Misc. Erotica The Night I Gave Myself - By Novelist Casanova

[novelistcasanova]

The Intimacy She Endured… and the Guilt She Cannot Escape



The bed was cold after he left.
Even though his sweat still lingered on my skin…
Even though my white panties lay twisted at my ankle, and my bra hung from the edge of the mattress like a torn flag.
He didn’t say a word when he was done.
He just grunted, adjusted his lungi, and spat out the window.
No thank you. No apology.
Just a look—one final greedy stare—and then he walked to the veranda and lit a beedi, as if he’d only taken a nap.
I lay there…
Still.
My body ached—not from pain, but from the sheer weight of what I had done.
“I gave myself to a man whose name I didn’t know.
Not for love. Not for lust.
But to protect a girl hiding behind a curtain.”
My saree was crumpled in a corner, my yellow blouse stained with sweat that wasn’t mine.
I reached down, shakily, and slipped back into my black petticoat, pulling it up over my hips with numb fingers.
I didn’t wear the panties again. I couldn’t.
Not yet.
I tied the saree back around me, loose and lifeless, like dbanging silence over sin.
As I went to the Bedroom to check on Pattu.
Tears in her eyes. Shame in her silence.
She looked at me—not with judgement—but with awe and fear.
“Aunty…” she whispered.”
I didn’t reply.
I simply hugged her, tightly, pressing her head into my shoulder, and whispered:
“It’s over, ma. You’re safe. That’s all that matters.”


“Lock the door from the inside and don't opened the door until I ask you to,” as I was telling her and getting out of the Bedroom, inside, I was collapsing.
Because the thief’s touch still echoed on my skin—
his rough breath between my breasts,
his fingers digging into the softness of my thighs,
his hunger dripping from every word he had murmured when he took me.
“Soft woman… too soft for that lawyer. He doesn’t touch you like I do, does he?”
“You needed this. I can feel it.”
I wanted to scream. But I didn’t.
Because he wasn’t wrong about one thing.
There was a part of me—ashamed and hidden—that had felt something.
Not pleasure.
But power in surrender.
That guilt burned hotter than anything else.
And then, headlights sliced through the window.
A car.
Ram was back.



The Confession, the Shock… and the Unexpected Grace


The headlights blinked twice before the gate creaked open.
I stood at the threshold, the yellow chiffon saree loosely pleated, barely concealing the dishevelled way I had wrapped it.
My bra was back on, but wrong—clasped in a rush, straps slipping.
My petticoat drawstring was trembling beneath my fingers as if it, too, carried the shame I couldn’t hide.
Ram stepped out of the car, two security officer officers behind him.
He looked dishevelled, out of breath. Angry—but not at me.
“Where is he?” he barked, eyes darting to corners. “Where is the bastard?”
The officers rushed in. One of them found the man still on the veranda, half-drunk, half-naked, his beedi smouldering to ash.
They pounced. A scuffle. A scream. Cuffs. And silence again.
“It was over.
The danger was gone.
But the storm inside me was only beginning.”
Ram turned to me, eyes searching.
He touched my cheek—gently.
“You okay?”
His voice broke as he looked me up and down.
I wanted to lie.
But my lips parted, and the truth poured out like a confession offered at the feet of someone you love too much to deceive.
“He was going after Pattu…”
“I… I stopped him…”
“I gave him what he wanted… so she wouldn’t be ruined.”
His hand dropped from my face.
He stepped back.
Just a step.
But it was like a chasm opened between us.
Pattu came out from behind the curtain then—her eyes wet, her face hollow.
She ran to Ram and held his hand.
“Sudha Akka saved me,” she said, in a voice too soft for her age.
“She… she gave herself for me.”
Ram’s eyes filled.
Not with anger. Not with disgust.
But with something far more complicated.
He looked at me like he didn’t know if he should fall to his knees in sorrow or pride.
“You…” he whispered.
“You gave yourself… for her?”
I nodded, afraid.
And then he walked to me.
Not to yell.
Not to accuse.
He pulled me into his arms—tight, crushing, desperate.
“My brave girl,” he whispered into my ear.
“You didn’t deserve that.
But you didn’t let her deserve it either.”
And I broke.
In his arms, I collapsed.
Tears poured out, and with them, the poison of the night.
The ache. The memory. The rough hands. The silent screams.
He held me.
And for the first time since the man touched me, I felt clean again.



She Was Forgiven—But Could She Forgive Herself?


Ram was gentle with me after that night.
We stayed at the farmhouse another day—only for the boys’ sake.
He didn’t touch me.
Not even when we shared the bed.
Not out of anger.
But respect.
I was his wife still.
But something between us had been touched by another man's breath—and that truth, though forgiven, now lived in the shadows of our intimacy.
Back in Chennai, life resumed like a well-rehearsed drama.
The boys went to college.
Ram returned to court in his black coat and sharpened briefs.
I wore my soft nighties at home again, sometimes without inner garments, like before.
The maid came, the milkman stared, the sun rose and fell.
But something inside me remained wide awake… in the dark.
It wasn’t guilt.
Not anymore.
That had been consumed by my husband’s arms.
What lingered… was confusion.
Because in the act of saving another girl from harm…
I had discovered something else.
“Why did his rough touch leave echoes?”
“Why did the way he undressed me haunt me… and not only in shame?”
“Why… did I feel something stir that I was never allowed to name?”
Late at night, I found myself in front of the mirror—alone—wearing nothing but my white bra and matching panties.
The same ones.
They had been washed.
Clean.
But not erased.
I stood there and looked at my own body—not as a mother of three, not as Ram’s dutiful wife—but as a woman who had crossed a line with purpose, who had offered her body like a shield… and found something fragile and wild under her skin.
I touched my own arm. My own neck. My navel.
Slowly.
And in that moment…
I imagined it was not Ram’s hands.
Not the thief’s either.
But mine.
“Do I even know what I want?”
“Do I know what my skin needs?”
It scared me.
This sudden, forbidden sense of self.
And I knew it…
The real battle wasn’t with the thief.
It wasn’t with Ram.
It was with me.
Because I might have survived that night…
But now, I had to survive myself.

