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

[novelistcasanova]

“When Silence Trembled”

He stepped back—just an inch. But even that felt like a storm breaking.
His eyes dropped, almost involuntarily, taking in the sight of me—barefoot, in my black panties and bra, my white nighty still bunched at my hips like a forgotten promise. I should’ve reached for it. I should’ve covered myself. But I didn’t.
I stood there. Still. Breathing. Letting him see me.
And that was what undid him.
His jaw clenched slightly. His fingers curled and uncurled at his sides, like they didn’t know what to do without me in them. He looked away for half a second, as if trying to gather himself—but when his eyes came back to mine, they were darker. Hungrier. But there was something else, too.
Pain.
“Muthu…” I said softly, almost apologetically.
He shook his head. “Don’t,” he whispered. “Don’t say anything. Not when you look like that…”
His voice was hoarse, thick with the war inside him. I saw it—the way he was fighting himself, trying not to reach for me again. But his gaze betrayed him. It flickered down my body, paused at the soft curve of my waist, and I knew exactly what he was feeling.
Because I felt it too.
The room had turned too quiet. Even the ceiling fan seemed to slow.
And there we were: me, bare in more ways than one… and him, trying not to come undone.
He stepped closer again, hesitantly. His hands hovered—wanting to touch, not daring to. His breath brushed my shoulder.
“You don’t know what you’re doing to me,” he murmured, like it hurt.
I whispered back, “Then don’t look at me like that…”
But I didn’t move.
Because part of me didn’t want him to stop.
“I Couldn’t Let Go Yet”
He stood still in the middle of the room, his back to me.
I could feel the ache in his silence. The storm in his stillness. His body was trying so hard to walk away, but his soul—his soul was still with me.
And mine was reaching out.
Before I could think, before my fear or shame could find their voice, I stepped toward him—barefoot, barely clothed, bare-hearted.
My arms wrapped around him from behind.
I felt him tense for a moment, like he didn’t trust what was happening. But then… he exhaled. Long. Ragged. Like he’d been holding his breath for days.
My cheek pressed between his shoulder blades. My arms circled his chest, fingertips grazing over the soft fabric of his shirt. I held him tight—not to pull him closer, but to keep him from falling apart.
He brought one hand up, touching my wrist gently. Not pulling me away. Just holding me there.
“Muthu…” I whispered, my voice barely a breath, “Don’t go. Not yet.”
His head tilted slightly, and I could feel his heartbeat under my palm. It was loud. Uneven.
“You’ll make it harder,” he said, voice breaking. “You already are.”
I closed my eyes. “Then don’t try to make it easy.”
We stayed like that—me wrapped around him, him barely holding himself together.
I didn’t know what would happen next. Whether he would turn around and kiss me again… or walk away forever.
All I knew in that moment was this:
I couldn’t let go.
Not yet.
Not while my body remembered how it felt to belong to him.
“When He Turned Around”
I held him for a long time, my arms wrapped around his chest like a quiet prayer I didn’t know how to end.
I could feel his breath, uneven now, as though he was trying to stay composed—but everything in him was trembling beneath the surface. And still, he didn’t turn. Not yet.
So I rested my cheek between his shoulder blades and whispered his name again. “Muthu…”
This time, he moved.
He turned around slowly—like a man who wasn’t sure whether he was allowed to want what he wanted. And then his eyes found mine.
God, that look.
There was something raw in it. Like he had held back too long. Like he was afraid touching me again would break him.
I didn’t look away.
I didn’t cover myself.



I stood in front of him—just my black bra, black panties, and all the memories he left behind. The white nighty still hung loose from my waist, forgotten, like time itself had unraveled around us.

Then, wordlessly, he brought his hand up to my face and brushed a strand of hair behind my ear. His touch was so gentle, it almost undid me.
His thumb lingered along my jawline.
“You’re real,” he said quietly, more to himself than to me.
