Misc. Erotica The Price of a Hero - By Novelist Casanova

[novelistcasanova]

The Price of a Hero

By Novelist Casanova 

When the Rain Came Calling

It had been raining since afternoon. A thick, unrelenting monsoon—the kind that soaks the skin and the soul.
Chennai wore its wetness like a melancholy lover. The street outside our apartment glistened in broken reflections of tube lights. The scent of damp earth mingled with the smell of filter coffee drifting from the kitchen.
I stood at the edge of the balcony, shirtless, watching the storm try to beat down the city.
But my storm was already inside. Inside the house. Inside that yellow saree.
Sudha.
My wife.
She moved through the small living room like a slow melody only I could hear. Her saree—a soft, mustard-yellow cotton silk—was clinging to her skin, kissed by droplets of rain she'd walked into just minutes ago when she went to the temple. It clung lovingly to every curve she carried—each pleat tucked so precisely, so perfectly… and yet falling just below her navel. Deliberately. That was how she always wore it.
I don’t know if she knew what it did to men. To me.
Maybe she did.
The black petticoat beneath peeked out whenever she walked, especially near her ankles, where the saree lifted just slightly with her step. The faint rustle of fabric with every sway of her hips was like a whisper in a silent room.
Her blouse—a yellow sleeveless one, with a deep, round back—was damp where the rain had touched her. It clung to her like skin, the fabric now a little darker in places where it pressed against her curves. The way it held her breasts was sinful, graceful… reverent. I could see the soft outline of her white bra underneath, slightly raised along the side as if teasing me to notice. I did. Every time.
The hook of the blouse strained ever so slightly at her chest whenever she bent to adjust the stove flame. The soft swell of her bosom visible through the sheer angle.
I stood in the hallway, pretending to scroll through my phone, but my eyes were glued to her.
She lifted her arms to tie her braid again—her back arching gently—and that movement pulled her blouse up just a little, revealing a brief strip of her waist, and just for a second, the top lace trim of her white cotton panties, where the petticoat string sat tied in a modest bow. The visual struck me like lightning.
God.
The idea that she wore plain white panties beneath all this silk and seduction made it worse. Not the lingerie shop kind—no frills, no games. Just soft, clean, modest cotton. But somehow, that made it more erotic. Like purity worn over a body built for sin.
She moved toward the sink to rinse the coffee strainer, and I caught the curve of her hips in full view—the saree hugged her backside so tightly I could see the gentle seam of her petticoat pressing underneath. There was nothing flashy about her. No heavy makeup, no deliberate flirting.
But the way her yellow saree clung to her wet blouse, her modest white underthings barely visible, her long braid now damp and sticking to her shoulder... it made her look like a woman born from monsoon dreams.
And she was mine.
Yet, somehow… somehow she always felt just out of reach. Like the kind of beauty you can touch, but never truly hold.
She turned, finally noticing me watching.
“What?” she asked with a soft smile, wiping her hands with the edge of her saree.
“Nothing,” I lied, throat dry.
She blushed faintly. Maybe she knew. Maybe she always knew.
And then, she walked past me. Her bare arm brushed against my chest. My skin burned at the contact.
I closed my eyes, swallowed my breath.
I could hear the whisper of her saree brushing her thighs. The gentle click of her bangles. The subtle bounce of her chest.
Each movement—each second—was unbearable beauty.
But before I could follow her back into the kitchen, there came a loud knock at the door.
A knock that would change everything.


The Knock of Fate


The second knock came louder, heavier.
Like fate had grown impatient.
Sudha looked up from the stove, her yellow saree catching a gleam from the kitchen tube light. Her eyes met mine briefly. Unknowing. Innocent.
I opened the door.
And there he was.
Director Balu.
Soaked from head to toe, his scarf clung around his thick neck like a snake. His black shirt was glued to his chest, wet enough to reveal the curve of his paunch, the deep shadows of chest hair curling through the fabric. His hair was slick, droplets running down his sideburns and along his wide, smug face.
“Rain caught me,” he muttered. “Auto broke down a street away. I saw your name on the door… figured I’d take shelter here. Hope you don’t mind.”
I stood frozen for a heartbeat, then stepped aside.
“Not at all, sir. Please come in.”
He lumbered inside, water dripping onto the doormat.
“Bloody Chennai weather,” he growled. “No shoot, no scene. Nature writes better drama than we ever can.”
He laughed at his own joke.
And then…
She walked in.
Sudha.
Hair still damp from the temple drizzle.
Her yellow saree hugging her back, slightly more translucent now as the cotton absorbed sweat and rain. The blouse strained gently across her chest, the sleeveless cut letting her fair arms show, smooth and shining in the fluorescent light. She was holding a towel.
“Director sir, shall I—?”
Before she could finish, he turned.
And his eyes fell on her like oil over flame.
He didn’t blink. Didn’t pretend.
He scanned her—openly, slowly—from her wet braid clinging to her shoulder, to her chest rising and falling softly as she breathed, to her waist where the saree tucked in a perfect curve just below her belly button.
His eyes lingered there.
I saw it.
I felt it.
Then slowly, they moved down to her hips, where her petticoat tied in a thick knot, its outline teasing beneath the wrap of her saree. The folds clung tightly to the roundness of her lower back, the briefest dip where her spine curved inward like an invitation.
My jaw clenched.
“Coffee, sir?” she asked, voice still sweet, polite.
He nodded slowly, still staring. “Yes, yes. Very much.”
She disappeared into the kitchen.
He sat on our old three-seater, legs wide, elbows on knees. I stood awkwardly by the window, pretending not to have noticed how long his eyes had stayed on her.
But he noticed me noticing.
He leaned back, smirking. “Beautiful wife you have, Ram.”
I said nothing.
He looked toward the kitchen and licked his bottom lip.
“Very… sensual.”
That word hit me like a slap. Not vulgar. Not crude. Just true.
I should’ve told him to shut up. Should’ve said she was off-limits. Should’ve said I was a man before I was an actor.
But I didn’t.
Because somewhere in my stomach, the dream twisted. Tightened.
This man… this wet, smirking, dangerous man… could be the difference between me being just another face and being a star.
He sipped the coffee when she brought it, his fingers grazing hers just slightly.
She didn’t react, but her eyes flicked up—sharply—for a second.
Then she walked away.
The moment the kitchen door swung shut behind her, Balu leaned forward.
His voice dropped to a purr.
“I’ll give it to you, Ram. A full-length lead. One song, two fights, three emotional scenes. I already have a script. You’ll shine.”
My breath caught. “Really?”
“But,” he said, swirling the coffee, “I want something in return.”
I knew.
I knew what was coming.



