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

[novelistcasanova]

“The Night I Gave Myself”



Farmhouse Arrival – Sunset Glow – Wrapped in Yellow





The setting sun bathed the village in a golden warmth as we drove down the narrow path lined with whispering palm trees. Ram’s hand was on the steering wheel, but I noticed how often his eyes flicked toward the rearview mirror—not to watch the road, but to admire the soft folds of my saree beside him.
I wore my favorite yellow chiffon saree that day. Light as air, sheer enough to let the breeze kiss my skin beneath.
Beneath the bright folds, I had wrapped myself in a black petticoat, cinched loosely at my hips. The strings tickled my skin with every small movement.
Tucked inside the yellow blouse—sleeveless and deep-cut—was my secret. A white cotton bra, aged soft, that cupped me delicately but didn’t hide much.
And below… I had chosen a pair of white panties, thin and snug, because Ram always said they made my hips look sinful under the saree’s cling.
“I knew I looked like temptation wrapped in fabric. And I loved that he noticed.”
At home, I never wore anything beneath my nighties. But when we stepped out, I dressed with care—not just for decency, but for the slow unveiling I knew would come later.
Ram loved undressing me.
He did it with reverence, like he was peeling the petals off a sacred flower.
His fingers always lingered at the knot of my petticoat, teasing the tie open slowly, letting the tension between us bloom.
He loved the moment my blouse unhooked… when the cups of my bra surrendered… when the white straps slipped off my shoulder like whispers.
And when he finally slid my panties down… he never looked away.
“I wore these layers not to cover myself… but to give him the joy of discovery. Each night, I gave him the gift of unwrapping me.”
That night, as we reached the farmhouse, I caught his glance as I bent forward to unbuckle one of the boys’ bags.
My yellow blouse clung to me, rising slightly.
The outline of my white bra played under the chiffon like a teasing silhouette.
Ram’s lips parted.
I smiled. I knew that look.
And somewhere in the soft rustle of palm leaves and the quiet hum of insects… I sensed something else.
A strange stillness.
Like the air was holding its breath.
“I thought it was the excitement of the night to come. I didn’t know then… that the night would ask more of me than I had ever given.”


Sudha’s Self-Portrait — A Woman Dbangd in Gaze


My name is Sudha. I’m thirty-two.
A Tamil wife. A mother of three sons.
A woman who folds herself between sarees and silences.
At home, I’m simply called “Amma.”
But outside—men call me with their eyes.
They look at me as I walk down the lane, my hips swaying slightly under a faded nightie.
They look when I bend to lift a wet bedsheet from the line.
They don’t know I feel their eyes crawling over me…
But I do.
“And I let them. Because in their gaze, I feel what Ram no longer says.”
I am not bold.
I am not wild.
But I know how to feel the softness of a saree brushing my bare navel as I walk.
Ram loves when I wear my saree low—well below my navel, pinned just right to expose the gentle dip of my belly.
He says it makes me look like a forbidden poem.
I wear my blouses snug and sleeveless. Not vulgar—just… dangerously graceful.
And I never wear a slip. I want my saree to dance with me, cling to me, remind me I’m still a woman under the mother, the wife, the homemaker.
At home, I live in nighties. Soft cotton, printed in sleepy flowers.
But I never wear a bra beneath them. Never wear panties either.
Why should I?
“I like to feel the freedom. The way fabric kisses skin. The slight swing of my bare curves underneath. Sometimes I catch my reflection and smile. Other times… I catch a neighbor looking. And I don’t smile—but I don’t look away either.”
Ram is successful. Rich. Respected.
A man who builds his courtroom like a fortress.
And yet, in the bedroom, he still peels my blouse like it’s the most sacred ritual of the night.
His favorite? The way I lie on my back, saree pushed up, blouse undone, petticoat sliding off…
and I raise my arms over my head, surrendering.
Letting him remove my white bra with his teeth, sometimes.
His hands pause at my hips, fingers curling into the waistband of my white panties, eyes full of worship.
“He never rushes. Because he knows… I bloom slow.”
That’s me.
Sudha.
Hot. Beautiful. Shy.
A Tamil wife wrapped in sarees and secrets.
But on that night—at the farmhouse—I became something else.
Not just a wife. Not just a body.
I became a shield. A sacrifice.
And in doing so…
“I gave away more than my clothes. I gave away the silence that protected me from who I could become.”