I smiled—just barely—and stepped closer, close enough to feel the warmth of his chest against mine.
“You make me feel like I am,” I whispered.
His forehead met mine, our breaths mingling. My hands slowly found his, fingers intertwining. There was a stillness between us, but it wasn’t empty—it was charged. Waiting.
And in that breathless silence, I felt it again:
The way his presence lit up every quiet corner of me.
The way I never felt more alive… than when he looked at me like this.
“The Kiss That Wasn’t Just a Kiss”
His forehead rested against mine, and for a moment, the world fell quiet.
His breath touched my lips without kissing them. That soft closeness—so close it burned—was more unbearable than distance.
I closed my eyes.
“Muthu,” I whispered, “why do you always look at me like I’m yours… even when you’re leaving me?”
His voice trembled. “Because in some place I can’t explain… you always have been.”
My chest tightened. My hands were still in his. I brought them up between us, placing them on his chest, feeling the beat of his heart beneath my palms. It wasn’t steady. It was struggling—just like mine.
I looked up at him, barely breathing. “Do you want to kiss me, Muthu?”
His answer came without hesitation, but filled with restraint. “More than anything.”
I leaned closer, my voice soft but heavy with need. “Then stop asking permission with your eyes…”
He didn’t.
He just kissed me.
And it wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t desperate. It was slow… so slow, it felt like a lifetime pressed into a single moment.
His lips moved over mine like he was learning me again. Remembering the shape of my mouth, the way I sighed when his hand came to rest gently on the curve of my waist. I parted my lips, inviting him deeper, and his kiss answered—not just with heat, but with ache.
He pulled me closer, our bodies now flush. The silk of my bra, the warmth of his shirt, the air between our skins—it all felt charged, as though even fabric couldn’t keep us from feeling everything.
Between kisses, he whispered against my mouth, “You still taste like longing.”
I smiled, dazed. “And you still kiss like you want to forget everything else.”
He kissed me again—this time slower, deeper—his fingers tracing the bare line of my spine, making my body shiver, not from cold… but from being seen.
And in that kiss, I knew…
This wasn’t just a goodbye.
It was a memory being carved into us.
A last chance to say with our bodies what our lives didn’t allow us to speak.
“His Hands Remembered Me”
His lips didn’t leave mine for a long time.
We kissed like two people who didn’t know if they’d ever kiss again. Not rushed. Not greedy. But full of ache. Full of the tenderness that comes when you love someone with your entire body and still know you might lose them.
His hands were on my waist now, and I felt his fingers tense—like he was trying to remember what it meant to hold me. Not just touch. Hold.
I let my hands explore the line of his back, then crept up to his neck, my thumbs brushing just beneath his ears as I tilted his face more fully toward mine. Our kiss deepened, and something inside me trembled.
“Muthu…” I breathed his name against his lips, like a secret.
He murmured mine in return—like a prayer: “Sudha…”
When his lips finally left mine, they traveled to my cheek, my jaw, and then to the tender spot below my ear. My eyes fluttered shut. My breath caught.
Goosebumps broke out across my skin as he whispered, “I remember this. The way your breath stutters here…”
I smiled, almost shyly. “My body still remembers your voice… everywhere.”
He held me tighter. His fingers slowly traced the edge of my bra strap, not pulling, not rushing—just feeling that it was real. That I was still real.
His hand slid down my arm, then to the small of my back. I arched slightly, pressing into him, needing more—but not asking aloud. I didn’t need to. He already knew.
Our bodies spoke in silences.
He looked at me, eyes full of softness and something darker—longing laced with guilt. “Tell me to stop,” he said.
I looked at him. Bare. Vulnerable. Wanting.
And I whispered, “I can’t.”
He kissed me again, this time with his hand at my lower back, gently guiding me closer. I felt his breath as he whispered between kisses, “Then don’t let me go.”