But I let him speak.
“Just one night with your wife. That’s all.”
His voice was soft. No pressure. No threat.
As if he were asking for another cup of coffee.
The words fell like oil into my ears—smooth, burning, inescapable.
I stared at him.
He didn’t blink.
“One night, Ram. In return, you become what you were always meant to be.”
I felt my tongue against the roof of my mouth. Dry. Useless.
“She’s my wife,” I said, voice low.
“And you’re an actor who’s wasted in serials,” he replied, just as calm. “You have talent, face, hunger. But talent doesn’t open doors. Desperation does.”
I couldn’t breathe.
“Your decision,” he said, finishing his coffee and setting it down. “But I know women like her don’t come from nothing. She married you when you had nothing. She believes in you. She might just do this… for you.”
That sentence clung to my spine like a leech.
And before I knew it, my legs moved. Toward the kitchen.
Toward her.
My wife.
My muse.
My offering.
The living room still held the scent of rain, but the air inside me was heavier—drenched with guilt and unspoken desire.
Director Balu sat behind me, casually scrolling through his phone like he hadn’t just offered to buy my soul.
But I… I stood at the edge of the kitchen, where the woman who was my soul—stood humming softly, back turned, stirring sugar into the steel filter coffee pot.
Her saree hugged her, tighter now than it had an hour ago. The yellow blouse—damp along her shoulder blades. Her waist moved with rhythm. The edge of her pallu had slid further down her chest, barely covering the swell of her breasts. Her white bra strap peeked out, just a whisper, just a breath.
I watched the gentle sway of her hips as she reached for the shelf—where the towel slid from her hand, landing on the floor.
She bent to pick it up.
And for just one heartbeat—the curve of her lower back showed, where the blouse lifted and the black petticoat cinched her waist.
I saw the lace edge of her panties peeking above the knot of the drawstring.
God help me.



I took a deep breath and stepped in.
Closed the kitchen door behind me.
It clicked softly. But she heard it.
She looked up, confused. “Ram? Why’d you shut the door?”
I didn’t answer. I stepped closer. I could feel the steam from the milk pot, but it was nothing compared to the heat rising inside my chest.
She smiled, wiping her hands on the edge of her saree. “Coffee’s almost done. Will he stay for dinner?”
Her smile. That warm, quiet loyalty. That sweetness.
I felt sick. I wanted to turn around. Lie. Let her be untouched by this.
But I didn’t.
My dream was louder.
I cleared my throat. “Sudha…”
She looked at me, sensing something.
I couldn’t meet her eyes.
“He made an offer,” I said, finally. “Balu sir.”
She paused. Spoon in hand.
“What kind of offer?” she asked gently.
I stared at the floor. My voice barely a whisper.
“He said… if I let him spend a night with you…”
I looked up. Her face paled.
“…he’ll give me the lead role.”
The spoon dropped into the vessel with a metallic clatter.
She stared. Blinked. Once. Twice.
“What did you say?” she asked. Her voice was soft. Too soft.
“I didn’t say yes.”
Her gaze sharpened. “But you didn’t say no either.”
I swallowed. “Sudha…”
“You didn’t say no?” she asked again, louder.
“I—I couldn’t.”
“You couldn’t?”
“I—I thought… maybe you’d agree.”
She took a slow step back. Her back hit the kitchen counter. “Agree? Ram, he wants to sleep with me.”
“I know.”
“One night,” she scoffed. “You think it’s only one night? For you it’s a film. For me it’s my body, my dignity, my—my marriage.”
“Sudha… listen to me…”
She looked away, tears already rising. “How long did you take to even consider this?”
“I—”
“I wear this yellow saree because you like it,” she said, voice trembling. “I wear my saree low because you said it makes me look like your ‘dream heroine’. I’ve always wanted you to shine. And now you want to use me to pay for your spotlight?”
“I didn’t mean it like that—”
“Then what did you mean?”
“I meant…” I stepped forward, lowering my voice, taking her hands, “I meant I’m drowning, Sudha. I’ve tried everything. No one sees me. No one cares. This is one door that’s open. But only you can decide if I walk through it.”
She looked down at our fingers.
Her hands were trembling in mine.
“Why do you think he wants me, Ram?” she asked, not lifting her eyes.
“Because you’re…” I hesitated. “You’re beautiful. Real. A woman they don’t see anymore.”
She was silent.
Then, she whispered, “And what if I do it?”
I blinked. “What?”
“If I say yes. If I go in there and give him what he wants,” she looked up now, eyes glassy and burning, “what happens to us, Ram?”
I had no answer.
She shook her head slowly. “You think it’ll end when I close the bedroom door? You think you’ll come back to the same woman after he’s… after he’s touched me?”
Tears slipped down her cheeks now. She didn’t bother wiping them.
“I’ll never be the same,” she whispered. “And neither will you.”
I closed my eyes. “Sudha, I need this.”
She laughed. It broke something in me.
“So do I,” she said. “I need to know what kind of man I married.”
She paused. The silence stretched like agony.
Then she took a deep breath.
“If I do this,” she said finally, “I do it not because I want to… but because I love you.”
I opened my eyes.
“I love you so much it hurts,” she said. “And if this pain… gives you your dream… then let that be my punishment for loving you too much.”
I stepped forward, reaching for her cheek.
She turned away.
“Don’t touch me now, Ram,” she said. “Not now.”
Her voice was soft, broken, but final.
She walked past me, toward the bedroom.
Her pallu fluttered behind her like a yellow flame.
I stood alone, in the kitchen that smelled of burnt milk and regret.


