Chapter 4: Anju's Awakening
The afternoon light in Anju’s bedroom was different. It wasn’t the cynical amber of Babita’s high-rise or the clinical brightness of his massage studio. It was a sleepy, dust-moted gold, filtering through lace curtains that had probably hung there for a decade. The air smelled of detergent and sandalwood soap, a clean, quiet scent.
Samarth stood just inside the doorway, a duffel bag slung over his shoulder—a different kit for a different client. The room was a testament to a life domesticated and then gently ignored. Framed family photos, a neatly made bed with a floral duvet, a ceiling fan turning on its lowest click.Anju hovered by the dresser, her hands clasped. She was wearing a simple salwar kameez, the fabric soft from many washes. Her short hair, as described, was neat and damp at the ends, as if she’d just showered.“You found the place okay?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.
“Your directions were perfect,” he said, setting the bag down. He kept his own voice soft, matching her volume.“It’s a quiet lane.”
“Yes. It is.” She glanced at the bed, then quickly away.A flush crept up her neck.“I made tea. But maybe… you don’t…”
“Tea would be nice.”
She led him to a small living area, her movements fluttery.The tea was already poured, steaming in delicate china cups. He sat on the sofa; she perched on the edge of an armchair, as if ready to flee.
“Pinki didi said you were very… professional,” Anju said, not looking at him.
“I try to be.”
“She said it’s not… it doesn’t have to be like a doctor’s appointment.” This time she did look up, her eyes wide with a mixture of hope and terror.Samarth took a slow sip of the sweet, milky tea. “It’s whatever you need it to be, Anju ji.”
The honorific made her shoulders relax a fraction.She nodded, fiddling with the hem of her kameez. The silence stretched, but it wasn’t the challenging quiet of Babita’s apartment. This was a silence full of unsaid things—years of them.“He… my husband… he travels for work. Very often.” She spoke to her lap. “And even when he’s here, he’s… tired.Or watching TV. It’s been a long time since…” She trailed off, her cheeks burning.“I’m sorry. You don’t need to know this.”
“It’s okay,” he said. “I’m listening.”
That simple permission seemed to undo something in her.Her eyes glistened, but she blinked it away, straightening her spine. “I don’t want to cry. That’s not what I’m paying you for.”
“You’re not paying me to do anything specific,” he corrected gently. “You’re paying me for time. We can just talk, if that’s what you want.”
She shook her head, decisively now.“No. I don’t want to talk.” She stood up, a sudden burst of courage.“Please. Come.”
In the bedroom, the golden light seemed denser.She stood by the bed, her back to him. “Could you… I’m not very good at this.”
He came up behind her, close but not touching. “Just tell me what you like. Or show me what you don’t.”
With trembling fingers, she began to unbutton her kameez. He moved to help, his hands large and steady next to her nervous ones.The fabric fell away, then the salwar. She stood in a simple white cotton bra and panties, her body lush and soft, a contrast to Babita’s sharp angles. Years of motherhood and domesticity had shaped her—full hips, a rounded belly, heavy breasts. She was beautiful in a way that felt real and unperformed.He undressed slowly, letting her watch. Her breath hitched when she saw him, her eyes widening. There was no smirk of challenge, only awe, and a flicker of fear.
“It’s okay,” he murmured, stepping closer.He didn’t grab or dominate. He cupped her face, his thumb stroking her cheek.“We go slow.”
He kissed her then, a soft, exploring kiss. She was stiff for a moment, then melted into it with a whimper, her hands coming up to clutch his arms. He kissed her neck, the slope of her shoulder, tasting the clean soap scent of her skin. He unhooked her bra, letting her breasts fall free, and took his time with them, licking and suckling until her whimpers turned to low moans.
When he laid her back on the floral duvet, she was pliant, her eyes closed. He removed her panties, spreading her legs gently. He kissed the inside of her thighs, working his way inward, until his mouth found her core.She gasped, her back arching off the bed.
“Oh god,” she whispered.“I… no one has ever…”
He didn’t answer with words. He answered with the flat of his tongue, slow, patient circles, building a rhythm as her hips began to move tentatively against his face. Her hands found his hair, not to pull or guide, but to hold on. Her climax, when it came, was a soft, trembling thing, a series of quiet shudders that left her breathing in ragged sobs.
He moved up her body, kissing her stomach, her breasts, her throat.She opened her eyes, dazed.
“Now?” he asked.She nodded, swallowing hard.“Yes. Please.”
He guided himself to her entrance, pressing in with infinite care. She was tight, clenching around him, her face a mask of strained pleasure.He gave her time to adjust, kissing her eyelids, her lips.
“Okay,” she breathed finally.“Okay.”
He began to move, slow, deep strokes. Her legs wrapped around his waist, pulling him in deeper with each thrust. The gentle patience was a lie he told with his body; he could feel the raw power of his own need coiled beneath the surface, but he held it back.For her.After a while, her whispers changed. “Don’t… don’t be too gentle.I’m not glass.”
He changed his angle, drove deeper. Her moan was louder, more urgent.“Turn over,” he said softly.
She did, moving with a new eagerness. She got on her knees, her head bowed, the short, damp strands of her hair exposing the nape of her neck. He positioned himself behind her, one hand gripping her hip, the other tangling in her short hair. Not a brutal yank, but a firm, claiming hold.
“Is this okay?”
“Yes,” she panted, pushing back against him.“Yes.”
He entered her again, and this time he didn’t hold back. The pace was still measured, but the force was undeniable. Each thrust pushed her forward, the grip on her hair keeping her from sinking into the pillows. The bedframe, sturdier than it looked, took up a solid, rhythmic knock against the wall.
“Samarth,” she cried out, the name a revelation on her lips.Her voice, usually so soft, was ragged and loud. It was the sound of someone rediscovering a part of themselves they’d thought was gone. Her body shook around him, a second, stronger climax tearing through her.
He followed, his own release a wave of heat and pressure, spilling into her with a groan he muffled against her shoulder.
For long minutes, they stayed like that, connected, breathing in the quiet room.The fan clicked overhead. A distant scooter horn sounded from the lane.Slowly, he pulled out and lay beside her. She immediately turned and curled into him, her head on his chest, her hand splayed over his heartbeat. Her body was slick with sweat, trembling slightly.
He expected the silence, but not the words that eventually came, muffled against his skin.
“When he touches me,” she whispered, “it feels like he’s checking for dust. Like I’m another piece of furniture.” She lifted her head, her eyes clear and earnest. “You touched me like I was alive.”
She didn’t cry.She just held onto him, her grip surprisingly strong. The late afternoon light began to fade, staining the room with deep blue shadows.He knew he should get up, clean himself, leave. Discretion was part of the service.But for a while, he just let her hold on. Outside, the familiar sounds of evening began: a pressure cooker whistling in some nearby kitchen, the call to prayer from a distant mosque, the shuffle of slippers as families returned home.
In this room, with this woman, he was not the secret relief for a fiery divorcee or the whispered-about legend of the kitty party.He was just Samarth. And for this single, golden hour, that had been enough.