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

[novelistcasanova]

Date: 02 .05. 2025
Title:  The Mechanic’s Trap
Word Count: 19,677 
Author:  Novelist Casanova

 The Mechanic's Trap

The Breakdown



The wind that afternoon had the scent of something unfinished — a longing curled inside the edges of the air, soft and untold.

I stood on my veranda in a faded sky-blue saree, loosely dbangd, the pallu barely resting on my shoulder. The sun was high, but a hush hung over the street, as if even time was pausing to breathe.
The boys were off at college, the house was swept and quiet, and my husband Ram, as usual, was somewhere between Mumbai and Singapore — chasing contracts, forgetting to call.
I had gotten used to the silence. I had learned to walk barefoot through it, like a shadow moving through another’s home. But there were days — like this — when the silence kissed my skin too closely, when it pressed into places that hadn’t been touched in years.
The old scooter — Ram's wedding gift — sputtered and wheezed the moment I turned the ignition. I kicked it again. No response.
Frustrated, I sighed and let the key hang. My saree clung to the small of my back. I could feel a thin thread of sweat tracing its way down my spine.
“Muthu,” I muttered without thinking. Everyone called him for quick fixes. Even the older ladies whispered his name with caution, sometimes hunger.
I shouldn’t.
But I did.
I dialed.


He arrived an hour later. On his bike. No helmet. No shame.
Shirt hanging open, revealing a chest streaked with grease and sunburn. Eyes too bold for his age — or maybe I was just too used to being invisible.
I stayed at the doorway, arms crossed. “Scooter’s dead again.”
He smirked. “Maybe it's jealous, Akka. You don’t ride it with love anymore.”
I didn’t reply. I watched him work — crouched over the scooter, arms tightening, back flexing, oil staining his palms. His fingers moved with such confidence. Dirty fingers. Skilled fingers.
The heat in the air wasn’t only from the sun.
“Can I get you water?” I asked, unsure why my voice trembled.
He looked up — and in that pause, his eyes dropped to my waist. My saree had slipped slightly, the knot at my hip showing bare skin.
“I’ll take filter water,” he said, gaze lingering a second too long.
Inside the kitchen, my hands trembled as I poured. I could hear the faint sound of him whistling outside. Confident. Careless. Dangerous.
When I returned, he took the glass from my hand — his fingers grazing mine. Just a brush. But it stayed. My skin tingled even after he had pulled away.
“Fixed it,” he said, wiping his hands on a rag. “But you should ride it more often, Amma. Machines need attention. So do people.”
That made me blink.
Before I could respond, he tucked something under the seat, closed it with a snap, and stepped back.
“Call me if it acts up again,” he said. “Or if you do.”
He left.
I stood in the middle of the street, the glass still in my hand, heart confused.
Later, I found the note under the seat.
"You're too beautiful to be ignored."
My cheeks flushed. I didn’t tear it. I didn’t burn it.
I hid it.
Not from my husband.
From myself.

The Window and the Man
The note stayed folded beneath my blouse stack in the wooden almirah, hidden like a guilty sigh in the middle of a temple chant. I would sometimes open the cupboard for no reason at all — just to see the edge of it. That edge felt like the edge of something else entirely. Something I couldn’t yet name.
That morning, I didn’t put on my usual nighty. I chose a pale pink saree with a thin golden border.  I did not wear my Bra or Panties underneath my pale pink Saree.  I didn’t know why.
I stood by the window near the kitchen, spoon in hand, idli batter still untouched. The soft lace curtain fluttered gently, revealing just enough of the street.
He was there.
Muthu, crouched low beside a green TVS moped. Sweat glistened at the base of his neck. He worked with intensity, wiping the engine clean, grease streaked up to his elbows. A cigarette dangled from his lips, forgotten, as his fingers danced like a musician’s.
I watched. Longer than I should have.
He wiped his forehead with the back of his hand and looked up — straight at my window. I ducked too quickly, knocking over the ladle.
My heart pounded. I told myself it was nothing. That he hadn’t seen me. That even if he had, it meant nothing. But my breath gave me away — shallow, uneven, alive.
Later that day, I found excuses to linger near the window again. He wasn’t there anymore. Just the echo of his smirk in my memory.


Over the next few days, I noticed him more. Or maybe, he made himself noticed.
He parked his bike closer to our gate. He laughed louder. And every evening, just before sunset, he would clean his hands with slow, deliberate care, making sure his movements faced the house — my window.
I began changing my routine. I folded clothes in the veranda. I swept the corridor slower. I watered the plants longer, bending more than necessary, pretending I didn’t notice the weight of his gaze.
I was not naïve. I was not bold.
But I was… restless.
One evening, while hanging the wet sarees on the line, I turned toward the garage.
Muthu was leaning against the wall, smoking, arms crossed — just watching.
He didn’t smile. He didn’t wave.
He waited.
And I... kept hanging the sarees. One. By. One.
My fingers trembled as I clipped the final one. The wind lifted the fabric, brushing it against my waist like an invisible hand, and in that fleeting second — I imagined it was his.
That night, I dreamt again. Not of kisses. Not of bedsheets.
But of fingers. On my wrist. On my shoulder. On my lips, just before they could part.


The next morning, I told myself I would stop. No more glances. No more games. I was a mother, a wife. A woman with a life.
But as I opened the front gate to fetch the milk packet, I found a matchbox lying by the steps.
Inside it — a single betel leaf folded with a note:
“If you watch me again today, wear the red saree.”
My fingers tightened around it. My breath caught in my throat.
I looked up at the sky — bright, indifferent.
And still, somewhere deep inside me, I knew what saree I would choose.

The Red Saree



The red saree had always been too bold. It lived at the back of my cupboard, tucked behind old blouses and wedding silks. Ram once said it made me look “too young.” So I had worn it only once — years ago, on our fifth anniversary — and then folded it away like a memory too bright to keep in plain sight.