The Living Room Pact

The bedroom door was closed.
But the kitchen door—that was the one I feared most.
I stood there for a long time after she left, alone in the smell of spilled milk and crushed cardamom. The steam had faded, but not the heat in my chest. My fingers still trembled from the weight of her words.
"Don’t touch me now, Ram."
She didn’t slam the door. She didn’t cry out. That would’ve been easier.
She just walked past me like something inside her had died.
And I let her.
I don’t know how long I stood there before I turned toward the living room. My steps were heavy, legs hollow. I walked not like a man—but like a boy dragging his guilt behind him.
Sudha was already there.
She had composed herself—but not entirely. Her lips were tight. Her shoulders rigid. She didn’t look at Balu when we entered.
She didn’t look at me either.
Director Balu was lounging on the sofa like a king awaiting tribute. Legs crossed, fingers drumming lazily on the wooden armrest.
He looked up as we entered.
“Well?” he asked casually. “Is the script greenlit?”
My throat dried. I opened my mouth. But nothing came.
Sudha didn’t speak either.
She walked over to the coffee table, picked up the tray, and cleared the used tumblers like it was any normal evening. Like this wasn’t a moment that would change all three of us forever.
But her silence said it all.
Balu watched her every movement—the way her yellow saree slid across her hips as she leaned, the way the knot of her black petticoat curved just beneath her blouse.
He didn’t hide it. Not anymore.
I looked at him. Then at her.
And finally—I found my voice.
“She’s… agreed,” I said softly.
He tilted his head.
“You sure, Ram?” he asked, with that smirk again. “Because once this begins… there’s no edit. No retake.”
Sudha set the tray down.
Then finally, she looked at him.
Her voice was calm. Too calm.
“I’m doing this because he asked me,” she said. “Not because I want it. Not because I need you. Don’t mistake silence for consent.”
Balu raised an eyebrow. “Oh, I never do.”
She turned away. Sat down quietly on the edge of the divan, straightening her pallu.
He looked at me again.
“You know, Ram,” he said, “I’ve met a lot of hungry actors. Desperate men. But you… you’re interesting. You bring your wife to the table like a queen’s gambit.”
“I didn’t bring her,” I said sharply. “She came for me.”
His smile deepened. “Even better.”
I clenched my fists.
Sudha stood. “If we’re doing this,” she said, voice steady, “then let’s not drag it. You want a night? You’ll get a night.”
She looked at me then.
Just one glance. Not anger. Not affection. Just… distance.
“Ram, show him the room.”
I nodded numbly. “It’s… it’s clean.”



She walked toward the bedroom.
Her bare feet touched the tiles softly. Her hips swayed not with seduction—but with resignation. Her yellow saree moved like it didn’t want to go either.
When she reached the door, she paused.
Didn’t turn. Didn’t speak.
But something about her stillness felt louder than any scream.
Balu stood and stretched.
He adjusted his shirt. His belt. Then walked past me slowly, his shoulder brushing mine.
“Get ready for the spotlight, Ram,” he whispered.
And then… the door closed behind him.
Softly.
No click. No lock.
Just… closure.
I didn’t plan to look.
But when the silence became louder than thunder, when the door didn’t creak, and no voices echoed, I climbed the stool and looked through the half-curtained window.
I needed to know what I had done.
The dim golden lamp bathed our bedroom in half-light. It looked like a dream—the kind that ends in sweat and guilt.
Sudha sat on the edge of our bed, her back upright, spine tense, hands clasped in her lap.
She looked like a goddess held in a pause between rage and resignation.
Balu stood near the door, taking off his scarf with slow, theatrical calm.
She didn’t look at him.
Not once.
“I don’t want this,” she said softly. Her voice barely carried through the glass, but I could see the tension in her shoulders, the tight purse of her lips.
“I know,” Balu replied, calm as a monk. “But you’re not doing this for you.”
She turned to him then, fire sparking behind her composure.
“I’m not doing it at all.”
He took a step forward, slowly unbuckling his belt.
“You’re doing it for him,” he said. “Your husband. The man who wakes every day dreaming of a life he can never reach… unless you give it to him.”
Sudha’s jaw clenched.
“He could still say no,” she whispered.
Balu tilted his head. “But he didn’t.”
Silence.
And then he spoke again—voice softer now, slower, coaxing her like a priest with a confession.
“He begged me with his eyes. He didn’t have to say it. He wants to be someone, Sudha. Not just a face in a crowd… but the face on the poster. The man who walks into a room and everyone stands.”
She closed her eyes.
I saw her shoulders rise… and fall.
She was breaking.
“If I do this,” she said, her voice cracking, “will you really… make him a hero?”
Balu walked forward, stopping just inches from her.
“I will make him unforgettable.”
His hand reached out—slowly, deliberately—and touched the end of her pallu that had fallen onto the bed. He didn’t pull. Just let his fingers rest there.
“I will make him rich. Respected. The kind of man even you will look at differently. With pride.”
She turned her face away, lips trembling.
“I already look at him with pride,” she said.
He leaned in, whispering now, his voice thick.
“Then let me show him what your pride can buy.”
And slowly… her fingers moved.
To the knot of her saree.
She untucked it from her petticoat, unraveling it slowly, one breath at a time.
The yellow folds slid from her waist… exposing the soft, pale skin of her stomach.
Her navel, once hidden, now showed like a sacred secret.
She didn’t look at him.
She didn’t look at anyone.
She was somewhere between anger and surrender.
Her saree slid off her shoulder, the pleats pooling at her lap like spilled sunlight.
He watched.
So did I.
She reached behind her and unhooked the blouse, trembling hands fumbling at the last clasp.
It fell.
Leaving only the white bra—simple, cotton, soft.
Her breath rose beneath it, her chest heaving.
“You don’t love him,” she whispered, tears trailing her cheek.
“No,” Balu said. “But I believe in him. Enough to pay this price.”
She nodded slowly.
And then, without looking, she pulled her braid over her shoulder and unclasped the back of her bra—slowly, hesitantly—one hook at a time.
I turned away.
Tears stung my eyes.
Not because of what I saw—but because she was doing it for me.
I should’ve walked away.
Closed my eyes.
Let the curtain fall.
But I stood at that little hallway window like a sinner at a shrine.
Watching her.
My Sudha.
Her yellow saree now unwrapped halfway, her body half-veiled in gold and shadow, sitting at the edge of our bed beside a man who spoke with honey and venom.
And she…
She wasn’t crying.
She wasn’t screaming.
She was asking.
“Tell me,” Sudha said softly, not meeting his eyes, “what exactly will you do for my husband?”
Balu smiled.
“Everything,” he whispered.
“That’s not an answer.”
He moved slowly, walking behind her, voice purring near her ear.
“I’ll make him the man women fantasize about. The man who walks into a theatre and makes the audience gasp before he says a word.”
She breathed slowly. Her pallu slipped another inch.
“And what else?” she asked, her voice tight.
“I’ll dress him in designer suits. Sunglasses even at night. Cars will line up outside just to click his photo.”
He gently touched the edge of her remaining saree dbangd over her lap. She didn’t stop him.
“And the money?” she asked, almost bitter.
“More than he can count,” Balu whispered. “New flat. Sea-facing. Not this old two-bedroom you serve tea in.”
Her fingers trembled as she reached across her lap, lifting her pallu slowly, folding it over her own arm. A quiet act of surrender.
“And respect?” she asked, barely audible.
Balu moved to face her again. He crouched, bringing his face closer to hers.
“Producers will fight to sign him. Women will ask for his autograph just to touch his hand. Your sons will say, ‘My father is a star.’”
Her breath caught.
I watched as she slowly stood up, letting the entire yellow saree fall in one elegant, aching slide—pooling at her feet like spilled silk.
She stood now in her black petticoat and White Bra, hair falling loosely over her shoulder.
She was trembling. But not from cold.
“And you can make that happen?” she asked, voice cracking for the first time.
“I already have,” he said.
She stared at him—searching, doubting.
He stepped closer. His hand touched the knot of her black petticoat.
“I do this,” she whispered, “and you promise he’ll never have to beg again?”
“I promise,” he murmured. “This is the last time either of you will kneel.”
Her hands dropped to her sides.
And I watched—heart shattering—as the knot loosened, and the black petticoat slipped down her legs, whispering against her skin until it too lay in a heap beside the saree.
Now she stood—tall, still, and painfully beautiful—in nothing but her white bra and panties.
The fabric plain. Honest. Humble.
Like her.
Her hands trembled at her sides, fists half-clenched.
She looked up at Balu.
“I did this for Ram,” she said. “Don’t ever forget that.”
And I—
I could barely breathe.
Because this was the moment I became what I swore I’d never be.
A man watching his wife… undress not for love, not for lust, but for him.
For a dream.
My hands were shaking.
I gripped the edge of the window frame, knuckles white.
Below me—beyond the thin glass and half-drawn curtain—Sudha stood like a vision I both adored and betrayed. Clad only in her white bra and panties, feet bare on the cool floor, skin glowing in the amber light.