The Farmhouse, the Hidden Gold, and the Night Without Signal



We reached the farmhouse by dusk.
The sky had turned a deep shade of ink, and the palm trees stood still like quiet watchers.
The house Ram had bought was tucked between fields—private, distant, secret.
It was a place to hide away from the world… or from the things the world must not see.
Like the 100 kilograms of unaccounted gold
we’d hidden beneath the tiles in the basement.
Ram trusted no one but me.
I had stood beside him, holding the flashlight, as he buried it—gold bars that caught the light like temptation itself.
“We both knew this was not just a farmhouse. It was a secret. A risk. A treasure chest of both wealth… and danger.”
That weekend, we decided to bring the children.
Our three boys—bright, loud, happy—rushed through the rooms with excited feet.
And with them came Pattu—my cousin Munna’s teenage daughter.
A girl barely twenty. Innocent, sharp-eyed, and always tugging her skirt nervously.
Ram didn’t mind. He liked the laughter in the house.
We had no mobile signal here.
No phone calls. No internet. No connection to the world.
But we loved it.
It felt pure. Like we were the only people alive.
That night, I cooked on the open-fire stove, the smell of ghee and tamarind rising with the breeze.
I changed into my yellow chiffon saree again—Ram’s favorite.
Wore the same white bra and panties, felt the softness of the chiffon slide against my thighs.
I knew tonight, we’d make love in this strange house filled with gold and wind and silence.
We put the boys to sleep in the far bedroom.
Ram smiled at me as he turned the lock on their door.
We kissed, lazily at first…
His fingers tracing the border of my blouse, teasing the clasp.
He tugged at the knot of my black petticoat, and I moaned as I felt it slip…
My saree pooled around my ankles.
“That’s when we heard it.
A sound.
Sharp. Crude. Not of this house.
Not of us.”
We froze.
Footsteps.
A crash—like the back door being kicked open.
Then came the shouts—ugly, hoarse, male voices.
And a moment later, they were in our bedroom.
Two men.
Dark-skinned, sweaty, eyes full of hunger and hate.
They stank of liquor and rage.
One pointed a knife at Ram’s throat.
The other looked at me—and then, at the door behind me.
“Give us your money.
Your gold.
Or we’ll take what we want anyway.”
Ram tried to lie.
But they dragged him out, one of them forcing him toward the car to drive to an ATM.
And the other?
He stayed back.
His eyes were not on me.
They were on Pattu.
Seduction as Survival