But that morning, I reached for it.
My fingers hesitated as I opened the cupboard, the scent of sandalwood and starch rising from the folds. The saree shimmered — not loud, not vulgar — but alive. Crimson with gold zari threads that traced the border like secrets whispered at midnight.
I held it against my body, staring at myself in the mirror. The pallu was light, airy. It slid across my shoulder as if it, too, wasn’t used to being worn. I chose a sleeveless blouse — something that clung, but didn’t confess.  I did not wear my Bra and Panties again.
The moment I stepped into the sunlight of the veranda, I felt it — his gaze. I didn’t have to look. I knew.
Muthu was there.
Somewhere beyond the neem tree, behind the tin-sheet roof, standing just outside the shade of his garage.
Watching.
I pretended not to notice.
I bent over the tulsi pot, sprinkling water slowly, letting the saree shift with my movement, letting the breeze lift the fabric from my waist.
I was no longer hiding.
And still — I was terrified.
Not of him. Not even of being caught.
But of how much I wanted to be seen.


Later, as I stood at the gate, dusting the railing, he walked past.
Not on his bike. Not in a hurry.
He walked. Slowly. Deliberately.
Our eyes met.
His lips curved — not a smile. Something hungrier. Quieter. Like he already knew my answer before I had made the choice.
“Red suits you,” he said. Just that.
I didn’t reply.
But I didn’t look away.
And when he passed by, his fingers brushed against mine — just slightly, just enough to burn. Like the edge of a flame licking at the skin, asking if you would flinch or stay still.
I stood there, frozen.
That night, after the children had gone to sleep, I stood before the mirror again. I undbangd the saree slowly — not like undressing, but like remembering something forgotten. My skin still carried his glance, like invisible fingerprints.
I touched my wrist where he had brushed against me.
It tingled.
It throbbed.
I didn’t understand this new version of myself.
But I didn’t try to stop her, either.
She felt alive.


In the silence of the bedroom, with Ram’s side of the bed cold and empty, I pulled the red saree close to my face and inhaled.
It still carried the scent of dust, jasmine oil... and something else.
A secret.
And in that darkness, I whispered the truth out loud, for the first time — not to him, not to God, but to the woman in the mirror.
“I want to be wanted.”


The Saree Falls



The house had never felt this quiet before.

The boys were at their cousin’s place for the weekend. Ram was in Coimbatore — delayed again. He didn’t even ask if I’d be okay alone. He trusted the locked gate, the security grill, the decency of the colony.
He didn’t know I had already unlocked something far more dangerous.
It was a little past 3 p.m. The Chennai sun was beginning to mellow, throwing long golden lines across the kitchen tiles. I moved slowly, barefoot, wrapped again in the same red saree.
Not for anyone.
At least, that’s what I told myself.
There was a knock at the gate.
Not urgent. Just a polite rhythm — like someone knocking on a memory.
I opened the curtain slightly.
It was him.
Muthu. In a clean white shirt, hair damp, carrying a small steel toolbox.
I didn’t call for repairs. But somehow, I knew this moment was going to arrive.
I walked to the door, pulse quickening.
He greeted me with a smile — not the boyish one he gave others, but the one he reserved only for me: slow, confident, knowing.
“Your husband said the ceiling fan in the back bedroom makes noise,” he lied smoothly.
We both knew he hadn’t spoken to Ram.
We both knew there was no fan problem.
But I let him in anyway.


He walked ahead of me, as if he belonged. I stood at the doorway of the small spare room as he pretended to inspect the fan.
The red saree clung to my back.
The blouse felt too tight.
The silence between us stretched — not awkward, not innocent. Just waiting.
He turned toward me, wiping his forehead. “Hot room,” he said.
“So is the hall,” I replied softly, before I could stop myself.
His eyes flicked down to my waist, where the saree was tucked low. Then to my shoulder. Then to my face.
And then he stepped closer. Slowly. Not touching. Just close enough that I could feel the heat of him.
“You wore it again,” he said, voice low.
I didn’t respond.
My breath had already betrayed me.
The fan above made a soft creaking sound — like even it had begun to tremble.
Then — it happened.
He reached to adjust my pallu. Gently. Reverently. Like touching prayer cloth.
But it slipped.
The saree loosened. Unraveled slightly at the waist. The pallu slid from my shoulder.
I gasped — not in fear. In surrender.
His fingers caught the fabric just in time, holding it delicately, as if it were a secret he’d promised not to speak out loud.
He didn’t look down.
He looked straight into my eyes.
“I can leave,” he whispered, “if you ask me to.”
My voice trembled. “Don’t.”
His fingers released the saree. It fell.
Not just the cloth. But the barrier between right and want. Between the woman I was told to be and the woman I had hidden for years.
He moved closer.
His hand brushed the side of my face — rough, stained with grease, yet soft in that moment. My breath hitched.
Then silence.
Long, aching silence.
He didn’t kiss me.
He just stood there — watching me breathe, watching me not cover up.
I could have pushed him away.
But I didn’t.
And he didn’t take more than I gave.
He stepped back.
“I’ll come tomorrow,” he said, voice husky. “To finish… the fan.”
He walked out, toolkit untouched.
I stood in the middle of that room, the red saree pooling around my ankles, heart thundering in my chest.
Not naked.
But no longer fully clothed in denial either.