Her eyes weren’t on Balu.
They were on the future he painted.
And he… moved like a man who’d already won.
Slowly, deliberately, Balu stepped toward her.
He didn’t touch her immediately.
He just looked.
“I’ve never seen a woman like you,” he whispered. “Not in this industry. Not in the crowds. Not even among the rich.”
She didn’t respond. Her arms were still stiff at her sides.
He raised one hand. Gently. And brushed her damp hair back behind her ear.
Her breath caught.
“You know what I see when I look at you?” he asked.
Her lips parted slightly. A question unspoken.
“I see silk sarees from Singapore… gold bangles heavy enough to sing when you walk… cars waiting at the end of your street just to take you shopping at Phoenix Mall. Not from street shops. From Louis Vuitton, Burberry… real luxury.”
She blinked. Swallowed.
He stepped closer. His arms circled around her waist—slowly—until she was held.
He began hugging my wife only in her White Bra and White Panties.
Not just touched… held.
Her body stiffened. Her hands pressed gently against his chest—but not to push. Not fully.
His voice dropped to a murmur against her cheek.
“You’ll walk into a store and buy anything. You won’t ask for the price. They’ll know who you are. ‘Mrs. Ram. Wife of the Hero.’”
She closed her eyes.
He kissed her cheek.
“You’ll no longer wait for the rain to stop. You’ll drive through it in your own car. Designer bags in the trunk. Perfume that smells like power.”
Another kiss—softly on her temple.
She shivered.
“Your boys will go to international college. Your mother will never worry again. And Ram—he’ll be on posters, on screens, in dreams.”
He kissed her other cheek.
She didn’t pull away.
Her hands slid to his shoulders, still hesitant.
He looked into her eyes now, his voice warm, deep.
“All of this… for one night.”
He leaned in… and began enjoying himself kissing my wife’s lips nicely.
It was soft. Testing. Light enough to be broken if she turned her head.
But she didn’t.
She froze.
Her breath hitched.
And then… after a long, trembling pause…
She kissed him back.
Not with hunger. Not with passion.
But with something far more dangerous.



