Chapter 3: The First Session: Babita
The whiskey glass was cold in Babita’s hand, but the rest of her felt like a live wire. She stood by the floor-to-ceiling window of her bedroom, watching the evening bleed into the city below. The kitty party had ended hours ago, but the memory of those hands—their sure, deep pressure—was a brand on her skin. Her shoulders, usually coiled tight with perpetual irritation, still felt loose, pliable.
Skepticism was her default setting. It had saved her from bad investments and boring men. But that boy, Samarth… he hadn’t just dismantled a knot in her shoulder. He’d picked a lock somewhere much deeper.
When the intercom buzzed, she didn’t startle. She’d been waiting.
“Send him up,” she said, her voice flat.
She didn’t go to the door. She let him find his way, listening to the solid tread of his shoes on her parquet floor. She’d changed into a robe of cobalt blue silk, the kind that felt like water against the skin. It was her armor and her invitation.
He appeared in the bedroom doorway, the same black case in hand. He looked different here, out of the chatter of the group. Larger. The clean lines of his shirt did nothing to conceal the physical reality of him.
“You’re punctual,” she said, not turning from the window.
“You said evening slots were best.”
“I say a lot of things.” Finally, she faced him. The room was dim, lit only by a single lamp on the nightstand and the city’s amber glow. “Put the case down. You won’t need it.”
He did, setting it quietly beside a sleek chaise lounge. He didn’t fidget. He just watched her, his expression unreadable, a faint, patient curiosity in his eyes.
“Pinki talks about you like you’re a miracle worker,” Babita said, taking a slow sip of whiskey. The peat smoke taste grounded her. “I don’t believe in miracles. I believe in cause and effect. In skill. Was that skill today, or just a good parlor trick?”
“You tell me,” he said. “The effect seemed real enough.”
A flash of heat in her gut. Arrogant. Good. “Prove it wasn’t a fluke.”
She untied the sash of her robe. Let it slide from her shoulders. It pooled at her feet, a puddle of dark blue. She stood there, naked in the half-light. Her body was lean, almost boyish, sharp hips and small, high breasts. She saw his eyes travel over her, a slow, comprehensive scan. There was appreciation, but no surprise. No awkwardness.
“Your turn,” she said, her chin tilting up.
He pulled the shirt over his head in one smooth motion. Then the trousers. The briefs.
Babita’s breath caught, sharp in her throat. The clinical descriptions, Pinki’s whispered boasts—they collapsed into absurd understatement. He was thick, heavy, and fully erect, a stark, formidable fact in the muted room. For a second, her commanding certainty wavered, replaced by a purely animal thrill. This was the cause. The effect was a sudden, liquid ache between her own legs.
She recovered quickly, masking the shock with a smirk. “I see. No wonder Pinki’s so evangelical.”
She crossed the space between them. Not with a seductive sway, but with a direct, purposeful stride. She put a hand on his chest, feeling the solid muscle beneath warm skin, and pushed. He allowed it, stepping back until his calves hit the edge of the massive platform bed. He sat.
“Lie back.”
He did, his head on her pillows. She climbed over him, straddling his hips, her knees sinking into the duvet. She looked down at him, reclaiming her dominance from the shock of his body. Her small breasts were level with his face. He didn’t move to touch them. He just watched her, his hands resting at his sides.
“You take direction well,” she said.
“When it’s good direction.”
She guided him inside her. It was a slow, inexorable stretch, a burning fullness that made her eyes want to roll back. She locked them on his instead, holding his gaze as she sank down completely, a hiss escaping her clenched teeth. She was tight, and he filled every inch, a blunt, shocking reality.
Then she moved.
It was not making love. It was a contest. She rode him with hard, driving pistons of her hips, using the leverage of her tall frame to set a brutal, selfish rhythm. The bedframe began a steady, rhythmic protest against the wall. Her short nails dug into the slabs of his pectorals. Her head thrown back, cords standing out in her slender neck.
“Is this,” she gasped, “the technique?”
He smiled then, a flash of white in the dimness. His hands came up, not to guide her or take control, but to grip her jutting hip bones, his thumbs pressing into the hollows of her pelvis. He met every downward slam with an upward thrust of his own, amplifying the force, driving the air from her lungs.
The friction built, a coiling, unbearable tension. Her clever taunts died. Her world narrowed to the splitting sensation of him inside her and the desperate chase for release. Her movements became frantic, less controlled. A sound tore from her throat—raw, guttural, stripped of all sophistication.
She came, shaking, a silent scream on her lips as the waves crashed through her.
She slumped forward, sweaty and spent, her forehead against his shoulder. He was still hard, still inside her. She could feel the relentless, patient throb of him.
After a minute, she slid off him, down the length of his body. Without a word, she took him into her mouth. She was good at this—competitive about it. She used her tongue, flat and firm along the thick vein on the underside, her lips stretched tight. She worked with a focused intensity, one hand cupping the heavy weight beneath. She could taste herself on him, salty and dark.
His breathing changed above her. A low groan rumbled in his chest. She increased the pressure, taking him deeper until her throat relaxed around the head. Her eyes watered. She didn’t stop.
When he came, it was with a sharp, stifled curse. She swallowed convulsively, taking every pulse, not stopping until he was soft in her mouth. She finally pulled away, wiping her lips with the back of her hand.
She lay beside him on the wrecked sheets, both of them breathing in the quiet. The sandalwood incense had burned out. The only scent was sex and sweat and whiskey.
After a long while, she spoke, her voice a hoarse whisper against the quiet.
“Next Thursday. Same time.” She turned her head on the pillow to look at him. The fiery challenge was back in her eyes, but it was quieter now, tempered by a deep, satiated knowledge. “And don’t hold back. I felt you… restraining yourself. Don’t.”
He met her gaze, nodded once.
She watched him dress in the shadows, the easy movement of his body as he pulled on his clothes. He picked up his case, the untouched prop.
At the bedroom door, he paused and looked back at her, a silhouette amid the tangled sheets.
“Goodnight, Babita.”
The front door clicked shut. She rolled onto her back, staring at the ceiling. The ghost of a stretch lingered between her legs. A pleasant, claiming soreness. She reached for the whiskey glass, finished the last warm swallow.
A smile touched her mouth, one he couldn’t see. Pinki, for once, had not been exaggerating.