Chapter 2: The Kitty Party Introduction
The following afternoon, Samarth stood outside the polished teak door of Flat 4B, the Mehta residence, holding a sleek black leather case he’d borrowed from a physiotherapist friend. He wore simple black trousers and a fitted grey linen shirt, the fabric straining slightly across his shoulders. He looked legitimate, professional. The faint, clean scent of his sandalwood soap replaced his usual musk.
Pinki opened the door. Her eyes sparkled with a barely-contained excitement. She was dressed for the party in a elegant magenta salwar kameez, gold bangles jingling on her wrist. “Ah, the specialist is here!” she announced, her voice carrying into the depths of the apartment. “Everyone, this is Samarth. He worked wonders on my sciatica.”
She stepped aside, and the world of the kitty party opened up.
Mrs. Mehta’s living room was a temple to imported marble and cold, designer lighting. A long glass table was littered with the remnants of lunch: delicate china, empty pastry plates, and crystal glasses holding the dregs of lemonade and white wine. The air smelled of rose perfume, garlic naan, and a slow-burning fuse of feminine curiosity.
Five pairs of eyes turned to him.
Babita was the first to speak. Leaned against the arm of a white leather sofa, she was all sharp angles and assessing gaze. Tall, with a severe bob that framed a finely-boned face. “A masseur? You look a bit… young for that.” Her tone was dry, a challenge disguised as casual observation.
“Technique over tenure, madam,” Samarth said, offering a small, professional smile. He kept his posture relaxed, unthreatened.
“Oh, leave him alone, Babita,” chimed in Shalini. She was perched on a stool, her toned legs visible beneath a short, cheerful kurti. A badminton player’s agility was evident in her posture. She grinned, openly looking him up and down. “If Pinki Ben says he’s good, he’s good. My shoulder’s been killing me since doubles last week.”
In a plush armchair, Anju seemed to be trying to make herself smaller. Soft-spoken, with a gentle, rounded face and anxious eyes, she clutched her dupatta tightly. She offered a hesitant, fleeting smile before looking at her lap.
Near the balcony, Rashmi observed everything with the calm detachment of a CEO. Impeccably dressed in a tailored cream silk suit, her grey hair cut in a sharp, modern bob. She didn’t speak, just sipped her wine, her gaze intelligent and unmoving. It was the look she gave quarterly reports before deciding their fate.
And then there was Meena, the maid, moving soundlessly at the periphery with a tray. Her sari was faded but clean. Her eyes, however, were not downcast. They flicked to Samarth, then away, then back again, tracing the lines of his body with a quick, pragmatic hunger. She noticed the way his trousers hung, the subtle, undeniable weight of him. A faint flush crept up her neck.
“Come in, come in,” Pinki trilled, her hand briefly, possessively, on Samarth’s arm. “Don’t be shy. He doesn’t bite.” She paused, a mischievous glint in her eye. “Unless you want him to.”
A collective, hushed giggle rippled through the room, part shock, part thrill.
Babita snorted. “Promises, promises.” But she didn’t look away.
Samarth set his case down. “Mrs. Mehta mentioned some group tension points. Neck, shoulders, lower back. The usual casualties of luxury.” He said it lightly, and Shalini laughed.
“You have no idea. The casualties of husbands are worse.”
“Let’s start with a demonstration,” Pinki said, steering him towards the center of the room. “Babita, you’re always complaining about that knot between your shoulders. Be our guinea pig.”
Babita raised a sculpted eyebrow. “Why me?”
“Because your skepticism is the loudest. Let him silence it.”
With a shrug of feigned indifference, Babita moved to an upholstered stool. Samarth approached. He stood behind her, his presence immediately altering the space around them. The casual chatter died to a murmur.
“May I?” he asked, his hands hovering near her shoulders.
“Go on then, wizard,” she said, but her voice had lost some of its edge.
His hands settled on her. They were strong, warm, immediately finding the corded tension beneath the silk of her blouse. He began to work, thumbs pressing deep, kneading with a firm, knowing pressure. Babita’s sharp inhale was audible. Her head dropped forward slightly.
“See?” Pinki whispered, not to anyone in particular. She was watching Babita’s face, the gradual surrender of her critical frown.
Samarth worked in silence for a minute, the only sounds Babita’s slow exhalations and the distant hum of the AC. He leaned closer, reaching around to work the muscles at the front of her shoulder. His forearm brushed the side of her small breast. A casual, accidental contact.
Babita’s eyes flew open. She didn’t pull away. A slow, deep blush spread from her chest up her neck.
“Better?” Samarth asked, his voice low, near her ear.
She cleared her throat. “Adequate.”
But when he stepped back, she rolled her shoulders, a look of genuine surprise on her face. The knot was gone.
It was as if a spell had been broken, and a door unlocked.
“My turn!” Shalini bounced up, waving a hand. “Right here, this muscle.”
Anju watched, her breathing slightly quickened. Rashmi set her glass down, finally engaging. “What are your qualifications, exactly?” she asked, her voice cool.
“Practical experience,” Samarth replied, meeting her gaze. “A deep understanding of anatomy. And relief.” He held up his hands. “These are my diplomas.”
Rashmi’s lips twitched, almost a smile.
For the next half hour, it was a subtle, electric parade. Shalini’s playful groans as he worked her shoulder, her hand briefly landing on his thigh for balance. Anju, coaxed forward with gentle encouragement from Pinki, nearly jumped at his first touch, then melted under it, a soft, unconscious moan escaping her lips. Rashmi declined a demonstration for herself but watched the others with a new, intense focus.
And always, Meena circled, clearing plates, her gaze a tangible weight. She saw the way the women looked at him—not just at his hands, but at the shift of muscle in his back as he worked, the line of his belt, the formidable bulge that became more apparent as he bent over Anju’s seated form. Pinki saw her seeing. Their eyes met once across the room, and Pinki gave a tiny, imperceptible nod. A secret shared.
As Samarth packed his case, the mood had transformed. The earlier polite boredom was gone, replaced by a charged, restless energy.
“So, do you make house calls?” Babita asked, her voice now smooth, intentional.
“For certain clients,” Samarth said.
“I think I may require a follow-up.” She plucked a card from her purse and handed it to him, her fingers lingering against his. “Evening slots are best.”
One by one, they drifted towards him, under the guise of discussing aches and schedules. Anju whispered a day and time, her face burning. Shalini suggested a session at her place after her gym, “when I’m already warmed up.” Rashmi was last, her approach deliberate. She didn’t whisper.
“Discretion is paramount,” she stated, as if drafting a contract clause.
“It’s the foundation of my practice,” Samarth replied.
She gave a single, satisfied nod and dictated a date and a high-floor flat number in a nearby, more expensive tower.
Pinki watched it all, her heart swollen with a fierce, proud joy. This was her doing. She was the architect of this delicious corruption. She saw the hungry glances, the parted lips, the newly awakened pulse in slender throats.
As Samarth made his way to the door, case in hand, Meena was there, holding it open. Her eyes, dark and direct, met his. She didn’t speak. She didn’t need to. The look held a lifetime of loneliness and a stark, straightforward want. She let her gaze drop meaningfully to his groin, then back to his face, before lowering her eyes demurely.
Outside in the hallway, the heavy door clicked shut, muffling the sudden burst of excited female conversation inside.
Samarth walked towards the elevator, the black case swinging lightly at his side. He pressed the button. The faint, approving ghost of Pinki’s perfume still clung to his shirt, mixed now with the varied scents of the women he’d just touched.
The elevator arrived with a soft ping. He stepped in, alone.
A slow, easy smile spread across his face as the doors closed. The diary in his mind was already filling up.