The Second Knock
The red saree still lay dbangd over the back of the chair, untouched since yesterday.
I didn’t fold it.
Couldn’t.
It still carried the warmth of that moment, the weight of his stare, the invisible print of his fingers brushing my cheek. Every corner of the house now whispered something — the mirror where I’d watched it fall, the corridor where he’d stood without touching me, and the air... oh, the air still smelled of his aftershave and engine grease.
I told myself nothing had happened.
But something had.
Something that wouldn’t stop playing behind my closed eyes.
All morning, I moved like a ghost inside my own home — cleaning, washing, chopping vegetables — as if the motions would cleanse the ache beneath my skin.
But nothing worked.
And then, just past noon...
The second knock came.
Firm. Familiar. Less polite this time.
I stood frozen, hands wet with soap at the sink. My heart slammed against my ribs. I didn’t move for a whole minute.
The knock came again. Two slow, deep thuds.
I walked to the door with trembling legs, wiping my hands on the side of my nighty. My heart said don’t open it.
But my hand reached for the latch.
There he stood.
Muthu.
In a faded blue t-shirt, hair messy, eyes unreadable — like yesterday hadn’t happened. Or like he was still living inside it.
“I forgot my screwdriver,” he said.
It was a lie. I had checked. He hadn’t left anything behind.
Still, I nodded and stepped aside.
He entered, brushing past me — closer this time. His arm brushed my shoulder, and I felt that soft electric shiver again.
The back room was where he went. I followed, silently.
The saree was still there on the chair.
He noticed.
He didn’t comment.
But his eyes lingered.
“I’ll get you tea,” I said, trying to steady my voice.
“No need,” he replied. “I won’t stay long.”
Yet he didn’t leave.
He stood by the chair. Then touched the fabric — just a corner — running it slowly between his fingers.
“I didn’t sleep,” he said, not looking at me.
I didn’t reply.
“I kept thinking about yesterday. About how it felt… to be in the same room with you. And still not cross the line.”
The words pressed into my chest like warm hands.
I swallowed. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”
“I wanted to,” he said, eyes meeting mine now. Dark. Unflinching. “But not like that. Not rushed. Not confused.”
I backed slightly toward the doorframe, my hand clutching the edge of the curtain. “Then why are you here?”
He stepped closer. Close enough to feel his breath again.
“To ask you if you still want me to leave.”
Silence filled the space between us like a slow, dense cloud.
His eyes searched mine.
I could say yes.
I could close the door. Walk back. Be a mother. A wife. A woman with discipline.
But my lips wouldn’t open.
My silence spoke louder than consent.
He reached for my hand. Not forcefully. Gently. As though afraid I’d vanish.
And when our fingers touched, I didn’t pull away.
He leaned in — just close enough to brush his forehead to mine. Our lips didn’t meet.
But our hearts did.
Pounding.
Raw.
Undeniable.
“I’ll wait,” he whispered. “Till you ask me.”
Then — he let go.
Walked out. Without touching the saree again. Without looking back.
The door closed behind him.
And I collapsed to my knees, not out of shame — but out of confusion. Desire. Longing.
Because now I knew this was no longer just a trap.
It was a choice.
And one day… I might make it.


The Day I Asked
I didn't plan it.
There was no bold declaration in the mirror, no lipstick-stained letter of intent, no whispered confession to God as I lit the lamp in front of the tulsi.
There was only a strange calm inside me — as if a war had ended and the losing side had laid down its arms willingly.
The day began like any other.
The children had left for college, their lunchboxes packed with care, their uniform collars adjusted with motherly instinct. The maid had finished early and left, muttering about a power cut on the next street.
The house was quiet again.
But not lonely.
Not anymore.
I went into the shower and took my shower and came out. The water flowed over me like warm silk, streaming down my neck, my back, between my thighs. My fingers lingered along my skin longer than necessary. Not to clean. To feel. To remember.
I closed my eyes and let the stream kiss my collarbone—the same way Muthu’s lips had, just two days ago, in this very room, right against the wall. The echo of his breath, his rough hands, the way he looked at me like I was the only woman on Earth… it pulsed inside me like a secret.
I smiled to myself.
Today, I wasn’t going to wait for him passively.
Today, I was going to make sure he remembered me with every bolt he tightened and every screw he turned back at his garage.
After drying off, I stood before the mirror. Naked. Damp. Warm.






Then I picked up the phone and sent just one message.

“Come. No one’s home. And this time, I won’t stop you.”
I didn't stare at the screen waiting for a reply.
I didn’t need to.
Because I knew he would come.
I reached first for my white bra—simple cotton, but snug against my skin. Then the maroon panties, smooth, soft, and just a little tight. My fingertips brushed the curve of my hips as I pulled them up. I didn’t rush. I savored it. The anticipation made my breath hitch.
The black petticoat followed, the drawstring pulling tight across my waist. Then came the green blouse—the same shade as mango leaves in April. I fastened the hooks slowly, feeling the fabric press over the rise of my chest, hugging me like a second skin.
And finally, the saree.
That soft moss green saree, with a golden border that shimmered in the light, and delicate threadwork near the pallu that reminded me of temple carvings. Not bold like red. But not shy either. It whispered seduction.
I dbangd it with care—pleat by pleat, pallu slung low over my left shoulder, falling just enough to tease. A dash of jasmine attar at my neck, a bindi, a tiny stroke of kajal.
I looked at myself one last time.
I wasn’t dressing for my husband.
I wasn’t dressing for society.
I was dressing for Muthu.
And I knew he would see it.
He would see the maroon beneath the black, the swell behind the silk, the desire behind the dbang.
My pulse quickened. I poured a cup of coffee, just to calm my hands.