The silence after Ram left with the other man was unnatural—like a power had shifted.
The farmhouse felt colder, smaller, dangerous.
I could hear Pattu breathing behind the curtain.
She was trembling.
She was a child.
The thief was pacing in the living room, wiping the sweat off his neck with our curtain.
His eyes, dark and restless, kept darting toward where Pattu hid.
“She’s a young one, isn’t she?” he muttered.
“Scared little sparrow.”
He looked at me, and I felt his gaze sweep over my yellow chiffon saree.
My heart pounded.
But I took a deep breath.
And I stepped forward.
“She’s just a child,” I said softly.
“Too young. Too thin. Nothing to enjoy.”
His eyes narrowed.
“You offering yourself instead?”
I held my gaze.
“No,” I said, and stepped closer, “I’m telling you, I’m a better distraction.”
He laughed—a hoarse, animal laugh.
“You think you can tempt me, aunty?”
I smiled faintly.
“You’ve already been staring at me since you walked in.”
I moved to the table, slowly, letting the soft silk of my saree sway around my hips.
I bent slightly, deliberately.
“I saw your eyes,” I said. “When you looked at me. Not her. Me.”
He was still.
“You’re married,” he said. “And old.”
I laughed, low and warm.
“And yet you’re still standing there, holding your breath.”
He grunted.
“I could take you.”
I turned, eyes locking with his.
“But you’d enjoy it more if I let you.”
That stopped him.
Silence.
I undid one pleat from my saree, slowly, teasing the yellow fabric free from my waist.
The edge slipped lower, revealing the gentle rise of my navel, the sheen of my black inskirt tight beneath it.
“You want control, don’t you?” I asked. “Then control me. Not some child hiding in fear.”
He moved closer.
The tension thickened.
“You’re not scared?”
“I am,” I whispered. “But not for myself.”
He looked past me—toward the curtain.
I stepped in his path.
“Look at me,” I said.
My fingers brushed the knot at my blouse.
His eyes followed.
“You think you’re the only one who’s ever wanted what he shouldn’t?” I asked.
“What does that mean?”
I stepped closer. I could smell the dust, the sweat, the violence on him.
“It means,” I whispered, “I’ve had thoughts too. Fantasies. Things I never dared say aloud. But tonight…”
My hand touched his wrist, slow, soft.
“Tonight, I’ll be yours. Just… forget about her.”
He was breathing heavy now.
“You serious?”
“I don’t lie. Not about this.”
He looked torn. Desperate.
“Why?” he asked. “Why would you—?”
“Because I know what it’s like to be wanted,” I said. “And I know what it’s like to be denied.”
I leaned in.
“So I’ll give myself. But only if you promise… she walks out of here untouched.”
He looked at me for a long time.
He stepped closer.
I could smell his desire. It wasn’t lust. It was hunger.
A disgusting, twisted kind of power.
“She is so young and tender…. What if I take… her?”
I stood between him and the kitchen.
“No,” I said, voice trembling, yet steady. “Take me instead.”
He paused.
That yellow chiffon saree still clung to me—barely held together by the undone knot of my Black petticoat.
He stared. His eyes raked over my waist, my thighs, the hint of my white bra peeking through the sheer blouse.
My breasts rose with every breath, every fear.
I didn’t back away.
“He wanted something to break,” I thought.
“Let it be me. Not her.”
So I stepped forward, slowly.
Fingers trembling, I untied the remaining knot at my waist.
The black petticoat slipped off in a soft sigh.
The thief watched—almost hypnotized—as my saree loosened, folding at my ankles like petals falling from a wounded flower.
Beneath it, I stood in my white bra and panties, vulnerable… and yet… strangely powerful.
“If I must give him this—let me control how.”
I raised my hand to the clasp of my blouse, fingers slow, deliberate.
He didn’t touch me—not yet. He simply stared, transfixed by the woman in front of him who was offering not fear… but choice.
“Let me undress for you,” I whispered.
“Let me distract you. Let me… save her.”
He said nothing.
But when I lay back on the old bed, the moonlight kissing my skin, only in my White Bra and White Panties, he followed me.


As I signalled Pattu to get inside my sons’ bedroom, she got the hint and went inside my sons’ room and locked it quietly from the inside.
The thief just stood there, frozen at the threshold of the room, looking at me from head to toe in my White Bra and White Panties.
His eyes… they scanned me like he was trying to memorize something he had once owned, once adored.
And I didn’t speak.
I let the silence bloom between us—soft, electric, fragrant like jasmine after rain.
I got up looking into his eyes and took a slow step toward him, my bare feet whispering over the tiled floor.
His breath hitched.
The gentle fabric of my white cotton panties caressed my thighs as I moved, and the bra clung to my chest like a second skin, hiding nothing—revealing everything. My curves moved with me, not hurried, not ashamed. Just… meant.



