Grandmaster of Pheromones
The Indian city of Chennai in March hums with warmth and rhythm, the air carrying the scent of jasmine and the salt of the Bay of Bengal. The sun rises early and bold, painting Marina Beach in hues of gold where fishermen draw in their nets and morning walkers trace the shoreline. As my taxi made its way through the noisy morning traffic, I could smell the sea breeze mingling with the sound of temple bells, as the city awoke with a music of its own: rickshaw horns, vendors calling out tantalizing names of fresh fruits, and the steady beat of drums came from a nearby rehearsal for a festival. Even in the rising heat, there was a vitality that pulsed through every corner.
I’ve come to Chennai to interview Grandmaster Samar Bhattacharya, who stands out in the chess world not only for his fierce tactical style but also for the way he carries a sense of joy into an arena often dominated by solemn faces. Unlike his peers who are seen in dark suits at tournaments, Samar is known for turning up in vibrant kurtas or slim-fit linen shirts in bright shades that reflect the color and energy of India. His broad smile has become his trademark; photographs of him at the board often capture a player who looks like he’s genuinely enjoying himself, even in the tensest moments of competition. He embodies an unusual blend of intensity and levity, as if reminding everyone that the game can be both a battlefield and a celebration.
His story caught my eye because of his dream to become a script writer for animated and feature films featuring chess games and chess-like characters. In one interview he presented several ideas for those movies, and although they were so very Bollywood in terms of sudden twists and turns of the plot, his fascination with these stories was contagious. And viewing games as plots for novels! That was something entirely new.
A mere hour after my arrival, when I had just enough time to shower and rest for a few minutes, Samar Bhattacharya arrived at the hotel exuding warmth and energy that seemed to brighten the entire lobby where I greeted him. He wore a vibrant mustard-yellow kurta with subtle embroidery, paired with slim soft white trousers and open-toe sandals. His dark hair was perfectly in place, but his easy smile suggested spontaneity, a sense that anything could happen. My first impression of him was of a man whose joy was as tangible as his intellect, someone who seemed equally at home analyzing the board or striking up a lively conversation about the quirks of life in Chennai.
But what was most striking about him was the heavy sweet aroma that enveloped his entire body, and emanated in invisible clouds all around him, heavy, almost sickeningly sweet but clean and crisp. It clung to the air the way melted sugar coats the tongue, suffocating yet strangely enticing.
At first breath I felt dizzy, as though I had stepped into a garden drenched in too many blossoms at once—jasmine, tuberose, sandalwood, something sharp like cardamom hiding beneath. It made me swoon, unwillingly, my chest tightening with the richness of it, and yet part of me recoiled, nearly gagging at the excess.
The fragrance wrapped him like a second skin, catching in the folds of his bright yellow kurta, glowing against his bronze complexion, gleaming alongside his smile that flashed so effortlessly, almost theatrically, as if the scent itself were his herald. I felt caught in its net, swaying between desire and revulsion, as though I were both being pulled into him and pushed away at once.
This was the way beautiful tropical flowers smell—beautiful, yes, so you want to stay and watch them in admiration, but so, so heavy on your senses that your head spins. The kind of scent that makes you linger, entranced, yet leaves you faint, unsure if you are breathing in air or perfume. It was intoxicating in the same way a fever dream is: lush and vivid, but suffocating, pressing in from all sides, until you are no longer sure if what you feel is pleasure or torment. I thought of orchids blooming in a greenhouse, too many of them crowded together, their petals gleaming in the heat while their perfume thickened the air into something you could almost drink. His presence was like that—a beauty you could not deny, a radiance impossible to look away from, yet the more I let myself breathe it in, the more I felt my senses falter, my vision blur, as if admiration itself were dangerous.
“Augie,” he said cordially in near perfect British English. “How fascinated I am that you chose to feature me in your story. Delighted to meet you!” The handshake he offered was tiny and strangely dry—the little hands that commanded the chessboard seemed so small in my relatively large bear paws.
Ah, how I wanted to give this little man a hug to feel that sickly sweet and tantalizingly bright smell closer but alas no hug was offered.
“Let me show you around,” Samar said brightly. “I know that’s the first thing you ever talk about in your articles! I’ve read them all. I love both Erik and Dima! They are both so cool!” And, with Samar retelling me the hookah night in Moscow with Dmitry Volkov, we stepped out into the gathering heat.