The knock came twenty minutes later.
The clock struck 10:02.
And my doorbell rang.
I didn’t rush to open the door.
I made him wait.
Just long enough to feel the ache I had carried for days.
When I opened it, Muthu stood there — not as a mechanic, not as a boy from the colony — but as a man who had waited for permission to claim something forbidden.
His eyes scanned me. Slowly. Reverently.
And then he whispered, “You look like a storm today.”
I stepped aside. “Then close the door before I blow away.”
He walked in.
This time, I didn’t lead him to the spare room.
I led him to my bedroom.
Ram’s shirts hung in the corner. My son’s college bag leaned against the wall. Our world still lived here.
But I was no longer part of it.
Not in this moment.
I turned to face him.
There was no awkwardness.
No shame.
Only breath.
Only heat.
Only the sound of his feet slowly approaching behind me.
When he stood close, his hands didn’t grab. They hovered. As if asking — one last time — if this was real.
I reached for his hand and guided it to my bare waist.
He exhaled sharply, like he’d been holding it for days.
His hands trembled as he untucked the pallu from my waist. The silk fell between us like the last lie we ever told ourselves.
I looked up.
“I’m not afraid,” I whispered.
“I know,” he replied, his lips grazing mine.
As he began holding my face and began kissing my lips, I began kissing his lips back, signaling him how much my body needed him.
And we kissed — it wasn’t hungry.
It was holy.
His hands knew how to fix machines. But now, they moved with reverence over skin — over curves and softness no one had worshipped in years.
We didn’t speak.
“The Unwrapping”
I could feel the warmth of the morning sun on my back… but it was nothing compared to the heat coming from him.
Muthu’s fingers hovered just above my waist, not yet touching, only tempting. He stood in front of me—close, so close I could feel the energy of his breath, but still not making the first move.
“I can’t decide what to touch first,” he said, eyes drinking in every inch of me. “The silk… or the skin beneath it.”
“Then start where it hurts the most,” I whispered, already breathless. “Right here.” I guided his hand to where my pleats were tucked into the black petticoat—tight across my lower belly.
He didn’t rush. No, Muthu never rushed.
His fingers brushed the saree lightly, grazing over the golden border as if it were sacred. The friction made my skin ripple with anticipation.
“You wore this just for me?” he asked, pulling slightly at the pallu dbangd over my shoulder.
I nodded, lips parting. “Every thread. Every tuck. Every layer… I imagined your hands on it.”
That made him smile—dark, hungry, reverent.
“Then I’ll take my time,” he murmured.
“Where My Saree Ended, I Began”
His fingers brushed against the hooks of my blouse.
That tiny hesitation—that pause—it wasn’t because he didn’t know how. No, it was something else.
Something sacred.
I felt his breath at my ear. Steady. Warm.
“Say it,” he murmured.
“Say what?” I asked, heart pounding beneath the soft press of my white bra.
“That I can open this. That I can see you.”
“You already do,” I whispered.
The first hook came undone.
The second followed with a faint click. I could feel my blouse giving way—loosening its hold on my chest, releasing the heat trapped beneath.
When the last hook slipped, he peeled it off my shoulders—slowly—as if the blouse wasn’t cotton, but memory.
And there I stood, in just my bra and petticoat, arms wrapped loosely across myself—not from shame, but from the ache of anticipation.
He looked at me like he’d never seen skin before.
His voice was barely a breath:
“You’re not real.”
I swallowed hard. “Then touch me. Prove I am.”
His hands were rough. Greased from work. But gentle now. Reverent. They slid along my waist, to the drawstring of the petticoat. His eyes met mine before he pulled.
“If I undo this,” he said, “we can’t go back.”
“I don’t want to go back,” I said.
He untied the knot.
The black petticoat slipped slowly down my legs, brushing past my maroon panties like a secret grazing a secret. I stepped out of it silently, my bare feet brushing against the silk of my discarded saree on the floor.
Now there was nothing left between us except the white cotton of my bra, the maroon stretch of my underwear, and everything I had never said out loud.
And then he surprised me.
He didn’t touch me right away.
He sat down—right on the rug—and pulled me softly into his lap, holding me close, just holding me, like I wasn’t his fantasy but something more dangerous—
Someone who could break him.
I curled into him, my cheek against his bare chest. I could hear his heartbeat, heavy and uneven.
“You know what scares me?” he asked.
“What?”
“That this… isn’t just lust anymore.”
I didn’t answer. I didn’t need to.
Because the way I pressed myself into him, the way I let his fingers trace my spine beneath the strap of my bra—told him everything.
“I’m your sin, Sudha,” he said, almost like an apology.
“No,” I whispered. “You’re the only place I feel honest.”
He kissed my forehead—not my lips this time.
“When Our Mouths Finally Spoke the Truth”
I sat on his lap, dbangd in silence and sunlight—almost bare skin wrapped in little more than cotton and longing in only my Bra and Panties. My arms were around his neck. His hands cradled my waist, his fingers spread wide as if trying to memorize the curve of me.
The room was still.
The kind of stillness that comes right before something irreversible.
His eyes searched mine—not for permission, not anymore—but for presence.
And I gave it.
Not with words.
But with the way I leaned in—slowly, slowly—until our foreheads touched. Until his breath brushed against my lips like a secret about to be told.
Looking at my lips lifting my chin up as Muthu began kissing my lips, I began closing my eyes and began kissing his lips back passionately.  We kissed.
It wasn’t hurried. It wasn’t shy.
It was deep. Deliberate. Desperate in the softest way.
His lips met mine like he had been thirsting—not just for the taste of me, but for the feeling of being allowed to.
The first touch was gentle.
Then deeper.
My mouth opened to him like I had no more secrets. His tongue met mine, slow at first, dancing in a rhythm that sent a shiver down my back. I pressed myself closer—my white bra catching slightly against his chest, my maroon panties warm where I sat on him, our bodies a perfect contradiction of clothed and exposed.
His hands cupped my face, thumbs brushing my cheeks, holding me like something fragile and on fire.
I moaned into his mouth—a soft, helpless sound that surprised even me.
He smiled against my lips. “That sound,” he whispered, breath hitching, “you don’t know what that does to me.”
I kissed him harder.
He leaned back, bringing me with him, until I lay atop him on the living room rug—half-dressed, fully seen. My hair spilled over his shoulder, his fingers tangled in it. Our mouths kept moving, as if stopping might break the spell. As if every breath we stole from each other tasted better than air.
And in that moment…
There was no morning.
No marriage.
No consequence.
There was only his mouth on mine,
his hands trailing the edge of my bare back,
and the feeling of being kissed like I was the last woman in the world.
“Where He Touched, I Bloomed”



My breath caught when he looked down at me.