When I reached him, I didn’t rush.
I lifted his hand. It was warm. Trembling. Hesitant.
And I placed it on my bare waist.
His fingers twitched at first, unsure—like they were waking from a long, cold sleep.
But then, slowly, tenderly, they began to explore.
From the side of my waist, they slid up—brushing the slope of my ribcage, pausing just under the line of my bra. My skin reacted in tiny goosebumps, every inch of me coming alive under the warmth of his palm. His touch was reverent. Rediscovering.
I gasped softly, my eyes fluttering closed—not in fear, not in embarrassment—but in surrender.
He stepped closer.
His chest brushed mine, and even through the soft cotton of my bra, I felt the thrum of his heartbeat. Wild. Reluctant. Hungry.
His other hand cupped the back of my neck, his thumb grazing the edge of my jaw.
His hands grew bolder. One slid down the curve of my back, finding the arch where I was most sensitive, making me shiver into him. The other traced the strap of my bra, then the side of my breast—just the side, just a hint—and it made me press my thighs together, aching.
I wrapped my arms around his neck, drawing him even closer until his breath mixed with mine.
Then—his lips.
He kissed the corner of my mouth first. Soft. Unsure. A question.
I answered it by parting my lips just slightly, and he sighed into me—like a man finally tasting water after a long, dry walk.
Our mouths moved slowly, like the first drops of rain soaking into parched earth.
His lips were warm, tasted like beedi, alcohol and gutka, but I did not mind, and was slightly chapped.  My lips were eager, trembling.
When his tongue brushed against mine, it wasn’t hunger.
It was recognition.
He was finding his way back.
My body leaned into his instinctively—my breasts pressing against his chest, my nipples hardened beneath the thin fabric, desperate for the warmth of his mouth, his hands, his breath.
“Whore!” as he called, something inside me excited me, and I began blushing shamelessly.
As a whisper escaped from my mouth.
This time, he groaned softly. Not from lust.
From longing.
From guilt.
From remorse that lived in his bones now… and from the fire I was stoking within him.
From my lips, parted with soft breath…
To the curve of my neck where my pulse danced beneath skin…
Down to the cotton embrace of my white bra, rising gently with every breath I took beneath him.
“Open your mouth, Whore!” as he exclaimed, I immediately opened my mouth.  “Wider,” as he said, I opened my mouth wider.  “My God, your mouth is so clean!” as he exclaimed, and spat inside my mouth and began kissing my lips, shamelessly swallowing his spit, I began kissing his lps back.
Taking his lips off my lips, he began looking at my boobs over my White Bra.  
His gaze moved further—pausing at my stomach, where his fingers lingered at first.
And then…
Lower.
At my Pussy…
To where the soft fabric of my white panties clung gently to me. Damp now. Wanting.
He reached for me.
His fingers—tentative at first—slid along the waistband of my Panties.
They brushed the skin just below my navel. I twitched under his touch, not from fear… but from remembrance.
He looked up at me. Seeking permission.
And I nodded, slow and silent.
His hands began to peel the white cotton down.
Inch by inch.
Each slide revealed more of me—not just skin, but something deeper.
Something sacred. Vulnerable. Powerful.
The fabric slipped down over my hips, pausing at the bend of my thighs. His thumbs lingered there, just briefly—caressing.
Then he eased it further, drawing it down the length of my legs, until it lay forgotten at the edge of the bed.
He sat still for a moment. Eyes dark. Breath shallow.
Then he bent down.
He kissed my feet first and went up kissing my knees, and inside of my thigh first.
Softly. Reverently.
As though he was thanking me for letting him come home.
As he spread my legs wide and looked at my Pussy, with his lips close to my Pussy lips, “my God! What a Pussy!” he exclaimed first, and as he began kissin my Pussy lips passionately, “mmmmmmmmmmmmmmm mmmmmmmmmm mmmmmmmmmmmmmm mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm,” I began to moan.
Each kiss closer. Slower. More devoted.
Until his breath was warm against the part of me that had ached in silence for nights.
He didn’t rush.
He simply stayed there—kissing, breathing, whispering apologies without words.
His lips… so gentle. So present. So utterly mine.
My fingers curled into the sheets.
I moaned—not loud, but deep. Like a sound that had been waiting to be born.
His lips still lingered at the Pussy, and I was already trembling.
But something shifted—something raw and restless began to rise in him.
The way his grip tightened at my thighs.
The way his breath grew uneven, desperate.
The way his body, so recently gentle, now ached with a storm he could no longer hold back.
He rose from between my legs—slow, steady, eyes dark like thunderclouds—and in one swift motion, unbuttoned his shirt with fingers that trembled from restraint.
The shirt fell.
The last of his clothing followed.
And there he stood—bare, unguarded, and fully mine.
His eyes locked on me.
"Turn over," he whispered, voice hoarse, breaking with hunger.
I obeyed without thinking—my body already burning for more.
I turned onto my stomach, my white bra still on, loose and askew now from his earlier kisses.
My bare hips lifted instinctively, inviting him, teasing him.
He grabbed my waist—not roughly, but like he couldn't bear the space between us a second longer. His grip was possessive, worshipful. His palms framed me as if my body were a secret temple and he, a long-banished priest, finally allowed to kneel at its altar again.
And then— spreading my Ass Cheeks, as he began inserting his cock deep inside my already wet Pussy, “mmmmmmmm mmmmmmm mmmmmmm” I began to moan.
No hesitation this time.
No waiting.
It was sudden. Deep. Fierce.
Like a dam had burst.
And I cried out—not from pain, but release.
Our bodies slammed into rhythm—his hips driving into mine with a force that made the cot creak, made the walls feel too narrow for the fire we had become.
“Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmm mmmmmmmmm mmmmmmmmmmm mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm,” I moaned and clawed at the sheets, moaning, like a prayer unraveling from my lips.
He bent over me, his chest pressed to my back, his hand snaking beneath me to cup the curve of my breast still trapped in my white bra, now soaked with sweat. His other hand gripped my hip, pulling me harder into him with every thrust, every wave of raw need crashing through him.  “Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm mmmmmmmmmmmmmm mmmmmmmmmmmm mmmmmmmmmm mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm,” I was moaning.
We were chaos.
We were fever.
We were the scream that follows the silence.
His mouth found the nape of my neck. Bit down gently. Then kissed the sting away.
I gasped. My legs trembled. My body gave in completely.