Our first stop was the bustling Marina Beach, where Samar led me along the sandy stretch. Between anecdotes about his childhood cricket matches and the discipline he drew from early mornings on the pitch, he explained in flowery long sentences how sport and strategy intertwined in his life. On the beach, dissolved in the soft aroma of the sea, and mixed with the salty wind, his perfume suddenly smelled so tantalizingly attractive that I found myself offering him a hand to be closer to that fresh cloud of something that made me shiver inside. It was as if the air between us thickened, turning into something tangible, a silken veil that wrapped around me and tugged me closer. My thoughts scattered, my words slowed, and even though I told myself it was only his cologne—too much of it, far too much—I couldn’t deny the warmth that crept through me, unbidden. His scent no longer felt sickeningly sweet; it felt alive, charged, like it had slipped beneath my skin. I caught myself leaning in, drawn to him by some invisible pull, while pretending I simply wanted to hear him better over the surf.
He purchased us both tall glasses of mint lemonade, the cups so chilled the plastic steamed against the morning air. The drink sparkled faintly, pale green with flecks of crushed mint drifting in the ice, the slices of lime pressed like little suns against the sides. He handed one to me without a word, and when I reached to take it, my fingers brushed his. His hand was hot, and the contrast between that heat and the frost on my cup lingered, strange and vivid, long after I had lowered my eyes to the lemonade. I lifted the glass to my lips, but the side of my hand still remembered. That brief press of warmth against my skin lingered more insistently than the sharp sweetness of the drink, as though the memory of his touch clung closer than the taste of mint or lime.
For lunch, Samar took me through the vibrant lanes of Georgetown, alive with street markets and colorful murals. He introduced me to the hidden gems of Chennai’s food scene—spicy snacks from corner stalls, cooling buttermilk drinks, and sweets that melted on the tongue. As we ate at a high table near a street food kiosk, he told me endless stories of long evenings with his mentors, the pressure of international tournaments, and how he balanced ambition with the need for joy in everyday life. I found his enthusiasm infectious, sensing that every corner of the city seemed to reflect a facet of his personality: playful, bright, and endlessly curious.
On the hottest part of the day, he guided me into a small, ordinary bar with powerful air conditioning, its walls humming faintly from the cold. We ordered two enormous slushies—mine grapefruit, icy with a suspicion of cognac, his bright mango—and carried them to a low, comfortable couch. The chill cut through the heat outside, the drinks clinking in their glasses, and I settled beside him, letting the cold wash over me while he began recounting more and more stories.
He spoke softly and endlessly about his childhood, about an old friend whose family had shared almost everything with his own in their tiny village. As he talked, his body gradually edged closer, subtle shifts in space and warmth I barely registered at first. We drifted in and out of slumber for an hour and a half, the cold from the AC and the icy slushies blending with the warmth radiating from him, a slow, magnetic pull that left me drowsy but aware.
Every now and then he laughed quietly at some memory, his shoulder brushing mine, his hand occasionally resting near mine on the couch. The slushies melted into soft, tangy puddles in our glasses as the afternoon passed, and I felt the curious mix of comfort, warmth, and subtle tension, a gentle and intimate proximity that made the small, ordinary bar feel like a private world suspended in time.
Our final stop in the gathering dusk was a rooftop café overlooking the city at night, where the lights of Chennai twinkled like scattered stars. Over the soft hum of distant traffic, Samar spoke of dreams beyond the chessboard—plans for future travel, his love of cinema, and the people who shaped him along the way. I felt the layers of his personality unfold: the disciplined competitor, the vibrant storyteller, the man who could transform even ordinary streets into landscapes of imagination and memory. By the end of the evening, Chennai itself seemed to pulse with his energy, as if she had walked through the city not as a visitor, but as a companion to its most magnetic son.
***
Samar Bhattacharya walked me back to my hotel through the vibrant streets of Chennai, when the night air was thick with the mingled scents of jasmine, spices, and warm pavement. Neon signs flickered across the cobblestones, casting playful reflections that danced along the edges of their shadows. His hand brushed mine just enough to send a small, deliberate thrill through me, and I could feel the subtle tension in his stride, the quiet reluctance to let the evening end. His dark eyes, usually alight with energy and mischief, now held a flicker of restraint, a silent plea that the night need not part ways just yet.
