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

[novelistcasanova]

“The Silence Before Surrender”
His fingers paused at the edge of my nighty.
The moment felt suspended—like the whole house was holding its breath. My back pressed gently against the cool tiled wall of the kitchen, and he stood before me, close enough that I could feel the warmth of his breath against my cheek. The white cotton of my nighty fluttered slightly between us as if it, too, was uncertain about what was coming next.
He didn’t ask.
He simply looked at me—his eyes dark, searching, not for permission… but for doubt.
There was none.
Not in that moment.
Not when his hands slowly, reverently, slid along my sides, brushing the fabric upward with a kind of aching slowness that made my skin burn underneath. My heart thudded so loudly I could feel it echoing in my throat.





As the hem of my nighty lifted inch by inch, I felt the softness of my black panties cling to me, the air kiss the tops of my thighs, and the gentle whisper of his fingers trace the curve of my waist.
And still—he said nothing.
Neither did I.
Because words would only ruin it. Words would make it real. And this moment… this moment had to live outside language.
His hands, calloused yet careful, reached the lower curve of my back. My skin arched toward him before I even realized it, seeking, remembering. The fabric slipped higher, and suddenly I could feel the hem brush the clasp of my black bra—that small barrier that had never felt so loud between us.
My breath caught. I let my head rest lightly against his shoulder. My fingers, trembling, found his wrist and held it—not to stop him, not to guide him, but simply to say:
“I’m here. With you. Still.”
Then he leaned in again.
And kissed me.
Not hurried. Not greedy. But deep—like a man who’d waited too long to taste something he thought he might never touch again.
In that kiss, I wasn’t a wife.
I wasn’t a woman hiding.
I was just Sudha.
And I was his.
“The Weight of His Arms”
He held me.
There was no space left between us. His arms wrapped around my bare back, warm and firm, pressing me gently against his chest. The soft cotton of my black bra barely cushioned the feeling of skin against skin. My body was quiet, but inside me, something throbbed—not just desire, but memory.
The hem of my white nighty was gathered around my hips now, forgotten. I stood in nothing but my bra and panties, and yet I didn’t feel exposed. Not with Muthu. Not here.
His hand moved slowly up my back, fingers tracing the outline of the strap. His other hand settled at the small of my spine, anchoring me. I leaned into him instinctively, my cheek resting over his heart. It beat steadily beneath me, slower than mine. Like he was calm on the outside… but holding back a storm.
He whispered my name once.
“Sudha…”
It wasn’t a question. It wasn’t a plea. It was something softer. A reminder. A wound.
I didn’t answer.
My fingers curled gently into the back of his shirt.
And still, he didn’t rush. He didn’t take. He simply held. His chin lowered, brushing my hair, and for a second, he just breathed me in—as if trying to remember everything about me that he knew he was about to lose.
That was the part that undid me.
Not the kisses.
Not the want.
But this—his quiet reverence for my presence. My body. My breath.
“Muthu,” I finally whispered, not knowing what I wanted to say.
But he pulled back just a little—only far enough to look into my eyes. His gaze moved slowly from my face down to where the strap of my bra rested against my shoulder, then returned to meet mine again.
And then he smiled.
A small, broken smile.
“You’re still the most beautiful thing I’ve ever touched,” he murmured.
I felt heat rush to my throat, not just from the words, but from the weight they carried. And when he leaned forward and kissed my forehead, slow and warm, I realized:
Sometimes, being held like that is more intimate than anything else.