Conviction.
Her fingers curled lightly around his shirt collar.
The kiss deepened. Slowly. As if each second pushed her a step further from herself—and a step closer to something… irreversible.
I turned from the window.
My heart wasn’t beating anymore.
It was burning.
Sudha stood in front of him—bare, trembling, but not broken.
White cotton hugging her in two places, the rest of her dbangd only in golden lamplight and the echo of our wedding vows.
I had kissed her lips a thousand times.
But never like this.
Not like how she kissed Balu now.
Her lips pressed into his not with desire, but with surrender. Her body arched, one hand sliding around his shoulder, not to pull him closer—but to steady herself.
And still… she kissed him.
Fully.
Like the decision had already been made.
I couldn’t breathe.
I saw her pull away, slowly. Her chest rising, her lips parted. His spit clung to the corner of her mouth, and she wiped it away with the back of her hand like it was a stain she wanted gone.
And then—she asked.
“Why me?”
Her voice was faint through the glass, but sharp enough to pierce my ribs.
“Why not some actress?” she continued. “Some model who wants this? Why choose me?”
Balu smiled.
And I hated him for it.
“Because you’re not trying to be famous,” he said, brushing her hair back like he owned the right. “You’re just… trying to help someone else become it.”
I saw her look away.
“You think I’m noble?” she asked bitterly.
“No,” he said, stepping closer again. “I think you’re real.”
He walked around her now, admiring her like a sculptor circles his marble. His words came slowly, deliberately.
“You’re the kind of woman who makes men forget what they’re chasing. You make ambition look like an afterthought. You wear desire like an accident.”
Sudha closed her eyes. Her shoulders fell just slightly.
“You think I don’t know?” he whispered. “The way men stare at you in that yellow saree. The way you walk past them like you don’t even notice. That modesty—it’s more dangerous than any exposed thigh.”
She didn’t move.
Didn’t respond.
But I saw the way her fingers curled slightly.
“You,” he said, pausing behind her, “are here not because you want to be desired… but because you were never allowed to own it.”
Sudha turned to him, face calm now.
“I’m here,” she said quietly, “because I love my husband.”
He stepped closer.
“And that,” he said, “is why this moment will make him a star.”
I sank to my knees beside the window.
My face pressed to the wall.
I couldn’t look anymore.
Because I had never kissed her like that.
Never held her with that kind of reverence.
And in that moment, I wasn’t sure if I was the one losing her…
…or if I had lost her long ago, the moment I chose fame over her soul.
I hadn’t moved from the floor.
The wall was cold against my back, the window just above eye level now, like a wound I couldn’t stop reopening.
But something inside me—some twisted, hungry thing—forced me back up.
And I looked.
Inside, the light hadn’t changed.
But she had.
Sudha now stood more confidently. Not proud. Not seductive. Just… resolved.
She held her chin higher. Adjusted the strap of her bra calmly.
Then, with slow grace, she reached down and pulled at the waist of her white panties—just slightly. Just enough to center herself.
That small, private gesture…
I had seen her do it a thousand times when no one was watching.
And now I watched it from behind glass, while another man stood inches away from her—beginning to undress.
Balu unbuttoned his shirt slowly. Not with haste.
Each movement was deliberate.
Calculated.
One button. Then another.
The fabric parted down his chest, revealing lean muscle, the shadow of age and experience, a body not young—but confident.
Sudha didn’t look away.
Her arms were still crossed beneath her chest. But her eyes…
They followed him.
Not wide-eyed. Not hungry.
But alert. Intense.
Like she was studying the man she was about to let rewrite her life.
He took off his shirt completely.
Tossed it to the chair beside the bed.
Then his fingers moved to his waistband.
He didn’t speak. Just watched her as he slowly unfastened his belt.
Sudha’s hands dropped to her sides.
And I saw her glance downward—just for a second.
Her body tensed.
Her lips parted.
She adjusted her panties again—just a gentle tug at the sides. Nervous. Natural.
Her eyes flicked up to meet his again.
I couldn’t see her expression clearly.
But I felt it.
Something in her changed.
Like she had crossed an invisible line.
From sacrifice… to submission.
And yet…
She didn’t flinch.
She stood there—nearly bare, fully aware—as Balu stepped out of his trousers.
Not yet naked. But closer than I had ever wanted him to be.
And her gaze… it didn’t drop this time.
She watched.
And I…
I died just a little more.
The yellow chiffon saree now lay pooled on the floor like the last golden light of dusk. Her black petticoat had been pushed aside, her blouse unhooked, kissed off her shoulders by lips that lingered longer than they should have. One layer at a time, she had let go… not out of surrender, but stirred by something warmer—an ache awakened by touch and trust.
My wife now stood in the center of the room, bathed in amber lamplight, wearing only her white cotton bra and white panties. The soft fabric clung to her curves like shy confessions—modest, innocent, yet trembling with promise.
Balu, now naked—his skin warm, breath uneven—held her gently from behind. His arms wrapped around her stomach, his cheek nestled against her shoulder. The feel of her against him, clothed in so little and yet wrapped in so much intimacy, was almost too much to bear.
He nuzzled her, his stubble grazing her skin.
“God, What a Babe…” he murmured, voice ragged, “you feel like rain in a desert.”
She let out a quiet breath, her chest rising with the rhythm of something slow and new—desire not born of haste, but from the pleasure of being seen.
He turned her to face him.
Their eyes met—hers shy, his burning.
Then came the kiss.
He began enjoying himself kissing my wife’s lips.
Not rushed. Not greedy.
As my wife began kissing his lips passionately, his lips pressed to hers, slow and deep, as though tasting her soul. His hand cradled the side of her face, the other slipping down to rest at her lower back, guiding her gently closer. Her hands floated up to his chest, palms spreading over his heartbeat, grounding herself in the softness of his skin and the firmness of his need.
Their lips parted and met again. A pause. A sigh. A deeper kiss.
Her legs brushed his. Her breath caught as his hands caressed the small of her back, dipping just above the elastic of her panties. The kiss deepened—mouths opening, warmth spilling between them like wine.
When he finally broke away, it was only to whisper, forehead to forehead, “My God What a Babe…”
She opened her eyes slowly.
“Take your bra off for me…”
His voice was low, reverent. Not a command. Not a plea.
A request... like a poet asking his muse to show him a verse only she could offer.
She stood still, breathing, feeling the moment tremble between them like a held note.
There was a quiet stillness in the air—thick with heat, with longing, with unsaid words breathing between their lips.
Balu stood before her, eyes locked on hers, waiting. Not rushing. Not even reaching.
Just watching… as if what she was about to do wasn’t for him, but for herself.
My Wife’s fingers hesitated at first—delicate, trembling like petals before the wind. Then, with a slow breath, she slipped her right hand behind her back. A soft click. The clasp of her white cotton bra came undone.


The straps loosened on her shoulders, sliding down like satin secrets. She held the cups in place for a beat, her chest rising with nervous rhythm, before letting the fabric fall to the floor between them—gentle, silent, final.

She stood now, bare from the waist up—vulnerable, powerful, breathtaking.

Balu didn’t move. He simply looked.

At her.

