Misc. Erotica The Mechanic's Trap- By Novelist Casanova

[novelistcasanova]

“Water Between Us”




The room had gone still.

Our bodies were tangled, slick with warmth and silence, wrapped in each other on the living room floor. His breath was slow against my shoulder, and I didn’t want to move—not yet.
But the sun was rising higher, and the quiet hum of the world beyond our little cocoon began to stir. Somewhere, in another life, I had roles to return to. A saree to wear properly. A kitchen to enter. A name to live up to.
But not yet.
“Muthu,” I murmured, brushing my lips against his temple, “come.”
He looked at me, sleepy-eyed and soft. “Where?”
I stood slowly, feeling the ache of where he’d been, the weight of what we’d just shared still blooming between my thighs. I reached for his hand. “To the bathroom.”
He followed.
We stepped inside the tiled room, still warm from the sunlit window, and I turned on the old shower tap. The water sputtered at first, then ran in a thin, steady stream—cool against the heat that still lingered on our skin.
I stepped under it first, gasping softly as the water kissed my neck and shoulders. My long black hair clung to my back, and droplets ran between my breasts, down my belly, curling around my navel like curious fingers.
Muthu watched, unmoving. Reverent.
Then he stepped in behind me.
His arms wrapped around my waist, his chest pressing against my back, his lips brushing the wet curve of my shoulder. We didn’t speak. We didn’t have to. The water whispered between us—touching us everywhere, rinsing away everything but this moment.
His fingers moved slowly, lathering soap over my skin. Over the arch of my back, the slope of my hips. Not in lust, but in something gentler. Like he was still discovering me, piece by piece.
I turned in his arms.
Now facing him.
I ran my hands over his shoulders, the muscles beneath taut and warm. I let my fingertips trail down his chest, past the lines of work and labor. I kissed the place above his heart.
And in his eyes, I saw it again—that look. That quiet promise.
That if I asked, he would stay.
Even if the world didn’t let him.
We stood there, beneath the stream, skin to skin, water and love flowing over us. Not lovers in hiding. Not a mechanic and a housewife.
Just a man and a woman.
Washing away the lies.
Holding on to what little truth they could steal.
“The Last Kiss of Morning”
The bathroom was full of steam, and silence.
Not the awkward kind—but the kind that follows something sacred.
The kind that lingers in your skin even after the water stops running.
I stood by the window, wrapped in nothing but the morning air and the warmth of what we'd just shared. My white bra clung damply to my chest, my maroon panties soft and still wet against my hips. A part of me wanted to dress quickly, return to routine. But another part... the truer part... wanted to be seen just like this. By him.
Muthu was buttoning his shirt slowly, still barefoot, still damp.
He looked up.
And then, as if pulled by something he couldn’t resist, he came to me.
No words. Just footsteps across the floor. His fingers found my waist, and then he kissed me.
Not like someone saying goodbye.
Like someone trying to leave a piece of himself behind.
His mouth met mine—hungry, slow, deep. I tasted the last drop of him on my tongue, still sweet with steam and sin. My arms wrapped around his neck as if I could hold him there a second longer.
But time doesn’t listen to women like me.
And love doesn’t wait in the corners of old houses.
He broke the kiss first.
His forehead rested against mine, his thumb brushing my lower lip.
“I’ll come back,” he whispered.
I nodded, though I didn’t know if he meant later that day, or another lifetime.
And then, like a dream you’re not ready to wake from, he was gone.
The door clicked shut. And the house felt too quiet.
I stood there in my wet underthings, the water still dripping from my hair, my lips swollen from his kiss.
Outside, the world moved on.
Inside, I stayed still—a woman with a secret written in touch, a morning folded into her skin.


Addicted
I told myself it was only once.
A single mistake.
A moment of madness, of loneliness, of rebellion.
But the body never lies.
And mine… it remembered everything.
The way his breath had warmed the back of my neck.
The way his fingers had explored me like I was music.
The way I had dissolved in his arms — not like a woman seduced, but like a soul set free.
How do you return to chopping vegetables after that?
How do you go back to being someone's mother, someone's wife, someone respectable — when your skin still hums with the memory of a man who made you feel seen?
You don’t.
You pretend.
And I became very good at pretending.
Smiling at the neighbors. Folding college uniforms. Cooking sambhar with extra coriander, just like the boys liked.
But inside me, something had changed.
Something irreversibly... bloomed.
And like any bloom touched by sun after years of shadow, it craved more.