And just when I thought I couldn’t take more, he pulled me up—my back to his chest now, his hands holding my thighs apart as he drove deeper from behind, his lips murmuring “my God.. What a Whore…!  Mmmmmm mmmmmm,” filthy, desperate love against my ear.
The way he was calling me a “Whore” began driving me crazy.  As he began digging his cock deeper and deeper inside my pussy,  “mmmmmmmm mmmmmmm mmmmmm mmmmmmm,” I began to moan.  “You want to cum, Whore?” as he asked, resting his chest completely on my back, squeezing his Boobs, and digging his cock deeper and deeper inside my Pussy from behind, “yeah… mmmmmm mmmmmm mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm,” as I moaned, and the moment he squeezed me tight and dug it cock deep inside my pussy, I could not hold it anymore, “aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa aaaaaaaaaaaaaaa aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah,” I moaned and came all over his cock.
The moment I came all over his cock, “let me taste your juices, Whore,” as he exclaimed and began pulling his erect cock out of my juicy pussy and began turning me around.
Wasting no time, he turned me around and as he began spreading my legs and began tasting my juices all over my clean shaved pussy, “mmmmmmmmmmmmmm mmmmmmmmm mmmmmmmmmm mmmmmmm,” I moaned, as I just loved the way his tongue began tasting my Pussy and his juices.  Now my body wanted more.
Just like he got a hit, he started taking his mouth of of my Pussy, and began inserting his cock inside my Pussy and slept on top of me.  My body leaned into his, my resistance already melting like ghee on a hot pan. My breathing had grown shallow, irregular. My back curved instinctively, offering myself to him like earth to rain. My nipples strained against his chest, aching, alert. Every inch of my skin felt alive—craving, desperate, surrendering.
As he began exploring my Pussy with is cock, “mmmmmmmmmmmm mmmmmmmm mmmmmmmm mmmmmmmmmmm,” I began to moan, “my God! What a Whore! Mmmmmm mmmmmm mmmmmmm,” as he began to moan, I could clearly feel that he was about to cum as well.
Taking me into his complete embrace, as he began enjoying himself making love to me, my breath came in quiet gasps, but my heart was louder—thudding against the cage of my ribs like a bird desperate for sky.
His eyes, dark and wild, searched mine—not asking permission, not demanding it either. There was no need. My legs were already parted, one thigh wrapped loosely around his hip, the other bent slightly as though offering him passage not just into my body… but deeper.
When he finally aligned himself at the threshold of me, I didn’t tense. I welcomed. My thighs opened wider, my toes curled, my lips found his once more—and I kissed him hard.
The moment we hugged each other tight, and the moment he squeezed my Boobs hard, “aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa,” I moaned and began cumming all over his cock.
He had collapsed beside me, breathless and spent, arm thrown over my belly, our skin stuck together with sweat and sin. The room was quiet again, except for the wild beat of my own heart and the soft whirr of the ceiling fan above.
But my body wasn’t done.
It pulsed.
It ached.
It wanted again.
Not gently.
Not slowly.
But hard, fast, without pretense.
My lips were still swollen from kissing him. My inner thighs slick, trembling. My chest heaved with shallow breaths, nipples stiff and tingling as the memory of his rough skin and warm mouth lingered over them. The white bra, twisted halfway up above my breasts, stuck to me like a discarded thought—useless, forgotten.
And beneath the faint sheet, I could feel the slick mess between my legs. A heat that hadn’t cooled. A need that hadn’t dulled.
I rolled onto him before I could stop myself.
He stirred, surprised, but I was already straddling him—my knees on either side of his hips, my hair falling in a curtain around our faces. The weight of my nakedness pressed into him. I could feel him beneath me, soft but stirring again, already hardening as I shifted my hips forward.
I wasn’t kissing him now.
I was biting.
My teeth grazed his jaw, his earlobe, his collarbone. My mouth was savage, wet and hungry. I left behind marks—tiny bruises of my hunger on his throat. He groaned, low and hoarse, as his hands found my waist again, gripping tight as I began to grind against him.
The friction was maddening.
My body rolled against his, finding that rhythm again—more chaotic this time, more desperate. I didn’t care about poise. Or control. Or how I looked. My breasts bounced freely with each movement, bare and flushed, swaying to the erratic beat of my need.
I rubbed against him, my slick center smearing heat across his skin.
I moaned—long, shameless, broken.
The farmhouse walls caught our sounds this time—the soft slap of skin, the rasp of breath, the wet suck of mouths meeting again. I kissed him again, but now it was open-mouthed, wild, tongues dancing and colliding with the same messy abandon as our bodies.
He grew hard again beneath me, and I didn't wait for him to lead.
I reached down, guided him in—not gently this time.
I sank onto him, hips rocking down in a sharp, delicious plunge that made me cry out. My hands flattened on his chest, nails digging into his skin as I began to ride him—wild, untamed.
There was no grace left.
Only rhythm.
Only chaos.
My thighs burned, my hair stuck to my face, my moans grew louder—rising like waves crashing on stone. He grabbed my hips, lifting his own to meet my thrusts, the wet slaps of our union echoing in the hollow room.
I lost myself in it.
In the scent. The sound. The speed.
“Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm mmmmmmmmmmmmmmm mmmmmmmmmmmmmm mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm,” I began to moan, as I was about to cum at any moment.
My body no longer felt like mine. I was a woman possessed—by need, by anger, by guilt, by hunger. My hips rolled, rocked, bounced—taking every inch of him until I could barely breathe.
Hugging me tight and taking me into his complete embrace, crushing my boobs and nipples against his chest completely, “mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm” as he began moaning, I could feel like he was about to cum, and I was about to cum too.  “I am gonna cum, Whore..! I am gonna cummmmmm mmmmm aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa,” as he began moaning and began cumming deep inside my Pussy, I could not hold it any more, “aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa,” I moaned and began cumming all over his cock.
When my release came this time, it wasn’t gentle.
It hit me like a storm.
I arched back, hair flying, thighs clenching around him as I cried out—a sound pulled from somewhere deep and primal. My body spasmed around him, waves crashing through my core as he followed, spilling into me with a final, desperate groan.
We collapsed together in a heap of breath, sweat, and tangled limbs. The mat beneath us was damp, the air thick with the scent of our second surrender.
And somewhere, beneath all that pleasure…
I felt the sting of shame returning.