I was still on top of him, my skin flushed, lips swollen from our kiss, my body resting lightly on his chest. My saree lay forgotten on the floor. The black petticoat was gone. And now only two fragile layers separated me from being truly, fully bare with him—a white cotton bra and my maroon panties.
His hands slid slowly up my sides, fingertips grazing the edge of the bra’s strap. His eyes locked onto mine, silently asking.
I nodded.
His fingers moved behind me.
The metal hook gave way with a soft snap—gentle, respectful, like he knew this moment was bigger than the act itself.
As he eased the straps off my shoulders, the cool air touched my skin, but I didn’t shiver.
Because his gaze was warmer than anything I’d ever known.
The bra fell away.
I didn’t cover myself.
I didn’t look away.
He sat up slightly beneath me, cupping my waist with one hand, the other tracing slow circles along the base of my spine. His eyes didn’t just look—they lingered, like he was seeing more than my body.
Like he was seeing me.
“You’re beautiful,” he murmured. Not hungry. Not teasing.
Just honest.
I leaned into him, letting my bare chest press against his shirt. Skin to skin. Warmth to warmth. Our breaths mingled again, slower this time. Softer.
“You make me feel,” I whispered, “like I’m allowed to want… without shame.”
He rested his forehead against mine.
“Sudha,” he said, his voice breaking just a little, “I don’t know what this is anymore. But I can’t stop.”
“Then don’t,” I said, wrapping my arms around him. “Not today.”
In his arms, half-naked in the morning sun, I wasn’t just a housewife.
I wasn’t a secret. I wasn’t sin.
I was simply… his.
“The Moment We Stopped Pretending”
He kissed me again—but this time, not just on my lips.
His mouth moved softly, reverently, from the curve of my shoulder to the hollow of my collarbone, then lower. With each kiss, he wasn’t just learning my body—he was unlearning his silence, and I was unlearning my shame.
I closed my eyes and breathed him in—engine oil, heat, and something purely Muthu.
His hands cradled my back, grounding me. His lips worshipped the places no one had ever touched with such care. He wasn’t claiming me.
He was asking me.
And my body answered with every quiet arch, every trembling sigh, every moment I let go just a little more.
The last of my modesty—my maroon panties—still clung to me like a question waiting to be answered.
His fingers paused at the waistband.
He looked up.
One final silence passed between us.
Then, with a whisper of fabric and breath, I let it go.
Everything.
And still, the room didn’t feel naked.
It felt sacred.
“Where I Let Him In”
His breath moved lower—slow, reverent, unhurried.
It was the kind of silence where every inch of my skin felt like it was listening.
I lay back fully naked, my hair fanned across the rug, my chest rising and falling beneath the soft light pouring in from the window. The room still smelled like jasmine, engine oil, and something dangerously new.
He kissed the inside of my thigh—softly. Then again, a little higher.  As he began kissing my Pussy lips passionately, “mmmmmmmmmmmmm mmmmmmmmmmm mmmmmmmmmmmm mmmmmmmmmmmmmmm,” I began to moan, my body tensed, then melted. I was open. And not just in the way flesh yields to flesh, but in the way a secret surrenders.
His hands gently coaxed my legs apart—not forcefully, not impatiently, but like he was asking my body for its deepest truth.
And I gave it.
I gave it with a breathless gasp, a trembling hand tangled in his hair, a heartbeat that pulsed against his touch.
No one had ever touched me like this.
No one had ever taken the time to listen to my silence this way.
He looked up once, eyes dark and filled with something more than desire.
Awe. Maybe even love.
As if seeing me like this—bare, open, trembling—was not something he could take for granted.
“You’re everything, Sudha,” he whispered, his voice thick.
I reached for his hand, holding it tightly against my stomach as he kissed me lower, slower, deeper—not just igniting heat, but undoing years of being unseen.
And in that moment, I wasn’t afraid.
Because he wasn’t just touching my body.
He was touching the woman I never knew I could be.
“When He Became Part of Me”
The world fell away.
There was only the quiet hum of the fan, the golden warmth of morning light pooling across the floor, and the weight of him—Muthu, holding himself above me, looking at me like I was something sacred.
Our eyes locked. His breath touched my cheek.
And then… he inserted his cock inside me and entered me.
Slowly. Completely.
A gasp escaped my lips—not from pain, but from the sheer intensity of being known in that way. As if my body had been waiting for this moment all its life, and now that it had come, it didn’t quite know how to hold it all.
He didn’t rush.
He just stayed there—inside me, forehead resting against mine, our breaths tangled.
I held him close, arms around his back, and in that stillness, my heart cracked open.
His lips moved to my chest, kissing the curve of my breast, then the center, as though he wanted to drink in every sigh, every heartbeat. His mouth was tender, not greedy. Worshipping. Reverent.
I arched into him, my fingers threading through his hair.
“Muthu…” I whispered.
He paused, lifting his face to mine. “Tell me.”
I closed my eyes. “Don’t stop.”
And he didn’t.
We moved in rhythm—sometimes slow and deep, other times like waves crashing at the edge of something we couldn’t name. It wasn’t just desire. It was recognition. Gratitude. A quiet explosion of years of silence, longing, and dreams locked behind doors neither of us had dared open.
In his arms, with his body joined to mine, I felt safe.
Beautiful.
Alive.
And for the first time in years, I wasn’t wondering who I was supposed to be.
My hands moved to his face, cupping it gently, pulling him close.
I looked into his eyes—stormy, soft, undone—and in them, I saw every version of myself I had ever silenced. Every longing I had swallowed. Every truth I had buried beneath folded laundry and empty rooms.
“Muthu,” I whispered, my voice barely sound. “Look at me.”
He did.
And I kissed him—not to tempt, not to tease, but to tell him something only my mouth could say. My lips met his in a desperate softness, a kind of passion that doesn’t shout—it trembles.
His body pressed deeper into mine, and I felt it.
That shift.
That moment when everything tightens, burns, then finally lets go.
As I began holding his face with all the love I had for him and began kissing his lips passionately.  I could feel like I was about to cum, “mmmmmmm mmmmmmm mmmmmmmmm mmmmm,” as I was moaning and began kissing his lips nicely, “aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa aaaaaaaaaaaah,” he moaned.  He broke inside me.
As he broke inside me and began cumming all over my pussy, I hugged him tight and “aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah,” I moaned and came all over his cock.
His breath caught, his hands tightened at my waist, and for a suspended second—we weren’t two people anymore. We were one breath. One heartbeat. One shiver crashing through both our bodies.
I held him.
Tighter.
My legs curled around him, anchoring him to me.
His face buried in the crook of my neck as his whole body melted against mine, heavy with surrender. I could feel his heart racing against my chest—wild, unguarded, real.
And for the first time in my life, I felt chosen.
Not for duty.
Not for convenience.
But for who I was when no one was watching.
We didn’t speak. We just stayed like that.
Skin to skin.
Heart to heart.
The sound of the ceiling fan above. The scent of jasmine still clinging to my hair. The warmth of a man who had just poured himself into me—not just in body, but in everything he had left