At the way her breath lifted her soft, dusky Boobs. At the way her nipples had hardened in the cool of the room, the warmth of his gaze.

“You’re…” he began, but the words fell apart. Even a director loses his script in a moment like this.

He stepped forward.

Not hungrily—but reverently.

His hands came to her waist. He kissed her—softly on the lips, then the collarbone, then the space between her Boobs. A kiss for every breath she took. A kiss for every hesitation she had shed.

She moaned softly when his lips circled the curve of her left Boobs. He didn’t rush to take it into his mouth—just brushed it with his lips, warm and teasing, feeling her body grow warmer against his.

His hands slid lower now, along the lines of her waist, until they rested just at the hem of her white panties. His fingers traced the band slowly—once, then again—watching her reaction, feeling her tremble.

Her eyes closed. Her breath caught.

Then—

His right hand slid inside her White Panties and began grabbing my wife’s Pussy.





To Be Continued..

[novelistcasanova]

From the front.

Delicately, firmly—his fingers found her warmth, her softness, the heart of her ache. He cupped her fully, his palm cradling her mound, his fingertips grazing through her tender folds.
My Wife gasped.
Her knees nearly buckled. A loud moan escaped her lips, raw and broken, echoing through the room like a melody he had waited all evening to hear.
“Balu…” she moaned, her voice thick with need, her body pressing against his, helpless and burning.
My Wife’s breath shuddered as Balu’s hand moved with quiet expertise inside her white panties, his fingers gliding through her wet Pussy he had awakened. Every movement—every stroke—was unhurried, intimate, intended.
As he began fingering my wife’s pussy, “mmmmmmmm mmmmmmm mmmmmmm mmmm,” my wife began to moan.
Her moans had grown softer now, but deeper. Like her body was learning a new rhythm—his rhythm.
Balu kissed down her Boobs slowly, planting soft, open-mouthed kisses that left behind warmth and need. He reached the swell of her left Boobs, and paused—his lips brushing against the curve but not yet taking. My Wife’s fingers curled gently around the back of his head, urging, pleading without words.
He smiled against her skin. Then finally, he sucked—deep and slow.
Her nipple disappeared into the heat of his mouth as his tongue circled it in lazy spirals. A moan escaped her lips—soft, high-pitched, helpless.
While his mouth adored one Boobs, his right hand remained inside her panties—fingers gently exploring, slipping between her folds, stroking the most sensitive part of her with teasing, wet pressure. Every movement down below was mirrored with a kiss above.
“Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmm mmmmmmmmmmmmm mmmmmmmmmmmmmm,” she moaned.
He switched, now taking the right Boobs into his mouth, licking and kissing with a reverence that bordered on worship. His mouth was hot and slow, tongue flicking her nipple, lips tugging just enough to draw out another moan.
My Wife’s hands clutched his hair now, her thighs beginning to tremble. Her body was losing strength—each suck, each stroke, each breath he took against her skin pulled her deeper into surrender.
“Balu…” she whimpered, her voice breaking. Her hands moved to hold his face, as if needing to anchor herself—because everything else in her was dissolving.
She looked down at him, her eyes heavy, her lips parted, her skin flushed.
Her knees felt weak.
Her soul, undone.
Her fingers, trembling yet tender, held his face as if she feared he might vanish if she let go. Balu looked up from her Boobs—his lips wet from worship, eyes ablaze with a heat that wasn't just lust, but love woven through desire.
She bent down slightly, breathing heavily, her breath brushing against his face. Then she began kissing his lips passionately, deeper, lips pressing into his like she had been waiting all her life to meet this version of herself.
The kiss was messy, hot, breathless. His fingers still moved inside her white panties, curling, caressing, stroking her in rhythm with her gasps. She groaned against his mouth, unable to kiss him without moaning into him.
Her hands gripped the sides of his face, thumbs brushing his cheekbones. She pulled him closer, kissing as if his mouth was the only anchor to hold onto in the tidal wave rising within her.
As Balu continued fingering her Pussy, “mmmmmmmmm mmmmmmmm mmmmmmm mmmmm,” she began to moan.
His right hand stayed buried between her thighs—his fingers slick, knowing, unrelenting. Every time he circled her most sensitive spot inside her Pussy, her legs quivered and her moans grew louder. Her panties were soaked now, sticking to her skin like a second breath.
“Balu…” she whispered into his mouth, almost in disbelief.
He didn’t respond with words.
He kissed her harder, while his hand moved faster.
My Wife felt herself unraveling—every inch of her skin alight, every part of her pulled taut like strings of a veena about to sing.
“Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm,” my wife began to moan.
She gasped, “I… I can’t…” Her knees nearly gave way.
Balu caught her, holding her by the waist, fingers still moving deep inside her soaked warmth.
Her head fell forward onto his shoulder, breath hot against his neck. She was moaning now—broken, beautiful, breathless—as her hips began to grind gently into his hand, body chasing the pleasure like waves reaching for the shore.
“Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm,”
Her voice cracked against his ear.
“Don’t stop… please… Balu…”
“Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm mmmmmmmmmmmmmmm,”
Her moans grew higher, softer, sweeter—as if every breath was being pulled from a secret part of her soul.
Balu held her firmly, one arm around her waist, the other hand still deep inside her white panties, fingers gliding, circling, pressing gently against her wet pussy, aching center.
He kissed her neck, slowly, over and over—his lips hot, his tongue tasting the salt of her skin, the scent of her surrender.
“You’re so beautiful like this…” he whispered, voice thick with reverence. “Let go for me, Sudha... come in my arms.”
“Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm,” she moaned.
Her body was trembling—legs weak, belly tightening, breath stuttering.
She clutched his face again, forehead resting against his, tears pricking the corners of her eyes—not from sadness, but from the overwhelming pleasure building like thunder within her.
“Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm mmmmmmmmmmmm,”
Her voice broke into a cry—soft, shattering, helpless.
“Balu… I’m… I can’t… I—”
“Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm,” as the began to moan loud, the moment he began inserting his finger deep inside my wife’s Puss, “aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa aaaaaaaaaaaaaa aaaaaaaaaaaaaa aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa” She moaned loud and began cumming….. 
Right there, standing, wrapped in his arms, his hand buried between her thighs. Her hips jerked once, twice, her breath caught, and her whole body arched into him like a wave crashing onto shore.
She moaned loud, her head falling back, hair cascading down her spine. Her hands gripped his arms, nails sinking into his skin as her climax washed over her in waves—sharp, deep, beautiful.
Balu held her through it, never stopping his fingers until she gasped his name again and again, riding the trembling aftershocks.
When she finally collapsed against him, breathing hard, her face pressed to his bare chest, he cradled her gently—like she was something precious that had bloomed and broken open just for him.
He kissed her hair.
“You’re mine, Sudha,” he whispered into the silence, smiling softly.
“Every moan, every breath, every heartbeat… mine.”
She didn’t speak.
She just nodded faintly… still wrapped around him, still melting, her white panties damp with love, her body boneless in his embrace.
My Wife rested in his arms, her body still fluttering with aftershocks. Her breath was uneven, her skin glistening, her heart beating against his chest like a bird that had just tasted sky.
Balu held her without a word, his lips occasionally brushing her temple, his fingers gently stroking her back through the thin fabric of her damp white panties.
After a long, slow moment, he whispered in her ear.
“Come…”
His voice was low. Grounded. Sacred.
He guided her gently toward the bed, each step unhurried, his hand cradling the curve of her waist as though her body were something holy.
As they reached the edge, he sat down first and pulled her slowly into his lap—her legs straddling him, her bare Boobs pressing into his chest, the only barrier between them now that final soft, soaked fabric.
He looked up into her eyes. And smiled.
"Still not in the mood?" he teased gently.
She laughed—weakly, breathlessly—then leaned in and kissed him again. It was slower now, deeper. A kiss that said thank you, and don’t stop, and I’m yours.
Balu’s hands slid down her back, warm palms resting just at the curve of her hips.
He held her there, kissed her one last time, then gently lifted her—one hand under her thighs, the other at her back—and laid her down on the bed like he was placing her at the center of a frame he’d been waiting his whole life to shoot.
She lay there now, her hair a dark halo on the white pillow, her Boobs rising and falling, her skin flushed, glowing. The white panties were the only thing left—a final veil over her heat, her hunger, her heart.
Balu knelt beside her, brushing her thigh with the back of his fingers.
“Can I take these off?” he asked softly, reverently, eyes meeting hers.
My Wife nodded.
Slowly.
The room was hushed, as if even time itself held its breath.
My Wife lay before him, soft and undone, her body still tingling from the waves that had rippled through her just moments ago. Her skin glowed in the golden lamplight—Boobs bare and rising gently with each breath, legs slightly apart in quiet invitation.
Only her white panties remained—wet with need, clinging to her like a memory she was finally ready to shed.
Balu ran his hand up her thigh slowly, pausing at her hip, fingers teasing the waistband. His voice was a whisper, low and reverent.
“I want to see all of you, Sudha… May I?”
Her eyes fluttered open. She didn’t speak—just nodded once, slowly, shyly.
Balu leaned down, pressing a kiss to her belly, then her hipbone, and then—gently, gently—he began to slide the panties down.
Inches at a time.
He kissed her thighs as he uncovered them, trailing warm lips along soft skin. As the damp fabric peeled away, she arched slightly, breath hitching, the sensation as intimate as a secret being told between skin and soul.
He tossed the panties aside gently, as though removing the final line from a poem that had found its perfect end.
Now, she was completely naked—and stunning.
Her body open to him, trembling in anticipation, but glowing with trust.
Balu hovered over her, his body already aching with love, yet still taking his time. He kissed her thighs. Her hips. Her belly. Then moved upward—his lips finding the valley between her Boobs, her collarbone, her throat—each kiss a vow without words.
When he finally looked into her eyes again, she pulled him close, wrapping her arms around his shoulders, her voice barely a whisper:
“Make love to me, Balu…”
And he did.
As he began inserting his cock inside her pussy and began making love to my wife with a slow, trembling breath—his body sinking into hers like a river meeting the sea. They gasped together—one breath, one rhythm, one slow, rising tide.
Their bodies moved in perfect unison—skin to skin, heart to heart.
No words. Just moans. Sighs. The wet, tender sounds of deep love unfolding.
“Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm mmmmmmmmmm,” as my wife was moaning, he held her face as he began inserting his cock deeper and deeper inside her pussy, watching every expression bloom across her features. She pulled him closer, wrapping her legs around his waist, moaning his name into his ear like a sacred chant.
The world narrowed to just this:
Her body clenching around him.
His lips brushing hers.
Their souls pressing closer with every thrust.
“Balu…” she whispered again, voice shaking. “I… I’m there again… I am am gonna cum mmmmmmm mmmmmmmmmmm mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm” she moaned.
And he kissed her, breathing against her lips,
“Come with me this time… together, Sudha… now.” as he exclaimed began digging his cock deeper and deeeper inside my wife’s pussy, aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa aaaaaaaaaaaaaaa aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa” she moaned and came all over his cock.
And they did.
Together.
Their climax was not a peak, but an ocean—vast, deep, endless—pulling them under and lifting them higher in the same breath. Her cry mingled with his groan, their hands clutching each other like lifelines, their bodies trembling in waves of pleasure and peace.
When it was over, Balu collapsed beside her, pulling her close, kissing her forehead with a tenderness only love could shape.
My Wife lay wrapped in his arms, naked.
I didn’t know how I walked away.
I only knew that if I didn’t—I’d lose whatever was left of myself.

[novelistcasanova]

The living room felt colder than it should’ve been.