By evening, his scent had shifted, losing some of its initial heaviness and transforming into a lighter, brighter aroma, like sun-warmed mangoes and jasmine carried on a soft breeze. It wrapped around him in subtle waves, teasing and inviting, pulling me closer without my fully realizing it. Each breath I took seemed to draw me nearer, the fragrance weaving into the lingering warmth of his skin, a quiet but insistent lure that made every small movement toward him feel inevitable and magnetic.
When we reached the hotel lobby, he paused by the revolving doors, glancing toward the glass elevator as if imagining the world beyond the polished marble floor.
I hesitated for only a heartbeat before blurting it out, my voice almost casual, “If you have a moment, you could come upstairs and see how the layout turned out… the AI did its thing, the story is ready, just a few clicks away.” He raised an eyebrow, and for a second I thought he might refuse, but then a slow, sharp smile crept across his face. “Alright,” he said, his voice low and amused, “let’s see what you’ve done.”
Before I could second-guess myself, he followed me toward the elevator, the space between us charged with a quiet anticipation. Each step I took felt measured against the pull of his presence; he moved easily beside me, as if claiming the moment without a word. The elevator doors slid open, and I gestured for him in first, my hand brushing against his ever-so-slightly—warm, dry, and confident. He didn’t hesitate. He came with me, and suddenly, the idea of showing him the story felt less like work and more like an intimate unveiling, a glimpse into the day we’d shared and the world I had tried to capture on the screen.
In the elevator he stood close enough that the warmth of his presence brushed against my shoulder, each floor we ascended carrying the unspoken promise of a night where photography was only the beginning, and the intimacy between us could bloom freely.
I slid into the chair, fingers hovering over the keyboard, ready to make the final tweaks to the layout. He excused himself for a moment, disappearing into the bathroom, and when he returned, a subtle shift in the air made me pause. One more whiff of his cologne had transformed him—now he smelled of warm, polished wood, soft leather, and a faint whisper of coffee, a scent that made my head spin and heart skip. I almost laughed at myself, thinking, an aphrodisiac, clearly, but the pull was undeniable.
I felt the urge to stretch my arms toward him as he came around to my right, peering over my shoulder at the screen. The layout glowed under the morning light—bright pinks, golden hues, and ivory-white accents danced against the columns of text, some black, some white, some shimmering faintly like the sun through frost. His presence close to mine, the brush of his warmth in the small space, made every color, every word, every photograph feel charged with an intimacy that went beyond the page.
Even as I clicked through the final touches, adjusting spacing and highlights, I couldn’t stop stealing glances at him. The aroma, the warmth, the subtle weight of him beside me—it was intoxicating, a quiet but irresistible gravity that pulled my thoughts toward him and made the mundane act of finishing a magazine layout feel like something else entirely.
“Too girlish, don’t you think?” his voice said in my ear. “Am I this soft – or are these the colors of summer?”
“It’s the city, I am sure,” I said guiltily. “All the sun, all the heat, and the flowers… your color is golden, you are like the sun.”
Then the sun burnt the side of my neck, and I forgot myself in the cloud of scent that drove me crazy.
***
He didn’t let me touch him—not a single brush of his body--but quietly and gently bared me fully before even letting the kurta slide off his shoulders. I wanted to reach out but he smiled at me and with lips only said “no no no, uh-ha, no.” I stood naked before him, and he appraised me from tip to toe, clicking his tongue, and – doing – nothing – nothing at all – nothing – at – all!!! My skin prickled under the inspection; the room felt ten degrees hotter, yet he stood there, fully clothed, kurta cuffs brushing his wrists, only the soft click of his tongue marking each new territory he claimed by sight. Seconds stretched into minutes—no fabric rustled, no foot shifted—and the stillness itself became a caress, teaching me that anticipation can stroke harder than fingers ever could.
Under this appreciative, appraising gaze of a clothed man exuding clouds of aphrodisiac cologne, I felt heat pooling slow and liquid beneath my ribs; it was a honey-thick warmth that seeped outward until every pore felt touched, kissed, caressed. My breath softened, shoulders dropped open as if invisible hands urged me to offer more surface to his eyes; my skin now tingled awake, alive, drinking in the reverence like parched earth takes rain.