To Be. Continued....!

[Bigil]

Great writing Is this trap or she wanted?

[Rangushki]

Excellent
The mechanic knows how to service less used woman.

[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.

[novelistcasanova]

To Be Continued 

[novelistcasanova]

Great writing Is this trap or she wanted?

That's the Turmoil she is going through...
------------------------------------------------------
Thank you for the support 

[Rangushki]

Simply good

[Little finger]

Hi bro. Super story. Can we chat?

[Thangaraasu]

very nice friend

[novelistcasanova]

The First Goodbye

It was late afternoon.
The kind of still, golden hush that makes the city feel like it's holding its breath. I had just closed the bedroom windows when I heard it — that unmistakable sound.

“The Hug That Unmade Me”



The whistle of the pressure cooker hissed behind me. I stood barefoot on the cold kitchen tiles, wrapped in my white nighty, the thin fabric clinging slightly to my skin from the Chennai heat. Beneath it, I wore my black bra and black panties—simple, functional, hidden. Just like the feelings I was trying to tuck away.

I had spent the whole morning telling myself that I had let Muthu go.
That the taste of him had faded from my mouth.
That the imprint of his hands, his breath, his body—had dissolved into the last bathwater I had poured over myself.

[novelistcasanova]

But then… the door creaked open.

And he walked in.
No knocking. No warning. Just him—Muthu. Standing there in his usual shirt and jeans, but something in his eyes was different. Quieter. Final.
My heart stuttered. I didn’t say a word. I didn’t have to.
“I came to say goodbye,” he said, his voice lower than usual. “For real this time.”
I turned off the stove without looking at him.
“Good,” I whispered. “That’s good.”
He stepped closer.
I could feel him behind me even before I heard him breathe. That familiar warmth. That scent of sun and grease and everything I was trying so hard to erase.
“I didn’t come to make it harder,” he said.
But he already had.
And then... he reached out and pulled me into an embrace.
Not rough. Not lustful. Just… desperate. Honest.
I froze at first, my cheek against his chest, my hands caught between us. But the moment I felt his arms tighten, something inside me shattered. And I held him. Tight. Fierce. Like we were trying to hold back time itself.
His hand moved gently up my back, cradling my head as I finally let my face rest against his neck. He smelled the same. He felt the same. And yet, everything was different.
“Don’t,” I murmured, my voice cracking. “Please don’t make me remember.”
“But we never forgot,” he said softly. “Even when we tried.”
We didn’t kiss.
We didn’t move.
We just stood there—wrapped in each other, breathing in what little we had left. My nighty clung to me, thin and damp between us. My bra pressed into his chest. His heartbeat thundered through me like a storm that hadn’t passed.
I wanted to push him away.
I wanted to stay in his arms forever.
And I did neither.
I just held on.
To the goodbye.
To the ache.
To the memory of being loved without words.
“A Kiss That Spoke for Me”
His arms were still around me.
The kitchen had fallen silent, but inside me, everything was trembling—like a pot on the verge of boiling over. My chest rose and fell against his. The silk of my nighty clung between us, thin as breath. I could feel his heartbeat where our bodies touched, and it made mine echo louder.
He tilted his face toward mine.
His eyes asked a question.
But his lips didn’t wait for my answer.
They found mine kissing my lips—slowly, deliberately, like he was still asking for permission with every movement. His mouth was warm, familiar, and unbearably soft. There was nothing rushed about it. He kissed me like he was memorising the shape of my lips one last time.
And I… I kissed him back.
My hands moved on their own—rising to hold his face, trembling as my thumbs brushed his stubbled jaw. I leaned into him, my lips parting slightly, answering a question I had buried deep inside my chest for weeks.
Yes.
Yes, I still want you.
Yes, my body remembers.
The kiss deepened—an ache blooming beneath the warmth. I felt his hand slide to the small of my back, pulling me closer, anchoring me to him. My black bra pressed harder against him through the soft white fabric. My thighs brushed his jeans. I could feel the way his breath quickened—just like mine.
He whispered against my lips, between kisses, “Sudha… tell me not to…”
I couldn’t.
I didn’t want to.
So instead, I kissed him harder. Letting my mouth speak where my voice couldn’t. Letting the way my lips trembled against his say all the things I never said out loud:
“I missed this. I missed you. I don’t know how to forget you.”
When we finally pulled away, we didn’t speak.
Our foreheads touched, breaths mingling, lips still tingling.
“I should go,” he said, softly, almost as if he didn’t believe it himself.
I nodded. But I didn’t let go of his shirt.
And neither did he let go of me.
“Where I Let Him In Again”
His lips returned to mine—this time with less hesitation, more ache.
The kiss wasn’t asking anymore. It was remembering. Reclaiming.
He began enjoying himself kissing my lips;
His hands, once tentative, now found their way to the curve of my waist, slipping lower with a kind of quiet desperation, until they held me in a way only he ever had—with reverence and hunger folded into the same grip.
As Muthu began grabbing my Ass Cheeks over my Nighty and began kissing my lips, his touch made me forget where I was standing. I leaned into him, fully—my body no longer just a body, but a language. And with every press of my lips to his, I spoke without speaking:
"I missed how you made me feel like a woman made of fire."
I felt his breath hitch when I kissed him deeper, slower, pulling him closer by the collar of his shirt. My body responded before my mind had a chance to object. My skin, even through the light fabric of my white nighty, was burning beneath his palms.
The air between us thickened. There was no clock anymore. No kitchen. No world outside the four walls of that moment. Only us.
“Muthu…” I whispered against his mouth. My voice came out cracked, soft. “Don’t say anything now…”
He didn’t.
Instead, he rested his forehead against mine for a brief second, his hands still holding me like I was something breakable and beloved.
Our mouths met again—fierce now, tender still. And in that kiss, I gave him everything I couldn’t keep: my ache, my fear, my unspoken yes.
Yes, I still need you.
Yes, I remember every time.
Yes, even now, when we shouldn’t.

