The visitor with the BOOK

[zi****]

I wasn’t expecting anyone that evening when the doorbell rang. I opened it, and there she stood a woman in her forties, confident, with a smile that carried secrets. She held a book in her hands, its cover wrapped in dark velvet.

“I’m here to offer you something… unusual,” she said, her voice low, playful. “The Kama Sutra.”

Her eyes studied me carefully, as if she wasn’t just selling a book, but testing my courage. I invited her in, more curious than cautious. The air shifted as soon as she crossed the threshold the scent of her perfume lingered like an unspoken promise.

She set the book on my table, running her fingers across the cover slowly, deliberately. “This isn’t just a book,” she murmured, “it’s an invitation.”

I felt the weight of her presence more than her words. The way she leaned closer, her shoulder brushing mine, made the air thick. She opened the book to a page filled with entwined figures, her nails tracing the lines like they were alive.

Her laughter was soft, knowing. “It’s not only about pleasure,” she said, meeting my eyes. “Sometimes, desire carries *** too. And that’s what makes it unforgettable.”

Her hand lingered on mine a moment too long, her gaze daring me to turn the page with her. And in that moment, it no longer felt like she had come to sell me something it felt like she had come to awaken something.