“The Way He Held Me”
He looked at me—eyes heavy, lips parted, chest rising with breath he could barely control.
Then he pulled me into him.
Tight.
So tight I could feel the tension in his arms, the ache in his body, and the reluctant surrender in his soul. He buried his face in my neck, breathing me in like he was trying to memorize me. My arms slipped around his shoulders. My fingers threaded through his hair.
I whispered, “Take me inside, Muthu…”
He didn’t answer.
He just lifted me.
I gasped, softly, as my feet left the floor. My arms clung to his shoulders, but instinctively, my legs wrapped around his waist, locking me into the warmth of him. My saree had long come undone and now hung in soft folds around us like silk shadows. The bare skin of my thighs met the rough cotton of his jeans and sent a slow fire up my spine.
He looked into my eyes as he walked us, step by slow step, toward the bedroom.
Neither of us blinked.
There was so much said in that silence. In the way his hands held my thighs with reverence. In the way my heartbeat pounded against his chest. In the way my breath caught every time his grip tightened just slightly.
As we crossed the threshold of the bedroom, something shifted inside me.
I felt like I was walking through a door I could never close again.
He set me down on the edge of the bed as gently as if I were breakable. But I wasn’t. Not right now. Right now, I was all flame and want and memory.
Still straddling his waist, I pulled him closer with my legs.
“Muthu,” I whispered, “please don’t let this be the last time you hold me like this…”
He leaned in, forehead pressed to mine, eyes brimming with more than just desire.
“I don’t think I know how to stop loving you,” he said.
And then he kissed me again—this time deeper, slower, as if he’d found a home in my mouth.
“The Way He Looked at Me”
The room had gone quiet.
Not silent—just full. Full of breath, of body, of heat and hesitation. The ceiling fan hummed softly above us, but all I could hear was the rhythm of my own heartbeat and his—echoing against my chest.
I lay back slowly on the bed, the cool sheet beneath me a contrast to the fire building inside. Muthu stood above me, eyes tracing the lines of my body as if I were both familiar and still something he was learning again.
There was reverence in his gaze.
I didn’t feel shy.
I didn’t feel bold.
I just felt wanted.
And something about the way he looked at me—his hands trembling slightly as he knelt beside me, brushing my hair off my cheek—made me feel more bare than any cloth ever could.
He didn’t rush.
His fingers slowly slid along my waist, skimming over the band of my Panties. His touch was featherlight, but the heat of it made me arch slightly. Not to escape it—but to meet it.
My eyes didn’t leave his.
“Muthu,” I said, my voice barely above a breath, “you make me feel like I belong in my own skin again.”
His hands stilled.
He leaned in, kissing my collarbone, slow and warm. Then lower, lips brushing along the top edge of my bra. He paused, just long enough to let the tension build—before murmuring, “You don’t know what you do to me, Sudha.”
His hands moved with care, as if undressing me was a kind of devotion—not an act of lust, but of knowing. Of remembering. Of wanting with his whole soul.
And in that moment, I wasn’t thinking of tomorrow. I wasn’t thinking of what we were breaking or risking.
I was only thinking of how, in his touch, I didn’t feel like a wife, or a woman having an affair.
I just felt like a woman being seen.
“The Way He Looked at All of Me”
There was a stillness in the air, thick and electric. Muthu’s hands were warm against my hips, and his eyes... his eyes were reverent.
I felt his breath first—low, near my stomach—warm and unsure, like he didn’t know whether to worship or to weep.
The last layer between us remained, thin and trembling like the rest of me. My black Panties, soft and clinging, seemed to hold the tension of the moment in their threads. His fingers slid along the edges, not rushing, not demanding—just asking, in silence.
My breath caught.
I didn’t stop him.
He looked into my eyes again, searching for something. Permission. Maybe peace. Maybe one last confirmation that I was still his—even if only in this moment.
I nodded—barely.
And slowly, with a kind of fragile care that broke me open more than any word ever could, he slipped them down.
