Chapter 7: The Confrontation
The message from Pinki was a single line, devoid of her usual playful emojis. Come now. Husband at golf. Samarth read it while wiping down his motorcycle at the community tap, the water cool on his hands. He felt a flicker of curiosity. Pinki’s summons were usually draped in anticipation and exclamation marks.
He found her not in the bedroom, but in the living room of her fourth-floor apartment. The afternoon sun streamed through the sliding glass doors, painting long, hot rectangles on the beige marble floor. The air conditioning hummed, fighting a losing battle against the solar glare. She stood by the window, her silhouette sharp against the light, wearing a lemon-yellow kurta that clung to her curves. She didn’t turn when he entered.
“The maid’s pregnant,” she said, her voice flat, cutting through the hum of the AC.
Samarth closed the door softly behind him. He leaned against it, crossing his arms. “Which maid?”
Pinki finally turned. Her face, usually softened by a generous smile, was set in hard lines. Her dark eyes bore into him. “Don’t. The one from B-block. The widow. Meena.” She took a step forward, the sunlight catching the silver in her long, black hair. “She’s been green in the face for a week, throwing up near the garbage chute. The other servants are whispering. They count days better than accountants.”
He didn’t deny it. He simply watched her, waiting.
A strange, twitching smile broke through her stern expression. It wasn’t joyful. It was hungry. “Is it true? You filled her up? In that little room?”
“You know how I work, Pinki ji.”
She let out a sharp breath, a sound halfway between a laugh and a scoff. She walked closer, until he could smell her perfume—jasmine, heavy and sweet. “I do. That’s the thing. I know. And it makes me so angry I could spit.” She reached out and poked a finger into his hard chest. “But it also… god, it turns my insides to water. The thought of it. You, planting a child in that skinny, mousy thing. It’s filthy. It’s magnificent.”
Her finger trailed down his sternum. Her gaze was blazing, possessive. “I want details. Now. Did she cry?”
“A little. At first.”
“Did she beg for it?”
“By the end.”
Pinki moaned, low in her throat. She fisted her hands in his shirt. “You see? This is why I tell the others. Why I sing your praises to bored, wealthy women with dead bedrooms. Because you’re not a boy. You’re a force.” She pulled him away from the door, across the sun-washed floor, toward her husband’s favorite chair—a large, high-backed leather monstrosity that smelled of polish and cigar smoke. “Sit.”
He sat. The leather was cool through his jeans. She stood over him, backlit by the window, a figure of molten gold and shadow.
“I have a new rule,” she announced, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “For us. From now on.” She leaned down, her hands on the arms of the chair, caging him in. Her breath was hot on his face. “When you get one of them pregnant—a client, a maid, anyone—I get to be the first to know. Not from gossip. From you. You come here, you tell me, and then…” She licked her lips. “Then you fuck me. Right here. On his chair. You make me come while I think about your seed taking root in some other woman’s belly. That’s my prize. Do you understand?”
He looked up at her, at the feverish need in her eyes. He nodded. “Okay.”
“Okay,” she echoed. Her hands went to the drawstring of his trousers. Her movements were frantic, not with passion, but with a kind of frantic ownership. She freed him, her eyes widening slightly as she always did at the sight of him, a mixture of awe and carnal greed. She pushed her own cotton salwar down her hips, just enough, and didn’t bother with preamble.
She sank onto him in one smooth, practiced motion, a low, guttural cry escaping her as he stretched her. She was already wet, hot, and ready. She braced her hands on his shoulders, her head thrown back, the column of her throat working. She began to move, not with the lazy rhythm she sometimes employed, but with a punishing, piston-like drive, using the leverage of the chair to take him deeper with every rise and fall.
“You think of her,” Pinki gasped, her eyes squeezed shut. “You think of her getting fat with your baby. While you’re inside me.”
He gripped her hips, helping her, meeting her thrusts. The chair groaned in protest. Sunlight burned his eyes. The scent of jasmine and leather and sex filled the air.
“She’ll have nothing,” Pinki panted, her voice breaking with each downward slam. “No money. No name for it. Just a big belly and a memory of you. And I’ll have this. I’ll always have this.”
Her climax built not as a wave but as a sudden, violent quake. She screamed, a raw, unfettered sound that echoed off the marble floors, her body clamping around him in a series of intense, pulsating spasms. She collapsed forward onto his chest, shuddering, her skin slick with sweat.
He followed her over the edge, his own release a hot, silent flood, buried deep within her convulsing heat. For a long moment, the only sounds were their ragged breathing and the relentless hum of the air conditioner.
Pinki lay boneless against him, her face buried in his neck. Slowly, her breathing began to steady. She shifted slightly, her fingers coming up to trace the defined ridges of his abdomen through his shirt. Her touch was tender now, almost absent-minded.
“She’ll come to you, you know,” Pinki murmured, her voice husky and drained. “When she can’t hide it anymore. She’ll want something from you.”
He stared up at the pristine white ceiling. “Probably.”
“Be careful.” Her fingers stilled. “But not too careful.” She lifted her head, her eyes meeting his. The jealousy was gone, replaced by a luminous, almost frightening devotion. “My handsome, dangerous boy. Making life in the most inconvenient places.” She kissed his chin, a soft, smacking sound. “Now get up. You have to go before the golf game ends. And I need to clean his chair.”