The rain had stopped. But inside me, it hadn’t.
I sat on the sofa.
Her sofa.
Our sofa.
And stared at the half-empty cup of tea on the table.
The one Sudha had made for him.
Steam no longer rose from it.
It sat still, abandoned, like something forgotten in the middle of a war.
I picked it up. Took a sip.
It was cold.
Bitter.
I placed it back down, but didn’t let go.
My fingers gripped the handle like it was the only solid thing left.
From down the hallway, the bedroom door was still open.
But I couldn’t hear much.
Only a shift in weight.
A creak of the mattress.
One low voice. A murmur. Then silence.
My mind filled in the blanks.
Every silence screamed louder than sound ever could.
Sudha’s face flashed in my head—smiling in a yellow saree on our temple trip.
Washing her hands in the sink while I wrapped my arms around her waist from behind.
Telling me once, “You’ll be a big star, Ram. I know it.”
I believed her then.
I think I still do.
But now… that belief came with a cost I hadn’t counted.
Was I still the man she was doing this for?
Or just the excuse she needed to finally feel something else?
I leaned forward, elbows on my knees.
The tea cup sat on the floor now.
I stared at the dark reflection inside it.
And for the first time since I dreamed of being a hero—I asked myself:
Was it worth it?
That’s when I heard the door.
Not a slam.
Not a creak.
Just… a soft click.
Like someone gently shutting the past behind them.
I didn’t look up right away.
The cup of cold tea still sat near my feet.
The air in the room had shifted—like it knew a secret I hadn’t yet faced.
Then I heard the rustle.
Of cotton.
Of pleats being straightened.
Of footsteps returning to familiarity, but with something missing.
Sudha stood near the hallway entrance.
Back in her yellow saree.
Hair tied, lips bare, face calm.
But she was different.
Not bruised.
Not broken.
Just… quiet.
Her eyes scanned the room briefly—landing everywhere but on me.
I stood.
Slowly.
Unsure of what to say.
Unsure of what I was allowed to ask.
Her eyes finally met mine.
Not with guilt.
Not with anger.
Just with distance.
The kind that grows when two people still share a house, a bed, a surname…
…but no longer the same silence.
She walked past me toward the kitchen.
As if nothing had happened.
As if she’d simply stepped outside and returned with milk.
The smell of him was faint—musk, sweat, something masculine and unfamiliar—clinging to her skin like a final word.
She didn’t speak.
She just opened the fridge, pulled out the steel jug, and poured water into a glass.
I watched her.
Wanting to touch her.
Wanting to say thank you.
Wanting to say I’m sorry.
Wanting to say please come back—
—even though she never really left.
But the words never came.
Because I didn’t know what I’d be speaking to.
My wife?
Or the woman who had crossed a line for me… and now couldn’t uncross it?
She drank the water slowly.
Then set the glass down. Still not facing me.
And then—
She spoke.
A single sentence.
Her voice calm. Measured.
“You have your hero role now, Ram.”
I wanted to cry.
Not because she said it.
But because of how little it meant now.

[novelistcasanova]

The Curtain Falls, And She Stays



The lights were blinding.

The crowd roared.
My name echoed across the auditorium—Ram Kumar, Best Debut Hero.
I stood on stage, golden trophy in hand.
Smiling.
But not for the cameras.
Not for the audience.
I smiled because of one woman sitting quietly in the third row, wearing a soft yellow saree.
Sudha.
She didn’t clap like the rest.
She just looked at me—with eyes that had seen me at my lowest, my most selfish, my most silent.
And still chose to be here.
She had been there for the first day of shooting.
She had watched me stumble, sweat, act, fall, rise.
She cooked my lunch in tiffins with handwritten notes.
She kept every magazine that called me “Tamil cinema’s next big thing.”
But never once did she say, “I did this for you.”
Because she didn’t need to.
We both knew.
That night, we drove home in silence.
The trophy lay on the seat between us.
It glinted gold in the moonlight, but it felt small.
Compared to her.
When we reached home, I unlocked the door.
She stepped in first.
Removed her sandals.
And stood still in the hallway, her back to me.
“Sudha,” I whispered.
She turned.
Her eyes weren’t distant anymore.
Just tired.
I walked to her slowly, stood close, but didn’t touch.
“I… I don’t know if I deserved what you did for me,” I said. “But I want to spend the rest of my life trying to be a man who does.”
Her lips trembled.
She looked down.
Then—
She reached up, gently touched my cheek.
“I never did it to make you owe me, Ram,” she said. “I did it because… I believed in you. Even when you forgot how to believe in yourself.”
I couldn’t hold back anymore.
I pulled her into my arms.
Not with lust.
Not with apology.
But with homecoming.
She melted into me like a sigh.
Like all the months of silence had never been.
Like the love we began with still lived between us, only waiting to be held again.
That night, we didn’t speak much.
We didn’t make promises.
We just lay together, skin against skin, past and pain between us like a third presence.
And in the morning—
She smiled first.
And I knew:
The price was high.
But somehow…
We’d made it worth it.
Together.

THE END

Regards
Novelist Casanova  

[aravindkkumar08]

Hey bro story is good. But same pattern of concept with different actor and scene. Even not changed the wife saree and inner. You have full potential to explore stories as earlier you did but now a days it's just a routine with same pattern story. Don't misunderstand with my words. I know you have full potential to write a great stories.

[jioraja]

I don't know broo........ I'm missing intensity and longevity like you maintained and prolonged in your previous ""(Vimala, kabaddi, bengaluru etc.) stories.....

[novelistcasanova]

Hey bro story is good. But same pattern of concept with different actor and scene. Even not changed the wife saree and inner. You have full potential to explore stories as earlier you did but now a days it's just a routine with same pattern story. Don't misunderstand with my words. I know you have full potential to write a great stories.

Thank you for the Suggestion    I appreciate it

[novelistcasanova]

I don't know broo........ I'm missing intensity and longevity like you maintained and prolonged in your previous ""(Vimala, kabaddi, bengaluru etc.) stories.....

Thank you for your honest feedback. 

[tweeny_fory]

I wholeheartedly adored "Casanova." For me, it was a truly delightful departure from the norm;al ones.

I can certainly understand why some readers, perhaps expecting a more traditional of your stories, or wanting high-octane drama, might have found it a little slow. And yes, for those anticipating a more 'cuck-style' narrative with explicit relationship dynamics or intense, dramatic betrayals, this story likely didn't fit that specific expectation.

Everyone loves biriyani, but you cant have it daily all the time. we need variety and this story is served well.

[StoryReader1]

Good pics

[sexycharan]

worthy sacrifice? but after becoming actor, if husband changed having affair with another woman?