“The Hour of Truth”


The ceiling had disappeared into the shadows.
He was asleep beside me. One arm dbangd over my waist like a question I hadn’t yet answered.
Our bodies were still tangled. My skin still warm where he had held me. My inner thighs still tender, sticky with the echoes of us.
But my mind…
It wandered.
Was that really me?
That woman—straddling him in the dark, biting his skin, moaning into his mouth like she wanted to be devoured?
Where did she come from?
 Not the wife who served meals without asking for love.
Not the sister who wore shame like a second skin.
No… this woman, tonight, had burned.
She had ridden guilt and turned it into pleasure. She had taken a threat and melted it in her mouth like sugar. She had pressed herself into a man who had threatened her with betrayal—and still found a rhythm that made her cry out his name.
And now?
Now there was only silence.
My body lay open like a field after harvest—bare, raw, exposed to the cold. His breath brushed my shoulder, steady, content. But my own chest felt hollow, as if something sacred had been taken… or maybe given away too freely.
I didn’t know if I hated him.
Or hated myself for enjoying him.
I touched my lips. They still tingled.
I touched the curve of my breast, still bare under the twisted white bra.
I touched the inside of my thigh, where his fingers had gripped too tightly.
And I wondered—did I feel ruined?
No.
That was the worst part.
I didn’t feel ruined.
I felt awakened.
And that truth—darker than shame—clung to me like the scent of him.
A part of me wanted to rise, to clean myself.
To pull my panties back up. To adjust my bra. To hide the stains on the mat.
To pretend none of this happened.
But another part of me…
Wanted to remember.
Every touch.
Every kiss.
Every time my body betrayed my bitterness and bloomed under him.
I turned my head slightly and watched him sleep. His mouth slightly parted. His hand still clutching a piece of my waist like it belonged to him.
And I whispered—
Not aloud.
But deep within.
“What have you made of me?”
Dawn would come soon.
With its questions.
With its light.
But for now, I lay in the ruins of the night, my body limp, my soul loud.
And somewhere between shame and desire,
I knew…
I could never be the same Sudha again.

