest rise and fall, quicker now.
He knelt at the foot of the bed. He used his teeth on the strap of a garter, tugging it free. The action was clumsy, animal. She gasped. He did the same to the other, then the stockings, rolling them down with his face, his mouth grazing the inside of her thighs. She began to tremble. The camisole strap was harder; he had to nip at it, his breath hot on her collarbone. When the fabric finally fell away, exposing her heavy breasts, she let out a shaky sigh.
He followed the contract.
He used his mouth, his tongue, the flat of his teeth, exploring every curve and hollow of her—the softness of her belly, the dramatic swell of her hips, the sensitive skin behind her knees. He avoided where she wanted him most, drawing out a low, frustrated groan from her throat. When he finally put his mouth on her, she arched off the bed, a choked sound escaping her. She was already slick, her taste sharp and clean.
He brought her to the edge again and again, stopping each time she neared the peak, feeling her thighs clamp around his head, hearing her curses shift from English to rapid-fire Marathi. Her controlled facade shattered into primal, writhing need. The sophisticated banker was gone. In her place was a woman unspooling.
“Please,” she begged, her voice raw. “Now. I can’t—please.”
He freed himself and drove into her in one deep, claiming stroke. The sound was wet, loud in the silent room. Her back bowed, her breasts shaking with the force of his thrusts. The blindfold was damp with either sweat or tears. He fucked her with a relentless, pounding rhythm, the bedframe knocking a soft, steady beat against the wall. She screamed, the sound tearing from her throat, unfettered and ugly and real. It seemed to go on forever, her body convulsing around him before he finally let his own control break, spilling into her with a groan.
For a long time, the only sounds were their ragged breaths and the distant hum of the city. He untied the scarves, then the blindfold. Her eyes were puffy, smudged with mascara. She looked ruined. Beautifully ruined.
He lay beside her, and she immediately curled into him, her face pressed against his chest, her body still shaking with aftershocks. The scent of sex and sweat had overtaken the jasmine.
“I sign million-dollar loans,” she whispered, her voice hoarse. “I fire men twice your age. My husband hasn’t touched me in seven years. He’s afraid of me.” She looked up, her gaze clear and startlingly vulnerable. “I haven’t made a sound like that since I was a girl.”
She fell asleep like that, clinging to him. He watched the city lights through the window, thinking of Pinki’s schedule, of Meena’s silent fears. Here, in this sterile penthouse, he’d performed another service. Another release valve for a different kind of pressure.
His phone vibrated on the floor. A message from Pinki: How was the storm?
He didn’t reply. He extricated himself carefully, dressed in the dark, and let himself out. The elevator descended in silence. The concierge didn’t look up as he passed.
The night air outside was a slap of humidity. He pulled his helmet on, the familiar roar of his bike a welcome noise. As he navigated the empty streets, he realized Rashmi hadn’t asked him to stay, hadn’t asked for any promises. She’d gotten what she needed. For now.
Another transaction complete. The machine, oiled and managed by Pinki, hummed on.