Inside, a quiet drum began—its pulse steady, low, delicious—each beat sending shimmering currents down my arms, across my thighs, tightening my nipples to eager points without a single touch. I wasn’t erect, but something deeper stirred inside me: the pure, glowing certainty that, for this stretched moment, I existed solely as something treasured, and the sweetness of that knowledge made my knees almost buckle before he ever moved an inch. Honestly, with anyone else I would have felt embarrassed, but not under the gaze of Samar, burning with hot appreciation.
His fingertips landed, dry and light, tiny, weightless on my collarbone, tracing the ridge with precision, then fanned outward, offering whisper-light circuits around each shoulder, down the outer curve of my arms, leaving invisible gooseflesh in their wake. When he circled my pecs, thumbs just brushing areolae, I suddenly couldn’t breathe; he paused and let me regain my composure before skating lower—palms skimming my flanks, knuckles grazing hip hollows, finally combing through the soft hair on my thighs as if measuring texture. Each pass felt like a calligrapher testing parchment, intimate yet detached, and the room narrowed to the rustle of his kurta and the soft hush of skin on skin.
Below that steady exploration, his trousers told another story. A rigid bar now tented the cotton, thin, long, angled sharply left like a marker jammed behind fabric of his underwear. With every tilt of his torso the outline shifted, nudging against the strained briefs beneath, the cloth so tight I could see the rounded crown denting the weave. He never looked down, never acknowledged it, but the silent pulse beating against his zipper drummed louder than any word: it was hunger cloaked in courtesy, waiting for the moment restraint would snap.
Now he approached me, and his raven black hair blurred before my eyes as he licked the side of my neck, and moved lower to my shoulder blade and then my nipple, then, patiently, the same on the other side, and his unmistakable hardness pressed against my leg, hot and firm put pliable… I shook slightly as the sandalwood cloud with a tiny hint of musk reached my nose, but he didn’t look up.
His tongue brushed against the spot that made me cry out sharply – I suddenly felt how coarse his tongue was on my skin, and it made me jump. He laughed and looked up at me, slowing down even more… so, so, sooooo painfully pleasant… the wet path of his saliva shining in the light I aimed at the writing table near which I stood now, bare naked.
He threw off his sandals, and his dark feet sank in the carpet on the floor. His toes were sexy – long, dark on top and bright pink on the inside, with carefully trimmed nails, like he needed to show off his feet often, or else as if his feet often touched tender places where they just had to be smooth and soft… and that thought made me shiver.
Then in the glittering cloud of yellow his embroidered kurta came off, and then his chest hugging gray vest… revealing his wildly hairy armpits and soft bumps of his chest with large dark nipples, a small tummy, a patch of dark black hair down the center, dissolving into streaks of soft hair around his navel, still darker lower, lower, oh my God, quicker…
Now the same fingers that moved kings and queens, played cricket and offered cold glasses of lemonade, slid under the waistband of his trousers. Time f.r.o.z.e.
Then he let the pants fall and they rustled to the floor, and there it was, the highlighter I so wanted to use on my skin, to touch me, poke me, color me… hidden behind the small tight-hugging shorts. Not.a.move.from.me. No. no. no. Hands. to. your. sides. man. Wait. Wait some more. And some more. Doesn’t it look good? Sniff the air. Deeper. Does your head spin?
Snap came off the briefs and now we were equal. His dick popped out, thin, dark and straight, aiming up at an acute angle like a railway crossing bar not lowered fully, cut head bright pink, the circumcision scar a white ridge, tiny balls tight in an almost black wrinkly ballsack. Shaven clean like a girl. Let me. Let me touch it, oh grandmaster of tease… No? Okay, I’ll wait. Yes, I am shivering. No, it’s not cold….
Now he guided my fingers to his wrinkled dark ballsack and made me press on it hard, feeling the two hard nuts of his testicles recoil and then drop back out into my hand. He guided me to pull them out and then smash them back in… all this without saying a word, just gestures and slight moans. Again, and again and again until a murky drop of precum landed on my forearm, and a longer soft moan escaped him.