It started small.
A text.
“The power keeps going out. Can you check the fuse?”
Of course, the power was fine.
But within twenty minutes, he was there. Smelling of oil and sweat and man.
That first time after that night, we barely touched.
Just a soft graze of his fingers when I handed him a tumbler of buttermilk. But that graze set me burning.
The second time, I “accidentally” dropped a jar from the top shelf.
He came. Reached up behind me.
And I didn’t move.
His chest brushed against my back. And neither of us breathed for a moment that stretched and pulsed.
By the third time, I stopped pretending.
I would leave the back door unlatched.
I would wear softer sarees, thinner cottons, without a single pin to hold them steady.
I would walk slowly. Knowing his eyes followed.
And each time he came, I needed him more than before.
It wasn’t just lust.
It was the way he made me feel like a woman first — not a role.
He kissed me like he had nothing else to lose.
And I kissed him like I had never been kissed before.


There were days I would wake aching — between my legs, in my chest, in places I didn’t know could long so deeply.
I would imagine his voice behind me in the kitchen.
His hands under my saree while the cooker whistled.
His mouth on my neck when I stood at the balcony, pretending to water the plants.
It became a hunger I couldn’t starve.
Even when he wasn’t around, his presence wrapped around me like invisible hands.
Some nights, I would lie beside Ram, staring at the ceiling fan Muthu never really repaired — my body wide awake, aching for a man I should have forgotten.
But I didn’t forget.
I couldn’t.
Because Muthu wasn’t just a man anymore.
He was a need. A drug. A mirror. A fire.
And I... was already addicted.


The Door Between Us
There was a strange comfort in the rhythm of it all.
The way Muthu and I danced around each other in silence, our hearts beating loud but our mouths saying nothing.
No grand declarations.
No promises.
Just... a quiet madness growing between glances and half-smiles.
He never stayed long.
But I began to wait for him — not just with my body, but with something deeper.
Something I didn’t dare name.


That Thursday, the skies opened up in a surprise shower.
The boys were still at college. Ram had called from Coimbatore, caught up in some factory issue.
And the electricity had tripped again.
I lit a single candle on the dining table.
And then, as if summoned by the thunder — he knocked.
Twice. Softly.
I opened the back door, the wind pushing past me into the house.
He stood there, rain trickling down his jaw, shirt damp and clinging to his skin.
We didn’t say a word.
He stepped in, bare feet leaving prints on my kitchen floor.
I handed him a towel.
He didn’t use it.
Instead, he looked at me. The way one looks at something they’re afraid to break.
“You’re soaked,” I whispered.
“So are you,” he replied, eyes on my blouse, where the candlelight revealed more than fabric could hide.


We didn’t move toward each other.
Not like before.
Instead, we stayed still — the candle flickering between us, the door still open behind him, the rain whispering secrets only we could understand.
“Why do you keep coming?” I asked.
My voice trembled, not from fear, but from the weight of the truth I wasn’t sure I wanted to hear.
He hesitated.
Then said, slowly:
“Because you open the door.”
My breath caught.
Not because of the words.
But because I knew they were true.


But in that silence, I heard something else.
A clink. The gate outside.
A rustle. Footsteps.
I rushed to the door and peered out — nothing. Maybe a neighbor passing. Or my own guilty heartbeat echoing too loud.
I shut the door gently and turned back.
Muthu hadn’t moved.
But the moment had.
That invisible thread between us — taut, tense — was now quivering.
“What are we doing?” I asked, my voice almost breaking.
He looked down, as if he, too, was suddenly aware of the door behind him.
And the ones we were opening inside ourselves.
“I don’t know,” he said. “But I can’t stop.”
And I realized I couldn’t either.
Even though every moment with him was laced with danger — not of being caught, but of being changed.
Of becoming someone I didn’t recognize in the mirror.
Someone who smiled too much when her phone buzzed.
Someone who chose which saree to wear based on whether it might fall from her shoulder easily.
Someone who waited at doors with the hope of being seen again.


We didn’t touch that evening.
He left with the towel still damp in his hand.
But when the door closed behind him, I leaned against it and slid to the floor.
Because the ache wasn’t just between my thighs anymore.
It was in my chest.
Because now, there was a door between us.
And I was terrified of what might happen...
if I ever stopped opening it.