Every second stretched.
As the Black Panties fabric left my skin, I wasn’t embarrassed. I wasn’t nervous.
I was undressed—in body, yes, but even more in soul.
He sat back slightly, his eyes drinking me in with such quiet awe, it made me tremble. Not from fear. Not from shame. From the unbearable intimacy of being looked at completely.
“Muthu…” I whispered, almost unable to say more.
His hand reached forward, not to possess, but to touch like someone who found something precious in the wild.
“You’re…” his voice cracked, “…more beautiful than I remembered.”
I smiled, shy but soft. “You never saw all of me before.”
“I did,” he said, kissing the inside of my thigh. “Just not like this.”
“The Kiss That Stirred Everything”
His lips found my Pussy again, softer now but no less powerful—like a whispered promise.
As he began kissin my Pussy lips, where I was most vulnerable, most alive.
The warmth of his mouth sent ripples through my skin, awakening places I hadn’t known were waiting.
I shivered—not from cold, but from the ache his touch kindled inside me.
Every breath I took trembled with the weight of want.
“Muthu…” I breathed, my voice barely a whisper, “I’ve needed you like this… more than I ever admitted.”
He looked up at me, eyes dark with hunger and something tender that made my heart ache.
“You don’t have to say it,” he murmured. “I can feel it—in every part of you.”
His kisses deepened, slow and patient, like he was learning the map of my body all over again—each movement a question, each sigh an answer.
“The Moment I Let Go”
My breath hitched as his lips traced every inch of my Pussy, igniting a fire I could no longer hold back.
I looked into his eyes—deep, fierce, yet gentle—and the words tumbled out before I could stop them.
“Muthu... please,” I whispered, my voice trembling, “I want you. I need you inside me.”
He hesitated just a moment, searching my face for any doubt, any fear.
But all he saw was the raw truth—my want, my surrender, my trust.
His hand cupped my cheek, thumb brushing softly over my skin.
“Are you sure, Sudha?” he asked, voice thick with emotion.
I nodded, swallowing the last of my hesitation.
“Yes. With you… I’m sure.”
Slowly, carefully, he moved closer—every touch a promise, every breath shared between us a vow.
In that moment, nothing else existed but the two of us—bound by desire, by tenderness, by the quiet courage of letting go.
“The Moment We Became One”
His hands held me steady, warm and sure, as he inserted his cock slowly inside me.
A rush of sensation bloomed—soft, deep, and alive—filling every part of me with a delicious ache I hadn’t known I was missing.
Our breaths mingled, hearts beating a wild rhythm as we found each other in that perfect, fragile balance between tenderness and desire.
I closed my eyes, leaning into the wave of warmth and connection, feeling his presence as something more than just touch.
“Muthu…” I whispered, voice trembling with everything I felt, “I love this… I love you.”
He kissed my forehead gently, his lips a balm to every ache and longing I carried.
“We’re together now,” he said softly. “In every way that matters.”
“The Moment Everything Melted Away”
Muthu’s hands moved with reverence as he slowly slipped my black bra off, unveiling the softness he had longed to hold.
His lips followed, pressing warm, featherlight kisses across my skin—each one sending shivers through me, awakening every nerve.
He suckled gently, passionately, as if drinking in not just my body but the very essence of me.
A delicious heat spread from his mouth, swirling through my chest and pooling deep inside.
I gasped, clutching him close, the walls I’d built around my heart crumbling with each tender touch.
The world around us blurred until there was only this moment—only us.
My body trembled, a shuddering release I had tried to hold back but no longer could. “Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaa aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa,” I moaned.  I let go—letting the wave wash over me, my breath catching, my soul soaring.
And as I floated in that sea of sensation, I felt him respond—his own release mingling with mine, a perfect, silent promise whispered through our closeness.
He held me tight, his heart beating against mine, and in that sacred space, I knew we had found something deeper than desire.
We had found home.