The Shame That Didn’t Fade, and the Desire That Wouldn’t Die



It was a Thursday afternoon.
The house was quiet.
The boys were in college. Ram was in court.
And I stood in the bathroom, door bolted, water running slowly into the bucket.
I had removed my saree, my black inskirt, and laid them on the hook.
The white bra—the same one from that night—hung loose on my chest.
The white panties hugged my hips, soft and damp, but not from water.
From thought.
From memory.
That man. That touch. That primal rhythm.
The way he looked at me—not like Ram, not like a husband, but like a man who didn’t care who I was.
Only what I was.
A woman. A body. A need.
I touched my own belly—gently at first.
But then my palm pressed lower, tracing over the waistband of my panties.
I gasped.
Not because it was wrong.
But because it was honest.
Why am I like this?
Why do I still feel him… when I should hate him?
What does that make me?
I sat down on the bathroom floor.
Water slipping past my feet, cold and careless.
I cupped my knees into my chest, my wet hair clinging to my cheek, my blouse long forgotten in the corner.
And I wept.
But not just from guilt.
I wept for the woman I had never fully allowed myself to become.
For the skin I had hidden behind “duty.”
For the urges I had masked behind “respectability.”
For the silence I had mistaken for virtue.
That man may have stolen my night…
But he’d unlocked something, too.
And now, I couldn’t put it back.
Not into my saree.
Not into my marriage.
Not even into the folds of my soul.
“Ram still loved me.
He still desired me.
But would he ever touch me the same way again… if he knew that somewhere inside me, that thief’s breath still lingered on my thighs?”
I didn’t know.
And in that moment…
I wasn’t sure who I truly was anymore.
Not Sudha, the beautiful wife.
Not Amma, the mother of three.
Not even the woman in the yellow chiffon saree.
Just a trembling self, naked in the bathroom,
half woman, half memory,
searching for a place to be forgiven by her own reflection.



When Her Saree Fell Again—This Time, For Forgiveness


The moonlight filtered in through the window, painting soft silver on the bedspread.
The fan whispered above, but the night was anything but calm.
I had lit an agarbatti.
The scent of sandalwood curled into the air like a sacred memory—fragile, fading.
I stood in front of Ram, who sat at the edge of the bed.
His shirt was unbuttoned. His face unreadable.
I had dressed with care—deliberately.
A soft yellow chiffon saree.
A matching sleeveless blouse that clung to my curves.
Beneath it, white bra… and white panties.
The same.
Not by accident.
But by choice.
“I want you to look at me,” I said softly.
“Really look at me… like you did the night before everything changed.”
He raised his eyes.
Hesitant.
Hungry.
Haunted.
I reached for the pleats and let them slip.
The saree sighed as it pooled to the floor.
Now I stood before him in just the blouse and petticoat, chest rising, breath shaking.
“I let another man touch me…” I whispered.
“But he didn’t take what’s yours.”
He looked confused.
I stepped closer.
“Because what’s yours, Ram… was never just my body.
It’s the way I moan your name in the dark.
It’s the way I ache when you undress me.
The way I tremble when your fingers find my hip, just here—”
I guided his hand to my side, under the blouse hem.
“No one can take that from me.
I gave him my body.
But you, Ram… you still have my soul.”
He stood.
His fingers undid the hook of my blouse with the reverence of a man not reclaiming something stolen, but receiving something sacred.
He leaned in.
His lips brushed my neck, then lower.
His voice—ragged.
“Then let me remind you who you are.
Who we are.”
He knelt, slowly peeling down the white panties, inch by inch.
His hands didn’t grope—they remembered.
And when he laid me down, he didn’t just make love to me.
He reclaimed me.
Not from the man who touched me that night.
But from the woman I had become—lost, guilty, unsure.
We kissed.
Deep.
Salted with tears.
Seared with forgiveness.
And in that kiss… the thief’s touch faded.
The shadows lifted.
All that remained were two bodies—bruised, but bravely entwined.


The Morning She Belonged to Herself Again


The sun rose gently the next morning.
Its light didn’t pry—it caressed.
I sat on the edge of our bed, wrapped in Ram’s white bedsheet, my hair still damp from the sweat of night and redemption.
He was asleep behind me, his arm dbangd across my waist, still possessive. Still trusting.
And for the first time since that night at the farmhouse…
I felt clean.
Not because the world would understand what I had done.
Not because it was morally easy.
But because I had faced it.
With truth.
With love.
With pain.
I had let my body become a shield.
I had let another man inside me—not out of desire, but desperation.
And somehow… in the end… my husband hadn’t just forgiven me.
He had loved me harder because of it.
“You’re braver than I’ll ever be,” he’d whispered in the dark.
“But promise me, next time, you save yourself too.”
I smiled at the memory.
I looked at myself in the mirror across the bed.
The woman looking back wasn’t the one in the chiffon saree.
She wasn’t the shy housewife in her nighties.
She wasn’t even the woman who wept in the bathroom floor.
She was me.
Sudha.
A woman with scars.
With stories.
With sins.
And yet… whole.