[Thangaraasu]

very nice

[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.

[Little finger]

Super update bro

[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.

[novelistcasanova]

To Be Continued....!

[Thangaraasu]

build up of story is super. where are the children?

[Vishal Ramana]

Super

[novelistcasanova]

“When He Shared His Guilt”

Muthu’s eyes were heavy with something I hadn’t seen before — a weight that settled deep in his chest.
He took my hands in his, his voice low and trembling.
“Sudha, I feel like I’ve done wrong by coming into your life,” he said, the pain in his words cutting through the quiet room.
“I never wanted to be the one to take you away from Ram. You deserve peace… not chaos.”
I looked at him, really looked at him — the man who had become a secret part of my heart.
His honesty made me ache, but it also made me feel closer to him than ever.
“Muthu,” I whispered, squeezing his hands gently, “I understand. You never asked for this. None of us did.”
He swallowed hard, eyes searching mine.
“I only wanted to be there for you… to remind you that you’re not alone.”
And that was the truth.
In this tangled web of guilt and longing, what we shared was more than desire — it was a fragile hope for connection when the world felt uncertain.
I nodded slowly, a soft tear tracing down my cheek.
“Whatever happens, I want you to know… I’m grateful. For you, for this moment.”
He smiled then, a flicker of peace breaking through the storm.
“Me too, Sudha. Me too.”
“A Quiet Promise in the Storm”
We sat close, the silence between us no longer heavy but soft, filled with unspoken truths and gentle acceptance.
Muthu’s hand remained in mine, a steady anchor in the shifting tides of our lives.
“We can’t change the past,” I said softly, “or the people in our lives. But we can decide how to carry what we have — carefully, honestly.”
He nodded, eyes reflecting the quiet strength I felt inside.
“Maybe… maybe it’s about cherishing what we share without needing to define it or rush it.”
The idea settled over me like a warm embrace.
A love not bound by expectation, but by respect and tenderness.
I smiled, feeling a lightness I hadn’t known in weeks.
“Whatever happens, we’ll face it together — no guilt, no regrets.”
Muthu leaned in, pressing a gentle kiss to my forehead.
“A quiet promise,” he whispered, “in the middle of the storm.”
And in that moment, amid the uncertainty, we found something unbreakable — a connection that neither time nor circumstance could erase.
“The Shadow of Fear and Farewell”
Muthu’s eyes darkened with a weight I hadn’t fully grasped before.
He pulled me close, voice low but fierce.
“If Ram ever finds out about us… he wouldn’t hesitate,” he said, his words slicing through the quiet room.
“He’d destroy everything — you, me, this fragile thread we’ve woven.”
My heart clenched, fear mingling with the ache inside me.
I knew Ram’s temper, his pride. The danger was real — sharper than any blade.
Muthu’s hands trembled slightly as he continued, “That’s why I was going to Dubai. To start over. Far away. So I wouldn’t be the one to break your family apart.”
The truth settled heavy between us — a sacrifice I hadn’t expected, a choice made to protect me.
I looked up at him, tears threatening to spill.
“I understand, Muthu. More than you know.”
He kissed my forehead gently, as if saying goodbye without words.
“We have to be careful, Sudha. For your sake. For theirs.”
And in that moment, the passion and longing were wrapped in a quiet sorrow — two souls bound by love, yet forced to walk different paths.
Muthu was going to Dubai, so that he won’t ruin my Family.


A Visit to the Temple

The temple bells were already ringing when I arrived.
It was early morning — the sky was still pale, and dew clung to the hibiscus flowers in the thulasi pot. The streets were just beginning to wake. Milk vendors cycled past, flower sellers arranged garlands, and somewhere, a conch sounded.
I had wrapped myself in a simple cotton saree. No makeup. No jewelry. Just silence in my breath and heaviness in my chest.
This morning, I wasn’t Sudha, the wife, or Sudha, the woman haunted by a kiss.
I was just a soul looking for peace.