[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.

[novelistcasanova]

The Black Bra and Black Panties, The Wind, And Sudha’s Smile








Later that night, I stepped out to the balcony.

I wore a Black Bra and Black Panties.
The wind teased my inner thighs, like a playful lover.
I didn’t mind.
I didn’t adjust them.
I let the sunlight kiss my collarbone, let the wind trace my curves.
And I closed my eyes.
In that moment, I didn’t feel like a mother of three.
Or a woman who had done the unthinkable.
I felt like a woman who had lived.
And survived.
And forgiven herself.
Ram joined me moments later.
He didn’t ask questions.
He just slipped his arm around my waist.
And together, we stood in the light.
Not perfect.
Not untouched.
But free.

The End

Regards 
Novelist Casanova

[kantamkan]

Super Bro.. How are you generating images ? Its simply fantastic.

[Ajay Kailash]

Excellent. good sacrifice.

[aravindkkumar08]

Hey bro story is cool I don't think she sacrifices she wants a reason to sacrifice in the name of lust. This story having similarity with your old story. Yellow saree 3 children and photos. Is it possible to update amudha story.

[Gilmalover]

Finally she enjoyed the best sex of her life. She cant deny it.

[novelistcasanova]

Thank you for the support

[raasug]

A fantastic story ! If I have to quote something. every line in this has to be quoted ! All emotions and feelings of a woman are brought out in a textual form ! That is what I admire as the writing skill of the author.

The suitable pictures add to the attraction of the story.

Great story !

[novelistcasanova]

Super Bro.. How are you generating images ? Its simply fantastic.

Thank you for the Support 

[novelistcasanova]

Excellent. good sacrifice.

Thank you so much for the Support. I appreciate it 

[tweeny_fory]

Wow... you absolutely rocked it in this story, bro!
Like everyone has been saying, this story felt like a powerful wave of emotions washing over everyone.
Right from the initial gut-wrenching attempt to save the kid, to the inspiring moment she took control of the situation, followed by beautifully portraying the exploration of her desires, the emotional bonding with her husband, and finally bringing her life back to the way it was...

I loved every single bit of it.

[StoryReader1]

How do u make those images?