Now he took my hand again, and motioned us toward the bed. He climbed on first, and sat cross-legged on the white sheet, his dick sticking straight up now, hard and shaking, his balls more relaxed in his dark ballsack, almost touching the white surface and creating a very arousing contrast. I slid off the first time I tried to get up, and he chuckled and helped me up. Up close he smelled softer, and I made sure I sat so that the tip of his cockhead touched me, now wet and ready. Or not? Tell me, grandmaster Bhattacharya, the master of gambits…
He beckoned me to straddle his lap, my legs encircling his waist, his small tummy brushing mine, the bumpy texture of his man tits grazing my chest as we aligned in the lotus position. His hands, warm and slightly trembling with excitement, steadied my hips, guiding his length into me with a slow, deliberate push. His dark eyes locked on mine, sparkling with playful intensity. His breath deepened, a soft chuckle escaped him, and the silk sheets cradled us as our bodies synced, ready to weave a passionate, monsoon-kissed rhythm under the lamp’s orange glow.
He started by rocking gently, his hips swaying in slow, teasing thrusts, his dick filling me with warmth, his hands guiding my waist like a sexy street dancer in Chennai streets would, our breaths mingling with soft moans. Then, his rhythm intensified, thrusts becoming faster and deeper, his wrinkled ballsack brushing my thighs, their coolness pulsing as he leaned closer. And then with a short moan he pulled me in tight, his thrusts now upward and fervent, his hands gripping my hips, our bodies swaying in irregular jerking motions now – pink against dark brown on the beautiful white.
Now Samar’s thrusts surged with fiery intensity, his dick driving deep, its flushed tip pulsing with vibrant heat, pushing me to the edge. All the colors of the rainbow flashed before my eyes as his hardness poked me time and over again in the very middle of the flower blooming inside me.
In the middle of my violent shaking, amidst my howls of pleasure as golden sparks flew before my eyes and the bed beneath me swayed dangerously, making me slide again, he roared, pulled out and came with six warm, steady spurts across my stomach, creamy trails glistening like raindrops.
He let out another long moan, his frame trembling, hips twitching with shudders, and his small tummy quivering. Even after he pulled out, I kept coming in waves, a sharp cry escaping me each time as my body arched in his lap, shivers surging through me, his release on my tummy remaining a lingering warmth on my skin.
His dark eyes softened, and his teasing grin returned as he kissed my lips, the sandalwood and cologne wrapping us in ecstasy. The bed held us close, our moans faded with the monsoon’s hum, and our shared release became a vibrant memory of hot pulse in the sultry Chennai night.
Why were you so fast, Grandmaster? You made me wait longer, ah, you teaser, you passionate fucker, you… ah, let me hold you close…
***
I woke to the soft rustle of fabric and the quiet click of buttons. Samar was already dressing, the moonlight catching the folds of his bright kurta as he moved around almost noiselessly. “I need to get out,” he murmured, his voice low, almost conspiratorial. “The reception guy’s asleep—I checked. I’ll call you later.”
Before I could say a word, he leaned down, brushing a hand lightly across mine, the warmth of his skin lingering on my fingers, and then he was gone. The room felt impossibly large and empty, but I could still feel the echo of him—the heat of his body pressed against mine, the lingering musk of him mixed with the sweet, spicy notes of his cologne. I lay back against the sheets, tracing the memory of him with my mind, every subtle curve, every quiet motion, wishing the night would stretch just a little longer.
… When I see him on TV now, all I can remember are not his stories or his tour of Chennai… I hear his “Oh no, no, no, uh-ha, no, no” and the sweet pain of waiting until I saw him bare and until I felt him inside me, soft against me for a change, rocking, then swaying, then thrusting, then coming in the flows that seemed not to end, with clouds, oceans, masses of his heavy cologne making my head spin. In his interviews he is this clean decent guy with a big smile, but few people know how he leaves a conquered man in the middle of the night at a downtown hotel, tiptoeing past a sleeping reception guy, into the stuffy night…
My article was read more than a million times, and a sponsor came forward to finance the shooting of a short feature dedicated to the shortest grandmaster match in history: the Bronstein-Spassky game that lasted just five moves. He talked, looking serious during an interview, about the tragedy of Bronstein’s instant resignation and the day of his life as he imagined it after that disastrous game.
I am coming to watch your first film, Samar, if we then continue to my hotel room, and you give me another ten minutes of being one with you, o Master of Gambits, the Grandmaster of pheromones… what have you done, I am hard again.
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