The moment I stepped past the gopuram, something shifted in me.
The stone under my feet was cool. The air was thick with incense. I folded my hands, eyes closed, and began to walk slowly toward the sanctum — past the lamps, the oil stains on the floor, the fragrance of sandalwood and jasmine mixing like memories I couldn’t untangle.
I didn’t pray with words.
I didn’t know how to.
I only whispered inside:
“Please... help me forget.”


But the temple had other plans.
As I lit the diya and placed it before the deity, I caught sight of something that made me pause.
A white shirt.
A man near the edge of the crowd. Standing still, hands folded, facing the idol.
From behind — it could have been him.
My heart leapt.
I took a step forward, but just as quickly — the man turned, and it wasn’t Muthu.
Of course it wasn’t.
But the flame inside me — the one I thought I’d smothered with tears and silence — reignited.

[novelistcasanova]

Climax:

When I somehow came to know that Sudha was leaving for Dubai today, through two people talking to each other, I decided to go to his house and meet him.
I quickly went to the shower and came back.  As the soft morning light filtered through the curtains, casting a golden glow that danced on the folds of my yellow chiffon saree.
Its delicate fabric whispered as I moved—light, flowing, and kissed with a warmth that mirrored the flutter inside me.
The saree clung just so, revealing the gentle curve of my waist and the sway of my hips beneath the sheer, sunlit layers.
Beneath it, I wore a matching sleeveless blouse that hugged my skin like a lover’s caress—soft, smooth, and daring in its simplicity.
The black petticoat beneath added a bold contrast, teasing the eye with its dark mystery.
And beneath all, my white bra cradled my breasts perfectly, while the navy blue Panties, hidden yet present, made me feel daring and alive.
I caught my reflection, tracing the delicate threadwork near the pallu, feeling the subtle heat rise inside me.
Every breath, every movement was a silent promise—a secret just for Muthu.
Today, I wouldn’t wait for him to say goodbye.
I would go to him, wrapped in sunlight and longing, to surprise him with all that I was—bold, sensual, and unapologetically his.
As I stepped out of my home, the yellow chiffon saree flowing gracefully with each movement. The soft fabric caught the morning breeze, brushing lightly against my skin, sending a delicious shiver of anticipation down my spine. My matching sleeveless blouse revealed my toned arms and shoulders, glowing under the gentle sunlight. The contrasting black petticoat swayed with my steps, while the white bra beneath offered subtle support, the navy blue Panties hidden but adding a secret thrill that only I knew.
My heart raced as I imagined Muthu's surprise when she appeared at his doorstep, bold and radiant in my delicate yet daring attire. Every detail, from the golden threadwork near the pallu to the soft dbang of the saree, was chosen to captivate and convey my longing — a silent invitation to hold me close before he left forever.
With a deep breath to steady myself, I smiled softly, my eyes shimmering with hope and desire. I was ready to face whatever came next, wrapped in sunlight and secrets, determined to seize this final moment with Muthu.
“The Moment He Saw Me”
The door opened before I could even knock.
There he was—Muthu—leaning casually against the frame, but the moment his eyes landed on me, something shifted.
His breath caught, a flicker of surprise and something deeper flashing through his gaze.
I felt the heat radiate between us like an electric current.
“Sudha...” His voice was low, rough with emotion and sudden desire.
“You look… incredible.”
I smiled, feeling a rush of boldness.
The yellow chiffon clung to my curves, the golden threadwork shimmering softly in the light, and I could see the way his eyes traced every inch of me—from my sleeveless blouse to the sway of my saree around my hips.
He stepped forward, unable to hide the hunger in his gaze.
“Too beautiful to leave,” he murmured, his voice thick with longing.
In that instant, the world narrowed to just us—two hearts aching and aflame, with time slipping away too fast.
“The Dance of Desire”
Muthu’s eyes roamed over me like a man rediscovering a treasured secret—slow, deliberate, hungry.
I caught the way his gaze lingered on the curve of my neck, the delicate line of my collarbone, and then slipped lower to the gentle swell of my waist beneath the sheer chiffon.
A slow smile curved my lips.
“Enjoying the view?” I whispered, letting my fingers trace the golden threadwork near my shoulder, drawing attention to the subtle shimmer.
He swallowed hard, his breath hitching.
“You have no idea,” he murmured, stepping closer, heat radiating from his body.
I swayed gently, letting the saree slip just a fraction—barely enough to tease but enough to send a spark of electricity through the air.
“Then why don’t you come closer and see better?” I teased softly, voice low and sultry.
His eyes darkened, desire flaring bright.
Without breaking eye contact, he reached out, his fingers tracing the edge of my blouse, his touch feather-light yet igniting fire beneath my skin.
“Sudha…” he breathed, voice thick with need.
“You’re driving me crazy.”
I laughed softly, leaning into his touch, savoring the tension that pulled us closer, a dance of want and promise swirling between us.
“The Pull of Desire”
Muthu’s eyes burned into me, fierce and hungry, but I saw the battle behind them — a man trying hard to hold himself back.
His jaw clenched, hands twitching like he wanted to close the distance but stopped himself.
The raw restraint only made my pulse race faster.
I stepped closer, the sheer chiffon brushing against his chest, my breath warm against his ear.
“Trying to resist me?” I whispered, my voice dripping with invitation.
“You don’t have to.”
He swallowed hard, the heat in his eyes becoming almost unbearable.
“I... I’m trying,” he said, voice rough.
I pressed my body just a little closer, fingers tracing lazy circles on his arm.
“But you’re failing.”
A slow, teasing smile played on my lips.
“If you want me, all you have to do is say it.”
His breath hitched. His hands twitched again, longing unmasked now.
The tension between us tightened — delicious, electric, impossible to ignore.